18496	----	file was produced from images generously made available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) BIG BROTHER [Illustration: ROBIN] "_Cosy Corner Series_" BIG BROTHER BY ANNIE FELLOWS-JOHNSTON [Illustration] BOSTON JOSEPH KNIGHT COMPANY 1894 COPYRIGHT, 1893 BY JOSEPH KNIGHT COMPANY [Illustration: ILLUSTRATIONS] PAGE ROBIN _Frontispiece_ "A BAREFOOT GIRL WEARING A SUNBONNET" 1 "MRS. ESTEL WAS LISTENING TO LITTLE SCRAPS OF HISTORY," ETC. 9 "THE LITTLE WHITE COTTAGE IN NEW JERSEY," 19 "ROBIN FOLLOWED HIM EVERYWHERE" 21 "STEVEN WOULD COAX HIM OVER IN A CORNER TO LOOK AT THE BOOK" 23 "THE BLACK DANCING BEAR HAD ALWAYS TO BE PUT TO BED" 26 "ONCE HE TOOK A BALL OF YARN TO ROLL AFTER THE WHITE KITTEN" 29 "HE WANTED TO GET AWAY FROM THE HOUSE," ETC. 43 "THEY COMMENCED TO BUILD A SNOW MAN" 54 BIG BROTHER. Every coach on the long western-bound train was crowded with passengers. Dust and smoke poured in at the windows and even the breeze seemed hot as it blew across the prairie cornfields burning in the July sun. [Illustration] It was a relief when the engine stopped at last in front of a small village depot. There was a rush for the lunch counter and the restaurant door, where a noisy gong announced dinner. "Blackberries! blackberries!" called a shrill little voice on the platform. A barefoot girl, wearing a sunbonnet, passed under the car windows, holding up a basket full, that shone like great black beads. A gentleman who had just helped two ladies to alight from the steps of a parlor car called to her and began to fumble in his pockets for the right change. "Blackberries! blackberries!" sang another voice mockingly. This time it came from a roguish-looking child, hanging half-way out of a window in the next car. He was a little fellow, not more than three years old. His hat had fallen off, and his sunny tangle of curls shone around a face so unusually beautiful that both ladies uttered an exclamation of surprise. "Look, papa! Look, Mrs. Estel!" exclaimed the younger of the two. "Oh, isn't he a perfect picture! I never saw such eyes, or such delicate coloring. It is an ideal head." "Here, Grace," exclaimed her father, laughingly. "Don't forget your berries in your enthusiasm. It hasn't been many seconds since you were going into raptures over them. They certainly are the finest I ever saw." The girl took several boxes from her basket, and held them up for the ladies to choose. Grace took one mechanically, her eyes still fixed on the child in the window. "I'm going to make friends with him!" she exclaimed impulsively. "Let's walk down that way. I want to speak to him." "Blackberries!" sang the child again, merrily echoing the cry that came from the depths of the big sunbonnet as it passed on. Grace picked out the largest, juiciest berry in the box, and held it up to him with a smile. His face dimpled mischievously, as he leaned forward and took it between his little white teeth. "Do you want some more?" she asked. His eyes shone, and every little curl bobbed an eager assent. "What's your name, dear," she ventured, as she popped another one into his mouth. "Robin," he answered, and leaned farther out to look into her box. "Be careful," she cautioned; "you might fall out." He looked at her gravely an instant, and then said in a slow, quaint fashion: "Why, no; I can't fall out, 'cause big brother's a holdin' on to my feet." She drew back a little, startled. It had not occurred to her that any one else might be interested in watching this little episode. She gave a quick glance at the other windows of the car, and then exclaimed: "What is it, papa,--a picnic or a travelling orphan asylum? It looks like a whole carload of children." Yes, there they were, dozens of them, it seemed; fair faces and freckled ones, some dimpled and some thin; all bearing the marks of a long journey on soot-streaked features and grimy hands, but all wonderfully merry and good-natured. Just then a tired-looking man swung himself down the steps, and stood looking around him, knitting his brows nervously. He heard the girl's question, and then her father's reply: "I don't know, my dear, I am sure; but I'll inquire if you wish." The man's brows relaxed a little and he answered them without waiting to be addressed. "They are children sent out by an aid society in the East. I am taking them to homes in Kansas, mostly in the country." "You don't mean to tell me," the old gentleman exclaimed in surprise, "that you have the care of that entire car full of children! How do you ever manage them all?" The man grinned. "It does look like a case of the old woman that lived in a shoe, but there are not as many as it would seem. They can spread themselves over a good deal of territory, and I'm blessed if some of 'em can't be in half a dozen places at once. There's a little English girl in the lot--fourteen years or thereabouts--that keeps a pretty sharp eye on them. Then they're mostly raised to taking care of themselves." Some one accosted him, and he turned away. Grace looked up at the bewitching little face, still watching her with eager interest. "Poor baby!" she said to herself. "Poor little homeless curly head! If I could only do something for you!" Then she realized that even the opportunity she had was slipping away, and held up the box. "Here, Robin," she called, "take it inside so that you can eat them without spilling them." "All of 'em?" he asked with a radiant smile. He stretched out his dirty, dimpled fingers. "_All_ of 'em," he repeated with satisfaction as he balanced the box on the sill. "All for Big Brother and me!" Another face appeared at the window beside Robin's, one very much like it; grave and sweet, with the same delicate moulding of features. There was no halo of sunny curls on the finely shaped head, but the persistent wave of the darker, closely cut hair showed what it had been at Robin's age. There was no color in the face either. The lines of the sensitive mouth had a pathetic suggestion of suppressed trouble. He was a manly-looking boy, but his face was far too sad for a child of ten. "Gracie," said Mrs. Estel, "your father said the train will not start for fifteen minutes. He has gone back to stay with your mother. Would you like to go through the car with me, and take a look at the little waifs?" "Yes, indeed," was the answer. "Think how far they have come. I wish we had found them sooner." A lively game of tag was going on in the aisle. Children swarmed over the seats and under them. One boy was spinning a top. Two or three were walking around on their hands, with their feet in the air. The gayest group seemed to be in the far end of the car, where two seats full of children were amusing themselves by making faces at each other. The uglier the contortion and more frightful the grimace, the louder they laughed. In one corner the English girl whom the man had mentioned sat mending a little crocheted jacket, belonging to one of the children. She was indeed keeping a sharp eye on them. "'Enry," she called authoritatively, "stop teasing those girls, Hi say. Pull the 'airs from your hown 'ead, and see 'ow you like that naow! Sally, you shall not drink the 'ole enjuring time. Leave the cup be! No, Maggie, Hi can tell no story naow. Don't you see Hi must be plying my needle? Go play, whilst the car stops." Robin smiled on Grace like an old friend when she appeared at the door, and moved over to make room for her on the seat beside him. He had no fear of strangers, so he chattered away in confiding baby fashion, but the older boy said nothing. Sometimes he smiled when she told some story that made Robin laugh out heartily, but it seemed to her that it was because the little brother was pleased that he laughed, not because he listened. Presently Mrs. Estel touched her on the shoulder. "The time is almost up. I am going to ask your father to bring my things in here. As you leave at the next station, I could not have your company much longer, anyhow. I have all the afternoon ahead of me, and I want something to amuse me." "I wish I could stay with you," answered Grace, "but mamma is such an invalid I cannot leave her that long. She would be worrying about me all the time." She bade Robin an affectionate good-by, telling him that he was the dearest little fellow in the world, and that she could never forget him. He followed her with big, wistful eyes as she passed out, but smiled happily when she turned at the door to look back and kiss her hand to him. At the next station, where they stopped for a few minutes, he watched for her anxiously. Just as the train began to pull out he caught a glimpse of her. There was a flutter of a white handkerchief and a bundle came flying in through the window. He looked out quickly, just in time to see her stepping into a carriage. Then a long line of freight cars obstructed the view. By the time they had passed them they were beyond even the straggling outskirts of the village, with wide cornfields stretching in every direction, and it was of no use to look for her any longer. Mrs. Estel lost no time in making the young English girl's acquaintance. She was scarcely settled in her seat before she found an opportunity. Her umbrella slipped from the rack, and the girl sprang forward to replace it. "You have had a tiresome journey," Mrs. Estel remarked pleasantly after thanking her. "Yes, indeed, ma'am!" answered the girl, glad of some one to talk to instead of the children, whose remarks were strictly of an interrogative nature. It was an easy matter to draw her into conversation, and in a short time Mrs. Estel was listening to little scraps of history that made her eyes dim and her heart ache. [Illustration] "Do you mind telling me your name?" she asked at length. "Ellen, ma'am." "But the other," continued Mrs. Estel. "We're not to tell, ma'am." Then seeing the look of inquiry on her face, explained, "Sometimes strangers make trouble, hasking the little ones hall sorts hof questions; so we've been told not to say where we're going, nor hany think helse." "I understand," answered Mrs. Estel quickly. "I ask only because I am so much interested. I have a little girl at home that I have been away from for a week, but she has a father and a grandmother and a nurse to take care of her while I am gone. It makes me feel so sorry for these poor little things turned out in the world alone." "Bless you, ma'am!" exclaimed Ellen cheerfully. "The 'omes they're going to be a sight better than the 'omes they've left behind. Naow there's 'Enery; 'is mother died hin a drunken fit. 'E never knew nothink hall 'is life but beating and starving, till the Haid Society took 'im hin 'and. "Then there's Sally. Why, Sally's living 'igh naow--hoff the fat hof the land, has you might say. Heverybody knows 'ow 'er hold huncle treated 'er!" Mrs. Estel smiled as she glanced at Sally, to whom the faucet of the water-cooler seemed a never-failing source of amusement. Ellen had put a stop to her drinking, which she had been doing at intervals all the morning, solely for the pleasure of seeing the water stream out when she turned the stop-cock. Now she had taken a tidy spell. Holding her bit of a handkerchief under the faucet long enough to get it dripping wet, she scrubbed herself with the ice-water, until her cheeks shone like rosy winter apples. Then she smoothed the wet, elfish-looking hair out of her black eyes, and proceeded to scrub such of the smaller children as could not escape from her relentless grasp. Some submitted dumbly, and others struggled under her vigorous application of the icy rag, but all she attacked came out clean and shining. Her dress was wringing wet in front, and the water was standing in puddles around her feet, when the man who had them in charge came through the car again. He whisked her impatiently into a seat, setting her down hard. She made a saucy face behind his back, and began to sing at the top of her voice. One little tot had fallen and bumped its head as the train gave a sudden lurch. It was crying pitifully, but in a subdued sort of whimper, as if it felt that crying was of no use when nobody listened and nobody cared. He picked it up, made a clumsy effort to comfort it, and, not knowing what else to do, sat down beside it. Then for the first time he noticed Mrs. Estel. She had taken a pair of scissors from her travelling-bag, and had cut several newspapers up into soldiers and dolls and all kinds of animals for the crowd that clamored around her. They were such restless little bodies, imprisoned so long on this tedious journey, that anything with a suggestion of novelty was welcome. When she had supplied them with a whole regiment of soldiers and enough animals to equip a menagerie, she took another paper and began teaching them to fold it in curious ways to make boxes, and boats, and baskets. One by one they crowded up closer to her, watching her as if she were some wonderful magician. They leaned their dusty heads against her fresh gray travelling-dress. They touched her dainty gloves with dirty, admiring fingers. They did not know that this was the first time that she had ever come in close contact with such lives as theirs. They did not know that it was the remembrance of another child,--one who awaited her home-coming,--a petted little princess born to purple and fine linen, that made her so tender towards them. Remembering what hers had, and all these lacked, she felt that she must crowd all the brightness possible into the short afternoon they were together. Every one of them, at some time in their poor bare lives, had known what it was to be kindly spoken to by elegant ladies, to be patronizingly smiled upon, to be graciously presented with gifts. But this was different. This one took the little Hodge girl right up in her lap while she was telling them stories. This one did not pick out the pretty ones to talk to, as strangers generally did. It really seemed that the most neglected and unattractive of them received the most of her attention. From time to time she glanced across at Robin's lovely face, and contrasted it with the others. The older boy attracted her still more. He seemed to be the only thoughtful one among them all. The others remembered no past, looked forward to no future. When they were hungry there was something to eat. When they were tired they could sleep, and all the rest of the time there was somebody to play with. What more could one want? The child never stirred from his place, but she noticed that he made a constant effort to entertain Robin. He told him stories and invented little games. When the bundle came flying in through the window he opened it with eager curiosity. Grace had hurried into the village store as soon as the train stopped and had bought the first toy she happened to see. It was a black dancing bear, worked by a tiny crank hidden under the bar on which it stood. Robin's pleasure was unbounded, and his shrieks of delight brought all the children flocking around him. "More dancin', Big Brother," he would insist, when the animal paused. "Robin wants to see more dancin'." So patient little "Big Brother" kept on turning the crank, long after every one save Robin was tired of the black bear's antics. Once she saw the restless 'Enry trying to entice him into a game of tag in the aisle. Big Brother shook his head, and the fat little legs clambered up on the seat again. Robin watched Mrs. Estel with such longing eyes as she entertained the others that she beckoned to him several times to join them, but he only bobbed his curls gravely and leaned farther back in his seat. Presently the man strolled down the aisle again to close a window, out of which one fidgety boy kept leaning to spit at the flying telegraph poles. On his way back Mrs. Estel stopped him. "Will you please tell me about those two children?" she asked, glancing towards Robin and his brother. "I am very much interested in them, and would gladly do something for them, if I could." "Certainly, madam," he replied deferentially. He felt a personal sense of gratitude towards her for having kept three of his most unruly charges quiet so long. He felt, too, that she did not ask merely from idle curiosity, as so many strangers had done. "Yes, everybody asks about them, for they _are_ uncommon bright-looking, but it's very little anybody knows to tell." Then he gave her their history in a few short sentences. Their father had been killed in a railroad accident early in the spring. Their mother had not survived the terrible shock more than a week. No trace could be found of any relatives, and there was no property left to support them. Several good homes had been offered to the children singly in different towns, but no one was willing to take both. They clung together in such an agony of grief, when an attempt was made at separation, that no one had the heart to part them. Then some one connected with the management of the Aid Society opened a correspondence with an old farmer of his acquaintance out West. It ended in his offering to take them both for a while. His married daughter, who had no children of her own, was so charmed with Robin's picture that she wanted to adopt him. She could not be ready to take him, though, before they moved into their new house, which they were building several miles away. The old farmer wanted the older boy to help him with his market gardening, and was willing to keep the little one until his daughter was ready to take him. So they could be together for a while, and virtually they would always remain in the same family. Mr. Dearborn was known to be such an upright, reliable man, so generous and kind-hearted in all his dealings, that it was decided to accept his offer. "Do they go much farther?" asked the interested listener, when he had told her all he knew of the desolate little pilgrims. "Only a few miles the other side of Kenton," he answered. "Why, Kenton is where I live," she exclaimed. "I am glad it will be so near." Then as he passed on she thought to herself, "It would be cruel to separate them. I never saw such devotion as that of the older boy." His feet could not reach the floor, but he sat up uncomfortably on the high seat, holding Robin in his lap. The curly head rested heavily on his shoulder, and his arms ached with their burden, but he never moved except to brush away the flies, or fan the flushed face of the little sleeper with his hat. Something in the tired face, the large appealing eyes, and the droop of the sensitive mouth, touched her deeply. She crossed the aisle and sat down by him. "Here, lay him on the seat," she said, bending forward to arrange her shawl for a pillow. He shook his head. "Robin likes best for me to hold him." "But he will be cooler and so much more comfortable," she urged. Taking the child from his unwilling arms, she stretched him full length on the improvised bed. Involuntarily the boy drew a deep sigh of relief, and leaned back in the corner. "Are you very tired?" she asked. "I have not seen you playing with the other children." "Yes'm," he answered. "We've come such a long way. I have to amuse Robin all the time he's awake, or he'll cry to go back home." "Where was your home?" she asked kindly. "Tell me about it." He glanced up at her, and with a child's quick instinct knew that he had found a friend. The tears that he had been bravely holding back all the afternoon for Robin's sake could no longer be restrained. He sat for a minute trying to wink them away. Then he laid his head wearily down on the window sill and gave way to his grief with great choking sobs. She put her arm around him and drew his head down on her shoulder. At first the caressing touch of her fingers, as they gently stroked his hair, made the tears flow faster. Then he grew quieter after a while, and only sobbed at long intervals as he answered her questions. His name was Steven, he said. He knew nothing of the home to which he was being taken, nor did he care, if he could only be allowed to stay with Robin. He told her of the little white cottage in New Jersey, where they had lived, of the peach-trees that bloomed around the house, of the beehive in the garden. He had brooded over the recollection of his lost home so long in silence that now it somehow comforted him to talk about it to this sympathetic listener. [Illustration] Soothed by her soft hand smoothing his hair, and exhausted by the heat and his violent grief, he fell asleep at last. It was almost dark when he awoke and sat up. "I must leave you at the next station," Mrs. Estel said, "but you are going only a few miles farther. Maybe I shall see you again some day." She left him to fasten her shawl-strap, but presently came back, bringing a beautifully illustrated story-book that she had bought for the little daughter at home. "Here, Steven," she said, handing it to him. "I have written my name and address on the fly-leaf. If you ever need a friend, dear, or are in trouble of any kind, let me know and I will help you." He had known her only a few hours, yet, when she kissed him good-by and the train went whirling on again, he felt that he had left his last friend behind him. When one is a child a month is a long time. Grandfathers say, "That happened over seventy years ago, but it seems just like yesterday." Grandchildren say, "Why, it was only yesterday we did that, but so much has happened since that it seems such a great while!" One summer day can stretch out like a lifetime at life's beginning. It is only at threescore and ten that we liken it to a weaver's shuttle. It was in July when old John Dearborn drove to the station to meet the children. Now the white August lilies were standing up sweet and tall by the garden fence. "Seems like we've been here 'most always," said Steven as they rustled around in the hay hunting eggs. His face had lost its expression of sadness, so pathetic in a child, as day after day Robin's little feet pattered through the old homestead, and no one came to take him away. Active outdoor life had put color in his face and energy into his movements. Mr. Dearborn and his wife were not exacting in their demands, although they found plenty for him to do. The work was all new and pleasant, and Robin was with him everywhere. When he fed the turkeys, when he picked up chips, when he drove the cows to pasture, or gathered the vegetables for market, Robin followed him everywhere, like a happy, dancing shadow. [Illustration] Then when the work was done there were the kittens in the barn and the swing in the apple-tree. A pond in the pasture sailed their shingle boats. A pile of sand, left from building the new ice-house, furnished material for innumerable forts and castles. There was a sunny field and a green, leafy orchard. How could they _help but be happy?_ It was summer time and they were together. Steven's was more than a brotherly devotion. It was with almost the tenderness of mother-love that he watched the shining curls dancing down the walk as Robin chased the toads through the garden or played hide-and-seek with the butterflies. "No, the little fellow's scarcely a mite of trouble," Mrs. Dearborn would say to the neighbors sometimes when they inquired. "Steven is real handy about dressing him and taking care of him, so I just leave it mostly to him." Mrs. Dearborn was not a very observing woman or she would have seen why he "was scarcely a mite of trouble." If there was never a crumb left on the doorstep where Robin sat to eat his lunch, it was because Big Brother's careful fingers had picked up every one. If she never found any tracks of little bare feet on the freshly scrubbed kitchen floor, it was because his watchful eyes had spied them first, and he had wiped away every trace. He had an instinctive feeling that if he would keep Robin with him he must not let any one feel that he was a care or annoyance. So he never relaxed his watchfulness in the daytime, and slept with one arm thrown across him at night. Sometimes, after supper, when it was too late to go outdoors again, the restless little feet kicked thoughtlessly against the furniture, or the meddlesome fingers made Mrs. Dearborn look at him warningly over her spectacles and shake her head. [Illustration] Sometimes the shrill little voice, with its unceasing questions, seemed to annoy the old farmer as he dozed over his weekly newspaper beside the lamp. Then, if it was too early to go to bed, Steven would coax him over in a corner to look at the book that Mrs. Estel had given him, explaining each picture in a low voice that could not disturb the deaf old couple. It was at these times that the old feeling of loneliness came back so overwhelmingly. Grandpa and Grandma, as they called them, were kind in their way, but even to their own children they had been undemonstrative and cold. Often in the evenings they seemed to draw so entirely within themselves, she with her knitting and he with his paper or accounts, that Steven felt shut out, and apart. "Just the strangers within thy gates," he sometimes thought to himself. He had heard that expression a long time ago, and it often came back to him. Then he would put his arm around Robin and hug him up close, feeling that the world was so big and lonesome, and that he had no one else to care for but him. Sometimes he took him up early to the little room under the roof, and, lying on the side of the bed, made up more marvellous stories than any the book contained. Often they drew the big wooden rocking-chair close to the window, and, sitting with their arms around each other, looked out on the moonlit stillness of the summer night. Then, with their eyes turned starward, they talked of the far country beyond; for Steven tried to keep undimmed in Robin's baby memory a living picture of the father and mother he was so soon forgetting. "Don't you remember," he would say, "how papa used to come home in the evening and take us both on his knees, and sing 'Kingdom Coming' to us? And how mamma laughed and called him a big boy when he got down on the floor and played circus with us? "And don't you remember how we helped mamma make cherry pie for dinner one day? You were on the doorstep with some dough in your hands, and a greedy old hen came up and gobbled it right out of your fingers." Robin would laugh out gleefully at each fresh reminiscence, and then say: "Tell some more r'members, Big Brother!" And so Big Brother would go on until a curly head drooped over on his shoulder and a sleepy voice yawned "Sand-man's a-comin'." The hands that undressed him were as patient and deft as a woman's. He missed no care or tenderness. When he knelt down in his white gown, just where the patch of moonlight lay on the floor, his chubby hands crossed on Big Brother's knee, there was a gentle touch of caressing fingers on his curls as his sleepy voice repeated the evening prayer the far away mother had taught them. There was always one ceremony that had to be faithfully performed, no matter how sleepy he might be. The black dancing bear had always to be put to bed in a cracker box and covered with a piece of red flannel. [Illustration] One night he looked up gravely as he folded it around his treasure and said, "Robin tucks ze black dancin' bear in bed, an' Big Brother tucks in Robin. Who puts Big Brother to bed?" "Nobody, now," answered Steven with a quivering lip, for his child's heart ached many a night for the lullaby and bedtime petting he so sorely missed. "Gramma Deebun do it?" suggested Robin quickly. "No: Grandma Dearborn has the rheumatism. She couldn't walk up-stairs." "She got ze wizzim-tizzim," echoed Robin solemnly. Then his face lighted up with a happy thought. "Nev' mind; Robin'll put Big Brother to bed _all_ ze nights when he's a man." And Big Brother kissed the sweet mouth and was comforted. During the summer Mr. Dearborn drove to town with fresh marketing every morning, starting early in order to get home by noon. Saturdays he took Steven with him, for that was the day he supplied his butter customers. The first time the boy made the trip he carried Mrs. Estel's address in his pocket, which he had carefully copied from the fly-leaf of the book she had given him. Although he had not the remotest expectation of seeing her, there was a sense of companionship in the mere thought that she was in the same town with him. He watched the lamp-posts carefully as they went along, spelling out the names of the streets. All of a sudden his heart gave a bound. They had turned a corner and were driving along Fourth Avenue. He took the slip of paper from his pocket. Yes, he was right. That was the name of the street. Then he began to watch for the numbers. 200, 300, 400; they passed on several more blocks. Mr. Dearborn drove up to the pavement and handed him the reins to hold, while he took the crock of butter into the house. Steven glanced up at the number. It was 812. Then the next one--no, the one after that--must be the place. It was a large, elegant house, handsomer than any they had passed on the avenue. As long as it was in sight Steven strained his eyes for a backward look, but saw no one. Week after week he watched and waited, but the blinds were always closed, and he saw no signs of life about the place. Then one day he saw a carriage stop at the gate. A lady all in black stepped out and walked slowly towards the house. Her long, heavy veil hid her face, but he thought he recognized her. He was almost sure it was Mrs. Estel. He could hardly resist the inclination to run after her and speak to her; but while he hesitated the great hall door swung back and shut her from sight. He wondered what great trouble had come to her that she should be dressed in deep black. The hope of seeing her was the only thing about his weekly trips to town that he anticipated with any pleasure. It nearly always happened that some time during the morning while he was gone Robin got into trouble. Nobody seemed to think that the reason the child was usually so good was due largely to Steven's keeping him happily employed. He always tried to contrive something to keep him busy part of the morning; but Robin found no pleasure very long in solitary pursuits, and soon abandoned them. [Illustration] Once he took a ball of yarn from the darning-basket to roll after the white kitten. He did not mean to be mischievous any more than the white kitten did, but the ball was part of Grandma Dearborn's knitting work. When she found the needles pulled out and the stitches dropped, she scolded him sharply. All her children had been grown up so long she had quite forgotten how to make allowances for things of that sort. There was a basket of stiff, highly colored wax fruit on the marble-topped table in the parlor. Miss Barbara Dearborn had made it at boarding-school and presented it to her sister-in-law many years before. How Robin ever managed to lift off the glass case without breaking it no one ever knew. That he had done so was evident, for in every waxen red-cheeked pear and slab-sided apple were the prints of his sharp little teeth. It seemed little short of sacrilege to Mrs. Dearborn, whose own children had regarded it for years from an admiring distance, fearing to lay unlawful fingers even on the glass case that protected such a work of art. He dropped a big white china button into the cake dough when Molly, "the help," had her back turned. It was all ready to be baked, and she unsuspectingly whisked the pan into the oven. Company came to tea, and Grandpa Dearborn happened to take the slice of cake that had the button in it. Manlike, he called everyone's attention to it, and his wife was deeply mortified. He left the pasture gate open so that the calves got into the garden. He broke Grandpa Dearborn's shaving-mug, and spilled the lather all over himself and the lavender bows of the best pin-cushion. He untied a bag that had been left in the window to sun, to see what made it feel so soft inside. It was a bag of feathers saved from the pickings of many geese. He was considerably startled when the down flew in all directions, sticking to carpet and curtains, and making Molly much extra work on the busiest day in the week. But the worst time was when Steven came home to find him sitting in a corner, crying bitterly, one hand tied to his chair. He had been put there for punishment. It seemed that busy morning that everything he touched made trouble for somebody. At last his exploring little fingers found the plug of the patent churn. The next minute he was a woebegone spectacle, with the fresh buttermilk pouring down on him, and spreading in creamy rivers all over the dairy floor. These weekly trips were times of great anxiety for Steven. He never knew what fresh trouble might greet him on his return. One day they sold out much earlier than usual. It was only eleven o'clock when they reached home. Grandma Dearborn was busy preparing dinner. Robin was not in sight. As soon as Steven had helped to unhitch the horses he ran into the house to look for him. There was no answer to his repeated calls. He searched all over the garden, thinking maybe the child was hiding from him and might jump out any moment from behind a tree. He was beginning to feel alarmed when he saw two little bare feet slowly waving back and forth above the tall orchard grass. He slipped over the fence and noiselessly along under the apple-trees. Robin was lying on his stomach watching something on the ground so intently that sometimes the bare feet forgot to wave over his back and were held up motionless. With one hand he was pulling along at a snail's pace a green leaf, on which a dead bumble-bee lay in state. With the other he was keeping in order a funeral procession of caterpillars. It was a motley crowd of mourners that the energetic forefinger urged along the line of march. He had evidently collected them from many quarters,--little green worms that spun down from the apple boughs overhead; big furry brown caterpillars that had hurried along the honeysuckle trellis to escape his fat fingers; spotted ones and striped ones; horned and smooth. They all straggled along, each one travelling his own gait, each one bent on going a different direction, but all kept in line by that short determined forefinger. Steven laughed so suddenly that the little master of ceremonies jumped up and turned a startled face towards him. Then he saw that there were traces of tears on the dimpled face and one eye was swollen nearly shut. "O Robin! what is it now?" he cried in distress. "How did you hurt yourself so dreadfully?" "Ole bumble!" answered Robin, pointing to the leaf. "He flied in ze kitchen an' sat down in ze apple peelin's. I jus' poked him, nen he flied up and bit me. He's dead now," he added triumphantly. "Gramma killed him. See all ze cattow-pillows walkin' in ze p'cession?" So the days slipped by in the old farmhouse. Frost nipped the gardens, and summer vanished entirely from orchard and field. The happy outdoor life was at an end, and Robin was like a caged squirrel. Steven had his hands full keeping him amused and out of the way. "Well, my lad, isn't it about time for you to be starting to school?" Mr. Dearborn would ask occasionally. "You know I agreed to send you every winter, and I must live up to my promises." But Steven made first one pretext and then another for delay. He knew he could not take Robin with him. He knew, too, how restless and troublesome the child would become if left at home all day. So he could not help feeling glad when Molly went home on a visit, and Grandma Dearborn said her rheumatism was so bad that she needed his help. True, he had all sorts of tasks that he heartily despised,--washing dishes, kneading dough, sweeping and dusting,--all under the critical old lady's exacting supervision. But he preferred even that to being sent off to school alone every day. One evening, just about sundown, he was out in the corncrib, shelling corn for the large flock of turkeys they were fattening for market. He heard Grandma Dearborn go into the barn, where her husband was milking. They were both a little deaf, and she spoke loud in order to be heard above the noise of the milk pattering into the pail. She had come out to look at one of the calves they intended selling. "It's too bad," he heard her say, after a while. "Rindy has just set her heart on him, but Arad, he thinks it's all foolishness to get such a young one. He's willing to take one big enough to do the chores, but he doesn't want to feed and keep what 'ud only be a care to 'em. He always was closer'n the bark on a tree. After all, I'd hate to see the little fellow go." "Yes," was the answer, "he's a likely lad; but we're gettin' old, mother, and one is about all we can do well by. Sometimes I think maybe we've bargained for too much, tryin' to keep even _one_. So it's best to let the little one go before we get to settin' sech store by him that we can't." A vague terror seized Steven as he realized who it was they were talking about. He lay awake a long time that night smoothing Robin's tangled curls, and crying at the thought of the motherless baby away among strangers, with no one to snuggle him up warm or sing him to sleep. Then there was another thought that wounded him deeply. Twist it whichever way he might, he could construe Mr. Dearborn's last remark to mean but one thing. They considered him a burden. How many plans he made night after night before he fell asleep! He would take Robin by the hand in the morning, and they would slip away and wander off to the woods together. They could sleep in barns at night, and he could stop at the farmhouses and do chores to pay for what they ate. Then they need not be a trouble to any one. Maybe in the summer they could find a nice dry cave to live in. Lots of people had lived that way. Then in a few years he would be big enough to have a house of his own. All sorts of improbable plans flocked into his little brain under cover of the darkness, but always vanished when the daylight came. The next Saturday that they went to town was a cold, blustering day. They started late, taking a lunch with them, not intending to come home until the middle of the afternoon. The wind blew a perfect gale by the time they reached town. Mr. Dearborn stopped his team in front of one of the principal groceries, saying, "Hop out, Steven, and see what they're paying for turkeys to-day." As he sprang over the wheel an old gentleman came running around the corner after his hat, which the wind had carried away. Steven caught it and gave it to him. He clapped it on his bald crown with a good-natured laugh. "Thanky, sonny!" he exclaimed heartily. Then he disappeared inside the grocery just as Mr. Dearborn called out, "I believe I'll hitch the horses and go in too; I'm nearly frozen." Steven followed him into the grocery, and they stood with their hands spread out to the stove while they waited for the proprietor. He was talking to the old gentleman whose hat Steven had rescued. He seemed to be a very particular kind of customer. "Oh, go on! go on!" he exclaimed presently. "Wait on those other people while I make up my mind." While Mr. Dearborn was settling the price of his turkeys, the old gentleman poked around like an inquisitive boy, thumping the pumpkins, smelling the coffee, and taking occasional picks at the raisins. Presently he stopped in front of Steven with a broad, friendly smile on his face. "You're from the country, ain't you?" he asked. "Yes, sir," answered Steven in astonishment. "Came from there myself, once," he continued with a chuckle. "Law, law! You'd never think it now. Fifty years makes a heap o' difference." He took another turn among the salt barrels and cracker boxes, then asked suddenly, "What's your name, sonny?" "Steven," answered the boy, still more surprised. The old fellow gave another chuckle and rubbed his hands together delightedly. "Just hear that, will you!" he exclaimed. "Why, that's my name, my very own name, sir! Well, well, well, well!" He stared at the child until he began to feel foolish and uncomfortable. What image of his own vanished youth did that boyish face recall to the eccentric old banker? As Mr. Dearborn turned to go Steven started after him. "Hold on, sonny," called the old gentleman, "I want to shake hands with my namesake." He pressed a shining half-dollar into the little mittened hand held out to him. "That's for good luck," he said. "I was a boy myself, once. Law, law! Sometimes I wish I could have stayed one." Steven hardly knew whether to keep it or not, or what to say. The old gentleman had resumed conversation with the proprietor and waved him off impatiently. "I'll get Robin some candy and save all the rest till Christmas," was his first thought; but there was such a bewildering counter full of toys on one side of the confectioner's shop that he couldn't make up his mind to wait that long. He bought some shining sticks of red and white peppermint and turned to the toys. There was a tiny sailboat with a little wooden sailor on deck; but Robin would always be dabbling in the water if he got that. A tin horse and cart caught his eye. That would make such a clatter on the bare kitchen floor. At last he chose a gay yellow jumping-jack. All the way home he kept feeling the two little bundles in his pocket. He could not help smiling when the gables of the old house came in sight, thinking how delighted Robin would be. He could hardly wait till the horses were put away and fed, and he changed impatiently from one foot to another, while Mr. Dearborn searched in the straw of the wagon-bed for a missing package of groceries. Then he ran to the house and into the big, warm kitchen, all out of breath. "Robin," he called, as he laid the armful of groceries on the kitchen table, "look what Brother's brought you. Why, where's Robin?" he asked of Mrs. Dearborn, who was busy stirring something on the stove for supper. She had her back turned and did not answer. "Where's Robin," he asked again, peering all around to see where the bright curls were hiding. She turned around and looked at him over her spectacles. "Well, I s'pose I may's well tell you one time as another," she said reluctantly. "Rindy came for him to-day. We talked it over and thought, as long as there had to be a separation, it would be easier for you both, and save a scene, if you wasn't here to see him go. He's got a good home, and Rindy'll be kind to him." Steven looked at her in bewilderment, then glanced around the cheerful kitchen. His slate lay on a chair where Robin had been scribbling and making pictures. The old cat that Robin had petted and played with that very morning purred comfortably under the stove. The corncob house he had built was still in the corner. Surely he could not be so very far away. He opened the stair door and crept slowly up the steps to their little room. He could scarcely distinguish anything at first, in the dim light of the winter evening, but he saw enough to know that the little straw hat with the torn brim that he had worn in the summer time was not hanging on its peg behind the door. He looked in the washstand drawer, where his dresses were kept. It was empty. He opened the closet door. The new copper-toed shoes, kept for best, were gone, but hanging in one corner was the little checked gingham apron he had worn that morning. Steven took it down. There was the torn place by the pocket, and the patch on the elbow. He kissed the ruffle that had been buttoned under the dimpled chin, and the little sleeves that had clung around his neck so closely that morning. Then, with it held tight in his arms, he threw himself on the bed, sobbing over and over, "It's too cruel! It's too cruel! They didn't even let me tell him good-by!" He did not go down to supper when Mrs. Dearborn called him, so she went up after a while with a glass of milk and a doughnut. "There, there!" she said soothingly; "don't take it so hard. Try and eat something; you'll feel better if you do." Steven tried to obey, but every mouthful choked him. "Rindy'll be awful good to him," she said after a long pause. "She thinks he's the loveliest child she ever set eyes on, but she was afraid her husband would think he was too much of a baby if she took him home with those long curls on. She cut 'em off before they started, and I saved 'em. I knew you'd be glad to have 'em." She lit the candle on the washstand and handed him a paper. He sat up and opened it. There lay the soft, silky curls, shining like gold in the candle-light, as they twined around his fingers. It was more than he could bear. His very lips grew white. Mrs. Dearborn was almost frightened. She could not understand how a child's grief could be so deep and passionate. He drew them fondly over his wet cheeks, and pressed them against his quivering lips. Then laying his face down on them, he cried till he could cry no longer, and sleep came to his relief. Next morning, when Steven pulled the window curtain aside, he seemed to be looking out on another world. The first snow of the winter covered every familiar object, and he thought, in his childish way, that last night's experience had altered his life as the snowdrifts had changed the landscape. He ate his breakfast and did up the morning chores mechanically. He seemed to be in a dream, and wondered dully to himself why he did not cry when he felt so bad. When the work was all done he stood idly looking out of the window. He wanted to get away from the house where everything he saw made his heart ache with the suggestion of Robin. "I believe I'd like to go to church to-day," he said in a listless tone. [Illustration] "Yes, I'd go if I were you," assented Mr. Dearborn readily. "Mother and me'll have to stay by the fire to-day, but I've no doubt it'll chirk you up a bit to get outdoors a spell." He started off, plodding through the deep snow. "Takes it easier than I thought he would," said Mr. Dearborn. "Well, troubles never set very hard on young shoulders. He'll get over it in a little while." As Steven emerged from the lane into the big road he saw a sleigh coming towards him, driven by the doctor's son. As it drew nearer a sudden thought came to him like an inspiration. "O Harvey!" he cried, running forward. "Will you take me with you as far as Simpson's?" "Why, yes, I guess so," answered the boy good-naturedly. He was not surprised at the request, knowing that Mrs. Dearborn and Mrs. Simpson were sisters, and supposing that Steven had been sent on some errand. It was three miles to the Simpson place, but they seemed to have reached it in as many minutes. Harvey turned off towards his own home, while Steven climbed out and hurried along the public road. "Half-way there!" he said to himself. He was going to town to find Mrs. Estel. He was a long time on the way. A piercing wind began to blow, and a blinding snow-storm beat in his face. He was numb with cold, hungry, and nearly exhausted. But he thought of little Robin fifteen miles away, crying at the strange faces around him; and for his sake he stumbled bravely on. He had seen Mrs. Dearborn's daughter several times. She was a kind, good-natured woman, half-way afraid of her husband. As for Arad Pierson himself, Steven had conceived a strong dislike. He was quick-tempered and rough, with a loud, coarse way of speaking that always startled the sensitive child. Suppose Robin should refuse to be comforted, and his crying annoyed them. Could that black-browed, heavy-fisted man be cruel enough to whip such a baby? Steven knew that he would. The thought spurred him on. It seemed to him that he had been days on the road when he reached the house at last, and stood shivering on the steps while he waited for some one to answer his timid ring. "No, you can't speak to Mrs. Estel," said the pompous colored man who opened the door, and who evidently thought that he had come on some beggar's mission. "She never sees any one now, and I'm sure she wouldn't see you." "Oh, _please_!" cried Steven desperately, as the door was about to be shut in his face. "She told me to come, and I've walked miles through the storm, and I'm so cold and tired! Oh, I _can't_ go back without seeing her." His high, piercing voice almost wailed out the words. Had he come so far only to be disappointed at last? "What is it, Alec?" he heard some one call gently. He recognized the voice, and in his desperation darted past the man into the wide reception hall. He saw the sweet face of the lady, who came quickly forward, and heard her say, "Why, what is the matter, my child?" Then, overcome by the sudden change from the cold storm to the tropical warmth of the room, he dropped on the floor, exhausted and unconscious. It was a long time before Mrs. Estel succeeded in thoroughly reviving him. Then he lay on a wide divan with his head on her lap, and talked quietly of his trouble. He was too worn out to cry, even when he took the soft curls from his pocket to show her. But her own recent loss had made her vision keen, and she saw the depth of suffering in the boy's white face. As she twisted the curls around her finger and thought of her own fair-haired little one, with the deep snow drifting over its grave, her tears fell fast. She made a sudden resolution. "You shall come here," she said. "I thought when my little Dorothy died I could never bear to hear a child's voice again, knowing that hers was still. But such grief is selfish. We will help each other bear ours together. Would you like to come, dear?" Steven sat up, trembling in his great excitement. "O Mrs. Estel!" he cried, "couldn't you take Robin instead? I could be happy anywhere if I only knew he was taken care of. You are so different from the Piersons. I wouldn't feel bad if he was with you, and I could see him every week. He is so pretty and sweet you couldn't help loving him!" She stooped and kissed him. "You dear, unselfish child, you make me want you more than ever." Then she hesitated. She could not decide a matter involving so much in a moment's time. Steven, she felt, would be a comfort to her, but Robin could be only a care. Lately she had felt the mere effort of living to be a burden, and she did not care to make any exertion for any one else. All the brightness and purpose seemed to drop out of her life the day that little Dorothy was taken away. Her husband had tried everything in his power to arouse her from her hopeless despondency, but she refused to be comforted. Steven's trouble had touched the first responsive chord. She looked down into his expectant face, feeling that she could not bear to disappoint him, yet unwilling to make a promise that involved personal exertion. Then she answered slowly, "I wish my husband were here. I cannot give you an answer without consulting him. Then, you see the society that sent you out here probably has some written agreement with these people, and if they do not want to give him up we might find it a difficult matter to get him. Mr. Estel will be home in a few days, and he will see what can be done." That morning when Steven had been seized with a sudden impulse to find Mrs. Estel he had no definite idea of what she could do to help him. It had never occurred to him for an instant that she would offer to take either of them to live with her. He thought only of that afternoon on the train, when her sympathy had comforted him so much, and of her words at parting: "If you ever need a friend, dear, or are in trouble of any kind, let me know and I will help you." It was that promise that lured him on all that weary way through the cold snow-storm. With a child's implicit confidence he turned to her, feeling that in some way or other she would make it all right. It was a great disappointment when he found she could do nothing immediately, and that it might be weeks before he could see Robin again. Still, after seeing her and pouring out his troubles, he felt like a different boy. Such a load seemed lifted from his shoulders. He actually laughed while repeating some of Robin's queer little speeches to her. Only that morning he had felt that he could not even smile again. Dinner cheered him up still more. When the storm had abated, Mrs. Estel wrapped him up and sent him home in her sleigh, telling him that she wanted him to spend Thanksgiving Day with her. She thought she would know by that time whether she could take Robin or not. At any rate, she wanted him to come, and if he would tell Mr. Dearborn to bring her a turkey on his next market day, she would ask his permission. All the way home Steven wondered nervously what the old people would say to him. He dreaded to see the familiar gate, and the ride came to an end so very soon. To his great relief he found that they had scarcely noticed his absence. Their only son and his family had come unexpectedly from the next State to stay over Thanksgiving, and everything else had been forgotten in their great surprise. The days that followed were full of pleasant anticipations for the family. Steven went in and out among them, helping busily with the preparations, but strangely silent among all the merriment. Mr. Dearborn took his son to town with him the next market day, and Steven was left at home to wait and wonder what message Mrs. Estel might send him. He hung around until after his usual bedtime, on their return, but could not muster up courage to ask. The hope that had sprung up within him flickered a little fainter each new day, until it almost died out. It was a happy group that gathered around the breakfast table early on Thanksgiving morning. "All here but Rindy," said Mr. Dearborn, looking with smiling eyes from his wife to his youngest grandchild. "It's too bad she couldn't come, but Arad invited all his folks to spend the day there; so she had to give up and stay at home. Well, we're all alive and well, anyhow. That's my greatest cause for thankfulness. What's yours, Jane?" he asked, nodding towards his wife. As the question passed around the table, Steven's thoughts went back to the year before, when their little family had all been together. He remembered how pretty his mother had looked that morning in her dark-blue dress. There was a bowl of yellow chrysanthemums blooming on the table, and a streak of sunshine, falling across them and on Robin's hair, seemed to turn them both to gold. Now he was all alone. The contrast was too painful. He slipped from the table unobserved, and stole noiselessly up the back stairs to his room. The little checked apron was hanging on a chair by the window. He sat down and laid his face against it, but his eyes were dry. He had not cried any since that first dreadful night. There was such a lively clatter of dishes downstairs and babel of voices that he did not hear a sleigh drive up in the soft snow. "Steven," called Mr. Dearborn from the foot of the stairs, "I promised Mrs. Estel to let you spend the day with her, but there was so much goin' on I plum forgot to tell you. You're to stay all night too, she says." The ride to town seemed endless to the impatient boy. He was burning with a feverish anxiety to know about Robin, but the driver whom he questioned could not tell. "Mrs. Estel will be down presently," was the message with which he was ushered into the long drawing-room. He sat down uncomfortably on the edge of a chair to wait. He almost dreaded to hear her coming for fear she might tell him that the Piersons would not give Robin up. Maybe her husband had not come home when she expected him. Maybe he had been too busy to attend to the matter. A dozen possible calamities presented themselves. Unconsciously he held himself so rigid in his expectancy that he fairly ached. Ten minutes dragged by, with only the crackle of the fire on the hearth to disturb the silence of the great room. Then light feet pattered down the stairs and ran across the broad hall. The _portière_ was pushed aside and a bright little face looked in. In another instant Robin's arms were around his neck, and he was crying over and over in an ecstasy of delight, "Oh, it's Big Brother! It's Big Brother!" Not far away down the avenue a great church organ was rolling out its accompaniment to a Thanksgiving anthem. Steven could not hear the words the choir chanted, but the deep music of the organ seemed to him to be but the echo of what was throbbing in his own heart. There was no lack of childish voices and merry laughter in the great house that afternoon. A spirit of thanksgiving was in the very atmosphere. No one could see the overflowing happiness of the children without sharing it in some degree. More than once during dinner Mrs. Estel looked across the table at her husband and smiled as she had not in months. Along in the afternoon the winter sunshine tempted the children out of doors, and they commenced to build a snow man. They tugged away at the huge image, with red cheeks and sparkling eyes, so full of out-breaking fun that the passers-by stopped to smile at the sight. Mrs. Estel stood at the library window watching them. Once, when Robin's fat little legs stumbled and sent him rolling over in the snow, she could not help laughing at the comical sight. It was a low, gentle laugh, but Mr. Estel heard, and, laying aside his newspaper, joined her at the window. He had almost despaired of ever seeing a return to the old sunny charm of face and manner. [Illustration] They stood there together in silence a few moments, watching the two romping boys, who played on, unconscious of an audience. "What a rare, unselfish disposition that little 'Big Brother' has!" Mr. Estel said presently. "It shows itself even in their play." Then he added warmly, turning to his wife, "Dora, it would be downright cruel to send him away from that little chap." He paused a moment. "We used to find our greatest pleasure in making Dorothy happy. We lavished everything on her. Now we can never do anything more for her." There was another long pause, while he turned his head away and looked out of the window. "Think what a lifelong happiness it is in our power to give those children! Dora, can't we make room for both of them for her sake?" Mrs. Estel hesitated, then laid both her hands in his, bravely smiling back her tears. "Yes, I'll try," she said, "for little Dorothy's sake." That night, as Steven undressed Robin and tucked him up snugly in the little white bed, he felt that nothing could add to his great happiness. He sat beside him humming an old tune their mother had often sung to them, in the New Jersey home so far away. The blue eyes closed, but still he kept on humming softly to himself, "Oh, happy day! happy day!" Presently Mrs. Estel came in and drew a low rocking-chair up to the fire. Steven slipped from his place by Robin's pillow and sat down on the rug beside her. Sitting there in the fire-light, she told him all about her visit to the Piersons. They had found Robin so unmanageable and so different from what they expected that they were glad to get rid of him. Mr. Estel had arranged matters satisfactorily with the Society, and they had brought Robin home several days ago. "I had a long talk with Mr. Dearborn the other day," she continued. "He said his wife's health is failing, and their son is trying to persuade them to break up housekeeping and live with them. If she is no better in the spring, they will probably do so." "Would they want me to go?" asked Steven anxiously. "It may be so; I cannot tell." Steven looked up timidly. "I've been wanting all day to say thank you, the way I feel it; but somehow, the right words won't come. I can't tell you how it is, but it seems 'most like sending Robin back home for you and Mr. Estel to have him. Somehow, your ways and everything seem so much like mamma's and papa's, and when I think about him having such a lovely home, oh, it just seems like this is a Thanksgiving Day that will last _always_!" She drew his head against her knee and stroked it tenderly. "Then how would you like to live here yourself, dear?" she asked. "Mr. Estel thinks that we need two boys." "Oh, does he really want me, too? It's too good to be true!" Steven was kneeling beside her now, his eyes shining like stars. "Yes, we both want you," answered Mrs. Estel. "You shall be our own little sons." Steven crept nearer. "Papa and mamma will be so glad," he said in a tremulous whisper. Then a sudden thought illuminated his earnest face. "O Mrs. Estel! Don't you suppose they have found little Dorothy in that other country by this time, and are taking care of her there, just like you are taking care of us here?" She put her arm around him, and drew him nearer, saying: "My dear little comfort, it may be so. If I could believe that, I could never feel so unhappy again." Robin and "ze black dancin' bear" were not the only ones tucked tenderly away to sleep that night. The sleigh bells jingled along the avenue. Again the great church organ rolled out a mighty flood of melody, that ebbed and flowed on the frosty night air. And Big Brother, with his head pillowed once more beside Robin's, lay with his eyes wide open, too happy to sleep--lay and dreamed of the time when he should be a man, and could gather into the great house he meant to own all the little homeless ones in the wide world; all the sorry little waifs that strayed through the streets of great cities, that crowded in miserable tenements, that lodged in asylums and poorhouses. Into his child's heart he gathered them all, with a sweet unselfishness that would have gladly shared with every one of them his new-found home and happiness. * * * * * 
19889	----	NAUGHTY MISS BUNNY. [Illustration: THE BUTLER SURPRISES BUNNY.] NAUGHTY MISS BUNNY A STORY FOR LITTLE CHILDREN. BY CLARA MULHOLLAND Author of "The Little Bog-trotters," &c. [Illustration: Logo] LONDON BLACKIE & SON, LIMITED, 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C. GLASGOW AND DUBLIN CONTENTS. Chap. Page I. ONLY FOR FUN, 9 II. PLEASANT NEWS FOR BUNNY, 27 III. BUNNY GETS UP EARLY, 37 IV. BUNNY GETS A FRIGHT, 49 V. THE LITTLE INDIAN, 59 VI. BUNNY FORGETS AGAIN, 69 VII. IN MISS KERR'S ROOM, 83 VIII. BUNNY TRIES TO SHOW OFF, 99 IX. MISS KERR PROMISES A PRIZE, 125 X. ON OLIVER'S MOUNT, 138 XI. WAS IT CRUEL? 152 XII. THE FIREWORKS, 167 XIII. QUIET TIMES, 179 XIV. BUNNY'S IMPROVEMENT. HOME AGAIN, 185 ILLUSTRATIONS. Page THE BUTLER SURPRISES BUNNY, _Frontispiece_ 19 BUNNY WELCOMES HER FATHER, 50 FRANCIS SAVES BUNNY, 115 [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] NAUGHTY MISS BUNNY. CHAPTER I. ONLY FOR FUN. "How nice!" cried Bunny. "Mama has sent for Miss Kerr, so I can do exactly as I like for a little while. I am very glad papa brought us up here, for it is so pretty and so cool, and these gardens are so lovely;" and she gazed about her at the garden and the lawn and then at the distant sea that lay just beyond them, sparkling and dancing in the sunshine. "If I had no governess," continued the little girl, "and no lessons, and no nasty nurse to say, 'Sit still, Miss Bunny,' and 'Don't make dirty your frock, Miss Bunny,' I think I should be jolly--yes, that's papa's word, jolly. But, oh dear, big people are so happy, for they can do what they like, but _chindrel_ must do everything they are told." And quite forgetting her pretty white frock and dainty sash, and the many orders she had received not on any account to soil them, she lay back comfortably upon the grass. Bunny, whose real name was Ethel Dashwood, was six years old, and was one of the spoilt "_chindrel_," as she called children. If she had had brothers and sisters, very likely Bunny would have been kept in better order, but as she was quite alone no one could bear to correct her, and so she became very hard to manage indeed. Her papa indulged her, and thought she could do nothing wrong, whilst her mama was so delicate that she was very seldom able to look after her little girl, and left her to the care of a kind-hearted, but foolish old nurse, who allowed her to have her own way in everything and never for an instant thought of finding fault with her. This was all very well so long as Bunny was no more than a baby, but when she came to be six years old Mr. Dashwood suddenly found that her little girl was much too naughty, so she resolved to make a change in the nursery, that would, she hoped, have a good effect in every way. First of all old nurse was sent away, and a trim French maid, with a quick sharp manner, was engaged to take her place. Bunny was sorry to part with nurse, who had always been kind to her, but Sophie was so amusing, spoke such funny English, and sang such merry songs that the little girl soon ceased to fret, and became quite pleased with her new maid. The change of nurses Bunny bore in a quiet way that surprised everyone in the house; but when her mother told her that she had arranged with a young lady to come and live with them and be her governess, the little girl burst into a passion, and stamping her foot declared she would have no one to teach her, that she would say no lessons, and that her mama was very unkind to think of such a thing. Mrs. Dashwood was greatly shocked, and unable to understand such naughtiness, rang the bell and ordered Sophie to take the child away, and Bunny was carried off weeping bitterly. But this fit of anger only made her mama more anxious to have some one to look after her daughter, and in a few days the governess arrived, and Bunny was set down to learn to read and write. This was a great change for the neglected child, and had her teacher been a sensible person Bunny would doubtless have become a good little girl in time. But unfortunately the governess was very foolish, and thought it much easier to allow her pupil to have her own way than to take the trouble to make her do what was right, and so instead of doing the child good she did her harm, and Bunny became more and more naughty every day. This was in June, and as London grew very hot and dusty, Mrs. Dashwood declared they must all go away to the country, and her husband, who wished them to have a nice holiday, went off at once and took a beautiful house at Scarborough. Bunny was enchanted, and made up her mind to have great fun at the seaside, and as the very day before they left town, her governess was obliged to leave in a great hurry on account of a death in her family, the little girl made up her mind that she was going to have perfect freedom to do exactly what she liked and to play every day upon the sea-beach. Sophie did not trouble her much except when she was cross, and so Bunny set off to Scarborough in very high spirits. The house her papa had taken for them was a pretty rambling old place, standing on a height just above the sea, and surrounded by spreading trees and large gardens full of sweet-scented flowers. A most charming spot indeed, and to the little girl from hot dusty London it seemed a perfect paradise. The first days in the country passed away very happily, and Bunny was not as wild as might have been expected by those who knew her, when one day, as she ran through the hall, she stopped in astonishment before a large trunk, and cried out to the butler, who was standing near, "Who does that belong to, Ashton? Has a visitor come to stay with us?" "A visitor, miss? No, a new governess, miss--she's just gone in to speak to your mama;" and he hurried away to his pantry. "Nasty thing!" cried Bunny, stamping her foot and growing very red and angry. Just when I thought I was going to be happy all by myself! But I'll be so naughty, and so troublesome, that she'll soon go away. I'll be ten times as hard to manage as I was before. She'll not get hold of me to-night any way, and scampering off into the garden she hid herself among the trees. But the new governess, Miss Kerr, was a very different person from the last, and resolved to do her best to make her little pupil a good well-behaved child. She was a kind, warm-hearted girl, who had a great many small brothers and sisters of her own, and she never doubted that in a short time Bunny would become as good and obedient as they were. She soon found, however, that the task was not as easy as she had fancied, and when she had been a few days at Holly Lodge she began to fear that it would be a very long time before her lectures and advice would have the smallest effect upon the wayward little child. She had now been a whole week in charge of the girl, and she feared that Bunny would never learn to love her. About half an hour before our story begins, Bunny and her governess had been seated on the lawn together. Mrs. Dashwood sent to ask Miss Kerr to go to her for a few moments, and that young lady had hastened into the house, leaving her little charge upon the grass with her book. "Do not stir from here till I return, Bunny," she said; "you can go over that little lesson again, and I shall not be long." But as time went on and she did not return the child grew restless, and feeling very tired of sitting still, began to look about to see what there was for her to do. "Governesses are great bothers," she grumbled to herself as she rolled about on the grass. "And now as Miss Kerr does not seem to be coming back, I think I will have a climb up that tree--it looks so easy I'm sure I could go up ever so high. There's nobody looking, so I'll just see if I can go right away up--as high as that little bird up there." Bunny was very quick in her movements, and a minute later her white frock and blue sash were fluttering about among the leaves and branches of a fine old tree that grew in the middle of the lawn. "Oh, dear! How lovely it would be to be a bird--cheep, cheep! If I only had wings I should just feel like one this minute, perched up so high," she said with a merry laugh, as she jumped and wriggled about on the branch. But she quite forgot that the nursery window overlooked the lawn, and that Sophie was sure to be sitting there at her work. In a moment, however, this fact was recalled to her mind by the sound of a wild shriek from the terrified maid. "Mademoiselle! Miss Bunny, you want to kill yourself, or tear your sweet frock. Ah! naughty child, get down this instants, or I will tell monsieur your papa." This was the one threat that had any power to move Miss Bunny, so down she scrambled and ran away as fast as she could over the grass. There was still no sign of Miss Kerr, so the child wandered about, wondering what was keeping her governess, and wishing she had something to do, when all at once her eyes fell on a beautiful rose-tree, almost weighed down with the quantity of its flowers, and she flew at it in delight and began to pull off the lovely blossoms and pin one of them into the front of her frock. But like most foolish children she broke them off so short that there was no stalk left with which to fasten them, and so the poor rose fell upon the ground, and the little girl impatiently snatched at another and dragged it ruthlessly from the branch. This went on for some time, and would probably have gone on until not a flower remained upon the bush, had not Sophie again made herself heard from the nursery window. "Miss Bunny, how can you derange the beautiful roses?" she cried indignantly. "There will be not one left to give to your papa when he comes home, and you know he loves those sweet flowers so much." "Oh, I am so sorry," cried Bunny. "But there are some dear little buds, and I will just leave them for papa. Who knows perhaps they may be roses by to-morrow evening!" and away she flitted like a white-winged butterfly in search of some other sweet flowers that she might make her own, without fear of further interruption from sharp-tongued Sophie. At last, when she had such a large bouquet that her little hands could scarcely hold it, she wearied of her occupation, and stepping softly to the drawing-room window, she peeped in just to see what Miss Kerr and her mama could be doing that kept them shut up there for so long together. "I'll take mama these flowers," she said to herself, "and I am sure they will make her headache better. I'll just tap gently at the window and Miss Kerr will let me in, and I'll be so good and quiet that mama will not mind me being with her while she talks." Bunny waited for some minutes, hoping to be admitted to the room, but no notice was taken of her knocking--for the ladies were too much absorbed in their own affairs to trouble themselves about her. Mrs. Dashwood lay on the sofa, and her face had a flushed anxious expression, as she listened to Miss Kerr, who was seated on a stool by her side, and seemed to be talking very earnestly, but her voice was low, and as the window was shut Bunny could not hear a word she said. "Oh dear, what a lot Miss Kerr has got to say!" cried the little girl impatiently. "She seems as if she had forgotten all about me. I am tired of being out here all alone, so I'll just run in and play with my dollies." Now the nearest way into the house was up a flight of steps and in by the dining-room window, which was like a large glass door, and always lay open in the most tempting manner possible. So up these steps went Miss Bunny, her hands full of flowers and her mind bent on mischief, if she could only meet with anything to do that would amuse her and give her some fun. [Illustration: THE BUTLER SURPRISES BUNNY.] The room into which she stepped was a very pretty one. It was very nearly round, with many high windows looking out upon the pleasant grounds and blue sparkling sea. Upon the walls were pictures of fine thoroughbred horses, some of them with their little foals beside them, others with a surly-looking old dog or a tiny kitten, their favourite stable companion and friend. Bunny loved these pictures and had given the horses pet names of her own, by which she insisted on calling them, although their own well-known names were printed under them, for they were all horses that had won a great number of races during their lives, and so had become celebrated. The round table in the middle of the room was laid ready for dinner, and looked very inviting with its prettily arranged flowers, handsome silver, and shining glass. "Dear me, how nice it all looks!" said Bunny, as she marched round the table on tip-toe. "One, two, three, four places. Why, it must be for company. Well, I hope there will be somebody nice to talk to me. I must get Sophie to put on my pretty new frock. But oh, dear, what fun it would be just to put a tiny, little drop of water into every glass! Wouldn't old Ashton wonder--just when he thinks everything is nice for dinner? I will! I'll do it! It will be such fun! Oh, I'd like to see his face; won't he be horribly angry?" Throwing her flowers on the floor, Bunny sprang to the side-board, and seizing a water-jug she climbed up on each chair in turn and poured a few drops of water into every glass all round the dinner-table. Just as she came to the last wine-glass and held the jug ready to let the water fall into it, the door opened suddenly and the solemn-looking old butler entered the room. "Miss Bunny!" he exclaimed, and he looked so stern and angry that the little girl felt frightened, and dropping the jug, scrambled off the chair, seized her flowers, and ran out of his sight as fast as she could. "I only did it for fun, Ashton," she called back from the door. "It is clean water, so it won't do any harm." "Harm, indeed!" grumbled Ashton; "just as I thought I had everything done until dinner time. Now I must begin and rub up all this glass again;" and he began at once to remove the glasses from the table. "Little himp that she is, that Miss Bunny! A perfect himp, and if I had the governessing of her for sometime I'd--I'd--bah! there's that bell again! Some folks is in a mighty hurry," and full of anger and indignation against the little girl whom he could not punish for her naughty trick, Ashton hurried to the hall door, longing for something upon which he could vent his wrath. Bunny was skipping merrily in the hall, and the pretty roses that she had gathered with so much pleasure lay scattered on the ground. This sight did not tend to put the butler in a better temper, but he made no remark, and passing by the little girl without a word he opened the hall door with a jerk. A poor boy with a thin pinched face stood upon the step. "If you please, sir, will you give me a bit of bread, for I am very hungry?" he said in an imploring voice, as he gazed up into the butler's face. "There's nothing for you. How dare you come here with your wretched lies?" cried Ashton fiercely, and he shut the door with a bang. "That's not true, Ashton," cried Bunny darting forward and opening the door again. "Wait, little boy, and I will get you something!" and before the astonished butler knew where he was, she had rushed into the dining-room, and came back carrying a large loaf and a pat of butter that she had found upon the side-board. "You must not give that away, Miss Bunny," cried the man; "that is in my charge, and I cannot allow you to give it to a beggar;" and he tried to drag the bread from her hands. "You nasty man! I will give it to him if I like," she screamed. "My papa always lets me do what I like, and you are only a servant--and I will give it;" and she struggled to get away from him. "I only put the water in your glasses for fun--but I'm very glad I did it--and I wish I had put dirty water in--and I wish--let me go--I'll tell papa, and he'll be very angry and--" "Bunny," said a soft reproachful voice, "my dear child, what is the matter?" and Miss Kerr laid her hand gently upon the little girl's shoulder. "That nasty Ashton won't let me give this loaf to a poor boy who is there begging," cried Bunny; "he's very hungry and I want--" "Ashton is quite right, Bunny," said Miss Kerr gently; "give him back the loaf, dear. It is not yours, so you have no right to give it away. Have you no money of your own to give the boy?" "No, I have not," cried Bunny bursting into tears, "and I am sure papa would not mind my giving the loaf away--he never does. Ashton's a nasty, cross old thing;" and she flung the loaf on the floor. "Ashton is only doing his duty, Bunny, and you must not speak in that way." "Well, I wish he wouldn't do his duty then," sobbed the little girl; "it's a great shame of him to do his duty, when I tell him not." "Come, now, dear, dry your eyes and give this to the poor boy," said Miss Kerr kindly; "see, I will lend you threepence to give to him, and when your papa gives you some pocket-money you can repay me. The boy will like the money better than the bread, I daresay, and you will feel that you are giving something that is really your own." "Oh, thank you, thank you!" cried Bunny with delight, her tears drying up in an instant. "You are good! You are kind!" and throwing her arms round Miss Kerr's neck she kissed her over and over again; then seizing the pennies she flew to the door, and handing them to the boy said in a subdued voice: "Here, boy, a good lady gave me these pennies for you. I am a greedy little girl and spend all my own money on sweets, but I'll save up and pay Miss Kerr back very soon." "That is enough, Bunny," said the governess, taking the child by the hand. "I have something to tell you, dear, so come with me now." "Very well, I will come," answered Bunny quite meekly, and shutting the door, she followed Miss Kerr down the hall. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER II. PLEASANT NEWS FOR BUNNY. "And now, Bunny," said Miss Kerr, as she led the little girl into the library and took her on her knee, "I am afraid you have been a very naughty child. I do not like to scold you, you know, but when children are told to stay in one place they should do so, and not run about all over the house in the way you seem to have been doing." "But you were so long away," replied Bunny, "and I was tired sitting there all by myself. Sophie kept screaming at me not to touch the flowers, so I had nothing to do." "And what about the lesson? Did you learn that?" "No, I didn't, it was so stupid," said Bunny, "I got quite tired of it, and all the letters went wrong, so I thought I would go to the nursery and play with my toys, and then when I went into the dining-room there was nobody there, and I thought it would be great fun to tease old Ashton, so I jumped on the chairs and poured water into all the glasses, and he was so angry; and oh it was fun to see his face when he cried out, 'Miss Bunny!'" and carried away with delight at the recollection of her naughty trick, the little girl clapped her hands and laughed long and merrily. "But, my dear child, do you not know that that was extremely naughty conduct?" said Miss Kerr gravely. "It is very wicked to make anyone angry, and it was very unkind of you to play such a trick upon Ashton. How would you like if he were to spoil your toys or break your dolls for you?" "Oh, I shouldn't like it at all," answered Bunny; "I'd be awfully cross, and I'd get papa to send him away. That would be a good way to punish him, I know." "Well, Bunny, you think you could punish him but he has no way of punishing you, so you should always be very careful not to annoy or trouble him. Besides, my child, we should never do anything to other people that we know we would not like them to do to us. God wishes us to be good and kind to everyone about us, remember, and to be unkind is to disobey Him." "Oh, then, I'm very sorry that I was so naughty," cried Bunny, "for Sophie told me this morning that God has been good and kind to me always, for she says He gave me all the nice things I have, and my papa and mama, so I should not like to vex Him when He has been so kind to me." "If my little Bunny will just remember that, whenever she feels inclined to be naughty she will soon find it easy to be good, and she will be a much happier child, for then she will know that she is pleasing God who has been good to her." "Oh, I will try, dear Miss Kerr, indeed I will," said the little girl; "I'll be good and kind to God, and you, and papa, and mama, because you are all so good to me;" and she laid her soft cheek against Miss Kerr's face. "That is right, darling," said the governess with a smile; "and now that I have given you a little lecture, and you have promised to be good, I have a piece of news to tell you that will, I am sure, give you great pleasure;" and she smoothed the child's fair hair with her hand. "Good news! Oh, dear Miss Kerr, do tell me what it is," cried the little girl eagerly. "Well, I have been having a long talk with your mama, Bunny, and--" "Oh, yes, I know that. I saw you talk, talk, talk, only I couldn't hear what you were saying, because the window was shut." "No, I suppose not, dear, but listen. Your mama says you have an uncle in India who has a little son of seven years old--" "Oh, I know that, Miss Kerr! Why, that's no news! Of course I know about Uncle Jim and Cousin Mervyn. I never saw them though, but still I know they are in India, an awfully hot place it is, Sophie says." "Yes, so it is. But would you like to see this Cousin Mervyn, do you think?" "Oh, I'd just love to see him--but is he black? Sophie says the people in those countries are black. Oh, I shouldn't like a black cousin, Miss Kerr, indeed I should not," cried Bunny in a piteous voice. "You little goose, he's not black at all," cried Miss Kerr, laughing at the little girl's look of consternation; "I have never seen him, but his papa is supposed to be like your mama, so I daresay he will have fair hair, blue eyes, and pink cheeks something very like your own." "Oh, I'm glad he is like that, for indeed I could not bear a black cousin. Once I had a black doll given to me for a present, and I screamed and screamed till nurse put it away out of the nursery." "It is certainly very lucky that your cousin is not black, for it would never do to scream at him, would it?" said Miss Kerr, "for he has arrived in London and is coming here with your papa to-morrow evening." "Oh, I am glad! Oh, I am glad!" sang Bunny, dancing round the room on the points of her toes. "What fun it will be to have a little cousin to play with! Will he stay long, Miss Kerr?" "Yes, a long time, Bunny," answered the governess. "It is too hot in India for him to stay there any longer--indeed they think he has stayed there too long already, and your mama has promised to take care of him until he is old enough to go to school." "Oh, that will be a nice long visit," said the little girl; "he'll be staying with us just as if it was home, and he was my own brother." "Yes, dear, just so. He will be like your brother, I am sure; and he is to have his lessons with you. I am to teach you both." "Yes, and I'll lend him my pony and I'll let him play with my kittens. And oh, Miss Kerr, I'll give him tea out of my own little tea-set; and we'll have such fun." "Yes, dear, it will be very nice, and I hope that little Bunny will be a good child and not make her cousin naughty and teach him mischievous tricks." "Oh, I'll be good, indeed, dear Miss Kerr. I won't want to be naughty so much when I have someone to play with, for it's always when I feel lonely that I want to play tricks on people." "Is that so really, you poor mite? Well, you will not be lonely any more, Bunny, and I hope you will try hard and learn to read soon. When children can read they do not want a companion so much, because they can read pretty stories about other children and so amuse themselves for hours together." "Oh, I don't want to read stories one bit," said Bunny with a pout. "Sophie and mama read lots of stories to me, so it doesn't matter whether I can read them for myself or not." "And what will you do when you grow up, Bunny? Don't you think you would feel very much ashamed if you could not read when you had grown to be a tall lady?" "Oh, no one would ever know, for I am sure people never ask grown-up ladies if they can read. Do they, now? No one ever asks you or mama if you know how to read." "No, people never ask us if we can read, certainly, Bunny," answered Miss Kerr laughing, "but they would soon find out if we did not, I can tell you. People who cannot read seldom learn those things that everyone should know, and so they are ignorant and stupid. Surely you would not like Mervyn to beat you at his lessons, would you?" "Oh, but he's older than me," said Bunny, "and, of course, he knows a great deal more than me, and----" "Than _I_, Bunny, say he is older than _I_ am," corrected Miss Kerr. "Yes, he is older, but I do not think he knows more than you do. His papa says he has never been taught anything but his letters, and he can hardly speak English." "Oh, dear! Does he only speak French then?" said Bunny with a look of alarm. "No, Hindustanee. That is the Indian language, you know, and as he always had a native nurse he does not know English very perfectly. But we will soon teach him, won't we, dear?" "Oh, yes, it will be fun, and I'll try very hard to learn to read well before he does! It will be nice to have a cousin, won't it? I wonder what he's like. But I'm sure he'll be nice. I know he will. Don't you think he'll be nice, Miss Kerr?" "Yes, dear, I think it is very likely, but you will know all about him to-morrow." "Oh, I wish to-morrow would come, quick, quick!" cried Bunny; "the days and the hours go over so slowly, and I do want to see that little Indian." "Poor little boy! I daresay he will be very tired and shy when he arrives. It is a sad thing to leave father and friends and come among strangers, Bunny," said Miss Kerr, and there were tears in her eyes as she gazed out over the garden. "Dear Miss Kerr, why should you feel sorry for Mervyn? I'm so glad that he is coming here," said Bunny softly, and she put her little hand into Miss Kerr's. "Why should you cry for him? We will be very kind to him, you and I, and papa and mama." "Yes, darling, of course," answered Miss Kerr stroking the little hand. "But I was not thinking of Mervyn, but of someone I know, who had to leave her dear home, her father and mother, and brothers and sisters, to go be governess to a wild little girl, who did not care to learn her lessons and did not love her at all." "Why, that's like me and you! But I do love you; oh, I do love you!" cried the child, and she flung her arms round Miss Kerr's neck. "You are so good and kind, and I am sorry you had to leave your little brothers and sisters, and I won't be wild, and I'll love you very much." "If you do, Bunny, you will make me very happy, and I think you will soon be a very good little girl," and Miss Kerr kissed the eager face over and over again. "But run away now and get ready for tea. I have some letters to write for the post, and I shall just have time if you run off at once." "Very well," said Bunny jumping off Miss Kerr's knee. "I must go to tell Sophie the news." And away she ran, calling, "Sophie, Sophie," as she went up the stairs. "She has a good little heart, and will become a fine character in time, if she is properly managed," said Miss Kerr to herself as the child left the room. "But she has been terribly spoilt and neglected. If the boy from India is as great a pickle as Miss Bunny, I shall have my hands very full indeed," and with something between a sigh and a laugh, Miss Kerr seated herself at the table and began to write her letters. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER III. BUNNY GETS UP EARLY. For a long time after she went to bed that night, Bunny could not go to sleep, and lay tossing about from side to side, wishing over and over again that it was morning, that she might get up and put all her toys and books in order, so that they should look as nice as possible when she came to show them to the new cousin. At last she dropped off into a sound sleep, and did not wake again until the sun was shining brightly into her room. She jumped up and looked about to see if Sophie had gone to get her bath ready. But the maid lay fast asleep in her bed at the other side of the room, and poor Bunny felt sure she would not get up for a very long time yet. She felt ready to cry at the thoughts of lying there for so long doing nothing, whilst the sun was shining so brightly over the sea and dancing so merrily up and down the nursery walls. Suddenly, however, a happy idea presented itself to her mind, and she sprang out of her crib with a soft well-pleased little laugh. "It will be such fun," she whispered to herself, "and Sophie will get such a start when she sees the crib empty! But I must go about very gently or she might wake up and send me back to bed." So the little girl slipped very quietly about the room, and struggled bravely with buttons and tapes, as she did her best to dress herself without the assistance of her maid. "They're all upside down and tied in big knots," she said ruefully, "but Sophie will just have to do them all over again when she gets up. Oh, dear, where are my boots, I wonder? I can't see them anywhere about. Well, I must go out in these, I suppose;" and sitting down on the floor she put on a pair of dainty Queen Anne shoes, with satin bows and steel stars, that she had worn the evening before when she went down to the drawing-room to see her mama. At this moment Sophie turned round with a loud snore, and Bunny gave a start of alarm, as she looked quickly towards the bed. If Sophie awoke and saw what she was doing, all her fun would surely be spoiled, and she would be sent back to her crib in disgrace. Very cautiously then she got up off the floor, seized her hat that lay on the chest of drawers, and opening the door as softly as possible, flew along the corridor and away down the stairs. Not a servant was to be seen about, for it was not yet seven o'clock, and so Bunny passed on without any interruption into the dining-room, and stood on tip-toe at the side-board looking anxiously to see if there was anything there for her to eat. But there was not even a crust to be seen. "Nasty old Ashton!" she cried, "he might have left a few pieces of bread for me; but he wouldn't, I'm sure, even if he had known I was coming. I must get something for my dear pony, now that I am up, so I'll go off to the larder and see what I can find there." So away went Bunny in high glee at her clever thought; but when she arrived at the larder door she found it locked, and she was about to turn away sad and disappointed when a sudden jingling of keys was heard in the passage, the kitchen door opened, and Mrs. Brown, the cook, appeared upon the scene. "Miss Bunny, dear, what brings you here at such an hour? And law but you are dressed queer! But, indeed, them Frenchies are little good with their new-fangled ways. It's nurse that used to dress you smart, deary, and as for Sophie, she beats all;" and the good woman held up her hands in dismay at the child's untidy appearance. "Oh, Sophie didn't dress me at all!" cried Bunny. "She doesn't even know I'm up, for she's fast asleep. But I was so tired lying there listening to Sophie snoring that I thought I would get up and go out. I want to take my pony a piece of bread, so please give me some for him and some for myself, Mrs. Brown, for I'm very hungry." "Bless your heart, of course I will," cried the good-natured woman, as she unlocked the door, and cutting two large slices of bread and butter, handed them to the little girl. "Oh, thank you," said Bunny; "Frisk will like this, I am sure. Good morning, Mrs. Brown, and mind you don't tell Sophie where I am, if she comes to look for me." "Don't be afraid, deary, I won't give her any news of you. I don't admire her and her stuck-up French airs, so she won't get much out of me." But Bunny did not wait to hear the end of the good woman's speech against poor Sophie; she had got all she wanted, so away she ran to pay her morning visit to her little pony. When Frisk heard the stable door opening and a footstep approaching his stall, he whisked his tail and twisted his head as well as he could, to see who was coming to visit him at such an early hour. And when he found it was his little mistress, and heard her voice at his ear he neighed with delight, and rubbed his velvety nose up and down her frock. "Dear old Frisk," she cried, patting his neck, "there's a little cousin coming all the way from India to stay with us. Sophie is not glad, but I am, and Miss Kerr is, and you must be glad too, old man. And he's not black at all, Frisk, oh, no, and it is very, very silly of you to think so, sir. You must be good to him, dear little pony, and give him nice rides, and then he'll love you, just as I do, and we'll all be friends together. So now eat this, little Frisk," she continued, and breaking off a piece of the bread, she held it up to the pony's nose. But suddenly Bunny gave a little shriek, and drew her hand quickly away; for without intending it, Frisk had actually bitten his kind little mistress. The bread she offered him was so small, and his mouth was so big, that the child's fingers got rather far in among his teeth, and when Frisk's white grinders came down upon the dainty offered him, they met rather sharply upon poor Bunny's thumb. The skin was slightly cut, and as a little stream of blood ran down her finger the child grew frightened and began to cry. "Oh, Frisk, Frisk, why did you bite? I never thought you would do such a thing," she cried reproachfully. "I never, never knew you do such a thing before;" and sinking down on the straw by his side, she tried to stop the blood by rolling her finger tightly up in the corner of her pinafore. "Just when I wanted to tell the new cousin that you were a good, kind pony, you go and bite me--oh dear, oh dear, I am very sorry, Frisk, I am indeed." But in spite of the little girl's sorrowful lecture, Frisk did not in the least know that he had done anything wrong, and poking his soft nose into Bunny's lap, he carried off the remaining piece of bread and ate it with much relish. "You artful old thing," cried Bunny, delighted with his cleverness, and smiling through her tears, "if you hadn't bit me I'd have said you were the best and dearest little pony alive;" and forgetting her anger at him for hurting her, she jumped up and patted and kissed his soft silky nose. "Where is Mademoiselle Bunny? Ah! that child will be the death of me. Jean, have you seen Meess Bunny anywhere about?" cried Sophie, just outside the stable door; and the little girl knew that her hour was come and that she was going to get a good scolding. "Oh, Miss Bunny is in there, talking to Frisk, Mamzelle Sophie," answered the groom. "Little naughty one! Ah, these English children are so dreadful!" cried Sophie, and in a moment Bunny was dragged out from her seat on the straw and carried away to the nursery. "Oh!" she screamed as soon as they were inside the door, "what is that I see on your dress, mademoiselle? Blood, I declare! Oh, what will your mama say? She will send away that beast of a pony I am sure, and then you will not make such early walks to the stable." "Oh, Sophie, Sophie, don't tell! don't tell!" cried Bunny, "Frisk did not mean to hurt me I am sure, and it's nearly well now. Look, it has stopped bleeding already, so don't tell mama, pray don't," and the little girl raised her eyes full of tears to the maid's face. "Well, I won't tell if you will promise me never to slip out of your bed and away out of the house again as you have done just now." "Oh, I never will, I never will, Sophie!" cried Bunny, "but do say you won't tell. I couldn't bear to see Frisk sent away." "Well, well, don't cry any more," said Sophie good-naturedly. "Be a good enfant, and I will say not anything about it." "Oh! you dear, darling Sophie, I'll be so good, so good!" cried the little girl, "I'll be so good that you'll never have to scold me any more." "Ma foi, what a change that will be!" cried Sophie, "if you get so good as all that I will send for the doctor." "For the doctor!" exclaimed Bunny in surprise. "Why would you send for him?" "Good gracious, mademoiselle, because I will surely think you are ill if you get to be an angel like that; but I am very certain I shall have to scold you many times before this evening comes." "Very likely, Sophie, but still I'm good now," said Bunny with a merry little laugh, and as the maid gave the last touch to her hair, the last pull to her sash, she ran out of the nursery and away to her mama with whom she always had her breakfast. Bunny was in a wild state of excitement all that day, and Sophie and Miss Kerr found it very hard to keep her in order and prevent her disturbing her mama, who was not well, and could not bear much noise. "Oh, dear, how long the day is! How long the day is!" she cried over and over again. "I don't think evening will ever come, Miss Kerr, I don't, indeed." "It will come fast enough, Bunny dear, if you will only have patience. Try and forget that you are expecting anything to happen." "I wish I could! I wish I could! But I do so wish to see what Mervyn is like." "You impatient little goose, do try and think of something else and time will go over much faster. But I tell you what, Bun," said Miss Kerr, when they had finished their early dinner, "we will go and take a good run on the sands and that will pass the afternoon very nicely for us." "But they might come when we are away, and that would be dreadful." "No, they won't, because they can't," said Miss Kerr with a smile. "The train does not come in until seven, and it is only three now, so you see we have plenty of time for a nice walk." [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER IV. BUNNY GETS A FRIGHT. "Do be quick, Sophie," cried Bunny as she rushed into the nursery after her walk upon the sands, "Miss Kerr says it is half-past five, and papa and Mervyn will be here at seven, so do be quick and dress me as fast as ever you can, for I want to be down in the hall, ready to jump out at them the minute they come to the door." "Indeed," said Sophie without moving from her chair at the window. "What haste we are in, certainly. But you may just keep still, Miss Bunny, for I am not going to touch you for one half hour. What is the use for me to dress you now, when long before seven you would be so black as a sweep again, I know." "Oh, what a bother!" cried Bunny, stamping her foot and flinging her pretty white hat upon the floor. "You are a nasty thing, and I wish you had not come to be my maid at all, for you never do anything I ask you to do. I wish dear old nurse was back with me again, she used to be so nice, and always did whatever I wanted." "Old nurse was an old silly," answered Sophie, stitching away at her work. "She neg-lect you and make you so naughty, and it is for me to keep you in order and make you good." "Well, I won't be kept in order, and I won't be made good--not one bit," cried Bunny bursting into tears. "It's very unkind of you not to dress me in time to see my papa, and he'll be very angry with you." [Illustration: BUNNY WELCOMES HER FATHER.] "Come, Miss Bunny, don't be a silly baby," said Sophie, "I'll dress you soon enough, do not fear that. You had so much best go and make tidy that doll's house, for the little cousin will be ashamed to see it in so much of disorder." "I don't want to tidy my doll's house, and I don't care whether Mervyn likes it or not, not a bit!" said Bunny, and taking off one little glove she threw it into the very furthest corner of the room, and then rolling the other into a ball she threw it at Sophie's head as she sat bending over her work. But the maid did not take the slightest notice of the young lady, and without another word went quietly on with her sewing. When Bunny saw that Sophie was really determined not to dress her for some time, she sat down on the floor in silence, and leaning her head up against the side of her crib, kicked about for some minutes in a very ill-tempered way indeed. After a while she grew tired of this conduct, which to her great surprise did not seem to make Sophie the least bit angry, and not knowing what to do with herself she sat staring about the room with a very sulky expression on her little face. But by degrees the tears dried up, the cross look disappeared, and jumping suddenly to her feet, she trotted off to the other end of the room. Pulling open the wide door of the doll's house, she set to work very industriously to put it in order. She brushed the carpets, dusted the chairs, shook out the dolls' dresses and set them out in the drawing-room as if they were waiting to receive their visitors. "Now it's tidy, Sophie," she cried with a bright little smile. "Mervyn will think it a very nice doll's house. Won't he?" "Yes, my dear enfant, I am sure he will," said Sophie kindly, "and now as you have been good and quiet for so long, I will begin to dress you if you like." "Oh, that is a dear good Sophie. I am so afraid that I shall not be ready when papa comes." "You will be ready, never fear," said Sophie, and taking off the child's frock, she began to wash her face and hands. "You hurt, Sophie, you hurt," cried Bunny pettishly, as the maid combed out her long fair hair. "Bah, no I don't hurt you, mademoiselle, except when you pull your head aside. But in truth it is hard to comb your hair properly when you move and fidget about. You are very difficult to manage to-day." "I tell you, you do hurt me--you pull as hard as anything," cried Bunny growing very red. "Very well, miss, if you are in such humour," cried Sophie, "you may just stand there till you get back to your temper again. I'm going into the next room to get your frock, and I hope that when I come back you will be quiet and let me dress your hair like a little lady," and the maid flounced out of the nursery, leaving Bunny standing before the glass in her short white petticoat, with one shoe off and the other on, her hair hanging in disorder about her shoulders, and her face puckered up in dismay at Sophie's sudden and unexpected departure. "Oh, why was I so cross about my hair?" she cried. "Papa and Mervyn will be here directly, and just look at the state I am in. What shall I do? What shall I do? Sophie, I'll be good. Do come back, and get me ready to go down." But Sophie did not answer, nor did she return, and poor Bunny sat down on the edge of her crib, and in spite of all the efforts she made to keep them back, the big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. Suddenly the sound of wheels was heard upon the gravel below, and brushing away her tears, the little girl started to her feet and ran over to the window. A cab covered with luggage was coming in at the big gate, and in a minute she saw her papa nodding gaily up to his little Bunny, with a bright well-pleased smile upon his dear face. Without a moment's thought as to the state she was in, or of what her papa or the little boy from India might think of her in such a condition, Bunny dropped the blind, and with a joyful cry of "Papa, papa, my own dear papa," she rushed out of the nursery and away down the stairs. "My little darling! My sweet little Bun," exclaimed Mr. Dashwood, as the small wild-looking figure came running along the hall and jumped into his arms. "Why, dear, why did you come out of the nursery before you were dressed?" he said, as he smoothed back the ruffled hair and kissed the hot cheeks of the excited child. "You are in a strange state to receive visitors, Bunny dear, and I am afraid cousin Mervyn will be shocked at my wild girl, for he is a very tidy little man, I can tell you. Mervyn, this is your cousin Ethel, commonly called Bunny, I hope you will be very good friends," and he put out his hand to a pale gentle-looking boy of about seven years old, who was clinging shyly to the skirts of an Indian Ayah, as though afraid to let her go from beside him for an instant. When Bunny raised her head from her papa's shoulder to look at her new cousin, her eyes suddenly lighted upon the grinning black face of the strange foreign-looking woman, and with one wild yell of terror she turned away, and buried her little face in her father's coat. "Oh, send that dreadful thing away!" she cried, "I'm not half so naughty as I used to be! And I have promised Miss Kerr to be so good! Oh, papa, papa, don't give your little Bunny to that dreadful black woman." "My darling, that is Mervyn's nurse, and he loves her very dearly. See how he clings to her and begs her to stay with him! Just look how kind she is to him!" "Oh, no, no, papa, she's a bogie, I am sure," cried the child, clinging to him more nervously than ever. "Sophie always tells me a bogie will come for me if I am naughty, and I was naughty just now because Sophie pulled my hair, and I was cross, and cried and stamped my foot and--" "My poor foolish little girl, she is not a bogie, but a good kind woman--her face is black, but she can't help that. It was very wrong of Sophie to frighten you about bogies, very wrong--there is no such thing in the world." "Ah, monsieur, monsieur, I'm so sorry Meess Bunny has been so naughty to run down to you in such a state," cried Sophie running into the hall with a very angry look on her face. "I just left her for a minute to get her frock, and when I came back she was gone." "Oh, Sophie, Sophie, don't scold me, please," cried Bunny, "I'll go back to the nursery, and let you dress me now. Oh, take me away quick, for if I see that dreadful face, I shall scream again, I know I shall;" and with one little hand over her eyes that she might not see the terrible creature again, Bunny flung herself into Sophie's arms and was carried off upstairs to have her toilet completed for dinner. "Poor little monkey!" said Mr. Dashwood laughing, "I never thought she would be so easily frightened. Ashton, take the nurse down to the housekeeper's room, and tell the servants to look after her, and give her her dinner. Come, Mervyn, my little man, I want to take you to see your aunt." "Yes, uncle," answered the little boy in a shy nervous voice, and looking up into the Ayah's face to see what she wished him to do. "Go at once," she said in Hindustanee, and then Mervyn went up to his uncle, and putting his little hand into his, allowed him to lead him down the passage to the drawing-room. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER V. THE LITTLE INDIAN. Mrs Dashwood lay on the sofa in the drawing-room, and Miss Kerr sat beside her reading aloud. The two children, Bunny and Mervyn, were seated side by side upon a large white woolly rug in the bow-window, and they whispered together in very low tones lest they should disturb the ladies by their noise. Bunny was nursing a pretty black kitten, with a red ribbon round its neck, whilst Mervyn sat with his little hands clasped over his knees, looking out at the blue sparkling sea, with a well-pleased expression on his thin pale face. "What a lovely cool place England is!" he whispered; "it feels so comfortable and nice here, and that sea is so beautiful to look at." "Yes, to look at," answered Bunny, nodding her head; "but, oh! Mervyn, wouldn't you feel afraid to go into it, and have your face stuck right under the water, and held there till you had no breath, and--" "Oh, that would be horrible!" cried Mervyn with a frightened look; "my papa would be angry if I were put into the sea in that way. Oh! I will write and tell him if--" "Well, I know he wrote to say that bathing would be very good for you," said Bunny, "and mama told Miss Kerr this very morning she was sure it would be. But I tell you, Mervyn, it's only Sophie that is so rough and nasty. One day I went to bathe with Miss Kerr, and it was lovely! She told me when she was going to dip me, and she let me play at the edge, and I took dolly in and I dipped her, and it was such fun." "Well, then, I will ask Miss Kerr always to bathe me," replied Mervyn; "I should die, I am sure, if I were pushed under the water and could not get my breath." "Oh! I was often and often pushed down that way by Sophie, and I didn't die at all; but I kicked and screamed most dreadfully," cried Bunny; "but then, mama says I am very strong, and Sophie said last night that you were a misserble creature, so thin and white." "Sophie is very rude!" exclaimed Mervyn with a slight flush; "I am not a miserable creature; I can't help being white; everyone is in India, because it's so hot." "That is funny!" cried the little girl, "for Sophie said all Indians were black, and I thought you would have a little black face like Pussy here, only Miss Kerr told me you would be as white as me; but you're whiter, much whiter," and she laid her small plump pink hand on Mervyn's thin white one. "I don't like your Sophie," cried Mervyn impatiently; "she talks in such a queer way, and she's not half so nice as my dear old Indian nurse. I do wish she had been able to stay in England with me." "Oh, I think she was a horrid fright!" cried Bunny, "with her nasty black face and her dreadful flappy wild dress, and I'm sure nobody could understand a word she said." "I could," said Mervyn with a sigh, "and I liked talking Hindustanee much better than English." "But it sounds so silly!" cried Bunny; "I think it's a great pity people shouldn't always speak English everywhere, for that would be so plain and easy." "Well, I would much rather everyone would speak Hindustanee, for that would be much nicer." "Oh, dear! I don't think so," said Bunny; "and I think you speak English very well." "Do you?" said Mervyn, smiling; "papa did not; and do you know, I can't always think of the right words for things." "Oh! just ask me and I will tell you," replied Bunny jauntily, "for I never have to think for my words at all." "Bunny, dear," said Mrs. Dashwood from her sofa, "I think you have nursed that kitten quite long enough; the poor little thing looks very tired. Put it into its basket like a good child." "Very well, mama," answered Bunny, and, jumping up, she ran over to a corner of the room where stood a pretty round basket, which was always used as a snug bed for Miss Puss. Bunny dropped her pet gently in upon the soft cushion, and after much stroking and tucking up, she stole away on tip-toe to her mother's side. But Pussy was in a playful mood, and as soon as the little girl's back was turned she sprang lightly out of her bed and went scampering gaily round the room. "Naughty, naughty puss!" cried Bunny laughing, and off she went in pursuit of the runaway. "Bunny, dear Bunny, I can't bear that noise," cried Mrs. Dashwood, as her little daughter tumbled over a footstool and knocked down a chair. "I can't bear it indeed, dear child, so I think you had better go out. Sophie will take you for a walk, as I want Miss Kerr to read to me." "Oh, mama! I like Miss Kerr much better than Sophie," cried Bunny, "and so does Mervyn. Do let Miss Kerr come." "But, Bunny, dear," said Miss Kerr, "you would not like poor mama to have no one to read to her, would you? It is so dull for her all day on the sofa by herself. You would not ask me to leave her, would you?" "Oh! no, no, dear, darling mama, I will not ask Miss Kerr to come, not for a minute!" cried Bunny as, kneeling beside the sofa, she threw her arms round her mother's neck and kissed her vehemently. "I could not bear to think of you being lonely, mamey dear. But do let us stay here now, and go out in the afternoon with Miss Kerr. Mervyn can't bear Sophie." "I am sorry for that, my little man," said Mrs. Dashwood, drawing the boy towards her; "Sophie is sharp and quick, but she is very good-natured, I think, so I hope you will try and like her." "Oh! yes, aunt," answered Mervyn, flushing, "I only meant that I would rather have my own dear nurse, and that I was very sorry she had been sent away to India again." "She was not sent away, dear," answered Mrs. Dashwood; "she went by her own wish. She was fond of you, Mervyn, but she did not like to live in England, so she hurried back to India as soon as she could. It will be better for you to learn English well, and try to pick up a little French from Sophie, than to be always talking with an Indian, my child. But the first thing you have to do, Mervyn, is to get fat and rosy like Bunny here. And you must grow tall, dear boy, for you are very, very small for your age; you must grow as fast as you can or this little girl will soon be the tallest," and Mrs. Dashwood pinched her daughter's plump cheek. "Oh! but mama, dear, he can't make himself grow," remarked Bunny, as she stood up to measure herself with her cousin. "He has not got a key to wind up the works of himself, so he must just wait small till he begins to grow big." "You are sharp enough, Miss Pert," said her mother, laughing. "I wish you would learn to be more steady and to remember what is said to you." "Oh! I can remember," cried Bunny gaily; "I've got a splendid memory, haven't I, Miss Kerr?" "Yes, I think you have, dear," said Miss Kerr gravely; "but I am afraid you do not always remember at the right time. Eh! Bunny?" "No, I don't," said the little girl, hanging her head; "I quite forgot when I got up and went to feed Frisk. But I don't think God minded that much; it was not much harm." "God is always displeased at disobedience, Bunny," said Mrs. Dashwood very seriously. "The first thing God expects of a little child is that she should be obedient, and so my Bunny must try and remember things that she is not allowed to do, and then be very careful not to do them." "Yes, mama, I will try," said Bunny in a subdued voice. "That is right, dear, and I hope little Mervyn will do the same." "Yes, aunt, I will indeed; papa told me to be very good until he came home, and I mean to be," he said, drawing himself up in a determined manner. "Well, then, I am sure you will do Bunny good and help her to remember. But now run away like good children and tell Sophie to take you out for a walk. It is a lovely morning, and a run on the sands will give you an appetite for your dinner." "Very well, mama," cried Bunny gaily, and away she darted out of the room singing and shouting at the top of her voice. "Good morning, aunt," said Mervyn gently, and he followed his little cousin in a slow dignified manner, turning quietly to shut the drawing-room door behind him. "What a harum-scarum that Bunny is!" said Mrs. Dashwood with a sigh. "It is very hard to make an impression on her." "Yes, it is certainly, at least for more than a few minutes at a time," answered Miss Kerr; "she is always so ready to be good, no matter what she has done, that it is not easy to scold her much. But she is a good-hearted child, and I am sure in a short time you will see a great change in her." "I hope so, indeed," said Mrs. Dashwood, "for she is a constant worry at present and extremely hard to manage." [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER VI. BUNNY FORGETS AGAIN. Out of the gate and down the road went the two little cousins hand in hand, whilst close behind them walked Sophie, holding up a big umbrella, and carrying a yellow-covered novel under her arm. On they went; the little ones laughing and talking pleasantly together, until they came to the entrance of the Spa, a gay promenade which the fashionables of the place were in the habit of frequenting in the morning to inhale the sea breezes, listen to sweet music and meet their friends. Sophie liked the Spa, for there she saw much to delight and amuse her, whilst on the sands she always felt dull and weary. But Bunny's ideas and those of her maid were not at all the same, for the little girl loved the sands, and could spend hours there digging and building castles of all shapes and sizes. Every day there was an angry dispute between the nurse and child as to where they should spend their time between breakfast and dinner; sometimes one came off victorious and sometimes the other. This morning, as usual, Bunny was quite determined to go on the sands, and Sophie was equally resolved to go down to the Spa. "Mama said we were to go on the sands, Sophie, and I hate that old Spa," cried Bunny, making a rush towards the steps that led down to the sands; "I've got my spade, and so has Mervyn, and it's very unkind of you not to come there when it looks so nice and we both want to go." "You'll just please to come where I tell you, mademoiselle," said Sophie, making a dive at the little girl, and dragging her through the turnstile and on to the bridge that led into the Cliff grounds. "Don't you think you go to play any of your bad tricks on me. It is enough difficult minding two of you in here without running all over the sands for you." "Never mind, Bunny," said Mervyn gently, as they walked along together, "Miss Kerr will come on the sands with us after dinner, perhaps, and then we will have fine fun." "Yes, indeed," answered the little girl with a toss of her head, and speaking in a loud voice so that the maid might hear her; "Miss Kerr always does what I ask her to do, but Sophie is a regular cross-patch." "Sit down here, mademoiselle, and try to behave like a lady," cried Sophie, as she seated herself upon a bench at the top of the cliff, overlooking the promenade and sea. "Oh, I don't want to sit down, I want to walk," cried Bunny tearfully; "why, we have just come out." "Of course you want to do exactly what I tell you not to do," said Sophie angrily; "sit down, both of you, when I tell you," and she lifted first one and then the other, and placed them very roughly upon the bench. In a few minutes a friend of Sophie's approached them, and after some pressing she took a seat beside the maid, and the two children were pushed away by themselves to the other end of the bench. "How long an age it is since I've seen you, Kitty!" cried Sophie, smiling pleasantly upon the new-comer. "Yes, it is a long time," answered her friend, "and I've lots of news for you. I've heard of a place--but it might be dangerous to say much just now," and she glanced at the children. "Oh, they will not pay attention," cried Sophie, "but it's easy to get rid of them if you like. Meess Bunny, you can run and play up and down for a little with your cousin. But do not go very far." "That is nice!" exclaimed Bunny gaily; "thank you, Sophie, very much," and jumping off the seat, she took Mervyn by the hand and dragged him away for a race down the hill. "What is that, Bunny? What is that?" cried Mervyn suddenly, and he pointed his finger towards the far end of the Spa. "It's like a train, at least one carriage of a train, and it's running so fast up the side of the cliff, and, oh dear! I declare there is another one just the same coming down past it." "That is the lift, Mervyn; doesn't it look very funny hanging all down like that? Do you know, I went in it once with papa and it was lovely. It went along so smooth and so fast." "I would like so much to go in it," said Mervyn, "I wonder if uncle will take me some day." "Yes, I am sure he will, and me too," cried Bunny, skipping gaily along. "But I tell you what, Mervyn, wouldn't it be fun to go off now, all by ourselves." "Now!" exclaimed Mervyn in surprise, "and what would Sophie say?" "Oh, she will never know," said Bunny. "We'll go up in the lift and run down those paths among the trees ever so fast, and get back to her before she knows we have gone away at all. She always has so much to say to that friend of hers." "Yes, but don't you have to pay to go up in the lift?" asked Mervyn, "and I have no money. Have you?" "Of course we must pay, but it's only a penny each, I know," answered Bunny, "and I have got twopence in my pocket that papa gave me this morning. I was going to give it to Miss Kerr, but I won't now." "To Miss Kerr! Why should you give her your money?" "Oh, that's a secret of mine. But I don't mind telling you, Mervyn, only you must not tell anyone, will you now? Promise you won't, like a good boy." "I promise," answered Mervyn earnestly; "I would not tell anyone for the world." "Well, one day Miss Kerr lent me three pennies to give to a poor boy, and I said I would pay her back very soon." "Then I would not spend the pennies," said Mervyn decidedly; "keep them, Bunny, and give them to Miss Kerr when we go home." "Oh, no; I would much rather go in the lift," cried Bunny. "Miss Kerr won't mind, for she said I need not be in a hurry to pay it." "Still I think it would be better," began Mervyn solemnly, "to pay Miss--" "Oh, bother! Never mind thinking, but come along, or we will not have time to go up in the lift before Sophie wants to go home for her dinner." "I should like to go up in it very much," said Mervyn weakly, and casting longing looks at the distant lift, "but, indeed, Bunny--" "Oh, you are silly!" cried the little girl. "Come on quick or we sha'n't have time," and grasping his hand, she hurried him down the steps, with just one backward glance to make sure that Sophie was still safe upon her bench. The maid's face was turned away towards her friend, who seemed to be telling a very interesting story; they were both completely occupied and quite unaware of what was going on about them. "We shall have plenty of time!" said Bunny growing bold at the sight of the back of Sophie's head. "So come along, Mervyn, and see what the lift is like." There was a great crowd of ladies and gentlemen walking up and down the promenade, and it took the children a long time to make their way as far as the band-stand, and even then they were at some distance from the wonderful lift that had attracted the little stranger so much. As they hurried along, pushing their way right and left through the people, the band began to play the "Blue Danube Waltzes," and Mervyn stopped short in delight. "Oh, what a lovely waltz!" he cried. "Bunny dear, do let us stay here and listen to it. I'd much rather hear the music than go up in the lift, I would, indeed." "Oh! no, no," cried Bunny, "I'm tired of that old band, it's a stupid old thing! We can come and listen to it to-morrow if you like; but do come on now, you can't think how nice it is flying up the cliff in the lift; besides, I am quite sure that we sha'n't get a chance to go another day." "Oh, very well, if you want to go so much; but really, Bunny, I would far rather stay and hear the music," said Mervyn, "I would indeed." "Bother the music! Do come, like a good boy," cried the little girl impatiently, and catching him by the hand she dragged him away through the gate that led to the lift. There was a great crowd of people of all kinds waiting to go up in the lift, for it was getting near luncheon hour at the hotels, and many were anxious to be in good time for that pleasant meal. Our little friends, Bunny and Mervyn, were so small that they were a good deal knocked about by the crowd, and the lift went off several times before they managed to push themselves anywhere near the front. At last the conductor noticed the two mites, and stepping forward in a kindly way, he took them by the hand, helped them into the carriage, and seating them side by side, remarked with a smile: "You're a funny pair to be sure! Where is your nurse?" "She's on the Spa, at least on a bench just at the top of the steps," said Bunny gaily as she arranged her short skirts about her on the seat. "My cousin is a stranger here, so I have brought him to see what the lift is like." "Indeed!" said the man with a laugh. "What a kind little lady you are to be sure;" and then, as the carriage was full, he banged the door and away they went. "Isn't it nice, Mervyn? Aren't you glad I brought you?" asked Bunny in a patronizing tone. "It is much nicer in here than sitting up on that bench. Isn't it?" "Yes, I suppose it is," answered Mervyn doubtfully, "but oh, Bunny, I don't much like it! I have a sort of feeling as if I were in a ship, and it makes me giddy to look out--indeed it does." "Don't look out then," said Bunny decisively. "But really, Mervyn, I think it's lovely--it's so--Oh, dear what is that?" she cried in alarm, as with a harsh grating noise the lift they were in, came to a sudden stand-still, and the descending one shot quickly past them. "Something gone wrong, I expect," grumbled an old gentleman beside her; "ah, they have to let us go down again! What an awful nuisance!" "Oh, please, sir, is there going to be an accident?" cried Bunny in a voice of terror, and growing very pale. "My cousin is just come from India, and I am sure he will be frightened," and she put her little arm round Mervyn as if to protect him from danger. "No, no, there is not going to be any accident, my little girl," answered the old gentleman with a kind smile. "Don't be afraid, we'll go up again in a minute; but I must say the small cousin from India doesn't look half so much frightened as you do," and he patted her on the back. "There, now, off we go, you see, and we'll be at the top in a minute." "Oh, I am so glad we are out of that horrid thing! and, Bunny, I am sure we should never have gone into it," cried Mervyn, as they at last stepped out of the lift and ran quickly along the cliff towards the entrance to the Spa grounds. "Just think, there might have been an accident and we might have been killed! Oh, it would have been so dreadful if such a thing had happened." "Yes, it would," answered Bunny, "and Sophie will be angry, for we have been away such a long time. And oh, Mervyn, now I remember, mama told me that I should never leave my nurse when I was out with her, and I quite forgot, and there, I have been disobedient again! I am so sorry." "Oh, Bunny, Bunny! why don't you try and remember?" cried Mervyn reproachfully, "and we promised aunt to be so good just before we came out," and tears of sorrow stood in the little boy's eyes. "Never mind, Mervyn, dear," said Bunny kissing him, "it was my fault. Don't cry--you were not naughty at all. It was all because I forgot again. Oh, dear, I am afraid Miss Kerr will be angry with me. But come along quick, there is Sophie. See, she is looking about everywhere for us." The two children trotted along at a brisk pace down the steep winding path that led through the pretty ornamental grounds with which the cliff, overhanging the Spa, was tastefully laid out. The trees were high and shady, so the little creatures were not visible from below as they ran quickly on their way. But soon they came to a part where there was not even a bush to hide them from view, and as Sophie walked up and down in despair, her eyes wandering about wildly in every direction, she suddenly caught sight of Bunny's white hat and blue sash, and with a shriek of rage, she bounded up the path, and taking hold of them by the shoulders shook them angrily as she cried in a hoarse voice: "Ah, you wicked bad ones, I thought you were lost! I thought the kidnappers had taken you away for ever." "Oh, we are too big for that!" cried Bunny, "and you need not be in such a rage, Sophie, we only went up in the lift, as Mervyn wanted to see what it was like;" and she walked past the maid with a scornful toss of her little head. "I am very sorry, Sophie, indeed I am," said Mervyn gently; "I did not know we had so far to go. I am sorry you thought we were lost." "Ah! much I care whether you are sorry or not," cried the angry maid. "It will be like Mademoiselle Bunny's sorrow--it will last one minute--and then off to some more naughty things," and with a push and a slap Sophie drove the two children on before her, over the bridge and away home to Holly Lodge. "And now," she cried as they reached the hall door, "I will march you both up to Miss Kerr, and see what she will do with you. Some punishment should be given to you, and I don't know what to do." "Oh, very well!" said Bunny, "we'll go and tell Miss Kerr ourselves. You need not come with us, we don't want you at all. Come along, Mervyn;" and taking the little boy by the hand, she dragged him up the stairs after her. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER VII. IN MISS KERR'S ROOM. When the two children reached Miss Kerr's bed-room, they found the door shut, and feeling quite certain that she was there, they knocked gently, and then stood very still upon the mat, expecting every moment to hear her voice calling to them to go in. "Dear Miss Kerr," said Bunny at last, as, growing impatient at the delay, she put her little mouth to the key-hole and tried very hard to make herself heard within the room, "Mervyn and I want to tell you something, so please, please, open the door and let us in." But to her surprise she received no answer, and becoming more and more cross and impatient, she rattled the handle as noisily as possible in order to attract Miss Kerr's attention. "I can't make out why she doesn't speak to us," said Mervyn in a whisper. "I think she must be asleep." "Asleep!" exclaimed Bunny indignantly. "She isn't a baby, and she isn't ill, so why should she be asleep at this time of the day?" "Well, in India people sleep in the day when they're not a bit ill, just because it's hot--so why shouldn't they here?" "What a lot of sillies they must be in India then!" cried Bunny contemptuously. "Why, I have not been asleep in the day for years--not since I was quite small," and she rattled away more noisily than ever at the door-handle. "Miss Kerr is not there, children," said a housemaid who passed along the passage at that moment, "she has been in the drawing-room all the morning." "Has she?" said Bunny, "oh, then, I tell you what, Mervyn, we'll just go in and wait for her. She will be sure to come up in a few minutes to wash her hands before dinner, and then we'll tell her." "Oh, but there is Sophie calling to us to get ready ourselves. She will be awfully angry if we don't go," said Mervyn. "Listen how she is screaming." "Never mind her, the nasty, cross old thing!" cried Bunny, opening the bed-room door. "Come in, Mervyn, come in! There is Sophie--do be quick, or she will catch us and drag us off with her--and then she'll tell Miss Kerr before we do. Come in, come in," and once more she hurried her cousin along with her, against his own will and inclination. "But, Bunny, I do think we ought to go to Sophie, I do indeed," said Mervyn; "listen, she is asking the housemaid if she has seen us anywhere. And oh, she is coming here to look for us--she will be awfully cross! Do let us go into the nursery quietly and take off our things and get ready for dinner." "Well, you are a silly, Mervyn! That would spoil all the fun. But I know what I'll do--I'll lock the door, and then Sophie will not be able to get us. I can easily open it for Miss Kerr when she comes up," cried Bunny; and before Mervyn could say a word to prevent her, the little girl turned the key in the lock, and, clapping her hands with delight, danced up and down the room singing at the top of her voice: "What a good plan! What a good plan! And the dinner is in the frying pan!" "Indeed, then I wish it was here," grumbled Mervyn, "I'm awfully hungry, and it would be much better to go down to dinner now, and tell Miss Kerr afterwards, or at dinner-time, Bunny, indeed it would." "Yes, and let Sophie hear her scolding us," cried the little girl. "I am hungry too, I can tell you, Mervyn; but Miss Kerr won't be long, I am sure. Hasn't she got a pretty room? and doesn't the sea and the bridge look nice from the window?" "Well enough," answered Mervyn crossly, as he rolled about in an arm-chair that stood away in the furthest corner. "But oh, it is silly to be sticking up here when the dinner is ready down-stairs--oh, I smell it, and it does smell nice! and I am so hungry, and it's very stupid of you to keep me shut up here." "Well, I thought you were sorry and wanted to tell Miss Kerr so," said Bunny complacently, as she shook out her frock and admired herself in the long glass. "It's very greedy to talk so much about your dinner." "Is it?" grumbled Mervyn. "Well, I don't care! I'm sure you're just as bad twisting about and looking at yourself in the glass, for that's being vain, and I'd rather be greedy than vain, so I would, Bunny." "Would you? Oh, that's because you're a boy. Boys are greedy, but it's vulgar to be greedy--Sophie says it is, but it's different to be vain, I--" "Mademoiselle Bunny, come out this minute. Ah, what a little naughty one you are! and that cousin of yours he is a wicked bad boy--he leads you into the mischiefs of all kinds. Come out, I say, the dinner is ready and Miss Kerr is waiting for you;" and Sophie rattled the handle and hammered at the door till the whole passage was filled with the noise and the other servants came running from all parts of the house to see what could be the matter. "What is wrong, Sophie?" asked Miss Kerr, as she too hurried upstairs wondering what was going on in the corridor. "Why are you making such a dreadful noise?" "Ah! ma foi! Noise, Miss Kerr! What can I do but make a noise, when those two children have locked themselves into your room, and will not come out for their dinner. Is it then a wonder that I make a noise?" and she began once more to bang the door as if she would like to break it in. "That was Miss Kerr's voice, Bunny," whispered Mervyn; "do open the door and let us go out to her now." "Is it really? I only heard Sophie. Miss Kerr," she called, "are you there?" "Yes, Bunny, I am here. Come out, child, come to your dinner. You must be starving, both of you." "Yes, we are," answered Bunny, "and we will go out if you will send Sophie away. Mervyn and I want to tell you something." "Ah! what a naughty child!" cried Sophie. "Meess Kerr, they have both been so very difficult, so wicked! They have run away, they have gone in the lift, they have just escaped being seized by kidnappers and--" "That's a great story, Sophie," cried Bunny through the door, "for there was not a single kidnapper near us; was there, Mervyn?" "No, there wasn't," said Mervyn, "not one, Sophie, there wasn't really." "Now!" shouted Bunny triumphantly, "you see you are quite wrong, Sophie." "Open the door, Bunny, this minute," said Miss Kerr decidedly, "I am surprised that you should behave in such a naughty way, just when I thought you were going to be a good girl." "I'll open it now, indeed I will," cried Bunny, "and please, please don't be angry with us. We are so sorry we ran away from Sophie, indeed we are, and that is the reason we came up here, just to tell you so." All the time the child was talking she was also working away at the key, trying her very best to open the door. But no matter how she turned or pulled it, round it would not go, and at last, hot and tired with so many violent efforts, she begged Mervyn to try if he could make it turn. "No, Bunny, I can't," said the boy sadly, after working patiently at the key for some time. "It's no use, I can't do it at all." "Oh dear, oh dear!" cried Bunny in a miserable voice, "what shall we do? Miss Kerr, dear, we can't open the door, it's locked quite fast." "Take the key out of the lock and push it under the door, and I will try and open it from this side," said Miss Kerr; "it was really very naughty of you to lock yourselves up in such a way. But be quick and give me the key." After a good deal of pulling and tugging, Bunny at last managed to get the key out of the lock, and kneeling on the floor she tried with all the strength of her tiny hands to push it out under the door. But the key was too large or the door fitted too closely, and the little girl gave a cry of alarm as she found that it was quite impossible to get it out into the passage. "Oh, Mervyn, dear, it won't go out! Oh! Miss Kerr, what shall we do?" she cried, bursting into tears; "if we can't open the door what shall we do?" "And I am so hungry," said Mervyn in a doleful tone. "How nasty it will be to be stuck in here for ever! Oh, pray open the door! Oh! pray open the door, Miss Kerr." "Throw the key out of the window, Bunny," said Miss Kerr, "and I will go round and pick it up, and let you out in a minute." "Oh! the window is shut. The window is shut," cried the two children in despair, "and we cannot reach to open it. What shall we do? What shall we do?" "Good gracious!" exclaimed Miss Kerr, "who can have shut the window?" "I am sorry to say I did, miss," said the housemaid. "The wind was so strong upon the window that was open, that I shut it, intending to open the middle one, but I forgot all about it when I was leaving the room." "It is extremely awkward, and has helped to give the poor children a great fright," said Miss Kerr. "Go and bring me the keys of all the doors, Sarah, and I will try if any of them will fit the lock. Don't be uneasy, Bunny; don't cry, little Mervyn. We will get you out some way or other, you may be quite sure, so don't be afraid. I have sent for some keys to try if they will open the door, so don't fret. Ah! here they are." One after the other the keys were taken and tried, but not one was of the slightest use. One was too large, and another too small, and Miss Kerr felt really grieved for the poor little prisoners, whose sobs were distinctly heard through the door. "What can I do?" she said. "It is really very hard on them to be shut in there for such a long, long time! And they are so hungry too." "Send for a man to pick the lock, miss," said Sarah. "Ashton will get some one from one of the shops." "But that will take such a time!" cried Miss Kerr; "it is a long way to the town, and the children want their dinner so badly. No, I must think of some quicker plan than that. Ah, now I know one!" she exclaimed with a sudden smile; "it is a pity, but it can't be helped! Bunny, dear, will you take the poker, break a pane of glass with it, and throw the key out upon the grass. Be very careful not to cut your fingers." "I'll do it!" cried Mervyn, jumping up out of the chair, where he had been rolling about disconsolately. "I'd just like to break a window, and I'm taller than you, Bunny; do let me, like a good girl." "No, no; Miss Kerr told me to do it," cried Bunny, "and I should like to break a pane too;" and seizing the poker she sent it crash through the glass. "Oh, what fun! What a rare smash!" exclaimed Mervyn in delight. "I will throw the key out;" and he darted across the room, picked up the key, and flung it with all his strength at the window. But he did not aim straight, and instead of flying into the garden the key merely shattered the glass a little more, and fell back again on to the floor. "You stupid boy! What a bad shot!" cried Bunny, and taking it up between her finger and thumb she stepped on a chair, and dropped it down cleverly upon the grass, just at Miss Kerr's feet. "That is right," said the governess with a smile, as she stooped to pick up the key; "and now don't you think it would be a good punishment for all your naughtiness to keep you both locked up there for the rest of the afternoon?" "Oh, no, no, pray do not do that, Miss Kerr, we are so sorry and so hungry!" and the two little faces, as they were pressed against the window, looked so utterly miserable and woebegone, that the kind-hearted governess could not bear to carry out her threat of punishment, but hurried away as fast as possible to let the poor children out. When the door was at last opened and they were told to come forth, Mervyn hung back and did not dare to raise his eyes to Miss Kerr's face. Bunny, on the contrary, greeted her with a cry of joy, and springing into her arms, kissed her heartily over and over again. "I'm so glad to get out! I'm so glad to get out! Oh, I was afraid we should have to stay in here all day by ourselves." "Well, I hope this will be a lesson to you never to shut yourself into a room again, Bunny," said Miss Kerr severely. "It was a very foolish thing to do, and I cannot say that I am very sorry that you got a little fright, for I really think you deserved to suffer something for your naughtiness. But tell me, little man," she said to Mervyn, "are you not glad to get out too? You don't look so cheerful over it as Bunny does." "I am very glad to get out. But I--I--wanted to tell you," he said with much difficulty, and clasping his little hands tightly together. "I want--to tell you--that I am very sorry I was disobedient and ran away from Sophie." "I am glad to hear you say you are sorry, dear," answered Miss Kerr. "I am sure you mean it Mervyn, and that I may trust you not to be disobedient again." "Yes, you may trust me, indeed you may," the boy cried with a bright smile, "I will really try to be good, and make Bunny remember if I can." "Naughty little Bun! Why do you always forget as you do?" said Miss Kerr gently. "I did think you were going to be good to-day, and just see how you have disappointed me!" "I'm very sorry," murmured Bunny, hanging her head. "I did want to be good, and I promise you I won't be naughty again. I'll always stay as close up to Sophie as ever I can when we go out, I will indeed." "Very well, then, I will not say any more about the matter. Run away now, like good children, and get ready for dinner. And Bunny, dear, if Sophie is a little cross, be gentle and polite with her, for you have tormented and tried her temper very much, you know." "Oh, I will be ever so nice and kind to her, dear, dear Miss Kerr," cried Bunny as she gave the governess a bear-like hug and another loving kiss. "I'll be awfully polite;" and laughing merrily she jumped off her perch on Miss Kerr's knee, and ran down the passage to the nursery, waving her hat and singing at the top of her voice. "Poor little giddy-pate!" said Miss Kerr with a sigh. "I wonder how long she will keep all those splendid promises. But why don't you go off and get ready for dinner too, Mervyn?" she asked in surprise as she saw the little boy lingering at the door in a shy uncertain manner. "Run along, dear, at once." "Will you--give me a kiss?" said Mervyn with a deep blush. "I want to know that you have really forgiven me." "Of course I have, dear boy," answered Miss Kerr, and she put her arm round him and kissed him affectionately. "I have quite forgiven you, Mervyn, and I feel sure that you are going to be a very good boy." "I am going to try very hard to be good," replied the boy solemnly, "and as Bunny is so small perhaps I may make her do the same." "Very likely, Mervyn, dear, for good example is sure to have a strong effect upon little Bunny, who is more thoughtless than really naughty. But run off now, dear, and get your hands washed as quickly as possible. The dinner will not be fit to eat if we keep it waiting any longer." "That is true," said Mervyn with a bright happy smile. "We have kept it waiting a dreadfully long time, and we are all just dying with hunger, I'm sure;" and he too went off singing to the nursery. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER VIII. BUNNY TRIES TO SHOW OFF. For some time after this there was a marked improvement in little Bunny's behaviour, and everyone in the house was delighted with the change, and rejoiced over it in a very open manner. "It is perfectly wonderful!" said Mrs. Dashwood; "our little troublesome is becoming quite a well-behaved young person. I feel very grateful to you, Miss Kerr, for I believe it is all owing to your tender care and kind good-nature that the child is improving so much." "I don't think I have so much to do with the change as little Mervyn," answered Miss Kerr with a smile. "I have lectured poor Bunny very often, it is true, but I think a good obedient little friend does a child more real good than all the scoldings and lectures in the world." "Yes, I daresay it is an excellent thing," replied Mrs. Dashwood; "but still I think your lectures and sermons have improved my poor darling a great deal. She was very ignorant when you came to look after her." "Yes, she was," said Miss Kerr; "she did not know much, poor child, and what was worse, did not care to learn anything. But lately she has begun to get on very nicely. And there, again, you see it is Mervyn who has done her good, for her whole ambition is to do everything better than he does it." "The little rogue!" exclaimed Mrs. Dashwood laughing. "Well, it is a good thing to have found a way to make her work. Where is she now, I wonder?" "Mr. Dashwood took her off with him to the stables. Mervyn went too, as it seems there is a pleasant surprise awaiting them there. They both went off laden with bread for Frisk." "I think I can guess what the surprise is," said Mrs. Dashwood with a smile; "I--" "Oh, mama, mama! we are glad! we are glad!" cried Bunny bursting suddenly into the room, followed by Mervyn with a radiant look of happiness on his little white face. "What do you think? Guess what has happened. Just guess what papa has given Mervyn." "Dear aunt, it was so kind of uncle to buy me such a--" "Let her guess--let her guess, Mervyn. Don't tell her what he bought you. Miss Kerr, what did papa buy for him? Something living, something with a tail, something with a nose, a dear velvety nose and a soft silky coat," cried Bunny, as she danced up and down the drawing-room in high glee. "A kitten," said Miss Kerr gravely. "A kitten! oh, the idea!" exclaimed Bunny, "as if people bought kittens." "Something far nicer!" said Mervyn in a voice full of pleasure. "I'll tell her, Bunny, something to ride--" "No, no, don't tell, don't tell!" cried the little girl, laying her hand quickly over his mouth. "Mama, guess, guess." "A pony, Bun, a little brown pony," said Mrs. Dashwood, smiling brightly upon the eager excited children. "You dear clever mamey, that's just what it is," exclaimed Bunny, giving her mother an affectionate hug. "And Mervyn's so pleased, and I am so glad, and oh, it will be so nice going out to ride together!" and jumping up sideways on the arm of the sofa the little girl began to work herself about as if she were really on Frisk's back and trotting along a country road. "My dear Bunny, please don't," cried Mrs. Dashwood, as she felt the sofa upon which she was lying, shaken up and down by the child's vigorous antics. "Please don't, dear, you hurt me very much." "Oh, I am so sorry!" cried Bunny bounding quickly down from her perch, and holding her face up for a pardoning kiss. "But won't it be nice, mama? Frisk is so glad to have a friend in the stable with him, and it will be fun for me to have Mervyn to ride with." "Yes, it will be very nice, dear. But, Bunny, you talk so much that Mervyn never gets saying a word. Tell me, my dear, do you really like your pony?" "Oh, yes, aunt, I am delighted with him, he is so pretty. It was very good of uncle to buy him for me." "And you will not be afraid to ride him, I hope," she said with a smile. "No, I think not, at least not if we go along quietly. But Bunny says she will make Frisk go awfully fast, and then my pony will run after him, and that she is sure I shall be frightened and hold on by the mane and--" "Bunny, Bunny, you must not say such naughty things," cried Mrs. Dashwood shaking her finger at the mischievous child. "But don't mind her, Mervyn. She does not ride at all so splendidly herself. The groom or her papa always holds Frisk by a leading rein, so it would be quite impossible for her to go on as fast as she likes; so do not mind her." "Oh, I don't feel a bit afraid if some one holds my pony by a rein," said Mervyn bravely; "not one bit; I think it will be lovely riding along together." "That is right," said Mrs. Dashwood. "I am sure you will be a clever horseman, for your papa was when he was a boy." "And so he is now, aunt. He has a beautiful horse, and he looks splendid on it when he goes off to ride," cried Mervyn, smiling brightly at the recollection; "I used to think he looked grander than any of the other officers." "Poor little man," said his aunt gently, as she smoothed back the hair from his brow. "You are very fond of your papa, Mervyn, and do you know, I think you will be like him when you grow big and strong." "I want to be like him in every way," said Mervyn, "and I mean to be an officer when I grow up." "And go away to that nasty, hot India," cried Bunny; "oh, I'd be so lonely if you went away again--please don't, Mervyn, please don't." "What is Mervyn not to do, my little woman?" asked Mr. Dashwood, who entered the room at this moment. "He's not to go back to India again, because I should be so lonely without him," cried Bunny catching hold of her papa's hand and laying her little cheek against it; "you won't let him go, papa, will you, dear?" "No, indeed, I couldn't think of such a thing. But I am sure he won't want to go when he hears that his papa is coming home for Christmas; eh, my boy?" "That is good news, uncle," cried Mervyn joyfully; "I never thought he would come so soon. Not much fear of my wanting to go to India when he comes home." "So I thought," said Mr. Dashwood. "And now, children, when are we to have our first ride?" "Now, now; to-day, to-day," cried Bunny; "dear papa, let us go off at once!" "Very well, my dear. I thought you would like to go soon, so I told John to get the ponies and horses ready in half an hour. You had better run and get on your habit--that is, if Miss Kerr will let you both off with your afternoon lessons. What do you think, Miss Kerr, do they deserve a ride?" "Yes, I think they do, for they have both been very good," answered the governess with a smile; "besides, I really don't think they look studiously inclined--they are very much excited." "I couldn't learn a lesson if I tried ever so," cried Bunny, "I really couldn't, so I am glad you are going to let us off. Good-bye, Miss Kerr; good-bye, mama I sha'n't be long, papa, dear;" and away she flew in breathless haste to the nursery. Sophie had received a message informing her that her young lady was going out for a ride, and when Bunny went up to be dressed she found her pretty brown habit and neat felt hat laid all ready for her on the bed. "That is a dear good Sophie," she cried, and she was in such good humour that she allowed the maid to brush her hair and put on her habit without uttering a single cross word or complaint. "Thank you very much, that will do nicely," she said politely, as Sophie put the last finishing touch to her curls; then taking her little whip with the pretty silver top from the maid's hand, she gathered up her skirts and ran quickly down to the hall-door. "What a pleasure it is to dress her when she is so good and polite as that!" said Sophie to herself as she watched the little figure running away from her down the passage. "What a pity it is that children are so often naughty and troublesome!" When Bunny arrived in the hall she found her papa and Mervyn quite ready to start for their ride. "Oh, how nice Brownie looks!" cried the little girl in delight, as her cousin was lifted on to his new pony; "but I don't think he is as handsome as you, old Frisk. Is he, papa?" "I don't know, I am sure, dear," answered her papa, laughing; "but I suppose you like Frisk best because he is your own." "Yes, I suppose I do," said Bunny, and placing her little foot on her papa's hand she sprang nimbly to her saddle. "Good-bye, Miss Kerr, good-bye." Mr. Dashwood mounted his horse, the groom jumped on his, and the whole party rode gaily up the avenue and out of the gate. "I declare Mervyn sits very well, papa," said Bunny in a patronizing manner, as she looked back at her cousin, who was following them with the servant. "Yes, of course he sits well; why shouldn't he?" asked Mr. Dashwood; "he wants a few lessons and then he will ride very well, I am sure." "Yes, I daresay," said Bunny; "but he never rode before, you know, except just little short rides on Frisk, and he'd be awfully afraid to go without the leading rein, I know." "Yes, and quite right too," said her father; "it's only children who ride very well who should be allowed to go without a leading rein, and especially on a country road. Supposing the pony took it into his head to bolt--what do you think would happen then?" "Oh, he could be pulled up quite tight by his rein. I wouldn't be a bit afraid to ride all by myself." "Wouldn't you, indeed, Miss Vanity. Well, I would rather not trust you," said Mr. Dashwood laughing; "I think it is very likely you would find Master Frisk rather too much for you without a leading rein, my dear child." "No, I shouldn't," answered Bunny, bending over her pony and patting his neck; "Frisk and I are such friends he would be sure to do what I told him. Wouldn't you, Friskie?" "Don't trust him or your own power too much, Miss Bunny," replied her father with a smile. "But who is that coming down the road towards us? I think I ought to know him." "Why, papa, it's Mr. Davis, that nice old gentleman who gave me the box of sweets; don't you remember? I'm sure it is." "Yes, so it is," said Mr. Dashwood; "what sharp eyes you have, little woman! You and Mervyn had better ride on with John, as I want to say a word to Mr. Davis." "Very well, papa, but don't be long, pray," said the little girl; "it's so much nicer talking to you than to John." "No, I sha'n't be very long, dear. Good morning, Mr. Davis," said Mr. Dashwood to a tall fine-looking old gentleman who at this moment rode up to them on a beautiful chestnut horse; "I am very glad to see you. This little girl of mine knew you a long way off." "Ha! Miss Bunny and I are great friends," answered Mr. Davis with a smile, as he bent forward to shake her warmly by the hand. "Those pretty eyes of yours are a deal sharper than mine, my dear, for I had not the faintest idea who it was that was coming along the road. But I am glad I met you, Dashwood, as I want to say a few words to you about--" and he lowered his voice to a whisper. "Very well," said Mr. Dashwood; "I'll send these little people on with the groom, and ride down the road a short way with you. John," he called to the servant, "take Miss Bunny's rein and go on up the hill with the children, turn in at Lady Edith's Drive, and I will overtake you in a few minutes." "Yes, sir," said the groom, touching his hat respectfully, and riding forward he took the rein from his master's hand. "Ride quietly along and I will be back to you very soon, Bunny," said Mr. Dashwood, and then he turned his horse round and walked it leisurely down the road again with Mr. Davis. "Oh, what a pretty place!" cried Mervyn, as the riding party trotted along through a gate and into a cool shady avenue, with tall stately trees growing closely together on every side. "This is Lady Edith's Drive," said Bunny; "I think it is the prettiest place about Scarborough. It is so cool and pleasant, and then it is so quiet." "Why is it called Lady Edith's Drive?" asked Mervyn. "I don't know," answered Bunny. "Do you, John?" "Well, no, Miss," said John; "I can't exactly say as I do. I suppose some Lady Edith used to drive here very often." "I suppose so, indeed," said Bunny, laughing merrily at this explanation. "I don't think that tells us much, John," said Mervyn; "anyone might know that." "Yes, sir, very likely, sir," replied the groom; "but I never asks no questions. If I'm told a place is called by a name, I never asks why or wherefore, but just takes it as the name that it's to be called by." "Well, I think you are very foolish then," said Mervyn; "I like asking questions, and it's a very good way to learn about things, I can tell you." "I daresay it is, sir, for a young gentleman like you, sir. But you see the people about me don't know no more nor I do, so what's the use of asking them what's this an' what's that, an' showin' them I don't know nothin' myself." "I never thought of that," said Mervyn, "but I don't think it matters about showing that you don't know. Miss Kerr says no one should be ashamed to ask a question about a thing they don't understand." "John, John," cried Bunny suddenly as she pulled very hard at the leading rein in order to attract the groom's attention, "I want to ask you something. Stoop down that I may whisper it into your ear." The man did as she requested; but when he had heard what she wanted him to do he shook his head in a very determined manner, saying, "I couldn't on no account, Miss. Your pa would be as angry as anything." "No, he wouldn't, John. I told him I could manage Frisk myself, and he only laughed. Do let me--just for a few minutes. I'll go along quite quietly, you'll see I will. I want to show Mervyn that I can ride better than he does, and that I am not afraid to go without a leading rein." "Well, it's very quiet here, so I suppose it could not be much harm," said the man, yielding a little at her pleading voice; "I really don't think it could be any harm;" and he turned in his saddle and looked carefully up and down the drive. "Harm!" exclaimed Bunny, "of course it could do no harm. Oh! pray take off the rein, John," and she looked up into his face in a most imploring manner. "Well, you are a funny little lady, to be sure," he answered with a good-natured laugh, and, bending forward, he unfastened the leading rein and put it into his pocket. "Thank you, John," said the child, sitting up proudly on her pony. "It feels ever so much nicer without it; it's so silly to be always led along by a rein like a baby. Mervyn, I am riding all by myself. Wouldn't you like to ride without a leading rein?" she shouted across at her cousin, who was trotting along quietly at the other side of the groom; "it's twice as nice to feel that you can go just as you like." "I feel just as nice as I am, Bunny, thank you," said Mervyn; "I would rather have the rein, thank you." "I can't hear what you say, so I think I'll go round beside you, Mervyn," she cried gaily; and, raising her whip, she brought it down heavily upon poor Frisk's back, and tried to make him go round beside Brownie. But Frisk was not accustomed to such treatment, and tossed his head and whisked up his tail, but absolutely refused to go to the other side of John's horse, no matter what she did to him. "You naughty pony," she cried, "you must do what I tell you," and she tugged violently at his mouth, and gave him another sharp blow with her whip. This was more than the pony could bear; and before his little mistress knew where she was, he pricked up his ears, and with an angry toss of his head galloped away down the road as fast as he could. "Stop, Miss Bunny, for goodness sake stop," shouted the groom; "you must not go so fast; come back here at once." [Illustration: FRANCIS SAVES BUNNY.] "I can't stop--I can't!" shrieked the little girl in a voice of terror. "Oh! he's running away--he's running away;" and, completely overcome with fright, poor Bunny dropped her reins, and, catching hold of the pony's mane, held on to him with all her strength. "What a fool I was to let her go!" cried the groom; "what on earth will my master say to me? Goodness, the silly child has let go her reins; she'll be off--she'll be off;" and, spurring up his horse, he rode after the runaway, hoping to overtake him and put a stop to his mad race. But the noise of the horses as they clattered down the road after him seemed only to excite Master Frisk, and on he went faster than ever. As the pony reached the end of the drive, and poor little Bunny had become so weak and faint from terror that she was in great danger of being thrown to the ground, a young lad of about sixteen jumped up from the grass where he had been seated, and, dashing forward, seized Frisk by the head and brought him to a sudden stand-still. "Poor little girl," said the boy kindly, as he lifted Bunny from her saddle and laid her gently on the grass. "What a fright you have had! How did this beggar come to run away? He looks quiet enough." "I whipped him," answered Bunny in a shaky voice; "and oh! I thought I was going to fall," and she put her hand to her head as if she still felt giddy. "You were certainly very nearly off," said the boy; "but what a fool that groom of yours was to let a kid like you ride without a leading rein; he shouldn't have done such a thing." "Oh! but I begged him so hard that he let me go," said Bunny; "he didn't want to let me, and--" "Miss Bunny, I'm ashamed of you," cried John, riding up beside her. "You promised you'd ride quite quiet beside me, and you broke your word. I'm very thankful to you, sir, I'm sure," he continued, turning to the young stranger. "In another minute this little lady might have been thrown on her head and been killed on the spot." "Oh, dear! oh, dear! it wasn't my fault," cried Bunny, bursting into tears; "I only mean't to go round beside Mervyn, and Frisk ran away and--" "Don't cry, dear," said the strange lad kindly; "you must not say another word to her, my man," he continued, turning to the groom; "she is rather shaken with her fright, and it's best to leave her alone. Take hold of this pony and I will go and get your young lady some fresh water; that will do her good." "Very well, sir," said John, pulling the leading rein once more from his pocket, and fastening it on to Frisk's bridle with an angry jerk. "It's not my place to scold, Miss Bunny, but a young lady should keep her word, and not get a servant into trouble." "But I didn't mean to break my word, John, indeed I didn't," sobbed Bunny. "Oh! why did papa leave us? oh, dear! oh, dear!" "Drink this, you poor little mite," said her new friend as he held a flask full of fresh water to her lips. "It will do you ever so much good. I will bathe your face for you, and then you will see how comfortable you will feel, but you must not cry any more." "Thank you so much," said Bunny, drinking off the water; "it is very cool and nice." "Yes," the boy answered, "it is very refreshing, but this will do you more good, I am sure;" and, removing her hat, he took a neatly-folded, perfectly clean handkerchief from his pocket, shook it out, and, dipping it into the water, bathed the child's face as tenderly as a girl might have done. "You are very kind," said Bunny, as she raised her big blue eyes to his face; "you are a nice good boy," and she raised her face to give him a kiss. "That's right," he said smiling; "you are beginning to look more cheerful," and, stooping, he kissed her gently on the forehead. At this moment the sound of horses' feet was heard coming along the road, and Mr. Dashwood soon appeared, riding quickly towards them. "What is the matter?" he cried in alarm, as, drawing up sharply, he sprang from his horse and rushed to his little girl's side. "Oh! papa, papa!" cried the child, running into her father's arms, "your poor Bunny was nearly killed, only this nice boy stopped Frisk and took me off his back." "My poor darling!" cried Mr. Dashwood, lifting her gently from the ground, and smoothing back her ruffled hair, "I am very thankful to God that you are not hurt. Thank you, too, my lad, for your kind and ready assistance," he said to the young stranger, grasping him warmly by the hand, "and now tell me, sir," he cried with a stern look, as he turned to the groom, "how it is that the child whom I left in your care came to be in such danger." "If you please, sir, Miss Bunny asked--" began John very nervously. "Yes, papa, I--it was all my fault," interrupted the little girl; "don't scold John. I wanted to show Mervyn that I could ride better than he does, and as I could not do so properly with John holding me by the rein, I begged him to let me go, and I promised to ride quietly; but I whipped Frisk, and he ran off so fast that I got frightened, and--" "It was very wrong of you, John, to allow the child to ride without a rein, and I am really angry and vexed that you should not have taken more care of her when she was left in your charge." "Indeed, sir, I am very sorry, and it shall never happen again," said John. "I hope not," said Mr. Dashwood; "and as for you, Bunny, I am very much surprised that you should have been so naughty. You know I told you you could not manage Frisk without a leading rein." "Yes, I know you did, dear papa," said Bunny, as she rubbed her little face up and down against her father's cheek, "but don't scold us any more. We are all very sorry, aren't we, John?" "Very, Miss," answered the groom; "I'd rather have died than let any harm come to you, an' I hope master will forgive me for lettin' you have your own way about the rein." "I forgive you this time, John," said Mr. Dashwood; "but remember for the future you are to keep Miss Bunny well to your side when you take her out to ride on her pony." "Yes, sir, surely I will," answered the man earnestly; "I will never do what Miss Bunny asks me to do again, never while I live." "And now, my dear fellow," said Mr. Dashwood, turning to the young stranger and shaking him once more by the hand, "I cannot tell you how grateful I feel to you. May I be permitted to ask your name?" "My name is Francis Collins; but indeed I did not do much," the boy answered modestly. "You have done me a very great service, Master Francis, and one that I can never repay you," said Mr. Dashwood earnestly. "Do you live anywhere about here?" "No, sir; I live in London," replied the lad; "my father is in India with his regiment, and I am staying up here for a time with my aunt." "Is your father a captain? and is he in India now?" asked Mervyn shyly. "Yes, little man," answered young Collins with a smile, "he is a captain in the 45th, and is now stationed at Jublepoore." "Why, Captain Collins is papa's great friend, and of course he was my friend too; and Mrs. Collins was so good and kind to me. Oh, I did love her so much!" cried Mervyn, looking up into the lad's face. "Are you the Frank she used to talk to me about?" "Yes, I am the Frank, her only child," said the boy sadly; "poor mother! it's a whole year and a half since I saw her last;" and tears came into his eyes as he spoke. "I have often heard my brother-in-law speak of your father, my dear boy, and I am very glad to have made your acquaintance," said Mr. Dashwood as he seated his little daughter upon her pony. "Where are you staying?" "I am living with my aunt at a quiet hotel on the West Cliff." "I am very glad to hear it," said Mr. Dashwood, "for you will be able to come over and see us. Our name is Dashwood, and we are staying at Holly Lodge, a house standing in its own grounds and facing the sea, yonder on the South Cliff. Anyone will point it out to you; so be sure and pay us a visit some day soon." "Yes, thank you, I certainly will," the boy replied with a bright smile; "I must have a talk with this little chap, Mr. Dashwood, and find out all I can about my father and mother from him. By the by I suppose you are the Mervyn Hastings she told me she missed so much." "Yes, I am Mervyn Hastings; and oh, did she miss me?" cried the little fellow eagerly. "Most dreadfully! And I don't wonder, for you seem to be a capital little fellow," said Frank Collins, patting Mervyn on the shoulder. "Come over and lunch at the children's dinner to-morrow at two o'clock, and then you and Mervyn can have a long talk together," said Mr. Dashwood as he sprang to his horse. "It is rather late now, so these youngsters must get home as quickly as they can. Remember we shall all be delighted to see you, if you can spare time for visiting." "Oh, do come, do come," said Mervyn, earnestly. "Mama will be so glad to see you," cried Bunny, "so do come, please." "Thank you all very much," answered the lad brightly; "I will be sure to be at Holly Lodge by two o'clock. Good-bye, Mr. Dashwood; good-bye, Miss Bunny; good-bye, little Mervyn;" and Frank lifted his hat politely as the riding party turned and rode away from him down the drive towards Scarborough. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER IX. MISS KERR PROMISES A PRIZE. The next morning was very wet, and as it was quite impossible for the children to go out, Miss Kerr insisted on their going into the library to learn their lessons. Bunny pouted and declared that her papa did not wish them to sit still all day over their books, and that it would be much nicer to run about the house and play at "Hide and seek." "Yes, it would be pleasanter for you, Bunny," said Miss Kerr, "but you forget that 'Hide and seek' is a very noisy game, and that your mama's head is aching so much that she could not bear the noise you would be sure to make. Come now, be good children, and try to learn your lessons as well as you possibly can." "I hate lessons! and so does Mervyn," cried the little girl in a cross voice. "Don't you, Mervyn?" "No, I don't," answered the boy; "I will go if you like, Miss Kerr, for I want to learn how to write soon, that I may be able to send papa a letter." "You are a good boy, Mervyn," said the governess with a smile as she took him by the hand, "and I promise you that I will soon let you write a little letter to your papa. Come, Bun, dear, you are not going to be naughty, I am sure. Come along and we'll have such a nice quiet morning over our books;" and she held out her other hand to the little girl. "Well, if I am good, will you read us a story after we have said our lessons?" bargained Miss Bunny; "I just love to hear you read stories." "Yes, I will read you a very nice story if you are good, and I have a pretty box of chocolate here that I will give to the child who studies the hardest and keeps silence the longest." "Oh, how nice! Oh, how jolly!" cried Bunny, clapping her hands in delight. "I'll learn my lessons awfully hard;" and away she ran down the passage to the library, pulled her spelling-book out of the drawer, and perching herself on a chair at the table began to shout out the words at the top of her voice. "My dear Bunny, how do you think Mervyn can learn his lessons if you scream yours out in that way?" said Miss Kerr laughing; "repeat those words quietly to yourself whilst I show your cousin what he is to do." "I don't know very much, Miss Kerr," said Mervyn shyly as he took the book from her hand; "papa says I am a dreadful dunce, but I only began to learn last year." "Never mind that, my dear boy. If you give your attention to your book and feel anxious to learn, you will soon get on. Spell over these words for me and let me see what you can do." Mervyn did as he was told, and with much difficulty he managed to spell down half a column of very easy words. "Oh, I can do better than that! I can do better than that!" cried Bunny, wriggling about on her chair; "why, I could spell those words in a minute. Listen--h-o-u-s-e, d-a-y, m-o-u-s-e." "Hush! Bunny, I cannot allow you to go on like that," said Miss Kerr gravely; "you have learned those words over and over again, so of course you know them well. Now, Mervyn, go and read them over by yourself and I will hear you say them without the book in a few minutes. Bunny, come and say your lesson." The little girl slipped off her chair and came slowly across the room to Miss Kerr. "Be quick, Bun, stir yourself," cried the governess; "I want to hear how beautifully you can spell words that you have never seen before; come along." But Bunny still hung back with an obstinate look on her little face, that showed plainly how very unwilling she was to do as she was told. "Come, dear child, be quick, you are wasting all my time;" and Miss Kerr held out her hand for the spelling-book. Bunny handed it to her, and then dragging one foot slowly after the other, she at last stood by Miss Kerr's side. "Take your finger out of your mouth, Bunny," said the governess, as she laid the book before the child and pointed to the place. "Now begin, B--" "If you please, Miss Kerr," said Ashton, opening the door. "Mrs. Dashwood wants to see you very particular, miss, in the drawing-room. She said as she wouldn't keep you long, but you was to go to her at once." "Very well, I will go now, Ashton," said Miss Kerr; "and now, children, I hope you will be good while I am away. Bunny, you can go over those words by yourself. See here is the box of chocolate. I will put it in the middle of the table so that you may see what you have to work for;" and placing a pretty cardboard box upon a pile of books so that the children might see the gay picture on the lid, she smiled kindly upon them both, and hurried out of the room. For a few moments after they were left alone the little people were very silent and quiet; but soon Bunny raised her head, yawned noisily, and pushing her book away began to amuse herself by looking about the room. "I shall get the prize," said Mervyn, "you are not learning your lesson, you know." "No more are you," cried Bunny; "I'll learn mine up in a minute when Miss Kerr comes back, and you're as slow as an old snail at yours;" and again she began to mimic his voice and manner of spelling. "You're very rude," cried Mervyn, getting red, "and I'll just tell Miss Kerr when she comes back." "Tell-tale! tell-tale!" sang Bunny; "much I care! If I know my lesson best I'll get the chocolate and I won't give you one bit." "You're a greedy thing! But you won't get it. I know my lesson splendidly, and you don't know yours at all, so I am sure to get the prize, I can tell you." "Ha, how grand you are, to be sure!" screamed Bunny, and stretching out her hand she tried to pull the chocolate box towards her. "You sha'n't touch it! You sha'n't touch it!" shouted Mervyn; "it isn't yours, so just leave it alone." "It isn't yours either," cried Bunny with flaming cheeks, and she fastened her little fingers more firmly than ever round the box. "I am sure to get it, so I shall keep it beside me till Miss Kerr comes back." "No, you sha'n't," answered Mervyn in an angry voice, and jumping up on his chair he sprawled over the table and tried to drag the box from Bunny's hand. "You nasty boy, let go! I'll tell Miss Kerr! I'll tell mama! You're a coward! You're a horrid--" "Who's going to be tell-tale now?" shrieked the boy. "Give it to me, I say, give it to me," and he gave a vigorous pull at the box. But the cardboard of which the chocolate box was composed was not strong enough to stand such pulling, and before the naughty children knew where they were it suddenly gave way and came to pieces in their hands. The beautiful prize was completely destroyed, and its whole contents were strewn all over the place. "Now, see what you have done!" cried Bunny, bursting into tears; "you have broken the box--oh dear, oh dear, you cross, nasty, greedy boy, I--" "I didn't do it," said Mervyn, but his voice was low and shaky, for all his anger disappeared when he saw the pretty box torn to pieces and the chocolate creams lying scattered about all over the table and floor. "Yes, you did! If you hadn't pulled so hard it would have been all right," said Bunny tearfully. "Oh, what will Miss Kerr say? I think I'll run away to the nursery and hide. I shall be afraid to let her see me--" "That would be cowardly," answered Mervyn; "I'm very sorry I pulled the box, and I'll stay here and tell her so;" and he went down on his knees and began to gather up the sweetmeats and put them into a sheet of paper. "Don't eat any, Mervyn," said Bunny, "they look awfully nice, but--" "Eat them!" exclaimed the boy indignantly, "I should think not indeed! I am not so mean as that; I wouldn't--" "Mean--is it mean?" cried Bunny, rubbing her mouth; "oh, I didn't know, and I just took one--but Miss Kerr won't mind." "Well, you are nasty! You tell me not to eat them, and then you go and take some yourself. Go away, I won't speak to you or be friends with you any more; you're a mean--" "Oh, Mervyn, Mervyn, I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!" cried Bunny, flinging herself on her knees beside her cousin. "I didn't want to take the chocolate cream, but it looked so nice, and I just longed to take it and--" "Children! what are you doing?" cried Miss Kerr in astonishment as her eyes fell upon the two kneeling figures and she heard Bunny's miserable tone of voice; "why are you on the floor? Come back to the table at once." "Bunny," whispered Mervyn, "we must tell Miss Kerr now what we have done;" and springing to his feet he caught the little girl by the hand and dragged her over to the other side of the room, where the governess had seated herself, ready to begin lessons again. "We have been very naughty," he began, looking down at the floor; "we didn't learn our lessons--and--we--broke--the box--and spilt all the chocolates--but we are very sorry, indeed we are," and he raised his blue eyes full of tears to Miss Kerr's face. "Yes, we are very sorry--and--I eat a chocolate cream--but Mervyn didn't because it was mean," cried Bunny, and then, overcome with grief, she buried her face in her pinafore and sobbed aloud. "I cannot tell you how much surprised and shocked I feel at such conduct," said Miss Kerr gravely. "I really thought I could trust you for a few minutes alone. Mervyn, I am very much grieved to think that you could behave in such a naughty way. Bunny is wild and giddy, but I thought you were going to show her a good example, by being good and gentle yourself." "Yes, and I wanted to," said Mervyn, "but she called me names and then I got cross, and then--I--" "Yes, and I got cross too," cried Bunny, putting down her pinafore for a minute. "I was angry and--" "And I am afraid you both forgot that God was looking at you, and that he was greatly displeased at you for giving way to your wicked passions in such a manner. How did you come to be so naughty? Mervyn, what began it all?" The tears were rolling down the little boy's cheeks, but he dried them with his handkerchief, and choking back those that were still ready to flow, he tried to tell the story of the torn chocolate box as well as he could. "Well, I am glad you have told me all about it," said Miss Kerr, gently, "and as you both seem so sorry for your conduct, I suppose I must forgive you. But remember, dear children, that you must tell God that you are sorry, and ask him to forgive you. Pray to Him that he may help you to overcome your tempers and become good, gentle little children. I will not scold you any more, and you have punished yourselves by breaking the box and spilling the sweetmeats, for now I cannot allow you to have any of them." "Oh, I don't mind that!" cried Mervyn quickly. "If you will forgive me for being naughty, I don't want any sweets." "I do forgive you, Mervyn, but don't forget what I told you. Say a prayer to-night before you go to bed and ask God's forgiveness and help." "Yes, I will, I will," cried the boy, "and I will try and be ever so good all day to make up for being so naughty this morning." "And I'll be good too," said Bunny; "I am sorry you won't give us any sweets, for they look so nice, but still I--" "You won't ask for any! That is right, dear. I know you like sweets, Bun, but I must punish you a little, you know, so I can't give you any to-day. Come, now, I forgive you both, so let us go back to our lessons at once; and I hope you will do your best to show me that you are truly sorry, by working very hard for the next two hours." "Yes, yes, we will, indeed," cried the children together, and off they ran to get their books. "That is right! That looks like real work," said Miss Kerr, as she wrapped up the chocolate creams in paper, and locked them away in a drawer. "Come, Bunny, bring your book to me, dear." Bunny opened her spelling-book briskly, Mervyn began to read his lesson attentively, and perfect peace reigned once more. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER X. ON OLIVER'S MOUNT. The lessons were over about half-past one, and as they had been well learned and quickly said, Miss Kerr was really pleased with the children, and rewarded them for their industry and attention by reading a pretty story, that interested and amused them very much. This kept them pleasantly occupied until nearly two o'clock, and then they ran off to the nursery in high spirits, to get themselves washed and dressed for their early dinner. "I am so sorry, Miss Kerr," said Bunny, as she took her seat at the dinner-table, "I'm really dreadfully sorry that nice boy we saw yesterday has not come to have lunch with us as he promised he would." "Yes, dear, so am I, for I should like very much to see him," answered Miss Kerr, "but I daresay the rain kept him from coming." "But it's not raining one drop now," said Mervyn, "and I declare, there is the sun coming out; I do wish he would come." "Oh, but it's wet under-foot, Mervyn," remarked Bunny wisely, "and it's a bad thing to get your feet wet--Sophie screams fearfully at me if I put my toe out, even long after the rain has stopped." "Yes, when you go in your thin shoes, of course," cried Mervyn; "but big boys like Frank Collins are not afraid of wetting their feet. Are they, Miss Kerr?" "No, I don't think they are, dear," answered the governess, laughing, "I know my brothers run out in all kinds of weather." "Come in, my boy! Here they are at their dinner," said Mr. Dashwood, opening the door at this moment, and entering the room with young Collins. "Miss Kerr, this is our young friend who so bravely saved poor Bunny yesterday," he added as he presented Frank to the governess. "I am very glad to see you, Master Collins, and these children have been longing for you to come," said Miss Kerr; "it was very brave of you to stop the pony." "Brave! not at all, Miss Kerr," answered Frank with a bright honest smile that won the lady's heart at once. "I don't think the pony was really running away, and if this little girl," and he patted Bunny on the head, "had not been frightened, but had sat up properly and kept a good hold of her reins, she would have been all right." "Oh! Bunny, Bunny, you little coward," cried Miss Kerr, "and so, after all, it was you who held on by the mane, and not Mervyn, as you so gaily told him he would do yesterday." "Did she tell him that?" asked Frank as he took a seat at the table beside Mervyn. "Well, I think this little chap would be the bravest of the two in real danger. He would not be so rash, perhaps, but I think he would keep cool and not lose his head as she did." "Oh, but I was frightened," sighed Bunny. "I was sure Frisk was running away;" and she looked so very tearful that her papa kindly changed the conversation by asking his young guest how he liked staying at Scarborough. "Are there many nice walks about?" asked Mr. Dashwood, when they had all finished their lunch and were preparing to leave the table. "I mean short walks within easy distance, where these little folks could go, for instance?" "Yes, there's the old castle," said Frank, "on the West Cliff, then there's the people's Park in the valley, which of course you all know well, and Oliver's Mount, which I think the nicest walk of any." "Oliver's Mount! Oh, that is a nice place," said Bunny, who had quite recovered her gay spirits again. "Sophie says she went up there one day with some friends, and she had buns and lemonade and all kinds of things, in a little house, a funny small house, she says, that is up there on the top. Do take us up Oliver's Mount, like a dear good papa." "Yes, I know the little house Sophie means," said Frank; "it is only a small shed, you can just see it from the window, look, there it is, right away up on the top of the mount." "It looks a great height, certainly," said Mr. Dashwood. "I wonder if these little ones could manage to go such a long way." "Oh! yes, we could, we could," cried the children together. "Very well, then, I suppose we had better set off at once," said Mr. Dashwood; "you have no objection to my taking these small people, Miss Kerr?" "Not the slightest," she replied. "I was going to send them with Sophie, but I am sure they will enjoy going with you much better. Mrs. Dashwood is not well enough to go out, so I intend to read to her the best part of the afternoon." "I am glad to hear that, for I was afraid she might feel dull if we set off for a long walk," said Mr. Dashwood. "Well, run away, children, and get ready; the sooner we start the better." "It will be a long way for their little legs if we go right to the top," said Frank doubtfully. "Mervyn doesn't look very strong, and Bunny's legs are very short." "Indeed they are not," cried Bunny indignantly. "I can walk splendidly; can't I, Miss Kerr?" "Yes, dear, you are a very good walker for your age and size." "There, do you hear that?" cried Bunny, jumping off her chair and throwing her arms round her father's neck. "Do take us, do take us, dear darling old papa." "You little rogue!" cried Mr. Dashwood, "I do believe you could coax the birds off the bushes." "No, papa, indeed I couldn't," answered Bunny gravely; "I often tried, but they would not come; and I tried to put salt on their tails too, but they flew away and--" "You dear little goose, that was a great shame; they must have been very rude birds indeed, my poor Bun," said Mr. Dashwood with a hearty laugh at the child's simplicity. "You have coaxed me anyway, dear. I will take you to Oliver's Mount; and I have thought of a plan that will save your short legs and Mervyn's weak ones a good deal." "A plan! Oh! what is it? you dear, darling papa," she cried joyfully. "No, I won't tell you, little one. Run off and get dressed, and you will see what it is when you come back. Away you go!--both of you. Be quick, or Frank and I will not wait for you." Bunny and Mervyn were both very curious to know what this wonderful plan of Mr. Dashwood's could be, and chattered away about it as they were being dressed by Sophie. "To the top of Oliver's Mount!" cried the maid, holding up her hands in astonishment when the children told her where they were going. "Gracious! is it that monsieur your papa knows how far it is? You will both be too tired to return home to-night." "Then we shall sleep in that little house at the top, among the buns and the lemonade," said Mervyn. "That would be fine fun, wouldn't it, Bunny?" "I don't know about that," replied the little girl. "But do not be frightened, Sophie; papa has a fine plan, so we sha'n't be one bit tired. Come on, Mervyn," and, laughing merrily, the two children ran off together down-stairs. "Papa, papa! where is your plan?" cried Bunny, as they met her father and young Collins in the hall. "We do so want to know what your wonderful plan can be." "Here it is, then, my dear," said Mr. Dashwood, and he threw open the door, and displayed two steady-looking old donkeys standing ready saddled at the gate. "You are to ride one of those fellows, and Mervyn the other. That is my plan; isn't it a good one?" "Capital! capital! What fun! what fun!" cried the children, clapping their hands in delight. "But, papa, the donkeys will never go up the mountain," exclaimed Bunny suddenly; "Sophie says there is a big stile to get over, so how will they manage that?" "We won't ask them to go over the stile," said Frank Collins, as he lifted the little girl and seated her comfortably on the saddle. "They will carry you up the road to the foot of the Mount, and then we will leave them there to rest and eat some grass, while we go on our rambles up to the top." "Wasn't it a capital plan of papa's, Mervyn, to get us these donkeys?" asked Bunny, as she and her cousin jogged quietly along the road on the steady old animals. "These are such nice well-behaved creatures, and don't run away in a hurry like Master Frisk." "No, I should think not," answered Mervyn laughing. "Why, just look at this fellow," he cried as his donkey came to a sudden stand-still in the middle of the road. "What can we do to make him go on? Here, boy, please make him move a little," he shouted to the donkey-boy, who was loitering behind talking to a comrade. "Hey up!" screamed the lad, running up quietly from behind, and bringing his stick down heavily on the poor brute's back; "hey up, Teddy!" and away trotted the donkey at a rapid pace up the hill. When Bunny's charger saw his companion starting off so gaily, he pricked up his ears and followed him as fast as ever he could. "Your plan was a capital one, uncle," said Mervyn, as he and Bunny jumped off their donkeys and prepared themselves to climb over the stile and begin their walk up the mount together. "I suppose you feel as fresh as a couple of daisies, and not at all shaken?" said Frank Collins. "Come along and we'll have a race to the very top;" and away he ran nimbly up the side of the hill. Bunny and Mervyn struggled bravely after him, and they went so fast that they soon left Mr. Dashwood behind them, for he declared that he was too old to run, and that he would follow them at his leisure. The grass was very slippery after the rain, and the mount was very steep, and so, although the children went as fast as their little legs could carry them, yet they could not keep up with their young friend, who soon appeared a long way above them, waving a handkerchief, and cheering and shouting at the top of his voice. But at last they all reached the highest part of the mount, and, puffing and panting after their fearful exertions, they seated themselves upon a bench and gazed about them in delight. "Isn't it jolly up here, Mr. Dashwood?" said Frank. "I think it would be worth climbing ever so much higher to see such a sight, don't you?" "Yes, indeed I do," answered Mr. Dashwood; "and the air is very fine; it feels so fresh and strong. That is the old castle away over there, I suppose." "Yes; and doesn't the old part of the town, with its queer red brick houses and narrow streets, look pretty? And look at the bay in front of it, with its ships and barges. Doesn't it all look lovely in the sunlight?" "Yes, Frank, it does look pretty," cried Mervyn; "and isn't the sea a beautiful blue colour?" "And don't our donkeys look funny little gray fellows, away down there on the road?" cried Bunny. "Oh, dear! they do look far away." "Bunny would rather look at her donkey than all the beauties of the country," said Mr. Dashwood with a smile, as he took his little girl upon his knee. "But these youngsters must not be defrauded of their cakes and lemonade, Frank. Would you mind going into that wonderful shop to see if you can get some?" "Oh! they have lots of good things in there, I know," answered Frank. "I hope you will be able to eat a good supply, Bunny?" "Yes, I feel able to eat several cakes," cried Bunny; "thank you, dear papa, for thinking of them. I do love buns and lemonade. Don't you, Mervyn?" "Yes, Bunny, very much," replied her cousin. "I am afraid I shall get scolded for letting you have them," said Mr. Dashwood, as Frank appeared, carrying an armful of cakes and buns, and followed by a man with glasses and bottles of lemonade. "If you eat all these you won't be able to take anything at tea, and then Miss Kerr will be so dreadfully angry." "Oh! never mind, papa, dear," cried Bunny; "cakes and lemonade are just as good as tea, but I will eat as much as ever I can when I go home, and then no one will scold you." "That's a good, kind little woman," said her father laughing; "but finish up those cakes now as fast as you can, for I want to get back to the club for an hour before dinner." "I will just put this in my pocket for the donkey-boy, papa," said the little girl, holding up a bun which she could not manage to eat; "he was very good, and made the donkeys go so well." "I think we will go round by the road, Frank," said Mr. Dashwood, rising from the bench; "it is not quite so steep as the mount, and is very little longer." "Very well; I daresay it will be the best way to return; it will be a variety anyway," said Frank. "Mervyn, will you walk with me? I want to talk to you about India and all our friends there." "Yes, yes," said the little boy, "that is the very thing I should like." "But our donkeys--oh! are we not going home on our donkeys?" cried Bunny. "Of course we are, you little grumbler," said her father. "We are only going to walk round by the road to them instead of tumbling pell-mell down the hill again. Come along with me, and let these two boys talk over their affairs together." Then, taking his little girl by the hand, Mr. Dashwood walked quickly away with her down the hilly road. Frank and Mervyn followed them slowly arm-in-arm, and the elder boy, with a look of yearning love in his eyes, asked his small friend many anxious questions about the dear father and mother whom he had not seen for such a long time. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER XI. WAS IT CRUEL? One lovely afternoon towards the end of September Mrs. Dashwood and Miss Kerr sat together on the lawn in front of the house. They were stitching away at some pretty clothes, that were evidently intended for a large wax doll, with golden ringlets and blue eyes, that lay on a table that stood between them on the grass. Mrs. Dashwood looked pale and delicate still, but there was a well-pleased smile upon her sweet face as she sat enjoying the sea breezes. She was comfortably propped up with pillows in a large wicker chair, and her thin white fingers were busily engaged on her dainty work. The fresh country air had done her great service, and she was full of the hope that she should soon return quite strong and well to town. Bunny lay curled up in another big chair, and although she knew very well that the pretty doll was intended for her, she looked very cross and did not seem to notice what was going on about her. "Why don't you go and play, Bunny?" said Miss Kerr looking up from her work. "I do not like to see you tumbling about there with such a cross look on your face. Go and get a book--or will you have a needle and thread and try to do some sewing?" "No, thank you," answered Bunny, "I hate books and I can't sew." "But you might learn, dear," said her mother gently. "It is a great pleasure to be able to sew, Bunny. I quite enjoy doing my piece of work after being obliged to lie on the sofa for such a long time." "I don't want to learn to sew," cried Bunny. "I want to have a game. I am tired sitting here, mama. Oh, I do wish Mervyn and Frank would be quick and come back." "Well, my dear Bunny, they will soon be here," said Miss Kerr. "They promised to be back at three and it wants a quarter to three now, so you won't have very long to wait." "Oh! I'm so glad!" cried Bunny; "I've spent such a nasty dull day without them." "Well, really now!" said her mother laughing; "that's a kind thing to say. I thought my little girl liked being with me." "Oh! yes, mama, so I do," answered Bunny quickly; "but Mervyn has been away such a long time, and I do want him to come back and have a good game with me. He stayed to lunch with Frank up there at the hotel, and Miss Kerr wouldn't let me go, and oh, dear! I have been so lonely all day." "Poor little girl!" said her mother, "but Miss Kerr was quite right not to let you go, Bunny; Frank will have quite enough to do to manage Mervyn. You are very hard to keep in order, for you are very wild and--" "Oh! I'm not a bit wild now, mama; I'm as quiet as a lamb--I am indeed." "Bunny, Bunny, where are you, I say?--where are you?" called Mervyn, running up the garden walk and across the lawn. "Here I am, Mervyn, and oh! I am so glad you have come back," and the little girl rushed forward eagerly to meet her cousin. "But where is Frank? I thought he was coming back with you." "Yes, so he is. He will be here in a minute; and he has something for you, Bunny." "Something for me, Mervyn; oh! what is it?" she cried; "do tell me what it is." "He'll tell you himself--he'll tell you himself," answered Mervyn, and going down on the grass, he tumbled heels over head two or three times in succession. "You tiresome boy," cried his cousin, "do get up and tell me what Frank has for me, and where he got it, and--" "Go and ask Frank himself--there he is," shouted Mervyn, starting quickly to his feet again, as young Collins appeared suddenly at the top of the flight of steps that led from the drawing-room into the garden. His hands were both behind his back, and he laughed merrily when he saw Bunny's face of excitement and curiosity as she ran across the lawn to meet him. "You dear good Frank, Mervyn says you have something for me," she cried; "do tell me what it is. I do so want to know." "A bird, Bunny; a young thrush," said Frank gaily, as he drew a small cage from behind his back and held it up to the little girl. "I put him in here because it was the only thing I could find; but I will get you a proper big cage for him to-morrow." "Oh! never mind the cage; but let me see the bird," cried Bunny. "He is rather frightened just now, Bun, but I think he will soon sit up and begin to sing; and thrushes do sing beautifully." "He is a dear little fellow! a perfect darling! But where did you get him, Frank?" asked Bunny in delight, as she danced joyfully round her new treasure. "Did you manage to put salt on his tail?" "He hasn't got a tail, Bunny," answered Frank, laughing; "he is so young that he hasn't got one yet. I caught him quite easily in the hotel garden." "Mama, Miss Kerr, look at the lovely bird Frank has brought me," cried Bunny, running back to her mother's chair. "A bird, Frank?" said Mrs. Dashwood, looking into the cage in surprise. "What a pity it was to catch him and put him in prison, poor little creature; he looks dreadfully frightened." "In prison, mama!" cried Bunny indignantly. "Why, it's a lovely cage; and see, he has water, and hard-boiled egg, and bread sopped in water, and--" "Yes, dear, I see all those things, but still he is in prison, Bunny," said Mrs. Dashwood gently, "and I think it would have been much kinder to have left him to fly about the woods and sing his sweet songs in happy freedom." "I am afraid he will never sing again," said Miss Kerr as Frank placed the cage on the table beside her; "he looks as if he were going to die, I think; just see how he has gathered himself up into a ball, and his eyes are shut." "Oh! I hope he won't die," cried Frank; "I am sorry I caught him, Mrs. Dashwood. Shall I let him fly away again?" "No, you sha'n't, Frank; he is my bird, and you must not let him fly away," cried Bunny; "I want to keep him." "But, Bunny, your mama thinks he would be glad to get away, so I would rather let him go. Do say I may send him off." "No, no, Frank, you sha'n't; I want him; he's mine now," answered the little girl in an angry voice; "I will have him and keep him;" and making a dive across the table she seized the cage and ran away with it down the garden. "Bunny! Bunny! come back this minute," cried her mother and Miss Kerr together. "I'll soon bring her back!" exclaimed Frank, and off he went after the runaway. When Bunny heard footsteps behind her she turned her head to see who it was that was following her, and as she ran along without looking where she was going, her foot came against a stone, and down she went, cage and all, upon the gravelled path. "Oh, you cruel big boy!" she cried, bursting into tears. "Why did you come after me and make me fall in that way? I'll never speak to you again--never;" and, gathering herself up from the ground, she began to rub her knees, and brush the dust and sand off her frock. "Now, don't be silly, Bunny," said Frank, as he picked up the cage. "You are not a bit hurt--but, look here! I believe you have killed the poor bird." "Oh! no, Frank, dear! oh! I didn't do that!" sobbed the little girl, coming forward and looking wistfully into the cage. "Yes, I am afraid he is dead. He was very much frightened before," said Frank sadly, "and the shock of the fall, and all the water and things falling on him have killed him. I am so sorry. I wish, now, I had left him to sing happily in the garden, Mrs. Dashwood," he said, going back to where the ladies sat together, carrying the poor dead thrush in his hand. "You were quite right; it was a great pity to take the poor bird and put him in a cage. I will never catch a young bird again--never." "Poor little creature! I thought it would not live long," said Miss Kerr; "but, Bunny, you were very naughty to run away with it in that way; I am sure the fall helped to kill the thrush." "I didn't mean to kill it!" cried Bunny in a choking voice. "Oh! mama, I am so sorry!" and she flung herself on the ground beside her mother's chair, and buried her face in her lap. "Never mind, Bunny, dear," whispered Mervyn softly, as he stole up and put his arm round her neck. "Don't cry, dear; I am sure it would have died very soon anyway. Wouldn't it, Miss Kerr?" "Yes, dear, I think it would," said the governess gently. "But what are you going to do with the thrush, Frank?" "Oh! I suppose I must bury it," answered Frank; "I wish I had a pretty box to put it in." "I have one, I have one," cried Bunny, jumping quickly to her feet, and running off towards the house, mopping up her tears as she went along. "I've got a dear little one that will just do, Frank." "We must have a solemn funeral," said young Collins. "Who will write an epitaph to put at the head of his grave?" "An epee--what, Frank?" asked Mervyn, with a puzzled look on his little face. "What do you mean?" "An epitaph, you little simple Indian; do you not know what that means?" "No," said Mervyn gravely, "I don't think people in India ever have such things." "Don't they indeed! Bunny, what is an epitaph?" asked Frank, laughing merrily as he took a pretty bon-bon box from the little girl's hand. "I don't know, I'm sure," said Bunny; "I never heard of such a thing. What is it yourself?" "Well, you are a clever pair! Why, it's something written on a tombstone," cried Frank, and, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket, he scribbled a few words, and then proceeded to read them aloud. "Listen and learn what an epitaph is, my friends:-- "Beneath there lies a little thrush, Who should have sung on many a bush." "Capital!" said Miss Kerr, laughing merrily at this brilliant production. "Why, you are a regular poet!" "It is very good indeed, Frank," said Mrs. Dashwood with a bright smile. "Now, Mervyn, I hope you know what an epitaph is?" "Yes, I think so," said Mervyn slowly; "but no one says bush like thrush. It doesn't sound at all right." "Hallo! young Indian, are you going to find fault with my pronunciation? Isn't it splendid, Miss Bun, bun?" "I'm not bun, bun, and I think Mervyn is quite right," answered the little girl with a toss of her head. "It sounds very funny, and all that, but it isn't the proper way to say the word, I know." "Of course not, little Miss Wisehead, but we are allowed to say all kinds of things in poetry," said Frank grandly; "and I can tell you it's jolly convenient when a fellow wants a rhyme. But now that we have decided this knotty point, let us go and look for a nice place where we can bury the little fellow;" and, having placed the thrush in the box, he went off to look for a suitable burying-place. "Put him in my little garden," cried Bunny eagerly. "There are lovely flowers there, and we can make him such a nice grave." "Where is your garden, monkey?" said Frank. "I did not know you had such a thing." "Yes, I have; at least I call it mine," answered Bunny, skipping gaily along. "It's a dear little flower-bed down there by the sun-dial, and it will be such a pretty place for the poor dead bird. Do bury him there, Frank." "Very well; what pleases you pleases me," and off they went to Bunny's garden. Very carefully Frank dug up the earth, and, having placed the bird within the grave, he filled it in neatly, took a lovely geranium from a neighbouring flower-bed, and planted it just over the poor songster's head. "We must water it," cried Bunny, "or it will not grow," and away she rushed to the tool-house. Here she found the gardener's watering-pot, and, unfortunately for them all, it was more than half-full of water. "This will make the flowers grow beautifully," she cried; and before the boys had time to speak or stop her hand, she tilted up the heavy pot and sent the water flying all over their feet and legs. "Oh! Bunny, Bunny! just see what you have done," exclaimed Mervyn, beginning to cry as he felt the cold water soaking in through his stockings and shoes. "Oh, dear! what shall I do?" "You little mischief!" cried Frank, shaking himself. "What on earth made you do that?" "Oh! I wanted the flower to grow," said Bunny, bursting into tears, "and I did not mean to wet you and Mervyn at all; and look at my own pinafore and frock. Oh, dear! what will Sophie say?" "Sophie will say you are a naughty, wicked little creature," cried the maid, darting out suddenly from behind a tree. "Come in this minute and get your things changed. Monsieur Mervyn, go to the nursery at once." "I won't go! I won't go a bit!" cried Bunny, stamping her foot angrily. "The sun will dry me in a minute, and I won't go with you; so there!" "Come along, Bunny, like a good girl," said Mervyn, "let us run fast and see who will get up to the nursery first," and away he went up the path as fast as he could. "I won't go, Sophie. I want to stay with Frank," cried Bunny once more, as she caught the boy's hand and held on to it tightly. "You ought to go, dear, indeed you ought," said Frank. "See, Mervyn has gone, and you know you should always do what Sophie tells you." "No, I won't; she's a nasty thing! and it's twice as nice out here, so I won't go one bit." "Your mama and Miss Kerr have returned to the house, and you must come in and get changed your dress, mademoiselle." "I won't! I won't," shrieked Bunny, clinging more closely to Frank, and turning her back upon her nurse in a most impertinent manner. "We shall see if you do not, you bad, naughty child," cried Sophie in an angry voice, and running forward she seized the little girl in her arms, and carried her off screaming and kicking into the house. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER XII. THE FIREWORKS. A little before seven o'clock that evening the children stood at the drawing-room window. All traces of the recent struggle in the garden had been removed, and in the neat little girl in the dainty cream lace and muslin frock, with its fluttering pink ribbons, few persons would have recognized the small fury that Sophie had carried off wriggling and crying to the nursery a few hours before. But Miss Bunny had already forgotten that such a scene had ever taken place, and was making very merry over a big blue-bottle fly that she and Mervyn were doing their best to catch as it walked up and down the window-pane. Frank Collins sat at the piano playing some very lively tunes, and from time to time Bunny would pause in her pursuit of the fly and dance lightly over the floor in time to the music. "Papa, papa," she cried, as Mr. Dashwood entered the room with his wife upon his arm, "doesn't Frank make lovely tunes?" "I don't know, dear," answered her father. "Frank does not seem anxious to let me hear his music, for he has stopped short the moment I appeared." "I am afraid Mrs. Dashwood would not care for my music," answered Frank modestly. "I only play from ear." "Oh, Frank, how can you say such a thing!" cried Bunny indignantly. "Why, mama, he plays just like Miss Kerr does. He plays away up in the treble with two hands, and then he plays pum, pum, pum away down in the bass; oh, it is most beautiful! Do play again, Frank." "No, dear, not now," said Frank. "I'll play for you another time, but don't ask me now;" and he hopped the little girl up on his knee. "Well, then, ask--you know what," whispered Bunny mysteriously. "You know you said you would--you promised." "Oh, yes, of course; I very nearly forgot," said Frank, "and I suppose Sophie will soon be carrying you off to bed, it's nearly half-past seven." "Yes, she will, unless you ask that, and papa and mama say, Yes." "Mrs. Dashwood," said Frank, "it's a gala night, as they call it, on the Spa, and there are to be fireworks, so will you let these little people stay up for them? Please do." "What! to go out in the night air and into the crowd?" asked Mrs. Dashwood in a horrified voice. "My dear Frank, I could not think of allowing such a thing. It is quite impossible!" "Of course it is, Mrs. Dashwood," answered Frank. "But I did not mean them to go out at all, I--" "Oh, no, dear mama," cried Bunny eagerly, "Frank does not want us to go out, but to sit up and see them from Miss Kerr's window, that is all." "Bunny, come here, dear, I want to have a talk with you," said her mother gravely, and guessing that she was going to receive a scolding for her naughty conduct in the garden, the child stole slowly over the floor, and at last stood in rather a shamefaced manner beside her mother's chair. "Do you think, Bunny, that a little girl who screamed and kicked as you did when Sophie took you in out of the garden, deserves to be allowed to stay up to see the fireworks?" "No, mama," answered Bunny in a low voice, and two large tears trickled down her cheeks and fell on her mother's hand. "Auntie, dear, don't scold poor Bunny, for she is very sorry she was naughty, and she begged Sophie's pardon before we came down." "Well, I am glad to hear that, Mervyn," said Mrs. Dashwood, "and I hope Bunny is sorry; but I don't think she should be allowed to stay up to see the fireworks, she cannot expect it." "Why, mama, what is all this about?" said Mr. Dashwood, coming over and putting his arm round his little daughter. "Why are you scolding poor Bunny so much?" "Because I was naughty, papa," said Bunny, creeping up very close to him. "But I am very sorry, and I promise to be good." "Oh, well, don't scold her any more, dear," said her papa, stroking the little golden head, "she can't do more than promise to be a good child." "And do forgive her, and let her stay up to see the fireworks," whispered Mervyn, "it would be such fun!" "What is that you are saying, Mervyn? What dreadful plot are you hatching over there?" cried Mr. Dashwood, "why, the fireworks don't go off until nine, and your bedtime is at half-past seven, isn't it?" "Yes, I know it is, uncle, but we're not a bit sleepy, and we never saw any fireworks, and this is the last gala night before we leave Scarborough, and--" "My dear Mervyn, what a string of reasons!" cried his uncle laughing; "after such a list, I think we must surely grant your request. That is, if mama will forgive this poor culprit, and allow her to stay up." "Well, as she is sorry, and as Mervyn says it is the last night, perhaps--" "That's right! that's right!" said her husband, "and now let us go in to dinner. This animated discussion has given me quite an appetite." And as Ashton at this moment threw open the door, and announced that dinner was served, Mr. Dashwood offered his arm to his wife, and led her away to the dining-room. "What fun! what fun! to be allowed to stay up to see the fireworks," cried Bunny, and catching hold of Frank's arm she hurried him off after her papa and mama. "Now, you must sit quiet, children," said Mrs. Dashwood; "if you make a noise I shall have to send you away to the nursery." "We'll be as quiet as mice," said Bunny, and pulling Mervyn down on a large woolly mat in the middle window, she began to whisper joyfully about the treat that was in store for them before the evening was over. The first part of the dinner seemed rather long to the two little ones in their corner, but when at last the dessert was placed on the table, and Bunny was seated at her papa's elbow, and Mervyn between his aunt and his dear friend Frank, they all became so merry together, that the fireworks were for the time completely forgotten. "Oh, papa, I heard such a funny noise just now," cried Bunny suddenly, "what can it be? Listen, there it is again--whizz--whizz--" "It's the first rocket, I'm sure!" exclaimed Frank, dropping the nut-crackers, "let us go off to a window somewhere, for I am sure the fireworks are going to begin." "How jolly!" cried Mervyn. "Aunt, may we run up to Miss Kerr's room?" "Can't we see them from here?" asked Mr. Dashwood, pulling up the blind and looking out. "What a beautiful dark night it is! Better stay here, chicks, I think. See, there goes another rocket!" "Oh, that is lovely!" cried Bunny, clapping her hands. "But, papa, dear, we can see them much better from Miss Kerr's room, she has such a nice balcony, and she promised to let us go up to it if mama would allow us." "Very well, then, away you go," said her father; "but be quick, or you will lose all the fun." "Be sure and wrap yourselves up, dear children, if you go out into the balcony," said Mrs. Dashwood. "The night air is very sharp." "Oh, yes, mama, we will make ourselves as warm as toast," cried Bunny gaily. "Come, Frank, do come up to the balcony with us." "All right, little woman, jump upon my back and we'll run a race with Mervyn." Very much delighted at such an invitation, Bunny sprang from a chair on to Frank's back, and away they went galloping madly after Mervyn, up the stairs and along the passage to Miss Kerr's room. There they found Sophie waiting for them, heavily laden with cloaks and shawls in which she insisted on wrapping them up till they were nearly smothered, and shrieked wildly for just one little space through which they might manage to breathe. "Very well, you will all catch your deaths of colds," cried Sophie. "Miss Bunny, you will want the doctor to-morrow, I am quite sure;" and she flounced out of the room and banged the door after her. "Good riddance to bad rubbish!" cried Frank, laughing, as he released poor Mervyn's face from the thick shawl in which the maid had rolled him up. "She's an awful scold that Sophie." "But she's jolly kind to us sometimes," said Mervyn stoutly; "and we torment her dreadfully, don't we, Bunny?" "Yes, we do indeed," answered the little girl; "and she doesn't always scold, Master Frank." "Goodness me! don't be so indignant," cried Frank. "I meant no offence. I daresay Sophie is a regular angel." "She's not quite that," said Miss Kerr as she opened the window and let the young people out upon the balcony. "But I am glad to hear the children stand up for her, for, as Mervyn says, they do torment her, and still she is very good-natured and kind to them on the whole." "Yes, indeed she is," said Mervyn; "but oh! just look at that, isn't it exquisite?" "Lovely!" cried Frank. "It's a regular shower of golden hail! But I think I like the Roman candles best. Look, Bunny, there's one--see--those two stars--watch how they change colour--first they're red--then blue--then--" "Oh, yes, yes," cried Bunny dancing about. "There they go, right away over the sea! What lovely things fireworks are!" "It is a pity we could not have gone down on the Spa to see the set pieces," said Frank. "I believe they are most beautiful. But then the crowd is something dreadful." "Do they send the fireworks up from the Spa?" asked Mervyn; "they look just as if they were coming from the road up there in front of the Crown Hotel." "No, they are sent from a place just over the Spa, up among the trees there, but a long way below the hotel." "Oh dear! there goes a splendid rocket," cried Mervyn, "and doesn't it make a lovely noise?" "Oh! I can't bear the noise," said Bunny, putting her fingers in her ears, "it makes me jump." "Now that is really charming!" said Miss Kerr, as the whole bay with its ships and boats was suddenly illuminated by a brilliant crimson light. "How lovely everything looks in that soft, rich colour!" "Oh! and I declare you can see Oliver's Mount and the dear little cake shop," cried Bunny. "And, Mervyn, I wonder where our old donkeys are to-night," and she peered away out in the direction of the sands where the poor animals usually spent their days. "At home in their beds, my dear," said Miss Kerr laughing, "and that's where small people like you should be; it must be near ten o'clock." "Oh! not yet, not yet," cried the children; "we must stay and see the last of the fireworks!" "That is the last now, I'm sure," said Frank. "That thick yellow light comes from the grand finale, which we cannot see--ha! there goes another rocket. Hurrah! the whole thing is at an end." "Very well, my dears, you must say good-night," said Miss Kerr; "your poor little eyes are positively blinking with sleep, Bunny, dear." "No, they're not," said the little girl, "but they feel funny and won't go quite straight." "Are you getting a squint, then?" said Frank. "Come along, old lady, a few hours' sleep will make them go straight enough;" and putting one arm round Bunny and the other round Mervyn, he marched them off to the nursery, where he deposited them one after the other on their little beds. The children were really quite tired out with excitement, and the fatigue of sitting up to such an unusually late hour; so when Frank left them for the night, they did not utter a word or make a complaint. They said their prayers, were undressed at once, and, laying their weary heads upon their pillows, were soon fast asleep. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER XIII. QUIET TIMES. It is to be hoped that you see some improvement in Bunny's behaviour since you first made her acquaintance, though she was very naughty on the day when the poor thrush was killed. At all events she had been trying to be good, and when she failed, or forgot her good resolutions she was so willing to confess her faults, and was so truly sorry for them, that Miss Kerr and Mama, and even Sophie, were always ready to forgive her. Miss Kerr had quite won Bunny's heart by her constant love and gentleness, so that the child could not bear to give her pain. This made Bunny more thoughtful, and she soon learned to check her outbreaks of temper and to keep out of mischief. Mervyn, who was growing tall and strong, was very much in earnest when he had promised to try to be docile and obedient. He did not forget that should he meet his dear mother and father in London they would ask him whether he had kept his word, and he would not have told them a falsehood even if he had been ever so naughty, for he was a truthful boy, and not at all a coward. Mervyn often helped Bunny to remember her promises too; and it seemed as though after the night when they had seen the display of fireworks they had both made up their minds to go on steadily with their lessons every morning. Miss Kerr was delighted, and Sophie had really very little to do, for all the afternoon, and sometimes in the evening also, they were out on the sands, or on the hills, or seated in the garden. The reason of this was, that as Mr. Dashwood had given them notice that the holiday was coming to an end, they had implored their friend Frank Collins to come often to see them, and as he loved Mervyn and could talk to him about his dear father and mother, and listen to his descriptions of life in Madras and Calcutta, he used to come every day to take the children out. Of this Mr. Dashwood was very glad, for he was pleased that such a nice manly boy as Frank should give up so much time to these two young ones, and used to laugh at Miss Kerr and tell her that they learnt more from their young tutor Frank Collins than they did from their governess. Miss Kerr often made one of the party when they went out together and she used to like to listen to Frank too. He had been to a large school, and was now only waiting for his parents to return from India before going to another. He had read a great many books, and could remember several stories and accounts of voyages and discoveries. The children would sit under a tree or inside an old boat on the beach and listen to him as he told them of the adventures of sailors and travellers; or sometimes they went with him for a ramble in the country, and he could show them the different kinds of trees and wild flowers, and point out where the various birds built their nests. Mervyn was quite surprised one day when a lark sprang suddenly from a field of long grass and went soaring up and up in the clear sunshine till it looked only like a speck, and at last could scarcely be seen, but yet all the time kept trilling and singing its beautiful song. As it sung it floated away to some distance from the place from which it rose, and then suddenly it seemed to sink from the air and to drop amidst the grass again. "Wherever has it gone to?" said Bunny; "there are no trees here, and where can its nest be?" "Its nest is on the ground, in the long grass of the field," said Frank. "Oh then, it has just dropped into it," cried Mervyn; "couldn't we go and see?" "You wouldn't find it except you could trace the way to the spot where the bird first rose," said Frank. "Directly the artful fellow heard us coming he sprang out and started his song so that he might lead us away from the spot where the nest is, and now he has dropped in the grass a long way off to lead us still further away." "Oh _do_ let us go and look for it!" said Bunny. "I think we'd better not," said Mervyn; "remember the thrush, Bunny, and we might kill some of the little birds." "Quite right, Mervyn," said Frank Collins; "we should very likely step upon it or frighten the hen bird so much that she would leave the nest. It would be like somebody coming and driving us away from home, you know. When I was as young as you are, I used to rob the nests of their eggs, but I have left off doing so now, and even if you should ever collect eggs you should only take one from a nest and contrive not to frighten the birds. But there are young larks and not eggs in this nest, so we will let them alone to grow strong and fly out into the sunshine and sing under the blue sky, won't we, Bunny?" You may well believe that the children thought the last part of their holiday was the pleasantest of all; for beside Frank they had found another playmate, a great friend of his. His name was Captain, and he was a grand, black, curly, Newfoundland dog. Such a fine fellow was seldom to be seen, and he learnt to lie down in a patch of grass on the hill, just at the place where he could watch for Bunny and Mervyn when they went out for their afternoon walk. He would pretend to be asleep, and when they came quite close to him would spring up and begin to leap about, leading the way to the sands, and barking or rolling over and over till Frank or Mervyn threw a stick as far as ever they could into the sea that he might dash in after it and fetch it out. Captain was a splendid swimmer, and had once jumped into the sea from the end of a pier after a little girl who had fallen into the water. The child would have been drowned, but Captain seized her by the frock and held her up till a boat could put out and fetch her, and then the brave fellow turned and swam ashore. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER XIV. BUNNY'S IMPROVEMENT. HOME AGAIN. The time had arrived when the holiday at Scarborough was to come to an end. The last evening was spent on the cliff. It was while they were all sitting on the hillside looking out to sea that Frank began to talk to them about "lighthouses," those tall buildings, having a strong lantern at the top, the bright light from which can be seen far out at sea, so that sailors may know to what part of the coast they are going, and may steer their ships in such a direction as to avoid danger, or guide them into a place of safety. Then Miss Kerr told them a story about a lighthouse, and how a brave and thoughtful little girl was able to save a great ship from being dashed to pieces on the rocks. This lighthouse was at a very dangerous part of the coast, and every day the lamps had to be cleaned and fresh oil put in them, and the great metal "reflectors" that were behind the lamps and threw the light far out to sea had to be burnished. The little girl was the child of the keeper of the lighthouse, and he often took her with him to stay there. He had a companion, for in lighthouses there are mostly two men; but one day this companion slipped off the ladder up which he had to climb to light the lamps in the great lantern, and broke his leg. At the same time he struck his head and became insensible, and so the father of the little girl was obliged to leave her and to fetch a doctor. He meant to come back very soon, but the doctor was out, and in trying to find him he was away for many hours, and by the time he could get down to his boat a great storm had come on, and the waves were breaking over the shore so that he could not put out to sea again. Night was coming on, and the poor fellow paced the beach and wondered what was to be done, for it would soon be time for the lamps to be lighted, and there was nobody in the lighthouse but the helpless man and his little girl. The sailors and fishermen all came round, but it would have been a desperate venture to put out a boat in such a storm, and with the great waves roaring and leaping on a long sharp ridge of rocks quite close to where the lighthouse stood, nobody could have expected to reach it alive. At last, just as the night was coming on, the poor fellow prepared to risk his life rather than leave the ships that might be far off at sea without a guide or a warning; but six strong men dragged a large boat down to the edge of the shore where the waves were lowest, and agreed to share his danger. Their hands were on the boat ready to push her in and then scramble to their places; an old fisherman was in his seat ready to steer, when he suddenly gave a shout and pointed towards the lighthouse. There from the lantern high above the roaring waves shone the brilliant beams of the lamps, and with a hearty cheer the brave fellows drew the boat back, and shading their eyes with their hands stared as though they had never seen the familiar light before. All night long they watched, till at break of day the storm abated, the sea grew still, and far far away they could see a great three-masted ship rolling and tossing, with one of her sails blown to rags, but still keeping off the shore. The pilot had seen the lights, and so knowing how to steer had kept her away from the rocky reefs where she might have been dashed to pieces. It was not till the sun rose high and they were able to go out in their boats that the men on shore could take the doctor to the lighthouse, and then they found the little girl kneeling beside the injured man and feeding him with some cold tea which had been left in the teapot. He had come to his senses, and had tried to crawl to the ladder, when he heard her voice singing softly right up in the lantern. He contrived to drag himself along the floor of the room, and could just see a gleam from one of the lamps coming through the chinks of the wood-work. The child, when she found her father did not return, had grown afraid; but her great fear was that the lamps would not be lighted, and as the place grew dark she made up her mind to try to light them herself. She had seen her father clean the lamps, and had been with him up the ladder, holding his strong hand; and she knew too where the match was kept, for she had been shown everything about the place while she was there on those long days alone with her father till the other man came on duty in the evening. So up she went, softly singing a hymn to herself, and after steadying herself by one of the iron rods that supported the lantern, put the lighted match to the wick, and was so startled to see the great yellow glare that shone from the reflector that she nearly lost her balance. When she reached the bottom of the ladder she found her friend looking at her quite wide awake; but he could do nothing to help her, except by telling her how to manage the light, and also how to move up there in the great glass lantern of the lighthouse, so that she might reach each lamp in turn. When her father came up the steep stair, followed by a dozen of his comrades, she gave a cry of delight and was in his arms in a moment; and she was soon made such a pet of by the men there that they all wanted her to accept knives, and rings, and pocket combs, and even tobacco-boxes, because they had nothing else to offer her; but she had her father and that was quite enough for her, and as he held her to his breast she could feel his tears fall upon her head, and yet he was as brave as any man who lived upon that coast. "However could she do it?" said Bunny, who had earnestly listened to this story. "She forgot all about herself, Bunny, and thought only of other people and of the duty that was straight before her," said Frank gently. Bunny remained very serious all the rest of the evening; perhaps the story of the child lighting the lamps reminded her of the trick she had played poor old Ashton when she poured water into his wine-glasses. But as we have seen already, Bunny was improving, and her mama was indeed delighted to notice the change, and quite shared her sorrow that they were so soon to leave for London. A day or two before they had begun to pack up Mr. Dashwood brought the children glorious news. Frank Collins was to go to London and stay with them till the arrival of his mother, who was on her voyage home and would be in England in a few days. Then he was to go to school, and perhaps Mervyn would some day be sent to the same school, but of course in a lower class. This last part of it was not very cheering for poor Bunny, and she was ready to cry; but she looked at Miss Kerr's kind gentle face and saw the look of joy in Mervyn's eyes, and so she choked back her tears, and presently when Mervyn said softly, "Of course I can't help being glad, Bunny, but I shall never be anything but sorry to be parted from you;" she was ready to say, "And I shall be awfully sorry, Mervyn dear, but then when the holidays come we shall both know so much more, and--and--" Here poor Bunny broke down and hid her face in her pinafore. But the next day she had recovered her spirits, and she and Mervyn were talking over their future plans, for it would be some months before her cousin would know enough to enter even the lowest form. But one chief reason for their rapid recovery of spirits was that it would be a whole month or more before Frank himself could begin his studies, and there were promises of visits to the Zoological Gardens, the great Palm House at Kew, the old Tower of London, and other places which would remind them of the stories they had heard, and of the books which they had yet to learn to read. They had all these things to talk about when they found themselves in the train that was to carry them home, and were so full of plans and expectations that they were many miles upon the journey before they remembered that they had not waved a good-bye to their old friend Oliver's Mount, or thought of the sorrow of leaving Scarborough for smoky, noisy, old London. THE END. 
21884	----	THE FAITHLESS PARROT DESIGNED AND NARRATED BY CHARLES H. BENNETT [Illustration: TITTUMS AND FIDO MAKING IT UP.] LONDON G. ROUTLEDGE AND Co. * * * * * THE FAITHLESS PARROT. BY CHARLES H. BENNETT. There once lived happily together, in a fine house, a tortoise-shell Cat and a pretty white Dog: the Cat's name was Tittums; the Dog's, Fido. In course of time the pretty Dog fell in love with the Cat, and only waited for a good chance to disclose his affections. This came one day, when Tittums had put her paws on the fender, dropped her head a little on one side, half closed her eyes, and seemed thinking of nothing at all. Then Fido, who lay stretched at full length upon the hearth-rug, looked steadfastly at her, and heaving a gentle whine, said,-- "Oh, Tittums, I've fallen in love!" [Illustration: FIDO COURTING TITTUMS.] "Indeed!" replied the prudent Cat, not wishing to show him how anxious she was. "Yes, indeed," continued the little Doggy, rather hurt at her coldness: "it's you that I've fallen in love with. Do you like me, Tittums?" But Tittums would not answer, even with a single _purr-r_! and it was only upon her giving him a sly look out of the corner of her left eye that he guessed how much she did like him. However, made bold by even this small token of esteem, he came quietly up, and sat by her side; even going so far, at last, as to take her out for a short walk down the garden-path, where they looked through the railings at the people passing by. "Well," said Fido to himself, "I have no doubt but she will love me in time; all the more, as I have great hopes of growing bigger before the spring." [Illustration: TITTUMS DESERTING FIDO.] But one morning, when Tittums came in from a visit she had been paying her mamma, she was followed by a gentleman from the tropics, who, with all the impudence of his race, made himself quite at home, pressed Tittums' paw to his heart, called her "the loveliest of Cats," asked her to oblige him with a song, which he had been told she could sing very sweetly, and never took the least notice of poor Fido, who was sitting in the corner. To tell the truth, poor Fido was very cross, and began to growl quite savagely; the more so when, to his dismay, he beheld the pleasure with which Tittums heard all this nonsense. He could not think what right the bold stranger had to come there unasked; for all that he had bright red and green feathers, a rakish, broad-brimmed hat, and a gold-headed walking-cane, he was not good-looking, that was very certain. But Tittums was very much struck by his appearance and bearing; his feathers were so pretty, he spoke so many languages, shrieked so terribly and in such a loud voice, had travelled so much, and was so struck by the beauty of Tittums, that, poor little Cat as she was, she ceased to care a button for faithful Fido, and kept all her sly glances for Mr. Paul Parrot. "Lovely Tittums," said Mr. Paul, "you must forget such upstart puppies as Fido. Listen to me--I am a traveller--I speak five languages,--I have a palace made of golden bars, within which is a perch fit for a king,--I have a pension of bread and milk and Barcelona nuts: all of which I will share with you. To-morrow we will go for a trip into the field next to the house. Good-by for the present, my dear Pussy Cat;" and he went away kissing his hand. Poor Fido howled. Naughty Tittums! As day followed day, Miss Puss neglected her little Dog more and more. She walked out with Mr. Paul Parrot, she sang to him, looked kindly at him, and, in fact, only seemed happy when he was by. Poor Fido was true to his first love, although almost brought to despair; he got very thin indeed, and his fine bushy coat, which he had kept nice and clean, became ragged and dirty. Indeed, Mr. Parrot carried all before him; he was so grand, so loving, and so clever, that Fido from being deserted became despised, and was indeed thinking about hanging himself on the meat-hook in the kitchen. [Illustration: TITTUMS WALKING OUT WITH THE PARROT.] [Illustration: THE PARROT COURTING THE JACKDAW.] One evening, just after dark, as he was roaming about, feeling very sad, and thinking that, perhaps, it would be better to run away than to use the meat-hook, he all at once found himself in the next garden, and while he was looking round him, he heard voices. "Lovely Mrs. Daw," said one of the voices which he seemed to recognise, "I am a traveller--I speak five languages--I have a palace made of golden bars, within which is a perch fit for a king,--I have a pension of bread and milk and nuts; all of which I will share with you. To-morrow we will fly for an excursion on to the great oak-tree in Farmer Hodges' field." "Dear me!" thought Fido, "this must be Mr. Parrot." And, sure enough, so it was,--Mr. Parrot, indeed, and making the warmest of love to old Mrs. Daw, the widow of Miser Jack Daw, who, during a long life, and by means of stealing and saving, had laid by a large fortune, which he had left Mrs. Daw to enjoy. The old widow seemed very much pleased at the warmth of Mr. Paul's love, and no doubt thought that every word he said was true; leering round at him with her old eyes, and wishing that she had put on a clean muslin cap, as it might have made her look even younger than she thought she did. As for Fido, he almost jumped for joy; he ran home as soon as ever he could. "Oh, Tittums!" said he, heedless of her scornful looks, "what do you think I have found out? There is that rascal of a Paul Parrot, who pretends so much love for you, courting Widow Daw at this very moment; and if you come at once you may see it with your own eyes." "Nonsense!" replied Tittums: "I do not believe it." "Well," said the Dog, "to convince you, if you will only come to the other side of the wall you shall see that what I have said is quite true." But Pussy, trusting in the honour of Mr. Paul, would not believe a word, and it was only after a great deal of persuasion that she was induced to jump over the wall and listen. [Illustration: EAVES-DROPPERS.] Mr. Paul and Mrs. Daw were still courting, and the Parrot was trying, by coaxing the old lady, to find out how much she was worth, and where all her treasures were hid. Indeed Mrs. Daw was just on the point of telling him her secret, when Tittums, unable to contain herself, rushed at Mr. Paul and scratched his face. "Oh, you bad Parrot!" she said; "did you not promise to marry me, and take me to your golden palace?" "Golden palace!" screamed Mrs. Daw: "why, you wicked bird, that's what you promised me. Stay, ma'am, what did he say besides?--did he promise you any bread and milk, or any Barcelona nuts?" "Yes, he did--he did--he did," continued the Cat, scratching and clawing the false, faithless Parrot as she spoke. "Well," said Pussy, now fairly exhausted, "I hope you are satisfied: if ever you come near our house again, I'll scratch out every feather you have on your back;" and so she left him, taking Fido with her, who, in spite of his general good nature and the Parrot's rage, could not resist giving him two or three sharp bites. [Illustration: THE PARROT EXPOSED.] As soon as Mrs. Daw was left alone with Paul, she began to upbraid him with his falseness,--"You vulgar, stuck-up, ugly, awkward deceiver! you have neither honesty enough to live by, nor wings enough to fly with." Whereupon she jumped at him and gave him such a plucking as spoilt his good looks. Never after this was the Parrot able to hold up his head. Every one scorned him; even his golden palace turned out to be a brass cage; and for his misdeeds a chain was fastened round his leg. He was confined to a wooden perch, which, out of pure spite, he was always pecking. Old Widow Daw kept her secret, and remained unmarried. Tittums could not help admiring the constancy of Fido; and when in the spring he had grown bigger, and was promoted to a sweet red and black collar, Pussy found that she loved him very much indeed, and made up her mind never more to forsake him. [Illustration: THE PARROT GETTING A GOOD PICKING] * * * * * NEW JUVENILE PUBLICATIONS. _In Fcap. 4to. price One Shilling each, with cloth covers._ ROUTLEDGE'S NEW TOY BOOKS, _With large designs_, by C. H. BENNETT, NOEL HUMPHREYS, _and_ HARRISON WEIR, &c., _engraved and printed in colours, by_ EVANS. LIST OF THE SERIES, VIZ.: 1. THE HISTORY OF GREEDY JEM AND HIS SEVEN BROTHERS. By C. H. BENNETT. 2. THE FARM YARD. By MISS BOWMAN. Illustrated by HARRISON WEIR. 3. THE FAITHLESS PARROT. By C. H. BENNETT. 4. A LITTLE GIRL'S VISIT TO A FLOWER GARDEN. Illustrated by NOEL HUMPHREYS. 5. THE FROG THAT WOULD A WOOING GO. By C. H. BENNETT. 6. A LAUGHTER BOOK FOR CHILDREN.--With PICTURES. 7. NAUGHTY BOYS AND GIRLS.--With PICTURES. _An Edition of the above printed in Colours, on Cloth, with Cover printed in Colours, and bound, can also be had, price_ EIGHTEEN-PENCE _each_. * * * * * ROUTLEDGE'S TWO-SHILLING BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS, _In Crown 8vo, with numerous Illustrations by_ ARSOLON, GILBERT, HARRISON WEIR, &c., _strongly bound in a Cloth cover, printed in Colours, with coloured Frontispiece_. LIST OF THE SERIES, VIZ.: 1. AMUSING TALES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. By MRS. H. MYRTLE. With 21 Pictures. 2. THE DONKEY'S SHADOW, AND OTHER STORIES. With 60 Pictures. 3. THE BROKEN PITCHER, AND OTHER STORIES. With 35 Pictures. 4. THE LITTLE LYCHETS. By the Author of "A Hero." With 22 Pictures. 5. HISTORICAL TALES; THE GREAT EVENTS OF HISTORY. With 20 Pictures. 6. THE GREAT WONDERS OF THE WORLD. By A. C. URGAN. With 32 Pictures. 7. VISITS TO THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS. With 20 Pictures. 8. THE RICHMONDS' TOUR IN EUROPE. By A. ELWES. With 28 Pictures. * * * * * LONDON: GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND CO., FARRINGDON STREET. * * * * * 
21049	----	[Illustration: ONE OF THE TRICKS WAS TO RUN AND JUMP THROUGH A PAPER HOOP. "The Curlytops and Their Pets" Page 240] THE CURLYTOPS AND THEIR PETS OR _Uncle Toby's Strange Collection_ BY HOWARD R. GARIS AUTHOR OF "THE CURLYTOPS SERIES," "UNCLE WIGGILY SERIES," "BEDTIME STORIES," ETC. _Illustrations by JULIA GREENE_ NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY THE CURLYTOPS SERIES By HOWARD R. GARIS 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. _THE CURLYTOPS AT CHERRY FARM Or, Vacation Days in the Country_ _THE CURLYTOPS ON STAR ISLAND Or, Camping Out With Grandpa_ _THE CURLYTOPS SNOWED IN Or, Grand Fun With Skates and Sleds_ _THE CURLYTOPS AT UNCLE FRANK'S RANCH Or, Little Folks on Ponyback_ _THE CURLYTOPS AT SILVER LAKE Or, On the Water With Uncle Ben_ _THE CURLYTOPS AND THEIR PETS Or, Uncle Toby's Strange Collection_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, New York COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY THE CURLYTOPS AND THEIR PETS Printed in U.S.A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I UNCLE TOBY'S LETTER 1 II AN AUTOMOBILE RIDE 14 III THE QUEER OLD LADY 28 IV UNCLE TOBY'S PETS 40 V TIP AND TOP 52 VI WHERE IS TIP? 65 VII A FUZZY BURGLAR 79 VIII SLIDER GOES SLIDING 92 IX MRS. JOHNSON'S BABY 104 X MR. CAPPER'S BUNS 116 XI TOP ACTS STRANGELY 128 XII MR. NIP'S ALARM 141 XIII THE HAND-ORGAN MAN 154 XIV TURNOVER AND SKYROCKET 166 XV PLANNING THE CIRCUS 182 XVI TOP IS GONE 193 XVII THE DOG SHOW 203 XVIII THE BLACK POODLES 212 XIX A HAPPY REUNION 221 XX THE CURLYTOPS' CIRCUS 231 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS ONE OF THE TRICKS WAS TO RUN AND JUMP THROUGH A PAPER HOOP. "The Curlytops and Their Pets." Page 240 THE SECOND DOG BEGAN TURNING SOMERSAULTS. "The Curlytops and Their Pets." Page 50 SLIDER WENT SLIDING DOWN THE SMOOTH SLANTING BOARD. "The Curlytops and Their Pets." Page 102 JACK MADE ONE LEAP AND LANDED SAFELY IN TEDDY'S ARMS. "The Curlytops and Their Pets." Page 174 THE CURLYTOPS AND THEIR PETS CHAPTER I UNCLE TOBY'S LETTER "What you going to put on your ship, Ted?" "Oh, swords and guns and gunpowder and soldiers. What you going to load on your ship, Jan?" "Oranges and lemons and pineapples," answered the little girl, who was playing with her brother at sailing boats in the brook that ran back of the house. "And maybe I'll have gold and diamonds and chocolate cake on my ship, Teddy," went on Janet Martin. "If you do I'll be a pirate and sink your ship! Oh, Jan, let's play that! I'll be a pirate!" Teddy Martin jumped up so suddenly from the bank of the brook, where he was loading his ship with what he called "swords, guns and gunpowder," that he tipped the vessel over and the whole cargo was spilled into the water. "Oh, look what you did!" cried Janet. "Your gunpowder will be all wet!" "I'm not ready to play the pirate game yet," explained Teddy. "Anyhow, I can get more powder." This would be easy enough, it seemed, as the children were only pretending that stones, pebbles and bits of sticks were the cargoes of their toy ships, and, as Teddy had said, he could easily get more stones. The brook was filled with them. "Where are you going?" Janet called after her brother, as she saw him hurrying toward the house, which was out of sight behind the trees and bushes that grew on the edge of the brook. "I'm going to get a black flag so I can be a pirate and sink your ship with gold, diamonds and chocolate cakes on!" answered Teddy over his shoulder as he ran on. "I--I don't guess I want you to be a pirate," said Janet slowly, as she looked at her ship, on which the pebbles, stones and bits of wood were neatly arranged in piles. "I'm not going to play that game! I don't want you to be a pirate, Ted! It's too scary!" But her brother was beyond the reach of her voice now, hurrying toward the house after his "black pirate flag." Janet shoved her ship out from the shore--her ship laden with diamonds, gold and chocolate cakes. Of course it was not a real ship. The Curlytops would not have had half as much fun with real ships as they were having with the pieces of boards which they were making believe were steamers and sailing vessels. "I'll sail my ship away down to the end of the brook before Ted gets back to be a pirate," said Janet to herself, as, with a long stick, she directed the flat board which was piled high with brook-pebbles. "Then when he comes back he can't sink it." Janet pushed her ship slowly at first, and then a little faster, moving it along by means of the stick while she stood on the bank. Then, hearing a noise in the bushes behind her, she thrust harder on the stick. "I don't want Teddy to pirate my ship!" she thought. "I'll fool him! I'll sail it around the bend, and then I'll hide behind the big buttonball tree and he won't know where I've gone!" In order to do this Janet wanted to make her ship go as fast as possible, so she shoved harder and harder on the stick. And then, all of a sudden, her ship upset. With a splash the stones, pebbles and bits of wood went into the brook. The whole cargo was sunk and lost as surely as if Ted's pirate vessel had captured that of his sister. That is, everything sank but the ship itself and the cargo of little sticks, some of which Janet was pretending were chocolate cakes. Even at that, I suppose, the chocolate cakes would be wet and soggy. And soggy chocolate cake isn't good to eat. The best thing you can do with it is to make it into a pudding. "Oh, Ted! look what you made me do," cried Janet sadly, as she saw the ship, which she had loaded with such care, capsized and cleared of its cargo. "It's all your fault!" And then she started in surprise as a babyish voice replied: "I 'idn't do nuffin! I 'ust comed! What's matter, Jan?" "Oh, it's you, is it, Trouble?" asked the girl, as she turned and saw, instead of Teddy, her smaller brother William, more often called "Trouble," because he was in it so often. "Yep! Me is here!" announced Trouble. Sometimes he talked more correctly than this, and his mother had told Janet and Teddy to try to cure him of his baby talk and the wrong use of words. But Ted and Jan thought it was "cute" to hear Trouble say queer things, so they did not mend his talk as often as they might. "I thought you were Ted," went on Janet. "Did you see him? He went up to the house to get a flag." "Flag," returned Trouble, in a questioning voice. "Goin' to be soldiers an' have a 'rade?" He meant parade, of course. "No, we aren't going to have a parade now, Trouble," said Janet. "Ted went to get a black flag to be a pirate, so he could sink my ship that was loaded with diamonds, gold and chocolate cakes." "I want chocolate cake--two pieces!" demanded Trouble, who had ears only for the last words of his sister. "There wasn't any chocolate cake--really, dear," explained the little girl, as she ruffled up her curly hair. "Ted and I were just pretending. He is going to have a pirate ship. I didn't want him to get mine, so I was shoving it hard down the brook, but I made it go too fast and it upset. Now I've got to load my ship all over again." "I want s'ip!" demanded William, as Jan began to guide her empty vessel back to shore by means of the long stick. "Trouble have a s'ip?" he asked. "Yes, you may have a ship, and play with us," Janet said, and as she was looking about for a board which might serve her little brother to play with, she heard someone coming through the bushes. "I guess this is Ted," thought Janet. "Anyhow he can't sink my ship now. I did it myself." It was her older brother, and he now came bursting through the shrubbery that lined the bank of the brook, holding in his hands a piece of black cloth. "I got the pirate flag!" cried Teddy. "Whoop-la! Now I'm going to sink your ship! Why, what happened?" he asked, as he saw that Janet's craft was empty. "Did Trouble upset it?" "No, I did it myself," Janet answered. "But I didn't mean to. I was trying to hide it from you, 'cause I don't want you to be a pirate and upset my ship full of chocolate cakes." "Oh, I must be a pirate! Here's the black flag and I must be a pirate!" shouted Teddy. "Whoop! I'm a pirate! I'm a pirate!" "Hoo! Hoo! Hoop!" yelled Trouble, trying to make as much noise as his brother. "You sound more like an Indian than you do a pirate," said Janet, as she began to pile more pebbles on the board that was her ship. "Well, Indians and pirates are 'most the same," declared Teddy. "Wait till you see my ship, with swords and guns and powder! It will blow your ship out of the water, and I'll have a black flag on it and everything! Whoop!" "I'm not going to play if you upset my ship, now there!" and Janet pouted her lips and ceased loading pebbles aboard her craft. Teddy, who was cutting a flagstaff with his knife, stopped to look at her. If Janet was going to act this way, and not send out her ship, there was no use in being a pirate. What fun could even a make-believe pirate have if there were no ships to sink? Teddy thought of this, and then he said: "All right, Jan, I won't be a pirate if you don't want me to. But I'll have a black flag, anyhow, and maybe I'll be a pirate some other time. Let's have a race with our ships--see which one gets to the water-wheel first." "Yes, I'll do that," agreed Janet. At the lower end of the brook she and Teddy had built a little dam, and where the water flowed over the top, like a tiny Niagara Falls, Teddy had fastened a wooden paddle wheel which turned as the water flowed on it. "Me want a s'ip!" wailed Trouble, as he saw his brother and sister getting their vessels ready for the race. "Can't you give him a piece of board for his ship, Ted?" asked Janet. "If we don't he'll get in our way and spoil the race." "Here, Trouble, take this," and Teddy paused long enough in his work of loading pebbles on his ship to toss his little brother a small chip he picked up off the shore. "Hu! I want bigger s'ip 'n' _him_!" declared Trouble, with a grunt. Then he arose and toddled off through the bushes. Teddy and Janet were so busy getting their own vessels ready for the coming race that they paid no more attention to their small brother. And Trouble was going to get into trouble--you may be sure of that. "Don't put too many stones on your ship, Jan," called Ted to his sister, as he saw that she was piling on the pebbles. "Why not?" she asked. "'Cause you'll make it so heavy that it won't sail fast. Course I want to beat you," Ted went on, "but I want to beat you _fair_." "Oh, thank you," Janet answered. "But these aren't stones I'm loading on my ship this time." "What are they?" asked Ted. "Feathers," his sister answered. "I'm making believe the stones are feathers, and I'm going to sell them to make pillows for dolls. My ship won't be too heavy!" "Hu!" grunted Ted, as he placed the pebbles carefully on the middle of his ship, so it would not turn over. "Stones are heavy, whether you make believe they're feathers or not. Don't put too many on, I'm telling you!" "All right, I won't," agreed Janet. The boy and the girl went on with their game, and they were almost ready to start their ships off on the race when there was a racket in the bushes back of them. It was a bumping, banging sound that Ted and Janet heard, then followed the bark of a dog. "That's Skyrocket!" said Ted. A moment later came a voice, calling: "Whoa-up! Don't go so fas'! You is spillin' me!" "That's Trouble!" declared Janet. They were both right. A moment later there burst through the bushes the little boy and the dog. The dog was Skyrocket, and he was made fast to a box which he was dragging along by a rope tied around his neck. Trouble was holding to the rear of the box, and in his eagerness to pull it along Skyrocket was also dragging Trouble, "spillin'" him, in fact--that is, pulling Trouble off his feet every now and then. "Why, William! what are you doing?" asked Janet. Trouble was hardly ever called by his right name of William unless he had done something wrong. "Were you trying to have Skyrocket ride you in that box?" asked Teddy. "If you were, he can't. Sky can't pull you in that box unless it has wheels on it. Then it's a wagon." "Don't want wagon--dis my s'ip!" announced the little fellow, as he began to loosen the rope from the dog's neck. But as soon as Trouble started to do this, Skyrocket, who loved the children, began to lick William's face with a red tongue. "'Top it! 'Top it!" commanded Trouble, but Skyrocket only licked the more. "Oh, Ted, unfasten Sky, or he'll eat Trouble up!" laughed Janet. "Are you going to sail that big box for your ship, Trouble?" asked Ted, as he loosed the dog. "Yep! Dis box my s'ip," announced the small boy. "I sail it!" "Well, don't sail it near ours or you'll upset our ships--yours is so much larger, dear," begged Janet. "I be ca'eful!" Trouble promised. "I find this big box for my s'ip in kitchen, an' Sky drag it here for me!" "Yes, Skyrocket is a good dog," said Ted. "Hi there! Don't wag your tail so near my ship, or you'll upset her before I beat Jan in the race!" shouted Teddy, as the dog, in his joy at being with the Curlytops, nearly spoiled their plans for having fun. "Here! Go chase that!" cried Ted, tossing a stick far down the brook. And as Skyrocket splashed into the water after it, a loud whistle was heard across the field on the other side of the brook. "There's the postman!" called Janet. "Yes, he's coming here, and he's got a letter in his hand," announced Teddy. "He's taking the short cut." Sometimes the mail carrier came across the lots near the Martin home, as he was doing on this occasion. The Curlytops ceased the loading of their ships long enough to run and meet the carrier. "There's a letter for your mother," the postman said, as he handed the missive to Ted. "Don't drop it in the brook." "I won't," promised the boy. "I wonder who the letter is from?" he went on, as the postman continued over the lots to his next stopping place, blowing his whistle on the way. "Any mail, children?" called a voice. "There's mother, now!" said Janet. "Yes, here's a letter," called Ted. His mother had walked down to the brook from the house, along the back path, to see what her Curlytops and Trouble were doing. Mrs. Martin opened and read the letter as Ted and Janet went back to their play, and as she turned the pages she gave an exclamation of wonder. "What is it?" asked Ted, looking up as he placed the last pebble on his ship. "This is a letter from your Uncle Toby," said Mrs. Martin, "and there is strange news in it. I wonder what it means? This is very queer!" She started to read the letter again, but at that moment Janet cried: "Oh, look at Trouble! Just look at him! He's sailing away down the brook! Oh, he'll be drowned!" CHAPTER II AN AUTOMOBILE RIDE Mrs. Martin dropped the letter from Uncle Toby. It fluttered to the ground as she hastened down the bank of the brook in which Trouble was sailing away, aboard the small box he had brought to play with as his "s'ip." "William! William Anthony Martin! Come right back here!" called Mrs. Martin. "Come back!" Poor William would have been glad enough to do this, but he could not. He had stepped into the box, shoved it out from shore with a pole as he had seen Janet poling her tiny ship along, and then the current of the stream had carried poor Trouble away. He was floating down the brook, which was quite deep in some places. "Oh, Trouble! Trouble! What shall I do?" cried his mother. "I'll run up to the house and get the rake, and we can hook it on the edge of his box and pull him out!" shouted Janet. "I'll get him myself!" called Ted, and, not thinking that he had on his shoes and stockings, into the water he dashed, following after the floating box in which Trouble was riding. As for the little fellow himself, he had been overjoyed, at first, when he found that he was afloat. But as the water came leaking through the cracks in the box Trouble became frightened. "Oh, Momsie! Come an' det me! Come an' det me!" he wailed. "Mother's coming!" called Mrs. Martin, as she caught up a long stick and, running along the edge of the brook, tried to reach out and hook it over the side of the box-ship in which William was sailing away. And while the mother, brother and sister of the little chap are going to his rescue, I will take just a moment or two and tell you something about the Martin children, and why they are called the "Curlytops." The reason for the odd, pretty name is not hard to find. It was in their hair--they had the cutest, curliest curly hair that ever grew on the heads of any children anywhere in the world. So it is no wonder they were called "Curlytops." Some of you were introduced to them in the first book of this series, "The Curlytops at Cherry Farm," which told of their adventures in the country. After that they had more adventures on "Star Island," where they went camping with Grandpa. The fun on the island was wonderful, even more wonderful were their adventures when they were "Snowed In" and when the Curlytops went to Uncle Frank's ranch, and rode on ponyback. Ted, Janet and Trouble thought they had never seen such good times in all their lives. They helped solve a strange mystery, too. The book just before this one that you are reading is named "The Curlytops at Silver Lake," and in that you may learn what Ted, Janet and Trouble did when they went on the water with Uncle Ben, and how they helped capture some bad men. The summer had been filled with adventures, and there were some good times in the winter that followed. Now it was summer again, and the Curlytops were ready for more fun. Mr. Richard Martin was the father of the Curlytops. He was a storekeeper in the city of Cresco, in one of our eastern states. There were just three of the Curlytops, Theodore Baradale, Janet and William Anthony Martin. But Theodore was nearly always called Ted or Teddy, Janet's name was shortened to Jan and William answered to the call of Trouble as often as to any other. In addition to the children there was Skyrocket, the dog, and Turnover, the cat. The cat was called that name because she had a trick of lying down and rolling over when she wanted something to eat. There had also been Nicknack, a goat, and Clipclap, a pony, but these had been sent away for a time, and the dog and cat were the only pets the children had at present. But they were soon going to have more, as I will tell you presently. It was a warm, pleasant, sunny day when Ted and Jan went down to the brook to play that pieces of boards were their "ships." Then Trouble had joined them, and, just after the mail carrier left the strange letter from Uncle Toby, Trouble had, as usual, gotten into trouble. Janet and Teddy were not quite certain who Uncle Toby might be. They had heard of him, once or twice, as a distant relative of their father or their mother, but they had not seen him in a number of years. They only dimly remembered him as an old man who lived in a city about fifty miles from Cresco, but they had not visited him in some time. Just now the plight of Trouble so filled the minds of Ted and Jan that they had no thought for Uncle Toby or his strange letter. Nor did Mrs. Martin give any heed to the missive she had dropped. "Be careful, Teddy!" she called, as she saw her older son splashing his way through the water. "Don't fall!" "I--I won't, Mother! Not if--if I--I can help----" But just as Teddy got that far he stumbled on a round stone in the brook, and down he went with a splash! "Oh, he'll be drowned!" screamed Janet, who was following her mother along the bank of the brook, while Trouble was out in the middle in his leaking, packing-box ship that Skyrocket had pulled to the stream for him. The dog, who had found the stick which Teddy threw, had rushed back, and was now barking as loudly as he could. But the water was not deep enough to drown Teddy. It, however, made him very wet. Up he rose, dripping all over, and gasping for breath. Mrs. Martin paused only long enough to look back and see that Teddy was all right, and then hurried along, trying to pull toward her, with the long stick, the floating box and her little son. "Det me out! Det me out! I is all wet--I is!" cried Trouble. "My hoots is all wet!" Sometimes the letter "f" bothered him, and he put an "h" in its place, as saying "hoots" for "foots." Of course neither word was right, but who minded a thing like that when poor Trouble was in such a plight? "I'll get him!" cried Teddy, as he caught his breath. Then he wiped some of the water from his face, and dashed on down the brook. But by this time the packing box, in which Trouble was taking more of a ride than he had counted on, was some distance down the brook. However, Mrs. Martin was keeping alongside of it, though it was beyond even the reach of her long stick. "If we were on the other side you could reach him and pull him to shore, Mother!" called Janet. "Oh, I must get over on the other side--but the brook is deep here!" said Mrs. Martin. She was going to forget that, however, and splash in, when the box, by some twist of the current, suddenly floated near the bank along which she was running. "Grab it--quick!" cried Janet. "Let me get it--I'm coming!" shouted Teddy, and, indeed, he was splashing his way down the brook, but some distance behind his little brother. "Oh, det me out! My hoots is awful wet!" wailed the small chap in the packing-box boat. And just then Mrs. Martin was able to reach out her stick, hook one end of it over the edge of the box and pull it to shore. "You poor little fellow! Was mother's Trouble frightened to pieces?" murmured Mrs. Martin as she lifted her youngest out of the box, and, never minding his wet feet, hugged him tightly. The packing box drifted off downstream, Skyrocket racing after it and barking as though it was the best joke in the world. "Were you frightened, William?" murmured his mother. Trouble looked at her, and then at the floating box. "I had a nice wide, but my hoots is all wet," he announced. "I should say they were!" laughed Janet, feeling them. "They're soaking wet! But you're all right now, Trouble!" "And I'm wet, too," said Teddy, coming along just then. Together they walked back along the edge of the brook, Skyrocket following when he found that no one was going to help him play with the empty box, which floated ashore near the dam Teddy had made. As she passed the place where she had dropped Uncle Toby's letter Mrs. Martin picked up the fluttering paper. "I nearly forgot all about this," she said. "Your father will want to know about it. I never heard anything so strange in all my life." "What is it?" asked Teddy. "I'll tell you when you have dry clothes on, and we can sit down and talk it over," his mother promised. And when Trouble, smiling and happy, with a picture book in his hands and dry shoes and stockings on his feet, was safe in a chair, and when Janet and Teddy sat near her, Mrs. Martin read the letter again. "It is from Uncle Toby Bardeen of Pocono," said the mother of the Curlytops. "At least he is your father's uncle, but that doesn't matter. He is an old bachelor, and lives with a distant relative, a Mrs. Watson, in an old, rambling house." "Does he want us to come there for the summer vacation?" asked Janet. It was time, so she and Ted thought, to begin thinking of the summer fun. "No, Uncle Toby doesn't say that," went on Mother Martin, as she glanced over the pages of the letter. "What he wants is for your father to go and take charge of everything that is in the old house--everything, that is, except the housekeeper, Mrs. Watson. She is going off by herself, Uncle Toby says." "Is Uncle Toby--is he--dead, that he wants daddy to take everything in his house?" asked Janet. "Course not! How could he be dead and write this letter?" asked Ted. "Well, maybe he wrote it before he died," Janet suggested. "No, Uncle Toby isn't dead, I'm glad to say," remarked Mrs. Martin. "But he is going away on a long voyage for his health, he writes, and he wants daddy to come and take charge of everything in the old mansion." "Do you s'pose there's a gun there I could have?" asked Teddy hopefully. "I'd like an old-fashioned spinning wheel," said Janet. "Is there one of those, Mother?" "I wants suffin' to eat!" announced Trouble suddenly, but whether he thought it was to be had at Uncle Toby's house or not, it is hard to say. Teddy and Janet laughed, and Trouble looked at them with wondering eyes. "You shall have something to eat, love!" his mother murmured. "I guess your voyage in the packing-box ship made you hungry." "Do you s'pose Uncle Toby would have a gun?" asked Ted again. "If there is one in his house _you_ can't have it, my dear," objected Mrs. Martin. "But I could have the spinning wheel, couldn't I?" asked Janet. "Yes, I suppose so. But maybe there isn't one," her mother answered. "If there is we can play steamboat!" cried Ted, getting quickly over his disappointment about a possible gun. "A spinning wheel is just the thing to steer a make-believe steamer with!" "You're not going to have my spinning wheel for your old steamboat!" declared Janet. "Hush, children!" their mother warned them. "I haven't the least idea what is in Uncle Toby's house, that he should be so mysterious about it, and be in such a hurry for your father to come and take charge." "Is Uncle Toby mysterious?" asked Janet. "Well, yes. He says he hopes the collection will not be too much for us to manage," went on Mrs. Martin, with another look at the letter. "A collection of what?" Ted wanted to know. "That's just it--Uncle Toby doesn't say," his mother replied. "We shall have to wait until your father makes the trip to Pocono." "Oh, may we go?" begged the two Curlytops at once. "We'll see!" was the way in which Mrs. Martin put them off. "I wish your father were here so we could talk over this queer letter from Uncle Toby." "I wis'--I wis' I had suffin' t' _eat_!" put in Trouble wistfully. "And so you shall have, darling!" exclaimed his mother. "It is nearly time for lunch, and daddy will soon be here. Then we'll see what he says." And what Mr. Martin said after, at the lunch table, he had read Uncle Toby's letter was: "Hum!" "What do you think of it?" asked his wife. "I think it's as queer as he is," said the father of the Curlytops, smiling. "Uncle Toby is a dear old man, but very queer. So he wants me to come and take charge of his 'collection,' does he? It's strange that he doesn't say what his collection is." "Maybe it's postage stamps," suggested Ted. Once he had started to make a collection like that but he had given it up. "And maybe it's a collection of--money!" said Janet. "That would be very fine!" laughed her father. "But though Uncle Toby is well off, I hardly think he has a collection of money lying around his old mansion. However, I suppose I must go and see what it is the queer fellow wants me to take charge of for him." "May we go?" chorused Ted and Janet again. "Oh, I suppose so," agreed their father, and this was better than the "I'll see," of their mother. "Me tum too!" declared Trouble. He never wanted to be left behind. "We'll all take an auto trip over to Pocono to-morrow and see what Uncle Toby has," decided Mr. Martin. Accordingly, the next day, Mr. Martin left his manager in charge of the store, and, in the comfortable family automobile, the Curlytops and their father, mother and Trouble--not forgetting Skyrocket, the dog--started off. It was just as fine a day as the previous one, when Trouble had sailed down the brook. The grass was green, the birds sang, and the wind blew gently in the trees. "Oh, it's summer, and there's no school and well have lots of fun!" sang Janet. "Maybe we'll have fun with what we find at Uncle Toby's house," suggested Ted. And neither of the Curlytops realized how much fun nor what strange adventures were in store for them. The automobile started down a rather steep hill, and Mrs. Martin, who was on the front seat with her husband, looked back to see that the three children were safe. "Hold on to Trouble!" she told Janet. "He might bounce out. The road is very rough!" "Yes, it isn't very safe, either," murmured Mr. Martin. "I hope nothing happens." Hardly had he spoken than there was a loud bang close behind him. He jammed on the brakes and cried: "Tire's burst! Hold tight--everybody!" Then the automobile slid over to one side of the road and Janet cried: "Oh, Trouble! Trouble!" CHAPTER III THE QUEER OLD LADY For a little while it seemed as though something serious had happened in the automobile which was taking the Curlytops to Uncle Toby's house. Mr. Martin had all he could do to slow up the machine, bringing it to a stop beside the road, and under a tree. If a tire had burst or been punctured Daddy Martin wanted to be in the shade to fix it. Mother Martin, holding tightly to the side of the seat when the banging noise sounded, turned to look behind her to see if the three children were all right. She saw Trouble sitting between Ted and Janet, and William was looking at something in his chubby hand. "What happened?" asked Mrs. Martin. "Were any of you hurt when the tire burst?" "The tire didn't burst, Mother," answered Teddy. "Why, I heard it," said Mr. Martin, as he prepared to get out of the machine, which had now come to a stop. "I must have run over a sharp stone or a broken bottle." "No, it wasn't the tire," said Janet, and she laughed. "It was Trouble's toy balloon. He blew it up too big and it burst." "That's what it was! And a piece of the rubber hit me in the eye!" laughed Ted. "My 'loon all gone!" wailed William. "So that's what it was--a burst toy balloon," said Daddy Martin. "Well, I'm glad it wasn't one of my tires." "So am I," said Mother Martin. "It is too hot to have to change a tire to-day. Besides, I'm in a hurry to get to Uncle Toby's and see what it is he wants us to take charge of while he is away. I hope he doesn't go until we get there." "You never can tell what Uncle Toby is going to do," said Mr. Martin, smiling, now that he knew he had no tire to change. "And so you burst your toy balloon, did you, Trouble? Well, I'll have to get you another, but not while we're on this auto ride. I don't want to be frightened again, and I might be if you blew up another balloon and it burst." "I didn't know he had one with him," remarked Mrs. Martin, as Trouble looked sadly at what was left of his toy. "I didn't either," Janet said. "All of a sudden he took it out of his pocket and began to blow it up." "I was makin' be'eve it were a wed soap bubbles," explained Trouble. "Well, soap bubbles or not, it burst," said Teddy. "It sure did make a noise! But now we can go on. I want to see if Uncle Toby is going to leave any guns." "And I want a spinning wheel," Janet murmured. "But you can't take it to play steamboat with," she told her brother. "I shan't want it if I have a gun!" retorted Ted. "Now, children, be nice," begged their mother. Daddy Martin started the automobile again, first getting out to look at the four tires, to make sure none was flat, punctured or burst. They were all round, plump and as fat as big bologna sausages. "Now we go to Uncle Toby. Maybe I get a kittie cat!" said Trouble, when he decided to smile after feeling so bad about his burst balloon. "A kittie cat!" exclaimed Janet. "Why, we have a lovely cat, Trouble. Don't you like Turnover?" "Yep! But I 'ikes a kittie cat, too. Maybe Uncle Toby hab one for me!" "Probably Uncle Toby is too old a man to bother with pet cats," said Mrs. Martin. But it only goes to show that you never know what is going to happen in this world--sometimes you don't even know what you are going to have for dinner. Along rolled the automobile, taking the Curlytops nearer and nearer to the city of Pocono, where Uncle Toby lived with his housekeeper, Mrs. Watson. But it was rather a long ride, and, about half way, the party stopped in a little village for lunch. "Did we bring any lunch with us, or are we going in a place to eat?" asked Ted. "Oh, I hope we go in a place to eat!" exclaimed Janet. "I like a restaurant, don't you, Ted?" "Sure!" answered the Curlytop boy. "Yes, we are going to a restaurant," his mother told them. "Daddy wants to get some oil and gasoline for the auto, too." "It's sort of feeding the auto, isn't it, Mother?" asked Janet, as they alighted. "In a way, yes," admitted Mrs. Martin. A little later the Curlytops were having a fine meal, and when I say the Curlytops I mean also Daddy and Mother Martin, and Trouble. The hair of Mr. and Mrs. Martin did not curl, though it must have done so when they were younger; or else how would Ted and Janet have had such beautiful ringlets? Nor did Trouble's hair curl, though when he was smaller his mother used to wind little ringlets around her finger, hoping he would have locks as pretty as those of Janet and Ted. But, really, the older boy and girl were the only ones who could, truly, be called Curlytops, though I sometimes speak of the "Curlytop family." So you know, when I say that the "Curlytops" were eating lunch, that all five of them were enjoying their meal. There were several things that Janet, Teddy and Trouble liked to eat, and toward the end of the meal there was a piece of pie for each of them. And it was toward the end of the meal that something happened, and Trouble, as usual, was the cause of it. Just before the waiter had brought the pie there had sounded, out in the street, the music of a hand organ. No sooner had he heard this than Trouble slipped from his chair (where he had been sitting on a hassock to make him higher) and ran to the window. "No monkey!" called out the little fellow, after he had stood for a moment with his nose pressed against the pane of glass, making his "smeller," as he sometimes called it, quite flat. "Hand-organ grinder got no monkey!" Trouble was disappointed. He had hoped to see a little monkey scrambling around to gather pennies in his cap. But this hand-organ player did not have any. And there was nothing much for Trouble to see. So the little fellow came back to the table, but not before he had stopped at the big water-cooler in one corner of the dining room. Trouble paused to watch a waiter turn the shiny little faucet and draw a glass of water for a customer. "Come and get your pie, William," his mother called to him. She very seldom mentioned him as "Trouble," before strangers. So this time Mrs. Martin called her little boy by his right name. "Do you want me to eat your pie?" teased Ted. "No! I eat my own pie!" Trouble exclaimed, and he climbed up into his chair, being helped by his father, next to whom he sat. The meal was almost over, and Daddy Martin was wondering what his Uncle Toby could want him to take charge of, when Mrs. Martin gave a sudden start, a sort of shiver, and said: "Why, my feet are getting wet!" "Your feet wet!" exclaimed her husband. "Surely it isn't raining in here! It isn't even raining outside!" he laughed, as he looked from a window. "But my feet are damp," went on Mrs. Martin. Then she raised the cloth, which hung down rather low on each side of the table, and glanced at the floor. "There's a big puddle of water under our table!" she cried. Then Ted looked over toward the big water-cooler in one corner of the restaurant. "Somebody left the faucet open!" cried Teddy. "The ice water is all running out! No wonder your feet are wet, Mother!" Mr. Martin hastily left his chair and turned off the faucet, and, as he did so, he looked at Trouble. Something in the face of that youngster caused Daddy Martin to ask: "William, did you do that?" "I--I dess maybe I turned it on a 'ittle bit!" confessed the mischievous one. "A _little_ bit!" cried Janet, as she looked under the table. "Why, there's almost as much water as there is in our brook at home!" "Oh, not quite so much," said her mother gently. "Though there is enough to have wet through the soles of my shoes. I was wondering why my feet felt so damp and cold. And did Trouble turn on the water? Oh, Trouble!" All eyes gazed at the little fellow, and he seemed to think he should explain what he had done. "I 'ist turned de handle a teeny bit," he said, "to make a 'ittle water come out. An' den I fordot 'bout it!" That was just what he had done. Seeing the waiter draw a glass of water from the cooler had given Trouble the idea that he soon afterward carried out. When he saw no monkey with the hand organ, the little fellow had gone back to his seat and, on the way, opened the faucet so that the water ran out in a little stream. Soon the drip-pan was full and then the water began trickling over the floor. No one noticed it until it had made a little puddle under the table, just at the point where Mrs. Martin's feet were. "Oh, Trouble! what will you do next?" sighed the little fellow's mother. "No harm done at all! None whatever!" said the waiter, coming up to the table smiling. "That little water on the floor I will wipe up so quick you will never see it." "No, it won't hurt the floor much," Mr. Martin said. "And I suppose your shoes will dry out," he told his wife. "But, all the same, William should not have done it." "I won't do it any more," said the little fellow. "I be good now! I sorry!" He generally was when he had done something like that. However, as the waiter had said, little real harm was done, and Mrs. Martin's shoes would dry, for it was a hot, summer day. The meal was finished and they all took their places in the automobile again to finish the ride to Uncle Toby's place, about twenty miles farther on. Once again Trouble, Ted and Janet sat in the rear seat, while their father and mother rode in front. And this time Trouble had no red balloon which he could blow up, making it burst with a noise like a punctured tire. The children talked among themselves, wondering over and over again what it could be that Uncle Toby wanted their father to come and take charge of. "Maybe he's got a little boy or a girl from an orphan asylum, and he wants us to take it to live with us," suggested Janet. "A boy would be all right," decided Ted, as he thought of this. "I could have fun with another fellow." "And I'd like a girl," said Janet. "I always wished I had a sister." "Maybe they're twins--a boy and a girl," Ted went on. "That would be fun!" "What would be fun?" asked his mother from the front seat, where she had heard the talk of the children. She often asked a question like this, as it sometimes stopped a bit of mischief that, otherwise, might happen. "What fun are you talking about?" asked Mrs. Martin. "Uncle Toby," answered Janet. "I thought maybe what he wanted daddy to take charge of was a little orphan girl." "And I thought maybe it was a boy," added Ted. "And then we both thought maybe it was twins--a boy and a girl, and we'd each have someone to play with," went on Janet. "My! I don't believe Uncle Toby has adopted any orphan children that he wants us to take," Mrs. Martin said. "I can't imagine what he really has, but we'll soon find out." On and on they rode in the automobile, until, after a while, they reached the small city of Pocono and, a little later, they pulled up in front of Uncle Toby's house. It was a rambling, old mansion that once had looked very nice, but now it was rather shabby and needed painting. "Here is where Uncle Toby lives," said Daddy Martin. "Do you children remember it?" "A little," admitted Ted. Neither he nor Janet had been there in years, and Trouble had never visited Uncle Toby. "I wonder if he's at home," went on Daddy Martin, as he alighted from the automobile. "There's someone on the porch," said Mrs. Martin. "Oh, it's Mrs. Watson, the housekeeper," she added. "But something seems to be the matter! I wonder what can have happened?" As Mother Martin spoke a queer little old lady came down off the porch and along the walk, hurrying out to meet the Curlytops, all of whom were now at the front gate. "Wait! Don't go in! Don't go in!" cried the queer old lady, holding up her hand like a traffic policeman stopping a fast automobile. "Don't go in! They're having a terrible time! Oh, that Mr. Bardeen ever should have gone away and left me to look after 'em! Oh, the trouble I have had! Such trouble! Don't go in! Listen to 'em!" As she spoke there came strange sounds from the grim old house where Uncle Toby lived! Very strange sounds! CHAPTER IV UNCLE TOBY'S PETS "Listen to that noise!" called Teddy, pausing with his hand on the gate that led into Uncle Toby's yard. "It's two boys having fun. I guess Uncle Toby left two fellows that you can take home and I can have fun with," Teddy added laughingly to his father. "Two boys! Oh, my goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Martin. Just then a shrill scream sounded from within the queer, old house. "It's girls!" said Janet. "Girls cry just like that when they're having fun! Oh, I'll be glad to have a sister to play with!" Mr. and Mrs. Martin looked at each other in surprise and wonderment. What could it mean? The queer, little old lady--Mrs. Watson, the housekeeper--murmured again: "Listen to 'em! I can't do a thing with 'em since Uncle Toby went away. I'm so glad you came to take charge of 'em as he asked you to. You did come for that, didn't you?" she asked eagerly. "You got Uncle Toby's letter, asking you to come and take charge of the collection he left, didn't you?" "Oh, yes," answered the father of the Curlytops. "We got Uncle Toby's letter all right, and we came to take charge. But----" "We'd like to know _what_ we are going to take!" interrupted Mrs. Martin. She felt she must say something, with all those queer noises going on in the house. "Maybe it's babies!" suggested Trouble, as he listened to what seemed to be a crying sound from the old mansion. "They're worse than babies!" declared Mrs. Watson. "I don't mind children and babies. But these things make so much noise I can't hear myself think. That's why I came out on the steps to sit down and be quiet! Oh, I'm so glad you've come to take charge of 'em!" "But what are they? You haven't told us what they are," said Mr. Martin, as the screeching, yelling noises kept on sounding from within the house. "Do they always screech like that?" "Only when they're hungry," said the queer old lady. "And I expect they're hungry now. I just hate to go in to feed them, they make such a fuss, and I'm afraid some of 'em will bite me. Not on purpose you know," she quickly added, "but just because they're so playful and full of fun." "My dear Mrs. Watson," said Mr. Martin in slow tones, "will you _please_ tell us what it is my Uncle Toby has left for me to take charge of! Is it an insane asylum?" "Yes, for goodness' sake, please tell us!" begged the mother of the Curlytops. "Why, I thought you knew!" replied Mrs. Watson, in some surprise. "Didn't Uncle Toby speak of them in his letter?" "No, he did not say what they were," answered Mr. Martin. "He only mentioned a collection. Please tell us. What is making all that racket?" "Uncle Toby's pets," was the answer. "Uncle Toby said he was going to leave them to you when he went away on a long trip. He may be gone for several years, and he said he might live the rest of his life in South America, where he is going. So he told me to give you his pets to take charge of. You are to take them, and do as you please with them, though I guess Uncle Toby would like to have you keep them and be kind to them." "Uncle Toby's _pets_!" exclaimed Mrs. Martin. "Is there a dog?" asked Teddy, his eyes shining in delight. "Won't Skyrocket be glad? Do you hear that, old fellow?" went on Teddy, leaning down to pet the dog that had jumped from the automobile and was looking as if in wonder at the house whence came such strange noises. "You're going to have another dog to play with. Uncle Toby did leave a dog, didn't he?" Teddy asked of Mrs. Watson. "I hear a dog barking in the house." "A dog!" exclaimed the queer little old housekeeper. "He left _two_ dogs, Uncle Toby did!" "Two dogs!" murmured Mrs. Martin, with a hopeless look at her husband. "Did he leave a cat?" asked Janet. "I thought I heard one mewing. And Turnover would like another cat to play with." "Yes, Uncle Toby left you a cat, also," said Mrs. Watson. Just then shrill screams, barks, squeaks and squawks, all mixed together, seemed to float out of the opened windows of the old house--windows in which were strong wire screens. "Two dogs and a cat!" exclaimed Mr. Martin. "My dear Mrs. Watson," he went on, as he sat down on the top step of the porch rather limply, "will you please tell us, as fast as you can, just how many and what pets Uncle Toby has left us? We may as well hear the worst at once," he said to his wife. "I never imagined Uncle Toby cared for animal pets." "Oh, indeed he did," replied Mrs. Watson. "Of late years he grew very fond of animals. All his pets are animals, and he'd have gotten more only I said I wouldn't stay and keep house for him if he brought in what he spoke of last." "What was that?" Mrs. Martin wanted to know. "_Snakes_!" declared the little old lady. "I don't mind monkeys and parrots so much, but I can't bear _snakes_! They give me the shivers, though Uncle Toby said some snakes do a lot of good in this world, by catching rats and mice. But he didn't bring in any snakes!" "Do you mean to say he has a parrot?" asked Mr. Martin. "Don't you hear him?" questioned Mrs. Watson. "Listen!" As she finished speaking the Curlytops heard a shrill: "Cracker! Cracker! Give Polly a crack-crack-cracker!" "Oh, it _is_ a parrot!" cried Janet in delight. "And is there a monkey, too?" demanded Ted. "An' a han' ordan! Is dere a han' ordan?" asked Trouble. "No hand organ, child, no," answered Mrs. Watson. "But there is a monkey, a parrot, two dogs, and a cat, a----" "Stop! Wait a moment!" begged Mrs. Martin. She took a seat beside her husband on the top step. "I just wanted to sit down before I fainted when I heard the worst," she went on. "Now go ahead, Mrs. Watson. Tell me the rest. I'll have something to lean against in case she tells me there's an elephant." "An elephant!" cried Janet. "Oh, I don't mean I want to lean on the elephant," said her mother. "I just want to lean against the piazza post. This is the worst I ever heard of--Uncle Toby leaving us a menagerie!" "'Tisn't quite as bad as that, though 'tis, almost," said Mrs. Watson. "There isn't an elephant, but there is an alligator." "An alligator! Oh, that's great!" cried Ted. "Where is it?" "This is terrible!" declared his mother. "It's only a little alligator," explained the housekeeper. "He's real friendly, though his tail scratches when he rubs it against your hand as you feed him." "Anything else?" asked Mr. Martin. "Please go on. We may as well hear the worst. It sounds like a circus that Uncle Toby kept in his house. What else, Mrs. Watson?" "Well? that's about all, except some white rats and mice and the pigeons. Uncle Toby didn't get the snake he wanted." "Let us be thankful for that," murmured Mrs. Martin, "though it is bad enough as it is." "Bad?" cried Teddy. "I think it's jolly! Can't we go in and see Uncle Toby's pets?" he asked. "They're going to be our pets, aren't they, Daddy?" asked Jan. "Didn't Uncle Toby say you could have them?" "That's what he said," replied the father of the Curlytops. "But I don't know whether to take him at his word or not. But we may as well go in and look at the--the menagerie!" he said to his wife, with a smile. "They'll need feeding--the animals will," said Mrs. Watson. "I'm glad you're here to help me. I was staying only until you came. Uncle Toby said you'd be over in a day or two. I'm leaving to-night, now you're here." "What? And make us take care of all the pets?" cried Mrs. Martin. "Oh, they're real kind and gentle--every one, even the little alligator," Uncle Toby's housekeeper made haste to say. "And as long as you have children the pets will be just the things for the Curlytops. Only I can't stay much longer. I was just waiting for you. I went outside as it was quieter," she concluded, as, once again, the pet animals set up a screeching, barking and mewing. "Well, let's get it over with," suggested Mr. Martin. "Maybe they'll be quieter if we feed them. Is there anything in the house for the menagerie to eat?" he asked the little old housekeeper. "Oh, yes, Uncle Toby always fed them well," she answered. "Oh, I'm so glad you came to take charge of the pets!" "I don't know whether we are or not," remarked Mrs. Martin. "I suppose, though," she said to her husband in a low voice, as they prepared to enter the house, "we can sell them. We don't have to keep them." "Yes, I guess that would be best--to sell them," agreed Mr. Martin, but he did not let the Curlytops hear him say this. Led by Mrs. Watson, the Curlytop party entered the house. As the door was opened the different noises sounded more loudly than before. The dogs barked--and Ted could now hear the tones of two different animals--the cat mewed, the monkey screeched and chattered, and the parrot cried: "Give Polly a cracker! Polly wants a crack-crack-cracker!" "I guess the alligator is the only one that isn't saying anything," remarked Mr. Martin to his wife as they entered. "And I never heard that alligators make a noise." "Yes they do!" said Janet, eagerly. "I read it in my natural history book. They make a noise like a grunt. At least it's either alligators or crocodiles, I've forgotten which. But one kind bellows like a bull." "Goodness! Let us hope this one doesn't!" sighed Mrs. Martin. "Who would ever think that Uncle Toby would keep a menagerie!" she murmured. "I never did," agreed her husband. "They're all in one big room--a sort of addition to the house. It opens off the dining room," explained Mrs. Watson. "Uncle Toby liked to eat when his pets did, that's why he had 'em so near him in the dining room. I'll show 'em to you." "Are the pigeons out there, too?" asked Mrs. Martin. "No, Uncle Toby kept them in the barn," the housekeeper replied. "If you don't want the pigeons, Uncle Toby told me to tell you there's a boy in this same street who will take them. But Uncle Toby said he wished you'd take charge of all the other pets." "Oh, yes, Mother--Daddy! Let's keep 'em _all_!" pleaded Janet. By this time Mrs. Watson had opened the door leading into the extra room that Uncle Toby had built to house his pets. No sooner was the door opened than the noise sounded louder than ever, and several things happened. "Oh, look at the lovely cat!" cried Janet, as one with very fluffy fur walked forward as though to meet the Curlytops. "It's a Persian, I guess. Oh, I just love a Persian! Turnover is very nice, but I love this one a lot," and she reached down to stroke the beautiful cat that seemed very friendly. "Oh, look!" suddenly cried Ted. "See! The dogs do tricks!" As he spoke one white poodle came walking along on his hind legs, with his front paws held in a funny fashion before him. "Bow wow!" barked the poodle. And then, as if this might be a signal, there suddenly came from the end of the room another white poodle, so nearly like the first that it was difficult to tell them apart. "Oh, see! More tricks!" cried Ted. The second dog began turning somersaults. One after another he turned, making his way, in this fashion, to where Ted was patting the head of the poodle that was standing on its hind legs. "Say! I can have a regular circus with these trick dogs!" cried Ted in delight. "And my Persian cat can be in it," added Janet. Just then a cry, as if of fear, came from Trouble. Turning around the Curlytops and others saw a strange sight. A brown monkey was hanging by its tail from an electric chandelier in the middle of the room, and, thus reaching down, was trying to pull Trouble's cap from the little fellow's head. "'Top! 'Top it!" shouted William. "Make han'-ordan monkey let my cap alone!" he wailed. And then, with a flutter and a screech, a green and red parrot flew from its perch and landed on Mrs. Martin's shoulder. The pets of the Curlytops were having a lively time! CHAPTER V TIP AND TOP With the barking of the trick dogs, in which Skyrocket joined, and with the mewing of the Persian cat, the shrieking of the parrot, and the chattering of the monkey, for a time there was so much noise in Uncle Toby's "menagerie," as it was called, that the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Martin could scarcely be heard. But you could hear the voice of Trouble above everything. "Take him off! Make him 'top!" cried the little fellow. For by this time the monkey, having hung down by his tail from the chandelier, and having taken off Trouble's cap, was now trying to pull the little boy's hair. "Bad monkey! Make him go 'way!" cried Trouble. [Illustration: THE SECOND DOG BEGAN TURNING SOMERSAULTS. "The Curlytops and Their Pets." Page 50] "And I don't like this parrot!" said Mrs. Martin, though, to be sure, the bird was gentle enough. It only sat on her shoulder and shrieked: "Crack! Crack! Cracker! I'm a cracker-acker!" "Say, this is great!" cried Ted, as he watched the two dogs, one of which was marching around on his hind legs while the other was turning somersaults. "Oh, it's terrible!" said Mrs. Martin. "Dick," she called to her husband, "can't you make that monkey stop hurting William?" "He isn't exactly hurting him, my dear," replied Mr. Martin. "Though I fancy Trouble is a bit frightened. I was going to take that parrot off your shoulder." "Well, look after William first. He needs it more than I." Mr. Martin advanced toward the monkey, swinging by his tail from the chandelier, when Mrs. Watson, the housekeeper, said: "I'll attend to him! I know how to manage Jack if I don't any of the other animals. I found a way to make him behave. Here!" she suddenly cried, catching up a feather-duster and shaking it at the long-tailed creature. "Get back to your cubby-hole, Jack!" With a shrill chatter the monkey dropped Trouble's cap, which he was trying to make stick on his own head, and a moment later he jumped down from the chandelier and scampered into a box at the side of the room. "That's where he belongs!" said Mrs. Watson. "He's always afraid of that feather-duster. Maybe he thinks it's a big eagle coming to bite his tail. Anyhow, show him the feather-duster whenever you want to quiet him." "That's a good thing to know," said Mr. Martin, when it was a little quieter in the room, because Jack, the monkey, had stopped chattering. "But what shall we do about the parrot on my wife's shoulder?" "Oh, Mr. Nip is all right. He's very gentle," said the housekeeper. "Uncle Toby named him Mr. Nip because he used to nip and bite when he first came. But Uncle Toby soon cured him of that. Mr. Nip is a nice polly." "I'm a crack! I'm a crack! I'm a crack-crack-cracker!" shrieked the parrot, and then he flew from Mrs. Martin's shoulder to the regular perch, near the little cage of the monkey--the "cubby-hole," as Mrs. Watson called it. "Thank goodness!" sighed the mother of the Curlytops. "You scared, Mother?" asked Trouble, who was now wishing the monkey would come back, for after his first fright, the little fellow rather liked the fuzzy chap. "Only a little," said Mrs. Martin, for she thought if the Curlytops were to have anything to do with Uncle Toby's pets, it would not be well for her to say they frightened her. "I 'ike 'em all," remarked Trouble, while Janet was rubbing the big Persian cat and Ted was playing with the two dogs. "Uncle Toby nice man to have all nanimals 'ike dis!" and he looked around the room. Surely there were quite a number of animal pets there. "How in the world did my uncle ever come to have so many?" asked Mr. Martin. "And what in the world are we going to do with them?" "I'll tell you about it after we've fed them," said Mrs. Watson. "They'll be quieter after they're fed, and you might as well start in now to give them something to eat. If you're going to take 'em with you and keep 'em you'll have to feed 'em." With the help of Ted and Janet, who set out food to the dogs and cat, Uncle Toby's animals were soon all being given things to eat, and this made them quiet. Then, while the children stood and watched the animals eat, Mrs. Watson took Daddy and Mother Martin into the next room and told them about Uncle Toby and the pets. "I never knew that my uncle was so fond of animals," said Mr. Martin. "He wasn't, when I first came here to keep house for him," explained Mrs. Watson. "But he made friends, once, with a sailor, who had the parrot. When the sailor started off on his next sea voyage, and didn't want to take Mr. Nip, the parrot, with him, Uncle Toby said the bird could stay here. I didn't much mind that, as it was rather lonesome when Uncle Toby--as I always call him--went out. So I got to liking Mr. Nip. "Then, after a while, another sailor gave Uncle Toby Jack, the monkey. The house was more lively after that, for the monkey and parrot used to fight, though they don't any more. I thought this would be about all the pets Uncle Toby would get; but lo and behold! about a month after that another sailor, hearing that Uncle Toby had a monkey and a parrot, came and asked us if we wouldn't take Slider." "Who is Slider?" asked Mrs. Martin. "It sounds like a pair of roller skates." "Slider is the pet alligator. He came from Florida," explained Mrs. Watson. "Uncle Toby took him in, as he had the monkey and the parrot, and I began to wonder what would happen next." "Did anything?" asked Daddy Martin, as he watched the Curlytops playing in the next room with the pets. "Oh, my land, yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Watson. "It wasn't more than two weeks after he got Slider--that's the alligator--that an old circus man came along with the two dogs, Tip and Top." "Are those their names?" asked Mrs. Martin, watching Ted as he made one of the dogs turn somersaults. "Yes, one of the white poodles--the one with the black spot on his tail--is named Tip," the housekeeper said. "You see the spot is on the tip of his tail." "I can see that--yes," replied Mr. Martin from where he sat. He was wondering where all this was going to end. "And the other dog is named Top," said the housekeeper. "He has a black spot on the top of his head." "They are both very nice, and I like the names, too--Tip and Top," remarked Mrs. Martin. "See!" she exclaimed. "Our own dog, Skyrocket, is making friends with them." Indeed Skyrocket, the Curlytop's dog, was doing this very thing. Perhaps he wanted to learn how to walk on his hind legs and turn somersaults, as Tip and Top could do. "Tip and Top are two valuable dogs," said Mrs. Watson. "They were once in the circus, and it was there they learned to do their tricks, though Uncle Toby taught them others." "Why didn't the circus man keep them if they were so valuable?" asked Mrs. Martin. "The circus man had made friends with the sailor who gave Uncle Toby the alligator," explained the housekeeper, "and the circus man decided to become a sailor, too. He said he didn't want to keep the dogs on a ship, so he gave them to Uncle Toby." "And that's how the menagerie started?" asked Daddy Martin. "That's how it started," said Mrs. Watson. "There were times when I thought it would never end. That was when a lady, who was going to travel for her health, asked Uncle Toby to keep Snuff, her Persian cat." "Is Snuff the cat's name?" asked the mother of the Curlytops. "Yes," answered Mrs. Watson. "It is just the color of snuff, you see, a sort of yellowish brown. Many Persian cats have that color, I'm told. Anyhow this lady--I've forgotten her name--said she saw that Uncle Toby loved animals, as he had so many of them, so she asked him to keep her cat." "And Uncle Toby did," remarked Mrs. Martin. "Uncle Toby surely did!" declared the housekeeper. "It seemed he couldn't say 'no' where animals were concerned. By this time the house began to be rather overrun with pets, so he built this room out of the dining room, with special cages--cubby-holes I call 'em--for the pets. I did think Snuff would be the last one, but after that came the white mice and rats." "It's usually the other way about," said Mrs. Martin, with a smile. "When the cat comes the mice go. But this time the mice came after the cat arrived." "Yes," agreed the housekeeper. "Snuff, the cat, and the white mice--I don't know their names--are great friends. The mice and rats belonged to a boy down the street. His family moved to another state last summer, and his folks made him get rid of the mice. He brought them to Uncle Toby, and of course Uncle Toby couldn't say no, so he kept them. It was then I first threatened to leave. The house was too full of animals." "But you didn't go," said Mrs. Martin. "No, I stayed on, because Uncle Toby begged me to, and he said he wouldn't add to his collection. But then came the pigeons. They were brought by another boy, whose folks moved away and he couldn't keep 'em any more. I didn't so much mind the pigeons, as they stay out in the barn. But we certainly had a houseful of pets! After a while I got rather to liking them, and Uncle Toby was very fond of 'em, and taught 'em many tricks." "But finally, as you know from the letter he wrote you, he decided to take a long trip, and perhaps he may never come back, if he finds he likes it in South America. So he decided to ask you to take charge of his collection, and I said I'd stay until you arrived, as Uncle Toby had to leave in a hurry, to catch a ship that was sailing for South America." "Why did he go there?" asked Mr. Martin. "I think it was because he heard that monkeys and parrots come from there," the housekeeper answered. "He seemed to like those animals better than any others, though Tip and Top, the two dogs, are more valuable, because they can do circus tricks." "They certainly are cute," said Mrs. Martin. "Well, there you have the story of Uncle Toby's pets," said Mrs. Watson, "though I suppose they'll be the Curlytops' pets now, for Uncle Toby said he was going to give you his collection." "Hum! Yes," mused Mr. Martin. "If I had known what the collection was I don't believe I would have come after it." Mrs. Watson began putting on her hat, and from a corner of the room she picked up her valise, which she had already packed. "Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Martin. "I am going away," answered the housekeeper. "My plans are all made. I am going to live with my sister. All she keeps is a cat, and she puts that outside and winds the clock every night before she goes to bed. I'm going to her house. I told Uncle Toby I'd stay until the Curlytops came to take charge of the pets, and, now that you are here, I'll be going." "But I say! Look here! What are we going to do?" asked Mr. Martin. "Why, you're to take charge of the collection," said the housekeeper. "That's what Uncle Toby said in his letter. You are to have the pets!" "But I don't want them! That is, we can't keep so many!" protested Daddy Martin. "Two dogs, a cat, a monkey, a parrot, an alligator and some white rats and mice, to say nothing of the pigeons! And we have a dog and cat now, and we just got rid of a goat and a pony! Oh, I say, my dear Mrs. Watson! This is too much!" "Can't help it!" said the housekeeper as she fastened on her hat. "Uncle Toby said you were to take charge of his collection of pets. That's all I know. If he never comes back--and I don't believe he ever will--the pets are yours to keep. I'd keep them if I were you--all except the pigeons. There's a boy down the street who will take them and be glad to get 'em. The pets are valuable--especially Tip and Top, the dogs. They do tricks separately, but they do more tricks together--a sort of team, you know. Those dogs are very valuable for a show." "Then I know what we can do," said Mr. Martin. "We can sell the pets Uncle Toby left and give the money to a home for children, or something like that. I'll do it--we'll sell the pets!" In another moment--just as if they had been waiting for their father to say this--there came a storm of objections from Ted and Janet. In they ran from the room where they had been playing with the animals. "Oh, don't sell 'em!" pleaded Janet. "Let us keep 'em!" begged Ted. "Those dogs are the best I ever saw! They can do dandy tricks! I could get up a show with them and Skyrocket." "And this cat and our other cat, too," added Janet. "Don't sell Uncle Toby's pets, Daddy! Let us keep them!" Daddy Martin looked at his wife. And then, as if they had been waiting for something like this, Tip and Top did one of their best tricks. Tip began turning somersaults again and Top walked around on his hind legs. Then the two dogs barked, and, without anyone saying a word to them, they did another trick. Tip stopped turning somersaults and stood still. In an instant Top jumped up on Tip's back and stood there on his hind legs. Then Tip walked around the room. "Oh, aren't they too sweet for anything!" cried Janet. "That's a dandy trick!" declared Ted. "Do, please, let us keep Uncle Toby's pets for our own." "Well," said his father slowly, "I don't see how in the world----" But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and the dogs began to bark, the parrot shrieked, the monkey chattered and Snuff, the Persian cat, began to mew. What was going to happen now? CHAPTER VI WHERE IS TIP? "Someone is at the door," said Mrs. Martin to Uncle Toby's housekeeper. "Yes, I hear 'em," answered the queer little old lady. "I 'spect it's the boy after the pigeons. I told him to call as soon as he saw the Curlytops arrive, and he's probably been watching for you. I'll let him in as soon as I finish putting on my hat so I can go." But before this Mr. Martin, who was nearest the door, had opened it, and in came a boy about as old as Teddy, though without the curly locks of that little lad. "Can I have the pigeons?" asked the new boy, taking off his cap and making a little bow to Mrs. Martin, Mrs. Watson and Daddy Martin. "Uncle Toby said I could have 'em if you folks didn't want 'em, and I've been waiting for you to come. I just saw you get here." "Yes! Yes! Take the pigeons! Take any of the animals you want!" begged Mrs. Martin. "I don't see what in the world we are going to do with these animals!" "Oh, keep Tip and Top--the dogs!" begged Teddy. "And Snuff, the cat!" added Janet. "I 'ike monkey if he don't pull my cap off," said Trouble. "'Et's keep him!" "And the white mice and rats wouldn't be much bother," went on Teddy. "We never had a parrot that I can remember," cried Janet. "I could feed him, Mother." "The alligator doesn't make much noise," Ted said. "Dear me! We'll end up by keeping them all, I see!" laughed the father of the Curlytops. "That is, all but the pigeons," he added quickly, as he saw a look of disappointment on the face of the new boy. "You may have them, since Uncle Toby promised them to you." "The pigeons are all I want," said the boy, whose name was Bob Nelson. "My mother won't let me have any of the other pets. And, anyhow, I have a dog and a cat. Could I get the pigeons now? I've got a basket and they are so tame I can pick 'em up. They know me. I used to help Uncle Toby feed 'em." "Yes, you may get them," Mrs. Martin said. "We'll get rid of a few of the pets in that way. But what we are to do with the others, I'm sure I don't know." "You'd better keep 'em," advised Mrs. Watson, who was now almost ready to go. "Uncle Toby wouldn't like it, I'm sure, if you didn't take care of his pets." "Oh, I wouldn't, for the world, have anything happen to them, as he was so fond of them and kind to them," said the mother of the Curlytops. "But we could sell them to some animal store, and, as my husband says, give the money to a home for children. Uncle Toby would like that." "Yes, he was very fond of children and animals," said the housekeeper, as she seemed about to leave. "It's a pity he never had any of his own--any children, I mean," she quickly added. "He did have enough animals. You'd better keep 'em, your children seem fond of 'em," she added. "Oh, the Curlytops love animals," agreed Mr. Martin. "In fact I like them myself, especially Tip and Top, the dogs. I never saw any better trick animals." Tip and Top had quieted down now, as had the other animals after Bob had come in to get the pigeons. "You'd better keep all of Uncle Toby's pets," she concluded. "I'm going now. Just pull the door shut after you and it will lock. The water is turned off and the house is all cleaned out. There isn't any food to spoil, except what the animals need, and you can take that with you. Uncle Toby said I was to go as soon as you arrived to have charge of his collection, and, as you are here, I'm going. Uncle Toby has hired a man to look after the house so it will be all right. Go and get your pigeons, Bob," she added. "Good-bye, everybody," and away she went. For a moment Mr. and Mrs. Martin looked at each other. Then Mr. Nip, the parrot, broke the silence by saying: "I'm a crack-crack-cracker!" "You're a fire-cracker--at least your feathers are red enough for that," laughed Mrs. Martin. "Well, we seem to have the pets whether we want them or not," she told her husband. "We can't go away and leave them here. We can't stay in this house, and try to sell them, if the water is turned off and there is nothing to eat. I guess we'll have to take the pets home with us, Dick." Mr. Martin looked puzzled. "Oh, yes! Please keep them!" begged Ted and Janet. "An' det a han'-ordan fo' de monkey!" begged Trouble, speaking rather more in baby fashion than he usually talked, because he was so excited, I suppose. "At least we'll have to take charge of Uncle Toby's pets until we decide what to do," said Mr. Martin, after a while. "We might keep some of them and sell the others." "Oh, keep them _all_!" exclaimed Ted. "We'll see," his father answered, and from the tone of his voice Ted and his sister were almost sure they would be allowed to have all the animals for their very own. Of course Trouble could hardly expect a hand-organ to go with Jack, the monkey, but that was not much of a loss. "We can't get back home to-night," said Mrs. Martin, "that's sure. It's too far. We'll have to stay either here, at Uncle Toby's house, or at a hotel." "I suppose we could stay here, if we had to," her husband remarked. "I can turn the water on, and it is easy enough to get something to eat, even if we have to buy it at the delicatessen shop." "I just love delicatessen stuff, don't you?" whispered Jan to her brother. "I hope they get a lot! I'll give some to Snuff, the Persian cat." "If we stay it will be just like camping," agreed Ted. While Mr. and Mrs. Martin were considering what to do, Bob, the boy who had come for the pigeons, put his head in through the doorway and called out: "I got 'em all, thank you! I'm going now. I hope you have good luck with Uncle Toby's pets!" "Goodness knows we'll need it," said Mrs. Martin, and then she had to laugh. The whole affair seemed to her to be so very funny. Neither she nor her husband had imagined that Uncle Toby's "collection" could be anything like this--dogs, a parrot, a monkey, a Persian cat and a little alligator, not forgetting the white rats and mice. "Well, we'd better stay here for the night," finally decided Daddy Martin. "It is warm, and Uncle Toby had quite a number of beds. The house is in good order. I'll turn on the water, and you and the children might go to the store and get things for supper," he added. "It will soon be night." "Oh, what fun! We're going to stay here!" cried Janet, dancing around the Persian cat, who was trying to rub against her legs. "And I'll teach Tip and Top some new tricks, so we can have a circus when we get home," remarked Ted. "There's circus enough here," his father said, with a smile. "But trot along, Curlytops, if you are going to get something for us to eat. The animals have been fed and now it is time for us. I'm getting hungry." "Me hundry, too!" declared Trouble. "We mustn't let that happen!" laughed his mother. "We'll go to the store. Come along, Curlytops!" As the children walked down the street with their mother to look for the nearest delicatessen store, they saw the boy Bob carefully wheeling his basket of pigeons toward his own home. He had gotten the birds out of Uncle Toby's barn. When Mrs. Martin and the Curlytops, with Trouble, of course, came back to Uncle Toby's house, they found Daddy Martin sitting in front of the kitchen stove in which he had kindled a fire. In his lap was the Persian cat, purring contentedly, and Mr. Martin was rubbing the long, soft silky fur of Snuff. In front of the father of the Curlytops were Skyrocket, Tip, and Top, the three dogs. They were lying asleep near the fire. In the other room were the mice, the rats, the alligator, the monkey, and the parrot, all the animals quiet, for a wonder, as Mrs. Martin said. "Oh, Daddy! you love 'em, don't you?" exclaimed Jan, as she saw her father surrounded by some of the pets. "We may keep them, mayn't we?" "I'll see about it," was the answer, and Janet whispered to Teddy that she was almost sure this meant "yes." It did not take long to get up a little supper. Daddy Martin ran the automobile into the side yard of Uncle Toby's house, and the Curlytop family, as I sometimes call them, prepared to stay all night. There were plenty of beds, and in the morning they could turn off the water again, take the pets away, close the house, and everything would be as Uncle Toby wished it. You can easily guess that neither of the Curlytops, nor Trouble, for that matter, wanted to go to bed early that night. The children were thinking too much of the pets. And, indeed, the pets seemed to like the children. Mr. Nip, the parrot, let Jan scratch his head, a form of caress of which he seemed very fond. Jack, the monkey, no longer snatched off Trouble's cap. But perhaps that was because baby William did not wear it near the lively chap. Snuff, the Persian cat, seemed to have taken a great liking to Mr. Martin, and as for the dogs, Tip and Top, they were hardly out of the sight of Jan and Ted. Nor was Skyrocket neglected or jealous. He entered into the fun of playing around on the lawn and porch with the white poodles after supper. Even Slider, the little alligator, seemed very friendly. He took bits of meat from the fingers of Ted, though Janet said she was afraid of the scaly creature. "I'm going to teach him some tricks, so he can be in the animal circus," declared Ted. "Are you going to have a circus?" asked his sister. "Sure!" he answered, though, to tell the truth, he had not begun to think of it until he saw all the pets Uncle Toby had left. "We'll have a fine circus!" The evening passed pleasantly. Finally Trouble became sleepy, even though he was much interested in watching Jack, the monkey, crack peanuts. "Come, laddie, you must go to bed!" called Mrs. Martin. "Mr. Nip, the parrot, has gone to sleep long ago, with his head under his wing, poor thing!" and she sang part of the "Robin Song." "Me want see head's under swing," murmured Trouble. "Me see!" "Oh, no! I don't want to wake up Mr. Nip. He has a cloth over his cage to keep him quiet," and Mrs. Martin carried Trouble over to where the parrot's cage had been covered with a table-cover for the night. "Goo'-bye," murmured the little fellow sleepily, and then he was carried up to his bed in Uncle Toby's house. A little later Ted and Janet also went to their rooms, having given farewell pats and rubs to the dogs and cat. Mr. Martin went about, seeing that the house was locked up, and then he and his wife sat downstairs, talking while the children were asleep. "Do you really intend to take all those pets home with us?" asked Mrs. Martin. "I don't see what else we can do," her husband replied. "The children will be disappointed if we don't. And I don't really want to sell them. Uncle Toby might not like it. I think I'll take them home with us, and write to him, if I can get his address. He must have left it, even if he is going to live in South America." "But how can we take home a monkey, a parrot, three dogs, a cat, an alligator and some rats and some white mice?" asked the mother of the Curlytops. "Oh, there is plenty of room in the auto," her husband answered. "We'll load it up in the morning." The night passed quietly enough, except that about twelve o'clock the parrot suddenly began shrieking: "Police! Police! Burglars! Police! I'm a crack-crack-cracker!" "Dick! Dick! Wake up!" called Mrs. Martin. "Someone is at the front door!" "Police! Police!" chattered the parrot again. And, surely enough, it was the police, though how the red and green bird knew it is more than I can say. A passing policeman, seeing the light in Uncle Toby's house, and having been told by Mrs. Watson, the housekeeper, on her way to her sister's, that the place was to be closed, had stopped to inquire. "I thought it was burglars," said the policeman, after Daddy Martin had gone down to the front door and explained. "That's what Mr. Nip did, too, I guess," said Mr. Martin. "Who's Mr. Nip?" asked the officer. "The parrot," said the father of the Curlytops. "He awakened us by his shrieking." After the policeman had gone, the house became quiet again, and nothing more happened until morning. After breakfast the water was turned off, and the home of Uncle Toby was made ready for closing up until the old gentleman should return. The parrot's cage, the box for the monkey, the little tank of water and pebbles in which Slider lived, and the wire cage of the white mice and rats--all these were taken out to the automobile. It was a large one, and there was plenty of room for the Curlytops and their new pets. "Take Snuff, the cat, in between you and Trouble, Janet," her father advised. "Tip and Top can snuggle down with Skyrocket on the floor near Ted. Are we all ready now?" "As ready as we ever shall be," his wife answered. "My, what a queer load!" she said, with a laugh, as she looked back at the collection and the children. "People will think we're a traveling menagerie!" This, however, did not worry the Curlytops. They liked it, and, a little later, they were on their way back toward Cresco. The Curlytops liked their new pets, and they also loved those they had had for a longer time--Skyrocket and Turnover. "We'll try to get home early," said Mr. Martin to his wife, as he steered the automobile through the streets of Pocono. "We'll have to fix up a place for these pets." "Yes," agreed his wife. "They are going to be quite a care. But the children will love them." They stopped for lunch at a little restaurant, and the children were afraid lest some of their pets might escape while the meal was being served. But Mr. Martin saw a young man, sitting in front of a barber shop next to the restaurant, and said to him: "Will you watch may automobile and the animals while we are in the dining room? I'll give you fifty cents." "I'll be glad to do it," said the young man. So long as he was on guard the Curlytops were satisfied. But when they came out they made a sad discovery. Ted jumped up on the running-board and looked down into the automobile to make sure all the pets were safe. The alligator, the parrot, the white mice and rats, the cat, the monkey, and two dogs were there. But there was no sign of Tip, the white poodle with a black spot on the end of his tail. "Where is Tip? Oh, where is Tip?" cried Ted. "He's gone!" CHAPTER VII A FUZZY BURGLAR "What's that?" asked Mr. Martin, who was the last of the Curlytop family to come out of the restaurant. "Who is gone? One of the pets?" "Tip is gone," answered Teddy. "Oh, where is he?" "Maybe he's hiding back of the monkey's cage," suggested Janet, for Jack, the pet monkey, lived in a sort of cage, or box, and he had been moved from Uncle Toby's house in it. "No, Tip isn't here at all," said Teddy. "Top is here and Skyrocket, but Tip is gone." "That can't be," said the young man who had said he would guard the animals while the Curlytops ate. "I've been here all the while, and I didn't see even one of the white mice get away." He seemed to be a nice, good-natured young man, and appeared to be as much surprised as Teddy and Janet were over the loss of Tip. As for Trouble, he was not worrying much. He had climbed into the front seat of the automobile, and was playing with Snuff, the yellow Persian cat. As long as Trouble had some animal near him he did not worry much about anything else. "Have you been right here all the while, young man?" asked Mr. Martin of the youth who had been left on guard. "You didn't go away, did you, and give someone a chance to come up and take one of the dogs?" "Oh, no, sir! I stayed right here all the while. I sat down on the running-board and waited. The only thing that happened was that the alligator tried to crawl out, but I put him back. I was sitting here, thinking how funny it was that anybody should have so many pets, when, all of a sudden, I felt something rough on my neck." "What was it?" asked Janet, while Teddy was looking under the automobile, thinking that perhaps Tip might be hiding there. "It was the little alligator, with his rough tail," explained the young man, who said he was called "Shorty" by his chums. He was very tall, and perhaps that was why he was called "Shorty," in fun you know. "It was the little alligator that was crawling up my shoulder and scratching my neck," he explained. "I put him back in his cage, or tank, or whatever you call it, though I was afraid he'd bite me." "Oh, no, Slider is very gentle," said Ted, who came up on the sidewalk, after having peered under the automobile. "Oh, dear, I don't see where Tip can be!" he said. "It is queer that he should go away and leave Top," said Mrs. Martin, for the other white poodle dog was there, safe in the automobile. Top looked up at the friends gazing down at him, barked and wagged his tail. Perhaps he, too, was asking what had become of his chum, Tip. "The dog must have jumped out on the opposite side of the car from where you were sitting," said Mr. Martin to Shorty. "Though if that had happened I should have thought you would have heard him," and the father of the Curlytops looked rather sharply at Shorty. "No, sir, I didn't hear a thing," was the answer. "All I know is that the alligator tried to crawl up my neck. I didn't see the dog run away." "Perhaps he didn't run away," suggested Mrs. Martin. "What do you mean?" asked Janet. "I mean someone may have stepped up softly, when this young man had his back turned, and, reaching over, may have lifted Tip up and taken him away. I wish you had sat in the auto, Shorty, instead of outside on the step." "Yes'm, I wish so myself," agreed the young man. "But there were so many animals in there I thought I'd better be on the outside so I could chase 'em quicker in case any got away. And one did get away and I never saw him! I'm terribly sorry! I'll go down the street and see if I can find him." "I wish you would," remarked Mr. Martin. "Just take a look, and ask everyone you meet if he saw a white poodle with a black tip on the end of his tail. If you find him I'll give you a dollar besides the fifty cents for watching the auto." "I'd like to earn that dollar!" said the young man. "I'll go look!" "I'll come, too," offered Teddy, "but I don't want a dollar if I find Tip. I just want to get our dog back." "So do I," added Janet. "I'll come and look with you." "This was a valuable dog," explained Mr. Martin, as Shorty moved off down the street. "He could do tricks. I'd like very much to get him back." "I'll do my best," promised the young man. "It was my fault, in a way, that he got a chance to go away. I should have been looking on both sides of the auto at once, but I didn't. I'll see if I can't find him." "I think I'll take a look, myself," said Mr. Martin to his wife, who had now gotten in the automobile with Trouble. "I don't like the way things have happened." "Why, do you think that young man had anything to do with Tip's going away?" asked Mrs. Martin, as Ted and Janet went down the street one way while Shorty took the other direction. "I can't be sure," answered the father of the Curlytops. "He looks like an honest young man, but if he knew what a valuable dog Tip was he might have let some friend of his step up and take away the pet animal." "But wouldn't he have allowed both of the dogs to be taken--Top as well as Tip?" asked Mrs. Martin. "Maybe there wasn't time to take but the one," her husband explained. "And perhaps I am wrong, and Shorty is right. Tip may have seen some other dog on the far side of the street, and have jumped out of the car to go up to him. It's too bad, but maybe we'll get him back." "I hope the children don't go so far away that they are lost, too," remarked Mrs. Martin. "I think they'll not go far," said her husband. "Oh, no, you don't!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Come back here! We don't want to chase _you_!" and he made a hasty grab for Slider, the pet alligator, who seemed to want to get out of his glass-sided tank. "I'll be glad when we get Uncle Toby's menagerie safely home," said Mr. Martin. "So shall I," his wife added. "Though the animals seem very nice. Trouble loves Snuff already." "Oh, I suppose we shall get to like them all," agreed Mr. Martin. "We'll have to let Ted and Janet make places for them in the barn. It is warm weather now, and even the tropical animals, like the monkey, can stay out there." "I wonder if the parrot will talk much?" ventured Mrs. Martin. "I have always rather wished for a talking parrot. Hello, Polly!" she called to the red and green bird in his cage. "Hello, Polly!" answered Mr. Nip. "I'm a crack-crack-cracker!" he shouted at the top of his voice, and several persons, passing along the street, turned to smile at the Martins with their automobile load of pets. Then Mr. Nip began to whistle, so very much like a boy, that Skyrocket, Ted's dog, imagined his master was whistling to him, and barked in answer. Then Top, the remaining pet poodle, also began to bark, and Jack, the monkey, chattered in his own queer way. "I'm a crack-crack-cracker!" Mr. Nip shouted at the top of his voice, and by this time quite a little crowd had gathered around the automobile. "I wish we were at home!" exclaimed Mrs. Martin, who did not like so many strange persons staring at her and her husband and Trouble. But Trouble, who was trying to smooth down the fluffy fur of the Persian cat, did not seem to mind. "What's this--a traveling circus?" asked a policeman, stepping up to the side of the car. "You have to get a permit if you're going to give a parade," he added to Mr. Martin. "Oh, I'm not going to give a parade," answered the father of the Curlytops. "We are just waiting to see if we can find one of our pets, a trick dog that ran away--or that was taken away," and he explained what had happened. "Do you know anything about that young man--Shorty he called himself--who watched our auto while we ate?" asked Mrs. Martin. "I know him--yes," the policeman answered. "Sometimes he is bad, again he is good. I'd say he was bad more often than he was good." "Just what I was afraid of!" exclaimed Mr. Martin. "I think Shorty knows more about the missing dog than he has told us. I don't believe he'll come back to get the dollar I promised him." "Here come Ted and Janet," said their mother. "They didn't find Tip, either." The Curlytops were hurrying along the street toward the automobile. They saw the policeman and began to run. "Oh, did you find him? Did you get Tip back?" gasped Janet, as she reached the car. "Did the policeman find him?" "No," answered her mother. "Did you see anything of our new dog, Curlytops?" Ted and Janet sadly shook their heads. They had looked up and down several streets, they explained, but Tip was nowhere in sight. Nor had they seen Shorty since he, also, started to look for the missing animal. "Well, we can't stay here much longer," decided Mr. Martin. "If we do, some more of Uncle Toby's pets may run away. We'd better get home. I'll leave you my name and address," said the father of the Curlytops to the policeman. "And if you hear anything of the missing dog please let me know." "I will," promised the officer. "And if I see Shorty I'll make him tell me what really happened. Sometimes he plays jokes, and this may have been one of those times." Mr. Martin waited a little longer, and when the young man did not come back, and when there was no sign of the missing Tip, it was thought best to start for Cresco. So, with one of Uncle Toby's pets missing, the trip was resumed. "You certainly have pets enough, even without Tip," said Mrs. Martin, as they neared the home of the Curlytops. "Yes, but we want Tip," said Teddy. "We can't give a good show with only one trick dog, 'specially when they are supposed to work as a team--one on the other's back." "Are you going to give a show?" asked his mother. "Yes," Teddy answered. "We'll give a show and make money. We can ask real money to see all the animals we have," and he looked down at the parrot's cage, the box of Jack, the monkey, the cage of the white mice and rats, and the tank of the alligator. "Perhaps you could train Skyrocket to take the place of Tip," said Mr. Martin. "Maybe," agreed Teddy. "But Skyrocket isn't the same kind of a dog, and Tip and Top looked so cute together." "Just like twins," added Janet. "Oh, I hope we get Tip back." They could not be sure whether the pet dog had run away himself, or whether someone had reached in over the side of the car and lifted him out. Someone may have done that while Shorty turned his back, saying nothing and not trying to stop him. "I am sorry, but I think Shorty had something to do with Tip getting away," said Mr. Martin. "If that young man had been honest he would have come back and told us he couldn't find the dog. I should not have allowed Shorty to watch our auto. But it is too late, now, to be sorry." The Curlytops reached their home just before supper, and there was so much to do, making places in the barn for Uncle Toby's pets, seeing that they were comfortable, and that they could not get out during the night, that, for a time, Ted and Janet forgot about the loss of Tip. If he had been the only pet, of course they would have missed him very much. But they had so many now that they were kept busy. Still, they wished, very much, that Tip could be found. "For if we don't find him, we can't have half so many tricks in our circus show," said Teddy. In due time the pets were put away for the night. The barn was a good place for them, and after they had been fed and given fresh water, which all pets need as much as they do food, the children left the animals to themselves. "In the morning we'll start getting ready for the circus," declared Ted. "Will dey be han'-ordan music?" asked Trouble. "Well, we'll have some kind of music, if I have to toot on some tissue paper over a comb," answered Teddy. Tired out with their two days' automobile trip, the Curlytops were soon ready for bed. Trouble went to sleep earlier than did Ted or Janet, but soon they, too, were ready to go to their rooms. "Let us feed the animals--don't you do it, please," Ted begged of his father and mother. "Janet and I want to make believe we are keepers in a circus, feeding lions and tigers." "All right, you may feed them," agreed their mother. How long they had been asleep neither Ted nor Janet knew, but they were suddenly awakened in the night by hearing screams. The screams came from the open window of the house next door, where Mrs. Blake, a very nice lady, lived with her two servants. Her husband was dead, and her children had married and gone away. Mrs. Blake's bedroom was opposite the adjoining sleeping rooms of Ted and Janet, and often the Curlytops would call "good morning" across to Mrs. Blake. But this time it was Mrs. Blake who called, and she did not exactly call, she screamed in the middle of the night. "Help! Help!" cried the lady from her open window. "Mr. Martin! Mary Ann! Patrick!" (these were her servants) "come and get him. A little fuzzy burglar is in my room! Come and get the fuzzy burglar!" CHAPTER VIII SLIDER GOES SLIDING Teddy and Janet, sleeping in their rooms on the side of their house nearest to the home of Mrs. Blake, were the first to be awakened by the screams of the frightened lady. For that Mrs. Blake was frightened anyone could tell who heard her cry. "Come and take the fuzzy burglar! Take the fuzzy burglar out of my room!" she exclaimed again and again. By this time Teddy had jumped out of his bed and had run to his window. At the same time Janet, in the next room, had jumped out of her bed and had run to her window. Both children looked across the yard to the home of Mrs. Blake. They could see her, in the moonlight, standing at her window. "What's the matter, Curlytops?" called their mother, across the hall. She had been awakened, not so much by the cries of Mrs. Blake as by the movements of Ted and Janet. "What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Martin. "There's a funny burglar over in Mrs. Blake's house, and she wants someone to come and get it," answered Janet. "No, she didn't say _funny_ burglar--she said _fuzzy_!" declared Ted. "Well, anyhow, it's a _burglar_," declared Janet. And from the other house again came the appeal: "Patrick! Mary Ann! Mr. Martin! Somebody! Come and get the fuzzy burglar!" By this time Mr. Martin, who had gotten up, had been told by his wife that something was wrong in Mrs. Blake's house. He put on some clothes and hurried downstairs, carrying a flashlight in one hand and his revolver in the other. "Oh!" exclaimed Janet, who, with Teddy, watched her father go, "Daddy's going to shoot the funny burglar." "_Fuzzy_ burglar!" corrected Ted. But Janet had covered her ears with her hands, so she would not hear her father shoot his revolver--in case he found anything to shoot at--so the little girl did not hear what her brother said. Mr. Martin ran across the lawn to the front porch of Mrs. Blake's house. By this time several other neighbors had been awakened be the lady's screams, and some of the men came out, partly dressed, to see what was going on. "Come in, Mr. Martin," said Patrick, as he opened the door for the father of the Curlytops. Patrick was Mrs. Blake's gardener. "What is it, Patrick?" asked Mr. Martin, holding his revolver in one hand and the flashlight in the other. "Where is the burglar?" "I didn't see anything, Mr. Martin," answered the gardener. "I heard Mrs. Blake scream, and I got up, and so did Mary Ann, the cook, but we can't find anything!" "But there _is_ a burglar here!" said Mrs. Blake from the head of the stairs, where she now stood. "I was awakened by a noise in my room, and when I looked at the window, I saw in the moonlight, sitting on the sill, a fuzzy little old man. He's a burglar, I'm sure of it, and I wish the police would come!" "I think there are enough of us here now, Mrs. Blake, to look after two or three burglars without the police," said Mr. Martin, as he glanced at several neighbors who had come in. "Let's have a look around," he went on. "I fancy, if there was a burglar, that he has gotten away by this time." "I hope he has gotten away, and will never come back," said Mrs. Blake. "But I wish you gentlemen would look, just the same." So Mr. Martin and the other men neighbors, with Patrick, the gardener, to help, began a search of the house. They went to Mrs. Blake's room first. "I don't see any burglar," said Mr. Martin. He did not need his electric flashlight now, as the house had been lighted from top to bottom by Mrs. Blake's two servants. "There he is! There he is!" suddenly cried Mrs. Blake. "Under that big chair. There's the fuzzy burglar!" Mr. Martin and two or three other men rushed over to the chair at which Mrs. Blake pointed. Mr. Martin stooped down, and then he laughed. "What's the matter?" asked Mr. Tyndall, a neighbor from across the street. "I'll show you," answered Mr. Martin, as he thrust his arm under the chair. "Come out of there, Jack!" he went on, and out from beneath the chair he pulled--Jack, Uncle Toby's pet monkey! Poor Jack was as much frightened as Mrs. Blake had been, but he cowered down in Mr. Martin's arms and looked up into the face of the father of the Curlytops as if saying: "Please don't whip me! I didn't mean to be bad!" The men who had come in to help hunt a burglar looked at the fuzzy monkey in Mr. Martin's arms, and then burst out laughing. "Yes, it must have been him that I saw perched on my window," said Mrs. Blake. "In my alarm, it did look like a fuzzy, little old man, and of course I thought it was a burglar. I was foolish. It was a very small burglar. I didn't know you kept monkeys, Mr. Martin." "I only keep one," he said, "and I don't exactly keep that, myself. It's one of the children's pets. It used to belong to my Uncle Toby, and we just brought Jack home this afternoon. We put him in the barn with the white mice and the alligator----" "Don't tell me there's an _alligator_ running around loose!" cried Mrs. Blake. "Oh, a monkey is bad enough, but an _alligator_----" "It's only a little one," said Mr. Martin. "And I'm sorry Jack got loose and frightened you. I'll see, after this, that the pets don't get out at night." "Oh, I'm sure I don't want to spoil the children's pleasure in the least," went on Mrs. Blake. "But I didn't know you had such a menagerie next door to me, Mr. Martin." "We didn't have until to-day--or rather, yesterday, for it is now past midnight," Mr. Martin explained. "My Uncle Toby left me his collection of animals when he went away suddenly, and Ted and Janet say they are going to have a circus." "Save me a ticket!" cried Mr. Hanson, who lived two or three houses down the street. "And I want one," added Mr. Fenton. "If the Curlytops give a circus I want to come to it!" "So do it!" cried several other neighbors, who had turned out to see what all the excitement was about. "I'll tell Teddy and Janet," promised Mr. Martin, as he carried Jack out of Mrs. Blake's house, much to the relief of that lady, though she was rather fond of animals in general. So the excitement quieted down, and after it was all over a policeman came along, one of the neighbors having telephoned in the first alarm. But there was nothing for the officer to do. "Now, Curlytops," said Mr. Martin, at breakfast the next morning when the excitement of the night was being talked over, "if you are to keep Uncle Toby's pets here, we must be careful that they do not bother the neighbors. Your own dog and cat are very good, and make no trouble. But with a monkey, a parrot, another dog and cat, to say nothing of the alligator and the white mice, we may cause a lot of trouble to our good neighbors. And we wouldn't want to do that." "What do you want us to do, Daddy?" asked Ted. He had just fed the two dogs--Skyrocket and Top, while Janet had poured out some milk for Turnover and Snuff, the two cats. "We must make cages that can be locked at night, or else we must make sure that the barn is tightly closed," said his father. "I don't suppose, during the day, that there will be much trouble. It is at night we must be careful. No one likes to be awakened by seeing a monkey on the window sill." "I wouldn't care," said Teddy. "Well, ladies like Mrs. Blake don't care for such thrills," returned Mr. Martin, with a laugh. "So we must be sure that all the members of our menagerie are safely caged each night. I shall depend on you Curlytops for that." "We'll be careful!" promised Teddy. "I'll help you lock up every night," added Janet. "Well, then I will leave the pets to you Curlytops," said their father. "It is on your account that your mother and I are keeping them instead of selling them, and while they will be some care, we do not mind if you do your share." "The first thing I'm going to do," said Teddy, when he and Janet were left to themselves, their father going to his store, "is to see how many tricks Top can do." "Isn't it too bad we haven't Tip?" said Janet. "They were so cute together!" "Yes," agreed her brother. "But maybe I can make Skyrocket let Top ride on his back, and teach 'em some other tricks. Come here, Top!" he called to the white poodle with the black spot on top of his head. "Let's see you walk on your hind legs." Top was very willing to do this, and while Ted and Janet sat on boxes in the barn, with their other pets around them, Uncle Toby's poodle went through his performance. When he had walked on his hind legs in a little circle he suddenly sneezed. "Oh, maybe he's catching cold!" cried Janet. "No, I think that was a trick," suggested Teddy. "Sneeze, Top!" he ordered. Surely enough, the poodle sneezed, and he would do it every time Teddy or Janet told him to. "Oh, he knows two tricks, besides the one he does with Tip," Teddy said in delight. "Maybe he does a lot more. I wish Uncle Toby had written them down, so we'd know what the dogs can do for our circus." "We can write to Uncle Toby, when daddy gets the address, and ask about the tricks," Janet said. "Yes," agreed Teddy, "we can do that. I wonder if Slider can do any tricks?" he asked, when Top had been rewarded for his efforts with a little bone to gnaw. [Illustration: SLIDER WENT SLIDING DOWN THE SMOOTH SLANTING BOARD. "The Curlytops and Their Pets." Page 102] "Do alligators do tricks?" asked Janet, as she reached in through the bars of Mr. Nip's cage and scratched the head of the red and green parrot. "I guess they do," Teddy answered. "If they don't we'll teach our Slider to do a trick. I'm going to take him out of his tank." The cage of the little pet alligator was a sort of tank, in the bottom of which was some water, and in this were little pebbles, like those in some goldfish bowls. The tank stood near a window in the barn where the sun shone in, for Mr. Martin had told the Curlytops that their pets who lived in warm, or tropical, countries must be kept where it was warm and sunny. That was what they were used to in their native lands. So Slider had a warm, sunny place, and now Teddy took the scaly creature out of the tank and put him on a box, where the sun could shine on the long-tailed fellow. As it happened, there was a long, smooth board resting on the upper edge of this box and extending down to the barn floor. Teddy had laid the board slanting fashion on the box when he was making room for the cage of Jack, the monkey. For a little while, after he had been placed in the warm sun on top of the box, the alligator remained quiet, slowly blinking his eyes. Then he began to crawl. "That isn't much of a trick," declared Janet. "Oh, I haven't started to teach him a trick yet," her brother answered. "I'm trying to think what an alligator can do best." But Slider, as he was called, because he seemed to slide around in such a slow, easy fashion, took matters into his own claws, so to speak. He crawled around on his box top and then managed to clamber up on the slanting board, one edge of which rested on the box. "I wonder if he is going to slide down-hill," said Janet in a low voice, as if she did not want to disturb the little alligator. And then, just as if he had made up his mind to do that very thing, Slider wiggled along until he was only holding to the edge of the slanting board by his two hind feet, while his long tail was only partly on the box. A moment later, giving himself a hitch like a boy getting his sled over the top of the hill, Slider went sliding down the smooth, slanting board. Down he slid until he reached the barn floor, and as there was some smooth straw at the point where the board rested, Slider slid across this straw for several feet. "Oh, did you see that?" cried Janet. "See it? I should say I did!" cried Teddy. "Slider slid all right! That's going to be his trick! I'll make a longer board slide, and I'll put the lower end in a pan of water, so when Slider slides down he'll make a splash! That will be a fine trick for the circus! Come on, Slider, slide again!" Teddy was just lifting up his pet alligator, intending to put him on the top of the slanting board, when Trouble was heard calling: "Oh, come an' 'ook at Snuff! Come an' 'ook at Snuff! He's doin' suffin' funny!" CHAPTER IX MRS. JOHNSON'S BABY Teddy and Janet turned their attention from Slider, the pet alligator whose new trick they had just discovered, to Trouble, their little brother. "What's that you say?" asked Teddy, putting the alligator back again on the box on which stood the tank of water. "You ought to see Snuff," repeated the little fellow. "What's he doing?" asked Janet. "Oh, he's rollin' ober an' ober in yard," explained Trouble, so excited that he did not take time to talk as straight as usual. "He's rollin' funny!" "Oh, maybe the poor cat has a fit!" exclaimed Janet. "That would be too bad, Ted! He couldn't be in our circus." "I'll go see," offered Teddy. He had been among animals so long, and was so kind to them, and he liked them so much, that he was not afraid to try to help even a sick one. And a cat that has a fit is ill, and needs medicine. Sometimes Turnover became ill, and had to be doctored, and more than once Skyrocket, the dog, was in need of some simple home remedy. So the first thought of Janet and Ted, when Trouble told them that Snuff, the cat they had brought from Uncle Toby's, was "rollin'"--their first thought, I say, was that Snuff had a fit. "You stay here and watch Slider," said Ted to his sister, "and I'll go out into the yard and see what's the matter with the cat." "I go, too," added Trouble. "I 'ike to see Snuff roll!" "No, you had better stay here with me," suggested Janet, and she ran to the barn door to catch hold of her little brother before he could toddle after Teddy. "I want to go! Lemme go!" cried Trouble, and he struggled to get away from Janet. "No, you must stay with sister," said the little girl, as pleasantly as she could. "Look, I'll show you a new trick that Slider, our pet alligator, can do. Trouble like to see Slider do a trick?" she asked. "Come on, Trouble! See Slider do his sliding trick!" Baby William was not proof against this attraction. He ceased trying to pull away from Janet and let her lead him back to the alligator's tank. There Janet took up the scaly, long-tailed creature, which was idly crawling around, and put him on top of the slanting board, as Teddy had been about to do when Trouble told about Snuff. Janet did not mind picking up Slider. The Curlytops were not afraid of animals that many girls and boys do not like to handle. Janet and Teddy knew a great deal about snakes, and they knew that only two kinds that lived in their State were harmful. These were the rattlesnake and the copperhead. All other kinds, such as black snakes, milk snakes and garter snakes can never harm a person. Teddy and Janet knew this, and they had been taught by their father that these harmless snakes did a great deal of good by eating rats and mice that, otherwise, would spoil the farmers' grain. So it was that Janet had learned to pick up even large black snakes, knowing they would not harm her, and once she and her brother had even tamed a good-sized black snake, so that it would let the children pick it up, and it would lie, coiled, in their lap. Snakes can not be tamed, or made to do tricks like other animals, and the stories of "snake charmers" are mostly untrue. Some snakes may rise and sway when music is played, and the snakes that circus performers handle are just as harmless as the garden snakes you see. Some of the larger ones, however, are very powerful, and can twist themselves around a person or an animal strongly enough to kill. But the performers know how to handle snakes, using slow and gentle movements, so the reptiles do not mind it. Thus it was that Janet had no fear of Slider, the pet alligator. She lifted him up, put him on top of the slanting board and, just as he had done before, Slider went sliding down. "Oh! Oh!" cried Trouble in delight. "Isn't that a good trick?" asked Janet, laughing with her little brother. "Aren't you glad you stayed with me." "Yes, I is glad," declared Trouble. "Now Trouble make Slider slide." "All right," agreed Janet. Baby William was not much more afraid of animals, snakes included, than were Teddy and Janet. So his sister let him pick up Slider and give the alligator another coast down the board hill. I am not saying that Slider would have done this trick himself, even after much practice. It was mostly an accident, I believe, his coasting down the board when he got to the slanting edge. The alligator just naturally crawled around and, reaching the edge, he fell over, and coasted down. Janet and Trouble put him close to the edge on purpose, so he would go down, knowing that it did not hurt the alligator in the least. I suppose a mud turtle would have done the same "trick." Reptiles have a very small brain, and can not be taught to do tricks as can dogs, horses and cats, and the alligator, the turtle and the snake belong to the class known as reptiles. So though the children called what Slider did a "trick," it was more like an accident, though it was not a harmful one. "Me make Slider slide," exclaimed Trouble, and, surely enough, when he had put Uncle Toby's scaly pet on the board, down the alligator slid. Trouble and Janet were enjoying themselves in this fashion, and Janet was wondering what Teddy was doing, when that young member of the Curlytop family stuck his head in through the open barn door and called: "Come on out and see Snuff!" "Oh, has he a bad fit?" asked Janet. "He hasn't got a fit at all!" answered Ted. "He's doing one of the best tricks you ever saw, and it will be dandy in our circus! Come and look at him!" "Oh, I'm glad he hasn't a fit!" cried Janet. "Come on, Trouble!" But now there was more trouble with Trouble, for he wanted to stay and play with Slider. "Me see Slider slide more!" demanded the little fellow. And it was as hard for Janet to get him to come out of the barn now, as it had been to make him stay in before. "Oh, come on and see Snuff do his funny trick!" she begged, and finally Trouble came away from the alligator. "And it sure is a funny trick!" laughed Ted, who had waited for his little brother and Janet to come out. "Just you see!" When the two Curlytops and Trouble hurried around the corner of the barn, Teddy pointed to Snuff, the new, big cat that had been brought from Uncle Toby's house. Snuff was on top of a large leather ball, and it was rolling around the yard, with him on top of it, just as a clown in the circus stands upright on a large, painted ball, and rolls himself around the ring. This ball was a football that Teddy had owned for some time. The outside was leather, and inside was a rubber bladder that could be blown up. It was a round ball, of the kind used in "Association" games, and not for "Rugby," which most of the football elevens play in this country. The "Rugby" ball is shaped like a watermelon, but the other is more like a muskmelon, and it was on this latter kind of a ball that Snuff was rolling around the yard, just like a circus clown. "Was this what Trouble meant when he said Snuff was rolling?" asked Janet. "Yes," answered Teddy. "I'm glad Uncle Toby's cat didn't have a fit. Now we can make him do this trick in our animal circus." "Oh, it's a lovely trick," declared Janet. "I wonder how he learned it?" "Maybe Uncle Toby or the lady who owned him first taught Snuff to roll on top of a football," Ted answered, while the yellowish brown cat kept on stepping lightly this way and that, making the ball turn over and over. "I guess Trouble left the ball out here in the yard. He was playing with it last. Then Snuff must have come out, and when he saw the ball he remembered that he knew how to do a trick on it. And he got up and did it without anyone telling him." "Maybe he won't do it any more," suggested Janet. "We can soon see," Teddy said. "Here, Snuff!" he called to the big, friendly cat. "Come over here," and Teddy whistled as he did for Turnover. Snuff came as he was called, almost as a dog might do, and Turnover, also hearing the whistle by which Teddy summoned him to meals, came running around the corner of the barn. "No, we haven't anything for you to eat now, pussies," said Ted, with a laugh. "But I'll give you something in a little while if Snuff does the football trick again." After petting the two cats, and scratching them under their ears, which they seemed to like very much. Teddy held Snuff in his arms, and told Janet to take up the football. "We'll put it down in front of Snuff and see if he gets up on it," suggested Teddy. And when this was done the big cat from Uncle Toby's jumped out of Ted's arms, and leaped on top of the football, rolling it over and over just like a clown in a circus. "Oh, it is a trick--a real trick!" cried Janet. "Wouldn't it be great if we could dress Snuff up in a little suit like a clown?" "Maybe we can," said Teddy. "But it will be hard, as cats don't like to have fixin's on 'em as much as dogs do. I wonder who taught Snuff that trick? I guess it must have been Uncle Toby." And, some time afterward, the Curlytops learned that it was their father's queer, animal-loving uncle who had taught Snuff to roll around on a football. "I'm terrible glad Uncle Toby left us his collection, aren't you?" asked Janet of her brother, when Snuff had grown tired of doing his trick, and both cats were being fed. "Yes," agreed Teddy, "I am. First I thought it might be a collection of stamps or coins. But I'm glad it was pets." The Curlytops were going to have a great deal of fun with their pets, they were sure of that. "If we only had Tip back," sighed Janet, as she and Teddy sat watching the cats eat, talking, meanwhile, about the circus they were going to have with all their animals. "Yes, it's too bad one of Uncle Toby's dogs is gone," agreed Teddy. "Of course we can do some tricks with Top, but it would be better with the two of them." "I wonder if he jumped out of the auto and ran away, if someone picked him up off the seat, or if that man Shorty knows where he is?" "That's what I wonder, too," replied Teddy. "And I wonder if we shall ever get Tip back?" But many strange things were to happen to the Curlytops and their pets before this came about. Teddy and Janet were so busy talking about the circus they were to get up with their animals that, for a time, they did not watch Trouble. That little chap wandered back to the barn, for he had been much interested in watching the alligator do his trick. "Me make Slider slide some more," said Trouble, talking to himself, as he had a habit of doing. Into the barn he toddled. The alligator was swimming around in his small tank of water, but, being a tame and pet reptile, he came out when Trouble stood near the cage. Unafraid of animals, as were Teddy and Janet, baby William picked Slider up and put him on the slanting board. Down went the alligator as nicely as you please! It was about half an hour after this that Teddy and Janet decided they would try to teach their dog Skyrocket some tricks to do with Top. "Let's bring 'em both out here in the yard together," suggested Ted. "You get Skyrocket, Jan, and I'll hunt Top." "All right," agreed his sister. But before they had gone far, looking for the two dogs, they heard a cry of alarm from Mrs. Johnson, one of the neighbors across the street. "Oh, my baby! My baby!" cried Mrs. Johnson, as she ran down off the porch toward a mosquito-netting covered carriage in the front yard. "A big snake is going to sting my baby! Oh, Trouble! what shall I do?" "Ha! is Trouble over there?" asked Ted of Janet. "Yes, and something else, too, I guess," was the answer. And Mrs. Johnson called again: "Oh, a big snake is in the carriage with my baby!" CHAPTER X MR. CAPPER'S BUNS Forgetting in the excitement, all about teaching Skyrocket and Top to do some tricks together, as Tip and Top did before Tip was lost, Teddy and Janet ran across the street toward Mrs. Johnson, who was standing beside the carriage in which was her baby. Near her was Trouble, but the little fellow did not seem to be as excited as was Mrs. Johnson. "Trouble," cried Janet, as she took hold of her little brother's arm, "did you tease Ruth?" Ruth was the name of Mrs. Johnson's baby, and though Trouble was, usually, a good little chap, he might have done something to make a baby cry, Janet realized. "I didn't do nuffin'!" declared Trouble. "Oh, no, Trouble is all right!" said Mrs. Johnson. "It's a big, black snake that has crawled into my baby's carriage. I put Ruth out here to have her sleep, and I looked from the window every once in a while to see that she was all right." "And she was, for quite a while. But a moment ago, when I looked, I saw Trouble near the carriage, and then I saw a big, ugly snake crawling over Ruth's robe. Oh, where is it? Where's the snake, darling? Did the snake bite you?" and Mrs. Johnson caught Ruth up from the carriage in her arms. "I never knew a snake would crawl up into a baby carriage," said Teddy. "I don't see any; do you, Jan?" "No," answered his sister, "I don't!" "There it is! Look!" cried Mrs. Johnson, pointing with one hand, while she held Ruth close to her in her other arm. The baby had been rather rudely awakened from her sleep, and she was just getting ready to cry. Her lips were puckering up, and in another moment she would let out a yell. Janet and Teddy knew this, for they had, often enough, watched Trouble do the same thing when he was smaller. "There's the snake!" exclaimed Mrs. Johnson, and, as she spoke and pointed, the Curlytops saw something black crawl out from among the folds of the robes in the baby carriage. Ted had one glimpse of the head of the reptile, and then the boy cried: "That isn't a snake! It's Slider, our pet alligator! How did he get here?" "A pet alligator?" cried Mrs. Johnson. "In my Ruth's carriage! How did it get here?" "I bringed it!" said Trouble, in the silence that followed. "You what?" cried Janet. "I bringed Slider ober to play wif Ruff!" said Trouble. "I play wif Slider in barn, and den hims hoots get tired, so I bringed him over to ride in de carriage wif Ruff." "What does he mean?" asked Mrs. Johnson, crooning to "Ruff," as Trouble called the baby, and making the little one quiet. For William was using some of his "baby talk," which he often did when he was excited. "He means that the alligator's feet got tired, I suppose," translated Janet. "He says 'hoots' for 'feet.' He must mean that Slider got tired of sliding down the board." Mrs. Johnson looked from one Curlytop to the other, and then at Trouble. A puzzled look was on her face. "Really, children dear," she said, "_you_ may know what you are talking about, but _I_ don't. What with hoots, Slider and a board I'm all mixed up!" "I bringed him--I bringed Slider," explained Trouble. "Yes, we know you did that," said Teddy. "But you shouldn't have, Trouble. It was wrong to take our pet out of the barn, and it was wrong to put Slider in the baby carriage." "Yes, we didn't know Trouble was going to do anything like this," said Janet, apologizing for her little brother's misdeed. "But Ted and I were talking about what tricks we'd get Skyrocket and Top to do, now that Tip is gone. And we'd just got through watching Snuff do a new trick on top of a football, so we didn't watch Trouble very much." "How many pets you have!" exclaimed Mrs. Johnson. "I suppose those are pets you have been talking about?" she asked. "Ours and Uncle Toby's," answered Teddy. "We have more pets than we ever had before, and we're going to give a circus. Will you come, Mrs. Johnson?" "An' bring Ruff!" invited Trouble. There was a laugh at this. "If you love Ruth you mustn't put Slider in her carriage any more," cautioned Janet, as she lifted the pet alligator out from among the blankets. "Little babies don't like alligators." "All wite. I like 'em," said Trouble, and then he ran back across the street. "We'll be going now," said Teddy to Mrs. Johnson. "We're sorry William made trouble." "Oh, he didn't mean to," said Ruth's mother. "He's a dear little fellow. I must come over and see your pets. Ruth loves a pussy or a dog, but she doesn't know much about alligators." "We have a monkey, too," said Janet. "And a parrot named Mr. Nip," added her brother. "And white rats and mice! They're real cute!" exclaimed Janet. "I don't believe I would like the mice!" said Mrs. Johnson. "But ours are white," Janet explained. "That makes a big difference. They're as nice as rabbits!" "They wouldn't be for me," said Ruth's mother, with a laugh. "Good-bye, Curlytops! Come over again, and bring a pussy or doggie with you." Ted and Janet promised they would, and then they hurried back across the street after Trouble. They wanted to make sure he would not get into any more mischief with the pets. Daddy Martin was told, that evening after supper, all that had happened during the day, from the discovery that Slider and Snuff could do tricks, to the finding of the pet alligator in baby Ruth's carriage. "Well, it seems you had lots of excitement to-day," he said to his wife. "Just a little," she agreed. "But if Uncle Toby's pets are to make trouble I don't know that we can keep them," Daddy Martin said. Teddy and Janet looked at each other. "Oh, we can't let them go now!" exclaimed Teddy. "We're just getting to love them!" his sister added. "And we haven't found out any tricks yet that the white mice can do," Teddy went on. "We haven't even named 'em!" "Well, I suppose if the neighbors don't complain I shouldn't," admitted Mr. Martin. "But with the monkey scaring Mrs. Blake, and the alligator scaring Mrs. Johnson----" "They weren't very _much_ scared," interrupted Ted. "Please let us keep Uncle Toby's pets! We want to give a circus." "We'll see," said Mr. Martin. "I hope nothing more will happen, though, to annoy the neighbors." "We'll watch our pets so they won't get out," promised Ted and Janet. The next few days were spent by the Curlytops in getting better acquainted with the animals that had been brought from Uncle Toby's. They liked their new pets more and more the more they saw of them. Of course they wished they could get Tip back, but that trick dog seemed to have vanished. Daddy Martin put an advertisement in the paper, and offered a reward to whoever would bring Tip back, but there were no answers--at least none that amounted to anything. It is true that several men and boys came with strange dogs they thought answered the description of the missing Tip, but none of the animals was the pet so much wanted. Nor was anything heard of the missing youth "Shorty." He seemed to have disappeared with the poodle, and the police said they believed Shorty knew where Tip was, and had, perhaps, taken him away in order to sell him. "Well, of course we have enough animals without Tip to give a show," said Teddy. "But I'd love to get Tip back. And I guess Top is lonesome without him." "I guess so, too," added Janet. But if Top was lonesome he showed no signs of it after one or two days. He made friends with Skyrocket, as Snuff did with Turnover, and the dogs and cats lived happily together. But alas for the hopes of Mr. Martin that his neighbors would not again be troubled by the pets of the Curlytops. It was about a week after the animals had been brought from Uncle Toby's house that, as Mr. Martin was coming home from the store rather early one afternoon, he saw a crowd in front of the bakeshop of Mr. Capper, just around the corner from the home of the Curlytops. "I hope that isn't a fire in Mr. Capper's bakery," thought Daddy Martin, for more than once hot grease had boiled over in the bakeshop and caused slight fires. As Mr. Martin approached Mr. Capper's store he heard loud laughter from the crowd of men and boys in front of the show window. "It can't be a fire, or they wouldn't laugh," said the father of the Curlytops. "I wonder what it is?" He hastened on, and as he came within view of the bakery window he uttered an exclamation of surprise. For there, among the buns, eating them and playing among the other cakes, were several large white rats and mice. "Look at that one big one stand up on his hind legs and nibble a bun just like a squirrel!" said a man watching the antics of the white rats and mice among Mr. Capper's buns. If this man had only known it, squirrels and rats belong to the same family, that called "rodents," only a squirrel has a much larger tail than a rat or a mouse. "I wonder what in the world Mr. Capper lets those white rats stay in his bakeshop window for?" thought Mr. Martin, as he ran up. "They are not harmful, of course, but people will not like to eat bakery stuff after rats and mice, even if they are white, have run around them. It's a poor advertisement." At that moment the baker himself, who had been out in his oven-room, came running into the shop. He gave one look at his window, saw the white rats and mice playing around in and nibbling his choice buns, and then the baker cried: "Oh, who did this? Who played this trick on me and spoiled my buns? Who let those mice in there?" "Didn't you do it yourself?" asked Mr. Martin, who knew the baker very well, having traded with him for a number of years. "Let those mice in my window? Never!" cried Mr. Capper. "Why should I do a thing like that?" "I thought maybe it was for an advertisement--to attract customers to your store," said Mr. Martin. "Though I thought it was rather funny." "It is too funny!" cried the baker. "All my buns are spoiled, and I just baked them. As for customers--I have a crowd, yes, but they will not buy what the mice have nibbled. "Whose mice are they? Whose white rats are they? I ask you that!" cried the baker, who was much excited. "A little while ago two boys come in to buy cookies. I wait on them, and I go back to my oven. Then the next I know I see a crowd and I come out to find--these!" He pointed to the white rats and mice that were having a fine time among the buns in the bakeshop window. "You say two boys were here a little while ago?" asked Mr. Martin, and he began to have a suspicion of what had happened. "Two boys," replied the baker. "They have a box with them--Ha! here is the box now. It is the cage that the mice got out of!" he cried, pointing to a box with a wire front on the floor of the store, in a corner. "Uncle Toby's box!" exclaimed Mr. Martin, in a low voice. "What's that?" cried the baker. "You know these white rats and mice, Mr. Martin?" "I'm afraid I do," said the father of the Curlytops. "My children got some new pets from an uncle of mine--Uncle Toby. Among the pets were white mice and rats. That is the box we brought them in from Pocono. But how did the box get here?" "Some boys brought it in, I am telling you," the baker answered. "Two boys." "Did you know them? Was one my son Teddy?" asked Mr. Martin. "I do not know--I forgot to look I was in such a hurry, for my bread was almost burning in my oven. I run to the store quick, as I am all alone now; I wait on the boys, they want cookies; and I run back to my oven. Now I come--the rats--the mice!" and Mr. Capper, who was a Frenchman, raised his hands in the air over his head in despair. "I wonder if Ted could have done this?" mused Mr. Martin. And then he heard Teddy's voice calling: "Come on, Jim! Here they are! We left the rats here, and--Oh, I say! Look! They got out of the cage, and look what they're doing to the buns!" A moment later Teddy Martin came pushing his way through the crowd now in the bakery. CHAPTER XI TOP ACTS STRANGELY Mr. Martin, the father of the Curlytops, Mr. Capper, the baker, and the crowd of persons in the shop looked at Teddy and his friend, Jimmy Norton, as the two boys hurried into the place. Nearly everyone guessed what had happened, but Mr. Martin wanted to make sure, so he asked: "Teddy, did you let your white mice and rats get loose among Mr. Capper's buns?" "Well, I--I didn't exactly do it, Daddy," Teddy answered. "But I guess they did get loose, didn't they?" he asked, with half a smile. "There is no doubt about it--they are loose, and they have done a lot of damage," and Mr. Martin spoke rather sternly. "Damage! They have eaten up over two dollars' worth of buns--or they have as much spoiled!" said the excited baker. "How did it happen?" asked Teddy's father. "Well, it was an accident," the little Curlytop boy answered. "Jimmy and I were taking the cage down to the store to have some new wire put on. There's a place where the wire is broken, and it needed fixing so the rats couldn't get out. So Jimmy and I took the cage, and the rats and mice in it, down to the hardware store." "Why didn't you take the mice out, and leave them in the barn?" asked Mr. Martin. "'Cause there wasn't anything I could leave 'em in," Teddy replied. "I was afraid they'd get out, and maybe go over in Mrs. Johnson's baby carriage, just as Slider did. So I thought if we took the rats and mice right in the cage the man at the store could put some new wire netting over the old, and they couldn't get out." "And did he do it?" Teddy's father went on, while the crowd listened to the talk. "Yes, sir," Teddy replied. "The cage was fixed all right, and on the way back, Jimmy and I got tired of carrying it, so we stopped in here to get some cookies. We were hungry." "It is as I told you!" broke in Mr. Capper. "Two boys did come in for cookies. These are the two--I remember now." "Well, why didn't you boys take the cage of rats and mice with you when you went out?" asked Mr. Martin. "If you hadn't left them here they wouldn't have gotten loose and gone into Mr. Capper's show window to eat or spoil all his buns. Why did you leave the cage here?" "We--we forgot it, I guess; didn't we, Jimmy?" asked Teddy of his chum. "Yes," agreed Jimmy, "we did." "But if the man at the hardware store put new wire on the cage, I don't see how the rats and mice got out," Mr. Martin went on. Teddy looked at the empty cage which had been set down in a corner when he and his chum bought the cookies. "The door came open!" Teddy exclaimed. "See, Daddy, the door sprang open and the white mice got out that way. It wasn't our fault at all!" "But it was your fault for leaving the cage here," went on Mr. Martin. "I don't see why you did it." "I guess it was on account of the fire engine," spoke up Jimmy Norton. "The fire engine!" cried Teddy's father. "What has the fire engine to do with white mice eating buns?" "Well, after we'd bought the cookies, and were going to take up the cage of mice and go out," Jimmy explained, "the fire engine came past, and Ted and I ran out to see it and we went to the fire, but it wasn't a big one, and we forgot about the mice; didn't we, Teddy?" "Yes," said Teddy, "we did. And I didn't think about 'em until a little while ago, 'cause we started to play marbles, and--and----" "Yes, and by your thoughtlessness you have made a lot of trouble," Mr. Martin remarked. "I am sorry for this, Teddy. If many more things happen I shall have to get rid of Uncle Toby's pets." "Oh, don't do that!" begged the little Curlytop boy. "I'll put the rats and mice back in the cage and I'll fasten the door so they can't get out again. Don't send Uncle Toby's animals away, Daddy! We want to have a circus with them!" "And I'll help pay for the buns the rats ate," added Jimmy. "It was partly my fault for making Ted forget." "Oh, no, I can't allow that," said Mr. Martin, "though it is very good of you to offer, Jimmy. I will pay Mr. Capper for the buns the rats ate, and after this Teddy must be more careful." "Can we take away the buns and cookies the mice didn't eat?" asked the little Curlytop chap, as he and his chum began picking up the pets and putting them back in the cage. The animals were tame and did not mind being handled. "Take away all the buns in the window! They are of no more use to me!" exclaimed the baker. "But, Mr. Martin, I will not charge you full price for the things--only what it cost to make them. For, as you say, it was an advertisement. And I know the boys did not mean it." "Indeed we didn't!" cried Teddy. "We can take the broken buns and feed them to Skyrocket and Top, and Mr. Nip and Jack will eat them, too," he said to his father. "It will be just as good as buying stale bread for the monkey and the parrot, Daddy. I guess they'll like buns better." "I shouldn't be surprised if they did," laughed Mr. Martin. "Well, as you say, Teddy, it will save buying stale bread." Some of the pets were fed on this, and now the broken buns would take its place for a few meals. By this time the crowd began leaving the bakery, as the excitement was over. Teddy and Jimmy picked up the last of the rats and mice, putting them back in the mended cage. "And make sure the door of the cage is fastened," Mr. Martin said to Teddy, as the baker was paid for the buns. "We don't want the creatures getting loose again." "It's good and tight," Teddy said. "They won't get out again except when we take them out to do circus tricks." Carrying the cage of white mice and rats between them, Teddy and Jimmy walked down the street in front of Mr. Martin, and soon the pets were safely back in the barn. "I'm a crack-crack-cracker!" cried the green, red and yellow parrot, as the boys entered. The talkative bird whistled, at which sound Skyrocket and Top, who were asleep in one corner of the barn, awakened and began to bark loudly. "Your parrot whistles just like one of us fellows," said Jimmy to Teddy. "Yes, he does," admitted the Curlytop chap. "I have been trying to think what tricks we could make him do in the circus. But the trouble is he doesn't always talk or whistle when you want him to. And when you don't want him to he nearly always does it." "Well, anyway, he'll be nice to look at in the pet circus," said Jimmy. "And in the regular circus they have animals and birds to look at, as well as the kind that do tricks." "Yes," agreed Teddy, "I guess so." "I'm a crack-crack-cracker!" shrieked the parrot again, pulling himself up to the top of his cage by means of his big beak, his black tongue licking the bars as if he liked them. "Well, if you're a crack-crack-cracker, here's a bun-bun-bunner for you," laughed Teddy, and out of the bag Mr. Martin had carried from the bakeshop Teddy took several of the broken pieces and fed them to the parrot. Seeing this, Jack, the monkey, who was in his cage, set up a chattering such as he must have learned in the jungle where he came from. "What's the matter with him?" Jimmy wanted to know. "I guess he wants some of the broken buns, too," said Teddy. "Here, you give the monkey some, and I'll feed Skyrocket and Top. They want some, too." Soon such of Uncle Toby's pets as liked this form of food were having all the buns they wanted. Mr. Nip, the parrot, tore his pieces of the buns apart to get at the currants. But Jack, Top and Skyrocket ate theirs down, currants and all, as if they liked every crumb. The white rats and mice were not given any of the broken buns, as it was thought they had had enough in the bakery, and Teddy knew it was not wise to overfeed any pet animals. Cats, dogs and other pets should not be fed too much, though of course they should not be allowed to go hungry very long. When animals can run around as they please, or when they live wild in the jungle or forest, they never eat too much. They know when to stop. But often persons, wishing to be kind, will give their dogs and cats too much meat, or other rich food. And as these pets do not run around and exercise very much, they cannot digest all they eat, so they often become ill. Teddy did not want this to happen to any of his pets. Another thing he was careful about was always to see that they had plenty of fresh water. Nothing is more important than this. It is cruel to have any pet suffer for water to drink, especially in summer. So if you keep pets of any kind, don't feed them too much, but give them plenty of water. They never can take too much of this. "When you going to have your circus?" asked Jimmy of Teddy, when the animals had quieted down, eating the pieces of buns. "Oh, pretty soon, I guess. Janet and I are going to teach them a lot of new tricks." "I wish I could help," said Jimmy. "You can," Teddy promised. "Jan and I will need someone to help us with the circus. I'm going to ask Jack Turton and Harry Kent, too. Jack is so funny and fat he'll make a good clown." "I'd rather be one of the animal trainers," said Jimmy. "That's what you and I'll be--animal trainers," decided Teddy. "My sister Jan's good with animals, too. She isn't afraid of even a snake." "That's good," decided Jimmy. "Maybe we could get some snakes to have in the circus--little ones, you know." "It would be fine!" exclaimed Teddy. "But where can we get any?" "Oh, in the woods, I guess. I'll see if I can find any. But I've got to go home now." "All right. Come over to-morrow and we'll start training the animals," replied Teddy. And the next day Teddy, Janet and Jimmy began to teach the pets some new tricks. I will tell you about them when the time comes. It was not easy work, and more than once the Curlytops and their friend were discouraged. For just when they thought they had Top and Skyrocket so they would do a trick together, one or the other of the dogs would run away, wagging his tail, however, in friendly fashion, to show there were no hard feelings. The cats were the hardest to teach. Snuff did very well with his ball rolling trick and one or two others, and Turnover would turn in a sort of side-somersault whenever told to do so by Janet. But to teach the two cats to do tricks together was much harder. It was this--the tricks they could do together--that made Tip and Top such a valuable team of dogs. "Do you think you'll ever get Tip back?" asked Jimmy, as he, with the Curlytops, was resting one day after putting the pets through some of their tricks. "We keep hoping so," said Janet. "But it doesn't look so now," added her brother. "He's been gone so long, and not even the police can find him. They can't find Shorty, either. I guess Shorty and Tip ran a way together." "And maybe Shorty has Tip in a circus, making him do tricks," added Janet. "Maybe," agreed Teddy. "But now we've got to think where we're going to get a tent for our show. If we give a pet animal circus we've got to have a tent." "Sure!" agreed Jimmy. "It wouldn't be a circus without a tent. But maybe my father can get us one. He used to be in the army." "Oh, let's go ask him!" cried Janet. "We can leave our pets here in the barn now, for they've been fed and watered." Off the children hurried to Jimmy's house. His father was not at home, but Mrs. Norton said she thought her husband could get a tent that would do for the circus. "And since you have been feeding the animals, wouldn't you like to feed yourselves now?" asked Jimmy's mother, with a smile at the Curlytops and her own son. "Feed ourselves--how?" asked Teddy. At the same time he noticed a most delicious smell coming from Mrs. Norton's kitchen. "I have just baked some molasses cookies," went on Jimmy's mother, "and I have some lovely, cool milk. Would you like some glasses of milk and molasses cookies?" "Sure!" exclaimed Teddy. "Fine!" cried Jimmy. "We'd like it very much, if you please," said Janet, and she was extra polite, to make up for the rather boisterous manner in which Teddy spoke. But the boys meant to be polite and, after all, that is what counts. Soon the Curlytops and their friend were out on the side porch, drinking the cool, rich milk and eating the fresh molasses cookies. It was while they were thus sitting, talking about the circus they were going to give, that into the yard came running Top, Uncle Toby's trick dog. "Hello, Top!" called Teddy. "Were you looking for us?" Top barked and wagged his tail. Then he acted in a strange manner. He ran up to Teddy, and caught hold of the boy's coat. "Oh, he's trying to bite you!" exclaimed Janet. "He is not! Top would never bite me!" declared Teddy. But he wondered what the dog was trying to do. Then Top let go his hold of the coat, and ran a little way toward the gate. There he stopped and looked back toward the children. "What makes him act that funny way?" asked Jimmy. "I don't know," answered Teddy. With another bark, and wagging his tail, Top again ran up to Teddy and pulled on his coat. "I know what it is!" exclaimed the Curlytop boy. "Something has happened, and Top has come to tell us and get us to go with him! Come on, Jimmy! Come on, Jan!" CHAPTER XII MR. NIP'S ALARM Together the two Curlytops and their friend Jimmy Norton ran out of Jimmy's yard and down the street, following Top, the trick dog. For as soon as Top had seen that Teddy was following after him, which, evidently, was just what Top wanted, the dog raced on, barking wildly. "Do you think he came to call you?" panted Janet, as she ran beside her brother. "Sure he did," Ted answered. "Didn't you ever read in books how dogs do that when they want you to come to help somebody who's in trouble--like somebody in the water?" "I've read lots of stories like that," said Jimmy. "Oh, maybe something has happened to Trouble!" cried Janet. "Mother took Trouble down town with her," Teddy answered. "So if Trouble is in trouble Top wouldn't know it." "Maybe our house is on fire," went on Janet, who seemed quite determined to have something dreadful happen. "You'd hear the alarm bell and see the engines if there was a fire," declared Jimmy. "Well, it's _something_!" exclaimed Janet. "Isn't it a pity dogs can't talk like parrots? If they could, Top could tell us just what the matter was." "We'll see pretty soon," said her brother. "We're almost at our house, and it must be there that something is the matter." As the children were racing down the street, with Top running in front of them, looking back every now and then to make sure the Curlytops and Jimmy were following, a man stopped the children and said: "Why are you chasing that poor dog? Don't you know it is wrong to tease and annoy animals?" "We're not teasing him," Teddy answered. "He's our dog, anyhow." "That is no matter," the fussy man said. "I think it is wrong to chase dogs or to tie tin cans on their tails." "As if we'd tie a tin can to the tail of our nice Top!" exclaimed Janet. "We _never_ tie cans to dogs' tails!" she added. "And we're running after Top because he wants us to. He came to get us because something has happened at our house." Seeing that the children had stopped, because the strange man had halted them, Top came running back, barking and wagging his tail. He caught hold of Teddy's coat, and again pulled it. "See!" exclaimed Ted. "He wants us to follow him. He did that before, and that's why we ran after him, not because we're chasing him, Mister." The man looked at the excited dog and at the kind-faced children. He must have known they would never have harmed animals, for he said: "Oh, excuse me! I guess I made a mistake. I thought you were chasing the poor dog. Excuse me!" The strange man turned and hurried off down the street, and after looking toward him for a few seconds the Curlytops and their chum again hastened along, following Top, who grew more excited all the while. Into the yard of the Martin house dashed Top, closely followed by the children. But the dog did not stop at the house, nor did he run toward the barn where the other pets were kept. When Ted, Janet and Jimmy went over to Jimmy's house they had left the two dogs and the two cats playing outside the barn. Now there was no sight of Snuff and Turnover, nor of Skyrocket, the other dog. Down past the barn and toward the brook into which Trouble had more than once fallen, ran Top, the trick dog. "Oh, Trouble must have come back and have fallen in!" cried Janet. "I don't believe so," said her brother. "If Trouble was in the water you'd hear him howling." "Unless his head was under," suggested Jimmy. "Yes, unless his head under," agreed Teddy. "But I don't believe it's Trouble. If it was anything like that, Top wouldn't come all the way to your house after us, Jimmy. He'd have barked and have gotten someone around here to come to the rescue." "There isn't anybody home at our house but us, and we weren't home," explained Janet. "Mother and Trouble are down town, and Susan, our new girl, has gone out." "I guess that's why Top came to us," Teddy said. "But where is he going, anyhow, and what is the matter?" Barking and still wagging his tail, to show how glad he was that the children were coming where he wanted them, Top led the way down along the brook. The Curlytops passed the place where they had played ships the day Trouble was sent afloat in the box--the day Uncle Toby's letter came, telling about the pets he was leaving. "What is it, Top? What's the matter, old fellow?" asked Teddy. A bark was the dog's answer. But a moment later, as the children turned a bend in the stream, they heard a howl coming from a bunch of tall cat-tail plants growing on the edge of a swamp not far from the brook. It was the mournful howl of a dog in pain. "That's Skyrocket!" cried Teddy. "And he's in trouble!" added Janet. "And that's why Top came to get us," declared Jimmy. Top was barking louder than ever now, and as the Curlytops and their friend hurried along they could hear, more plainly, the howls of the dog they felt sure was their own, dear Skyrocket. And a moment later, as they parted the green spears of the cat-tails, they saw, lying on the ground in the mud and water, poor Skyrocket. Their pet looked up at them and howled mournfully. "Oh, he's drowning!" cried Janet, as she saw that Skyrocket was partly covered by the water of the swamp. "He's got a broken leg!" said Jimmy. "Dogs can go on three legs, if one is broken, though they can't go very fast," said Teddy. "Skyrocket is caught fast, that's what's the matter." Top seemed overjoyed that he had brought help to his dog friend. Close up beside Skyrocket Top crawled, whining in sympathy, and then Top began licking, with his red tongue, one of Skyrocket's legs. "Oh, I see what the matter is!" cried Teddy. "Skyrocket's leg is caught in a trap! That's why he couldn't get loose! Look!" Teddy pointed to where, half hidden in the mud, water, and grass, was a spring trap. It was fast to a chain, and the chain was attached to a wooden stake, driven into the ground. But, worst of all, the steel jaws of the trap had snapped shut on the lower part of Skyrocket's left hind leg. The poor dog tried to stand up, but could not, as whenever he attempted to move the chain held him back. "Poor Skyrocket!" murmured Janet, almost ready to cry. "I'll get him loose!" said Teddy. "It's a good thing Top came and told us what the matter was, or maybe we'd never have known it," remarked Jimmy. "Come on, Jim! Help me open the trap and get Sky's leg out," said Teddy. "You pat his head--I mean Sky's head, Jan, and that will let him know we aren't going to hurt him." So while Top looked on, whining in sympathy with his injured dog friend, and while Janet softly rubbed the head of Skyrocket, the two boys opened the trap. While Jimmy held it steady Teddy stepped on the strong spring with his foot. This was the only way to open it. In another moment the trap was gently pulled loose from the leg of Skyrocket, and the poor dog, with a whine of thanks, managed to stand up. He tried to step on the injured leg, but quickly drew it up with a howl of pain. "Oh, maybe it's broken!" half sobbed Janet. "A dog can get well with a broken leg, but a horse can't," said Jimmy. "At least a horse never does, because he is so big he can't be kept off his leg until it heals. A horse can't go on three legs like a dog." "A horse can stand up on two legs, and walk a little. I've seen 'em in a circus!" declared Janet. "But I never saw a horse go on three legs." "There goes Skyrocket on three legs!" called Teddy, for his pet hobbled along a little way, to a drier part of the swamp, and then lay down and began licking with his red tongue the leg that had been caught in a trap. "Look and see if it's broken," suggested Jimmy. "If it is, we'd better tie sticks around it like the principal of our school did one day when Tommy Hicks broke his leg." "I remember that time," responded Teddy. "Easy now, old fellow," he said to Skyrocket. "Let me feel your leg to see if it is broken." Gently, very gently, Teddy moved his fingers along the injured leg. Skyrocket whined a little, but remained lying there quietly. At last Teddy stood up. "I don't believe it's broken," he said. "I guess it was only pinched hard in the trap." "It's a smooth-jawed trap, not the kind with the teeth like a saw," said Jimmy, looking at the trap which had been allowed to spring shut after Skyrocket's leg was drawn out. "They use big traps, with terrible sharp teeth and jaws, to catch bears," said the little boy. "I'm glad this wasn't that kind of trap," said Janet. "But who put it here, anyhow?" "It's an old one, and rusty," went on Jimmy, looking at the trap, while Teddy got some water from the swamp in the top of his cap, and poured it over the bruised place where Skyrocket's leg seemed to hurt most. The water appeared to ease the pain a little, and the dog whined gratefully. Top, now that his work of bringing someone to the rescue was over, stretched out in a cool place and rested, breathing with his mouth open and his tongue hanging out. This is the way dogs always cool themselves. "Yes, it's an old, rusty trap," agreed Teddy, coming up to look at the thing that had caught Skyrocket. "I guess some muskrat hunter left it here, all set and ready to catch some animal that came along, ever since last winter. Maybe the spring was rusty, and not so strong, and that's why it didn't break Skyrocket's leg." "I'm glad it didn't!" voiced Janet. "So'm I," echoed Jimmy. "But how are you going to get Skyrocket home?" "Oh, it isn't far, and he can go on three legs," said Teddy. "Come on, old fellow," he called, and Skyrocket managed to hobble along the brook path and up to the house. Top walked along beside him, every now and then putting out his tongue and gently licking his companion. "He's kissing him 'cause he's sorry," observed Janet. "We're all sorry," declared Teddy. "I'm going to ask mother if we can't have the animal doctor look at Skyrocket's leg." "Why, children! what is the matter? Has anything happened, Curlytops?" asked Mrs. Martin, who had reached home with Trouble by the time the two boys and Janet made their way up the back path to the house. "Skyrocket's leg was caught in a trap, and can't we have the animal doctor see if it's broken?" Teddy asked. Then the story was told, not forgetting the brave and intelligent part played by Top, and Mrs. Martin examined Skyrocket's sore leg. "I don't believe it is broken, but we'll have the doctor look to make sure," she said. And you can just imagine how glad the Curlytops were, and Jimmy also, when the doctor said: "The leg is not broken, but it is badly bruised. However, it will be well in a week or so. Keep Skyrocket as quiet as you can." "We will!" promised Janet. "We want him to get well so he can be in the circus," added Teddy. "Oh, I guess he'll be all right for that," said the doctor, with a laugh as he hurried away to look after a sick horse. A soft bed was made for Skyrocket in the barn, and a basin of fresh water was placed near him. He licked Teddy's hands in gratitude as the little boy patted him in coming away. It was several days after the adventure with Skyrocket and the trap that something else exciting happened at the home of the Curlytops. Mr. Nip, the red, green and yellow parrot, became ill. His feathers were ruffled up, he sat all in a lump on his perch, and he would not eat. "I guess you'd better have the man from the bird store come up to see your parrot," said Mr. Martin, when he went out to the barn at the children's request to look at Mr. Nip. "Your mother will call the bird man on the telephone." And when the bird man--that is to say the man who kept the bird and fish store--came to see Mr. Nip, he said the parrot should be kept in the kitchen and fed special food with a little medicine in it for a few days. So that is how it happened that Mr. Nip was moved in from the barn to the house. And it was the third night that the parrot had slept in the house that something happened. In the middle of the night the Curlytops were awakened by hearing Mr. Nip cry out loudly: "Go 'way! Go 'way! I'm a crack-crack-cracker! Get out of here!" Teddy and Janet, who seemed to be the only ones awakened by this alarm of Mr. Nip, listened, half shivering in their beds. "Did you hear that?" called Teddy to his sister in the next room. "Yes. What is it?" inquired Janet. "It's Mr. Nip," whispered back the Curlytop boy. "He's calling to someone. Maybe daddy or mother's down there giving him medicine." But just then the parrot set up such a screeching as the children had never heard, since he came from Uncle Toby's at least. "Go 'way! Go 'way!" cried the bird. "I'm a crack-crack-cracker! Police! Fire! Burglars!" And then, to the surprise and terror of the Curlytops, a strange voice, somewhere downstairs in their house, exclaimed in a harsh whisper: "Do something to that parrot! Throw a rug over his cage, or he'll have the whole house awake. Make him be quiet!" CHAPTER XIII THE HAND-ORGAN MAN The Curlytops cuddled down in their beds. Janet said afterward that she pulled the clothes over her ears. Teddy did the same at first, and then he began to think. And his first thought was that someone besides those who had a right to be there, were in his mother's kitchen. And of course the next thought that came to Teddy was: "Burglars!" Somehow or other he happened to hit on just exactly the very thing that was happening downstairs. "Jan! Janet!" hoarsely whispered Teddy, thrusting his head out from under the sheet he had pulled over himself. But Janet did not answer. From down in the kitchen, however, the little Curlytop boy could plainly hear the parrot saying: "I'm a crack-crack-cracker!" "I'll hit him a crack if he doesn't keep quiet!" said a harsh voice. "Do you hear anyone coming, Bill?" "No," replied another voice, which, Teddy thought, must belong to the man called Bill. "They're burglars trying to get our parrot!" quickly thought Teddy. "I'm not going to let them have Mr. Nip. If they take him away he can't be in our circus. Course he can't do tricks like Skyrocket and Top, but he's nice to look at. The burglars shan't get Mr. Nip!" Teddy slipped out of bed and went, as softly as he could, to the room where his father and mother slept. They were sound in slumber, which is the reason neither of them heard the parrot talking and screeching. Besides, the rooms of Teddy and Janet were nearer the kitchen. "Daddy! Mother! Wake up!" whispered Teddy. The sound of his parents' heavy breathing was the only answer the little boy received. "Daddy! Mother!" he called again. "Wake up! There's a burglar downstairs, and he's trying to take Mr. Nip!" There was silence for a moment, and then Teddy reached over and gently pulled his mother by her hand, which was hanging down outside the bed. "What is it? What's the matter?" suddenly asked Mrs. Martin. In another instant she had pulled the cord attached to an electric light over her bed, and the room was bright in a moment. Then Mr. Martin awakened, and both parents looked at the little Curlytop boy. "What's the matter, Ted? Walking in your sleep?" asked his father. For sometimes Teddy did do that. In answer the little fellow put his finger to his lips to make his father and mother understand that he wanted them to keep quiet. "It's burglars--two of 'em!" whispered Teddy. "One is named Bill, but I don't know the other one's name. They've come to get Mr. Nip." "What's that--our parrot? Nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Martin. "You have been dreaming, Teddy, my boy. Go back to bed." But just then, from down in the kitchen, came the voice of the parrot shrieking: "I'm a crack-crack-cracker! Police, Fire! Burglars!" Then came a banging, clashing sound, and a man's voice cried: "There! See if that will keep you quiet!" An instant later there was a sound as if the parrot's cage had been knocked over, or had tumbled over, and Mr. Nip cried: "Help! Help! Help!" Out of bed jumped Mr. Martin, going toward the closet where he kept his revolver. "It is burglars!" he whispered. "Oh, you mustn't go down! They might shoot you! Go to the window and call the police!" begged Mrs. Martin, clinging to her husband. Mr. Martin did both. He went to the window and fired a shot from his revolver up into the air. My! what a loud noise it made, and it set Skyrocket and Top to barking out in the barn. Perhaps the monkey chattered also, but he could not be heard. However, Mr. Nip's shrill shrieking seemed to resound all over the neighborhood. There was a moon, and as he looked from his bedroom window Mr. Martin, by its light, saw two men running out of the side gate. "There go the burglars!" he cried, and again he fired a shot. This made the strange men run all the faster, and by this time Trouble had awakened and was crying. "Janet, you come in and stay with Trouble," called Mrs. Martin "I'll get dressed, and then, when the police come, we must see what the burglars have taken! Oh, what a dreadful night! I hope they haven't stolen much!" "And I hope they didn't take Mr. Nip," echoed Teddy. "I don't believe they carried away much of anything," Mr. Martin remarked, as he slipped on his bath robe. "I didn't see them carry much as they ran." By this time Janet had gone in to Trouble, comforting him, stopping his frightened sobs, and telling him a little story. And then several neighbors, roused by Mr. Martin's shooting, came in, and a little later the police arrived. An examination was made in the kitchen, and it was found that the burglars had broken open a window and had thus come into the house. But no sooner had they entered than Mr. Nip roused up and began to talk. And it was his talk and his loud voice that had awakened Janet and Teddy. The burglars, fearing the parrot would awaken someone, had tried to silence him by throwing something over the cage. But the bird, who was always more excited when strangers were around, kept on screeching and yelling. Then one of the burglars, in his anger, must have thrown something at the parrot's cage, knocking it over, and this was one of the crashes heard upstairs. "Poor Mr. Nip!" said Teddy, when he was allowed to come down with his father and mother. The parrot's cage was set upright again, no damage having been done. The excitement seemed to have made Mr. Nip feel better, for he showed no signs of illness as he cried again and again: "Police! Fire! Burglars! I'm a crack-crack-cracker!" "You're a good polly!" declared Mrs. Martin. "You saved our house from being robbed!" And there is no question but what Mr. Nip had done that. Bringing the sick parrot into the kitchen had been the means of scaring away the burglars. No thieves will stay in a house at night if they hear someone moving around, or hear voices, and these bad men may have thought at first that Mr. Nip was some real person, calling for the police. At any rate the burglars ran away, not getting anything that they came to steal. And it was all due to Mr. Nip. "He'll sure be in our circus now," said Teddy, as he made ready to go back to bed again, the neighbors and police having left. "Everybody will want to see a parrot that drove away two burglars, won't they, Daddy?" "They probably will, Teddy boy," his father replied. "Well, one of Uncle Toby's pets has more than paid for his board bill by to-night's work." "Aren't you glad we got 'em?" asked Teddy. "Yes, I guess I am," his father answered, laughing. "Say! I wish I'd been over to your house last night," exclaimed Jimmy Norton to Teddy, when the story of the attempt to rob was being talked over among the children. "Well, I was wishing I was somewhere else," said Janet. "Oh, but I was scared!" "I was at first, but I knew I had to tell my mother or my father," remarked Teddy. "So I got out of bed." "Teddy was brave," declared Janet. "Oh, that wasn't anything," the little Curlytop boy said modestly. "I wasn't as brave as Mr. Nip. He called the burglars names!" "Everybody will be glad to come to the circus to see him," said Harry Kent, who was going to help with the show. "We'll put Mr. Nip in a special cage, and put a sign on so people will know he's the parrot that scared the burglars," suggested fat Jackie Turton. In fact, Mr. Nip became quite celebrated. For there was an account in the newspaper of the attempted burglary at the Martin house, and the part the parrot had played was well told, so that all over Cresco Mr. Nip was talked about. "It's a good advertisement for our circus, isn't it, Daddy?" asked Teddy, for the paper mentioned that the Curlytops had a number of pets they were getting ready to place on exhibition in a show. "Yes," said Mr. Martin, "it is." "What are you going to do with the money you get from your circus--if you get any?" asked Mrs. Martin of the Curlytops one day about a week after the burglars had gotten in. By this time Mr. Nip was quite well again, and could go back to the barn to be with the monkey, the alligator and the white mice and the rats. "Oh, we'll get _some_ money," declared Teddy. "But I don't know what we'll do with it. Maybe we'll buy more pets." "Oh, I hope not!" laughed his mother. "You have enough now." As the days passed the Curlytops and their friends worked with Uncle Toby's animals, teaching them several new tricks. More than once Teddy and Janet wished they had Tip, the missing dog, as he had performed so well with Top. But no word had come about him, and it was felt he was gone forever. "Skyrocket is good," Teddy told his boy chums, "but he isn't as good a trick dog as Tip and Top were when they did their tricks together." "Maybe we can teach Jack, the monkey, some new tricks," suggested Harry Kent. "Oh, yes, Jack must learn a lot of tricks," agreed Teddy. "We'll start on him now, I guess, as about the only tricks Snuff can do are to roll around on the football and jump through a paper hoop." That last trick was a new one, and really had not been intended for Snuff. One day Teddy and Janet were getting some paper-covered hoops ready for Skyrocket or Top to jump through, as the dogs seemed to like that trick. Snuff and Turnover were playing together near by, and when Turnover chased Snuff, the Persian cat leaped right through a paper hoop. "Oh, if we could only make him do that for the circus!" Janet cried. "It would be great!" "We'll try," Teddy had said. And, after many trials, they did succeed in getting Snuff to leap through a paper hoop. It was a fine trick. But now the Curlytops planned to teach Jack, their monkey, some tricks in addition to a few that he had learned from Uncle Toby or the sailor. So Jack was brought out from his cage and given a banana, fruit of which he was very fond. "What trick shall we teach him?" asked Janet. "I think a jumping trick would be good," Teddy answered. "I'll go and get some boxes, and we'll make a high thing, like a tower, of them. We'll get Jack up on top, and have him jump down. That will be great, won't it?" "Fine," agreed Janet. "I'll help you get the boxes." The Curlytops left their monkey sitting on a bench in the yard while they went back into the barn after the boxes. Jack was peacefully eating his banana when Teddy and Janet left him. But when the children came out with the boxes, it having taken longer to find them than they had thought, Jack was not to be seen. "Oh, Jack is gone!" cried Janet, looking around. "Maybe he's up in a tree," suggested Teddy. "Here, Jack! Jack!" he called. But there was no chattering answer, and the monkey was not to be found. He had not gone back into the barn, where the other pets were, and Trouble, who was playing in the back yard, said Jack had not passed him. "Where can he be?" asked Janet. She and Teddy were beginning to worry, when Mrs. Johnson, into whose baby carriage Slider had once been put by Baby William, called from across the street: "Are you looking for your dog, children?" "No'm. For our monkey," answered Teddy. "Oh, maybe the hand-organ man has him," said Mrs. Johnson. "I saw an Italian with an organ go into your yard a little while ago." "Did he have a monkey with him?" asked Teddy. "I don't much believe that he did. I saw the man go in, but I didn't notice a monkey. But I remember now that when the organ man came out, he had a monkey with him. Maybe it was yours." "I'm sure it was!" cried Janet. "Oh, Ted! The hand-organ man has taken Jack! He took Jack when we were in the barn!" "I didn't hear any hand-organ music," Teddy said. "Course he wouldn't play when he came to get Jack!" exclaimed Jan, with tears in her eyes. "Oh, Ted, go for the police! The hand-organ man has taken our monkey! Oh dear!" CHAPTER XIV TURNOVER AND SKYROCKET Perhaps it would have been better for the Curlytops to have run into the house and have told their mother about the missing monkey. But neither Janet nor Teddy thought of this, because they were so excited over the news that Mrs. Johnson gave them--the news that Jack had been taken away by a hand-organ man. "We've got to get him back!" cried Teddy. "Of course!" agreed Janet. "It won't be half a circus without a monkey in it." "Come on!" called Ted, and out of the yard he ran, followed by Janet. The Curlytops took one look to make sure that Trouble was safe before going away and leaving him. The little fellow was playing with Turnover and Skyrocket. He would do that for a long time. Out of the yard and down the street ran the little boy and girl, thinking only of getting their monkey back. "Did he go this way?" Teddy called to Mrs. Johnson, who was watching him and his sister. "Yes, right down that street," answered the mother of Baby Ruth. "But you had better not chase after him. He might not give Jack back to you, and he might be cross, and maybe it wasn't your monkey he had at all, Curlytops!" But Teddy and Janet did not stay to hear all this. They hurried on, Teddy a little ahead of his sister, because, being a boy and a year older, he could go faster. But every now and then he stopped to wait for her. They turned the corner of a street, and Teddy, being in the lead, had the first glimpse down it. "Do you see him?" gasped Janet, hurrying up to the side of her brother. "No, he isn't here," was the answer. Mr. Anderson, who left groceries at the home of the Curlytops, came along just then in the delivery wagon. "Whoa!" he called to his horse. And then, seeing that Teddy and Janet were worried about something, he asked them: "Have you lost your little brother?" Mr. Anderson knew how often Trouble ran away. "No, sir," answered Teddy. "We're looking for our monkey." "And the hand-organ man," added Janet. "Monkey? Hand-organ man?" exclaimed Mr. Anderson. "Are you going to give a party, and do you want the hand-organ man to play at it, and the monkey to do tricks?" "Oh, no, this is our own pet monkey," exclaimed Janet. "The hand-organ man took him away when he was eating a banana," added Teddy. "Our monkey--his name is Jack--he was eating the banana--not the hand-organ man," said Jan, fearing Mr. Anderson might not understand what her brother meant. "And he does tricks, and we're going to have him in our little circus--I mean our monkey does tricks," went on Teddy. "Well, I guess I'll get the straight of it after a while," said Mr. Anderson, with a little laugh. "Anyhow it seems that some stray hand-organ man has taken your monkey, has he?" "Yes. And we want our monkey back!" cried Janet. "Then you'd better get up here in the wagon with me," went on the grocery man, "and I'll drive you down the street. It will be quicker than walking, and, as I've delivered all the orders, I'm in no hurry to get back to the store. Hop up, Curlytops!" He helped Janet and Teddy to the seat beside him, and drove off. It was not the first time the children had ridden with Mr. Anderson, for he often took them with him when he had occasion to stop at their house. "Do you know which street he went down?" asked the grocery man, as he called to his brown horse which started off again. "We don't know," answered Teddy. "We didn't see him. We were in the barn, getting some boxes so Jack--that's the monkey--could do some tricks. We left him eating a banana, and when we came out he was gone. But Mrs. Johnson said she saw a hand-organ man come out of our yard and he had a monkey." "And it must 'a' been Jack!" added Janet. "Well, we'll try to get him back for you," promised Mr. Anderson, as he guided the horse down the street. "And we'll ask some of the people we meet if they have seen Jack." "Oh, now I know we'll get him back!" exclaimed Janet, and there was a smile on her face where, before, there had been a sad look, which always came just before she cried. "I'm glad we met you, Mr. Anderson," she said. "So am I," agreed Teddy. The first person they met was Patrick, the man who worked for Mrs. Blake, the lady into whose house Jack made his way one night, making Mrs. Blake think he was a fuzzy burglar. "Oh, Patrick!" cried Teddy, "a hand-organ man took our monkey away. Have you seen him?" "Which? The hand-organ man or the monkey?" asked Mrs. Blake's gardener. "Either one," said Janet. "He's the same monkey that was once in your house, you know." "Yes," returned Patrick, with a smile, "I know. Well, I'm sorry, but I didn't see either the hand-organ man or the monkey." "Giddap!" called Mr. Anderson to his horse. "We must try someone else." They drove along a little farther, and next they met Sam White, a colored man, who cut grass and did other work for the neighbors of the Curlytops. "Oh, Sam! have you seen our monkey, Jack?" called Teddy. "Seen a monkey? No'm, I hasn't," answered the colored man, who had been wheeling a lawn-mower. "Did you see a hand-organ man?" asked Janet. "Yes'm, I done seen a hand-organ man," was the answer. "He's jest 'round de corner ob de next street. But I didn't see him hab no monkey." "Maybe he has our monkey hidden inside the hand-organ so no one will see Jack!" cried Teddy. "Please hurry, Mr. Anderson!" "I will," promised the grocery man. "Giddap there, Molasses!" he called to his horse. "We're in a hurry!" And as they turned the corner of the street, toward which Sam White had pointed, there came to the ears of the Curlytops the strains of hand-organ music. "There he is! I see him!" cried Janet, pointing. "He's stopped, and he's playing!" "Yes, and I see our monkey, too!" added Teddy. "Please hurry down there, Mr. Anderson, and we'll take Jack away from that bad hand-organ man." "Maybe it isn't your monkey," said the grocer. "All monkeys look alike to me. I couldn't tell one from the other, but maybe you can. Giddap, Molasses!" he called again to his horse, and down the street clattered the Curlytops. They came to a stop in front of the organ grinder just as the dark-colored Italian ground out the last strains of a tune. And there, surely enough, perched on the top of the organ, was a monkey. "Jack! Jack! Come here!" cried Teddy, getting ready to jump down from his seat in the wagon. "Come away from that bad man!" added Janet. The organ grinder turned quickly, gave one look at the Curlytops and at Mr. Anderson, and then, slinging his organ up on his back, started hurriedly up the street, taking the monkey with him. "Here! Hold on a minute!" called the grocer, getting down off the seat, and then helping Teddy and Janet down. "If you have a monkey belonging to these children you must give it back, or I'll call a policeman!" [Illustration: JACK MADE ONE LEAP AND LANDED SAFELY IN TEDDY'S ARMS. "The Curlytops and Their Pets." Page 174] "No! No!" jabbered the Italian. "Dis a-monk mine! Long time mine! No belong childerns! Goo'-bye!" He would have been off down the street and around the corner in another few seconds, but Teddy, rushing after him, looked and made sure it really was Jack that the organ player had with him. There was a queer little tuft of white hair on the end of Jack's tail, and this monkey had the same mark. "Jack! Jack!" cried Teddy. "Come on, to me! I'll give you all the bananas you want!" "Dis-a my monk!" jabbered the Italian. "He is not! He's ours!" declared Janet, as she hurried up to the side of her brother. "Make him give back our monkey that we got from Uncle Toby!" she appealed to Mr. Anderson. "If he doesn't," said the grocer, "I'll call a policeman and----" But just then Jack acted for himself. With a shrill chatter he broke loose from the string that was tied to the collar about his neck. There had been no cord on him when he was eating a banana in the yard of the Curlytops, and the hand-organ man must have tied it there after he took the children's pet. Once free, Jack made one leap and landed safe in Teddy's arms. Now, Jack was rather a large monkey, and, jumping from a distance, as Jack did, he knocked Teddy over. Flat down on the sidewalk sat Teddy, the monkey clinging with its hairy arms about the little boy's neck. "Oh! Oh!" exclaimed Janet, and then she stopped, for she did not know what else to say. "Look out!" cried Mr. Anderson. "Maybe that's a savage monkey, and he'll bite you!" "This is Jack all right," declared Teddy. "I know him and he knows me. He didn't hurt me. I--I just sat down, that's all," and the little Curlytop boy laughed. Jack chattered, clung tighter to his master, and then the crowd that had gathered also laughed. For it looked so odd to see Teddy sitting on the sidewalk, with a monkey, quite a large one, clinging to his neck. "What's the matter here? What's the trouble?" asked a gruff but not unkindly voice, and on the outside of the crowd appeared Policeman Cassidy. "Oh, Cassidy," said Mr. Anderson, "this Italian took the Curlytops' monkey, and they just got him back--I mean they got the monkey back. The Italian----" But with a half-smothered cry of anger, the Italian started to run down the street, his hand-organ swaying from side to side on his back. He had no wish to meet Policeman Cassidy and be arrested for having taken Jack. And that is just what the Italian had done. He had sneaked into the yard and, seeing the monkey unfastened and eating a banana, had picked up the pet and hurried off with him. The Italian must have known how to talk to and handle monkeys, for Jack made no outcry, but went peaceably with his captor. Perhaps the monkey was afraid of being beaten. And, so that Jack could not get away, the Italian had tied a string to the collar. But, thanks to Mr. Anderson and the grocery wagon, the Curlytops had gotten back their pet. The Italian had not played his organ very near the home of Teddy and Janet for fear of their hearing it, I suppose. But when he thought he was far enough away he started, and Sam White had heard him. "Maybe the hand-organ man kept Jack hidden under his coat until he got down here," said Janet. "Perhaps," agreed the grocer, as the crowd began to melt away, seeing there was to be no more excitement. "And now if you Curlytops, and your monkey, will get into the wagon, I'll drive you back home." "Do you want me to chase after that Italian and arrest him?" asked the policeman. "No, thank you, I guess not," answered Teddy, as he rubbed Jack's fuzzy head. "We got our monkey back, and now we can start to teach him some tricks for the circus. We'll send you a free ticket to the show, Mr. Anderson, 'cause you helped us get Jack back." Janet whispered something to her brother. "Oh, yes," added the little fellow, "we'd like to have you come, too, Mr. Policeman Cassidy." "I'll come and stand guard at the ticket wagon," laughed the big, good-natured officer. "And if I see that Italian sneaking up I'll chase him." "I guess he won't come," said Teddy. Then he and his sister climbed up on the seat beside Mr. Anderson and were driven back to their home. It was time, too, for their mother was out at the gate, holding Trouble by the hand, and looking up and down the street. "Where have you been, Curlytops?" she asked them. "And what are you doing in Mr. Anderson's wagon--and with the monkey? Did Jack run away?" she asked. "He was taken away," explained Teddy. "By an old organ grinder," added Janet. And then the story was told. "Dear me," said Mrs. Martin, when it was finished. "I'm sure if your father and I had known all the things that were going to happen because of Uncle Toby's pets, we would not have brought them home." "Oh, it's fun!" laughed Teddy, slipping down with Jack. "And Policeman Cassidy is coming to our circus," said Janet. "Don't forget me!" called Mr. Anderson, as he drove away with the wagon. "We won't!" promised the Curlytops. "You been take Jack to barber's?" asked Trouble, letting go his mother's hand to pat the monkey. "The barber's?" repeated Teddy, as he put Jack down on a box and gave the pet a banana, as had been promised. "What made him think that?" Teddy asked his mother. "He's been singing that Mother Goose verse, 'Barber, barber! shave a pig. How many hairs will make a wig? Four and twenty, that's enough, give the barber a pinch of snuff.' I suppose Trouble thought maybe Snuff, the cat, had something to do with a barber, and he got Jack mixed up in it somehow. But I am glad you Curlytops are home again. I was getting worried about you. What are you going to do now?" "Teach Jack to jump off a high tower of boxes," explained Ted. "We were getting ready to do that when the Italian took Jack. Come on, Janet, we'll make the box tower." "Me help!" cried Trouble. "Oh, you'll be more bother than you will help," replied Janet. "You'll be knocking the tower over all the while, or trying to climb up on it. You go and play with Skyrocket and Turnover," she advised, as the dog and cat came around the path. "All wite! Me make Turn an' Sky do circus twicks!" said Trouble, talking half to himself. Having made sure that Jack was comfortable and had not been harmed by the Italian who took him away, the Curlytops set about building, of old packing boxes, the tower off which they hoped their monkey would leap, thus doing a new trick for the pet circus. Teddy and Janet were so busy they paid no attention to Trouble, except to notice, now and then, that he was playing at the end of the yard with Skyrocket and Turnover, or "Sky" and "Turn", as he shortened the pets' names. "There, I guess the tower is high enough for the first few jumps," Teddy remarked, as he nailed in place the last of the boxes. "We don't want Jack to jump down from too high a place at first." "No," agreed Janet, "we don't. He might hurt himself, or he might get scared, and then he wouldn't want to be in the circus. But we ought to have some sort of net for him to jump into, didn't we ought, Teddy?" "I guess we did," said the Curlytop boy. "Then we can make the tower higher. Oh, I know what we can have for a net!" he suddenly cried. "What?" asked Janet. Her brother pointed to a clothesline in the yard, across which were drying some lace curtains that had just been washed. "They'll be just dandy for a circus net!" Teddy went on. "You can hold one end, and I'll hold the other. But we won't make the tower any higher for a while. I'll get a curtain for a net." "S'pose mother will mind?" asked Janet. "Oh, no, I don't s'pose so," answered Teddy. "It won't hurt the curtain. Jack isn't so big that he'll tear it, and if it gets dirty, an' maybe it will a little, we can wash it again. You get Jack now, and I'll get the curtain. Then we'll make Jack climb up to the top of the box tower and jump off." "How you going to get him to go up?" asked Janet, when Ted came back with his mother's lace curtain which he had taken off the line. "I'll put a piece of banana up there on the top box," Teddy answered. The pile of boxes, nailed together, was higher than his head, but he had brought out the stepladder so he could reach up with that. "How you going to get Jack to jump down into the lace curtain net?" Janet went on. "I'll hold out another piece of banana," Teddy replied. "Come on here, Jack, and learn a new trick!" he called to the monkey. But just then both Teddy and Janet saw a sight that made them cry out in surprise. And the sight was that of Trouble, coming around the corner of the barn, driving before him Turnover and Skyrocket, the first cat and dog pets the Curlytops had ever owned. But Turnover and Skyrocket had never looked so funny as they did now, with Trouble urging them on and crying: "I dot a new twick! I dot a new twick! Look what me make Turn an' Sky do!" CHAPTER XV PLANNING THE CIRCUS "Well, look what that little tyke has done!" cried Teddy, with a laugh. "All by himself, too!" added Janet. "How did he ever think of it?" "And how he got Turnover and Skyrocket to stand still long enough to be harnessed up is a wonder!" said Teddy. For that is what baby William had done. With bits of string, straps and strips torn from some pieces of cloth he had found in the barn, he had made a crazy jumble of a harness for the dog and the cat. They were tied and fastened together. But this was not all. Besides harnessing the dog and cat together, like a team made up of a big horse and a little pony, Trouble had made the two pets fast to a small express wagon that he claimed as his very own, though it had once belonged to Teddy. "And look what he has in the wagon!" cried Janet, now laughing as heartily as was Teddy. "My old rag doll--Miss Muffin!" In her earlier days Janet had a large rag doll, which had been named Miss Muffin, just why no one knew. But as she grew older and had other dolls, and finally had come to play more with her brother and the pets than with such toys, Janet had forgotten all about Miss Muffin. So the rag doll had been tossed here and there, sometimes in one corner and sometimes in another, getting more ragged, torn and dirty as the weeks went by. But Baby William had found this old doll and had tied it to the little seat in his express wagon. And there sat Miss Muffin, one eye partly scratched off her painted cloth face, and the other eye, by some accident, skewed around until it was standing up and down, and did not lie sideways as most eyes do. "I give Miss Muffin a wide," announced Trouble. "She 'ike it, an' maybe it's a twick for de circus!" Teddy and Janet looked at one another and then they both laughed. "Say, it _would_ be a good trick!" said Teddy at length. "We could dress Trouble up funny like, and have him come in driving Turnover and Skyrocket. The people would clap like anything." "I believe they would," agreed Janet. "Did Turnover scratch you when you tied all those strings on, Trouble?" she asked her little brother. "Nope! Turn, he 'ike it," declared Baby William. "An' Sky, he puts hims tongue on my hands and 'ick me." "I guess he wouldn't have much trouble with Skyrocket," said Teddy. "I've harnessed the dog to little carts before. But I never hitched the dog and cat together. You made a fine trick there, Trouble." "I be in circus?" asked the little fellow. "Sure you may be in the circus," said Janet. "It will be one of the best acts. And we can tie ribbons on the necks of Sky and Turn, as Trouble calls them, to make it look prettier. Go on, Trouble," she said to her little brother, "let's see you drive 'em around the yard. Maybe they'll break away, or get all tangled up, and then it wouldn't be a good act for our show," she said to Teddy. But Trouble seemed to have charmed Skyrocket and Turnover to do just what he wanted them to do, and they walked slowly around the paths in the yard, giving Miss Muffin a fine ride. "Don't keep 'em hitched up too long, Trouble," advised Janet. "If you do they'll get tired, and won't like it next time." "I undwess 'em now," said the little boy. By "undressing" he meant taking the string and strap harness off the dog and cat. Turnover and Skyrocket seemed very glad to be set free, and they ran off together, while Trouble stayed with his brother and sister, as they had told him they were going to make Jack do a trick now. It was time to see if they could get the monkey to do what was wanted of him. The tower of boxes had been built, and Teddy had two bananas, one to get Jack to climb up on top of the pile, and another yellow fruit to induce the monkey to leap down. The lace curtain net had also been provided. "Now, Jack, we'll see what good you are," said Teddy, as he climbed up on the stepladder and placed the banana on the top-most box, letting part of the fruit stick out over the edge. "Here, Jack!" called Teddy, standing half way up the ladder. "Come on and do your trick!" The monkey chattered a little, but came to Teddy, who picked the fuzzy creature up in his arms. Holding Jack up, Teddy showed him the banana on top of the pile of boxes. With another chatter, Jack scrambled out of Teddy's arms, and with the usual quickness of monkeys, was soon on top of the pile of boxes--the "tower" as Ted and Jan called it. When they gave their circus they planned to cover the pile of boxes with green boughs and pretend it was a big tree in the jungle. "Oh, see!" cried Janet in delight, as she saw Jack on top of the pile, eating the banana he found there. "He's done the first part of the trick all right, Teddy!" "Yes, and if he does the last part as well it will be fine!" declared the little Curlytop boy. "But the last is the hardest part. Jack may want to climb down instead of jumping. But first we'll let him eat the banana, and get hungry for the second one." So the three children stood on the ground, and watched Jack, up on the tower, eating his banana. The monkey looked down, making funny faces, which he seemed to be doing most of the time, and Trouble laughed. "He is funny!" laughed Janet. "I'm sure the people who come to our circus will like Jack." "They'll like him a lot more if he does tricks," said Teddy. "Come on, Jan," he called, after a while. "We'll get the net ready now. I guess it's time he jumped for the other banana." Mrs. Martin had not seen the Curlytops take her lace curtain off the line to use for a circus net. If she had, she would, of course, have stopped them. But Teddy and Janet did not think they were doing anything very wrong. As for Trouble, he never bothered his head about it. Whatever Ted or Janet did was all right to him. "If we each have to hold one end of the curtain net, how are we going to hold out the banana so Jack will see it?" asked Janet of her older brother. "We'll lay the banana in the middle of the net," decided Ted. This was done, and when the curtain was held stretched as tightly as Janet and Teddy could pull it, as they had once seen the Cresco firemen stretch out a life-net in a practice drill, the banana was placed in the center. "Come on now, Jack! Jump down!" called Teddy. "Jump down and get your other banana!" Jack chattered, but did not jump. He clung to the edge of the tower of boxes, made two or three motions as if he were coming down, but he did not descend. "I guess he doesn't see the banana," remarked Janet. "One of us ought to hold it up." "We can't, and hold the net too," Teddy declared. "And if we don't hold the net, and Jack jumps, he may hurt himself, and then he can't be in the show." "Oh, I know what we can do!" Janet declared. "What?" asked Teddy. "We can have Trouble hold the banana! Let him stand right near the outside edge of the net, near the middle, and hold up the banana. Then Jack will see it and jump." "That is a good idea," remarked Teddy. He was always willing to give his sister credit for thinking of things to do. "Come on, Trouble," called Teddy to his brother. "Hold the banana up for Jack!" "Eess, me do dat!" replied Baby William, so excited he could hardly talk at all, much less talk properly. Eager to do his share in getting ready for the circus, Trouble held the banana up as high as he could reach, so that Jack could see it. And this time the monkey caught sight of the fruit. With a chatter of delight at the good things he was getting to eat, Jack came down, but not exactly in the way Janet and Teddy wanted him to. For the pet _climbed_ down the boxes, which were of different sizes, making many places where he could hold on by his hands and tail. He didn't jump at all! With a chatter and a scramble, Jack reached the ground, ran around the net to where Trouble stood, and then just reached up, plucked the fruit from the little chap's hand and began to eat it. And it was all done so quickly that Ted and Janet hardly had time to say a word. Finally, however, after laughing at the funny look on Trouble's face when he saw the monkey snatch away the banana, Teddy said: "Oh, Jack! I didn't mean for you to come down that way! I wanted you to jump into the net! Here, you can't have the rest of that banana until you jump for it." Teddy took the fruit away from his fuzzy pet, and Jack jabbered and chattered at the top of his voice, for he did not like this at all. To have a banana taken away when he was just half finished with it! That didn't seem fair! "Come on! We'll try again, Jan," said Teddy, holding the half-eaten yellow fruit out of Jack's reach. For the monkey was jumping up trying to get back the banana. "You'll have to get him up on top of the boxes again," Janet said. "Yes, and I guess I'll have to break off a piece of this banana to get him to go up after it," her brother said. "Come on, Jack!" he cried. Breaking what was left of the banana in half, Teddy once more climbed the step ladder and put the pulpy mass on top of the pile of boxes. Jack saw what was done, and in an instant he had climbed up. "He's learning to go up fine!" declared Teddy, as he got down and moved the ladder away, so Jack would not use that in his descent. "If we can only make him jump now. Get ready, Trouble, to hold up the banana again." "There isn't much left of it," Janet remarked. "It's all there is until we go to the store for more," answered Teddy. "I guess it will do. We'll wait until he swallows what he's eating now, and then Trouble can hold up what is left." Anxiously the Curlytops and their little brother watched Jack perched rather high on the tower of boxes. The monkey made short work of the small piece of banana that had been put on his high perch. Then he looked down for more. "Hold it up, Trouble! Hold it up!" cried Teddy, at one end of the curtain net, while Janet held the other end. "I hold it, but my hoots is gettin' tired," said the little fellow. "Never mind, dear," consoled Janet. "If Jack doesn't jump this time we'll let you go. We can put a stick in the ground near the edge of the net, and tie the banana to that if Trouble is tired," she said to Teddy. "Yes, but it won't be so good as Trouble, 'cause Jack likes him," Teddy answered. "Look out! I think he's going to jump!" And that is just what Jack did! With a chatter of delight as he saw Trouble holding up the piece of fruit, Jack stood for a moment on the edge of the pile of boxes, and then he leaped. Straight down he jumped toward the lace curtain and toward Trouble, who held up the banana. But before the monkey landed there was a scream from the house, and Mrs. Martin came running out. "Don't let Jack jump into my lace curtain! Don't do it, Curlytops!" exclaimed their mother. "He'll tear it to pieces. Stop him!" But it was too late. Jack had jumped! CHAPTER XVI TOP IS GONE Mrs. Martin ran as fast as she could from the back door of the house to that part of the yard where the Curlytops and Trouble were planning and practicing the new circus trick. Ted and Janet heard their mother's cry, and, for the first time, realized that perhaps they had done wrong in taking the lace curtain for a net. And by the time Mrs. Martin reached the place where Trouble was standing, Jack had jumped into the curtain. Right into the middle of it he landed, and you can guess what happened. Yes, Jack tore through, making a big hole in the lace. For it was not strong enough for even a play circus net, and, really, Ted and Janet should have known this. Down through the hole in the curtain fell Jack, but he did not go quite all the way through. That is parts of the torn lace clung to him. In another instant, after landing lightly on the ground, Jack sprang up, grabbed the banana away from Trouble, and then made a flying leap for the nearest tree, trailing the lace curtain after him, dragging it on the ground, catching it on the branches of the tree and tearing it worse than ever. So suddenly did Jack snatch the piece of banana away from Baby William that the little fellow was knocked down, just as Jack, leaping away from the Italian hand-organ man, had knocked Teddy to the sidewalk. "Oh! Oh!" wailed Trouble, and then he began to cry. "Oh, Curlytops! Curlytops! What have you done?" exclaimed Mrs. Martin in dismay. Teddy and Janet could not say a word. They seemed frightened and dazed when Jack, in his wild leap, pulled the curtain from their grasp. "We--we----" began Janet. "Didn't mean to," finished Teddy. And then Jack began to chatter as he tried to tear loose the lace curtain which was tangled all about him as he sat perched in a tree, licking from his paws some bits of crushed banana. With the crying of Trouble, the chatter of the monkey, and Mrs. Martin saying: "Oh dear! Oh dear!" again and again, there was quite a little excitement in the yard of the Curlytops just then. "Poor Trouble!" sighed Janet, as she walked over to her little brother, who was crying and sitting on the ground where Jack had knocked him. "Did the monkey scratch you?" But Trouble was sobbing too hard to answer. "What in the world were you doing?" asked Mrs. Martin, as she picked Trouble up in her arms, and finally made him stop crying. "Why did you take one of my nice curtains?" "We didn't know it was nice," Teddy answered. "And we had to get something for a net to have Jack jump in. I thought it was an old curtain." "It wasn't one of my best ones," said his mother, "still I didn't want it torn. And it is of no use now. Look! All in shreds!" Indeed that was the state of the curtain. For by this time Jack had managed to tear it off him, and it dangled in the tree like the tail of a broken kite. "It will be good for dolls' dresses," said Janet. "And we can make other things to dress the animals up in for the circus." "Oh, you Curlytops!" cried Mrs. Martin, trying not to laugh, for it was all rather funny in spite of the fact that one of her curtains was ruined. "However, it can't be helped," she went on. "Only, next time, come and ask me when you want a circus net." "We will," promised Teddy. "But, anyhow, I guess we have taught Jack his new trick. He jumped like anything, and from the top of the tower, when he saw the banana." "Oh, doesn't he look funny now!" cried Janet, pointing to the monkey, that was now sitting on a box and looking at the children and their mother. "He's got a lace frill on." Part of the torn lace curtain was around Jack's neck, making him, indeed, look as though he wore a fancy collar. "Him's got a bib on!" declared Trouble, now over his fright and crying spell, the first having caused the second. "Him's got a bib on 'ike Trouble when him eats bread and 'ilk." "So he has, dear!" laughed Mrs. Martin. "And I guess Jack would rather be eating bread and milk than doing tricks in this pet show." "Oh, no! He likes the circus! Or he will when we get it started," declared Teddy. "We've got lots to do yet, but I guess we can have it in about two weeks. We'll get Jack to practice his jump some more." "Then we'll need more bananas--he ate the last one," remarked Janet. "And Mr. Nip likes them, too." "We'll get more, but we won't make Jack do any more tricks to-day, Jan," decided Teddy. "Animals get cross if you keep 'em at their tricks too long." "And I think I'll take Trouble into the house. He's had enough excitement for the day," said Mrs. Martin. "Don't take any more of my lace curtains," she added, as she moved toward the house. "We won't," promised the Curlytops. Then they pulled from the tree, where Jack had torn his way out of it, the remainder of the lace curtain they had used for a landing net for the pet monkey. It was two or three days after this, during which time the Curlytops had taught their pets several new little tricks, that their mother called Janet and Teddy to her one afternoon. Mrs. Martin held a letter in her hand, the postman having just left it for her. "Here is something I want to talk to you children about," said their mother. "Oh, is that a letter from Uncle Toby, and is he coming back to take his pets away before we've had the show?" asked Janet. "No, indeed," answered her mother, with a laugh. "We haven't heard from Uncle Toby since he left for South America. I suppose, by this time, he is sitting in the jungle, watching hundreds of parrots and monkeys." "I wish he'd send some more to us!" said Teddy. "Oh, gracious sakes! I don't!" laughed Mrs. Martin. "I think we have quite enough as it is." But of course the Curlytops did not think so. "What I called you for," went on Mrs. Martin, "was to ask if you really intend to go on with this circus of yours. Do you really intend holding it?" "Sure we do, Mother!" Teddy answered. "We're going to have a tent, and seats and everything." "Are you going to charge money for persons to come in?" "Yes," said Janet. "It's to be five cents for big boys and girls, and three cents for little ones like Trouble. Of course Trouble won't have to pay, 'cause he's going to be part of the show. But what is your letter about, Mother?" "It's about your circus," was the answer. "At least now that I know you are really going on with the performance this letter will have something to do with it. This is a note from some ladies who, like me, belong to a charitable society," said Mrs. Martin. "The secretary has just written me, asking if I can not think up some plan to raise money so some poor orphan children may be sent to the country to board for a few weeks this summer." "Oh, can't we help the orphan children, as we helped the crippled children once?" asked Teddy. "Just what I was going to say," went on his mother. "You may take in quite a few dollars giving your animal show, and I can think of no better way of spending it than to give it to the orphans. Besides, if it is known that the circus is for charity, many more people will come than would otherwise. So do you Curlytops want to help the orphans?" "Of course!" said Janet. "Sure!" cried Teddy. "Me help, too! What is it?" asked Trouble, coming up just then. "Oh, you're going to help all right!" laughed Janet. "You're going to drive Turnover and Skyrocket with my old rag doll, Miss Muffin, in the express wagon, and I'm sure you'll be so darling and funny that everyone will laugh." "And I hope Jack does his jumping trick," said Teddy. "It would be great if we had Tip and Top to perform together. We could charge twenty-five cents for big people to come in if we had the two trick dogs." "Well, one is better than none," said Janet. "It's a good thing we have Top." "Yes," agreed Teddy, "I suppose it is. But I wonder where Tip can be?" But of course no one could tell him that. So it was settled that the money that was taken in for the show of the Curlytops and their pets should go to the orphans, so they might have a few weeks in the green country during the hot summer. The Curlytops were much excited that evening, telling their father about the performance for the orphans, and Mr. Martin agreed that no better use could be made of the money. "You must take good care of your pets from now until the time of the show," he said. "Don't let them get away or become ill, or you will not be able to give a good circus." "Let's go out to the barn now, and see if they are all right," proposed Janet. "All right," agreed Teddy. It was early evening, and light enough to see in the barn. Top and Skyrocket barked a welcome, Snuff and Turnover mewed their delight at seeing the children, and while Mr. Nip shrieked away about being a "crack-crack-cracker" Jack chattered. About the only quiet ones were the white rats and mice, and Slider, the alligator. "They're all right, and ready for the circus," said Teddy as he came out and locked the door after him. "Yes, I can hardly wait!" murmured Janet. But in the morning there was bad news for the Curlytops. Their mother, who had gone out to the barn to open the door for the animals, came hurrying back to the house as Teddy and Janet descended for their breakfast. "Where is Top?" asked Mrs. Martin. "Top!" exclaimed Teddy. "Why, isn't he in the barn with Sky and the other pets?" "No," answered his mother, shaking her head. "Top is gone! The barn door was locked, and all the other animals are there, but Top is gone!" CHAPTER XVII THE DOG SHOW Teddy and Janet looked at each other in sorrow and dismay. It seemed that the worst had happened--Top missing just when they were getting ready for the show! First Tip was gone, and now Top! Could it be true? "Are you sure, Mother?" asked Teddy. "Maybe Top is hiding behind a box or something." "Let's go look!" proposed Janet. "Oh, I'm sure he isn't there," said Mrs. Martin. "I called him, as I always do, when I go to let him and Skyrocket out. But Top did not come." "Did Skyrocket?" asked Janet. "Yes, he came rushing out of his kennel, barking and wagging his tail as if he would wag it off. And Snuff came out, and so did Turnover. But there was no Top." Teddy started for the barn on the run, and so did Janet. Their mother followed more slowly. She felt very sorry for her Curlytops, as she knew they would be very sad over the loss of their second pet dog. "The barn door is locked!" said Teddy, as he reached it and tried to go in. "Yes, I locked it after me when I came out," his mother said. "I wanted to make sure that none of the other pets would get away. But the door was locked when I first went in this morning. It was locked just as you left it last night." "Then I don't see how Top could have gotten out," Janet said. "Unless there is some other place open in the barn--like a window," Mrs. Martin suggested. "Let's look!" cried Teddy. His mother turned the key in the padlock on the outside of the barn door. As the door opened and the Curlytops went in, they were greeted by barks of welcome from Skyrocket, by mews from Snuff and Turnover, the cats, by chattering from Mr. Jack, the monkey, and by shrill cries from Mr. Nip, the parrot, who called as loudly as he could: "I'm a crack-crack-cracker!" "They're all here but Top," said Mrs. Martin. And as the Curlytops looked around the barn they saw that this was so. Top was not in sight. "Here, Top! Top! Top!" called Teddy, and he whistled. Mr. Nip also whistled, as loudly and clearly as the little boy himself. But there was no answer from his pet trick dog. Janet ran over and looked in the box where Top always slept on a piece of carpet. The box was empty. "Where do you s'pose he can be?" she asked her mother. "That's what we must find out," was Mrs. Martin's answer. "We must look all through the barn. There are several places where he may have gotten out--or been taken out," she added a moment later. It was Teddy who finally discovered the open window by which it was thought someone had entered the barn and taken Top out. The window was near the stalls used by the horses before Mr. Martin bought an automobile. In a corner, at the left of the stalls and too high from the floor of the barn for Top to have reached, even in his best jump, was a swinging window. This was open, as Teddy found, and when his mother and Janet came at his call, Mrs. Martin saw that the bolt had been broken. "That is how it happened," she said. "Someone opened that window from the outside last night, crawled in, and took Top away. The dog himself could not have gotten out of that high window. Someone must have taken him." "But wouldn't he bark and bite them?" asked Janet. "Top was too friendly to bite anyone unless they harmed him," said her mother. "And I have no doubt but that this man--it must have been a man or a big boy--knew how to be nice to Top. Maybe they gave him a little piece of meat to chew on while they took him away." "Oh dear!" sighed Janet. "How shall we ever get him back?" "I'll call your father, and ask him what to do," remarked Mrs. Martin. "This is getting serious! Two of Uncle Toby's best pets gone! If he comes back he will think we did not take very good care of his animals." "It wasn't our fault that a burglar came and took Top," said Teddy. "No, dear," answered his mother. "But we must do what we can to get the dog back. I'll call your father." Mr. Martin came quickly when he heard what had happened. He went to the barn to look, and he agreed with his wife that, during the night, someone had broken open the barn window, had crawled in, and had taken out Top. "But why didn't they take Jack or Mr. Nip or Slider?" asked Teddy. "All our pets are nice. Why didn't they take more?" "Maybe they didn't have time, or perhaps they were frightened away, or they may have wanted only Top," said Mr. Martin. "I think that last is the real reason. A trick poodle, like Top, is valuable. And if he could be placed in a show with his chum Tip, the two would earn a lot of money for whoever had them." "Then," said Teddy, "we've got to find out who has Tip, and maybe then we'll get back Top." "Yes," agreed his father, "but it isn't going to be easy. I'll report it to the police and also to the police of that town where Tip was taken." "We can't have much of a show with Tip and Top gone," said Janet sadly. "Well, not so very," answered Teddy, trying to make the best of it. "But if we don't get Top back we still have some pets left. The only thing is that Skyrocket has learned to do some tricks with Top, and if Top doesn't come back Sky can't do those tricks. Oh dear, I wish I knew who had our two trick poodles!" "So do I!" chimed in Janet. Mr. Martin called up the Cresco police and told them of the theft. Word was also sent to the town where the Curlytops had stopped for lunch the day they had brought home Uncle Toby's pets, when "Shorty" had been left on guard. After that there was nothing to do but wait, though Ted and Jan wanted to go around among their friends, asking if, by chance, any of them had seen Top. And after breakfast their mother allowed them to do this. To house after house of their friends and neighbors went the two Curlytops, telling the story of the theft of Top, and asking if anyone had seen him. But it was a hopeless search, as Mrs. Martin knew it would be. For whoever had taken Top, she felt sure, would hide him away, and not let him be seen in or about Cresco, where the pet animal was well known. "What's the matter, Curlytops?" asked Policeman Cassidy, as he saw Teddy and Janet going along the street one day, having called at several houses, without getting any word about Top. "What's the matter? Can't you have the circus you were counting on?" "We can't have it as nice as we want it with Top gone," answered Teddy, and then he explained about the theft, of which the policeman had not heard, having been away on his vacation. "We've been looking all over for Top," added Janet, when her brother had finished, "but we can't find him." "You aren't looking in the right places," said the policeman. "You won't find him at the houses of any of your friends. If he was there he'd run back to you as soon as he got outside. Where you want to look is in some dog show." "Dog show?" exclaimed Teddy. "Yes," went on Mr. Cassidy. "I've heard about stolen dogs before. They are taken by men who want to make money. And since Top was a trick dog, as well as Tip, I'm sure someone has them who would put them in a show. So look for a dog show, and when you find it go in and look at the dogs. That's where you'll find Top, and maybe Tip, too. It's in a dog show you should be looking!" "Yes," agreed Teddy, after thinking the matter over, "I guess we should. Thank you, Mr. Cassidy. Come on, Jan, we'll look for a dog show. Do you think there's one in Cresco, Mr. Cassidy?" "None that I've heard of," the officer answered. "You'll see bill posters, and advertisements on the fences when there's a dog show around. Look for a dog show, and maybe you'll find your pets." The Curlytops thanked him again, and walked off down the street together, filled with a new idea. Eagerly they scanned the walls and fences, seeking for some poster that would tell of a show. And it was not long before they saw just what they were looking for. "See!" cried Janet, pointing to a red and black poster on a fence. "That tells of a show, Ted." "Yes," agreed her brother, "so it does. But it's over in Canfield." The advertisement told of "Professor Montelli's" wonderful collection of trained and trick dogs. A show would be given every afternoon and evening, the bill said, and, as Teddy had remarked, it was over in the neighboring town of Canfield. "Maybe Tip would be there," suggested Janet, as she and her brother looked at the poster. "And Top," added Ted. "Let's go!" suddenly cried Janet. "I've got most of my allowance that daddy gave me. We can go on the trolley. It isn't far!" Teddy thought it over for a moment. Then he made up his mind. "All right!" he said. "Let's go to the dog show!" CHAPTER XVIII THE BLACK POODLES Once they were in the trolley, going to Canfield, the two Curlytops felt quite happy. They were happy for one reason, because they were having a ride. Teddy and Janet always liked to be doing things and going somewhere, and this was one of those times. And they were happy for another reason, because they felt sure they would find Top, and perhaps Tip. Who knew? Policeman Cassidy had said the most likely place to find the missing poodles would be in a dog show. And they were going to a dog show. "Do you s'pose mother will mind?" asked Janet of Ted, after they had ridden for a little way in the trolley. "Oh, I don't guess so," he answered. "We'll soon be back, for it isn't very far to Canfield, and she said we could go out and hunt for Top." "But maybe she didn't mean we were to go so far, and on a trolley." "She didn't tell us _not_ to!" declared Teddy. "All right," went on Janet. "We're going, anyhow." "Whereabout in Canfield do you--you Curlytops want to get out?" asked the trolley-car conductor. "Oh, do you know us?" asked Janet, for the conductor had called the little boy and girl by the name so often given them. "Well, I don't exactly know you," he answered. "But I would call you Curlytops if you were my children. For the tops of your heads are curly," he added with a laugh. "Everybody calls us Curlytops," said Teddy. "And could you please let us out near the dog show?" "The dog show," repeated the conductor, wonderingly. "This one," went on Ted, taking from his pocket a hand bill of "Professor Montelli's Wondrous Aggregation of Canine Cut-ups." Teddy had found the bill in the street. "Oh, that show!" exclaimed the conductor, with a laugh. "Why, that's only a little side-show in a tent near where this car runs. I'll let you get off there if you want to, but it isn't much of a show. It isn't a circus, you know," he said, as he started the car again, after a very fat lady had gotten off. "If you're looking for a circus this isn't it. The dog show is only a little side one--the kind they used to charge ten cents to go in and see after or before the regular circus. I hope you Curlytops aren't running away to see a circus," he added doubtfully. "Oh, no, sir!" exclaimed Janet. "We're looking for our lost dog, and we thought maybe it was with this show. Two dogs we had, Tip and Top," she went on. "They were white poodles and they belonged to Uncle Toby and they could do tricks. But one was stolen when we were bringing them home, and the other night Top was taken from our barn. It's our dogs we're looking for, not a circus." "Besides, we're going to have a circus of our own," added Teddy. "That is, we are if we get Tip and Top back." "Do you think your dogs ran off to join a show?" the conductor asked. "Oh, no!" answered Teddy. "They were taken away. But Mr. Cassidy--he's a policeman--said the right place to look for our dogs was in a dog show, so we're looking." "Well, this Professor Montelli, as he calls himself, has a dog show near the end of my trolley line," said the conductor. "I don't know much about it, as it only came there yesterday. It's in a little tent--a regular side show. I'll put you off near it. But do you think it will be safe for you to go there alone and ask for your lost dogs?" "Oh, we won't go right in and ask for them," explained Teddy. He and his sister had talked it over, and they had made up their minds what they would do. "We'll just go into the show--'cause we have money to pay for our tickets," the Curlytop boy explained. "Then if we see Tip and Top there we'll take 'em right away." "That's what we will!" declared Janet. "And if that show man won't give our dogs to us we'll call a policeman." "Well, I guess you Curlytops can take care of yourselves," laughed the conductor. "You get off three blocks from here, and then you'll be right near the dog show. Good luck to you!" "Thank you," replied Teddy and Janet. They saw the tent--a small one with a few flags on it--almost as soon as they alighted from the trolley car. It was about three o'clock, and a crowd about the tent showed that the performance was going on, or would soon start. Professor Montelli's name was painted on a strip of canvas over the entrance to the tent, and on either side were painted pictures of dogs doing all sorts of queer tricks. One picture was that of a dog jumping off a high platform into a tank of water. "Oh, if we could only make our monkey Jack do a trick like that!" whispered Janet to Teddy. "Maybe we can," he whispered back, as they walked up to the tent. "But monkeys don't like water, I guess. We might get Skyrocket to do the jump. We'll try. But now let's see if Tip or Top are here in this show." A man standing in a booth outside the tent was calling out in a loud voice: "Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Step right up, boys and girls! The big show is about to begin!" He ruffled a bundle of red tickets in his hand and went on: "Pay your dime and step right up. You'll see the world-famed aggregation of canine cut-ups! The funniest dogs you ever saw doing the funniest tricks! There are hound dogs, bulldogs, setter dogs, fox terriers, big dogs, little dogs, all good dogs, and some poodle dogs!" Ted and Janet looked at each other. "Poodles!" whispered the Curlytops. Tip and Top were white poodles! "Come on! Let's go in!" said Teddy boldly. He stepped up to the booth, bought two tickets, and he and Janet went into the tent. At one end was a raised platform, hung about with red cloth. On the platform were some chairs, a table, some pedestals, some paper-covered hoops and other things used in the dog tricks. There were also some board benches, like circus seats, in the tent. "Come on up front, where we can see the dogs better," said Ted to his sister. "If we see Tip or Top we'll call them right down to us off the platform." There were as yet not many persons in the tent, and the Curlytops had no trouble getting front seats. Then they anxiously waited for the performance to begin, which it did in a little while. Out on the platform came a man with a very black moustache and a little whip. The moustache was under his nose and the whip in his hands. He looked around at the audience, and then in a sing-song voice said: "Ladies an' gen'men: With your kind attention an' permission I will now show you what my dogs can do. Let 'em on, Jack," he called to someone back of the platform. A moment later about ten dogs rushed up on the platform, barking and wagging their tails. Every one of the dogs looked anxiously at the black-eyed and black-moustached man, as if afraid he would hit them with the whip he carried. Each dog seemed to know his or her place, and went to chair, box, or platform, until all were arranged in a half circle back of the man. "First Lulu, the highest jumper in the world, will perform some tricks," said Professor Montelli. "Here, Lulu," he called, and a long, thin greyhound leaped from a chair and stood ready. This dog jumped over a pile of high baskets, and through some of them, there being no bottoms to them. Then the greyhound leaped over a high pile of chairs. In turn the other dogs did tricks, some of which the Curlytops had seen before, and some of which were new. They quite enjoyed the show, or they would have done so had they not been worrying about getting their own dogs back. They looked anxiously at the dogs on the platform. None of them was Tip or Top. I shall not tell you all about the tricks the dogs in this show did, for I want to tell you about the circus the Curlytops had. Enough to say that Professor Montelli seemed to know a great deal about dogs, though I can not say the trick animals loved him. They seemed more afraid than anything else. "Well, I guess we shan't find Tip or Top here," said Ted to Janet after a while. "There aren't any white poodles like ours." "No, I guess not," sadly agreed the little girl. But just then Professor Montelli stepped to the edge of the platform and said: "This ends our regular performance, ladies an' gen'men, but I have two more dogs to show you. I have not finished training them yet, an' they can do only a few tricks, but I want you to be satisfied, an' think that you got your money's worth, so you will recommend my show to your friends. I will now show you two more trick dogs. Bring on the poodles, Jack," he called to his assistant. Ted and Janet looked at each other, quickly. "Poodles!" they murmured, but they did not speak out loud. The same thought was in each of their minds. If the poodles should be Tip and Top! A barking was heard back of the platform, and, a moment later, on rushed two dogs, exactly the same kind of poodles as were Tip and Top, and exactly the same size. But alas! Tip and Top were white, while these poodles were jet black! CHAPTER XIX A HAPPY REUNION The hearts of the Curlytops had beaten high with hope when they heard Professor Montelli speak of some poodles. But when they saw that the two dogs were black, instead of white, their hearts sank. "They look just like Tip and Top, but of course they can't be," whispered Janet, as the showman began clearing the stage platform in readiness for the poodles to do some tricks. "No," answered Ted, in disappointed tones, "Tip and Top were white--not black, except for little spots. These dogs are black all over. We might as well go home. Maybe Policeman Cassidy knows of another dog show." "Oh, let's stay and see just one poodle trick," begged Janet. "All right," agreed Teddy. So the Curlytops remained in their seats, with the others of the audience. The two black poodles barked, wagged their tails, and looked at Professor Montelli. "Come on now, King! Turn a somersault!" suddenly cried the dark-moustached man. Instantly one of the black poodles--the one called "King," began turning somersault after somersault. Right out to the end of the platform he turned them, and then he stood there, wagging his tail and waiting for the applause, which he seemed to expect. And the people did clap. They liked the poodle's trick. Janet leaned over and whispered to Teddy: "That's just the same trick Tip did!" "Yes," agreed the Curlytop boy. "But it can't be Tip." "No, I s'pose not," sighed Janet. "Come back here, King," suddenly called the trainer. "Now, Emperor," he went on, pointing his whip at the other poodle. "It is your turn. Walk on your hind legs!" The other dog did not seem to understand. It slunk away and growled a little. "Here! None of that!" cried the trainer. "You must do as I say! Walk on your hind legs!" Still the dog would not mind. "Emperor is not so good a dog as King," said the man, apologizing to the audience. "I have not had him so long, and he does not do his tricks very well. But I will make him!" Suddenly he flicked the dog he called "Emperor" with the whip! The dog let out a howl of pain. "Here! Stop that!" cried Teddy, almost before he knew what he was saying. "Yes, don't hurt the dogs," added a lady, looking kindly at the Curlytops. "The little boy is right." "I did not mean to hurt him," explained Professor Montelli, smiling, but his smile was not a kind one. He seemed to be a cruel man, but he seemed to know that he must not be cruel to his dogs in public. "Come, Emperor!" he called more gently. "Walk on your hind legs!" This time the black poodle did so, walking around the stage. Again Janet leaned over and whispered to her brother: "Top used to do that same trick!" "Yes," agreed Teddy. "That's right." And then a strange thing happened. All at once the two poodles put their noses together, as though talking, which they may have been doing in dog language. And then the one the man had called Emperor suddenly jumped on top of the back of the dog called King, and King began walking around the stage, giving the other a ride! The people clapped at this trick, and the two Curlytops grew strangely excited. Ted and Janet looked at each other, standing up in their seats. "Ted, do you know what I think?" said his sister. "I think those two dogs are really Tip and Top--our poodles! That's exactly the same trick they did in Uncle Toby's house." "But how could they be Tip and Top when they're black, and Tip and Top were white?" asked Teddy. "I don't know," Janet answered. "But I'm sure they are our dogs. Maybe they've been in the coal bin and got all black. And, oh, Ted! Look!" Something else happening on the platform of the dog show tent. The black poodle called King began walking around in a little circle in the middle of the stage. And, while thus moving, the other poodle began to jump over its companion's back. First this way and then that one poodle jumped over the other poodle's back. "Why! Why!" cried Teddy. "That's the other trick we saw them do, Janet! That's the trick Mrs. Watson said Uncle Toby taught them--I mean taught Tip and Top." "Yes," agreed Janet. "And I know these dogs are our poodles--I don't care if they are black!" Then, before Ted could stop her, she called: "Here, Tip! Here, Top! Come on!" Instantly the two black poodles jumped down off the stage, and with barks of joy, and mad waggings of their little tails, ran to the Curlytops. "Oh, Top!" cried Janet, as she patted his head, "I'm so glad we found you! I'd know you anywhere, even if you are black!" Both dogs knew the children, though of course Top, having been with them longer, knew them best. Tip had been taken away soon after being removed from Uncle Toby's house, but when Tip saw that Top was friendly with the children, Tip was joyful also. I call the black dogs Tip and Top, for they were really the missing poodles, and I will explain how it was their color was changed. No sooner did Ted and Janet call the black poodles to them than Professor Montelli grew very angry indeed. He jumped down off the platform, and, going to where the Curlytops stood at their seats, with the dogs frisking around them, the trainer cried: "Here! What do you mean by calling my dogs away when I am making them do tricks? What do you children mean?" "These aren't your dogs--they're _ours_!" declared Ted. "Yours! Nonsense!" blustered the trainer. "These are my dogs. I have had them a long while!" "Not both of them!" said Janet, who remembered what the man had said. "You told us you hadn't had Emperor very long." "Well, I have the other! They are both my dogs!" cried the angry man. "If you have lost any dogs you had better look somewhere for them. Get out of my tent and give me back the poodles!" He made a move to thrust Ted and Janet to one side and pick up the poodles, but a man in the audience said: "Not so fast, Professor. It seems to me that by the way these dogs came to this girl and boy when called that there may be something in their claim. Did you lose two dogs?" he asked Ted and Janet. "Yes, sir," they answered. And then Ted told how Tip was taken out of their automobile some weeks before, while Top was stolen from their barn a night or two previous. "Nonsense! As if I had their dogs!" sneered the trainer. "What kind of poodles did you lose, as you say?" he asked. "Just exactly the same kind as these, and they did the same tricks," Ted answered. "We can make these do the same tricks you did, and some more, too," he added. "I don't believe it!" growled the trainer. "Let's show 'em, Ted!" cried Janet. And then and there, down on the ground in the tent, while the crowd looked on, the Curlytops put the two black poodles through the tricks Tip and Top used to do. "It begins to look as though there was something in their claim," said the man who had acted as the friend of Ted and Janet. "Those are my dogs!" declared the Professor, getting more and more angry. "Tell me--what color were the poodles you had?" he asked Janet and Ted. "Well," Ted answered slowly, "Tip and Top were white, except Tip had a little black spot on the end of his tail, and Top had a black spot on his head--on the top." "There! What did I tell you?" cried the Professor. "Their poodles were _white_ and mine are _black_! They can't be the same! Here, King and Emperor!" he cried, and, stooping down he made a grab for the little dogs that were staying near Ted and Janet. With barks and growls the poodles sprang away from the angry man. And, as it happened, the one the man had called "King" ran against a pail of water that was near the bottom of the platform. The pail was upset and some of the water splashed over the black dog. Then a queer change took place. Instead of being pure black, the poodle became streaked black and white! The black color began running out of its hair, and formed a little inky pool on the ground beneath the animal. "Look! Look!" cried Janet, pointing. "Those dogs were _colored_ black--they're white poodles dyed black!" cried the man who had taken the part of the Curlytops. "Now what have you to say?" he asked the animal trainer. "Well--er--those dogs are mine! I don't know who stained 'em black. But I bought 'em of a young man----" "Was his name Shorty?" asked Ted. "Well, maybe it was," admitted the showman. "What has that got to do with it? Those are my dogs!" "They're ours!" insisted Ted. "Shorty was watching our auto when Tip was stolen," he went on, "and he knew where we were taking Top. I guess Shorty broke into our barn the other night, and took Top and colored him black. These are our poodles, and we're going to have them!" "It looks as though they had you, Professor," said the kind man. "And we're going to get a policeman!" added Janet. "Oh, well, if you're sure they are your dogs, take 'em!" growled the showman. "I didn't know they were stolen. A young fellow sold me one some time ago, and I bought the other of him day before yesterday. I did color the dogs black," he admitted, "because they don't get so dirty as white ones. The dye will wash off," he said. "If you are sure these are your poodles, take 'em along!" he said to Ted and Janet. "Oh, we're sure all right!" cried Janet. And then she took Top up in her arms, while Teddy carried the partly black and partly white Tip out of the tent, while the audience laughed and some clapped. "The show's over!" growled the black-moustached man. "And if I get hold of that Shorty I'll have him arrested for selling me stolen dogs. They were valuable, too--as good trick dogs as I ever saw. Do you want to sell them to me?" he asked the Curlytops. "No, sir!" cried Teddy and Janet as they hurried out of the tent. "We're going to have a circus of our own with 'em!" And, happy and joyful, with the delighted Tip and Top in their arms, the Curlytops started for home. CHAPTER XX THE CURLYTOPS' CIRCUS Hurrying along, as if afraid that Professor Montelli might run after them and take Tip and Top away again, Teddy and Janet went to the corner where they had left the trolley car. Some boys and girls who had been in the dog show followed the Curlytops, and men and women smiled at the children. "Here comes a car!" cried Ted, as he saw one approaching. "Have we got enough money left to take us home, Jan?" he asked, for his sister had the cash. "I guess so," she answered. "If we haven't we'll ask the conductor please to charge it." The car stopped and with Janet holding Top and Ted with Tip in his arms, the children got aboard. "Well, I see you got your dogs back," came a voice, and, looking up, the Curlytops saw the same conductor they had ridden out with from Cresco. "I didn't think I'd have you back with me so soon," he said. "But I'm glad to see you. It's sort of against the rules to bring dogs on trolley cars, but I guess yours will be all right, as long as they're trick circus dogs." "Shall we make 'em do some tricks for you?" asked Teddy, as he and his sister took their seats. "Well, not now, thank you," the conductor answered, with a smile as the car started off, leaving behind the curious crowd. "I'll soon be so busy collecting fares that I won't have time to watch." "Then we'll send you a ticket to our circus," promised Janet, "'cause you were so kind to us." "Thank you," replied the conductor. "I shall be glad to come. You can take my name and mail the ticket to me at the car house. I like animals," and he patted the heads of Tip and Top. "But what makes one black, and the other streaked black and white?" he asked. "They're colored, but it will wash off," answered Ted. "The Professor, or maybe Shorty, dyed our white poodles black." You can imagine how surprised Mr. and Mrs. Martin were when Ted and Janet came in with the lost dogs--one black and the other white and black. "I was just going to telephone to the police and have them start to look for you!" cried their mother. "I was worried. Where have you been?" "To a dog show, where we found Tip and Top," said Janet. Then they told the whole story, and Mr. and Mrs. Martin were much surprised at what the Curlytops had done. "As it was, you did just the right thing," said their father. "Though I wouldn't like to have you do it again. However, I'm glad you have your pets back, though Tip isn't exactly a beauty." "They'll be all right after they have had a bath," said Janet. And the poodles were, coming from the tub as white as snow. Later it was learned that the young man known as Shorty had not really taken Tip from the automobile. But he had gotten a chum of his to do it, and afterward the two had sold the dog. They sold him to Professor Montelli, who used to have a side show with a circus, but who, after a quarrel, started out for himself, traveling around the country giving exhibitions. Shorty, having heard the talk of the Martin family while he was acting as guard of the automobile load of pets, knew where Top was being taken, to Cresco. And it was he who broke into the barn and took away the poodle. For, as I have told you, while one dog was valuable for the tricks he could do, the two, doing tricks together, were worth much more. Professor Montelli may not have known the poodles were stolen, and he may, as he said, have dyed them with harmless black color to keep their white coats from getting dirty. But the police said they thought the dog trainer had a hand, with Shorty, in the thefts, and this may have been so. At any rate the Curlytops had their pet poodles back, and they heard nothing more of Shorty or the showman. "And now we can give our circus!" cried Janet one afternoon, when she and Teddy, with Trouble, were feeding their pets in the barn. It did not take long to make arrangements for the show. Jimmy Norton's father secured a large tent for the Curlytops and their friends, and the tent was set up in a lot not far from the Martin house. Several boys and girls helped make the arrangements, and Mr. Martin sent up from the store a pile of boxes and boards which some of his men made into seats. Mrs. Martin told the ladies who had asked her to help raise money for the orphans that the Curlytops were going to give all they took in at the circus to help the poor children. And when this became known many grown folk, as well as boys and girls, bought tickets for the performance. It was to be given one afternoon, and you can imagine all the work that had to be done to get ready. But some of the fathers and mothers of the chums of the Curlytops helped, leaving to Ted and Janet the work of getting the animals ready to do their tricks. Jack Turton was to be a fat little clown, riding on a pony his father had bought for him. Harry Kent and some other boys were to help Teddy, and some of Jan's girl friends offered to help her. And we must not forget Trouble. As arranged, he was to come into the tent at a certain time, driving Skyrocket, the dog, and Turnover, the cat, hitched to his little express wagon, with funny Miss Muffin on the seat. At last the day of the circus came. Into the tent were moved the cages of the white mice and the white rats, the tank containing Slider, the pet alligator, the cage of Mr. Nip, the parrot, and the box of Jack, the monkey. Snuff, Skyrocket and Turnover were on hand. Tip and Top were all ready to perform their tricks. "Do you think we'll have a big crowd?" asked Janet of Ted, when everything was arranged and it was almost time for the show to begin. "Sure we will!" he answered. "Everybody I met is coming--all the fellows and girls and a lot of men and women. We'll make a lot of money for the orphans." "I wish Uncle Toby could be here to see it all," went on Janet, as she took a last look inside the tent to make sure everything was in order "He'd be surprised at some of the things his pets can do." "Yes, I wish Uncle Toby could be here," said her brother. "It's queer about him. He never answered any of daddy's letters. South America must be a good way off, for Uncle Toby hasn't gotten there yet." "Well," began Ted. "I guess----" and then Harry Kent called: "Hey, Ted! You'd better look at Slider! He's trying to crawl out of his tank." "It isn't time for him to start his act yet!" answered the Curlytop boy. "I'll have to give him a bit of meat to quiet him!" And a little while after that the audience began to enter the tent. Boys and girls, of course, were the first, but there were a number of men and women, too, and it was not long before every seat was taken. Mr. and Mrs. Martin just had to be there--they couldn't stay away when the Curlytops were giving a show. Besides, Mother Martin had to help Trouble dress for his act. "Oh, we're going to have a big crowd!" said Janet excitedly to Teddy, in the little dressing room behind the stage. There was a stage almost like the one Professor Montelli had in his dog show. "You better go out and make your talk now," went on Janet to her brother. "The tent won't hold many more, and we want to start." "All right," agreed Teddy. It had been decided that he was to make a little speech of welcome. Soon he was out in front, bowing as he did when he "spoke a piece" in school. "Ladies and gentlemen," began Teddy, "and boys and girls. We're glad you came to our circus, and we hope you will like our pets and what they do. And my little brother, Trouble, is going to do an act by himself. He----" "Here I is!" suddenly cried Trouble, coming out behind Teddy. "I do my act now!" "No! No!" said Teddy, while the audience laughed. For Trouble was only half dressed, having rushed out of the room back of the stage when he heard his name mentioned. "Here, William! Come back and let me finish!" said his mother, and she reached out her hand and pulled Trouble back to her. "Now the show will start," Teddy finished, amid laughter. The first act was a tableau with Ted, Janet and their boy and girl helpers, not forgetting Trouble, of course, posing on the stage with their pets. Gathered about the children were the dogs, the cats, Mr. Nip, the parrot, Jack the monkey, the white mice and the white rats in cages, and Slider, the pet alligator. Down in the audience Harry Weldon played the mouth organ. He was the "orchestra." No sooner had Harry started to play than Tip, Top and Skyrocket barked, the cats mewed, the monkey chattered and Mr. Nip cried: "I'm a crack-crack-cracker!" You should have heard the audience clap then! One after another the animals did their tricks, Ted, Janet and the other boys and girls helping. Mr. Nip, the parrot, after he had been quieted down, walked up and down a little ladder, that was balanced like a see-saw over a tiny board. Mr. Nip would walk to one end of the ladder, and it would go down with him. Then he would walk to the other end, which would then sway downward. And when he had finished this trick Mr. Nip cried: "Help! Fire! Police!" and flew over on Janet's shoulder. "He's as good as a watch dog, that parrot is," said Policeman Cassidy, who had come to the show, as had also the kind trolley car conductor. "He's a regular burglar alarm, he is!" Snuff and Turnover did their tricks, some separately and some together. One of the tricks they did together was to run and jump through a paper hoop, and when Turnover had landed on the other side, through the hoop, he lay down and rolled over and over--one of the first tricks the Curlytops had taught their pet. Again the audience clapped and laughed. But there was more to come. Tip and Top did the tricks for which they were famous, separately and together, one dog walking on his hind legs, and the other turning somersaults. Then one dog got on the other's back, the two going around the stage together. And as a climax they did the trick by which Ted and Janet had recognized their pets in Professor Montelli's tent, one dog leaping over the other's back, while moving along. "Now, Jan, you do your trick with the white mice and the alligator while Harry Kent and I fix up the tower for Jack to jump from," said Ted. "And Jack can do his clown tricks, too." It had been decided that while Teddy and his helper were putting in place the tower for the monkey to leap from something must be done to amuse the audience. So Janet had said she would do some little tricks with the mice, rats, and alligator, while Harry, the fat little boy clown, would turn somersaults and handsprings on the stage. This went off very well. Janet fixed the slanting board for Slider to coast "down hill," and when the alligator had done this the audience laughed its hardest. Then some of the rats and mice did simple tricks, two of the larger rats pulling a little toy wagon in which rode two mice. However, these pets did not do as well as the others, for the two in the wagon kept jumping out and Janet had to keep putting them back. Jack, the fat little clown, made a big "hit." He was really very funny, and when, toward the end of his act, he got too near the edge of the stage and fell into the lap of big Oscar North, the audience thought it was all part of the show, and not an accident, and clapped most loudly. However, Jack was not hurt, and only laughed at the mishap. By this time the tower was ready. It reached nearly to the top of the tent, and as the boxes had been covered with green branches they made a nice appearance. "Up, Jack! Up!" called Ted, climbing up the stepladder and placing the banana on top of the tower. Then Ted had to hurry the ladder away, after Jack had climbed up to the top, for fear the monkey would climb down that same way instead of jumping as he was wanted to do. Ted and Harry Kent held the net at the foot of the tower. This time the net was not a lace curtain, but some old bags sewed together. Janet held up the bit of banana, and, after he had eaten the piece on top of his perch, the monkey looked down at the other bit of fruit. "Come on, Jack! Jump!" cried Teddy. And to the delight of the Curlytops, Jack jumped his very best, landing in the net and bouncing up and down. "Good trick! Good trick!" cried the trolley car conductor, clapping the loudest of all. After that Jack did a number of other simple tricks, and then it was time for Trouble to come on in his act. Only a few knew what the little fellow was to do. But when the curtains on the stage were pulled apart by Mrs. Martin and the little fellow walked out, dressed like the pictures of Cupid on valentines, driving the dog and cat harnessed to the wagon, with queer Miss Muffin on the seat, you should have heard the people laugh and clap! "Didap! Didap!" cried Trouble to his dog and cat team. "Didap an' go fast!" Around the stage went Skyrocket and Turnover, behaving very nicely; and when he had made one round Trouble stood in the middle of the stage and made a low bow, as his mother had taught him to do. "He's a cute little chap!" said Policeman Cassidy. And then came the last scene of all, where Ted, Janet, Trouble and their boy and girl helpers, with all the pets, except the parrot, alligator and rats and mice, marched around the stage, while the mouth organ was loudly played. "That's the end of the show! Much obliged to you all for coming!" called out Teddy. "And let's see how much we made for the orphans!" exclaimed Janet, before any of the audience had a chance to leave. There was a laugh at this. "You did very well, Curlytops, and Trouble also," said Mrs. Martin, as the children began to take off their costumes, for they had all dressed especially for the occasion. "I never thought the pets would act so well," added Mr. Martin. "And did we make much money?" Janet wanted to know. Mr. Martin was counting it. As he dropped the last penny back into the cash box he announced: "It is ninety-nine dollars and one cent." "Well, here's ninety-nine cents to make it an even hundred dollars!" cried a jolly voice at the tent entrance, and in walked a man who seemed to be a stranger. But at the second look Mr. Martin cried: "Uncle Toby!" "Yes, Uncle Toby!" laughed the man. "I got here a little too late for the show, but you can give it over again for me, and I'll put as much again in the collection box as you have there. How are all my pets?" and he laughed again and looked at the Curlytops as well as at the animals. "We're well, thank you," said Janet, shyly. "And Tip and Top were taken away but we got them back," added Ted. "An' Mr. Nip he catch a bu'glar!" lisped Trouble. "My! My! There must have been a lot of excitement while I have been gone!" laughed Uncle Toby, for it was, indeed, he. "When did you get back from South America?" asked Mr. Martin. "I didn't go," answered Uncle Toby. "I got all ready to go, but changed my mind and went to Canada instead. I'm going back to live in my old house." "And will you--will you take your pets?" asked Teddy. "Well, not right away," answered Uncle Toby. "You may keep them as long as you like. I wish I had been here for the show, but here's the ninety-nine cents I promised, and if you give the show for me later on I'll give a hundred dollars for the orphans." "Oh, how lovely!" cried Janet. "Let's start and give it now!" It was, however, a little too late in the day for that. But, a week later, Uncle Toby did see all the pets put through their tricks and he gave another hundred to the orphan fund, so that many of the poor children had a fine vacation time in the country. "Well, we certainly had a lot of fun with all the animals," said Janet one day, when she and Teddy were playing out under the trees with the dogs and the cats. "Yes," he agreed, "we did. We had as much fun this summer as if we had gone away. And I wonder what we can do next?" "Oh, something, I guess," said Janet. "What I'm going to do now is go in and get something to eat." "I'm a crack-crack-cracker!" shrieked Mr. Nip from his perch. "Well, I want something more than crackers!" laughed Janet. "So do I!" agreed Teddy. "We'll get some bread and jam and also feed our pets. I guess they're hungry, too." And while the Curlytops are thus engaged we will say good-bye to Janet, Teddy and Trouble. THE END THE CURLYTOPS SERIES By HOWARD R. GARIS _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 50 cents. Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] =THE CURLYTOPS AT CHERRY FARM= _or Vacation Days in the Country_ A tale of happy vacation days on a farm. =2. THE CURLYTOPS ON STAR ISLAND= _or Camping Out with Grandpa_ The Curlytops camp on Star Island. =3. THE CURLYTOPS SNOWED IN= _or Grand Fun with Skates and Sleds_ The Curlytops on lakes and hills. =4. THE CURLYTOPS AT UNCLE FRANK'S RANCH= _or Little Folks on Ponyback_ Out West on their uncle's ranch they have a wonderful time. =5. THE CURLYTOPS AT SILVER LAKE= _or On the Water with Uncle Ben_ The Curlytops camp out on the shores of a beautiful lake. =6. THE CURLYTOPS AND THEIR PETS= _or Uncle Toby's Strange Collection_ An old uncle leaves them to care for his collection of pets. =7. THE CURLYTOPS AND THEIR PLAYMATES= _or Jolly Times Through the Holidays_ They have great times with their uncle's collection of animals. =8. THE CURLYTOPS IN THE WOODS= _or Fun at the Lumber Camp_ Exciting times in the forest for Curlytops. =9. THE CURLYTOPS AT SUNSET BEACH= _or What Was Found in the Sand_ The Curlytops have a fine time at the seashore. =10. THE CURLYTOPS TOURING AROUND= _or The Missing Photograph Albums_ The Curlytops get in some moving pictures. =11. THE CURLYTOPS IN A SUMMER CAMP= _or Animal Joe's Menagerie_ There is great excitement as some mischievous monkeys break out of Animal Joe's Menagerie. =12. THE CURLYTOPS GROWING UP= _or Winter Sports and Summer Pleasures_ Little Trouble is a host in himself and his larger brother and sister are never still a minute, but go from one little adventure to another in a way to charm all youthful readers. _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ =CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York= BUDDY SERIES By HOWARD R. GARIS _Author of the Famous "Curlytops Series"_ _12 mo. Cloth. Illustrated. With colored jacket._ _Price 50 cents per volume._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] The author presents a distinctly modern juvenile series of stories for boys. Here we observe a really fascinating character-study of an up-to-date young lad, whose exceedingly energetic mind, and whose overflowing youth and vitality, are constantly leading him into new and more tangled situations, from which by wit, courage and luck, he manages to extricate himself in safety. You will more than like Buddy with his carefree ways, his cheerful smile, his boundless enthusiasm, and his overflowing youth. Buddy is certain to linger in your memory long after you have finished these stories. 1. BUDDY ON THE FARM Or, A Boy and His Prize Pumpkin 2. BUDDY IN SCHOOL Or, A Boy and His Dog 3. BUDDY AND HIS WINTER FUN Or, A Boy in a Snow Camp 4. BUDDY AT RAINBOW LAKE Or, A Boy and His Boat 5. BUDDY AND HIS CHUMS Or, A Boy's Queer Search 6. BUDDY AT PINE BEACH Or, A Boy on the Ocean 7. BUDDY AND HIS FLYING BALLOON Or, A Boy's Mysterious Airship CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, _Publishers_ NEW YORK FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOM SERIES By MABEL C. HAWLEY _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors. Price per volume 50 cents. Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] =1. FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS AT BROOKSIDE FARM= Mother called them her Four Little Blossoms, but Daddy Blossom called them Bobby, Meg, and the twins. The twins, Twaddles and Dot, were a comical pair and always getting into mischief. The children had heaps of fun around the big farm. =2. FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS AT OAK HILL SCHOOL= In the Fall, Bobby and Meg had to go to school. It was good fun, for Miss Mason was a kind teacher. Then the twins insisted on going to school, too, and their appearance quite upset the class. In school something very odd happened. =3. FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS AND THEIR WINTER FUN= Winter came and with it lots of ice and snow, and oh! what fun the Blossoms had skating and sledding. And once Bobby and Meg went on an errand and got lost in a sudden snowstorm. =4. FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS ON APPLE TREE ISLAND= The Four Little Blossoms went to a beautiful island in the middle of a big lake and there had a grand time on the water and in the woods. =5. FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS THROUGH THE HOLIDAYS= The story starts at Thanksgiving. They went skating and coasting, and they built a wonderful snowman, and one day Bobby and his chums visited a carpenter shop on the sly, and that night the shop burnt down, and there was trouble for the boys. =6. FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS AT SUNRISE BEACH= The Four Little Blossoms start on the happy road to fun and vacation at Sunrise Beach. Their delightful adventures will amuse and interest you. _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ =CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York= PEGGY LEE SERIES By ANNA ANDREWS _12mo. Illustrated. Jackets in full colors. Price 50 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] _A charming series of stories of a young American girl, Peggy Lee, living with her family (including many unusual pets) on a large coffee plantation in Central America, and her many adventures there and in New York._ _The action is rapid, full of fun, and takes the reader not only to many interesting places in Central America, but in the country as well, where Peggy attends a school for girls. The incidents are cleverly brought out, and Peggy in her wistful way, proves in her many adventures to be a brave girl and an endearing heroine to her friends and readers._ =1. PEGGY AND MICHAEL OF THE COFFEE PLANTATION= =2. PEGGY LEE OF THE GOLDEN THISTLE PLANTATION= =3. PEGGY LEE AND THE MYSTERIOUS ISLANDS= (Other Volumes in Preparation) _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ =CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York= THE LINGER-NOTS SERIES By AGNES MILLER _12mo. Cloth Binding. Illustrated._ _Jacket in full colors._ _Price 50 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] _This new series of girls' books is in a new style of story writing. The interest is in knowing the girls and seeing them solve the problems that develop their character. Incidentally, a great deal of historical information is imparted._ =1. THE LINGER-NOTS AND THE MYSTERY HOUSE= _or the Story of Nine Adventurous Girls_ How the Linger-Not girls met and formed their club, and how they made their club serve a great purpose, introduces a new type of girlhood. =2. THE LINGER-NOTS AND THE VALLEY FEUD= _or the Great West Point Chain_ The Linger-Not girls had no thought of becoming mixed up with feuds or mysteries, but their habit of being useful soon entangled them in some surprising adventures. =3. THE LINGER-NOTS AND THEIR GOLDEN QUEST= _or The Log of the Ocean Monarch_ For a club of girls to become involved in a mystery leading back into the times of the California gold-rush, and how the girls helped one of their friends to come into her rightful name and inheritance. =4. THE LINGER-NOTS AND THE WHISPERING CHARM= _or The Secret from Old Alaska_ Whether engrossed in thrilling adventures in the Far North or occupied with quiet home duties, the Linger-Not girls could work unitedly and solve a colorful mystery. =5. THE LINGER-NOTS AND THE SECRET MAZE= _or The Treasure-Trove on Battlefield Hill_ The discovery of a thrilling treasure-trove at the end of the maze where the Linger-Nots learn many useful facts and the real secret of the hidden maze. _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ =CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York= THE RUTH FIELDING SERIES By ALICE B. EMERSON _12 mo. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors._ _Price 50 cents per volume._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] Ruth Fielding was an orphan and came to live with her miserly uncle. Her adventures and travels make stories that will hold the interest of every reader. Ruth Fielding is a character that will live in juvenile fiction. =1. RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL= =2. RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL= =3. RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP= =4. RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT= =5. RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH= =6. RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND= =7. RUTH FIELDING AT SUNRISE FARM= =8. RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES= =9. RUTH FIELDING IN MOVING PICTURES= =10. RUTH FIELDING DOWN IN DIXIE= =11. RUTH FIELDING AT COLLEGE= =12. RUTH FIELDING IN THE SADDLE= =13. RUTH FIELDING IN THE RED CROSS= =14. RUTH FIELDING AT THE WAR FRONT= =15. RUTH FIELDING HOMEWARD BOUND= =16. RUTH FIELDING DOWN EAST= =17. RUTH FIELDING IN THE GREAT NORTHWEST= =18. RUTH FIELDING ON THE ST. LAWRENCE= =19. RUTH FIELDING TREASURE HUNTING= =20. RUTH FIELDING IN THE FAR NORTH= =21. RUTH FIELDING AT GOLDEN PASS= =22. RUTH FIELDING IN ALASKA= =23. RUTH FIELDING IN HER GREAT SCENARIO= =24. RUTH FIELDING AT CAMERON HALL= =25. RUTH FIELDING CLEARING HER NAME= =26. RUTH FIELDING IN TALKING PICTURES= =27. RUTH FIELDING AND BABY JUNE= =28. RUTH FIELDING AND HER DOUBLE= =CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York= 
23401	----	OUR PETS GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, LONDON AND NEW YORK. Kronheim & Co., London. [Illustration] OUR PETS. This is Pol-ly's own cat, Top-sy. She looks ve-ry prim and quiet; but if you play with her, you will find she is a ve-ry mer-ry lit-tle cat. She will jump up-on the ta-ble at break-fast, and run off with Pol-ly's toast; and if mam-ma be wri-ting a let-ter, Top-sy will steal soft-ly a-long the arm of the so-fa, and rub her paw o-ver the last word mam-ma has writ-ten, and make a great blot in the let-ter. Some-times she will sit as still as a mouse on Un-cle Tom's shoul-der while he is read-ing, and look so grave-ly on the book that you might think she was read-ing too: but she is not quite wise e-nough for that. [Illustration] Car-lo is Har-ry's dog, and a ve-ry good dog he is. If you were to throw a stone twen-ty times in-to the foam-ing sea, Car-lo would plunge in, with-out a-ny fear, and bring the ve-ry same stone out to you. And if Har-ry loses his ball a-mong the long grass, Car-lo brings it in a mi-nute. And he can do bet-ter things than these, for one day in win-ter, when the ri-ver was fro-zen, and Har-ry was ska-ting on it ve-ry nice-ly, he came to a place where the ice was thin, for a hole had been bro-ken the day before, and there had not been time for it to get hard a-gain. Poor Har-ry broke through the ice and sank down in-to the wa-ter; he would have been drown-ed, but Car-lo di-ved down, and brought him out safe. No won-der Car-lo is a pet. These pi-geons be-long to lit-tle Pol-ly. They have a ve-ry pret-ty house to live in, and Pol-ly feeds them e-ve-ry morn-ing with bar-ley or peas. When they see her come with her lit-tle bas-ket, they all fly down from the roof of the dove-cot, and will hop round her, perch on her should-er, and eat from her hand. But if they see Top-sy steal-ing un-der the Trees, or Car-lo run-ning o-ver the grass-plot, a-way they all fly. The Pi-geons trust Pol-ly, but they will not trust sly puss, nor rough Car-lo. Pret-ty, shy pets, are Pol-ly's pi-geons. [Illustration] [Illustration] Rab-bits are pret-ty mild crea-tures. Some-times they live on moors, where they hide in bur-rows, which are holes in the ground, then they run about the fields and eat the green corn, and tur-nip tops, and some-times in win-ter are ve-ry hun-gry. But Har-ry's tame rab-bits have a warm house, and plen-ty of clean straw, and fresh food e-ve-ry day, and are as well off as rab-bits can be that are in pri-son. Har-ry goes in-to the fields to pick clo-ver and rib grass for them, the gar-den-er gives him let-tuce and cab-bage leaves; and he some-times gives them dry corn, for he likes them to have a change of food. The large, fine old rab-bit is call-ed Bun-ny. She is a great pet. [Illustration] You see here Pol-ly and her Pet lamb. The mo-ther died in the cold wet wea-ther in spring, and the poor lit-tle lamb would have died too, but it was brought in-to the house and gi-ven to Pol-ly, who fed it with warm milk through the spout of her doll's tea-pot e-ve-ry day, till it grew so big that she used to bring it grass to eat. Pol-ly call-ed her pet lamb Nan, and there nev-er was such a pet lamb. It fol-low-ed Pol-ly up stairs to the nur-se-ry, and down to the school-room, and round the fields when she walk-ed out; and Pol-ly said, "If Nan did grow to be a great sheep, she should nev-er be kill-ed for mut-ton." Lit-tle Pol-ly went e-ve-ry morn-ing to the Poul-try yard to see the Poul-try wo-man feed the fowls. Her mam-ma had gi-ven her a Cock and a Hen, and a fine brood of chickens, to be her own. She fed them her-self, and they were al-ways rea-dy to come round her when they heard her say, Chuck! chuck! Pol-ly was nev-er a-fraid of the fine, bold Cock, even when he crow-ed so loud-ly that you might have heard him a mile off. He was ve-ry fierce if a-ny o-ther cock came near his fa-mi-ly, but he was quite tame with Pol-ly, and bow-ed like a gen-tle-man when she gave him his bar-ley. [Illustration] ROUTLEDGE'S THREEPENNY TOY-BOOKS, WITH SIX COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS, PRINTED BY KRONHEIM & CO. 5. MY FIRST ALPHABET 6. MOTHER GOOSE 7. THE BABES IN THE WOOD 8. THIS LITTLE PIG 9. THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE 10. LITTLE BO-PEEP 11. NURSERY RHYMES 12. FARM-YARD ALPHABET 13. JACK AND THE BEANSTALK 14. JOHN GILPIN 15. OLD MOTHER HUBBARD 16. THE THREE BEARS 17. THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT 18. THE DOGS' DINNER PARTY 19. MY MOTHER 20. THE CATS' TEA PARTY 21. MORE NURSERY RHYMES 22. ROBIN REDBREAST 23. A, APPLE PIE 24. THE RAILWAY ALPHABET 25. NURSERY SONGS 26. NURSERY DITTIES 27. PUNCH AND JUDY 28. OUR PETS 29. CINDERELLA 30. PUSS-IN-BOOTS 31. LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD 32. WILD ANIMALS 33. TAME ANIMALS 34. BIRDS 35. JACK THE GIANT KILLER 36. BLUE BEARD 37. ALADDIN 38. THE FORTY THIEVES 39. TOM THUMB 40. SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, LONDON AND NEW YORK. 
26616	----	Transcriber's Note Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. A list of corrections is found at the end of the text. [Illustration: LEO AND TINEY. Page 13.] [Illustration: MINNIE and her PETS. BY MRS MADELINE LESLIE. MINNIE'S PET DOG.] MINNIE'S PET DOG. BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE, AUTHOR OF "THE LESLIE STORIES," "TIM, THE SCISSORS-GRINDER," ETC. ILLUSTRATED. BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, SUCCESSORS TO PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 1864. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by A. R. BAKER, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. ELECTROTYPED AT THE BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY. TO MY YOUNG FRIEND, HENRY FOWLE DURANT, JR. =These Little Volumes= ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR, IN THE EARNEST HOPE THAT THEY MAY INCREASE IN HIM THAT LOVE OF NATURE AND OF RURAL LIFE WHICH HAS EVER EXERTED SO SALUTARY AN INFLUENCE IN THE FORMATION OF THE CHARACTERS OF THE WISE AND GOOD. MINNIE AND HER PETS. Minnie's Pet Parrot. Minnie's Pet Cat. Minnie's Pet Dog. Minnie's Pet Horse. Minnie's Pet Lamb. Minnie's Pet Monkey. MINNIE'S PET DOG. CHAPTER I. TINEY AND LEO. I have given an account of Minnie's pet parrot, and of Minnie's pet cat. In this volume I shall give the reader an account of her pet dog, Tiney, with anecdotes of other dogs. Tiney was a spaniel. He had long, pendent ears, black, expressive eyes, a short, well-rounded mouth, and long, silky hair. He was an affectionate little fellow, who attached himself to every body in the house. He was on the most friendly terms with Fidelle, often eating sociably with her from the same plate. In summer, when Minnie liked to play on the lawn, Tiney might be seen running here and there in obedience to his young mistress, picking up a ball or stick, and bringing it to her in his teeth. If the truth must be told, Tiney was a dog that loved his own ease. In the winter he liked to lie on the hearth rug in front of the glowing fire, one eye partly open, to be sure that Fidelle, who was fond of playing with his tail, committed no indignities with it. Sometimes Minnie used to get out of patience with him for being so sleepy; but her mother told her it was in consequence of his eating so heartily, and taking no more exercise; and then the little girl would drag him off out of doors, often sadly against his will, and entice him into a frolic. It was curious to see Tiney with Leo. The spaniel held the great dog in awe, and never but once was known to go to the stable to see him. The circumstances that led to this visit were very curious, and I must relate them. When Tiney first saw Leo, he was only a puppy, and I suppose was frightened at the sight of so large a dog. He began to bark at him with all his might. Mr. Lee wished to have them become friends; but this did not appear so easy, for Leo, after looking disdainfully at the pup, walked away with great dignity. After this, whenever Tiney saw him, he began to bark, or rather to growl; but Leo never took the least notice of him. Tiney, however, was fond of running to the gate to see what dogs were passing by. In this way, he formed many acquaintances, and some very bad ones. An express-man used to pass the house two or three times a week, and was always accompanied by a large mastiff, a savage-looking dog, with a deep bass voice. One day, when the express-man's wagon was going by, Tiney began to jump up before the horses' mouths and bark. The man spoke to the mastiff, who at once flew at the spaniel, and shook him thoroughly. Tiney cried out piteously, and walked back to the house a sadder if not a wiser dog. But he did not forget. On the day when the express-man passed again, he paid the visit, I have mentioned, to Leo, and in some way made him understand that he wanted to engage his services. Leo agreed to revenge the insult that had been offered the little fellow. When the mastiff came by, they were ready for him. Tiney did the barking, while his defender caught the mastiff, and whipped him severely. Leo and Tiney then returned to the house together, when the spaniel showed his gratitude by running back and forth before his friend, and giving several short barks. But what was most remarkable was the fact, that after this they returned to their old footing, Leo never condescending to take any notice of his smaller companion, and Tiney giving an occasional growl when he saw him approach. When Minnie was in her eighth year, her parents went on a journey into a distant state, and she accompanied them; but though she pleaded to take Tiney with her, it was not allowed. The next summer preparations were made for another journey, and there was much conversation about it in the family circle. One morning, when they were discussing the time of their being absent, Mrs. Lee noticed that Tiney appeared very uneasy. He jumped repeatedly into her lap, and from that to the floor, rubbing his sides against her feet. "What can Tiney want?" she said aloud. "I'm sure he is trying to make me understand something." "O, I wish he could go!" cried Minnie. "You know how sad he was when we were gone before." The spaniel, on hearing these words, gave a joyful bark, moving his tail back and forth in an excited manner, and then looked wishfully in her face. "He seems to understand what we say," the lady went on, glancing with some surprise at her husband. "I have no doubt of it," he answered, smiling. "Here, Tiney! here, sir!" The dog obeyed. "Do you know, Tiney," he asked, "that we are going away?" No reply. "Would you like to go with us in the carriage?" Tiney gave a short, quick bark. "I'm afraid that would not do," added the gentleman, shaking his head. "I fear you would be too much trouble." No more was said, and the dog went across the room, his tail hanging between his legs, and remained quietly on the corner of the sofa. They noticed that he watched every movement closely, and that, if Minnie left the room, he seemed uneasy till she returned. "It is very strange that he can understand," remarked Mrs. Lee. "See, he is not asleep, though he pretends to be; he is listening to what we say." Minnie laughed aloud. "It is too funny!" she exclaimed. "I have heard of many cases," remarked her father, "where it was evident that dogs understood well certain words uttered in their presence." "O, father," urged Minnie, "do please tell them to me." He looked at his watch, and then began:-- "A gentleman by the name of Taylor was once travelling in Spain. He arrived early one evening at a village inn, and sat down before a stove to dry his boots. Close by him was a dog, which watched him very attentively. "'What can you give me for supper?' the gentleman inquired of the hostess. "'Some eggs,' was the reply. "'No; they are too mawkish.' "'A rabbit?' "'That is too indigestible.' "The attention of the dog seemed to become more and more directed to the conversation. "'Some ham?' the woman added. "'No,' said Mr. Taylor; 'that would make me too thirsty.' "'Some pigeons?' "The dog here stood up. "'No; there is no nourishment in them.' "'A fowl?' said the hostess, on which the dog started hastily out of the room. "'What is the matter with your dog?' asked the gentleman, noticing a smile on the woman's face. "'O, nothing at all,' was her reply; 'he only wishes to escape his work. He is anxious to know what you decide upon; for if you say a fowl, he is sure he will have to turn the spit.'" Both Mrs. Lee and Minnie laughed heartily at this anecdote. "That story reminds me of Dr. Kane's old dog Grim," said Mrs. Lee. "He was a curious old fellow." "O, will you please tell me about it, mamma?" cried Minnie. "Yes, my dear. He was very aged; his teeth, almost gone; and his limbs, once so nimble, now covered with warts and ringbones. "In the intense cold of the arctic regions Grim suffered much, and at last, by a system of patient watching at the door of the deck-house, together with a curious wag of his tail, pleading for admittance, he was allowed a place in the warm room, and used Dr. Kane's seal-skin coat as a bed for weeks together. "Somehow or other, when the dogs were being harnessed into their sledges for a journey, old Grim was sure to be missing; and one time, when he was detected hiding in a barrel, to avoid the labor of drawing the sledge, he began to limp badly, as if he were very lame. "'Poor fellow,' said one of the men, 'he must be left at home.' "Strange to say, he was lame ever after, except when the team was off from the ship. "Run and get the book about animals, on the third shelf in the library," said Mr. Lee, "and I will read you a story." Minnie flew to obey him, and Tiney, wagging his tail, slowly followed, but came back presently, and resumed his place on the sofa. CHAPTER II. BOSE AND THE WIG. "Here," said Mr. Lee, "is an account Mr. Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, gives of his dog Hector. "'I am sure,' he says, 'that the dog comprehends a good deal that is said in the family; and that his attention and impatience become manifest whenever any thing is said about either him, the sheep, or the cat. "'One evening I said to my mother, "I am going to Bowerhope for a fortnight; but I shall not take Hector with me, for he is constantly quarrelling with the other dogs, or breeding some kind of an uproar." "'My mother answered me, promptly, "I am glad of it; I like best to have him at home." "'Nothing more was said on the subject. The next morning was rainy, and I did not start till after breakfast. When I was ready, I ordered a servant to shut Hector up for a few hours, that he might not follow me. The servant presently reported that the dog was nowhere to be found. "'When I reached St. Mary's Lock, I found the river so swollen, I had to get across in a boat; and yet, when I arrived at Bowerhope, I found Hector, very wet, sitting on a knoll, impatiently awaiting me.'" "In Bath, England, there were at one time a large number of dogs employed in cooking-houses, to turn the spits used in roasting fowls. These animals were fond of following the crowd on the Sabbath, and collecting together, during divine service, in the Abbey Church. "On one occasion, the clergyman happened to use the word 'spit,' which reminded the dogs of their neglected duties, and, seized with remorse, they all ran home in a hurry." "Why, father," cried Minnie, much astonished, "I should not think the people would let so many dogs go to church." "Perhaps they could not prevent it," he answered, laughing. "Dogs are often fond of accompanying their owners to church. I remember Leo tried it several times when I first bought him. He seemed to understand perfectly well when Sunday came, and, as he knew I did not approve of his intruding, he would run off and creep into the pew without leave." "And did he keep still, father?" "Yes; I never knew him to make much noise, except as he occasionally turned himself over, but I was in constant fear of his doing so, and determined to break up the habit. "Early one Sabbath morning, before the ringing of the first bell for church, I went out to the stable to tell John to shut him up before he took out the carriage. He said he had not seen him for an hour or more. When I alighted at the door of the church, there was Leo, waiting to follow me up the aisle. "The next week I thought I would be in season, and had Leo shut up on Saturday. He cried incessantly, when the bells rang on Sunday; but I told John not to let him out until after our return from the evening service. "When Saturday came again, Leo took the precaution to be off, and enjoyed a whole day of church going, coming in and scratching at the door of the pew to gain my attention. "I felt almost guilty, when I reflected on his desire to keep the Sabbath. I think he came to know which was the sermon and which the prayer, for during the latter he invariably stood up. It was only by persevering effort that I convinced him his church-going propensity could not be allowed. But now, though you know he often accompanies me when I ride on horseback, and follows the carriage when we all go, he never attempts to do so on the Sabbath." "I remember," said Mrs. Lee, "when I was a young girl, visiting a lady who had a beautiful spaniel, of whom she made a great pet. When she went out to ride, Doll expected to go with her as a matter of course; and if the weather was cold, the dog was wrapped in embroidered blankets, like a baby. "One Sabbath day we were preparing to go to church, and I wondered whether Doll would go too; or, if not, how she would bear the disappointment. "To my astonishment the spaniel, though she whined a little, made no effort to accompany us by running here and there, as usual, and uttering short, joyful barks. She sat at the window gazing earnestly after us, but making no attempt to follow. "'She knows well enough,' said the lady, 'that she must not go to church, though I cannot imagine how she tells when Sunday comes.' "There's a curious story," remarked Mr. Lee, "often told of a number of dogs in a village in Bohemia. These animals, including a large mastiff, belonging to a nobleman in the place, had a practice of going regularly to church. "This at last excited the attention of the town authorities, and at a meeting of the court, a magistrate, who presided, said in a loud, decided tone,-- "'No dogs shall be allowed in church; let me not see one of them in future!'" "The mastiff was present, and seemed to listen with attention. Nor without effect; for on the ensuing Sunday he rose early, and ran round the village, barking at all the dogs. He then took his station near the door of the church; and when a dog came up, unmindful of his prohibition, he instantly killed him. Ever after he took on him this post of sentinel before the church, but not once was he known to enter it." "What a queer dog!" exclaimed Minnie, "and how strange that he should have known what the magistrate said!" Mr. Lee laughed. "Do you remember," he asked, turning to his wife, "the story we heard long ago of that old gentleman in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, who had such a knowing dog?" "Yes, I remember. Minnie will be interested to hear that." "O, yes, father!" "It seems his dog was so intelligent that he could do almost every thing but talk. Among other things, he was in the constant habit of attending church with his master. The old gentleman wore a wig, and having purchased a new one, donned it for the first time on Sunday morning, leaving the old one hanging on a chair in his bed room. "It happened that Bose had been taking a nap that morning in the garden, and did not awake in time to accompany his master to church. He entered the house, and perceived at once that he was late; but on seeing the wig, he imagined it had been forgotten, and catching it in his teeth, before he could be stopped, disappeared with it into the street. "The old gentleman's feelings may be imagined, when, in the commencement of the sermon, he saw Bose quietly trotting along the aisle, in full view of all the congregation, with the wig in his mouth, not stopping till he reached the familiar pew." "I fancy the good man wished his dog had remained at home," said Mrs. Lee, laughing heartily; while Minnie, who did not seem exactly to understand, exclaimed,-- "I thought, mamma, that wigs were fastened on like hair. I'm sure aunt Mary never takes hers off." Mr. Lee suddenly started up. "This is not doing my business," he exclaimed. "If I don't look out sharp, I shall miss an appointment. Run, Minnie, to the barn, and tell John to put the black mare into the buggy as quickly as possible." Before he had put on his boots, she came back, out of breath, calling out,-- "John has harnessed, father; so you can go at once." Soon after he had gone, Mrs. Lee went up stairs to make farther preparations for their journey. She had already directed Anne, a woman who had long been in the family, to put Minnie's dresses into a trunk. What was her surprise, when she entered the room, to see Tiney sitting on them, the trunk being left open! Poor creature! He had taken this method to ascertain the moment of their leaving, probably that he might follow them, as he was sure they would not go without Minnie's clothes. CHAPTER III. LEO AND THE MONKEY. Leo had two very strong friends at the stable, with whom he passed much of his time. These were some large pigs, occupying a nice, warm pen on the south side of the barn. When Leo left his own house to make them a visit, they received him with a grunt of welcome. One cold night, the hostler went, at a late hour, into the stable with his lantern, to see that all the animals were comfortably bedded. As he approached the pig-pen, he was surprised to hear a loud snoring, unlike the noise pigs make in their sleep. He entered cautiously, fearing a straggler had sought shelter there. This fear was quickly changed to mirth, however, as he saw Leo lying on his back between the two pigs, his feet extending some distance below them, while they were pressed closely up to his body, to impart to him as much as possible of their warmth. A few weeks after this, one of the pigs was carried away by the butcher to be killed. Leo mourned for his friend, and paid redoubled attention to the one who was left, as if to make up to him for the loss of his companion. I don't know that I have described Leo. He was a large, shaggy dog, of the Newfoundland breed, black as jet, with a white tip to his bushy tail, and three white feet. Leo's eyes were very bright, and his whole countenance remarkably intelligent. He was a most useful animal about the stable, always giving notice by a loud, fierce bark, when a stranger, and particularly an ill-dressed one, tried to enter. He was good-natured, too, and was never but once known to bite or seriously injure any person. One day, the hostler, having gone into the city, left Leo in charge of the stable, as usual. About noon, a man entered and began to walk around. After a few loud, prolonged barks, which brought no one to his aid, Leo concluded he must take care of the man himself. Every step that the stranger went he followed him, not molesting him in any way until the man took down a handsome fur robe from the shelf, and secreted it in the hay, near the window. He then proceeded to leave, when Leo caught him and held him fast. Nearly an hour later, when the hostler returned, they were still in this position, the robber frightened almost out of his wits, and not daring to move lest the dog should kill him. Being closely questioned by the hostler, he acknowledged his theft, and said that he had intended to come in the night and take away the robe, which he knew was valuable, by removing the window. While he was talking, Leo watched him narrowly, and then followed him from the barn, growling continually. Leo was very fond of his young mistress, whom in her babyhood, he had many times carried on his back around the gravelled walks near the house. Minnie was fond of him too, and sometimes put her arms around his neck and kissed him. When he saw her coming, he always ran to meet her, wagging his tail with pleasure. But there was one member of the family Leo did not like at all, and no inducements which his master could urge would bring him on even decently friendly terms with him. This was Jacko, the monkey, who by his grinning and chattering, and uncouth gestures, so disgusted the great dog, that he kept as far from his cage as possible. One morning, about three months after Minnie's cousin Ida had come to reside with them, the little girl was taken suddenly ill. When she was partially recovered, it was curious to see her sitting bolstered up in bed, with so many pets around her. First, there was Poll, hopping up and down from her perch to the floor of the cage, chattering continually between her fits of coughing, "I'm sick! I'm sick! O, what a cold!" and then, changing her tone, "better now! better to-day!" On the bed were Fidelle and Tiney, the latter nestled closely under his little mistress's arm. By the side of the couch, with his fore paws resting on the white counterpane, stood Leo, grave and dignified, seeming to realize more than any of them what a sad thing it was for Minnie to be lying there, instead of running over the grounds as usual. Just at this moment, Anne came into the room bringing Jacko, who began to grin and chatter with delight. Mrs. Lee directed the woman to fasten the monkey's chain tightly to the post of the bedstead, and let him have his liberty; but she soon regretted having done so, for Leo, who had bristled up the moment Jacko came in, with a deep growl sprang upon him, and would have torn him in pieces, had not the united force of several persons present caught the little fellow away, and shut him in a closet. The excitement proved too much for Minnie, and she began to sob hysterically. Leo came to lick her hand, apparently aware that he had done wrong, but she cried out,-- "Go away, you naughty dog. I don't love you at all now." Leo was presently sent from the room. Jacko, after overturning every thing in the closet, was returned to his cage, and then, in order to soothe the little girl, Mrs. Lee proposed that Ida should bring the book, and read some anecdotes about dogs. The first one she read was this:-- "Rev. James Simpson, of Edinburgh, had a large Newfoundland dog. At one time he resided at Libberton, about two miles out of the city, in a pleasant house surrounded with a garden. "One sacrament Sunday, the servant, who was left at home in charge of the house, thought it a good opportunity to entertain her friends, as her master and mistress were not likely to return home till after the evening service, about nine o'clock. "The company assembled, and wandered together over the house and grounds, the dog accompanying them wherever they went in the most attentive manner, and seeming greatly pleased. "As the time approached for Mr. and Mrs. Simpson to return, the party prepared to separate, and at last proceeded to do so; but the dog, the instant they went to the door, interposed. "Planting himself firmly before the entrance, he would not allow one of them to touch the handle. While they were quiet, he offered no force; but the moment they attempted to move, he became furious; and with deep, angry growls and a menacing manner, drove them back into the kitchen, where he kept them till the arrival of his master and mistress. "The surprise of the good clergyman and his wife may be imagined, when, on entering the house, they found a party assembled there at so late an hour, and the dog standing sentinel over them. "Being thus detected, the guilty servant acknowledged her crime, when her friends were allowed to depart, after being admonished by the worthy divine in regard to the proper use of the Sabbath. "Soon after this, Mr. Simpson was obliged to leave his country residence on account of his children's education, and remove into Edinburgh. Speaking one day to a friend, he said, 'I regret extremely that I shall be obliged to part with my faithful dog, as he is too large to be kept in a city house.' "The animal was present, and heard him say this, and must have understood what was meant, for he disappeared that very evening, and was never afterwards heard from." Minnie was silent a few minutes when her cousin ceased reading, and then said, half crying,-- "I'm afraid Leo will go away, for I told him I did not love him." Ida gayly approached the window, expecting to see the dog, as usual at this hour, sunning himself in front of the stable; but as she did not, she offered to go and find him. She had scarcely reached the hall when she met him coming up the stairs. He looked wishfully in her face, and then went to Minnie's door, and began to scratch upon it. Ida opened it, wondering what he wanted, when Leo, with his tail between his legs as if conscious he had done wrong, went directly to the couch, and putting his cold nose into Minnie's hand, asked, as well as he could, to be forgiven for his offence. "I do love you, Leo," she exclaimed, caressing him; "you're a real good dog; and you won't hurt Jacko again. Poor Jacko!" On hearing these words, Leo began to wag his tail joyfully, and then, putting his paws on the bed, licked the hand she playfully held out to him. CHAPTER IV. THE FAITHFUL DOGS. "O, cousin Minnie," cried Ida, "here are some beautiful stories. Let me read them to you." "An English terrier was brought up in a family where there was a little girl, with whom he was a great favorite. For hours together they amused each other, the dog readily yielding obedience to every wish of his little friend. One day, however, when they were at play in the nursery, the mother was startled by a quick snarl from the terrier, expressive of temper and violence. "Alarmed for her child, she rushed to the dog and drove him angrily away; but after the closest examination, she could find no trace of injury inflicted on the little girl, and she soon, forgot both the outcry and alarm. "Meantime poor Fido had not ventured from the corner where he had been driven in disgrace, but remained for a long time pensive and quiet in his retreat. At last, when his little playmate began to look round for him, he came slowly forward to the mother of his companion, and sitting directly before her, with a touch of his paw solicited her attention. "'What is it, Fido?' she asked. "He rose gently, and placed something on the carpet at her feet. "It was a pin, which she lifted up and examined, every motion closely watched by the dog. His pleading eye was too obvious to be misunderstood, and by questioning the child, the whole was soon explained. The pin had come in her way, and, in the fun of childhood, she had tried to make a pin-cushion of Fido's nose. The snarl was caused by pain, and the snap following removed the dangerous weapon from unsafe hands. "The lady patted the dog, calling him 'good Fido,' when he at once turned to his favorite, to assure her of his forgiveness, and to ask that they might be friends again. And so they were ever after." "That is a very good story," said Minnie, smiling. "I wish you would read another one as good." "Here is one," responded Ida, having cast her eye over it, "which is rather sad." "A gentleman named Llewelyn had a fine hunter, which he called Gelert. One day, the dog refused to accompany his master to the chase, which made him very angry. "Gelert always kept sentinel at night at the door of his bedchamber, and, on his return from the chase, Llewelyn met the dog coming from the room, covered with blood. He entered in great haste, alarmed for the safety of his child, when he found the bed overturned, and the coverlet stained with gore. In an agony of apprehension, he called aloud to his boy, but received no answer, and rashly concluded that the babe had been killed by Gelert. "Without stopping to reflect upon the fondness the animal had always manifested for the child, he ran his sword through the poor creature's body. "Roused from his slumber by Gelert's dying yell, the infant awoke, when the father, advancing, found to his heart-rending remorse, a gaunt wolf, torn and bleeding, tremendous even in death, lying on the floor near the tender nursling. The faithful dog had seen the wolf prowling about, and, refusing to accompany his master to the chase, of which he was extremely fond, placed himself near the couch of the boy, and in the end saved his life, though, as it proved, at the sacrifice of his own. "Llewelyn, who never could forgive himself, afterwards built a chapel, and raised a tomb to the memory of his faithful dog, who fell a victim to a momentary passion. This tomb is still called Beth-Gelert, or the tomb of Gelert; multitudes have there heard the account of his bravery and his untimely death." "How very sorry he must have been!" exclaimed Minnie, tears filling her eyes. "Read that account of the Stockholm dog," said Mrs. Lee. "Yes, aunt; but first here is a story of the fidelity of a dog, which is very affecting." "A French merchant, having some money due from a correspondent, set out on horseback, accompanied by his dog, on purpose to receive it. Having settled the business to his satisfaction, he tied the bag of money before him, and began to return home. His faithful dog, as if he entered into his master's feelings, frisked round the horse, barked, and jumped, and seemed to participate in his joy. "After riding some miles, the merchant alighted to repose himself under an agreeable shade, taking the bag of money in his hand, and laying it down by his side under a hedge, when, upon remounting, he unfortunately forgot it. "The dog perceived his want of recollection, and wishing to rectify it, ran to fetch the bag; but it was too heavy for him to drag along. He then ran to his master, and by crying, barking, and howling, tried to remind him of his mistake. "Unfortunately, the merchant did not understand his language; but the assiduous creature persevered in his efforts, and after trying to stop the horse in vain, at last began to bite his heels. "The gentleman, absorbed in some reverie, wholly misunderstood his animal's expostulations, and entertained the alarming apprehension that he had suddenly gone mad. Full of this suspicion, in crossing a brook, he turned back to see whether the dog stopped to drink. The faithful creature was too anxious concerning his master's business to think of it, but continued to bark and bite with greater violence than before. "'Mercy!' cried the affrighted merchant, 'it must be so? My poor dog is certainly mad. What shall I do? I must kill him, lest some greater misfortune befall me; but with what regret! O, could I find any one to perform this cruel office for me! But there is no time to lose; I myself may become a victim if I spare him.' "With these words he drew a pistol from his pocket; and with a trembling hand took aim at his faithful servant. He turned away in agony as he fired; but his aim was too sure. The poor animal fell wounded, and weltering in his blood, still endeavored to crawl toward his master, as if to tax him with ingratitude. The merchant could not bear the sight: he spurred on his horse with a heart full of sorrow, and lamented that he had taken a journey which had cost him so dear. Still the money never entered his mind; he only thought of his poor dog, and tried to console himself with the reflection that he had prevented a greater evil than he had suffered a calamity by despatching a mad animal. But even this thought did not quiet him. "'I am most unfortunate,' said he to himself; 'I had almost rather have lost my money than my dog.' "Saying this, he put out his hand to grasp his treasure. It was missing; no bag was to be found. In one instant his eyes were opened to his rashness and folly. 'Wretch that I am!' he cried; 'I alone am to blame. I could not understand the caution which my innocent and most faithful friend gave me; and I have sacrificed him for his zeal. He only wished to inform me of my mistake; and he has paid for his fidelity with his life!' "Instantly he turned his horse, and went off at full gallop to the place where he had stopped. He saw with half averted eyes the scene where the tragedy was acted; he perceived the traces of blood as he proceeded; he was oppressed and distracted; but in vain he looked for his dog; he was not to be seen on the road. "At last he arrived at the spot where he had alighted. But here his heart bled afresh. He was entirely overcome. The poor dog, unable to follow his dear but cruel master, had determined to consecrate his last moments to his service. He had crawled, all bloody as he was, to the forgotten bag, and in the agonies of death, he lay watching beside it. [Illustration: THE DOG FAITHFUL TILL DEATH. Page 92.] "As soon as he saw his master, he testified his joy by wagging his tail. He could do no more; he tried to rise, but his strength was gone. The vital tide was ebbing fast; and even the caresses of his master could not prolong his life for a few moments. He stretched out his tongue to lick the hand that was now fondling him in the agonies of regret, as if to seal forgiveness of the deed that had deprived him of life. He then cast a look of love on his master, and closed his eyes in death." CHAPTER V. CANICHE AND THE TRAVELLER. Mr. Lee returned one day from the city with a party of friends who had been invited to visit them. They were all seated at the tea table, when a quick ringing of one of the chamber bells attracted their attention. The gentleman glanced at his wife, who at once noticed that all the family were present at the table, and only answered by the words, "Who can it be?" "It is Maria or Emily Otis, from the city," he answered, smiling. "They came, I suspect, in the noon train, and have taken this method to announce their arrival." At this moment the bell was rung again, and more furiously than before. Minnie sprang up, and ran from the room. She reached the chamber just as a servant was opening the door. What was their surprise, instead of the expected guest, to see Tiney standing on his hind feet pulling the bell rope! He had accidentally been shut into the chamber, and took this means to get out. The child ran down with the news, and Tiney, who followed her, was quite the hero of the occasion. After dinner, the conversation turned upon the intelligence and fidelity of dogs, when one of the gentlemen related the following singular incident, which he said was strictly true:-- "An English officer, who was in Paris somewhere near the year 1815, was once crossing one of the bridges over the Seine, when a poodle dog rubbed against his boots, which had just been polished, dirtying them so much that he was obliged to go to a man stationed on the bridge to clean them. "The same circumstance having occurred more than once, his curiosity was excited, and he watched the dog. He saw him roll himself in the mud of the river, and then station himself where he could see a person with well-polished boots, against which he contrived to rub himself. "Finding that the shoe-black was the owner of the poodle, he taxed him with the artifice; and after a little hesitation, he confessed that he had taught the dog the trick, in order to procure customers for himself. "The officer, being much surprised at the dog's sagacity, purchased him at a high price, and carried him to England. He kept him tied up in London some time, and then released him. The poodle remained with him a day or two, and then made his escape. A fortnight afterwards, he was found with his former master, pursuing his old trade of dirtying gentlemen's boots on the bridge." "Your story, which is a capital one," remarked another gentleman of the company, "reminds me of something I read lately, which, if not well vouched for, I should scarcely have credited. "A man by the name of Edward Cook, after having lived some time with his brother in Northumberland, came to the United States, bringing with him a pointer dog, which he lost soon afterwards, while shooting in the woods near Baltimore. "Some time after, his brother and sister, who continued to reside in Northumberland, were alarmed at hearing a dog in the night. They arose, admitted it to the house, and found, to their surprise, it was the same their brother had taken with him to America. The dog lived with them until Mr. Edward Cook returned, when they mutually recognized each other. "They were never able to trace by what vessel the dog had left America, or in what part of England it had been landed." "One of the best stories I have heard of the sagacity of a dog," remarked a lady, "was the account of Caniche, which, if not familiar to you, is well worth repeating." Mr. Lee begged her to favor the company with the story, when she began. "Once upon a time, Dumont, a tradesman of the Rue St. Denis, in Paris, was walking with a friend, when he offered to lay a wager with the latter, that, if he were to hide a six-livre piece in the dust, his dog would discover it, and bring it to him. The wager was accepted, and the piece of money secreted, after being carefully marked. "When the two had proceeded some distance from the spot, M. Dumont said to his dog that he had lost something, and ordered him to seek it. Caniche immediately turned back, and her master and companion pursued their walk to the Rue St. Denis. "Meanwhile, a traveller, who happened to be just then returning in a small chaise from Vincennes, perceived the piece of money which his horse had kicked from its hiding place. He alighted, took it up, and drove to his inn. "Caniche, after a careful search, had just reached the spot in pursuit of the lost piece, when the stranger picked it up. She at once set off after the chaise, went into the inn, and stuck close to the traveller. Having scented out the coin in the pocket of the latter, which she had been ordered to bring back, she leaped up incessantly at and about him. The traveller, supposing him to be some dog that had been lost by her master, regarded these movements as marks of fondness, and, as the animal was handsome, determined to keep her. He gave her a good supper, and, on retiring to bed, took her with him to his chamber. No sooner had he pulled off his pantaloons than they were seized by the dog: the owner, conceiving that she wanted to play with them, took them away again. The animal then began to bark at the door, which the traveller opened, under the idea that the dog wanted to go out. Caniche snatched up the pantaloons, and away she flew, the traveller posting after her, dressed only in his night shirt. Anxiety for the fate of a purse full of gold Napoleons of forty francs each gave redoubled quickness to his steps. "Caniche, having a good start, ran full speed to her master's house, where the stranger arrived a moment afterward, breathless and enraged. He accused the dog of robbing him. "'Sir,' said the master, 'my dog is a very faithful creature; and if she has run away with your pantaloons, it is because you have in them money which does not belong to you.' "The traveller became still more exasperated. "'Compose yourself, sir,' rejoined the other, smiling: 'without doubt there is in your purse a six-livre piece, with such and such marks, which you have picked up in the Boulevard St. Antoine, and which I threw down there with the firm conviction that my dog would bring it back again. This is the cause of the robbery which she has committed upon you.' "The stranger's rage now yielded to astonishment; he delivered the six-livre piece to the owner, and could not forbear caressing the dog which had given him so much uneasiness and such an unpleasant chase." "There is no doubt," remarked Mr. Lee, "that the character and intellectual faculties of the dog are more strongly developed than those of any other quadruped, on account of his being the constant companion of man. It is a pleasing thought, the more that is known of his fidelity, faithfulness, and sagacity, the more he will be appreciated, and the better, therefore, his treatment is likely to be." CHAPTER VI. THE SHEPHERD'S DOG. "Mother," cried Minnie, one morning, "will you tell me about the dogs people used to have in old times, when the Bible was written? Father read about the dog with the flocks." "Yes, dear. The shepherds had dogs whose duty seemed only to be to guard the flock from the attacks of wild beasts, and, like the Spanish sheep dog of the present day, had nothing to do with the management of sheep. Indeed, he seems to have been regarded with great dislike by the Jews, and, if not carefully watched, was more destructive to the sheep than the beast of whose approach he was to give warning. When he was not on duty, he was regarded as a great pest and destroyer. "Among the Arabs, travellers in the East say, this is the character of them all; they are cruel, bloodthirsty, always hungry, and never satisfied. His look is savage, and his appearance disagreeable. The Moors grant him a corner in their tent, but that is all; they never caress him, never throw him any thing to eat. To this treatment must the indifference of dogs to their masters be ascribed. "The Spanish sheep dogs are used entirely for the defence of the flock against wolves. In case of attack, the sheep fly to them, and gather round them as friends and protectors. They are also taught, if a sheep lags behind unobserved by the shepherds, to stay with it, and defend it until some one returns for it. "In later times man has made a companion of this faithful animal, and the dog well reciprocates the kindness. The Scotch sheep dog, or colley, has no superior, scarcely an equal, in managing a flock. The Ettrick Shepherd says, that a single shepherd, with one of these colleys, will accomplish more in gathering a flock of sheep from a Highland farm than twenty shepherds could do without it. Neither hunger, fatigue, nor the worst treatment, will draw him from his master's side, and he will follow him through every hardship without murmur or repining. "Mr. Hogg also gives an account of his own colley, 'Sirrah,' who had one night a flock of lambs under his care. They became frightened at something, and ran in all directions, scattering among the hills. "'Sirrah,' exclaimed Mr. Hogg, in despair, 'they're a' awa'!' "The dog dashed off through the darkness. After spending, with his assistants, the whole night in a fruitless search after the fugitives, the shepherd commenced his return home. Coming to a deep ravine, they found Sirrah in charge of what, as they supposed, was one of the scattered divisions; but what was their joyful surprise to find that not one of the flock was missing!" "O," cried Minnie, "wasn't he a good fellow!" "Yes, dear; and the English sheep dog is also remarkable for its docility and faithfulness. It is larger and more powerful than the colley; and they are so useful to their employers that a writer says it would be almost impossible to conduct the markets without them. If you were to visit the Smithfield market in London, on Monday or Friday, you would see them at their work. Vast droves of sheep and other animals are brought from the country for the supply of the great metropolis, and are here crowded into the smallest possible space. Of course each owner wishes his flock kept from mingling with others; and this business devolves on his dog. If one sheep slips away, by a motion of the hand, or one word of command, the master signifies his desire, and the truant is instantly sought and returned, the dog always holding it by the side of the head, so as not to bruise the body. His eye is continually on his master's countenance, anxious to learn his wishes, or on the particular flock he has in charge. As difficulties multiply, his sagacity becomes almost human, and he seems to know every individual belonging to his flock." Minnie listened to this account with great interest; but now she started up, her whole countenance blazing with excitement, and exclaiming, "Father, you'll need a dog, you know, for your sheep. If you'll buy an English shepherd pup, I'll let Nannie take care of it, and train it for you." "Thank you, love," said her father, patting her head fondly; "but I'm afraid Nannie is scarcely capable of such business. I'll tell you a story of a remarkable Spanish shepherd dog which came to America from England. His name was Arrogante, and he was an animal of prodigious power. There was nothing affectionate or joyous about him. He never forgave an injury or an insult. He was proud and reserved, but not quarrelsome. Little curs would often run up to him, or seize his long, bushy tail; but he seldom condescended to notice them: when he did, he soon made an end of them. "Arrogante was honest, faithful, and courageous. He was a strictly temperance dog, and would allow no one on the premises who was what is called worse for liquor. Many a time, according to his own confession, the bailiff who usually fed Arrogante was obliged to sleep on the ground outside the farm because he came home unsteady from too much drinking. "On one occasion a couple of sailors, wishing to take advantage of the tide, came unexpectedly to the farm, soon after midnight, to take away some potatoes they had purchased from Mr. Rotch. But Arrogante would not consent to what he considered unlawful proceedings. He forced the men into an empty cart, and kept them there till morning. Once or twice they tried to put a foot over the side of the cart, but were convinced if they persevered the dog would kill them. They lost the tide, and were greatly disappointed, but, like honest fellows, confessed the fault was their own. "A gentleman who, I am sorry to say, was fond of spirituous liquors, lived near the farm, and often passed near the stable where Arrogante had his headquarters. This gentleman was regularly introduced to him, and warned by his master against ever provoking him. Returning home, late one Saturday evening, on horseback, from a convivial meeting, as he galloped past the stable he met Arrogante, and wantonly struck at him with a hunting whip. He was a large man, and rode a powerful horse, which was going at full speed, so that he escaped before the astonished dog recovered from his surprise. "The next morning the gentleman was on his way to church mounted as before. Arrogante, who was watching for him, at once knew the tread of his horse, and stood grimly awaiting his insulter. When the gentleman had approached within a few yards, the dog gave a spring, and met him in the air, in a deadly aim at his throat. Nothing but the sudden jump of the very active horse saved the rider's throat and his life; but so narrowly had he escaped, that he felt the gnashing teeth of the frenzied brute scrape down his dress, where they came in contact with, and closed upon, his watch, tearing it away with the adjacent clothing, and chewing it into atoms. The cause of this terrible onset not being disclosed at the time, Mr. Rotch, though convinced that Arrogante had not been the aggressor, felt obliged to have him shot." CHAPTER VII. THE INTELLIGENT POODLES. "You promised, cousin Ida, to read about the Stockholm dog." "I will, Minnie; but uncle George has something to tell you." "Read it now, Ida," said Mr. Lee, "and I will relate my stories afterward." "A captain of an English merchant vessel arrived in the port of Stockholm, in Sweden, and was soon afterward seized with an illness, of which he died. At the time of his death, he had on board a fine, large Newfoundland dog, which was fondly attached to him. On the day of the captain's funeral, Neptune was allowed to follow his poor master to the grave; and, after the funeral ceremony had been performed, the officers and crew made every exertion to induce the dog to follow them to the ship, but all in vain; and their endeavors to catch him proving fruitless, they left him in the churchyard. "During the short time the ship remained in port, Neptune might be seen at all times lying with his head on the grave, and every day the sailors brought him his food; but he was so vigilant on these occasions that they never could get near him, to take him back to the ship, and they were obliged to sail without him. "The neighboring Swedish inhabitants, in admiration of the extraordinary attachment displayed by this animal to his late master, made arrangements among themselves to supply him with his daily food; and, as the weather soon became extremely cold, a subscription was made, to build him a comfortable doghouse, which was placed near the grave. "It was affecting to see how earnestly Neptune gazed into every new-made grave, proving that he cherished the hope of seeing his beloved master again. "He remained on the grave for several years, and came to be called the dog of Stockholm, when, one day, he was found dead at his post." "I love Neptune," faltered Minnie, wiping her eyes. "I wish I could have seen him there. But, father, what did you say you had to tell me?" "I found two remarkable stories of the exhibition of dogs, which I thought would interest you; and so I took the pains to borrow the book for your benefit. "The first was an account of two pointers, Braque and Philax, exhibited in London by Mr. Leonard, a French gentleman of great wealth, who had instructed his dogs for his own amusement. He was earnest in stating that it only required gentle, persevering effort to teach them almost any thing. "The dogs were in vigorous health, and having bowed gracefully to the company, seated themselves on the hearth rug, side by side. Mr. Leonard spoke to his dogs in French, in his usual low tone, and ordered one of them to walk, the other to lie down, to run, to gallop, to halt, to crouch, all of which they did as promptly and correctly as the most docile children. "He then placed six cards, of different colors, on the floor, and, sitting with his back to the dogs, directed one to pick up the blue card and the other the white, varying his orders rapidly, and speaking in such a manner that it was impossible they could have executed his commands if they had not a perfect knowledge of his words. "For instance, he said, 'Philax, take the blue card, and give it to Braque; and, Braque, take the red card and give it to Philax;' and these orders were instantly executed. "Pieces of bread and meat were placed on the floor, when Philax was ordered to bring a piece of meat and give it to Braque, and then Braque was ordered to give it back to Philax, who was to return it to its place. Braque was then ordered to bring a piece of meat and eat it; but before he had time to swallow it, he was forbidden to do so, and instantly pushed it through his teeth, to show that he obeyed. "After this, Mr. Leonard invited any gentleman to play a game of dominos with Braque. The dog seated himself at the table, and his antagonist opposite him. Six dominos were given to the dog, and six more to the gentleman. Braque, having the double number, took it in his mouth, and put it in the middle of the table, when the gentleman put down a corresponding piece. "Braque instantly placed another correctly, when the gentleman intentionally placed a wrong number. "The dog stared, growled, and at last barked angrily. Finding no notice was taken of his remonstrances, he pushed away the wrong domino with his nose, picked a suitable one from his own pieces, and put it instead, when they went on, and Braque won the game." "O, father, I mean to teach Tiney to play with me." "But here is a wonderful story about dogs." "About fifty years ago, a Frenchman brought to London from eighty to a hundred dogs, chiefly poodles, all nearly the same size, and of the smaller kind. On the education of these animals their proprietor had bestowed a great deal of pains. "From puppyhood upwards they had been taught to walk on their hind legs, and maintained their footing with surprising ease in that unnatural position. "Among other performances was the representation of a siege. On the rising of a curtain, there appeared three ranges of ramparts, one above the other. In the centre of the fortress arose a tower, on which a flag was flying. The ramparts were guarded by soldiers in uniform, each armed with a musket or sword of an appropriate size. All these were dogs, and their duty was to defend the walls from an attacking party, whose movements now commenced the operations of the siege. "After some skirmishing, in which the chief, habited as an officer of rank, was conspicuous, the drums beat to arms, and the battle commenced in earnest. The chief of the assailants did wonders. He was seen, now here, now there, animating his men, and seeming to receive an accession of courage on every fresh repulse. "The rattle of the miniature cannon, the roll of the drums, the sound of trumpets, and the heroism of the actors on both sides, imparted an idea of reality to the scene. After numerous hair-breadth escapes, the enemy's standard was hurled down, and the British flag hoisted in its place; the ramparts were manned by the conquerors, and the smoke cleared away to the tune of 'God save the King.' "But a still more wonderful scene was an assembly room, on the sides and the farther end of which seats were placed; while a music gallery and a profusion of chandeliers gave a richness and truth to the general effect. Liveried servants were in attendance on a few of the dog company who entered. "Frequent knockings were now heard at the door, followed by the entrance of parties attired in the fashion of the period. These were the same dogs who had recently been engaged in the battle; but now all was peace, elegance, and ease. Different parties of dogs were introduced to each other with an appearance of the greatest decorum. The dogs representing ladies were dressed in silks, gauzes, laces, and gay ribbons, and adorned with artificial flowers, with flowing ringlets, with powdered and pomatumed headdresses, with caps and lappets, in ludicrous contrast to their natural features. The dogs representing gentlemen were equipped, some as youthful, and others as aged beaux. "The frequent bow and responsive courtesy produced great mirth in the audience. Suddenly, the master of ceremonies appeared. He wore a court dress, and his manners were in agreement with his costume. To some of the dog-gentlemen, he gave merely a look of recognition; to the ladies he was attentive; to some he offered his paw familiarly, to others he bowed with respect, and introduced one to another with an elegance that surprised the spectators. "The music was soon interrupted by a loud knocking, which announced the arrival of some important visitor. Several liveried servants entered, and then a sedan chair was borne in by appropriately dressed dogs. They removed the poles, raised the head, and opened the door of the sedan, when forth came a dog-lady splendidly attired in satin, decorated with jewels and a plume of ostrich feathers! She made a great impression, and appeared conscious of her superior charms, returning the bow of the master of ceremonies with a courtesy. "The band now struck up an air appropriate for the promenade; and the company instantly quitted their seats, and began to walk in pairs around the room. "On seats being resumed, the master of ceremonies and the sedan chair lady arose: he led her to the centre of the room, Foote's minuet struck up, when the pair commenced the movements with an attention to time. They performed the crossings and turnings, the advancings and retreatings, and obeisances, during which there was a perfect silence; and they concluded the whole amid thunders of applause." MRS. LESLIE'S JUVENILE SERIES. 16mo. FOR BOYS. Vol. I. THE MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. " II. PLAY AND STUDY. " III. HOWARD AND HIS TEACHER. " IV. JACK, THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER. FOR GIRLS. Vol. I. TRYING TO BE USEFUL. " II. LITTLE AGNES. " III. I'LL TRY. " IV. ART AND ARTLESSNESS. MINNIE'S PET MONKEY. BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE, AUTHOR OF "THE LESLIE STORIES," "TIM, THE SCISSORS-GRINDER," ETC. ILLUSTRATED. BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, SUCCESSORS TO PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 1864. Transcriber's Note A handwritten note on the dedication page identifies Henry Fowle Durant, Jr. as: "Son of founder of Wellesley College which was founded in memory of the boy who died in youth. K.F.R." The following corrections were made: 18 her parents went a changed to her parents went on a 24 "What can you give me for supper?" changed to "'What can you give me for supper? 24 '"That is too changed to "'That is too 29 from the ship. changed to from the ship." 73 them to you." changed to them to you. 78 rather sad." changed to rather sad. 82 very affecting." changed to very affecting. 129 have him shot. changed to have him shot." 150 The music was changed to "The music was 
26617	----	Transcriber's Note Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. A list of corrections is found at the end of the text. [Illustration: "Oh, dear! oh, dear me!" Page 85.] [Illustration: MINNIE and her PETS BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE MINNIE'S PET PARROT.] MINNIE'S PET PARROT. BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE, AUTHOR OF "THE LESLIE STORIES," "TIM, THE SCISSORS-GRINDER," ETC. ILLUSTRATED. BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, 1864. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by A. R. BAKER, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. ELECTROTYPED AT THE BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY. TO MY YOUNG FRIEND, HENRY FOWLE DURANT, JR. =These Little Volumes= ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR, IN THE EARNEST HOPE THAT THEY MAY INCREASE IN HIM THAT LOVE OF NATURE AND OF RURAL LIFE WHICH HAS EVER EXERTED SO SALUTARY AN INFLUENCE IN THE FORMATION OF THE CHARACTERS OF THE WISE AND GOOD. MINNIE AND HER PETS. Minnie's Pet Parrot. Minnie's Pet Cat. Minnie's Pet Dog. Minnie's Pet Horse. Minnie's Pet Lamb. Minnie's Pet Monkey. INTRODUCTION. The object of these little books is not so much to give full, scientific information with regard to the animals of which they treat, as to bring before the child such facts concerning them as shall interest him in their history, awaken a desire to know more of the particular traits of each, and especially lead him to be kind to them as a part of God's creation. Natural history we deem, according to the opinion of an eminent writer, as "not only the most captivating of the sciences, but the most humanizing. It is impossible to study the character and habits of the lower animals without imbibing an interest in their wants and feelings." Dr. Chalmers, who was famous for his interest in the brute creation, says, "To obtain the regards of man's heart in behalf of the lower animals, we should strive to draw his mind toward them. The poor brutes look, tremble, and give the signs of suffering, as we do. A threatened blow strikes them with terror, and they have the same distortions of agony on the infliction of it. Their blood circulates as ours does. They sicken, and grow feeble with age, and finally die, as we do. They possess also instincts which expose them to suffering in another quarter. The lioness, robbed of her whelps, makes the wilderness ring with her cries; and the little bird, whose tender household has been stolen, fills and saddens all the grove with her pathetic melody." The author has been careful to select only facts well authenticated. She takes this opportunity to acknowledge most gratefully her indebtedness to those friends who have contributed original anecdotes which have come under their own observation; and also to state that she has quoted from most of the popular English works on these subjects, prominent among which are Jesse, Richardson, and Hamilton, on dogs; Youatt, the Ettrick Shepherd, and Randall, on sheep; Morris, Brown's Natural History, Chambers's Miscellany, etc. She has been greatly encouraged, in the preparation of these volumes for the young, by the flattering reception of the previous productions of her pen. If these should meet with similar favor, they may be followed by other volumes of the same character and objects. THE AUTHOR. MINNIE'S PET PARROT. CHAPTER I. MINNIE AND HER PARROT. In these little books, I am going to tell you about Minnie, her home, and her pets; and I hope it will teach every boy and every girl who reads them to be kind to animals, as Minnie was. Minnie Lee had a pleasant home. She was an only child, and as her parents loved to please her, they procured every thing which they thought would make her happy. The first pet Minnie had was a beautiful tortoise-shell kitten, which she took in her baby arms and hugged tightly to her bosom. After a time, her father, seeing how much comfort she took with kitty, bought her a spaniel. He already had a large Newfoundland dog; but Mrs. Lee was unwilling to have him come into the house, saying that in summer he drew the flies, and in winter he dirtied her hearth rugs. So Leo, as the great dog was called, was condemned to the barn, while Tiney could rove through the parlors and chambers whenever he pleased. In Minnie's seventh year, her father bought her a Shetland pony and a lamb, which he told her was called a South Down--a rare and valuable breed. The little girl now thought her hands quite full; but only the next Christmas, when her uncle came home from sea, he told her he had brought an addition to her pets; and true enough, when his luggage came from town, there was a bag containing a real, live monkey, named Jacko. These, with the silver-gray parrot, which had been in the family for years, gave Minnie employment from morning till night. You will wonder, perhaps, that one child should have so many pets; and, indeed, the parrot belonged to her mother; but when I tell you that, though her parents had had six children, she was the only one remaining to them, and that in her infancy she was very sickly, you will not wonder so much. The doctor said that their only hope of bringing her up was to keep her in the open air as much as possible. "Let her have a run with Leo," he used to say; or, "Get her a horse, and teach her to ride. That will do her more good than medicine." When her father came home from town, if he did not see his little daughter on the lawn, playing with Fidelle, the cat, and Tiney, the dog, he was almost sure to find her in the shed where Jacko's cage was kept, with Miss Poll perching on her shoulder. When visitors called and asked to see her, her mother would laugh, as she answered, "I'm sure I don't know where the child is, she has so many pets." Minnie was not allowed to study much in books; indeed, she scarcely knew how to read at all; yet she was not an ignorant child, for her father and mother took great pains to teach her. She knew the names of all the different trees on her father's place, and of all the flowers in her mother's garden; but her favorite study was the natural history of beasts and birds; and nothing gave her so much pleasure as to have her father relate anecdotes of their intelligence and sagacity. He had a large, well-selected library, where were many rare volumes on her favorite subject, illustrated with pictures of different animals. When Mr. Lee could not recall a story as often as she wished, she would take his hand and coax him to the library. Then she would run up the steps to her favorite shelf, and taking down a book almost as large as she could lift, say, playfully, "Now, father, I'm ready for you to read." Mrs. Lee often found them sitting together, talking over the wonderful feats of some dog, cat, horse, or monkey, and laughed as she said to her husband, "I believe Minnie comes naturally by her love for animals, for you seem as much interested in the stories as she does." Mr. Lee lived in a very handsome house about seven miles from the city where he did business. He had made a great deal of money by sending ships to foreign lands, freighted with goods, which he sold there in exchange for others which were needed at home. He now lived quite at his ease, with plenty of servants to do his bidding, and horses and carriages to carry him wherever he wished to go. * * * * * But in this volume I shall speak of himself, his family, equipage, and estate, only as they are connected with my object, which is to tell you about Minnie's pet parrot, and also to relate stories of other parrots, all of which are strictly true. Poll was brought from the coast of Africa by a sea captain, who presented her to a lady, aunt to Mrs. Lee. At the lady's death it was given to her niece, and had been an important member of the family ever since. It was not known how old she was when she was brought to America; but she had been in the family for fifteen years, and therefore was old enough to know how to behave herself properly on all occasions. Miss Poll had a plumage of silver-gray feathers, with a brilliant scarlet tail. Her eyes were a bright yellow, with black pupils, and around them a circle of small white feathers. Her beak was large and strong, hooked at the end. Her tongue was thick and black. Her claws were also black, and she could use them as freely as Minnie used her hands. When her mistress offered her a cup of tea,--a drink of which she was very fond,--she took it in her claws, and drank it as gracefully as any lady. In the morning, when her cage was cleaned, she always had a cup of canary seed; but at other times she ate potato, cracker, bread, apple, and sometimes a piece of raw meat. She liked, too, to pick a chicken bone, and would nibble away upon it, laughing and talking to herself in great glee. Miss Poll, I am sorry to say, was very proud and fond of flattery. If Mrs. Lee went to the cage, and put out her finger for the bird to light upon it, and did not praise her, she would often bite it. But if she said, "Sweet Poll! dear Poll! she is a darling!" she would arch her beautiful neck, and look as proud as any proud miss. Then she would tip her head, and put her claws in her mouth, just like a bashful little girl. Poll was exceedingly fond of music, and learned a tune by hearing it played a few times; but she had a queer habit of leaving off in the middle of a line, when she would whistle for the dog, or call out, "Leo, come here! lie down, you rascal!" Poll was very fond of Minnie, and indeed of all children. When she saw the little girl come into the room with her bonnet on, she exclaimed, in a natural tone, "Going out, hey?" When Minnie laughed, she would laugh too, and keep repeating, "Going out? Good by." Parrots are said to be very jealous birds, and are displeased to have any attention shown to other pets. I think Poll was so, and that she was angry when she saw Minnie show so much kindness to Fidelle. One day she thought she would punish the kitty; so she called, "Kitty, kitty," in the most sweet, coaxing tones. Puss seemed delighted, and walked innocently up to the cage, which happened to be set in a chair. "Kitty, kitty," repeated Poll, until she had the little creature within reach of her claws, when she suddenly caught her, and bit her ears and her tail, Fidelle crying piteously at this unexpected ill treatment, until some one came to rescue her. Then puss crept softly away to the farther end of the room, and hid under a chair, where she began to lick her wounded tail, while Poll laughed and chuckled over the joke. CHAPTER II. THE PARROT AND THE TRAVELLER. One morning when the whole family were in the breakfast room, Poll began to talk to herself, imitating exactly the manner of a lady who had recently visited the house with her children. "Little darling beauty, so she is; she shall have on her pretty new bonnet, and go ridy, ridy with mamma; so she shall." In the midst of this, the bird stopped and began to cry like an impatient child. "Don't cry, sweet," she went on, changing her voice again; "there, there, pet, don't cry; hush up, hush up." This conversation she carried on in the most approved baby style, until, becoming excited by the laughter of the company, she stopped, and began to laugh too. After this, whenever she wanted to be very cunning, she would repeat this performance, much to the amusement of all who heard her. Poll was a very mischievous bird, and on this account was not let out of her cage, unless Minnie or some one was at liberty to watch her. Mrs. Lee, who usually sat in the back parlor, from which place she could hear Poll talk, was sure to know if the bird was doing any great mischief, for she always began to scold herself on such occasions. "Ah, ah!" she exclaimed, one day; "what are you about, Poll?" Mrs. Lee rose quickly, and advanced on tiptoe to the door, where she saw the parrot picking at some buttons on the sofa, which she had often been forbidden to touch. Much amused at the sight, she listened to an imitation of her own voice, as follows:-- "Go away, I tell you, Poll! I see you! Take care!" Finding her buttons fast disappearing, she suddenly entered, when the bird went quickly back to her perch. In the afternoon, when her husband returned from town, she related the incident to him and to Minnie. "That shows us," answered the gentleman, laughing, "how careful we ought to be what we say before her; we shall be sure to hear it again." After tea, when Minnie and her father were in the library, they heard Poll singing a variety of tunes in her merriest tones. They stopped talking a while to listen, and then both laughed heartily to see how quickly she struck into a whistle, as Tiney walked deliberately into the room in search of her little mistress. "What a funny bird she is!" cried Minnie; "she runs on so from one thing to another." "In that respect she shows a want of judgment," replied her father; "but, by the way, I have a story for you of a curious parrot, which I will read. "A gentleman who had been visiting a friend near the sea shore, and concluded to return by way of a ferry boat, walked to the beach to see whether there was one ready to start. As he stood looking over the water, much disappointed that there was none in sight, he was surprised to hear the loud cry of the boatman,-- "'Over, master? Going over?' "'Yes, I wish to go,' he answered, looking eagerly about. "'Over, master? Going over?' was asked again in a more earnest tone; and again he repeated,-- "'Yes, I wish to go as soon as possible.' "The questions were repeated constantly, and yet no preparation was made for granting his request. He began to be somewhat indignant, and seeing no one near upon whom he could vent his wrath, he walked rapidly toward a public house near by. Here his anger was speedily changed to mirth, for on going near the door he saw a parrot hanging in a cage over the porch, from whom all the noise had proceeded." "Oh, father," exclaimed Minnie, greatly delighted, "that was a real good story. Isn't there another one?" "Yes; here is one where a man made his bird revenge his insults. "There was once a distiller who had long suffered in his business by a neighbor, who had several times reported him to the public authorities as one who made and sold rum without a license to do so. At last he became very angry at being interfered with, and, as no ready means offered to revenge himself, he adopted the following singular method. "He had a large green parrot, which could speak almost any thing. This parrot he taught to repeat, in a clear, loud, and distinct voice, the ninth commandment,--'Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.' "Having committed this lesson satisfactorily, the owner of the parrot hung him outside one of the front windows of the house, where his troublesome neighbor, who lived directly opposite, would be able to have the full benefit of the inspired words. "The first time the neighbor came in sight, the parrot began, 'Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor;' and this was repeated on every occasion, to the great delight of the neighborhood." At this moment, Mrs. Lee opened the door, to tell Minnie that Anne, the nurse, was waiting to put her to bed. "It's too early," began the child, impatiently; "I don't want to go yet." Her mother only answered by pointing to the little French timepiece on the mantel. "I was having such a good time," sobbed Minnie; "I always have to go just when I'm enjoying myself the most." Hearing this, Poll instantly began to whine, "I don't want to go," and then, putting her claw up to her mouth, sobbed, for all the world, just like her little mistress. Minnie wanted to laugh, but she felt ashamed, and did not like to have her parents see her; so she said, "Keep still, Poll; you've nothing to do with it." This reproof only excited the bird the more, and in a loud, angry tone, she went on,-- "Keep, still, Poll! don't meddle! don't meddle! Ah, Poll, what are you about? Take care; I see you!" Mr. Lee watched his daughter anxiously, to see whether she would recover her temper, and was pleased to observe that she presently advanced to the cage, when she held out her finger to say "Good night" to her pet, as usual. "Good night; say your prayers," repeated the bird, holding out her claw. She then gave her parents their good-night kiss, and snatching Tiney in her arms, went gayly from the room. CHAPTER III. POLL'S FUNNY TRICKS. In summer, Poll lived mostly out of doors, hung in a cage at the top of the piazza. Here she seemed very much amused at the various operations she witnessed. In the morning, she was placed in front of the house on account of the shade; but after dinner, the cage was carried round to a porch, where the shed and barn were in full view. From the front porch, she could salute all the early visitors, and watch the butcher's cart as it passed, often startling him with the inquiry,-- "What have you to-day?" Then, if no one answered, she would quickly reply, "Veal," or, "Only veal to-day." But her greatest amusement was to watch a family of children, who lived nearly opposite. There was one child just commencing to go to school--a duty which he disliked exceedingly. As soon as Poll saw him she would begin, "You must go, or you'll grow up a dunce." Then she would whine, and cry, "I won't go, I say I won't." "Go right along, you naughty boy, or I shall tell your father." Poll now begins to sob and sniffle in earnest, when she suddenly stops and begins the whole conversation over again, greatly to the merriment of her hearers. There is, however, one trick that Poll has learned, which is quite inconvenient. Near Mr. Lee's house, the ground rises, his residence being on a hill. Teams loaded with coal, and other heavy articles, continually pass by, it being of course quite an object with the drivers to get the horses to the top of the hill without stopping on the way. But this would spoil Miss Poll's fun. When they are about half way up, and just in the steepest part, she calls out, "Whoa," in a loud, authoritative voice, so exactly in imitation of the driver that they obey at once. This she repeats as often as he attempts to start them forward, until, greatly vexed, I am sorry to say, he sometimes swears at both the horses and the bird. Nor is this all. When the teams have reached the top of the hill, and the driver wishes to let them stop and breathe, Poll begins to cluck for them to go on, and will not let them rest until they are out of her sight, when she begins a hearty laugh over her own joke. In the mean time, the driver frets and fumes, and wishes that bird had the driving of those horses for once. Poll has formed quite an acquaintance with most of the children of the neighborhood. At one time, there was a great excitement among the boys in regard to a company of soldiers they were forming. On Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, they marched up and down the street, past Mr. Lee's, beating a drum, and singing, "Rub-a-dub, dub! rub-a-dub, dub! Hurrah, hurrah!" As soon as they were out of hearing, Poll began the story, and went through the drill with great glee. From the back porch, Poll witnessed the grooming of the horses, when, as was often the case, they were taken out for Mrs. Lee and Minnie to ride. Indeed, she did her best, as far as words could go, to assist in the operation. While the harness was being put on, she continually called out, "Back, sir! Stand still! What are you about there?" This was often done, greatly to the discomfiture of the hostler, who was obliged generally to countermand these orders. I have told you that Poll was very fond of her friends, and jealous of their affection. She was also very strong in her dislikes. There was one member of the family whom she could not endure, and she took every occasion to vent her spite against him. This was the colored boy who blacked the boots, scoured the knives, and ran errands. Early one morning, when Poll was hanging up at a back window, she saw Tom polishing the boots, and whistling a merry tune, never once thinking of his enemy near him. Squeezing herself, as she often did, through the wires of her cage, she crept silently along through an inner room into the shed, when she flew directly at him, caught him by the legs, and held him fast. Poor Tom was frightened nearly out of his senses, and yelled for some one to take the parrot away. The servants enjoyed the fun too well, however, to release him. They laughed heartily, telling him to shake her off; but he was paralyzed with fright, and stood the picture of horror until the cook coaxed Poll away. At another time, she took a great dislike to the groom, who was an Irishman. Watching a favorable opportunity, she flew at him, caught hold of his shirt bosom, and held it so tightly with her strong beak, that it was some time before Mrs. Lee, who was attracted to the kitchen by the noise, could make her let go her hold of the astonished object of her hatred. After this, whenever the women servants were displeased with the man, they would slyly let Poll out of her cage, when she darted directly toward him, and was thus the means of his losing many a dinner. When his grievances became too heavy, he complained to his mistress, who soon put a stop to such unjust proceedings. One evening, when Mr. Lee drove into the yard, he heard Minnie laughing heartily. Approaching nearer, he saw her sitting on the piazza; Leo, looking rather ashamed, crouching at her feet; and Poll talking, in great excitement, in exact imitation of his own tones-- "Leo, come here! good fellow! Down, sir! Leo, Leo! Hurrah, boys; what fun!" As it was near the time for his master's return, the dog had been more readily deceived by the parrot's call, and had run rapidly toward the house, when he perceived that he had been made a fool of, as he often had been before. A few hours later, they were talking it over in the library, when Mr. Lee said he thought he had read an incident very similar. Minnie joyfully clapped her hands, while her father took down the book, and read,-- "A parrot belonging to a gentleman in Boston was once sunning himself in his cage, at the door of a shop. Seeing a dog in the distance, he began to whistle, when the animal, imagining it to be the call of his master, ran swiftly toward the house. "At this moment, the bird exclaimed, 'Get out, you brute!' when the astonished dog hastily retreated, leaving the parrot laughing and enjoying the joke." "That reminds me," added Mrs. Lee, "of a story a lady once told me of a parrot she owned, and which was really a wonderfully intelligent bird. A new family moved into the neighborhood, consisting, among others, of two young ladies, who always dressed very gayly. "Polly had a bad habit of making remarks upon the passers by, as she hung in her cage overlooking the main street. If, as was sometimes the case, persons engaged in conversation stopped near the house, they would often be startled by the cry,-- "'Go home, now! Want to quarrel?' "But when she saw ladies dressed fashionably, she gave utterance to a most contemptuous laugh, which would have been insult enough by itself; but she often accompanied it by the words,-- "'La, how smart I do feel!' "My friend called at once on her new neighbors, but unfortunately found they were out; she waited a long time for the call to be returned, and at last began to wonder that no notice was taken of her politeness, when the cause of the neglect was explained by a mutual friend. "It appeared that on several occasions the young ladies had passed the house, and had heard the insulting laugh and words, which they attributed to my friend; so that when asked whether they had become acquainted with Mrs. G., they answered, coolly, 'We have no wish to make her acquaintance.' "Being pressed for a reason, they at last confessed that they had been repeatedly insulted, and narrated in what manner it had happened. "This answer caused such a burst of merriment that they were surprised, until, being told that it was the chattering of a tame parrot, they soon joined in the laugh, and went at once to make her acquaintance, and also that of her mistress." CHAPTER IV. POLL AT THE PARTY. "Please, mamma, tell me all you can remember about Mrs. G.'s parrot," cried Minnie, a few days later. "Was she as wonderful as our Poll? and was she as handsome?" Mrs. Lee smiled. "If I should answer all your questions," she said presently, "I should have work for the rest of the day. My friend's parrot was green, with a brilliant red neck and tail. She was a great talker, and seemed to understand the meaning of much of what was said in her presence. I can recollect now two or three incidents which are well worth repeating. "Polly was very fond of children, and enjoyed being let out of her cage to play with them as much as our Poll does. One day, when Mrs. G. had company, they were all startled by hearing loud and repeated screams of distress. Recognizing the voice of her favorite bird, my friend ran hastily into the yard, expecting to see Polly in some dreadful trouble. To her surprise, there was the bird perched safely on the clothes line; but going a few steps farther, she saw her youngest child, a darling girl between two and three years old, just balancing over the edge of a hogshead of water, and entirely unable to recover herself, or to utter one sound. Situated as she was, the poor child could not have remained long in that position, and, but for the alarm given by the watchful bird, must have fallen into the water and drowned." "O, wasn't that a good bird, mamma? I'm sure they all must have loved her better than ever. Will you please tell the rest?" "Mr. G. was for a long time ill, and was unable to rest well at night. Polly, who always remained in their chamber at night, was in the habit of rising early, and practising all her accomplishments by herself as soon as she could see. She would begin, 'Mr. G.,' and then go on, 'My dear,' the name he always called his wife, 'Francis, Maria,' until she had repeated the name of every member of the family; after which she chattered away a strange mixture of sense and nonsense until called to breakfast. After the gentleman was so ill, his best hours for rest were soon after dawn, and my friend would whisper, 'Still, Polly! keep still!' "This caution the parrot tried to enforce on herself by softly repeating the words away down her throat--'Keep still; Polly! keep still!' and ever after until Mr. G.'s death, whenever she saw her mistress point to the bed, and put her finger on her lip, she began to whisper, 'Keep still, Polly! Keep still!' "At Mr. G.'s funeral, the clergyman, who was an Episcopalian, read with great solemnity the funeral service. "The strangeness of the scene, the great concourse of people, and the sound of weeping, so interested Polly that she did not utter a word; but no sooner had the family returned from the grave than she began to utter sounds in sentences so nearly like what she had heard at the funeral, that it was recognized at once as the service for the dead. "I forgot to tell you that, having been in the habit of hearing the children when they repeated the Lord's prayer, she had long ago learned it, and never went to sleep on her perch without uttering the words with apparent solemnity. "After the funeral, whenever a number of persons were assembled and began to talk in a mournful tone, Polly always seemed to think this a proper occasion to repeat her funeral service, often occupying an hour in the recital. There were no distinct words; but the sentences were so similar in length, and the tone so exactly that of the clergyman, that many persons recognized it without being told who the parrot wished to imitate." "I think Polly is the very best parrot I ever knew," exclaimed Minnie. "I wish Mrs. G. would bring her here. I wonder what Poll would say to her." "Mrs. G.'s bird is dead, my dear; and a sad death it was too. I will tell you about it. After her husband's decease, my friend had a little Blenheim spaniel presented her--a beautiful creature, with long white hair like satin, and salmon ears. She was naturally fond of pets, and soon became greatly attached to the dog, who returned her affection with all his heart. As soon as she entered the room, he ran joyfully to meet her, licking her hands, and showing his pleasure in every possible way. "For some days she noticed that the bird seemed dull, and talked very little; yet she did not connect it with the fact of her attention to the dog. But at last as Polly refused to eat, and seemed uneasy when the spaniel was present, she was convinced that the bird was jealous. Every means was tried to reconcile the old friend to the new one, but in vain. Polly knew that children must of course be loved and cared for. She herself loved the children of her mistress; but she could not endure that any other favorite should divide the affection she had so long enjoyed. From this time she drooped; and upon consulting a physician, he said she had every symptom of consumption. Her feet swelled, and at last she died on my friend's breast, seeming 'happy in being allowed to die in the arms of one she so dearly loved.'" A few weeks later, Mrs. Lee invited a small party of friends to take tea at her house. They were all seated in the parlor, and Poll, who was out of her cage, perched on the back of a chair in the next room, and listened with the greatest curiosity to the hum of so many voices. Presently one of the ladies related a precious bit of scandal then running through the town. She had scarcely finished her narration, when a shrill exclamation,-- "Possible!" in a tone of incredulity, came through the open doors. The relator blushed deeply, but went on to prove that her statement must be true, while Mrs. Lee was so much amused, she was obliged to make a great effort to keep from laughing. Again, as soon as the lady ceased, the exclamation,-- "Possible!" was repeated, as if in greater doubt. This was too much of an insult, and the lady's face kindled with anger. Mrs. Lee quietly arose, saying, "Poll must come in and make her own apology for her rudeness;" and soon returned with the parrot clinging to her finger. "Poll has a bad habit of interrupting conversation," she said, playfully, "especially when she wishes to be invited to join the company, as at present." "Could that sound come from a bird?" inquired the lady; "I certainly thought it was a human voice." Many of the company tried to make Poll talk, but she declined for the present. After a while, however, when some witty remark was made which caused a general laugh, Poll laughed too, both loud and long, and then, as if perfectly exhausted with so much emotion, exclaimed,-- "Oh, dear! Oh, dear me!" Two or three of the company had been invited to bring their children, and just at this time Minnie returned with her young friends, having introduced them to Jacko and her other pets. The little girls gathered eagerly around Mrs. Lee, begging her to make Poll talk to them. "Perhaps you would like to play a game of hide-and-seek with her," cried Minnie; "she plays that real nice." "Yes, oh, yes indeed!" was the united response. "Come, Poll," called Minnie, extending her finger. The parrot went at first with seeming reluctance, but presently entered into the spirit of the play, running after the children around the tables and chairs, laughing as merrily as any of them, and every once in a while repeating that curious "Oh, dear! Oh, dear me!" as if quite worn out. Minnie then called the little girls into the next room, shutting the door behind them, when Poll, putting her head down close to the crack, seemed trying to listen to what they said. She well understood the game, however, for she presently called, "Whoop," and then hid behind the door, to catch them when they came along, crying out, as she did so, "Ah, you little rogue!" After this, she laughed so heartily that none could help joining her,--certainly the ladies could not; but all agreed she knew altogether too much for a bird, and was the most wonderful parrot they had ever seen. CHAPTER V. POLL AND THE BACON. Minnie went one day with her parents to a neighboring town, to visit some friends. She had no sooner alighted from the carriage, than she heard the familiar sound of a parrot's voice. "How do you do, miss?" cried the bird, arching its superb neck. "I am very well, thank you," answered Minnie, laughing. "How are you?" "I'm sick, very sick." The funny creature hung her head, and assumed a plaintive, whining tone. "Got a bad cough. Oh, dear!" (Coughing violently.) "I'm sick, very sick. Call the doctor." "I'm glad you have a parrot," the little girl said to her companion, who stood by laughing. "I have one too; I should admire to hear them talk to each other." "Yes, I should; but mother thinks one such noisy bird is more than she can endure. Father had Poll given to him when he was a little boy, and he says he couldn't keep house without her. She is very old indeed, and is often sick, though now she is only making believe. Father will tell you how many years she has been in the family." "There is nothing I like so well," exclaimed Minnie, enthusiastically, "as to hear stories about birds and beasts." "Oh, I'll get father, then, to tell you a funny one about Polly when he was a little boy. He knows all about parrots, because he once went to the country where they live." At dinner, Minnie was introduced to the gentleman, whom she regarded with great interest, on account of his fondness for the bird. No sooner was the dessert brought on the table, and the servants had retired from the room, than Lizzie Monson, her young friend, began. "Papa, will you please to tell Minnie about Poll finding out who stole the bacon?" Mr. Lee burst into a merry laugh, but presently said,-- "I warn you it is a dangerous business. Our little daughter has such a passion for birds and beasts, that if she once finds out you are a story-teller, she won't let you off very easily." Mr. Monson gazed a moment into the sparkling countenance of the child, upon which her father's remarks had caused the roses to deepen, and said, smilingly, "She does not look very savage. Any contribution I can make," turning to the child, "to your stock of knowledge on your favorite subject will give me great pleasure." His bow was so profound and his smile so arch that the little girl could not help laughing as she thanked him, while Lizzie whispered, "Isn't papa a funny man?" "Ask your friend to come into the library," called out Mr. Monson, as they were leaving the dining hall. "Father, isn't Poll sixty years old?" cried Lizzie, pressing forward to attract his attention. "She has been in the family ninety years," answered the gentleman, "and was then probably one or two years of age. It is astonishing how much she knows. Lizzie, run and open her cage, and bring her here." "She is, indeed, a splendid bird," remarked Mrs. Lee, gazing with delight at her richly-tinted plumage. "See, Minnie, how her neck is shaded from the most beautiful green to the richest mazarine blue." "And look at her breast, mother; see those elegant red feathers!" "The parrot," said Mr. Monson, "is an insulated bird. Its manners and general structure, and the mode of using its feet, as described by naturalists, are different from any other bird. Mr. Vigors, Mr. Swainson, and others, consider parrots the only group among birds which is completely _sui generis_. A parrot will, by means of its beak, and aided by its thick, fleshy tongue, clear the inside of a fresh pea from the outer skin, rejecting the latter, and performing the whole process with the greatest ease. "In climbing, I presume you have noticed, she uses her hooked beak as well as her feet; and in feeding she rests on one foot, holding the food to her beak with the other. Her plumage is generally richly-tinted, while in some varieties, like this, it is superb. In all kinds the skin throws off a mealy powder, which saturates the feathers and makes them greasy." "Please, papa," cried Lizzie, "to tell about these birds as you saw them in their own country." "I suppose, Minnie," continued the gentleman, "that you know this is not the home of your favorite bird. You never see them at liberty and flying from tree to tree, as you do the robin or bluebird." "Yes, sir, I know that. Uncle Frank was going to bring me another parrot from South America, but mother thought one was enough." "I quite agree with you," said Mrs. Monson, enthusiastically, "I can scarcely be reconciled to the noise of one, rousing me at all sorts of unreasonable hours, and keeping up such a clatter through the whole day." "They are confined to the warmer climates," the gentleman went on, "and are most abundant in the tropics. I have seen a flock of them resting in a grove of trees, chattering and talking like a company of politicians at a caucus. They are indeed very noisy, keeping together in large flocks, and feeding upon fruits, buds, and seeds. At night they crowd together as closely as possible, and hiding their heads under their wings, sleep soundly. As soon as the first ray of light can be discerned, they are all awake, chatting over the business for the day. First they make their toilet, and in this they assist each other, being very fond of pluming each other's feathers. "One peculiarity of this bird is, that he has but one wife, and never marries again. The pairs form lasting attachments, and when one dies the mate sometimes mourns itself to death. They make a kind of nest in the hollow trees, and there bring up their young. They belong to the scansorial order of birds; that is, they have two toes forward and two backward. Some of them fly slowly; but others wing their way with the greatest rapidity, and for a long period." "I think," remarked Mrs. Lee, "they are the most intelligent of the feathered race." "Yes, naturalists decidedly give them that character. Poll sometimes seems almost too human; and then they are so quick to learn. Did you know, Minnie, that a parrot is considered an article of delicacy for the table?" "O, no, indeed, sir! I wouldn't eat a parrot for any thing." "Nor I; but among other rare and luxurious articles on the bill of fare, described by �lian, as entering into the feasts of the Emperor Heliogabalus, are the combs of fowls, the tongues of peacocks and nightingales, the heads of parrots and thrushes; and it is reported that with the bodies of the two latter he fed his beasts of prey." Minnie's countenance expressed great distress, as she quickly exclaimed, "O, how cruel!" "Now, papa," said Lizzie, "please tell her about Poll and the bacon." "Yes, I mustn't forget that. When I was a little boy, Minnie, my father kept a country store, where all manner of things were exposed for sale. On one counter, in the genteel part, were cambrics, calicoes, and even silks for ladies' dresses, while at the other end were barrels of sugar, boxes of cheese, and other groceries, and above them hung large legs of bacon. "Midway between these, a hook was driven into the beam, and there Poll used to hang as long ago as I can remember any thing. "It was the custom for the men of the village to gather together at the store, and talk politics, or gossip about the affairs of the place. Long before town meeting, it was well understood at the store how each man in the community would vote, and who would be elected to the different offices. "Among others who used to come there, was a man by the name of Brush. He was considered an inoffensive, well meaning man, with no force of character; but all supposed him honest. Poll, however, knew to the contrary; and after a while she convinced others that Brush was a thief. "It was noticed, when this man got excited by the conversation, that he always left the circle round the stove, and walked back and forth through the store; and it was at such times that he contrived to cut large slices from the bacon, which he carefully concealed in his pocket. My father soon began to conclude that the meat, and sundry other articles, were missing, but could not imagine who was the thief. He watched for several days, not noticing that whenever Mr. Brush made his appearance, Poll instantly screamed, 'Bacon.' "One evening he determined to watch, as, the day previous, a larger slice than usual had been taken, and he was hid behind a barrel, when he saw Mr. Brush coming softly toward him. "'Bacon! bacon! bacon!' screamed Poll, at the top of her voice. "'I'd wring your neck if I dared,' murmured the man, glancing maliciously toward the bird; and then he walked back again to the fire. "After this, father watched the parrot, and found he made this cry only when Brush appeared. He thought it so singular that he charged him with the theft, which the man, in great confusion reluctantly confessed. "The curious story of his detection by a parrot soon spread through the town, and for years Mr. Brush was called by the name of Bacon, while the bird received much attention and many compliments for her sagacity." "I suppose, then, Poll saw him take it," said Minnie, gravely. "O, yes! He witnessed the whole proceeding, and did his best to give warning at once; but his loud cries were not understood." "Wasn't he a good bird?" asked Lizzie. "Yes, indeed. I suppose it would be a good plan to hang a parrot in every store." CHAPTER VI. PARROT SAVING THE SILVER. Minnie was quite distressed one morning, when, on going to Poll's cage to say "Good morning" to her pet, she found her unable to answer, only returning a feeble moan. She ran in haste to tell her mother, who thought it one of the parrot's tricks. When she came down, however, she found Poll was really ill. [Illustration: "Dear Poll! darling birdie!" Page 115.] "Dear Poll! darling birdie!" she said, tenderly, stroking the beautiful head. "I'll make you some tea, which I hope will soon cure you." She went at once to a side closet, and taking a little pinch of saffron from a paper, sent it to the cook, with directions to steep it at once. Breakfast that morning was a dull affair, without Poll's lively talk; and as, after the saffron tea, she did not at once revive, Minnie began to mourn so much lest her dear parrot would die, that her father, to occupy her attention, took her to the library, and read her some anecdotes, a few of which I will repeat. "A tradesman in London kept two parrots, which usually hung in a cage over the porch projecting from the front door, so that when a person stood on the side of the street nearest the house, the birds could not be seen. "One day, when the family were all absent, some one rapped at the door, when one of the parrots instantly called out,-- "'Who's there?' "'The man with the leather,' was the reply. "'Oh, ho!' retorted the parrot. "The door not being opened as he expected, the stranger knocked again. "'Who's there?' repeated the bird. "'Why don't you come down?' cried the man, impatiently. 'I can't wait all day.' "'Oh, ho!' was the only response. "The man now became furious, and leaving the knocker, began to pull violently at the door bell, when the other parrot, who had not before spoken, exclaimed, 'Go to the gate.' "'What gate?' he asked, seeing no such convenience. "'Newgate,' was the answer, just as the man, greatly enraged at the thought of being sent to Newgate prison, ran back into the street, and found out whom he was questioning." "Dr. Thornton, a benevolent physician in London, once visited the menagerie in Haymarket, where he saw a parrot confined by a chain fastened to his leg. He talked with the bird, and found he could imitate the barking of dogs, the cackling of fowls, and many sounds like the human voice. The bird, however, seemed melancholy and restless, which induced the good doctor to try and buy him of the owner. He succeeded at last in getting him for the sum of seventy-five dollars, which Dr. Thornton did not regret, since it would rescue the poor creature from her present unhappy confinement. "The first thing he did was to loose him from the chain, and carry him home, where his diet was changed from scalded bread to toast and butter for breakfast, and potatoes, dumplings, and fruit for dinner. "At first, his poor feet were so cramped, and the muscles so much weakened from long disuse, that he could not walk. He tottered at every step, and in a few minutes appeared greatly fatigued. But his liberated feet soon acquired uncommon agility, his plumage grew more resplendent, and he appeared perfectly happy. He no longer uttered harsh screams, but very readily learned many words, and amused himself for hours repeating them. He attached himself particularly to his kind benefactor, and always cheerfully practised his little accomplishments to please him, calling out, 'What o'clock? Pretty fellow! Saucy fellow! Turn him out, Poll.' "He was friendly to the children of the family, and to strangers, but exceedingly jealous of infants, from seeing them caressed. "He was remarkably fond of music, and danced to all lively tunes, moving his wings, and also his head, backward and forward, to keep time. If any person sang or played a wrong measure, he stopped instantly. When his quick scent announced the time of meals, he ran up and down the pole, uttering a pleasing note of request. "When any food was given him of which he was not very fond, he took it in his left claw, ate a little, and threw the rest down; but if the variety was nice and abundant, after eating what he wished, he carefully conveyed the remainder to his tin pail, saving it for another occasion. "Every Friday a scissors grinder came and worked under his window. After listening attentively, Poll tried to imitate the sound with his throat, but could not succeed. He then struck his beak against the perch; but his quick ear discerned a difference. Finally he succeeded by drawing his claw in a particular way across the tin perch, and repeated the performance of grinding every Friday, much to the amusement of those who saw him." Minnie was so much interested in these stories that she quite forgot her grief, until her mother opened the library door to tell her that her pet was beginning to sing. Minnie flew to see her, and before noon had the pleasure of knowing that Poll was quite recovered. Indeed, she had never seemed more gay. She hopped first on one foot and then on the other, in curious imitation of a polka dance, tossing her head on one side in a most coquettish manner. Then she talked and laughed with Minnie, exclaiming every now and then in a cunning tone, "What are you about, you rogue? O, you little rogue!" The little girl was delighted. She held Poll on her lap, caressing her fondly, and calling her by all sorts of endearing and funny names. The parrot on her part seemed desirous of showing her gratitude for relief from pain by doing all she could to please her little friend. She often heard the cook calling Tom, who was apt to run to the barn when she wanted him; and she began in a loud, impatient tone, "Tom!" her voice rising; then again, "Tom!" falling inflection; "Tom!" again; "I say, Tom; come here, you rascal!" Finding this made Minnie laugh heartily, she began to call, "Leo, come here! Lie down, sir! Tiney, Tiney," in a small, fine voice, like the child's; "Tiney, Tiney, Tiney! O, you little rogue!" After this she chattered away like Jacko, cocking her eyes and looking as if she thought herself very smart. Once in a while Poll talked Portuguese, which she had learned from some sailors who were in the vessel when she came over, more than fifteen years before. She began now to talk what sounded to Minnie like perfect jargon, but which so much amused the bird that she kept stopping to laugh most heartily. By and by Mrs. Lee was ready to sit down; and she said Poll had had excitement enough for a sick bird, but told Minnie if she would bring the book about birds, she would try and find some true stories to read to her. The next hour was passed most pleasantly to both of them. Some of the stories I will tell you. "A parrot belonging to a lady in England was fond of attending family prayers; but for fear he might take it into his head to join in the responses, he was generally removed. "But one evening, finding the family were assembling for that purpose, he crept under the sofa, and thought himself unnoticed. For some time he maintained a decorous silence; but at length he found himself unable to keep still, and instead of 'Amen,' burst out with, 'Cheer, boys; cheer!' "The lady directed the butler to take him from the room; and the man had taken him as far as the door, when the bird, perhaps thinking he had done wrong, and had better apologize, called out,-- "'Sorry I spoke.' "The overpowering effect on those present can be better imagined than described." "Here is a story," continued Mrs. Lee, "of a parrot who acted as a police officer." "In Camden, New Jersey, Mr. John Hutchinson had a very loquacious parrot, and also a well-stocked chest of silver plate. One day some robbers thought they would like to use silver forks, goblets, and spoons, as well as their rich neighbors, and watching their opportunity broke into the pantry. "They had already picked the lock off the thick oaken chest, and were diving down among salvers, pitchers, and smaller articles, when they were terrified to hear a loud, angry voice exclaim,-- "'You lazy rascals, I see you! John, bring me my revolver!' "Dropping the silver, which they had taken, on the floor, the robbers made a rush for the window, which they had forced open, and in their hurry got over the wrong fence into the yard of a neighbor who kept a fierce dog. "Bruno, not at all pleased with the appearance of his sudden visitors, sprang upon them, barking at the top of his voice. "The noise called the police to the place, and one of the robbers was secured. "The watchful parrot saved his owner's silver. When he was praised for his timely interference, he would arch his head, and begin at once to call out,-- "'You lazy rascals, I see you! John, bring me my revolver!'" CHAPTER VII. THE PARROT AND THE PRINCE. "When Prince Maurice was Governor of Brazil, he was informed of an old parrot who would converse like a rational creature. His curiosity became so much roused that, though at a great distance from his residence, he directed that it should be sent for. "When Poll was first introduced into the room where the Prince sat with several Dutch gentlemen, he instantly exclaimed in the Brazilian language,-- "'What a company of white men are here!' "Pointing to the prince, one gentleman asked, 'Who is that man?' "'Some gentleman or other,' Poll instantly replied. "'Where did you come from?' asked the prince. "'From Marignan.' "'To whom do you belong?' "'To a Portuguese.' "'What do you do for a living?' "'I look after chickens.' "The prince laughingly exclaimed, 'You look after chickens!' "'Yes, I do; and I know well enough how to do it,' clucking at the same time like a hen calling her brood. "Prince Maurice, as well as the rest of the gentlemen, were delighted with the intelligence of the bird, and after keeping him at his residence as long as possible, the governor gave him a prize for being the most sagacious parrot in the kingdom." When Mr. Lee returned from the city, he found Poll as bright and cheerful as a lark. He brought with him a young man in his employ, called Theodore, to whom Minnie exhibited all her pets, and who staid till after tea, and then Mr. Lee read a few stories to Minnie, with one of which I must close my story of Minnie's pet parrot. "A prince, named Leo Maced, was once accused by a monk of forming a plan to murder his father, the emperor. He was, therefore, though protesting his innocence, cast into prison. "After some months, the emperor had a feast, to which he invited most of the nobles of his court. They were all seated at table, when a tame parrot belonging to the prince, and which was hung up in the room, cried out, mournfully,-- "'Alas, alas! Poor Prince Leo!' "This exclamation, which was continually repeated, as if the bird could not help comparing their sumptuous entertainment with the prison fare and confinement of his exiled master, so affected the guests as to deprive them of all appetite. It was in vain that the emperor urged his delicacies upon them. They could not eat, while the faithful bird repeated his plaintive cry,-- "'Alas, alas! Poor Prince Leo!' "At last one of the nobles with tears entreated the emperor to pardon his son, whom they all believed to be innocent. The others joining in the request, the father ordered that Prince Leo be brought before him. He was soon restored to favor, and then to his former dignities, through the affection of his faithful parrot." Transcriber's Note The following typographical errors were corrected: Page Error 4 LECTROTYPED changed to ELECTROTYPED 98 and was then changed to "and was then 
26618	----	Transcriber's Note Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. A list of corrections is found at the end of the text. Oe ligatures have been expanded. [Illustration: MONKEY IN CHURCH. Page 88.] [Illustration: MINNIE and her PETS. BY MRS MADELINE LESLIE. MINNIE'S PET MONKEY.] MINNIE'S PET MONKEY. BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE, AUTHOR OF "THE LESLIE STORIES," "TIM, THE SCISSORS-GRINDER," ETC. ILLUSTRATED. BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, SUCCESSORS TO PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 1864. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by A. R. BAKER, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. ELECTROTYPED AT THE BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY. TO MY YOUNG FRIEND, HENRY FOWLE DURANT, JR. =These Little Volumes= ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR, IN THE EARNEST HOPE THAT THEY MAY INCREASE IN HIM THAT LOVE OF NATURE AND OF RURAL LIFE WHICH HAS EVER EXERTED SO SALUTARY AN INFLUENCE IN THE FORMATION OF THE CHARACTERS OF THE WISE AND GOOD. MINNIE AND HER PETS. Minnie's Pet Parrot. Minnie's Pet Cat. Minnie's Pet Dog. Minnie's Pet Horse. Minnie's Pet Lamb. Minnie's Pet Monkey. MINNIE'S PET MONKEY. CHAPTER I. JACKO AND HIS WOUNDED TAIL. Did you ever see a monkey? If you have not, I suppose you will like to hear a description of Jacko, Minnie's sixth pet. He was about eighteen inches high, with long arms, covered with short hair, which he used as handily as a boy, flexible fingers, with flat nails, and a long tail, covered with hair, which seemed to answer the purpose of a third hand. Though monkeys are usually very ugly and unpleasant, from their approaching so nearly to the human face, and still bearing so strongly the marks of the mere brute, yet Jacko was a pretty little fellow. He had bright eyes, which sparkled like diamonds from beneath his deep-set eyebrows. His teeth were of the most pearly whiteness, and he made a constant display of them, grinning and chattering continually. But I ought to tell you about his passage in uncle Frank's ship. On one of Captain Lee's voyages, he touched upon the coast of Africa, where he saw the little fellow in a hen-coop, just about to be carried on board a whaler. The gentleman had often thought he should like to carry his favorite niece a little pet; but as she already had a parrot, he did not know what she would wish. But when he listened to the chattering of the monkey, and heard the sailor who owned him say what a funny little animal it was, he thought he would buy it and take it home to her. On the voyage, Jacko met with a sad accident. The hen-coop in which he was confined was too small to contain the whole of his tail, and he was obliged, when he slept, to let the end of it hang out. This was a great affliction to the poor animal, for he was very proud of his tail, which was indeed quite an addition to his good looks. It so happened that there were two large cats on board ship; and one night, as they were prowling about, they saw the tail hanging out while Jacko was sound asleep; and before he had time to move, one of them seized it and bit it off. The monkey was very indignant, and if he could have had a fair chance at his enemies, would have soon punished them for their impudence. It was really amusing to see him afterward. He would pull his bleeding tail in through the bars of the hen-coop, and give it a malicious bite, as much as to say,-- "I wish you were off. You are of no use to me now; and you look terribly short." When they reached New York, at the end of their voyage, Captain Lee took Jacko out of the hen-coop, and put him in a bag, which was carried into the depot while he was purchasing his ticket. The monkey, who must needs see every thing that was going on, suddenly poked his head out of the bag, and gave a malicious grin at the ticket-master. The man was much frightened, but presently recovered himself, and returned the insult by saying,-- "Sir, that's a dog! It's the rule that no dog can go in the cars without being paid for." It was all in vain that the captain tried to convince him that Jacko was not a dog, but a monkey. He even took him out of the bag; but in the face of this evidence, the man would persist in saying,-- "He is a dog, and must have a ticket before he enters the cars." So a ticket was bought, and Jacko was allowed to proceed on his journey. The little fellow was as pleased as the captain when he arrived at the end of his journey, and took possession of his pleasant quarters in the shed adjoining Mr. Lee's fine house. He soon grew fond of his little mistress, and played all manner of tricks, jumping up and down, swinging with his tail, which had begun to heal, and chattering with all his might in his efforts to please her. Mr. Lee, at the suggestion of his brother, the captain, had a nice house or cage made for Minnie's new pet, into which he could be put if he became troublesome, and where he always went to sleep. The rest of the time he was allowed his liberty, as far as his chain would reach. Jacko came from a very warm climate, and therefore often suffered from the cold in the northern latitude to which he had been brought. Mrs. Lee could not endure to see a monkey dressed like a man, as they sometimes are in shows. She said they looked disgustingly; but she consented that the little fellow should have a tight red jacket, and some drawers, to keep him comfortable. Minnie, too, begged from her some old pieces of carpeting, to make him a bed, when Jacko seemed greatly delighted. He did not now, as before, often stand in the morning shaking, and blue with the cold, but laughed, and chattered, and showed his gratitude in every possible way. Not many months after Jacko came, and when he had become well acquainted with all the family, Fidelle had a family of kittens, which she often carried in her mouth back and forth through the shed. The very sight of these little animals seemed to excite Jacko exceedingly. He would spring the entire length of his chain, trying to reach them. One day, when the kittens had begun to run alone, and were getting to be very playful, the cook heard a great noise in the shed, and Fidelle crying with all her might. She ran to see what was the matter, and, to her surprise, found Jacko sitting up in the cage, grinning with delight, while he held one of the kittens in his arms, hugging it as if it had been a baby. Cook knew the sight would please Minnie, and she ran to call her. But the child sympathized too deeply in Fidelle's distress to enjoy it. She tried to get the kitten away from Jacko, but he had no idea of giving it up, until at last, when Mrs. Lee, who had come to the rescue, gave him a piece of cake, of which he was very fond, he relaxed his hold, and she instantly released the poor, frightened little animal. Fidelle took warning by this occurrence, and never ventured through the shed again with her babies, though Jacko might seem to be sound asleep in his cage. Jacko had been at Mr. Lee's more than a year before they knew him to break his chain and run about by himself. The first visit he made was to Leo, in the barn, and he liked it so well that, somehow or other, he contrived to repeat the visit quite as often as it was agreeable to the dog, who never could endure him. After this, he became very mischievous, so that every one of the servants, though they often had a great laugh at his tricks, would have been glad to have the little fellow carried back to his home in Africa. I don't think even Minnie loved her pet monkey as well as she did her other pets. She could not take him in her arms as she did Fidelle and Tiney, nor play with him as she did with Nannie and her lamb, and he could not carry her on his back, as Star did. "Well," she said, one day, after discussing the merits of her animals with her mamma, "Poll talks to me, and Jacko makes me laugh; but if I should have to give up one of my pets, I had rather it would be the monkey." CHAPTER II. JACKO BLACKING THE TABLE. One morning, cook went to her mistress with loud complaints of Jacko's tricks. "What has he been doing now?" inquired the lady, with some anxiety. "All kinds of mischief, ma'am. If I didn't like you, and the master, and Miss Minnie so well, I wouldn't be living in the same house with a monkey, no ways." Here the woman, having relieved her mind, began to relate Jacko's new offence, and soon was joining heartily in the laugh her story caused her mistress. "Since the trickish fellow found the way to undo his chain, ma'am, he watches every thing that is done in the kitchen. Yesterday I polished the range, and the door to the oven. I suppose he saw me at work, and thought it would be good fun; for when I was out of the kitchen hanging some towels to dry on the line, in he walks to the closet where I keep the blacking and brushes, and what should he do but black the table and chairs? Such a sight, ma'am, as would make your eyes cry to see. It'll take me half the forenoon to clean them." "I think you will have to take a little stick, Hepsy," said Mrs. Lee, smiling, "and whip him when he does mischief." "Indeed, ma'am, and it's little strength I'd have left me to do the cooking if I gave him half the whippings he deserves; besides, I'd be sure to get the cratur's ill will; and they say that's unlucky for any one." "What does she mean, mamma, by its being unlucky?" inquired Minnie, when the cook had returned to her work in the kitchen. "I can't say, my dear. You know Hepsy has some strange ideas which she brought with her from Ireland. It may be she has heard of the superstitious reverence some nations have for the monkey." "O, mamma, will you please tell me about it?" "I have read that in many parts of India, monkeys are made objects of worship; and splendid temples are dedicated to their honor. "At one time, when the Portuguese plundered the Island of Ceylon, they found, in one of the temples dedicated to these animals, a small golden casket containing the tooth of a monkey. This was held in such estimation by the natives, that they offered nearly a million of dollars to redeem it. But the viceroy, thinking it would be a salutary punishment to them, ordered it to be burned. "Some years after, a Portuguese, having obtained a similar tooth, pretended that he had recovered the old one, which so rejoiced the priests that they purchased it from him for more than fifty thousand dollars." Minnie laughed. "I should suppose," she said, "that if cook thinks so much of monkeys, she would be pleased to live with them. Do you know any more about monkeys, mamma?" "I confess, my dear, that monkeys have never been among my favorites. There are a great many kinds, but all are mischievous, troublesome, and thievish. The dispositions of some of them are extremely bad, while others are so mild and tractable as to be readily tamed and taught a great variety of tricks. They live together in large groups, leaping with surprising agility from tree to tree. Travellers say it is very amusing to listen to the chattering of these animals, which they compare to the shouting of a grand cavalcade, all speaking together, and yet seeming perfectly to understand one another. "In the countries of the Eastern Peninsula, where they abound, the matrons are often observed, in the cool of the evening, sitting in a circle round their little ones, which amuse themselves with their various gambols. The merriment of the young, as they jump over each other's heads, and wrestle in sport, is most ludicrously contrasted with the gravity of their seniors, who are secretly delighted with the fun, but far too dignified to let it appear. "But when any foolish little one behaves ill, the mamma will be seen to jump into the throng, seize the juvenile by the tail, take it over her knee, and give it a good whipping." "O, how very funny, mamma! I wonder whether Jacko was treated so. Will you please tell me more? I do like to hear about monkeys." "If you will bring me that book from the library next the one about cats, perhaps I can find some anecdotes to read to you." The little girl clapped her hands with delight, and running gayly to the next room, soon returned with the book, when her mother read as follows:-- "A family in England had a pet monkey. On one occasion, the footman retired to his room to shave himself, without noticing that the animal had followed him. The little fellow watched him closely during the process, and noticed where the man put his razor and brush. "No sooner had the footman left the room, than the monkey slyly took the razor, and, mounting on a chair opposite the small mirror, began to scrape away at his throat, as he had seen the man do; but alas! not understanding the nature of the instrument he was using, the poor creature cut so deep a gash, that he bled profusely. He was found in the situation described, with the razor still in his fingers, but unfortunately was too far gone to be recovered, and soon died, leaving a caution to his fellows against playing with edged tools." "I hope Jacko will never see any body shave," said Minnie, in a faltering voice. "Here is a funny story, my dear, about a monkey in the West Indies. The little fellow was kept tied to a stake in the open air, and was frequently deprived of his food by the Johnny Crows. He tried to drive them off, but without success, and at last made the following plan for punishing the thieves. "Perceiving a flock of these birds coming toward him one day just after his food had been brought, he lay down near his stake, and pretended to be dead. For some time, he lay perfectly motionless, when the birds, really deceived, approached by degrees, and got near enough to steal his food, which he allowed them to do. This game he repeated several times, till they became so bold as to come within reach of his claws, when he suddenly sprang up and caught his victim in his firm grasp. Death was not his plan of punishment. He wished to make a man of him, according to the ancient definition, 'a biped without feathers,' and therefore, plucking the crow neatly, he let him go to show himself to his companions. This proved so effectual a punishment, that he was afterwards left to eat his food in peace." "I don't see," said Minnie, thoughtfully, "how a monkey could ever think of such a way." "It certainly does show a great deal of sagacity," responded the lady, "and a great deal of cunning in carrying out his plan." "I hope there are ever so many anecdotes, mamma." Mrs. Lee turned over the leaves. "Yes, my dear," she said, cheerfully, "there are quite a number; some of them seem to be very amusing, but I have only time to read you one more to-day." "Dr. Guthrie gives an amusing account of a monkey named Jack. "Seeing his master and friends drinking whiskey with great apparent relish, he took the opportunity, when he thought he was unseen, to empty their half-filled glasses; and while they were roaring with laughter, he began to hop, skip, and jump. Poor Jack was drunk. "The next day, his master wanted to repeat the experiment, but found Jack had not recovered from the effects of his dissipation. He commanded him to come to the table; but the poor fellow put his hand to his head, and not all their endeavors could induce him to taste another drop all his life. "Jack became a thorough teetotaller." CHAPTER III. JACKO RUNNING AWAY. Minnie had a cousin Frank, the son of Mr. Harry Lee. He was three years older than Minnie, and was full of life and frolic. At one time he came to visit Minnie; and fine fun indeed they had with the pets, the monkey being his especial favorite. Every day some new experiment was to be tried with Jacko, who, as Frank declared, could be taught any thing that they wished. One time, he took the little fellow by the chain for a walk, Minnie gayly running by his side, and wondering what her cousin was going to do. On their way to the barn, they met Leo, who at once began to bark furiously. "That will never do, my brave fellow," exclaimed the boy; "for we want you to turn horse, and take Jacko to ride." "O, Frank! Leo will kill him. Don't do that!" urged Minnie, almost crying. "But I mean to make them good friends," responded the lad. "Here, you take hold of the chain, and I will coax the dog to be quiet while I put Jacko on his back." This was not so easy as he had supposed; for no amount of coaxing or flattery would induce Leo to be impressed into this service. He hated the monkey, and was greatly disgusted at his appearance as he hopped, first on Frank's shoulder, and then to the ground, his head sticking out of his little red jacket, and his face wearing a malicious grin. Finding they could not succeed in this, they went into the stable to visit Star, when, with a quick motion, Jacko twitched the chain from Minnie's hand, and running up the rack above the manger, began to laugh and chatter in great glee. His tail, which had now fully healed, was of great use to him on this occasion, when, to Minnie's great surprise, he clung with it to the bar of the rack, and began to swing himself about. [Illustration: JACKO RUNNING AWAY. Page 52.] "I heard of a monkey once," exclaimed Frank, laughing merrily, "who made great use of his tail. If a nut or apple were thrown to him which fell beyond his reach, he would run to the full length of his chain, turn his back, then stretch out his tail, and draw toward him the coveted delicacy." "Let's see whether Jacko would do so," shouted Minnie, greatly excited with the project. "When we can catch him. But see how funny he looks. There he goes up the hay mow, the chain dangling after him." "If we don't try to catch him, he'll come quicker," said Minnie, gravely. "I know another story about a monkey--a real funny one," added the boy. "I don't know what his name was; but he used to sleep in the barn with the cattle and horses. I suppose monkeys are always cold here; at any rate, this one was; and when he saw the hostler give the horse a nice feed of hay, he said to himself, 'What a comfortable bed that would make for me!' "When the man went away, he jumped into the hay and hid, and every time the horse came near enough to eat, he sprang forward and bit her ears with his sharp teeth. "Of course, as the poor horse couldn't get her food, she grew very thin, and at last was so frightened that the hostler could scarcely get her into the stall. Several times he had to whip her before she would enter it, and then she stood as far back as possible, trembling like a leaf. "It was a long time before they found out what the matter was; and then the monkey had to take a whipping, I guess." "If his mother had been there, she would have whipped him," said Minnie, laughing. "What do you mean?" The little girl then repeated what her mother had told her of the discipline among monkeys, at which he was greatly amused. All this time, they were standing at the bottom of the hay mow, and supposed that Jacko was safe at the top; but the little fellow was more cunning than they thought. He found the window open near the roof, where hay was sometimes pitched in, and ran down into the yard as quick as lightning. The first they knew of it was when John called out from the barnyard, "Jacko, Jacko! Soh, Jacko! Be quiet, sir!" It was a wearisome chase they had for the next hour, and at the end they could not catch the runaway; but at last, when they sat down calmly in the house, he stole back to his cage, and lay there quiet as a lamb. Minnie's face was flushed with her unusual exercise, but in a few minutes she grew very pale, until her mother became alarmed. After a few drops of lavender, however, she said she felt better, and that if Frank would tell her a story she should be quite well. "That I will," exclaimed the boy, eagerly. "I know a real funny one; you like funny stories--don't you?" "Yes, when they're true," answered Minnie. "Well, this is really true. A man was hunting, and he happened to kill a monkey that had a little baby on her back. The little one clung so close to her dead mother, that they could scarcely get it away. When they reached the gentleman's house, the poor creature began to cry at finding itself alone. All at once it ran across the room to a block, where a wig belonging to the hunter's father was placed, and thinking that was its mother, was so comforted that it lay down and went to sleep. "They fed it with goat's milk, and it grew quite contented, for three weeks clinging to the wig with great affection. "The gentleman had a large and valuable collection of insects, which were dried upon pins, and placed in a room appropriated to such purposes. "One day, when the monkey had become so familiar as to be a favorite with all in the family, he found his way to this apartment, and made a hearty breakfast on the insects. "The owner, entering when the meal was almost concluded, was greatly enraged, and was about to chastise the animal, who had so quickly destroyed the work of years, when he saw that the act had brought its own punishment. In eating the insects, the animal had swallowed the pins, which very soon caused him such agony that he died." "I don't call the last part funny at all," said Minnie, gravely. "But wasn't it queer for it to think the wig was its mother?" asked the boy, with a merry laugh. "I don't think it could have had much sense to do that." "But it was only a baby monkey then, Harry." "How did it happen," inquired Mrs. Lee, "that Jacko got away from you?" "He watched his chance, aunty, and twitched the chain away from Minnie. Now he's done it once, he'll try the game again, I suppose, he is so fond of playing us tricks." And true enough, the very next morning the lady was surprised at a visit from the monkey in her chamber, where he made himself very much at home, pulling open drawers, and turning over the contents, in the hope of finding some confectionery, of which he was extremely fond. "Really," she exclaimed to her husband, "if Jacko goes on so, I shall be of cook's mind, and not wish to live in the house with him." CHAPTER IV. THE MONKEY IN CHURCH. One day, Jacko observed nurse washing out some fine clothes for her mistress, and seemed greatly interested in the suds which she made in the progress of her work. Watching his chance, he went to Mrs. Lee's room while the family were at breakfast one morning, and finding some nice toilet soap on the marble washstand, began to rub it on some fine lace lying on the bureau. After a little exertion, he was delighted to find that he had a bowl full of nice, perfumed suds, and was chattering to himself in great glee, when Ann came in and spoiled his sport. "You good for nothing, mischievous creature," she cried out, in sudden wrath, "I'll cure you of prowling about the house in this style." Giving him a cuff across his head with a shoe, "Go back to your cage, where you belong." "Jacko is really getting to be very troublesome," remarked the lady to her husband. "I can't tell how much longer my patience with him will last." "Would Minnie mourn very much if she were to lose him?" asked Mr. Lee. "I suppose she would for a time; but then she has so many pets to take up her attention." Just then the child ran in, her eyes filled with tears, exclaiming,-- "Father, does Jacko know any better? Is he to blame for trying to wash?" Mr. Lee laughed. "Because," she went on, "I found him crouched down in his cage, looking very sorry; and nurse says he ought to be ashamed of himself, cutting up such ridiculous capers." "I dare say he feels rather guilty," remarked Mr. Lee. "He must be taught better, or your mother will be tired of him." When her father had gone to the city, Minnie looked so grave that her mother, to comfort her, took the book and read her some stories. A few of them I will repeat to you. "A lady was returning from India, in a ship on board of which there was a monkey. She was a very mild, gentle creature, and readily learned any thing that was taught her. When she went to lie down at night, she made up her bed in imitation of her mistress, then got in and wrapped herself up neatly with the quilt. Sometimes she would wrap her head with a handkerchief. "When she did wrong, she would kneel and clasp her hands, seeming earnestly to ask to be forgiven." "That's a good story, mamma." "Yes, dear; and here is another." "A gentleman boarding with his wife at a hotel in Paris had a pet monkey, who was very polite. One day his master met him going down stairs; and when the gentleman said 'good morning,' the animal took off his cap and made a very polite bow. "'Are you going away?' asked the owner. 'Where is your passport?' Upon this the monkey held out a square piece of paper. "'See!' said the gentleman; 'your mistress' gown is dusty.' "Jack instantly took a small brush from his master's pocket, raised the hem of the lady's dress, cleaned it, and then did the same to his master's shoes, which were also dusty. "When they gave him any thing to eat, he did not cram his pouches with it, but delicately and tidily devoured it; and when, as frequently occurred, strangers gave him money, he always put it in his master's hands." "Do you think, mamma, I could teach Jacko to do so?" inquired Minnie, eagerly. "I can't say, my dear; and indeed I think it would be hardly worth the pains to spend a great deal of time in teaching him. He seems to learn quite fast enough by himself. Indeed, he is so full of tricks, and so troublesome to cook in hiding her kitchen utensils, I am afraid we shall have to put him in close confinement." "I had rather uncle Frank would carry him back to Africa," sighed the child. "He would be so unhappy." "Well, dear, I wouldn't grieve about it now. We must manage somehow till uncle Frank comes, and then perhaps he can tell us what to do. Now I'll read you another story." "A monkey living with a gentleman in the country became so troublesome that the servants were constantly complaining." "That seems similar to our case," said the lady, smiling, as she interrupted the reading. "One day, having his offers of assistance rudely repulsed, he went into the next house by a window in the second story, which was unfortunately open. Here he pulled out a small drawer, where the lady kept ribbons, laces, and handkerchiefs, and putting them in a foot-tub, rubbed away vigorously for an hour, with all the soap and water there were to be found in the room. "When the lady returned to the chamber, he was busily engaged in spreading the torn and disfigured remnants to dry. "He knew well enough he was doing wrong; for, without her speaking to him, he made off quickly and ran home, where he hid himself in the case of the large kitchen clock. "The servants at once knew he had been in mischief, as this was his place of refuge when he was in disgrace. "One day he watched the cook while she was preparing some partridges for dinner, and concluded that all birds ought to be so treated. He soon managed to get into the yard, where his mistress kept a few pet bantam fowls, and, after eating their eggs, he secured one of the hens, and began plucking it. The noise of the poor bird called some of the servants to the rescue, when they found the half-plucked creature in such a pitiable condition that they killed it at once. After this, Mr. Monkey was chained up, and soon died." Minnie looked very grave after hearing this story, and presently said, "I wonder how old that monkey was." "The book does not mention his age, my dear. Why?" "I was thinking that perhaps, as Jacko grows older, he may learn better; and then I said to myself, 'That one must have been young.'" "If a monkey is really inclined to be vicious, he is almost unbearable," remarked the lady. "His company does not begin to compensate for the trouble he makes. Sometimes he is only cunning, but otherwise mild and tractable." "And which, mamma, do you think Jacko is?" "I have always thought, until lately, that he was one of the better kind; but I have now a good many doubts whether you enjoy her funny tricks enough to compensate cook for all the mischief she does. If I knew any one who wanted a pet monkey, and would treat him kindly, I should be glad to have him go. I should hate to have him killed." "Killed!" screamed Minnie, with a look of horror; "O, mamma, I wouldn't have one of my pets killed for any thing." Mrs. Lee thought that would probably be at some time Nannie's fate, but she wisely said nothing. "Please read more, mamma. I don't want to think about such awful things." The lady cast her eyes over the page, and laughed heartily. Presently she said, "Here is a very curious anecdote, which I will read you; but first I must explain to you what a sounding-board is. "In old fashioned churches, there used to hang, directly over the pulpit, a large, round board, like the top of a table, which, it was thought, assisted the minister's voice to be heard by all the congregation. I can remember, when I was a child, going to visit my grandmother, and accompanying her to church, where there was a sounding-board. I worried, through the whole service, for fear it would fall on the minister's head and kill him. But I will read." "There was once an eminent clergyman by the name of Casaubon, who kept in his family a tame monkey, of which he was very fond. This animal, which was allowed its liberty, liked to follow the minister, when he went out, but on the Sabbath was usually shut up till his owner was out of sight, on his way to church. "But one Sabbath morning, when the clergyman, taking his sermon under his arm, went out, the monkey followed him unobserved, and watching the opportunity while his master was speaking to a gentleman on the steps, ran up at the back of the pulpit, and jumped upon the sounding-board. "Here he gravely seated himself, looking round in a knowing manner on the congregation, who were greatly amused at so strange a spectacle. "The services proceeded as usual, while the monkey, who evidently much enjoyed the sight of so many people, occasionally peeped over the sounding-board, to observe the movements of his master, who was unconscious of his presence. "When the sermon commenced, many little forms were convulsed with laughter, which conduct so shocked the good pastor, that he thought it his duty to administer a reproof, which he did with considerable action of his hands and arms. "The monkey, who had now become familiar with the scene, imitated every motion, until at last a scarcely suppressed smile appeared upon the countenance of most of the audience. This occurred, too, in one of the most solemn passages in the discourse; and so horrible did the levity appear to the good minister, that he launched forth into violent rebuke, every word being enforced by great energy of action. "All this time, the little fellow overhead mimicked every movement with ardor and exactness. "The audience, witnessing this apparent competition between the good man and his monkey, could no longer retain the least appearance of composure, and burst into roars of laughter, in the midst of which one of the congregation kindly relieved the horror of the pastor at the irreverence and impiety of his flock, by pointing out the cause of the merriment. "Casting his eyes upward, the minister could just discern the animal standing on the end of the sounding-board, and gesturing with all his might, when he found it difficult to control himself, though highly exasperated at the occurrence. He gave directions to have the monkey removed, and sat down to compose himself, and allow his congregation to recover their equanimity while the order was being obeyed." CHAPTER V. JACKO IN THE PANTRY. In his frequent visits to the stable, Jacko amused himself by catching mice that crept out to pick up the corn. The servants, having noticed his skill, thought they would turn it to good account, and having been troubled with mice in the pantry, determined to take advantage of the absence of Mrs. Lee on a journey, and shut the monkey up in it. So, one evening, they took him out of his comfortable bed, and chained him up in the larder, having removed every thing except some jam pots, which they thought out of his reach, and well secured with bladder stretched over the top. Poor Jacko was evidently much astonished, and quite indignant, at this treatment, but presently consoled himself by jumping into a soup tureen, where he fell sound asleep, while the mice scampered all over the place. As soon as it was dawn, the mice retired to their holes. Jacko awoke shivering with cold, stretched himself, and then, pushing the soup tureen from the shelf, broke it to pieces. After this achievement, he began to look about for something to eat, when he spied the jam pots on the upper shelf. "There is something good," he thought, smelling them. "I'll see." His sharp teeth soon worked an entrance, when the treasured jams, plums, raspberry, strawberry, candied apricots, the pride and care of the cook, disappeared in an unaccountably short time. At last, his appetite for sweets was satisfied, and coiling his tail in a corner, he lay quietly awaiting the servant's coming to take him out. Presently he heard the door cautiously open, when the chamber girl gave a scream of horror as she saw the elegant China dish broken into a thousand bits, and lying scattered on the floor. She ran in haste to summon Hepsy and the nurse, her heart misgiving her that this was not the end of the calamity. They easily removed Jacko, who began already to experience the sad effects of overloading his stomach, and then found, with alarm and grief, the damage he had done. For several days the monkey did not recover from the effects of his excess. He was never shut up again in the pantry. When Mrs. Lee returned she blamed the servants for trying such an experiment in her absence. Jacko was now well, and ready for some new mischief; and Minnie, who heard a ludicrous account of the story, laughed till she cried. She repeated it, in great glee, to her father, who looked very grave as he said, "We think a sea voyage would do the troublesome fellow good; but you shall have a Canary or a pair of Java sparrows instead." "Don't you know any stories of good monkeys, father?" "I don't recollect any at this moment, my dear; but I will see whether I can find any for you." He opened the book, and then asked,-- "Did you know, Minnie, that almost all monkeys have bags or pouches in their cheeks, the skin of which is loose, and when empty makes the animal look wrinkled?" "No, sir; I never heard about it." "Yes, that is the case. He puts his food in them, and keeps it there till he wishes to devour it. "There are some kinds, too, that have what is called prehensile tails; that is, tails by which they can hang themselves to the limb of a tree, and which they use with nearly as much ease as they can their hands. The facility which this affords them for moving about quickly among the branches of trees is astonishing. The firmness of the grasp which it makes is very surprising; for if it winds a single coil around a branch, it is quite sufficient, not only to support its weight, but to enable it to swing in such a manner as to gain a fresh hold with its feet." "I'm sure, father," eagerly cried Minnie, "that Jacko has a prehensile tail, for I have often seen him swing from the ladder which goes up the hay mow." "I dare say, child. He seems to be up to every thing. But here is an account of an Indian monkey, of a light grayish yellow color, with black hands and feet. The face is black, with a violet tinge. This is called Hoonuman, and is much venerated by the Hindoos. They believe it to be one of the animals into which the souls of their friends pass at death. If one of these monkeys is killed, the murderer is instantly put to death; and, thus protected, they become a great nuisance, and destroy great quantities of fruit. But in South America, monkeys are killed by the natives as game, for the sake of the flesh. Absolute necessity alone would compel us to eat them. A great naturalist named Humboldt tells us that their manner of cooking them is especially disgusting. They are raised a foot from the ground, and bent into a sitting position, in which they greatly resemble a child, and are roasted in that manner. A hand and arm of a monkey, roasted in this way, are exhibited in a museum in Paris." "Monkeys have a curious way of introducing their tails into the fissures or hollows of trees, for the purpose of hooking out eggs and other substances. On approaching a spot where there is a supply of food, they do not alight at once, but take a survey of the neighborhood, a general cry being kept up by the party." CHAPTER VI. THE CRUEL MONKEY. One afternoon, Minnie ran out of breath to the parlor. "Mamma," she exclaimed, "cook says monkeys are real cruel in their families. Is it true?" The lady smiled. "I suppose, my dear," she responded, "that there is a difference of disposition among them. I have heard that they are very fond of their young, and that, when threatened with danger, they mount them on their back, or clasp them to their breast with great affection. "But I saw lately an anecdote of the cruelty of a monkey to his wife, and if I can find the book, I will read it to you." "There is an animal called the fair monkey, which, though the most beautiful of its tribe, is gloomy and cruel. One of these, which, from its extreme beauty and apparent gentleness, was allowed to ramble at liberty over a ship, soon became a great favorite with the crew, and in order to make him perfectly happy, as they imagined, they procured him a wife. "For some weeks, he was a devoted husband, and showed her every attention and respect. He then grew cool, and began to use her with much cruelty. His treatment made her wretched and dull. "One day, the crew noticed that he treated her with more kindness than usual, but did not suspect the wicked scheme he had in mind. At last, after winning her favor anew, he persuaded her to go aloft with him, and drew her attention to an object in the distance, when he suddenly gave her a push, which threw her into the sea. "This cruel act seemed to afford him much gratification, for he descended in high spirits." "I should think they would have punished him," said Minnie, with great indignation. "Perhaps they did, love. At any rate, it proves that beauty is by no means always to be depended upon." Mrs. Lee then took her sewing, but Minnie plead so earnestly for one more story, a good long one, that her mother, who loved to gratify her, complied, and read the account which I shall give you in closing this chapter on Minnie's pet monkey. "A gentleman, returning from India, brought a monkey, which he presented to his wife. She called it Sprite, and soon became very fond of it. "Sprite was very fond of beetles, and also of spiders, and his mistress used sometimes to hold his chain, lengthened by a string, and make him run up the curtains, and clear out the cobwebs for the housekeeper. "On one occasion, he watched his opportunity, and snatching the chain, ran off, and was soon seated on the top of a cottage, grinning and chattering to the assembled crowd of schoolboys, as much as to say, 'Catch me if you can.' He got the whole town in an uproar, but finally leaped over every thing, dragging his chain after him, and nestled himself in his own bed, where he lay with his eyes closed, his mouth open, his sides ready to burst with his running. "Another time, the little fellow got loose, but remembering his former experience, only stole into the shed, where he tried his hand at cleaning knives. He did not succeed very well in this, however, for the handle was the part he attempted to polish, and, cutting his fingers, he relinquished the sport. "Resolved not to be defeated, he next set to work to clean the shoes and boots, a row of which were awaiting the boy. But Sprite, not remembering all the steps of the performance, first covered the entire shoe, sole and all, with the blacking, and then emptied the rest of the Day & Martin into it, nearly filling it with the precious fluid. His coat was a nice mess for some days after. "One morning, when the servants returned to the kitchen, they found Sprite had taken all the kitchen candlesticks out of the cupboard, and arranged them on the fender, as he had once seen done. As soon as he heard the servants returning, he ran to his basket, and tried to look as though nothing had happened. "Sprite was exceedingly fond of a bath. Occasionally a bowl of water was given him, when he would cunningly try the temperature by putting in his finger, after which he gradually stepped in, first one foot, then the other, till he was comfortably seated. Then he took the soap and rubbed himself all over. Having made a dreadful splashing all around, he jumped out and ran to the fire, shivering. If any body laughed at him during this performance, he made threatening gestures, chattering with all his might to show his displeasure, and sometimes he splashed water all over them. "Poor Sprite one day nearly committed suicide. As he was brought from a very warm climate, he often suffered exceedingly, in winter, from the cold. "The cooking was done by a large fire on the open hearth, and as his basket, where he slept, was in one corner of the kitchen, before morning he frequently awoke shivering and blue. The cook was in the habit of making the fire, and then returning to her room to finish her toilet. "One morning, having lighted the pile of kindlings as usual, she hung on the tea-kettle and went out, shutting the door carefully behind her. "Sprite thought this a fine opportunity to warm himself. He jumped from his basket, ran to the hearth, and took the lid of the kettle off. Cautiously touching the water with the tip of his finger, he found it just the right heat for a bath, and sprang in, sitting down, leaving only his head above the water. "This he found exceedingly comfortable for a time; but soon the water began to grow hot. He rose, but the air outside was so cold, he quickly sat down again. He did this several times, and would, no doubt, have been boiled to death, and become a martyr to his own want of pluck and firmness in action, had it not been for the timely return of the cook, who, seeing him sitting there almost lifeless, seized him by the head and pulled him out. "He was rolled in blankets, and laid in his basket, where he soon recovered, and, it is to be hoped, learned a lesson from this hot experience, not to take a bath when the water is on the fire." CHAPTER VII. KEES STEALING EGGS. When Minnie was nine years of age, she accompanied her parents to a menagerie, and there, among other animals, she saw a baboon. She was greatly excited by his curious, uncouth manoeuvres, asking twenty questions about him, without giving her father time to answer. On their way home, she inquired,-- "Are baboons one kind of monkeys, father?" "Yes, my daughter; and a more disagreeable, disgusting animal I cannot conceive of." "I hope you are not wishing for a baboon to add to your pets," added her mother, laughing. "I don't believe Jacko would get along with that great fellow at all," answered the child. "But, father, will you please tell me something more about the curious animals?" The conversation was here interrupted by seeing that a carriage had stopped just in front of their own, and that quite a crowd had gathered about some person who seemed to be hurt. Minnie's sympathies were alive in an instant. She begged her father to get out, as possibly he might be of some use. The driver stopped of his own accord, and inquired what had happened, and then they saw that it was a spaniel that was hurt. He had been in the road, and not getting out of the way quick enough, the wheel had gone over his body. The young lady who was in the buggy was greatly distressed, from which Minnie argued that she was kind to animals, and that they should like her. The owner of the dog held the poor creature in her arms, though it seemed to be in convulsions, and wept bitterly as she found it must die. Mr. Lee, to please his little daughter, waited a few minutes; but he found her getting so much excited over the suffering animal, he gave John orders to proceed. During the rest of the drive, she could talk of nothing else, wondering whether the spaniel was alive now, or whether the young man in the buggy paid for hurting it. The next day, however, having made up her mind that the poor creature must be dead, and his sufferings ended, and having given Tiney many admonitions to keep out of the road when carriages were passing, her thoughts turned once more to the baboon. Mr. Lee found in his library a book which gave a short account of the animal, which he read to her. "The baboon is of the monkey tribe, notwithstanding its long, dog-like head, flat, compressed cheeks, and strong and projecting teeth. The form and position of the eyes, combined with the similarity of the arms and hands, give to these creatures a resemblance to humanity as striking as it is disgusting." "Then follows an account," the gentleman went on, "of the peculiarities of different kinds of baboons, which you would not understand." "But can't you tell me something about them yourself, father?" "I know very little about the creatures, my dear; but I have read that they are exceedingly strong, and of a fiery, vicious temper. "They can never be wholly tamed, and it is only while restraint of the severest kind is used, that they can be governed at all. If left to their own will, their savage nature resumes its sway, and their actions are cruel, destructive, and disgusting." "I saw the man at the menagerie giving them apples," said Minnie; "but he did not give them any meat all the time I was there." "No; they subsist exclusively on fruits, seeds, and other vegetable matter. In the countries where they live, especially near the Cape of Good Hope, the inhabitants chase them with dogs and guns in order to destroy them, on account of the ravages they commit in the fields and gardens. It is said that they make a very obstinate resistance to the dogs, and often have fierce battles with them; but they greatly fear the gun. "As the baboon grows older, instead of becoming better, his rage increases, so that the slightest cause will provoke him to terrible fury." "Is that all you know about them?" "Why, Minnie, in order to satisfy you, any one must become a walking encyclopædia. What other question have you to ask?" "Why, they must have something to eat, and how are they to get it unless they go into gardens?" Mr. Lee laughed aloud. "I rather think I should soon convince them they were not to enter my garden," he said, emphatically. "But seriously, they descend in vast numbers upon the orchards of fruit, destroying, in a few hours, the work of months, or even of years. In these excursions, they move on a concerted plan, placing sentinels on commanding spots, to give notice of the approach of an enemy. As soon as he perceives danger, the sentinel gives a loud yell, and then the whole troop rush away with the greatest speed, cramming the fruit which they have gathered into their cheek pouches." Minnie looked so much disappointed when he ceased speaking, that her mother said, "I read somewhere an account of a baboon that was named Kees, who was the best of his kind that I ever heard of." "Yes, that was quite an interesting story, if you can call it to mind," said the gentleman, rising. "It was in a book of travels in Africa," the lady went on. "The traveller, whose name was Le Vaillant, took Kees through all his journey, and the creature really made himself very useful. As a sentinel, he was better than any of the dogs. Indeed, so quick was his sense of danger, that he often gave notice of the approach of beasts of prey, when every thing was apparently secure. "There was another way in which Kees made himself useful. Whenever they came across any fruits or roots with which the Hottentots were unacquainted, they waited to see whether Kees would taste them. If he threw them down, the traveller concluded they were poisonous or disagreeable, and left them untasted. "Le Vaillant used to hunt, and frequently took Kees with him on these excursions. The poor fellow understood the preparations making for the sport, and when his master signified his consent that he should go, he showed his joy in the most lively manner. On the way, he would dance about, and then run up into the trees to search for gum, of which he was very fond. "I recall one amusing trick of Kees," said the lady, laughing, "which pleased me much when I read it. He sometimes found honey in the hollows of trees, and also a kind of root of which he was very fond, both of which his master insisted on sharing with him. On such occasions, he would run away with his treasure, or hide it in his pouches, or eat it as fast as possible, before Le Vaillant could have time to reach him. "These roots were very difficult to pull from the ground. Kees' manner of doing it was this. He would seize the top of the root with his strong teeth, and then, planting himself firmly against the sod, drew himself gradually back, which forced it from the earth. If it proved stubborn, while he still held it in his teeth he threw himself heels over head, which gave such a concussion to the root that it never failed to come out. "Another habit that Kees had was very curious. He sometimes grew tired with the long marches, and then he would jump on the back of one of the dogs, and oblige it to carry him whole hours. At last the dogs grew weary of this, and one of them determined not to be pressed into service. He now adopted an ingenious artifice. As soon as Kees leaped on his back, he stood still, and let the train pass without moving from the spot. Kees sat quiet, determined that the dog should carry him, until the party were almost out of sight, and then they both ran in great haste to overtake their master. "Kees established a kind of authority over the dogs. They were accustomed to his voice, and in general obeyed without hesitation the slightest motions by which he communicated his orders, taking their places about the tent or carriage, as he directed them. If any of them came too near him when he was eating, he gave them a box on the ear, and thus compelled them to retire to a respectful distance." "Why, mother, I think Kees was a very good animal, indeed," said Minnie, with considerable warmth. "I have told you the best traits of his character," she answered, smiling. "He was, greatly to his master's sorrow, an incurable thief. He could not be left alone for a moment with any kind of food. He understood perfectly how to loose the strings of a basket, or to take the cork from a bottle. He was very fond of milk, and would drink it whenever he had a chance. He was whipped repeatedly for these misdemeanors, but the punishment did him no good. "Le Vaillant was accustomed to have eggs for his breakfast; but his servants complained one morning there were none to be had. Whenever any thing was amiss, the fault was always laid to Kees, who, indeed, generally deserved it. The gentleman determined to watch him. "The next morning, hearing the cackling of a hen, he started for the place; but found Kees had been before him, and nothing remained but the broken shell. Having caught him in his pilfering, his master gave him a severe beating; but he was soon at his old habit again, and the gentleman was obliged to train one of his dogs to run for the egg as soon as it was laid, before he could enjoy his favorite repast. "One day, Le Vaillant was eating his dinner, when he heard the voice of a bird, with which he was not acquainted. Leaving the beans he had carefully prepared for himself on his plate, he seized his gun, and ran out of the tent. In a short time he returned, with the bird in his hand, but found not a bean left, and Kees missing. "When he had been stealing, the baboon often staid out of sight for some hours; but, this time, he hid himself for several days. They searched every where for him, but in vain, till his master feared he had really deserted them. On the third day, one of the men, who had gone to a distance for water, saw him hiding in a tree. Le Vaillant went out and spoke to him, but he knew he had deserved punishment, and he would not come down; so that, at last, his master had to go up the tree and take him." "And was he whipped, mother?" "No; he was forgiven that time, as he seemed so penitent. There is only one thing more I can remember about him. An officer who was visiting Le Vaillant, wishing to try the affection of the baboon for his master, pretended to strike him. Kees flew into a violent rage, and from that time could never endure the sight of the officer. If he only saw him at a distance, he ground his teeth, and used every endeavor to fly at him; and had he not been chained, he would speedily have revenged the insult." * * * * * "Nature is man's best teacher. She unfolds Her treasures to his search, unseals his eye, Illumes his mind, and purifies his heart,-- An influence breathes from all the sights and sounds Of her existence; she is wisdom's self." * * * * * "There's not a plant that springeth But bears some good to earth; There's not a life but bringeth Its store of harmless mirth; The dusty wayside clover Has honey in her cells,-- The wild bee, humming over, Her tale of pleasure tells. The osiers, o'er the fountain, Keep cool the water's breast, And on the roughest mountain The softest moss is pressed. Thus holy Nature teaches The worth of blessings small; That Love pervades, and reaches, And forms the bliss of all." MRS. LESLIE'S JUVENILE SERIES. 16mo. FOR BOYS. Vol. I. THE MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. " II. PLAY AND STUDY. " III. HOWARD AND HIS TEACHER. " IV. JACK, THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER. FOR GIRLS. Vol. I. TRYING TO BE USEFUL. " II. LITTLE AGNES. " III. I'LL TRY. " IV. ART AND ARTLESSNESS. MINNIE'S PET CAT. BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE, AUTHOR OF "THE LESLIE STORIES," "TIM, THE SCISSORS-GRINDER," ETC. ILLUSTRATED. BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, SUCCESSORS TO PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 1864. MINNIE'S PET PARROT. BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE, AUTHOR OF "THE LESLIE STORIES," "TIM, THE SCISSORS-GRINDER," ETC. ILLUSTRATED. BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, SUCCESSORS TO PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 1864. MINNIE'S PET DOG. BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE, AUTHOR OF "THE LESLIE STORIES," "TIM, THE SCISSORS-GRINDER," ETC. ILLUSTRATED. BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, SUCCESSORS TO PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 1864. MINNIE'S PET LAMB. BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE, AUTHOR OF "THE LESLIE STORIES," "TIM, THE SCISSORS-GRINDER," ETC. ILLUSTRATED. BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, SUCCESSORS TO PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 1864. MINNIE'S PET HORSE. BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE, AUTHOR OF "THE LESLIE STORIES," "TIM, THE SCISSORS-GRINDER," ETC. ILLUSTRATED. BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, SUCCESSORS TO PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 1864. Transcriber's Note The following typographical errors were corrected: Page Error 73 "good morning," changed to 'good morning,' 112 pet monkey." changed to pet monkey. 
26619	----	Transcriber's Note Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. A list of corrections is found at the end of the text. [Illustration: "Nannie! Nannie! come and get your breakfast!" P. 16.] [Illustration: MINNIE and her PETS BY MRS MADELINE LESLIE MINNIE'S PET LAMB.] MINNIE'S PET LAMB. BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE, AUTHOR OF "THE LESLIE STORIES," "TIM, THE SCISSORS-GRINDER," ETC. ILLUSTRATED. BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, SUCCESSORS TO PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 1864. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by A. R. BAKER, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. ELECTROTYPED AT THE BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY. TO MY YOUNG FRIEND, HENRY FOWLE DURANT, JR. =These Little Volumes= ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR, IN THE EARNEST HOPE THAT THEY MAY INCREASE IN HIM THAT LOVE OF NATURE AND OF RURAL LIFE WHICH HAS EVER EXERTED SO SALUTARY AN INFLUENCE IN THE FORMATION OF THE CHARACTERS OF THE WISE AND GOOD. MINNIE AND HER PETS. Minnie's Pet Parrot. Minnie's Pet Cat. Minnie's Pet Dog. Minnie's Pet Horse. Minnie's Pet Lamb. Minnie's Pet Monkey. MINNIE'S PET LAMB. CHAPTER I. NANNIE AND THE PONY. In another book, about Minnie's pet pony, I have already given you some account of Nannie, her pet lamb. This had all the peculiarities of the South Down, to which breed of sheep it belonged. It had full, bright, black eyes, a small head, and a brownish-gray face and legs. Its back was straight and wide, and covered with fine, short wool, which protected it from the cold. When Mr. Lee first brought the lamb home, it cried, or bleated, continually. It was placed in a pen close by the stall where Star, the Shetland pony, was kept, and, the next day after it came, managed to get over the light railing which separated them, and creep up close to the animal. I don't know what Star thought of the little creature; but I suppose he was pleased to have a companion, for when the hostler went to feed him, he found them on very social terms. After this, the lamb's affection for Star grew so strong that it soon forgot all about its mother and its old friends, and gave its whole heart to the new one. The pony returned the love, and was as kind to his little companion as he could possibly be. He never seemed better pleased than when the lamb was standing quietly by his side, eating the hay or turnips with which it was fed, or when, its hunger being appeased, it lay down close under his nose, and chewed its cud by the hour together. At such times, the pony was careful not to step on it, or injure it in any way, but expressed his delight in its society by little short neighs, which were sometimes answered by a responsive note. In a few days they understood each other perfectly, and were as well acquainted, and as fond of each other, as if they had lived together all their lives. Mr. Lee, who was visiting Minnie's pets with his little daughter, said, one morning, it would never do for the lamb to stand in the stall, so closely confined from the out-door air; and he directed John to turn it out into the barn yard for a few hours every day. The man did so; but the poor lamb bleated at this separation from its friend, until the groom happened to think such a change would do Star good too. As soon as the lamb saw the horse coming through the barn door, it stopped crying, and ran toward him just as it would if he had been its mother. Star put down his head to his favorite, when the lamb frisked and gambolled about him, occasionally nibbling at his nose, when he would start back, and, thinking this fine fun, would begin to dance again. O, what a pleasant time they did have! Every morning, Minnie went with her bowl of milk for Nannie, into which, as the lamb grew older, she crumbled some pieces of bread. It was a pretty sight to see the little creature peeping shyly, with its bright eyes, from behind its friend, and then coming a few steps toward her, when she called, in her low, sweet voice,-- "Nannie! Nannie! come and get your breakfast!" Then she held the bowl down where the lamb could reach to put its mouth in, and laughed to see how much the pretty pet liked the milk. One morning the lamb had been eating so many turnips that it was not very hungry; and when Minnie called, it did not obey. In vain the little girl called out, in her softest tones, "Nannie, Nannie! come, pretty Nannie, and drink your milk." At last, the child went into the stable to see what was the matter with her pet, and there her father and mother presently found her, stooping down on the hay by the side of Star, with the lamb's head in her lap. "Minnie! Minnie! come out, quick! The horse will kick you," exclaimed her mother, greatly alarmed; but Mr. Lee only laughed, as he said,-- "No, indeed; Star loves his young mistress too much for that. Let the child be; she is doing well enough." "But she will soil her clothes, and get her shoes covered with dirt," urged the lady, still looking anxious. "O, mamma!" cried Minnie, "I'm in a real clean place on this straw, and Nannie likes to lick my hand. How funny Star is looking round to see what I am doing to his friend." A few hours later, when Mrs. Lee sat with her sewing in the back parlor, the little girl ran into the room, and taking a cricket, pulled it toward her mother, saying,-- "I want you to tell me all you know about sheep and lambs. Can they do such wonderful things, as dogs, and horses, and cats can?" The lady laughed. "I am afraid," she began, "that you would not be satisfied with what little I can tell you; for I confess that I know very little about them. You had better wait till your father comes home, for he has been studying a good many books on that subject, and has learned about the different kinds, with a view to buying a flock. "Or you can ask Anne; for she was brought up in a shepherd's family, and can tell you all about the way they bring up little lambs when their mothers will not own them." "'Not own them,' mamma! What can you mean? I thought mothers always owned their little children." "Sometimes a ewe, as they call the mother, has two or three lambs at a time; and perhaps she thinks she could not nurse them all, and so she chooses one or two that she will take care of, and when the other comes near her, she butts it softly with her head. The lamb knows then that she will not take care of it; and the little forsaken creature begins to cry, Anne says, 'for all the world just like a little baby.'" "And what do the people do for it?" inquired Minnie, tears filling her eyes. "Why, they take it away from the flock, and 'bring it up by hand,' as they call it; that is, they feed it with milk, and it learns to love the one who takes care of it, and follows her about wherever she goes, just like a little dog. Anne will tell you all about it." "She is busy now. I heard her tell cook she wanted to give your chamber a thorough cleaning to-day. Can't you remember something more?" "You know that gentleman, Mr. Sullivan, who comes here sometimes with your father. He is what is called a practical shepherd; that is, he knows all about the habits of sheep, from having been brought up with them. He understands the different breeds, and knows which are the best for wool; and which, for mutton; and what kinds of food are best for them. I have heard your father say that he had gained a great deal of information from Mr. Sullivan, which he could not get from books. I think he will visit us again before long; and I advise you to save all your difficult questions for him to answer." "If father buys a flock, will he keep them on his farm?" asked the child. "O, no, dear! Sheep like to roam over the hills, and browse on the bushes and moss. They can find a very good living where a cow would suffer from hunger." At this moment, Anne appeared at the door, to ask her mistress a question, and Minnie took the opportunity to tell her that she wanted to hear about raising little lambs. "I'll be pleased enough to tell you, miss," answered the woman, smiling. "I've had a dale to do with sheep, and lambs, too, in my younger days, and many's the little cosset I've brought up by hand, when the poor cratur would otherwise have died." CHAPTER II. THE LITTLE LAMBS. Anne was standing on some high steps, putting up clean curtains in her mistress's room; and Minnie stood watching her, and wondering how soon she would be done, so she could tell about the lambs. At last she said,-- "Anne, if I stand up in a chair, I could hold the nails and give them to you." "That's true for you, miss," answered the girl; "and it's a much better way than kapeing them in my mouth." "And you can talk better," urged Minnie, with a roguish look. Anne laughed outright. "Ah, it's the story ye're after, I see; and sure ye're welcome to all I can tell you. "You know my mother was English, and my father Irish. I was born in the great city o' Dublin; but after my father died, which was long enough before I could tell my right hand from my left, I went with my mother to her home in England. Of coorse, I knew nothing of that except by hearsay, which is no evidence at all; but well I can remember, when I was old enough, I was sent out on my grandfather's farm, to mind the sheep; I had a dog, Rover, to go with me, and a little crook, because I was a shepherdess, you know; and I used to carry dinner enough in my pail for Rover too, for he had to work hard, poor fellow! [Illustration: THE YOUNG SHEPHERDESS.] "I liked it very well at first, for the lambs looked so pretty, skipping around the dams; and the air was so fresh and bright; but I was a very little girl; so I soon grew tired, and left all the care of the sheep to Rover. He flew from one end of the field to the other, chasing them away from the hill where they used to wander and get lost. "When I saw the lambs drinking their mother's milk, I thought it must be very nice; and so I lay down on the grass, and drank some too; and I liked it so well that I used to drink every day, until grandfather found it out, and forbid me, because the lambs would not have enough. "By and by I grew up to be a big girl, and then, what with tending the sick sheep, and bringing up the cossets, I had plenty to do. Grandfather had five hundred ewes. He was a rich man, and every body thought well of him. When the lambs began to come, there were some of the ewes that would not own them." "I know about that, Anne," said Minnie; "mamma told me." "Well, when there are two, this is often the case; or sometimes the shepherd finds the mother has not milk enough for two, even if she would like them. Did your mamma tell you that some kinds of sheep are much better nurses than others?" "No, I think she did not know that. She says she don't know much about sheep." "Very likely, as she was not brought up with them. There is a kind called Merinos, which are very bad nurses. Grandfather wouldn't have them on that account, though they have very fine wool, which sells for a good price. Out of a hundred lambs, they wouldn't bring up more than half. "They are poor, tender little things, any way. Well, I mind the time when there was a great storm, and grandfather had to be up all night, housing the poor craturs; for the lambs were coming fast. A little past midnight, mother called me, and there we sat till morning, before a blazing fire, warming up one and another, as he brought them in. I sat down on a cricket, and took two or three in my lap at once, and hugged them up to my bosom. When they began to twitch, and we found they must die, we put them on the great hearth rug, and took more. Sometimes they'd just lie down and go to sleep, and when we had time to look at them, they'd be stiff and cold; and then again they would cry out like a baby. It used to make my heart ache to hear them." Anne had now finished her work, and came down from the steps. "I don't think I should like to be a shepherdess," said Minnie, sighing. "O, yes, you'd like it mightily. Such a time as that only comes once in a great many years. And then, when it's warm summer weather, and the lambs frisk and frolic about their mothers in the field, and you just sit down and play on the accordeon, while the dog keeps the flock in order,--O, there's no work so pleasant or so healthy as that!" When Mr. Lee returned from the city, Minnie was ready with her questions about sheep. "I want to know all I can about them," she exclaimed. "There are few stories that can be told about sheep," he answered, cheerfully; "for it must be confessed that they are far inferior to the horse, dog, and many other animals, in intelligence and sagacity. The sheep has few marked traits, except its meekness, and its natural affection for its young. Still, when I remember that the lamb was selected before all other animals for sacrifice, and as a type of Him who is called 'the Lamb of God,' and who is to take away the sins of the world, I feel a deep interest in its welfare. "The sheep, too, is one of the most useful animals, its fleece or wool being used as a covering to man, and its flesh for food. It was only yesterday I read the well-established fact that, from one pound of sheep's wool a thread was spun so fine that it reached to the almost incredible distance of ninety-five miles, while one of ordinary fineness reached twenty-six miles. This covering grows so thick in winter that it enables them to bear cold which would be fatal to other animals. They appear to know, too, when a storm is approaching, and take refuge under a sheltering hill or some projecting cliff. "One very curious thing is, that they can live under the snow for a long time. Mr. Sullivan, who is a shepherd, you know, told me a circumstance which occurred in his own experience. "There was every appearance of a storm, and he, with his men, drove the sheep early into the fold. In the morning, on counting them, he found there were seven valuable ewes missing. It had snowed all night, and was still snowing, when he started out in search of them. But nowhere could they be found. The storm continued four days, and the snow had reached a depth very uncommon; but day after day the search was renewed. At last, however, it was given up; when one day a woodcutter, in going over a stone wall which lay almost entirely concealed, fell through the snow, and found himself in the midst of the lost sheep. Their breath had rendered the crust, which was firm enough to bear his weight in other places, so thin here that it would not sustain him. They seemed lively and well, having found enough dead grass under the snow to sustain life. "There is an instance very similar to this in one of my books, which I will find and read to you." "In the winter of 1800, a sheep was buried in the snow near Kendal, and remained there thirty-three days and nights, without the possibility of moving, and yet survived. "In the same winter, a sheep near Caldbeck, in Cumberland, was buried thirty-eight days; when found, it had eaten the wool completely off both its shoulders, and was reduced to a skeleton; but with great care it recovered." "Mr. James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, gives a most interesting account of eight hundred ewes that were buried in the snow. Some of them he and his fellow-servants succeeded in getting out the first day; but the second there were but few of them to be seen, except the horns of some stragglers. The men went about, boring with long poles, but with little success, until their dog found out their difficulty, and flying to a spot, began to scrape away the snow. From this time, by his keen scent, he marked faster than they could get them out, and by his skill saved two hundred, though some were buried in a mountain of snow fifty feet deep. They were all alive, and most of them recovered their strength." CHAPTER III. THE SHEEP AND THE SCAVENGER. "Why, Minnie," said Mrs. Lee, one morning a few weeks later, "here is a story very much like that of our pony and lamb. If Poll will stop chattering, I will read it to you." "In December, 1825, Thomas Rae, a blacksmith in Hardhills, purchased a beautiful lamb, of the black-faced breed, from an individual passing with a large flock. It was so extremely wild that it was with great difficulty separated from its companions. He put it in a field in company with a cow and a little white pony. It never seemed to mind the cow, but soon manifested fondness for the pony, who showed the friendship to be reciprocated. "They soon became so attached that they were constantly to be seen in company, whether the pony was used for the saddle or its small carriage, exciting a smile from those who witnessed the unusual spectacle. When the lamb was approached, she would run under the pony for protection, when she would gaze around with looks of conscious security. At night, the lamb always repaired to the stable, and reposed under the manger, where it felt the pony's breath. "When separate, which only happened as it was effected by force, the little creature would raise the most plaintive bleatings, and the pony a responsive neighing. "On one occasion, they both strayed into an adjoining field, in which was a flock of sheep. The lamb joined the flock at a short distance from the pony; but as their owner removed him, it immediately followed, without the least regard to its own species. "Another time, when passing through a large flock, it followed its favorite without showing any signs of a desire to remain with its natural companions." "Somebody must have known about Nannie, and put it in a book," cried Minnie, greatly excited. "I wonder who it was." "I presume there are many such cases," answered the lady, smiling; "but you will be pleased to know that Mr. Sullivan will probably be here this evening; and you can ask him as many questions as you wish." The little girl clapped her hands, and then ran out to the kitchen, to tell Anne the good news. When her father returned, she looked anxiously into the carriage, to see whether he had any one with him, and was pleased to find that a dark-complexioned, black-whiskered man occupied the other seat. "I have prepared Mr. Sullivan for a regular catechising," exclaimed Mr. Lee, springing from the carriage, and kissing Minnie's glowing cheek. "You may show him Nannie, too; and he will tell you how to manage her." They were soon seated in the parlor, when Mr. Lee said,-- "I have often thought of that beautiful passage in which our Saviour describes the Jewish shepherd: 'The sheep hear his voice, and he calleth his own sheep by name, and leadeth them out; and he goeth before them, and the sheep follow him, for they know his voice.'" "It is astonishing," remarked the visitor, "what power a humane shepherd has over his flock, when he has once acquired their confidence. This method of giving names to the sheep, as well as to the leaders, is very important. They soon learn the name given them, and will readily come at the familiar call. "I read lately an account given by a gentleman who had been travelling in Greece, and he asked if it was customary there to give sheep names. 'Yes,' was the answer; and soon after he had an opportunity of seeing for himself. Passing a flock, he asked the shepherd to call one. He did so; and it instantly left its pasture and its companions, and ran up to the shepherd with signs of pleasure, and with a prompt obedience which I had never seen excelled in any other animal. "I have heard, too, that an English shepherd knows every sheep in his flock. By feeding the lambs from the hand, and other kind treatment, he accustoms them to come at his call, and gradually to understand and follow his directions, when the rest of the flock will immediately follow. "In France, the shepherd selects certain sheep from the flock, gives them names, and teaches them to come by offering them a piece of bread. When he wishes to lead his flock through a defile, or to make them change the direction in which they are proceeding, he calls one of these selected sheep. Those that are nearest follow immediately, and the others are not very far behind; and so, by degrees, the whole flock is disposed to obey the call of the shepherd." "Since you were here last," rejoined Mr. Lee, "I have been reading Youatt's admirable treatise on sheep. He has an instance very similar concerning the flock of Messrs. Nowlan, Kilkenny. In 1820, they had six hundred pure Merinos, all under the charge of one man. Not even a dog was permitted; the whole care devolved on the shepherd. "At the sound of his horn, all the sheep flocked around him if he stopped, and followed him if he moved forward. "Salt was the means by which this docility was acquired, a small quantity of which he carried about with him, distributing a little as a reward for their obedience to his call. "The Kilkenny farm is divided by the King's River, which at times is so rapid and impetuous as not to be fordable by the strongest horse. A plank bridge, eighteen inches wide, and one hundred and ten feet long, with a rail on one side, is thrown across for the convenience of those who may be desirous of crossing the stream. "When it is necessary to remove the sheep from one side of the river to the other, the shepherd crosses the plank, sounding his horn, and each individual of the flock passes regularly after him in single file. Even in the highest floods, there has never occurred one single casualty." "That reminds me," said Mr. Sullivan, "of the flocks in the Island of Cyrnon, which, on the landing of a stranger, always flee away into the interior of the country; but as soon as the shepherd blows his horn, they scamper around him, and forget every fear. "But all this time I am quite unmindful of my young friend, who has not yet asked one question." "I want to know whether it's easy to be a shepherdess," said Minnie, blushing; "because I should like to be one; only I should want the kind of sheep that would own their lambs, and love them." Both Mr. Lee and his visitor laughed heartily. "Sheep have one trait, and a very marked one," said Mr. Sullivan, "which makes it difficult to keep them in order. That is, their habit of imitation. On my farm, the boundary one side is a stone wall, and it seems almost impossible to keep them from going over it. There is no better feed in my neighbor's pasture; but for some reason the leader runs over, and then the whole flock follow. They know better, and they seldom attempt it when Moses, the dog, is in sight; for sheep soon learn the exact boundaries of their enclosure: from being driven back so often, they find how far they can roam, and remain in peace. "So, Miss Minnie, unless you can run very fast, and like to keep on the chase pretty much all day, I think you would find it easier to take care of your pets at home than to be a shepherdess." "Will you please tell me a story about sheep?" said the little girl. "If you like a laughable story, I can tell you one which I was thinking of not a minute since. It illustrates their habit of imitation. It is often exceedingly difficult to drive a flock of sheep through a narrow passage to which they are unaccustomed; but if one of them can be got through, the rest follow without the slightest trouble. "A butcher's boy was driving some fat sheep through Liverpool; but they ran down a street where he did not wish them to go. The boy saw a man before him sweeping the street, and called loudly to him,-- "'Stop them! Turn them about!' "The man began to run from one side of the street to the other, always opposing himself and his broom to them when they tried to force a passage through; but the sheep became more and more excited, and pressed forward with increasing impetuosity. "At last, one of them came right up to the man, who was stooping down, as if he were going to jump over him, which so frightened the fellow that, instead of rising, he seized the short broomstick, with one hand on either end, and held it over his head. He remained a few seconds in this position, when the sheep made a spring, and jumped fairly over him, without touching the broom. "The first had no sooner done this, than another followed, and then another, in quick succession, so that the man, perfectly confounded, seemed to lose all recollection, and remained in the same attitude until the whole flock had jumped over him, not one of them attempting to pass on either side, though the street was quite clear. "All this took place just after a wet day, so that the man was entirely bespattered with mud and dirt before they had all passed; and it would be impossible to conceive a more ludicrous appearance than the poor fellow made on that occasion." CHAPTER IV. ATTACHMENT TO HOME. "That's a real funny story," exclaimed Minnie, her eyes sparkling with mirth, "only I can't help pitying that poor man." "I can recall another, though a sadder incident," continued Mr. Sullivan, "illustrating the same quality." "In 1808, an accident happened in England to some sheep belonging to Mr. Cooper, of Huilston Hall, who had intrusted them to the care of a boy for that day, in the absence of the shepherd, who was assisting in getting in the harvest. "About the middle of the day, the sheep broke from their pasture, when the thoughtless boy drove them back in great haste over a narrow and deep ditch. The leading sheep fell in, and the remainder, passing over them, smothered twenty-five sheep and forty lambs, the whole being worth near four hundred dollars. "In the same book, there is also an account of a flock near Guildford, consisting of more than eight hundred sheep, in one pasture. A dog one day jumped the hedge, and so frightened them that one of them jumped into an adjoining field, which was on a great descent, when the rest of the flock followed each other over the gap of the hedge so fast that one hundred and twenty-three of them were killed." "There is one quality or characteristic of the sheep which will interest you, Minnie," said her father, "and that is their love of home. Perhaps Mr. Sullivan will tell you some stories about that." "I should be very glad to hear them, and about the little lambs." "A great deal can be said upon that," returned the shepherd, cheerfully. "So strong is their attachment to the place where they have been bred, that I have heard of their returning to the Highlands of Scotland from a distance of three hundred miles. When a few sheep accidentally get away from their acquaintance in the flock, they always return home with great eagerness and perseverance. "The most singular instance that I know of is that of a black ewe, that returned from a farm in the head of Glen Lyon to her home in Tweeddale, and accomplished the journey in nine days. She was soon missed by her owner, and a shepherd was despatched in pursuit of her, who followed her all the way to Crieff, where he turned and gave her up. He got intelligence of her all the way, and every one told him that she absolutely persisted in travelling on--she would not be turned, regarding neither sheep nor shepherd by the way. "Her poor little lamb was often far behind, and she had constantly to urge it on by impatient bleating. She unluckily reached Stirling on the morning of a great annual fair, about the end of May, and judging it imprudent to venture through the crowd with her lamb, she halted on the north side of the town the whole day, where she was seen by hundreds, lying close by the roadside. "But the next morning, a little before the break of day, when all was still, she was seen stealing quietly through the town, in apparent terror of the dogs that were prowling about the street. The last time she was seen on the road was at a toll bar near St. Ninian's; the man stopped her, thinking she was a strayed animal, and that some one would claim her. She tried several times to break through by force, when he opened the gate for travellers; but he always prevented her, and at length she turned patiently back. She found some means of eluding him, however; for she reached home on a Sabbath morning early in June, having left the farm at Glen Lyon either on Thursday afternoon or Friday morning, a week and two days before. "I suppose her former owner thought she had earned a right to remain on her native farm, for he paid the Highland farmer the price of her, and she remained with him till she at length died of old age, in her seventeenth year." At this moment, company was announced, who remained till evening, so that poor little Minnie, after waiting a long time for her stories, was obliged to go to bed without them. "Never mind, dear," whispered her father, noticing her look of disappointment; "I have a book with beautiful anecdotes of sheep and lambs, which I will read to you when I come home to-morrow night." In the morning, Mr. Sullivan found time to pay Nannie a visit, and pronounced her in a thriving condition. He recommended Mr. Lee to have her wool sheared off, as it was so long as to make her uncomfortable during the heat of summer. Nannie was now a year old, and was a fine, large lamb, with her speckled face looking very bright and intelligent, and, as the gentleman said, did credit to the care of her shepherdess. Soon after breakfast, Mr. Lee and his visitor went to the library on business, and Minnie did not see them again until just as they were getting into the carriage to drive away. She waited with some impatience for her father to return, and wished she knew what book her father referred to as having the stories in it, so that she might have it ready for him. Her mother, finding that she was restless and discontented, advised her to apply herself to her letters, which she was beginning to learn. If the truth must be told, the little girl was not fond of study; but when her mother reminded her that most children of her age could read and spell with ease, and that, if she was diligent, she herself would soon be able to read stories, and not be dependent on any one else, she thought it would be a good thing to learn. For half an hour, she forgot her desire for her father's return in finding A's and E's in books to match letters on her cards. Evening came at last, and Mr. Lee with it. He looked very smiling, and told his wife his sister was in the city, and was coming in a few weeks to visit them. The moment he saw Minnie's expectant face, he told her he would be ready in five minutes to attend to her, and then invited Mrs. Lee to accompany them to the library, to hear some stories from the Shepherd's Calendar, and other books. In a few moments, Minnie was seated on her father's lap, her whole countenance beaming with pleased anticipation. CHAPTER V. AFFECTION FOR ITS YOUNG. The gentleman began:-- "The marked characteristic of the sheep is that of natural affection, of which it possesses a great share. At the present time, there is in Regent's Park a poor sheep, with very bad foot rot. Crawling along the pasture on its knees, it with difficulty contrives to procure for itself subsistence; and the pain which it suffers when compelled to get on its feet is evidently very great. At a little distance from the sufferer was another sheep, which, after close observation, I found was always the same. As I pursued my regular morning walk through the Park, I commonly sought out the friends, and, after two or three days, they seemed to be aware that no harm was intended them, and they suffered me to come near enough to observe their signals, and fully to satisfy myself that it was always the same faithful adherent by whom the cripple was solaced and watched. "When a sheep becomes blind, it is rarely abandoned to itself in this hapless and helpless state. Some one of the flock attaches himself to it, and by bleating calls it back from the precipice, and the lake, and the pool, and every kind of danger to which it is exposed." "Isn't that good of them?" cried Minnie, eagerly. "I like those sheep." "There was once a gentleman living in Inverness," Mr. Lee went on, "who was passing through a lonely and unfrequented district, when he observed a sheep bleating most piteously, and hurrying along the road to meet him; on his approaching nearer, the animal redoubled its cries, and looking earnestly in his face, seemed to implore some favor or assistance. "Touched with a sight so unusual, he alighted, and leaving his gig, he followed the sheep in the direction whence it had come. There, in a solitary place, the ewe stopped, and the traveller found a lamb, completely wedged in between two large stones, almost exhausted, but still continuing to struggle very feebly. "The kind gentleman instantly extricated the little sufferer, and placed it safely on the neighboring greensward, while the delighted mother poured out her thanks in a long-continued and grateful, if not a musical, strain. "An interesting provision of nature with regard to these animals is, that the more inhospitable the land on which they feed, the greater will be their kindness and affection to their young. "'I once herded,' says the Ettrick Shepherd, 'two years on a wild and bare farm, called Willenslee, on the border of Mid Lothian; and of all the sheep I ever saw, these were the kindest and most affectionate to their lambs. I was often deeply affected at scenes which I witnessed. We had one very hard winter, so that our sheep grew lean in the spring, and disease came among them, and carried off a number. Often have I seen these poor victims, when fallen to rise no more, even when unable to lift their heads from the ground, holding up the leg to invite the starving lamb to the miserable pittance that the udder still could supply. I had never seen aught more painfully affecting. "'It is well known that it is a custom with shepherds, when a lamb dies, if the mother have a sufficiency of milk, to bring her from the hill, and put another lamb to her. This is done by putting the skin of the dead lamb upon the living one; the ewe immediately acknowledges the relationship, and after the skin has warmed on it, so as to give it something of the smell of her own lamb, and when it has suckled her two or three times, she accepts it, and nourishes it as her own ever after. Whether it is from joy at this apparent reanimation of her young one, or because a little doubt remains in her mind, which she would fain dispel, I can not decide; but, for a number of days, she shows far more fondness, by bleating and caressing, over this one, than she formerly did over the one that was really her own. "'While at Willenslee, I never needed to drive home a sheep by force, with dogs, or in any other way than the following: I found every ewe, of course, hanging her head over her dead lamb; and having a piece of twine with me for the purpose, I tied that to the lamb's neck or foot, and, trailing it along, the ewe followed me into any house, or fold, or wherever I chose to lead her. Any of them would have followed me in that way for miles, with her nose close on the lamb, which she never quitted for a moment, except to chase my dog, which she would not suffer to walk near me. "'Out of curiosity, I often led them in to the side of the kitchen fire, by this means into the midst of servants and dogs; but the more that dangers multiplied around the ewe, the closer she clung to her dead offspring, and thought of nothing whatever but protecting it. One of the two years while I remained on this farm, a severe blast of snow came on by night, about the latter end of April, which destroyed several scores of our lambs; and as we had not enough of twins and odd lambs for the mothers that had lost theirs, of course we selected the best ewes, and put lambs to them. I found one fine ewe standing over a dead lamb in the head of the Hope, and asked my master to put a lamb to her, but he did not. I watched her, and faithfully did she stand to her charge; so faithfully, that I think the like was never equalled by any of the woolly race. I visited her morning and evening, and for the first eight days never found her above two or three yards from the lamb; and always, as I went my rounds, she eyed me long ere I came near her, and kept trampling with her feet, and whistling through her nose, to frighten away the dog. He got a regular chase, twice a day, as I passed by. "'The weather grew fine and warm, and the dead lamb soon decayed; but still this affectionate and desolate creature kept hanging over the poor remains, with an attachment that seemed to be nourished by hopelessness. It often drew tears from my eyes, to see her hanging with such fondness over a few bones, mixed with a small portion of wool. "'For the first fortnight, she never quitted the spot, and for another week she visited it every morning and evening, uttering a few kindly and heart-piercing bleats each time, till at length every remnant of her offspring vanished, mixing with the soil, or wafted away by the winds of heaven.'" "There, Minnie, I think you have heard enough for to-night," said Mr. Lee, gayly, as he heard his little daughter sigh repeatedly. "O, father, I can't help being so sorry for the poor sheep!" "You had better read her something more cheerful, or she'll be thinking of that all night," responded Mrs. Lee, laughing at the child's dolorous tone. "Yes, father, please read one more." "Well, then, here is something that will please you." "A drover, being on his way to Smithfield market with a flock of sheep, one of them became so sore-footed and lame that it could travel no farther. The man, wishing to get on, took up the distressed animal, and dropped it over the paling of an enclosure belonging to Mr. O'Kelly, and where the celebrated race-horse Dungannon was then grazing, and pursued his journey, intending to call for the sheep on his return, believing, after a little rest, it would quickly recover. This was the case; but, in the mean time, a strong attachment grew up between the two inhabitants of the paddock. The horse would playfully nibble the neck of the sheep, and, without hurting it, would lift it into the manger of a neighboring shed belonging to the field, as much as to say, 'Though you are not able to reach it, I will help you to the banquet.' Besides this, the horse would, on all occasions, protect his new friend, and would suffer no one to interfere with him. "When the drover returned, the two friends had become so attached, that it seemed cruel to part them; and Mrs. O'Kelly, having learned the circumstances, bought the sheep, and left the friends in peaceable possession of the paddock and its adjoining shelter." CHAPTER VI. THE SHEEP-FARM. About this time, Minnie went a short journey with her parents, and was greatly delighted when, one afternoon, they drove through a long, winding lane to a farmhouse, where her friend, Mr. Sullivan, was residing. "Will you please let me see the lambs?" she asked the kind old lady, Mr. Sullivan's mother, who kept house for him at this time. "My little daughter has been scarcely able to contain her joy," explained Mr. Lee, "since I told her, a few miles back, that we were going to visit your son." The good woman smiled kindly upon the child, and then went to the back door, where she took down a long horn, and blew upon it with all her might. "Joseph will hear that," she said, laughing, as she saw Minnie's large eyes fixed so eagerly on her face, "and he will come up presently from the field. When he has taken care of your father's horses, you can go back with him if you please." "And may I take the little lambs in my arms? I love lambs dearly." "They are rather shy of strangers, dear, but you can try. If the ewes are willing, I am." Minnie then ran to the door, and soon announced, in a glad voice, that Mr. Sullivan was in sight. He gave them a cheering welcome, and, after kissing Minnie, told her she might run all over the farm, just where she pleased. "There is a calf in the barn," he said, laughing, "and plenty of little pigs in the sty." "But I like lambs better than pigs, sir." "Well, there are some over a hundred of them, and you shall be introduced to their acquaintance as soon as I have given the horses some oats." Mrs. Lee was readily induced to join the party, although somewhat tired with her long drive. The sheep, of which there were one hundred and fifty, were eating grass on the side of a hill, but, at the shepherd's call, came running to meet him, bleating for their lambs to follow. He threw out some salt, with which his huge pockets were filled; and while Minnie gazed with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks upon the unusual scene, asked Mr. Lee what he thought of their appearance. "I never saw a finer flock," was the eager reply. "They do credit to their keeping." A scream of delight from Minnie caused her father to turn quickly, in time to see a beautiful white lamb crowding its little nose through the fence, into the child's hand. "Here, Minnie," said the shepherd, giving her an ear of corn; "hold this up, and call, 'Luke,' and you'll soon have the mother to the lamb eating from the cob." He laughed merrily, as he added, "My boy has given them all Bible names; so we have Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. He hesitated a little about Acts, but finally thought he'd better go straight through. So here comes Acts, with her twin lambs, as fine a pair as there is in the flock." Mr. and Mrs. Lee laughed heartily, and presently Minnie asked, "What is the name of that great one, with horns?" "O! That's Jeroboam. He's a cruel fellow, I'm sorry to say. I wouldn't advise you to have much to do with such a fellow as he is." "He looks like a picture in our Bible of a ram going to sacrifice," said the child, gravely. "I wish he were good, though." "Here comes a lamb now," said Mr. Sullivan, "that I took the liberty to name for you. To my fancy, she's the prettiest one of the flock. Minnie, Minnie, come and get your corn." "Can lambs eat corn, sir?" "No; but their mothers can, and they get the good of it." Minnie's mother came and ate the corn greedily from his hand, while the lamb danced about, first on one side and then on the other, much to the amusement of the child. "Do they stay out in the field all night, sir?" "O, no! we always shelter them. At this season, we allow them to feed till late; the sun being so hot in the middle of the day, they all crowd under the shade of the hill." "But what do they do when it rains?" "A warm shower doesn't hurt the lambs; but we had some cold north-east storms earlier in the season, when we were obliged to drive them all in, as we couldn't separate the lambs from their mothers. One day, we tried to keep the ewes out to feed, but they bleated so much for their little ones 'twas no use; they wouldn't eat." "I'm glad of that," cried Minnie, eagerly. "I'm glad your sheep love their children. In Ireland, sometimes they won't own them." "We had a great deal of trouble with the merinos," Mr. Sullivan went on, directing his remark to Mr. Lee. "Not one in ten cared any thing about her lamb. If she had milk enough, I could tie her; but it often made my heart ache to hear the poor wee things crying for a mother's care. I was almost glad when they died off, as they generally did. I find it's the universal opinion now that merinos make poor nurses." The shepherd turned smilingly to Minnie: "Have you any more questions to ask, Miss?" "O, a great many! But as we are going to stay all night, I shall have time." "Then, my dear, I will go in," said her mother, laughing. "I think you have catechised Mr. Sullivan quite enough for the present." The next hour was spent by the child in wandering all over the farm. In company with her father and the good-humored shepherd, she examined the neat continuous racks all around the sheep-house, which, in winter, were filled with hay or husks for their food. Long troughs were underneath, into which, as night approached, she was much amused to see the boy, Isaac, pour the scalded meal. In the centre of the house was a large, shallow box or trough, filled with clear water from a neighboring hill. This, Mr. Sullivan assured them, had not frozen during the winter. Minnie stood for a long time watching the pearly drops as they trickled slowly through the pipe, wondering why the water never rose any higher in the trough. At length her father showed her a little pipe which carried off the waste water into the ground. They were sitting at the supper table, and Minnie was giving a glowing account of her discoveries, when they were startled by a loud shouting: "Stop, Israel! Go along, Moses! Ssh! hi! there, Obadiah! Here, Jonah, Amos, Nebuchadnezzar, Moses! what are you about?" "What is the stupid fellow bringing up the sheep at this time for?" queried Mr. Sullivan, glancing at the clock; and then, seeing the look of merriment on the faces of his visitors, he burst into a hearty laugh. "I believe you'll have to excuse me," he said, rising hastily. "Isaac will never be able to get them into the fold alone." "I want to go, too," whispered Minnie. She was rather frightened at first at the loud bleating of the ewes, and the responsive cries of the lambs; but keeping close to the shepherd, had the satisfaction of feeling that she was of great assistance in driving them into the enclosure. The moment they began to enter the sheep-house, the boy, Isaac, commenced a loud, shrill whistle, which the sheep seemed to understand, and which her friend informed her directed them to the troughs for their supper. "I didn't mean to shelter them for an hour yet," exclaimed the lad, when his master blamed him for driving them to the fold so early; "but Jeroboam butted down a rail in the fence, and before I knew it, the crazy creatures were all out in the garden." "We must kill that fellow if he does much more mischief," Mr. Sullivan said; and taking Minnie's hand, they returned to the house. "It speaks well for Isaac's knowledge of Scripture," remarked Mr. Lee, archly, "that he has chosen the names so appropriately." "O! He goes to mother for that," was the ready answer; "but it does surprise me to see how he recognizes every one. I believe he is as well acquainted with the name and character of every sheep and lamb as a pastor is with his congregation. I often hear him talking to one for being selfish, or praising another for her meekness. I am well enough acquainted with Jeroboam to know that he is as obstinate and self-willed as his illustrious namesake." "Isaac says little Abner is a thief," exclaimed Minnie, laughing. "So he is, and steals his supper from the ewes whenever he can get it, at the expense of many a poor lamb." "I saw Minnie again, mother, and I knew her in a minute." "You'd make a capital shepherdess," added Mr. Sullivan; "you'd govern them all by love." "That is the way you do," remarked his mother. "Well, there is no other way. Sometimes they are rather provoking; but I always feel ashamed of myself when I lose my temper with a brute. There is nothing like kindness to conquer even the most obstinate animal. Last winter, I had a man to help me. He was giving one of the ewes a dose of medicine, and she struggled so hard to get away that she threw over the cup three successive times. I found he could do nothing with her, and so I myself undertook the job. The poor creature was by that time so frightened, that when I forced the spoon between her teeth, she bit my finger to the bone. I said nothing of the pain until I had accomplished my object--" "And then you came near fainting," interrupted his mother. "The finger was a long time in healing." "The man was terribly angry," added the shepherd, "and showed so much spite to the innocent cause of his rage, that I told him he was unfit for the care of animals; that he degraded himself to a brute when he revenged on them his own awkwardness. I dismissed him, and took Isaac, who is worth a dozen such fellows." The next morning, Minnie arose in season to help Isaac drive the sheep from the fold to the pasture; and then, having received a promise from Mrs. Sullivan to save some of the lamb's wool, and knit Minnie a pair of stockings, she took leave of the farm, exclaiming, as she rode off, "O, I do love sheep, and I wish we lived on a farm!" CHAPTER VII. THE SHEPHERD'S DOG. A few mornings after this, Minnie went out at an early hour to see her pets in the stable, when she found the sheep lying on its side, quiet and still. She did not, as usual, spring forward to eat the corn which Minnie was sure to have for her, but only raised a feeble, plaintive cry. As her father was already gone to the city, Minnie flew to the house, for Anne to come and tell her what was the matter with poor Nannie. Anne looked very sober after examining the sheep, and then said, "It must have a dose of medicine at once." Poor Minnie was dreadfully excited, and looked really pale, though, like a brave little girl, she insisted on holding the cup from which nurse was feeding sick Nannie. Star, too, seemed really anxious, and he was quite careful to keep his own side of the stall, for fear he should hurt his favorite. Through the day, Minnie visited the barn as often as twice in an hour, and always insisted that Anne should accompany her. Before her father returned, she had the satisfaction of knowing that Nannie was much better. She was still very weak, but her eyes looked brighter, and she chewed her cud, which Anne said was a good sign. To turn her mind from her trouble, Mr. Lee took his book again, and said,-- "Minnie, did you ever hear of a sheep that had so fat a tail that it weighed more than fifty pounds?" "O, no, sir," answered the child, laughing; "how funny they must look!" "They are called the fat-tailed sheep," added her father, "and are natives of Africa." "Are there as many kinds of sheep as there are of dogs?" "More, if all the inferior qualities are counted. They are constantly multiplied, too; and there are many very greatly improved varieties. Now I suppose you would like to hear about the sheep-dogs, and how they are trained to take care of the flocks." "Yes, sir, I should like that." "In many parts of the world, where there are immense flocks, it is very important to have dogs to assist in taking care of them. But as a sheep considers the dog an enemy, and is more afraid of him than of almost any other animal it meets, it is necessary, in the first place, to get these animals acquainted, that they may feel friendly. "In order to do this, when one of the ewes has a lamb, the shepherd takes it from her, and puts a young puppy in its place. "After being held two or three times while the puppy suckles her, the ewe will generally adopt the little creature, and love it as well as if it was her own lamb. "All this time, the puppy has a bed of wool to lie on, to accustom him to the smell of the animal; and by the time he is weaned, he becomes so attached to his new friends, that he will never forsake them, nor leave the particular drove with which he has been brought up. Not even the voice of his master can entice him out of sight of the flock. No hunger and thirst can do it. There he remains, constant and true to his charge, ready even to lay down his life for them, while they regard him not only as a dearly loved friend, but as a protector and guide, whom it is their duty to obey. Did you ever know, Minnie, that the Italian wolf dog has short wool under his hair? This is the case, the wool resembling the Leicester and Lincoln breeds. "One of these faithful, noble animals takes charge of a thousand sheep, going out with them in the morning, and bringing them all back at night. "If one of the sheep strays from its companions, the dog follows it, even into a strange flock, takes it carefully by the ear, and leads it back. "When a stranger approaches the flock, the dog advances, barking, and the sheep all close in his rear, as if round the oldest ram, while they are so fierce with other dogs and wolves, that it is said a whole pack of hungry wild dogs will not venture to attack them. "The only trouble with the sheep-dog is, that when they are young, they like to play with the sheep, and sometimes run them unmercifully; but when they are older, they seem fully to understand their duty, and walk up and down continually on the outer side of the flock, ever watchful for the approach of danger. "Sometimes, where there is a scarcity of grass, two flocks will be brought within a short distance of each other, when these faithful sentinels place themselves in the space between them, and if one or a number attempt to rush across and make acquaintance with their neighbors, their respective dog gently but firmly selects them from all the others, and leads them back. What is very strange is the fact that on such occasions, the other dog stands quietly by until the intruders are removed, while no force would induce him to allow the strange dog to enter his flock on any other pretence. "A very affecting instance of the faithfulness of these animals I will tell you. "A shepherd dog, having the charge of a small flock, was allowed to wander with them into the mountains, while the shepherd returned to his village for a few days, having perfect confidence in the ability of the animal to protect them, but with a strange forgetfulness to provide the dog with food. "Upon his return to the flock, he found it several miles from the place where he had left it, but on the road leading to the village, while the poor dog, in the midst of plenty, was lying by the roadside in the agonies of death by starvation. He might have torn one of the lambs to pieces; but so devoted was he to his charge, that rather than injure one of them he sacrificed his own life." "What a wicked man!" cried Minnie, indignantly. "I shouldn't think he would ever forgive himself." "Yes, it was cruel; but no doubt he felt the loss keenly, as it could not readily be made up. Another dog must be brought up among them, and be trained to his business; for it is a mistake to suppose that, however well taught a shepherd's dog may be, he will be allowed by the sheep to come among them until they have learned to regard him as a friend and protector." "I heard, not long since, a laughable story, to illustrate this fact. "Mr. Thomas Jefferson, one of our Presidents, having a flock of sheep on his place at Monticello, was very glad to receive a thoroughly broken shepherd dog which had been sent him. "Soon after its arrival, he had a number of distinguished guests, to whom he made known his recent gift, the convenience of having a dog to manage his flock, and the almost incredible ability of the animal, and whom he led forth to witness the value of his present. "The dog had not as yet been admitted to the sheep, but at the word of command sprang in among them. "The terrified animals fled in all directions, some of them dashing themselves over precipices, and breaking their necks. "The dog either shared the same fate, or, mortified at his failure, felt his pride too deeply wounded to return. Mr. Jefferson never recovered him." CHAPTER VIII. HARRY AND HATTY. One pleasant morning in June, Mr. Lee ordered the carriage, and drove with Minnie to a delightful residence on the border of a lovely lake. Minnie had often been here to visit little Harry, only child of her mother's friends. This dear boy, like Minnie, had many pets, and could fully sympathize with her in her love for animals and for the beauties of nature. Harry had a pony named Cherokee; he had also pretty birds, that he delighted to watch, as they hung in their cage. But the pet which Harry loved more than all others was a lamb, which he had named Hatty. This little creature had been given him but a short time before Minnie's visit; but it had learned to know his voice, to run to meet him, and to eat grass from his hand. When Hatty was first carried from her mother to Harry's home, she cried for her usual companions. The boy's tender heart was touched, and he begged his father to let the lamb sleep in his room. "She will be so lonely!" he urged; "and I shall want to take care of her. Please, papa, be so kind as to let me have her there." His parents, ever anxious to please their dear child, readily consented; but first his mamma allowed him to take his pet into the lake for a bath. Nurse, laughing at his delight, dressed Harry in his red flannel bathing suit; and then, with his lamb in his arms, he waded into the water. Hatty was a little afraid; but even in those few hours that she had been with her young master, she had learned that he would not allow her to be injured. When the lamb's soft wool was dry, as it soon was in the hot sun, his father left his reading in the parlor to help him find a basket large enough for the lamb's bed. In the morning, when his mother went into his chamber, she laughed to see that he had taken his pet to share his own bed, and was lying with his arms around her neck, kissing her with demonstrative affection. "Pretty little Hatty!" he exclaimed, again and again; "I do love you so dearly!" Minnie had scarcely alighted from the carriage, when Harry cried out, "Please come and see my lamb." The child smilingly followed him to the field, where the little creature was learning to graze in the rich clover. As soon as she heard his voice, she ran toward him, bleating and showing every mark of strong affection. She was a pretty lamb, with long, silky wool, gentle eyes, and a meek, loving expression. During the day, the two children were scarcely a moment away from Hatty; for Harry's heart was moved by her cries for him, and he was so fond of her he could not endure a separation. Sometimes they would sit down on the clean, sweet grass, the boy laying his head on Hatty's neck; but more commonly they were running over the lawn, with the lamb close at their heels, sharing their happiness. "O, mamma," he exclaimed, when they went in to dinner, "we have had such a funny time! Hatty knows Minnie now quite well; but she does not love her, of course, as she does me. She cries for me whenever she cannot see me." His mother smiled, and then asked, "Have you told Minnie about Una, and what Hatty does while you are learning your lessons?" "O, no, mamma! I quite forgot to tell her." "Will you please tell me about Una?" urged Minnie, with great earnestness. "Yes, dear. Una was the name of a lamb I once saw. She was not gentle and loving, as Harry's lamb is; she was more lively, and full of tricks. She had a bad habit of browsing the trees, so that her mistress one day told a servant to tie her to a stake in the orchard, or she would destroy the young plants. "Una had a little companion that was very quiet and inoffensive, but was sometimes led by her into mischief. The next morning after she had been tied, when the man went with the leather strap and string to lead her to the orchard again, Una was nowhere to be found. All day long she and her companion were off out of sight; but at night they came timidly back, watching to see that the man did not catch them." Minnie laughed heartily. "I suppose," she exclaimed, "that she ran away to escape being tied, as our Leo used to when he wanted to go to church." "Yes; and she repeated the trick for several days. She was a very cunning lamb, and would watch her chance, standing on her hind feet, to eat the bark from the young trees, and pull the slender twigs down toward the ground with her fore leg." "Can you remember any thing more about her?" timidly inquired Minnie. "Dinner is ready," answered the lady, smiling. "We shall not have time now; but Harry may tell you about Hatty." Harry stood up very straight, his bright eyes sparkling with pleasure; then, with a motion peculiar to him, tossing the curls from his forehead, and turning to Minnie, he said, in an animated tone, "Every morning I have my lessons with mamma; but Hatty doesn't like me to study, because she wants to be playing, you know. At first, she cried so much that I couldn't get on at all well, until mamma put my stool close to the door. You see it is glass, and she could look through the panes. So she lies on the piazza outside, with her nose as close as she can get it to me." "And her loving eyes fixed on his face," added mamma, smiling at Minnie's earnest gaze. "Isn't it funny," cried the boy, leaning toward his young visitor, "for her to sit still till my lessons are learned, so that I can say them all by heart? "O, mamma!" he shouted, "there's Hatty now." And, true enough, the affectionate creature had followed them around the house to the dining room, and there she stood butting against the glass, to get to her dear little master. "I do think," cried Minnie, enthusiastically, "that Hatty is the very best lamb I ever saw." MRS. LESLIE'S JUVENILE SERIES. 16mo. MRS. LESLIE'S JUVENILE SERIES. 16mo. FOR BOYS. Vol. I. THE MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. " II. PLAY AND STUDY. " III. HOWARD AND HIS TEACHER. " IV. JACK, THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER. FOR GIRLS. Vol. I. TRYING TO BE USEFUL. " II. LITTLE AGNES. " III. I'LL TRY. " IV. ART AND ARTLESSNESS. MINNIE'S PET HORSE. BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE, AUTHOR OF "THE LESLIE STORIES," "TIM, THE SCISSORS-GRINDER," ETC. ILLUSTRATED. BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, SUCCESSORS TO PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 1864. Transcriber's Note The following typographical errors were corrected: Page Error 16 crumbed changed to crumbled 48 their strength. changed to their strength." 109 adjoining shelter. changed to adjoining shelter." 143 companions, the changed to companions, the dog 
26620	----	Transcriber's Note Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. A list of corrections is found at the end of the text. Oe ligatures have been expanded. [Illustration: MINNIE AND HER PONY.] [Illustration: MINNIE and her PETS. BY MRS MADELINE LESLIE. MINNIE'S PET PONY.] MINNIE'S PET HORSE. BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE, AUTHOR OF "THE LESLIE STORIES," "TIM, THE SCISSORS-GRINDER," ETC. ILLUSTRATED. BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, SUCCESSORS TO PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 1864. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by A. R. BAKER, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. ELECTROTYPED AT THE BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY. TO MY YOUNG FRIEND, HENRY FOWLE DURANT, JR. =These Little Volumes= ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR, IN THE EARNEST HOPE THAT THEY MAY INCREASE IN HIM THAT LOVE OF NATURE AND OF RURAL LIFE WHICH HAS EVER EXERTED SO SALUTARY AN INFLUENCE IN THE FORMATION OF THE CHARACTERS OF THE WISE AND GOOD. MINNIE AND HER PETS. Minnie's Pet Parrot. Minnie's Pet Cat. Minnie's Pet Dog. Minnie's Pet Horse. Minnie's Pet Lamb. Minnie's Pet Monkey. MINNIE'S PET HORSE. CHAPTER I. THE HORSE AND THE DOG. In the other books of this little series, I have told you about Minnie's pet parrot, her pet cat, and her pet dog. In this one, I shall give you an account of her pet pony, and also tell you anecdotes of other horses. Star was the name she gave her Shetland pony, I suppose because he had a white star on his forehead, which showed very distinctly from the contrast with his dark bay hair. He was about three feet high, with a short neck and a long black tail. He was very affectionate and gentle, loving his little mistress, and neighing pleasantly whenever he heard her voice. The little girl seldom went out to the stable without asking the cook for a piece of bread for Star. Sometimes she did not give it to him at once, but hid it under her apron. The pony soon learned this trick, and, if the bread was not forthcoming, lifted the apron with his teeth, whining like a child, until she put it in his mouth. During the summer months, Star was kept in the pasture, where the grass was very green. When he was thirsty, there was a clear, running brook at the end of the pasture, where he could go and drink. If the weather was very hot, he liked to go and stand in the water and cool himself. Star had a companion to stay with him in the pasture, and help him eat the young, sweet clover. This was Nannie, the lamb, who never, if she could help it, was out of his sight for a moment. Wherever Star went, Nannie tried to go too; or, if she could not, she bleated continually, refusing to eat until his return. Mr. Lee's place contained near a hundred acres. There was a farm house about two hundred rods from the mansion, and a nicely gravelled road leading past the lawn through the garden, connecting them. Here, almost every pleasant morning, Minnie could be seen trotting her little pony back and forth, and Nannie running along by his side. After a few months, Star became so well accustomed to his young mistress, that he would walk by himself from the stable door, when the groom had buckled on the saddle, to the bottom of the stone steps where she used to mount. Her father soon taught her to put her foot in the stirrup, and mount by herself; and Star would stand quite still, turning his head to see when she was ready; then, when she tightened the reins, and said in her pleasant tones, "Come, pony!" away he would go down the avenue, trotting or cantering, just as suited her best. As Minnie grew older, her mother sometimes trusted her to go to the village store of an errand; or, if the servants were busy, and there was a letter to be posted, there was nothing easier than for Minnie to run to the gate leading into the pasture, and call out, "Star! Star!!" Then he would come up to the house, following her like a dog, and wait to be saddled. In the winter the pony occupied a stall in the neat, warm stable; and there, curled down by his side, Nannie lay too, doing her best to keep her favorite warm with her long fleece. Minnie thought Star a very knowing horse, and she loved to tell her father and mother all the cunning things he did, and how glad he always was to see her, when she went to visit him. Sometimes her father told her stories of other ponies. I suppose you would like to hear some, and I will tell them to you. "The first was an account of a horse owned by Dr. Smith, in Ireland. He was a beautiful hackney, and although extremely spirited, was at the same time wonderfully docile. "The doctor had also a fine Newfoundland dog, named Cæsar. These animals were mutually attached, and seemed perfectly acquainted with each other's actions. The dog was always kept in the stable at night, and universally lay beside the horse. "When Dr. Smith practised in Dublin, he visited his patients on horseback, and had no other servant to take care of his horse while in their houses but Cæsar, into whose mouth he put the reins. The hackney stood very quietly, even in that crowded city, beside his friend Cæsar. When it happened that the doctor had a patient not far distant from the place where he paid his last visit, he did not think it worth while to remount, but called to his horse and Cæsar to follow him. They both readily obeyed, and remained quietly opposite the door where he entered until he came out again. "While he remained in Queen's county, he had many opportunities of witnessing the friendship and sagacity of these intelligent animals. The horse seemed to be as implicitly obedient to his friend Cæsar, as he could possibly be to his groom. "The doctor would go to the stable, accompanied by his dog, put the bridle on his horse, and giving the reins to Cæsar, bid him take the horse to the water. They both understood what was to be done, when off trotted Cæsar, followed by the hackney, which frisked, capered, and played with the dog all the way to the rivulet, about three hundred yards distant from the stable. He followed at a great distance, always keeping so far in the rear as to observe their manoeuvres. They invariably went to the stream, and after the horse had quenched his thirst, both returned in the same playful manner as they had gone out. "Sometimes the doctor desired Cæsar to make the horse leap the stream, which was about six feet broad. The dog, by a kind of bark, and leaping up toward the horse's head, intimated to him what he wanted, which was quickly understood, when he cantered off, and took the leap in a neat and regular style. On one occasion, Cæsar lost hold of the reins, and as soon as the horse cleared the leap, he immediately trotted up to his canine friend, who took hold of the bridle, and led him back through the water quietly." "They loved each other," cried Minnie, "just like Star and Nannie." "Such attachments are not uncommon," rejoined Mr. Lee. "Many horses will not stay a moment in the stable by themselves, without discovering a great deal of impatience. "Sometimes they try to break the manger with their fore feet. On one occasion a pony leaped out of a stable door through which manure was thrown, after company which was in the barn yard. A cow, a goat, or a pet lamb, will perfectly satisfy them." "A gentleman in Bristol had a greyhound which slept in the stable along with a fine hunter about five years of age. They soon became attached, and regarded each other with the most tender affection. Indeed, the horse was restless and unhappy when the dog was out of sight. "The gentleman used frequently to call at the stable for the greyhound to accompany him in his walks. On such occasions the horse would look over his shoulder at the dog with much anxiety, and neigh in a manner which plainly said, 'Let me also accompany you.' "When the dog returned to the stable, he was always welcomed with a loud neigh, and ran up to the horse, licking his nose. In return, the horse would scratch the dog's back with his teeth. "One day, when the groom was out with the horse and greyhound for exercise, a large dog attacked the latter, and quickly bore him to the ground. In spite of all the efforts of the groom, the horse threw back his ears, rushed at the strange dog, seized him by the back with his teeth, and shook him till a large piece of the skin gave way. The offender no sooner got on his feet than he ran off as fast as possible." CHAPTER II. HORSE GOING TO CHURCH. When Minnie was in her ninth year, her father's brother and wife made them a visit. This gentleman was exceedingly fond of horses, and a good judge of their excellences. Minnie was eager to exhibit her pony, and invited her uncle to the stable for that purpose. When they went to that part of the building where his stall was, the lamb was quietly feeding by the side of her friend; but as soon as she heard a strange voice, she ran under the pony for protection, and popped her head out between his hind feet. The gentleman laughed heartily at their strange appearance, but after a careful examination of her pet, told her she might well be proud of him, as he had very good points, and was in every way a capital little fellow. "You must make the most of your uncle Harry," exclaimed her father merrily. "He is an inveterate story-teller, and can give you any amount of information about horses, ponies, &c." "O, I'm so glad!" cried Minnie, laughing and clapping her hands. "I love to hear stories so dearly!" "I'm going to try the black mare," said the gentleman. "What do you say to riding with me on the pony?" "May I, mamma? Please let me," urged the child. "I have not the slightest objection; my dear." "Come, then, and I will tell you stories to your heart's content." They were soon on their way, when, after giving her a few hints about holding her reins, he began:-- "There was once a pony mare which had a young colt. They were put to graze in a field adjoining the River Severn, where there was rich pasturage. One day the pony made its appearance before the gentleman's house to whom she belonged, and, by clattering with her feet and other gestures, drew his attention. A person being sent out, she immediately galloped off through various gates all broken down, occasionally glancing back to be sure she was followed. "They soon came to a field, through which she passed directly for a spot in the river, over which she hung with a mournful look, and there the colt was found drowned." "O, how sorry she must have been!" exclaimed Minnie. "I suppose she thought her master could bring the colt to life again." "I'll tell you another, and a more lively story," said uncle Harry, smiling. "A noble gentleman in France, called Monsieur de Boussanelle, captain of cavalry in the royal regiment, tells about a horse belonging to his company, which was disabled by age from eating his hay or oats. This horse was fed for two months by a couple of his companions on his right and left, who ate with him. Perceiving his infirmity, they drew the hay out of his rack, chewed it, and then put it before their aged comrade. They prepared his oats for him in the same way." "I like those horses, they were so kind," urged Minnie. "I hope, uncle, you have a great many stories as good as that." The gentleman smiled archly, and then proceeded. "The island of Krutsand, which is formed by two branches of the Elbe, is frequently laid under water, during the time of the spring tides. In the early part of the year 1794, the water one day rose so rapidly that the horses, which were grazing in the plain with their colts, suddenly found themselves standing in deep water; upon which they all set up a loud neighing, and collected themselves as closely together as possible. "They now seemed to consult together what measures to take to save the colts, that were standing up to the belly in the flood, and soon determined upon a singular course, when some old mares, which had no colts, assisted them in carrying it out. "The method they adopted was this: Every two horses took a colt between them, and pressing their sides together, kept it wedged in and lifted quite above the surface of the water. "All the horned cattle in the vicinity had already set themselves afloat, and were swimming in regular columns toward their homes. But these noble mares, with wonderful perseverance, remained immovable under their cherished burden for the space of six hours, till, the tide ebbing, the water subsided, and the colts were out of danger." "The inhabitants, who had rowed to the place in boats, viewed with delight this singular manoeuvre, whereby their valuable colts were saved from destruction." "How very curious!" exclaimed Minnie, gravely; "but I don't see how they could get the colts up in their places without some one to lift them." The gentleman laughed as he assured her that mares who were intelligent enough to make such a plan could easily manage that part. "Do you suppose," he asked, "that your pony understands any thing you say to him more than the tones of your voice?" "O, no, uncle!" "And yet," he said, "a true blood horse, when at liberty, when two or more persons are conversing, will approach and seem to listen to the conversation. Even the common farm horse is quite obedient to the call of his own name, and will not stir, when desired to stand, until his own name is pronounced. "They have a kind of reason, too. I have seen a horse who, in ploughing, would walk very steadily toward the directing pole, and halt when his head had reached it. I knew of another horse who seemed to have a just idea of time, and calculated it so correctly, that he always neighed about ten minutes before the time of ceasing work, whether in summer or winter." "I don't see how he could do that, uncle Harry." "Horses are very susceptible to music," he went on. "I owned a horse once who would stop eating, and listen attentively with pricked, moving ears, and steady eyes, the instant he heard the note low G; and I knew of another that was similarly affected by a high note." Minnie laughed, as she said, "I mean to try my pony just as soon as I get home." "I dare say, if you were to take your accordeon to the stable, he would be delighted. I have watched many of these noble animals on the military field, and there is no doubt they are pleased with martial music. "I remember hearing of an experiment made in the year 1829, on some of the Duke of Buckleuch's hunters. A gentleman went toward them in the field, but they were shy of his approach, as he was a stranger, and slowly retreated, till he sounded a small musical instrument, called a mouth Æolian harp. On hearing this, they immediately erected their heads and turned round. On his sounding it again, they approached nearer, when he began to retreat, and they to advance. Having gone over a paling, one of the horses came up to him, putting its mouth close to his breast, seeming delighted with the music which he continued to produce. As the other horses were coming up, apparently to follow the example of their more confident comrade, the gentleman retired. "As you like stories so well," he added, archly, "I must tell you about the first horse I ever owned. My brother Frank gave him to me before he went to sea; and a splendid fellow he was, too. He was a perfect mouse color, with an arching neck, and a handsome, black, flowing mane. I was living at home then, and we always used him to carry us to church. "I believe Duke knew as well as I did when Sunday came, for he regularly walked up from the pasture where he was grazing, in time to be harnessed, though he never did this any other day. Once it happened that father and mother were both ill, so that none of us went to church; but at the usual time Duke came trotting to the door, where he stood for a few minutes neighing frequently and looking anxiously toward the house, and then trotted off a mile and a half to church by himself. Several persons saw him going up into the yard, and walking demurely into the shed while the bell was ringing, and there he stood quietly until the service was through, when he came home again, just as I was going out to find him." CHAPTER III. STAR DANCING TO MUSIC. "O, mamma," cried Minnie, "I have had a beautiful time. Uncle Harry is such a good teacher! And then he tells me such nice stories!" Her cheeks rivalled the rose, and her eyes were sparkling with animation, as she said this, while her uncle, who, unobserved by her, had followed into the parlor, said, laughingly, "I have seldom found so good a listener. I have enjoyed the ride myself exceedingly. Come here, Minnie, and I will relate to you an amusing anecdote which I read a short time ago. "In Persia, where they have splendid horses, all persons of the least distinction ride on horseback, and scarcely any one will deign to go the shortest distance on foot. The anecdote is related by a celebrated pomologist, concerning a horse employed in his nurseries for over fifteen years. His name was Old Charley. I was so much interested in the account of his sagacity, that I went to see him. The good animal was used for ploughing between lines of trees from three feet and a half to four feet apart, and moved with such precision and care as to run the plough and cultivator as near as possible to the trees, without ever hitting or injuring one of them. His owner told me Old Charley would go straight between the lines, turning at the end without any motion or word from the driver, with as much accuracy and skill as any human being could display, and without stepping over, or entangling his feet in, the traces in any manner whatever." [Illustration: STAR DANCING TO MUSIC. Page 53.] After dinner, Minnie, in company with her mother and their visitors, went to the stable to try the effect of music on her favorite. She had scarcely struck a note, when he stopped eating, and began to move his feet rapidly, as if he were trying to dance. Even the gentleman was surprised at this display, and declared that the pony must have been trained to do this by his former owner, while Minnie became so much excited that she could scarcely control herself. Mr. Henry Lee took the instrument himself, and found that the horse really had an idea of time, as the faster he played, the quicker were the pony's movements. As soon as he stopped, the animal quietly went on munching his oats. When her father returned from the city, Minnie ran to meet him, and relate the wonderful feats of her pet. To gratify her, he walked to the stable to see the operation repeated. "Music has a wonderful influence on horses," he remarked, as they were returning to the house, "especially martial music." "Do you remember the case of the old war-horse, Solus?" inquired his brother. "Yes; and Minnie would like to hear it." The gentleman playfully patted her head, as he related the following anecdote:-- "Many years ago, an assistant of the contractors on a new turnpike used to ride to the field of labor a horse which had long carried a field officer, and who, though aged, still possessed a good deal of spirit. One day he was passing a large town where volunteers were at drill, on the Common. The moment Solus heard the drum, he leaped the fence, and was speedily at his old post, heading the drill, occupied by the commanding officer on parade. "The young rider, dreadfully mortified, could not induce the horse to leave his honorable position till the volunteers left for the town; but, to the great amusement of the bystanders, headed all their manoeuvres, prancing in true military style, as well as his stiffened limbs would allow him, much to the annoyance of the assistant, who did not feel very highly honored by Solus making a colonel of him against his will." The company all laughed at this story, which Mrs. Lee said reminded her of the effects of a trumpet on some captured horses, of which she had read. "It seems," she went on, "that in the early part of this century, the Tyrolese captured fifteen horses belonging to the Bavarian troops sent against them, and mounted them with fifteen of their own men, in order to go out again against the same troops. But no sooner did these horses hear the sound of their own trumpet, and recognize the uniform of their old friends, than they dashed forward at full speed, and, in spite of all the efforts of their riders, bore them into the ranks, and delivered them up as prisoners to the Bavarians." "That was rather a mortifying defeat," suggested uncle Harry, "and only proves my theory correct, that horses are very susceptible to kind treatment, and have a wonderful memory, often recognizing their old masters after a separation of years." "Harry, do you remember father's old black horse?" asked his brother. "Of course I do; and the mile I ran for the doctor, when she snuffed that long brier up into her nose. I never saw father more alarmed. After he pulled the brier out, there was a whole pailful of blood, which frightened old Blackey so much that they were obliged to blindfold her. "Poor creature! her afflictions followed thick and fast, for she had scarcely recovered from this, when the plank floor gave way in the stable, and she broke her leg. "Father hated to part with her, but at last gave her to a man to use on his farm, who he knew would treat her kindly. He did not see her again for three years; but as soon as she heard his voice, when he was walking toward her in the pasture, she came quickly toward him, neighing with pleasure, and put her head lovingly on his shoulder. Then she turned round and looked at her colt, as if she wanted to introduce them." "She was a splendid animal in her prime," rejoined Mr. Lee. "I have heard father say that she would travel off hour after hour, ten miles to the hour, without the spur or the whip; indeed, I never knew him to use the whip but once. Somehow, she got a habit of not standing quietly while he was getting into the chaise and preparing to start. One day she was unusually restive, when he told the man to go to the barn and bring a whip. "Blackey knew what it meant, and, before a blow was struck, trembled from head to foot. Father cut across the back two smart blows, which proved so effectual a cure that she never troubled him afterward." "There is no animal more susceptible to kind treatment," remarked uncle Harry. "I imagine half the obstinacy and unruly conduct of some horses is the result of cruelty and mismanagement. I can recall to mind at this moment a sad illustration of the latter course. "A man near Boston used to catch his horse by taking to the field a quantity of corn in a measure. On calling to him, the horse would come up and eat the corn, while the bridle was put over his head. But the owner having deceived the animal several times by holding out the measure when it had no corn in it, the animal at length began to suspect the design. Coming up one day as usual, he looked into the measure, and finding it empty, turned round, reared on his hind legs, and, striking with his fore feet, killed his master." "That was indeed a fearful punishment for his deception," returned Mrs. Lee. "It reminds me of an anecdote I read lately, of a horse belonging to an Irish nobleman, who became restive and furious whenever a certain individual came into its presence. "One day, when this poor fellow happened to pass within its reach, the animal seized him with its teeth, and broke his arm. It then threw him down, and lay on him, when, every effort to get it off proving ineffectual, they were compelled to shoot it. Afterward the fact was discovered that the man had performed a cruel operation on the horse some time before, which it had never forgiven." "I know," responded her husband, "that such cases have occurred, showing a spirit of revenge on the part of the animal; but I believe them to be rare, compared to the instances of gratitude for kindness. "Professor Kruger, of Halle, relates a pleasing incident of this character. 'A friend of mine,' he says, 'was one dark night riding home through a wood, and had the misfortune to strike his head against the branch of a tree, and fell from his horse, stunned by the blow. The animal, who was greatly attached to his master, immediately returned to the house which they had left, about a mile distant. He found the door closed, and the family gone to bed. He pawed at the door, till one of them, hearing the noise, arose and opened it, and, to his surprise, saw the horse of his friend. "'No sooner was the door opened, than the horse turned round, and led the man directly to the spot where his master lay in a fainting fit.'" CHAPTER IV. HORSE GOING TO A DOCTOR. "Another instance of the same kind is related of a horse belonging to a carter in Fifeshire. From the carter having a large family, this animal had become particularly intimate with children, and fond of them, so that he would not on any account, move when they were playing among his feet. "One day, when he was dragging a loaded cart through a narrow lane near the village, a young child happened to be playing in the road, and would inevitably have been crushed by the wheels, had it not been for the kindness of the animal. He carefully took it by the clothes with his teeth, carried it for a few yards, and then placed it on a bank by the wayside, moving slowly all the while, and looking back, as if to satisfy himself that the wheels of the cart had cleared it." "The effect of kind treatment," rejoined his brother, smiling at Minnie's delight, "was particularly manifest by a horse belonging to a gentleman in England, called Colonel Smith. The charger had belonged to him for two years, and became greatly attached to him; but he was at last obliged to leave it with the army, though it was subsequently sold and carried back to London. About three years after, Colonel Smith chanced to travel to London by the mail coach, and while they were changing horses, the off side one attracted his attention. Going near, the affectionate animal at once recognized him, testifying its satisfaction by rubbing its head against his clothes, and making every moment a little stamp with his fore feet, till the coachman asked, 'Are you not an old acquaintance, sir?' "The same gentleman says there was a most beautiful and powerful charger belonging to a friend of his, then a captain in the fourteenth dragoons, which was bought by him in Ireland, at a low price, on account of his viciousness, which had cost the life of one or two grooms. The captain was a celebrated rider, not to be thrown by the most violent efforts, and of a temper so gentle and patient that he could effect a cure if vice were curable. "After some very dangerous combats with his horse, the animal was subdued, and became so attached that his master could walk any where, with him following like a dog, and even ladies could mount him with perfect safety. He rode him during several campaigns in Spain, and on one occasion, when, in action, horse and rider came headlong to the ground, the animal, making an effort to spring up, placed his fore foot on the captain's breast, but, immediately withdrawing it, rose without hurting him, or moving till he was remounted." A few days later, and while his brother and wife were still visiting them, Mr. Lee invited some of his city friends to come out and make their acquaintance. They were all seated at dinner when they heard Leo barking in a manner to express great joy. As the noise continued, Mrs. Lee allowed Minnie to see what occasioned the rejoicing. When she reached the door, she saw a gentleman mounted on a handsome gray horse, near the stable door, talking to Leo. There was something about him which riveted her attention, and presently, with a joyful cry, she ran forward to welcome uncle Frank, who had just come into port after a long voyage. In answer to his inquiries for her father and mother, she led him in triumph to the dining hall, where a scene of excitement and pleasure ensued. Captain Frank Lee was a fine, noble-hearted son of Neptune. Having chosen the sea early in life, he had followed it for many years, rising step by step until he reached his present honorable position. He had become rich, too, as well as his brother, each being benefited by a kind of partnership existing between them; for, while the captain sailed to foreign ports, the merchant supplied the money to freight the vessel, which they owned in equal shares, and to buy goods at a foreign market. When he had answered some of the numerous questions which were crowded upon him, such as, "How did you come?" "When did you arrive in port?" "Is Louise well?" &c., &c., the captain begged them to reseat themselves at table, adding, "I am as hungry as a bear, and long for some of the home luxuries with which I see your table is spread." "Well, Minnie," he exclaimed, pinching her check, when he had thrice emptied his plate, "I'll not forget that you were the first one to welcome me; and, by the way, how is Jacko? and how are all the rest of your pets?" "You had better not name the subject of pets," cried uncle Harry, laughing, "unless you are willing to be pinned to a chair and tell stories--'yarns,' I think you call them--for the next five hours. Now, it's cats or dogs; then, it's monkeys or parrots; yesterday, it was horses; and you must rake up your memory for all the stories, true, veritable facts, that you ever heard in your life." "I know, I know," answered the captain, drawing the child toward him, and kissing her as well as his long, thick beard would allow. "Minnie and I are old cronies, and understand each other's crotchets pretty well. She's the little puss who threw down a beautiful bracelet I had purchased for her in Paris, and said, 'Uncle Frank, I don't care for presents unless they're alive.' So, the next voyage, I brought her a live present, in the shape of a grinning monkey, with which she was greatly delighted." A roar of laughter from the company followed; but while they were eating the fruit, Minnie found an opportunity to whisper,-- "You can't think, uncle, what funny things my pony does. He knows how to dance beautifully." "I should admire to see him," returned the captain, glancing roguishly toward his sister-in-law; "and you can't guess what I've brought for you this time." "Alive, is it?" "Yes; alive and squealing when I left the vessel. You'll see it, or them, to-morrow, and I hope you'll be as pleased as you were with Jacko." After dinner, the party adjourned to the piazza, when the captain said, "Leo, good fellow, knew me at once, in spite of my heavy beard; but he looked rather shy at my new horse; and, by the way, Prince is well worth showing. I brought him in the ship with me from England, and I wouldn't take a thousand dollars for him, if that sum were offered me to-day." "Let's go and see him!" exclaimed Mr. Harry Lee. "You were always a good judge of horseflesh, Frank." After the animal had gone through a thorough examination of his qualities for the carriage, the saddle, &c., and the different gentlemen had given their opinion of his various excellences, the conversation turned, to Minnie's delight, on horses in general, and many anecdotes were related of their bravery, their fidelity to their masters' interests, their sagacity and memory, some of which I shall repeat in this and the next chapters. "An instance of the latter trait, combined with reason," said Mr. Harry Lee, "is well authenticated. "A cart horse, owned by Mr. Leggat, of Glasgow, had been several times afflicted with disease, and as often cured by Mr. Downie, farrier there. He had not, however, been troubled for a long time; but on a recurrence of the disorder, he happened one morning to be employed in College Street, a distance of nearly a mile from Mr. Downie's workshop. He was arranged in a row with other horses engaged in the same work; but when the carters were absent, he left the range, and, unattended by any driver, went down High Street, along the Gallowgate, and up a narrow lane, where he stopped at the farrier's door. "As neither Mr. Leggat nor any one appeared with the horse, it was surmised that he had been seized with his old complaint. Being unyoked from the cart, he lay down, and showed, by every means in his power, that he was in distress. He was again treated as usual, and sent home to his master, who by that time had persons in all directions in search for him." CHAPTER V. THE TRUMPETER'S HORSE. "For Minnie's sake, I must tell some anecdotes about Shetland ponies," cried the captain, laughing, as he patted his niece under the chin. "The first one shows what a power of memory they have. "A pony reared upon Drumchany, belonging to General Stewart, was once travelling from Edinburgh to Perthshire, in company with several other gentlemen. They were advancing to the neighborhood of Drumchany when it suddenly grew dark, and they could not find the place to take the ford. "At last, they concluded to trust to the pony's memory, and, giving him the reins, he trotted on cheerily, till, suddenly pausing and turning to the right, he trotted down a furrow through a potato field, that led directly to the ford in question, which he crossed in the same decided manner, and piloted them safely all the rest of the way to their destination. "During their stay, he got out of the stable one night, and was found next day pasturing among the mosses where he had been bred." "I heard of a case very similar," rejoined Mr. Gordon, one of the gentlemen who composed the party. "A gentleman rode a young horse, which he had brought up, thirty miles from home, and to a part of the country where he had never been before. The road was a cross one, and extremely difficult to find; however, by dint of perseverance and inquiry, he at last reached his destination. "Two years afterward, he had occasion to go the same way, and was benighted four or five miles from the end of his journey. The night was so dark that he could scarcely see the horse's head. He had a dreary moor and common to pass, and had lost all traces of the proper direction he wished to take. The rain began to fall heavily. He now despaired of reaching the place. "'Here am I,' said he to himself, 'far from any house, and in the midst of a dreary waste, where I know not which way to direct the course of my steed. I have heard much of the memory of the horse, and that is now my only hope.' "He threw the reins on the horse's neck, and encouraging him to proceed, found himself safe at the gate of his friend in less than an hour. What made it more remarkable was the fact, that the animal could not possibly have been over the road, except on the occasion two years before, as no person but his master ever rode him." "You said you had another story of a Shetland pony, uncle Frank," whispered Minnie. "So I have, dear. It was about a little girl, the daughter of a gentleman in Warwickshire. She was one day playing on the banks of a canal which runs through her father's grounds, when she had the misfortune to fall in, and would in all probability have been drowned, had not a small pony, which had long been kept in the family, plunged into the stream, and brought the child safely ashore without the slightest injury." "I think my pony would do that," exclaimed Minnie; "he loves me so well." "That is to me one of their most interesting traits," added the captain. "They are capable of becoming so strongly attached to man, that they give up their own wishes to those of their master. Indeed, their interests become so identified with his, that they come to have no will of their own. I have myself seen an old Shetland pony, which would place its fore foot in the hand of its young master like a dog, thrust its head under his arm to be caressed, and join with him and a little terrier in all their noisy rompings on the lawn. The same animal daily bore its young master to school; and, though its heels and teeth were ready for every other urchin, yet so attached was it to this boy, that it would wait hours for him in his sports by the way, and even walk alone from the stable in town to the school room, which was fully half a mile distant, and wait, saddled and bridled, for the afternoon's dismissal. Indeed, the young scapegrace did not deserve one tenth of this attention; for I have seen old 'Donald' toiling home with him at the gallop, to make up for time squandered at play." Minnie's father then repeated to the gentleman many instances of her pony's attachment to her, and of his playfulness. "I am of opinion," said Mr. Gordon, "that there are instances of attachment of a horse to his master equal to that shown by man to man. "During the Peninsular war; the trumpeter of a French cavalry corps had a fine charger assigned to him, of which he became passionately fond, and which, by gentleness of disposition and uniform docility, showed the affection to be mutual. "The sound of the trumpeter's voice, the sight of his uniform, or the clang of his trumpet, was sufficient to throw this animal into a state of excitement, and he appeared to be pleased and happy only when under the saddle of his rider. Indeed, he was unruly and useless to every body else; for once, on being removed to another part of the forces, and consigned to a young officer, he resolutely refused to obey the commands of his rider. The first chance he had, he bolted straight to the trumpeter's station, and there took his stand, jostling alongside his former master. "They were obliged to restore him to his old place, when he carried the trumpeter through many campaigns, and through many hair-breadth escapes. "At last, the corps to which he belonged was defeated, and in the confusion of retreat, the trumpeter was mortally wounded. Dropping from his horse, his body was found, many days after the engagement, stretched on the sward, with his faithful charger standing over it. "During the long interval, it seems he had never quitted the trumpeter's side, but had stood sentinel over his corpse, scaring away the birds of prey, heedless of his own privations. "When found, he was in a sadly reduced condition, partly from loss of blood through wounds, but chiefly from want of food, of which, in the excess of his grief, he could not be prevailed on to partake." "A similar case of strong attachment happened under my immediate notice," remarked Mr. Lee, after a moment's silence. "General L. had a horse with him in camp of which he was exceedingly fond, and to the training of which he had given particular attention. Every morning, at exactly eight o'clock, this horse came alone to the door of his tent, saddled for use, and stood there ready for his rider to mount. When the general appeared in his uniform, the affectionate animal welcomed him with a loud neigh of delight. "At last, the noble officer received his death wound, and lay for some days in his tent. It was affecting to see the horse walking up to the door as usual, and, when its master did not appear, to witness its look of anxious solicitude. "When General L. died, he left his noble charger to the particular care of his wife, who was with him in his last moments. His remains were removed to ----, the horse being conveyed by the same train of cars, and manifesting intense grief. On the day of the funeral, the body was carried to the church in which his family worshipped, the most touching tribute to his memory being this faithful animal, caparisoned in mourning, taking his station directly behind the corpse. "It was not necessary for any one to lead him, for he somehow seemed to understand that his deceased master was in the coffin; and nothing would induce him to leave it. For more than an hour, while the religious services lasted, he stood in front of the church, watching the door through which he had seen the corpse carried, waiting for it to come out, and then, without any command, wheeled into line, and followed directly behind it to the grave. What was very remarkable, as soon as the body was buried, he left the cemetery, following the coach containing the wife of his master." "Your story," said the captain, "reminds me of a singular one I heard at sea. "A farmer who lived in the neighborhood of Bedford, England, and regularly attended the markets there, was returning home one evening, and being somewhat tipsy, rolled off his saddle into the middle of the road. His horse stood still; but after remaining patiently for some time, and not observing any disposition in the rider to get up and proceed further, he took him by the collar and shook him. This had little or no effect, for the farmer only gave a grumble of dissatisfaction at having his repose disturbed. The animal was not to be put off with any such evasion, and so applied his mouth to one of his master's coat laps, and after several attempts, by dragging at it, to raise him upon his feet, the coat lap gave way. "Three persons, who witnessed this extraordinary proceeding, then went up and assisted him in mounting his horse, putting the one coat lap into the pocket of the other, when he trotted off, and safely reached home. This horse is deservedly a favorite with his master, and engages in gambols with him like a dog." "How old is your new horse, Frank?" inquired his brother George. "Nine years. Just in his prime; and, with good care, will last for twenty years to come." Mr. Gordon laughed. "Twenty years!" he repeated, incredulously. "I think," answered the captain, "it a mistake to suppose a horse is not fit for service much after he is twelve or fourteen years old. If he is used as he ought to be, and has good care, he will last well twenty, or even thirty years. The charger of Sir Ralph Abercrombie, which was wounded in the battle of Alexandria, afterwards died at Malta. On the stone erected there in commemoration of its services, the age of thirty-six is inscribed. "And in 1790, there was alive near Haddington, in England, a Shetland pony which had been in battle in 1745, whose age was forty-seven years." "No doubt there are such cases," answered the gentleman, "but they are rare in this country. I suppose we give our horses too much to do." "Yes, that is it; and too little care. No animal so richly repays the attention bestowed upon him as the horse." CHAPTER VI. THE BLIND HORSE. The next day, Minnie was walking through the grounds with her uncle, while Tiney and Fidelle were following at her heels, when the express-man drove into the yard. He had a cage, as Minnie called it, in his wagon, and she ran eagerly to see what it contained. How great was her delight to see a goat, and two cunning little kids, cuddling down on the hay at the bottom of the wagon! When they were put into the stable, Minnie laughed and clapped her hands, and ran to summon all the family to come and see them. Captain Lee's wife had accompanied him on this voyage, and had now gone to see her mother. Her husband had promised to meet her the next day, and afterwards was coming with her to make them a longer visit. Minnie obtained directions from him before he left, as to the diet and care of her new pets, and then, after making him promise to come back as quickly as possible, consented that he should go. Her mother found her sitting quiet and sad, looking from the bay window in the parlor; for the captain was her favorite uncle, and she was greatly disappointed at his going so soon. To comfort her, the lady took one of the books on natural history, and read some anecdotes to her, with a few of which I will close my book of Minnie's pet horse. Here is an illustration of the force of habit in a blind horse. He ran on one of the stages of the great north road for many years, and so perfectly was he acquainted with all the stables, halting places, and other matters, that he was never known to commit a blunder. He could never be driven past his own stable; and at the sound of the coming coach, he would turn out, of his own accord, into the stable yard. What was very remarkable, so accurate was his knowledge of time, that, though half a dozen coaches halted at the same inn, yet he was never known to stir till the sound of the ten o'clock coach was heard in the distance. "I think, after all," said Mrs. Lee, "that the docility of the horse is one of the most remarkable of its natural gifts. Here are some anecdotes that are very entertaining, in regard to their docility, or readiness to learn. "Mr. Astley, of the Royal Amphitheatre, at Westminster Bridge, once had in his possession a remarkably fine Barbary horse, forty-three years of age, which was presented him by the Duke of Leeds. This celebrated animal officiated in the character of a waiter in the course of the performances at the amphitheatre, and at various other theatres in the United Kingdom. "At the request of his master, he would ungirth his own saddle, wash his feet in a pail of water, and would bring into the riding school a tea table and the dishes, which feat was usually followed up by fetching a chair, or stool, or whatever might be wanted. Last of all, he took a kettle of boiling water from a blazing fire, to the wonder and admiration of the spectators. "Another gentleman had a horse which he taught to dance to music." "Just like Star," shouted Minnie. "Yes, dear; and at the command of his master he pretended to be lame, feigned death, lying motionless, with his limbs extended, and allowing himself to be dragged about till some words were pronounced, when he instantly sprang to his feet. "In 1838, there was a wonderful horse presented to the public, who performed many curious tricks, which seemed to exhibit something far beyond instinct. Among other things, it cleared six poles, one after the other, at a distance of not more than four feet between. "After it had done this, it went limping up to its master, as if to say, 'See; I can do no more to-night.' "The master lifted the lame foot, searching for the cause of the halt, but in vain. Still, however, the horse goes on limping. The man then looked it in the face, and shook his head, as if he would say, 'Ah, you are shamming, you rogue; aren't you?' "And a sham it proved to be; for, with a touch of the whip, the creature bounded away like a fawn, sound both in wind and limb." "I wish I could see that horse," cried Minnie, laughing. "The most remarkable instance of docility," added the lady, "was Bank's famous horse, Morocco. "This animal would restore a glove to its owner, after his master had whispered the man's name in his ear; and he could also tell the number of pence in any silver coin. Morocco danced to the sound of a pipe, and counted money with his feet." "O, mamma, wasn't that strange? I wonder whether I could teach Star to do any funny things!" "Kindness and perseverance will effect a great deal, my dear," answered the lady, enjoying her little daughter's delight. "I have heard of a little farm boy, who was too small to mount the plough horses, he was required to ride, who taught one of them to put down its head to the ground, while he jumped astride on its neck, and then, by gently elevating the head, let him slip backward into his seat on its back. "The intelligent creature appeared perfectly to understand the wishes of the boy, and the use of lowering its head for the purpose of his mounting. "Perhaps you can teach Star to pump his own water, as a gentleman in Leeds found his horse doing. The animal had been kept in a stable for a long time, but was at last turned into a field, where there was a pump, well supplied with water. "One day, being thirsty, I suppose, a man saw him go to the pump, and, taking the handle in his mouth, work it with his head, in a way exactly similar to that done by the hand of a man, until he had secured a supply." "It does seem as if they were guided by reason," remarked Mrs. Harry Lee, who had entered the room in time to hear the last anecdote. "Certainly," returned her sister; "their intelligence and sagacity place them in the highest rank among the brute creation. I have been myself surprised in reading these accounts of their attachment to man, and to each other; their courage, faithfulness, and devotion to the interests of their owner; and I wish every man, woman, and child, who has any thing to do with these noble creatures, would study their history, so as to treat them with the kindness and care they deserve. I have heard my husband say, that even in a wild state, all their movements are so intelligent, that it seems as if it must be the result of reason. When the herds wish to change from one vast plain to another, they choose leaders, and place sentinels along the line of march, thus recognizing the necessity of obedience and order. "Then, the readiness with which they communicate to each other when they have discovered water or fresh pasturage, the adroitness with which, by their responsive neighings, they express alarm, terror, or pleasure, are equally wonderful. "When they pass through a swamp, they test it with the fore foot before they trust the weight of their whole bodies upon it; and they often scoop out a hollow place in the sand, expecting it will fill with water. Even the little Shetland pony, in going through the bogs, puts its nose to the ground, then pats it with the fore foot, judging from the feeling of the ground whether it will bear him." CHAPTER VII. THE ARABIAN HORSE. "Now, father, I'm ready to hear about the Arab and his horse," cried Minnie, one day, when, after following the gentleman about the grounds for nearly an hour, they at length returned to the library. Mr. Lee, with an arch glance at his wife, arose at once, and, taking a large book from the shelves, opened to a chapter on Arabian horses. "I will first read you a description, my dear, of the animal, before I repeat to you the anecdote to which you refer. "The celebrated horse of Arabia is of the smaller class of these animals, very little exceeding fifty-six inches in height. As compared with the horses of countries abounding in the grasses, their aspect is lean, their form slender, and their chest narrow. But this slimness of figure is not inconsistent with muscular force. Their movements are agile, their natural paces swift, and their spirit is unmatched. "Bishop Heber, while travelling through the upper part of India, gives a more correct notion of the Arab than the more labored descriptions of others. "My morning rides are very pleasant. My horse is a nice, quiet, good-tempered little Arab, who is so fearless that he goes, without starting, close to an elephant, and is so gentle and docile, that he eats bread out of my hand, and has almost as much attachment and coaxing ways as a dog. "The temper of these beautiful horses is no less happily moulded than their bodily powers to their condition. They are gentle, patient, and attached to their rude and simple protectors. This, indeed, is greatly the effect of training; for the same animals, under the charge of Europeans, frequently manifest a vicious and indomitable temper. But the Arab treats his horse as a companion, never beats him, but cheers him with his voice, and only uses him with seeming cruelty in necessary demands on his physical powers. "In the desert, the mare of the Bedouin, and her foal, inhabit the same tent as himself and his children. She is the friend and playmate of the little household. The neck of the mare is often the pillow of the rider, and more frequently of the children, who are rolling about upon her and the foal; yet no accident occurs, and she acquires a friendship and love for man which occasional ill-treatment will not cause her for a moment to forget. "She is obedient to her master's voice, and will neigh when she hears his footsteps. Without a bit, she will obey the slightest motion of the rider, stand at a word, or put herself to speed in an instant. "These horses subsist on the scantiest fare, on which the English horses would perish, and are patient of hunger and thirst in a degree unknown in any other races except the African. They feed on the scanty plants which the borders of the desert supply, and when these are wanting, they are fed on a little barley, with chopped straw, withered herbs, roots dragged from the sand, dates, when they can be obtained, and, in cases of need, the milk of the camel. They drink at long intervals, and in moderate quantities. They bear continued exposure to the fiercest heat, and, day after day, pursue marches of incredible toil through the burning sands of the wilderness. "The mare usually has but one or two meals in twenty-four hours. During the day, she is tied to the door of the tent, ready for the Bedouin to spring, at a moment's warning, into the saddle; or she is turned out before the tent ready saddled, the bridle merely taken off, and so trained that she gallops up immediately upon hearing the call of her master. "At night, she receives a little water, and with her scanty provender of five or six pounds of barley or beans, and sometimes a little straw, she lies down content in the midst of her master's family. She can, however, endure great fatigue. She will travel fifty miles without stopping, and on an emergency, one hundred and twenty; and occasionally neither she nor her rider has tasted food for three whole days." "O, father, how dreadful! I should think she would sink down and die." "No doubt, my dear, both she and her master endured much suffering. But notwithstanding the Arab lives with, and loves his horse beyond any other treasure, the young filly, when about to be trained, is treated with a cruelty scarcely to be believed. Take one who has never before been mounted. She is led out, her owner springs on her back, and goads her over the sand and rocks of the desert at full speed for sixty miles, without one moment's respite. She is then forced, steaming and panting, into water deep enough for her to swim. If, immediately after this, she will eat as if nothing had occurred, her character is well established forever afterwards. "The master does not seem to be conscious of the cruelty which he thus inflicts. It is the custom of the country, and custom will induce us to inflict many a pang on those whom, after all, we love." Minnie sighed. "I remember," added her father, affectionately patting her head, "an anecdote which proves the strong affection of the Arabian horse for home and friends. "One of these animals was taken by the Persians in an attack made by an Arab tribe on a party of the royal family of Persia. The chief heading the party was killed, and his horse, running into the Persian lines, was taken. A ransom--enormous for so poor a tribe--was offered by the Arabs for their noble charger, but refused; and he was taken to England by Sir John McNeil, who was at that time the British resident at the court of Persia. "When his portrait was being painted, he was languid, from the cold of the weather. It was desired to arouse him a little, and the idea occurred of trying the effect of some tones of simple music. "The sounds no sooner struck his ear, than his whole frame was agitated; his heart throbbed so violently that its beating could be seen; and so great was his excitement, that it was necessary instantly to stop the music. Some chord of feeling had been struck; perchance he was reminded, for a moment, of his desert home, and of the friends from whom he had been so rudely severed." "O, father," said Minnie, with glistening eyes, "I wish I could see that horse. I would be ever so kind to him. Please tell another story as good as that; can't you?" "When the Arab falls from his mare, and is unable to rise," the gentleman went on, "she will stand by his side and neigh till assistance arrives. If he lies down to sleep in the midst of the desert, she stands watchful over him,--her body being the only shield between him and the fierce rays of the sun,--and neighs to rouse him, if man or beast approaches during his slumbers. "There was once an old Arab who had a valuable mare, that had carried him for fifteen years in many a hard-fought battle, and many a rapid, weary march. At last, when eighty years old, and unable longer to ride her, he gave her, and a cimeter that had been his father's, to his eldest son, and told him to appreciate their value, and never lie down to rest until he had rubbed them both as bright as a looking-glass. "In the first skirmish in which the young man was engaged he was killed, and the mare fell into the hands of the enemy. When the news reached the old man, he exclaimed, 'Life is no longer worth preserving. I have lost my son and my mare. I grieve as much for the one as the other.' After this, he sickened and died." "How much the old man did love him!" said Minnie, thoughtfully. "Is that the story you promised me?" "No, dear," said Mr. Lee, looking at his watch; "but I must tell you at once, for I have an engagement soon." "There was a poor Arab in the desert--so poor that he had nothing but his mare. The French consul saw her, and offered to purchase her, in order to send her to his sovereign, Louis XIV. The Arab would have rejected the proposal at once with indignation and scorn, but for his poverty. He had no means of supplying his most urgent wants, or procuring the barest necessaries of life. Still he hesitated. He had scarcely a rag to cover him; his wife and children were starving. The sum offered was great--it would be sufficient for his whole life. "At length, and reluctantly, he consented to the sacrifice. He brought the mare to the dwelling of the consul; he dismounted; he stood leaning upon her; he looked now at the gold, and then at his favorite, while large tears rolled down his swarthy cheek. He sighed repeatedly, and at length exclaimed, 'To whom is it I am going to yield thee up? To Europeans, who will tie thee close, who will beat thee, who will render thee miserable? Return with me, my beauty, my jewel, and rejoice the hearts of my children.' "As he pronounced the last words, he sprang upon her back, and was out of sight in a moment." Minnie laughed and clapped her hands, though tears of sympathy with the poor Arab were running down her cheeks. "O, father!" she cried, "how glad, how very glad I am! I think, too, that the French consul, when he saw how the man loved his mare, should have given him money to buy his children food and clothes. I'm sure you would have done so." Mr. Lee smiled, and thanked God for the child's loving heart. MRS. LESLIE'S JUVENILE SERIES. 16mo. FOR BOYS. Vol. I. THE MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. " II. PLAY AND STUDY. " III. HOWARD AND HIS TEACHER. " IV. JACK, THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER. FOR GIRLS. Vol. I. TRYING TO BE USEFUL. " II. LITTLE AGNES. " III. I'LL TRY. " IV. ART AND ARTLESSNESS. MINNIE'S PET MONKEY. BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE, AUTHOR OF "THE LESLIE STORIES," "TIM, THE SCISSORS-GRINDER," ETC. ILLUSTRATED. BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, SUCCESSORS TO PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 1864. Transcriber's Note The following typographical errors were corrected: 52 whatever. changed to whatever." 82 willing te be changed to willing to be 83 'I know, changed to "I know, 88 next chapters." changed to next chapters. 130 plough horses, changed to plough horses 
27472	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 27472-h.htm or 27472-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/7/4/7/27472/27472-h/27472-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/7/4/7/27472/27472-h.zip) THE STORY OF A CAT Translated from the French of EMILE DE LA BÉDOLLIÈRE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH With Silhouettes by L. Hopkins Boston and New York Houghton Mifflin Company The Riverside Press Cambridge Copyright, 1878, by Houghton, Osgood and Company Copyright, 1906, by T. B. Aldrich Copyright, 1910, by Mary Elizabeth Aldrich All Rights Reserved, Including the Right to Reproduce This Book or Parts Thereof in Any Form PREFACE. M. Bédollière's charming story of Mother Michel and her cat was turned into English for the entertainment of two small readers at the writer's fireside. Subsequently the translation was fortunate enough to find a larger audience in the pages of a popular juvenile magazine. The ingenious and spirited series of silhouettes with which Mr. Hopkins has enriched the text is the translator's only plea for presenting in book form so slight a performance as his own part of the work. THE STORY OF A CAT. CHAPTER I. HOW MOTHER MICHEL MADE THE ACQUAINTANCE OF HER CAT. There lived in Paris, under the reign of King Louis XV., a very rich old countess named Yolande de la Grenouillère. She was a worthy and charitable lady, who distributed alms not only to the poor of her own parish, Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois, but to the unfortunate of other quarters. Her husband, Roch-Eustache-Jérémie, Count of Grenouillère, had fallen gloriously at the battle of Fontenoy, on the 11th of May, 1745. The noble widow had long mourned for him, and even now at times wept over his death. Left without children, and almost entirely alone in the world, she gave herself up to a strange fancy,--a fancy, it is true, which in no manner detracted from her real virtues and admirable qualities: she had a passion for animals. And an unhappy passion it was, since all those she had possessed had died in her arms. [Illustration: The Countess distributes Alms.] The first, in date, in her affections had been a green parrot, which, having been so imprudent as to eat some parsley, fell a victim to frightful colics. An indigestion, caused by sweet biscuits, had taken from Madame de la Grenouillère a pug-dog of the most brilliant promise. A third favorite, an ape of a very interesting species, having broken his chain one night, went clambering over the trees in the garden, where, during a shower, he caught a cold in the head, which conducted him to the tomb. [Illustration: The Ape fatally exposes himself.] Following these, the Countess had birds of divers kinds; but some of them had flown away, and the others had died of the pip. Cast down by such continuous disasters, Madame de la Grenouillère shed many tears. Seeing her inconsolable, the friends of the Countess proposed successively squirrels, learned canaries, white mice, cockatoos; but she would not listen to them; she even refused a superb spaniel who played dominoes, danced to music, ate salad, and translated Greek. [Illustration: Her Friends propose Squirrels, Canaries, Mice, etc.] "No, no," she said, "I do not want any more animals; the air of my house is death to them." [Illustration: The Boys after the Cat.] She had ended by believing in fatality. One day, as the Countess was leaving the church, she saw a crowd of boys hustling and elbowing each other, and giving vent to peals of joyous laughter. When, seated in her carriage, she was able to overlook the throng, she discovered that the cause of this tumult was a poor cat to whose tail the little wretches had tied a tin saucepan. The unfortunate cat had evidently been running a long time, for he seemed overcome with fatigue. Seeing that he slackened his speed, his tormentors formed a circle around him, and began pelting him with stones. The luckless creature bowed his head, and, recognizing that he was surrounded by none but enemies, resigned himself to his hard fate with the heroism of a Roman senator. Several stones had already reached him, when Madame de la Grenouillère, seized with deep compassion, descended from her carriage, and, pushing the crowd aside, exclaimed: "I will give a louis to whoever will save that animal!" These words produced a magical effect; they transformed the persecutors into liberators; the poor cat came near being suffocated by those who now disputed the honor of rescuing him safe and sound. Finally, a sort of young Hercules overthrew his rivals, brought off the cat, and presented it half dead to the Countess. [Illustration: The Luckless Creature bowed his Head.] "Very well," she said; "here, my brave little man, is the reward I promised." She gave him a bright golden louis just out of the mint, and then added, "Relieve this poor animal of his inconvenient burden." [Illustration: "Dear me, how homely he is!"] While the young Hercules obeyed, Madame de la Grenouillère regarded the creature she had rescued. It was a true type of the street-cat. His natural hideousness was increased by the accidents of a long and irregular career; his short hair was soiled with mud; one could scarcely distinguish beneath the various splashes his gray fur robe striped with black. He was so thin as to be nearly transparent, so shrunken that one could count his ribs, and so dispirited that a mouse might have beaten him. There was only one thing in his favor, and that was his physiognomy. [Illustration: The Cat is presented, half dead, to the Countess.] "Dear me, how homely he is!" said Madame de la Grenouillère, after finishing her examination. At the moment she stepped into the carriage, the cat fixed his great sea-green eyes upon her and gave her a look, strange, indefinable, full at the same time of gratitude and reproach, and so expressive that the good lady was instantly fascinated. She read in this glance a discourse of great eloquence. The look seemed to wish to say,-- "You have obeyed a generous impulse; you saw me feeble, suffering, oppressed, and you took pity on me. Now that your benevolence is satisfied, my deformity inspires you with contempt. I thought you were good, but you are not good; you have the instinct of kindness, but you are not kind. If you were really charitable you would continue to interest yourself in me for the very reason that I am homely; you would reflect that my misfortunes are owing to my ugly appearance, and that the same cause,--should you leave me there in the street, at the mercy of the wicked boys,--the same cause, I say, would produce the same effects. Go! you needn't pride yourself on your half-way benevolence!--you have not done me a service; you have only prolonged my agony. I am an outcast, the whole world is against me, I am condemned to die; let my destiny be accomplished!" Madame de la Grenouillère was moved to tears. The cat seemed to her superhuman--no, it was a cat; it seemed to her superanimal! She thought of the mysteries of transformation, and imagined that the cat, before assuming his present form, had been a great orator and a person of standing. She said to her maid, Mother Michel, who was in the carriage,-- "Take the cat and carry him." "What, you will bring him with you, madame?" cried Mother Michel. "Certainly. As long as I live that animal shall have a place at my fireside and at my table. If you wish to please me, you will treat him with the same zeal and affection you show to myself." "Madame shall be obeyed." "That is well,--and now for home!" [Illustration: Mother Michel is told to take the Cat.] CHAPTER II. HOW THE CAT WAS INSTALLED WITH MADAME DE LA GRENOUILLÈRE, AND CONFIDED TO THE CARE OF MOTHER MICHEL. [Illustration: Mother Michel.] Madame de la Grenouillère inhabited a magnificent mansion situated on the corner of the streets Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre and Orties-Saint-Louis; there she led a very retired life, on almost intimate terms with her two principal domestics,--Madame Michel, her maid and companion, and M. Lustucru, the steward. These servants being elderly persons, the Countess, who was possessed of a pleasant humor, had christened them Mother Michel and Father Lustucru. The features of Mother Michel bore the imprint of her amiable disposition; she was as open and candid as Father Lustucru was sly and dissimulating. The plausible air of the steward might deceive persons without much experience; but close observers could easily discover the most perverse inclinations under his false mask of good nature. There was duplicity in his great blue eyes, anger concentrated in his nostrils, something wily in the end of his tapering nose, and malice in the shape of his lips. However, this man had never, in appearance, at least, done anything to forfeit his honor; he had been able to guard an outside air of honesty, hiding very carefully the blackness of his nature. His wickedness was like a mine to which one has not yet applied the match,--it waited only for an occasion to flash out. [Illustration: Father Lustucru.] Lustucru detested animals, but, in order to flatter the taste of his mistress, he pretended to idolize them. On seeing Mother Michel bearing in her arms the rescued cat, he said to himself: "What, another beast! As if there were not enough of us in the house!" He could not help throwing a glance of antipathy at the new-comer; then, curbing himself quickly, he cried, with an affected admiration,-- "Oh, the beautiful cat! the pretty cat! that cat hasn't his equal!"--and he caressed it in the most perfidious fashion. "Truly?" said Madame de la Grenouillère; "you do not find him too homely?" [Illustration: "Oh, the Beautiful Cat!"] "Too homely! But, then, he has charming eyes. But, if he was frightful, your interesting yourself in him would change him." "He displeased me at first." "The beings who displease at first are those one loves the most after awhile," replied Father Lustucru, sententiously. They proceeded at once to make the toilet of the cat, who, in spite of his instinctive horror of water, submitted with touching resignation to being washed; he seemed to understand that it improved his personal appearance. After giving him a dish of broken meat, which he ate with great relish, they arranged the hours for his meals, the employment of his days, and the place where he was to sleep. [Illustration: The Cat is washed.] They thought also to give him a name. Mother Michel and Father Lustucru proposed several that were quite happy, such as Mistigris, Tristepatte, etc.; but the Countess rejected them all successively. She desired a name that would recall the circumstances in which the cat was found. An old scholar, whom she consulted the next day, suggested that of Moumouth, composed of two Hebrew words which signify _saved from saucepans_. [Illustration: The Cat grows Fat.] [Illustration: The Old Scholar looks for a Name.] At the end of a few days, Moumouth was unrecognizable. His fur was polished with care; nourishing food had filled out his form; his mustaches stood up like those of a swordsman of the seventeenth century; his eyes shone as emeralds. He was a living proof of the influence of good fare upon the race. He owed his excellent condition chiefly to Mother Michel, whom he held in affectionate consideration; he showed, on the other hand, for Father Lustucru a very marked dislike. As if he had divined that here he had to do with an enemy, he refused to accept anything presented by the steward. However, they saw but little of each other. The days passed very happily with Moumouth, and everything promised a smiling future for him; but, like the sword of Damocles, troubles are ever suspended above the heads of men and of cats. On the 24th of January, 1753, an unusual sadness was observed in Moumouth; he scarcely responded to the caresses which Madame de la Grenouillère lavished upon him; he ate nothing, and spent the day crouched on a corner of the hearth, gazing mournfully into the fire. He had a presentiment of some misfortune, and the misfortune came. [Illustration: He will take Nothing from the Steward.] [Illustration: He crouches in a Corner of the Hearth.] That night a messenger, sent from the Château de la Gingeole in Normandy, brought a letter to the Countess from her younger sister, who, having broken a leg in getting out of her carriage, begged the Countess, her only relative, to come to her at once. Madame de la Grenouillère was too sympathetic and kind-hearted to hesitate an instant. "I depart to-morrow," said she. At these words, Moumouth, who followed his benefactress with his eyes, gave a melancholy _miau_. [Illustration: "In her Youth she caressed a Kitten."] [Illustration: "I depart To-morrow!"] "Poor cat!" resumed the lady, with emotion, "it is necessary that we should be separated! I cannot bring you with me, for my sister has the weakness to hate animals of your species; she pretends they are treacherous. What slander! In her youth she caressed a kitten, who, too much excited by marks of affection, scratched her involuntarily. Was it from wickedness? No, it was from sensibility. However, since that day my sister has sworn an eternal hatred for cats." Moumouth regarded his mistress with an air which seemed to say,-- "But you, at least, you do us justice, truly superior woman!" After a moment of silence and meditation, the Countess added,-- "Mother Michel, I confide my cat to you." "We will take good care of him, madame," said Father Lustucru. "Don't you trouble yourself about him, I pray you," interrupted the Countess. "You know that he has taken a dislike to you; your presence merely is sufficient to irritate him. Why, I don't know; but you are insupportable to him." "That is true," said Father Lustucru, with contrition; "but the cat is unjust, for I love him and he doesn't love me." [Illustration: "Mother Michel, I confide my Cat to you."] "My sister is also unjust. Cats, perhaps, love her, and she does not love them. I respect her opinion. Respect that of Moumouth." Having pronounced these words in a firm tone, Madame de la Grenouillère addressed herself to Mother Michel. "It is to you, Mother Michel, and to you alone, that I confide him. Return him to me safe and sound, and I will cover you with benefits. I am sixty-five years of age, you are ten years younger; it is probable that you will live to close my eyes"-- "Ah, madame! why such sorrowful ideas?" "Let me finish. To guard against mischance, I have already thought to provide for you comfortably; but, if you keep Moumouth for me, I will give you a pension of fifteen hundred livres." "Ah, madame!" said Mother Michel, in an impressive tone, "it is not necessary to hire my services; I love the cat with all my heart, and I will always be devoted to him." "I am sure of it, and I shall also know how to reward your zeal." During this conversation, Father Lustucru employed all his forces to conceal the expression of his jealousy. "Everything for her, and nothing for me!" he said to himself. "Fifteen hundred livres a year! It is a fortune, and she will have it! Oh, no! she shall not have it." [Illustration: The Post-chaise is ready.] The next morning, at half-past seven, four lively horses were harnessed to the post-chaise which was to convey the excellent old lady to Normandy. She said a last adieu to her favorite, pressed him to her heart, and stepped into the carriage. Until then, Moumouth had felt only a vague uneasiness; but at this moment he understood it all! He saw his benefactress ready to depart; and, trembling at the thought of losing her, he made one bound to her side. "It is necessary for you to stay here," said Madame de la Grenouillère, making an effort to restrain her tears. Will it be believed?--the cat also wept! [Illustration: The Cat wishes to go with the Carriage.] To put an end to this painful scene, Mother Michel seized the cat by the shoulders and detached him from the carriage-cushion, to which he clung; the door closed, the horses gave a vigorous pull, and started off at a speed of not less than three leagues an hour. Moumouth rolled in a convulsion, and then fainted. [Illustration: Moumouth faints.] Madame de la Grenouillère, her head stretched out of the post-chaise, waved her handkerchief, crying:-- "Mother Michel, I commend my cat to you!" [Illustration: "He shall die!"] "Be tranquil, madame; I swear you shall find him large and plump when you return." "And I," muttered Father Lustucru, in a deep voice, "I swear he shall die!" CHAPTER III. IN WHICH ARE SHOWN THE GOODNESS OF MOTHER MICHEL AND THE WICKEDNESS OF FATHER LUSTUCRU. Mother Michel, worthy of the confidence which had been reposed in her, displayed for Moumouth a truly maternal tenderness; she tended him, coddled him, took such pains with him, in short, that he became one of the most beautiful cats in that quarter of the town where the cats are magnificent. She watched over him constantly, gave him the choicest bits to eat, and put him to bed at night on the softest of eider-down quilts. Fearing that he might fall ill some day, and wishing to inform herself concerning the maladies to which cats are liable, she procured various books on that important subject; she even went so far in her devotion as to read the "History of Cats," by François-Auguste Paradis de Moncrif, a member of the French Academy. The conduct of Mother Michel had no low motive of personal interest. She gave scarcely a thought to herself, the good old soul! Content with little, she would always have enough to live on; she required nothing but a small room, brown bread, a supply of wood in winter, and a spinning-wheel. But she had nephews and nieces, god-children, whom she hoped to be able to help; it was to them that she destined in advance the gifts of Madame de la Grenouillère. The continually increasing prosperity of Moumouth exasperated Father Lustucru. He saw with a sort of dread the approach of the hour when the faithful guardian would be rewarded; he dreamt day and night of the means to prevent it,--to carry off her four-footed pupil, and bring down on her the wrath of their mistress. By dint of indulging his hatred and envy in solitary reflections, he ceased at last to draw back at the prospect of committing a crime. "How," he said, "how rid the house of that miserable cat? What arms shall I use against him? Fire, poison, or water? I will try water!" This resolution taken, he thought of nothing but to put it into execution. It was difficult to get possession of Moumouth, of whom Mother Michel rarely lost sight; and Moumouth, too, not having the slightest confidence in the steward, was always on the defensive. Lustucru watched during several days for a favorable occasion. One night, after making an excellent supper, Moumouth curled himself up near the fire in the parlor, at the feet of Mother Michel, and slept the sleep of the just with good digestion. In the midst of this, Father Lustucru came into the room. "Good!" he thought. "The cat sleeps. Let us get the guardian out of the way." "How amiable of you to come and keep me company!" said Mother Michel, politely. "You are quite well this evening?" [Illustration: Father Lustucru's Stratagem.] "Perfectly; but everybody is not like me. Our porter, for example, is in a deplorable state; he is suffering excessively from his rheumatism, and would be very happy to see you a moment. You have gentle words to console the afflicted, and excellent receipts to cure them. Go, then, and pay a little visit to our friend Krautman; I am persuaded that your presence will help him." [Illustration: The Porter.] Mother Michel got up at once and descended to the apartment of the porter, who was, indeed, suffering from a violent rheumatic pain. "Now for us two!" cried Father Lustucru to himself. [Illustration: The Steward seizes Moumouth.] He went stealthily into an adjoining room, walking upon the tips of his toes, and took a covered basket which he had hidden in the bottom of a closet. Then he returned to Moumouth, whom he seized roughly by the neck. The unfortunate animal awoke with a start, and found himself suspended in the air face to face with Father Lustucru, his enemy. In that horrible situation he would have cried, and struggled, and called for assistance, but he had no time. The odious steward plunged the poor cat into the basket, quickly clapped down the solid cover, and ran rapidly to the staircase, his eyes haggard and his hair standing on end, like a man who commits a crime. [Illustration: The Cat is plunged into the Basket.] It was a beautiful night in February, with a clear sky and a dry, cold atmosphere. The moon shone with all her brightness; but, at intervals, great clouds drifted over her face and rendered the obscurity complete. Father Lustucru was obliged to cross the garden, in order to pass out by a small door, of which he had taken the key. He glided from bush to bush, carefully avoiding the paths, except when the clouds veiled the moon. He had half-opened the door, when he heard a sound of footsteps and voices outside. He started back involuntarily, then stood still and listened. [Illustration: The Steward hurries away.] "What foolishness!" he said, after a moment of silent observation. "I had forgotten that it was carnival-time; those are masqueraders passing." [Illustration: He dances with Delight.] It was, in effect, a band of masqueraders from the Palais Royal. Lustucru waited until they were gone; then he hurried out. When he reached the quay, in the joy of success, he began to whistle a dancing-tune and cut capers; his transports resembled those of a cannibal who dances around his victim. [Illustration: The Cat is thrown into the River.] He went up the Seine as far as the bridge of Notre Dame, in the middle of which he halted, and holding the basket over the parapet, turned it suddenly upside down, and launched the luckless Moumouth into the icy waters of the river. The cat, in dropping through space, gave a cry that seemed to come from a human voice. The assassin shuddered, but his emotion did not last long. He thrust his hands into his pockets and said, in a tone of bitter mockery,-- "Pleasant voyage to you, dear Moumouth; endeavor to arrive all right! By the way," added he, "I think cats know how to swim; that brigand is capable of getting himself out of this business. Bah! it is a long distance from the bridge of Notre Dame to Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre!" Reassured by this reflection, Lustucru continued on his way home, re-entered by the door of the garden, climbed cautiously up to his room, and held himself in readiness to enjoy the lamentations of Mother Michel. Mother Michel was detained some time by the porter; finally, she left him, to give her cat the cup of milk and sugar with which she regaled him every night. She ascended to the parlor with measured steps, calmly, not anticipating any catastrophe. Failing to see Moumouth in the place he had occupied, she simply believed that he had smuggled himself behind the cushions of the sofa. She looked there, and beneath the sofa, and searched under the other pieces of furniture. Then, running to the staircase, she called: "Moumouth! Moumouth!" [Illustration: Mother Michel looks for the Cat.] "He doesn't answer me," said she. "But when I went down-stairs, Lustucru was here; may be he can tell me what has become of the cat." She knocked without delay at the door of the steward, who pretended to rouse himself from a deep slumber, and, in a gruff voice, demanded what was wanted. "Isn't Moumouth with you?" "Does your cat ever come where I am? You know very well that he can't bear me." "Alas! where is he? I left him in the parlor, near the fire, and I cannot find him." [Illustration: She knocks at the Steward's Door.] "Can he be lost?" said Father Lustucru, feigning the most lively anxiety. "Lost! Oh, no, it is impossible! He is somewhere in the house." "He ought to be found," said the villain, gravely. "He ought to be searched for this very instant. Moumouth is a precious animal, whose merit makes it well worth while to wake up the servants." All the inmates of the house were soon on foot, each armed with a candle. They ransacked the nooks and corners, from the cellar to the garret, from the court to the garden. Lustucru directed the operations with apparent zeal. After ineffectual searches, Mother Michel, exhausted by emotion and fatigue, threw herself helplessly into an arm-chair. [Illustration: Every Nook and Corner is ransacked.] "Alas!" said she, "I left him only an instant, and it was to do a good action." "I begin to believe that your cat is really lost," replied Lustucru, in a severe tone. "It is a great misfortune for you! What will Madame de la Grenouillère say when she comes back? She is capable of turning you out of doors!" [Illustration: The Shock is too much for Mother Michel.] "Turn me out of doors!" cried Mother Michel, suddenly drawing herself up to her full height. Then she sunk down again, her face grew pallid, her eyes closed, and she fell back without consciousness. Father Lustucru regarded her with a dry eye, and without feeling the slightest remorse. He laughed, the infamous man! CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH THE CAT DISPLAYS INTELLIGENCE BEYOND HIS STATION IN LIFE, AND BEHAVES HANDSOMELY IN ADVERSITY. We lost sight of Moumouth at the moment when, precipitated from the parapet of the bridge of Notre Dame, he found himself struggling in the water. Luckily for him, the piles of the principal arch had a wide ledge, to which he was able to attach himself. From this place he cast a glance around him. The Seine appeared to him a boundless ocean, which it was beyond his strength to cross; rather than attempt to reach the shores that seemed to recede before him, he prepared to stay where he was, at the risk of perishing with hunger or cold, or being swept away by a wave. He mewed at first in sign of distress, but very soon, believing himself hopelessly lost, he judged it useless to tire his lungs, and awaited the end with a resignation which formed the basis of his character. Toward five o'clock in the morning, two gentlemen from the island of Saint-Louis,--two very skillful amateur fishermen,--came to throw their lines from the top of the bridge of Notre Dame. "You are early, neighbor Guignolet," said the person who arrived last; "it appears that we have both had the same idea." "And we have done well, neighbor Groquemouche; there was a rise in the river last night, great numbers of fish have descended from the upper Seine, and one will have to be dreadfully awkward not to take them." [Illustration: "Agreed!" said M. Guignolet.] "Will you enter into an agreement, neighbor Guignolet? Let us fish in partnership, divide the catch, and dine together to-day." "Agreed!" said M. Guignolet, and as each held his line in his right hand, they clasped their left hands together in token of the treaty. On seeing the two cords descend Moumouth conceived some hope. As soon as they were within his reach he grappled them, and the fishermen, feeling the unusual weight, cried out with one voice, "A bite! a bite!" and hastened to haul in their lines. [Illustration: The Fishermen pursue the Cat.] "I bet I have caught a wattle," said M. Guignolet, regretting that he couldn't rub his hands together to testify his satisfaction. "I must have an immense carp," replied M. Groquemouche. He had scarcely finished the sentence when Moumouth leaped over the parapet. "Treason!" cried the two fishers, who started in pursuit of the quadruped that had come so miraculously out of the water; but Moumouth ran faster than they did and easily escaped them. [Illustration: Moumouth grapples the Lines.] When he was alone, he took breath, examined the houses, and, not finding one that resembled his, naturally concluded that it was not there. It was necessary, however, to find shelter; shivering with cold and panting with his exertions, he could not remain a moment longer in the street without exposing himself to an inflammation of the chest. Guided by a light, he made his way into the basement of a baker's shop, and, hiding himself behind a pile of bread-baskets, went quietly to sleep. He was awakened by hunger. Moumouth was born of poor parents who had abandoned him in his earliest infancy; he had been brought up in the streets, obliged to procure his own living, and trained in the school of adversity. Thus he was very skillful in the art of catching rats and mice,--a useful art, too often neglected by cats belonging to the first families. [Illustration: The Imprudent Mouse.] He placed himself on the watch, and surprised a mouse that had stolen out of its hole to eat some flour. He dropped upon the imprudent mouse, in describing what is called in geometry a parabola, and seized it by the nose, to prevent it from crying out. This feat, although performed with address and in silence, attracted the attention of the baker's boy. "Hi! a cat!" cried the apprentice, arming himself with a scoop. [Illustration: "Don't hurt him!" said the Baker.] The master-baker turned his eyes towards Moumouth, saw him devouring the mouse, and said to the boy:-- "Don't hurt him; he is doing us a service." "But where did he come from?" "What does that matter, provided he is useful here?" answered the baker, who was a man of intelligence. "Eat, eat, my friend," he continued, stooping down to gently caress Moumouth; "eat as many mice as possible, there will always be enough left." Our cat profited by the permission accorded to him, and, having satisfied his hunger, had a desire to set out in search of the mansion of Madame de la Grenouillère; but the baker barred the passage. [Illustration: Moumouth jumps out of the Window.] "Wait a minute!" he said. "I wanted a good cat; Heaven sent me one, and I shall not forgive myself if I let him escape. Hulloo! Jacques, shut up all the openings, and if this rogue makes a show of running off, give him three or four smart blows with the broom." Thus the host of Moumouth became his tyrant; so true is it that personal interest depraves the best natures. Our cat, as if comprehending what was passing, leaped without hesitation upon the shoulders of the baker's boy, and thence into the street. [Illustration: All the Street Dogs pursue Moumouth.] There a new danger awaited him. Surprised by this unexpected apparition, an enormous bull-dog planted himself directly in front of Moumouth. Moumouth had a lively desire to avoid an unequal contest, but the dog kept an eye on him, and did not lose one of his movements, going to the right when Moumouth went to the left, and to the left when Moumouth moved to the right, and growled all the while in a malicious fashion. For an instant they stood motionless, observing each other,--the dog with paws extended, teeth displayed, and body drawn back, and the cat with open mouth, his back arched and his head thrust forward. [Illustration: He meets a Bull-dog.] Neither seemed disposed to begin hostilities. Finally the dog rushed upon his adversary, who avoided him adroitly, passed underneath him, and fled in the direction of the quay, the bull-dog giving chase. Away they went, darting among the crowd of pedestrians and in and out between the carriages. In a natural spirit of imitation, the wandering dogs that encountered them running joined in the race, and at the end of a minute Moumouth had more than thirty-seven dogs in pursuit of him. "I am lost," he says to himself, "but at least I shall sell my life dearly." [Illustration: He climbs a Wall.] He backs against a wall, and braces himself haughtily on his feet; his teeth gnashing, his hair bristling, he faces his numerous enemies with so terrible an eye that they recoil like a single man. Profiting by their hesitation, he turns suddenly and scrambles to the top of the wall. He is soon beyond the reach of the dogs, but he is not yet in safety; if he makes a false step, if his strength gives out, if the plaster crumbles under his claws, twenty yawning mouths, hungry for slaughter, are there to tear him to pieces! In the meanwhile, Mother Michel had passed the night in lamentation. She could not control her grief, for the loss of Moumouth; she called him continually in a plaintive voice, and--if we may credit the popular song--the neighbors heard her cry at the window: "Who will bring him back to me?" [Illustration: Mother Michel laments.] The next morning, at the rising of the smiling sun, the perfidious Lustucru presented himself before Mother Michel in order to say to her:-- "Well, my dear companion, have you found him?" "Alas, no!" she murmured. "Have you any news of him?" "Nothing positive," replied the steward, who wished to torment the poor woman; "but I dreamed of him all night long; he appeared to me in a dream, with his face pale and an exhausted air, like a cat who did not feel very well." [Illustration: Father Lustucru dreams.] "In what place was he?" "He seemed to be in a garden, at the foot of a lilac-bush." Mother Michel instantly ran to the garden, where, as you may imagine, she did not find Moumouth. During the whole day Lustucru amused himself by giving her false exultations, which were followed by increased despondency. "Mother Michel," said he, "just now, in passing the store-room, I thought I heard a kind of meyowing." Mother Michel hastened to visit the store-room. Presently he came to her out of breath, and said:-- [Illustration: Illustration: Mother Michel encounters nothing but Rats.] "We have him at last! I am nearly certain that he is rummaging in the cellar." And Mother Michel ventured into the gloomy vaults of the cellar, where she encountered nothing but rats. It was near the close of the day that Lustucru pronounced these words, which a popular song has happily preserved for us:-- "Oh, Mother Michel, Your cat is not lost; He is up in the garret A-hunting the rats, With his little straw gun And his sabre of wood!" The words were full of a bitter raillery, which Father Lustucru was unable to disguise. To pretend that Moumouth was hunting rats with his little straw gun and his wooden sword was to suppose something quite unlikely, for nobody ever saw a cat make use of such arms. But the agonies of Mother Michel had so confused her mind, that she noticed only what could give her a gleam of hope. "He is in the garret!" she cried, without paying attention to the rest of the verse. "Let us hasten there, my dear sir; let us search for him. Give me your arm, for I am so nervous, so troubled, so harassed by fatigue, that I have not the strength to get up alone." [Illustration: She searches the Attic.] The two mounted to the garret, and Mother Michel, lantern in hand, searched in the attic and under the roof. Silence and solitude reigned everywhere. "You are again mistaken," murmured Mother Michel. "No, no," replied the malicious man; "let us continue to hunt, we shall finish by finding. We haven't looked there--behind those fagots." The credulous Mother Michel advanced in the direction indicated, and--to the great stupefaction of Lustucru--the cat, which he believed drowned, appeared in full health and strength, and fixed its gaze upon him indignantly. [Illustration: "It is he! It is he!" cried Mother Michel.] "It is he! it is he!" cried Mother Michel, seizing Moumouth in her arms. "Ah, my dear Lustucru! my good and true friend, how I thank you for conducting me here!" The steward had scarcely any taste for compliments which he so little merited. Pale-faced and cold, he hung his head before his victim, whose preservation he could not explain to himself. It was, however, a very simple thing: Moumouth, pursued by the dogs, succeeded in leaping from the wall, and, passing from gutter to gutter, from garden to garden, from roof to roof, had reached his domicile; but, dreading the resentment of his enemy, he had not dared to appear, and had hidden himself in the garret. "Am I the dupe of a nightmare?" said Father Lustucru to himself. "Is it really that rascal of a Moumouth that I have there under my eyes, in flesh and bone? Isn't it his ghost that has come back to torment me? This cat, then, is the evil one in person!" The cat was not the evil one--Providence had protected him. CHAPTER V. IN WHICH THE CAT CONTENDS SUCCESSFULLY AGAINST HIS ENEMY. The events we have recorded indicate very clearly the position of our personages. Fearing to lose both the well-beloved cat and the advantages she was ambitious to obtain, Mother Michel redoubled her vigilance and attention. Moumouth, knowing henceforth with whom he had to deal, promised himself to avoid the steward, or to fight him, if need be, with tooth and nail. As to Father Lustucru, it was enough that his projects had been defeated, in order that he should persist in them with desperation. He now wished the destruction of the poor and innocent cat, not only on account of his jealousy of Mother Michel, but because he hated the cat itself. "Oh, what humiliation!" he said to himself, with bitterness. "I ought to hide myself, retire to a desert, and bury me in the bowels of the earth! What! I, Jérôme Lustucru, a grown man, a man of knowledge and experience, a man--I dare say it--charming in society, I am vanquished, scoffed at, taken for a dupe, by a cat of the gutter!... I leave him at the bottom of a river, and find him at the top of a house! I wish to separate him from his guardian, and I am the means of bringing them together! I lead Mother Michel to the garret to torture her, and there I witness her transports of joy! The cat I believed dead reappears to defy me!... He shall not defy me long!" And Father Lustucru remained absorbed in deep meditation. [Illustration: Lustucru meditates.] Moumouth had not yet dined that day, and he made it plain by expressive miauing that he would very willingly place something under his teeth. Presently, Mother Michel said to him--for she spoke to him as if he were an intelligent being,-- "Have patience, sir; we are going to attend to you." She descended to the parlor, which she habitually occupied since the departure of Madame de la Grenouillère, and the cat, who accompanied Mother Michel, was clearly displeased at seeing her take the road to the chamber of Lustucru. Nevertheless, he went in with her, persuaded that in the presence of that faithful friend the steward would not dare to undertake anything against him. At the moment she knocked at the door, Father Lustucru was taking from the shelf a green package which bore this label: _Death to Rats_. "This is the thing," he said to himself, thrusting the paper into his vest. "_Death to Rats_ should also be _Death to Cats_. Our dear Moumouth shall make the trial.... What can one do to serve you, my good Mother Michel?" "It is five o'clock, M. Lustucru, and you forget my cat." [Illustration: The Green Package.] "I forget him!" cried the steward, clasping his hands as if very much hurt by the suspicion, "I was just thinking of him.... I am going to prepare for him such a delicious hash that he will never want another!" "Thanks, Monsieur Lustucru! I shall inform Madame, the Countess, of your care for her favorite. I have received a letter from her this very day; she sends me word that she shall return shortly; that she hopes to find Moumouth in good condition, and that she has in reserve for me a very handsome reward. You comprehend my joy, Monsieur Lustucru! My sister is left a widow with four children, to whom I hand over my little savings each year. Until now this assistance has not been much; but, thanks to the gifts of Madame, the Countess, the poor children will be able to go to school and learn a trade." In pronouncing these words the eyes of Mother Michel were moist and bright with the most sweet joy,--that which one experiences in performing or meditating good actions. The steward, however, was not affected. He had so given himself up to his evil passions that they completely mastered him, and had by degrees stifled all generous sentiments in his soul, as the tares which one lets grow choke the good grain. [Illustration: "Come, let us go!"] One would have said that Moumouth understood this man. The cat approached Mother Michel, who had seated herself to chat awhile, and looking at her with supplicating eyes, pulled at the skirt of her robe, as if to say to her:-- "Come, let us go!" "Take care!" said the good creature, "you will tear my dress." Moumouth began again. "What is it? Do you want to get out of here?" asked Mother Michel. Moumouth made several affirmative capers in the air. "Decidedly," she added, "this cat is not contented anywhere but in the parlor." She rose and withdrew, preceded by Moumouth, who bounded with joy. A quarter of an hour afterward the steward had prepared a most appetizing hash composed of the breast of chicken, the best quality of bread, and other ingredients justly esteemed by dainty eaters. After adding a large dose of the "Death to Rats," he set the hash down in an adjoining room, and, opening the parlor door, cried: "Monsieur is served!!" [Illustration: Moumouth is pleased to see the Hash.] On beholding this delicate dish, Moumouth thrilled with pleasure, for, to tell the truth, he was rather greedy. He stretched his nose over the plate, and then suddenly retreated, arching his back. A sickening and infectious odor had mounted to his nostrils. He made a tour round the plate, took another sniff, and again retreated. This animal, full of sagacity, had scented the poison. "Well, that is very extraordinary," said Mother Michel; and, having vainly offered the food to her cat, she went to find Lustucru, to inform him what had occurred. [Illustration: He sniffs with Disgust.] The traitor listened with inward rage. "What!" said he, "he has refused to eat it? It is probably because he is not hungry." "So I suppose, Monsieur Lustucru; for your hash looks very nice. I should like it myself, and I've half a mind to taste it, to set Moumouth an example." At this, Father Lustucru, in spite of his hardness, could not help trembling. For a minute he was horrified at his crime, and cried hastily:-- [Illustration: "Don't touch it, I beg of you."] "Don't touch it, I beg of you!" "Why not? Is there anything wrong in the hash?" "No, certainly not," stammered Father Lustucru; "but what has been prepared for a cat should not serve for a Christian. It is necessary to guard propriety, and not trifle with the dignity of human nature." Mother Michel accepted this reasoning, and said, a little snappishly:-- "Very well; Moumouth may suit himself! I do not wish to yield to all his fancies, and I shall not give him anything else." The following day the hash was still uneaten. The steward had hoped that the cat, pressed by hunger, would have thrown himself upon the poisoned food; but Moumouth knew how to suffer. He put up with abstinence, lived on scraps and crumbs of bread, and recoiled with terror every time that his guardian offered him the fatal plate, which finally remained forgotten in a corner of the closet in the antechamber. [Illustration: The Fatal Plate remains forgotten.] Father Lustucru, seeing that his plot had not succeeded, was more irritable than ever. The desire to rid himself of Moumouth became a fixed idea with him, a passion, a monomania; he dreamed of it day and night. Each letter in which Madame de la Grenouillère demanded news of the cat and repeated her promise of recompense to Mother Michel, each sign of interest given by the Countess to her two favorites, increased the blind fury of their enemy. He thought of the most infernal plans to demolish Moumouth without risk to himself, but none of them seemed sufficiently safe and expeditious. Finally he decided on this one:-- [Illustration: Louis XIV.] On a heavy pedestal, in the chamber of Mother Michel, was a marble bust of Louis XIV., represented with a Roman helmet and a peruke interlaced with laurel-leaves. Behind this bust was a round window, which looked upon the staircase; and just in front of the pedestal was the downy cushion that served as a bed for Moumouth, who would certainly have been crushed if the bust had taken it into its head to topple over. One night Lustucru stole noiselessly into the chamber of Mother Michel, opened the round window, which he was careful to leave ajar, and retired silently. At midnight, when everybody was asleep in the house, he took one of those long brooms, commonly called a wolf-head, placed himself on the staircase opposite the small window, rested his back firmly against the banister, and, with the aid of the wolf-head, pushed over the bust, which tumbled with a loud crash on the cushion beneath. [Illustration: Downfall of Louis XIV.] The wicked man had expected this result of his movement; it was for him the signal of his triumph and the death of Moumouth. However, when he heard the bust roll heavily on the floor, he was seized by a panic, and, with trembling steps, regained his chamber. Mother Michel awoke with a start; she was in complete darkness, and unable to procure a light, for German chemical matches were not yet invented. Surprise and fright had taken away her faculties for an instant, then she cried, "Stop thief!" with all the strength of her lungs. Very soon the whole house was roused, and all the servants came running in to learn what was the matter. [Illustration: Lustucru appears.] Lustucru appeared last, with a cotton night-cap on his head, and, for the rest, very simply clad. "What has happened?" he demanded. "I see now," answered Mother Michel; "it is the bust of Louis XIV. that has fallen down." "Bah!" said Father Lustucru, playing astonishment. "But, in that case, your cat must have received it on his head." As he said these words, Moumouth came out from under the bed and threw himself before Mother Michel, as if to implore her aid and protection. Lustucru stood amazed. [Illustration: Moumouth comes forth.] Everybody knows how light is the slumber of cats. Moumouth, who had the habit of sleeping with only one eye, had risen quickly on hearing a rustling behind the round window. Like nearly all animals, he was curious, and sought to understand anything that astonished him; so he camped himself in the middle of the chamber, the better to observe with what intention the wolf-head advanced at that unseasonable hour by so unusual a route. Startled by the fall of the bust, he had fled for refuge to the bottom of the alcove. They gave Mother Michel, to revive her, a glass of sugar and water, flavored with orange-flower; they picked up the great king, who had smashed his nose and chin, and lost half of his beautiful peruke; then everybody went to bed once more. "Saved again!" said Father Lustucru to himself. "He always escapes me! I shall not be able, then, to send him to his fathers before the return of the Countess! Mother Michel will get her pension of fifteen hundred livres, and I shall remain a nobody, the same as before. That rascally cat distrusts me; everything I undertake alone against him fails.... Decidedly, I must get somebody to help me!" [Illustration: Mother Michel is revived.] CHAPTER VI. HOW FATHER LUSTUCRU CONFIDES HIS ODIOUS PLANS TO NICHOLAS FARIBOLE. Father Lustucru searched for an accomplice. He at first thought of finding one among the domestics of the household; but he reflected that they all were devoted to Mother Michel, and were capable of betraying him, and causing him to be shamefully turned out of the mansion, in which he held so honorable and lucrative a post. However, he had great desire for an accomplice. In what class, of what age and sex, and on what terms should he select one? Occupied with these thoughts, Lustucru went out one morning at about half-past six, to take a walk on the quay. As he crossed the threshold, he noticed on the other side of the street a large woman, dry and angular, clothed in cheap, flashy colors. This woman had sunken eyes, a copper-colored complexion, the nose of a bird of prey, and a face as wrinkled as an old apple. She was talking with a boy of thirteen or fourteen, covered with rags, but possessing a sharp, intelligent countenance. [Illustration: The old Woman and the Boy.] Father Lustucru thought he recognized the old woman, but without recalling where he had seen her. If he had been less occupied he would have searched longer into his memory; but the idea of making away with the cat absorbed him entirely, and he continued his route with a thoughtful air, his head bent forward, his arms crossed upon his breast, and his eyes fixed upon the ground, as if the accomplice he wanted might possibly spring up out of the earth. Thus he wandered for some time; the breeze of the morning failed to cool his blood, heated with evil passions. Neither the spectacle of the pure skies, nor the songs of the birds, who enjoyed themselves on the border of the river, awoke in him those calm and sweet emotions with which they inspire honest people. [Illustration: Lustucru is absorbed.] At the moment when he returned, the old woman was no longer to be seen; but the boy remained in the same place, seated upon a stone post, with his nose in the air, regarding the mansion of Madame de la Grenouillère very attentively. Lustucru approached him and addressed him in these terms:-- "What are you doing there, youngster?" "I? Nothing. I am looking at that mansion." "I believe that without difficulty; but why do you look at it?" "Because I find it handsome, and would like to live in it; one ought to be happy there." "Yes, indeed," answered the steward, with emphasis; "they pass the days there happily enough. Who is that woman with whom you were speaking a while since?" "It was Madame Bradamor." [Illustration: The Boy on the Stone Post.] "Madame Bradamor, the famous fortune-teller, who lives below, at the other end of the street?" "The same." "You know her?" "A little; I sometimes do errands for her." "Ah, ah!... And what did the old wizard say to you?" "She said that if I could enter that house as a domestic, I should have a very agreeable existence." "Madame de la Grenouillère is absent, my little friend, and, besides, her house is full." "That is a pity," said the boy, drawing a deep sigh. Father Lustucru made several steps as if to re-enter, rested his hand upon the knocker of the door, then turned abruptly and walked up to the boy. "What is your name?" "Nicholas Langlumé, the same as my father's; but I am more generally known under the nickname of Faribole." "What do you do?" "Nothing; my father works on the quay, and I,--I live from day to day, gaining my bread as I can. I run errands, I sell May-bugs and black-birds and sparrows, I pick up nails in the gutters and sell them, I open the doors of carriages, I fish for logs in the Seine, I sing verses in the streets, I light lamps, and sometimes I play in the pantomimes at the theatre of Nicolet. These trades, sir, are not worth much; and I have all I can do to get something to eat every day." "You interest me," replied Father Lustucru, "and I've a wish to help you on in the world. Tell me, Faribole, have you a taste for cooking?" "Rather! I love the tid-bits, but my means do not allow me"-- "I did not ask you if you were fond of eating, stupid! I asked you if you had the taste, the inclination, to do cooking." "I don't know; I never tried." [Illustration: The Steward engages Faribole.] "Well, then, Faribole, I will give you lessons. Come, follow me; I will clothe you and take care of you at my own expense, in awaiting the arrival of Madame de la Grenouillère. She is a good lady, and will doubtless retain you; but if she does not, your education will be commenced, and you'll be able to place yourself elsewhere." "You are, then, in the service of the Countess?" "I am her steward," said Father Lustucru, with dignity. The eyes of Faribole sparkled with pleasure; he bowed respectfully before the steward, and said with warmth:-- "Ah, how much I owe to you!" [Illustration: A little awkward at first.] Faribole was installed that same day, and cordially received by the other servants of the household. He was a good-natured boy, serviceable and quick, and, although a little awkward in his new clothes and at his new duties, he showed plenty of willingness. "Faribole," said the steward to his protégé, several days afterward, "It is well to let you know the ways of the house. There is an individual here, all-powerful, who reigns as sovereign master, whose will is obeyed, whose whims are anticipated,--and that individual is a cat. If you wish to make your way in the world, it is necessary to seek to please Moumouth; if the cat Moumouth accords you his affections, you will also have that of Madame de la Grenouillère and her companion, Mother Michel." [Illustration: The Cat and the Boy become Friends.] "The cat shall be my friend, and I will be the friend of the cat," responded the young fellow, confidently. In effect, he showered on Moumouth so many kindnesses and caresses and attentions, that the cat, although naturally suspicious, conceived a lively attachment for Faribole, followed him with pleasure, teased him, and invited him to frolics. Mother Michel was nearly jealous of the small boy; Father Lustucru, who had ideas of his own, laughed in his sleeve, and rubbed his hands together. The steward, one evening, ordered Faribole to come to his chamber, and after closing the door carefully and assuring himself that no one was listening, he said:-- "Moumouth is your friend; you have followed my recommendations exactly." "I shall remain in the house--is it not so?" "Probably. You find yourself very well here?" "Without doubt! I, who lived on black bread, I make four good meals a day. I had a wretched blouse, full of holes, and patched trousers, and now I am dressed like a prince. I suffer no more from cold, and, instead of lying out under the stars, I go to sleep every night in a comfortable bed, where I dream of gingerbread and fruit-cake." Father Lustucru rested his chin on the palm of his right hand, and fixing his piercing eyes upon Faribole, said to him:-- "Suppose you were obliged to take up again with the vagabond life from which I lifted you?" "I believe I should die with shame!" "Then you would do anything to preserve your present position?" "I would do anything." [Illustration: Lustucru and Faribole.] "Anything?" "Anything, absolutely." "Very well. Now, this is what I demand of you imperatively: Moumouth follows you willingly; to-morrow, just at night-fall, you will lead him into the garden; you will put him into a sack which I have made expressly, and tightly draw the cords of the sack"-- "And then?" said Faribole, who opened his eyes wide. "We will each arm us with a stick, and we will beat upon the sack until he is dead." "Never! never!" cried the poor boy, whose hair stood up with fright. "Then pack your bundle quickly, and be off; I turn you away!" "You turn me away!" repeated young Faribole, lifting up his hands to the sky. "I do not give you five minutes to be gone; you depend upon me here, solely on me." The unhappy Faribole began to weep, and the steward added, in a savage voice,-- "Come, now! no faces! Take off your clothes, and put on your rags, and disappear!" Having pronounced these words, Lustucru took from a closet the miserable vestments which Faribole had worn the day of his installation. The steward seized them disdainfully between his thumb and forefinger, and threw them upon the floor. [Illustration: Faribole's Old Clothes.] The boy looked with an air of despair at the habits he had on, compared them with those which he was obliged to resume, and the comparison was so little to the advantage of the latter, that he broke into loud sobs. However, he was decided not to purchase handsome clothes at the price of a perfidy and a horrible murder. He resolutely threw off his vest, then his neckerchief; but at the idea of giving up his new shoes, of walking barefoot, as formerly, over roads paved with gravel and broken glass, the luckless Faribole had a moment of hesitation. Father Lustucru, who observed him closely, profited by this circumstance with consummate cunning. "Foolish fellow!" said he; "you refuse happiness when it would be so easy for you to retain it. If I proposed to you the death of a man, I could understand, I could even approve of your scruples; but I propose that of a cat--a simple cat! What do you find in that so terrible? What is a cat? Nothing--less than nothing; one doesn't attach the least value to the lives of cats. Inn-keepers give them to their customers to eat; the most celebrated surgeons massacre them in making certain experiments. Cats are thought so little of, that when a litter of six or seven are born, only one is kept; the rest are tossed into the river." [Illustration: "Only one is kept; the rest are tossed into the River."] "But Moumouth is large, Moumouth is fully grown," said Faribole in a plaintive tone; "and then, you do not know, I love him." "You love him! you dare to love him!" cried the steward with inexpressible rage. "Very well! I--I detest him, and I wish his death!" "But what has he done to you, then?" "What business is that to you? I desire his death, and that's enough." "Mercy for him!" cried Faribole, throwing himself at the feet of hard-hearted Lustucru. [Illustration: "Get up! Depart!"] "No mercy!" replied Lustucru, hissing the words through his clenched teeth. "No mercy, neither for him nor for you. Get up, depart, be off this very instant! It rains in torrents; you will be drenched, you will die of cold this night,--so much the better!" A beating rain, mixed with hailstones, pattered against the window-panes, and the wind swept with a mournful sound through the halls of the house. Then poor Faribole thought of the cold that would seize him, of the privations which awaited him, of his few resources, of his immense appetite, and how disagreeable it was to sleep on the damp earth. His evil genius took possession of him, and whispered into his ear these words of Father Lustucru: "What is a cat?" "Monsieur Lustucru," said he, weeping, "do not send me away, I will do all that you wish." "To-morrow, at night-fall, you will lead Moumouth into the garden?" "Yes, Monsieur Lustucru." "You will put him into this sack?" "Yes, Monsieur Lustucru." "And you will beat it with me?" The response to this question was long coming; Faribole turned pale, his legs bent under him; finally he bowed his head, letting his arms droop at his sides, as if he had sunk under the weight of his destiny, and murmured, in a stifled voice:-- "Yes, Monsieur Lustucru." CHAPTER VII. IN WHICH FATHER LUSTUCRU IS ON THE POINT OF ACCOMPLISHING HIS PURPOSE, AND MOTHER MICHEL'S CAT IS IN AN UNPLEASANT PREDICAMENT. Lustucru had fixed the following day for the cruel execution of Moumouth, for he knew that Mother Michel on that day was to carry to the express office a package destined for her sister. All the forenoon and afternoon Faribole was plunged in the darkest despondency, and when the fatal hour sounded, he was assailed by the irresolutions of the previous day. When Mother Michel, before going out, said to him, "I leave Moumouth in your charge; you must take care of him, and make him play, so that he will not fret too much during my absence," the poor lad felt his heart fail, and his natural loyalty revolted. "Come, we have not a minute to lose," said Father Lustucru to Faribole; "here is the sack; go look for the beast!" Faribole once more appealed to the pity of the steward; he was eloquent, he had tears in his voice, he pronounced a most touching plea, but without being able to gain his cause. The executioner was immovable; he insisted on the death of the cat; and the boy, overpowered by this evil spirit, saw himself forced to obey. Moumouth allowed himself to be enticed into the garden; he followed his treacherous friend with the confidence of the lamb following the butcher, and, at the very moment when he least thought of it, he found himself fastened in the sack that was to be his tomb. Lustucru, who was hiding, appeared suddenly, bearing two enormous cudgels; he handed one to his accomplice, and taking hold of the sack, cried:--"Now!--to work, and no quarter!" Faribole heard him not; the boy was struck with stupor--his eyes rolled wildly in their sockets, his face was livid, his mouth open, his arms without strength. Father Lustucru, animated by the nearness of his vengeance, did not remark what passed in the mind of his companion. Having thrown the sack rudely on the ground, the steward lifted his cudgel, and was about to strike when the small door of the garden opened. "How unfortunate!" he muttered; "Faribole, hide yourself in the hedge; I will come back here presently." [Illustration: The Steward lifted his Cudgel.] He approached the person who had entered, and halted, petrified with amazement, on beholding Mother Michel. He imagined at first that she had been brought back by some vague suspicion, by some presentiment; but he recovered himself, hearing her say:-- "I am obliged to postpone my walk, for I have seen Madame de la Grenouillère's carriage coming; it turned out of its way on account of the repairs being made in the street. By reentering through the garden I was able to get here in advance. Come, Monsieur Lustucru, let us hasten to receive our good mistress." "I am with you, madame," said the steward; then, making a speaking-trumpet of his hand, he cried to Faribole:-- [Illustration: Making a Speaking-trumpet of his Hand.] "Strike all alone! strike until the cat has ceased to move!" and he rejoined Mother Michel in the court, where the domestics were drawn up in a line like a well-drilled battalion. On stepping from the carriage Madame de la Grenouillère honored her servitors with a benevolent glance, embraced Mother Michel with touching familiarity, and demanded news of Moumouth. [Illustration: The Countess embraces Mother Michel.] "Your protégé is wonderfully well," said Mother Michel, "he grows fatter and handsomer under our very eyes; but it may be said, without injury to the truth, that his moral qualities are even beyond his physical charms." "Poor friend, if he does not love me he will be a monster of ingratitude, for since our separation I have thought of him constantly; Heaven has taken away many beings that were dear to me, but Moumouth will be the consolation of my old age!" As soon as the Countess had given the orders which her arrival made necessary, she prayed Mother Michel to fetch Moumouth. "He will be charmed to see you again, madame," Mother Michel answered; "he is in the garden in the care of Faribole, a little young man whom your steward judged proper to admit to the house; the young rogue and the cat have become a pair of intimate friends." [Illustration: Faribole seated in the Garden.] Mother Michel went down to the garden and there found Faribole alone, seated upon a bench, and with a preoccupied air stripping the leaves from a branch of boxwood which he held in his hand. "My friend," said the good woman, "Madame, the Countess, desires you to bring Moumouth to her." "Moumouth!" stammered Faribole, starting at the name as if he had been stung by a wasp. "Yes, Moumouth; I thought he was with you." "He just quitted me; some persons passing in the street made a noise that frightened him, and he leaped into the hedge." Mother Michel, after having spent more than half an hour in scouring the garden, returned to Madame de la Grenouillère and said: "Moumouth is absent, madame; but do not be anxious; he disappeared once before, and we found him in the garret." "Let him be searched for! I do not wish to wait. I desire to see him this instant!" Alas! this desire was not likely to be gratified, if any reliance could be placed upon the words exchanged in the dark between Lustucru and his accomplice. "Well, did you do it?" "Yes, Monsieur Lustucru, I pounded until the cat ceased to move." "What have you done with the body?" "I have thrown it into the Seine." "Was he quite dead?" "He didn't stir." "Anyway, the sack was securely fastened. Justice is done!" CHAPTER VIII. IN WHICH MOTHER MICHEL SEARCHES FOR HER CAT. Several days passed in painful expectation; but the cat, like General Marlborough, did not come back. The despair of Madame de la Grenouillère was sincere, profound, and silent,--all the more intense because it was suppressed. She continually pictured to herself the charming ways of Moumouth, his natural goodness, his superior intelligence. No animal had ever displayed to her so many brilliant qualities; not one of her previous favorites had ever caused her such bitter regrets. Generous in her misfortune, she did not reproach Mother Michel; on the contrary, the Countess sought to comfort that poor woman, who had given herself up wholly to grief. The Countess said to her one night:-- "What can you do against an irresistible calamity? The wisdom of man consists not in struggling with unhappiness, but in submitting himself to the will of Heaven." "I am of your opinion," replied Mother Michel. "If I believed, like you, in the death of Moumouth, I would resign myself without a murmur. But I have the idea that he still lives; I picture him running through the streets, the victim of ill treatment, with saucepans, may be"-- "Go to, Mother Michel, you deceive yourself; Moumouth is dead, otherwise he would have come back to us." "Something tells me that he is still in this world, and if Madame the Countess wishes to have tidings of him, she has only to address herself"-- "To whom?" "To our neighbor, Madame Bradamor, that celebrated fortune-teller, who predicts the future, removes freckles, reads in the Book of Destinies, and charms away the toothache." "Fie, Mother Michel! how can you, a sensible woman, have any confidence in the juggling of an adventuress?" "But, madame, I am not alone; the most distinguished people go to Madame Bradamor; she is more learned and less dear than her rivals, and asks only ten crowns to make you behold the devil Astaroth." "Enough, for pity's sake!" responded the Countess, dryly. Mother Michel remained silent; but she had made up her mind, and, the first time she had a moment of liberty, she ran to the house of the necromancer. The fortune-teller occupied a spacious apartment richly furnished, for she gained a great deal of money by cheating the public. Her consultation-room was draped with hangings of black velvet sprinkled with gilt stars; upon a square table, in the centre of the chamber, stood painted tin obelisks, jars of electricity, retorts, and divers mathematical instruments, of whose uses the pretended sorceress was quite ignorant, but which she had placed there in order to impose on the weak-minded persons who came to consult her. She at first showed some embarrassment on beholding Mother Michel; however, after having closed a glass door which communicated with the other apartments, she returned to salute her new client, and said in a solemn tone:-- "What is your desire?" "To question the present, the past, and the future." "I am the very one to satisfy you," replied Madame Bradamor; "but what you demand is very difficult, and will cost you three crowns." "There they are; I give them to you with all my heart." Madame Bradamor, full of regret that she had not insisted on having more, pocketed the money, and began in these terms:-- "What is the date of your birth?" "The 24th of May, 1698." "What are the initials of your name and the first letter of the place in which you were born?" [Illustration: Mother Michel pays Three Crowns.] "A, R, M, N, L, S." Madame Michel was named Anastasie Ravegot; the widow, since twelve years, of François Michel, in life inspector of butter in the Paris markets; she was born in Noisy-le-Sec. "What is your favorite flower?" "The Jerusalem artichoke." After these customary questions, the fortune-teller examined some coffee-grounds poured into a saucer, and said:-- "Phaldarus, the genie of things unknown, informs me that you are in search of a being very dear to you." Mother Michel bounded in her chair with surprise. Madame Bradamor continued: "This being is not a man; it is a quadruped--either a dog or a cat. Ariel, spirit celestial, reveals to me that it is a cat." Mother Michel was more and more impressed; without giving her time to recover herself, the fortune-teller took a pack of cards, shuffled them, cut them three times, then disposed them in a systematic order on the table, and said gravely:-- "Your cat is the knave of clubs; let us see what happens to him. One, two, three, four; ten of spades! He is a wanderer, he has a passion for travel, he sets out at night to see the curiosities of Paris. One, two, three, four; the queen of spades! It is a woman who manufactures ermine fur out of cat-skin. One, two, three, four; the knave of spades! It is a rag-picker. One, two, three, four; the king of spades! It is a restaurant-keeper. The falling together of these three persons alarms me. One, two, three, four,--clubs! One, two, three, four,--clubs again! One, two, three, four,--always clubs. Your cat would bring money to these three persons: the rag-picker wishes to kill him in order to sell the skin to the furrier, and the body to the restaurant-keeper, who will serve it up to his customers as stewed rabbit. Will the cat be able to resist his persecutors. One, two, three, four; seven of spades! It is all over, madame; your cat no longer exists!" [Illustration: The Fortune-teller consults her Cards.] "They have eaten him, the cannibals!" cried Mother Michel, sinking back, and she fancied she heard a plaintive _miau_, the last agonized cry of Moumouth. But it was not an illusion; a cat had miaued, and was still miauing in the next chamber. Suddenly a pane of glass in the door described was shivered to atoms, and Moumouth in person tumbled at the feet of Mother Michel. [Illustration: Moumouth appears.] From the top of a wardrobe he had perceived his affectionate guardian; he had called to her several times, and as she did not answer him, he had thrown himself, in his desperation, against the glass door, through which he had broken a passage. "My cat was with you!" said Mother Michel; "you have stolen him! My mistress is powerful; my mistress is the Countess Yolande de la Grenouillère; she will have you chastised as you deserve to be!" While making these threats Mother Michel placed Moumouth under her arm, and prepared to depart. Madame Bradamor stopped her, saying:-- "Do not ruin me, I conjure you! I have not stolen your cat!" "How is it in your house, then?" "I have it from a little boy named Faribole; he got this cat for me, which I have long desired to have, on account of his supernatural shape and appearance, to figure in my cabalistic conjurations. This is the truth, the whole truth. I beg of you that your mistress will not disturb me." [Illustration: "Do not ruin me, I conjure you!"] "Madame the Countess will act as she thinks proper," responded Mother Michel, haughtily; and she vanished with her cat. She made but one step from the house of Madame Bradamor to that of Madame de la Grenouillère; one would have said that Mother Michel had on the seven-league boots of little Tom Thumb. She did not linger in the parlor, when she arrived out of breath and unable to speak a word, but carried Moumouth straight to the Countess. On recognizing the animal, the Countess gave so loud a cry of joy that it was heard as far as the Place de la Carrousel. Lustucru assisted at this touching scene. At the sight of the cat he was so dumbfounded that his reason wavered for a moment. He imagined that the cat, so many times saved, was a fantastic being, capable of speaking, like the beasts in the fairy-tales, and he said to himself with a shiver: "I am lost! Moumouth is going to denounce me!" [Illustration: Lustucru assisted at this touching Scene.] CHAPTER IX. WHICH IS SATISFACTORY TO EVERYBODY BUT THE GUILTY. As soon as Madame de la Grenouillère learned how Moumouth had been recovered, she ordered young Faribole to be brought before her. "I'll go and look him up," said Father Lustucru, with alacrity. He was very anxious to warn his accomplice, and sought an excuse to steal off. "No, remain! You have admitted him to the mansion, you shall see him turned away, and will learn to bestow your confidence more wisely in future." Lustucru remained, and, recovering from his first stupor, resolved to boldly deny everything, if Faribole should dare to accuse him. Introduced into the parlor, Faribole did not wait to be interrogated. [Illustration: Faribole Explains.] "Madame the Countess," said he, "the presence of your cat tells me why you have called me; but I am less guilty than I appear; permit me to explain." "It is useless," replied Madame de la Grenouillère; "your justification is impossible." The steward, believing it best to play a bold game, said with irony:-- "I am curious to know what unlikely story this rogue has to tell," and in accenting these words slowly he gave Faribole a glance which signified: "If you accuse me, woe to you!'" Without allowing himself to be confused, Faribole commenced in these terms:-- "It is necessary to avow it, madame; I entered into your service with the intention of stealing your cat; the fortune-teller wished to have him, to make him play the part of the devil Astaroth; and she had seduced me by the promise of a crown of six livres and a pair of shoes. They treated me so well, and Moumouth appeared to me so charming, that I renounced my wicked plans; I never, no, never would have put them into execution, if I had not found it was necessary to get Moumouth out of the way in order to rescue him from the attacks of an enemy all the more terrible because he was hidden." "Of whom does he wish to speak?" demanded Lustucru. "Of you! of you who have said to me, 'Kill Moumouth, or I chase you from the house!'" "I, I have said that! what an impudent falsehood! Ah, Madame the Countess, you know me well enough not to hesitate between the declarations of this fellow and my flat denial." "Faribole," said the Countess severely, "your charge is grave; can you bring any proof to support it?" "Proof, alas! no, madame; but I am ready to swear to you"-- "Enough," interrupted the Countess; "do not add calumny to the theft of the cat, but deliver me of your presence." [Illustration: Faribole is treated Roughly on the Staircase.] The miserable Faribole wished to protest, but at a sign from Madame de la Grenouillère, Lustucru seized him by the arm, led him through the door without further ceremony, and treated him in so rough a manner on the staircase as to quite relieve him of any idea of asking for his personal effects. However, the iniquities of the steward were not to remain long unpunished; that same day, Mother Michel, in arranging the closet in the antechamber, was very much astonished at finding the bodies of several dead rats and mice; she was wondering what had caused their death, when she recognized the famous hash that the cat had refused to eat, and which had been left there by mistake. Two mice were dead in the plate itself, so powerful and subtile was the poison! This discovery tore away the veil which covered the past of Lustucru. Mother Michel, divining that the charges of Faribole were well founded, hastened to inform Madame de la Grenouillère, who recommended her to keep silent, and sent for the steward. "Have you still the 'Death to Rats?'" she asked him. "Yes, madame, I think I have a little left." "Some should be placed in the antechamber; you have not thought of that before?" "Never, madame; I did not know there were rats in that part of the house." "Very well; you can retire." [Illustration: A Celebrated Chemist analyzes the Hash.] Madame de la Grenouillère wrote to a celebrated chemist, who, after having analyzed the hash, declared that it contained a prodigious quantity of poison. The crime of Lustucru was then evident; but other proofs were not long in rising against him. The adventure of Groquemouche and Guignolet was talked about among the boatmen; Faribole heard the story from one of them, and discovered a person who had seen Lustucru throw Moumouth from the bridge of Notre Dame. [Illustration: The Fate of the Steward.] The steward, confounded, did not wait to be discharged; he fled, and, to escape the vengeance of Madame de la Grenouillère, embarked as cook on board of a merchant vessel bound for Oceanica. It was afterward learned that this ship had been wrecked upon the Sandwich Islands, and that the savages had eaten Lustucru. History records that at the moment of expiring he pronounced but a single word, the name of Moumouth! [Illustration: Lustucru flies.] What was it that brought this name to the lips of the guilty man? Was it remorse? or was it the last explosion of an unforgiving hatred? This is what history has neglected to inform us. The health of Madame de la Grenouillère had been altered by the heavy shocks she had experienced in losing her favorite animals. The tenderness and graces of Moumouth would perhaps have been sufficient to attach her to life; but the respectable lady had reached an age when sorrows press very heavily. Mother Michel had the grief, one morning, to find the Countess dead in her bed; her face was so calm and bore so plainly the impress of all her lovable qualities, that one would have believed she slept. She was nearly in her seventy-ninth year. By her will, which she had deposited with her lawyer, she had left to Moumouth and Mother Michel an income of two thousand livres, to revert, in case of the death of either, to the survivor. Mother Michel took up her residence near her sister, provided handsomely for all the children, and selected for her own retreat a pretty cottage situated in Low-Breton upon the banks of the river among the green trees. [Illustration: Mother Michel's Cottage.] Faribole, received again into the service of Madame de la Grenouillère, conducted himself so well that his transient error was forgotten. He would have been able to distinguish himself in the kitchen, but he preferred to serve the State, and enlisted at the age of sixteen in an infantry regiment. He took part in the expedition against Majorca under the command of Marshal Richelieu, and was named corporal after the capture of Port-Mahon, June the 29th, 1756. When he obtained his discharge, he returned to live near Mother Michel, for whom he had an affection truly filial. To the agitations of their existence succeeded calm and happy days, embellished by the constantly increasing graces of Moumouth. Our cat henceforth was without an enemy; he won, on the contrary, the esteem and affection of all who knew him. His adventures had made him quite famous. Besides the ballad,--of which, unfortunately, only two couplets have been preserved,--the poets of the period wrote in his honor a large number of verses that have not come down to us. He received visits from the most distinguished men of the time, even from the King himself, who once, on his way to the Chateau of Bellevue, dropped in for a moment on Moumouth. A grand lady of the court condescended to choose for Moumouth a very gentle and very pretty companion, whom he accepted with gratitude. In seeing himself a father Moumouth's happiness was at its highest, as was also that of Mother Michel, who felt that she lived again in the posterity of her cat. You wish to know what finally became of Moumouth? He died,--but it was not until after a long and joyous career. His eyes, in closing, looked with sweet satisfaction upon groups of weeping children and grandchildren. His mortal remains were not treated like those of ordinary cats. Mother Michel had built for him a magnificent mausoleum of white marble. Following a custom then adopted at the burial of all illustrious personages, they engraved upon the tomb of Moumouth an epitaph in Latin, composed by a learned professor of the University of Paris. [Illustration: Moumouth and his Family.] 
28682	----	produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) Transcriber's Note Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. A list of corrections is found at the end of the text. Oe ligatures have been expanded. [Illustration: MINNIE PLAYING WITH FIDELLE. Page 10.] [Illustration: MINNIE and her PETS. BY MRS MADELINE LESLIE MINNIE'S PET CAT.] MINNIE'S PET HORSE. BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE, AUTHOR OF "THE LESLIE STORIES," "TIM, THE SCISSORS-GRINDER," ETC. ILLUSTRATED. BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, SUCCESSORS TO PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 1864. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by A. R. BAKER, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. ELECTROTYPED AT THE BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY. TO MY YOUNG FRIEND, HENRY FOWLE DURANT, JR. =These Little Volumes= ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR, IN THE EARNEST HOPE THAT THEY MAY INCREASE IN HIM THAT LOVE OF NATURE AND OF RURAL LIFE WHICH HAS EVER EXERTED SO SALUTARY AN INFLUENCE IN THE FORMATION OF THE CHARACTERS OF THE WISE AND GOOD. MINNIE AND HER PETS. Minnie's Pet Parrot. Minnie's Pet Cat. Minnie's Pet Dog. Minnie's Pet Horse. Minnie's Pet Lamb. Minnie's Pet Monkey. MINNIE'S PET CAT. CHAPTER I. THE LOVING PUSS. Fidelle, Minnie's second pet, was a beautiful tortoise-shell cat. She was an elegant creature. Her fur was of moderate length, of pure black, white, and reddish orange. Her eyes were large, bright, and affectionate in expression. Her form was delicate, and her motions active. In character, she was the most attached, graceful little puss I ever knew. The moment Fidelle heard Minnie's voice, she walked to the door, and was ready to welcome her, rubbing her glossy sides against the child's feet, and making little soft notes of pleasure. Sometimes Minnie had the headache, or was tired, and lay upon the sofa; when she did so, Fidelle loved to jump up and walk softly over the little figure until she came to her mistress's face, when she quietly lay down near by, or sometimes licked her hand lovingly. She never did this to Mrs. Lee, or any other member of the family. Fidelle was an active puss, and often went bird-catching, or mousing during the night; but generally, when Minnie opened the door of her chamber in the morning, there was Fidelle ready to receive her. During the warm weather, it was Minnie's habit to take an early stroll with her father through the grounds, or to accompany him to the nursery, garden, and orchards, when he went to give orders to the men who worked for him. On such occasions, Fidelle was always on hand, sometimes running along by her side, and then skipping to the top of a tree, or gamboling on before her. When Minnie was very small, she often used to hug the kitten so tightly as, no doubt, to cause the little creature pain; and then, in running around the room after it, the young miss used to catch it by the tail; but Fidelle never resisted, nor, if hurt, revenged herself. She seemed to understand that Minnie loved her, and that it was her duty to submit quietly to all the caprices of her young mistress. One day, when the child was about four years old, a rude boy came, with his mother, to visit her. Seeing Fidelle frolicking about the room, highly delighted with a ball of thread, into which she had got her dainty little feet entangled, Wallace caught the cat by the tail, and held her by it in the air. Minnie screamed with all her might, as she flew to the rescue of her pretty pet. "Go right away, you ugly boy!" she cried out. "Poor Fidelle! darling kitty! I won't let you be hurt so." Puss remembered the insult and abuse. Whenever she saw Wallace coming toward her, she hid herself behind the sofa; and once, when he came suddenly upon her, she gave him a long, deep scratch on his hand. Minnie never after liked this boy; and once, when Mrs. Lee was intending to invite his mother to repeat her visit, the child begged earnestly that Wallace might be left at home, saying, "He is so cruel to Fidelle, I can't bear to have him here." I told you, in the other book about Minnie's pet parrot, that she used often to ride with her mother in the afternoon. There was nothing she liked better than to take Fidelle and Tiney out with her. Sometimes Mrs. Lee allowed this; but when she was intending to make calls she feared the pets would be troublesome. Fidelle was greatly disappointed when she could not go. She would ask as well as she knew how, and I dare say some of her mews were promises to be good; but Mrs. Lee knew best when it was proper, and was obliged to be firm. Kitty then used to stand at the door, watching her mistress, as she jumped into the carriage, returning her "Good by, dear Fidelle," by little soft purrs. When the carriage was out of sight, Puss seated herself at the window to watch for their return. Whether it was one hour or two, she almost always sat patiently, sometimes indulging herself with a nap, but never getting so sound asleep that the first rumble of the wheels did not awaken her. As soon as the carriage began to roll up the avenue, Kitty was all excitement, looking from the window, and moving her tail back and forth, then with a spring bounding to another window, where she could see them alight. If the door happened to be shut, she cried piteously until let out, when she ran quickly and jumped on Minnie's shoulder, purring as loud as she could, to express her joy. A lady was once visiting at the house, who said she liked dogs, especially such splendid great ones as Leo; but she couldn't see any thing agreeable or intelligent in a cat. "There are some wonderful accounts of the sagacity of cats," remarked Mr. Lee, smiling at Minnie's quick flush of indignation. "If my little daughter will bring me that book we were looking at yesterday, I think I can soon convince you that they are certainly not wanting in intelligence." "They are capable of strong attachments," said Mrs. Lee, as the child rose and left the room, followed closely by Fidelle. "I think none of Minnie's pets show more real affection for her, nor more gratitude for her kindness." "Is this the book, father?" inquired the little girl, putting a handsomely bound volume into his hand, and looking very bright and rosy. "Yes, child, this is it." "I thought it was, by the picture of the cats." The lady looked surprised; and presently asked, earnestly, "Can't you read, Minnie?" Vivid blushes spread all over the child's face, as she softly answered, "No, ma'am." "We have our own views on that subject," said the gentleman, smiling, as he drew his only daughter tenderly to his side. "She will learn fast enough when we put her to her books. At present, our only desire is to see her enjoy herself, and lay in a good stock of health." "Why not do both, Mr. Lee?" asked the lady. "My little Marie Louise is only four, and she can read almost as well as I can. She is learning to write, too, and really pens a letter very prettily." "I dare say," added the gentleman, gravely, after giving his wife a comical look; "your daughters are all geniuses, which, I am happy to say, Minnie is not. She is only an obedient, affectionate, practical little girl," giving her a tender caress. "But come, we were discussing, not the child's merits, but the cat's." "True; and now for your account of them." Mr. Lee turned over the leaves of the book, thanking God that his dear, conscientious, simple-hearted Minnie was not artful, disobedient, and affected, like the child of their visitor, even though the latter might be ever so learned a miss; and presently came to the chapter on domestic cats, from which we shall quote a few incidents. CHAPTER II. THE CAT AND CHICKEN. "In the summer of 1792, a gentleman who lived near Portsmouth, in England, had a favorite cat, with a family of kittens. As he did not wish so large an increase to his family, he ordered all the kittens to be drowned. "The same day, the cat was missing, and, on farther search, one chicken also. "Diligent search was made in every place that could be thought of, but in vain. Day after day passed, and at last the gentleman concluded some accident had deprived them of life. "Nearly a week after the kittens had been drowned, a servant had occasion to go to an unfrequented part of the cellar, where, to his great astonishment, he saw the cat lying in one corner, with the chicken hugged close to her body, and one paw laid over it as if to protect it from injury. "Puss and her adopted chicken were brought into a closet in the kitchen, where they continued some time, the cat treating her little charge in every respect as a kitten. Whenever the chicken left the cat to eat the soft dough provided for it, she appeared very uneasy, but on its return, received it with the affection of a mother, purred, and presented the appearance of being perfectly happy. "The gentleman, being curious to know whether the affection of puss was returned by her protege, carried it to the hen, the cat following with loud cries of distress. But on being released, the chicken at once returned to her attached friend, who received her with enthusiastic delight. "Some time after, the chicken was, by some accident, killed, and, though another one was tendered her, the cat pined, and was inconsolable for the loss of her favorite." "O, father," cried Minnie, her face glowing with excitement, "wasn't that strange? I mean to try Fidelle, and see whether she likes chickens." "More likely she'll make a meal of them," said the lady, laughing. "At any rate, your story only proves my opinion of cats, as thieving, mischievous creatures, to be true. Even she stole a chicken from the hen, the rightful owner of it, and alienated its affections from its own mother." "But all her kittens had been taken away from her, and pussies must have something to love, as well as people," exclaimed Minnie, while her quivering lip and flushed cheeks showed how much she was in earnest in what she said. "My dear," remarked her father, "the lady is only joking, to carry out her side of the argument, which, when I have read farther, I am sure she will see is a weak one." "Here is a case just in point." "A lady had a tame bird which she was in the habit of letting out of its cage every day. When at liberty, it would fly to the top of the mirror, or on the picture frames, and then to the floor, to pick up crumbs. "One morning, as it was busily picking crumbs of bread from the carpet, her cat, who had always before showed great kindness for the bird, suddenly seized it, and jumped with it in her mouth upon the table. "The lady screamed, being greatly alarmed for the safety of her favorite; but on turning about, instantly discovered the cause. The door had been left open, and a strange cat had just come into the room. "After turning it out, her own cat came down from her place of safety, and dropped the bird on the carpet without doing it the smallest injury; for it commenced again picking crumbs, as if nothing alarming had occurred." "What do you say to that, Mrs. Belcher?" inquired Mr. Lee, earnestly. "I must confess," she answered, "that was the most sensible puss I ever heard of. She certainly did a good deed, and ought to have been commended for it." "She showed presence of mind in danger," added the gentleman, "an affection for the bird with which she daily associated, and gratitude for the kindness of her mistress, who had, no doubt, treated her tenderly." "Now here is another case." "In the parish of Stonington, Surrey, England, a man was passing through a hay field in the month of September, 1793, when he was surprised to see a cat and a hare playing together in the hay. He stood more than ten minutes gratified at the unusual sight, when the hare, alarmed at seeing a stranger approach, ran into a thicket of fern, and was followed by the cat." "I'm sure, father, Fidelle and Tiney are good friends," cried Minnie, exultingly. "They often play together." "Tiney is getting too fat and lazy to play much with any body," remarked Mrs. Lee, smiling. "Will you please read more, father?" Mr. Lee was looking over the book, and laughed heartily. "Do please read it aloud, father," again urged Minnie. The gentleman commenced. "In 1806, Mr. Peter King, of Islington, had two large cats, which used to sit at table with him. They were waited upon by servants, and partook of the same dainties in which he indulged himself. "Mr. King was a great admirer of fine clothes, richly laced, and of making a display. One day, as he sat eating, with his cats for company, he thought, perhaps, they might like liveries, as well as he did. He accordingly sent for the tailor, when he had them measured for their suits. The clothes were speedily sent home, and the cats wore them for the rest of their lives." "That doesn't prove much for you," remarked Mrs. Belcher, archly. "It only shows there are some foolish cats as well as some foolish men. But whatever we may think on the subject, the king of Guinea, once thought a cat so valuable that he gladly gave a man his weight in gold if he would procure him one, and with it an ointment to kill flies. "A Portuguese, named Alphonse, was the happy individual; and he so well improved the money he made by the trade, that after fifteen years of traffic, he returned to Portugal, and became the third man in rank and wealth in the kingdom. All that for the despised cat." "O, I don't despise them in their place!" urged the lady. "They are good to keep the cellar and out buildings free from those troublesome animals, rats and mice. But I never could make a pet of a cat." "Nor eat one, I suppose," he added, roguishly. "No, indeed," with an expression of contempt. "They are thought by some to make a delicious meal," he went on with mock gravity. "A fricassee, for instance. Here is a recipe for the cooking:-- "Skin the cat thoroughly, cut it in pieces, and soak twenty-four hours in vinegar; then anoint it with garlic and honey, after which it is fried like a young chicken." "Horrible!" exclaimed Mrs. Belcher; while Mrs. Lee confessed, much as she esteemed cats, she could not relish such a meal. "Is it possible they are ever used for such a purpose?" she inquired presently. "Certainly, my dear; among the negroes they are considered a great dainty, and Goethe, in his 'Rifleman's Comrade,' said the soldiers at Palmero ate them with a relish." CHAPTER III. PUSS AND THE PARTRIDGE. A few days later, as Minnie sat watching Fidelle washing herself, licking her paws, and then putting them on her face and ears, her father drove into the yard, accompanied by a niece, who had come to make them a long visit. Ida Morris was the daughter of Mr. Lee's only sister. She was a lovely girl of fourteen, having long been the companion and especial charge of her widowed mother. Mrs. Morris had now gone to Europe with her son, who was an invalid, and Ida had come to stay at her uncle's until their return. Minnie had not seen her cousin for a year; but she knew from her parents that Ida was frank and good tempered, and very fond of pets. When she heard the carriage, therefore, she ran joyfully to meet and welcome her visitor. Ida had grown very tall within the year, and this afternoon was exceedingly sad from the parting with her mother and brother, the latter of whom she might never see again; but when she felt Minnie's soft hand pressed so lovingly in her own, and heard the eager tones of joy at her arrival, she felt comforted. Wiping her tear-dimmed eyes, she said, "Uncle George has been telling me about your pets; and you, dear Minnie, shall be mine." Fidelle presently came and jumped in Ida's lap, to the surprise of Mrs. Lee and Minnie. "Why, here is the beautiful cat I saw last year," cried the young girl; "can it be possible that she remembers me? You know I petted her a great deal." "I have no doubt that is the case," answered her aunt; "otherwise I should be at a loss to account for her sudden fondness. She is usually very shy with strangers." Ida stroked the soft, silky hair, and seemed almost as much in love with the puss as Minnie herself was, while Fidelle purred and purred, and lovingly licked the hand that fondled her. "Oh, cousin!" cried Minnie, her cheeks glowing with animation, "we do have such good times reading stories about birds and animals. We are reading about the cat now. Father says there is something in his books about every one of my pets." "I hope I may be a listener, then." "Oh, yes, indeed! While you are here, you are to be my ownty, downty sister, and I shall try to make you happy." Ida kissed her; then they adjourned to the dining hall, where they had been summoned to tea. Fidelle, knowing she was not allowed there at meal times, reluctantly remained behind. In the evening, when the candles were lighted, Minnie begged her father to go on with the stories, to which he willingly consented; but first he said,-- "I suppose you know, Minnie, that the cat belongs to the same family as the lion, the tiger, the panther, the leopard, and several other wild animals. The tiger and cat are very similar in form and feature; they have the same rounded head and pointed ears; the long, lithe body, covered with fine, silky hair, often beautifully marked; the silent, stealthy step, occasioned by treading on the fleshy ball of the foot; the same sharp claws; the same large, lustrous eyes, capable, from the expansive power of the pupil, of seeing in the dark; the whiskered lip; the carnivorous teeth; and a tongue covered with bony prickers. "In many of their habits, too, they are alike. In their natural state, they sleep a great part of the time, only rousing themselves when pressed by hunger. Then they are alike in lying in wait for their prey, not hunting it, like the wolf and dog; but after watching patiently for it, as I have often seen Fidelle watch for a mouse, they steal along with their supple joints and cushioned feet till within springing distance of their victims, when they dart upon them with an angry growl. "Though cats are very plenty now, they were not always so. The Egyptians venerated cats, as a type of one of their gods. To slay a cat was death by law. When a cat died, the family to which it belonged mourned as for a child. It was carried to a consecrated house, embalmed, and wrapped in linen, and then buried with religious rites, at Bulastes, a city of Lower Egypt, being placed in a sepulchre near the altar of the principal temple. "The Mohammedans have an extraordinary reverence for them; and a traveller, of whom I once read, saw at Damascus a hospital for cats, which was a large building walled around, and said to be full of them. "This singular institution, well supported by public alms, originated in the fact that Mahomet brought a cat to Damascus, which he kept carefully in the sleeve of his gown, and fed with his own hands. He even preferred cutting off the sleeve of his robe, rather than to disturb the repose of his favorite, who had fallen asleep in it. "I remember a curious story, which is told of Cambyses, a Persian general, who conquered Thebes by placing in front of the Persian army a corps of cats, giving to each of his soldiers, employed in the attack, instead of a buckler a live cat, and other animals venerated by the Egyptians. "Not daring to advance upon these animals, the Theban garrison fell, as the wily Persian commander anticipated, an unresisting prey to his stratagem." "And do you remember," said Mrs. Lee, to her husband, "that Moncrieff says an insult offered a cat by a Roman was the cause of an insurrection among the Egyptians?" "Yes, and the same writer states that even after death, these animals were held so sacred, that they were often deposited in the niches of the catacombs. If they were killed, even by accident, the murderer was given up to the rabble to be buffeted to death. "Now, Minnie, that I have made so long a speech, for your benefit, on the high esteem with which cats have been regarded, I will read you a most remarkable instance of the sagacity of one of them." "In the summer of 1800, a physician of Lyons was summoned to court, and requested to inquire into a murder that had been committed on a woman in that city. He accordingly went to the residence of the deceased, where he found her extended on the floor, and weltering in her blood. "A large white cat was mounted on the cornice of the cupboard, at the farther end of the apartment, where he seemed to have taken refuge. He sat motionless, with his eyes fixed on the corpse, his attitude and looks expressing horror and affright. "The next morning the room was filled with officers and soldiers; but still the cat remained exactly in the same position, entirely undisturbed by the clattering of the soldiers' arms, or the loud conversation of the company. "But as soon as the suspected persons were brought in, his eyes glared with fury, his hair bristled, he darted into the middle of the apartment, where he stopped for a moment to gaze at them, and then precipitately retreated. This he repeated three times, to the amazement of the spectators. "The assassins returned his gaze with terror. They who had but a moment before been so bold, now became confused; and all their wicked effrontery left them. They were condemned, and afterwards acknowledged that, in the presence of the cat, they, for the first time during the whole course of the horrid business, felt their courage forsake them." "That was an awful story," remarked Mrs. Lee, having watched Minnie's shudder of horror. "I hope you have something more lively." "Yes, here is an account of an attachment which was formed between a cat and a dog. The story is quite amusing." "Mr. Weuzel, a writer on natural history, gives an account of a cat and dog, which became so attached to each other that they would never willingly be asunder. Whenever the dog got any choice morsel, he was sure to divide it with his whiskered friend. They always ate sociably out of one plate, slept in the same bed, and daily walked out together. "Wishing," continues Mr. Weuzel, "to put their friendship to the proof, I one day took the cat by herself into my room, while I had the dog guarded in another apartment. I entertained the cat in a most sumptuous manner, wishing to see what sort of a meal she would make without her friend. "She enjoyed the treat with great glee, and seemed to have entirely forgotten her table companion. I had had a partridge for dinner, half of which I intended to keep for my supper; my wife covered it with a plate, and put it in a cupboard, the door of which she did not lock. "The cat left the room, and I walked out on business, my wife sitting at work in an adjoining apartment. When I returned, she related to me the following:-- "The cat, having hastily left the dining room, went to the dog, and mewed uncommonly loud, and in different tones of voice, which the dog from time to time answered with a short bark. Then they both went to the door of the room where the cat had dined, and waited till it was opened. One of my children opened the door, and the two friends entered the apartment. The mewing of the cat excited my wife's attention. She rose from her seat, and stepped softly up to the door, which stood ajar, to observe what was going on. "The cat led the dog at once to the cupboard which contained the partridge, pushed off the plate which covered it, and taking out my intended supper, laid it before her canine friend, who devoured it greedily. No doubt the cat, by her mewing, had made him understand what an excellent meal she had made, and how sorry she was that he had not participated in it; but at the same time had told him there was something left for him in the cupboard, and persuaded him to follow her there. "Since that time, I have paid particular attention to these animals, and am convinced that they communicate to each other whatever seems interesting to either." CHAPTER IV. FIDELLE AT PRAYERS. Mr. Lee was a religious man, accustomed to having morning and evening devotions, at which all the family were present. Fidelle had for a long time made it a point to be in the parlor on such occasions, and often caused a smile by the eagerness with which she ran to join them on their return from the table. One morning, Mrs. Lee was quite ill, and unable to leave her chamber. The family, however, assembled as usual for prayers, and Fidelle among them. She seemed instantly to notice that the lady was not in her accustomed place, and, after an earnest gaze into Minnie's face, started off to call her. Mrs. Lee was quite surprised to see the cat come walking quickly into the room, up to the side of the sofa where she was lying. There she stopped, and, gazing at her, cried, "Meow! meow!" Then she ran out to the hall, and part way down the stairs. But finding the lady did not follow, she returned again, and still more earnestly cried, "Meow! meow!" trying to make her understand that, instead of lying there, she ought to be below, attending prayers. This she did three times; after which she concluded, perhaps, that she had better not abstain from the service because the lady did so, and she therefore quietly took her usual place near Mr. Lee. It was invariably her custom to remain with her eyes tightly closed while the gentleman read the Scriptures; then, when he closed the book, and the family knelt for prayer, she arose, turned over, and sat down again, which was the nearest approach she could make to imitating them. In this position she remained quietly until the service was concluded, when she at once began to caper and play as usual. Minnie had sometimes been disposed to smile to see Fidelle sitting upright, with her eyes tightly closed; and Ida acknowledged that the first time she saw her looking so demure, as though she understood and appreciated every word that was said, she had to bite her lips to keep from laughing outright. When Mrs. Lee told them what Fidelle had done, her husband was delighted with this proof of her intelligence. He said her conduct while they were engaged in devotion was an example to all of them, and wished Poll would take a lesson of her. With this incident occurring under their own notice, their interest in the stories was increased, and after tea, Mr. Lee read among others the following:-- "A little black spaniel had five puppies, which were considered too many for her to bring up. As, however, they were a rare kind of dog, her mistress was unwilling that any of them should be destroyed; and she asked the cook whether she thought it would be possible to bring a portion of them up by hand, before the kitchen fire. The cook answered that the cat had several kittens, and she had no doubt, if they were taken away, the puppies might be substituted. "The cat made no objection, took to them kindly, and gradually all the kittens were taken away, and she nursed the two puppies only. "Now, the first curious fact was, that the two puppies were in a fortnight as active, forward, and playful as kittens would have been. They had the use of their legs, barked, and gamboled about, while the other three nursed by the mother were whining and rolling about like fat slugs. "The cat gave them her tail to play with; and they were always in motion. They soon ate meat, and long before the others, they were fit to be removed. This was done; and the cat became inconsolable. She prowled about the house, and on the second day of tribulation, fell in with the little spaniel, who was nursing the other three puppies. "'O,' said puss, putting up her back, 'it is you who have stolen my children.' "'No,' replied the spaniel, with a snarl, 'they are my own flesh and blood.' "'That won't do,' said the cat. 'I'll take my oath before any justice of the peace, that you have my two puppies.' Thereupon there was a desperate combat, which ended in the defeat of the spaniel; and then the cat walked off proudly with one of the puppies, which she took to her own bed. "Having deposited this one, she returned, fought again, gained another victory, and redeemed another puppy. "Now, it is very singular that she should have taken only two, the exact number she had been deprived of." "Isn't that a nice story?" cried Minnie, joyfully clapping her hands. "I had no idea there were such pleasant things about cats," said Ida, laughing at her cousin's enthusiasm. "Fidelle has risen wonderfully in my estimation. But don't let me detain you, dear uncle." "I see here," he said, "a curious account of a cat, published by M. Antoine in France." "In a French cloister, the hours of meals were announced by the ringing of a bell. A favorite cat belonging to the establishment was accustomed, as soon as she heard the summons, to run quickly to the dining hall, that she might be fed. "One day it happened that puss was accidentally shut up in a room by herself when the bell rang, and could not therefore obey the summons. Some hours after, she was let out, and instantly ran to the spot where dinner was always left for her; but no dinner was to be found. [Illustration: PUSS RINGING FOR HER DINNER. Page 82.] "In the afternoon, the bell was heard ringing at an unusual hour. The inmates of the cloister ran quickly to see what was the cause of it, when, to their surprise, they saw the cat clinging to the bell rope, and setting it in motion as well as she was able, in order that she might have her dinner served up to her." "I hope they gave her a good one," urged Minnie. "I'm sure she deserved it for being so smart." "I have no doubt of it," remarked the gentleman, smiling. "Now, here is a story of another French cat." "It was of a kind known as the Angora variety, a very beautiful creature, with silvery hair of fine silky texture, generally longest on the neck, but also long on the tail. Some of them are olive, the color of the lion; but they are delicate creatures, and of gentle dispositions. "This one belonged to a hotel in Paris, and having noticed that the cook always left the kitchen upon the ringing of a certain bell, and thus left the room clear for her to eat the dainties she had been preparing, soon acquired the art of pulling the bell herself. "This trick she practised for some weeks, in the mean time growing plump and sleek from her abundance of rich delicacies, until the thieving became so extensive that a person was set to watch for the rogue. "Concealing himself, therefore, with fire-arms, ready to secure the villain, the man had to wait but a short time before he saw puss steal along near the wall, where she gently agitated the bell wire. "Cook obeyed the summons, and left the kitchen, when the cat sprang from her hiding place, and catching a pigeon, just ready for the oven, in her mouth, ran into the cellar to enjoy her plunder." This instance of intelligence caused a hearty laugh among the hearers, which had not quite ceased when Mr. Lee said, "I have been told that a garrison of disciplined cats was once kept on the island of Cyprus, for the purpose of destroying the serpents with which it was infested. They were so well trained that they came in to their meals at the sound of a bell, and at a similar signal returned in order to the chase, where they were equally zealous and successful." CHAPTER V. KITTY AND THE FISH. One morning, when Minnie went down stairs, she found Fidelle apparently much distressed at having stepped into some water which the chamber girl had accidentally spilled on the floor. Puss shook one foot and then another in the most dainty manner imaginable, and then, going to a dry place, sat down to lick her paws. "What can be the reason cats don't like water?" Minnie asked her mother. "Leo thinks a bath very refreshing, and I suppose Tiney would if Kate did not scrub her so hard." "I don't know, my dear, why it is so; but they do almost always dread the water. Though they are extremely fond of fish, they seldom venture into the water after it, but wait for it to be brought to them. "But there are cases where they have become expert fishers. I remember an account now which I think will interest you. "A widow woman by the name of Rogers had a large family of children dependent on her for support. By practising the greatest economy, they were able to live for several years. At last there came a famine, when provision of every kind was so scarce that this poor family were reduced to the verge of starvation. Twenty-four hours had passed without one mouthful of food, and the widow knew not where to obtain any; when, hearing a faint scratching at the door, she went to open it. She saw there a sight which made tears of grateful joy stream from her eyes. The cat, which had long been an inmate of the family, a sharer of their prosperity and adversity, with whom one of the children had divided her last crust,--this cat stood at the door, holding in her mouth a large fish, which furnished all the household with a plentiful meal. "What was more remarkable, puss continued to do this for nearly three weeks, until better times dawned upon them, when she suddenly ceased the habit, and never was known to take to the water again." "Wasn't that a good kitty, mamma?" cried Minnie, giving Fidelle an extra squeeze. "She was a useful cat." "Yes, my dear; and when your father comes home, I think he can find a number of instances where cats have overcome their dislike of wet feet, and have become expert fishers." In the evening, Minnie did not forget to remind her father that she liked to hear stories. Running up on the steps, she took the volume from its place, and playfully put it into his hands. After repeating to him the incident her mother had related in the morning, he turned over the leaves, and presently found the following:-- "At Caverton Mill, in Roxburghshire, a beautiful spot on the Kale water, there was a famous cat domesticated in the dwelling house, which stood two or three hundred yards from the mill. When the mill work ceased, the water was nearly stopped at the dam head, and below, therefore, ran gradually more shallow, often leaving trout, which had ascended when it was full, to struggle back with difficulty to the parent stream. "So well acquainted had puss become with this circumstance, and so fond was she of fish, that the moment she heard the noise of the mill clapper cease, she used to scamper off to the dam, and, up to her belly in water, continue to catch fish like an otter." "That is really a curious instance," remarked Mrs. Lee, "where the instinct of puss amounted almost to reason. She connected the stopping of the wheel with the shutting off the water, and found by experience that at such times the trout could be seen." "Here is another," added Mr. Lee, "related by the Plymouth Journal, in England." "A cat who had for many years attached herself to the guard house, was in the constant habit of diving into the sea, and bringing up the fish alive in her mouth, for the use of the soldiers. At the time this account was given, she was seven years old, and had long been a useful caterer. It is supposed that she first ventured into the water, to which cats have a natural aversion, in pursuit of the water rats, but at length became as fond of it as a Newfoundland dog. She took her regular walk along the rocks at the edge of the point, looking out for her prey, and ready to dive in at a moment's notice." "We have a neighbor at home," said Ida, "who cannot endure the sight of a cat. I wish she could hear some of these incidents; it is probable that it might change her opinion of their intelligence." "They are really affectionate little creatures," rejoined Mr. Lee, "as this story would convince any one." "A cat, which had been well treated in a family, became extremely attached to the eldest child, a little boy who was very fond of playing with her. She bore with patience all maltreatment which she received from him without making any resistance. As the cat grew up, however, she daily quitted her playfellow for a time, from whom she had before been inseparable, in order to catch mice; but even when engaged in this employment, she did not forget her friend; for as soon as she had caught a mouse, she brought it alive to him. "If he showed any inclination to take her prey from her, she let the mouse run, and waited to see whether he was able to catch it. If he did not, the cat darted at it, seized it, and laid it again before him; and in this manner the sport continued, as long as the child showed any desire for the amusement. "At length, the boy was attacked by small pox, and during the early stages of the disorder the cat never quitted his bedside; but as his danger increased, it was found necessary, on account of her cries, to remove the cat, and lock her up. The boy died. On the following day, puss, having escaped from her confinement, immediately ran to the chamber where she hoped to find her playmate. "Disappointed in this, she sought for him with great uneasiness, and loud cries, all over the house, till she came to the door of the room where the corpse had been placed. Here she lay down in silent melancholy till she was again locked up. After the child was buried, the cat was set at liberty, when she suddenly disappeared. It was not until a fortnight later that she returned to the well-known apartment quite emaciated. She refused nourishment, and soon ran away again with dismal cries. At last, compelled by hunger, she made her appearance every day at dinner time, but always left the house as soon as she had eaten the food that was given her. No one knew where she spent the rest of her time, till she was found one day under the wall of the burying ground, close to the grave of her favorite. "So indelible was her attachment to her deceased friend, that till his parents removed to another place, five years afterwards, she never, except in the greatest severity of winter, passed the night any where else than close to the grave. "Ever afterwards she was treated with the utmost kindness by every person in the family, though she never exhibited partiality for any of them." CHAPTER VI. MOUSER AND HER MISTRESS. Soon after this, Minnie, was ill, and obliged to keep her bed for several days. One morning she lay bolstered up with pillows, Fidelle keeping her position close under the arm of her mistress, when a particular friend of Mrs. Lee called, and was shown into the chamber. She laughed as she saw kitty lying there, and tried to coax her away. "I love kitties," she said, passing her hand softly over the glossy fur, "and kitties love me." Minnie's pale cheek kindled with a glow, in her sympathy with the lady's remark. "I must tell you about my puss, Mouser," the visitor went on, seating herself close by the couch. "I was ill in bed, as you are, and puss, who is a splendid great Maltese, was very anxious about me. She feared I might be neglected, or that I should not take the right medicine, or that every thing might not be done in the best manner, and thought proper to oversee the whole business. She was continually running from the shed to my chamber, as if she were half distracted, mewing and crying in the most heart-rending manner." "Why didn't she stay on your bed, as Fidelle does?" inquired Minnie, in great interest. "I was just coming to that, my dear. Unfortunately for Mouser, she had at that very time five kittens, a family large enough, one would suppose, to occupy all her attention. But even with the care of her kittens on her mind, Mouser would not forsake her old friend. For a time, her distress and anxiety were so great, running here and there fifty times in a day, that it really began to wear upon her health, when an expedient happily was suggested to her mind. "I had provided a large box in the shed for the little family, with a piece of soft carpet doubled for their bed. Mouser paid me an early visit one morning, and, having taken a rapid, eager survey of the premises, hastened away again. But she presently returned with a kitten in her mouth, and made a bold jump with it on the bed. "'I declare that great cat has brought her kitten up here,' exclaimed my nurse, astonished at her effrontery. 'I'll soon teach her to keep them at home;' and taking a broom, she was proceeding to drive the intruders out in great wrath. "'Let her stay,' I said, decidedly; 'she is a great pet of mine.' "Mouser looked anxiously in my face, without dropping the kitten from her mouth, as if her life depended on my words. She seemed instantly to understand that I had conquered, for she laid the kitten down, and was gone in an instant. "I understood the whole matter at once, but had hard work to make nurse believe that I really meant to have the cat and all her family on my bed. It was with great reluctance she brought a foot blanket from the closet, and spread it over the white counterpane, all the while muttering, 'Well, I never heard any thing like it. I don't believe it's healthy. I won't be answerable for the consequences.' "When Mouser had brought the last one, and laid it on the blanket at the foot of the bed, she walked deliberately up to me, and began to lick my hand, while the look of gratitude and satisfaction she gave me amply repaid my interference in her behalf. It said, as plainly as possible, 'Now I have all I love about me, and without distraction can attend to you, my dear mistress, and not neglect my family. Now I am contented and happy.' "I was sick two days after this. At night, Mouser and her charge were removed to the corner of the room; but whenever I made any sound of distress, she was directly at my side, looking in my face, and mewing piteously. I understood perfectly that she wished to express her sorrow and sympathy at my affliction. "When I was able to be out of bed, her delight was so great that even the nurse was convinced of her affection. She frisked about, played with her kittens, which she had not once done while I was in bed, followed me around the room, leaping upon me, and rubbing her glossy fur against my dress. Do you wonder, Minnie, that I love Mouser; and other kittens for her sake?" The lady was somewhat surprised, when the enthusiastic child, instead of answering, started suddenly and gave her a kiss. From this time, a warm friendship was established between them. When she had gone, the child had a refreshing nap, and then asked her mother to get the book and read her a story. "Here is an affecting one," remarked Mrs. Lee, after having looked over the pages, "where puss loved her mistress as much as Mrs. Davis's Mouser did. "A lady named Madame Helvetius had a favorite kitten, which constantly lay at her feet, seemingly always ready to defend her. It never molested the birds which she kept; it would not take food from any hand but hers, and would not allow any one else to caress it. "At the death of its mistress, the poor cat was removed from her chamber; but it made its way there the next morning, went on the bed, sat upon her chair, slowly and mournfully paced over her toilet, and cried most piteously, as if lamenting its poor mistress. "After her funeral it was found stretched lifeless on her grave, apparently having died from excess of grief." "I think Mouser would have died just so," said Minnie, softly, "she loves her mistress so well." "Here is another story, my dear, if you are not too tired." "O, no, indeed! I think I should very soon be well if you would read all the time." "Henry, Earl of Southampton, was long confined in the Tower of London, as a political prisoner. He had been already some time in confinement, when, one day, he was both delighted and surprised by receiving a visit from a favorite cat. "The poor creature being distracted with grief at the cruel separation from her master, and not being able to gain access to him through the gates of the prison, was at last sagacious enough to plan a method of visiting him. She watched her chance, scaled the walls of the Tower, and finally reached him by descending through the accumulated soot and smoke of his chimney. Whether instinct guided her aright the first time, or whether she was obliged to descend many chimneys in her eager search for the one she loved, we cannot tell; but her delight at last in finding him seemed abundantly to repay her for all her perils." "How very glad her master must have been to see her!" faltered the child, her eyes moist with emotion. "I don't see how any body can help loving cats." CHAPTER VII. PUSS TAKING A JOURNEY. Fidelle had one singular habit which I have not yet noticed. She used to take a solitary walk every evening at about dusk. The custom began in the following manner. For a long time Mr. and Mrs. Lee, with Minnie, were in the habit of taking a walk at sunset, and sometimes Fidelle went with them; but finding the frolics of the kitten fatigued the child, causing her to run up and down in pursuit, they ordered the cat to be kept at home. As soon as they were out of sight, puss started off by herself, and enjoyed it so much, that for years, except when the weather was very stormy, the little creature might be seen walking demurely down the avenue into the street, from which direction she usually returned in the course of an hour, walking as quietly as she went. One day a gentleman from the neighboring city came to pass the night with her father, and, knowing Minnie's fondness for animals, told her he had heard a curious account of a cat, which he would relate to her if she pleased. The little girl was delighted, and ran at once to call her cousin Ida. They were presently seated in the parlor, Minnie having taken the precaution to carry with her the favorite volume from the library, in case it should be needed. "I am told this story is authentic," said the gentleman. "It occurred in the summer of 1828, near Deniston, England. "A gentleman, by the name of Stankley, owned a cat, who was a great favorite with the children, and was in the constant habit of going out of doors to play with them. One day she returned to the house without any of her usual company, and going directly to Mrs. Stankley, rubbed herself against her feet, crying, to arrest attention. She then went to the door and returned, which motions she repeated so long that the lady suspected the little creature had something in view. She therefore put on her bonnet, and followed her out. To her astonishment, it ran on before her, turning continually, and apparently delighted that it had gained its object, until they had gone some distance. Here the cat left her, and darted forward, when, to her surprise, she saw her youngest child stuck fast in the mud of a ditch, unable to move. "When the mother extricated the child, the cat testified her pleasure in every possible way, jumping on the lady's dress, and purring as loudly as possible." "I imagine," remarked Mr. Lee, "that the power of observation in the inferior animals is greater than is generally supposed. Those who have most carefully watched them, and noted their characters and habits, think they not only come to know persons and events, but to distinguish particular days, like the Sabbath, and to comprehend the meaning of many words. "I saw, the other day, a curious proof that cats observe what is passing around them. "There was a lady who lived at Potsdam with her children. One day, the youngest ran a splinter into her little foot, which caused her to scream out most violently. "At first, her cries were disregarded, as it was supposed they proceeded, as they often did, from impatience. At last, the elder sister, who had been asleep, was awakened by the screams, and as she was just getting up to quiet the child, she observed a favorite cat, with whom they were wont to play, and who was of a remarkably gentle disposition, leave its place under the stove, go to the crying girl, and strike her on the cheek with one of its paws so as to draw blood. "After this, the animal walked back with the greatest composure and gravity to its place, as if satisfied with having chastised the child for crying, and with the hope of indulging in a comfortable nap. She had, no doubt, often seen the child punished in this way for crossness; and as there was no one near to administer correction, puss had determined to take the law into her own hand." This story occasioned a great laugh, though Minnie pitied the crying girl, who not only had to bear the splinter, but the punishment of the cat. "Another story, exhibiting the close observation of cats," rejoined Mr. Lee, "relates to their habit of returning home from a long distance. A most remarkable instance of this was given by a gentleman who removed from the county of Sligo to Dublin, a distance of about ninety miles. "When about to change their residence, he and his children regretted exceedingly being obliged to leave a favorite cat behind them, which had endeared itself to them by its docility and affection. "They had not been settled many days in their new abode, when one evening, as the family were sitting and chatting merrily at the tea table, the servant came in, followed by a cat so precisely like the one left behind that all the family repeated his name at once; the little creature testifying great joy, in his own way, at the meeting. "The gentleman took the puss in his arms, while all gathered about to examine him; but no difference could be found between their old favorite and this one. Still it was difficult to believe it was their poor deserted pet, for how could he have travelled after them? or how could he have found them out? "Yet the exact resemblance, the satisfaction which the poor animal evinced, as he walked about in all the confidence of being among friends, with his tail erect, and purring with pleasure, left little doubt that this was indeed their own cat. "At last, one of the family examined his claws, and found they were actually worn down with travelling. This circumstance convinced them that poor puss had really followed them the whole journey of ninety miles. "As soon as they could believe it was their own, they gave the faithfully attached creature an enthusiastic greeting and a sumptuous repast." "I think that is the most remarkable case of which I ever heard," responded the visitor, "though I know that cats are famous for returning to their own homes. But here was a road over which puss had never travelled, with nothing whatever to guide him in his difficult search for those he loved." CHAPTER VIII. THE SAGACIOUS CAT. The next evening, when Mr. Lee returned home, he gave Minnie a small parcel, which he told her was a present from their late visitor. It was a beautifully bound book, containing many interesting stories on her favorite subject. She could not rest until she had persuaded Ida to read it to her. Two of the incidents are so remarkable, that I shall quote them to close my book on Minnie's pet cat, hoping my young readers will be encouraged by these stories to be kind to pussy, and indeed to all the creatures that God has made. "De la Croix, a lecturer on experimental philosophy, was one day proving to his class that no creature could live without air. For this purpose he placed a cat in a large glass jar, under the receiver of an air pump, and began to exhaust the air. "Puss flew about, feeling decidedly uncomfortable, but, after a quick examination of her situation, saw a small aperture, upon which she placed her paw. "The lecturer went on; but puss did not, as he expected, fall down lifeless. She had discovered a method of preventing the air in the jar from escaping. When he ceased pumping, she took her paw away; but the instant he took hold of the handle, she put it there again. "Finding her too sagacious to be quietly killed, De la Croix was obliged to send for a less intelligent cat before he could proceed with his lecture." "In April, 1831, an exhibition of six cats was opened in Edinboro', by a company of Italians, which gave astonishing proofs of their intelligence. They were kept in a large box, and each came forth at the command of the owner, seeming perfectly to understand its duty. They had been taught to beat a drum, turn a spit, strike upon an anvil, turn a coffee roaster, and ring bells. "Two of them, who seemed to be more sagacious than the rest, drew a bucket suspended by a pulley, like a draw well. The length of the rope was about six feet, and they perfectly understood when the bucket was high enough to stop pulling. Most of the time they stood upright on their hind legs. "One of them would turn a wheel when a piece of meat stuck on a spit was put before it. But the instant the meat was removed, she stopped, considering the labor needless till the meat was replaced." Transcriber's Note The following typographical errors were corrected: 41 I suppose" changed to I suppose," 95 So well changed to "So well 
30966	----	scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project. MISS MOUSE AND HER BOYS [Illustration: 'OH, WHAT A _LOT_ OF BOYS!'--p. 2. _Front._] MISS MOUSE AND HER BOYS * * * * * BY MRS. MOLESWORTH * * * * * ILLUSTRATED BY L. LESLIE BROOKE [Illustration] LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1897 To the dear memory of MY BROTHER-IN-LAW SIR CRAVEN CHARLES GORING, BART. WHOSE UNFAILING INTEREST IN MY WORK HAS BEEN AN ENCOURAGEMENT THROUGH MANY YEARS 19 SUMNER PLACE, S.W., _May_ 1897. CONTENTS PAGE CHAPTER I 'WHAT A LOT OF BOYS!' 1 CHAPTER II PAT AND PETS 16 CHAPTER III GUESTS AT TEA 28 CHAPTER IV WANTED--A SISTER 44 CHAPTER V BOB 58 CHAPTER VI FERRETS AND FAIRIES 73 CHAPTER VII NANCE'S STORY 89 CHAPTER VIII NANCE'S STORY (_Continued_) 109 CHAPTER IX MISS MOUSE 'AT HOME' 123 CHAPTER X THE STORY OF THE LUCKY PENNY 140 CHAPTER XI A GREAT SACRIFICE 157 CHAPTER XII OUT ON THE MOOR 177 ILLUSTRATIONS FACE PAGE 'OH, WHAT A _LOT_ OF BOYS!'--_Frontispiece_ 'I'LL TAKE ONE HAND AND PAT ONE, AND THEN WE'LL ALL RUN DOWN TOGETHER' 36 NANCE 97 'I'VE PLENTY OF STORIES IN MY HEAD,' SHE SAID 100 'ALL OF A SUDDEN HE STOOD STRAIGHT UP AND BEGAN THROWING THINGS AT ME FOR ME TO CATCH--IT WAS THE LITTLE SUNS!' 153 'BOB,' SHE SAID. HE PRETENDED NOT TO HEAR HER 171 AND--WERE THOSE SNOW-FLAKES AGAIN? 187 CHAPTER I 'WHAT A LOT OF BOYS!' It was before the days of sailor suits and knickerbockers. Nowadays boys would make great fun of the quaint little men in tight-fitting jackets, and trousers buttoning on above them, that many people still living can remember well, for it is not so very long ago after all. And whatever the difference in their clothes, the boys of then were in themselves very like the boys of now--queer, merry, thoughtless fellows for the most part, living in the pleasant present, caring much less for the past or the future than their girl-companions, seldom taking trouble of any kind to heart, or if they did, up again like a cork at the first chance. But yet how dull the world, now as then, would be without them and their bats and balls, and pockets full of rubbish, and everlasting scrapes and mischief, and honest old hearts! I always like to hear any one, young or old, man or woman or girl, say, as one often does hear said, 'I do love boys.' There were five of them--of the Hervey boys. They began at thirteen and ended at three, or began at three and ended at thirteen, if you like to put it that way. But when they were all together in the nursery, or playroom as they called it more often--to see them, still more to hear them, you would certainly have said there were at least ten--above all if a scrimmage of any kind was going on, for then the number of legs and arms all belonging to everybody apparently, seemed to be multiplied in an astonishing manner. You would, I think, have sympathised with a small person, almost as small as three-years-old Ger, whose first word's when the door was opened were, in an awe-struck whisper, 'Oh, what a _lot_ of boys.' She was dressed in pale grey, grey all over, made rather long in the skirt, and she had a little drawn bonnet of the same colour--a quaint little figure; but we are used to quaint little figures of _her_ kind now--fashions repeat themselves, wise people say; and so they do in some cases, though not in all. I cannot believe that boys will ever again be buttoned up and choked as they used to be, above all in summer, when their hot, red faces seemed on the point of bursting out of their 'nankeen' suits, held together by brass buttons. But the little grey figure standing at the doorway of the Herveys' playroom was pretty as well as quaint, though the small face was pale, and the eyes just a quiet grey like the colour of her clothes, and her dark-brown hair cropped quite short. She was holding on tightly to the hand of a young lady, and as one of the scrimmagers caught sight of this same young lady, and immediately broke into a shout of welcome--'Aunt Mattie--boys, don't you see Aunt Mattie?' and the noise became really deafening, our little girl squeezed the fingers she held still more firmly, and an _almost_ frightened look crept into her eyes. 'Boys, boys,' exclaimed Aunt Mattie in turn, 'don't _you_ see that--somebody you have never seen before is here? Do disentangle yourselves if you can--Archie, Hector--I can't tell which is which of you--and Ger, dear old Ger, as plump as ever, and--yes, that's right, Justin--you and Pat really should keep the pickles in order.' Justin got red--redder even than he was already--as he pushed his way out of the scramble. 'If you knew what it was, auntie,' he said, in a tone half of despair, half of apology. 'The pickles get worse every day, and Pat's always asleep or nearly asleep over his books and plans. I really----' 'Well, never mind about that just now,' said his aunt. 'I must introduce you all properly,' and she led the little girl gently forward into the room, looking round for a seat, which was not so easy to find, as every chair was either upside down or else hoisted on to the top of another. 'I'll get you one down,' Archie called out when he saw the state of things. 'Get out of the way, Hec and Ger, can't you?' But in getting out of the way, Hec tumbled over Ger, and Ger, who was really only a baby, though a very independent one, kicked out at Hec, which he thought more manly than crying, though one or other he must have done, of course, to relieve his feelings. Whereupon Aunt Mattie, not seeming very surprised, though in her heart she was startled at the look in the big grey eyes under the shade of the grey bonnet, picked him up, still kicking, and plumped him down between herself and the little grey person, who by this time was seated beside her, two chairs having somehow been got at. Ger was too surprised to go on kicking, _or_ to cry. He just opened his mouth wide and stared. Then 'Aunt-ie,' he began slowly, in a tone of reproach, 'thoo----' But he got no further. 'Ger,' said auntie gravely, 'I'm ashamed of you. You haven't even said "How do you do?" or shaken hands with this young lady. She isn't accustomed to see little boys fighting and kicking each other.' 'I diddun fight,' said Ger, 'I on'y kicked. Hec begunned.' 'I!' exclaimed Hec, ready to swell up with indignation like an angry turkey-cock, '_I_-- I were fetchin' a chair and----' 'Stop, boys,' said Aunt Mattie again. 'Now let's go on nicely. This is Ger, and he wants to be very polite now and shake hands--eh, Ger?' Ger's round blue eyes were fixed on the small stranger. 'Her's not a young lady,' he said at last. 'Ger 'ud rather kith her.' The little girl leaned forward at once, and kissed his firm, plump cheek. 'Thoo ith tho thoft,' he said, and he stroked her cape and the chinchilla muff she was holding. 'I know--thoo's a _mouse_.' He said the 's' quite plainly, for his lisp was a very changeable one, and already he was on the way to lose it altogether. Everybody laughed. Ger liked the sound of the laugh--it was not making fun of him. 'Yeth,' he went on, 'uth'll call thoo'--with some effort--'Mith Mouse.' Miss Mouse leant forward a second time and kissed him again. 'You funny little boy,' she said. 'You may call me "Miss Mouse" if you please, but wouldn't you like to know my proper name?' Ger shook his head. 'No thank thoo. I like Mith Mouse best.' 'But _we'd_ like to know your real name,' said Archie. 'Wouldn't we--Justin and Hec, and--oh Pat's asleep over a book again, I suppose.' 'I'm not,' growled a voice from an opposite corner. 'Well then, behave properly. Come out of there, can't you? Aunt Mattie, make him.' 'Patrick,' said Aunt Mattie, and Pat got up and came slowly forward. He was not like Justin, and Hec, and Ger, who were all fair and ruddy; he was dark-haired and dark-eyed and pale, while Archie, the best-looking of the five, came between the two, for he had bright brown hair and merry hazel eyes. 'Now,' said Aunt Mattie, 'now, dear, you see them all-- Ger, you have shaken hands with, or rather, kissed. Ger is three and three quarters, and his real name is Gervais. Hector is--let me see--six and a half--no, seven, just struck. Shake hands, Hec, if you're too big to be kissed.' 'I'm not,' said Hec, and he stretched up his rosy mouth to Miss Mouse, and then, like Ger, he stroked her chinchilla muff softly. 'And Archie,' Aunt Mattie proceeded. Archibald is nearly ten,' and Archie held out a rather grimy paw and shook hands heartily. 'Next comes Patrick, eleven past.' Pat's mouth was shut tight, and he only just touched the little girl's fingers. '_And_, last and eldest, Justin, who is thirteen and----' she hesitated. 'Thirteen and a quarter,' said Justin cheerily. 'Then,' said Miss Mouse, speaking almost for the first time, '_I_ come between Pat and Archie. I'm nine--nine past, my birthday was last Christmas.' 'Are you staying with Aunt Mattie?' asked Justin. 'When did you come? You weren't there on Sunday.' The little girl turned to the young lady with a puzzled look. 'Don't they know?' she said in a half whisper. Aunt Mattie smiled and shook her head slightly. 'Didn't your mother tell you that I was expecting a visitor, Justin?' she asked, turning to the eldest boy, who was now employing the time of waiting for his question to be answered by tilting another unfortunate chair as far back as he could get it to go without tumbling over. 'Expecting a visitor,' he repeated. 'Oh yes, she said something about--about--a girl, but I thought she meant somebody like you used to be, auntie, before you were married--a grown-up girl. And I forgot about it with her being away. Papa and mamma went away yesterday, you know, and----' Over went the chair, its patience at an end, with a good clatter. The chairs in the playroom were pretty stout, as they needed to be. 'O Justin,' said Aunt Mattie, 'do be quiet for a minute and leave the chairs alone. How is it that you and Pat and Archie aren't at school this afternoon?' 'Half-holiday,' said Justin. 'Of course-- I forgot,' Aunt Mattie replied, thinking to herself that if she had remembered what day it was, she would have chosen some quieter time for introducing her little guest to the Herveys. She had expected only to find the two younger ones with their nursery governess. 'Where is Miss Ward?' she went on. 'Got a headache,' said Hector. 'Leave off, Ger,' he went on. 'It's my turn,' for the two had been stroking the chinchilla muff with great satisfaction while Aunt Mattie had been speaking to the elder boys. Ger gave a yell. Hec had nipped his fingers to make him give up his share of the muff. Miss Mouse's face grew red, and she very quietly took her hands out of the muff, and put it behind her, between her shoulders at the back of her chair, though without speaking. Aunt Mattie saw what she did and smiled to herself. Hector and Gervais only stared. 'If you will be quiet, Justin--you and Pat and Archie, I will explain about Rosamond,' and she put her arm round the little girl affectionately. 'Her's Mith Mouse, not Lotha--wubbish,' said Ger. 'Hold your----' began Justin. Ger shut his mouth up tight. 'Miss Mouse then,' said Aunt Mattie, 'is my niece, just as you are my nephews, only she's not your cousin.' 'Why not?' said Pat, suddenly waking up. This sounded rather like a riddle, or a puzzle of some kind, and Pat loved puzzles. 'Because she is Uncle Ted's niece--she is my niece now because I am married to Uncle Ted, but that doesn't make her your cousin.' 'Then she _isn't_ your niece the same as we're your nephews,' said Pat, preparing for a good argument. 'Well, no, not exactly. But still she _is_ my niece, just as much as Uncle Ted is your uncle, and you wouldn't like any one to say he is not your proper uncle, would you, for I know you are very fond of him?' There was no reply to this for a moment or two. The boys _were_ very fond of Uncle Ted, but yet the relationship was a little perplexing. They had never thought of it before, and even Pat felt that it might seem rude if he did not agree that Uncle Ted was as much an uncle as Aunt Mattie was an aunt. It was Miss Mouse who came to the rescue. 'I know what,' she said, and her voice was very clear indeed, 'I know what, boys--we'll settle that I _am_ to be your cousin, and that'll make it all right. Uncle Ted and Aunt Mattie will be our uncle and aunt to all of us just the same, once we're cousins.' 'All right,' said Justin and Archie, who were longing to begin another scrimmage of some kind. 'All right,' said Pat, not quite so heartily, for he was disappointed of his argument with Aunt Mattie. 'All zight,' said Hec and Ger--Ger adding, 'but thoo'll be Mith Mouse _always_. Are thoo goin' to live here in thit houth?' All the boys stopped short at this. It had never struck them till this moment that such a thing was possible. They had only thought of the little girl as just coming in to see them for a short time, as other children did now and then, and Rosamond herself looked up at her aunt in surprise at their not understanding. For she herself was an only child accustomed to hear a good deal more of the family plans than were the Hervey boys. 'Oh no,' she began to say, 'oh no, Ger, dear. I'm not going to live in your house. I've come to stay with Uncle Ted and Aunt Mattie for a--for a long time,' and there was a slight tremble in her voice at the last words. Aunt Mattie felt a little vexed at having to speak of what she knew must be sad for her young guest. 'I thought your mother had told you something,' she said, turning to Justin. 'Most likely she did, and that it was you who did not listen. You are so very scatter-brained. Rosamond's father and mother have gone to India, a few weeks ago, and she is going to stay with Uncle Ted and me till they come back again.' The little girl's face had grown red while Aunt Mattie was speaking, and at the last few words she squeezed tightly the kind hand she had managed to get hold of. 'Oh,' said the boys, two or three of them at once, in a tone of some awe, and looking at Miss Mouse with increased respect. For India, and goings-to and comings-from there, were not nearly such every-day matters forty or fifty years ago as they are now. 'Will they come back thoon?' asked Ger, looking up in Rosamond's face with his innocent baby-blue eyes. 'I don't want them to, 'cos----' and here he suddenly stopped. 'Her's c'ying,' he announced to his brothers in a half whisper. 'No, I'm not,' said Miss Mouse in her clear voice. 'At least I'm not going to cry. I've promised I wouldn't.' 'Dear,' said Aunt Mattie, 'you can't help it a little, sometimes. No,' she went on, 'her papa and mamma can't come home for a good while. India is a long way off, you know. Why don't you want them to come back, Ger? It isn't very kind to say that.' 'Yeth, it is', said Ger, 'it's 'cos I want her to stay here. I like Mith Mouse.' This made Rosamond smile through the tears which had nearly dried up already. 'I am glad of that,' said Aunt Mattie. 'For I want you all to be very kind to Rosamond, and make up to her for her papa and mamma being away.' 'Does she mind so much?' said Hec, poking his curly head very close under the grey bonnet. 'I don't think I would--not so very much.' ''Cos you've got no feelings,' said Archie, pulling him back, 'and you're as rude as rude too. I say, Miss Mouse,' he went on, 'would you like to come out and see some of the animals?' 'What?' said Rosamond; 'do you mean Noah's Ark animals?' Justin and Pat, though Pat was again in his corner with a book, both began to laugh, and Archie's indignation was now turned on them. 'You're ruder than Hec,' he said, ''cos he's little and you're big.' 'None of your impertinence,' began Justin, seconded by a growl from Pat. 'I'll teach you to meddle with----' Aunt Mattie rose to her full height, and she was tall. Somehow her nephews struck her to-day in a new light. She had known they were wild and unruly, but the waves of expression that followed each other over Rosamond's face almost startled her--the child had never seen this rough side of boy-life, if indeed boy-life at all. Aunt Mattie felt as if she had made a mistake in bringing her into it, and almost ashamed of Justin and his brothers. 'Boys,' she said, speaking to the two elder ones, 'you may not like Archie's interfering, but what he says is perfectly true; you are both very rude, though perhaps you don't mean it. But you know very well how angry you'd be if any one laughed at _you_. I tell you plainly that unless you can be gentle and more polite I will take Rosamond away, and find other playfellows for her while she is living with your uncle and me.' Pat said nothing, but Justin got red. 'Oh come now, auntie,' he said. 'You know very well we didn't mean it, and I don't believe Miss Mouse minds. Do you?' he went on, turning to Rosamond. The little girl hesitated. 'I-- I don't know,' she began, 'but,' as a bright idea struck her, 'I'd like to see your animals and then I'd understand.' Justin turned to his aunt in triumph. 'There now,' he exclaimed, 'I told you so! Can't she come out with us now? You needn't _all_ come,' he added to the others; 'I don't want the kids, but they'd get into mischief if we leave them here alone,' and he glanced at Hec and Ger doubtfully. CHAPTER II PAT AND PETS Aunt Mattie smiled again to herself at Justin's last words. She felt very much inclined to say that in _her_ opinion the two youngest boys were much less likely to get into mischief if left by themselves than under the elders' care. But just now, for Rosamond's sake, she thought it better to say nothing which would lead to any more discussions. So after a moment's thought she turned again to Justin. 'I will stay here with the little ones,' she said, 'if you take Rosamond out to see your pets----' 'Oh!' interrupted Miss Mouse. 'It's _pets_ you mean! I didn't think of pets when you said "animals."' "Pets" is a girl's word, you see,' said Justin loftily, for he was already quite getting over his aunt's snub. 'Now, Justin,' said Aunt Mattie quietly, 'I haven't finished. If you take Rosamond out, she is under your charge, you understand? You mustn't let the dogs jump on her, or let her be teased or frightened in any way.' 'All right,' said Justin. 'Come along, Miss Mouse.' Rosamond got up and half timidly took the hand which the boy held out to her. 'I'm coming too,' said Archie, at which the little girl's face brightened up. 'Don't till----' began Justin, stopping short, however, when he caught his aunt's eye, for Aunt Mattie's control over the boys was no new thing. 'Yes,' she said. 'Archie may go too, certainly, and remember, both of you, that you are on your honour to have no squabbling or fighting of any kind while Rosamond is with you.' The trio set off. Rosamond between the boys, holding a hand of each. Aunt Mattie smiling and nodding encouragingly, for there was still a half-frightened look on the little face. 'It is best,' thought she, 'to test them, for they are not bad boys at heart, and she is far from childish for her age. But if they are really too rough, our plan must be given up. I am very much afraid that Miss Ward is not a success. Patrick,' she said aloud, 'I didn't want to keep on finding fault this first time of Rosamond's seeing you all, but I must say to you, now that we are alone, that I am surprised at your not knowing that it is not polite to go on reading in a corner when any one comes to see you. It is not polite even to _me_.' 'I didn't know you'd come to see _me_,' said Pat gruffly, 'and I don't like girls.' 'I really don't care whether you like them or not,' said his aunt, getting rather angry in spite of herself, 'and that is not the question. The point is that you should and must behave like a gentleman to any visitors in your father's house, and I shall certainly insist on your doing so to any _I_ bring here.' Pat did not reply. He had left off reading, but he sat still, with the book open on his knees and a far from amiable look on his face. Aunt Mattie felt troubled. Of all the boys, Pat, she well knew, was the most difficult to understand, but during the years that her home had been with her sister, Mrs. Hervey, she had come to be like a second mother to the children, and Pat, every one said, was more manageable by 'Miss Mattie' than by any one else. And now he was as sulky and disagreeable to her as ever he had been to old nurse, whom he was always fighting with, or to any one. 'Pat,' she said suddenly, 'come over here. Hec, you and Ger can go back to your own corner,' for there was one specially counted 'the kids',' where the old toy cupboard stood, and where the elder ones were not allowed to interfere with them, on the principle that an Englishman's house is his castle, I suppose. 'Us diddun want to play with Jus and Pat,' said Ger, 'but they made us be "'orses."' 'Never mind,' said Hector, 'Aunt Mattie won't let us be teased any more. We was tidyin' the cupboard,' he went on; 'it wanted tidyin' awful bad.' Hec was that very uncommon thing, a neat little boy. So Mrs. Mattie and her nephew were as good as alone. 'Pat,' she began again, 'why are you so surly to me?' Pat got red and mumbled something about 'not meaning.' 'But you must mean the words you say,' said his aunt. 'It wasn't kind or nice to tell me you hated--or "didn't like"--girls, when I had brought my little niece to make friends with you all.' Pat stood silent, but his face had softened a little. 'She'd not make friends with me,' he said,' nobody does. She can make friends with Jus and Archie. Besides, what does it matter--she's not going to live here.' 'No, not exactly. But we have been thinking of planning for her to come here every day to have lessons with Miss Ward. And of course it would be nice for her to be friends with you all if she was so much here. On half-holidays, for instance, Justin and you could sometimes let her be with you and take part in your pleasures. There are lots of things that a little girl can join in, and she is a very sensible little girl as well as a sweet one.' Pat shuffled about, first on one foot, then on the other. He did not want to vex his aunt, and he was rather pleased by her talking to him in this way, but he did not care to make friends with Miss Mouse, and he wanted to get back to his book. 'I'm not going to hurt her,' he said. 'I don't want to be rude to her, but it's no good humbugging. I don't like girls and I don't think I like anybody--not much. She'll be all right with Jus and Archie. Why don't you tell them to be nice to her?' 'Because,' said Aunt Mattie slowly, 'I want you all to be nice to her, and in some ways I had thought you would suit her the best, Pat. You are quieter than Jus and Archie, and little Rosamond has not been used to boys, or indeed to playfellows at all. And she is fond of reading, like you.' 'I'm always being scolded for reading,' grumbled Pat. 'It's often that that Jus and I fight about, and then mamma takes for granted it's all my fault, and they call me surly and ill-natured and all that. And it's like that at school too--only----' 'Only what?' asked his aunt, delighted to get him to speak out to her in the old way. 'I-- I didn't mind so much when--when _you_ were here and I could tell you things,' said Pat. 'I've nobody now--nobody who cares. O auntie, I do so wish you hadn't gone and got married.' Aunt Mattie's face had grown very kind and gentle. She had sometimes fancied that, little though he said about it, Pat really did care for her. 'I'm not so far away after all,' she said, 'and I'm sure you know that I'm always ready to talk to you, or to help you in any way I can.' 'Oh, but it's different,' said Pat. 'It's not like living in the house, and taking my part a little, and explaining to them--oh! it's quite different, and then--there's Uncle Ted----' A little smile crept into Mattie's eyes at this; she had suspected more than once that Pat was rather jealous of his new uncle. 'Of course,' she said, 'I know it can't be quite the same, but it might be a good deal worse; I might have had to go to India, like Rosamond's father and mother. And if you knew Uncle Ted better, you would find him awfully kind and understanding about boys.' Pat grunted. 'He likes the others, I know,' he said gloomily. His aunt's face grew graver again. This touch of jealousy in Pat made her anxious about him. 'It is such a pity,' she said, 'that you get these ideas into your head--of people not liking you or liking the others better, and uncomfortable fancies of that kind.' 'They are _not_ fancies,' said Pat; 'they are true.' 'Well, if they are true, make them not true,' was the reply. 'Try to be a little brighter and pleasanter to other people, especially to your own people, and see if that doesn't make a difference. Just _try_, for my sake, and as far as Rosamond is concerned I am sure you won't find the trying difficult.' Pat did not speak. He stood there looking before him gravely. But the hard gloomy expression had gone, and after a while he said quietly, 'I _will_ try, but, auntie-- I'm not made right, somehow-- I don't care for their animals and things like that, and I don't care much for games, and I _hate_ ferreting!' 'You care for dogs,' said his aunt. 'Some,' he replied. 'I like clever, affectionate dogs. I don't care for those that think about nothing except hunting and chasing cats and making a row. I like a dog like your Flip, that sits beside you and understands when you want to be quiet.' 'Flip _is_ a dear,' Aunt Mattie agreed. 'But, O Hec! what are you doing?' for at that moment a pile of toys came clattering down within an ace of Ger's head, from the top shelf of the cupboard, whereupon Ger set up a scream, though he was not the least hurt, and the toys, being principally wooden bricks, were not hurt either. Still peace was destroyed between the two little boys, and their aunt proposed that they should get their hats and go out with her and Pat to meet the others. These 'others,' in the meantime, had been enjoying themselves more or less--very much as regarded the boys, Justin especially, for there was nothing he liked better than showing off his animals, and Archie's pleasure was only damped by his noticing signs of fear every now and then on Rosamond's part. She did her best to hide them, poor little girl, and to trust Justin's loud assurances that the growls of the puppies' mother were only meant for 'how do you do? so pleased to see you. Aren't the little people looking well?' or civil speeches of that kind, translated into dog-language, though these assurances were not quite in keeping with the quick way in which he pulled back her hand when she timidly stooped down to stroke one of the black-and-tan babies. 'I'll pick it up for you,' he said, and so he did, taking care first to shut the stable door on the anxious mother. 'It _is_ a nice soft little thing,' said Miss Mouse, when she had got it safe in her arms, 'but--oh it's going to bite me,' and but for fear of hurting it, she would have got rid of master puppy in double-quick time. 'He won't really hurt you--it's only little snaps that do no harm,' said Archie; 'but I'll put him back again, and then p'raps we'd better show her the rabbits and the pigeons--_they're_ not frightening.' 'No,' agreed Rosamond,' I'd like to see them very much.' 'And,' said Justin, forgetting his promise to his aunt, 'the ferrets-- Tom Brick has got his ferrets here to-day, you know, Archie. They are going to have a good rat hunt to-morrow morning.' 'Ferrets,' said Rosamond innocently, 'what are they? I never heard of them. Are they nice and tame and pretty?' 'Oh lovely,' said Justin, beginning to laugh. 'They're the hideousest things there are. And if you get one up your sleeve--ugh--it does feel horrid. All the same they're splendid chaps for rats. I'd give anything to have a pair of my own, I can tell you.' 'I don't want to see them, thank you,' said the little girl. 'Do they eat rats? I don't like pets that eat each other.' Justin laughed more loudly. 'Eat each other,' he repeated. 'Rats and ferrets don't eat each other. Besides, ferrets aren't like foxes--they're not fierce; they're jolly little beggars. I only wish I had a couple.' 'Oh, I say, Justin,' exclaimed Archie, 'I wouldn't call them not fierce. Why does Bob Crag muzzle his when he's going to catch rabbits with them?' 'Because they would eat rabbits if they were hungry. Rabbits would be nicer to eat than rats, I should think, though I daresay they'd eat rats too if they were ravenous--and they have to be ravenous when they're used for ratting, to make them eager, for when they've had lots to eat they are sad lazy little beggars.' 'That's like snakes,' said Rosamond, with a small shudder. 'I'm sure I shouldn't like ferrets, Justin. Don't let's talk about them any more. Who is Bob Crag?' 'Oh, he's a boy,' said Justin, with some slight hesitation. 'He lives out on the moor with his grandmother.' 'You can see their cottage,' said Archie, 'from the top of the mound behind the paddock, such a queer, wild sort of place; we pass it on our way to the vicarage, when it's a fine day.' 'I'd like to see the moor,' said Rosamond, her eyes brightening. 'Come along then,' said Justin, 'it won't take us two minutes to run up the mound,' and off they set. CHAPTER III GUESTS AT TEA Rosamond drew a long breath as they reached the top of the mound. 'Oh!' she said. 'I never saw a moor before. What a long, long way you can see!' and her eyes, full of wonder and pleasure, gazed before them over the brown expanse, broken here and there by patches of green or by the still remaining purple of the fast-fading heather; here and there, too, gleams of lingering gorse faintly golden, and the little thread-like white paths, sometimes almost widening into roads, crossing in all directions, brightened the effect of the whole. For it was autumn now--late autumn indeed--and the sun was well down on his evening journey. The breeze blew freshly in the little girl's face. 'It's rather cold,' she said, 'but I like it.' 'You might have brought your muff,' said Archie; 'though _I_ thought people only had muffs when it was real winter.' Miss Mouse reddened a little. 'So they do,' she said, 'but mine is such a dear little one, so light and fluffy, and it was mamma's last present, so Aunt Mattie lets me take it out in the pony-carriage.' Justin and Archie had, like all boys, a horror of tears, and the sad tone in Rosamond's voice made them quickly change the subject. 'Has Aunt Mattie never driven you round by the moor before?' said Justin. 'She's so fond of it.' 'But I only came the day before yesterday, and her house is quite on the other side, not wild-looking like here.' 'Of course I know that,' said Justin. 'I think it's ever so much jollier up here. Indeed, _I_ would like to live in a cottage on the moor itself. Fancy what fun it would be to race right out first thing in the morning when you woke up, and see all the creatures waking up too--rabbits scuttering about, and the wild birds, and the frogs, and rummy creatures like that, that live about the marshy bits!' Rosamond looked up at him with some surprise and more sympathy in her eyes than she had yet felt for the eldest of her newly-adopted cousins. 'I know,' she said, 'it's like some fairy stories I've read.' 'Oh rubbish,' said Justin. 'If you want fairy stories you must go to Pat for them. His head's full of them.' Miss Mouse felt a little hurt at Justin's rough way of speaking. Archie, always inclined to make peace, came to the rescue. 'You were asking about Bob Crag,' he said. 'That's where he lives.' He pointed to a spot where a clump of bushes or stunted trees stood a little way back from one of the wider tracks which ran like white tapes across the moor. No house or cottage was to be seen, but a thin waft of smoke rose slowly from the middle of the little planting. 'It's the queerest place you ever saw,' Archie went on. 'Papa says it's something like an Irish cabin, only cleaner and tidier, for Bob's old granny isn't dirty, though she's extremely queer, like her house. People say she's a gipsy, but she's lived there so long that no one is sure where she comes from. She's as old as old! I shouldn't wonder if she were really Bob's great-grandmother.' 'Has _he_ always lived with her?' asked Rosamond. 'Fancy! _great_-grandmother.' 'I don't know,' said Archie; 'he's been there as long as I can remember.' 'And that's not very long,' said Justin, with the superiority of his four more years of life. '_You_ can't remember more than six or seven years back at most, Archie! I can remember ten good, if not eleven. And Bob's two years older than I am. I should think he was about four or five when I first remember him. Nurse wouldn't let Pat and me stop to talk to him when we passed the cottage going a walk, he was such a queer, black-looking little creature. Old Nancy went away once for ever so long, and when she came back she brought this rum little chap with her, and the people about said he was as uncanny as she. Nobody's very kind to them, even now.' 'Poor things,' said Miss Mouse. 'They must be very dull and lonely.' 'They don't mind,' said Justin. 'Nance says she wouldn't stay if they had neighbours, and she's jolly glad to have no rent. Once they tried to make her pay for her cottage, but papa got her off, and ever since then she'd do anything for us, and she always smiles and curtsies and blesses us in her way when we pass. Yes, she'd do anything for us, and so would poor old Bob.' 'Yes, but----' began Archie, but stopped short, for Justin's eye was upon him. 'You're not to begin abusing Bob,' he said. 'It's not fair, _I_ count him a friend of mine, whatever you do.' Rosamond looked puzzled. 'Is he a naughty boy?' she said half timidly. 'No,' said Justin, 'I say he's not. He gets blamed for lots of things he doesn't deserve, just because he and old Nancy are strange and queer.' 'I'd like to see them,' said Rosamond. 'It _does_ sound like a fairy story, and it looks like one. Won't you take me to their cottage some day?' But before either Justin or Archie had time to reply, there came an interruption. 'They're whistling for us,' exclaimed Archie. 'Yes, it's Pat and Aunt Mattie coming across the paddock--and the little ones too. Isn't it nice to hear Aunt Mattie whistling just like she used to, when she lived here? Let's go back and meet them.' 'No,' said Justin, 'I'll stay here with Miss Mouse, and you run down to them, Archie. Most likely Aunt Mattie wants to come up here too. She always says there's a breeze up here almost as good as the sea.' 'I wish Aunt Mattie's house was near the moor too,' said Miss Mouse. 'Where is it you go to school, Justin, and how do you mean you only pass the Crags' house on fine days?' 'Because when it's _awfully_ rainy or snowy, or anything out of the common, we go in the pony-cart by the proper road, and when it's middling we go half-way by the moor, turning into the road a good bit before we come to Bob's. It's rather boggy land about there, and we get all muddy and wet unless it's really dry weather. We don't go to school, we go to Mr. Pierce's--at Whitcrow--two miles off--the _road_ to Whitcrow crosses the road to Aunt Mattie's, farther on. You look out on your way home, and you'll see a signpost with Whitcrow on one of the spokes.' 'I'll ask auntie to show it me,' said Miss Mouse. 'O auntie,' she exclaimed, as the newcomers came within speaking distance, 'it _is_ so nice up here looking over the moor.' Her little face had got quite rosy. Aunt Mattie was pleased to see it, pleased too that Rosamond had evidently already begun to make friends with Justin--girl-despiser though he was. 'Yes, dear,' she said, 'I love the moor, and I am very glad you do. I love it all the year round, though it's pretty cold up here in winter, isn't it, boys?' Pat came forward a little. He wanted to please his aunt by being nicer to Rosamond. 'It's _awfully_ cold going to the vicarage some mornings,' he agreed, 'but there's some nice things in winter. Can you skate, Miss Mouse?' The little girl shook her head. 'No, but I'd like very much to learn,' she replied. 'Then I'll teach you,' said Pat, his face getting a little red, for it was not certainly his way to put himself about to be amiable. And he had to suffer for it. 'How polite we are growing all of a sudden,' said Justin, with a laugh. But he could not mock at Pat's offer, for skating was the one thing of outdoor exercises in which the younger brother outshone the elder. Aunt Mattie was quick to scent any approach to a quarrel. 'It must be getting near tea-time,' she said. 'Are you going to invite us to your schoolroom tea, Justin?' 'Oh yes, of course, if you like,' he answered, in a rather off-hand tone, 'or we could bring you a cup into the drawing-room; mamma often has it like that.' For it was rather before the days of regular drawing-room 'afternoon' teas. 'Thank you,' replied his aunt. 'I should much rather have it in the schoolroom, and if Miss Ward isn't better, I can pour it out for you.' 'She's sure to be better by tea-time,' said Hec. 'She always is'--without much satisfaction in his voice. But this did not alter Aunt Mattie's choice. To tell the truth, she thought it a good opportunity to see how things were going on in the schoolroom in her sister's absence. Just then a bell sounded. 'That is the tea-bell,' said Archie. 'Come along. The first in the schoolroom to sit beside auntie.' Off they set, all except little Gervais, but they had not gone many paces before Pat turned back again. 'What's the matter?' said his aunt, and then she felt sorry that she had said anything, when she saw it was an effort on the boy's part to behave politely to the ladies of the party. 'Oh,' he replied, rather gruffly, 'I think I had better carry Ger down till we get to the paddock.' 'No, you _san't_' said Ger ungratefully. 'Auntie, tell him he's not to,' for Pat was preparing to pick him up willy-nilly, and a roar would no doubt have been the consequence. [Illustration: 'I'LL TAKE ONE HAND AND PAT ONE, AND THEN WE'LL ALL RUN DOWN TOGETHER.'] 'I'll tell you what, Ger,' said Rosamond quickly, 'I'll take one hand and Pat one, and then we'll all run down together, and wait for auntie at the bottom.' To this arrangement Ger condescended, and Aunt Mattie, as she followed the three more slowly, gave a little sigh of satisfaction. 'It's all quite true that her mother said of her,' she thought to herself. 'She's a dear little soul, full of tact and good feeling. I wonder why our boys are so very tiresome?' For it was new to her to think of them as not _hers_ as much as their parents'. 'I wonder if it's just that they _are_ boys, or have we mismanaged them somehow or other? I did so hope that my being with Harriet since I grew up had been a real help to her, but it scarcely looks like it. These boys are very troublesome.' Tea was ready when they all got back to the house--tea and the dispenser of it, in the shape of Miss Ward, very meek and evidently rather sorry for herself, though her face brightened as she caught sight of Aunt Mattie and rose to greet her. 'I am sorry you have got a headache, Miss Ward,' said the young lady, 'I'm afraid you are rather subject to them.' 'N--no, I can't say that I am, or rather I never used to be, and I am particularly sorry to have had one to-day when Mrs. Hervey was away. But I daresay a cup of tea will put it all right--it often does,' replied the governess. 'Then why didn't you ask for one early in the day; I'm sure you could get it at any time,' said Aunt Mattie a little coldly. She was feeling rather irritated with Miss Ward for seeming so doleful, for she had come to them with the recommendation of being specially clever in managing boys. She was no longer very young, but active and capable, at least so she had appeared at first. She grew a little red as she replied, 'Oh! I don't want to give in to these headaches or to make any fuss about them.' 'Poor Mith Ward,' said little Ger, 'all-bodies would have headaches if naughty Jus throwed books at them!' 'Ger, Ger,' exclaimed Miss Ward; while up started Justin in a fury. 'I throw books at Miss Ward; what do you mean, you sneaking little tell-tale?' he exclaimed. 'No, you're worse than that, you are a right-down story-teller.' 'He's not,' said Hec. 'You've done it _twicet_, Jus, you know you have.' Justin was on the point of rushing off from his place to seize Hec, when Aunt Mattie turned to him. 'Be quiet, Justin,' she said, 'and behave like a gentleman. If not, you must leave the room.' The old habit of obedience to his young aunt told, and Justin sat down again, though not without mutterings to himself. 'I don't want to spoil our tea-time,' said Aunt Mattie quietly, turning to Miss Ward,' but I think it would be best for you to explain what the little boys mean, and--what _you_ mean, Justin.' 'I didn't mean to hurt Miss Ward,' said Justin, 'and it was settled that nothing more was to be said about it.' 'I don't think Hec and Ger were in the room when we settled that,' said Miss Ward, smiling a little. 'The facts are these, Mrs. Caryll. Justin meant to play a trick on Pat, some days ago--what they call a "book-trap"--some volumes balanced on the top of a door--you have heard of it, I daresay?--so that they fall on the head of the first person who goes into the room. Unluckily for me, I was that person, as I had to go into Pat's room unexpectedly. I did get a bad blow, but Justin was very sorry and promised never to do it again.' 'But you say that was some days ago,' said Aunt Mattie. 'Well, yes,' the governess allowed. 'This morning it was quite a different thing. Pat was not ready to go out when Justin wanted him, or something of that kind, and Justin threw a book _at_ his door, to make him hurry, I suppose, and again it hit _me_, as I was crossing the passage. And--and--somehow a very little thing seems to make my head ache lately.' In her heart Aunt Mattie did not feel surprised. 'If what I have seen to-day goes on from morning till night, I am sure I don't wonder,' she thought to herself, as she turned again to Justin. But he stopped her before she had time to speak. 'Auntie,' he said, looking, and it is to be hoped, still more _feeling_, very much ashamed of himself--'auntie, I _was_ very sorry the books hit Miss Ward, especially this morning. But I didn't in the least mean it for her----' 'I should hope not, indeed,' interrupted Mrs. Caryll. 'And,' continued Justin, 'Miss Ward knows I didn't, and we had made it all up and nothing more would have been heard about it but for that little sneak, Hec.' 'You meant to have told your father and mother about it when they came home, surely?' said his aunt. Justin reddened again, and muttered something about getting into scrapes enough without needing to _put_ himself into them; remarks which Mrs. Caryll thought it wiser not to hear. 'Please don't say anything more about it,' said Miss Ward, speaking more decidedly than she had yet done. 'It is not often we have the pleasure of visitors at tea, and my head is really much better now. I am _sure_ nothing of the kind will happen again, and--and--little Miss----' 'Mouth,' said Gervais quite gravely. 'Mouth?' repeated Miss Ward, looking very puzzled. 'No,' Hec corrected, '_Mouse_.' 'Miss Mouse,' she went on, 'will think us a party of----' 'Wild cats,' interrupted Archie. And at this everybody burst out laughing, Miss Ward included, for she _was_ very good-natured--and on the whole perhaps the laughing was the best thing that could have happened. Then Aunt Mattie had to explain that her little niece's name was not really 'Miss Mouse,' but Rosamond--Rosamond Caryll, as her father was Uncle Ted's brother--though the boys all joined, for once, in saying that _they_ were always going to call her Miss Mouse, 'it suited her so well,' in which their governess agreed. And tea went on peacefully and pleasantly on the whole, though Miss Mouse's eyes grew very round with surprise more than once at the pushes and thumps that passed between the boys, and the growls and snaps and mutterings, even though the five were decidedly on their best behaviour. Aunt Mattie did her utmost quietly to keep things smooth, and so did Miss Ward. But Aunt Mattie was feeling sorry and disappointed, though she tried not to show it. 'I think Pat might do so much to make things better,' she thought to herself. 'He is cleverer than Justin, who is just a great, rough, clumsy schoolboy, not bad at heart, but awfully careless and thoughtless. Pat is not thoughtless, but he keeps himself far too apart from his brothers; if he would try to interest himself in their pleasures a little, he might get to have far more influence. I must speak to him again.' And so she did. There was an opportunity for a little more talk when tea was over and before the pony-carriage came round. Pat was quick at noticing things, and he saw that his aunt's sweet face was less cheerful than usual. 'You're not vexed with me now, auntie,' he said, half wistfully. 'I know it was rather disgusting, that row at tea-time. Miss Mouse won't want to come much to see us.' 'I hope she will,' said Mrs. Caryll. 'Of course I was ashamed for her to hear of those quarrels between you and Justin, Pat. How is it you can't get on better with him? Archie does.' 'Archie's better tempered than me, I suppose,' said Pat, 'and then he daren't check Jus; he's a good bit younger, you see. And then they care for the same sort of things'---- 'Ah yes, there's a good deal in that,' she said. 'If you could manage to show some interest in Justin's games and animals and all these things, instead of reading quite so much, you might win him by sympathy and really make home life happier.' 'It hasn't been very happy, lately, I know. And it worries mamma,' said Pat gruffly. 'Aunt Mattie, I'll try. But I wish you were here again.' CHAPTER IV WANTED--A SISTER Aunt Mattie seemed rather absent-minded during the drive back--quite different from what she had been on their way to Moor Edge, which was the name of the boys' home. _Then_ she had talked brightly and cheerfully, pointing out the places they passed--here a wood famed for the earliest primroses, there a cottage burnt down so long ago that no one could remember how it happened, though the dreary, blackened remains still stood, and amusing Rosamond as well with stories of 'the boys' and all their doings. But the little girl was not sorry that now it was different. She was feeling tired and very puzzled. In one way the afternoon's visit had brought her a good deal of disappointment--her new friends were not at all what she had pictured them--at least--and then her mind went on to what it was that had disappointed and almost shocked her. She was too sensible a little woman to mind their being noisy and even rather rough. But--'it wasn't a nice kind of noisiness,' she thought, 'they all seemed against each other, as if they were going to begin quarrelling every minute, even though they didn't quite. I'm very glad I live with Uncle Ted and Aunt Mattie. I'd rather have no one to play with than be always afraid of quarrelling.' Suddenly Mrs. Caryll glanced at her little companion, and it struck her that Rosamond's face was pale and that she was very silent. 'My dear,' she said, 'I don't mind the boys calling you Miss Mouse--it is a nice, funny little name--but I don't want you to grow _quite_ into a mouse. I have not heard the faintest, tiniest squeak from you since we left Moor Edge.' Rosamond smiled a little, but it was not a very bright smile. 'I-- I thought you were thinking, auntie,' she said, 'and p'raps you were tired.' 'Just a scrap tired, I daresay,' said Aunt Mattie, 'and--yes I _was_ thinking, but I shouldn't have forgotten you, my pet. Are _you_ not tired?' 'I don't know, auntie,' the little girl replied. 'My head feels rather buzzy, I think. It gets like that sometimes when I've been in the railway and coming to see places and--and-- I never played with such a lot of boys before, you see, auntie. I'm not becustomed to them yet,' and she could not keep back a tiny sigh. It was repeated, though not to be heard, in Aunt Mattie's heart. 'I am dreadfully afraid I have made a great mistake,' thought the young lady to herself, 'in believing she could get on with them and be happy there. She is too delicate and fragile for them. I must arrange something different and not attempt her going there for lessons.' But just as she was saying this to herself with a good deal of disappointment, Rosamond called out eagerly, with quite a different tone in her voice. 'Auntie, auntie,' she said, 'is that the signpost with "Whitcrow" on one of the spokes? Justin told me to look out for it. They pass by here when they go to their lessons on rainy days. I mean they turn off here instead of going on to your house. Yes'--as her aunt drew in the pony and passed the signpost at a walk, to let the little girl have a good look at it, and at the road beyond--'yes, that's it, "To W, h, i, t,-- Whitcrow," quite plain. I wonder if Whitcrow once was White Crow, auntie? Do you think so? I'd like to see the house they go to school at--at least to lessons to. Can we drive that way some day?' She was in a little flutter of interest and excitement. Mrs. Caryll looked at her with a smile. 'What funny creatures children are,' she thought to herself. 'A moment ago Rosamond was quite melancholy and depressed, as if the boys had really overwhelmed her, and now she is as bright as anything about them again.' 'Certainly, dear,' she said, her own spirits rising, 'I can show you Mr. Pierce's vicarage any day. What were you asking about Whitcrow? I don't think it ever struck me before that it may have come from White Crow. But a _white crow_, Rosamond, that would be a funny thing!' 'Yes,' said the little girl, laughing, 'when we always say "as black as a crow." But-- I think I _have_ heard of a white crow--or was it perhaps in a fairy story? I can't think.' 'We must ask Uncle Ted,' said her aunt. 'He knows all about curious things like that--all about wild birds and country things. But why do you say when they go to their lessons on rainy days? They go every day.' 'Oh yes, of course,' Rosamond replied. 'But it's only on rainy days they go by the road,' and she explained to her aunt the different plans that Justin had explained to her. 'That is new since my time,' said Mrs. Caryll. 'They used to drive to Whitcrow every morning and walk back if it was fine--and on rainy days the pony-cart was put up at the rectory. On fine days the stable boy went with them and brought it back. I used very often to go to meet them in the afternoons across the moor.' 'Oh then,' said Rosamond eagerly, 'you know the cottage where Bob Crag lives and the queer old woman. I do so want to see her. Will you take me there some day?' Her aunt hesitated. 'What have they been telling you about Bob and his grandmother?' she asked. 'Oh, only just about how queer they are, and that people aren't very kind to them, because they don't know where they come from and things like that, and I was wondering-- I couldn't help wondering'--the little girl went on in a somewhat awe-struck tone of voice--'if perhaps the old woman is a sort of a witch. I've never seen a witch, but I've read about them in fairy stories.' 'And is that why you so much want to go to see old Mrs. Crag,' said her aunt, half laughing. 'I don't quite know,' said Rosamond. 'Yes, I think it is partly. It's a little frightening to think of, but frightening things are rather nice too sometimes--in a sort of fancying way, I mean. For there aren't really any witches now, are there, auntie?' She was not quite sure of this all the same, for as she spoke, she crept a little closer to Mrs. Caryll. It was beginning to get dusk, and the part of the road along which they were then passing ran through a wood; at all times it was rather gloomy just here. 'Real witches,' repeated her aunt; 'of course not, though I daresay Pat could tell you stories by the dozen about them, and no doubt Bob's grandmother is a curious old body. Long ago I daresay she would have been called a witch. I don't think she is _quite_ right in her head, and Bob is a wild, gipsy-like creature. I don't think their father and mother care for the boys to see much of him, though both he and his grandmother are devoted to them. Some day----' but before Mrs. Caryll had time to say more, the sound of some one whistling in a peculiar way, two or three notes almost like a bird call, made her stop short. 'Why, that must be your uncle,' she exclaimed, 'coming to meet us,' and she whipped up the pony to make him go faster. They were not far from home by this time, and when Uncle Ted, for he it was, got into the pony-cart beside them, there was no more talk between Aunt Mattie and her little niece. 'How are they all getting on at Moor Edge?' was the first thing he asked. 'Oh--all right--at least well enough,' Mrs. Caryll replied, 'though I'm not sorry that their father and mother are coming back to-morrow,' and by something in her tone Uncle Ted understood that she was not quite happy about her five nephews, but that she did not want to say any more at present. So he went on talking about other things--he had been away all day--which did not interest Rosamond, and the little girl fell back into her own thoughts, companions she was well accustomed to. Aunt Mattie's house was quite a contrast to Moor Edge. It stood in the midst of a small but pretty park. Everything about it was peaceful and sheltered and charming. The flower gardens were the pride of the neighbourhood. There was a great variety of rare shrubs and plants, which could not have stood the keen blasts that blew over Moor Edge, perched up as it was on high ground. The trees grew luxuriantly at Caryll Place, and there was a little lake famed for the great variety of water-birds who found their home on its borders. This lake, I believe, was the one thing which made the Hervey boys envious. For everything else they much preferred their own home, which they described as 'ever so much jollier,' with the moor close at hand, and the fresh breezes that blew across it at almost all times of the year. But in Rosamond's eyes, though she had felt the charm of the moorland also, her aunt's home seemed perfection. All about it was in such perfect order, and Rosamond dearly loved order. The Moor Edge schoolroom had been a real trial to her, and as she ran upstairs to her own dainty little bedroom, she gave a great sigh of content. 'I am glad,' she thought to herself, 'to live here, instead of with all those boys. Though I _like_ them very much. At least I _would_ like them if they were just a little quieter, and not quite so squabbly. I wonder if I had had brothers if they'd have been like that? Perhaps I'm a little spoilt with being an only child, and I'm afraid I don't want to have brothers or sisters. All I do want is my own mamma, and that's just what I can't have. O mamma, mamma, if only you hadn't had to go away and leave me;' and the tears began to creep up again, as they had got sadly into the way of doing during the last few weeks, into her pretty grey eyes. But she bravely brushed them away again, for she knew that nothing would have distressed her dear mother more than for her to give way to unhappiness about a trouble which could not be helped. And after all she had a great deal to be glad about. Many children, as her mother had often told her, whose parents were in India, had no home in England but school, or perhaps with relations who cared little about them, and took small trouble to make their lives happy. How different from Caryll, and dear Uncle Ted and Aunt Mattie, and as she reached this point in her thoughts she heard her aunt's voice calling her, as she passed along the passage on her way downstairs. Rosamond ran after her and slipped her hand through Mrs. Caryll's arm. 'You don't feel cold after our drive, do you, darling?' said Aunt Mattie. 'No, not the least, thank you, auntie,' the little girl replied, and something in her voice told Mrs. Caryll that Rosamond had cheered up again. 'Uncle Ted says he would like a cup of tea after his journey,' her aunt went on, 'and I have a letter I want to send this evening, so you must pour it out for him while I write.' Rosamond was only too pleased to do so; they found her uncle waiting in the drawing-room, where some tea had just been brought in. It was a pretty sight, so at least thought Uncle Ted, to watch the little girl's neat and careful ways, as she handled the tea-things with her tiny fingers, looking as important as if it were a very serious affair indeed. 'I suppose you've often made tea for your father and mother; you seem quite at home about it,' said her uncle, as she brought him his cup. 'Yes,' Rosamond replied, 'I used to have breakfast alone with papa sometimes when mamma was tired and didn't get up early. What pretty cups these are, Uncle Ted! I do love pretty things, and you and Aunt Mattie have so many.' These cups are very old,' said Mr. Caryll, 'they belonged to our--your father's and my great grandmother--your great, great grandmother that would be, so they are rather precious.' Rosamond looked at the cups with still greater admiration. 'I'll be _very_ careful of them,' she said; then, after a pause--'the cups at Moor Edge were _so_ thick. I never saw such thick cups.' There came a little laugh from Aunt Mattie in her corner at the writing-table. 'Things need to be pretty strong at Moor Edge,' she said. 'Yes,' said Uncle Ted, 'the young men there do a good deal of knocking about, I fancy. How did you get on with them, my little Rose? You are not accustomed to racketty boys. I hope they didn't startle you?' Rosamond's quiet little face grew rather pink. 'N--no,' she said slowly, 'I like them very much, Uncle Ted--and-- I don't mind them being noisy, but'--here she broke off--'they didn't think _me_ noisy,' she went on with a twinkle of fun in her eyes. 'They made a new name for me; they call me "Miss Mouse."' 'A very good name too,' said her uncle. 'I didn't think they had so much imagination, except perhaps Pat, who's got rather too much; he seems always in a dream. Was it he who thought of the name?' 'Oh no,' Rosamond replied, 'it was the littlest one, Ger they call him. He's a dear, fat little boy. I don't _think_----' and again she hesitated. 'Don't be afraid of speaking out about them,' said Uncle Ted. 'I saw you had something more in your little head when you stopped short before.' Rosamond grew redder. 'I don't want to seem unkind,' she said, 'but are boys always like that, Uncle Ted? I don't mean noisy, but so _fighting_. The big ones teach it to the little ones. I was going to say that I'm sure Ger would be very good-tempered if they didn't tease him so. They all seemed to be teasing each other the whole time.' 'It's boy nature, I'm afraid, to some extent,' said Uncle Ted, 'especially where there are only boys together. It's a pity they haven't a sister or two to soften them down a bit.' Miss Mouse's eyes grew bright. 'I don't mind their not having a sister,' she said, 'if they'd let me be like one. Do you think they would, uncle? They were all very nice to _me_, though they squabbled with each other.' 'They're not bad boys,' said Uncle Ted, 'in many ways. And boys must fight among themselves more or less, though I think our English ideas about this go rather too far. I can't stand anything like bullying, and there's a little of it about Justin.' 'I _think_ I like Archie best of the big ones,' said Rosamond. 'But I'm not frightened of any of them, though I was a little at first.' Uncle Ted looked pleased at this. 'That's right, my little girl,' he said kindly. 'It never does any good to be frightened. And you may be of a great deal of use to Aunt Mattie's nephews while you're here. I can never forget how much _I_ owed to a dear little girl cousin of ours when I was a small boy with a lot of brothers like the Herveys--a very rough set we were too.' 'How nice,' said Rosamond, looking very interested. 'Do I know her, Uncle Ted?' He shook his head. 'I don't think so,' he replied. 'She's never been in our part of the world since she married. But, oddly enough, you rather remind me of her sometimes, Miss Mouse.' And when Miss Mouse went to bed that night, her thoughts about Moor Edge and the five boys there were all very bright and pleasant. It _would_ be so nice if she could be 'of use to them all,' like that cousin of Uncle Ted's long ago. CHAPTER V Bob When the boys had watched their aunt and Rosamond drive away, Justin turned to Archie. 'Come along,' he said, 'I want to go and ask Griffith about the ferrets. I wonder if Tom Brick has brought them.' The two walked off together, but they had not gone far before they were overtaken by Pat, who came running after them. 'What do _you_ want?' said Justin, not too amiably. 'I didn't ask you to come.' 'You're not my----' began Pat, but checked himself. 'Why shouldn't I come?' he went on in a pleasanter tone. 'I should like to see the ferrets too.' 'Yes,' put in Archie, 'why shouldn't he, Justin, if he wants to?' 'I suppose you've finished your story,' said Justin gruffly, 'and then when you've nothing better to do you condescend to give _us_ your company. But I warn you, if you come with us, I won't have any sneaking or tell-taleing about anything we do.' Pat opened his eyes--they were large dark eyes with a rather sad expression, quite unlike any of his brothers'--with a look of great surprise. 'What on earth could there be for me to tell-tale about,' he said, 'in just going to look at Tom Brick's ferrets? And what's more,' he added, with some indignation in his voice, 'it'll be time enough for you to speak to me like that when you do find me tell-taleing.' 'Yes,' chimed in peace-loving Archie, who was struck by Pat's unusual gentleness, 'I think so too, Jus. You're rather difficult to please, for you're always going on at Pat for not joining in with us, and when he does come you slang him for that.' Apparently Justin found self-defence rather difficult in the present case, for he only muttered something to the effect that Pat might come if he chose--it was all one to him. But Pat already felt rewarded for what he had tried to do by Archie's taking his part. For though Archie was a most thoroughly good-natured boy, he had come to be so entirely under Justin's influence that his acting upon his own feelings could scarcely be counted upon. And he himself was a little puzzled by what Justin had said. There could not be anything to sneak or tale-tell about if old Griffith had to do with it-- Griffith had been with their father long before they were born, and Mr. Hervey trusted him completely. Justin led the way to the stable-yard, which was at some little distance from the house. There was no one to be seen there, though the boys called and whistled. 'Griffith may be in the paddock,' said Archie, 'looking after mamma's pony,' for Mrs. Hervey's pony had not been driven lately, having got slightly lame. The paddock was some way farther off, but as the boys ran along the little lane leading to it, they heard voices in its direction which showed that Archie's guess was correct, and soon they saw a little group of men and boys, old Griffith in the middle of them. Justin ran up to them eagerly. 'I say,' he began, in his usual rather masterful tone, 'has Tom----' and then he stopped, for Tom Brick, a labourer on a neighbouring farm, was there to answer for himself. 'Have you brought the ferrets?' the boy went on, turning to him. 'I suppose it's too late to do anything with them this afternoon?' Tom Brick touched his cap, looking rather sheepish. 'I've not brought 'em, sir,' he replied; 'fact is, I've not got 'em to bring. I just stepped over to tell Master Griffith here as I've sold 'em--for a good price too; so I hope you'll ex--cuse it. I didn't want to keep 'em, as they're nasty things to have about a little place like mine with the children and the fowls, and my missus as can't abide 'em.' 'I certainly think you should have kept your promise to us before you parted with them,' said Justin, in his lordly way. 'I think it's a great shame. What's to be done now, Griffith?' he went on, to the coachman. 'The place will be overrun with rats.' But Griffith was just then absorbed by the pony, for the third man in the group was the 'vet' from the nearest town, who had come over to examine its leg again, and, before replying to Justin, he turned to the stable-boy, bidding him fetch something or other from the house which the horse-doctor had asked for. 'Griffith!' repeated Justin impatiently, 'don't you hear what I say?' Griffith looked up, his face had a worried expression. 'Is it about these ferrets?' he said. 'I can't be troubled about them just now, Master Justin. It's this here pony needs attending to. We'll get rid of the rats, no fear, somehow or other.' Justin was too proud to begin any discussion with the coachman before the 'vet,' who was an important person in his way. So he walked off, looking rather black, followed by his brothers, Pat, to tell the truth, by no means sorry at the turn that things had taken. 'Griffith is getting too cheeky by half,' said Justin at last, in a sullen tone. 'He's in a fuss about mamma's pony, I suppose,' said Archie. 'But it is rather too bad of that Tom Brick, only----' 'What?' said Justin. 'Why don't you finish what you've got to say?' 'It's only that I don't know if papa and mamma care much about our ferreting; at least mamma doesn't, I know,' said Archie. 'I've heard her say it's cruel and ugly.' 'All women think like that,' said Justin; 'my goodness, if you listen to them you'd have a pretty dull time of it. I don't see anything cruel about it when they're just muzzled, and as for killing the rats!--they _have_ to be killed.' 'All the same,' said Pat, 'it must be rather horrid to see.' 'It's no horrider than heaps of other things that are awfully jolly too,' said Justin. 'I suppose when you're a man you won't hunt, Pat, for fear you should be in at the death.' 'Hunting's different,' said Pat. 'There's all the jolliness of the riding. And shooting's different. There's the cleverness of aiming well, and papa says that when a bird's killed straight off, it's the easiest death it could have.' 'It's bad shots that make them suffer most,' said Archie. 'But I say, Jus, where are you going to. It must be nearly six. Have you finished your lessons?' 'Mind your own business,' said Justin, 'I'm not going in just yet, to be mewed up with Miss Ward in the schoolroom. I want a run across the moor first.' To this neither of his brothers made any objection. There was one point in common among all the Hervey boys, and that was love, enthusiastic love, of their moor--its great stretch, its delicious, breezy air, the thousand and one interests they found in it, from its ever-changing colouring, its curious varieties of moss, and heather, and strange little creeping plants, to be found nowhere else, to the dark, silent pools on its borders, with their quaint frequenters; everything in and about and above the moor--for where were such sunsets, or marvellous cloud visions to be seen as here?--had a charm and fascination never equalled to them in later life by other scenes, however striking and beautiful. Pat felt all this the most deeply perhaps, but all the others too, even careless Archie, and Justin, rough schoolboy though he was, loved the moor as a sailor loves the sea. This evening the sunset had been very beautiful, and the colours were still lingering about the horizon as the boys ran along one of the little white paths towards the west. 'It's a pity Miss Mouse can't see it just now,' said Archie suddenly. 'She's a jolly little girl. I liked her for liking the moor. The next time she comes we can take her a good way across it, as far as Bob Crag's; she'd like to see the queer cottage.' 'I bet you she'd be frightened of old Nance,' said Justin, with some contempt, 'she'd think her a witch; girls are always so fanciful.' '_You_ can't know much about girls,' said Pat. 'I'm sure Miss Mouse isn't silly. If she did think Nance a witch she'd like her all the better. You heard what she said about fairy stories.' 'Fairy rubbish,' said Justin. 'I believe you were meant to be a girl yourself, Pat.' Pat reddened, but, wonderful to say, did not lose his temper, and before Justin had time to aggravate him still more, there came an interruption in the shape of a boy who suddenly appeared a few paces off, as if he had sprung up out of the earth. He had, in fact, been lying at full length among the heather. 'Master Justin!' he exclaimed. 'I heard you coming along and I've been waiting for you. I were going home from Maxter's,' and he nodded his head backwards, as if to point out the direction whence he had come. 'Well,' said Justin, 'and what about it?' 'I axed about them there ferrets as I was telling you about t'other day,' said the boy. Justin threw a doubtful glance over his shoulder at his brothers. Bob, for Bob Crag it was, caught it at once. 'It was just when we was talking about what they cost,' he said carelessly, 'I thought maybe you'd like to know.' 'Tom Brick has sold his, did you know that?' said Pat, by way of showing interest in the subject. 'He's been talkin' about it for a long time,' said Bob. 'But _his_ weren't up to much. Those I've been told about are--why, just tip-toppers!' and out of his black eyes flashed a quick dart to Justin. He was a striking-looking boy, with the unmistakable signs of gipsyhood about him, sunburnt and freckled, as if his whole life had been spent out of doors, which indeed it mostly had. His features were good, his eyes especially fine, though with an expression which at times approached cunning. His teeth, white as ivory, gleamed out when he smiled, and in his smile there was something very charming. It was curiously sweet for such a rough boy, and with a touch of sadness about it, as is often to be seen in those of his strange race. He was strong and active and graceful, like a beautiful wild creature of the woods. Nevertheless it was not to be wondered at, that, in spite of his devotion to the boys, to Justin especially, Mr. Hervey had often warned his sons against making too much of a companion of old Nance's grandson, for hitherto no one had succeeded in taming him--clergyman, schoolmaster, kind-hearted ladies of the country-side had all tried their hands at it and failed. Bob was now thirteen, and did not even know his letters! Yet in his own line he was extremely clever, too clever by half in the opinion of many of his neighbours, though not improbably it was a case of giving a dog a much worse name than he deserved. Never was a piece of mischief discovered, which a boy could have been the author of--from bird's nesting to orchard robbing--without gipsy Bob, as he was called, getting the credit of it. And this sort of thing was very bad for him. He knew he was not trusted and that he was looked upon askance, and he gradually came to think that he might as well act up to the character he by no means altogether deserved, and his love of mischief, innocent enough as long as it was greatly mingled with fun, came to have a touch of spite in it, which had not been in Bob's nature to begin with. There were two things that saved him from growing worse. One was his intense, though half-unconscious, love of nature and all living things, with which he seemed to have a kind of sympathy, and to feel a tenderness for, such as are not often to be found in a boy like him. The second was his grateful devotion to the Hervey family, which his strange old grandmother, or great-grandmother, maybe, had done her utmost to foster. 'Where are they to be seen?' said Justin, in a would-be off-hand tone. 'It would do no harm to have a look at them.' 'In course not,' said Bob eagerly. 'It's a good bit off--the place where they are--but I know what I could do-- I could fetch 'em up to our place to-morrow or next day, and you could see them there.' Justin glanced at his brothers, at Pat especially, but, rather to his surprise, Pat's face expressed no disapproval, but, on the contrary, a good deal of interest. It was from Archie that the objection came. 'I don't see the good of Bob getting them, as we can't buy them,' he said. 'How do you know we can't buy them?' asked Justin sharply. 'They cost a lot,' Archie replied, 'and, besides, I'm sure papa and mamma wouldn't like us to have them. Mamma can't bear them, as you know.' 'She need never see them,' said Justin, whose spirit of contradiction was aroused by Archie's unusual opposition, 'and as for what they cost--how much _do_ they cost, Bob?' 'I couldn't say just exactly,' said Bob, 'but I can easy find out, and I'd do my best to make a good bargain for you. Five to ten shillin' a couple, any price between those they might be,' he went on, 'and if you really fancied them--why, I daresay granny'd let me keep them for you, and when there come a holiday I could fetch 'em to wherever you like.' 'There's the old out-houses that papa thought of pulling down,' said Justin. 'They're a nest of rats, I know, and we might be there a whole afternoon without any one finding out, or we might use them for rabbiting sometimes.' Bob's face grew rather serious. 'That's not as good fun,' he said quickly. To tell the truth he had a very soft corner in his heart for the poor little bunnies, with their turned-up, tufty white tails, scampering about in their innocent happiness. 'Rats is best, and a good riddance.' 'Five to ten shillings a couple,' repeated Justin. 'I have only got two, if that. What are you good for, Archie?' 'Precious little,' the younger boy replied. 'And I don't know that I care about----' 'You are a muff,' said Justin crossly, 'a muff and a turncoat. You were hotter upon ferreting than I was.' 'I'd be hot upon it still,' said Archie, 'if we could do it properly, with Griffith at home. But I don't think it worth spending all our money upon when very likely we wouldn't be allowed to keep them.' 'We could keep them at Bob's place,' said Justin. 'But as we haven't got the money there's no more to be said, I suppose.' '_I've_ got some money,' said Pat. 'Why don't you ask me to join, Justin?' '_You!_' said Justin, in a tone of mingled contempt and surprise. 'When do you ever spend money on sensible things?-- Would they want to be paid the whole at once, do you think, Bob?' he went on, turning to him. 'I shouldn't think so,' the boy replied, 'anyway I could see about that.' 'How much have you got, Pat?' Justin now condescended to ask. Pat considered. 'Three shillings, or about that,' he answered. 'Three and two, and something to make up another shilling with Archie's,' said Justin. 'Well we shouldn't be far short. I think you may as well fetch them, Bob, and let us know. You can look out for us on our way home to-morrow afternoon.' They had not been standing still all this time. The ground was a little clearer where they had met, and they had been able to stroll on abreast, though scarcely noticing they were moving. And now they were but a short way from Bob's home. He was always eager to show such hospitality as was in his power to 'his young gentlemen,' as he called them, and he knew that few things pleased his granny more than to have a word with them. 'I'll show you the corner where I could put up a box for the ferrets, if you'll step our way,' he said, and in a minute or two the four boys had reached the cottage, if cottage such a queer erection could be called. Justin and his brothers knew it well by sight, but they had very seldom gone inside, and, to Pat especially, there was a good deal of fascination about the Crags' dwelling-place. He was not sorry, as they came near to it, to see old Nance herself standing in the doorway, a smile of welcome lighting up her brown wrinkled face, and showing off her still strong even white teeth and bright black eyes. CHAPTER VI FERRETS AND FAIRIES Old Nance's way of speaking, like everything else about her, was peculiar to herself. Nobody could tell by it from what part of the country she had come, all that they could say was, that her talk was quite unlike that of her neighbours. Neighbours, in the common sense of the word, the Crags had none, for their cottage was very isolated. Moor Edge was the only house within a couple of miles, and except for the Herveys themselves, its nearness would have been no good to the old woman, for the servants were all full of prejudice against her and her grandson. This she well knew, but she did not seem to mind it. 'Good-day, Master Justin,' she said, as the boys came within speaking distance. 'I _am_ pleased to see you. You won't be on your way to school just now, so you'll spare the old woman a few minutes, won't you? and give her some news of your dear papa and mamma, bless them, and Miss Mattie that was, and the little young lady that's biding with her, and is going to have her lessons with the little young gentlemen at the house.' The three Hervey boys stared. 'Who told you so, Nance?' said Archie, the readiest with his tongue. 'There is a little girl at Aunt Mattie's, but we never saw her till this afternoon, and nobody has said anything about her having lessons at our house.' 'How do you hear things?' added Pat, looking the old woman straight in the face, for he had had, before this, experience of old Nance's extraordinary power of picking up news. 'Is she really a witch?' he added to himself, though he would not have dared to say it aloud. Nance smiled, but did not reply. 'Won't you step in?' she said, pushing the door of the cottage wider open. 'I've just tidied up, and I was fetching in a handful of bracken. It flames up so brightly.' It was chilly outside, and Nance's fire was very inviting. Pat stepped forward to it, and stood warming his hands over the blaze. 'And so your papa and mamma are away?' continued the old woman. 'You'll be missing them, though it's not for long.' 'There you are again!' said Pat. 'You know more about us than we do ourselves. _We_ have not heard for certain when they're coming back.' '_I_ don't mind if they stay away a little longer,' said Justin. 'It's rather fine being alone for a bit. If only we had holidays just now, and Miss Ward was away too, it would be very jolly.' Nance patted his shoulder with her thin brown hand. 'Book learning's all very well,' she said. 'Young gentlemen like you must have it. But it do seem against nature for young things to be cooped up the best part of the day. There's my Bob now, there's no getting him to stay indoors an hour at a time, be the weather what it will,' and she glanced at her grandson with a certain pride. Bob laughed, and in the dancing firelight his teeth glistened like pearls. 'I think we mustn't stay longer,' said Archie suddenly. He meant what he said, but, besides this, somehow or other, he always felt a little afraid of Nance, and this evening the feeling was stronger than usual. The growing darkness outside, the peculiar radiance of the fire, for the flames were dancing up the chimney like live things, and, above all, the old woman's strange knowledge of matters which it was difficult to account for her having heard, all added to this creepy feeling. And added to this, Archie had a tender conscience, and he knew that though they had never been actually forbidden to speak to the Crags, their father and mother did not care about their doing so, more than was called for in a kindly, neighbourly way. Justin and Patrick had consciences too, though Justin was very clever at 'answering his back,' and trying to silence its remarks, while Pat was so often in a kind of dreamland of his own fancy, that he slipped into many things without quite realising what he was about. Just now he was enjoying himself very much. He loved the queerness and fascination of old Nance and her belongings. It was like living in a fairy-story to him, and he felt rather cross at Archie for interrupting it, though he said nothing. 'I'm not going,' said Justin, 'till I've seen the corner where Bob means to keep our ferrets if we get them.' 'To be sure,' said Bob eagerly. 'I'll show you where in a minute if you'll come with me, Master Justin.' And the two went out together. Archie got up to follow them, but stopped short in the doorway, for, in spite of his fears, he was really more interested in Nance than in the ferrets. Her first remark surprised him again exceedingly. 'And you'll bring the little young lady to see me some day soon, Master Pat, won't you?' she said. 'She'd like to come, I know, for she's heard tell of me, and she loves the moor.' 'Nance,' said Pat gravely, 'I do believe you heard us talking on the mound this afternoon, when Miss Mouse was with us, and that's how you know all these things.' Nance only laughed. 'Think what you're saying, Master Pat,' she replied. 'Could I have been near you and you not see me? Unless I had the hiding-cap that the fairies left behind them on the moor many a year ago, but that nobody's found yet, though many have looked for it.' 'Then how do you know they left it,' said Pat quickly. ''Tis just an old tale,' she said carelessly. 'These days are past and gone--worse luck. It was fine times when the good people came about--fine times for those they took a fancy to, at least. Why, there was my own great-grandmother had many a tale to tell, when I was a child, of what they did for her and hers to help them through troubles and bring them good luck.' 'Your great-grandmother,' repeated Pat, 'why what an awfully long time ago that must have been! For I suppose you are very old yourself, Nance, aren't you?' She did not seem at all offended at this remark. On the contrary she nodded her head as if rather pleased, as she replied, 'You're in the right there, Master Pat,' she said. 'I've lived a good while; longer than you'd think for, perhaps, and I've seen strange things in my time. And my great-grandmother was a very old woman when I remember her. And yet it was seldom, even in those days, that the good people showed themselves.' 'Do they _never_ come now?' inquired Archie, from the doorway. 'Not even in wild, lonely places like this,' for he was gazing out upon the moor, and the fast-falling darkness added to the mysterious loneliness of the far-stretching prospect before him. His words gave Pat a new idea. 'Your stories can't have to do with this moor, Nance,' he said. 'You didn't live here when you were young, I know.' Nance shook her head. 'Deed no,' she replied. 'Many a long mile away from here. The place I first remember _was_ lonesome, if you like. There's not many such places to be found now, and they're getting fewer and fewer. No wonder the good people are frightened away with the railways coming all over the country. Why, the stage-coaches were bad enough, and some folks say there'll be no more of them,' and again Nance shook her head. 'Was your old home a moor too?' asked Pat. 'Was that why you came to live here?' 'You've guessed true,' replied the old woman. 'The moorland air is native air to me, though this is a small place compared to where I was born. It'll last my time, however, and yours too for that matter. There'll be no railroads across it till the world's a good many years older.' 'How do you know that?' asked Pat, with increasing curiosity. 'Do you know things that are going to happen as well as things that have happened? I wish you'd tell me how you find them out!' 'That I can't do,' was the reply. 'There's some as has the gift, though how it comes they can't tell. It's like music, there's some as it speaks to more than any words, and others to whom one note of it is like another. And who can say why!' She ended, drawing a deep breath. This talk was growing rather beyond Archie. He strolled into the little kitchen again towards his brother, who was still seated by the fire, where Nance had by this time settled herself opposite him. The flames were still dancing gaily up the chimney. It almost seemed to Pat as if they leaped and frolicked with increased life as the old woman held out her hands to their pleasant warmth. But then of course Pat was very fanciful. 'Tell us a story of the fairies and your great-grandmother,' said Archie. 'What was it they did to help her?' 'There's not time for it now,' Nance replied. 'There's Master Justin and Bob at the door,' and, sure enough, as Archie looked round the two other boys made their appearance, though not the slightest sound of their footsteps had been heard. Certainly, old as she was, Nance's hearing seemed as quick as that of the fairy Five-Ears. 'I don't want to keep you longer,' she went on, 'or your folk wouldn't be best pleased with me. You must come another day, and bring the little young lady, and old Nance will have some pretty stories ready for you.' So the three boys bade her good evening and set off homewards, Bob accompanying them a part of the way, talking eagerly to Justin about the ferret scheme they were so full of. Pat was very silent. 'What are you thinking about?' said Justin, when Bob had left them. 'You seem half asleep, both you and Archie.' 'I was thinking about old Nance,' said Pat; 'she's awfully queer.' 'Yes,' Archie agreed. 'I like her and I don't like her. At least I felt to-night as if I were a little afraid of her.' 'Rubbish,' said Justin. 'That's Pat putting nonsense in your head. If you're going to stuff him with all your fancies, Pat, I'd rather you didn't come with us.' Archie turned upon him. 'That's not fair of you, Jus,' he said indignantly. '_I_ think Pat's been very good-natured this evening. And if I were he I wouldn't give you any money for those ferrets if you spoke like that.' This reminder was not lost upon Justin. 'Pat's all right,' he said. 'He wants the little beasts too, don't you, Pat?' turning to him. Pat murmured something, though not very clearly, to the effect that he didn't mind, Jus was welcome to the money. Then another thought struck Archie. 'I say!' he exclaimed. 'I wonder if it's true about Miss Mouse coming to have lessons with Miss Ward? That'd mean her being at our house every day.' '_We_ shouldn't see much of her,' said Justin, 'we'd be at the vicarage. So we needn't bother about it. It wouldn't interfere with us.' 'Bother about it!' repeated Archie. 'I think it would be rather nice. I like her. But we'd have to leave off racketing about so, I suppose. She _did_ look frightened once or twice this afternoon.' 'Perhaps it would be a good thing,' said Pat. 'I don't think we were like what we are now, when Aunt Mattie was with us, and yet nobody could say that she would like boys to be muffs.' 'Speak for yourself,' said Justin. 'There's always been one muff among us, and that's you!' It was too dark for Pat's face to be seen, and he controlled himself not to reply. It was easier to do so as he was, to confess the truth, feeling not a little pleased with himself for his good-nature to his elder brother. 'I'm sure Aunt Mattie would think I'd done my best this evening,' he thought; 'Justin hasn't been a bit nicer and I've not answered him back once, and I really will give him the money for the ferrets, though I'm sure I never want to see the nasty little beasts. I don't mind them so much if they're kept down at old Nance's, for then when Justin goes to see them I can go too and make old Nance tell me some of her queer stories.' For Pat was very much fascinated by the old woman and her talk--more than he quite knew indeed. He put down the whole of his amiability to Justin to his wish to follow his aunt's good advice. Justin was struck by Pat's forbearance. 'What's coming over him?' he said to himself, 'I've never known him so good-tempered before.' Archie noticed it too, as he had already done earlier in the afternoon, and he was not afraid to say so. 'You're really too bad, Jus,' he exclaimed. 'Pat's far too patient. If I were he I wouldn't stand it.' This gave Pat great satisfaction, for though he seemed unsociable and morose he was really very sensitive to other people's opinion of him, and eager for approval. 'Don't you meddle,' said Justin. 'Pat and I can manage our affairs without you. We're both older than you, remember.' But before Archie had made up his mind what to reply, the threatening quarrel was put a stop to by an unexpected diversion. They had by this time left the moor and were making their way home by a little lane which skirted their own fields, across which it was not always easy to make one's way in the dark. A few yards ahead of them this lane ran into the road, and just at this moment, to their surprise, they caught sight of a carriage driving slowly away from Moor Edge. 'What can that be?' said Justin. 'It's the fly from the station, I'm almost sure. I know it by the heavy way it trundles along.' 'I do believe,' said Archie joyfully, 'that it's papa and mamma come back without warning!' His brothers did not seem equally pleased. 'If it is,' said Justin, 'we'll get into a nice scrape for being out so late. Run on, Archie, you're mamma's pet, and tell her we're just behind.' Archie made no objection to this, he was not unused to being employed in this way, and when a few minutes later the elder boys entered the house, they found that their pioneer had done his work well. Their mother was crossing the hall on her way upstairs when she caught sight of them coming in by a side door; Archie was beside her, laden with bags and rugs. 'My dear boys,' said Mrs. Hervey, 'you shouldn't be out so late. I was just beginning to wonder what had become of you when Archie ran in.' 'We never thought you'd come back to-night,' said Justin, as he kissed her, 'or we'd have been in, or gone along the road to meet you.' 'That's not the question,' said their father's voice from the other side of the hall, where he was looking over some letters that had come for him. 'I'm afraid it's a case of "when the cat's away,"' but by the tone of his voice they knew he was not very vexed. 'So, Pat,' he went on, 'you were out too. I'm glad of that, it's better than being always cooped up indoors. What have you all been after? Archie says you weren't far off--were you with Griffith?' 'Part of the time,' said Justin. 'The vet came over to look at mamma's pony.' 'Oh, by the bye, how is it?' asked Mr. Hervey quickly, but Justin could not say. 'I'll run out and ask Griffith now,' he volunteered, and off he ran. Pat followed his mother and Archie upstairs. He did not quite own it to himself, but he had a strong feeling of not wishing his father to know that they had been for some time at the Crags' cottage. On the landing upstairs, Mrs. Hervey and the boys were met by the two nursery children. Hec kissed his mother in a rather off-hand way--there was a good deal of Justin about Hec--but fat little Ger ran forward with outstretched arms. 'Mamma, mamma!' he cried. 'I am _so_ glad you've comed home. And Mith Mouse has been here, did you know? Aunt Mattie brought her.' 'My darling, what are you talking about?' said his mother. 'Pat-- Archie, what does he mean?' 'The little girl,' said Archie, 'Aunt Mattie's own little girl. Didn't you know she was coming, mamma?' Mrs. Hervey's face cleared. 'Do you mean little Rosamond Caryll?' she said. 'Oh yes, of course I knew she was expected to stay with your Aunt Mattie. But I forgot she was coming so soon. And so she has been to see you already? That is very nice. She must be a dear little girl, I am sure.' 'Hers _juth_ like a mouse,' said Ger, 'all tho thoft and juth the right colour--greyey, you know!' His mother laughed. 'You funny boy,' she said. 'When are you going to leave off lisping altogether? You can say S's quite well if you like. Did she mind your calling her "Miss Mouse"?' she went on, turning to the elder boys. 'No, not a bit,' said Archie. 'I think she liked it.' 'And so did Aunt Mattie,' added Pat. 'She said it suited her. Is it true that she's coming here to have lessons, mamma?' 'Who told you so?' asked his mother, with some surprise. 'There's nothing settled about it.' Pat and Archie glanced at each other, but neither replied. Their mother, however, did not notice their silence, for just then Miss Ward made her appearance. She was all smiles and cheerfulness now, for Mr. and Mrs. Hervey's return was the greatest possible relief to her. 'I hope everything has been all right while we were away?' said the boys' mother kindly. 'Yes, thank you,' said Miss Ward, 'at least everything is quite right now. I had just a little trouble, but it was really accidental, and Mrs. Caryll's coming this afternoon was such a pleasure.' Mrs. Hervey saw that Miss Ward did not wish to say any more before the children. Her face fell a little. 'I am afraid,' she thought to herself, 'that Justin may have been unmanageable, but I shall hear about it afterwards if there is anything that must be told. Pat,' she went on to herself, 'looks wonderfully bright and cheerful, more like what he used to be when Mattie was here. I do hope it will turn out nicely about little Rosamond coming.' CHAPTER VII NANCE'S STORY The next day Mrs. Hervey drove over to Caryll Place, where she had a long talk with her sister, and made acquaintance with little Rosamond. 'She is a sweet little girl,' she said, when she and Aunt Mattie were by themselves. 'I do hope it will answer for her to come over to us, as we had thought of. Even though she would be mostly with the little ones, you could let her spend a day now and then with all the boys, I hope, Mattie? It would be so good for them, and I _think_, I _hope_ they would not be too rough for her. They must have been unusually unruly yesterday.' Mrs. Caryll hesitated. She was anxious not to disappoint her sister, as she looked up in her face with her gentle, pleading brown eyes--eyes so like Archie's. Mrs. Hervey was several years older than Aunt Mattie, and yet in some ways she seemed younger. There was something almost child-like about her which made it difficult to believe that she was the mother of the five sturdy boys. And to tell the truth, she often felt overwhelmed by them. 'If only one of them had been a girl!' she used to say to herself. 'She would have had such a softening influence upon the others!' and she had hailed with delight the prospect of little Rosamond making one of the Moor Edge party to some extent for a time. 'You're not thinking of giving it up?' she went on anxiously. 'No,' replied Aunt Mattie. 'I think now that Rosamond herself would be very disappointed. Her uncle said something to her last night which I see has made a great impression upon her. She really wants to be a sister to them all, for the time. But I think it _will_ be necessary for you--or his father rather--to speak very seriously to Justin. I am afraid there is a touch of the bully about him which seems to have got worse of late, and it is such a bad example for the younger ones.' 'Of course it is,' Mrs. Hervey agreed. 'We have been speaking to him this morning about his rudeness to Miss Ward while we were away. We made her tell about it, poor thing--and on the whole I must say he took it well. He didn't attempt any excuses. And Pat has been _very_ nice, much brighter than usual. I can't help hoping that the thought of Miss Mouse'--she smiled as she said the name-'is going to put them all on their mettle.' 'I shall be very glad indeed if it is so,' said Mrs. Caryll, and when her sister went home again, she carried with her, to her houseful of boys, the news that the little stranger was to join the schoolroom party the next day but one, for to-day was Saturday. They were all more or less pleased. Justin the least so perhaps, unless it were that he thought it rather beneath him to seem to care one way or another about a thing of the kind, and he repeated that it would make no difference to _him_, as Miss Mouse's companions were to be the two little boys. 'Oh, but she's going to be with us on half-holidays, very often,' said Archie. 'What a nuisance!' said Justin, but in his heart he was not ill-pleased. There was a good deal of love of show-off about him, and a little girl, especially a quiet, gentle child like Rosamond, seemed to him very well suited to fill the place of admirer to his important self. 'We must take her to see old Nance, the first chance we get,' said Pat. 'We almost promised we would, you remember?' 'Do you think Aunt Mattie wouldn't mind,' said Archie doubtfully. '_Mind_,' repeated Pat, 'of course not. We've never been told we're not to speak to the Crags. All papa said was that he didn't want us to have Bob too much about the place. And I daresay that was partly because the servants are nasty to him, and might get him into trouble somehow or other. 'Oh well yes,' said Archie, who was always inclined to see things in the pleasantest light, 'I daresay it was for that, and Miss Mouse does want very much to go to see their queer cottage.' And on Monday morning little Rosamond made her appearance for the second time at Moor Edge. She had come over in her aunt's pony-cart, which was to fetch her again in the afternoon, Mrs. Caryll intending very often to drive over for this purpose herself. Things promised very well in the schoolroom. Miss Ward was a good teacher, and Rosamond was a pleasant child to teach. Three days in the week she was alone with the little ones, the three other days Archie and she did several of their lessons together, for it was only on alternate mornings that he went with his brothers to the vicarage for Latin and Greek, which Miss Ward did not undertake. So a week or more passed quietly and uneventfully. The two first half-holidays were not spent by Rosamond at Moor Edge, as her aunt thought it better not to throw the little girl too much with the elder boys till she had grown more accustomed to being among so many, for a change of this kind is often rather trying to an only child. But on the second Wednesday, when the little girl was starting in the morning, she asked her aunt if she might spend that afternoon with 'the boys,' and not come home till later. Mrs. Caryll was pleased at her expressing this wish. 'Certainly, dear,' she said. 'I shall very likely drive over myself to bring you back. I have not seen Aunt Flora,'--for so Rosamond had been told to call Mrs. Hervey--'for some days. Have you made some plan for this afternoon?' 'Only to go for a walk with the big ones,' Miss Mouse replied. 'I daresay we'll go on the moor, for I've hardly been there at all.' And after the early dinner at Moor Edge the children set off for their ramble, having informed Miss Ward that they had no intention of coming home till tea-time. 'Aunt Mattie's coming to fetch me herself,' said Rosamond, 'and now the evenings are rather cold and get so soon dark, she is sure to come in a close carriage, so mightn't we have tea a _little_ later, Miss Ward, so as to be able to stay out as long as it's light?' She looked up coaxingly in Miss Ward's face. 'I don't think it would do to change the hour,' the governess replied. 'But I won't mind if you're not in just to the minute.' Miss Ward's not often so good-natured as that,' said Justin. 'I suppose she "favours" you because you're a girl, Miss Mouse.' 'I think she's very kind to everybody,' said Rosamond. 'I'm sure she's had nothing to complain of lately,' said Justin. 'We've been as good as good. I'm getting rather tired of it.' They were close to the moor by this time. It was a mild day for the time of year, and the sky was very clear. 'We might go a good long walk,' said Archie. 'Humph,' said Justin, 'I don't call that much fun. Anyway I mean to go first to Bob Crag's. I don't know what he's doing about those ferrets. He's had time enough to find out about them by now.' 'What was there to find out?' asked Archie. 'He told us ever so long ago that he could get them at Maxter's.' 'Oh, but you didn't hear,' said Pat. 'It was one morning you weren't with us. He ran after us to say that these ones were sold too. And he had heard of some other place farther off. I don't believe we'll ever get any.' 'Is that the boy whose old grandmother lives in the queer hut on the moor?' asked Rosamond eagerly. 'I remember the first time I came here you said you'd take me to see it some day. Can't we go that way now?' 'We _are_ going that way,' said Justin. 'You're sure you won't be frightened of the old granny? For if you were, Aunt Mattie wouldn't let you come with us again.' Rosamond opened her eyes very wide. 'Frightened of her,' she repeated. 'Why should I be? Isn't she a kind old woman?' 'Yes,' said Pat, 'but she's very queer. If you don't like her, you need never come back to see her again.' 'And in that case you needn't say anything about it to Aunt Mattie,' added Justin. 'But _of course_ I won't be frightened,' said Rosamond, a little indignantly. 'I've never been easily frightened. Even when I was only two, mamma said I laughed at the niggers singing and dancing at the seaside. Aunt Mattie would think me very silly if I were frightened.' 'She'd be more vexed with us than with you,' said Justin. 'I think on the whole you needn't say anything about the Crags to her. You see you don't quite understand being with boys. _We_ don't go in and tell every little tiny thing we've done. Miss Ward would be sure to find fault with _something_. And _we_ hate tell-taleing; girls don't think of it the same way.' '_I_ do,' said Rosamond, flushing a little. 'If you think I'd be a tell-tale I'd rather not go with you.' 'Oh nonsense,' said Archie. 'I'm sure Jus can't think that. Anybody can see you're not that sort of a girl.' All these remarks put the little girl on her mettle, and, besides this, she was most anxious to gain the good opinion of the two elder boys and to get on happily with them as her aunt had so much wished. Nor was she by nature in the least a cowardly child. [Illustration: NANCE.] Still when they reached the little cottage on the moor, and she caught sight of Nance standing in the doorway as if looking out for them, she could not help giving a tiny start, for no doubt the old woman _was_ a very strange-looking person. 'She really does look like one of the witches in my picture fairy-book,' thought Rosamond. But with the first words that fell from Nance's lips, the slight touch of fear faded away. There was something singularly sweet in the old woman's voice when it suited her to make it so, and she was evidently very pleased to see the little stranger. 'Welcome, missie dear,' she said. 'I was thinking you'd be coming to-day, and proud I am to see you all.' Rosamond felt a little surprised at finding herself expected, but no doubt, she thought to herself, the boys had told the old woman that they would bring her. 'Thank you,' she said, in her pretty, half-shy way. 'I wanted to come very much. I think it must be so nice to live on the moor as you do.' 'Nance has always lived on a moor,' said Archie, 'ever since she was quite a little girl. That's why she came here instead of going to the village.' 'Aye, Master Archie,' said the old woman, 'I'd choke in a village, let alone a town, but there was a time that I was far away from moorland, though my life began on one and 'twill end on one too. But won't you come in, my dears. I was baking this morning--there's some little cakes maybe you'd like a taste of, and some nice fresh milk.' None of the children had any objection to an afternoon luncheon of this kind, and Nance's little cakes were certainly very good. Miss Mouse felt exceedingly happy. The inside of the cottage was beautifully clean, and uncommon-looking in some ways, for Nance had trained a creeping plant so well that one side of the room was nearly covered by it, and, besides this, there was a kind of rockery in one corner with smaller plants growing in its crannies. The furniture, though plain and strong, was of quaint, uncommon shapes, and on the high mantelshelf stood some queer pieces of china, more rarely to be seen in those days than now, when the curiosities of the East can be bought by any one for very little. Rosamond knew more about such things than the boys, as her father had been so much in India, and she thought to herself that perhaps the old woman had had sons or brothers who were sailors. The little room was pleasantly warm without being too hot; indeed Nance loved fresh air so much that it was rarely her door was shut closely even in winter. The fire was dancing brightly, and there was a peculiar fragrance which seemed to come from it. 'I've been burning pine-cones and other sweet-smelling things,' said Nance. Rosamond gave a sigh of satisfaction. 'It's perfectly lovely in here every way,' she said. 'It's like a fairy-house.' 'Oh, that reminds me,' said Pat, 'you promised to tell us a fairy story, Nance, at least I think it was to be a fairy one. Anyway it was about the great big moor where you lived when you were a little child.' Pat had seated himself comfortably in his favourite corner near the fire, Miss Mouse and Archie opposite him, but Justin was fidgeting about in his usual way; he was the most restless boy possible. 'I say, where is Bob?' he asked suddenly. Nance stepped to the door and looked out. 'He should be coming by now,' she said. 'He went about your ferrets to another place, Master Justin. He's been in a fine way at not getting them for you before. Ah! yes, there he is,' and she pointed to a black speck appearing on one of the little white paths at some distance. 'I'll go and meet him,' exclaimed Justin, 'perhaps he's bringing them with him. _I_ don't care about fairy stories. So when you're ready to go,' he went on, turning to his brothers, 'you can call me. I'll be somewhere about with Bob,' and he ran off. Nance stood looking after him for a moment. Then she came in, half-closing the door. 'That's right,' said Archie, 'now we'll be very comfortable without Jus fidgetting about. Go on, Nance, we're all ready.' Nance drew forward a stool, and seated herself upon it, between the children, in front of the fire. She had a pleasant, rather dreamy smile upon her face. [Illustration: 'I'VE PLENTY OF STORIES IN MY HEAD,' SHE SAID.] 'I've plenty of stories in my head,' she said. 'The one I was going to tell you the other day was an old one of my grandmother's. It was about a moor, though I can't say for certain if it was the one I remember best myself. It was told her by the one that was best able to tell it, and that was the very man it had happened to many years before, when he was a boy. They were poor folk, very poor folk, and they had hard work to keep the wolf from the door. The father was dead, and there were several little ones. This boy, Robin was his name, was the eldest, and the only one fit for regular work, and he was but twelve. He must have been a right-down good boy, though he didn't say so of himself, for he worked early and late and brought every penny home to his mother. Well, one night, 'twas the beginning of winter too, like it is now, he was going home from the farm where he worked, right across the moor. It was a good long way to the farm, for it was a lonely place where his home was, but there was no rent to pay for the bit of a place, so they stayed there, lonesome as it was, and worse than that sometimes, for the children were delicate, from want of good food most likely, and more than once the poor mother had had a sad fright, thinking the baby, the frailest of them all, would have died before the doctor could come to them. In the summer-time they got on better, and, putting one thing with another, they'd have been sorry to move. 'This winter promised to be a very hard one--all the wise folk had said so, and they weren't often mistaken. There were signs they could read better than people can nowadays, and Robin's heart was heavy. For if the snow came his work might stop, or it might be almost impossible to go backwards and forwards to it. There had been times when for days together the moor could not be crossed. The boy was tired too, and hungry, and he knew well there was not much of a meal waiting for him at home. But at least there would be shelter and warmth, for there was no lack of fuel ready to hand--same as we have it here. The wind whistled and moaned, and felt as if it cut him. More than once he put his hands up to his ears, just to feel like if they were still there and to shut out the dreary sound for a moment. And one time after doing so, it seemed to him that he heard a new sound mixing with the wind's wail. A cry, with more in it than the wind was telling: for it sounded like the cry of a living being. He hurried on, feeling a little frightened as well as troubled----' 'Were there wolves about that place then, do you think, Nance?' Archie interrupted eagerly. 'I have read in stories that they make a sort of a cry--a baying cry. Perhaps the boy thought it was wolves?' Nance shook her head. 'There's been no wolves in this country, Master Archie, since much farther back than my grandmother's time. No, it wasn't that sort of a cry. He heard it again and again. And each time it grew plainer and plainer to him that it was some creature in trouble, and bit by bit it came stronger upon him that he must seek it out whatever it was; that he would be a cruel boy if he didn't. So he stood quite still to listen, and through and above the wind he heard it still clearer, and then he turned to the side where it seemed to come from, though it was hard to make his way. But strange to say he hadn't gone many steps before he felt he was on a path, and, stranger still, all of a sudden the moon came out from behind the clouds, and he heard the cry almost at his feet, though before then it had seemed a good way off. He went on a few steps, peering at the ground, and soon he saw a little white shape lying huddled up among the withered heather, and sobbing fit to break your heart to hear. It was a little girl; she seemed about two years old, and when she felt him trying to lift her up, she stopped crying and wound her tiny arms about his neck, so that, if he had wanted to set her down again, he could scarce have done so. And before he knew where he was there she had settled herself in his arms as content as could be. He spoke to her, thinking she might understand. '"Who are you, baby?" he said, "and where have you come from? And what am I to do with you?" 'It was half like speaking to himself, and no answer did he get, except that she cuddled herself closer into his arms, and it came over him that take her home he must, whatever came of it, and in less than a minute she seemed to have fallen asleep. He drew what he could of his coat over her, for it was bitter cold, and it was hard work fighting against the wind, tired as he was too, and misdoubting him sorely as to what his poor mother would say, and small blame to her, when she saw what he had brought with him. But queer things happened during that walk; whenever his heart went down the most, he'd feel her little hand patting at his cheek, or one of her fair curls would blow across his lips, as if it was kissing him, and with that he'd cheer up again and his feet would feel new spring in them. So they came at last to his home, and there was his mother peeping out, wild night though it was, and listening for his coming, for she had been getting very frightened. '"Is it you, Robin?" she called out, and sad as her heart was that evening, it gave a leap of joy when she heard her boy's voice in return. 'But it was as he had been fearing, when he came in and she saw by the firelight what he was carrying. '"I couldn't help it, mother," he said, "nobody could have helped it," and he told his story. '"No," said the poor woman, "you couldn't have left the baby to die all alone out on the moor a night like this. Though it's little but shelter and warmth we can give her. There's but a crust for your own supper, my poor Robin." 'She took the child from him and laid it down on the settle by the fire, and as she did so it opened its eyes and smiled at her, and for a minute her heart felt lightened, just as it had been with Robin. And the baby shook its pretty curls, and sat straight up, looking about it quite bright and cheery-like, and then it made signs that it was hungry, and Robin took the piece of bread waiting for him on the table, and give the biggest half to the little creature, who ate it eagerly. His two next brothers stood staring at her--the little sisters were in bed and asleep, his mother told him. They were so hungry, she said, 'twas the best place for them. '"And how we're to get food for to-morrow, heaven only knows," she went on. "I've not a penny left, and if this wind brings the snow there'll be no getting across the moor even to beg a loaf for charity," and her tears fell fast. 'Robin felt half wild. Hungry as he was he couldn't bear to think of the little ones in bed without a proper meal, and he was half angry when he heard his little brothers give a shout of laughter. '"Be quiet, can't you?" he was going to say. But what he saw made him stop short. There was the little stranger, as grave as a judge, taking turn about with the two boys at the crust of bread, and they were laughing with pleasure at her feeding them, and calling out that the bread had honey on it. "They must be hungry to think that," said the mother; "but the little one has a kind heart, and maybe she's not very hungry herself, though she's so poorly clad," and both she and Robin felt happier to see how pleased the boys were. 'The good woman undressed the little child and put her to bed with her own, and with no supper but his half crust, Robin fell asleep that night, feeling, all the same, cheerier than might have been. '"I'll be up betimes, mother," were his last words, "whatever the weather is. I must make sure of some food for you and the children before I go to work." 'He woke early the next morning, earlier than usual, tired though he was, and the moon was shining so brightly in at the little window that at first he thought it was daylight. And when he looked round the kitchen, for he slept in a corner of it, he could scarce believe it wasn't, for it was all tidied up, the fire burning beautiful, and everything spick and span as his mother loved to have it. "Poor mother," thought Robin, "why has she got up so early? and how sound I must have been sleeping not to hear her!" 'He called out to her, but there was no answer, and when he got up and peeped into the inner room, why! there they were all fast asleep, and as he turned back again, he saw something still stranger, for there was the table all spread ready for breakfast--better than that indeed, for the breakfast itself was ready. There was a beautiful, big, wheaten loaf, and a roll of butter, a treat they seldom tasted, and a great bowl full of milk, and on the hob by the fire stood the coffee-pot, and it was many a day since that had been used, with the steam coming out at its spout, and the nice smell of fresh ground berries fit to make your mouth water. 'There was no thought of going to bed again for Robin when he had seen all this, though he'd been half wishing he could, he was that tired from the night before, and by the clock he now saw that it was half-past six. He gave a cry of joy which awoke his mother, and brought her and the children in to see what had happened.' CHAPTER VIII NANCE'S STORY (_continued_) 'At the first glance,' continued Nance, 'the poor woman thought that it was all Robin's doing, but in another moment she saw that was impossible. The boy was only half-dressed and had plainly not been outside, and he was looking quite as surprised as the rest. '"Mother, mother," cried Robin, "where has it all come from? Did you get up in the night? Has any one been here?" 'His mother was too surprised herself to know what to say. She glanced round at the children. '"Let us get dressed quick and have some of this beautiful breakfast," said the little girls, "we are so hungry;" and the baby held out its arms and crowed, and then the mother bethought herself of the little visitor of the night before. She was the only one who had not been awakened by Robin's cry of joy--there she was still sleeping soundly, with a smile on her little fair face. '"She has brought us good luck," said Robin and his mother, "whoever she is, and wherever she came from." 'But wonderful as it was they were too hungry to keep on thinking about it, and soon they were all seated round the table, enjoying themselves as they hadn't done for many a day. 'And that wasn't the end of it either. When the good woman carried the remains of the breakfast into the lean-to where their food was kept, when they had any, what did she find but a beautiful cut of bacon and a bowl full of eggs. '"Why, Robin," she said, "there'd be no fear of our starving now, even if we couldn't cross the moor," and she looked out as she spoke, but the weather had taken a turn for the better, and Robin was able to go to his work with a light heart, feeling strong and fresh after his good night's rest and his good meal. '"And you'll ask all about," said his mother, "if any one has lost their child. There must be sore hearts somewhere, I'm afraid," and she lifted the tiny waif for Robin to kiss her before he set off. 'But ask as he might there was nothing to be heard of a strayed child, and as the day went on the boy felt more and more puzzled. He had plenty to think of that day, for, to his great surprise, the farmer for whom he worked told him that he was so pleased with his industry and good-nature that, be the weather what it would that winter through, he might count on regular work and better wages. 'Robin was so eager to carry this news to his mother that he could scarce wait till the time came for him to go home, and once he set off 'twas more like dancing across the moor than walking, so happy did he feel. '"And even if we can't find the baby's friends," he thought to himself, "mother'll be able to keep her, and glad to do it too, seeing the good luck she's brought us." 'As this passed through his mind he stopped short and looked about him. 'Twas just about the place where he had heard the cry the night before, but the evening was mild and clear, and though the sun had set it was not cloudy, and as the moon came sailing up he could see a long way round him, and what breeze there was, was soft and gentle compared to the storm wind of yesterday. And just then a sudden sound reached him. No cry of trouble this time, but a burst of pretty laughter, ringing and joyous as if it came from some little child bubbling over with fun--and mischief too! It seemed to be just in front of him, then just behind, then just at one side, then at the other. Wherever he turned it came from a different point, till he felt half-provoked to be so tricked. So he ran on at last all the faster, thinking he was bewitched, till he got within sight of his home, and there, coming to meet him, was his mother, with a look on her face half-pleased, half-vexed. "She's gone, Robin," she called out, "the pretty baby's gone. But there's no call to be afraid for her. She ran off when she was playing with your little sisters in front of the house, and chase her as we might, we couldn't catch her. She danced away like a will-o'-the-wisp, laughing as I've never heard a child laugh, so fine and pretty and mischievous it was. And I've bethought me what it means. 'Twas the day for the moor-fairies to show themselves, it comes but once in seven years, and we've been in luck indeed." 'Then Robin told her of the laughing he, too, had heard, and of the good news he was bringing, and together they went on to the cottage, thankful that they had not missed the chance which had come to them by fear or selfishness. And from that day for seven years to come anyhow it did seem as if they were specially befriended, everything went well with them, and so far as I remember what my grandmother said, this good turn helped Robin on through his life. He was a grandfather himself when he told the story, much respected through the country-side--a good, kind man, as he had been a good, kind boy.' Nance stopped. Rosamond gave a sigh of satisfaction. 'What a pretty story,' she said, 'and how nicely you've told it--Mrs. Crag,' for she did not quite know what to call the old woman. Nance smiled, well pleased. It was true; she had a real gift for story-telling, and though her accent sounded strange, her words were so correctly chosen, and her whole tone had so much charm about it, that it was almost difficult to believe that she had not at some time of her life been in a much better position than now. 'I'm right glad that you've liked my old story,' she said. 'But don't call me Mrs. Crag, missie dear; it doesn't suit me. Say "Nance," like the young gentlemen. I've plenty more stories packed away somewhere in my head that I can get out for you if you care to hear them.' 'I wonder,' said Pat, 'if the fairies were seen again ever? Do you think they kept coming back every seven years, Nance?' The old woman shook her head. 'I can't say, Master Pat,' she replied, 'but I'm afraid those days are over now, the world's too changed, and all the new-fangled ways frighten the good people away.' 'Do you think there were ever fairies on _this_ moor?' said Archie. 'It says in our story-books that there are ever so many different kinds, some in forests, some in brooks and rivers, but I never heard of moor ones before. Are you sure, Nance, that if we sat up all night, or got up very, very early in the morning some particular day, we mightn't see something queer, or hear something? Like the boy, Johnnie-- Somebody? who climbed up the mountain on Midsummer's eve.' 'No, no, Master Archie,' said Nance. 'Times are changed, as I told you. You'd catch nothing but a bad cold. You mustn't try any of those tricks, my dear, or you'll be getting old Nance into trouble for filling your head with nonsense, and then you'd not be let come to see me, which would be sad for me,' and she gave a little sigh. 'Promise me, you'll never do anything your dear papa and mamma wouldn't like.' Archie laughed. 'I was really half joking,' he said. 'I know there aren't really any fairies, nowadays anyway. Pat, don't you go and tell Justin what I was saying, or he'd make fun of me.' 'I'm not going to,' said Pat. 'Jus doesn't care about things like that.' 'I think they're lovely,' said Miss Mouse. 'Fancying about pretty things is almost as nice as having them really, don't you think?' There was no time, however, for any more talk, for at that moment Justin, followed by Bob, made his appearance at the door. 'I say,' he called out, 'I'm going home, and you'd better all come with me.' 'It's not late,' objected Pat, who was feeling very comfortable and disinclined to move, 'and we had leave to stay out later.' 'I can't help it,' said Justin. '_I_ want to go back now. I've a reason for it. I'll tell you about it as we go.' The others had to give in to him, as was generally the case. They all said good-bye to their old friend, Rosamond holding up her little face to be kissed as she thanked Nance again, for which she was rewarded by a hearty--'Bless you, my sweet,' and then the whole party of children set off for Moor Edge, Bob making one of them. 'Why is he coming?' said Pat in a low voice to Justin, nodding his head backwards towards Bob, who was walking behind them. 'That's what I've got to tell you about,' said Justin in the same tone. 'It's about the ferrets. He's found a splendid pair after a lot of bother, but he must have the money. You've got yours ready, I suppose?' 'Bother,' said Pat. 'I don't care about the nasty little beasts. I did hope you'd give them up.' 'But you promised,' said Justin, ready to be angry. 'I've never spoken of giving them up, and you offered the money at the first. You seemed as if you wanted to have them as much as I did.' 'I'm not going back from my promise,' said Pat, half-sulkily, remembering his Aunt Mattie's advice to try to show more interest in the things Justin cared for. 'You can have the money whenever you like,' he went on in a brighter tone, as he remembered also that the ferrets, being kept at Bob's, would be a certain reason for frequent visits to the cottage, and more of Nance's stories; 'but do you mean,' he added, 'that we've got money enough to pay for them?' Justin hesitated. 'No, of course not,' he said at last, 'your own sense might tell you that. We've not got much more than half.' 'Then they must be dearer than you thought at first,' said Pat sturdily. 'I remember quite well you counting that you'd have nearly enough.' 'But these are far better ones,' said Justin. 'You must expect to pay more for a better thing. They won't hurry about the rest of the money once they've got half, or rather more than half.' 'You'll have to pay up some time or other though,' said Pat. 'And I don't know where you'll get it from. _I_ can't go on giving you all my pocket-money. There are other things I want to get.' 'Wait till you're asked,' said Justin sharply. 'I can manage my own affairs.' Pat thought it better to say no more, though in his heart he did not think Justin's talk of independence was very well-timed. He did grudge the money now that the first feeling of generosity had had time to cool down. But he felt there was no help for it. When they got to their own gate Justin told Bob to wait about outside till he came back again. This surprised Rosamond a little; it struck her as scarcely kind to the boy, who on his side had been so hospitable. But she said nothing, only when bidding Bob good-bye, she held out her hand to him, repeating how much she had liked her visit to the cottage. And from that moment Bob's wild, warm heart was completely won by the little lady. They were not as late as Miss Ward had laid her account to their perhaps being, still, schoolroom tea was half over before Justin and Pat made their appearance, and both came in looking rather cross. Miss Ward glanced at them, seeming slightly annoyed. 'As you came in in good time,' she said, 'you should have come to tea punctually. Rosamond and Archie have been here for ten minutes at least. What have you been doing?' The boys sat down without replying. 'Has Bob gone?' asked Miss Mouse innocently. Justin glanced at her with a frown, and Pat, who was seated next to her, touched her foot under the table with his. She looked up in surprise, but nothing more was said, Miss Ward not having noticed the little girl's question. Tea was proceeding peacefully, though rather more silently than usual, when the door opened and Mrs. Caryll looked in. 'Are you nearly ready, dear?' she said to Rosamond, after a word of greeting to Miss Ward and the elder boys, whom she had not seen before that day. 'It's getting rather late.' Rosamond jumped up. 'I can come now, auntie,' she said. 'I've had quite enough tea.' But this Mrs. Caryll would not allow. 'I can wait five or ten minutes longer,' she said, looking at her watch. 'Perhaps Miss Ward can spare me a cup of tea.' Miss Ward was delighted to do so, and Archie was on his feet in an instant, ringing the bell and then running out into the passage to save time by meeting the servant and asking for another cup and saucer. 'And have you had a pleasant afternoon?' said Aunt Mattie, when she was seated at the table. 'Have you no adventures to tell me about, Jus? or you, Pat?' She looked at the two boys a little curiously, for she had noticed that they were silent and rather gloomy. 'It was all right,' said Justin in his somewhat surly way. 'We didn't keep together all the time. I don't know what the others were doing.' 'Oh! it was lovely,' exclaimed Rosamond, 'Pat and Archie and I were----' 'Miss Mouse does so like the moor,' interrupted Pat, 'though there wasn't any sunset to speak of this evening.' And again Rosamond felt a warning touch on her foot as Pat went on talking rather eagerly about the sunsets that were sometimes to be seen, which interested his aunt, and turned the conversation from what the children had been about that special afternoon. The little girl felt uneasy and perplexed. Were the boys afraid of her 'tale-telling,' as they called it? And even if she had told everything that had happened that afternoon, what harm would it have done, or who could have found fault with it? Nothing could have been prettier or nicer than Nance's story, and Rosamond felt sure that she was a good old woman. She had been so afraid of their doing anything that Mr. and Mrs. Hervey might not like too, and her whole manner showed how much respect she felt for the boys' parents. 'I'm _sure_,' thought Miss Mouse, 'nobody could think it wasn't nice for us to go there. I don't understand what the boys mean. I suppose it's just that they've different ways from girls, and like to be very independent. And I promised them I wouldn't tell things over if they'd rather I didn't. So I won't, unless of course it was anything _wrong_, and then I'd have to, but I'd first tell them what I meant to do.' And with this decision in her mind the little girl's face cleared, and she felt quite happy again. She was bright and cheerful during the drive home, so that the very slight misgiving which the elder boys' manner had caused Mrs. Caryll quite faded away, and she talked happily to her little niece of plans for other half-holidays. It would be nice sometimes, she said, to invite the Moor Edge party to Caryll for a change, 'though,' as she added with a smile, 'they all say they don't care for anything there half as much as for running wild on their dear moor.' 'The moor _is_ nice, isn't it, auntie?' said Rosamond. 'Such a beautiful place for fancying things, with its being so wild and lonely.' 'You mustn't get your little head too full of fancies,' said her aunt. 'Has Pat been entertaining you with his pet stories? It is a pity that he and Justin cannot be mixed up together, one is so much too dreamy, and the other too rough and ready. But I hoped they were getting on better together lately, though I was rather disappointed this evening, Justin looked so cross.' 'I think Pat tries to be very nice to Justin,' said Miss Mouse. 'And Justin wasn't at all cross when we were out.' 'I'm glad to hear it,' said her aunt. 'There is certainly room for improvement in him. But I trust it is beginning. He has never been rude or unkind to you, dear, I hope?' 'Oh no, auntie, though of course I've not seen much of him till to-day,' answered Rosamond. 'I like him quite well--though not so much as Archie, or--' with a little hesitation--'or Pat.' CHAPTER IX MISS MOUSE 'AT HOME' The next half-holiday came on a Saturday--the Saturday of that same week--and as the weather was lovely just then, Aunt Mattie begged her sister to allow the three elder boys to spend it at Caryll, as she had planned with Rosamond. So it was arranged that, as soon as morning lessons were over, the four children should walk back together in time for early dinner at Rosamond's home. In one sense it was scarcely correct to call Saturday a half-holiday, as the boys did not go to the vicarage at all that day, though they were supposed to spend two hours at home in preparation of Monday's lessons. By twelve o'clock they were all under way, Rosamond feeling not a little important at the prospect of acting hostess to the Hervey boys. 'How shall we go?' said Archie, as they stood on the drive for a moment or two looking about them. 'By the moor, of course,' said Justin at once, 'turning down the path that brings us out near the cross-roads--the way we go on middling days, you know,' he added to Rosamond. '_I_ think it would be more of a change to go all the way by the road,' said Pat. 'We've gone so much by the moor lately with its being so fine. You can't be wanting to see Bob again to-day, you'd quite a long talk with him on our way home yesterday.' 'As it happens,' said Justin, 'I do want to see him, and he'll be on the look-out for us,' and without saying more he turned towards the kitchen garden, from which a door in the wall opened on to the fields, beyond which lay the moor. The others followed without saying anything more; cool determination to have your own way reminds one of the old saying that 'possession is nine points of the law'--it generally carries the day, as Justin had learnt by experience. Rosamond did not care particularly which way they went, but she did mind Justin's masterful manner of settling things according to his own wishes, so there was a slight cloud over the little party following him, and some half-muttered 'too bads' and 'never lets us choose,' from Pat and Archie. But once out on the moorland the bright sunshine and fresh bracing air blew away all cobwebs of discontent. 'How very pretty it is to-day!' said Miss Mouse eagerly, 'I've never seen it like this--the sunshine makes all the colours different, but, oh! how cold it must be in winter when it snows! I couldn't help thinking ever so many times of old Nance's story of the poor boy crossing it that winter night. I do so want to hear some more of her stories. Of course we can't stop at the cottage to-day, but don't you think we might next Wednesday perhaps?' 'That depends on those horrid little beasts of Justin's,' said Pat crossly, 'if Bob's got them by then Justin will always be wanting to go there.' 'Hasn't he got them yet?' asked Rosamond in surprise. 'I thought it was all settled about them.' 'Settled enough if we'd got the rest of the money,' said Justin gruffly. 'But the people won't give Bob credit. You see he hasn't told whom he's getting them for, or they'd add on to the price thinking papa would pay. But he was to see them again this morning and try to get them to say they'd wait a week or two for the rest of it.' 'How much are you short?' asked Miss Mouse. 'Half, or as good as half,' answered Justin. 'They cost twelve shillings, and we've only got six and fourpence, or fivepence, I forget exactly.' 'Nearly six shillings,' repeated the little girl; 'that's a lot of money. I've never had as much at a time, except----' 'Except when?' asked Justin, eyeing her rather curiously. 'Except when I was collecting for something,' she replied, 'for papa's or mamma's birthday, or something like that.' 'Are you collecting just now?' asked Justin. Rosamond's little face grew pink. 'I'd rather----' she began, 'rather not----' and then again she hesitated. 'It's a sort of a secret.' 'Well, you might as well tell us about it,' said Justin. Rosamond looked distressed. 'I think it's not fair of you to tease her, Justin,' said Archie indignantly. 'You don't like people prying into your secrets, I know that,' and Justin looked a little ashamed of himself, while Miss Mouse gave Archie's hand a grateful squeeze. They had been walking fast all this time as well as talking, and they were now within sight of the cottage, but no Bob was to be seen, and when they came nearer they saw to their surprise that the door was shut, and the usually open window closed also. 'Where can they be?' said Justin, stopping short in front of the hut. 'I told Bob we'd be passing about now, and he said he'd be sure to be back. I wonder if the old woman knows?' and he was preparing to knock at the door when Pat stopped him. 'It's no good, Jus,' he said, 'there's no one there. I know how it is, it's Saturday morning, and Nance has gone to buy her marketings for the week. You see we never come by on Saturdays, so we've not noticed it before.' 'It's too bad of Bob,' said Justin, falling back. 'I'll come home this way, for I must see him to-day.' 'You can come by yourself then,' said Pat. 'I wish to goodness I hadn't given you my money. You worry one's life out when you take a thing in your head.' Justin was about to make an angry reply, pretty sure to be followed by a quarrel, when Rosamond interposed. 'Much the best thing would be to make some plan for getting more money,' she said, 'and then it would be all right, wouldn't it? I'm sure poor Bob has done his best. If you want the ferrets so very much why don't you ask your papa to lend it to you, and you would pay it back by degrees out of your pocket-money?' 'He'd never do that,' said Justin,' at least not to help me to get ferrets.' Rosamond opened her eyes very wide. 'Why, he doesn't mind you having them, does he?' she said. 'He doesn't want us to have them at home,' the boy replied. 'You see mamma doesn't like them, but there's no reason why we shouldn't keep them somewhere else; besides----' but here he stopped and began talking of other things. They had a pleasant walk to Caryll Place, and a pleasant afternoon followed. Uncle Ted was at home, and both he and Aunt Mattie did their utmost to make the children happy. And there were plenty of nice things at Caryll to make up to the boys for its being farther away from the moor. First and foremost among these was a little boat on the lake, which the boys were allowed, to their great delight, to row about in two at a time. This boat was a novelty, as their uncle had only just got it, and as the lake was shallow there was no danger of anything worse than a good wetting even if it did capsize, and when the afternoon began to get chilly, and Aunt Mattie was afraid of Rosamond's remaining out any longer, she brought them into the hall, which was a big square one, and let them have a capital game of blind man's buff, in which even Justin did not think it beneath him to join, as Uncle Ted proved the best blind man of them all. Miss Mouse had never seen Justin to such advantage. He was really quite pleasant and hearty, and she began to think him a much nicer boy than she had yet done. No doubt the improvement was greatly owing to his uncle's presence, but this did not strike the kind-hearted little girl, and Aunt Mattie was very pleased to see the two on such good terms. For it was on Justin and Pat especially that she hoped much, in different ways, from her little niece's good influence. So it was with very cheerful feelings that their aunt watched the three boys set off on their return home. For some distance there was no question as to which way they should choose, so they walked on very friendlily. 'I say, we have had a jolly afternoon at Caryll for once, haven't we?' said Archie. 'Not so bad,' Justin allowed; 'I'm glad Uncle Ted's had the sense to get a boat at last.' 'I have always liked Caryll awfully,' said Pat, 'even when you two thought it dull. Everything about it is so pretty, and there are such jolly books in the library too. Rosamond's got some very nice ones of her own; she took me up to her room to see them just before tea, while you and Archie were still in the boat. She's got a splendid _Hans Andersen_, for one; she's going to lend it to me. It's got ever so many more stories in it than ours.' 'She's a spoilt little thing,' said Justin, rather crossly. 'I don't suppose she's ever wanted anything that she didn't get.' 'She's not spoilt,' said Pat. 'Several of the books she bought with her own money, that she'd saved up on purpose. She told me so.' 'I wonder if it's something like that she's saving for now,' said Justin quickly. 'I've a good mind to ask her. It wouldn't hurt her to wait a little while to buy a book, and then she could lend me the money. She might have done worse than offer it already, when she heard that we were short of some.' 'Don't say "we," if you please,' replied Pat. 'I don't want to have anything more to do with your nasty animals, and I think it would be horribly mean to borrow from a girl.' 'Yes,' chimed in Archie, 'I wonder you can think of such a thing, Jus.' 'I'd pay her interest,' said Justin indignantly, 'a penny a month on each shilling. That would be awfully high interest, I know.' 'She wouldn't want your interest,' said Pat. 'She'd want her own money, and I'd be ashamed of you if you borrowed it from her.' Justin made no reply, and they walked on in silence till they came to the point at which they had to choose their way home. 'I'm going back by the moor,' said Justin abruptly. 'I'm not then,' said Pat, marching straight on as he spoke, Archie, as often happened, standing wavering between the two, for he loved to keep on good terms with everybody. But this time his sympathy was decidedly with Pat, and he was much relieved when Justin called out to him, not too amiably, that he didn't want him. 'I'd rather go by myself, and manage my own affairs,' he called out, walking off without replying to Archie's good-natured reminder not to be very long, and then the younger boy ran on to overtake Pat. The two boys were glad they had kept to the road, for when they reached their own door they were met by Hec, who told them that their mother had been wondering why they were so late. 'Where's Jus?' he added. 'Papa wanted him for something or other.' 'He's coming round the other way,' said Archie, and as he spoke his father looked out of his study door, and caught the words. He looked annoyed. 'When you go out together, I expect you to come home together,' he said. 'How did you two come?' 'By the road,' said Pat. 'Then that means that Justin is coming by the moor. I hope he doesn't see too much of that Crag boy; I don't hear any too good an account of him. I must speak to Justin about it,' said Mr. Hervey, as he turned back into his room again. Archie followed him before he shut the door, feeling somehow a little guilty for having deserted Justin, and a little uneasy too at what his father had said of poor Bob. 'Hec said there was something you wanted one of us to do for you, papa,' he began. 'Can I do it?' Mr. Hervey, already seated at his writing-table, looked up. 'Well, yes,' he said, 'I want a message taken out to Griffith. Tell him he must keep your mother's pony in the stables altogether, till the second vet has seen it on Monday.' 'Is it worse?' asked Archie. 'Is that why you are going to get another vet, papa?' 'Never mind,' said Mr. Hervey, rather sharply. He had been annoyed at several things that afternoon, and the best of papas cannot _always_ be perfectly gentle. 'Run off with my message, and when Justin comes in tell him--no, don't tell him anything,' for their father knew by experience that messages through one boy to another were very apt to 'grow' on their way. Off ran Archie, stopping some minutes to chatter about the pony with Griffith after executing his errand, in consequence of which he came across Justin making his way in by the back gate from the fields. 'I say, Jus,' he began, 'you'd better look sharp. Papa didn't tell me to say so, but I know he's vexed at you for not coming back with Pat and me.' 'You needn't have put yourselves in the way then,' said Justin. 'We didn't--he was in the hall, or at least he looked out of his door when we came in. And-- I say, Jus----' 'Well--what next? Why don't you go on?' 'I was thinking if I should tell you or not. I mean whether I've any right to,' said Archie, who was very honest and truthful, 'for papa did say "don't tell Justin anything." But that was after he'd said it.' 'It,' repeated Justin, growing impatient. '_What?_' 'Something about not wanting you to see much of Bob--people aren't speaking too well of him.' 'Is that all?' said his elder brother with some contempt. 'People never have spoken too well of him. But papa has always known that, and I can't be horrid to Bob just when he's been taking a lot of trouble to please me. He needn't ever come about here if papa doesn't want him to. And I don't suppose _he_ wants to. Our servants are beastly to him. But I can go to see him if I choose-- I've never been told not to. And he's not a bad fellow at all.' 'No, I don't think he is,' Archie agreed. 'But if papa orders you not to go there?' 'He won't, unless somebody tells tales or meddles,' said Justin. 'If I catch you or Pat at that sort of thing, I'll----' but he said no more. It was best to let sleeping dogs lie. 'Papa won't think any more about it, I don't suppose.' 'Perhaps not,' said Archie, not feeling quite easy in his mind all the same. 'Were you there just now, Jus?' he added, for he had rather a big bump of curiosity. 'Only for a minute. I didn't go in. Bob was looking out for me,' and here Justin's tone became very friendly and confidential. 'You needn't go talking about it,' he said, 'but, Archie, Bob's _got them_. He's to fetch them on Monday morning. Isn't it splendacious?' 'You mean the ferrets,' said Archie, growing excited in spite of himself, for both he and Pat had been getting rather tired of the subject. 'He's actshally _got_ them!' Justin nodded. 'And what about the money--the rest of it--what's short, you know?' Archie went on. 'Oh--that'll be all right. We'll manage it somehow. The people'll wait a week or two. Don't you tell any one. Where's Pat? I want to tell him myself.' 'He went upstairs to look for mamma and the little ones,' said Archie. 'Mamma was wondering why we were so late.' 'It isn't late,' said Justin, 'anyway I've not finished my Monday lessons,' and he went off to the schoolroom, turning back to say to Archie that if he heard their father asking for him again he was to reply,'Oh yes, Jus has been in some time.' Archie made no promise, but he resolved to keep out of the way, for though there was no actual untruth in what Jus denoted, he felt that his brother's motive rather savoured of wishing to mislead, and anything of that kind went against his own instincts. But no more inquiries about Justin reached him. Mr. Hervey, as Justin had thought probable, seemed to have forgotten all about the matter--as often happened, he was absorbed by his own reading and writing, and the warnings he had received about Bob Crag went out of his head for the time being. Sunday morning broke clear and bright, but increasingly cold. 'It might really be Christmas already,' said the boys' mother at breakfast-time. 'I am afraid it looks like a very severe winter, the cold beginning so early.' 'Yes,' Mr. Hervey agreed, 'I fancy we shall have it pretty sharp this year.' 'All the better,' said Justin, 'if it gives us lots of skating,' which put it into Hector's head to ask if _he_ mightn't have skates this winter. Hec always wanted to do whatever Justin did. 'It wouldn't matter if they got too small for me soon,' he added, 'for they'd do for Ger after me.' 'I don't never want to thkate,' said Gervais--all five boys had breakfast downstairs on Sunday morning--'you have to go so fast.' Ger was fat and round and slow in his movements. 'Oh you lazy boy,' said his mother, laughing, as she kissed his firm, plump cheeks. Ger _was_ rather spoilt, but then of course he was the baby. She got up as she spoke. 'Now don't be late any of you this morning,' she said. 'A quarter past ten punctually. And Hec and Ger, take care that you are warmly wrapped up, for you know you are going to dine at Caryll, and very likely auntie will send you home in the pony-cart, which will be colder than walking.' 'How nice for you,' said Archie to the little ones. 'I didn't know you were going home from church with Aunt Mattie.' 'Well, you were there yesterday,' said Hec. 'It's only fair we should have our turn. Miss Mouse asked for us--to make up, you know, for our not going with you on Saturday.' 'Mith Mouse is very kind,' said Ger. And so she was. Rosamond loved children younger than herself. Her face was all over smiles when, after church, she stood waiting for the two little boys in the porch with her aunt, and set off with a small cavalier at each side to walk home to Caryll Place. It was the first visit Hec and Ger had paid there since Miss Mouse's arrival, and they had lots of things to see and ask about. Several of their little friend's treasures made them rather envious, especially a new kind of ball, an india-rubber one--and india-rubber or gutta-percha toys were then something quite new--as round and plump as his own cheeks, filled Ger's heart with great longing. 'It _is_ a beauty,' he said. 'Hec, if anybody asks you what you think I'd like for a Chrithiemuss present, just you tell them a ball like Mith Mouse's, only p'raps even a little bigger. Do you think, Mith Mouse, that they cost a great lot of money?' Rosamond shook her head. 'Not such a very great lot, I don't think,' she replied. 'When I was in London with papa and mamma, just before I came here, I saw balls like that in several of the toyshops, and I _think_, but I'm not quite sure, that the other day when I was out with auntie, and I was waiting for her in the carriage at Crowley-- I _think_ I saw some like it in that shop opposite the church. It's not exactly a toyshop, you know, but they have toys in one window.' 'Oh, I know where you mean,' said Hec. 'It's Friendly's--it's a mixty sort of shop.' 'Do look again, Mith Mouse,' said Gervais, 'the venny first time you go that way, and _p'raps_ somebody will give me one at Chrithiemuss.' He heaved a deep sigh of hope and anxiety in one. And Rosamond smiled to herself as she made a little plan. CHAPTER X THE STORY OF THE LUCKY PENNY The winter was not going to set in just yet after all. That bright, clear, cold Sunday was followed by a week or two of milder but very disagreeable weather--almost constant rain and very few glimpses indeed of blue sky or sunshine. Miss Mouse arrived every morning muffled up almost to her eyes to keep her dry in the pony-cart, and most afternoons the close carriage was sent from Caryll to fetch her. There was no question of the boys going to the vicarage across the moor, and even by the road, which dried quickly, every time they walked home they could not help getting very muddy and splashed, and they could not have their own pony cart as much as usual, as their mother's pony was laid up, and old Bobbin had extra work on this account. On the first half-holiday of this rainy weather the three elder boys went off after dinner and did not come in till tea-time, in consequence of which Pat woke next morning with a bad cold, and Archie with a slight one. So orders were issued that there were to be no more expeditions or long walks till the wet days were over--indeed, Pat had to stay indoors altogether for nearly a week, as he had a delicate throat, which was apt to get very sore when he caught cold. 'And if you go out, Justin,' said his mother, 'you must be in early, and not hang about with damp things on.' She knew that a 'whole half-holiday,' as the boys called it, in the house would be a terrible trouble to Justin, and even worse for other people, and as he was very strong and had never had a cold in his life, there was not much fear of his getting any harm. 'All right, mamma,' he replied. 'I'll take care of myself. I don't want to get soaked, it's so uncomfortable-- I can amuse myself about the out-houses. But mayn't Archie come with me?' This was on the first Wednesday. No--Mrs. Hervey shook her head--Archie must not go out again to-day, as the walk to Whitcrow in the morning had been a wet one. But if Saturday was finer he might go out with Justin as usual. 'I really think Justin is improving,' she thought to herself with satisfaction, 'he gives in so much more readily, instead of arguing and discussing.' The truth was that Justin was very much afraid of a talk with his father, which would probably have put him under orders to keep away from Bob Crag altogether, and this would not have suited Master Justin at all, now that the ferrets had arrived and were comfortably installed at the Moor Cottage. So for one or two half-holidays Justin went off on his own account, returning home in good time, and as no complaints reached Mr. Hervey about him, I suppose his father took for granted that everything was right. Very likely, for Mr. Hervey was rather absent-minded at times; he thought that he _had_ warned Justin, forgetting that it had been Archie and not his eldest brother to whom he had spoken of Bob that Saturday evening. After a time the weather 'took up again,' as the country folk say. Pat's cold got better, and then came a Wednesday morning on which Rosamond asked and received leave to spend the afternoon with the big boys, her aunt saying she herself would drive over to fetch her, as she had not seen her sister, Mrs. Hervey, for some days. There was no discussion between the four children as to where the afternoon should be spent. Almost without a word they all turned in the direction of the moor. 'Justin will be off with Bob and the ferrets, of course,' said Pat to Rosamond. 'So you and I can have a jolly time with old Nance and make her tell us some more stories.' 'And Archie?' inquired the little girl. 'Oh, he can do whichever he likes,' said Pat. 'I daresay he'll stay with us. He's been once or twice with Jus while my throat was bad, you know, but I don't think he cared about it much.' And so it proved. When they got to the Crags', Bob, as well as his grandmother, was on the look-out for them, old Nance's face lighting up with pleasure. 'Are you glad to see us again?' asked Archie. 'I hope you've got some stories for us. If you know so much about fairy things, Nance, why don't you manage to get us nice fine days for our half-holidays?' The old woman smiled. 'It's a fine day for me when I see your faces, Master Archie,' she replied, 'and that you know well enough. But to be sure the weather has been contrary the last week or two. Come in, come in, missie dear--there's some of my little cakes all ready. Won't you come in too, Master Justin, before you go off with Bob? I've been fearing you might have got cold when you were here last week; it was such a very wet day.' 'No fear,' said Justin amiably. 'Bob and I aren't made of sugar or salt, are we, Bob? I'll come in for a minute, thank you, Nance, but we mustn't be long, or we'll have no fun. It gets so soon dark now, and papa's vexed if we don't all go home together.' 'To be sure,' said the old woman, 'and quite right too. You'll never find me wanting you to do anything your dear papa and mamma wouldn't like, my dears.' So saying she led the way into her quaint little kitchen, all tidied up and bright as the children always found it--the cakes and a large jug of milk set out as before on a small table near the pleasantly glowing fire. 'Are you coming with Bob and me, Archie?' Justin inquired. 'Pat's a donkey--no use asking him.' Pat took this uncomplimentary speech very calmly. Archie hesitated. 'Come along,' said Justin, 'that's to say if you're coming,' for having made away with at least three of the tempting little cakes, he was now in a hurry to be off. 'Don't go, Archie,' said Rosamond, speaking low, so that the elder boys could not hear, and her words decided Archie. 'I'd rather stay here, thank you, Jus,' he said. 'You've got Bob, so you don't really need me.' 'You are a softy,' said Justin as he ran off, but Archie, backed by Pat and Rosamond, did not care. 'Now, Nance,' said Pat, when most of the cakes and milk were disposed of, 'we're ready for your stories.' The old woman had drawn a stool to the fire and was sitting there facing it, the reflection casting a pleasant glow on her sunburnt cheeks and keen bright eyes. She was always a nice-looking old woman, but just now she really looked quite pretty. 'How fond you are of the fire, Nance,' said Archie; 'do you have one all the year round?' 'Mostly so, Master Archie,' she replied. 'You see old folk like me grow chilly. It's not often I feel too hot, even in the midsummer days. And here on the moorside there's always a breeze more or less. Yes, I love my bit o' fire, Master Archie--you're about right there, but all the same I'd rather face cold than be choked in a town and have no fresh air, like some poor things have to bear their lives.' 'Nance,' said Miss Mouse suddenly; she had been sitting silent watching Bob's granny, 'it's so funny, it seems to me that when you stretch out your hands to the flames they give a little jump towards you and then dance up the chimney ever so much higher than before. Are you a sort of a fairy, dear Nance?' Pat glanced at the little girl half uneasily. He knew that some of the people about called Mrs. Crag a witch, and 'uncanny,' and words like that, just because she was a stranger and different in her ways and looks from her present neighbours, and he was afraid that Nance's feelings might be hurt by little Rosamond's question. But it was not so--on the contrary the old woman seemed pleased, and smiled brightly. 'You must have a bit of the fairy knowing yourself, missie dear, to have noticed it,' she said. 'I've been told I get it from my grandmother, who had fairy ways, there's no denying. And no harm in them either, if one doesn't think too much of them, or fancy oneself more than one is. But I've always had a kind of luck, hand-in-hand with troubles, for troubles I've had, and many of them, in my long life. More than once when I've thought they'd be too much for me there's come a turn I had little hope of. Maybe the good people aren't gone so far as we think, after all,' and old Nance smiled at the idea. 'Tell us some story of your good luck,' said Pat suddenly. 'It's always so nice to hear a story from the person it really happened to.' Nance considered. Then she suddenly slipped her hand inside the front of her bodice and drew out a tiny little chain; it was only a steel chain, but very finely worked, so that it looked more like a silver thread, and on it hung a tiny coin with a hole in it through which a ring had been passed. She held it out for the children to see. 'Oh what a weeny, weeny little sixpenny, or threepenny--which is it?' exclaimed Rosamond. 'It's neither, missie dear,' the old woman replied. 'It's a lucky penny, and if you like I'll tell you the story of how I came by it.' 'Oh do, do,' said all three together; Archie adding, 'Did you really get it from the fairies, Nance?' 'You shall hear,' she replied, smiling, and then they all settled themselves to listen. 'When I was a little girl,' she began, 'you'll remember, my dears, that my home was on the edge of a moor, something like this, but wilder and far larger and farther away from any village or town--railways I needn't speak of, for such a thing hadn't even been dreamt of in these long-ago days,' and the far-away look came into the old woman's eyes as she stopped speaking for a moment. 'Is it a hundred years ago since you were a little girl?' asked Miss Mouse. Nance smiled again. 'Not quite,' she replied, 'though none so far off it either. But long ago as it is, I remember that first part of my life so well, so clear and distinct it seems sometimes that I could fancy it much nearer than things that happened a few years back only. I was an orphan, like my poor Bob now, and I lived with my granny, same as Bob lives along wi' me. 'My granny had come of----' here Nance hesitated, but went on again--'after all there's no shame in it,' she said--'she'd come of gipsy-folk, and when her husband died--he was a steady, settled sort of man, a gardener at some big house, but he died young--she was that lonely and lost-like, she went back to her own people with her little son, and he married among them, so I'm three parts gipsy, you may say. Both father and mother of mine died too--there's many that dies young among our people, and some that lives on and on till you'd think death had forgotten them, and that was the way with my granny. But she wasn't so very old when the feel took her that she'd like to settle down again, she'd got into the habit of a home of her own while her husband lived. So one time when the vans were passing near by where had been her little place, she takes a sudden thought that she'd like to see the fam'ly again, and what did she do but she carried me in her arms and walked some miles to the big house. The Squire was dead, but his lady was living in the Dower House hard by, and the young Squire--none so young by now--was at the hall with his wife and children. And they were pleased to see her and kindly sorry for her troubles, and the Squire said she should have a cottage if there was one to be had, if she'd settle down near them. For my grandmother, for all her gipsying, was a clever, useful woman, as good as a doctor for the cures and comforts she could make with her knowledge of herbs and wild growing things, and where she once gave her faithfulness she'd never draw it back again. So it was fixed that she should make her home there again, though her own folk were none best pleased to lose her. 'At first we lived in two rooms in the village, but granny felt choked like, and she found a bit of a place on the moorside which had once been used for the gentry to eat their lunch in when they were out shooting, and the Squire was very kind and did it up for us quite tidy, and there we lived, though it was sometimes harder than any one knew; for all we had was what granny made by odd days' work here and there, and by selling her dried herbs and drinks she made of them. But as I got bigger the quality at the big house were very kind to me--it was seldom granny needed to buy clothes for me, and the housekeeper taught me nice ways about a house, so that when the time came I was ready for a good service. That's neither here nor there, though, that came afterwards; the time I got my lucky penny I was still a slip of a child, nine or ten at most. ''Twas haymaking--a beautiful dry haymaking, hot and sunny, I remember well. Granny was out with the best of them, hard at work early and late. I went to school in the village, but there wasn't much schooling that week or two. 'Twasn't so strict as now--an hour or two in the morning and then we'd be told we might all run home, to help while the splendid weather lasted. Grandmother worked for the Squire; I was always sure to find her about the fields and have my bite of dinner with her, and then the little ladies and gentlemen would have me play with them at what _they_ called "haymaking," though it was a funny kind enough--more tossing and tumbling and laughing and shouting than any help to the haymakers. But we did enjoy it. 'Well there came an afternoon that my granny was off working in a field a good bit farther away than usual. She told me in the morning not to go after her, for she didn't care for me to walk so far in the hot sun--she was very careful of me, poor dear--and she'd asked the housekeeper if I might have a bit of dinner at the big house, seeing that the young ladies and gentlemen wanted me to make hay with them in what they called their own field, a paddock just outside the kitchen garden. And there I found them, and a rare good play we had that afternoon, finishing up with a nice treat of cakes and milk when we were too tired and hot to play any more.' 'Were the cakes like those you make for us?' asked Rosamond. Nance nodded, well pleased. 'You've guessed it, missie,' she said. 'They're the very same. 'Twas there I learnt to make them. And then I was starting to go home when I heard a cry from Miss Hetty, the youngest and sweetest, to my thinking, of all the young ladies. "My ring, oh my ring, with the blue stone," she called out. "My birthday ring! I've lost it. I pulled it off and was trying if it would swing on a blade of grass--oh, do help me to find it--my dear little ring." 'Poor Miss Hetty--she'd only had the ring since her birthday the week before, when her mamma had given it her, telling her to be sure not to lose it, for it was one that had been a long time in the family. So no wonder she was vexed about it. How we did hunt for it--we searched and we searched where we had been playing, though feeling all the time there was scarce any use looking for so small a thing in such a place. And Miss Hetty cried till her eyes were all swollen at the thought of having to go home to tell her mamma. And when I went back to my granny and told her about it, it was all I could do not to cry too. 'Granny had her own thoughts about most things. '"Go to bed, lovey," she said, "and I'll wish a wish for you into your pillow and see what'll come of it." 'And sure enough the next morning I'd a strange dream to tell her. [Illustration: 'ALL OF A SUDDEN HE STOOD STRAIGHT UP AND BEGAN THROWING THINGS AT ME FOR ME TO CATCH--IT WAS THE LITTLE SUNS!'] '"Granny," I said, "this was the dream that came out of my pillow. I thought I was standing on the moor watching the sun set, and I kept looking at it and the beautiful colours in the sky till my eyes seemed to be full of them, and whichever way I turned there was little suns dancing about--on the ground and everywhere. And then I caught sight of an odd-looking figure stooping down as if looking for something. It was a little old hunch-backed man, and I knew without being told that he was one of the good people. All of a sudden he stood straight up and began throwing things at me for me to catch--it was the little suns! They came flying towards me, red and yellow and all colours, but like soap-bubbles they melted before I could catch them, till at last, to my great delight, I did catch one and held it tight in my hand, when it felt firm and hard, like a round coin. '"'I've got it,' I cried, and the old man laughed. '"'Keep it,' he said, 'it's not everybody that catches a lucky penny. And maybe it'll help you to get back missie's ring for her,' and with that I awoke. But oh, granny," I went on, "it can't be all a dream, for look here," and I held out my hand to her, "I _have_ got something--see I've got a real little piece of money." 'And that very coin is the one I've worn round my neck for all these many, many years.' 'What _did_ your granny say?' asked the children breathlessly. 'Not very much,' Nance went on, 'she smiled and told me I was a lucky girl, and I must think on what I'd been told by the old man in my dream. And so I did. Before the sun was any height in the sky, long before the young ladies at the big house would be stirring, I was up at the paddock again searching for the ring. And granny told me what to do. I was to put the lucky penny as near as I could guess in the very centre of the field and then to walk round it in widening circles, always looking carefully downwards while I said this rhyme to the good people-- Here's my lucky penny, take it an ye will, But give me back the treasure hidden by you still. All this I did, and----' 'What? do say quick,' cried the children. 'Before I had made many circles I saw something glittering, and stooping down there it was--the tiny ring with the blue stone, sparkling in the morning sunshine. You can fancy how pleased I was, and how I hurried up to the house with the good news for Miss Hetty, who had just awakened. The ring was really hanging on a blade of grass, just as she said. Oh, she _was_ delighted!' 'And how did you get the silver penny back again?' asked Pat. 'You couldn't have looked for it, for you see you had promised it to the fairies, hadn't you?' 'Yes, of course, and one must always keep to their bargain with the fairies,' said Nance. 'No, I didn't look for it, but late that evening when granny was closing the shutters, she called me to look at something sparkling in the moonlight on the window-sill. It was my lucky penny. And from that day to this I've never been without it, and many a time it's seemed to give me fresh courage and spirit in the midst of troubles, and one thing is true--all my life through I've never been brought to such a pass as to have to part with it, though now and then the need has come very near. But something's always turned up just in the nick of time to save it; I've always pulled through, though I had an ailing husband for many a year, and the father of poor Bob there, my only son, was cut down in the prime of life, he and his young wife, leaving me another young boy to bring up when I was more fit myself to be sleeping quiet and peaceful in the old churchyard.' And old Nance wiped away a gentle tear or two that were struggling down her brown cheeks. Little Rosamond stole her hand into Nance's. 'You've got friends now, haven't you? And I'm sure Uncle Ted or Mr. Hervey would help you about Bob any time if you needed help.' 'Yes, missie dear, I've much to be thankful for, and I hope and trust poor Bob'll take to steady ways like his father and grandfather before him, though there's times I worry about him a bit--he's a loving boy, but he's got the gipsy restlessness in him too.' CHAPTER XI A GREAT SACRIFICE Nance's story had taken longer to tell than might seem the case. For she had stopped now and then, and the children had asked questions and made remarks. So they were all a little startled when, glancing out of doors, they saw how fast the daylight was fading and the twilight creeping on. 'We must be going,' said Pat, starting up, 'and there's Justin not back, and if he's late we'll _all_ be scolded. Papa has made a regular rule that we're all to come in together.' Nance looked anxious. 'Bob's that feather-brained,' she said, for she never liked to blame the Hervey boys. 'But you'd best start, my dearies, and I'll whistle. It'll bring them back if they're anywhere near, and I don't fancy they're farther off than one of the farms straight across from here. And will it be next holiday you'll come for some more of old Nance's little cakes and long tongue?' 'Not next half-holiday,' said Miss Mouse with some regret,' for Auntie Mattie is going to take me to--the town--where there are shops, you know--there's something I want to buy, _very_ particular.' 'Ah, well, you'll always be welcome--welcome as the flowers in May whenever you do come,' said their old friend, and she stood at the door whistling, a curious clear whistle which carried far, as the three set off for home. 'I do hope Justin will overtake us,' said Miss Mouse. 'It would be such a pity if your papa was vexed, for then he might say we mustn't go to old Nance's any more. Wasn't it queer about the lucky penny? Do you think the fairy man really brought it back or that it was a sort of little trick of her granny's?' 'I don't know,' said Pat. 'I was wondering about it, but I wouldn't have liked to say to her that perhaps it was a trick.' 'I'll tell you what,' said Archie, with the tone of one who has quite settled the question, '_I_ believe the grandmother herself was partly a fairy--gipsies are a little like fairies, you know.' Neither Pat nor Rosamond laughed at this, for in their hearts they had a feeling that Nance herself had something--I won't say 'uncanny,' for the old woman was too sweet and kind for that word quite to suit her--but something not quite like other people about her. But none of the three would have hinted at anything of the kind before Justin--he would only have made fun of it. And there was no time to say more, for almost as Archie left off speaking, they heard rapid footsteps behind them, and then a whistle and then Justin's voice, calling to them to stop till he came up to them. 'It's a good thing you've come,' said Pat. 'I don't know what we could have said to papa--he'd have been sure to ask why we hadn't kept all together. What have you done with Bob?' 'He's looking after the ferrets, of course,' said Justin. 'We were only at Bream's farm, and Bob heard Nance's whistle. We did have a jolly good rat-hunt,' and he was beginning a description, when the others stopped him. 'Archie and I don't want to hear about it,' said Pat, 'and I'm sure Miss Mouse doesn't.' 'She has a fellow-feeling for rats perhaps,' said Justin, laughing at what he thought his own wit. 'No girl would like horrid things like ratting,' said Pat, 'and if papa knew----' he stopped short. 'Doesn't Mr. Hervey know that you've got ferrets?' asked Rosamond. 'I don't suppose he's ever thought about it,' said Justin; 'he's never said we weren't to have them. It's our own money--the only thing was that mamma doesn't like them kept at home.' 'Oh then,' said Miss Mouse, 'you've managed to pay them, have you?' 'Not _all_ the money,' said Justin, hesitating a little,' and indeed Bob was saying to-day we'll have to be thinking about it. He's had rather to keep out of the way of the place where he got them, for fear of the people bothering.' 'You won't let poor Bob get into any trouble, will you?' said Rosamond anxiously. 'Of course not,' said Justin; 'all the same it was he that made the bargain, and he knew we hadn't got all the money ready. Of course I don't _want_ him to get into any bother.' 'You'd better take care,' said Archie, 'papa was saying that Bob's getting spoken against a good deal, though he didn't exactly say how. I don't believe the least bit that he's a naughty boy, but it would be too bad to let him get into a scrape for us--or for you, rather, Justin.' 'It's no more for me than for you,' said Justin. 'You're a turncoat, as I've told you, Archie. You were just as pleased about the ferrets as I was, at the beginning.' Archie did not reply; and it certainly would not have been a good time to begin a quarrel--if _ever_ there is a good time for a bad thing?--for they were just at home by now, and Hec and Ger met them on their way in with the news that Aunt Mattie had come for Miss Mouse and that schoolroom tea was quite ready. Rosamond had to hurry over her tea, as Mrs. Caryll did not think it worth while to 'put up,' and yet it was too chilly to keep the horse standing long. 'You shall have a little extra supper to-night, dear, to make up,' she said. 'You shall come in to pudding with Uncle Ted and me, instead of only to dessert.' 'Thank you, auntie,' said the little girl. 'I wasn't very hungry at tea-time, for I had two cakes at old Nance's and some beautiful milk.' Mrs. Caryll turned round in some surprise--they were in the brougham on their way home--'Cakes and milk at old Nance's,' she repeated. 'I didn't know the boys were allowed to go there. Why have you never told me about it before, or is this the first time you have been?' 'Oh no,' Miss Mouse replied, for she had no thought of concealment or deception, beyond her wish not to chatter about the Hervey children's affairs unnecessarily--what Justin called 'tell-taleing'--'oh no, auntie. I think it's the third time we've been there. The boys often go--old Nance is very good and kind, and she tells us such pretty stories.' Mrs. Caryll felt a little perplexed. It seemed curious that Rosamond should never have spoken of these visits before--and yet--it was so impossible to think of the little girl as anything but frank and truthful that her aunt did not even like to repeat her question as to why she had kept silence about the cottage on the moor. It would seem like doubting Rosamond. So for a moment or two Aunt Mattie sat thinking without speaking. She had not long to wait. 'Auntie,' said Rosamond, in a puzzled tone, 'it wasn't wrong of me not to tell you before about our going to see Nance, was it? It was only that Justin explained to me that boys are different from girls--they don't like every little thing they do to be told over at home, and I have seen for myself that Miss Ward is rather fussy. Justin and Pat call it "tell-taleing," so I thought I just wouldn't talk about them _unless_ they did anything naughty, and even then I wouldn't have told without telling _them_ I was going to tell, though I'm sure they wouldn't do anything naughty, not Pat and Archie, anyway. And I really don't see much of Jus--he doesn't care for stories, and he goes off with Bob and the ferrets.' 'Ferrets,' repeated Mrs. Caryll, 'have they got ferrets?' 'Yes,' Rosamond replied. 'I've not seen them, but I know they've got them. And they don't keep them at Moor Edge, because Mrs. Hervey doesn't like them. It isn't tell-taleing of me to have told you about them, is it, auntie?' she asked anxiously. Mrs. Caryll felt distressed at the little girl's rather troubled tone. 'Of course not, dearie,' she said lightly. 'You may trust me not to make mischief. I quite see that it has been a little difficult for you.' In her own mind she decided, however, that she would take measures to find out quietly, without involving little Rosamond, something more as to these very independent doings of her nephews, especially Justin. 'They had no right to take her to the Crags' cottage without special and distinct leave,' she thought to herself, 'though I feel pretty sure no harm would come to them through old Nance.' For Aunt Mattie had often seen and talked to the old woman, and had a high opinion of her, though she thought it a pity that Nance kept on such distant terms with her neighbours, and she feared too that his grandmother was not quite strict enough with Bob, as there was no doubt that the prejudice against the boy's wild, untameable ways was doing him harm, and would do him still more harm in the future unless it could be got rid of. 'I will talk it over with Ted,' she said to herself. 'He always sees ways out of difficulties. Now it would be the very making of the boy if we could find a place for him in our stables under Peterson.' Peterson was Mr. Caryll's coachman, and a very superior man, for he had travelled with his master at one time--not like Griffiths at Moor Edge, who, though most trustworthy in every way, had never been very many miles distant from home in his life, and was full of all the prejudices and even superstitions of that part of the country. But Aunt Mattie kept all these thoughts in her own mind, and after a minute or two's silence she began to talk to Rosamond about other things, as she did not want the little girl to trouble herself about what she had told or not told of the boys' affairs. 'Next Saturday,' said Mrs. Caryll, 'I shall have to drive to Weadmere--there is a better toyshop there than at Crowley. Would you like to go with me and try if we can get a ball for little Ger like yours? And you have never been at Weadmere, I think--it would be a little change for you.' Rosamond's face brightened up at once. 'Oh, thank you, auntie,' she said; 'yes, I should like very much to go and to see the toyshop, because, you know, there'll soon be Christmas presents to think about, and it would be a very good thing to find out in plenty of time where I could get them best. I did tell the boys I didn't think I could spend next half-holiday with them, because I was sure you wouldn't forget about the ball for Ger, auntie. I've got the money quite ready.' She was again her own bright womanly little self, eager and delighted in the thought of doing something or anything for others. 'And I'm getting on nicely with my savings for Christmas,' she chattered on happily; 'you know, auntie, I don't wear out nearly so many gloves here as when I was with mamma in London and Paris, so I really can save a lot.' 'All right, darling,' said her aunt, 'we shall go to Weadmere on Saturday and you shall have a good look round. It is wise to prepare in plenty of time, for I shall be sending a box to your mother very soon, and the Christmas presents can go in it. By the bye, how is the lamp-mat you are making for her getting on?' 'Oh, quite well,' Miss Mouse replied. 'Miss Ward lets me do a little every day while we're reading aloud. It'll be finished very soon.' 'That's a good thing,' said Mrs. Caryll, and by her tone Rosamond felt satisfied that her aunt was quite pleased with her, and it was a very contented and light-hearted Miss Mouse who fell asleep that evening at Caryll after her usual pleasant half-hour or so with her uncle and aunt before bed-time. Mrs. Caryll did not forget to talk over things with her husband when they were alone, and he listened attentively, as he knew Aunt Mattie was too sensible to imagine or exaggerate such matters, and he was really interested in the Hervey boys. 'Yes,' he said, 'it might be, as you say, the making of Bob Crag to get him into some good steady place where there would be no prejudice against him, and yet where he would be looked after with some strictness. I don't myself believe there's any harm in him. To tell you the truth,' and here he hesitated a little--'to tell you the truth I feel more anxious about Justin. There is a touch of the bully in him that I don't like, and-- I don't feel sure that he is always quite straightforward and truthful.' 'That would be worse than anything,' said Aunt Mattie, rather sadly. 'I have tried to draw him and Pat more together, and I think Pat _has_ been more companionable. But I don't feel happy about Justin, either. I don't like his trying to stop little Rosamond's innocent chatter--it is a pity to put it into a child's head that there _can_ be such a thing as "tell-taleing" when children are simple and obedient.' 'Yes,' said her husband, 'I agree with you. I will think it over, and perhaps I may manage to have some talk with Justin one of these days. He will soon be going away to school, and if he has been getting out of good habits at home in any way, it will not be a strengthening preparation for the new trials and temptations of school life.' And as Mrs. Caryll knew that she could depend upon Uncle Ted always to do more rather than less of anything he promised, she too went to bed that night with an easier mind, little thinking that a shock was on its way to startle selfish Justin far more than any words, however serious and earnest, of his uncle's. On Saturday afternoon, as it was a fairly good day, though cold and not without signs of snow not very far away, Mrs. Caryll and Rosamond set off, as had been planned, for Weadmere, the other little town for shopping in the neighbourhood. It was rather a larger place than Crowley, though not so prettily placed, but Rosamond enjoyed the drive in a new direction, and was eager to pay a visit to the 'toy-and-fancy-shop,' as it was called. In those days a half-holiday once a week for shop-keepers was not as generally the rule as it is now, but at Weadmere it had for long been the custom to close on Thursday afternoons. And Saturday was quite a lively day in the little town, as the country folk came in to make their purchases for the following week. So Rosamond found it very amusing; even at the draper's, where she went in with her aunt--and a draper's is not usually counted an interesting kind of shop by children--she was much entertained by watching and listening to the conversation of the farmers' wives and others over their purchases. The way they tugged at merino, and rubbed calico between their fingers to see that there was not too much 'dressing' in it, made her feel as if it would be very difficult indeed to be sure of a 'genuine article,' as the shopman called all his stuffs in turn. At this shop and at the toyshop, where, to her great delight, Rosamond found just the kind and size of ball she had set her heart on for little Gervais, the proprietor made one of his boys go out to hold the pony. But after this Mrs. Caryll had to drive to a less busy part of the town, to order some wire baskets to hang ferns in, at a working tinsmith's. And here there was no odd boy in the shop. She did not like to leave Rosamond alone outside, as she was afraid of the pony starting, but just as she was looking about her what to do, she caught sight of a little fellow sauntering down the street, and called out to him. He ran up at once. 'Will you hold the pony for a few minutes?' she was saying, when Rosamond interrupted her. 'It's Bob, auntie,' she said, 'Bob Crag. Of course he'll hold Tony, and may I stay out? I'm quite warm, and I've got the parcels all nicely packed under the rug.' 'Very well,' replied Mrs. Caryll, for she knew the tinsmith's would not be interesting to her little niece, and with a friendly nod to Bob, who was tugging at his cap, she went into the shop, or workroom, for it was scarcely like a shop. Miss Mouse was quite excited at meeting Bob. 'How funny for you to be here,' she said. 'Have you come to do some messages for your grandmother?' 'No thank you, miss,' said the boy, meaning to be very polite. 'Granny buys all she wants at Crowley; no, I didn't come here for no messages of hers.' Something in the sound of his voice made the little girl look at him more closely, and she saw that he had been crying, though he turned away quickly and began fiddling at the pony's harness as an excuse for hiding his face. But Miss Mouse was not going to be put off like that. [Illustration: 'BOB,' SHE SAID, HE PRETENDED NOT TO HEAR HER.] 'Bob,' she said. He pretended not to hear her. 'Bob,' again more loudly and determinedly this time. 'Beg pardon, miss, did you speak?' said the boy. 'Yes, Bob, I did, and you heard me. You were only pretending not to, because you didn't want me to see that there's something the matter with you. Look at me, Bob,' and he dared not disobey. When Rosamond spoke in that queenly way she was very awe-inspiring. 'I see,' she said, 'you have been crying, Bob. Now what is the matter? Have you been doing anything naughty, or what is it?' He brushed his coat sleeve across his eyes, and tried to choke down a sob. 'No, miss,' he managed at last to get out; 'leastways I never meant to do anything wrong-- I never did, for certain sure, I never did. And I dursn't tell you, miss, for fear of worser trouble-- I really dursn't, unless----' he looked up, his eyes brimming over--his sweet, pathetic dark eyes; and Rosamond's tender heart grew very sore. 'Unless what?' she said. ''Twouldn't be right to say it, I don't think,' he replied hesitatingly; ''twas only if you'd not mind promising not to tell--it'd make such a trouble up to Moor Edge. I dursn't try to see Master Justin, and I don't believe he can do aught to put it right. But poor granny, she'd be that worrited, and I know she's a bit short just now.' 'Short of what? What do you mean?' asked the little girl. 'Short of money, miss, to be sure,' replied Bob. 'I dursn't ask her for it--it'd put her about so, and she'd worry terrible about it all.' 'But I don't understand what it is,' said Rosamond. 'I do wish you'd explain quickly.' Then, as a sudden idea flashed into her mind--'Oh,' she exclaimed, 'can it be about the ferrets? Have you got into trouble about them? If you have, it's all Justin's fault, and he should get you out of it.' Again Bob brushed his sleeve across his eyes. 'He's done all he could, he has indeed, miss,' he said. 'It's them I bought the creatures from that's making all the trouble--there's stories about, you see, again' me--that I've been ferreting for rabbits--and that'd be _stealing_; and the man who sold them to me says he'll have me up for it if I don't pay all that's still owing very first thing to-morrow morning. And he's put on to the price--he has for sure, though he says he hasn't. It's six shilling still to pay, and how or where I'm to get it, goodness only knows,' and here Bob's feelings entirely overcame him, and he burst into tears. Miss Mouse had hard work to keep back her own--she could not bear to see the change in the poor boy, who had always before seemed so full of life and spirits. And she knew that all he had done and risked had been out of his unselfish devotion to Justin. Half unconsciously her hand went into her pocket, where, safely nestling, was her little purse; but she did not draw it out, for she remembered that it only contained sixpence. Miss Mouse was a careful little person; she kept her money in a tiny cash-box, and only took out what she needed to use. The ball for Gervais had cost a shilling, and she had brought eighteenpence with her. 'Six shillings,' she repeated, 'it's a lot of money!' 'That it is,' said Bob, with despair in his voice. Miss Mouse considered. She had been hoping to have ten shillings for her Christmas presents. There was still to come her December pocket-money, out of which she was expected to buy her gloves, and in the country, as she had told Aunt Mattie, gloves last much longer, so that she was not far off her goal. But six shillings! That would leave her at most only four. It was something very like a sob that the little maiden choked down before she spoke again. 'Bob,' she said, 'I'll-- I'll lend it you--or give it you, for I don't see how you can ever pay it me back, unless--unless Justin does,' and, to tell the truth, she had small hopes of Justin. He was selfish and thoughtless. Bob looked up at her with brimming over eyes. 'Miss-- O miss!' was all he could say. 'Yes,' she repeated, 'I'll give it you. I couldn't bear you to get into trouble, or for poor Nance to be unhappy. She's been so good to us. I haven't got the money with me. We must plan how you can fetch it, for I suppose you must have it to-night?' 'Or to-morrow morning, miss, so early that I couldn't disturb you. Yes, to-night would be best, and I _will_ pay it you back, miss, first earnings as ever I get. You'll see--but--but won't your folk--beg pardon--won't the lady and gentleman at Caryll Place be angry with you, miss?' Rosamond considered. 'No,' she replied, 'it's my very own money. But don't trouble about that part of it, Bob. I'll take care not to get you into any fresh trouble, nor,' with a little smile, 'myself either.' And in her own mind Miss Mouse decided that once she was sure poor Bob was safe, she would tell Aunt Mattie 'all about it.' 'I don't think that would be a wrong kind of tell-taleing,' she decided. 'It wouldn't be right not to tell, for Justin shouldn't have risked poor Bob's getting into trouble. I'll tell auntie _everything_, and then she'll know how to do without making Justin angry with Bob.' And when Mrs. Caryll came out of the tinsmith's Bob was standing quietly by the pony's head--he had quite left off crying. She thanked him with a pleasant nod and smile, and hoped she had not kept him waiting too long. 'I didn't give him anything for holding Tony,' she said to Rosamond. 'I think perhaps it would have hurt his feelings.' 'Oh, I'm sure he'd rather do it for nothing, auntie,' answered the little girl. But she said no more about Bob. She meant to do right, and she thought she was doing right, but yet it gave her a rather unhappy feeling not to be able at once to tell her aunt the whole story. She had planned with Bob to meet him that very evening with the money, so she was glad that Mrs. Caryll, finding it a little later than she thought, drove home at a good pace. CHAPTER XII OUT ON THE MOOR Uncle Ted was on the look-out for them when they got home. 'It's cold, isn't it?' he said. 'Still I don't think we shall have snow just yet,' and he glanced up at the sky. 'I want you, as soon as you can spare me a few minutes, Mattie, to look over these letters we were speaking about.' 'I shall be down directly,' said Mrs. Caryll. 'Run off, Rosamond dear, and get ready for your tea. It is pretty sure to be ready for you.' And so it was. Everything seemed to fit in for the little girl's plans. The maid who waited on her was not in Rosamond's own room when she went upstairs, so Miss Mouse contented herself with taking off her hat and jacket, keeping on her boots to be ready for her expedition to meet Bob. She also got out a fur-lined cloak, which had been put away as too shabby for anything but a wrap, and a little close-fitting fur cap to match. These she carried downstairs and hid them in a corner of the sofa in the small breakfast-room which was considered her own quarters. And safe in her pocket nestled her oldest purse--Miss Mouse liked to have 'best' and 'common' among nearly all her possessions--containing the exact sum, six shillings, which she had promised Bob. She ate her tea quickly; her little heart was beating faster than usual with excitement, some fear, and a good deal of real regret at having to part with her precious savings, though, on the other hand, there was a feeling of great pleasure at being able to get poor Bob out of trouble, and to save his kind old grandmother the distress of mind she would certainly have felt. For, as I have said before, Miss Mouse was a very sensible little girl. She quite understood that any trouble of the kind would have done special harm to poor Nance and her grandson, on account of the prejudice already felt against them. Her heart began to beat still more quickly when she found herself out of doors, and though she was so warmly wrapped up, a queer cold feeling ran down her back, and her arms seemed all shivery. 'I'll take a good run,' she thought. 'That will make me feel better, and I've scarcely walked or run at all to-day.' So it did. She was a strong little girl in many ways, and accustomed to plenty of exercise, and the keen fresh air soon made her glow all over, as she ran along the smooth, hard road. Bob had fixed on a certain corner as the best meeting-place. This was the end of a short lane, which led on to the moor at a point Rosamond had never come out at. But it was easy to find, and a short distance farther on, by following one of the small paths in a line with the lane, the boy had explained to her that she would soon come to a sort of dip in the ground, where there was a thick clump of shrubs. 'And there, missie, if I don't meet you before, you'll be certain sure to see me a-comin' over from the other side, as fast as I can get along. It won't be dark by then--and p'raps it'll be a moonlight night, unless the clouds thicken up for snow.' It did seem, all the same, rather gloomy in the lane--'because of the trees and the hedges,' thought Miss Mouse--and certainly when she got to the end and came out on the moor, it looked a little lighter. She stood still and looked about her, drawing a deep breath. But she felt a little disappointed; the moor here seemed quite different from up at Moor Edge--it was so much lower, more like a rough field. 'I don't care for it a bit down here,' she thought. 'And then it's so much, much farther to get to, than at the boys'. Why, there you run almost straight out of the garden on to the dear real moor. I quite know the way Archie and the others feel about it.' She trotted on--straight on, as Bob had directed, and before very long she came to the little hollow with the clump of bushes in the centre which he had described. But there was no Bob there, and at first her heart went down a little--supposing he had not been able to come, supposing the people he owed the money to had refused after all to wait till to-morrow morning, and had done something dreadful--put him in prison, perhaps, for Miss Mouse's ideas as to what might or might not be done to people, poor boys especially, who owed money, were very vague, or gone to frighten old Nance--oh dear, dear, what a pity it was, thought the little girl, that she had not taken her purse and all her riches with her to Weadmere that afternoon. Then she might have given Bob the six shillings at once, and not run any risk of delay, or have needed to come out to meet him in the--yes, it was almost getting to be the dark--and Rosamond gave a little shiver. But at that moment a welcome sound fell on her ears--the sound of rapidly running feet. She heard the boy before she saw him, but he it was. A small dark figure, darker than the dusky ground, soon became visible, running as fast as he could, and, as soon as he caught sight of her, calling out breathlessly, 'O miss, O miss, have you been waiting long?' and as soon as he came nearer, out poured a torrent of explanations as to how they had kept him waiting and waiting for the things he had been at Weadmere to fetch for the 'missus' at the farm where he worked. 'Well, never mind now,' said sensible Miss Mouse, 'I've got the money all right. Here it is, Bob, just exactly six shillings. I did it up into a little packet inside my purse, but you can count it if you like.' 'No, no, thank you, miss,' said the boy. 'I'm sure it's all right, and as like's not if we undid it, it'd drop out, and we'd have hard work to find it again in this brushwood. No, it's sure to be all right--and I'll never be able to thank you enough, that I won't, not if I live to be as old as gran herself.' He was intensely grateful, there was no mistake about that, and already the little girl felt rewarded for the sacrifice she had made. Bob was evidently anxious too to get off, as he was still carrying the packages he had been to fetch, having come by this very roundabout way from the town, and he was anxious, too, to get 'miss' home, for fear of her being 'scolded' through what she had so kindly done for him. They turned to go. 'I wish you could come home with me, Bob,' said Rosamond, 'it does look so dark. I don't mind here or on the road. It's the bit of lane that's so dark.' Bob looked about and considered. 'I'm afraid I just dursn't go round by your place, miss,' he said. 'I must run all the way or the missus'll be terrible put out, though----' 'No, no,' interrupted the little lady. 'I wouldn't let you. Why, it would be worse than owing the money for the ferrets if you got scolded and lost your place perhaps----' 'I have it,' exclaimed the boy. 'If you don't mind comin' out a bit farther up the road, you needn't have no lane at all. And I daresay it'll be quicker in the end, for you'd almost have to _feel_ your way along the lane by now--it is a very dark bit, I know. And I can run with you till I put you on the straight path to the road.' 'Oh yes,' said Rosamond gladly, 'I'd far rather do that. Come along quick then, Bob.' He set off, running, though not nearly as fast as before, in front of her, looking back every moment or two to see if she was following all right. Neither spoke, as Rosamond did not want to waste either her own or her companion's breath. 'I shall have to run as fast as ever I can when I get on to the smooth road,' she thought. So for upwards of a quarter of a mile the two trotted on in silence, till Bob pulled up. 'Miss,' he said, 'this is where I have to turn.' As a matter of fact he had been out of his way till now. 'If you go straight on, you can't miss now. See,' and he pointed before him in the gloom, 'the hedge stops a bit farther on, and there's a clear piece of grass on to the road.' 'Ye-es,' said Miss Mouse, peering before her, 'I think I see.' 'Anyway you'll see it all right as soon as you come to it, and you go straight till then.' 'Yes, yes,' said Rosamond, anxious to see him off. 'Take care of the money, Bob, and the first time we go to see your grandmother I shall expect to hear from you that it's all right. Now, run off as fast as you can and I will too.' He started at a good pace, and as Miss Mouse trotted in the opposite direction, from time to time she looked over her shoulder, till the ever-lessening black speck that she knew to be Bob had altogether melted into the gloom. Bob's eyes were keener than hers; as he ran, he too kept glancing backwards to watch the little figure of the child towards whom his wild but true heart was bursting with gratitude. He distinguished her for some distance, and when he lost sight of her it seemed to be rather suddenly, and for a moment or two, hurried though he was, he stood still with a slight misgiving. 'I saw her half a minute ago,' he thought. 'She must have set to running very fast. I hope nothing's wrong. She can't have fallen and hurt herself,' and at the mere idea he had to put force on himself not to rush back again to see. 'Oh no, it can't be that--why, if she'd hurt herself, she'd have called out and I'd have heard her. It's got so still--and oh, my, it's cold. I shouldn't wonder if it started snowing before morning.' And off set Bob again, with a lighter heart than if he had yielded to his impulse and run back, setting his 'missus's' scolding at defiance, to see that no misadventure had happened to his generous little lady. Alas! this was what had happened--in the gloom, fast turning into night, even out here on the open ground it was impossible to see clearly where one was going. It was even more dangerous in a sense than if it had been quite dark, for then Miss Mouse would have stepped more cautiously. But as all was open before her she ran fearlessly, forgetting that here and there across the white sandy path the low-growing little plants which mingled with the heather and bracken sent a trail across to the other side, in which nothing was easier than to catch one's foot. Once or twice she nearly did so, but no harm coming of it, she paid no attention to the momentary trip up, and ran on again fearlessly, even faster than before. So that when a worse catch came--a long, sturdy branch sprawling right across, which clutched at the dainty little foot, refusing to let it go--she fell, poor darling, with a good deal of violence, twisting her ankle as she did so in a way which hurt her terribly. At first she thought she had broken her leg, but the pain went off a little after she had lain still for a few minutes, and she began to take heart again and managed to get up. It was really not a bad sprain--scarcely a sprain at all--but she was tired and cold and a little frightened, for it was now so dark, and the fall had jarred her all over; her head felt giddy and confused. What happened was not, I think, to be wondered at--poor Miss Mouse took a wrong path, and instead of keeping straight on in the line Bob had started her, she turned, without knowing it, almost directly sideways. For two of the little paths crossed each other, as ill-luck would have it, close to where she had fallen. Her ankle was not so very painful; with care not to turn her foot in one particular way, she found she could hobble on pretty well. But, oh dear, how far off the road seemed! And Bob had told her she would reach it in a few minutes. And _how_ cold it was--were those flakes of snow falling on her face? She wished now that she had called out very loudly when she fell-- Bob might have heard her; but she had been afraid of getting him into great trouble at the farm if he had run back to her and made himself so late. Now she began to feel as if that wouldn't have mattered--Uncle Ted would have put it right somehow for him--nothing would matter much if she _could_ but get to the road and know that home was straight before her. Perhaps some cart would come past and she would get the man to stop and take her in--for oh, she _was_ so tired! She walked more and more slowly, and at last-- [Illustration: AND--WERE THOSE SNOW-FLAKES AGAIN?] 'I _must_ sit down and rest for a minute,' she thought, 'even if it is cold, and p'raps if I can unfasten my boot, it wouldn't hurt so.' Yes--it was delicious to sit still, even for a minute, and--were those snow-flakes again, or leaves? No--it couldn't be leaves; there were no trees about here--how stupid of her to think--to think what? Of course it couldn't be leaves, or flakes--she was in bed. They--they couldn't get in through the window, could they? She must be dreaming--how silly she was--how---- * * * * * 'What is the matter? What do you say?' asked Mr. Hervey that evening about eight o'clock, when, with a startled face, the footman came into the drawing-room, where he and Mrs. Hervey and the three elder boys were sitting. 'It's a groom from Caryll Place, if you please, sir,' the man replied. 'They've sent over to say as Miss Rosamond, little Miss Caryll, can't be found, and do the young gentlemen know anything about it?' All the Herveys started to their feet, with different exclamations of distress. '_Rosamond_, little Rosamond,' cried Mrs. Hervey. 'Miss Mouse _lost_!' exclaimed the boys, while Mr. Hervey went to the door, and called to the Caryll Place groom, who was standing, anxious and uneasy, at the door which led to the offices. 'What's all this?' he inquired. The man came forward and told all there was to tell. Miss Rosamond had been at Weadmere with Mrs. Caryll that afternoon, had driven home, had her tea as usual, etc. All that we know already. But when the time came for her to be dressed to go down to the dining-room, she was not to be found. They had searched the house through, thinking she might be playing some trick, though it wasn't like her to do so; then the grounds, making inquiries at the cottages about--all in vain; and now he had been sent off here with some hope--what, he did not know--that at Moor Edge he might hear something. 'Of course not,' Mr. Hervey replied impatiently, for he was very troubled and it made him cross, 'we should not have kept her here without sending word at once.' He glanced at the boys--they were all three standing there, pale-faced and open-mouthed, Archie on the point of tears. 'Go back at once, and say we know nothing,' Mr. Hervey went on, 'but that I am following with Mr. Justin to help in the search.' 'Papa, papa, mayn't we come too?' Pat and Archie entreated, but their father shook his head, and in five minutes he and Jus were off in the dog-cart to Caryll. Justin was very silent. 'Can you think of anywhere she can be?' asked his father, 'or any explanation? The child can't be stolen--what good would it do any one to steal her?' Justin was in some ways a slow-witted boy. 'I can't think of anything, I'm sure,' he said. But a confused feeling was working at the back of his mind. _Could_ it have anything to do with Bob and the ferrets? He knew that Bob was getting anxious as to paying the rest of the money, though he did not know how bad this anxiety had become--he knew, too, that he himself had been selfish and to some extent deceitful in the matter. But he could not see clearly how the two troubles could be mixed up, so he put the idea out of his mind, not sorry to do so--that was Justin's way. 'No, I can't think of anything,' he repeated. It had been snowing lightly, and now again a few flakes began to fall. 'Do you think it's coming on to snow, papa?' he inquired, partly to change the subject, partly because it came into his mind--for he was not a heartless boy--that _if_ Miss Mouse was lost anywhere out of doors a snowstorm would certainly not mend matters. Mr. Hervey looked up with some anxiety. 'No,' he said, 'I think not, and I certainly hope not if that poor child is by any chance out of doors.' They were soon at Caryll Place. Here all was miserable anxiety, for so far no traces of the poor little girl were to be found, though there were men out in all directions. Mr. Caryll had been out some distance himself, but had just come back for a moment to see Aunt Mattie before driving off to Weadmere to speak to the police. Aunt Mattie, choking down her tears, repeated to Justin's father all there was to tell--how Miss Mouse must have gone out of her own accord, as her warm cloak and cap were missing, and how she had evidently not wanted any one to know, adding, 'The _only_ thing at all unusual to-day was our meeting Bob Crag in the town, and Rosamond may have been talking to him while I was in the shop. _Can_ he have anything to do with it? Justin, you know him well?' She looked keenly at Justin, and she fancied he grew red. He hesitated before answering. 'I-- I don't see how, auntie,' he said at last. Then he went on more courageously. 'Bob is quite a good boy--he really is, though people speak against him. I'm sure he _never_ would have tried to get money from--from Miss Mouse, in any naughty way, or anything like that,' and, in spite of himself, his voice faltered as he uttered the pet name of their little friend. His father turned upon him sharply. 'Get money from her,' he repeated. 'What do you mean? What put such a thing in your head?' 'I-- I don't----' Justin was beginning, when Uncle Ted interrupted. 'I think we are wasting time,' he said; 'the whys and wherefores can be gone into afterwards--the thing to do first is to find our poor darling. If there is the least chance of the Crags knowing anything about her some one had better go there at once. Mattie, I wonder you did not mention the boy, Bob, having spoken to her this afternoon, before?' 'It only now came into my mind,' she replied gently. She was too unhappy to feel hurt at Uncle Ted's tone; she knew he was so terribly unhappy himself. Justin felt himself growing more and more miserable. 'Uncle Ted,' he exclaimed, 'may I go to the Crags? I can run very quickly, and----.' But his uncle and father had already left the hall, where they had all been standing, and had gone off again, probably to give fresh orders in the stables. Only Aunt Mattie was still there, and she had sat down on a chair by the large fire and was shading her eyes with her hand. She was feeling dreadfully tired and more and more wretched. 'If the darling has been out in the cold all this time,' she was saying to herself, 'it is enough to kill her, even if no accident has happened to her,' and all sorts of miserable thoughts came into her mind--of the letters that might have to be written to Rosamond's father and mother, telling--oh, it was too dreadful to think of _what_ might not have to be told! She sat there motionless, except that now and then she shivered, though not with cold. Justin saw that she was not thinking of or noticing him at all, and he suddenly made up his mind to wait no longer. He crossed the hall softly, and in another moment was out in the dark drive in front of the house, unseen by any one. But once there, he turned quickly, and ran, at the top of his speed, his eyes, as he went, growing accustomed to the gloom, in the direction of the bit of lane leading towards the moor, which Miss Mouse had traversed a few hours earlier. Thence--as Justin knew well, even by the little light there was--he could, by careful noticing of some landmarks, make his way to the 'real' moor, as the boys called it, for the more or less grassy part nearer Caryll Place they did not think worthy of the name, and reach the Crags' cottage more quickly than it could be got to by the road. He ran, steadily and not too fast, for he had a good deal of common sense and did not want to exhaust his 'wind' before he had reached his goal. And well it was that he kept his pace moderate and was able to look about him as he ran, for it was lighter out here and he had good eyes. What was that? A dark thick clump of--of what? No, there was something different about this object, and, eager as he was to get to his destination, the boy slackened his pace, hesitated, then dashed off, at full speed this time, in the direction of the something that had caught his sight. Some snow had fallen, and now again flakes began to show themselves on his jacket. There were white dashes, too, on the strange, motionless shape he was making for. Was it setting in for a snowstorm? the boy asked himself with a curious anxiety, for there are times at which our thoughts seem to run before our reason. If so--and if--no, he would not think of such dreadful things; he would first--he was running now too fast to think--and--a minute more and he was stooping over the silent, dead-still figure of the faithful little girl. For it was Miss Mouse, her face as white as the snow, which, had it fallen already, as it was now beginning to do, would have covered her more completely than the robins covered the long-ago baby pair in the old forest; would have hidden her till it was indeed too late. 'Thank God,' whispered Justin, as he thought this; and perhaps it was the very first time he had _felt_ what these two words mean. But then terror seized him again, was it already too late? He rubbed her little hands, he called her by name, his hot boy's tears fell on her cold white face. He did not yet understand how it had all come about, but something seemed to tell him that his selfish thoughtlessness had to do with it. But there was no answer, no movement. 'She will die,' he thought, 'if she is not dead. I must carry her.' He lifted her, though with difficulty, and glanced about him. Oh, joy! they were nearer Bob's cottage than he had thought; he stood still and whistled, the peculiar 'call' his brothers and he used for each other, and that Bob, too, knew. Then he moved on again, though but slowly--now and then it seemed scarcely more than a totter, his legs trembled so, and Rosamond was so strangely heavy. But it was not for long in reality, though it seemed to him hours, before help reached him. A figure came rushing across the moor, and a voice called out loudly, 'Who is it? What is the matter? It's not--oh, Master Justin, is it you? And--no, no, don't say it's the little lady-- I've killed her, I've killed her. It's all my fault.' * * * * * It was in kind old Nance's cottage that the little girl came back to consciousness. Bob's grandmother was clever and skilful, and, though sadly alarmed at first, soon saw that the two boys' very natural terror was greater than need be. The child was in a sort of stupor from cold and fright and pain too, for her ankle had swelled badly by this time, from the pressure of her boot. But careful management brought her round, and she was soon able to look about her and to drink the wonderful herb tea of some kind which Nance prepared. And then she sat up and explained what she could of how the misadventure had come to pass, helped by Bob, whom she glanced at doubtfully, till he said out manfully, 'Tell it all, miss, tell it all. It's me that's to blame, only me.' But no, it was not only at poor Bob's door that lay the blame, and so Justin well knew, and so Justin had the honesty to confess when the anxiety and distress were to some extent past, though for a few days great care had to be taken of little Rosamond. It would be difficult to describe the joy with which Uncle Ted carried her off to the carriage waiting at the nearest point on the road, wrapped up in his strong arms so that she _couldn't_ get chilled again, or Aunt Mattie and the Herveys' delight at the happy news of the little lost one being found. These things are more difficult to _tell_ than to picture to oneself. So, too, it would be difficult to relate the change in Justin which those who cared for him always dated from the night on which Miss Mouse was lost--the night of which, had worse come of it to the kind little girl, he would never have been able to think without misery beyond words. The ferrets were paid for, of course, though not with Rosamond's money, which was now happily spent on her Christmas presents. But though paid for, Justin's pets were soon sold again, and replaced by some more lovable and attractive creatures, whom his mother and Miss Mouse and everybody could take pleasure in too. I rather think the new treasures were some particularly pretty guinea-pigs--curly-haired ones; though to be quite sure of this I should have to apply to some boys and girls of my acquaintance whose grandfather has often told them the long-ago story of Miss Mouse and the good that came of her gentle influence on him and his brothers when they were all children together. And dear Miss Mouse herself--what of her? Where is she now? It is so many years ago, is she still alive? Yes. I have nothing sad with which to end my little story. She is now, what most of you, I daresay, would consider a very old lady, for her hair is quite white, though her pretty gray eyes are as clear as ever. Not that they have not known tears, those kind eyes, many tears, I daresay, for the sorrows of others more than for her own, perhaps. Life would not be what it has to be, what God means it to be, without tears as well as smiles. And Bob Crag. 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31327	----	Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories July 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. MASTER of the MOONDOG By STANLEY MULLEN _Idiotic pets rate idiotic masters. Tod Denver and Charley, the moondog, made ideal companions as they set a zigzag course for the Martian diggings--paradise for fools._ * * * * * It was Charley's fault, of course; all of it.... Temperature outside was a rough 280 degrees F., which is plenty rough and about three degrees cooler than Hell. It was somewhere over the Lunar Appenines and the sun bored down from an airless sky like an unshielded atomic furnace. The thermal adjustors whined and snarled and clogged-up until the inside of the space sled was just bearable. [Illustration] Tod Denver glared at Charley, who was a moondog and looked like one, and Charley glared back. Denver was fond of Charley, as one might be of an idiot child. At the moment they found each in the other's doghouse. Charley had curled up and attached himself to the instrument panel from which be scowled at Denver in malignant fury. [Illustration] Charley was a full-grown, two yard-long moondog. He looked like an oversized comma of something vague and luminous. At the head end he was a fat yellow balloon, and the rest of him tapered vaguely to a blunt apex of infinity. Whatever odd forces composed his weird physiology, he was undoubtedly electronic or magnetic. In the physically magnetic sense, he could cling for hours to any metallic surface, or at will propel himself about or hang suspended between any two or more metallic objects. As to his personality, he was equally magnetic, for wherever Denver took him he attracted curious stares and comments. Most people have never seen a moondog. Such creatures, found only on the moons of Saturn, are too rare to be encountered often as household or personal pets. But Tod Denver had won Charley in a crap game at Crystal City; and thereafter found him both an inseparable companion and exasperating responsibility. He had tried every available means to get rid of Charley, but without success. Either direct sale or horse-trade proved useless. Charley liked Denver too well to put up with less interesting owners so Charley always came back, and nearly always accompanied by profanity and threats. Charley was spectacular, and a monstrous care but Denver ended by becoming fond of the nuisance. He would miss the radiant, stupid and embarrassingly affectionate creature. Charley had currently burned out a transformer by some careless and exuberant antic; hence the mutual doghouse. Scolding was wasted effort, so Denver merely sighed and made a face at Charley. "Mad dogs and Martians go out in the Lunar sun," he sang as a punishment. Charley recognized only the word "dog" but he considered the song a personal insult; as if Denver's singing were not sufficient punishment for a minor offense. Charley was irritated. Charley's iridescence flickered evilly, which was enough to short-circuit two relays and weld an undetermined number of hot switches. Charley's temper was short, and short-circuiting all electrical units within range was mere reflex. Tod Denver swore nobly and fluently, set the controls on automatic-neutral and tried to localize the damage. But for Charley and his overloaded peeve, they would have been in Crystal City inside the hour. So it was Charley's fault, of course; all of it.... * * * * * It was beyond mere prank. Denver calculated grimly that his isolated suit would hold up less than twenty minutes in that noon inferno outside before the stats fused and the suiting melted and ran off him in droplets of metal foil and glass cloth. The thermal adjustors were already working at capacity, transmitting the light and heat that filtered through the mirror-tone hull into stored, useful energy. Batteries were already overcharged and the voltage regulators snapped on and off like a crackling barrage of distant heat-guns. Below was a high gulch of the Lunar Appenines, a pattern of dazzling glare and harsh moonshadows. Ramshackle mine-buildings of prefabricated plastic straggled out from the shrouding blackness under a pinnacled ridge. Denver eyed the forbidding terrain with hair-raising panic. He checked the speed of the racing space sled, circled once, and tried to pick out a soft spot. The ship swooped down like a falling rock, power off. Denver awaited the landing shock. It was rough. Space was too cramped and he overshot his planned landing. The spacer set down hard beyond the cleared strip, raising spurting clouds of volcanic ash which showered his view-ports in blinding glare. Skids shrilled on naked rock, causing painful vibrations in the cabin. Denver wrenched at controls, trying to avoid jagged tongues of broken lava protruding above the dust-floor. Sun-fire turned the disturbed dust into luminous haze blanketing ship and making vision impossible. The spacer ground to an agonized stop. Denver's landing was rough but he still lived. He sat blankly and felt cold in the superheated cabin. It was nice and surprising to be alive. Without sustaining air the dust settled almost instantly. Haze cleared outside the ports. Charley whined eagerly. He detached himself from the tilting control panel and sailed wildly about like a hydrophobic goldfish in a bowl of water. A succession of spitting and crackling sounds poured from him as he batted his lunatic face to the view-ports to peer outside. Pseudo-tendrils formed around his travesty of mouth, and he wrinkled his absurd face into yellow typhoons of excitement. This was fun. Let's do it again! Denver grunted uncomfortably. He studied the staggering scene of Lunar landscape without any definite hope. Something blazing from the peak of the largest mine-structure caught his eye. With a snort of bitter disgust he identified the dazzle. Distress signals in Interplanetary Code! That should be very helpful under the poisonous circumstances. He swore again, numbly, but with deep sincerity. Charley danced and flicked around the cabin like a free electron with a careless disregard for traffic regulations and public safety. It was wordless effort to express his eagerness to go outside and explore with Denver. In spite of himself, Tod Denver grinned at the display. "Not this time, Charley. You wait in the ship while I take a quick look around. From the appearance of things, I'll run into trouble enough without help from you." The moondog drooped from disappointment. With Charley, any emotion always reached the ultimate absurdity. He was a flowing, flexible phantom of translucent color and radiance. But now the colors faded like gaudy rags in caustic solution. Charley whined as Denver went through the grotesque ritual of donning space helmet and zipping up his glass cloth and metal foil suiting before he dared venture outside. Charley even tried to help by pouring himself through the stale air to hold open the locker where the tool-belts and holstered heat guns were kept. Space suiting bulged with internal pressure as Denver slid through the airlock and left the ship behind. Walking carefully against the treachery of moonweak gravity, he made cautious way up the slope toward the clustered buildings. Footing was bad, with the feeling of treading upon brittle, glassy surfaces and breaking through to bury his weighted shoes in inches of soft ash. A small detour was necessary to avoid upthrusting pinnacles of lavarock. In the shadow of these outcroppings he paused to let his eyes adjust to the brilliance of sunlight. A thin pencil-beam of light stabbed outward from behind the nearer building. Close at hand, one of the lava-needles vanished in soundless display of mushrooming explosion. Sharp, acrid heat penetrated even the insulating layers of suit. A pressure-wave of expanding gas staggered him before it dissipated. Denver flung himself instinctively behind the sheltering rocks. Prone, he inched forward to peer cautiously through a V-cleft between two jagged spires. Heat-blaster in hand, he waited events. Again the beam licked out. The huddle of lava-pinnacles became a core of flaming destruction. Half-molten rock showered Denver's precarious refuge. He ducked, unhurt, then thrust head and gun-arm above the barricade. * * * * * Two dark figures, running awkwardly, detached themselves from the huddled bulk of buildings. Like leaping, fantastic shadows, they scampered toward the mounds of deep shadow beneath the ridge. The route took them away from Denver, making aim difficult. He fired twice, hurriedly. Missed. But near misses because he had not focused for such range. By the time he could reset the weapon, the scurrying figures had disappeared into the screening puddles of shadow. Denver tried to distinguish them against the blackness, but it lay in solid, covering mass at the base of a titanic ridge. Faintly he could see a ghostly outline, much too large for men. It might be a ship, but it would have to be large enough for a space-yacht. No stinking two-man sled like his spacer. And he could not be sure in that eerie blankness if it even were a ship. Besides, the range was too great. Uncertainty vanished as a circle of light showed briefly. An airlock door opened and closed swiftly. Denver stood clear of the rocks and wondered if he should risk anything further. Pursuit was useless with such arms as he carried. No question of courage was involved. A man is not required to play quixotic fool under such circumstances. And there might not be time to return to his spacer for a long-range heat gun. If he tried to reach the strange ship, its occupants could smoke him down before he covered half the distance. If he continued toward the buildings, they might return and stalk him. They would, he knew, if they guessed he was alone. Decision was spared him. Rockets thundered. The ridge lighted up as with magnesium flares. A big ship moved out of the banked shadows, accelerating swiftly. It was a space-yacht, black-hulled, and showed no insignia. It was fast, incredibly fast. He wasted one blaster charge after it, but missed focus by yards. He ducked out of sight among the rocks as the ship dipped to skim low overhead. Then it was gone, circling in stiff, steep spiral until it lost itself to sight in distant gorges. "Close!" Denver murmured. "Too close. And now what?" He quickly recharged the blaster. A series of sprawling leaps ate up the remaining distance to the mine's living quarters. One whole side, where airlock doors had been, was now a gaping, ragged hole. A haze of nearly invisible frost crystals still descended in slow showers. It was bitterly cold on the sharp, opaque edge of mountain-shadow. Thermal adjustors in his suiting stopped their irregular humming. Automatic units combined chemicals and began to operate against the biting cold. With a premonition of ugly dread, Denver clambered into the ruined building. Inside was airless, heatless cell, totally dark. Denver's gloved hand sought a radilume-switch. Light blinked on as he fumbled the button. Death sat at a metal-topped table. Death wore the guise of a tall, gaunt, leathery man, no longer young. It was no pretty sight, though not too unfamiliar a sight on Luna. The man had been writing. Frozen fingers still clutched a cylinder pen, and the nub adhered to the paper as the flow of ink had stiffened. From nose, ears and mouth, streams of blood had congealed into fat, crimson icicles. Rimes of ruby crystals ringed pressure-bulged eyes. He was complete, perfect, a tableau of cold, airless death. The paper was a claim record, registered in the name of Laird Martin, Earthman. An attached photograph matched what could be seen of face behind its mask of frozen blood. Across the foot of the sheet was a hurried scrawl: _Claim jumpers. I know they'll get me. If I can hide this first, they will not get what they want. Where Mitre Peak's apex of shadow points at 2017 ET is the first of a series of deep-cut arrow markings. Follow. They lead to the entrance. Old Martian workings. Maybe something. Whoever finds this, see that my kid, Soleil, gets a share. She's in school on Earth. Address is 93-X south Palma--_ The pen had stopped writing half-through the word. Death had intervened hideously. Imagination could picture the scene as that airlock wall disappeared in blinding, soundless flash. Or perhaps there had been sound in the pressured atmosphere. His own arrival may have frightened off the claim jumpers, but too late to help the victim, who sat so straight and hideous in the airless tomb. There was nothing to do. Airless cold would embalm the body until some bored official could come out from Crystal City to investigate the murder and pick up the hideous pieces. But if the killers returned Denver made sure that nothing remained to guide them in their search for the secret mine worked long-ago by forgotten Martians. It was Laird Martin's discovery and his dying legacy to a child on distant Earth. Denver picked up the document and wadded it clumsily into a fold-pocket of his spacesuit. It might help the police locate the heir. In Martin's billfold was the child's picture, no more. Denver retraced his steps to the frosty airlock valve of his ship. Inside the cabin, Charley greeted his master's return with extravagant caperings which wasted millions of electron volts. "Nobody home, Charley," Denver told the purring moondog, "but we've picked up a nasty errand to run." It was a bad habit, he reflected; talking to a moondog like that, but he had picked up the habit from sheer loneliness of his prospecting among the haunted desolations of the Moon. Even talking to Charley was better than going nuts, he thought, and there was not too much danger of smart answers. He worked quickly, repairing the inadvertent damage Charley's pique had caused. It took ten full minutes, and the heat-deadline was too close for comfort. He finished and breathed more freely as temperatures began to drop. He peeled off the helmet and unzipped the suit which was reaching the thermal levels of a live-steam bath. He ran tape through the charger to impregnate electronic setting that would guide the ship on its course to Crystal City. "We were on our way, there, anyhow," he mused. "I hope they've improved the jail. It could stand air-conditioning." II Crystal City made up in violence what it lacked in size. It was a typical boom town of the Lunar mining regions. Mining and a thriving spacefreight trade in heavy metals made it a mecca for the toughest space-screws and hardest living prospector-miners to be found in the inhabited worlds. Saloons and cheap lodging-houses, gambling dens and neon-washed palaces of expensive sin, the jail and a flourishing assortment of glittery funeral parlors faced each other across two main intersecting streets. X marked the spot and life was the least costly of the many commodities offered for sale to rich-strike suckers who funneled in from all Luna. The town occupied the cleared and leveled floor of a small ringwall "crater," and beneath its colorful dome of rainbowy perma-plastic, it sizzled. Dealers in mining equipment made overnight fortunes which they lost at the gaming tables just as quickly. In the streets one rubbed elbows with denizens from every part of the solar system; many of them curiously not anthropomorphic. Glittering and painted purveyors of more tawdry and shopworn goods than mining equipment also made fortunes overnight, and some of them paid for their greedy snatching at luxury with their empty lives. Brawls were sporadic and usually fatal. Crystal City sizzled, and the Lunar Police sat on the lid as uneasily as if the place were a charge of high-explosive. It was, but it made living conditions difficult for a policeman, and made the desk-sergeant's temper extremely short. Tod Denver's experience with police stations had consisted chiefly of uncomfortable stays as an invited, reluctant guest. To a hard-drinking man, such invitations are both frequent and inescapable. So Tod Denver was uneasy in the presence of such an obviously ill-tempered desk sergeant. Memories are tender documents from past experience, and Denver's experiences had induced extreme sensitivity about jails. Especially Crystal City's jail. Briefly, he acquainted irritable officialdom with details of his find in the Appenines. The sergeant was fat, belligerent and unphilosophical. "You stink," said the sergeant, twisting his face into more repulsive suggestion of a distorted rubber mask. Tod Denver tried to continue. The sergeant cut him off with a rude suggestion. "So what?" added the official. "Suppose you did run into a murder. Do I care? Maybe you killed the old guy yourself and are trying to cover up. I don't know." He scowled speculatively at Denver who waited and worried. "Forget it," went on the sergeant. "We ain't got time to chase down everybody that knocks off a lone prospector. There's a lot of punks like you I'd like to bump myself right here in Crystal City. Even if you're telling the truth I don't believe you. If you'd thought he had something valuable you'd have swiped it yourself, not come running to us. Don't bother me. If you got something, snag it. If not, shove it--" The suggestion was detailed, anatomical. Charley giggled amiably. Startled, the sergeant looked up and caught sight of the monstrosity. He shrieked. "What's that?" "Charley, my moondog," Denver explained. "They're quite scarce here." Charley made eerie, chittering noises and settled on Denver's shoulder, waiting for his master to stroke the filaments of his blunt head. "Looks like a cross between a bird and a carrot. Try making him scarce from my office." "Don't worry, he's housebroke." "Don't matter. Get him out of here, out of Crystal City. We have an ordinance against pets. Unhealthy beasts. Disease-agents. They foul up the atmosphere." "Not Charley," Denver argued hopelessly. "He's not animal; he's a natural air-purifier. Gives off ozone." "Two hours you've got to get him out of here. Two hours. Out of town. I hope you go with him. If he don't stink, you do. If I have any trouble with either of you, you go in the tank." Tod Denver gulped and held his nose. "Not your tank. No thanks. I want a hotel room with a tub and shower, not a night in your glue factory. Come on, Charley. I guess you sleep in the ship." Charley grinned evilly at the sergeant. He gave out chuckling sounds, as if meditating. To escape disaster Tod Denver snatched him up and fled. * * * * * After depositing Charley in the ship, he bought clean clothes and registered for a room at the Spaceport Hotel. After a bath, a shave and a civilized meal he felt more human than he had for many lonely months. He transferred his belongings to the new clothes, and opened his billfold to audit his dwindling resources. After the hotel and the new clothes and the storage-rent at the spaceport for his ship, there was barely enough for even a bust of limited dimensions. It would have to do. As he replaced the money a battered photograph fell out. It was the picture of Laird Martin's child. A girl, not over four. She was plump and pretty in the vague way children are plump and pretty. An old picture, of course; faded and worn from frequent handling. Dirty and not too clear. How could anyone trace a small orphan girl on Earth with the picture and the incomplete address? She would be older, of course; maybe six or seven. Schools do keep records and lists of the pupils' names might be available if he had money to investigate. Which he hadn't. His ship carried three months of supplies. Beside the money in his billfold, he had nothing else. Nothing but Charley, and the sales of him had always backfired. At best, a moondog was not readily marketable. Besides, could he part with Charley? Maybe if he looked into those old Martian workings, the money would be forthcoming. After all, the dying Laird Martin had only asked that a share be reserved for his daughter. Put some aside for the kid. Use some to find her. Keep careful accounting and give her a fair half. More if she needed it and there wasn't too much. It was a nice thought. Denver felt warm and decent inside. For the moment some of his thoughts verged upon indecencies. He lacked the price but it cost nothing to look. He called it widow-shopping, which was not a misnomer in Crystal City. There were plenty of widows, some lonely, some lively. Some free and uninhibited. And he did have the price of the drinks. The impulse carried him outside to a point near the X-like intersection of streets. Here, the possibilities of sin and evil splendor dazzled the eye. Pressured atmosphere within the domed city was richer than Tod Denver was used to. Oxygen in pressure tanks costs money; and he had accustomed himself to do with as little as possible. Charley helped slightly. Now the stuff went tingling through nostrils, lungs and on to his veins. It swept upward to his brain and blood piled up there, feeling as if full of bursting tiny bubbles like champagne. He felt gay and feckless, light-headed and big-headed. Ego expanded, and he imagined himself a man of destiny at the turning point of his career. He was not drunk, except on oxygen. Not drunk yet. But thirsty. The street was garish with display of drinkeries. In neon lights a tilted glass dripped beads of color. There was a name in luminous pastel-tubing: _Pot o' Stars._ Beneath the showering color stood a girl. Tod Denver's blood pressure soared nimbly upward and collided painfully with blocked safety valves. The look was worth it. Tremendous. Hot stuff. Wow! When bestially young he had dreamed lecherously of such a glorious creature. Older, bitter experience had taught him that they existed outside his price class. His eyes worked her over in frank admiration and his imagination worked overtime. She was Martian, obviously, from her facial structure, if one noticed her face. Martian, of course. But certainly not one of the Red desert folk, nor one of the spindly yellow-brown Canal-keepers. White. Probably sprang originally from the icy marshes near the Pole, where several odd remnants of the old white races still lived, and lingered painfully on the short rations of dying Mars. She was pale and perilous and wonderful. Hair was shimmering bright cascade of spun platinum that fell in muted waves upon shoulders of naked beauty. Her eyes swam liquid silver with purple lights dwelling within, and her sullen red lips formed a heartshaped mouth, as if pouting. Heavy lids weighed down the eyes, and heavier barbaric bracelets weighted wrists and ankles. Twin breasts were mounds of soft, sun-dappled snow frosted with thin metal plates glowing with gemfire. Her simple garment was metalcloth, but so fine-spun and gauzelike that it seemed woven of moonlight. It seemed as un-needed as silver leafing draped upon some exotic flowering, but somehow enhanced the general effect. Her effect was overpowering. Denver followed her inside and followed her sweet, poisonous witchery as the girl glided gracefully along the aisle between ranked tables. As she entered the glittering room talk died for a moment of sheer admiration, then began in swift whispered accents. Men dreamed inaudibly and the women envied and hated her on sight. She seemed well-known to the place. Her name, Denver learned from the awed whispering, was--Darbor.... _The Pot o' Stars_ combined drinking, dancing and gambling. A few people even ate food. There was muffled gaiety, glitter of glass and chromium, and general bad taste in the decoration. The hostesses were dressed merely to tempt and tease the homesick and lovelorn prospectors and lure the better-paid mine-workers into a deadly proximity to alcohol and gambling devices. * * * * * The girl went ahead, and Denver followed, regretting his politeness when she beat him to the only unoccupied table. It had a big sign, _Reserved_, but she seemed waiting for no one, since she ordered a drink and merely played with it. She seemed wrapped in speculative contemplation of the other customers, as if estimating the possible profits to the house. On impulse, Denver edged to her table and stood looking down at her. Cold eyes, like amber ice, looked through him. "I know I look like a spacetramp," he observed. "But I'm not invisible. Mind if I pull up a cactus and squat?" Her eyes were chill calculation. "Suit yourself ... if you like to live dangerously." Denver laughed and sat down. "How important are you? Or is it something else? You don't look so deadly. I'll buy you a drink if you like. Or dance, if you're careless about toes." Her cold shrug stopped him. "Skip it," she snapped. "Buy yourself a drink if you can afford it. Then go." "What makes you rate a table to yourself? I could go now but I won't. The liquor here's probably poison but who pays for it makes no difference to me. Maybe you'd like to buy me a short snort. Or just snort at me again. On you, it looks good." The girl gazed at him languorously, puzzled. Then she let go with a laugh which sparkled like audible champagne. "Good for you," she said eagerly. "You're just a punk, but you have guts. Guts, but what else? Got any money?" Denver bristled. "Pots of it," he lied, as any other man would. Then, remembering suddenly, "Not with me but I know where to lay hands on plenty of it." Her eyes calculated. "You're not the goon who came in from the Appenines today? With a wild tale of murder and claim-jumpers and old Martian workings?" Quick suspicion dulled Denver's appreciation of beauty. She laughed sharply. "Don't worry about me, stupid. I heard it all over town. Policemen talk. For me, they jump through hoops. Everybody knows. You'd be smart to lie low before someone jumps out of a sung-bush and says boo! at you. If you expected the cops to do anything, you're naive. Or stupid. About those Martian workings, is there anything to the yarn?" Denver grunted. He knew he was talking too much but the urge to brag is masculine and universal. "Maybe, I don't know. Martian miners dabbled in heavy metals. Maybe they found something there and maybe they left some. If they did, I'm the guy with the treasure map. Willing to take a chance on me?" Darbor smiled calculatingly. "Look me up when you find the treasure. You're full of laughs tonight. Trying to pick me up on peanuts. Men lie down and beg me to walk on their faces. They lay gold or jewels or pots of uranium at my feet. Got any money--now?" "I can pay ... up to a point," Denver confessed miserably. "We're not in business, kid. But champagne's on me. Don't worry about it. I own the joint up to a point. I don't, actually. Big Ed Caltis owns it. But I'm the dummy. I front for him because of taxes and the cops. We'll drink together tonight, and all for free. I haven't had a good laugh since they kicked me out of Venusport. You're it. I hope you aren't afraid of Big Ed. Everybody else is. He bosses the town, the cops and all the stinking politicians. He dabbles in every dirty racket, from girls to the gambling upstairs. He pays my bills, too, but so far he hasn't collected. Not that he hasn't tried." Denver was impressed. Big Ed's girl. If she was. And he sat with her, alone, drinking at Big Ed's expense. That was a laugh. A hot one. Rich, even for Luna. "Big Ed?" he said. "The Scorpion of Mars!" Darbor's eyes narrowed. "The same. The name sounds like a gangsters' nickname. It isn't. He was a pro-wrestler. Champion of the Interplanetary League for three years. But he's a gangster and racketeer at heart. His bully-boys play rough. Still want to take a chance, sucker?" A waitress brought drinks and departed. Snowgrape Champagne from Mars cooled in a silver bucket. It was the right temperature, so did not geyser as Denver unskilfully wrested out the cork. He filled the glasses, gave one to the girl. Raising the other, he smiled into Darbor's dangerous eyes. "The first one to us," he offered gallantly. "After that, we'll drink to Big Ed. I hope he chokes. He was a louse in the ring." Darbor's face lighted like a flaming sunset in the cloud-canopy of Venus. "Here's to us then," she responded. "And to guts. You're dumb and delightful, but you do something to me I'd forgotten could be done. And maybe I'll change my mind even if you don't have the price. I think I'll kiss you. Big Ed is still a louse, and not only in the ring. He thinks he can out-wrestle me but I know all the nasty holds. I play for keeps or not at all. Keep away from me, kid." Denver's imagination had caught fire. Under the combined stimuli of Darbor and Snowgrape Champagne, he seemed to ascend to some high, rarified, alien dimension where life became serene and uncomplicated. A place where one ate and slept and made fortunes and love, and only the love was vital. He smoldered. "Play me for keeps," he urged. "Maybe I will," Darbor answered clearly. She was feeling the champagne too, but not as exaltedly as Denver who was not used to such potent vintages as Darbor and SG-Mars, 2028. "Maybe I will, kid, but ask me after the Martian workings work out." "Don't think I won't," he promised eagerly. "Want to dance?" Her face lighted up. She started to her feet, then sank back. "Better not," she murmured. "Big Ed doesn't like other men to come near me. He's big, bad and jealous. He may be here tonight. Don't push your luck, kid. I'm trouble, bad trouble." Denver snapped his fingers drunkenly. "That for Big Ed. I eat trouble." Her eyes were twin pools of darkness. They widened as ripples of alarm spread through them. "Start eating," she said. "Here it comes!" Big Ed Caltis stood behind Denver's chair. III Tod Denver turned. "Hello, Rubber-face," he said pleasantly. "Sit down and have a drink. You're paying for it." Big Ed Caltis turned apoplectic purple but he sat down. A waitress hustled up another glass. Silence in the room. Every eye focused upon the table where Big Ed Caltis sat and stared blindly at his uninvited guest. Skilfully, Denver poured sparkling liquid against the inside curve of the third glass. With exaggerated care, he refilled his own and the girl's. He shoved the odd glass toward Big Ed with a careless gesture that was not defiance but held a hint of something cold and deadly and menacing. "Drink hearty, champ," he suggested. "You'll need strength and Dutch courage to hear some of the things I've wanted to tell you. I've been holding them for a long time. This is it." Big Ed nodded slowly, ponderously. "I'm listening." Denver began a long bill of particulars against Big Ed Caltis of Crystal City. He omitted little, though some of it was mere scandalous gossip with which solo-prospectors who had been the objects of a squeeze-play consoled themselves and took revenge upon their tormentor from safe distance. Denver paused once, briefly, to re-assess and recapture the delight he took in gazing at Darbor's beauty seated opposite. Then he resumed his account of the life and times of Big Ed, an improvised essay into the folly and stupidity of untamed greed which ended upon a sustained note of vituperation. Big Ed smiled with sardonic amusement. He was in his late forties, running a bit to blubber, but still looked strong and capable. He waited until Tod Denver ran down, waited and smiled patiently. "If you've finished," he said. "I should compliment you on the completeness of the picture you paint of me. When I need a biographer, I'll call on you. Just now I have another business proposition. I understand you know the location of some ancient Martian mine-workings. You need a partner. I'm proposing myself." Denver paled. "I have a partner," he said, nodding toward the girl. Big Ed smiled thinly. "That's settled then. Her being your partner makes it easy. What she has is mine. I bought her. She works for me and everything she has is mine." Darbor's eyes held curious despair. But hatred boiled up in her. "Not altogether," she corrected him evenly. "You never got what you wanted most--me! And you never will. I just resigned. Get yourself another dummy." But Ed stood up. "Very good. Maudlin but magnificent. Let me offer my congratulations to both of you. But you're mistaken. I'll get everything I want. I always do. I'm not through with either of you." Darbor ignored him. "Dance?" she asked Denver. He rose and gallantly helped her from her chair. Big Ed Caltis, after a black look, vanished toward the offices and gambling rooms upstairs. He paused once and glanced back. Denver laughed suddenly. Darbor studied him and caught the echo of her own fear in his eyes. He mustered a hard core of courage in himself, but it required distinct effort. "When I was a kid I liked to swing on fence-gates. Once, the hinges broke. I skinned my knee." Her body was trembling. Some of it got into her voice. "It could happen again." He met the challenge of her. She was bright steel, drawn to repel lurking enemies. "I have another knee," he said, grinning. "But yours are too nice to bark up. Where's the back door?" The music was Venusian, a swaying, sensuous thing of weirdest melodies and off-beat rhythms. Plucked and bowed strings blended with wailing flutes and an exotic tympany to produce music formed of passion and movement. Tod Denver and Darbor threaded their way through stiffly-paired swaying couples toward the invisible door at the rear. "I hope you don't mind scar tissue on your toes," he murmured, bending his cheek in impulsive caress. He wished that he were nineteen again and could still dream. Twenty-seven seemed so aged and battered and cynical. And dreams can become nightmares. They were near the door. "Champagne tastes like vinegar if it's too cold," she replied. "My mouth is puckery and tastes like swill. I hope it's the blank champagne. Maybe I'm scared." They dropped pretense and bolted for the door. In the alley, they huddled among rubbish and garbage cans because the shadows lay thicker there. * * * * * The danger was real and ugly and murderous. Three thugs came boiling through the alley door almost on their heels. They lay in the stinking refuse, not daring to breathe. Brawny, muscular men with faces that shone brutally in the blazing, reflected Earthlight scurried back and forth, trying locked doors and making a hurried expedition to scout out the street. Passersby were buttonholed and roughly questioned. No one knew anything to tell. One hatchetman came back to report. Big Ed's voice could be heard in shrill tirade of fury. "You fools. Don't let them get away. I'll wring the ears off the lot of you if they get to the spaceport. He was there; he was the one who spotted us. He can identify my ship. Now get out and find them. I'll pay a thousand vikdals Martian to the man who brings me either one. Kill the girl if you have to, but bring him back alive. I want his ears, and he knows where the stuff is. Now get out of here!" More dark figures spurted from the dark doorway. Darbor gave involuntary shudder as they swept past in a flurry of heavy-beating footsteps. Denver held her tightly, hand over her mouth. She bit his hand and he repressed a squeal of pain. She made no outcry and the pounding footsteps faded into distance. Big Ed Caltis went inside, loudly planning to call the watch-detail at the spaceport. His word was law in Crystal City. "Can we beat them to the ship?" Denver asked. "We can try," Darbor replied.... The spaceport was a blaze of light. Tod Denver expertly picked the gatelock. The watchman came out of his shack, picking his teeth. He looked sleepy, but grinned appreciatively at Darbor. "Hi, Tod! You sure get around. Man just called about you. Sounded mad. What's up?" "Plenty. What did you tell him?" The watchman went on picking his teeth. "Nothing. He don't pay my wages. Want your ship? Last one in the line-up. Watch yourself. I haven't looked at it, but there've been funny noises tonight. Maybe you've got company." "Maybe I have. Lend me your gun, Ike?" "Sure, I've eaten. I'm going back to sleep. If you don't need the gun, leave it on the tool-locker. If you do, I want my name in the papers. They'll misspell it, but the old lady will get a kick. So long. Good luck. If it's a boy, Ike's a good, old-fashioned name." Tod Denver and Darbor ran the length of the illuminated hangar to the take-off pits at the far end. His space sled was the last in line. That would help for a quick blast-off. Darbor was panting, ready to drop from exhaustion. But she dragged gamely on. Gun ready, he reached up to the airlock flap. Inside the ship was sudden commotion. A scream was cut off sharply. Scurried movement became bedlam. Uproar ceased as if a knife had cut through a ribbon of sound. Denver flung open the flap and scrabbled up and through the valve to the interior. Two of Big Ed's trigger men lay on the floor. One had just connected with a high-voltage charge from Charley. The other had quietly fainted. Denver dumped them outside, helped Darbor up and closed the ship for take-off. He switched off cabin lights. He wasted no time in discussion until the ship was airborne and had nosed through the big dome-valves into the airless Lunar sky. A fat hunk of Earth looked like a blueberry chiffon pie, but was brighter. It cast crazy shadows on the terrain unreeling below. Darbor sat beside him. She felt dazed, and wondered briefly what had happened to her. Less than an hour before she had entered the _Pot o' Stars_ with nothing on her mind but assessing the clients and the possible receipts for the day. Too much had happened and too rapidly. She could not assimilate details. Something launched itself through darkness at her. It snugged tightly to shoulder and neck and made chuckling sounds. Stiff fur nuzzled her skin. There was a vague prickling of hot needles, but it was disturbing rather than painful. She screamed. "Shut up!" said Denver, laughing. "It's just Charley. But don't excite him or you'll regret it." From the darkness came a confused burble of sounds as Charley explored and bestowed his affections upon a new friend still too startled to appreciate the gesture. Darbor tried vainly to fend off the lavish demonstrations. Denver gunned the space sled viciously, and felt the push of acceleration against his body. He headed for a distant mountain range. "Just Charley, my pet moondog," he explained. "What in Luna is that?" "You'll find out. He loves everybody. Me, I'm more discriminating, but I can be had. My father warned me about women like you." "How would he know?" Darbor asked bitterly. "What did he say about women like me?" "It's exciting while it lasts, and it lasts as long as your money holds out. It's wonderful if you can afford it. But Charley's harmless. He's like me, he just wants to be loved. Go on. Pet him." "All males are alike," Darbor grumbled. Obediently, she ran fingers over the soft, wirelike pseudo-fur. The fingers tingled as if weak charges of electricity surged through them. "Does it--er, Charley ever blow a fuse?" she asked. "I'd like to have met your father. He sounds like a man who had a lot of experience with women. The wrong women. By the way, where are we going?" * * * * * Tod Denver had debated the point with himself. "To the scene of the crime," he said. "It's not good, and they may look for us there. But we can hole up for a few days till the hunt dies down. It might be the last place Big Ed would expect to find us. Later, unless we find something in the Martian workings, we'll head for the far places. Okay?" Darbor shrugged. "I suppose. But then what. I don't imagine you'll be a chivalrous jackass and want to marry me?" The space sled drew a thin line of silver fire through darkness as he debated that point. "Now that I'm sober, I'll think about it. Give me time. They say a man can get used to to anything." A ghostly choking sounded from the seat beside him. He wondered if Charley had blown something. "Do they say what girls have to get used to?" she asked, her voice oddly tangled. Tod Denver tempered the wind to the shorn lamb. "We'll see how the workings pan out. I'd want my money to last." What Darbor replied should be written on asbestos. * * * * * Their idyl at the mines lasted exactly twenty-seven hours. Denver showed Darbor around, explained some of the technicalities of moon-mining to her. The girl misused some precious water to try washing the alley-filth from her clothes. Her experiment was not a success and the diaphanous wisps of moonsilver dissolved. She stood in the wrapped blanket and was too tired and depressed even to cry. "I guess it wasn't practical," she decided ruefully. "It did bunch up in the weirdest places in your spare spacesuit. Have you any old rag I could borrow?" Denver found cause for unsafe mirth in the spectacle of her blanketed disaster. "I'll see." He rooted about in a locker and found a worn pair of trousers which he threw to the girl. A sweater, too shrunken and misshapen for him to wear again, came next. Dismayed, she inspected the battered loot; then was inspired to quick alterations. Pant-legs cut off well above the baggy knees made passable shorts; the sweater bulged a trifle at the shoulders, it fit adequately elsewhere--and something more than adequately. Charley fled her vicinity in extremes of voluble embarrassment as she changed and zipped up the substitute garments. "Nice legs," Denver observed, which was an understatement. "Watch out you don't skin those precious knees again," she warned darkly. Time is completely arbitrary on the Moon as far as Earth people are concerned. One gets used to prolonged light and dark periods. Earth poked above the horizon, bathing the heights of the range with intense silver-blue light. But moonshadows lay heavily in the hollows and the deep gorges were still pools of intense gloom. Clocks are set to the meaningless twenty-four hour divisions of day and night on Earth, which have nothing to do with two-week days and nights on Luna. After sunset, with Earthlight still strong and pure and deceptively warm-looking, the landscapes become a barren, haunted wasteland. Time itself seems unreal. Time passed swiftly. The idyl was brief. For twenty-seven Earth-hours after their landing at the mines came company...! An approaching ship painted a quick-dying trail of fire upon the black vault of sky. It swooped suddenly from nowhere, and the trapped fugitives debated flight or useless defense. Alone, Denver would have stayed and fought, however uneven and hopeless the battle. But he found the girl a mental block to all thoughts of open, pitched battle on the shadowy, moonsilvered slopes. He might surprise the pursuers and flush them by some type of ambush. But they would be too many for him, and his feeble try would end either in death or capture. Neither alternative appealed to him. With Darbor, he had suddenly found himself possessed of new tenacity toward life, and he had desperate, painful desire to live for her. He chose flight. IV The ship dropped short-lived rocket landing flares, circled and came in for a fast landing on the cleared strip of brittle-crusted ash. Some distance from the hastily-patched and now hastily abandoned mine buildings, Tod Denver and Darbor paused and shot hasty, fearful glances toward the landed ship. By Earthlight, they could distinguish its lines, though not the color. It was a drab shadow now against the vivid grayness of slopes. Figures tiny from distance emerged from it and scattered across the flat and up into the clustered buildings. A few stragglers went over to explore and investigate Denver's space sled in the unlikely possibility that he and the girl had trusted to its meager and dubious protection. Besides the ship, the hunters would find evidence of recent occupation in the living quarters, from which Denver had removed the frozen corpse before permitting Darbor to assist with the crude remodeling which he had undertaken. Afterward, when the mine buildings and exposed shafts had been turned out on futile quest for the fugitives, the search would spread. Tracks should be simple enough to follow, once located. Denver had anticipated this potential clue to the pursuit, and had kept their walking to the bare, rocky heights of the spur as long as possible. He hoped to be able to locate the old Martian working, but the chance was slim. Calculating the shadow-apex of Mitre Peak at 2017 ET was complicated by several unknown quantities. Which peak was Mitre Peak? Was that shadow-apex Earth-shadow or Sun-shadow? And had he started out in the correct direction to find the line of deep-cut arrow markings at all? The first intangible resolved itself. One mitre-shaped peak stood out alone and definite above the sharply defined silhouettes of the mountains. It must be Mitre Peak. It had to be. The next question was the light source casting the shadow-apex. There were two possible answers. It was possible to estimate the approximate location of either sun or Earth at a given time, but calculations involved in working out too many possibilities on different Earth-days of the Lunar-day made the Earth's shadow-casting the likeliest prospect. Neither location was particularly exact, and probably Laird Martin had expected his directions to be gone into under less harrowing circumstances than those in which Denver now found himself. With time for trial and error one could eventually locate the place. But Denver was hurried. He trod upon one of the markings while he still sought the elusive shadow apex. After that, it was a grim race to follow the markings to the old mines, and to get under cover behind defensible barricades in time to repel invasion. They played a nerve-wracking game of hare and hounds in tricky floods of Earthlight, upon slopes and spills of broken rock, amid a goblin's garden of towering jagged spires. It was tense work over the bad going, and the light was both distorted and insufficient. In shadow, they groped blindly from arrow to arrow. In the patches of Earthglare, they fled at awkward, desperate speed. Life and death were the stakes. Life, or a fighting chance to defend life, possible wealth from the ancient workings, made a glittering goal ahead. And ever the gray hounds snapped at their heels, with death in some ugly guise the penalty for losing the game. Charley was ecstatic. He gamboled and capered, he zoomed and zigzagged, he essayed quick, climbing spirals and almost came to grief among the tangled pinnacles on the ridge of the hogback. He swooped downward again in a series of shallow, easy glides and began the performance all over again. It was a game for him, too. But a game in which he tried only to astound himself, with swift, dizzy miracles of magnetic movement. Charley enjoyed himself hugely. He was with the two people he liked most. He was having a spirited game among interlaced shadows and sudden, substantial obstacles of rock. He nuzzled the fleeing pair playfully, and followed them after his own lazy and intricate and incredibly whimsical fashion. His private mode of locomotion was not bounded by the possibilities involved in feet and tiring legs. He scampered and had fun. It was not fun for Tod Denver and Darbor. The girl's strength was failing. She lagged, and Denver slowed his pace to support her tottering progress. Without warning, the mine entrance loomed before them. It was old and crumbly with a thermal erosion resembling decay. It was high and narrow and forbiddingly dark. Tod Denver had brought portable radilumes, which were needed at once. Inside the portals was no light at all. Thick, tangible dark blocked the passage. It swallowed light. Just inside, the mine gallery was too wide for easy defense. Further back, there was a narrowing. * * * * * Denver seized on the possibilities for barricading and set to work, despite numbed and weary muscles. Walking on the Moon is tiring for muscles acquired on worlds of greater gravity. He was near exhaustion, but the stimulus of fear is strong. He worked like a maniac, hauling materials for blockade, carrying the smaller ingredients and rolling or dragging the heavier. A brief interval of rest brought Darbor to his side. She worked with him and helped with the heavier items. Fortunately, the faint gravity eased their task, speeded it. For pursuit had not lagged. Their trail had been found and followed. From behind his barricade, Denver picked off the first two hired thugs of the advance guard as they toiled upward, too eagerly impatient for caution. A network of hastily-aimed beams of heat licked up from several angles of the slope, but none touched the barricade. The slope, which flattened just outside the entrance made exact shooting difficult, made a direct hit on the barricade almost impossible, unless one stood practically inside the carved entrance-way. Denver inched to the door and fired. The battle was tedious, involved, but a stalemate. Lying on his belly, Denver wormed as close as he dared to the break of slope outside the door. There, he fired snap shots at everything that moved on the slopes. Everything that moved on the slopes made a point of returning the gesture. Some shots came from places he had seen no movement. It went on for a long time. It was pointless, wanton waste of heat-blaster ammunition. But it satisfied some primal urge in the human male without solving anything. Until Darbor joined him, Denver did not waste thought upon the futilities of the situation. Her presence terrified him, and he urged her back inside. She was stubborn, but complied when he dragged her back with him. "Now stay inside, you fool," she muttered, her voice barely a whisper in his communication amplifier. "You stay inside," he commanded with rough tenderness. They both stayed inside, crouched together behind the barricade. "I think I got three of them," he told her. "There seemed to be eight at first. Some went back to the ship. For more men or supplies, I don't know. I don't like this." "Relax," she suggested. "You've done all you can." "I guess it's back to your gilded cage for you, baby," he said. "My money didn't last." "Sometimes you behave like a mad dog," she observed. "I'm not sure I like you. You enjoyed that butchery out there. You hated to come inside. What did it prove? There are too many of them. They'll kill us, eventually. Or starve us out. Have you any bright ideas?" Denver was silent. None of his ideas were very bright. He was at the end of his rope. He had tied a knot in it and hung on. But the rope seemed very short and very insecure. "Hang on, I guess. Just hang on and wait. They may try a rush. If they do I'll bathe the entrance in a full load from my blaster. If they don't rush, we sit it out. Sit and wait for a miracle. It won't happen but we can hope." Darbor tried to hug the darkness around her. She was a Martian, tough-minded she hoped. It would be nasty, either way. But death was not pleasant. She must try to be strong and face whatever came. She shrugged and resigned herself. "When the time comes I'll try to think of something touching and significant to say," she promised. "You hold the fort," Denver told her. "And don't hesitate to shoot if you have to. There's a chance to wipe them out if they try to force in all at once. They won't, but--" "Where are you going? For a walk?" "Have to see a man about a dog. There may be a back entrance. I doubt it, since Martian workings on the Moon were never very deep. But I'd like a look at the jackpot. Do you mind?" Darbor sighed. "Not if you hurry back." Deep inside the long gallery was a huge, vaulted chamber. Here, Denver found what he sought. There was no back entrance. The mine was a trap that had closed on him and Darbor. Old Martian workings, yes. But whatever the Martians had sought and delved from the mooncrust was gone. Layered veins had petered out, were exhausted, empty. Some glittering, crystalline smears remained in the crevices but the crystals were dull and life-less. Denver bent close, sensed familiarity. The substance was not unknown. He wetted a finger and probed with it, rubbed again and tested for taste. The taste was sharp and bitter. As bitter as his disappointment. It was all a grim joke. Valuable enough once to be used as money in the old days on earth. But hardly valuable enough, then, even in real quantity, to be worth the six lives it had cost up to now--counting his and Darbor's as already lost. First, Laird Martin, with his last tragic thoughts of a tiny girl on Earth, now orphaned. Then the three men down the slope, hideous in their bulged and congealing death. Himself and Darbor next on the list, with not much time to go. All for a few crystals of--Salt! * * * * * The end was as viciously ironic as the means had been brutal, but greed is an ugly force. It takes no heed of men and their brief, futile dreams. Denver shrugged and rejoined his small garrison. The girl, in spite of the comradeship of shared danger, was as greedy as the others outside. Instinctively, Denver knew that, and he found the understanding in himself to pity her. "Are they still out there?" he asked needlessly. Darbor nodded. "What did you find?" He debated telling her the truth. But why add the bitterness to the little left of her life? Let her dream. She would probably die without ever finding out that she had thrown herself away following a mirage. Let her dream and die happy. "Enough," he answered roughly. "But does it matter?" Her eyes rewarded his deceit, but the light was too poor for him to see them. It was easy enough to imagine stars in them, and even a man without illusions can still dream. "Maybe it will matter," she replied. "We can hope for a miracle. It will make all the difference for us if the miracle happens." Denver laughed. "Then the money will make a difference if we live through this? You mean you'll stay with me?" Darbor answered too quickly. "Of course." Then she hesitated, as if something of his distaste echoed within her. She went on, her voice strange. "Sure, I'm mercenary. I've been broke in Venusport, and again here on Luna. It's no fun. Poverty is not all the noble things the copybooks say. It's undignified and degrading. You want to stop washing after a while, because it doesn't seem to matter. Yes, I want money. Am I different from other people?" Denver laughed harshly. "No. I just thought for a few minutes that you were. I hoped I was at the head of your list. But let's not quarrel. We're friends in a jam together. No miracle is going to happen. It's stupid to fight over a salt mine, empty at that, when we're going to die. I'm like you; I wanted a miracle to happen, but mine didn't concern money. We both got what we asked for, that's all. If you bend over far enough somebody will kick you in the pants. I'm going out, Darbor. Pray for me." The blankness of her face-plate turned toward him. A glitter, dark and opaque, was all he could make out. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know it was the wrong answer. But don't be a fool. He'll kill you, and I'm afraid to be in the dark, alone." "I'll leave Charley with you." Denver broke the girl's clasp on his arm and edged slow to the doorway. He shouted. "Hey, Caltis!" There was stunning silence. Then a far, muted crackle in his earphones. A voice answered, "Yes? I'm here. What's on your mind, funny boy?" "A parley." "Nuts, but come on out. I'll talk." "You come up," Denver argued. "I don't trust you." Big Ed Caltis considered the proposition. "How do I know you won't try to nail me for hostage?" "You don't. But I'm not a fool. What good would it do even if I killed you. Your men are down there. They'd still want the mine. I don't think they care enough about you to deal. They'd kill us anyhow. Bring your gun if it makes you feel more like a man." After an interval Big Ed Caltis appeared in the doorway. As he entered Denver retreated into the shadow-zone until he stood close beside the rude barricade. "I'll bargain with you, Caltis. You can have the workings. Let us go free, with an hour's start in my space sled. I'll sign over any share we could claim and agree never to bother you again. It's no use to a corpse. Just let us go." Caltis gave a short laugh. In the earphones, it sounded nasty. "No deal, Denver. I hate your guts. And I want Darbor. I've got both of you where I want you, sewed up. We can sit here and wait. We've plenty of air, food and water. You'll run short. I want you to come out, crawling. She can watch you die, slowly, because I'm not giving you any air, water or food. Then I want her to squirm a while before I kick her back into the sewers. You can't bargain. I have her, you, the workings. I've got what I want." Hate and anger strangled Denver's reply. Caltis skulked back out of sight. Without moving, Denver hailed him again. "Okay, puttyface!" Denver screamed. "You asked for it. I'm coming out. Stand clear and order off your thugs or I'll squeeze you till your guts squirt out your nose like toothpaste from a tube. I'll see how much man there is left in you. It'll be all over the slope when I'm through." His taunt drew fire as he had hoped it would. He dodged quickly behind the shelter of the barricade. A beam of dazzling fire penciled the rock wall. It crackled, spread, flaring to incredible heat and light. It exploded, deluging the gallery with glare and spattering rock. After the glare, darkness seemed thick enough to slice. In that second of stunned reaction blindness, Denver was leaping the barricade and sprinting toward the entrance. Caltis came to meet him. Both fired at once. Both missed. The random beams flicked at the rough, timbered walls and lashed out with thunderous violence. Locked together, the men pitched back and forth. They rocked and swayed, muscles straining. It was deadlock again. Denver was youth and fury. Caltis had experience and the training of a fighter. It was savage, lawless, the sculptured stance of embattled champions. Almost motionless, as forces canceled out. The battle was equal. V While they tangled, both blocked, Darbor slipped past them and stood outside the entrance. She was exposed, a clear target. But the men below dared not fire until they knew where Caltis was, what had happened to him. She held the enemy at bay. Gun ready, Darbor faced down the slopes. It was not necessary to pull trigger. Not for the moment. She waited and hoped and dared someone to move. Neither man gave first. It was the weakened timbering that supported the gallery roof. Loose stones rained down. Dry, cold and brittle wood sagged under strain. Both wild shots had taken shattering effect. Timbers yielded, slowly at first, then faster. Showering of loose stones became a steady stream. A minor avalanche. Darbor heard the sound or caught some vibration through her helmet microphones. The men were too involved to notice. Caltis heard her. He got a cruel nosehold, twisted Denver's nose like an instrument dial. Denver screamed, released his grip. In the scramble, his foot slipped. Darbor cried out shrill warning. Breaking free, Caltis bolted in panic toward the entrance. The fall of rock was soundless. It spilled down in increasing torrents. Larger sections of ceiling were giving away. Above the prostrate Denver hovered a poised phantom of eerie light. Charley, bored, had gone to sleep. Awakening, he found a game still going on. A fine new game. It was fascinating. He wanted to join the fun. Like an angle of reflected light cast by a turning mirror, he darted. The running figure aroused his curiosity. Charley streamed through the collapsing gallery. He caught up with Caltis just inside the entrance. With a burble of insane, twittering glee, he went into action. It was all in the spirit of things. Just another delightful game. Like a thunderbolt he hurtled upon Caltis, tangled with him. It was absurd, insane. Man and moondog went down together in a silly sprawl. Sparks flew, became a confused tesseract of luminous motion. Radiance blazed up and danced and flickered and no exact definition of the intertwined bodies was possible. Glowing lines wove fat webs of living color. It was too swift, too involved for any sane perception. A wild, sprawling of legs, arms and body encircled and became part of the intricacies of speeding, impossible light. It was a mess. Some element or combination of forces in Charley, inspired by excitement and sheer delight, made unfortunate contact with ground currents of vagrant electricity. Electricity ceased to be invisible. It became sizzling, immense flash, in which many complexities made part of a simple whole. It was spectacular but brief. It was a flaming vortex of interlocked spirals of light and color and naked force. It was fireworks. And it was the end of Big Ed Caltis. He fried, and hot grease spattered about him. He sizzled like a bug on a hot stove. When Denver reached the entrance, man and moondog lay in a curious huddle of interrupted action. It was over. Charley was tired, but he still lived and functioned after his curious fashion. For the moment, he had lost interest in further fun and games. He lay quietly in a corner of rough rock and tried to rebuild his scattered and short-circuited energies. He pulsed and crackled and sound poured in floods of muffled static from the earphones in Denver's helmet. But this was no time for social amenities. Big Ed Caltis was dead, very dead. But the others down the slope were still alive. Like avenging angels, Denver and Darbor charged together down the slope. Besiegers scattered and fled in panic as twinned beams of dreadful light and heat scourged their hiding places. They fled through the grotesque shadow patterns of Lunar night. They fled back, some of them, to the black ship which had brought them. And there, they ran straight into the waiting arms of a detail from Space Patrol headquarters. * * * * * Tod Denver's friend, the watchman, had talked. From spaceport he had called the Space Patrol and talked where it would do some good. A bit late to be of much use, help had arrived. It took the Space Patrol squads a half hour to round up the scattered survivors. Darbor went back to the mine-buildings with the Space Patrol lieutenant as escort. Denver trudged wearily back up the slope to recover Charley. The moondog was in a bad way. He bulged badly amidships and seemed greatly disturbed, not to say temperamental. With tenderness and gentle care, Denver cradled the damaged Charley in his arms and made his way back to the living shack at the mine. Space Cops were just hustling in the last of the prisoners and making ready to return to civilization. Denver thanked them, but with brief curtness, for Charley's condition worried him. He went inside and tried to make his pet comfortable, wondering where one would look on the Moon for a veterinary competent to treat a moondog. Darbor found him crouched over Charley's impoverished couch upon the metal table. "I want to say goodbye," she told him. "I'm sorry about Charley. The lieutenant says I can go back with them. So it's back to the bright lights for me." "Good luck," Denver said shortly, tearing his attention from Charley's flickering gyrations. "I hope you find a man with a big fat bankbook." "So do I," Darbor admitted. "I could use a new wardrobe. I wish it could have been you. If things had worked out--" "Forget it," Denver snapped. "There'd have been Martin's kid. She'd have got half anyhow. You wouldn't have liked that." Darbor essayed a grin. "You know, I've been thinking. Maybe the old guy was my father. It could be. I never knew who my old man was, and I did go to school on Earth. Reform school." Denver regarded her cynically. "Couldn't be. I'm willing to believe you don't know who your father was. Some women should keep books. But that kid's not Martian." Darbor shrugged. "Doesn't matter. So long, kid. If you make a big strike, look me up." The Space Patrol lieutenant was waiting for her. She linked arms with him, and vanished toward the ship. Denver went back to Charley. Intently he studied the weird creature, wondering what to do. A timid knock startled him. For a moment, wild hope dawned. Maybe Darbor-- But it wasn't Darbor. A strange girl stood in the doorway. She pushed open the inner flap of the airlock and stepped from the valve. "I was looking around," she explained. "I bummed my way out with the Patrol Ship. Do you mind?" Denver scowled at her. "Should I?" The girl tried a smile on him but she looked ill-at-ease. "You look like one of the local boy scouts," she said. "How about helping a lady in distress?" "I make a hobby of it," he snarled. "I don't even care if they're ladies. But I'm fresh out of romance and slightly soured. And I'm worried about the one friend who's dumb enough to stick by me. You picked a bad time to ask. What do you want?" The girl smiled shyly. "All right, so you don't look like a boy scout. But I'm still a girl in a jam. I'm tired and broke and hungry. All I want is a sandwich, and maybe a lift to the next town. I should have gone back with the Patrol ship but I guess they forgot me. I thought maybe, if you're going somewhere that's civilized, I could bum a lift. What's wrong with your friend?" Denver indicated Charley. "Frankly, I don't know." He balked at trying to explain again just what a moondog was. "But who are you? What did you want here?" The girl stared at him. "Didn't you know? I'm Soleil. My father owned this mine. He thought he'd found something, and sent for me to share it. It took the last of our money to get me here, but I wanted to come. We hadn't seen each other for twenty years. Now he's dead, and I'm broke, alone and scared. I need to get to some place where I can dream up an eating job." "You're Martin's kid?" Soleil nodded, absently, looking at Charley. The moondog gave a strange, electronic whimper. There was an odd expression on the girl's face. A flash of inspiration seemed to enlighten her. "I'll take care of this," she said softly. "You wait outside." Somewhat later, after blinding displays of erratic lightnings had released a splendor of fantastic color through the view-ports to reflect staggeringly from the mountain walls, a tired girl called out to Tod Denver. She met him inside the airlock. In her arms snuggled a pile of writhing radiance, like glowing worms. Moonpups. A whole litter of moonpups. "They're cute," Soleil commented, "but I've never seen anything quite like this before." "It must have been a delayed fuse," said Denver, wilting. "Here we go again." He fainted.... * * * * * Awakening was painful to Denver. He remembered nightmare, and the latter part of his memory dealt with moonpups. Swarms of moonpups. As if Charley hadn't been enough. He was not sure that he wanted to open his eyes. He thought he heard the outer flap of the airlock open, then someone pounding on the inner door. Habit of curiosity conquered, and his eyelids blinked. He looked up to find a strange man beside his bed. The man was fat, fussy, pompous. But he looked prosperous, and seemed excited. Denver glanced warily about the room. After all, he had been strained. Perhaps it was all part of delirium. No sign of the girl either. Could he have imagined her, too? He sighed and remembered Darbor. "Tod Denver?" asked the fat, prosperous man. "I got your name from a Sergeant of Security Police in Crystal City. He says you own a moondog. Is that true?" Denver nodded painfully. "I'm afraid it is. What's the charge?" The stranger seemed puzzled, amused. "This may seem odd to you, but I'm in the market for moondogs. Scientific laboratories all over the system want them, and are paying top prices. The most unusual and interesting life form in existence. But moondogs are scarce. Would you consider parting with yours? I can assure you he'll receive kind treatment and good care. They're too valuable for anything else." Denver almost blanked out again. It was too much like the more harrowing part of his dreams. He blinked his eyes, but the man was still there. "One of us is crazy," he mused aloud. "Maybe both of us. I can't sell Charley. I'd miss him too much." Suddenly, as it happens in dreams, Soleil Martin stood beside him. Her arms were empty, but she stood there, smiling. "You wouldn't have to sell Charley," she said, giving Denver a curious, thrusting glance. "Had you forgotten that you're now a father, or foster-grandfather, or something. You have moonpups, in quantity. I had to let you lie there while I put the little darlings to bed. And it's not Charley any more, please. Charlotte. It has to be Charlotte." Denver paled and groaned. He turned hopefully to the fat stranger. "Say, mister, how many moonpups can you use?" "All of them, if you'll sell." The man whipped out a signed, blank check, and quickly filled in astronomical figures. Denver looked at it, whistled, then doubted first his sanity, then the check. "Take them," Denver murmured. "Take them, quick, before you change your mind, or all this evaporates in dream." A moondog has no nerves. Charley--or Charlotte--had none, but the brood of moonpups had already begun to get on whatever passed for nerves in his electronic make-up. He was glad and relieved to be rid of his numerous progeny. He, or she, showed passionate and embarrassing affection for Denver, and even generously included Soleil Martin in the display. Denver stared at her suddenly while she helped the commission agent round up his radiant loot and make ready for the return to town. It was as if he were seeing her for the first time. She was pretty. Not beautiful, of course. Just pretty. And nice. He remembered that he was carrying her picture in his pocket. She was even an Earth-girl. They were almost as scarce in the moon colonies as moondogs. "Look here," he said. "I have money now. I was going out prospecting but it can wait. I kind of inherited you from your father, you know. Do you need dough or something?" Soleil laughed. "I need everything. But don't bother. I haven't any claim on you. And I can ride back to the city with Mr. Potts. He looks like a better bet. He can write such big checks, too." Denver made a face of disgust. "All women are alike," he muttered savagely. "Go on, then--" Soleil frowned. "Don't say it. Don't even think it. I'm not going anywhere. Not till you go. I just wanted you to ask me nice. I'm staying. I'll go prospecting with you. I like that. Dad made me study minerals and mining. I can be a real help. With that big check, we can get a real outfit." Denver stopped dreaming. "But you don't know what it's like out there. Just empty miles of loneliness and heat and desert and mountains of bare rock. Not even the minimum comforts. Nights last two Earth weeks. There'd just be you and me and Charlotte." Soleil smiled fondly. "It listens good, and might be fun. I like Charlotte and you. I'm realistic and strong enough to be a genuine partner." Tod Denver gasped. "You sure know what you want--Partner!" He grinned. "Now we'll have a married woman along. I was worried about wandering around, unprotected, with a female moondog--" Soleil laughed. "I think Charlotte needs a chaperone." * * * * * 
32069	----	[Illustration: YOUR AFF PUSSY] Letters from a Cat. PUBLISHED BY HER MISTRESS For the Benefit of all Cats AND THE AMUSEMENT OF LITTLE CHILDREN. BY H. H., AUTHOR OF "NELLY'S SILVER MINE." _WITH SEVENTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS BY ADDIE LEDYARD._ BOSTON: ROBERTS BROTHERS. 1879. _Copyright, 1879,_ By Roberts Brothers. [Illustration: Helen] INTRODUCTION. Dear Children: I do not feel wholly sure that my Pussy wrote these letters herself. They always came inside the letters written to me by my mamma, or other friends, and I never caught Pussy writing at any time when I was at home; but the printing was pretty bad, and they were signed by Pussy's name; and my mamma always looked very mysterious when I asked about them, as if there were some very great secret about it all; so that until I grew to be a big girl, I never doubted but that Pussy printed them all alone by herself, after dark. They were written when I was a very little girl, and was away from home with my father on a journey. We made this journey in our own carriage, and it was one of the pleasantest things that ever happened to me. My clothes and my father's were packed in a little leather valise which was hung by straps underneath the carriage, and went swinging, swinging, back and forth, as the wheels went round. My father and I used to walk up all the steep hills, because old Charley, our horse, was not very strong; and I kept my eyes on that valise all the while I was walking behind the carriage; it seemed to me the most unsafe way to carry a valise, and I wished very much that my best dress had been put in a bundle that I could carry in my lap. This was the only drawback on the pleasure of my journey,--my fear that the valise would fall off when we did not know it, and be left in the road, and then I should not have anything nice to wear when I reached my aunt's house. But the valise went through all safe, and I had the satisfaction of wearing my best dress every afternoon while I stayed; and I was foolish enough to think a great deal of this. On the fourth day after our arrival came a letter from my mamma, giving me a great many directions how to behave, and enclosing this first letter from Pussy. I carried both letters in my apron pocket all the time. They were the first letters I ever had received, and I was very proud of them. I showed them to everybody, and everybody laughed hard at Pussy's, and asked me if I believed that Pussy printed it herself. I thought perhaps my mamma held her paw, with the pen in it, as she had sometimes held my hand for me, and guided my pen to write a few words. I asked papa to please to ask mamma, in his letter, if that were the way Pussy did it; but when his next letter from mamma came, he read me this sentence out of it: "Tell Helen I did not hold Pussy's paw to write that letter." So then I felt sure Pussy did it herself; and as I told you, I had grown up to be quite a big girl before I began to doubt it. You see I thought my Pussy such a wonderful Pussy that nothing was too remarkable for her to do. I knew very well that cats generally did not know how to read or write; but I thought there had never been such a cat in the world as this Pussy of mine. It is a great many years since she died; but I can see her before me to-day as plainly as if it were only yesterday that I had really seen her alive. She was a little kitten when I first had her; but she grew fast, and was very soon bigger than I wanted her to be. I wanted her to stay little. Her fur was a beautiful dark gray color, and there were black stripes on her sides, like the stripes on a tiger. Her eyes were very big, and her ears unusually long and pointed. This made her look like a fox; and she was so bright and mischievous that some people thought she must be part fox. She used to do one thing that I never heard of any other cat's doing: she used to play hide-and-seek. Did you ever hear of a cat's playing hide-and-seek? And the most wonderful part of it was, that she took it up of her own accord. As soon as she heard me shut the gate in the yard at noon, when school was done, she would run up the stairs as hard as she could go, and take her place at the top, where she could just peep through the banisters. When I opened the door, she would give a funny little mew, something like the mew cats make when they call their kittens. Then as soon as I stepped on the first stair to come up to her, she would race away at the top of her speed, and hide under a bed; and when I reached the room, there would be no Pussy to be seen. If I called her, she would come out from under the bed; but if I left the room, and went down stairs without speaking, in less than a minute she would fly back to her post at the head of the stairs, and call again with the peculiar mew. As soon as I appeared, off she would run, and hide under the bed as before. Sometimes she would do this three or four times; and it was a favorite amusement of my mother's to exhibit this trick of hers to strangers. It was odd, though; she never would do it twice, when she observed that other people were watching. When I called her, and she came out from under the bed, if there were strangers looking on, she would walk straight to me in the demurest manner, as if it were a pure accident that she happened to be under that bed; and no matter what I did or said, her frolic was over for that day. She used to follow me, just like a little dog, wherever I went. She followed me to school every day, and we had great difficulty on Sundays to keep her from following us to church. Once she followed me, when it made a good many people laugh, in spite of themselves, on an occasion when it was very improper for them to laugh, and they were all feeling very sad. It was at the funeral of one of the professors in the college. The professors' families all sat together; and when the time came for them to walk out of the house and get into the carriages to go to the graveyard, they were called, one after the other, by name. When it came to our turn, my father and mother went first, arm-in-arm; then my sister and I; and then, who should rise, very gravely, but my Pussy, who had slipped into the room after me, and had not been noticed in the crowd. With a slow and deliberate gait she walked along, directly behind my sister and me, as if she were the remaining member of the family, as indeed she was. People began to smile, and as we passed through the front door, and went down the steps, some of the men and boys standing there laughed out. I do not wonder; for it must have been a very comical sight. In a second more, somebody sprang forward and snatched Pussy up. Such a scream as she gave! and scratched his face with her claws, so that he was glad to put her down. As soon as I heard her voice I turned round, and called her in a low tone. She ran quickly to me, and I picked her up and carried her in my arms the rest of the way. But I saw even my own papa and mamma laughing a little, for just a minute. That was the only funeral Pussy ever attended. Pussy lived several years after the events which are related in these letters. It was a long time before her fur grew out again after that terrible fall into the soft-soap barrel. However, it did grow out at last, and looked as well as ever. Nobody would have known that any thing had been the matter with her, except that her eyes were always weak. The edges of them never got quite well; and poor Pussy used to sit and wash them by the hour; sometimes mewing and looking up in my face, with each stroke of her paw on her eyes, as much as to say, "Don't you see how sore my eyes are? Why don't you do something for me?" She was never good for any thing as a mouser after that accident, nor for very much to play with. I recollect hearing my mother say one day to somebody,--"Pussy was spoiled by her experience in the cradle. She would like to be rocked the rest of her days, I do believe; and it is too funny to see her turn up her nose at tough beef. It was a pity she ever got a taste of tenderloin!" At last, what with good feeding and very little exercise, she grew so fat that she was clumsy, and so lazy that she did not want to do any thing but lie curled up on a soft cushion. She had outgrown my little chair, which had a green moreen cushion in it, on which she had slept for many a year, and of which I myself had very little use,--she was in it so much of the time. But now that this was too tight for her, she took possession of the most comfortable places she could find, all over the house. Now it was a sofa, now it was an arm-chair, now it was the foot of somebody's bed. But wherever it happened to be, it was sure to be the precise place where she was in the way, and the poor thing was tipped headlong out of chairs, shoved hastily off sofas, and driven off beds so continually, that at last she came to understand that when she saw any person approaching the chair, sofa, or bed on which she happened to be lying, the part of wisdom for her was to move away. And it was very droll to see the injured and reproachful expression with which she would slowly get up, stretch all her legs, and walk away, looking for her next sleeping-place. Everybody in the house, except me, hated the sight of her; and I had many a pitched battle with the servants in her behalf. Even my mother, who was the kindest human being I ever knew, got out of patience at last, and said to me one day:-- "Helen, your Pussy has grown so old and so fat, she is no comfort to herself, and a great torment to everybody else. I think it would be a mercy to kill her." "Kill my Pussy!" I exclaimed, and burst out crying, so loud and so hard that I think my mother was frightened; for she said quickly:-- "Never mind, dear; it shall not be done, unless it is necessary. You would not want Pussy to live, if she were very uncomfortable all the time." "She isn't uncomfortable," I cried; "she is only sleepy. If people would let her alone, she would sleep all day. It would be awful to kill her. You might as well kill me!" After that, I kept a very close eye on Pussy; and I carried her up to bed with me every night for a long time. But Pussy's days were numbered. One morning, before I was up, my mamma came into my room, and sat down on the edge of my bed. "Helen," she said, "I have something to tell you which will make you feel very badly; but I hope you will be a good little girl, and not make mamma unhappy about it. You know your papa and mamma always do what they think is the very best thing." "What is it, mamma?" I asked, feeling very much frightened, but never thinking of Pussy. "You will never see your Pussy any more," she replied. "She is dead." "Oh, where is she?" I cried. "What killed her? Won't she come to life again?" "No," said my mother; "she is drowned." Then I knew what had happened. "Who did it?" was all I said. "Cousin Josiah," she replied; "and he took great care that Pussy did not suffer at all. She sank to the bottom instantly." "Where did he drown her?" I asked. "Down by the mill, in Mill Valley, where the water is very deep," answered my mother; "we told him to take her there." At these words I cried bitterly. "That's the very place I used to go with her to play," I exclaimed. "I'll never go near that bridge as long as I live, and I'll never speak a word to Cousin Josiah either--never!" My mother tried to comfort me, but it was of no use; my heart was nearly broken. When I went to breakfast, there sat my cousin Josiah, looking as unconcerned as possible, reading a newspaper. He was a student in the college, and boarded at our house. At the sight of him all my indignation and grief broke forth afresh. I began to cry again; and running up to him, I doubled up my fist and shook it in his face. "I said I'd never speak to you as long as I lived," I cried; "but I will. You're just a murderer, a real murderer; that's what you are! and when you go to be a missionary, I hope the cannibals'll eat you! I hope they'll eat you alive raw, you mean old murderer!" "Helen Maria!" said my father's voice behind me, sternly. "Helen Maria! leave the room this moment!" I went away sullenly, muttering, "I don't care, he is a murderer; and I hope he'll be drowned, if he isn't eaten! The Bible says the same measure ye mete shall be meted to you again. He ought to be drowned." For this sullen muttering I had to go without my breakfast; and after breakfast was over, I was made to beg Cousin Josiah's pardon; but I did not beg it in my heart--not a bit--only with my lips, just repeating the words I was told to say; and from that time I never spoke one word to him, nor looked at him, if I could help it. My kind mother offered to get another kitten for me, but I did not want one. After a while, my sister Ann had a present of a pretty little gray kitten; but I never played with it, nor took any notice of it at all. I was as true to my Pussy as she was to me; and from that day to this, I have never had another Pussy! I. My Dear Helen: That is what your mother calls you, I know, for I jumped up on writing-table just now, and looked, while she was out of the room; and I am sure I have as much right to call you so as she has, for if you were my own little kitty, and looked just like me, I could not love you any more than I do. How many good naps I have had in your lap! and how many nice bits of meat you have saved for me out of your own dinner! Oh, I'll never let a rat, or a mouse, touch any thing of yours so long as I live. I felt very unhappy after you drove off yesterday, and did not know what to do with myself. I went into the barn, and thought I would take a nap on the hay, for I do think going to sleep is one of the very best things for people who are unhappy; but it seemed so lonely without old Charlie stamping in his stall that I could not bear it, so I went into the garden, and lay down under the damask rose-bush, and caught flies. There is a kind of fly round that bush which I like better than any other I ever ate. You ought to see that there is a very great difference between my catching flies and your doing it. I have noticed that you never eat them, and I have wondered that when you were always so kind to me you could be so cruel as to kill poor flies for nothing: I have often wished that I could speak to you about it: now that your dear mother has taught me to print, I shall be able to say a great many things to you which I have often been unhappy about because I could not make you understand. I am entirely discouraged about learning to speak the English language, and I do not think anybody takes much trouble to learn ours; so we cats are confined entirely to the society of each other, which prevents our knowing so much as we might; and it is very lonely too, in a place where there are so few cats kept as in Amherst. If it were not for Mrs. Hitchcock's cat, and Judge Dickinson's, I should really forget how to use my tongue. When you are at home I do not mind it, for although I cannot talk to you, I understand every word that you say to me, and we have such good plays together with the red ball. That is put away now in the bottom drawer of the little workstand in the sitting-room. When your mother put it in, she turned round to me, and said, "Poor pussy, no more good plays for you till Helen comes home!" and I thought I should certainly cry. But I think it is very foolish to cry over what cannot be helped, so I pretended to have got something into my left eye, and rubbed it with my paw. It is very seldom that I cry over any thing, unless it is "spilt milk." I must confess, I have often cried when that has happened: and it always is happening to cats' milk. They put it into old broken things that tip over at the least knock, and then they set them just where they are sure to be most in the way. Many's the time Josiah has knocked over that blue saucer of mine, in the shed, and when you have thought that I had had a nice breakfast of milk, I had nothing in the world but flies, which are not good for much more than just a little sort of relish. I am so glad of a chance to tell you about this, because I know when you come home you will get a better dish for me. I hope you found the horse-chestnuts which I put in the bottom of the carriage for you. I could not think of any thing else to put in, which would remind you of me: but I am afraid you will never think that it was I who put them there, and it will be too bad if you don't, for I had a dreadful time climbing up over the dasher with them, and both my jaws are quite lame from stretching them so, to carry the biggest ones I could find. There are three beautiful dandelions out on the terrace, but I don't suppose they will keep till you come home. A man has been doing something to your garden, but though I watched him very closely all the time, I could not make out what he was about. I am afraid it is something you will not like; but if I find out more about it, I will tell you in my next letter. Good by. Your affectionate Pussy. [Illustration: "I felt very unhappy after you drove off yesterday." Page 28.] [Illustration: "I hope you found the horse-chestnuts which I put in the carriage for you. I had a dreadful time climbing up over the dasher with them."--Page 33.] II. My Dear Helen: I do wish that you and your father would turn around directly, wherever you are, when you get this letter, and come home as fast as you can. If you do not come soon there will be no home left for you to come into. I am so frightened and excited, that my paws tremble, and I have upset the ink twice, and spilled so much that there is only a little left in the bottom of the cup, and it is as thick as hasty pudding; so you must excuse the looks of this letter, and I will tell you as quickly as I can about the dreadful state of things here. Not more than an hour after I finished my letter to you, yesterday, I heard a great noise in the parlor, and ran in to see what was the matter. There was Mary with her worst blue handkerchief tied over her head, her washing-day gown on, and a big hammer in her hand. As soon as she saw me, she said, "There's that cat! Always in my way," and threw a cricket at me, and then shut the parlor door with a great slam. So I ran out and listened under the front windows, for I felt sure she was in some bad business she did not want to have known. Such a noise I never heard: all the things were being moved; and in a few minutes, what do you think--out came the whole carpet right on my head! I was nearly stifled with dust, and felt as if every bone in my body must be broken; but I managed to creep out from under it, and heard Mary say, "If there isn't that torment of a cat again! I wish to goodness Helen had taken her along!" Then I felt surer than ever that some mischief was on foot: and ran out into the garden, and climbed up the old apple-tree at the foot of the steps, and crawled out on a branch, from which I could look directly into the parlor windows. Oh! my dear Helen, you can fancy how I felt, to see all the chairs and tables and bookshelves in a pile in the middle of the floor, the books all packed in big baskets, and Mary taking out window after window as fast as she could. I forgot to tell you that your mother went away last night. I think she has gone to Hadley to make a visit, and it looks to me very much as if Mary meant to run away with every thing which could be moved, before she comes back. After awhile that ugly Irishwoman, who lives in Mr. Slater's house, came into the back gate: you know the one I mean,--the one that threw cold water on me last spring. When I saw her coming I felt sure that she and Mary meant to kill me, while you were all away; so I jumped down out of the tree, and split my best claw in my hurry, and ran off into Baker's Grove, and stayed there all the rest of the day, in dreadful misery from cold and hunger. There was some snow in the hollows, and I wet my feet, which always makes me feel wretchedly; and I could not find any thing to eat except a thin dried-up old mole. They are never good in the spring. Really, nobody does know what hard lives we cats lead, even the luckiest of us! After dark, I went home; but Mary had fastened up every door, even the little one into the back shed. So I had to jump into the cellar window, which is a thing I never like to do since I got that bad sprain in my shoulder from coming down on the edge of a milk-pan. I crept up to the head of the kitchen stairs, as still as a mouse, if I'm any judge, and listened there for a long time, to try and make out, from Mary's talk with the Irishwoman, what they were planning to do. But I never could understand Irish, and although I listened till I had cramps in all my legs, from being so long in one position, I was no wiser. Even the things Mary said I could not understand, and I usually understand her very easily. I passed a very uncomfortable night in the carrot bin. As soon as I heard Mary coming down the cellar stairs, this morning, I hid in the arch, and while she was skimming the milk, I slipped upstairs, and ran into the sitting-room. Every thing there is in the same confusion; the carpet is gone; and the windows too, and I think some of the chairs have been carried away. All the china is in great baskets on the pantry floor; and your father and mother's clothes are all taken out of the nursery closet, and laid on chairs. It is very dreadful to have to stand and see all this, and not be able to do any thing. I don't think I ever fully realized before the disadvantage of being only a cat. I have just been across the street, and talked it all over with the Judge's cat, but she is very old and stupid, and so taken up with her six kittens (who are the ugliest I ever saw), that she does not take the least interest in her neighbors' affairs. Mrs. Hitchcock walked by the house this morning, and I ran out to her, and took her dress in my teeth and pulled it, and did all I could to make her come in, but she said, "No, no, pussy, I'm not coming in to-day; your mistress is not at home." I declare I could have cried. I sat down in the middle of the path, and never stirred for half an hour. I heard your friend, Hannah Dorrance, say yesterday, that she was going to write to you to-day, so I shall run up the hill now and carry my letter to her. I think she will be astonished when she sees me, for I am very sure that no other cat in town knows how to write. Do come home as soon as possible. Your affectionate Pussy. P. S. Two men have just driven up to the front gate in a great cart, and they are putting all the carpets into it. Oh dear, oh dear, if I only knew what to do! And I just heard Mary say to them, "Be as quick as you can, for I want to get through with this business before the folks come back." [Illustration: "I climbed up the old apple-tree, and crawled out on a branch from which I could look directly into the parlor windows."--Page 38.] [Illustration: "I crept up to the head of the kitchen stairs, as still as a mouse, if I'm any judge, and listened."--Page 40.] III. My Dear Helen: I am too stiff and sore from a terrible fall I have had, to write more than one line; but I must let you know that my fright was very silly, and I am very much mortified about it. The house and the things are all safe; your mother has come home; and I will write, and tell you all, just as soon as I can use my pen without great pain. Some new people have come to live in the Nelson house; very nice people, I think, for they keep their milk in yellow crockery pans. They have brought with them a splendid black cat whose name is Cæsar, and everybody is talking about him. He has the handsomest whiskers I ever saw. I do hope I shall be well enough to see him before long, but I wouldn't have him see me now for any thing. Your affectionate Pussy. [Illustration: "They have brought with them a splendid black cat whose name is Cæsar, and everybody is talking about him. He has the handsomest whiskers I ever saw."--Page 46.] IV. My Dear Helen: There is one thing that cats don't like any better than men and women do, and that is to make fools of themselves. But a precious fool I made of myself when I wrote you that long letter about Mary's moving out all the furniture, and taking the house down. It is very mortifying to have to tell you how it all turned out, but I know you love me enough to be sorry that I should have had such a terrible fright for nothing. It went on from bad to worse for three more days after I wrote you. Your mother did not come home; and the awful Irishwoman was here all the time. I did not dare to go near the house, and I do assure you I nearly starved: I used to lie under the rose-bushes, and watch as well as I could what was going on: now and then I caught a rat in the barn, but that sort of hearty food never has agreed with me since I came to live with you, and became accustomed to a lighter diet. By the third day I felt too weak and sick to stir: so I lay still all day on the straw in Charlie's stall; and I really thought, between the hunger and the anxiety, that I should die. About noon I heard Mary say in the shed, "I do believe that everlasting cat has taken herself off: it's a good riddance anyhow, but I should like to know what has become of the plaguy thing!" I trembled all over, for if she had come into the barn I know one kick from her heavy foot would have killed me, and I was quite too weak to run away. Towards night I heard your dear mother's voice calling, "Poor pussy, why, poor pussy, where are you?" I assure you, my dear Helen, people are very much mistaken who say, as I have often overheard them, that cats have no feeling. If they could only know how I felt at that moment, they would change their minds. I was almost too glad to make a sound. It seemed to me that my feet were fastened to the floor, and that I never could get to her. She took me up in her arms, and carried me through the kitchen into the sitting-room. Mary was frying cakes in the kitchen, and as your mother passed by the stove she said in her sweet voice, "You see I've found poor pussy, Mary." "Humph," said Mary, "I never thought but that she'd be found fast enough when she wanted to be!" I knew that this was a lie, because I had heard what she said in the shed. I do wish I knew what makes her hate me so: I only wish she knew how I hate her. I really think I shall gnaw her stockings and shoes some night. It would not be any more than fair; and she would never suspect me, there are so many mice in her room, for I never touch one that I think belongs in her closet. The sitting-room was all in most beautiful order,--a smooth white something, like the side of a basket, over the whole floor, a beautiful paper curtain, pink and white, over the fire-place, and white muslin curtains at the windows. I stood perfectly still in the middle of the room for some time. I was too surprised to stir. Oh, how I wished that I could speak, and tell your dear mother all that had happened, and how the room had looked three days before. Presently she said, "Poor pussy, I know you are almost starved, aren't you?" and I said "Yes," as plainly as I could mew it. Then she brought me a big soup-plate full of thick cream, and some of the most delicious cold hash I ever tasted; and after I had eaten it all, she took me in her lap, and said, "Poor pussy, we miss little Helen, don't we?" and she held me in her lap till bed-time. Then she let me sleep on the foot of her bed: it was one of the happiest nights of my life. In the middle of the night I was up for a while, and caught the smallest mouse I ever saw out of the nest. Such little ones are very tender. In the morning I had my breakfast with her in the dining-room, which looks just as nice as the sitting-room. After breakfast Mrs. Hitchcock came in, and your mother said: "Only think, how fortunate I am; Mary did all the house-cleaning while I was away. Every room is in perfect order; all the woollen clothes are put away for the summer. Poor pussy, here, was frightened out of the house, and I suppose we should all have been if we had been at home." Can you imagine how ashamed I felt? I ran under the table and did not come out again until after Mrs. Hitchcock had gone. But now comes the saddest part of my story. Soon after this, as I was looking out of the window, I saw the fattest, most tempting robin on the ground under the cherry-tree: the windows did not look as if they had any glass in them, and I took it for granted that it had all been taken out and put away upstairs, with the andirons and the carpets, for next winter. I knew that there was no time to be lost if I meant to catch that robin, so I ran with all my might and tried to jump through. Oh, my dear Helen, I do not believe you ever had such a bump: I fell back nearly into the middle of the room; and it seemed to me that I turned completely over at least six times. The blood streamed out of my nose, and I cut my right ear very badly against one of the castors of the table. I could not see nor hear any thing for some minutes. When I came to myself, I found your dear mother holding me, and wiping my face with her own nice handkerchief wet in cold water. My right fore-paw was badly bruised, and that troubles me very much about washing my face, and about writing. But the worst of all is the condition of my nose. Everybody laughs who sees me, and I do not blame them; it is twice as large as it used to be, and I begin to be seriously afraid it will never return to its old shape. This will be a dreadful affliction: for who does not know that the nose is the chief beauty of a cat's face? I have got very tired of hearing the story of my fall told to all the people who come in. They laugh as if they would kill themselves at it, especially when I do not manage to get under the table before they look to see how my nose is. Except for this I should have written to you before, and would write more now, but my paw aches badly, and one of my eyes is nearly closed from the swelling of my nose: so I must say good-by. Your affectionate Pussy. P. S. I told you about Cæsar, did I not, in my last letter? Of course I do not venture out of the house in my present plight, so I have not seen him except from the window. [Illustration: "Can you imagine how ashamed I felt? I ran under the table and did not come out again until after Mrs. Hitchcock had gone."--Page 54.] [Illustration: "I knew that there was no time to be lost if I meant to catch that robin, so I ran with all my might and tried to jump through."--Page 55.] V. My Dear Helen: I am sure you must have wondered why I have not written to you for the last two weeks, but when you hear what I have been through, you will only wonder that I am alive to write to you at all. I was very glad to hear your mother say, yesterday, that she had not written to you about what had happened to me, because it would make you so unhappy. But now that it is all over, and I am in a fair way to be soon as well as ever, I think you will like to hear the whole story. In my last letter I told you about the new black cat, Cæsar, who had come to live in the Nelson house, and how anxious I was to know him. As soon as my nose was fit to be seen, Judge Dickinson's cat, who is a good, hospitable old soul, in spite of her stupidity, invited me to tea, and asked him too. All the other cats were asked to come later in the evening, and we had a grand frolic, hunting rats in the Judge's great barn. Cæsar is certainly the handsomest and most gentlemanly cat I ever saw. He paid me great attention: in fact, so much, that one of those miserable half-starved cats from Mill Valley grew so jealous that she flew at me and bit my ear till it bled, which broke up the party. But Cæsar went home with me, so I did not care; then we sat and talked a long time under the nursery window. I was so much occupied in what he was saying, that I did not hear Mary open the window overhead, and was therefore terribly frightened when there suddenly came down on us a whole pailful of water. I was so startled that I lost all presence of mind; and without bidding him good-night, I jumped directly into the cellar window by which we were sitting. Oh, my dear Helen, I can never give you any idea of what followed. Instead of coming down as I expected to on the cabbages, which were just under that window the last time I was in the cellar, I found myself sinking, sinking, into some horrible soft, slimy, sticky substance, which in an instant more would have closed over my head, and suffocated me; but, fortunately, as I sank, I felt something hard at one side, and making a great effort, I caught on it with my claws. It proved to be the side of a barrel, and I succeeded in getting one paw over the edge of it. There I hung, growing weaker and weaker every minute, with this frightful stuff running into my eyes and ears, and choking me with its bad smell. I mewed as loud as I could, which was not very loud, for whenever I opened my mouth the stuff trickled into it off my whiskers; but I called to Cæsar, who stood in great distress at the window, and explained to him, as well as I could, what had happened to me, and begged him to call as loudly as possible; for if somebody did not come very soon, and take me out, I should certainly die. He insisted, at first, on jumping down to help me himself; but I told him that would be the most foolish thing he could do; if he did, we should certainly both be drowned. So he began to mew at the top of his voice, and between his mewing and mine, there was noise enough for a few minutes; then windows began to open, and I heard your grandfather swearing and throwing out a stick of wood at Cæsar; fortunately he was so near the house that it did not hit him. At last your grandfather came downstairs, and opened the back door; and Cæsar was so frightened that he ran away, for which I have never thought so well of him since, though we are still very good friends. When I heard him running off, and calling back to me, from a distance, that he was so sorry he could not help me, my courage began to fail, and in a moment more, I should have let go of the edge of the barrel, and sunk to the bottom; but luckily your grandfather noticed that there was something very strange about my mewing, and opened the door at the head of the cellar stairs, saying, "I do believe the cat is in some trouble down here." Then I made a great effort and mewed still more piteously. How I wished I could call out and say, "Yes, indeed, I am; drowning to death, in I'm sure I don't know what, but something a great deal worse than water!" However, he understood me as it was, and came down with a lamp. As soon as he saw me, he set the lamp down on the cellar bottom, and laughed so that he could hardly move. I thought this was the most cruel thing I ever heard of. If I had not been, as it were, at death's door, I should have laughed at him, too, for even with my eyes full of that dreadful stuff, I could see that he looked very funny in his red night-cap, and without his teeth. He called out to Mary, and your mother, who stood at the head of the stairs, "Come down, come down; here's the cat in the soft-soap barrel!" and then he laughed again, and they both came down the stairs laughing, even your dear kind mother, who I never could have believed would laugh at any one in such trouble. They did not seem to know what to do at first; nobody wanted to touch me; and I began to be afraid I should drown while they stood looking at me, for I knew much better than they could how weak I was from holding on to the edge of the barrel so long. At last your grandfather swore that oath of his,--you know the one I mean, the one he always swears when he is very sorry for anybody,--and lifted me out by the nape of my neck, holding me as far off from him as he could, for the soft soap ran off my legs and tail in streams. He carried me up into the kitchen, and put me down in the middle of the floor, and then they all stood round me, and laughed again, so loud that they waked up the cook, who came running out of her bedroom with her tin candlestick and a chair in her hand, thinking that robbers were breaking in. At last your dear mother said, "Poor pussy, it is too bad to laugh at you, when you are in such pain" (I had been thinking so for some time). "Mary, bring the small washtub. The only thing we can do is to wash her." When I heard this, I almost wished they had left me to drown in the soft soap; for if there is any thing of which I have a mortal dread, it is water. However, I was too weak to resist; and they plunged me in all over, into the tub full of ice-cold water, and Mary began to rub me with her great rough hands, which, I assure you, are very different from yours and your mother's. Then they all laughed again to see the white lather it made; in two minutes the whole tub was as white as the water under the mill-wheel that you and I have so often been together to see. You can imagine how my eyes smarted. I burnt my paws once in getting a piece of beefsteak out of the coals where it had fallen off the gridiron, but the pain of that was nothing to this. You will hardly believe me when I tell you that they had to empty the tub and fill it again ten times before the soap was all washed out of my fur. By that time I was so cold and exhausted, that I could not move, and they began to think I should die. But your mother rolled me up in one of your old flannel petticoats, and made a nice bed for me behind the stove. By this time even Mary began to seem sorry for me, though she was very cross at first, and hurt me much more than she need to in washing me; now she said, "You're nothing but a poor beast of a cat, to be sure; but it's mesilf that would be sorry to have the little mistress come back, and find ye kilt." So you see your love for me did me service, even when you were so far away. I doubt very much whether they would have ever taken the trouble to nurse me through this sickness, except for your sake. But I must leave the rest for my next letter. I am not strong enough yet to write more than two hours at a time. Your affectionate Pussy. [Illustration: "Judge Dickinson's cat, who is a good hospitable old soul, in spite of her stupidity, invited me to tea, and asked Cæsar too."--Page 60.] [Illustration: "When there suddenly came down on us a whole pailful of water." Page 61.] [Illustration: "He lifted me out by the nape of my neck, holding me as far off from him as he could."--Page 68.] VI. My Dear Helen: I will begin where I left off in my last letter. As you may imagine, I did not get any sleep that night, not even so much as a cat's nap, as people say, though how cat's naps differ from men's and women's naps, I don't know. I shivered all night, and it hurt me terribly whenever I moved. Early in the morning your grandfather came downstairs, and when he saw how I looked, he swore again, that same oath: we all know very well what it means when he swears in that way: it means that he is going to do all he can for you, and is so sorry, that he is afraid of seeming too sorry. Don't you remember when you had that big double tooth pulled out, and he gave you five dollars, how he swore then? Well, he took me up in his arms, and carried me into the dining-room; it was quite cool; there was a nice wood fire on the hearth, and Mary was setting the table for breakfast. He said to her in a very gruff voice, "Here you, Mary, you go up into the garret and bring down the cradle." Sick as I was, I could not help laughing at the sight of her face. It was enough to make any cat laugh. "You don't ever mean to say, sir, as you're going to put that cat into the cradle." "You do as I tell you," said he, in that most awful tone of his, which always makes you so afraid. I felt afraid myself, though all the time he was stroking my head, and saying, "Poor pussy, there, poor pussy, lie still." In a few minutes Mary came down with the cradle, and set it down by the fire with such a bang that I wondered it did not break. You know she always bangs things when she is cross, but I never could see what good it does. Then your grandfather made up a nice bed in the cradle, out of Charlie's winter blanket and an old pillow, and laid me down in it, all rolled up as I was in your petticoat. When your mother came into the room she laughed almost as hard as she did when she saw me in the soft-soap barrel, and said, "Why, father, you are rather old to play cat's cradle!" The old gentleman laughed at this, till the tears ran down his red cheeks. "Well," he said, "I tell you one thing; the game will last me till that poor cat gets well again." Then he went upstairs, and brought down a bottle of something very soft and slippery, like lard, and put it on my eyes, and it made them feel much better. After that he gave me some milk into which he had put some of his very best brandy: that was pretty hard to get down, but I understood enough of what they had said, to be sure that if I did not take something of the kind I should never get well. After breakfast I tried to walk, but my right paw was entirely useless. At first they thought it was broken, but finally decided that it was only sprained, and must be bandaged. The bandages were wet with something which smelled so badly it made me feel very sick, for the first day or two. Cats' noses are much more sensitive to smells than people's are; but I grew used to it, and it did my poor lame paw so much good that I would have borne it if it had smelled twice as badly. For three days I had to lie all the time in the cradle: if your grandfather caught me out of it, he would swear at me, and put me back again. Every morning he put the soft white stuff on my eyes, and changed the bandages on my leg. And, oh, my dear Helen, such good things as I had to eat! I had almost the same things for my dinner that the rest of them did: it must be a splendid thing to be a man or a woman! I do not think I shall ever again be contented to eat in the shed, and have only the old pieces which nobody wants. Two things troubled me very much while I was confined to the cradle: one was that everybody who came in to see your mother laughed as if they never could stop, at the first sight of me; and the other was that I heard poor Cæsar mewing all around the house, and calling me with all his might; and I knew he thought I was dead. I tried hard to make your kind mother notice his crying, for I knew she would be willing to let him come in and see me, but I could not make her understand. I suppose she thought it was only some common strolling cat who was hungry. I have always noticed that people do not observe any difference between one cat's voice and another's; now they really are just as different as human voices. Cæsar has one of the finest, deepest-toned voices I ever heard. One day, after I got well enough to be in the kitchen, he slipped in, between the legs of the butcher's boy who was bringing in some meat; but before I had time to say one word to him, Mary flew at him with the broom, and drove him out. However, he saw that I was alive, and that was something. I am afraid it will be some days yet before I can see him again, for they do not let me go out at all, and the bandages are not taken off my leg. The cradle is carried upstairs, and I sleep on Charlie's blanket behind the stove. I heard your mother say to-day that she really believed the cat had the rheumatism. I do not know what that is, but I think I have got it: it hurts me all over when I walk, and I feel as if I looked like Bill Jacobs's old cat, who, they say, is older than the oldest man in town; but of course that must be a slander. The thing I am most concerned about is my fur; it is coming off in spots: there is a bare spot on the back of my neck, on the place by which they lifted me up out of the soap barrel, half as large as your hand; and whenever I wash myself, I get my mouth full of hairs, which is very disagreeable. I heard your grandfather say to-day, that he believed he would try Mrs. Somebody's Hair Restorer on the cat, at which everybody laughed so that ran out of the room as fast as I could go, and then they laughed still harder. I will write you again in a day or two, and tell you how I am getting on. I hope you will come home soon. Your affectionate Pussy. [Illustration: "Then your grandfather made up a nice bed in the cradle, and laid me down in it."--Page 76.] [Illustration: "One day he slipped in between the legs of the butcher boy, but before I had time to say a word to him, Mary flew at him with the broom."--Page 81.] VII. My Dear Helen: I am so glad to know that you are coming home next week, that I cannot think of any thing else. There is only one drawback to my pleasure, and that is, I am so ashamed to have you see me in such a plight. I told you, in my last letter, that my fur was beginning to come off. Your grandfather has tried several things of his, which are said to be good for hair; but they have not had the least effect. For my part I don't see why they should; fur and hair are two very different things, and I thought at the outset there was no use in putting on my skin what was intended for the skin of human heads, and even on them don't seem to work any great wonders, if I can judge from your grandfather's head, which you know is as bald and pink and shiny as a baby's. However, he has been so good to me, that I let him do any thing he likes, and every day he rubs in some new kind of stuff, which smells a little worse than the last one. It is utterly impossible for me to get within half a mile of a rat or a mouse. I might as well fire off a gun to let them know I am coming, as to go about scented up so that they can smell me a great deal farther off than they can see me. If it were not for this dreadful state of my fur, I should be perfectly happy, for I feel much better than I ever did before in my whole life, and am twice as fat as when you went away. I try to be resigned to whatever may be in store for me, but it is very hard to look forward to being a fright all the rest of one's days. I don't suppose such a thing was ever seen in the world as a cat without any fur. This morning your grandfather sat looking at me for a long time and stroking his chin: at last he said, "Do you suppose it would do any good to shave the cat all over?" At this I could not resist the impulse to scream, and your mother said, "I do believe the creature knows whenever we speak about her." Of course I do! Why in the world shouldn't I! People never seem to observe that cats have ears. I often think how much more careful they would be if they did. I have many a time to see them send children out of the room, and leave me behind, when I knew perfectly well that the children would neither notice nor understand half so much as I would. There are some houses in which I lived, before I came to live with you, about which I could tell strange stories if I chose. Cæsar pretends that he likes the looks of little spots of pink skin, here and there, in fur; but I know he only does it to save my feelings, for it isn't in human nature--I mean in cat's nature--that any one should. You see I spend so much more time in the society of men and women than of cats, that I find myself constantly using expressions which sound queerly in a cat's mouth. But you know me well enough to be sure that every thing I say is perfectly natural. And now, my dear Helen, I hope I have prepared you to see me looking perfectly hideous. I only trust that your love for me will not be entirely killed by my unfortunate appearance. If you do seem to love me less, I shall be wretched, but I shall still be, always, Your affectionate Pussy. 
33240	----	CAT STORIES. BY HELEN JACKSON (H. H.), AUTHOR OF "RAMONA," "NELLY'S SILVER MINE," "BITS OF TALK," ETC. LETTERS FROM A CAT. MAMMY TITTLEBACK AND HER FAMILY. THE HUNTER CATS OF CONNORLOA. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. BOSTON: ROBERTS BROTHER'S. 1886. MAMMY TITTLEBACK _AND HER FAMILY_. [Illustration: "Johnny spent hours and hours reading the letters over to the kittens."--PAGE 38.] MAMMY TITTLEBACK AND HER FAMILY. _A TRUE STORY OF SEVENTEEN CATS._ BY H. H., AUTHOR OF "BITS OF TALK," "BITS OF TRAVEL," "BITS OF TALK FOR YOUNG FOLKS," "NELLY'S SILVER MINE," AND "LETTERS FROM A CAT." WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ADDIE LEDYARD. BOSTON: ROBERTS BROTHERS. 1886. _Copyright, 1881,_ BY ROBERTS BROTHERS. PREFACE. The Preface is at the end of the book, and nobody must read it till after reading the book. It will spoil all the fun to read it first. H. H. Genealogical Tree OF MAMMY TITTLEBACK'S FAMILY. * * * * * I. MAMMY TITTLEBACK. II. JUNIPER, } MAMMY TITTLEBACK'S first kittens. MOUSIEWARY,} III. SPITFIRE, } BLACKY, } COALEY, } MAMMY TITTLEBACK'S second family LIMBAB, } of kittens. LILY, } GREGORY 2D,} IV. TOTTONTAIL, } TOTTONTAIL'S } MAMMY TITTLEBACK'S adopted kittens. Brother, } (sometimes called} GRANDFATHER,) } V. BEAUTY,} MAMMY TITTLEBACK'S first grandkittens, CLOVER,} being the first kittens of MOUSIEWARY. [Illustration] MAMMY TITTLEBACK AND HER FAMILY. I. Mammy Tittleback is a splendid great tortoise-shell cat,--yellow and black and white; nearly equal parts of each color, except on her tail and her face. Her tail is all black; and her face is white, with only a little black and yellow about the ears and eyes. Her face is a very kind-looking face, but her tail is a fierce one; and when she is angry, she can swell it up in a minute, till it looks almost as big as her body. Nobody knows where Mammy Tittleback was born, or where she came from. She appeared one morning at Mr. Frank Wellington's, in the town of Mendon in Pennsylvania. Phil and Fred Wellington, Mr. Frank Wellington's boys, liked her looks, and invited her to stay; that is, they gave her all the milk she wanted to drink, and that is the best way to make a cat understand that you want her to live with you. So she stayed, and Phil and Fred named her Mammy Tittleback after a cat they had read about in the "New York Tribune." Phil and Fred have two cousins who often go to visit them. Their names are Johnny and Rosy Chapman; and if it had not been for Johnny and Rosy Chapman, there would never have been this nice story to tell about Mammy Tittleback: for Phil and Fred are big boys, and do not care very much about cats; they like to see them around, and to make them comfortable; but Johnny and Rosy are quite different. Johnny is only eight and Rosy six, and they love cats and kittens better than anything else in the world; and when they went to spend this last summer at their Uncle Frank Wellington's, and found Mammy Tittleback with six little kittens, just born, they thought such a piece of luck never had happened before to two children. Juniper and Mousiewary had been born the year before. Phil named these. Juniper was a splendid great fellow, nearly all white. At first he was called "Junior," but they changed it afterward to "Juniper," because, as Phil said, they didn't know what his father's name was, and there wasn't any sense in calling him "Junior," and, besides, "Juniper" sounded better. Mousiewary was white, with a black and yellow head. Phil called her "Mousiewary" because she would lie still so long watching for a mouse. She was a year and a half old when Johnny and Rosy went to their Uncle Frank's for this visit, and she had two little kittens of her own that could just run about. They were wild little things, and very fierce, so Phil had called them the Imps. But Johnny and Rosy soon got them so tame that this name did not suit them any longer, and then they named them over again "Beauty" and "Clover." Mammy Tittleback's second family of kittens were born in the barn, on the hay. After a while she moved them into an old wagon that was not used. This was very clever of her, because they could not get out of the wagon and run away. But pretty soon she moved them again, to a place which the children did not approve of at all; it was a sort of hollow in the ground, under a great pile of fence rails that were lying near the cowshed. [Illustration: "After a while she moved them into an old wagon that was not used."--PAGE 14.] This did not seem a nice place, and the children could not imagine why she moved them there. I think, myself, she moved them to try and hide them away from the children. I don't believe she thought it was good for the kittens to be picked up so many times a day, and handled, and kissed, and talked to. I dare say she thought they'd never have a chance to grow if she couldn't hide them away from Johnny and Rosy for a few weeks. You see, Johnny and Rosy never left them alone for half a day. They were always carrying them about. When people came to the house to see their Aunt Mary, the children would cry, "Don't you want to see our six kittens? We'll bring them in to you." Then they would run out to the barn, take a basket, fill it half full of hay, and very gently lay all the kittens in it, and Johnny would take one handle and Rosy the other, and bring it to the house. They always put Mammy Tittleback in too; but before they had carried her far, she generally jumped out, and walked the rest of the way by their side. She would never leave them a minute till they had carried the kittens safe back again to their nest. She did not try to prevent their taking them, for she knew that neither Johnny nor Rosy would hurt one of them any more than she would; but I have no doubt in her heart she disliked to have the kittens touched. [Illustration: "Johnny would take one handle, and Rosy the other, and bring it to the house."--PAGE 16.] The children worried a great deal about this last place that Mammy Tittleback had selected for her nursery. They thought it was damp; and they were afraid the rails would fall down some day and crush the poor little kittens to death; and what was worst of all, very often when they went there to look at them, they could not get any good sight of them at all, they would be so far in among the rails. At last a bright idea struck Johnny. He said he would build a nice house for them. "You can't," said Rosy. "I can too," said Johnny. "'Twon't be a house such as folks live in, but it'll do for cats." "Will it be as nice as a dog's house, Johnny?" asked Rosy. "Nicer," said Johnny; "that is, it'll be prettier. 'Twon't be so close. Cats don't need it so close; but it'll be prettier. It's going to have flags on it." "Flags! O Johnny!" exclaimed Rosy. "That'll be splendid; but we haven't got any flags." "I know where I can get as many as I want," said Johnny,--"down to the club-room. They give flags to boys there." "What for, Johnny?" asked Rosy. "Oh, just to carry," replied Johnny proudly. "They like to have boys carrying their flags round." "Do you suppose they'll like to have them on a cat's house?" asked Rosy. "Why not?" said Johnny; and Rosy did not know what to say. Very hard Johnny worked on the house; and it was a queer-looking house when it was done, but it was the only one I ever heard of that was built on purpose for cats. It was about eight feet square; the central support of it was an old saw-horse turned up endwise, with a mason's trestle on top; the roof was made of old rails, and had two slopes to it, like real houses' roofs; the sides were uneven, because on one side the rails rested on an old pig-trough, and on the other on a wooden trestle which was higher than the trough. This unevenness troubled Johnny, but it really made the house prettier. The space under this roof was divided by rows of small stakes into three compartments,--one large one for Mammy Tittleback and her six youngest kittens; Mousiewary and her two kittens in another smaller room; and the adopted kittens and Juniper in a third. I haven't told you yet about the adopted kittens, but I will presently. These three rooms had each a tin pan set in the middle, and fixed firm in its place by small stakes driven into the ground around it. Johnny was determined to teach the cats to keep in their own rooms, and that each family must eat by itself. It wasn't so hard to bring this about as you would have supposed, because Johnny and Rosy spent nearly all their time with the cats, and every time any cat or kitten stepped over the little wall of stakes into the apartment of another family, it was very gently lifted up and put back again into its own room, and stroked and told in gentle voice,-- "Stay in your own room, kitty." And at meal-times there was very little trouble, after the first few days, with anybody but Juniper. All the rest learned very soon which milk-pan belonged to them, and would run straight to it, as soon as Johnny called them. But Juniper was an independent cat; and he persisted in walking about from room to room, pretty much as he pleased. You see he was the only unemployed cat in the set. Mammy Tittleback had her hands full,--I suppose you ought to say paws full when you are speaking of cats,--with six kittens of her own and two adopted ones; and Mousiewary was just as busy with her two kittens as if she had had ten; but Juniper had nobody to look after except himself. He was a lazy cat too. He always used to walk slowly to his meals. The rest would all be running and jumping in their hurry to get to the house when Johnny and Rosy called them; but Juniper would come marching along as slowly as if he were in no sort of hurry, in fact, as if he didn't care whether he had anything to eat or not. But once he got to the pan he would drink fully his share, and more too. [Illustration] II. Now I must tell you about the adopted kittens. They belonged to a wild cat who lived in the garden. Nobody knew anything about this cat. She was a kind of a beggar and thief cat, Johnny said. She wouldn't let you take care of her, or get near her; and the only reason she took up her abode in the garden with her kittens was so as to be near the milk-house, and have a chance now and then to steal milk out of the great kettles. One day the children found the poor thing dead in the chicken yard. What killed her there was nothing to show, but dead she was, and no mistake; so the children carried her away and buried her, and then went to look for her little kittens. There were four of them, and the poor little things were half dead from hunger. Their mother must have been dead some time before the children found her. They were too young to be fed, and the only chance for saving their lives was to get Mammy Tittleback to adopt them. "She's got an awful big family now," said Phil, "but we might try her." "She won't know but they're her own, if we don't let them all suck at once," said Johnny; "but it wouldn't be fair to cheat her that way." "Won't know!" said Phil. "That's all you know about cats! She'll know they ain't hers as quick as she sees them." It was a very droll sight to see Mammy Tittleback when the strange kittens were put down by her side. She was half asleep, and some of her own kittens had gone to sleep sucking their dinners; but the instant these poor famished little things were put down by her, two of them began to suck as if they had never had anything to eat before, since they were born. Mammy Tittleback opened her eyes, and jumped up so quick she knocked all the kittens head over heels into a heap. Then she began smelling at kitten after kitten, and licking her own as she smelled them, till she came to the strangers, when she growled a little, and sniffed and sniffed; if cats could turn up their noses, she'd have turned up hers, but as she couldn't she only growled and pushed them with her paw, and looked at them, all the time sniffing contemptuously. Johnny and Rosy were nearly ready to cry. "Is she 'dopting 'em?" whispered Rosy. "Keep still, can't you!" said Phil; "don't interrupt her. Let her do as she wants to." The children held their breaths and watched. It looked very discouraging. Mammy Tittleback walked round and round, looking much perplexed and not at all pleased. One minute she would stand still and stare at the pile of kittens, as if she did not know what to make of it; then she would fall to smelling and licking her own. At last, by mistake perhaps, she gave a little lick to one of the orphans. [Illustration: "Mammy Tittleback walked round and round, looking much perplexed and not at all pleased."--PAGE 28.] "Oh, oh," screamed Johnny, "she's going to, she's licked it;" at which Phil gave Johnny a great shake, and told him to be quiet or he'd spoil everything. Presently Mammy Tittleback lay down again and stretched herself out, and in less than a minute all six of her own kittens and the two strongest of the strangers were sucking away as hard as ever they could. The children jumped for joy; but their joy was dampened by the sight of the other two feeble little kittens, who lay quite still and did not try to crowd in among the rest. "Are they dead?" asked Rosy. "No," said Johnny, picking them up,--"no; but I guess they will die pretty soon, they don't maow." And he laid them down very gently close in between Mammy Tittleback's hind legs. "Well, they might as well," remarked Phil. "Eight kittens are enough. Mammy Tittleback can't bring up all the kittens in the town, you needn't think. She's a real old brick of a cat to take these two. I hope the others will die anyhow." "O Phil," said Rosy, "couldn't we find some other cat to 'dopt these two?" Rosy's tender heart ached as hard at the thought of these motherless little kittens as if they had been a motherless little boy and girl. "No," said Phil, "I don't know any other cat round here that's got kittens." "But, Phil," persisted Rosy, "isn't there some cat that hasn't got any kittens that would like some?" Phil looked at Rosy for a minute without speaking, then he burst out laughing and said to Johnny, "Come on; what's the use talking?" Then Rosy looked very much hurt, and ran into the house to ask her Aunt Mary if she didn't know of any cat that would adopt the two poor little kittens that Mammy Tittleback wouldn't take. The next morning, when the children went out to visit their cats, the two feeble little kittens were dead, so that put an end to all trouble on that score, and left only thirteen cats for the children to take care of. It is wonderful how fast young cats grow. It seemed only a few days before all eight of these little kittens were big enough to run around, and a very pretty sight it was to see them following Johnny and Rosy wherever they went. Spitfire was Johnny's favorite from the beginning. He was a sharp, spry fellow, not very good-natured to anybody but Johnny. Rosy was really afraid of him, even while he was little; but Johnny made him his chief pet, and told him everything that happened. Mammy Tittleback had divided her own colors among her kittens very oddly. "Spitfire" was all yellow and white; "Coaley" was black as a coal, and that was why he was called "Coaley." "Blacky" was black and white; "Limbab," white with gray spots; "Gregory Second," gray with white spots; and "Lily" was as white as snow, for which reason she got her pretty name. Rosy wanted her called "White Lily," but the boys thought it too long. Where there were so many cats, they said, none of the names ought to be more than two syllables long, if you could help it. "Gregory" had to be called "Gregory Second," because there was another Gregory already, an old cat over at Grandma Jameson's, and it was for him that this kitten was named; and "Tottontail" had to be called "Tottontail," because he was all over gray, with just a little bit of white at the tip of his tail, like a cottontail rabbit. And his brother was exactly like him, only a little bit less white on his tail, so it seemed best to call him "Tottontail's Brother;" and he had such a funny way of putting his ears back, it made him look like an old man; so sometimes they could not help calling him "Grandfather." Altogether there seemed to be a very good reason for every name in the whole family, and I think there was just as good a reason for calling "Lily" "White Lily." However, as Phil said, "anybody could see she was white; and nobody ever heard of a black lily anyhow, and it saved time to say just 'Lily.'" [Illustration] [Illustration] III. Mr. Frank Wellington's house was an old-fashioned square wooden house, with a wide hall running straight through it from front to back; at the back was a broad piazza with a railing around it, and steps leading down into the back yard. Grape-vines grew on the sides of this piazza, and a splendid great polonia-tree, which had heart-shaped leaves as big as dinner-plates, grew close enough to it to shade it. This was where Mrs. Wellington used to sit with her sewing on summer afternoons; and she often thought that there couldn't be a prettier sight in all the world than Rosy Chapman running among the verbena beds with her long yellow curls flying behind, her little bare white feet glancing up and down among the bright blossoms, and half a dozen kittens racing after her. Rosy loved to race with them better than anything else; though sometimes she would sit down in her little rocking-chair, holding her lap full of them, and rocking them to sleep. But Johnny made a more serious business of it. Johnny wanted to teach them. He had read about learned pigs and trained fleas, and he was sure these kittens were a great deal brighter than either pigs or fleas could possibly be; so what do you think Johnny did? He printed the alphabet in large letters on a sheet of white pasteboard, nailed it up on the inside of the largest room in the cats' house, and spent hours and hours reading the letters over to the kittens. He had a scheme of putting the letters on separate square bits of pasteboard or paper pasted on wood, and teaching the kittens to pick them out; but before he did that, he wanted to be sure that they knew them by sight on the paper he had nailed up, and he never became sure enough of that to go on any farther in his teaching. In fact, he never got any farther than to succeed in keeping them still for a few minutes while he read the letters aloud. The cat that kept still the longest, he said, was the best scholar that day; he put their names down in a little book, and gave them good and bad marks according as they behaved, just as he and Rosy used to get marks in school. [Illustration: "Rosy Chapman running among the Verbena beds, and half a dozen kittens racing after her."--PAGE 37.] After Johnny got all his flags up, the cats' house looked very pretty. It had four flags on it; one was a big one with the stars and stripes, and "Our Republic" in big letters on it; one was a "Garfield and Arthur" flag, which had been given to Johnny by the Garfield Club in Mendon; underneath this was a small white one Johnny made himself, with "Hurrah for Both" on it in rather uneven letters; then at two of the corners of the house were small red, white, and blue flags of the common sort. But the glory of all was a big flag on a flagstaff twenty feet high, which Uncle Frank put up for the boys. This also was a "Garfield and Arthur" flag, and a very fine one it was too. The kittens used to look up longingly at all these bright flags blowing in the wind above their house; but Johnny had taken care to put them high enough to be beyond their reach even when they climbed up to the ridgepole. They would have made tatters of them all in five seconds if they could have ever got their claws into them. As soon as the kittens were big enough to enjoy playing with a mouse, or, perhaps, taking a bite of one, Mammy Tittleback returned to her old habits of mouse-catching. There had never been such a mouser as she on the farm. It is really true that she had several times been known to catch six mice in five minutes by Mr. Frank Wellington's watch; and once she did a thing even more wonderful than that. This Phil described to me himself; and Phil is one of the most exact and truthful boys, and never makes any story out bigger than it is. The place where they used to have the best fun seeing Mammy Tittleback catch mice was in the cornhouse. The floor of the cornhouse was half covered with cobs from which the corn had been shelled; in one corner these were piled up half as high as the wall. The mice used to hide among these, and in the cracks in the walls; the boys would take long sticks, push the cobs about, and roll them from side to side. This would frighten the mice and make them run out. Mammy Tittleback stood in the middle of the floor ready to spring for them the minute they appeared. One day the boys were doing this, and two mice ran out almost at the same minute and the same way. Mammy Tittleback caught the first one in her mouth; they thought she would lose the second one. Not a bit of it. Quick as a flash she pounced on that one too, and, without letting go of the one she already had in her teeth, she actually caught the second one! Two live mice at once in her mouth! They were not alive many seconds, though; one craunch of Mammy Tittleback's teeth killed them both, and she dropped them on the floor, and was all ready to catch the next ones. Did anybody ever hear of such a mouser as that? Another story also Phil told me about the kittens which I should have found it hard to believe if I had read it in a book; but which I know must be true, because Phil told it. One day, after the kittens had grown so big that they used to go everywhere, the children went off for a long walk in the fields, and four of the kittens went with them. When the children climbed fences the kittens crawled through, and they had no trouble till they came to a brook. The children just tucked up their trousers and waded through, first putting the kittens all down together in a hollow at the roots of a tree, and telling them to stay still there till they came back. They hadn't gone many steps on the other side when they heard first one splash, then two, then three; and, looking round, what should they see but three of those little kittens swimming for dear life across the brook, their poor little noses hardly above the water? It was as much as ever they got across; but they did, and scrambled out on the other side looking like drowned rats. These were Spitfire and Gregory Second and Blacky; Tottontail was the fourth. He did not appear, and he was not to be seen, either, where they had put him down on the other side. At last they spied him racing up stream as hard as he could go. He ran till he came to a place where the brook was only a little thread of water in the grass, and there he very sensibly stepped across; the only one of the whole party, cats or children, who got over without wet feet. Now who can help believing that Tottontail thought it all out in his head, just as a boy or a girl would who had never learned to swim? It was very wonderful that Spitfire and Gregory and Blacky should have plunged in to swim across, when they had never done such a thing before in all their lives, and of course must have hated the very touch of water, as all cats do; but I think it was still more wonderful in Tottontail to have reasoned that if he ran along the stream for a little distance, he might possibly come to a place where he could get over by an easier way than swimming, and without wetting his feet. [Illustration: The kittens swimming for dear life across the brook.--PAGE 46.] The summer was gone before the children felt as if it had fairly begun. Each of them had had a flower-bed of his own, and ever so many of the flowers had gone to seed before the children had finished their first weeding. The little cats had enjoyed the gardens as much as the children had. When the beds were first planted, and the green plants were just peeping up, the kittens were very often scolded, and sometimes had their ears gently boxed, to keep them from walking on the beds; but by August, when the weeds and the flowers were all up high and strong together, they raced in and out among them as much as they pleased, and had fine frolics under the poppies and climbing hollyhock stems. When the time of Johnny's and Rosy's visit drew near its end, Johnny felt very sad at the thought of leaving his kittens. They were "just at the prettiest age," he said; "just beginning to be some comfort," after all the pains he had taken to train them; and he was very much afraid they would not be so well taken care of after he had gone. Fred was going away to school for the winter, and Phil, he thought, would never have patience to feed thirteen cats each day. However, he did all that he could to make them comfortable for the winter. He boarded up the sides of their house snug and warm, so that they need not suffer from cold; and he made his Aunt Mary promise to give them plenty of milk twice a day. Then, when the time came, he bade them all good-by one by one, and had a long farewell talk with his favorite Spitfire. Rosy, too, felt very sad at leaving them, but not so sad as Johnny. [Illustration: "Johnny and Rosy bade them good-by, one by one."--PAGE 50.] Johnny and Rosy and their mother were to spend the winter at their Grandma Jameson's, in the town of Burnet, only twelve miles from Mendon, and Johnny said to Spitfire,-- "It isn't as if we were going so far off, we couldn't ever come to see you. We'll be back some day before Christmas." "Maow," said Spitfire. "I'm perfectly sure he understands all I say," said Johnny. "Don't you, Spitfire?" "Maow, maow," replied Spitfire. "There!" said Johnny triumphantly; "I knew he did." It was the middle of October when Johnny and Rosy left their Aunt Mary's and went to Grandma Jameson's. Much to their delight, they found four cats there. "A good deal better than none," said Johnny. "Yes," said Rosy, "but they're all old. They won't play tag. They're real old cats." "Anyhow, they're better than none," replied Johnny resolutely. "They're good to hold, and Snowball's a splendid mouser." These cats' names were "Snowball," "Lappit," "Stonepile," and "Gregory." This was the old "Gregory" after whom the kitten "Gregory Second" over at Mendon had been named. "Gregory" had been in the Jameson family a good many years. [Illustration] [Illustration] IV. There was another character who had been in the Jameson family a good many years, about whom I must tell you, because he will come in presently in connection with this history of the cats. In fact, he has more to do with the next part of the history than even Johnny and Rosy have. This is an old colored man who takes care of Grandma Jameson's farm for her. He is as good an old man as "Uncle Tom" was, in "Uncle Tom's Cabin," and I'm sure he must be as black. He lives in a little house in a grove of chestnut and oak trees, just across the meadow from Grandma Jameson's; and, summer and winter, rain or shine, he is to be seen every morning at daylight coming up the lane ready for his day's work. His name is Jerry; he is well known all over Burnet, and he is one of the old men that nobody ever passes by without speaking. "Hullo, Jerry!" "How de do, Jerry?" "Is that you, Jerry?" are to be heard on all sides as Jerry goes through the street. There is a mule, too, that Jerry drives, which is almost as well known as Jerry. There is a horse also on the farm; but the horse is so fat he can't go as fast as the mule does. So the mule and the horse have gradually changed places in their duties; the horse does the farm work and the mule goes to town on errands; and there is no more familiar sight in all the town of Burnet than the Jameson Rockaway drawn by the mule Nelly, with old Jerry sitting sidewise on the low front seat, driving. There isn't a week in the year that Jerry doesn't go down to the railway station at least once, and sometimes several times, in this way, to bring some of Grandma Jameson's children or grandchildren or nieces or nephews or friends to come and make her a visit. Her house is one of the houses that never seems to be so full it can't hold more. You know there are some such houses; the more people come, the merrier, and there is always room made somehow for everybody to sleep at night. You wouldn't think to look at the house that it could hold many people; it is not large. In truth, I cannot myself imagine, often as I have stayed in the dear old place, where all the people have slept when I have known twelve or more to come down to breakfast of a morning, all looking as if they had had a capital night's rest. Jerry is always glad as anybody in the house when visitors come; yet it makes him no end of work, carrying them and their luggage back and forth to town, with all the rest of the errands he has to do. Nelly is pretty old, and the Rockaway is small, and many a time Jerry has to make two trips to get one party of people up to the house, with all that belongs to them in the way of trunks and bags and bundles; but he likes it. He pulls off his old drab felt hat, and bows, and holds out both hands, and everybody who comes shakes hands with Jerry, first of all, at the station. One day, late in last October, Jerry was at the post-office waiting for the mail; when it came in, there was a postal card from Mendon for Mrs. Jameson, and as the postmistress is Mrs. Jameson's own niece, she thought she would look at the message on the card, and see if all were well at Mr. Frank Wellington's. This was what she found written on the card,-- "Meet company at the three o'clock train." That was the train which had just come in and brought the mail. "Oh, dear!" said she. "Jerry, it is well I looked at this card. It is from Mr. Wellington, and he says there will be company down by the three o'clock train, to go to Grandma's. You must turn round and go right to the station; they will be waiting, and wondering why nobody's there to meet them." "That's a fact," said Jerry; "they've done sure, wonderin' by this time; 'spect they've walked up; but I'll go down 'n' see." So Jerry made as quick time as he could coax out of the mule, down to the railway station. The train had been gone more than half an hour, and the station was quiet and deserted by all except the station-master, who was waiting for the up-train, which would be along in an hour. "Been anybody here to go up to our house?" asked Jerry. "We got a postal, sayin' there'd be company down on the three o'clock." "Well," replied the station-master, looking curiously at Jerry, "there was some company came on that train for your folks." "What became on 'em?" said Jerry. "Hev they walked?" "Well, no; they hain't walked; they're in the Freight Depot," said the man rather shortly. Jerry thought this was the queerest thing he ever heard of. "In the Freight Depot!" exclaimed he. "What'd they go there for? Who be they?" "You'll find 'em there," replied the man, and turned on his heel. Still more bewildered, Jerry hurried to the Freight Depot, which was on the opposite side of the railroad track, a little farther down. Now I am wondering if any of you children will guess who the "company" were that had come from Mendon by the three o'clock train to go to Grandma Jameson's. It makes me laugh so to think of it, that I can hardly write the words. I don't believe I shall ever get to be so old that it won't make me laugh to think about this batch of visitors to Grandma Jameson's. It was nothing more nor less than all Johnny Chapman's cats! Yes, all of them,--Mammy Tittleback, Juniper, Mousiewary, Spitfire, Blacky, Coaley, Limbab, Lily, Gregory Second, Tottontail, Tottontail's Brother, Beauty, Clover. There they all were, large as life, and maowing enough to make you deaf. Poor things! it wasn't that they were uncomfortable, for they were in a very large box, with three sides made of slats, so they had plenty of room and plenty of air; but of course they were frightened almost to death. The box was addressed in very large letters to CAPTAIN JOHNNY CHAPMAN AND FIRST LIEUTENANT ROSE CHAPMAN. Above this was printed in still bigger letters, THE GARFIELD CLUB. Some of the men who were at the station when the box came, were made very angry by this. They did not know anything about the history of the cats; and of course they could not see that the thing had any meaning at all, except as an insult to the Garfield Club in Burnet. It was just before Election, you see, and at that time all men in the United States are so excited they become very touchy on the subject of politics; and all the Garfield men who saw this great box of mewing cats labelled the "Garfield Club" thought the thing had been done by some Democrat to play off a joke on the Republicans. So they went to a paint-shop, and got some black paint, and painted, on the other side of the box, "Hancock Serenaders." That was the only thing they could think of to pay off the Democrats whom they suspected of the joke. Jerry knew what it meant as soon as he saw the box. He had heard from Johnny and Rosy all about their wonderful cats over at Uncle Frank's, and how terribly they missed them; but it had never crossed anybody's mind that Uncle Frank would send them after the children. Poor Jerry didn't much like the prospect of his ride from the station to the house; however, he put the box into the Rockaway, got home with it as quickly as possible, and took it immediately to the barn. Then he went into the house with the mail, as if nothing had happened. Jerry was something of a wag in his way, as well as Mr. Frank Wellington; so he handed the letters to Mrs. Chapman without a word, and stood waiting while she looked them over. As soon as she read the postal she exclaimed,-- "Oh, Jerry, this is too bad. There's company down at the station; came by the three o'clock train. You'll have to go right back and get them. I wonder who it can be." "They've come, ma'am," said Jerry quietly. "Come!" exclaimed Mrs. Chapman; "come? Why, where are they?" and she ran out on the piazza. Jerry stopped her, and coming nearer said, in a low, mysterious tone,-- "They're in the barn, ma'am!" "Jerry! In the barn! What do you mean?" exclaimed Mrs. Chapman. And she looked so puzzled and frightened that Jerry could not keep it up any longer. "It's the cats, ma'am," he said; "them cats of Johnny's from Mr. Wellington's: all of 'em. The men to the station said there was forty; but I don't think there's more 'n twenty; mebbe not so many 's that; they're rowin' round so, you can't count 'em very well." "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" said Mrs. Chapman. "What won't Frank Wellington do next!" Then she found her mother, and told her, and they both went out to the barn to look at the cats. Jerry lifted up one of the slats so that he could put in a pail of milk for them; and as soon as they saw friendly faces, and heard gentle voices, and saw the milk, they calmed down a little, but they were still terribly frightened. Grandma Jameson could not help laughing, but she was not at all pleased. "I think Frank Wellington might have been in better business," she said. "We do not want any more cats here; the winter is coming, when they must be housed. What is to be done with the poor beasts?" "Oh, we'll give most of them away, mother," said Mrs. Chapman. "They're all splendid kittens; anybody'll be glad of them." "I do not think thee will find any dearth of cats in the village; it seems to be something most families are supplied with: but thee can do what thee likes with them; they can't be kept here, that is certain," replied Mrs. Jameson placidly, and went into the house. Mrs. Chapman and Jerry decided that the cats should be left in the box till morning, and the children should not be told until then of their arrival. When Mrs. Chapman was putting Johnny and Rosy to bed, she said,-- "Johnny, if Uncle Frank should send your cats over here, you would have to make up your mind to give some of them away. You know, Grandma couldn't keep them all!" "What makes you think he'll send them over?" cried Johnny. "He didn't say he would." "No," replied Mrs. Chapman, "I know he didn't; but I think it is very likely he found them more trouble, after you went away, than he thought they would be." "I got them fixed real comfortable for the winter," said Johnny. "Their house is all boarded up, so 't will be warm; but I'd give anything to have them here. There's plenty of room in the barn. They needn't even come into the house." It took a good deal of reasoning and persuading to bring Johnny to consent to the giving away of any of his beloved cats, in case they were sent over from Mendon; but at last he did, and he and Rosy fell asleep while they were trying to decide which ones they would keep, and which ones they would give away, in case they had to make the choice. [Illustration] V. In the morning, after breakfast, the news was told them, that the cats had arrived the night before and were in the barn. Almost before the words were out of their mother's mouth they were off like lightning to see them. Jerry was on hand ready to open the box, and the whole family gathered to see the prisoners set free. What a scene it was! As soon as the slats were broken enough to give room, out the cats sprang, like wild creatures, heads over heels, heels over heads, the whole thirteen in one tumbling mass. They ran in all directions as fast as they could run, poor Rosy and Johnny in vain trying to catch so much as one of them. "They're crazy like," said Jerry; "they've been scared enough to kill 'em; but they'll come back fast enough. Ye needn't be afeard," he added kindly to Johnny, who was ready to burst out crying, to see even his beloved Spitfire darting away like a strange wildcat of the woods. Sure enough, very soon the little ones began to stick their heads out from behind beams and out of corners, and to take cautious steps towards Johnny, whose dear voice they recognized as he kept saying, pityingly,-- "Poor kitties, poor kitties, come here to me; poor kitties, don't you know me?" In a few minutes he had Spitfire in his arms, and Rosy had Blacky, the one she had always loved best. Mammy Tittleback, Juniper, and Mousiewary had escaped out of the barn, and disappeared in the woods along the mill-race. They were much more frightened than the kittens, and had reason to be, for they knew very well that it was an extraordinary thing which had happened to them, whereas the little ones did not know but it often happened to cats to be packed up in boxes and take journeys in railway trains, and now that they saw Johnny and Rosy, they thought everything was all right. In the mean time the cats of the house, Snowball, Gregory, Stonepile, and Lappit, hearing the commotion and caterwauling in the barn, had come out to see what was going on. On the threshold they all stopped, stock still, set up their backs, and began to growl. The little kittens began to sneak off again towards hiding-places. Snowball came forward, and looked as if she would make fight, but Johnny drove her back, and said very sharply, "Scat! scat! we don't want you here." On hearing these words, Gregory and the others turned round and walked scornfully away, as if they would not take any more notice of such young cats; but Snowball was very angry, and continued to hang about the barn, every now and then looking in, and growling, and swelling up her tail, and she never would, to the last, make friends with one of the new-comers. Release had come too late for poor Gregory Second and Lily. They had never been strong as the others, and the fright of the journey was too much for them. Early on the morning after their arrival, Gregory Second was found dead in the barn. The children gave him a grand funeral, and buried him in the meadow behind the house. There were staying now at Mrs. Jameson's two other grandchildren of hers, Johnny and Katy Wells; and the two Johnnies and Katy and Rosy went out, in a solemn procession, into the field to bury Gregory. Each child carried a cat in its arms, and the rest of the cats followed on, and stood still, very serious, while Gregory was laid in the ground. The boys filled up the grave, made a good-sized mound over it, and planted a little evergreen-tree at one end. They also set very firmly, on the top of the mound, what Johnny called "a kind of marble monument." It was the marble bottom of an old kerosene lamp. When this was all done, the children sang a hymn, which they had learned in their school. [Illustration: "The children gave him a grand funeral. Each carried a cat in its arms, and the rest of the cats followed on."--PAGE 78.] THE OLD BLACK CAT. Who so full of fun and glee, Happy as a cat can be? Polished sides so nice and fat, Oh, how I love the old black cat! Poor kitty! O poor kitty! Sitting so cozy under the stove. CHORUS. Pleasant, purring, pretty pussy, Frisky, full of fun and fussy? Mortal foe of mouse and rat, Oh, I love the old black cat! Yes, I do! Some will like the tortoise-shell; Others love the white so well; Let them choose of this or that, But give to me the old black cat. Poor kitty! O poor kitty! Sitting so cozy under the stove. CHORUS. Pleasant, purring, pretty pussy, etc. When the boys, to make her run, Call the dogs and set them on, Quickly I put on my hat, And fly to save the old black cat. Poor kitty! O poor kitty! Sitting so cozy under the stove. CHORUS. Pleasant, purring, pretty pussy, etc. This song had come to Burnet years before, in a magazine. There was no other printed copy of the song; but, year after year, the Burnet children had sung it at school, and every child in town knew it by heart. It cannot be said to be exactly a funeral hymn, and Gregory was a gray cat and not a black one, which made it still less appropriate; but it was the only song they knew about cats, so they sang it slow, and made it do. Just as they were finishing it a big dog came darting down from the other side of the mill-race, leaped over the race, barking loud, and sprang in among them. This gave the relatives a great scare. All those that were standing on the ground scrambled up the nearest trees as fast as they could; and even those that were being held in the children's arms scratched and fought to get down, that they might run away too. So the funeral ended very suddenly in great disorder, and with altogether more laughing than seemed proper at a funeral. The next day Lily died and was buried by the side of Gregory, but with less ceremony than had been used the day before. Over her grave was put a high glass monument, which made much more show than the one of marble on Gregory's grave. That was only a flat slab, which lay on the grass; but Lily's was a glass lamp which had by some accident got a little broken. This, set bottom side up, pressed down firmly into the earth, made a fine show, and could be seen a good way off, "the way a monument ought to be," Johnny said; and he searched diligently to find something equally high and imposing for Gregory's grave, but could not find it. In the course of a few days the remaining kittens and cats were all given away, except Mammy Tittleback and Blacky. They were selected as being on the whole the best ones to keep. Mammy Tittleback is so good a mouser that she would be a useful member of any family, and Blacky bids fair to grow up as good a mouser as she. What became of Juniper and Mousiewary was never known. They were seen now and then in the neighborhood of the house, but never stayed long, and finally disappeared altogether. Mammy Tittleback, I am sorry to say, did not take the loss of her family in the least to heart; after the first week or two she seemed as contented and as much at home in her new quarters as if she had lived there all her life. What she has thought about it all, there is no knowing; but as she and Blacky lie asleep under the stove, of an evening, you'd never suspect, to look at them, that they had had such a fine summer house to live in last year, or had ever belonged to a "Garfield Club," and taken a railway journey. [Illustration] THE OLD BLACK CAT. 1. Who so full of fun and glee, Hap-py as a cat can be? Polished sides so nice and fat--Oh, how I love the old black cat. 2. Some will like the tortoise shell, Others love the white so well; Let them choose of this or that, But give to me the old black cat. 3. When the boys, to make her run, Call the dogs and set them on, Quickly I put on my hat And fly to save the old black cat. _Affetuoso._ Poor kit-ty! O, poor kit-ty! Sit-ting so co-zy un-der the stove. Pleasant, purring, pretty pussy, Frisky, full of fun and fussy, Mortal foe of mouse and rat, O, I love the old black cat. Yes, I do. [From the "Schoolday Magazine," March, 1873.] PREFACE. This story of Mammy Tittleback and her family was told to me last winter, at Christmas time, in Grandma Jameson's house, by Johnny and Rosy Chapman and their mother, and by Phil Wellington and his mother, and by Johnny and Katy Wells, and by Grandma Jameson herself, and by "Aunt Maggie" Jameson, Grandma Jameson's daughter, and by "Aunt Hannah," Grandma Jameson's sister, and by "Cousin Fanny," the postmistress who had the first sight of the postal card, and by Jerry, who had the worst of the whole business, bringing the box of cats from the railway-station up to the house. I don't mean that each of these persons told me the whole story from beginning to end. I was not at Grandma Jameson's long enough for that; I was there only Christmas day and the day after. But I mean that all these people told me parts of the story, and every time the subject was mentioned somebody would remember something new about it, and the longer we talked about it the more funny things kept coming up to the very last, and I don't doubt that when I go there again next summer, Phil and Johnny will begin where they left off and tell me still more things as droll as these. The story about the little kittens swimming over the brook I did not hear until the morning I was coming away. Just as I was busy packing Phil came running up to my room, saying, "There's one more thing we forgot the cats did," and then he told me the story of the swimming. Then I said, "Tell me some more, Phil; I don't believe you've told me half yet." "Well," he said, "you see, they were doing things all the time, and we didn't think much about 'em. That's the reason we can't remember," which remark of Phil's has a good lesson in it when you come to look at it closely. It would make a good text for a little sermon to preach to children that very often have to say, "I forgot," about something they ought to have done. Things that we think very much about we never forget, any more than we do persons that we love very dearly and think very much of. So "I forgot" is not very much of an excuse for not having done a thing; it is only another way of saying "I didn't attend to it enough to make it stay in my mind," or, "I didn't care enough about it to remember it." I heard the greater part of this story on Christmas night. Johnny and Rosy and Phil and Katy had a great frolic telling it. In the midst of it Johnny exclaimed, "Don't you want to see Mammy Tittleback?" "Indeed I do," I replied. So he ran out to the barn and brought her in in his arms. Snowball was already there. She was lying on the hearth when Mammy Tittleback was brought in, and I began to praise her, saying what a beauty she was, and how handsome the yellow, black, and white colors in her fur were. Snowball got up, and began to walk about uneasily and to rub up against us, as if she wanted to be noticed also. "Snowball's a nice cat too," said Phil, picking her up, "'most as good as Mammy Tittleback." "Blacky's the nicest," said Rosy, who was rocking in her rocking-chair, and hugging Blacky up close to her face. "Blacky's the nicest of them all." Upon which everybody fell to telling what a tyrant Blacky had become; how she would be held in somebody's lap all the time, and that even Aunt Hannah had had to give up to Blacky. Even Aunt Hannah, whom nobody in the house, not even Grandma Jameson herself, ever thinks of going against in the smallest thing, because she is such a beautiful and venerable old lady,--even Aunt Hannah had had to give up to Blacky. Aunt Hannah is over eighty years old but she is never idle. She never has time to hold cats in her lap; and, besides, I do not think she loves cats so well as the rest of her family do. As often as Blacky jumped up in her lap, Aunt Hannah would very gently set her on the floor; but in five minutes Blacky would be up again. At last, when she found Aunt Hannah really would not hold her in her lap, she took it in her head to lie in Aunt Hannah's work-basket, close by her side; and just as often as Aunt Hannah put her out of her lap she would spring into the work-basket, and curl herself up like a little puff-ball of fur among the spools. This was even worse to Aunt Hannah than to have her on her knees, and she would take her out of the work-basket less gently than she lifted her out of her lap, and set her on the floor. Then Blacky would jump right up on her lap again, and so they had it,--Aunt Hannah and Blacky,--first lap, and then work-basket, till poor Aunt Hannah got as nearly out of patience as a lovely old lady of the Society of Friends ever allows herself to be. She got so out of patience that she made a very nice, soft, round cushion stuffed with feathers, and kept it always at hand for Blacky to lie on. Then when Blacky jumped on her knees, she laid her on the cushion; instantly Blacky would spring into the work-basket, and when she took her out of that, right up in her lap again. On that cushion she would not lie. At last Aunt Hannah was heard to say, "I believe it is of no use, I'll have to give up to thee, little cat;" and now Blacky lies in Aunt Hannah's work-basket whenever she feels like lying there instead of in Rosy's little chair or in somebody's lap; and I dare say by the time I go to Burnet again, I shall find that Aunt Hannah has given up in the matter of the lap also, and is holding Blacky on her knees as many hours a day as anybody else in the house. [Illustration: "Now Blacky lies in Aunt Hannah's work-basket whenever she feels like lying there."--PAGE 96.] There was a great deal of discussion among the children as to the places where the little kittens were living now, and as to which ones were given away, and which ones had run away. I suppose when Jerry had a half-dozen kittens to give away all at once, he couldn't stop to select them very carefully, or to sort them out by name, or recollect where each one went. "I know where Spitfire is," said Johnny; "I saw him yesterday." "Where?" said Phil. "I won't tell," said Johnny, "but I know." "Juniper, he ran away. He'll take care of himself. He used to come back once in a while. We'd see him round the barn. Mousiewary, she comes sometimes now; I saw her the other day. She's real smart." "Well, old Mammy Tittleback's the best of 'em all," said Phil, catching her up and trying to make her snuggle down in his lap. But Mammy Tittleback did not like to be held. She wriggled away, jumped down, and walked restlessly toward the kitchen door. Phil followed, opened the door, and let her go out. "She won't let you pet her," he said; "she's a real business cat, she always was. She likes to stay in the barn and hunt rats better than anything in the world, except when it's so cold she can't." "She used to let me hold her sometimes in the summer," said Rosy. "Oh, that was different. She had to be staying round then, doing nothing, to look after the kittens," replied Phil. "She wasn't wasting any time then being held, but she won't let you hold her now more 'n two or three minutes at a time. She jumps right down, and goes off as if she was sent for." After the children had gone to bed, Mrs. Chapman told us a very droll part of the history of the cats' journey,--what might be called the sequel to it. The Democrats were not the only people in the village who took offence at the sight of the cats. There is a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals in Burnet, and some of the people who belonged to this society, when they heard of the affair, took it into their heads that Mr. Frank Wellington had done a very cruel thing in shutting so many cats up in a box together. It was a very good illustration of the way stories grow big in many times telling, the way the number of those cats went on growing bigger and bigger every time the story was told. At last they got it up as high as forty-five; and there really were some people in town who believed that forty-five cats had come from Mendon to Burnet in that box. "Jerry says they haven't ever had it lower than twenty-five," said Mrs. Chapman. "It runs all the way from forty-five to twenty-five, but twenty-five is the lowest, and there was one man in the town who really did threaten pretty seriously to enter a complaint against Frank Wellington with the society, but I guess he was laughed out of it. It is almost a pity he didn't do it, it would have been such a joke all round." This is all I have to tell you about Mammy Tittleback and her family now. When I go back to Burnet next summer, I hope I shall find her with six more little kittens, and Johnny and Rosy as happy with them as they were with Spitfire, Blacky, Coaley, Limbab, Lily, and Gregory Second. THE END. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Punctuation has been standardised. Page 7, changed "Limbat" to "Limbab" on Genealogical Tree Page 7, changed "Lilly" to "Lily" on Genealogical Tree Illustration following Page 96, changed "Blackie" to "Blacky" (Now Blacky lies) 
34205	----	http://www.archive.org/details/somelittlepeople00kriniala SOME LITTLE PEOPLE by GEORGE KRINGLE Illustrated [Illustration] New York Dodd, Mead & Company Publishers Copyright, 1881, by Dodd, Mead & Company. SOME LITTLE PEOPLE. CHAPTER I. 'Lisbeth Lillibun lived a hundred miles from London. If she had not lived a hundred miles from London, it is likely you would never have heard of her. She would have liked it better had somebody else lived where she did instead of herself. 'Lisbeth was a very little girl when she found out that she lived a hundred miles from London. So was Dickon, her brother, very little when he found it out, but he did not care so much about it; indeed I think he did not care at all. 'Lisbeth always remembered the day upon which she found it out. She could not quite count a hundred herself at the time; she could count ten, but had not learned to count a hundred. She had heard Gorham count a hundred, and knew that it was a great many more than ten. She thought that ten was a great many. She knew that ten miles must be a great way; she had several times walked a mile. She had walked a mile the day she discovered that it was a hundred miles to London. A hundred miles, she knew, was a very great way. 'Lisbeth had concluded that she would like to live in London; that she would live in London; that London was the only proper place for any body to live. This was why she did not like to discover that London was a hundred miles away. But how she came to know anything about London, or to think it was the only proper place to live, I shall not pretend to say. She had gone a long way from home, that day, with Dickon; as I said, she had gone a mile. It was a pleasant mile, straight across the fields, but they should not have gone so far. Mother was at the mill; Gorham had gone to school; Trotty was asleep. Dickon and 'Lisbeth wanted to do something, or see something, so they wandered over the fields for a mile. If they had not gone so far, 'Lisbeth would not have heard about the distance to London; she would have been more happy had she not gone so far; she would not have heard the men, with the packs on their backs, reading the mile-stone. She should not have gone so far from home; we generally come to some grief when we do something which is not quite right. 'Lisbeth did. Dickon wished to show her the flowers blooming by the way; he wished to show her the bees buzzing in the flowers; he wished to show her the bird warbling on the post, but she was looking at the two men with the packs on their backs; she was looking at them plodding along the way. They grew smaller and smaller to her eyes. They became but specks. They disappeared. She thought she would see them again in London. She would ask them how they got there, and how they liked it. So Dickon watched the bees, a long while, by himself, and looked at the pretty flower-hearts; and the bird warbled on the post, but 'Lisbeth knew not a thing about it. Everything looked more happy than 'Lisbeth; the grass that grew under foot, and the contented little weeds that nodded and dozed in the sun, and the flowers that hung just where they grew, with the most comfortable little faces, and the bird that warbled on the post. Indeed, as to the bird, it might have been thought that he did not admire 'Lisbeth's serious face, that he was too happy himself to be looking at any one who was not as happy as he was, for, though at first, with head turned toward her, he ruffled his throat, and swayed from side to side as he sung and sung, he suddenly grew mute, eyed 'Lisbeth with one eye and then with the other, and like a bird who had made up his mind, turned his back upon her, still standing on the post, and lifted his head, and ruffled his throat, and filled the air with his sweet notes, without so much as turning an eye toward 'Lisbeth as she stood. Everything looked more comfortable than 'Lisbeth. Do you know why 'Lisbeth did not look comfortable? If you cannot think why it was to-day, perhaps you may be able to do so to-morrow. If you cannot think why it was this morning, perhaps you may be able to do so by this evening. Indeed, I think you will know without waiting to think a minute. Dickon filled her hands with flowers--they were such sweet flowers, with such pretty tender faces; every one had something on its lips to say as it looked up. Did you ever guess what the flowers were trying to say loud enough for you to hear? I think they all say something to us; some of us cannot hear what they say, some of us cannot guess what they say. The flowers looked brightly up at 'Lisbeth; they did not look discontented, even though they were broken; they did not complain as she carried them away; they did not even turn to look reproachfully at Dickon who had broken them from their stems. They were very bright flowers. 'Lisbeth wished many times to know if Dickon thought the men with the packs had reached London. She asked him so many times, that at length he laughed quite aloud, and yet she knew well enough that the men had to walk a hundred miles; she and Dickon had walked but one. So she laughed too, when Dickon laughed, and they both began chasing the butterflies that waved their beautiful wings over the field, their wings beautiful as the faces of the flowers; the wings which changed colors as they fanned them in the sun; the pretty wings which changed color every moment and which shone like flower petals sprinkled with gold. When they were tired of chasing butterflies they remembered that Trotty might be awake; that Gorham might have come home; that mother might have come from the mill, and have been looking for them; so they began chasing each other instead of chasing the butterflies, and it seemed to be much the best thing to do, for as they chased each other they came nearer to the door at home. Indeed they should have thought of this before, for as they came bounding around the house, startling the swallows under the eaves, Trotty was tumbling from the cradle, and mother was hastening toward the door. CHAPTER II. 'Lisbeth did not forget that it was a hundred miles to London; she never forgot it. She did not forget the two men with the packs on their backs. At the same time she could not forget that a hundred was a great many. 'Lisbeth told her mother that they could all put packs on their backs and go to London, that she wanted to live in London; but her mother only laughed, she did not want to go to London to live at that time; she did not want to walk a hundred miles with a pack on her back. After this 'Lisbeth felt very much discouraged; she had believed that everybody would like to live in London; she did not know how to manage. If 'Lisbeth had been more like the flowers she would have been contented to grow just where she found herself; but she was not like the flowers; she was not like them at all. She thought a great deal about getting to London. I am not sure that 'Lisbeth thought enough about it to find out how she would like getting to London if mother did not go along; that is a part which I am almost sure that 'Lisbeth did not think about, but she was very determined about getting there. She invited Gorham to go with her, but Gorham knew better than to try to do that; he knew that London was a great way off; that he could not go unless mother went too; he knew that 'Lisbeth was very silly indeed. But 'Lisbeth did not believe Gorham when he told her all this; she had an opinion of her own. She and Dickon used to play "going to London" every day, but this did not suit 'Lisbeth. There were five mothers who went to the mill every day. 'Lisbeth concluded to ask the little boys and girls belonging to these mothers to go to London with her. Then she concluded she would only ask the boys; boys would not get frightened and run away; they would not let anybody pick her up and put her in a bag; Dickon was a boy; she knew all about boys; she was afraid the girls would get put in bags. She told the girls they should not go. She stamped her foot at them; they should not go. Indeed I do not believe they wanted to go, but the boys did; they liked it. They all concluded to start at once. [Illustration] There were seven of them beside Dickon. Dickon carried a basket, as well as a stick with a rag upon it which they called a flag. 'Lisbeth carried a flag too and walked in front. Nobody was ever so proud in starting for London; nobody was ever so well pleased, or so little afraid of what might happen on the way, nor at the end of the way, nor at the end of the whole affair. Nobody who thought so much of going to London, ever forgot so entirely to think about what was to be done when they got there; what was to be done for a supper, for a penny, for a roof, for a bed, for a second dress or pair of trousers, for a mother! Nobody remembered anything but that they were on the way to London. They went a mile. They went across the fields, between clover tops and sweet grasses, and flowers with pleasant faces; they marched, and then forgot to march. 'Lisbeth knew the way to the mile-stone, she knew which way the men had turned when they came to the forked road beyond. She remembered watching them out of sight. 'Lisbeth was sure she knew the way to London. They went beyond the forks of the road; they went a great way. The little boys began to find out that they had gone a great way. They began to look back for the church steeple, but it was gone; they began to look back for the mill; but there was none. They began to be afraid. 'Lisbeth was not afraid. She did not expect to see the church steeple. She did not expect to see the mill; she did not want to see them. She did want to see London. 'Lisbeth looked so happy that the little boys forgot to march, and all drew up closer, and closer to 'Lisbeth; they were sure she must have something to be happy about. Nobody liked to say he did not feel happy, yet nobody was happy but 'Lisbeth. All these boys usually were very happy, can you tell me why they did not feel happy now? Dickon was the first to find out that everybody was keeping very close to 'Lisbeth; that nobody looked pleased but 'Lisbeth. "It's a dreadful way to London," said Dickon. "I s'pose it is, Dickon; but don't be 'scouraged," said 'Lisbeth, striding on faster and faster. If she had seen a church spire ahead she would have believed she saw a London spire. "S'pose we don't go to London," said Dickon, coming to a halt. "Well, s'pose we don't!" said almost all the voices, some high and some low; but 'Lisbeth almost gasped, "We will! we must! We've gone a dreadful way, we cannot go back any more." But the little boys were bigger than 'Lisbeth; they knew now that she had made a mistake; they thought she might make a mistake about getting to London; they began to think they had made a mistake themselves. 'Lisbeth stood stamping in the road; she stood stamping and crying as hard as she could, but even Dickon began running toward the mile-stone, and what could she do but turn around and run too? She could do nothing else. She ran as fast as her feet would take her, but her feet were tired. The boys' feet were not as tired; the most of them were bigger than hers; they were bigger and not so tired, so they ran faster. 'Lisbeth was left somewhere, I do not know where; left away off on the road carrying her flag, and trotting along at a great rate by herself. This was what she got by taking the boys. She sighed over her mistake, and she concluded that even Dickon would not have cared had she been packed in a bag, and, indeed, it seemed he did not. To be sure Dickon remembered her after a while, and ran as fast as he could to find her, and see that she was all safe and give her a kiss under her funny little hat to make it all right. But 'Lisbeth felt herself hurt beyond measure, as well she might; only, if people will make mistakes they must take the consequences. If people will choose the boys when they should choose the girls, what can they expect; and if they will want to grow in London instead of wanting to grow where God put them, what can they expect? If we want to be very comfortable we must be contented where we find ourselves. CHAPTER III. The boys did not run very, very long before they saw the mill, and the steeple; they chased along the path in high glee after that, and did a great many things beside chasing along the path. But they all got home so long before the mothers came from the mill, that the mothers never knew that they had ever started for London until they were told. You may be sure they were glad that their boys had at length remembered what a naughty, foolish thing they were doing. But how the girls laughed! You may well know that the girls were pleased enough to see the boys come back. They laughed because the boys had been silly enough to start, and they laughed because they pretended to be amused at their coming back after they had started, but you and I know that they were glad enough that they did come back. As to 'Lisbeth, she held her head very high when the girls met her. She did not like being laughed at. They asked her a great many questions about London, and asked her why she did not stay, and how she liked the boys for company. It was very trying. Anybody but 'Lisbeth would have cried, or flown in a passion, but 'Lisbeth did not do either. So then the girls stopped laughing at her, and talked of something else. 'Lisbeth would not talk of anything else. She was not contented enough in the place where she grew to talk of anything else yet. She believed the girls would have done better than the boys; that she had made a mistake. Everybody liked 'Lisbeth. She was not always doing naughty, foolish things like going to London, so the girls were ready to listen to her. She told them how the boys had behaved, and what she thought of them, and how determined she was to go to London, and how she believed that the girls would have behaved better, and invited them to start with her the very next day; and if there ever was a silly little girl in all the world, it was 'Lisbeth. [Illustration] The girls talked to their mothers that night about 'Lisbeth's invitation, which was just the proper thing to do. The mothers were sorry that 'Lisbeth was not better contented in the place where she found herself; they were so sorry that they concluded to try to make her better contented, so they told the big girls that they might go, but the very little ones must stay at home. A couple of little ones stole away with the rest and came to great trouble afterward, but the larger girls went with 'Lisbeth. 'Lisbeth was delighted the next day when the girls said that they would go; she had been thinking so much about it that she was unhappy. You should have seen them the next day when they started. They were a pretty party. 'Lisbeth carried no stick this time, but a little basket, and generally managed to keep in front. There were ten of them. I think the old mile-stone would have laughed if it could, when it saw so many sweet faces bend over it to read about the miles, but then, of course, it could not. 'Lisbeth had walked so far, and run so much the day before, that she was tired a little soon; she was even very tired indeed, by the time she reached the mile-stone. No one else thought of being tired, they had been quietly playing at home the day before. 'Lisbeth did not say that she was tired, yet she really was. The girls' hands were full of flowers, their baskets and arms were full of flowers; they made balls of flowers and played with them as they walked. They left the mile-stone far away; they left the mill and the steeple far out of sight; they came to fields which were new to them. 'Lisbeth grew more tired at every step. "We must hurry and get there," said 'Lisbeth, and they all hurried; but they could every one hurry faster than 'Lisbeth without getting so tired; all except the little naughty ones who stole away, but even they were not as tired as 'Lisbeth, they had not walked so far and been so tired the day before. "I know we've come a dreadful long way," said 'Lisbeth; but nobody seemed to think so, they all went on as fast as they could. 'Lisbeth went on as fast as she could. "I 'most think we've come a hundred miles," said 'Lisbeth. "Oh no, we have not come many miles at all; it will take us all to-night, and to-morrow, and the next night, and more days and nights besides," said one of the girls, and the rest were all sure it would. "A hundred miles won't take that many days." "Yes they will; they will take longer," said one girl, and the rest said so too. "But we will want supper." "We cannot have any." 'Lisbeth was not pleased. "We must have some." "We cannot have any till we get to London." 'Lisbeth was sure they must have some, but could not think in such a minute how to get it. "We will fish some up," said 'Lisbeth, looking at the water. But nobody had any fish-hooks, though there was the water and perhaps the fish. "We will flim in and catch some," but nobody would allow 'Lisbeth to swim in and catch some. "We will get some supper from a house." "We have no money." 'Lisbeth looked down as she walked. She was perplexed. "We cannot have supper to-night, nor to-morrow night, nor the next night; nor breakfast, nor dinner." 'Lisbeth looked up and smiled; she thought they were making sport about it, but the girls' faces were quite serious; besides, she began to wonder herself where supper and dinner would come from. "We must hurry most dreadful; the sun is skimming down low," said 'Lisbeth; indeed it began to look late. "Oh we will walk all night, and all day, and to-morrow night, and the next day and night and--" "I won't," said 'Lisbeth, very decidedly. "You must." "I won't; I'm most dreadful tired now." "There's no house to sleep in; no, not even in London." 'Lisbeth looked up at the girl in distress, then off in the distance. "Not even in London!" repeated 'Lisbeth; "not even in London." 'Lisbeth wanted to stand still. "Come along!" said several voices; but 'Lisbeth did not wish to come along, and the little girls who were naughty and stole away were crying as hard as they could cry. "You must; you wanted to go, and we started, and you must go." "But I'm tired; I want to think a minute." "The sun is almost down." "I want to go home," said 'Lisbeth. "We want to go to London, and if you do not go now you can never go." 'Lisbeth stood up very tall. She was very grave. She looked straight ahead of her. "I will go back; I will never go," said 'Lisbeth. Then they all went back, and 'Lisbeth never knew how pleasant home was, how good supper was, how dear mother was, how long a hundred miles must be, till she had managed to get back and fly into mother's arms, and eat mother's supper, and go to bed in the nice comfortable place where she belonged. 'Lisbeth was very sick and very sore, and very uncomfortable for many days after trying to get to London, and did not forget very soon how far a hundred miles must be. CHAPTER IV. 'Lisbeth did not talk any more about London for a great while after that. She may have thought about it, but she did not do any more. She talked about other things. And she grew tall much faster, I have no doubt, than she would have done in London. The country air was good, and made her grow fast. You will see in the picture that she looks taller than she did when she stood thinking by the mile-stone. As she stood there, that day, she was listening to Philip McGreagor, a little boy who lived down the road, and Dickon was listening too. Dickon and 'Lisbeth were dressed in their very best clothes. 'Lisbeth's dress was quite new. A very pretty blue with dark speckles. Dickon was sorry they had on their best clothes after listening to Philip. Philip was going to be rich. He had found a pearl in a mussel in a brook; why should he not find a million? Why could not 'Lisbeth find a million? 'Lisbeth thought she could find a million; she thought she might be as rich as Philip; then she could go to London. [Illustration] 'Lisbeth and Dickon had been told not to go beyond the roller which laid on the pathway at a little distance from the house. Mother was home. It was a holiday. She wanted her children under her eyes. Besides, she had dressed them in their very best clothes. She bought those clothes; she had made them; she was a little bit proud of them. 'Lisbeth forgot the roller; forgot the mother home from the mill; forgot the very best clothes; forgot everything but the mussels and the brook, and Dickon forgot them too. There must be mussels in the brook, and pearls in the mussels. They would wade for them; they could see them at the bottom of the stream. They ran along the road to the woods; along the wood's path to the brook. Dickon took off his shoes. 'Lisbeth forgot to take off her shoes. They waded along in the water. 'Lisbeth at first held the blue dress out of the water; then she forgot to hold it out of the water; then she slipped on a stone, and fell in, and Dickon slipped, and splashed in the water in trying to keep her up; and the water, which had been clear as crystal, threw up its mud in indignation. They climbed out of the mud upon the grass, and looked at each other. 'Lisbeth had lost her shoes. Dickon looked at his own. They were all he had of his very best rig. How could they ever get home? Dickon tried to wipe the mud off, to wring it out, but 'Lisbeth would not be wrung out; she said she did not mind. But she did mind, because she would not walk or sit down, or do anything for a few minutes but stand and look. Then she told Dickon to come with her. He came, and they went down to Dillon's cottage. "Please, Mr. Dillon, put me in the wheelbarrow," said 'Lisbeth. But Dillon only stopped smoking his pipe to laugh. "Please, Mr. Dillon, very fast put me in a wheelbarrow," said 'Lisbeth, growing excited, "and roll me home." And Mr. Dillon did. 'Lisbeth's mother looked from the door. She saw the wheelbarrow; she saw Dillon's coat over something in the wheelbarrow. And other people looked from their doors and saw them too. 'Lisbeth's mother was not pleased when she saw what was in the wheelbarrow, and 'Lisbeth was no nearer getting to London than she had been before, because they were poorer instead of richer. 'Lisbeth's mother cried over the spoiled clothes. 'Lisbeth felt very badly about them, so did Dickon, but feeling badly did not bring them back. They were nothing, from that time, but stained, and washed, and faded clothes instead of brand new ones. 'Lisbeth thought about the clothes so much that she concluded she should try to do something to buy more. She began to think she was getting big enough. She contrived a great many ways, but she could not seem to decide upon anything. There was an old hogshead under the walnut tree, very high and old. When she had anything very important to think about she liked to climb up and sit on the top of the hogshead. She never allowed anybody to sit there with her. She climbed up on the hogshead and sat very still, thinking how to manage about the new clothes. Suddenly she had a pleasant thought; she believed she had a thought that would answer. She jumped up and down so suddenly and so hard that the hogshead tried to move its head out of the way. It was scarcely polite for 'Lisbeth to jump so hard on its head. It did move its head--or a part of it--and 'Lisbeth sat inside the hogshead instead of outside of it. The mother found her there when she came home. Had 'Lisbeth picked the beans, as mother had told her to do, instead of trying to think about doing something else, she would not have been obliged to sit in the hogshead's mouth, nor to have eaten her porridge without beans. CHAPTER V. 'Lisbeth was awake bright and early next day; she had business to attend to. Mother told her to be a good girl and take care of Trotty. 'Lisbeth said she would. I suppose she thought she would, but she forgot Trotty very soon, for she saw neighbor Gilham across the hill driving his sheep. Away she went running and skipping. She could scarcely wait to get to neighbor Gilham; but she was obliged to wait, for the path across the field and up to the hill was quite winding; she was obliged to follow the path. "Good morning," said 'Lisbeth, at length coming near neighbor Gilham. "Good morning," said he; "what brought you so far from home?" "I came on business," said 'Lisbeth; "very important." "Indeed! where are you going?" "Nowhere. I'm going to be a sheep-boy. I made up my mind to 't yesterday, only I got in the hogshead." "And whose sheep are you going to mind?" "Yours. I want to get money to buy a new dress, because I tumbled in the mud and spoiled my blue speckled, and I want to get rich to go to London." "Hi! hi! that is it; and you are going to be a sheep-boy?" "Yes, sir, please go home." "I cannot have a sheep-boy with skirts, he must have pants; the sheep would not like a sheep-boy with skirts." 'Lisbeth hung down her head; she began pulling some berries which grew among the brambles. She did not say another word to Mr. Gilham; she only ran down the path. Mr. Gilham giggled a little to see her go. Mr. Gilham fell asleep; fell, rather into a doze. It did not seem to him many minutes from the time when he saw her run down the path, till he heard her say: "Please go home, sir." "Who are you?" said Mr. Gilham, rousing up. "I'm the sheep-boy 'Lisbeth Lillibun." [Illustration] "I cannot have a sheep-boy in borrowed trousers," said Mr. Gilham, very decidedly; "it would not do." "Yes it would! Dickon said I might borrow 'm; yes it would do very much indeed." Mr. Gilham was so positive that it would not do that 'Lisbeth began to cry. "Sheep-boys never cry, never," said Mr. Gilham, and 'Lisbeth wiped her eyes as fast as she could. "Please to go home very fast," said 'Lisbeth, but Mr. Gilham only laughed, which made 'Lisbeth very uncomfortable. "Please to don't laugh so much," said 'Lisbeth; "more people 'n me tend to business." "Sheep-boys must keep big dogs away; they would kill the sheep." "Yes, when I see 'm coming." "Sheep-boys must drive away men; they would steal the sheep." "Yes; of course," said 'Lisbeth, trying to look very tall. "Sheep-boys must keep away lions, and tigers, and bears." "Did you ever drive away any tigers and lions and bears, Mr. Gilham?" inquired 'Lisbeth, looking straight in his eyes. "I never did, but my sheep-boy must; that is what I want a sheep-boy for." "He can't if there are none," said 'Lisbeth, looking very wise. "But there might be." "I don't think there might be." "But if there should be?" "I'll--run and tell you," said 'Lisbeth. Neighbor Gilham decided that this would never do, and 'Lisbeth thought him unreasonable enough, but she felt half inclined to stamp her foot at him, and tell him to go home, but he looked so big and idle; he looked too big and idle to get home. She thought it was a pretty business, and so it was. She concluded that she had gone into the hogshead's mouth for nothing, and so she had. She had much better been picking beans that afternoon, to put in her own mouth, but people who are not contented with doing the right thing in the right place, often fall into worse places than the hogshead's mouth, and get into more business than they care to find. "Please to tell me what I'm going to do?" inquired 'Lisbeth. "You are going to run home and mind Trotty," replied neighbor Gilham. 'Lisbeth was indignant enough. "Dickon can mind Trotty; he's mind'n her now. I'm not a minder." "I thought you did not look like a minder. Sheep-boys are all minders, every one of them, so run home." 'Lisbeth stood looking at him over her shoulder. She was too indignant for words. "If you want to grow rich," said neighbor Gilham, a little bit sorry for her--a little bit sorry not to help her in getting into business--"if you want to get rich, go hunt in all the flowers between here and home; maybe you'll find one with a gold heart." 'Lisbeth looked over her shoulder at him again very fiercely, and did not say a word; then she walked down the path. She would not let neighbor Gilham see her hold up the flower cups and look in, or unroll the buds to peep toward the heart; she would not let him see her, but she did it for all that. When she began she did not know when to stop. She hunted and hunted and looked and looked. She found the sweetest bells among the grass, but she never knew that they were sweet at all, she was only looking in every bell for gold. She found the brightest flower faces looking up at her, but never knew that they were bright. She tossed them away from her. She found neither pence nor pounds. She found the prettiest flower-lips trying to speak to her, as she bent over them, but she heard nothing that they said, she heard not a breath; she scarcely saw that the lips were pretty at all. Had she heard they would have told her to be content with the flower hearts, just as she found them; that they would give her themselves with their bright faces and patient hearts, which were better than hard hearts of gold. They would have told her to be content with growing where she was, and never to think about the world beyond the mile-stone, for contentment is better than gold itself. They would have told her to mind Trotty, and pick beans, and help mother, which was the dearest, best, and happiest work she could ever find; but 'Lisbeth would not hear, she would not hear at all. She did not know that neighbor Gilham could see her from the hill. She forgot all about Gilham; she forgot all about mother and Trotty; forgot everything which she should have remembered, though she found no gold. Neighbor Gilham should never have sent her hunting for what he knew she could not find, he should not have told her to hunt for gold in the flower-hearts; he should have rather told her to listen to the lesson of the flowers and be content. But neighbor Gilham did not tell her this, and she did not think of it, and though she came home no richer, she was hustled to bed before twilight and for her supper had neither porridge with nor porridge without the beans. CHAPTER VI. When 'Lisbeth's mother came home from the mill and found out how matters were going; when 'Lisbeth came home in Dickon's suit, from hunting for gold, she felt very certain that 'Lisbeth was not as good as many little girls were, and this made her sigh very deeply. Then she tried to think how to make her better; she scarcely knew how to begin, but she thought the best way, perhaps, would be to send her to school with Gorham, and let Dickon, who was a better "minder" than 'Lisbeth, take care of Trotty. 'Lisbeth was not pleased at all. She did not think she would like to go to school, but her mother did not ask her opinion; it was not worth while. 'Lisbeth went to school the next morning. The school teacher smiled at 'Lisbeth when she came in. 'Lisbeth did not smile; she looked very serious indeed. "How do you do, my dear?" said the teacher. "I do what I like, ma'am, most times," said 'Lisbeth. This was very improper, but 'Lisbeth did not know it; she believed she had answered correctly. [Illustration] Miss Pritchet was not pleased, she only said, "Sit down, my dear," and 'Lisbeth sat down. By and by Miss Pritchet told 'Lisbeth to come stand by her, and 'Lisbeth came. "What have you been learning, little girl?" inquired Miss Pritchet. "I've been learning the way all around the country, and how to spike minnows in the mill race, and--" "Tut, tut!" said Miss Pritchet. "I mean have you been learning to read and write and spell?" "No 'm, I never learned those at all, only to spell." "Then you will like to learn I know; you will like to learn lessons." "Is there anything about London in 'm?" "About London?" "Yes 'm. London is a hundred miles away. I learned that a time ago." "When you can read you can learn more about London if you wish to; you will find it in the books." "Yes 'm I want to," said Lisbeth. "I wish to live there." "You must learn to be satisfied where you are," said Miss Pritchet; "you must not want to go to London." "I mean to." "I thought you were a good little girl; good little girls are satisfied here." "Are they?" "Yes, they are; you must be satisfied here." "But I don't mean to be." "Oh!" said Miss Pritchet. "I mean to get to London very fast," continued 'Lisbeth. "Little girls who do not like to live where they find themselves often come to great trouble," said Miss Pritchet, with the corners of her mouth all drawn down. "Maybe I may like to grow where I find myself when I get to London," said 'Lisbeth a little despairingly. "You are not a very good little girl, I am afraid," said Miss Pritchet, but 'Lisbeth could not think why Miss Pritchet said such a thing. "Get your book now and come spell." "Yes 'm," said 'Lisbeth, like the best little girl that ever was. "Can you spell?" "Yes 'm. Is London in this book? it begins with an L." "Tut! tut!" said Miss Pritchet, "let me hear you spell that line." 'Lisbeth spelled, she spelled better than Miss Pritchet had imagined. "That is a nice little girl. Now take your book and go learn this next line." 'Lisbeth took the book and sat down to spell. She got along nicely for a little way; then she came to the word aisle. She did not like the appearance of it. She did not like it at all. She ran up to Miss Pritchet's desk. "What does this spell?" she inquired. "That is aisle," said Miss Pritchet. "Aisle!" repeated 'Lisbeth; "I do not like spelling aisle with a i s l e; I like i l e." "Hush, my dear." "But I don't like it," persisted 'Lisbeth. "If I don't like it I don't." "Go and sit down at once," commanded Miss Pritchet. 'Lisbeth went and sat down. She learned every word but aisle. 'Lisbeth was a very foolish little girl not to learn aisle. "Come here, my dear," said Miss Pritchet; she gave 'Lisbeth the words. 'Lisbeth spelled them very well. Then said Miss Pritchet, "aisle--" "I did not learn it," said 'Lisbeth. "I said I did not like it and I don't." "But you must learn it, if you like it or not." "I must?" said 'Lisbeth, in astonishment. "Of course you must; we all must do a great many things which we do not like." "I don't mean to," said 'Lisbeth. Miss Pritchet was astonished. "You must." "What must I do beside learning to spell aisle?" "Nothing now!" "Oh," said 'Lisbeth, reassured; "I thought you said we must all do a great many things." "Go sit down this minute," commanded Miss Pritchet, and 'Lisbeth sat down, and she learned aisle, but she did not get home until very late, because Miss Pritchet said that such a very improperly behaved child should never go home at a proper time, from her school; but 'Lisbeth could not see, with all her trying, what she had been improper about. Had she learned aisle, though she did not want to? Certainly she had. Besides being perplexed about this, she was a little vexed with Miss Pritchet about something else. She had been given to understand that there was something about London in the books. She had been spelling words half the day and had not come to London. She spelled and spelled, but did not come to London. She felt herself imposed upon; she felt herself very much imposed upon. "Please find London," asked 'Lisbeth at length of Miss Pritchet. "London indeed? Not for such an improper little girl. You must stop thinking about London, I say. You will be sorry if you do not stop. You must." "I must?" said 'Lisbeth, a little meekly. "I must, must I?" But as she said it her voice sounded very much as though it said, "If I cannot, how can I?" "Yes, you must;" and 'Lisbeth went and sat down to think about it. This was 'Lisbeth's first day at school and she had a great many more days at school, and learned a great many things every day, but one thing she did not manage to learn at all--to stop thinking about London. CHAPTER VII. 'Lisbeth did not find any word in her lesson the next day which she did not like. She spelled them over, and concluded that she liked them all pretty well. One word she looked at quite hard before she concluded that she liked them all, but she found out that she did not object to it. She spelled them so nicely that Miss Pritchet was quite pleased, and 'Lisbeth had a little more time than she had the day before, to look around and find out what next was to be done. Jemmy Jenkins sat next to her; he was older than 'Lisbeth, but that did not make any matter; he whispered to 'Lisbeth behind his slate. She thought after this that she knew Jemmy Jenkins better than anybody else. At recess she and Jemmy Jenkins had a great deal of fun and jumped over Miss Pritchet's garden plot seventeen times each, without getting in the middle of it more than twice. "Say, Jemmy," said 'Lisbeth, "I think this flower plot would look nice with its roots stuck up." "How?" inquired Jemmy, ready for anything new and agreeable. "This way," replied 'Lisbeth, and she seized a pretty marguerite in bloom, dug it up with a stick, and planted it upside down; the stick to which it was tied for support she propped under it to keep the roots in the air, for the marguerites have little tender stems. Nobody happened to see. Jemmy thought this would be very nice. He ran and got the spade, and took out his knife to cut sticks, and they soon turned Miss Pritchet's plants upside down, with the flowers in the ground, and the roots in the air, and nobody caught them at it. They washed off the mud at the pump, and then the bell rang and they all went in to school. [Illustration] Miss Pritchet looked from the window; she caught a glimpse of the garden plot; she caught a glimpse of the roots in the air; she gave a little cry and ran to the door. 'Lisbeth had forgotten the marguerites. She was trying to squeeze a big knot through the little hole in her shoe. "Who did this?" Miss Pritchet almost screamed. "I don't know 'm!" replied everybody in a minute, seeing something had happened. 'Lisbeth called, "Don't know 'm!" together with the rest, without knowing what the confusion was about. When she found out what it was about, she only said "oh!" Miss Pritchet looked at her. She looked at Miss Pritchet. "Did you do that?" inquired Miss Pritchet, pointing to the marguerites. "Do what?" inquired 'Lisbeth as politely as she could. "Uproot my flowers." "Were they yours?" "Did you do it?" "Yes 'm," replied 'Lisbeth, trying to look as though nothing had happened. "I didn't think anybody tended 'm." "What did you do it for?" "To give 'm air," replied 'Lisbeth. "Please 'm may Susan Jordan put this string in my shoe, it won't never go in?" "Come here this moment, you improper child!" said Miss Pritchet. 'Lisbeth dropped her shoe-string and cowered up to Miss Pritchet like a startled dove. "Didn't you know better?" "No 'm, I never did." "You will!" "Will I? I want to know as much as I can," said 'Lisbeth. Need I say that Miss Pritchet taught her at once what it was to put the roots of marguerites to air? I need not tell you, I know. But one thing I will tell you, 'Lisbeth bore her punishment by herself, and never told on Jemmy Jenkins; but Jemmy Jenkins was man enough to tell on himself, which was much the best way, and pleased Miss Pritchet so much that she broke off both punishments clear in the middle, and told 'Lisbeth and Jemmy Jenkins that she would try not to remember about the marguerites at all, if they would try never to do so any more. Yet when 'Lisbeth, upon starting for home, told her that she had learned one thing that day, she had learned not to put the roots of marguerites to air, Miss Pritchet looked very stern, for which 'Lisbeth could not account at all. Gorham felt very much ashamed in having his sister treat Miss Pritchet's marguerites in such an unfeeling manner; he felt very much ashamed indeed. Gorham was a very proper boy; he did not like to have his sister called an improper child. He would like to have told Miss Pritchet so, only that would have been improper. He was not pleased with Miss Pritchet; he was not pleased with 'Lisbeth; he was not pleased with Jemmy Jenkins. After school he told Jemmy Jenkins what he thought of it; that it was not proper to treat anybody's marguerites in such a manner; that he was older and bigger and wiser than 'Lisbeth, and should have told her better; and Jemmy Jenkins sat on a log rubbing his fingers together and thinking that Gorham was not making any mistakes at all, though he, himself, had made a great mistake when he helped 'Lisbeth plant the marguerites with the roots up. Jemmy Jenkins felt very much ashamed of himself, very much ashamed indeed, which was the very best way for him to feel, as he would not be likely, after feeling so much ashamed of himself, to do so again. 'Lisbeth told her mother that she was learning a great deal at school; then the mother smiled, but when she heard about the marguerites she did not smile, she looked as stern as she could, and 'Lisbeth thought this was beyond bearing, for everybody to look stern when she was learning and improving. But 'Lisbeth did improve, she improved a great deal, only after she had been at school with Miss Pritchet a couple of years it turned out that 'Lisbeth could not stay any longer with Miss Pritchet, could not stay any longer where she grew, but must go to a new place, and go a great way to get to it; in fact, after a great deal of talking, and a great deal of thinking, and a great deal of planning, 'Lisbeth's mother found that she must--she could not help it, she could do nothing better--she must go to live in London. CHAPTER VIII. Now 'Lisbeth had never given up counting the miles to London. She had counted them up by tens many a time; she had counted them up by twenties; she had counted them up every way there was to count them, but they continued to be a great many miles. When she learned that she was going to grow in a new place, she believed that nothing would ever trouble her any more; that the world would be made over new. 'Lisbeth could not help in getting ready; if she had done less in getting ready she might have helped her mother more. But mother helped herself. She sold a great many things, and she left a great many things to be sent after her, and she carried a great many things with her. Mother cried when she left the old house, but 'Lisbeth did not cry, she danced about on the points of her toes, till she laughed herself quite red in the face. 'Lisbeth had always been a little foolish about London. 'Lisbeth had wished a great while to go to London. She might have been a great deal happier in the beautiful place where she grew if she had not wished so hard; she had wished very hard and she got there. She had always believed that London was delightful; now she knew it was. She had lived in a dear little mite of a house, now she would live in a tall one. She had lived next and near to a great many people, now she would live under the roof with a great many people. She had lived on a lane, now she would live on a--well, a street which was too little and short and narrow to be called a street. 'Lisbeth knew she had come to London because she was poorer, instead of because she was richer, but that did not make any difference. At the end of the street too little to be called a street, was a real, true, broad street, with fine houses packed together from one end to the other end of it. 'Lisbeth slipped down the stairs, and along the little street to the corner. She threw up her hands in admiration. She looked up and down in delight. It was a fine thing to live in London, a very great and fine thing indeed. She ran quite out of the little street to look up and down the greater one. She saw the windows in rows, blazing with lights. She clapped her hands; she was delighted. She heard children's voices from an open window. She climbed stealthily up to the window and looked in. Six children appeared before her, with very sweet faces, and pretty clothes, and the lights flashed down upon them from overhead. They were playing with dolls. They were playing so hard that they did not see 'Lisbeth clinging to the sill. They were pretending that the dolls were talking to each other, that the one was the man and the other the mistress. The mistress was telling the man to take off his hat; but he was a stubborn man, he would not take off his hat. Then the children all laughed, and 'Lisbeth laughed so much harder than anybody else, that they all looked up and saw her hanging to the sill; then she dropped suddenly, and forgot that she had to drop so far, and had she not caught by her skirt and hung to the iron railing of the area, nobody knows how she might have been broken and battered and bruised by falling down the area before she had been in London over night. But she caught to the spikes and her dress was strong; and the children all ran and saw her hanging to the spikes, and somebody lifted her over and stood her on her feet and turned her around to see what she looked like, and then she ran home as soon as she could find out which way to run. She found out that the big street was nicer than the little one; that the people on the big street were different from the people on the little one. She found out that all the houses and streets in London were not just alike, and she found this out before she had gone to sleep the first night, in the little black room, in the big dirty house, in the little black street. But she was not sorry she had come to London. She wondered if everybody who lived in London had such lovely dolls as the mistress, such wonderful dolls as the man she had seen. She wondered if there were many children in London who wore such pretty clothes, and who played under such flashing lights, and who had such shining glasses, and tables, and chairs, and wonderful furniture of all kinds in the rooms where they played, and she concluded there must be; this time she did not make a mistake, for there were. [Illustration] 'Lisbeth noticed that her mother, and Gorham, and Dickon, and Trotty did not go in any rooms of the tall house but two; she found that these two were at the top of the house, and that they had nothing to do with those underneath; she found out that there was a great clatter in the house, and in the next houses, as though the whole town were talking; she wondered how she liked it; but she concluded that she liked it very much; she was living in London, how could she help liking it? Mother looked solemn, and the rooms looked black, and the things were tumbled upside down, and the air was hot, and the noise kept everybody awake, and everybody was half tired to death, and nothing was as bright as it might have been--not even the tallow candle--but they were in London, a hundred miles from the mile-stone; a hundred miles from the church steeple, and the mill, and the dear bit of a house where they had all grown, and rolled, and tumbled; and from the meadows with the flowers sleeping side by side; but they were in London, what did it matter? Yet if they really were in London, while they slept they dreamed they were playing, and walking and talking under the shadow of the church steeple, and by the mill, and chasing butterflies over the meadows where the flowers were fast asleep, and forgot that the rooms were black, and the air hot, and that things were not as they had been. CHAPTER IX. 'Lisbeth learned a great many things very soon, though she was not at school. A very great many things indeed; and they were not always pleasant things. She learned, for one thing, that they grew poorer every day, instead of growing richer. She learned that the dirty little street, too little to be a real street, was not as pleasant to look upon as the garden plot at home, and the green of the fields over the way. She learned that mother grew thinner, and that the boys grew dirtier and crosser, and the people down stairs, she found out, were not like the mill hands at home, the mill hands and the little children. She saw a great many fine sights; she saw shops which made her open her eyes; and houses which astonished her to behold, and carriages which took her breath away, and people who overcame her altogether. She saw sights and shows such as she had never dreamed of; she saw a wax figure at the corner, with a fine curled wig, a figure which turned from side to side; she saw sights on every side to please her fancy, to delight her eyes, but only to make her remember afterward that she lived among a lot of dirty people, in two miserable old rooms, in a dirty little street; that she was really happier in the place where she grew first than in the place where she grew last; that made her wonder why she had ever sighed, and sighed, and wished to get a hundred miles away from that precious old mile-stone. She was not contented in London a bit more than she had been contented playing in the shadow of the steeple and of the mill. She was not contented at all. Had she learned to be contented under the shadow of the mill and the steeple, under the walnut tree, and among the flowers around the mile-stone, she might have smiled brighter smiles in the dark little room in the dirty old house, in the dirty little street in London. A bright, contented flower says the same sweet words in the fresh green fields, and in a little flower pot up in a London window; a contented little flower always wears a bright face. A contented heart is always cheerful. 'Lisbeth had never been contented. She was always wishing to be somewhere else. She was not contented before she went to London, that was the reason why she was not contented when she reached there. 'Lisbeth tried to find some nice little London girl to talk to; she tried first to find a great many, then she tried to find one; she tried to find some nice little London boys; then she tried to find one nice little London boy; but the boys and the girls had not been taught to be very nice, in the dirty old house in the dirty little street, and though some of them had good enough faces, they had not pleasant ways, nor pleasant words. When Gorham and Dickon wanted to play they found nobody but boys who were not comfortable boys to play with; at first they did not play with those uncomfortable boys at all; then they played with them a little, and then they played with them more, so that Dickon and Gorham became after a time not as good and pleasant themselves as they once were. One day there were some new people came to live in a room down stairs; a mother and father and three little boys. They looked as though they had never lived in such a dirty street before. They were good little boys, with pleasant ways, and pleasant words, and very pleasant faces. 'Lisbeth liked to peep in and help them play; she liked to play with them very much; they made her feel happier. 'Lisbeth had come to London, but she was not very happy; she did not say so, but it was true just the same. These little boys had no toys to play with, but they were good and contented just the same. They played with whatever came in their way; they were as happy in playing with the old chairs as many boys are with their rocking-horses. They were contented little boys. But they were very poor; 'Lisbeth knew they were; she was very sorry that they were so poor, but they were not. They did not care at all. She was sorry that the mother and father had to leave them so much alone; perhaps they may have been sorry themselves about this, I do not know. How 'Lisbeth laughed when she saw them playing with the brooms. They made a procession, that is they all walked in a line; the tallest at the head, and the little one coming last, and each one carried a brush or broom with a long handle, and if soldiers were ever proud of their guns, so were these little boys proud. Perhaps they were more proud than soldiers with guns. [Illustration] 'Lisbeth knew that these little boys were alone a great deal, because their mother and father were so poor, and were obliged to go and earn all they could, and she used to run in very often to see how they managed. But these were contented little boys; they were contented where they found themselves, and that was the reason why they got along so well. If they had been discontented they would have gone out of their mother's rooms into other rooms in the house, and then into the street, and into the gutter. Then they would have become soiled and spoiled, and changed altogether, but they were contented with their mother's rooms, and her chairs and tables, and frying pans, and brooms, and all the things which they found there; so they did not get soiled or spoiled or changed, but kept good and bright, pleasant little pictures as you would find in a day's walk. 'Lisbeth found, after she came to London, that there was a great deal to be done besides play; she had to learn to sew and help mother earn some money, but she was not very big and could not do much, only try. At first 'Lisbeth believed she could make a great deal of money. She knew people must make money in London; she had heard so. Besides, people seemed to spend so much that there must be some way of getting it. 'Lisbeth was sure there was. She tried to make money in several ways. This was a mistake; she should have been content with trying to help all she could at home, and then mother would have had more time, and so could have made more money, which would have helped them all. But this was not 'Lisbeth's way of doing. She tried to make a way of her own. One day 'Lisbeth saw a little boy sweeping a street crossing; she had seen boys do this before, but had never thought anything about it. This time she thought about it because she saw some gentleman drop a little coin in the little boy's hand. This was a revelation to 'Lisbeth; it taught her something which she did not know before. In another hour 'Lisbeth was sweeping a very dirty crossing, and she swept it and swept it over again; she swept until there really was not another speck to sweep, and the people, by the dozens and scores and hundreds walked over that crossing, and carried to it more mud for 'Lisbeth to sweep away, but nobody put an atom of anything in 'Lisbeth's hand for sweeping it, though she stood there the whole long day; and she found out still another time that money was hard to pick up even in London, and if she stopped that day, in passing, as she generally did to look at the wax figure in the curled wig, at the corner of the street, she did not care a fig about it. CHAPTER X. 'Lisbeth was quite down-hearted that day after sweeping the crossing; she was discouraged enough, especially as her mother was greatly grieved at her going away and staying so long, and reproved her very severely. She felt very much discouraged indeed, but could not help believing in spite of it all that something would turn up, which would be bright and pleasant in such a fine city; she could not believe anything else. As she came home that day she popped her head in the door of the room on the lower floor, to see how matters were getting on there. She shut the door again carefully, without saying a word. On the floor were scattered many things, and in the corner, like so many leaves blown together, were the three little boys fast asleep. How tired they must have been; how hard they had played; indeed they had played too hard, for near them on the floor lay the remnants of mother's good sweeping brush which they had played quite to destruction. They were tired completely, and never knew that 'Lisbeth had looked in upon them to find out how they were getting along. [Illustration] I wonder what they were dreaming of as they slept; I believe they must have been pleasant dreams, unless they were dreaming about the broken brush--they were such comfortable-looking little faces, and they had such comfortable hearts, because they were good, and comfortable hearts help bring bright dreams. When the mother came home I think she must have smiled to see them heaped in the corner fast asleep, but I suppose she had found them heaped in a corner asleep many a time. I hope she did not scold very hard about the broken brush, and I am almost sure she did not. 'Lisbeth, as I said before, felt very much discouraged that evening. She even felt dull the next morning, and the next afternoon. The mother had gone out that afternoon to take home some sewing; the boys were playing outside. 'Lisbeth had nobody to talk to. She concluded to talk to herself. She got up on a high three-legged stool in the corner, and sat with her face to the wall; she wanted to think. She could not think if she was looking out of the window, or around the room, or if she sat in every-day fashion on a chair or on the floor. She sat in the darkest corner she could find. "'Lisbeth Lillibun," she said to herself, "you have done nothing for yourself yet by coming to London; you have done nothing for yourself yet;" and it seemed that all the glasses and crockery on the table, and on the shelf, and even the coffee pot turned up on the stove to dry, jingled and rattled and laughed; but, of course, they did not. "You must be up and a-doing, 'Lisbeth; it is time;" then the tin tea pot, and the coffee pot, and the candlestick turned up on the stove to melt the old candle out, and the spider and the skillet and the dipper seemed, every one of them, to be giggling, and 'Lisbeth looked around at them; but of course it was only a fancy. "You have been making a goose of yourself, and most of all in sweeping a crossing dry for people to spatter with mud; you should be ashamed of yourself to be such a silly, and sitting where you are instead of being sitting somewhere else," and the tongs did clap together, and the poker did roll over, and the gridiron did give a clink against the wall, but I think the wind must have blown down the chimney. 'Lisbeth was insulted, however; she did not believe in the tins and tongs making fun of her. She got down from the stool, and put her bonnet on, and then changed it for her hat with a ribbon tied around it, and then she went out where there were no tongs to clap at her; but of course it was only a fancy of 'Lisbeth's about the tongs, for how could a tongs clap unless it was clapped? It was wrong for 'Lisbeth to go out; her place was in the house. But she thought that it happened just as well that she did go out, for as she went down stairs she thought a thought, which she might never have thought had she remained sitting upon the stool. She went down stairs and along the little street to the corner, and opened the door of the store in the window of which stood the wax figure with its wig, which was standing still just then, instead of turning gracefully from side to side. She opened the door and went in. "What do you want, Sissy?" inquired a pleasant little man. "I want to stay, sir, and make wigs." "You want to stay and make wigs!" "Yes, sir, I do," replied 'Lisbeth. "Bless me!" exclaimed the pleasant little man, "this will not do." "Oh, yes, it will, sir," replied 'Lisbeth, untying the knot in the strings of her hat, "it will do very well. I have not been able to think of any thing that would do before." "But bless me!" "Indeed I will, sir, if that is all," said 'Lisbeth, wondering how to do it, but taking off her hat. "I don't want any wigs!" "You don't?" replied 'Lisbeth, filled with astonishment. "No, I don't; I really don't!" 'Lisbeth saw that he had plenty of hair, and as he rubbed his head she supposed he was remembering this. "Other people do," said 'Lisbeth, reassured; "I see a good many of 'm every day who do; you can sell 'm." "Sell 'm? I do sell 'm. I sell 'm when I can; but bless me!" "Where shall I get the hair to make 'm of?" inquired 'Lisbeth, preparing to go to work. "But I don't want 'm!" "Oh!" replied 'Lisbeth, not a word else; but the pleasant little man snapped his fingers at her and beckoned her around the counter, and under the shelf of the beautiful big window, and made her screw herself up into a button which nobody could see, and pulled a curtain down over her, and showed her, before he pulled the curtain down, how to pull a wire very gently and tenderly to make the wax figure in the curled wig turn from side to side, and she did it. She pulled it this way, and she pulled it that way. She heard the people outside tramping up to the window and tramping away; she remembered how she had tramped up and tramped away. She laughed to hear them tramping, because she knew that a great many of them had their mouths open as well as their eyes, as they saw the wax figure, in a wig, turning from side to side. She would never open her mouth as well as her eyes again, when she saw a wax figure turning from side to side. She was certain she never would. CHAPTER XI. How long 'Lisbeth might have sat under the shelf, and under the curtain, earning pence and pulling wires, and forgetting that her mother was looking for her, had she not fallen into a doze, I cannot say. She might have been there till now; she might have been there ten years to come; but she did doze and she did wake up; she had swept the crossing hard enough the day before to be tired, and she was; she was tired, and it was coming night, and she did doze, and she did wake up, and she did wake up with a start which broke the wire, and twisted the head of the wax figure clear out of place, so that it looked in the shop instead of out of it, and made a confusion inside, and outside, and on all sides, seldom made by any wax figure in any wig since the beginning of time. 'Lisbeth told the pleasant little man that she could not help it, and he told her that he could not help it, and 'Lisbeth went home--to be sure seven pence richer, but a good deal flustered and disappointed, and with the determination never again, while she lived and breathed, to have anything to do with, or even so much as to look at any wax figures or any wigs. 'Lisbeth's mother told her that had she waited, and asked her advice, instead of leaving her to such distress in looking for her, she would have told her, in the beginning, to have nothing to do in the matter of wigs, with which she was not acquainted, and reproved her for staying away till the candle was lighted on the shelf; and 'Lisbeth, if she was no more unhappy than she had been when she stood by the mile-stone, was certainly no more happy. To be sure she was richer. Though she had broken the wire, the pleasant little man had given her seven pence, though she had gained nothing more; but the bother, now, was to know what to do with it. Had it been seven thousand pence she might, perhaps, have known better what to do with it; but seven pence were of so much more consequence; being a little it had to go a great way. There was no trifling to be done about it. She knew the importance of it. She was awake half the night considering how to spend it, and the other half she was dreaming of losing and finding it, until by morning her head was almost split in two. Had 'Lisbeth run home and given the seven pence to her mother to buy a nice platted loaf or a piece of bacon, her head had not almost split in two; but 'Lisbeth was always making trouble for herself. Though the thoughts and worry about the pence almost split her head, she was not in a condition in the morning to know what to do with the pence. She had her own pence and her own plan, had she had less of her own she would have been more comfortable. But 'Lisbeth was 'Lisbeth, and if her mother sighed about it, she could not see any way of making her anybody else. When breakfast was over that morning the mother went to carry some sewing home, and while she was gone 'Lisbeth thought she would go out too. This was very wrong; very wrong indeed, but 'Lisbeth did not wait to think about that. She took a basket when she went out, and she took her seven pence. She felt herself very important indeed, though really she was nobody but a disobedient little girl. She came to a cake shop where all kinds of cakes were to be bought. "I'm going to keep store," said 'Lisbeth to the shopman, "and I want some wonderful nice cakes." "You do, do you?" said the shopman; "let me see your money." "Seven pence," said 'Lisbeth, displaying it on the counter; "I want to spend it all." "You do, do you? Where's your store?" "In my basket," said 'Lisbeth, but there was nothing in her basket but a bit of brown paper. "What would you like to buy with your seven pence?" asked the shopman. "A great many things," said 'Lisbeth; "but I think I will buy some of these cakes." "Humph," said the shopman; "pick out nine of 'm." 'Lisbeth picked them out. They were cakes of different shapes; quite a stock for seven pence, and no mistake. 'Lisbeth arranged the cakes along the bottom of the basket in two rows; four in one row and five in the other. Then she started off. She never was more pleased in her life. She was more sure than ever that she was somebody, that she was somebody important. She expected that every one of those cakes would be gone before she had time to look around. She was surprised to find that instead of everybody stopping to look at them, nobody stopped to look at them at all. She was surprised to find everybody going by as though there was a pot of gold, at the other end of the street, which they were hurrying on to get, while they did not so much as glance at her, or at the cakes in her basket. This would never do. She would walk up and ask them to buy. So she walked up and asked them, but they did not hear her, or did not want to hear her, and did not stop walking as fast as they could, except one lady with two little girls who bought two for two pence. 'Lisbeth thought these were nice little girls; she wished afterward she had asked them to buy four for four pence. Nobody else bought any. She walked and walked, and stood; and the mother came home and wondered where she was, and looked out of the window, and out of the door, and listened on the stairs, but could make nothing of it at all; and the fact was, that when the mother was listening on the stairs, and looking out of the doors, and sighing to herself about ever having come to London, 'Lisbeth was sound asleep, at the corner of the street, seated on the sidewalk with her back against the wall, and her basket standing beside her, and the mother might as well have listened for her feet as for the buzzing of a china bumble-bee with glass legs. [Illustration] CHAPTER XII. 'Lisbeth was asleep. She was tired enough to sleep well. She was better off asleep than awake; had you asked her she would have told you so. As she slept she dreamed, and as she dreamed the forms in the basket became living things, and the pence in her pocket changed to pounds, and things which were not became to her as though they were. In fact 'Lisbeth doubted that she was 'Lisbeth, and who knows but had she dreamed long enough she might have been the queen herself? The bird, in the basket, stood on its gingerbread legs, which were changed to real bird's legs, and it sung to her sweeter than the bird at the mile-stone sung on the post. The little dog forgot that it was gingerbread, and barked and sprung about, and shone like satin in its pretty black coat; it barked in a charming fashion. The cat? it was beautiful as only cats in dreams can be, as it sat on the handle of the basket; it was a beautiful picture to behold. But what amused and delighted her more than the bird or the cat or the dog, was the real live elephant which floated in the air without wings, and the two charming little angels, with little brass crowns, who sung sweeter than the bird itself, and blew about like thistle-down, and astonished her more than all the shows of London. But the most delightful gingerbread of all was the gingerbread parrot, which was no more a gingerbread, but a real, true, live, green and gold parrot which tapped at her hat and called, "Come, Lady 'Lisbeth, here is a coach and four, to ride to your door." Then 'Lisbeth woke up, and when she saw that the parrot and the angels and the elephant, and the dog and cat, and even the bird, which had been singing on the bottom of the basket were all gingerbread, she flew up in a passion and threw them all to the ground, and had them all to pick up again. [Illustration] When she went home she told her mother everything that had happened, and the mother told her something that was going to happen, and they had a great deal to say to each other. I think I would have said more to her than her mother did, but she said all she wanted to, which was possibly enough. But when she told 'Lisbeth what was going to happen, she expected to see 'Lisbeth fly up in a great passion; instead of this, however, 'Lisbeth began laughing, and laughed so hard that her mother had to pat her on the back to make her stop. In fact, when the mother was living with her children in the old home, and suddenly grew poorer, she had concluded to go to London, where she might sew, she thought, for large prices, and so get rich faster, but when, after she got to London, she found the prices were little, and her money was growing less, and her boys were getting spoiled, and 'Lisbeth was getting to do so many things she should not do, she wished she had never seen London. Then she began thinking that it would be just as easy not to see it any more, as it had been to come a hundred miles to see it. Then she concluded not to see it any more, and this was what she told 'Lisbeth when they both had so much to say to each other. The next morning 'Lisbeth awoke with the impression that something very pleasant had happened, or was about to happen. She forgot to help her mother clear away the breakfast dishes, and sat on the three-legged stool in the corner quite by herself, with her face to the wall. The mother saw her sitting there as she popped her head in the door, but she would not call her; she began to think she was grieving about leaving London, yet she might have known better by the delight of her morning embrace, if by nothing else. At any rate she would let her alone; she would let her think it out. So she cleared up the dishes and brushed up the floor, and put in the stitches, and packed her parcel and said "good-by" to 'Lisbeth, for she was going to the shop. 'Lisbeth was yet on the stool when her mother went out of the door. "Bother!" she exclaimed, twirling about as she found herself alone. "'Lisbeth Lillibun you are a humbug, you are indeed. You are a humbug and no mistake; here you have been to London all this time and made only two pence, and seven gingerbreads, and here is your mother troubled for a bit of money to get back to the old place. Why is it you cannot help her?" Had 'Lisbeth remained sitting on the stool she would have continued talking to herself, which might have resulted in no harm, and might have kept her quiet and good, like a pleasant, dutiful child till the mother came, but 'Lisbeth leaped off of the stool as a thought came into her mind which might never have come there had she not leaped the moment she did. There was one trait in 'Lisbeth which is not in everybody. When 'Lisbeth concluded to do a thing she did it; she did not wait until the next week or the next month, she did not even wait until the next day. You will say this was very clever and nice of 'Lisbeth to be so much in earnest; and so it might have been had she mixed the earnestness with the right kind of consideration for her mother's wishes. Indeed, in that case she would have been such a very fine girl that ten chances to one there would never have been any story about her at all; but she did not mix her earnestness with anything but her own judgment, and she made just as real a mistake as you would make should you mix your lemonade with salt, instead of sugar--it was the wrong kind of mixture altogether. When I say of 'Lisbeth that when she had a thing to do, she did it, that she did not wait until the next week, or next month, or next year, you will say: "How very delightful; how very much nicer and better 'Lisbeth must have been than most other people;" but when I tell you that she thought she knew what was best to be done so much better than anybody else, that she did what she thought best without asking her mother, you will know in a minute that 'Lisbeth was not as "nice" as a great many other people. How could she be? Why, she could not be at all. Well when 'Lisbeth thought the thought as she leaped off the stool, she did not wait until the next day to do what she thought about doing, nor till the next hour. She did not wait to consult her mother. As usual, she mixed her own judgment with her earnestness, instead of making use of her mother's judgment, and that was the cause of the confusion. Children's earnestness directed by the mother's judgment is a very different thing from children's earnestness directed by the children's judgment; there is as much difference between the two as there is between lemonade mixed with sugar and lemonade mixed with salt. 'Lisbeth thought it would be pleasant to get everything pulled down, and turned inside out, and packed up ready to leave London; it would be that much done toward starting, it would be a great help, it would be delightful. Had she waited for mother's judgment she would have learned that mother would not get off from London for two months at any rate, that the things must not be pulled down until it was time to pack them up, that it would not be time to pack them up until just before they started. But 'Lisbeth mixed her earnestness with her own judgment. CHAPTER XIII. 'Lisbeth said to herself: "Who knows but we shall go to-day or to-morrow, if mother gets the money; she said she would go when she got the money." 'Lisbeth had found something to do at last. Gorham had gone with the mother to help carry her parcel, and Dickon was playing outside. Dickon's two feet had come in, but they had gone out again. They so often went out after they had come in that this was nothing uncommon. At first 'Lisbeth did not care about it; it made no difference to her that they had gone out, she began work by herself. She was a fast worker, an earnest worker, a worker who made things fly when she set about making them fly. I do not mean that she made them really fly up with wings, but she made them get from one place to another so fast that we may say she made them fly. She made the dishes fly out of the closets; the platters, the pots, and the patty pans; the stewpans, and spiders, and skillets; the boilers and broilers, and dippers; the glass jars, the stone jars, the basins; the boxes and bundles and baskets; a pretty job she was making of it, and, in the middle of it all, her face shone like a young sun, she was so delightfully busy. Suddenly 'Lisbeth remembered that she was working very hard, that Dickon was not working hard, that he was doing nothing but playing on the stairs; this was not pleasant to remember. "Do come here, Dickon," called 'Lisbeth, over the railing, and Dickon came. "Pull down everything very fast," commanded 'Lisbeth; "mother is going from London dreadful quick, the minute she gets the money; I shall pack things and get ready." Dickon did not like to pull them down; he did not approve of packing, he wanted to play. "You are a miserable boy, Dickon, worse than most any boy to leave me here by my lone self." Dickon looked around and began to think so too. "P'haps mother don't want to be packed." "Yes, she does; she does very much indeed; bring the things here, Dickon; pull'm all down here." Dickon did not like to pull them down; he was not sure even yet that mother wanted to be packed. "Pile'm down, Dickon!" commanded 'Lisbeth, and Dickon piled them down. "Hadn't you better fix some before you get more?" "I'll fix 'm when I get 'm all down here." "What? are you going to get all the dishes and--" "Go on I tell you, Dickon Lillibun! will you go on?" Dickon went on; so did 'Lisbeth. There was no place to walk, there was no place to sit down, there was scarcely place to stand; there was no place to put anything, there was scarcely anything more to put. Everything was pulled out, and heaped about, and 'Lisbeth stood in the middle of them. "Now, Dickon, this does look like doing something, don't it?" Dickon thought it did, Dickon capered over everything and started for the door. "Do not go!" commanded 'Lisbeth. "Do not go! do not dare to go!" But Dickon was gone. "Dickon!" called 'Lisbeth over the railings, "Dickon!" But Dickon was out of sight and hearing. "Oh that dreadful Dickon!" moaned 'Lisbeth, as she fluttered down the stairs to bring him back. Had Dickon never stopped work, had Dickon never run away, had 'Lisbeth never fluttered after him, things might have been different. I say they might have been, because, as I explained before, nobody could be quite sure as to what might or might not have been concerning 'Lisbeth; I say therefore that they might have been different. As it was Dickon did run away, and 'Lisbeth did flutter after him, and, as she went, she thought of a plan she had not been able to think of while sitting on the three-legged stool with her face to the wall--she thought of a plan to get money. 'Lisbeth forgot that she was fluttering after Dickon; she forgot that Dickon had gone at all; she forgot everything but that she had thought of a plan to get money. She forgot about Dickon, but kept on running faster and faster until she was red in the face and out of breath. "Please, sir," said 'Lisbeth, gasping for breath, and rushing up to a little spare man in a little spare coat, who lived in the dirty old cellar of the sixth house from 'Lisbeth's, and bought paper and rags; "please, sir, come dreadful quick!" "How?" screamed the little man; "how?" He meant to say "What for? please tell me what is the matter?" but he said "How?" "With your feet! Fast, dreadful fast," gasped 'Lisbeth. No wonder she gasped for breath, she had come faster and faster from the top of the house to the cellar of the sixth house below, without even taking time to think; she did not stop afterward to think. "My feet? My feet?" "Please to come! oh, please to come!" pleaded 'Lisbeth, fairly dancing up and down. "My hat, my hat! oh, my hat!" pleaded the little man, turning and twisting all about; "my hat! my hat!" "Please to come! never mind no hat!" begged 'Lisbeth, half going, half staying, and still trying to catch her breath. "Oh, my head, my head!" almost sobbed the little man, holding his two hands over his head as he ran after 'Lisbeth, going faster and faster with every step. "My! my! oh my!" gasped the poor little man, still holding his head with his two hands, and taking hard, short breaths, as he went up one flight of stairs after another, and bobbed himself forward to try to catch a glimpse of 'Lisbeth and see that he was really following the right way and getting in the right door. "My! my! oh my!" He said it over again when he had bobbed his head in the right door. "Vat has happened? vat has happened? oh my! my! vat has happened?" "It has not happened at all; it would a' happened if you had waited for a hat." "Vat? vat?--my! my! my!--vat?" "Mother would a' come, and then she mightn't let me sold her pots and kettles and dishes 'stead of packing 'm up," said 'Lisbeth, puffing hard for breath. "Please to buy 'm quicker 'n anything." The little man did not choke; he only looked as if he was going to. 'Lisbeth flew toward him and gave him a crack on the back, she thought that might do him good, but it did not help the matter at all; he looked more like choking than ever. 'Lisbeth seized a dipper; she did not mean to do anything unmannerly, she did not indeed, but she gave him a mouthful of water so suddenly and quickly that the little man choked, and perhaps it was best he should. I shall always think it was best he should, not that the little man was bad, or thinking about being bad, only that he was in danger of getting to be bad if he had never been so before; he was in danger of doing a wrong thing; in danger of buying a very great deal for a very little price. I did not say he was bad enough to do it, only it was best he choked, and kept choked long enough for 'Lisbeth's mother to come tripping up stairs with a new bundle and a little money, and a light heart, considering all things--for was she not going to begin right away to save up and to get back to the old house, the old home, in a month or two? As the little man stayed choked until after 'Lisbeth's mother had tripped to the door, and tossed away her bundle, and held up her hands, and implored to be told what was the matter, I shall never be able to say certainly that he was an honest little man, but I shall always believe that he was, and that it had been the thought of so much wickedness that almost choked him before he had the crack on the back or the mouthful from the dipper. You would have choked, or almost choked, of course you would. The astonishing part was that 'Lisbeth did not choke herself, but she never thought of such a thing, she only said, when her mother asked her what was the matter, "Nothing's the matter at all; but I'm most dreadful sorry you come just at this important minute; I was going to s'prise you with some cash straight off short, and the man must just fall to choking before I could get a living thing sold." Another surprising thing is that the mother did not choke, but she did not. Perhaps the reason was because she did not want to; the little man looked uncomfortable and he had been choking. At any rate she did not choke. If the little man had not looked so uncomfortable, and ready to get away, the mother might have fastened the door, and shouted fire, and armed with the tongs, and screamed for help, and startled the house, and frightened the street, and added confusion to confusion, but she only pulled the door open on a bigger crack to let him run out and down the stairs, holding his hands over his head and gasping, "My! my! my! my head!" CHAPTER XIV. All that the mother did after the little man was gone I shall not pretend to say. I was not there at the time. Had I been there I would have been obliged to stand with my feet outside and my head within; how could I have had both head and feet within when there was no room to stand? But I was not there, and never have been sorry that I was not. You are not sorry that you were not there? Of course you are not. 'Lisbeth would have been glad not to have been there, I suppose; the mother herself would have been more comfortable somewhere else, even if it had been in the street tugging home her bundle of clothes to be sewed. I was not there at the time, but I am certain that, by the next morning, the dishes stood in rows, the pans hung on the hooks; the jars and jams, and pots and kettles, and skillets, and spiders, and spoons, and dippers, and rollers, and beaters, and boilers, and broilers, and bundles, and boxes, and baskets, and things of all names and all sizes were sleeping as sweetly as such necessities ever sleep, in the cupboards and closets and dangling from the hooks, and the mother was putting in her needle and pulling it out, and nobody would have imagined that things had ever been otherwise. Yet things had been otherwise; we all know they had. Things might have been otherwise still had not 'Lisbeth's mother been a very decided mother; a mother who knew how things should be and how they should not be, and how little children should do and how they should not do, and how to get disordered things back into order as they should be, and children who were doing as they should not, for a little while at least, to do as they should. She said to 'Lisbeth, as she stood with her two feet on the two places where the little man had stood: "'Lisbeth, you are a very hindering child!" Had she said anything else, anything else at all, 'Lisbeth would not have felt it so much, she would not have been so entirely lifted out of herself, out of her own opinion, and made to see herself where her mother put her, back in the right place where every naughty child should be put as soon as possible. 'Lisbeth gasped for breath. She looked fiercely up at her mother, and down at the floor; she looked within herself, and at the ugly picture of herself which her mother had just showed her. She saw that the picture was like her, that she was "a hindering child." It was a blow she was not prepared for. Had her mother said anything more immediately 'Lisbeth would not have seen so well that the mother's words were true; but she did not say any more immediately. She stood perfectly still with her feet in the two places where the little man's feet had been. 'Lisbeth was very uncomfortable when she heard those words repeated; indeed she was very angry; she looked just as naughty as naughty could be; she looked like a girl who was cross because somebody was doing something very wrong to her. Then she did not look as naughty as naughty could be, she looked disappointed and sorry, and repentant, and humble, and this was because she saw that she was "a hindering child." At first she believed that she was a helping, comforting child, now she saw that she was not. She saw it as we sometimes see a flash of lightning. 'Lisbeth did not mean to be "a hindering child," but she was one. "Why am I a hindering child?" inquired 'Lisbeth when she could catch her breath. "Because you work by your own head instead of by mine," said the mother as she put one foot and then the other forward among the pots and kettles. But 'Lisbeth stood still in the middle of the floor considering what her mother meant, and if what she said was true, and if she was always to work the wrong way instead of the right way, like an engine which will run back instead of forward; and how long she might have stood considering, and how long she might have worn such a troubled face, and how long she might have felt such a lump in her throat, had not her mother come and stood before her, clearing a place for her feet as she came, I shall never pretend to say. But the mother did come and stand before her, and 'Lisbeth put her two hands in her mother's two hands, and looked up in her mother's face, into her mother's troubled eyes, and her mother knew that whatever else she might do, in days to come, she would never again try to move her before the time. The mother knew this as well as I do, but I know this and more beside. As I said before, I do not know exactly all that was done that afternoon, before the rooms and the mother and 'Lisbeth all grew quiet, and in place and comfortable, but I know something more important than this; I know that 'Lisbeth, after she had settled other matters began to settle her own mind as to the true meaning of her mother's words about her making use of the wrong head. She was obliged to think a great deal about it before she was able to settle it in her mind. It took a very great deal of thinking. How could she use her mother's head? How can you and I use our mothers' heads? Of course you know we could do it, how 'Lisbeth could have done it, but Lisbeth had to think hard about it before she knew. When she had made it quite sure in her own mind how it was to be done, she came to another trouble, she was not quite sure that she would like to do it. She thought a great while as to what she was to do about it; she thought a great while about it while seated on the three-legged stool with her face to the wall, and when she had finished thinking about it she got down from the stool and went and stood before her mother, and her mother looked up to see what she was standing there for, and then 'Lisbeth said: "I'm going to try most dreadful hard to use your head; I've made up my mind to it." When 'Lisbeth made up her mind to a thing it was made up. 'Lisbeth tried very hard from this time to use the mother's head; and though the mother used it too it did not get worn out half as fast as it had done before; it began to look newer--I mean younger--and to look as though use did it a great deal of good; and 'Lisbeth's head looked the better for it too--I mean her face looked the better for it--it looked rested; perhaps I should say it looked better contented than it did before, it looked more comfortable. In fact, by using the mother's head very frequently instead of her own, 'Lisbeth improved inside of a week, and in the two months while they yet remained in London she began to look like a helping child instead of a hindering one. When the time came for the packing up to be done 'Lisbeth really helped. She did; nobody need be astonished. She helped a great deal, and everybody seemed so happy that the mother laughed a dozen times just in packing up. This was such a remarkable thing to happen that every one was astonished; they could not help being astonished. Mother had not laughed for a great while. It seemed a very strange thing for her to do. Nobody could quite tell what she was laughing at either by thinking over it or by inquiring. Dickon inquired, but Dickon could not understand it any better after he had inquired. Gorham thought over it. He was older than Dickon, and perhaps should have been able to understand by thinking over it, but he did not. Gorham had been in London for some time, and had become accustomed to the two little rooms at the top of the house, where the walls were so black, and to the hubbub of voices above and below, and to the tatters on the little children, and to the dirt and tatters on the grown people; and had become accustomed to the little boys who were not very nice, or very comfortable to play with; Gorham had become accustomed to all this and did not dislike it all as much as he did when he first came to London. Indeed Gorham was growing a little bit like these little boys; just a little like them, not very much; I am glad to be able to say that it was not very much. But at any rate, Gorham could not see why his mother was laughing when she had not laughed for such a long time; laughing over her cracked crockery, broken-nosed teapots, and black old crocks. It never entered his mind that she was laughing because, though she seemed to be looking at the old crockery, she was looking over and past them with her mind's eye, to the clover tufts on the dear old fields, and to the paths winding about the mill, to the spire of the white wooden church; to the market-place where the mill-hands used to gather together and chat and talk. Yet she was looking at these and at many things beside, and not at all at the broken-nosed pots. 'Lisbeth knew better than Gorham or Dickon why it was the mother laughed. I think she knew a great deal better. I think when she would put her face down close beside her mother's, and they would both smile so pleasantly, glancing toward each other and looking away, I think they were then seeing the same things, the very same things, though they were both a hundred miles away from the things themselves. This was very comfortable; so comfortable that Dickon and Gorham smiled too, though only looking at their two faces and at the iron pots, and broken noses, and the rubbish which the mother had gathered up. And indeed, though they could not tell why, they laughed themselves when the mother laughed, and who knows but perhaps after all they did, without knowing it, catch glimpses of the far-away things which 'Lisbeth and her mother were seeing. Everything was very comfortable all this packing-up time, in fact much of the two months before it. Now I do not intend you to suppose, when I say that everything was very comfortable, that everything was in order in those two rooms, that everything was fixed up; that the iron pots were full of cookies or of all kinds of cookeries; that the crockery was full of good things; that the black walls had been whitened; not a bit of it. Things had changed; things had changed very much. The faces had changed. The mother's face and 'Lisbeth's had altered more than Dickon's and Gorham's, but their being altered I think had changed Dickon's and Gorham's too. Do you know what had changed them? Why, 'Lisbeth had made up her mind to try to be contented and to use her mother's head. She was so much more pleasant looking that you would have been surprised at the change. You have seen her before this, with your mind's eye, I know; that is, you have imagined how she might have looked, and you have always seen her looking as though she was dissatisfied; as though she was wishing for something she had not; as though she was trying to think of something to do, or somewhere to go, as though she was about to make use of her own head contrary to that of her mother. But now she looked more cheerful and comfortable; indeed like a different girl entirely. You see she made up her mind to be a different girl entirely, and to try to work by her mother's head, and when 'Lisbeth made up her mind about anything we know that it was made up. 'Lisbeth had improved very much. Yet she was 'Lisbeth; 'Lisbeth working a great deal by her mother's head instead of by her own. Beside this 'Lisbeth had a pleasant prospect before her; a very pleasant prospect indeed. She did not very often lose sight of this prospect; I mean the prospect of going a hundred miles from London. She looked so much more pleasant than formerly that you would not think, at sight of her, "there is a girl who is not satisfied in the place where she is growing, or with the things she finds around her; she looks uncomfortable." I think that 'Lisbeth was better contented the last weeks she lived in London than during any week of her life, except the week before she came to London. Her contentment had changed everything very much; as I said, it had changed the faces; the faces were changed because everybody felt happier. Things were very different in those two rooms because 'Lisbeth was different. For two whole months they were getting ready to go away; they were working and saving and wondering and smiling and laughing and hoping before they left the dreadful old rooms, but then they were such different months from all the others spent there that they were short months; that is, they seemed short. The boys were happier when their mother and 'Lisbeth were bright and happy; their mother was happy when her children were good and wore bright faces. 'Lisbeth wore a bright face when she tried to be content with things as she found them, and did not run about the streets of London trying to sell gingerbread cats and dogs and doll-babies, trying to earn pence with sweeping streets or pulling wires, or making wigs. So as everybody was happier than they had been the months seemed short. Who cared that the walls were black and the rooms little and the street too little to be called a street? Nobody. All the difference came by 'Lisbeth's having made up her mind to be contented to help mother in mother's way instead of her own way; by 'Lisbeth's having made up her mind to mix her earnestness with her mother's judgment. They left the little dark rooms, in the dirty old house, and all the shows, and people, and carriages and houses of London, and went back where they first grew, back to the very house under the walnut tree where the bits of the hogshead still blew about--the hogshead which had once opened its mouth. The mother went again to work at the mill, and the children all went to Miss Pritchet's school, and 'Lisbeth picked beans, and helped take care of Trotty, and of the house, and helped mother so much, that mother began to look bright and happy and smiling like somebody else. In fact, 'Lisbeth looked bright and happy, and smiling, herself, like somebody else, and when she would sit on the mile-stone she would smile more than ever in thinking what a little goose she had been ever to want to go so many miles away; and, indeed, so happy and contented did she become with the work she found to do in the place in which she grew, that you would never have known her to be 'Lisbeth. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious punctuation errors have been corrected. Blank pages have been removed. On page 42 "unreasonble" has been changed to "unreasonable" (... thought him unreasonable enough, ...) On page 50 "disparingly" has been changed to "dispairingly" (... said 'Lisbeth a little despairingly.) On page 84 "a doing" has been changed to "a-doing". (You must be up and a-doing, ..) On page 27 the word "flim" has been retained. 
37188	----	PLISH AND PLUM _By the Author of_ MAX AND MAURICE Plish and Plum. From the German OF WILHELM BUSCH, AUTHOR OF "MAX AND MAURICE." BY CHARLES T. BROOKS. BOSTON: ROBERTS BROTHERS. 1895. _Copyright, 1882_, BY ROBERTS BROTHERS. UNIVERSITY PRESS: JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE. PLISH AND PLUM. CHAPTER I. With a pipe between his lips, Two young dogs upon his hips, Jogs along old Caspar Sly; How that man can smoke,--oh, my! But although the pipe-bowl glows Red and hot beneath his nose; Yet his heart is icy-cold; How can earth such wretches hold! "Of what earthly use to me Can such brutes," he mutters, "be? Do they earn their vittles? No! 'Tis high time I let 'em go. What you don't want, fling away! Them's my sentiments, I say!" O'er the pond he silent bends, For to drown them he intends. With their legs the quadrupeds Kick and squirm,--can't move their heads And the inner voice speaks out: How 't will end we gravely doubt. _Hubs!_--an airy curve one makes; _Plish!_--a headlong dive he takes. Hubs!--the second follows suit; _Plum!_--the wave engulfs the brute. "That's well ended," Caspar cries, Puffs away and homeward hies. But, as often happens, here too Things don't go as they appear to. Paul and Peter,--so 'twas fated,-- Naked in the bushes waited For a swim; and they descry What was done by wicked Sly. And like frogs they dove, _kechunk_, Where the poor young dogs had sunk. Quickly each one with his hand Drags a little dog to land. "Plish, I'll call my dog," cried Paul; "Plum," said Peter, "mine I'll call." Paul and Peter then with pleasure, Tenderly took each his treasure, And, with speed and joy past telling, Steered for the parental dwelling. CHAPTER II. Papa Fittig, calm and cosy, Mamma Fittig, round and rosy, Arm in arm sit peaceful there-- Troubled by no speck of care-- On the bench before the door; For the summer day is o'er, And the supper hour is near, And the lads will soon be here. Soon they burst upon the view, Plish and Plum are with them too. Fittig thinks a dog a plague: "Nah!" he cries,--"excuse, I beg!" But mamma with soft looks pleaded: "Let them, Fittig!"--and succeeded. Evening milk, fresh and delicious, On the table stood in dishes. Joyfully they haste indoors; Plish and Plum ahead, of course. Mercy! look! right in the sweet Cream each wretch has set his feet; And the noise their lapping makes Shows what comfort each one takes. At the window peeps old Sly, Chuckles loud and says: "My eye! This is very bad, he! he! Very bad, but not for me!!" CHAPTER III. When night came, all worn and tired, As if nothing had transpired, Paul and Peter in their chamber Lay there, wrapt in peaceful slumber, A soft snoring through their noses Shows how tranquilly each dozes. But not so with Plish and Plum! They sit ill-at-ease and glum, Not being lodged to suit their mind, To turn in they too inclined. Plish, the dog's old rule to follow, Turns round thrice, his bed to hollow; Plum, however, shows a mind More affectionately inclined. When we dream of perfect rest Comes full many a troublous guest. "March!" With this harsh word the pets. Turn their outward summersets Coolness wakes activity; Time well-filled glides pleasantly. Means of sport are handy too, Here a stocking--there a shoe. These, before the morning glow, Curious changes undergo. When he comes the boys to wake, And beholds the frightful wreck, Pale the father cries: "This will Be a monstrous heavy bill!" Vengeful claws are in the air; Feigning sleep, the rogues lie there; But the mother begs: "I pray, Fittig dear, thy wrath allay!" And her loving words assuage The stern father's boiling rage. Paul and Peter never care How they look or what they wear. Peter two old slippers gets, Paul his infant pantalets. Plish and Plum, in morals blind, To the dog-house are confined. "This is bad!" says Sly, "he! he! Very bad, but not for me!" CHAPTER IV. Caught at last in wiry house, Sits that most audacious mouse, Who, with many a nightly antic, Drove poor Mamma Fittig frantic,-- Rioting, with paws erratic, From the cellar to the attic. This event to Plish and Plum Was a long-sought _gaudium_; For the word was: "Stu-boys! take him! Seize the wicked grinder--shake him!" Soft! a refuge mousey reaches In a leg of Peter's breeches. Through the leg-tube Plish pursues him, Plum makes sure he shall not lose him. Nip! the mousey with his tooth Stings the smeller of the youth. Plish essays to pull him clear; Nip! the plague's on Plish's ear. See! they run heels over head, Into neighbor's garden-bed. _Kritze_-_kratze_! what will be-- Come, sweet flower-plot, of thee? At that moment Madam Mieding, With fresh oil, her lamp is feeding; And her heart comes near to breaking, With those pests her garden wrecking. Indignation lends her wings, And the oil-can, too, she brings. Now, with mingling joy and wrath, She gives each a shower-bath-- First to Plish and then to Plum, Shower-bath of petroleum! Of the effect that might be wrought, Madam Mieding had not thought. But what presently took place, Right before this lady's face, Made her shut her eyes, so dazed That she smiled like one half crazed,-- Drew a heavy sigh, and soon Gasped and sank down in a swoon. Paul and Peter, hard and cool, Heed not much the Golden Rule. Suffering, stretched beside the way Never once disturbs their play. "Bad enough!" says Sly; "he! he! Shocking bad! but not for me!" CHAPTER V. Breeches short and long surtout, Crooked nose and cane to suit, Gray of soul and black of eye, Hat slouched back, expression sly-- Such is old Sol Shuffleshins; How complacently he grins! Fittig's door he's passing now; Hark! a furious, _row-wow-wow_! Scarcely has the echo gone, When the following scene comes on. Turn and twist him as he will, Plish and Plum stick to him still; Underneath his long surtout Tugs and tears each crazy brute. Shall that happen twice? not quite! Mind shall triumph over might! Presto! What strange dog is there, Hat in mouth? the young ones stare. What queer quadruped can he, Backing toward the doorway, be? Mrs. Fittig hears the clatter, Comes to see what _is_ the matter. Soft as on a mossy bank, In her lap Sol backward sank. Fittig also came in view. "Ow!" cried Sol, "I'm torn in two! Herr von Fittig pays me for 't, Or I'll carry it to court!" He must pay; that makes him pout Worse than having ten teeth out. In despair he casts askance At that youthful pair a glance,-- Seeming plainly to confess, "I've no words your shame to express" Little care the hardened creatures For their parent's play of features. "Bad enough!" says Sly, "he! he! Awful bad! but not for me!" CHAPTER VI. Plish and Plum, their deeds declare, Are a graceless, low-lived pair. Yet they live in close communion; And for that, in my opinion, They deserve some commendation; But will 't be of long duration? "Rogue & Co."--such firm, be sure, Cannot many days endure. In the sunshine, vis-a-vis, Sits a lap-dog, fair to see. To our pair this lovely sight Is a rare and keen delight. Each would gain the foremost place To behold that beauteous face. If the front is gained by Plish, Plum looks glum and dismalish; Then if it is seized by Plum, That makes Plish exceeding glum. Soon low-muttering thunders growl, Paws scratch gravel, eyeballs roll, And the furious fight begins; Plum cuts dirt, his brother wins. Mamma Fittig stands and makes Chicken salad and pancakes,-- Those well known and favorite dishes, Every child devoutly wishes. Whirr! right through the window come, Helter-skelter, Plish and Plum. Pot and pan and stove and stew Mingle in one grand ragout. "Wait! you vile Plish!" Peter holloos, And the word instanter follows With a well-aimed blow; but Paul Doesn't relish that at all. "What d' ye mean, to strike my creatur'?" Cries out Paul, and lashes Peter; Who, inflamed with pain and passion, Winds up Paul in curious fashion. Now the battle desperate grows; Each the costly salad throws, In a frenzy, at his brother, And they poultice one another. In comes papa Fittig, hasting To inflict on them a basting. Mamma Fittig, full of kindness, Fearing anger's headlong blindness, Cries, "Best Fittig! pray consider!" But her zeal for once undid her. Her lace cap, so nice and new, Fittig's cane has bored quite through. Laughs the wicked Sly, "He! he! All are done for, now, I see!" He who laughs at others' woes Makes few friends and many foes. Hot and heavy the old chap Finds, I guess, the pancake cap. "Bad," said Sly, "as bad can be, And this once, too, bad for me!" CHAPTER VII. So now there sit Plish and Plum, Very dull and very glum. Two strong chains, and short, did hem The activity of them. Fittig seriously reflected: "This must somehow be corrected! Virtue needs encouragement; Vice gets on by natural bent." Paul and Peter now began Schooling with Herr Buckleman. At the first day's session he Thus addressed them pleasantly: "Dear lads,--I assure you, I am very Glad you have come to this seminary; And, as I hope, with all your powers Intend to improve these precious hours. And first, the things most important to mention, Reading, writing, and ciphering will claim our attention; For these are the arts by which man rises To honor and wealth, and wins great prizes. But, secondly, what good would all this do, Unless politeness were added thereto? For he who is not polite to all Into trouble will certainly fall. Finally, therefore, bending before you, As you see, I entreat and implore you, If in good faith you have made up your mind To follow the rules I have now defined, Then lift up your hands and look me in the eye, And say, 'Herr Buckleman, we will try!'" Paul and Peter thought: "Old man, D'ye think us greenhorns? Is that your plan?" They give no answer, but inwardly They grin and giggle, and say, "he! he!" Whereat old Master Buckleman Gave a low whistle, and thus began: "Since, then, you've resolved to be Hardened reprobates," said he, "I am resolved, face down, to lay You both across my desk straightway, Applying the stick to your hinder parts In hopes of softening your hard hearts." Drawing out then from beneath His coat, like sabre from its sheath, His good hazel rod, of stuff Flexible and tight and tough,-- He with many a sturdy thwack Laid it on each urchin's back. Nay, he trounced two backs in one, Till he deemed the work was done. "Now then," he spoke in a tranquil way, "Belovèd children, what do you say? Are you content and are we agreed?" "Yes, yes, Herr Buckleman,--yes, indeed!" Such was the method of Buckleman; We see the good effects of his plan. 'Twas the talk of the people, one and all,-- "Charming children--Peter and Paul!" And so _they_ tried it on Plish and Plum: They too, also, to school must come. And the Buckleman plan's applied Faithfully to each one's hide. Masters of Arts, they're soon approved, And universally beloved; And, as one might well expect, Art shows practical effect. CONCLUSION. One day travelling through the land, With a field-glass in his hand, A well-dressed man of fortune came; Mister Peep, they called his name. "Can't I, as I pass," said he, "View the distant scenery? Beauty reigns elsewhere, I know, Whereas here 'tis but so-so." Here he pitched into the pond, Viewed the mud and naught beyond. "Paul and Peter,--look and see Where the gentleman can be!" So said Fittig, who just then Walked forth with the little men; But fu'l soon it was made plain Where the gentleman had lain, When he, minus hat and glass, Stood all dripping on the grass. "_Allez!_ Plish and Plum, _apport!_" Came the order from the shore. Strictly trained to fetch and carry,-- Not a moment did they tarry,-- Fetched the lost goods from the deep. "Very well," cried Mister Peep. "Nice dogs, friend, I'll buy the two; How'll a hundred dollars do?" Papa Fittig's head inclined: "The gentleman is very kind." On new legs he seems to stand, Such a pile of cash in hand. "Ah, you darlings, Plish and Plum! We must part--the hour has come-- On this very spot, right here, Where we four, this time last year, Were united, by the pond, In a sweet and solemn bond. May your life in peace be led, With beefsteak for daily bread." Now all this was seen by Sly, Just then happening to pass by. "Very pleasant," mutters he, "Yes, no doubt, but not for me." Envy, like a poisoned dart, Stung him to the very heart. All before him misty grows; Legs give way and back he goes, Down into the oozy damp; Quenched forever is life's lamp! Left alone upon the shore, Quickened by his breath no more, Faintly gleams the expiring soul Of the pipe within the bowl; One blue cloud I see ascend, _Futt!_ the tale is at an End. University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. 
38771	----	[Illustration: "I WILL KNOCK. YOU ARE TO SAY, 'PLEASE IS MRS. ROBBINS IN?'"--Page 171.] THE LITTLE PRINCESS OF TOWER HILL. BY L. T. MEADE, _Author of "A Sweet Girl Graduate," "The Lady of the Forest," "A World of Girls," "Polly", "The Palace Beautiful," etc._ SIX PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. NEW YORK A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER. [Transcriber's note: This book contains the following stories as well: "Tom, Pepper, and Trusty", "Billy Anderson and his Troubles", "The Old Organ-Man". The table of contents is only for The Little Princess of Tower Hill.] CONTENTS. PAGE CHAPTER I. Her Very Young Days 1 CHAPTER II. Father's Short Visitor 12 CHAPTER III. Snubbed 23 CHAPTER IV. The Stable Clock 35 CHAPTER V. The Empty Hutch 49 CHAPTER VI. Jo's Room 63 CHAPTER VII. In Violet 77 CHAPTER VIII. Choosing Her Colors 103 CHAPTER IX. A Jolly Plan 113 CHAPTER X. A Great Fear 127 CHAPTER XI. Going Home 142 CHAPTER XII. In the Wood 151 CHAPTER XIII. Thank God for All 165 THE LITTLE PRINCESS OF TOWER HILL CHAPTER I. HER VERY YOUNG DAYS. All the other children who knew her thought Maggie a wonderfully fortunate little girl. She was sometimes spoken about as the "Little Princess of Tower Hill," for Tower Hill was the name of her father's place, and Maggie was his only child. The children in the village close by spoke of her with great respect, and looked at her with a good deal of longing and also no slight degree of envy, for while they had to run about in darned and shabby frocks, Maggie could wear the gayest and daintiest little dresses, and while they had to trudge sometimes even on little bare feet, Maggie could sit by her mother's side and be carried rapidly over the ground in a most delicious and luxurious carriage, or, better still, she might ride on her white pony Snowball, followed by a groom. The poor children envied Maggie, and admired her vastly, and the children of those people who, compared to Sir John Ascot, Maggie's father, might be considered neither rich nor poor, also thought her one of the most fortunate little girls in existence. Maggie was nearly eight years old, and from her very earliest days there had been a great fuss made about her. At the time of her birth bonfires had been lit, and oxen killed and roasted whole to be given away to the poor people, and Sir John and Lady Ascot did not seem at all disappointed at their baby being a girl instead of a son and heir to the old title and the fine old place. There was a most extraordinary fuss made over Maggie while she was a baby; her mother was never tired of visiting her grand nurseries and watching her as she lay asleep, or smiling at her and kissing her when she opened her big, bright blue eyes. The eyes in question were very pretty, so also was the little face, and the father and mother quite thought that there never was such a baby as their little Maggie. They had christened her Margarita Henrietta Villiers; these were all old family names, and very suitable to the child of proud old county folk. At least so Sir John thought, and his pretty young wife agreed with him, and she gave the servants strict directions that the baby was to be called Miss Margarita, and that the name was on no account whatever to be abridged or altered. This was very fine as long as the baby could only coo or make little inarticulate sounds, but that will of her own, which from the earliest minutes of her existence Maggie had manifested, came fully into play as soon as she found the full use of her tongue. She would call herself Mag-Mag, and would not answer to Margarita, or pay the smallest heed to any summons which came to her in this guise, and so, simply because they could not help themselves, Sir John and Lady Ascot had almost virtually to rechristen their little daughter, and before she was two years old Maggie was the only name by which she was known. Years passed, and no other baby came to Tower Hill, and every year Maggie became of a little more importance, and was made a little more fuss about, and as a natural consequence was a little more spoiled. She was a very pretty child; her hair was wavy and curly, and exquisitely fine; in its darkest parts it was nut-brown, but round her temples, and wherever the light fell on it, it was shaded off to the brightest gold; her eyes were large, and blue, and well open; her cheeks were pink, her lips rosy, and she had a saucy, never-me-care look, which her father and mother and the visitors who saw her thought wonderfully charming, but which now and then her nurse and her patient governess, Miss Grey, objected to. All things that money could buy, and all things that love could devise, were lavished at Maggie's feet. Her smallest wishes were instantly granted; the most expensive toys were purchased for her; the most valuable presents were given to her day by day. "Surely," said the village children, "there can be no happier little girl in all the wide, wide world than our little princess. If there is a child who lives always, every day, in a fairy-land, it is Miss Maggie Ascot." Maggie had two large nurseries to play in, and two nurses to wait upon her, and when she was seven years old a certain gentle-faced, kind-hearted Miss Grey arrived at Tower Hill to superintend the little girl's education. Then a schoolroom was added to her suit of apartments, and then also the troubles of her small life began. Hitherto everything had gone for Maggie Ascot with such smoothness and regularity, with such an eager desire on the part of every one around her not only to grant her wishes, but almost to anticipate them, that although nurse, and especially Grace, the under-nurse, strongly suspected that Miss Maggie had a temper of her own, yet certainly Sir John and Lady Ascot only considered her a somewhat daring, slightly self-willed, but altogether charming little girl. With the advent, however, of Miss Grey things were different. Maggie had taken the greatest delight in the furnishing and arranging of her schoolroom; she had laughed and clapped her hands with glee when she saw the pretty book-shelves being put up, and the gayly bound books arranged on them; and when Miss Grey herself arrived, Maggie had fallen quite in love with her, and had sat on her knee, and listened to her charming stories, and in fact for the first day or two would scarcely leave her new friend's side; but when lessons commenced, Maggie began to alter her mind about Miss Grey. That young lady was as firm as she was gentle, and she insisted not only on her little pupil obeying her, but also on her staying still and applying herself to her new duties for at least two hours out of every day. Long before a quarter of the first two hours had expired, Maggie had expressed herself tired of learning to read, and had announced, with her usual charming frankness, that she now intended to run into the garden and pick some roses. [Illustration: "I WANT TO PICK THOSE WHITE ROSES."--Page 6.] "I want to pick a great quantity of those nice white roses, and some of the prettiest of the buds, and when they are picked, I'll give them all to you, Miss Grey, darling," she continued, raising her fearless and saucy eyes to her governess' face. "Here you go, you tiresome old book," and the new reading-book was flung to the other side of the room, and Maggie had almost reached the door before Miss Grey had time to say: "Pick up your book and return to your seat, Maggie dear. You forget that these are lesson hours." "But I'm tired of lessons," said Maggie, "and I don't wish to do any more. I don't mean to learn to read--I don't like reading--I like being read to. I shan't ever read, I have quite made up my mind. How many roses would you like, Miss Grey?" "Not any, Maggie; you forget, dear, that Thompson, the gardener, told you last night you were not to pick any more roses at present, for they are very scarce just now." "Well, what are they there for except for me to pick?" answered the spoiled child, and from that moment Miss Grey's difficulties began. Maggie's hitherto sunshiny little life became to her full of troubles--she could not take pleasure in her lessons, and she failed to see any reason for her small crosses. Miss Grey was kind, and conscientious, and painstaking, but she certainly did not understand the spoiled but warm-hearted little girl she was engaged to teach, and the two did not pull well together. Nurse petted her darling and sympathized with her, and remarked in a somewhat injudicious way to Grace that Miss Maggie's cheeks were getting quite pale, and that she was certain, positive sure, that her brain was being forced into over-ripeness. "What's over-ripeness?" inquired Maggie as she submitted to her hair being brushed and curled for dinner, and to nurse turning her about with many jerks as she tied her pink sash into the most becoming bow--"what's over-ripeness, nursey, and what has it to say to my brain? That's the part of me what thinks, isn't it?" "Yes, Miss Maggie dear, and when it's forced unnatural it gets what I call over-ripe. I had a nephew once whose brain went like that--he died eventual of the same cause, for it filled with water." Maggie's round blue eyes regarded her nurse with a certain gleam of horror and satisfaction. Miss Grey had now been in the house for three months, and certainly the progress Maggie had made in her studies was not sufficiently remarkable to induce any one to dread evil consequences to her little brain. She trotted down to dinner, and took her usual place opposite her governess. In one of the pauses of the meal, her clear voice was heard addressing Sir John Ascot. "Father dear, did you ever hear nurse talk of her nephew?" "No, Mag-Mag, I can't say I have. Nurse does not favor me with much news about her domestic concerns, and she has doubtless many nephews." "Oh, but this is the one who was over-ripe," answered Maggie, "so you'd be sure to remember about him father." "What an unpleasant description, little woman!" answered Sir John; "an over-ripe nephew! Don't let's think of him. Have a peach, little one. Here is one which I can promise you is not in that state of incipient decay." Maggie received her peach with a little nod of thanks, but she was presently heard to murmur to herself: "I'm over-ripe, too. I quite 'spect I'll soon fill with water." "What is the child muttering?" asked Sir John of his wife; but Lady Ascot nodded to her husband to take no notice of Maggie, and presently she and her governess left the room. "My dear," said Lady Ascot to Sir John, when they were alone, "Miss Grey says that our little girl is determined to grow up a dunce--she simply won't learn, and she won't obey her; and I often see Maggie crying now, and nurse is not at all happy about her." "Miss Grey can't manage her; send her away," pronounced the baronet shortly. "But, my dear, she seems a very nice, good girl. I have really no reason for giving her notice to leave us--and--and--John, even though Maggie is our only little darling, I don't think we ought to spoil her." "Spoil her! Bless me, I never saw a better child." "Yes, my dear, she is all that is good and sweet to us, but she ought to be taught to obey her governess; indeed, I think we must not allow her to have the victory in this matter. If we sent Miss Grey away, Maggie would feel she had won the victory, and she would behave still more badly with the next governess." "Tut! tut!" said Sir John. "What a worry the world is, to be sure! Of course the little maid must be taught discipline; we'd none of us be anywhere without it; eh, wife? I'll tell you what, Maggie is all alone; she needs a companion. I'll send for Ralph." "That is a good idea," replied Lady Ascot. "Well, say nothing about it until I see if my sister can spare him. I'll go up to town to-morrow, and call and see her. Ralph will mold Maggie into shape better than twenty Miss Greys." CHAPTER II. FATHER'S SHORT VISITOR. Ralph's mother was a widow. She had traveled on the Continent for a long time, but had at last taken a small house in London. Sir John intended week after week to go and see his sister, and week after week put off doing so, until it suddenly dawned upon him that Ralph's society might do his own little princess good. Sir John told his wife to say nothing to Maggie about her cousin's visit, as it was quite uncertain whether his mother would spare him, and he did not wish the little maid to be disappointed. Maggie, however, was a very sharp child, and she was much interested in sundry mysterious preparations which were taking place in a certain very pretty bedroom not far from her own nurseries. A little brass bedstead, quite new and bright, was being covered with snowy draperies; and sundry articles which girls were not supposed to care about, but which, nevertheless, Maggie looked at with eyes of the deepest veneration and curiosity, were being placed in the room; among these articles might have been seen some cricket-bats, a pair of boxing-gloves, a couple of racket-balls, and even a little miniature gun. The little gun was harmless enough in its way; it had belonged to Sir John when a lad, but why was it placed in this room, and what did all these preparations mean? Maggie eagerly questioned Rosalie, the under-housemaid, but Rosalie could tell her nothing, beyond the fact that she was bid to make certain preparations in the room, and she supposed one of master's visitors was expected. "He must be a very short man," said Maggie, laying herself down at full length on the little white bed, and measuring the distance between her feet and the bright brass bars at the bottom; "he'll be about half a foot bigger than me," and then she scampered off to Miss Grey. "Father's visitor's room is all ready," she said. "How tall should you think he'd be, Miss Grey?" "Dear me, Maggie, how can I tell? If the visitor is a man, he'll be sure to be somewhere between five feet and six feet; I can't tell you the exact number of inches." "No, you're as wrong as possible," answered Maggie, clapping her hands. "There's a visitor coming to father, and of course he's a man, or he wouldn't be father's visitor, and he's only about one head bigger than me. He's very manly, too; he likes cricket, and racket, and boxing, and firing guns. His room is full of all those 'licious things. Oh, I wish I was a man too. Miss Grey, darling, how soon shall I be growed up?" "Not for a long, long time yet. Now do sit straight, dear, and don't cross your legs. Sit upright on your chair, Maggie, like a little lady. Here is your hemming, love; I have turned down a nice piece for you. Now be sure you put in small stitches, and don't prick your finger." These remarks and these little injunctions always drew a deep frown between Maggie's arched brows. "Sewing isn't meant for rich little girls like me," she said. "I'm not going to sew when I grow up; I know what I'll do then. I know quite well; when I'm tired I'll sit in an easy-chair and eat lollipops, and when I'm not tired I'll ride on all the wildest horses I can find, and I'll play cricket, and fire guns, and fish, and--and--oh, I wish I was grown up." Miss Grey, who was by this time quite accustomed to Maggie's erratic speeches, thought it best to take no notice whatever of her present remarks. Maggie would have liked her to argue with her and remonstrate; she would have preferred anything to the calm and perfect stillness of the governess. She was allowed to talk a little while she was at her hemming, and she now turned her conversation into a different channel. "Miss Grey," she said, "which do you think are the best off, very rich little only children girls, or very poor little many children girls?" "Maggie dear," replied her governess, "you are asking me, as usual, a silly question. The fact of a little girl being rich and an only child, or the fact of a little girl being poor and having a great many brothers and sisters, has really much less to do with happiness than people think. Happiness is a very precious possession, and sometimes it is given to people who look very pale and suffering, and sometimes it is denied to those who look as if they wanted for nothing." "That's me," said Maggie, uttering a profound sigh. "I'm rich and I want for nothing, and I'm the mis'rable one, and Jim, the cripple in our village, is poor, and he hasn't got no nice things, and he's the happy one. Oh, how I wish I was Jim the cripple." "Why, Maggie, you would not surely like to give up your dear father and mother to be somebody else's child." "No, of course not. They'd have to be poor too. Mother would have to take in washing and father--I'm afraid father would have to put on ragged clothes, and go about begging from place to place. I don't think Jim, the cripple, has any father, but I couldn't do without mine, so he'd have to be a beggar and go about from place to place to get pennies for mother and me. We'd be darling and poor, and we couldn't afford to keep you, Miss Grey, and I wouldn't mind that at all, 'cause then I need never do reading and hemming, and I'd be as ignoram as possible all my days." Just at this moment somebody called Maggie, and she was told to put on her out-door things, and to go for a drive with her mother in the carriage. Maggie was a very sharp little girl, and she could not help noticing a certain air of expectancy on Lady Ascot's face, and a certain brightening of her eyes, particularly when Maggie, in her usual impetuous fashion, asked eager questions about the very short gentleman visitor who was coming to stay with father. "He's not four feet high," said Maggie. "I am sure I shall like him greatly; he'll be a sort of companion to me, and I know he must be very brave." "Why do you know that, little woman?" asked Lady Ascot in an amused voice "Oh, 'cause, 'cause--his gun, and his fishing-tackle, and his boxing-gloves have been sent on already. Of course he must be brave and manly, or father would have nothing to say to him. But as he's only three inches taller than me, I'm thinking perhaps he'll be tired keeping up with father's long steps, when they go out shooting together; and so perhaps he will really like to make a companion of me." "I should not be surprised, Maggie--I should not be the least surprised, and now I'm going to tell you a secret. We are going at this very moment to drive to Ashburnham station to meet father and his gentleman visitor." "Oh, mother!" exclaimed Maggie, "and do you know the visitor? Have you seen him before? What is his name?" "His name is Ralph, and though I have heard a great deal about him, it so happens I have never seen him." "Mr. Ralph," repeated Maggie, softly; "it's a nice short name, and easy to remember. I think Mr. Ralph is a very good name indeed for father's little tiny gentleman visitor." All during their drive to Ashburnham Maggie chattered, and laughed, and wondered. Her bright little face looked its brightest, and her merry blue eyes quite danced with fun and happiness. No wonder her mother thought her a most charming little girl, and no wonder the village children looked at the pretty and beautifully dressed child with eyes of envy and admiration! When they reached Ashburnham station, Lady Ascot got out of the carriage, and taking Maggie's hand in hers, went on the platform. They had scarcely arrived there before the train from London puffed into the station, and Sir John Ascot was seen to jump out of a first-class smoking carriage, accompanied by a brown-faced, slender-looking boy, whose hands were full of parcels, and who began to help Sir John vigorously, and to indignantly disdain the services of the porter, and of Sir John's own groom, who came up at that moment. "No, thank you; I wish to hold these rabbits myself," he exclaimed, "and my pigeons. Uncle John, will you please hand me down that cage? Oh, aren't my fantails beauties!" "Mother," exclaimed Maggie in a low, breathless voice, "is that the gentleman visitor?" "Yes, darling, your cousin Ralph Grenville. Ralph is your visitor, Maggie, not your father's. Come up and let me introduce you. Ralph, my dear boy, how do you do? I am your aunt. I am very glad to see you. Welcome to Tower Hill!" "Are you Aunt Beatrice?" answered the brown-faced boy. "How do you do, Aunt Beatrice? Oh, I do hope my fishing-tackle is safe." "And this is your Cousin Maggie," proceeded Lady Ascot. "You and Maggie must be great friends." "Do you like fantails?" asked Ralph, looking full at his little cousin. "Do you mean those darling white birds in the cage?" answered Maggie, her cheeks crimsoning. [Illustration: "I CAUGHT HIM MY OWN SELF."--Page 21.] "Yes; I've got some pouters at home, but I only brought the fantails here. I hope you've got a nice pigeon-cote at Tower Hill. Oh, my rabbits, my bunnies! Help me, Maggie; one of them has got loose; help me, Maggie, to catch him." Before either Sir John or Lady Ascot could interfere, the two children had disappeared into a crowd of porters, passengers, and luggage. Lady Ascot uttered a scream of dismay, but Sir John said coolly: "Let them be. The little lad has got his head screwed on the right way; and if I don't mistake, my pretty maid can hold her own with anybody. Don't agitate yourself, Bee; they'll be back all right in a moment." So they were, Maggie holding a huge white rabbit clasped against her beautiful embroidered frock. The rabbit scratched and struggled, but Maggie held him without flinching, although her face was very red. "I caught him my own self," she screamed. "Ralph couldn't, 'cause his hands were too full." "Pop him into this cage now," exclaimed the boy. "Uncle John, has a separate trap come for all the luggage? and if so, may I go home in it? I must watch my bunnies, and I should like to keep the fantails on my lap." "Well, yes, Ralph," replied Sir John Ascot in an amused voice. "I have no doubt the dog-cart has turned up by now. Do you think you can manage to stick on, my boy? The mare is very fresh." "I stick on? Rather!" answered Ralph. "You may hold the cage with the bunnies, if you like, while I step up, Jo--Maggie, I mean." "I'd like to go up there, too, father," whispered little Miss Ascot's full round tones. "No, no, bairnie," answered the baronet. "I don't want your pretty little neck to be broken. There, hop into the carriage beside mother, and I'll get in the dog-cart to keep this young scamp out of mischief. Now then, off we go. We'll all be at home in a twinkling." CHAPTER III. SNUBBED. When the children met next it was at tea-time. There was a very nice and tempting tea prepared in Maggie's schoolroom, and Miss Grey presided, and took good care to attend to the wants of the hungry little traveler. Ralph looked a very different boy sitting at the tea-table munching bread-and-butter, and disposing of large plates of strawberries and cream, from what he did when Maggie met him at Ashburnham station. He was no longer in the least excited; he was neatly dressed, with his hair well brushed, and his hands extremely clean and gentlemanly. He was polite and attentive to Miss Grey, and thanked her in quite a sweet voice for the little attentions which she lavished upon him. Maggie was far too excited to feel hungry. She could scarcely take her round blue eyes off Ralph, who, for his part, did not pay her the smallest attention. He was conversing in quite a proper and grown-up tone with the governess. "Do you really like flat countries best?" he said. "Ah! I suppose, then, you must suffer from palpitation. Mother does very much--she finds sal volatile does her good; did you ever try that? When I next write to mother, I'll ask her to send me a little bottle, and when you feel an attack coming on, I'll measure some drops for you. If you take ten drops in a little water, and then lie down, you don't know how much better you'll get. Thank you, yes, I'll have another cup of tea. I like a good deal of cream, please, and four or five lumps of sugar; if the lumps are small, I don't mind having six. Well, what were we talking about? Oh, scenery! I like hilly scenery. I like to get on the top of a hill, and race down as fast as ever I can to the bottom. Sometimes I shout as I go--it's awfully nice shouting out loud as you're racing through the air. Did you ever try that? Oh, I forgot; you couldn't if you suffer from palpitation." "I like steep mountains, and flying over big precipices," here burst from Maggie. "I hate flat countries, and I don't think much of running down little hills. Give me the mountains and the precipices, and you'll see how I'll scamper." Ralph raised his eyebrows a tiny bit, smiled at Maggie with a gentle pity in his face, and then, without vouchsafing any comment to her audacious observations, resumed his placid conversation with the governess. "Mother and I have been a good deal in Switzerland, you know," he continued, "so of course we can really judge what scenery is like. I got tired of those great mountains after a bit. I'm very fond indeed of England, particularly since I have spent so much of my time with Jo. Do you know my little friend Jo, Miss Grey?" "No, Mr. Ralph, I cannot say I do. Is he a nice little boy? Is he about your age?" Ralph laughed, but in a very moderate "I beg your pardon," he exclaimed. "I hope you were not hurt when I laughed. Mother says it's very rude to laugh at a grown-up lady, but it seemed so funny to hear you speak of Jo as a boy. She's a girl, quite the very nicest girl in the world; her real name is Joanna, but I call her Jo." Here Maggie, who, after Ralph's ignoring of her last audacious observation, had been getting through her tea in a subdued manner, brightened up considerably, shook back her shining curls, and said in a much more gentle voice than she had hitherto used: "I should like to see her." "You!" said Ralph. "She's not the least in your style. Well, I've done my tea. Have you done your tea, Miss Grey? And may I leave the table, please? I should like to have a run around the place before it gets dark." "And may I come with you?" asked Maggie. "Oh, yes, Mag! Come along." Ralph held out his hand, which Maggie took with a great deal of gratitude in her heart, and the two children went out together into the sweet summer air. Ralph first of all inspected his pigeons, and then his rabbits. He grumbled a good deal over the arrangements made for the reception of his pets, and informed Maggie that the hutch for the rabbits was but small and close, and that the dove-cote must be altered immediately, and that he would take care to speak to his Uncle John about it in the morning. Maggie agreed with every word Ralph said. She, too, pronounced the hutch small and dirty, and said the dove-cote must be altered, and while she echoed her cousin's sentiments, she felt herself quite big and important, and turned away from the rather smiling eyes of Jim, the stable-boy, who was in attendance on the pair. The children then proceeded to the stable, where Maggie's pretty snow-white pony was kept. "Ah!" said Ralph, "I wish you could see my horse. My horse is black, and rather bigger than this, and he has an eye of fire and such a beautiful glossy, arched neck. I can tell you it is worth something to see Raven. Yes, Maggie, Snowball is rather a nice little pony, and very well suited for you, I should imagine." "I don't like him much," said Maggie, who until this moment had adored her pet. "I like flashy, frisky horses. I like them fresh, don't you, Ralph?" "Don't talk nonsense!" said Ralph rather pertly. "Now where shall we go?" "Oh, Ralph, I should like to show you my garden. I dare say father will give you a little garden near mine if we ask him. I'm building a rockery. I don't work in my garden very often, 'cause it's rather tiresome, but I like building my rockery, and when we go to the seaside, I shall gather lots of shells for it. Come, Ralph, this is the way." "Never mind to-night," said Ralph. "Here is a nice seat on this little mossy bank. If you like to sit by me, Maggie, we can talk." Maggie was only too pleased. Ralph stretched himself on the soft velvety grass, put his hands under his head, and gazed up at the sky; Maggie took care to imitate his position in all particulars. She also put her hands under her head, and gazed through her shady hat up at the tall trees where the rooks were going to sleep. That night the rather spoiled little princess of Tower Hill lay awake for some time. It was very unusual for Maggie to remain for an instant out of the land of dreams. The moment she laid her curly head on the pillow she entered that pleasant country, and, as a rule, she stayed there and enjoyed delightful times with other dream-children until the morning. On the present occasion, however, sleep did not visit her so quickly; she was disturbed by the events of the day. Ralph was a very new experience in her little life; she thought of all he had said to her, of how he had looked, of his extreme manliness, his fearlessness, and his great politeness to Miss Grey. Maggie owned with a half-sigh that there was nothing at all particularly gracious in Ralph's manners to her. "But I like him all the better for that," she thought. "He treats me as an equal; most likely half the time he forgets that I'm a girl, and believes that I'm a boy like himself. I wish I were a boy! Wouldn't it be jolly to climb trees, and fish, and go out shooting with father! I'd be a great comfort to Ralph if I were a boy, but I'm not; that's the worst of it. How I do wish my pony was black, and was called Raven! I think I'll ask father to sell Snowball; he's rather a fat, stupid little horse. Ralph's horse has an eye of fire. How splendid he must be! I wonder if Jo has got a horse too, and if it is black, and if its eyes flash. Jo must be a splendid girl. How Ralph did look when he spoke of her! I wish I knew her! Ralph talks of her as if she were as good as a boy. I dare say she climbs trees, and fishes, and shoots. I should like Ralph to talk of me as he talks of Jo." At this stage of Maggie's meditations her bright eyes closed very gently, and she remembered nothing more until the morning. The sun shone brightly into her room when she awoke; she had been dreaming about Jo. She sprang up instantly, and began to dress herself. This feat she had never accomplished before in her life. Two servants, as a rule, waited on the little princess when she made her toilet, but now, with a vivid dream of the manly Jo in her mind, and with some vague ideas that she would please Ralph if she were up very bright and early, she proceeded to tumble into her cold bath, and then, after an untidy fashion, to scramble into her clothes. At last her dressing was completed, she knelt down for a moment by her bedside to utter a very hasty little childish prayer, and then ran softly out of her bedroom. She certainly did not know how early it was, but as there was no one stirring in the house, and as she did not wish nurse to find her and to call her back, and perhaps pop her once more into bed, she went on tiptoe along the passages until she reached her Cousin Ralph's bedroom door. She opened the door and went in. The large window of Ralph's bedroom exactly faced his little white bed; the blind of the window was up to the top, and the full light of the morning sun shone directly on the little sleeper's face. Oh, how delightful! thought Maggie. Ralph was still sound, sound asleep; she was the good one now, for Ralph was decidedly lazy. She went softly to the bedside and gazed at her cousin. His arms were thrown up over his head; he was lying on his back, and breathing softly and easily. Ralph had a handsome little face, and it looked gentle and sweet in his slumbers. The dauntless expression of his dark eyes, and the somewhat scornful and hard way in which he looked when he addressed himself to Maggie, were no longer perceptible. Maggie had a loving little heart, and it went out to her stranger cousin now. "I hope some day he'll like me as well as he does Jo," she murmured, and then she bent down and printed the lightest of light kisses on his forehead. "Bother those flies," muttered Ralph, raising his hand to brush the offending kiss away. This remark caused Maggie to burst into a peal of laughter, and of course her laugh aroused the young sleeper. "Yes, I'm up," said Maggie, dancing softly up and down. "I'm up, and I'm dressed, and I'm ready to go into the garden. Don't you think it's very good of me to get up so early? Don't you think I'm about as good as that Jo of yours?" Ralph had recovered from his first surprise, and now he gazed tranquilly at his little cousin. "What's the hour?" he asked. Maggie said, "I don't know." "Well, you'd better find out," responded Ralph; "it feels very early. My watch is on the dressing-table. Do you know the time by a watch yet? If you can read it, you may, and tell me the hour. How untidily you have dressed yourself!" Maggie felt herself growing very red when Ralph asked her if she could tell the hour by a watch. The fact was, she could not; she had always been too lazy to learn. She went in a faltering way to the dressing-table, feeling quite sure in her little heart that Jo knew all about watches, and that if she revealed her ignorance to Ralph, he would despise her for the rest of her life. Just at this moment, however, relief came, for the stable clock was heard to strike very distinctly. It struck four times. "It's four o'clock," said Maggie. "Yes, and what a muff you are!" answered Ralph. "Four o'clock! Why, it's the middle of the night. Good-night, Maggie. Please go away, and shut the door after you." "Then you're not getting up?" questioned the little cousin wistfully. "Getting up? No, thank you, not for many an hour to come. Good-night, Maggie. I don't want to be rude, but you really are a little worry coming in and waking me in this fashion." CHAPTER IV. THE STABLE CLOCK. It was rather desolate standing at the other side of Ralph's door in the passage. There was plenty of light in the passage, but no sunshine, and Maggie felt her excitement cooling down and her heart beating tranquilly again. All that delightful energy and zest which she had shown when dressing herself, which she had felt when she had danced into her cousin's room, had forsaken her. She walked slowly back to her own little chamber, wondering what she had better do now, and thinking how very disagreeable it was to be spoken of as "a muff." Was it really only the middle of the night, and had she better just ignominiously undress herself and go back to bed? No; she would not do that. It was horrid to think of Ralph sound and happily asleep, and of nurse asleep, and father and mother also in the land of dreams. Maggie felt quite forlorn, and as if she were alone in the world. But at this moment a thrush perched itself on a bough of clematis just outside the window, and sang a delicious morning song. The little princess clapped her hands. "The birdies are up!" she exclaimed. "I expect lots of delightful creatures are up in the garden. I'll go into the garden. Perhaps, after all, Ralph is more of a muff than me." She swung her garden hat on her head, and ran softly and quickly downstairs. All the doors were barred and locked; the place felt intensely still and strange; but Maggie found egress through a small side window, which she easily opened; and, once in the garden, her loneliness and sadness vanished like magic. She laughed aloud, and ran gayly hither and thither. The butterflies were out, the birds were having a splendid morning concert, and the flowers were opening their petals and taking their morning breakfast from the sunshine. "Oh, dear! Ralph is the muff, and I am the good one, after all!" exclaimed Maggie aloud. She ran until she was tired, then went into an arbor at one end of a long grass walk, and sat down to rest herself. In a moment the most likely thing happened--she fell asleep. She slept in the arbor, with her head resting on the rustic table, until the stable clock struck six; that sound awoke her. She rubbed her drowsy eyes and looked around. Jim, the boy who had smiled the night before when he saw Maggie and Ralph talking together, passed the entrance to the little arbor at this moment with a bag of tools slung over his shoulder. Maggie called to him: "Jim, come here; aren't you surprised? I'm up, you see." "Why, Miss Maggie!" exclaimed the astonished stable-boy, "you a sitting in the arbor at this hour, miss! Oh, dear! oh, dear! ain't you very cold, missie? And was you overtook with sleep, and did you spend the night here? Why, I 'spect your poor pa and ma were in a fine fright about you, Miss Maggie." "Oh, do, they are not," answered Maggie, shaking herself, and running up to Jim, and taking hold of one of his hands. "They know nothing at all about it, Jim. They are all in their beds, every one of them, sound, fast asleep. Even my new Cousin Ralph is asleep. He said I was a muff, but I 'spect he is. Isn't it 'licious being up so bright and early, Jim?" "Well, no, missie, I don't think it is. I likes to lie in bed uncommon myself, so I do. I 'ates getting up of a morning, Miss Maggie; and whenever I gets a holiday, don't I take it out in my bed, that's all!" "Oh, you poor Jim!" said Maggie in a very compassionate tone. "I didn't know bed was thought such a treat; I don't find it so. Well, Jim, I'm glad, anyhow, you're obliged to be up this morning, 'cause you and me, we can be company to one another. I'm going with you into the stable-yard now." "Oh! but, missie, I has to clean out Snowball's stable, and get another stable ready for Master Ralph's pony Raven, and that's all work that a little lady could have no call to mix with. I think, missie, if I was you, I'd go straight back to my bed, and have another hour or two before Sir John and her ladyship are up." But Maggie shook her head very decidedly over this proposition. "No," she said, "I'm going to the stable-yard; I'm going to look at Snowball. I don't think very much of Snowball; I think he'll have to be sold." Jim opened his eyes and raised his eyebrows a trifle at this proof of inconstancy on Maggie's part, but he thought fit to offer no verbal objection, and the two walked together in the direction of the stables. Here the large stable clock attracted the erratic little maid's attention; she suddenly remembered the dreadful feeling of shame which had swept over her when Ralph had asked her to tell him the hour. She had earnestly wished at that moment that she had been a good child, and had learned how to tell the time when Miss Grey offered to teach her. It would never do for Ralph to discover her deficiency in this matter. Perhaps Jim could teach her. She turned to him eagerly. "Jim, do you know what o'clock it is?" "Yes, missie, of course; it's a quarter-past six." "Oh! how clever of you, Jim, to know that. Did you find it out by looking up at the stable clock?" "Why, of course, Miss Maggie; there it is in front of us. You can see for yourself." Maggie's face became very grave, and her eyes assumed quite a sad expression. "I want to whisper something to you, Jim," she said. "Stoop down; I want to say it very, very low. I don't know the clock time." Jim received this solemn secret in a grave manner. He was silent for a moment; then he said slowly: "You can learn it, I suppose, Miss Maggie?" "Oh, yes, dear Jim; and you can teach me." Jim began to rumple up his hair and to look perplexed. "I--oh! that's another thing," he said. "Yes, you can, Jim; and you must begin right away. There's a big, round white thing, and there are little figures marked on it; and there are two hands that move, 'cause I've watched them; and there's a funny thing at the bottom that goes tick-tick all the time." "That's the pend'lum, Miss Maggie." "Yes, the pend'lum," repeated Maggie glibly. "I'll remember that word; I won't forget. Now, go on, Jim. What's the next thing?" "Well, there's the two 'ands, miss; the little 'and points to the hours, and the big 'un to the minutes." "It sounds very puzzling," said Maggie. "So it is, miss; so it is. You couldn't learn the clock not for a score of days. I took a week of Sundays over it myself, and I'm not to say dull. The clock's a puzzler, Miss Maggie, and can't be learned off in a jiffy, anyhow." "Well, but, Jim, Ralph mustn't find out; he mustn't ever find out that I don't know it. It would be quite dreadful what Ralph would think of me then; he wouldn't ever, ever believe that I could turn out as well as Jo. You don't think Jo such a wonderful girl, do you, Jim?" "Oh, no, Miss Maggie; I don't think nothing at all about her. I'd better get to my work now, miss." "Yes, but you must teach me something about the old clock, just to make Ralph s'pose I know about the hour." "Well, miss, you can talk a little bit about the pend'lum, and the big 'and and the little 'un, and you can say that you think the stable clock is fast; it is that same, miss, and that will sound very 'cute. Now I must go to my sweeping. William will be round almost immediately, and he'll be ever so angry if I have nothing done, so you'll please to excuse me, miss." Maggie left the stable-yard rather discontentedly. It was not yet half-past six, and breakfast would not be on the table for two long hours. What should she do? After all, perhaps she was a muff to get up in the middle of the night; perhaps she was the silly one, and Ralph, so snug and rosy and comfortable in his little bed, was the wise and good one. Some things very like tears came to Maggie's bright blue eyes as she turned back again to the garden, for she was beginning to feel a little tired, and oh! very, very hungry. She wondered if Jo ever got up at four o'clock in the morning, and if Ralph had ever called Jo a muff; but of course he had not. Jo was doubtless one of those unpleasant model little girls about whom nurse sometimes spoke to her on Sunday: little girls who always did at once what their old nurses told them, who never rumpled their pinafores, nor made their hair untidy, nor soiled their clean hands, but walked instead of running, and smiled instead of laughing. Nurse had spoken over and over of these dear little lady-like misses. These little girls delighted in doing plain needlework, and were intensely happy when they conquered a fresh word in their reading, and they always adored their governesses, and were rather sorry when holiday time came. When nurse spoke about these children, Maggie usually interrupted her vehemently with the exclamation. "I hate that proper good little girl!" and then nurse's small twinkling brown eyes would grow full of suppressed fun, and she would passionately kiss her spoiled darling. Maggie, as she walked through the garden, where the dew was still sparkling, quite made up her mind that Jo belonged to this unpleasant order of little maids, and she determined to dislike her very much. As she was sauntering slowly along she passed a small narrow path which led into a shrubbery; directly through the shrubbery was another path, which branched out in the direction of Maggie's neglected garden; suppose she went and did a little weeding in her garden; or no, suppose she did what would be much more enchanting, suppose she paid a visit to Ralph's rabbits! Ralph had complained the night before of the hutch where his pets had been put; he had grumbled at its not being bright enough, and large enough, and clean enough. Suppose Maggie went and furbished it up a little, and looked at Ralph's pets, and gave them some lettuce leaves to eat. In a moment she had flown through the shrubbery, had passed the little neglected garden and the half-finished rockery, and was kneeling down by the hutch where Ralph's rabbits had made for themselves a new home. There they were, two beautiful snow-white creatures, with long silky hair, and funny bright red eyes, and pink noses. They had not a black hair on either of their glossy coats. Ralph had said they were very valuable rabbits, and because of the extreme purity of their coats he had called them Lily and Bianco. Maggie, too, thought them lovely; she bent close to the bars of the hutch and called them to her, and tried to stroke their noses through the little round holes. Bianco was very tame, but Lily was a little shy, and kept in the background, and did not allow her nose to be rubbed. Maggie showered endearing names on her; no pet she had ever possessed herself seemed equal to Ralph's snow-white rabbits. After playing with them for a little she ran into the kitchen garden to fetch some lettuce leaves, and with a good bundle in her arms returned to the rabbit-hutch. At so tempting a sight even Lily lost her shyness, and pressed her nose against the bars of her cage, and struggled to get at the tempting green food. "They shall come out and eat their breakfasts in peace and comfort, the darlings!" exclaimed Maggie. "Here, I'll make a nice pile of it just by this tree, and I'll open the door, and out they'll both come. While they are eating I can be cleaning the hutch. What a nice useful girl I am, after all! I expect Ralph will think I'm quite as good as that stupid old Jo of his. Come along, Bianco pet; here's your dear little breakfast ready for you. Oh, you darling, precious Lily! you need not be afraid of me. I would not hurt a hair of your lovely coat." Open went the door of the hutch, and out scampered the two white rabbits. They bounded in rabbit fashion toward the green lettuces, and when Maggie saw them happily feeding, she turned her attention to the hutch. "No, this is not a proper hutch," she said to herself. "It's not large enough, nor roomy enough, nor handsome enough. I don't wonder at poor Ralph being put out--he felt he was treated shabby. I must speak to father about it. There must be a new hutch made as quick as possible. Well, I had better clean this one while the dear bunnies are at their breakfast. I'll see if I can get some fresh straw. I'll run round to the yard and try if I can pull some straw out of one of the ricks. I really am most useful. Good-by, Bianco and Lily; I'll be back with you in a moment, dear little pets." The rabbits did not pay the slightest heed to Maggie's loving words. It is to be feared that, beautiful as they were in person, they possessed but small and selfish natures; they liked fresh lettuces very much, and when they had eaten enough they looked around somewhat shyly, after the manner of timid little creatures. The whole place represented a strange world to them, but as there was not a soul in sight, they thought they might explore this new land a little. Bianco bounded on in front, and looked back at Lily; Lily scampered after her companion. In a short time they found themselves on the boundary of a green and shady and pleasant-looking wood. In this wood doubtless abounded those many good and tempting things to which rabbits as a race are partial. They went a little further, and lost themselves in the soft green herbage. When Maggie returned to the rabbit-hutch, with her arms full of straw and her rosy cheeks much flushed, Bianco and Lily were nowhere to be seen. CHAPTER V. THE EMPTY HUTCH. At breakfast that morning Lady Ascot noticed how tired Maggie looked--her blue eyes were swollen as if she had been crying, her pretty cheeks were very red, and she did not come to table with at all her usual appetite. Maggie always breakfasted with her father and mother. She also had her early dinner at their lunch, but her own lunch and tea she took in the schoolroom with Miss Grey. Miss Grey was now present at the breakfast-table, and so also was Ralph. Ralph was a very slight and thin boy, with a dark face and bright eyes. He looked uncommonly well this morning, remarkably neat in his person, and altogether a striking contrast to poor disheveled little Maggie. Maggie felt afraid to raise her eyes from her plate. When her mother noticed her fatigue and languor, she knew that Ralph's quizzical and laughing gaze was upon her, and that his lips were softly moving to the inaudible words: "Little muff, she got up in the middle of the night! She got up in the middle of the night!" Maggie would have been quite saucy enough, and independent enough, to be indifferent to these remarks of Ralph's, and perhaps even to pay him back in his own coin, but for the loss of the rabbits. Bianco and Lily were gone, however; the hutch was empty; it was all the little princess' fault, and, in consequence, her versatile spirits had gone down to zero. With all her faults--and she had plenty--Maggie was far too honest a child to think of concealing what she had done from her cousin. She meant to tell him, but she had dreaded very much going through her revelation, and she felt that his contempt and anger would be very bitter and hard to bear. Maggie always sat next her father at breakfast, and he now patted her on her hot cheeks, looked tenderly at her, and piled the choicest morsels on her plate. "The little maid does not look quite the thing," Sir John called across the table to his wife. "I think we must give her a holiday. Miss Grey, you won't object to a holiday, I am sure, and Ralph and Maggie will have plenty to do with one another." "If you please, sir," here burst from Ralph, "do you mind coming round with me after breakfast and seeing to the accommodation of the rabbits and pigeons? I think my rabbits want a larger and better hutch, if you please, Uncle John." "All right, my boy, we'll see about them," replied the good-natured uncle. "Hullo, little maid, what is up with you--where are you off to?" "I--I don't want any breakfast. I'm tired," said Maggie, and before her father could again interrupt her she ran out of the room. Her heart was full, there was a limit to her endurance; she could not go with Sir John and her Cousin Ralph to look at the empty hutch. She wondered what she should do; she wished with all her heart at this moment that Ralph had never come, that he had never brought those tiresome and beautiful rabbits to tempt her to open the door of their prison, and so unwittingly set them free. She ran once more into the garden, and went in a forlorn manner into the shrubbery; she had a kind of wild vain hope that Bianco and Lily might be tired of having run away, and might have returned to their new home. She approached the rabbit-hutch; alas! the truants were nowhere in sight; she stooped down and looked into the empty home; and just at this moment voices were heard approaching, the clear high voice of her boy cousin, accompanied by Sir John's deeper tones. Maggie had nothing for it but to hide, and the nearest and safest way for her to accomplish this feat was to climb into a large tree which partly over-shaded the rabbit-hutch. Maggie could climb like any little squirrel, and Sir John and Ralph took no notice of a rustling in the boughs as they approached. Her heart beat fast; she crouched down in the green leafy foliage, and hoped and trusted they would not look up. There was certainly no chance of their doing that. When Ralph discovered that his pets were gone, he gave vent to something between a howl and a cry of agony, and then, dragging his uncle by the arm, they both set off in a vain search for the missing pets--Bianco and Lily. No one knew better than poor Maggie did how slight was their chance of finding them. She wondered if she might leave her leafy prison, if she would have time to rush in to nurse or mother before Ralph came back. She thought she might try. It would be such a comfort to put her head on mother's breast and tell the story to this sympathizing friend. She had just made the first rustling in the old tree, preparatory to her descent, when Sir John's portly form was seen returning. He was coming back alone, and, after a fashion he had, was saying aloud: "Very strange occurrence. 'Pon my word, quite mysterious. Whoever did open the door of the hutch? Surely Jim would not be so mischievous! I must question him, and if I think the young rascal is telling me a lie, he shall go--yes, he shall go. I won't be humbugged. And Ralph, poor lad! It's a disgrace to have my sister's son annoyed in this way on the very first morning of his visit. Why, hullo, Maggie, little woman! What are you doing up there?" "I'm coming down if you'll just wait a minute, father," called down Maggie. "Oh, please, father, stand close under the tree, and don't let Ralph see us. I'm coming down as hard as ever I can. There, please stretch up your hand, father; when I catch it I'll jump." "Into my arms," said Sir John, folding her tight in a loving embrace. "My darling, you are not well. You are all trembling. What is the matter, little woman?" "Nothing, father; only I wanted to speak to you so badly, and I didn't want Ralph to hear. I heard you say that perhaps Jim did it, and you'd send him away. 'Twasn't Jim, 'twas me. I'm miserable about it--'twas all me, father." "All you? Mag-Mag, what do you mean?" "I let them out, father. I gave poor Bianco and Lily some nice lettuce leaves just here under the tree. See, they have not quite finished what I gave them. While they were feeding I thought I'd clean the hutch to please Ralph, and I ran round to the hay-rick for some fresh hay, and when I came back Bianco and Lily were gone. I spent all the time before breakfast looking for them, but I couldn't see them anywhere. Poor Jim had nothing to do with it, father. I did see Jim this morning. I think he's an awfully good boy. Father, Jim had nothing to do with opening the door of the hutch--it was all me." "Yes, Maggie, so it seems. Ah! here comes Ralph himself. Now, my dear little maid, you really need not be frightened. I'll undertake to break the tidings to Master Ralph. You were a good child to tell me the truth, Maggie." "I can't find them anywhere, uncle," called back Ralph, in his high voice. "Who could have been the mischievous person? Don't you think it was very wicked, Uncle John, for any one to open my hutch door? I expect some thief came and stole them. I suppose you are a magistrate, Uncle John; I hope you are, and that you'll have a warrant issued immediately, so that the person who stole my Bianco and Lily may find themselves locked up in prison. Why, if that is not Maggie standing behind you. How very, very queer you look, Maggie!" Sir John laid his hand on Ralph's shoulder. "The fact is, my lad," he said, "this poor dear little maid of mine has come to me with a sad confession. It seems that she is the guilty person. She gave your rabbits something to eat, and let them out in order that they might enjoy their meal the better. Then it occurred to her to get some fresh hay for the hutch, and while she was away Bianco and Lily took it into their heads to play truants. You must forgive Maggie, Ralph; she meant no harm. If the rabbits are not found I can only promise to get you another pair as handsome as money can buy." While his uncle was speaking Ralph's face had grown very white. "I don't want any other rabbits, thank you, Uncle John," he said. "It was poor little Jo gave me Bianco and Lily, and I was fond of them; other rabbits would not be the same." "I only hope, Ralph, your pets will be found. I shall send a couple of men to search for them directly. In the mean time, you must promise me not to be angry with my poor little girl; she meant no harm." "Oh, I'm not angry," said Ralph; "most girls are muffs; Jo isn't, but then she's not like other people." He turned on his heel and sauntered slowly away. It is difficult to say how the affair of the rabbits would have terminated, and how soon Maggie would have been taken back into Ralph's favor, but just then, on the afternoon of that very day in fact, an event occurred which turned every one's thoughts into a fresh channel. Lady Ascot received a telegram announcing the dangerous illness of her favorite and only sister--it was necessary that she and Sir John should start that very night for the North to see her. The question then arose. What was to become of the two children? "Send us to mother, of course," promptly said Ralph. "Hullo!" exclaimed Sir John; "why, I declare if it isn't a good thought. Violet wouldn't mind having you both on a visit for a fortnight or so, and Miss Grey could go with you, so that your mother need have no extra trouble. Remember, Ralph, you are bound to us for the summer, my boy, and we only lend you to your mother for a few days. You quite understand?" "Lend me to mother; no, I'm sure I don't understand that," said Ralph. "Oh! Maggie," he exclaimed suddenly, in all his old brightest manner, "if we go to London, you'll see Jo!" "I'll go off this very moment and telegraph to my sister," said Sir John; "the children and Miss Grey can start to-morrow morning. It's all arranged. It is a splendid plan." In five minutes the plan was made which was to exercise so large an influence over little Maggie, which was, in short, completely to alter her life. Sir John sent off his telegram, and in the course of the afternoon his sister, Mrs. Grenville, replied to it. She would be ready to receive Ralph and Maggie the next day, and would be pleased also to have Miss Grey, Maggie's governess, accompany the children. Maggie had never seen London; and Ralph became eloquent with regard to its charms. "It will be delightful for you," he said; "of course I am rather tired of it, for I have been everywhere and seen all the sights, but it will really be very nice for you. You are young, you know, Maggie, and you'll have to go to the places where quite the little children are seen; Madame Tussaud's is one, and the Zoological Gardens is another. Oh, won't it be fun to see you jumping when the lions roar!" At these words of Ralph's Maggie turned rather pale, and perceiving that he had made an impression, he proceeded still further to work on her feelings, describing graphically the scene at the Zoo when the lions are fed, the cruel glitter in the eyes of the hungry beasts, and the awful sound which they make when they crush the great bones of meat provided for them. "You mustn't go too near their cages," said Ralph; "nobody knows how strong a lion is; and though the cages are made with very large bars of iron, yet still----" Here Ralph made an expressive pause. Maggie opened her blue eyes, remained quite silent for a moment, for she did not wish Ralph to suppose that she was really afraid of the lions, and then she said softly: "I'm not going to the Zoo--at least not at first. I'm going to do my lessons with Miss Grey in the hours when the lions are fed. I know it's very good of me, but I'm going to be good, 'cause I am so sorry about your rabbits, Ralph." "So you ought to be," said Ralph, turning red; "but weeks and weeks of being sorry won't bring them back. When people do very careless and thoughtless things, being sorry doesn't mend matters. You ask mother, and she'll explain to you. But please don't say anything more about Bianco and Lily. I want to know what you mean by saying that you'll do your lessons at the hour the lions are fed. You do your lessons at the hour that most suits Miss Grey, don't you?" Maggie nodded. "Yes," she said, "I'm going to please poor Miss Grey too; I'm going to be very good." "Well, Miss Grey won't like to be kept at home in the afternoons teaching you your lessons--she'll like to be out amusing herself in the afternoon. I call that more thoughtlessness. You'll have to do your lessons in the morning, and the lions are fed at three o'clock, so that excuse won't serve." "I'm not going to the Zoo," continued Maggie, who began to feel decidedly worried. "If Miss Grey wants to be out in the afternoon, I'll go to Madame Tussaud's then. I don't like that Zoo, and I'm not fond of lions; but I expect Madame Tussaud's must be a nice sort of place." "Oh--oh--oh," said Ralph, beginning to jump about on one leg; "you see the chamber of horrors before you make up your mind whether it's a nice sort of place or not. Why, at Madame Tussaud's you always have your heart in your mouth because you don't know whether the wax figures are alive or not; and you are always saying, 'I beg your pardon;' and you are always knocking up against people whom you think are alive and want to speak to you, when they are only big wax dolls; and whenever you give a little start and show by your face that you have made a mistake, the real live people laugh. I can tell you, Maggie, you have to mind your p's and q's at Madame Tussaud's." "I won't go," said Maggie; "I need not go unless I like;" and then she walked out of the room, beginning seriously to debate in her poor little mind on the joys of having a playmate, for Ralph contrived at every turn to make her feel so very small. CHAPTER VI. JO'S ROOM. It was well for Maggie that Ralph was a very different boy when with his mother and when without her. When the children arrived in London and found themselves in Mrs. Grenville's pretty bright house in Bayswater, Ralph flew to the sweet-looking young mother who came up to meet them, clasped his arms round her neck, laid his head on her shoulder, and instantly a softened and sweet expression came over his dark and somewhat hard little face. Mrs. Grenville was very much like her brother, so that prevented Maggie being shy with her. She also petted the little girl a great deal, and, as a matter of course, took more notice of her than of Ralph. Mrs. Grenville also spoke about the Zoo and Madame Tussaud's, but she contrived to make these two places of entertainment sound quite delightful to her little visitor. Instead of dwelling on their horrors she spoke of their manifold and varied charms, until Maggie's eyes sparkled, and she said in her quick, excitable way: "I'll go there with you, Aunt Violet; I'd like to go to both of those places with you." Aunt Violet read between the lines here, and gave Ralph a quick little glance which he pretended not to see. The next morning Mrs. Grenville asked Miss Grey to allow Maggie to have a holiday. "To-morrow she will begin her lessons regularly," continued the lady. "Of course by this time such a tall girl can read and write nicely, and I shall like to inclose a little letter from her to her mother; but to-day the children and I mean to be very busy together. Ralph, as you are older, and as you know most about London, you shall choose what our amusement shall be." Maggie felt herself turning first red and then white when Mrs. Grenville spoke of her reading and writing accomplishments, but Miss Grey was merciful and made no comment, and as Ralph had not yet been made acquainted with the poor little princess' profound ignorance, she trusted that her secret was safe. "Mother," here eagerly burst in Ralph, "of course the very first thing we must do is to go and see Jo. Shall I go round to see Jo this morning, mother, and may I take Maggie with me? I think it would do Maggie lots of good to see a girl like Jo." "Jo would do any one good," responded Mrs. Grenville. "It is a kind thought, Ralph, and you may carry it out. If you and Maggie like to run upstairs and get ready now, I will send Waters round with you, and I will call for you myself at Philmer's Buildings at twelve o'clock. After all, I should like to take Maggie myself to the Zoo--I want her to see the monkeys and the birds, and she shall have a ride on one of the elephants if she likes. As to the lions, dear," continued Mrs. Grenville, looking kindly at the little girl, "you shall not see them feed unless you like." "I don't mind seeing them feed if you are with me," whispered back Maggie; but just then Ralph called to her imperiously, and she had to hurry out of the room. "Aren't you glad that you are going at last to see my dear little Jo?" exclaimed the boy. "Now do hurry, Mag; get yourself up nice and smart, for Jo does so admire pretty things." Maggie made no response, but went slowly into her little bedroom. In her heart of hearts she was becoming intensely jealous of this wonderful Jo. She was putting her in the same category with those unpleasant little girls who liked needlework, and were exceedingly proper and good, and belonged to that tiresome class of little models of whom nurse was so fond of speaking. Maggie had borne patiently all Ralph's rhapsodies over this perfect little Jo, but quite a pang went through her heart when she heard Mrs. Grenville also praise her. "I don't want to go," she said as Miss Grey helped her to put on her boots, and took out her neat little jacket and pretty shady hat from their drawers. "Not want to go?" said the governess. "Oh, surely you will like the walk with Ralph this lovely morning, Maggie?" "No, I won't," said Maggie. "I don't want to see Jo; I'm sure she's a horrid good little girl; she's like nurse's Sunday go-to-meeting girls, and I never could bear them." Miss Grey could not help smiling slightly at Maggie's eager words. "I remember," she said after a pause as she helped to put the little girl's sash straight, "when I was a child about your age, Maggie, I often amused myself making up pictures of people before I had seen them. I generally found that the pictures were wrong, and that the people were not at all like what I had fancied them to be." Maggie pondered over this statement; then she said solemnly: "But I know about Jo--I'm quite sure that my picture of Jo isn't wrong. She wears a white pinafore, and there are no spots on it, and her hair is so shiny--I 'spect there is vaseline on her hair--and her nails are neat, and her shoes are always buttoned, and--and--and--she's a horrid good little girl--and I don't like her--and I never will like her." "Maggie! Maggie!" shouted Ralph from below, and Maggie, with a nod at Miss Grey, and the parting words, "I know all about her," rushed out of the room, danced down the stairs, and holding her cousin's hand, and accompanied by the sedate Waters, set out on their morning walk. It was Maggie's first walk in London, and the children and maid soon found themselves crossing Hyde Park, coming out at one of the gates at the opposite side from Mrs. Grenville's pretty house, and then entering a crowded thoroughfare. Here Waters stepped resolutely between the little pair, took a hand of each, and hurried them along. Ralph carried a small closed basket in his hand, and Maggie wondered what it contained, and why Ralph looked so grave and thoughtful, and why he so often questioned Waters as to the contents of a square box which she also carried. "You took great care of that box while I was away, Waters?" "Well, yes, Master Ralph; it always stood on the mantelpiece in my mistress' room, and I dusted it myself most regularly." "And do you really think it's getting heavy, Waters?" "Well, sir, you were away exactly two nights and two days, and that means, by the allowance of one penny a day given to you, two pennies more in the money-box. It's two pennies heavier than it was, sir, when you left us, and that's all." Ralph sighed profoundly. "Time goes very slowly," he said. "How I wish I had more money, and that when I had it I didn't spend it so fast. Well, perhaps Jo has managed about the tambourine after all. If there is a good manager, Jo is one. Oh, here we are at last!" The children and Waters had turned into a shabby-looking street, and were now standing before a block of buildings which looked new and tolerably clean. Unlike any ordinary house Maggie had ever seen, this one appeared to possess no hall door, but was entered at once by a flight of stone stairs. The children and the servant began to ascend the stairs, and Maggie wondered how many they would have to go up before they reached the rooms where the little girl in the spotless pinafore with the white hands and the smoothly vaselined hair resided. Maggie was rather puzzled and disconcerted by the bare look of the stone stairs, and also by the somewhat anxious and grave expression on Ralph's face. She was unacquainted with that kind of look, and it puzzled her, and she began dimly to wonder if Miss Grey was right, and her picture of Jo was untrue. At last they stopped at a door, which was shut, and which contained some writing in large black letters on its yellow paint. Maggie could not read, but Ralph pointed to the letters, and said joyfully: "Here we are at last!" The words on the door where these: "Mrs. Aylmer, Laundress and Charwoman," but Maggie, of course, was not enlightened by what she could not understand. Waters knocked at the door; a quick, eager little voice said, "Come in." There was the pattering of some small feet, the door was flung wide open, and Maggie, Ralph, and Waters found themselves inside Jo's room. That was the first impression the room gave; it seemed to belong to Jo; Jo's spirit seemed to pervade it all over. Mrs. Aylmer, laundress and charwoman, might own the room and pay the rent for it, but that made no difference--it was Jo's. Who was Jo? Maggie asked herself this question; then she turned red; then she felt her lips trembling; then she became silent, absorbed, fascinated. The picture she had conjured up faded never to return, and the real Jo took its place. Jo was the most beautiful little girl Maggie had ever seen--she had fluffy, shining, tangled hair; her pale face was not thin, but round and smooth; each little feature was delicate and chiseled; the lips were little rosebuds; the eyes had that serene light which you never see except in the faces of those children who have been taught patience through suffering. Jo was a sadly crippled little girl lying on a low bed. Maggie, of course, had seen poor children in the village at home; but those children had not been ill; they were rosy and hearty and strong. This child looked fragile, and yet there was nothing absolutely weak about her. At the moment when Ralph and Maggie entered Jo was keeping school; two twin boys were standing by her bedside, and listening eagerly to her instructions. "No, no, Bob," she was saying, "you mustn't do it that way; you must do it more carefully, Bob, and slower. Now, shall we begin again?" Bob tried to drone something in a monotonous sing-song, but just then the visitors' faces appeared, and all semblance of school vanished on the spot. Ralph poured out a whole string of remarks. The contents of the money-box were emptied on Jo's bed, and the exciting question of Susy's tambourine came under earnest discussion. If Susy had a proper tambourine she could use her rather sweet voice to advantage, and earn money by singing and dancing in the streets. Susy was ten years old--a thick-set little girl with none of Jo's transparent beauty. Sixpence had been already collected for the coveted musical instrument; Ralph's box contained eightpence, but, alas! the tambourine on which Susy had set her heart could not be obtained for a smaller sum than half a crown. "They are not worth nothing for less than that," she exclaimed; "they makes no sound, and when you sings or dances with them, your voice don't seem to carry nohow. No, I'd a sight rayther wait and have a good one. Them cheap 'uns cracks, too, when they gets wet. Here's sixpence and here's eightpence; that makes one shilling and two pennies. Oh! but it do seem as if it were a long way off afore we see our way to 'arf a crown." Here Susy, whose face had been radiant, became suddenly depressed, and Maggie felt a lump in her throat, and an earnest, almost passionate, wish to get hold of her father's purse-strings. "Now come and talk to Jo," said Ralph, drawing his little cousin forward. "We need not say any more about the tambourine to-day; I'm saving up all my money; I earn a penny every day that I'm good, and I'll give my penny to Susy for the present, so she'll really have the half-crown by and by. Now, Jo, this is my Cousin Maggie; I've told her about you. She lives down in the country; she doesn't know much, but then that's not to be wondered at. She was very naughty and careless too about my rabbits; she has asked me to forgive her, and of course I haven't said much; it wouldn't be at all manly to scold a girl; but you are really the one to forgive her, Jo, for the rabbits were yours before they were mine." "What, Bianco and Lily?" answered Jo, the pink color coming into her little face. "Oh, missie, wasn't they beautiful and white?" [Illustration: "NOW, JO, THIS IS MY COUSIN MAGGIE."--Page 74.] "Yes, and they're lost," said Maggie; "'twas I did it. I opened the door of their little house, and they ran out, and went into a wood, and none of us could find them since. Ralph said it was you gave them to him, and he doesn't really and truly forgive me, though he pretends he does. I was sorry, but I won't go on being sorry if he doesn't really and truly forgive me." To this rather defiant little speech of Maggie's Jo made a very eager reply. She looked into the pretty little country lady's face, right straight up into her eyes, and then she said ecstatically: "Oh, ain't I happy to think as my beautiful darling white Bianco and Lily has got safe away into a real country wood! Oh, missie, are there real trees there, and grass? and I hopes, oh, I hopes there's a little stream." "Yes, there is," said Maggie, "a sweet little stream, and it tinkles away all day and all night, and of course there are trees, and there's grass. It's just like any other country wood." "I'm so glad," said Jo; "I can picter it. In course I has never seen it, but I can picter it. Trees, grass, and the little stream a-tinkling, and the white bunnies ever and ever so happy. Yes, missie, thank you, missie; it's real beautiful, and when I shuts my eyes I can see it all." Jo had said nothing about forgiving Maggie; on the contrary, she seemed to think her careless deed something rather heroic, Ralph raised his dark brows, fidgeted a little, and began to look at his cousin with a new respect. At this moment Mrs. Grenville's footman came up to say that the carriage was waiting for the children; so Maggie's first visit to Jo was over. CHAPTER VII. IN VIOLET. Maggie and Ralph spent a very happy afternoon at the Zoo. The best of Ralph always came to the surface when he was with his mother, and he was also impressed by Jo's remarks about her rabbits. Was it really true that Maggie had done a beautiful deed by giving his white and pretty darlings their liberty in a country wood? How Jo's eyes shone when she spoke, and how ecstatically she looked at the little princess! Ralph was a great deal too much of a boy, and a great deal too proud to make any set speech of forgiveness to Maggie, but he determined on the spot to restore her to his favor. He ceased to be condescending, and greeted her more as a little hail-fellow-well-met. Maggie rejoiced in the change. Mrs. Grenville was her brightest and most agreeable self; the lions on near acquaintance proved more fascinating than dreadful, and on their way home Maggie pronounced in favor of the Zoo, said she would certainly like to go there again, and thought that on the whole it must be a nicer place than Madame Tussaud's, where, according to Ralph's account, unless you visited the chamber of horrors there were only large and overgrown dolls to be seen. "I wonder," said Maggie to her cousin as they sat in the most amiable manner side by side at their tea that evening, "I wonder why Susy cares to go out into the streets and sing and play a funny little tambourine. She can't be at all shy to sing before a lot of people; can she, Ralph?" Ralph stared hard at Maggie. "Don't you really know what she does it for?" he asked. "I suppose for a kind of play," said Maggie, opening her eyes a little. Ralph stamped his foot impatiently. "A kind of play!" he repeated. "I was beginning to respect you. I forgot how ignorant you are, Poor Susy goes out and plays the tambourine and dances and sings because she wants pennies--pennies to buy bread for Jo and for herself, and for Ben and Bob. No, of course you can't know! Susy wants the tambourine not to play with, but because she's hungry." Ralph spoke with great energy; Maggie's little round sweet face became quite pale; she dropped the delicious bread-and-butter and marmalade which she was putting to her lips, and remained absolutely silent. "Must the tambourine cost half a crown?" she asked presently. "Yes," replied Ralph; "didn't you hear her say so? She knows best what it ought to cost." Maggie wished she were not such a dunce, that she could read a little and write a little, and that she had some slight knowledge of figures. Hitherto she had been shy of revealing any of her great ignorance to Ralph, but now her intense longing to know how many pennies were in half a crown made her ask her cousin the question. Ralph assured her carelessly that there were thirty pennies in that very substantial piece of money. "It will take a long time to collect," he said, sighing deeply. "Poor Susy will have to have plenty of patience, for I know Jo can't help her, and she'll have to depend on me. I earn a penny a day when I'm good. I generally am good when I'm with mother. It was quite different at Tower Hill, for you annoyed me a good deal, Maggie, but I've made up my mind to say nothing more on that subject. I dare say you, too, will try to be a good girl when you're with mother. Well, what was I saying? Oh! about Susy's pennies. With what I gave her and what Jo collected she has got fourteen. Take fourteen from thirty, how much is left, Maggie? Of course you know, so I need not tell you. All that number of days poor Susy will have to wait, however hungry she is. There, we have finished our tea, let's go up to the drawing-room to mother now. Isn't mother sweet? Did you ever see any one--any one so nice?" "Yes, I saw my own mother, and she's a lot nicer," said Maggie. Ralph's eyes flashed. "I like that," he said; "why, every one says the same thing about my mother, that she's the very, very nicest lady in the world. Oh, I say, Maggie, where are you----" But his little cousin had disappeared. The facts were these. The events of her first day in London had worked up poor little Maggie's feelings to a crisis. She had been excited, she had been pleased, she had been greatly surprised. All the old tranquil life in the midst of which she had moved, knowing all the time that she was its center, that she, the little princess, was the beloved object for whom most things were done, for whom treats were prepared and delights got ready--all this old life had vanished, and Maggie was nothing more than little Maggie Ascot, an ignorant child, a dunce who could not even reckon figures or read a word of the queen's English, or have any pennies in her purse. Maggie was only the little cousin whom Ralph rather despised, who was nobody at all in his estimation compared to Jo--Jo, who was so humble, and so very poor. Maggie's feelings had been greatly moved about Jo and Susy; she had longed beyond words to put the necessary number of pennies into Susy's hand, and to tell her to go out and buy that tambourine, on which her heart was set, without a moment's delay. She had wished this when she only supposed that Susy wanted the tambourine to amuse herself. How much more now did she long to get it for her, when Ralph had assured her that Susy's need was so great that she wished for the tambourine in order that she might earn money to buy bread! When Ralph said this Maggie felt a lump rising in her throat, and her own healthy childish appetite failing her--even then she felt inclined to rush away and cry; but when Ralph added to this his somewhat slighting remarks about the mother whose arms Maggie did so long to feel round her, the little princess could bear her feelings no longer, and rushed upstairs to sob out her over-full heart. It was not Miss Grey who found Maggie in the dark in her little room, but the good-natured Waters, who after all knew far more about children than the somewhat inexperienced governess. Waters wasted no time in asking the little girl what was the matter, but she lifted her into a very motherly embrace, and soothed and petted her with many loving words. Maggie thought Waters a most delicious person, and soon wiped away her tears, and began to smile once again. Waters was judicious enough to ask no questions about the tears, and, when they were over, to forget that they ever existed. She took Maggie into her mistress' room, and made her sit on the bed, and showed her some of Ralph's childish toys. It occurred to Maggie as she sat there that Waters would not be nearly such a dreadful person as most others to confide in. She was intensely anxious to gain some information, and she resolved to trust Waters. "May I tell you something as a great, tremendous secret?" she asked. "Well, Miss Maggie, that's as you please," replied the servant. "I can only tell you one thing--that what's confided to me is a secret from that day forward, and no mistake. What's the color to keep a secret in, Miss Maggie? In violet. That's where I keeps it, and so it's sure to be safe." Maggie laughed and clapped her hands. "Waters, I think you're a darling!" she said, "and I will trust you. I don't suppose you ever heard of any one so ignorant as me. I'll be eight years old before very long, and I can't read, and I can't write, and I can't put figures together. I can't even tell the time, Waters--I can't, really." While Maggie was speaking, Waters kept gazing at her with a most perfectly unmoved countenance. "Bless the child!" she said presently. "Well, Miss Maggie dear, where's the secret I'm to keep inviolate?" "Why, that's it, Waters; the secret is that I don't know nothing--nothing at all." "Well, you'll learn, dearie," said Waters; "you'll learn all in good time. You're nothing but a young child, and you has lots and lots of years before you." Maggie did not at all consider herself very young. There were one or two babies in the village at home, just beginning to toddle, who were really juvenile; but she, Maggie Ascot, who could run and jump and skip, and even ride!--it was really rather silly to speak of her as a very young child. However, now she was so soothed by "Waters' gentle words and Waters' petting that she could find no fault with any remark made to her by that worthy person. On the contrary, she cuddled up to her and stroked her cheek, and felt relieved at the unburdening of her secret. "I didn't learn to read till I was a good bit older than you," said Waters. "I don't mean that I'm an example for any dear little lady to follow, for I never could abide a bookworm. I don't take to it now. I only learned because my mother said it was a shame to have a great big girl who could neither spell nor write. My tastes always lay in the needlework line. Since I was a little tot I was forever with a bit of sewing in my hand; I'd hem, and I'd back-stitch, and I'd top-sew whenever I had the chance. Why, I mind me of the time when I unpicked one of my father's old shirts just for the pleasure of putting it together again, and didn't mother laugh when she saw what I was after! Plain needlework was my line, Miss Maggie, and maybe it's yours too, dearie." "Oh, no, it isn't!" said Maggie, opening her blue eyes with quite a gleam of horror in them. "I hate plain sewing worser even than I do reading; I hate it even worser than my figures. Plain sewing pricks, and it worries me. I hate it more than anything." "Well, well, dearie, you're in the pricking stages yet; I went through that, same as another. You'll come to learn the comfort of it, for of all the soothers for poor worrited women, there's nothing at all in my opinion like needle and thread." Maggie was beginning to find this turn in the conversation rather unintelligible, so she brought Waters back to the subject which most interested her by asking if she had also found the study of figures very good for the worries, and if she would let her know how many pennies Susy must have to make up the half-crown. "Oh, is that little Susy Aylmer?" said Waters. "I don't approve of no child going out to sing in the streets. However, it isn't for me to interfere, and Mrs. Aylmer is as honest and hard-working a body as ever walked, and that little Jo is a real angel, and as the poor things must live somehow, why, I suppose Susy had better sing. Master Ralph is saving up his pennies, and he'll give them all to her as sure as sure, so you has no call to put yourself out about it, Miss Maggie." "Yes, but I don't want her to wait," said Maggie. "She has nothing to eat, and she'll be so dreadfully, dreadfully hungry. She has got fourteen pennies, and she can't get anything to eat until she has thirty. Oh, Waters! if you do know figures, please tell me how many days poor Susy must live without any food until she has got the thirty pennies." Waters laughed. "Things won't be as bad as that for Susy Aylmer," she said. "She is a sturdy little piece, and I don't believe she denies herself much; don't you fret about her, Miss Maggie darling." "Yes, but what is the difference between fourteen and thirty?" insisted Maggie. "Ralph only gets a penny a day; how many days will have to pass before Susy gets the thirty pennies?" "She has fourteen now," said Waters; "well--well, it is something of a poser; I never had much aptitude in the figure line, Miss Maggie. Fourteen in hand, thirty to make up; well--well, let's try it by our fingers. Ten fingers first, five on each hand. Bear that in your mind, Miss Maggie. Add ten to fourteen, makes twenty-four; come now, I'm getting on, but that isn't thirty, is it, darling? Try the fingers again; five more fingers makes twenty-nine, and one--why, there we are--thirty. Ten, five, and one make sixteen. There, Miss Maggie, sixteen pennies more she'll have to get." Just at this moment Mrs. Grenville entered the room, and Maggie's conversation with the good-natured lady's maid was brought to an abrupt conclusion. The next morning Maggie awoke out of a profound sleep, in which she had been dreaming of Jo as turned into a real angel with wings, and of Susy as playing on the most perfect tambourine that was ever invented. The little girl awoke out of this slumber to hear the unfamiliar London sounds, and to sit up in bed and rub her sleepy eyes. The hours kept at Mrs. Grenville's were not so early as those enjoyed at Tower Hill. Maggie was tired of lying in bed; she was occupying a tiny room which led out of Miss Grey's, and she now jumped up and went to the window. What was her amazement to see just under the window, walking leisurely across the road, one of the objects of her last vivid dream, Susy Aylmer herself! Susy's very stout little form was seen crossing the street and coming right up to the Grenvilles' house. Maggie was charmed to see her, and took not an instant in making up her mind to improve the occasion. She knocked violently on the pane, but her room was too high up for even Susy's quick ears to discern this signal, and she then, in her little blue dressing-gown, rushed through Miss Grey's room, and ran as fast as her small feet would carry her down the stairs, down and down until she reached the front hall. There were no servants in the hall, but the chain had already been taken off the hall door, and Maggie had no difficulty in slipping back the bolt. She opened the door and stood on the steps. "Susy! Susy! Susy!" she screamed. Susy at this moment was receiving what indeed she came for every morning--a good supply of broken bread and meat from Mrs. Grenville's cook. Mrs. Grenville allowed the cook to give these things to Mrs. Aylmer, and Susy was generally sent to fetch them. She was much amazed to see the pretty little country lady calling to her so vehemently; she was also delighted, and came to the foot of the hall-door steps, and looked up at Maggie with a very eager face. For a girl who was so dreadfully starved, Maggie could not help thinking the said face rather round and full; however, she would not allow this passing reflection to spoil her interest. She beckoned to Susy, and said in a whisper: [Illustration: MAGGIE STOOD IN A CONTEMPLATIVE ATTITUDE.--Page 91.] "I'm most terrible sorry for you. If I had any money I'd give it to you--really and truly I would, but I haven't got nothing at all. Father has--father's ever so rich, but he's not with me, he's far away, and I can't--oh! Susy, can you write?" Maggie stood in a contemplative attitude. Susy posed herself on one leg, held her basket of broken meat in a careless manner, as though it did not account for anything at all, and kept her quick and intelligent eyes fixed on the little princess. "I do want to help you, very much," said Maggie, at last. "I want to help you my own self, without any one knowing anything about it. I think I want to do this as much for Jo as for you. Once I didn't like Jo at all, but now I do love her; she looks so beautiful and so sweet. I don't think you do; you have rather a cross face, and you are very red, and you've such fat cheeks; but maybe being hungry makes people look cross and red." "And--and--fat," continued Susy eagerly. "I'm puffed out with being so holler inside. I am now, missie, really. It's an awfully empty feel, and it won't go, not a bit of it, till I gets that 'ere tambourine." "I wish I could help you!" continued Maggie again. Just then there were sounds inside the house, sounds of dustpans and brushes, and of industrious maids approaching, and Susy knew that her opportunity was short. "I believe you, missie," she said, "I believe in your kind 'eart, missie. It do seem a shame as you shouldn't have no money, for you would know how to pervide for the poor and needy, missie; but--but it might be managed in other ways, Miss Maggie." "In other ways?" repeated Maggie. "How, Susy--how, dear, nice Susy?" "Why, now, you hasn't nothing as you could sell, I suppose?" "That I could sell?" repeated little Miss Ascot. "Oh, dear, no, I haven't nothing at all to make a shop with, if that's what you mean." "I wasn't thinking of that, missie; I was wondering now if you had any little bit of dress as you didn't want. Your clothes is very 'andsome, and something as you didn't greatly care for would fetch a few pence if it was sold, and so help on the tambourine." Maggie's blue eyes began to sparkle. "Why, there's my new hat," she said; "mother got it from London only a week ago, and I know it cost pounds--it has two long white feathers; I like it very much, but I could do without it, 'cause I've got my little common garden-hat to wear. Do you think I'd get two or three pennies for my new best hat with the feathers and the lace, Susy?" "Oh, yes, missie--oh, yes, missie; I seed the hat yesterday, and I never clapped my two eyes on such a beauty. But it seems a pity to take it away from you, missie dear, and maybe the little common garden-hat would fetch enough to buy the tambourine." "Oh, I wouldn't sell that at all," said Maggie; "I am very fond of my garden-hat, 'cause father likes me in it; and 'sides, I've gathered strawberries in it, and I've had wild birds' eggs in it. I'd much, much rather sell the stupid new hat." Susy was quite agreeable to the transfer, and it was finally arranged that the two little girls were to meet each other at the same hour on the following morning, and Susy was to accompany Maggie to the pawnbroker's, where the new hat might be disposed of. If there was a commonplace, ordinary, every-day London child, it was Susy Aylmer. She was the sister of two little brothers, who also belonged to a very easily found class of human beings; she was the daughter of an industrious, hard-working, every-day mother; and yet she was also sister to Jo! How Jo got into that home was a puzzle to all who knew her; she had innate refinement; she had heaven-born beauty. Her ideas were above her class; her little flower-like face looked like some rare exotic among its ruder companions. Mrs. Aylmer alone knew why Jo was different from her other children. Jo represented a short, bright episode in the hard-working woman's life. She had been born in good days, in sweet, happy, country days. Her father had been like her, refined in feature and poetic in temperament. Shortly after Jo's birth the Aylmers had come to London, poverty and all its attendant ills had over-taken them, and after a few years Aylmer had fallen a victim to consumption, and had left his wife with four young children on her hands, the three younger of whom altogether resembled her. Mrs. Aylmer had no time to grieve--she was a brave woman; there are many brave women in the world, thank God; among the working poor they are perhaps more the rule than the exception. She turned round, faced her position, and managed after a fashion to provide for her children. Many visitors came to see her, for she was eminently respectable, and had an honest way about her which impressed people, and all these visitors pitied her when they saw Jo. Poor little Jo was a cripple, a lovely cripple, but still unable to walk or move from her little sofa. The visitors congratulated Mrs. Aylmer on her strong boys and stalwart-looking little daughter, but they invariably pitied her about Jo. Nothing made that worthy woman so angry. "For Jo is my brightest blessing," she would exclaim; "she's always like a bit of sunshine in the room. Trouble, bless her! she a trouble! Why, don't she take the trouble off my shoulders more than any one else ever did or ever will do? Ask me who never yet spoke a cross word, and I'll tell you it's that little pale girl who can never lift herself off the sofa. Ask me who keeps the peace with the others, and I'll tell you again it's little Jo. And she don't preach, not she, for she don't know how, and she never looks reproachful for all the roughness and the wildness of the others; but her life's one sarmin, and, in short, we none of us could get on without her. Jo my trouble indeed! I only wish them visitors wouldn't talk about what they knows nothing on." What Mrs. Aylmer felt for her little lame daughter was also, although perhaps in a slightly minor degree, acknowledged by the boys and Susy. They clung to Jo, and looked up to her. The boys, who were the two youngest of the family, had a habit of giving her their absolute confidence. They not only told her of their good deeds, but of their naughty ones. They had a habit of pouring out their little scrapes and misdemeanors with one of Jo's thin hands clasped to their tearful faces, and when she forgave, and when she encouraged, the sunshine came out again on them. But Susy was different from the boys, and of late she had kept the knowledge of more than one naughty little action from Jo. The history of the tambourine, the history of the purchase of that redoubtable instrument which was to make Susy's fortune and fill the Aylmers' home with not only the necessaries, but also some of the dainties of life, was, of course, known by Jo. No one had ever been more interested in the purchase of a musical instrument than she was in the collecting of that hoard which was to result in the buying of Susy's tambourine. Jo was a delightful and sympathizing listener, and Susy liked nothing better than to kneel by her sofa and pour out her longings and dreams into so good a listener's ears; but Susy had kept more than one secret to herself, and she said nothing to Jo about her interview with little Miss Ascot, nor about the arrangement she had made with that little lady to purchase the tambourine out of the proceeds of the sale of her best hat. Susy knew perfectly that Jo would not approve of anything so underhanded, and she resolved to keep her own counsel. She returned home, however, in the wildest spirits, and indulged all day long in fantastic day-dreams. Jo was having a bad day of much pain and suffering, but Susy's brightness was infectious, and Mrs. Aylmer thought as she tidied up her place and made it straight, that surely there never were happier children than hers. "But we won't have the tambourine for many and many a day yet," said Ben. "Don't be too sure, Susy; how can you tell but that Master Ralph'll get tired of saving up all his pennies for you? Hanyhow," continued Ben, with a profound sigh, "we has a sight of days to wait afore we gets 'arf a crown." "I knows what I knows," answered Susan oracularly. "Look here, Jo, you're the one for making up real 'ticing pictures. I wants to make a day-dream, and you tell me what to do with it when we get it. S'pose now--oh, do be quiet, Ben and Bob--s'pose now I 'ad the tambourine, and it wor a beauty; well, s'pose as the day is fine, and the hair balmy, and every-body goes out, so to speak, with their pockets open, and they sees me--I'm dressed up smart and tidy--" "Oh, my, and ain't you red about the face, just?" here interrupts Bob. "Well, don't interrupt; I can't help my 'plexion; I'm tidy enough--and I'm dancing round, and I'm playing the tambourine like anything, and I'm singing. Well, maybe it's 'Nelly Bly,' or maybe it's the 'Ten Little Nigger Boys;' hanyhow I takes; I'm nothing but little Susy Aylmer, but I takes. The crowd collects, and they laugh, and they likes it, and then, the ladies and the gents, they go by, so they give me their pennies--lots of 'em; and one old gent, he have no change, and he throws me a shilling. Well, now, that's my day-dream. I comes home, I gives the pennies to mother, but I keeps the shilling; I keeps the shilling for a treat for us four young 'uns. Now, Jo, speak up. What shall we do with our day-dream?" The boys were here wildly excited. To all intents and purposes the shilling was already in Susy's possession. Bob, to relieve his over-charged feelings, instantly stood on his head, and Ben set to work to punch him; Jo's eyes began to shine. "'Tis a real beautiful day-dream, Susy darlint," she said. "Yes, ain't it, Jo? a whole shilling; you mind that, Jo. Now make up what we'll do with it. Let's all sit quiet, and shut our heyes, and listen to Jo. You'll be sure to make up something oncommon, Joey dear." Jo, when she spoke, or at least when she made up what her brothers and sisters called day-dreams, always clasped her hands and gazed straight before her; her large violet-tinted eyes began to see visions, nowhere to be perceived within that commonplace, whitewashed room; the children who listened to her instinctively perceived this, and they usually closed their own eyes in order to follow her glowing words the better. On this occasion she spoke slowly, and after a pause. "A whole shilling," she began; "it's a sight of money, and it ought to do a deal. What I'm thinking is this: suppose we had a wan, a wan as would hold us all, mother, and Susy, and Ben, and Bob, and there was lots of green grass in the bottom of the wan, so we all of us sat easy, and had no pain even when it moved. Suppose there was two horses to the wan, and a kind driver, and we went werry quick; we went away from the houses, and the streets, and we left the noise ahind us, and the dust and the dirt ahind us, and we got out into fields. Fields, with trees a-growing, and real yellow buttercups looking up at you saucy and perky like, and dear little white daisies, like bits of snow with yellow eyes. S'pose we all got out there, right in the fields, and we seed a little brook running and rushing past us, and we see the fishes leaping for joy out of the water; and if the sun was werry hot we got under a big tree, where it was shady, and we sat there; mother and I sat side by side, and you, Susy, and you, Ben and Bob, just rolled about on the green, and picked the buttercups and the daisies. Why, I can think of nothing better than that, unless, maybe, angels came and talked to us while we were there." Here Jo paused abruptly, and the three children who had sat absolutely motionless opened their eyes; the two boys sighed deeply, but Susy after a time began to cut up the day-dream; while Jo thought of angels as the only possible culmination to such intense joy, it occurred to practical Susy to suggest a good substantial dinner to be eaten under the shade of the green trees. CHAPTER VIII. CHOOSING HER COLORS. Maggie had found it very delightful to talk to Susy on the doorstep of her aunt's house. The little mystery of the whole proceeding fascinated her, and as she was in reality a very romantic and imaginative child, she thought nothing could be finer than going off privately with Susy, and sacrificing her best hat for the benefit of this young person. She had also a decidedly mixed and perhaps somewhat naughty desire to out-do Ralph in this matter, and to be herself the person who was to rescue poor Susy and her family from the depths of starvation. When Susy went away, she crept upstairs and went softly into her little room, no one having heard her either leave it or return to it. There was one part, however, of the programme marked out by Susy which was not quite so agreeable to little Miss Ascot. Susy had adjured her, with absolute tears starting to her black eyes, to keep the whole thing a secret. Maggie had not the smallest difficulty in promising this at the moment, but she had no sooner reached her little bedroom than she became possessed with a frantic desire to tell her little adventure to some one. She was not yet eight years old; she had never kept a secret in her life, and the moment she possessed this one it began to worry her. Little Maggie, however, was not without a certain code of morals; she knew that it would be very wrong indeed to tell a lie. She had given her word to Susy; she must keep her poor little secret at any cost. Miss Grey, who of course knew nothing of all that had transpired, came in at her accustomed hour to assist her little pupil at her toilet. Maggie capered about and seemed in excellent spirits while she was being dressed. She had no idea of betraying her secret, but she liked, so to speak, to play with it, to show little peeps of it, and certainly fully to acquaint those she was with, with the fact that she was the happy possessor of such a treasure. She remembered Waters' remarks of the night before. Waters had said how very faithfully she preserved anything told to her in confidence. Waters kept her secrets in violet. Maggie did not quite understand the double meaning of this expression; but, as she was being dressed, she became violently enamored of what she called the "secret" color. "No, no, I won't have my pink sash this morning, please, Miss Grey; I don't like pink; I mean it isn't the fit color for me to wear to-day. You don't know why; you'll never of course guess why, but pink isn't my color to-day anyhow." "Well, Maggie, you need not wear it," replied the patient governess; "here is a very pretty blue sash, dear; it will go quite nicely with your white frock; let me tie it on in a hurry, dear, for the breakfast gong has sounded." But Maggie would not be satisfied with the blue sash, nor yet with the tartan, nor even with the pale gold. "I want a violet sash," she said; "I'll have nothing but a violet sash; I'm keeping something in violet; you'll never, never guess what." The breakfast gong here sounded a second time, and of course Miss Grey could not find any violet ribbons in Maggie's box; fortunately she had a piece of the desired color among her own stores; so when the little princess was decked in it, she went downstairs, feeling very happy and proud. Miss Grey's violet sash did not happen to be of a pretty shade; it was an old ribbon, of a dark tint of color, and was a great deal too short for its present purpose. "What a hideous thing you have round your waist," whispered Ralph to his little cousin; but here he caught his mother's eye; she did not allow him to make personal remarks, and although she herself was considerably surprised at Lady Ascot's allowing such a ribbon into Maggie's wardrobe, nothing further was said on the subject. Even the wearing of the violet sash, however, could scarcely keep the secret from bubbling to Maggie's lips. Mrs. Grenville began to form her plans for the day. Maggie and Ralph were to employ themselves over their lessons until twelve o'clock and then Mrs. Grenville would take them both out with her, first to Madame Tussaud's, and later on for a drive in the park. "To-morrow," she continued, "you are both going with me to a children's garden party. Mrs. Somerville--you know Mrs. Somerville, Ralph, and what nice children hers are--happened to hear that you and Maggie were coming to me for a short time, and she sent an invitation for you both last night. We shall not return until quite late, as it will be Hugh Somerville's birthday; and they are going to have fireworks in the evening, and even a little dance." Ralph rubbed his hands together with delight. "Won't Maggie jump when she hears the fireworks?" he said. "You never saw fireworks, did you, Mag? Oh, I say, what a jolly time we are going to have!" Maggie felt her cheeks flushing, more particularly as she had seen a few rockets, and even some Catharine wheels, and in consequence she had hitherto believed herself rather knowing on the subject of fireworks; but when Ralph proceeded to enlighten her with regard to the style of fireworks likely to be exhibited at Mrs. Somerville's garden party; when he spoke about the fairy fountains, and the electric lights, and the golden showers of fire-drops, and last, but not least, the bouquet which was to end the entertainment, she felt she had better keep silent with regard to the rockets and Catharine wheels which her father had once displayed for the amusement of the villagers. Mrs. Grenville here began to speak earnestly to Miss Grey. "I want Maggie's dress to be quite suitable. Is there anything we ought to get for her, Miss Grey?" "I think not," replied Miss Grey. "She has just had a beautifully worked Indian muslin frock from Perrett's, in Bond Street, which she has not yet worn; and I don't think anything could be more dressy than her new hat with the ostrich feathers." "Oh, yes, it is a charming hat," replied Mrs. Grenville. "Of course she must wear it to-day when she drives with me in the carriage, but that won't injure it for to-morrow. Then I need not trouble about your wardrobe, my darling; you will accompany me to-morrow, quite the little princess your father is so fond of calling you." During this brief conversation, Maggie's little face had been changing color. "I think," she said suddenly, "that perhaps I'd better have a new hat." "Why so, my love? your hat is quite new and charming. It came from Perrett's, too, did it not, Miss Grey?" "Yes, Mrs. Grenville; it was sent in the same box as the muslin costume." "Oh, it will answer admirably, Maggie, dear. Why, what is the matter, my child?" Maggie's lips were quivering, and her eyes were fixed on her violet sash. "Only perhaps--perhaps the new hat might get lost or something," she muttered incoherently. Mrs. Grenville looked at her for a moment, but as her remark was not very intelligible, she dismissed it from her mind. The rest of the day passed happily enough. In half an hour Maggie ceased to fret about her hat. She comforted herself with the thought that her plain brown straw garden-hat, trimmed with a neat band of brown velvet, and a few daisies, would be after all just the thing for a garden party, and that in any case it did not greatly matter what she wore. What was of much more consequence was, that to-morrow Susy would be capering about with her tambourine, and that pennies would be pouring in for the Aylmer children, and for Jo in particular. She was obliged to wear her best hat when she went out that afternoon, and she certainly was remarkably careful as to how she put it on, and she quite astonished Miss Grey, when she came home in the evening, by the extreme care with which she herself placed it back in its box. "Waters," she said that night, when she suddenly met Mrs. Grenville's maid, "I am quite happy again; I have done just as you do, and I have kept it in violet all day long." "What, my darling?" asked the surprised servant. "Oh, my secret; I have got such a darling secret. It would be very wrong of me to tell it, wouldn't it, Waters?" Waters looked dubious. "I don't approve of secrets for a little lady." "But, Waters, how queer you are! You always keep your own secrets in violet, don't you?" "Oh, yes, dear; yes. But I haven't many. They're sort of burdensome things; at least, I find them so. And in no case do I approve of secrets for little ladies, Miss Maggie; in no single case." Maggie knit her brows, looked exceedingly perplexed, felt a great longing to pour the whole affair into Waters' sympathizing ears, then remembered Susy and refrained. "But I promised not to tell," she said; "I promised most solemn not to tell." "Well, well; I s'pose it's something between you and Master Ralph," remarked the servant, who felt worried she scarcely knew why. Maggie jumped softly up and down. "It isn't Ralph's secret, but it's about Ralph. He needn't save up his pennies no more. It's about Ralph's pennies and the half-crown. I know what it is; I'll tell you exactly what it is, Waters, and yet I know you won't never guess. It's add sixteen to fourteen makes thirty. My secret's the sixteen. You'll never, never, never guess, will you, Waters?" Here Waters had to confess herself bamboozled, and Maggie skipped off to bed with a very light heart. She had kept her secret all day long, and now all she had to do was to wake up quite early in the morning, and go off with Susy to the pawnbroker's. CHAPTER IX. A JOLLY PLAN. Maggie, on the whole, was inclined to wake early; she was not a particularly sound sleeper, and on the summer mornings she always had an intense longing to be up and about. It occurred to her, however, as Miss Grey was helping her to undress that night, how very, very dreadful it would be if Susy were to wait down in the street on the following morning, and she were all unconsciously to oversleep herself. She thought that such a thing ought not to be left to chance, and she cast about in her active little brain for some means of rousing herself. The little room she slept in used to be occupied by Ralph; and among the rest of its furniture, it held a nice little book-shelf, full of gayly covered boy's books. Maggie could not read, but Ralph during the day had come up with her and told her the names of some of his favorite volumes. Maggie now thought that these books might help her to wake; and accordingly, after Miss Grey had left her tucked up comfortably in her little white bed, she slipped on to the floor, and going to the book-case, selected a green and gayly bound volume, which Ralph had called "Robinson Crusoe;" another, which he had entitled "Swiss Family Robinson," and a book bound in brown, which he assured her was as heavy in its contents as in its exterior, and which bore the name of "Sandford and Merton." Maggie carried these three books into her bed, and then arranged them with system. "I am sure to wake now," she said to herself. "And poor little Susy shall not be disappointed of her tambourine. The green book is 'Robinson Crusoe,' he'll do to begin with; he's rather thick, and he'll make a good clatter. Now I do call this a lovely plan." Maggie now arranged herself in bed, and placed "Robinson Crusoe" on her feet. "I'll go sound asleep, and though he's rather weighty I don't mind him, and then when I turn, he'll go bang on the floor, and that'll wake me the first time," she said. "The other two books can stay handy until they're wanted under my pillow." Then the little princess shut up her curly fringed eyes and went happily off into the land of dreams. It so happened that Miss Grey was getting into bed when the bump occasioned by "Robinson Crusoe's" fall occurred. She rushed into her little pupil's room to inquire what was wrong. Maggie was sitting up in bed and rubbing her sleepy eyes. "He did come down with a bang," she said; "it's a jolly plan. Please, Miss Grey, it's only 'Robinson Crusoe;' do you mind putting him on the shelf?" Miss Grey picked up the volume in great wonder, but concluding that Maggie, who could not read a word, must have been amusing herself looking at the pictures, laid the book down and retired to rest. In the course of the night she had again to fly into the little princess' bedroom. This time Maggie was very sleepy, and only murmured drowsily: "I think it's his 'Family' that has got on the floor now." Miss Grey picked up the "Swiss Family Robinson," and with a not unnatural reflection that there seldom was a more troublesome little girl than her pupil, once more sought her couch. The third bang was the loudest of all, and it came with daylight, and strange and unfortunate to say, awoke the pupil, and not the governess. Maggie was out of bed in a moment, and approached the window, and was gazing out to see some sign of Susy in the street. It was not yet five o'clock, and certainly Susy was not likely to put in an appearance so early; but Maggie determined not to risk going to sleep again, and she accordingly dressed herself, and then getting on the window-sill, which happened to be rather deep, curled herself up, and pressed her little face against the glass. The band-box containing the precious hat was by her side. The moment Susy appeared, therefore, she was ready to start. Six o'clock struck from a church tower hard by, but another hour had very nearly passed before a somewhat stout little figure was seen eagerly turning the corner and gazing right up to the window where Maggie, cold and tired with waiting, sat. At the sight of Susy, however, her spirits revived and her enthusiasm was once more kindled. With the band-box containing the new hat in her hand she rushed out of the room--she was too excited to be very prudent this morning--and dashed downstairs in a way which certainly would have aroused any one in the dead of the night, but was only mistaken now for a frantic housemaid's extra cleaning. Once more she reached the hall without any one seeing her, and opening the street door, found Susy Aylmer waiting on the steps. "Oh! here you are, miss--my heart was in my mouth for fear as you'd fail me. Oh, not that band-box please, Miss Maggie, anybody would notice us with the band-box! I have brought round the little broken-victual basket, and we'll stuff the hat into that." Maggie on this occasion was certainly not going to be particular, but she did feel a pang of some annoyance when she saw her lovely hat crushed and squeezed into a by no means clean basket. She concluded, however, that as the hat was now absolutely Susy's, she need not trouble any further about it. "That's all right now," she said; "you'll be able to buy the tambourine now, won't you?" "Well, I 'ope so, miss; that's if the 'at ain't a sham, and it don't look like a sham--it looks like a real good 'at. Now, then, Miss Maggie, hadn't we better come along?--it's a good step from here to the pawnshop--we'll get there a little before eight, and they opens at eight. It's a good plan to be at the pawn bright and early, and then you get served first; come along, miss." "But I didn't know you wanted me to go with you to the shop," said Maggie; "I thought you might do that by yourself; I have gived you the hat, and I thought you'd sell it by yourself. Why, what is the matter Susy?" Susy Aylmer's face had grown crimson, redder, indeed, than any face Maggie had ever seen; she began opening the basket and pulling out the hat. "Oh! oh!" she said, "and is that your kind? Is it me that 'ud take this hat and sell it by myself? Why, I'd be took for a thief, that's what I'd be took for, and I'd be put in the lock-up, that's where I'd be found. There, Miss Maggie, take back your hat, miss; it's better to be ever so hungry and holler, and have your bit of liberty. I must do without the tambourine, and Jo's day dream won't come, that's all. Good-morning to yer, miss." Susy began to walk very slowly away, but Maggie flew after her. "Why, Susy," she said, "I don't mind going with you; I think perhaps I'd rather like going, only I didn't know you wanted me. You shan't be put in the lock-up, Susy, though I'm sure I don't know what the lock-up is, and you shall have your tambourine. But oh, Susy, I hope they won't take me for a thief and put me into that funny place!" "Oh, dear, no, missy darling--any one might see at a glance that you was the rightful owner of that 'ere pretty hat, and might well sell what was your own. Come, missy dear, it's all right now, and I never thought as you'd be that real mean as to desert me." "We must be very quick, then, Susy," said Maggie; "for my Aunt Violet is going to have breakfast at half-past eight this morning and I have been up a long time--a very long time, and I never was so hungry in all my life. I had a very disturbed night, Susy, for 'Robinson Crusoe' did bump so when he fell on the floor, and so did the 'Family,' but none of them bumped quite so hard as 'Sandford and Merton.'" All the time the two little girls were talking they were going further and further away from Mrs. Grenville's door, and by the time Maggie had quite made up her mind to accompany her little companion they had turned into a side street, and if she had wished it she could not now have found her way home. Maggie, however, no longer wished to go back; it was great fun going with Susy to the pawnbroker's, and she felt very important at having something of her own to sell. She was a strong, healthy little girl, and did not feel particularly tired when they at last reached the special pawnbroker's which Susy had fixed upon as the best place for making their bargain. The doors of this shop were not yet open, but they were presently pushed back, the shutters were taken down, and a dirty-looking girl and a slovenly red-faced man entered the establishment. Maggie had never seen such an unpleasant-looking pair, and she was very glad to shelter herself behind Susy, and felt much inclined to refuse to enter the shop at all. Susy, however, marched in boldly, and very soon the white hat was laid upon the counter, and a fierce haggling ensued between this young person and the red-faced man. The dirty girl also came and stared very hard at Maggie, for certainly such a refined little face and such a lovely hat had not been seen in that pawnshop for many a day. The hat was new, and had cost several guineas, but Maggie's eyes quite glistened when the red man presented her with seven shillings in exchange for it. She thought this a magnificent lot of money--her cheeks became deeply flushed, and she poured the silver into Susy's hand with the delighted remark: "Oh, now you can get a tambourine! This will more than make up the sixteen added to fourteen, won't it?" Susy, too, thought seven shillings a splendid lot of money, and the two were leaving the pawnbroker's in a state of ecstasy, when Susy suddenly felt even her florid complexion turning pale, and Maggie exclaimed joyfully: "Oh, it's dear Waters! Waters, where have you come from, and how did you learn my secret?" For answer to Maggie's eager inquiries Waters stooped down and lifted the little girl into her arms; she held her close, and even kissed her in a quite tremulous and agitated manner. "Thank God, Miss Maggie!" she exclaimed; "thank God, my pretty innocent lamb, I'm in time. Oh, what a bad, bad girl that Susy must be! How could she tempt you to do anything so wicked? Why, Miss Maggie, you might have been stolen yourself--you might have been--you might have been! Oh, poor dear Sir John! What a near escape he has had of having his heart broke!" Here Waters shed some tears and leaned up against the counter in her agitation. "Susy was not to blame," said Maggie, when she could speak in her utter astonishment. "Poor Susy wanted the tambourine, and I wanted to give it her, and I couldn't think of no other way, 'cause I'm a dunce and can't write, and so I couldn't send no letter to father to ask him to give me the money. Don't you be frightened, Susy; come here; poor Susy you shall have your tambourine." But here the untidy-looking girl who served behind the counter raised her shrill voice. "Ef you're looking for the red-faced young person what came with you into the shop, miss, she runned away some minutes since." "And I'm grieved to say taking the money with her," added the pawnbroker. "It seems provoking," he continued, "as of course if the money had been returned I might have given up the hat. As things now stands this here hat is mine." "Not quite so," interposed Waters; "you know quite well, sir, you had no right to buy a hat from a little lady like Miss Ascot. Here's seven shillings from my purse, sir, and I'd be thankful to you to restore me the hat." Of course the pawnbroker and Waters had a rather sharp quarrel upon the spot, but in the end the pawnbroker was the better of that morning's transaction to the tune of several shillings, and Waters rescued the pretty white hat, which, much bent out of shape, and with some black marks on its pure white trimmings, was carried home. "Not that you shall wear it, my dear--not that you shall attempt to put it on your head again, for nobody knows what the hat may have contracted, so to speak, in so horrid and dirty a shop, but that I didn't wish that man to have more of a victory than I could help. Oh, Miss Maggie, darling, you did give me a fright and no mistake!" "But how did you know where I was, Waters? I kept my secret so well." "Yes, my dearie; but somehow I got fidgety last night, and I kept thinking and thinking of your words, and the idea got hold of me that maybe the secret wasn't just between you and Master Ralph. This morning I woke earlier than my wont, and as I couldn't sleep, I got up. I had to put one or two little matters right with regard to my mistress' wardrobe, and then I thought I'd see, just when I had a quiet hour, whether you had everything right to go to the garden party. Your new dress was hung up in my mistress' room, and I took it out and saw that the tucker was fastened round the neck, and that your gloves were neat, and your little white French boots wanted no buttons, and then it occurred to me that I'd just curl up the feathers of the hat. The hat was not with the dress, so I ran up to your room to fetch it, thinking of course to see you, dearie, like a little bird asleep in your nest. Well, my dear, the poor little bird was flown, and the beautiful hat was nowhere, and, I must say, I was in a taking, and it flashed across me that was the secret. I put on my bonnet and flew into the street, only just in time to see you and Susy talking very earnestly together, and turning the corner. The street, as you know, is a long one, and I couldn't get up with you, run as I might, but thank God, I kept you in sight, and at last overtook you at the pawnshop. Oh, what a wicked girl Susy Aylmer is!" "She isn't," said Maggie, "Oh, poor Susy isn't wicked. Waters, I'm sorry you found us. I did want to do something for Susy and for Jo!" Here Maggie burst into such bitter weeping that Waters found it absolutely impossible to comfort her. CHAPTER X. A GREAT FEAR. Nothing could exceed the fuss which was made over Maggie and her adventure. Mrs. Grenville turned quite pale when she heard of it--even Ralph, who was tranquilly eating his breakfast, and who, as a rule, did not disturb himself about anything, threw down his spoon, ceased to devour his porridge, and gazed at Maggie in some astonishment mingled with a tiny degree of envy and even a little shadow of respect. Mrs. Grenville took the little girl in her arms, and while she kissed and petted her, she also thought it necessary to chide her very gently. It was at this juncture that Ralph did an astonishing thing; he upset his mug of milk, he tossed his spoon with a great clatter on the floor, and dashing in the most headlong style round the table, caught Maggie's two hands and said impulsively: "She oughtn't to be scolded, really, mother. She didn't know anything about its being wrong, and I call it a downright plucky thing of her to do. She couldn't have done more even if she had been a boy--no, not even if she had been a boy," continued Ralph, nodding his head with intense earnestness. "I can say nothing better than that, can I, mother?" "According to your code you certainly cannot, Ralph," answered his mother. "Now go back to your seat, my boy, and pick up the spoon you have thrown on the floor. See what a mess you have made on the breakfast-table. Maggie, dear, you did not mean to do wrong, still you did wrong. But we will say nothing more on that subject for the present. Now, my darling, you shall have some breakfast, and then I have a surprise for you." Maggie could not help owning to her own little heart that Ralph's words had cheered her considerably; she thought a great deal more of Ralph's opinion than of any one else's, and it was an immense consolation to be compared to a boy, and to a plucky one. She accordingly ate her breakfast with considerable appetite, and was ready to receive the surprise which her aunt said awaited her at its close. This was no less joyful a piece of news than the fact that Lady Ascot's sister was much better, and that Sir John intended to come up to London for a few days. "After all, Maggie," said her aunt, "if you had shown a little patience, you could have asked your father for the money, instead of trying to sell your best hat. Now, dear, you can go up to the schoolroom with Ralph, and I hope that no bad consequences will arise from this morning's adventure." "I think, mother," here interrupted Ralph, "it would be a good plan for Maggie and me to go round and see how Jo is. Susy didn't act right, and I know Jo will be very unhappy, and Jo oughtn't to be blamed; ought she, mother?" "Certainly not, Ralph; Jo has done nothing wrong. Well, if Waters can spare the time, I don't mind you two little people going to see Jo, but remember, you must not stay long; for now I really must buy Maggie a new hat for the garden party." "Oh, auntie, but I brought my own hat back," exclaimed the little princess. "Yes, my love, but it is much injured, and there are other reasons why I should not care to see you wear it again. Now run away, children, and get your visit over, for we have plenty to do this afternoon." When Maggie, with her heart beating high, and one of her hands held tightly in Ralph's, entered Mrs. Aylmer's room, she was startled to find herself in a scene of much confusion. Mrs. Aylmer prided herself on keeping a very neat and orderly home, but there was certainly nothing orderly about that home to-day. Mrs. Aylmer herself was seated on a low, broken chair, her hands thrown down at her sides, her cap on crooked, and her face bearing signs of violent weeping. The two little boys stood one at each side of their mother: Ben had his finger in his mouth, and Bob's red hair seemed almost to stand on end. They kept gazing with solemn eyes at their mother, for tears on her face were a rare occurrence. Susy was nowhere to be seen; and most startling fact of all, Jo's little sofa was empty. It was Jo's absence from the room which Ralph first remarked. He rushed up to Mrs. Aylmer and clutched one of her hands. "What is the matter? Where's Jo? Where's our darling little Jo?" he exclaimed. "Oh, Master Ralph Grenville," exclaimed the poor woman, "you had better not come near me; you had better not, sir, it mightn't be safe. I'm just distraught with misery and terror. My little Jo, my little treasure, is tuk away from me; she's tuk bad with the fever, sir, and they've carried her off to the hospital. She's there now; I 'as just come from seeing her there." By this time Waters, panting and puffing hard, had reached the room, and had heard, with a sinking heart, the last of Mrs. Aylmer's words. She eagerly questioned the poor woman, who said that Jo had not been well for days, and yesterday the doctor had pronounced her case one of fever and had ordered her, for the sake of the other children, to be moved at once to the nearest fever hospital. "She was werry willing to go herself," continued the mother; "she wouldn't harm no one, not in life, nor in death, would my little Jo." "And Susy knew of this!" exclaimed Waters. "Oh, was there ever such a bad girl? Mrs. Aylmer, you'll forgive me if I hurries these dear children out of this infected air! I'll come back later in the day, ma'am, and do what I can for you; and if Susy comes home, you might do well to keep her in, for I can't help saying she is no credit to you. It sounds hard at such a moment, but I must out with my mind." "Susy!" here exclaimed Mrs. Aylmer, "I ain't seen nothing of Susy to-day." "No, ma'am, very like; but it's my duty to tell you she has been after no good. Now come away, darlings. I'll look in again presently, Mrs. Aylmer." Maggie could never make out why her aunt turned so pale and looked so anxiously at her when the news of Jo's dangerous illness was told to her. The pity which should have been expended on the sick and suffering little girl seemed, in some inexplicable way, to be showered upon her. A doctor even was sent for, who asked Maggie a lot of questions, and was particularly anxious to know if she held Susy's hand when she walked with her, and how long she and Ralph had been in the infected room. In conclusion, he said some words which seemed to Maggie to have no sense at all. "There is nothing whatever for us to do, Mrs. Grenville. If the children have imbibed the poison it is too late to stop matters. We must only hope for the best, and watch them. Nothing, of course, can be certainly known for several days." Maggie could not understand the doctor, and both she and Ralph thought Mrs. Grenville rather wanting in feeling not to let them go and inquire for Jo at the hospital. Under these circumstances the garden-party was a rather cheerless affair, and Maggie was glad to return home and to lay a very tired little head on her pillow. She was awakened from her first sleep by her father bending over her and kissing her passionately. Never had she seen Sir John's face so red, and his eyes quite looked--only of course that was impossible--as if he had been crying. "Oh, father, I am glad to see you," exclaimed Maggie, "only I wish you had come last night, for then I wouldn't have tried to sell my hat, and you'd have given me the money for the tambourine. I wish you had come last night, father, dear." "So do I, Mag-Mag," answered poor Sir John. "God knows it might have saved me from a broken heart." Maggie could not understand either her father or aunt. She began, perhaps, to have a certain glimmering as to the meaning of it all when, a few days later, she felt very hot, and languid, and heavy, when her throat ached, and her head ached, and although it was a warm summer's day, she was glad to lie with a shawl over her on the sofa. Then certain words of the doctor's, as he bent over her, penetrated her dull ears, and crept somehow down into her heart. "There is no doubt whatever that she has taken the fever from Susy Aylmer. Well, all we have to do now is to pull her through as quickly as possible, and of course, Mrs. Grenville, as Ralph is still quite well, and as he was not exposed to anything like the same amount of infection as Maggie, you will send him away." Mrs. Grenville responded in rather a choking voice, and she and the doctor left the room together. A few moments later Mrs. Grenville came back and bent over the sick child. "Is that you, Auntie Violet?" asked Maggie. "Yes, my darling," responded her aunt. "What's fever, auntie?" "An illness, dear." "And am I going to be very, very ill?" "I hope not very ill, Maggie. We are going to nurse you so well that we trust that will not be the case; but I am afraid my poor little girl will not feel comfortable for some time." "And did I take the fever that's to make me so sick from Susy--only Susy wasn't sick, auntie?" "No, dearest; but she carried the infection on her clothes, and there is no doubt you took it from her." "Then I'm 'fraid," continued Maggie, "you're very angry with her still." "I cannot say that I'm pleased with her, darling." "Oh, but, auntie, I want you to forgive her, and I want father to forgive her, 'cause she didn't know nothing about 'fection or fevers--and--and--do forgive her, Auntie Violet." Here poor sick little Maggie began to cry and Mrs. Grenville was glad to comfort her with any assurances, even of promises of forgiveness for the naughty Susy. After this there came very dark and anxious days for the people who loved the little princess. Ralph was sent back to Tower Hill, where he wandered about and was miserable, and thought a great deal about Maggie, and found out that after all he was very fond of her. He did not take the fever himself, but he was full of anxieties about Jo and Maggie; for both the little girls, one in the fever hospital and the other in his mother's luxurious home, were having a hard fight for their little lives. Lady Ascot and Sir John were always, day and night, one or another of them, to be found by Maggie's sick-bed, and of course there were professional nurses, and more than one doctor; but with all this care the sick child in the home seemed to have as hard a time of it as the other sick child who was away from those she loved and who was handed over to the tender mercies of strangers. It was very curious how, through all her ravings and through all the delirium of her fever, Maggie talked about Jo. She had only seen Jo once in her life, but although she mentioned her mother and her father, and her old nurse and Ralph, there was no one at all about whom she spoke so frequently, or with so keen an interest, as the lame child of the poor laundress. From the moment she heard that Susy was to be forgiven, that very mischievous little person seemed to have passed from her thoughts; but with Jo it was different, until at last Waters began to think that there was some mysterious link between the two sick children. This idea was confirmed, when one evening little Maggie awoke, cool and quiet, but with a weakness over her which was beyond any weakness she could ever have dreamed of undergoing. Her feeble voice could scarcely be heard, but her thoughts still ran on Jo. "Mother," she whispered, very, very low indeed in Lady Ascot's ear, "I thought Jo had got her day-dream." "Try not to talk, my precious one," whispered the mother back in reply. "But why not?" asked Maggie. "Jo often had day-dreams, Susy told me, and so did Ralph. She wanted to be in a cool place, where beautiful things are, in the country, or in--in heaven. And I want to be with Jo in the country--or in--heaven." Maggie looked very sweet as she spoke, and when the last words passed her pale little lips, she closed her eyes with their pretty curly lashes. The father and mother both felt, as they looked at her, that a very, very little more would take their darling away. "I wonder how the sick child in the hospital is," said Sir John Ascot to his wife. "I must own I have had no time to think about her, and she and hers have done mischief enough to us; but the little one's heart seems set on her--has been all through. It might be a good thing for our little Maggie if I could bring her word that the other child is better." "It would be the best thing in all the world for Maggie," answered Lady Ascot. "Then I will go round to the fever hospital now, and make inquiries," said Sir John. On his way downstairs he met Mrs. Grenville, and told her what he was doing. She said: "Wait one moment, John, and I will put on my bonnet and go with you." It was a lovely evening toward the end of July. The day had been intensely hot, but now a soft breeze began to stir the heated atmosphere, a breeze with a little touch of health and healing about it. "This night will be cooler than the last," said Mrs. Grenville, "and that will be another chance in our little one's favor." At this moment the lady's dress was plucked rather sharply from behind, and looking round Mrs. Grenville saw, for the first time since all their trouble, the excited and rough little figure of Susy Aylmer. Her first impulse was to shake herself free from the touch of so naughty a child, but then she remembered her promise to Maggie, and looked again at the little intruder. A great change had come over poor Susy; the confidence and assurance had all left her round face. It was round still, and was to a certain extent red still, but the eyes were so swollen with crying, and the poor face itself so disfigured by tear-channels, that only one who had seen her several times would have recognized her. "Oh, ma'am," she exclaimed, "I has been waiting here for hours and hours, and nobody will speak to me nor tell me nothing. Mrs. Cook won't speak, nor the housemaid, nor Mrs. Waters, nor nobody, and I feel as if my heart would burst, ma'am. Oh, Mrs. Grenville, how is Miss Maggie, and is she going away same as our little Jo is going away?" "Who is that child, Violet?" inquired Sir John. "Does she, too, know some one of the name of Jo, and what is she keeping you for? Do let us hurry on." "She is little Jo Aylmer's sister," whispered back Mrs. Grenville. "Susy, it is very hard to forgive you, for through your deceit we have all got into this terrible trouble; but I promised Maggie I would try, and I can not go back from my word to the dear little one. Maggie is a shade, just a shade better to-night, Susy, but she is still very, very ill. Pray for her, child, pray for that most precious little life. And now, what about Jo? It is not really true what you said about Jo, Susy?" "Yes, but it is, ma'am; they has just sent round a message to mother, and they say that our little Jo won't live through the night. It's quite true as she's going away to God, ma'am." CHAPTER XI. GOING HOME. Sir John and Mrs. Grenville left poor Susy standing with her apron to her eyes at the corner of the street, and went on in the direction of the fever hospital. Their hearts had sunk very low at Susy's words, and they began to share in Waters' belief that there was a mysterious sympathy between the two sick children, and that if one went away perhaps the other would follow quickly. The fever hospital was some little distance off, but they both preferred walking to calling a cab. It was not the visiting hour when they got there, but Mrs. Grenville scribbled some words on a little card, and begged of the porter who admitted them into the cool stone hall to send a note with her card and Sir John's at once to the lady superintendent. This little note had the desired effect, and in a few moments they were both admitted to the good lady's private sanctum. Mrs. Grenville in a few low words explained the nature of their errand. The good lady nurse was all sympathy and interest, but when they mentioned the name of the child they had come to see her face became very grave and sad. "That little one!" she remarked; "I fear that God is going to take that sweet child away to himself. She is the sweetest and prettiest child in the hospital--she has gone through a terrible illness, and I don't think I have once heard her murmur. Poor little lamb! her sufferings are over at last, thank God; she is just quietly moment by moment passing away. It is a case of dying from exhaustion." "But, good madam, can nothing be done to rouse her?" asked Sir John, his face turning purple with agitation. "Has she the best and most expensive nourishment--can't her strength be supported? Perhaps, ma'am, you are not aware that a good deal depends on the life of that little girl. It is not an ordinary case--no, no, by no means an ordinary case. My purse is at your command, ma'am; get the best doctors, the best nurses, the best care--save the child's life at any cost." While Sir John was speaking the lady nurse looked sadder than ever. "We give of the best in this hospital," she said; "and there has been from the first no question of expense or money. Perhaps the worst symptom in the case of little Joanna Aylmer is in the fact that the child herself does not wish to recover. I confess I have no hope whatever, but it is a well-known saying that, in fever, as long as there is life there is hope. Would you like to see the child, Mrs. Grenville? It might comfort your own little darling afterward to know that you had gone to see her just at the end." Mrs. Grenville nodded in reply, but poor Sir John, overcome by an undefined terror, sank down by the table, and covered his face with his hands. Mrs. Grenville followed the nurse into the long cool ward, passing on her way many sick and suffering children. The child by whose little narrow white bed they at last stopped was certainly now not suffering. Her eyes were closed; through her parted lips only came the gentlest breathing; on her serene brow there rested a look of absolute peace. Little Jo Aylmer was alive, but she neither spoke nor moved. Mrs. Grenville stooped down and kissed her, leaving what she thought was a tear of farewell on her sweet little face. As she was walking home by Sir John's side, she said abruptly, after an interval of silence: "It is quite true, John--we must do what we can to keep Maggie, but little Jo is going home." "She must not die. We must keep her somehow," replied Sir John. That night it seemed to several people that two little children were about to be taken away to their heavenly home, for Maggie's feeble strength fluttered and failed, and, as the hours went by, the doctors shook their heads and looked very grave. She still talked in a half-delirious way about Jo, and still seemed to fancy that she and Jo were soon going somewhere away together. All through her illness no one had been more devoted in her attentions to the sick child than the faithful servant Waters. When the day began to break, Waters made up her mind to a certain line of action. Her mistress had told her how very ill little Jo Aylmer was--she had described fully her visit to the hospital--had told Waters that she herself had no hope whatever of Jo, and had further added that the child herself did not wish to live. "That's not to be wondered at," commented Waters. "What have she special to live for, pretty lamb? and there's much to delight one like her where she's going; but all the same, ma'am, it will be the death-knell of our little Miss Maggie if the other child is taken." When the morning broke, Waters felt that she could bear her present state of inaction no longer, and accordingly she tied on her bonnet and went out. First of all she wended her steps in the direction of the Aylmers' humble dwelling. She mounted the stairs to Mrs. Aylmer's door and knocked. The poor woman had not been in bed all night, and flew to the door now, fearing that Waters' knock was the dreaded message which she had been expecting from the hospital. "'Tis only me, ma'am," said Waters, "and you has no call to be frightened. I want you just to put on your bonnet and shawl, and come right away with me to the hospital. We has got to be let in somehow, for I must see Jo directly." "For aught I know," said Mrs. Aylmer, "little Jo may be singing with the angels now." "We must hope not, ma'am, for I want that little Jo of yours to live. She has got to live for our Miss Maggie's sake, and there is not a moment to lose; so come away, ma'am, at once." Mrs. Aylmer stared at Waters; then, because she felt very weak, and feeble, and wretched herself, she allowed the stronger woman to guide her, and the two went out without another word being said on either side. It was, of course, against all rules for visitors to be admitted at five o'clock in the morning; but in the case of mothers and dying children such rules are apt to become lax, and the two women presently found themselves behind the screen which sheltered little Jo from her companions. "She won't hear you now," said the nurse; "she has not noticed any one for many hours." Waters looked round her almost despairingly--the poor mother had sunk down by the bedside, and had covered her face with her hands. Waters, too, covered her face, and as she did so she prayed to her Father in heaven with great fervor and strong faith and hope. After this brief prayer she knelt by the little white cot, and took the cold little hand of the child who was every moment going further away from the shore of life. "Little Jo," she said, "you have got to live. I don't believe God wishes you to die, and you mustn't wish it either. You have got your work to do, Jo; do you hear me? Look at me, pretty one--you have got to live." Waters spoke clearly, and in a very decided voice. The little one's violet eyes opened for a brief instant and fixed themselves on the anxious, pleading woman; both the nurse and the mother came close to the bed in breathless astonishment. "Have you got a cordial?" said Waters, turning to the nurse. "Give it to me, and let me put it between her lips." The nurse gave her a few drops out of a bottle, and Waters wetted the parched lips of the child. "There's another little one, my pretty, and she's waiting for you. If you go I fear she'll go, but if you stay I think she'll stay. There are them who would break their hearts without her, and she ought to do a good work down on the earth. Will you stay for her sake, little Jo?" Here the sick child moved restlessly, and Waters continued. "Send her a message, Jo Aylmer," she said. "Tell her where you two are next to meet--in the country, where the grass is green, or in--heaven. Oh, Jo! do say you will meet Miss Maggie in the cool, shady, lovely country, and wait until by and by for heaven, my pretty lamb." Whether God really heard Waters' very earnest prayer, or whether little Jo was at that moment about to take a turn for the better, she certainly opened her eyes again full and bright and wide, and quite intelligible words came from her pretty lips. "My day-dream," said little Jo Aylmer; "tell her--tell her to meet me where the grass is green." CHAPTER XII. IN THE WOOD. The little princess of Tower Hill and the child of the poor laundress were both pronounced out of danger. Death no longer with his terrible sickle hovered over these pretty flowers; they were to make beautiful the garden of earth for the present. Waters felt quite sure in her own heart that she, under God, had been the means of saving Maggie's life, for Maggie had smiled so sweetly and contentedly when Waters had brought her back the other child's message, and after that she had ceased to speak about meeting Jo in heaven. When the scales were turned and the children were pronounced out of danger, they both grew rapidly better, and at the end of a fortnight Maggie was able to sit up for a few moments at a time, and almost to fatigue those about her with her numerous inquiries about Jo. Every day Waters went to the hospital, and came back with reports of the sick child, whose progress toward recovery was satisfactory, only not quite so rapid as Maggie's. At last the doctor gave Sir John and Lady Ascot permission to take their little darling back to Tower Hill. Mrs. Grenville accompanied her brother and sister and little niece; and of course in the country Maggie would have the great happiness of meeting Ralph again. Ralph by this time had taken the hearts of Miss Grey and the numerous servants at Tower Hill by storm. He was thoroughly at home and thoroughly happy, assumed a good deal the airs of a little autocrat, and had more or less his own way in everything. He was delighted to see Maggie, and immediately drew her away from the rest to talk to her and consult her on various subjects. [Illustration: HE PUT HIS ARM AROUND HIS LITTLE COUSIN.--Page 158.] "You look rather white and peaky, Mag, but you'll soon brown up now you've got into the real country. You must run about a great deal, and forget that you were ever ill. You mustn't even mind being a little tottery upon your legs at first. I know you must be tottery, because I've been consulting Miss Grey about it, and she once had rheumatic fever, and she used to totter about after it awfully; but the great thing is not to be sentimental over it, but to determine that you will get back your muscle. Now what do you think I have found? Come round with me into the shrubbery and you shall see." Ralph's words were decidedly a little rough and tonicky, but his actions were more considerate, for he put his arm round his little cousin and led her quite gently away. Maggie found the sweet country air delicious; she was also very happy to feel Ralph's arm round her waist, and she could not help giving his little brown hand a squeeze. "I wish you'd kiss me, Ralph," she said. "I have thought of you so often when I was getting better; I know you must think me not much of a playfellow, and I am so sorry that I began by vexing you about the rabbits." "I'll kiss you, of course, Mag," said Ralph. "I don't think kisses are at all interesting things myself, but I'd do a great deal more than that to make you happy, for I was really, really sorry when you were ill. I don't think you're at all a bad sort of playfellow, Mag--I mean for a girl. And as to the rabbits, why, that was the best deed you ever did. You are coming to see my dear bunnies now." "Oh, Ralph, you don't mean Bianco and Lily?" "Yes, I mean my darling white beauties that Jo gave me. I found them again in the wood, and they have grown as friendly as possible. I don't shut them up in any hutch; they live in the wood and they come to me when I call them. Yesterday I found that they had made a nest, and the nest was full of little bunnies, all snow white, and with long hair like the father and mother. I'm going to show you the nest now." At the thought of this delightful sight Maggie's cheeks became very pink, her blue eyes danced, and she forgot that her legs were without muscle, and even tried to run in her excitement and pleasure. "Don't be silly, Mag!" laughed her cousin; "the bunnies aren't going to hide themselves, and we'll find them all in good time. You may walk with those tottery legs of yours, but you certainly cannot run. Here, now we're at the entrance to the wood; now I'll help you over the stile." The children found the nest of lovely white rabbits, and spent a very happy half-hour sitting on the ground gazing at them. Then Maggie began to confide a little care, which rested on her heart about Jo, to her cousin. "She has got well again, you know, Ralph, and I promised she should meet me in the country somewhere where the grass is green, and yet I don't know how she's to come. I have got no money, and Jo has got no money, and father and mother don't say any thing about it. It would be a dreadful thing for Jo to stay away from heaven--for she was very, very near going to heaven, Ralph--and then to find that I had broken my word to her, and that after all we were never to see each other where the grass is green." "It would be worse than dreadful," answered Ralph, "it would be downright cruel and wicked. Dear little Jo! she'd like to come here and look at the bunnies, wouldn't she? Well, I've got no money either, and she can't be got into the country without money; that I do know. Perhaps I'd better speak to mother about it." But Ralph, when he did question Mrs. Grenville on the subject, found her wonderfully silent, and in his opinion unsympathetic. She said that she could not possibly interfere with Sir John and Lady Ascot in their own place, and that if she were Ralph she would let things alone, and trust to the Ascots doing what was right in the matter. But Ralph was not inclined to take this advice. "I like Maggie for being good about Jo," he said, "and Jo shan't be disappointed. I'll go myself to Uncle John; he probably only needs to have the thing put plainly to him." Sir John listened to the little boy's somewhat excited remarks with an amused twinkle in his eyes. "So the princess has sent you to me, my lad?" he said. "You tell her to keep her little mind tranquil, and to try to trust her old father." Little Jo Aylmer came very slowly back to health and strength, but at last there arrived a day when the hospital nurse pronounced her cured, and when her mother arrived in a cab to take her away. The hospital nurse had tears in her eyes when she kissed Jo, and the other sick children in the ward were extremely sorry to say good-by to her, for little Jo, without making any extraordinary efforts, indeed without making any efforts at all, had a wonderful faculty for inspiring love. No doubt she was sympathetic, and no doubt also she was self-forgetful, and her ready tact prevented her saying the words which might hurt or doing the deeds which might annoy, and these apparently trivial traits in her character may have helped to make her popular. On that particular sunshiny afternoon the preparations made by certain excited little people in Philmer's Buildings were great. From the day Jo was pronounced out of danger Susy had begun to recover her spirits, and at any rate to forgive herself for her conduct in the matter of the tambourine. She had not spent any of the seven shillings which the pawnbroker had given for poor Maggie's best hat; it had all been securely tucked away in her best white cotton pocket-handkerchief, and neither her mother nor the boys knew of its existence, for to purchase a tambourine while Jo was so ill, and Maggie supposed to be dying was beyond even thoughtless Susy's desires. After her own fashion, this rather heedless little girl had suffered a good deal during the past weeks, and suffering did her good, as it does all other creatures. Now, while the boys were very busy getting the room into a festive condition for Jo, Susy quietly and softly withdrew one shilling from her mysterious hoard, and went out to make purchases. A shilling means almost nothing to some people; they spend it on utter rubbish--they virtually throw it away. This was, however, by no means the case with Susy Aylmer; she knew a shilling's worth to the uttermost farthing, and it was surprising with what a number of parcels she returned home. "Now, Ben and Bob, we'll lay the tea-table," she said, addressing her excited little brothers. "Yere, put the cloth straight, do--you know as Jo can't abide nothing crooked. Now then, out comes the fresh loaf as mother bought; pop it on the cracked plate, and put it here, a little to one side--it looks more genteel--not right away in the very middle. Here goes the teapot--oh, my! ain't it a pity as the spout is cracked off?--and here's the little yaller jug for the milk! Here's butter, too--Dosset, but not bad. Now then, we begins on my purchases. A slice of 'am on this tiny plate for Jo; red herrings, which we'll toast up and make piping hot presently; a nice little bundle of radishes, creases ditto. Oh, my heyes! I do like creases, they're so nice and biting. Now then, what 'ave we 'ere?--why, a big packet of lollipops; I got the second quality of lollipops, so I 'as quite a big parcel; and the man threw in two over, 'cause I said they was for a gal just out of 'ospital. Shrimps is in this 'ere bag. Now, boys, there ain't none of these 'ere for you, they're just for mother and Jo, and no one else--don't you be greedy, Ben and Bob, for ef you are, I'll give you something to remember. Yere's a real fresh egg, which must be boiled werry light--that's for Jo, of course--and 'ere's a penn'orth of dandy-o-lions to stick in the middle of the table. Yere they goes into this old brown cracked jug, and don't they look fine? Well, I'm sure I never see'd a more genteel board." The boys thoroughly agreed with Susy on this point, and while they were skipping and dancing about, and making many dives at the tempting eatables, and Susy was chasing them with loud whoops, half of anger, half of mirth, about the room, Mrs. Aylmer and the little pale, spiritual-looking sister arrived. At the sight of Jo the children felt their undue excitement subsiding--their happiness became peace, as it always did in her blessed little presence. There was no wrangling or quarreling over the tea-table--the look of pretty Jo lying on her sofa once again kept the boys from being over-greedy, and reduced Susy's excitement to due bounds. Mrs. Aylmer said several times, "I'm the werry happiest woman in London," and her children seemed to think that they were the happiest children. The pleasant tea-hour came, however, to an end at last, and Susy was just washing up the cups and saucers and putting the remainder of the feast into the cupboard, when the whole family were roused into a condition of most alert attention by a sharp and somewhat imperative knock on the room door. "Dear heart alive!" exclaimed Mrs. Aylmer. "Whoever can that be? It sounds like the landlord, only I paid my bit of rent yesterday." "It's more likely to be some one after you as laundress, mother," remarked practical Susy; and then Ben flew across the room and, opening the door wide, admitted no less a person than Sir John Ascot himself. Mrs. Aylmer had never seen him, and of course did not know what an important visitor was now coming into her humble little room. Susy, however, knew Maggie's father, and felt herself turning very white, and took instant refuge behind Jo's sofa. "Now, which is little Jo?" said Sir John, coming forward and peering round him. "I've come here specially to-day to see a child whom my own little girl loves very much. I've something to say to that child, and also to her mother. My name is Ascot, and I dare say you all, good folks, have heard of my dear little girl Maggie." "Miss Maggie!" exclaimed Jo, a delicate pink coming into her face, and her sweet violet eyes becoming, not tearful, but misty. "Are you Miss Maggie's father, sir? I seems to be near to Miss Maggie somehow." "So you are, little lassie," said the baronet; and then he glanced from pretty Jo to the other children, and from her again to her mother, as though he could not quite account for such a fragile and pure little flower among these plants of sturdy and common growth. "My little Jo favors her father, Sir John," said Mrs. Aylmer, dropping a profound courtesy and dusting a chair with her apron for the baronet. "Will you be pleased to be seated, sir?" she went on. "We're all pleased to see you here--pleased and proud, and that's not saying a word too much. And how is the dear, beautiful little lady, Sir John, and Master Ralph, bless him?" "My little girl is well again, thank God, Mrs. Aylmer, and Ralph is as sturdy a little chap as any heart could desire. Yes, I will take a seat near Jo, if you please. I've a little plan to propose, which I hope she will like, and which you, Mrs. Aylmer, will also approve of. This is it." Then Sir John unfolded a deep-laid plot, which threw the Aylmer family into a state of unspeakable rapture. To describe their feelings would be beyond any ordinary pen. CHAPTER XIII. THANK GOD FOR ALL. On a certain lovely evening in the beginning of September, when the air was no longer too warm, and the whole world seemed bathed in absolute peace and rest, little Maggie Ascot and her Cousin Ralph might have been seen walking, with their arms round each other, in very deep consultation. Maggie was quite strong again, had got her roses back, and the bright light of health in her blue eyes. She and Ralph were pacing slowly up and down a shady path not far from the large entrance gates. "I can't think what it means," exclaimed Maggie; "it is the fourth time Aunt Violet has gone up there to-day, and Susan the scullery-maid has gone with her now, carrying an enormous basket. Susan let me peep into it, and it was full of all kinds of goodies. She said it was for the new laundress. I never knew such a fuss to make about a laundress." Here Ralph thought it well to administer a little reproof. "That's because you haven't been taught to consider the poor," he said. "Why shouldn't a laundress have nice things done for her? and if this is a poor lonely stranger coming from a long way off, it's quite right for mother to welcome her. Mother always thinks you can't do too much for lonely people, and she'll wash your dresses all the whiter if she thinks you're going to be kind and attentive. Why, Maggie, our little Jo's mother is a laundress, you forget that. Laundresses are most respectable people." At the mention of Jo's name Maggie sighed. "There's nothing at all been done about her, Ralph," she said. "Nobody seems to take any notice when I speak about her. She must be tired of waiting and watching by this time. She must be dreadfully sorry that she did not go away to heaven and God; for she must know now that I never meant anything when I wanted to meet her in the country--and yet I did, Ralph, I did!" Here Maggie's blue eyes grew full of tears. "Never mind, Mag," replied her little cousin soothingly; "it is very odd, and I don't understand it a bit, but mother says things are sure to come right, and you know Uncle John wished us to trust him." "But the time is going on," said Maggie; "the summer days will go, and Jo won't have seen the lovely country where the grass is green. Oh! Ralph, we must do something." "If only Mrs. Aylmer were the new laundress!" began Ralph. "You can't think what a nice cottage that is, Mag--four lovely rooms, and such a nice, nice kitchen, with those dear little lattice panes of glass in the window, and lots of jasmine and Virginia creeper peeping in from outside, and a green field for the laundress to dry her clothes in, just beyond. Poor laundress! she will like that field awfully, and it would be very unkind of us to wish to take it away from her and give it to Mrs. Aylmer, for of course Mrs. Aylmer knows nothing about it, and the new laundress has probably arrived, and set her heart on it by this time; and she may be a widow, too, with lots and lots of little children." "But none of the children could be like Jo," said Maggie. "Well, perhaps not," answered Ralph. "Oh, here comes mother; let's run to meet her. Mother darling, has the new laundress come?" "Yes, Ralph, she and her family arrived about an hour ago; they are settling down nicely into the cottage, and seem to be respectable people. They all think the cottage very comfortable." "And are you going to see them again to-night, Auntie Violet?" asked Maggie with rather a sorrowful look on her little face. "Why, yes, Maggie; they are all strangers here, you know, and I fancy they rather feel that, so it might be nice to walk up presently and take a cup of tea with them. There are some children, so you and Ralph might come too." "Didn't I tell you how mother considered the poor?" here whispered Ralph, poking the little princess rather violently in the side. "Oh, yes, mother, we'd like to go to tea with the little laundresses. Is there anything we could take them--anything they would like, to show that we sympathize with them for having come so far, and having left their old home?" "They don't seem at all melancholy, Ralph," said Mrs. Grenville, smiling, "and when they have seen you and Maggie, I fancy they will none of them have anything further to desire to-night. Why, Maggie dear, you look quite sad; what is the matter?" "I am thinking of little Jo," whispered Maggie. "Her mother is a laundress, too, and she's poor. Why couldn't you have considered the poor in the shape of Jo's mother, Aunt Violet?" Mrs. Grenville stooped down and kissed Maggie. "Here come your father and mother," she said, "and I know they too want to see the new people who have come to the pretty cottage. Now let us all set off. I told the laundress and her family that you were coming to have tea with them, Maggie and Ralph. Suppose you two run on in front; you know the cottage and you know the way." "Tell the good folks we'll look in on them presently," shouted Sir John Ascot, and then the children took each other's hands and ran across some fields to the laundress' cottage. They heard some sounds of mirth as they drew near, and saw two rather wild little boys tumbling about, turning somersaults and standing on their heads; they also heard a high-pitched voice, and caught a glimpse of a remarkably round and red face, and it seemed to Maggie that the voice and the face were both familiar, although she could not quite recall where she had seen them before. "We must introduce ourselves quite politely," said Ralph as they walked up the narrow garden path. "Now here we are; I'll knock with my knuckles. I wish I knew the laundress' name. It seems rude to say, 'Is the laundress in?' for of course she has got a name, and her name is just as valuable to her as ours are to us. How stupid not to have found out what she is really called. Perhaps we had better inquire for Mrs. Robbins; that's rather a common name, and yet not too common. It would never do to call her Mrs. Smith or Jones, for if she wasn't Smith or Jones, she wouldn't like it. Now, Maggie, I'll knock rather sharp, and when the new laundress opens the door you are to say, 'Please is Mrs. Robbins the laundress in?'" All this time the girl with the red face was making little darts to the lattice window and looking out, and there were some stifled sounds of mirth from the boys with the high-pitched voices. "The laundress' family are in good spirits," remarked Ralph, and then he gave a sharp little knock, and Maggie prepared her speech. "Please is the new--is Mrs. Rob--is, is--oh! Ralph, why, it's Mrs. Aylmer herself!" Nothing very coherent after this discovery was uttered by any one for several minutes. Maggie found herself kneeling by Jo, with her arms round Jo's neck, and two little cheeks, both wet with tears, were pressed together, and two pair of lips kissed each other. That kiss was a solemn one, for the two little hearts were full. In different ranks, belonging almost to two extremes, the child of riches and the child of poverty knew that they possessed kindred spirits, and that their friendship was such that circumstances were not likely again to divide them. Waters was right when she said there was a strong link between Maggie and Jo. That is the story, an episode, after all, in the life of the little princess, but an episode which was to influence all her future days. THE END. TOM, PEPPER, AND TRUSTY. "Therefore, to this dog will I, Tenderly, not scornfully, Render praise and favor: With my hand upon his head Is my benediction said, Therefore, and forever." --E. B. BROWNING. CHAPTER I. THE THREE FRIENDS. A child and a dog sat very close to the fast-expiring embers of a small fire in a shabby London attic. The dog was very old, with palsied, shaking limbs, eyes half-blind, and an appearance about his whole person of almost disreputable ugliness and decrepitude, He was a large white-and-liver-colored dog, of no particular breed, and certainly of no particular beauty. Never, even in his best days, could this dog have been at all good-looking. The child who crouched close to him was small and thin. He was a pale child, with big, sorrowful eyes, and that shrunken appearance of the whole little frame which proclaims but too clearly that bread-and-milk have not sufficiently nourished it. He sat very close to the old dog, half-supporting himself against him; his head was bent forward on his little chest--he was half-asleep. A little apart from the dog and the sleepy child stood a very bright boy, a boy with rosy cheeks and sparkling eye. He poised himself for a moment on one leg, kicked off the snow from his ragged trousers with the other, then flinging his cap and an old broom into a corner of the attic, he sang out in a clear, ringing tone: "Hillow! Pepper and Trusty, is that h'all the welcome yer 'ave to give to a feller?" At the first sound of his voice the dog feebly wagged his tail and the little child started to his feet. "Hillow!" he answered with a pitiful attempt at the elder boy's cheerfulness; "I 'opes as yer 'ave brought h'in some supper, Tom." "See yere," said Tom, just turning back a morsel of his ragged jacket to show what really was still a pocket. This pocket bunched out now in a most suggestive manner, and Pepper, thrusting in his tiny hand, pulled from it the following heterogeneous mixture: an old bone--very bare of even the pretense of meat; an orange; some nuts; a piece of moldy bread, and a nice little crisp loaf; also twopence and a halfpenny. "Ain't it prime, Pepper?" said the elder boy. "Yere's the bone for old Trusty, and the broken bread, and the pretty little loaf, and the nuts, and th' orange, for you and me." "Oh, Tom! where did you get the nuts?" "They were throwing 'em to a dancing monkey, and an old 'oman gave me a handful h'all to myself. I say, didn't I clutch 'em!" "Well, let's crunch 'em up now," said Pepper, whose face had grown quite bright with anticipation. "And give Trusty his bone," said Tom. "I picked it h'out o' the gutter, and washed it at the pump. 'Tis a real juicy bone--full o' marrow. Yere, old feller! Don't he move his lazy h'old sides quickly now, Pepper?" "Yes," said Pepper, clapping his tiny hands. CHAPTER II. WHY HE WAS CALLED TRUSTY. The two little boys and the dog ate their supper in perfect silence, the only noise to be heard during the meal being the crunching of three sets of busy teeth. Then, the fire being quite out, the children lay down on a dirty mattress in a corner of the room, and Trusty curled himself up at their feet. However lazy Trusty might be in the daytime while the fire was alight, at night he always assumed the character of a protector. Let the slightest sound arise, above, around, or beneath him, and he raised a bay, cracked it is true, but still full of unspeakable consolation to the timid heart of little Pepper. In the daytime Pepper was often guilty of very wicked and treacherous thoughts about Trusty. When he was so often hungry, and could seldom enjoy more than half a meal, why must Tom, however little money or food he brought in after his day's sweeping, always insist on Trusty having his full share? Why must Tom--on those rare occasions when he was a little cross and discontented--too cross and discontented to take much notice of him (Pepper), yet still put his arms so lovingly round the old dog's neck? and why, why above all things must Trusty be so very selfish about their tiny fire, sitting so close to it, and taking all its warmth into his own person, while poor little Pepper shivered by his side? Pepper was younger than Trusty, and he never remembered the day when the dog was not a great person in his home; he never remembered the day when his mother, however poor and pinched, had not managed, with all the good-will in the world, to pay the dog-tax for him. And when that mother--six months ago--died, she had enjoined on Tom, almost with her last breath, the necessity of continuing this, and whatever straits they were placed in, begged of them never to forsake the old dog in his need. Of course Pepper knew the reason of all this love and care for old Trusty; and the reason, notwithstanding those treacherous and discontented thoughts in which he now and then found himself indulging, filled him with not a little pride and pleasure. It was because of him--of him, poor little insignificant Pepper--that his mother and Tom loved Trusty so well. For when he was a baby Trusty had saved his life. How Pepper did love to hear that story! How he used to climb on his mother's knee, and curl in her arms, and get her to tell it to him over and over again; and then, as he listened, his big, dark eyes used to get bright and wondering, while he pictured to himself the country home with the roses growing about the porch; and the pretty room inside, and the cradle where he lay warm and sheltered. Then, how his heart did beat when his mother spoke of that dreadful day when she went out and left him in charge of a neighbor's daughter, paying no heed to his real caretaker, the large strong dog--young then, who lay under the table. How often his cheek had turned pale, as his mother went on to tell him how the neighbor's daughter first built up the fire, and then, growing tired of her dull occupation, went away and left him alone with no companion but the dog. And then, how his father, returning from his day's work, had rushed in with a cry of horror, to find the cradle burned and some of the other furniture on fire; but the baby himself lying, smiling and uninjured, in a corner of the room; for the brave dog had dragged him from his dangerous resting-place, and had himself put out the flames as they began to catch his little night-shirt. Trusty was severely burned, and for the rest of his days was blind of one eye and walked with a limp; but he earned the undying love and gratitude of the father and mother for his heroic conduct. After this adventure his name was changed from Jack to Trusty, and any member of the family would rather have starved than allow Trusty to want. Pepper never listened to this exciting tale without his chest beginning to heave, and a moisture of love and compunction filling his brown eyes. To-night, as he lay curled up as close as possible to Tom, with Trusty keeping his feet warm by lying on them, he thought of it all over again. As he thought, he felt even more than his usual sorrow, for he had certainly been very cross to Trusty to-day. These feelings and recollections so occupied him that he forgot to chatter away as usual, until, looking up suddenly, he felt that his brother's eyes were closing--in short, that Tom was going to sleep. Now, of all the twenty-four hours that comprised Pepper's day and night, there was none that compared with the hour when he lay in his brother's arms, and talked to him, and listened to his adventures. This hour made the remaining twenty-three endurable; in short, it was his golden hour--his hour marked with a red letter. "Oh, Tom!" he said now, rousing himself and speaking in a voice almost tearful, so keen was his disappointment, "yer never agoin' to get drowsy?" "Not I," answered Tom, awakened at once by the sorrowful tones, and half-sitting up. "Wot is it, Pepper? I'm as lively as a lark, I am." "Yer h'eyes were shut," said Pepper. "Well, and your mouth wor shut, Pepper, that wor wy I fastened h'up my h'eyes, to save time." "Tom," said Pepper, creeping very close to his big brother, "does yer really think as yer'll 'ave the money saved h'up for dear old Trusty's tax, wen the man comes fur it?" "Oh, yes! I 'opes so; there's three months yet." "'E's a dear old dog," said Pepper, in an emphatic voice, "and I won't mind wot Pat Finnahan says 'bout 'im." "Wot's that?" asked Tom. "Oh, Tom! 'e comes h'in, some days, wen 'tis bitter cold, and Trusty 'ave got hisself drawed in front o' the fire (Trusty do take h'up h'all the fire, Tom) and 'e says as Trusty is h'eatin' us h'out o' 'ouse and 'ome, and ef you pays the tax fur 'im, wy, yer'll be the biggest fool h'out." "Dear me," said Tom, "'e must be a nice 'un, 'e must! Why, Trusty's a sight better'n him, and a sight better worth lookin' arter." This remark of Tom's, uttered with great vehemence, startled Pepper so much that he lay perfectly silent, staring up at his big brother. The moonlight, which quite filled the attic, enabled him to see Tom's face very distinctly. A strongly marked face, and full of character at all times; it was now also so full of disgust that Pepper quite trembled. "Well, he is a mean 'un," continued Tom. "See if I don't lay it on him the next time I catches of him coming spyin' in yere; and, Pepper," he added, "I'm real consarned as yer should 'ave listened to such words." "'Ow could I 'elp it?" answered Pepper. "'E comed h'in, and 'e kicked at Trusty. I didn't want fur h'old Trusty not to be paid fur, Tom." "I should 'ope not, indeed," replied Tom; "that 'ud be a nice pass for us two boys to fursake Trusty. But look yere, Pepper. Yer never goin' to be untrue to yer name, be yer?" "Oh, Tom! 'ow so?" "Does yer know wy Trusty was called Trusty?" Now, of course, Pepper knew no story in the world half so well, but at this question of Tom's he nestled close so him, raised beseeching eyes, and said: "Tell us." "'E wor called Trusty," continued Tom, "'cause wen yer were a little 'un he wor faithful. Trusty means faithful; it means a kind of a body wot won't fursake another body what-h'ever 'appens. That wor wy father and mother changed 'is name from Jack to Trusty, 'cause 'e wor faithful to you, Pepper." "Yes," answered Pepper, half-sobbing, and feeling very gently with his toes the motion of Trusty's tail; for Trusty, hearing his name mentioned so often, was beating it softly up and down. "And does yer know wy you was called Pepper?" continued Tom, by no means intending to abate the point and the object of his lecture by the break in Pepper's voice. "Tell us," said the little child again. "You was christened Hen-e-ry [Henry]; but, lor! Pepper, that wor no name fur yer. That name meant some 'un soft and h'easy. But, bless yer, young 'un! there wor nothink soft nor h'easy about yer. What a firebrand yer were--flying h'out at h'everybody--so touchy and sparky-like, that mother wor sure you 'ad got a taste o' the fire as poor Trusty saved yer from, until, at last, there wor no name 'ud suit yer but Pepper. Lor, lad, wot a spirrit yer 'ad then!" With these words Tom turned himself round on his pillow, and, having spoken his mind, and being in consequence quite comfortable, dropped quickly to sleep. But to poor little Pepper, listening breathlessly for another word, that first snore of Tom's was a very dreadful one. He knew then that there was no hope that night of any further words with Tom. He must lie all night under the heavy weight of Tom's displeasure; for, of course, Tom was angry, or he would never have turned away with such despairing and contemptuous words on his lips. As Pepper thought of this he could not quite keep down a rising sob, for the Tom who he felt was angry with him meant father, mother, conscience--everything--to the poor little fellow. And Tom had cause for his anger; this was what gave it its sting. There was no doubt that Pepper was not at all the spirited little boy he had been during his mother's lifetime--the brave little plucky fellow, who was afraid of no one, and who never would stoop to a mean act. How well he remembered that scene a few months ago, when a rough boy had flung a stone at Trusty--yes! and hit him, and made him howl with the cruel pain he had inflicted; and then how Pepper had fought for him, and given his cowardly assailant a black eye, and afterward how his mother and Tom had praised him. Oh, how different he was now from then! His tears flowed copiously as he thought of it all. But the times were also different. Since his mother's death he had spent his days so much alone, and those long days, spent in the old attic with no companion but Trusty, had depressed his spirit and undermined his nerves. The unselfish, affectionate little boy found new and strange thoughts filling his poor little heart--thoughts to which, during his mother's lifetime, he was altogether a stranger. He wished he was strong and big like Tom, and could go out and sweep a crossing. It was dreadful to stay at home all day doing nothing but thinking, and thinking, as he now knew, bad thoughts. For the idea suggested by that wild, queer Irish boy downstairs would not go away again. That boy had said with contempt, with even cutting sarcasm, how silly, how absurd it was of two poor little beggars like himself and Tom to have to support a great, large dog like Trusty; how hard it was to have to pay Trusty's tax; how worse than ridiculous to have to share their morsel of food with Trusty; and Pepper had pondered over these words so often that his heart had grown sour and bitter against the old dog who had once saved his life. But not to-night. To-night, as he lay in his bed and sobbed, that heart was rising up and saying hard things against itself. Tom, with rough kindness, had torn the veil from his eyes, and he saw that he had gone down several pegs in the moral scale since his mother's death. Could his mother come back to him now, would she recognize her own bright-spirited little Pepper in this poor, weak, selfish boy? He could bear his own thoughts no longer; he must not wake Tom, but he could at least make it up with Trusty. He crept softly down in the bed until he reached the place where the old dog lay, and then he put his arms round him and half-strangled him with hugs and kisses. "Oh, Trusty!" he said, "I does love yer, and I 'opes as God 'ull always let me be a real sperrited little 'un. I means h'always to stand up fur yer, Trusty; and I'll be as fiery as red pepper to any 'un as says a word agen yer, Trusty." To this fervent speech Trusty replied by raising a sleepy head and licking Pepper's face. CHAPTER III TOM AT WORK. Early the next morning, long before Pepper was awake, Tom got up, washed his face and hands in the old cracked hand-basin in one corner of the room, laid a small fire in the grate, and put some matches near it, ready for Pepper to strike when he chose to rise. These preparations concluded, he thrust his hands into his ragged trousers pocket and pulled from thence twopence and a halfpenny. The pence he laid on the three-legged stool, by the side of the matches, the halfpenny he put for safety into his mouth. Then, with a nod of farewell at the sleeping Pepper, and a pat of Trusty's head, he shouldered his broom and ran downstairs. The month was January, and at this early hour, for it was not yet eight o'clock, the outside world gave to the little sweeper no warm welcome. There was a fog and thaw, and Tom, though he ran and whistled and blew his hot breath against his cold fingers, could not get himself warm. With his halfpenny he bought himself a cup of steaming coffee at the first coffee-stall he came to, then he ran to his crossing, and began to sweep away with all the good-will in the world. The day, dismal as it was, promised to be a good one for his trade, and Tom hoped to have a fine harvest to carry home to Pepper and Trusty to-night. This thought made his bright face look still brighter. Perhaps, in all London, there was not to be found a braver boy than this little crossing-sweeper. He was only twelve years old, but he had family cares on his young shoulders. For six months now--ever since his mother's death--he had managed, he scarcely himself knew how, to keep a home for his little brother, the old dog, and himself. He had proudly resolved that Pepper--poor little tender Pepper--should never see the inside of a workhouse. As long as he had hands, and wit, and strength, Pepper should live with him. Not for worlds would he allow himself to be parted from his little brother. In some wonderful way he kept his resolve. Pepper certainly grew very white, and weak, and thin; old Trusty's ribs stuck out more and more, his one remaining eye looked more longingly every day at the morsel of food with which he was provided; and Tom himself knew but too well what hunger was. Still they, none of them, quite died of starvation; and the rent of the attic in which they lived was paid week by week. This state of things had gone on for months, Tom just managing, by the most intense industry, to keep all their heads above water. As he swept away now at his crossing, his thoughts were busy, and his thoughts, poor brave little boy! were anxious ones. How very ill Pepper was beginning to look, and how strangely he had spoken the night before about Trusty! Was it possible that his poor life of semi-starvation was beginning to tell not only on Pepper's weak body, but on his kind heart? Was Tom, while working almost beyond his strength, in reality only doing harm by keeping Pepper out of the workhouse? Would that dreadful workhouse after all be the best place for Pepper? and would his fine brave spirit revive again if he had enough food and warmth? These questions passed often through Tom's mind as he swept his crossing, but he had another thought which engrossed him even more. He had spoken confidently to Pepper about his ability to pay the tax for Trusty when the time came round, but in reality he had great anxiety on that point. The time when Trusty's tax would be due was still three months away--but three months would not be long going by, and Tom had not a penny--not a farthing toward the large sum which must then be demanded of him. It was beginning to rest like a nightmare on his bright spirit, the fact that he might have to break his word to his dying mother, that in three months' time the dear old dog might have to go. After all, he, not Pepper, might be the one faithless to their dear old Trusty. As he swept and cleaned the road so thoroughly that the finest lady might pass by without a speck on her dainty boots, he resolved, suffer what hunger he might, to put by one halfpenny a day toward the necessary money which much be paid to save Trusty's life. With this resolve bright in his eyes and firm on his rosy lips, he touched his cap to many a passer-by. But what ailed the men and women, the boys and girls, who walked quickly over Tom's clean crossing? They were all either too busy, or too happy, or too careless, to throw a coin, even the smallest coin, to the hungry, industrious little fellow. His luck was all against him; not a halfpenny did he earn. No one read his story in his eyes, no one saw the invisible arms of Pepper round his neck, nor felt the melting gaze of Trusty fixed on his face. No one knew that he was working for them as well as for himself. By noon the wind again changed and fresh snow began to fall. Tom knew that now his chance was worse than ever, for surely now no one would stop to pull out a penny or a halfpenny--the cold was much too intense. Tom knew by instinct that nothing makes people so selfish as intense cold. When he left home that morning he had only a halfpenny in his pocket, consequently he could get himself no better breakfast than a small cup of coffee. The cold, and the exercise he had been going through since early morning, had raised his healthy appetite to a ravenous pitch, and this, joined to his anxiety, induced him at last to depart from his invariable custom of simply touching his cap, and made him raise an imploring voice, to beseech for the coins which he had honestly earned. "Please, sir, I'm h'awful cold and 'ungry--give us a penny--do, for pity's sake," he said, addressing an elderly gentleman who was hurrying quickly to his home in a square close by. Would the gentleman stop, pause, look at him? Would he slacken his pace the least morsel in the world, or would he pass quickly on like those cross old ladies whom he had last addressed? His heart, began to beat a trifle more hopefully, for the old gentleman certainly did pause, pushed back his hat, and gave him--not a penny, but a quick, sharp glance from under two shaggy brows. "I hate giving to beggars," he muttered, preparing to hurry off again. But Tom was not to be so easily repressed. "Please, sir, I ain't a beggar. I works real 'ard, and I'm h'awful 'ungry, please, sir." He was now following the old gentleman, who was walking on, but slowly, and as though meditating with himself. "That's a likely story!" he said, throwing his words contemptuously at poor Tom: "you, hungry! go and feed. You have your pocket full of pennies this moment, which folks threw to you for doing nothing. I hate that idle work." "Oh! h'indeed, sir, I ain't nothink in 'em--look, please, sir." A very soiled pocket, attached to a ragged trouser, was turned out for the old gentleman's benefit. "You have 'em in your mouth," replied the man. "I'm up to some of your dodges." At this remark Tom grinned from ear to ear. His teeth were white and regular. They gleamed in his pretty mouth like little pearls; thus the heart-whole smile he threw up at the old gentleman did more for him than all the tears in the world. "Well, little fellow," he said, smiling back, for he could not help himself, "'tis much too cold now to pull out my purse--for I know you have pence about you--but if you like to call at my house to-morrow morning,--Russell Square, you shall have a penny." "Please, sir, mayn't I call to-day?" "No, I shan't be home until ten o'clock this evening." "Give us a penny, please, now, sir, for I'm real, real 'ungry." This time poor Tom very nearly cried. "Well, well! what a troublesome, pertinacious boy! I suppose I'd better get rid of him--see, here goes----" He pulled his purse out of his pocket--how Tom hoped he would give him twopence! "There, boy. Oh, I can't, I say. I have no smaller change than a shilling. I can't help you, boy; I have not got a penny." "Please, please, sir, let me run and fetch the the change." "Well, I like that! How do I know that you won't keep the whole shilling?" "Indeed, yer may trust me, sir. Indeed, I'll bring the eleven-pence to--Russell Square to-morrer mornin'." The old gentleman half-smiled, and again Tom showed his white teeth. If there was any honesty left in the world it surely dwelt in that anxious, pleading face. The old gentleman, looking down at it, suddenly felt his heart beginning to thaw and his interest to be aroused. "Oh, yes; I'm the greatest, biggest fool in the world. Still--No, I won't; I hate being taken in; and yet he's a pleasant little chap. Well, I'll try it, just as an experiment. See here, young 'un; if I trust you with my shilling, when am I to see the change?" "At eight o'clock to-morrer mornin', sir." "Well, I'm going to trust you. I never trusted a crossing-sweeper before." "H'all right, sir," answered Tom, taking off his cap and throwing back his head. "There, then, you may spend twopence; bring me back tenpence. God bless me, what a fool I am!" as he hurried away. This was not the only favor Tom got that day; but soon the lamps were lighted, sleet and rain began to fall, and no more business could be expected. CHAPTER IV. IN TROUBLE. When Tom returned home that night, he had not only the old gentleman's shilling unbroken in his pocket, but three pennies which had been given to him since then, and which jingled and made a very nice sound against the shilling. But though this was a pleasant state of affairs, there was nothing pleasant in poor little Tom's face; its bright look had left it, it was white and drawn, and he limped along in evident pain and difficulty. The fact was, Tom had fallen in the snow, and had sprained his ankle very badly. When he entered the house his pain was so great that he could scarcely hobble upstairs. On the first landing he was greeted by the rough, rude tones of Pat Finnahan, who stopped him with a loud exclamation, then shouted to his mother that Tom had arrived. Mrs. Finnahan was Tom's Irish landlady, but as he did not owe her any rent he was not afraid of her. She called to him now, however, and he stood still to listen to what she had to say. "Ah, then, wisha, Tom, and when am I to see me own agen?" she demanded, with a very strong Irish brogue. "Wot does yer mean?" asked Tom, staring at her. "I pays my rent reg'lar. I owes yer nothink." "Oh, glory!" said Mrs. Finnahan, throwing up her hands, "the boy have the imperence to ax me to my face what I manes. I manes the shilling as I lent to yer mother, young man, and that I wants back agen; that's what I manes." At these words Tom felt himself turning very pale. He remembered perfectly how, in a moment of generosity, Mrs. Finnahan had once lent his mother a shilling, but he was quite under the impression that it had been paid back some time ago. "I thought as my mother give it back to yer afore she died," he said, but a great fear took possession of his heart while he spoke. Mrs. Finnahan pushed him from her, her red face growing purple. "Listen to the likes of him," she said; "he tells me to me face as 'tis lies I'm afther telling. Oh, musha! but he's a black-hearted schoundrel. I must have me shilling to-morrow, young man, or out you goes." With these words Mrs. Finnahan retired into her private apartment, slamming the door behind her. "Tom," whispered Pat, who during this colloquy had stood by his side, "can yer give mother that 'ere shilling to-morrer?" "Yer knows I can't," answered Tom. "Well, she'll turn yer h'out, as sure as I'm Pat Finnahan." "I can't help her," answered Tom, preparing once more, as well as his painful ankle would allow him, to mount the stairs. "Yes; but I say?" continued Pat, "maybe I can do somethink." With these words the Irish boy began fumbling violently in his pocket, and in a moment or two produced from a heterogeneous group a dull, battered shilling. This shilling he exhibited in the palm of his hand, looking up at Tom as he showed it, with an expression of pride and cunning in his small, deep-set eyes. "Look yere, Tom. I really feels fur yer, fur mother's h'awful when she says a thing. There's no hope of mother letting of yer off, Tom. No, not the ghost of a hope. But see yere--this is my h'own. I got it--no matter 'ow I got it, and I'll give it to yer fur yer h'old dog. The dog ain't nothink but a burden on yer, Tom, and I'd like him. I'd give yer the shilling for h'old Trusty, Tom." But at these words all the color rushed back to Tom's face. "Take that instead of Trusty," he said, aiming a blow with all his might and main at Pat, and sending him and his shilling rolling downstairs. The false strength with which his sudden indignation had inspired him enabled him to get up the remaining stairs to his attic; but when once there, the poor little sweeper nearly fainted. CHAPTER V. THE TEMPTATION. Perhaps on this dark evening there could scarcely be found in all London three more unhappy creatures than those who crouched round the empty grate in Tom's attic. In truth, over this poor attic rested a cloud too heavy for man to lift, and good and bad angels were drawing near to witness the issues of victory or defeat. "We'll get into bed," said Tom, looking drearily round the supperless, fireless room. "Pepper," he continued as he pressed his arms round his little brother, "should yer mind werry much going to the work'us arter h'all?" "Oh, yes, yes, Tom! Oh, Tom! ef they took me from yer, I'd die." "But ef we both went, Pepper?" "What 'ud come o' Trusty?" asked Pepper. "I doesn't know the ways of work'uses," said Tom, speaking half to himself. "Maybe they'll take h'in the h'old dog. Ef you and I were to beg of 'em a little 'ard, they might take h'in old Trusty, Pepper." "But I doesn't want to go to no work'us," whispered Pepper. "I only says perhaps, Pepper," answered poor Tom. "I'd 'ate to go." "Well, don't let's think of it," said Pepper, putting up his lips to kiss Tom. "Yer'll be better in the morning, Tom; and, Tom," he added, half-timidly, half-exultantly, "I've been real sperrited h'all day. Pat came in and began to talk 'bout dear Trusty, but I flew at him, I boxed im right up h'in the ear, Tom." "Did yer really?" answered Tom, laughing, and forgetting the pain in his ankle for the moment. "Yes, and 'e's nothink but a coward, Tom, fur 'e just runned away. I'll never be a Hen-e-ry to him no more," added the little boy with strong emphasis. "No; yer a real nice, peppery young 'un," said Tom, "and I'm proud o' yer; but now go to sleep, young 'un, for I 'as a deal to think about." "'Ow's the pain, Tom?" "Werry 'ot and fiery like; but maybe 'twill be better in the morning." "Good-night, Tom," said Pepper, creeping closer into his arms. Under the sweet influence of Tom's praise, resting in peace in the delicious words that Tom was proud of him, poor hungry little Pepper was soon enjoying dreamless slumber. But not so Tom himself. Tom had gone through a hard day's work. He was tired, aching in every limb, but no kind sleep would visit that weary little body or troubled mind. His sprained ankle hurt him sadly, but his mental anxiety made him almost forget his bodily suffering. Dark indeed was the cloud that rested on Tom. His sprained ankle was bad enough--for how, with that swollen and aching foot, could he go out to sweep his crossing to-morrow? And if the little breadwinner was not at his crossing, where would the food come from for Pepper and Trusty? This was a dark cloud, but, dark as it was, it might be got over. Tom knew nothing of the tedious and lingering pain which a sprain may cause; he quite believed that a day's rest in bed would make his foot all right, and for that one day while he was in bed, they three--he, Pepper, and Trusty--might manage not quite to starve, on the pence which were over from that day's earnings. Yes, through this cloud could be seen a possible glimmer of light. But the cloud that rested behind it! Oh, was there any possible loophole of escape out of that difficulty? Tom had told nothing of this greater anxiety to Pepper. Nay, while Pepper was awake he tried to push it away even from his own mental vision. But now, in the night watches, he pulled it forward and looked at it steadily. In truth, as the poor little boy looked, he felt almost in despair. Since his mother's death he had managed to support his little household, and not only to support them, but to keep them out of debt. No honorable man of the world could keep more faithfully the maxim, "Owe no man anything, but to love one another," than did this little crossing sweeper. But now, suddenly, a debt, a debt the existence of which he had never suspected, stared him in the face. His mother had borrowed a shilling from Mrs. Finnahan. Mrs. Finnahan required that shilling back again. If that enormous sum--twelve whole pennies--was not forthcoming by to-morrow, he and Pepper and Trusty would find themselves homeless--homeless in mid-winter in the London streets. Tom knew well that Mrs. Finnahan would keep her word; that nothing, no pleading language, no entreating eyes, would induce Mrs. Finnahan to alter her cruel resolve. No; into the streets they three must go. Tom did not mind the streets so very much for himself, he was accustomed to them, at least all day long. But poor little, tender, delicate Pepper, and old broken-down Trusty! Very, very soon, those friendless, cold, desolate streets would kill Pepper and Trusty. As Tom thought of it scalding drops filled his brave, bright eyes and rolled down his cheeks. It was a moonlight night, and its full radiance had filled the little attic for an hour or more; but now the moon was hidden behind a bank of cloud, and in the dark came to little Tom the darker temptation. No way out of his difficulty? Yes, there were two ways. He might sell Trusty to Pat Finnahan for a shilling--it was far, far better to part with Trusty than to let Pepper die in the London streets; or he might keep the old gentleman's shilling and never bring him back the tenpence he had promised to return to-morrow morning. By one or other of these plans he might save Pepper from either dying or going to the workhouse. As he thought over them both, the latter plan presented itself as decidedly the most feasible. Both his pride and his love revolted against the first. Part with Trusty? How he had blamed Pepper when he had even hinted at Trusty being in the way! How very, very much his mother had loved Trusty! how, even when she was dying, she had begged of them both never to forsake the faithful old dog! Oh, he could not part with the dog! if for no other reason, he loved him too much himself. At this moment, as though to strengthen him in his resolve, Trusty, who from hunger and cold was by no means sleeping well, left his place at the little boy's feet and came up close to Tom; lying down by Tom's side, he put his paws on his shoulders and licked his face with his rough tongue; and also, just then, as though further to help Trusty in his unconscious pleading for his own safety, the moon came out from behind the cloud, shedding its white light full on the boy and the dog; and oh! how pleading, how melting, how full of tenderness did that one remaining eye of Trusty's look to Tom as he gazed at him. Clasping his arms tightly round the old dog's neck, Tom firmly determined that happen what would, he must never part from Trusty. He turned his mind now resolutely to the other plan, the one remaining loophole out of his despair. Need he give back that change to the old man? That was the question. The money he had pleaded so earnestly for still lay unbroken in his pocket; for immediately after it had been given to him, fortune seemed to turn in his favor, and other people had become not quite so stony-hearted, and a few pence had fallen to his share. With two or three pence he had bought himself some dinner, and he had brought threepence back, for Pepper's use and his own. Yes, the shilling was still unbroken--and that shilling, just that one shilling, would save them all. But--the old gentleman had trusted him--the old gentleman had said: "I never trusted a crossing-sweeper before. I am going to trust you." And Tom had promised him. Tom had pledged his word to bring him back tenpence to-morrow morning. Strange as it may seem--incomprehensible to many who judge them by no high standard--here was a little crossing-sweeper who had never told a lie in his life. Here, lying on this trundle-bed, in this poor room, rested as honorable a little heart as ever beat in human breast; he could not do a mean act; he could not betray his trust and break his word. What would his mother say could she look down from heaven and find out that her Tom had told a lie? No, not even to save Trusty and Pepper would he do this mean, mean thing. But he was very miserable, and in his misery and despair he longed so much for sympathy that he was fain at last to wake Pepper. "Pepper," he said, "we never said no prayers to-night; fold yer 'ands, Pepper, and say 'Our Father' right away." "Our Father chart heaven," began Pepper, folding his hands as he was bidden, and gazing up with his great dark eyes at the moon, "hallowed be thy name ... thy kingdom come ... thy will be done in earth h'as 'tis in heaven ... give us this day h'our daily bread ... and furgive us h'our trespasses h'as we furgive ... h'and lead us not into temptation----" "Yer may shut up there, Pepper," interrupted Tom; "go to sleep now, young 'un. I doesn't want no more." "Yes," added Tom, a few moments later, "that was wot I needed. I won't do neither o' them things. Our Father, lead us not inter temptation. Our Father, please take care on me, and Pepper, and Trusty." CHAPTER VI. TRUE TO HIS NAME. It was apparently the merest chance in the world that brought the old gentleman, who lived in--Russell Square, to his hall-door the next morning, to answer, in his own person, a very small and insignificant-sounding ring. When he opened the door he saw standing outside a very tiny boy, and by the boy's side a most disreputable-looking dog. "Well," said the old gentleman, for he hated beggars, "what do you want? Some mischief, I warrant." "Please, sir," piped Pepper's small treble, "Tom 'ud come hisself, but 'e 'ave hurt 'is foot h'awful bad, so 'e 'ave sent me and Trusty wid the tenpence, please, sir.' "What tenpence?" asked the old man, who had really forgotten the circumstance of yesterday. "Please, sir," continued Pepper, holding out sixpence and four dirty pennies, "'tis the change from the shilling as yer lent to Tom." At these words the old gentleman got very red in the face, and stared with all his might at Pepper. "Bless me!" he said suddenly; then he took hold of Pepper's ragged coat-sleeve and drew him into the hall. "Wife," he called out, "I say, wife, come here. Bless me! I never heard of anything so strange. I have actually found an honest crossing-sweeper at last." But that is the story--for the old gentleman was as kind as he was eccentric--and he failed not quickly to inquire into all particulars with regard to Tom, Pepper, and Trusty; and then as promptly to help and raise the three. Yes, that is the story. But in the lives of two prosperous men--for Tom and Pepper are men now--there is never forgotten that dark night, when the little crossing-sweeper risked everything rather than tell a lie or break a trust. And Trusty was true to his name to the last. BILLY ANDERSEN AND HIS TROUBLES. CHAPTER I. BILLY'S BABY. Billy was a small boy of ten; he was thin and wiry, had a freckled face, and a good deal of short, rather stumpy red hair. He was by no means young-looking for his ten years; and only that his figure was small, his shoulders narrow, and his little legs sadly like spindles, he might have passed for a boy of twelve or thirteen. Billy had a weight of care upon his shoulders--he had the entire charge of a baby. The baby was a year old, fairly heavy, fairly well grown; she was cutting her teeth badly, and in consequence was often cross and unmanageable. Billy had to do with her night and day, and no one who saw the two together could for a moment wonder at the premature lines of care about his small thin face. A year ago, on a certain January morning, Billy had been called away from a delightful game of hop-scotch. A red-faced woman had come to the door of a tall house, which over-looked the alley where Billy was playing so contentedly, and beckoned him mysteriously to follow her. "Yer'd better make no noise, and take off those heavy clumps of shoes," she remarked. Billy looked down at his small feet, on which some very large and much-battered specimens of the shoemaker's craft were hanging loosely. "I can shuffle of 'em off right there, under the stairs," he remarked, raising his blue eyes in a confident manner to the red-faced woman. She nodded, but did not trouble to speak further, and barefooted Billy crept up the stairs; up and up, until he came to an attic room, which he knew well, for it represented his home. He was still fresh from his hop-scotch, and eager to go back to his game; and when a thin, rather rasping woman's voice called him, he ran up eagerly to a bedside. "Wot is it, mother? I want to go back to punch Tom Jones." Alas! for poor Billy--his fate was fixed from that moment, and the wild bird was caged. "Another time, Billy," said his mother; "you 'as got other work to see to now. Pull down the bedclothes, and look wot's under 'em." Billy eagerly drew aside the dirty counterpane and sheet, and saw a very small and pink morsel of humanity--a morsel of humanity which greeted his rough intrusion on her privacy with several contortions of the tiny features, and some piercing screams. "Why, sakes alive, ef it ain't a baby," said Billy, falling back a step or two in astonishment. "Yes, Billy," replied his mother, "and she's to be your baby, for I can't do no charring and mind her as well, so set down by the fire, this minute and mind her right away." Billy did not dream of objecting; he seated himself patiently and instantly, and thought with a very faint sigh of Tom Jones, whose head he so ached to punch. Tom Jones would be victorious at hop-scotch, and he would not be present to abate his pride. Well, well, perhaps he could go to-morrow. CHAPTER II. MORE TROUBLE. Day after day passed, and month after month, and Tom Jones, the bully of Aylmer's Court, quite ceased to fear any assaults from a certain plucky and wiry little fellow, who used to fly at him when he knocked down the girls, and who made himself generally unpleasant to Tom, when Tom too violently transgressed the principle of right and justice. Not that Billy Andersen knew anything of right and justice himself; he was mostly guided by an instinct which taught him to dislike everything that Tom did, and perhaps he was also a wee bit influenced by a sentiment which made him dislike to see any thing weaker or smaller than himself bullied. Since that January morning, however, Billy's head and heart and hands were all too full for him to have any time to waste upon Tom Jones. The girls and the very little ones of the court crowded round Billy the first time he went out with his charge. One of the biggest of them, indeed, carried the little thing right up into her own home, followed by a noisy crowd eager to make friends with the little arrival. Billy was flattered by their attentions, but he preferred to keep his charge entirely to himself. At first, it was his head and hands alone which were occupied over the baby, but as she progressed under his small brotherly care, and wrinkled up her tiny features with an ugly attempt at a smile, and stretched out her limbs and cooed at him, he began gradually to discover that the baby was getting into his heart. From the moment he became certain on this point, all the irksomeness of his duties faded out of sight, and he did not mind what care or trouble he expended over Sarah Ann. Mrs. Andersen, true to her word, had given Billy the entire charge of this last addition to her family. Her husband had deserted her some months before the birth of the baby, and the poor woman had about as much as she could do, in earning bread to put into her own mouth and those of her two children. Now, it is grievous to relate that notwithstanding all Billy's devotion and good nature, Sarah Ann was by no means a nice baby. In the first place, she was very ugly--not even Billy could see any beauty in her rather old and yellow face; in the next place, she had a temper, which the neighbors were fond of describing as "vicious." Sarah Ann seemed already to have studied human nature for the purpose of annoying it. She cried at the wrong moments, she cut her teeth at the most inopportune times, she slept by day and stayed awake at night, in a manner enough to try the patience of an angel; she tyrannized over any one who had anything to do with her, and in particular she tyrannized over Billy. Night after night had Billy to pace up and down the attic, with Sarah Ann in his arms, for nothing would induce the infant to spend her waking moments except in a state of perpetual motion. In vain Billy tried darkness, and his mother tried scolding. Sarah Ann, when placed in her cot, screamed so loud that all the neighbors were aroused. When once, however, this strange and wayward little child had got into Billy's heart, he was wonderfully patient with all her caprices, and treasured the rare and far-between smiles she gave him, as worth going through a great deal to obtain. On fine days Billy took Sarah Ann for a walk; and even once or twice he went with her as far as Kensington Gardens, where they both enjoyed themselves vastly, under the shadow of a huge elm tree. It was on the last of these occasions, just before the second winter of Sarah Ann's existence, that that small adventure occurred which was to land poor Billy in such hot water and such perplexity. Sarah Ann was quite nice that afternoon; she cooed and smiled, and allowed her brother to stroke her face, and even to play tenderly with the tiny rings of soft flaxen hair which were beginning to show round her forehead. Billy's heart and head were quite absorbed with her, when a harsh, mocking laugh and a loud "Hulloa, you youngster," caused him to raise his head, and see, to his unutterable aversion, the well-remembered form of Tom Jones. "Well, I never; and so that's the reason you've bin a-shunnin' of me lately; and so you've been obliged to go and turn nursemaid; well--well--and you call yourself a manly boy." "So I be manly," retorted Billy, glaring angrily and defiantly at his adversary. "I don't want none of your cheek, Tom Jones, and I'd a sight rayther be taking care of a cute little baby like this than idling and loafing about and getting into trouble all day long--like yourself." "Oh! we has turned nice and good," said Tom Jones, trying to affect a fine lady's accent; "ain't it edifying--ain't it delicious--to hear us speaking so well of ourselves? Now then, Billy, where's that punched head you promised me a year ago now? I ain't forgot it, and I'd like to see you at it; you're afeard, that's wot you are; you're a coward, arter all, Billy Andersen." "No, I ain't," said Billy, "and I'll give it yer this 'ere blessed minute, if you like. Yere, Sarah Ann darling, you set easy with yer back up agin' the tree, and I'll soon settle Tom Jones for him." Sarah Ann strongly objected to being removed from Billy's lap to the ground; all her sunshiny good temper deserted her on the spot; she screamed, she wriggled, she made such violent contortions, and altogether behaved in such an excited and extraordinary manner, that Tom, who by no means in his heart wished to test Billy's powers, found a ready excuse for postponing the moment when his head must be punched, in her remarkable behavior. "Well, I never did see such a baby," he began; "now, I likes that sort of a baby; why, she have a sperrit. No, no, Billy, I ain't going to punch you; now, I'd like to catch hold of that 'ere little one"--but here Billy frustrated his intention. "You shan't touch my baby; you shan't lay a hand on her," he exclaimed, snatching Sarah Ann up again in his arms, and covering her with kisses. "Well, see if I don't some day," said Tom; "you dare me, do you? Well, all right, we'll see." As Billy walked home that afternoon, he was a little troubled by Tom's words; he knew how vindictive Tom could be, and there was an ugly light in his green eyes when he, Billy, had refused to give him the baby. Tom was capable of mischief, of playing such a practical joke as might cause sad trouble and even danger to poor little Sarah Ann. Hitherto Billy had kept all knowledge of the baby's existence from Tom Jones. What evil chance had brought him to Kensington Gardens that day? Troubles, however, were not to fall singly on poor Billy Andersen that day. He was greeted on his return to his attic by eager words and excited ejaculations. It was some time before his poor little dazed head could take in the fact that his mother had broken her leg, and was taken to the hospital. He must then for the time being turn the baby's breadwinner as well as her caretaker. CHAPTER III. TOM JONES' TRICK. The neighbors were full of suggestions to Billy at this crisis of his fate. It was ascertained beyond all doubt that Mrs. Andersen would be six weeks, if not two months, away; and this being the case, the neighbors one and all declared roundly that there was nothing whatever for Sarah Ann but to become a workhouse baby. One of them would carry her to the house the very next morning, and of course she would be admitted without a moment's difficulty, and there would be an end of her. Billy might manage to earn a precarious living by running messages, by opening cab-doors, and by the thousand-and-one things an active boy could undertake, and so he might eke out a livelihood till his mother came back; but there was no hope whatever for Sarah Ann--there was no loophole for her but the workhouse. To these admonitions on the part of his friendly neighbors, Billy responded in a manner peculiar to himself. First of all, he raised two blue and very innocent eyes, and let them rest slowly and thoughtfully on each loquacious speaker's face; then he suddenly and without the slightest warning winked one of the said eyes in a manner that was so knowing as to be almost wicked, and then without the slightest word or comment he dashed into his attic and locked the door on himself and Sarah Ann. "Sarah Ann, darling," he said, placing the baby on the floor and kneeling down a few paces from her, "will yer go to the workhouse, or will yer stay with yer h'own Billy?" Sarah Ann's response to this was to wriggle as fast as possible up to her affectionate nurse, and rub her little dirty face against his equally dirty trousers. "That's settled, then," said Billy; "yer has chosen, Sarah Ann, and yer ain't one as could ever abear contradictions, so we 'as got to see how we two can live." This was a problem not so easily managed, for the neighbors took offense with Billy not following their advice, and it was almost impossible for him to leave Sarah Ann long at home by herself. True to this terrible infant's character, she now refused to sleep by day, as she had hitherto done, thus cutting off poor Billy's last loophole of earning his bread and her own with any comfort. Billy had two reasons which made it almost impossible for him to leave the baby in the attic; the first was his fear that Tom Jones, who still hovered dangerously about, might find her and carry her off; the second was the undoubted fact that if Sarah Ann was left to enjoy her own solitary company, she would undoubtedly scream herself into fits and the neighbors into distraction. There was nothing whatever for it but for Billy to carry the baby with him when he went in search of their daily bread. Poor little brave man, he had certainly a hard time during those next two months, and except for the undoubted fact that he and the baby were two of the sparrows whom our Father feeds, they both must have starved; but perhaps owing to a certain look in Billy's eyes, which were as blue as blue could be, in the midst of his freckled face, and also, perhaps, to a certain pathetic turn which the baby's ugliness had now assumed, the two always managed to secure attention. With attention, came invariably a few pence--fourpence one day--sixpence and even eightpence another. The greater portion of the food thus obtained was given to Sarah Ann, but neither of the two quite starved. Billy counted and counted and counted the days until his mother would be home again; and as, fortunately for him, Mrs. Andersen had paid the rent of their attic some weeks in advance, the children still had a shelter at night. All went tolerably well with the little pair until a certain bitter day in the beginning of November. Billy was very hopeful on the morning of that day, for his mother's time of captivity in the hospital had nearly expired, and soon now she would be back to take the burden of responsibility off his young shoulders. Sarah Ann had hitherto escaped cold; indeed, her life in the open air seemed to agree with her, and she slept better at nights, and was really becoming quite a nice tempered baby. Billy used to look at her with the most old fatherly admiration, and assured her that she was such a darling duck of a cherub that he could almost eat her up. No, Sarah Ann had never taken cold, but Billy felt a certain amount of uneasiness on this particular morning, which was as sleety, as gusty, as altogether melancholy a day as ever dawned on the great London world. There was no help for it, however, the daily bread must be found; and he and the baby must face the elements. He wrapped an old woolen comforter several times round Sarah Ann's throat, and beneath the comforter secured a very thin and worn Paisley shawl of his mother's, and then buttoning up his own ragged jacket, and shuffling along in his large and untidy boots, he set forth. Whether it was the insufficient food he had lately partaken of or that the baby was really growing very heavy, poor Billy almost staggered to-day under Sarah Ann's weight. He found himself obliged to lean for support against a pillar box, and then he discovered to his distress that the baby began to sneeze, that her tiny face was blue, and that her solemn black eyes had quite a weary and tearful look. "She's a-catchin' cold, the blessed, blessed babby," exclaimed poor Billy; "oh, Sairey Ann, darlin', don't you go and take the brownchitis, and break the heart of your h'own Billy. Oh! lady, lady, give us a 'ap'enny, or a penny. Give us a copper, please, kind lady." The lady so aprostrophized was good-natured enough to bestow a few pence on the starved-looking children, and after a certain miserable fashion the morning passed away. This was, however, Billy's only money success, and he was just making up his mind to go home, and to prefer starvation in his attic to running the feeble chance of securing any more charities. Sarah Ann still continued to sneeze and her eyes still looked watery, and Billy was sorrowfully giving up his hope of receiving any more coppers, when he came face to face with his old adversary and tormentor, Tom Jones. In the anxiety of these latter few weeks, Billy had lost his old fear of Tom, and he was now so spent and exhausted that he greeted him with almost pleasure. "Oh! Tom, do hold the babby just for one minute, just for me to get a wee bit of breath. I'm all blown like, and I'm afeard as Sarah Ann 'as taken cold; jest hold her for one minute--will yer?" Tom, who was looking rather white and shaken himself, just glanced into Billy's face, and some gibing words, which were on the tip of his tongue, were restrained. "Why, yer does look bad, Billy Andersen," he said, and then, without another word, he lifted the baby out of the little lad's trembling arms, and held her in an awkward but not altogether untender fashion. "Look you here, Billy," he said, "ef yer likes to round quick this 'ere corner, there are two cabs coming up to a house as I passed, and they are sure to want a boy to help in with the boxes, and you maybe earn sixpence or a bob; run round this yere minute--quick, Billy, quick." "I'd like to, awful well," said Billy, "and the run will warm me, and wouldn't the bob be fine--but, oh! Tom, will yer hold Sairey Ann? and will yer promise not to run away with her? will yer promise sure and faithful, Tom?" "What in the world should I do that for?" said Tom. "What good would yer Sairey Ann be to me? My h'eyes--I has work enough to get my h'own victuals. There, Billy, I'll not deprive you of the babby; you jest run round the corner, or yer'll lose the chance. There, Billy, be quick; you'll find Sairey Ann safe enough when yer comes back." The poor thin and cold baby gave a little cry as Billy ran off, but the chance was too good for him to lose; and, after all, what earthly use could Tom have with Sairey Ann? CHAPTER IV. WHAT IT MEANT. Poor Billy! After all, Tom had told him a story, for there was no cab whatever waiting in the long and dreary street, into which he ran so eagerly. He ran up and down its entire length, and even stopped at the very number Tom had indicated. A little girl was coming slowly down the steps, and Billy could not help saying to her, "Oh, missy, am I too late, and have all the boxes been stowed away afore I come?" "There have been no boxes stowed away," said the little girl, stopping and staring in astonishment at the ragged boy. "Oh, but, missy, out of the two cabs, yer knows." "There have been no cabs here for many a day," replied the child in a sorrowful, dull kind of tone, which seemed to say that she only wished anything half so nice and interesting would arrive. Billy saw then that the whole thing had been a hoax, and he flew back down the long street, with a great terror in his heart. Oh! what did Tom mean, and was the baby safe? There was no Tom anywhere in sight when the poor little boy returned to the more crowded thoroughfare; but a policeman was stooping down and looking curiously at something on the pavement, and one or two people were beginning to collect round him. Billy arrived just in time to see the policeman pick up a little shivering, crying, half-naked baby. Yes, this baby was his own Sarah Ann, but her woolen comforter, and mother's old Paisley shawl, and even a little brown winsey frock had all disappeared. "Oh! give her to me, give her to me," sobbed poor Billy; "oh, Sairey Ann, Sairey Ann, yer'll have brownchitis and hinflammation now, sure and certain; oh, wot a wicked boy Tom Jones is." The policeman asked a few leading questions, and then finding that the baby was Billy's undoubted property, he was only too glad to deliver her into his arms. The poor baby was quiet at once, and laid her little head caressingly against Billy's cheek. Billy tore off his own ragged jacket and wrapped it round her, and then flew home, with the energy and terror of despair. A pitiless sleet shower overtook him, however, and the two were wet to the skin when they arrived at their attic. CHAPTER V. BILLY'S ILLNESS. All that day Billy anxiously watched the baby; he tore off her wet clothes, and wrapped the blanket and the sheet tightly round her, and then he coaxed a neighbor to expend one of his pennies on milk, which he warmed and gave with some broken bread to the little hungry creature. He forgot all about himself in his anxiety for Sarah Ann, and as the day passed on, and she did not sneeze any more, but sat quite warm and bright and chirrupy in his arms, he became more and more light-hearted, and more and more thankful. In his thankfulness he would have offered a little prayer to God, had he known how, for his mother was just sufficiently not a heathen to say to him, now and then, "Don't go out without saying your prayers, Billy, be sure you say your prayers," and once or twice she had even tried to teach him a clause out of Our Father. He only remembered the first two words now, and, looking at the baby, he repeated them solemnly several times. At last it was time to go to bed, and as Sarah Ann was quite nice and sleepy, Billy hoped they would have a comfortable night. So they might have had, as far as the baby was concerned, for she nestled off so peacefully, and laid her soft head on Billy's breast. But what ailed the poor little boy himself? His head ached, his pulse throbbed as he lay with the scanty blankets covering him; he shivered so violently that he almost feared he should wake Sarah Ann. Yes, he, not the baby, had taken cold. He, not the baby, was going to have brownchitis or that hinflammation which he dreaded. The mischief had been done when he tore off his jacket and ran home, through the pitiless sleet, in his ragged shirt-sleeves. Well, he was glad it was not Sairey Ann, and mother would soon be home now, and find her baby well, and not starved, and perhaps she would praise him a little bit, and tell him he was a good boy. He had certainly tried to be a good boy. All through the night--while his chest ached and ached, and his breath became more and more difficult, and the baby slumbered on, with her little downy head against his breast--he kept wondering, in a confused sort of way, what his mother would say to him, and if the Our Father, in the only prayer he ever knew, was anything like the father who had been cruel, and who had run away from him and his mother a year ago. All his thoughts, however, were very vague, and as the morning broke, and his suffering grew worse, he was too ill to think at all. CHAPTER VI. THE END OF HIS TROUBLES. Tom Jones, having secured the baby's comforter, the thin Paisley shawl, and the little winsey frock, ran as fast as he could to a pawnbroker's hard by. There he received a shilling on the articles, and with this shilling jingling pleasantly in his pocket he entered an eating-house which he knew, and prepared to enjoy some pea pudding and pork. Tom expended exactly the half of the shilling on his dinner; he ate it greedily, for he was very hungry indeed, and then he went back into the street, with sixpence still to the good in his trouser pocket. With sixpence in his pocket, and a comfortable dinner inside of him, Tom felt that his present circumstances were delightfully easy. He might walk about the streets with quite fine gentlemanly airs for an hour or two, if he so willed. Or he might flatten his nose against the shop windows, or he might play halfpenny pitch and toss. His circumstances were really affluent, and of course he ought to have been correspondingly happy. The odd thing was that he was not very happy; he could not get Billy's white face out of his head, and he could not altogether forget the icy cold feel of the baby's little arms, when he slipped off that brown winsey frock. Tom was as hard a boy as ever lived, and a year ago his conscience might not have troubled him, even for playing so wicked a prank as he had done that day. But since then he had met with a softening influence. Tom Jones had been very ill with a bad fever, and during that time had been taken care of in the London fever hospital. In that hospital, the wild, rough street boy had listened to many kind and gentle words and had witnessed many noble and self-denying actions. Two or three children had died while Tom was in the hospital, and the nurses had told the other children that this death only meant going home for the little ones, and that they were now safely housed, and free from any more sin and any more temptation. Tom had listened to the gentle words of the kind Sister nurse, without heeding them much. But the memory of the whole scene came back to him to-day, all mingled strangely with Billy's pale face and the baby's cold little form, until he became quite compunctious and unhappy, and finally felt that he could not spend that remaining sixpence, but must let it burn a hole in his pocket, and do anything, in short, rather than provide him with food and shelter. Tom was accustomed to spending his nights under archways and huddled up in any sheltered corner he could discover. This particular night he was lucky enough to find a cart half-full of hay, and here he would doubtless have had a delicious sleep, had not the baby and Billy come into his dreams. The baby and Billy between them managed to give poor Tom a horrible time of it, and at last he felt that he could bear it no longer: he must go and give Billy the sixpence which remained out of his shilling. He started tolerably early the next morning, and carefully turning his face away from the bakers' shops and coffee-stalls as he passed them, he found himself presently in Aylmer's Court. He had conquered himself in the matter of the bakers' shops and the coffee stalls, and in consequence he felt a good deal elated, his conscience became easier, and he began to say to himself that very few boys would restore even a stolen sixpence when they were starving. He ran up the stairs, calling out to a neighbor to know if Billy Andersen was within. "I believe yer," she replied; "jest listen to That 'ere blessed babby, a-screamin' of itself into fits; oh! bother her for as ill-mannered a child as ever I came across." Tom ran up the remainder of the stairs, and entered Billy's attic without knocking. There he saw a sight which made him draw in his breath with a little start of surprise and terror; the baby was sitting up in bed and crying lustily, and Billy was lying with his back to her, quite motionless, and apparently deaf to her most piteous wails. Billy's usual white face was flushed a fiery red, and his breathing, loud and labored, fell with solemn distinctness on Tom's ears. Tom knew these signs at a glance; he had seen them so often in the fever hospital. Shutting the door softly behind him, and first of all taking the baby in his arms and thrusting a sticky lollipop, which he happened to have in his waistcoat pocket, into her mouth: "Be yer werry bad, Billy Andersen?" he said, stooping down over the sick boy. "Our Father," replied Billy, raising his blue eyes and fixing them in a pathetic manner on Tom. "'Tis our Father I wants." "Why, he were a bad'un," said Tom; "he runned away from yer, he did; I wouldn't be fretting about him, if I was you, Billy lad." "'Tis the other one--'tis t'other one I means," said Billy in a weak gasping voice. "I has 'ad the words afore me all night long--our Father; tell us what it means, Tom, do." "I know all about it," said Tom in a tone of wisdom; "I larned about it in hospital. There, shut up, Sairey Ann, do; what a young 'un yer are for squallin'. Our Father lives in heaven, Billy, and he'll--he'll--oh! I am sure I forgets--look yere, wouldn't yer like some breakfast, old chap?" "Water," gasped Billy, "and some milk for the babby." Tom found himself, whether he wished it or not, installed as Billy's nurse. He had to run out and purchase a penny-worth of milk, and he had also the forethought to provide himself with a farthing's worth of bull's eyes, one of which he popped into Sarah Ann's mouth whenever she began to howl. Never had Tom Jones passed so strange a day. It did not occur to him that Billy was in any danger, but neither did it come into his wild, untutored, hard little heart to desert his sick comrade. By means of the lollipops, he managed to keep Sarah Ann quiet, and then he kindled a tiny fire in the grate, and sat down by Billy, and gave him plentiful drinks of cold water whenever he asked for them. Billy shivered and flushed alternately, and his blue eyes had a glassy look, and his breath came harder and faster as the slow sad day wore away. Tom, however, never deserted his post, satisfying his own hunger with a hunk of dry bread, and managing to keep Sarah Ann quiet. Toward evening, Billy seemed easier; the dreadful oppression of his breathing was not quite so intense, and the flush on his face had given way to pallor. Tom lit a morsel of candle and placed it in a tin sconce, and then he once more sat down by his little comrade. For the first time then Tom noticed that solemn and peculiar look which Billy's well-known features wore. He puzzled his brain to recall where he had last seen such an expression; then it came back to him--it was in the fever hospital, and the little ones who had worn it had soon gone home. Was Billy going home? The baby lay asleep in Tom's arms, and he looked from her to the sick child whose eyes were now closed, and whose breath was faint and light. "Shall I fetch a doctor, old chap?" he whispered. Billy shook his head. "Tell us wot yer knows about our Father," he said in a very low and feeble voice. "Our Father," began Tom. "He lives in heaven, he do. He's kind and he gives lots of good things to the young 'uns as lives with him in heaven. It sounds real fine," continued Tom, "the way as our Father treats them young 'uns, only the worst of it is," he added with the air of a philosopher, "we 'as to die first." "To die," said Billy, "yes, and wot then?" "I 'spect," continued Tom, "as our Father fetches us up 'ome somehow, but I'm very ignorant; I don't know nothing, but jest that there's a home and a Father somewheres. Look yere, Billy, old chap, you ain't going to die, be yer?" "I 'spect I be," said Billy; "a home somewheres, and our Father there, it sounds werry nice." Then he closed his eyes again, and his breath came a little quicker and a little weaker, and the solemn look grew and deepened on his white face. "Give me my babby," he said an hour later; "lay her alongside o' me; oh! my darling, darling Sairey Ann; and I'll tell mother when she comes in." But mother never got her message, for when next Billy spoke, it was in the safe home of our Father. Billy's baby grew up by and by, but no one ever loved her better than Billy did. THE OLD ORGAN-MAN. "The world goes up and the world goes down, And the sunshine follows the rain." CHARLES KINGSLEY. CHAPTER I. PLAYING FOR LOVE. He was always called old Antonio, and though he doubtless possessed a surname of some sort, no one seemed to know anything about it. He had white hair, and a bronzed face, and kindly soft brown eyes, and he got his living by pacing up and down the streets and turning a hurdy-gurdy. This instrument was a rather good one of its class--it could play six different airs, and all the airs were Italian, and even played by the hurdy-gurdy had a little of the sweet cadence and soft pathetic melody of that land of music. Antonio lived in an attic all by himself, and the grown people wondered at him and asked each other what his history could be, but the children loved him and his music, and were to be seen about him wherever he went. He looked like a man with a story, but no one had ever troubled themselves to find it out or to ask him any questions. He did, however, receive stray pennies enough to keep him alive, and the street children loved him, and whenever they had a chance danced merrily to his music. One cold and snowy afternoon, about a week before Christmas Day, old Antonio sat up in his attic and looked gloomily out at the snow-laden clouds. Nothing but the fact that there was no oil for his stove, and no pennies in his pockets, would have induced the old Italian to brave such inclement weather. But no fire and no food will make a man do harder things than Antonio was now thinking about. He must get something to eat and some fire to warm himself by. He shouldered his hurdy-gurdy and went out. "Poor Marcia," he said to himself as he trudged along. "Well, well, we of the south are mistaken in the generous land of England. The milk and honey-bah, they are nowhere. The inhabitants--they freeze like their frozen skies. Poor Marcia, no doubt she has long ceased to look for the footfall of her Antonio." The old man, feeling very melancholy and depressed, walked down several streets without once pausing or attempting to commence his music. At last he stopped at the entrance of a very dull square. He had never yet received a penny in this square, and had often said to himself that its inhabitants had not a note of music among them. He took the square now as a short cut, meaning to strike out toward Holborn and the neighborhood of the shops. Half-way through the square he stopped. A house which used to be all over placards and notices to let presented a different appearance. It was no longer dead and lifeless. From its windows lights gleamed, and lie could see people flitting to and fro. He stopped for a moment to look at the house and comment on its changed appearance, then with a slight little start, and a look of pleased expectation, he put down his hurdy-gurdy and began softly to turn the handle and to bring out one by one his beloved Italian melodies. The first, a well-known air from "Il Trovatore," was scarcely finished before a little dark head was popped up from behind a window-blind, and two soft eyes gazed eagerly across the street at the old organ-grinder. "Bless her! what a depth of color, what eyes, what hair! she comes from the south, the pretty one." Antonio nodded his head to her as he made these remarks, and the child, with her face pressed against the pane, gazed steadily back at him, now and then smiling in an appreciative manner. The six airs were all played out and repeated a second time, and then Antonio, looking up at the sky, from which the snow was still steadily falling, began to think of moving on. In his pleasure at playing for the child he had forgotten all about the money part of his profession. He was indeed indulging in a happy dream, in which Marcia, and a certain little Marcia, who had long ago gone back to God, were again by his side. He threw a cloth over his hurdy-gurdy and prepared to mount it on his shoulder. The moment he did so the child disappeared from the window. There was a quick, eager patter of little feet in the hall, the front door was opened, and the next moment the little dark child was standing by his side. "Here's sixpence of my very own, and you shall have it, poor man, and thank you for your lovely, lovely music." "You liked it, dearie?" said Antonio, not touching the sixpence, but looking down at the pretty child with reverence. "Oh! didn't I just? I used to hear those airs in Italy, and they remind me of my dear mamma." "Little missy has got eyes dark and long like almonds; perhaps she comes from our sunny south?" said Antonio eagerly. "No, I am a little English girl; but my mamma was ill, and they took her to Italy, and Marcia nursed her. God has taken my mamma away, and now I am in England, and I don't like it; but I shall only stay here until my father comes home." "Missy, you make my heart beat when you talk of Italy and of Marcia--but your Marcia, was she young?--the name is a common one, and mine, if the good Lord has not removed her, must be very old now." "My Marcia was young and good," said the little girl. "I loved her, and I cry for her still. I am so sorry your Marcia is old, poor man. Thank you for the music. I must run in now, or Janet will scold. Good-by. Here's your sixpence." "No, no, missy. I'll get some pence in the other streets. Let me feel that I played the old airs for you only for love." CHAPTER II. A FRIEND IN NEED. Antonio did not stay out much longer in the snow. This enterprise of his had not turned out a profitable one; no one on such a miserable day felt inclined to listen to his Italian airs, the snow seemed to be locking up people's hearts, and he went back to his attic hungry and cold, and quite as penniless as when he started on his expedition. Still there was a glow in his heart, and he was not at all sorry that he had played for the pretty child for love. He sat down in an old broken arm-chair and wrapped a tattered cloak about him, and indulged in what he called a reverie of Italy and old times. This reverie, as he said afterward, quite warmed him and took away his desire for food. "The child has brought all back to me like a golden dream," he murmured. "Poor, poor Marcia! why do I think of her so much to-night? and there's no money in the little box, and no hope of going back to her, and it's fifteen years ago now." The next day Antonio went back to the quiet square off Bloomsbury, and played all his Italian airs opposite the house where he had played them yesterday; but though he looked longingly from one window to another, he could not get any glimpse of the child who reminded him of Italy. As he walked through the square on his way home he could see the people passing to the week-night service at the church, which stood in the center. But no trace of the little one could he catch. As far as money was concerned, he had had a much better day than yesterday, but he went home, nevertheless, disappointed and with quite a blank at his old heart. The next day he hoped he would see the child, and he again went slowly through the square, but he could not catch a glimpse of her, and after doing this every day in vain he soon came to the conclusion that she had gone. "Her father has come for the pretty one, and she has gone back to the fair south," he murmured. "Ah, well! I never saw such eyes as hers on an English maiden before." On Christmas Day Antonio shouldered his organ, as usual, and went out. On this morning he made quite a little harvest; people were so merry and so bright and so happy that even those who did not want his Italian airs gave him a penny to get rid of him. Quite early in the afternoon he turned his steps homeward. On his way he bought half a pound of sausages and a small bottle of thin and sour claret. "Now," he said to himself, "I shall have a feast worthy of my Italy," and he trudged cheerfully back, feeling all the better for his walk through the pleasant frosty air. Antonio never indulged in fires, but he had a small paraffin stove in his attic, and this he now lit, and spread out his thin hands before the poor little attempt at a fire. Then he drank his claret and ate his sausages and bread, and tried to believe that he was having quite a bright little Christmas feast. There were many voices in the room below, and cheerful sounds coming up now and then from the court, and altogether there was a festive air about everything, and Antonio tried to believe himself one with a merry multitude. But, poor old man, he failed to do so. He was a lonely and very old man--he was an exile from his native country. No one in all this great world of London cared anything at all about him, and he was parted from his good wife Marcia. Fifteen years ago now they had agreed to part; they both supposed that this parting would be a matter of months, or a year at most. "The good land of England is paved with gold," said Antonio. "I will go there and collect some of the treasure and then come back for you and little Marcia." "And in the mean time the good God will give me money enough to keep on the little fruit stall and to support our little sweet one," said Marcia, bravely keeping back her tears. Antonio came to England, and quickly discovered that the streets paved with gold and the abundant wealth lived only in his dreams. The little money he had brought with him was quickly spent, and he had no means to enable him to return to Italy. Neither he nor his wife could write, and under these circumstances it was only too easy for the couple to lose sight of each other. Once, a few years back, an Italian had brought him word that little Marcia was dead, and that his wife was having a very poor time of it. When Antonio heard this he came home in a fit of desperation, and finding a small box, bored a hole in the lid, and into this hole he religiously dropped half of all he earned, hoping by this means to secure a little fund to enable him to return to Naples and to Marcia. The winter, however, set in with unusual severity, and the contents of the little box had to be spent, and poor Antonio seemed no nearer to the only longing he now had in his old heart. On this particular Christmas Day, after his vain attempt at being merry and Christmas-like, he dropped his head into his hands and gave way to some very gloomy thoughts. There was no hope now of his ever seeing his old wife again. How tired she must be of standing by that fruit stall and watching in vain for him to turn the corner of the gay and picturesque street! There she would stand day after day, with her crimson petticoat, and her tidy bodice, and the bright yellow handkerchief twisted round her head. Her dark eyes would look out softly and longingly for the old man who was never coming back. Yes, since the child had gone back to God, Marcia must be a very lonely woman. After thinking thus for some time, until all the short daylight had faded and the lamps were lit one by one in the street below, Antonio began to pace up and down his little attic. He was feeling almost fierce in his longing and despair; the patient submission to what he believed an inevitable fate, which at most times characterized him, gave place to passionate utterances, the natural outcome of his warm southern nature. "Oh, God! give me back Marcia--let me see my old wife Marcia once again before I die," he pleaded several times. After a little he thought he would change the current of his sad musings, and go out into the street with his hurdy-gurdy. As I have said before, he was always a favorite with the children, and they now crowded round him and begged for that merry Italian air to which they could dance. Antonio was feeling too unhappy to care about money, and it afforded him a passing pleasure to gratify the children, so he set down his barrel-organ in the dirty crowded street, and began to turn the handle. The children, waiting for their own favorite air, collected closely round the old man; now it was coming, and they could dance, oh! so merrily, to the strains they loved. But--what was the matter? Antonio was looking straight before him, and turning the handle slowly and mechanically. Suddenly his whole face lit up with an expression of wonder, of pleasure, of astonishment. He let go the handle of the barrel organ, and the music went out with a little crash, and the next instant he was pushing his way through the crowd of dirty children, and was bending over a little girl, with dark hair and dark, sweet, troubled eyes, who was standing without either bonnet or jacket spell-bound by the notes of the old hurdy-gurdy. "Why, my little one--my little sweet one from the south, however did you come to a dreadful place like this?" said old Antonio. At the sound of his voice, the child seemed to be roused out of a spell of terror; she trembled violently, she clasped her arms round his knees, and burst into sobs and cries. "You are my organ-man--you are my own darling organ-man. Oh! I knew it must be you, and now you will take me home to my father." "But however did you come here, my dear little missy?" "My name is Mona. I am Mona Sinclair, and Janet my maid--oh! how cruel she is; she was jealous of the dear Marcia I used to have in Italy, and she said she would punish me, and she would do it on Christmas Day. Father has not come home yet, and I have been so unhappy waiting for him, and Janet said she was tired of my always crying and missing my mamma, and she took me for a walk this afternoon, and she met some grandly dressed people, and they wanted her to go with them, and she said she would for a little, and she told me to stand at the street corner, and she would be back in ten minutes, but it seemed like hours and hours," continued the child excitedly, "and I was so cold, and so miserable, and I could not wait any longer, and I thought I would find my own way home, and I have been looking for it ever since, and I cannot find it. I asked one woman to tell me, but all she did was to hurry me into a corner and take off my fur cap and my warm jacket, and she looked so wicked, and I've been afraid to ask any one since; but now you will take me home, you won't be unkind to me, my dear organ-man." "Yes, I will take you home, my darling," said Antonio, and he lifted the little child tenderly into his arms. CHAPTER III. GLAD TIDINGS. "I must not leave my barrel-organ in the street," said Antonio to the child; "will you let me take it home first, missy? and then I can take you back to your father." Little Mona, holding Antonio's hand, and walking by his side in the midst of the rabble, was a totally different child from Mona, standing by herself under the street lamp. "I shall like to see your home, organ-man," she said in her sweet voice. "Do you really live in an attic? Marcia and her mother live in an attic in Italy, too, and Marcia likes it." Then they walked through the streets together, and Mona went upstairs with Antonio. She seemed quite contented in the funny little place, and sat down on a low seat with a sigh of satisfaction. "I am so glad I met you, organ-man, and I like your home. I would much rather live here with you than go back to Janet. I am dreadfully afraid of Janet, and I sometimes think my father will never come. I wish I could live with you, organ-man," continued little Mona in a piteous voice, "for you could talk to me about Italy, where my dear mamma died, and oh! organ-man, you do remind me of Marcia." "I once had two Marcias," said old Antonio in a grave and troubled voice; "the little one is with God, and the wife whom I love, I don't know what shelter she is finding for her gray hairs. It troubles me to hear you speak of Marcia, missy. It brings back painful memories." The child had a thoughtful and serious face; she now fixed her eyes on old Antonio, and did not speak. "And I must take you home," continued the old man. "I should like to keep you with me, my little bright missy, but suppose your good father has returned, fancy his agony." "If I could think my father had come, how glad I should be!" said little Mona, and she went over to Antonio and took his hand. It was not a very long way from Antonio's attic to the house in B---- Square. Antonio was too old and too feeble to carry the little girl all the way. He would have liked to do so, for the feel of her little arms round his neck, and her soft brown cheek pressed to his, brought the strangest peace and comfort to his heart. Antonio had not had such a good time since he left Italy, and he could not help feeling, in some inexplicable way, that he was going back to Marcia. At last they reached the house, and the old organ-man's ring was speedily answered. Immediately there was a shout of delight and a great bustle, and little Mona was almost torn from her companion and carried into a dining-room, which was very bright with firelight and gaslight. Antonio, standing on the hall-door steps, heard some very tender and loving words addressed in a manly voice to the little girl. Then he said to himself, "The dear little one's father has come and her heart will be at rest." And he began slowly to go down the steps, and to turn back to a world which was once more quite sunless and cold. But this was not to be, for little Mona's voice arrested him, and both she and her father brought him into the house and into the warm dining-room. There Mr. Sinclair shook his hand, and thanked him many times, and tried to explain to him something of the agony he had undergone when he had listened to the terrified Janet's confession, and had discovered that his only child was gone. "I too have lost a child," said old Antonio. "I can sympathize with your feelings, sir." "But you have got to tell my father all that story of the Marcia with gray hair," said little Mona. She was a totally different child now, her timidity and fear were gone, she danced about, and put Antonio into a snug chair, and insisted once more on his telling his story. When he had finished, Mr. Sinclair said a few words: "I believe God's providence sent you here to-night in a double sense, and I begin to see my way to pay you back in some measure for what you have done for me. The young girl who so devotedly nursed my wife during her long illness was called Marcia. We wished to bring her to England, for my child loved her much, but we could not induce her to go away from an old mother of the same name. She often told us what hard times this mother had undergone, and how her heart was almost broken for her husband, who had gone away to England to seek his fortune, but had never come back. Now, can it be possible that these two Marcias are yours, and that the man who said your child was dead was mistaken?" "It may be so," said old Antonio, whose face had grown very white. "Oh! sir, if ever you go back to Naples could you find out from that Marcia with gray hairs if the husband she laments was one Antonio, an old man, who played Italian airs?" "My child and I are going back to Naples next week," said Mr. Sinclair, "and suppose you come with us and find out for yourself, Antonio." CHAPTER IV. AT LAST. There came a warm day, full of light, and life, and color; a day over which the blue sky of Italy smiled. Beside an artistically arranged fruit stall a slender and handsome Italian girl stood. Behind the stall, on a low seat, sat an old woman; she was knitting, but her restless eyes took eager count of every passer-by. "Did you observe that old man, Marcia?" she said in her rapid Italian to the young girl. The girl turned her beautiful and pitying eyes full on the old woman. "He was not my father, mother. Ah! dear mother, can you not rest content that the good God has taken my father to himself?" "Fifteen years," muttered the old Italian woman. "Fifteen years, with the love growing stronger, and the heart emptier, and the longing sorer. No, I have not given him up. Oh! my merciful Father in heaven, what--who is that?" A little group was coming up to the fruit stall, a child who danced merrily, an old man with a bent white head, and a gentleman on whose arm he leaned. They came up close. The child flew to the younger Marcia, the old couple gazed at each other with that sudden trembling which great and wonderful heart-joy gives, they came a little nearer, and then their arms were round each other's necks. "At last, Marcia," said old Antonio--"at last!" THE END. * * * * * A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS For Young People BY POPULAR WRITERS. 52-58 Duane Street, New York. Bonnie Prince Charlie: A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The adventures of the son of a Scotch officer in French service. The boy, brought up by a Glasgow bailie, is arrested for aiding a Jacobite agent, escapes, is wrecked on the French coast, reaches Paris, and serves with the French army at Dettingen. He kills his father's foe in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the adventures of Prince Charlie, but finally settles happily in Scotland. "Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of 'Quentin Durward.' The lad's journey across France, and his hairbreadth escapes, make up as good a narrative of the kind as we have ever read. For freshness of treatment and variety of incident Mr. Henty has surpassed himself."--Spectator. With Clive in India; or, the Beginnings of an Empire. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The period between the landing of Clive as a young writer in India and the close of his career was critical and eventful in the extreme. At its commencement the English were traders existing on sufferance of the native princes. At its close they were masters of Bengal and of the greater part of Southern India. The author has given a full and accurate account of the events of that stirring time, and battles and sieges follow each other in rapid succession, while he combines with his narrative a tale of daring and adventure, which gives a lifelike interest to the volume. "He has taken a period of Indian history of the most vital importance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of itself is deeply interesting. Young people assuredly will be delighted with the volume."--_Scotsman._ The Lion of the North: A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the Wars of Religion. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by JOHN SCH�NBERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story Mr. Henty gives the history of the first part of the Thirty Years' War. The issue had its importance, which has extended to the present day, as it established religious freedom in Germany. The army of the chivalrous king of Sweden was largely composed of Scotchmen, and among these was the hero of the story. "The tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be trusted to read it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited."--_Times._ The Dragon and the Raven; or, The Days of King Alfred. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle between Saxon and Dane for supremacy in England, and presents a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. The hero, a young Saxon thane, takes part in all the battles fought by King Alfred. He is driven from his home, takes to the sea and resists the Danes on their own element, and being pursued by them up the Seine, is present at the long and desperate siege of Paris. "Treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish reader."--_Athenæum._ The Young Carthaginian: A Story of the Times of Hannibal. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Boys reading the history of the Punic Wars have seldom a keen appreciation of the merits of the contest. That it was at first a struggle for empire, and afterward for existence on the part of Carthage, that Hannibal was a great and skillful general, that he defeated the Romans at Trebia, Lake Trasimenus, and Cannæ, and all but took Rome, represents pretty nearly the sum total of their knowledge. To let them know more about this momentous struggle for the empire of the world Mr. Henty has written this story, which not only gives in graphic style a brilliant description of a most interesting period of history, but is a tale of exciting adventure sure to secure the interest of the reader. "Well constructed and vividly told. From first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a stream whose current varies in direction, but never loses its force."--_Saturday Review._ In Freedom's Cause: A Story of Wallace and Bruce. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author relates the stirring tale of the Scottish War of Independence. The extraordinary valor and personal prowess of Wallace and Bruce rival the deeds of the mythical heroes of chivalry, and indeed at one time Wallace was ranked with these legendary personages. The researches of modern historians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing man--and a valiant champion. The hero of the tale fought under both Wallace and Bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is full of "hairbreadth 'scapes" and wild adventure. "It is written in the author's best style. Full of the wildest and most remarkable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has begun it, will not willingly put on one side."--The Schoolmaster. With Lee in Virginia: A Story of the American Civil War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The story of a young Virginian planter, who, after bravely proving his sympathy with the slaves of brutal masters, serves with no less courage and enthusiasm under Lee and Jackson through the most exciting events of the struggle. He has many hairbreadth escapes, is several times wounded and twice taken prisoner; but his courage and readiness and, in two cases, the devotion of a black servant and of a runaway slave whom he had assisted, bring him safely through all difficulties. "One of the best stories for lads which Mr. Henty has yet written. The picture is full of life and color, and the stirring and romantic incidents are skillfully blended with the personal interest and charm of the story."--_Standard._ By England's Aid; or, The Freeing of the Netherlands (1585-1604) By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE, and Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The story of two English lads who go to Holland as pages in the service of one of "the fighting Veres." After many adventures by sea and land, one of the lads finds himself on board a Spanish ship at the time of the defeat of the Armada, and escapes only to fall into the hands of the Corsairs. He is successful in getting back to Spain under the protection of a wealthy merchant, and regains his native country after the capture of Cadiz. "It is an admirable book for youngsters. It overflows with stirring incident and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the scene are finely reproduced. The illustrations add to its attractiveness."--_Boston Gazette._ By Right of Conquest; or, With Cortez in Mexico. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by W. S. STACEY, and Two Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.50. The conquest of Mexico by a small band of resolute men under the magnificent leadership of Cortez is always rightly ranked among the most romantic and daring exploits in history. With this as the groundwork of his story Mr. Henty has interwoven the adventures of an English youth, Roger Hawkshaw, the sole survivor of the good ship Swan, which had sailed from a Devon port to challenge the mercantile supremacy of the Spaniards in the New World. He is beset by many perils among the natives, but is saved by his own judgment and strength, and by the devotion of an Aztec princess. At last by a ruse he obtains the protection of the Spaniards, and after the fall of Mexico he succeeds in regaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming Aztec bride. "'By Right of Conquest' is the nearest approach to a perfectly successful historical tale that Mr. Henty has yet published."--_Academy._ In the Reign of Terror: The Adventures of a Westminster Boy. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by J. SCH�NBERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Harry Sandwith, a Westminster boy, becomes a resident at the chateau of a French marquis, and after various adventures accompanies the family to Paris at the crisis of the Revolution. Imprisonment and death reduce their number, and the hero finds himself beset by perils with the three young daughters of the house in his charge. After hairbreadth escapes they reach Nantes. There the girls are condemned to death in the coffin-ships, but are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy protector. "Harry Sandwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat Mr. Henty's record. His adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril they depict.... The story is one of Mr. Henty's best."--_Saturday Review._ With Wolfe in Canada; or, The Winning of a Continent. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In the present volume Mr. Henty gives an account of the struggle between Britain and France for supremacy in the North American continent. On the issue of this war depended not only the destinies of North America, but to a large extent those of the mother countries themselves. The fall of Quebec decided that the Anglo-Saxon race should predominate in the New World; that Britain, and not France, should take the lead among the nations of Europe; and that English and American commerce, the English language, and English literature, should spread right round the globe. "It is not only a lesson in history as instructively as it is graphically told, but also a deeply interesting and often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by flood and field."--_Illustrated London News._ True to the Old Flag: A Tale of the American War of Independence. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author has gone to the accounts of officers who took part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in which American and British soldiers have been engaged did they behave with greater courage and good conduct. The historical portion of the book being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures with the redskins on the shores of Lake Huron, a story of exciting interest is interwoven with the general narrative and carried through the book. "Does justice to the pluck and determination of the British soldiers during the unfortunate struggle against American emancipation. The son of an American loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile redskins in that very Huron country which has been endeared to us by the exploits of Hawkeye and Chingachgook."--_The Times._ The Lion of St. Mark: A Tale of Venice in the Fourteenth Century. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story of Venice at a period when her strength and splendor were put to the severest tests. The hero displays a fine sense and manliness which carry him safely through an atmosphere of intrigue, crime, and bloodshed. He contributes largely to the victories of the Venetians at Porto d'Anzo and Chioggia, and finally wins the hand of the daughter of one of the chief men of Venice. "Every boy should read 'The Lion of St. Mark.' Mr. Henty has never produced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious."--_Saturday Review._ A Final Reckoning: A Tale of Bush Life in Australia. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The hero, a young English lad, after rather a stormy boyhood emigrates to Australia, and gets employment as an officer in the mounted police. A few years of active work on the frontier, where he has many a brush with both natives and bushrangers, gain him promotion to a captaincy, and he eventually settles down to the peaceful life of a squatter. "Mr. Henty has never published a more readable, a more carefully constructed, or a better written story than this."--_Spectator._ Under Drake's Flag: A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story of the days when England and Spain struggled for the supremacy of the sea. The heroes sail as lads with Drake in the Pacific expedition, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation. The historical portion of the story is absolutely to be relied upon, but this will perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of exciting adventure through which the young heroes pass in the course of their voyages. "A book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough, one would think, to turn his hair gray."--_Harper's Monthly Magazine._ By Sheer Pluck: A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the details of the Ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. His hero, after many exciting adventures in the interior, is detained a prisoner by the king just before the outbreak of the war, but escapes, and accompanies the English expedition on their march to Coomassie. "Mr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys' stories. 'By Sheer Pluck' will be eagerly read."--_Athenæum._ By Pike and Dyke: A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by MAYNARD BROWN, and 4 Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story Mr. Henty traces the adventures and brave deeds of an English boy in the household of the ablest man of his age--William the Silent. Edward Martin, the son of an English sea-captain, enters the service of the Prince as a volunteer, and is employed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the discharge of which he passes through the great sieges of the time. He ultimately settles down as Sir Edward Martin. "Boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the book, while the rest who only care for adventure will be students in spite of themselves."--_St. James' Gazette._ St. George for England: A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. No portion of English history is more crowded with great events than that of the reign of Edward III. Cressy and Poitiers; the destruction of the Spanish fleet; the plague of the Black Death; the Jacquerie rising; these are treated by the author in "St. George for England." The hero of the story, although of good family, begins life as a London apprentice, but after countless adventures and perils becomes by valor and good conduct the squire, and at last the trusted friend of the Black Prince. "Mr. Henty has developed for himself a type of historical novel for boys which bids fair to supplement, on their behalf, the historical labors of Sir Walter Scott in the land of fiction."--_The Standard._ Captain's Kidd's Gold: The True Story of an Adventurous Sailor Boy. By JAMES FRANKLIN FITTS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. There is something fascinating to the average youth in the very idea of buried treasure. A vision arises before his eyes of swarthy Portuguese and Spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming eyes--sinister-looking fellows who once on a time haunted the Spanish Main, sneaking out from some hidden creek in their long, low schooner, of picaroonish rake and sheer, to attack an unsuspecting trading craft. There were many famous sea rovers in their day, but none more celebrated than Capt. Kidd. Perhaps the most fascinating tale of all is Mr. Fitts' true story of an adventurous American boy, who receives from his dying father an ancient bit of vellum, which the latter obtained in a curious way. The document bears obscure directions purporting to locate a certain island in the Bahama group, and a considerable treasure buried there by two of Kidd's crew. The hero of this book, Paul Jones Garry, is an ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-water New England ancestry, and his efforts to reach the island and secure the money form one of the most absorbing tales for our youth that has come from the press. Captain Bayley's Heir: A Tale of the Gold Fields of California By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A frank, manly lad and his cousin are rivals in the heirship of a considerable property. The former falls into a trap laid by the latter, and while under a false accusation of theft foolishly leaves England for America. He works his passage before the mast, joins a small band of hunters, crosses a tract of country infested with Indians to the Californian gold diggings, and is successful both as digger and trader. "Mr. Henty is careful to mingle instruction with entertainment; and the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of John Holl, the Westminster dustman, Dickens himself could hardly have excelled."--_Christian Leader._ For Name and Fame; or, Through Afghan Passes. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. An interesting story of the last war in Afghanistan. The hero, after being wrecked and going through many stirring adventures among the Malays, finds his way to Calcutta and enlists in a regiment proceeding to join the army at the Afghan passes. He accompanies the force under General Roberts to the Peiwar Kotal, is wounded, taken prisoner, carried to Cabul, whence he is transferred to Candahar, and takes part in the final defeat of the army of Ayoub Khan. "The best feature of the book--apart from the interest of its scenes of adventure--is its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the Afghan people."--_Daily News._ Captured by Apes: The Wonderful Adventures of a Young Animal Trainer. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. The scene of this tale is laid on an island in the Malay Archipelago. Philip Garland, a young animal collector and trainer, of New York, sets sail for Eastern seas in quest of a new stock of living curiosities. The vessel is wrecked off the coast of Borneo and young Garland, the sole survivor of the disaster, is cast ashore on a small island, and captured by the apes that overrun the place. The lad discovers that the ruling spirit of the monkey tribe is a gigantic and vicious baboon, whom he identifies as Goliah, an animal at one time in his possession and with whose instruction he had been especially diligent. The brute recognizes him, and with a kind of malignant satisfaction puts his former master through the same course of training he had himself experienced with a faithfulness of detail which shows how astonishing is monkey recollection. Very novel indeed is the way by which the young man escapes death. Mr. Prentice has certainly worked a new vein on juvenile fiction, and the ability with which he handles a difficult subject stamps him as a writer of undoubted skill. The Bravest of the Brave; or, With Peterborough in Spain. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. There are few great leaders whose lives and actions have so completely fallen into oblivion as those of the Earl of Peterborough. This is largely due to the fact that they were over-shadowed by the glory and successes of Marlborough. His career as general extended over little more than a year, and yet, in that time, he showed a genius for warfare which has never been surpassed. "Mr. Henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work--to enforce the doctrine of courage and truth. Lads will read 'The Bravest of the Brave' with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure."--_Daily Telegraph._ The Cat of Bubastes: A Story of Ancient Egypt. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story which will give young readers an unsurpassed insight into the customs of the Egyptian people. Amuba, a prince of the Rebu nation, is carried with his charioteer Jethro into slavery. They become inmates of the house of Ameres, the Egyptian high-priest, and are happy in his service until the priest's son accidentally kills the sacred cat of Bubastes. In an outburst of popular fury Ameres is killed, and it rests with Jethro and Amuba to secure the escape of the high-priest's son and daughter. "The story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the perilous exodus into Asia with which it closes, is very skillfully constructed and full of exciting adventures. It is admirably illustrated."--_Saturday Review._ With Washington at Monmouth: A Story of Three Philadelphia Boys. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Three Philadelphia boys, Seth Graydon "whose mother conducted a boarding-house which was patronized by the British officers;" Enoch Ball, "son of that Mrs. Ball whose dancing school was situated on Letitia Street," and little Jacob, son of "Chris, the Baker," serve as the principal characters. The story is laid during the winter when Lord Howe held possession of the city, and the lads aid the cause by assisting the American spies who make regular and frequent visits from Valley Forge. One reads here of home life in the captive city when bread was scarce among the people of the lower classes, and a reckless prodigality shown by the British officers, who passed the winter in feasting and merry-making while the members of the patriot army but a few miles away were suffering from both cold and hunger. The story abounds with pictures of Colonial life skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of Washington's soldiers which are given show that the work has not been hastily done, or without considerable study. For the Temple: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by S. J. SOLOMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Mr. Henty here weaves into the record of Josephus an admirable and attractive story. The troubles in the district of Tiberias, the march of the legions, the sieges of Jotapata, of Gamala, and of Jerusalem, form the impressive and carefully studied historic setting to the figure of the lad who passes from the vineyard to the service of Josephus, becomes the leader of a guerrilla band of patriots, fights bravely for the Temple, and after a brief term of slavery at Alexandria, returns to his Galilean home with the favor of Titus. "Mr. Henty's graphic prose pictures of the hopeless Jewish resistance to Roman sway add another leaf to his record of the famous wars of the world."--_Graphic._ Facing Death; or, The Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A Tale of the Coal Mines. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "Facing Death" is a story with a purpose. It is intended to show that a lad who makes up his mind firmly and resolutely that he will rise in life, and who is prepared to face toil and ridicule and hardship to carry out his determination, is sure to succeed. The hero of the story is a typical British boy, dogged, earnest, generous, and though "shamefaced" to a degree, is ready to face death in the discharge of duty. "The tale is well written and well illustrated, and there is much reality in the characters. If any father, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the lookout for a good book to give as a present to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the book we would recommend."--_Standard._ Tom Temple's Career. By HORATIO ALGER. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Tom Temple, a bright, self-reliant lad, by the death of his father becomes a boarder at the home of Nathan Middleton, a penurious insurance agent. Though well paid for keeping the boy, Nathan and his wife endeavor to bring Master Tom in line with their parsimonious habits. The lad ingeniously evades their efforts and revolutionizes the household. As Tom is heir to $40,000, he is regarded as a person of some importance until by an unfortunate combination of circumstances his fortune shrinks to a few hundreds. He leaves Plympton village to seek work in New York, whence he undertakes an important mission to California, around which center the most exciting incidents of his young career. Some of his adventures in the far west are so startling that the reader will scarcely close the book until the last page shall have been reached. The tale is written in Mr. Alger's most fascinating style, and is bound to please the very large class of boys who regard this popular author as a prime favorite. Maori and Settler: A Story of the New Zealand War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The Renshaws emigrate to New Zealand during the period of the war with the natives. Wilfrid, a strong, self-reliant, courageous lad, is the mainstay of the household. He has for his friend Mr. Atherton, a botanist and naturalist of herculean strength and unfailing nerve and humor. In the adventures among the Maoris, there are many breathless moments in which the odds seem hopelessly against the party, but they succeed in establishing themselves happily in one of the pleasant New Zealand valleys. "Brimful of adventure, of humorous and interesting conversation, and vivid pictures of colonial life."--_Schoolmaster._ Julian Mortimer: A Brave Boy's Struggle for Home and Fortune. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Here is a story that will warm every boy's heart. There is mystery enough to keep any lad's imagination wound up to the highest pitch. The scene of the story lies west of the Mississippi River, in the days when emigrants made their perilous way across the great plains to the land of gold. One of the startling features of the book is the attack upon the wagon train by a large party of Indians. Our hero is a lad of uncommon nerve and pluck, a brave young American in every sense of the word. He enlists and holds the reader's sympathy from the outset. Surrounded by an unknown and constant peril, and assisted by the unswerving fidelity of a stalwart trapper, a real rough diamond, our hero achieves the most happy results. Harry Castlemon has written many entertaining stories for boys, and it would seem almost superfluous to say anything in his praise, for the youth of America regard him as a favorite author. "Carrots:" Just a Little Boy. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "One of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good fortune to meet with for some time. Carrots and his sister are delightful little beings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of."--_Examiner._ "A genuine children's book; we've seen 'em seize it, and read it greedily. Children are first-rate critics, and thoroughly appreciate Walter Crane's illustrations."--_Punch._ Mopsa the Fairy. By JEAN INGELOW. With Eight page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "Mrs. Ingelow is, to our mind, the most charming of all living writers for children, and 'Mopsa' alone ought to give her a kind of pre-emptive right to the love and gratitude of our young folks. It requires genius to conceive a purely imaginary work which must of necessity deal with the supernatural, without running into a mere riot of fantastic absurdity; but genius Miss Ingelow has and the story of 'Jack' is as careless and joyous, but as delicate, as a picture of childhood."--_Eclectic._ A Jaunt Through Java: The Story of a Journey to the Sacred Mountain. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The central interest of this story is found in the thrilling adventures of two cousins, Hermon and Eustace Hadley, on their trip across the island of Java, from Samarang to the Sacred Mountain. In a land where the Royal Bengal tiger runs at large; where the rhinoceros and other fierce beasts are to be met with at unexpected moments; it is but natural that the heroes of this book should have a lively experience. Hermon not only distinguishes himself by killing a full-grown tiger at short range, but meets with the most startling adventure of the journey. There is much in this narrative to instruct as well as entertain the reader, and so deftly has Mr. Ellis used his material that there is not a dull page in the book. The two heroes are brave, manly young fellows, bubbling over with boyish independence. They cope with the many difficulties that arise during the trip in a fearless way that is bound to win the admiration of every lad who is so fortunate as to read their adventures. Wrecked on Spider Island; or, How Ned Rogers Found the Treasure. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A "down-east" plucky lad who ships as cabin boy, not from love of adventure, but because it is the only course remaining by which he can gain a livelihood. While in his bunk, seasick, Ned Rogers hears the captain and mate discussing their plans for the willful wreck of the brig in order to gain the insurance. Once it is known he is in possession of the secret the captain maroons him on Spider Island, explaining to the crew that the boy is afflicted with leprosy. While thus involuntarily playing the part of a Crusoe, Ned discovers a wreck submerged in the sand, and overhauling the timbers for the purpose of gathering material with which to build a hut, finds a considerable amount of treasure. Raising the wreck; a voyage to Havana under sail; shipping there a crew and running for Savannah; the attempt of the crew to seize the little craft after learning of the treasure on board, and, as a matter of course, the successful ending of the journey, all serve to make as entertaining a story of sea-life as the most captious boy could desire. Geoff and Jim: A Story of School Life. By ISMAY THORN. Illustrated by A. G. WALKER. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "This is a prettily told story of the life spent by two motherless bairns at a small preparatory school. Both Geoff and Jim are very lovable characters, only Jim is the more so; and the scrapes he gets into and the trials he endures will, no doubt, interest a large circle of young readers."--_Church Times._ "This is a capital children's story, the characters well portrayed, and the book tastefully bound and well illustrated."--_Schoolmaster._ "The story can be heartily recommended as a present for boys."--_Standard._ The Castaways; or, On the Florida Reefs. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This tale smacks of the salt sea. It is just the kind of story that the majority of boys yearn for. From the moment that the Sea Queen dispenses with the services of the tug in lower New York bay till the breeze leaves her becalmed off the coast of Florida, one can almost hear the whistle of the wind through her rigging, the creak of her straining cordage as she heels to the leeward, and feel her rise to the snow-capped waves which her sharp bow cuts into twin streaks of foam. Off Marquesas Keys she floats in a dead calm. Ben Clark, the hero of the story, and Jake, the cook, spy a turtle asleep upon the glassy surface of the water. They determine to capture him, and take a boat for that purpose, and just as they succeed in catching him a thick fog cuts them off from the vessel, and then their troubles begin. They take refuge on board a drifting hulk, a storm arises and they are cast ashore upon a low sandy key. Their adventures from this point cannot fail to charm the reader. As a writer for young people Mr. Otis is a prime favorite. His style is captivating, and never for a moment does he allow the interest to flag. In "The Castaways" he is at his best. Tom Thatcher's Fortune. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Like all of Mr. Alger's heroes, Tom Thatcher is a brave, ambitious, unselfish boy. He supports his mother and sister on meager wages earned as a shoe-pegger in John Simpson's factory. The story begins with Tom's discharge from the factory, because Mr. Simpson felt annoyed with the lad for interrogating him too closely about his missing father. A few days afterward Tom learns that which induces him to start overland for California with the view of probing the family mystery. He meets with many adventures. Ultimately he returns to his native village, bringing consternation to the soul of John Simpson, who only escapes the consequences of his villainy by making full restitution to the man whose friendship he had betrayed. The story is told in that entertaining way which has made Mr. Alger's name a household word in so many homes. Birdie: A Tale of Child Life. By H. L. CHILDE-PEMBERTON. Illustrated by H. W. RAINEY. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "The story is quaint and simple, but there is a freshness about it that makes one hear again the ringing laugh and the cheery shout of children at play which charmed his earlier years."--_New York Express._ Popular Fairy Tales. By the BROTHERS GRIMM. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "From first to last, almost without exception, these stories are delightful."--_Athenæum._ With Lafayette at Yorktown: A Story of How Two Boys Joined the Continental Army. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The two boys are from Portsmouth, N. H., and are introduced in August, 1781, when on the point of leaving home to enlist in Col. Scammell's regiment, then stationed near New York City. Their method of traveling is on horseback, and the author has given an interesting account of what was expected from boys in the Colonial days. The lads, after no slight amount of adventure, are sent as messengers--not soldiers--into the south to find the troops under Lafayette. Once with that youthful general they are given employment as spies, and enter the British camp, bringing away valuable information. The pictures of camp-life are carefully drawn, and the portrayal of Lafayette's character is thoroughly well done. The story is wholesome in tone, as are all of Mr. Otis' works. There is no lack of exciting incident which the youthful reader craves, but it is healthful excitement brimming with facts which every boy should be familiar with, and while the reader is following the adventures of Ben Jaffreys and Ned Allen he is acquiring a fund of historical lore which will remain in his memory long after that which he has memorized from text-books has been forgotten. Lost in the Canon: Sam Willett's Adventures on the Great Colorado. By ALFRED R. CALHOUN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This story hinges on a fortune left to Sam Willett, the hero, and the fact that it will pass to a disreputable relative if the lad dies before he shall have reached his majority. The Vigilance Committee of Hurley's Gulch arrest Sam's father and an associate for the crime of murder. Their lives depend on the production of the receipt given for money paid. This is in Sam's possession at the camp on the other side of the cañon. A messenger is dispatched to get it. He reaches the lad in the midst of a fearful storm which floods the cañon. His father's peril urges Sam to action. A raft is built on which the boy and his friends essay to cross the torrent. They fail to do so, and a desperate trip down the stream ensues. How the party finally escape from the horrors of their situation and Sam reaches Hurley's Gulch in the very nick of time, is described in a graphic style that stamps Mr. Calhoun as a master of his art. Jack: A Topsy Turvy Story. By C. M. CRAWLEY-BOEVEY. With upward of Thirty Illustrations by H. J. A. MILES. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "The illustrations deserve particular mention, as they add largely to the interest of this amusing volume for children. Jack falls asleep with his mind full of the subject of the fishpond, and is very much surprised presently to find himself an inhabitant of Waterworld, where he goes through wonderful and edifying adventures. A handsome and pleasant book."--_Literary World._ Search for the Silver City: A Tale of Adventure in Yucatan. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Two American lads, Teddy Wright and Neal Emery, embark on the steam yacht Day Dream for a short summer cruise to the tropics. Homeward bound the yacht is destroyed by fire. All hands take to the boats, but during the night the boat is cast upon the coast of Yucatan. They come across a young American named Cummings, who entertains them with the story of the wonderful Silver City, of the Chan Santa Cruz Indians. Cummings proposes with the aid of a faithful Indian ally to brave the perils of the swamp and carry off a number of the golden images from the temples. Pursued with relentless vigor for days their situation is desperate. At last their escape is effected in an astonishing manner. Mr. Otis has built his story on an historical foundation. It is so full of exciting incidents that the reader is quite carried away with the novelty and realism of the narrative. Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Thrown upon his own resources Frank Fowler, a poor boy, bravely determines to make a living for himself and his foster-sister Grace. Going to New York he obtains a situation as cash boy in a dry goods store. He renders a service to a wealthy old gentleman named Wharton, who takes a fancy to the lad. Frank, after losing his place as cash boy, is enticed by an enemy to a lonesome part of New Jersey and held a prisoner. This move recoils upon the plotter, for it leads to a clue that enables the lad to establish his real identity. Mr. Alger's stories are not only unusually interesting, but they convey a useful lesson of pluck and manly independence. Budd Boyd's Triumph; or, the Boy Firm of Fox Island. By WILLIAM P. CHIPMAN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The scene of this story is laid on the upper part of Narragansett Bay, and the leading incidents have a strong salt-water flavor. Owing to the conviction of his father for forgery and theft, Budd Boyd is compelled to leave his home and strike out for himself. Chance brings Budd in contact with Judd Floyd. The two boys, being ambitious and clear sighted, form a partnership to catch and sell fish. The scheme is successfully launched, but the unexpected appearance on the scene of Thomas Bagsley, the man whom Budd believes guilty of the crimes attributed to his father, leads to several disagreeable complications that nearly caused the lad's ruin. His pluck and good sense, however, carry him through his troubles. In following the career of the boy firm of Boyd & Floyd, the youthful reader will find a useful lesson--that industry and perseverance are bound to lead to ultimate success. 
38995	----	file was produced from images generously made available by the University of Florida Digital Collections.) [Illustration: SHEEP AND LAMBS.] [Illustration: Violet Stories] Bessie's Country Stories. SIX VOLUMES. THE SHEEP AND LAMB. THE YOUNG DONKEY. THE LITTLE RABBIT-KEEPERS. THE COCK OF THE WALK. THE COWS IN THE WATER. THE YOUNG ANGLER. Bessie's Country Stories. THE SHEEP AND LAMB. BY THOMAS MILLER. _ILLUSTRATED._ New York: SHELDON AND COMPANY. 1871. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, By SHELDON AND COMPANY, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York. Electrotyped at the BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY, No. 19 Spring Lane. The Sheep and Lamb. THE PET LAMB. WHERE you see the square church-tower, in the picture of the "Sheep and Lamb," stands the pretty village of Greenham, hidden behind the trees. The sheep and lambs that appear so little, because they are such a way off, are grazing on Greenham Common. The two that are so near you, and the pet lamb, round the neck of which the little boy has placed his arm, are in a small paddock, often called a croft, close, or field, that is separated from the Common by a bank, on the top of which the little child sits who is feeding the sheep. The girl holding the child, and the boy looking over his shoulder, live at Greenham, and have come across the Common to ask how Johnny's father is, and to look at his pet lamb. You will notice that Johnny looks very grave and sad; and well he may, for his father has met with an accident, and has not been able to do any work for several weeks, and is so poor that he will be forced to sell his two sheep and Johnny's pet lamb to pay the rent of his cottage. You cannot see the cottage in the picture, nor anything but a bit of the little field that lies at the back of it, in which the boy sits fondling his lamb. That girl is servant in a great farm-house, though she does very little besides looking after the children and feeding the poultry, for they keep great strong servant girls where she lives, to milk, and brew, and cook, and wash, and clean, and make butter and cheese in the dairy. She is a girl with a very feeling heart, and the two boys she has brought across the Common are very fond of her, and many a merry romp do they have together. "So, father is not able to get about yet," she says to Johnny, "and he is going to sell your pet lamb to pay the rent? I am so sorry, Johnny, and wish I were a rich lady; then your lamb should not be sold. But I am only a poor girl, and have but a shilling a week and my victuals." The tears stood in Johnny's eyes, and he folded the lamb tighter in his arms, and said, "It's a deal fonder of me than our Gip, for he runs away from me, and barks at everything he sees. It follows me everywhere, and licks my face and hands, and if I pretend to run away and hide myself, it stands and looks about, and bleats for me, just as it used to do when it was quite a little thing, and wanted its mammy. Father says I mustn't cry; he hopes he shall get well soon, and next spring I shall have another pet lamb, and he won't sell that until it's a great fat sheep. But I can't help it; and I shall never have another little lamb I shall be so fond of as this, shall I?" And he drew the lamb closer to him, and looked very tenderly at it when he said "Shall I?" and the lamb went "ba-a-a," as if it said, as well as it could, "No, never;" then it lay down, with its pretty head on his arm. "I'll tell you what I'll do, Johnny," said the little boy who stood behind his brother close to the tree, "I'll give you one of my lambs, for father has given me two to do what I like with; then your father can sell it, for it's bigger than yours, and you can still keep your own pet lamb. Come with me, Polly, and help to drive it here, and make it jump over the bank; then you won't cry, will you, Johnny?" "No," said Johnny, crying harder than ever, for the kindness of the rich farmer's little son touched Johnny's tender heart as much as the sorrow he felt for the loss of his lamb, which he came to bid farewell to, as the butcher was coming with his cart in the cool of the evening to take it away, along with its mother and another fat sheep. Polly, who was a strong girl of her age, at once snatched up the little boy, who was sitting on the bank feeding the sheep, and ran off with him in her arms to help Charley to drive his lamb off the Common--where it was feeding--into the little close, to be in readiness for the butcher when he came with his cart. They had some trouble with it, for it had not been petted like Johnny's; and Charley had many pets that he cared more for than he did for his lambs. When it was driven off the Common, and made to jump over the bank into the paddock where Johnny still sat fondling his pet lamb--and not until then--that artful little Polly said, "Ought not you to have asked your father first, Master Charley, before you gave Johnny one of your lambs?" "What should I ask father for, when he gave them to me to do what I liked with--sell, or give away, or anything?" asked Charley; and there was a proud expression in his handsome face, which brought the color to Polly's cheeks, and made her feel that she had no right to interfere, though she had "aided and abetted," inasmuch as she had helped to drive the lamb into the little close. "I shall look out to-night for butcher Page's white horse," said Charley, "and when he passes our door, cut across the corner of the Common, and be here before him, Johnny, and help to drive the sheep and lamb out, and tie yours up to the apple-tree until he's gone. Don't say anything to your father and mother until butcher Page has gone." Johnny promised he wouldn't, so went in-doors, his lamb following him, while the one Charley had given him made himself quite at home, and began nibbling away at a little patch of white clover which grew in one corner of the field. Johnny's father was a hard-working laboring man; but farm labor is so poorly paid for in most country places, that it is very difficult to save up more than a few shillings against sickness or accidents, which often happen unaware, as was the case with him; for the shaft-horse chanced to back suddenly, as he was going to fasten a gate, and the wagon wheel went over his foot and crushed it. He had not been able to work for several weeks; and though his master was kind to him in sending little things from the farm, he knew he must not expect him to pay his rent, and to do that he had to sell his two sheep and Johnny's pet lamb for a few pounds to butcher Page. He was a kind-hearted man; for as soon as the lamb entered the cottage it went up to him, and as he patted its pretty head, he sighed heavily, for he felt almost as much troubled at parting with it as did little Johnny. You will seldom see a dumb animal go up to anybody, of its own accord, that is not kind to all God's creatures. They seem to know who loves them and who does not. Dogs, more than any other animals, seem gifted with the power of finding out those who are kind and those who are not. One strange boy shall pat a dog, and he will begin to wag his tail, while he growls if another boy only strokes him. I always like the boy best that the dog is pleased with. Johnny's lamb laid its head on his father's knee, and while he patted it he shut his eyes, as if it were painful for him to look at the pretty creature necessity compelled him to part with. It then went bleating up to Johnny's mother to be noticed, and as she stooped down to kiss it she had to "button up" her eyes very tight indeed to keep in the tears. Johnny kept his secret faithfully, and said not a word about the lamb his friend Charley had given him. Instead of running across the corner of the Common in the evening, Charley and Polly, with his little brother sitting in her lap, came riding up to the cottage in the cart with the butcher; for Mr. Page had to call at the great farm-house on his way through Greenham about some fat calves he wanted to purchase of Charley's father. Polly asked if the children might ride with him, for she was very anxious about Johnny's pet lamb; and, as she said to Charley, "I shan't feel that it's quite safe until I see Mr. Page drive back without it." Johnny's father was too lame to assist in getting the sheep and lamb into the cart, so Polly and Charley drove them out of the small close behind the cottage, while Johnny minded the little boy, who sat with his tiny arms round the lamb's neck, kissing it, and saying "so pitty," for he could not talk plain enough to say "pretty." "Surely this can't be the same lamb I bargained for a week ago," said the butcher, as he was about to lift it into the cart; "why, it's got four or five pounds more meat on his back. You must give Johnny this shilling for himself. It's a much fatter lamb than I took it to be," and he gave the shilling for Johnny to his mother, after looking around, and not seeing the boy. Having paid the mother for the sheep and lamb, he drove off, and the poor dumb animals stood quiet, and seemed as happy in the cart as children who are only going away for a drive. How different they would look when put into the shed adjoining the slaughter-house, where so many sheep and lambs had been driven in to be killed. What a blessing it is that we do not know beforehand what is going to happen to us, for if we did, how wretched we should feel, counting the hours and days until the evil befell us, and living a life of misery all the time. Nor is it ourselves alone that would be made miserable, but our parents, and all who love us; so that, however painful death may be, it is one of God's greatest mercies not to let us know when death, which comes to all, will come. This is not hard to understand, if you will be very still, and forgetting everything else, think about it. The two sheep and the little lamb, as they were driven along the pretty country road in the butcher's cart, could have no more thought that they were carried away to be killed, than you would that some terrible accident might happen to you, if taken out for a ride. No sooner had the butcher driven off than Polly ran into the little meadow, clapping her hands, and exclaiming, "All right, Johnny! he's gone!" then she stooped down and kissed the pretty lamb, which began to lick her brown, sun-tanned cheek, as if to show how grateful it was; for the few kind words she had uttered were the means of saving it from the butcher's knife. When the children returned home across the Common, and after they had finished their supper of home-made brown bread and rich new milk, Charley went and stood between his father's legs, for the rich farmer was smoking his pipe, and had a jug of ale of his own brewing before him. Charley was deep enough to know that when his father was enjoying his pipe and jug of ale, after the day's labor was done, he was always in a good humor, and while Polly stood fidgeting and watching him, biting the corner of her blue pinafore all the time, and "wishing it was over," Charley looked up with his bold truthful eyes, and said, "Please, father, I gave Johnny Giles one of my lambs to-day to sell to the butcher, so that he might keep his own, which he is so fond of; it's such a pet, and he was crying so, and Mr. Page would have taken it away to-night in his cart if I hadn't given him mine, for you know Johnny's father is lame, and poor, and can't do any work, and so had to sell his two sheep and--" "Johnny's pet lamb too," said the farmer, interrupting him, but still stroking Charley's hair while speaking. "Well, Charley, it was your own lamb, to do what you liked with; but I should have liked Johnny's father better if he had sent word to let me know that he had sold your lamb instead of his own." "Please, sir, he doesn't know that butcher Page didn't take away Johnny's lamb in the cart," said Polly, rushing to the rescue, "because we kept it in the little croft, and drove Charley's lamb out instead, for little Johnny had been crying so all day that it made us all sorry to see it." "I felt sure you had had a finger in the pie, Polly," said the farmer, looking kindly on his little maid, and well knowing how fond she was of his dear children. "And now, sir," continued the farmer, looking at Charley as sternly as he could, while a pleasant smile played about his mouth, plainly showing that the knitted brows were but drawn down in make-believe anger, "this is the way I shall punish you." Polly saw the smile, and knew it was all right, and that there would be no punishment at all, though little Charley looked rather frightened. "As you have given one of your lambs away to please yourself, you must give the other away to please me. Drive it into Mr. Giles's little croft to-morrow morning, and, as it might miss its mother, let her go with it; then, when the lamb grows to be a sheep, Johnny's father will have two sheep again besides his pet lamb. Now kiss me, and say your prayers to Polly, and be off to bed." "O, I'm so glad!" exclaimed Polly, clapping her hands, while the tears stood in her eyes, as she came up to take Charley away from his father. "I'm sure you are, Polly, for you've a kind heart," said the farmer, kissing the little maid as well, "and now be off with you;" and five minutes after he was busy examining his stock-book, and seeing how many fat bullocks, heifers, calves, sheep, and lambs he had ready for market, and thinking no more of the value of the ewe he had ordered to be driven to the little croft of the lamed laborer, than he did of the second jug of ale he had sent one of his servants to draw from the cask. Now Polly, though but a poor cottager's daughter, and having only, as she had said, "a shilling a week and her victuals" as wages at the rich farmer's was a thoughtful little maid; and fearing that Johnny's father and mother might be unhappy when they found that Charley's lamb had been sold instead of their own, she set off full run to Mr. Giles's cottage, before she went to bed, to tell them all about the sheep and the other lamb which she and Charley were to drive into the close in the morning, and how pleased her good master was at what Charley had done. Johnny was seated, fast asleep, on a little rush hassock, with his head on his mother's knee, and one arm round the neck of the pet lamb, which was coiled up before the fire; and when she had made known the good tidings, and kissed both Johnny and his lamb, she started off back as fast as she came, for the bats were already flying about, snapping at the insects, and she heard an owl hooting from the trees that overhung the road she was running along. No one lay down to sleep in the beautiful village of Greenham on that calm, sweet night, when spring was treading close on the flowery border of summer, with a more peaceful mind or happier heart than Polly; for she felt that her pity for Johnny's sorrow, caused by the thought of his so soon losing his pet lamb, had also been carried to the heart of little Charley, and that but for the words she had spoken the pet lamb would then have been shut up at the end of the slaughter-house, where, no doubt, poor lambs were hanging up that had been killed. Pretty thing! How could butcher Page find in his heart to kill them, so kind a man as he was? And Polly fell asleep while trying to puzzle out whether it was not as sinful to kill a sheep as a little lamb, and wishing that roasted lamb was not so nice to eat as it was, with mint sauce. THE GREEDY DUCKLING. [Illustration: DUCK AND DUCKLINGS.] ALTHOUGH you cannot see her cottage, you can look at a portion of the brook that runs by the end of her garden, in which the old white duck and three of her little ducklings are swimming, while the remainder have left the water and got out on the grass to be fed. That is the old woman's little granddaughter who is holding the duckling in both her hands, and kissing it, and the other is her companion, who lives over the hill where you see a little morsel of blue sky between the overhanging leaves, and who has come all the way along that footpath to play with her, and feed the little ducklings. If you notice the duckling the granddaughter is petting, you will see it has got its eye on the food in the little girl's hand; and if you could read its thoughts, you would find it was saying to itself, "O, bother your fuss and stew! I wish you would put me down, and let me gobble up some of that nice new bread before it is all gone. Kissing, and patting, and nursing me won't fill my belly, I can tell you; though it's all well enough, when I've eaten until I'm full to the very top of my neck, to snuggle to you and be kept nice and warm, while I have a good long nap." You can see by its eye it's a sly little duckling; and though it pretends to be so fond of the child, lying still and such like, yet it's all of a fidget to get down, and quite envies the little ducklings that are feeding out of the other girl's hand. That is the Greedy duckling. Now the grandmother is such a funny little old woman, having one leg shorter than the other, which causes her to go up and down as she walks! The villagers call her Old Hoppity-kick, because, when she walks with her horn-handled stick and moves it along, she goes "hop," and when she moves both her feet she goes "hoppity," and when she pulls up her short leg to start again, she gives a kind of a little "kick" with it; so that what with her long leg, her short leg, and her stick, the noise she makes when she walks rather fast sounds a good deal like "hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick." Then she has a sharp, hooked nose, not much unlike the beak of a poll parrot; and she wears round spectacles with horn rims, and these she always calls her "goggles;" and, besides all this, she is hump-backed, and has an old gray cat that is very fond of jumping on her hump, and sitting there when she goes out into her garden, looking about him as well as she does, as if to see how things are getting on. She talks to her old cat, when she has no one else to speak to, just as she does to her granddaughter. She came up one day with her stick in her hand, her goggles on, and the gray cat sitting on her hump, where he went up and down, down and up, at every "hoppity-kick" she gave, and stopped to watch her granddaughter feed the ducklings. "Why, what a greedy little duckling that is beside you," said granny, pointing to it with her horn-handled stick; "he doesn't seem willing to let his little brothers and sisters have a taste of the food you are giving them, pecking and flying at them, and driving them off in the way he does. I'm sure he is a nasty, greedy little duckling, and when he gets big enough I'll have him killed." "I don't think he's so greedy, granny," replied the little maid, taking him up in both her hands, and kissing him; "it's only because he's so fond of me, and jealous of the other ducklings when they come close to me. Look how still he lies, and how he nestles up to me! He's very fond of me." "Humph; fond of you for what he can get, like a good many more in the world," said old Granny Grunt, while the gray cat gave a "mew, mew," as if to say, "Right you are, old granny;" then off she went, "hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick," back again into her cottage, the hem of her quilted petticoat making bobs up and down all the way she went. "You're not a greedy little thing, are you, ducky?" said the little maid to the duckling, kissing it again, when her grandmother and the cat had gone. "It's because you love me so, isn't it? and don't like any of the other little ducklings to be noticed, do you?" "O, what a silly Sukey you are!" thought the Greedy Duckling, laying its head on one side of her face, as if to show it was so fond of her it didn't know what to do. "Do you think I would make such a pretended fuss over you as I do if you didn't give me three times as much to eat as any of the rest of the ducklings get? Not I. I often feel as if I should like to bite a bit off the end of your silly little nose when you are kissing and fondling me. Do you know I would much rather have my head under the water, and be poking about among the mud for worms, little eels, and frogs, and such like things, than have your lips so near me? Why, the other day you'd been eating onions; and though I dare say I shall smell strong enough of 'em some day, and sage too, as I've heard your old granny say when I have to be roasted, yet that time won't come yet for a long while, and I don't want to be reminded of my end before it does come. Why don't you empty your old granny's jam pots, or her honey jar; that smell wouldn't be so bad to bear as onions,--Fah!" Now you begin to see what a deal of truth there was in what old Granny Grunt said, and what a wicked and ungrateful duckling this was, to have such evil thoughts, pretending to be so fond of the little granddaughter all the time. It was quite as bad as if a naughty child, after having as many "goodies" given it as it could eat, made fun of the giver behind the back, while before the face it pretended to be all love, and honey, and sugar. It's deceit, that's what it is, done for what may be got; and if anything, deceit's worse than story-telling, as you pretend to be what you are not, and to feel what you do not, while a story once told is done with, if you don't tell another on the top of it, and have the honesty to confess it was a story when close questioned and you speak the truth. But deceit! it's so dreadfully shocking! it's hypocrisy, and I know not what besides, as you have to keep it up, wear a mask, seem what you are not. O, dear! O, dear! I can't say how bad it is, it's so very bad. Now the Greedy Duckling knew which way the granddaughter came, and used to watch and wait for her, often a good way from the others, when she was coming with food; and if the little girl in the drawn and magenta-colored bonnet happened to be with her, she would say, "Look at the dear little duckling! Though it's so fat it can hardly waddle, it couldn't stop till I came, but is so fond of me it's come to meet me!" Then she began to feed it, giving it as much as ever it could eat, while the other dear ducklings, that were waiting so patiently by the brook, hadn't even so much as a smell, until that nasty, greedy little wretch had been crammed full to the very throat. Let us hope he was often troubled with a touch of the bile as a just punishment for his greediness. He was now so fat that he used to fall asleep on the water, and the wind blew him on like a floating feather, while his little brothers and sisters were diving, and swimming, and playing, and splashing about, and having such jolly games as made one quite wish to join them on a hot summer's day. This was the first judgment that overtook him for his greediness: he was too fat to play, and if he tried, puffed and blew like a broken-winded horse, and was out of breath in no time; for his liver was not only out of order, but what little heart he had, and that wasn't much, was buried in fat. He now took to eating out of spite, so that there might be next to nothing left for the other little ducklings. Whether he was hungry or not, he would stand in the centre of the food that was thrown down, and though he couldn't eat it himself, bite and fly at every duckling that attempted to touch a morsel. One of his little brothers one day went at him, and gave him "pepper," I can tell you; and when he found he'd met his match, what did the fat, artful wretch do but throw himself on his back, quacking out, "You ain't a-going to hit me when I'm down?" Now, selfish and greedy although he was, and disliked by the rest of the family, he had a little sister,--which was, that dear duckling you see swimming at the front of its mother, as if asking her if it may go out of the water for a little time, and have a waddle on the grass, for it is a most dutiful duckling,--and this little sister was the only one of the family that treated the Greedy Duckling kindly, for she used to say, "Bad as he is, he's my brother, and it's my duty to bear with him." After a time, when, on account of his selfishness and greediness, the rest of the family had "sent him to Coventry," which means that they wouldn't have anything to do with him,--neither eat, drink, nor swim with him, nor even exchange so much as a friendly "quack,"--then it was that he began to appreciate the kindness and self-sacrifice of his little sister, who would go and sit with him for the hour together, though he was too sulky at first even to "quack" to her. It so happened one day, when his pretty little sister had been talking to him, and telling him how much happier his life would be if he were more social, and how greatly his health would be improved if he ate less, that after saying, "I don't care if they won't have me amongst 'em; little Sukey gives me plenty to eat, and I can sleep well enough by myself, and much better than if they were all quacking about me; and though you come and stay with me, I don't ask you, nor I don't want you; and I dare say you only do it to please yourself, and----," before he could say another word, his little sister said, "Run, run!" for she had seen a shadow on the grass, and knew that a great hawk was hanging over them; and they had only just time to pop under the long, trailing canes of a bramble, before down the hawk came with such a sweep, that they could feel the cold wind raised by the flapping of his great wings, though he could not reach them for the bramble; nor did he try to get at them where they were sheltered, for the hawk only strikes his prey while on the wing, picking it up and keeping hold of it somehow, just as Betty does a lump of coal, which she has made a snap at, and seized with the tongs. "He would have been sure to have had you," said the little sister, after the hawk had flown away over the trees, "as you stood the farthest out, and are so fat; and I was so near the bramble, he would hardly have had room for the full spread of his wings, if he had made a snap at me." "I don't see that," replied the Greedy Duckling, "for as I'm so heavy, I think he would have been glad to have dropped me before he had reached his nest; while as for you, you're such a light bit of a thing, he would have carried you off as easily almost as he would a fly that had settled on his back." "But supposing he had dropped you after flying with you about six times the height of a tall tree; what use would you have been after you had fallen?" asked the little duckling. "Why, there would have been neither make nor shape in you, but you would have looked like a small handful of feathers somebody had thrown down on the place where oil had been spilt. Our dear old mother would not have known you, for you would no more have looked like what you are now, than a snail that a wagon wheel had gone over did before it was crushed, when he was travelling comfortably along the rut, and carrying his sharp-pointed house on his back." "Well, as I don't care much about my shape now, I suppose the thought of it would have troubled me less after I'd been killed," said the Greedy Duckling; "all I care for in this life is to have as much to eat as I can tuck under my wings, and not to have any noise about me while I'm asleep. As to washing myself much, that's a trouble, though I do manage to give my head a dip when I have a drink. There was an old man used to come and sit under the tree beside our brook, and read poetry; and sometimes, between sleeping and waking, I used to pick up a line or two; and I liked those best of all that said,-- 'I just do nothing all the day, And soundly sleep the night away,'-- because they just suited me to a T." In vain did the clean little sister endeavor to persuade him to wash himself oftener, take more exercise, mingle more with his family, eat less, and try to make himself more respected; it was all of no use: instead of becoming better, he got worse. There was a hole under the wooden steps that led up to old Granny's cottage, and the Greedy Duckling, having found it out, used to creep in and watch until the old woman's back was turned, when Sukey would be sure to feed him; and very often he found food about, and helped himself to it, no matter what it was. One day Granny had made a custard, which she left standing on the table until the oven was hot, when the Greedy Duckling got at it, and after putting in his beak, and having had a good drink, he held his head aside, and said, "Bless me! though rather thick, it's very nice--not at all like muddy water. I can taste milk, and I'm sure there are eggs, also plenty of sugar; what that brown powder is floating at the top I don't know; but it must be spice, I think, for it warms the stomach. But here comes old Granny: I must hide under the table until she goes out, or I shall have another taste of that horn-handled stick of hers; then, if she hits me fairly on the leg, I shall have to go hoppity kick, as she does. I should like to finish that lot very much, it's so good. O, how comfortably I could sleep after in my little nest under the step! I'll keep a sharp eye on old Granny and her cat." The cat had been blamed for many things it had never touched, which the Greedy Duckling had gobbled up; and as he sat washing himself on the hob, which was beginning to be warm, Granny having lighted a fire to heat the oven, he spied the duckling under the table, and kept his eye on him without seeming to take any notice at all. "I shall be having the cat lapping up all this custard, if I don't put it somewhere out of the way," said the grandmother; "it will be the safest here;" and she put it into the oven without quite shutting the door, then went out to get some more wood to put under the oven, which was hardly warm. "I shall have time enough to finish that lot before old Granny comes back, for she has the wood to break into short pieces," said the Greedy Duckling, who had seen her put the custard into the oven; so he just put out his wings and went in after it, and began pegging away at the custard, for it was a big oven and there was plenty of room. "I've been blamed often enough for things you've stolen and eaten, and I'll get out of that," said the cat; "for though I know you'll be out of the oven and hiding somewhere the instant you hear her hoppity kick on the cottage floor, yet if she looks at the custard before she shuts the oven door, and finds half of it eaten, she'll say I've had it." So saying, the cat made a spring from off the oven on to the floor, and while doing so, his hinder legs caught the oven door, and, with the force of the spring, shut it to with a loud clap and a click, for the handle always caught when the door was pushed to sharp. Away ran the cat, and in came old Granny with the stick, which she began to shove under the oven, until in time it was so hot that she couldn't take hold of the handle to turn her custard without holding it with the dishclout. "Why, I declare, if it isn't burnt to a cinder!" exclaimed old Granny, as she threw open the oven door; when there was such a smell of burnt feathers and fat as nearly knocked her down; for the fat duckling first ran all to dripping, which ran all over the oven bottom, and then got burnt black, it was so hot; and she never could, nor never did, nor never will make out what it was that made her oven in such a mess and spoiled her custard, nor what became of her Greedy Duckling. JUVENILE BOOKS. 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42946	----	[Illustration: BLUEBEARD, THE SHETLAND PONY. _Page 85._] LIVE TOYS; Or Anecdotes of Our Four-Legged and Other Pets. by EMMA DAVENPORT, Authoress Of "Jamie's Questions," "Weak And Wilful," etc. With Illustrations by Harrison Weir. London: Griffith and Farran, (Successors to Newbery and Harris,) Corner of St. Paul's Churchyard. M DCCC LXII. London: Printed by Wertheimer and Co., Circus Place, Finsbury. TO LADY NEPEAN, THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS DEDICATED, AS CONTAINING TRUE ANECDOTES OF THE VARIOUS ANIMALS THAT WERE IN THE POSSESSION OF A LITTLE BOY AND GIRL, IN WHOM SHE HAS ALWAYS SHEWN A KIND INTEREST. Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. The cover of this ebook was created by the transcriber and is hereby placed in the public domain. CONTENTS. PAGE MOPPY, THE WHITE RABBIT 1 THE TWO BIRDS, GOLDIE AND BROWNIE 4 POLL PARROT 10 NEDDY AND THE RIFLE DONKEY 19 BUNNY, THE WILD RABBIT 31 THE JACKDAW 38 PRICKER, THE HEDGEHOG 50 DRAKE, THE RETRIEVER 55 TAWNEY, THE TERRIER 60 PUFFER, THE PIGEON 70 DR. BATTIUS, THE BAT 75 THE CHOUGH 80 THE KITTENS, BLACKY AND SNOWDROP 83 BLUEBEARD, THE SHETLAND PONY 85 JOE, THE GERMAN DOG 96 LIVE TOYS; OR ANECDOTES OF OUR FOUR-LEGGED AND OTHER PETS. MOPPY, THE WHITE RABBIT. The first Pet that we ever remember possessing was a large white rabbit. We were then very little children; and, being at the sea-side, we spent the greater part of the day on the shore, or rather on the broad esplanade, that stretched for full half-a-mile round the pretty bay. When we were quite tired of running there, or of picking up stones and weeds on the shingle below the esplanade wall, we were enabled to prolong our stay out of doors by means of the pretty little goat-carriages that were kept in readiness on the esplanade. Some of them were made with two seats; some were drawn by one goat, and some with two. There were reins and regular harness to these little goats, and we were indeed pleased, when our nurse allowed us to drive in one of the double-seated carriages. We took turns to sit in front and drive, and we tried hard to persuade our Mamma to let us have a goat, and a goat-carriage for ourselves. What a nice Pet that would have been! But Mamma said she could not take it about, as we travelled much, and also that a goat would butt at us and knock us down. Therefore we were obliged to be content with patting and coaxing the goats on the walk. During one of our drives in the goat-carriage, we met with a boy carrying a beautiful white creature with pink eyes; "Look! look! nurse," we cried, "what is that?" "It is a rabbit," she said, "would you like to stroke it?" and she took it out of the boy's hands, and held it close to us; we kissed it and stroked it, and buried our faces in its long white hair, felt its curious long ears, and wondered at the strange colour of its eyes. The boy said that a sailor gave it to him; but that his mother wished him to sell it, as it was troublesome in her small cottage, and they had no yard to keep it in, and he asked nurse if she would buy it from him. We earnestly begged that we might have it; "Do buy it, Mary," we cried; "please buy it." And, after some talking, Mary gave sixpence to the boy for the rabbit, and, my sister giving up her front seat and her reins to me, went home with the pretty creature in her lap. We called the rabbit Moppy; it was a source of great amusement to us. Mary contrived a bed for it in a large packing-box in an empty garret at the top of the house, and when we wished to play with it, it was brought down to the nursery. We always fed it from our hands. It became extremely tame, and would follow us about the room, and allow us to lift it and carry it in all sorts of strange ways; for we could not manage lifting it by the ears in the proper way. When it began to be tired of us, it used to get under the sofa, and when we dragged it out again it appeared angry and would kick with its hind legs, and make quite a loud knocking on the floor, with what we called its hind elbows. When this commenced, nurse usually carried it off to its box, fearing that it might bite, or else she covered it up in her lap, when it would remain asleep for some time. Now and then we took it with us when we drove in the little carriage, and it lay so snugly on our knees and kept us so warm. Before we had become at all weary of our plaything, or indifferent to its welfare, we removed to Ireland; and going first to visit grand-mamma, it was thought impossible to take Moppy, so after much consultation, nurse spoke to one of the little boys who kept the goats, and seemed to be a gentle good-natured lad, and with many instructions and requests that he would be most kind and careful to the poor little animal, we kissed and stroked our pet, and, burying our faces in its long white hair for the last time, we made him a present of beautiful soft Moppy. THE TWO BIRDS, GOLDIE AND BROWNIE. "Would you like to buy a bird, Sir?" said a poor woman to me one day when we were just setting out for our walk. She held in her hand a small cage with a beautiful goldfinch. "I have one shilling and sixpence," I said, "will you give it to me for that?" "I hoped to be able to sell it for half-a-crown," the woman said, "for I am very poor; I am leaving this place and want money for my journey, or I should not part with my bird." "But I have a shilling," said my sister, "and that added to your money will make half-a-crown, and so we can buy it between us and it will belong to us both." We gave our money to the poor woman, and she put the cage into my hand. The little bird was quite a beauty, his colours so bright, his plumage so glossy and thick, and his chirp so merry. After displaying him to Mamma, and to every body we met, we carried him to the nursery, and placed him on the broad window-seat; Mamma said she was afraid we should soon get tired of him, and neglect to feed him and to clean his cage. This, we thought, was quite unlikely. However, we promised very faithfully; and we commenced with feeding and petting him so much that he soon became extremely tame, would take seeds and crumbs from our fingers, chirp to us when we came near his cage, and sing without the least sign of fear. One day we had carried him into the drawing-room; and, on opening the door of the cage to put in some sugar, he darted out. "Oh dear! oh dear! Goldie is out," we exclaimed; "what shall we do? We shall lose him." But Mamma quickly got up, and shut both the windows and begged us to be quiet, and not to frighten him by rushing after him and attempting to seize him. "If you leave him alone," said Mamma, "he will perhaps allow you quietly to take him in your hand when he has flown about as much as he wishes; but he will lose all his tameness if you terrify him." So we sat down to watch the little fellow, he darted about the room for some time, and presently alighted on the table, where the breakfast things remained. First he pecked at the bread, then tried the sugar, peeped into the cups, and seemed highly amused at the different articles which he was now examining for the first time. Then he flew on the top of the picture frames that hung on the wall, then on the curtain rods, and at last perched on Mamma's head, peeped at her hair, and looked as proud and happy as possible. And after he had looked at every thing in the room and well stretched his wings, he quietly returned to his cage, chirping at us, as if to say, "I have seen enough for one day, I'll come out again to-morrow." So afterwards we used to give him a fly every morning, taking care to shut all the windows before his door was opened. We paid so much attention to our bird; that he did not seem to find his life at all dull, but he obtained a companion in an unexpected manner. Our nursery window was standing open, Goldie was in his cage on the table, and we were playing on the floor; suddenly my sister exclaimed, pointing to the window, "Goldie is out! Goldie is out!" and there indeed, perched on the window-sill, was a little bird, which for a moment we believed to be our own little pet. We gently approached the window. "Oh that is a brown bird," said I, "and look! Goldie is safe in his cage." Nurse now advised us to draw back from the window, for that if not frightened, the little stranger might possibly be attracted by the bird in the cage, and might come inside the window; so we retreated to the opposite side of the room, and watched the little fellow. In he hopped very cautiously, now and then making a little chirrup, and twisting his head in all directions, as if to discover with his sharp black eyes, whether there was anything or anybody likely to hurt him; now he came on a chair-back, and then becoming bolder, ventured on the table. When Goldie saw him, he left his seed box at which he had been very busy, and hopping about his cage in a most excited mannere began to chirrup as loudly as he could, and shaking his tails up and down, he seemed to express his great joy at the sight of the little brown visitor. Nurse quietly passed round the room and shut the window, "Now we have him safe," we cried, dancing about. "Pray be still, my dears," said nurse, "until we get him into the cage." So we again became immoveable, and there was the brown stranger peeping at Goldie through the bars, perhaps wishing to partake of the seed and sugar, and fresh groundsel that Goldie had been enjoying. He was a delicately shaped thin little bird, all his feathers of a pretty dark brown, he did not appear to be much frightened when nurse approached, nor did he leave the table when she opened the door of the cage; but on the contrary, he peeped in, and receiving a very civil chirp of invitation from Goldie, he actually hopped in to our extreme delight. We ran to display our treasure to Mamma. She was quite amused at our having caught him in so strange a manner, and said that she thought he was a linnet, or some such kind of bird. He was evidently a tame bird that had been much petted. He soon accommodated himself to all Goldie's habits, came regularly to breakfast, and took his fly afterwards, all about the room, resting occasionally on our heads or shoulders. Brownie would now hop on our fingers, when we wished to take him up from the floor; and this we had never been able to teach to Goldie. The two birds were very good friends, excepting when an unusually nice bit of groundsel or plantain excited a quarrel between them; then they scolded, fluttered, and pecked at each other in a very savage manner. We had a sliding partition made to the cage, and when they began to dispute, we punished them by sliding in this partition and separating them for a short time. They used to look quite unhappy, moping in their solitude, until we made them happy again, by withdrawing the partition. These little birds went many journeys with us, even crossed to England, and back again to Ireland, and lived with us for a long time; and I suppose we became rather careless about open windows and doors, knowing that the birds were so very tame, and had no wish to fly away. We were the following summer in another place. There our rooms were confined and small; so we used to allow the birds to fly about on the staircase every morning, in order to give them a larger range for using their wings. One bright summer morning, Goldie flew out on the landing; and as he had invariably come back again to his cage, we were not noticing him much, and never perceived that the servant had gone down stairs, leaving open the door at the bottom of the flight, just outside of which door, was an open window. Presently we went to see for him, and it was some moments before we spied him sitting on the ledge of this open window. If we had made no exclamation, and placed the cage on the stairs, most probably he would have returned; but perhaps we startled him by running down the stairs towards him. Out he went so rapidly and yet so gently, in the bright fresh air, as if he would say, "Liberty and sunshine, and freedom of flight in the summer sky, is too delightful to refuse, even for you, my dear little master and mistress." He perched on a high tree and looked at us for a while. In vain we strewed crumbs about the window, and called and whistled. In vain we set his cage on the ledge with his deserted companion in it, hoping that hearing Brownie's chirp would entice him to return. He never came back again, and Brownie occupied the cage for many months; our care of him being greater than ever, since we lost our other favourite. But Brownie's end was much more tragic. We were going away on a visit for some weeks; and it was decided that Brownie was not to go, but that he should live in the kitchen until we returned. There was a huge cat living in the barracks. We always had been in dread of her, and had tried to make her afraid of entering our door; but whilst we were away, she one day found all the doors open, and peeping into the kitchen, and seeing no protecting servant there, she seized our dear little pet, and soon destroyed him. When we returned home, there was nothing but the empty cage. POLL PARROT. We were staying for some months at a seaport town in France, many vessels used to come in from different parts of the world; and I suppose the sailors brought with them all sorts of animals and birds, for the houses looking on the quay where the vessels were moored were almost entirely shops of birds, monkeys, etc., etc. It was most amusing to walk along the quay, and look at all the live creatures that were there exposed for sale. Such a chattering of monkeys of all shapes and sizes, such a twittering and singing from every imaginable species of small birds, such a screaming and chattering from the parrots and macaws, and such fun in peeping into the cages of white mice and ferrets. We often wished very much to buy a monkey; but Mamma did not fancy it, and said they were uncertain ill-tempered beasts, and that we should be constantly bitten if we had one. First, we longed for this bird, then for that squirrel, then for a cage of white mice, and so on; indeed I believe we quite tormented Mamma with requests to walk along the quay of animals, as we called it. At last we set our affections upon a grey parrot, the smoothest and handsomest among the large number exposed for sale. We never heard her say anything, it is true; but we thought that an advantage, as she would not have learnt to swear and talk like the sailors, and we should teach her to say just what we pleased. The price of the parrot was rather high, because of her size and beauty, and we longed for her many weeks before we were her masters; but at last she was placed in our possession as a new year's gift, and, in addition, a nice cage with a swing, and tin dishes for her food, all the wood work being carefully bound with tin, to secure it from her formidable beak. Cage and parrot were carried with us on our return to England, and she soon became a great pet. She was not at first very tame; but by much petting, and by leaving the door of her cage constantly open, so that she did not feel herself a prisoner, she gradually became more friendly. The first sign of love to any of us was after my sister's short absence of a few days at a friend's house. When she returned, we were talking together in the hall, and Poll's cage being in an adjoining room, she heard her voice, and recognising it, she came down from her cage, and gave notice of her arrival at my sister's feet by her usual croak; she flapped her wings, and gave every sign of pleasure at seeing her again. She did not, however, extend her amiability to any one but myself, sister, and Mamma; she was still savage to strangers, and would bite fiercely if touched, but if we offered our wrists, she would step soberly on, allow us to scratch her head, stroke her back, push back her feathers to look at her curious little ears, and in return she would lay her beak against our cheeks, and make a clucking noise as if she meant to kiss us. She used to waddle all about the room with her turned-in toes, and climbed up tables and chairs just as she pleased. She would get upon Mamma's knee by scrambling up her dress, holding it tight in her beak. When we were writing or drawing, she enjoyed sitting on the table, though she meddled sadly with our things, biting our pencils in pieces, tearing paper, and so on, and once in particular, she terrified us for her own safety by opening every blade of a sharp penknife, and flourishing it about in her claws as if in triumph. We had some difficulty in getting it from her grasp without cutting ourselves or hurting her. She was a famous talker, called us all by name, whistled and barked when the dog came into the room; called "Puss, puss!" and mewed when the cat showed itself, sang several bits of songs, and asked for fruit and food of different sorts. We never could teach her to sing through a whole tune. I never heard a parrot get beyond a few bars; and I wonder what is the reason that they will learn the commencement of half-a-dozen different songs, but still cannot remember any whole. I do think a parrot's voice and utterance is one of the most extraordinary of things, for it always repeats a word in the peculiar voice of the person who taught it; and, instead of closing its beak or touching the roof of its mouth with its tongue, in order to articulate, it invariably opens its mouth wide when it speaks, and its tongue is never used at all; yet it will pronounce m's, b's, p's, and t's as plainly as any human being. We could always tell who had taught our Poll any word or song, from the similarity of voice that she adopted. Her sleeping-place was for some time on the top of a chair-back in my sister's bedroom. When we were leaving the sitting-room to go upstairs at night, Poll used to waddle down from the cage and come to my sister, who held her wrist down for her to mount, and having been conveyed upstairs and placed on the floor, she mounted of her own accord to her sleeping perch, gave all her feathers a good shake, and settled her head for the night. Very early in the morning, she used to commence her toilet. Such scratchings and smoothings of her feathers, such picking and cleaning of her feet and legs; and having arranged her dress for the day, she would come down, take a turn or two about the room, and then look at my sister to see if she were awake. If not stirring, Poll used to clamber up on the bed by means of the curtain or counterpane, get quietly on the pillow, and examine her eyes closely. If no wink was perceptible, Poll would gently and cautiously lift up an eyelid, pinching it softly in her beak, then go to the other eye and do the same; then she would wait a little bit, saying, "Hey? hey?" as if to ask whether her mistress was not yet properly roused. Then she would again work away at the eyelids, till my sister could no longer refrain from laughing. She used to feign being asleep every morning, in order to amuse herself with Poll's proceedings. I wished to try having my eyelids opened by Poll in the same manner, and one night took the bird into my own room; but she did not approve of this change of quarters, and instead of going quietly to sleep, made such a croaking and grinding of teeth on her chair-back, that I was glad to carry her back to my sister's room. Indeed, although she was very friendly with me, she did not manifest the same attachment as towards my sister and mother, apparently preferring ladies' society. While Poll was with us, we went another journey into France, and took the parrot with us in a basket. It was a stormy night when we crossed from Southampton, and Poll in her basket was placed at the foot of my sister's berth, and no further attention was paid her. The cabin was very full of people, and numbers had to lie on the floor, there not being sufficient berths or sofas. In the middle of the night, the inmates of the ladies' cabin were all startled by a scream from an old lady who was stretched on the floor. "Stewardess! Here! Here! Some dreadful thing is biting me. I have received a shocking bite on the leg. Do search for the creature, whatever it is." So the stewardess came and looked, and could find nothing. My sister, who had looked out of her shelf at the old lady's cry, immediately divined what it was, seeing that Poll's basket had rolled off the berth to the floor, and she having gnawed a hole in the basket, had put out her beak and bitten the first thing with which it came in contact. When the stewardess came to look for the monster, the basket had rolled, with the motion of the ship, to the other side of the cabin, and not finding a sea voyage pleasant, she put forth her beak again. "Oh! bless me! What can that be?" cried another passenger. "Something bit me. Do find it, stewardess." Then came another lurch, and away rolled Poll in her basket; and no one suspected a rather shabby old basket of containing anything but perhaps a pair of slippers, or a brush and comb, or some such articles. So poor Poll rolled about in her prison, inflicting bites on several legs and arms, my sister meanwhile in agonies of laughter on her shelf, and not daring to say who was the real offender, lest Poll should be turned out of the cabin. At last the stewardess said that she supposed it must be rats, and she ran away at the entreaties of the poor victims on the floor to fetch the steward to search for the rats. Whilst she was gone, my sister slipped down from her berth, and took possession of Poll's basket. She had scarcely retreated with it in safety, when the stewardess returned with the steward; and rather an angry altercation ensued, the man insisting that there was not a rat in the ship, and the injured passengers insisting that sharp bites could not be made by nothing at all. However, after a long dispute, he begged them all to move from the floor, and made a regular search. My sister was all the time in the greatest alarm, lest Poll should think proper to croak or sing "Nix my dolly," or otherwise to make known her presence. As luck would have it, however, Poll was either too sea-sick or too angry to say anything, and the steward announced that no live thing was in the cabin, and that the ladies had been dreaming. "But bites in a dream, don't bleed," retorted an angry old lady, holding up to view a pocket handkerchief which indeed wore a murderous appearance. This being unanswerable, the steward could only shrug his shoulders and retreat from the Babel of voices in the ladies' cabin; and soon after, my sister had the pleasure of landing, with Poll undiscovered and safe in her old basket, and we are ignorant whether the old lady ever found out what it was that had bitten her. During our journey, Poll often caused great amusement, by suddenly shouting or singing as we were jogging along in a diligence or slowly steaming on a river, thereby astonishing and alarming our fellow passengers; nor did she forget, when occasion offered, to make good use of her strong beak. At one place we were entering a town late at night, and the place being a frontier town, our luggage was all strictly examined by the custom-house officers before we were permitted to enter the gates. All having been passed and paid for, we remounted the diligence; my sister was the last. She had her foot on the step, when one of the men rudely pulled her back, asking why she had not shown her basket. She said there was nothing in it but a bird, but the man declared he must look; and seeing that my sister was unwilling to open it, he imagined there was something valuable and contraband in it, so roughly dragging it out of her hands, he tore open the lid, and thrust in his hand. Poll gave a loud croak, and the man rather quickly withdrew his hand, with a thousand vociferations at the bird and the basket and my sister. I must confess I was delighted to see that Poll had made her beak nearly meet in the surly fellow's finger. When my sister had regained her basket, and we had left the gate, we lavished much praise on Poll for her discriminating conduct on this occasion. She would not have bitten my hand had I put it into the basket; how did she know that the hand was a stranger's? When we arrived at our destination in the south of France, Poll enjoyed the novelty as much as any one. Now she revelled in the abundance of oranges and other fruits, eating just the best part, and flinging away the rest with lavish epicurism. And how she basked in the hot sun, and climbed about the cypress and olive trees in the garden, biting the bark and leaves, and almost I think believing that she was again in her wild birth-place, wherever that may have been! She accompanied us in safety on our homeward journey, went to Ireland with us; and whenever we travelled, Poll went too. At one time she took an erroneous notion into her head, that she could fly; now this was an impossibility, for her wings were very short and small, and her body very large and heavy. Whether this had chanced from her unnatural life in a house, or from early cutting of her wings, I do not know, but she could not support herself in the air, even from the table to the ground. However, she thought she could, and on one occasion she tried to fly, when perched on the top bannister of a large well staircase of four flights. Down she came like a lump of lead on the floor below, and when we ran to pick her up, poor Poll was gasping, lying on her back, with her eyes rolling about in a fearful manner. We thought she would die, but we put some water in her mouth, blew in her face and did what we could to revive her, and gradually she recovered. But this lesson was lost upon her. A few days after, she tried to fly out of a window on the first floor, and came down in the same heavy way, on the flagged pavement before the door. This time her head was wounded, and bled, and she seemed stupid for some days after; but she recovered and lived long after that. Probably these falls had injured her brain, for at last she began to tumble off her perch, as if giddy, and then her head swelled very much, and she died in a sort of fit. I have seen other parrots who were better talkers than ours; but I never saw one so tame, and so fond of her own master and mistress, she used to come to meet us like a dog, when we came into the house, after being absent for walks or rides, knew our times for rising and going to bed, called us separately by our names, and really showed much intelligence. Birds, in general, are, I think rather stupid, and do not understand anything, but what their own instinct tells them; but parrots seem to know the meaning of the words they learn: and if others do not, I am sure that our Poll did. NEDDY, AND THE RIFLE DONKEY. Our next pet was a very different creature. One of our aunts had sent us some money as a present; and I and my sister had many consultations as to what we should do with it. At last we hit upon an idea that charmed us both, and we ran to our Mamma. "Oh Mamma, we cried, do you think our money will buy a donkey? We saw the other day, a little boy and girl both riding upon a donkey, it trotted along so nicely with them, and the little boy at the other side of the square has a donkey, and we should like it so very much." Then Mamma said that a donkey would be of no use unless we could also buy a saddle and bridle; and besides that, she must enquire where he could graze, or whether there was any spare stall in which he could live. These things had not occurred to us; but we went to Papa, and begged him to find out where our donkey could live in case we had one. Now there was a large sort of waste field adjoining the Barrack Square; a few sheep and some old worn-out horses were kept in it, but I believe it was not used for anything else. We sometimes ran and played there, and there was a pond in it, into which we were very fond of flinging large cobble stones. Papa found that he could easily obtain leave for our donkey to graze there, and it was of such extent, that it could find there quite sufficient food; so that difficulty was done away with. Then we made enquiry about the price of donkeys. We talked one day to the nurse of the little boy and girl who rode together. She did not know what their donkey cost, but told us that she knew a little boy who bought a young donkey, when it was scarcely able to stand, and so small, that he had it in his nursery, where it lay on the rug before the fire, and was quite a playfellow to him. We thought we should like a tiny donkey to play with in the house; but Mamma persuaded us that it would be much pleasanter to have one that we could ride. Papa heard of a donkey we could buy for one pound, it came to be looked at, and we liked its appearance much; it was in very good condition, its coat thick and smooth, and not rubbed in any place. Our other pound supplied us with a sort of soft padded saddle and bridle; the pommels took off, so that either of us could use the saddle, and happy indeed was the morning, when Neddy was brought to the door for us. I had the first ride, and, owing to a peculiarity in Neddy's manners, I soon had my first tumble. We proceeded across the square very nicely, and were about to cross a large gutter, along which a good deal of water was rushing. I had no idea that Neddy would not quietly step over it; but he had an aversion to water, and coming close to the gutter, he made a great spring and leapt over it; the sudden jerk tossed me off his back, and Papa catching me by the collar of my dress, just prevented me from going headlong into the water. And we found that Neddy always jumped over a puddle, or any appearance of water; sometimes a damp swampy place in the road, was enough to set him springing. But when we knew that this was his custom, we were prepared for it, and had no more falls; we rode in turns, and sometimes I got on behind my sister, and many nice long rides we had all about the fields and lanes. When we returned home, we took off the saddle and bridle at the door, and gave Neddy a pat; away he scampered through the open gateway into the field, flinging up his heels with pleasure. We could see all over the field and the square from our windows, and soon found it extremely amusing to watch the proceedings of our Neddy and another donkey. This donkey belonged to a little boy, who also lived in the square; he did not often ride upon it, but it followed him about more in the manner of a large dog. It had learned how to open the latches of the doors, and could go up and down stairs quite well. Our Mamma went one day to see the little boy's Mamma, and when she opened the door of their house she was much surprised to find the donkey's face close to her's, and she was obliged to give him a good push to get past him. When we heard this, we used to watch for the donkey going in and out, and soon we saw him go into the field and make friends with Neddy. They held their heads near together and seemed to be whispering; then they would trot about a little while, then whisper again. We supposed that the strange donkey was telling Neddy what fun he had in going into the different houses and getting bits to eat from the inhabitants, and instructing him how to bray under such and such windows when cooking was going on. For Neddy soon began to follow his friend about, and to imitate everything that he did. We did not know the name of the other donkey, so we called him the Rifle donkey, because his little master's Papa belonged to a rifle regiment. Neddy was an apt pupil, for soon after the conversations between the two donkeys had begun, we were seated one evening at tea, when we heard an extraordinary clattering upon the staircase, we listened and wondered, as it became louder. The staircase came up to the end of a long passage, which led to our doors, and when the clattering reached the passage I exclaimed, "I do believe it is the donkey coming up stairs." We rushed to the door, and looked out. Yes, indeed, the Rifle donkey and Neddy were quietly pacing along the passage. We were thoroughly charmed at Neddy's cleverness in mounting two long flights of stairs, and when we had given them each a piece of bread, and patted and coaxed them, they turned away to go down again, the Rifle donkey leading the way. He managed very well indeed, but Neddy made rather awkward work with his hind legs; however, he managed to reach the bottom without throwing himself down. Next they went under the windows of the adjoining house, and the Rifle donkey began to bray loudly, Neddy copied him in his most sonorous tones, and presently a window was opened and a variety of little bits of food were thrown out, which they ran to pick up. They came every morning to this window, and the officer who lived there always answered their call, by throwing something out to them. When he shut his window, they quietly went away, and about the middle of the day, when luncheons and dinners were going on, they would go to other windows about the square, and bray for food. Neddy always walked behind the other, and did not bray till he began. Sometimes there were clothes laid out to dry by the washer-women on a piece of grass, behind the houses. This supplied great amusement to the donkeys, for as soon as the women went away they would run to the grass, take up the clothes in their mouths, fling them up in the air, tread upon them, tear them, and even used to eat some of the smallest things, such as frills and pocket-handkerchiefs. But this was really too mischievous, as the poor women suffered for their fun. No one would believe them, when they said that such a missing handkerchief had been eaten by donkeys, or that such a piece of lace or a collar had been bitten and torn by the same tiresome creatures. I well remember some of our shirts coming home half eaten, and our Mamma then advised the washer-women to have a boy, with a good thick stick, to watch the drying ground, and to desire him to belabour them well if they attempted to touch any of the clothes. This advice was followed, so that piece of fun was in future denied to the donkeys. But, I and my sister highly disapproved of this system; we thought that we would much rather have our shirts eaten, or indeed all our clothes torn than allow Neddy to be beaten with a stick, to say nothing of the great amusement it gave us, to see the two queer animals rushing about among the wet things, entangling their feet in them, and sometimes trotting off into the square with a night-cap or a stocking sticking on their noses. However, we still took great interest in their proceedings even without the poor washerwomen's clothes; for being deprived of that game, they began to plague the soldiers at the guard room. It had a sort of colonnade in front, supported by pillars, and the Rifle donkey found that it was very diverting to rush head first at the men who were standing under the colonnade. If they tried to strike him, he used to dodge round a pillar, and then rush at them again from the other side. Often he singled out one man for his attacks, and then Neddy assisted his friend, by biting at the same man from behind, but he was not nearly so active in evading punishment as the Rifle donkey, and received many a buffet and kick during these encounters. Sometimes the soldiers punished them by getting on their backs. This, however, was not to be borne, and cling as tightly as they could, the donkeys never failed to fling them off, when they would return to the charge with renewed vigour. These games of bo-peep, and so forth, apparently amused the men quite as much as ourselves, and many a half-hour have we sat in our stair-case window-seat, watching the antics of the donkeys and the soldiers. Their play usually ended by the Rifle donkey receiving a harder rap on the nose than he deemed pleasant, then he would fling up his heels, and with a most unearthly yell, gallop off to the field, closely followed by the sympathising Neddy, who imitated in his best fashion both the yell and the fling of his heels. [Illustration: NEDDY, AND THE RIFLE DONKEY. _Page 25._] We were going to leave the barracks, and move to another part of Ireland; and just before we went, the two donkeys got into a terrible scrape. Indeed, it was very well that we did go away; for they were becoming so extremely mischievous and so cunning, that they would soon have become too tiresome; and although we were charmed with every trick they played, almost all the grown-up people thought them a great torment; and the Rifle-donkey had become a great deal more active and monkey-like, since Neddy had followed and copied him. I suppose he felt proud of being able to lead the other wherever he chose. It was extremely hot weather, and all doors and windows were generally left standing open. Not that it would have made much difference to the Rifle-donkey had they been shut; for there was not a door in the place that he could not open. But very likely they were tempted to this work of destruction by the sight of the open door. Whilst the officers were dining, the two donkeys walked into the ante-room. The table there was covered with newspapers, magazines, and books; and perhaps the donkeys thought that these papers were some of their old friends the clothes, from the drying-green; so they pulled them off the table; tore the newspapers into little bits; munched the backs of some bound books; scattered the magazines about the room; upset an ink-bottle that stood on the table; dabbled their noses in the pond of ink, and having done their best to destroy and spoil everything there, our Neddy, I suppose, was so delighted at the mischief they had done, that he could not refrain from setting up a loud and prolonged bray of pleasure and exultation. This brought in some of the officers, and there they found the Rifle-donkey trampling a heap of torn papers and books, with the remains of a blotted "Punch" in his mouth, and Neddy was looking on and expressing his admiration. So they were ignominiously turned out with kicks and blows; and some of the officers were very angry, and said that both of the donkeys ought to be shot immediately; and the others said that, at any rate, they should be shut up, and not allowed to run at large about the barracks. But, luckily for Neddy, we went away in a day or two, and we never heard how they managed to keep the Rifle-donkey in order. Perhaps he was not so mischievous when he had lost his companion, having then no one to admire his proceedings. We only heard that when his regiment left, some months later, the donkey marched out with them just in front of the band. As soon as we arrived at our new abode, our first thought was to find a field for Neddy. The fort in which we were to live was quite small; there was a street on one side, and the river close up to the wall on the other; the square, or rather the small space within the wall, was gravelled: no where could we see a blade of grass for our poor donkey, and there appeared to be nothing but brown bog anywhere round. Poor Neddy was put in a stall at the inn for the night; he must have been much surprised at the hay, and the luxurious bed of straw; for a bare field had hitherto been his only resting-place, and green grass the very best thing he had had to eat. But the stall could not be continued; and as soon as our Papa had leisure, he looked about for a suitable place for Neddy. There was another small fort about half-a-mile down the river: it consisted of a moat, and a low wall with a few guns. There was one little cottage inside for the gunner in charge; and the whole space inside the wall, consisting of a flat terrace, with sloping banks, and a good space in the middle, was covered with beautiful thick green grass. This was just the place for Neddy; he would not be able to get out, and there was nothing inside that he could hurt; for, of course, the gunner would soon teach him that he was not to poke his nose inside his neat little cottage; and there was plenty of space for him to run about, and fresh moist grass to eat, which I should think he would like better than dry hay in a hot stall. So Papa asked, and obtained leave, to keep our donkey there; and we rode upon him from the inn, and put him in possession of the little fort. He pricked up his ears, and seemed not quite to like the clatter of his hoofs, as he crossed the planks which formed a rude bridge over the moat. We thought nothing of this at the time, but we had to think a great deal of it the next day, when we came to take our ride--in happy ignorance that this would be the very last ride we should ever take on Neddy's back. We kept our saddle and bridle in our kitchen, and had to carry it with us to the fort; so I put it on my head and the bridle round my waist, and my sister drove me, and pretended I was a donkey. So we came very merrily to the fort, and having saddled and bridled Master Neddy, I was mounted, and we proceeded towards the plank bridge. But just at the edge, Neddy stopped short, laid back his ears, tried to turn round, and, in fact, refused to cross. In vain we patted and coaxed, tried to tempt him across with a biscuit, then tied a pocket handkerchief over his eyes, and attempted to cheat him into crossing without his seeing where he stepped. In no way could we induce him to put his foot upon the plank. The gunner came to our aid; and we all worried ourselves to no purpose. There was no other way out of the fort, and we were ready to cry with vexation. At last, Nurse suggested that it would be best to return home, and ask Papa what we could do; and being at our wit's end, we took her advice and scampered back to the other fort. Papa, having heard our story, sent four of the men with us, telling them they were to bring Neddy out in the best way they could; but, that, come out, he _must_. When we returned, there stood Neddy, just where we had left him, staring stupidly at the bridge. At first, they wanted to whip him, only leaving open to him the way to the bridge; but we declared he should not be beaten; and the gunner agreed with us, that blows would only make him still more obstinate. "Well, then," they said, "as he is to come out at all hazards, the only thing we can do is to carry him, one to each leg." So they began to hoist up poor Neddy, who did not in the least approve of this mode of conveyance. He tried to bite and kick, and twisted himself about in all directions. How we did laugh to be sure! For when two of them had got his fore legs over their shoulders, he made darts at their hair and their faces with his mouth, so that they had to hold his nose with one hand and his leg with the other. Then getting up his hind-legs was worse still; for he jerked and kicked so, as almost to throw down the men; and we quite expected to see the whole four and the donkey roll into the moat together. At last, he was raised entirely on their shoulders, and they ran across the bridge and set him down on the other side. "Are we to have this piece of fun every morning, Sir?" asked one of the soldiers, as they stood panting and laughing. "I hope not," I said, "I dare say he will be glad to go in to the grass when we come back from our ride; and if he once crosses it, perhaps he will not be afraid tomorrow." So we took our ride; Neddy behaved quite as well as usual; his fright did not appear at all to have disturbed his placidity; and in about two hours we again stood before the terrible bridge. The gunner came out to see how we should manage. We took off the saddle and bridle, and invited Neddy to enter. There was the nice fresh grass, and banks to roll upon, and to run up and down, looking very tempting through the gate; and on the other side of the road, there was nothing but heaps of stones and a great brown bog, stretching away as far as we could see, with nothing at all to eat upon it. But for all that, Neddy looked at the bridge; smelt it; and, resolutely turning his back to it, stared dismally at the bog, as if he were thinking, "I don't see anything that I can eat there." However, it was evident that although the fear of starvation was before him, he could not make up his mind to cross the ditch; and, in fact, had absolutely determined not to do so. We were in despair; but feeling sure that it would not do to have him carried in and out every day; we disconsolately led him back to our home, and told our troubles to Papa, who ordered him back to the stall at the inn for the night. Next day, we tried in all directions to find a field where Neddy could graze; but no such place could be found. So we had a grand consultation as to what must be done for him; and Papa said that he could not keep him in a stall, feeding with hay, for, perhaps, half-a-year or more, as he expected to remain where we were for a long time. So we made up our minds to part with our donkey; and we did not regret it quite so much at this time of year, as winter would soon come on, when, probably, we should not be able to ride much. We sent Neddy to the nearest town, about ten miles off; and a little boy there became his master. And we kept his saddle and bridle, in hopes of supplying his place some day. BUNNY, THE WILD RABBIT. We were now living in England, in a country place--fields and woods and lanes all around. We took great pleasure in all the amusements of country life. Our Papa had some ferrets, which he used to take out for rat-hunting in the corn stacks with a terrier we had, named Tawney, and other dogs; and now and then he went to a rabbit warren at some little distance. A boy one day brought from this warren a hat full of young rabbits for the ferrets to eat. They were all supposed to be dead; but when Papa was looking at them, he saw that one of the poor little things was alive, so he brought it into the house and gave it to me and my sister, saying that if we thought we could feed it we might keep it. The poor little thing was so young, that it was a great chance whether we could bring it up; but we had a cook who was very fond of all animals, and she helped us to nurse it. She fed it with milk for a few days, and then it soon began to nibble at bran and vegetables, and in a week or two could eat quite as well as a full-grown rabbit. The gardener made us a nice little house for it, by nailing some bars across the open side of an old box, and it slept in this by the side of the kitchen fire; but we never fastened it up so that it could not get out, and in the day-time it was seldom in its box, but running about the kitchen, and it soon found its way along the passage into the sitting-room, and then upstairs to the nursery, and into all the bed-rooms. It went up and down stairs quite easily, and seemed perfectly happy running about the house. It was a very strange thing that our terrier Tawney, of whom I have much to tell afterwards, never thought of touching Bunny, for when out of doors he was most eager after any sort of animal, would run for miles after a rabbit or a hare, went perfectly crazy at the sight of a cat, and was famous for rat-hunting and all such things; but as soon as he entered the house, even if the saucy little Bunny bounded about just before his nose, he would quietly pass by, apparently without an idea that it was a thing to be hunted. In the evenings, when Tawney would lie asleep on the rug, Bunny used to run over him, sometimes nestling itself against his back or legs; then would pat his face with its fore paws, and take all manner of liberties with him, he never so much as growled or snapped at it, and seemed really to like the companionship of the poor little creature. One very favourite hiding-place of Bunny's was behind the books on the dining-room shelves. These were quite low down to the floor, and if he could find a gap where a book was taken out, he squeezed himself in, and as the shelves were very wide, there was plenty of room for him to run about behind the books. I suppose he liked the darkness, and thought it was something like one of his native burrows, and if he could not remember them, it was his natural propensity to live in narrow dark passages, and therefore he preferred such places to the open daylight. It was very funny to see his little brown face peeping out between the books. Sometimes it happened that a book was replaced whilst Bunny was snugly hidden behind, and then we missed him when we went to put him to bed in his box for the night. First we went to look for him in all the rooms, and about the passages, and if he was not in the bookcase he would always come when we called, so when we saw nothing of the little animal, we went and took a book out of each shelf, and we were sure to see his bright eyes glistening in the dark, and then out came little Bunny with a bound. He did not seem to care for running into the garden or yard, which was odd; but as he grew older his taste for burrowing showed itself strongly. As he used to follow the cook about everywhere, he had of course been often down to the cellar and larder. These were paved with small round stones, and there was an inner cellar, or rather a sort of receptacle for lumber of all sorts, which was not paved at all; it had a floor of earth. Old hampers and boxes were put away there, sometimes potatoes and carrots, etc., were spread on the floor there, and altogether the place had a very damp, earthy sort of smell, perhaps very like the inside of a rabbit burrow, and one day the cook came to ask Mamma to come and look at the litter Bunny had made in the cellar. We all ran down, and saw that Bunny had scratched up a quantity of earth from between the little stones with which the cellar was paved; in fact the cellar floor looked almost like a flower-bed, all earth. The door into the inner cellar happened to be shut, or most probably he would have commenced his operations where there were no stones to hinder him. Mamma said that the gardener should press down the earth again between the stones, and tighten any that were loose, and that Bunny must not be allowed at any time to go down into the cellar. But it was very difficult to prevent his doing so. In summer, the meat and the milk were kept down there, as being the coolest place, and the beer barrels were there, and the coals, in different compartments; and to fetch all these different things somebody or other was perpetually opening the door at the top of the stairs. So Bunny frequently found opportunities for slipping in at the open door, and he came every day less and less into the sitting-rooms. One evening he had the cunning to hide himself behind some of the empty hampers in the inner cellar, and when we called him, and looked about for him in the evening, no Bunny appeared. In vain we took books out of all the shelves, hunted behind the curtains, under the sofas, and in all his usual hiding-places, we were obliged to give it up, and go to bed without finding him. The next morning, we renewed our search, and seeing no sign of his work in the outer cellar, we determined to have a regular rummage in the inner one. After moving a great many bottles, baskets, boxes, and barrels, we found a great hole. The earth had evidently been just scratched out; for it was quite moist and fresh. The busy little fellow had made a long burrow during the night in the floor of the cellar. When he heard our voices, he came out of his newly-made retreat, and we took him up stairs and gave him some food; for he was quite ravenous after his hard work. Then we consulted with his friend the cook, how to manage about him in future. It would certainly never do to let him go on burrowing under the house; in time we should have all the walls undermined, and the house would come tumbling down upon us, burying us in the ruins. Terrible, indeed, was the catastrophe that we created in our imagination from the small foundation of Bunny's having scratched a hole in the cellar! And now that he had once tried and enjoyed the pleasures of burrowing, we could scarcely expect that he would relinquish it again. We went to talk about it to Mamma; and we proposed that Bunny should live in the garden. "But," said Mamma, "I shall have all my nice borders scratched into holes; and the roots of my beautiful rose-trees laid bare; and, in short, the whole flower-garden destroyed, to say nothing of the kitchen-garden, which would, of course, become a mere burrow." "Well, then, Mamma," we said; "we must make him a much larger house, and keep him in it altogether. We will not let him have his liberty at all; and then it will be impossible for him to do any mischief." But Mamma said, that although that plan would certainly prevent Bunny from burrowing; she thought that it would not be a very happy life for the poor little animal, who had been accustomed all his life to perfect liberty, and had never been confined to one place. We could think of no other plan; so begged Mamma to tell us what she thought we had better do. "Do you remember," said Mamma, "seeing a number of little brown rabbits, running about and darting in and out of their holes, in the wild part of the fir-woods, where we sometimes drive. There is a great deal of fern and grass about there, and nothing at all to prevent the rabbits from burrowing and enjoying their lives without any one to molest them. I advise you to take Bunny there, and to turn him loose in the fir-wood; he will very soon find some companion and make himself a home; and do you not think he will be far happier when leading that life of freedom, than if kept in a wooden house, or even if allowed to burrow in a cellar?" After some deliberation, we agreed to follow Mamma's advice; and the next day we drove to the fir-wood, taking Bunny with us in a basket. We drove slowly along the skirts of the wood, looking for a nice place to turn him out. At last, we came to an open space among the fir-trees; the ground was there thickly covered with long grass, ferns, and wild-flowers, and the banks beneath the firs were full of rabbit-holes; we saw many little heads popping in and out. "This is just the place," we cried. "What a beautiful sweet fresh place to live in; and we got down and went a little way into the grass; then we placed the basket on the ground and opened it. Bunny soon put up his head, snuffed the sunny sweet air, and glanced about him in all directions. No doubt he was filled with wonder at the change from our kitchen or dark cellars, to this lovely wood; with a bright blue sky, instead of a ceiling; waving green trees, instead of white walls; and on the ground, in place of a bare stone floor; inexhaustible delights in the way of food; and soft earth for burrowing. Having admired all this, he jumped out of the basket; first he nibbled a little bit of grass, then ran a little way among the ferns. "Do let us watch him till he runs into a rabbit hole," we said to Mamma. And Mamma said she would drive up and down the road that skirted the firs, for about half-an-hour, and we might watch Bunny. He wandered about for a long time among the grass and plants; and at last we lost sight of him in a thick mass of broom and ferns. Mamma thought it was useless to search for him; there was no doubt that he would thoroughly appreciate the advantages of the fir-wood. So we gathered a large bunch of wild flowers, jumped into the carriage, and left Bunny in his beautiful new home. THE JACKDAW. One morning, my sister was sitting with Mamma at the dining-room window, when they saw me coming down the garden walk, with my head bent down, and something perched on my back. "Look!" said Mamma, "What has your brother got on his back?" Up started my sister. "Oh!" cried she, "It is something alive; it is black: what can it be?" And she darted out to look at my prize. It was a fine glossy fully-fledged Jackdaw. The gardener, knowing my love for pets of all kinds, had rescued it from the hands of some boys, who had found a nest of jackdaws, and had presented it to me. Although it was quite young, it looked like a solemn old man; the crown of its head was becoming very grey; and it put its head on one side, and examined us in such a funny manner, listening with a wise look when we spoke, as if considering what we were saying. The gardener had cut one of his wings pretty close, and the remaining wing was not very large. We set him down in the garden, and watched him for some time, in order to be certain that he could not fly over the low wall that separated our garden from the road. And we soon saw that he could only flutter a few inches from the ground, and hop in a very awkward sidelong manner; there was no fear of his escaping. Luckily, there was a large wicker cage, that had once been used for a thrush, in the coach-house. We fetched this out, cleaned it, and placed Jacky in it on the ground near some shady bushes. We left the door open, that he might hop in and out, and always kept a saucer of food for him in the cage. He soon became very tame; would hop on our wrists and let us carry him about, and liked sitting on our shoulders, as we went about the garden. Near his cage was a large lilac-bush, and he found that he could hop nearly to the top by means of its branches; and he picked out for himself a nice perch there, in a sort of bower of lilac-leaves and flowers. Finding this much pleasanter than the cage, he soon deserted that entirely; and at night, and whenever he was not hopping about the garden, or playing with us, he was to be found always on the same twig in the lilac bush. We used to place his saucer of sopped bread, and his saucer of water at the foot of the bush. When we passed, he used to shout "Jacky!" and soon began to try other words; and tried to imitate all sorts of sounds and noises. In the heat of summer, when the bed-room windows were all opened at daylight, we used to hear him practising talking in his bush. He barked like the dogs; utterly failed in his attempt to sing like the canaries; mewed like pussy very well, indeed; and then kept up an indescribable kind of chattering, which we called saying his lessons; for we supposed that he intended it to imitate our repeating of lessons, which he heard every morning through the dining-room window. Sometimes we heard more noise than he could possibly make alone; and we softly got out of our beds, and peeped through the window to discover what it was about. There must have been six or seven other jackdaws, running round and about his bush, hopping up and down into it; apparently trying how they liked his house, and having all sorts of fun and conversation with our Jacky. Within a few fields of our garden walls, stood the old ruin of a hall or manor-house; it had once, doubtless, been large and handsome; nothing now remained of it but the outer wall, a few mullioned windows, and some remnants of stone-staircases. The walls being very thick and much broken, afforded excellent holes and corners for jackdaws'-nests; for owls and such things. Indeed, it was from one of these holes in the ruined hall, that Jacky had been taken. And the numerous feathered inhabitants of the "Old Hall," as it was called, having spied our pet, sitting in lonely state in his bower among the lilac leaves, doubtless thought he would be grateful for a little company, and the society of his equals; so kindly used to pay him a visit in the early morning, before children or gardener were likely to interfere. We were rather afraid that the wild jackdaws might entice away our Jacky, by describing to him their own free life, and the mode of existence in the crumbling walls of their home. But when Mamma made us observe how very awkwardly he hopped about with his cropped wing, and how utterly impossible it was for him to fly across two or three fields, and to the top of the ruin, we were satisfied that his stay in our garden was compulsory; and we agreed that the "Old Hall" jackdaws might visit him as much as they pleased. But they never once came at any other time than very early in the morning. I suppose Jacky thought that he had kept these visits a profound secret from us. As he grew older, he became extremely mischievous. When Mamma was busy in the garden, he used to come down from his tree and follow her about from one border to another, watching earnestly whatever she was doing; and whilst she tied up the plants, or gathered away the dead leaves and flowers, he used to put his head on one side, and seemed to be considering for what purpose this or that was done. Mamma was planting a quantity of sweet peas, in order to have a second and late crop, after the first had begun to fade. She planted them in circles, twelve peas in each, and a white marker was stuck in the centre of each patch. As it was fine warm weather, Mamma expected that these peas would very soon appear; but in a few days, when she went to look at them, she saw that all the white markers had been pulled up and thrown on one side. So she called to us, "Children! I am afraid you have meddled with my seed markers; for they have all been taken out, and I stuck them firmly in the ground; some one must have touched them." We assured Mamma that we were not the delinquents; indeed, we were too fond of all the beautiful flowers to injure them in any way. When we looked closer, we saw that there was an empty hole in each place where Mamma had planted a pea. They had every one been picked out. Whilst we were wondering who could have done this, the gardener passed, and Mamma showed him the empty holes, and the markers pulled up; and asked him who he thought likely to have done such a piece of mischief. "I shouldn't wonder if it war he," said the gardener, pointing to Jacky, who, as usual, was close to Mamma, listening attentively to all we said. "Jacky, Jacky!" shouted he, making some of his awkward jumps at the same time, and going close to the ring of little holes, he peeped down them, with his head on one side, as if to make sure that he had left nothing at the bottom. We could not help laughing at the queer old-fashioned manner of the creature; but, at the same time, it was very annoying for Mamma to lose all the pretty and sweet flowers through Jacky's greediness. She said she would plant some more immediately; and she sent my sister, with Jacky on her wrist, to the front of the house, with orders to stay there till the planting was finished, so that the mischievous bird might not watch the whole process, and would not know where the seeds were planted. I staid to help Mamma; we planted rings of sweet peas in different places from the old ones; and instead of white markers, which might attract Jacky's notice, we stuck in a great many bramble-sticks, all round every patch, so closely that a much smaller bird than Jacky would have found it difficult to squeeze himself in between the rough prickly twigs. Then we thought that all was safe, and we let Jacky come back to his perch. The next day he had not touched the brambles; but I suppose he had thought it necessary to do something in the way of gardening; so he had fetched up, from the farthest end of the kitchen garden, a roll of bass, or strips of old matting, that was used for tying plants and flowers to sticks. This he had pulled into little shreds, all about the lawn and the flower-beds, and a great deal of time and trouble he must have spent upon his work. How the gardener did scold! saying, that it would take the whole afternoon to clear away the litter, and that Jacky did more mischief than he was worth; and so on. But Jacky was a privileged person, and did pretty much as he liked; so it was of no use to complain about him. It was most amusing to see how he teased the gardener when mowing was going on; he would watch his opportunity, and when no one chanced to be looking, he would run away with a bit of carpet or piece of old flannel, that the gardener used to wipe his scythe; or else he would drag away the hone, or sharpening-stone, and hide it under his lilac-bush. So gardener, finding him a great nuisance on mowing days, told us that he should certainly mow off Jacky's head or legs some day; for he would come hopping about among the cut grass; and if taken up and landed in his tree, he would immediately come down again, and thrust himself just in the way. So for the future, we took care on mowing days to shut up Jacky in the nursery, or in the dining-room, where he used with a rueful countenance to watch all proceedings through the window, pecking now and then in a spiteful way at the glass. [Illustration: THE SPARROW-HAWK AND CAT. _Page 45._] Whilst Jacky was in our possession, we had a sparrow-hawk for a short time. Papa brought him home one evening in a paper bag; he was a very handsome fellow, with such brilliant eyes, and such a beak! He was perfectly wild, and bit furiously at any hand that approached him; so we covered up his head in a pocket-handkerchief, whilst gardener fastened a small chain round his leg. Then we fixed a short stump in the grass, not far from Jacky's lilac, and fastened the end of the chain to the stump. So he could run and hop about for a yard or two round the stump; we intended to keep him there until he became a little tamer, and hoped that the example of his neighbour would teach him good manners. But instead of taking Jacky as a pattern, the new comer bullied him in a most dreadful way. We might have saved ourselves the trouble of chaining him, for he snapped the chain in two with his strong beak, and came down from his stump quite at liberty to roam about. Strange to say, he did not go away altogether, but walked in at the dining-room window. We were seated at tea, and not knowing that the hawk had liberated himself, we were quite startled at hearing a curious flapping in the corner of the room, but we soon saw the two brilliant eyes, and there sat Mr. Sparrow-hawk, on the top of the book-case. We took him out and confined him to his stump again. There he staid quietly all night; but next day we heard Jacky pitying himself in his bush, and we found him fidgetting about in the top of the lilac, and fearing to come down, because Mr. Sparrow-hawk was walking about at the bottom, and whenever poor Jacky ventured down, he was darted at by the new comer, and hastily scrambled up the bush again. This was done out of pure love of teasing, for the hawk would not condescend to touch Jacky's food, consisting of sopped bread; but yet he would not let the poor old grey-head come down to eat his own breakfast. Jacky was quite crest-fallen, and we procured a stronger chain which held Mr. Sparrow-hawk fast on his stump for several days, during which time Jacky regained his equanimity. But then the chain was burst again, and this time the hawk took to chasing the cats as well as tormenting Jacky. We had two cats, they were very good friends with Jacky, and used wander about the garden a good deal; quite unconscious of what was in store for them; they commenced playing about Mr. Sparrow-hawk's stump, when down stepped the gentleman and nipped the tail of the nearest cat quite tightly in his sharp beak, poor pussy shrieked and mewed, and we had to go to her rescue. At last we left off chaining the hawk, as we found that he did not try to escape, but sat on his stump or else came into the house; and we often were startled by finding him perched on a table, or on the bannisters, but at the same time he would not become tame, and he so terrified and annoyed poor Jacky, that we soon sent him away; and certainly the cats and Jacky must have rejoiced, when they found the savage owner of the stump had disappeared. The only sign of civilization which Mr. Sparrow-hawk had shown, was one evening, when a gentleman who visited us, happened to be playing the flute in the drawing-room. The hawk never came into the room when any one was there, and had very often heard the piano and singing; but probably the peculiar sound of the flute had something very pleasing to the bird's ear, for although this room was full of people, he came to the open window, hopped in, and gradually approached the flute-player, till he perched himself on the end of the flute. When the music ceased, the hawk, quietly took himself out of the window again, and next day was as wild as ever. One of Jacky's great pleasures during the summer, was bathing or washing at the sink in the back kitchen. We always took care that he was provided with a large saucer of water, which stood beneath his lilac bush, but this did not appear to be sufficient. One day when the cook was pumping water out of the sink-pump, Jacky jumped up, and put his head under the stream, shouting and fluttering, with expressions of the greatest delight; and after this he generally came every day into the back kitchen, and called and hopped about until cook came and pumped over him. Such a miserable half drowned creature as he looked, with all his feathers sticking close to his body; then he used to repair to the kitchen and sit before the fire, till he became dry. Sometimes he got upon the fender, and when the fire was large, it made his feathers appear quite to smoke, by so rapidly drawing out the water. Once he was actually singeing, when the cook snatched him up and put him out of the window, and it was strange that he seemed to like the roasting at the fire, quite as well as the cold water. He soon discovered the time that tea was prepared in the kitchen, and regularly came to the window to ask for tea and bread and butter; so a saucer of tea and a piece of bread and butter were placed on the window-sill for him, as punctually as the cook's own tea was prepared; and Jacky sipped his tea, and ate his bread and butter like any old washerwoman. But whilst sitting at the kitchen window he spied all sorts of things on cook's little work-table that strongly tempted his thieving propensities, and coming cautiously one morning, when the cook was absent, he pretty well cleared the table; very many journeys in and out must it have cost him, for when the poor cook returned to her kitchen, she began exclaiming. "Who has been meddling with my work and all my things?" and she called to me and my sister, and asked if we had hidden her work materials to plague her. "No indeed," we said, "we have not been here this morning at all." "Well then," said she, "what has become of my thimble, my scissors, and reels of cotton, my work, that I laid upon the table, and there was also an account-book of your Mamma's, and a pen; I don't see one of them!" We hunted about for the missing articles. The kitchen window looked out on a plantation, not far from Jacky's bush. My sister looked out. "Oh!" cried she, "there is one leaf of your account-book on the border." "And I declare," exclaimed cook, who had run to the window, "there is one of my new reels twisted round and round yon rose tree; I do believe it's that mischeevous bird." We were delighted. We both sprang out of the window--"There's your thimble," I shouted, "full of wet mould!" "And here are your scissors," cried my sister, "in Jacky's drinking saucer! And there is your half-made shirt, hanging on the rose bush beneath the window!" Poor cook could not forbear laughing. "Well," said she, "he must have been right-down busy to take off all these things in about five minutes. Gather up my things for me, like good bairns." So we ran about picking up the things; the cotton reels were restored with about half their supply of cotton, as he had twisted them all round about the stems of different plants; the pen was stuck into the earth, and as for the account-book, the leaves were all about the garden, some he had even carried down to the cucumber frame, quite at the other end. But he was such a favourite, that even this sort of trick was allowed to pass unpunished. He furnished us with much amusement; and I am now coming to his sad end. The wall which separated our garden from the road, was very rough and old, full of holes and crumbling mortar. Once or twice, when sitting at the windows, we had seen a small animal run across the gravel walk; we could not discern whether it was most like a rat or a weasel, and probably it came in through one of the holes in the wall. We did think of Jacky; but knowing that he always roosted at the top of the lilac bush, we supposed that he was quite out of the reach of rat or weasel. One morning quite early, our Papa whose window was open, heard a very strange sort of chattering from poor Jacky, so unlike his usual language, that he got up and looked out of his window. Seeing nothing, and hearing no more, he went to bed again; but when Mamma went as usual to give Jacky his breakfast, no call of pleasure came from the bush, no Jacky was there, and he was no where to be seen. "Then a weasel has taken him," said Papa, when we told him; "the singular cry he made this morning, was doubtless when the weasel seized him." And when we searched about the garden, there we found on a grass bank, at some distance, the remains of our poor pet. The weasel had bitten him behind the ear, and sucked the blood; his feathers were a good deal ruffled, but no other bite had been made. We blamed ourselves much, for not having safely fastened him in a cage every night in the house. But now we could do nothing but bury the body of poor Jacky. PRICKER, THE HEDGEHOG. Shortly after poor Jacky's death, Papa called us into the garden. "Children!" he said, "Here is something for you in my handkerchief. Guess what it is; but don't touch." The handkerchief looked as if something very heavy was in it; and we guessed all sorts of things, but in vain. At last Papa let us feel, and my sister grasped it rather roughly; but withdrew her hand quickly, with five or six sharp pricks. "Oh! it is a nasty hedgehog," cried she; "look how my fingers are bleeding!" "Not a _nasty_ hedgehog," I said, "but a curious nice creature; where did you get it, Papa?" "It was given to me this morning for you," he replied; "It will live in the garden; and you must sometimes give it a little milk, and it will do very well; and perhaps become quite tame." The little creature, when placed on the grass, did not curl itself up and appear affrighted, but looked about him, and ran quickly to and fro. We brought some milk out in a saucer, but he could not manage to get his nose over the side; so we made a little pond of the milk on the grass, and he dipped his black snout into it, and then sucked it up greedily. This hedgehog soon became very tame; when we took him up in our hands, he did not curl up in afright, but let us look at his feet, and touch and pat his curious little pig's face. He helped himself to what he liked best in the garden; and we never found that he rooted up anything, or did the slightest damage; he liked the milk which we gave him daily; and when we were playing on the grass, he used to run about us, as if he liked our company. We had been told that we should never be able to keep a hedgehog; that they always climbed over the walls, and escaped to the fields and hedges. But although we did not in any way confine Pricker, he never attempted to leave us, being apparently quite content with his run of the kitchen garden, flower garden and house; for we sometimes carried him into the kitchen, and up stairs into the nursery, where he would roll himself up into some snug corner, and remain apparently asleep for an hour or more. When we had had Pricker for some weeks, we received a present of a second hedgehog. He was larger, but never became so tame as our first friend; he did not like to be taken up in our hands, and we never could obtain a good look at his black face and legs, as he rolled up on the slightest touch; and when Pricker was running about on the grass, his shy companion used to remain hidden beneath the leaves and plants. We had, at this time, a very favourite dog; and at the first coming of the hedgehogs, we were in some fear that Tawney would kill them, for he was a most eager hunter of rats, weasels, rabbits, cats; in short, of anything that would run from him. But every one assured us that a dog would not kill a hedgehog, on account of his sharp prickles; and the first time that we showed Pricker to Tawney, he made a sort of dart at him, and received, of course, a violent prick on the nose; at this he retreated, barking and licking his lips, and dancing round poor Pricker, with every desire to attack again; but hoping to find a spot unprotected by the formidable spikes. Pricker, however, having tightly rolled himself up, such a spot was not to be found; and, after a great deal of noise and excitement, Tawney retired, and we never observed him to venture again. When Pricker was running on the grass, or when we were feeding him with milk, Tawney used to play about without condescending to take the slightest notice of the little animal; in short, he pretended not to see him. So that we felt quite easy about the safety of Pricker and his comrade. What it was that induced Tawney not only to _see_ Pricker, but to attack him again, we do not know, as nobody was witness of the catastrophe. On going into the garden one brilliant morning, Tawney made his appearance in a very excited state, bounding about our feet with a short delighted bark, that was not usually his morning salutation; and on looking more closely at him, we saw that his nose was bleeding; indeed, his whole head and ears were much ruffled and marked. We did not at first think of Pricker; but on wiping Tawney's face with a wet towel, we found that he was bleeding from many wounds. "The hedgehog!" we exclaimed, "He must have killed poor Pricker." So we commenced a grand hunt through the garden, looking under all the cabbage-plants, and in all the usual haunts. Behind the cucumber frame we found our hedgehog; but as he curled up the moment we looked at him, we knew that it was not Pricker; and on further search we discovered the mangled remains of the poor animal, whose natural armour had not been sufficient to protect him from so brave and plucky a little dog as our Tawney, who must really have suffered greatly from the deep thrusts into his face and head before he could have inflicted a mortal bite. Now, we thought, what shall we do with the other; as, doubtless, Tawney, would not allow him to live, having found himself the conqueror in the present instance. Papa said that a gentlemen, one of our neighbours, had been telling him that his kitchen was infested with black beetles; and that he had tried beetle-traps, and all sorts of methods of getting rid of them in vain. Papa had told him that the surest way was to keep a hedgehog in the kitchen, as they devour black-beetles greedily. "Now," said Papa, "as you cannot keep the little creature in safety here, you had better make a present of it to Mr. D----; and I advise you to carry it to him at once." Accordingly, we took the hedgehog to our neighbour, and it was duly installed in the kitchen. In a day or two, we went to enquire whether the beetles were decreasing. Alas! the poor hedgehog had fallen a victim to his own greediness; for, having eaten too many beetles, he was found dead amidst a heap of the slain. DRAKE, THE RETRIEVER. It happened at this time that we passed another winter in Ireland; and missing our garden, and other occupations, my father made us a present of a dog. Drake was a large handsome retriever of a dark brown colour, with very short curly hair. I believe that sort of dog is called the "Irish Retriever;" they are certainly very common in that country. I remember to have seen many of them; but our Drake, we thought, was handsomer than the generality; his coat was more curly and of a better colour, and he was taller--for they often have rather short legs in proportion to their body. He was a very rough bouncing creature, full of life and activity; many a tumble, and many a hard knock we received in our games with him; he used to bound at us, and putting both paws on our shoulders, roll us over like ninepins. It was winter when he came to us--a very hard winter, almost constant frost, and now and then heavy falls of snow--we were at that time in a small fort on the bank of the Shannon; and although that is a very broad, deep, and rapid river, it was once, during the winter, quite frozen over for more than a week; and, after that, when the strongest current remained unfrozen, there was still a great deal of ice on the sides, and all among the sedges and rushes that grew among the flat banks. Drake liked the cold very much, and liked rolling in the snow, and being pelted with snow-balls, which was our chief amusement out of doors during the winter. In the house we had fine games of hide and seek; we hid a glove or pocket-handkerchief under the sofa-cushion, or in the curtain, or in Mamma's pocket, and telling Drake to find it; he would rush frantically about the room, snuffing in every hole and corner, until he brought to light the hidden article. Then we had races, in and out the bed-rooms and sitting-rooms, up and down the stairs, and round the tables; but these races generally ended by something being thrown down, or, at least, by our clothes being torn in Drake's exultation at catching us. Whilst the hard frosts lasted, Papa had Drake out with him a great deal. Wild geese and wild ducks abounded on the river; but they were extremely difficult to shoot; they generally flew in great numbers, and seemed to keep a sentinel, or one to look out; for it was almost impossible to approach them near enough to have them within the reach of a shot. It was now that Drake's fetching and carrying propensities became most valuable. Papa had a flat punt constructed; it was a most curious-looking boat, so flat that it scarcely stood out of the water at all; inside was fixed a large duck-gun on a swivel, and then there was just room for Papa, and one man, to lie down at the bottom, with Drake; it was rowed by one paddle at the stern. [Illustration: DRAKE, THE RETRIEVER. _Page 57._] The geese and ducks used to come to feed on the river's banks very early indeed in the morning; and so watchful and shy were they, that even in the flat punt, Papa found that he could not come at all near them unperceived. Off they would all go again, making such a flapping with their great wings, and quacking as they went. So Papa, having noticed a flat swampy sort of place, some way down the river, set out late at night in the punt; and, reaching this feeding-ground, waited there till the flock came flying over them. They made themselves heard sometime before they arrived; and then Papa, the man, and Drake, all crouched down and remained immoveable until the birds were right overhead; and then, bang went the great duck-gun, and down tumbled, at least, half-a-dozen great fat geese. Now was Drake's time; and but for him no geese would have been brought home, although many might have been shot. Out of the punt sprang Drake, and soon carried back one or two that had fallen into the open water; then he would carefully get upon the thin ice, between the rushes and the coarse grass, and bring to light any wounded bird that had sought to find a shelter there. Then again into the water where great thick reeds prevented the boat from going; if the birds dived, he dived after them; and, in short, none escaped him; he swam after them, scrambled along the ice after them, rummaged in the weeds all stiff with frozen snow, and having seized one and hurried back to the boat with it, off he would start for another. But when the flock had once received a shot, they came no more to the same place that night; so no more was to be done, unless a chance bird or two on the way home. Sometimes they flew one or two together; we have seen them from the windows of the fort, fly quite close to the bridge in the daytime; but only great hunger could have driven them to this. When the party reached home, and the birds were spread out on the floor to be looked at, how pleased Drake was, and how proudly he snuffed from one to the other. The wild geese were very handsome birds, not so large as common geese, but very plump, and with a beautiful dark brown plumage. They were very good to eat, for they do not live on fish, as some suppose, but eat only the weeds and grass that they find in certain spots along the river's bank. But the ducks were handsomer still, very nearly as large as the geese; less tough when cooked, and having brilliant blue feathers in each wing. Then there was a smaller kind of duck, with green feathers instead of blue, in the wings; this green was like the humming bird's green, as bright as emerald. Besides these, there were teals, very pretty-looking things with silvery looking feathers on the breast, and a variety of small ducks, and curlews. All pretty, and all good to eat; we had to thank Drake for every one of them, as without his help very few would have been picked up; there was so much thin ice along the river, that would not have borne a greater weight than Drake, so when they fell upon this, they were quite out of man's reach, to say nothing of the difficulty of groping out a wounded bird from a wilderness of long grass and rushes, growing in pretty deep water. Drake highly enjoyed the night expeditions, and when the punt was getting ready, or the gun cleaning, he would jump about and bark, as if to say "I know what is in contemplation." When the winter was nearly passed, we went back to England, leaving Drake in the fort; being much played with and sometimes teazed by the soldiers, he became very rough, and rather inclined to snap and bite. Shortly afterwards he was sent to us in England, and on his arrival we brought him in, to have a game with us in the house. We had a large ball, and were making Drake fetch it, when we rolled it to the end of the room. This went on very well for some time, excepting that Drake did not give the ball up without a growl, which he had never done formerly; and at last, he laid down with it between his fore feet, and I desired him to bring it in vain, so I went to him and took it in my hand, when he flew at me with a growl, and bit my cheek. It was not a very severe bite, but Mamma said she would not keep the best dog in the world after he had bitten one of us, and that Drake must immediately be sent away. Then Papa wrote to a gentleman who knew what a clever dog at finding game Drake was, and he agreed to buy him. So he was sent off without our seeing him again. TAWNEY, THE TERRIER. We now come to the very chief of our favourites, our dear dog Tawney. Before he arrived, we only had a setter who lived in his kennel in the yard, and we never petted him much; and once when Papa went away for several months, he took the dog with him, so we were without any guard. At this time a great many robberies had taken place, and houses had been broken into in the neighbouring town. There appeared to be a gang of house-breakers going about. And when Mamma was writing to our Grandmamma, she said that she quite expected a visit from this gang, some night, as Papa was away, and no man in the house. Grandmamma replied that the best safeguard was a little terrier, sleeping inside the house, and that she would send her one; and in a few days we received a beautiful terrier, close haired and compact, with such brilliant dark eyes and of a yellowish colour, more the colour of a lion than anything else, so we named him "Tawney." A bed was arranged for him in a flat basket, which was placed every evening near the back door, and we soon found what sharp ears he had, and what a good watch-dog he would prove. If Mamma got up after every one had gone to bed, and opened her own door as softly as possible, Tawney heard the lock turn, and barked instantly. He always gave notice when anybody entered the front gate, or came into the yard, and we felt sure that no housebreaker could approach the house _unheard_ at least. Tawney became our constant companion. He took his meals with us, sat under the table during our lessons, walked out with us, joined in all our romps and games; and was really almost as companionable as another child could have been. At hide and seek, running races, leaping over a pole, and blind man's buff, he played as well as any boy, and when we drove in the pony carriage, he amused us excessively. He darted into every door or gate he found open, and in passing through the town he behaved so badly with respect to the cats, that we were obliged to take him into the carriage, until we had quite left the streets. If he saw a poor quiet cat sitting at a door he flew at her; and if the cat took refuge in the house, Tawney followed, barking and yelping, and doing all he could to worry poor puss. Of course this was not at all pleasing to the inmates, and generally Tawney emerged, as quickly as he entered, followed by a flying broom-stick, sometimes by the contents of a pail of dirty water; and often by an angry scolding woman, whom we had to appease as we best could. Then if he saw a little child with a piece of bread, or a mug of milk, he would seize upon the food, knocking down the child by the roughness of his spring; and then we had again to apologise and explain, and regret, and so on; and although all these pranks were done in the joy and delight of his heart, at starting for a good run in the country, that was no comfort to the aggrieved cats and children; and he became so unbearable when in the town, that we used to make a circuit to avoid the streets, or else as I said before, take him inside the carriage. Then when we reached the lanes and roads, we gave him his liberty, which he thoroughly enjoyed. How he raced before us, how he sprang over the hedges and walls, sometimes disappearing entirely for a field or two, and then suddenly darting out from some wood or garden! Once or twice he returned to the carriage with his nose bloody; we could not discover what he had been worrying. But it must be confessed that he was a fierce little animal, and had no idea of fearing anything. Sometimes he disappeared altogether when running after the carriage, and more than once staid out all night and even two nights; but always returned safely and in good plight, as if he had not been starved. We used to wish that he had the power of telling us his adventures on these occasions: where he had slept; what pranks he had played; and in how many scrapes and difficulties he had found himself. His greatest delight was when Papa took him with us to hunt a stack for rats. Oh! what a wonderful state of excitement was Tawney in; he used to sit staring at a hole in the stack as if his eyes would spring from his head, and shaking in every limb with delightful expectation. Then, when the rat bolted from his concealment, what a sharp spring did the little fellow make; and having dispatched his victim, would peer up to the top of the stack and seem to examine so carefully all up the side, to discover another hole that looked promising. If none offered, he would run off to another stack, and snuffing all round it, search most carefully for signs of rat holes. One of Tawney's most annoying tricks, was his love of fighting; he scarcely ever met with another dog, without flying at him and provoking him to a severe contest, in which torn ears were his usual reward; but this sort of hurt was perfectly disregarded by him. On one occasion, we went a journey to the sea-shore, and Tawney was put into a dog-box, with several other dogs. While the train was in motion the rattle and noise prevented us from hearing them; but at the first station a most tremendous yelping, snarling, and shrieking arose from the dog-box; and, on opening the door, the whole number of dogs were tearing and biting each other; no doubt, having been invited to the contest by our naughty Tawney. The combatants having been separated by dint of dragging at their tails, legs, and bodies, Tawney, with damaged mouth and ears, though wagging his tail and wriggling about with pleasure, was consigned to a solitary prison for the rest of the journey; and the remaining dogs were left to lick their wounds in peace. We were anxious to see what Tawney would think of the sea; we had neither river, pond, or lake, near our home in the country, so had never had an opportunity of trying his powers of swimming. The first day that we went down to the shingle, the sea was very rough; great tops of white foam rolling over on the beach; and we had no idea that the little fellow would venture into the midst of such a very novel-looking element. However, we flung a stick in. "Fetch it, Tawney! Fetch it!" And in plunged the bold little animal; the first wave threw him up on the beach again, looking rather astonished; but he did not hesitate to try again. The water being so rough, we did not urge his going in any further, fearing that he might be washed away; but on smooth days, he would swim out a long way, and bring back any floating thing that was thrown in; and he enjoyed his swims as much as any regular water-dog could do. He had a habit of paying visits by himself, when we were at home; he used regularly to go down the road to a farmer, at some little distance, every morning about eight o'clock, and quietly return, trotting along the footpath at nine, which, doubtless, he knew to be the breakfast hour. Whilst we were at the sea-side, he used to visit a family with whom we were intimate. Running to their gate, he waited till some one rang, and entered with them; if their business was not in the drawing-room, he again waited till some other person opened the door, and then he settled himself on the hearth-rug for about half an hour; after which, he took leave by wagging his tail, and came home again. The lodging in which we were, was one on a long terrace, the front looking on the sea, and the back having a long strip of yard opening into a lane. The kitchen being in front, Tawney found that he was not heard when he barked to be let in at the back of the house. But the servant did not approve of coming up the steep kitchen stairs to let in Mr. Tawney, when the back door was level with the kitchen, and only a step for her; and, in some way, Tawney comprehended this; for he used to come to the front of the house; and the area of the kitchen-window being close to the front door, he was sure that his bark was heard. Then he raced round the end of the terrace, and through the lane, to the back door; and by the time cook had gone to open it, there was Mr. Tawney ready to enter. There being no fear of housebreakers or thieves here, the dog was allowed to sleep in Mamma's bed-room; we provided him with a box and some folds of carpeting at the bottom, and made him, we thought, a soft comfortable bed. But Tawney much preferred sheets and blankets, and, my sister sleeping in a little bed in the corner of Mamma's room, he used to wait till she was fast asleep, and then slip himself on to the bed so quietly as not to wake her; and, getting down to the foot of the bed, would remain there till morning. But Mamma said he must stay in his box; and forbad my sister to allow him to get on the bed. As, however, he never tried to do so until she was asleep, she could not prevent it. So Mamma listened, and when she heard Tawney very softly leave his box and go to the bed, she got up and whipped him, and put him back in his box, ordering him to stay there. Several nights this took place; till Tawney had the cunning to wait till Mamma also was asleep, when he crept into the warm resting-place, and staid there in peace till the morning. When daylight appeared, he returned to his own bed, in order to avoid the morning whipping, which he knew would come, were he discovered in the forbidden place. When we were returning home, we were to make some visits in London; so, thinking it best not to take Tawney, we entrusted him to a man who was going to our own town, with many charges as to feeding and watching him. And when we had left London and arrived at home, there was poor Tawney safe and well, and extravagantly delighted to see us. When we enquired about his behaviour on the road, of the man who had brought him, he told us that he had been in a terrible fright at the London station, thinking that he had lost Tawney entirely. He had to cross London from one station to another; and there was an hour or two to spare before the starting of the train from the second station; so, wishing to leave the station for that time, and fearing to risk Tawney in the street, he tied him up, as he thought, safely in a shed belonging to the station. He was also taking with him some luggage belonging to us, among which was a large round packing-case, that usually stood in Mamma's room; these were shut up in a store-house at the other end of the station. At the appointed hour our friend returned to the station, and went to claim the dog; but no Tawney was in the shed, only the end of the broken rope which had fastened him. In great anxiety he ran about enquiring of all he met. No one knew anything of the dog, no one had seen him pass out of the station; and after fruitless search in all the waiting and refreshment rooms, and in short through the whole station; he was reluctantly obliged to go for the luggage in order to pursue his journey, when, on opening the door of the store-house, what was his joy on beholding the missing Tawney, seated on the top of the round packing case, that he well knew to belong to his mistress. How he found out that the luggage was in the store-house, and how he got in, we could not of course discover; and it only confirmed us in our opinion of Tawney's intense wisdom. We and Tawney enjoyed ourselves much for some weeks, taking long walks, long drives, and hunting rats in all the neighbours' stacks. We had some fine games in our own field, and a great deal of basking in the sun, as it was a beautiful summer, with constant sunshine. I mentioned, that Tawney used to enrage the people in the cottages by trying to worry their cats. On one of these occasions, when he had made a dreadful confusion at the door of a cottage containing children, upsetting a tub of soap-suds, dirtying the clean sanded floor, and frightening an old woman nearly out of her wits, by his reckless endeavour to seize on the cat; a man had come angrily out of the cottage, and coming close up to the carriage, declared with a clenched fist, and a furious countenance, that if Tawney ever approached his door again, he would kill him. Papa, who happened to be with us, said that if he would give Tawney a good beating, it would punish the dog without punishing us; and as he was a great favourite, he begged that he would not think of killing him. Then we drove on, leaving the man standing sulkily in the road. Whether Tawney had gone alone to this cottage for the purpose of worrying the cat, or whether the man had taken his revenge for the first offence, or whether he had done any thing in the matter, we shall never know; but we could not help suspecting him when the following sad affair happened. It was a very sultry day, too much so to run or to do anything but lie on the grass, which we did during the whole morning. Papa sat reading on a bench placed in the shady side of the house, and we were on the grass beside him; Tawney lay roasting in the sun, and, now and then, panting with heat, came to us in the shade, or even went into the dining-room window and flung himself down under the table; some steps led into the garden from the window, and as the window-sill was not level with the dining-room floor, but raised about two feet above it, we had a stool or sort of step inside the window, as well as outside; Tawney generally sprang through, without troubling himself about the steps. Soon after Tawney had entered the house, apparently for the purpose of cooling himself, we heard a tumble, then another, and I got up to see what he was doing. "Why Papa," I cried, "what can be the matter with Tawney, he is trying to jump out of the window and cannot reach the sill, and falls back again." Papa came to see, and again the dog made an ineffectual spring at the low window-sill. Papa lifted him out into the garden, saying he supposed he had half blinded himself with lying so long in the hot sunshine. But we continued to watch him, and presently we saw his limbs twitching in a sort of fit, and he ran wildly about us. Papa called to the gardener, and they took him into the stable, forbidding us to approach him, as they feared he was going mad; they dashed water over him as he lay exhausted on the straw in the stable; but soon the fits became more and more violent, and our poor dog in a few hours was dead. A man that examined him by Papa's desire, said there was no doubt that he had been poisoned by strychnine. He might have picked up something so poisoned while running in the roads, or it might have been purposely done by the angry man to whom I alluded. We never found out the manner in which it had been administered, and could only regret most heartily the loss of our dear playfellow. We had not another dog for a very long time, and never shall love one so well as Tawney. PUFFER, THE PIGEON. What pretty things are pigeons, how happy and nice they look sitting on the house-top, and walking up and down the sloping roof with their pretty pink feet and slender legs; and then how they flutter up into the air, making circles round the house, and now and then darting off on a straight flight across the fields. Soon after we came to live at our country house, my sister had a present of a pair of fantail pigeons, quite white. They were beauties, not the slightest speck of any colour was on their feathers; and when they walked about with their tails spread out in a fan, and their necks pulled up so proudly, we thought them the prettiest creatures we had ever seen. Our Papa allowed us to have a nice place made for them in the roof of the stables, with some holes for them to go in at, and a board before the holes for them to alight on; inside there were some niches for nests, and as the fantails were quite young, we soon ventured to put them in there. At first we spread a net over their holes, so that they could only walk about on the board outside; and when we thought they knew the look of the place well, we let them have their entire liberty, and they never left us. Next we obtained a pair of tumblers, these were small dumpy little birds, of a burnished sort of copper colour, and such queer short little bills; when they were flying, they turned head over heels in the air, without in the least interrupting their flight. Then we had some capuchins, they were very curious-looking creatures, white and pale reddish brown, with a sort of a frill sticking up round their necks, and the back of their heads. We called them our Queen Elizabeths, for their ruffs were much more like her's than like a monk's hood, from which resemblance they are named. Besides these, we had several common pigeons, some pretty bluish and white. We fed them regularly in the yard, and when they saw us run out of the house, with our wooden bowl full of grain, they came fluttering down and took it out of our hands, and strutted about close to us so tamely and nicely; and then they would whirl up again in the air. We lived quite close to a railway station, and at one time of the autumn, a great number of sacks of grain were brought there for carriage to distant parts of the country; for the corn fields were very numerous about us. In the process of unloading these sacks from the carts, and again packing them on the railway trucks, a quantity of corn was spilt about, and our pigeons were not slow to find this out; we noticed they were constantly flying over into the station-yards; and sometimes when we went to feed them in the morning, they did not come for our breakfast at all, having already made a great meal at the station. There was an old pigeon-house in the roof of the luggage store, which formed part of the station buildings; and our ungrateful pigeons actually went and built some of their nests in this pigeon house in preference to our own. At least, they laid their eggs there; as for building a nest they never did, they trod an untidy sort of hollow in the straw and wool we placed for them, and there laid their eggs. We often wondered why it was they did not build beautiful compact and smooth nests like the little hedge birds. That was the only thing about the pigeons that we did not like--their dirty untidy nests, and the frightful ugliness of the newly-hatched pigeons. The first nest they had, was made by the white fantails, and we had anxiously watched for the hatching, expecting that we should have two beautiful little soft white downy pigeons, something like young chickens, or, still better, young goslings. And how disappointed we were when we saw the little frights, with their bare great heads and lumps of eyes, and their ugly red-skinned bodies, stuck full of bluish quills. After that we did not much trouble ourselves about the young pigeons, until they came out with some feathers, and tried to fly; but for all that, it was very provoking to see them go off to another house. Our favourite of all, was a large handsome pouter or cropper. He was of a kind of dove colour, mixed with green and bluish feathers, and when he stood upright, and swelled out his breast, he was quite beautiful. He became tamer than any one of the pigeons; he would come to the window when we were breakfasting, and take crumbs of bread from our fingers, he would perch on our shoulders when we called to him in the yard, and liked to strut about at the back door, and to come into the kitchen and to peck about beneath the table; we called him Puffer. But he too was very fond of going to the station, and sitting on the store-house roof; and at last, really half our pigeons had their nests in the station house instead of in ours. We went and fetched them out, nests and eggs altogether, several times; and then we persuaded the station men to block up the door of the old pigeon-house, which prevented them from laying their eggs there, but they still greedily preferred that yard to our own. Then came the harvest time. There were many fields of corn within sight of our house, and we perceived that our naughty pigeons took to flying out to these fields, instead of going so much to the station. How beautiful they looked with Puffer at their head, darting along in the sunshine, till they were almost out of sight; and in about an hour they would come back again, spreading themselves all over the house-top, and lying down to bask in the sun, and to rest after their long flight, and the good meal they had made in the corn-fields. Puffer would always come down to us, however tired, and let us stroke him and kiss his glossy head and neck. One day after they had all flown far out all over the fields, we heard a shot at a distance; we were not noticing it much, beyond saying to each other, "There is some one shooting;" but the gardener who was with us observed, "I wish it may not be some one firing at your pigeons. The farmers can't bear their coming after the grain; I am sorry they have taken to flying away to them corn-fields." This alarmed us, and we watched eagerly for the return of the pigeons. "Here they come," I exclaimed, and presently they were all settling as usual about the house top, Puffer in the midst quite safe. "Count them, Sir," said the gardener. So we set to work to number the fantails, tumblers, Queen Elizabeths, and dear old Puffer; all right, but surely there were not so many of the common pigeons; no, two were missing! "They've been shot then, sure as fate," said the gardener, "we shall lose them all I fear." Next morning we gave them a double breakfast, hoping that not feeling hungry, they would not again go to the fields; but off they went as usual about mid-day, and very anxiously we watched for their returning flight; we could always see Puffer a long way off, he was so much larger than the others, and we longed for the time when all the corn would be reaped and carried away, out of the reach of our favourites. One by one our pigeons diminished; we begged the gardener to speak to the farmers about, and ask them not to shoot our pigeons; but he said that it must be very annoying to the farmers to see a tribe of birds devouring the produce of their hard labour and anxiety; and that he did not wonder at their endeavouring to destroy the thieves. He said that if he spoke about it, the farmer would say, "Shut up your birds, and if they don't meddle with us, we shan't meddle with them." Then we consulted whether we could cage our pigeons; but they had always had their liberty, and we were sure that they would not thrive if shut up. So we must take our chance, and the naughty things persisted in flying over the fields to the distant corn. One day, no Puffer returned to us; and in despair we gave away all our remaining pigeons. DR. BATTIUS--THE BAT. I now come to rather a singular pet. Every one--or rather every child--has a dog, or a cat, or rabbits, or thrushes; little birds in cages are dreadfully common, and so are parrots; so are jackdaws; and, as for ponies and donkeys, what country-house is without them. But I think that many people have not had a tame bat. It is not generally a tempting-looking creature; and I should never have thought of taking any trouble to procure one with the intention of petting it. Our bat put itself into my possession by coming or falling down the chimney of my bed-room. The room was dark; and I heard a scratching and fluttering in the chimney for some time. Then I heard the flapping of wings about the room; and thought that a robin or a martin had perhaps fallen into the chimney and had been unable to make its way again to the top. I got up, and was seeking a match to light my candle, when the little creature came against me, and I caught it with both hands spread over it. I felt directly that it was not a bird; there is something so peculiarly soft and strange in the feel of a bat; and I was nearly throwing it down with a sort of disgust. Second thoughts, which are generally best, came in time to prevent my hurting the poor little creature; and I lighted the candle, and took a good look at my prize. It was about the size of a small mouse; it kept its wings closely folded, and I placed it in a drawer, and shut it up till morning, when I and my sister had a long inspection of my prize. I do not know of what variety it was; for there are, I believe, a great many different kinds. He had not long ears; his eyes were very small indeed, though bright. We had never handled a bat before, and were not soon weary of examining his curious blackish wings; the little hooks, where his fore-feet, apparently, should have been; his strangely-deformed hind feet; and his mouse-like body and fur. We wrapped him up and shut him in a basket, and during the day, I caught a handful of flies, of all sizes, and put them into the basket. When it grew dusk, we opened the basket, and he soon came out and fluttered about the room for a time; we found that he had eaten all the flies, but not the wings of the larger ones. When he had been at liberty for some time, we easily caught him again, and shut him up; and when he became a little more used to me, I left him out all night, being careful to close the opening into the chimney; and he used to have the range of mine and the adjoining room during the night. We tried him with a variety of food. I had fancied that bats ate leaves and fruit; but he never touched anything of that kind. He would eat meat, preferring raw to cooked; and would drink milk, sucking it up, more than lapping. He evidently did not like the light; but sometimes would make flights about the room when candles were burning; and, occasionally, I took him about in my jacket pocket in the day-time. If I took him out to show him to any one in the broad day-light, he never unfolded his wings to fly, but remained quietly in my hand with his wings folded. We had been reading a book in which one of the characters, a strange old man, was named Dr. Battius; so we called our bat after him; and I do think the little creature learnt to know me. He never fluttered or tried to get away from me; and would always let me take hold of him without manifesting any fear. He went several long journeys in my pocket; once I had him with me in a lodging by the sea-side, and amused myself much with him. He would sit on the table in the evening, lap his milk at my supper-time, and would vary his exercise by crawling or progressing along the floor, darting about the room, or hanging himself up to something by his hooks, and letting his body swing about. He cleaned himself carefully, used to rub his nose against the soft part of his wing, or rather his black skin, for it was not much like a wing, and would scratch and clean his body with his hind feet. People used to say, "How can you keep such a repulsive sort of animal?" But, in fact he was not a dirty creature; he spent as much time rubbing and scraping himself, as any cat would do; and he ate nothing dirty, raw beef and flies being his chief food, with a very little milk. We had heard and read that bats have some extraordinary way of seeing in the total darkness, or else that their touch is so delicate, that they can feel when approaching any wall or hard thing; and it was so with Dr. Battius, excepting on one occasion--the night when I first caught him; then he struck against my chest; so that I secured him easily, by clasping both hands over him. But I never after saw him strike against anything; he used to fly about my room at night, and I never heard the least tap against any object; he even would come inside my bed curtains, and fly to and fro; but I could not detect the slightest sound of touching them. The black skin that formed his wings was so wonderfully soft to the touch, that perhaps he felt with that, when the wings were spread out. I cannot imagine that his crushed-up little eyes could see in the dark; they appeared scarcely good enough to see at all in any light. This poor little creature lived in my care for many months. I went to visit some friends who were not fond of any animal in the house; and I knew that this dusky little creature would inspire disgust, if not terror, among some of the party. So, unwillingly, I left him at home. But my sister being away too, the servant, perhaps gave him too much food, or he missed his exercise about the room. One morning he was found dead in his drawer. I have no idea whether bats are long-lived animals; or whether they would, for any time, flourish in solitude. Had I kept the poor little doctor with me, I might have found out more about him. THE CHOUGH. I think I may here describe a bird, which, although he was not our property, was watched with much interest by us, and which we never met with but once. It was a Chough. It belonged to an officer who was living in the same barracks; and we first saw it perched on the window-sill of his kitchen. "Is that a crow?" asked my sister, pointing to it, as we stopped to examine it. "That cannot be a crow," I answered; "its legs are yellow, as well as its beak; and it is more slender, and a more bluish sort of black." When we approached and offered to touch it; it did not draw back or appear shy, but allowed us to stroke its back and look at it quite closely. It was a very handsome bird; its plumage beautifully glossy; its claws hooked and black; and its tongue very long. It was pecking at a plate of food that was near it; but did not appear very hungry. Presently, the officer's servant came to the window, and we enquired what it was. "A Cornish Chough," was the answer. We had never seen one before; indeed, knew nothing about that sort of bird. We had, indeed, heard its name in an old song or glee, called the "Chough and Crow;" or that begins with those words. So we asked Mamma about it when we went in, and she showed us an account of it, in which we found that it is not at all common everywhere, like a crow; but that it only lives in the cliffs of Cornwall, Devonshire, and Wales; and has sometimes, but rarely, been seen about Beachy Head, and in no other part of Europe, excepting the Alps. So that it is really a very uncommon bird. The same account said that they could be taught to speak like a jackdaw. But we never heard this one say anything, or make any noise, except a sort of call or croak, with which he answered the servant who attended to him. We always stopped to stroke and pat him when we went out to walk; and he was a great pet with the soldiers, and went about some years with the regiment. He showed his intelligence and quickness in a very curious way. During the time that the regiment was quartered in Scotland he was lost; he had either wandered out of the barrack-gate, and had failed to find his way back again; or he had been picked up and carried away by some thief. He was, however, never seen or heard of for many months, and was given up as lost. The regiment then removed to Edinburgh; and two or three soldiers went to visit a sort of zoological garden in the outskirts. There were a great number of cages, among other things; and the attention of the men was attracted to one of these cages by the violent fluttering and exertion made by the inhabitant to get out. On coming closer to the cage, they perceived that the prisoner was the old Cornish Chough; and they asked the keeper if it was lately that they had confined it, since it seemed so uneasy. The man said that it had been in that cage for a long time, and never had been otherwise than perfectly quiet and satisfied. They wished to take it away, saying they knew the bird's former master; but the owner refused to part with it, and the soldiers passed on. On their way back, the keeper was still standing watching the bird; who, as soon as the soldiers came again in sight, fluttered and dashed itself violently against the bars. The man said that losing sight of them, it became quiet, and sat dolefully on its perch; but the moment it again saw them, it exerted all its strength to reach them. There is no doubt that the poor bird recognised the red-coats, among which it had formerly lived, and wished to go to his old friends. The soldiers told the officer how they had discovered his old pet; and he purchased it from the keeper of the garden. The poor Chough manifested great pleasure at being again in the barrack kitchen, and followed the fortunes of the regiment until his master's death, when we lost sight of the yellow-billed yellow-legged Cornish Chough. THE KITTENS--BLACKY AND SNOWDROP. "Guess what we have, Mamma! Guess!" cried I and my sister, as we ran into the dining-room, with something wrapped up in each of our pinafores. So Mamma felt, and found that we had something alive; then she guessed guinea-pigs, then rabbits; at last we rolled out on the carpet two little kittens. They were such soft, pretty little things; one was black and the other white. I chose the black one, and my sister had the white. They lived chiefly in the nursery, and were soon very familiar, and quite at home. My black one, however, was pleased to be much fonder of my sister than of me; it particularly insisted on sleeping on my sister's bed; and we sometimes changed beds to see if it would follow her. Blacky would jump on the bed, come and look at my face, waving his tail about in the air, and seeing that it was his own master, he would bound off the bed and go and look in the other, and being satisfied that my sister was there, he would curl himself up at her back. In consequence of some illness in the nursery, my sister was sent to another room, and Blacky not finding her in the nursery, went and looked into all the bed-rooms until he found her. Snowdrop, as we called the white cat, used to sleep in a large wardrobe, rolled up upon some of the clothes. They were both very fond of getting into cupboards and drawers, and often startled us, and others, by springing out, when drawers and closet-doors were opened in different rooms; we were obliged to forbid them the drawing-room, because they would get on the chimney-piece, and on the top of a book-case where there was a good deal of china, and we thought they would certainly throw down and break it all in their rough games. At the time we had these cats, we had also the jackdaw and hawk; and Blacky and Snowdrop often went to have a game with Jacky, who liked them; they used to run after him round his bush, and amuse themselves with whisking their tails about, and seeing him peck at them. But when they tried the same game with the hawk, they found a very different creature to deal with; for the savage bird darted at the playful little creatures, and very nearly bit off Blacky's tail; and afterwards, if he saw them in the garden, although they did not offer to approach his stump, he would slyly steal among the shrubs and bushes, till he got near enough to them to make a dart at their tails, and many a savage bite he gave them. We did not keep these cats long. Blacky disappeared entirely; whether some one stole him for the luck of having a black cat, or what became of the poor little fellow we did not know. Snowdrop was fond of running on the top of the garden-walls, and of hunting little birds about the roads; and it seems strange that so active an animal as a cat should allow itself to be run over, but Snowdrop, in hunting a bird across the railway, which ran on the other side of our garden wall, was actually killed by the train. BLUEBEARD, THE SHETLAND PONY. Our donkey, Neddy, was never replaced; but instead of him we had a far better pet, a beautiful little Shetland pony! We had left Ireland, and went to live in England; we had a nice garden, a paddock and some fields, and a stable; and when we saw all this, we ran to Papa and begged that we might now have another donkey, as there was plenty of room for him. But Papa said we might now very well ride a pony, and that he would look out for a nice one. Shortly after this he went to a large horse-fair at Doncaster, and almost before he could have arrived there, we began to look out and watch for his return with the pony. We made all kinds of guesses about the size and the colour that the pony would be, and wrote out a long list of names suitable for a Shetland. I wished that it might be black, and my sister wished for a cream colour; but I believe that no such thing exists as a cream-coloured Shetland. And after all our expectation, Papa came home so late, that we did not see him that night. We besieged his door next morning, shouting, "Did you find a pony? Have you bought the pony?" Yes, a pony had come, but we were not to look at him until Papa came down; and after breakfast, Papa sent for it to the dining-room window. Oh! what a nice little roly-poly of rough hair it was. It was very small, and its funny little face peeped out from the shaggy bunch of hair over its eyes, in such a sly way. Its mane was a complete bush, and its tail just swept along the ground. And all over its body the coat was so thick and soft, and so long, that the legs looked quite short and dumpy. Altogether, it was the most darling little fellow any one could imagine; its colour was dark-brown, and its mane and tail nearly black. Papa promised to get a nice saddle and bridle for it, as we declared that Neddy's old pad was so shabby, that it would be a shame to put it on this little beauty. But, meantime, we were well satisfied to use it, and commenced our rides forthwith; scarcely a day passed without our making a long excursion. Sometimes Mamma walked with us, and sometimes only nurse; we used to trot along the road for some distance, and then canter back again to Mamma, so that we had a long ride, whilst she only took a moderate walk; and we soon had explored every lane and bye-road near our new home. After much debate about the pony's name, we had fixed on two or three, and finding that we could not agree on the important subject, we wrote out the names on slips of paper, and drew lots. "Bluebeard" was the name that we drew the oftenest, so that was decided; and as he really had a very long beard, we thought it very appropriate. Although Bluebeard was a decided beauty, it must be confessed that he had a great number of tricks, and was not the best-behaved pony in the world. When we were out riding, if we met any carts on the road, or in passing through the streets, Mamma or nurse used to lead him by the bridle; this _we_ used to consider a great affront to our horsemanship, and Bluebeard, doubtless, thought it an affront to himself, for he could not bear to be led; he shook his head, and tried to get the bridle out of their hand, and failing to do so, he revenged himself by biting and tearing Mamma's shawl or dress; and our poor nurse had scarcely a gown left that was not in rents and holes from Bluebeard's teeth; she said it took her half her time to mend her clothes, for she never went out with us and returned with her clothes whole. This amused us very much; but Mamma thought she should have liked Bluebeard better if he had been less playful. With good living, and the care that was lavished on him in our stable, he soon became fatter, and very frisky, so full of wild spirits and play, that we could not quite manage him. So Mamma had a very small basket-work carriage made, just to fit Bluebeard; it was painted dark-blue, and was very pretty; it had two seats, so just carried us, and Mamma and nurse. Now we drove out one day, and rode the next; the carriage was so low, that we could jump in and out as Bluebeard trotted along; and we liked to run, holding on by the back, to see whether we could run as fast as Bluebeard at his fastest trot; and when we jumped out, he used to turn his head round and look for us, and sometimes made a full stop till we got in again. Mamma thought that the heavier work of drawing the carriage with four people in it, would prevent Bluebeard from becoming too frisky and unmanageable, as, certainly, it was far greater labour for him than a quiet trot with only myself or sister on his back; but I believe that the more work he had, the more corn he ate, for he scampered along with the carriage as if it were nothing at all, and grew more and more skittish. It was very amusing to watch for donkeys as we drove along the roads, for he could not bear to meet one; if he spied the long ears at a little distance, he used to fling up his head, stand still for an instant, and then turn sharply round, and rush away in the opposite direction to the offending object; this he did whether we were riding or in the carriage. It signified but little when we rode; for all that happened was our tumbling off, when he twitched himself round; and as he met Mamma and nurse a little way back on the road, he was always stopped. But in the carriage it was a very awkward trick, and we should often have been upset, had not the front wheels turned completely under the body of the carriage, so Bluebeard could twist round, and put his head quite inside without upsetting us. Once or twice, when going up a hill, a donkey suddenly put up his head from behind the hedge. Round flew Bluebeard with such a jerk, as nearly to throw us out of the carriage, and having whisked us round, he tore down the hill at a furious rate. All that could be done on such occasions, was for one of us to jump out and hold his head before he had time to turn round; and, therefore, we always kept a sharp look out for donkeys on the road. This dread of Bluebeard's was the more strange, as he was extremely friendly with a poor half-starved donkey that was sometimes put into the same field with him. He used to rub his head against it, talk to it, (that is, hold their noses near together), and seemed quite to like its company. But any other donkey inspired him with downright terror. Another bad trick when in the carriage, was kicking, which he often did, sometimes throwing his heels so high that he got them over the shaft, and then we had the fun of unharnessing him completely, in order to put him in again. It sometimes took a very long time to catch him, though the field was very small; he would come close to the groom, and when he put out his hand to catch him, he would give his head a toss and gallop off round the field; now and then, when weary of his fruitless attempts at catching him, the groom would set the field-gate wide open, and Bluebeard would dart through it, along the lane, and up the hill to our house. But it was rather a risk doing so, as it was quite a chance whether he would go home, or in any other direction. When he was fairly in the stable, and cleaning and harnessing had commenced, he by no means ceased from his playful tricks: he would roll in the straw with his legs kicking up; then he would bounce about in all directions, to prevent the bridle from being put on; and shake his head till all his shaggy mane fell over his eyes. All this was meant for play and fun; but the groom often was reprimanded for unpunctuality, in not bringing the carriage to the door for half-an-hour or more after the time when it was ordered. Certainly, if Bluebeard would not be caught, and then would not be harnessed, it was not the groom's fault. However, he began to be very sharp and cross with the pony; and once pulling him roughly up from sprawling on his back, instead of standing still to be combed, Bluebeard dashed his head at him and gave him a bad bite on the chest. When Mamma came out to put a plaister on the bite, she was very angry, and said that if Bluebeard bit in his play, she could not allow us to keep him; and she desired that he should not have half so much corn. But I do believe the groom paid no attention to this order, and gave him just as much as before; for the wicked little pony never became one bit quieter, and we often had to beg hard that sentence of dismissal should not be pronounced. Whenever Papa had time to take us riding with him, or could spare his horse for the groom, we had a nice ride, Bluebeard having a long rein which Papa or the groom held, we found that he went a great deal better than when Mamma walked with us; indeed, he had then no time to play tricks, for it was as much as he could do to keep up with the great horse, whose walk matched with our gentle trotting; his trot to our cantering; and when the horse cantered, Bluebeard was put to his full speed. We enjoyed these rides immensely; but, unluckily, they were few and far between, as the horse could be spared very seldom; therefore, we still continued our plan of Mamma walking, and we riding by turns; and it was a great excitement to us, watching for Bluebeard's tricks, for we were much afraid of his being sent away as too tiresome; and we tried in all ways to prevent and to conceal his delinquencies. I very frequently went over his head, for he liked to go precisely the way he chose; and if we came to a turning in the road, and I pulled the bridle in one direction, Bluebeard was certain to insist on going the other. Then he tugged, and I tugged; but his neck was so strong, and his mouth so hard, that I seldom could succeed in making him go my way; and unless some one came to my assistance, the dispute generally ended by Bluebeard putting his head between his legs, and pitching me over his head. My sister suggested that the best way to manage him would be always to urge him to go the way we did not wish, and he, being certain to differ from us, would take, as his own choice, the road that we really intended. This was the same plan as that suggested for refractory pigs, who will never go forwards; viz., to pull them backwards, when they will at once make a bolt in the desired direction. But I objected, that it was a shabby way of proceeding to manage him by deceit, and I preferred being flung over his head in open contest; and the plan was given up as too cowardly; and as my rolls were generally in the soft sandy lanes or on the grass by the road side, I never was in the least hurt. My sister, too, had several tumbles which made us laugh very much. We came once to a place where three lanes met, and Mamma called out to my sister, who was riding some way in front, to turn to the right; so she pulled the rein, and, as a matter of course, Bluebeard shook his mane, tossed his head about, and intimated that he intended to turn down the opposite lane to the left. Then my sister pulled and pulled, whipping Bluebeard at the same time; but his coat was so immensely thick, that he really did not feel a switch the least in the world, especially from a little arm like my sister's. So he did not stir, but kept twisting his head along the left-hand lane. "He will kick in a minute," I said; and Mamma ran quickly to take hold of his bridle. When naughty little Bluebeard felt her touch the rein, he made a bolt down the lane so suddenly, that he dragged Mamma down on the ground, and flinging up his heels at the same time, sent my sister flying, and she came down upon Mamma; so there they were rolling over each other in the dusty lane. Bluebeard scampered a short way down the lane and then came back to us, whisking his tail, as if to say, "You might as well have come my way at once, without causing all this fuss." And whilst we were employed in shaking the dust off Mamma's and sister's clothes, he stood looking at us in a triumphant kind of manner. But after all, he did not have his own way; for when my sister was mounted again, Mamma took the bridle and led him down the lane to the right and all the way home; and he was not in favour with Mamma for some time after. When the winter came on, his coat grew so thick and heavy, and his mane and tail so bushy and long, that he really looked like a great bundle of hair rolling along the road; for his legs scarcely showed as high as his knee. As for his eyes, it was a mystery how he saw at all; for they were not visible, except when we pulled back the hair to look at them: there never was such a curious rolypoly-looking little creature. When the cold of the winter was passing away, it was agreed that Bluebeard had better be clipped, his coat being really much too heavy; no sheep's fleece could have weighed more. So we had the pleasure of seeing the little fellow carefully shorn of his thick dress; his long bushy tail was left at our particular request, and also plenty of mane; we liked that, because we found it a great help to clutch a handful of mane, when he tried to kick us off; but his eyes were left free to look out, and very saucy they looked. We were astonished to find how small he looked, and how thin and elegant his stumpy little legs appeared, we thought they scarcely seemed strong enough to bear our weight; and in the carriage he would appear a perfect shrimp. Then his colour was entirely altered. Instead of dark brown, he was now a pale sort of grey; indeed, we could scarcely believe that the same pony was before us. He did not look so droll and round, but much prettier; and we felt quite proud of him the next time we rode out with Papa. When he was next put into the pony-carriage, he almost appeared too small for it; and one bad effect of clipping him was, that he evidently felt so light and unshackled, that he could not restrain his wish to prance and jump; he now perpetually was kicking his legs over the shafts; and so, two or three times during a drive, we unharnessed him before we could replace him where he ought to be--between the shafts; instead of having his fore legs inside, and his hind legs outside. Mamma said that this was dangerous, and that she feared Bluebeard might either break his own legs by this trick, or would upset the carriage and break ours. And we began to fear that Bluebeard would some day bring on his own dismissal. One day, Mamma rode Bluebeard herself; and in spite of the greater weight, which he must have found very different from that of such small children as my sister and myself, Bluebeard kicked so much, and behaved altogether in such an improper manner, that Mamma declared he was no longer a safe pony for such young children, and said she should expect to see us brought home with fractured skulls or broken limbs, if we were allowed to ride him. All our beggings and prayings had no effect. Bluebeard was sold to a man in the neighbouring town. When this man said that he wanted the pony for a little boy to ride, Mamma said that he was too ill-broken and too unmanageable for any child, and that she did not wish to sell him for that purpose. But he said that he intended to tie the boy tightly on to the saddle, and should make a groom walk with him with a long rein; and then should have no fear about the boy's safety. And he bought him, notwithstanding Mamma's warning. We were so sorry to see the poor little fellow led away; our only consolation was, that in a year or two we should become too big for Bluebeard; and then, at any rate, we must have parted with him. Now and then we saw the little boy riding him; and the groom that was with him showed us that he was strapped on to the saddle by a strap across each thigh, and also a strap below each knee; so that it was really impossible that he should fall off. Mamma said it was not at all safe for a child to be fastened in that way; for if Bluebeard should take into his head to roll on his back, he would most probably kill the child. But as she had warned the father, and had told him of all the pony's bad tricks, it was no longer her affair to say anything about him, or to meddle with his arrangements. It was a long time before Papa met with a pony to suit us better. The next one was to be so large, that he would last us for many years; he must be frisky enough to be pleasant and amusing, and yet must have no bad tricks; no kicking and running away; and, above all, he must be very pretty indeed, with long tail and mane. All these qualities were not so easy to find combined; and before I talk about the next pony, I will mention some of our other pets. So good bye to dear little naughty Bluebeard. JOE, THE GERMAN DOG. Being for some months in a German town, we proposed, before returning to England, that we should procure one of the strange-looking little German terriers, with long backs and short legs; and we made inquiries as to where we could obtain one of the real German breed. We found that there are several different races of these dogs; they have all the long back, and short bandy legs; but one kind is very large, with pointed nose and long tail; another kind is small, with excessively soft hair, small head and magnificent large eyes; another kind is small, rather wiry in the hair, and unusually long and pointed in the nose. After seeing several, we at last had one offered to us that we liked, and bought; he was of the last-described species; his body long and narrow, his legs very short and crooked, and his feet enormous, big enough for a dog of three times the size; his tail was long, and dangled down in an ungainly sort of way; his head was small, and his nose much elongated and pointed; his eyes small and sparkling, and his ears rather soft and long. Altogether, he was the queerest-looking little animal you would wish to see. We named him Joe, and commenced his education by showing him, that he was not to consider our baby sister a species of rat, and to worry her accordingly, and by teaching him to sleep on a rug in the corner of one of the bed-rooms. He was a very sociable merry little fellow, liked scampering after us through the range of rooms, all on one floor or flat, and enjoyed running along the roads and in the park with us; but he was terribly chilly; he could not bear sleeping on his mat, always wanting to be on the bed, or at least muffled up in a flannel gown; and in the day, he was happiest when he was allowed to creep under the stove and lie there, really almost undergoing baking. I never saw an animal bear so much heat with satisfaction to himself. He destroyed half the things in the house before he got over his puppy-days; but every one liked him, and he generally escaped punishment. He was sharp enough to know his way home, in a very few days after we bought him. We had him out in the park and missed him, a long way from home; seeing no sign of him, we concluded that some one had picked him up, and gave him up for lost, having no idea that the little young creature would know its way home; and we were quite surprised when we reached our own door, to find Joe sitting there waiting; he had come along the crooked walks of the park, through the streets, and up our long flight of stairs, and our opinion of his sagacity rose in proportion. Shortly after we had bought Joe, we travelled to England, and determined to try whether we could manage to take him in the carriage with us, instead of letting the poor little fellow be shut up in a dog-box on the train, with, perhaps, a dozen other savage dogs. So Papa carried him under his cloak; Joe was very good at the station, and kept himself perfectly quiet, until we were all seated in the railway-carriage. We were beginning to think that we had him safe for that day's journey; and as soon as we had shewn our tickets, could let him run about the carriage. The ticket-taker came to the door, had looked all round, and Papa was showing his ticket, when, at the last minute, Joe began to plunge and push about under the cloak. Papa held him fast, but the stupid little animal set up a yelp, just as the man was leaving the carriage. He immediately asked if we had a dog, and poor Joe was hauled out by his neck, and Papa had to run in great haste to see him placed in a dog-box. And for the next three or four hours, Joe howled incessantly. When we halted in the middle of the day, we managed better; Mamma took him under her shawl, and got into the carriage some time before the officials came peeping about, and he lay quiet in her lap, and no one meddled with him; so the afternoon of his first day of travel was not so miserable as the commencement. Altogether, Joe was a good deal of trouble on the journey; there was always a fuss about gaining permission to have him in the carriage, and we did not know what to do with him at the inns, for fear he should go down stairs and be lost. At last we reached England, and for a time lived in London. At first we were much afraid that Joe would be darting out of the front door, and would be stolen immediately. But he soon got used to the confinement, only having a yard behind the house to run in, and he made himself extremely happy. The house in which we were staying possessed two dogs, a cat, a variety of birds, and in the yard lived a cock with several hens. Joe and the cat used to have famous games together, rolling each other over and over, then racing round the kitchen, over the tables and chairs. When pussy was tired, she sat upon a chair and slapped Joe's face, whenever she could reach him, as he ran barking round the chair. One of the dogs was very old and fat, and did not at all approve of the new comer's vivacious ways, but growled at Joe fiercely when he tried to entice him to play. The other dog was also too fat to be very active; and when Joe found that no fun was to be had with them, he merely danced round them now and then, to have the pleasure of making them angry, and seeing them show their teeth; and then he left them to their slumbers, and scampered off to the cat, who was more suited to his age and manners. Out in the yard he had much amusement with the fowls; at first sight he had been rather frightened at them, but soon took pleasure in seeing them flutter about and run away from him. The cock, however, did not run away, but faced Master Joe, and crowed at him, and ran at him in the most valiant manner; and when Joe was too pertinacious in barking at him and teazing him, the cock actually sprang upon his back and pecked him, until Joe crouched down on the ground fairly beaten. In return, however, Joe nearly caused a death-warrant to be pronounced against the cock and all the hens, by teaching them to eat eggs. One morning, the hens were observed to be in a great state of excitement, pecking greedily at something on the ground, which, on examination, proved to be a new-laid egg, broken and devoured by the unnatural hens. The next day another and another was found in the same way; in fact, as soon as the eggs were laid, they were brought out of the hen-house and broken. So it was agreed, that the hens having once contracted this bad habit, could never be cured, and had better all be killed. But before this determination had been put in practice, Mamma chanced to look out of the window early, just after Joe had been sent out for his morning walk, and spied the naughty creature coming out of the hen-house with an egg in his mouth. Presently all the hens and the cock ran out after him, calling, "Stop thief!" or, rather, implying those words by their cackling and noise; and they pursued Joe round and round the yard, until they came up with him all in a body, and the egg being dropped in the scuffle, was of course broken; and then the hens fell upon it and ate it up. This it seems took place every morning. Joe fetched eggs out of the nests; and the hens, after pretending to be very angry, ended by joining in the robbery. The next time Joe was seen with an egg in his mouth, one of the servants went out and called to him, when he placed it on the ground so gently, that it was not even cracked; and if we could manage to catch him before the hens rushed upon him, we always obtained the egg safe enough; for he did not break it or eat it himself, only put it into the hen's heads to do so; and, probably, his only object was to make the whole family of hens run after him, which he seemed much to enjoy. So the sentence of death against the cock and hens was not pronounced, as it seemed the whole fault lay with Joe; and whenever we could catch him approaching the hen-house he received a good whipping. He had, however, that sort of temper which cares not the least for whipping or scolding; he never was at all abashed or cowed; but made a most dreadful yelling whilst the whipping was inflicted, and the moment he was released he would dance about perfectly happy, and immediately go and repeat the fault--he was quite incorrigible. We managed to prevent, in a great measure, his stealing eggs, by not letting him out so early; and when he went into the yard people were going in and out, that could watch him. So, to make amends for the loss of his morning's fun, he used to push aside the window curtain and blind, as soon as it was light, and stand on his hind legs at the window, watching the cock and hens; now and then signifying his approval of their proceedings by a short bark. He slept in an arm-chair, covered up with an old dressing gown. On one occasion this was removed, and we thought Joe would do just as well without it; but with his great love of warmth, he absolutely refused to sleep without a warm covering. He was much perturbed, and ran squeaking about the room, till after keeping us awake half the night, we were obliged to get up, and supply him with something soft to envelope him in the arm-chair. When Joe was tired of playing with the cat, the dogs, and the fowls, he used to go to the top of the house into our baby-sister's nursery. He was very fond of her; but usually timed his visits so as to come in for her dinner or supper, of which he always had a share. She used to put her tin of milk on the floor and sit beside it: first Joey took a lap or two, then baby had a sip; and so they emptied the mug together: and at her dinner, Joe used to eat the pudding at one side of the plate, whilst baby worked away at the other. Then they took a roll on the floor together, and whatever rough pull or pinch was bestowed on Joe, he never snapped or hurt the little girl; indeed, would let her do anything she liked with him. He was very long before he gave up his puppy fashion of tearing and biting everything. If a book or a piece of work fell on the ground, Joey's sharp teeth soon brought them into a deplorable condition. If he could get hold of a bonnet, he soon dragged off ribbon, flowers, lace, and whatever it possessed; and poor little baby's toys, balls, and dolls were never presentable after they had been five minutes in the house. Then he wickedly pulled to pieces the mat at the bottom of the stairs, for which he was well whipped; in short, the mischief he did was terrible. His encounters with the cock did not prove sufficient exercise for the hardy little fellow; and he began to get so fat, that we determined to send him into the country, to some place where he would have a great deal of running about out of doors. We were sorry to part with him for the time we should be in London; but we did not wish to see him become too fat to waddle. So Papa took him with him when he went into the country to visit some friends. He placed him with a man who was to teach him rat-hunting; and Joe showed that he had an excellent nose, and promised to be a first-rate ratter. But when Papa had returned to London, we heard that poor Joe had made his appearance again at the house of the friend whither Papa had first taken him. He was looking sadly thin and wretched, and ran into the bed-room Papa had used, and searched for him in all directions. The poor little fellow remained there until Papa made another arrangement for him, as evidently he had been ill-used by the rat-catcher. He next was sent to a gamekeeper's, who lived in a nice park, where there was a beautiful rabbit-warren, plenty of stacks for ratting, a stream to swim in, and fields and farms to range about. There we hoped he would be very happy; and as poor little Joe is still alive, I have not to relate his end at present, and hope that he will still afford us much amusement. * * * * * Now I think I have described the greater part of the animals, birds, and creatures of all kinds that belonged to me and my sister. How much pleasure we derived from them! And what a mixture of pity and contempt we always felt for children who feared or disliked animals! There was a family of little children near us once, when we had our dear dog Tawney; how they used to scream and run whenever they saw him! even though he was taking no notice of them in particular. Then they would take up stones and throw them at him, really intending to hurt him; for their intense fear of the dog rendered them quite cruel; and when he found that they tried to hurt him, and shouted at him, he used to bark in return, which of course terrified them more. Then some of our friends had quite a horror of our hedgehog, and our bat, and wondered how we could kiss Neddy's nose, and Bluebeard's. I am sure their soft nice coats were quite as pleasant to kiss, as many people's faces. I only wish that all little children would love animals, and find as much amusement as we did in the care of our Live Toys. THE END. WERTHEIMER AND CO., PRINTERS, CIRCUS PLACE, FINSBURY CIRCUS. ORIGINAL JUVENILE LIBRARY. A CATALOGUE OF NEW AND POPULAR WORKS. PRINCIPALLY FOR THE YOUNG. [Illustration: Goldsmith introduced to Newbery by Dr. Johnson.] PUBLISHED BY GRIFFITH AND FARRAN, (LATE GRANT AND GRIFFITH, SUCCESSORS TO NEWBERY AND HARRIS), CORNER OF ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, LONDON. 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[Asterism] These little works are admirably adapted for circulation among the working classes. The Triumphs of Steam; Or, Stories from the Lives of Watt, Arkwright, and Stephenson. By the Author of "Might not Right," "Our Eastern Empire," &c. With Illustrations by J. GILBERT. Dedicated by permission to Robert Stephenson, Esq., M.P. Second edition. Royal 16mo., price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ 6_d._, coloured, gilt edges. "A most delicious volume of examples."--_Art Journal._ The War Tiger; Or, The Adventures and Wonderful Fortunes of the Young Sea-Chief and his Lad Chow. By WILLIAM DALTON, Author of "The White Elephant," &c. Illustrated by H. S. MELVILLE. Fcap. 8vo., price 5_s._ cloth; 5_s._ 6_d._ cloth, gilt edges. "A tale of lively adventure, vigorously told, and embodying much curious information."--_Illustrated News._ The Boy's own Toy Maker. A Practical Illustrated Guide to the useful employment of Leisure Hours. By E. LANDELLS. With Two Hundred Cuts. Fourth Edition. Royal 16mo., price 2_s._ 6_d._, cloth. "A new and valuable form of endless amusement."--_Nonconformist._ "We recommend it to all who have children to be instructed and amused."--_Economist._ Hand Shadows, To be thrown upon the Wall. A Series of Eighteen Original Designs. By HENRY BURSILL. 4to price 2_s._ plain; 2_s._ 6_d._ coloured. A Second Series of Hand Shadows; With Eighteen New Subjects. By H. BURSILL. Price 2_s._ plain; 2_s._ 6_d._ coloured. "Uncommonly clever--some wonderful effects are produced."--_The Press._ BY THE LATE THOMAS HOOD. The Headlong Career and Woful Ending of Precocious Piggy. Written for his Children, by the late THOMAS HOOD. With a Preface by his Daughter; and Illustrated by his Son. Third Edition. Post 4to., fancy boards, price 2_s._ 6_d._, coloured. "The Illustrations are intensely humourous."--_The Critic._ The Harpsden Riddle Book. A Collection of 350 Original Charades, Conundrums, Rebuses, etc. Fcap. 8vo. price 2_s._ 6_d._, cloth. The Fairy Tales of Science. A Book for Youth. By J. C. BROUGH. With 16 Beautiful Illustrations by C. H. BENNETT. Fcap. 8vo., price 5_s._, cloth; 5_s._ 6_d._ gilt edges. CONTENTS: 1. The Age of Monsters.--2. The Amber Spirit.--3. The Four Elements.--4. The Life of an Atom.--5. A Little Bit.--6. Modern Alchemy.--7. The Magic of the Sunbeam.--8. Two Eyes Better than One.--9. The Mermaid's Home.--10. Animated Flowers. --11. Metamorphoses.--12. The Invisible World.--13. Wonderful Plants.--14. Water Bewitched.--15. Pluto's Kingdom.--16. Moving Lands.--17. The Gnomes.--18. A Flight through Space.--19. The Tale of a Comet.--20. The Wonderful Lamp. "Science, perhaps, was never made more attractive and easy of entrance into the youthful mind."--_The Builder._ "Altogether the volume is one of the most original, as well as one of the most useful, books of the season."--_Gentleman's Magazine._ Paul Blake; Or, the Story of a Boy's Perils in the Islands of Corsica and Monte Cristo. By ALFRED ELWES, Author of "Ocean and her Rulers." Illustrated by H. ANELAY. Fcap. 8vo., price 5_s._ cloth; 5_s._ 6_d._ cloth, gilt edges. "This spirited and engaging story will lead our young friends to a very intimate acquaintance with the island of Corsica."--_Art Journal._ Sunday Evenings with Sophia; Or, Little Talks on Great Subjects. A Book for Girls. By LEONORA G. BELL. Frontispiece by J. ABSOLON. Fcap. 8vo., price 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth. "A very suitable gift for a thoughtful girl."--_Bell's Messenger._ Scenes of Animal Life and Character. From Nature and Recollection. In Twenty Plates. By J. B. 4to., price 2_s._ 6_d._, plain; 3_s._ 6_d._, coloured, fancy boards. "Truer, heartier, more playful, or more enjoyable sketches of animal life could scarcely be found anywhere."--_Spectator._ Caw, Caw; Or, the Chronicles of the Crows. Illustrated by J. B. 4to., price 2_s._ plain; 2_s._ 6_d._ coloured. Three Christmas Plays for Children. 1. The Sleeper Awakened. 2. The Wonderful Bird. 3. Crinolina. By THERESA PULSZKY. With Original Music, composed by JANSA; and Three Illustrations by ARMITAGE, coloured. 3_s._ 6_d._, cloth, gilt edges. W. H. C. KINGSTON'S BOOKS FOR BOYS. With Illustrations. Fcap. 8vo. price 5_s._ each, cloth; 5_s._ 6_d._ gilt edges. Will Weatherhelm; Or, the Yarn of an Old Sailor about his Early Life and Adventures. "We tried the story on an audience of boys, who one and all declared it to be capital."--_Athenæeum._ Fred Markham in Russia; Or, the Boy Travellers in the Land of the Czar. "Most admirably does this book unite a capital narrative, with the communication of valuable information respecting Russia."--_Nonconformist._ Salt Water; Or Neil D'Arcy's Sea Life and Adventures. With Eight Illustrations. "With the exception of Capt. Marryat, we know of no English author who will compare with Mr. Kingston as a writer of books of nautical adventure."--_Illustrated News._ Manco, the Peruvian Chief; With Illustrations by CARL SCHMOLZE. "A capital book; the story being one of much interest, and presenting a good account of the history and institutions, the customs and manners, of the country."--_Literary Gazette._ Mark Seaworth; A Tale of the Indian Ocean. By the Author of "Peter the Whaler," etc. With Illustrations by J. ABSOLON. Second Edition. "No more interesting, nor more safe book, can be put into the hands of youth; and to boys especially, 'Mark Seaworth' will be a treasure of delight."--_Art Journal._ Peter the Whaler; His early Life and Adventures in the Arctic Regions. Second Edition. Illustrations by E. DUNCAN. "A better present for a boy of an active turn of mind could not be found. The tone of the book is manly, healthful, and vigorous."--_Weekly News._ "A book which the old may, but which the young must, read when they have once begun it."--_Athenæum._ Blue Jackets; Or, Chips of the Old Block. A Narrative of the Gallant Exploits of British Seamen, and of the principal Events in the Naval Service during the Reign of Queen Victoria, by W. H. G. KINGSTON. Post 8vo.; price 7_s._ 6_d._ cloth. "A more acceptable testimonial than this to the valour and enterprise of the British Navy, has not issued from the press for many years."--_The Critic._ HISTORY OF INDIA FOR THE YOUNG. Our Eastern Empire; Or, Stories from the History of British India. By the author of "The Martyr Land," "Might not Right," etc. Second Edition, with Continuation to the Proclamation of Queen Victoria. With Four Illustrations. Royal 16mo. cloth 3_s._ 6_d._; 4_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "These stories are charming, and convey a general view of the progress of our Empire in the East. The tales are told with admirable clearness."--_Athenæum._ The Martyr Land; Or, Tales of the Vaudois. By the Author of "Our Eastern Empire," etc. Frontispiece by J. GILBERT. Royal 16mo; price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth. 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Edited and Illustrated by C. H. BENNETT, Author of "Shadows." With Ninety Engravings. Fcap. 4to. price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth, plain, or 6_s._ coloured. "The illustrations are all so replete with fun and imagination, that we scarcely know who will be most pleased with the book, the good-natured grandfather who gives it, or the chubby grandchild who gets it, for a Christmas-Box."--_Notes and Queries._ Maud Summers the Sightless: A Narrative for the Young. Illustrated by Absolon. 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "A touching and beautiful story."--_Christian Treasury._ Clara Hope; Or, the Blade and the Ear. By MISS MILNER. With Frontispiece by Birket Foster. Fcap. 8vo. price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ 6_d._ cloth elegant, gilt edges. "A beautiful narrative, showing how bad habits may be eradicated, and evil tempers subdued."--_British Mother's Journal._ The Adventures and Experiences of Biddy Dorking and of the FAT FROG. Edited by MRS. S. C. HALL. Illustrated by H. Weir. 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "Most amusingly and wittily told."--_Morning Herald._ ATTRACTIVE AND INSTRUCTIVE AMUSEMENT FOR THE YOUNG. Home Pastime; Or, The Child's Own Toy Maker. With practical instructions. By E. LANDELLS. New and Cheaper Edition, price 3_s._ 6_d._ complete, with the Cards, and Descriptive Letterpress. [Asterism] By this novel and ingenious "Pastime," beautiful Models can be made by Children from the Cards, by attending to the Plain and Simple Instructions in the Book. CONTENTS: 1. Wheelbarrow.--2. Cab.--3. Omnibus.--4. Nursery Yacht.--5. French Bedstead.--6. Perambulator.--7. Railway Engine.--8. Railway Tender.--9. Railway Carriage.--10. Prince Albert's Model Cottage.--11. Windmill.--12. Sledge. "As a delightful exercise of ingenuity, and a most sensible mode of passing a winter's evening, we commend the Child's own Toy Maker."--_Illustrated News._ "Should be in every house blessed with the presence of children."--_The Field._ BY THE AUTHOR OF "CAT AND DOG," ETC. Historical Acting Charades; Or, Amusements for Winter Evenings. New Edition. Fcap. 8vo. price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ gilt edges. "A rare book for Christmas parties, and of practical value."--_Illustrated News._ The Story of Jack and the Giants: With thirty-five Illustrations by RICHARD DOYLE. Beautifully printed. New and Cheaper Edition. Fcap. 4to. price 2_s._ 6_d._ in fancy boards; 4_s._ 6_d._ coloured, extra cloth, gilt edges. "In Doyle's drawings we have wonderful conceptions, which will secure the book a place amongst the treasures of collectors, as well as excite the imaginations of children."--_Illustrated Times._ Granny's Wonderful Chair; And its Tales of Fairy Times. By FRANCES BROWNE. With Illustrations by KENNY MEADOWS. Small 4to., 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth, 4_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "One of the happiest blendings of marvel and moral we have ever seen."--_Literary Gazette._ Pictures from the Pyrenees; Or, Agnes' and Kate's Travels. By CAROLINE BELL. With numerous Illustrations. Small 4to.; price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "With admirable simplicity of manner it notices the towns, the scenery, the people, and natural phenomena of this grand mountain region."--_The Press._ The Early Dawn; Or, Stories to Think about. By a COUNTRY CLERGYMAN. Illustrated by H. WEIR, etc. Small 4to.; price 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "The matter is both wholesome and instructive, and must fascinate as well as benefit the young."--_Literarium_. Angelo; Or, the Pine Forest among the Alps. By GERALDINE E. JEWSBURY, author of "The Adopted Child," etc. With Illustrations by JOHN ABSOLON. Small 4to.; price 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "As pretty a child's story as one might look for on a winter's day."--_Examiner._ Tales of Magic and Meaning. Written and Illustrated by ALFRED CROWQUILL, Author of "Funny Leaves for the Younger Branches," "The Careless Chicken," "Picture Fables," etc. Small 4to.; price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ 6_d._ coloured. "Cleverly written, abounding in frolic and pathos, and inculcates so pure a moral, that we must pronounce him a very fortunate little fellow, who catches these 'Tales of Magic,' as a windfall from 'The Christmas Tree'."--_Athenæum._ Faggots for the Fire Side; Or, Tales of Fact and Fancy. By PETER PARLEY. With Twelve Tinted Illustrations. Foolscap 8vo.; 3_s._ 6_d._, cloth; 4_s._ gilt edges. CONTENTS.--The Boy Captive; or Jumping Rabbit's Story--The White Owl--Tom Titmouse--The Wolf and Fox--Bob Link--Autobiography of a Sparrow--The Children of the Sun: a Tale of the Incas--The Soldier and Musician--The Rich Man and His Son--The Avalanche--Flint and Steel--Songs of the Seasons, etc. "A new book by Peter Parley is a pleasant greeting for all boys and girls, wherever the English language is spoken and read. He has a happy method of conveying information, while seeming to address himself to the imagination."--_The Critic._ The Discontented Children; And How they were Cured. By MARY and ELIZABETH KIRBY, authors of "The Talking Bird," etc. Illustrated by H. K. BROWNE (Phiz). Second edition, price 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "We know no better method of banishing 'discontent' from school-room and nursery than by introducing this wise and clever story to their inmates."--_Art Journal._ The Talking Bird; Or, the Little Girl who knew what was going to happen. By M. and E. KIRBY, Authors of "The Discontented Children," etc. With Illustrations by H. K. BROWNE (Phiz). Small 4to. Price 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "The story is ingeniously told, and the moral clearly shown."--_Athenæum._ Julia Maitland; Or, Pride goes before a Fall. By M. and E. KIRBY, Authors of "The Talking Bird," etc. Illustrated by JOHN ABSOLON. Price 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "It is nearly such a story as Miss Edgeworth might have written on the same theme."--_The Press._ Letters from Sarawak, Addressed to a Child; embracing an Account of the Manners, Customs, and Religion of the Inhabitants of Borneo, with Incidents of Missionary Life among the Natives. By MRS. M'DOUGALL. 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44914	----	[Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic text is surrounded by _underscores_. Obvious punctuation errors have been repaired however the unusual use of quotation marks in continuing paragraphs was retained as printed.] [Illustration: "The lady came into the room to find out why the dog had called out. Mew-Mew ... crept out." _Page 19._] BOW-WOW AND MEW-MEW BY GEORGIANA M. CRAIK EDITED BY JOSEPH C. SINDELAR _Author of_ NIXIE BUNNY IN MANNERS-LAND NIXIE BUNNY IN WORKADAY-LAND NIXIE BUNNY IN HOLIDAY-LAND NIXIE BUNNY IN FARAWAY-LANDS FATHER THRIFT AND HIS ANIMAL FRIENDS MORNING EXERCISES FOR ALL THE YEAR BEST MEMORY GEMS [Illustration] BECKLEY-CARDY COMPANY CHICAGO COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY JOSEPH C. SINDELAR _Made in U. S. A._ [Illustration] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I BOW-WOW AND MEW-MEW 7 II BOW-WOW AND MEW-MEW ARE NOT HAPPY 9 III MEW-MEW FALLS ASLEEP 11 IV THE CHICKS, THE PIGS, THE DUCKS 13 V BOW-WOW IS HURT 16 VI BOW-WOW IN BED 18 VII MEW-MEW BY THE FIRE 20 VIII BOW-WOW IN GREAT PAIN 21 IX MEW-MEW A NURSE 24 X BOW-WOW FEELS VERY ILL 27 XI WILL BOW-WOW DIE? 29 XII BOW-WOW AND MEW-MEW BECOME FRIENDS 31 XIII MEW-MEW SEEKS SOME FOOD 34 XIV BOW-WOW DOES NOT DIE 37 XV BOW-WOW AND MEW-MEW ARE VERY GREAT FRIENDS 39 XVI BOW-WOW AND MEW-MEW WILL GO AWAY 41 XVII SHALL THEY START SO SOON? 44 XVIII SAYING "GOOD-BY" 46 XIX BOW-WOW AND MEW-MEW SET OFF 48 XX RUNNING AWAY 51 XXI IS IT GOOD FUN? 52 XXII IN THE FIELDS 55 XXIII PUSS FALLS LAME 57 XXIV IN THE CORN-FIELD 59 XXV THE FIRST MEAL 62 XXVI THE WORK OF EACH RUNAWAY 64 XXVII THE BIG SHEEP-DOG 66 XXVIII BOW-WOW IS BADLY HURT 69 XXIX PUSS TURNS NURSE 71 XXX CROSS WORDS 73 XXXI HOW THE RUNAWAYS FARED 76 XXXII KIND FRIENDS 78 XXXIII BAD BLOWS 80 XXXIV THOUGHTS OF HOME 83 XXXV WHERE WAS HOME? 85 XXXVI PUSS FALLS ILL 87 XXXVII THE OLD FARM-HOUSE 88 XXXVIII HOME 90 XXXIX TELL US MORE 92 ABOUT THE BOOK 95 [Illustration] Bow-Wow and Mew-Mew [Illustration] I BOW-WOW AND MEW-MEW "Get out of the way," said a little fat dog, as he came near the fire. "I shall not get out of your way," said the white puss, who had got the best place first. "Do you keep out of my way!" "You are as bad a cat as ever I saw," cried the dog, in a rage. The dog's name was Bow-Wow. "I am not half so bad a cat as you are a dog," said Mew-Mew. Bow-Wow and Mew-Mew were a very young dog and cat. They did not know how to be good. No one had told them. They did not use kind words the one to the other. They led a sad life, and were cross all day long. Bow-Wow said that Mew-Mew was idle, vain, and cross, and of no use to any one. And Mew-Mew said of Bow-Wow, that he was only fit to bark, that he was all for himself and ever in the way. Thus they used to go on all day. It was quite a treat when they fell asleep. That was the only time that there was peace with them. II BOW-WOW AND MEW-MEW ARE NOT HAPPY Bow-Wow and Mew-Mew did not love each other. But you must know that they did not find good in any thing. All was bad alike to them. They did not like the house they lived in; they did not like the lady they lived with; nor the food they had to eat. They said they did not have what was good for them to eat or to drink. Bow-Wow wanted other little dogs about the place, so that he could have a good game of play. Mew-Mew sat with her eyes half shut for hours, to think what a shame it was no other cat ever came to see her. "Now if I had a real home," Mew-Mew would say, "I would have a lot of young cats in it. I would have a fire in every room, a cup of warm milk on each floor, and all the meat in the house should be cut up into little bits. And I would kill Bow-Wow and all the dogs that came near my house." III MEW-MEW FALLS ASLEEP Mew-Mew would think of such a life till she grew quite glad. She would begin to purr, and so sing herself off to sleep. "Did ever any one see such a cat?" Bow-Wow said, when Mew-Mew acted in this way. "She sings as if she were out of her wits. I have seen much in my life" (he was quite young), "but I have never seen so silly a cat as Mew-Mew is." Then he would go to Mew-Mew and give her a blow on the side of her head to wake her up. Mew-Mew would spring up like a shot. [Illustration] And if Bow-Wow did not take to his heels with all his might, which he very often did, Mew-Mew would use her paws in such a way as to make him wish he had left her to have her sleep out. Bow-Wow and Mew-Mew lived in a farm-house. You shall hear how this dog and cat were often put out, and how much they had to bear. IV THE CHICKS, THE PIGS, THE DUCKS First, there were the chicks. "They eat all day long," said Mew-Mew. "I cannot bear them; I wish I might eat them." Then there were the pigs. Bow-Wow did not like the pigs. For one day he had gone into their sty to bark at them. But they did not fear him and did not try to get away. [Illustration] In fact, they trod on him till he was well-nigh dead. He kept away from the pigs after that; at any rate, he did not go into their sty again. Then the ducks. If there was one thing Mew-Mew did not like, it was the ducks. The ducks made a great deal too much noise, they did not even know how to walk, and they had a very bad way of going into the water. The horse and the cow were much too big. It was not safe to go near them. They had a way of using their feet, which Bow-Wow and Mew-Mew did not like at all. The dog and cat had not one thing which they did like. The lady was not quite so bad as the rest. Still she was to blame that there were not fires in every room, cups of warm milk on every floor, and bits of good meat in the dish. V BOW-WOW IS HURT It came about one day that Bow-Wow was badly hurt. He had gone into the barn-yard "for no harm at all," he said, but to bark at the chicks, and put them in fear of their lives. He had great fun with one chick, which ran away from him, and flew up to its perch. Bow-Wow went after it and made leaps into the air to get it, and was just as glad as he could be. But all at once he could jump no more. A large log of wood fell on him. He felt great pain. This made him cry, so that one could hear him half a mile away. [Illustration] The lady ran out to see why Bow-Wow cried so loud. She took the wood off him. Then she found that the bone of one leg was hurt. A man was sent for to dress the leg, and Bow-Wow was put to bed. VI BOW-WOW IN BED As soon as Bow-Wow was in bed, Mew-Mew came into the room. She was as glad as she could be to see poor Bow-Wow in pain. "Well, you are a fine sort of dog, you are," she said; "why could you not leave the chicks alone? It is a pity you did not break all your legs. I wish you had done so. Anyhow, it will be a long time before you get about again. I shall have the nice warm fire all to myself now." "Oh--h--h!" cried Bow-Wow, for the poor little dog felt very ill. Then the bad Mew-Mew put up her paw and gave Bow-Wow such a blow that it made him cry loud again with pain. The lady came into the room to find out why the dog had called out. Then Mew-Mew, who, to tell the truth, knew that she had not done what was right, crept out by the open door. (See picture on page 2.) She took care to keep out of the way for the rest of the day. It was only when it was quite dark, and the lady had gone to bed, that she dared to come into the room again, and take her place before the fire. VII MEW-MEW BY THE FIRE Bow-Wow was in his little bed. Great care had been taken of him. He had not gone to sleep, for his leg hurt him so much that he could not get to sleep at all. When he saw Mew-Mew come into the room he was in such fear that he did not know what to do. She had been such a bad cat in the day, that Bow-Wow did not feel at all sure but that now, when the lady was in bed, Mew-Mew might kill him. It was a sad case for Bow-Wow. He shut his eyes, all but the least bit. He kept them just far enough open, to see what Mew-Mew was doing, and then he lay quite still. Mew-Mew gave one look at Bow-Wow's bed. "Bow-Wow is asleep," she said. "I will not be unkind to him again." Then she went to the fire, and sat with her back to Bow-Wow, that he might not see her; and she began to wash her coat. This was such a long task that she soon forgot all about Bow-Wow. She sat for a long time in the same place, even after the fire had gone out. VIII BOW-WOW IN GREAT PAIN Mew-Mew had a nice coat, white as milk. She kept it very clean, for she washed it for a good many hours each day. Bow-Wow used to say, "Why, you will wash it all away." Mew-Mew did not mind that a bit, for she knew that Bow-Wow only said this when he felt vexed that he had not a nice white coat. Bow-Wow's coat was black as coal. Mew-Mew sat by the fire and washed her coat. [Illustration] Bow-Wow did not dare to go to sleep, for fear of what the cat might do. At last he was quite worn out. His leg was very painful, too. After the cat had washed and washed for an hour and a half, Bow-Wow could bear it no longer. He turned himself in bed and gave a great groan. Mew-Mew left off washing at once. "I will groan again," said Bow-Wow; "I may as well, as I have done so once." He did groan again, and over and over again. If he were to be killed, he could not help it, and the pain did not seem so bad while he groaned. "Oh! you are awake, are you?" said Mew-Mew. "Oh--h--h! yes, I am awake," and Bow-Wow gave another great groan. IX MEW-MEW A NURSE "Do you mean to make that noise all night?" said the cat, in a very sharp way. "I do not know. I hope not. I wish I could lose this bad pain." "You _are_ a bad dog," said Mew-Mew. "You have a nice warm bed to lie on; great care has been taken of you; you have had good food to eat; what more can you want? "Yet you lie there and groan. "As for poor me, all I have to lie on is an old bit of rug. I think it is I that ought to groan." "I wish you had my leg," said Bow-Wow. "Oh, we shall never hear the last of that leg now." Then, as she had no more to say, she went to her rug to sleep. But she had only slept for a little while, and had fallen into a nice dream about a mouse, when Bow-Wow gave a great cry. "Why do you call out in that way?" said Mew-Mew, in a rage. "I am so hot," cried Bow-Wow, "that I think I shall die." "I wish you were dead," said the cat. "Why did you wake me from my first sleep and let that fat mouse get away from me? Am I to be kept awake all night to nurse you?" "I only want you to take the rug off me," said Bow-Wow. "Oh, dear! dear!" cried Mew-Mew. [Illustration] But she took off the rug, and put it near the fire. It would make her a nice soft bed. The rug she had was not so good and soft as this. X BOW-WOW FEELS VERY ILL "Well, will that do?" said Mew-Mew. "Oh, I do not know; I am very ill." "I dare say you are not a bit worse than I am; you have not a bad cold as I have." "A bad cold! What is a bad cold to a leg as full of pain as mine is?" "Oh! there you are! all about the leg again!" Mew-Mew went off to her rug, and was soon fast asleep. She slept this time for a good long while, and Bow-Wow slept too; but as break of day came, Bow-Wow made a very loud cry. "Dear me! dear me! what is it now?" said Mew-Mew. "I cannot bear this great pain any longer. You must come and help me with my bad leg." "Anything for peace," said Mew-Mew, and up she came and bit through what was on the leg and took it off. "Well, are you all right now?" "I am better," said Bow-Wow. But he lay back, for he could not hold up his head. [Illustration] "You do not look to me as if you would live," said the cat, after she had had a long look at him. "Not look as if I should live?" said Bow-Wow. "No, I do not think you will live;" and with that, she sat down before the dog, with her eyes fixed on his face, as if she meant to wait there and see the end of him. XI WILL BOW-WOW DIE? "Is there anything I can do?" asked the dog. "Oh! I do not know of anything. You must just wait." Then Mew-Mew shut her eyes for a little more sleep. "But Mew-Mew! Mew-Mew!" cried poor Bow-Wow, "you must not go to sleep. Oh, Mew-Mew! I have no one to speak to but you." "It will not help you to speak," said Mew-Mew. "You are much too fond of your own voice; I have told you that over and over again." "Yes, Mew-Mew, so you have. But you would not have me die, would you? I have so many things I should like to say to you. What will you do without me when I am gone?" The poor little dog gave such a sad look into Mew-Mew's face, as he spoke these words, that Mew-Mew did not quite know what to say. To tell the truth, though she tried to think that she was very glad at getting rid of Bow-Wow for good and all, yet she was not quite sure about it. After all, she did not know what she should do without him. But she did not wish to show that she was so weak as to care for him; so when he asked "What will you do when I am gone?" she said: "Oh! I shall do much as I do now." And she began to wash a speck off one of her white paws. XII BOW-WOW AND MEW-MEW BECOME FRIENDS But poor little Bow-Wow could not bear this. "What!" he said, "you will go on as you do now when I am gone? You will go on just the same, when you will never have me to look at--or to speak to--or to fight with?" Bow-Wow's voice quite broke down. "Oh, Mew-Mew! you _are_ not kind to me." "Me not kind! If it comes to that, you are much more unkind than I am. You do not care a bit for me; not a bit more than if I was a chick or a pig. You would not sit up with _me_, as I am doing with you now--no, not if I had hurt ten legs," said Mew-Mew. "Oh, Mew-Mew! how can you say such things?" cried Bow-Wow. "Oh, Mew-Mew! how _can_ you, and with me dying!" [Illustration] "You would not care if _I_ were dying ten times over," said the cat. And she put her paw over her face, and began to cry. "I--I--I should," said Bow-Wow; "I am sure I should care very much." "Well, well," said Mew-Mew, "I do not wish to be cross with you, now that you are about to die." "Let us be friends then," said Bow-Wow. "We will," said Mew-Mew. Then they were quite still for some time. They did not know what to make of being friends. They did not speak, for they did not know what to say. XIII MEW-MEW SEEKS SOME FOOD Mew-Mew was the first to speak. "How are you now, Bow-Wow?" she said. "How do I look?" said the dog. "Ah! not very well. There is a look in your eyes I do not like." "Oh, if it is only my eyes," said Bow-Wow, "I can change that.... Look at me now, Mew-Mew." "That is not the same look at all," said the cat. "Your eyes are as bright as mine now, Bow-Wow." "No, no--not so bright as yours. No other eyes could be as bright as yours, Mew-Mew. But I do feel a good deal better now, and I think, dear Mew-Mew, that if I could get a long sleep and some nice food--" "Should you like a mouse?" cried Mew-Mew. "Ah! I fear a mouse would get away from me. I do not know how to deal with a mouse as you do, Mew-Mew, even when I am well. I should like some cold meat." "Well, I will see what I can do," said Mew-Mew. Away she went; but the only food that she could find was some cold pork. [Illustration] She had two or three bites at this, to make sure it was good, and then went back to Bow-Wow with her prize. "What is it, Mew-Mew?" "Cold pork: very nice." And she put it before him. "Please have some too, Mew-Mew." "Well, I do not care if I do," said the cat. XIV BOW-WOW DOES NOT DIE They both set to work with a good will. In a very short time the cold pork was all gone. "It was very good," said Bow-Wow, with a sigh. "It has done me a great deal of good. Is there any more of it?" "Not a bit more," said Mew-Mew. "Well, it cannot be helped. Shall I try now to go to sleep?" "Yes, do, and I will make up your bed for you." This she did, and the dog lay down and shut his eyes. "I will just give my coat a wash, and then try to go to sleep too," said Mew-Mew. "Be sure you call me if you feel worse, dear Bow-Wow." The little boys and girls who read this book will be glad to know that in spite of all the fright which Bow-Wow and Mew-Mew had, the dog was in no danger of dying at all. He had to stay in bed for a whole week, and for ten days more was very weak, and had to take care what he ate, and where he went. [Illustration] Yet by the end of a month he was as strong as ever, and would bark at the pigs and hunt the chicks just as he had done before. XV BOW-WOW AND MEW-MEW ARE VERY GREAT FRIENDS Bow-Wow and Mew-Mew were now great friends. Mew-Mew said that she had saved Bow-Wow's life when he was ill. She said this so often, that Bow-Wow came to think it was true, and looked upon her as the best friend he had in the world. As for Mew-Mew, she grew very fond of Bow-Wow; she did not like to have him out of her sight. They loved each other so much that if you had told them they were once cross and unkind they would have said: "Oh, no! that must have been some other dog and cat, it could not have been we." But though they were now such good friends, they did not like the rest of the world a bit more than they had done before. One night, after the lady had gone to bed, Bow-Wow and Mew-Mew met to have a talk before the fire. Bow-Wow was very sad. "Why are you so sad, Bow-Wow?" said Mew-Mew. "It is the pigs!" "What have they been doing?" "I heard them grunt as I came past the sty!" [Illustration] "But they did you no harm, did they?" "They would have done if they could." XVI BOW-WOW AND MEW-MEW WILL GO AWAY "Well, pigs are no good anywhere, I own," said Mew-Mew, "but do you know, when I come to think of it, I am not sure but that chicks are worse." "Chicks are bad, if you like, but not so bad as pigs. You may be right, yet I do not know but that out of the whole set, ducks are the very worst of all," said Bow-Wow. And then he began to groan. As soon as he gave a groan Mew-Mew gave one too, and they kept on for some time. "I have a good mind not to bear it," said Bow-Wow at last. "Dear me! you must bear it, how can you help it?" "I can go away." "Where to?" "Anywhere." Mew-Mew was so put out with the thought of Bow-Wow going away, that for a time she could not speak. At last she said, "Oh, Bow-Wow, you would not leave me, would you?" "Would you not come with me?" he asked. "Yes, that I would, anywhere, to the end of the world." "Then we will go," said Bow-Wow. "It must be a good change, that is clear; in no place can we be as badly off as we are here." "Yes, that is quite clear," said the cat. "When shall we set off?" "Now, at once," said Bow-Wow. XVII SHALL THEY START SO SOON? "But we cannot get out yet; the doors are not open." To tell the truth, Mew-Mew did not care about getting away, as Bow-Wow did. She liked to stay at home. And on this night she felt that she must have a long sleep. So she said, "We must not start yet, for I have not given my coat a good wash." "Cannot you live one night without giving your coat a wash?" said Bow-Wow, in a rage. "I should think not. Would you have me to go out into the world with dust and dirt on my coat? And before we set out, I should like to get a thing or two that we may want to take with us. Let us have a sound sleep to-night. We may hope then to start in good time." "Well, well, as you please," said Bow-Wow, who now felt glad, too, that they had not to leave their warm place by the fire just then. [Illustration] They lay down side by side on the rug, and went to sleep. XVIII SAYING "GOOD-BY" Next day Bow-Wow went for a walk round the farm. First he had a look at the pigs; he did not go into their sty, but he barked at them and said: "I am sad for you, that you can never get out for a walk, but must be ever in that sty. Do you not wish you had been born dogs?" And the pigs, with a grunt, said: "Go away, you little dog; we do not wish to talk to you. Our home is a very nice one; we do not want to make any change." He gave a bark at the chicks, not so much to harm them as to bid them good-by. [Illustration] He went to the pond to get a drink and to say as his last words to the ducks: "Why do you not be wise and stay on the land? You can come to no harm here, but I am sure you will take cold by being so much in the water, and that may be the death of you!" But the ducks said: "Quack! quack! run off, you bad dog. You do not at all know what is good for us." XIX BOW-WOW AND MEW-MEW SET OFF In the night Mew-Mew had made her coat quite white. She stole a roast chick out of the house, and hid it in the dust-bin. And she took one or two other things which they might want. They did not start till the lady had given them two meals that day. At the set time they met at the dust-bin. [Illustration] "But who was to carry the chick?" Bow-Wow said he could not, Mew-Mew said the same. Then said Bow-Wow: "Had we better not eat it now? It is no use to leave it here." They set to work, and ate the chick to the very last bone. Then they did not feel quite so fit to take a long walk as they had hoped. Still they made their way to the gate of the farm and out into the road. "Now we have done it," said Bow-Wow. "Yes, we have done it," said Mew-Mew who did not feel at all gay. "We must step out as fast as we can," said Bow-Wow, "for I dare say they will be after us in half an hour." [Illustration] "Oh! as fast as you please," said Mew-Mew; but she wished all the time that she was back on her rug before the fire. So they set off at full speed. XX RUNNING AWAY They left the farm by the gate and got on the road. Bow-Wow wished to run very fast, for "I dare say they will be after us in half an hour," he said. He did not think but that they would soon be missed, though he said, "No one has ever given us much care." "Our loss," he said, "will make the lady sad and she will send out the men to find us." Bow-Wow and Mew-Mew ran fast, so fast that the cat was soon out of breath. Mew-Mew could run fast for a little way, but she was not used to long races. She had not gone half a mile before she began to feel quite ill. XXI IS IT GOOD FUN? "It is fine fun, is it not, Mew-Mew?" Bow-Wow called out in great joy. He had often run a long race and did not mind this run a bit. "Yes, it is fine fun," said Mew-Mew, two or three times. But at last, when for about the tenth time Bow-Wow said, "Is it not fine fun?" Mew-Mew could only gasp out:-- "Yes--yes--it is--good fun--but--can we not--just--rest a little?" [Illustration] "What! rest so soon?" said Bow-Wow. "Yes--just--for--a little time." "Oh, well, if you wish it," and Bow-Wow stood still. "But what is the matter with you? Have you hurt one of your paws?" "Oh no--not that," said Mew-Mew. "We have run so fast that I have lost my breath." "That is sad," said Bow-Wow. "I do not know how you will be able to move about much in the world, if you so soon lose your breath." "But we are not to be ever on the run, are we?" said Mew-Mew, with a wild look in her eyes. "Well, no, not ever on the run. But there will be a good deal of it. We must do the best we can." XXII IN THE FIELDS "Have you had a rest now, Mew-Mew?" said Bow-Wow. "Oh yes," said the cat, as she got on her legs again. "We will not go quite so fast now, will we?" "As you please. If the men from the farm come after us, and take us back, it will not be I that am to blame." They set off once more. They did not keep to the road, for fear of those who might be on the lookout for them. Some fields were much more easy to cross than others. The best of all were those of nice soft short grass. The fields in which the corn had been cut, were very hard to get over. The short stems of the corn were sharp to their paws. [Illustration] The field of large green leaves was not so bad to cross. Still it was not nice to be out of sight the whole time, and only to know where the other was by calling out every now and then. They could not run so fast as on the road, and though they did stop many times to rest, it was hard work for Mew-Mew. She was short of breath, as you know. But, worse than that, her paws had become so large that she could only just get along. "Oh, dear me!" she said, "what can have made my paws swell in this way, and what makes them so full of pain?" XXIII PUSS FALLS LAME Mew-Mew went on but a little way. She then could not even limp along any more. "Well, I did think you could run better than this," said Bow-Wow, not in a very sweet temper, when he saw her lie down. "Oh, I shall be well soon," the cat said, "it is only my paws. Oh, Bow-Wow, do your paws never hurt?" "I should think not," said Bow-Wow. "Well, but just look at mine." And they did look odd, for they were as big again as they ought to be, and quite black. "Have you some thorns in them?" asked Bow-Wow. "You must put them into water and wash them." "Put my paws in water! I would not do such a thing for the world." "What will you do with them, then?" "I mean to lick them." "It will take you a long time to lick those paws white. But if you mean to do it you had better begin, for we shall not walk any more to-night. Let us creep under this corn in the field. You will not mind if I go to sleep, will you, Mew-Mew?" "Oh dear, no," said the cat. XXIV IN THE CORN-FIELD "I should like some food before I go to sleep," Bow-Wow said to himself. "I do not at all know where to get any. I must go without my supper for once." This he did, and was soon fast asleep. As for poor Mew-Mew, she had two hours' good work, before she could get rid of the pain in her paws, and make them look white, as they did before she set out. Then she made herself into a ball, and slept well till the sun was up. I dare say she would have slept half the next day, had not Bow-Wow called,-- "Up! up! wake up, Mew-Mew!" Mew-Mew did her best to get up, and to keep her eyes open. She had never had such a day as the last. "No time to lose!" said Bow-Wow. "We must have some food!" "Oh, yes," said Mew-Mew, "we will have some birds. Wait till I have washed--". "Till I have washed my coat," she was going to say, but before she had got the last words out, she heard such a noise, all at once, in the trees near, that it quite put them out of her head. She looked up to see the cause of it, and then cried:-- "Oh! look at the birds! Oh! dear me! Bow-Wow! look at the birds! Oh! look at them! look at them!" [Illustration] XXV THE FIRST MEAL She had never seen so many birds, at one time, in her life before. "Well, I see them," said Bow-Wow. "Why do you not go and get some, and not talk so much about them?" The truth was that Bow-Wow did not much care to hear about birds. Mew-Mew had but to lie in wait for them and she could get nice tid-bits for herself. But Bow-Wow might look and wait, and as soon as he made a jump, the bird was sure to fly away. The sight of Mew-Mew's little feasts had of old been more than Bow-Wow was able to bear. [Illustration] "Why do you not get some?" said Bow-Wow. "Oh! I will get them," said Mew-Mew, "all alive." And she lost no time about it, for she had two poor little birds in no time. Bow-Wow ate one, she ate the other. "Will you have one more?" said Mew-Mew. "Yes, if you please," said the dog. Mew-Mew could get these birds with great ease. They had three birds each, and then as they could eat no more, they lay down again for a time. "It is very warm," said Mew-Mew. "I wish I had a little milk." XXVI THE WORK OF EACH RUNAWAY "Milk! Oh, you will get no milk here," said Bow-Wow. "Get no milk!" said the cat. "There is no milk," said the dog, "but you can have water." "I would not take a drop of water to save my life," said Mew-Mew. "Well, well," said Bow-Wow, seeing that all the hair on her back was on end, "we will hope to find some milk as we go along. But I want to speak to you. I think, dear Mew-Mew, that as you can get birds so well,--you know how they fly away from me,--I cannot do better than leave you to find our food each day." "I am sure, if I can please you," said Mew-Mew, "I shall only be too glad to do so." "Very well," said Bow-Wow. "I will pick out our road and say when we shall rest, and where we shall sleep; and you can come to me at any time that you want help." "I will," said Mew-Mew. "And now let us set off," said Bow-Wow. "Yes," said Mew-Mew. "I hope we shall find some milk as we go on." They went on for a long way, through the fields and woods, and kept out of the way of men and boys. XXVII THE BIG SHEEP-DOG At last, at a time when they had not looked well ahead, they heard a loud bark, and saw a great sheep-dog racing after them, as if he would break his neck. "Oh!" cried Bow-Wow. "Oh--h!" cried Mew-Mew. They did not know what to do. "We must run up a tree," said the cat. "But I cannot run up a tree," said the dog. "I am sure I cannot help you," cried Mew-Mew, and she ran with all her might. [Illustration] There was a large tree close by; Mew-Mew flew up it, and was quite safe. What would poor Bow-Wow do? The great dog came up. He did not give Bow-Wow time to speak, but fell on him, and began to roll him over and over on the hard ground. "Oh, Mew-Mew! Mew-Mew!" cried he, calling upon the only friend he had. "What do you mean by 'Mew-Mew'?" said the big dog. And he laid hold of Bow-Wow's neck, and gave him such a shake, as if he would shake his life out of him. Mew-Mew, up in the tree, you may be sure, sat as still as a mouse. "Oh! let me go! and I will never--never--" cried Bow-Wow, with his voice getting fainter at each word. The big dog had such a hold of Bow-Wow, that he was not able to say what it was that he would never do. "It is all over with me," he said to himself; and he shut his eyes and gave himself up for lost. XXVIII BOW-WOW IS BADLY HURT Just then a loud call was heard. "Come off, Rex! Do you hear? Come off, lad!" The big dog just lifted his head at the sound, and so gave Bow-Wow time to get his breath, but he kept him fast on the ground. "Come off, you bad dog!" said the man again. It was not till he had called a good many times, that the big dog gave poor Bow-Wow a last shake, and then ran off to the man. As soon as he was quite gone, Bow-Wow, who had not dared open his lips before, began to groan with all his might. "Oh!" he said. "Oh! oh!" They were such sad groans, that they made Mew-Mew's heart, as she sat in the tree, quite come into her mouth. "What shall I do? Shall I come down, Bow-Wow?" she said. But Bow-Wow would not hear her, and only groaned more and more. "Oh, dear! dear! I do think he is dying," cried Mew-Mew; and she came down from the tree, though she could but just stand for fear. "Bow-Wow! can you speak?" she called out, as soon as she was down. "Do not come near me," said the little dog, in a low voice. XXIX PUSS TURNS NURSE Mew-Mew gave a look all round, and as the sheep-dog was nowhere in sight, she came to where Bow-Wow lay. "Go away! leave me!" said Bow-Wow. "Leave you! Never!" cried the cat. "Oh! my poor dear, dear Bow-Wow! Why, you are badly hurt!" "If I am badly hurt you are quite safe, at any rate," said Bow-Wow. "You run away, and leave your friend to get badly hurt, do you not?" "Ah! but is it not a good thing that I did run away? Who would nurse you now if I were hurt too?" There was something in that, so Bow-Wow said no more about it. Mew-Mew began to run over the things she could do for Bow-Wow: how she would put him to bed, get him some drink, and kill a bird for him. Bow-Wow said he would like some food, and that if he had a very fine bird, he would try to eat some of it. [Illustration] Mew-Mew went off to find a fine bird. But go where she would, up and down, not a bird could she get. The land just there had few trees. There did not seem to be a bird in the place. XXX CROSS WORDS She ran up the trees, she hid in the wheat, yet she saw but six birds in an hour, and these all got away. She went back to Bow-Wow with a sad face. "You have come back at last," Bow-Wow said as soon as he saw her. "Come! make haste. Where are the birds?" "Oh, Bow-Wow, I cannot find any." "You cannot find any birds?" "Not one! It is the worst place I ever was in," and she began to sob as if her heart would break. "You ought to have done better," said Bow-Wow. "It is your work to find food. I told you so." "And it is your part to take care of us on the way, and you have done that well, have you not?" said Mew-Mew. "You have not much to talk about, anyhow," said Bow-Wow. "If I have not, I might have had, for all your good lookout," said the cat. Thus they grew very cross. I dare say they might even have come to blows, if it had not been that Bow-Wow was not able to stand. After a while they made up their cross words. [Illustration] As poor Bow-Wow felt ill, they could not go on. No food was to be had. They lay down just in that place, each rolled into a tight ball, and soon fell asleep. XXXI HOW THE RUNAWAYS FARED They slept the rest of that day. In the night rain began to fall. This made them wake up. Bow-Wow was just able to walk to a tree, the same tree that Mew-Mew had used to hide in. The rain did not come so hard, close up to the trunk of the tree. It would take too long to tell you of all this little dog and cat had to bear, for many days. Often without food, in the wind and the rain, and on the cold ground at night, what a change after the good home they had left! Day by day they grew more thin and weak. Bow-Wow's black coat was all rusty and dusty; his bones looked as if they must come through his skin. As for Mew-Mew's fur, you would not think it ever could have been white at all, it was in such a sad state. [Illustration] She used to wash her paws, and her face, two or three times a day; she would have done more if she could. Once they went near a house, in the hope that some food might be given them, but some bad boys cast stones at them, and drove them away. They had to run for their lives. XXXII KIND FRIENDS One night, after they had had no food all day, they saw a little boy and girl on the road, and the boy and girl saw them. They did not run away at the sight of a dog, as some boys and girls would have done. [Illustration] When they saw how thin and poor the dog and cat were, they took out of their bag some bread, which they had left from dinner, and fed them. Bow-Wow and Mew-Mew were very glad to have the food, and would have gone home with their young friends. But the boy said, "No, you must not come home with us. We do not know you. We have a big dog in the yard at home. Rex would kill you, if you came to our house." XXXIII BAD BLOWS The one thing in their minds now was, how to get home once more. They could never agree who was most to blame that they had run away. Mew-Mew said that all the blame lay with Bow-Wow; and Bow-Wow said that Mew-Mew was quite as much to blame as he was, and more so. Mew-Mew could not bear this. Weak as she was, she made a spring at Bow-Wow, and gave him such a box on the ears, that he, being very weak too, fell right down. [Illustration] When he got on his legs again, he flew at Mew-Mew. One might think they would have killed each other on the spot; but they were not so strong as they had been, and could not fight long. After they could fight no more, they would not speak a word for half an hour. Then Mew-Mew, with her kind heart, said, "I am sure I did not mean to hurt you, Bow-Wow!" And Bow-Wow said, "Let us not think or say any more about it. It is very sad that we cannot live without cross words and bad blows. But what are we to do? How are we to live?" "I wish we were dead," said Mew-Mew. "We soon shall be," said Bow-Wow. "But why did we ever, ever run away?" asked Mew-Mew. XXXIV THOUGHTS OF HOME Mew-Mew had asked this a good many times before and Bow-Wow had said, "We did it for the best." To-day he only gave a great groan. "We had such a good home!" said Mew-Mew. "We had!" said Bow-Wow. "There was food for us at all times." "There was!" "We had a fire all the year round to keep us warm." "It got too warm sometimes." "It never was too warm for me." "There were the chicks in the yard, that we did not like." "Yes, and the pigs." "And the ducks, and the horse, and the cow. Yet they did us no harm." "Well, no! I cannot say they did; that is, if we left them alone." Bow-Wow did not forget how the pigs trod on him in the sty. Mew-Mew went on: "But we gave up our good home, we left the lady who was so kind to us, and here we are with no food, cold, and wet, and nearly dead. Oh! Bow-Wow." "Oh! Mew-Mew!" They each had as sad a face as you ever saw in your life. "We may get home yet," said the dog. "Ah, if we could!" said the cat. XXXV WHERE WAS HOME? In what way did home lie? They had gone now to the right hand, now to the left hand, now to the north, now to the south. How to find the way by which they had come first, they could not tell. They could but walk on, and on, and on; and their poor little weak legs felt many a pain. "We can but go on till we die, Bow-Wow," said Mew-Mew. They went on, and never knew the least bit in the world where they were going. Sometimes when the sun rose, they had not the heart to get up at all. They would lie still, with their eyes shut, and try to sleep as long as they could, that they might not think of their pains. [Illustration] When they had gone long with no food, they could not sleep, but would creep close to each other, or would sit and look at each other in a kind of fear. XXXVI PUSS FALLS ILL At last one night came, when poor little Mew-Mew lay quite flat on the ground, and put out her four paws. She said in a very quiet way, "I can walk no more. When the day comes, you must say good-by to me and go on alone." "Oh! Mew-Mew," cried Bow-Wow, and he went to her side and sat down. The tears came into his eyes so fast that he could not see. "I will stay here if you must stay, Mew-Mew," said Bow-Wow. "I will stay here and die too." "Oh, no, dear Bow-Wow; you may get home yet." "What good would it do me to get home alone?" "You could tell the lady how hard we tried to get home. I should like to have her know how hard we tried, and how sorry we were." "But she will never know it," said Bow-Wow. "I shall never find her. I cannot go on alone. I will not leave you." XXXVII THE OLD FARM-HOUSE They lay down to sleep. It was a dark cold night. They crept close, that they might not feel the cold so much. Bow-Wow could not sleep: he thought every hour would be Mew-Mew's last. But the hours passed on, and she still drew her breath in the same short way. She was alive when the sun rose. It had been night when they had come to this place--quite dark. When the light came, what do you think Bow-Wow saw? As soon as his eyes were open, and this was just as the birds began to sing, he saw, not far off, the farm-house at home. [Illustration] There it was; and the sun shone on the warm tile roof, and on the old stone walls. There it was, with the barn-yard and the stacks of hay. Bow-Wow knew them every one. He gave one long look, and then such a bark, that even made poor sick Mew-Mew wake. XXXVIII HOME "Oh, Bow-Wow, what is it?" she said. But Bow-Wow could not tell. Not a word would come from him save one. He ran round and round as if he were wild. "HOME! HOME! HOME!" he cried. Yes, it was home at last. Mew-Mew could see it. There it was, the red house lit up by the sun. But poor Mew-Mew could not walk to it. [Illustration] Bow-Wow ran off to the house, and in some way or other, as dogs often will, made one of the men come to the place where Mew-Mew lay. He took Mew-Mew in his arms, to her long-lost home. XXXIX TELL US MORE But some little boy or girl will say, "Tell us more. Tell me,--did Mew-Mew die? Did the lady take Bow-Wow and Mew-Mew into the house again? What did she do for them, if she took them in? Did puss ever get her white coat again? And if they both got quite well again, were they good or bad afterward?" I will tell you. The lady was very glad to see her pets home once more. They were in such a sad way that she did not whip them. [Illustration] She gave Mew-Mew a cup of warm milk before the fire. Bow-Wow had a great lump of meat with no bone. Then each of them had a warm bath, and Mew-Mew was put to bed. As to Mew-Mew's coat, she washed it so often, and took such care of it, that in a few weeks it grew long and was quite white again. And I am glad to be able to add, that Bow-Wow and Mew-Mew were as good a little dog and cat ever after, as you and I could wish them to be. ABOUT THE BOOK Bow-Wow and Mew-Mew is one of the few books for beginners in reading that may be classed as literature. Written in words of mostly one syllable, it has a story to tell, which is related in so attractive a manner as to immediately win the favor of young children. It teaches English and English literature to the child in the natural way: through a love for the reading matter. It is the character of story that will, in the not distant future, replace the ordinary primer or reader with detached sentences, and which seldom possesses any relation to literature. The ultimate objects of any story can only be effected through the _love_ for a story. The prominent point in this story is development of good character, which may well be regarded as the highest purpose of education. The transformation from bad to good traits in the dog and cat cannot but have a desirable effect on every child that reads the story. Bow-Wow and Mew-Mew become dissatisfied with their home and their surroundings, and ungrateful toward their benefactress. As the story tells, "They did not find good in any thing." But after running away and suffering hunger, neglect, and bad treatment, their characters begin to change. They naturally come to reflect their mistress's goodness. They learn the value of companionship and friendship, and the appreciation of a home. However, the ethical thoughts in the story are presented without a moral. The child really _lives_ the scenes described. He has the emotions of the characters and feels their convictions. And this determines the worth of a story as an agent in character development. The narrative furnishes, further, the proper kind of exercise for the imagination. It affords abundant opportunity for the play of the dramatic instinct in the child, and effects a happy union of the "home world" and the "school world." The illustrations, drawn by Miss Hodge, have been planned and executed with considerable care. J. C. S. GOOD BOOKS FOR CHILDREN'S READING For children from five to ten years =Nonsense Rhymes and Animal Stories.= By Alhambra G. Deming. Charming little rhymes and stories, incidentally teaching habits of good English to the little folks. 64 pages, with 35 illustrations in black and color. _Cloth, 65 cents._ =The Teenie Weenies.= By William Donahey and Effie E. Baker. The adventures of these strange tiny folks are related in a manner that is delightfully simple and realistic, and which will be found to appeal to the child's sense of humor. 141 pages, with 72 illustrations in colors and decorated end sheets. _Cloth, 70 cents._ =Two Indian Children of Long Ago.= By Frances Lillian Taylor. A collection of beautiful Indian legends, giving an intimate picture of Indian child life. 160 pages, with 40 illustrations in black and color. _Cloth, 70 cents._ =Nixie Bunny in Manners-Land.=. By Joseph C. Sindelar. This is the first of the popular NIXIE BUNNY BOOKS which have been read wherever there are children. It is a rabbit story of good manners. 144 pages, with 62 illustrations in colors and decorated end sheets. _Cloth, 70 cents._ The other books in the same series are: =Nixie Bunny in Workaday-Land= A rabbit story of the occupations and industry. 144 pages, with 90 illustrations in colors and decorated end sheets. _Cloth, 70 cents._ =Nixie Bunny in Holiday-Land= A rabbit story of the holidays. 159 pages, with 82 illustrations in colors and decorated end sheets. _Cloth, 70 cents._ =Nixie Bunny in Faraway-Lands= A rabbit story of strange little folk. 160 pages, with 94 illustrations in colors and decorated end sheets. _Cloth, 70 cents._ BECKLEY-CARDY COMPANY _Publishers_ CHICAGO 
45276	----	provided by the Internet Archive DAME TROT AND HER CAT. By Anonymous [Illustration: 0001] [Illustration: 0003] [Illustration: 0004] |Dame Trot once went to a neighboring fair, And what do you think that she bought herself there? A Pussy! the prettiest ever was seen; No cat was so gentle, so clever, and clean. Each dear little paw was as black as a sloe, The rest of her fur was as white as the snow; Her eyes were bright green, and her sweet little face Was pretty and meek, full of innocent grace. Dame Trot hurried home with this beautiful cat; Went up stairs to take off her cloak and her hat; And when she came down was astonished to see That Pussy was busy preparing the tea. "Oh, what a strange cat! thought poor little Dame Trot, "She'll break my best china and upset the pot;" But no harm befel them--the velvety paws Were quite sure; the Dame for alarm had no cause. [Illustration: 0006] Next morning when little Dame Trot came down stairs, To attend, as usual, to household affairs, She found that the kitchen was swept up as clean As if Puss, a regular servant had been. The tea stood to draw, and the toast was done brown, The Dame, very pleased, to her breakfast sat down; While Puss by her side on an arm-chair sat up, And lapp'd her warm milk from a nice china cup. Now Spot, the old house-dog, looked on in amaze, He'd never been used to such queer cattish ways; But Puss mew'd so sweetly, and moved with such grace, That Spot at last liked her, and licked her white face. The Dame went to market and left them alone, Puss washing her face, the dog picking a bone; But when she came back, Spot was learning to dance, From Pussy, who once had had lessons in France. [Illustration: 0008] [Illustration: 0009] Poor little Dame Trot had no money to spare, And only too often, her cupboard was bare; Then kind Mrs. Pussy would catch a nice fish, And serve it for dinner upon a clean dish. The rats and the mice, who wish'd Pussy to please, Were now never seen at the butter or cheese; The Dame daily found their numbers grow thinner, For Puss eat a mouse ev'ry day for her dinner. If Puss had a weakness, I needs must confess, 'Twas a Girl of the Period's fancy for dress; Her greatest desire a high chignon and hat, And a very short dress _a la mode_ for a cat. [Illustration: 0011] So, one day, when Dame Trot had gone out to dine, Puss dressed herself up, as she thought, very fine; And coaxed kind old Spot, who looked at her with pride, To play pony for once, and give her a ride. The Dame from her visit returning home late, Met this funny couple outside her own gate, And heartily laugh'd, when she saw her dear cat, Dressed up in a cloak and a chignon and hat. "You're quite a grand lady, Miss Pussy," said she, And Pussy, affectedly, answered, "Oui. Oui;" She thought it beneath her to mutter a mew, While wearing a dress of a fashion so new. Now Spot, who to welcome his mistress desired, And to "company manners" never aspired, Jumped up to fawn on her,--and down came the cat, And crushed in her tumble, her feather, and hat. [Illustration: 0013] "Oh, Puss!" said Dame Trot, "what a very sad mess You'd best have remained in your natural dress; The graces which nature so kindly bestows, Are more often hid than improved by fine clothes." 
45389	----	provided by the Internet Archive TWO YELLOW-BIRDS. By Anonymous [Illustration: 001] [Illustration: 003] [Illustration: 004] [Illustration: 005] [Illustration: 006] TWO YELLOW-BIRDS. |When Lucy Tracy was a very little girl, her mother had a beautiful yellow bird. He was quite tame, and would come out of his cage, and sit upon Mrs. Tracy's plants, and then fly upon the breakfast table, and pick the crumbs from the white cloth, while Lucy and her lather and mother were eating their breakfast. Little Lucy had no brother or sister to eat breakfast with her; so that she enjoyed very much having Black-pate, as she called him, from the black tuft on his head. She could chatter to him, as if he were no older than herself. And she would often give him lumps of sugar. He liked very much to fly into a basin of water and flatter his wings, bob his head in and out, and spatter Lucy's face Then she would laugh and clap her would peck at, while she held them in her fingers, and he would do it again, as if to make her laugh the more. She would stand by her mother, as she filled his glass cups, one with hemp-seed and the other with water, and brush all the old seeds from the bottom of his cage; for birds love a clean cage, as well as little girls love a clean house. [Illustration: 008] He was not a Canary bird; but one of the wild yellow birds, that fly about in the woods and fields. He did not seem to mourn his liberty, but appeared generally very happy in his wire house. His kind mistress took good care of him. She never trusted any one but herself to wash his cage or give him food. She knew poor birds often to suffer from hunger and thirst, by the neglect of those who are _told_ to take care of them. She would often say to Lucy, "It is a hard thing, my little girl, to be shut up in a cage, as this poor bird is; therefore, we ought to do all we can to make him comfortable. It is very wicked to let little birds want seeds, or water, either to drink, or wash themselves in." "But mother, if he don't like his cage, what makes him sing so sweetly, when he flies into it, after he has washed himself in the little basin you keep for him? That don't look as if he were unhappy." "I did not say that he was unhappy; but he has a feeling of confinement, when he flies against the wires of his cage, as if he wished to get out; just as you have when you find yourself shut up in a room, when _you_ wish to get out. He sings to show his gratitude for his food, and while he is eating, feels quite as happy as when he is in his native woods; but after he has done, he wants to fly about just as you want to run. Soon he is hungry again; and then goes to his seeds to eat; and again sings his thanks." "But, mother, if you think poor Black-pate is not happy, why don't you let him fly away, and go into the green woods again?" "Why, Lucy, look out of the window, ana see if there be any green woods where he _can_ fly?" Lucy ran to the window, but soon returned, exclaiming, "Oh dear! no, mother; the ground is all covered with snow; and the trees are all frost instead of leaves. Poor Black-pate! you are better where you are, for the cold snow would freeze your little, feet and you could find no seeds upon the frosty trees and bushes. Wait till spring comes; and then, mother, shan't you let him fly, if he chooses?" "Yes, I only bought him of the boys, who brought him here in the beginning of winter, to keep him until the warm spring comes, I told them I would take him at the price they named, if they would not catch any more, which they promised." In about a month from this time, the snow was all gone--the buds upon the trees began to swell, and some of them had burst into leaves. The sun was quite warm; and Lucy remembered her mother's promise to Black-pate. One morning, just before the sun rose. Mrs. Tracy called her little daughter to walk with her into the garden. "Come, Lucy, let us see if Black-pate would like to bid us good bye this fine morning." Mr. Tracy took the cage, and Mrs. Tracy and Lucy followed him into the garden; he hung it upon a tree, that was nearly covered with young leaves, and opened the door. The bird flew in and out several times. After breakfast, Lucy sat down with her mother, in a parlor, that led to a piazza, looking into the garden, to study her lesson. Often she started up from her book and ran out, to see if Black-pate was still there. Her mother did not speak to her, for some time. He at times, peeked at the leaves, flew from bough to bough, sung some of its sweetest notes, but did not fly out of the garden. They left the cage upon the tree, and Black-pate at liberty to go or stay, just as he pleased. [Illustration: 012] At last she said, "Lucy; how many words can you spell?" "I am afraid not one; for I am thinking all the time about dear Black-pate, and how sad I shall he tomorrow morning, when I don't see him on the table. And I keep looking out, to see if he has got back to his cage. I am afraid, mother, I am selfish; for every time I look out and see him flying about, I feel sorry. Is not that selfish?" "Yes, my dear, it certainly is; for it is preferring your own happiness to that of your little bird; which but a few weeks ago you begged me to set at liberty. I am glad you see it is selfish, for you will try not to indulge it, since you know it is wicked. Instead of thinking how sad _you_ will be to-morrow morning, think how happy your _bird_ will be, hopping about in the beautiful fresh air. And you may get up as early as you please, and go into the garden, and see if he will not give you a sweeter song than you ever heard in the house." The next morning, as soon as the day began to dawn, Lucy awoke, and called from her little bed. "Mother, do you think Black-pate is awake yet?" "I don't know, but you may get up and see." So up jumped Lucy, and put on her clothes, and away she ran into the garden. She found the cage empty, but soon heard Black-pate, and some other birds, singing most briskly. She strewed some seeds and crumbs of bread upon the ground for them, and had great pleasure in running about and hearing them sing, till breakfast was ready. She then went into the house, and after breakfast she sat down to sew with her mother. She finished all the work that her mother required, and repeated her lesson without missing one word. She was so good a girl, that in the afternoon her fond mother took her to ride with her, a few miles, to visit a friend, who had some children about her own age. They walked in the woods and saw and heard many little birds chirp and sing; and Lucy enjoyed very much a variety of plays with the children, and passed a part of the time very pleasantly in swinging. [Illustration: 015] At night she, returned home by the light of a beautiful moon, and went to bed very happy. In the morning she went into the garden to hear Black-pate sing; but no Black-pate was there! At first she felt a little sad; but she remembered how happy the little birds were, that she had seen the day before; and she soon sent her sad feelings away A few days after this, a gentleman, a friend of her father, came to dine with them. As he was very fond of children, he talked a great deal with Lucy; and she told him the story of her bird. Black-pate. He listened very kindly to her and when she had finished, he said, "And so, my little girl, then your fine cage is quite empty and useless now?" "Yes, sir," said Lucy. "Well," said he, "I have some young birds that were born in a cage; and they will not be unhappy to live in one, if they are taken good care of; for they have never known any other home. Now if your mother is willing, and you would like it, I will send you one to-morrow morning, to put into your empty cage. And I dare say you will never forget to feed him, and give him fresh water to drink and wash in every morning." Mrs. Tracy was quite willing; and Lucy promised she would not forget.--The next morning the gentleman sent the bird; for he always remembered his promises. [Illustration: 017] This bird was not so handsome as Black-pate; his color was not as brilliant, nor his neck so long and graceful; but he sung very sweetly; and Lucy soon found that she loved him quite as well as she had ever loved Black-pate Though only six years old, she never once forgot to give him fresh seeds and water, and to clean his cage every morning. She was so small that she could not take down the cage from the sunny window, where it hung, nor put it back, after she had cleaned it; but her father was so much pleased with her attention to her little favorite, that he was always ready to help her. For nearly two years, Lucy thought that her bird grew handsomer and sang more sweetly every day. She used to go to school in the morning, and when she came home, would often bring flowers to dress his cage with, or chickweed, and the long seed vessels of the plantain, which little birds love very much; and he always repaid her with a song. But the third spring, he began to droop and look sick; he left off singing, and almost left off eating. He would sit on his roost for a long time, hanging his head, as if he had not strength to hold it up. It grieved Lucy very much to see him so. She put saffron into the water; buds of saffron about his cage; gave him lump? of nice sugar; and spread, every morning, large branches cf fresh chick-weed over his cage; but all to no purpose. One morning, poor little Pet, for that was the name she gave him, looked more sick than ever. She changed the water and the seeds; though the seeds she had put in fresh the day before, had not been touched. She dressed his case with all the flowers she could find in the month of May, and then went to school with a heavy heart. At noon she came home, and her dear Pet lay on his hack upon the bottom of his cage. His sufferings were all ended. The little bird was dead! [Illustration: 019] Poor Lucy wept bitterly; this was the heaviest affliction she had ever known. She laid down upon her mother's bed, and sobbed aloud. Mrs. Tracy knew that the sorrows of children are not last ing, though they are severe for the time. She therefore did not, at first, think it best to endeavor to restrain her tears; but she found that if not checked, she would make herself ill. She would not eat any dinner; and she was unfit to go to school in the afternoon. Her mother, at length, said, "My dear child, you must not give way thus to your grief for the loss of a bird. I know that you loved Pet very much, and that he gave you a great deal of pleasure; but you must remember, that sorrow for the death of a bird ought not to unfit you for every thing. Now, by thus crying, you have been obliged to stay from school, and have lost several hours work upon the little frock you were making for your aunt; besides making your head ache so much, that you cannot study your lesson this evening. I feel very much for your grief; but you are old enough to understand that all sorrow which prevents us from doing our duty, is wrong--it is selfish While you were laying upon the bed crying and sobbing, do you think your father and I could enjoy our dinner? I assure you we did not. And your lather went to the store with a very sad countenance. I hope when he comes home, you will meet him with a smiling face, and let him see, that, though you loved your bird very much, you love him more. And I hope, my little girl, you will learn a lesson, from this first sorrow, which will be of use to you all your life, viz. not to feel so strong an attachment to any object, that the loss of it will unfit you to do any thing that it is your duty to do." Lucy was in general a good girl: and she loved her parents very much, for they were always kind to her; though they never indulged her in any thing they thought wrong. She attended to what her mother said, and was sorry she had grieved them so much. She got up from the bed, washed her face and eyes in cold water, combed her hair smooth, and when her father came home, he found her sewing with her mother She was a little sad; but she cried no more, and answered very pleasantly when any one spoke to her. A friend of her father passed the evening with them. He saw that Lucy was not so lively as usual, and inquired the cause. He told her he would paint her a likeness of her little bird. We have said that the bird was not handsome; but he was a very sweet songster. And we trust all our little readers know, that beauty of person alone will never recommend either little birds or little girls, to the affections of their friends. When Lucy became a woman, though she met with many heavy afflictions, she always kept in mind, that "all sorrow which makes us neglect our duty to our fellow-beings, is selfish, and of course wrong." MARIA |Come, Maria, my dear, said her mamma, let us take a walk, and I will show you some pretty things. Maria was quite pleased to hear this, and ran to fetch her bonnet and cloak. Her mamma then took her by the hand, and led her out at the door, and then out at the gate, and then they came into the road; and as they went to the place where her mamma meant to show her little girl the fine things, they saw a number of sheep and lambs sporting in the open fields. They soon came to the place, and there they saw very fine flowers, which smelled so sweetly that little Maria felt quite happy with the sights and scents. "Here, my dear," said the lady to her little girl, "this is a rose; what a fine pink hue it has got! Smell it my dear, for I am sure that you will like it;--did you ever smell any thing so sweet?--There is a bud of the rose: see what fine soft moss grows on it, and how close it is wrapped round with green leaves to guard it whilst it is young and tender." [Illustration: 024] "That, Maria, is a stalk; it is like a little bush of red flowers, of a very nice scent. It is so fine a one, it looks like a young tree. There is a wall flower: some like the smell of them very much, but some think they are too strong. "There is a pink; it is very sweet to smell of. "That is a heart's ease: it is a very pretty little flower. What a fine purple color on that leaf; it is like velvet; but it has no scent." [Illustration: 025] "Neither has the blue-bell, which you see there, though it looks very pretty." Maria's mamma shewed her a great many more flowers, and told her the names of them. "Oh! what flower is that, mamma," said little Maria, pointing with her finger to a very tall and large flower. "That, my dear, is a sun-flower." "Oh! how large it is," said Maria, "it is like a sun in this fine Garden." Her mamma then took her all over the garden, and Maria asked her what the name of this thing, and what the name of that thing was all the time they were there. Her mamma then picked her little girl a very pretty bunch of flowers, which Maria took home with great care, and then put them in one of the vases which was in the parlor, and put water to them, to keep them alive as long as she could. Her mamma took home a large bunch for herself, to put into the large China jar, to make the room look lively, and smell sweet with the scent of it, and a very fine flower-pot it was. 
51651	----	Conditionally Human By WALTER M. MILLER, JR. Illustrated by DAVID STONE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] They were such cute synthetic creatures, it was impossible not to love them. Of course, that was precisely why they were dangerous! There was no use hanging around after breakfast. His wife was in a hurt mood, and he could neither endure the hurt nor remove it. He put on his coat in the kitchen and stood for a moment with his hat in his hands. His wife was still at the table, absently fingering the handle of her cup and staring fixedly out the window at the kennels behind the house. He moved quietly up behind her and touched her silk-clad shoulder. The shoulder shivered away from him, and her dark hair swung shiningly as she shuddered. He drew his hand back and his bewildered face went slack and miserable. "Honeymoon's over, huh?" She said nothing, but shrugged faintly. "You knew I worked for the F.B.A.," he said. "You knew I'd have charge of a district pound. You knew it before we got married." "I didn't know you killed them," she said venomously. "I won't have to kill many. Besides, they're only animals." "_Intelligent_ animals!" "Intelligent as a human imbecile, maybe." "A small child is an imbecile. Would you kill a small child?" "You're taking intelligence as the only criterion of humanity," he protested hopelessly, knowing that a logical defense was useless against sentimentality. "Baby--" "Don't call me baby! Call _them_ baby!" Norris backed a few steps toward the door. Against his better judgment, he spoke again. "Anne honey, look! Think of the _good_ things about the job. Sure, everything has its ugly angles. But think--we get this house rent-free; I've got my own district with no bosses around; I make my own hours; you'll meet lots of people that stop in at the pound. It's a _fine_ job, honey!" She sipped her coffee and appeared to be listening, so he went on. "And what can I do? You know how the Federation handles employment. They looked over my aptitude tests and sent me to Bio-Administration. If I don't want to follow my aptitudes, the only choice is common labor. That's the _law_." "I suppose you have an aptitude for killing babies?" she said sweetly. Norris withered. His voice went desperate. "They assigned me to it because I _liked_ babies. And because I have a B.S. in biology and an aptitude for dealing with people. Can't you understand? Destroying unclaimed units is the smallest part of it. Honey, before the evolvotron, before Anthropos went into the mutant-animal business, people used to elect dogcatchers. Think of it that way--I'm just a dogcatcher." Her cool green eyes turned slowly to meet his gaze. Her face was delicately cut from cold marble. She was a small woman, slender and fragile, but her quiet contempt made her loom. He backed closer to the door. "Well, I've got to get on the job." He put on his hat and picked at a splinter on the door. He frowned studiously at the splinter. "I--I'll see you tonight." He ripped the splinter loose when it became obvious that she didn't want to be kissed. He grunted a nervous good-by and stumbled down the hall and out of the house. The honeymoon was over, all right. He climbed in the kennel-truck and drove east toward the highway. The suburban street wound among the pastel plasticoid cottages that were set approximately two to an acre on the lightly wooded land. With its population legally fixed at three hundred million, most of the country had become one big suburb, dotted with community centers and lined with narrow belts of industrial development. Norris wished there were someplace where he could be completely alone. As he approached an intersection, he saw a small animal sitting on the curb, wrapped in its own bushy tail. Its oversized head was bald on top, but the rest of its body was covered with blue-gray fur. Its tiny pink tongue was licking daintily at small forepaws with prehensile thumbs. It was a cat-Q-5. It glanced curiously at the truck as Norris pulled to a halt. He smiled at it from the window and called, "What's your name, kitten?" The cat-Q-5 stared at him impassively for a moment, let out a stuttering high-pitched wail, then: "Kiyi Rorry." "Whose child are you, Rorry?" he asked. "Where do you live?" The cat-Q-5 took its time about answering. There were no houses near the intersection, and Norris feared that the animal might be lost. It blinked at him, sleepily bored, and resumed its paw-washing. He repeated the questions. "Mama kiyi," said the cat-Q-5 disgustedly. "That's right, Mama's kitty. But where is Mama? Do you suppose she ran away?" The cat-Q-5 looked startled. It stuttered for a moment, and its fur crept slowly erect. It glanced around hurriedly, then shot off down the street at a fast scamper. He followed it in the truck until it darted onto a porch and began wailing through the screen, "Mama no run ray! Mama no run ray!" Norris grinned and drove on. A class-C couple, allowed no children of their own, could get quite attached to a cat-Q-5. The felines were emotionally safer than the quasi-human chimp-K series called "neutroids." When a pet neutroid died, a family was broken with grief; but most couples could endure the death of a cat-Q or a dog-F. Class-C couples were allowed two lesser units or one neutroid. His grin faded as he wondered which Anne would choose. The Norrises were class-C--defective heredity. * * * * * He found himself in Sherman III Community Center--eight blocks of commercial buildings, serving the surrounding suburbs. He stopped at the message office to pick up his mail. There was a memo from Chief Franklin. He tore it open nervously and read it in the truck. It was something he had been expecting for several days. Attention All District Inspectors: Subject: Deviant Neutroid. You will immediately begin a systematic and thorough survey of all animals whose serial numbers fall in the Bermuda-K-99 series for birth dates during July 2234. This is in connection with the Delmont Negligency Case. Seize all animals in this category, impound, and run proper sections of normalcy tests. Watch for mental and glandular deviation. Delmont has confessed to passing only one non-standard unit, but there may be others. He disclaims memory of deviant's serial number. This could be a ruse to bring a stop to investigations when one animal is found. Be thorough. If allowed to reach age-set or adulthood, such a deviant could be dangerous to its owner or to others. Hold all seized K-99s who show the slightest abnormality in the normalcy tests. Forward to central lab. Return standard units to their owners. Accomplish entire survey project within seven days. C. Franklin Norris frowned at the last sentence. His district covered about two hundred square miles. Its replacement-quota of new neutroids was around three hundred animals a month. He tried to estimate how many of July's influx had been K-99s from Bermuda Factory. Forty, at least. Could he do it in a week? And there were only eleven empty neutroid cages in his kennel. The other forty-nine were occupied by the previous inspector's "unclaimed" inventory--awaiting destruction. He wadded the memo in his pocket, then nosed the truck onto the highway and headed toward Wylo City and the district wholesale offices of Anthropos, Inc. They should be able to give him a list of all July's Bermuda K-99 serial numbers that had entered his territory, together with the retailers to whom the animals had been sold. A week's deadline for finding and testing forty neutroids would put him in a tight squeeze. He was halfway to Wylo City when the radiophone buzzed on his dashboard. He pulled into the slow lane and answered quickly, hoping for Anne's voice. A polite professional purr came instead. "Inspector Norris? This is Doctor Georges. We haven't met, but I imagine we will. Are you extremely busy at the moment?" Norris hesitated. "Extremely," he said. "Well, this won't take long. One of my patients--a Mrs. Sarah Glubbes--called a while ago and said her baby was sick. I must be getting absent-minded, because I forgot she was class C until I got there." He hesitated. "The baby turned out to be a neutroid. It's dying. Eighteenth order virus." "So?" "Well, she's--uh--rather a _peculiar_ woman, Inspector. Keeps telling me how much trouble she had in childbirth, and how she can't ever have another one. It's pathetic. She _believes_ it's her own. Do you understand?" "I think so," Norris replied slowly. "But what do you want me to do? Can't you send the neutroid to a vet?" "She insists it's going to a hospital. Worst part is that she's heard of the disease. Knows it can be cured with the proper treatment--in humans. Of course, no hospital would play along with her fantasy and take a neutroid, especially since she couldn't pay for its treatment." "I still don't see--" "I thought perhaps you could help me fake a substitution. It's a K-48 series, five-year-old, three-year set. Do you have one in the pound that's not claimed?" Norris thought for a moment. "I think I have _one_. You're welcome to it, Doctor, but you can't fake a serial number. She'll know it. And even though they look exactly alike, the new one won't recognize her. It'll be spooky." There was a long pause, followed by a sigh. "I'll try it anyway. Can I come get the animal now?" "I'm on the highway--" "Please, Norris! This is urgent. That woman will lose her mind completely if--" "All right, I'll call my wife and tell her to open the pound for you. Pick out the K-48 and sign for it. And listen--" "Yes?" "Don't let me catch you falsifying a serial number." Doctor Georges laughed faintly. "I won't, Norris. Thanks a million." He hung up quickly. Norris immediately regretted his consent. It bordered on being illegal. But he saw it as a quick way to get rid of an animal that might later have to be killed. He called Anne. Her voice was dull. She seemed depressed, but not angry. When he finished talking, she said, "All right, Terry," and hung up. * * * * * By noon, he had finished checking the shipping lists at the wholesale house in Wylo City. Only thirty-five of July's Bermuda-K-99s had entered his territory, and they were about equally divided among five pet shops, three of which were in Wylo City. After lunch, he called each of the retail dealers, read them the serial numbers, and asked them to check the sales records for names and addresses of individual buyers. By three o'clock, he had the entire list filled out, and the task began to look easier. All that remained was to pick up the thirty-five animals. And _that_, he thought, was like trying to take a year-old baby away from its doting mother. He sighed and drove to the Wylo suburbs to begin his rounds. Anne met him at the door when he came home at six. He stood on the porch for a moment, smiling at her weakly. The smile was not returned. "Doctor Georges came," she told him. "He signed for the--" She stopped to stare at him. "Darling, your face! What happened?" Gingerly he touch the livid welts down the side of his cheek. "Just scratched a little," he muttered. He pushed past her and went to the phone in the hall. He sat eying it distastefully for a moment, not liking what he had to do. Anne came to stand beside him and examine the scratches. Finally he lifted the phone and dialed the Wylo exchange. A grating mechanical voice answered, "Locator center. Your party, please." "Sheriff Yates," Norris grunted. The robot operator, which had on tape the working habits of each Wylo City citizen, began calling numbers. It found the off-duty sheriff on its third try, in a Wylo pool hall. "I'm getting so I hate that infernal gadget," Yates grumbled. "I think it's got me psyched. What do you want, Norris?" "Cooperation. I'm mailing you three letters charging three Wylo citizens with resisting a Federal official--namely _me_--and charging one of them with assault. I tried to pick up their neutroids for a pound inspection--" Yates bellowed lusty laughter into the phone. "It's not funny. I've got to get those neutroids. It's in connection with the Delmont case." Yates stopped laughing. "Oh. Well, I'll take care of it." "It's a rush-order, Sheriff. Can you get the warrants tonight and pick up the animals in the morning?" "Easy on those warrants, boy. Judge Charleman can't be disturbed just any time. I can get the newts to you by noon, I guess, provided we don't have to get a helicopter posse to chase down the mothers." "That'll be all right. And listen, Yates--fix it so the charges will be dropped if they cooperate. Don't shake those warrants around unless they just won't listen to reason. But get those neutroids." "Okay, boy. Gotcha." Norris gave him the names and addresses of the three unwilling mothers. As soon as he hung up, Anne touched his shoulders and said, "Sit still." She began smoothing a chilly ointment over his burning cheek. "Hard day?" she asked. "Not too hard. Those were just three out of fifteen. I got the other twelve. They're in the truck." "That's good," she said. "You've got only twelve empty cages." He neglected to tell her that he had stopped at twelve for just this reason. "Guess I better get them unloaded," he said, standing up. "Can I help you?" He stared at her for a moment, saying nothing. She smiled a little and looked aside. "Terry, I'm sorry--about this morning. I--I know you've got a job that has to be--" Her lip quivered slightly. Norris grinned, caught her shoulders, and pulled her close. "Honeymoon's on again, huh?" she whispered against his neck. "Come on," he grunted. "Let's unload some neutroids, before I forget all about work." * * * * * They went out to the kennels together. The cages were inside a sprawling concrete barn, which was divided into three large rooms--one for the fragile neuter humanoid creatures, and another for the lesser mutants, such as cat-Qs, dog-Fs, dwarf bears, and foot-high lambs that never matured into sheep. The third room contained a small gas chamber with a conveyor belt leading from it to a crematory-incinerator. Norris kept the third locked lest his wife see its furnishings. The doll-like neutroids began their mindless chatter as soon as their keepers entered the building. Dozens of blazing blond heads began dancing about their cages. Their bodies thwacked against the wire mesh as they leaped about their compartments with monkey grace. Their human appearance was broken by only two distinct features: short beaverlike tails decorated with fluffy curls of fur, and an erect thatch of scalp-hair that grew up into a bright candleflame. Otherwise, they appeared completely human, with baby-pink skin, quick little smiles, and cherubic faces. They were sexually neuter and never grew beyond a predetermined age-set which varied for each series. Age-sets were available from one to ten years human equivalent. Once a neutroid reached its age-set, it remained at the set's child-development level until death. "They must be getting to know you pretty well," Anne said, glancing around at the cages. Norris was wearing a slight frown as he inspected the room. "They've never gotten this excited before." He walked along a row of cages, then stopped by a K-76 to stare. "_Apple cores!_" He turned to face his wife. "How did apples get in there?" She reddened. "I felt sorry for them, eating that goo from the mechanical feeder. I drove down to Sherman III and bought six dozen cooking apples." "That was a mistake." She frowned irritably. "We can afford it." "That's not the point. There's a reason for the mechanical feeders." He paused, wondering how he could tell her the truth. He blundered on: "They get to love whoever feeds them." "I can't see--" "How would you feel about disposing of something that loved you?" Anne folded her arms and stared at him. "Planning to dispose of any soon?" she asked acidly. "Honeymoon's off again, eh?" She turned away. "I'm sorry, Terry. I'll try not to mention it again." He began unloading the truck, pulling the frightened and squirming doll-things forth one at a time with a snare-pole. They were one-man pets, always frightened of strangers. "What's the Delmont case, Terry?" Anne asked while he worked. "Huh?" "I heard you mention it on the phone. Anything to do with why you got your face scratched?" He nodded sourly. "Indirectly, yes. It's a long story." "Tell me." "Well, Delmont was a green-horn evolvotron operator at the Bermuda plant. His job was taking the unfertilized chimpanzee ova out of the egg-multiplier, mounting them in his machine, and bombarding the gene structure with sub-atomic particles. It's tricky business. He flashes a huge enlargement of the ovum on the electron microscope screen--large enough so he can see the individual protein molecules. He has an artificial gene pattern to compare it with. It's like shooting sub-atomic billiards. He's got to fire alpha-particles into the gene structure and displace certain links by just the right amount. And he's got to be quick about it before the ovum dies from an overdose of radiation from the enlarger. A good operator can get one success out of seven tries. "Well, Delmont worked a week and spoiled over a hundred ova without a single success. They threatened to fire him. I guess he got hysterical. Anyway, he reported one success the next day. It was faked. The ovum had a couple of flaws--something wrong in the central nervous system's determinants, and in the glandular makeup. Not a standard neutroid ovum. He passed it on to the incubators to get a credit, knowing it wouldn't be caught until after birth." "It wasn't caught at all?" Anne asked. "Funny thing, he was afraid it wouldn't be. He got to worrying about it, thought maybe a mental-deviant would pass, and that it might be dangerous. So he went back to its incubator and cut off the hormone flow into its compartment." "Why that?" "So it _would_ develop sexuality. A neutroid would be born a female if they didn't give it suppressive doses of male hormone prenatally. That keeps ovaries from developing and it comes out neuter. But Delmont figured a female would be caught and stopped before the final inspection. They'd dispose of her without even bothering to examine for the other defects. And he could blame the sexuality on an equipment malfunction. He thought it was pretty smart. Trouble was they didn't catch the female. She went on through; they all _look_ female." "How did they find out about it now?" "He got caught last month, trying it again. And he confessed to doing it once before. No telling how many times he _really_ did it." Norris held up the final kicking, squealing, tassel-haired doll from the back of the kennel-truck. He grinned at his wife. "This little fellow, for instance. It might be a potential she. It might also be a potential murderer. _All_ these kiddos are from the machines in the section where Delmont worked." Anne snorted and caught the baby-creature in her arms. It struggled and tried to bite, but subsided a little when she disentangled it from the snare. "Kkr-r-reee," it cooed nervously. "Kkr-r-reee!" "You tell him you're no murderer," Anne purred to it. Norris watched disapprovingly while she fondled it. One thing he had learned: to steer clear of emotional attachments. It was eight months old and looked like a child of two years--a year short of its age-set. And it was designed to be as affectionate as a human child. "Put it in the cage, Anne," he said quietly. She looked up and shook her head. "It belongs to somebody else. If it fixes a libido attachment on you, you're actually robbing its owner. They can't love many people at once." She snorted, but installed the thing in its cage. "Anne--" Norris hesitated, hating to approach the subject. "Do you--want one--for yourself? I can sign an unclaimed one over to you to keep in the house. It won't cost us anything." Slowly she shook her head, and her pale eyes went moody and luminous. "I'm going to have one of my own," she said. He stood in the back of the truck, staring down at her. "Do you realize what--" "I know what I'm saying. We're class-C on account of heart-trouble in both our families. Well, I don't care, Terry. I'm not going to waste a heart over one of these pathetic little artificial animals. We're going to have a baby." "You know what they'd do to us?" "If they catch us, yes--compulsory divorce, sterilization. But they won't catch us. I'll have it at home, Terry. Not even a doctor. We'll hide it." "I won't let you do such a thing." She faced him angrily. "Oh, this whole rotten _world_!" she choked. Suddenly she turned and fled out of the building. She was sobbing. * * * * * Norris climbed slowly down from the truck and wandered on into the house. She was not in the kitchen nor the living room. The bedroom door was locked. He shrugged and went to sit on the sofa. The television set was on, and a newscast was coming from a local station. "... we were unable to get shots of the body," the announcer was saying. "But here is a view of the Georges residence. I'll switch you to our mobile unit in Sherman II, James Duncan reporting." Norris frowned with bewilderment as the scene shifted to a two-story plasticoid house among the elm trees. It was after dark, but the mobile unit's powerful floodlights made daylight of the house and its yard and the police 'copters sitting in a side lot. An ambulance was parked in the street. A new voice came on the audio. "This is James Duncan, ladies and gentlemen, speaking to you from our mobile unit in front of the late Doctor Hiram Georges' residence just west of Sherman II. We are waiting for the stretcher to be brought out, and Police Chief Erskine Miler is standing here beside me to give us a word about the case. Doctor Georges' death has shocked the community deeply. Most of you local listeners have known him for many years--some of you have depended upon his services as a family physician. He was a man well known, well loved. But now let's listen to Chief Miler." Norris sat breathing quickly. There could scarcely be two Doctor Georges in the community, but only this morning.... A growling drawl came from the audio. "This's Chief Miler speaking, folks. I just want to say that if any of you know the whereabouts of a Mrs. Sarah Glubbes, call me immediately. She's wanted for questioning." "Thank you, Chief. This is James Duncan again. I'll review the facts for you briefly again, ladies and gentlemen. At seven o'clock, less than an hour ago, a woman--allegedly Mrs. Glubbes--burst into Doctor Georges' dining room while the family was at dinner. She was brandishing a pistol and screaming, 'You stole my baby! You gave me the wrong baby! Where's my baby?' "When the doctor assured her that there was no other baby, she fired, shattering his salad plate. Glancing off it, the bullet pierced his heart. The woman fled. A peculiar feature of the case is that Mrs. Glubbes, the alleged intruder, _has no baby_. Just a minute--just a minute--here comes the stretcher now." Norris turned the set off and went to call the police. He told them what he knew and promised to make himself available for questioning if it became necessary. When he turned from the phone, Anne was standing in the bedroom doorway. She might have been crying a little, but she concealed it well. "What was all that?" she asked. "Woman killed a man. I happened to know the motive." "What was it?" "Neutroid trouble." "You meet up with a lot of unpleasantness in this business, don't you?" "Lot of unpleasant emotions tangled up in it," he admitted. "I know. Well, supper's been keeping hot for two hours. Shall we eat?" * * * * * They went to bed at midnight, but it was after one when he became certain that his wife was asleep. He lay in darkness for a time, listening to her even breathing. Then he cautiously eased himself out of bed and tiptoed quietly through the door, carrying his shoes and trousers. He put them on in the kitchen and stole silently out to the kennels. A half moon hung low in a misty sky, and the wind was chilly out of the north. He went into the neutroid room and flicked a switch. A few sleepy chatters greeted the light. One at a time, he awoke twenty-three of the older doll-things and carried them to a large glass-walled compartment. These were the long-time residents; they knew him well, and they came with him willingly--like children after the Piper of Hamlin. When he had gotten them in the glass chamber, he sealed the door and turned on the gas. The conveyor would automatically carry them on to the incinerator. Now he had enough cages for the Bermuda-K-99s. He hurriedly quit the kennels and went to sit on the back steps. His eyes were burning, but the thought of tears made him sicker. It was like an assassin crying while he stabbed his victim. It was more honest just to retch. When he tiptoed back inside, he got as far as the hall. Then he saw Anne's small figure framed in the bedroom window, silhouetted against the moonlit yard. She had slipped into her negligee and was sitting on the narrow windowstool, staring silently out at the dull red tongue of exhaust gases from the crematory's chimney. Norris backed away. He went to the parlor and lay down on the couch. After a while he heard her come into the room. She paused in the center of the rug, a fragile mist in the darkness. He turned his face away and waited for the rasping accusation. But soon she came to sit on the edge of the sofa. She said nothing. Her hand crept out and touched his cheek lightly. He felt her cool finger-tips trace a soft line up his temple. "It's all right, Terry," she whispered. He kept his face averted. Her fingers traced a last stroke. Then she padded quietly back to the bedroom. He lay awake until dawn, knowing that it would never be all right, neither the creating nor the killing, until he--and the whole world--completely lost sanity. And then everything would be all right, only it still wouldn't make sense. * * * * * Anne was asleep when he left the house. The night mist had gathered into clouds that made a gloomy morning of it. He drove on out in the kennel-truck, meaning to get the rest of the Bermuda-K-99s so that he could begin his testing. Still he felt the night's guilt, like a sticky dew that refused to depart with morning. Why should he have to kill the things? The answer was obvious. Society manufactured them because killing them was permissible. Human babies could not be disposed of when the market became glutted. The neutroids offered solace to childless women, kept them satisfied with a restricted birth rate. And why a restricted birth rate? Because by keeping the population at five billions, the Federation could insure a decent living standard for everybody. Where there was giving, Norris thought glumly, there was also taking away. Man had always deluded himself by thinking that he "created," but he created nothing. He thought that he had created--with his medical science and his end to wars--a longer life for the individual. But he found that he had only taken the lives of the unborn and added them to the years of the aged. Man now had a life expectancy of eighty, except that he had damn little chance of being born to enjoy it. A neutroid filled the cradle in his stead. A neutroid that never ate as much, or grew up to be unemployed. A neutroid could be killed if things got tough, but could still satisfy a woman's craving to mother something small. Norris gave up thinking about it. Eventually he would have to adjust to it. He was already adjusted to a world that loved the artificial mutants as children. He had been brought up in it. Emotion came in conflict with the grim necessities of his job. Somehow he would have to love them in the parlor and kill them in the kennel. It was only a matter of adjustment. * * * * * At noon, he brought back another dozen K-99s and installed them in his cages. There had been two highly reluctant mothers, but he skipped them and left the seizure to the local authorities. Yates had already brought in the three from yesterday. "No more scratches?" Anne asked him while they ate lunch. They did not speak of the night's mass-disposal. Norris smiled mechanically. "I learned my lesson yesterday. If they bare their fangs, I get out without another word. Funny thing though--I've got a feeling one mother pulled a fast one." "What happened?" "Well, I told her what I wanted and why. She didn't like it, but she let me in. I started out with her newt, but she wanted a receipt. So I gave her one; took the serial number off my checklist. She looked at it and said, 'Why, that's not Chichi's number!' I looked at the newt's foot, and sure enough it wasn't. I had to leave it. It was a K-99, but not even from Bermuda." "I thought they were all registered," Anne said. "They are. I told her she had the wrong neutroid, but she got mad. Went and got the sales receipt. It checked with her newt, and it was from O'Reilley's pet shop--right place, wrong number. I just don't get it." "Nothing to worry about, is it Terry?" He looked at her peculiarly. "Ever think what might happen if someone started a black market in neutroids?" They finished the meal in silence. After lunch he went out again to gather up the rest of the group. By four o'clock, he had gotten all that were to be had without the threat of a warrant. The screams and pleas and tears of the owners left him gloomily despising himself. If Delmont's falsification had been widespread, he might have to turn several of the thirty-five over to central lab for dissection and ultimate destruction. That would bring the murderous wrath of their owners down upon him. He began to understand why bio-inspectors were frequently shifted from one territory to another. On the way home, he stopped in Sherman II to check on the missing number. It was the largest of the Sherman communities, covering fifty blocks of commercial buildings. He parked in the outskirts and took a sidewalk escalator toward O'Reilley's address. It was on a dingy sidestreet, reminiscent of past centuries, a street of small bars and bowling alleys and cigar stores. There was even a shop with three gold balls above the entrance, but the place was now an antique store. A light mist was falling when he stepped off the escalator and stood in front of the pet shop. A sign hung out over the sidewalk, announcing: J. "DOGGY" O'REILLEY PETS FOR SALE DUMB BLONDES AND GOLDFISH MUTANTS FOR THE CHILDLESS BUY A BUNDLE OF JOY Norris frowned at the sign and wandered inside. The place was warm and gloomy. He wrinkled his nose at the strong musk of animal odors. O'Reilley's was not a shining example of cleanliness. Somewhere a puppy was yapping, and a parrot croaked the lyrics of _A Chimp to Call My Own_, which Norris recognized as the theme song of a popular soap-opera about a lady evolvotron operator. He paused briefly by a tank of silk-draped goldfish. The shop had a customer. An elderly lady was haggling with a wizened manager over the price of a half grown second-hand dog-F. She was shaking her last dog's death certificate under his nose and demanding a guarantee of the dog's alleged F-5 intelligence. The old man offered to swear on a Bible, but he demurred when it came to swearing on a ledger. The dog was saying, "Don' sell me, Dada. Don' sell me." Norris smiled sardonically to himself. The non-human pets were smarter than the neutroids. A K-108 could speak a dozen words, and a K-99 never got farther than "mamma," "pappa," and "cookie." Anthropos was afraid to make the quasi-humans too intelligent, lest sentimentalists proclaim them really human. He wandered on toward the back of the building, pausing briefly by the cash register to inspect O'Reilley's license, which hung in a dusty frame on the wall behind the counter. "James Fallon O'Reilley ... authorized dealer in mutant animals ... all non-predatory mammals including chimpanzee-K series ... license expires June 1, 2235." It seemed in order, although the expiration date was approaching. He started toward a bank of neutroid cages along the opposite wall, but O'Reilley was mincing across the floor to meet him. The customer had gone. The little manager wore an elfin professional smile, and his bald head bobbled in a welcoming nod. "Good day, sir, good day! May I show you a dwarf kangaroo, or a--" He stopped and adjusted his spectacles. He blinked and peered as Norris flashed his badge. His smile waned. "I'm Agent Norris, Mr. O'Reilley. Called you yesterday for that rundown on K-99 sales." O'Reilley looked suddenly nervous. "Oh, yes. Find 'em all?" Norris shook his head. "No. That's why I stopped by. There's some mistake on--" he glanced at his list--"on K-99-LJZ-351. Let's check it again." O'Reilley seemed to cringe. "No mistake. I gave you the buyer's name." "She has a different number." "Can I help it if she traded with somebody?" "She didn't. She bought it here. I saw the receipt." "Then she traded with one of my other customers!" snapped the old man. "Two of your customers have the same name--Adelia Schultz? Not likely. Let's see your duplicate receipt book." O'Reilley's wrinkled face set itself into a stubborn mask. "Doubt if it's still around." Norris frowned. "Look, pop, I've had a rough day. I _could_ start naming some things around here that need fixing--sanitary violations and such. Not to mention that sign--'dumb blondes.' They outlawed that one when they executed that shyster doctor for shooting K-108s full of growth hormones, trying to raise himself a harem to sell. Besides, you're required to keep sales records until they've been micro-filmed. There hasn't been a microfilming since July." The wrinkled face twitched with frustrated anger. O'Reilley shuffled to the counter while Norris followed. He got a fat binder from under the register and started toward a wooden stairway. "Where you going?" Norris called. "Get my old glasses," the manager grumbled. "Can't see through these new things." "Leave the book here and _I'll_ check it," Norris offered. But O'Reilley was already limping quickly up the stairs. He seemed not to hear. He shut the door behind him, and Norris heard the lock click. The bio-agent waited. Again the thought of a black market troubled him. Unauthorized neutroids could mean lots of trouble. * * * * * Five minutes passed before the old man came down the stairs. He said nothing as he placed the book on the counter. Norris noticed that his hands were trembling as he shuffled through the pages. "Let _me_ look," said the bio-agent. O'Reilley stepped reluctantly aside. Norris had memorized the owner's receipt number, and he found the duplicate quickly. He stared at it silently. "Mrs. Adele Schultz ... chimpanzee-K-99-LJZ-351." It was the number of the animal he wanted, but it wasn't the number on Mrs. Schultz's neutroid nor on her original copy of the receipt. He held the book up to his eye and aimed across the page at the light. O'Reilley's breathing became audible. Norris put the book down, folded two thicknesses of handkerchief over the blade of his pocketknife, and ran it down the seam between the pages. He took the sheet he wanted, folded it, and stowed it in his vest pocket. O'Reilley was stuttering angrily. Norris turned to face him coldly. "Nice erasure job, for a carbon copy." The old man prepared himself for exploding. Norris quietly put on his hat. "See you in court, O'Reilley." "_Wait!_" Norris turned. "Okay, I'm waiting." The old man sagged into a deflated bag of wrinkles. "Let's sit down first," he said weakly. Norris followed him up the stairs and into a dingy parlor. The tiny apartment smelled of boiled cabbage and sweat. An orange-haired neutroid lay asleep on a small rug in a corner. Norris knelt beside it and read the tattooed figures on the sole of its left foot--K-99-LJZ-351. Somehow he was not surprised. When he stood up, the old man was sagged in an ancient armchair, his head propped on a hand that covered his eyes. "Lots of good explanations, I guess?" Norris asked quietly. "Not good ones." "Let's hear them, anyway." O'Reilley sighed and straightened. He blinked at the inspector and spoke in a monotone. "My missus died five years back. We were class-B--allowed one child of our own--if we could have one. We couldn't. But since we were class-B, we couldn't own a neutroid either. Sorta got around it by running a pet shop. Mary--she always cried when we sold a neut. I sorta felt bad about it myself. But we never did swipe one. Last year this Bermuda shipment come in. I sold most of 'em pretty quick, but Peony here--she was kinda puny. Seemed like nobody wanted her. Kept her around so long, I got attached to her. 'Fraid somebody'd buy her. So I faked the receipt and moved her up here." "That all?" The old man nodded. "Ever done this before?" He shook his head. Norris let a long silence pass while he struggled with himself. At last he said, "Your license could be revoked, you know." "I know." Norris ground his fist thoughtfully in his palm and stared at the sleeping doll-thing. "I'll take your books home with me tonight," he said. "I want to make a complete check for similar changes. Any objections?" "None. It's the only trick I've pulled, so help me." "If that's true, I won't report you. We'll just attach a correction to that page, and you'll put the newt back in stock." He hesitated. "Providing it's not a deviant. I'll have to take it in for examination." A choking sound came from the armchair. Norris stared curiously at the old man. Moisture was creeping in the wrinkles around his eyes. "Something the matter?" O'Reilley nodded. "She's a deviant." "How do you know?" The dealer pulled himself erect and hobbled to the sleeping neutroid. He knelt beside it and stroked a small bare shoulder gently. "Peony," he breathed. "Peony, girl--wake up." Its fluffy tail twitched for a moment. Then it sat up, rubbing its eyes and yawning. It _looked_ normal, like a two-year-old girl with soft brown eyes. It pouted at O'Reilley for awakening it. It saw Norris and ignored him, apparently too sleepy to be frightened. "How's my Peony-girl?" the dealer purred. It licked its lips. "Wanna g'ass o' water, Daddy," it said drowsily. Norris caught his breath. No K-99 should be able to make a speech that long, even when it reached the developmental limit. He glanced at O'Reilley. The old man nodded slowly, then went to the kitchen for a glass of water. She drank greedily and eyed her foster-parent. "Daddy crying." O'Reilley glowered at her and blew his nose solemnly. "Don't be silly, child. Now get your coat on and go with Mister Norris. He's taking you for a ride in his truck. Won't that be fine?" "I don't want to. I wanna stay here." "_Peeony!_ On with you!" She brought her coat and stared at Norris with childish contempt. "Can Daddy go, too?" "Be on your way!" growled O'Reilley. "I got things to do." "We're coming back?" "Of course you're coming back! _Git_ now--or shall I get my spanking switch?" Peony strolled out the door ahead of Norris. "Oh, inspector, would you be punching the night latch for me as you leave the shop? I think I'll be closing for the day." Norris paused at the head of the stairs, looking back at the old man. But O'Reilley closed himself inside and the lock clicked. The agent sighed and glanced down at the small being beside him. "Want me to carry you, Peony?" She sniffed disdainfully. She hopped upon the banister and slid down ahead of him. Her motor-responses were typically neutroid--something like a monkey, something like a squirrel. But there was no question about it; she was one of Delmont's deviants. He wondered what they would do with her in central lab. He could remember no instance of an intelligent mutant getting into the market. Somehow he could not consign her to a cage in the back of the truck. He drove home while she sat beside him on the front seat. She watched the scenery and remained aloof, occasionally looking around to ask, "Can we go back now?" Norris could not bring himself to answer. * * * * * When he got home, he led her into the house and stopped in the hall to call Chief Franklin. The operator said, "His office doesn't answer, sir. Shall I give you the robot locator?" Norris hesitated. His wife came into the hall. She stooped to grin at Peony, and Peony said, "Do you live here, too?" Anne gasped and sat on the floor to stare. Norris said, "Cancel the call. It'll wait till tomorrow." He dropped the phone quickly. "What series is it?" Anne asked excitedly. "I never saw one that could talk." "_It_ is a _she_," he said. "And she's a series unto herself. Some of Delmont's work." Peony was looking from one to the other of them with a baffled face. "Can we go back now?" Norris shook his head. "You're going to spend the night with us, Peony," he said softly. "Your daddy wants you to." His wife was watching him thoughtfully. Norris looked aside and plucked nervously at a corner of the telephone book. Suddenly she caught Peony's hand and led her toward the kitchen. "Come on, baby, let's go find a cookie or something." Norris started out the front door, but in a moment Anne was back. She caught at his collar and tugged. "Not so fast!" He turned to frown. Her face accused him at a six-inch range. "Just what do you think you're going to do with that child?" He was silent for a long time. "You know what I'm _supposed_ to do." Her unchanging stare told him that she wouldn't accept any evasions. "I heard you trying to get your boss on the phone." "I canceled it, didn't I?" "Until tomorrow." He worked his hands nervously. "I don't know, honey--I just don't know." "They'd kill her at central lab, wouldn't they?" "Well, they'd need her as evidence in Delmont's trial." "They'd kill her, wouldn't they?" "When it was over--it's hard to say. The law says deviants must be destroyed, but--" "Well?" He paused miserably. "We've got a few days to think about it, honey. I don't have to make my report for a week." He sidled out the door. Looking back, he saw the hard determination in her eyes as she watched him. He knew somehow that he was going to lose either his job or his wife. Maybe both. He shuffled moodily out to the kennels to care for his charges. * * * * * A great silence filled the house during the evening. Supper was a gloomy meal. Only Peony spoke; she sat propped on two cushions at the table, using her silver with remarkable skill. Norris wondered about her intelligence. Her chronological age was ten months; her physical age was about two years; but her mental age seemed to compare favorably with at least a three year old. Once he reached across the table to touch her forehead. She eyed him curiously for a moment and continued eating. Her temperature was warmer than human, but not too warm for the normally high neutroid metabolism--somewhere around 101°. The rapid rate of maturation made I.Q. determination impossible. "You've got a good appetite, Peony," Anne remarked. "I like Daddy's cooking better," she said with innocent bluntness. "When can I go home?" Anne looked at Norris and waited for an answer. He managed a smile at the flame-haired cherub. "Tell you what we'll do. I'll call your daddy on the phone and let you say hello. Would you like that?" She giggled, then nodded. "Uh-huh! When can we do it?" "Later." Anne tapped her fork thoughtfully against the edge of her plate. "I think we better have a nice long talk tonight, Terry," she said. "Is there anything to talk about?" He pushed the plate away. "I'm not hungry." * * * * * He left the table and went to sit in darkness by the parlor window, while his wife did the dishes and Peony played with a handful of walnuts on the kitchen floor. He watched the scattered lights of the suburbs and tried to think of nothing. The lights were peaceful, glimmering through the trees. Once there had been no lights, only the flickering campfires of hunters shivering in the forest, when the world was young and sparsely planted with the seed of Man. Now the world was infected with his lights, and with the sound of his engines and the roar of his rockets. He had inherited the Earth and had filled it--too full. There was no escape. His rockets had touched two of the planets, but even the new worlds offered no sanctuary for the unborn. Man could have babies--if allowed--faster than he could build ships to haul them away. He could only choose between a higher death rate and a lower birth rate. And unborn children were not eligible to vote when Man made his choice. His choice had robbed his wife of a biological need, and so he made a disposable baby with which to pacify her. He gave it a tail and only half a mind, so that it could not be confused with his own occasional children. But Peony had only the tail. Still she was not born of the seed of Man. Strange seed, out of the jungle, warped toward the human pole, but still not human. * * * * * Norris heard a car approaching in the street. Its headlights swung along the curb, and it slowed to a halt in front of the house. A tall, slender man in a dark suit climbed out and stood for a moment, staring toward the house. He was only a shadow in the faint street light. Norris could not place him. Suddenly the man snapped on a flashlight and played it over the porch. Norris caught his breath and darted toward the kitchen. Anne stared at him questioningly, while Peony peered up from her play. He stooped beside her. "Listen, child!" he said quickly. "Do you know what a neutroid is?" She nodded slowly. "They play in cages. They don't talk." "Can you pretend you're a neutroid?" "I can play neutroid. I play neutroid with Daddy sometimes, when people come to see him. He gives me candy when I play it. When can I go home?" "Not now. There's a man coming to see us. Can you play neutroid for me? We'll give you lots of candy. Just don't talk. Pretend you're asleep." "Now?" "Now." He heard the door chimes ringing. "Who is it?" Anne asked. "I don't know. He may have the wrong house. Take Peony in the bedroom. I'll answer it." His wife caught the child-thing up in her arms and hurried away. The chimes sounded again. Norris stalked down the hall and switched on the porch-light. The visitor was an elderly man, erect in his black suit and radiating dignity. As he smiled and nodded, Norris noticed his collar. A clergyman. Must have the wrong place, Norris thought. "Are you Inspector Norris?" The agent nodded, not daring to talk. "I'm Father Paulson. I'm calling on behalf of a James O'Reilley. I think you know him. May I come in?" Grudgingly, Norris swung open the door. "If you can stand the smell of paganism, come on in." The priest chuckled politely. Norris led him to the parlor and turned on the light. He waved toward a chair. "What's this all about? Does O'Reilley want something?" Paulson smiled at the inspector's brusque tone and settled himself in the chair. "O'Reilley is a sick man," he said. The inspector frowned. "He didn't look it to me." "Sick of heart, Inspector. He came to me for advice. I couldn't give him any. He told me the story--about this Peony. I came to have a look at her, if I may." Norris said nothing for a moment. O'Reilley had better keep his mouth shut, he thought, especially around clergymen. Most of them took a dim view of the whole mutant business. "I didn't think you'd associate with O'Reilley," he said. "I thought you people excommunicated everybody that owns a neutroid. O'Reilley owns a whole shopful." "That's true. But who knows? He might get rid of his shop. May I see this neutroid?" "Why?" "O'Reilley said it could talk. Is that true or is O'Reilley suffering delusions? That's what I came to find out." "Neutroids don't talk." The priest stared at him for a time, then nodded slowly, as if approving something. "You can rest assured," he said quietly, "that I'll say nothing of this visit, that I'll speak to no one about this creature." Norris looked up to see his wife watching them from the doorway. "Get Peony," he said. "It's true then?" Paulson asked. "I'll let you see for yourself." Anne brought the small child-thing into the room and set her on the floor. Peony saw the visitor, chattered with fright, and bounded upon the back of the sofa to sit and scold. She was playing her game well, Norris thought. The priest watched her with quiet interest. "Hello, little one." Peony babbled gibberish. Paulson kept his eyes on her every movement. Suddenly he said, "I just saw your daddy, Peony. He wanted me to talk to you." Her babbling ceased. The spell of the game was ended. Her eyes went sober. Then she looked at Norris and pouted. "I don't want any candy. I wanna go home." Norris let out a deep breath. "I didn't say she couldn't talk," he pointed out sullenly. "I didn't say you did," said Paulson. "You invited me to see for myself." Anne confronted the clergyman. "What do you want?" she demanded. "The child's death? Did you come to assure yourself that she'd be turned over to the lab? I know your kind! You'd do anything to get rid of neutroids!" "I came only to assure myself that O'Reilley's sane," Paulson told her. "I don't believe you," she snapped. He stared at her in wounded surprise; then he chuckled. "People used to trust the cloth. Ah, well. Listen, my child, you have us wrong. We say it's evil to create the creatures. We say _also_ that it's evil to destroy them after they're made. Not murder, exactly, but--mockery of life, perhaps. It's the entire institution that's evil. Do you understand? As for this small creature of O'Reilley's--well, I hardly know what to make of her, but I certainly wouldn't wish her--uh--d-e-a-d." Peony was listening solemnly to the conversation. Somehow Norris sensed a disinterested friend, if not an ally, in the priest. He looked at his wife. Her eyes were still suspicious. "Tell me, Father," Norris asked, "if you were in my position, what would you do?" Paulson fumbled with a button of his coat and stared at the floor while he pondered. "I wouldn't be in your position, young man. But if I were, I think I'd withhold her from my superiors. I'd also quit my job and go away." It wasn't what Norris wanted to hear. But his wife's expression suddenly changed; she looked at the priest with a new interest. "And give Peony back to O'Reilley," she added. "I shouldn't be giving you advice," he said unhappily. "I'm duty-bound to ask O'Reilley to give up his business and have nothing further to do with neutroids." "But Peony's _human_," Anne argued. "She's _different_." "I fail to agree." "What!" Anne confronted him again. "What makes _you_ human?" "A soul, my child." Anne put her hands on her hips and leaned forward to glare down at him like something unwholesome. "Can you put a voltmeter between your ears and measure it?" The priest looked helplessly at Norris. "_No!_" she said. "And you can't do it to Peony either!" "Perhaps I had better go," Paulson said to his host. Norris sighed. "Maybe you better, Padre. You found out what you wanted to know." Anne stalked angrily out of the room, her dark hair swishing like a battle-pennant with each step. When the priest was gone, Norris picked up the child and held her in his lap. She was shivering with fright, as if she understood what had been said. Love them in the parlor, he thought, and kill them in the kennels. "Can I go home? Doesn't Daddy want me any more?" "Sure he does, baby. You just be good and everything'll be all right." * * * * * Norris felt a bad taste in his mouth as he laid her sleeping body on the sofa half an hour later. Everything was all wrong and it promised to remain that way. He couldn't give her back to O'Reilley, because she would be caught again when the auditor came to microfilm the records. And he certainly couldn't keep her himself--not with other Bio-agents wandering in and out every few days. She could not be concealed in a world where there were no longer any sparsely populated regions. There was nothing to do but obey the law and turn her over to Franklin's lab. He closed his eyes and shuddered. If he did that, he could do anything--stomach anything--adapt to any vicious demands society made of him. If he sent the child away to die, he would know that he had attained an "objective" outlook. And what more could he want from life than adaptation and objectivity? Well--his wife, for one thing. He left the child on the sofa, turned out the light, and wandered into the bedroom. Anne was in bed, reading. She did not look up when she said, "Terry, if you let that baby be destroyed, I'll...." "Don't say it," he cut in. "Any time you feel like leaving, you just leave. But don't threaten me with it." She watched him silently for a moment. Then she handed him the newspaper she had been reading. It was folded around an advertisement. BIOLOGISTS WANTED by ANTHROPOS INCORPORATED for Evolvotron Operators Incubator Tenders Nursery Supervisors Laboratory Personnel _in_ NEW ATLANTA PLANT _Call or write: Personnel Mgr._ ANTHROPOS INC. _Atlanta, Ga._ _Note: Secure Work Department release from present job before applying._ He looked at Anne curiously. "So?" She shrugged. "So there's a job, if you want to quit this one." "What's this got to do with Peony, if anything?" "We could take her with us." "Not a chance," he said. "Do you suppose a talking neutroid would be any safer there?" She demanded angrily, "Why should they want to destroy her?" Norris sat on the edge of the bed and thought about it. "No particular _individual_ wants to, honey. It's the law." "But _why_?" "Generally, because deviants are unknown quantities. They can be dangerous." "That child--_dangerous_?" "Dangerous to a concept, a vague belief that Man is something special, a closed tribe. And in a practical sense, she's dangerous because she's not a neuter. The Federation insists that all mutants be neuter and infertile, so it can control the mutant population. If mutants started reproducing, that could be a real threat in a world whose economy is so delicately balanced." "Well, you're not going to let them have her, do you hear me?" "I hear you," he grumbled. * * * * * On the following day, he went down to police headquarters to sign a statement concerning the motive in Doctor Georges' murder. As a result, Mrs. Glubbes was put away in the psycho-ward. "It's funny, Norris," said Chief Miler, "what people'll do over a neutroid. Like Mrs. Glubbes thinking that newt was her own. I sure don't envy you your job. It's a wonder you don't get your head blown off. You must have an iron stomach." Norris signed the paper and looked up briefly. "Sure, Chief. Just a matter of adaptation." "Guess so." Miler patted his paunch and yawned. "How you coming on this Delmont business? Picked up any deviants yet?" Norris laid down the pen abruptly. "No! Of course not! What made you think I had?" Miler stopped in the middle of his yawn and stared at Norris curiously. "Touchy, aren't you?" he asked thoughtfully. "When I get that kind of answer from a prisoner, I right away start thinking--" "Save it for your interrogation room," Norris growled. He stalked quickly out of the office while Chief Miler tapped his pencil absently and stared after him. He was angry with himself for his indecision. He had to make a choice and make it soon. He was climbing in his car when a voice called after him from the building. He looked back to see Chief Miler trotting down the steps, his pudgy face glistening in the morning sun. "Hey, Norris! Your missus is on the phone. Says it's urgent." Norris went back grudgingly. A premonition of trouble gripped him. "Phone's right there," the chief said, pointing with a stubby thumb. The receiver lay on the desk, and he could hear it saying, "Hello--hello--" before he picked it up. "Anne? What's the matter?" Her voice was low and strained, trying to be cheerful. "Nothing's the matter, darling. We have a visitor. Come right home, will you? Chief Franklin's here." It knocked the breath out of him. He felt himself going white. He glanced at Chief Miler, calmly sitting nearby. "Can you tell me about it now?" he asked her. "Not very well. Please hurry home. He wants to talk to you about the K-99s." "Have the two of them met?" "Yes, they have." She paused, as if listening to him speak, then said, "Oh, _that_! The game, honey--remember the _game_?" "Good," he grunted. "I'll be right there." He hung up and started out. "Troubles?" the chief called after him. "Just a sick newt," he said, "if it's any of your business." * * * * * Chief Franklin's helicopter was parked in the empty lot next door when Norris drove up in front of the house. The official heard the truck and came out on the porch to watch his agent walk up the path. His lanky, emaciated body was loosely draped in gray tweeds, and his thin hawk face was a dark and solemn mask. He was a middle-aged man, his skin seamed with wrinkles, but his hair was still abnormally black. He greeted Norris with a slow, almost sarcastic nod. "I see you don't read your mail. If you'd looked at it, you'd have known I was coming. I wrote you yesterday." "Sorry, Chief, I didn't have a chance to stop by the message office this morning." Franklin grunted. "Then you don't know why I'm here?" "No, sir." "Let's sit out on the porch," Franklin said, and perched his bony frame on the railing. "We've got to get busy on these Bermuda-K-99s, Norris. How many have you got?" "Thirty-four, I think." "I counted thirty-five." "Maybe you're right. I--I'm not sure." "Found any deviants yet?" "Uh--I haven't run any tests yet, sir." Franklin's voice went sharp. "Do you need a test to know when a neutroid is talking a blue streak?" "What do you mean?" "Just this. We've found at least a dozen of Delmont's units that have mental ages that correspond to their physical age. What's more, they're functioning females, and they have normal pituitaries. Know what that means?" "They won't take an age-set then," Norris said. "They'll grow to adulthood." "And have children." Norris frowned. "How can they have children? There aren't any males." "No? Guess what we found in one of Delmont's incubators." "Not a--" "Yeah. And it's probably not the first. This business about padding his quota is baloney! Hell, man, he was going to start his own black market! He finally admitted it, after twenty-hours' questioning without a letup. He was going to raise them, Norris. He was stealing them right out of the incubators before an inspector ever saw them. The K-99s--the numbered ones--are just the ones he couldn't get back. Lord knows how many males he's got hidden away someplace!" "What're you going to do?" "_Do!_ What do you _think_ we'll do? Smash the whole scheme, that's what! Find the deviants and kill them. We've got enough now for lab work." Norris felt sick. He looked away. "I suppose you'll want me to handle the destruction, then." Franklin gave him a suspicious glance. "Yes, but why do you ask? You _have_ found one, haven't you?" "Yes, sir," he admitted. A moan came from the doorway. Norris looked up to see his wife's white face staring at him in horror, just before she turned and fled into the house. Franklin's bony head lifted. "I see," he said. "We have a fixation on our deviant. Very well, Norris, I'll take care of it myself. Where is it?" "In the house, sir. My wife's bedroom." "Get it." * * * * * Norris went glumly in the house. The bedroom door was locked. "Honey," he called softly. There was no answer. He knocked gently. A key turned in the lock, and his wife stood facing him. Her eyes were weeping ice. "Stay back!" she said. He could see Peony behind her, sitting in the center of the floor and looking mystified. Then he saw his own service revolver in her trembling hand. "Look, honey--it's _me_." She shook her head. "No, it's not you. It's a man that wants to kill a little girl. Stay back." "You'd shoot, wouldn't you?" he asked softly. "Try to come in and find out," she invited. "Let me have Peony." She laughed, her eyes bright with hate. "I wonder where Terry went. I guess he died. Or adapted. I guess I'm a widow now. Stay back, Mister, or I'll kill you." Norris smiled. "Okay, I'll stay back. But the gun isn't loaded." She tried to slam the door; he caught it with his foot. She struck at him with the pistol, but he dragged it out of her hand. He pushed her aside and held her against the wall while she clawed at his arm. "Stop it!" he said. "Nothing will happen to Peony, I promise you!" He glanced back at the child-thing, who had begun to cry. Anne subsided a little, staring at him angrily. "There's no other way out, honey. Just trust me. She'll be all right." Breathing quickly, Anne stood aside and watched him. "Okay, Terry. But if you're lying--tell me, is it murder to kill a man to protect a child?" Norris lifted Peony in his arms. Her wailing ceased, but her tail switched nervously. "In whose law book?" he asked his wife. "I was wondering the same thing." Norris started toward the door. "By the way--find my instruments while I'm outside, will you?" "The dissecting instruments?" she gasped. "If you intend--" "Let's call them surgical instruments, shall we? And get them sterilized." He went on outside, carrying the child. Franklin was waiting for him in the kennel doorway. "Was that Mrs. Norris I heard screaming?" Norris nodded. "Let's get this over with. I don't stomach it so well." He let his eyes rest unhappily on the top of Peony's head. Franklin grinned at her and took a bit of candy out of his pocket. She refused it and snuggled closer to Norris. "When can I go home?" she piped. "I want Daddy." Franklin straightened, watching her with amusement. "You're going home in a few minutes, little newt. Just a few minutes." They went into the kennels together, and Franklin headed straight for the third room. He seemed to be enjoying the situation. Norris hating him silently, stopped at a workbench and pulled on a pair of gloves. Then he called after Franklin. "Chief, since you're in there, check the outlet pressure while I turn on the main line, will you?" Franklin nodded assent. He stood outside the gas-chamber, watching the dials on the door. Norris could see his back while he twisted the main-line valve. "Pressure's up!" Franklin called. "Okay. Leave the hatch ajar so it won't lock, and crack the intake valves. Read it again." "Got a mask for me?" Norris laughed. "If you're scared, there's one on the shelf. But just open the hatch, take a reading, and close it. There's no danger." Franklin frowned at him and cracked the intakes. Norris quietly closed the main valve again. "Drops to zero!" Franklin called. "Leave it open, then. Smell anything?" "No. I'm turning it off, Norris." He twisted the intakes. Simultaneously, Norris opened the main line. "Pressure's up again!" Norris dropped his wrench and walked back to the chamber, leaving Peony perched on the workbench. "Trouble with the intakes," he said gruffly. "It's happened before. Mind getting your hands dirty with me, Chief?" Franklin frowned irritably. "Let's hurry this up, Norris. I've got five territories to visit." "Okay, but we'd better put on our masks." He climbed a metal ladder to the top of the chamber, leaned over to inspect the intakes. On his way down, he shouldered a light-bulb over the door, shattering it. Franklin cursed and stepped back, brushing glass fragments from his head and shoulders. "Good thing the light was off," he snapped. Norris handed him the gas-mask and put on his own. "The main switch is off," he said. He opened the intakes again. This time the dials fell to normal open-line pressure. "Well, look--it's okay," he called through the mask. "You sure it was zero before?" "Of course I'm sure!" came the muffled reply. "Leave it on for a minute. We'll see. I'll go get the newt. Don't let the door close, sir. It'll start the automatics and we can't get it open for half an hour." "I know, Norris. Hurry up." Norris left him standing just outside the chamber, propping the door open with his foot. A faint wind was coming through the opening. It should reach an explosive mixture quickly with the hatch ajar. He stepped into the next room, waited a moment, and jerked the switch. The roar was deafening as the exposed tungsten filament flared and detonated the escaping anesthetic vapor. Norris went to cut off the main line. Peony was crying plaintively. He moved to the door and glanced at the smouldering remains of Franklin. * * * * * Feeling no emotion whatever, Norris left the kennels, carrying the sobbing child under one arm. His wife stared at him without understanding. "Here, hold Peony while I call the police," he said. "_Police?_ What's happened?" He dialed quickly. "Chief Miler? This is Norris. Get over here quick. My gas chamber exploded--killed Chief Agent Franklin. Man, it's awful! Hurry." He hung up and went back to the kennels. He selected a normal Bermuda-K-99 and coldly killed it with a wrench. "You'll serve for a deviant," he said, and left it lying in the middle of the floor. Then he went back to the house, mixed a sleeping capsule in a glass of water, and forced Peony to drink it. "So she'll be out when the cops come," he explained to Anne. She stamped her foot. "Will you tell me what's happened?" "You heard me on the phone. Franklin accidentally died. That's all you have to know." He carried Peony out and locked her in a cage. She was too sleepy to protest, and she was dozing when the police came. Chief Miler strode about the three rooms like a man looking for a burglar at midnight. He nudged the body of the neutroid with his foot. "What's this, Norris?" "The deviant we were about to destroy. I finished her with a wrench." "I thought you said there weren't any deviants." "As far as the public's concerned, there aren't. I couldn't see that it was any of your business. It still isn't." "I see. It may become my business, though. How'd the blast happen?" Norris told him the story up to the point of the detonation. "The light over the door was loose. Kept flickering on and off. Franklin reached up to tighten it. Must have been a little gas in the socket. Soon as he touched it--wham!" "Why was the door open with the gas on?" "I told you--we were checking the intakes. If you close the door, it starts the automatics. Then you can't get it open till the cycle's finished." "Where were you?" "I'd gone to cut off the gas again." "Okay, stay in the house until we're finished out here." * * * * * When Norris went back in the house, his wife's white face turned slowly toward him. She sat stiffly by the living room window, looking sick. Her voice was quietly frightened. "Terry, I'm sorry about everything." "Skip it." "What did you do?" He grinned sourly. "I adapted to an era. Did you find the instruments?" She nodded. "What are they for?" "To cut off a tail and skin a tattooed foot. Go to the store and buy some brown hair-dye and a pair of boy's trousers, age two. Peony's going to get a crew-cut. From now on, she's Mike." "We're class-C, Terry! We can't pass her off as our own." "We're class-A, honey. I'm going to forge a heredity certificate." Anne put her face in her hands and rocked slowly to and fro. "Don't feel bad, baby. It was Franklin or a little girl. And from now on, it's society or the Norrises." "What'll we do?" "Go to Atlanta and work for Anthropos. I'll take up where Delmont left off." "_Terry!_" "Peony will need a husband. They may find all of Delmont's males. I'll _make_ her one. Then we'll see if a pair of chimp-Ks can do better than their makers." Wearily, he stretched out on the sofa. "What about that priest? Suppose he tells about Peony. Suppose he guesses about Franklin and tells the police?" "The police," he said, "would then smell a motive. They'd figure it out and I'd be finished. We'll wait and see. Let's don't talk; I'm tired. We'll just wait for Miler to come in." She began rubbing his temples gently, and he smiled. "So we wait," she said. "Shall I read to you, Terry?" "That would be pleasant," he murmured, closing his eyes. She slipped away, but returned quickly. He heard the rustle of dry pages and smelled musty leather. Then her voice came, speaking old words softly. And he thought of the small child-thing lying peacefully in her cage while angry men stalked about her. A small life with a mind; she came into the world as quietly as a thief, a burglar in the crowded house of Man. "_I will send my fear before thee, and I will destroy the peoples before whom thou shalt come, sending hornets to drive out the Hevite and the Canaanite and the Hethite before thou enterest the land. Little by little I will drive them out before thee, till thou be increased, and dost possess the land. Then shalt thou be to me a new people, and I to thee a God...._" And on the quiet afternoon in May, while he waited for the police to finish puzzling in the kennels, it seemed to Terrell Norris that an end to scheming and pushing and arrogance was not too far ahead. It should be a pretty good world then. He hoped Man could fit into it somehow. 
51478	----	Dumbwaiter By JAMES STAMERS Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine February 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Antimony IX divers can't be seen, of course ... but don't have anything in mind when one of them is around you! The man ahead of me had a dragon in his baggage. So the Lamavic boys confiscated it. Lamavic--Livestock, Animal, Mineral and Vegetable, International Customs--does not like to find dragons curled up in a thermos. And since this antipathy was a two-way exchange, the Lamavic inspectors at Philadelphia International were singed and heated all ways by the time they got to me. I knew them well. "Mr. Sol Jones?" "That's right," I said, watching the would-be dragon smuggler being marched away. A very amateur job. I could have told him. There are only two ways to smuggle a dragon nowadays. "Any livestock to declare, Mr. Jones?" "I have no livestock on my person or in my baggage, nor am I accompanied by any material prohibited article," I said carefully, for I saw they were recording. The little pink, bald inspector with a charred collar looked at his colleague. "Anything known?" His colleague looked down at me from six feet of splendid physique, smiled unpleasantly, and flipped the big black record book. "'Sol Jones,'" he read, "'Lamavic four-star offender. Galactic registration: six to tenth power: 763918. Five foot ten inches, Earth scale. Blue eyes, hair variable and usually nondescript brown, ear lobes and cranial....' You're not disputing identity, Mr. Jones?" "Oh, no. That's me." "I see. 'Irrevocable Galactic citizenship for services to family of Supreme President Xgol in matter of asteroid fungus, subsequent Senatorial amnesty confirmed, previous sentences therefore omitted. Lamavic offenses thereafter include no indictable evidence but total twenty-four minor fines for introducing prohibited livestock onto various planets. Suspected complicity in Lamavic cases One through Seventy-six as follows: mobile sands, crystal thinkers, recording turtle, operatic fish, giant mastodon.' Mr. Jones, you seem to have given us trouble before." "Before what?" "Before this--er--" "That," I said, "is an Unconstitutional remark. I am giving no trouble. I have made a full declaration. I demand the rights of a Galactic citizen." He apologized, as he had to. This merely made both inspectors angry, but they were going to search me anyway. I knew that. Certainly I am a smuggler, and I had in fact a little present for my girl Florence--a wedding present, I hoped--but they would never find it. This time I really had them fooled, and I intended to extract maximum pleasure from watching their labors. * * * * * I saw the Lamavic records once. The next leading offender has only two stars and he's out on Ceres in the penal colony. My four stars denote that I disapprove of all these rules prohibiting the carrying of livestock from one planet to another. Other people extend the Galactic Empire; I extend my Galactic credit. You want an amusing extraterrestrial pet to while away the two-hour work week, I can provide one. Of course, this pet business was overdone in the early days when any space-hopper could bring little foreign monsters back to the wife and kiddies. Any weird thing could come in and did. "You are aware, Mr. Jones, that you have declared that you are not trying to bring in any prohibited life-form, whether animal, mineral, vegetable, or any or all of these?" "I am," I said. "You are further aware of the penalties for a false declaration?" "In my case, I believe I could count on thirty years' invigorating work on a penal planet." "You could, Mr. Jones. You certainly could." "Well, I've made my declaration." "Will you step this way?" Very polite in Philadelphia Spaceport. I followed the inspectors into the screening cubicles. There was a nasty looking device in the corner. "I thought those things were illegal," I said. "Unfortunately, Mr. Jones, you are, as you know, quite right. We may not employ a telepath instrument on any unconvicted person." They looked sorry, but I wasn't. A telepath would have told them immediately where I had Florence's pet, and all about it. I smiled at them. They paid no attention, took my passport and began turning up the Lamavic manual on Antimony IX, Livestock of, Prohibited Forms. I had just come from there and so had Florence's little diver, which I had brought as a happy surprise. I sat down. The two inspectors looked as if they were going to say something, then continued flipping pages of their manual. "Here it is--Antimony IX." One of them read out the prohibitions and the other tried to watch me and the reflex counter behind me at the same time--a crude instrument which should be used, in my professional view, only to determine a person's capacities for playing poker with success. "Ants-water, babblers, bunces, candelabra plants, catchem-fellers, Cythia Majoris, divers, dunces, dimple-images, drakes, dunking dogs, dogs-savage, dogs-water, dogs-not-otherwise-provided-for, unspec., elephants-miniature, fish-any...." They went on. Antimony IX is teeming with life and almost every specimen is prohibited on other planets. We had passed the divers, anyway. I smiled and gave the reflex counter a strong jerk just as the smaller inspector was saying "Mammoths." They looked at me in silence. "Funny man," one said, and they went on reading. "Okay," the large inspector said at last. "We'll examine him for everything." * * * * * For the next three hours, they took blood specimens to see if I had microscopic livestock hidden there, they X-rayed me and my baggage, fluoroscoped everything again, put the baggage through an irritator life-indexer, investigated my orifices in detail with a variety of instruments, took skin scrapings in case I was wearing a false layer, and the only thing they found was my dark glasses. "Why don't you wear modern contact lenses?" "It's none of your business," I said, "but these old-style spectacles have liquid lenses." There was a flurry and they sent away for analysis a small drop from one of the lenses. There were no signs of prohibited life in the liquid. "I could have told you that," I said. "It's dicyanin, a vegetable extract. Diminishes the glare." I put the glasses on my nose and hooked on the earpieces. The effect was medieval, but I could see the little diver now. I could also see disturbing evidence of the inspectors' mental condition. A useful little device invented by Dr. W. J. Kilner (1847-1920) for the study of the human aura in sickness and health. After a little practice, which I was not going to allow the Lamavic inspectors, the retina became sufficiently sensitive to see the micro-wave aura when you looked through the dicyanin screen. As was true of most of these psi pioneers at that time, nothing was done to further Kilner's work when he died. I noticed, without surprise, that the inspectors had a mental field of very limited extent and that the little diver had survived the journey nicely. "Can I go now?" I asked. "This time, Mr. Jones." When I left, the repair staff was building a new inspection barrier to replace the parts the dragon had got. Such an amateur performance! Leave smuggling to professionals and we'd have Lamavic disbanded from boredom in ten years. I nearly slipped on the fine silica dioxide which had fused in the air when the dragon got annoyed. Nasty, dangerous pets. The one for Florence was the only contraband I was carrying this trip, which was purely pleasure. She was waiting for me in her apartment, tall, golden, luscious, and all mine. She thought I was in import-export, which in a sense was true. "I've missed you so much, Sol," she said, twining herself on me and the couch like a Venusian water-nymph. "Did you bring me a present?" I lay back and let her kiss me. "Of course I did. A small but very valuable present." I let her kiss me again. "Not--a Jupiter diamond, Sol?" "Much rarer than that, and more useful." "Oh. Useful." "Something to help you in the house when we're married, honey. Now, don't pout so prettily, or I'll never get around to showing you." My homecoming was not developing quite as I planned, but I put this down to womanly, if not exactly maidenly, quirks. When she found out what I had brought her, I was sure she would be all over me again. I put on my dark glasses so that I could see where the diver was. "Would you like a drink, honey?" I asked. "I don't mind," she said sulkily. * * * * * I looked at the diver, concentrated hard on the thought of a bottle from the cabinet, two glasses and a pitcher of ice from the kitchen. He went revolving through the air obediently and the items came floating out neatly. Florence nearly shattered the windows with her screams. "Now calm down, honey," I said, catching her. "Calm down. It's just a little present I brought you." The bottle, glasses and pitcher dropped gently onto the table beside us. "See?" I said. "Service at a thought. Remote control. The end of housework. Kiss me." She didn't. "You mean you did that, Sol?" "Not me, exactly. I've brought you a little baby diver, honey, all the way from Antimony IX, just for you. There isn't another one on Earth. In fact, I doubt if there's another one outside Antimony IX. I had a lot of trouble securing this rare and valuable present for you." "I don't like it. It gives me the creeps." "Honey," I said carefully, "this is a little baby. It couldn't hurt a mouse. It's about six inches in diameter, and all it is doing is to teleport what you want it to teleport." "Then why can't I see it?" "If you could see it, I wouldn't have been allowed to bring it for you, honey, because a whole row of nasty-minded Solar Civil Servants would have seen it too, and they would have taken it from your own sweet Sol." "They can have it." "Honey, this is a _rare_ and _valuable_ pet! It will _do_ things for you." "So you think I need something done for me. Well! I'm glad you came right out and said this before we were married!" The following series of "but--but--" from me and irrelevance from Florence occupied an hour, but hardly mentioned the diver. Eventually I got her back into my arms. My urges for Florence were strictly biological, though intense. There were little chances for intellectual exchanges between us, but I was more interested in the broad probabilities of her as a woman. I could go commune with wild and exotic intelligences on foreign planets any time I had the fare. As a woman, Florence was what I wanted. "Back on Antimony IX," I explained carefully, "life is fierce and rugged. So, to keep from being eaten, these little divers evolved themselves into little minds with no bodies at all, and they feed off solar radiation. Now, honey, minds are not made of the same stuff brains are made of, good solid tissue and gray matter and neural cortex--" "Don't be dirty, Sol." "There is nothing dirty about the body, honey. Minds are invisible but detectable in the micro-wavelengths on any sensitive counter, and look like little glass eggs when you can see them--as I can, by using these glasses. In fact, your diver is over by the window now. But, having evolved this far, they came across a little difficulty and couldn't evolve any further. So there they are, handy little minds for teleporting whatever you want moved, and reading other people's thoughts." * * * * * She gasped. "Did you say reading other people's thoughts? "Certainly," I said. "As a matter of fact, that's what stopped the divers from evolving further. If they brush against any thinking creature, they pick up whatever thought is in the creature's conscious mind. But they also pick up the subliminal activity, if you follow me--and down at that level of a mind such as man's, his thoughts are not only the present unconscious thoughts but also a good slice of what is to him still the future. It's one of those space-time differences. The divers are not really on the same space-time reference as the physical world, but that makes them all the more useful, because our minds aren't either." "Did you say reading other people's thoughts, like a telepath?" she persisted. "Exactly like a telepath, or any other class of psi. We're really living on a much wider scale than we're conscious of, but our mind only tracks down one point in time-space in a straight line, which happens to fit our bodies. Our subliminal mind is way out in every direction, including time--and when you pick up fragments of this consciously, you're a psi, that's all. So the divers got thoroughly confused--that's what it amounts to--and never evolved any further. So you see, honey, it's all perfectly natural." "I think you're just dirty." "Eh?" "Everyone _hates_ telepaths. You know that." "I don't." "Oh, you go wandering all over the Galaxy--but my friends--what could I say to my friends if they learned I had something like a telepath in the apartment?" "It's only a baby diver, I keep telling you, honey. And anyway, you'll be able to tell what they're really thinking about you." Florence looked thoughtful. "And what they've been doing?" "Sometimes they will do what they think they'll do. And sometimes they don't make it. But it's what their subliminal plans to have happen, yes." She kissed me. "I think it's a lovely present, Sol." She snuggled up to me and I concentrated on bringing the diver over to her. I thought I'd read her, just for a joke, and see what she had in mind. I took a close look. "What's the matter, Sol?" "Oh, honey! You beautiful creature!" "This is nice--but what made you say that?" "I just got the diver to show me your mind, and bits of the next two weeks you have in mind. It's going to be a lovely, lovely vacation." She blushed very violently and got angry. "You had no right to look at what I was thinking, Sol!" "It wasn't what you were thinking so much as what you will be thinking, honey. I figure in it quite well." "I won't have it, Sol! Do you hear me? I think spying on people is detestable!" "I thought you liked the idea of tagging your friends?" "That's different. Either we go somewhere without that whatever-it-is, or you can marry someone else. I don't mind having it around after we're married, but not before, Sol. Do you understand?" I was already reaching for the video yellow pages. * * * * * I turned on the television-wall in the apartment before we left and instructed the diver to stay around and watch it. They are very curious creatures, inquisitive, always chasing new ideas, and I thought that should hold the diver happily for several days. Meanwhile, I had booked adjoining rooms at the Asteroid-Central. The Asteroid-Central advertised in the video yellow pages that it practiced the Most Rigid Discrimination--meaning no telepaths, clairvoyants, clairaudients or psychometrists. Life was hard on a psi outside Government circles. But life was much harder on the rest of the world seeking secluded privacy and discretion. The Asteroid-Central was so discreet, you could hardly see where you were going. Dim lights, elegant figures passing in the gloom, singing perfumes of the gentlest kind, and "Guaranteed Psi-Free" on every bedroom door. I was humming idly in my room, with one eye on the communicating door through which, were she but true to her own mind, Florence would shortly come, and I turned on the television-wall only to see how less fortunate people were spending their leisure. An idle and most regrettable gesture. There was a quiz-game on International Channel 462, dull and just finishing. All the contestants seemed to know all the answers. In fact, the man who won the trip around the Rings of Saturn, did so by answering the question before the Martian quiz-master had really finished reading it out. When the winner turned sharply on the other contestants and knocked them down, yelling, "So that's what you think of my mother, is it?" the wall was blacked out and we were taken straight to the Solar Party Convention. The nominee this decade was human. He seemed to be speaking on his aims, his pure record and altruistic intentions. The stereo cameras looked over the heads of the delegates. Starting in the row by the main aisle, each delegate shot to his feet and started booing and jeering. It rippled down the rows like a falling pack of cards, each delegate in turn after the man in front of him, and each row picking up where the back of the previous row left off. It was as if someone were passing a galvanizing brush along the heads of the delegates, row by row. Or as if a diver were refreshing the delegates with a clear picture of their nominee's mind. I groaned and called Florence. "Look," I said when she came. "That damned pet has followed the program back to the cameras from your apartment, and there he is lousing up the Convention." "I vote Earth," she told me indifferently. "That isn't the point, honey. I'll have to bring the diver here, and quickly." "You do that, Sol. I'll be at home when you get rid of it." By the time the diver picked up my thoughts and came flickering into the room through the walls, Florence had left. I felt the diver off the back of my head, made my thoughts as kindly as possible, and went downstairs to the largest, longest bar. * * * * * The evening passed profitably because I was invited to join a threesome of crooks at cards. With the aid of the little diver, I was able to shorten the odds to a pleasant margin in my favor. But this was doing nothing about Florence. A not altogether funny remark about teleporting the cards did, however, suggest the answer. After the transaction was over, I sent the diver off to a friend on the faculty of Luke University, where they had a long history of psi investigation and where the diver could be guaranteed to be kept busy rolling dice and such. This was easy to fix by a video call. There had been times in the past when certain services to the Extra-terrestrial Zoology and Botanical Tanks had made me discreetly popular with the faculty, and anyway they thought I was doing them a favor. They promised to keep the little diver busy for an indefinite period. I reported to Florence, and after a certain amount of feminine shall-I-shan't-I, she came back to the Asteroid-Central. This time I did not turn on the television-wall. I lay still. I said nothing. I hardly thought at all. And after several years compressed themselves into every minute, my own true honey, Florence, slid open the communicating door and came into the room. She walked shyly toward me, hiding modestly within a floating nightgown as opaque as a very clear soap bubble. I stood up, held out my arms and she came toward me, smiling--and stopped to pick up something on the carpet. "Ooo, Sol! Look! A Jupiter diamond!" She held up the largest and most expensive diamond I have ever seen. I was just going to claim credit for this little gift when another appeared, and another, and a long line marching over the carpet like an ant trail. They came floating in under the door. Now love is for vacations, and between my own sweet Florence and a diamond mine there is no comparison. I put on my dicyanin glasses and saw the baby diver was back and at work teleporting. I said so, but this time there were no hysterics from Florence. "I was just thinking of him," she said, "and wishing you had brought me a Jupiter diamond instead." "Well, honey, it looks as if you've got both." I watched her scrambling on the carpet, gathering handfuls of diamonds and not in the least interested in me. On Antimony IX, the little divers switched from one space-time point to another simultaneously, and the baby diver had come back from the Solar Party Convention the same way. I thought of it and it came; Florence had just thought of it and here it was. But now it seemed to be flitting lightly from Earth to Jupiter and back with diamonds, so perhaps there was no interplanetary distance to a mind. This had a future. I could see myself with a winter and a summer planet of my own, even happily paying Earth, Solar and Galactic taxes. "Well, honey, don't you worry," I said. "You don't like divers, so I'll take it back and give you something else. Just leave it to Sol." "Take your foot off that diamond, Sol Jones! You gave me this dear little diver and he's mine!" * * * * * She sat back on her heels and thought. The evidence of her thinking immediately came trickling through the door--Venusian opals set in a gold bracelet half a pound heavy, Martian sleeze furs, spider-web stockings, platinum belts. The room was beginning to look like a video fashion center, a Galactic merchandise mart. And after Florence put on a coat and opened the door, her ideas began to get bigger. "This is fun!" she cried, teleporting like mad. "Why, I can have anything in the Galaxy just by thinking about it!" "Now, honey, think of the benefits to humanity! This is too big to be used for personal gain. This should be dedicated--" "This is dedicated to me, Sol Jones, so just you keep your fingers off it. Why, the cute little thing--look, he's been out to Saturn for me!" I made a decision. Think wide and grand, Sol Jones, I said. Sacrifice yourself for the greater good. "Florence, honey, you know I love you. Will you marry me?" That stopped her. "You mean it, Sol?" "Of course." "It's not just because of this diver?" "Why, honey, how could you think such a thing? If I'd never brought it in for you, I'd still want to marry you." "You never said so before," she said. "But okay. If you do it now. Right now, Sol Jones." So the merchandise stopped coming in while we plugged into the video and participated in a moving and legal ceremony. The marriage service was expensive, but after all we could teleport in a few thousand credit blanks from the Solar Treasury. Immediately after we had switched off, we did so. "Are you sure you married me for myself, Sol?" "I swear it, honey. No other thought entered my head. Just you." I made a few notes while Florence planned the house we would have, furnished with rare materials from anywhere. I thought one of the medium asteroids would do for a base for Sol Jones Intragalactic Transport. I could see it all, vast warehouses and immediate delivery of anything from anywhere. I wondered if there was a limit to the diver's capacity, so Florence desired an encyclopedia and in it came, floating through the doorway. "It says," she read, "not much is known about Antimony IX divers because none have ever been known to leave their planet." "They probably need the stimulus of an educated mind," I said. "Anyway, this one can get diamonds from Jupiter and so on, and that's what matters." * * * * * I kissed the wife of the President of Sol Jones Intragalactic and was interrupted by discreet tapping on the door. The manager of the Asteroid-Central beamed at us. "Excuse," he said. "But we understand you have just been married, Mr. and Mrs. Jones." "Irrevocably," I said. "Felicitations. The Asteroid-Central will be sending up complimentary euphorics. There is just a small point, Mr. Jones. We notice you have a large selection of valuable gifts for the bride." He looked round the room and smiled at the piles of stuff Florence had thought of. "Of course," he went on, "we trust your stay will be pleasant and perhaps you will let us know if you will be wanting anything else." "I expect we will, but we'll let you know," I said. "Thank you, Mr. Jones. It is merely that we noticed you had emptied every showcase on the ground floor and, a few moments ago, teleported the credit contents of the bar up here. Not of importance, really; it is all charged on your bill." "You saw it and didn't stop it?" I yelled. "Oh, no, Mr. Jones. We always make an exception for Antimony IX divers. Limited creatures, really, but good for our business. We get about one a month--smuggled in, you know. But the upkeep proves too expensive. Some women do shop without more than a passing thought, don't they?" I saw what he meant, but Mrs. Sol Jones took it very philosophically. "Never mind, Sol--you have me." "Or vice versa, honey," I said. 
48648	----	SOPHIE MAY'S BOOKS. _Any volume sold separately._ =DOTTY DIMPLE SERIES.= Six volumes. Illustrated. Per vol., 75 cents. Dotty Dimple at her Grandmother's. Dotty Dimple at Home. Dotty Dimple out West. Dotty Dimple at Play. Dotty Dimple at School. Dotty Dimple's Flyaway. =FLAXIE FRIZZLE STORIES.= Illust. Per vol., 75 cts. Flaxie Frizzle. Doctor Papa. Little Pitchers. The Twin Cousins. Kittyleen. (_Others in preparation._) =LITTLE PRUDY STORIES.= Six vols. Handsomely Illustrated. Per vol., 75 cts. Little Prudy. Little Prudy's Sister Susy. Little Prudy's Captain Horace. Little Prudy's Story Book. Little Prudy's Cousin Grace. Little Prudy's Dotty Dimple. =LITTLE PRUDY'S FLYAWAY SERIES.= Six vols. Illustrated. Per vol., 75 cts. Little Folks Astray. Prudy Keeping House. Aunt Madge's Story. Little Grandmother. Little Grandfather. Miss Thistledown. LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS, BOSTON. [Illustration: "I'M A DOCTOR'S CHILLEN; THEY WON'T BITE ME," SAID FLAXIE. Page 11.] [Illustration: Flaxie Frizzle SERIES By SOPHIE MAY ILLUSTRATED Doctor Papa. LEE & SHEPARD BOSTON.] _FLAXIE FRIZZLE STORIES._ DOCTOR PAPA. BY SOPHIE MAY AUTHOR OF "LITTLE PRUDY STORIES," "DOTTY DIMPLE STORIES," "LITTLE PRUDY'S FLYAWAY STORIES," ETC. _ILLUSTRATED._ BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS. NEW YORK: CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM. COPYRIGHT, 1877, BY LEE AND SHEPARD. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. THE SCARECROW SISTER, 9 II. FLAXIE'S DOSE, 20 III. THE KNITTING-WORK PARTY, 36 IV. MAKING FLAXIE HAPPY, 54 V. BETTER THAN A KITTEN, 68 VI. THE STRANGE RIDE, 82 VII. MAKING CALLS, 96 VIII. TEASING MIDGE, 113 IX. THE WEE WHITE ROSE, 127 X. PRESTON'S GOLD DOLLAR, 137 XI. PRESTON KEEPING HOUSE, 158 XII. MRS. PRIM'S STRAWBERRIES, 174 FLAXIE FRIZZLE AND DR. PAPA. CHAPTER I. THE SCARECROW SISTER. One morning little Miss Frizzle danced about her brother Preston, as he was starting for school, saying,-- "If a little boy had one poggit full o' pinnuts, and one poggit full o' canny, and one in his hands, how many would he be?" This was a question in arithmetic; and, though Preston was a large boy, he could not answer it. "Answer it yourself," said he, laughing. "He'd have fousands and fousands--as many as _four hundred_!" said Flaxie, promptly. "Shouldn't wonder! What's the need of my going to school, when I have a little sister at home that knows so much?" cried Preston, kissing her and hurrying away. Flaxie wished he and her sister Julia--or Ninny, as she called her--could stay with her all the time. She was lonesome when they were both gone; and to-day her mamma said she must not go out of doors because her throat was sore. She stood for awhile by the kitchen window, looking at the meadow behind the house. It was sprinkled all over with dandelions, so bright and gay that Flaxie fancied they were laughing. _They_ didn't have sore throats. O, no! they could stay out of doors all day long; and so could the pretty brook; and so could the dog Rover; and the horses, Whiz and Slowboy; and the two young colts. By-and-by the colts came to the kitchen window, which was open, and put in their noses to ask for something to eat. Flaxie gave them pieces of bread, which Dora handed her; and they ate them, then ran out their tongues and licked the window-sill, to be sure to get all the crumbs. "What if they should bite you!" said Dora. "O, they won't! I'm a doctor's chillen; they won't bite _me_," said Flaxie, who was never afraid of any thing or anybody. "Well, you mustn't keep that window open any longer. You'll get cold, if you _are_ a doctor's children," said Dora. "Run into the parlor to your mother. Why, you haven't seen her for an hour." Flaxie was not at all anxious to see her mother, but ran into the parlor and called for a slate and pencil. Mrs. Gray gave them to her; and Flaxie drew pictures for ten minutes,--such pictures! Then the squeaking stopped, and she began to cry. "What is it, darling?" said mamma. "I've losted my _pessle_," sobbed Flaxie. "O, well, I'll get you another. Don't cry." "I've losted it _up my nose_," screamed the child, running to her mother in great distress. It was true. The pencil was a very short one; and, in poking it into her nose, just for fun, she had pushed it too far, and it would not come out. Mrs. Gray tried her very best; but the harder she tried the further up went the pencil, and the more Flaxie's nose bled and swelled. It was growing worse every minute; and Mrs. Gray, not knowing what else to do, called Dora from the kitchen and sent her for "Dr. Papa." When Flaxie knew her father was sent for, she cried louder than ever; for she thought she must be dreadfully hurt. "Is I a-goin' to die?" said she. "I wouldn't die for fi-ive dollars!" "No, indeed, pet, you won't die. Dr. Papa will make you all well in two minutes." "Will he? O, dear, my nose is _so_ sick! Kiss it, mamma!" Mamma kissed the poor purple little nose, which helped Flaxie very much; but she burst out afresh, next moment. "How bad Dr. Papa'll feel when he comes home!" Her mother soothed her; but soon she fell to crying again. "How _Ninny_'ll feel when _she_ comes home!" Mrs. Gray comforted her for this with more kisses; but presently Flaxie sobbed out once more,-- "How _Pesson_ will feel when _he_ comes home!" For the child truly believed her friends would grieve more about it than she did. Dr. Papa hurried to his darling as fast as he could; but, by the time he got home, her nose was badly swelled, and he had to hurt her very much in order to get out the "pessle." When it was all over, he took her on his knee, and tried to make her forget her troubles by showing her some pictures. "The man in this picture is a school-teacher," said he; "and the little boy who stands by his desk must have been naughty, for the teacher is going to whip him with that stick." "Goin' to w'ip him? Well, I'll wait and _see_ if he w'ips him," said Flaxie, folding her hands and staring at the picture with all her might. Dr. Papa laughed. He often laughed at what Flaxie said; and Mrs. Prim, a lady who lived in town, thought he "spoiled her." Perhaps he did. "O, see the pretty chickies," said the child, as her father turned to another picture. "Does God make chickies?" "Certainly." "Well," said she, thoughtfully, "how they must have _hollered_ when he stuck the fedders in!" I must confess Dr. Papa laughed again. Then he put Flaxie down, and said he must go, though she held him by the vest-buttons, and declared the next picture would be "awful funny." "How do you know?" "O, I _guess_ it will!" "Well, dear, if it's ever so funny, Dr. Papa will have to go, for a sick lady wants to see him." "Did the lady get a pessle up _her_ nose?" "No, she didn't; but she is very sick for all that. Good-by, pet." As Dr. Gray went out of the yard, he said to his stable-boy,-- "Crawford, I think the crows are getting too much of that corn we planted. Can't you put up a scarecrow?" Crawford thought he could, and went into the house to ask Dora for some old clothes. "I'll tell you what you'd better do, Crawford," said Dora. "Make a _little_ scarecrow, and dress it up like Flaxie Frizzle. I'll get you some of her old clothes." "That's just the thing," replied Crawford. "Give me her red hood and waterproof, and I'll stuff 'em out with hay. O, my, won't the crows be scared?" Crawford chuckled to himself all the while he was making this little image; and, when it was done, he carried it out to the corn-field, and fastened it upon a stump. "Well, it does look exactly like her, and the crows won't know the difference," said he: "only she couldn't keep still to save her life. Guess I'll pin on a veil or something to blow in the wind, as if she was moving." Dora gave him an old red scarf; and it certainly did make the image look very much as if it were alive. People who rode by turned to gaze at it, and said,-- "There's the doctor's baby. I'm glad her mother has wrapped her up so well: it's pretty cold weather for this time of year." But you must know Flaxie Frizzle was surprised when _she_ saw the scarecrow! She had climbed the sofa, and was looking out of the window. What did she see, standing there in the corn-field? It was her own self! She rubbed her eyes, and looked again. "O mamma, mamma," called she. "Come here _just_ as kick! You s'pose, mamma, who's playing _coop_ out there? It's ME! And _here's_ ME, right here! Have I got a little sister?" It was some time before she could be made to understand that the scarecrow was not herself, was not alive, and was only a rag-baby made of sticks and straw and old clothes. The next day it rained from morning till night; and everybody who went by the house thought it too bad that poor Flaxie Frizzle should be in the corn-field, getting so wet. At least a dozen times the door-bell rang; and a dozen people told Dora to be sure and let Mrs. Gray know her baby was out in the rain! Dora laughed, and assured the kind people that "_that_ baby in the field was neither sugar nor salt, and water wouldn't hurt her a grain." But she told Crawford "it did her good to see how much the neighbors thought of Flaxie Frizzle, for all she was such a curious-acting child." "And, Crawford, you'll have to take down that 'scarecrow sister,' and put up something else; for I can't spend my time running to the door to explain to folks that it isn't Flaxie Frizzle." CHAPTER II. FLAXIE'S DOSE. That summer Grandpa Pressy came to Dr. Gray's, visiting. Flaxie Frizzle had five grandfathers, but she loved Grandpa Pressy best of all; and he loved her, too, and called her his "little boy." Now, the dear old gentleman had a poor memory; and, if he laid down his newspaper or spectacles, he hardly ever knew where to find them. "I guess I left my silk handkerchief up stairs," said he, one morning. "Won't my little boy run up, and get it off the bureau?" Flaxie went in a moment, but the handkerchief was not there. There was a silver box on the bureau, though, a very pretty one; and Flaxie thought she would open it and see what was in it. It was an old-fashioned snuff-box. Grandpa Pressy did not use snuff, but he carried his medicines in this box when he went away from home. There were three kinds of medicine,--cough lozenges, sugar-coated pills, and a tiny bottle wrapped in cotton-wool, and marked "wine of antimony." First, Flaxie took out a cough lozenge, and put it on her tongue; but it was rather fiery, and she said,-- "O, it quackles me." She would not touch the "candy pills," for she had seen the same sort before, and knew they were bitter inside; but she picked the vial out of the cotton-wool, held it up to the light, and thought it looked "very nice." "Mayn't I have some, grandpa?" whispered she. She knew her gampa was not there to hear her: it was a way she had of talking to herself. "Mayn't I have some, gampa?" Then she smiled very sweetly, and replied aloud,-- "Yes, little boy, you _may_ have some." Ah, Flaxie, Flaxie! To think you should know no better than to meddle with such dreadful things! The antimony was as poisonous as it could be; but, if anybody had told you so, you would have swallowed it all the same, I suppose, you silly little creature! How much antimony Flaxie took, I'm sure I don't know, but it was a great deal; and it frightens me now to think of it, for this is a true story. "I'm a doctor's chillen; I _mus'_ take mederson," said she, making a wry face as she found it did not taste at all "nice." Suddenly a voice called out,-- "Where's that try-patience?" It was Dora; she was close by the door. Flaxie threw the vial and the box behind the looking-glass, and answered, in an innocent tone,-- "Here I is!" Of course she knew Dora meant _her_; for Dora never, never called anybody else a "try-patience." "What are you up in this chair for, rummaging round in folks' bureaux?" said Dora, hugging and scolding and shaking her, all in a breath. "I wasn't doin' nuffin," said guilty little Flaxie, pouting. "If you scold to me, Dodo, I'll _make_ me a naughty little goorl!" "You're always naughty, without _making_. There, now, come away: this room is no place for you." "O, now I know what I camed for," said Flaxie; "it was gampa's hang-ger-fiss." "O, lor', I found his hang-ger-fiss long ago in the dining-room. Away with you. I want to make the bed." As Dora spoke, she kissed Flaxie; and I wonder she didn't perceive that the child's breath smelt of medicine. "There, there, you're an old darling," said Dodo, "whatever you do." That was the way Dora's scoldings usually ended; and Flaxie did not mind them in the least. She danced down stairs in a great hurry; for, in the front yard under the trees, her brother Preston and two other boys were swapping jack-knives, and Miss Frizzle always liked to be on the spot when any thing was going on. The boys all smiled when they saw her coming; and Preston drew her close to his side, and straightened the lace frill in the neck of her dress. He was only eight years old; but he had always felt a great deal of care of his little sister. "Come here, Miss Frizzle, and I'll put you in my pocket," said Bert Abbott. "Got some canny in your poggit? If you have, I'll go," responded Flaxie, with a roguish smile. This was considered such a bright speech that the boys, all three, turned their pockets inside out to see if they had any sweetmeats to offer. Bert Abbott found a broken tart, and Jack Snow a few peanuts. Flaxie took the "pinnuts" with a cool little nod, but the tart was not to her fancy. "'Cause I don't like pie-grust, and _that's_ because," said she, curling her lip as she looked at the crumbs. "Guess you don't like 'pinnuts' either," said Jack Snow; for she was dropping the shells down Preston's back and the kernels into the grass. "Yes, I like 'em; pinnuts is _le-licious_," replied Flaxie, faintly; but she was beginning to grow rather pale round the mouth. "Come, boys," said Preston, who had not the slightest idea that any thing ailed his precious sister, "let's go and have our sail. I'll run and get Flaxie's hat." They called it "sailing;" but it was merely rocking about in the pretty boat, called the "Trout-fly," which was moored on the bank of the brook. As the boys did not know how to swim, Dr. Gray never allowed them to unfasten the boat. It was a lovely day. The hills were as blue as the sky, and the sky was as soft as a dream. What harm was there in having a little "sail" in that black and green "Trout-fly?" Preston thought they were doing a proper thing, and so they were; but the young passenger they took with them was soon to give them a world of trouble. The boys had a pretty good time; but they could not make Flaxie talk: she said her "teef were tired." There was an anxious look on her face, and she never once smiled. "What under the sun ails you?" said Preston, as she threw herself down in the bottom of the boat, with her head on his feet. "I don' know," replied Flaxie; for she had no more remembrance of her dose of poison than a kitten has of its last saucer of cream. "Are you sleepy?" "No; but my _eyes_ are." "Let her go to sleep; don't bother her," said Jack Snow. "Yes, I shall bother her too. She's real white; and I can't stand it," said Preston, stroking her cold cheeks in alarm. At that Flaxie began to cry. She was not in pain, as she had been when she got the slate-pencil up her nose; but somehow she felt very unhappy. "Guess I's goin' to die," sobbed she. "Why, Flaxie Frizzle Gray, what do you mean by such talk as that? What do YOU know about dying?" "O, I know 'bout it; we'll all die some day, mamma said so; guess it's _some day_ now," gasped Flaxie, mournfully. "That's not a pretty way to talk," said Bert Abbott. "Here, eat a raisin, Flaxie, that's a good baby." Flaxie shut her eyes firmly, and would not touch the raisin. Preston began to feel uneasy: he had never seen his sister's rosy little face look like this before. "See here, boys," said he, "let's get out of this, and I'll carry Flaxie home to mother." If he could only have done it! But, somehow, before he had fairly got the child in his arms, she drew away from him and leaned over the stern of the boat. I suppose she was blind and dizzy; but, at any rate, she lost her balance and fell head-first into the brook, which was deep enough, even by the shore, to drown a man. It was done so quickly that nobody had time to stop her. Jack Snow reached out as far as he could and clutched the hem of her cambric dress; but it slipped through his fingers, and the child sank down, down to the very bottom. "Hullo there!" screamed the boy, as if that could do the least good! Preston plunged into the water. He did not know how to swim much; but he never stopped to think of himself, he must save his darling sister. O, _where_ was she? Why didn't she rise to the surface? He had heard his father say that people did not drown till they had risen at least once. Perhaps you, who know of Flaxie's taking poison, can guess why she did not rise. She had fainted away! Preston dived, but came up without her. She had gone out of his reach. When he rose, he said to himself,-- "I'll never go home without my darling sister! If she drowns, I'll drown!" "Jump into the boat," screamed the boys. "It's no use; you can't get her!" "Yes, I _will_," said Preston, and dived again. That time, without knowing it, he _almost_ touched Flaxie, lying still as a log, ten feet below. When he came up, the boys reached after him and pulled him into the boat. He struggled with all his might; but it was two against one, and he could not help himself. "Oogle, oogle, goggle!" screamed he; for his mouth was so full of water that he could not speak. "Pat him on the back," said Jack Snow, always ready with advice. "Oogle, oogle, oggle, goggle!" cried Preston, striking out both arms, and determined to dive again; but the boys held him fast. If they had not held him, he would certainly have drowned, but he could not have saved Flaxie. He had courage enough, and will enough for a grown man; but, alas, his strength was only that of a little boy. And what could be done? Bert Abbott ran up the bank, screaming for help. Was all the world deaf? If those boys had never prayed before, they prayed now. "Help us, help us, O God, _won't_ you help us? Send somebody to save Flaxie!" It was quite five minutes--so I am told--that the child lay in that brook before any help came. At last a man, who was going by, heard the outcry, and thought it sounded like something more than boys' play. He ran to the spot; and, as he could swim, he soon had Flaxie out of the water; but, whether dead or alive, that was the question. There she lay in his arms, as still as a stone. The water dripped from her beautiful flaxen hair, from the tips of her white fingers, from her dimpled chin; but not an eyelash stirred, and her little heart had ceased to beat. "The poor thing is clean gone, no mistake about that," thought the man, putting his lips to Flaxie's cold mouth. "Rub her! Roll her! Run for father!" shouted Preston, flinging himself upon his lifeless sister, and kissing her wildly. "Here, boys, you run ahead and get the doctor, and I'll carry her to the house as quick as I can," said Mr. Bond. "Don't take on so," added he, soothingly to Preston. "Folks do come to, sometimes, and live, when they look as far gone as she does." He said this from the kindness of his heart; but in reality he had very little hope of Flaxie. Dr. Gray had scarcely any hope either: he thought she had been in the water too long. Ever so many men and women worked over the child for hours and hours: Dr. Papa and mamma among the rest, of course; and even Grandpa Pressy helped a little, though his hands trembled, and he was very pale. It did not seem to be of the least use; still, they kept trying. "O, you dear, beautiful baby," said Mrs. Gray, the tears falling over her cheeks, "it is so hard to give you up!" Dr. Papa held his cold little darling, his "Pinky Pearly," to his heart; but he could not speak a word. But, just as they were all giving her up, she was seen to breathe, very, very softly. "Saved!" whispered Dr. Papa. "Saved!" echoed mamma. "Thank God!" said Grandpa Pressy. How did Preston feel when his dear sister slowly opened her blue eyes? He would have given his life for her,--was he glad she was saved? Ah, _was_ he glad, the noble boy? In a few minutes Dr. Papa knew the whole story: he found out that Flaxie had been taking poison. "Now I understand it all," said he. "She fainted away before she fell into the brook. If she had not fainted she could not have lived so long under the water." "Was that what made her lie so still?" asked Preston. "If she had moved a little I might have pulled her out; but she wouldn't move, and I couldn't reach her." "You tried your best, my son," said the doctor, laying his hand on Preston's head. "It makes me happy to think my little girl has such a brother!" CHAPTER III. THE KNITTING-WORK PARTY. Flaxie recovered from this accident a great deal sooner than Grandpa Pressy did. Somehow, the shock of seeing his "little boy" lying so white and cold made grandpa ill. He was so ill, in fact, that Dr. Gray sent for grandma. It was very pleasant having grandma in the house; and her dear old husband began to feel better the moment he saw her. "Dear little Mary, how do you do?" said she to Flaxie, who was lying on the bed. Flaxie made no answer, except to put out her tongue. "Can't you speak to grandma?" said Ninny. "No: I'm a doctor's chillen, and doctor's chillen _always_ puts out their tongues," replied Flaxie, showing it again. "It doesn't look very sick," said grandma, laughing. "Then what makes my mamma keep me in bed?" whined Flaxie. "I don't want to be in my nightie. I want to be in my pretty dress, and sit in your lap." "She is very, very cross," said Ninny to grandma, with a patient smile, as they left the room. "Perhaps we can amuse her," replied grandma; and next morning she gave her some bright worsted to make her doll, Miss Peppermint Drop, a scarf. Flaxie was well pleased, for awhile, tying the worsted into knots and putting it over the needles; but it soon tired her. "O gramma, the needles won't knit: they're _crooksey_ needles," said she. "Well, come sit in my lap, dear, and I'll tell you a story about a knitting-work party, that I had a great, great while ago, when I was about as old as Julia." "That's a funny party, _I_ should fink," said Flaxie, curling her head down on her grandma's shoulder. "A knitting-work party, did you say?" asked Ninny, preparing to listen. "Well, yes. You know girls in those times didn't have so many parties as they do now," replied grandma; "and I had been wanting this one for weeks and weeks before I even dared ask my mother about it. When I did ask her, she said,-- "'Why, Polly, don't you see how much spring-work I have to do? How can I stop to cook a supper for a dozen little girls?' "'O, but I'll cook it myself,' said I. 'I can make gingerbread and cup-custards.' "'And what will you do for bread?' said she. "I didn't think there would be any trouble about that. 'There was _always_ bread enough,' I said. 'Little girls didn't eat much, and twelve wouldn't make the _least_ difference!' "Well, but mother wanted to know what I could give them for sauce. The dried apples were all gone, and she couldn't let me have any preserves; she was keeping those for sickness. "I said I would give them some molasses. I liked molasses, and thought everybody else did. "Mother smiled. "'But if I let you have a party,' said she, 'you can't do your knitting. You know I'm in a hurry for you to finish father's socks.' "That was what made me think of turning it into a knitting-work party. I spoke up in a moment, and said I,-- "'O mother! if you'll only let me have it, I'll ask all the girls to bring their knitting-work, and then we'll measure yarns! O, won't that be grand? And, when we get our stints done, we'll go out and play in the barn. We won't trouble you one speck.' "'Well, Polly,' said mother, 'I've a great mind to say yes; for that sounds to me like a very sensible kind of a party; and will be setting a good example too. Yes, you may have it, if your sisters are willing to show you how to cook, and you won't make _me_ any trouble.' "You may depend I was pleased. I skipped off to the kitchen in great glee, and danced about the kneading-trough, where sister Judith was mixing brown-bread, crying out,-- "'I'm going to have a _knitting-work party_, Judy, and cook it myself! Give me a pan and a spoon!' "My eldest sister, Sally, was pounding spices in a mortar; and I remember Judith turned to her, and said,-- "'Now, Sally, you _don't_ suppose mother is going to let that child bother round?' "'O, _I_ shan't bother,' said I. 'I'm only going to make gingerbread and cup-custards. 'Twill be very easy!' "Sally laughed,--she was very good-natured,--and told me to run out to the barn for some eggs. While I was gone, I suppose she and Judith talked the matter over, and thought they would keep me out of the kitchen; for, as soon as I came back, they sent me off to give my invitations. "'We'll do the cooking,' said Sally; 'but you may set the table yourself, and wait upon your little girls. We will not see them at all.' "I ran off, happy enough; and I have thought a great many times since, how kind it was in Sally and Judith to leave their work to do that baking for me. They were good sisters, certainly. "I had a grand time that morning, going from house to house, asking my friends to my knitting-work party. Everybody was delighted; and everybody came, of course, and got there by two o'clock, or earlier. "Mother left her quilting long enough to put marks with red worsted into each little girl's knitting-work. "'There,' said she, 'at four o'clock I will come to see which has beat. I must be the one to judge; for there is a difference in your yarn,--some is coarse and some is fine; and we must be fair about it.' "'O, yes'm,' said the girls; 'we want to be fair.' "'Well, now I'll leave you,' said mother; 'and I hope you'll have a nice time.' "And we did, for awhile. As we sat busy with our knitting, we heard now and then the tender bleating of a lamb in the barn,--how well I remember that! "'That's my cosset,' said I. 'She hasn't any mother, you know. I'll show her to you, girls, when we get our knitting done.' "Persis Russell 'didn't see the use of waiting,' she said. 'Why couldn't we run out and look, and right back again?' "Just then the lamb began to bleat louder, and in a very beseeching tone, as if he felt lonesome and wanted company. It seemed to touch the girls' hearts; and they sprang up, and started for the door--all but me. "'Well, run along if you want to,' said I, 'I'll come in a minute.' "'But you mustn't stay here and keep on knitting,' said they; 'that wouldn't be fair.' "'I don't mean to keep on knitting. I won't knit another stitch; but I want to sweep up the hearth,' said I. "As I spoke, I dared not look anybody in the face, for a dreadfully wicked thought had come into my head. "If I could only pick out the mark mother had put in my work, and sew in another lower down! A black satin bag was hanging on a nail by the window; and in the bottom of the bag was a needlebook with the very needle and red worsted mother had used to sew in the marks! "The girls ran out, and I seized that needle--O, how thick and fast my heart beat! It was as much as I could do to make the stitch, my fingers trembled so. But I did it. I put in the mark almost an inch below the right place, and picked out the first mark with a pair of scissors. Then I swept up the hearth a little bit, and went out to the girls. "They were so delighted with the lamb that they scarcely looked at me; if they had, they must have seen something strange in my face. "'Come, girls,' said I, speaking very fast, 'let's go right back and knit; and, when it's four o'clock, we'll come back here and play Ring Round Rosy, and every thing else.' "They were willing enough to go back; and for half an hour our fingers flew fast; but I took good care not to let any one see the mark in my stocking. "Just as the clock in the kitchen struck four, mother came in with a pleasant smile for all the little girls; and they brought their knitting-work along to her with blushing faces, for children in those days were more bashful than they are now. Mother took the thirteen pieces of knitting-work, and laid them down together. Little Polly Lane had knit the least of any one, which was not strange, for she was the youngest. Nancy Shaw came next; then Ellen Rice and Phebe Snow. Persis Russell was the oldest, and known to be a very 'smart' girl. Her stocking was seamed, and she had knit a longer piece than Mary Jane Cullen;--another 'smart' girl;--but, strange to say, Flaxie, not a single one had done as well as your little grandmother! Mother was surprised: she had not supposed I could knit as fast as Persis Russell, who was twelve years old; but here was my stocking right before her; it was finer than Persis's, and the mark was half an inch lower down! "'Well, I didn't expect this,' said mother; 'but I shall have to give it up that Polly has beat. You may come here and see for yourselves!' "The girls looked, and some of them could not help feeling disappointed. I know Mary Jane Cullen had thought if anybody beat her it would be Persis Russell; and Persis knew her fingers had moved faster than mine; yet I had got ahead of them both! "You may be sure I was very modest, and did not put on any airs. I felt rather sober in spite of my victory. We played noisy games for an hour, and then I said I must go in and set the table, for this was _my_ party. I didn't say I had done the cooking, but I was quite willing they should think I had. When supper was ready I called the girls in, and asked Persis Russell to sit at one end of the table while I sat at the other and poured the tea. It was currant-leaf tea, and wouldn't have kept a baby awake. Then Persis passed the bread, and asked if I made it, and I had to say, 'no.' "'And you didn't make the gingerbread, either, I suppose,' said she; and I had to say 'no' again, 'I only stirred it.' "Persis felt better when she heard that. I wasn't the smartest girl in the town of Concord after all. "'Who made the custards?' asked she. "'Well, Sally made those,' said I; 'but I hunted up the eggs.' "Then little Polly Lane said she could hunt eggs, if that was all. "And Patty Stevens said, 'Yes, so could she; and her mother said _she_ might have a knitting-work party if she'd have it just the way Polly did; and she was going to tell her how Polly didn't have to cook the things.' "'I hope Polly won't begin to knit till the rest of us get started,' said Mary Jane Cullen; 'for I don't think it's fair.' "O, I tell you, Flaxie, by that time I had begun to feel ashamed of myself; and, at seven o'clock, when my party was all over, and the girls had gone home, I felt more ashamed still. I sat down on the meal-chest in the back room where Sally was churning, and watched the dash as it moved up and down, and the cream oozed out around the little hole in the cover. She asked me if I'd had a good time. She said she thought the girls had all behaved very well. "'Why, yes, we'd had a _pretty_ good time,' I said, rather faintly; and I helped myself to the cream till Sally sent me off for fear I'd be down sick. "By that time I was feeling very wretched; I did not really know why. Perhaps it was all knitting-work; and perhaps it was partly cream;--and I began to think some of it might be molasses. I went to bed, but could not go to sleep, and fell to crying all by myself in the dark. Mother heard me, and came in to ask what was the matter. "'I want to see my little sister Abby,' said I; 'that's what I'm crying for.' "'But you never saw your sister Abby,' said mother; 'she died before you were born.' "'I know it, mother,' sobbed I. 'I never saw her, and that's why I want to see her now!' "'Is that all you're crying about, Polly?' said mother. 'I'm afraid something happened wrong at your party.' "'O mamma, I'm ashamed to tell,' said I, covering my head with the sheet. 'I guess I ate too much molasses--I--I--' "'Well, daughter, and what else?' said mother. "'I ate too much cream,--I--I--' "Mother waited patiently. "'I picked out the marking you put into my knitting-work, and I sewed in another lower down,' cried I, desperately. 'O dear, O, dear, I did. O mother, I knew you'd feel bad! Say, what shall I do?' "Mother was so surprised and distressed that she did not speak for nearly a minute, and then she said,-- "'It was a dreadful thing, Polly. Do you think you are truly sorry?' "'O, yes, I guess you'd think so,' sobbed I, 'if you knew how I feel right in here. It's a little speck of it molasses and cream, but most of it's knitting-work; and I want to get right up and dress myself, and go and tell the girls how I cheated.' "'Are you willing to tell them?' asked mother. "'Yes, I want to: 'twill choke me if I don't,' said I. 'Patty Stevens is going to have a knitting-work party, and I can tell the girls there; but seems 'sif I can't wait.' "'If you feel like that,' said mother, 'I believe you are truly sorry. And now let us tell our Heavenly Father about it, and I know he will freely forgive you.' "There," said Grandma Pressy, smoothing down her cap as she finished, "that's the whole story; but it is a bitter thought to me that I was ever such a naughty child." "It's bitter to me, too," said Flaxie, making a wry face. "Won't you give me an ollinge, now, to take the taste out?" CHAPTER IV. MAKING FLAXIE HAPPY. "We _thought_, in the first place, my little sister had water on the brain, her head was under water so long," explained Preston to the boys; "but she has got over it now, only dreadful cross." It was a hard time for everybody when Flaxie was cross. She tried to sew, but her work acted "orfly;" the stitches were "cross-eyed," she said. "I hate my padge-work," cried she, angrily; "I hate it _dead_!" "Then I wouldn't sew," said kind Ninny. "Come out to the shed, and I'll swing you." That was no better. After swinging a little while, Flaxie happened to fall off a pile of boards, and ran into the house, crying out,-- "I swang and I swang; up real high, most up to the sky. Hurt me _orfly_. Look at my stoggins and see'f I didn't." "Perhaps you'd like to hear a story," said Mrs. Gray, taking the child in her lap. "Yes, tell me a story with a long end to it. Tell about Cindrilla." Mrs. Gray began; and, when she got as far as this,--"Cinderella asked her mother, and her mother said, 'No, Cinderella, you can't go to the party,'" then Flaxie smiled. Somehow she liked to hear about Cinderella's having a hard time: she thought she had a hard time herself. But, when the story was half done, she wanted something else. "You don't tell good stories, mamma. I wish you'd never been made!" "O, how can you talk so to your good mother?" said Ninny, much shocked. "You'd better tell a story yourself, and see if you can do better than she does." "Well, mamma," returned Flaxie, "do you want me to tell a story?" "Yes." "Does God know I'm going to tell it?" "Yes." "Does He know what it is?" "Yes." "Did He always know?" "Yes." "_Forever_ and always?" "Yes." "Well," said Flaxie, puckering up her lips, "I ain't a-goin' to tell it; so _now_ what'll he fink?" Mrs. Gray tried not to smile when Flaxie said such strange things about God; but this time Ninny laughed aloud. "Now, Ninny, you needn't laugh to me," said Flaxie. "I'm going to be mad with you a whole week." "What for?" "'Cause you won't make Pep'mint Drop no boots, and _that's_ because." "Seems to me you scold very hard at your sister," said Grandma Pressy. "_I_ think she is a very good sister." Ninny was standing by the sink at that very moment, washing Peppermint Drop's stockings in a pint dipper; and Flaxie was beside her, cutting soap. "I know what I'll do," thought Ninny, wringing the suds from her hands. "I'll see mamma alone, and ask her if she won't let Flaxie take my place, and ride to New York this afternoon. Perhaps that will make her feel better." "And would you really like to have her go instead of you?" said Mrs. Gray, looking at Ninny's upturned face, and thinking it was one of the sweetest faces she had ever seen in her life. "Yes'm, I should," said the little girl, earnestly. "I can't bear to have her so cross; and you can't bear it, either, mamma. It almost makes you cry." "But will she be pleasant if she goes to ride?" "I think so, mamma. You know she is generally pleasant when she has her own way." And, indeed, Flaxie's little snarled-up face smoothed in a moment when she heard of the ride. "I'll sit as still as a _possible_ mouse," said she, dancing about her mamma. "I won't trouble papa one bit. Take off my _sicking_ dress, Ninny, and put on my rosy-posy dress. Do it kick." Was she sorry there was not room enough for Ninny,--good Ninny, who did so much to make her happy? O, no: Flaxie herself was to have a fine time; and that was all she thought about it. "Let _me_ hold the reins, Dr. Papa," said she, as soon as she had climbed into the carriage. "_I_ can make the hossy go like a tiger." "You must sit between your mamma and me, Mary Gray, and keep still; or I shall take you back to the house," said Dr. Papa, sternly. "I _will_ keep still," replied Miss Frizzle, in alarm. "I'll keep as still as a possible mouse!" The ride was a very pleasant one. The bright dandelions were gone long ago; but there were plenty of other flowers by the roadside, and the birds in the trees sang gaily. "See 'em fly 'way off up! O Dr. Papa, they touch the _ceiling_ of the sky!" said the "possible mouse." When they reached the city, she wanted to walk the streets by herself, but consented to take her mother's hand. She loved the many-colored windows and the loud noises; but she was happiest of all, when, at five o'clock, her father and mother took her into an eating-saloon, and called for a lunch. She had never been in such a place before. "I want some jelly and cake and pie and puddin' and _every thing_," said Flaxie, as her papa tapped the little bell. "Dry toast for three; tea for two," said Dr. Gray to the waiter. "But _I_ want some _nuts_," whispered Flaxie, ready to cry. She meant doughnuts. "Toast is all you can have," said Dr. Papa, with one of his stern looks. But Flaxie was a bold child, as well as a bright one. She had seen her father touch the bell and call a boy, and thought she would do the same, and see what would happen. Out went her little hand, _ting-a-ling_ went the silver bell, and up came the same boy. "_Nuts for one girl!_" cried Flaxie, before her father had time to stop her. The waiter covered his face with his hand, and laughed; Mrs. Gray smiled; and Dr. Gray tried to frown. "Do let her have at least some jelly, Dr. Papa," pleaded the gentle mother. "Well, I see you want to spoil her! Yes, let her have some jelly," said her father. Ninny was sorry to see, the next day, that this ride to New York had done Flaxie Frizzle no good. The fact was, she had caught cold, and was sick again for nearly a week. "My little sister has been having _conjunction_ of the lungs. I mean she came pretty near it," said Preston to the boys. He always made the most of it when any thing ailed Flaxie; for he was rather ashamed of belonging to such a healthy family. After this, the little girl was obliged to stay in the house; and of course she made everybody unhappy. "_Why_ can't I go ou' doors, mamma?" "Because you have such a cold." "Wish you never'd been _made_, mamma!" "What a naughty, naughty girl," said Ninny. "It's my _mamma's_ naughty! I'll have to tell her a story," said the child. People told stories to Flaxie when _she_ was naughty; why shouldn't she do the same thing to other people when _they_ were naughty? "Well," said she, folding her chubby hands, and looking as severe as her father did sometimes,--"Well, once there was a little _good_ girl, and her mother wanted her to stay in the house all the days; and she staid in the house and didn't go ou' doors; and she _kep'_ a-stayin' in the house. And you s'pose what _'came_ o' that little goorl? She staid in the house, and staid in the house; and in two weeks she _di-ed_!" Mrs. Gray turned away suddenly; for Flaxie was spreading her hands and making a grieved lip, as if she pitied the "good goorl;" and it was really too funny. "See, dear," said Grandma Pressy, "here are some nice summer sweetings in my work-bag. If you'll stay in the house pleasantly, all the morning, you shall have one." Apples were rare, for it was early in the season, and Flaxie looked delighted. "I'll stay _velly_ pleasantly," said she, and ran into the kitchen for the chopping-tray, in order to chop up a few of the animals in her Noah's ark and "make some lion hash for breakfast." But, soon tiring of that, she came back to the sitting-room, and looked wistfully out of the window. "Gamma," said she, "_O_ gamma, mayn't I have a _wormy_ apple, and go ou' doors?" Grandma Pressy laughed, and said,-- "I think I know of something that will make you happy, little Mary. You just go into the nursery and see what's there." Flaxie went at once; and there, on the rug, sat Lena Vigue, fondling a pretty Maltese kitten. Lena was the washerwoman's barefooted daughter; and she had just brought the kitten in an old covered basket. "O Lena, I didn't know you's here," said Miss Frizzle, dropping her "lion hash" in a chair. "I'm glad you bringed your kitty." "It's _your_ kitty now," sighed Lena. "I've got to leave it here." "_My_ kitty?" cried Flaxie, clapping her hands. "Yes; your mamma asked me to fetch it. She told me she'd give me te-en cents if I'd fetch it," said Lena, who always spoke with a drawl. Flaxie danced for joy. "There, I knew you'd be happy now, Flaxie Frizzle," said Ninny, who stood anxiously looking on. "I hope the _kitty_'ll be happy," sighed Lena, who thought that was far more important. "I hope you'll feed it well; it's used to it," she added, a little proudly. "O, yes, what do you feed it with?" asked Ninny. "_Sour milk_," drawled the little French girl. "I never heard of sour milk for a cat," said Ninny, when Lena had left; "but perhaps this is a French cat." "At any rate we'll try sweet milk first," said Mrs. Gray, smiling. "See, she likes it, mamma," cried Flaxie, stroking the pretty creature. "See her drink it out of her tongue." Ninny and her mother looked at each other and smiled, as if to say,-- "How glad we both are to have Flaxie happy for a little while." But it did not last long. Preston, who was always setting traps for rats and mice and foxes, set a dreadful one in the shed, and caught the kitty, which of course had to be killed. Preston was in great distress about it. "There, Frizzy-me-gig, _don't_ cry. John Piper is going to give me something a great deal better than a kitten." "What is it? O, what is it?" "You'll see when I get it." "Will it be my owny-dony?" "No-o, not _yours_ exactly; but you may look at it and touch it." Flaxie was a little comforted; for now she must try to guess what it could be that was better than a kitten. CHAPTER V. BETTER THAN A KITTEN. The next day, Preston and his grandfather rode away after old Slowboy. "They might have let me gone, too, _I_ should fink," grumbled Flaxie. "What they goin' to get in that basket? Tell me, Ninny." "Something nice that you never saw before," replied Ninny. When they came home that night, they brought two things that made Miss Frizzle's eyes dance and sparkle like stars. Curled up together in a soft heap were two beautiful rabbits,--one brown, the other snow-white. John Piper, a man who had once lived at Mr. Abbott's, had given these rabbits to Preston Gray and Bert Abbott, for their own. It was very kind of him; but he made one mistake--he forgot to say which of the boys should have the white rabbit. The brown one was "very respectable," as Ninny said; but the other was lovely--as plump and white as a snowball, with pink eyes that glowed like gems. "Poh, who cares which is which?" said Bert. "I'm sure _I_ don't," said Preston, as he hunted all over the stable for an old rabbit cage Crawford had brought there last year. "If we keep 'em together it's all the same." The boys were well satisfied for awhile; but no more so than Flaxie. After saying her "big prayer," she added,-- "O God, we thank Thee _specially_ for the _wabbits_; all but the cage; we had that before." Her cold was well by this time; and she was allowed to stay in the yard as much as she chose, and watch the pretty pets. It was a funny sight to see them nibble the vegetables their little masters brought them; and Flaxie stood and threw kisses to make their dinner all the sweeter. As the cage was Preston's, and kept in his mother's clothes-yard, it followed that Preston saw more of the rabbits, and had more care of them than Bert. But, alas, Flaxie had the care of them too! When Preston was gone to school, she hovered around them, saying to herself,-- "I mustn't lose these wabbits. It isn't _my_ wabbits. If I should lose 'em, I should be _'spised_; and, when I grow up a woman, then folks will look to me and say, 'Flaxie, _where's_ those wabbits?'" And, saying this, she let them out of the cage. A little while afterward, a cruel dog leaped over the fence, worried the poor timid things half to death, and, before Preston could get them back into the cage, had bitten off the beautiful white rabbit's white tail. It was too much! Preston was very angry, not with Flaxie, but with the dog, and gave him a good beating; or it would have been a good beating if it had only hit the dog! But, after the first blow, the naughty beast ran around a corner; and that was the last seen of him, though it was not the last said or thought of him, you may be sure. Both the boys were grieved at sight of their white rabbit without any tail, and Bert said,-- "Flaxie, what did you open the cage for?" But she replied, with an injured air,-- "You ought to not _lemme_ open the cage,--such a little goorl as me." And Bert laughed, but could not help remarking to Preston,-- "Sure enough, you're a smart boy to let that young one meddle round so much." Then Preston had to answer,-- "Well, I didn't s'pose she could turn the button, and you know I didn't; and I wish you'd hush up." Naturally, when Bert was told to "hush up," he only talked so much the more; and we all know that talking only makes matters worse. "If that dog had bit old Brownie, I wouldn't have cared," said Bert, trying to be provoking; "but _my_ white rabbit! I say it's a shame!" "_Your_ white rabbit? What you talking about?" "Why, John Piper was _my_ father's hired man, sir; and you're only my cousin." "Well, what o' that, sir? Isn't this cage mine? And would he have given the rabbits to us _without_ a cage? No, _sir_: if it hadn't been for _me_ you wouldn't have had _half_ a rabbit, Bert Abbott!" "Half a Bert Rabbit Abbott!" stuttered Flaxie, who never let any one be cross to her brother, except herself. Then the words flew like hailstones,--pell-mell, sharp and thick, without mercy,--till the boys forgot that they had ever loved each other. The very next day Brownie got her foot caught in one of Preston's fox-traps, and was lamed for life. Bert had scorned to call her his own when she was a perfect rabbit; but now, out of spite, he hunted up an old bird-cage, and went in great haste to claim her, before she got "killed dead." He said he "didn't care a cent about the old brown thing, but he wasn't going to have her abused." "Good riddance!" cried Preston. "_I_ don't want to see her again." "_We_ don't like yabbits, any but white ones," said Flaxie, keeping back her tears with a mighty effort, for she dearly loved Brownie. "O, yes, Preston Gray, you feel mighty smart because you've got the white one," retorted Bert, in a rage; "but she won't do you much good, now I tell you! You see if something or another don't happen to her, that's all!" Considering the bad luck that seemed to hang over Preston's things,--from his living pets down to his kites and marbles,--it was very likely something would happen to the white rabbit; and Mrs. Gray told her husband she "trembled for Snowball." [Illustration: BETTER THAN A KITTEN. Page 68.] [Blank Page] Very soon after this Preston rushed into the house one morning in great trouble, his lips quivering. "Something ails Snowball," gasped he; "she's fainting away." Fainting away! She was dying, and nobody could save her. All that could be done was to watch her graceful form stiffen in death, while everybody asked over and over, "What could have killed her?" "She was poisoned," said Dr. Gray. "O, O!" screamed Preston, beside himself with grief. "Then Bert did it! Bert _must_ have done it; and I'll never forgive him as long as I live!" "My son, my son! Never let me hear you speak in that way of your cousin." But Preston muttered to Ninny and Julia,-- "Why, you see, I _know_ he did it! He said something would happen to Snowball; and he said it so spiteful!" "Bertie Rabbit's a drefful wicked boy, an' his playfings shan't stay in _my_ yard," scolded Flaxie Frizzle, kicking away, with her foot, Bert's new green morocco ball that lay in the grass. "Look there, will you! He dropped that ball when he brought the poison," cried Preston, very much excited. "Give that ball here to me, Flaxie". Preston was sure now. He had made up his mind in a hurry, but he had made it up; he _knew_ who had killed his rabbit. Bert was not at school that day. "I didn't _s'pose_ he'd dare to come," said Preston. Then he took the ball out of his pocket, looked at it savagely, and told the boys what Bertie had done. Everybody was sorry, for Preston was a great favorite; but it is a grave fact that a few of the boys were secretly glad of a quarrel between two such good friends, and thought, "Now Preston will notice the rest of us a little more perhaps." And the boys who had these envious feelings did not try to stand up for Bert, you may be sure. They said, "You ain't a bit to blame for getting mad, Preston. It's pretty plain who killed your rabbit. Wonder how Bert Abbott'd like it if you should give a sling at Old Brownie? 'Twould be no more'n fair!" "That's so," said Preston, growing angrier and angrier, as they talked over his wrongs, till it seemed to him he couldn't stand it another minute without revenging himself on Bert. "If he kills my rabbit, why shouldn't I kill his?" he argued with himself, stealing round by Aunt Jane Abbott's on his way home from school at noon. Just before he reached her back gate, he picked up a smooth round stone and aimed it at a knot in one of the boards, which he hit right in the centre,--he was pretty sure to hit whatever he aimed at,--then he found the stone again, and hid it in his pocket. It was about the right size to throw at a rabbit's head. Poor, unsuspecting Brownie! There she was, in the garden, munching cabbage-leaves, when Preston crept toward her, looking this way and that, to make sure nobody saw him. She heard the slight sound of his boots, and sat up on her haunches, perfectly motionless, to listen. Certainly he never could have had a better chance to aim at her than then. Very slowly he put his hand in his pocket, and very slowly he was drawing out the stone, when the loving little creature caught sight of him, and leaped joyfully toward him in her pitiful, crippled way. What boy, with a heart, would have harmed such a pet? Not Preston, I hope you know! He dropped the stone, and ran home in such a hurry that he was quite out of breath, when at the gate he met Flaxie, carrying Snowball's drinking-dish by the tips of her fingers. "Naughty old _fing_" said she; "I'm going to frow it down the _scut-hole_!" (Flaxie meant scuttle.) "Hold on, that's mine!" cried Preston, seizing the pan which he had painted a brilliant green only a day or two before. "No, no: I'm going to frow it down the scut-hole," persisted Flaxie. "It killed the dear little rabbit: Dr. Papa said so." Yes: it was the fresh paint that had poisoned Snowball. Dr. Gray had said that at once when Flaxie had led him out to the cage to show him the poor, stiff little body, and he saw the flakes of green soaked off from the sides of the drinking-pan and floating on the water. So really Preston was the murderer. Poor Preston! Didn't he hang his head for shame? And, as for Bert, he hadn't been near Snowball for two whole days; he had been on the sofa all that time with earache and toothache. "Does you feel orfly?" said little Flaxie. "You going to cry?" "Yes, I feel orfly; but boys don't cry," replied Preston, trying to whistle. He tried to whistle again, when Bert, of his own accord, brought back Brownie and said,-- "Come, Pres, let's go partner's again. Your cage is better than mine." Preston choked up and could not speak; but, after this, he and Bert were closer friends than ever. CHAPTER VI. THE STRANGE RIDE. The next summer Flaxie had a baby brother named Philip Lally Gray. Flaxie said he was "as good as any of the rest of the family, and lots better." She loved him dearly; and perhaps it was in loving him that she learned to become unselfish. By the time he was a year old, he had pulled her hair, and scratched her face, and given her a great deal of trouble; but the more he tried her patience, the more her patience grew. "Really, she is almost as sweet as Ninny," said Mrs. Gray to her husband. When Philip was thirteen months old, he had no teeth, and Flaxie grieved about it. Her own were falling out, and she wished she could give them to her baby brother. "Never mind," said Dr. Papa. "If he never has any teeth of his own, I will buy him some gold ones." "O, that'll be so nice," cried Flaxie. "I never saw any gold teeth in all my life." That year, late in September, Flaxie Frizzle went with her mamma and baby Phil to the city of Louisville, in Kentucky, to see Grandpa and Grandma Curtis. Dr. Gray staid at home with Ninny and Preston. "Poor papa couldn't come, 'cause he has to give folks their mederson," explained Miss Frizzle, before she had taken off her bonnet in grandma's parlor. "Too bad," laughed pretty Grandma Curtis, who was ever and ever so much younger than Grandma Pressy, and didn't even wear a cap. "But we are glad he could send his little daughter." No wonder she was glad! Flaxie was all pink and white, with a mouth made up for kisses, and eyes laughing like the sky after a shower. The colored girl, Venus, had never seen her before; but she loved her in a moment, for Flaxie threw both arms around her neck and kissed her, like a butterfly alighting on a black velvet rose. But that night Flaxie did not seem quite well, and the next morning she was worse; she could not even hold the baby. "They're so glad I've got the mumps," said she, two or three days afterward, as she lay on the sofa, with hot, swelled cheeks and parched lips that tried to smile. The remark was made to Peppermint Drop, the doll of her bosom; but black Venus took it to herself. "And what makes 'em glad you're sick?" said she. "'Cause my mamma wants me to have the mumps all done, Venus, and then she can go to my _'nother_ grandma's next week. I've got lots of grandmas. She's going to see this one next week, and take the baby." "Yes," said Venus, dusting the chairs; "and prob'ly if you get well she'll take you too." "No, O, no: she don't think's best," replied Flaxie, dropping a hot tear on Peppermint Drop's bosom, which would have melted it a little if it had been made of sugar instead of bran. "Grandma Hyde lives in the _other_ town, 'way off, down where the boats go; and mamma says she _can't_ take but one childrens. She's drefful sorry; but she don't think best." And the little girl dried her eyes on her doll's bib-apron; for she heard some one coming, and didn't want to be a baby. It was mamma, with Phil in her arms, fresh from his morning bath, bright, wide-awake, and ready for mischief. His hair was golden,--darker even now than Flaxie's,--and his eyes were the richest brown. "Shall I let him _go_?" asked mamma, as if he were a wild creature, and they generally kept him in chains. "Yes, mamma, let him go." And, when she dropped her hold of him, he rushed at his sister, and "hugged her grizzly," as she called it, like the most affectionate of little bears. "Won't Grandma Hyde be _exprised_ to see him? She'll love you and thank you dearly," said Flaxie. "I'm a little ashamed of him," laughed Mrs. Gray. "You know he has only one tooth." "Well, he hasn't much teeth, and he can't talk; but he can stand on his head _so_ cunnin'! Phil want to go in boat? Want see Gamma Hyde, and hug her grizzly?" Was this our cross Flaxie? Indeed, she _was_ almost as sweet as Ninny--sometimes! When the day came for going to Shawneetown, where Grandma Hyde lived, Flaxie had got her mumps "all done," and was allowed to ride down in a hack to the "Jennie Howell," and see mamma off. Little Phil wore a white dress and a soft white cloak, with silk acorns and leaves embroidered all over it; and a white cap with a white cockade set on top of his gold rings of hair. He looked like a prince; and his mother called him, "'Philip, my King.'" The last thing Flaxie saw him do was to throw kisses at a hen-coop which somebody was putting on board the boat. He thought there were chickens in it, and I suppose there were. Flaxie looked rather sober as she rode back in the hack with Grandma Curtis. "He never went to _Shawtown_ before," said she; "and he isn't much 'quainted with strangers. I spect I ought to gone with him." "I spect he'll get along beautifully," replied Grandma Curtis, hugging Flaxie; "but, if you are needed, your mamma can send a dispatch, you know." She little thought Mrs. Gray would really send a dispatch. Mrs. Gray and the baby steamed slowly down the Ohio,--very slowly; for the water was so low that in many places you could see the bottom of the river. Once the boat stuck fast for an hour or two on a sand-bar. "I am glad it is not a snag," thought Mrs. Gray; "that would make me afraid." A snag is a dead tree; and, when the river is low, it sometimes scrapes the bottom of the boat, and makes holes in it. After supper she undressed Philly and put him in his little berth; for they were not likely to reach Shawneetown, at this rate, before morning. "They are all longing to see us," thought Mrs. Gray, kissing her sleeping baby. Mrs. Hyde was her own mother, and they had not met for two years. "O, yes, Philly, your grandma has a nice supper ready, and your Aunt Floy has been at the window all the afternoon. How slowly we do go. Hush, Philly, don't cry,-- 'The owl and the pussy cat went to sea, In a beautiful pea-green boat.'" Philly dropped off to sleep at last. His mother put him in the upper berth, and lay down herself on the lower berth, without undressing. She was quiet and happy, listening to the baby's breathing, and thinking of the griddle-cakes and honey grandma would give her for breakfast, when suddenly she was roused by frightful screams. The boat was leaking! A great snag, which stood up in the river like a horned beast, had seized it and torn holes in its sides. It was of no use trying to stop the leak; the boat was sinking fast; all that could be done was to get out the people. The captain and his men worked terribly, taking them off into life-boats; but there was such a hurry and such a fright that it was not possible to save everybody. Some of the passengers went down. Among them were some bewildered little children, who did not know what had happened till they woke in heaven, and the angels told them the story. Mrs. Gray was one of the people saved; but where was her precious baby? The men said they did not know, he was nowhere to be seen, and even his little bed had been washed away! "Go without Philly? Go without my baby? I can't do it, I _can't_ do it," cried the poor mother. But two of the good men seized her and dragged her into the life-boat. They _would_ save her in spite of herself. Dear Mrs. Gray, who had thought so much of seeing her mother and sister, and showing them her baby! She was taken in a carriage with the other passengers to Shawneetown, just where she had all the time intended to go; but, O, what a sad meeting! Her mother and her sister Floy met her at the door, not knowing what had happened. "My baby is lost, my baby is lost!" wailed she, and fainted away in Aunt Kitty's arms. A dispatch was sent to Grandma Curtis at Louisville, and another to Dr. Gray at Rosewood, New York. The poor doctor was wakened in the middle of the night to learn that his little boy was drowned! Morning came at last; it always comes. The sun shone too; it is just as likely to shine when people are sad as when they are happy. But what a long day it was to that wretched mother! What a long day to her husband, who started before sunrise to go to meet her! In the evening, before Dr. Gray could possibly get there, a strange man called at Grandma Hyde's and asked if Mrs. Gray was in the house? "She is," replied Aunt Floy, whose eyes were red with weeping. "I hope you haven't any more bad news for her! She can't bear any more!" "I don't believe it's bad news," replied the man, with something that was almost a smile. "Did Mrs. Gray lose a child on the wreck of the 'Jennie Howell' last night?" "Yes, sir, a baby. Speak low." "Well," said the man, dropping his voice to a whisper, "I am pilot of the 'Jennie Howell,' ma'am. I went down to look at her this morning; and what should I see but a mattress, ma'am, floating in the cabin, most up to the ceiling, and a live baby on top of it!" "A live baby? O, not a _live_ baby!" "Yes, ma'am, sleeping as sweet as a lamb! My wife has got him now over here to the hotel--a pretty little yellow-haired shaver, as--" "O, it's Philly! where is he? Bring him this minute! I know it's Philly!" And so it was; for, my dears, this is a true story. It was Philip Gray; and he had been saved almost by a miracle. Was the finding of Moses in the bulrushes so strange a thing as this? His mother was driven to the hotel, where the pilot's wife sat in the public parlor with a baby in her lap. "O, my boy!" cried Mrs. Gray. And he rushed into her arms with a gleeful shout,--her own precious "'Philip my King.'" CHAPTER VII. MAKING CALLS. Not very long after this, Mrs. Gray, came back to Rosewood with Flaxie and the dear rescued baby whom everybody was eager to see, for,-- "They loved him more and more. Ah, never in their hearts before, Was love so lovely born." And Ninny cried as she took him in her arms, and said,-- "He doesn't look as he used to, does he, papa? His eyes are _very_ different." "You think that because we came so near losing him," replied Dr. Papa. Baby Philip looked round upon them all with "those deep and tender twilight eyes," which seemed to be full of sweet meanings; but I must confess that he was thinking of nothing in the world just then but his supper. The travellers had not been home a week before Grandpa Pressy sent for Ninny to go and make him and grandma a visit, and this left Flaxie Frizzle rather lonesome; for Preston did not care to play with girls when he could be with Bert Abbott. Besides, he and his cousin Bert were uncommonly busy about this time, getting up a pin-show in Dr. Gray's barn. So Flaxie's mamma often let her run over to Aunt Jane Abbott's to see Lucy and Rose. I have not told you before of these cousins, because there have been so many other things to talk about that I have not had time. Lucy was a black-eyed little gipsy, and Rose was a sweet little creature, you could never see without wanting to kiss. Just now Aunt Jane had a lively young niece from Albany spending the fall with her, named Gussie Ricker. One day, when Flaxie Frizzle was at Aunt Jane's, Gussie proposed that Flaxie and Lucy should make a call upon a little girl who was visiting Mrs. Prim. "O, yes," said Lucy, "we truly must call on Dovey Sparrow. She has frizzly curls like Flaxie's, and she can play five tunes on the piano. But, Gussie, how do you make calls?" "O," replied Miss Gussie, with a twinkle in her eye, "all sorts of ways. Sometimes we take our cards; but it isn't really necessary for little girls to do that. Then we just touch the lady's hand,--this way,--and talk about the weather; and, in three minutes or so, we go away." "I've seen calls a great many times," said Flaxie Frizzle, thoughtfully. "I can make one if Lucy will go with me." "I could make one better alone," said Lucy, in a very cutting tone. She was two years older than Flaxie, and always remembered it. "I'll go wiv you, Flaxie, if Lucy doesn't," put in little Rose, the sweet wee sister; and then it was Flaxie's turn to be cutting, for as it happened she was just two years older than Rose. "Poh," said she; "_you_ can't do calls, a little speck of a thing like you! You don't grow so much in a year as my thumb grows in five minutes!" Rose hid her blushing face in the rocking-chair. "Do you truly think we'd better go, Gussie?" asked Lucy; for Gussie was laughing, and Lucy did not like to be made fun of, though she did make fun of Flaxie Frizzle. "O, certainly," said Gussie, trying to look very sober; "don't I always say what I mean?" So, as they were going, Lucy took Flaxie one side that afternoon and instructed her how to behave. "Dovey came from Boston, and we never saw her only in church; so I s'pose we _must_ carry cards." "Where'll we get 'em?" "O, my mamma has plenty, and so has Gussie. I know Gussie would be glad to lend me her silver card-case that Uncle William gave her; she wants me to be so polite! But I don't dare ask her, so I guess I'll borrow it without asking." "Hasn't somebody else got a gold one that _I_ could borrow?" asked Miss Frizzle, looking rather unhappy as the pretty toy dropped into Lucy's pocket. "O, it's no matter about _you_; you don't need a card-case, for I shall be with you to take care of you," returned Lucy, as they both stood in Mrs. Abbott's guest-chamber before the tall looking-glass. "Do tell me, Flaxie, does my hat look polite? I mean is it style enough?" "It's as style as mine," replied Flaxie, gazing into the glass with Lucy. How pretty she thought Lucy was, because her eyes were black and her hair was dark and didn't "friz!" "I wish I wasn't a 'tow-head,' and I wish I was as tall as you!" sighed she. "Well, _you_ don't care," said Lucy, graciously. "You'll grow. You're just as good as I am if you only behave well. You mustn't run out your tongue, Flaxie: it looks as if you were catching flies. And you mustn't sneeze before people: it's very rude." "I heard _you_ once, Lu Abbott, and it was in church too!" "O, then 'twas an accident; you must scuse accidents. And now," added Lucy, giving a final touch to her gloves, "I want you to notice how I act, Flaxie Frizzle, and do just the same; for my mother has seen the President and yours hasn't." "Well, my mamma's seen an elephant," exclaimed Flaxie, with spirit; "and she has two silk dresses and a smelling-bottle." "Poh! my cousin Gussie's got a gold watch, and some nightly blue sirreup. Uncle William gives her lots of things; but I shouldn't think of telling o' that! Now, do you know what to do when anybody _induces_ you to strangers?" "What you s'pose?" replied Flaxie, tartly. "I speak up and say 'Yes'm.'" Lucy laughed, as if she were looking down, down from a great hight upon her little cousin. "And shake hands, too," added Flaxie, quickly, for fear she had made a mistake. "No, you give three fingers, _not_ your hand. Just as if you were touching a toad. And you raise your eyebrows up,--_this_ way,--and quirk your mouth,--so,--and nod your head. "'How d'ye do, Miss Dovey Sparrow? It's a charr-rming day. Are they all well at Boston?' You'll see how _I'll_ do it, Flaxie! Then I shall take out my hang-verchief and shake it, so the sniff of the nightly blue sirreup will _waft_ all round the room.--O, I've seen 'em! "Then I shall wipe my nose--this way--and sit down. I've seen young ladies do it a great many times." "So've I," chimed in Flaxie Frizzle, admiring her cousin's fine graces. Such tiptoeing and courtesying and waving of hands before the looking-glass. How did Lucy manage it so well? "And, if people have plants," continued Lucy, "then you say, '_How_ flagrant!' And, if people have children, you say, '_What_ darlings!' and pat their hair, and ask, 'Do you go to school, my dear?'" "They've said that to me ever so many times; and I've got real sick of it," remarked Flaxie. "And they keep calling every thing char-ar-ming and bee-you-oo-tiful! with such tight gloves on, I know their fingers feel choked!" "I spect we ought to go," said Flaxie, tired of all this instruction. "I don't believe you know how to behave, Lu Abbott. You never made any calls, more'n I did." As they went through the hall, Flaxie thought she would "borrow" Aunt Jane's lace veil; but Lucy did not observe this till they had started off. They tripped along the roadside, past Mr. Potter's store, past the church, their feet scarcely touching the grass. Lucy felt like a princess royal till they reached Mrs. Prim's beautiful grounds, and then her heart fluttered a little. She had a sudden longing to run home and get Gussie to come back with them. "Pull the bell," said she to Flaxie. Flaxie pulled so hard that her veil flew off, and she had to chase it several rods. "Put it in your pocket, you awful child," exclaimed Lucy, as Kitty Maloney, the kitchen girl, opened the door in alarm, thinking something dreadful had happened. "Why, bless my soul, if 'tisn't Docther Gray's little snip of a Mary. And who's this? Why, it's Miss Abbott's little gee-url. Anybody sick?" Now was the time for Miss Frizzle's courage to come up. She stepped in front of the frightened Lucy, and exclaimed, boldly,-- "I'm Flaxie Frizzle, you know, and this is my cousin. We want to see Dovey Sparrow." As Flaxie spoke, Lucy tremblingly drew out her card-case. "Yes, she's in. She and Miss Prim has just come from ridin'. Will ye walk in?" said Katy, _very_ respectfully. "Please give her these," faltered Lucy, placing in Kitty's hands two cards, one bearing the name, "Augusta L. Ricker," the other a few words in pencil, which somebody must have written for a memorandum:-- "Kerosene oil. Vanilla. Oatmeal soap." Kitty stared at the cards, then at the exquisite Lucy, and suddenly put her calico apron up to her face. "Will ye wait till I give her the kee-ards, young ladies, or will ye come in the parlor now?" said she, in a stifled voice. Flaxie Frizzle concluded to walk in; and Lucy, who was now nothing but Flaxie's shadow, followed her in silence. Kitty Maloney disappeared; and, in about a minute, Dovey Sparrow tripped in, blushing and looking as frightened as a wood-pigeon. The roguish Kitty had just told her that her little visitors were very ginteel folks, and she must talk to 'em as if she was reading it out of a book. Meantime Kitty was hiding in the back parlor, with her apron over her mouth, forgetting her potato yeast in her curiosity to watch these fine young ladies. Flaxie rose and shook hands, but entirely forgot to speak. Lucy did the same. "H'm," said Flaxie, snapping the card-case, which she had taken from Lucy. "Yes'm," responded Dovey, trembling. It was getting rather awkward. Flaxie wiped her nose, and so did Miss Lucy. Then Flaxie folded her arms; also Lucy. Poor Miss Dovey tried to think of a speech grand enough to make to these wise little people; but the poor thing could not remember any thing but her geography lessons. Flaxie Frizzle was also laboring in vain. The only thing that came into _her_ head was a wild desire to sneeze. At last, her eye chancing to rest on the crimson trimmings of Dovey's dress, she was suddenly reminded of turkeys and their dislike of red things. So she cried out in despair,-- "Do you keep a turkey at your house?" O, strange question! "Does your papa keep sheep?" chimed in Lucy. "We don't keep a thing!" replied Dovey, in great surprise at these remarkable speeches; "nor a dog either." Then Flaxie Frizzle, growing bolder and bolder, came out brilliantly with this:-- "You got any _trundlebeds_ to Boston?" This was too much; the ice was beginning to crack. "Why, Flaxie Frizzle!" said Lucy; and then she laughed. "Look at that clock on the bracket! Why, what are you laughing at, girls?" "O, how funny!" cried Flaxie Frizzle, dancing out of her chair. "Do stop making me shake so!" said Miss Dovey, dropping to the floor, and rocking back and forth. "O, ho," screamed Lucy, hopping across the rug, "you don't look like a bird any more'n I do, Dovey Sparrow." They were all set in a very high gale by this time. "Be still," said Flaxie Frizzle, holding up both hands. "There, now, I had a sneeze; but, O, dear, I can't sneeze it!" "You're just like anybody, after all," tittered the sparrow. "Don't you want to go out and jump on the hay?" "Well, there," replied Miss Lucy, rolling her gloves into a ball, "you never asked us to take our things off, you never!" "I didn't want you to," said Dovey; "you scared me half to death!" "Did we?" cried Lucy, in delight. "Well, I never was so 'fraid my own self. You ought to heard my heart beat when we rang that bell." "Me, too," said Flaxie Frizzle. "But you're such a darling, though," pursued Lucy, kissing her new friend warmly. "I'm _glad_ you don't know how to behave!" "I'm glad you don't, either," said Dovey, tilting herself on a rocker like a bird on a bough, "I thought you were going to be, _O_, so polite, for you set Kitty all of a tremble. Come, let's go out and play." "So we will. Come along, Flaxie Frizzle." "What! is that Flaxie Frizzle? O, I always did want to see Flaxie Frizzle. Mrs. Prim has told me lots about her," said Dovey, as they skipped out to the barn. You may be sure Lucy lost the "borrowed" card-case in the hay; and, when it was found, weeks afterward, it bore the marks of horse's teeth; but Gussie said,-- "It is good enough for me; I ought not to have filled the children's heads with such nonsense." I am happy to state that Aunt Jane's veil,--a beautiful lace one,--reached home safely, and that this was the last fashionable call Lucy and Flaxie Frizzle ever made. CHAPTER VIII. TEASING MIDGE. Sometime after this, Aunt Jane Abbott, who was sick with neuralgia, went to New Jersey for her health. She took Bert and Lucy with her; but little Rose came to stay with Flaxie Frizzle. Rose was her real name, but sometimes they called her Midge, she was so small. She was a sweet child; and, the first day she came, Miss Frizzle was so glad to see her that she called for her new tea-set, which stood on the high shelf in the closet, took her best wax doll out of its paper wraps, and held a real jubilee in the nursery. "O, Rosie," said she, dancing around her, "I wish you'd never, never go home again, only just long enough to see your mother, and come right back again to live in this house. 'Cause I haven't any little sister, you know, 'cept Ninny, and she's big,--'most twelve years old." "Well, my mamma's got the _algebra_; and I've come to stay a great, long while," said Rosa, seating herself at the doll's table,--"all the time mamma and Lucy are gone." "What do you say your mamma's got?" "_Algebra._" "You mean _new-algery_," said Flaxie, smiling. "Well, I guess it is," returned meek little Rose, passing a wee plate to her cousin. "And now you say to me, 'Won't you have some tea, lady?'" [Illustration: "HOW IS YOUR CHILLENS, MRS. FRIZZLE?" Page 115.] [Blank Page] The dolls sat in their chairs and looked on, while the young hostess turned the tea into the cups very gracefully. "Ahem," said she, trying to look very grown-up, "does tea 'fect your nerves, Mrs. Rose?" "Yes'm,--I don' know," replied Mrs. Rose, puckering her lips to fit the tiny spoon. "You goin' to _piece_ the meat, and give all as much as each?" "No, Mrs. Rose: you may take your fork and put one slice of meat on each doll's plate." Rose obeyed; and then, as nothing else was said, she asked,-- "How _is_ your chillens, Mrs. Frizzle?" "All are well that you see here at the table, ma'am; but the rest are down with measles," returned the little lady of the teapot. "Will you have some of the fruit, Mrs. Rose?" "O, that isn't _fyuit_," said the small guest; "that's _blackb'ry perserves_; but we'll make b'lieve it's fyuit. Yes'm: thank you, if you please." "Brackberries _are_ fruits," said the correct Mrs. Frizzle; "and currants are fruits. You can tell 'em just as easy. When anything has seeds to it, then it's a fruit; and, when it _hasn't_ seeds, it's a vegetable." "O, I thought peaches was fyuits; and peaches hasn't any seeds," said Rose, faintly. "Why, you little ignoramus! Of course peaches have stones! Who ever said they had seeds!" "I don't like to have you call me _niggeramus_," said Rose, with a quivering lip. "My mamma never said so." "Well, my sister Ninny says so; and she studies hist'ry. You don't know what words mean, Rosie; you don't go to school!" "No," said Rose, hanging her head, "I haven't never been to school, 'cause mamma says I'm not velly well." "'Fore I'd be a cry-baby, Mrs. Midge," returned Flaxie, enjoying the very humble look on her cousin's face. "You wouldn't dare go to school, 'cause there are cows in the road." "I'm 'fraid of cows when they have their hooks on," said Rosie, still hanging her head. "I guess everybody knows that. Will you please pass the cream-pitcher?" "It's velly funny _queam_" said dear little Rose, winking away her tears. "This isn't cream, ma'am; it's condensed milk." "_Condemned_ milk?" "No: I said _condensed_, not condemned. You look as if you never saw any before." "My papa hasn't got a condensed cow," said Rose, humbly. "You goosie, goosie," laughed Flaxie. "My papa hasn't got a condensed cow, either; nobody has. You _buy_ this kind of milk at the store. I'm going right into the parlor to tell my mother what you said." "Don't, O, don't," implored little Rose. Flaxie knew her young cousin dreaded to be laughed at;--all children dread it;--but, forgetting her manners, and the Golden Rule, too, she sprang up from the table and ran to the door, little Rose creeping after her, all the happiness gone out of her face. Mrs. Prim was in the parlor, and it did seem as if she would never be done laughing about that "condensed cow;" but Mrs. Gray only said,-- "Well, well; no wonder the darling didn't know." Sweet, sensitive Rose stood in the doorway, looking down at her boots and thinking how silly Mrs. Prim was, and how unkind her dear cousin Flaxie. "I used to love Flaxie," thought she, squeezing back a tear; "but now I wish I could go wight home and stay there. Plaguing little girls like me, when I comed to purpose to please her!" "What are you crying about, you precious?" asked Dodo, as the child wandered into the kitchen. Gentle little Rose didn't like to tell. "O, I know," said Dodo. "Flaxie has got into one of her teasing spells; and, when she does, there's no peace for anybody." Mrs. Gray did not talk in that way to Rose. "Flaxie loves you dearly, if she _is_ rude. Don't mind all the little things she says to you, darling. Try to be brave and laugh it off." "I would laugh, auntie, only it makes my head ache to shake it the leastest speck." "Flaxie," said Mrs. Gray, taking her little daughter one side, "is this the way you are going to treat your dear cousin? I cannot permit it." "Well, I won't," replied Flaxie, quite ashamed of herself; "but she cries so easy, mamma, as easy as a--a--beetle bug." Next morning Rosa's head ached harder than ever, and Flaxie laughed and danced all the time. Rosie did wish she wouldn't be so noisy. "How sober you are, Midge Abbott. Don't you want me to tell you a story?" "Yes. Do, O, do." What spirit of mischief seized Flaxie, just then, to want to frighten Rose? She loved her dearly; but she enjoyed making her tremble, she could do it so easily. "Well, there _was_ an old _woo-ooman_, all _skin_ and _bo-one_," began Flaxie, in a singsong tone. It was a dreadful, dreadful story, which she had heard Tommy Winters, a naughty boy, tell, and her mamma had forbidden her ever to repeat it; but she forgot that. She only wanted to see if Rose would scream as loud as she herself had screamed on hearing it. Scream? Poor Rosie fairly shrieked. "Stop! O, do stop," said Flaxie. But Rose could not stop. "There isn't any such woman," said Flaxie. But Rose cried all the same. "There never _was_ such a woman! Now won't you stop?" "O, dear, dear, dear!" sobbed Rose. "There never _will_ be such a woman, you darling. There, _now_ won't you stop? I've told you so over and over, but still you keep crying," said Flaxie, in real dismay. "What's the matter now?" asked Ninny, coming into the nursery, and finding Rose curled up in a little heap of misery in the corner. "I don't know what to do with her. I s'pose it's me that's to blame," said Flaxie, rather sulkily, though she was very sorry too. "I can't say a single thing but she cries." "Well, you must be kind to her; she isn't used to cross words. Her sister Lucy is very different from you," said Ninny, taking Rose into her arms, in a motherly way. "You blame me, and everybody blames me," growled Flaxie; "but I can't say an _eeny-teeny_ thing but she cries." Flaxie kept telling herself Rose was a cry-baby; but in her heart she knew it was her own rudeness which had wounded her sensitive little cousin in the first place. She knew Rose was the sort of little girl who never could "get over" any thing in a minute, and so ought not to be teased. "I'll make it up," thought Flaxie. "Maybe I _have_ been naughty; but I'll make it up." So, about supper-time, she came along to Rose, and very sweetly offered to cut some paper dolls for her. "Now 'twill be all right," thought Flaxie; but by that time even paper dolls had lost their charm for Rose. There was a settled pain in the little girl's forehead, and her cheeks kept flushing and flushing till they were a deep crimson. "Come, sit in auntie's lap," said Mrs. Gray, putting down the baby, and a little startled by Rosie's quick breathing. "Come and tell auntie if darling feels sick anywhere." "I don't know," moaned little Rose; but she seemed very glad to lay her hot face against her aunt's shoulder; and it was not two minutes before she was fast asleep. "I don't feel quite easy about her," said Mrs. Gray to her husband, when he came home to supper. Dr. Gray felt the child's pulse, and said,-- "Perhaps she has taken a sudden cold." He did not like to tell his wife that he was afraid of scarlet fever. But before long she knew it for herself: the symptoms were not to be mistaken. It was thought at first that Flaxie and the baby, who had neither of them had the fever, must be sent away. But the doctor said, "No, there would be danger of their carrying the dreadful disease to others. "It is better that they should stay at home," said he: "only Flaxie must be very sure never to see her sick cousin or go into her room." "Never see Rosie! Yes, that was what Dr. Papa said," sobbed Flaxie. "O Dodo, did he mean _never_?" How could Dodo tell? How could even poor, white-faced Aunt Jane tell, who came at once to nurse her darling daughter. She had to wait like all the rest. Do you know how hard it is to wait? Do you know how long that week was to Flaxie, with the dreary days coming and going, and still no change for the better? No: you do not know, unless you, too, have had a friend who was very sick. And the aching that was at Flaxie's heart, the yearning she felt to throw her arms round her little cousin's neck and beg forgiveness! Ah! you can not even guess at that unless you, too, have been unkind to a dear friend who may possibly be going to die. CHAPTER IX. THE WEE WHITE ROSE. No need now to caution Flaxie not to make a noise. She crept about the house as still as a shadow, with an old, heartbroken look on her childish face, pitiful to see. And, far away in the east chamber, lay dear little Rose, flushed with fever. O, if you had only known what a darling it was that lay there! From her sweet babyhood she had always been a sunbeam in her father's house; and, after her father died, a year ago, it had really seemed as if she thought she must try to comfort her poor mamma. Aunt Jane, her mamma, was very delicate; and, when Dr. Gray came to see her once, he said to little Rose,-- "You're mamma's little nurse. Don't forget to take good care of her." And Rose did not forget. After that, she often said,-- "Unker Docker, I _do_ take care o' mamma." If Mrs. Abbott dressed to go out, the little daughter would say,-- "Why, mamma, you must have your _yubbers_. I'll go get your yubbers and warm 'em this minute." _Lucy_ never thought of warming the rubbers, and she was a good girl too. When Mrs. Abbott stepped into the cold hall, Rose followed with a little white lambswool shawl, begging her to put it over her shoulders. She did not like to give her beautiful sick mother any trouble, so she dressed and undressed herself, though scarcely five years old; and every day, after dinner, went to her little room, lay down on the bed, and took her nap without being told. Mrs. Abbott had been in New Jersey only three days, when Dr. Gray telegraphed to her that Rosie was ill, and she hurried home as fast as she could. The morning after she returned was little Rosie's birthday, and that morning a present had come from her dear, good "Unker Willum,"--a lovely muff and tippet, such as she had long been wishing to have. Mamma brought them and laid them beside her on the bed. "Wasn't it beautiful?" mamma said. "And see the squirrel's head on the muff, and the cunning _porte-monnaie_ inside." "Yes, pretty, pretty," said little Rosie; for her head was thumping so hard that it did not please her very much, after all. Once she had told dear "Unker Willum" that, if she had a lot of money, she should be "perfickly happy." "How much money would make you perfickly happy?" he asked. "Three hundred and three thousand and thirty-six cents," said Rose; and, every time he asked her, she gave the same answer. So now there was a neat little note inside the muff, and it told Rosie that, when next Christmas came, "Unker Willum would send her three hundred and three thousand and thirty-six cents and make his darling niece 'perfickly happy.'" Rosie did not clap her hands or laugh at this letter as "Unker Willum" had expected; she only smiled faintly, and by-and-bye began to cry softly to herself. Mamma said,-- "Is it your head, darling?" "Yes, mamma, my head aches; but that isn't what makes me cry. I was s'posin' would you and Lucy and Bertie be very lonesome 'thout me, if I should go way off up to heaven?" "Don't talk so, my precious child," said Mrs. Abbott. "God doesn't want you to die; He wants you to live to be mamma's dear little comfort." "Does He?" asked Rosie, opening her sweet, blue eyes, and fixing them on her mother's face. Then she moved her head from side to side on the pillow, and said,-- "No, mamma, I think I'm going up to heaven velly soon." Mrs. Abbott's heart throbbed with a quick pain at these words; and she began to tell Rosie some stories to take up her mind; such as "Little Bopeep has Lost her Sheep," and "Little Boy Blue, come, Blow your Horn!" "Mamma," said Rosie, "I'd ravver hear that pretty story 'bout Jesus--it's so much nicer. How he came down here, and put his hands on the little chillens." Then Mrs. Abbott sang, in a trembling voice,-- "'I think, when I read that sweet story of old, When Jesus was here among men, How he called little children as lambs to his fold,-- I should like to have been with them then.'" "That's nice,--so nice," said little Rosie, smiling. "Now I'll go to sleep, mamma." Next day her little head was worse. Flaxie had begged Aunt Jane to take her all her pretty playthings; but the sick child did not care for them now. There were Flaxie's wee chairs and sofas and pictures to furnish her baby-house, and dishes to set her baby-table. Rosie did not like them now; but she knew she _had_ liked them when she was well. "Mamma," said she, "shall I have playfings up in heaven?" "Yes, dear: prettier ones than these." "O, I am so glad. And, mamma, must I take my best dresses when I go up?--my blue one with the pretty wuffles, you know, and my little pink _beauty_ dress?" "No, darling: God will give you nicer clothes than those to wear." "Will he, mamma? O, that's very nice." She lay quite still for a long time, and then called her mother to her bedside. "Mamma, you 'member that sweet story you sung to me 'bout Jesus?" "Yes, dear." "And is it all truly true, mamma?" "Yes: quite true, my child." "Well, that's all I want to know, mamma," said the blessed baby; and then, with a happy smile, she pressed her cheek against the pillow, and dropped off to sleep. They were glad of that, for they thought the rest would do her good; but, ah! she slept so long, so very long! A week went by, and still she had not waked. Then she opened her eyes, and faintly said, "Mamma, mamma." Mamma bent over her, very happy to hear her sweet voice once more; and the child placed one of her little arms about her dear mother's neck, and so fell asleep again. Dr. and Mrs. Gray watched beside her with sad mamma; for they knew now that little Rose was going away from them. She woke at last; and, O, how happy she was! for she found herself in a beautiful world,--more beautiful than any thing she had ever dreamed of,--and Some One was holding her in His arms. She was sure it was the dear Jesus; and she nestled close to His breast, too happy to speak. Her mother could not see this; but she _knew_ the Lord had taken little Rosie; and, though her heart was very sad, she looked up through her tears, and said,-- "It is well with the child." But poor Flaxie! When they told her that little Rosie had gone away to play with the angels, she sobbed, bitterly,-- "O mamma, mamma, if I hadn't teased her, _if_ I only hadn't! And now God has taken her away; and I can't tell her I'm sorry!" Ah, it was a sad, sad lesson to little Flaxie. "I prayed as hard as I could, ever so long," wailed she. "God could have made her well if He had thought best; and then what a hugging I was going to give her! I wasn't _ever_ going to plague her again!" Weeks after this, Mrs. Gray saw Flaxie one day standing at the front door, with her hands clasped, looking straight upward into the sky. "Dear God," she murmured, softly, "won't you please let me peek in a minute and see Rosie? If you can't let me peek in, won't you please tell Rosie I'm sorry?" CHAPTER X. PRESTON'S GOLD DOLLAR. My eyes are so full of tears, as I think of dear little Rose that I am going to talk now about something very different. I think I shall tell you of one of Preston's mishaps. I am afraid when you read it you will say to yourself, "Well, _he_ isn't much of a boy!" But please remember, he was hardly ten years old when the affair happened; and boys are not as wise as Solomon until they are _at least_ twelve or thirteen. Preston was doing Aunt Jane's errands for her that week; he did them one week and Bert the next. "I wonder why Preston doesn't come," said Aunt Jane, stirring some medicine with a spoon, and speaking to Grandpa Pressy, who had come visiting again, and was sitting in the corner reading a newspaper. Grandpa Pressy looked up with a pleasant smile, while the paper danced as if it would fly out of his hands; for he had palsy. "Hark, Jane, there's his whistle, and he isn't generally far behind it." In another moment the door opened, and in walked Preston, a bright, handsome boy, who did not look much like Flaxie, for he had dark eyes and black hair. "Why, Preston," said Aunt Jane, patting his small face, "you'll be late to school. Here it is nine o'clock." "Don't care if it's forty-nine. No school to-day." "No school? O, it's Saturday; I forgot about that, and saved a turnover for you to take to school." "Well, I'd like it all the same," said Preston, looking laughingly toward the cellar door. "Had breakfast a good while ago." Aunt Jane smiled, which was a rare thing for her. She had been very sad since Rose died. "Very well, dear. Run to the store; and, when you come back, you shall have the turnover and a piece of sage cheese with it. I don't know what I should do without you, now Bertie's gone to New Jersey." "A dear good boy he is," thought Aunt Jane, as the little fellow disappeared with the gallon jug; and Grandpa Pressy, as if he had heard her thought, answered,-- "Yes, Preston is a dear good boy, Jane. His mother worries for fear he'll fall into bad company; but it's my opinion she is over-anxious. Preston will come out all right." "O, yes, we all think so," responded Aunt Jane. "And who ever heard of such a child to do errands? He and Ninny are alike about that; they are both a great deal better than Lucy. Really, I've a great mind to make the boy a little present; now wouldn't you, grandpa? You know he does all these things for nothing." "O, you wait. I've got just what he'll like," said Grandpa Pressy, putting his shaking hand into his pocket, and jerking out his leathern wallet,--"just what he'll like, Jane." After a long and trembling search, during which the pieces of paper money rattled like dry leaves, out flew a little gold dollar, and danced upon the floor. "How that will please him!" said Aunt Jane. "I don't believe he ever saw one." "Yes, I think it will please him, my dear. He's uncommonly good to his poor old grandpa; and I'm sure I don't grudge him a pretty little keepsake like this." So, when Preston returned with the molasses, and had eaten his turnover and sage cheese, his eyes were feasted with a sight of the bit of gold. "Why, grandpa, _all_ this for me?" "Yes, my boy; and your mother'd better lay it away somewhere, and keep it till you are older." "Yes, I'll ask her to; for Flaxie or Phil will be sure to get hold of it. But now I'm a-going to tie it up in the corner of my handkerchief, and put it in my pocket." "That's a good way," said Aunt Jane. "Good-bye, auntie, good-bye, grandpa. When you want any more molasses and things, I'm the boy to get 'em." And off started Preston in gay spirits, sending a long, shrill whistle before him, and running to catch up with it. His first thought was to go home, and give the gold piece to his mother for safe keeping; but he lived half a mile down town, and it did seem too bad to spare the time from play. "Hullo, Pres," called out a ringing voice, "what you smiling at down there?" Preston stopped whistling, and looked up to see where the voice came from. Tommy Winters was sitting on the bough of a horsechestnut-tree, eating gingerbread. Now Tommy was a naughty, reckless fellow, and Preston had been forbidden to play with him; but the sight of Tommy's face filled him with a vague longing, not for gingerbread, but for mischief. There really was a bad charm about Tommy--when he fixed his "glittering eye" upon you, he made you think of all sorts of delightful things you'd like to do, only they were apt to be naughty things. Did you ever see a boy who had a bad charm? "What you up to down there?" repeated Tommy, as Preston finished tying up the gold piece, and put it in his pocket. "O, I'm up to lots o' things," replied Preston, gaily. "Don't you wish you knew what I've got in my handkerchief?" Tommy didn't know of course; but he instantly _guessed_ there was money in the handkerchief: he could see the hard knot, and he could see the smile on Preston's face; and Tommy was not a fool by any means. "If that's money, I guess I can coax it out of him some way or other. Anyhow, I mean to get it, by hook or by crook," thought the bad boy. But he pretended he didn't care two straws what was in the handkerchief. "Come," said he, "put your old rags in your pocket, and let's go swimming." Now Preston had always longed to swim, chiefly, I suppose, because he didn't know how. It was a remarkably warm day in October; but the water was very cold: it was not proper for anybody to go into it; and both the boys knew this. Preston looked up at Tommy; and that bad charm began to work. He saw a picture in his mind's eye of-- "A quiet nook in the running brook, Where the school-boys went to swim." So, instead of running away, as he ought to have done, he kept staring up in the tree at Tommy, and said,-- "I can't go swimming; mother won't let me. But I should think you might come down here and give us a piece of your gingerbread." Tommy dropped nimbly from the tree, and alighted on his head. "What's that you say about your mother!" "She won't let me go swimming." "Won't let you?--of course not. Never heard of a woman that would. Women are always scared of the water." "Father won't let me either." "You don't say so. Here, take a bite of gingerbread." Preston took a bite; but he saw Tommy was in earnest about swimming, and he caught himself by the left ear, as if that would keep him from going with him: yet, somehow, he felt as if he _should_ go, in spite of his fears. "Look here, Tommy." "Well, I'm looking." "Now, Tommy Winters." "Yes, that's my name." "You know that brook--" "Yes, guess so. Prime place down there under the willer-tree." "But, Tommy, that was where my sister Flaxie got 'most drowned." "'Twas high water then; it's low water now. 'Twouldn't drown a grass'per." "But, Tommy,--" "Well, Pres, what you 'fraid of?" "Ain't afraid of any thing; but my mother says--" "O, 'fraid o' your ma'am!" "And my father says--" "O, 'fraid o' your pa!" "Well, they both say--" "O, 'fraid o' both of 'em!" "No; but you see, Tommy, they think--" "I know what they think; they think you're a good-for-nothing girl-baby;" and Tommy made up such a face that Preston couldn't help laughing. It didn't hurt his feelings to have _Tommy_ call him names; for he did it in the funniest, pleasantest way. O, Tommy _was_ a very fascinating boy! "Come along, you little tip-end of a top-o-my-thumb." "Tell you _no_, Tommy." Preston was pretty firm now. "Give you Turkish bath, all for nothing, Pres." "But I told you, Tommy--" "No, you didn't; you haven't told me a thing. You stutter so I can't understand a word." At the idea of his stuttering, Preston laughed outright; and, during that moment of weakness, was picked up and set astride Tommy's shoulders. "You set me down," cried Preston, struggling manfully, yet a little glad, perhaps, to think he couldn't possibly help himself. "Ride away, ride away, _Preston_ shall ride!" sang Tommy, the large, strong fellow, bouncing his burden up and down. Preston felt like a dry leaf in a whirlpool. You know how it swings round and round; and, every time it swings, it gets nearer and nearer that hungry hole in the middle, where there is no getting out again. "I can't help it, I _can't_ help it," thought little Preston, as big Tommy jolted him up and down like a bag of meal on horseback. Well, it is good fun for little boys to go in swimming, I do suppose,--if their parents are willing, if they have somebody to hold them up, and if the water isn't too cold. At first, Preston almost thought he was having good fun; but very soon it was any thing but that;--why, it was just frightful! for Tommy had actually gone off and left him, and snapped his fingers in his face. Preston couldn't swim any more than a fish-hook. What would become of him? Where _was_ Tommy? Tommy was on the bank, pretending to skip stones; but that was not what he had gone there for, I assure you. He had gone to look in Preston's pocket, and see what was tied up in the corner of his handkerchief. "Why don't you come, Tommy? Tom-_mee_! I'm drow--drow--drowning!" "O, you hush up! I'll come in a minute." "Come now--ow--ow! Flaxie got drow--ow--owned!" Tommy came when he got ready. And, as he swam back to Preston, there was something under his tongue, which was a very sweet morsel to him, and about the size of a gold dollar. "You _said_ 'twouldn't drown a grasshopper; but 'twould drown a man--with his hat on," gurgled little Preston, indignantly. Tommy tickled him under the arms, but didn't seem to feel much like talking. "There," said he, when they had come out of the water, "now I'm going to dress you and send you home to your mother." "Dress _me_? Poh, guess I can dress myself!" "Well, you better hurry then," said Tommy. "What makes you so slow? Your mother'll go into spasms." "My mother? Why, she don't know I've been swimming!" "O, I forgot; well, run home!" "Don't want to," said Preston, squeezing his hair; "want to play ball. Come on!" "Can't," said Tom; "have to get some coal." "Do they make you work Saturdays?" "Yes, all day, like a dog," muttered Tom, taking to his heels. Everybody knew that Tom never worked, so this was absurd. Preston ran after him, and caught him by the sleeve. "Come, let's play ball!" Tom shook him off as if he had been a cobweb. "Can't play to-day. Got an awful sore throat, and earache and toothache." And away he ran. Preston was left staring after him, and wondering why he hadn't spoken of his sufferings before. "He's queer, Tommy is. Don't see what he wanted to go swimming for if he's sick. Thought I should 'a' froze!" A guilty feeling was upon Preston, which made him shiver more than the cold. "Wish my hair wasn't so thick. Can't go home till it dries." He played about with some boys for an hour or two, then went home. The family were all seated at dinner, and Flaxie would not eat till he came. "I've got something you'll want to see, Flaxie. Come out here and show yourself, sir." This to his handkerchief, which he whipped out of his pocket. "What is it? I don't see any thing," said Flaxie. "Why, where in the world? Why, what's this?" cried Preston, in dismay. There was nothing in the end of the handkerchief, and the knot was untied. "I tied it up in three knots, I know I did; and now where is it?" "Where is what?" asked his mother. "Why, my little gold dollar. Grandpa gave it to me this morning. You never _saw_ any thing so cunning!" "Are you sure you tied it hard?" "Why, yes, indeed! I tied it so hard I had to hop up and down to get my breath! Three knots too!" Dr. Gray looked up, and asked,-- "You haven't been with any bad boys, my son?" Preston had forgotten the swimming, for the moment, and said,-- "O, no, sir; Eddie Potter and Jack Snow and those." "They say Tommy Winters will steal; but of course you haven't been near _him_?" Preston dropped his knife and fork suddenly, and blushed. His mother saw it; but his father did not, for he was hurrying out of the house to visit a patient. All that afternoon poor Preston was in trouble. He told the boys about it, but nobody could help him; and, as for Tommy Winters, he was nowhere to be seen. Finally, after tea, he stole up to his best friend, his mother, and exclaimed, shaking his fist,-- "Tommy Winters has got my gold dollar, mamma. Tell you what, he stole it out of my pocket when I was swimming." "Swimming, Preston?" "Yes'm: you see he made me go." "_Made_ you, my son?" Preston hung his head. "Well, he marched me down to the brook, he did." "He didn't throw you in?" "Not ed-zackly." "Then you went in yourself?" "Yes, mamma; but, O, I won't do so again." Mrs. Gray looked very sober. She was not thinking of the gold dollar, but of her son's disobedience. "I'm sure he stole it, mamma; and now he has run off, and nobody can find him." "Very likely," said Mrs. Gray. "O mamma, won't you make him give back my gold dollar?" "Do you deserve it, my son?" "Well, but grandpa gave it to me." "I'll talk with your father about it." "O, don't talk with father: he'll think just what _you_ think," cried Preston, in alarm. His mother did not answer; and he ran out to the stable, threw himself into a bed of hay, and tried his best to hate her. "She'll tell him I disobeyed, and he'll say, 'Good enough for him, then!'" Dr. Gray did say exactly these words; still, he tried to make Tommy confess and give up the stolen gold. Do you suppose Tommy confessed? O, no: he looked the doctor right in the eye, and said,-- "What _is_ a gold dollar? I never heard of such a thing in my life!" Preston never set eyes on his treasure again; but I suppose it has done him more good, after all, than a hundred gold dollars at compound interest for a hundred years. You know why. It made him remember to keep out of bad company. CHAPTER XI. PRESTON KEEPING HOUSE. Now I should not have told this bad story about Preston if I had not had a better one to tell after it, "to take the taste out," as Flaxie said about the orange. Grandpa Pressy went home a little while after this, and took Ninny with him, because he was not very well, and wanted her to amuse him; but nobody felt alarmed about him, till, one day at noon, a message came for Dr. and Mrs. Gray, that he was very ill. As it happened, Dora Whalen had gone away that morning in the cars to spend the day in Jersey City; and there was no one to take charge of the house. "Just as if _I_ couldn't do it," said Preston. "Now, my son, do you really think you can be trusted?" said Mrs. Gray. "Will you watch Flaxie carefully, and keep her out of mischief? I don't want to take her to Aunt Jane's; for, if I take the baby there, that will be quite enough." "Poh, yes'm: guess I'm ten years old!" "Dora won't be back till the last train. Are you sure you won't be afraid to be left all alone in the house after dark, you two little folks?" "Yes'm, certain sure. What are you smiling for, mother? To think you've got a boy that's smart enough to keep house?" "Well, yes, it does make me happy to see my son so ready to please his father and mother." Then she hesitated a moment, turned to her husband, and said,-- "If we only knew just _how_ sick grandpa is, perhaps we could wait till to-morrow." "They would not have telegraphed if they had not needed us," said Dr. Gray, decidedly. "Yes, yes, I suppose you are right," said Mrs. Gray, looking thoughtful, as she put on her bonnet before the glass. "There, baby and I are ready. Have you charged Preston about locking up the house?" "Yes; and Preston, my son, you must spend the evening in the kitchen: it won't do to have a fire in the sitting-room till Dora comes. And don't put a stick of wood in the stove after seven o'clock. Can you remember?" "Yes, sir." "You'd better both go to bed by eight," said Mrs. Gray. "Dora has a night-key, and can let herself in." "O mother, mayn't I sit up till nine? I want to copy off my _compersition_." "Well, yes, if Flaxie is willing, and it isn't too cold in the kitchen. But don't forget to tuck her into her little crib by eight. I've moved it close to my bed, where you are to sleep." "And is Preston goin' to sleep in the downstairs room? O, goody!" cried Flaxie, crushing her mother's bonnet with a parting hug. "Yes, darling; and you'll find your supper of baked apples and milk on the table, covered with a napkin, and something nice beside, I won't say what." "I know--_squinch-perserve_," said Flaxie. "Good-bye till to-morrow, my precious children. Don't give Dodo any trouble; and, Preston, don't forget what father said about the fires." It wasn't likely Preston would forget. He was one of those slow-brained, faithful little fellows, who can't learn a spelling-lesson, but who are pretty much at home with every thing except books. "He was always so different from Flaxie. We shall never be able to leave Flaxie in charge of any thing; you might as well set a squirrel to watch a weasel," said Dr. Gray. "I know it," replied his wife; "but I never saw a child six years old that _could_ take charge of any thing, did you?" Flaxie began to call for her supper the moment her father and mother and little Phil were out of sight. "'Cause there's queam-cakes, too, I saw 'em. And then I guess I'd better go see Lucy; she's spectin' me." "No, _ma'am_, Flaxie Frizzle," said Preston, firmly. "You're not going further than the weeping-willow this day; and I shan't let you do that if you don't behave." The new tone of command rather awed little Miss Frizzle; and, to Preston's surprise, she began to cry. "I want to go to heaven," said she, throwing the kitten angrily across the room. "I've got tired o' waitin' to go to heaven." Preston could not help laughing; for Flaxie looked very, very little like an angel. "God won't let me peek in, and he won't take me up there," went on the child, sulkily. "You needn't laugh, Preston; you don't know what I want to do. I've got sumpin' for Rosa, and I want to carry it to her." "Why, Rosa is dead." "No; she's in heaven. Here's sumpin' I want her to have," said Flaxie, opening a little box, and displaying a China lamb. "I _'tended_ it for her, and I'm _'termined_ she shall have it." Flaxie was crying still, but her anger was gone; she was crying for dear little Rosa. "Won't you let me go and carry the lamb to Rosa?" "Why, where do you want to go?" "O, I want to go and put it side o' the flowers," replied Flaxie. "Well, I'll go with you; only you act very queer, Flaxie." He gave his little sister his hand; and she led him along Elm Street and up the hill to the cemetery. "O, is that what you mean?" said he. "Yes," replied Flaxie, kneeling and placing the white lamb on Rosa's grave, along with the myrtles and evergreens that had just been planted there. "That's for _you_, Rosa! I 'tended it for you, when you's sick, and I'm 'termined you shall have it." "How will she get it up in heaven?" asked Preston, in a whisper. "I don' know. God will see 'bout it. Isn't it a _beau_-ful little lamb?" "O, yes." "Well, I was cross to Rosa; and now I've made it all up," said Flaxie, skipping out of the burying-ground with a very light heart, while her brother followed her in silence. Next minute she was laughing. "O, I want to see your new steam-_nengine_, Preston! May I, if I won't do any thing naughty?" "Yes." "And will you gi' me lots o' _cardinnum_ seeds?" "Yes." "Then I'll be _just_ as good," said Miss Flaxie. At precisely seven o'clock, Preston put a large stick of wood in the kitchen stove; and, as little sister had been very obedient, he lighted the alcohol lamp in his steam-engine, and set the pretty machine puffing across the floor like a thing alive. Miss Frizzle, having eaten two suppers, was in a very quiet mood, and threw herself on her knees beside Preston, with her chin upon his shoulder, to watch the wonderful plaything. "I'll tell you what it is, Flaxie," said Preston, with an air of wisdom that was not lost upon his listener; "I know how this engine is put together as well as father does; and I'll bet you I could make one, if I only had the tools, and knew how to use em!" "S'pose you could, honest?" "Yes, to be sure. There, Flaxie, the clock is striking eight. Now you'll have to go to bed." Flaxie's forehead began to pucker, and her elbows to jerk. "Then you must go, too, Pres Gray." "O, but I want to fix up my compersition, so I can play Saturday. Come, now, if you'll go to bed first, I'll give you all my fire-crackers." Miss Frizzle's brows smoothed. "And the pin-wheels too? Fire-crackers isn't much." "Ye-es; and the pin-wheels too. I'll fire 'em for you. Only you'll have to go to bed as quick as scat, or I'll take it all back." Flaxie went; but, as for lying still, that wasn't in the bargain. "Water! water!" called she, when snugly tucked in. "Please bring me some water, Preston, or I shall dry to death." Preston had seated himself at his work, and copied off in staring letters about three lines:-- "APPLES." "Apples is the most frout always yoused. Apples is said to grow in almost any country." His arm ached already. "There," said he, carrying Flaxie a mug of water. "And you just lie still, little sister. If you speak again, it will cost you a pin-wheel." Then he went on, with great labor. "In some climates it is so warm it is said they have been discovered by the crab-apples; they was some men got the seed from the crab-apple, and planted it." "Pres-tun!" cried Flaxie again. "You may take _one_ pin-wheel. I've got to speak, 'cause it _unsleeps_ me not to have you come to bed. Just _one_ pin-wheel. So, there!" "Yes, yes," said Preston; "I'll be there in just sixteen minutes, if you don't speak again." "Some takes the apples, and makes cider of them. Old cider is yoused for vinegar. "PRESTON S. GRAY." This ended the "compersition;" but, in Preston's haste to keep his word and get to bed in just sixteen minutes, he made a mistake, and wrote on the back of it, "Potatoes." He smiled to see Flaxie sound asleep already, then knelt down, and prayed, "Now I lay me," with a very solemn feeling. The house seemed strangely quiet. Where could Dodo be? Preston had heard the last train rush by a half-hour before. "I think God _will_ be sure to take care of me to-night, so I can take care of Flaxie," thought he, creeping into bed. "He must know father and mother have gone off, and Flaxie isn't much more'n a baby." And, with that, he fell asleep, holding little sister by the hand. About midnight, he was wakened by the smell of smoke. If he had not been downstairs, and if he had not felt, even in sleep, the care of the house, I dare say he would not have waked. "What's this? Why, what is it?" thought he, raising himself on his elbow, and sniffing. The bedroom opened out of the sitting-room, and the kitchen was just beyond. That was where the smoke must come from; for it was the only room that had a fire in it. Preston rose softly, and went into the kitchen. It was on fire! Probably some coals had fallen out of the stove door when the last stick was put in, and had been smouldering on the floor ever since. Now the floor, the sink, the drop-table, and the sitting-room door were in flames. What should be done? Preston reflected. He could not write a very deep "compersition;" but he was just the boy to have his wits about him when they were needed. "The first thing is to get Flaxie out of the house," thought he. "The flames are spreading to the bedroom." In a twinkling he had her in his arms, rolled her in a shawl, and set her on the front door-stone. "Don't cry, Ducky Dilver," said he, locking her out. "I'll come after you if you'll be good." Then, leaving the sleepy child sobbing in utter bewilderment, Preston rushed back, and dipped water from the barrel to put out the flames. It was a hard fight for a small boy. He could not help wondering at himself to feel how strong he was. Pailful after pailful he dashed on; and, when the barrel gave out, he turned to the pump in the sink. Ah, but the sink door was ablaze! As fast as the fire was quenched in one place, it broke out in another; but Preston mastered it after awhile. "O, if it hadn't been for my nose," thought the brave little boy, wading across the floor; "if it _hadn't_ been for my nose! Wonder if the fire has struck through to the cellar?" It had not; but there seemed to be a smoky smell down there; and our hero went down boldly, and dashed water upon the ceiling, never minding that it ran back and wet him all over. Quite satisfied at last that all was right, he went to the front door, and let in tearful little Flaxie. "What'd you put me out for? Say, what'd you put me out for?" "So I could put out the fire, you little, good-for-nothing baby," replied Preston, kissing her tenderly. "What if you'd burnt up, and I'd burnt up, too, Flaxie? I guess 'twould have been the last time mother'd have left _us_ to keep house!" And, when Dodo got home next morning, she found them fast asleep with the sun full in their eyes. "To think I should have missed the train last night for the first time in all my life," sobbed the faithful creature, on hearing the story. "If any harm had come to you children, I never could have forgiven myself." CHAPTER XII. MRS. PRIM'S STRAWBERRIES. The next summer after this, when Flaxie was "going on seven years old," she and sister Ninny and Lucy Abbott made a bargain with Mrs. Prim to pick strawberries for her at three cents a box. They were glad to do it, for they were saving money to buy a pretty white vase for Rosa's grave; and they wanted to earn it all themselves. Flaxie thought she helped as much as anybody; but, the truth was, she spent half the time talking and picking the dirt out of her shoes. Now, though Mrs. Prim lived in a beautiful large house, and had the finest grounds in town, the children did not like her very well: they considered her cross. And, just here I must tell you what a time they had with her one day about the strawberries. It was a very warm morning; and they were all three stooping over the vines in the garden, with a great yellow basket before them. "What a blazing hot sun," groaned Lucy, from the depths of her speckled shaker. "O, dear, yes," responded Ninny; "and only three cents a box for picking!" "I feel the sun on the end o' my nose," said Flaxie. Just then a man went by, chanting musically,-- "'The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.'" "How nice and cool that sounds," said Ninny, wiping her forehead. "_Who_ lied down in the pasture, Ninny?" "David." "Was David a cow?" "O, what a silly child," cried Lucy. "I wasn't talking to _you_, I was talking to Ninny," said Flaxie. "Well, Flaxie, but you made fun of the Holy Bible!" exclaimed Lucy, shaking her head. "I didn't either!" "I don't believe you know what 'holy' means," persisted Lucy. "Yes, I do; it means the whole of it. They call it the wholly Bible, because it's the _whole_ of the Bible." "Did you ever, ever see such a goosie?" laughed Lucy, provokingly. "Now hush, children; it's too hot for you to be scolding," said Ninny. "Yes: O, dear, it's the hottest day I ever saw. I should think the sun would melt and drop right down out of the sky," said Lucy. "And there's Mrs. Prim, _she_ don't care: she's in her nice, cool parlor, with the blinds all shut." "Eating i-scream, I s'pose," put in Flaxie. "Yes," said Lucy; "and gets fifty cents a box for these strawberries, and wouldn't give us more'n three cents if we should faint to pieces out here and be picked up dead." "What awful scolds you children are," said Ninny, who kept up her spirits by laughing at them. "Well, she did have some i-scream last night," said little Flaxie; "for I saw her through the door. Why didn't she say, 'Come in, dear, and _you_ may have some?' _My_ mamma would. My mamma's a great deal better'n Mrs. Prim." "O, well, lots of folks are better than Mrs. Prim," said Ninny, growing earnest. "Now, there's Mrs. Stillman; if she didn't live so far off we could pick for _her_. Why once she gave Eva Snow all she got on three boxes, and told her to keep it, for it was hard work to pick in such a broiling sun. Eva took the money, and bought her mother a great piece of salmon." "O, my," cried Lucy; "why don't we take some of the money Mr. Potter pays us, and not give it to Mrs. Prim? I'd like to buy _my_ mamma a great big piece of--something." Thus spoke the rattle-brained child, with a heedless jerk of her elbow, which almost upset the basket. "Why, Lucy Abbott!" whispered Ninny; "was that you stepping just behind me?" "Behind you? No: why, I'm right here." "But I heard somebody," said Ninny, pushing back her shaker and looking around nervously. Yes; and there, not far off, was Mrs. Prim, walking beside a row of currant-bushes. Could she be the one whose steps Ninny had just heard on the gravel path close by her side? "Lucy," she whispered again, as the lady's figure disappeared behind a syringa-tree. "Lucy Abbott, she was right here a minute ago; and she must have heard what you said." "Did she? What'd I say?" "Don't you know, child, you asked me why I didn't steal some money? That's _just_ what you said!" Lucy only laughed, and little Flaxie pulled a pebble out of her shoe. Lucy and Flaxie were thoughtless children; they never took things to heart as Ninny did; and, as for that little speech, what if Mrs. Prim _had_ heard it, wouldn't she know Lucy was in fun? But, when they went into the house, Lucy remembered what she had said; and her face was crimson. Somehow she could not raise her eyes for shame. "Move your chairs up to the drop-table," said Mrs. Prim, "and help me take off the hulls." That was what she always said; but Ninny fancied that her voice was sharper than usual. They all three hulled in silence (Flaxie was not allowed near the table); and then Mrs. Prim herself took the berries off the large white platters and arranged them in the boxes: she never let the children do that; and Ninny always observed that she was very sure to put the largest berries on top. "They are unusually nice to-day," said Mrs. Prim, as she placed the boxes carefully in a market-basket, and gave the basket to the little girls; "and you may tell Mr. Potter that I expect half a dollar a box for them, and am not willing to take a cent less." "Yes'm," murmured Flaxie, as Lucy and Ninny trudged off down the dusty street, with the basket between them. Mr. Potter was in a very pleasant mood, called them nice little girls, gave them all three some candy, and said he was perfectly willing to pay fifty cents for such strawberries as theirs. He took the eight boxes out of the market-basket, and, in their places, put back eight empty ones; then gave Ninny a two-dollar bill for Mrs. Prim. When they returned to Mrs. Prim's, there was no one at home but Kitty Maloney. "The money is in one of those boxes, Kitty," said Ninny. But Kitty did not hear; for she was just opening the oven door to look at the Sunderland pudding. The children loitered along toward home. The sun was cooling his face behind a cloud, and there was really some comfort now in walking. Ninny forgot Lucy's unlucky speech in the garden, and only thought how glad she should be for some dinner. In the afternoon, the sun came out of the cloud, and finished ripening some more strawberries; and, next morning, Ninny, Lucy, and Flaxie were again in the beautiful garden, picking into the same yellow basket. Afterward, they sat with Mrs. Prim beside the drop-table, and helped hull the berries as usual. "Wait a moment," said the sharp-voiced lady, as they were about to start off with the market-basket and the eight nice boxes. "Wait a moment. Where is the money Mr. Potter sent me yesterday?" "Kate took it, ma'am," said Ninny; "it was in one of the boxes." "No, mum, I niver," spoke up Kitty, turning round with a plate of fish in her hand. "Nothing was niver said to _me_ about money, mum. I jist takes the boxes out of the basket, and sets 'em in a row on the pantry shelf, as ye bids me; but it's the first that iver I heerd about money." "What does this mean?" said Mrs. Prim, turning round, and giving Lucy a severe look. "Are you sure Mr. Potter paid you yesterday?" "O, yes, ma'am: as sure as can be." And Flaxie struck in with her favorite ditty,-- "O, yes'm: serious, truly, black and bluely; for _I_ saw him do it." "Kate, you may go up to the store, and find out what this means," said Mrs. Prim, without paying the least attention to Flaxie. She had perfect faith in Kitty; and well she might; for the girl had lived with her fifteen years, and never told her a lie. But what had become of the money? It was certainly a pretty serious question. Kitty went to the store, and came back, saying Mr. Potter had given the two dollars to the children. "Yes, yes," said Mrs. Prim, looking at Ninny and then at Lucy; "yes, yes." That was all she said; but the girls felt themselves trembling from head to foot. "I don't know what's become of it then," murmured Ninny, twisting her handkerchief. "Nor I don't," said Lucy. "Nor me, neither," said Flaxie. "Yes, yes," repeated Mrs. Prim, looking at Lucy again, and then at Ninny. Ninny could bear it no longer, but rushed out of the kitchen door, crying, followed by Lucy and Flaxie, who tried to cry, too, but hardly knew what was the matter. "O mamma, mamma," cried Ninny, throwing herself on her mother's neck the moment she got home; "I want you to go with me right straight to Aunt Jane Abbott's; for Mrs. Prim will come there to tell an awful story about us." "Why, child, I can't understand you," said Mrs. Gray, kissing Ninny's hot cheeks. "What awful story can she tell about my dear little daughter?" "O, come quick, mamma. She'll go to Aunt Jane's. She wouldn't dare come here, for papa wouldn't let her talk so; but she'll go to Aunt Jane's, for she thinks--she thinks--we've stolen some money." Mrs. Gray did not wait for any thing more, but went at once with the children to Mrs. Abbott's. There all three of the little girls talked so fast that Aunt Jane could hardly understand them. "The money was in one of the boxes," said Ninny. "Mr. Potter gave it to Ninny," said Lucy. "And a stick of candy, too," cried Flaxie. "And now Mr. Potter thinks we stole the money. He thinks so in his heart," wailed Ninny. "Mr. Potter, that always liked us, and was going to take Lucy in his carriage to New York to see a vase he thought would be pretty for Rose." In the midst of this talk, there was a quick, decided ring at the door-bell; and, next moment, Mrs. Prim walked in. "I wish you'd tell me what this means," said Mrs. Abbott, so bewildered that she forgot to say, "How do you do?" "Ask your little daughter what it means," replied Mrs. Prim, throwing her head back. She was a very straight, tall woman; and, when she did throw her head back, you felt a little afraid of her. Mrs. Gray took a seat by the window, and said nothing. "Is it about some money?" asked Mrs. Abbott. "Yes," said Mrs. Prim, "it _is_ about some money. I suppose you can't believe a word against Lucy; but I must tell you what has happened. "Yesterday morning, as I went into the garden to pick a few flowers, I overheard these three children talking together about me. They were not speaking in a very pleasant tone; but I shouldn't have minded that if one of them--and I am very sure it was Lucy--hadn't said,-- "'O, my, why don't _we_ take some of the money Mr. Potter pays us for the berries, and keep it ourselves?'" "Mrs. Prim!" cried Mrs. Abbott, her face turning very white. "O mamma, I said it in fun; of course I said it in fun!" exclaimed poor little Lucy, running about the room, and crying. "In fun," echoed Mrs. Prim. "It didn't sound very funny to me; especially when you did keep the money, and then told me you had given it to Kitty." "We certainly gave it to Kitty," said Ninny, clasping her hands together. "We certainly did!" "Serious, truly, black and bluely," put in Miss Frizzle. Mrs. Abbott was too excited to speak. She was a good Christian, and meant to be patient; but she was entirely sure these little girls were innocent; and she thought Mrs. Prim was very unkind and unjust to come to her house and talk in this way. At last she said quietly, looking straight at the stern lady,-- "Please remember, Mrs. Prim, Lucy is my own little daughter. It seems to me you ought to be very sure you are right before you tell a mother that her daughter will _steal_!" Mrs. Prim's face softened a little. "I am sorry to hurt your feelings, Mrs. Abbott," said she. "Everybody knows you are a high-minded, good woman; but I always thought you were rather too easy with your children: you don't know how Bert and Lucy behave when they are out of your sight; and I felt it _my duty_ to come and tell you about this! I--" "O! O! O!" struck in Flaxie, distressed by the sad faces around her; "I wish I's dead! I wish we's all dead and gone to heaven!" Of course Flaxie's tears were of no more consequence than so much rain-water; but her mother had to take her in her arms and soothe her, while Aunt Jane answered Mrs. Prim. "This is a very strange affair, and I can't understand it; but, as for thinking my little Lucy would _steal_, why, you know Mrs. Prim, I can't for one moment believe it!" "Well, to be sure, I don't much wonder you can't. I shouldn't believe it myself, I dare say, if I were you. But then, Mrs. Abbott, you must confess things do look very dark," said Mrs. Prim. "Darker things than this have been cleared up," said Mrs. Abbott. Then Mrs. Gray thought _she_ would speak. "Well, suppose we wait awhile, and don't mention this to anybody, and see what happens, Mrs. Prim?" "I will wait a week, if you wish it," answered Mrs. Prim, rising to go; "and, at the end of that time, I shall expect these little girls to tell us the truth about this money." Mrs. Prim did not mean to be unkind, but she was always sure she was right; she never thought she could make mistakes. As she walked in at her own gate, Kitty Maloney met her at the front door. "Sure, mum, it's me that's glad you've got back," cried she, with a spoon in one hand and a strawberry-box in the other. "Mr. Potter jist sent up this box, and the money was in it all right." She held up the spoon, and there was a two-dollar bill in it, dripping with red juice. Mrs. Prim stared at it. "It's yours, mum! Mr. Snow's folks got some of your strawb'ries, yesterday; and, when they turns 'em out in a dish for dinner, they sees this money a-laying under 'em, all soaked with the rid." "So it WAS in the box, after all; and the children did give it to you," said Mrs. Prim, feeling dreadfully ashamed. "Yes, mum, I knew the nice children wouldn't lie. You see, mum, you must have done the mischief yourself; you must have went and put your strawb'ries in this box this morning, right a-top of the money, mum, and niver seen it!" Mrs. Prim understood it all now. Yes, it must be so. Her spectacles had been troubling her lately, and she had opened the box without seeing the money! As I have said, Mrs. Prim was dreadfully ashamed; but she was a woman who meant to do right; so she did not wait to take her bonnet off, but walked right back to Mrs. Abbott's, and showed her the red two-dollar bill--the most beautiful scrap of money that ever was seen! Mrs. Abbott could have kissed it for joy. "Lucy must have it; I want Lucy to keep it and try to forgive me," said Mrs. Prim; and she actually had tears in her eyes. But, as Mrs. Abbott would not allow her daughter to keep it, Mrs. Prim resolved to make the children all a present. She begged some of little Rosie's hair, and went to New York that very afternoon and bought three gold lockets, one for each of the girls. So it all ended very pleasantly, after all; and this is as good a place as any to make an end of our book. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. 
37330	----	Aileen Aroon, A Memoir With other Tales of Faithful Friends and Favourites By Gordon Stables Published by S.W. Partridge & Co., 9 Paternoster Row, London. This edition dated 1884. Aileen Aroon, A Memoir, by Gordon Stables. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ AILEEN AROON, A MEMOIR, BY GORDON STABLES. PREFACE. Prefaces are not always necessary; but when an author has either to acknowledge a courtesy, or to make an apology, then a preface becomes a duty. I have to do both. Firstly, then, as regards acknowledgment. I have endeavoured in this book to give sketches--as near to nature as a line could be drawn--of a few of my former friends and favourites in the animal world, and many of these have appeared from time to time in the magazines and periodicals, to which I have the honour to contribute. I have to thank, then, the good old firm of Messrs. Chambers, of Edinburgh, for courteously acceding to my request to be allowed to republish "My Cabin Mates and Bedfellows," and "Blue-Jackets' Pets," from their world-known Journal. I have also to thank Messrs. Cassell and Co., London, for the re-appearance herein of several short stories I wrote for their charming magazine _Little Folks_, on the pages of which, by the way, the sun never sets. Mr Dean, one of my publishers, kindly permitted me to reprint the story of my dead-and-gone darling "Tyro," and the story of "Blucher." This gentleman I beg to thank. I have also to thank Messrs. Routledge and Son for a little tale from my book, "The Domestic Cat." Nor must I forget to add that I have taken a few sketches, though no complete tales, from some of my contributions to that queen of periodicals yclept _The Girl's Own Paper_, to edit which successfully, requires as much skill and taste, as an artist displays in the culling and arrangement of a bouquet of beautiful flowers. With the exception of these tales and sketches, all else in the book is original, and, I need hardly add, painted from the life. Secondly, as regards apology. The wish to have, in a collected form, the life-stories of the creatures one has loved; to have, as it were, the graves of the pets of one's past life arranged side by side, is surely only natural; no need to apologise for that, methinks. But, reader, I have to apologise, and I do so most humbly, for the too frequent appearance of the "_ego_" in this work. I have had no wish to be autobiographical, but my own life has been as intimately mixed up with the lives of the creatures that have called me "master," as is the narrow yellow stripe, in the tartan plaid of the Scottish clan to which I belong. And so I crave forgiveness. Gordon Stables. _Gordon Grove, Twyford, Berks_. CHAPTER ONE. PROLOGISTIC. Scene: A lofty pine wood, from which can be caught distant glimpses of the valley of the Thames. "Aileen Aroon," a noble Newfoundland, has thrown herself down by her master's side. All the other dogs at play in the wood. Aileen's master (_speaks_): "And so you have come and laid yourself down beside me, Aileen, and left your playmates every one? left your playmates roaming about among the trees, while you stay here by me? "Yes, you may put your head on my knee, dear, honest Aileen, or your chin at all events, for you yourself, old girl, have no idea of the weight of your whole head. No, Aileen, thank you, not a paw as well; you are really attempting now to take the advantage of my good nature. So be content, `Sable' [Note 1]--my good, old, silly, simple Sable. There, I smooth your bonnie brow to show you that the words `old' and `silly' are truly terms of endearment, and meant neither as a scoff at your age, nor to throw disparagement upon the amount or quality of your intellect. Intellect? Who could glance for a single moment at that splendid head of yours, my Aileen, and doubt it to be the seat of a wisdom almost human, and of a benevolence that might easily put many of our poor fallen race to shame. And so I smooth your bonnie brow thus, and thus. But now, let us understand each other, Aileen. We must have done with endearments for a little time. For beautiful though the day be, blue the sky, and bright the sunshine, I really have come out here to the quiet woods to work. It is for that very purpose I have seated myself beneath this great tree, the branches of which are close and thick enough to defend us against yonder shower, that comes floating up the valley of the Thames, if indeed it can ever reach this height, my Sable. "No noisy school children, no village cries to disturb and distract one here, and scatter his half-formed ideas to the winds, or banish his best thoughts to the shades of oblivion. Everything is still around us, everything is natural; the twittering of the birds, the dreamy hum of insect life, the sweet breath of the fir-trees, combine to calm the mind and conduce to thought. "Why do I not come and romp and play? you ask. I cannot explain to you why. There _are_ some things, Aileen, that even the vast intellect of a Newfoundland cannot comprehend; the electric telegraph, for instance, the telephone, and why a man must work. You do not doubt the existence of what you do not understand, however, my simple Sable. We poor mortal men do. What a thing faith is even in a Newfoundland! "No, Sable, I must work. Here look, is proof of the fifteenth chapter of my serial tale, copy of the sixteenth must go to town with that. In this life, Aileen, one must keep ahead of the printer. This is all Greek to you, is it? Well then, for just one minute I will talk to you in language that you do understand. "There, you know what I mean, don't you, when I fondle your ear, and smooth it and spread it over my note-book? What a great ear it is, Aileen! No, I positively refuse to have that paw on my knee in addition to your head. Don't be offended, I know you love me. There, put back that foot on the grass. "Yes, Aileen, it _was_ very good of you, I admit, to leave your fan and your romps, and come and lay your dear kindly head on my lap. The other dogs prefer to play. Even `Theodore Nero,' your husband, is tumbling on the ground on that broad back of his, with his four immense legs pointing skywards, and his whole body convulsed with merriment. The three collies are in chase of a hare, the occasional excited yelp that is borne along on the breeze can tell us that; we pray they may not meet the keeper. The Dandie Dinmont is hidden away in the dark depths of a rabbit burrow, and the two wiry wee Scotch terriers are eagerly watching the hole 'gainst the rabbit bolts. "Fun and romps did I say, Aileen? Alas! dear doggie, these are hardly the words to apply to your little games, for you seldom play or romp with much heart, greatly though it rejoices me to see you lively. You seldom play with much heart, mavourneen, and when you do play, you seem but to play to please me and you tire all too soon. I know you have a deep sorrow at your heart, for you lost your former master, Aileen, and you are not likely to forget him. There always is a sad look in those hazel eyes of yours, and forgive me for mentioning it, but you are turning very grey around the lips. Your bright saucy-eyed husband yonder is three years older than you, Sable, and he isn't grey. But, Aileen, I know something that you don't know, poor pet, for I'm very learned compared to you. The seeds of that terrible disease, phthisis, are in your blood, I fear, and will one day take you from me, and I'll have to sit and write under this tree--alone. I'm talking Greek again, am I? It is as well, Aileen, it should be Greek to you. Why do my eyes get a trifle moist, you seem to ask me. Never mind. There! the sad thoughts have all flown away for a time, but, my dear, loving dog, when you have gone to sleep at last and for ever, I'll find a quiet corner to lay your bones in, and--I'll write your story. Yes, I promise you that, and it is more than any one will ever do for me, Aileen. "Don't sigh like that. You have a habit of sighing, you tell me. Very well, so be it, but I thought at first that it was the wind soughing through this old pine-tree of ours. Yes, _ours_--yours and mine, Aileen. Now, _do_ let me work. See, I'll put my note-book close to your great nose, and your chin shall touch my left hand; you can lie so and gaze all the time in my face. That will help me materially. But by-and-by you'll fall asleep and dream, and I'll have to wake you, because you'll be giving vent to a whole series of little ventriloquistic barks and sobs and sighs, and I will not know whether you are in pain or whether your mind is but reverting to-- "`Visions of the chase, Of wild wolves howling over hills of snow, Slain by your stalwart fathers, long ago.'" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. The subject of this memoir was called `Sable' before she came into my possession. She is well remembered by all lovers of the true Newfoundland, as Sable One of the show benches, and was generally admitted to be the largest and most handsome of her breed and sex ever exhibited.--The Author. CHAPTER TWO. INTRODUCING AILEEN AROON. "With eye upraised his master's looks to scan, The joy, the solace, and the aid of man, The rich man's guardian, and the poor man's friend, The only creature faithful to the end." Crabbe. "The Newfoundland, take him all in all, is unsurpassed, and possibly unequalled as the companion of man."--_Idstone_. "These animals are faithful, good-natured, and friendly. They will allow no one to injure either their master or his property, however great be the danger. They only want the faculty of speech to make their good wishes understood."--"_Newfoundland Dogs_," in _McGregor's "Historical and Descriptive Sketches of British America_." _Dog Barks_. Shepherd.--"Heavens! I could hae thocht that was `Bronte.'" _Christopher North_.--"No bark like his, James, now belongs to the world of sound." _Shepherd_.--"Purple black was he all over, as the raven's wing. Strength and sagacity emboldened his bounding beauty, but a fierceness lay deep down within the quiet lustre of his eye, that tauld ye, had he been angered he could hae torn in pieces a lion." _North_.--"Not a child of three years old and upwards in the neighbourhood that had not hung by his mane, and played with his paws, and been affectionately worried by him on the flowery greensward."--"_Noctes Ambrosianae_." "Heigho!" I sighed, as I sat stirring the fire one evening in our little cosy cottage. "So that little dream is at an end." "Twenty guineas," said my wife, opening her eyes in sad surprise. "Twenty guineas! It is a deal of money, dear." "Yes," I assented, "it is a deal of money for us. Not, mind you, that Sable isn't worth double. She has taken the highest honours on the show benches; her pedigree is a splendid one, and all the sporting papers are loud in her praises. She is the biggest and grandest Newfoundland ever seen in this country. But twenty guineas! Yes, that is a deal of money." "I wish I could make the money with my needle, dear," my wife remarked, after a few minutes' silence. "I wish I could make the money with my pen, Dot," I replied; "but I fear even pen and needle both together won't enable us to afford so great a luxury for some time to come. There are bills that must be paid; both baker and butcher would soon begin to look sour if they didn't get what they call their little dues." "Yes," said Dot, "and there are these rooms to be papered and painted." "To say nothing of a new carpet to be bought," I said, "and oilcloth for the lobby, and seeds for the garden." "Yes, dear," said my wife, "and that American rocking-chair that you've set your heart upon." "Oh, that can wait, Dot. There are plenty other things needed more than that. But it is quite evident, Sable is out of the question for the present." I looked down as I spoke, and patted the head of my champion Newfoundland Theodore Nero, who had entered unseen and was gazing up in my face with his bonnie hazel eyes as if he comprehended every word of the conversation. "Poor Nero," I said, "I _should_ have liked to have had Sable just to be a mate and companion for you, old boy." The great dog looked from me to my wife, and back again at me, and wagged his enormous tail. "I've got you, master," he seemed to say, "and my dear mistress. What more could I wish?" Just as I pen these lines, gentle reader, two little toddlers are coming home from forenoon school, with slates under their arms; but when the above conversation took place, no toddlers were on the books, as they say in the navy. We were not long married. It was nine long years ago, or going on that way. The previous ten years of my life had been spent at sea; but service in Africa had temporarily ruined my health, so that invaliding on a modicum of half-pay seemed more desirable than active service on full. These were the dear old days of poverty and romance. Retirement from active duty afloat and--marriage. It is too often the case that he who marries for love has to work for siller. Henceforward, literature was to be my staff, if not the crutch on which I should limp along until "my talents should be recognised," as my wife grandly phrased it. "Poor and content is rich, and rich enough," says the greatest William that ever lived. There is nothing to be ashamed of in poverty, and just as little to boast about. Naval officers who retire young are all poor. I know some who once upon a time were used to strut the quarter-deck or ship's bridge in blue and gold, and who are now, God help them, selling tea or taking orders for wine. "With all my worldly goods I thee endow." I squeezed the hand of my bride at the altar as I spoke the words, and well she knew the pressure was meant to recall to her mind a fact of which she was already cognisant, that "all my worldly goods" consisted of a Cremona fiddle, and my Newfoundland dog, and my old sea-chest; but the bottom of that was shaky. But to resume my story. "Hurrah!" I shouted some mornings after, as I opened the letters. "Here's news, Dot. We're going to have Sable after all. Hear how D. O'C writes. He says-- "`Though I have never met you, judging from what I have seen of your writings, I would rather you accepted Sable as a gift, than that any one else should have my favourite for money,' and so on and so forth." These are not the exact words of the letter, but they convey the exact meaning. Sable was to come by boat from Ireland, and I was to go to Bristol, a distance of seventy miles, to meet her, for no one who values the life and limbs of a dog, would trust to the tender mercies of the railway companies. "I'll go with you, Gordon," said my dear friend, Captain D--. Like myself, he had been a sailor, but unmarried, for, as he used to express it, "he had pulled up in time." He had taken _Punch's_ advice to people about to marry--"Don't." Captain D--didn't. "Well, Frank," I said, "I'll be very glad indeed of your company." So off we started the night before, for the boat would be in the basin at Hotwells early the next morning. The scene and the din on board that Irish boat beggars description, and I do not know which made the most noise, the men or the pigs. I think if anything the pigs did. It seemed to me that evil spirits had entered into the pigs, and they wanted to throw themselves into the sea. I believe evil spirits had entered into the men, too; some of them, at all events, _smelt_ of evil spirits. "Is it a thremendeous big brute 'av a black dog you've come to meet, sorr?" said the cook to me. "Yes," I replied, "a big black dog, but not a brute." "Well, poor baste, sorr, it's in my charge she has been all the way, and she's had lashin's to ate and to drink. Thank you koindly, sir, and God bless your honour. Yonder she is, sorr, tied up foreninst the horse-box, and she's been foighting with the pigs all the noight, sorr." She certainly had been fighting with the pigs, for she herself was wounded, and the ears of some of the pigs were in tatters. Sable was looking very sour and sulky. She certainly had not relished the company she had been placed among. She permitted me to lead her on shore; then she gave me one glance, and cast one towards my friend. "You'll be the _man_ that has come for me," she said; she did not say "the gentleman." "Who is your fat friend?" she added. We both caressed her without eliciting the slightest token on her part of any desire to improve our acquaintance. "You may pat me," she told us, "and call me pet names as much as you please. I won't bite you as I did the pigs, but I don't care a bone for either of you, and, what is more, I never intend to. I have left my heart in Ireland; my master is there." "Come on, Sable," I said; "we'll go now and have some breakfast." "Don't pull," said Sable; "I'm big enough to break the chain and bolt if I wish to. I'll go with you, but I'll neither be dragged nor driven." No dog ever had a better breakfast put before her, but she would not deign even to look at it. "Yes," she seemed to say, "it is very nice, and smells appetising, and I'm hungry, too; a bite of a sow's ear is all I've had since I left home; but for all that I don't mean to eat; I'm going to starve myself to death, that is what I'm going to do." It is very wrong and unfair to bring home any animal, whether bird or beast, to one's house without having previously made everything needful ready for its reception. Sable's comfort had not been forgotten, and on her arrival we turned her into the back yard, where, in a small wooden house, was a bed of the cleanest straw, to say nothing of a dish of wholesome food, and a bowl of the purest water. The doors to the yard were locked, but no chain was put on the new pet, for the walls were seven feet high or nearly so, and her safety was thus insured. So we thought, but, alas for our poor logic! We had yet to learn what Sable's jumping capabilities were. When I wrote next day, and told her old master that Sable had leapt the high wall and fled, the reply was that he regretted very much not having told me, that she was the most wonderful dog to jump ever he had seen or heard tell of. Meanwhile Sable was gone. But where or whither? The country is well-wooded, but there are plenty of sheep in it. Judging from Sable's pig-fighting qualities, I felt sure she would not starve, if she chose to feed on sheep. But one sheep a day, even for a week, would make a hole in my quarter's half-pay, and I shuddered to think of the little bill Sable might in a very short time run me up. No one had seen Sable. So days passed; then came a rumour that some school children had been frightened nearly out of their little wits by the appearance of an enormous bear, in a wood some miles from our cottage. My hopes rose; the bear must be Sable. So an expedition was organised to go in search of her. The rank and file of this expedition consisted of schoolboys. I myself was captain, and Theodore Nero, the Newfoundland, was first lieutenant. We were successful. My heart jumped for joy as I saw the great dog in the distance. But she would not suffer any one to come near her. That was not her form. I must walk on and whistle, and she would follow. I was glad enough to close with the offer, and gladder still when we reached home before she changed her mind and went off again. Chaining now became imperative until Sable became reconciled to her situation in life, until I had succeeded in taming her by kindness. This was by no means an easy task. For weeks she never responded to either kind word or caress, but one day Sable walked up to me as I sat writing, and, much to my surprise, offered me her great paw. "Shake hands," she seemed to say as she wagged her tail, "Shake hands. You're not half such a bad fellow as I first took you for." My friend, Captain D--, was delighted, and we must needs write at once to Sable's old master to inform him of the unprecedented event. Sable became every day more friendly and loving in her own gentle undemonstrative and quiet fashion. But as yet she had never barked. One day, however, on throwing a stick to Nero, she too ran after it, and on making pretence to throw it again, Sable began to caper. Not gracefully perhaps, but still it was capering, and finally she barked. When I told friend Frank he was as much overjoyed as I was. I suggested writing at once to Ireland and making the tidings known. "A letter, Gordon," said my friend emphatically, "will not meet the requirements of the case. Let us telegraph. Let us wire, thus--`_Sable has barked_.'" The good dog's former master was much pleased at the receipt of the information. "She will do now," he wrote; "and I'm quite easy in my mind about her." Now all this may appear very trivial to some of my readers, but there really was for a time, a probability that Sable would die of sheer grief, as, poor dog, she eventually succumbed to consumption. We were, if possible, kinder to Sable, or Aileen Aroon, as she was now called, than ever. She became the constant companion of all our walks and rambles, and developed more and more excellences every week. Without being what might be called brilliant, Aileen was clever and most teachable. She never had been a trained or educated dog. Theodore Nero had, and whether he took pity on his wife's ignorance or not, I cannot say, but he taught her a very great deal she never knew anything about before. Here is a proof that Aileen's reasoning powers were of no mean order. When Master Nero wanted a tit-bit he was in the habit of making a bow for it. The bow consisted in a graceful inclination or lowering of the chest and head between the outstretched fore-paws. Well, Aileen was not long in perceiving that the performing of this little ceremony always procured for her husband a morsel of something nice to eat, that "To boo, and to boo, and to boo," was the best of policies. She therefore took to it without any tuition, and to see those "twa dogs," standing in front of me when a biscuit or two were on the board, and booing, and booing, and booing, was a sight to have made a dray-horse smile. I am sure that Nero soon grew exceedingly fond of his new companion, and she of him in her quiet way. I may state here parenthetically, that Master Nero had had a companion before Aileen. His previous experience of the married state, however, had not been a happy one. His wife, "Bessie" to name, had taken to habits of intemperance. She had been used to one glass of beer a day before she came to me, and it was thought it might injure her to stop it. If she had kept to this, it would not have mattered, but she used to run away in the evenings, and go to a public-house, where she would always find people willing to treat her for the mere curiosity of seeing a dog drink. When she came home she was not always so steady as she might be, but foolishly affectionate. She would sit down by me and insist upon shaking hands about fifteen times every minute, or she would annoy Nero by pawing him till he growled at her, and told her, or seemed to tell her, she ought to be ashamed of herself for being in the state she was. She was very fat, and after drinking beer used to take Nero's bed from him and sleep on her back snoring, much to his disgust. This dog was afterwards sold to Mr Montgomery, of Oxford, who stopped her allowance for some months, after which she would neither look at ale nor gin-and-water, of which latter she used to be passionately fond. Aileen and Nero used to be coupled together in the street with a short chain attached to their collars. But not always; they used to walk together jowl to jowl, whether they were coupled or not, and these two splendid black dogs were the wonder and admiration of all who beheld them. Whatever one did the other did, they worked in couple. When I gave my stick to Nero to carry, Aileen must have one end of it. When we went shopping they carried the stick thus between them, with a bag or basket slung between, and their steadiness could be depended on. They used to spring into the river or into the sea from a boat both together, and both together bring out whatever was thrown to them. Their immense heads above the water both in friendly juxta-position, were very pretty to look at. They were in the habit of hunting rats or rabbits in couples, one going up one side of the hedge, the other along the other side. I am sorry to say they used at times, for the mere fun of the thing, and out of no real spirit of ill-nature, to hunt horses as well as rabbits, one at one side of the horse the other at the other, and likewise bicyclists; this was great fun for the dogs, but the bicyclists looked at the matter from quite another point of view. But I never managed to break them altogether of these evil habits. It has often seemed to me surprising how one dog will encourage another in doing mischief. A few dogs together will conceive and execute deeds of daring, that an animal by himself would never even dream of attempting. As I travelled a good deal by train at that time, and always took my two dogs with me, it was more convenient to go into the guard's van with my pets, than take a first or second class carriage by storm. I shall never forget being put one day with the two dogs into a large almost empty van. It was almost empty, but not quite. There was a ram tied up at the far end of it. Now if this ram had chosen to behave himself, as a ram in respectable society ought to, it would have saved me a deal of trouble, and the ram some danger. But no sooner had the train started than the obstreperous brute began to bob his head and stamp his feet at me and my companions in the most ominous way. Luckily the dogs were coupled; I could thus more easily command them. But no sooner had the ram begun to stamp and bob, than both dogs commenced to growl, and wanted to fly straight at him. "Let us kill that insolent ram," said Nero, "who dares to stamp and nod at us." "Yes," cried Aileen, "happy thought! let us kill him." I was ten minutes in that van before the train pulled up, ten minutes during which I had to exercise all the tact of a great general in order to keep the peace. Had the ram, who was just as eager for the fray as the dogs, succeeded in breaking his fastenings, hostilities would have commenced instantly, and I would have been powerless. By good luck the train stopped in time to prevent a catastrophe, and we got out, but for nearly a week, as a result of my struggle with the dogs, I ached all over and felt as limp as a stranded jelly-fish. CHAPTER THREE. CONTAINING THE STORY OF ONE OF AILEEN'S FRIENDS. "The straw-thatched cottage, or the desert air, To him's a palace if his master's there." Just eighteen months after the events mentioned in last chapter, as novelists say, things took a turn for the better, and we retired a little farther into the country into a larger house. A bigger house, though certainly not a mansion; but here are gardens and lawn and paddock, kennels for dogs, home for cats, and aviaries for birds, many a shady nook in which to hang a hammock in the summer months, and a garden wigwam, which makes a cool study even in hot weather, bedraped as it is in evergreens, and looks a cosy wee room in winter, when the fire is lighted and the curtains are drawn. "Ah! Gordon," dear old Frank used to say--and there was probably a grain of truth in the remark--"there is something about the quiet contented life you lead in your cottage, with its pleasant surroundings, that reminds me forcibly of the idyllic existence of your favourite bard, Horace, in his home by the banks of the Anio. "`Beatus ille qui procul negotiis, Ut prisca gens mortalium, Patenta rure bubus exercet suis Solutus omni fenore, Neque excitatur classico miles truci Neque horret iratum mare.'" "True, Frank," I replied, "at sea I often thought I would dearly love a country life. My ambition--and I believe I represent quite a large majority of my class--used to be, that one day I might be able to retire on a comfortable allowance--half-pay, for instance--take a house with a morsel of land, and keep a cow and a pony, and go in for rearing poultry, fruit, and all that sort of thing. Such was my dream. "There were six of us in our mess in the saucy little `Pen-gun.' "It was hot out there on the East Coast of Africa, where we were stationed, and we did our best to make it hotter--for the dhows which we captured, at all events, because we burned them. Nearly all day, and every day, we were in chase, mostly of slave dhows, but sometimes of jolly three-masters. "Away out in the broad channel of the blue Mozambique, with never a cloud in the sky, nor a ripple on the ocean's breast, tearing along at the rate of twelve knots an hour, with the chase two miles ahead, and happy in the thoughts of quite a haul of prize-money, it wasn't half bad fun, I can assure you. Then we could whistle `A sailor's life is the life for me,' and feel the mariner all over. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "But, when the chase turned out to be no prize, but only a legitimate trader, when the night closed in dark and stormy, with a roaring wind and a chopping sea, then, it must be confessed, things did not look quite so much _couleur de rose_, dot a mariner's life so merry-o! "On nights like these, when the fiddles were shipped across the table to keep things straight--for a lively lass was the saucy `Pen-gun,' and thought no more of breaking half-a-dozen wine-glasses, than she did of going stem first in under a wave she was too lazy to mount--when the fiddles were shipped, when we had wedged ourselves into all sorts of corners, so as we shouldn't slip about and fall, when the steward had brought the coffee and the biscuits called ships', then it was our wont to sit and sip and talk and build our castles in the air. "`It's all very fine,' one of us would say, `to talk of the pleasures of a sailor's life, it's all very well in songs; but, if I could only get on shore now, on retired pay--' "`Why, what would you do?'--a chorus. "`Why, go in for the wine trade like a shot,' from the first speaker. `That's the way to make money. Derogatory, is it? Well, I don't see it; I'd take to tea--' "Chorus again: `Oh! come, I say!' "Some one, more seriously and thoughtfully: `No; but wouldn't you like to be a farmer?' The ship kicks, a green sea breaks over her. We are used to it, but don't like it, even although we do take the cigars from our lips, as we complacently view the water pouring down the hatchway and rising around our chairs' legs. "`A farmer, you know, somewhere in the midland counties; green fields and lowing kine; a nice stream, meandering--no not meandering, but-- "`Chattering over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, Bubbling into eddying bays. Babbling o'er the pebbles; Winding about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling.' "`Yes,' from another fellow, `and of course a comfortable house of solid English masonry, and hounds not very far off, so as one could cut away to a hunt whenever he liked.' "`And of course balls and parties, and a good dinner _every_ day.' "`And picnics often, and the seaside in season, and shooting all the year round.' "`And I'd go in for bees.' "`Oh! yes, I think every fellow would go in for bees.' "`And have a field of Scottish heather planted on purpose for them: fancy how nice that would look in summer!' "`And I'd have a rose garden.' "`Certainly; nothing could be done without a rose garden.' "`Then one could go in for poultry, and grow one's own eggs.' "`Hear the fellow!--fancy _growing_ eggs!' "`Well, lay them, then--it's all the same. I'm not so green as to imagine eggs grow on trees.' "`And think of the fruit one might have.' "`And the mushroom beds.' "`And brew one's own beer and cider.' "`And of course one could go in for dogs.' "`Oh! la! yes--have them all about the place. Elegant Irish setters, dainty greyhounds, cobby wee fox-terriers, a noble Newfoundland or two, and a princely bloodhound at each side of the hall-door.' "`That's the style!' "`Now, give us a song, Pelham!' "`What shall it be--Dibdin?' "`No, Pelham, give us, "Sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane," or something in that style. Let us fancy we are farmers. Doesn't she pitch and roll, though! Dibdin and Russell are all very well on shore, or sitting under an awning in fine weather when homeward bound. We're not homeward bound--worse luck!--so heave round with the "Flower o' Dumblane."' "My dream has in some measure been fulfilled, my good friend Frank; I can sit now under my own vine and my own fig-tree, but still look back with a certain degree of pleasure to many a night spent on board that heaving, pitching, saucy, wee ship." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Our new home nestles among trees not far from a very primitive wee town indeed. We have only to descend along the hill-side through the pine-trees, wind some way round the knoll, and there at our feet lies _our_ village--Fernydale, to wit. It might just as well be called Sleepy Hollow, such a dreamy little spot it is. Not very far from a great line of rails--just far enough to subdue the roar of the trains, that night and day go whirling past in a drowsy monotone, like the distant sound of falling water. Everything and everybody about our little village looks quiet and drowsy; the little church itself, that nestles among the wealth of foliage, looks the picture of drowsiness, and the very smoke seems as if it preferred lingering in Fernydale to ascending upwards and joining the clouds. We have a mill here--oh! such a drowsy old mill! No one was ever known to be able to pass that mill without nodding. Intoxicated lieges, who have lain down to rest opposite that mill, have been known to sleep the sleep that knows no waking; and if at any time you stop your horse for a moment on the road, while you talk to the miller, the animal soon begins to nod; and he nods, and nods, and nid-nid-nods, and finally goes to sleep entirely, and it takes no end of trouble to start him off again. Our very birds are drowsy. The larks don't care to sing a bit more than suffices for conjugal felicity, and the starlings are constantly tumbling down our bedroom chimney, and making such a row that we think the burglars have come. The bees are drowsy; they don't gather honey with any degree of activity; they don't seem to care whether they gather it or not. They are often too lazy to fly back to hive, and don't go home till morning; and if you were to take a walk along our road at early dawn--say 11:45 a.m.--you would often find these bees sitting limp-winged and half asleep on fragrant thistle-tops, and if you poked at them with a stalk of hay, and tried to reason with them, they would just lift one lazy fore-leg and beckon you off, as much as to say, peevishly-- "Oh! what was I born for? _Can't_ you leave a poor fellow alone? What do ye come pottering around here at midnight for?" Such is the hum-drum drowsiness of little Fernydale. But bonny is our cottage in spring and summer, when the pink-eyed chestnuts are all ablaze at the foot of the lawn, when flowers bloom white on the scented rowans, when the yellow gorse on the knoll beyond glints through the green of the trees, when the merlin sings among the drooping limes, and the croodling pigeons make soft-eyed love on the eaves; and there is beauty about it, too, even in winter, when the world is robed in snow, when the leafless branches point to leaden skies, and the robin, tired of his sweet little song, taps on the panes with his tiny bill, for the crumbs he has never to ask for in vain. It was one winter's evening in the year eighteen hundred and seventy something, that Frank stood holding our parlour-door in his hand, while he gazed with a pleased smile at the group around the fire. It wasn't a large group. There were Dot and Ida knitting: and my humble self sitting, book in hand and pipe in mouth. Then there were the Newfoundland dogs on the hearth, and pussy singing on the footstool, singing a duet with the kettle on the hob. And I must not forget to mention "Poll," the parrot. Nobody knew how old Polly was, but with her extreme wisdom you couldn't help associating age. She didn't speak much at a time; like many another sage, she went in for being laconic, pithy, and to the point. I think, however, that some day or other Polly will tell us quite a long story, for she often clears her throat and says, "_Now_," in quite an emphatic manner; then she cocks her head, and says "Are you listening?" "We are all attention, Polly," we reply. So Polly begins again with her decided "_Now_;" but up to this date she has not succeeded in advancing one single sentence farther towards the completion of her story. Well, upon the winter's evening in question Frank stood there, holding the door and smiling to himself, and any one could see at a glance that Frank was pregnant with an idea. "I've been thinking," said Frank, "that there is nothing needed to complete the happiness of the delightful evenings we spend here, except a story-teller." "No one better able than yourself, Frank, to fill the post," I remarked. "Well, now," said Frank, "for that piece of arrant flattery, I fine you a story." "Read us that little sketch about `Dandie,'" my wife said. "Yes, do," cried Ida, looking up from her work. If a man is asked to do anything like this he ought to do it heartily. Dandie, I may premise, is, or rather was, a contemporary of Aileen Aroon. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ OUR DANDIE. A very long doggie is Dandie, with little short bits of legs, nice close hanging ears, hair as strong and rough as the brush you use for your hair, and a face--well, some say it is ugly; I myself, and all my friends, think it is most engaging. To be sure, it is partially hidden with bonnie soft locks of an ambery or golden hue; but push those locks aside, and you will see nothing in those beautiful dark hazel eyes but love and fun. For Dandie is fall of fun. Oh! doesn't she enjoy a run out with the children! On the road she goes feathering, here, there, and everywhere. Her legs are hardly straight, you must understand--the legs of very few Dandies are, for they are so accustomed to go down drains, and all sorts of holes, and go scraping here, and scraping there, that their feet and fore-legs turn at last something like a mole's. Dandie wasn't always the gentle loving creature she is now, and this is the reason I am writing her story. Here, then, is how I came by Dandie. I was sitting in my study one morning, writing as usual, when a carriage stopped at the door, and presently a friend was announced. "Why, Dawson, my boy!" I cried, getting up to greet him, "what wind blew you all the way here?" "Not a good one, by any means," said Dawson; "I came to see you." "Well, well, sit down, and tell me all about it. I sincerely hope Miss Hall is well." "Well! yes," he replied abstractedly. "I think I've done all for the best; though that policeman nearly had her. But she left her mark on him. Ha! ha!" I began to think my friend was going out of his mind. "Dawson," I said, "what have you done with her?" "She's outside in the carriage," replied Dawson. I jumped up to ring the bell, saying, "Why, Dawson, pray have the young lady in. It is cruel to leave her by herself." Dawson jumped up too, and placing his hand on my arm, prevented me from touching the bell-rope. "Nay, nay!" he cried, almost wildly, I thought; "pray do not think of it. She would bite you, tear you, rend you. Oh, she is a _vixen_!" This last word he pronounced with great emphasis, and sinking once more into the chair, and gazing abstractedly at the fire, he added, "And still I love her, good little thing!" I now felt quite sorry for Dawson. A moment ago I merely _thought_ he was out of his mind, now I felt perfectly sure of it. There was a few minutes' silence; and then suddenly my friend rushed to the window, exclaiming-- "There, there! She's at it again! She has got the cabby by the coat-tails, and she'll eat her way through him in five minutes, if I don't go." And out he ran; and I followed, more mystified than ever; and there in the carriage was no young lady at all, but only the dear little Dandie whose story I am writing. She was most earnestly engaged in tearing the driver's blue coat into the narrowest strips, and growling all the while most vigorously. She quieted down, however, immediately on perceiving her master, jumped into his arms, and began to lick his face. So the mystery was cleared up; and half an hour afterwards I was persuaded to become the owner of that savage Dandie, and Dawson had kissed her, and left lighter in heart than when he had come. I set aside one of the best barrel kennels for her, had a quantity of nice dry straw placed therein, and gave her two dishes, one to be filled daily with pure clean water--without which, remember, no dog can be healthy--and the other to hold her food. Now, I am not afraid of any dog. I have owned many scores in my time, and by treating them gently and firmly, I always managed to subdue even the most vicious among them, and get them to love me. But I must confess that this Dandie was the most savage animal that I had ever yet met. When I went to take her dish away next morning, to wash and replenish it, only my own celerity in beating a retreat prevented my legs from being viciously bitten. I then endeavoured to remove the dish with the stable besom. Alas for the besom! Howling and growling with passion, with scintillating eyes and flashing teeth, she tore that broom to atoms, and then attacked the handle. But I succeeded in feeding her, after which she was quieter. Now, dogs, to keep them in health, need daily exercise, and I determined Dandie should not want that, wild though she seemed to be. There was another scene when I went to unloose her; and I found the only chance of doing so was to treat her as they do wild bulls in some parts of the country. I got a hook and attached it to the end of a pole the same length as the chain. I could then keep her at a safe distance. And thus for a whole week I had to lead her out for exercise. I lost no opportunity of making friends with her, and in about a fortnight's time I could both take her dish away without a broom and lead her out without the pole. She was still the vixen, however, which her former master had called her. When she was presented with a biscuit, she wouldn't think of eating it, before she had had her own peculiar game with it. She would lay it first against the back of the barrel, and for a time pretend not to see it, then suddenly she would look round, next fly at it, growling and yelping with rage, and shake it as she would a rat. Into such a perfect fury and frenzy did she work herself during her battle with the biscuit, that sometimes on hearing her chain rattle she would turn round and seize and shake it viciously. I have often, too, at these times seen her bite her tail because it dared to wag--bite it till the blood sprang, then with a howl of pain bite and bite it again and again. At last I made up my mind to feed her only on soil food, and that resolution I have since stuck to. Poor Dandie had now been with us many months, and upon the whole her life, being almost constantly on the chain, was by no means a very happy one. Her hair, too, got matted, and she looked altogether morose and dirty, and it was then that the thought occurred to my wife and me that she would be much better _dead_. I considered the matter in all its bearings for fully half an hour, and it was then I suddenly jumped up from my chair. "What _are_ you going to do?" asked my wife. "I'm going to wash Dandie; wash her, comb out all her mats, dry her, and brush her, for, do you know, I feel quite guilty in having neglected her." My wife, in terror of the consequences of washing so vicious a dog, tried to dissuade me. But my mind was made up, and shortly after so was Dandie's bed--of clean dry straw in a warm loft above the stable. "Firmly and kindly does it," I had said to myself, as I seized the vixen by the nape of the neck, and in spite of her efforts to rend any part of my person she could lay hold of, I popped her into the tub. Vixen, did I say? She was popped into the tub a vixen, sure enough, but I soon found out I had "tamed the shrew," and after she was rinsed in cold water, well dried, combed, and brushed, the poor little thing jumped on my knee and kissed me. Then I took her for a run--a thing one ought never to neglect after washing a dog. And you wouldn't have known Dandie now, so beautiful did she look. Dandie is still alive, and lies at my feet as I write, a living example of the power of kindness. She loves us all, and will let my sister, wife, or little niece do anything with her, but she is still most viciously savage to nearly all strangers. She is the best guard-dog that I ever possessed, and a terror to tramps. She is very wise too, this Dandie of mine, for when out walking with any one of my relations, she is as gentle as a lamb, and will let anybody fondle her. She may thus be taken along with us with impunity when making calls upon friends, but very few indeed of those friends dare go near her when in her own garden or kennel. We have been well rewarded for our kindness to Dandie, for although her usual residence by day is her own barrel, and by night she has a share of the straw with the other dogs, she is often taken into the house, and in spite of our residence being in a somewhat lonely situation, whenever I go from home for the night she becomes a parlour boarder, and I feel quite easy in my mind because _Dandie is in the house_. "Well," said Frank, when I had finished, "if that little story proves anything, it proves, I think, that almost any dog can be won by kindness." "Or any animal of almost any kind," I added. "Ah!" cried Frank, laughing, "but you failed with your hyaena. Didn't you?" "Gratitude," I replied, smiling, "does not occupy a very large corner in a hyaena's heart, Frank." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note. Since writing the above, poor Dandie has gone to her little grave in the orchard. CHAPTER FOUR. DEDICATED TO GIRLS AND BOYS ONLY. "A little maiden, frank and fair, With rosy lips apart, And sunbeams glinting in her hair, And sunshine at her heart." In my last chapter I mentioned the name of Ida. Ida Graham was my little niece. Alas! she no longer brightens our home with the sunshine of her smile. Poor child, she was very beautiful. We all thought so, and every one else who saw her. I have but to close my eyes for a moment and I see her again knitting quietly by the fire on a winter's evening, or reading by the open window in the cool of a summer's day; or, reticule in hand, tripping across the clovery lea, the two great dogs, Aileen and Nero, bounding in front of her; or blithely singing as she feeds her canaries; or out in the yard beyond, surrounded by hens and cocks, pigeons, ducks, and geese, laughing gaily as she scatters the barley she carries in her little apron. It was not a bit strange that every creature loved Ida Graham, from the dogs to the bees. We lost her one day, I remember, in summer-time, and found her at last sound asleep by the foot of a tree, with deer browsing quietly near her, a hare washing its face within a yard of her, and wild birds hopping around and on her. Such was Ida. It is no wonder, then, that we miss the dear child. Very often I would have Ida all to myself for a whole day, when my wife was in town or visiting, and Frank was gardening or had the gout, for he suffered at times from that aristocratic but tantalising ailment. On these occasions, when the weather was fine, we always took the dogs and went off to spend an hour or two in the woods. If it rained we stayed indoors, seated by the open window in order to be near the birds. But wet day or fine, Ida generally managed to get a story from me. It was in the wood, and seated beneath the old pine-tree, that I told her the following. I called it-- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ PUFF: THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A PERSIAN PUSSY. I am one of seven. Very much to the grief and sorrow of my poor patient mother, all the rest of my little brothers and sisters met with a watery grave. I did not know what mother meant when she told me this, with tears in her eyes. I was too young then, but I think I know now. But I was left to comfort my parent's heart. This was humane at least in my mistress, because, although it seems the fate of us poor pussies that very many of us come into the world to be speedily drowned, it is cruel, for many reasons, to destroy all a mother's darlings at once. Well, the very earliest thing that I can remember is being taken up in the arms of a pretty young lady. I was two months old then, and had been playing with a ball of worsted, which I had succeeded in getting entangled among the chair-legs. "Oh, what a dear, beautiful, wee puss!" said this young miss, holding me round, so that she might look at my face. "And, oh!" she added, "it has such lovely eyes, and such a nice long coat." "You may have it, Laura dear," said my mistress, "if you will be kind to it." "Thank you so very much," said Laura, "and I know I shall be fond of it always." And I do not doubt for a moment that Laura meant what she said. Her fault, however, and my misfortune lay, as you shall see, in the fact that she did not know a bit how to treat a pussy in order to make it happy. Laura liked me, and romped with me morning and night, it is true; but although cats are ever so fond of attention and of romps, they cannot live upon either, and often and often I have gone hungry to my saucer and found it empty, which made me feel very cold and sad and dispirited. Yet, in spite of this, I grew to be very fond indeed of my new mistress, and as I sometimes managed to catch a mouse I was not so very badly off after all. When I gazed at Miss Laura's gentle face and her sweet eyes--they were just like my own--I could not help thinking that if she only knew how hungry and cold I often was, she would surely feed me twice a day at least. But my crowning sorrow was to come; and this was nothing less than the loss, I fear entirely, of my mistress's affection. My grief was all the more bitter in that I was in some measure to blame for it myself. You see, I was a growing cat, and every day the pangs of hunger seemed more difficult to bear; so one day, when left by myself in the kitchen, I found out a way to open the cupboard, and--pray do not blame me; I do think if you had seen all the nice things therein, and felt as hungry as I felt, you would have tasted them too. One little sin begets another, and before two months were over I was known in the kitchen as "that thief of a cat." I do not think Miss Laura knew of my depredations downstairs, for I was always honest in the parlour, and she would, I feel certain, have forgiven me even if she had known. As I could not be trusted in the kitchen, I was nearly always tamed out-of-doors of a night. This was exceedingly unkind, for it was often dark and rainy and cold, and I could find but little shelter. On dry moonlight nights I did not mind being out, for there was fun to be got--fun and field-mice. Alas! I wish now I had kept to fun and field-mice; but I met with evil company, vagrant outdoor cats, who took a delight in mewing beneath the windows of nervous invalids; who despised indoor life, looked upon theft as a fine art, and robbed pigeon-lofts right and left. Is it any wonder, then, that I soon turned as reckless as any of them? I always came home at the time the milk arrived in the morning, however; and even now, had my young mistress only fed me, I would have changed my evil courses at once. But she did not. Now this constant stopping out in all weathers began to tell on my beautiful coat; it was no longer silky and beautiful. It became matted and harsh, and did show the dirt, so much so that I was quite ashamed to look in the glass. And always, too, I was so tired, all through my wanderings, when I returned of a morning, that I did nothing all day but nod drowsily over the fire. No wonder Miss Laura said one day-- "Oh, pussy, pussy! you do look dirty and disreputable. You are no longer the lovely creature you once were; I cannot care for such a cat as you have grown." But I still loved her, and a kind word from her lips, or a casual caress was sure to make me happy, even in my dullest of moods. The end came sooner than I expected, for one day Miss Laura went from home very early in the morning. As soon as she was gone, Mary Jane, the servant, seized me rudely by the neck. I thought she was going to kill me outright. "I'll take good care, my lady," she said, "that you don't steal anything, at any rate for four-and-twenty hours to come." Then she marched upstairs with me, popped me into my mistress's bedroom, locked the door, and went away chuckling. There was no one else in the room, only just myself and the canary. And all that long day no one ever came near me with so much as a drop of milk. When night came I tried to sleep on Miss Laura's bed, but the pangs of hunger effectually banished slumber. When day broke I felt certain somebody would come to the door. But no. I thought this was so cruel of Mary Jane, especially as I had no language in which to tell my mistress, on her return, of my sufferings. Towards the afternoon I felt famishing, and then my eyes fell upon the canary. "Poor little thing!" said I; "you, too, are neglected and starving." "Tweet, tweet!" said the bird, looking down at me with one eye. "Now, dicky," I continued, "I'm going to do you a great kindness. If you were a very, very large bird, I should ask you to eat me and put me out of all this misery." "Tweet, tweet!" said the bird very knowingly, as much as to say, "I would do it without the slightest hesitation." "Well," said I, "I mean to perform the same good office for you. I cannot see you starving there without trying to ease your sufferings, and so--" Here I sprang at the cage. I draw a veil over what followed. And now my appetite was appeased, but my conscience was awakened. How ever should I be able to face my mistress again? Hark! what is that? It is Miss Laura's footstep on the stair. She is singing as sweetly as only Laura can. She approaches the door; her hand is on the latch. I can stand it no longer. With one bound, with one wild cry, I dash through a pane of glass, and drop almost senseless on to the lawn beneath the window. It was sad enough to have to leave my dear mistress and my dear old home, which, despite all I had endured, I had learned to love, as only we poor pussies can love our homes. But my mind was made up. I had eaten Miss Laura's pet canary, and I dare never, never look her in the face again. Till this time I had lived in the sweet green country, but I now wandered on and on, caring little where I went or what became of me. By day I hid myself in burrows and rat-haunted drains, and at night came forth to seek for food and continue my wanderings. So long as the grass and trees were all around me, I was never in want of anything to eat; but in time all this changed, and gradually I found myself caning nearer and nearer to some great city or town. First, rows upon rows of neatly-built villas and cottages came into view, and by-and-by these gave place to long streets where never a green thing grew, and I passed lofty, many-windowed workshops, from which issued smoke and steam, and much noise and confusion. I met with many cats in this city, who, like myself, seemed to be outcasts, and had never known the pleasures of home and love. They told me they lived entirely by stealing, at which they were great adepts, and on such food as they picked out of the gutter. They listened attentively to my tales of the far-off country, where many a rippling stream meandered through meadows green, in which the daisies and the yellow cowslips grew; of beautiful flowers, and of birds in every bush. Very much of what I told them was so very new to them that they could not understand it; but they listened attentively, nevertheless, and many a night kept me talking to them until I was so tired I felt ready to drop. In return for my stories they taught me--or rather, tried to teach me--to steal cleverly, not clumsily, as country cats do. But, alas! I could not learn, and do as I would I barely picked up a living; then my sufferings were increased by the cruelty of boys, who often pelted me with stones and set wild wicked dogs to chase me. I got so thin at last that I could barely totter along. One evening a large black tom-cat who was a great favourite of mine, and often brought me tit-bits, said to me, "There's a few of us going out shopping to-night; will you come?" "I'll try," I answered feebly, "for I do feel faint and sick and hungry." We tried some fishmongers' shops first, and were very successful; then we went to another shop. Ill as I was, I could not help admiring the nimble way my Tom, as I called him, sprang on to a counter and helped himself to a whole string of delicious sausages. I tried to emulate Tom's agility, but oh, dear! I missed my footing and fell down into the very jaws of a terrible dog. How I got away I never could tell, but I did; and wounded and bleeding sorely, I managed to drag myself down a quiet street and into a garden, and there, under a bush, I lay down to die. It was pitilessly cold, and the rain beat heavily down, and the great drops fell through the bush and drenched me to the skin. Then the cold and pain seemed all at once to leave me. I had fallen into an uneasy doze, and I was being chased once more by dogs with large eyes and faces, up and down in long wet streets where the gas flickered, through many a muddy pool. Then I thought I found myself once again in the fields near my own home, with the sun brightly shining and the birds making the air ring with their music. Then I heard a gentle voice saying-- "Now, Mary, I think that will do. The cheese-box and cushion make such a fine bed for her; and when she awakes give the poor thing that drop of warm milk and sugar." I did awake, and was as much surprised as pleased to find myself in a nice snug room, and lying not far from the fire. A neatly-dressed servant-girl was kneeling near me, and not far off a lady dressed in black sat sewing. This, then, was my new mistress, and--_I was saved_. How different she was from poor Miss Laura, who, you know, did not _mean_ to be cruel to me. This lady was very, very kind to me, though she made but little fuss about it. Her thoughtfulness for all my comforts and her quiet caresses soon wooed me back again to life, and now I feel sure I am one of the happiest cats alive. I am not dirty and disreputable now, nor is my fur matted. I am no longer a thief, for I do not need to steal. My mistress has a canary, but I would not touch it for worlds--indeed, I love to hear it sing, although its music is not half so sweet to me as that of the teakettle. Of an evening when the gas is lighted, and a bright fire burning in the grate, we all sing together--that is, the kettle, canary, and myself. They say I am very beautiful, and I believe they are right, for I have twice taken a prize at a cat show, and hope to win another. And if you go to the next great exhibition of cats, be sure to look for me. I am gentle in face and short in ears, my fur is long, and soft, and silky, and my eyes are as blue as the sea in summer. So you are sure to know me. Ida sat silent, but evidently thinking, for some time after I had finished. "That is quite a child's story, isn't it?" she said at last. "Yes," I replied; "but don't you like it?" "Oh yes, I do," she said--"I like all your stories; so now just tell me one more." "No, no," I cried, "it is quite time we returned; your auntie will be back, and dinner waiting; besides, we have about three miles to walk." "Just one little, little tale," she pleaded. "Well," I replied, "it must be a very little, little one, and then we'll have to run. I shall call the story--" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ LOST; OR, LITTLE NELLIE'S FAVOURITE. "It was a bitterly cold morning in the month of February, several years ago. How the time does fly, to be sure! Snow had been lying on the ground for weeks, and more had fallen during the night; the wind, too, blew high from the east, and the few passengers who were abroad made the best of their way along the street, I can assure you, and looked as though they would rather be at home and at the fireside. I myself was out in the cold from force of habit. It had long been my custom to take a short walk before breakfast, and as the post-office of our village was only half a mile from my residence, going down for the letters that arrived by the first mail afforded me just sufficient excuse for my early ramble. But on this particular morning, as I was returning homewards, I was very much surprised to find my little friend Nellie May standing at her gate bare-headed, and with her pretty auburn hair blowing hither and thither in the wind. "`Why, Nellie, dear!' I exclaimed, `what can have sent you out of the house so early? It is hardly eight o'clock, and the cold will kill you, child.' "`I was watching for you, sir,' said Nellie, looking as serious as a little judge. `Do come and tell me what I shall do with this poor dog. He was out in the snow, looking so unhappy, and has now taken up his abode in the shed, and neither Miss Smith nor I can entice him out, or get him to go away. And we are afraid to go near him.' "I followed Nellie readily enough, and there, lying on a sack, which he had taken possession of, was the dog in question. To all intents and purposes he was of a very common kind. Nobody in his senses would have given sixpence for him, except perhaps his owner, and who that might be was at present a mystery. "`Will you turn him out and send him away?' asked Nellie. "The dog looked in my face, oh, so pleadingly! "`Kind sir,' he seemed to say, `do speak a word for me; I'm so tired, my feet are sore, I've wandered far from home, and I am full of grief.' "`Send him away?' I replied to Nellie. `No, dear; you wouldn't, would you, if you thought he was weary, hungry, and in sorrow for his lost mistress? Look how thin he is.' "`Oh!' cried Nellie, her eyes filling with tears, `I'll run and bring him part of my own breakfast.' "`Nellie,' I said, as we parted, `be kind to that poor dog; he may bring you good fortune.' "I do not know even now why I should have made that remark, but events proved that my words were almost prophetic. It was evident that the dog had travelled a very long way; but under Nellie's tender care he soon recovered health and strength and spirits as well, and from that day for three long years you never would have met the girl unaccompanied by `Tray,' as we called him. "Now it came to pass that a certain young nobleman came of age, and a great fete was given to his tenantry at P--Park, and people came from quite a long distance to join in it. I saw Nellie the same evening. It had been a day of sorrow for her. Tray had found his long lost mistress. "`And, oh, such an ugly little old woman!' said Nellie almost spitefully, through her tears. `Oh, my poor Tray, I'll never, never see him more!' "Facts are stranger than fiction, however, and the little old lady whom Nellie thought so ugly adopted her (for she was an orphan), and Nellie became in time very fond of her. The dog Tray, whose real name by the way was Jumbo, had something to do with this fondness, no doubt. "The old lady is not alive now; but Nellie has been left all she possessed, Jumbo included. He is by this time very, very old; his lips are white with age, he is stiff too, and his back seems all one bone. As to his temper--well, the less I say about that the better, but he is always cross with everybody--except Nellie." CHAPTER FIVE. EMBODYING A LITTLE TALE AND A LITTLE ADVENTURE. "Reason raise o'er instinct as you can-- In this 'tis Heaven directs, in that 'tis man." If ever two days passed by without my seeing the portly form of my friend Captain D--, that is Frank, heaving in sight about twelve o'clock noon, round the corner of the road that led towards our cottage, then I at once concluded that Frank either had the gout or was gardening, and whether it were the fit of the gout or merely a fit of gardening, I felt it incumbent upon me to walk over to his house, a distance of little more than two miles, and see him. Welcome? Yes; I never saw the man yet who could give one a heartier welcome than poor Frank did. He was passionately fond of my two dogs, Nero and Aileen Aroon, and the love was mutual. But Frank had a dog of his own, "Meg Merrilees" to name, a beautiful and kind-hearted Scotch collie. Most jealous though she was of her master's affections, she never begrudged the pat and the caress Nero and Aileen had, and, indeed, she used to bound across the lawn to meet and be the first to welcome the three of us. On the occasion of my visits to Frank, I always stopped and dined with him, spending the evening in merry chatter, and tales of "auld lang syne," until it was time for me to start off on the return journey. When I had written anything for the magazines during the day, I made a practice of taking it with me, and reading over the manuscript to my friend, and a most attentive and amused listener he used to be. The following is a little _jeu d'esprit_ which I insert here, for no other reason in the world than that Frank liked it, so I think there _must_ be a little, _little_ bit of humour in it. It is, as will be readily seen, a kind of burlesque upon the show-points and properties of the Skye-terrier. I called the sketch-- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "THAT SKYE-TERRIER."--A BURLESQUE. "He's a good bred 'un, sir." This is the somewhat unclassical English with which "Wasp's" Yorkshire master introduced the puppy to me as he consigned it to my care, in return for which I crossed his hand five times with yellow gold. "And," he added, "he's a game 'un besides." I knew the former of these statements was quite correct from young Wasp's pedigree, and of the latter I was so convinced, before a week was over, that I consented to sell him to a parson for the same money I gave for him--and glad enough to get rid of him even then. At this time the youthful Wasp was a mere bundle of black fluff, with wicked blue eyes, and flashing teeth of unusually piercing properties. He dwelt in a distant corner of the parson's kitchen, in a little square basket or creel, and a servant was told off to attend upon him; and, indeed, that servant had about enough to do. Wasp seemed to know that Annie was his own particular "slavey," and insisted on her being constantly within hail of him. If she dared to go upstairs, or even to attend the door-bell, Wasp let all the house hear of it, and the poor good-natured girl was glad to run back for peace' sake. Another thing he insisted on was being conveyed, basket and all, to Annie's bedroom when she retired for the night. He also intimated to her that he preferred eating the first of his breakfasts at three o'clock every morning sharp, upon pain of waking the parson; his second at four; third at five, and so on until further notice. I was sorry for Annie. From the back of his little basket, where he had formed a fortress, garrisoned by Wasp himself, and provisioned with bones, boots, and slippers enough to stand a siege of any length of time, he used to be always making raids and forays on something. Even at this early age the whole aim of his existence seemed to be doing mischief. If he wasn't tearing Annie's Sunday boots, it was because he was dissecting the footstool; footstool failing, it was the cat. The poor cat hadn't a dog's life with him. He didn't mind pussy's claws a bit; he had a way of his own of backing stern on to her which defied her and saved his eyes. When close up he would seize her by the paw, and shake it till she screamed with pain. I was sorry for the cat. If you lifted Wasp up in your arms to have a look at him, he flashed his alabaster teeth in your face one moment, and fleshed them in your nose the next. He never looked you straight in the face, but aslant, from the corners of his wicked wee eyes. In course of time--not Pollok's--Wasp's black puppy-hair fell off, and discovered underneath the most beautiful silvery-blue coat ever you saw in your life; but his puppy-manners did not mend in the least. In his case the puppy was the father of the dog, and if anything the son was worse than the father. Talk of growing, oh! he did grow: not to the height--don't make any mistake, please; Wasp calculated he was plenty high enough already--but to the length, if you like. And every day when I went down to see him Annie would innocently ask me-- "See any odds on him this morning, doctor?" "Well, Annie," I would say, "he really does seem to get a little longer about every second day." "La! yes, sir, he do grow," Annie would reply--"'specially when I puts him before the fire awhile." Indeed, Annie assured me she could see him grow, and that the little blanket with which she covered him of a night would never fit in the morning, so that she had to keep putting pieces to it. As he got older, Wasp used to make a flying visit upstairs to see the parson, but generally came flying down again; for the parson isn't blessed with the best of tempers, anyhow. Quickly as he returned, Wasp was never down in time to avoid a kick from the clergyman's boot, for the simple reason that when Wasp's fore-feet were at the kitchen-door his hindquarters were never much more than half-way down the stairs. N.B.--I forgot to say that this story may be taken with a grain of salt, if not found spicy enough to the taste. There was a stove-pipe that lay in a back room; the pipe was about two yards long, more or less. Wasp used to amuse himself by running in at one end of it and out at the other. Well, one day he was amusing himself in this sort of way, when just as he entered one end for the second time, what should he perceive but the hindquarters of a pure-bred Skye just disappearing at the other. (You will please to remember that the stove-pipe was two yards long, more or less.) Day after day Wasp set himself to pursue this phantom Skye, through the pipe and through the pipe, for Wasp couldn't for the life of him make out why the animal always managed to keep just a _little_ way ahead of him. Still he was happy to think that day after day he was gaining on his foe, so he kept the pot a-boiling. And one day, to his intense joy, he actually caught the phantom by the tail, in the pipe. Joy, did I say? I ought to have said sorrow, for the tail was his own; but, being a game 'un, he wouldn't give in, but hung on like grim death until the plumber came and split the pipe and relieved him. (Don't forget the length of the pipe, please.) Even after he _was_ clear he spun round and round like a Saint Catherine's wheel, until he had to give in from sheer exhaustion. Yes, he was a long dog. And it came to pass, or was always coming to pass, that he grew, and he grew, and he grew, and the more he grew, the longer and thicker his hair grew, till, when he had grown his full length--and I shouldn't like to say how long that was--you couldn't have told which was his head and which was his tail till he barked; and even Annie confessed that she frequently placed his dish down at the wrong end of him. It was funny. If you take half a dozen goat-skins and roll them separately, in cylinders, with the hairy side out, and place them end to end on the floor, you will have about as good an idea of Wasp's shape and appearance as any I can think about. You know those circular sweeping-machines with which they clean the mud off the country roads? Well, Wasp would have done excellently well as the roller of one of those; and indeed, he just looked like one of them--especially when he was returning from a walk on a muddy morning. It was funny, too, that any time he was particularly wet and dirty, he always came to the front door, and made it a point of duty always to visit the drawing-room to have a roll on the carpet previously to being kicked downstairs. Getting kicked downstairs was Wasp's usual method of going below. I believe he came at last to prefer it--it saved time. Wasp's virtues as a house-dog were of a very high order: he always barked at the postman, to begin with; he robbed the milkman and the butcher, and bit a half-pound piece out of the baker's leg. No policeman was safe who dared to live within a hundred yards of him. One day he caught one of the servants of the gas company stooping down taking the state of the metre. This man departed in a very great hurry to buy sticking-plaster and visit his tailor. I lost sight of Wasp for about six months. At the end of that time I paid the parson a visit. When I inquired after my longitudinal friend, that clergyman looked very grave indeed. He did not answer me immediately, but took two or three vigorous draws at his meerschaum, allowing the smoke to curl upwards towards the roof of his study, and following it thoughtfully with his eyes; then he slowly rose and extracted a long sheet of blue foolscap from his desk, and I imagined he was going to read me a sermon or something. "Ahem!" said the parson. "I'll read you one or two casual items of Wasp's bill, and then you can judge for yourself how he is getting on." There is no mistake about it-- Wasp was a "well bred 'un and a game 'un." At the same time, I was sorry for the parson. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "I am really vexed that it is so dark and wet," said Frank that night, as he came to the lawn-gate to say good-bye. "I wish I could walk in with you, but my naughty toe forbids; or, I wish I could ask you to stay, but I know your wife and Ida would feel anxious." "Indeed they would," I replied; "they would both be out here in the pony and trap. Good-night; I'll find my way, and I've been wet before to-night." "Good-night; God bless you," from Frank. Now the lanes of Berkshire are most confusing even by daylight, and cabmen who have known them for years often go astray after dark, and experience considerable difficulty in finding their way to their destination. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that I, almost a stranger to them, should have lost myself on so dark a night. Aileen Aroon and Nero were coupled together, and from the centre of the short chain depended a small bicycle lamp, which rendered the darkness visible if it did nothing else. I led the dogs with a leathern strap. "It is the fourth turning to the right, then the second to the left, and second to the right again; so you are not going that way." I made this remark to the dogs, who had stopped at a turning, and wanted to drag me in what I considered the wrong direction. "The fourth turning, Aileen," I repeated, forcing them to come with me. The night seemed to get darker, and the rain heavier every moment, and that fourth turning seemed to have been spirited away. I found it at last, or thought I had done so, then the second to the left, and finally the second to the right. By this time the lights of the station should have appeared. They did not. We were lost, and evidently long miles from home. Lost, and it was near midnight. We were cold and wet and weary; at least I was, and I naturally concluded the poor dogs were so likewise. We tried back, but I very wisely left it to the two Newfoundlands now to find the way if they could. "Go home," I cried, getting behind them; and off they went willingly, and at a very rapid pace too. Over and over again, I felt sure that the poor animals were bewildered, and were going farther and farther astray. Well, at all events, I was bewildered, and felt still more so when I found myself on the brow of a hill, looking down towards station lights on the right instead of on the left, they ought to have been. They were our station lights, nevertheless, and a quarter of an hour afterwards we were all having supper together, the Newfoundlands having been previously carefully dried with towels. Did ever dogs deserve supper more? I hardly think so. CHAPTER SIX. AILEEN AND NERO--A DOG'S RECEIPT FOR KEEPING WELL--DOG'S IN THE SNOW IN GREENLAND--THE LIFE-STORY OF AILEEN'S PET, "FAIRY MARY." "Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace." Simplicity was one of the most prominent traits of Aileen's character. In some matters she really was so simple and innocent, that she could hardly take her own part. Indeed, in the matter of food, her own part was often taken from her, for any of the cats, or the smaller dogs, thought nothing of helping the noble creature to drink her drop of milk of a morning. Aileen, when they came to her assistance in this way, would raise her own head from the dish, and look down at them for a time in her kindly way. "You appear to be very hungry," she would seem to say, "perhaps more so than I am, and so I'll leave you to drink it all." Then Aileen would walk gently away, and throw herself down beneath the table with a sigh. There was a time when illness prevented me from leaving my room for many days, but as I had some serials going on in magazines, I could not afford to leave off working; I used, therefore, to write in my bedroom. As soon as she got up of a morning, often and often before she had her breakfast, Aileen would come slowly upstairs. I knew her quiet but heavy footsteps. Presently she would open the door about half-way, and look in. If I said nothing she would make a low and apologetic bow, and when I smiled she advanced. "I'm not sure if my feet be over clean," she would seem to say as she put her head on my lap with the usual deep-drawn sigh, "but I really could not help coming upstairs to see how you were this morning." Presently I would hear more padded footsteps on the stairs. This was the saucy champion Theodore Nero himself, there could be no mistake about that. He came upstairs two or three steps at a time, and flung the half-open door wide against the wall, then bounded into the room like a June thunderstorm. He would give one quick glance at Aileen. "Hallo!" he would say, talking with eyes and tail, "you're here, are you, old girl? Keeping the master company, eh? Well, I'm not very jealous. How goes it this morning, master?" Nero always brought into the sick-room about a hundredweight at least of jollity, sprightliness, life, and love. It used to make me better to see him, and make me long to be up and about, and out in the dear old pine woods again. "You always seem to be well and happy, Nero," I said to him one day; "how do you manage it?" "Wait," said Nero, "till I've finished this chop bone, and I'll tell you what you should do in order to be always the same as I am now." As there is some good in master Nero's receipt, I give it here in fall. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ A DOG'S RECEIPT FOR KEEPING WELL. "Get up in the morning as soon as the birds begin to sing, and if you're not on chain, take a good run round the garden. Always sleep in the open air. Don't eat more breakfast than is good for you, and take the same amount of dinner. Don't eat at all if you're not hungry. Eat plenty of grass, or green vegetables, if you like that better. Take plenty of exercise. Running is best; but if you don't run, walk, and walk, and walk till you're tired; you will sleep all the better for it. One hour's sleep after exercise is deeper, and sweeter, and sounder, and more refreshing than five hours induced by port-wine negus. Don't neglect the bath; I never do. Whenever I see a hole with water in it, I just jump in and swim around, then come out and dance myself dry. Do good whenever you can; I always do. Be brave, yet peaceful. Be generous, charitable, and honest. Never refuse a bit to a beggar, and never steal a bone from a butcher; so shall you live healthfully and happy, and die of the only disease anybody has any right to die of-- sheer old age." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I never saw a dog appreciate a joke better than did poor Nero. He had that habit of showing his teeth in a broad smile, which is common to the Newfoundland and collie. Here is a little joke that Nero once unintentionally perpetrated. He had a habit of throwing up the gravel with his two immense hinder paws, quite regardless of consequences. A poor little innocent mite of a terrier happened one day to be behind master Nero, when he commenced to scrape. The shower of stones and gravel came like the discharge from a _mitrailleuse_ on the little dog, and fairly threw him on his back. Nero happened to look about at the same time, and noticed what he had done. "Oh!" he seemed to say as he broke into a broad grin, "this is really too ridiculous, too utterly absurd." Then bounding across a ditch and through a hedge, he got into a green field, where he at once commenced his usual plan of working off steam, when anything extra-amusing tickled him, namely, that of running round and round and round in a wide circle. Many dogs race like this, no doubt for this reason: they can by so doing enjoy all the advantages of a good ran, without going any appreciable distance away from where master is. _Apropos_ of dogs gambolling and racing for the evident purpose of getting rid of an extra amount of animal electricity, I give an extract here from a recent book of mine [Note 1]. The sketch is painted from real life. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ DOGS IN THE SNOW IN GREENLAND. "The exuberance of great `Oscar's' joy when out with his master for a walk was very comical to witness. Out for a _walk_ did I say? Nay, that word but poorly expresses the nature of Oscar's pedal progression. It was not a walk, but a glorious compound of dance, scamper, race, gallop, and gambol. Had you been ever so old it would have made you feel young again to behold him. He knew while Allan was dressing that he meant to go out, and began at once to exhibit signs of impatience. He would yawn and stretch himself, and wriggle and shake; then he would open his mouth, and try to round a sentence in real verbal English, and tailing in this, fall back upon dog language, pure and simple, or he would stand looking at Allan with his beautiful head turned on one side, and his mouth a little open, just sufficiently so to show the tip of his bright pink tongue, and his brown eyes would speak to his master. `Couldn't you,' the dog would seem to ask--`couldn't you get on your coat a little--oh, _ever_ so little--faster? What can you want with a muffler? _I_ don't wear a muffler. And now you are looking for your fur cap, and there it is right before your very eyes!' "`And,' the dog would add, `I daresay we are off at last,' and he would hardly give his master time to open the companion door for him. "But once over the side, `Hurrah!' he would seem to say, then away he would bound, and away, and away, and away, straight ahead as crow could fly, through the snow and through the snow, which rose around him in feathery clouds, till he appeared but a little dark speck in the distance. This race straight ahead was meant to get rid of his super-extra steam. Having expended this, back he would come with a rush, and a run, make pretence to jump his master down, but dive past him at the last moment. Then he would gambol in front of his master in such a daft and comical fashion that made Allan laugh aloud; and, seeing his master laughing, Oscar would laugh too, showing such a double regiment of white, flashing, pearly teeth, that, with the quickness of the dog's motions, they seemed to begin at his lips and go right away down both sides of him as far as the tail. "Hurroosh! hurroosh! Each exclamation, reader, is meant to represent a kind of a double-somersault, which I verily believe Oscar invented himself. He performed it by leaping off the ground, bending sideways, and going right round like a top, without touching the snow, with a spring like that of a five-year-old salmon getting over a weir. "Hurroosh! hurroosh! "Then Allan would make a grab at his tail. "`Oh, that's your game!' Oscar would say; `then down _you_ go!' "And down Allan would roll, half buried in the powdery snow, and not be able to get up again for laughing; then away Oscar would rush wildly round and round in a complete circle, having a radius of some fifty yards, with Allan McGregor on his broad back for a centre." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Theodore Nero was as full of sauciness and _chique_ as ever was an Eton boy home for the holidays, or a midshipman on shore for a cruise. The following anecdote will illustrate his merry sauciness and Aileen's good-natured simplicity at the same time. Nero was much quicker in all his motions than Aileen, so that although she never failed to run after my walking-stick, she was never quick enough to find first. Now one day in throwing my stick it fell among a bed of nettles. Nero sprang after it as light as a cork, and brought it out; but having done so, he was fain to put it down on the road till he should rub his nose and sneeze, for the nettles had stung him in a tender part. To see what he would do, I threw the stick again among the nettles. But mark the slyness of the dog: he pretended not to see where it had fallen, and to look for it in quite another place, until poor simple Aileen had found it and fetched it. As soon as she got on to the road she must needs put down the stick to rub her nose, when, laughing all over, he bounded on it and brought it back to me. I repeated the experiment several times, with precisely the same result. Aileen was too simple and too good-natured to refuse to fetch the stick from the nettle-bed. About five minutes afterwards the fun was over. Nero happened to look at Aileen, who had stopped once more to rub her still stinging nose. Then the whole humour of the joke seemed to burst upon his imagination. Simply to smile was not enough; he must needs burst through a hedge, and get into a field, and it took ten minutes good racing round and round, as hard as his four legs could carry him, to restore this saucy rascal's mental equilibrium. Aileen Aroon was as fond of the lower animals, pet mice, cats, and rats, as any dog could be. Our pet rats used to eat out of her dish, run all over her, sit on her head while washing their faces, and go asleep under her chin. I saw her one day looking quite unhappy. She wanted to get up from the place where she was lying, but two piebald rats had gone to sleep in the bend of her forearm, and she was afraid to move, either for fear of hurting the little pets or of offending me. Seeing the situation, I at once took the rats away and put them in the cage; then Aileen got up, made a low and grateful bow, and walked out. The following is the life-story of one of Aileen's especial favourites:-- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "FAIRY MARY." My Mary is a rat. It is just as well to state this much at the outset. Candour, indeed, necessitates my doing so, because I know the very name of "rat" carries with it feelings which are far from pleasing to many. And now, having broken the ice, I may tell you that Mary is not an ordinary black or brown rat, but a rat of high, high caste indeed, having come from a far-away Oriental clime--Java, to wit. If you had never seen one of the same breed before, you would hardly take Mary to be a rat at all. Children are exceedingly fond of her; gentlemen admire her; old ladies dote on her, and young ones love her. I think even my black tom-cat is especially fond of her, judging from the notice he takes of her; he will sit for hours, and hardly ever take his green eyes off her cage. Black Tom once paid Mary a domiciliary visit, by way of appearing neighbourly. It was a grand spring, but missed by an inch, so Tom returned, looking inglorious. Having so far introduced my Mary, and confident you will like her better as you read on, let me try to describe the winsome wee thing. Mary--my rodent, let me call her--is smaller than a rat, and not quite the same in shape, for Mary's symmetry is elegance itself. Her eyes round, protrusive, but loving withal, are living burning garnets--garnets that speak. Her whole body is covered with long snowy fur, far richer than the finest ermine, and with an almost imperceptible golden tint at the tips, this tint being only seen in certain lights. Her tail is perhaps one of her principal points of beauty--long, sweeping, and graceful; she positively seems to talk with it. The forearms are very short and delicate, the hind-legs strong and muscular. Sitting on one end is Mary's almost constant position--kangaroo-like; then she holds up her little hands beseechingly before her. These latter are almost human in shape, and when she gives you her delicate, cold, transparent paw, you might easily fancy you were shaking hands with a fairy; and thus she is often called "Fairy Mary." Mary's hands are bare and pink, and the wrists are covered with very short downy fur, after which the coat suddenly elongates, so much so, that when she stands on end to watch a fly on the ceiling, you would imagine she wore a gown tight at the wrist, and with drooping sleeves. Now Mary is not only beautiful, but she is winning and graceful as well, for every one says so who sees her. And in under her soft fur Mary's skin is as clean and white and pure as mother-of-pearl. It only remains to say of this little pet, that in all her ways and manners she is as cleanly as the best-bred Persian cat, and her fur has not the faintest odour, musky or otherwise. Fairy Mary was originally one of three which came to me as a present. Alas for the fate of Mary's twin sister and only brother! A vagrant cat one evening in summer, while I was absent, entered by the open window, broke into the cage, and Mary alone was left alive. For a long time after this Mary was missing. She was seen at times, of an evening, flitting ghost-like across the kitchen floor, but she persistently refused to return to her desolated cage-home. She much preferred leading a free and easy vagrant kind of life between the cellar, the pantry, and the kitchen. She came out at times, however, and took her food when she thought nobody was looking, and she was known to have taken up her abode in one corner of the pantry, where once a mouse had lived. When she took this new house, I suppose she found it hardly large enough for her needs, because she speedily took to cleaning it out, and judging from the shovelfuls of rags, paper, shavings, and litter of all sorts, very industrious indeed must have been the lives of the "wee, tim'rous, cowerin' beasties" who formerly lived there. Then Mary built unto herself a new home in that sweet retirement, and very happy she seemed to be. Not happening to possess a cat just then, the mice had it all their own way; they increased and multiplied, if they didn't replenish the kitchen, and Mary reigned among them--a Bohemian princess, a gipsy queen. I used to leave a lamp burning in the kitchen on purpose to watch their antics, and before going to bed, and when all the house was still, I used to go and peep carefully through a little hole in the door. And there Fairy Mary would be, sure enough, racing round and round the kitchen like a mad thing, chased by at least a dozen mice, and every one of them squeaking with glee. But if I did but laugh--which, for the life of me, I could not sometimes help--off bolted the mice, leaving Fairy Mary to do an attitude wherever she might be. Then Mary would sniff the air, and listen, and so, scenting danger, hop off, kangaroo fashion, to her home in the pantry corner. It really did seem a pity to break up this pleasant existence of Mary's, but it had to be done. Mice eat so much, and destroy more. My mice, with Mary at their head, were perfect sappers and miners. They thought nothing of gutting a loaf one night, and holding a ball in it the next. So, eventually, Mary was captured, and once more confined to her cage, which she insisted upon having hung up in our sitting-room, where she could see all that went on. Here she never attempted, even once, to nibble her cage, but if hung out in the kitchen nothing could keep her in. At this stage of her existence, the arrangements for Mary's comfort were as follows: she dwelt in a nice roomy cage, with two perches in it, which she very much enjoyed. She had a glass dish for her food, and another for her milk, and the floor of the cage was covered with pine shavings, regularly changed once in two days, and among which Mary built her nest. Now, Fairy Mary has a very strong resemblance to a miniature polar bear, that is, she has all the motions of one, and does all his attitudes--in fact, acts the part of Bruin to perfection. This first gave me the notion--which I can highly recommend to the reader--of making Mary not only amusing, but ornamental to our sitting-room as well, for it must be confessed that a plain wooden cage in one's room is neither graceful nor pretty, however lovely the inmate may be. And here is how I managed it. At the back of our sitting-room is the kitchen, the two apartments being separated by a brick wall. Right through this wall a hole or tunnel was drilled big enough for Mary to run through with ease. The kitchen end of this tunnel was closed by means of a little door, which was so constructed that by merely touching an unseen spring in the sitting-room, it could be opened at will. Against the kitchen end of the tunnel a cage for Mary was hung. This was to be her dining-room, her nest, and sleeping-berth. Now, for the sitting-room end of the tunnel, I had a painting made on a sheet of glass, over two feet long by eighteen inches high. The scene represented is from a sketch in North Greenland, which I myself had made, a scene in the frozen sea--the usual blue sky which you always find over the ice, an expanse of snow, a bear in the distance, and a ship frozen in and lying nearly on her beam ends. A dreary enough look-out, in all conscience, but true to nature. There was a hole cut in the lower end of this glass picture, to match the diameter of the tunnel, and the picture was then fastened close against the wall. So far you will have followed me. The next thing was to frame this glass picture in a kind of cage, nine inches deep; the peculiarity of this cage being, that the front of it was a sheet of clear white glass, the sides only being of brass wire; the floor and top were of wood, the former being painted white, like the snow, and the latter blue, to form a continuation of the sky; a few imitation icebergs were glued on here and there, and one of these completely hides the entrance to the tunnel, forming a kind of rude cave--Fairy Mary's cave. In the centre of this cage was raised a small bear's pole steps and all complete. We call it the North Pole. The whole forms a very pretty ornament indeed, especially when Mary is acting on this little Greenland stage. Mary knows her name, and never fails to come to call, and indeed she knows a very great deal that is said to her. Whenever she pops through her tunnel, the little door at the kitchen end closes behind her, and she is a prisoner in Greenland until I choose to send her off. If she is in her kitchen cage, and I wish her to come north, and disport herself to the amusement of myself or friends--one touch to the spring, one cabalistic word, and there comes the little performer, all alive and full of fun. Now I wish the reader to remember that Fairy Mary is not only the very essence of cleanliness, but the pink of politeness as well. Hence, Mary is sometimes permitted to come to table. And Mary is an honest rat. She has been taught to look at everything, but handle nothing. Therefore there cannot be the slightest possible objection to her either sitting on my shoulder on one end, and gazing wonderingly around her, or examining my ear, or making a nest of my beard, or running down my arm, and having a dance over the tablecloth. I think I said Mary was an honest rat, but she has just one tiny failing in the way of honesty, which, as her biographer, I am bound to mention. She can't quite resist the temptation of a bit of butter. But she helps herself to just one little handful, and does it, too, with such a graceful air, that, for the life of me, I couldn't be angry with her. Well, except a morsel of butter, Mary will touch nothing on the table, nor will she take anything from your hand, if you offer it to her ever so coaxingly. She prefers to eat her meals in Greenland, or on the North Pole itself. Mary's tastes as regards food are various. She is partial to a bit of cheese, but would not touch bacon for the world. This is rather strange, because it was exactly the other way with her brother and sister. The great treat of the twenty-four hours with Mary is to get down in the evening, when the lamps are lighted, to have a scamper on the table. Her cage is brought in from the kitchen, and set down, and the door of it thrown open. This cage thus becomes Mary's harbour of refuge, from which she can sally forth and play tricks. Anything you place on the table is seized forthwith, and carried inside. She will carry an apple nearly as big as herself, and there will not be much of it left in the morning; for one of Mary's chief delights is to have a little feast all to herself, when the lights are out. Lettuce leaves she is partial to, and will carry them to her cage as fast as you can throw them down to her. She rummages the work-basket, and hops off with every thimble she can find. After Fairy Mary's private establishment was broken up in the kitchen, it became necessary to clean up the corner of the pantry where she had dwelt. Then was Mary's frugality and prudence as a housewife made clear to the light of day I could hardly be supposed to tell you everything she had stored up, but I remember there were crusts of bread, bits of cheese, lumps of dog-biscuit, halves of apples, small potatoes, and crumbs of sugar, and candle ends, and bones and herrings' heads, besides one pair of gold sleeve-links, an odd shirt-stud, a glass stopper from a scent-bottle, brass buttons, and, to crown the lot, one silver threepenny-piece of the sterling coin of the realm. And that is the story of my rat; and I'm sure if you knew her you, too, would like her. She is such a funny, wee, sweet little _mite_ of a Mary. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. "The Cruise of the _Snowbird_" published by Messrs. Hodder and Stoughton, Paternoster Row. CHAPTER SEVEN. ONLY A DOG. "Old dog, you are dead--we must all of us die-- You are gone, and gone whither? Can any one say? I trust you may live again, somewhat as I, And haply, `go on to perfection'--some way!" Tupper. Poor little Fairy Mary, the favourite pet of Aileen Aroon, went the way of all rats at last. She was not killed. No cat took her. Our own cats were better-mannered than to touch a pet. But we all went away on a summer holiday, and as it was not convenient to take every one of our pets with us, Mary was left at home in charge of the servants. When we returned she was gone, dead and buried. She had succumbed to a tumour in the head which was commencing ere we started. I think Aileen missed her very much, for she used to lie and watch the empty cage for an hour at a time, thinking no doubt that by-and-by Fairy Mary would pop out of some of her usual haunts. "Dolls" was one of Aileen's contemporaries, and one that she had no small regard for. Dolls was a dog, and a very independent little fellow he was, as his story which I here give will show. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ DOLLS: HIS LITTLE STORY. There was a look in the dark-brown eyes of Dolls that was very captivating when you saw it. I say when you saw it, because it wasn't always you could see it, for Dolls' face was so covered with his dishevelled locks, that the only wonder was that he could find his way about at all. Dolls was a Scotch terrier--a _real_ Scotch terrier. Reddish or sandy was he all over--in fact, he was just about the colour of gravel in the gloaming; I am quite sure of this, because when he went out with me about the twilight hour, I couldn't see him any more than if he wasn't in existence; when it grew a little darker, strange to say, Dolls became visible once more. Plenty of coat had Dolls too. You could have hidden a glove under his mane, and nobody been a bit the wiser. When he sat on one end, gazing steadfastly up into a tree, from which some independent pussy stared saucily down upon him, Dolls looked for all the world like a doggie image draped in a little blanket. Dolls had a habit of treeing pussies. This, indeed, was about the only bad trait in Dolls' character. He hated a pussy more than sour milk, and nobody knew this better than the pussies themselves. Probably, indeed, they were partly to blame for maintaining the warfare. I've seen a cat in a tree, apparently trying her very best to mesmerise poor Dolls--Dolls blinking funnily up at her, she gazing cunningly down. There they would sit and sit, till suddenly down to the ground would spring pussy, and with a warlike and startling "Fuss!" that quite took the doggie's breath away, and made all his hair stand on end, clout Master Dolls in the face, and before that queer wee specimen of caninity could recover his equanimity, disappear through a neighbouring hedgerow. Now cats have a good deal more patience than dogs. Sometimes on coming trotting home of an evening, Dolls would find a cat perched up in the pear-tree sparrow-expectant. "Oh! _you're_ there, are you?" Dolls would say. "Well, I'm not in any particular hurry, I can easily wait a bit." And down he would sit, with his head in the air. "All right, Dolls, my doggie," Pussy would reply. "I've just eaten a sparrow, and not long ago I had a fine fat mouse, and, milk with it, and now I'll have a nap. Nice evening, isn't it?" Well, Master Dolls would watch there, maybe for one hour and maybe for two, by which time his patience would become completely exhausted. "You're not worth a wag of my tail," Dolls would say. "So good-night." Then off he would trot. But Dolls wasn't a beauty, by any manner of means. I don't think anybody who wasn't an admirer of doormats, and a connoisseur in heather besoms could have found much about Dolls to go into raptures over, but, somehow or other, the little chap always managed to find friends wherever he went. Dolls was a safe doggie with children, that is, with well-dressed, clean-looking children, but with the gutter portion of the population Dolls waged continual warfare. Doubtless, because they teased him, and made believe to throw pebbles at him, though I don't think they ever did in reality. Dolls was a great believer in the virtues of fresh air, and spent much of his time out of doors. He had three or four houses, too, in the village which he used to visit regularly once, and sometimes twice, a day. He would trot into a kitchen with a friendly wag or two of his little tail, which said, plainly enough, "Isn't it wet, though?" or "Here is jolly weather just!" "Come away, Dolls," was his usual greeting. Thus welcomed, Dolls would toddle farther in, and seat himself by the fire, and gaze dreamily in through the bars at the burning coals, looking all the while as serious as possible. I've often wondered, and other people used to wonder too, what Dolls could have been thinking about as he sat thus. Perhaps--like many a wiser head--he was building little morsels of castles in the air, castles that would have just the same silly ending as yours or mine, reader--wondering what he should do if he came to be a great big bouncing dog like Wolf the mastiff; how all the little doggies would crouch before him, and how dignified he would look as he strode haughtily away from them; and so on, and so forth. But perhaps, after all, Dolls was merely warming his mite of a nose, and not giving himself up to any line of thought in particular. Now, it wasn't with human beings alone that this doggie was a favourite; and what I am now going to mention is rather strange, if not funny. You see, Dolls always got out early in the morning. There was a great number of other little dogs in the village besides himself--poodles, Pomeranians, and Skyes, doggies of every denomination and all shades of colour, and many of these got up early too. There is no doubt early morn is the best time for small dogs, because little boys are not yet up, and so can't molest them. Well, it did seem that each of these doggies, almost every morning, made up its mind to come and visit Dolls. At all events, most of them _did_ come, and, therefore, Dolls was wont to hold quite a tiny _levee_ on the lawn shortly after sunrise. After making obeisance to General Dolls, these doggies would form themselves into a _conversazione_, and go promenading round the rose-trees in twos and twos. Goodness only knows what they talked about; but I must tell you that these meetings were nearly always of a peaceable, amicable nature. Only once do I remember a _conversazione_ ending in a general conflict. "Well," said Dolls, "if it _is_ going to be a free fight, I'm in with you." Then Dolls threw himself into it heart and soul. But to draw the story of Dolls to a conclusion, there came to live near my cottage home an old sailor, one of Frank's friends. This ancient mariner was one of the Tom Bowling type, for the darling of many a crew he had been in his time, without doubt. There was good-nature, combined with pluck, in every lineament of his manly, well-worn, red and rosy countenance, and his hair was whitened--not by the snows of well-nigh sixty winters, for I rather fancy it was the summers that did it, the summers' heat, and the _bearing of_ the brunt of many a tempest, and the anxiety inseparable from a merchant skipper's pillow. There was a merry twinkle in his eyes, that put you mightily in mind of the monks of old. And when he gave you his hand, it was none of your half-and-half shakes, let me tell you; that there was honesty in every throb of that man's heart you could tell from that very grasp. Yes, he was a jolly old tar, and a good old tar; and he hadn't seen Dolls and been in his company for two hours, before he fell in love with the dog downright, and, says he, "Doctor, you want a good home for Dolls; there is something in the little man's eye that I a sort of like. As long as he sails with me, he'll never want a good bed, nor a good dinner; so, if you'll give him to me, I'll be glad to take him." We shook hands. Now this was to be the last voyage that ever that ancient mariner meant to make, until he made that long voyage which we all must do one of these days. And it _was_ his last too; not, however, in the way you generally read of in stories, for the ship didn't go down, and he wasn't drowned, neither was Dolls. On the contrary, my friend returned, looking as hale and hearty as ever, and took a cottage in the country, meaning to live happily and comfortably ever after. And almost the first intimation I received of his return was carried by the doggie himself, for going out one fine morning, I found Dolls on the lawn, surrounded as usual, by about a dozen other wee doggies, to whom, from their spellbound look, I haven't a doubt he was telling the story of his wonderful adventures by sea and by land, for, mind you, Dolls had been all the way to Calcutta. And Dolls was so happy to see me again, and the lawn, and the rose-trees, and vagrant pussies, and no change in anything, that he was fain to throw himself at my feet and weep in the exuberance of his joy. Dolls' new home was at H--, just three miles from mine; and this is somewhat strange--regularly, once a month the little fellow would trot over, all by himself, and see me. He remained in the garden one whole day, and slept on the doormat one whole night, but could never be induced either to _enter the house or to partake of food_. So no one could accuse Dolls of cupboard love. When the twenty-four hours which he allotted to himself for the visit were over, Dolls simply trotted home again, but, as sure as the moon, he returned again in another month. A bitter, bitter winter followed quickly on the heels of that pleasant summer of 187--. The snow fell fast, and the cold was intense, thermometer at times sinking below zero. You could ran the thrushes down, and catch them by hand, so lifeless were they; and I could show you the bushes any day where blackbirds dropped lifeless on their perches. Even rooks came on to the lawn to beg; they said there wasn't a hip nor a haw to be found in all the countryside. And robin said he couldn't sing at all on his usual perch, the frost and the wind quite took his breath away; so he came inside to warm his toes. One wild stormy night, I had retired a full hour sooner to rest, for the wind had kept moaning so, as it does around a country house. The wind moaned, and fiercely shook the windows, and the powdery snow sifted in under the hall-door, in spite of every arrangement to prevent it. I must have been nearly asleep, but I opened my eyes and started at _that_--a plaintive cry, rising high over the voice of the wind, and dying away again in mournful cadence. Twice it was repeated, then I heard no more. It must have been the wind whistling through the keyhole, I thought, as I sunk to sleep. Perhaps it was, reader; but early next morning I found poor wee Dolls dead on the doorstep. CHAPTER EIGHT. A TALE TOLD BY THE OLD PINE-TREE. "Dumb innocents, often too cruelly treated, May well for their patience find future reward." Tupper. Bonnie Berkshire! It is an expression we often make use of. Bonnie Berks--bonnie even in winter, when the fields are robed in starry snow; bonnie in spring-time, when the fields are rolling clouds of tenderest green, when the young wheat is peeping through the brown earth, when primroses cluster beneath the hedgerows, and everything is so gay and so happy and hopeful that one's very soul soars heavenwards with the lark. But Berks I thought never looked more bonnie than it did one lovely autumn morning, when Ida and I and the dogs walked up the hill towards our favourite seat in the old pine wood. It was bright and cool and clear. The hedges alone were a sight, for blackthorn and brambles had taken leave of their senses in summer-time, and gone trailing here and climbing there, and playing all sorts of fantastic tricks, and now with the autumn tints upon them, they formed the prettiest patches of light and shade imaginable; and though few were the flowers that still peeped through the green moss as if determined to see the last of the sunshine, who could miss them with such gorgeous colour on thorn and tree? The leaves were still on the trees; only whenever a light gust of wind swept through the tall hedge with a sound like ocean shells, Ida and I were quite lost for a time, in a shower as of scented yellow snow. My niece put her soft little hand in mine, as she said--"You haven't forgotten the manuscript, have you?" "Oh! no," I said, smiling, "I haven't forgotten it." "Because," she added, "I do like you to tell me a story when we are all by ourselves." "Thank you," said I, "but this story, Ida, is one I'm going to tell to Aileen, because it is all about a Newfoundland dog." "Oh! never mind," she cried, "Nero and I shall sit and listen, and it will be all the same." "Well, Ida," I said, when we were seated at last, "I shall call my tale--" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ BLUCHER: THE STORY OF A NEWFOUNDLAND. "We usually speak of four-in-hands rattling along the road. There was no rattling about the mail-coach, however, that morning, as she seemed to glide along towards the granite city, as fast as the steaming horses could tool her. For the snow lay deep on the ground, and but for the rattle of harness, and champing of bits, you might have taken her for one of Dickens's phantom mails. It was a bitter winter's morning. The driver's face was buried to the eyes in the upturned neck of his fear-nothing coat; the passengers snoozed and hibernated behind the folds of their tartan plaids; the guard, poor man! had to look abroad on the desolate scene and his face was like a parboiled lobster in appearance. He stamped in his seat to keep his feet warm, although it was merely by reasoning from analogy that he could get himself to believe that he had any feet at all, for, as far as feeling went, his body seemed to end suddenly just below the knees, and when he attempted to emit some cheering notes from the bugle, the very notes seemed to freeze in the instrument. Presently, the coach pulled up at the eighth-milehouse to change horses, and every one was glad to come down if only for a few moments. "The landlord,--remember, reader, I'm speaking of the far north, where mail-coaches are still extant, and the landlords of hostelries still visible to the naked eye. The landlord was there himself to welcome the coach, and he rubbed his hands and hastened to tell everybody that it was a stormy morning, that there would, no doubt, be a fresh fall ere long, and that there was a roaring fire in the room, and oceans of mulled porter. Few were able to resist hints like these, and orders for mulled porter and soft biscuits became general. "Big flakes of snow began to fall slowly earthward, as the coach once more resumed its journey, and before long so thick and fast did it come down that nothing could be seen a single yard before the horses' heads. "Well, there was something or other down there in the road that didn't seem to mind the snow a bit, something large, and round, and black, feathering round and round the coach, and under the horses' noses--here, there, and everywhere. But its gambols, whatever it was, came to a very sudden termination, as that howl of anguish fully testified. The driver was a humane man, and pulled up at once. "`I've driven over a bairn, or a dog, or some o' that fraternity,' he said; `some o' them's continually gettin' in the road at the wrang time. Gang doon, guard, and see aboot it. It howls for a' the warld like a young warlock.' "Down went the guard, and presently remounted, holding in his arms the recipient of the accident. It was a jet-black Newfoundland puppy, who was whining in a most mournful manner, for one of his paws had been badly crushed. "`Now,' cried the guard, `I'll sell the wee warlock cheap. Wha'll gie an auld sang for him? He is onybody's dog for a gill of whuskey.' "`I'll gie ye twa gills for him, and chance it,' said a quiet-looking farmer in one of the hinder seats. The puppy was handed over at once, and both seemed pleased with the transfer. The farmer nursed his purchase inside a fold of his plaid until the coach drew up before the door of the city hotel, when he ordered warm water, and bathed the little creature's wounded paw. "Little did the farmer then know how intimately connected that dog was yet to be, with one of the darkest periods of his life's history. "Taken home with the farmer to the country, carefully nursed and tended, and regularly fed, `Blucher,' as he was called, soon grew up into a very fine dog, although always more celebrated for his extreme fidelity to his master, than for any large amount of good looks. "One day the farmer's shepherd brought in a poor little lamb, wrapped up in the corner of his plaid. He had found it in a distant nook of a field, apparently quite deserted by its mother. The lamb was brought up on the bottle by the farmer's little daughter, and as time wore on grew quite a handsome fellow. "The lamb was Blucher's only companion. The lamb used to follow Blucher wherever he went, romped and played with him, and at night the two companions used to sleep together in the kitchen; the lamb's head pillowed on the dog's neck, or _vice versa_, just as the case might be. Blucher and his friend used to take long rambles together over the country; they always came back safe enough, and looking pleased and happy, but for a considerable time nobody was able to tell where they had been to. It all came out in good time, however. Blucher, it seems, in his capacity of _chaperon_ to his young friend, led the poor lamb into mischief. It was proved, beyond a doubt, that Blucher was in the daily habit of leading `Bonny' to different cabbage gardens, showing him how to break through, and evidently rejoicing to see the lamb enjoying himself. I do not believe that poor Blucher knew that he was doing any injury or committing a crime. `At all events,' he might reason with himself, `it isn't I who eat the cabbage, and why shouldn't poor Bonny have a morsel when he seems to like it so much?' "But Blucher suffered indirectly from his kindness to Bonny, for complaints from the neighbours of the depredations committed in their gardens by the `twa thieves,' as they were called, became so numerous, that at last poor Bonny had to pay the penalty for his crimes with his life. He became mutton. A very disconsolate dog now was poor Blucher, moaning mournfully about the place, and refusing his food, and, in a word, just behaving as you and I would, reader, if we lost the only one we loved. But I should not say the only one that Blucher loved, for he still had his master, the farmer, and to him he seemed to attach himself more than ever, since the death of the lamb; he would hardly ever leave him, especially when the farmer's calling took him anywhere abroad. "About one year after Bonny's demise, the farmer began to notice a peculiar numbness in the limbs, but paid little attention to it, thinking that no doubt time--the poor man's physician--would cure it. Supper among the peasantry of these northern latitudes is generally laid about half-past six. Well, one dark December's day, at the accustomed hour, both the dog and his master were missed from the table. For some time little notice was taken of this, but as time flew by, and the night grew darker, his family began to get exceedingly anxious. "`Here comes father at last,' cried little Mary, the farmer's daughter. "Her remark was occasioned by hearing Blucher scraping at the door, and demanding admittance. Little Mary opened the door, and there stood Blucher, sure enough; but although the night was clear and starlight, there wasn't a sign of father. The strange conduct of Blucher now attracted Mary's attention. He never had much affection for her, or for any one save his master, but now he was speaking to her, as plain as a dog could speak. He was running round her, barking in loud sharp tones, as he gazed into her face, and after every bark pointing out into the night, and vehemently wagging his tail. There was no mistaking such language. Any one could understand his meaning. Even one of those _strange people, who hate dogs_, would have understood him. Mary did, anyhow, and followed Blucher at once. On trotted the honest fellow, keeping Mary trotting too, and many an anxious glance he cast over his shoulder to her, saying plainly enough, `Don't you think you could manage to run just a _leetle_ faster?' Through many a devious path he led her, and Mary was getting very tired, yet fear for her father kept her up. After a walk, or rather run, of fully half an hour, honest Blucher brought the daughter to the father's side. "He was lying on the cold ground, insensible and helpless, struck down by that dreadful disease--paralysis. But for the sagacity and intelligence of his faithful dog, death from cold and exposure would certainly have ended his sufferings ere morning dawned. But Blucher's work was not yet over for the night, for no sooner did he see Mary kneeling down by her father's side, than he started off home again at full speed, and in less than half an hour was back once more, accompanied by two of the servants. "The rest of this dog's history can be told in very few words, and I am sorry it had so tragic an ending. "During all the illness which supervened on the paralysis, Blucher could seldom, if ever, be prevailed on to leave his master's bedside, and every one who approached the patient was eyed with extreme suspicion. I think I have already mentioned that Mary was no great favourite with Blucher, and Mary, if she reads these lines, must excuse me for saying, I believe it was her own fault, for if you are half frightened at a dog he always thinks you harbour some ill-will to him, and would do him an injury if you could. However, one day poor Mary came running in great haste to her father's bedside. Most incautious haste as it turned out, for the dog sprang up at once and bit her in the leg. For this, honest Blucher was _condemned to death_. I think, taking into consideration his former services, and the great love he bore to his afflicted master, he might have been forgiven just for this once. "That his friends afterwards repented of their rashness I do not doubt, for they have erected a monument over his grave. This monument tells how faithfully he served his master, and how he loved him, and saved his life, and although fifty years have passed since its erection, it still stands to mark the spot where faithful Blucher lies." CHAPTER NINE. TEA ON THE LAWN, AND THE STORY OF A STARLING. "Thy spangled breast bright sprinkled specks adorn, Each plume imbibes the rosy-tinted morn." "Sit down, Frank," said I; "my wife and Ida will be here presently. It is so pleasant to have tea out of doors." "Yes," said Frank, "especially such tea as this. But," he added, fishing a flower-spray from his cup with his spoon, "I do not want jasmine in mine." "Good wine needs no bush," I remarked. "Nor good tea no scent," said my friend. "Although, Frank, the Chinese do scent some of their Souchongs with jasmine, the _Jasminum Sambuc_." "Oh! dear uncle," cried Ida, "don't talk Latin. Maggie the magpie will be doing it next." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the pie called Maggie, who was very busy in the bottom of her cage. I never, by the way, heard any bird or human being laugh in such a cuttingly tantalising way as that magpie did. It was a sneering laugh, which made you feel that the remark you had just made previously was ridiculously absurd. As she laughed she kept on pegging away at whatever she was doing. "Go on," she seemed to say. "I am listening to all you are saying, but I really can't help laughing, even with my mouth full. Ha! ha! ha!" "Well, Ida dear," I said, "I certainly shall not talk Latin if there be the slightest chance of that impudent bird catching it up. Is this better? "`My slight and slender jasmine tree, That bloomest on my border tower, Thou art more dearly loved by me Than all the wealth of fairy bower. I ask not, while I near thee dwell, Arabia's spice or Syria's rose; Thy light festoons more freshly smell, Thy virgin white more freshly glows.'" "And now," said my wife, "what about the story?" "Yes, tea and a tale," cried Frank. "Do you know," I replied, "that the starling is the best of all talking pets? And I do wonder why people don't keep them more often than they do?" "They are difficult to rear, are they not?" "Somewhat, Frank, when young, as my story will show." "These," I continued, "are some kindly directions I have written about the treatment of these charming birds." "Dear me!" cried the magpie. "Hold your tongue, Maggie," I said, "or you'll go into the house, cage and all." Maggie laughed sneeringly, and all throughout the story she kept interrupting me with impudent remarks, which quite spoiled the effect of my eloquence. _The Starling's Cage_.--This should be as large and as roomy as possible, or else the bird will break his tail and lose other feathers, to the great detriment of his plumage and beauty. The cage may be a wicker-work one, or simply wire, but the bars must not be too wide. However much liberty you allow Master Dick in your presence, during your absence it will generally be as well to have him inside his dwelling-place; let the fastening of its door, then, be one which he cannot pick. Any ordinary wire fastening is of no use; the starling will find the cue to it in a single day. Tin dishes for the bird's food will be found best, and they must be well shipped, or else he will speedily tear them down. A large porcelain water fountain should be placed outside the cage; he will try to bathe even in this, and I hardly know how it can be prevented. Starlings are very fond of splashing about in the water, and ought to have a bath on the kitchen floor every day, unless you give them a proper bathing cage. After the bath place him in the sun or near the fire to dry and preen himself. _Cleanliness_.--This is most essential. The cage and his feeding and drinking utensils should be washed every day. The drawers beneath must be taken out, cleaned, washed, and _dried_ before being put back, and a little rough gravel scattered over the bottom of it. If you would wish your bird to enjoy proper health--and without that he will never be a good speaker or musician--keep all his surroundings dry and sweet, and never leave yesterday's food for to-day's consumption. _Food_.--Do not give the bird salt food, but a little of anything else that is going can always be allowed him. Perhaps bread soaked in water, the water squeezed out, and a little new milk poured over, forms the best staple of diet. But, in addition to this, shreds of raw meat should be given, garden worms, slugs, etc. Carry him round the room on your finger, stopping when you see a fly on the wall or a picture-frame, and holding the starling near it. He will thus soon learn to catch his own flies, and take such delight in this kind of stalking that, as soon as he can speak, he will pester you with his importunities to be thus carried round. White fish these birds are very fond of, and also fresh salmon. Fruit should be given to them now and then, a fig being considered by them an especial delicacy. A little chickweed or other green food is also relished. This may be placed on the top of the cage. Finally starlings, no matter how well you feed them, will not thrive without plenty of exercise. The male bird is the better talker, and more active and saucy, as well as more beautiful and graceful in shape and plumage. Be assured the bird is very young before purchasing it. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ MY STARLING "DICK." I feel very lonely now since my starling is gone. I could not bear to look upon his empty cage, his bath and playthings, so I have had them all stowed away; but the bird will dwell in my memory for many a day. The way in which that starling managed to insinuate itself into my heart and entwine its affections with mine, I can never rightly tell; and it is only now when it is gone that I really know how much it is possible for a human creature to love a little bird. The creature was nearly always with me, talking to me, whistling to me, or even doing mischief in a small way, to amuse me; and to throw down my pen, straighten my back, and have a romp with "Dick," was often the best relaxation I could have had. The rearing of a nest of starlings is always a very difficult task, and I found it peculiarly so. In fact, one young starling would require half-a-dozen servants at least to attend it. I was not master of those starlings, not a bit of it; they were masters of me. I had to get out of bed and stuff them with food at three o'clock every morning. They lived in a bandbox in a closet off my bedroom. I had to get up again at four o'clock to feed them, again at five, and again at six; in fact, I saw more sunrises during the infancy of that nest of starlings than ever I did before or since. By day, and all day long, I stuffed them, and at intervals the servant relieved me of that duty. In fact, it was pretty near all stuffing; but even then they were not satisfied, and made several ineffectual attempts to swallow my finger as well. At length-- and how happy I felt!--they could both feed themselves and fly. This last accomplishment, however, was anything but agreeable to me, for no sooner did I open their door than out they would all come, one after the other, and seat themselves on my head and shoulders, each one trying to make more noise than all the rest and outdo his brothers in din. I got so tired of this sort of thing at last, that one day I determined to set them all at liberty. I accordingly hung their cage outside the window and opened their door, and out they all flew, but back they came into the room again, and settled on me as usual. "Then," said I, "I'm going gardening." By the way they clung to me it was evident their answer was: "And so are we." And so they did. And as soon as I commenced operations with the spade they commenced operations too, by searching for and eating every worm I turned up, evidently thinking I was merely working for their benefit and pleasure. I got tired of this. "O bother you all!" I cried; "I'm sick of you." I threw down my spade in disgust; and before they could divine my intention, I had leaped the fence and disappeared in the plantation beyond. "Now," said I to myself, as I entered the garden that evening after my return, and could see no signs of starlings, "I'm rid of you plagues at last;" and I smiled with satisfaction. It was short-lived, for just at that moment "Skraigh, skraigh, skraigh" sounded from the trees adjoining; and before I could turn foot, my tormentors, seemingly mad with joy, were all sitting on me as usual. Two of them died about a week after this; and the others, being cock and hen, I resolved to keep. Both Dick and his wife soon grew to be very fine birds. I procured them a large roomy cage, with plenty of sand and a layer of straw in the bottom of it, a dish or two, a bath, a drinking fountain, and always a supply of fresh green weeds on the roof of their domicile. Besides their usual food of soaked bread, etc, they had slugs occasionally, and flies, and earthworms. Once a day the cage-door was thrown open, and out they both would fly with joyful "skraigh" to enjoy the luxury of a bath on the kitchen floor. One would have imagined that, being only two, they would not have stood on the order of their going; but they did, at least Dick did, for he insisted upon using the bath first, and his wife had to wait patiently until his lordship had finished. This was part of Dick's domestic discipline. When they were both thoroughly wet and draggled, and everything within a radius of two yards was in the same condition, their next move was to hop on to the fender, and flatter and gaze pensively into the fire; and two more melancholy-looking, ragged wretches you never saw. When they began to dry, then they began to dress, and in a few minutes "Richard was himself again," and so was his wife. Starlings have their own natural song, and a strange noise they make too. Their great faculty, however, is the gift of imitation, which they have in a wonderful degree of perfection. The first thing that Dick learned to imitate was the rumbling of carts and carriages on the street, and very proud he was of the accomplishment. Then he learned to pronounce his own name, with the prefix "Pretty," which he never omitted, and to which he was justly entitled. Except when sitting on their perch singing or piping, these two little pets were never tired engineering about their cage, and everything was minutely examined. They were perfect adepts at boring holes; by inserting the bill closed, and opening it like a pair of scissors, lo! the thing was done. Dick's rule of conduct was that he himself should have the first of everything, and be allowed to examine first into everything, to have the highest perch and all the tit-bits; in a word, to rule, king and priest, in his own cage. I don't suppose he hated his wife, but he kept her in a state of inglorious subjection to his royal will and pleasure. "Hezekiah" was the name he gave his wife. I don't know why, but I am sure no one taught him this, for he first used the name himself, and then I merely corrected his pronunciation. Sometimes Dick would sit himself down to sing a song; and presently his wife would join in with a few simple notes of melody; upon which Dick would stop singing instantly, and look round at her with indignation. "Hezekiah! Hezekiah!" he would say, which being interpreted, clearly meant: "Hezekiah, my dear, how can you so far forget yourself as to presume to interrupt your lord and master, with that cracked and quavering voice of yours?" Then he would commence anew; and Hezekiah being so good-natured, would soon forget her scolding and again join in. This was too much for Dick's temper; and Hezekiah was accordingly chased round and round the cage and soundly thrashed. His conduct altogether as a husband, I am sorry to say, was very far from satisfactory. I have said he always retained the highest perch for himself; but sometimes he would turn one eye downwards, and seeing Hezekiah sitting so cosily and contentedly on her humble perch, would at once conclude that her seat was more comfortable than his; so down he would hop and send her off at once. It was Dick's orders that Hezekiah should only eat at meal-times; that meant at all times when he chose to feed, _after he was done_. But I suppose his poor wife was often a little hungry in the interim, for she would watch till she got Dick fairly into the middle of a song and quite oblivions of surrounding circumstances, then she would hop down and snatch a meal on the sly. But dire was the punishment far the deceit if Dick found her out. Sometimes I think she used to long for a little love and affection, and at such times she would jump up on the perch beside her husband, and with a fond cry sidle close to him. "Hezekiah! Hezekiah!" he would exclaim; and if she didn't take that hint, she was soon knocked to the bottom of the cage. In fact, Dick was a domestic tyrant, but in all other respects a dear affectionate little pet. One morning Dick got out of his cage by undoing the fastening, and flew through the open window, determined to see what the world was like, leaving Hezekiah to mourn. It was before five on a summer's morning that he escaped; and I saw no more of him until, coming out of church that day, the people were greatly astonished to see a bird fly down from the steeple and alight upon my shoulder. He retained his perch all the way home. He got so well up to opening the fastening of his cage-door that I had to get a small spring padlock, which defied him, although he studied it for months, and finally gave it up, as being one of those things which no fellow could understand. Dick soon began to talk, and before long had quite a large vocabulary of words, which he was never tired using. As he grew very tame, he was allowed to live either out of his cage or in it all day long as he pleased. Often he would be out in the garden all alone for hours together, running about catching flies, or sitting up in a tree repeating his lessons to himself, both verbal and musical. The cat and her kittens were his especial favourites, although he used to play with the dogs as well, and often go to sleep on their backs. He took his lessons with great regularity, was an arduous student, and soon learned to pipe "Duncan Grey" and "The Sprig of Shillelah" without a single wrong note. I used to whistle these tunes over to him, and it was quite amusing to mark his air of rapt attention as he crouched down to listen. When I had finished, he did not at once begin to try the tune himself, but sat quiet and still for some time, evidently thinking it over in his own mind. In piping it, if he forgot a part of the air, he would cry: "Doctor, doctor!" and repeat the last note once or twice, as much as to say: "What comes after that?" and I would finish the tune for him. "Tse! tse! tse!" was a favourite exclamation of his, indicative of surprise. When I played a tune on the fiddle to him, he would crouch down with breathless attention. Sometimes when he saw me take up the fiddle, he would go at once and peck at Hezekiah. I don't know why he did so, unless to secure her keeping quiet. As soon as I had finished he would say "Bravo!" with three distinct intonations of the word, thus: "Bravo! doctor; br-r-ravo! bra-vo!" Dick was extremely inquisitive and must see into everything. He used to annoy the cat very much by opening out her toes, or even her nostrils, to examine; and at times pussy used to lose patience, and pat him on the back. "Eh?" he would say. "What is it? You rascal!" If two people were talking together underneath his cage, he would cock his head, lengthen his neck, and looking down quizzingly, say: "Eh? _What_ is it? _What_ do you say?" He frequently began a sentence with the verb, "Is," putting great emphasis on it. "Is?" he would say musingly. "Is what, Dick?" I would ask. "Is," he would repeat--"Is the darling starling a pretty pet?" "No question about it," I would answer. He certainly made the best of his vocabulary, for he trotted out all his nouns and all his adjectives time about in pairs, and formed a hundred curious combinations. "_Is_," he asked one day, "the darling doctor a rascal?" "Just as you think," I replied. "Tse! tse! tse! Whew! whew! whew!" said Dick; and finished off with "Duncan Grey" and the first half of "The Sprig of Shillelah." "Love is the soul of a nate Irishman," he had been taught to say; but it was as frequently, "Love is the soul of a nate Irish starling;" or, "_Is_ love the soul of a darling pretty Dick?" and so on. One curious thing is worth noting: he never pronounced my dog's name-- Theodore Nero--once while awake; but he often startled us at night by calling the dog in clear ringing tones--talking in his sleep. He used to be chattering and singing without intermission all day long; and if ever he was silent then I knew he was doing mischief; and if I went quietly into the kitchen, I was sure to find him either tracing patterns on a bar of soap, or examining and tearing to pieces a parcel of newly-arrived groceries. He was very fond of wines and spirits, but knew when he had enough. He was not permitted to come into the parlour without his cage; but sometimes at dinner, if the door were left ajar, he would silently enter like a little thief; when once fairly in, he would fly on to the table, scream, and defy me. He was very fond of a pretty child that used to come to see me. If Matty was lying on the sofa reading, Dick would come and sing on her head; then he would go through all the motions of washing and bathing on Matty's bonnie hair; which was, I thought, paying her a very pretty compliment. When the sun shone in at my study window, I used to hang Dick's cage there, as a treat to him. Dick would remain quiet for perhaps twenty minutes, then the stillness would feel irksome to him, and presently he would stretch his head down towards me in a confidential sort of way, and begin to pester me with his silly questions. "Doctor," he would commence, "_is_ it, is it a nate Irish pet?" "Silence, and go asleep," I would make answer. "I want to write." "Eh?" he would say. "_What_ is it? _What_ d'ye say?" Then, if I didn't answer-- "_Is_ it sugar--snails--sugar, snails, and brandy?" Then, "Doctor, doctor!" "Well, Dickie, what is it now?" I would answer. "Doctor--whew." That meant I was to whistle to him. "Shan't," I would say sulkily. "Tse! tse! tse!" Dickie would say, and continue, "Doctor, will you go a-clinking?" I never could resist that. Going a-clinking meant going fly-hawking. Dick always called a fly a clink; and this invitation I would receive a dozen times a day, and seldom refused. I would open the cage-door, and Dick would perch himself on my finger, and I would carry him round the room, holding him up to the flies on the picture-frames. And he never missed one. Once Dick fell into a bucket of water, and called lustily for the "doctor;" and I was only just in time to save him from a watery grave. When I got him out, he did not speak a word until he had gone to the fire and opened his wings and feathers out to dry, then he said: "Bravo! B-r-ravo" several times, and went forthwith and attacked Hezekiah. Dick had a little travelling cage, for he often had to go with me by train; and no sooner did the train start than Dick used to commence to talk and whistle, very much to the astonishment of the passengers, for the bird was up in the umbrella rack. Everybody was at once made aware of both my profession and character, for the jolting of the carriage not pleasing him, he used always to prelude his performance with, "Doctor, doctor, you r-r-rascal. What _is_ it, eh?" As Dick got older, I am sorry, as his biographer, to be compelled to say he grew more and more unkind to his wife--attacked her regularly every morning and the last thing at night, and half-starred her besides. Poor Hezekiah! She could do nothing in the world to please him. Sometimes, now, she used to peck him back again; she was driven to it. I was sorry for Hezekiah, and determined to play pretty Dick a little trick. So one day, when he had been bullying her worse than ever, I took Hezekiah out of the cage, and fastened a small pin to her bill, so as to protrude just a very little way, and returned her. Dick walked up to her at once. "What," he wanted to know, "did she mean by going on shore without leave?" Hezekiah didn't answer, and accordingly received a dig in the back, then another, then a third; and then Hezekiah turned, and let him have one sharp attack. It was very amusing to see how Dick jumped, and his look of astonishment as he said: "Eh? _What_ d'ye say? Hezekiah! Hezekiah!" Hezekiah followed up her advantage. It was quite a new sensation for her to have the upper hand, and so she courageously chased him round and round the cage, until I opened the door and let Dick out. But Hezekiah could not live always with a pin tied to her bill; so, for peace' sake, I gave her away to a friend, and Dick was left alone in his glory. Poor Dickie! One day he was shelling peas to himself in the garden, when some boys startled him, and he flew away. I suppose he lost himself, and couldn't find his way back. At all events I only saw him once again. I was going down through an avenue of trees about a mile from the house, when a voice above in a tree hailed me: "Doctor! doctor! What _is_ it?" That was Dick; but a rook flew past and scared him again, and away he flew--for ever. That same evening, Ida, who had been absent for some little time, returned, and shyly handed me a letter. "Whom is it from, I wonder, Ida," I said; "so late in the evening, too?" "Oh, it is from Maggie," Ida replied. "What!" I exclaimed; "from that impudent bird? Well, let us see what she has to say;" and opening the note, I read as follows:-- "Dear Master,--I fully endorse all you have written about the starling, especially as regards their treatment, and if you had added that they are pert, perky things, you wouldn't have been far out. Well, we magpies build our nests of sticks on the tops of tall trees, lining it first with clay, then with grass; our eggs are five in number, and if they weren't so like to a rook's they might be mistaken for a blackbird's. The nests are so big that before the little boys climb up the trees they think they have found a hawk's. In some parts of the country we are looked upon with a kind of superstitious awe. This is nonsense; there is nothing wrong about us; we may bring joy to people, as I do to you, dear Doctor, by my gentle loving ways, but we never bring grief. We like solitude, and keep ourselves in the wild state to ourselves. Perhaps if we went in flocks, and had as much to say for ourselves as those noisy brutes of rooks, we would be more thought of. Even in the domestic state we like our liberty, and think it terribly cruel to be obliged to mope all day long in a wicker cage. It is crueller still to hang us in draughts, or in too strong a sun; while to keep our cage damp and dirty cramps our legs and gives us such twinges of rheumatism in our poor unused wings, that we often long to die and be at rest. "The treatment, Doctor, you prescribe for starlings will do nicely for us, and you know how easily we are taught to talk; and I'm sure I _do_ love you, Doctor, and haven't I, all for your sake, made friends with your black Persian cat and your big Newfoundland dog? "No, I'm not a thief; I deny the charge. Only if you do leave silver spoons about, and gold pens, and shillings and sixpenny-bits--why--I-- I borrow them, that is all, and you can always find them in Maggie's cage. "We can eat all that starlings eat; yes, and a great many things they would turn up their supercilious bills at. But, remember, we do like a little larger allowance of animal food than starlings do. "No more at present, dear Doctor, but remains your loving and affectionate Magpie, Maggie." N.b.--The grammatical error in the last sentence is Maggie's, not mine. CHAPTER TEN. THE LIFE AND DEATH OF ROOK TOBY. "A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain Breaks the serene of heaven: In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine Rolls through the dark-blue depths. Beneath her steady ray The desert-circle spreads; Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. How beautiful is night?" "It most have been on just such another night as this, Frank, that Southey penned these lines," I began. "How about the dewy freshness?" said my wife, who is usually more practical than poetic. "Don't you think, dear, that Ida had better go in?" "Oh! no, auntie," cried Ida; "I must stay and hear the story. It isn't nine o'clock." "No," Frank remarked, "barely nine o'clock, and yet the stars are all out; why, up in the north of Scotland people at this season of the year can see to read all night." "How delightful!" cried Ida. The nodding lilacs and starry syringas were mingling their perfume in the evening air. "Listen," said my wife; "yonder, close by us in the Portugal laurel, is the nightingale." "Yes," I replied, "but to-morrow morning will find the bird just a trifle farther afield, for some instinct tells him that our dark-haired Persian pussy is an epicure in her way, and would prefer philomel to fish for her matutinal meal." I am more convinced than ever that for the first two or three nights after their arrival in this country the nightingales do not go to sleep at all, but sing on all day as well as all night, the marvel being that they do not get hoarse. But after a week the night-song is not nearly so brilliant nor so prolonged, nor does it attain its pristine wild joyfulness until spring once more gilds the fields with buttercups. By day the song is not so noticeable, though ever and anon it sounds high over the Babel of other birds' voices. But, of course, the thrush must sing, the blackbird must pipe, and vulgar sparrows bicker and shriek, and talk Billingsgate to each other, for sparrows having but little music in their own nature, have just as little appreciation for the gift in others. "Look!" cried Frank; "yonder goes a bat." "Yes," I said, "the bats are abroad every night now in full force. What a wonderful power of flight is theirs; how quickly they can turn and wheel, and how nimbly gyrate!" "I much prefer the martin-swallow," said Ida. "We have no more welcome summer, or rather spring visitor, Ida, than the martin. "`He twitters on the apple-trees, He hails me at the dawn of day, Each morn the recollected proof Of time, that swiftly fleets away. Fond of sunshine, fond of shade, Fond of skies serene and clear, E'en transient storms his joys invade, In fairest seasons of the year.'" "But I must be allowed to say that I object to the word `twitter,' so usually applied to the song of the swallow. It is more than a meaningless twitter. Although neither loud nor clear, it is--when heard close at hand--inexpressibly sweet and soft and tender, more so than even that of the linnet, and there are many joyous and happy notes in it, which it is quite delightful to listen to. Indeed, hardly any one could attentively observe the song of our domestic martin for any length of time without feeling convinced that the dusky little minstrel was happy--inexpressibly happy. Few, perhaps, know that there is a striking similarity between the expressions by sound or, voice of the emotions of all animals in the world, whether birds or beasts, and whether those emotions be those of grief or pain, or joy itself. This is well worth observing, and if you live in the country you will have a thousand chances of doing so. Why does the swallow sing in so low a voice? At a little distance you can hardly hear it at all. I have travelled a good deal in forests and jungles and bush lands in Africa and the islands about it, and, of course, I always went alone, that is, I never had any visible companion--because only when alone can one enjoy Nature, and study the ways and manners of birds and beasts, and I have been struck by the silence of the birds, or, at all events, their absence of song in many of them." "Why should that be so, I wonder?" said Ida. "Probably," said Frank, "because the woods where the birds dwell are so full of danger that song would betray their presence, and the result be death. And the same reason may cause the house martins to lower their voices when they give vent to their little notes of tuneful joy." There was a moment's pause: Aileen came and put her head in my lap. "She is waiting for the story," said Frank. "Oh! yes," my wife remarked; "both the dogs are sure to be interested in `Toby's' tale." "Why?" said Frank. "Because," my wife replied, "Toby was a sheep." Here Theodore Nero must join Aileen. The very name or mention of the word "sheep," was sure to make that honest dog wag his tail. "Two heads are better than one," I once remarked in his presence. "Especially sheep's heads," said the dog. And now for the story. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ TOBY: THE STORY OF A SAILOR SHEEP. Now Toby was a sheep, a sheep of middling size, lightly built, finely limbed, as agile as a deer, with dark intelligent gazelle-like eyes, and a small pair of neatly curled horns, with the points protruding about an inch from his forehead. And his colour was white except on the face, which was slightly darker. It was the good brig _Reliance_ of Arbroath, and she was bound from Cork to Galatz, on the banks of the blue Danube. All went well with the little ship until she reached the Grecian Archipelago, and here she was detained by adverse winds and contrary currents, making the passage through among the islands both a dangerous and a difficult one. When the mariners at length reached Tenedos, it was found that the current from the Dardanelles was running out like a mill-stream, which made it impossible to proceed; and accordingly the anchor was cast, the jolly-boat was lowered, and the captain took the opportunity of going on shore for fresh water, of which they were scarce. Having filled his casks, it was only natural for a sailor to long to treat himself to a mess of fresh meat as well as water. He accordingly strolled away through the little town; but soon found that butchers were unknown animals in Tenedos. Presently, however, a man came up with a sheep, which the captain at once purchased for five shillings. This was Toby, with whom, his casks of water, and a large basket of ripe fruit, the skipper returned to his vessel. There happened to be on board this ship a large and rather useless half-bred Newfoundland. This dog was the very first to receive the attentions of Master Toby, for no sooner had he placed foot on deck than he ran full tilt at the poor Newfoundland, hitting him square on the ribs and banishing almost every bit of breath from his body. "Only a sheep," thought the dog, and flew at Toby at once. But Toby was too nimble to be caught, and he planted his blows with such force and precision, that at last the poor dog was fain to take to his heels, howling with pain, and closely pursued by Toby. The dog only escaped by getting out on to the bowsprit, where of course Toby could not follow, but quietly lay down between the knight-heads to wait and watch for him. That same evening the captain was strolling on the quarter-deck eating some grapes, when Toby came up to him, and standing on one end, planted his feet on his shoulders, and looked into his face, as much as to say: "I'll have some of those, please." And he was not disappointed, for the captain amicably went shares with Toby. Toby appeared so grateful for even little favours, and so attached to his new master, that Captain Brown had not the heart to kill him. He would rather, he thought, go without fresh meat all his life. So Toby was installed as ship's pet. Ill-fared it then with the poor Newfoundland; he was so battered and so cowed, that for dear life's sake he dared not leave his kennel even to take his food. It was determined, therefore, to put an end to the poor fellow's misery, and he was accordingly shot. This may seem cruel, but it was the kindest in the main. Now, there was on board the _Reliance_ an old Irish cook. One morning soon after the arrival of Toby, Paddy (who had a round bald pate, be it remembered) was bending down over a wooden platter cleaning the vegetables for dinner, when Toby took the liberty of insinuating his woolly nose to help himself. The cook naturally enough struck Toby on the snout with the flat of the knife and went on with his work. Toby backed astern at once; a blow he never could and never did receive without taking vengeance. Besides, he imagined, no doubt, that holding down his bald head as he did, the cook was desirous of trying the strength of their respective skulls. When he had backed astern sufficiently for his purpose, Toby gave a spring; the two heads came into violent collision, and down rolled poor Paddy on the deck. Then Toby coolly finished all the vegetables, and walked off as if nothing had happened out of the usual. Toby's hatred of the whole canine race was invincible. While the vessel lay at Galatz she was kept in quarantine, and there was only one small platform, about four hundred yards long by fifty wide, on which the captain or crew of the _Reliance_ could land. This was surrounded by high walls on three sides, one side being the Pe'latoria, at which all business with the outside world was transacted through gratings. Inside, however, there were a few fruit-stalls. Crowds used to congregate here every morning to watch Toby's capers, and admire the nimbleness with which he used to rob the fruit-stalls and levy blackmail from the vegetable vendors. One day when the captain and his pet were taking their usual walk on this promenade, there came on shore the skipper of a Falmouth ship, accompanied by a large formidable-looking dog. And the dog only resembled his master, as you observe dogs usually do. As soon as he saw Toby he commenced to hunt his dog upon him; but Toby had seen him coming and was quite _en garde_; so a long and fierce battle ensued, in which Toby was slightly wounded and the dog's head was severely cut. Quite a multitude had assembled to witness the fight, and the ships' riggings were alive with sailors. At one time the brutal owner of the dog, seeing his pet getting worsted, attempted to assist him; but the crowd would have pitched him neck and crop into the river, had he not desisted. At last both dog and sheep were exhausted and drew off, as if by mutual consent. The dog seated himself close to the outer edge of the platform, which was about three feet higher than the river's bank, and Toby went, as he was wont to do, and stood between his master's legs, resting his head fondly on the captain's clasped hands, but never took his eyes off the foe. Just then a dog on board one of the ships happened to bark, and the Falmouth dog looked round. This was Toby's chance, and he did not miss it nor his enemy either. He was upon him like a bolt from a catapult. One furious blow knocked the dog off the platform, next moment Toby had leaped on top of him, and was chasing the yelling animal towards his own ship. There is no doubt Toby would have crossed the plank and followed him on board, had not his feet slipped and precipitated him into the river. A few minutes afterwards, when Toby, dripping with wet, returned to the platform to look for his master, he was greeted with ringing cheers; and many was the plaster spent in treating Toby to fruit. Toby was the hero of Galatz from that hour; but the Falmouth dog never ventured on shore again, and his master as seldom as possible. On her downward voyage, when the vessel reached Selina, at the mouth of the river, it became necessary to lighten her in order to get her over the bar. This took some time, and Toby's master frequently had to go on shore; but Toby himself was not permitted to accompany him, on account of the filth and muddiness of the place. When the captain wished to return he came down to the river-side and hailed the ship to send a boat. And poor Toby was always on the watch for his master if no one else was. He used to place his fore-feet on the bulwarks and bleat loudly towards the shore, as much as to say: "I see you, master, and you'll have a boat in a brace of shakes." Then if no one was on deck, Toby would at once proceed to rouse all hands fore and aft. If the mate, Mr Gilbert, pretended to be asleep on a locker, he would fairly roll him off on to the deck. Toby was revengeful to a degree, and if any one struck him, he would wait his chance, even if for days, to pay him out with interest in his own coin. He was at first very jealous of two little pigs which were bought as companions to him; but latterly he grew very fond of them, and as they soon got very fat, Toby used to roll them along the deck like a couple of footballs. There were two parties on board that Toby did not like, or rather that he liked to annoy whenever he got the chance, namely, the cook and the cat. He used to cheat the former and chase the latter on every possible occasion. If his master took pussy and sat down with her on his knee, Toby would at once commence to strike her off with his head. Finding that she was so soft and yielding that this did not hurt her, he would then lift his fore-foot and attempt to strike her down with that; failing in that, he would bite viciously at her; and if the captain laughed at him, then all Toby's vengeance would be wreaked on his master. But after a little scene like this, Toby would always come and coax for forgiveness. Toby was taught a great many tricks, among others to leap backward and forward through a life-buoy. When his hay and fresh provisions went down, Toby would eat pea-soup, invariably slobbering all his face in so doing, and even pick a bone like a dog. He was likewise very fond of boiled rice, and his drink was water, although he preferred porter and ale; but while allowing him a reasonable quantity of beer, the captain never encouraged him in the nasty habit the sailors had taught him of chewing tobacco. It is supposed that some animals have a prescience of coming storms. Toby used to go regularly to the bulwarks every night, and placing his feet against them sniff all around him. If content, he would go and lie down and fall fast asleep; but it was a sure sign of bad weather coming before morning, when Toby kept wandering among his master's feet and would not go to rest. Pea-soup and pork-bones are scarcely to be considered the correct food for a sheep, and so it is hardly to be wondered at that Toby got very thin before the vessel reached Falmouth. Once Toby was in a hotel coffee-room with his master and a friend of the latter's, when instead of calling for two glasses of beer, the captain called for three. "Is the extra glass for yourself or for me?" asked his friend. The extra glass was for Toby, who soon became the subject of general conversation. "I warrant noo," said a north-country skipper, "that thing would kick up a bonnie shine if you were to gang oot and leave him." "Would you like to try him?" replied Captain Brown. "I would," said the Scot, "vera muckle." Accordingly Toby was imprisoned in one corner of the room, where he was firmly held by the Scotch skipper; and Captain Brown, after giving Toby a glance which meant a great deal, left the room. No sooner had he gone than Toby struggled clear of the Scotchman, and took the nearest route for the door. This necessitated his jumping on to the middle of the table, and here Toby missed his footing and fell, kicking over glasses, decanters, and pewter pots by the half-dozen. He next floored a half-drunken fellow, over whose head he tried to spring, and so secured his escape, and left the Scotch skipper to pay the bill. One day Captain Brown was going up the steps of the Custom-house, when he found that not only Toby but Toby's two pigs were following close at his heels. He turned round to drive them all back; but Toby never thought for a moment that his master meant that _he_ should return. "It is these two awkward creatures of pigs," thought Toby, "that master can't bear the sight of." So Toby went to work at once, and first rolled one piggie downstairs, then went up and rolled the other piggie downstairs; but the one piggie always got to the top of the stairs again by the time his brother piggie was rolled down to the bottom. Thinking that as far as appearances went, Toby had his work cut out for the next half-hour, his master entered the Custom-house. But Toby and his friends soon found some more congenial employment; and when Captain Brown returned, he found them all together in an outer room, dancing about with the remains of a new mat about their necks, which they had just succeeded in tearing to pieces. Their practical jokes cost the captain some money one way or another. One day the three friends made a combined attack on a woman who was carrying a young pig in a sack; this little pig happened to squeak, when Toby and his pigs went to the rescue. They tore the woman's dress to atoms and delivered the little pig. Toby was very much addicted to describing the arc of a circle; that was all very good when it was merely a fence he was flying over, but when it happened that a window was in the centre of the arc, then it came rather hard on the captain's pocket. In order to enable him to pick up a little after his long voyage, Toby was sent to country lodgings at a farmer's. But barely a week had elapsed when the farmer sent him back again with his compliments, saying that he would not keep him for his weight in gold. He led his, the farmer's, sheep into all sorts of mischief that they had never dreamed of before, and he defied the dogs, and half-killed one or two of them. Toby returned like himself, for when he saw his master in the distance he baa-ed aloud for joy, and flew towards him like a wild thing, dragging the poor boy in the mud behind him. Toby next took out emigrants to New York, and was constantly employed all day in sending the steerage passengers off the quarter-deck. He never hurt the children, however, but contented himself by tumbling them along the deck and stealing their bread-and-butter. From New York Toby went to Saint Stephens. There a dog flew out and bit Captain Brown in the leg. It was a dear bite, however, for the dog, for Toby caught him in the act, and hardly left life enough in him to crawl away. At Saint Stephens Toby was shorn, the weather being oppressively hot. No greater insult could have been offered him. His anger and chagrin were quite ludicrous to witness. He examined himself a dozen times, and every time he looked round and saw his naked back he tried to run away from himself. He must have thought with the wee "wifiekie comin' frae the fair--This is no me surely, this is no me." But when his master, highly amused at his antics, attempted to add insult to injury by pointing his finger at him and laughing him to scorn, Toby's wrath knew no bounds, and he attacked the captain on the spot. He managed, however, to elude the blow, and Toby walked on shore in a pet. Whether it was that he was ashamed of his ridiculous appearance, or of attempting to strike his kind master in anger, cannot be known, but for three days and nights Toby never appeared, and the captain was very wretched indeed. But when he did return, he was so exceedingly penitent and so loving and coaxing that he was forgiven on the spot. When Toby arrived with his vessel in Queen's Dock, Liverpool, on a rainy morning, some nice fresh hay was brought on board. This was a great treat for Toby, and after he had eaten his fill, he thought he could not do better than sleep among it, which thought he immediately transmuted to action, covering himself all up except the head. By-and-by the owner of the ship came on board, and taking a survey of things in general, he spied Toby's head. "Hollo!" he said, "what's that?" striking Toby's nose with his umbrella. "Stuffed, isn't it?" Stuffed or not stuffed, there was a stuffed body behind it, as the owner soon knew to his cost, and a spirit that never brooked a blow, for next moment he found himself lying on his back with his legs waggling in the air in the most expressive manner, while Toby stood triumphantly over him waiting to repeat the dose if required. The following anecdote shows Toby's reasoning powers. He was standing one day near the dockyard foreman's house, when the dinner bell rang, and just at the same time a servant came out with a piece of bread for Toby. Every day after this, as soon as the same bell rang--"That calls me," said Toby to himself, and off he would trot to the foreman's door. If the door was not at once opened he used to knock with his head; and he would knock and knock again until the servant, for peace' sake, presented him with a slice of bread. And now Toby's tale draws near its close. The owner never forgave that blow, and one day coming by chance across the following entry in the ship's books, "Tenedos--to one sheep, five shillings," he immediately claimed Toby as his rightful property. It was all in vain that the captain begged hard for his poor pet, and even offered ten times his nominal value for him. The owner was deaf to all entreaties and obdurate. So the two friends were parted. Toby was sent a long way into the country to Carnoustie, to amuse some of the owner's children, who were at school there. But the sequel shows how very deeply and dearly even a sheep can love a kind-hearted master. After the captain left him, poor Toby refused all food and _died of grief in one week's time_. CHAPTER ELEVEN. A BIRD-HAUNTED LAWN IN JUNE--PETS OF MY EARLY YEARS. "Go, beautiful and gentle dove! But whither wilt thou go? For though the clouds tide high above. How sad and waste is all below. "The dove flies on. In lonely flight She flies from dawn to dark; And now, amidst the gloom of night, Comes weary to the ark. `Oh! let me in,' she seems to say, `For long and lone has been my way; Oh! once more, gentle mistress, let me rest And dry my dripping plumage on thy breast.'" Rev W. Bowles. There is a kind of semi-wildness about our back lawn that a great many people profess to admire. It stretches downwards from my indoor study, from where the French windows open on to the trellised verandah, which in this sweet month of June, as I write, is all a smother of roses. The walk winds downwards well to one side, and not far from a massive hedge, but this hedge is hidden from view for the most part by a ragged row of trees. The Portuguese laurel, tasselled with charming white bloom at present, but otherwise an immense globe of green (you might swing a hammock inside it and no one know you were there), comes first; then tall, dark-needled Austrian pines, their branches trailing on the grass, with hazels, lilacs, and elders, the latter now in bloom. The lawn proper has it pretty much to itself, with the exception of the flower-beds, the rose-standards, and a sprinkling of youthful pines, and it is bounded on the other side by a tall privet hedge--that, too, is all bedecked in bloom. On the other ride of this hedge the view is shut in to some extent by tapering cypress trees, elms, and oaks, but here and there you catch glimpses of the hills and the lovely country beyond. Along this hedge, at present, wallflowers, and scarlet and white and pink-belled foxgloves are blooming. If you go along the winding pathway, past the bonnie nook--where is now the grave of my dear old favourite Newfoundland [the well-known champion, Theodore Nero]--and if you obstinately refuse to be coaxed by a forward wee side-path into a cool, green grotto, canopied with ivy and lilacs, you will land--nowhere you would imagine at first, but on pushing boughs aside you find a gate, which, supposing you had the key, would lead you out into open country, with the valley of the Thames, stretching from west to east, about a mile distant, and the grand old wooded hills, blue with the softening mist of distance, beyond that. But the lower part of the lawn near that hidden gate is bounded by a bank of glorious foliage--rhododendrons, syringas, trailing roses, and hero-laurels in front, with ash, laburnum, and tall holly trees behind. It may not be right to allow brambles to creep through this bank; nor raspberries, with their drooping cane-work; nor blue-eyed, creeping belladonna; but I like it. I dearly love to see things where you least expect them; to find roses peeping through hedgerows, strawberries building their nests at the foot of gooseberry clumps, and clusters of yellow or red luscious raspberries peeping out from the midst of rhododendron banks, as if fairy fingers were holding them up to view. I'm not sure that the grass on this pet lawn of mine, is always kept so cleanly shaven as some folks might wish, but for my own part I like it snowed over with daisies and white clover; and, what is more to the point, the birds and the bees like it. Indeed, the lawn is little more than a vast outdoor aviary--it is a bird-haunted lawn. There is a rough, shallow bath under a tree at the end of it, and here the blackbirds, thrushes, and starlings come to splash early in the morning, and stare up at my window as I dress, as coolly as if they had not been all up in the orchard trees breakfasting off the red-heart cherries. I have come now, after a lapse of four years, to believe that those cherries belong to the birds and not to me, just as a considerable number of pounds of the greengages belong to the wasps. The nightingales hop around the lawn all day, but they do not bathe, and they do not sing now; they devour terribly long earthworms instead. In the sweet spring-time, in the days of their wooing, they did nothing but sing, and they never slept. Now all is changed, and they do little else save sleep and eat. There are wild pigeons build here, though it is close to two roads, and I see turtle-doves on the lawn every day. "Did you commence the study of natural history at an early age, Gordon?" said Frank to me one evening, as we all sat together on this lawn. "In a practical kind of a way, yes, Frank," I replied, "and if I live for the next ten thousand years I may make some considerable progress in this study. _Ars longa vita brevia est_, Frank." "True; and now," he continued, "spin us a yarn or two about some of the pets you have had." "Well, Frank," I replied, "as you ask me in that off-hand way, you must be content to take my reminiscences in an off-hand way, too." "We will," said Frank; "won't we, Ida?" Ida nodded. "Given a pen and put in a corner, Frank, I can tell a story as well as my neighbours, but the _extempore_ business floors me. I'm shy, Frank, shy. Another cup of tea, Dot--thank you--ahem!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ PETS OF MY EARLY YEARS. There was no school within about three miles of a property my father bought when I was a little over two years of age. With some help from the neighbours my father built a school, which I believe is now endowed, but at that time it was principally supported by voluntary contributions. I was sent there as a first instalment. I was an involuntary contribution. Nurse carried me there every morning, but I always managed to walk coming back. By sending a child of tender years to a day-school, negative rather than positive good was all that was expected, for my mother frankly confessed that I was only sent to keep me out of mischief. The first few days of my school life flew past quickly enough, for my teacher, a little hunchback, be it remembered, whom you may know by the name of Dominie W--, was very kind to me, candied me and lollipopped me, and I thought it grand fun to sit all day on my little stool, turning over the pages of picture-books, and looking at the other boys getting thrashed. This latter part indeed was the best to me, for the little fellows used to screw their miserable visages so, and make such funny faces, that I laughed and crowed with delight. But I didn't like it when it came to my own turn. And here is how that occurred:--There was a large pictorial map that hung on the schoolroom wall, covered with delineations of all sorts of wild beasts. These were pointed out to the Bible-class one by one, and a short lecture given on the habits of each, which the boys and girls were supposed to retain in their memories, and retail again when asked to. One day, however, the dromedary became a stumbling-block to all the class; not one of them could remember the name of the beast. "Did ever I see such a parcel of numskulls?" said Dominie W--. "Why, I believe that child there could tell you." I felt sure I could, and intimated as much. "What is it, then, my dear?" said my teacher encouragingly. "Speak out, and shame the dunces." I did speak out, and with appalling effect. "It's a schoolmaster," I said. "A what?" roared the dominie. "A schoolmaster," I said, more emphatically; "it has a hump on its back." I didn't mean to be rude, but I naturally imagined that the hump was the badge of the scholastic calling, and that the dromedary was dominie among the beasts. "Oh! indeed," said Dominie W--; "well, you just wait there a minute, and I'll make a hump on your back." And he moved off towards the desk for the strap. As I didn't want a hump on my back, instant flight suggested itself to me, as the only way of meeting the difficulty; so I made tracks for the door forthwith. "Hold him, catch him!" cried the dominie, and a big boy seized me by the skirt of my dress. But I had the presence of mind to meet my teeth in the fleshy part of the lad's hand; then I was free to flee. Down the avenue I ran as fast as two diminutive shanks could carry me, but I had still a hundred yards to run, and capture seemed inevitable, for the dominie was gaining on me fast. But help was most unexpectedly at hand, for, to my great joy, our pet bull-terrier, "Danger," suddenly put in an appearance. The dog seemed to take in the whole situation at a glance, and it was now the dominie's turn to shake in his shoes. And Danger went for him in grand style, too. I don't know that he hurt him very much, but to have to return to school with five-and-thirty pounds of pure-bred bull-terrier hanging to one's hump, cannot be very grateful to one's feelings. I was not sent to that seminary any more for a year, but it dawned upon me even thus early that dogs have their uses. When I was a year or two older I had as a companion and pet a black-and-tan terrier called "Tip," and a dear good-hearted game little fellow he was; and he and I were always of the same mind, full of fan and fond of mischief. Tip could fetch and carry almost anything; a loose railway rug, for example, would be a deal heavier than he, but if told he would drag one up three flights of stairs walking backwards. Again, if you showed him anything, and then hid it, he would find it wherever it was. He was not on friendly terms with the cat though; she used him shamefully, and finding him one day in a room by himself she whacked him through the open window, and Tip fell two storeys. Dead? No. Tip fell on his feet. One day Tip was a long time absent, and when he came into the garden he came up to me and placed a large round ball all covered with thorns at my feet. "Whatever is it, Tip?" I asked. "That's a hoggie," said Tip, "and ain't my mouth sore just." I put down my hands to lift it up, and drew them back with pricked and bleeding fingers. Then I shrieked, and nursie came running out, and shook me, and whacked me on the back as if I had swallowed a bone. That's how she generally served me. "What is it now?" she cried; "you're never out of mischief; did Tip bite you?" "No, no," I whimpered, "the beastie bited me." Then I had three pets for many a day, Tip and the cat and the hedgehog, who grew very tame indeed. Maggie Hay was nursie's name. I was usually packed off to bed early in the evening, and got the cat with me, and in due time Maggie came. But one night the cat and I quarrelled, so I slipped out of bed, and crept quietly down to the back kitchen, and returned with my hoggie in the front of my nightdress, and went back to my couch. I was just in that blissful state of independence, between sleeping and waking, when Maggie came upstairs to bed. The hoggie had crept out of my arms, and had gone goodness knows whither, and I didn't care, but I know this much, that Maggie had no sooner got in and laid down, than she gave vent to a loud scream, and sprang on to the floor again, and stood shaking and shivering like a ghost in the moonlight. I suppose she had laid herself down right on top of my hoggie, and hoggie not being used to such treatment had doubtless got its spines up at once. I leave you to guess whether Maggie gave me a shaking or not. This pet lived for three long happy months, and its food was porridge and milk, morsels of green food, and beetles, which it caught on its own account. But I suppose it longed for its old gipsy life in the green fields, and missed the tender herbs and juicy slugs it had been wont to gather by the foot of the hedgerows. I don't know, but one morning I found my poor hoggie rolled up in a little ball with one leg sticking out; it was dead and stiff. Maggie took it solemnly up by that one leg as if it had been a handle and carried it away and buried it; then she came back with her eyes wet and kissed me, and gave me a large--very large--slice of bread with an extra allowance of treacle on it. But there seemed to be a big lump in my throat; I tried hard to eat, but failed miserably, only--I managed to lick the treacle off. My little friend Tip was of a very inquiring turn of mind, and this trait in his character led to his miserable end. One day some men were blasting stones in a neighbouring field, and Tip seeing what he took to be a rat's tail sticking out of a stone, and a thin wreath of blue smoke curling up out of it, went to investigate. He did not come back to tell tales; he was carried on high with the hurtling stones and _debris_, and I never saw my poor Tip any more. CHAPTER TWELVE. EARLY STUDIES IN NATURAL HISTORY. "Within a bush her covert nest A little birdie fondly prest; The dew sat chilly on her breast, Sae early in the morning." Burns. Shortly after the melancholy death of Tip, some one presented me with a puppy, and some one else presented me with a rook. My knowledge of natural history was thus progressing. That unhappy pup took the distemper and died. If treated for the dire complaint at all, it was no doubt after the rough and harsh fashion, common, till very lately, of battling with it. So my puppy died. As to the rook, a quicker fate was reserved for him. The bird and I soon grew as thick as thieves. He was a very affectionate old chap, and slept at night in a starling's cage in the bedroom. He was likewise a somewhat noisy bird, and very self-asserting, and would never allow us to sleep a wink after five in the morning. Maggie tried putting his breakfast into the cage the night before. This only made matters worse, for he got up at three o'clock to eat it, and was quite prepared for another at five. Maggie said she loved the bird, because he saved her so many scoldings by wakening her so punctually every morning. I should think he did waken her, with a vengeance too. He had a peculiar way of roaring "Caw! Caw!" that would have wakened Rip Van Winkle himself. Like the great Highland bagpipe, the voice of a healthy rook sounds very well about a mile off, but it isn't exactly the thing for indoor delectation. But my uncle sat down upon my poor rook one day, and the bird gave vent to one last "Caw!" and was heard again--nevermore. My mother told him he ought to be more careful. My uncle sat down on the same chair again next day, and, somehow, a pin went into him further than was pleasant. Then I told him he ought to be more careful, and he boxed my ears, and I bit him, and nursie came and shook me and whacked me on the back as if I had been choking; so, on the whole, I think I was rather roughly dealt with between the two of them. However, I took it out of Maggie in another way, and found her very necessary and handy in my study of natural history, which, even at this early age, I had developed a taste for. I had as a plaything a small wooden church, which I fondled all day, and took to bed with me at night. One fine day I had an adventure with a wasp which taught me a lesson. I had half-filled my little church with flies to represent a congregation, but as they wouldn't sing unless I shook them, and as Maggie told me nobody ever shook a real church to make the congregation sing, I concluded it was a parson they lacked, and went to catch a large yellow fly, which I saw on the window-ledge. _He_ would make them sing I had no doubt. Well, he made me sing, anyhow. It was long before I forgot the agony inflicted by that sting. Maggie came flying towards me, and I hurled church, congregation, and all at her head, and went off into a first-class fit. But this taught me a lesson, and I never again interfered with any animal or insect, until I had first discovered what their powers of retaliation were; beetles and flies were old favourites, whose attendance at church I compelled. I wasn't sure of the earthworm at first, nor of the hairy caterpillar, but a happy thought struck me, and, managing to secure a specimen of each, and holding them in a tea-cup, I watched my chance, and when nursie wasn't looking emptied them both down her back. When the poor girl wriggled and shrieked with horror, I looked calmly on like a young stoic, and asked her did they bite. Finding they didn't, they became especial favourites with me. I put every new specimen I found, instantly or on the first chance, down poor Maggie's back or bosom, and thus, day by day, while I increased in stature, day by day I grew in knowledge. I wasn't quite successful once, however, with a centipede. I had been prospecting, as the Yankees say, around the garden, searching for specimens, and I found this chap under a stone. He was about as long as a penholder, and had apparently as many legs as a legion of the Black Watch. Under these circumstances, thinks I to myself what a capital parson he'll make. So I dismissed all my congregation on the spot, and placed the empty church at his disposal, with the door thereof most invitingly open, but he wouldn't hear of going in. Perhaps, thought I, he imagines the church isn't long enough to hold him, so I determined, for his own comfort, to cut him in two with my egg-cup, then I could capture first one end of him, and then the other, and empty them down nursie's back, and await results. But, woe is me! I had no sooner commenced operations than the ungrateful beast wheeled upwards round my finger and bit it well. I went away to mourn. When nine years old my opportunities for studying birds and beasts were greatly increased, for, luckily for me, the teacher of my father's school nearly flogged the life out of me. It might have been more lucky still had he finished the job. However, this man was a bit of a dandy in his way, and was very proud of his school. And one fine day who should walk in at the open doorway but "Davy," my pet lamb. As soon as he spied me he gave vent to a joyful "Ba-a!" and as there was a table between us, and he couldn't reach me, he commenced to dance in front of it. "Good gracious!" cried the teacher, "a sheep of all things in my school, and positively dancing." On rushing to save my pet, whom he began belabouring with a cane, the man turned all his fury on me, with the above gratifying result. I was sent to a far-off seminary after this. Three miles was a long distance for a child to walk to school over a rough country. It was rough but beautiful, hill and dale, healthy moorlands, and pine woods. It was glorious in summer, but when the snows of winter fell and the roads were blocked, it was not quite so agreeable. I commenced forthwith, however, to make acquaintance with every living thing, whether it were a creepie-creepie living under a stone, or a bull in the fields. My pets, by the way, were a bull, that I played with as a calf, and could master when old and red-eyed and fierce, half a dozen dogs, and a peacock belonging to a farmer. This bird used to meet me every morning, not for crumbs--he never would eat--but for kind words and caresses. The wild birds were my especial favourites. I knew them all, and all about them, their haunts, their nests, their plumage, and eggs and habits of life. I lived as much in trees as on the ground, used to study in trees, and often fell asleep aloft, to the great danger of my neck. I do not think I was ever cruel--intentionally, at all events--to any bird or creature under my care, but I confess to having sometimes taken a young bird from the nest to make a pet of. I myself, when a little boy, have often sat for half an hour at a time swinging on the topmost branches of a tall fir-tree, with my waistcoat pocket filled with garden worms, watching the ways and motions of a nest of young rooks, and probably I would have to repeat my aerial visit more than once before I could quite make up my mind which to choose. I always took the sauciest, noisiest young rascal of the lot, and I was never mistaken in my choice. Is it not cruelty on my part, you may inquire, to counsel the robbery of a rook's nest? Well, there are the feelings of the parent birds to be considered, I grant you, but when you take two from five you leave three, and I do not think the rooks mourn many minutes for the missing ones. An attempt was made once upon a time to prove that rooks can't count farther than three. Thus: an ambush was erected in the midst of a potato field, where rooks were in the habit of assembling in their dusky thousands. When into this ambush there entered one man, or two men, or three men, the gentlemen in black quietly waited until the last man came forth before commencing to dig for potatoes, but when four men entered and _three_ came out, the rooks were satisfied and went to dinner at once. But I feel sure this rule of three does not hold good as far as their young ones are concerned. I know for certain that either cats or dogs will miss an absentee from a litter of even six or more. Books are very affectionate towards their owners, very tricky and highly amusing. They are great thieves, but they steal in such a funny way that you cannot be angry with them. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. ALL ABOUT MY BIRD PETS. "Ye ken where yon wee burnie, love, Runs roarin' to the sea, And tumbles o'er its rocky bed Like spirit wild and free. The mellow mavis tunes his lay, The blackbird swells his note, And little robin sweetly sings Above the woody grot." W. Cameron. "The gladsome lark o'er moor and fell, The lintie in the bosky dell, No blither than your bonnie sel', My ain, my artless Mary." Idem. Scottish poets cannot keep birds out of their love-songs any more than they can the gloaming star, the bloom of flowers, the scent of golden gorse, or soft winds sighing through woods in summer. And well may the lovely wee linnet be compared to a young and artless maiden, so good and innocent, so gentle and unobtrusive is the bird, and yet withal so blithe. Nor could a better pet be found for girls of a quiet, retiring disposition than the linnet. Some call it a shy bird. This hardly coincides with my own experience, and I dearly like to study the characters of birds and animals of all kinds, and have often discovered something to love and admire even in the wildest beasts that ever roamed o'er prairie or roared in jungle. No, the linnet is not shy, but he is unostentatious; he seems to have the tact to know when a little music would be appreciated, and is by no means loath to trill his sweet song. He is also most affectionate, and if his mistress be but moderately kind to him, he may _like_ other people well enough, but he will _love_ but her alone, and will often and often pipe forth a few bars, in so low a key that she cannot but perceive they are meant for her ear only. Even in the wild state the rose-linnet courts retirement. Thinking about this bird brings me back once more to the days of my boyhood. I am a tiny, tiny lad trudging home from the distant day-school, over a wide, wild moorland with about a stone of books--Greek and Latin classics and lexicons--in a leather strap over my shoulder. I am--as I ever wished to be--alone. That is, I have no human companionship. But I have that of the wild birds, and the thousand and one wild creatures that inhabit this great stretch of heathy wold, and I fancy they all know me, from yonder hawk poised high in the air to the merlin that sings on a branch of broom; from the wily fox or fierce polecat to the wee mouse that nestles among the withered grass. I have about a score of nests to pay a visit to--the great long-winged screaming whaup's (curlew's) among the rushes; the mire-snipe's and wild duck's near the marsh; the water-hen's, with her charming red eggs, near the streamlet; the peewit's on the knoll; the stonechat's, with eggs of milky blue, in the cairn; the laverock's, the woodlark's, and the wagtail's, and last, but not least, the titlin's nest, with the cuckoo's egg in it. But I linger but a short time at any of these to-day, for on my way to school I saw a rose-linnet singing on a thorn, and have been thinking about it all day. I have been three times thrashed for Cicero, and condemned to detention for two hours after my schoolmates are gone. I have escaped through the window, however. I shall be thrashed for this in the morning, but I should be thrashed for something, at all events, so that matters nothing. The sun is still high in the heavens, summer days are long, I'll go and look for my linnet's nest; I haven't seen one this year yet. The heather is green as yet, and here and there on the moorland is a bush or patch of golden furze, not tall and straggling like the bushes you find in woods, that seem to stretch out their necks as if seeking in vain for the sunlight, but close, compact, hugging the ground, and seeming to weigh down the warm summer air around it with the sweetness of its perfume. Now, on one of those very bushes, and on the highest twig thereof, I find my cock linnet. His head is held well up, and his little throat swells and throbs with his sweet, melodious song. But I know this is all tact on the bird's part, and that his heart beats quick with fear as he sees me wandering searchingly from bush to bush. He is trying to look unconcerned. He saw me coming, and enjoined his pretty mate to lie close and not fly out, assuring her that if she did so all would be well. He does not even fly away at my approach. "There is no nest of mine anywhere near," he seems to say. "Is it likely I would be singing so blithely if there were?" "Ah! but," I reply, "I feel sure there is, else why are you dressed so gaily? why have you cast aside your sombre hues and donned that crimson vest?" Pop--I am at the right bush now, and out flies the modest wee female linnet. She had forgotten all her mate told her, she was so frightened she could not lie close. And now I lift a branch and keek in, and am well rewarded. A prettier sight than that little nest affords, to any one fond of birds, cannot easily be conceived. It is not a large one; the outside of it is built of knitted grass and withered weeds, and on the whole it is neat; but inside it is the perfection of beauty and rotundity, and softly and warmly lined with hair of horse and cow, with a few small feathers beneath, to give it extra cosiness. And the eggs-- how beautiful! Books simply tell you they are white, dotted, and speckled with red. They are more than this; the groundwork is white, to be sure, but it looks as if the markings were traced by the Angers of some artist fay. It looks as though the fairy artist had been trying to sketch upon them the map of some strange land, for here are blood-red lakes--square, or round, or oval--and rivers running into them and rivers rolling out, so that having once seen a rose-linnet's egg, you could never mistake it for any other. "I think," said Ida, "I should like a linnet, if I knew how to treat it." "Well," I continued, "let me give you a little advice. I have interested you in this bonnie bird, let me tell you then how you are to treat him if you happen to get one, so as to make him perfectly happy, with a happiness that will be reflected upon you, his mistress." I always counsel any one who has a pet of any kind to be in a manner jealous of it, for one person is enough to feed and tend it, and that person should be its owner. Of course, if you mean to have one as a companion you will procure a male bird, and one as pretty as possible, but even those less bright in colour sing well. Let his cage be a square or long one, and just as roomy as you please; birds in confinement cannot have too much space to move about in. Keep the cage exceedingly clean and free from damp, give the bird fresh water every morning, and see that he has a due allowance of clean dry seed. The food is principally canary-seed with some rape in it, and a small portion of flax; but although you may now and then give him a portion of bruised hemp seed, be careful and remember hemp is both stimulating and over-fattening. Many a bird gets enlargement of the liver, and heart disease and consequent asthma, from eating too freely and often of hemp. In summer it should never be given, but in cold weather it is less harmful. Green food should not be forgotten. The best is chic-weed--ripe--and groundsel, with--when you can get it--a little watercress. There are many seedling weeds which you may find in your walks by the wayside, which you may bring home to your lintie. If you make a practice of doing this, he will evince double the joy and pleasure at seeing you on your return. Never leave any green food longer than a day either in or over the cage. So shall your pet be healthy, and live for many years to give you comfort with his sweet fond voice. I may just mention that the linnet will learn the song of some other birds, notably that of the woodlark. Sea-sand may be put in the bottom of the cage, and when the bird begins to lose its feathers and moult, be extra kind and careful with it, covering the cage partly over, and taking care to keep away draughts. After the feathers begin to come you may put a rusty nail in the water. This is a tonic, but I do not believe in giving it too soon. Let me now say a word about another of my boyhood's pets--the robin. But I hardly know where or how I am to begin, nor am I sure that my theme will not run right away with me when I do commence. My winged horse--my Pegasus--must be kept well in hand while speaking about my little favourite, the robin. Happy thought, however! I will tell you nothing I think you know already. The robin, then, like the domestic cat, is too well known to need description. We who live in the country have him with us all the year round, and we know his charming song wherever we hear it. He may seem to desert our habitations for a few months in the early spring-time, for he is then very busy, having all the care and responsibility of a family on his head; but he is not far away. He is only in the neighbouring grove or orchard, and if we pay him a visit there he will sing to us very pleasantly, as if glad to see us. And one fine morning we find him on the lawn-gate again, bobbing and becking to us, and looking as proud as a pasha because he has his little wife and three of the family with him. His wife is not a Jenny Wren, as some suppose, but a lovely wee robin just like himself, only a trifle smaller, and not quite so red on the breast nor so bold as her partner. And the young ones, what charmingly innocent little things they look, with their broad beaks and their apologies for tails! I have often known them taken for juvenile thrushes, because their breasts are not red, but a kind of yellow with speckles in it. "Tcheet, tcheet!" cries Robin, on the gate, bobbing at you again; "throw out some crumbs. My wife is a bit shy; she has never been much in society; but just see how the young ones can eat." Well, Robin is one of the earliest birds of a morning that I know. He is up long before the bickering sparrows, and eke before the mavis. His song mingles with your morning dreams, and finally wakes you to the joys and duties of another day, and if you peep out at the window you will probably see him on the lawn, hauling some unhappy worm out of its hole. I have seen Robin get hold of too big a worm, and, after pulling a piece of it out as long as a penholder, fly away with a frightened "Tcheet, tcheet!" as much as to say, "Dear me! I didn't know there were yards and yards of you. You must be a snake or something." Robin sings quite late at night too, long after the mavis is mute and every other bird has retired. And all day long in autumn he sings. During the winter months, especially if there be snow on the ground, he comes boldly to the window-ledge, and doesn't ask, but demands his food, as brazenly as a German bandsman. Sparrows usually come with him, but if they dare to touch a bit of food that he has his eye on they catch it. My robin insists upon coming into my study in winter. He likes the window left open though, and I don't, and on this account we have little petulancies, and if I turn him out he takes revenge by flying against the French window, and mudding all the pane with his feet. Almost every country house has one or two robins that specially belong to it, and very jealous they are of any strange birds that happen to come nigh the dwelling. While bird-nesting one time in company with another boy, we found a robin's nest in a bank at the foot of a great ash tree. There were five eggs in it. On going to see it two days after, we found the nest and eggs intact, but two other eggs had been laid and deposited about a foot from the bank. We took the hint, and carried away these two, but did not touch the others. The eggs are not very pretty. While shooting in the wildest part of the Highlands, and a long way from home, I have often preferred a bed with my dog on the heather to the smoky hospitality of a hut; and I have found robins perched close by me of a morning, singing ever so sweetly and low. They were only trying to earn the right to pick up the crumbs my setter and I had left at supper, but this shows you how fond these birds are of human society. In a cage the robin will live well and healthily for many years, if kindly and carefully treated. He will get so tame that you needn't fear to let him have his liberty about the room. Let the cage be large and roomy, and covered partly over with a cloth. The robin loves the sunshine and a clean, dry cage, and, as to food, he is not very particular. Give him German paste--with a little bruised hemp and maw seed, with insects, beetles, grubs, garden and meal worms, etc. Let him have clean gravel frequently, and fresh water every morning. Now and then, when you think your pet is not particularly lively, put a rusty nail in the water. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE REDSTART, THE GOLDFINCH, THE MAVIS, AND MERLE. "They sang, as blithe as finches sing, That flutter loose on golden wing, And frolic where they list; Strangers to liberty, 'tis true, But that delight they never knew, And therefore never miss'd." Cowper. I was creeping, crawling, and scrambling one afternoon in the days of my boyhood, through tall furze at the foot of the Drummond Hill, which in England would be called a mountain. It was the Saturday half-holiday, and I was having a fine time of it among the birds. I was quite a mile away from any human dwelling, and, I flattered myself, from any human being either. I was speedily undeceived though. "Come out o' there, youngster," cried a terrible voice, almost to my ear. "I thought ye were a rabbit; I was just going to chuck a stone at your head." I crept forth in fear and trembling. A city rough of the lowest type--you could tell that from the texture of the ragged, second-hand garments he wore; from his slipshod feet, his horrid cap of greasy fur, and pale, unwholesome face. He proceeded to hoist a leafless branch, smeared with birdlime, in a conspicuous place, and not far off he deposited a cage, with a bird in it. Then he addressed me. "I'm goin' away for half an hour, and you'll stop here and watch. If any birds get caught on the twigs, when I come back I'll mebbe gie you something." When he came back he did "gie me something." He boxed my ears soundly, because I lay beside the cage, and talked to the little bird all the time instead of watching. You may guess how I loved that man. I have had the same amount of affection for the whole bird-catching fraternity ever since, and I do a deal every summer to spoil their sport. I look upon them as followers of a most sinful calling, and just as cruel and merciless as the slave-traders of Southern Africa. Many a little heart they break; they separate parent birds, and tear the old from their young, who are left to starve to death in the nest. The redstart was a great favourite with me in these joyous days. In size and shape he is not unlike the robin; but the bill is black, the forehead white, the rest of the upper part of the body a bluish grey. The wings are brownish, the bird wears a bib of black, but on the upper portion of the chest and all down the sides there is red, though not so bright in colour as the robin's breast. That is the plumage of the cock-bird, so these birds are easily known. They make charming cage pets, being very affectionate, and as merry as a maiden on May morning, always singing and gay, and so tame that you need not be afraid to let them out of the cage. Another was the wren. Some would love the mite for pity sake. It is very pretty and very gay, and possesses a sweet little voice of its own; it needs care, however. It must not, on the one hand, be kept too near a fire or in too warm a room, and on the other it should be well covered up at night; a draught is fatal to such a bird. There is also the golden-headed wren, the smallest of our British birds, but I do not remember ever having seen one kept in a cage. There is no accounting for tastes, however. I knew a young lady in Aberdeen who kept a golden eagle in a cage of huge dimensions. He was the admiration of all beholders, and the terror of inquisitive schoolboys, who, myself among the number, fully believed he ate a whole horse every week, and ever so many chickens. While gazing at the bird, you could not help feeling thankful you were on the _outside_ of the cage. I admired, but I did not love him much. He caught me by the arm one day, with true Masonic grip--I loved him even less after that. Wrens are fed in the same way as robins or nightingales are. In the wild state they build a large roundish nest, principally of green moss outside, and with very little lining. There is just one tiny hole left in the side capable of admitting two fingers. Eggs about ten in number, very small, white, and delicately ticked with red. If I remember rightly, the golden wren's are pure white. The nests I have found were in bushes, holly, fir, or furze, or under the branches of large trees close to the trunk. The back of the nest is nearly always towards the north and east. The stonechat or stone-checker is a nice bird as to looks, but possesses but little song. It would require the same treatment in cage or aviary as the robin. So I believe would the whinchat, but I have no practical knowledge of either as pets. With the exception of the kingfisher, I do not recollect any British bird with brighter or more charming plumage, than our friend the goldfinch. He is arrayed in crimson and gold, black, white, and brown, but the colours are so beautifully placed and blended, that, rich and gaudy though they be, they cannot but please the eye of the most artistic. The song of the goldfinch is very sweet, he is with all a most affectionate pet, and exceedingly clever, so much so that he may be taught quite a number of so-called tricks. In the wild state the bird eats a variety of seeds of various weeds that grow by the wayside, and at times in the garden of the sluggard. Dandelion and groundsel seed are the chief of these, and later on in the season thistle seed. So fond, indeed, is the goldfinch of the thistle that the only wonder is that our neighbours beyond the Tweed do not claim it as one of _the_ birds of Bonnie Scotland, as they do the curlew and the golden eagle. But, on the other hand, they might on the same plea claim a certain quadruped, whose length of ear exceeds its breadth of intellect. "Won't you tell us something," said Ida, "about the blackbird and thrush? Were they not pets of your boyhood?" "They were, dear, and if I once begin talking about them I will hardly finish to-night." "But just a word or two about them." It is the poet Mortimer Collins that says so charmingly: "All through the sultry hours of June, From morning blithe to golden noon, And till the star of evening climbs The grey-blue East, a world too soon, There sings a thrush amid the limes." Whether in Scotland or England, the mavis, or thrush, is one of the especial favourites of the pastoral poet and lyrist. And well the bird deserves to be. No sweeter song than his awakes the echoes of woodland or glen. It is shrill, piping, musical. Tannahill says he "gars (makes) echo _ring_ frae tree to tree." That is precisely what the charming songster does do. It is a bold, clear, ringing song that tells of the love and joy at the birdie's heart. If that joy could not find expression in song, the bird would pine and die, as it does when caught, caged, and improperly treated. When singing he likes to perch himself among the topmost branches; he likes to see well about him, and perhaps the beauties he sees around him tend to make him sing all the more blithely. But though seeing, he is not so easily seen. I often come to the door of my garden study and say to myself, "Where can the bird be to-night?" This, however, is when the foliage is on orchard and oaks. But his voice sometimes sounds so close to my ear that I am quite surprised when I find him singing among the boughs of a somewhat distant tree. This is my mavis, my particular mavis. In summer he awakes me with his wild lilts, long ere it is time to get up, and he continues his song "till the star of evening climbs the grey-blue East," and sometimes for an hour or more after that. I think, indeed, that he likes the gloaming best, for by that witching time nearly all the other birds have retired, and there is nothing to interrupt him. In winter my mavis sings whenever the weather is mild and the grass is visible. But he does not think of turning up of a morning until the sun does, and he retires much earlier. I have known my mavis now nearly two years, and I think he knows me. But how, you may ask me, Frank, do I know that it is the selfsame bird. I reply that not only do we, the members of my own family, know this mavis, but those of some of my neighbours as well, and in this way: all thrushes have certain expressions of their own, which, having once made use of, they never lose. So like are these to human words, that several people hearing them at the same time construe them in precisely the same way. My mavis has four of these in his vocabulary, with which he constantly interlards his song, or rather songs. They form the choruses, as it were, of his vocal performances. The chorus of one is, "Weeda, weeda, weeda;" of another, "Piece o' cake, piece o' cake, piece o' cake;" of the third, "Earwig, earwig, earwig;" and of the last, sung in a most plaintive key, "Pretty deah, pretty deah, pretty deah." "That is so true," said Ida, laughing. On frosty days he does not sing, but he will hop suddenly down in front of me while I am feeding the Newfoundlands. "You can spare a crumb," he says, speaking with his bright eye; "grubs are scarce, and my poor toes are nearly frozen off." Says the great lyrist-- "May I not dream God sends thee there, Thou mellow angel of the air, Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes With music's soul, all praise and prayer? Is that thy lesson in the limes?" I am lingering longer with the mavis than probably I ought, simply because I want you all to love the bird as I love him. Well, then, I have tried to depict him to you as he is in his native wilds; but see him now at some bud-seller's door in town. Look at his drooping wings and his sadly neglected cage. His eyes seem to plead with each passer-by. "Won't _you_ take me out of here?" he seems to say, "nor you, nor you? Oh! if you would, and were kind to me, I should sing songs to you that would make the green woods rise up before you like scenery in a beautiful dream." The male thrush is the songster, the female remains mute. She listens. The plumage is less different than in most birds. The male looks more pert and saucy, if that is any guide. The mavis is imitative of the songs of other birds. In Scotland they say he _mocks_ them. I do not think that is the case, but I know that about a week after the nightingales arrive here my mavis begins to adopt many of their notes, which he loses again when Philomel becomes mute. And I shouldn't think that even my mavis would dare to mock the nightingale. I have found the nest of the mavis principally in young spruce-trees or tall furze in Scotland, and in England in thick hedges and close-leaved bushes; it is built, of moss, grass, and twigs, and clay-lined. Eggs, four or five, a bluish-green colour with black spots. The missel-thrush, or Highland magpie, builds far beyond any one's reach, high up in the fork of a tree; the eggs are very lovely--whitish, speckled with brown and red. I do not recommend this bird as a pet. He is too wild. The merle, or blackbird, frequents the same localities as the mavis does, and is by no means a shy bird even in the wild state, though I imagine he is of a quieter and more affectionate disposition. It is my impression that he does not go so far away from the nest of his pretty mate as the mavis, but then, perhaps, if he did he would not be heard. The song is even sweeter to the ear than that of the thrush, although it has far fewer notes. It is quieter, more rich and full, more mellow and melodious. The blackbird has been talked of as "fluting in the grove." The notes are certainly not like those of the flute. They are cut or "tongued" notes like those of the clarionet. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. A BIRD-HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. "Adieu, sweet bird! thou erst hast been Companion of each summer scene, Loved inmate of our meadows green, And rural home; The music of thy cheerful song We loved to hear; and all day long Saw thee on pinion fleet and strong About us roam." It is usual in the far north of Scotland, where the writer was reared, to have, as in England, the graveyard surrounding the parish church. The custom is a very ancient and a very beautiful one; life's fitful fever past and gone, to rest under the soft sward, and under the shadow of the church where one gleaned spiritual guidance. There is something in the very idea of this which tends to dispel much of the gloom of death, and cast a halo round the tomb itself. But at the very door of the old church of N--a tragedy had, years before I had opened my eyes in life, been enacted, and since that day service had never again been conducted within its walls. The new church was built on an open site quite a mile from the old, which latter stands all by itself--crumbling ivy-clad ruins, in the midst of the greenery of an acre of ancient graves. There is a high wall around it, and giant ash and plane trees in summer almost hide it from view. It is a solitary spot, and on moonlit nights in winter, although the highway skirts it, few there be who care to pass that way. The parish school or academy is situated some quarter of a mile from the auld kirkyard, and in the days of my boyhood even bird-nesting boys seldom, if ever, visited the place. It was not considered "canny." For me, however, the spot had a peculiar charm. It was so quiet, so retired, and haunted, not with ghosts, but with birds, and many a long sunny forenoon did I spend wandering about in it, or reclining on the grass with my Virgil or Horace in hand--poets, by the way, who can only be thoroughly enjoyed out of doors in the country. A pair of owls built in this auld kirkyard for years. I used to think they were always the same old pair, who, year after year, stuck to the same old spot, sending their young ones away to the neighbouring woods to begin life on their own account as soon as they were able to fly. They were lazy birds; for two whole years they never built a nest of their own, but took possession of a magpie's old one. But at last the lady owl said to her lord-- "My lord, this nest is getting quite disreputable--we _must_ have a new one this spring." "Very well," said his lordship, looking terribly learned, "but you'll have to build it, my lady, for I've got to think, and think, you know." "To be sure, my lord," said she. "The world would never go on unless you thought, and thought." She chose an old window embrasure, and, half hid in ivy, there she built the new nest with weeds and sticks and stubble, while he did nothing but sit and talk Greek and natural philosophy at her. There were tree sparrows built in the ivy of those crumbling walls, each nest about as big as the bottom of an armchair, and containing as many feathers as would stuff a small pillow-case, to say nothing of threads of all colours, hair, and pieces of printed paper. Seven, eight, and ten eggs would be in some of those, white as to ground, and beautifully speckled with brown and grey. I have heard the tree sparrow called a nasty, common, dowdy thing. It really is not at all dowdy, and although it may be called the country cousin of the busy, chattering little morsel of feathers and fluff that hops nimbly but noisily about our roof-tops, and is constantly quarrelling with its neighbours, the tree sparrow is far more pretty. Nor is it quite plebeian. It is the _Passer montanus_ of some naturalists, the _becfin friquet_ of the French; it belongs to the Greek family, the _Fringillidae_, and does not the linnet belong to that family too? Yes, and the beautiful bullfinch and the gaudy goldfinch as well, to say nothing of the siskin and canary, so it cannot be plebeian. The tree sparrow makes a nice wee pet, very loving and gentle, and not at all particular as to food. It likes canary-seed, but insects and worms as well, and it is not shy at picking a morsel of sugar, nor a tiny bit of bread and butter. There were more birds of the same family that haunted this auld kirkyard. The greenfinch or green-grosbeak used to flit hither and thither among the ivy like a tiny streak of lightning, and the pretty wee redpole was also there. There was one bird in particular that used to build in the trees that grew inside the graveyard wall. I refer to my old friend and favourite the chaffinch, called in Scotland the boldie. He is most brilliant in plumage, being richly clad in russet red and brown, picked out with blue, yellow, and white. The chaffinch is lovely whether sitting or flying, whether trilling his song with head erect and throat puffed out, or keeking down from the branch of a tree with one saucy eye, to see if any one is going near his nest. His song in the wild state is more celebrated for brilliancy and boldness than for sweetness or variation, but in confinement it may be improved. But this same nest is something to look at and admire for minutes at a time. I used to think my chaffinch--the chaffinch that built in my churchyard--was particularly proud of his nest. "Pink, pink, pink," he used to say to me; "I see you looking up at my nest. You may go up, if you like, and have a look in. _She_ is from home just now, and there are four eggs in at present. There will be five by-and-by. Now, did you ever see such beautiful eggs?" "Never," I would reply; "they are most lovely." "Well, then," he would continue, "pink, pink, pink! look at the nest itself. What do you think of that for architecture? It is built, you see, some twelve feet from the ground, against the stem, but held in its place by a little branch. It is out of the reach of cats; if it were higher up the wind would shake it, or the hawks would see it. It is not much bigger than your two hands; and just look at the artistic way in which the lichens are mingled with the moss on the outside, to blend with the colour of the tree!" "Yes, but," I would remark, "there are bits of paper there, as well as lichens." "Yes, yes, yes," the bird would reply; "bits of paper do almost as well as lichens. Pink, pink, pink! There is the whole of Lord Palmerston's speech there; Palmerston is a clever man, but he couldn't build a nest like that." I mentioned the redpole. It is, as far as beauty goes, one of the best cage-birds we have; a modest, wee, affectionate, unassuming pet, but deficient in song. "Cheet, cheet, cheet, cheet, cheet, cheet, chee-ee!" What sweet little voice is that repeating the same soft song over and over again, and dwelling on the last syllable with long-drawn cadence? The music--for music it is, although a song without variations--is coming from yonder bonnie bush of golden-blossomed broom, that grows in the angle between the two walls in a remote corner of the auld kirkyard. I throw Horace down, and get up from the grass and walk towards it. "Chick, chick, chick, chick, chee-ee!" "Oh, yes! I daresay you haven't a nest anywhere near; but I know better." This is my reply. I walk across the unhallowed ground, as this patch is called, for-- whisper it!--suicides lie here, and the graves have not been raised, nor do stones mark the spot where they lie. Here is the nest, in under a bit of weedy bank, and yonder is the bird himself--the yellow-hammer, skite, or yellow bunting--looking as gay as a hornet, for well he knows that I will not disturb his treasures. The eggs are shapely, white in ground, and beautifully streaked and speckled, and splashed with reddish brown. But there are no eggs; only four morsels of yellow fluff, apparently, surrounded by four gaping orange-red mouths. But they are cosy. I catch a tiny slug, and break it up between them, and the cock-bird goes on singing among the broom, while the hen perches a little way off, twittering nervously and peevishly. "Chick, chick, che-ee!" says the bird. "I don't pretend to build such a pretty nest as the chaffinch; besides, such a flimsy thing as his would not do on the ground; mine has a solid foundation of hay, don't you see? That keeps out the damp, and that lining of hair is warmer than anything else in the world." A poor, persecuted little bird is this same yellow bunting; and schoolboys often, when they find the nest, scatter it and its precious contents to the four winds of heaven. All the more reason why we should be kind to the pet if we happen to have it in confinement. It is true the wild song is not very interesting; but when a young one is got, it will improve itself if it can listen to the song of another bird, for nearly all our feathered songsters possess the gift of imitation. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. A FRIEND OF MY STUDENT DAYS. "He was a gash and faithfu' tyke As over lap a sheugh or dyke." Burns. I had cured friend Frank's dog of some trifling ailment, and she seemed fonder of me than ever. "Poor Meg," I said, patting her. Dogs are never ungrateful for kindnesses, but I have seen many noted instances of revenge, and so doubtless have many of my readers. Here is a case. At one time of day my father possessed a breed of beautiful black game-cocks. One of these had a great aversion to dogs, and a bull-terrier, who was tied up in a stall in the stable, came in for a considerable share of blows and abuse from a certain brave bird of the King Jock strain. I myself was a witness to the assault, but I dared not interfere, for to tell you the truth, that game-cock was one too many for me then, and I wouldn't care to be attacked by a bird of the same kind even now. King Jock had come into the stable to pick a bit by himself, for he was far too cavalierly to eat much before the hens. "Give everything to the ladies and go without yourself" is game-cock etiquette. Presently he spied "Danger" lying in the stall with his head on his two fore-paws. "Oh! you're there, are you?" said King Jock, holding his head to the ground, and keening up with one eye at the poor dog. "Didn't notice ye before. It ain't so light as it might be." Danger gave one apologetic wag of his tail. "Pretty fellow you are, ain't ye?" continued the cock, edging a bit nearer. "Eh? Why don't you speak?" "Ho! ho! it's chained ye are, is it? I've a good mind to let you have it on that ugly patched face of yours. And, by my halidom, I will too. Who ran through the yard yesterday and scared the senses out of half my harem? Take that, and that, and that. Try to bite, would you? Then you'll have another; there! and there!" Poor Danger's head was covered with round lumps as big as half marbles, and each lump had a spur-hole. Cock Jock had made good practice, which he had much reason to repent, for one day Master Danger broke loose, and went straight away to look for his enemy. Jock possessed a tail that any cock might have been proud of, but after his encounter with Danger his pride had a fall, for in his speedy flight he got stuck in a hedge, and the dog tore every feather out, and would have eaten his way into, and probably through, King Jock himself, if the twig hadn't snapped, and the bird escaped. After that King Jock was content to treat bull-terriers with quiet disdain. Dogs know much of what is said to them, especially if you do not speak too fast, for, if you do, they get nervous, and forget their English. It is, in my opinion, better not to alter your form of speech, nor the tone of your voice, when talking to a dog. My old friend Tyro, a half-bred collie, but most beautiful animal, understood and was in the habit of being talked to in three languages, to say nothing of broad Scotch, namely, English, Gaelic, and Latin--no, not dog Latin, by your leave, sir, but the real Simon Pure and Ciceronic. I don't mean to assert that he could appreciate the beauties of the Bucolics, nor Horatian love lays if read to him; but he would listen respectfully, and he would obey ordinary orders when couched in the Roman tongue. Every animal that had hair and ran was, to Tyro, a cat; every animal that had feathers was a crow, and these he qualified by size. In a flock of sheep, for instance, if you asked him to chase out the _big_ "cat," it was a ram, who got no peace till he came your way; if, in a flock of fowls, you had asked him to chase out the _big_ "crow," it was the cock who had to fly; if you said the wee crow, a bantam or hen would be the victim. An ordinary cat was simply a cat, and if you asked him to go and find one, it would be about the barn-yards or stables he would search. But if you told him to go and find a "grub-cat," it was off to the hills he would be, and if you listened you would presently hear him in chase, and he would seldom return without a grub-cat, that meant a cat that could be eaten--i.e., a hare or rabbit. He knew when told to go and take a drink of water; but, at sea, the ocean all around him was pointed out to him as the big drink of water. In course of time he grew fond of the sea, though the commotion in the water and the breakers must have been strange and puzzling to him; but if at any time he was told to go and take a look at the big drink of water, he would put his two fore-paws on the bulwarks and watch the waves for many minutes at a time. "I have often heard you speak of your dog Tyro, Gordon," said Frank; "can't you tell us his history?" "I will, with pleasure," I replied. "He was _the_ dog of my student days. I never loved a dog more, I never loved one so much, with the exception perhaps of Theodore Nero--or you, Aileen, for I see you glancing up at me. No, you needn't sigh so." But about Tyro. Here is his story:--He was bred from a pure Scottish collie, the father a powerful retriever (Irish). "Bah!" some one may here say, "only a mongrel," a class of dogs whose praises few care to sing, and whose virtues are written in water. A watch-dog of the right sort was Tyro; and from the day when his brown eyes first rested on me, for twelve long years, by sea and land, I never had a more loving companion or trusty friend. He was a large and very strong dog, feathered like a Newfoundland, but with hair so soft and long and glossy, as to gain for him in his native village the epithet of "silken dog." In colour he was black-and-tan, with snow-white gauntlets and shirt-front. His face was very remarkable, his eyes bright and tender, giving him, with his long, silky ears, almost the expression of a beautiful girl. Being good-mannered, kind, and always properly groomed, he was universally admired, and respected by high and low. He was, indeed, patted by peers and petted by peasants, never objected to in first-class railway cars or steamer saloons, and the most fastidious of hotel waiters did not hesitate to admit him, while he lounged daintily on sofa or ottoman, with the _sang froid_ of one who had a right. Tyro came into my possession a round-pawed fun-and-mischief-loving puppy. His first playmate was a barn-door fowl, of the male persuasion, who had gained free access to the kitchen on the plea of being a young female in delicate health; which little piece of deceit, on being discovered by his one day having forgot himself so far as to crow, cost "Maggie," the name he impudently went by, his head. Very dull indeed was poor Tyro on the following day, but when the same evening he found Maggie's head and neck heartlessly exposed on the dunghill, his grief knew no bounds. Slowly he brought it to the kitchen, and with a heavy sigh deposited it on the hearthstone-corner, and all the night and part of next day it was "waked," the pup refusing all food, and flashing his teeth meaningly at whosoever attempted to remove it, until sleep at last soothed his sorrow. I took to the dog after that, and never repented it, for he saved my life, of which anon. Shortly after his "childish sorrow," Tyro had a difference of opinion with a cat, and got rather severely handled, and this I think it was that led him, when a grown dog, to a confusion of ideas regarding these animals, _plus_ hares and rabbits; "when taken to be well shaken," was his motto, adding "wherever seen," so he slew them indiscriminately. This cat-killing propensity was exceedingly reprehensible, but the habit once formed never could be cured; although I, stimulated by the loss of guinea after guinea, whipped him for it, and many an old crone--deprived of her pet--has scolded him in English, Irish, and Scotch, all with the same effect. Talking of cats, however, there was _one_ to whom Tyro condescendingly forgave the sin of existing. It so fell out that, in a fight with a staghound, he was wounded in a large artery, and was fast bleeding to death, because no one dared to go near him, until a certain sturdy eccentric woman, very fond of our family, came upon the scene. She quickly enveloped her arms with towels, to save herself from bites, and thus armed, thumbed the artery for two hours; then dressing it with cobwebs, saved the dog's life. Tyro became, when well, a constant visitor at the woman's cottage; he actually came to love her, often brought her the hares he killed, and, best favour of all to the old maid, considerately permitted her cat to live during his royal pleasure; but, if he met the cat abroad, he changed his direction, and inside he never let his eyes rest upon her. When Tyro came of age, twenty-one (months), he thought it was high time to select a profession, for hitherto he had led a rather roving life. One thing determined him. My father's shepherd's toothless old collie died, and having duly mourned for her loss, he--the shepherd--one day brought home another to fill up the death-vacancy. She was black, and very shaggy, had youth and beauty on her side, pearly teeth, hair that shone like burnished silver, and, in short, was quite a charming shepherdess--so, at least, thought Tyro; and what more natural than that he should fall in love with her? So he did. In her idle hours they gambolled together on the gowny braes, brushed the bells from the purple heather and the dewdrops from the grass, chased the hares, bullied the cat, barked and larked, and, in short, behaved entirely like a pair of engaged lovers of the canine class; and then said Tyro to himself, "My mother was a shepherdess, _I_ will be a shepherd, and thus enjoy the company of my beloved `Phillis' for ever, and perhaps a day or two longer." And no young gentleman ever gave himself with more energy to a chosen profession than did Tyro. He was up with the lark--the bird that picks up the worm--and away to the hill and the moor. To his faults the shepherd was most indulgent for a few days; but when Tyro, in his over-zeal, attempted to play the wolf, he was, very properly, punished. "What an indignity! Before one's Phillis too!" Tyro turned tail and trotted sulkily home. "Bother the sheep!" he must have thought; at any rate, he took a dire revenge--not on the shepherd, _his_ acquaintance he merely cut, and he even continued to share the crib with his little ensnarer--but on the sheep-fold. A neighbouring farmer's dog, of no particular breed, was in the habit of meeting Tyro at summer gloaming, in a wood equidistant from their respective homes. They then shook tails, and trotted off side by side. Being a very early riser, I used often to see Tyro coming home in the mornings, jaded, worn, and muddy, avoiding the roads, and creeping along by ditches and hedgerows. When I went to meet him, he threw himself at my feet, as much as to say, "Thrash away, and be quick about it." This went on for weeks, though I did not know then what mischief "the twa dogs" had been brewing, although ugly rumours began to be heard in all the countryside about murdered sheep and bleeding lambs; but my eyes were opened, and opened with a vengeance, when nineteen of the sheep on my father's hill-side were made bleeding lumps of clay in one short "simmer nicht"; and had Tyro been tried for his life, he could scarcely have proved an _alibi_, and, moreover, his pretty breast was like unto a robin's, and his gauntlets steeped in gore. Dire was the punishment that fell on Tyro's back for thus forsaking the path of virtue for a sheep-walk; and for two or three years, until, like the "Rose o' Anandale," he-- "Left his Highland home And wandered forth with me," he was condemned to the chain. He now became really a watch-dog, and a right good one he proved. The chain was of course slipped at night when his real duties were supposed to commence. Gipsies--tinklers we call them--were just then an epidemic in our part of the country; and our hen-roosts were in an especial manner laid under blackmail. One or two of those same long-legged gentry got a lesson from Tyro they did not speedily forget. I have seldom seen a dog that could knock down a man with less unnecessary violence. So surely as any one laid a hand on his master, even in mimic assault, he was laid prone on his back, and that, too, in a thoroughly business-like fashion; and violence was only offered if the lowly-laid made an attempt to get up till out of arrest. I never had a dog of a more affectionate disposition than my dead-and-gone friend Tyro. By sea and land, of course _I_ was his especial charge; but that did not prevent him from joyously recognising "friends he had not seen for years." Like his human shipmates, he too used to look out for land, and he was generally the first to make known the welcome news, by jumping on the bulwarks, snuffing the air, and giving one long loud bark, which was slightly hysterical, as if there were a big lump in his throat somewhere. I should go on the principle of _de mortuis nil nisi bonum_; but I am bound to speak of Tyro's faults as well as his virtues. Reader, he had a temper--never once shown to woman or child, but often, when he fancied his _casus belli_ just, to man, and once or twice to his master. Why, one night, in my absence, he turned my servant out, and took forcible possession of my bed. It _was_ hard, although I _had_ stayed out rather late; but only by killing him could I have dislodged him, so for several reasons I preferred a night on the sofa, and next morning I reasoned the matter with him. During our country life, Tyro took good care I should move as little as possible without him, and consequently dubbed himself knight-companion of my rambles over green field and heathy mountain, and these were not few. We often extended our excursions until the stars shone over us, then we made our lodging on the cold ground, Tyro's duties being those of watch and pillow. Often though, on awakening in the morning, I found my head among the heather, and my pillow sitting comfortably by my side panting, generally with a fine hare between its paws, for it had been "up in the morning airly" and "o'er the hills and far awa'," long before I knew myself from a stone. Tyro's country life ended when his master went to study medicine. One day I was surprised to find him sitting on the seat beside me. The attendant was about to remove him. "Let alone the poor dog," said Professor L. "I am certain he will listen more quietly than any one here." Then after the lecture, "Thank you, doggie; you have taught my students a lesson." That naughty chain prevented a repetition of the offence; but how exuberant he was to meet me at evening any one may guess. Till next morning he was my second shadow. More than once, too, he has been a rather too faithful ally in the many silly escapades into which youth and spirits lead the medical student. His use was to cover a retreat, and only once did he floor a too-obtrusive Bobby; and once he _saved me from an ugly death_. It was Hogmanay--the last night of the year--and we had been merry. We, a jolly party of students, had elected to sing in the New Year. We did so, and had been very happy, while, as Burns hath it, Tyro-- "For vera joy had barkit wi' us." Ringing out from every corner of the city, like cocks with troubled minds, came the musical voices of night-watchmen, bawling "half-past one," as we left the streets, and proceeded towards our home in the suburbs. It was a goodly night, moon and stars, and all that sort of thing, which tempted me to set out on a journey of ten miles into the country, in order to be "first foot" to some relations that lived there. The road was crisp with frost, and walking pleasant enough, so that we were in one hour nearly half-way. About here was a bridge crossing a little rocky ravine, with a babbling stream some sixty feet below. On the low stone parapet of this bridge, like the reckless fool I was, I stretched myself at full length, and, unintentionally, fell fast asleep. How nearly that sleep had been my last! Two hours afterwards I awoke, and naturally my eyes sought the last thing they had dwelt upon, the moon; she had declined westward, and in turning round I was just toppling over when I was sharply pulled backwards toward the road. Here was Tyro with his two paws pressed firmly against the parapet, and part of my coat in his mouth, while with flashing teeth he growled as I never before had heard him. His anger, however, was changed into the most exuberant joy, when I alighted safely on the road, shuddering at the narrow escape I had just made. At the suggestion of Tyro, we danced round each other, for five minutes at least, in mutual joy, by which time we were warm enough to finish our journey, and be "first foot" to our friends in the morning. When Tyro left home with me to begin a seafaring life, he put his whole heart and soul into the business. There was more than one dog in the ship, but his drawing-room manners and knowledge of "sentry-go" made him saloon dog _par excellence_. His first voyage was to the Polar regions, and his duty the protection by night of the cabin stores, including the spirit room. This duty he zealously performed; in fact, Master Tyro would have cheerfully undertaken to take charge of the whole ship, and done his best to repel boarders, if the occasion had demanded it. A sailor's life was now for a time the lot of Tyro. I cannot, however, say he was perfectly happy; no dog on board ship is. He missed the wide moors and the heathy hills, and I'm sure, like his master, he was always glad to go on shore again. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Poor Tyro got old; and so I had to go to sea without him. Then this dog attached himself to my dear mother. When I returned home again, she was gone... Strange to say, Tyro, who during my poor mother's illness had never left her room, refused food for days after her death. He got thin, and dropsy set in. With my _own_ hand, I tapped him no less than fifteen times, removing never less than one gallon and three quarters of water. The first operation was a terrible undertaking, owing to the dog making such fierce resistance; but afterwards, when he began to understand the immense relief it afforded him, he used to submit without even a sigh, allowing himself to be strapped down without a murmur, and when the operation (excepting the stab of the trocar, there is little or no pain) was over, he would give himself a shake, then lick the hands of all the assistants--generally four--and present a grateful paw to each; then he had his dinner, and next day was actually fit to run down a rabbit or hare. Thinner and weaker, weaker and thinner, month by month, and still I could not, as some advised, "put him out of pain;" he had once saved my life, and I did not feel up to the mark in Red Indianism. And so the end drew nigh. The saddest thing about it was this: the dog had the idea (knowing little of the mystery of death) that I could make him well; and at last, when he could no longer walk, he used to crawl to meet me on my morning visit, and gaze in my face with his poor imploring eyes, and my answer (_well_ he knew what I said) was always, "Tyro, doggie, you'll be better the morn (to-morrow), boy." And when one day I could stand it no longer, and rained tears on my old friend's head, he crept back to his bed, and that same forenoon he was dead. Poor old friend Tyro. Though many long years have fled since then, I can still afford a sigh to his memory. On a "dewy simmer's gloaming" my Tyro's coffin was laid beneath the sod, within the walls of a noble old Highland ruin. There is no stone to mark where he lies, but I know the spot, and I always think the _gowan blinks_ bonniest and the grass grows greenest there. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THE DAYS WHEN WE WENT CRUISING. "O'er the glad waters of the dark-blue sea, Our thoughts as boundless and ourselves as free." Byron. When cruising round Africa some years ago in a saucy wee gunboat, that shall be nameless, I was not only junior assistant surgeon, but I was likewise head surgeon, and chief of the whole medical department, and the whole of that department consisted of--never a soul but myself. As we had only ninety men all told, the Admiralty couldn't afford a medical officer of higher standing than myself. I was ably assisted, however, in my arduous duties, which, by the way, occupied me very nearly half an hour every morning, after, not before, breakfast, by the loblolly boy "Sugar o' Lead." I don't suppose he was baptised Sugar o' Lead. I don't think it is likely ever he was baptised at all. This young gentleman used to make my poultices, oatmeal they were made of, of course--I'm a Scot. But Sugar o' Lead always put salt in them, ate one half and singed the rest. He had also to keep the dispensary clean, which he never did, but he used to rub the labels off the bottles, three at a time, and stick them on again, but usually on the wrong bottles. This kept me well up in my pharmacy; but when one day I gave a man a dose of powder of jalap, instead of Gregory, Sugar o' Lead having changed the labels, the man said "it were a kinder rough on him." Sugar o' Lead thought he knew as much as I, perhaps; but Epsom salts and sulphate of zinc, although alike in colour, are very different in their effects when given internally. Sugar o' Lead had a different opinion. Another of the duties which devolved upon Sugar o' Lead was to clean up after the dogs. At this he was quite at home. At night he slept with the monkeys. Although the old cockatoo couldn't stand him, Sugar o' Lead and the monkeys were on very friendly terms; they lived together on that great and broad principle which binds the whole of this mighty world of ours together, the principle of "You favour me to-day and I'll favour you to-morrow." Sugar o' Lead and the monkeys acted upon it in quite the literal sense. At Symon's Town, I was in the habit of constantly going on shore to prospect, gun in hand, over the mountains. Grand old hills these are, too, here and there covered with bush, with bold rocky bluffs abutting from their summits, their breasts bedecked with the most gorgeous geraniums, and those rare and beautiful heaths, which at home you can only find in hot-houses. My almost constant attendant was a midshipman, a gallant young Scotchman, whom you may know by the name of Donald McPhee, though I knew him by another. The very first day of our many excursions "in the pursuit of game," we were wading through some scrub, about three or four miles from the shore, when suddenly my companion hailed me thus: "Look-out, doctor, there's a panther yonder, and he's nearest you." So he was; but then he wasn't a panther at all, but a very large Pointer. I shouldn't like to say that he was good enough for the show bench; he was, however, good enough for work. Poor Panther, doubtless he now rests with his fathers, rests under the shadow of some of the mighty mountains, the tartaned hills, over which he and I used to wander in pursuit of game. On his grave green lizards bask, and wild cinerarias bloom, while over it glides the shimmering snake; but the poor, faithful fellow blooms fresh in my memory still. I think I became his special favourite. Perhaps he was wise enough to admire the Highland dress I often wore. Perhaps he thought, as I did, that of all costumes, that was the best one for hill work. But the interest he took in everything I did was remarkable. He seemed rejoiced to see me when I landed, as betokened by the wagging tail, the lowered ears, slightly elevated chin, and sparkling eye--a canine smile. "Doctor," he seemed to say, "I was beginning to think you weren't coming. But won't we have a day of it, just?" And away we would go, through the busy town and along the sea beach, where the lisping wavelets broke melodiously on sands of silvery sheen, where many a monster medusa lay stranded, looking like huge umbrellas made of jelly, and on, and on, until we came to a tiny stream, up whose rocky banks we would scramble, skirting the bush, and arriving at last at the great heath land. We followed no beaten track, we went here, there, and everywhere. The scenery was enchantingly wild and beautiful, and there was health and its concomitant happiness in every breeze. Sometimes we would sit dreamily on a rock top, Panther and I, for an hour at a time, vainly trying to drink in all the beauties of the scene. How bright was the blue of the distant sea! How fleecy the cloudlets! How romantic and lovely that far-off mountain range, its rugged outline softened by the purple mists of distance! These everlasting mountains we could people with people of our own imagination. I peopled them with foreign fairies. Panther, I think, peopled them with rock rabbits. Weary at last with gazing on the grandeur everywhere around us, we would rivet our attention for a spell upon things less romantic--bloater paste and sea biscuit. I shared my lunch with Panther. Panther was most civil and obliging; he not only did duty as a pointer and guide, but he would retrieve as well, rock rabbits and rats, and such; and as he saw me bag them, he would look up in my face as much as to say-- "Now aren't you pleased? Don't you feel all over joyful? Wouldn't you wag a tail if you had one? I should think so." Panther wouldn't retrieve black snakes. "No," said Panther, "I draw the line at black snakes, doctor." I would fain have taken him to sea with me, as he belonged to no one; but Panther said, "No, I cannot go." "Then good-bye, dear friend," I said. "Farewell," said Panther. And so we parted. He looked wistfully after the boat as it receded from the shore. I believe, poor fellow, he knew he would never see me again. Conceive, if you can, of the lonesomeness, the dreariness of going to sea without a dog. But as Panther wouldn't come with me, I had to sail without him. As the purple mountains grew less and less distinct, and shades of evening gathered around us, and twinkling lights from rocky points glinted over the waters, I could only lean over the taffrail and sing-- "Happy land! happy land! Who would leave the glorious land?" Who indeed? but sailor-men must. And now darkness covers the ocean, and hides the distant land, and next we were out in the midst of just as rough a sea as any one need care to be in. My only companion at this doleful period of my chequered career was a beautiful white pigeon. Here is how I came by him. Out at the Cape, in many a little rocky nook, and by many a rippling stream, grow sweet flowerets that come beautifully out in feather work. Feather-flower making then was one of my chief delights and amusements; the art had been taught me by a young friend of mine, whose father grew wine and kept hunters (jackal-hunting), and had kindly given me "the run" of the house. Before leaving, on the present cruise, I had secured some particularly beautiful specimens of flowers, too delicate to be imitated by anything, save the feathers of a pigeon; so I had bought a pure white one, which I had ordered to be killed and sent off. "Steward," I cried, as we were just under weigh, "did a boy bring a white pigeon for me?" "He did, sir; and I put it in your cabin in its basket, which I had to give him sixpence extra for." "But why," said I, "didn't you tell him to put his nasty old basket on his back and take it off with him?" "Because," said the steward, "the bird would have flown away." "Flown away!" I cried. "Is the bird alive then?" "To be sure, sir," said the steward. "To be sure, you blockhead," said I; "how can I make feather-flowers from a live pigeon?" The man was looking at me pityingly, I thought. "Can't you kill it, sir? Give him to me, sir; I'll Wring his neck in a brace of shakes." "You'd never wring another neck, steward," I said; "you'd lose the number of your mess as sure as a gun." When I opened the basket, knowing what rogues nigger-boys are, I fully expected to find a bird with neither grace nor beauty, and about the colour of an old white clucking hen. The boy had not deceived me, however. The pigeon was a beauty, and as white as a Spitzbergen snow-bird. Out he flew, and perched on a clothes-peg in my bulkhead, and said-- "Troubled wi' you. Tr-rooubled with you." "You'll need," said I, "to put up with the trouble for six months to come, for we're messmates. Steward," I continued, "your fingers ain't itching, are they, to kill that lovely creature?" "Not they," said the fellow; "I wouldn't do it any harm for the world." "There's my rum bottle," I said; "it always stands in that corner, and it is always at your service while you tend upon the pigeon." The cruise before, we had a black cat on board, that the sailors looked upon as a bird of evil omen, for we got no luck, caught no slavers, ran three times on shore, and were once on fire. This cruise, we had lots of prize-money, and never a single mishap, and the men put it all down to "the surgeon's pet," as they called my bird. He was a pet, too. I made him a nest in a leathern hat-box, where he went when the weather was rough. He was tame, loving, and winning in all his ways, and always scrupulously white and clean. The first place we ran into was Delagoa Bay. How sweetly pretty, how English-like, is the scenery all around! The gently undulating hills, clothed in clouds of green; the trees growing down almost to the water's edge; the white houses nestling among the foliage, the fruit, the flowers, the blue marbled sky, and the wavelets breaking musically on the silvery sands--what a watering-place it would make, and what a pity we can't import it body bulk! The houses are all built on the sand, so that the beach is the only carpet. In the Portuguese governor's house, where we spent such a jolly evening, it was just the same; the chair-legs sank in the soft white sand, the table was off the plane, and the piano all awry; and a dog belonging to one of the officers, a monster boarhound, with eyes like needles, and tusks that would have made umbrella handles, scraped a hole at one end of the room, and nearly buried himself. That dog, his owner told me, would kill a jackal with one blow of his paw; but he likewise caught mice like winking, and killed a cockroach wherever he saw one. His owner wrote this down for me, and I afterwards translated it. Next morning, at eleven, the governor and his officers came off, arrayed in scarlet, blue, and burnished gold, cocked-hats and swords, all so gay, and we had tiffin in the captain's cabin; Carlo, the dog, came too, of course, and seated himself thoughtfully at one end, abaft the mess table. There we were, then, just six of us--the captain, a fiery looking, wee, red man, but not half a bad fellow; the governor, bald in pate, round-faced, jolly, but incapable of getting very close to the table because of the rotundity of his body; his _aide-de-camp_, a little thin man, as bright and as merry as moonshine; his lieutenant, a jolly old fellow, with eyes like an Ulmer hound, and nose like a kidney potato; myself, and Carlo. Our conversation during tiffin was probably not very edifying, but it was very spirited. You see, our captain couldn't speak a word of Portuguese, and the poor Portuguese hadn't a word of English. I myself possessed a smattering of Spanish, and a little French, and I soon discovered that by mixing the two together, throwing in an occasional English word and a sprinkling of Latin, I could manufacture very decent Portuguese. At least, the foreigners themselves seemed to understand me, or pretended to for politeness sake. To be sure they didn't always give me the answer I expected, but that was all the funnier, and kept the laugh up. I really believe each one of us knew exactly what he himself meant, but I'm sure couldn't for the life of him have told what his neighbour was driving at. And so we got a little mixed somehow, but everybody knew the road to his mouth, and that was something. We got into an argument upon a very interesting topic indeed, and kept it up for nearly an hour, and were getting quite excited over it, when somehow or other it came out, that the Portuguese had all the while been argle-bargling about the rights of the Pope, while we Englishmen had been deep in the mystery of the prices of yams and sucking pig, in the different villages of the coast. Then we all laughed and shook hands, and shrugged our shoulders, and turned up our palms, and laughed again. Presently I observed the captain trying to draw my attention unobserved: he was squinting down towards the cruet stand, and I soon perceived the cause. An immense cockroach had got into a bottle of cayenne, and feeling uncomfortably warm, was standing on his hind-legs and frantically waving his long feelers as a signal of distress. I was just wondering how I could get the bottle away without letting the governor see me, when some one else spotted that unhappy cockroach, and that was Carlo. Now Carlo was a dog who acted on the spur of the moment, so as soon as he saw the beast in the bottle he flew straight at it. That spring would have taken him over a six-barred gate. And, woe is me for the result! Down rolled the table, crockery and all; down rolled the governor, with his bald pate and rotundity of body; down went the merry little thin man; over rolled the fellow with the nose like a kidney potato. The captain fell, and I fell, and there was an end to the whole feast. When we all got up, Carlo was intent upon his cockroach, and looking as unconcerned as if nothing out of the common had occurred. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. BLUE-JACKETS' PETS. "Hard is the heart that loveth nought." Shelley. "All love is sweet, Given or returned. Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever." Idem. Blue-jackets, as Her Majesty's sailors are sometimes styled, are passionately fond of pets. They must have something to love, if it be but a woolly-headed nigger-boy or a cockroach in a 'baccy-box. Little nigger-boys, indeed, may often be found on board a man-o'-war, the reigning pets. Young niggers are very precocious. You can teach them all they will ever learn in the short space of six months. Of this kind was one I remember, little Freezing-powders, as black as midnight, and shining all over like a billiard ball, with his round curly head and pleasant dimply face. Freezing-powders soon became a general favourite both fore and aft. His master, our marine officer, picked him up somewhere on the West coast; and although only nine years of age, before he was four months in the ship, he could speak good English, was a perfect little gymnast, and knew as many tricks and capers as the cook and the monkey. Snowball was another I knew; but Snowball grew bad at an early age, lost caste, became dissipated, and a gambler, and finally fled to his native jungle. Jock of ours was a seal of tender years, who for many months retained the affection of all hands, until washed overboard in a gale of wind. This creature's time on board was fully occupied in a daily round of duty, pleasure, and labour. His duty consisted in eating seven meals a day, and bathing in a tub after each; his pleasure, to lie on his side on the quarter-deck and be scratched and petted; while his labour consisted of earnestly endeavouring to enlarge a large scupper-hole sufficiently to permit his escape to his native ocean. How indefatigably he used to work day by day, and hour after hour, scraping on the iron first with one flipper, then with another, then poking his nose in to measure the result with his whiskered face! He kept the hole bright and clear, but did not sensibly enlarge it, at least to human ken. Jock's successor on that ship was a youthful bear of Arctic nativity. He wasn't a nice pet. He took all you gave him, and wanted to eat your hand as well, but he never said "Thank you," and permitted no familiarity. When he took his walks abroad, which he did every morning, although he never went out of his road for a row, he walked straight ahead with his nose downwards growling, and gnawed and tore everything that touched him--not at all a pet worth being troubled with. Did the reader ever hear of the sailor who tamed a cockroach? Well, this man I was "shipmates" with. He built a little cage, with a little kennel in the corner of it, expressly for his unsavoury pet, and he called the creature "Idzky"--"which he named himself, sir," he explained to me. Idzky was a giant of his race. His length was fully four inches, his breadth one inch, while each of his waving feelers measured six. This monster knew his name and his master's voice, hurrying out from his kennel when called upon, and emitting the strange sound which gained for him the cognomen Idzky. The boatswain, his master, was as proud of him as he might have been of a prize pug, and never tired of exhibiting his eccentricities. I met the boatswain the other day at the Cape, and inquired for his pet. "Oh, sir," he said, with genuine feeling, "he's gone, sir. Shortly after you left the ship, poor Idzky took to taking rather much liquor, and that don't do for any of us, you know, sir; I think it was that, for I never had the heart to pat him on allowance; and he went raving mad, had regular fits of delirium, and did nothing at all but run round his cage and bark, and wouldn't look at anything in the way of food. Well, one day I was coming off the forenoon watch, when, what should I see but a double line of them `P' ants working in and out of the little place: twenty or so were carrying a wing, and a dozen a leg, and half a score running off with a feeler, just like men carrying a stowed mainsail; and that, says I, is poor Idzky's funeral; and so it was, and I didn't disturb them. Poor Idzky!" Peter was a pet mongoose of mine, a kindly, cosy little fellow, who slept around my neck at night, and kept me clear of cockroaches, as well as my implacable enemies, the rats. I was good to Peter, and fed him well, and used to take him on shore at the Cape, among the snakes. The snakes were for Peter to fight; and the way my wary wee friend dodged and closed with, and finally throttled and killed a cobra was a caution to that subtlest of all the beasts of the field. The presiding Malay used to clap his brown hands with joy as he exclaimed--"Ah! sauve good mongoose, sar, proper mongoose to kill de snake." "You don't object, do you," I modestly asked my captain one day, while strolling on the quarter-deck after tiffin--"you don't object, I hope, to the somewhat curious pets I at times bring on board?" "Object?" he replied. "Well, no; not as a rule. Of course you know I don't like your snakes to get gliding all over the ship, as they were the other day. But, doctor, what's the good of my objecting? If any one were to let that awful beast in the box yonder loose--" "Don't think of it, captain," I interrupted; "he'd be the death of somebody, to a dead certainty." "No; I'm not such a fool," he continued. "But if I shot him, why, in a few days you'd be billeting a boar-constrictor or an alligator on me, and telling me it was for the good of science and the service." The awful beast in the box was the most splendid and graceful specimen of the monitor lizard I have ever seen. Fully five feet long from tip to tail, he swelled and tapered in the most perfect lines of beauty. Smooth, though scaly, and inky black, tartaned all over with transverse rows of bright yellow spots, with eyes that shone like wildfire, and teeth like quartz, with his forked tongue continually flashing out from his bright-red mouth, he had a wild, weird loveliness that was most uncanny. Mephistopheles, as the captain not inaptly called him, knew me, however, and took his cockroaches from my hand, although perfectly frantic when any one else went near him. If a piece of wood, however hard, were dropped into his cage, it was instantly torn in pieces; and if he seized the end of a rope, he might quit partnership with his head or teeth, but never with the rope. One day, greatly to my horror, the steward entered the wardroom, pale with fear, and reported: "Mephistopheles escaped, sir, and yaffling [rending] the men." I rushed on deck. The animal had indeed escaped. He had torn his cage into splinters, and declared war against all hands. Making for the fore hatchway, he had seized a man by the jacket skirts, going down the ladder. The man got out of the garment without delay, and fled faster than any British sailor ought to have done. On the lower deck he chased the cook from the coppers, and the carpenter from his bench. A circle of Kroomen were sitting mending a foresail; Mephistopheles suddenly appeared in their midst. The niggers unanimously threw up their toes, individually turned somersaults backwards, and sought the four winds of heaven. These routed, my pet turned his attention to Peepie. Peepie was a little Arab slave-lass. She was squatting by a calabash, singing low to herself, and eating rice. He seized her cummerbund, or waist garment. But Peepie wriggled clear--natural--and ran on deck, the innocent, like the "funny little maiden" in Hans Breitmann. On the cummerbund Mephistopheles spent the remainder of his fury, and the rest of his life; for not knowing what might happen next, I sent for a fowling-piece, and the plucky fellow succumbed to the force of circumstances and a pipeful of buck-shot. I have him yonder on the sideboard, in body and in spirit (gin), bottle-mates with a sandsnake, three centipedes, and a tarantula. With monkeys, baboons, apes, and all of that ilk, navy ships, when homeward bound, are ofttimes crowded. Of our little crew of seventy, I think nearly every man had one, and some two, such pets, although fully one-half died of chest-disease as soon as the ship came into colder latitudes. These monkeys made the little craft very lively indeed, and were a never-ending source of amusement and merriment to all hands. I don't like monkeys, however. They "are so near, and yet so far," as respects humanity. I went shooting them once--a cruel sport, and more cowardly even than elephant-hunting in Ceylon--and when I broke the wrist of one, instead of hobbling off, as it ought to have done, it came howling piteously towards me, shaking and showing me the bleeding limb. The little wretch preached me a sermon anent cruelty to animals that I shall not forget till the day I die. We had a sweet-faced, delicate, wee marmoset, not taller, when on end, than a quart bottle--Bobie the sailors called him; and we had also a larger ape, Hunks by name, of what our Scotch engineer called the "ill-gettit breed"; and that was a mild way of putting it. This brute was never out of mischief. He stole the men's tobacco, smashed their pipes, spilled their soup, and ran aloft with their caps, which he minutely inspected and threw overboard afterwards. He was always on the black list; in fact, when rubbing his back after one thrashing, he was wondering all the time what mischief he could do next. Bobie was arrayed in a neatly fitting sailor-costume, cap and all complete; and so attired, of course could not escape the persecutions of the ape. Hunks, after contenting himself with cockroaches, would fill his mouth; then holding out his hand with one to Bobie, "Hae, hae, hae," he would cry, then seize the little innocent, and escape into the rigging with him. Taking his seat in the maintop, Hunks first and foremost emptied his mouth, cramming the contents down his captive's throat. He next got out on to the stays for exercise, and used Bobie as a species of dumb-bell, swinging him by the tail, hanging him by a foot, by an ear, by the nose, etc, and threatening to throw him overboard if any sailor attempted a rescue. Last of all, he threw him at the nearest sailor. On board the _Orestes_ was a large ape as big as a man. He was a most unhappy ape. There wasn't a bit of humour in his whole corporation. "He had a silent sorrow" somewhere, "a grief he'd ne'er impart." Whenever you spoke to him, he seized and wrung your hand in the most pathetic manner, and drew you towards him. His other arm was thrown across his chest, while he shook his head, and gazed in your face with such a woe-begone countenance, that the very smile froze on your lips; and as you couldn't laugh out of politeness, you felt very awkward. For anything I know, this melancholy ape may be still alive. Deer are common pets in some ships. We had a fine large buck in the old _Semiramie_. A romping, rollicking rascal, in truth a very satyr, who never wanted a quid of tobacco in his mouth, nor refused rum and milk. Whenever the steward came up to announce dinner, he bolted below at once; and we were generally down just in time to find him dancing among the dishes, after eating all the potatoes. I once went into my cabin and found two Liliputian deer in my bed. It was our engineer who had placed them there. We were lying off Lamoo, and he had brought them from shore. "Ye'll just be a faither to the lammies, doctor," he said, "for I'm no on vera guid terms wi' the skipper." They were exactly the size of an Italian greyhound, perfectly formed, and exceedingly graceful. They were too tender, poor things, for life on shipboard, and did not live long. In the stormy latitudes of the Cape, the sailors used to amuse themselves by catching Cape pigeons, thus: a little bit of wood floated astern attached by a string, a few pieces of fat thrown into the water, and the birds, flying tack and half-tack towards them, came athwart the line, by a dexterous movement of which they entangled their wings, and landed them on board. They caught albatrosses in the same fashion, and nothing untoward occurred. I had for many months a gentle, loving pet in the shape of a snow-white dove. I had bought him that I might make feather-flowers from his plumage; but the boy brought him off alive, and I never had the heart to kill him. So he lived in a leathern hat-box, and daily took his perch on my shoulder at meal-times [see page 178]. It was my lot once upon a time to be down with fever in India. The room in which I lay was the upper flat of an antiquated building, in a rather lonely part of the suburbs of a town. It had three windows, close to which grew a large banyan-tree, beneath the shade of whose branches the crew of a line-of-battle ship might have hung their hammocks with comfort. The tree was inhabited by a colony of crows; we stood--the crows and I--in the relation of over-the-way to each other. Now, of all birds that fly, the Indian crow most bear the palm for audacity. Living by his wits, he is ever on the best of terms with himself, and his impudence leads him to dare anything. Whenever, by any chance, Pandoo, my attendant, left the room, these black gentry paid me a visit. Hopping in by the score, and regarding me no more than the bed-post, they commenced a minute inspection of everything in the room, trying to destroy everything that could not be eaten or carried away. They rent the towels, drilled holes in my uniform, stole the buttons from my coat, and smashed my bottles. One used to sit on a screen close by my bed every day, and scan my face with his evil eye, saying as plainly as could be--"You're getting thinner and beautifully less; in a day or two, you won't be able to lift a hand; then I'll have the pleasure of picking out your two eyes." Amid such doings, my servant would generally come to my relief, perhaps to find such a scene as this: Two or three pairs of hostile crows with their feathers standing up around their necks, engaged in deadly combat on the floor over a silver spoon or a tooth-brush; half a dozen perched upon every available chair; an unfortunate lizard with a crow at each end of it, getting whirled wildly round the room, each crow thinking he had the best right to it; crows everywhere, hopping about on the table, and drinking from the bath; crows perched on the window-sill, and more crows about to come, and each crow doing all in his power to make the greatest possible noise. The faithful Pandoo would take all this in at a glance; then would ensue a helter-skelter retreat, and the windows be darkened by the black wings of the flying crows, then silence for a moment, only broken by some apologetic remark from Pandoo. When at length happy days of convalescence came round, and I was able to get up and even eat my meals at table, I found my friends the crows a little more civil and respectful. The thought occurred to me to make friends with them; I consequently began a regular system of feeding them after every meal-time. One old crow I caught, and chained to a chair with a fiddle-string. He was a funny old fellow, with one club-foot. He never refused his food from the very day of his captivity, and I soon taught him a few tricks. One was to lie on his back when so placed for any length of time till set on his legs again. This was called turning the turtle. But one day this bird of freedom hopped away, fiddle-string and all, and a whole fortnight elapsed before I saw him again. I was just beginning to put faith in a belief common in India--namely, that a crow or any other bird, that has been for any time living with human beings, is put to instant death the moment he returns to the bosom of his family; when one day, while engaged breakfasting some forty crows, my club-footed pet reappeared, and actually picked the bit from my hand, and ever after, until I left, he came regularly thrice a day to be fed. The other crows came with surprising exactness at meal-times; first one would alight on the shutter outside the window, and peep in, as if to ascertain how nearly done I happened to be, then fly away for five or ten minutes, when he would return, and have another keek. As soon, however, as I approached the window, and raised my arm, I was saluted with a chorus of cawing from the banyan-tree; then down they swooped in dozens; and it was no very easy task to fill so many mouths, although the loaves were Government ones. These pets had a deadly enemy in a brown raven--the Brahma kite; swifter than arrow from bow he descended, describing the arc of a great circle, and carrying off in his flight the largest lamp of bread he could spy. He, for one, never stopped to bless the hand of the giver; but the crows, I know, were not ungrateful. Club-foot used to perch beside me on a chair, and pick his morsels from the floor, always premising that two windows at least must be open. As to the others, their persecutions ended; they never appeared except when called upon. The last act of their aggression was to devour a very fine specimen of praying mantis I had confined in a quinine bottle. The first day the paper cover had been torn off, and the mantis had only escaped by keeping close at the bottom; next day, the cover was again broken, and the bottle itself capsized; the poor mantis had prayed in vain for once. Club-foot, I think, must have stopped all day in the banyan-tree, for I never went to the window to call him without his appearing at once with a joyful caw; this feat I used often to exhibit to my shipmates who came to visit me during my illness. One thing about talking-birds I don't remember ever to have seen noticed--namely, the habit some birds have of talking in their sleep. And, just as a human being will often converse in his dream in a long-forgotten language, so birds will often at night be heard repeating words or phrases they never could remember in their waking moments. A starling of mine often roused me at night by calling out my dog's name in loud, distinct tones, although by day his attempts to do so were quite ineffectual. So with a venerable parrot we had on board the saucy _Skipjack_. Polly was a quiet bird in daylight, and much given to serious thought; but at times, in the stillness of the middle watch at sea, would startle the sailors from their slumbers by crying out: "Deen, deen--kill, kill, kill!" in quite an alarming manner. Polly had been all through the Indian mutiny, and was shut up in Delhi during the sad siege, so her dreams were not very enviable. Do parrots know what they say? At times I think they do. Our parson on board the old _Rumbler_ had no more attentive listener to the Sabbath morning service than wardroom Polly; but there were times when Polly made responses when silence would have been more judicious. There was an amount of humour which it is impossible to describe, in the sly way she one day looked the parson in the face, as he had just finished a burst of eloquence both impassioned and impressive, and uttered one of her impertinent remarks. For some months, she was denied access to church because she had once forgotten herself so far as to draw corks during the sermon--this being considered "highly mutinous and insubordinate conduct." But she regained her privilege. Poor Poll! I'll never forget the solemn manner in which she shut her eyes one day at the close of the service, as if still musing on the words of the sermon, on the mutability of all things created, and remarked: "Vanity, vanity, all is vanity, says--says:" she could say no more--the rest stuck in her throat, and we were left to ponder on her unfortunate loss of memory in uttering the admonitory sentiment. CHAPTER NINETEEN. MY CABIN MATES AND BEDFELLOWS: A SKETCH OF LIFE ON THE COAST OF AFRICA. "Whaur are gaun crawlin' ferlie, Your impudence protects ye sairly." Burns. I was idly sauntering along the only street in Simon's Town one fine day in June, when I met my little, fat, good-humoured friend, Paymaster Pumpkin. He was walking at an enormous pace for the length of his legs, and his round face was redder than ever. He would hardly stop to tell me that H.M.S. _Vesuvius_ was ordered off in two hours--provisions for a thousand men--the Kaffirs (scoundrels) had crossed some river (name unpronounceable) with an army of one hundred thousand men, and were on their way to Cape Town, with the murderous intention of breaking every human bone in that fair town, and probably picking them leisurely afterwards. The upshot of all this, as far as I was concerned, was my being appointed to as pretty a model, and as dirty a little craft, as there was in the service, namely, H.M.S. _Pen-gun_. Our armament consisted of four pea-shooters and one Mons Meg; and our orders were to repair to the east coast of Africa, and there pillage, burn, and destroy every floating thing that dared to carry a slave, without permission from Britannia's queen. Of our adventures there, and how we ruled the waves, I am at present going to say nothing. I took up my commission as surgeon of this interesting craft, and we soon after sailed. On first stepping on board the _Pen-gun_, a task which was by no means difficult to a person with legs of even moderate length, my nose--yes, my nose--that interesting portion of my physiognomy, which for months before had inhaled nothing more nauseous than the perfume of a thousand heaths, or the odour of a thousand roses--my nose was assailed by a smell which burst upon my astonished senses, like a compound of asafoetida, turpentine, and Stilton cheese. As I gasped for breath, the lieutenant in command endeavoured to console me by saying--"Oh, it's only the cockroaches: you'll get used to it by-and-by." "_Only_ the cockroaches!" repeated I to myself, as I went below to look after my cabin. This last I found to be of the following dimensions-- namely, five feet high (I am five feet ten), six feet long, and six feet broad at the top; but, owing to the curve of the vessel's side, only two feet broad at the deck. A cot hung fore and aft along the ship's side, and the remaining furniture consisted of a doll's chest of drawers, beautifully fitted up on top with a contrivance to hold utensils of lavation, and a Liliputian writing-table on the other; thus diminishing my available space to two square feet, and this in a break-neck position. My cot, too, was very conveniently placed for receiving the water which trickled freely from my scuttle when the wind blew, and more slowly when the wind didn't; so that every night, very much against my will, I was put under the operations of practical hydropathy. And this was my _sanctum, sanctorum_; but had it been clean, or capable of cleaning, I am a philosopher, and would have rejoiced in it; but it was neither; and ugh! it was inhabited. Being what is termed in medical parlance, of the nervo-sanguineous temperament, my horror of the loathsome things about me for the first week almost drove me into a fever. I could not sleep at night, or if I fell into an uneasy slumber, I was awakened from fearful dreams, to find some horrid thing creeping or running over my hands or face. When a little boy, I used to be fond of turning up stones in green meadows, to feast my eyes upon the many creeping things beneath. I felt now as if I myself were living _under_ a stone. However, after a year's slaver-hunting, I got so used to all these creatures, that I did not mind them a bit. I could crack scorpions, bruise the heads of centipedes, laugh at earwigs, be delighted with ants, eat weevils, admire tarantulas, encourage spiders. As for mosquitoes, flies, and all the smaller genera, I had long since been thoroughly inoculated; and they could now bleed me as much as they thought proper, without my being aware of it. It is of the habits of some of these familiar friends I purpose giving a short sketch in this chapter and next. Of the "gentlemen of England who live at home at ease," very few, I suspect, would know a cockroach, although they found the animal in their soap--as I have done more than once. Cockroaches are of two principal kinds--the small, nearly an inch long; and the large, nearly two and a half inches. Let the reader fancy to himself a common horsefly of our own country, half an inch in breadth, and of the length just stated, the body, ending in two forks, which project beyond the wings, the head, furnished with powerful mandibles, and two feelers, nearly four inches long, and the whole body of a dark-brown or gun-barrel colour, and he will have as good an idea as possible of the gigantic cockroach. The legs are of enormous size and strength, taking from fifteen to twenty ants to carry one away, and furnished with bristles, which pierce the skin in their passage over one's face; and this sensation, together with the horrid smell they emit, is generally sufficient to awaken a sleeper of moderate depth. On these legs the animal squats, walking with his elbows spread out, like a practical agriculturist writing an amatory epistle to his lady-love, except when he raises the fore part of his body, which he does at times, in order the more conveniently to stare you in the face. He prefers walking at a slow and respectable pace; but if you threaten him by shaking your finger at him, it is very funny to see how quickly he takes the hint, and hurries off with all his might. What makes him seem more ridiculous is, that he does not appear to take into consideration the comparative length of your legs; he seems impressed with the idea that he can easily run away from you; indeed, I have no doubt he would do so from a greyhound. The creature is possessed of large eyes; and there is a funny expression of conscious guilt and impudence about his angular face which is very amusing; he knows very well that he lives under a ban--that, in fact, existence is a thing he has no business or lawful right with, and consequently he can never look you straight in the face, like an honest fly or moth. The eggs, which are nearly half an inch long, and about one-eighth in breadth, are rounded at the upper edge, and the two sides approach, wedge-like, to form the lower edge, which is sharp and serrated, for attachment to the substance on which they may chance to be deposited. These eggs are attached by one end to the body of the cockroach; and when fully formed, they are placed upon any material which the wisdom of the mother deems fit food for the youthful inmates. This may be either a dress-coat, a cocked-hat, a cork, a biscuit, or a book--in fact, anything softer than stone; and the egg is no sooner laid, than it begins to sink through the substance below it, by an eating or dissolving process, which is probably due to the agency of some free acid; thus, sailors very often (I may say invariably) have their finest uniform-coats and dress-pants ornamented by numerous little holes, better adapted for purposes of ventilation than embellishment. The interior of the egg is transversely divided into numerous cells, each containing the larvae of I know not how many infant cockroaches. The egg gives birth in a few weeks to a whole brood of triangular little insects, which gradually increase till they attain the size of huge oval beetles, striped transversely black and brown, but as yet minus wings. These are usually considered a different species, and called the beetle-cockroach; but having a suspicion of the truth, I one day imprisoned one of these in a crystal tumbler, and by-and-by had the satisfaction of seeing, first the beetle break his own back, and secondly, a large-winged cockroach scramble, with a little difficulty, through the wound, looking rather out of breath from the exertion. On first escaping, he was perfectly white, but in a few hours got photographed down to his own humble brown colour. So much for the appearance of these gentry. Now for their character, which may easily be summed up: they are cunning as the fox; greedy as the glutton; impudent as sin; cruel, treacherous, cowardly scoundrels; addicted to drinking; arrant thieves; and not only eat each other, but even devour with avidity their own legs, when they undergo accidental amputation. They are very fond of eating the toe-nails--so fond, indeed, as to render the nail-scissors of no value, and they also profess a penchant for the epidermis--if I may be allowed a professional expression--of the feet and legs; not that they object to the skin of any other part of the body, by no means; they attack the legs merely on a principle of easy come-at-ability. In no way is their cunning better exhibited than in the cautious and wary manner in which they conduct their attack upon a sleeper. We will suppose you have turned in to your swinging cot, tucked in your toes, and left one arm uncovered, to guard your face. By-and-by, first a few spies creep slowly up the bulkhead, and have a look at you: if your eyes are open, they slowly retire, trying to look as much at their ease as possible; but if you look round, they run off with such ridiculous haste and awkward length of steps, as to warrant the assurance that they were up to no good. Pretend, however, to close your eyes, and soon after, one, bolder than the rest, walks down the pillow, and stations himself at your cheek, in an attitude of silent and listening meditation. Here he stands for a few seconds, then cautiously lowering one feeler, he tickles your face: if you remain quiescent, the experiment is soon repeated; if you are still quiet, then you are supposed to be asleep, and the work of the night begins. The spy walks off in great haste, and soon returns with the working-party. The hair is now searched for drops of oil; the ear is examined for wax; in sound sleepers, even the mouth undergoes scrutiny; and every exposed part is put under the operation of gentle skinning. Now is the time to start up, and batter the bulkheads with your slipper; you are sure of half an hour's good sport; but what then? The noise made by the brutes running off brings out the rest, and before you are aware, every crevice or corner vomits forth its thousands, and the bulkheads all around are covered with racing, chasing, fighting, squabbling cockroaches. So numerous, indeed, they are at times, that it would be no exaggeration to say that every square foot contains its dozen. If you are wise, you will let them alone, and go quietly and philosophically to bed, for you may kill hundreds, and hundreds more will come to the funeral-feast. Cockroaches are cannibals, practically and by profession. This can be proved in many ways. They eat the dead bodies of their slain comrades; and if any one of them gets sick or wounded, his companions, with a kindness and consideration which cannot be too highly appreciated, speedily put him out of pain, and, by way of reward for their own trouble, devour him. These creatures seem to suffer from a state of chronic thirst; they are continually going and returning from the wash-hand basin, and very careful they are, too, not to tumble in. They watch, sailor-like, the motion of the vessel; when the water flows towards them, they take a few sips, and then wait cautiously while it recedes and returns. Yet, for all this caution, accidents do happen, and every morning you are certain to find a large number drowned in the basin. This forms one of the many methods of catching them. I will only mention two other methods in common use. A pickle-bottle, containing a little sugar and water, is placed in the cabin; the animals crawl in, but are unable to get out until the bottle is nearly full, when a few manage to escape, after the manner of the fox in the fable of the "Fox and Goat in the Well;" and if those who thus escape have previously promised to pull their friends out by the long feelers, they very unfeelingly decline, and walk away as quickly as possible, sadder and wiser 'roaches. When the bottle is at length filled, it finds its way overboard. Another method is adopted in some ships--the boys have to muster every morning with a certain number of cockroaches; if they have more, they are rewarded; if less, punished. I have heard of vessels being fumigated, or sunk in harbour; but in these cases the number of dead cockroaches, fast decaying in tropical weather, generally causes fever to break out in the ship; so that, if a vessel once gets overrun with them, nothing short of dry-docking and taking to pieces does any good. They are decided drunkards. I think they prefer brandy; but they are not difficult to please, and generally prefer whatever they can get. When a cockroach gets drunk, he becomes very lively indeed, runs about, flaps his wings, and tries to fly--a mode of progression which, except in very hot weather, they are unable to perform. Again and again he returns to the liquor, till at last he falls asleep, and by-and-by awakes, and, no doubt filled with remorse at having fallen a victim to so human a weakness, rushes frantically away, and in trying to drink, usually drowns himself. But although the cockroach is, in general, the bloodthirsty and vindictive being that I have described, still he is by no means unsociable, and _has_ his times and seasons of merriment and recreation. On these occasions, the 'roaches emerge from their hiding-places in thousands at some preconcerted signal, perform a reel, or rather an acute-angled, spherically-trigonometrical quadrille, to the music of their own buzz, and evidently to their own intense satisfaction. This queer dance occupies two or three minutes, after which the patter of their little feet is heard no more, the buzz and the bum-m-m are hushed; they have gone to their respective places of abode, and are seen no more for that time. This usually takes place on the evening of a very hot day--a day when pitch has boiled on deck, and the thermometer below has stood persistently above ninety degrees. When the lamps are lit in the wardroom, and the officers have gathered round the table for a quiet rubber at whist, then is heard all about and around you a noise like the rushing of many waters, or the wind among the forest-trees; and on looking up, you find the bulkheads black, or rather brown, with the rustling wretches, while dozens go whirring past you, alight on your head, or fly right in your face. This is a cockroaches' ball, which, if not so brilliant as the butterfly ball of my early recollections, I have no doubt is considered by themselves as very amusing and highly respectable. The reader will readily admit that the character of "greedy as gluttons" has not been misapplied when I state that it would be an easier task to tell what they did _not_ eat, than what they _did_. While they partake largely of the common articles of diet in the ship's stores, they also rather like books, clothes, boots, soap, and corks. They are also partial to lucifer-matches, and consider the edges of razors and amputating-knives delicate eating. [Note 1.] As to drink, these animals exhibit the same impartiality. Probably they _do_ prefer wines and spirits, but they can nevertheless drink beer with relish, and even suit themselves to circumstances, and imbibe water, either pure or mixed with soap; and if they cannot obtain wine, they find in ink a very good substitute. Cockroaches, I should think, are by no means exempt from the numerous ills that flesh is heir to, and must at times, like human epicures and gourmands, suffer dreadfully from rheums and dyspepsia; for to what else can I attribute their extreme partiality for medicine? "Every man his own doctor," seems to be _their_ motto; and they appear to attach no other meaning to the word "surgeon" than simply something to eat: I speak by experience. As to physic, nothing seems to come wrong to them. If patients on shore were only half as fond of pills and draughts, I, for one, should never go to sea. As to powders, they invariably roll themselves bodily in them; and tinctures they sip all day long. Blistering-plaster seems a patent nostrum, which they take internally, for they managed to use up two ounces of mine in as many weeks, and I have no doubt it warmed their insides. I one night left a dozen blue pills carelessly exposed on my little table; soon after I had turned in, I observed the box surrounded by them, and being too lazy to get up, I had to submit to see my pills walked off with in a very few minutes by a dozen 'roaches, each one carrying a pill. I politely informed them that there was more than a dose for an adult cockroach in each of these pills; but I rather think they did not heed the caution, for next morning, the deck of my little cabin was strewed with the dead and dying, some exhibiting all the symptoms of an advanced stage of mercurial salivation, and some still swallowing little morsels of pill, no doubt on the principle of _similia similibus curantur_, from which I argue that cockroaches are homoeopathists. That cockroaches are cowards, no one, I suppose, will think of disputing. I have seen a gigantic cockroach run away from an ant, under the impression, I suppose, that the little creature meant to swallow him alive. The smaller-sized cockroach differs merely in size and some unimportant particulars from that just described, and possesses in a less degree all the vices of his big brother. They, too, are cannibals; but they prefer to prey upon the large one, which they kill and eat when they find wounded. For example, one very hot day, I was enjoying the luxury of a bath at noon, when a large cockroach alighted in great hurry on the edge of my bath, and began to drink, without saying "By your leave," or "Good-morning to you." Now, being by nature of a kind disposition, I certainly should never have refused to allow the creature to quench his thirst in my bath-- although I would undoubtedly have killed him afterwards--had he not, in his hurried flight over me, touched my shoulder with his nasty wings, and left thereon his peculiar perfume. This very naturally incensed me, so seizing a book, with an interjectional remark on his impudence, I struck him to the deck, when he lay to all appearance, dead; so, at least, thought a wily little 'roach of the small genus, that had been watching the whole affair at the mouth of his hole, and determined to seize his gigantic relative, and have a feast at his expense; so, with this praiseworthy intention, the imp marched boldly up to him, pausing just one second, as if to make sure that life was extinct; then, seeing no movement or sign of life evinced by the giant, he very pompously seized him by the fore-leg, and, turning round, commenced dragging his burden towards a hole, no doubt inwardly chuckling at the anticipation of so glorious a supper. Unfortunately for the dwarfs hopes, however, the giant now began to revive from the effects of concussion of the brain, into which state my rough treatment had sent him; and his ideas of his whereabouts being rather confused, at the same time feeling himself moving, he very naturally and instinctively began to help himself to follow, by means of his disengaged extremities. Being as yet unaware of what had happened behind, the heart of the little gentleman in front swelled big with conscious pride and dignity, at the thought of what a strong little 'roach he was, and how easily he could drag away his big relative. But this new and sudden access of strength began presently to astonish the little creature itself, for, aided by the giant's movements, it could now almost run with its burden, and guessing, I suppose, that everything was not as it ought to be, it peeped over its shoulder to see. Fancy, if you can, the terror and affright of the pigmy on seeing the monster creeping stealthily after it. "What had it been doing? How madly it had been acting!" Dropping its relative's leg, it turned, and fairly _ran_, helping itself along with its wings, like a barn-door fowl whose wits have been scared away by fright, and never looked once back till fairly free from its terrible adventure; and I have no doubt it was very glad at having discovered its mistake in time, since otherwise the tables might have been turned, and the supper business reversed. So much for cockroaches, and I ought probably to apologise for my description of these gentry being so realistic and graphic. If I ought to, I do. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. It is probable that the edges of razors, etc, are destroyed by a sort of acid deposited there by the cockroaches, similar to that which exudes from the egg; however, there is no gainsaying the fact. CHAPTER TWENTY. MY CABIN MATES--CONCLUDED. "The spider spreads her web, whether she be In poet's towers, cellar or barn or tree." Shelley. The spider, however, is the great enemy of the small genus of cockroaches. These spiders are queer little fellows. They do not build a web for a fly-trap, but merely for a house. For the capture of their prey, they have a much more ingenious method than any I have ever seen, a process which displays a marvellous degree of ingenuity and cleverness on the part of the spider, and proves that they are not unacquainted with some of the laws of mechanics. Having determined to treat himself to fresh meat, the wary little thing (I forgot to say that the creature, although very small in proportion to the generality of tropical spiders, is rather bigger than our domestic spider, and much stronger) emerges from his house, in a corner of the cabin roof, and, having attached one end of a thread to a beam in the roof, about six inches from the bulkhead, he crawls more than half-way down the bulkhead, and attaching the thread here again, goes a little further down, and waits. By-and-by, some unwary 'roach crawls along, between the second attachment of the thread and the spider; instantly the latter rushes from his station, describes half a circle round his victim, lets go the second attachment of the thread--which has now become entangled about the legs of the 'roach--and, by some peculiar movement, which I do not profess to understand, the cockroach is swung off the bulkhead, and hangs suspended by the feet in mid-air; and very foolish he looks; so at least must think the spider, as he coolly stands on the bulkhead quietly watching the unavailing struggles of the animal which he has so nimbly done for; for Marwood himself could not have done the thing half so neatly. The spider now regains the beam to which the thread is attached, and, sailor-like, slides down the little rope, and approaches his victim; and first, as its kicking might interfere with the further domestic arrangements of its body, the 'roach is killed, by having a hole eaten out of its head between the eyes. This being accomplished, the next thing is to bring home the butcher-meat; and the manner in which this difficult task is performed is nothing less than wonderful. A thread is attached to the lower part of the body of the 'roach; the spider then "shins" up its rope with this thread, and attaches it so high that the body is turned upside down; it then hauls on the other thread, _turns_ the body once more, and again attaches the thread; and this process is repeated till the dead cockroach is by degrees hoisted up to the beam, and deposited in a corner near the door of its domicile. But the wisdom of the spider is still further shown in what is done next. It knows very well--so, at least, it would appear--that its supply of food will soon decay; and being unacquainted with the properties of salt, it proceeds to enclose the body of the 'roach in a glutinous substance of the form of a chrysalis or air-tight case. It is, in fact, hermetically sealed, and in this way serves the spider as food for more than a week. There is at one end a little hole, which is, no doubt, closed up after every meal. In my cabin, besides the common earwigs, which were not numerous, and were seldom seen, I found there were a goodly number of scorpions, none of which, however, were longer than two inches. I am not aware that they did me any particular damage, further than inspiring me with horror and disgust. It _was_ very unpleasant to put down your hand for a book, and to find a scorpion beneath your fingers--a hard, scaly scorpion--and then to hear him crack below your boot, and to be sensible of the horrid odour emitted from the body: these things were _not_ pleasant. Those scorpions which live in ships are of a brown colour, and not dangerous; it is the large green scorpion, so common in the islands of East Africa, which you must be cautious in handling, for children, it is said, frequently die from the effects of this scorpion's sting. But a much more loathsome and a really dangerous creature is the large green centipede of the tropics. Of these things, the natives themselves have more horror than of any serpent whatever, not excepting the common cobra, and many a tale they have to tell you of people who have been bitten, and have soon after gone raving mad, and so died. They are from six to twelve inches in length, and just below the neck are armed with a powerful pair of sharp claws, like the nails of a cat, with which they hold on to their victim while they bite; and if once fairly fastened into the flesh, they require to be cut out. While lying at the mouth of the Revooma River, we had taken on board some green wood, and with it many centipedes of a similar colour. One night, about a week afterwards, I had turned in, and had nearly fallen asleep, when I observed a thing on my curtain--luckily on the outside--which very quickly made me wide awake. It was a horrid centipede, about nine inches long. It appeared to be asleep, and had bent itself in the form of the letter S. I could see its golden-green skin by the light of my lamp, and its wee shiny eyes, that, I suppose, never close, and for the moment I was almost terror-struck. I knew if I moved he would be off, and I might get bitten another time--indeed, I never could have slept again in my cabin, had he not been taken. The steward came at my call; and that functionary, by dint of caution and the aid of a pair of forceps, deposited the creature in a bottle of spirits of wine, which stood at hand always ready to receive such specimens. I have it now beside me; and my Scotch landlady, who seemed firmly impressed with the idea that all my diabolical-looking specimens of lizards and various other creeping things are the productions of sundry unhappy patients, remarked concerning my centipede: "He maun hae been a sick and a sore man ye took that ane oot o', doctor." But a worse adventure befell an engineer of ours. He was doing duty in the stokehole, when one of these loathsome creatures actually crept up under his pantaloons. He was an old sailor, and a cool one, and he knew that if he attempted to kill or knock it off, the claws would be inserted on the instant. Cautiously he rolled down his dress, and spread a handkerchief on his leg a short distance before the centipede, which was moving slowly and hesitatingly upwards. It was a moment of intense excitement, both for those around him as well as for the man himself. Slowly it advanced, once it stopped, then moved on again, and crossed on to the handkerchief, and the engineer was saved; on which he immediately got sick, and I was sent for, heard the story, and received the animal, which I placed beside the other. More pleasant and amusing companions and cabin mates were the little ants, a whole colony of which lived in almost every available corner of my sanctum. Wonderfully wise they are too, and very strong, and very proud and "clannish." Their prey is the large cockroach. If you kill one of these, and place it in the centre of the cabin, parties of ants troop in from every direction--I might say, a regiment from each clan; and consequently there is a great deal of fighting and squabbling, and not much is done, except that the cockroach is usually devoured on the spot. If, however, the dead 'roach be placed near some corner where an army of ants are encamped, they soon emerge from the camp in hundreds, down they march in a stream, and proceed forthwith to carry it away. Slowly up the bulkhead moves the huge brute, impelled by the united force of half a thousand, and soon he is conveyed to the top. Here, generally, there is a beam to be crossed, where the whole weight of the giant 'roach has to be sustained by these Liliputians, with their heads downward; and more difficult still is the rounding of the corner. Very often, the ants here make a most egregious mistake; while hundreds are hauling away at each leg, probably a large number get on top of the 'roach, and begin tugging away with all their might, and consequently their burden tumbles to the deck; but the second time he is taken up, this mistake is not made. These creatures send out regular spies, which return to report when they have found anything worth taking to headquarters; then the foraging-party goes out, and it is quite a sight to see the long serpentine line, three or four deep, streaming down the bulkhead and over the deck, and apparently having no end. They never march straight before them; their course is always wavy; and it is all the more strange that those coming up behind should take exactly the same course, so that the real shape of the line of march never changes. Perhaps this is effected by the officer-ants, which you may see, one here, one there, all along the line. By the officer-ants I mean a large-sized ant (nearly double), that walks along by the side of the marching army, like ants in authority. They are black (the common ant being brown), and very important, too, they look, and are no doubt deeply impressed by the responsibility of their situation and duties, running hither and thither--first back, then to the side, and sometimes stopping for an instant with another officer, as if to give or receive orders, and then hurrying away again. These are the ants, I have no doubt, that are in command, and also act as engineers and scouts, for you can always see one or two of them running about, just before the main body comes on--probably placing signal-staffs, and otherwise determining the line of march. They seem very energetic officers too, and allow no obstacle to come in their way, for I have often known the line of march to lie up one side of my white pants, over my knees, and down the other. I sat thus once till a whole army passed over me--a very large army it was too, and mightily tried my patience. When the rear-guard had passed over, I got up and walked away, which must have considerably damaged the calculations of the engineers on their march back. Of the many species of flies found in my cabin, I shall merely mention two--namely, the silly fly--which is about the size of a pin-head, and furnished with two high wings like the sails of a Chinese junk; they come on board with the bananas, and merit the appellation of _silly_ from the curious habit they have of running about with their noses down, as if earnestly looking for something which they cannot find; they run a little way, stop, change their direction, and run a little further, stop again, and so on, _ad infinitum_, in a manner quite amusing to any one who has time to look at and observe them--and the hammer-legged fly (the _Foenus_ of naturalists), which possesses two long hammer-like legs, that stick out behind, and have a very curious appearance. This fly has been accused of biting, but I have never found him guilty. He seems to be continually suffering from a chronic stage of shaking-palsy. Wherever he alights--which is as often on your nose as anywhere else--he stands for a few seconds shaking in a manner which is quite distressing to behold, then flies away, with his two hammers behind him, to alight and shake on some other place--most likely your neighbour's nose. It seems to me, indeed, that flies have a penchant for one's nose. Nothing, too, is more annoying than those same house-flies in warm countries. Suppose one alights on the extreme end of your nasal apparatus, you of course drive him off; he describes two circles in the air, and alights again on the same spot; and this you may do fifty times, and at the fifty-first time, back he comes with a saucy hum-m, and takes his seat again, just as if your nose was made for him to go to roost upon, and for no other purpose at all; so that you are either obliged to sit and smile complacently with a fly on the end of your proboscis, or, if you are clever and supple-jointed, follow him all round the room till you have killed him; then, probably, back you come with a face beaming with gratification, and sit down to your book again, when bum-m-m! there is your friend once more, and you have killed the wrong fly. In an hospital, nothing is more annoying than these flies; sleep by day is sometimes entirely out of the question, unless the patient covers his face, which is by no means agreeable on a hot day. Mosquitoes, too, are troublesome customers to a stranger, for they seem to prefer the blood of a stranger to that of any one else. The mosquito is a beautiful, feathery-horned midge, with long airy legs, and a body and wings that tremble with their very fineness and grace. The head and shoulders are bent downward at almost a right angle, as if the creature had fallen on its head and broken its back; but, for all its beauty, the mosquito is a hypocritical little scoundrel, who comes singing around you, apparently so much at his ease, and looking so innocent and gentle, that one would imagine butter would hardly melt in his naughty little mouth. He alights upon your skin with such a light and fairy tread, inserts his tube, and sucks your blood so cleverly, that the mischief is done long before you are aware, and he is off again singing as merrily as ever. Probably, if you look about the curtain, you may presently find him gorged with your blood, and hardly able to fly--an unhappy little midge now, very sick, and with all his pride fallen; so you catch and kill him; and serve him right too! I should deem this chapter incomplete if I omitted to say a word about another little member of the company in my crowded cabin--a real friend, too, and a decided enemy to all the rest of the creeping genera about him. I refer to a chameleon I caught in the woods and tamed. His principal food consisted in cockroaches, which he caught very cleverly, and which, before eating, he used to beat against the deck to soften. He lived in a little stone-jar, which made a very cool house for him, and to which he periodically retired to rest; and very indignant he was, too, if any impudent cockroach, in passing, raised itself on its fore-legs to look in. Instant pursuit was the consequence, and his colour came and went in a dozen different hues as he seized and beat to death the intruder on his privacy. He seemed to know me, and crawled about me. My buttons were his chief attraction; he appeared to think they were made for him to hang on to by the tail; and he would stand for five minutes at a time on my shoulder, darting his tongue in every direction at the unwary flies which came within his reach; and, upon the whole, I found him a very useful little animal indeed. These lizards are very common as pets among the sailors on the coast of Africa, who keep them in queer places sometimes, as the following conversation, which I heard between two sailors at Cape Town, will show. "Look here, Jack, what I've got in my 'bacca-box." "What is it?" said Jack--"an evil spirit?" "No," said the other, as unconcernedly as if it might have been an evil spirit, but wasn't--"no! a chameleon;" which he pronounced kammy-lion. "Queer lion that 'ere, too," replied Jack. But, indeed, there are few creatures which a sailor will not attempt to tame. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. CONTAINING A TALE TO BANISH THE CREEPIES. "The noblest mind the best contentment has." Spenser. "Now," said Frank, next night (we are all assembled drinking tea on the lawn), "after all those tales about your foreign favourites, and your pet creepie-creepies, I think the best thing you can do is to come nearer home and change your tactics." "I was dreaming about cockroaches last night," said my wife; "and you know, dear, they are my pet aversion." "Yes," cried Ida; "do tell us a story to banish the creepies." "Well then, here goes. I'll tell you a story about a pet donkey and Nero's son, `Hurricane Bob.' Will that do? And we'll call it--" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ JEANNIE'S BOARDING-HOUSE: A SEASIDE STORY. "Jeannie was an ass. I do not make this remark in any disparaging way, for a more interesting member of the genus donkey never, I believe, stood upon four legs. Indeed, I do not think I would be going too far if I said that I have known many individuals not half so wise who stood upon two. Now, although I mention Jeannie in the past tense, it is because she is not present with me, but she is still, I believe, alive and well, and is at this moment, I have little doubt, quietly cropping the grass on her own green field, or gazing pensively at the ocean from the Worthing sands. "I must tell you who was my travelling companion when I first made the acquaintance of the heroine of this little sketch. He was a very large jet-black Newfoundland dog. Such a fellow! And with such a coat too, not one curly hair in all his jacket, all as straight as quills, and as sheeny as the finest satin. Hurricane Bob can play in the sea, toying with the waves for hours, and still not be wet quite to the skin, and when he comes on shore again he just gives himself a shake or two, buckets of water fly in all directions, for the time being he looks like an animated mop, then away he feathers across the sands, and in a few minutes he is dry enough for the drawing-room. Bob is quite an aristocrat in his own way, and every inch a gentleman--one glance at his beautiful face and his wide, thoughtful eyes would convince you of this--nor, on being introduced to him, would you be surprised to be told that not only is he a winner of many prizes himself, but that his father is a champion dog, and his grandfather before him as well. I do not think that Hurricane Bob--or Master Robert, as we call him on high days and holidays--has a single fault, unless probably the habit he has of going tearing along the streets and roads, when out for a walk, at the rate of twenty miles an hour. It is this habit which has gained for him the sobriquet of Hurricane; it is sometimes a little awkward for the lieges, but to his credit be it said that whenever he runs down a little boy or girl he never fails to stop and apologise on the spot, licking the hands of the prostrate one, and saying, as plainly as a dog can speak, `There, there, I didn't really mean to hurt you, and you'll be all right again in a minute.' "We called the place where Jeannie lived, at Worthing, Jeannie's boarding-house. It was a nice roomy stable, with a coach-house, a yard for exercise, and a loose-box. The door of the stable was always left open at Jeannie's request, so that she could go out and in as she pleased. The loose-box was told off to Hurricane Bob; he had a dish of nice clean water, a box to hold his dog-biscuits, and plenty of dry straw, so he was as happy as a king. "When his landlady, Jeannie, first saw him she sniffed him all over, while Bob looked up in her face. "`Just you be careful, old lady,' said Bob, `for I might be tempted to catch you by the nose.' "But Jeannie was satisfied. "`You'll do, doggie,' she said; `there doesn't seem to be an ounce of real harm in your whole composition.' "The other members of Jeannie's boarding establishment were about twenty hens, old and young, more useful perhaps than ornamental. Now, any other landlady in the world would have had a bad time of it with this ill-bred feathered squad, for they were far from polite to her, and constantly grumbling about their food; they said they hadn't enough of it, and that it was not good what they did get. Then they were continually squabbling or fighting with each other; the little fowls always stole all the big pieces, and the big fowls chased and pecked the little ones all round the yard in consequence, till their backs, under their feathers, must have been black and blue, and they hadn't peace to eat the portion they had stolen. `Tick, tuck,' the big fowl would say; `tick, tuck, take that, and that; tick, tuck, that's what greed gets.' "But Jeannie was a philosopher, she simply looked at them with those quiet brown eyes of hers, shook one ear, and said-- "`Grumble away, grumble away, I'm too well known to be afraid of ye; ye can't bring disgrace on my hotel. Hee, haw! Haw, hee! There!' "Hurricane Bob paid his bill _every_ morning and every night with a dog-biscuit. The first morning I offered Jeannie the biscuit she looked at me. "`Do you take me for a dog?' she asked. Then she sniffed it. `It do smell uncommonly nice,' she said; `I'll try it, anyhow.' So she took the cake in her mouth, and marched into the yard; but returned almost immediately, still holding it between her teeth. "`What's the correct way to eat it?' she inquired. "`That's what I want you to find out,' I said. "Poor Jeannie! she tried to break it against the door, then against the wall, and finally against the paving stone, but it resisted all her efforts. Then, `Oh! I know,' she cried. `You puts it on the ground, and holes it like a turnip.' N.B.--I'm not accountable for Jeannie's bad grammar. "Every morning, when I came to see Master Robert, Jeannie ran to meet me, and put her great head under my arm for a cuddle. She called me Arthur, but that isn't my name. She pronounced the first syllable in a double bass key, and the second in a shrill treble. Ar--thur! Haw, hee! Haw, hee! "She was funny, was Jeannie. Some mornings, as soon as she caught sight of me, she used to go off into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, then she would apologise. "`I can't help it, Arthur,' she seemed to say. `It does seem rude, I daresay, but I really can't help it. It's the sight of you that does it. Hee, haw! Hee, haw!' "One day, and one day only, Bob and his landlady nearly had a quarrel. Jeannie, having eaten her own biscuit, burst into the loose-box, to help the dog with his. `Ho, ho!' said Hurricane Robert, `you've come to raise the rent, have ye? Just look at this, old lady.' As he spoke, the dog lifted one lip, and showed such a display of alabaster teeth, that Jeannie was glad to retire without raising the rent. "What was Jeannie like, did you ask? Why, straight in back and strong in limb, with beautiful long ears to switch away the flies in summer, with mild, intelligent eyes of hazel brown, and always a soft, smooth patch on the top of her nose for any one to kiss who was so minded. In winter Jeannie was rough in coat. She preferred it, she said, because it kept out the cold, and made an excellent saddle for her three little playmates to ride upon. Of these she was exceedingly fond, and never more pleased and proud than when the whole three of them were on her back at one time--wee, brown-eyed, laughing Lovat S--; young Ernie, bold and bright and free; and little winsome Winnie C--. "To be sure they often fell off, but there was where the fun and the glee lay, especially when Jeannie sometimes bent her nose to the ground and let them all tumble on the sand in a heap. And that, you know, was Jeannie's joke, and one that she was never tired of repeating. "In summer Jeannie shone, positively shone, all over like a race-horse or a boatman beetle, and then I can tell you it was no easy matter for her playmates to stick on her back at all. She was particularly partial, as you have seen, to the society of human beings, and brightened up wonderfully as soon as a friend appeared on the scene, but I think when alone she was rather of a contemplative turn of mind. There was a rookery not far from Jeannie's abode, and at this she never tired gazing. "`Well,' said Jeannie to me one day, `they do be funny creatures, those rooks. I don't think I should like to live up there, Ar--thur. And they're always a-fighting too, just like my boarders be, and never a thing do they say from morning till night but caw, caw, caw. Now if they could only make a few remarks like this, Haw, hee! Haw, hee! Haw hee!' "`Oh! don't, pray don't, Jeannie,' I cried, with my fingers in my ears. "And now, then, what do you think made Jeannie such a bright, loving, and intelligent animal? Why, kindness and good treatment. "Dear old Jeannie, I may never gaze upon her classic countenance again, but I shall not forget her. In my mind's eye I see her even now, as I last beheld her. The sun had just gone down, behind a calm and silent sea; scarcely do the waves speak as they break in ripples on the sand, they do but whisper. And the clouds are tipped with gold and crimson, and far away in the offing is a ship, a single ship, and these are all the signs of life there are about, save Jeannie on the beach. Alone. "I wonder what she was thinking about." CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. AN EVENING SPENT AT OUR OWN FIRESIDE. "Well, puss," says Man, "and what can you To benefit the public do?" Gay. "Draw round your chair," said I to Frank; "and now for a comfortable, quiet evening." Frank and I had been away all the afternoon, on one of our long rambles. Very pleasantly shone the morning sun, that had wooed us away; the ground was frozen hard as iron, there wasn't a cloud in himmel's blue, nor a breath of wind from one direction or another. But towards evening a change had come suddenly over the spirit of the day's dream, which found my friend and I still a goodly two hours' stride from home. Heavy grey clouds had come trooping up from the north-east, borne along on the fierce fleet wings of a ten-knot breeze; then the snow had come on, such snow as seldom falls in "bonnie Berks;" and soon we were surrounded by one of the wildest wintry nights ever I remember. Talking was impossible; we could but clutch our sticks and boldly hurry onwards, while the wind sighed and roared through the telegraph-wires, and the snow sifted angrily through the leafless hedgerows. It was a night that none save a healthy man could have faced. Ah! but didn't the light from the cosy, red-curtained window, streaming over our own snow-silvered lawn, amply reward us at last; while the nice dinner quite put the climax on our happiness. "Now for your story," said Frank. "Now for my story," I replied; "I will call it--" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE FIRESIDE FAVOURITE: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. "The lines of some cats fall in pleasant places. Mine have. I'm the fireside favourite, I'm the parlour pet. I'm the _beau ideal_, so my mistress says, of what every decent, respectable, well-trained cat ought to be--and I looked in the glass and found it so. But pray don't think that I am vain because I happen to know the usages of polite society, and the uses and abuses of the looking-glass. No cat, in my opinion, with any claim to the dignity of lady-puss, would think of washing her face unless in front of a plate-glass mirror. But I will not soon forget the day I first knew what a looking-glass meant. I was then only a silly little mite of a kitten, of a highly inquiring turn of mind. Well, one evening my young mistress was going to a ball, and before she went she spent about three hours in her dressing-room, doing something, and then she came down to the parlour, looking more like an angel than ever I had seen her. Oh, how she was dressed, to be sure. And she had little bunches of flowers stuck on all over her dress, and I wanted to play at `mousies' with them; but she wouldn't wait, she just kissed me and bade me be a good kitten and not run up the curtains, and then off she went. Yes; I meant to be an awfully good little kitten--but first and foremost I meant to see the interior of that mysterious room. By good luck the door was ajar, so in I popped at once, and made direct for the table. Such a display of beautiful things I had never seen before. I didn't know what they all meant then, but I do now, for, mind you, I will soon be twenty years of age. But I got great fun on that table. I tried the gold rings on my nose, and the earrings on my toes, and I knocked off the lid of a powder-box, and scattered the crimson contents all abroad. Then I had a fearful battle with a puff which I unearthed from another box. During the fight a bottle of ylang-ylang went down. I didn't care a bit. Crash went a bottle of flower-water next. I regarded it not. I fought the puff till it took refuge on the floor. Then I paused, wondering what I should do next, when behold! right in front of me and looking through a square of glass, and apparently wondering what _it_ should do next, was the ugliest little wretch of a kitten ever you saw in your life--I marched up to it as brave as a button, and it had the audacity to come and meet me. "`You ugly, deformed little thing,' I cried, `what do you want in my lady's room?' "`The same to you,' it seemed to say, `and many of them.' "`For two pins,' I continued, `I would scratch your nasty little eyes out--yah--fuss-s!' "`Yah--fuss-s!' replied the foe, lifting its left paw as I lifted my right. "This was too much. I crept round the corner to give her a cuff. She wasn't there! I came back, and there she was as brazen as ever. I tried this game on several times, but couldn't catch her. `Then,' says I, `you'll catch it where you stand, in spite of the pane of glass!' "I struck straight from the shoulder, and with a will too. Down went the glass, and I found I had been fighting all the time with my own reflection. Funny, wasn't it? "When mistress came home there was such a row. But she was sensible, and didn't beat me. She took me upstairs, and showed me what I had done, and looked so vexed that I was sorry too. `It is my own fault, though,' she said; `I ought to have shut the door.' "She presented me with a looking-glass soon after this, and it is quite surprising how my opinion of that strange kitten in the mirror altered after that. I thought now I had never seen such a lovely thing, and I was never tired looking at it. No more I had. But first impressions _are_ so erroneous, you know. "My dear mother is dead and gone years ago--of course, considering my age, you won't marvel at that; and my young mistress is married long, long ago, and has a grown family, who are all as kind as kind can be to old Tom, as they facetiously call me. And so they were to my mother, who, I may tell you, was only three days in her last illness, and gave up the ghost on a file of old newspapers (than which nothing makes a better bed), and is buried under the old pear-tree. "Dear me, how often I have wondered how other poor cats who have neither kind master nor mistress manage to live. But, the poor creatures, they are so ignorant--badly-bred, you know. Why, only the other day the young master brought home a poor little cat he had found starving in the street. Well, I never in all my life saw such an ill-mannered, rude little wretch, for no sooner had it got itself stuffed with the best fare in the house, than it made a deliberate attempt to steal the canary. There was gratitude for you! Now, mind, I don't say that _I_ shouldn't like to eat the canary, but I never have taken our own birds-- no--always the neighbours'. I did, just once, fly at our own canary's cage when I was quite a wee cat, but I didn't know any better. And what do you think my mistress did? Why, she took the bird out of the cage and popped me in; and there I was, all day long, a prisoner, with nothing for dinner but seeds and water, and the canary flying about the room and doing what it liked, even helping itself to my milk. I never forgot that. "Some cats, you know, are arrant thieves, and I don't wonder at it, the way they are kicked and cuffed about, put out all night, and never offered food or water. I would steal myself if I were used like that, wouldn't you, madam? But I have my two meals a day, regularly; and I have a nice double saucer, which stands beside my mirror, and one end contains nice milk and the other clean water, and I don't know which I like the best. When I am downright thirsty, the water is so nice; but at times I am hungry and thirsty both, if you can understand me--then I drink the milk. At times I am allowed to sit on the table when my mistress is at breakfast, and I often put out my paw, ever so gently, and help myself to a morsel from her plate; but I wouldn't do it when she isn't looking. The other day I took a fancy to a nice smelt, and I just went and told my mistress and led her to the kitchen, and I got what I wanted at once. "I am never put out at night. I have always the softest and warmest of beds, and in winter, towards morning, when the fire goes out, I go upstairs and creep (singing loudly to let her know it is I) into my mistress's arms. "If I want to go on the tiles any night, I have only to ask. A fellow does want to go on the tiles now and then, doesn't he? Oh, it is a jolly thing, is a night on the tiles! One of these days I may give you my experience of life on the tiles, and then you'll know all about it-- in the meantime, madam, you may try it yourself. Let it be moonlight, and be cautious, you know, for, as you have only two feet, you will feel rather awkward at first. "Did I ever know what it was to be hungry? Yes, indeed, once I did; and I'm now going to tell you of the saddest experience in all my long life. You see it happened like this. It was autumn; I was then about five years of age, and a finer-looking Tom, I could see by my mirror, never trod on four legs. For some days I had observed an unusual bustle both upstairs and downstairs. The servants, especially, seemed all off their heads, and did nothing but open doors and shut them, and nail up things in large boxes, and drink beer and eat cold meat whenever they stood on end. What was up, I wondered? Went and asked my mistress. `Off to the seaside, pussy Tom,' said she; `and you're going too, if you're good.' I determined to be good, and not make faces at the canary. But one night I had been out rather late at a cat-concert, and, as usual, came home with the milk in the morning. In order to make sure of a good sleep I went upstairs to an unused attic, as was my wont, and fell asleep on an old pillow. How long I slept I shall never know, but it must have been far on in the day when I awoke, feeling hungry enough to eat a hunter. As I trotted downstairs the first thing that alarmed me was the unusual stillness. I mewed, and a thousand echoes seemed to mock me. The ticking of the old clock on the stairs had never sounded to me so loud and clear before. I went, one by one, into every room. Nothing in any of them but the stillness, apparently, of death and desolation. The blinds were all down, and I could even hear the mice nibbling behind the wainscot. "My heart felt like a great cold lump of lead, as the sad truth flashed upon my mind--my kind mistress had gone, with all the family, and I was left, forgotten, deserted! My first endeavour was to find my way out. Had I succeeded, even then I would have found my mistress, for cats have an instinct you little wot of. But every door and window was fastened, and there wasn't a hole left which a rat could have crept through. "What nights and days of misery followed!--it makes me shudder to think of them even now. "For the first few days I did not suffer much from hunger. There were crumbs left by the servants, and occasionally a mouse crept out from the kitchen fender, and I had that. But by the fifth day the crumbs had all gone, and with them the mice, too, had disappeared. They nibbled no more in the cupboard nor behind the wainscot; and as the clock had run down there wasn't a sound in the old house by night or by day. I now began to suffer both from hunger and thirst. I spent my time either mewing piteously at the hall-door, or roaming purposelessly through the empty house, or watching, watching, faint and wearily, for the mice that never came. Perhaps the most bitter part of my sufferings just then was the thought that would keep obtruding itself on my mind, that for all the love with which I had loved my mistress, and the faithfulness with which I had served her, she had gone away, and left, me to die all alone in the deserted house. Me, too, who would have laid down my life to please her had she only stayed near me. "How slowly the time dragged on--how long and dreary the days, how terrible the nights! Perhaps it was when I was at my very worst, that I happened to be standing close by my empty saucer, and in front of my mirror. At that time I was almost too weak to walk; I tottered on my feet, and my head swam and moved from side to side when I tried to look at anything. Suddenly I started. Could that wild, attenuated image in the mirror be my reflection? How it glared upon me from its glassy eyes! And now I knew it could not be mine, but some dreadful thing sent to torture me. For as I gazed it uttered a yell--mournful, prolonged, unearthly--and dashed at me through and out from the mirror. For some time we seemed to writhe together in agony on the carpet. Then up again we started, the mirror-fiend and I. `Follow me fast!' it seemed to cry, and I was impelled to follow. Wherever it was, there was I. How it tore up and down the house, yelling as it went and tearing everything in its way! How it rushed half up the chimney, and was dashed back again by invisible hands! How it flung itself, half blind and bleeding, at the Venetian blinds, and how madly it tried again to escape into the mirror and shivered the glass! Then mills began in my head--mills and machinery--and the roar of running waters. Then I found myself walking all alone in a green and beautiful meadow, with a blue sky overhead and birds and butterflies all about, a cool breeze fanning my brow, and, better than all, _water_, pure, and clear, and cool, meandering over brown smooth pebbles, beside which the minnows chased the sunbeams. And I drank--and slept. "When I awoke, I found myself lying on the mat in the hall, and the sunlight shimmering in through the stained glass, and falling in patches of green and crimson on the floor. Very cold now, but quiet and sensible. There was a large hole in my side, and blood was all about, so I must have, in my delirium, _torn the flesh from my own ribs and devoured it_. [Note 1.] "I knew now that death was come, and would set me free at last. "Then the noise of wheels in my ears, and the sound of human voices; then a blank; and then some one pouring something down my throat; and I opened my eyes and beheld my dear young mistress. How she was weeping! The sight of her sorrow would have melted your heart. `Oh, pussy, pussy, do not die!' she was crying. "Pussy didn't die; but till this day I believe it was only to please my dear mistress I crept back again to life and love. "I'm very old now, and my thoughts dwell mostly in the past, and I like a cheery fire and a drop of warm milk better than ever. But I have all my faculties and all my comforts. We have other cats in the house, but I never feel jealous, for my mistress, look you, loves me better than all the cats in the kingdom--fact--she told me so." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Not overdrawn. A case of the kind actually occurred some years ago in the new town of Edinburgh.--The Author. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. "GREYFRIARS' BOBBY"--"PEPPER"--THE BLIND FIDDLER'S DOG. "Alas! for love if this were all, And nought beyond on earth." "A good story cannot be too often told," said Frank one evening. "Well, I doubt that very much," said my wife; "there is a probability of a good story being spoiled by over-recital." "I'm of the same opinion," I assented; "but as I intend the story of `Greyfriars' Bobby' to be printed in my next book, I will just read it over to you as I have written it." I had fain hoped, I began, to find out something of Bobby's antecedents, and something about the private history of the poor man Grey, who died long before Bobby became a hero in the eyes of the world, and attracted the kindly notice of the good and noble William Chambers, then Lord Provost of Edinburgh. I have been unable to do so, however; even an advertisement in a local paper failed to elicit the information I so much desired. What Mr Grey was, or who he was, no one can tell me. Some years ago, runs an account of this loving, faithful dog, a stranger arrived in Edinburgh bringing with him a little rough-haired dog, that slept in the same room with him, and followed him in his walks, but no one knew who the stranger was, or whence he came. The following account of Bobby is culled from the _Animal World_ of the second of May, 1870:-- "It is reported that Bobby is a small rough Scotch terrier, grizzled black, with tan feet and nose; and his story runs thus:--More than eleven years ago, a poor man named Grey died, and was buried in the old Greyfriars churchyard, Edinburgh. His grave is now levelled by time, and nothing marks it. But the spot had not been forgotten by his faithful dog. James Brown, the old curator, remembers the funeral well, and that Bobby was one of the most conspicuous of the mourners. James found the dog lying on the grave the next morning; and as dogs are not admitted he turned him out. The second morning the same; the third morning, though cold and wet, there he was, shivering. The did man took pity on him and fed him. This convinced the dog that he had a right there. Sergeant Scott, R.E., allowed him his board for a length of time, but for more than nine years he had been regularly fed by Mr Trail, who keeps a restaurant close by. Bobby is regular in his calls, being guided by the mid-day gun. On the occasion of the new dog-tax being raised, many persons, the writer amongst the number, wrote to be allowed to pay for Bobby, but the Lord Provost of Edinburgh exempted him, and, to mark his admiration of fidelity, presented him with a handsome collar, with brass nails, and an inscription:--`Greyfriars' Bobby, presented to him by the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, 1867.' He has long been an object of curiosity, and his constant appearance in the graveyard has led to numberless inquiries about him. Many efforts have been made to entice him away, but unsuccessfully, and he still clings to the consecrated spot, and from 1861 to the present time he has kept watch thereon. Upon his melancholy couch Bobby hears the bells toll the approach of new inmates to the sepulchres around and about him; and as the procession solemnly passes, who shall say that the ceremony enacted over his dead master does not reappear before him? He sees the sobs and tears of the bereaved, and do not these remind him of the day when he stood with other mourners over the coffin which contained everything he loved on earth? In that clerical voice he rehears those slow and impressive tones which consigned his master's body to ashes and dust. All these reminiscences are surely felt more or less; and yet Bobby, trustful, patient, enduring, continues to wait on the spot sacred to the memory of poor Grey. Poor Grey, did we say? Why, hundreds of the wealthiest amongst us would give a fortune to have placed upon their tombs a living monument of honour like this!--testifying through long years and the bitterest winters (with a blessed moral for mankind) that death cannot dissolve that love which love alone can evoke. When our eye runs over the gravestone records of departed goodness, we are sometimes sceptical whether there is not much mockery in many of the inscriptions, though the friends of the deceased have charitably erected an outward mark of their esteem. But here we have a monument that knows neither hypocrisy nor conventional respect, which appeals to us not in marble (the work of men's hands), but in the flesh and blood of _a living creature that cannot be tempted to desert his trust_--in the devotion of a friend whose short wanderings to and fro prove how truly he gravitates to one yard of earth only--in the determination of a sentinel _who means to die at his post_. "I hear they say 'tis very lung That years hae come and gane, Sin' first they put my maister here, An' grat an' left him lane. I could na, an' I did na gang, For a' they vexed me sair, An' said sae bauld that they nor Should ever see him mair. "I ken he's near me a' the while, An' I will see him yet; For a' my life he tended me. An' noo he'll not forget. Some blithesome day I'll hear his step; There'll be nae kindred near; For a' they grat, they gaed awa',-- But he shall find _me_ here. "Is time sae lang?--I dinna mind; Is't cauld?--I canna feel; He's near me, and he'll come to me, An' sae 'tis very weel. I thank ye a' that are sae kind, As feed an' mak me braw; Ye're unco gude, but ye're no _him_-- Ye'll no wile me awa'. "I'll bide an' hope!--Do ye the same; For ance I heard that ye Had ay a Master that ye loo'd, An' yet ye might na see; A Master, too, that car'd for ye, (O, sure ye winna flee!) That's wearying to see ye noo--. Ye'll no be waur than me?" In the above account the words which I have italicised should be noted, viz, "a living creature that cannot be tempted to desert his trust, who means to die at his post." These words were in a sense prophetic, for Bobby never did desert the graveyard where his master's remains lie buried, until death stepped in to relieve his sorrows. The following interesting letter is from Bobby's guardian, Mr Trail, of Greyfriars Place, Edinburgh, who will, I feel sure, pardon the liberty I take in publishing it _in extenso_:-- "In answer to your note in reference to Greyfriars Bobby, I send the following extracts which state correctly the dates and other particulars concerning the little dog:--" _Scotsman_, January 17th, 1872:--Many will be sorry to hear that the poor but interesting dog, Greyfriars Bobby, died on Sunday evening, January 14th, 1872. Every kind attention was paid to him in his last days by his guardian Mr Trail, who has had him buried in a flower plot near the Greyfriars Church. His collar, a gift from Lord Provost Chambers, has been deposited in the office at the church gate. Mr Brodie has successfully modelled the figure of Greyfriars Bobby, which is to surmount the very handsome memorial to be erected by the munificence of Baroness Burdett-Coutts. "`Edinburgh Veterinary College, _March_, 1872. "`To those who may feel interested in the history of the late Greyfriars Bobby, I may state that he suffered from disease of a cancerous nature affecting the whole of the lower jaw. "`Thomas Wallet. "`Professor of Animal Pathology.' "There are several notices of an interesting nature in the following numbers of the _Animal World_ concerning Greyfriars Bobby:--November 1st, 1869; May 2nd, 1870; February 1st, 1872; March 2nd, 1874. "The fountain is erected at the end of George the Fourth Bridge, near the entrance to the Greyfriars churchyard. It is of Westmoreland granite, and bears the following inscription:--`A tribute to the affectionate fidelity of Greyfriars Bobby.' "In 1858, this faithful dog followed the remains of his master to Greyfriars churchyard, and lingered near the spot until his death in 1872. Old James Brown died in the autumn of 1868. There is no tombstone on the grave of Bobby's master. Greyfriars Bobby was buried in the flower plot near the stained-glass window of the church, and opposite the gate." Poor Bobby, then, passed away on a Sunday evening, after watching near the grave for fourteen long years. He died of a cancerous affection of the lower jaw, brought on, doubtless, from the constant resting of his chin on the cold earth. I trust he did not suffer much. I feel convinced that Bobby is happy now; but no stone marks the humble grave where Bobby's master lies. I wish it were otherwise, for surely there must have been good in the breast of that man whom a dog loved so dearly, and to whose memory he was faithful to the end. The picture of Greyfriars Bobby here given is said to be a very good one, see page 239. You can hardly look at that wistful, pitiful little countenance, all rough and unkempt as it is, without _feeling_ the whole truth of the story of Bobby's faithfulness and love. "Ah!" said Frank, when I had finished, "dogs are wonderful creatures." "No one knows how wonderful, Frank," I said. "By the way, did ever you hear of, or read the account of, poor young Gough and his dog? The dog's master perished while attempting to climb the mountain of Helvellyn. There had been a fall of snow, which partly hid the path and made the ascent dangerous. It was never known whether he was killed by a fall or died of hunger. Three months went by before his body was found, during which time it was watched over by a faithful dog which Mr Gough had with him at the time of the accident. The fidelity of the dog was the subject of a poem which Wordsworth wrote, beginning:-- "`A barking sound the shepherd hears,' etc. "And now, Ida, I'll change the tone of my chapter into a less doleful ditty, and tell you about another Scotch, or rather Skye-terrier, who was the means, in the hands of Providence, of saving life in a somewhat remarkable manner. Though I give the story partly in my own words, it was communicated to me by a lady of rank, who is willing to vouch for the authenticity of the incident." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "PEPPER." Pepper was our hero's name. And Pepper was a dog; but I am unable to tell you anything about his birth or pedigree. I do not even know who Pepper's father was, and I don't think Pepper knew himself or cared much either; but had you seen him you would have had no hesitation in pronouncing him one of the handsomest little Skye-terriers ever you had beheld. Pepper was presented to his mistress, the Hon. Mrs C--, by her mother-in-law, the late Lady Dun D--, and soon became a great favourite both with her and all the family. He was so cleanly in his habits, so brave and knightly, so very polite, and had a happy mixture of drollery and decorum about him which was quite charming! Every one liked Pepper. But "liked" is really not the proper word to express the strong affection which the lady portion of the household felt for him. They loved Pepper. That's better. He was to them the "dearest and best fellow" in the world. But woe is me that the best of friends must part. And so it came to pass that Pepper's loving mistress had to go to town on business, or pleasure, or perhaps a mixture of both. Now, everybody knows that the great wondrous world of London isn't the place to keep dogs in, that is, if one wishes to see them truly happy and comfortable. For as they don't wear shoes, as human beings do, they find the hard, stony streets very punishing to their poor little soft feet. Then they miss the green fields in which they used to romp, the hawthorn fences near which they used to find the hedgehog and mole, the crystal streams at which they were wont to quench their thirst, and the ponds in which they bathed or swam. Besides, there is danger for dogs in London. The danger of losing their way, the danger of being stolen, and the still greater danger of being run over by carts or carriages. But that isn't all, for in the country you can keep even a long-haired Skye clean--clean enough, indeed, to sleep on the hearthrug, or even curl himself up on ottoman or couch, without his leaving any more mark or trace than my lady's muff or the Persian pussy does; but a Skye-terrier in London is quite a different piece of furniture. London mud is proverbially black and sticky, and when a Skye gets thoroughly soused in it, why, not to put too fine a point on it, he isn't just the sort of pet one would care to put under his head as a pillow. Taking Pepper to London, therefore, would have involved endless washings of him, the risk of his catching cold, and, dreadful thought! the risk of offending the servants. True, he might be kept to the kitchen, but banished from the society of his dear mistress, and compelled to associate with servants and the kitchen cat; why, poor little Pepper would simply have broken his heart. So the question came to be asked-- "Maggie, dear, what _shall_ we do with Pepsy?" "Oh! I have it," said Maggie; "send him down to Brighton on a visit to dear Mrs W--y; she is such a kind creature, knows all the ways of animals so well; and, moreover, Pepper is on the best of terms with her already." So the proposal was agreed to, and a few days afterwards Mrs W--y received her little visitor very graciously indeed, and Pepper was pleased to express his approval of the welcome accorded him, and soon settled down, and became very happy in his Brighton home. His greatest delight was going out with his temporary mistress for a ramble; there was so much to be seen and inquired into, so many pretty children who petted him, so many ladies who admired him, and so many little doggies to see and talk to and exchange opinions on canine politics. But Pepper used to express his delight at going for a walk in a way which his new mistress deemed anything but dignified. People don't generally care about having all eyes directed towards them on a public thoroughfare like the Brighton esplanade, or King's Road. But Pepper didn't care a bark who looked at him. He was intoxicated with joy, and didn't mind who knew it; consequently, he used, when taken out, to go through a series of the most wonderful acrobatic evolutions ever seen at a seaside watering-place, or anywhere else. He jumped and barked, and chased his tail, rolled and tumbled, leapt clean over his own head and back again, and even made insane attempts to jump down his own throat. Inside, Pepper was content to romp and roll on the floor with a pet guinea-pig, and chase it or be chased by it round and round the room, or tenderly play with some white mice; but no sooner was his nose outside the garden gate, than Pepper felt himself in duty bound to take leave of his senses without giving a moment's warning, and conduct himself in every particular just like a daft doggie, and had there been a lunatic asylum at Brighton for caninity, I haven't a doubt that Pepper would have soon found himself an inmate of it. One day when out walking, Pepper met a little long-haired dog about his own size and shape, but whereas Pepper was dressed like a gentleman Skye, in coat of hodden-grey, this little fellow was more like a merry man at a country fair, or a clown at a circus. He had been originally white, pure white, but his master had dyed him, and now he appeared in a blue body, a magenta tail, and ears of brightest green. "I say, mistress," said Pepper, looking up and addressing the lady who had charge of him, "did you--ever--in--all--your--born--days--see such a fright as that?" "Hullo!" he continued, talking to the little dog himself, "who let you out like that?" "Well," replied the new-comer, "I dare say I do look a little odd, but you'll get used to me by-and-by." "Used to you?" cried Pepper--"never! You are a disgrace to canine society." "The fact is," said the other, looking somewhat ashamed "my master is a dyer, and he does me up like this just by way of advertising, you know." "Your master a dyer," cried Pepper, "then you, too, shall die. Can you fight? I'm full of it. Come, we must have it out." "Come back, Pepper, come back, sir!" cried his mistress. But for once Pepper disobeyed; he flew at that funny dog, and in a few minutes the air was filled with the blue and magenta fluff, that the Skye tore out of his antagonist. The combat ended in a complete victory for Pepper. He routed his assailant, and finally chased him off the esplanade. Pepper's life at the seaside was a very happy one, or would have been except for the dyed dog, that he made a point of giving instant chase to, whenever he saw him. Pepper next turned up in Wales. Sir B. N--had taken a lovely old mansion between C--n and Ll--o, far removed from any other houses, and quite amongst the hills, and after seeing his wife and sister settled in the new abode, he went off to Scotland. A week after his departure, the two ladies got up a small picnic to Dolbadran Castle, whose ruins stand upon a steep rock overhanging the lake. Pepper of course accompanied the tourists, and the whole party returned at night rather fatigued. Mrs C--went to bed, and soon fell into a sound sleep, from which she was aroused by Pepper; he was barking at the bedside. She got up, gave him some water, and returned to bed, but Pepper continued to bark and run about the room in a very strange way; he seized the bedclothes, and pulled at them violently. So she put him outside the door in a long passage, which was closed at the other end by a thick green-baize covered door. Poor Mrs C--was fated to have no rest. Pepper barked louder than ever, he tore at the door, and scratched as if he wished to pull it down; so his mistress again left her couch, and taking up a small riding-whip, proceeded to administer what she thought to be well-merited correction. Pepper did not appear to care for the whip at all; he only barked the louder, and jumped up wilder; he even caught Mrs C--'s nightdress in his mouth, and attempted to drag her on towards the end of the passage. You must be going mad, she thought. I'll put you out of the house, for you will alarm the whole establishment; and thus thinking, she returned, followed by Pepper, who continued to clutch at her garments, into her room, put on her dressing-gown, and proceeded to carry her intention into effect. Directly she opened the door at the end of the passage, she saw a bright light streaming from a sort of ante-room at the top of the staircase, on the opposite side of the corridor, and at the same moment became sensible of a strange smell of burning wood. She flew across, and was nearly blinded by the smoke that burst forth immediately the ante-room door was opened. The whole house was on fire, and it was with considerable difficulty that Mrs C--, Lady N--, and the domestics, escaped from the burning mass. Had Mrs C--been five minutes later before discovering the flames all must have perished; for there was a great quantity of wood-work in the house, and it burnt rapidly. It matters little how the fire in this case originated, the fact remains that this Skye-terrier, Pepper, was the first to discover it, and his wonderful sagacity and determination, combined to save his friends from a fearful death. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Ida," said Frank, refilling his pipe, "you are beginning to wink." "It is time you were in bed, Ida," said my wife. "Oh! but I do want to hear you read what you wrote yesterday about the poor blind fiddler's dog," cried Ida. "Well, then," I said, "we will bring the little dog on the boards, and make him speak a piece himself, and this will be positively the last story or anecdote to-night." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE BLIND FIDDLER'S DOG. The blind man's dog commences in doggerel verse:-- "It really is amusing to hear how some dogs brag, And walk about and swagger, with tails and ears a-wag,-- How they boast about their prizes and the shows they have been at, And their coats so crisp and curly, or bodies sleek and fat, Crying, There's no mistake about it, for judges all agree, We're the champion dogs of England, by points and pedigree." Heigho! I wonder what I am, then. Let me consider, I am a poor blind fiddler's dog, to begin with; but of course that is only a trade. I asked "Bit-o'-Fun" the other day what breed I was. Bit-o'-Fun, I should tell you, is a champion greyhound, and not at all an unkind dog, only just a little haughty and proud, as becomes her exalted station in life. She was talking about the large number of prizes she had won for her master at the various shows she had been at. "What breed do you think I am?" I asked her. Bit-o'-Fun laughed. "Well, little Fiddler," she replied, looking down at me with one eye, "I should say you were what we gentry call a mongrel." "Is that something very nice?" I inquired. "Do I come of a high family, now?" Bit-o'-Fun laughed now till the tears came into her eyes. "Family!" she cried. "Yes, Fiddler, you have a deal of family in your blood--all families, in fact. You are partly Skye and partly bulldog, and partly collie and partly pug." "Oh, stop!" I cried; "you will make me too proud." But Bit-o'-Fun went on-- "Your head, Fiddler, is decidedly Scotch; your legs are Irish--awfully Irish; you are tulip-eared, ring-tailed, and your feather--" "My feather!" I cried, looking round at my back. "You never mean to say I have got feathers." "Your hair, then, goosie; feather is the technical term. Your feather is flat, decidedly flat. And, in fact, you're a most wonderful specimen altogether. That's your breed." I never felt so proud in all my life before. "And you're a great beauty, Bit-o'-Fun," I said; "but aren't your legs rather long for your body?" "Oh, no!" replied Bit-o'-Fun; "there isn't a morsel too much daylight under me." "And wouldn't you like to have a nice long coat like mine?" "Well, no," said Bit-o'-Fun--"that is, yes, you know; but it wouldn't suit so well in running, you see. Look at my head, how it is formed to cleave the wind. Look at my tail, again; that is what I steer with." "Oh! you're perfection itself, I know," said I. "Pray how many prizes have you taken?" "Well," answered the greyhound, "I've had over fifty pound-pieces of beef-steak and from twenty to thirty half-pound." "Do they give you beef-steak for prizes, then?" I asked. "Oh dear no," replied she; "but it's like this: whenever I take a first prize my master gives me a one-pound piece of steak; if it's only a second prize I only get half a pound, and I always get a kiss besides." "But supposing," I asked, "you took no prize?" "A thing which never happened," said Bit-o'-Fun, rather proudly. "But supposing?" I insisted. "Oh, well," she answered, "instead of being kissed and _steaked_, I should be kicked and _Spratt-caked_, or sent to bed without my supper." "And do you enjoy yourself at a show?" said I. "Well, yes," said the greyhound; "all doggies don't, though, but I do. And master gives me such jolly food beforehand, and grooms me every morning, and washes me--but that isn't nice, makes one shiver so--and then I have always such a nice bed to lie upon. Then I'm sent to the show town in a beautiful box, and men meet me at the station with a carriage. These men are sometimes very rough though, and talk angrily, and carry big whips, and smell horribly of bad beer and, worse, tobacco. One struck me once over the head. Now, if I had been doing anything I wouldn't have minded; but I wasn't: only I served him out." "What did you do?" said I. "Why, just waited till I got a chance, then bit him through the leg. My master just came up at the same moment, or it might have been a dear bite to me." "And what is a dog-show like?" I asked. "Oh!" said Bit-o'-Fun, "when you enter the show-hall, there you see hundreds and hundreds of doggies all chained up on benches. And the noise they make, those that are new to it, is something awful. At first I used to suffer dreadfully with headaches, but I'm used to it now. But it is great fun to see and converse with so many pretty and intelligent dogs, I can tell you. It is this conversation that makes all the row, for perhaps you want to talk with a doggie quite at the other end of the hall, and so you have to roar until you are hoarse. What do we speak about? Well, about our masters, and our points, and our food and exploits, and we abuse the judges, and wonder whether all the funny people we see have souls the same as we have, and so on. I have often thought what fun it would be if one of us were to break his chain some night, and let all the other doggies loose. Oh, wouldn't we have a ball just! "Well, we are taken out in batches to be judged, and are led round and round in a ring, while two or three ugly men, with hooks in their hands and ribbons in their buttonholes, shake their heads and examine us. That is the time I look my proudest. I cock my ears, straighten my tail, walk like a princess, and bow like a duchess, for I know that the eyes of all the world are on me, and, more than that, my master's eyes. And then when they hang the beautiful ticket around my neck, oh, ain't I glad just! But still I can't help feeling for the poor doggies who don't get any prize, they look so woe-begone and downhearted. "But managers might do lots to make us more comfortable, by feeding us more regularly, and giving us better food and more water. Oh, I've often had my tongue hanging out, and feeling like a bit of sand-paper for want of a draught of pure water at a country show. And I've been at shows where they never gave us food, and no shelter from the scorching sun or the thunder-shower. Again, they ought to lead us all out occasionally, if only for five minutes, just to stretch our poor cramped legs. But they don't, and it is very cruel. Sometimes, too, the people tease us. I don't mind a pretty child patting me on the head, nor I don't object to a sweet young lady bending over me and letting her long silky curls fall over my shoulder; but there are gawky young men, who come round and prod us with their sticks; and silly old ladies, who prick us with their parasols, and say, `Get up, sir, and show yourself.' You've heard of my friend `Tell,' the champion Saint Bernard, I dare say. No? Oh, I forgot; of course you wouldn't. But, at any rate, one day a fat, podgy lady, vulgarly bedecked in satin and gold, goes up to Tell and points her splendid white parasol right at his chest. `Get up,' says she, `and show yourself.' Now Tell hasn't the best of tempers at any time. So he did get up, and quickly, too, and showed his teeth and bit; and if his chain hadn't been as short as his temper it would have been a sad thing for Mrs Podgy. As it was, he collared the parasol, and proceeded at once to turn it into toothpicks and rags, and what is more, too, he kept the pieces. So you see the life even of a show-dog has its drawbacks." "How exceedingly interesting!" said I; "wouldn't I like to be a champion! Do you think now, Bit-o'-Fun, I would have any chance?" "Well, you see," said Bit-o'-Fun, smiling in her pleasant way, "there isn't a class at present for Castle Hill collies." "What?" said I. "I thought you said a while ago I was a high-bred mongrel?" "Yes, yes," said Bit-o'-Fun; "mongrel, or Castle Hill collie; it's all the same, you know." "You're very learned, Bit-o'-Fun," I continued. "Now tell me this, what do they mean by judging by points?" "Well, you see," replied Bit-o'-Fun, with a comical twinkle in her eye, "the judge goes round, and he says, `We'll give this dog ten points for his head,' and sticks in ten pins; and so many for his tail, and sticks in so many pins in his tail, and his coat and legs, and so on, and does the same with the other dogs, and the dog who has most pins in him wins the prize. Do you understand?" "Yes," I replied; "you put it as plain as a book. But it is queer, and I wouldn't like the pins; I'm sure I should bite." "Ha! ha! ha!" roared "Bill," the butcher's bull-and-terrier. I knew it was he before I looked round, for he is a nasty vulgar thing, and sometimes he bites me. "Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed again. "Good-morning, Bit-o'-Fun. Whatever have you been telling that little fool of a Fiddler?" They always call me Fiddler, after my dear master. "About the shows," said Bit-o'-Fun. "Why, you never mean to tell me, Fiddler, that you think of going to a show! Ha! ha! ha!" "And suppose I did," I replied, a little riled, and I felt my hair beginning to stand up all along my back, "I dare say I would have as much chance as an ugly patch-eyed thing like you." "Look here, Fiddler," said Bill, showing all his teeth--and he has an awful lot of them--"talk a little more respectfully when you address your betters. I've a very good mind to--" "To what, Master Bill?" said "Don Pedro," a beautiful large white-and-black Newfoundland, coming suddenly on the ground. "No one is talking to you, Don," said Bill. "But _I'm_ talking to you, Bill," said Don Pedro; "and if I hear you say you'll dare to touch poor little Fiddler, I'll carry you off and drown you in the nearest pond, that's all." Bill ran off with his tail between his feet before Don Pedro had done speaking. Now isn't Don Pedro a dear, good fellow? "Well, I'm not a champion dog, you see, though I modestly advance; I _might_ have taken a prize or two if I'd ever had a chance; But shows, I fear, were never meant for the like of poor me,-- Besides, my master isn't rich, and couldn't pay the fee; Yet I love my master none the less, and serve him faithfully. "Poor master's got no eyes, you know, and I lead him through the street; And he plays upon the fiddle, and oh! he plays so sweet. That I wonder and I ponder, while my eyes with salt tears glisten. How so many people pass him by, and never stop to listen: How that nasty big blue man, with his nasty big blue coat. Moves master on so roughly that I long to bite his throat! "There are certain quiet side-streets where master oft I take, Where he's sure to get a penny, and I a bit of cake; But at times the nights are rainy, and seem so very long, That I envy pets in carriages, though I know that that is wrong; And master's growing very old, and his blood is getting thin, And he often shivers with the cold before I lead him in. "Poor master loves me very much, and I love master too; But if anything came over me, whatever _could_ he do? I think of things like these, you know, when in my bed at night, Even in my dreams those nasty thoughts oft make me cry with fright! Yet, though my lot seems very hard, and my pleasures are but few I do not grieve, for well I know a dog's life soon wears through; And I've been told by some there are better worlds than this, That, even for little doggies, there's a future state of bliss: That faithfulness and love are things that cannot die, And sorrow _here_ means joy _there_-- in the realms beyond the sky." CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. MR AND MRS POLYPUS: A STORY FOUNDED ON A FACT IN NATURAL HISTORY. "Our plenteous streams a varied race supply." Pope. "Creatures that by a rule of Nature teach The art of order to a peopled kingdom." Shakespeare. Scene: The old pine forest; a beautiful day in later summer. Grey clouds flitting across the sky's bright blue, and occasionally obscuring the sun's rays. A gentle breeze going whispering through the woods, the giant elms, the lordly oaks, and the dark and gloomy firs bending and bowing as the wind passes among their branches. Patches of bright crimson here and there where the foxgloves still bloom; patches of purple and yellow where heather and furze are growing. Not a sound to be heard in all the wood, except the clear, joyous notes of the robin; all his young ones are safely hatched and fledged, and flown away, and he is singing a hymn of thanksgiving. Aileen Aroon lying as usual with her great head on my lap, Theodore Nero as usual tumbling on the grass, Ida close at my side peeping over my shoulder at the paper I am reading aloud to her. Ida (_speaks_): "What mites of people your hero and heroine are!" The author: "Yes, puss; didn't you order me to write you a tale with tiny, tiny, tiny people in it? Well, here they are. They are microscopic." Ida: "But of course it is not a true story; it is composed, as you call it." The author: "It is a romance, Ida; but it is a romance of natural history, because, you know, there _are_ creatures called polyps that live in the sea, and are so small you have to get a microscope to watch their motions, and they often eat each other, or swallow each other alive, and do all sorts of strange things; and so I call my story-- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Mr and Mrs Polypus: A Tale of the Coralline Sea, a tale of the Indian Ocean, a romance of the coralline sea. "Far down beneath the blue waves lived my hero and heroine all alone together in their crystal home, with its floors of coral and its windows of diamonds. The cottage in which they dwelt was of a very strange shape indeed, being nothing like any building ever you saw on the face of the earth--but it suited them well--and all around it was a beautiful garden of living plants. Well, all plants possess life; but these were, in reality, living animals, living beings, shaped like flowers, but as capable of eating and drinking as you or I am, only they were all on stalks, and could only catch their food as it floated past them. This seems somewhat awkward, but then they were used to it, and custom is everything. I don't believe these animals growing on stalks ever wished to walk any oftener than human beings wished to fly. "Mr and Mrs Polypus, as you may easily guess, were husband and wife, but for all that I am very sorry to have to tell you that they did not always live very peaceably together. They used to have little disagreements now and then; for they were only polyps, you must remember, and smaller far than water-babies. Their little quarrels were always about their food, for, if the truth must be told, Mr Polypus was somewhat of a tyrant to his tiny wife. "Mr Polypus had many faults; he was, among other things, a very great glutton; so much so, that he did not mind his wife starving so long as he himself had enough to eat. "Now a word or two about the personal appearance of my principal characters. They were indeed a funny-looking couple, and so small, that unless you had had good eyes, and a tolerably good microscope as well, it would have been impossible for you to see much of what they were doing at all. They were both the same shape, and had only one leg a-piece--a comparatively thick one though--so that when they walked about it was hop, hop, hop on one end, and very ridiculous it looked. But then, if they had only one leg each, Nature had made it up to them in the matter of arms; for instead of two only, as you have, they had a whole row of them all round their shoulders. Wonderfully movable arms they were too, and seemed all joints together, and neither he nor his wife could keep from whirling their arms about whenever they were excited. They had, in fact, so many arms that they could afford to place two pair akimbo, fold one or two pairs across the chest, and still have a few left to shake in each other's faces when scolding; not that she did much of that, for she was very mild and obedient. "The only food that Mr and Mrs Polypus got was little fishes, which came floating in through the window to them, or down the chimney, or in by the door; so that they never required to go to the market to buy any provisions; they only had to wait comfortably at their own fireside until breakfast or dinner swam in to them of its own accord. But this did not satisfy the craving appetite of Mr Polypus; so he used often to be from home, swimming up and down the streets, or hopping about at the bottom of the village of Coral Town, where fish did most abound; and it was only when he was away from home on a fishing expedition that poor pretty Mrs Polypus used to get anything to eat, for she was a quiet little woman, and always stopped at home. Poor thing, the neighbours were often very sorry for her; for hers had been a very sad story. For all she was so quiet now, she was once the gayest of the gay, the life and soul of the village of Coral Town. At every ball or party that was given, Peggy--for so she was then called--was the star; and whenever Peggy countenanced a picnic or an angling match, all the village went too and took his wife with him. "When Peggy was still in her teens she fell in love with gay, rollicking young Mr Pompey, the potassium merchant. You know it was all potassium that they burned in Coral Town, because that burns under water, and coals won't; and instead of the streets and houses being lighted with gas or oil at nights, they were illuminated with phosphorus. For the next six months after Pompey met pretty Peggy at a ball, their young lives were but as one happy dream; for Pompey loved Peggy dearly, and Peggy loved Pompey. Away down at the bottom of Coral Town was a beautiful submarine garden, with fresh-water shrubs of every shade and flowers of every hue, and there were lonely caves and grottoes and groves, and all kinds of lovely scenery imaginable; and here the lovers often met, and along the winding pathways they ofttimes hopped together. 'Twas here Pompey first declared his passion, and first beheld the love-light in his Peggy's beaming eyes. One evening they were seated side by side in a coral cave. Everything around them was peaceful and still, the water clear and pellucid, and unbroken by a single ripple. They had sat thus for hours; for the time had flown very quickly, and Pompey had been reading a delightful book to Peggy, until it got so dark he couldn't see. Far up above them were the phosphorescent lights in the village twinkling like stars in heaven's firmament. The cave in which they sat was lighted up by a large diamond, which sparkled in the roof, and diffused a soft rose light all around, while here and there on the floor lay strange-shaped musical shells, which ever and anon gave forth sounds like Aeolian harps. "`Ah!' sighed Pompey, and-- "`Ah!' sighed Peggy, and-- "`When shall we wed?' said Pompey, and-- "`Whenever you please,' said she. "`Oh! oh!' cried a terrible voice at their elbows, `there'll be two words to that bargain. He! he! There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip. Ha! ha!' "And behold! there in the mouth of the cave stood an ugly old male polyp grinning and bobbing at them like some dreadful ogre. "`How dare you, sir!' said Potassium Pompey, springing from his seat, and striding with a couple of hops towards the new-comer--`how dare you intrude yourself on the privacy of affianced lovers?' "`Intrude? Ho! ho! Privacy? He! he! Affianced? Ha! ha!' replied the old polyp. `I'll soon let you know that, young jackanapes.' "`Sir,' cried Pompey, `this insolence shall not go unpunished. Unhand me, Peggy.' "`Oh! hush, hush, pray hush,' cried poor Peggy, wringing a few of her hands; `it's my father, Pompey, my poor father.' "`That fright your father?' replied Pompey; `but there, for your sake, my Peggy, and for the sake of his grey hairs, I will spare him.' "`Come along, Miss Malapert; adieu, Mr Jackanapes,' cried the enraged father; and he dragged his daughter from the cave, but not before she had time to cast one tearful look of fond farewell on her lover, not before she had time to extend ten hands to him behind her back, and he had fondly pressed them all. "Peggy's father was a miserly old polyp, who lived in a superb residence in the most fashionable part of Coral Town. He had servants who went or came at his beck or call, a splendid chariot of pure gold to ride in, with pure-bred fish-horses, and the only thing he ever had to annoy him was that when he awoke in the morning he could not think of any new pleasure for the day that had dawned. Every day he had a lovely little polyp boy killed for his dinner--for polyps are all cannibals--and if that meal didn't please him, then he used to eat one of the flunkeys. But for all his riches, he was not a gentleman. He had made all his money as a marine store dealer, and then retired to live at his mansion, with his only daughter Peggy. "Now, for the next many days poor Potassium Pompey was a very unhappy polyp indeed. He went about his business very listlessly, neglected to eat, grew awfully thin, and let his beard grow, and people even said that he sometimes sold them bad potassium. As for Peggy, she was locked up in a room all by herself, and never saw any one at all, except her father, who five times a day came regularly to feed her, and when she refused to eat he cruelly crammed it down her throat. He was only a polyp, remember. "`I'll fatten the gipsy,' he said to himself, `and then marry _her_ to my old friend Peterie. He can support a wife, for I always see him fishing, and he can't possibly eat all he catches himself.' "So it was all arranged that the wedding should come off, and one day, as Pompey was returning disconsolately from his office, he met a great and noisy crowd, who were huzzaing and waving their arms in the water, and shouting, `Long live the happy, happy pair!' And presently up drove the old miser's chariot, with six fish-horses, and polyp postillions to match; and seated there beside his detested rival, Pompey caught a glimpse of his loved and lost darling Peggy; thereupon Pompey made up his mind to drown himself right off. So he went and sought out the blackest, deepest pool, and plunged in. But polyps are so used to the water that they cannot drown, and so the more Pompey tried to drown himself, the more the water wouldn't drown him; so at last he wiped his eyes, and-- "`What a fool I am,' said he, `to attempt death for the sake of one fair lady, when there are hundreds of polyps as beautiful as she in Coral Town. I'll go home and work, and make riches, then I'll marry ten wives, and hold them all in my arms at once.' "But Pompey couldn't forget his early love as quickly as he wished to, and often of an evening, when he knew that Mr Polypus was away at some of his gluttonous carousals, Pompey would steal to the window of her house and keek in through the chinks of the shutters, and sigh to see his beloved Peggy sitting all so lonely by herself at the little table, on which the phosphorus lamp was burning. And at the same time-- although Pompey did not know it--Peggy would be gazing so sadly into the potassium fire, and thinking of him; she really could not help it, although she knew it was wrong, and poor pretty Mrs Polypus couldn't be expected to be very cheery, could she? "Well, one night she was sitting all alone like that, wondering what was keeping her husband so long, and if he would beat her, as usual, when he did come home. She hadn't had a bit to eat for many, many hours, and was just beginning to feel hungry and faint, when a tiny wee fish swam in by the chimney, and pop! Mrs Polypus had it down her throat in a twinkling; but as ill-luck would have it, who should return at the very moment but her wicked husband. He had evidently been eating even more than usual, and looked both flushed and angry. "`_Now_, Mrs Polypus,' he began, `I saw that. How dared you, when you knew I was coming home to supper, and there wasn't a morsel in the larder?' "`Oh! please, Peterie,' said poor little Mrs Polypus, beginning to cry, `I really didn't mean to; but I was _so_ hungry, and--' "`Hungry?' roared the husband; `how dared you to be hungry?--how dared you be anything at all, in fact? But there, I shall not irritate myself by talking to you. Bring it back again.' "`Oh! if you please, Peterie--' cried Mrs Polypus. "`Bring it back again, I say,' cried Mr Polypus, making all his arms swing round and round like a wheel, till you could hardly have seen one of them, and finally crossing them on his chest; and, leaning on the back of the chair, he looked sternly down on his spouse, and said--`Disgorge at once!' "`I won't, then, and, what is more, I shan't; there!' said the wee woman, for even a woman as well as a worm will turn when very much trodden upon. "`Good gracious me!' cried Mr Polypus, fairly aghast with astonishment; `does--she--actually--dare--to--defy me?' but `Ho! ho!' he added, likewise `He! he!' and `we'll see;' and he strode to the window and bolted it, and strode to the door and bolted that; then he took the phosphorus lamp and extinguished it. "`It'll be so dark, Peterie,' said his wife, beginning to be frightened. "`There is light enough for what I have to do,' said Peterie, sternly. Then he opened a great yawning mouth, and he seized her first by one arm, and then by another, until he had the whole within his grasp, and she all the time kicking with her one leg, and screaming-- "`Oh! please don't, Peterie. Oh! Peterie, don't.' "But he heeded not her cries, which every moment became weaker and more far-away like, until they ceased entirely, and the unhappy Mrs Polypus was nowhere to be seen. _Her husband had swallowed her alive_! "As soon as he had done so he sat down by the fire, looking rather swollen, and feeling big and not altogether comfortable; but how could he expect to be, after swallowing his wife? He leaned his head on three arms and gazed pensively into the fire. "`After all,' he said to himself, `I may have been just a little too hasty, for she wasn't at all a bad little woman, taking her all-in-all. Heigho! I fear I'll never see her like again.' "Hark! a loud knocking at the door. He starts and listens, and trembles like the guilty thing he is. The knocking was repeated in one continuous stream of rat-tats. "`Hullo! Peterie,' cried a voice; `open the door.' "`Who is there?' asked Peterie at last. "`Why, man, it is I--Potassium Pompey. Whatever is up with you to-day that you are barred and bolted like this? Afraid of thieves? Eh?' "`No,' said Peterie, undoing the fastenings and letting Pompey come in; `it isn't that exactly. The fact is, I wasn't feeling very well, and just thought I would lie down for a little while.' "`You don't look very ill, anyhow,' said Pompey; `and you are actually getting stouter, I think!' "`Well,' replied Peterie, `you see, I've been out fishing, and had a good dinner, and perhaps I've eaten rather more, I believe, than is good for me.' "`Shouldn't wonder,' said Pompey, sarcastically; for the truth is, he had been keeking through the chinks of the shutters, and had seen the whole tragedy. "`A decided case of dropsy, I should think,' added Pompey. "Peterie groaned. "`Take a seat,' he said to Pompey. `I believe you are my friend, and I want to have a little talk with you; I--I want to make a clean breast of it.' "`Well, I'm all attention,' replied Pompey--`all ears, as the donkey said.' "`Fact is, then,' continued Peterie, `I've been a rather unhappy man of late, and my wife and I never understood one another, and never agreed. She was in love with some scoundrel, you know, before we were married-- leastways, so they tell me--and I--I'm really afraid I've swallowed her, Pompey.' "`Hum!' said Pompey; `and does she agree any better with you now?' "`No,' replied Peterie, `that's just the thing; she's living all the wrong way, somehow, and I fear she won't digest.' "`Wretch!' cried Peterie, starting to his feet, `behold me. Gaze upon this wasted form: I am he who loved poor Peggy before her fatal marriage. Oh! my Peggy, my loved, my lost, my half-digested Peggy, shall we never meet again?' "`Sooner,' cried Peterie, `perhaps than you are aware of. So it was you who loved my silly wife?' "`It was I.' "`Wretch, you shall die.' "`Never,' roared Pompey, `while I live.' "`We shall see,' said Peterie. "`Come on,' said Pompey, `set the table on one side and give us room.' "That was a fearful fight that battle of the polyps. It is awful enough to see two men fighting who have only two arms a side, but when it comes to twenty arms each, and all these arms are whirling round at once, like a select assortment of windmills that have run mad, then, I can tell you, it is very much more dreadful. Now Peterie has the advantage. "Now Pompey is down. "Now he is up again and Peterie falls. "Now Peterie half swallows Pompey. "Now Pompey appears again as large as life, and half swallows Peterie; but at last, by one unlucky blow administered by ten fists at once, down rolls Potassium Pompey lifeless on Peterie's floor. Peterie bent over the body of Pompey. "`Bad job,' he mutters, `he is dead. And the question comes to be, what shall I do with the body? Ha! happy thought! the struggle has given me an appetite, _I'll swallow him too_.' "Barely had he thus disposed of poor Pompey's body, when a renewed knocking was heard at the outside door. There was not a moment to lose; so Peterie hastily set the furniture in order, and bustled away to open the door, and hardly had he done so when in rushed an excited mob of polyps headed by two warlike policemen, who _headed_ them by keeping well in the rear, but being, after the manner of policemen, very loud in their talk. "`Where is Potassium Pompey?' cried one; and-- "`Ay! where is Potassium Pompey?' cried another; and-- "`To be sure, where is Potassium Pompey?' cried a third; and-- "`That is the question, young man,' cried both policemen at once. "`Where is Potassium Pompey?' "`Oh!' groaned Peterie, `would I were as big as a bullfrog, that I might swallow you all at a gulp.' "`Away with him, my friends,' cried the warlike policemen, `to the hall of justice.' "In the present state of Peterie's digestive organs, resistance was not to be thought of; so he quietly submitted to be led out with ten pairs of handcuffs on his wrists, and dragged along the street, followed by the hooting mob, who wanted to hang him on the spot; but a multitude of policemen now arrived, and being at the rate of three policemen to each civilian polyp, the hanging was prevented. The justice hall was a very large building right in the centre of Coral Town. There the judges used to sit night and day on a large pearl throne at one end to try the cases that were brought before them. "Now Potassium Pompey was a very great favourite in Coral Town, so that when the wretched Peterie was dragged by fifteen brave policemen before the pearl throne, the hall was quite filled, and you might have heard a midge sneeze, if there had been a midge to sneeze, so great was the silence. The first accuser was Popkins, the miserly old polyp who was poor Peggy's father. He was too wretchedly thin and weak and old to hop in like any other polyp, so he came along the hall walking on his one foot and his twenty hands after the fashion of the looper caterpillar, which I daresay you have observed on a currant-bush. "`Where is me chee--ild?' cried the aged miser, as soon as he could speak. `Give me back me chee--ild?' "`If that's all you've got to say,' said the judge, sternly, `you'd better stand down.' "`I merely want me chee--ild,' repeated Popkins. "`Stand down, sir,' cried the judge. "After hearing various witnesses who had seen Pompey enter Peterie's house and never return, the judge opened his mouth and spake, for Peterie had said never a word. The judge gave it as his unbiassed opinion that, considering all things, the mysterious disappearance of Mrs Polypus, coupled with that of Potassium Pompey, whom every one loved and admired, the absence of all defence on the part of the prisoner, and the extraordinary rotundity of his corporation, as well as the fact that he had always been a spare man, there could be little doubt of the prisoner's guilt; `but to make assurance doubly sure,' added the judge, `let him at once be opened, to furnish additional proof, and the opening of the prisoner, I trust, will close the case.' If guilty, the sentence of the Court was that he should then be dragged to the common execution ground, and there divided into one hundred pieces, and he, the judge, hoped it would be a warning to the prisoner in all future time." [When a polyp is cut into pieces, each piece becomes a new individual.] "Twenty policemen now rushed away and brought the biggest knife they could find; twenty more went for ropes, and having procured them, the wretched Mr Polypus was bound to a table, and before he could have said `cheese,' if he had wanted to say `cheese,' an immense opening was made in his side, and, lo and behold! out stepped first Potassium Pompey, and after him hopped, modestly hopped, poor Peggy. But the most wonderful part of the whole business was, that neither Peggy nor Pompey seemed a bit the worse for their strange incarceration. Indeed, I ought to say they looked all the better; for Pompey was all smiles, and Peggy was looking very happy indeed, and even Peterie seemed immensely relieved. Pompey led Peggy before the throne, and here he told all the story about how Peggy was murdered, and then how he, Pompey, was murdered next. And-- "`Enough! enough!' cried the judge; `away with the doomed wretch! Let the execution be proceeded with without a moment's delay.' "`Please, my lord,' said Peggy, modestly, `may I have a divorce?' "`To be sure, to be sure,' said the judge; `you are justly entitled to a divorce.' "`And please, my lord,' continued Peggy, `may--may--' "`Well? well?' said the judge, with slight impatience, `out with it.' "`She wants to ask if she may marry me,' said Pompey, boldly. "`Most assuredly,' said the judge, `and a blessing be on you both.' "In vain the unhappy Peterie begged and prayed for mercy; he was hurried away to the execution ground and led to the scaffold. In all that crowd of upturned faces, Peterie saw not one pitying eye. And now a large barrel was placed to receive the pieces, and, beginning with his head and arms, the executioners cut him into one hundred pieces, leaving nothing of Peterie but the foot. "`Now,' cried the judge, `empty the barrel on the floor.' "This was done. "And it did seem that wonders would never cease, for as soon as each piece was thrown on the floor it immediately _grew up into a real live polyp, and body and arms all complete and hopping_; and the foot, which had been left, and which was more especially Peterie's--being all that remained of him, you know--grew up into another polyp, and behold there was another and a new Peterie. He was at once surrounded by the ninety and nine new polyps, who all threw their arms--nineteen hundred and ninety arms--around his neck, and began to kiss him and call him dearest dada. "`On my honour,' said Peterie, `I think this is rather too much of a joke.' "But nobody had any pity on him, and the judge said--`Now, Mr Polypus, let this be a lesson to you. Go home at once and work for your children, and remember you support them; if even one of them comes to solicit parish relief, dread the consequences.' "`How ever shall I manage?' said poor Peterie. "And he hopped away disconsolate enough amid his ninety and nine baby polyps all crying-- "`Dada dear, give us a fish.' "`I think,' said the judge, when Peterie had gone--`I think, Mr Popkins, you cannot now do better than consent to make these two young things happy by letting them wed. Pompey, it is true, isn't a king, but he has an excellent business in the potassium line, and none of us can live without fire, you know.' "`But I'm a king,' cried the aged miser; `I have mines of wealth, and all I have is theirs. Come to your father's arms, my Peggy and Pompey.' "`Hurrah!' shouted the mob; `three cheers for the old miser, and three for Pompey the brave, and three times three for the bonny bride Peggy.' "And away rolled Peggy in the golden chariot, with her father--such a happy, happy Peggy now; and Pompey was carried through the streets, shoulder high, to his old home. "So nothing was talked about in Coral Town for the next month but the grandeur of the coming wedding, and the beauty of Peggy, and everybody was happy and gay except poor Peterie; for who could be happy with ninety-nine babies to provide for--ninety-nine breakfasts to get, ninety-nine dinners, ninety-nine teas and suppers all in one, two hundred and ninety-seven meals to provide in one day? "There were no more fishing excursions for him, no more big dinners, and he worked and toiled to get ends to meet deep down in a potassium mine in the darkest, dismalest corner of Coral Town. And everybody said-- "`It serves him right, the cruel wretch.' "What a wonderful house that was which Pompey built for his Peggy! "It was charmingly situated on the slope of a wooded hill, quite in the country. Pompey spent months in furnishing and decorating it, and his greatest pleasure was to superintend all the work himself. Such trees you never saw as grew in the gardens and park, marine trees whose very leaves seemed more lovely than any terrestrial flower, and they were incessantly moving their branches backwards and forwards with a gentle undulating motion, as if they luxuriated in the sight of each other's beauty. Such flowers!--living, breathing flowers they were, and radiant with rainbow tints, flowers that whispered together, and beckoned and bowed and made love to each other. Then those delightful rockeries, half hidden here and there amid the wealth of foliage, and there were curious shells of brilliant colours that made music whenever there was the slightest ripple in the water, and whole colonies of the quaintest little animals that ever you dreamt of crept in and crept out of every fissure or miniature cave in the rocks. "At night the garden was all lighted up with phosphorescent lamps; but inside the palace itself, in the spacious halls, along the marble staircases, and in the beautiful rooms, nothing short of diamond lights would satisfy Pompey; for you must know that Pompey thought nothing too good for Peggy. So each room was lighted up by a diamond, that shone in the centre of the vaulted roof like a large and beautiful star. Some of these diamonds suffused a rosy light throughout the apartment, the light from others was of a paley green, and from others a faint saffron, while in one room the light from the diamond was for ever changing as you may see the planet Mars doing, if you choose to watch--one moment it was a bright, clear, bluish white, next a rainbow green, and anon changing to deepest crimson. This was a very favourite dining-hall with Pompey, for the simple reason that no one could be sure how his neighbour looked. For instance, if a lady blushed, it did not look like a blush--oh dear no--but a flash of rosy light; if an old gentleman indulged rather much in the pleasures of the table, and began to feel ill in consequence, not a bit of it, he was never better in his life--it was the bluish flash from the diamond; and so, again, if last night's lobster salad rendered any one yellow and bilious-looking, he could always blame the poor pretty diamond. "In some rooms the chairs themselves were made of precious stones, and the ottomans and couches built of a single pearl. "At length everything was completed to Pompey's entire satisfaction, and he had given any number of gay parties and balls, just by way of warming the house. Pompey flattered himself he had the best provisions in his cellars and the best-trained servants in all Coral Town, and of course nobody cared to deny that. These servants were nearly all of different shapes: some were properly-made polyps; some rolled in when Pompey touched the gong, rolled in like a gig-wheel without the rim, all legs and arms, and the body in the centre; some were merely round balls, and you couldn't see any head or legs or arms at all till they stopped in front of you, then they popped them all out at once; some walked in, others hopped, one or two floated, and one queer old chap walked on the crown of his head. If you think this is not all strictly true, you have only to take a microscope and look for yourself. "`Heigho!' said Pompey one day, after he had finished a dinner fit to set before a polyp king, `all I now want to make me perfectly happy is Peggy. Peggy--Peggy! what a sweetly pretty name it is to be sure! Peggy!' "And that came too; for if you wait long enough for any particular day, it is sure to come at last, just as whistling at sea makes the wind blow, which it invariably does--when you whistle long enough. "And never was such a day of rejoicing seen in Coral Town. The bells were ringing and the banners all waving almost before the phosphorescent lamps began to pale in the presence of day. "Then everybody turned out. "And everybody seemed to take leave of his senses by special arrangement. "All but poor Peterie, who was left all by himself to work away in the deep, dark potassium mine. The wedding took place in Peggy's father's-- Popkins's--house. The old miser, miser no more though, was half crazy with joy. And nothing would satisfy him but to have one of the upper servants cooked for his breakfast. He didn't care, he said, whether it was Jeames or the butler. So the butcher dressed the butler, and he was stewed for his master's breakfast with sauce of pearls powdered in ambrosia. "And after the ceremony was performed, Pompey appeared on the balcony, clasping Peggy to his heart with ten arms, while he gave ten other hands to Popkins, his father-in-law, to shake as he cried-- "`Bless you, bless you, my children.' "Then such a ringing cheer was heard, as never was heard before, or any time since. Even Peterie heard it down in the darkling mine, swallowed a ball of potassium, and died on the spot. As soon as Peterie was dead, he (Peterie) said, `Well now, I wonder I never thought of that before;' because he at once grew up again into ten new polyps, who forthwith left the mine, joined the revellers, and shouted louder than all the rest. "And when at last Peggy was in Peterie's house, when the idol of his love became the light of his home, when he saw her there before him, so blooming and bonnie, he opened his twenty arms, and she opened _her_ twenty arms, and-- "`Peggy!' cried Pompey; and-- "`Pompey!' cried Peggy; and-- "Down drops the curtain. It would be positively mean and improper to keep it up one moment longer." CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE TALE OF THE "TWIN CHESTNUTS"; OR, A SUMMER EVENING'S REVERIE. "Twilight grey Had in her sober livery all things clad: Silence accompanied; for beast and bird, They to their grassy couch; these to their nests Were slunk, all save the wakeful nightingale: Hesperus that led The starry host rode brightest, till the moon Unveiled her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw." Milton. Running all along one side of our orchard, garden, and lawn are a row of tall and graceful poplar trees. So tall are they that they may be seen many miles away; they are quite a feature of the landscape, and tell the position of our village to those coming towards it long before a single house is visible. These trees are the admiration of all that behold them, but, to my eye, there seems always connected with them an air of solemnity. All the other trees about--the spreading limes, the broad-leaved planes, and the rugged oaks and elms--seem dwarfed by their presence, so high do they tower above them. Their tips appear to touch the very sky itself, their topmost branches pierce the clouds. Around the stem of each the beautiful ivy climbs and clings for support; and this ivy gives shelter by night to hundreds of birds, and to bats too, for aught I know. Their very position standing there in a row, like giant sentinels, surrounds them with an air of mystery to which the fact that they follow each other's motions--all bending and nodding in the same direction at once--only tends to add. And spring, summer, autumn, or winter they are ever pointing skywards. In the winter months they are leafless and bare, and there is a wild, weird look about them on a still night, when the moon and stars are shining, which it would be difficult to describe in words. But sometimes in winter, when the hoar-frost falls and silvers every twiglet and branch till they resemble nothing so much as the snowiest of coral, then, indeed, the beauty with which they are adorned, once seen must ever be remembered. But hardly has spring really come, and long before the cuckoo's dual notes are heard in the glade, or the nightingale's street, unearthly music fills every copse and orchard, making the hearts of all that hear it glad, ere those stately poplars are clothed from tip to stem in robes of yellow green, and their myriad leaves dance and quiver in the sunlight, when there is hardly wind enough to bend a blade of grass. As the summer wears on, those leaves assume a darker tint, and approach more nearly to the colour of the ivy that crowds and climbs around their stems. The wind is then more easily heard, sighing and whispering through the branches even when there is not a breath of air down on the lawn or in the orchard. On what we might well call still evenings, if you cast your eye away aloft, you may see those tree-tops all swaying and moving in rhythm against the sky; and if you listen you may catch the sound of their leaves like that of wavelets breaking on a beach of smoothest sand. I remember it was one still summer's night, long after sundown, for the gloaming star was shining, that we were all together on the rose lawn. The noisy sparrows were quiet, every bird had ceased to sing, there wasn't a sound to be heard anywhere save the sighing among the topmost branches of the poplars. Far up there, a breeze seemed to be blowing gently from the west, and as it kissed the tree-tops they bent and bowed before it. Ida lay in a hammock of grass, the book she could no longer see to read lying on her lap in a listless hand. "No matter how still it is down here," she said, "those trees up there are always whispering." "What do you think they are saying?" I asked. "Oh," she answered, "I would give worlds to know." "Perhaps," she added, after a pause, "they hear voices up in the sky there that we cannot hear, that they catch sounds of--" "Stop, Ida, stop," I cried; "why, if you go on like this, instead of the wise, sensible, old-fashioned little girl that I'm so fond of having as my companion in my rambles, you will degenerate into a poet." "Ha! ha!" laughed Frank; "well, that is a funny expression to be sure. Degenerate into a poet. How complimentary to the sons and daughters of the lyre, how complimentary to your own bonnie Bobby Burns, for instance!" Ida half raised herself in her hammock. She was smiling as she spoke. "It was you, uncle, that taught me," she said. "Did you not tell me everything that grows around us has life, and even feeling; that in winter the great trees go to sleep, and do not suffer from the cold, but that in summer they are filled with a glow of warmth, and that if you lop a branch off one, though it does not feel pain, it experiences cold at the place where the axe has done its work? Haven't you taught me to look upon the flowers as living things? and don't I feel them to be so when I stoop to kiss the roses? Yes, and I love them too; I love them all--all." "And I've no doubt the love is reciprocated, my little mouse. But now, talking about trees, if Frank will bring the lamp, I'll read you a kind of a story about two trees. It isn't quite a tale either--it is a kind of reverie; but the descriptive parts of it are painted from the life. Thank you, Frank. Now if the moths will only keep away for a minute, if it wasn't for that bit of displayed humanity on the top of the glass in the shape of a morsel of wire gauze, that big white moth would go pop in and immolate himself. Ahem!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE TWIN CHESTNUTS: A REVERIE. "THEY GREW IN BEAUTY SIDE BY SIDE." We weren't the only happy couple that had spent a honeymoon at Twin Chestnut Cottage. In point of fact, the chestnuts themselves had their origin in a honeymoon; for in the same old-fashioned cottage, more than one hundred and ninety years ago, there came to reside a youthful pair, who, hand in hand, had just commenced life's journey together. They each had a little dog, and those two little dogs were probably as fond of each other, after their own fashion, as their master and mistress were; and the name of the one dog was "Gip," and the name of the other was "George"--Gip and George, there you have them. And it was very funny that whatever Gip did, George immediately followed suit and did the same; and, _vice versa_, whatever George did, Gip did. If Gip harked, George barked; if George wagged his tail, so did Gip. Whenever Gip was hungry, George found that he too could eat; and when George took a drink of water, Gip always took a mouthful as well, whether she was thirsty or not. Well, it happened one day in autumn, when the beauty-tints were on the trees--the sunset glow of the dying year--that the two lovers (for although they were married, they were lovers still) were walking on the rustling leaves, and of course George and Gip were no great way behind, and were having their own conversation, and their own little larks all to themselves, when suddenly-- "I say, Georgie," said Gip. "Well, my love?" replied George. "I'm quite tired watching for that silly blind old mole, who I'm certain won't come again to-night. Let us carry a chestnut home." "All right," said George; "here goes." So they each of them chose the biggest horse-chestnut they could find, and they were only very small dogs, and went trotting home with them in their mouths; and when they got there, they each laid their little gifts at the feet of their loved master or mistress. This they did with such a solemn air that, for the life of them, the lovers could not help laughing outright. But the little dogs received their due meed of praise nevertheless, and the two chestnuts were carefully planted, one on each side of the large lawn window. And when winter gave place to spring, lo! the chestnuts budded, budded and peeped up through the earth, each one looking for all the world like a Hindoo lady's little finger, which isn't a bit different, you know, from your little finger, only it is dark-brown, and yours is white. Then the little finger opened, and bright green leaves unfolded and peeped up at the sun and the blue sky, and long before the summer was over they had grown up into sprightly little trees, as straight as rushes, and very nearly as tall, for they had been very carefully watered and tended. Very pretty they looked too, although their leaves seemed a mile too big for their stems, which made them look like two very small men with very large hats; but the young chestnuts themselves didn't see anything ridiculous in the matter. These, then, were the infant chestnuts. And as the years rolled on, and made those lovers old, the chestnuts still grew in height and beauty. And in time poor Grip died, and as George had always done exactly as Gip did, he died too; and Gip was laid at the foot of one tree, and George at the foot of the other, and their graves were watered with loving tears. And the trees grew lovelier still. And when at last those lovers died, the trees showered their flowers, pink-eyed and white, on the coffins, as they were borne away from the old cottage to their long, quiet home in the "moots." And time flew on, generation after generation was born, grew up, grew old, and died, and still the twin chestnuts increased and flourished, and they are flourishing now, on this sweet summer's day, and shading all the cottage from the noonday sun. It is a very old-fashioned cottage, wholly composed, one might almost say, of gables, the thatch of some of which comes almost to the ground, and I defy any one to tell which is the front of the cottage and which isn't the front. There are gardens about the old cottage, fruit gardens and flower gardens, and grey old walls half buried in ivy, which never looked half so pretty as in autumn, when the soft leaves of the Virginia creepers are changing to crimson, and blending sweetly with the ivy's dusky green. The principal gable is that abutting on to the green velvety lawn, which goes sloping downwards to where the river, broad and still, glides silently on its way to bear on its breast the ships of the greatest city of the world, and carry them to the ocean. But the main beauty of the cottage lies in those twin chestnuts. No chestnuts in all the countryside like those two beautiful trees; none so tall, so wide, so spreading; none have such broad green leaves, none have such nuts--for each nutshell grows as big and spiny as a small hedgehog, and contains some one nut, many two, but most three nuts within the outer rind. I only wish you could see them, and you would say, as I do, there are no trees like those twin chestnuts. The earth was clad in its white cocoon when first we went to Twin Chestnut Cottage, and the two giant trees pointed their skeleton fingers upwards to the murky sky; but long before any of the other chestnut-trees that grew in the parks and the avenues, had even dreamt of awakening from their deep winter sleep, the twin chestnuts had sent forth large brown buds, bigger and longer than rifle bullets, and all gummed over with some sticky substance, as if the fairies had painted them all with glycerine and treacle. With the first sunshine of April those bonnie buds grew thicker, and burst, disclosing little bundles of light-green foliage, that matched _so_ sweetly with the brown of the buds and the dark grey of the parent tree. Day by day we watched the folded leaves expanding; and other eyes than ours were watching them too; for occasionally a large hornet or an early bee would fly round the trees and examine the buds, then off he would go again with a satisfied hum, which said plainly enough, "You're getting on beautifully, and you'll be all in flower in a fortnight." And, indeed, hardly had a fortnight elapsed, from the time the buds first opened, till the twin chestnuts were hung in robes of drooping green. Such a tender green! such a light and lovely green! and the pendent, crumply leaves seemed as yet incapable of supporting their own weight, like the wings of the moth when it first bursts from its chrysalis. Then, oh! to hear the _frou-frou_ of the gentle wind through the silken foliage! And every tree around was bare and brown save them. Even the river seemed to whisper fondly to the bending reeds as it glided past those chestnuts twain; and I know that the mavis and the merle sung in a louder, gladder key when they awoke in the dewy dawn of morn, and their bright eyes rested on those two clouds of living green. And now crocuses peeping through the dun earth, and primroses on mossy banks, had long since told that spring had come; but the chestnut-trees said to all the birds that summer too was on the wing. Cock-robin marked the change, and came no more for crumbs--for he thought it was high time to build his nest; only there were times when he seated himself on the old apple-tree, and sung his little song, just to show that he hadn't forgotten us, and that he meant to come again when family cares were ended and summer had flown away. Meanwhile, the flower-stems grew brown and mossy, and in a week or two the flowers themselves were all in bloom. Had you seen either of those twin chestnuts then, you would have seen a thing of beauty which would have dwelt in your mind as a joy for ever. It was summer now. Life and love were everywhere. The bloom was on the may--pink-eyed may and white may. The yellow laburnum peeped out from the thickets of evergreen, the yellow broom dipped its tassels in the river, and elder-flowers perfumed the wind. I couldn't tell you half the beautiful creatures that visited the blossoms on the twin chestnut-trees, and sang about them, and floated around them, and sipped the honey from every calyx. Great droning, velvety bees; white-striped and red busy little hive-bees; large-winged butterflies, gaudy in crimson and black; little white butterflies, with scarlet-tipped wings; little blue butterflies, that glanced in the sunshine like chips of polished steel; and big slow-floating butterflies, so intensely yellow that they looked for all the world as if they had been fed on cayenne, like the canaries, you know. In the gloaming, "Drowsy beetles wheeled their droning flight" around the trees, and noisy cockchafers went whirring up among the blossoms, and imagined they had reached the stars. When the roses, purple, red, and yellow, clung around the cottage porch, climbed over the thatch, and clung around the chimneys, when the mauve wisterias clustered along the walls, when the honeysuckle scented the green lanes, when daisies and tulips had faded in the garden, and crimson poppies shone through the corn's green, a breeze blew soft and cool from the south-east, and lo! for days and days the twin chestnuts snowed their petals on the lawn and path. And now we listened every night for the nightingale's song. They came at last, all in one night it seemed: "Whee, whee, whee." What are those slow and mournful notes ringing out from the grove in the stillness of night? A lament for brighter skies born of memories of glad Italy? "Churl, churl; chok, wee, cho!" This in a low and beautiful key; then higher and more joyful, "Wheedle, wheedle, wheedle; wheety, wheety, wheety; chokee, okee, okee-whee!" Answering each other all the livelong night, bursting into song at intervals all the day, when, we wondered, did they sleep? Did they take it in turns to make night and day melodious, keeping watches like the sailors at sea? We thought the song of the mavis so tame now; but cock-robin's had not lost its charm, just as the dear old simple "lilts" of bonnie Scotland, or the sadder ditties of the Green Isle, never pall on our ear, love we ever so well the lays of sunny Italy. As the summer waned apace, and the leaves on the chestnuts changed to a darker, hardier green, the nightingales ceased their song; but, somehow, we never missed them much, there were so many other songsters. We used to wonder how many different sorts of birds found shelter in those twin chestnuts, apart from the bickering sparrows, who colonised it; apart from the merle and thrush, who merely came home to roost; apart from the starling, who was continually having quarrels with his wife about something or other; and apart from the noisy jackdaw, who was such an argumentative fellow, and made himself such a general nuisance that it always ended in his being forcibly ejected. Robin was invariably the first to awake in the morning. As the first faint tinge of dawning day began to broaden in the east, he shook the dew from his wings, and gave vent to a little peevish twitter. Then he would hop down from the tree, perch on the gate, and begin his sweet wee song: "Twitter, twitter, twee!" We used to wonder if it really was a song of praise to Him who maketh the sun to rise and gladden all the earth. "Twitter, twitter, twee!" Little birdies are so happy, and awake every morning as fresh and joyous as innocent children. "Twitter, twitter, twitter, twee!" went the song for fully half an hour, till it was so light that even the lazy sparrows began to awake, and squabble, and scold, and fight; for you must know that sparrows hold about the same social rank in the feathered creation, that the dwellers around Billingsgate do among human beings. Then there would be such a chorus of squabbling from the big trees, that poor robin had to give up singing in disgust, and come down to have his breakfast. "Hullo!" he would cry, addressing a humble-bee, who with his wings all bedraggled in dew, was slowly moving across the gravel, thinking the sun would soon rise and dry him--for poor bees often do stay too long on thistles at night, get drugged with the sweet-scented ambrosia, and are unable to get home till morning--"Hullo!" robin would say; "do you know you're wanted?" The poor bee would hold up one arm in mute appeal. "Keep down your hands," robin would say; "I'll do it ever so gently;" and off the bee's head would go in a twinkling. Then robin would eye his victim till the sting ceased to work out and in, then quietly swallow it. This, with an earthworm or two, and a green caterpillar by way of relish, washed down with a bill-full of water from a little pool in a cabbage-leaf, would form robin's breakfast; then away he would fly to the woods, where he could sing all day in peace. And so the summer sped away in that quiet spot, and anon the fields were all ablaze with the golden harvest, and the sturdy leaves of our chestnut-trees turned yellow and brown, and the great nuts came tumbling down in a steady cannonade each time the wind shook the branches. And the twin chestnuts, perhaps, looked more lovely now than ever they had looked--they had borrowed the tints of the autumn sunset; yet their very beauty told us now that the end was not far away. The wind of a night now moved the branches with a harsher, drier rustling, like the sound of breaking waves or falling water, and we often used to dream we were away at sea, tossed up and down on the billows. "Heigho!" we [Part of this page missing.] There were days when the sun set in an ochrey haze, when the evening star with its dimmed eye looked down from a sky of emerald green, where as the gloaming deepened into night, not a cloud was there to hide the glittering orbs; then the fairies set to work to adorn the trees, and when morning came, lo! what a sight was there! All around the hoar-frost lay, white and deep on bush and brake, on the hedgerows and brambles; and every twiglet and thorn was studded with starry jewels on tit twin chestnuts, and they were trees no more--every branchlet and spray was changed to glittering coral; and garlands of silver and lace-work, lovelier far than human brains could ever plan or fingers weave, were looped from bough to bough, and hung in sheeny radiance around the sturdy stems. Those dear old chestnut-trees! And as the seasons pass o'er the chestnut-trees, and each one clothes them in a beauty of its own, so across the seasons of our life Time spreads his varied joys: childhood, in its innocence, hath its joys, youth in its hope of brighter days, manhood in its strength and ambition, and old age in the peaceful trust of a better world to come. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. THE STORY OF AILEEN'S HUSBAND, NERO. "The pine-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray--" I certainly had no intention of bringing tears to little Ida's eyes; it was mere thoughtlessness on my part, but the result was precisely the same; and there was Ida kneeling beside that great Newfoundland, Theodore Nero, with her arms round his neck, and a moment or two after I had spoken, I positively saw a tear fall on his brow, and lie there like a diamond. Ah! such tears are far more precious than any diamonds. "You don't love that dog, mouse?" These were the words I had given utterance to, half-banteringly, as she sat near me on the grass playing with the dog. I went on with my writing, and when I looked up again beheld that tear. Yes, I felt sorry, and set about at once planning some means of amends. I knew human nature and Ida's nature too well to make any fuss about the matter--I would not even let her know I had seen her wet eyelashes, nor did I attempt to soothe her. If I had done so, there would have been some hysterical sobbing and a whole flood of tears, with red eyes and perhaps a headache to follow. So without looking up I said-- "By the way, birdie, did ever I tell you Nero's story?" "Oh, no," she said, in joyful forgetfulness of her recent grief; "and I would so like to hear it. But," she added, doubtfully, "a few minutes ago you said you could not talk to me, that you must finish writing your chapter. Why have you changed your mind?" "I don't see why in this world, Ida," I replied, smiling, "a man should not be allowed to change his mind sometimes as well as a woman." This settled the matter, and I put away my paper in my portfolio, and prepared to talk. Where were we seated? Why, under the old pine-tree--our _very_ favourite seat. My wife was engaged at home turning gooseberries into jam, and had packed Ida and me off, to be out of the way, and friend Frank himself had gone that day on some kind mission or other connected with boys. I never saw any one more fond of boys than Frank was; I am sure he spent all his spare cash on them. He was known all over the parish as the boys' friend. If in town Frank saw a new book suitable for a boy, it was a temptation he could not resist. If he had been poor, I'm certain he would have gone without his dinner in order to secure a good book for a boy. He was constantly finding out deserving lads and getting them situations, and the day they were going to start was a very busy one indeed for Frank. He would be up betimes in the morning, sometimes before the servants, and often before the maids came down he would have the fire lighted, and the kettle boiling, and everything ready for breakfast. Then he would hurry away to the boy's home, to see he got all ready in time for the start, and that he also had had breakfast. He saw him to the station, gave him much kind and fatherly advice, and, probably, in the little kit that accompanied the lad, there were several comforts in the way of clothes, that wouldn't have been there at all if friend Frank had not possessed the kindest heart that ever warmed a human breast. I said Frank found out the _deserving_ boys; true. But he did not forget the undeserving either, and positively twice every season what should Frank do but get up what he called-- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "THE BAD BOYS' CRICKET MATCH." Nobody used to play at these matches but the bad boys and the unregenerate and the ungrateful boys. And after the match was over, if you had peeped into the tent you would have seen Frank, his jolly face radiant, seated at the head of a well-spread table, and all his bad boys around him, and, had you been asked, you could not have said for certain whether Frank looked happier than the boys, or the boys happier than Frank. But I've seen a really bad boy going away from home to some situation, where Frank was sending him on trial, and bidding Frank good-bye with the big lumps of tears rolling down over cheeks and nose, and heard the boy say-- "God bless ye, sir; ye've been a deal kinder to me than my own father, and I'll try to deserve all your goodness, sir, and lead a better life." To whom Frank would curtly reply, perhaps with a tear in his own honest blue eye-- "Don't thank me, boy--I can't stand that. There, good-bye; turn over a new leaf, and don't let me see you back for a year--only write to me. Good-bye." And Frank's boys' letters, how he did enjoy them to be sure! Dear Frank! he is dead and gone, else dare I not write thus about him, for a more modest man than my friend I have yet to find. Well, Frank was away to-day on some good mission, and that is how Ida and I were alone with the dogs. Nero, by the way, was on the sick-list to some extent. Indeed, Nero never minded being put on the sick-list if there was nothing very serious the matter with him, because this entailed a deal of extra petting, and innumerable tit-bits and dainties that would never otherwise have found the road to his appreciative maw. As to petting, the dog could put up with any amount of it; and it is a fact that I have known him sham ill in order to be made much of. Once, I remember, he had hurt his leg by jumping, and long after he was better, if any of us would turn about, when he was walking well enough, and say--in fun, of course--"Just look how lame that poor dear dog is!" then Nero would assume the Alexandra limp on the spot, and keep it up for some time, unless a rat happened to run across the road, or a rabbit, or a hedgehog put in an appearance--if so, he forgot all about the bad leg. "Well, birdie," I said, "to give you anything like a complete history of that faithful fellow you are fondling is impossible. It would take up too much time, because it would include the history of the last ten years of my own life, and that would hardly be worth recording. When my poor old Tyro died, the world, as far as dogs were concerned, seemed to me a sad blank. I have never forgotten Tyro, the dog of my student days, I never shall, and I am not ashamed to say that I live in hopes of meeting him again. "What says Tupper about Sandy, birdie? Repeat the lines, dear, if you remember them, and then I'll tell you something about Nero." Ida did so, in her sweet, girlish tones; and even at this moment, reader, I have only to shut my eyes, and I seem to see and hear her once more as she sits on that mossy bank, with her one arm around the great Newfoundland's neck, and the summer wind playing with her bonnie hair. "Thank you, birdie," I said, when she had finished. "Now then," said Ida. "I was on half-pay when I first met Nero," I began, "and for some time the relations between us were somewhat strained, for Newfoundlands are most faithful to old memories. The dog seemed determined not to let himself love me or forget his old master, and I felt determined not to love him. It seemed to me positively cruel to let any other animal find a place in my affections, with poor Tyro so recently laid in his grave in the romantic old castle of Doune. So a good month went past without any great show of affection on either side. "Advancement towards a kindlier condition of feeling betwixt us took place first and foremost from the dog's side. He began to manifest regard for me in a somewhat strange way. His sleeping apartment was a nice, clean, well-bedded out-house, but every morning he used to find his way upstairs to my room before I was awake, and on quietly gaining an entrance, the next thing he would do was to place his two fore-paws on the bed at my shoulder, then raise himself straight up to the perpendicular. "So when I awoke I would find, on looking up, the great dog standing thus, looming high above me, but as silent and fixed as if he had been a statue chiselled out of the blackest marble. "At first it used to be quite startling, but I soon got used to it. He never bent his head, but just stood there. "`I'm here,' he seemed to say, `and you can caress me if you choose; I wouldn't be here at all if I didn't care just a little about you.' "But one morning, when I put up my hand and patted him, and said--`You are a good, honest-hearted dog, I do believe,' he lowered his great head instantly, and licked my face. "That is how our friendship began, Ida, and from that day till this we have never been twenty-four hours parted--by sea or on land he has been my constant companion. "He was very young when I first got him, and had only newly been imported, but he was even then quite as big as he is now. "The ice being broken, as I might say, affection both on his side and on mine grew very fast; but what cemented our friendship infrangibly was a terrible illness that the poor fellow contracted some months after I got him. "He began to get very thin, to look pinched about the face, and weary about the eyes, his coat felt harsh and dry, and his appetite went away entirely. "He used to look up wistfully in my face, as if wanting me to tell him what could possibly be the matter with him. "The poor dog was sickening for distemper. "All highly-bred dogs take this dreadful illness in its very worst form. "I am not going to describe the animal's sufferings, nor any part of them; they were very great, however, and the patience with which he bore them all would have put many a human invalid to shame. He soon came to know that I was doing all I could to save him, and that, nauseous though the medicines were he had to take, they were meant to do him good, and at last he would lick his physic out of the spoon, although so weak that his head had to be supported while he was doing so. "One night, I remember, he was so very ill that I thought it was impossible he could live till morning, and I remember also sorrowfully wondering where I should lay his great body when dead, for we lived then in the midst of a great, bustling, busy city. But the fever had done its worst, and morning saw him not only alive, but slightly better. "I was on what we sailors call a spell of half-pay, so I had plenty of time to attend to him--no other cares then, Ida. I did all my skill could suggest to get him over the after effects of the distemper, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing him one of the most splendid Newfoundlands that had ever been known in the country, with a coat that rivalled the raven's wing in darkness and sheen. "The dog loved me now with all his big heart--for a Newfoundland is one of the most grateful animals that lives--and if the truth must be told, I already loved the dog. "Nero was bigger then, Ida, than he is now." "Is that possible?" said Ida. "It is; for, you see, he is getting old." "But dogs don't stoop like old men," laughed Ida. "No," I replied, "not quite; but the joints bend more, the fore and hind feet are lengthened, and that, in a large dog like a Saint Bernard or Newfoundland, makes a difference of an inch or two at the shoulder. But when Nero was in his prime he could easily place his paws on the shoulder of a tall man, and then the man's head and his would be about on a level. "Somebody taught him a trick of taking gentlemen's hats off in the street." "Oh!" cried Ida, "I know who the somebody was; it was you, uncle. How naughty of you!" "Well, Ida," I confessed, "perhaps you are right; but remember that both the dog and I were younger then than we are now. But Nero frequently took a fancy to a policeman's helmet, and used to secure one very neatly when the owner had his back turned, and having secured it, he would go galloping down the street with it, very much to the amusement of the passengers, but usually to the great indignation of the denuded policeman. It would often require the sum of sixpence to put matters to rights." "I am so glad," said Ida, "he does not deprive policemen of their helmets now; I should be afraid to go out with him." "You see, Ida, I am not hiding any of the dog's faults nor follies. He had one other trick which more than once led to a scene in the street. I was in the habit of giving him my stick to carry. Sometimes he would come quietly up behind me and march off with it before I had time to prevent him. This would not have signified, if the dog had not taken it into his head that he could with impunity snatch a stick from the hands of any passer-by who happened to carry one to his--the dog's--liking. It was a thick stick the dog preferred, a good mouthful of wood; but he used to do the trick so nimbly and so funnily that the aggrieved party was seldom or never angry. I used to get the stick from Nero as soon as I could, giving him my own instead, and restore it with an ample apology to its owner. "But one day Nero, while out walking with me, saw limping on ahead of us an old sailor with a wooden leg. I daresay he had left his original leg in some field of battle, or some blood-stained deck. "`Oh!' Nero seemed to say to himself, `there is a capital stick. That is the thickness I like to see. There is something in that one can lay hold of.' "And before I could prevent him, he had run on and seized the poor man by the wooden leg. Nero never was a dog to let go hold of anything he had once taken a fancy to, unless he chose to do so of his own accord. On this occasion, I feel convinced he himself saw the humour of the incident, for he stuck to the leg, and there was positive merriment sparkling in his eye as he tugged and pulled. The sailor was Irish, and just as full of fun as the dog. Whether or not he saw there was half-a-crown to be gained by it I cannot say, but he set himself down on the pavement, undid the leg, and off galloped Nero in triumph, waving the wooden limb proudly aloft. The Irishman, sitting there on the pavement, made a speech that set every one around him laughing. I found the dog, and got the leg, slipping a piece of silver into the old sailor's hand as I restored it. "Well, that was an easy way out of a difficulty. Worse was to come, however, from this trick of Nero's; for not long after, in a dockyard town, while out walking, I perceived some distance ahead of me our elderly admiral of the Fleet. I made two discoveries at one and the same time: the first was, that the admiral carried a beautiful strong bamboo cane; the second was, that master Nero, after giving me a glance that told me he was brimful of mischief, had made up his mind to possess himself of that bamboo cane. Before I could remonstrate with him, the admiral was caneless, and as brimful of wrath as the dog was of fun. "The situation was appalling. "I was in uniform, and here was a living admiral, whom _my_ dog assaulted, the dog himself at that very moment lying quietly a little way off, chewing the head of the cane into match-wood. An apology was refused, and I couldn't offer him half-a-crown as I had done the old wooden-legged sailor. "The name of my ship was demanded, and with fear and trembling in my heart I turned and walked sorrowfully away." [This page missing.] CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE STORY OF AILEEN'S HUSBAND, NERO--CONTINUED. "His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Showed he was none o' Scotland's dogs." Burns. "You see, dear," I continued, "that Nero had even in his younger days a very high sense of humour and fun, and was extremely fond of practical joking, and this trait of his character sometimes led his master into difficulties, but the dog and I always managed to get over them. At a very early age he learned to fetch and carry, and when out walking he never seemed happy unless I gave him something to bring along with him. Poor fellow, I daresay he thought he was not only pleasing me, but assisting me, and that he was not wrong in thinking so you will readily believe when told that, in his prime, he could carry a large carpet bag or light portmanteau for miles without the least difficulty. He was handy, therefore, when travelling, for he performed the duties of a light porter, and never demanded a fee. "He used to carry anything committed to his charge, even a parcel with glass in it might be safely entrusted to his care, if you did not forget to tell him to be very cautious with it. "I was always very careful to give him something to carry, for if I did not he was almost sure to help himself. When going into a shop, for instance, to make a purchase, he was exceedingly disappointed if something or other was not bought and handed to him to take home. Once I remember going into a news-agent's shop for something the man did not happen to have. I left shortly, taking no thought about my companion, but had not gone far before Nero went trotting past me with a well-filled paper bag in his mouth, and after us came running, gasping and breathless, a respectable-looking old lady, waving aloft a blue gingham umbrella. `The dog, the dog,' she was bawling, `he has run off with my buns! Stop thief!' "I stopped the thief, and the lady was gracious enough to accept my apologies. "Not seeing me make any purchase, Nero had evidently said to himself--`Why, nothing to carry? Well, I don't mean to go away without anything, if my master does. Here goes.' And forthwith he had pounced upon the paper bag full of buns, which the lady had deposited on the counter. "At Sheerness, bathers are in the habit of leaving their boots on the beach while they enjoy the luxury of a dip in the sad sea waves. They usually put their stockings or socks in the boots. When quite a mile away from the bathing-place, one fine summer's day, I happened to look round, and there was Nero walking solemnly after me with a young girl's boot, with a stocking in it, in his mouth. We went back to the place, but I could find no owner for the boot, though I have no doubt it had been missed. Don't you think so, birdie?" "Yes," said Ida; "only fancy the poor girl having to go home with one shoe off and one shoe on. Oh! Nero, you dear old boy, who could have thought you had ever been so naughty in the days of your youth!" "Well, another day when travelling, I happened to have no luggage. This did not please Master Nero, and in lieu of something better, he picked up a large bundle of morning papers, which the porter had just thrown out of the luggage van. He ran out of the station with them, and it required no little coaxing to make him deliver them up, for he was extremely fond of any kind of paper to carry. "But Nero was just as honest, Ida, when a young dog as he is now. Nothing ever could tempt him to steal. The only thing approaching to theft that could be laid to his charge happened early one morning at Boston, in Lincolnshire. I should tell you first, however, that the dog's partiality for rabbits as playmates was very great indeed. He has taken more to cats of late, but when a young dog, rabbits were his especial delight. "We had arrived at Boston by a very early morning train, our luggage having gone on before, the night before, so that when I reached my journey's end, I had only to whistle on my dog, and, stick in hand, set out for my hotel. It was the morning of an agricultural show, and several boxes containing exhibition rabbits lay about the platform. "Probably the dog had reasoned thus with himself:-- "`Those boxes contain rabbits; what a chance to possess myself of a delightful pet! No doubt they belong to my master, for almost everything in this world does, only he didn't notice them; but I'm sure he will be as much pleased as myself when he sees the lovely rabbit hop out of the box; so here goes. I'll have this one.' "The upshot of Nero's cogitations was that, on looking round when fully a quarter of a mile from the station, to see why the dog was not keeping pace with me, I found him marching solemnly along behind with a box containing a live rabbit in his mouth. He was looking just a little sheepish, and he looked more so when I scolded him and made him turn and come back with it. "Dogs have their likes and dislikes to other animals and to people, just as we human beings have. One of Nero's earliest companions was a beautiful little pure white Pomeranian dog, of the name of `Vee-Vee.' He was as like an Arctic fox--sharp face, prick ears, and all--as any dog could be, only instead of lagging his tail behind him, as a fox does, the Pomeranian prefers to curl it up over his back, probably for the simple reason that he does not wish to have it soiled. Vee-Vee was extremely fond of me, and although, as you know, dear Nero is of a jealous temperament, he graciously permitted Vee-Vee to caress me as much as he pleased, and me to return his caresses. "It was a sight to see the two dogs together out for a ramble--Nero with his gigantic height, his noble proportions, and long flat coat of jetty black, and Vee-Vee, so altogether unlike him in every way, trotting along by his side in jacket of purest snow! "Vee-Vee's jacket used to be whiter on Saturday than on any other day, because it was washed on that morning of the week, and to make his personal beauties all the more noticeable he always on that day and on the next wore a ribbon of blue or crimson. "Now, mischievous Nero, if he got a chance, was sure to tumble Vee-Vee into a mud-hole just after he was nearly dried and lovely. I am sure he did it out of pure fun, for when Vee-Vee came downstairs to go out on these occasions, Nero would meet him, and eye him all over, and walk round him, and snuff him, and smell at him in the most provoking teasing manner possible. "`Oh! aren't you proud!' he would seem to say, and `aren't you white and clean and nice, and doesn't that bit of blue ribbon, suit you! What do you think of yourself, eh? My master can't wash me white, but I can wash you black, only wait till we go out and come to a nice mud-heap, and see if I don't change the colour of your jacket for you.' "Vee-Vee, though only a Pomeranian, learned a great many of Nero's tricks; this proves that one dog can teach another. He used to swim along with Nero, although when first going into the water he sometimes lost confidence, and got on to his big friend's shoulders, at which Nero used to seem vastly amused. He would look up at me with a sparkle of genuine mirth in his eye as much as to say-- "`Only look, master, at this little fool of a Vee-Vee perched upon my shoulder, like a fantail pigeon on top of a hen-house. But I don't mind his weight, not in the slightest.' "Vee-Vee used to fetch and carry as well as Nero, in his own quiet little way. One day I dropped my purse in the street, and was well-nigh home before I missed it. You may judge of my joy when on looking round I found Vee-Vee coming walking along with the purse in his mouth, looking as solemn as a little judge. Vee-Vee, I may tell you, was only about two weeks old when I first had him; he was too young to wean, and the trouble of spoon-feeding was very great. In my dilemma, a favourite cat of mine came to my assistance. She had recently lost her kittens, and took to suckling young Vee-Vee as naturally as if she had been his mother." "How strange," said Ida, "for a cat to suckle a puppy." "Cats, Ida," I replied, "have many curious fancies. A book [Note 1] that I wrote some little time since gives many very strange illustrations of the queer ways of these animals. Cats have been known to suckle the young of rats, and even of hedgehogs, and to bring in chickens and ducklings, and brood over them. This only proves, I think, that it is cruel to take a cat's kittens away from her all at once." "Yes, it is," Ida said, thoughtfully; "and yet it seems almost more cruel to permit her to rear a large number of kittens that you cannot afterwards find homes for." "A very sensible remark, birdie. Well, to return to our mutual friend Nero: about the same time that he had as his bosom companion the little dog Vee-Vee, he contracted a strange and inexplicable affection for another tiny dog that lived quite a mile and a half away, and for a time she was altogether the favourite. The most curious part of the affair was this: Nero's new favourite was only about six or seven inches in height, and so small that it could easily have been put into a gentleman's hat, and the hat put on the gentleman's head without much inconvenience to either the gentleman or the dog. "When stationed at Sheerness, we lived on board H.M.S. P--, the flagship there. On board were several other dogs. The captain of marines had one, for example, a large, flat-coated, black, saucy retriever, that rejoiced in the name of `Daidles'; the commander had two, a large fox-terrier, and a curly-coated retriever called `Sambo.' All were wardroom dogs--that is, all belonged to the officers' mess-room--and lived there day and night, for there were no fine carpets to spoil, only a well-scoured deck, and no ladies to object. Upon the whole, it must be allowed that there was very little disagreement indeed among the mess dogs. The fox-terrier was permitted to exist by the other three large animals, and sometimes he was severely chastised by one of the retrievers, only he could take his own part well enough. With the commander's curly retriever, Nero cemented a friendship, which he kept up until we left the ship, and many a romp they had together on deck, and many a delightful cruise on shore. But Daidles, the marine Officer's dog, was a veritable snarley-yow; he therefore was treated by Nero to a sound thrashing once every month, as regularly as the new moon. It is but just to Nero to say that Daidles always commenced those rows by challenging Nero to mortal combat. Wild, cruel fights they used to be, and much blood used to be spilled ere we could part them. As an instance of memory in the dog, I may mention that two years after Nero and I left the ship, we met Captain L--and his dog Daidles by chance in Chatham one day. Nero knew Daidles, and Daidles knew Nero, long before the captain and I were near enough to shake hands. "`Hullo!' cried Nero; `here we are again.' "`Yes,' cried Daidles; `let us have another fight for auld lang syne.' "And they did, and tore each other fearfully. "Nero's life on board this particular ship was a very happy one, for everybody loved him, from the captain downwards to the little loblolly boy who washed the bottles, spread the plasters, and made the poultices. "The blue-jackets all loved Nero; but he was more particularly the pet of the marine mess. This may be accounted for from the fact that my servant was a marine. "But every day when the bugle called the red-coats to dinner-- "`That calls me,' Master Nero would say; then off he would trot. "His plan was to go from one table to another, and it would be superfluous to say that he never went short. "Nero had one very particular friend on board--dear old chief engineer C--. Now my cabin was a dark and dismal one down in the cockpit, I being then only junior surgeon; the engineer's was on the main deck, and had a beautiful port. As Mr C--was a married man, he slept on shore; therefore he kindly gave up his cabin to me--no, not to _me_, as he plainly gave me to understand, but to _Nero_. "Nero liked his comforts, and it was C--'s delight of a morning after breakfast to make Nero jump on top of my cot, and put his head on my pillow. Then C--would cover him over with a rug, and the dog would give a great sigh of satisfaction and go off to sleep, and all the din and all the row of a thousand men at work and drill, could not waken Nero until he had his nap out. "On Sunday morning the captain went round all the decks of the ship inspecting them--the mess places, and the men's kits and cooking utensils, everything, in fact, about the ship was examined on this morning. He was followed by the commander, the chief surgeon, and by Nero. "The inspection over, the boats were called away for church on shore. Having landed, the men formed into marching order, band first, then the officers, and next the blue-jackets. Nero's place was in front of the band, and from the gay and jaunty way he stepped out, you might have imagined that he considered himself captain of all these men. "Sometimes a death took place, and the march to the churchyard was a very solemn and imposing spectacle. The very dog seemed to feel the solemnity of the occasion; and I have known him march in front all the way with lowered head and tail, as if he really felt that one of his poor messmates was like Tom Bowling, `a sheer hulk,' and that he would never, never see him again. You remember the beautiful old song, Ida, and its grand, ringing old tune-- "`Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he'll hear the billows howling, For death has broached him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was pure and soft; Faithful below he did his duty, And now he has gone aloft.' "It was on board this ship that Nero first learned that graceful inclination of the body we call making a bow, and which Aileen Aroon there has seen fit to copy. "You see, on board a man-o'-war, Ida, whenever an officer comes on the quarter-deck, he lifts his hat, not to any one, remember, but out of respect to Her Majesty the Queen's ship. The sailors taught Nero to make a bow as soon as he came upstairs or up the ship's side, and it soon came natural to him, so that he really was quite as respectful to Her Majesty as any officer or man on board. "My old favourite, Tyro, was so fond of music that whenever I took up the violin, he used to come and throw himself down at my feet. I do not think Nero was ever fond of music, and I hardly know the reason why he tolerated the band playing on the quarter-deck, for whenever on shore if he happened to see and hear a brass band (a German itinerant one, I mean), he flew straight at them, and never failed to scatter them in all directions. I am afraid I rather encouraged him in this habit of his; it was amusing and it made the people laugh. It did not make the German fellows laugh, however--at least, not the man with the big bassoon--for Nero always singled him out, probably because he was making more row than the others. A gentleman said one day that Nero ought to be bought by the people of Margate, and kept as public property to keep the streets clear of the German band element. "But Nero never attempted to disperse the ship's band--he seemed rather to like it. I remember once walking in a city up North, some years after Nero left the service, and meeting a band of volunteers. "`Oh,' thought Nero, `this does put me in mind of old times.' "I do not know for certain that this was really what the dog thought, but I am quite sure about what he did, and that was, to put himself at the head of that volunteer regiment and march in front of it. As no coaxing of mine could get the dog away, I was obliged to fall in too, and we had quite a mile of a march, which I really had not expected, and did not care for. "Nero's partiality for marines was very great; but here is a curious circumstance: the dog knows the difference between a marine and a soldier in the street, for even a year after he left garrison, if he saw a red-jacket in the street, he would rush up to its owner. If a soldier, he merely sniffed him and ran on; if a marine, he not only sniffed him, but jumped about him and exhibited great joy, and perhaps ended by taking the man's cap in a friendly kind of a way, and just for auld lang syne. "Nero's life on board ship would have been one of unalloyed happiness, except for those dreadful guns. The dog was not afraid of an ordinary fowling-piece, but a cannon was another concern, and as we were very often at general quarters, or saluting other ships, Nero had more than enough of big guns. Terrible things he must have thought them--things that went off when a man pulled a string, that went off with fire and smoke, and a roar louder than any thunder; things that shook the ship and smashed the crockery, and brought his master's good old fiddle tumbling down to the deck--terrible things indeed. Even on days when there was no saluting or firing, there was always that eight o'clock gun. "As soon as the quartermaster entered the wardroom, a few seconds before eight in the evening, and reported the hour to the commander, poor Nero took refuge under the sofa. "He knew the man's knock. "`Eight o'clock, sir, please,' the man would say. "`Make it so,' the commander would reply, which meant, `Fire the gun.' "This was enough for Nero; he was in hiding a full minute before they could `make it so.'" "Is that the reason," asked Ida, "why you sometimes say eight o'clock to him when you want him to go and lie down?" "Yes, birdie," I replied. "He does not forget it, and never will as long as he lives. If you look at him even now, you will see a kind of terror in his eye, for he knows what we are talking about, and he is not quite sure that even here in this peaceful pine wood some one might not fire a big gun and make it eight o'clock." "No, no, no," cried Ida, throwing her arms around the dog, "don't be afraid, dear old Nero. It shan't be eight o'clock. It will never, never be eight o'clock any more, dearest doggie." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. "Friends in Fur." Published by Messrs. Dean and Son, Fleet Street, London. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. THE STORY OF AILEEN'S HUSBAND, NERO--CONTINUED. "His locked and lettered braw brass collar Showed him the gentleman and scholar." "You promised," said my little companion the very next evening, "to resume the thread of Nero's narrative." "Very prettily put, birdie," I said; "resume the thread of Nero's narrative. Did I actually make use of those words? Very well, I will, though I fear you will think the story a little dull, and probably the story-teller somewhat prosy. "Do you know, then, Ida, that I am quite convinced that Providence gave mankind the dog to be a real companion to him, and I believe that this is the reason why a dog is so very, very faithful, so long-suffering under trial, so patient when in pain, and so altogether good and kind. When I look at poor old Nero, as he lies beside you there, half asleep, yet listening to every word we say, my thoughts revert to many a bygone scene in which he and I were the principal actors. And many a time, Ida, when in grief and sorrow, I have felt, rightly or wrongly, that I had not a friend in the world but himself. "Well, dear, I had learned to love Nero, and love him well, when I received an appointment to join the flagship at Sheerness. The fact is I had been a whole year on sick leave, and Nero and I had been travelling for the sake of my health. There was hardly a town in England, Ireland, or Scotland we had not visited, and I always managed it so that the dog should occupy the same room as myself. By the end of a twelvemonth, Nero had got to be quite an old and quite a wise traveller. His special duty was to see after the luggage--in other words, Master Nero was baggage-master. When I left a hotel, my traps were generally taken in a hand-cart or trolly. Close beside the man all the way to the station walked my faithful friend, he himself in all probability carrying a carpet bag, and looking the very quintessence of seriousness and dignified importance. As soon as he saw the porter place the luggage in the van, then back he would come to me, with many a joyous bark and bound, quite regardless of the fact that he sometimes ran against a passenger, and sent him sprawling on the platform. "When we arrived at our journey's end, Nero used to be at the luggage van before me. And here is something worth recording: as we usually came out at a door on the opposite side of the train to that at which we had entered, I was apt for a moment or two to forget the position of the luggage van. Nero never made a mistake, so I daresay his scent assisted him. As soon as the luggage was put on the trolly, and the man started with it, the dog went with him, but as the man often went a long way ahead of me, Nero was naturally afraid of losing sight of me; therefore if the porter attempted to turn a corner the dog invariably barked, not angrily, but determinedly, till he stopped. As soon as I came up, then the procession went on again, till we came to another corner, when the man had to stop once more. I remember he pulled a man down, because he would not stop, but he did not otherwise hurt him at all. "In the train, he either travelled in the same carriage with myself, or in cases where the guard objected to this, I travelled in the van with the dog, so we were not separated. "If a man is travelling much by train or by steamboat, he need never feel lonely if he has as splendid a dog as the Champion Theodore Nero with him; for the dog makes his master acquaintances. "When Nero was with me, I could hardly stand for a moment at a street corner or to look in at a shop window without attracting a small crowd. I was never half an hour on the deck of a steamer without some one coming up and saying-- "`Excuse me, sir, but what a noble-looking dog you have! What breed is he? Pure Newfoundland, doubtless.' "This would in all probability lead to conversation, and many an acquaintance I have thus formed, which have ripened into friendships that last till this day. "Well, Ida, when I received my appointment to the flagship, my very first thoughts were about my friend the dog, and with a sad feeling of sinking at my heart, I asked myself the question--`Will Nero be permitted to live on board?' To part with the dear fellow would have been a grief I could not bear to contemplate. "An answer to the question, however, could not be obtained until I joined my ship, that was certain; so I started. "It was in the gloaming of a blustering day in early spring that the train in which we travelled, slowly, and after much unseemly delay, rolled rattling into the little station at Sheerness, and after a shoulder-to-shoulder struggle between half a dozen boatmen, who wished to take me, bag and baggage, off somewhere, and the same number of cabbies, who wished to carry me anywhere else, I was lucky enough to get seated in a musty conveyance that smelt like the aroma of wet collie-dogs and stale tobacco, with a slight suspicion of bad beer. Against the windows of this rattletrap beat the cold rain, and the mud flew from the wheels as from a wet swab. Lights were springing up here and there in the street under the busy fingers of a lamp-lighter, who might have been mistaken for a member of the monkey tribe, so nimbly did he glide up and down his skeleton ladder, and hurry along at his task. The wind, too, was doing all in its power to render his work abortive, and the gas-lights burned blue under the blast. "We were glad when we reached the hotel, but I was gladder still when, on making some inquiries about the ship I was about to join, I was told that the commander was extremely fond of dogs, and that he had two of his own. "I slept more soundly after that. "Next day, leaving my friend carefully under lock and key in charge of the worthy proprietor of the Fountain Hotel, I got into uniform, and having hired a shore boat, went off to my ship to report myself. To my joy I found Commander C--to be as kind and jovial a sailor as any one could wish to see and talk to. I was not long before I broached the subject nearest to my heart. "`Objection to your dog on board?' he said, laughing. `Bring him, by all means; he won't kill mine, though, I hope.' "`That I'm sure he won't,' I replied, feeling as happy as if I had just come into a fortune. "I went on shore with a light heart, and hugged the dog. "`We're not going to be parted, dear old boy,' I said. `You are going on board with me to-morrow.' "The evening before my heart was as gloomy as the weather; to-day the sun shone, and my heart was as bright as the sky was blue. Nero and I set out after luncheon to have a look at the town. "Sheerness on two sides is bounded by the dockyard, which divides it from the sea. Indeed, the dockyard occupies the most comfortable corner, and seems to say to the town, `Stand aside; you're nobody.' The principal thoroughfare of Sheerness has on one side of it the high, bleak boundary wall, while on the other stands as ragged-looking a line of houses as one could well imagine, putting one in mind of a regiment of militia newly embodied and minus uniform. As you journey from the station, everything reminds you that you are in a naval seaport of the lowest class. Lazy watermen by the dozen loll about the pier-head with their arms, to say nothing of their hands, buried deeply in their breeches-pockets, while every male you meet is either soldier or sailor, dockyard's man or solemn-looking policeman. Every shop that isn't a beer-house, is either a general dealer's, where you can purchase anything nautical, from a sail-needle to sea boots, or an eating house, in the windows of which are temptingly exposed joints of suspiciously red corned-beef, soapy-looking mutton and uninviting pork, and where you are invited to partake of tea and shrimps for ninepence. "So on the whole the town of Sheerness itself is by no means a very inviting one, nor a very savoury one either. "But away out beyond the dockyard and over the moat, and Sheerness brightens up a little, and spreads out both to left and right, and you find terraces with trim little gardens and green-painted palings, while instead of the odour of tar and cheese and animal decay, you can breathe the fresh, pure air from over the ocean, and see the green waves come tumbling in and break in soft music on the snowy shingle. "Here live the benedicts of the flagship. At half-past seven of a fine summer morning you may see them, hurried and hungry, trotting along towards the dockyard, looking as if another hour's sleep would not have come amiss to them. But once they get on board their ships, how magic-like will be the disappearance of the plump soles, the curried lobster, the corned-beef, and the remains of last night's pigeon-pie, while the messman can hardly help looking anxious, and the servants run each other down in their hurry to supply the tea and toast! "Of the country immediately around this town of Sheerness, the principal features are open ditches, slimy and green, evolving an effluvium that keeps the very bees at bay, encircling low flat fields and marshy moors, affording subsistence only to crazy-looking sheep and water rats. The people of Sheerness eat the sheep; I have not been advised as to their eating the rats. "But, and if you are young, and your muscles are well developed, and your tendo Achillis wiry and strong, then when the summer is in its prime and the sun is brightly shining, shall you leave the odoriferous town and its aguish surroundings, and like `Jack of the bean-stalk,' climb up into a comparative fairyland. At the top of the hill stands the little village of Minster, its romantic old church and ivied tower begirt with the graves of generations long since passed and gone, the very tombstones of which are mouldering to dust. The view from here well repays the labour of climbing the bean-stalk. But leave it behind and journey seaward over the rolling tableland. Rural hamlets; pretty villages; tree-lined lanes and clovery fields with grazing kine--you shall scarcely be tired of such quiet and peaceful scenery when you arrive at the edge of the clayey cliff, with the waves breaking among the boulders on the beach far beneath you, and the sea spreading out towards the horizon a vast plain of rippling green, crowded with ships from every land and clime. Heigho! won't you be sorry to descend your bean-stalk and re-enter Sheerness once again? "I do not think, Ida, that ship dogs' lives are as a rule very happy ones. They get far too little exercise and far too much to eat, so they grow both fat and lazy. But in this particular flagship neither I nor my friend Nero had very much to grumble about. The commander was as good as he looked, and there was not an officer in the ship, nor a man either, that had not a kind word for the dog. "The great event of the day, as far as Nero and I were concerned, was going on shore in the afternoon for a walk, and a dip in the sea when the weather was warm. Whether the weather was warm or not, Nero always had his bath, for the distance to the shore being hardly half a mile, no sooner had the boat left the vessel's side than there were cries from some of us officers of the vessel-- "`Hie over, you dogs, hie over, boys.' "The first to spring into the sea would be Nero, next went his friend Sambo, and afterwards doggie Daidles. The three black heads in the water put one in mind of seals. Although the retrievers managed to keep well up for some time, gradually the Newfoundland forged ahead, and he was in long before the others, and standing very anxiously gazing seawards to notice how Sambo was getting on; for the currents run fearfully strong there. Daidles always got in second. Of Daidles Nero took not the slightest notice; even had he been drowning he would have made no attempt to save him; but no sooner did Sambo approach the stone steps than with a cry of fond anxiety, the noble Newfoundland used to rush downwards, seize Sambo gently by the neck, and help him out. "I was coming from the shore one day, when Sambo fell from a port into the sea. Nero at once leapt into the water, and swimming up to his friend, attempted to seize him. The conversation between them seemed to be something like the following-- "_Nero_: `You're drowning, aren't you? Let me hold you up.' "_Sambo_: `Nonsense, Nero, let go my neck; I could keep afloat as long as yourself.' "_Nero_: `Very well, here goes then; but I _must_ pick something up.' "So saying, Nero swam after a piece of newspaper, seized that, and swam to the ladder with it; some of the men lent him a helping hand, and up he went. "The flagship was a tall old line of battle ship; on the starboard side was a broad ladder, on the port merely a ladder of ropes. On stormy days, with a heavy sea on, the starboard ladder probably could not be used, and so the dog had to be lowered into the boat and hoisted up therefrom with a long rope. To make matters more simple and easy for him, one of the men made the dog a broad belt of canvas. To this corset the end of the rope was attached, and away went Nero up or down as the case happened to be. "Although as gentle by nature as a lamb, Nero would never stand much impudence from another dog without resenting it. When passing through the dockyard one day, we met an immense Saint Bernard, who strutted up to Nero, and at once addressed him in what appeared to me the following strain-- "`Hullo! Got on shore, have you? I daresay you think yourself a pretty fellow now? But you're not a bit bigger than I am, and not so handsome. I've a good mind to bite you. Yah! you're only a surgeon's dog, and my master is captain of the dockyard. Yah!' "`Don't growl at me,' replied Nero; `my master is every bit as good as yours, and a vast deal better, _so_ don't raise your hair, else I may lose my temper.' "`Yah! yah!' growled the Saint Bernard. "`Come on, Nero,' I cried; `don't get angry, old boy.' "`Half a minute, master,' replied Nero; `here is a gentleman that wants to be brought to his bearings.' "Next moment those two dogs were at it. It was an ugly fight, and some blood was spilled on both sides, but at last Nero was triumphant. He hauled the Saint Bernard under a gun carriage and punished him severely, I being thus powerless to do anything. "Then Nero came out and shook himself, while the other dog lay beaten and cowed. "`I don't think,' said Nero to me, `that he will boast about his master again in a hurry.' "Generosity is a part of the Newfoundland dog's nature. At my father's village in the far north, called Inverurie, there used to be a large black half-bred dog, that until Nero made an appearance lorded it over all the other dogs in the town. This animal was a bully, and therefore a coward. He had killed more than one dog. "The very first day that he saw Nero he must needs rush out and attack him. He found himself on his back on the pavement in a few moments. Then came the curious part of the intercourse. Instead of worrying him, Nero simply held him down, and lay quietly on top of him for more than two minutes, during which time he appeared to reason with the cur, who was completely cowed. "`I'll let you up presently,' Nero said; `but you must promise not to attempt to attack me again.' "`I promise,' said the other dog. "Then, much to the amusement of the little crowd that had collected, Nero very slowly raised himself and walked away. Behold! no sooner had he turned his back than his prostrate foe sprang up and bit him viciously in the leg. "It was no wonder Nero now lost his temper, or that he shook that black dog as a servant-maid shakes a hearthrug. "_I_ tried to intervene to save the poor mongrel, but was kept back by the mob. "`Let him have it, sir,' cried one man; `he killed S--'s dog.' "`Yes, let him have it,' cried another; `he kills dogs and he kills sheep as well.' "To his honour be it said, I never saw Nero provoke a fight, but when set upon by a cur he always punished his foe. In two instances he tried to drown his antagonist. A dog at Sheerness attacked him on the beach one day. Nero punished him well, but seeing me coming to the dog's rescue, he dragged the dog into the sea and lay on him there. I had to wade in and pull Master Nero off by the tail, else the other dog would assuredly have been drowned. I am referring to a large red retriever, lame in one leg, that belonged to the artillery. He had been accidentally blown from a gun and set fire to. That was the cause of his lameness. "There was a large Newfoundland used to be on the _Great Eastern_, whose name was `Sailor.' Before Nero's appearance at Sheerness, he was looked upon as the finest specimen of that kind of dog ever seen. He had to lower his flag to Nero, however. "They met one morning on the beach at the oyster beds. "`Hullo!' said Sailor, `you are the dog that everybody is making such a fuss over. You're Nero, aren't you?' "`My name is Theodore Nero,' said my friend, bristling up at the saucy looks of the stranger. "`And my name is Sailor, at your service,' said the other, `and I belong to the largest ship in the world. And I don't think much of you. Yah!' "`Good-morning,' said Nero. "`Not so fast,' cried the other; `you've got to fight first, but I daresay you're afraid. Eh! Yah!' "`Am I?' said Nero. `We'll see who is afraid.' "Next moment the oyster beach was a battle-field. But some sailors coming along, we managed to pull the dogs asunder by the tails. Whenever Sailor saw Nero after this he took to his heels and ran away. But a good dog was Sailor for all that, and a very clever water-dog. He used to jump from the top of the paddle-box of the great ship into the sea--a height, I believe, of about seventy feet. "Nero's prowess as a water-dog was well known in Sheerness, and wonderful stories are told about him, even to this day; not all of which are true, any more than the tales of the knights of old are. But some of our marines managed to turn his swimming powers to good account, as the following will testify. "On days when it was impossible for me to get on shore, I used to send my servant with the dog for a swim and a run. When near the dockyard steps, a great log of wood used to be pitched out of the boat, and Nero sent after it. Anything Nero fetched out of the water he considered his own or his master's property, which it would be dangerous for any one to meddle with. Well, as soon as he had landed with the log, Nero used to march up the steps, the water flowing behind from his splendid coat, up the steps and through the dockyard; the policemen only stood by marvelling to see a dog carrying such an immense great log of wood. If my servant carried a basket, that would be searched for contraband goods, rum or tobacco. "Then my servant would pass on, smiling in his own sleeve as the saying is, for no one ever dreamed of searching the dog." "Searching the dog!" said Ida, with wondering eyes. "Yes, dear, the dog was a smuggler, though he did not know it. For that log of wood was a hollow one, and stuffed with tobacco. I did not know of this, of course." "How wicked!" said Ida. "Why, Nero, you've been a regular pirate of the boundless ocean." CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. THE STORY OF AILEEN'S HUSBAND, NERO--CONTINUED. "Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And he constantly loved me, although I was poor." Campbell. "Do I think that Master Nero knows we are talking about him? Yes, birdie, of that I am quite convinced. Just look at the cunning old rogue lying there pretending to be asleep, but with his ears well forward, and one eye half-open. And Aileen, too, knows there is a bit of biography going on, and that it is all about her well-beloved lord and master. "But to tell you one-tenth part of all that had happened to Nero, or to me and Nero together, would take far more time than I can spare, dear Ida. I could give you anecdote after anecdote about his bravery, his strength, his nobility of mind, and his wonderful sagacity; but these would not make you love him more than you do. "And you never can love the faithful fellow half so much as I do. I have been blamed for loving him far too well, and reminded that he is only a dog. "Only a dog! How much I hate the phrase; and sinful though I know it to be, I can hardly help despising those who make use of it. But of those who do use the expression, there are few, I really believe, who would wonder at me loving that noble fellow so well did they know the sincere friend he has been many a time and oft to me. "He saved my life--worthless though it may be--he saved the life of another. Tell you the story? It is not a story, but two stories; and though both redound to the extreme wisdom and sagacity and love of the dog, both are far too sad for you to listen to. Some day I may tell them. Perhaps--" There was a pause of some minutes here; Ida, who was lying beside the dog, had thrown her arms around his neck, and was fondly hugging him. Aileen came directly to me, sighed as usual, and put her head on my shoulder. "Love begets love, Ida, and I think it was more than anything else the dog's extreme affection for me, shown in a thousand little ways, that caused me to take such a strong abiding affection for him. He knew--as he does now--everything I said, and was always willing to forestall my wishes, and do everything in the world to please me. "When ill one time, during some of our wanderings, and laid up in an out-of-the-way part of the country among strange people, it was a sad anxiety for me to have to tell the dog he must go out by himself and take his necessary ramble, as I was far too ill to leave my bed. "The poor animal understood me. "`Good-bye, master,' he seemed to say, as he licked my face; `I know you are ill, but I won't stop out long.' "He was back again in a quarter of an hour, and the same thing occurred every time he was sent by himself; he never stopped more than fifteen minutes. "Would a human friend have been as careful? Do you not think that there were temptations to be resisted even during that short ramble of his-- things he would have liked to have stopped to look at, things he would have liked to have chased? Many a dog, I have no doubt, invited him to stop and play, but the dog's answer must have been, `Nay, nay, not to-day; I have a poor sick master in bed, and I know not what might happen to him in this strange place, and among so many strange people. I must hurry and get home.' "When he did return, he did so as joyfully and made as much fuss over me as if he had been away for a week. "`I didn't stop long, _did_ I, master?' he would always say, when he returned. "But wasn't he a happy dog when he got me up and out again? Weak enough I was at first, but he never went far away from me, just trotted on and looked about encouragingly and waited. I allowed him to take me where he chose, and I have reason to believe he led me on his own round, the round he had taken all by himself every day for weeks before that. "`Nero, old boy,' I said to him one day, some time after this sickness, `come here.' "The dog got up from his corner, and laid his saucy head on my lap. "`I'm all attention, master,' he said, talking with his bonnie brown eyes. "`I don't believe there are two better Newfoundlands in England than yourself, Nero.' "`I don't believe there is one,' said Nero. "`Don't be saucy,' I said. "`Didn't I take a cup at the Crystal Palace?' "`Yes, but it was only second prize, old boy.' "`True, master, but nearly every one said it ought to have been first. I'm only two years old and little over, and isn't a second prize at a Crystal Palace show a great honour for a youngster like myself?' "`True, Nero, true; and now I've something to propose.' "`To which,' said the dog, `I am willing to listen.' "`Well,' I said, `there are dozens of dog-shows about to take place all over the country. I want a change: suppose we go round. Suppose we constitute ourselves show folk. Eh?' "`Capital.' "`And you'll win lots of prize-money, Nero.' "`And you'll spend it, master. Capital again.' "`There won't be much capital left, I expect, doggie, by the time we get back; but we'll see a bit of England, at all events.' "So we agreed to start, and so sure of winning with the dog was I that I bought that splendid red patent leather collar that you, Ida, sometimes wear for a waist-belt. The silver clasps on it were empty then, but each time the dog won a prize, the name of the town was engraved on one of the clasps." "They are pretty well filled up now," said Ida. "Yes, the dog won nineteen first prizes and cups in little over three months, which was very fair for those days. He was then dubbed champion. There was not a Newfoundland dog from Glasgow to Neath that would have cared to have met Nero in the show ring. "He used to enter the arena, too, with such humour and dash, with his grand black coat floating around him, and the sun glittering on it like moonbeams on a midnight sea. That was how Nero entered the judging ring; he never slunk in, as did some dogs. He just as often as not had a stick in his mouth, and if he hadn't, he very soon possessed himself of one. "`Yes, look at me all over,' he would say to the judges; `there is no picking a fault in me, nor in my master either for that matter. I'm going to win, that's what I'm here for.' "But when I was presented with the prize card by the judge, Nero never failed to make him a very pretty bow. "The only misfortune that ever befell the poor fellow was at Edinburgh dog-show. "On the morning of the second day--it was a three or four day exhibition--I received a warning letter, written in a female hand, telling me that those who were jealous of the dog's honours and winnings were going to poison him. "I treated the matter as a joke. I could not believe the world contained a villain vile enough to do a splendid animal like that to death, and so cruel a death, for the sake of pique and jealousy. But I had yet to learn what the world was. "The dog was taken to the show, and chained up as usual at his place on the bench. Alas! when I went to take him home for the night I found his head down, and hardly able to move. I got him away, and sat up with him all night administering restoratives. "He was able to drink a little milk in the morning, and to save his prize-money I took him back, but had him carefully watched and tended all the remaining time that the show was open. "We went to Boston, Lincoln, Gainsborongh, and all over Yorkshire and Lancaster and Chester, besides Scotland, and our progress was a triumph to the grand and beautiful dog. Especially was he admired by ladies at shows. Wherever else they might be, there was always a bevy of the fair sex around Nero's cage. During that three months' tour he had more kisses probably than any dog ever had before in the same time. It was the same out of the show as in it--no one passed him by without stopping to admire him. "`Aren't we having a splendid time, master?' the dog said to me one day. "`Splendid,' I replied; `but I think we've done enough, my doggie. I think we had better retire now and go to sea for a spell.' "`Heigho!' the dog seemed to say; `but wherever your home is there mine is too, master.'" "There is a prize card hanging on the wall of the wigwam," said Ida, "on which Nero is said to have won at a life-saving contest at Southsea." "Yes, dear, that was another day's triumph for the poor fellow. He had won on the show bench there as well, and afterwards proved his prowess in the sea in the presence of admiring thousands. "Your honest friend there, Ida, has been all along as fond of human beings and other animals as he is now. In their own country Newfoundlands are used often as sledge dogs, and sometimes as retrievers, but I do not think it is in their nature to take life of any kind, unless insect life, my gentle Ida. They don't like blue-bottles nor wasps, I must confess, but Nero has given many proofs of the kindness of heart he possesses that are really not easily forgotten. "Tell you a few? I'll tell you one or two. The first seems trivial, but there is a certain amount of both pathos and humour about it. Two boys had been playing near the water at Gosport, and for mischiefs sake one had pitched the other's cap into the tide and ran off. The cap was being floated away, and the disconsolate owner was weeping bitterly on the bank, when we came up. Nero, without being told, understood what was wrong in a moment; one glance at the floating cap, another at the boy, then splash! he had sprang into the tide, and in a few minutes had laid the rescued article at the lad's feet; then he took his tongue across his cheek in a rough kind of caressing way. "`There now,' he appeared to say, `don't cry any more.' "Nero ought to have made his exit here, and he would have come off quite the hero; but no, the spirit of mischief entered into him, and he shook himself, sending buckets of water all over the luckless lad, who was almost as wet now as if he had swam in after his cap himself. Then Nero came galloping up to me, laughing all over at the trick he had played the poor boy. "This trick of shaking himself over people was taught him by one of my messmates; and he used to delight to take him along the beach on a summer's day, and put him in the water. When he came out, my friend would march along in front of the dog, till the latter was close to some gay lounger, then turn and say, `Shake yourself, boy.' The _denouement_ may be more easily imagined than described, especially if the lounger happened to be a lady. I'm ashamed of my friend, but love the truth, Ida." "How terribly wicked of Nero to do it!" said Ida. "And yet I saw the dog one day remove a drowning mouse from his water dish, without putting a tooth in it. He placed it on the kitchen floor, and licked it as tenderly over as a cat would her kitten. He looked up anxiously in my face, as much as to say, `Do you think the poor thing can live?' "Hurricane Bob there, his son, does not inherit all his father's finest qualities; he would not scruple to kill mice or rats by the score. In fact, I have reason to believe he rather likes it. His mother was just the same before him; a kindly-hearted dog she was, but as wild as a wolf, and full of fun of the rough-and-tumble kind." "Were you never afraid of losing poor Nero?" "I did lose him one dark winter's night, Ida, in the middle of a large and populous city. Luckily, I had been staying there for some time--two weeks, I think--and there were different shops in different parts of the city where I dealt, and other places where I called to rest or read. The dog was always in the habit of accompanying me to the shops, to bring home the purchases, so he knew them all. The very day on which I lost the dog I had changed my apartments to another quarter of the city. "In the evening, while walking along a street, with Nero some distance behind me, it suddenly occurred to me to run into a shop and purchase a magazine I saw in the window. I never thought of calling the dog. I fancied he would see me entering the book-shop and follow, but he didn't; he missed me, and thinking I must be on ahead, rushed wildly away up the street into the darkness and rain, and I saw him no more that night. "Only those who have lost a favourite dog under such circumstances can fully appreciate the extent of my grief and misery. I went home at long last to my lonely lodgings. How dingy and dreadful they seemed without poor Nero's honest form on the hearthrug! Where could he be, what would become of him, my only friend, my gentle, loving, noble dog, the only creature that cared for me? You may be sure I did not sleep, I never even undressed, but sat all night in my chair, sleeping towards morning, and dreaming uneasy dreams, in which the dog was always first figure. "I was out and on my way to the police offices ere it was light. The weather had changed, frost had come, and snow had fallen. "Several large black dogs had been found during the night; I went to see them all. Alas! none was Nero. So after getting bills printed, and arranging to have them posted, I returned disheartened to my lodgings. But when the door opened, something as big as a bear flew out, flew at me, and fairly rolled me down among the snow. "`No gentler caress, master,' said Nero, for it was he, `would express the joy of the occasion.' "Poor fellow, I found out that day that he had been at every one of the places at which I usually called; I daresay he had gone back to our old apartments too, and had of course failed to find me there. As a last resort he turned up at the house of an old soldier with whom I had had many a pleasant confab. This was about eleven o'clock; it was eight when he was lost. Not finding me here, he would have left again, and perhaps found his way to our new lodgings; but the old soldier, seeing that something must be amiss, took him in, kept him all night, found my rooms in the morning, and fetched him home. You may guess whether I thanked the old man or not. "When Dolls (_see_ page 76) came to me first, he was in great grief for the loss of his dear master [Note 1]. Nero seemed to know it, and though he seldom made much of a fuss over dogs of this breed, he took Dolls under his protection; indeed, he hardly knew how kind to be to him. "I ought to mention that Mortimer Collins and Nero were very great friends indeed, for the poet loved all things in nature good and true. "There was one little pet that Nero had long before you knew him, Ida. His name was Pearl, a splendid Pomeranian. Perhaps Pearl reminded Nero very much of his old favourite, Vee-vee. At all events he took to him, used to share his bed and board with him, and protected him from the attacks of strange dogs when out. Pearl was fat, and couldn't jump well. I remember our coming to a fence one day about a foot and a half high. The other dogs all went bounding over, but Pearl was left to whine and weep at the other side. Nero went straight back, bounded over and re-bounded over, as if showing Pearl how easy it was. But Pearl's heart failed, seeing which honest Nero fairly lifted him over by the back of the neck. "I was going to give a dog called `Pandoo' chastisement once. Pandoo was a young Newfoundland, and a great pet of Nero, whose son he was. I got the cane, and was about to raise it, when Nero sprang up and snatched it from my hand, and ran off with it. It was done in a frolicsome manner, and with a deal of romping and jumping. At the same time, I could see he really meant to save the young delinquent; so I made a virtue of necessity, and pardoned Pandoo. "But Nero's love for other animals, and his kindness for all creatures less and weaker than himself, should surely teach our poor humanity a lesson. You would think, to see him looking pityingly sometimes at a creature in pain, that he was saying with the poet-- "`Poor uncomplaining brute, Its wrongs are innocent at least, And all its sorrows mute.' "One day, at the ferry at Hotwells, Clifton, a little black-and-tan terrier took the water after a boat and attempted to cross, but the tide ran strong, and ere it reached the centre it was being carried rapidly down stream. On the opposite bank stood Nero, eagerly watching the little one's struggles, and when he saw they were unsuccessful, with one impatient bark--which seemed to say, `Bear up, I'm coming'--he dashed into the water, and ploughed the little terrier all the way over with his broad chest, to the great amusement of an admiring crowd. "On another occasion some boys near Manchester were sending a Dandie-Dinmont into a pond after a poor duck; the Dandie had almost succeeded in laying hold of the duck, when Nero sprang into the water, and brought out, not the duck, but the Dandie by the back of the neck. "I saw one day a terrier fly at him and bite him viciously behind. He turned and snapped it, just once. Once was enough. The little dog sat down on the pavement and howled piteously. Nero, who had gone on, must then turn and look back, and then _go_ back _and lick the place he had bitten_. "`I really didn't intend to hurt you so much,' he seemed to say; `but you did provoke me, you know. There! there! don't cry.'" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Now then, Ida, birdie, let us have one good scamper through the pine wood and meadow, and then hie for home. Come on, dogs; where are you all? Aileen, Nero, Bob, Gipsy, Eily, Broom, Gael, Coronach? Hurrah! There's a row! There's music! That squirrel, Ida, who has been cocking up there on the oak, listening to all we've been saying, thinks he'd better be off. There isn't a bird in the wood that hasn't ceased its song, and there isn't a rabbit that hasn't gone scurrying into its hole, and I believe the deer have all jumped clean out of the forest; the hare thinks he will be safer far by the river's brink; and the sly, wily old weasel has come to the conclusion that he can wait for his dinner till the dogs go home. The only animal that doesn't run away is the field-mouse. He means to draw himself up under a burdock leaf and wait patiently till the hairy hurricane sweeps onward past him. Then he'll creep out and go nibbling round as usual. Come." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. The poet Mortimer Collins. He came into my possession shortly after his death. CHAPTER THIRTY. IDA'S ILLNESS--MERCY TO THE DUMB ANIMALS. "Then craving leave, he spake Of life, which all can take but none can give; Life, which all creatures love and strive to keep, Wonderful, dear, and pleasant unto each, Even to the meanest; yea, a boon to all Where pity is, for pity makes the world Soft to the weak and noble to the strong." E. Arnold's "Light of Asia." It was sadly changed times with all of us when Ida fell ill. Her illness was a very severe one, and for many weeks she literally hovered 'twixt death and life. Her spirit seemed like some beautiful bird of migration, that meditates quitting these cold intemperate shores and flying away to sunnier climes, but yet is loath to leave old associations and everything dear to it. There was little done during these weeks, save attending to Ida's comforts, little thought about save the child. Even the dogs missed their playmate. The terriers went away to the woods every day by themselves. Eily, the collie, being told that she must make no noise, refrained from barking even at the butcher, or jumping up and shaking the baker by his basket, as had been her wont. Poor Aileen Aroon went about with her great head lower than usual, and with a very apologetic look about her, a look that, beginning in her face, seemed to extend all the way to the point of her tail, which she wagged in quite a doleful manner. Nero and she took turn and turn about at keeping watch outside Ida's room door. Ida's favourite cat seldom left her little mistress's bedside, and indeed she was as often in the bed as out of it. It was winter--a green winter. Too green, Frank said, to be healthy; and the dear old man used to pray to see the snow come. "A bit of a frost would fetch her round," he said. "I'd give ten years of my life, if it is worth as much, to see the snow on the ground." The trees were all leafless and bare, but tiny flowers and things kept growing in under the shrubs in quite an unnatural way. But Frank came in joyfully one evening, crying, "It's coming, Gordon, it's coming; the stars are unspeakably bright; there is a steel-blue glitter in the sky that I like. It's coming; we'll have the snow, and we'll have Ida up again in a month." I had not quite so much faith in the snow myself, but I went out to have a look at the prospect. It was all as Frank had said; the weird gigantic poplars were pointing with leafless fingers up into a sky of frosty blue, up to stars that shone with unusual radiance; and as I walked along, the gravel on the path resounded to my tread. "I'll be right; you'll see, I'll be right," cried Frank, exultant. "I'm an older man than you, Gordon, doctor and all though you be." Frank _was_ right. He was right about the snow, to begin with. It came on next morning; not all at once in great flakes. No, big storms never begin like that, but in grains like millet-seed. This for an hour; then mingling with the millet-seed came little flakes, and finally an infinity of large ones, as big as butterflies' wings. It was a treat to gaze upwards, and watch them coming dancing downwards in a dazzling and interminable maze. It was beautiful! It wanted but one thing at that moment to make me happy. That was the presence of our bright-faced, blue-eyed little pet, standing on the doorstep as she used to, gazing upwards, with apron outstretched to catch the falling flakes. Frank was so overjoyed, he must needs go out and walk about in the snow for nearly an hour. I was in the kitchen engaged in some mysterious invalid culinary operation when Frank came in. He always came in through the kitchen now, instead of the hall, lest he might disturb the child. Frank's face was a treat to look at; it was redder, and appeared rounder than usual, and jollier. "There's three inches of snow on the ground already," he remarked, joyfully. "Mary, bring the besom, my girl, to brush the snow off my boots. That's the style." Strange as it may appear, from that very morning our little patient began to mend, and ere the storm had shown signs of abatement--in less than a week, in fact--Ida was able to sit up in bed. Thin was her face, transparent were her hands; yet I could see signs of improvement; the white of her skin was a more healthful white; her great, round eyes lost the longing, wistful look they had before. I was delighted when she asked me to play to her. She would choose the music, and I must play soft and low and sweet. Her fingers would deftly turn the pages of the book till her eyes rested on something she loved, and she would say, with tears in her eyes-- "Play, oh, play this! I do love it." I managed to find flowers for her even in the snowstorm, for the glass-houses at the Manor of D--are as large as any in the country, and the owner was my friend. I think she liked to look at the hothouse fruit we brought her, better than to eat them. The dogs were now often admitted. Even Gael and Broom were not entirely banished. My wife used to sew in the room, and sometimes read to Ida, and Frank used to come in and sit at the window and twirl his thumbs. His presence seemed to comfort the child. I used to write beside her. "What is that you are writing?" she said one day. "Nothing much," I replied; "only the introduction to a `Penny Reading' I'm going to give against cruelty to animals." "Read it," said Ida; "and to-morrow, mind, you must begin and tell me stories again, and then I'm sure I shall soon get well, because whatever you describe about the fields or the woods, the birds or the flowers I can see, it is just like being among them." I had to do as I was told, so read as follows:-- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Mercy to the Dumb Animals. "`I would give nothing for that man's religion whose cat and dog are not the better for it.'--_Dr Norman McLeod_. "`We are living in an enlightened age.' This is a remark which we hear made almost every day, a remark which contains just one golden grain of truth. Mankind is not yet enlightened in the broad sense of the term. From the night of the past, from the darkness of bygone times, we are but groping our way, as it were, in the morning-glome, towards a great and a glorious light. "It is an age of advancement, and a thousand facts might be adduced in proof of this. I need point to only one: the evident but gradual surcease of needless cruelty to animals. Among all classes of the community far greater love and kindness is now manifested towards the creatures under our charge than ever was in days gone by. We take greater care of them, we think more of their comfort when well, we tend them more gently when sick, and we even take a justifiable pride in their appearance and beauty. All this only shows that there is a spirit of good abroad in the land, a something that tends to elevate, not depress, the soul of man. I see a spark of this goodness even in the breast of the felon who in his prison cell tames a humble mouse, and who weeps when it is cruelly taken from him; in the ignorant costermonger who strokes the sleek sides of his fat donkey, or the rough and unkempt drover-boy, who shares the remains of a meagre meal with his faithful collie. "Religion and kindness to animals go hand in hand, and have done so for ages, for we cannot truly worship the Creator unless we love and admire His works. "The heavenly teaching of the Mosaic law inculcates mercy to the beasts. It is even commanded that the ox and the ass should have rest on one day of the week--namely, the Sabbath; that the ox that treadeth out the corn is not to be muzzled; that the disparity in strength of the ass and ox is to be considered, and that they should not be yoked together in one plough. Even the wild birds of the field and woods are not forgotten, as may be seen by reading the following passage from the Book of Deuteronomy:--`If a bird's nest be before thee in any tree, or on the ground, whether they be young ones or eggs, and the dam sitting upon the young or upon the eggs, thou shalt not take the dam with the young: but thou shalt in any way let the dam go.' "The Jews were commanded to be merciful and kind to an animal, even if it belonged to a person unfriendly to them. "`If thou see the ass of him that hateth thee lying under his burden, and wouldest forbear to help him, thou shalt surely help with him.' "That is, they were to assist even an enemy to do good to a fallen brute. It is as if a man, passing along the street, saw the horse or ass of a neighbour, who bore deadly hatred to him, stumble and fall under his load, and said to himself-- "`Oh! yonder is So-and-so's beast come down; I'll go and lend a hand. So-and-so is no friend of mine, but the poor animal can't help that. _He_ never did me any harm.' "And a greater than even Moses reminds us we are to show mercy to the animals even on the sacred day of the week. "But it is not so very many years ago--in the time when our grandfathers were young, for instance--since roughness and cruelty towards animals were in a manner studied, and even encouraged in the young by their elders. It was thought manly to domineer over helpless brutes, to pull horses on their haunches, to goad oxen along the road, though they were moving to death in the shambles, to stone or beat poor fallen sheep, to hunt cats with dogs, and to attend bull-baitings and dog and cock fights. And there are people even yet who talk of these days as the good old times when `a man was a man.' But such people have only to visit some low-class haunt of `the fancy,' when `business' is being transacted, to learn how depraving are the effects of familiarity with scenes of cruelty towards the lower animals. Even around a rat-pit they would see faces more revolting in appearance than those of Dore's demons, and listen to jests and language so ribald and coarse as positively to pain and torture the ear and senses. Goodness be praised that such scenes are every day getting more rare, and that the men who attend them have a wholesome terror of the majesty of human laws at least. "Other religions besides the Christian impress upon their followers rules relating to kindness to the inferior animals. Notably, perhaps, that of Buddha, under the teachings of which about five hundred millions of human beings live and die. The doctrines of Gautama are sublimely beautiful; they are akin to those of our own religion, and I never yet met any one who had studied them who did not confess himself the better and happier for having done so. One may read in prose sketches of the life and teachings of Gautama the Buddha, in a book published by the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, or he may read them in verse in that splendid poem by Edwin Arnold called `The Light of Asia.' Gautama sees good in all things, and all nature working together for good; he speaks of-- "`That fixed decree at silent work which will Evolve the dark to light, the dead to life, To fulness void, to form the yet unformed, Good unto better, better unto best, By wordless edict; having none to bid, None to forbid; for this is past all gods Immutable, unspeakable, supreme, A Power which builds, unbuilds, and builds again, Ruling all things accordant to the rule Of virtue, which is beauty, truth, and use. So that all things do well which serve the Power And ill which hinder; nay, the worm does well [Note 1] Obedient to its kind; the hawk does well Which carries bleeding quarries to its young; The dewdrop and the star shine sisterly, Globing together in the common work; And man who lives to die, dies to live well, So if he guide his ways by blamelessness And earnest will to hinder not, but help All things both great and small which suffer life.' ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Those among us who have tender hearts towards the lower animals cannot help day after day witnessing acts of cruelty to them which give us great pain. We are naturally inclined to feel anger against the perpetrators of such cruelty, and to express that anger in wrathful language. By so doing I am convinced we do more harm than good to the creatures we try to serve. Calmness, not heat or hurry, should guide us in defending the brute creation against those who oppress and injure it. Let me illustrate my meaning by one or two further extracts from Arnold's poem. "It is noontide, and Gautama, engrossed in thought and study, is journeying onwards-- "`Gentle and slow, Radiant with heavenly pity, lost in care For those he knew not, save as fellow-lives.' "When,-- "`Blew down the mount the dust of pattering feet, White goats, and black sheep, winding slow their way, With many a lingering nibble at the tufts, And wanderings from the path where water gleamed, Or wild figs hung. But always as they strayed The herdsman cried, or slung his sling, and kept The silly crowd still moving to the plain. A ewe with couplets in the flock there was, Some hurt had lamed one lamb, which toiled behind Bleeding, while in the front its fellow skipped. And the vexed dam hither and thither ran, Fearful to lose this little one or that. Which, when our Lord did mark, full tenderly He took the limping lamb upon his neck, Saying: "Poor woolly mother, be at peace! Whither thou goest, I will bear thy care; 'Twere all as good to ease one beast of grief, As sit and watch the sorrows of the world In yonder caverns with the priests who pray." So paced he patiently, bearing the lamb. Beside the herdsman in the dust and sun, The wistful ewe low-bleating at his feet.' ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Sorely this was a lesson which the herdsman, ignorant though he no doubt was, never forgot; farther comment on the passage is needless. Precept calmly given does much good, example does far more." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. A fact which Darwin in his treatise on earthworms has recently proved. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. MIRRAM: A SKETCH FROM THE LIFE OF A CAT--ABOUT SUMMER SONGS AND SONGSTERS. "The mouse destroyed by my pursuit No longer shall your feasts pollute, Nor rats, from nightly ambuscade, With wasteful teeth your stores invade." Gay. "Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife, Come and hear the woodland linnet; How sweet his music! On my life There's more of wisdom in it." Wordsworth. Ida continued to improve, and she did not let me forget my promise to resume my office of story-telling, which I accordingly did next evening, bringing my portfolio into Ida's bedroom for the purpose. Ida had her cat in her arms. The cat was singing low, and had his round, loving head on her shoulder, and his arms buried in her beautiful hair. So this suggested my reading the following:-- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ MIRRAM: A SKETCH FROM THE LIFE OF A CAT. "Mirram: that was the name of pussy. It appears a strange one, I admit; but you see there is nobody accountable for it except the little cat herself, for she it was who named herself Mirram. I don't mean to say that pussy actually came to her little mistress, and said in as many words, `Mirram is a pretty name, and I should like to be called Mirram. Call me Mirram, please, won't you?' "For cats don't talk nowadays, except in fairy tales; but this is how it was. She was the most gentle and kindly-hearted wee puss, I believe, that ever was born, and if you happened to meet her anywhere, say going down the garden walk, she would look lovingly and confidingly up in your face, holding her tail very erect indeed, and `Mirram' she would say. "You see, `Mirram' was the only English word, if it be English, that pussy could speak, and she made it do duty on every occasion; so no wonder she came to be called Mirram. "If she were hungry she would jump upon your knee, and gently rub her shoulders against you and say, `Mirram.' "`Mirram' in this case might be translated as follows: `Oh, please, my dear little mistress, I am _so_ hungry! I've been up ever since five o'clock this morning. With the exception of a bird which I found and ate, feathers and all, and a foolish little mouse, I've had no breakfast. Do give me a little milk.' "This would be an appeal that you couldn't resist, and you would give her a saucerful of nice new milk, telling her at the same time that it was very naughty of her to devour poor birds, who come and cheer us with their songs both in winter and in summer. "Another morning she would come hopping in through the open window, when you least expected her, and say `Mirram' in the most kindly tone. This would, of course, mean, `Good-morning to you. I'm glad to see you downstairs at last. I've been up and out ever since sunrise. And, oh! such fun I've been having. You can't conceive what a fine morning it is, and what a treat it is to rise early.' "And now, having introduced this little puss to you by name, I must tell you something about her playmates, and say a word or two about the place she lived in, and her life in general, and after that show you how pussy at one time came to grief on account of a little fault she had. Of course, we all have our little faults, which we should strive to conquer, and I may as well confess at once what Mirram's was. Well, it was--_thoughtlessness_. "The first and the chief of pussy's playmates, then, was her child-mistress. Would you like to know what her name was? I will tell you with pleasure; and when you hear it I'm sure you will say it is a strange one. She had two Christian names--the first was Fredabel, the second was Inez--Fredabel Inez--the latter being Spanish. "`But,' you will say, `is "Fredabel" Spanish too, because I never heard of such a name before?' "No, I am quite sure you never did; for this reason: no child was ever called by that name before, the fact being that her papa invented the name for her, as it was the only way he could see to get out of a dilemma, or difficulty. And here was the dilemma. When pussy's mistress was quite a baby, her two aunts came to see her, and they had no sooner seen her than they both loved her very much; so they both went one morning into her papa's study, and the following conversation took place:-- "`Good-morning, brother,' said one aunt. `I love your baby very, _very_ much, and I want you to call her after me--her first name, mind you--and when she grows up she won't lose by it.' "`Good-morning, brother,' said the other aunt. `I also love your dear baby very much, and if you call her first name after mine, when she grows up she'll gain by it.' "Well, when baby's papa heard both the aunts speak like this, he was very much perplexed, and didn't know what to do, because he didn't want to offend either the one aunt or the other. "But after a great deal of cogitation, he possessed himself of a happy thought, or rather, I should say, a happy thought took possession of him. You see the name of the one aunt was Freda, and the name of the other was Bella, so what more natural than that baby's papa should compound a name for her between the two, and call her Fredabel. "So he did, and both aunts were pleased and merry and happy. "But at the time our tale begins baby hadn't grown up, nor anything like it; she was just a little child of not much over four years old. "Now, as the one aunt always called her Freda and the other Bella, and as everybody else called her Eenie, I think we had better follow everybody else's example, and call her Eenie, too. "Was Eenie pretty, did you ask? Yes, she was pretty, and, what is still better than being pretty, she was very kind and good. So no wonder that everybody loved her. She had a sweet, lovely face, had Eenie. Her hair, that floated over her lair shoulders, was like a golden sunbeam; her eyes were blue as the bluest sky, and large and liquid and love-speaking, and when she looked down her long dark eyelashes rested on cheeks as soft as the blossom of peach or apricot. "Yet she was merry withal, merry and bright and gay, and whenever she laughed, her whole face was lighted up and looked as lovely as sunrise in May. "I have said that Eenie was good and kind, and so she was; good and kind to every creature around her. She never tormented harmless insects, as cruel children do, and so all creatures seemed to love her in return: the trees whispered to her, the birds sang to her, and the bees told her tales. "That was pussy Mirram's mistress then; and it was no wonder Mirram was fond of her, and proud to be nursed and carried about by her. Mind you, she would not allow any one else to carry her. If anybody else had taken her up, puss would have said--`Mirram!' which would mean, `Put me down, please; I've got four legs of my own, and I much prefer to use them.' And if the reply had been--`Well, but you allow Eenie to handle and nurse you,' pussy would have answered and said-- "`Isn't Eenie my mistress, my own dear mistress? Could any one ever be half so kind or careful of me as she is? Does she ever forget to give me milk of a morning or to share with me her own dinner and tea? Does she not always have my saucer filled with the purest, freshest water? and does she forget that I need a comfortable bed at night? No; my mistress may carry me as much as she pleases, but no one else shall.' "Now Mirram was a mighty hunter, but she was also very fond of play; and when the dogs were in their kennels on very bright sunshiny days, and her little mistress was in the nursery learning her lessons, as all good children do, Mirram would have to play alone. _She_ wasn't afraid of the bright sunshine, if the dogs were; she would race up into a tall apple-tree, and laying herself full length on a branch, blink and stare at the great sun for half an hour at a time. Then-- "`Oh!' she would cry, `this resting and looking at the sun is very lazy work. I must play. Let me see, what shall I do? Oh! I have it; I'll knock an apple down--then hurrah! for a game of ball.' "And so she would hit a big apple, and down it would roll on the broad gravel-path; and down pussy would go, her face beaming with fun; and the game that ensued with that apple was quite a sight to witness. It was lawn-tennis, cricket, and football all in one. Then when quite tired of this, she would thrust the apple under the grass for the slugs to make their dinner of, and off she would trot to knock the great velvety bees about with her gloved paws. She would soon tire of this, though, because she found the bees such serious fellows. "She would hit one, and knock it, maybe, a yard away; but the bee would soon get up again. "`It is all very well for you, Miss Puss,' the bee would say; `your life is all play, but I've got work to do, for I cannot forget that, brightly though the sun is shining now, before long cold dismal winter will be here, and very queer I should look if I hadn't laid up a store of nice honey to keep me alive.' "And away the bee would go, humming a tune to himself, and Mirram would spy a pair of butterflies floating high over the scarlet-runners, but not higher than Mirram could spring. She couldn't catch them, though. "`No, no, Miss Puss,' the butterflies would say; `we don't want you to play with us. We don't want any third party, so please keep your paws to yourself.' "And away they would fly. "Then perhaps Mirram would find a toad crawling among the strawberry beds. "`You're after the fruit, aren't you?' pussy would say, touching it gently on the back. "`No, not at all,' the toad would reply. `I wouldn't touch a strawberry for the world; the gardener put me here to catch the slugs; he couldn't get on without me at all.' "`Well, go on with your work, Mr Toad,' pussy would reply; `I'm off.' "And what a glorious old garden that was for pussy to play in, and for her mistress to play in! A rambling old place, in which you might lose yourself, or, if you had a companion, play at hide-and-seek till you were tired. And every kind of flower grew here, and every kind of fruit and vegetable as well; just the kind of garden to spend a long summer's day in. Never mind though the day was so hot that the birds ceased to sing, and sat panting all agape on the apple-boughs--so hot that the very fowls forgot to cackle or crow, and there wasn't a sound save the hum of the myriads of insects that floated everywhere around, you wouldn't mind the heat, for wasn't there plenty of shade, arbours of cool foliage, and tents made of creepers?--and oh! the brilliancy of the sunny marigolds, the scarlet clustered geraniums, the larkspurs, purple and white, and the crimson-painted linums. No, you wouldn't mind the heat; weren't there strawberries as large as eggs and as cold as ice? And weren't there trees laden with crimson and yellow raspberries? And weren't the big lemon-tinted gooseberries bearing the bushes groundwards with the weight of their sweetness, and praying to be pulled? A glorious old garden indeed! "But see, the dogs have got out of their kennels, and have come down the garden walks on their way to the paddock, and pussy runs to meet them. "`What! dogs in a garden?' you cry. Yes; but they weren't ordinary dogs, any more than it was an ordinary garden. They were permitted to stroll therein, but they were trained to keep the walks, and smell, but never touch, the flowers. They roamed through the rosary, they rolled on the lawn, they even slept in the beautiful summer-houses; but they never committed a fault--but in the autumn, when pears and apples dropped from the trees, they were permitted, and even encouraged, to eat their fill of the fruit. And they made good use of their privilege, too. These were pussy's playmates all the year round--the immense black Newfoundlands, the princely boarhounds, the beautiful collies, and the one little rascal of a Scottish terrier. You never met the dogs without also meeting Mirram, whether out in the country roads or at home, on the leas or in the paddock; she pulled daisies to throw at the dogs in summer, and in winter she used to lie on her back, and in mere wantonness pitch pellets of snow at the great boar hound himself. "The dogs all loved her. Once, when she was out with the dogs on a common, a great snarly bulldog came along, and at once ran to kill poor Mirram. You should have seen the commotion that ensued. "`It is our cat,' they all seemed to cry, in a kind of canine chorus. `Our cat--_our_ cat--our cat!' And all ran to save her. "No, they didn't kill him, though the boarhound wanted to; but the biggest Newfoundland, a large-hearted fellow, said, `No, don't let us kill him, he doesn't know any better; let us just refresh his memory.' "So he took the cur, and trailed him to the pond and threw him in; and next time that dog met Mirram he walked past her very quietly indeed! "Mirram loved all the dogs about the place; but I think her greatest favourite was the wee wire-haired Scottish terrier. Perhaps it was because he was about her own size, or perhaps it was because he was so very ugly that she felt a kind of pity for him. But Mirram spent a deal of time in his company, and they used to go trotting away together along the lanes and the hedges, and sometimes they wouldn't return for hours, when they would trot home again, keeping close cheek-by-jowl, and looking very happy and very funny. "`Broom' this little dog had been called, probably in a frolic, and from some fancied resemblance between his general appearance and the hearth-brush. His face was saucy and impudent, and sharp as needles; his bits of ears cocked up, and his tiny wicked-looking eyes glanced from under his shaggy eyebrows, as if they had been boatman-beetles. I don't think Broom was ever afraid of anything, and very important the little dog and pussy looked when returning from a ramble. They had secrets of great moment between them, without a doubt. Perhaps, if her mistress had asked Mirram where they went together, and what they did, Mirram would have replied in the following words-- "`Oh! you know, my dear mistress, we go hunting along by the hedgerows and by the ponds, and in the dark forests, and we meet with such thrilling adventures! We capture moles, and we capture great rats and frightful hedgehogs, and Broom is so brave he will grapple even with a weasel; and one day he conquered and killed a huge polecat! Yes, he is so brave, and nothing can ever come over me when Broom is near.' "Now, no one would have doubted that, in such a pretty, pleasant country home as hers, with such a kind mistress, and so many playmates, pussy Mirram would have been as happy as ever a pussy could be. So she was, as a rule; but not always, because she had that one little fault-- thoughtlessness. Ah! those little faults, how often will they not lead us into trouble! "I don't say that pussy ever did anything very terrible, to cause her mistress grief. She never did eat the canary, for instance. But she often stopped away all night, and thus caused little Eenie much anxiety. Pussy always confessed her fault, but she was so thoughtless that the very next moonlight night the same thing occurred again, and Mirram never thought, while she was enjoying herself out of doors, that Eenie was suffering sorrow for her sake at home. "On the flat roof of a house where Mirram often wandered, in the moonlight was a tiny pigeon-hole, so small she couldn't creep in to save her life even, but from this pigeon-hole a bonnie wee kitten used often to pop out and play with Mirram. Where the pigeon-hole led to, or what was away beyond it, pussy couldn't even conjecture, though she often watched and wondered for hours, then put in her head to have a peep; but all was dark. "Perhaps, when she was quite tired of wondering, and was just going to retire for the night, the little face would appear, and Mirram would forget all about her mistress in the joy of meeting her small friend. "Then how pleased Mirram would look, and how loudly she would purr, and say to the kitten-- "`Come out, my dear, do come out, and you shall play with my tail.' "But it was really very thoughtless of Mirram, and just a little selfish as well, not to at once let kittie have her tail to play with; but no. "`Sit there, my dear, and sing to me,' she would say. "Kittie would do that just for a little while. Very demure she looked; but kittens can't be demure long, you know; and then there would commence the wildest, maddest, merriest game of romps between the two that ever was seen or heard of; but always when the fun got too exciting for her, kittie popped back again into her pigeon-hole, appearing again in a few moments in the most provoking manner. "What nights these were for Mirram, and how pleasantly they were spent, and how quickly they passed, perhaps no one but pussy and her little friend could tell. When tired of romping and running, like two feline madcaps, Mirram would propose a song, and while the stars glittered overhead, or the moon shone brightly down on them, they would seat themselves lovingly side by side and engage in a duet. Now, however pleasant cats' music heard at midnight may appear to the pussies themselves, it certainly is not conducive to the sleep of any nervous invalid who may happen to dwell in the neighbouring houses, or very soothing either. "Mirram found this out to her cost one evening, and so did the kitten as well, for a window was suddenly thrown open not very far from where they sat. "`Ah!' said Mirram, `that is sure to be some one who is delighted with our music, and is going to throw something nice to us.' "Alas! alas! the something _did_ come, but it wasn't nice. It took the shape of a decanter of water and an old boot. "One night pussy Mirram had stayed out very much longer, and Eenie had gone to bed crying, because she thought she would never, never see her Mirram more. "Thoughtless Mirram! At that moment she was once again on the roof, and the kittie's face was at the pigeon-hole. Mirram was sitting up in the most coaxing manner possible. "`Come out again,' she was saying to kittie, `come out again. Do come out to--' "She didn't see that terrible black cat stealing up behind; but she heard the low threatening growl, and sprang round to confront her and defend herself. "The fight was fierce and terrible while it lasted, and poor Mirram got the worst of it. The black cat had well-nigh killed her. "`Oh!' she sobbed, as she dropped bitter, blinding tears on the roof,--`oh, if I had never left my mistress! Oh, dear! oh, dear! whatever shall I do?' "You see Mirram was very sad and sorrowful now; but then, unfortunately, the repentance came when it was too late." "Thank you," Ida said, when I had finished; "I like the description of the garden ever so much. Now tell me something about birds; I'll shut my eyes and listen." "But won't you be tired, dear?" said my wife. "No, auntie," was the reply; "and I won't go to sleep. I never tire hearing about birds, and flowers, and woods, and wilds, and everything in nature." "Here is a little bit, then," I said, "that will just suit you, Ida. It is short. That is a merit. I call it--" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ABOUT SUMMER SONGS AND SONGSTERS. "Sweet is the melody that at this season of the year arises from every feathered songster of forest, field, and lea. I am writing to-day out in the fields, seated, I might say, in the very lap of Nature--my county is the very wildest and prettiest in all mid-England--and I cannot help throwing down my pen occasionally to watch the motions or listen to the singing of some or other of my wild pets. Nothing will convince me that I am not as well known in the woods as if I were indeed a denizen thereof. The birds, at all events, know me, and they do not fear me, because I never hurt or frighten them. "High overhead yonder, and dimly seen against the light grey of a cloud, is the skylark. He is at far too great a height for me to see his head with the naked eye, so I raise the lorgnettes, and with these I can observe that even as he sings he turns his head earthwards to where, in her cosy grass-lined nest among the tender corn, sits his pretty speckled mate. He is singing to his mate. Yonder, perched on top of the hedgerow, is my friend the yellow-hammer. He is arrayed in pinions of a deeper, brighter orange now. Is it of that he is so proud? is it because of that that there comes ever and anon in his short and simple song a kind of half-hysterical note of joy? Nay, _I_ know why he sings so, because I know where his nest is, and what is in it. "In the hollow of an old, old tree, bent and battered by the wind and weather, the starling has built, and the male bird trills his song on the highest branch, but in a position to be seen by his mate. Not much music in his song, yet he is terribly in earnest about the matter, and I've no doubt the hen admires him, not only for the green metallic gloss of his dark coat, but because he is trying to do his best, and to her his gurgling notes are far sweeter than the music of merle, or the song of the nightingale herself. "But here is something strange, and it may be new to our little folk. There are wee modest mites of birds in the woods and forests, that really do not care to be heard by any other living ears than those of their mates. I know where there is the nest of a rose-linnet in a bush of furze, and I go and sit myself softly down within a few feet of it, and in a few minutes back comes the male bird; he has been on an errand of some kind. He seats himself on the highest twig of a neighbouring bush. He is silent for a time, but he cannot be so very long; and so he presently breaks out into his tender songlet, but so soft and low is his ditty, that at five yards' distance methinks you would fail to hear it. There are bold singers enough in copse and wild wood without him. The song of the beautiful chaffinch is clear and defiant. The mavis or speckled thrush is not only loud and bold in his tones, but he is what you might term a singer of humorous songs. His object is evidently to amuse his mate, and he sings from early morning till quite late, trying all sorts of trick notes, mocking and mimicking every bird within hearing distance. He even borrows some notes from the nightingale, after the arrival of that bird in the country; a very sorry imitation he makes of them, doubtless, but still you can recognise them for all that. "Why is it we all love the robin so? Many would answer this question quickly enough, and with no attempt at analysis, and their reply would be, `Oh, because he deserves to be loved.' This is true enough; but let me tell you why I love him. Though I never had a caged robin, thinking it cruel to deprive a dear bird of its liberty, I always do all I can to make friends with it wherever we meet. I was very young when I made my first acquaintance with Master Robin. We lived in the country, and one time there was a very hard winter indeed; the birds came to the lawn to be fed, but one was not content with simple feeding, and so one colder day than usual he kept throwing himself against a lower pane in the parlour window--the bright, cheerful fire, I suppose, attracted his notice. "`You do look so cosy and comfortable in that nice room,' he seemed to say; `think of my cold feet out in this dreary weather.' "My dear mother--she who first taught me to love birds and beasts, and all created things--did think of his cold feet. She opened the window, and by-and-by he came in. He would have preferred the window left open, but being given to understand that this would interfere materially with family arrangements, he submitted to his semi-imprisonment with charming grace, and perched himself on top of a picture-frame, which became his resting-place when not busy picking up crumbs, or drinking water or milk, through all the livelong winter. We were all greatly pleased when one day he threw back his pert wee head and treated us to a song. And it was always while we were at dinner that he sang. "`I suppose,' he seemed to say, `you won't object to a little music, will you?' Then he would strike up. "But when the winter wore away he gave us to understand he had an appointment somewhere; and so he was allowed to go about his business. "My next adventure with a robin happened thus. I, while still a little boy, did a very naughty thing. By reading sea-stories I got enamoured of a sea life, and determined to run away from my old uncle, with whom I was residing during the temporary absence of my parents on the Continent. The old gentleman was not over kind to me--_that_ helped my determination, no doubt. I did not get very far away--I may mention this at once--but for two nights and days I stayed in the heart of a spruce-pine wood, living on bread-and-cheese and whortleberries. My bed was the branches of the pines, which I broke off and spread on the ground, and all day my constant companion was a robin. I think he hardly ever left me. I am, or was, in the belief that he slept on me. Be this as it may, he picked up the crumbs I scattered for him, and never forgot to reward me with a song. While singing he used to perch on a branch quite close overhead, and sang so very low, though sweetly, that I fully believed he sang for me alone. After you have read this you will readily believe, that there may have been a large foundation of truth in the beautiful tale of `The Babes in the Wood.' Before nor since my childish escapade, I never knew a robin so curiously tame as the one I met in the spruce-pine wood. "Birds take singular fancies for some people. I know a little girl who when a child had a great fancy for straying away by herself into the woods. She was once found fast asleep and almost covered with wild birds. Some might tell me the birds were merely keeping their feet warm at the girl's expense. I have a very different opinion on the subject. "Robins usually build in a green bank at the foot of a large tree, and lay four or five lightish yellow or dusky eggs; but I have found their nests in thorn-bushes. In the romantic Isle of Skye all small birds build in the rocks, because there are no trees there, and few bushes. In a cliff, for example, close to the sea, if not quite overhanging it, you will find at the lower part the nests of larks, finches, linnets, and other small birds; on a higher reach the nests of thrushes and blackbirds; higher still pigeons build; and near the top sea-gulls and birds of prey, including the owl family. "There is a short branch line not far from where I live, which ends five miles from the main artery of traffic. In the corner of a truck which had been lying idle at the little terminus for some time, a pair of robins built their nest, and the hen was sitting on five eggs when it became necessary to use the truck. "`Don't disturb the nest,' said the kindly station-master to his men; `put something over it. But I daresay the bird will forsake it; she's sure to do so.' "But the bird did nothing of the kind, and although she had a little railway journey gratis, once a day at least, to the main line and back, she stuck to her nest, and finally reared her family to fledglings. "Robins are early astir in the morning; their song is the first I hear. They sing, too, quite late at night; they also sing all the year round; and it is my impression, on the whole, that they like best to trill forth when other birds are silent. "The song-birds of our groves are neither jealous of each other nor do they hate each other. Down at the foot of my lawn I have a large shallow pan placed, which is kept half-filled with water in summer. I can see it from my bedroom window, and it is very pleasant to watch the birds having a bath in the morning. There is neither jealousy nor hatred displayed during the performance of this most healthful operation. I sometimes see blackbirds, thrushes, and sparrows all tubbing at one time, and quite hilarious over it. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. HARRY'S HOLIDAY--KING JOHN; OR, THE TALE OF A TUB--SINDBAD; OR, THE DOG OF PENELLAN. "Country life,--let us confess it, Man will little help to bless it, Yet, for gladness there We may readily possess it In its native air. "Rides and rambles, sports and farming, Home, the heart for ever warming, Books and friends and ease, Life must after all be charming, Full of joys like these." Tupper. "I'm not sure, Ida, that you will like the following story. There is truth in it, though, and a moral mixed up with it which you may unravel if you please. I call it--" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ HARRY'S HOLIDAY. "The hero of my little story was a London boy. Truth is, he had spent all the days and years of his young life in town. I do not think that he had ever, until a certain great event in his life took place, seen even the suburbs of the great city in which it was his lot to reside. His whole world consisted of stone walls, so to speak, of an interminable labyrinth of streets and lanes and terraces, for ever filled with a busy multitude, hurrying to and fro in the pursuit of their avocations. I believe he got to think at last that there was nothing, that there _could_ be nothing beyond this mighty London; and of country life, with all its joys and pleasures, he knew absolutely nothing. A tree to him was merely a dingy, sooty kind of shrub, that grew in the squares; flowers were gaudy vegetables used in window decorations; a lark was a bird that spent all its life in a box-cage, chiefly, in the neighbourhood of Seven Dials. As to trees growing in woods and in forests where the deer and the roe live wild and free; as to flowers carpeting the fields with a splendour of bloom; as to larks mounting high in air to troll their happy songs--he had not even the power of conception. True, he had read of such things, just as he had read of the moon as seen through a telescope, and the one subject was just as vague to him as the other. "Harry at this time was, I fear, just a little sceptical. He lacked in a great measure that excellent quality, without which there would be very little real happiness in this world--I mean faith. He only believed in what he really saw and could understand, from which, of course, you will readily infer that his mind was neither a very comprehensive nor a very clever one. And you are right. "Harry was not a strong boy; his face was pale, his eyes were large and lustrous, his poor little arms and legs were far from robust, and you could have found plenty of country lads who measured twice as much round the chest as Harry. Well, his parents, who really did all they could for their boy, were very pleased when one morning the postman brought them a letter from the far north, inviting their little son to come and spend a long autumn holiday at the farm of Dunryan, in the wilds of Aberdeenshire. He was to go all alone in the steamboat, simply in care of the steward, who promised to be very kind to him and look well after his comforts. And so he did, too; but I think that from the very moment that the great ship began to drop down the river, leaving the city behind it, with all its smoke and its gloom, Harry began to be a new boy. A new current of life seemed to begin to circulate in his veins, a better state of feeling to take possession of his soul. There was no end to the wonders Harry saw during his voyage to Aberdeen. The sea itself was a sight which until now he could not have imagined--could not have even dreamed of. Then there was the long line of wonderful coast. He had seen a panorama, but that couldn't have been very large, because it was contained within the four stone walls of a concert-room. But here was a panorama gradually unrolling itself before his astonished gaze hundreds and hundreds of miles in extent. No wonder that his eyes dilated as he beheld it: the black, beetling cliffs that frowned over the ocean's depths; the beautiful sandy beaches; the broad bays, with cities slumbering in the mists beyond; the green-topped hills; the waving woods; the houses; the palaces; and the grey old ruined castles that told of the might and strength of ages past and gone. All and every one of these seemed to whisper to Harry--seemed to tell him that there were more wonderful things even in this world than he had ever before believed in. "When night came on, the stars shone out--stars more beautiful than he had ever seen before--so clear, so large, so bright. And they carried his thoughts far, far beyond the earth. In their pure presence he felt a better boy than ever he had felt before, but at the same time he could not help feeling ashamed of that feeling of unbelief that had possessed him in London. He was beginning to have faith already--a little, at all events. Were I to tell you of all Harry's adventures, and all the strange sights he saw ere he reached Aberdeen, I would have quite a long story to relate. His uncle met him at the pier with a dog-cart, into which he helped him, the handsome, spirited horse giving just one look round, to see who was getting up. When he saw this mite of a hero of ours,-- "`Oh,' said the horse to himself, `he won't make much additional weight. I'd trot along with a hundred of such as he is.' "So away they went. Now Harry had been taught to look upon London as the finest and prettiest town in the world; but when he rattled along the wide and magnificent streets of the capital of the north, he found ample reason to alter his opinion. Here was no smoke--here was a sun shining down from a sky of cerulean hue, and here were houses built apparently of the costliest and whitest of marble. On went the dog-cart, and the closely-built streets gave place to avenues and terraces, and rows of palatial buildings peeping up through the greenery of trees. "Harry was a little tired that night before he reached the good farm of Dunryan; but his aunt and cousins were kindness itself, and after a bigger and nicer supper than ever he had eaten before in his life, he was shown to his snow-white couch, and the next thing he became conscious of was that the sun was shining broad and clearly into his chamber, and there was a perfect babel of sounds right down under his window, sounds that a country boy would easily have understood, but which were worse than Greek to Harry. He soon jumped out of bed, however, washed and dressed, and then opened the casement and looked down. I have already told you that Harry's eyes were large, but the sight he now witnessed made him open them considerably wider than he had done for many a day. A vast courtyard crowded with feathered bipeds of every kind that could be imagined. Harry hurried on with his toilet, so that he might be able to go downstairs and examine them more closely. "Everybody was glad to see him, but he had to eat his breakfast all alone nevertheless, for his cousins had been up and had theirs hours and hours before. One of his relatives was a pretty little auburn-haired lass of some nine or ten summers, with blue, laughing eyes, and modest mien. She volunteered to show Harry round the farm. But Harry felt just a little afraid nevertheless, and considerably ashamed for being so, when he found himself in the great yard quite surrounded by hens and ducks and gobbling geese and turkeys. I think the animals themselves knew this, and did all they could to frighten him. The hens were content with cackling and grumbling, evidently trying to incite the cocks to acts of open hostility against our trembling hero. The cocks crew loudly at him, or defiantly approached him, looking as if they meant to imply that he owed it entirely to their generosity that his life was spared. The turkey-cocks put themselves into all sorts of queer shapes--tried to look like fretful porcupines, elevated the red rag that Harry was astonished to see depending from their noses, and made terrible noises at him. The ducks were content with standing on tiptoe, clapping their snow-white wings, and crying, `What! what! what!' at the top of their voices. The peahens were merely curious and impertinent; but the geese were alarmingly intrusive. They stretched out their necks to the longest extent, approached him thus, and gave vent to hissings unutterable by any other creature than a goose. "`They won't bite or anything, will they?' faltered our hero, feeling very small indeed. "But his little companion only laughed right merrily. Then taking Harry's hand, she ran him off to show him more wonders--great horses that looked to the London boy as big as elephants; enormous oxen as big as rhinoceroses; donkeys that looked wiser than he could have believed it possible for a donkey to look; and goats that looked simply mischievous and nothing else. What a blessing it was for Harry that he had such a wise little guardian and mentor as his Cousin Lizzie. She went everywhere with him, and explained away all his doubts and difficulties. Ay, and she chaffed him not a little either, and laughed at all his queer mistakes; but I think she pitied him a good deal at the same time. `Poor boy,' Lizzie used to think to herself, `he has never been out of London before. What can he know?' "Little Lizzie had the same kind pity on Harry's physical weakness as she had for his mental. Her cousin couldn't climb the broom-clad hills as she could--not at first, at all events; but after one month's stay in this wild, free country, new life and spirit seemed to be instilled into him. He could climb hills now fast enough; and he was never tired wandering in the dark pine forests, or over the mountains that were now bedecked in the glorious purple of the heather's bloom. "Harry's uncle gave him many a bit of good advice, which went far to dispel both his doubts and fears, and that means his ignorance; for only the very ignorant dare to doubt what they cannot understand. `There are more things in heaven and earth,' said his uncle one day, `than we have dreamed of in our philosophy. What would you think of my honest dog there if he told you the electric telegraph was an impossibility, simply because _he_ couldn't understand it? Have faith, boy, have faith.' "But would it be believed that this boy, this London boy, didn't know where chickens came from? He really didn't. Very little things sometimes form the turning-point in the history of great men, and lead them to a better train of thought. For remember that our mighty rivers that bear great navies to the ocean, like mighty thoughts, have very small beginnings. "Harry observed a hen one day in a very great blaze of excitement. Her chickens were hatching. One after another they were popping out of the shell, and going directly to seek for food. One little fellow, who had just come out, was clapping his wings and stretching himself as coolly as if he had just come by train, and was glad the journey was over. This was all very wonderful to Harry; it led him to think; the thought led to wisdom and faith. "Harry took a long walk that day in his favourite pine forest, and for the first time in his life, it struck him that every creature he saw there had some avocation; flies, beetles, and birds, all were working. Says Harry to himself, `I, too, will be industrious. I may yet be something in this great world, in which I am now convinced everything is well ordained.' "He kept that resolve firmly, unflinchingly; he is, while I write, one of the wealthiest merchants in London city; he is happy enough in this world, and has something in his breast which enables him to look beyond." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Now one other," said Ida; "I know you have lots of pretty tales in that old portfolio." "Well," I said, smiling, "here goes; and then you'll sleep." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ KING JOHN; OR, THE TALE OF A TUB. "King John, he called himself, but every human being about the farm of Buttercup Hill called him Jock--simply that, and nothing else. But Jock, or King John, there was one thing that nobody could deny--he was not only the chief among all the other fowls around him, but he thought himself a very important and a very exalted bird indeed; and no wonder that he clapped his wings and crowed defiance at any one who chanced to take particular notice of him, or that he asked in defiant tones, `Kok _aik_ uk uk?' with strong emphasis on the `_aik_,' and which in English means, `How dare you stand and stare at _me_?' "King John's tail was a mass of nodding plumage of the darkest purple, his wattles and comb were of the rosiest red, his wings and neck were crimson and gold, and his batonlike legs were armed with spurs as long as one's little finger, and stronger and sharper than polished steel. Had you dared to go too near any one of his feathered companions--that is, those whom he cared about--you would have repented it the very next minute, and King John's spurs would have been brought into play. But Jock wouldn't have objected to your admiring them, so long as you kept at a respectable distance, on the other side of the fence, for instance. And pretty fowls they were--most of them young too--golden-pencilled Hamburgs, sprightly Spaniards, and sedate-looking Dorkings, to say nothing of two ancient grand hens of no particular breed at all, but who, being extremely fat and imposing in appearance, were admitted to the high honour of roosting every night one on each side of the king, and were moreover taken into consultation by him, in every matter likely to affect the interests of his dynasty, or the welfare of the junior members of the farmyard. "Now Jock was deeply impressed with the dignity of the office he held. He was a very proud king--though, to his credit be it said, he was also a very good king. And never since he had first mounted his throne--an old water-tub, by the way--and sounded his shrill clarion, shouting a challenge to every cock or king within hearing--never, I say, had he been known to fill his own crop of a morning until the crops of all the hens about him were well packed with all good comestibles. Such then was Jock, such was King John. But, mind you, this gallant bird had not been a king all his life. No, and neither had he been born a prince. There was a mystery about his real origin and species. Judging from the colour of the egg from which he was hatched, Jock _ought_ to have been a Cochin. But Jock was nothing of the sort, as one glance at our picture will be sufficient to convince you. But I think it highly probable that the egg in question was stained by some unprincipled person, to cause it to look like that of the favourite Cochin. Be that as it may, Jock was duly hatched, and in course of time was fully fledged, and one day attempted to crow, for which little performance he was not only pecked on the back by the two fat old hens, but chased all round the yard by King Cockeroo, who was then lord and master of the farmyard. When he grew a little older he used to betake himself to places remote from observance, and study the song of chanticleer. But the older he grew the prettier he grew, and the prettier he grew the more King Cockeroo seemed to dislike him; indeed, he thrashed him every morning and every evening, and at odd times during the day, so that at last Jock's life became most unbearable. One morning, however, when glancing downwards at his legs, he observed that his spurs had grown long and strong and sharp, and after this he determined to throw off for ever the yoke of allegiance to cruel King Cockeroo; he resolved to try the fortune of war even, and if he lost the battle, he thought to himself he would be no worse off than before. "Now on the following day young Jock happened to find a nice large potato, and said he to himself, `Hullo! I'm fortunate to-day; I'll have such a nice breakfast.' "`Will you indeed?' cried a harsh voice quite close to his ear, and he found himself in the dread presence of King Cockeroo, a very large yellow Cochin China. `Will you indeed?' repeated his majesty. `How dare _you_ attempt to eat a _whole_ potato. Put it down at once and leave the yard.' "`I won't,' cried the little cock, quite bravely. "`Then I'll make you,' roared the big one. "`Then I shan't,' was the bold reply. "Now, like all bullies, King Cockeroo was a coward at heart, so the battle that followed was of short duration, but very decisive for all that, and in less than five minutes King Cockeroo was flying in confusion before his young but victorious enemy. "When he had left the yard, the long-persecuted but now triumphant Jock mounted his throne--the afore-mentioned water-butt--and crew and crew and crew, until he was so hoarse that he couldn't crow any longer; then he jumped down and received the congratulations of all the inhabitants of the farmyard. And that is how Jock became King John. "The poor deposed monarch never afterwards dared to come near the yard, in which he had at one time reigned so happily. He slept no longer on his old roost, but was fain to perch all alone on the edge of the garden barrow in the tool-house. He found no pleasure now in his sad and sorrowful life, except in eating; and having no one to share his meals with him, he began to get lazy and fat, and every day he got lazier and fatter, till at last it was all he could do to move about with anything like comfort. When he wanted to relieve his mind by crowing, he had to waddle away to a safe distance from the yard, or else King John would have flown upon him and pecked him most cruelly. "And now those very fowls, who once thought so much of him, used to laugh when they heard him crowing, and remark to young King John-- "`Just listen to that asthmatical old silly,' for his articulation was not so distinct as it formerly was. "`Kurr-r-r!' the new king would reply, `he'd better keep at a respectable distance, or cock-a-ro-ri-ko! I'll--I'll eat him entirely up!' "`I think,' said the farmer of Buttercup Hill one day to his wife--`I think we'd better have t'ould cock for our Sunday's dinner.' "`Won't he be a bit tough?' his good wife replied. "`Maybe, my dear,' said the farmer, `but fine and fat, and plenty of him, at any rate.' "Poor Cockeroo, what a fall was his! And oh! the sad irony of fate, for on the very morning of this deposed monarch's execution, the sun was shining, the birds singing, the corn springing up and looking so green and bonny; and probably the last thing he heard in life was King John crowing, as he proudly perched himself on the edge of his water-tub throne. One could almost afford to drop a tear of pity for the dead King Cockeroo, were it possible to forget that, while in life and in power, he had been both a bully and a coward. "But bad as bullying and cowardice are, there are other faults in many beings which, if not eradicated, are apt to lead the possessors thereof to a bad end. I have nothing to say against ambition, so long as it is lawful and kept within due bounds, but pride is a bad trait in the character of even old or young; and if you listen I will tell you how this failing brought even brave and gallant King John to an untimely end. "After the death of King Cockeroo the pride of Jack knew no bounds. His greatest enemy was gone, and there was not--so he thought--another cock in creation who would dare to face him; for did they not all prefer crowing at a distance, and did he not always answer them day or night, and defy them? His bearing towards the other fowls began to change. He still collected food for the hens, it is true, but he no longer tried to coax them to eat it. They would doubtless, he said, partake of it if they were hungry, and if they were not hungry, why, they could simply leave it. "Jack had never had much respect for human beings--_they_! poor helpless things, had no wings to clap, and they couldn't crow; _they_ had no pretty plumage of their own, but were fain to clothe themselves in sheep's raiment or the cocoons of caterpillars; and _now_ he wholly despised them, and showed it too, for he spurred the legs of Gosling the ploughboy, and rent into ribbons the new dress of Mary the milkmaid, because she had invaded his territory in search of eggs. Even the death of the two favourite hens I have told you of, which took place somewhat suddenly one Saturday morning, failed to sober him or tone down his rampant pride. He installed two other very fat hens in their place on the perch, and then crowed more loudly than ever. "He spent much of his time now on his old throne; for it was always well filled with water, which served the purpose of a looking-glass, and reflected his gay and sprightly person, his rosy comb, and his nodding plumes. He would sometimes invite a favourite fowl to share the honours of his throne with him, but I really believe it was merely that its plainer reflection might make his own beautiful image the more apparent. "`Oh!' he would cry, `don't I look lovely, and don't you look dowdy beside _me_? Kurr! Kurr-r-r! Am I not perfection itself?' "Of course no one of the fowls in the yard dared to contradict him or gainsay a word he spoke, but still I doubt whether they believed him to be altogether such a very exalted personage as he tried to make himself out. "And now my little tale draws speedily to its dark, but not, I trust, uninstructive close. "The sun rose among clouds of brightest crimson one lovely summer's morning, and his beams flooded all the beautiful country, making every creature and everything glad, birds and beasts, flowers and trees, and rippling streams. Alas! how often in this world of ours is the sunrise in glory followed by a sunset in gloom. Noon had hardly passed ere rock-shaped clouds began to bank up in the south and obscure the sun, the wind fell to a dead calm, and the stillness became oppressive; but it was broken at length by a loud peal of thunder, that seemed to rend the earth to its very foundations. Then the sky grew darker and darker; and the darker it grew, the more vividly the lightning flashed, the more loudly pealed the thunder. Then the rain came down, such rain as neither the good farmer of Buttercup Hill nor his wife ever remembered seeing before. King John was fain to seek shelter for himself and his companions under the garden seat, but even there they were drenched, and a very miserable sight they presented. "`Oh I what a terrible storm!' cried a wise old hen. "`Who is afraid?' said the proud King John, stepping out into the midst of it. `Behold my throne; it shall never be moved.' "Dread omen! at that very moment a hoop suddenly sprang up with a loud bang, the staves began to separate, and the water came pouring out between them, deluging all the place, and well-nigh drowning one of the two hens which had bravely tried to share Jock's peril with him! "`Kur-r-r!' cried the king, astonishment and rage depicted on every lineament of his countenance. `Kurr! kurr! what trickery is this? But, behold, I have but to mount my throne and crow, and at once the thunder and the rain will cease, and the sun will shine again!' "He suited the action to the word, but, alas! the sun never shone again for him. His additional weight completed the mischief, and the tottering throne gave way with a crash. "There was woe in the farmyard that day, for under the ruins of his throne lay the lifeless body of Jock--the once proud, the once mighty King John." "Oh!" cried Ida, "but that is _too_ short. Pray, just one little one more, then I will sleep. You shall play me to sleep. Let it be about a dog," she continued. "You can always tell a story about a dog." I looked once more into the old portfolio, and found this-- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ SINDBAD; OR, THE DOG OF PENELLAN. "Unless you go far, very far north indeed, you will hardly find a more primitive place than the little village of Penellan, which nestles quite close to the sea on the southern coast of Cornwall. I say it _nestles_, and so it does, and nice and cosy it looks down there, in a kind of glen, with green hills rising on either side of it, with its pebbly beach and the ever-sounding sea in front of it. "It was at Widow Webber's hostelry that there arrived, many years ago, the hero, or rather heroes, of this short tale. Spring was coming in, the gardens were already gay with flowers, and the roses that trailed around the windows and porches of the pilchard fishermen's huts were all in bud, and promised soon to show a wealth of bloom. "Now, not only Widow Webber herself, but the whole village, were on tiptoe to find out who the two strangers were and what could possibly be their reason for coming to such a little outlying place--fifteen miles, mind you, from the nearest railway town. It appeared they were not likely soon to be satisfied, for the human stranger--the other was his beautiful Newfoundland retriever, `Sindbad'--simply took the widow's best room for three months, and in less than a week he seemed to have settled down as entirely in the place, as though he had been born there, and had never been out of it. The most curious part of the business was that he never told his name, and he never even received a letter or a visitor. He walked about much out of doors, and over the hills, and he hired a boat by the month, and used to go long cruises among the rocks, at times not returning until sun was set, and the bright stars twinkling in the sky. He sketched a great deal, too--made pictures, the pilchard fishermen called it. Was he an artist? Perhaps. "The `gentleman,' as he was always called, had a kind word and a pleasant smile, for every one, and his dog Sindbad was a universal favourite with the village children. How they laughed to see him go splashing into the water! And the wilder the sea, and the bigger the waves, the more the dog seemed to enjoy the fun. "Being so quiet and neighbourly, it might have been thought that the gentleman would have been as much a favourite with the grown-up people as Sindbad was with the young folk. Alas! for the charity of this world, he was not so at first. Where, they wondered, did he come from? Why didn't he give his name, and tell his story? It couldn't possibly be all right, they felt sure of that. "But when the summer wore away, and winter came round, and those policemen, whom they fully expected to one day take the gentleman away, never came, and when the gentleman seemed more a fixture than ever, they began to soften down, and to treat him as quite one of themselves. Sindbad had been one of them for a very long time, ever since he had pulled the baker's little Polly out of the sea when she fell over a rock, and would assuredly have been drowned except for the gallant dog's timely aid. "So they were content at last to take the gentleman just as they had him. "`Concerts!' cried Widow Webber one evening, in reply to a remark made by the stranger. `Why, sir, concerts in our little village! Whoever will sing?' "But the stranger only laid down his book with a quiet smile, and asked the widow to take a seat near the fire, and he would tell her all about it. "With honest Sindbad asleep on the hearthrug, and pussy singing beside him, and the kettle singing too, and a bright fire in the grate, the room looked quite cosy and snug-like. So the poor widow sat down, and the stranger unfolded all his plans. "And it all fell out just as the stranger wished it. He was an accomplished pianist, and also a good performer on the violin. And he had good-humour and tact, and the way he kept his class together, and drew them out, and made them all feel contented with their efforts and happy, was perfectly wonderful. The first concert was a grand success, a crowded house, though the front seats were only sixpence and the back twopence. And all the proceeds were handed over to the clergyman to buy books and magazines. "So the winter passed more quickly and cheerfully than any one ever remembered a winter to pass before, and summer came once more. "It would need volumes, not pages, to tell of all poor Sindbad's clever ways. Indeed, he became quite the village dog; he would go errands for any one, and always went to the right shop with his basket. Every morning, with a penny in his mouth, he went trotting away to the carrier's and bought a paper for his master; after that he was free to romp and play all the livelong day with the children on the beach. It might be said of Sindbad as Professor Wilson said of his beautiful dog--`_Not_ a child of three years old and upwards in the neighbourhood that had not hung by his mane and played with his paws, and been affectionately worried by him on the flowery greensward.' "Another winter went by quite as cheerily as the last, and the stranger was by this time as much a favourite as his dog. The villagers had found out now that he was not by any means a rich man, although he had enough to live on; but they liked him none the less for that. "The Easter moon was full, and even on the wane, for it did not, at the time I refer to, rise till late in the evening. A gale had been blowing all day, the sea was mountains high, for the wind roared wildly from off the broad Atlantic. One hundred years ago, if the truth must be told, the villagers of Penellan would have welcomed such a gale; it might bring them wealth. They had been wreckers. "Every one was about retiring for rest, when boom boom! from out of the darkness seaward came the roar of a minute gun. Some great ship was on the rocks not far off. Boom! and no assistance could be given. There was no rocket, no lifeboat, and no ordinary boat could live in that sea. Boom! Everybody was down on the beach, and ere long the great red moon rose and showed, as had been expected, the dark hull of a ship fast on the rocks, with her masts gone by the board, and the sea making a clean breach over her. The villagers were brave; they attempted to launch a boat. It was staved, and dashed back on the beach. "`Come round to the point, men,' cried the stranger. `I will send Sindbad with a line.' "The point was a rocky promontory almost to windward of the stranded vessel. "The mariners on board saw the fire lighted there, and they saw that preparations of some kind were being made to save them, and at last they discerned some dark object rising and falling on the waves, but steadily approaching them. It was Sindbad; the piece of wood he bore in his mouth had attached to it a thin line. "For a long time--it seemed ages to those poor sailors--the dog struggled on and on towards them. And now he is alongside. "`Good dog!' they cry, and a sailor is lowered to catch the morsel of wood. He does so, and tries hard to catch the dog as well. But Sindbad has now done his duty, and prepares to swim back. "Poor faithful, foolish fellow! if he had but allowed the sea to carry him towards the distant beach. But no; he must battle against it with the firelight as his beacon. "And in battling _he died_. "But communication was effected by Sindbad betwixt the ship and the shore, and all on board were landed safely. "Need I tell of the grief of that dog's master? Need I speak of the sorrow of the villagers? No; but if you go to Penellan, if you inquire about Sindbad, children even yet will show you his grave, in a green nook near the beach, where the crimson sea-pinks bloom. "And older folk will point you out `the gentleman's grave' in the old churchyard. He did not _very_ long survive Sindbad. "The grey-bearded old pilchard fisherman who showed it to me only two summers ago, when I was there, said-- "`Ay, sir! there he do lie, and the sod never hid a warmer heart than his. The lifeboat, sir? Yes, sir, it's down yonder; his money bought it. There is more than me, sir, has shed a tear over him. You see, we weren't charitable to him at first. Ah, sir! what a blessed thing charity do be!'" CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. A SHORT, BECAUSE A SAD ONE. "Why do summer roses fade, If not to show how fleeting All things bright and fair are made, To bloom awhile as half afraid To join our summer greeting?" "Now," said Frank one evening to me, "a little change is all that is needed to make the child as well again as ever she was in her life." "I think you are right, Frank," was my reply; "change will do it--a few weeks' residence in a bracing atmosphere; and it would do us all good too; for of course you would be of the party, Frank?" "I'll go with you like a shot," said this honest-hearted, blunt old sailor. "What say you, then, to the Highlands?" "Just the thing," replied Frank. "Just the place-- "`My heart's in the Hielans. My heart is not here; My heart's in the Hielans, chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer and following the roe-- My heart's in the Hielans, wherever I go.'" "Bravo! Frank," I cried; "now let us consider the matter as practically settled. And let us go in for division of labour in the matter of preparation for this journey due north. You two old folks shall do the packing and all that sort of thing, and Ida and I will--get the tickets." And, truth to tell, that is really all Ida and myself did do; but we knew we were in good hands, and a better caterer for comfort on a journey, or a better baggage-master than Frank never lived. He got an immense double kennel built for Aileen and Nero; all the other pets were left at home under good surveillance, not even a cat being forgotten. This kennel, when the dogs were in it, took four good men and true to lift it, and the doing so was as good as a Turkish bath to each of them. We had a compartment all to our four selves, and as we travelled by night, and made a friend of the burly, brown-bearded guard, the dogs had water several times during the journey, and we human folks were never once disturbed until we found ourselves in what Walter Scott calls-- "My own romantic town." A week spent in Edinburgh in the sweet summer-time is something to dream about ever after. We saw everything that was to be seen, from the Castle itself to Greyfriars' Bobby's monument, and the quiet corner in which he sleeps. Then onward we went to beautiful and romantic Perth. Then on to Callander and Doune. At the latter place we visited the romantic ruin called Doune Castle, where my old favourite Tyro is buried. In Perthshire we spent several days, and once had the good or bad fortune to get storm-stayed at a little wayside hotel or hostelry, where we had stopped to dine. The place seemed a long way from anywhere. I'm not sure that it wasn't at the back of the north wind; at all events, there was neither cab nor conveyance to be had for love nor money, and a Scotch mist prevailed--that is, the rain came down in streams as solid and thick as wooden penholders. So we determined to make the best of matters and stay all night; the little place was as clean as clean could be, and the landlady, in mutch of spotless white, was delighted at the prospect of having us. She heaped the wood on the hearth as the evening glome began to descend; the bright flames leapt up and cast great shadows on the wall behind us, and we all gathered round the fire, the all including Nero and Aileen; the circle would not have been complete without them. No, thank you, we told the landlady, we wouldn't have candles; it was ever so much cosier by the light of the fire. But, by-and-by, we would have tea. Despite the Scotch mist, we spent a very happy evening. Ida was more than herself in mirth and merriment; her bright and joyous face was a treat to behold. She sang some little simple Highland song to us that we never knew she had learned; she said she had picked it up on purpose; and then she called on Frank to "contribute to the harmony of the evening"--a phrase she had learned from the old tar himself. "Me!" said Frank; "bless you, you would all run out if I began to sing." But we promised to sit still, whatever might happen, and then we got the "Bay of Biscay" out of him, and he gave it that genuine, true sea-ring and rhythm, that no landsman, in my opinion, can imitate. As he sang, in fact, you could positively imagine you were on the deck of that storm-tossed ship, with her tattered canvas fluttering idly in the breeze, her wave-riddled bulwarks, and wet and slippery decks. You could see the shivering sailors clinging to shroud or stay as the green seas thundered over the decks; you could hear the wind roaring in the rigging, and the hissing boom of the breaking waters, all about and around you. He stopped at last, laughing, and-- "Now, Gordon, it is your turn at the wheel," he said. "You must either sing or tell a story." "My dear old sailor man," I replied, "I will sing all the evening if you don't ask me to tell a story." "But," cried Ida, shaking a merry forefinger at me, "you've got to do _both_, dear." There were more stories than mine told that night by the "ingleside" of that Highland cot, for Frank himself must "open out" at last, and many a strange adventure he told us, some of them humorous enough, others pathetic in the extreme. Frank was not a bad hand at "spinning a yarn," as he called it, only he was like a witness in a box of justice: he required a good deal of drawing out, and no small amount of encouragement in the shape of honest smiles and laughter. Like all sailors, he was shy. "There's where you have me," Frank would say. "I am shy; there's no getting over it; and no getting out of it but when I know I'm amusing you, then I could go on as long as you like." I have pleasing reminiscences of that evening. As I sit here at my table, I have but to pause for a moment, put my hands across my eyes, and the Rembrandt picture comes up again in every feature. Yonder sits Frank, with his round, rosy face, looking still more round and rosy by the peat-light. Yonder, side by side, with their great heads pointing towards the blaze, lie the "twa dogs," and Ida crouched beside them, her fair face held upwards, and all a-gleam with happiness and joy. When lights were brought at last, it was plain that the honest old landlady, bustling in with the tea-things, had dressed for the occasion, and from the pleased expression on her face I felt sure she had been listening somewhere in the gloom behind us. The cottage where we went at last to reside in the remote Highlands was a combination of comfort and rusticity, and Ida especially was delighted with everything, more particularly with her own little room, half bedroom, half boudoir, and the rustic flowers which old Mrs McF-- brought every day were in her eyes gems of matchless beauty. Then everything out of doors was so new to her, and so beautiful and grand withal, that we did not wonder at her being happy and pleased. "When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath--" So sings Byron. Well, _he_ had some kind of training to this species of progression. Ida had none. _She_ was a young Highlander from the very first day, and a bold and adventuresome one too. Nor torrent, cataract, nor cliff feared she. And no bird, beast, or butterfly was afraid of Ida. Her chief companion was a matchless deerhound, whom we called Ossian. Sometimes, when we were all seated together among the heather, Ossian used to put his enormous head on her lap and gaze into her face for minutes at a time. I've often thought of this since. Nero, I think, was a little piqued and jealous when Ossian went bounding, deer-like, from rock to rock. Ah! but when we came to the lake's side, then it was Ossian's turn to be jealous, for in the days of his youth he had neglected the art of swimming, in which many of his breed excel. Two months of this happy and idyllic life, then fell the shadow and the gloom. There was nothing romantic about Ida's illness and death. She suffered but little pain, and bore that little with patience. She just faded away, as it were; the young life went quietly out, the young barque glided peacefully into the ocean of eternity. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Poor Frank had an accident in the same year, and ere the winter was over succumbed to his injuries. He died on such a night as one seldom sees in England. The bravest man dared not face that terrible snowstorm unless he courted death. Therefore I could not be with Frank at the end. The generous reader will easily understand why I say no more than these few words about my dear friend's death. Alas! how few true friends there are in this world, and it seems but yesterday he was with us, seems but yesterday that I looked into his honest, smiling face, as I bade him good-bye at my garden gate. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. THE LAST. "Once more farewell! Once more, my friends, farewell!" Coleridge. I have never mentioned Frank's dog, this for the simple reason that I hope one day ere long to write a short memoir of her. Meggie was a collie, a Highland collie, and a very beautiful one too. So much for her appearance. As for her moral qualities, it is sufficient to say that she was Frank's dog--and I myself never yet saw the dog that did not borrow some of the mental qualities of the master, whose constant companion he was, especially if that master made much of him. Frank loved his dog, and she loved but him. She _liked_ but few. _We_ were among the number of those she liked, but, strange creature that she was, she was barely civil to any one else in the world. She had one action which I never saw any other dog have, but it might have been taught her by Frank himself. She used to stand with her two paws on his knees, and lean her head sideways, or ear downwards, against his breast, just like a child who is being fondled, and thus she would remain for half an hour at a time, if not disturbed. When my friend was ill in bed, poor loving Meggie would put her paws on the edge of it, and lay her head sideways on his breast, and thus remain for an hour. What a comfort this simple act of devotedness was to Frank! When Frank died, Meggie fell into the best of hands, that of a lady who had a very great regard for her, and so was happy; but I know she never forgot her master. She died only a few months ago. Her owner--she, may I say, who held her in trust--brought her over for me to look at one afternoon. I prescribed some gentle medicine for her, but told Miss W--she could only nurse her, that her illness was very serious. Meggie's breath came very short and fast, and there was a pinched and anxious look about her face that spoke volumes to me. So when Miss W--was in the house I took the opportunity of going back to the carriage, and patting Frank's dog's head and whispering, "Good-bye." I cannot help confessing here, although many of my readers may have guessed it before, that I believe in immortality for the creatures, we are only too fond of calling "the lower animals." I have many great-souled men on my side in the matter of this belief, but if I stood alone therein, I would still hold fast thereto. I have one firm supporter, at all events, in the person of my friend, the Rev J.G. Wood [Note 1]. Nay, but my kindly poet Tupper, whose face I have never seen, but whose verses have given me many times and oft so much of real pleasure, have I not another supporter in you? Aileen Aroon left us at last, dying of the fatal complaint that had so long lain dormant in her blood. We had hopes of her recovery from the attack that carried her off until the very end. She herself was as patient as a lamb, and her gratitude was invariably expressed in her looks. There are those reading these lines who may ask me why I did not forestall the inevitable. Might it not have been more merciful to have done so? These must seek for answer to such questions in my other books, or ask them of any one who has ever _loved_ a faithful dog, and fully appreciated his fidelity, his affection, and his almost human amount of wisdom and sagacity. The American Indians did use to adopt this method of forestalling the inevitable; in fact, they slew their nearest and dearest when they got old and feeble. Let who will follow their example, I could not _if the animal had loved me and been my friend_. Theodore Nero lived for years afterwards, but I do not think he ever forgot Aileen Aroon--poor simple Sable. I buried her in the garden, in a flower border close to the lawn, and I did not know until the grave was filled in that Nero had been watching the movements of my man and myself. A fortnight after this I went to her grave to plant a rosebush there, Nero following; but when he saw me commencing to dig, a change that I had never seen the like of before passed over his face; it was wonder, blended with joy. He thought that I was about to bring her back to life and him. In his last illness, poor Nero's mattress and pillow were placed in a comfortable warm room. He seldom complained, though suffering at times; and whenever he did, either myself or my wife went and sat by him, and he was instantly content. I had ridden down with the evening letters, and was back by nine o'clock. It was a night in bleak December, 'twixt Christmas and the New Year. When I went to the poor patient's room I could see he was just going, and knelt beside him, after calling my wife. In the last short struggle he lifted his head, as if looking for some one. His eyes were turned towards me, though he could not see; and then his head dropped on my knee, and he was gone. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Down at the foot of our bird-haunted lawn, in a little grassy nook, where the nightingales are now singing at night, where the rhododendrons bloom, and the starry-petalled syringas perfume the air, is Nero's grave--a little grassy mound, where the children always put flowers, and near it a broken, rough, wooden pillar, on which hangs a life-buoy, with the words--"Theodore Nero. Faithful to the end." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Author of "Man and Beast." Two volumes. Messrs. Daldy and Isbister. 
50702	----	Venus Boy BY LEE SUTTON Illustrated by Richard Floethe LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., INC. NEW YORK Copyright, 1955, by Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co., Inc. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 54-7882 Printed in the U.S.A. All rights reserved [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] To Mildred and Blake "Everything that lives is Holy." --OLD MARVA SAYING. _A Hero of Venus_ If you ever make a trip to the green planet of Venus, the first thing you'll see will be the fifty-foot high statue of Venus' greatest hero. It stands on the very top of towering New Plymouth Rock at the edge of the old colony of New Plymouth. Even from the rocket cradle, anyone can tell that the statue is of a twelve-year-old boy smiling up at the Venusian jewel bear perched on his shoulder. Cut into the huge rock below the statue are the words, "Virgil Dare (Johnny) Watson And the Marva, Baba. May their Friendship Endure!" Virgil Dare Watson, called Johnny by his friends, was the first human being born on Venus. He was named after Virginia Dare, the first pioneer child born in North America, and for a long time he was the only child on all Venus. And that would have been a lonely thing to be if it had not been for Baba. Baba, the bear, was not only Johnny's pet, but his best friend, too, and the only one who knew about his three secrets. Because of these secrets, Johnny got himself, his jewel bear, Baba, and the whole colony of New Plymouth into desperate trouble. And because of these secrets, he also became a hero worthy of a statue--Venus' greatest hero. Contents I THE FIRST TWO SECRETS 1 II THE TREASURE OF VENUS 9 III A DANGEROUS TARGET 18 IV THE THIRD SECRET 25 V A MYSTERY INDEED! 34 VI INSIDE NEW PLYMOUTH 45 VII THE RHINOSAUR STAMPEDE 54 VIII ONE SECRET IS REVEALED! 66 IX THE PRICE OF A BROTHER 71 X ALONE IN THE JUNGLE 81 XI THE FRIENDS ARE SEPARATED 97 XII THE PRICE OF A BOY 107 XIII OUTWITTING THE OUTLAWS 116 XIV CAPTURED! 129 XV A CITY IN THE TREES 140 XVI THE THUNDER OF RHINOSAUR HOOVES 155 XVII TEACHERS CAN'T PLAY HOOKEY 172 FACTS ABOUT VENUS 178 CHAPTER ONE _The First Two Secrets_ It was rocket day on Venus!--the day the yearly rocket from Earth arrived, and it was like Christmas, Fourth of July and your birthday all rolled into one! In the windowless, one-room New Plymouth school, Johnny Watson, a stocky twelve-year-old, sat toward the back of the room, a big Venus geography propped up in front of him. Johnny was supposed to be studying. Every time Mrs. Hadley, the teacher, glanced his way, a page of the book slowly turned. The teacher was much too busy with the half dozen squirming, excited first graders to notice that a small black paw fastened to a furry blue arm was really turning the pages. On Johnny's lap sat Baba, a perky-faced little blue bear with stand-up ears and bright blue eyes. To fool the teacher, the little bear, his eyes twinkling, flipped the pages one by one. "We gotta do something quick, Baba!" Johnny whispered to his bouncing, jewel bear cub in a tight worried voice. "It's only two hours till school's out." The little bear peered over at the clock on the wall. He lay a tiny black paw on his blue button nose and cocked his head as if he were trying to tell the time. When school was out everyone would go to the rocket field. Johnny knew that above all, he and his bouncing bear must not be there! Why Johnny and Baba dared not go was one of Johnny's three secrets. There was only one thing to do, Johnny thought. He would have to behave so badly that as punishment he would be forbidden to go. "Nudge me when Mrs. Hadley turns around," Johnny whispered. "We're gonna get out of here!" The little bear shoved his furry blue snout around the geography and peered from behind it. His bright eyes followed every move the teacher made. The instant Mrs. Hadley turned to write on the blackboard Baba gave the boy a kick. Johnny slipped down on to his hands and knees in the aisle and Baba hopped upon his back. Rapidly and silently Johnny crawled toward the armor room. Behind him a little girl kindergartner began to giggle. "Look at the horsie!" she yelled. Johnny heard the teacher call, "Quiet, children!" The little girl giggled louder. But he hadn't been seen! He scurried into the armor room. As Johnny jumped to his feet and grabbed for his suit of rhinosaur-hide armor, Baba leaped toward the wall and hooked his claws into the concrete. Then he scurried straight up the wall like a fly and snatched up Johnny's headglobe in his tiny black paws. While Johnny wriggled into the armor Baba fitted the headglobe over the boy's tow head. Without waiting to zip up, Johnny started toward the door. Baba jumped from the headglobe shelf and landed on his shoulder with a smack. The boy's hand was scarcely on the latch when the teacher turned around, her mouth making an O of surprise. Quickly, Johnny jerked open the door and dashed through, slamming it closed. There was a space of a few feet and then another door. Holding the second door open, Johnny snapped tight his headglobe, while Baba's small fingers pushed and pulled at the zippers fastening the armor. Both of them scanned the sky. No arrow-birds. Johnny grabbed a stone from beside the step and wedged it in the outer door so it could not close. To keep out these murderous flying lizards, all buildings were windowless and had double doors. When one door was open the other automatically locked. "Johnny, Johnny! You come right back in here!" a muffled voice called. Johnny sighed regretfully as he slipped out of the schoolhouse into the pearly green light of Venus. Baba on his shoulder, he started out at a dead run through the collection of windowless buildings that made up colony headquarters. The two had barely made it to the foot of a tall heavily leafed tree when the door of the main headquarters building began to open. "Up the meat tree!" Johnny yelled. Baba leaped from Johnny's shoulder and rolled himself into a furry blue ball as he fell. The little bear smacked the ground with the sound of a bouncing basketball and bounced high into the air! At the top of his bounce his arms and legs shot out; he hooked his claws into the trunk half way up the meat tree. Baba wasn't called a bouncing bear for nothing! Johnny jumped for the nearest branch. Weighed down by his arrow-bird armor, he was slow pulling himself up--too slow. Baba scurried down the trunk like a squirrel, his claws scattering bits of bark on Johnny. Hanging on with three paws he reached out and hooked his claws into Johnny's armor. One pull from that tiny but powerful arm and Johnny was sitting on the branch. From there up it was easy. The branches made a perfect ladder. Soon they were entirely surrounded by green shadowy leaves. Johnny carefully pushed aside a green fruit the size of a cantaloup and looked out. Striding across the dusty road came a tall man in headglobe and black armor--Captain Thompson of the colony guard. The teacher must have phoned for help. The man's square face was set in anger as he kicked the rock away from the schoolhouse door. The teacher stepped out and Johnny could hear their angry voices. After a moment Mrs. Hadley went back inside and the guard captain strode purposefully away toward Mayor Watson's office. Sitting on a branch swinging his legs, Baba winked a shiny blue eye. He reached over and patted Johnny on the spot where the boy was likely to pay for his pranks. "I think we've done it this time," Johnny whispered. "I hope it's not just another spanking." Johnny spoke with deep feeling. He had had three spankings in three days. The little bear looked sadly down his blue muzzle and made an odd deep clicking noise in the back of his throat. "Sure," Johnny said, as if answering the bear's clicks, "I want to go to the planet-fall, but we just can't." The bear clicked again. "I know," Johnny went on, "I know the earthies would give you chocolate. Besides I was going to have a job." Johnny's eyes began to shine with tears he wouldn't let come. For the first time he would have been working on the rocket field with the men instead of being on the sidelines watching with the women and little kids. The little bear patted him on the shoulder and clicked in low tones. "All right, I won't be sad if you won't." Johnny shook the tears away and tried to make a joke. "Gosh, Baba, you talk funny since _you know what_." Johnny screwed up his face. "You're such a mushmouth now I can hardly understand what you say." Baba stuck out his long blue tongue. This was Johnny's first secret. His little bear could talk! Baba's clicks were really the words of his own language. Although he couldn't make the sounds of the human voice, he could understand people perfectly. Johnny could both understand what the bear said and speak in the same clicking language. This hadn't started out to be a secret at all. As a little boy, Johnny thought everyone knew that those clicks were Baba's words. When Baba came to live with him, the little bear cub already knew his own language, but Johnny was just learning to talk. He learned human words and click words at the same time, and thought everyone understood them. When he was almost five, Johnny discovered to his amazement that no one understood Baba but him. He then went proudly spreading the news that he and his bear could talk together. When the first person laughed, Johnny didn't mind. But when everybody laughed at him he began to get a little mad. The crowning insult was being spanked for lying. After that, Johnny decided if telling grownups that Baba could talk only got him licked and laughed at, it might as well be a secret. Besides, it was fun keeping it secret. After a few minutes of waiting, Baba scurried along a branch and hung by his black claws while he thrust his blue button nose through the twigs and leaves. Johnny followed along another branch. "Looks clear," Baba clicked. "Let's go!" "Wait a minute." A quick movement in the distance caught Johnny's eye. Four men came out of a long grey building marked Hunters Hotel. Johnny was instantly alert. Colonists always kept a sharp eye on such men. These were the dangerous marva hunters, whose only law was an ato-tube gun. Johnny swung to a branch where he could see better. "What's up?" Baba clicked. "Hunters!" clicked Johnny. "They're watching the guard change at the old stockade." "Oh." The two looked at each other. Both knew what was in the stockade, locked away in the big safe. Marva teeth and claws. Jewel claws and teeth from grown-up bears just like the cub Baba! "Come on, Baba." Johnny shinnied back to a place where branches forked from the trunk of the meat tree. "We'd better check your nails 'fore we go down." After making sure no arrow-birds were feeding on the meat fruit, he undid one of his armor zippers and pulled a bottle of black liquid and a small brush from an inside pocket. Baba plopped down on his lap. "Smile," Johnny commanded. Baba pulled back his lips, showing black teeth. Johnny looked at them carefully, grunted, and then picked up one of the little bear's paws. All the nails seemed perfectly black, but on the tip of one of them there sparkled a point of bright blue. "Dang it, we gotta find something better than this nail polish. A little climbing and it's all scraped off." Johnny scowled and dipped the little brush in the bottle of black liquid. Carefully he painted the tip of the claw. Looking over the little bear's paws he found four more claws that showed blue. He painted them, too. "Now don't climb down when we go, Baba! When the polish is dry, jump." The little bear nodded. This was Johnny's second secret. Everyone thought Baba still had his valueless black baby claws and teeth. But, under the coating of black nail polish, each of Baba's claws was really a precious blue jewel. Johnny Watson owned a million dollar pet! CHAPTER TWO _The Treasure of Venus_ Yes, a million dollars, maybe even more, and all for one little bear! Johnny sighed shakily at the thought and hugged his bear to him. "What's the matter, Johnny?" Baba clicked, waving his claws to dry them, like a lady getting ready for a party. "You know," Johnny said, "I was just wishing for the good old days when you had your baby black nails and your pretty squeaky voice, and we didn't have to be afraid of anything." "I'm sorry," Baba clicked. "I couldn't help it. I just grew." Baba looked so sorrowfully down his nose that Johnny laughed, swung the little bear up above his head and sat him down on a branch. "You're a silly," Johnny said. "I know you couldn't help it. I was just wishing." Most of all he was wishing that bouncing bears didn't have jewels for claws at all. But he knew that was a silly wish, too. Grabbing a branch, Johnny swung himself back to a spot where he could see the hunters. As he watched, more were arriving. About a mile away a battered hunting tank came lumbering through the sliding doors of the fifty-foot high concrete wall surrounding the colony. Outside those walls, Johnny knew, lay the murderous animal life of the jungle planet. Every living thing on Venus attacked men. Not just the huge rhinosaurs and the horned river snakes, but even tiny scarlet apes and pigmy antelope. Johnny knew the colonists and hunters would never have come to such a savage place at all without the lure of tremendous wealth to be made from bouncing bears' claws. Harder than diamonds and just as clear, these magical jewels shone soft blue in the night and were blindingly bright in the sun. But that wasn't the only reason claws were valuable. A tiny piece of claw, or even of the duller teeth, melted in thousands of tons of plastic, made that plastic tough enough to be used for the hulls of rocket ships. Men called it marvaplast. With such a treasure beckoning, man could not stay away from Venus. Rockets came hurtling across space filled with hunters. Traders followed. After the traders came the colonists, led by Johnny's father and mother. Johnny sighed again. "Don't be so sad," Baba clicked. "We've been real lucky so far." "I suppose so." Johnny had to admit they'd both been lucky. Baba had been lucky not to be killed as his mother and brother had been. And Johnny had been lucky to get Baba at all. If there had been any other way of raising the bear until his black baby claws turned blue, Johnny never would have gotten him. All other young marva that had been captured had died. They refused to eat or drink. They simply squatted down and whimpered piteously until they died of what seemed to be loneliness and heartbreak. When Baba had been captured, Mrs. Watson brought him home, hoping to save his life. Two-year-old Virgil Dare, as Johnny was called then, was fascinated. "Ba-ba," he had cried, trying to say bear, and had thrown his arms around it. Surprisingly, the little bear had stopped whimpering and had hugged Johnny back. A few minutes later it had eaten some diamond-wood nuts. After a week, the colonists had decided that the little bear would live and he was taken away and put in a small diamond-wood cage for safe keeping. The little bear promptly refused to eat and almost died, whimpering over and over a sound that was just like "Johnny, Johnny, Johnny." It was the only sound he could make beside the clicking noise. He had to be sent back to the little boy. From then on Virgil Dare was called Johnny. He and Baba went everywhere together, even to school. As the years went by they became closer than brothers and it was easier and easier to forget that the blue cub was really colony property. Then, Baba's voice had deepened; the black nails had gradually loosened; and, all in one Venus night, during Baba's long sleep through five earth days of darkness, the new nails had come in. Johnny had a mixture of india ink and nail polish all ready. It had worked for two months now. But the polish _did_ chip off and the claws had to be painted over and over. "Oh, Baba, why can't you be a sensible little bear and stay home where people can't see you," Johnny said. "You know why, Johnny," Baba clicked. "You're my kikac." This was a word in the clicking language that meant friend, pet and brother, all in one. Baba said kikacs should never be parted. That was the reason Johnny could not go to see the rocket come. If he went, Baba was sure to follow. Everyone, colonists and hunters, was going to be at the field, and if one of them caught sight of a flash of blue from Baba's claws, it would mean the end of Baba. The colonists liked the little bear but the colony was very poor. They wouldn't think long about killing him for his jewel claws. The hunters wouldn't think at all. They would steal him as quick as the flight of an arrow-bird. It was a very dangerous situation. But if he could keep from going to the rocket field, Johnny had a plan. The plan depended on Johnny's third secret. Draped over his branch, Johnny kept his eye on the hunters. They just seemed to be strolling about the settlement now--getting used to the fact that they were out of the dangerous jungle where they lived in concrete forts. When the door of the settlement headquarters opened again, Johnny pulled his head back in among the leaves. A grey haired man with heavy eyebrows stepped out of the door. It was Jeb, the old hunter, one of the first men to come to Venus hunting marva. Now he was one of the colony guards, and a very good friend of Baba and Johnny. When the old man came close enough for him to hear, Johnny crawled out where he could be seen, called down to him, and waved. "Hi, Jeb--whatcha doing?" The old man stopped in his tracks, looked carefully around him, then cocked an eye up into the tree. He frowned, his grey eyebrows making a V over his deep-set eyes. He shook his head in disapproval, but said nothing until he was directly under the tree. "What I'm doin' isn't important," Jeb said in a gruff voice, looking up at Johnny. "But what are _you_ a-doin' up that tree when you're supposed to be doin' book work?" "Aw," Johnny started, "I just...." "You just made your paw boiling mad, that's what," Jeb interrupted, "locking the teacher in that way." He snorted. "Did Dad say anything about keeping me away from the rocket landing?" Johnny demanded anxiously. "Nup," answered Jeb. "Cap'n Thompson wanted him to, but he says no, that you worked real hard all year. But I'm warning you. You better get on inside that school house, unless you want a good tannin'. Your ma's out lookin' for you with fire in her eye." He started to walk away. "Hey, wait a minute Jeb," Johnny called. "Well?" "I was watching those hunters. They're sure interested in the stockade. You better tell Cap'n Thompson." "We know they're interested. I don't think they'll do anything. That old reprobate of a Trader Harkness'll keep 'em in line. _You'd_ better watch out, though. I might tell Cap'n Thompson where he could find him a hooky-player." With a fierce snort the old man was on his way. Johnny smiled. He knew Jeb would never tell where he was hiding, in spite of the gruff warnings. Jeb was a nice old fellow. He'd shot his marva years before, gone down to earth, spent his millions in a few wild years and returned to Venus dead broke. In twenty years hunting he had never made another kill. Marva were as hard to find as they were valuable. "Guess you just weren't quite bad enough!" Baba clicked to Johnny. "My claws are dry. Let's go before your mother finds us." Johnny crawled down to the little bear. "We gotta think of something else bad to do. It's that or just plain refuse to go. But then they'd think something was funny, sure as shooting!" "There's lots of ripe meat fruit in the tree," Baba clicked, and grinned. "Maybe you could drop one on Captain Thompson!" "Oh boy!" Johnny exclaimed in excitement. Then he frowned. "Aw, he probably won't come by here again." "Somebody will!" Baba said. "Let's keep an eye out." The two of them posted themselves in different parts of the tree and watched for possible targets for ripe meat fruit. No one seemed to want to walk under the tree. Finally Johnny caught sight of a short fat bald-headed man and a tall redhaired man leaving the Hunters Hotel together. One was Trader Harkness, who all but ran the colony, and the other, his bodyguard, Rick Saunders. They seemed to be headed for the trading post and would have to pass directly under Johnny's tree to get there. Baba saw them at the same time. "How about Trader Harkness?" the little bear clicked. "Do you think he'd be a good target?" "A kind of dangerous one," Johnny clicked back, his heart racing. "But where's that meat fruit?" There wasn't any question about his getting into enough trouble this time. He just hoped he wouldn't get into too much trouble! Trader Harkness was a very important man, but Johnny didn't like him. He had started as a hunter and then had turned trader. By killing off most of his opposition, he had become the only important trader on Venus. If he hadn't wanted a walled settlement to protect his goods, the colony might have failed. A hunter would stop at nothing to get what he needed and the colony had had more than one of its tanks ambushed and stolen to hunt marva. A red, ripe meat fruit was not hard to find. Johnny wrenched one from the branch and held it carefully by its long stem. The size of a small melon, green meat fruit must be cooked before eating. Once ripe, their thin skins are plump full of a sweet strong-smelling paste--a natural high protein baby food. "There's plenty more," Johnny clicked softly. "Think we ought to get Rick, too?" "He's too good a friend," Baba clicked back. "Besides he might not give me any more chocolate." Johnny agreed with a laugh, and pushed leaves aside so he could see. He shivered. Below him came the most powerful man on Venus--a short, immensely fat man, who waddled forward rather than walked. On earth he would have been laughed at, but on Venus he was feared and respected. He liked that respect and demanded it. Johnny swallowed hard. The man he was going to drop the fruit on had once been ambushed by five hunters--none of them had survived. CHAPTER THREE _A Dangerous Target_ As the two men moved closer to Johnny's and Baba's meat tree, they appeared to be arguing about something. The trader glittered as he waddled forward. His armor was of the clearest, brightest marvaplast plastic, and his fingers were studded with marva jewel rings. They stopped just a few feet away from the tree. Johnny could tell the trader was angry. Though he was keeping himself under tight control, his heavy jaw was set and his little black eyes flashed under his smooth, hairless brow. "I'll put it to you straight, Rick," the trader's heavy voice rumbled up to Johnny. "I couldn't stay in business a year if I did as you asked me to." The redhaired bodyguard was flushed. "Well, then, I guess I'll have to do it," he said in a tight, defiant voice. "If you won't warn the colonists, I will." Harkness' jaw tightened. "Better think it over, Rick." His voice was still controlled and level. He gripped Rick's shoulder with a pudgy, jeweled hand. "Remember, those hunters trusted me. They figure my bodyguard wouldn't do anything I told him not to. If you warn the colonists, I'll have to make it clear you were on your own." His voice held a threat. "What do you mean?" Rick demanded, pushing the hand from his shoulder. "The least I would do would be to fire you back to Earth," he said ominously. Johnny drew in his breath. He knew how much Rick wanted to stay on Venus. The trader got his bodyguards by paying their way to Venus. He agreed to stake them for hunting if they did good work for a year. Otherwise they were sent back to Earth. It was said that men who crossed Trader Harkness never made it alive. "I'm sorry, Trader," Rick said, "but I'll take my chances. If you don't like what I do, I'll join the colony." "I should have guessed it," the trader said contemptuously, "when you began hanging around that worthless Jeb." The trader paused and then the threat in his voice was no longer veiled. "Believe me, Saunders, join that colony and you'll regret it." The heavy man turned slowly and moved toward his trading post. Fascinated, Johnny had all but forgotten the meat fruit in his hand. The trader was almost past him when he remembered. With a little toss Johnny let go of the juicy fruit. For an instant he thought he had thrown too far, but the trader waddled forward just right. With a sickening plop the red fruit exploded on the top of Trader Harkness' shining headglobe. Dripping purple gobs splattered through the air slits, smearing the stone-bald head. A strong sweet smell floated up to Johnny. For a moment Harkness stood perfectly still in shocked amazement. Then the tremendous man began to dance about in sheer rage and discomfort. "Water!" he yelled, his rumbling voice rising to a shrill cry. "Get some water!" He was bouncing up and down in an odd way, his clenched fists hitting the air. All his dignity was gone. Johnny stared open-mouthed, awed by his own daring. Rick Saunders stool still a second, and then broke into a guffaw. "I tell you, get me some water!" Trader Harkness roared. Three or four hunters and Jeb, the old guard, came running up. They took one look and they, too, broke into laughter. Jeb was carrying a fire bucket. "Never thought I'd ever get this chance, Will," Jeb cackled, and sloshed a bucket of water over Harkness. The water splashed on the bald head and washed the bits of fruit down the trader's neck and under his armor. The big man stood there dumb with anger. Johnny's throat ached with the laughs he'd kept back. He glanced up to the branch where Baba sat. The little bear's fur was shivering with fun. His eyes opened wide, and with a whir of clicks meaning, "Watch me, Johnny," he leaped into space. He kicked up a flurry of dust as he bounced to the ground and up to his feet in front of the trader and the other men. By this time the crowd had grown to a dozen men. Baba stopped a moment to make sure everyone was watching him. Then the round little bear began a dancing, bouncing waddle up and down. He clenched his forepaws into little fists and beat the air. His face was screwed up into a mighty frown. It was a perfect imitation of the trader. The men's laughter swelled to a roar. "Rick!" Harkness' voice rumbled out, tight and cold with rage. "Shoot it!" The laughter stopped suddenly, almost as if it had been switched off. It had been so long since anyone had made fun of the trader that the man had lost his head. "I can't do that!" Rick's lean brown face was horrified. Then he became angry. "I wouldn't shoot a kid's pet!" "Well, I will!" Moving with more speed than it seemed a large man could muster, the trader's hand snaked toward his holster. Baba saw the joke had gone too far. He leaped into the air, came down with a bounce and shot up the tree beside Johnny before the trader could level the gun at him. Johnny's mouth went dry. Already the trader was searching the tree for Baba, his pistol up, the safety switch off. The men stood in shocked silence. "He's right beside me, Mr. Harkness!" Johnny shouted, and crawled into full view. "C'mon, Baba, get on my shoulder. He can't shoot _me_." As Johnny came into full view, the trader's face grew angrier yet. "Baba didn't drop that meat fruit, Mr. Harkness," Johnny said firmly. "I did." "Kid's got guts," one of the hunters muttered. As Johnny slid down to the ground, he saw his mother pushing her way through the group of men. Her lips were tight together, her face white. "You're going to get it," Baba clicked. "Here come your pa and Captain Thompson, too." Mrs. Watson strode straight up to Trader Harkness, her eyes blazing. "You ought to be ashamed!" she said to the man. Then she turned on Johnny. "And so had you, young man. No planet-fall for you!" Johnny's heart leaped. He'd done it at last! "Now, Mr. Harkness," Johnny's mother's voice was very low, "what Baba and Johnny did was very wrong. I apologize for them. And Johnny will certainly be punished. Nevertheless, I never want to hear of you or anyone else threatening Baba again. Is that clear?" Taken aback, the trader nodded. "That goes for the whole family, Mr. Harkness." Johnny's father stepped forward straight and tall and put his arm around his wife's shoulder. "Not to mention the colony," he went on. "We have a pretty big stake in that bear." The fat, short trader seemed suddenly as cold as ice. His heavy jaw thrust out and his little black eyes looked straight at Johnny's father. "Valuable or not, I don't have to put up with insults. Not from those two or any of you. If that's the kind of thanks I get for ten years of working with you, I'm through. You can fight your own battles now." He jerked his head around toward Rick. "C'mon!" "I'm staying," the young man said. "All right. Stay." The smooth bald head swiveled back to the Watson family. "I told this man I'd fire him back to Earth. But let him stay. After the hunters have picked your bones, I'll take care of him." He turned, and with heavy footsteps walked away. His slow waddle did not seem funny now. The hunters in the crowd stood for a moment, and then followed him. Captain Thompson addressed Johnny's father. "That sounded like a declaration of war." Johnny's father nodded grimly. "I think our colony is getting too big for him," he said slowly. "He's been looking for a way to break with us and Johnny gave him just the kind of excuse he needed." "Yep," said Jeb. "But don't be too hard on Johnny. Maybe it's just as good it happened now when we got marva claws to buy us some extra fire power." "You might not have those claws long enough to do any good," Rick Saunders cut in. "I was just going to warn you. Four hunters just asked Harkness in on a plan to rob the stockade. The trader turned 'em down, but...." "Which four hunters?" Captain Thompson broke in. A shadow passed over Rick's face. "I don't know which ones." He looked at Mr. Watson eagerly. "I want to help, though. I'm hoping you'll take me on as a guard." "We can sure use you." Jeb stepped up and slapped the young man on the back. Mr. Watson appeared to consider for a moment. He looked Rick up and down, and then glanced at Captain Thompson, who nodded. "All right, Rick," he said. "You go on over to the guard barracks and Jeb'll check you out. When you're through, report to Captain Thompson." Rick Saunders grinned. Old Jeb threw an arm around his shoulder and they walked off together. When they were out of hearing Captain Thompson turned to Johnny's father. "I don't know if I like this," he said. "Harkness may have planted that man on us. I'm certainly not going to let him get anywhere near our claws. I'll keep an eye on Saunders personally." "But, gosh," Johnny broke in, "I heard him arg...." "I think, Johnny," said his father sternly, "you've said and done enough for one day. The trader is a proud man and by making a fool of him you've given the colony a deadly enemy." He turned back to Captain Thompson. "We'd better change our plans, Captain. It looks like we should double, maybe even triple the guard...." CHAPTER FOUR _The Third Secret_ Three hours later, boy and bear were trudging through the marshberry fields toward New Plymouth Rock. Johnny's bottom was still warm from his recent session with a strap. The boy was in full armor. A leather harness was strapped to the little bear's furry blue back. The last 'copter had long since left for the rocket field and, except for guards, the settlement was nearly empty. Because of this Johnny had been forbidden to leave his house. A lone person without a gun was supposed to be just what the arrow-birds were looking for. But Johnny wasn't afraid. He had his third secret. Johnny reached up and carefully picked one of the apple-sized marshberries for himself. It was a rich ripe yellow color. "They are just right this year," Johnny said to Baba. The little bear nodded gravely. Both he and Johnny had worked hard in those fields. Everyone did. Marshberries prevented a disease called colds that Johnny had never had, and were the only crop the colonists could send back to Earth. They had to be ripe for the yearly rocket or a year's work was wasted. Johnny trudged on under the weight of his armor while Baba bounced along beside him. A mile away loomed New Plymouth Rock. The huge mesa-like rock made up one corner of the settlement's barrier against the animals. The thick concrete walls of the settlement, topped with live wires, were joined to the rock on two sides. On its summit, stood a stunted diamond-wood tree. This was Johnny's and Baba's destination. Baba jumped high in the air, made himself into a ball and bounded on ahead. "Hurry up!" he clicked. "Hungry for nuts, eh?" Johnny asked. "Crunchy ones," the little bear clicked back, turning a somersault in the air. "Come on, hurry!" Johnny made a face at Baba. "Bear," he said, "you're certainly getting bossy lately." Baba did another somersault, bounced, and landed on Johnny's shoulder with a thump, almost knocking the boy down. He put his nose in Johnny's ear. "I'm a grown-up," he clicked in heavy tones. "Hear my beautiful new voice?" Johnny hunched his shoulders hard, spilling Baba to the ground. Then he grabbed him by the harness, and stood up. While Baba squeaked piteously, Johnny swung him round and round. At the top of one of the swings he let go, tossing Baba high into the air. "Help! Help!" clicked Baba, beating paws into the air, and screwing up his face. Just before he hit the ground he made himself into a ball. He hit with a smack and bounced higher than Johnny had thrown him. Both of them were laughing when he stopped bouncing. "Gosh, I wish we could have done that for the Earthies!" Johnny said The two fell silent, both thinking of the fun they were missing at the rocket field. They were coming to the end of the marshberry fields. Before them were the great boulders surrounding New Plymouth Rock. Johnny had made the harness Baba was wearing for forays among the boulders--forbidden forays, for arrow-birds nested there. Baba, with his strong nails and bouncy body, could go straight up the face of rocks. He was small enough to ride on Johnny's shoulder, but he was powerful too. By hanging on to Baba's harness, Johnny could go straight up and over large boulders, armor and all. "Let's go right by the nests," Baba clicked. "I want to be sure, right off." "O. K., worry bear, you lead the way." Johnny began to chant, "Grandpapa Baba sat in a corner, 'fraid that his shadow would burn in the fire." Baba bounced over the smaller rocks in the way. Johnny, weighed down with headglobe and armor, made his way slowly over them and between them. Baba helped Johnny over one steep place and then stayed beside him. It was hard going and Johnny's clothes were drenched with sweat under his armor before they clambered down the last boulder and on to a little flat place. They were already high above the level of the settlement. On one side they were surrounded by high red boulders. On the other side loomed the sheer cliff of New Plymouth Rock. Far above them, from many round holes in the rock, came strange squeaking sounds. Here were the arrow-bird nests! Johnny was deathly afraid. He'd seen what an arrow-bird could do when it shot itself at a man. "Get ready, Baba," he whispered. "Those are just babies up there," Baba clicked. "No danger yet!" "Let's climb up and get rid of them!" Johnny suggested. "Then there won't be any here to...." "No!" Baba interrupted. "But why? I'd be protected by my armor and...." "No!" Baba clicked more firmly. There was a stern but puzzled expression on the little bear's face. "The arrow-birds are my friend-pets, I must not hurt them." He used a word in the clicking language which meant both friend and pet. It was something like the word "kikac," which he called Johnny--"friend-pet-brother." "All right," Johnny said, "but I don't understand." "You mustn't harm them, either," Baba said. "Remember, I brought you here. Otherwise you wouldn't know where the nests were. Even if you just tell the grownups and they kill them--well, it would be wrong. I would have--" Baba was interrupted by a high whistling, shrieking noise, and the whir of wings. So quick you couldn't have followed his motions, Johnny squatted down, curled his feet under him, thrust his hands and forearms into special armor pockets. Six strangely shaped creatures were diving straight at him. Arrow-birds! A dirty greenish yellow, they were long and slender, over a foot long. One could not tell where their heads left off and their necks began. They were shaped like long arrow points. Their gossamer-thin wings were a blur of motion. Johnny braced himself so that if they hit him he would not be knocked over. In a fraction of a second they dived within fifty feet of him. "Go away friend-pets," Baba clicked, as loudly and as fast as he could. "Go away! Bother us not!" He repeated his cry in a kind of chant, so rapidly it was almost a trill. The shrieking whistle changed to a low hum. The arrow-birds pulled out of their dive. They floated in mid-air, their wings awhir. One had almost reached Johnny and was hovering in the air only a couple of yards away. It bent its neck out of arrow position and looked straight at him. Its little purple eyes glittered against the yellow green skin of its head. Then, like a flash, they were gone. "Whew!" Johnny breathed. He took his hands out of his armor and stood up. He turned around just in time to see the flight of arrow-birds crawl into the holes in the rocks that were their nests. This was Johnny's third secret. The arrow-birds obeyed Baba! Right after Baba's voice had changed and his jewel claws had come in, the two had made this astonishing discovery. They had stumbled upon this nesting place, and the arrow-birds, frightened for their nests, had slashed down at Johnny for the first time in his life. But Baba had cried out desperately in his new deep clicks for them to go away--and they had. It was like magic. Staring up at the sheer cliff, Johnny was excited, but afraid. Such a climb was too dangerous to do just for the fun of it, but Johnny thought he might have a way of saving Baba. Even when they were much younger the little bear had been willing to leave Johnny in order to climb for diamond-wood nuts fresh from the tree. It was the ideal place for Baba to hide. If Johnny could climb up with him they would be able to visit often-and Baba was so fond of fresh nuts he might be willing to use it for a hideout. Johnny hadn't told Baba about his plan. If they could make it to the top he would tell the bear then. The high shrieking whistle began again. Johnny suddenly had an idea. "Friend-pets, friend-pets, bother me not. Bother me not," Johnny clicked quickly, shaping deep clicks just like Baba's in the back of his throat. As the birds half-pulled out of their dive, the little bear started to speak. "No, let me keep trying," Johnny clicked. "Friend-pets, friend-pets, bother me not." At this, the birds hovered about him making squeaking noises, their heads still in striking position. "They're puzzled," Baba clicked. "They sense something's wrong. They expect to be shot at by people. I'll tell them to go and it will be all right. In a second they could kill you." "I've still got my armor," said Johnny. "Maybe if I tell them to come here they'll trust me." Johnny spoke the last in English and the words sent the birds fluttering farther away. They seemed to be on the point of making another dive. Johnny was pale under his headglobe, but clicked, "Friend-pets, come to your friend." The flying lizards slowly quieted, squeaking among themselves. Their wings humming, they hovered closer and closer. There were five of them. Finally their heads snapped out of arrow position. One of them hovered in very close. "Come to me, friend-pet," Johnny clicked to it, and held out his hand. The creature, watching him carefully with its little purple eyes, floated even nearer, its wings humming. Very gingerly it came to a perch on his hand. Its claws were cold and it smelled faintly of meat fruit. Johnny breathed deep. He was the only human being who had ever made friends with an arrow-bird. Slowly, while the other birds hovered in the air about him, Johnny drew in his hand and stroked the bird on its folded wings. It shivered under his touch. But, as he did it no harm, the other birds came closer and lit on his arms and his shoulders. One peered into his face. Another poked the air slits of Johnny's headglobe with its sharp bill. "Baba! Baba!" Johnny cried out. "Do you see this? Do you think I could sneak one home with us?" "Your people would kill him, Johnny," Baba clicked. "Go away, friend-pet," he clicked to the arrow-bird. The bird looked at Johnny. "Go, friend-pets," Johnny clicked regretfully to the five birds about him. With a flash of wings they were gone. "Gosh," said Johnny. "Gosh!" He unzipped and wriggled out of his armor. "Baba, I don't _have_ to wear armor ever any more. Do you understand? I can just walk around like you do!" The words fairly bubbled out of him. Baba was quiet for a moment, frowning. "Johnny," he clicked, "I've done something wrong. Something very bad. I'm not sure why, but I just know it's wrong. Those are my friend-pets, not yours. If _you_ use the word 'friend-pet' to them, that means you can never hurt them. You must always help them. But they will always try to kill your mother and father. It is all mixed up." "Gee, Baba," Johnny was frowning now, too. "C'mon, let's try the climb and forget it." From one of the armor straps he unhooked a flashlight he always brought along for exploring caves. He fastened it to his belt. A few moments later the two friends were looking up at the bare rock face that extended three hundred feet straight up. "Golly, Baba, do you really think you can take us up _there_?" Johnny asked. "If you can hold on, I can take you," Baba said from Johnny's shoulder. "Start up!" Johnny yelled. Baba leaped up onto the wall of rock, his claws cutting into it. Johnny grasped the harness and hooked his toes into a crack in the stone. CHAPTER FIVE _A Mystery Indeed!_ By the time Baba and Johnny had gone fifty feet up the cliff, Johnny felt as if his arms were about to be pulled from his shoulders. The boy helped push with his feet, but that took only a little weight from his arms. Below him there was nothing but boulders and sharp jagged rocks. In spite of that danger, he felt that he could hardly keep hold of the harness. Sweat poured down into his eyes. "Hurry, Baba," he said through clenched teeth. "Ledge soon," the little bear clicked. As he speeded up his climb he slapped his claws deep into the rock, making sharp clapping noises that echoed among the boulders below. He stopped short and Johnny saw a place where the rock jutted out a few inches. Gratefully he felt something solid beneath his feet. He couldn't put his whole foot down, but he could rest his arms a little. "Whew," Johnny said, "doesn't the ledge get wider?" "In a minute," Baba answered. Crabwise, with Johnny still hanging on, Baba worked along the ledge, which slowly widened until Johnny could stand alone. They were now on the jungle side of the rock. A few feet farther on, there was a narrow slit in the rock face that widened into a small cave. Deep in the cave's darkness Johnny heard the squeaking of young arrow-birds. As he crept inside he whipped his flashlight from his belt. Purple eyes glittered at him in the circle of its light. There was a flutter of wings. Johnny and Baba started to click at the same time. The fluttering stopped and the birds' heads disappeared into their nests. The cave ended in a pile of large stones. Johnny sat down. "Boy, do my arms ache!" Johnny said. "How about you, Baba?" "I can climb," Baba answered. "But can you hold on? We have far to go." "Aren't there any more ledges?" Johnny asked. "Small ones," Baba answered. "None are wide like this one. Do you still want to go up?" "Maybe we could tie me on some way," Johnny said. "Mountain climbers do it that way." In a moment the boy and the bear were trying to see what they could work out. Finally Johnny had Baba use the razor sharp point of one of his claws to cut a pair of long thin straps from the wide ones on the harness. These they tied to Johnny's belt and then to Baba's harness again. When the straps were finished, Johnny felt rested and they started out of the cave. They were stopped by the sight below them. At the foot of the rock there was a wide space of cleared ground, and then the jungle stretched out. About a half mile away some large greyish beasts were breaking out of the undergrowth. "Rhinosaurs!" Johnny shouted, pointing. "Golly, a whole herd of them!" There were more than thirty of the huge grey-blue saurians. Even at that distance they could hear the low thunder of the gigantic hooves. The beasts stayed close to the brush, knocking down small trees as they came. Johnny knew that heavy ato-tubes were trained on the rhinosaurs from the guard towers. The guards in the gate towers would have a full view of them. Johnny also knew that unless the beasts began to charge the walls, the guards would not fire. If they did, the whole herd might charge. Topped as they were with electric wires, the heavy fifty-foot high walls would be hard to breach. But rhinosaurs had smashed those walls once--before they were thickened and electrified. "Remember when they attacked and killed a lot of colonists?" "I remember," Baba clicked. "Your people killed them, too. These straps...." Johnny nodded. Because it was made of the skin of an animal the colonists had killed, he had had a hard time getting Baba to wear that harness. "Let's go!" Johnny said. This time the going was not so hard for Johnny, though they climbed much farther before he and Baba could rest. The next ledge they reached was not large enough to let them sit. Baba had to hang to the rock, but it didn't seem to tire him. Three more rests, and slowly but surely they were reaching the top. At the last rest Baba clicked to Johnny in warning. "The rock is getting softer. If my claws tear away from the rock, just relax and fall with me. I'll grab again further down." "All right," he said. Johnny didn't dare look down. He had been climbing with Baba since he was three, but never this high before. They had gone up only a few more feet when Baba's claws began to slip. Johnny let himself go limp just in case anything happened. Very slowly Baba's claws slipped down the rock. Then they caught hold again. "We will have to move to the side," Baba clicked. Johnny didn't answer. It was up to Baba. The little bear scuttled crabwise along the side until he found rock that didn't scale off. Then up they went again. Finally there was a ledge. The two scrambled onto it. Above the ledge was a gap in the rock, some boulders--and they were on the top! A faint wind was blowing, and Johnny could hear it sing through the top of the stunted diamond-wood tree growing on the summit. The top of New Plymouth Rock was flat, a hundred feet or more wide, but with many jutting boulders. Here and there grew small bushes and patches of grass. The diamond-wood tree sprang directly from the bare rock. With shaking fingers Johnny untied the straps and threw himself down on a patch of green. As he lay there, his breath rustling the grass, he heard Baba pattering about and wondered how the little bear had so much energy left. "Johnny," Baba clicked, "do you want some berries?" Johnny looked up to see the little bear holding some clear, almost transparent red berries in his paw. The colonists called them antelope berries because they grew mainly in antelope country. At that moment Johnny realized he was very thirsty. "Thanks, Baba!" He crushed the berries with his teeth and felt the sour-sweet juice trickle down his throat. He suddenly felt thrilled with triumph. He was now where no other human had ever been before! Johnny was just raising his head to look around when he heard the patter of tiny hooves behind him. "Look, Johnny!" Baba clicked. Johnny turned. Running toward them was a herd of the tiniest antelope he had ever seen. They were barely six inches high, their curled horns almost as tiny as needles. Head down, they charged directly at him. Johnny jumped to his feet. "Friend-pets," Baba clicked gently, "bother us not." The tiny creatures wheeled about and started back in the direction from which they had come. "Oh, Baba, don't send them away," Johnny said. Then, remembering his success with the arrow-birds, he himself clicked in a low tone, "Come here, friend-pets. Come here." The antelope with the longest curled blue horns stopped, turned slowly around and pawed the ground, his long neck arched. It was just seven inches high. Johnny laughed. The regular antelope were seven _feet_ high, but otherwise looked exactly the same as these. Johnny squatted down and, as he moved, the herd turned and ran, making little whinnying noises. Then they wheeled and returned. The leader pranced closer and closer and came to a halt within a foot of Johnny. It was soft blue all over, marked with spots of deeper purple. Its tiny hooves were blue black, and its eyes glistened with deep purple highlights. Johnny reached out both his hands and laid them before the little creature. "Come," Johnny clicked. Trembling, the little antelope pawed the grass. Then with mincing steps he came forward and placed his forefeet on one hand, his hind feet on the other. Very slowly Johnny raised him from the ground. The small hooves were sharp and dug into the palms of his hands. The little animal's eyes widened and it snorted in fear. Johnny, afraid it might fall, set his hands back on the ground. "Go, friend-pet," he clicked. With a bound the creature returned to his herd. Together the antelope leaped high over a small boulder and were gone behind a clump of bushes. Johnny looked up to see Baba watching him steadily. The little bear looked at Johnny the same way as when he had spoken to the arrow-birds. "Friend-pet-brother Johnny," Baba clicked, "I am sure I am doing wrong. First the arrow-birds and now the antelopes are your friends. But they are your people's enemies." "Not the antelopes!" Johnny said. "They fight us some, but we don't ever bother them except for meat." "Your people kill them," Baba said, as if that settled matters. "Now you can't. You've said they were your friends." "Is that some kind of rule?" Johnny asked. "You said they were your friends," Baba repeated. "You help your friends and your friends help you. That is the law and will be the law as the trees stand. Between friend and friend there is no parting more than the fingers of a hand." Baba said this in a sort of sing-song of clicks, like the song of a bird. It was something like a poem. "Baba," Johnny asked, "how do you know all this? You've never talked this way before." Johnny squatted down before the little bear, whose face was screwed up into a puzzled frown. "I guess I've always known it," Baba clicked. "But it just came back to me. I don't remember much before I came to live with you, Johnny. But I do remember being in a high tree. There was one like me whom I loved very much, and she sang the song I just sang to you. I remember going to sleep while she sang it. It is a true song, too." "Would you sing it again?" Johnny asked. The little bear began again: "You help your friends and your friends help you. It is the law, And will be the law as the trees stand. Between friend and friend there is no parting More than the fingers of a hand." This time the little bear really sang, trilling the clicks to a tune like the roll of a mockingbird's song. Johnny felt very strange. He patted Baba on the head and then stood up. "I think I understand," he said, and looked out over the surrounding countryside, thinking about the little antelope he had just held in his hands. "I'm hungry," the little bear clicked. With a jump and a bounce he started for the stunted diamond-wood tree. "Baba," Johnny called. The little bear bounced back. "Aren't there plenty of those nuts here for you to live on? I mean, enough to feed you regularly if you lived here all the time?" The little bear nodded yes, but frowned. "I want to live with you, Johnny," he clicked. "I know, Baba. But you're in danger. I hoped that if I could show you I'd be able to visit you, maybe you'd stay." At the unhappiness on the little bear's face, Johnny hurried on. "Look, Baba, I can't make you stay here. But somebody's going to find out about your nails if you stay with me. If you live here, I could come up and visit you when the nights come, and if we were lucky, I could see you most every wake-time down by the rocks...." Johnny's voice trailed off. Baba was looking unhappier and unhappier. "I want to live with you," Baba repeated. "Remember what the song says about parting. You stay here with me." It was Johnny's turn to look unhappy. He didn't want to leave his father and mother, any more than Baba wanted to leave him. The hard climb was all for nothing. "I can't, Baba. You know that," he said sadly. "I can't either," Baba said. Johnny continued arguing for a long time but it did no good. Baba wanted to be with Johnny: there wasn't anything more to say. "I'm still hungry!" clicked the little bear, plaintively. Then, with a bounce, Baba was up and away. The little bear was crazier about fresh diamond-wood nuts than anything else, even chocolate. Johnny felt sad and confused. He got up. Below him stretched the sweet green lands of Venus. The hard angles of the walls and the squat grey buildings of the settlements were somehow out of keeping with the rest of the land. There was an almost park-like look about the jungle from this height. In the distance the towering groves of diamond-wood trees, where the marva lived, shone blue green against the light green clouds that were the skies of Venus. Between the blue groves of diamond-wood were the meadow lands, soft and rolling. At the edges of the meadows were the lower and darker green meat trees, where the saber-tooth leopards stalked. The land was laced with rivers that shone in the green light. It was all so beautiful, and so deadly. In a few hours evening would begin--almost three Earth days of twilight. Venus turned so slowly that there was a whole Earth week each of daylight and dark. But of course people had to sleep and work by Earth days. The thick permanent clouds surrounding Venus glowed with light hours after sundown, making the twilight last and last. Beyond the marshes was the sea--filled, too, with savage life, flying crocodiles who made nests of the bones of their prey, great dinosaur-like monsters and shark-snakes. But none of these dared come onto the land, for the land animals fought them as fiercely as they fought man. Except for Baba, all the animals on Venus were determined to kill Johnny's people. And he had just been making friends with some of those enemies. He felt strange, as if he were being a traitor to his own kind. Johnny didn't like that feeling. Suddenly he thought of Baba living among people and wondered if the little bear felt the same way. Johnny turned away from the edge of the cliff and kicked a stone. He began to wander over the top of New Plymouth Rock, peering into bushes and piles of boulders. He passed near the antelopes grazing on some grass. They lifted their heads and whinnied, but went on grazing. Johnny liked that. Beside a pile of small boulders, he found some arrow-bird nests. He spoke to the birds and all was well. "That's an odd pile of boulders," Johnny muttered to himself. It didn't look just right, somehow. He pushed one of the stones and it rolled down almost to his foot. There was a dark empty space beyond it. He took his flashlight from his belt and shined it down into the opening. He almost dropped the flashlight. The light revealed the shape of a bouncing bear, a marva, just like Baba! "Baba!" Johnny turned and yelled, "Come here, quick!" When he looked back, the bear in the opening had not moved. It was not blue, but the color of the rock. Johnny stopped shaking. The opening was the entrance into a cave, and on the wall of the cave was carved the figure of a bear he had thought was alive. But he was sure that the bear had been blue! CHAPTER SIX _Inside New Plymouth Rock_ Johnny and Baba excitedly started clearing away the pile of boulders and stones from the mouth of the mysterious cave. Immediately the arrow-birds began flying around, their heads snapping into striking position. "They don't like us doing this," Baba clicked. "They don't like it at all." He turned to the fluttering birds. "Bother us not! Bother us not!" he repeated. The birds retreated, but hovered in the air not far off. "Go away!" Johnny clicked. The birds squeaked among themselves and went a little farther away. "I don't understand," Johnny said. "We aren't bothering their nests." He and Baba each picked up a stone and carried it away from the cave opening. Johnny watched the arrow-birds from the corners of his eyes. They dived in closer. "Go away," came a firm, deep click. The birds stopped in mid-air and then were gone. "Gosh," Johnny said to Baba, "you sure made them go that time." Baba's eyes opened wide. "I didn't say anything," he clicked. The bear and the boy looked at one another, puzzled, and then into the opening. The bear cut in the stone was all they could see. "Come on, Baba!" Johnny rushed to the opening and knocked down a few more stones. Baba pushed them farther away. In a few minutes of hard work the opening was big enough for Johnny to squeeze through. Around the edge of the cave, the rock was carved with the shapes of many animals. The floor slanted sharply downward. "Hurry, Johnny," Baba clicked anxiously. "He may have gone away." The little bear's eyes were shining with eagerness. Johnny's heart sank. Baba had not seen another live jewel bear since he had been captured. He had never seemed interested. But now he was quivering with excitement. If they found marva, maybe Baba would want to stay with them! Johnny wanted Baba to be safe, but he didn't want to lose him for always. The little bear was already scurrying down the steep slope. Without stopping to think of danger ahead, Johnny plunged after him. The ceiling was just high enough for him to stand upright. Flashing his light into the darkness, Johnny saw that the cave was a long passageway that curved down into the heart of the great rock. Soon they were too deep inside for any light to reach them from the mouth of the cave. Except for the beam of Johnny's flashlight, they were surrounded by complete darkness. The air was musty and cool and their footfalls echoed, making scarey hollow noises. "Stop!" Johnny said. He held his fingers to his lips. His words echoed and re-echoed in front of them. Then there was almost silence. A soft padding and clicking sound came from far in the distance. It was the same kind of noise Baba's feet and claws made on stone. The two started out again at a half run. The slope was almost too steep, and Johnny had to slide to a halt to keep from falling. Baba went bouncing along ahead and out of sight. As the slope became steeper yet, Johnny had to slide forward carefully. He stumbled and went down on his back. His flashlight slipped from his hand and went rolling on down the passage and out of sight. In a second it was pitch black. "Baba," Johnny yelled at the top of his lungs. His only answer was his own voice echoing down the long corridor. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and slid on forward on the seat of his pants, his heart beating rapidly. A few very long minutes later, he saw a light shining in the distance. It was Baba, the flashlight in his paw. "Hurry, Johnny!" he clicked. "Hurry." With the way lighted for him, Johnny got to his feet and could move faster. As he reached Baba, the passage began to widen and the slope became less steep. "I saw him," Baba clicked excitedly. "He was big. I'm sure if we could catch him he'd be a friend! I tried to talk to him but he went on ahead just when you called. Oh, Johnny, I do want to find him." Johnny had never seen Baba so excited. Suddenly, the passageway ended and they were in a great underground room. Johnny flashed his light around the walls. They, too, were carved with scenes of life on Venus. Beneath each carving was a small doorway leading into a side room. There was one large doorway opposite the one through which they had entered. "It looks like a meeting house," Johnny said. "With seats and everything." He flashed the light on one of the carvings. He had heard of carvings like these and had seen one once. His father said that they must have been made by an intelligent life form that had visited Venus from the stars. This cave must have been where they had hidden from the animals, just as men now hid from them behind the settlement's great walls. Johnny was awed. "Johnny, don't just stand here," Baba clicked. "We've got to find him!" Johnny looked from opening to opening. "Which way, Baba?" The little bear sniffed the air. "I can't tell," he said. "I can't tell." Hurriedly they made a circle about the great room. When they came to the large opening, Baba sniffed carefully. "Maybe here," he clicked, and plunged through. Down they went as before. This time Johnny grabbed Baba's harness and they were able to move faster. This corridor was just as steep and curving as the first one. In a few minutes they emerged into another room. It was smaller than the room above and had three small doorways and one large opening. "Let's try them all," Baba said. Through each of the three small doorways they entered similar rooms. The fourth opening was another corridor. Again Baba thought he smelled the path of the marva. Down that corridor they went, down and down. Finally it ended in hundreds of the rooms, large and small, the rock was like a honeycomb. Johnny's flashlight was already growing dim, and they didn't dare try to search much longer. Trying to follow the scent they took a side corridor that led from one small room to another, and came out into a narrow passageway. A faint light glimmered at the end of it. Baba bounded on ahead, Johnny running to keep up with him. The light seeped through a pile of rocks. Johnny flashed his light through one of the cracks. Behind the pile of rocks the tunnel continued for several feet. In the light of his flashlight Johnny could see bits of leather on the floor of the outer part of the cave. Just beyond them on the other side of the rocks was the cave Johnny and Baba had rested in while climbing up, the cave in which they had cut the long straps they had used to tie themselves together for the long climb upward. The bits of leather on the floor were scraps that had been left over. "Why, we're almost to the bottom," Johnny said. "Yes," Baba clicked. "I guess we can't find him. I don't smell anything now but arrow-birds," he ended sadly. "We gotta try," Johnny said firmly. He felt hollow inside when he thought Baba might go away for good, but he was convinced now that this was the only way to keep him safe. "Let's try farther down." Johnny turned around and a few minutes later they were going down one of the curving main corridors again. This corridor gradually straightened out. Soon it hardly slanted down at all. It finally turned into what seemed to be a long underground tunnel. Johnny had to stoop over to keep from hitting his head on the ceiling. The passageway was no longer going through solid rock, and its walls and floor were a sticky clay. Johnny's and Baba's feet made squishing noises as they walked. It seemed as if the tunnel would never end. They walked on and on. "I think we're going away from New Plymouth Rock," Baba clicked. "I think so, too," Johnny answered. "We must've already gone 'most a mile." The walls had narrowed until Johnny and Baba had to walk single file. Suddenly the passageway slanted upward and a faint glow of light could be seen far away. As they began to climb toward the light the ceiling became so low Johnny had to crawl on his hands and knees. It was a long, sticky climb. As they approached within a few yards of the light, Baba stopped, blocking Johnny's way. "This cave must end up in the jungle outside the colony wall," the little bear clicked. "Maybe we ought to stop." He sounded worried. But Johnny was not going to let this chance pass. "Go on," he urged. "But the rhinosaurs...." "Who's afraid of an old rhinosaur?" Johnny demanded. "You are," Baba clicked. But he scrambled on. They emerged into the blinding light in the center of a tangle of thick, high brush. They were out in the jungle, far away from the rock! The boy and his bear were covered with mud from head to foot. They peered carefully around, listening. In the distance they could hear the rumble of moving rhinosaurs. As they crept away from the cave, their view continued to be blocked by large bushes and trees. They couldn't even see New Plymouth Rock. Stepping quietly and carefully they finally came to an opening in the brush. Far to the right was the Rock--and, farther in the distance, a guard tower. "Get back," Johnny shouted. "The guard will see us." The two jumped back. There was a grunt behind them. They turned. Behind a screen of brush, a great blue-scaled rhinosaur was waking up. It was between them and the opening to the cave. It snorted with the sound of a deep bass drum, and heaved up on its feet. Ahead, at the edge of the clearing, was a tall meat tree. They had two chances. They could turn quietly and creep away into the brush, hoping the big beast would not see or hear them. Or, they could make a run for the meat tree--in full view of the guard tower. CHAPTER SEVEN _The Rhinosaur Stampede_ The decision was made for them by the rhinosaur. The great scaled beast began to turn around, crashing down brush as he moved. In a few seconds he would be facing directly toward them. "Tree," Baba clicked very softly. Johnny nodded. The two slinked like hunting cats toward the tree. They didn't dare look back. "I think the guard saw us," Baba clicked. "He was waving his arms." The jewel bear had already climbed part way up the trunk. He motioned for Johnny to grab the harness. Not making a sound Johnny took hold of the harness, and the two of them started up the tree. When they reached the first branch, Johnny let go the harness and clambered up as quickly and quietly as he could. Only when they were screened from view by the fleshy leaves of the meat tree did he dare to look down. Through little openings between the leaves he could see the rhinosaur. It was shaking its ugly horned head. Its little black-blue eyes peered about under blue scaled eyelids. It trumpeted. The deep blasting sound echoed against the settlement walls. For some minutes it moved around in the brush, snorting. It paused, snuffing in air in great gulps. Then it headed straight for the tree and began to trot back and forth under it. It had smelled Johnny! Its hoofbeats on the ground made the limb Johnny sat on tremble. If the rhinosaur sensed that Johnny was in the tree it was the end. The tree was easily four feet thick at the base, but a rhinosaur could knock it down with one rush. Johnny and Baba were on the highest and smallest branch, but they were barely twenty feet above its head. The rhinosaur's shoulder brushed against the lowest branch and the whole tree swayed back and forth as if hit by a hurricane. Johnny was struck by an idea. "Baba," he whispered, "do you think it might obey you--just like the arrow-birds?" "I don't know, Johnny," Baba clicked softly. "I'll try." Baba started to climb down. By the slow careful way Baba moved, Johnny knew the little bear was afraid, too. It was an awful chance to take. Johnny was about to call him back, but as he opened his lips, the little bear looked up and grinned. Down Baba went. He was now halfway down the tree, thirty feet from the ground and level with the eyes of the rhinosaur. It caught sight of him, snorted, and pawed the ground, digging up shovelfuls of dirt with each movement. "Friend-pet! Friend-pet!" Baba clicked and Johnny suddenly wanted to giggle. Imagine having something that size for a pet! "Friend-pet!" Baba clicked again, "Go away! Go away! Bother us not!" The big creature stopped still. Muscles rolled and bunched under the heavy blue-grey scales. Was he going to charge or leave? They never found out. There was a roar of motors behind the beast, the clank of metal, the deafening blast of an ato-tube gun. The ground shook; leaves showered down on Johnny. The guards had sent a tank to rescue them! Things began to happen too fast for Johnny to keep track. The rhinosaur roared with pain and wheeled. It had been hit! It charged toward the oncoming tank--one of the colony's light duty tanks, built for speed and quick turns. The driver jockied for position. The tank shot down the clearing, turned and stopped. Its guns were too light to kill the huge beast, so the gunner did not bother to fire again. They were trying to draw the rhinosaur away from the tree. The rhinosaur's hooves thundered, echoing against the walls and the rocks as it gathered speed. It was almost on top of the tank. With a roar of the motors the tank shot forward. The rhinosaur was going too fast to stop or turn. It plunged on past the tank, bellowing its rage. Almost immediately the tank screeched to a stop beneath the tree. Its manhole swung open. Rick Saunders' red head emerged. "Get in here! Quick!" he shouted over the noise of the motor. Johnny needed no invitation. He was already halfway down the trunk of the tree. Baba jumped from his perch into the open manhole. As soon as Johnny was low enough, he grasped a branch, swung on to the top of the tank, and started down the steel ladder. The tank jumped forward with a lurch. The rhinosaur was bearing down on them. Their guns roared, but the rhinosaur did not stop. As a hand grabbed him, pulling him inside, Johnny saw the tree topple over as the rhinosaur crashed into it. "Fire the gate rocket!" someone's shout echoed in the tank. Johnny recognized Captain Thompson's deep voice. "Check!" Johnny heard Rick answer. Rick was up in the gun turret. After the outside light, it seemed very dark in the tank. It smelled of grease and the burnt air of cannon fire. There was the swish of a rocket. Johnny knew this rocket was a signal for the guard on duty at the steel gateways to be ready to open up. The motors were roaring with a high whining sound which meant they were going at full speed. The tank bounced and jolted, shaking Johnny from side to side. "Get ready for the gate!" warned Captain Thompson from the driver's seat. The tank seemed to be almost flying now. Johnny set himself for a violent turn. Like the doors of the houses, the wall gates were double. Each was a heavy steel portcullis, a great sliding door that could be raised and lowered. When a tank came in the outer gate its weight tripped a switch. That switched turned on motors that made the first gate fall and the second rise. Otherwise fast moving tanks would have smashed into the second gate. Johnny slid over to an observation slit. To his left he could see that the heavy steel gate was rising. His heart raced. When being chased by rhinosaurs a driver sped straight along the wall and then turned sharply through the open gate. If he timed it right the rhinosaurs plunged on and the tank was safe. It took split second timing. They were right by the gate. Johnny grabbed a brace. With a scream of the treads, the tank started into a turn. "Rhinos on the side!" shouted Rick. His guns blasted. Captain Thompson fought to straighten the tank out of the turn. Baba was sitting with his paws over his ears, his claws glowing. There was a bone-shattering crash. Then Johnny felt himself flying through the air. Everything went topsy-turvy. He banged his shoulder against the side of the tank. Then he felt Baba's furry body against his. Rick's feet seemed to come from nowhere and dig into his back. Johnny grabbed on to something solid and wedged himself in tight. The tank was rolling over and over. Something crashed against it again and again. There was a heavy thud and the sound of breaking metal. Then everything was still. The motors had stopped. From outside came the roar of guns and the bellowing of rhinosaurs. Johnny found himself sprawled on top of Rick Saunders. He was terribly shaken. Baba was hanging onto one of the rungs of the steel ladder. It was almost pitch dark. Rick struggled to his feet as Johnny scrambled from on top of him. "We're upside down," Baba clicked softly to Johnny. "What happened, Saunders?" Captain Thompson's heavy voice demanded from the driver's compartment. "Didn't Harkness teach you to shoot?" "Four of them rushed us right at the gate," Rick answered. "Did we make it inside?" "Think so. Anybody hurt?" Thompson asked. "Just scratched a little," Johnny answered. "Good," Captain Thompson grunted. "Is the righting jack O.K.?" Rick tested a lever. "O.K." "Let her rip!" "Hang on, Johnny," Rick said. "We're going to right her." Johnny knew just what was going to happen. A tank turned turtle had meant a dead crew until the righting jack had been attached to each of the tanks. Compressed air pushed out two rods fore and aft and flipped the tank right side up. Johnny braced himself. There was a rush of air. Johnny felt the tank tip slowly under him. Then it went over with a crash. The tank was right side up. "The gate!" Rick exclaimed. Just above his head Johnny saw light from the observation slit. He looked out. Then he knew what Rick meant. They and the four rhinosaurs had reached the gate at the same time. The rhinosaurs were inside. They had knocked the tank through the outer gateway and had smashed into the steel door before it was halfway down. The inner door must have met the same fate for Johnny could see that the sliding steel plates were bent and jammed open. The rhinosaurs had kept after the tank until now it lay fifty yards inside the settlement. Even as Johnny watched, another rhinosaur charged through the opening and headed into the settlement. Captain Thompson was grinding on the starter and Rick was working up in the gun turret. "The rhinosaurs got through," Johnny clicked to Baba. "And the tank is broken?" Baba clicked back. "Yes." "I have to get out," Baba said. "Maybe I can get the rhinosaurs to...." "No, Baba," Johnny said. "They're just plain crazy now." Captain Thompson climbed down out of the driver's compartment. "The motor's gone. How are the guns?" "Out of action," Rick answered. "Must be filled with dirt. We can't do any good here." "O.K.," Captain Thompson said. "Let's get moving. I'm needed out there!" Rick undid the wing nuts on the manhole and pushed. Metal squeaked, but the door stayed in place. "Jammed!" Rick said. "Get me a crow bar out of the box." Johnny dived for the tool box and came up with a pry bar. He handed it to Rick. "Hurry, man," Captain Thompson said as Rick went to work. His black angry eyes fixed themselves on Johnny. "We should have left you out there." "I'm sorry," Johnny said. In answer the man cuffed Johnny with the back of his hand. Johnny couldn't be angry. He knew what a rhinosaur raid was like, and this one was his fault. "Oh, leave the kid alone," Rick said from above. "Leave him alone!" Thompson snorted, and glared first at Johnny and then at Baba. "The kid and that bear have caused more trouble...." Captain Thompson stopped talking and stared at Baba. He reached out suddenly and grabbed the little bear by the paw. "Well, look at this!" he said in a hushed tone. In the steamy darkness of the tank Baba's nails shone clear and blue. The climbing and running had worn off all the paint. Thompson held up Baba's paws into the light of an observation slit. He scraped with one of his finger nails. "Nail polish!" he exclaimed. The manhole came open with a clang. "She's open!" Rick called. Captain Thompson paused only a fraction of a second over Baba and climbed the ladder. "Lock the kid and bear in the tank," Thompson ordered. "There's less danger here for the boy than there would be in the trip to the wall. You, Rick, go back to the gate. I'll run for headquarters. Make it fast!" Without another word he was up the ladder and gone. Rick Saunders reached down and patted Johnny on the shoulder. "Tough luck about your bear, son," he said, and then he, too, was gone. The manhole door clanged and Johnny heard a lock click into place. He hugged Baba to him. "Gosh, Baba," Johnny said, "what are we going to do now?" Baba, for once, had nothing to say. Johnny hugged the warm, furry creature closer to him. Tears began to streak down his cheeks. Baba didn't like this. He cocked a blue eye at the boy. "Don't cry, Johnny!" he clicked. "Come on, stop it!" he pleaded. "Why don't we go up in the turret and see what's happening." Johnny wiped his tears away and the two climbed into the gun turret. His stomach tightened. Through the four-inch thick bubble of marvite plastic he could see the destruction he and Baba had let loose. The whole settlement lay within view. A half dozen of the giant lizard beasts had turned, the colony into a dusty hell. Even within the tank the bellows of the beasts and the roar of guns was almost deafening. Most of the marshberry fields had already been trampled in the mud. One of the concrete houses lay crushed into rubble. Johnny was grateful that almost everyone was at the rocket field. He gave thanks, too, for Captain Thompson. He could see the big man marshaling tanks into an organized row. They were going to try to herd the great beasts out the open gates. Johnny turned his eyes toward the gates. Someone had manhandled one of the big ato-tube cannons into the opening, pointing it into the jungle. His friend, Rick Saunders, ran up to help. A dying rhinosaur lay not far from the muzzle of the gun. Evidently the other rhinosaurs were too sensible or too frightened to try the power of that cannon. Baba was pulling at Johnny's sleeve. "Look, Johnny, look!" Baba clicked. Johnny turned and looked toward the settlement again. A heavy duty hunting tank stood before the settlement stockade and store house. Its heavy cannon spoke once and the door dissolved. Four men leaped from the tank and ran inside. "They're stealing our claws!" Johnny cried out. Weighed down by the colony's strong box, the four men came out of the building. Inside that strong box were the colony's precious marva claws! The four hunters heaved the safe into the tank's carrier and climbed inside. With a spurt of dust, the tank rolled on. A few minutes later it had fought its way through the rhinosaurs and was passing the place where Johnny and Baba stared out of the turret. As it came up to the gate the hunting tank's manhole opened and a man emerged. He waved to Rick, standing beside the cannon. The redhaired ex-bodyguard waved back. Then he climbed up on the tank and down inside. The tank rolled on out into the jungle. Johnny stood, shocked and silent. Out that gate went the last valuable thing the colony owned! "I don't understand," Baba clicked. "I thought Rick was the colony's friend." "I did, too," Johnny said sadly. CHAPTER EIGHT _One Secret is Revealed_ It was now early evening and the Venus skies were a deep clear green. It was over an hour since the last rhinosaur had been killed or driven out. The gates had been temporarily repaired. Here and there a small building had been trodden into rubble. Johnny and Baba were still locked inside the tank which had been dragged away from the dangerous fighting. From the turret they were watching a group of men gathered outside the administration building. Johnny wished someone would come and let them out. Finally the crowd broke up. One group of men hopped on to the back of a tank and headed toward Johnny and Baba. The rest of the crowd followed on foot. "I wonder what's up," Johnny said. Baba shook his head. "I don't like the looks of it," Johnny went on. "We're in an awful pickle." He looked down at the little bear's paws. He had painted the nails again with the nail polish, but he didn't think it would do any good. The tank came rumbling to a halt beside them. The two crawled down from the turret. Johnny heard the men working on the lock. The manhole door was opened. "Come on out, Johnny." It was his father's voice. Baba jumped on his shoulder and Johnny climbed slowly out. Johnny's father and Captain Thompson were standing on top of the tank, surrounded by a crowd of grave-faced Venus pioneers. It was odd. None of the men looked angry. Johnny knew they should be very angry with him. He tried to shape words to say he'd try to make up for the trouble he'd caused, but the words would not come. Mr. Watson reached out and picked Baba from Johnny's shoulder. He lifted up one of the little bear's paws and looked at it carefully. "The claws still look black to me," he said. Disappointment, mixed with relief, came over the faces of the men. "Let me show you." Captain Thompson, not ungently, took Baba from Johnny's father. The little bear looked straight at Johnny, an odd expression in his deep blue eyes. But he didn't struggle. Captain Thompson set Baba down on the top of the tank and took one of the paws in his hands. With his fingernail he scraped at one of the claws, then another and another. He held the paw up for the men to see. The claws glowed clear blue in the evening light. "You see," he said, triumphantly, "it is just as I said. The boy has been covering them up." The crowd sighed with wonder. Captain Thompson turned back to Johnny's father. "You'd better tell the boy right away. It will be easier." Many of the crowd nodded their agreement. For the first time Johnny made out the object that Captain Thompson had been carrying. It was a small cage made of diamond-wood. Johnny's father reached out and touched him on the shoulder. "You know what happened here today, don't you, Johnny?" he asked in a grave tone. "Yes, sir," Johnny answered in a low, shamed voice. "The crop's been ruined, and those hunters stole our claws." "That's right," his father said. "And I think you also understand that if it hadn't been for you, this needn't have happened." "Yes, sir." The words were almost a whisper. Johnny felt the tears coming up into his eyes. "You can understand, then, it's up to you and us to make amends to the colony." "Yes, sir." Johnny's whisper was even lower. "Well, son, I'm sorry to do this, but I have to. I know Baba has been your pet for a long time, but you are going to have to give him up. I've just given him back to the colony. Now, get him into the cage, so we can get this over with." "But you'll kill him!" Johnny cried out. He reached down and swept the little bear into his arms. "No, son, not right away," his father answered. "The rocket captain says the colony could make some money by showing him alive on Earth before they--put him to sleep." "But you know that he'll die. Oh, Daddy, please don't!" Johnny looked up, pleading, at his father. Frederick Watson's eyes met Johnny's. They were kind but stern. He shook his head firmly. Johnny looked around him through his tears. Baba was warm and furry in his arms. The men stood about; their faces were grave and determined. Most still held ato-tubes in their hands. Even at that, Baba had a chance. Johnny began to click in the ear of the little bear. "Baba," he clicked very softly, "you can get away, over the wall by the rock. It isn't very far. I'll throw you as far as I can. If you bounce like crazy they could never hit you." But the little bear jumped to the steel tank top. "No, Johnny," he clicked. "You are my friend-pet-brother, no matter what happens." Then, just as if he had been told to go by Johnny, the little bear walked over to the cage. Captain Thompson was holding a sliding door open. Baba climbed in. He squatted there and made a little whimpering noise that was the only sound he could make beside his clicks. He waved a paw at Johnny. "The little devil acts almost human," the old guard, Jeb, said from the crowd. Only Johnny knew how true that was. "Better hustle that kid inside a tank," someone shouted. "He hasn't got any armor on." Frederick Watson's head jerked around. His eyes widened. In one motion he took Johnny into his arms and jumped to the ground. Seconds later Johnny was in a big hunting tank headed for home, a home for the first time in ten years empty of a little bouncing bear. CHAPTER NINE _The Price of a Brother_ Johnny had some tall explaining to do about his lack of armor. He was in a tight spot, for the less he let anyone know, the more chance he had to find some way of rescuing Baba. Johnny was very careful about his explanation. There might still be a way. The fact that he had been seen on top of New Plymouth Rock made his explanation easier. He simply said that he had been looking for a place to hide the little bear and, in order for Baba to help take him up the rock, he had had to chance taking off his armor. He said nothing about Baba and the arrow-birds. Being found in the jungle was harder to explain without telling a lie--but he managed it. He said that he and Baba had taken a route down that had made them land on the jungle side of the rock. It didn't explain why they were beyond the clearing, but his parents seemed to assume that he had been trying to get among the brush where he could hide from the animals. He said nothing at all about the caves in the rock. It was a pretty thin story, but his family was too relieved that he had come home alive to worry much about it. It was long past supper time when the explaining was over and his mother began to prepare a meal. Ordinarily Johnny's father would not have been home even for supper. Rocket day was a busy time for the leader of the colony. But with all the confusion, the business of the day had to be put aside. It was a strangely sad and silent house. Johnny himself was so good his parents could hardly recognize him. He had showered without being asked and changed into clean clothes. His hands were perfectly clean at the table. His mother had hidden Baba's high chair away; the little bear had always sat with them at table. It was a quiet meal. Often after the before-sleep meal Johnny and his father worked on model rockets, but this evening models were forgotten. Johnny got a book and his father busied himself with papers. But Johnny didn't read. He kept thinking of Baba, all alone in the settlement storage house, surrounded by guards. The whole area was lit up in case hunters should try to steal the little bear just as they had stolen the marva claws. The family sat in silence. Once Johnny saw his mother wipe a tear away from her eyes. He knew she liked Baba, too. But she liked him only as a pet. "Dad," he said suddenly. His father looked up from his work. "Would you--?" Johnny didn't know how to put the question he had to ask. "I mean ... well, the colony's in pretty bad shape, isn't it?" "Yes, son," his father said gravely, "it is." "The million dollars we get for Baba will help out a lot, won't it?" Johnny was very serious. "But, without it, would everybody starve to death?" "A million dollars will help the colony out," his father answered. "But even without it, nobody would starve. There are the meat fruit and berries to gather and the animals to hunt. But everyone would have a very hard time. It isn't a simple thing to keep a colony going. It is very difficult and very important. Mankind is reaching out, son, and some day we may inhabit planets of all the stars in the heavens. But only if Venus colony succeeds. It is a big thing, Johnny." Mr. Watson's voice was serious, as if he were talking to another man. Johnny was quiet a minute. "Dad," he said slowly, "in order to get that million dollars would you have mother or me"--he paused--"put to sleep?" "Johnny!" Johnny's mother broke in in a horrified voice. "That's no question to ask your father." "I've got to know, Mother. I've just got to," Johnny said earnestly, his brow wrinkled. Johnny's father looked at him strangely. "Did you really think," he asked in a tight, hurt voice, "I would do a thing like that?" "Not even Uncle Nathan?" Johnny persisted. Nathan was his mother's brother. "All right, Johnny," his father said in a firm voice. "I'll answer you. No, I wouldn't have you, your mother, _or_ your Uncle Nathan 'put to sleep' for any amount of money--for the colony or for myself. But you must understand, Johnny, you aren't the same as a little bouncing bear." "But Baba--" Johnny began. "Baba is an animal," Johnny's mother broke in. "I know how you love him. But you have to understand that your father could not do differently from what he did." She came over to Johnny and put her arm around him. "We love Baba, too, and it hurts us to give him up. Still we must. You do understand, don't you?" Johnny looked up into his mother's face and smiled. It was a very small and very weak smile, but a smile none the less. "I understand," he said, and turned back to his father. "Thanks for answering my question, Dad." Johnny felt better for the first time since Baba had been put in the cage. Now he knew just what he had to do. It was right to do it. Baba was as close to him as _any_ brother. "Do you think I could go see Baba before sleep time, Dad? You know he won't eat if I'm not there." Johnny's father looked at his mother. "It couldn't do any harm, Fred," she said. "Let the boy go. But he must be in bed soon." "All right, son," his father answered. "But remember, the whole thing is out of our hands now. You'll just have to accept what is going to happen." "O.K., Dad," Johnny said. Everything was going to be all right, but he'd need every ounce of courage he had. * * * * * A few minutes later Jeb, the old guard, let Johnny and his father into the store house. The little bear sat quietly in his cage. There were a dozen uncracked nuts on the floor. An untouched bar of chocolate lay beside him. "I'm sure glad to see you!" said old Jeb. "Ever since he got here the little critter's been sitting just like that, kind of crying to himself. He wouldn't pay attention even when I gave him the chocolate." "He'll be all right now," Johnny's father said. "It probably oughtn't to bother me so much." Jeb closed the door and stood there with them. He took off his headglobe and scratched his head. "But my partner'n me caught one of the little ones once. We watched it just waste away, crying like that all the time. I always figured we should have let it go. But then there was always the chance it'd grow up and be worth a million." He glanced down at Johnny, who was removing his armor, and came to a stumbling halt. "Sorry, kid," he said. He put his headglobe back on and went out. As soon as he saw Johnny, the little bear's ears perked up. "Hi!" he clicked. Johnny winked. Johnny's father stood there and watched them. "Remember, Johnny," he cautioned, "this is just a visit. What the colony decides in this matter goes." "I know, Dad," Johnny answered. "I'll be back in half an hour," his father said. "Get him to eat, if you can. Night will be here in a few hours and he'll sleep then." With this he opened the door and left. Johnny rushed to the cage. His hand was on the latch when the door opened again. It was old Jeb. "Sorry, son, but I got orders not to leave you alone with the critter. If he ever got out he'd be mighty hard to catch." Jeb walked over and seated himself on a box. "That's all right," Johnny said, and squatted down in front of the cage. It wasn't part of the plan for Baba to get away--yet. "Besides, he wouldn't run away while I'm here," he said. "Can't take no chances." Jeb sprawled out as if glad to be off his feet. Johnny turned to Baba. "Baba," Johnny clicked in the marva language, "can you get out of here, if you want to?" Johnny didn't like to talk in the clicking language with Jeb around, but there was no avoiding it. "Yes," the little bear answered after a time. But then he whimpered again. "Doggone it, stop that!" Johnny said in English. Then he clicked, "If things work out right, you aren't going to have to go to Earth _or_ get killed." "But how?" Baba asked. He seemed to revive a little. "If I got out and came to you they'd just bring me back here." "I know, but they don't think you're smart enough to do anything else. They don't know anything except that we were up on the rock." The little bear grinned. Then suddenly he began to sniff. He looked all around him, found the chocolate and began to stuff it into his mouth, making loud smacking noises. Johnny gave a sigh of relief. Baba was on the mend. "Now, listen, we've gotta make plans." "But what can we do, if they know we were on the rock?" Baba clicked through a mouthful of chocolate mixed with nuts--his favorite combination. Johnny took a deep breath. "We could run away into the jungle!" he clicked. He jumped when Jeb moved away from his box. "That's quite a racket you two're making." Jeb walked over and peered at them from under jutting grey eyebrows. "Well, you've got the little devil to eatin'!" He smiled and waved at Baba. Baba waved back and the guard laughed. "It's a pity, that what it is. It's just a pity you're worth so much money!" He went back to his seat. "But, Johnny," Baba clicked, "you couldn't live in the jungle." "_You_ can't live _here_--or on Earth. Sooner or later they're going to--well, they're going to want your claws and teeth. Out there we would have a chance. Why, we might even find some of the--" He put in the word 'wild' in English, for there was no word for it in the clicking language, "--marvas, and we could live with them." "No!" Baba interrupted. "You might be killed. I can make the arrow-birds go away, but there are the horned snakes and the leopards and rhinosaurs and...." "Wasn't that old rhinosaur about to go away?" Johnny broke in. "Just because you said so?" "Maybe," Baba admitted. "He stopped a second. But then we don't know for sure!" "I've got to take the chance. I've just got to!" Johnny insisted. "I can't let them take you away and use you for making somebody's rings or a mess of plastic. Remember that song you sang." Johnny tried to sing the little lullaby that Baba had sung on the top of New Plymouth Rock. The little bear grinned and put his paws over his ears. "The words are right," he said, "but the tune is all wrong. Listen!" The little bear sang the song that was like the roll of a mockingbird's call. "That's right pretty," Jeb said from his box. "I'd heard men say that the critters sang, but never did hear one myself. Old hunter friend of mine said he came on a marva once singing to her little ones that way. It was so pretty he stopped to listen and by gum if she didn't smell him and bounce off 'fore he could draw a bead on her." "Baba sings real well--when he's happy," Johnny said, and turned back to Baba. "And you sing true, too, Baba," he clicked. "All right," the little bear clicked. "How will we do it?" The plan came out in a rush. Johnny had it all worked out. "It's Venus evening now," Johnny said, "and we're supposed to be in a sleep period. That means there won't be too many people up but guards. I'll take some food for me and some matches and a flashlight and some other things." He paused. "They leave you alone in here, don't they?" "Yes," clicked Baba. "Do you think you can cut a hole in the bottom of the cage?" Johnny asked. "Easy!" The little bear touched a bar with his claws. "Good. When you're out, dig a hole in the floor. But be careful. They have guards walking all around, and they already have lights rigged up. The switch is in between the double doors. Get your escape holes all made, turn out the lights, and then scoot! I'll be waiting for you by the rock. O.K.?" The little bear nodded. "We'll have to find a place to be when it gets dark," he clicked. Baba didn't sleep as people did, but during the four day period of darkness he had to sleep most of the time. "We'll find some place," Johnny clicked. "Now, listen. I'll try to get some sleep and I'll be ready in five hours. Don't try to get out before then. My folks will be asleep and I can slip out of the house. If it takes you longer, I'll wait." "Leave it to me," Baba said. They had everything settled and were playing together through the bars of the cage when Johnny's father came after him. "Time for bed, son," his father said. "Say goodbye, now." Johnny got into his armor, said goodnight to Jeb and followed his father outside. In the deep green twilight every building of the settlement stood out sharp and clear. A cool breeze was coming up. Johnny looked over to New Plymouth Rock. Behind that towering rock lay the vast and menacing jungle. CHAPTER TEN _Alone in the Jungle_ Johnny was afraid. Behind a boulder by New Plymouth Rock, he had been sitting and waiting for Baba for almost one hour. It was too long a time to wait with nothing to do but imagine what might happen in the jungle. Johnny was dressed for the cold night to come in a synthetic fur parka. Strapped on his back was a pack containing food and jungle equipment. Beside him was Baba's harness. He was very tired and sleepy. He leaned over and peeked cautiously from behind the boulder. The lights around the storage shed were still on. He wondered what was keeping Baba. He made himself comfortable again and listened to the night sounds. He listened hard for any sound of rhinosaurs outside. There was only the sigh of wind through the trampled marshberries. As he listened, his head nodded down on his breast, and his eyes closed. He wished Baba would come. Maybe he couldn't make it. Maybe he.... But his thought trailed off into a dream. He was up in the meat tree being attacked by a rhinosaur standing twice as high as the tree. Far away someone began shooting at the rhinosaur. Then the tree was being shaken back and forth. Baba was clicking something in the dream Johnny couldn't understand. "Wake up, Johnny! Wake up!" Johnny's head jerked up. The shaking was real. It was Baba pushing his shoulder. The shooting was real too. Men were running about the settlement with flashlights. It was hard to see for any distance through the green twilight which would last for many hours longer. "Hurry, Johnny!" Baba clicked. "O.K." Johnny said. He was still dazed with sleep as he helped Baba struggle into his harness. As soon as the harness was on, they began to run deeper among the boulders. Hundreds of small stones under their feet made a sound like a landslide. They stopped still, listening. The men had not heard. "Maybe we'd better go straight up the main rock," Johnny said. Baba nodded. Both knew it would be harder work, but safer. Johnny tested the straps on Baba's harness. There was no time to tie himself on. This time it was going to be harder for both of them. Baba didn't dare bounce, so they started right from the foot of the rock. In the half light it was not likely that the men would see them. Even if they did, there was a good chance they would hold their fire when they saw Johnny. If so, the two of them could still get away. Oddly, Johnny's fear was gone. From below them came the sound of a man moving among the rocks. "Quiet, Baba," Johnny whispered. Baba stopped. Jeb flashed his light among the rocks and up along the main rock. For a fraction of a second the light was full on them. But it passed by without pausing. "Nothing over here!" Jeb called out in a loud voice. "Dang critter must have got clear away." There was the sound of footsteps hurrying toward them. Johnny and Baba froze to the rock. "Hey, you two," Jeb's voice came softly, "I don't know what you're aimin' to do, but you'd better hurry up about it. They're fixin' to mount searchlights on the wall." Johnny was flabbergasted. The old hunter was helping them! There was a chuckle from below. "Hurry up, now. I don't want no more baby marva a-haunting me like the one I told you about." "Thanks," Johnny whispered. "Golly, thanks! Come on, Baba," he clicked, turning his head back to the little bear. Baba began to scurry along up the rocks once more. "Just one thing more," the whisper followed them. "Ain't that clickin' the way those critters got of talking?" "Yes," Johnny answered. "I figgered it, by gosh!" Jeb chuckled deep in his throat. "I just knew you was fixin' up a getaway. Good luck, you two!" "Goodbye," Johnny said. "You are a good man," Baba clicked. "A true friend!" "Baba said you are a good man and a true friend," Johnny whispered. "Thank you, Baba," the old man said. Then he was gone. Baba and Johnny began climbing in earnest now. Johnny couldn't let himself get tired. As silently as they could, they went on and on. They climbed for what seemed an hour. Actually it was fifteen minutes later when they reached the ledge leading to the cave in the rock. They were barely inside when search lights cut through the twilight and began to play on the rock. The two sat down to rest, but not for long. Soon they were tearing down the pile of rocks at the back of the cave so they could get into the main caverns. They had talked about staying the night within the inner rooms, but decided it was too dangerous. Sooner or later the colonists were bound to drop someone from a helicopter to search for Baba on top of the rock; and there was too great a chance the entrance would be discovered. Once inside the main caverns, the first job was to make their way through the long passageways to the top of the rock to block the entrance they had made earlier in the day. It took precious time, but they had to do it. They almost didn't make it, for as they were filling in the last stone at the cave mouth they heard the sound of 'copter motors. Johnny grabbed Baba's harness, and down the long winding passageways they went, full tilt. Soon they were picking their way about the brush near the exit of the long, damp tunnel. Through the green twilight they could see the searchlights brightening New Plymouth Rock. Baba was sniffing the air. Johnny listened carefully for the sound of rhinosaurs or of tanks. There was no evidence of either man or animal. "We made it, Grandfather Bear!" Johnny said aloud to Baba. "You're safe!" Baba grinned. "No rhinosaurs around either," he clicked. "We'd better hurry." "Let's stick close to trees for a while--just in case," Johnny suggested. Only heavy brush surrounded them. "We'd better get to a tank path," Baba clicked, "or we won't get very far very fast." Johnny nodded. He settled his pack on his shoulder and the two moved forward. Using Johnny's compass they cut through the brush and soon came to a tank path. It was very still. There was no sound but the wind rustling the trees. All around them were trees and brush and pools of deep green shadow. The first two miles were the easiest. In the absence of rhinosaurs, there was nothing much to fear here but arrow-birds, and they would soon be heading for their nests. Most of the Venus animals kept well away from the settlement. Twice a flight of arrow-birds came shrieking down at them, and twice Baba's clicks sent them whirring on their way. Otherwise the jungle was empty of life. It was a relatively safe zone. But in order to make sure of Baba's safety, they would have to go on into an area of teeming life. Johnny thought of the comfort and safety of the settlement, of the love and protection his parents had given him. He had left a note for his parents. "I am sorry to take Baba away since he is worth so much to the colony," he had written. "But he is just like a brother to me. Don't worry. I will be safe with Baba." He hoped they would understand. Though he had bravely told his parents not to worry, here in the jungle, Johnny, himself, was already frightened and very homesick. "Baba," he said suddenly, "it's going to be hard being away from Mom and Pop." They were walking now through the thick grove of meat trees that edged a forest of diamond-woods that loomed up in the distance. "Yes," Baba clicked, "I know." "Well, I was thinking," Johnny continued, "that after we find your people, maybe after a month or so, I could go back home. Later I could come for visits and things." Johnny watched Baba from the corners of his eyes to see how the little bear would take to the idea. For a while, Baba bounded along beside Johnny, his eyes straight ahead. "I know what it's like being without a mother and father," the little bear clicked so softly Johnny could hardly hear him. "It happened long ago, but I remember how it was at first. I can't bear to think of your going away. But we will see what happens." Baba turned toward Johnny. "I think you shouldn't have come." Johnny was sorry for having brought up the subject. "Let's skip it," he said. "Don't be an unhappy old grandfather bear," he joked. "Think about the nuts you'll find right ahead." The nuts were not really very close. It took a good deal of hiking before the tank trail began to wind among gigantic trees. Bigger than Earth redwoods, they rose almost like mountains around them. Here even the wind did not enter, and beneath their feet was a cushion of fine leaves. All was silence. Johnny was glad to rest his feet while Baba gathered a few nuts. Then they trudged on. Hours later they emerged from the darkness of the diamond-wood forest into the green twilight of the surrounding meat trees. Johnny was exhausted. A sudden coughing roar in the distance sent a shiver up Johnny's back and brought them to an abrupt halt. It was a saber-tooth leopard! Johnny heard a slight stir of movement in the underbrush. About them, birds of all kinds twittered and chirped, readying themselves for the long darkness of Venus night. They were out of the safety zone. Though many hours had gone by, it was still Venus evening. He and Baba had to push on into the deadly part of the jungle before they could rest. The leopard's roar had come from far away and there was no immediate danger, but from that time on the two watched every step they took. A faint breeze blew in their faces. That was good. Johnny's scent would not be blown to any of the animals. Johnny set his voice to click, not to speak. He had to try to forget human speech, and talk always like Baba. He spoke to Baba constantly in the marva language, and Baba corrected him when he let his clicks become high pitched as Baba's once had been. The meat tree grove was thinning out. The tank tracks were getting fainter and fainter. Vines wound around the trees and bushes. On the vines great orange flowers seemed to burn with color in the green light. Johnny watched the flowers carefully because one might really be a scarlet ape. Men called these flowers monkey flowers since they were so near the color of those small apes that lived on the edge of meat tree groves. As the two adventurers walked, the noises of animals became louder and more numerous. A large bird fluttered across their path and went shrieking ahead of them. Then there was sudden silence. They stopped. Baba hurriedly clicked loudly into the silence, "Friend-pets, friend-pets, bother--" He did not have time to finish the sentence. Johnny was struck suddenly on the back and sent sprawling on his face. A hundred tiny hands seemed to be pulling at his hair. He felt a rip of cloth and then a sharp pain as a small claw cut into his back. Baba was clicking loudly. As suddenly as he was struck down, the attack on him stopped. Dazed, he painfully got to his hands and knees. "Friend-pets, bother us not. Bother us not!" Baba was repeating over and over again as loudly as he could. Johnny's eyes widened. Surrounding them were hundreds of tiny monkeys no more than eight inches high. Scarlet red in color, they sat perfectly still, their eyes fixed on Johnny and Baba. Sitting high on a nearby bush one of the little apes held a packet of Johnny's food in its tiny hands. Johnny stood up to his full height and a low growl went up from the animals. The monkey with Johnny's packet hurled it at Johnny with surprising strength. Johnny made a quick catch. "Thank you," Johnny clicked in the marva tongue. The monkeys chattered excitedly. "Thank you, friend-pet." "Give it something," Baba clicked. "Oh, I'm afraid, Johnny. They hate you so much--I can feel it." Johnny knew why. The skins of these animals were much in fashion for coats back on Earth. Johnny reached down for his knife to cut the strings of the packet. As the knife came in sight a menacing growl went up. As Johnny and Baba stood there, more and more of the monkeys leaped from the bushes to join the crowd. The whole path was covered; the trees seemed to be filled with red flowers. Some of the new-comers were intent upon rushing Johnny when the knife glittered in the half light. But Baba stopped them with his sharp, repeated commands. Johnny cut the packet open. Among other things, a large bag of candy was inside. He had raided the cupboard well. "Come here," Johnny clicked, as firmly as he could manage. "Friend-pet, come here." He pointed at the little creature who had thrown the package at him. Showing its teeth and growling faintly, the monkey bounded forward. Johnny held out a piece of candy to it. It sidled up, snatched the candy, and ran back to the others. It sniffed at the sweet, chattering wildly. Then its long black tongue went out and licked it. The monkey's eyes widened and it popped the candy into its mouth, smacking its lips. Again Johnny was almost knocked down. He was surrounded, climbed over, patted, peered at, and deafened by chatter. In a few seconds not a piece was left. But the monkeys no longer growled. "Go away! Go away!" Baba clicked. Reluctantly the animals parted from Johnny and took to the trees along the path. The branches swayed under them as they chattered among themselves. Suddenly, as quickly and mysteriously as they had appeared, the monkeys were gone. Something was wrong! Johnny's fear returned with the sense that something was watching him. Hardly daring to, he looked behind him. There in the half-darkness, glowed three pairs of green eyes. Crouched ready to spring, a leopardess was watching them, her two cubs beside her. How long they had been watching, Johnny never knew. He froze in his tracks. Baba had not looked around. "Friend-pets, bother us not, bother us not!" Baba was clicking loudly in preparation for going forward. As Johnny watched, the leopard, followed by her cubs, slipped into the jungle. "You didn't see her," Johnny clicked. "There was a leopardess and two cubs." Baba turned in the direction toward which Johnny was pointing. "We'd better go back," he clicked. "No," Johnny insisted bravely. "She and her cubs went away when you began to talk." "Not _far_ away." Baba sniffed the air. "I can smell them. I smell rain too." "Then we'd better find shelter. C'mon. Maybe we better take a path over to the right, away from the tank trail," Johnny suggested. "The leopardess went the other way." Baba nodded. They trudged on and took the first animal trail to the right. Baba went slightly ahead, crying "Friend-pets, bother us not!" over and over again. It was almost a chorus now. Most of the time Baba clicked it, but when he got tired Johnny took over for a while. They never ceased repeating the magical words. Once an antelope walked by their sides a few yards off, but he soon bounded away. Shortly afterward Johnny thought he saw a large black shadow moving in the deep brush. They walked steadily and found nothing but brush land. Then, not a hundred yards from them, a river shone through the deepening twilight. The shine of the water stopped them. They had proved they could control some of the animals, possibly even the leopards and rhinosaurs. But, if a river snake struck without warning as the monkeys had done, it would be the end of Johnny. While Johnny stood where he was, Baba went forward, chanting the cry of "Bother us not" as he went. When he returned he looked worried. "It is too dangerous to try to swim," he clicked. "In some places the branches of the trees on this side almost touch branches of the trees on the other side. If we keep on the path, maybe we can find a place where it would be safe to climb over." The path they were on turned and followed the river. They walked on for a few minutes. Baba stopped again, sniffing the air. "I don't like it," he clicked. "The leopards are close again." They moved forward cautiously, but when minutes passed and no attack came they walked with more confidence. The magic formula of clicks seemed to be working. Though nothing bothered them, they knew from rustling noises and from cries that animals were all about them. Nowhere could they find a place where the tree branches made a bridge across the river. Nowhere could they find a place of refuge. The trail began to lead away from the river toward a little hill that stood in black outline against the almost darkened sky. Big Venus fireflies had begun to come out, sparkling like so many blue stars. The two weary travelers followed the path, hoping it would lead back to the river. It ended completely at the base of the small rocky hill. So tired he almost wanted to cry, Johnny sat down in the middle of the path. Then he noticed a spot of deeper darkness among the rocks. He jumped to his feet. "Hey, Baba," he said, "it looks like a cave! Come on!" The two of them hurried forward. A nice comfortable cave was just what they were looking for! They were within a few yards of the cave, when they heard a crashing noise from the underbrush and the pad of soft footsteps. A leopardess leaped in front of them, cutting them off from the cave. The big cat growled low, and two cubs scuttled through the entrance. The leopardess sat back on her haunches in the mouth of the cave, her eyes two gold-green lights burning in the dark green of the late twilight. Slightly larger than an Earth lion, the Venus sabre-tooth leopard is coal black, marked with golden spots. Her two tusk-like fangs show why leopards are among the most deadly fighters of all the Venus animals. Baba began clicking again. Johnny stood stock still. The leopardess watched them. She looked as if she might spring at any moment. Then, with a ripple of her powerful shoulder muscles, she lay down in the mouth of the cave. "Let's go before she changes her mind and attacks," Johnny said. "No, wait!" Baba said. "You stay here." Slowly Baba walked up to the spot where the big cat was lying, clicking as he went. She appeared to pay no attention to him, but when he was right beside her, she stood up. She made a low rumbling in her throat that sounded strangely like a purr. When Baba paused, the leopardess made a little coughing sound. The two cubs, who were as large as collie dogs, came tumbling out of the cave, their tongues hanging out. They came up to Baba, cocking their heads. They rubbed themselves in a friendly way against the little bear. "Come on, Johnny," Baba clicked. "I think we have a home." His heart in his mouth, Johnny walked forward. "Friend-pet," he clicked firmly, "I am your friend." Repeating this, he walked straight up to the deadly beast. He reached out a trembling hand and patted the ugly fanged head. The creature stood rigid. But as he petted her, she relaxed and the purring noise began in the back of her throat. The big head moved around. Her mouth opened slightly and she licked his hand. She made a little coughing noise and the cubs came up to him. He petted them, too, and looked at Baba. "Come on," said the little bear, "let's see what the leopard's house is like." Together the two explored the inside of the cave with the help of Johnny's flashlight. It was surprisingly clean. The big cat had dragged in straw, which was arranged thickly over part of the floor. "It sure looks like it would make a good bed," Johnny said. He was so tired; so much had happened. Trader Harkness and the meat fruit, the climbing of New Plymouth Rock, the rhinosaur raid and Rick's betrayal, and the escape into the jungle. Johnny ate a few antelope berries to quench his thirst, but nothing more. He arranged a place for himself on the dried grass and curled up. He was almost asleep, when he heard the big cat come into that part of the cave. He opened his eyes to see the sabre-tooth leopard looming over him. For a second he was afraid. Then, just as a house cat will do, she pushed her paws back and forth into the straw, circled a few times, and lay down right by his head, pushing him aside. He rearranged his bed and lay his head against her soft flank. With his head pillowed against a sabre-tooth leopard, Johnny Watson slipped off to sleep. CHAPTER ELEVEN _The Friends are Separated_ Johnny was hot and sweaty. He was glad to see the cool dark cave ahead. It was like home to him by now. The mother leopard was lying in front of the cave, and the two cubs came running to greet them. "Hi, Pat. Hi, Mike," he called. They came up to be petted. "They seem happy to see us," Baba clicked as he bounced along. "And I'm glad to see them," Johnny said. "Golly, I'm hot." Baba and he had just been down the river trying to find a place where they might cross. Immediately after the long Venus night was over, they had gone exploring in hopes of finding a colony of wild marva nearby. But the only diamond-wood groves close to the cave were still too close to the settlement. The marva must have left them because of the danger. The two had gathered a good supply of nuts for Baba, but otherwise the trip had been useless. Though they were still afraid of the horned river snakes, there was no way of avoiding crossing the river. If they went downstream they would soon be in the rhinosaur marshes. Upstream the river curved back toward the colony. Johnny and Baba had spent the whole long night in the cave and Johnny had got to know the leopard family quite well. He had discovered they, too, had something like a language. It was made up of different kinds of growls. Each growl meant something, but there weren't many of them. The mother leopard could say things like "Come," or "Go" to her kittens. She had a different growl for each of them, though Johnny named them Pat and Mike. Throughout the time Baba was asleep Johnny had practiced these growls, until he could talk a little in the leopard language. He had also taught the little ones to like meat fruit roasted over the open fire he had had to light to keep warm. All three cats had been afraid of the fire when he had first lit it. They had soon learned it was harmless if they didn't step into it. They were very smart animals, but by no means as smart as Baba. Baba was just as clever as a person. All the rest of the animals now seemed friendly, too. Johnny thought he knew why. Not only the leopards, but all the animals could talk! They couldn't say much, but just enough to tell one another Johnny wouldn't hurt them. And all of them could understand the marva language. He and Baba talked about this, but they weren't yet ready to take a chance on river snakes. The snakes stayed deep in the water and struck before they could be seen. It didn't seem likely that they would have learned Johnny was a friend. Baba was going to go down to the river by himself. Perhaps he could find one of the horned snakes and bring it back with him. Then Johnny could make friends with it. If what Johnny thought was true, then the snake would tell the others and he and Baba could float safely across the river on a log they had found. After patting the mother leopard on the head, Johnny took off his pack and laid it in the mouth of the cave. "I think I'll go over to the waterfall and have a shower," he said. "That's not such a good idea," Baba said. "Stay here. I won't be gone long." "Oh, stop worrying, Grandfather!" Johnny laughed. He was stripping himself down to his shorts. The three leopards sat on their haunches watching him. They were fascinated by his clothes. The first time he had taken them off they had been almost afraid of him. "I'll take Mama Leopard along with me for a guard," Johnny said. "You tell her, Baba. Maybe I can growl better than you, but she still seems to do everything you say." Baba clicked directions to the leopard. She was to go along with Johnny and protect him. When Baba was through clicking, the mother leopard came over and licked Johnny, making a growling sound that meant she understood. Then with a wave of his paw, Baba bounced away toward the river. Johnny was happy to see him go. Baba, himself, had suggested that the trip be taken. It was the first time he had ever offered to leave Johnny for such a long time. Johnny loved the little bear, and it was fun in the jungle, but he couldn't help wishing he were home. The waterfall was not much of a waterfall. A little way from the leopard's cave was a small spring high up in the rocks. A tiny stream of water fell about ten feet making a great spray and quite a little noise. It made a wonderful shower. The mother leopard lay on the rocks below while Johnny climbed up to the waterfall. Johnny danced about as the cool water hit his hot dusty skin. It felt wonderful running all over him. Then he walked into a pool and splashed happily. Then Johnny began to sing. With him the little waterfall sang a tinkling, merry tune that blotted out even the chatter of the birds in the surrounding trees. It did not blot out a coughing roar that came from the mother leopard. Johnny knew that sound. It meant _come_! Johnny stopped singing and looked down. The leopardess was on her feet now, looking into the sky. Johnny looked too. A helicopter floated soundlessly overhead, its jets off. Johnny looked around for some place to hide. There was none. The mother leopard crouched. Her muscles rippled under her black and gold skin. In one mighty spring she was beside him. Before Johnny knew what was happening, her great jaws opened--and closed around him. The long sabre teeth barely touched his skin. With no more effort than if she were carrying a feather, she leaped through the air with Johnny in her mouth. When she landed Johnny's feet thumped painfully against a rock. Where she was holding him about the middle in her teeth, he was unharmed. Johnny heard the roar of gunfire as the helicopter's motors were switched on. Still carrying Johnny in her jaws, the mother leopard screamed in pain. Johnny was tumbled to the ground, half dazed. A very shaken Johnny watched the mother leopard run away a short distance, then turn and spring back toward him. A second later she was standing over Johnny, putting her body between him and the helicopter. She roared her defiance at the machine. Johnny marveled at her courage. She started to pick him up again. The helicopter was getting into a position where it could hit the big cat without hitting Johnny. In a few seconds the courageous animal would be dead. "Run, friend-pet!" he clicked loudly. "Run! They won't hurt me. Run!" She looked down at him and growled in a questioning way. Her muscles tensed, and, with a great spring, she was gone. The guns roared, but the leopard's last bound carried her safely into the brush. Before Johnny could get to his feet the 'copter was beside him. Two men in armor and headglobes jumped out. "Hurry," yelled the pilot from inside. "You just grazed the leopard." One man grabbed Johnny by the heels, the other by his shoulders. With one swing he was tossed heavily onto the floor of the 'copter. The two men jumped in after him. The armored door clanged closed. The motors roared and they were going straight up into the sky. Johnny lay quietly on the floor for some moments; he was still dazed by his fall--and by the sudden turn of events. "That leopard was crazy," one of the men was saying. "I never saw one come back like that, except for a cub!" Johnny looked up into the face of the speaker. It was a thin, narrow face with full red lips and small black eyes. Johnny didn't know him. "That was a narrow squeak you had," the hunter said to Johnny, in a high, nasal voice. "Two minutes later you'd have been leopard food. Are you hurt?" Johnny sat up slowly, moving his arms and legs. "Uh uh," he said. With a whine of the motors the 'copter went into a hover. It floated over the spot where they had picked up Johnny. "What in the name of all the moon devils were you doing out there like that--stark naked and no armor?" "Taking a bath." Johnny was too bewildered to make up an excuse. The man raised his black eyes to heaven and looked at his companion. "Crazy!" he muttered. "But, kid," he addressed Johnny, "what made--" "Skip it!" the pilot said, in a low hard voice. The black-eyed man stopped abruptly. Johnny decided the pilot must be the leader. The man turned around and looked at Johnny. He was a large man, slope-shouldered but powerful. His blond hair was slicked down against his head. Two long red scars cut across a white heavy-jawed face. His eyes were so pale they were almost white. "Where's the bear?" he snapped. Johnny was struck silent. They were after Baba! "Come on, kid," the low voice came again, "where's the bear?" "He ran away." Johnny blurted out the first thing he could think of. "I've had an awful time. We got lost in the jungle and he ran away, right at first. I lit fires to attract attention and keep off animals, and the rains put them out and my matches got wet. I've had an awful time, and...." "You ain't seen nothing of the bear?" the scar-faced pilot cut in. Johnny crossed his fingers carefully and looked the big man straight in the eyes. "Not since right at first!" The pale eyes bored into his. Johnny's eyes dropped down. "The kid's lying!" the big man said to the others, and turned back to Johnny. "O.K., kid, let's have it straight now!" But no matter how much they questioned him or how they threatened, Johnny insisted he did not know where Baba was. Finally Ed, the blond scar-faced leader, gave up. He turned to the others. "You guys search the ground," he commanded, "while I call in to the boss." He turned and dialed the radio telephone on the instrument board of the 'copter. "Hello," he said, "I want to speak to the boss." There was a pause. "Hello," he said again. "We got the kid--found him where Stevenson thought he saw the fire." Johnny heard a voice coming back over the instrument. He thought he recognized it, but he couldn't make out any words. "No," the pilot spoke into the instrument, "the kid says the bear ran away, but I think he's lying. We're going to search from the plane. Can't send anybody down because of the leopards. One had the kid when we found him." There was another pause. "No, not hurt. When we're finished I'll drop him at the colony." There was a long pause. Johnny caught the words, "if I know that bear," and then there was more he couldn't catch. "That's a smart idea," the scar-faced man said. "We'll do just what you said. O.K. Be seeing you!" The pilot turned back to the other two, who had binoculars trained down into the jungle. "See anything, Barney?" "Not a thing, Ed!" the black-eyed man replied. "You, Shorty?" The other man shook his head. "Not even a bird." For over an hour they searched. While they were searching, Ed, the pilot, put in another call and told someone else what had happened. He hinted that even if they didn't find the bear, there was still a way they might get their hands on him. Johnny sat with his fists clenched. He knew they would shoot if Baba showed himself. After an hour went by and the 'copter had gone over every foot of the surrounding territory, the men had to give up because they were running low on fuel. As they went higher up, Johnny peered out. The 'copter veered Venus east--away from the colony. At that moment Johnny's heart sank. The hunters weren't taking him home! Baba would have seen the 'copter come and go. The little bear would think anyone finding Johnny would take him back to the settlement. Johnny knew just what the little bear would do. He would go back to the settlement looking for Johnny! Johnny had succeeded in keeping those hunters from getting Baba; now the colonists would get him. Or would they? Suddenly Johnny knew whose voice that had been on the radio telephone. The voice was that of the trader, Willard Harkness! CHAPTER TWELVE _The Price of a Boy_ They were in the air over two hours, traveling at maximum speed, before they arrived at their destination. This turned out to be a small cabin, surrounded by the usual high wall, with a space inside the wall for a helicopter and a tank. It was a hunters' hideout entirely hidden from view by diamond-wood trees. The pilot had had to work his way through branches and then fly for a time between the trunks of the great trees before hovering in for a landing. A man was standing in the yard waiting for them when they landed. As soon as Ed shut off the 'copter's motor, the man who was waiting for them yelled, "No arrow-birds that I can see. Tell the kid to run for it." The man had been informed about him by the helicopter's radio. "O.K., kid, scoot!" Ed jabbed Johnny in the ribs. Johnny scooted. The lodge door slammed behind him and he opened the inner door. The large central room was surprisingly neat. The floor was bare but polished. Some hunting trophies were on the windowless walls. Chained on a perch in one corner of the room, a miserable little scarlet ape sat huddled up, with its chin upon its knees. When it saw Johnny it screamed and chattered. Johnny walked toward it, about to click a greeting. "Better watch out!" A red head was thrust from the door of another room. "Ed's monkey is meaner than he is." It was Rick Saunders. "Glad to see you safe!" The big redhaired man grinned easily, and waved. "Hullo," Johnny said. He didn't smile. If Rick were here, it meant only one thing. These were the same men who had stolen the colony's marva claws! He all but glared at Rick Saunders standing in the inner doorway. "You don't seem too happy about being rescued," Rick said with a laugh. "I wasn't rescued. I...." Johnny stopped. He knew he shouldn't have said that. Rick's eyebrows went up. "It seems I heard something about a leopard." "Well, I guess I was rescued--sorta," Johnny admitted lamely. "I guess you were!" Rick paused, looking at Johnny. "You sure don't sound very friendly." "I don't like thieves and traitors," Johnny said defiantly. "Wait a minute!" Rick began. At that moment the four hunters entered the room, cutting off the rest of Rick's sentence. The scarred-faced leader spoke to Rick. "You know you're not allowed in here. Get out!" His voice was low and threatening. Rick turned to go. "Hold it," called Barney, the narrow-faced hunter. "Carry this in to the kitchen." He dropped a haunch of antelope on the floor. His face set and calm, Rick walked slowly past Johnny and hoisted the meat to his shoulder. "Any other orders?" he asked quietly. "Yep!" Ed said. "Take the kid with you. Rustle him up clothes of some kind. Then you can put him to work helping you." "Come on, Johnny." Rick put his hand on Johnny's shoulder and started for the door. Johnny followed him, shrugging off the friendly hand. The kitchen was even neater than the main room. As soon as they entered the room, Rick tossed the haunch of antelope into the sink. He turned, faced Johnny, and grasped the boy's shoulders with his big freckled hands. He seemed angry. "What's this thieves-and-traitors business mean?" he demanded. "First you pretended to be on our side," Johnny answered, "and then you let the rhinosaurs get in so's those hunters could steal our marva claws." "So that's what you think," Rick said. He regarded Johnny gravely. "Does the rest of the colony think that, too?" Johnny nodded. "Take a good look at me, Johnny." Rick touched a cloth tied around his middle like an apron. "I'm cook and housekeeper here, not one of the gang. I wasn't pretending anything, and I didn't _let_ any rhinosaurs inside. I came with these outlaws because they had their tank guns leveled on me." "But why did they do that?" Johnny demanded. "Harkness' orders," Rick replied. "Remember his threat?" "I sure do!" Johnny said. His eyes grew wide. "I was right," he went on. "I _thought_ Mr. Harkness was the boss those hunters called." "He sure is the boss," Rick said. "He's given out word he'll pay for any information about you and Baba. Any information he gets he passes on to this bunch. The gang has to work for him so he'll market their stolen claws and arrange their passage to Earth. Why he's even offering to pay double for Baba just to prevent the colony from getting him." "Golly!" Johnny breathed. "He really must be sore at us." Johnny sat down on a kitchen stool. It was cold against his bare bottom. He looked up at Rick. "Gosh, I'm sorry, Rick. I mean about thinking you were--well you know." "That's all right, Johnny." Rick was smiling now. "I'll admit it did look bad. Let's forget it and get you into some clothes. We have a meal to fix." Johnny jumped up. With a friend beside him things didn't seem quite as bad. Helped by a pair of scissors, Rick soon had him into a pair of cut down trousers and a baggy shirt. As soon as the clothes were on, the two started preparing the meal. As they worked, Johnny questioned Rick about what had happened to him. Outside of beating him up once, the hunters hadn't treated him too badly. He was being saved for Trader Harkness. They made Rick stay in the kitchen and wouldn't let him into the main room except to clean it up, and then kept a gun on him. The gang kept him from escaping by a very simple means--they locked up the rhinosaur-hide armor in a closet. Ed kept the closet keys, as well as the keys to the tank and helicopter, fastened to his wrist. Rick had been watching carefully but had not seen one chance to escape. As Johnny served the meal to the outlaw hunters, he looked the room over carefully. When the men weren't looking, he clicked a greeting to the little scarlet ape. It immediately became quite excited. A plan for escape began to shape itself in Johnny's mind. He said nothing to Rick, however. After the outlaws had eaten, Johnny and Rick had their meal. Rick thought it strange, but Johnny couldn't bring himself to eat any of the antelope; he remembered all too well the tiny antelope leader he had held in his hand. When they were finished and had washed the dishes, Johnny was all too glad for a blanket thrown on the kitchen floor--the same kind of bed Rick had. Johnny tried to push away his fears for Baba, but it was a long time before he could get to sleep. It seemed only minutes later when he was rudely awakened by a rough blow on his shoulder. Actually it was ten hours later, as he could see by the clock above the stove. Johnny reared up to see Ed standing over him, a smile on his thin lips, his pale eyes jubilant. "Get up and get your clothes on," he ordered. "We're going places." Johnny jumped up and reached for the baggy clothes Rick had made him. "Come on in when you're ready and don't waste any time about it," Ed directed, and strode back into the other room. Johnny slipped on the pants and was soon stuffing in the shirt tails of the oversized shirt. Rick stood by the stove and watched, sympathy in his eyes. "Baba," he said slowly, "arrived at the colony an hour ago. I was listening at the door when the call came from Harkness. These guys are planning--" "Come on!" Ed stuck his head in through the door and cut Rick off. Numb with worry, Johnny followed Ed into the main room. "Better wrap him up in something," the outlaw called Barney said, his narrow face twisted in a strange grin. "We can't let the arrow-birds get him now." Johnny stood while they strapped man-sized armor on him and put a headglobe on his head. He followed Ed out of the door and into the helicopter. The outlaw leader seated Johnny beside him, switched on the motor, and they roared away. "Where we going?" Johnny asked. "You'll find out," Ed snapped. "Keep quiet till I tell you to talk!" They flew on for almost an hour. Then Ed set the helicopter controls on automatic hover and snapped the radio telephone on. He dialed a number. Johnny saw that the number was that of Colony Headquarters. "Hello." Ed made his voice high and nasal. "I have information concerning Johnny Watson. Let me speak to his father." The slick-haired blond man put his hand over the telephone mouthpiece. He grabbed Johnny by the collar and stared directly into his eyes. "Listen," he said, "when your father comes on, I want you to speak to him. Tell him you were rescued by us and we've treated you O.K. Understand?" Johnny nodded, his mouth dry. "I'll tell him what happened," Johnny said. He didn't understand why Ed was making such a fuss about it. "Hello. Hello. This is Frederick Watson." Johnny was thrilled by the sound of his father's voice over the telephone. "Hello, Mr. Watson," Ed said in the fake voice. "We've found your boy and here he is." Ed handed Johnny the telephone, his hand over the mouthpiece again. "Remember!" he said in a threatening voice. "Hello, dad!" Johnny said into the telephone. "I'm safe all right." "Thank God!" his father's voice replied. "I was rescued by these men and outside of making me wash dishes and sleep on the floor, they've treated me fine. I'm--" Ed took the telephone away from him in mid-sentence. "But where are you, Johnny?" Johnny could still hear his father's voice. "Right now," Ed said into the telephone, "Johnny's up in a 'copter. You needn't try to get a direction finder on us. Rescuing this boy cost us a lot and we gotta be sure you'll pay us for it." "I offered a reward." Mr. Watson's voice was anxious. "It ain't enough," Ed said. "We lost a tank and a 'copter getting him. He was surrounded by rhinosaurs. We have the boy. You've got a live marva. I figure it should be a trade. You bring the marva to the old tank road by the river, and we'll bring the boy. Bring one tank, driven by one man. That's all. Be there forty-eight hours from now. Do as I say and the boy will be delivered on schedule." "Hello, hello." Frederick Watson's voice was frantic. "I don't know if the colony will--" Ed hung up and snapped off the radio. "They will," he said. Johnny's spirits had never been so low. Everything he touched seemed to turn to disaster. The colony was all but ruined. In trying to protect Baba he had caused the marshberries to be destroyed and had given these outlaws a chance to steal the colony's marva claws. By running away with Baba he hadn't saved the little bear at all. The outlaws, Trader Harkness' outlaws, were going to get him. Johnny would not only lose Baba, but the colony, too, would lose its last chance for survival. CHAPTER THIRTEEN _Outwitting the Outlaws_ The little red monkey screamed and chattered its hate as Johnny and Ed stepped through the doorway of the cabin after their eventful flight. Johnny had noted that the cabin door was the only exit. As was usual on Venus, the exit was a double door. When the outer door was open, the inner one could not be opened. It was just like the school door. If Johnny could once get through the outer door and block it open, it would be a while before the men could break the lock on the inner door and get out. Getting out the first door would be the problem--but not too big a problem. The outlaws didn't think that he could go into the jungle without armor, so they did not watch him or the door too carefully. As soon as they were inside, Ed took off Johnny's oversized armor and locked it away. He then winked at the other men and sat Johnny down in front of him on a high stool. "You know who I am?" Ed asked him. "Sure," Johnny said. "You're Ed." The big man cuffed him so hard he fell from the stool. "Boy," he said, "you never saw me before." He frowned, making his scarred face as evil as he could. "When you go back to that colony, you're going to forget you ever saw us. Do you know why?" From the floor Johnny shook his head. "Because if you tell anybody our names or anything about us, you know what we're going to do?" Ed asked. Again Johnny shook his head. "We'll catch you and take you out into the jungle and tie you to a tree without any armor on, and leave you for the arrow-birds. You understand?" Johnny nodded his head. They thought they were scaring him. They talked a little while longer, describing things they might do to him if he told their names, and Johnny pretended to be afraid. "All right," Ed said after the lecture. "Get back to the kitchen." "Can I play with your monkey?" Johnny asked. "Play with that monkey!" Ed's pale eyebrows went up. "He'd chew an ear off you. I've been trying to tame him for a month--and he don't do anything but bite. You leave him alone." "He won't bite me," Johnny said. "I don't think he will." The monkey would be a big help in escaping, if only they'd let Johnny get close to him. "I'll just go get some sugar cubes from the kitchen." "Let him, Ed. It'll teach the brat a lesson," the narrow-faced Barney put in. "O.K." Ed said. "Get bit, if you want to." Johnny rushed through the open door into the kitchen. Rick was sitting at the table with a book beside him. "You got any candy, Rick?" Johnny asked. "Or maybe some sugar cubes?" "You better not fool with that monk, Johnny," Rick said. "He's plenty mean, like all the Venus creatures." "He won't hurt me," Johnny said. He saw a box of sugar cubes in the cupboard and grabbed it. "Monkeys just love sweets." "No." Rick leaned over and a big freckled hand closed around Johnny's small brown one. He took the box of sugar away. "I'm going to tell them you got scared. Only two things will happen if you try playing with that monk. You'll get bitten, and they'll get a big laugh." "Please let me, Rick," Johnny said. He paused a minute and whispered, "I've got an idea how I can get away." "What!" Rick exploded. He closed the door and went on in a whisper, "It's impossible. You haven't any armor. You don't have any weapons or a tank. Don't be silly." He paused, and looked at Johnny. "Well, how were you going to do it?" "Simple," said Johnny. "First I make friends with the monkey. Then I'll let him go and tell him to run around and jump on Ed and the rest. While they are chasing him, I'll open the inside door. I'll let him out first and dive through myself. I'll wedge open the outside door, and by the time they get their armor on and break the lock on the inside door, I'll be over the wall and gone." The words tumbled out of him. Rick shook his head. "Johnny, that week in the jungle has gone straight to your head. In the first place, how are you going to make friends with the monkey? Then how are you going to _tell_ him anything? And how are you going to get any armor?" "Rick," Johnny said, "I don't need any armor." "Oh, Johnny!" Rick exclaimed, exasperated. "They just won't bother me." Johnny took a deep breath. "I can talk to them, same as I can talk to the monkey!" "What!" "Now, listen, Rick," Johnny whispered earnestly, "I wasn't hurt when I came here, was I? I'd been in the jungle six Earth days without any armor." Rick was looking at him with a strange expression. "Do you remember," Johnny went on, "how I looked when you rescued me from the rhinosaur?" Rick nodded. "Did I have any armor on then?" Rick stared at Johnny for a few seconds. "By golly!" His mouth was slightly open in amazement. "You didn't have any armor on!" "I wasn't hurt, was I?" Rick shook his head slowly. "No," he said, "but what about that leopard and the rhinosaur?" "The leopard wasn't hurting me," Johnny said. "She was trying to get me away before the men got me. She was my friend. As for the rhinosaur--well, Baba and me hadn't learned for sure about them, yet." "But how can you talk to them?" Rick asked in wonder. Johnny knew he had no choice, he had to trust Rick completely. "It was Baba," Johnny said. Then, very quickly, he explained about Baba's clicks, and told Rick about his three secrets. "Jeb said something about those clicks one time," Rick said thoughtfully. "I never dreamed it could be true." "It _is_ true, though," Johnny insisted. Ed stuck his scarred face through the doorway. "Well, kid, getting cold feet about the monk?" "No, sir!" Johnny said. "Rick was just getting me some cube sugar." "Well, hurry it up." Ed went back out. "Johnny," Rick said, "you show me with that monk, and by the moons of Saturn, I'll come with you, armor or no armor!" Johnny was bewildered. This was something he hadn't counted on. He wanted to explain that there was a chance even he, alone, could not succeed without Baba. Just as Johnny started to speak, Ed appeared in the doorway again. "Well?" he said in his heavy voice. Johnny took the sugar cubes from Rick and followed Ed into the main room. As he always did, the monkey screamed and chattered at them as they entered. The little animal was chained to its perch. A spring catch too strong for its tiny fingers fastened the chain to its collar and kept it from getting away. The outlaws began to gather around. "You'll have to stay at the table, way over at the other end of the room," Johnny said to the men. "He's scared of you." He pointed to the table, which was as far as possible from the door leading outside. "All right, all right." The four men seated themselves where Johnny pointed, ready to watch the fun. Johnny walked slowly up to the tiny monkey. As he did so, its little red face twisted and it showed its razor-sharp fangs. It screamed at him. Then it leaped out, only to be jerked back cruelly as it came to the end of its chain. But it ran out as far as it could and clawed at Johnny, its eyes red. "Friend-pet, friend-pet," Johnny clicked very low in the back of his throat. The animal stopped screaming and cocked his head at him. It looked from one side to the other, as if looking for a marva behind Johnny. Johnny repeated the phrase again and again, holding the sugar out where the red monkey could see it and smell it. Johnny didn't have any idea how much the little animal could understand, but he went on clicking. "I'm your friend. We are going to get away from these men." He repeated this many times. Then he remembered that Rick was going to try, too. "You and I and the big man in the other room are going to escape." As Johnny talked, he moved forward. Soon he was well in range of the little monkey's nails. It jumped forward. Johnny put a sugar cube in its paws. With a gurgle of pleasure, the monkey swallowed the sugar and put out its paw for more. "Jump on my shoulder," Johnny clicked. The little creature regarded him silently. Then, with a graceful hop, it was on his shoulder. "I don't believe it," Ed's voice rumbled. As soon as the hunter outlaw spoke, the little monkey growled and bared his teeth at him. The man muttered something under his breath, angry that a small boy had done what he couldn't do. He started out toward them, and was quickly in range of the creature's teeth. "You'd better not," Johnny said. "He'll--" The monkey dived at Ed, his teeth slicing into the man's shoulder. The outlaw jumped back, cursing. Blood ran down his shirt. "I'm sorry, Ed," Johnny said. "Let me work with him just a little while, and maybe he'll make friends with you, too." In his anger the man had picked up a heavy stick to hit the monkey. The other men broke into laughter. Ed grunted something, and threw his stick at the men who were laughing. "Come on," he said, "let's play cards." Johnny turned back to the monkey. For almost half an hour Johnny talked to the monkey in the marva clicking language while the outlaws played cards across the room. He guessed the little animal could understand a little more than the mother leopard could. That wasn't too much, but it was enough. He made the creature understand that when he was released, he was to fly at the men. He wasn't to hurt them, but make them chase him until Johnny could get the door open. Then the monkey was to leap for the opening. The hardest job was getting the monkey to understand that he shouldn't harm Rick if the ex-bodyguard came with them. Johnny wasn't sure the monkey understood. With his back turned to the outlaws, Johnny undid the collar about the monkey's throat. Keeping the little animal out of their sight he walked toward the exit door. He picked up an old boot to use on the outer door. "Hey," Ed suddenly shouted, "where's the monk?" "After them," Johnny clicked. The monkey leaped at the oncoming Ed. He clawed his face, then leaped at the other men. He made great jumps by swinging from light fixtures by his long black tail. Ed wheeled and charged like a bull after the tiny screaming creature. "The kid let the crazy thing loose!" he shouted. "Catch it!" "Shoot him!" yelled Shorty, drawing his ato-tube pistol from its holster. Ed knocked it from his hand, and it went sliding along the floor. "Want to kill us, too, you fool?" In the excitement Johnny worked the latch on the exit door, and pressed the button that opened it. He saw Rick half way through the kitchen door. Rick reached down and grabbed up something from the floor. The monkey was jumping from head to head among the yelling outlaws. Not one of them noticed what Johnny was doing. The door was open. Johnny nodded his head toward Rick, who came at a dead run. When Rick was almost there, Johnny clicked as loud as he could, "Come, friend-pet! Come!" In one leap the little animal sailed across the room and landed on his shoulder. Johnny and Rick pushed through the door, slammed it behind them, and opened the outside door. Johnny paused a second and wedged the boot he had picked up into the outer door. The outside door could not close and the safety lock would keep the inner door closed. "Come on, Johnny," Rick shouted. "This way!" He rushed through the helicopter landing space toward the tank entrance. Rick pulled the switch that opened the duro-steel door. "Dive for the nearest tree trunk," Rick shouted. "They have gun mounts on the roof." Johnny ran after Rick, his short legs unable to keep up with the older man. The little monkey was riding on top of his head, shrieking and chattering. As soon as they reached the forest the monkey jumped into a tree. Johnny stopped dead. He needed that monkey. The little animal could tell other animals he and Rick were friendly. "Friend-pet monkey, friend-pet monkey," he clicked, "come with me." For an instant he was afraid the animal had not heard. Then, with a shock, he felt it drop down on his head. "Rick, Rick," he yelled, "stay with me." With relief he heard the big man coming back. "You gotta stay with me," Johnny panted. "Arrow-birds." Rick nodded, and ran along beside Johnny. They ran among the great pillars of the diamond-wood forest until Johnny thought his breath would come no more. His feet were heavy against the springing leaves, his legs began to twist with fatigue. When he was about to fall, Rick whisked him up in his arms. The little monkey screamed and jumped at Rick's head. "No, no!" Johnny clicked. The tiny creature jumped back on Johnny's head, but he had left red claw marks on Rick's face. Far in the distance they heard the noise of a tank motor starting. The diamond-wood trees were beginning to thin out. Soon they would be in the jungle of meat trees which always surrounded a grove of the giant trees. The sound of a helicopter motor starting up was added to the sound of the tank. The noise of the tank motor lessened. The outlaws had headed in the wrong direction. The helicopter was the great danger now. Hiding under a meat tree, with its heavy leaves, was their best chance. "We'd better get under something, Rick," Johnny said. His breath had returned. "Let me down." Rick nodded. His breath was coming in great gasps. A heavily leafed tree surrounded by brush was a few hundred yards ahead of them. Johnny pointed to it and Rick nodded. Johnny prayed that there were no arrow-birds feeding there. This close to the hunters' lodge there shouldn't be many animals--but arrow-birds were always on the watch. As they worked through the brush to get under the meat tree Johnny really missed Baba. The first branches were too high for either Johnny or Rick to reach. If Baba had been there they could have easily climbed up into the protection of the tree's leaves and branches. Luckily the brush was high and thick around it, screening them from view from the side. The tree itself screened off the sky. Once they had reached the trunk of the tree, they stood wordlessly for a while, breathing hard. "Any idea where we are, Rick?" Johnny asked in a whisper. Rick's big, bony face broke into a smile. He reached into a pocket. Out came a small map of the Venus continent. "Not for sure," he said. "But we can't be far from the lodge." He pointed to a mark on the map. "Once we see the lay of the land, we should be able to tell." Suddenly Rick froze stone still. Johnny looked up. An arrow-bird had flown into the tree. Since its head was not in position to strike, it was probably looking for a meat fruit. Just as Johnny saw it, its head turned toward them. Johnny clicked out a sharp command for it to leave them alone. As the little purple eyes sought them out, its head snapped into striking position. But as Johnny clicked on, it moved its head back to a friendlier position. Its little purple eyes stared directly at them. Rick regarded Johnny with wonder. "I don't know what that little bear taught you, but it sure is a miracle," he said. He then reached into his shirt. "I'm still glad I got this. Did you see Ed knock it out of Shorty's hand?" He pulled an ato-tube pistol out of the shirt. As soon as the gun came out, the red ape leaped from Johnny's head, screaming. The arrow-bird snapped its head into position to strike. "Drop it, Rick! Drop it!" Johnny yelled. Amazement swept over Rick's face. "But why--?" "Bother us not, friend-pet," Johnny clicked loudly. At the same time he knocked the ato-tube from Rick's hand. He was too late. The arrow-bird shot with a sickening smack into Rick's shoulder. Almost as quickly it withdrew its blood-stained beak and was hovering in the air for another strike. CHAPTER FOURTEEN _Captured!_ Rick stood rigid, his face twisting with pain, a hand clutching his upper arm. The greenish bird hovered in the air, its wings a blur of motion. "We are friends. We are friends. Bother us not, friend-pet!" Johnny clicked deep in his throat. The bird continued to hover, its little purple eyes darting back and forth from Johnny to the wounded Rick. Its bloody head stayed in arrow position, but it drifted farther away. Johnny remembered that when he had had an arrow-bird on his shoulder, the others had left him alone. He dreaded changing his command, but he did. "Come to your friend," he clicked firmly. The arrow-bird stared at him distrustfully, but came closer. The monkey dropped back on Johnny's head. With a sigh of relief, Johnny saw the arrow-bird's head snap out of attack position. He put out his hand and the arrow-bird lit on it. "Are you hurt bad, Rick?" he asked. The words made the arrow-bird flutter with alarm, but Johnny soothed it by petting it with his other hand. Rick shook his head. "Not too bad," he said through clenched teeth. "The thing seemed to dodge when you made that clicking noise." "I'm sorry, Rick," Johnny said. "You just shouldn't have shown that gun--you'll have to leave it behind. If they think you'd harm any of them, they'll kill you, just like that. The monkeys almost got me 'cause of a pocket knife." "I didn't know," Rick said. He looked at the bird on Johnny's shoulder. "Seems peaceful enough now." "You better let him sit on your shoulder, Rick." Johnny looked down at the arrow-bird and stroked it again. When it was quiet he placed it on Rick's shoulder. The man was nervous and the bird was worried, but they both did as they were told. They waited under the tree while the helicopter went back and forth above them. Johnny looked at Rick's wound. It didn't look too serious, but Johnny knew better than to count on that. The slightest arrow-bird wound could be deadly if not treated. Johnny had seen hunters brought into the colony sick from an untreated scratch. They should have brought an emergency kit, but the kits were only carried in special pockets of the armor. They let Rick's wound bleed to cleanse it as much as possible. Then Johnny bound the arm tightly and made a sling for it from a piece of Rick's shirt. Rick gave Johnny his wrist watch to wear, since his wrist was hidden by the sling. After that they waited. It seemed the helicopter would never go away. Once it hovered almost directly above them, but then went on. While they waited Johnny looked over the map. The outlaw hideout was not as far from the colony as he had feared. They had to start soon and make good time, but they just might be able to make it to the meeting place the outlaws had set before Johnny's father got there. There was a fighting chance if Rick didn't get too sick. Finally they heard the sound of the helicopter landing far in the distance. Taking direction from the map, they set out on their way. Rick's wound was less painful now, but Johnny kept his eye on his redhaired friend. They started out at a fast clip, following an animal track which led in the direction they wanted to go. In a few hours of steady marching they were a safe distance from the outlaw hideout. Johnny's idea was working out. Several flights of arrow-birds had passed them by with no more than a glance in their direction. One flight had hovered above them while the arrow-bird on Rick's shoulder twittered and shrieked to them. Then they had flown off at top speed. A troop of monkeys had also let them pass without doing them any harm. Hundreds of the small red apes had followed along beside them for some time. Johnny's monkey chattered to them from his perch on the boy's head. Then they, too, had swung off through the trees at top speed. Rick had been awed, for he had never seen Venus animals so close except when they were attacking. At first Rick's strides had been long and Johnny had had to run every few steps to keep up. Now Rick's steps were short and slow. He seemed to be getting weaker and weaker. They had stopped and cleaned his wound again at a spring and rebound it, but he was not doing well. The big redhaired man was pale under his freckles; his lips were set tight. Johnny kept close beside him as they moved forward. They had worked out a path to follow that skirted diamond-wood groves and avoided rivers. It was too easy to become lost in the dense forest, and Johnny was very unsure of what river snakes would do. Suddenly Rick stumbled. He stopped and balanced himself by leaning on Johnny's shoulder. He looked at Johnny with bloodshot eyes, sighed and crumpled up on the ground. The arrow-bird that had been sitting on his shoulder hovered in the air above him making little squeaking noises. He flew toward Johnny and then down an animal trail that led off toward a diamond-wood grove. As Johnny leaned over to look at Rick the monkey jumped from Johnny's head. Johnny stared down at Rick Saunders' face. His cheeks were flushed but the rest of his face was grey. The little monkey sniffed the wounded man and chattered something at Johnny. Then he, too, ran down the side trail. When Johnny paid no attention, he came up to Johnny and plucked his sleeve, chattering all the while. Johnny looked around. He thought the monkey was drawing his attention to some antelope berries growing down the path. Johnny clicked to the little red monkey to gather some. When the red monkey returned, clutching a cluster of the large berries in each tiny paw, Johnny took them and squeezed the clear red juice into Rick's mouth. The man coughed and turned his face away. But gradually his eyes opened. They were dull and feverish. His hand went to his shoulder and he winced. In the few hours that had passed, his arm and shoulder had already swollen a great deal. He raised his head. Johnny helped him to his feet, but when he staggered, Johnny helped him lie down again on a patch of grass by the antelope berry bush. "I can't go any farther, Johnny." Rick's voice was hoarse. "Those birds must have some kind of poison on their beaks. That wound feels like it's on fire." "It's not poison, Rick," Johnny explained. "They eat the meat fruit and little pieces stick to their beaks. The pieces get rotten and infect wounds bad." Johnny remembered that Rick was an Earthie and had been on Venus barely a year. "There's only one thing to do," Johnny went on. "I'll have to light a signal fire with lots of smoke. Somebody'll see us then." Rick shook his head slowly. "No, Johnny, it won't do. If those hunters come they'll get you again and they're likely to finish me off. You take the map and go on...." Rick's voice trailed away. He struggled to sit up. Johnny stepped forward, wondering what was wrong. The monkey leaped off his head and bounded into a tree. Slowly Rick raised his good arm and pointed directly behind Johnny. Johnny turned. Staring at him through a bush was a coal black sabre-toothed leopard, crouched to spring. "Friend-pet, go away!" Johnny clicked in the marva tongue. Oh, if Baba were only here! The monkey chattered from a tree. "Go away! Go away!" Johnny repeated. Then he saw a second leopard. A third. None of them was his friend, the mother leopard. These leopards stood almost a foot higher and were solid black. Their sabre fangs were a full foot long. These were deadly males, hunting in a pack. The one behind the bush gave a coughing growl. All three slinked slowly toward Johnny and Rick on silent feet, their mouths half open, their white teeth shining. "Go away, bother us not! Friend-pets, bother us not!" Johnny repeated. The leopards moved smoothly forward, their steel-like muscles rippling under the shining black fur. Frantically, Johnny turned to Rick, who was struggling to his feet. "They won't obey, Rick!" "Run, Johnny," Rick said. "Run for a tree!" Rick thrust the boy behind him, but Johnny would not leave his friend. Rick turned, pulling Johnny, and started to run. At the same moment a leopard sprang through the air, high over their heads. A split second later he was in front of them, barring their way, his gold eyes glistening, his fanged mouth giving forth a low growl. The growl meant, "Come." Johnny looked about. Not four steps away was another of the lion-sized cats. They were ringed around by the creatures. Johnny tried clicking again, but they paid no attention. "My arm, Johnny!" Rick groaned. He ran his hand over a forehead which was dripping sweat. Slowly his legs gave way and he fell in a heap beside Johnny. The leopards moved closer, their mouths wide. The one in front was getting so close that Johnny could feel its breath blowing against his bare arm. Then it moved too fast for Johnny to follow. Johnny felt the great jaws close around his middle, and he was hurled off his feet. Frantically he beat at the big head. The jaws tightened, gripping him painfully. As Johnny cried out in pain he saw the other two leopards leap upon Rick. A few seconds later Johnny was being carried down the path in the jaws of the monster cat. The jaws had tightened no more than was necessary to hold him firmly as the animal trotted along. From this strange position Johnny witnessed an even stranger sight. Behind the leopard carrying Johnny strode the two others. Side by side they walked, dividing Rick Saunders' weight between them. One had its jaws about Rick's arms and shoulders; the other held his hips and legs. They moved along easily, their heads held high so that his feet would not drag on the ground. Then Johnny saw that his arrow-bird friend was riding on the shoulder of one of the leopards that was carrying Rick. He heard a chattering noise, and knew that the little red monkey was close by. The leopards were taking them some place, but who could know where? In his odd position Johnny could not tell even the direction they were going. But soon they were in the patchwork shadow of a meat tree forest. Here the leopards had their lairs. But they did not stop. They went on and on. Johnny kept trying to watch the leopards which carried Rick. Once in a while he could catch a glimpse of them, Rick's head bobbing as they moved. He was still unconscious. Then Johnny heard a shout and a scuffling noise. The leopard carrying him turned around. Rick was conscious. His head was turning about wildly and he was yelling. His eyes lit on Johnny. "What's happening?" he all but screamed. "They're taking us somewhere," Johnny answered. "They haven't hurt me yet." Rick was kicking his feet and struggling, making it hard for the leopards to walk. Johnny could see their jaws tightening as Rick struggled. "You better not fight, Rick," Johnny said. "You can't get away and they'll just hurt you more. I'll tell them you won't fight if they'll hold you easier." He clicked the message to the big cats. His own leopard turned back up the trail, and he couldn't see what the other leopards did. A few seconds later he heard Rick's voice. "You were right, Johnny. When I eased up they eased up, too." Then he laughed in a strained way. "I wish they'd eat us right now and get it over with." "Maybe they won't." They said no more. They were coming to the edge of the meat tree grove. As was often the case, the last group of meat trees was beside a river. Beyond was a diamond-wood grove. The three animals plunged into the cool water, and soon were swimming, with Johnny's and Rick's heads held well above the water. On the opposite bank they dived into the shadow of the diamond-wood grove. As soon as they entered the grove Johnny was startled to see that there were several antelope walking beside them. Then, suddenly, the little red monkey he had rescued from Ed was squatting on the leopard's back. Johnny heard a swishing sound almost under his head. By twisting hard he could see the ground. There was a river snake crawling beside them. Its ugly horned head was right beneath him. It was the first time he had ever seen one. Then his heart leaped. He heard the clicking of the marva language. Johnny twisted his body against the leopard's teeth, trying to see where the clicking was coming from. The leopard growled, and Johnny lay still again. "Take the big killer to the healer," the voice clicked. "The little killer take to the council." The clicks were somehow different from Baba's, firmer and louder; but Johnny could understand them perfectly. Johnny caught sight of the two leopards carrying Rick. They were turning down another path. The river snake and the antelope took the same path. But Johnny's leopard went on forward. After a short time the leopard stopped and very carefully opened its jaws and eased Johnny to the ground. It turned and walked a few steps away. There it crouched. Johnny got slowly to his feet. The little red monkey jumped on his head. The arrow-bird perched on his shoulder. In a clearing among the diamond-wood trees Johnny stood in the center of a circle of jewel bears, their blue nails glowing in the half light. All but one or two were dark about the muzzle. They sat on their haunches, staring straight at Johnny. CHAPTER FIFTEEN _A City in the Trees_ Except for faint animal sounds in the distance, there was silence in the diamond-wood grove. More marva than any other person had ever seen surrounded Johnny. Most of them were dark muzzled and very old. From old Jeb's hunting tales Johnny knew that as a marva grows older the fur about its muzzle darkens. A jewel bear with a black muzzle was a rare thing. This was no ordinary group of marva, but a gathering of elders. They seemed neither friendly nor unfriendly. They seemed to be waiting patiently for Johnny to do something. "Hello," Johnny broke the silence, greeting them in their own clicking language. "I am very glad to see you." Once started, Johnny had so much to say the words fairly rushed from him. "Your leopards sure scared us. Maybe you can tell me how to get to some people quick. Before it knew we wouldn't hurt it, this arrow-bird wounded my friend and he's very sick. And Baba's got caught again, and some bad men are trying to get him. If you could help us get back to the colony, oh, I'd thank you! Baba's a marva, you know, just like you and he's my best friend. We tried to find you, but the outlaws captured me and Baba went home because I'm his friend-pet-brother and he thought I'd be there. Rick will die if you--" The torrent of words was cut short by a marva with a coal black muzzle. He stood up and raised both furry blue paws for silence. "It was well reported that the little killer can speak our language," he clicked, with a sound very like a human chuckle. "You speak well," he clicked to Johnny, "but you speak too much at once." A ripple of amusement passed over the faces of the jewel bears. Then they became stern once more. "You must try to tell a little at a time," the old marva continued. "But first, let me answer one of your questions, for I think you are full of questions. The red-furred killer has been sent to the healers. He will soon be treated. We heard of you and of the wound from our friend-pets. You need not worry, little killer. Our healers have had many wounds to deal with since your kind has been in the green lands." "You mean _you_ will fix up my friend?" Johnny asked. "You have doctors?" "Yes, little killer," the black muzzled one answered. "But he won't understand," Johnny said. "He wouldn't let any of you touch him--not unless I talk to him." "Follow the leopard, then. He will take you to the healers. Then return here." The black muzzled marva waved his paw and the leopard rose and trotted off. Johnny ran beside him. In another clearing Johnny paused in amazement. It was filled with many animals. He saw several rhinosaurs with great gaping ato-tube wounds. A leopard with a cut on its shoulder lay whimpering before a marva, who was squeezing the juice of some berries upon the cut. Fascinated, Johnny watched as the marva sewed up the cut--a fine piece of marva claw for his needle. The berry's juice must have killed the pain for the leopard stopped whimpering and lay very still. Then Johnny saw Rick. He was lying on his back, but his eyes were open. The two leopards were right beside him, their heavy paws holding him down. "Rick!" Johnny called, running up to him. "Get away from here," Rick yelled. "There's a horned snake right beside me. He'll kill us!" "No," Johnny answered. "If he'd wanted to, he could have done it long ago. Rick, we're safe! The leopards brought you here to get your wound fixed up." Then he clicked to the leopards, "Let him go. He won't run away." He turned back to Rick. "I just told the leopards you won't run away," he explained. "Just watch the marva over there." Unsteadily, Rick got to his feet. He quickly sat down again, overcome by weakness and amazement. He had caught sight of the marva healers at work. One was sewing up a rhinosaur. Another was splinting up the leg of an antelope. Rick shook his head. "I'm dreaming," he said. "I must be!" "Isn't it wonderful!" Johnny said. "They're going to fix your wound, too." The leopard beside him growled, in the way Johnny knew meant "come." "I gotta go now," Johnny said. "Goodbye, and don't worry. Let them do what they want to." Johnny and the leopard made their way among the sick animals. Johnny let out a cry of pleasure. There was his friend the leopardess. The ato-tube burn was not a bad one, and it had already been treated. She rose when she saw him. Though the big male leopard growled his disapproval, Johnny ran over and patted her and her cubs before he went on. "Is she a friend of yours?" Johnny was startled by the sudden appearance of the black muzzled marva who had spoken to him earlier. "Yes, old one," Johnny answered respectfully. "Come!" the marva addressed the leopardess. The two leopards, the cubs, Johnny and the marva walked off together. Soon Johnny was in the circle of marva again. This time he was over his surprise and he tried to tell his story as clearly as he could. He was beginning to get worried about the time that was passing, and he looked at Rick's watch again and again. There was always the chance that the outlaws would try to get Baba, even though they no longer had Johnny to give in return. But he told his story as best he could. In spite of his worry, he had to explain all about men on Venus. He even had to tell where men came from, since the jewel bears had never seen stars or planets in their sky. He told about overcrowded Earth and his father's desire to make a colony. He told about the hunters and Trader Harkness. He told about his trip into the jungle and how the outlaws had captured him, and, finally, of his escape with Rick into the jungle. The group of marva listened carefully. Sometimes they nodded their heads in approval of what he had done, and sometimes they seemed puzzled. But they seemed more friendly when he had finished. When at last he came to a halt, the old marva who was acting as spokesman for the group arose. "You say this young marva friend of yours is named Baba?" The old one used the word in the clicking language for Baba's name. "Yes." "We have heard of him," the black muzzled marva clicked, "though he was not of our grove. His mother and brother were killed. We have wondered why he was not killed too, since your people feel we are your enemies. Our observer on Council Rock has watched your people often, but has seen little we can understand. Tell us why Baba was not killed at first." "I already explained," Johnny said. "His teeth and claws were black. Now they are blue and, of course, he's worth a lot of money." "What is this money?" the black muzzled one asked. Johnny was surprised. The word Baba used for money must not be a real marva word. If only Baba was here to explain! Johnny tried the best he could to explain how money works. The marva shook its head in wonder at the strange ways of men. "But why do you want our claws and teeth?" the marva asked. "To make rings and plastic." But they understood neither the word "ring" nor the word "plastic." Johnny had to explain that plastic was the material that headglobes were made from. He explained also that rings and jewelry were used for decoration. "And that is why we are killed on sight?" asked the marva. "Yes, old one." It made Johnny sad for himself, for the marva, and for his people, to have to admit this. His answer caused a stir among the marva. "I have one more question," the old marva said. "Why did you come into the jungle with the marva, Baba?" "He would have died or been killed otherwise, and he was my brother, or like my brother. It was like the song he sang: "You help your friends And your friends help you. It is the law And will be the law as the trees stand. Between friend and friend there is no parting More than the fingers of a hand." "We know the song," the marva said, gently. "But didn't you think these--" the marva gestured at the leopards, "might kill you?" "Yes," Johnny said, "but I had to take the chance." They asked many more questions about men and their ways. Many were hard for Johnny to answer or even to understand, but he tried very hard to be as clear and truthful as possible. Finally they seemed satisfied, and there was again silence in the diamond-wood grove. With a nod to Johnny the black muzzled marva led the rest of the jewel bears away, and left Johnny and his animal friends alone. A short distance away the marva again formed a circle and clicked together quietly. Then they called over his friend, the leopardess, the red monkey and the arrow-bird. They appeared to be asking them questions. Johnny, left to himself, wondered what was happening. It was all very strange. Rick's wrist watch said too much time had passed already. The black muzzled marva returned to Johnny. "Come with me," he clicked, and walked toward one of the great trees. One of the younger jewel bears waited at the foot of the tree. "Grasp him by the shoulders," the black muzzled marva directed Johnny, "and hold tight." Johnny found he could ride easily on his back. The marva started up the tree at a breathtaking speed. The full grown marva climbed three times as fast as Baba could without anything on his back. Down below them the black muzzled marva followed with the slow dignity of age. Up and up they went, the full two hundred feet toward the sky. Johnny looked down at the sick animals and the healers. They looked very small now. Finally Johnny and the marva reached the branches. As they came up to the first huge branch, it appeared to move slowly away from the trunk of the tree, to reveal a large opening. The tip of the branch was fastened to a branch above. Two huge snakes the color of the branch were coiled about it. These snakes had pulled the branch from the opening so that the marva and Johnny could enter. Johnny could see that the branch had been hollowed out until it was fairly light. Once inside, Johnny's eyes were dazzled by light. The young marva started back down the tree. In a few moments the black muzzled marva was before Johnny again. He made a little bow. "Man child," he clicked, "welcome to the tree of Keetack, leader of the council of this grove. May you have long life." "Thank you." It was the only thing Johnny could think of to say. Before him was a beautiful room. There were finely woven grass mats upon the floor, and in places about the room piles of mats of soft blue and delicate pinks made places to sit. The room was flooded with light that came from directly over their heads. The walls were made of the living wood of the tree carved with many scenes of Venus and colored to make beautiful designs. Johnny looked up to see where the light came from. He gasped. Above them was a great cluster of marva teeth and claws, glowing with light. When Keetack, the leader of the council, moved forward, the light floated along the ceiling following him. Finally, Johnny realized what the light was. It was a cluster of the large Venus fireflies. Each clasped a marva claw in its tiny feet. As the insect glowed, the claw multiplied the light. In the middle of the ceiling was a hive where the fireflies lived. Johnny watched with wonder as the flies went back and forth from hive to light. Keetack noticed Johnny's interest. "As one becomes tired," he said, "another takes his place. We give them food and they give us light. Is it not a good system?" Suddenly Johnny understood. "And the rhinosaurs protect you from the sea beasts...." "And we help them when they are sick or hurt. We help take care of their marshberries and see that they have food. All living things are our friends but the killers of the sea." "Gee," said Johnny, "it's just perfect." The little bear appeared to laugh. "Hardly," he clicked. "We have our quarrels too, and many of our friends sometimes forget." "That's right," Johnny said. "The monkeys sure didn't trust those leopards until after we got here." "It is hard for many of them," Keetack went on. "I often wonder what the rhinosaurs will do when there is nothing left to fight. We are already beginning to make friends with the killers of the sea. Not long ago the arrow-birds were killers, and it was only in the lifetime of my great grandfather's great great grandfather's father that we made friends with the river snakes, so that they, too, do as we advise them to do." "You mean obey you?" Johnny asked. "In a way," Keetack answered, "most of the animals obey us." "But they don't obey your little ones!" Johnny was excited. "It's only when your blue teeth come in and your voice gets deep that other animals will obey you. Isn't that right?" "Yes," said Keetack. "We say a deep voice is a sign of the coming of wisdom." "Then that's why the arrow-birds obeyed Baba and me?" "Yes," Keetack nodded. "Now would you like to see the remainder of our tree?" "Please," Johnny answered politely. "It's a lot like the caves in New Plymouth Rock." "Indeed so," said the marva leader. "Those caves served as a yearly meeting place of the Council of All The Groves. No one tree was large enough for all to live in while we talked together. Before your people came to the green lands we had happy times there each year. Now we use the rock only for watching you." "I'm sorry," Johnny said. "Come now," Keetack clicked. "I will show you the tree." Johnny would have been terribly excited by the suggestion if it hadn't been for his fear that they were taking too much time. The whole upper part of the tree was honeycombed with rooms. Each level was connected by a winding passage as in the caverns of New Plymouth Rock. Each was lit in the same way. It was not Keetack's tree alone; several marva families lived there together. As they entered each level a marva would come forward and welcome Johnny. He was fascinated by the little ones, who grinned at him just as Baba did. The marva cubs always came in twos: peeking around from the back of the mothers were always two pairs of bright blue eyes. But one family was different. Johnny and Keetack entered that level to the sound of growling and tumbling and scratching. In the middle of the room a small bear bounced hard on the floor and up to the ceiling where it clung like a fly. Below it a coal black leopard cub growled in a way Johnny understood. It was a pleading growl saying "Come." As soon as the baby bear hanging on the ceiling saw Johnny and Keetack he dropped to the floor and stood with his arm around the black leopard cub. A mother marva came rushing from another room. "I'm sorry my cubs were so rude," she clicked, "but you know how much mischief one of ours and a friend-pet-brother can get into." "Of course," Keetack clicked. "This is the friend-pet-brother of one of ours, so he will understand." "Oh, yes!" Johnny said. Then he looked over at the two cubs. The little marva was still very small and had black claws. "He shows off just like Baba used to," Johnny exclaimed. Johnny remembered the trouble his mother had had with Baba's game of walking on the ceiling. With that they went on, but Johnny touched Keetack on the shoulder. Though the bear was old, he came no more than to Johnny's shoulder. "The leopard cub was that marva cub's friend-pet-brother--just as Baba is mine?" Johnny asked. For the first time the marva seemed to smile, opening his mouth wide as Baba did when he grinned. "We would say _you_ were _his_ friend-pet-brother," the black muzzled one clicked. "Perhaps it is better to say you are _friend-brothers_. It is not strange. Many of us have had companions of another race." "But why is this?" Johnny asked eagerly. "You have seen that our cubs always come in pairs. The pair is almost one until they are grown," Keetack explained. "If only one cub is born, or one of a pair dies, we give the lone cub a friend-pet, a cub of another race to grow up with him. They become brothers just as you and Baba did. Without this the lone cub would die. Cubs need the love of a brother as much as they need food. It is sometimes a very good thing, for in this way our friends of the plains and the groves are knitted to us with ties of very deep love." "Now I understand why Baba would never leave me," Johnny said. And then he went on earnestly, "And you should understand why I've got to get back to Baba in the colony. There may still be some way I can save him. But I don't have much more time." "I can make no promise yet to let you go," Keetack said. "Still there may be a way we can save your friend-brother and do something more besides." He would say no more. Soon they were back in Keetack's rooms. "You will wait here," Keetack said. Johnny seated himself on one of the piles of mats and waited. He didn't quite understand what was going on, but he wished Keetack would hurry. He looked at Rick's watch. It had been twelve hours since he had spoken to his father on Ed's radio telephone. He had only an Earth day and a half to get to the settlement if he were to keep Baba out of Ed's hands. A few minutes later Keetack reentered the room, surrounded by some of the furry bears who lived in his tree. "My friend," he clicked, "I have a gift from the people of my tree to your people--those whom you say are making a colony. It is a gift of friendship and a gift of peace. If the Council of the Grove decides to let you go back, I hope you can use these to pay for the life of your friend and brother, Baba." In his hand the marva held a small package wrapped with woven rushes. "Thank you," Johnny said, and took the package. "You may unwrap it." Johnny folded back the stiff material, and gasped. In his hand glowed a pile of marva claws--hundreds of them! CHAPTER SIXTEEN _The Thunder of Rhinosaur Hooves_ A worried Johnny was standing in the center of the clearing once more, surrounded by the little jewel bears. He now knew this was the grove council, a group of the wisest bears of the grove. Keetack's gift to Johnny had impressed them all. They knew it meant that Keetack trusted Johnny. Yet they were cautious. Johnny's knowledge of them could be very dangerous. "It is not right he should go," one of the marva was saying. His muzzle was still blue, and Johnny knew this meant he was younger than the rest. "The young killer will return to his people and tell of our ways and of our houses in the trees. Then the older killers will come with their death-spitting things and our lives will be gone. I think that we should hold him here. Otherwise we risk the lives of our people." Johnny put up his hand as if he were in school. The marva, Keetack, of the deep black muzzle, pointed at Johnny. "May I talk now?" Johnny asked. The marva nodded. "I won't tell anything you don't want me to," he promised earnestly. "With these claws I'm sure Baba can be saved, but I'm going to have to hurry. If the outlaws get him they will kill him sure. Don't you understand?" "We understand," the old marva answered. "But we must be sure of safety for us and our people. Your people are killers like the beasts of the sea. You even kill each other. You are a strange people. Still you risked your life for your friend Baba, just as Baba would risk his. Your friend with the red fur risked his life to help you. Do you really think that if your people knew all there is to know about us, they would not come with the fire spitting things?" Johnny was silent. He knew Ed would come. He knew Trader Harkness would, too. He swallowed, for lying to these little bears was something he just couldn't do. "For those claws some of my people would do anything," he clicked in a low voice. There was complete silence in the grove. The marva who was young and still blue furred about the muzzle stood again. Johnny wanted to cry. He had condemned Baba to death, but if he hadn't done so, maybe all the marva would be killed. He felt they, too, were his brothers. He broke into sobs and stood there with tears running down his cheeks. "We have heard our young friend," the blue-furred marva said. It was the first time he had not called Johnny a killer. "He gave us the truth because we have trusted him, and treated him with friendship. I was wrong. He is to be trusted. Let him go from here with his gifts. My tree, too, will send a gift. But let him promise to keep secret anything he thinks may be dangerous to us." The marva seated himself. "Oh, I promise," Johnny said solemnly. "Cross my heart and hope to die." "It is agreed among us then?" Keetack asked the group. The furry heads nodded their agreement. "Young friend, you may go. Your settlement is three groves away from us. You may have a rhinosaur to ride. It will take you home with time to spare. You go with a pledge of peace. We will send messages ahead and no animals will attack you. Nor will any of our friends attack any man unless he attacks first. You may tell your people we will give them more claws for such things as we would like from them. Every two years we marva get a new set of claws and teeth. The old ones have been saved from generation to generation to be used for lights and for tools. You may also tell the leaders of your people we would like to meet with them. Perhaps we can make a friendship that will endure!" Johnny had a busy hour ahead of him. First he ran to see Rick among the sick animals in the other part of the grove. There was no question of Rick's coming with him. He was still too sick from the arrow-bird's wound, but he was definitely on the mend. He was lying under a tree, petting the leopard cubs. Johnny told him what had happened, carefully omitting where the marva lived, and Rick became more and more interested. Finally Johnny showed him one of the packets of claws that he had been given. By now the packets had grown to over a dozen, and he had placed them in a bag made from his shirt. "Johnny," Rick said, "you've done a most wonderful thing! Those marva don't have to worry about being hunted any more. If people can get so many of those claws and teeth, no one will ever want to hunt for them again. You tell them that, for me." Johnny rushed to give the news to the marva. The first one he found was the young council member who had at first opposed letting him go. "It pays to trust one another," the marva said simply. Soon Johnny was ready. The leader of the council brought before him a huge rhinosaur, one of the biggest Johnny had ever seen. "Skorkin knows he must obey you," Keetack said. "He will do anything you ask, and will harm none of your people." "Hello, friend-pet," Johnny said. The rhinosaur turned and looked at him with his little blue-black eyes and grunted a greeting. Johnny noted it. It probably meant "hello." "Was that his speech?" Johnny asked. "Yes," Keetack answered. "They have more words than the other creatures of the green lands. Only the monkeys of all our friend-pets come near to being as smart as they. They are a people, too, of great courage." "I know," Johnny said. He remembered the rhinosaur charge at the colony. At the mention of the word "monkey," the little red ape whom Johnny had rescued from Ed began to chatter and jump up and down. "He likes you and wishes to go with you," Keetack said. "Do you want him to?" "Oh, yes," Johnny answered. The monkey leaped to his shoulder. Johnny suddenly had an idea. "Could the leopardess, her cubs, and the arrow-bird come too?" he asked. "That is, if they want to?" Keetack understood what was in Johnny's mind and nodded his approval. "It is a good idea," he clicked. "It would be a good way to prove to your people that the animals can be friendly." The leopardess was suddenly beside Johnny, rubbing up against him like a big cat. She looked up into his face and growled in the way that Johnny knew meant "come." Johnny looked at the wrist watch. "We do have to hurry." He threw the bagful of the precious claws over his shoulder, and stepped toward the rhinosaur. "How'm I going to get on?" he asked, with sudden surprise. A series of grunts came from the rhinosaur, that sounded something like laughter. Then it lay its horned snout upon the ground, and grunted again. "Climb on," Keetack said. Grasping one of the long snout horns, Johnny climbed aboard his strange mount. "Goodbye," he shouted. All around hundreds of the marva were hanging from their trees. They waved and he waved back. "Let's go!" he clicked to the rhinosaur. And so began the race through the jungle. The great rhinosaur moved forward with thundering speed, the leopardess and her cubs loping along beside them. When one of the cubs grew tired it leaped on to the rhinosaur's back, curled up beside Johnny and went peacefully to sleep. The arrow-bird perched on one of the beast's horns and the monkey beside it. They did not stop for rain or rivers. Everywhere the jungle seemed to have blossomed forth with animals, who waved and grunted, growled, clicked, or sang greetings to them as they went past. The broad back of the rhinosaur was a perfect place to travel, Johnny found. It swayed hardly as much as a helicopter and bounced much less than a tank. It was not long until Johnny had followed the leopard cub's example. He found a hollow in the big back, curled up and went to sleep, lulled by the steady swinging movement and the thunder of the rhinosaur's hooves. * * * * * Johnny woke with a start. The monkey was pulling on one of his ears; they had reached the settlement. Johnny glanced down at his watch. He had slept six hours. The rhinosaur had stopped right at the edge of the meat tree grove that bordered the settlement. Through the screen of trees Johnny could see the high grey walls. It was about half a mile to the gate. Johnny wiped the sleep out of his eyes and puzzled as to the best way of making his appearance. "Go that way," Johnny clicked, and pointed. "But stay where you can't be seen from the walls." At a slow trot, the rhinosaur carried them to a place directly in front of the gate to the settlement wall. Johnny saw that the gate had been repaired. Beside it was a steel door through which a single man could be admitted. "You wait here for me," he said to the animals. "Let me down, friend rhinosaur." He tied his bag of claws to the rhinosaur's horn and then walked down the huge head to the ground. The arrow-bird flew over and lit on his shoulder. It had not understood. "Wait," Johnny repeated. "Wait, I will come back." The rhinosaur wandered a few yards away and began to munch on some bushes. The leopard growled to her cubs and began to climb a meat tree in search of food. Johnny smiled. They were good friends to have. Johnny slipped through the bushes and trees until only one antelope berry bush was between him and the wall. The guard tower was directly in front of him. The men in the tower must have noticed the swaying of the bushes, for they were looking directly toward the spot where Johnny stood. Johnny slipped from behind the bush and stepped into full view. He smiled and waved jauntily to the guards. As casually as he could he started toward the door. Halfway there he began to skip for sheer joy. The guards were staring at him open-mouthed. Obviously he had no armor on. He had had to use his shirt to make the bag for the claws. The only clothes he wore was the baggy pair of shorts Rick had made him. The steel door at the base of the guard tower opened at his touch. He closed it carefully, opened the inner door and then climbed the stairs to the guard tower, instead of going straight into the colony. There, too, were double doors. "Hello," he said, as he entered. The three guards on duty were so surprised they couldn't speak for a second. One of them was Old Jeb. Before they recovered, Johnny went up to Jeb. "Would you call my father, Jeb, and tell him to come to the gate?" It was funny to watch their faces. "Johnny, you're safe!" Jeb suddenly exploded. He swept the boy into his arms and swung him about. He stopped, pushed the boy away from him, and tousled his hair. "I can't believe it, but you're safe!" "Sure am," Johnny said, with a grin. Then he became serious. "How is Baba? Is he all right?" "He's been kind of sad and upset, poor little feller," Jeb said. "But how in thunder did you get here? Last we heard you were being held for ransom. Your folks have been worried sick." "Oh, I got away from the outlaws and some friends brought me. Please call everybody in the colony, will you? Tell them to come to the gate. I have something important to show them. I've got to go back out to my friends now. 'Bye." He started toward the door. "Friends! What friends?" Jeb called. "You'll find out," Johnny said, with a laugh. "Hey, you can't go outside without armor," one of the other guards shouted. But Johnny had slipped out before he could be stopped. He took the stairs at a run, and was out of the heavy steel wall doors before the men could follow him. As he skipped across the open space back to the jungle, he turned his head, waved to the men in the tower, and smiled. "Come back here, you little devil!" Jeb shouted through the loudspeaker the guards used to guide tanks in. But Johnny shook his head and went back into the brush. Johnny waited for about ten minutes. All this time the loudspeaker in the tower was shouting for Johnny to come back in. Finally the voice changed. It was Johnny's father's voice. "Johnny," his father said over the speaker. "Come on in here! _Please!_ I'm here now. Johnny!" Johnny heard a tank starting up inside. He didn't want any tanks coming after him. "Come on, friends," he clicked to the animals. He climbed back up on the rhinosaur's back. The leopard came running up with her cubs. The arrow-bird and the monkey, taking no chances, followed behind them, leaped to its usual perch--the top of Johnny's head. "Let's go!" Johnny clicked to the rhinosaur. "Walk very slowly out toward the big black place." Johnny clicked to one of the cubs to jump up on the rhinosaur's back beside him. Johnny crawled to the broad head of the rhinosaur between two of its horns. The leopard cub sat on its haunches beside him. The mother leopard and the other cub ran alongside them. The rhinosaur's hooves made muffled thunder as he walked. A big grin on his face, and waving his hand, Johnny emerged from the jungle into full sight of his father, Jeb, and many others inside the guard tower. "Stop when we get a little way from the door," Johnny said to the rhinosaur. The big beast grunted its understanding. Johnny and his friends came to a halt close enough to the tower so that Johnny's voice could be heard. "Open the gate, please," Johnny shouted. "We want to come inside." He saw his father's startled face above him. "Hello, Dad. How's Mom? Did she worry too much?" "Hello, son." His father's voice was shocked. "Your mother is all right." He paused. "Where did you.... How did you...?" "You mean the animals?" Johnny asked, rather enjoying the effect he was making. "Oh, they're friends of mine. You can let us in. They won't hurt anybody. I'm bringing a present to pay for Baba and make up for all the harm we did. Look." He took a packet of the claws and opened it. He let a handful of the claws run out of one hand into the other in a shining blue waterfall. Through the microphone he could hear his father and the other men gasp. "Come in here quick," Frederick Watson's voice came back over the loudspeaker. "Open the gates, please," Johnny repeated. "But the rhinosaur! And the leopard!" "They're friends of mine. They brought me here. They won't hurt anybody. I promise." The big steel gate slowly opened. Riding on the back of one of the greatly feared rhinosaurs, Johnny entered the colony. It seemed that everyone in the colony had heard of Johnny's strange return. Pioneers--men, women and children, hunters and guards--were hurrying toward the big gate. At the sight of the rhinosaur, a woman screamed and the crowd ran, scattering in all directions. Captain Thompson, two other colonists and a hunter held their ground, their ato-tube pistols out. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" Johnny shouted. Beneath him the rhinosaur trembled. "He won't hurt you. He's our friend." He stroked the arrow-bird on his shoulder. "Look! Even an arrow-bird!" Slowly the ato-tube pistols that had been leveled at them were lowered. Hesitantly, one or two of the people began to move back toward the little group. A woman came running toward Johnny. It was his mother. Tears were running down her face. Even she was finally stopped by the bewildering sight of her son surrounded by jungle animals. "Let me down," Johnny clicked to the rhinosaur. The big animal lowered his head. A cry went up from the people as the leopardess bounded after him. Johnny threw his arms about his mother. "Oh, Johnny, Johnny!" his mother said over and over, holding him tight against her armor. She stiffened as the mother leopard rubbed against them and the arrow-bird lit, for a moment, on her shoulder. "Mother, I want you to meet my friends," Johnny said. "This is Mona, the leopardess, and her two cubs, Pat and Mike. And this is Skimpy, the monkey. I haven't named my arrow-bird yet." Then he spoke to the animals. "This is my mother." Johnny's mother stood there a moment, too bewildered to speak. The leopardess licked her hand. Then Johnny led his mother to the rhinosaur. "This is my friend Skorkin, the rhinosaur. He gave me a ride all the way here. Isn't he beautiful?" Then he clicked to the rhinosaur, "This is my mother." The huge creature grunted. "Skorkin said 'hello,'" Johnny said. Her eyes wide with the strangeness of it all, Johnny's mother nodded a wordless greeting to the creature. Just then Johnny heard a sound he had been waiting for. It was the sound of a basketball dropped from a height. He looked up to see Baba bounding along as fast as he could come. Johnny was off at a dead run to meet him, leaving his mother and the other animals behind. The two of them met at top speed, and they met with such impact that both were tumbled to the ground in a heap of arms, legs, boy and bear. Both of them were laughing when they got to their feet. "Oh, Baba, you bad little bear!" Johnny said. "I thought I'd never see you again!" "And I!" Baba said. "You shouldn't have come back here!" Johnny said. "I'll have to punish you right now!" He grabbed Baba suddenly by the leg, whirled him around and around above his head and threw him as high as he could in the air. Throwing his arms around as if frightened to death, the little bear whimpered and clicked. But just before he hit the ground he made himself into a ball, and bounced higher than Johnny had thrown him. Then, on the third bounce, he landed lightly on Johnny's shoulder. Their delight was cut short by the sight of a fat bald man who glittered as he walked toward the crowd. For an instant Johnny was afraid. It was Trader Harkness. Then he remembered--the trader's days of power were over. "Mr. Harkness," he called, "I've got something to show you." "They said you had claws." The trader's little black eyes fixed their gaze on Johnny. "Come on, I'll show everybody." The crowd parted for Johnny and Baba and the trader. By this time almost all the colonists and visiting hunters were gathered around the rhinosaur and the leopards. A few bold souls were timidly petting the cubs. Probably of most interest was the arrow-bird. Tired from all its riding, it had put its head under its wing and gone fast asleep, perched on the rhinosaur's horn. Johnny took the bag he had made from the shirt down from where it hung beside the arrow-bird. He untied it, revealing the many packets made from woven rushes. Packet after packet, he spilled the claws out on to the shirt until there was a great pile of jewels glowing before the people. "Where did you get them?" Trader Harkness' voice rumbled. He was shocked and pale. "The marva themselves gave them to me for the colony," Johnny replied. "It's a sign that they and all the animals want to be our friends." The trader forced his eyes away from the pile of jewels and looked over his shoulder. Johnny was suddenly conscious of three hunters standing behind the trader. Ed and his gang! "I'll take those claws now," the trader said. The gang whipped out their ato-tubes and leveled them at Johnny and Baba. The crowd gasped and then fell silent. Johnny's father stepped up, but one of the hunters waved him back with his gun. Johnny saw he'd been wrong. There was plenty of fight left in the trader. He glanced around him; the animals had become very still, waiting his word. "Friends," Johnny clicked, "stay still. This man is a killer." Skorkin, the rhinosaur, snorted. The arrow-bird awoke and snapped its head into arrow position. The monkey bared its teeth, while Mona, the leopardess, crouched to spring, the muscles of her haunches trembling. Johnny saw the trader's eyes widen. The leopard was not three feet away from him. Thinking fast, Johnny stepped carefully over and put a hand on the leopard's shoulder. "I wouldn't move, Mr. Harkness," Johnny said, his voice quavering in spite of himself. "If you don't tell your gang to give their guns to Captain Thompson, I'll tell the animals to charge. Maybe Ed told you what I made the monkey do?" Johnny's heart raced. It was a bluff. He couldn't tell the animals to charge. He knew they might be killed. No amount of claws would be worth that. The trader's eyes were fixed on Mona. Then Skorkin snorted again, eager to fight. The trader turned brick red. "Do what the kid says," he said in a low, strangled voice. The ato-tube in Ed's hand wavered and then came down. There was a deep sigh of relief from the crowd. Grimly and quietly, Captain Thompson gathered up the guns. "All right, you men," he said, "there's a room ready for you at the stockade." The fight was really gone from the trader now. His shoulders slumped, his head down, he shuffled as he was led away. Johnny's father stepped forward and embraced him. "I don't understand how you did it, Johnny," he said. "I don't understand anything about it. But this is certainly a wonderful day!" CHAPTER SEVENTEEN _Teachers Can't Play Hookey_ It was now an hour after the Earth rocket had blasted off on its way back to Earth. Johnny Watson lay on his stomach with his chin cupped in his hands and looked down from the top of New Plymouth Rock. Beside him, twisted into the same position, was his friend Baba, his blue nails glowing in Venus' pearly light. Near the two friends, perched on a boulder, were two of the large Venus eagles, watching every move they made. How changed it all was down in the settlement! People were streaming back from the rocket field on foot and without armor. Beside the Jenkins family strode Mona, the leopardess, carrying a basket in her mouth. In the basket the Jenkins' baby slept. Mona just loved babies. Down in the marshberry fields three rhinosaurs peacefully browsed. There were so many berries available now in the sea marshes that no one had to worry about the few in the fields. The marva had left these three rhinosaurs to carry people wherever they might want to go. High in the sky was a faint dot. Baba nudged Johnny and pointed. "Here comes Keetack," he said in his clicking language. "We'll have to go down pretty soon." "I suppose so," Johnny said wearily. It had been fun for a while being the only person who understood the marva language. When Dad and the other colonists had gone into the jungle to talk with the council of all the marva groves, Johnny and Baba had been there too--the center of attention. When the men spoke, Baba told the marva what they meant. When the marva spoke, Johnny had to tell the men what the bears meant. It had been fun being so important. It had been fun being treated like heroes, but they were already tired of it. With their new freedom to travel, there was a whole continent to explore, and hundreds of new friends to make. Idly, Johnny watched the dot, that Baba said was Keetack, grow into a bird with a twenty-foot wing spread flying through the sky. In its claws was a small black-muzzled bouncing bear. Baba's eyes were magically good. The bird was a Venus eagle--the marva's airplane. Before men had come and made it dangerous for them, the marva had flown anywhere they wanted to go in the talons of these great birds. Johnny knew that the earliest hunters thought the eagles were preying upon the bears. It was just one more surprising thing about the little bears. Johnny remembered what Rick had said when he had arrived home, his wound all healed. He had really grown to respect the marva. "They have learned to live with other creatures, and have taught all their friends, as they call the animals, to live in peace together. The meat eaters have their meat trees so they don't need to attack other animals--it's amazing," Rick reported. Johnny remembered how Baba had preened himself when Rick had spoken that way, and he smiled. "Hey, Baba," Johnny said, "how soon do you think we could take a trip all around the groves? We could get Skorkin to carry us, and go visit everybody." "You will have to come stay with my people," Baba said. Only a few days before Baba had discovered a host of aunts, uncles and cousins in one of the outlying groves. Most important of all he had found his father. "I've lived with you for years and years. Now it should be your turn." "Oh, good," said Johnny. "We'll do it, soon as they'll let us go." "Look, Johnny," Baba pointed. "Look at the trader!" Below, the fat bald-headed little man, a pack on his back, was heading into the jungle. He waddled as he walked, but he moved straight along. "Where's he going?" Baba asked. "Dad says he's going to start a marshberry farm--if the marva will let him. But, gosh, it'll be a long time before anyone will help him." "He can always live on meat fruit and stuff," Baba said. "Nobody likes him, but they won't bother him if he leaves them alone." What had happened to the trader and to the outlaws was the strangest thing of all. The marva had not wanted them punished. They said they wanted to make friends, not enemies. The thousands of marva claws that had been given to the colony had made the claws quite cheap, so that Trader Harkness had become a poor man; he had been rich in hunting equipment and hunting lodges--now all these things were valueless. Surprisingly, he had refused to return to Earth. "Venus is my home," he had said flatly. "I'll get by." Johnny had to admire his courage, just as he had to admire some of the hunters who would not stay on Venus. These lean hard-bitten men were going further on into space. To Johnny's surprise Keetack admired the hunters, too. "They are fighters, like the rhinosaurs. Here there is nothing left to fight. They are people of much courage." Looking down on the trader, Johnny found he couldn't help feeling sorry for him. "Goodbye," he yelled, his voice echoing among the rocks. "Goodbye, Trader." The fat man looked up and waved back. Johnny thought he smiled. "He was a real pioneer," Johnny said. "Yes," Baba answered, "he'll be all right." Johnny jumped back suddenly from the edge of the rock and hid behind some bushes. "Here comes Mom, looking for us!" Baba quickly dived back out of sight too. Johnny peeked through the screening of bushes. His mother was riding toward the rock on Skorkin, the rhinosaur! This hideout was not very secret. Everybody on Venus knew about it. He stood up, and waved down to her. "I'm coming, Mother," he shouted. His mother nodded and the big rhinosaur turned back toward the settlement. In a few minutes Baba and Johnny would be back in school, sitting in front of a group of men and a group of marva. Baba would be teaching the marva how to understand the talk of people, while Johnny taught the men and women how to talk and understand the language of the marva. It was a hard job. "I guess we gotta go back!" Johnny mourned. "I guess so!" Baba agreed sadly. "There is only one trouble with being a teacher," said Johnny. "Teachers just can't play hookey." Then he grinned. "Say, I've got an idea!" "What?" asked Baba. "Mom hasn't been doing her homework. Let's give a test today!" Baba slapped his furry haunches, his blue teeth glowing. "Let's go!" Johnny clicked to the two eagles. He ran as hard as he could and leaped off the edge of the high cliff, hurtling down and down. Right after him, Baba jumped, too. There was the sound of great wings, and the two tremendous Venus eagles swept after them. One dived at Johnny, its claws spread. The long powerful claws hooked into Johnny's belt and whisked him through the air toward the settlement. The other grasped Baba by the shoulders. Together the two friends flew on. "That was fun!" said Johnny. His furry blue pal nodded his agreement. Facts About Venus An Afterword for Curious Boys and Girls (As well as Parents, Teachers and Librarians) "Daddy, is this what Venus is really like?" demanded Blake, my eleven-year-old son. He had just finished reading my manuscript. I have an idea that among my readers there may be other curious boys and girls who might ask the same question my son did. This was my answer: The job of a science fiction writer, I think, is to spin out tales about other times and strange planets, using known facts as beginning points, and without violating any known facts. In _Venus Boy_ I have tried to do this. I think I have created a picture of life on the surface of Venus that is possible, if just barely possible. In addition to being a story teller, I am a librarian, and librarians love to keep their facts straight. The fact about Venus is that nobody knows just what it is like on the surface of the planet. Since nobody knows, I could make it all up. Many facts _are_ known about Venus, however. Venus is the Sun's second planet. It is about twenty-five million miles closer to the Sun than our Earth. Astronomers have measured and "weighed" it. It is almost exactly the same size as Earth, but its weight (mass) is twenty per cent less. It turns very slowly on its axis, so that its day is much longer than an Earth day. Because of a layer of clouds that surrounds it, the surface cannot be seen even with the most powerful of telescopes. Thus, astronomers cannot tell just how fast or slow it turns. A Venus day may be as short as fourteen Earth days or as long as two hundred and twenty-five Earth days. If you noticed, you can see I have kept my picture of life on Venus true to these facts. I had the Venus day be fourteen Earth days long. Some of the animals and plants were a great deal larger than Earth animals and plants, a fact that would be expected on a planet with less gravity than that of Earth. Of course you might think that because of the clouds that surround Venus, the planet would be a terribly rainy place. That is not very probable. By using an instrument called a spectrograph, astronomers have learned that those heavy clouds are not clouds of water vapor. Indeed, they can find evidence for little or no water vapor on Venus. They can detect a great deal of carbon dioxide--but no oxygen. "But without oxygen, animals couldn't breathe!" I can hear a child who knows some science say. "Life would be impossible!" That could be true. Some scientists, in fact most of them, believe that life _is_ impossible on the surface of Venus. But remember, nobody knows what is under that heavy layer of clouds, and nobody knows just what those clouds are. One astronomer, Rupert Wildt, has advanced a theory about the Venusian clouds that, I think, would allow for the possibility of life on Venus. He theorized, on the evidence available to him, that, when Venus was young, carbon-dioxide and water, in the presence of ultra-violet light, may have combined to make clouds of one form of plastic! I think it possible that such clouds would be thick, spongy and permanent, and that they would join together, so that the inner atmosphere of Venus could not escape through them. According to his theory Venus could be like a Christmas present--all wrapped in shining plastic. This could account for the fact, too, that more than half the light falling on it from the sun is reflected, making it the brightest of all the planets or stars, a jewel of a planet. Under a loose layer of plastic, life could be possible on Venus. If plant life began under those clouds, then an oxygen atmosphere could develop. Plants take in carbon dioxide through their leaves and give out oxygen. Many scientists believe the Earth's atmosphere became rich with oxygen in this manner. Of course, none of that oxygen in Venus' atmosphere could get through the thick layer of spongy plastic clouds. The carbon dioxide that was trapped on the outside would not get through either. Scientists believe, too, that Venus may be too hot for life, or too cold. I think that the clouds and the carbon dioxide trapped outside of them would serve, on the one hand, to insulate Venus from the hot light of the nearby sun; and, on the other hand, to hold in its warmth during the long nights. As you can see, I have spun my story out of Mr. Wildt's idea of the plastic clouds of Venus. The rhinosaurs heavy armor, the arrow-bird's bills, the marva's plastic-strengthening jewel claws, all had their beginnings in the idea of a plastic planet. It allowed for the creation of some fairly interesting animals, I think. While I am on the subject of my animals, I should say a word about the possibility of animals cooperating the way I have had my Venus animals cooperate. That, I think, is perfectly possible. On Earth one can find examples of several creatures living so closely together that if one kind is killed off the others would all die. In many articles and books Mr. Ashley Montague has amassed much evidence that shows an instinct for cooperation is as primary as the instinct of self-preservation. If we grant the idea of a creature whose intelligence is directed entirely toward surviving by cooperation, then I think my cooperative animals are, at the very least, possible. Possible! That is what I hope my picture of life on Venus is. However, it must be remembered that it is only _just_ possible. Astronomers have envisioned Venus as a planet of terrible dust storms, with a temperature hot enough to boil water. They have spoken of it as a place of seas of formaldehyde, hot and terrible by day, and freezing cold at night. Their guesses are probably better than mine. But I must admit I like my guess a little better. I hope you have enjoyed it. 
60587	----	SHANDY BY RON GOULART _Shandy was a teddy bear, a lion, an ape, a rival for Nancy Tanner's affections.... But what_ else _was he_? [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Holman came down out of the forest of giant orange-woods and trudged across the plain toward the place where Nancy Tanner lived. It was late afternoon and the woods beyond Nancy's home were already growing dark and dim. The door of the old spaceship was open and a dark flowered rug hung over the rail of the gangway. Late sun glazed the round window near the door, but Holman thought he had seen Nancy behind the strawberry-patterned curtains. Wearing a pale blue cotton dress, tan and slender, Nancy came out of the ship and into the low-trimmed grass. She held up one arm and waved once, smiling. "Ken," she said and turned to roll up the rug. Holman said, "How you been?" as he came near, walking at his usual pace. Setting the rug carefully on the bottom step, Nancy looked up at him. "Fine. Yourself?" "Not bad. Had a cold last week." Holman put his suitcase down next to the neatly rolled rug. Nancy frowned. "You still don't eat enough greens. That's why." Holman kissed her, his hands gentle on her back. "Well, here I am," he said. "Well, come in and we'll talk." She stepped slowly away from him and went up into the ship. Holman gathered up his suitcase and the rolled rug and followed her. He looked in and all around the kitchen before he entered. Nancy watched him over her shoulder while she got two china cups. She grinned at him as he stepped into the room. "I left the rug and my grip in the hall," Holman said and sat down in a straight-backed chair. Stooping to retie his hiking shoes, he glanced under the table. "Made it from the settlement in under four hours. Of course, I took big steps." "Would you like rum or whisky or something like that in your coffee?" Nancy asked, touching the handle of the coffee pot. "School teachers don't drink before sundown." "You're on vacation." "I'll wait. You go ahead, though." Nancy set a cup in front of him and backed away. "You really have a tent in that little suitcase? You're not trying to get me to put you up here?" "It's one of those monofilm ones." He pulled the cup closer to him and it rattled in the saucer. "I told you my intentions in my letter. And you said okay. So here I am to court you." Holman started to rise. Nancy nodded him down. "I supposed it will be all right. I don't know." She went back to the stove. Holman stood and started toward Nancy. He was distracted by a clicking sound in the hallway outside. As he turned to the entrance-way, a large tan lion came in, its black-tipped tail swishing slowly. Holman stopped as the lion crossed the kitchen between him and Nancy. "Don't panic, Nancy," he said in a calm voice. "If nobody moves, it'll go away." Nancy smiled. "Why should he go away? It's only Shandy." The lion nuzzled his head over the backs of Nancy's knees and made a growling, purring sound. The tip of his tail flipped against the smooth white stove. Holman frowned at the lion and dropped back into his chair. "Shandy? The last time I saw him he was a St. Bernard dog." Nancy rumpled the lion's mane. "Well, you know how Shandy is. He doesn't stay one thing for long. He saw a picture of a lion on a sack of meal last week and off he went." "When you're through fondling him I'd like my coffee. And where's the rum?" Gently pushing the leaning lion away from her legs, Nancy said, "I'll get it, Ken." She patted Shandy on the back. "Go outside and play, Shandy. That's a nice boy." Without looking at Holman, the lion left the kitchen. "That's ridiculous," Holman said, turning from the empty doorway. "Damn it, Ken. He's my pet and I like him." The rum bottle made a hard flat sound as she put it in front of Holman. "You might try to accept him. He's a very nice pet." Holman unscrewed the bottle cap. "Love me, love my whatever the hell he is." "For somebody who came by to court me you're not being very pleasant." She poured out two cups of coffee. Looking at the red bottle cap, Holman said, "Okay. I'm sorry." "You know Shandy's been with me since I was just ten or so. And since dad died, Shandy's been a real help." "You don't have to live out here." Holman poured some rum into his coffee. "Just because your father was a naturalist and all." "We don't have to talk about my father. I like living here. We've always lived here. Since we came out to Enoch." "All right." He paused to look across the table at her. "You want to keep arguing or will you let me propose now?" Nancy shook her head. "Don't now, Ken. Later sometime." "You do know, though, that I want you. And you know I want you with me at the settlement." Nancy folded her hands on the white tablecloth. "Oh, yes." Holman drank the hot coffee fast. "And, really, Nancy, I don't see how we could keep something like Shandy in the settlement." "Come and have dinner with me tonight and we'll talk then." Putting down his empty cup, Holman said, "I'll go set up my tent at a safe distance." Outside it was nearly night. A few yards from the ship, the lion was rolling on his back in a patch of yellow flowers and growling to himself. Holman kept his back to the lion while he assembled his tent. And when he had it finished he went inside and didn't come out until Nancy called him for dinner. * * * * * The sky, up through the yellow-green leaves, was clear. The afternoon was warm, with a slight feel of coming rain. Holman locked his hands behind his head and half-closed his eyes. "And living alone by the woods is dangerous," he said. Nancy laughed. "You've just eaten lunch in it." Holman closed his eyes. "And how do you know what Shandy is? Maybe he's why this place got a bad name in the first place." "He's a harmless pet. I'm very fond of him." "Didn't your father have any ideas about him?" "Dad couldn't figure Shandy out. He made all kinds of tests. Shandy's the only one of his kind we ever saw. But, see, dad wasn't sure what he was originally. He's a mimic, an over-done chameleon. I don't know. I like him." Sitting up, Holman said, "Okay." He touched Nancy's shoulder. "Look, we've known each other, what? over a year now." "Since you made that ridiculous field trip with your pupils and trampled all over everything." She tucked her legs under her and leaned toward him. "Yeah. So let's not argue or anything. But, really, Nancy, I would sort of like to marry you." "I know." "Have you any idea if you're nearing a decision?" "Oh, yes." "And?" "Well, I think we can." "Marry?" "Uh huh." "Fine." After he'd kissed Nancy, Holman became aware of a shambling off in the trees beyond their picnic spot. Twigs crackled and a medium-sized gorilla crashed into the open. Holman let go of Nancy and asked her, "Shandy?" The gorilla was carrying a large book in one paw. "Yes," Nancy said, smiling. "He's been nosing through the storeroom again. Must have been in one of my old picture books." The gorilla came up near their picnic basket and held out the book. "He wants me to read to him, Ken. He gets that way now and then." Nancy took the book and opened it to the title page. "Earth fairy tales. This is one of your favorites, huh, Shandy?" [Illustration: "_He wants me to read to him, Ken._"] Bobbing his gorilla head, Shandy squatted down among the fallen leaves and smacked his paws together. "Is he _intelligent_?" Ken asked incredulously. His scalp began to crawl. "Oh, no.... Well, let's start at the very beginning again," Nancy said. Shandy rested his head on one clenched paw. "Once upon a time," Nancy started. Holman stood and grabbed up his windbreaker. "I've heard this one before. I'll drop by your place in the evening. Be finished by then?" Nancy half closed the book with her finger as a marker. "You're angry?" His coat seam jammed and Holman decided to wear the coat open. "No." He walked away into the woods. He was only a few steps into the trees when Nancy started the story again. * * * * * The fire flared up, brightening the ground around Holman's tent. Nancy hugged her knees up close to her and rested her head on them. "He would be out of place at the settlement," she said. Holman dropped a log on the campfire and came back to sit beside the girl. "He'd probably be happier running around out here in the woods." Nancy nodded slowly. "Probably." The stairs out of the old ship rattled once off in the darkness. Holman looked away from the fire and toward the ship. Coming across the grass toward them was a giant teddy bear. Laughing, Nancy rose. "It's Shandy." She glanced at Holman. "Be nice to him." Holman watched Shandy approach and didn't answer. The teddy bear sat down, like a dropped rag doll, next to Nancy. He rubbed his fuzzy brown paws over his black nose and blinked his button eyes at her. "Nice old Shandy," said Nancy, pulling one of Shandy's round ears. She smiled at Holman. "This is what he was being when dad and I first found him." Holman, tilting forward, flipped a flat stone into the fire and scattered sparks. "That's a coincidence." "I was just, you know, about ten," Nancy said, patting Shandy's head. "What had happened was I'd been playing in the woods. And, anyway, I left my own teddy bear out there. Lost it. And I told dad, because it was almost night when I remembered. Well, he found it and right beside it there was big old Shandy. Dad and I both decided after looking at him for awhile that his name should be Shandy." Shandy blinked his eyes and clapped his paws. Holman's left heel jammed hard against the ground as he shot up. "God damn, Nancy, will you knock off all this maudlin, banal, boy and his dog stuff. We're not taking that monster away anywhere." "I know, I know, Ken. Don't talk about it now." She kept patting the teddy bear gently. "Nice Shandy." "And you, Shandy," Holman shouted. "I'm doing the courting around here. Go hibernate or something, dammit." Shandy's eyes stopped blinking. Nancy's hand slipped from his head and trailed down his woolly back as he rolled over and away. Without turning Shandy started off for the ship, slowly, on all fours. Finally Nancy looked at Holman. "That wasn't nice, Ken." Holman knew that. He could find nothing to say back to Nancy. He frowned and went into his tent, slamming the flap behind him. * * * * * After closing the storeroom door, Holman carried the two old suitcases down the bright corridor to Nancy's kitchen. Nancy smiled at him and then at the brown, scuffed luggage. "Oh, sure, those will do," she said. "I guess the movers will be able to take care of the heavy stuff." Holman agreed and picked up his half-finished cup of coffee. "And we can leave lots of the stuff here. If we're going to use this as sort of a summer place. I don't think we'll have to worry about vandals." From the doorway Nancy said, "Not many girls bring a spaceship as a dowry." Holman took her shoulders and turned her back into the room. "We can make Shandy sort of a watch-dog." "If he ever comes back." "It's only little more than a day he's been gone." "You were unkind to him." "I know. I'm sorry." Nancy edged around him and went to stand by the stove. "More coffee?" "Okay." Holman was halfway to her when the knock sounded on the spaceship door. "Maybe it's Shandy," Nancy said, partly surprised, partly relieved. "Maybe. I'll get it." When Holman opened the door a tall, slender young man, wearing a conservative suit, stepped out of the darkness and into the light of the corridor. He had a neat black mustache and was carrying a big bunch of red and gold forest flowers. "Is Miss Nancy at home?" "Who are you?" The young man was standing close to him but Holman didn't move back. The young man bowed slightly and smiled. "Tell Miss Nancy it's Shandy. Or better, Mr. Shandy." "Christ," said Holman, backing now. Shandy bowed again politely and walked to the door of the kitchen, knocking on the wall before he entered. Holman jerked himself together when he heard Nancy gasp, and ran back to her. Shandy was sitting in a kitchen chair, his legs crossed. "It's a rather interesting story, Miss Nancy," he said, smiling evenly. Nancy reached out and turned off the stove. "I imagine." Shandy brushed each side of his mustache. "Well, to begin then. I was in the wood and suddenly I tripped, carelessly, over a fallen log and was knocked unconscious. When I recovered I found myself in this state." He paused to rub his head. "And, of course, I remembered." Looking straight at him, Nancy said, "You'd had amnesia." "Yes. You see, Miss Nancy, many years ago, I'm not sure how many, my people lived here and I was quite a prominent member of the ruling class. But I incurred, unfortunately, the wrath of an evil scientist." "And?" asked Holman. For somebody who'd recently been a teddy bear, Shandy looked pretty dapper. Shandy smiled. "She put a spell on me which caused me to change shape, and also made me forget what I had originally been." Nancy laughed softly. "Well, it's good to have you back." With a faint flourish Shandy held out the wild flowers. "For you, Miss Nancy." "Why, thank you, Shandy." Holman leaned against the wall under the clock and eyed Shandy. "You back to stay?" "Well," Shandy said. "I've known Miss Nancy quite a while. And am really quite fond of her. I hate to see her go." He looked at the flowers Nancy held against her chest. "I have come to ask Miss Nancy to allow me to court her. With all due respects to Mr. Holman." "Damn it to hell," Holman said, straightening. Nancy placed the flowers on the table and smiled at Shandy. He stood as she approached him. Nancy laughed and put her arms around the young man. With her head against Shandy's chest Nancy said, "Poor Shandy. Poor Shandy." She made him sit down again. Then she patted him fondly on the head. "Stay right there, Shandy." Nancy hurried from the room. Holman followed her. "Listen, are you _sure_ he isn't intelligent? Because, my God, the scientists down at the settlement--" Nancy said, "Oh, no, Ken. He just copies things he's heard people say. Wait a minute." She disappeared into the storeroom. When she returned she was holding a dusty album in her hand. Holman followed her back into the kitchen. Shandy looked at the album for a moment and then smiled. "I meant well," he said. "I knew I recognized you," Nancy said, turning a third through the book. "My Uncle Maxwell when he graduated from Mars-Yale." She slid the picture out and held it toward Holman, but he didn't take it. Shandy said, "Hated to see you go." Come to think of it, Holman thought, he does just repeat things people are always saying. Setting the book beside the flowers, Nancy said, "What are you really, Shandy? I've never had a chance to talk to you before, except in a one-sided sort of way." Shandy folded his hands and uncrossed his legs. "I don't remember just now, Miss Nancy. I used to know. I don't think there are many of us left now." He touched his mustache again, smoothing it. "Maybe in the mountains there are some more. I don't remember." Nancy patted his head. "I'm going to marry Ken, Shandy. And live in the settlement." "You'll enjoy that." "You think you'll stay this way?" Holman asked. "I might. I don't know." Holman held out his hand to Shandy. "Anyway, we want you to stay here and keep watch over things." Shandy hesitated and then shook hands. "I might as well." * * * * * Holman and Nancy left for the settlement the next morning, with the suitcases. Shandy, still in the shape of Uncle Maxwell, they left on the front steps of the ship. He waved goodbye to them. When they were gone, he changed slowly into a large teddy bear. Then, with a moist gleam in his eye, he went back to reading the thick, red-leather, picture encyclopedia in his lap. 
44924	----	available by the Google Books Library Project (http://books.google.com) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 44924-h.htm or 44924-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/44924/44924-h/44924-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/44924/44924-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through the Google Books Library Project. See http://www.google.com/books?id=2Xo-AQAAMAAJ Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). [Illustration: _Front._ ZAC WINS THE PIG-RACE.--P. 57] UNCLE JOE'S STORIES by THE RIGHT HON. E. H. KNATCHBULL-HUGESSEN, M.P. With Illustrations by Ernest Griset London George Routledge and Sons Broadway, Ludgate Hill New York: 416 Broome Street 1879 CONTENTS. PAGE UNCLE JOE 1 ZAC'S BRIDE 40 EVELYN WITH THE FAIRIES 106 CAT AND DOG 183 OPHELIA 223 THE CRONES OF MERSHAM 285 TO ALL NAUGHTY CHILDREN (IF THERE BE ANY SUCH LEFT IN ENGLAND) This Book IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. MY DEAR CHILDREN-- Yes--you are "dear," and will be very "dear" to your parents and friends if you continue to be naughty. I dedicate this little book to you because I have been told (though it is scarcely possible to believe it) that I was once a naughty child myself. If it be true, it was a _very_ long time ago; and then there were not nearly so many pretty "children's books" as there are now, so I had not the same chance as you have of knowing how much best it is to be good. As soon as I found this out, I began to be good directly, and now I advise you all to do the same. Whilst you are thinking how to manage it, you cannot do better than read a few stories about Fairies, Pigmies, Witches, and such-like interesting creatures. In these stories you will find that the good people always come out right at last, and the naughty people get into the most disagreeable scrapes. Well, this is just the same with creatures who are not Fairies nor Pigmies, nor anything of the sort. So as soon as you have read these stories--or even before doing so if you can--leave off being naughty and be good as fast as possible. By so doing you will make everybody about you happy, will become more and more happy yourselves, and will show that Fairy stories are really of some use. In this case we must have another book next year, and meanwhile I remain your affectionate friend, E. H. KNATCHBULL-HUGESSEN. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE ZACK WINS THE PIG-RACE (_Zac's Bride_) 57 EVELYN MEETS THE FAIRIES (_Evelyn with the Fairies_) 122 THE CAT'S LAST MUSIC-LESSON (_Cat and Dog_) 212 END OF FAMCRAM (_Ophelia_) 280 MARY AND BILLY MEET THE CRONES (_The Crones of Mersham_) 305 SIMPLE STEENIE AND THE GRAY MAN ON THE STROLL (_The Crones of Mersham_) 344 PREFACE. I had almost made up my mind to write no more Fairy Tales, to let sprites and elves alone for ever, and to refrain from any further research into the dark and mysterious doings of warlocks and witches in the olden time. But fate is stronger than the will of man, and I am powerless to resist the influences brought to induce--nay, to compel--me to alter my determination. It is not only that verbal and written requests have come to me from many quarters which it is difficult to resist; it is not only that I am tired of being asked when my new book is coming out, and of being generally disbelieved when I answer "never." There is a stronger influence still. Fairies and elves have an extraordinary power which they exercise over those who have once sought to pry into their mysteries. If once you have dealings with such creatures, you can rarely, if ever, leave them. There is a fatality which urges you on--an irresistible fascination in the subject which brings you back to it again and again, and obliges you to recur to it in spite of yourself. When I walk out in the woods, or ramble through the fields alone, the objects which appear ordinary and commonplace to people who have, unhappily for themselves, neglected to study Fairy Lore, bear to me quite a different appearance. I see traces of the little beings which are not visible to the careless, still less to the unbelieving eye. I hear voices which are inaudible to the ear of the incredulous; and even without this, Fancy--free, glorious Fancy--clothes the grass, the flowers, the bushes, the trees, with a beauty of her own, and peoples every fairy haunt with a spirit company. Is it only Fancy? Ah! that is just what nobody knows. Only how could I tell so many different stories if nobody told them to me first? That is a question I should like people to put to themselves calmly and quietly, and if they think, after full consideration, that some person or persons must have told me these curious stories, I hope they will come to the conclusion that I am only doing what is right and fair in passing them on to other people, so that the world may know as much as I do about the strange and wonderful beings to whom these stories relate. UNCLE JOE'S STORIES. UNCLE JOE. I do not think that I ever met so extraordinary a man as Uncle Joe in all my life. We children were all very fond of him, because he had an inexhaustible supply of stories, and those, too, of a kind which are especially popular with children. He had exciting stories of almost every sort: of thrilling adventures by land and sea, of captures by pirates, hair-breadth escapes from Red Indians; fearful conflicts with robbers; terrible struggles with wild animals; and strange encounters with sea-serpents or similarly wonderful creatures. Then he knew an immense deal about giants and dwarfs, witches and wizards, ogres and vampires, and he also possessed no little insight into all that concerned fairies and fairy-land. He could tell of the little sea fairy that rode on the crest of the wave, basking pleasantly when the sun shone down on a calm still ocean, and shrieking madly with frenzied delight when the winds lashed the waves into fury, and carried her forward on the great flakes of snow-like foam; of the fairy who looked after some particular house or family, and always appeared to warn them of danger just at the right moment, or to disclose a buried treasure, exactly in time to save them from ruin; and of the happy little woodland fairies, who are to be found in the deep glades and dark ravines of the wild forest, and about whom such innumerable legends have from time to time been written by some of those fortunate mortals who have visited and been aided by them in time of sickness or danger, and who have in gratitude chronicled their power. Nothing delighted Uncle Joe so much as to tell one of his charming stories to us, eager listeners as we always were. He liked to get one child on each knee, and to have the others clustering round as near as possible, and then he would start off and go on just for all the world as if he was only reading from a book. Looking back now, with the calmer judgment of riper years, I hardly know which was most wonderful, the unlimited power of invention of Uncle Joe, or the boundless credulity of us children. Because no man could by any possibility have gone through half the wonderful adventures of which he pretended to have been the hero, if he had lived to twice the ordinary age of man, and kept on searching for adventures all the time. Besides, it would have been five hundred to one against his escaping every time, as Uncle Joe always did, "by the skin o' his teeth." Once he was tied to the stake, and just going to be scalped by the Indians, when some miraculous thing (I forget what at this moment) occurred to save him; once he was in the very coils of an enormous snake, and was yet preserved; and at another time, he was actually swallowed by a crocodile, (I am sure I don't know how he got down its throat without a disabling nip from some of those teeth which I have noticed in the mouths of stuffed crocodiles in museums,) and escaped by means of employing his penknife in a manner too disagreeable to describe. In short, there never was a man who, according to his own account, had gone through such a series of remarkable adventures as Uncle Joe, and I am therefore quite justified in pronouncing him to have been a most extraordinary man. I have never discovered what really was Uncle Joe's profession or occupation. For anything I know, he may have been a soldier, a sailor, or a horse-marine; though, for the matter of that, I have so little conception of what may be the duties of persons engaged in the latter profession, that I should dispute the claims of nobody who averred that he had belonged to it. All I know is, that he wore a blue coat with brass buttons, had a hooked nose and a bright eye, and only possessed one arm; the other I solemnly declare I have heard him state, on different occasions, to have been shot off in battle, lost in saving life from a shipwreck, when it got jammed between two planks of the sinking ship, and bitten off by a tiger, under circumstances the details of which I do not happen to remember--it was gone, however, anyhow, was that left-arm of Uncle Joe's, and its loss must have had this great consolation, that it furnished a foundation upon which he built many a romance, pleasing to himself, and interesting to his listeners. He had been a mighty traveller, had Uncle Joe. From Canada to the farthest extremity of South America, from Constantinople to Hong-Kong, from the Straits of Gibraltar to the Cape, all was familiar to him; whilst, as to continental Europe, there seemed to be no hole or corner which he had not explored. England was like his own house to him; that is to say, he knew every county and town in one as well as he knew every room in the other. In fact, to hear him talk on these subjects, you never would for a moment have guessed that which was the real truth, namely, that he had never been further from England than Paris, and had been so particularly ill in crossing the channel that nothing but the fear of the laughter of his friends, coupled with his total and entire ignorance of the French language, prevented his settling in France for the rest of his life, sooner than again undergo the ordeal of that terrible passage. Happily for us children, (for this occurred before we were at the age of story-hearing, or indeed at any age at all,) he _did_ face the channel once more, and never sought to tempt it again. But all this I only learned many years after, and during the whole of the early portion of my life, I (in common, I am sure, with the great majority of his acquaintance) set Uncle Joe down as a man who had seen more of the world than most living men, and knew more of the geography of foreign lands, as well as of the customs and manners of their inhabitants, than anyone whom I ordinarily met. With all this sin, if sin it be, of exaggeration, (one wishes to use a mild word in speaking of a relative,) Uncle Joe's virtues greatly predominated over any defects which he may have possessed. He was good-natured to a fault--forgiving beyond most men--tender-hearted--a faithful friend--and full of sympathy for the woes and sorrows of others. I believe he lost a large sum of money in early life by becoming surety for some one whom he thought to be a friend, and who turned out to be an arrant scoundrel. Anyhow, he was far from rich, and was not one of those uncles who have always got a sovereign ready for a nephew going to school, or for spending at the confectioner's, if he comes to see a young relative during school-time. Still, Uncle Joe was the most popular of all our relations so far as the public opinion of the school-room was concerned, and every juvenile heart rejoiced when we were told that he was coming to spend Christmas at our home. Upon one occasion he was expected to arrive upon the day before Christmas Eve, and we were all greatly delighted at the prospect. Fanny and Kitty, my two eldest sisters, were looking forward with much pleasure to the visits to the school-room which Uncle Joe always paid about tea-time, not only on account of the stories we were sure to hear, but because it was so very amusing to see the violent efforts which Miss Crinkles, the governess, used to make in order to avoid going into fits of laughter at some of our uncle's jokes, and the entire--though only temporary--loss of dignity which followed her inevitable failure to keep her countenance. Tom and Gerald and I (Harry is my name, and I was about twelve at the time of this story) were equally interested, and little Lucy and Mary were employed for several days beforehand in putting on their dolls' best dresses, that they might be in a fit state to receive this honoured relation. Well, the day before Christmas Eve came--as it always comes every year, if you only look out for it--and our hearts beat high with expectation of Uncle Joe. But no Uncle Joe appeared at luncheon time (he often turned up about that time) and when tea-time had arrived, the hoped-for visit was not paid. Presently the dressing-bell rang, half-an-hour before dinner, and still no Uncle Joe. Even my father began to fidget now, and to wonder where the expected guest could be, and my mother became positively uneasy. If there was one thing rather than another about which our uncle was particular, it was the important point of being in time for dinner. The reason he always gave for this particularity was his sense of the unfairness to the cook which was occasioned by unpunctuality. No cook, he said, could contend against it, and you had no right to expect a good dinner unless you were ready to eat it at the hour for which it had been ordered. The knowledge of this opinion on the part of Uncle Joe, and of the firmness--not to say obstinacy--with which he always maintained it--increased the uneasiness of my parents as the dinner hour grew nearer and nearer without his appearance, and when half-past seven arrived, and still no Uncle Joe, matters were held to be so serious that messengers were despatched in several directions to make inquiries whether anything had been heard or seen of the expected visitor. It was fortunate that this step was taken, because otherwise there exists a violent probability that this story might never have been told, and we children should have had to mourn over the loss of our favourite relative. Uncle Joe was found lying by the roadside, barely a mile from our gate, at a spot where a path ran parallel with the road, but some twelve feet above it. His head was bruised and his left-arm broken, and, when found, he was insensible. There was snow on the ground: it had frozen during the day, and, about seven o'clock, light flakes of snow had begun to fall again, so that if my poor uncle had lain where he was much longer, he would either have been covered with snow, or frozen, and could in no case have come well out of the business. His story was, that, finding that he was at the station, some five miles off, in good time, he thought he would walk over to our house and have his portmanteau sent for from thence. Some two miles from home there stood (and still stands) a convenient public-house by the road-side, bearing the respectable sign of "The Duke's Head," a staring picture of the head and shoulders of a man, displaying the prominent nose and distinctive features of the great Duke of Wellington, swinging gaily in front of the said inn. I believe it is a very old inn, and was originally named after the great Duke of Marlborough, and if England ever has another "great" Duke, I do not doubt that _his_ picture will replace the present one, and the sign will do equally well for _him_. At this hostelry, said Uncle Joe, he had pulled up to have a glass of hot brandy-and-water to cheer him on his way, and remembered to have observed several rough-looking characters hanging about the place at the time. He journeyed on, and at the spot at which he was found had been attacked by three foot-pads, whom he declared that he had resisted stoutly, but a blow with a short stick delivered by one of them had felled him to the earth with a broken arm, while he had been rendered insensible by a similar blow upon the head. The robbers seemed to have had some object other than that of mere plunder, for although Uncle Joe declared that they had taken all his money but half-a-crown, which was found in his waistcoat-pocket, yet it was so seldom that he had much more cash about him, that no one imagined that the robbers' booty could have been great, whilst they had left his big silver watch and chain untouched, and also the large old-fashioned silver pencil-case, which he always carried about with him. This he attributed to the stubbornness of his resistance, which had made the thieves glad to get away from the neighbourhood of so desperate a fellow as quickly as possible. They were never traced, and as the snow soon afterwards came on more heavily, their footsteps could have been scarcely seen after the space of a very short time, and no one could tell in which direction they had fled. There were some people, indeed, who winked their eyes wickedly, and laid their fore-finger waggishly against the side of their noses whenever allusion was made to the attack upon Uncle Joe. They were unkind enough to declare that our good relative's story was true enough up to the time of his stopping at the "Duke's Head," but that at that point he had quitted the limits of strict veracity. They pretended to have the authority of the landlord of that highly respectable inn for the fact, that Uncle Joe, soon after six o'clock, came in and had, not one glass, but three good "stiff" tumblers of brandy-and-water before resuming his journey. They further maintained that he had gone on merrily for a while after this, but that it had had sufficient effect upon him to have rendered it very desirable that he should have kept in the road instead of following the pathway above it. Choosing the latter, however, he had lost his equilibrium at the spot near which he was found, tumbled down the steep bank into the road, and in this manner received the injuries to head and arm which he had undoubtedly sustained. The landlord, moreover, said these unbelievers, indignantly denied that any "rough-looking characters" had been near his house upon that day, and declared that the only people there at or about the time of Uncle Joe's visit were some Christmas ringers and singers preparing for, or proceeding with, their visits to the neighbouring villages, with the view of exchanging carols and hymns for pence and half-pence wherever they found Christian people ready for such a transaction. These reports and doubts, however, about Uncle Joe's misfortune never reached us children at the time, and, if they had, we should not for a moment have attached the smallest weight to them. In our eyes the matter was one which placed our esteemed relative still higher in the rank of heroes to which our childish thoughts had long since raised him. Nor were we frightened at the idea of foot-pads or highwaymen having suddenly made their unwonted appearance in our happy and tranquil neighbourhood. It seemed to us only natural that curious and unusual things should attend Uncle Joe wherever he went, and it was with him and his life, and not with our home and its surroundings, that we connected the circumstance of this new feature in the locality. However, the truth or falsehood of the story mattered little to us, so long as we had got our uncle safe and sound after all. There he was, and there he continued for several weeks; for a broken head and arm required attention, and he was nowhere so likely to receive it as at our house. During this long visit we saw more of Uncle Joe than we had ever done before, and it soon became an established practice that, after our tea and before dressing-time, he should narrate to us some of those wonderful stories of which I have spoken. One of these I will relate, as nearly as possible in the words of my revered uncle, in order that my readers may be able to imagine the kind of way in which all his stories were told. But the other tales which I propose to chronicle I will tell after a different fashion, relating the substance of Uncle Joe's narrative, but leaving out the personal allusions to his own prowess with which it was embellished. Those who read have only to imagine that in the chief personage in every story they discern Uncle Joe, and they will easily discover the little alterations which I have thought it well to make in order to vary the form of each tale. The one which I am now going to tell was a favourite one with us boys, but the girls did not like so much killing, and rather thought Uncle Joe must have been a more cruel man in the days when these adventures happened to him than at the time he recounted them. Since then I have read a great many books from the pen of Cooper, Captain Mayne Reid, and Gustave Aimard, all dealing with the doings of Red Indians, their subtlety, their treachery, their implacable revenge, and other pleasing characteristics, and I have often thought that Uncle Joe must have intended a parody upon some of their most stirring recitals of Indian adventure in the following story. But, most certainly, he told it as having happened to himself, and threw so much vehemence into his manner of telling it, that we children never for a moment doubted that such was the case. I remember quite well the day he first told it to us; and how intensely interested in it we all were. He began it at tea-time: I think he liked to tell his most extraordinary and unlikely stories at tea-time for the benefit of Miss Crinkles, and I sometimes wonder that the questions she occasionally asked him did not create a suspicion in our minds that there was some doubt as to the truth of some of his facts. But no such suspicion, as far as I can recollect, ever dawned upon our childish imaginations, and the only result of Miss Crinkles' questions was to imbue us with increased awe and respect for our uncle, whom even our governess could not readily understand without asking for further information. It was, I say, at tea-time that this story was begun, and, I think, finished. One of us boys had expressed a great desire to hear of some Indian adventures, and Uncle Joe, ever ready to oblige, at once commenced the following narrative, perhaps one of the least likely of the many marvellous tales with which he ever favoured us. "It was during the time which I passed in America that some of the strangest and wildest adventures of my life happened. Perhaps none of these was more remarkable than that which I am about to relate to you, and indeed I question whether many people exist who have ever encountered an adventure so extraordinary. I had roamed some way through the dense forest, far from any human habitation, accompanied only by my faithful dog "Jumbo," a magnificent Cuban bloodhound, who never left my side, and was the cleverest as well as the bravest animal I ever possessed. I had with me my trusty double-barrelled rifle, a revolver, and a hunting-knife, and had for many days depended for my supply of food upon my skill as a marksman. I remember that it was a lovely day, and as the dense foliage of the woods protected me from the heat of the sun, I rambled on and on in pleasant and listless security for many a mile. At length it happened that I approached a large tree, standing rather apart from its forest companions, and conspicuous not only by the size of its trunk, but by the magnificent limbs which it threw out on every side. I was already within a few yards of this tree when I observed something which caused me to stand still and gaze upon it before I advanced further. One large branch hung across my line of march, and in a few seconds I should have passed immediately beneath it; but it was something in connection with this very branch which arrested my footsteps. The day was perfectly calm and still; not a breath of wind was to be perceived, and yet I fancied that I saw the leaves with which this branch was thickly covered, tremble and rustle just as if a breeze was blowing through them. As I stood wondering what could be the cause of this strange occurrence, and doubtful whether or not to proceed, my doubts were cleared away in a manner more alarming than agreeable. Suddenly I perceived, rearing itself among the leaves, the hideous head of a gigantic snake. In another instant, whether to re-arrange its position or for what other reason I know not, the reptile dropped down from the branch to the length of some three or four feet, and swing for a moment or two like the pendulum of a clock, from the branch around which its tail and part of its body remained curled. I could not tell how long or large it might be, but I saw quite sufficient to assure me that it was a snake of very great size, and I shuddered to think of my possible fate had I passed beneath the branch in ignorance of its terrible tenant. "I hastily retraced my steps for a few yards, and passing the tree at some little distance, determined to quit the neighbourhood of so dangerous a creature. The tree upon which it had taken up its position was upon the side of a somewhat steep hill, and it so happened that I had walked some way along the said hill very much lower down, and was now working my way back in a line parallel to my previous passage. "I had not gone many yards beyond the snake's tree, before the manner of my dog attracted my attention. He threw up his head, sniffed the air uneasily, and then gave vent to a low whine which, from previous experience, I knew full well to betoken the presence of danger. At the same moment, listening with eager attention, and with an acuteness of hearing which those only possess who live such a life of wild, dangerous activity as mine was at that time, I fancied that I heard the cracking of a stick under the foot of man. It seemed to be at some distance off, and apparently far below where I was standing. The trees were too thick to enable me to see far, but creeping forward a little, and standing on the trunk of a fallen tree, I endeavoured to look down the hill as much as the fall of the ground permitted. It so happened that there was a space of ground somewhat less thickly surrounded by trees than the rest of the forest, over which I had passed in my previous journey, and it was upon this space that I looked, being many feet above it. You may imagine my feelings when I caught sight of an Indian, fully armed and decked in his war-paint, just crossing this space, and evidently examining the ground before him with the greatest care. I should have thought but little of this, indeed, but for that which followed. He crossed the space, and immediately after him came nine of his companions, horrible-looking creatures, travelling in single file and closely following in their leader's footsteps. Horror of horrors! they were upon my track. I knew it but too well! there was I, alone in the wild forest, with no less than ten deadly foes after me, whose object undoubtedly was to take my life, and not improbably with some of those tortures with which Indians delight to amuse themselves at the expense of their captives. "Now I happened to have a decided preference for living, if I could, and, if I _must_ die, for dying in a respectable manner. The idea of having my scalp torn from my head, and hung up in the wigwam of a wild savage, was extremely repugnant to me, and I determined at once to avoid such an unpleasant catastrophe if I possibly could. The question was, however, as to the best way in which this could be accomplished. If I pushed on through the forest, it could not be long before these enemies, hardy and used to the woods, and animated with their savage desire for my life, would overtake me, when, perhaps, I might be too fatigued to offer any real resistance. If I stood firm where I was, what could I hope to do against ten men? If, on the other hand, I assumed a friendly air and advanced to meet them, I knew their treacherous nature too well to harbour for an instant the thought that they would treat me otherwise than as a captive taken in war. Indeed, should it be otherwise, my best fate would probably be to be obliged to join their tribe, very likely to marry several very unpleasant squaws, and to drag out my weary existence far away from scenes into which christianity or civilisation had penetrated. My aim, then, must be to escape from the clutches of these savages by some method or another, and I was indeed puzzled what to do. I had not much time to deliberate, and after a moment's thought, I decided to lie down flat behind the trunk of the tree on which I had been standing, and calmly await the event. I looked carefully to my rifle and revolver, both of which I ascertained to be loaded and ready for action, I bid my brave Jumbo lie down at my feet, which the intelligent animal immediately did, crouching quite close to the fallen tree, and then, having so disposed my body that I could see under one of the branches of the tree, and watch the approach of my enemies, I remained still and hoped for the best. It seemed to me hours before they came near. In reality it could not have been much more than half an hour, for the spot at which I had seen them could have been barely three miles, even by the zig-zag line which I had followed, and as I, having had no suspicion of the presence of a foe, had taken no precaution to conceal my track, they were not delayed in their pursuit by any trouble in discovering my footsteps. On they came, steadily and silently, and I saw them from my hiding-place rapidly approaching me. The foremost Indian had already arrived at the spot from which I had gazed at the overhanging branch and its fearful occupant, and stopped for an instant at the place where my footsteps ended, evidently puzzled as to what I had done, and where I had gone from that point. "Not long, however, did he hesitate, but, casting a glance right and left, moved rapidly forward towards the tree, to discover whether any traces were to be found in that direction. Three or four of his rapid, noiseless strides brought him beneath the fatal branch: enemy as he was, I longed to warn him, despite the danger to myself, but it was more than I dared venture to do, and in another instant it was too late. With sudden and awful rapidity the snake darted downwards from the branch and struck the unfortunate wretch--a piercing yell rang through the woods, but the victim cried in vain. Encircled by the coils of the mighty reptile, his doom was sealed beyond hope, and I turned my head from the horrible sight of the last struggles of my miserable foe. His companions rushed hastily back as they saw their leader's fate, and I earnestly hoped that this misfortune would have induced them to desist from their pursuit. It was not so, however, but after the lapse of a few moments only, I saw them making casts like hounds directed by a huntsman, and presently they discovered the place where I had turned aside, and came eagerly forward on my track. There was no time to be lost: they were little more than twenty yards from my tree, and I had a full view of them. Nine more savage-looking rascals you never saw. Their war-paint made them appear even more ugly than nature had made them, although that was somewhat difficult. Only three of them carried rifles, the rest being armed, as far as I could see, only with tomahawks and hunting-knives. They were evidently "braves," or warriors, all of them, and by their appearance and the expression upon their faces, I felt very sure that they were in that excited state that my chance of mercy would be but small if I should be so unfortunate as to fall into their hands. I determined, therefore, to act with vigour and decision, and, if the worst came to the worst, to sell my life dearly at all events. When, therefore, my enemies were barely fifteen yards from me, I suddenly sprang to my feet, uttering at the same time the loudest and most outlandish howl I could command, by way of a war-cry, which Jumbo echoed by a bark more like the roar of a lion than the sound made by an ordinary dog. As I had expected, this sudden movement on my part took the Indians entirely by surprise, and caused them to come to a halt on the instant. Whilst they were thus stationary I fired both barrels of my rifle as quickly as possible, selecting as their object two of those who had firearms in their hands. The foremost man threw up his arms and dropped like a log, whilst the bullet of the second barrel, fired somewhat hastily, only struck an Indian in the shoulder. Scarcely waiting, however, to see the result, I had no sooner fired than I bounded down the hill, reloading as fast as I could, and closely followed by the faithful Jumbo. The Indians, disconcerted by the suddenness of my appearance and attack, stood still for a moment without any effort to pursue me. Not long, however, was this the case, for a wild yell of anger and revenge rang through the air, and I knew that my relentless foes were again upon my track. I did not run far, for being expert at loading, my rifle was soon ready, and I well knew that all depended upon my speedy and effective use of the trusty weapon. Not fifty yards from the spot whence I had fired my first shot, I reached an open space, across which I bounded like a deer, and placed myself behind a large tree upon the further side. A few seconds after, and the enemy rushed into the space, and at a glance I perceived that there were only seven. My shots, then, had both told! Inspirited by this good fortune, I felt my nerves grow steadier on the instant, and as the foremost savage bounded towards me, I fired upon him with deadly effect. He fell; and his six comrades immediately sought shelter in the bushes, but not before the shot from my second barrel reduced their number to five. Without an instant's delay, I darted down the hill again, at the base of which flowed a stream which I desired to reach, hoping to find some place on the opposite bank where I might make a stand. But my pursuers, grown wise by experience, no longer followed me together, but, spreading out right and left ran silently yet swiftly towards me. Full well did I know that they would do so, and that I must use every stratagem within my power if I desired to escape with my life. "Accordingly, after I had gone a short distance, I seized the branch of a tree, and swung myself up as quietly and quickly as I could, motioning to Jumbo with my hand to continue his course, which the clever animal did for some little way, and then stopped. It fell out as I had hoped. Presently a light footstep came nearer and nearer to the tree upon which I sat, and an Indian, creeping softly forward, stole actually within three yards of the spot. He passed me and went silently forward for a few steps, when again the report of my rifle rang through the woods, and I had but four foemen to contend with. But I knew only too well the risk I had run in order thus to diminish their number. _I was no longer certain that all my enemies were behind me._ All I _did_ know was, that four active, unwounded, ferocious men were somewhere near at hand, thirsting for my blood, and that I had but my rifle and my trusty hound to depend on to save me from their clutches. "I remained perfectly still, not venturing even to reload my rifle, and listened with an eagerness which became agony. Not a sound could I hear of any sort or description. The Indians had evidently become alive to their danger, and were employing all the cunning of their race in order to avoid their own destruction and compass mine. Jumbo also was certainly aware that he had a part to play, and was in all probability lying still until I should summon him to my side. The suspense was awful, and all the more so as I knew perfectly well that a false move--or perhaps any move at all--might be fatal to my hopes of escape. "How long this state of things endured I can hardly tell you, for my nerves were strung to that tension that I could take no account of time. It might have been, for aught I knew, five minutes or five hours, but probably the former is more nearly correct. As soon as I had shot the last Indian, I had drawn myself back to the thickest part of the branch on which I sat, and believed that I was invisible to the eyes of anyone below. I soon discovered my mistake, however, and that in a manner which very nearly put an end to me and my adventure together. As I waited anxiously for the next scene in this exciting drama, I suddenly felt my hunting cap struck from my head, whilst the sound of a rifle-shot rang unpleasantly near to my ears: a bullet had passed through my cap within an inch of my head! "One of the Indians had certainly caught sight of me, and, aiming from some hiding-place hard by, had fired the shot which had so nearly proved fatal. "Of course it would have been sheer madness to remain where I was for one moment longer, for another shot might, and probably would, prove more successful. Quick as lightning the thought flashed through my brain, that my only chance was to deceive my enemy into the belief that he had accomplished his purpose. Accordingly, in an instant I dropped heavily to the ground. Fortunately I had no great distance to fall, and as I did so, I kept my rifle clasped closely to my breast. It happened as I had anticipated, and even better than I had ventured to hope, for the next moment all four of my foes came rushing through the wood from different points, the man who had fired brandishing his rifle over his head as he approached. He was within three or four yards of me when I sprang suddenly to my feet, and fired directly into his breast, with the natural result of checking his career for ever. No sooner had I fired than I rushed again down the hill at full speed, calling to my hound as I ran. "The three remaining Indians did not stop with their slain friend for an instant, but, incensed beyond measure at his death and the success of my stratagem, followed me at best speed, much too closely to be pleasant. I determined, however, to reach and cross the stream if possible, and made every effort to do so. There was a small space nearly clear of trees and bushes between the edge of the wood and the stream, beyond which the wood again stretched away far and wide. I reached this space, and was within a couple of yards of the stream when my foes were upon me. Fearing that they might take me at disadvantage, I turned and suddenly confronted them--three horrid looking ruffians they were--their eyes gleaming with fury, and their appearance altogether enough to frighten any civilised person out of his wits. "When I turned they were four or five yards from me--most fortunately none of them had firearms, not having stayed their pursuit to pick up the rifles of their deceased companions--each of them, however, had his tomahawk, and each hurled it at my head as I turned to face them. Dropping suddenly on one knee, I was fortunate enough to escape these weapons, which all whizzed harmlessly over my head: the three men were, however, close at hand, and I had no time to escape them. At this moment, however, I recollected an old trick of which I had read somewhere or other, and which I instantly resolved to put in practice. Rising from my knee, I rushed to meet one of the Indians, and as he furiously came upon me, I suddenly stooped quite low, evaded the blow which he struck over me, and seizing him by both ankles, lifted him by sheer muscular strength over myself, so that he fell with great violence upon his head several yards behind me, carried forward by the force of his own weight and impetus. The other two were so confused at this occurrence, that they lost the single moment in which they might have struck me a deadly blow without the possibility of my warding it off. The next moment Jumbo sprang upon one of them, whilst I confronted the other. "My first object was to seize the wrist of the hand which held his hunting knife. I had no time to draw my own, and my only hope was to deprive my enemy of his weapon. In an instant we closed and grappled furiously. I kept firm hold of his wrist, however, well knowing that this was my safety. After a short struggle we rolled on the ground together, and the Indian's hand coming in contact with something hard, he dropped the fatal knife. We were now upon more equal terms, but still there were many chances against me. My foe was a tall, brawny, muscular man, a hardy son of the woods, and, like myself, now fighting for his life. Never shall I forget that moment. In the midst of that terrible struggle, when I was putting forth all my strength and concentrating every effort in order to gain the mastery, the pleasant meadows of dear old England came up in a vision, as it were, before my eyes, and familiar home scenes flashed like lightning across my sight. I redoubled my efforts, but the savage had succeeded in grasping my throat with one of his hands, and it was with the greatest difficulty I could draw my breath. My eyes seemed to grow dull and heavy, there was the roar of ten thousand surges in my ears, my temples throbbed as if they would burst, and I felt creeping over me a terrible sensation of despair, which I shall never forget whilst I have power to remember anything. "All at once there came upon my hearing the sound as of a short, sharp roar of fury--the Indian's grasp was loosened--my sight came back to me, again I heard, I recovered consciousness just sufficiently to see my faithful Jumbo with his mighty teeth fixed in the throat of my dying enemy, and then I sank back in a dead faint. "How long I remained in this state it is impossible for me to say. I was awakened by a soft, cooling sensation on my forehead, and opening my eyes, regained sufficient consciousness to be aware that an Indian maiden was bathing my feverish brow with cold water from the neighbouring stream, whilst my dog, usually so ferocious, was couched near, regarding her with friendly eyes, and evidently quite aware that she was performing a kindly office, and was not to be interrupted. I strove to speak; but my benefactress forbade me with an expressive gesture, placing her finger lightly upon my lips. "'White broder no speak,' she said, in the low guttural accents of her race; 'no open him lips. Silence berry good. Talkee hurt.' "I was too confused and, I hope, too grateful to disobey, and remained perfectly quiet whilst the maiden continued her interesting occupation for several minutes, during which time I had an opportunity of attentively observing her. She was certainly one of the loveliest--nay, _the_ loveliest of Indian maidens. Although she had not quite as many clothes on as an European damsel would consider necessary, their absence only served to disclose the perfect symmetry of her form, the graceful rounding of her limbs, and the natural dignity of her every movement. Her eyes, large and soft as those of the gazelle, were fringed with the most magnificent eye-lashes you can imagine, and when she cast them down, she presented an ideal of female modesty and refinement, which could not be surpassed by the most fashionable young lady that ever graced a London drawing-room. When she smiled, her face lighted up like that of a lovely child when, just awakened, it sees the loving face of its mother bending over it, and, in a word, purity, innocence, and natural beauty seemed all concentrated in the form, features, and expression of this child of the woods. Such at least was the thought which occupied my breast as I lay still and gazed upon the gentle being who was ministering to my wants in so agreeable a manner, and I think I could have stayed in the same position some time longer without any great desire to move. But, after a little while, the maiden ceased to bathe my brow, and addressing me in the same tones as before, said, 'White broder sit up now. Him better. Him no die dis time.' I mechanically obeyed, sat up, and felt much better already. In fact, there was no reason why I should not be so, for, save and except the exertion and excitement which I had undergone, and the near approach to strangulation from which Jumbo had providentially saved me, I had really received no bodily injury. It really seems a strange thing to look back upon, but here had been ten men against one poor wayfarer, and yet the ten had perished, and he was left alive. I did not think, however, of looking back at that moment; my thoughts were fixed upon my new friend: who or what was she,--where did she come from,--could she possibly be one of the tribe who had been upon my trail? If so, why did she not kill and scalp me whilst I lay senseless on the ground? Horrible thought! my head seemed to feel the knife, and I could fancy the awful wrench with which one's scalp would go; but I had no need for such thoughts. My scalp was safe and sound, and the maiden evidently could not belong to my enemies. The only way to find out the truth about her was to ask, so, adopting my style to her own, I began without loss of time. "'My sister very good;--kind to poor white broder. Where my sister come from? How she happen to be in woods? Is she far from her home? And what my sister's name?' "The girl laughed, and looked down upon the ground as she replied at once: "'White broder ask many questions. Pale-face always much talkee. Moon-eye not tell eberything. No good too much talkee.' "I doubted what to say next. I had gained one piece of information certainly, since the damsel evidently referred to herself as 'Moon-eye,' which was undoubtedly an appropriate name for her, and had been given by someone who was no bad judge of eyes in general, and hers in particular. But I wanted to know a great deal more, whilst at the same time I was anxious not to appear rude or inquisitive. So I remained silent for a little while, when presently she rose to her feet and addressed me in the following words: "'Pale-face broder come now. "Moon-eye" show way.' "I obeyed without hesitation, and prepared to go wherever she led, for in fact I had no alternative. It was very unlikely that the girl was alone in the forest, and if not, the eyes and ears of her friends might even at this moment be within sight and hearing, in which case my policy, as well as my inclination, would be to appear to be upon the best possible terms with her, and to approach them in her company and under her guidance. I felt somewhat weak when I attempted to walk, but as it was only weakness, I knew it would soon pass away, and so said nothing, but quietly followed my guide. She walked down to the little stream before mentioned, then turned along its bank and proceeded for several hundred yards until she came to a place where the water was so shallow as to enable us easily to wade over, which we did, and plunged into the woods on the other side. By this time, I thought I might as well try to get a little more conversation out of my friend, and therefore accosted her with some ordinary question, but she immediately turned round and, placing her finger on her lips, said, in a voice so low as to be little more than a whisper: "'No talkee--enemy in woods. Moon-eye prisoner once. No want catchee again.' "For the first time the truth now dawned upon me, and I understood the reason of the exceeding kindness bestowed upon me by the Indian damsel, which I had previously attributed either to her own natural humanity, or to admiration for my noble and prepossessing appearance. But, as I afterwards discovered,'Moon-eye' had been carried off from her tribe by a party of thieving Indians, who, in order to elude pursuit, had divided in their journey, ten of them being entrusted with the captive maiden. While passing through this part of the woods, they had struck my trail, and, seeing it to be recent, had left the prisoner bound, and hastily followed, intending to finish me off before they continued their journey. Fortunately for me it had turned out otherwise, but it might not have been fortunate for 'Moon-eye' had she not succeeded in freeing herself from the bonds in which she had been left. They must have been less carefully tied than most Indian fastenings that I have seen; but I fancy the girl had rather deceived her captors by pretending to go with them more willingly than was really the case, and perchance a desire to avoid injuring her in any way had induced the Indians to fasten her less tightly and securely than they might otherwise have done. Anyhow, she contrived to get loose, and also to find her way to the spot where I lay senseless, and where, as we have seen, she treated me with a care and tenderness which I little expected to encounter in the depth of the forest. "Being admonished to silence I said no more, and we tramped on in silence, followed by the brave Jumbo. We had gone thus above a mile, when we heard a yell which proceeded from the direction of the place we had quitted. My companion stopped short, and turning to me, said, in a low voice: "'More bad Indian. Him hear shot. Him come back and find him broder shot. Him follow soon now. If catchee Moon-eye and pale-face broder, him killee for sartain.' "This being very much my own opinion, I asked the girl how far off her friends were, and as she now saw that something more than mere curiosity dictated the question, she replied at once: "'Two--tree--twenty mile. Bad Indian catchee before get to camp.' "On further inquiry I found that she thought there must have been full fifty of the robbers who had attacked the camp of her people when most of the warriors were absent--that they had captured several other prisoners besides herself--that they had divided into three parties, doubtless for the sake of greater safety in their flight, and that one of these parties had sundry horses laden with plunder, whilst the other party had the remaining captives. In all probability the shots fired during my combat with the ten Indians, who had been in charge of her, had been heard by one or both of these parties, and the cries we now heard proceeded from them. They would certainly follow upon our trail, and our chances of escape depended as much upon the numbers of our pursuers as upon any skill or strength of ours. For if thirty or forty warriors were behind us, not only would resistance be vain, but we should probably be surrounded before we had travelled far, whereas if only a few of the savages had returned, and made the discovery of the death of their friends, there was greater hope that we might elude them. Our only chance was to push on, and, having more than a mile start, we must make the best of it. Accordingly,'Moon-eye' advanced rapidly and cautiously, and I followed her, through the forest, and we must have gone quite another mile before we exchanged a word. By this time we had arrived at a sort of hill, upon which the trees grew less thickly than at other parts of the forest. At the foot of this hill the ground broke away to the right, the trees became still more scanty, and a wide chasm yawned at the distance of some twenty yards from where we stood, the descent into which was down a precipice many feet in height, whilst on the other side of the chasm the forest rose again, and grew on in unbroken continuity. To the left the trees were somewhat thicker, and some forty or fifty yards before us, as we bore to that side in ascending the hill, we perceived a building of some sort, towards which my companion directed her way. Making me a sign to remain where I was for a moment, she crept forward to reconnoitre, and presently returning, motioned me to follow her, whilst she made her way directly to the right, in the direction of the precipice, to the very edge of which she advanced. Thence we looked down into a frightful abyss, down which, if one had tumbled, one would have had no chance of escape. Bits of jagged rock projected here and there; vegetation seemed suspended for some distance down, and then the eye rested upon thick and tangled bushes jutting out from the sides of the rock, and completely concealing the bottom of the chasm, if, indeed, it had any bottom at all, for it might be endless as far as one could see from the top. Leaning carefully forward, my companion tore a branch or two from the bushes growing near the edge of the precipice, and gave the place the appearance of having been disturbed by the passage of some heavy body. She then took from my neck a handkerchief, which I had on by way of a neck-cloth, and which I did not in the least want to part with, but, of course, gave it up readily at her request; then she calmly dropped it over the side of the precipice, so that it hung upon one of the few bushes which grew a little way down the chasm. She then turned to me and said, in a low voice: "'Bad Indian tink him fall down cliff--no follow any more;' and with these words noiselessly retraced her way, treading so carefully in her former footsteps as to make it appear as if there was only one trail, and that pointing _towards_ the precipice. "When we had arrived at the spot from which she had previously gone to reconnoitre, we slowly ascended by the same way she had travelled before, carefully covering up and hiding all trace of our footsteps until we had reached the building to which I have already alluded. "It was apparently composed entirely of logs, and seemed as if it had been built for the lodge, or more likely a place of refuge, for some hunting party. The logs were roughly hewn, but skilfully laid together, forming a strong building, with only one entrance, and that by means of a door which had long since been broken down and destroyed. There were, however, two stories to the building, and as soon as we had entered the doorway, we found ourselves in a large room, some ten feet high at least, with a strong flooring of logs overhead. 'Moon-eye' rapidly made her way to one corner of this place, where stood some rude wooden steps, above which was an opening in the flooring above. These she ascended, motioning me to follow, and we presently crept through the opening into the upper room. This was lighted by two windows, one at each side, and had a stout roof overhead. There was no furniture whatever in it, but only a number of dried leaves, which seemed to have blown in at the windows from time to time, since the place had been deserted. 'Moon-eye' trod gently across the floor towards one of those windows, and on following her I found that it commanded a view in the direction from which we had come, but a view limited of course by the trees which grew within a short distance of the building. Turning to me, the girl now whispered in her own guttural accents: "'Bad Indian no come here, 'fraid of wicked spirit--kill much hunter here one day--times ago.' "I gathered from this remark that the place in which we were, had been the scene of some cruel massacre by the Indians in days past, and that the savages probably avoided it from superstitious fear. This gave me a double pleasure, for whilst it increased my hopes of safety for the maiden as well as for myself, it showed me, that she was one of those Indians whom superior intelligence, and perhaps a better education than is common among the females of her race, had raised above their common prejudices. Her plan was easily to be perceived. Could the pursuers be led to believe that we had fallen down the precipice, perhaps having turned aside from our path with a natural desire to avoid the haunted building, they would perhaps abandon further pursuit, and continue their journey. The place in which we now were, might have been easily defended by a few men against a much larger number of enemies; and, as I had my rifle with me, I might have made a stand even where I was, but it was absolutely necessary to leave the door and the aperture into the upper room open, inasmuch as the sight of any defence, however slight, would at once disclose our hiding-place to those who sought us. Nor, indeed, was there much time for consideration as to the best plan to adopt. In going to and returning from the edge of the precipice, and subsequently in concealing our trail, we had occupied some little time; and scarcely had we reached the upper story, than a yell arose from the forest which betokened the immediate advance of the foe. There was but a moment for reflection; through the chinks of the logs near one of the windows, we could see without being seen, and here we took our station, watching and waiting in breathless suspense. We had not long to wait. For some little time all was silence, and the forest looked so peaceful and lovely, that it was difficult to believe it full of savage enemies thirsting for our blood. "Meanwhile, I have forgotten to tell you of that which was at one moment our great difficulty, namely, my old friend Jumbo. Invaluable as he was in a fight, when the question became one of concealing a trail, he was very much the reverse. His trail was easy enough to discover, and we were rather puzzled what to do about it. The dog, however, was so intelligent that I felt sure he would understand the necessity of our separation for a time. So when we turned from our first track in order to approach the building, I pointed into the woods in the contrary direction, and bade him in the most impressive manner to go and wait for me there. The clever animal looked at me for a moment as if to fully take in what I had said, and then quietly turned round and entered the forest in obedience to my command. We were, therefore, unincumbered by his presence whilst we awaited the coming of our enemies in breathless anxiety in the upper story of the building. "The savages were doubtless following up our trail all this time, silently, slowly, but surely. The yells we had heard at first, were of course caused by their discovery of the bodies of their friends: why there had been a second yell, I have never discovered to this day, unless it was that they had lost our trail for a moment, and that it had been found again by some young warrior who had not sufficient experience or self-restraint to prevent his announcing the welcome fact by a shout. However this may be, they yelled no more, and after we had waited for some ten minutes or less, the party arrived at the spot whence we had ascended the hill, that is to say, within some fifty yards of the place where we lay. "As I have already said, the trees were thinner here than elsewhere, and we could from this cause see sufficiently well to discern objects moving about at that distance. "It was late in the afternoon now, but the light was still good, and 'Moon-eye' looked with keen and anxious eyes through the chinks of the logs in the direction of the savages. Though we could not count them, we soon saw that there were certainly more than twenty of the rascals. "The truth was, that _both_ the other two parties had heard the firing which occurred during my fight with the ten who had attacked me, but neither party liked to retrace their steps with their captives, and each had therefore again divided, and sent back a portion of their number to follow up the matter. These two divisions had met, and their meeting and explanations had probably caused just that delay which had enabled us to take shelter in our present place of refuge. "All was silence for a few moments longer, whilst we saw the dusky forms of the savages flitting, like evil spirits, through the trees at the foot of the hill, and moving in the direction in which we had gone. Then presently came a tremendous yell of mingled surprise and disappointment. They had evidently arrived at the spot where we wished them to believe we had fallen over the precipice. There was no more silence now, but on the contrary a Babel of tongues arose, and the savages chattered one to another like a number of old women over their washing-tubs, if I may make such an irreverent comparison. "My companion turned her head to me and smiled pleasantly, whilst her eyes laughed with joy: "'Sioux fool,' she whispered (from which remark I first learned the tribe to which our foes belonged). 'Pawnee girl cheat him well. No cheat Pawnee warrior so!' "I said nothing, for I did not like the silence that suddenly ensued. Whether some wiser chief had spoken, or what was the reason, I knew not, but the clamour and confusion ceased all at once, and the Indians began to return from the edge of the precipice, and spread themselves around the foot of the hill as if in search of some new trail, or to make sure that they had made no mistake. Still we lay quite quiet, convinced that this was our best chance of safety, and hoping that the superstitious fears of the savages would keep them from entering our hiding-place. "As they took no particular pains to conceal their movements, we could plainly hear the leaves rustle, and the dried sticks crash as they tramped through the surrounding woods; but for some time no one approached the building. Then, all of a sudden, we heard a footstep close below us. How we wished that it was a couple of hours later, when we might have hidden more securely in one of the dark corners of the room. This, however, was impossible, and we could only lie still where we were, still trusting that even if an Indian were found bold enough to enter the place in which we were, he would be content with inspecting the lower apartment. Presently the step entered the building, stealthily as that of a wolf creeping after his prey. A moment of intense anxiety followed, to be succeeded by one of as intense disgust. The steps creaked beneath the weight of a man, and the head and shoulders of a powerful savage appeared above the opening. For one instant he gazed round, his eyes being as yet unaccustomed to the imperfect light. "Had I been alone, I should probably have closed the aforesaid eyes with a bullet then and there, but my companion restrained me with a gesture, and in another second it was too late. The Indian naturally said 'Hugh,' in a deep guttural tone. I never knew or read of an Indian who did _not_ say 'Hugh' in a similar emergency, and the next moment he disappeared. Then arose a shout which summoned his comrades, and within a couple of minutes, my companion and I were standing outside the unlucky building, with five-and-twenty of the most unpleasant looking savages howling around us, in a manner doubtless most delightful to themselves, but to us the very reverse. "The gentleman who had discovered us was evidently the chief of the party. He had got my rifle, confound him, and stood regarding us with such a complacent, self-satisfied air that I would have paid down half-a-crown cheerfully to have had one drive at his nose with my clenched fist. This, however, was out of the question, partly because it would have been a very rash and foolish proceeding under existing circumstances, and partly because it would have been somewhat difficult, seeing that my arms were securely fastened behind my back with ropes of bark. Poor 'Moon-eye' was also bound, and did not seem much to approve of the arrangement. "The chief now approached us, and looked me steadfastly in the face, whilst I, having nothing better to do, looked back at him. Presently he gave a deep kind of cough or clearing of the throat, and after uttering the usual 'Hugh,' remarked that he was 'Pig-face,' and a very great chief. To this I responded, in plain English, that I didn't think much of the name for beauty, but had no doubt but that he was a tremendous 'swell' in his own country, to which remark he gravely bowed assent, evidently not understanding a word of it. He then came close to me, and, lightly touching me on the shoulder, exclaimed in a somewhat excited tone, 'Pale-face tief--no good--kill Pig-face young man--carry off Pig-face squaw--must die.' "Before I could by any possibility reply, 'Moon-eye' had interposed with a torrent of invective of which I had scarcely supposed her capable. She was terribly disgusted, I think (and no wonder at it) at being called Pig-face's squaw by that illustrious chief, and she certainly told him so in pretty plain terms, if her language (which I did not understand) at all corresponded to her voice and manner. This scene, however, could not last long. Although the Indian chief had kindly informed me of my doom, it was not his intention that it should be immediately fulfilled. He and his party had travelled many miles that day, and felt inclined for a rest before going further; added to which I imagine that they thought it would be more congenial to their feelings to kill me in their own village. Accordingly, they very kindly postponed that operation for the present, and leading us to a spot not more than half a mile distant from our late refuge, prepared to encamp for the night. Each of us captives, lady as well as gentleman, was bound to a tree, which is by no means the easiest position in which to pass the night, especially when vigilant eyes are upon you the whole time, which was the case in this instance, as the Indians relieved each other every two hours, so that we were closely watched through the whole night, and had no opportunity of communicating with each other. Early in the morning the party again set out, and poor 'Moon-eye' and I, but little rested, were forced to accompany them, much against our inclination. I will do the savages the justice to observe that they loosened the girl's arms during the morning, but as they neglected to perform the same kindness in my case, I felt remarkably uncomfortable. We journeyed along for some distance, until we came to an open grassy space, upon which we halted, and our captors, producing some venison meat, sat down to make a meal, unbinding my arms for a while, and pressed both me and my companion to share their food. I had carefully counted their number during our march, and found that there were twenty-four men, besides the excellent chief Pig-face, so that even if I had been free and armed, I could neither have resisted nor escaped from so great a number. I therefore determined to forbear from any such attempt, which, besides being useless, might increase the severity of our treatment. "As we sat, the chief again approached us and indulged in some more conversation. He spoke after the usual fashion of Indians, praising himself and his people a good deal, abusing me and all white people generally, and assuring me that my scalp should hang at his belt before many days were past. I bethought me of all the wise things which I had read of as having been said by 'Hawk-eye,' in Fennimore Cooper's immortal books, and could have prated for half an hour about 'White man's gifts,' and 'Red man's gifts,' if I had been so disposed. As, however, the only 'gift' which I desired at that moment was one which would have enabled me to set my companion and myself free, I did not care to indulge in those sage moral reflections which always seemed to me as I read them singularly out of place and extremely unlikely to have formed part of the conversation of a backwoodsman. I therefore merely thanked the savage, and informed him at the same time that my scalp was exceedingly comfortable where it was, and that I had no desire for its removal, a remark which he received with much composure, and probably imagined to be a reply entirely to the purpose. Then he began to tell my beautiful Moon-eye that she was foolish to have run away, that no one could withstand Pig-face, and that she should undoubtedly share his wigwam before long. "The maiden heard him this time in dignified silence, and after a while he left off talking, and directed his people to prepare to continue their journey. "We walked for a considerable distance, and having re-crossed the stream near which my first encounter had taken place, travelled for several miles without the occurrence of any incident worthy of note until the second evening arrived. Whether the savages felt more secure on account of being nearer their village, or from any other cause, I cannot say, but certain it is that they now so far relaxed their vigilance as to suffer my arms to be unbound for a time, and neither I nor Moon-eye were apparently so closely watched during the supper hour. Still, we knew but too well that keen eyes were upon us, and that flight was out of the question. "When the Indians had finished their meal, my companion and I were both tied again, but not so fast as before, or at least not in so objectionable a manner. We were suffered to lie down, our hands were fastened before us, and a rope round one ankle secured each of us to a tree. So darkness crept over the forest, and the savages were soon buried in sleep. "Presently a low whine attracted my attention, and I perceived my faithful Jumbo, who had evidently followed us all the journey, too wary to expose himself to view before he saw an opportunity of being of use. Creeping gently up to me now, the affectionate brute first licked my hands and face, though the latter was an attention with which I confess I could have dispensed. Then he began gently to gnaw the bark ropes which bound my wrists, and in a very short time succeeded in freeing my hands. At that instant one of the Indians started up. Jumbo slunk away in the shadow of the trees, whilst I kept my position, and endeavoured to appear as if I was fast asleep. The savage was soon satisfied, and lay down again, but I did not move for some minutes. Then I put out my hand and reached a knife which one of the party had carelessly left within my reach; with this I severed the fastening which held me to the tree, and crawling a few yards, performed the same office for my companion. "Still we were not much better off, for if we ventured to fly, we were certain to be speedily pursued and brought back. Therefore we looked at each other with a mutually disconsolate air, and hesitated what to do next. At this moment the hoot of an owl broke upon our ears. The eyes of the Indian maiden opened to their fullest extent: her nostrils seemed to tremble with excitement as she listened, and her features worked with a convulsive movement. The cry was repeated. "'Pawnee near--that him cry,' whispered the girl, and sat upright to listen again. "At that moment Pig-face suddenly sprang to his feet, as if he too had heard and recognized the sound. But before he had time to utter a word or cry, a furious yell broke the stillness of the night, and the well-known war-cry of the Pawnees rang through the air. A band of these brave people had started in pursuit of their enemies as soon as they had discovered the theft of the latter, and the carrying off of Moon-eye, upon their return to the camp. The Sioux would probably have got clear off if, in the first place, the party of ten had not been so desirous of getting my scalp, and if, in the second place, their friends had not thought it necessary to attempt to revenge their death. The time which they had lost in following and capturing us had enabled the Pawnees to overtake them, and their surprise was complete. I must say for the fellows that they lost no time in flying, and that too with amazing dexterity, for they disappeared like magic on all sides, Pig-face included. Fortunately for them, the anxiety of the Pawnees to recover the lost maiden was much in favour of their escape, for it appeared that the warriors had reasoned, wisely enough, that if they surrounded the camp, the position of the captives might be dangerous, whereas if they attacked on one side only the enemy would, in all probability, be principally occupied in securing his own safety. So, indeed, it turned out, and out of the twenty-five savages who had captured us, I believe that nearly one-half escaped unhurt. More might have done so if the gallant Jumbo had not thought it necessary to take an active part in the combat, which he did by pursuing and pulling down several of the Sioux, who thus became easy victims to their pursuers. "Pig-face and four of his men were taken unhurt, and when our friends re-assembled, and congratulations had passed between them and Moon-eye, the latter, having introduced me to her tribe, told them of the fate which the Sioux chief had intended for each of us. "The leader of the Pawnees, who rejoiced in the name of 'the Rattle-snake,' and was painted to represent that interesting animal, approached the unhappy Pig-face after this, and gave him a piece of his mind upon the subject. I did not understand what he said, of course, being, as I told you before, somewhat ignorant of their language; but I knew by the manner of the two that they were going on after the usual Indian fashion, the one telling the other that he should soon be tied to the stake, and what jolly fun it would be to torture him till he howled again, and the other replying that he was a great chief, that the other belonged to a nation of women, and that if he tortured him as he said, he would see that a chief knew how to die. "When they had satisfied themselves with this little interchange of compliments, 'the Rattle-snake' came up to me and spoke in his own language, saying, I have no doubt, several things which I should have very much liked to understand. I suppose, however, that my countenance showed him that he might as well have been talking to one of the trees, for he presently turned to Moon-eye and beckoned her to approach, which she accordingly did. Then he spoke to her in the same tongue, and she interpreted what he said to me in her pretty broken English. "'Chief say he tank pale-face broder for kill bad Indian. Pawnee him friend,--white skin, Pawnee heart.' "When I understood what the girl said, I replied at once that I was very much obliged for his good opinion, but that as a matter of fact my killing the bad Indians was not on account of any particular friendship for his tribe, but because if I had not done so, the beggars would certainly have killed _me_. 'The Rattle-snake' listened to this explanation with great attention, and answered through the interpreter that this was doubtless very true, inasmuch as these thieving Indians would kill any fellow they found in the woods if it suited their purpose; but that, nevertheless, a warrior who had assisted in disposing of so many Sioux _must_ be a friend to the Pawnees, even if he had never heard of them before. "There was no arguing against such a reason as this, and I therefore at once professed myself as a decided friend to the Pawnees, then and for ever. To tell the truth, I was not disinclined to become so, since Moon-eye had made such a deep impression upon me, that I felt a natural liking towards her people. The thought had several times crossed my mind during the last few days, whether I should not be much happier if I gave up the roving life which I had followed so long, and settled down comfortably in some quiet nook of the world, exchanging continual restlessness for domestic tranquillity. Coupled with this thought came another, namely, that I had become so unused to the polished manners of civilized people, that an Indian home and an Indian bride might possibly bring me more happiness than a return to my native land. So I resolved to accept the offer of the Pawnees to return with them to their own village, and bethought me at the same time that if I could but win the heart of the lovely Moon-eye, I might settle down among her people and become a regular Pawnee. "Perhaps, my dear children, this might have been the case, and your dear uncle might now have been walking about with his head shaved for the most part, with an eagle's feather behind his ear, moccasins on his feet, and in every respect a perfect Indian. One little circumstance alone prevented me, and this was the painful fact that Moon-eye herself took a different view of the case. I soon discovered that her young affections had long been fixed upon a young chief of her tribe, who enjoyed the appellation of 'the Rising Sun,' and as he seemed to return the young lady's feelings, I thought I should only get into hot water if I acted upon my first idea. So I forthwith made up my mind that it would be a shocking thing for a white man of my education and position to marry an ignorant Indian girl, and that it was evidently my duty to think no more of it. "I went to the Pawnee's village with them and stayed for a few weeks very happily. You will perhaps be glad to hear that Pig-face and his young men were not tortured after all. They were exchanged for prisoners whom the Sioux had taken in their last raid, and I never heard any more about them. Moon-eye was very gracious to me whilst I was with her people, but it annoyed me to see that fellow 'Rising Sun' always following her about, and I therefore shortened my stay. "Jumbo and I took our departure early one morning, and were accompanied by a number of the tribe for some distance on our way. We had many more curious adventures together in the woods, my trusty companion and I, and very lucky we were to have come so well out of them all. But on looking back to my forest and wilderness life, I never remember to have had a more stirring adventure than that of which I have just told you. It sometimes comes back to me now, as I lie awake at nights: I fancy I see those ten vagabonds tramping after me through the woods,--then comes the horrid scene with the snake--the battle--the slaughter--the waking--the flight with Moon-eye--the capture--the rescue,--all comes flitting like a vision before my eyes, and I drop to sleep at last, wondering how I have been preserved through so much trouble and so many dangers, and thinking how lucky it is for you young ones to have a respectable old uncle with so many experiences to relate, and such interesting and curious tales with which to instruct and amuse your young minds." ZAC'S BRIDE. King Fridolin sat gloomily in the ancient halls of his race. A mighty race, forsooth, had they been for many a long year, and a mighty king was Fridolin. I shall not tell you the precise situation of his kingdom, for it is only by avoiding particular descriptions that we historians escape a variety of impertinent and troublesome questions. Suffice it to say that the monarch ruled over a territory of goodly size, containing mountains, forests, houses, vineyards, cornfields, and everything else which the neighbourhood of a mighty river could supply. For a river, mighty, indeed, in size and reputation, flowed through his kingdom, and was the principal glory of his land. The monarch had succeeded to the throne at an early age, and had reigned for long years over his people. They, poor creatures, had apparently only been created in order to minister to his comfort. Ground down by oppressive taxation, their spirits broken, their bodies subject to the will of their despotic master, their homes held only at his pleasure, and scarcely daring to call their very thoughts their own, they dragged on such a miserable existence as was permitted to them, without a hope or an idea that their condition could ever be improved by any effort of their own. But with him, their imperious lord, the case was surely different. He, one would have imagined, had everything to make him happy. Lands, vassals, money--what would he more? And yet King Fridolin sat gloomily in his ancient halls. His crown was upon his head--surmounted by his favourite crest, representing the figure of an eagle clapping its wings; his left hand rested upon the hilt of the mighty sword which he and his fathers before him had so often wielded in battle, whilst in his right hand he held a watering-pot, by means of which he tormented his Lord Chamberlain, who, having offended him, and being troubled with a bad cold, had been ordered to stand below the balcony upon which his majesty sat, whilst the royal hand let iced water fall upon his bald head. But even as he watered, King Fridolin pondered, and melancholy were his thoughts the while. Broad, indeed, were his lands, full were his coffers, obedient his vassals, but he lacked that sunshine of the heart, without which life is dull and heavy at the best. Moreover, he had no one who dared to contradict him, no one who ventured to suggest to him any alteration in his way of living, no new occupation which could relieve him from the oppressive dulness under which he suffered. So there he sat, watering and thinking and wishing for he knew not what--_anything_ to relieve the dreary monotony of his existence. Suddenly he started up. "I've hit it!" he cried--which, if he referred to the Lord Chamberlain's head, he certainly had, for, as he spoke, the watering-pot fell directly upon the bald pate of that unlucky functionary. "I've hit it!" again cried the king--and the Chamberlain was not prepared to dispute the statement. In fact, the king gave him no time to do so, for the next moment, apparently forgetting his cause of displeasure against the high official in question, he eagerly called him up to the balcony, and bade him listen to the development of a new idea which had suddenly entered his royal brain. "Pompous," he cried (for such was the name of the Lord Chamberlain), "Pompous, I've thought of something!" "Happy the thing which has had the honour of occupying your majesty's mind," returned the ancient courtier, deeming it right to preserve honey upon his tongue, although bitter gall was in his heart, in consequence of the treatment to which he had just been exposed. "Don't be an ass, Pompous!" replied the king hastily. "I tell you I've thought of something. Guess what it is." The Lord Chamberlain drew himself up to his full height, bowed low, coughed, hemmed, and, after repeating this process several times, meekly answered that he could not tell what his gracious majesty might have been pleased to think of. "Tell? Why, of course not, you old noodle," said the King, whose manner of addressing his attendants was occasionally barely polite. "Who expected you to tell? I told you to _guess_, but since you are too stupid to do so, I may as well tell you what it is. We'll have a pig-race!" "A _what_, your majesty?" faltered out the Lord Chamberlain. "A pig-race, you old idiot!" roared the king into his ear. "P I G, pig, R A C E, race--_pig-race_. Do you hear now?" And the old man was obliged to own that he did; but although he heard, he hardly understood what the king could really mean. Old Pompous, however, was a thorough courtier, and having had the misfortune to offend his royal master _once_ that morning, was far too good a judge to do so again, if he could by any possibility avoid it. He therefore put on a smiling face, declared that the idea was excellent, and pretended to enjoy it vastly, all the time wondering what could have caused the king to think of such a ridiculous project, and by what means it could ever be carried out. Whether any difficulty had suggested itself to the mind of the king, or what had put the project into his head at all, are questions which it is both useless and unnecessary to ask. It is sufficient to know that there it was, and when the despotic king of a country has a practical idea, something generally happens in consequence, and it is a fortunate thing for his people if it is nothing worse than a pig-race. Now it happened that the kingdom of Fridolin was famous for its breed of pigs. They grew to a very large size, and were much thought of by the people of that and neighbouring countries, who bred, bought, sold, and ate them to a great extent. A pig-race, however, was not a common event, nor, indeed, had one ever been heard of in the memory of the oldest inhabitant. A pig had certainly been more than once turned out, on festive occasions, with his tail soaped, and a prize given to the rustic who should succeed in securing the animal by holding on to that appendage; but this was not what the king meant. He announced his intention of giving a prize, to be run for by pigs, each pig to be ridden by a boy under fourteen years of age, and fixed that day month for the event. Pompous received the order with obsequious readiness, and was too wise to raise any objection to the project, or express any doubt as to the possibility of carrying it out. Next morning, accordingly, it was made known to the world, and the whole kingdom was agitated from one end to the other. It was not a great racing country; but, if it had been, a race between pigs, and pigs, too, ridden by boys, would have been a novelty, and the publication of the king's intentions caused a great deal of surprise and excitement. The race was to take place upon a common in the immediate neighbourhood of the capital city of the kingdom, and the course, which was to be half a mile long, was settled and marked out long before the day arrived on which the event was to come off. A great number of competitors had entered for the race, and it was calculated that at least twenty would start. Some complaints there had been of the shortness of time allowed for training either boys or pigs; but that was not a country in which many complaints were made against anything the king did, as those who made them generally had their heads cut off with a promptitude which had a signal effect in preventing others from following their example. So there was very little said against the arrangements which had been made, and people only talked of the curious scene they expected to witness, and speculated upon the chance of success possessed by the pigs which came from their several neighbourhoods. As the day approached, the excitement increased, and every available lodging was occupied in anticipation of the great event. It is right to state, perhaps, that the intensity of the interest caused by the coming race, was not only due to the love of sport which existed in that country. King Fridolin had perhaps no other intention than that of providing amusement for himself, when he first set on foot the race which now attracted so much of public attention, although he had, as a truly gracious monarch, no objection to his subjects sharing that amusement, so long as his own would not be lessened thereby. But when he came to consider the nature of the prize which he should offer, another thought struck him, upon which he had immediately acted. He had read and heard of many kings who, upon suitable occasions, when they wanted their country to be delivered from some misfortune, or if they desired to obtain the performance of some mighty deed of valour, or some great feat of agility, had endeavoured to get what they wanted by offering the hand of their daughter as the prize for which all efforts should be made. This kind of proceeding had, of course, its disadvantages, as, in a country where only one wife was permitted, the prize would be one which shut out at once from competition all married men, and thus greatly limited the possible number of competitors. But Fridolin was in a peculiar position in this respect. In the first place, as only boys of tender age were to ride, there was very little probability that any of them would be married, and, in the next place, he had a daughter whom he thought very unlikely to be married, unless by some clever contrivance such as that which he had now planned. Belinda was the youngest of three princesses who owned Fridolin for their father, and she was at this time just ten years of age. But, unhappily, whilst her two sisters, the Princesses Amabilia and Concaterina were lovely and well shaped, Belinda had no such recommendations. Her mother, having had the misfortune to offend a powerful and wicked witch, had expired, through her machinations, shortly after the birth of her third daughter. One would have supposed that the vengeance of a witch would have been satisfied by the death of its object; but the witch Nuisancenika was not so easily appeased. She visited the dying queen, made use of language which, always objectionable in itself, was doubly improper, when used at such a moment, and solemnly doomed the baby child to ugliness and deformity. This pretty well finished the poor mother of itself, and she actually died outright, when, within ten minutes of the cruel doom having been pronounced, a palpable hump appeared upon the infant's back, and her features assumed an expression of ugliness seldom seen in the females of that country. So the child had grown up, deformed and ugly, though with a sweetness of disposition which atoned for both defects in the eyes of those who knew her well. This scarcely applied to Fridolin, who cared little for his children, although he occasionally had the pretty ones down to dessert to show off to his friends, whilst poor Belinda was left alone and neglected in the nursery. Under these painful circumstances it was singular that Belinda should not have grown up as deformed in mind as body, and this might very possibly have been the case but for the unwearied love and devotion of her foster-mother. This estimable person was the wife of one of the king's shepherds, and no mother could have watched over her own child more constantly or more tenderly than she tended Belinda. Being moreover of a remarkably even temper, and blessed with a kindly disposition withal, the good woman doubtless did much towards the development of that remarkable sweetness of character, which the princess had inherited from her mother. Be this how it may, she certainly grew up in such a manner as to cause the remark to be frequently made that her mind evinced a marked and singular contrast to her body, and she was generally beloved in the royal household. This, then, was the daughter whose destiny King Fridolin had resolved to determine by the chances of a pig-race, and the fact was duly notified to those concerned, and advertised in the newspapers throughout the whole length and breadth of the country. Although, as I have said, the circumstances of that country prevented people from commenting too freely upon any proceeding of the king's, yet nothing could prevent this matter being talked about in private circles, and wherever the conversation could be safely carried on great surprise was expressed at the course which Fridolin had thought fit to take. It was argued with some reason that the king, had he so chosen, might have ordered any of his subjects to marry Belinda, should no suitable admirer have appeared from among any of the neighbouring princes, and that, if he deemed it necessary that the princess should be married at all, he might in this manner have at least secured for her a husband more eligible than might now fall to her lot. Besides, the class of people who would be likely to contend for the prize in a pig-race would be of a varied character. It was undoubtedly true that many of the highest nobility of the land were breeders of pigs, but it was equally certain that there were a far greater number of small farmers and even labourers who could also claim to be included in the same category. Moreover, it was more than probable that the more aristocratic and refined was a pig-breeder, the less likely would it be that one of his own sons would ride in the race, and it was to the rider and not to the owner of the animal that the prize was to be given. So far, indeed, the king seemed to have been kind and considerate, for this plan would secure to his little daughter a husband better suited to her tender age than if she had been bestowed upon some pig-owner of advanced years, to whom she would have made a most unsuitable wife. But the king's intention was plainly declared; whoever won the pig-race would win Belinda too, and although a few years might be permitted to pass, so that her education might be completed and the age of the bridegroom be allowed to ripen, yet at the end of that time, which the king would fix according to circumstances, the nuptials would certainly be celebrated. As I have already said, everyone in the kingdom knew the conditions before the day arrived, and many and various were the speculations as to the result. At last the sun shone upon the eventful morning of the day which was to decide the issue of the race and the fate of Belinda. From every quarter people came hurrying into the town; carts, carriages and vehicles of every description and size thronged the roads, which were also crowded with foot-passengers, all dressed in holiday garments, and pushing forward in one direction, namely, to the race-course. There the crowd was enormous, and the grand-stand was filled with a distinguished company, as well as by many of those individuals who are only distinguished by their extraordinary capacity for getting money out of other people's pockets. In a private stand which was appropriated to royalty, sat Fridolin and his daughters, surrounded by the nobles of the court. The king was in the highest spirits, chaffing old Pompous, flirting with the maids of honour, and teasing his two eldest daughters by telling them that if the affair went off to his satisfaction, he should probably have another on _their_ account before long. The two princesses tossed their heads haughtily at this, although they stood too much in awe of their royal parent to make any open protest. They were both dressed in the extreme of the fashion, and displayed in their features the beauty for which their race had always been celebrated. At a little distance sat poor Belinda, who had been ordered by her father to be present, but who did not seem much to enjoy it, although she endeavoured to preserve a cheerful demeanour. The child was simply dressed in white muslin, and her dress was in no way calculated to remove the disagreeable impression produced by her ugliness and bodily defect. As her sisters were known to be the king's favourites, it was naturally around them that the courtiers clustered, and Belinda sat neglected, and almost alone, though some of the more kindly disposed and tender-hearted of the court ladies paid her a little attention. There was the usual shouting and betting, card-playing and band-playing, pick-pocketing and cheating, wrangling and chaffing, which accompany a race-course, I am told, even down to the present day; and there was a dog, which issued no one knew where from, and ran down the very centre of the course, howled at by the crowd and vainly chased by the policemen, just before the race began. Carriages of all sorts were drawn up by the side of the course, several rows deep, and the occupants of many of them appeared to have come there principally for the purpose of eating and drinking, for there was a vast and continuous popping of corks, carving of chickens and mixing of salads, apparently much enjoyed by those who were no more immediately concerned in the consumption of the same, and as greatly envied by many hungry lookers-on, who passed and repassed the carriages with eager and longing eyes. At last the bell for saddling rung, and after a while the course was cleared, and the animals which had been entered for the race came out of the adjoining paddock for their preliminary gallop. There were eighteen who actually started, of whom nine were black pigs and nine sandy coloured. The symmetry of their forms was generally admired, and as they cocked their little ears, twitched their tails, and grunted loudly in anticipation of the struggle, great was the interest and intense the excitement of the spectators. The little jockeys, clad in their jackets of different colours, sat gallantly on their steeds, and although the galloping was of a somewhat curious and uncertain character, no accident occurred, and the eighteen competitors were duly marshalled at the starting post. Then began the difficulty. It seemed as if no power on earth could induce the animals to range themselves as required or to keep any order at all. They grunted, squealed, turned round the wrong way, and exhibited altogether such restlessness and queer temper, that a fair start really seemed to be an impossibility. This went on for nearly half-an-hour, when suddenly the starter effected his purpose--the flag fell--and a hushed whisper of "They're off!" ran through the crowd from one end to another. The excitement was tremendous. Luncheons were abandoned--champagne glasses put down when in the very act of being lifted to thirsty lips--opera-glasses and telescopes were everywhere in requisition, and no one in all that vast assembly had for the moment eyes or ears for anything but the pig-race. Those who were in the secret knew that seven of the animals which were running belonged to members of the aristocracy, whilst no less than eleven were owned by breeders and jobbers of an inferior class. Among these knowing ones there was great speculation as to the class from which the winner would come, also as to the colour, black or sandy, which would be successful. There was no limit as to the sex of the animals, and the only stipulation was that each competitor should be two years old, it being considered in that country injurious to the constitution of pigs that they should be allowed to run in races before that age. It would take too long to describe the dresses of all the jockeys or to give the names of the animals which they respectively bestrode. If any of my readers desire to know more than I tell, the matter can be easily arranged, for the daily journals of that country inserted the fullest particulars, and were doubtless filed by many racing-men of the time, so that reference can be made to them by the curious inquirer. It is sufficient for me to chronicle the fact that cards were everywhere sold upon the day of the race, which contained the names, weights and colours of the riders, and from these every information could be gleaned. The names of the favourite pigs were Lubin, Toby, Trough-lover, Wallower and Hogwash, and it was thought by those who had, or who assumed to have, most knowledge of such matters, that none of the other competitors had much chance. How far the event realised these expectations will be presently seen. For the first few seconds after the start there was a breathless silence, whilst all eyes were eagerly fixed upon the advancing animals. Two or three could hardly be said to have earned that epithet, for they only advanced a few yards before they stopped, set their fore feet firmly in the ground and stood there squealing loudly and defying every effort of their riders to urge them forward. Another presently turned sharply aside and charged into the crowd of bystanders, grunting fiercely, and as he was a large hog of savage aspect and mighty bristles, the people scattered right and left and he disappeared from the course. But the other pigs pushed on for a while, until some six or seven appeared to have decidedly outstripped the others and to be those from whom the winner would undoubtedly be taken. The "knowing ones" seemed to be pretty right, for all the five animals whose names I have given were among those who led. Trough-lover, a rough built, sandy-coloured pig, with a rider in a violet jacket with white sleeves, came on with a long steady gallop which augured well for his chance; the scarlet jacket of the boy who rode Toby, also a sandy pig, showed well to the front, and Wallower's dark and bony frame, bestridden by a jockey in pink and white was also well up. But the principal interest of the race was concentrated upon Hogwash and Lubin, who were running neck and neck together in the foremost place, whilst the three already named, with a couple of "outsiders" were several yards behind. The two favourites were both black pigs; Lubin, a remarkably well-shaped animal, whose jockey showed dark blue colours, whilst Hogwash was a beast of huge dimensions, ridden by a boy of complexion almost as dark as his own, whose jacket of lilac had been conspicuous in the front rank from the first moment of the start. They ran on in the order which I have mentioned, after they had shaken off the "ruck" of pigs, until within about a couple of hundred yards from home, when Lubin gradually came back to his pigs, and Hogwash forged slowly but surely ahead. The shouting on all sides was tremendous, and the excitement of the spectators was at its height, when at about a hundred yards from the winning post the position of the leading pigs appeared unaltered, save that Toby seemed to have somewhat gained on the others in the second rank, and Trough-lover was coming along by the rails with a stealthy, steady gallop, which made the backers of Hogwash tremble in their shoes. So it was until within fifty yards from the finish, when a totally unexpected incident suddenly changed the aspect of affairs. Out from the second rank darted a pig of a sandy colour, and with a squeal hardly to be expected from an animal which had gone nearly half a mile at best pace, shot forward from the others and rapidly gained upon the leading pig. The shouts from the crowd now rent the skies, and as the sandy pig closed up with Hogwash, the rider of the latter was observed to be using his whip freely, whilst his rival, a boy of light hair and complexion, displaying a cherry-coloured jacket and black cap, sat firmly but quietly in his saddle, to all appearance neither using nor requiring whip or spur. At twenty yards from home he collared Hogwash, at ten yards they were neck and neck, racing for dear life, and when, amid the most maddening scene of excitement the sandy-coloured pig galloped past the winning post nearly a length ahead, the shout that went up from the crowd was something appalling in its vehemence. There was no doubt about it. Hogwash was beaten and so were all the favourites, and an outsider had won. Who was it? The faces of the book-makers fell, and people looked eagerly to see what number went up, for no one had an idea of what was the name of the winner, except those who were sufficiently calm to consult their cards, and ascertain what pig it was that the "cherry and black" jockey had ridden. It was soon known, Number 17 had won, and Number 17 was "Sandy Sue," the property of Giles Dickson, a small farmer very little known among the great pig-breeders of the kingdom. Before I go further, I may as well explain the clever manner in which this great race was actually won, which was thought to reflect considerable credit upon those who had contrived it. Farmer Dickson, though not in a large way of business, had plenty of brains, and it has been remarked by men of undoubted sagacity that there are two classes of men into which the world may be divided, namely those who have brains and no money, and those who have money and no brains, the latter being created principally for the benefit of the former. Now Farmer Dickson belonged emphatically to the former class, and as soon as ever the race was announced and the course fixed, he conceived a project which he immediately carried into execution. At the end of the course, and not above a hundred yards or so therefrom, was a fence, beyond which was situated a small farm, the homestead of which was thus very near the winning post, or at least not above three or four hundred yards distant. Being well acquainted with the tenant of this farm, the sagacious farmer made known his plan to him and they agreed to carry it out together. "Sandy Sue," as the large sow was called upon whom Farmer Dickson had resolved to set his hopes and stake his money, had not long since presented her owner with a fine litter of pigs. These were all removed forthwith to the farm near the racecourse, and their mother was also comfortably housed in the farmyard. Day by day she took her gentle exercise, and day by day was she well fed at a spot as near to the racecourse as could be managed. More than this, her favourite food was always given to her about the time at which the race had been fixed to come off, and to this precaution the strictest attention was given. The consequence was exactly that which the confederates had expected. Although her condition was probably not quite so good as that of some of the pigs with whom she had to contend, it was sufficiently so to enable her to run her best for a course so short as half a mile. Then, when she came near to the finish, recollections of feeding time not only crowded upon her, but she had directly before her the very spot where her daily food was served out to her, and where she was accustomed to receive the visits of her beloved children. Stimulated to renewed exertions by these facts, she did exactly that which was expected from her, and forgetting every other consideration, made such a splendid "spirt" as to carry her triumphantly to the victory in the manner which I have described. These things all came out afterwards, but they did not affect the decision of those who had to judge upon the race, and "Sandy Sue" was without objection or protest hailed as the winner. As soon as her jockey had dismounted and been duly weighed, he was summoned to the presence of the king, who was not unnaturally desirous to behold his future son-in-law. The boy accordingly mounted the stairs which led to the royal stand, and was forthwith ushered into the presence of his sovereign. As soon as he appeared, Fridolin advanced a few steps to meet him, and then stood still and regarded him with a curious eye. He was, as I have said, a boy of light complexion, with light brown hair and light blue eyes, and by no means of an unprepossessing appearance, especially in his jockey dress. He stood bashfully before the king, with blushing cheeks and eyes cast down, until, after a few moments of silence, Fridolin addressed him. "Well, boy," he said, "thou hast won the race and hast gained the prize. Of what house and lineage dost thou come?" "Please, sir, my lord, your kingship's majesty," said the boy in trembling accents, entirely mistaking the question, "our house bean't but a small one, and as for linen, mother does the washing and I don't know nothing about it." At this reply the king burst into a fit of laughter, in which his courtiers joined, although some of them felt a sensation of regret within their hearts when they considered the illiterate ignorance of the youth to whom the Princess Belinda was to be sacrificed. This reflection apparently did not trouble the king greatly, for he presently remarked, "the bridegroom must be introduced to his bride without delay. Come hither, boy," and with these words advanced towards the spot where Belinda was sitting. The poor child, understanding but too well what had happened and what was about to follow, trembled with visible emotion as they came near, and would gladly have made her escape. But Fridolin did not intend that this should be the case by any means. He called to her as she rose from her seat and bade her be ready to receive the winner of the race and her future husband. Meekly and humbly she obeyed, taking her seat again, and fixing her eyes modestly upon the floor. "There," cried the king as he pushed the boy forward towards the princess, "there is the youth who will one day be your husband, child. Kiss her, boy, and make friends at once." A deep blush suffused the face of the shrinking Belinda, who had not as yet even looked upon the other's countenance, and she trembled more than ever. But with a grace which no one had expected from the quarter from which it came, the boy, immediately on receiving the king's commands, stepped forward towards Belinda's chair, and, kneeling on one knee, raised her hand gently to his lips. "Bravo, boy!" cried the king with another laugh. "I vow you're half a courtier already. Two or three years' training and you'll be perfect." He then proceeded to inquire more particularly about the youth's age and condition, and found that he was called Zachariah Dickson, or usually "Zac" for shortness, that Farmer Dickson had several other sons and daughters, but that this boy, being just under the limit of age, had been selected as the rider of "Sandy Sue." He learned, moreover, that the education of the Dickson family had been somewhat neglected, and that though Master Zac could certainly read and write, he was no great proficient at either accomplishment. Altogether it appeared that the pig-race had secured for Belinda a husband so very much beneath her in rank, position, breeding and education that her future happiness could hardly be said to be very certain. As, however, Fridolin had made the arrangement without any reference to its probable effect upon his daughter's happiness, but entirely to gratify his own whim, he was not greatly concerned with this reflection. He told the youth, indeed, that he had something to learn, before he could be really fit to be a king's son-in-law, but as in that country a king's word was always sacred, and as good as his bond, he never for one moment entertained the idea of trying to be off the bargain. No: "Zac" Dickson should be Belinda's husband, come what might. "He had won her and he alone should wear her." So said the king again and again, at the same time avowing his determination that the boy should be forthwith sent at the royal expense to one of the best colleges in the country, in order that he might pursue his studies, and prepare himself to discharge the duties of that lofty position to which he had been called by the voice of Fate. This announcement was received with respectful submission by the boy, and with unfeigned satisfaction by old Dickson, who, besides having won a considerable sum of money on the race, now saw the prospect of having one of his boys entirely taken off his hands and better educated than he could possibly have been without such aid. The king further declared that three years should elapse before the wedding, but that then, when the bridegroom was seventeen and the bride thirteen, the marriage should certainly be celebrated, youthful marriages being always the fashion in that country. After the interview on the royal Stand, the winner of the race was allowed to return home for the night, but with orders that he was to take up his abode at the palace upon the following day. Then the king ordered his carriages and the royal party left the course. The crowd was already broken up, and people were streaming in every direction over the common upon which the sport had taken place. The common was ere long left desolate and alone, only tenanted by a grazing donkey or two, and a few wretched human creatures who wandered over every spot upon which carriages had stood and luncheons had been eaten, in the hope of finding something which they might convert into money in order to aid the necessities of their miserable lives. Soon, too, these took their departure: the crowd of people returning home grew smaller and smaller, gradually the road was less and less thronged, the people were only seen going along it by twos and threes, then at last these, too, had found their way home, silence reigned where all had so lately been talk and mirth, noise and revelry, and night came down upon the earth with her sable cloak, extinguishing the last flickering rays of the sun which had so gaily and brightly shone upon the day of the great pig-race. The Princess Belinda woke next morning with a load upon her young heart, and a novel sense of responsibility which made her feel quite a different being from the child of the day before. She was, indeed, no ordinary child. Even in her appearance _that_ could hardly be said of her, poor girl! for she was not so much ordinary as decidedly ugly, but the epithet was even less applicable to her intellectual powers, which were undeniably of a superior order. Having moreover been debarred by her deformity from the more active pastimes of childhood, she had from a very early period sought her pleasure in books, and was, even at the early age of ten, far better acquainted with the literature of the day than many young ladies of twice her age. Well informed, however, as she was, and fortified as she might be against the storms of the outside world, as much as the fortifications of a prudent heart and well-regulated temper can avail against such adversities, she nevertheless awoke, as I have already said, to a new feeling upon the morning after the pig-race. Her childhood seemed to be over, and the real cares of life to have commenced. She had no longer only her own life to regard, the life of another was thenceforth inseparably bound up with her own. The actual marriage, indeed, was to be deferred for three years, but the boy who had been presented to her as her future husband was practically, for the future, a part and parcel of her life, and his doings must be always of great and paramount interest and importance to her. To tell the truth, he had made a very favourable impression upon the heart of the youthful princess. Unaccustomed to go much into that society of which her more fortunate sisters were at once the ornaments and the delights, Belinda was less struck than might otherwise have been the case by the somewhat rough and countrified bearing of the boy, and indeed, as has been already said, his action in kneeling before her on his first introduction had been far from ungraceful. She had remarked with pleasure the honest gaze of his blue eyes, and the healthy clearness of his fair complexion, whilst no one could deny that his form was well-shaped, and his figure lithe and active. Still, the age of ten is one at which it is somewhat early to be engaged to be married, and it is scarcely to be considered a matter of wonder that the little princess regarded her prospects with some apprehension. The youthful Zac was brought to the palace next day, according to the king's orders, and forthwith took up his residence in the royal abode. It was a curious arrangement, and one that was made the subject of much comment by the court, although it was allowed on every hand that, since the king had determined upon bestowing the hand of his youngest daughter upon the winner of the pig-race, there was much good sense, as well as kindness, in his resolution to have that winner properly educated. It must be owned, too, that the lad did no discredit to his teachers. He was diligent, attentive, and showed no small capacity for learning. Whatever there had been of vulgarity in his accent rapidly disappeared, uncouth and ignorant language was banished from his hearing, and consequently very soon from his speech, while his errors of grammar speedily became things of the past. In short, it was confessed even by those who had at first shaken their heads with a gravity befitting the occasion, and had declared that the old proverb "you cannot make a silk purse out of a sow's ear" would be verified in this case, and that a person of humble birth could by no means be converted into a gentleman; even these persons, I say, began to take a different tone, to talk about another proverb, namely that "exceptions prove the rule," and to express their feelings towards Belinda's future husband in no unfavourable terms. He made such progress in his books that his tutors were quite astonished, and Belinda was herself delighted. Once a week he was allowed to visit her for an hour, and from time to time she found a perceptible difference in his manners and conversation, and a decided improvement in both. In this manner a whole year passed over the heads of the people of whom we are speaking, and during that time no event occurred of a character so specially interesting as to require a separate allusion. People were born, married and died as usual. Whilst they lived they ate, drank, and paid their taxes--three things common to all mankind who happen to be resident in civilized countries--and after they were dead they were comfortably buried by their relations, who then went home and remembered them as long as people usually do, and no longer. The world, in short, went steadily on, and the inmates of the palace did much the same as the rest of the world. Lord Pompous, it is true, fell occasionally into disgrace, being rather a stupid man and apt to offend the king when he most wanted to please him. But as he always got out again very soon, this did not signify. Fridolin was rather fond of the old man, if the truth must be told, and though he enjoyed teasing him now and then, never really meant to get rid of him. So they jogged on together happily enough, and nothing occurred to seriously disturb either of them. The king, however, felt time hang as heavy upon his hands as is the case with most people who either have nothing to do, or are too idle to do what they really _have_ to do in the shape of work. He often looked back to that idea of a pig-race which had afforded him such a good day's amusement, and once or twice hinted to his two elder daughters that it had turned out remarkably well. The princesses, however, viewed the matter in a different light, for they guessed at once at their father's intentions, and had no notion of allowing them to come to any practical issue. It was all very well for Belinda, indeed: a third sister, with neither beauty nor wealth, might fairly be disposed of in any way that happened to be most convenient. It was entirely different, however, with girls who had beauty to recommend them, and no lack of admirers to tell them so. Wherefore the fair Amabilia and the sweet Concaterina promptly checked their father's most distant allusion to the subject, and as they were the only people of whom he stood at all in awe, he soon abandoned the idea, and gave up all thoughts of having another pig-race. After young Zac's first entrance into the palace, Fridolin had concerned himself very little about the boy, being content, as many people are, to let matters drift on as long as they gave no trouble to himself. But it happened one day that he overheard some of the courtiers speaking in praise of the lad, and this excited his curiosity to a degree sufficient to induce him to desire that Zac should be summoned to his presence. This occurred about the end of the first year of Zac's residence in the palace, and was really the beginning to him of another existence. For King Fridolin was so pleased with the alteration in the youth, that he thought he should like to see more of him. Having no son of his own, why should not the future husband of one of his daughters be as a son to him? Thus the result of his great idea might turn out altogether fortunate, and he should have conferred a benefit upon himself as well as Belinda after all. He forthwith gave directions that Zac should be present on all occasions when the king appeared in public, or gave a reception to any of his subjects, and he also desired that he should be frequently admitted to the royal presence upon other occasions. The boy always conducted himself so well that he gradually became a great favourite with the king, and not only with the king but with the other princesses. This occurrence was the reverse of fortunate, but perhaps it was not unnatural. Amabilia was little more than a year older than Zac, and Concaterina about his age. His good looks, his pleasant manner, the unfailing sweetness of his temper, and the general intelligence which he evinced, were all calculated to make an impression upon the tender hearts of the two princesses. Surrounded by flatterers and sycophants, the simple character and honest bearing of the youth had the additional charm of novelty, and this was increased by the natural manner in which, considering these as his future sisters, he accepted his position and treated them frankly as such. Accordingly they both fell deeply in love with him. It was very sad, and I am sorry to be obliged to tell it, but it is no use concealing the truth, and there was and is no mistake about the matter. The two sisters were not long in discovering each other's secret, and as soon as they had made the mutual discovery, a coldness sprang up between them which was most distressing. I am bound to say that no thought of or for Belinda ever crossed the mind of either of them. It was not that they disliked their younger sister, or that they were habitually unkind to her, but they had got into the way of considering her as a kind of inferior being, whose thoughts, hopes, and wishes must never for a moment interfere with their own, and who could on any occasion, and in any matter, be pushed aside as best suited their convenience, so that it scarcely at all, if ever, occurred to either of them that it was either wrong, dishonourable, or unkind to rob Belinda of her promised husband, and if it _had_ occurred to them, I am afraid that they had both been too much accustomed to have their own way to have hesitated even under the influence of such a thought. Nurtured as they had been in their father's court, surrounded by people who had taught them to believe in the divine right of kings to reign over their people, and the enormous privilege which it was to be of royal blood, and the incomparable superiority of beings such as they were over the common herd of mortals, one would have thought it probable that their pride would have prevented them from yielding to the soft influence of love in such a case as that of the boy of humble birth with whom they had thus accidentally been associated. But poets and writers of olden time have always told us that Love is invincible, and I can only suppose that he chose to give another instance of his prowess by conquering the hearts of the two princesses, and forcing them to bow before his resistless sway. At all events, to cut the matter short, they both fell in love with Zac Dickson, so that his very name (though to me there seems nothing at all savouring of melody about it) was music to their ears, their eyes delighted to behold him, and their blushes would soon have told the tale, if indeed their tender looks and affectionate manner had not been such as to reveal to the youth the ill-concealed secret of their young hearts. Extraordinary though it be to relate, and difficult to believe, Zac was considerably more annoyed than pleased by the discovery. Most boys of fifteen would have been far from insensible to the attentions of beautiful damsels even of their own rank and station, and few there are who would not have been flattered--and perchance fluttered too--by the palpable affection entertained towards them by lovely princesses. Nevertheless, this was not at all the case with Zac. By some curious freak of Nature, he had been constituted with an acute sense and appreciation of the difference between right and wrong, and a steady desire and determination to avoid the latter whenever he possibly could. He remembered full well the manner in which he had obtained access to the palace, and the terms upon which his admission had been arranged, and the means provided for his education. Strange to say, moreover, he had conceived a real regard and affection for Belinda. He remembered her first reception of him as her future husband; he did not forget the uniformly meek and modest nature which she displayed in her weekly interviews with him; nor was he oblivious of the kindly interest she had ever taken in his mental progress and development of those qualities which go to make a man's life both useful and advantageous to himself and others. He had perceived, too, in the youngest princess, that sweetness of disposition for which she had ever been remarkable, and had learned gradually to understand, and, as he understood, to love her better. If, at his first entrance upon the scene of our history as the winner of the pig-race, he had been offered the choice of any one of the three princesses, it is highly probable that he would never have looked upon Belinda a second time. The beauty of the elder sisters was undeniably great; their manners pleasant, though occasionally haughty; and they were girls who would at once have captivated the susceptible heart of any young man suddenly placed in Zac's position. But a year's residence in the palace, and that under his peculiar circumstances and engagements, had made all the difference. Bound in honour to Belinda, he would as soon have thought of stealing the king's crown as of making love to either of her sisters, nor could he believe for a long time that they had any such intentions towards himself. This, however, only served to make matters worse, because he took no pains to keep out of their way, and was rather glad when any opportunity for meeting either of them chanced to occur. Nay, when Amabilia pressed his hand tenderly, he saw in it nothing more than the regard which Belinda's sister had a right to entertain towards him, and when Concaterina, as they were bending together over a photograph, put her arms softly round his neck, and when their faces were almost touching, pressed her lips softly upon his cheek, he even then deemed it but a proof of sisterly affection, and at once returned the compliment, without a suspicion that anything more was meant. His eyes, however, were opened at last, when the attentions, looks, and words of the two elder princesses became unmistakable, and their design of winning him from Belinda but too apparent. The boy was grieved beyond measure, for not only was he sharp enough to know that his own position at court might be seriously imperilled by what was before him, but he also felt that, through him, Belinda herself might be made to suffer. Yet what was to be done? Deceit was repugnant to his honest nature, and had it been otherwise, it could scarcely have been long maintained, since not only one, but both sisters were aiming at the same thing, and to deceive the two would have been beyond human skill and subtlety. If he appeared to favour either one, the other would probably be bitterly offended; if he seemed to care for both, but to hesitate between the two, their mutual jealousy would be stimulated, and, besides, if Belinda should hear of it, as would be but too likely, her tender heart would be filled with sorrow. On the other hand, if he spoke his mind out to the two princesses, openly and boldly, they had only to agree together to denounce him to the king, and his position would be most precarious, whilst Belinda would be quite unable to assist him. The matter caused the poor boy much anxious thought. At first, when he became quite certain that he was not mistaken, he tried, by every means in his power, to avoid Amabilia and Concaterina, and was never alone with either of them if he could possibly help it. But very often he couldn't help it, do what he would. He made his studies a constant excuse for absence from luncheon, to which meal he had latterly been invited, and at which the two elder princesses were always present, although Belinda had her solitary meal in the school-room. Sometimes the king was there, and then Zac dared not be away, since Fridolin liked him to be present, and sent for him if he was not. But his time of trial was "Five o'clock Tea." The two sisters had a joint sitting-room, a very comfortable place, with inviting arm-chairs, delightful sofas, all the new novels, and every knick-knack you can imagine, arranged as only a lady's taste _can_ arrange things, but so managed as to make the room wonderfully attractive to the male who has the good fortune to be admitted to a sight of its treasures. Their tea was always brought in on a silver tray soon after five, and to this most enjoyable meal they frequently invited such of the courtiers as they specially favoured. Zac had constant invitations of a general character, but whenever one of the sisters chanced to be absent from any cause whatever, the other was sure to send specially to request his attendance. This was his time of trial. The "request" of a princess in that royalty-loving country was equivalent to a command, and it was entirely contrary to etiquette for any one to refuse compliance, save on the score of ill-health, domestic affliction, or some other equally valid excuse. Therefore it was very difficult for Zac to refuse, though he knew only too well what awaited him. Amabilia or Concaterina, whichever it happened to be--no matter which--was certain to be alone, and always received him with such overpowering affection as quite bewildered him. His only safety lay in the fact that the two girls had become so jealous of each other, that one never left the other alone at five o'clock tea if she could possibly help it. Still, sometimes such an occurrence was unavoidable, and if Amabilia was ever kept up-stairs by a bad cold, or Concaterina had been detained elsewhere by some accidental circumstance, as sure as fate, one of these special invitations came to Zac, and the poor boy had to go and face the lovely princess as best he could. So things went on for several months, well into the second year of the youth's residence in the palace, until at last matters seemed coming to a crisis. For the second time, Concaterina had indulged him with a kiss, which he could hardly with politeness refrain from returning, and the lovely Amabilia actually began the same game. She secured him for a five o'clock tea, and whilst sitting by his side on the sofa, and talking in her usually affectionate manner, she suddenly laid her fair head upon his shoulder for an instant, and the next moment as suddenly raising it, exclaimed in an energetic and emphatic tone: "_Dear_ Zac!" and imprinted at the same instant a warm and loving kiss upon his young lips. Poor Zac was terribly perplexed, but more in thought than in action, for of course he could do no less than promptly return the compliment just paid him by the princess. But when she took his hand in hers, pressed it warmly, and regarded him with loving eyes, with her face still closer to his than any face but Belinda's should have been, he felt that this was really carrying things too far, and that he must somehow or other put an end to it. How he would have done so it is impossible to say, inasmuch as the princess, evidently of a different opinion, appeared desirous of prolonging the situation, and his difficulty in preventing her from doing so would probably have been considerable. Fortunately--or unfortunately, as the taste of my readers may lead them to determine--the door suddenly flew open, and the princess had barely time to spring to the other end of the sofa when the portly figure of Lord Pompous entered the apartment. As Lord Chamberlain, Old Pompous had the general right of entry everywhere, although he rarely ventured to approach the sitting-room of the princesses without special invitation, and probably would not have done so upon the present occasion had he not been sent directly by the king. I do not think that Amabilia ever quite forgave the old man for his unwelcome intrusion; but he really was not to blame in the matter. King Fridolin had got into a difficulty about some curtains which he had recently ordered for his study, and which, when they came home, he fancied were of colours which did not match; those destined for one window being of a different hue to those which belonged to another. Having referred the matter to Lord Pompous, that worthy ventured to be of an opinion contrary to that of his sovereign, and held that the curtains matched perfectly. Upon this Fridolin first threw a footstool at the head of his lord chamberlain--on dodging which he tumbled over the waste-paper basket into the coal-scuttle, and spoiled a new white waistcoat--and then directed him, since he was such a blind old fool as to be unable to tell one colour from another, to go immediately to Amabilia's room and ask her to come there and decide the knotty point. Accordingly, the submissive Pompous hurried off to obey the orders of the king, and arrived at the particularly opportune or inopportune moment which I have described. As far as Zac was concerned, the intrusion appeared to him to be little less than providential. The princess could do nothing else than obey, and as it would not have been etiquette for her either to have invited him to accompany her, or told him to await her return, she had no alternative but to dismiss him from the apartment. This she did with a loving look, which certainly could not be misunderstood by its object, and could hardly have escaped the observation of any bystander less blind and stupid than Lord Pompous. The princess then sought the presence of her father, and Zac, having deeply cogitated upon the whole matter, after his return to his own room, made up his mind that, unless he was to run away--a proceeding which would be difficult, uncomfortable, ruinous to his future interests, and very disagreeable to others beside himself--the only alternative he had was to open his whole heart to Belinda upon the very first opportunity. Having quite resolved upon this he felt somewhat more happy, for that which had really troubled him most was the apprehension that the young princess might discover something of the truth, and not knowing from himself how matters really stood, might imbibe some false impression concerning the matter, and blame him for having employed unnecessary and unjustifiable concealment in a business so intimately concerning her interests and future happiness. He had not long to wait for the opportunity he desired. At their very next interview he was able to open his heart to Belinda upon the subject, and to tell her all the awkwardness of his position as regarded the king, herself, and her two sisters. At first the poor child wept bitterly, and was quite unable either to control or to conceal her feelings. She had never expected, for she had never received, great kindness from her elder sisters, but she had thought herself quite safe from molestation with regard to her future husband. Amabilia and Concaterina had so scoffed at the idea of the pig-race when the project was first started, they had laughed so heartily at the ridiculous notion of the hand of a king's daughter being given as the reward of a successful jockey, and they had tossed their heads so high at the idea of a common farmer's son being received and accepted as the future husband of _their_ sister, that it had never entered the poor child's head that there was the slightest chance of either of them ever desiring to obtain his affection. Yet such was the case. She was attacked upon the very side upon which she had felt herself most secure, and her surprise was only equalled by her distress. One consolation, however, she certainly had, than which none could well be greater. The fidelity of Zac was a comfort which was beyond all price, as it was also beyond all praise. When she was fully assured of this--and indeed she was too young and too honest to have ever doubted it--she felt almost glad that the occasion to prove it had arisen. In warm but simple language she expressed at once her gratitude and her affection for the youth, who, on his part, declared his firm adherence to the troth he had plighted, and in homely words vowed that he would never be false to his Belinda. But this mutual interchange of confidence and regard rendered the present position of affairs by no means less dangerous and uncomfortable. Zac offered to go to the king if Belinda desired it, but to this there was a double objection. In the first place, Fridolin would probably be slow to believe anything to the disadvantage of his favourite daughters, and an appeal to him, certain to lead to an entire denial on the part of the princesses, would not improbably recoil upon the heads of both Belinda and her promised husband. Then, in the second place, Zac had a strong and conscientious objection to betraying a lady's secret, and had only done so in the present case because Belinda was his affianced wife, and he felt himself bound in honour to tell her how matters stood between her sisters and himself. They decided, therefore, that they certainly would not say anything to the king upon the subject. There was no one else to whom they could appeal, for Amabilia and Concaterina were omnipotent in the palace, and it would have been hopeless to speak to old Pompous or any of the courtiers. All that Belinda could think of was to tell her old foster-mother, who was allowed to see her twice a month, and who was so utterly devoted to her, that if the worst came to the worst, and the poor child had to leave the palace, she knew she could find a refuge in that humble cottage as long as the old woman was allowed to live there. So, after much difficulty, she obtained Zac's permission to confide to her the whole matter, and to ask her counsel regarding it. The youth left his betrothed with a heavy heart, but rejoiced withal at the thought that, at all events, she knew the truth, and would place in him the trust which he so well deserved. The cottage of Belinda's foster-mother was not far from the palace, and close to a forest of considerable size, between which and the river which flowed through the fertile plain upon one side of it, were the king's pastures upon which grazed his numerous flocks and herds. As has been already stated, the good old foster-mother was the wife of one of the shepherds whose duty it was to tend the king's flocks. He was now somewhat advanced in years, and so was his wife; but they were a hale and hearty couple, and still performed their duties with diligence and fidelity. According to her resolution, Belinda confided to her foster-mother at the very next interview the whole circumstances of her painful position. The worthy woman was much disturbed at hearing this news. No one was better informed than she was of the state of affairs at the palace. She knew that the word of either Amabilia or Concaterina was law, whilst her nursling had no influence whatever. If, then, the two sisters could agree between themselves as to which of them should appropriate Zac, there seemed but small hope that Belinda would be permitted to retain her lover. True, he might have a word to say upon the subject himself, and would possibly--nay, probably, according to Belinda--be firm and true, but how far that would avail against the will of those with whom he would have to deal, was a very doubtful matter. So when she had heard her child's story, the old woman comforted and petted her at first by condoling with her on the badness of the prospect before her, and the impossibility of its ever being any better. Having thus made both her nursling and herself as miserable as she could, and having cried together a good deal more than the urgency of the case required, they began to think whether anything else could be done, and for some time no thought entered either head of which any use could be made. This interview took place in the palace, and the good old woman said that she never _could_ think in such a grand place as that, but that if Belinda could manage to come and see her one of those days at her own cottage, they would be able to talk the matter over quietly together, and perhaps something might turn up. To this Belinda consented, and the old woman took her departure. For the next few days things went on much the same, the two elder princesses doing all in their power to attract the affection of Zac, and the honest lad striving to avoid them as much as he possibly could do without actual incivility. One day, however, things really came to a crisis. Zac had finished his work earlier than usual, and went into the palace garden to enjoy the fresh air. He took a book with him, and finding a pleasant seat in a little summer-house, which had been built near a natural waterfall which formed one of the beauties of the place, he sat himself thereupon, and began to read. It was a lovely spot, and the moment was one which occasionally comes to everybody in the warm summer-time, when the sound of falling water, the rays of the sun just piercing through a thick leafy screen, the low singing of the birds and the humming of the insects, all induce a kind of dreamy happiness which gradually steals over the spirit, and not seldom ends in the forgetfulness of sleep. So it was with Zac. He read a page or two with avidity--for his book was interesting--then another page or two rather less eagerly, then more slowly and lazily still; then he ceased to turn over the pages at all, and finally the book slipped from his hands to his knees, and from his knees to the ground, his eyes closed, and he fell into a sweet, dreamless sleep. Now, as luck would have it, the lovely Concaterina had observed the youth saunter into the garden, as she was watering the mignonette which grew in a box placed upon her window-sill. The opportunity for a _tête-à-tête_ seemed too good to be lost, and she therefore shortly afterwards descended in pursuit of him, having previously made sure that her beloved elder sister was practising music in their joint sitting-room. The princess did not find the boy directly, as she fancied he had gone further into the shrubberies than was really the case, so that by the time she came upon him in the summer-house he was stretched at full length upon the seat and sleeping as I have described. She gazed upon him for some few seconds in a transport of maidenly affection--so young and so handsome did he seem in her eyes, with his head leaning upon one of his arms which he had carelessly thrown behind it as he sank to sleep. Should she awaken him? and how? She did not take long to decide. In that country there was a proverbial saying--and I believe it is not confined to that country--that if a gentleman finds a lady asleep he has a right to take a kiss by way of legitimate booty. Concaterina had no idea that such a privilege could be properly or fairly confined to one sex, and she therefore leaned gently over the slumbering Zac, and without more ado kissed him tenderly on the cheek. The boy started from his sleep, and blushed deeply at having been thus awakened and saluted. He stammered forth some apologies for having been found as he was, but these were soon stopped by Concaterina, who addressed him in the most affectionate terms, and, sitting down by his side, asked him whether he quite hated her. To this the youth could make but one reply, namely, that it was not for him to hate his king's daughter, and that even were she not so, she and her sister had been too kind to him to make it possible for him to entertain any such feeling towards either of them. At the mention of her sister the fair one pouted prettily, and continued to talk to him in terms of endearment. "Dearest Zac," she said, "if you do not hate me cannot you love me a little? I am so fond of _you_--so _very_ fond." Zac did not know how to answer. "I _do_ love you," at length he said, "as the Princess Belinda's sister, and therefore one who will some day be _my_ sister too!" "Ah!" sighed Concaterina, "but I want more than that, you dear boy. Belinda, indeed! you are much too good for _her_, poor ill-favoured, child! How happy we could be together, Zac. You don't think me ugly, do you?" Zac certainly did _not_, and therefore could not say so, but when the princess went on in the same way, and tried to persuade him to let her usurp the place in his affections which belonged to Belinda, he could only reply that he knew she could not _really_ mean it, and begged her not to play tricks upon him in that manner. "Ah, Zac," she returned, "they are no tricks; I never before saw anyone whom I could really love, and I do love you, Zac, so _very_ much!" and as she spoke she passed her arm again round the perplexed boy's neck in a loving manner. What step she would next have taken I am unable to say, for at that moment who should enter the summer-house but the Princess Amabilia. "Pretty conduct this, indeed!" she cried, when she saw the position of affairs. "Concaterina! I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself, teasing that poor boy with your affection when you know he wants none of it!" The younger sister had by this time withdrawn the offending arm and turned sharply upon the intruder. "How tiresome you are, Amabilia," she said pettishly; "always interfering. Zac and I understand each other quite well, and don't want you here at all. Do go away!" "Hoity-toity!" rejoined the other. "_I_ go away, forsooth, that would be very reasonable, when we both know that dear Zac loves me fifty times better than he does you. Impudence!" At this Concaterina fired up. "He does no such thing!" she cried angrily; "he and I are now nearly of an age, and if you were a real good sister you would be glad to see how fond he is of me, instead of trying to take him away, you spiteful thing." Amabilia replied with equal warmth, and poor Zac's position became one of extreme discomfort, both princesses claiming him as their own, when he in reality neither belonged nor wished to belong to either. Presently, however, they brought their animated discussion to a close by appealing to Zac himself. Amabilia ingenuously declared that as she was eldest she ought to have the first choice, and that since matters had come to this pass, she would not be ashamed of telling Zac to his face that she loved him dearly, and was prepared to accept him for her husband. To this she added that in most courts such a hint as she had given would be considered equivalent to a command, and that she was thankful to say and feel that, as in their case there was love on both sides, a command would be quite superfluous. Concaterina then put in her claim. She said that in matters of love it was not a question of being eldest or youngest, the heart must follow its own promptings. She loved Zac--oh, so dearly! and she felt that he returned her love, only diffidence forbade him to confess it. But if he would be hers, she was certain her sister would soon find another mate, and that the king, her father, would make no objection. Thus accosted by two young and beautiful princesses, poor Zac would have had a most difficult task to decide between them, had it not been that the path of duty lay straight before him, and he had all along resolved to follow it. "Dear ladies!" he said, addressing them both, and bowing respectfully to one and the other, "I thought you were but playing with me, and I would fain hope so still. If not--what reply can I make to you? I love you both--each has been so kind to me since I first entered the palace, that I should be worse than a brute if I did not love you both. But I came here as the promised husband of your sister Belinda. My troth is plighted to her. She believes in and trusts me. How can I break my word and her heart? Dear princesses, you are so beautiful that you can command love whenever and wherever you wish it. It is not so with poor Belinda. She has but me, and I have vowed to be faithful to her!" Whilst Zac was speaking thus, his eyes fired with animation, and his face beaming with excitement, the princesses thought they had never seen him look so handsome. But when his words showed them that their efforts to wean his heart from their younger sister had been unsuccessful, rage gradually took possession of their souls. "You despise our love!" they both cried out at once. "You, a mere peasant boy, who was only taken into the palace out of charity, you _dare_ to say that you despise our beauty and ourselves, and take up with that little lump of deformity, Belinda! How can you be such a fool?" Poor Zac protested that he was far from despising either of them, and admired their beauty greatly, as indeed anyone with eyes must do. This, however, was far from satisfying the enraged damsels. They insisted upon it that the youth had encouraged them both, and the only dispute between them now was as to which of them had been worse treated by him. They told him, moreover, that his pretended fidelity to Belinda should not bring happiness either to him or her. They would plague her life out, for the matter of that. Ugly little toad! why should she have a husband at all? And as for him--he should be punished handsomely for this, and that, too, perhaps, sooner than he thought. They then left the summer-house, and, I am sorry to say, allowed their anger to carry them far beyond what could in any way be justified. They agreed to go to their father that very afternoon, and tell him that Zac had been very impertinent to both of them, and that Amabilia had surprized him trying to kiss Concaterina against her will in the summer-house. This they accordingly did, and the effects were much what they had expected. The king flew into a violent passion, threw both his boots with an unerring aim at the head of Lord Pompous, and vowed that the world must certainly be coming to an end. When the courtiers had all agreed to this as a novel but most reasonable remark, he called them a parcel of fools for thinking such a thing at all probable, and ordered Zac to be immediately arrested. When told of what he was accused, the poor boy was almost beside himself with grief. He was sorry enough for the trouble he was in, and for that which might fall upon Belinda in consequence; but he was still more sorry for the cruel conduct of the two princesses, whom he had really liked, and who had behaved so heartlessly to him for only doing his duty. Even now, however, he behaved like a true gentleman. When Fridolin asked him what he had to allege in his defence, he bowed low before the king, and said "Nothing." When asked if he then confessed himself guilty, he replied: "May it please your majesty, I should feel guilty if I allowed myself to deny any statement made by the noble princesses, your majesty's royal daughters." This speech would have touched many hearts, but Fridolin was in too great a passion at that moment to be touched by anything, and he gave orders that Zac should immediately be thrown into a deep dungeon, fed upon bread and water, and confined there until it should be settled whether he should be beheaded or banished, which were the only two punishments which occurred to the king just then. Accordingly, the poor boy was roughly dragged away from the royal presence, taken down a great many stone steps, until he arrived at the dungeon door, and then thrust through it, and left to think over all that had happened. The Princess Belinda, meanwhile, was quite ignorant of the whole affair until the next morning, when her two sisters visited her in her apartment. They came, as may be supposed, in no very friendly state of mind, and told their story in a manner which would have greatly distressed Belinda, if she had not had the most perfect reliance upon Zac. They pretended to condole with her on the circumstance of his having repeatedly made love to both of them, playing one off against the other, and striving to induce them to persuade the king to let him marry one of them instead of her. They said that they had refrained from telling her this before, for fear of wounding her feelings, but that now they were obliged to do so. Then they told their concocted story about the summer-house, and related all that had subsequently occurred. Poor Belinda shed bitter tears, but showed her disbelief in their story so plainly, that they presently changed their tone, asked who and what _she_ was, forsooth, that a husband should be provided for her--telling her that she should never have him after all, that they would take care he was kept in the dungeon until he came to his senses, and making all kinds of other unpleasant observations, which made the poor child very unhappy. So as soon as her sisters had left her, she determined to go down to her foster-mother's cottage, and seek consolation from her. Off she set, and walked down to the forest, crying all the way, until she got to the cottage. There, to her dismay, she found the door locked, for the good woman had gone to carry her husband's dinner out to him on the plain, and had locked up the house until her return. Belinda did not know what to do, for as she was not very strong, she felt somewhat tired with her walk, and not equal to walking back again without rest. So she sat down in the trellised arbour by the cottage door, and presently fell fast asleep. As she slept, she dreamed a curious dream. She thought that her mother came and looked upon her. Of course, Belinda could not remember her mother, for the very good reason that she had died very shortly after the child was born. Still, somehow or other, she knew it was her mother, very bright and beautiful, and with such a loving look upon her face as only mothers have when they gaze upon their children. When her mother had looked down upon her for a little while, she stooped down and spoke, in a soft, sweet, gentle tone of voice. "My little one," she said, "do not despair and be down-hearted: all will yet be well with you. You have had much trouble in the past, but your happiness in the future will be all the brighter by the contrast. If you want help, you are near it now, for Canetto, the Prince of the Forest Mannikins, is my cousin, and you are in his country." Belinda started up wide-awake, just as her mother seemed to have finished speaking. The words were still ringing in her ears, and she looked round and rubbed her eyes in great amazement. There was nothing to be seen. A soft breeze from the south gently stirred the leaves of the honeysuckle and sweetbriar which enfolded the little arbour in their fragrant embrace. The doves were gently cooing in the fir-trees, and far, far away she heard the distant bleating of the sheep on the plain, but there was no mortal being near her. The loving mother, then, had been but the unreal vision of a dream, and the encouraging words had been no more than a passing thought or fancy of her own, mysteriously clothed for a moment with sound. Yet they seemed so vivid--so true. So certain was she that she had actually heard them, that almost insensibly she found herself repeating them aloud. "Canetto, the Prince of the Forest Mannikins," she exclaimed, and the next moment started with affright at the effect which her own words had produced. "Who calls Canetto?" said a voice; and at the same instant she perceived a figure standing a few yards off from the entrance to the arbour. It was the figure of a little old man, about three feet high, dressed in a dark green coat, with a velveteen waistcoat and white corduroys. In his hand he held a hunting-whip, with which he carelessly flicked off the heads of the daisies as he stood. Upon his head was a species of wide-awake, as far as Belinda could judge; at least it was of that kind of shape, and seemed to be made of some light material suited to the heat of the weather. But the most remarkable thing about the old gentleman was the marvellous mixture of intelligence and good-humour which appeared upon his countenance. His eyes sparkled with a kind of light, which told you at the first glance that he was not a man to be easily hum-bugged, whilst the smile which seemed constantly hovering upon his mouth betokened a fund of humour and kind-heartedness which was very reassuring to the young princess. "Who calls Canetto?" he said again, in a kind voice. The maiden knew that common politeness, as well as her own interest, required a prompt reply. "Sir," she said, "I am Belinda, King Fridolin's youngest daughter, and my mother was your cousin, I think, and I am very unhappy, and I don't know what to do, and I dreamed that my mother came and told me to ask you to help me; and oh! pray don't be angry with me, for I do not want to do any harm to anybody, only if I may be a little happier!" While Belinda spoke the little man kept on flicking his hunting-whip and smiling benignly all the time. "A little happier, my lambkin?" he said as soon as she had finished. "To be sure you shall. Why not? Your mother my cousin? That she was indeed, poor darling! Not only my cousin was she, but we used to be the best of friends before she married King Fridolin, after which I saw little of her, and knew nothing of her great trouble until it was too late to help her." At these words the princess quite forgot her own sorrow for the moment, in the intense desire she had to know the history of the mother of whom neither her father nor her sisters ever spoke. "Oh, sir," she cried in an agitated voice, "please tell me about my dear mother. I have so longed to know all about her, and I never shall know unless somebody tells me, for she died when I was quite little, and no one in the palace ever speaks of her to me." A tinge of melancholy replaced the smile upon the little man's face as he replied to Belinda's question. "Your mother," said he, "was neither more nor less than an angel, which is more than I can say for your royal father; although, after all, his faults are rather those of his education than any which arise from his natural disposition, which is far from bad. But it is difficult for kings, who have the world at their feet and always get their own way, to be all that one could wish them. Your mother was as near perfection, in body as well as mind, as any human being can attain. Why she married your father I could never understand, except it was because she chose to do so. There were others," (here the small gentleman drew himself up to his full height, placed his right hand upon his heart, and heaved a deep sigh), "there were others who loved her as well and might have made her happier. But Fridolin carried her off, and for a time they were happy. When your elder sisters were born he was contented, although he had wished for a prince, but he could not object to children of such rare beauty. Then came the trouble. "The fairy Nuisancenika had, and has, wondrous power over the Plain country--by which I don't mean the country of 'plain' people, though _she_ is 'plain' enough in all conscience, but the flat country, wherever there are no woods and hills. Well, this disagreeable woman was always jealous of your mother's beauty, because she herself possessed none, and was the more angry with her because, I think, she always had a fancy to be queen herself. Still, she dared not injure a queen who had carefully avoided doing anything which might give her reasonable cause of offence. True, she did what she could to poison your father's mind and make him dislike his wife; but, save for an unfortunate accident, I think she would have failed altogether. The poor queen dropped her writing-case upon one occasion, and the wicked fairy, finding it, secured some of her private note paper and envelopes with her own particular cipher thereupon. Of these she made use by writing, in exact imitation of your mother's handwriting, some very disagreeable things about the king, which she took good care should fall into his hands. This caused unpleasantness between the hitherto happy couple, and Nuisancenika made it her business to manage that it should not pass away. Then, most unhappily, in driving out one day in her pony-carriage, your poor mother had the bad luck to drive over one of the fairy's favourite adders, which was fast asleep on a grass ride where it had no earthly business to be, and had no right whatever to complain of being killed. But the wicked mistress was furious beyond measure; and as the event occurred when the queen was in the plain country, driving, I believe, to fetch her husband news how the lambing was going on, this circumstance somehow or other gave the fairy power over her which she cruelly used. Had I only known of it in time, the whole misfortune might have been prevented, but I chanced to be away on a visit, and when I returned, your mother was dead and the mischief done. I heard of it too late, and the wretch Nuisancenika had taken such precautions by her enchantments during my absence that, although my power is greater than hers, I could do nothing at all in the matter; nor could I have even disclosed to you the truth, as I have now done, unless you had, of your own free will, come into my country and asked me the question outright." By the time Canetto had finished his sad story, the poor child to whom he spoke was bathed in tears. She thought not of herself, for her want of beauty and good shape were misfortunes which she had been long accustomed to regard with resignation; but the sorrows and sufferings of her mother penetrated her gentle spirit with the profoundest emotion. She looked up through her tears at the little man, and thanked him in a soft, low voice, broken by her sobs, for his goodness in satisfying her curiosity. After a short pause he began again:-- "Dry your tears, my petkin," he said, "for I have not come here to make you miserable, but the very reverse, if I can but manage to do so. It was only right that you should know the sorrows of your mother, and the story of your birth, but I should not have cared to tell you if I could do nothing more. It is now _your_ turn to speak, and tell me the reason of your coming here; because I have had no communication with the palace, and could have none, during the time that the spell lasted, which you have this day broken by coming here." Belinda did as she was told (which young ladies should always do, if they wish to be respected and beloved, unless they are told to do something which they dislike, in which case of course it is quite a different matter) and then proceeded to tell the Prince of the Forest Mannikins the whole story of her life, her affection for Zac, the conduct of her sisters with regard to that excellent youth, and her present affliction in consequence of his imprisonment by her father. During the narration of her story, the little man flicked his hunting-whip continually and appeared at once interested and excited. When she had concluded, and seemed much inclined to indulge in another flood of tears, he hastily stopped her. "Little petkin," he remarked, "crying can do nobody any good at all, and least of all anyone who has another and better cure for their misfortunes. Come with me, Childerkin, and we will see whether something cannot be done to make matters wear a better appearance." With these words Canetto led the way into the forest behind the shepherd's cottage, and Belinda followed him with the utmost confidence, being quite sure that he meant to help her if he could. And here we must leave our little princess for a time, in order to return to another individual in whom we ought to be equally interested. Poor Zac had been cast into a most uncomfortable dungeon, in which there was only one half-broken wooden form to sit down upon, whilst the air was close and heavy, the space confined, and the only light came from a grating in one corner of the ceiling, probably placed there for the purposes of ventilation, and opening into the bottom of a kind of deep ditch, which itself could only be reached by the light from a long distance above. This was indeed a sad change for the poor boy, who had so long been accustomed to the comforts and luxuries of the palace. He felt, as was natural, much cast down and dispirited by his sudden reverse of fortune, and his only consolation was that he had not brought it on himself by any bad conduct of his own. It was very unpleasant, certainly, to be accused of behaving badly to the two princesses, when no one could have possibly behaved better; but he thought to himself that it would have been much worse if he had really been guilty. Besides, he had another consolation, in the firm reliance which he felt in the constancy and affection of Belinda. She, he knew, would be true to him, whatever happened, and this thought cheered his drooping spirits. He felt rather hungry, and, finding a loaf of black bread and a pitcher of water near it, determined to satisfy his craving forthwith. Having done this there was nothing for it but to sit and think, which he accordingly did, going carefully over in his mind all the events of his past life, and wondering much at the curious fate which had befallen him. He could not recollect anything that had happened when he was _very_ young. He only remembered being very unhappy at his father's house, being called by his elder brothers and sisters "the little gentleman," and pushed about here and there and everywhere, as if everybody wished him out of the way. Then he called to mind how hard he had tried to be gentle and loving to all, and how he had gradually seemed to get on better and to be more kindly treated. Then came the circumstance of his having specially to tend the pigs, and then the proclamation of the pig-race, when he remembered a discussion about who should ride "Sandy Sue," and how one of the elder Dicksons had been anxious to do so, but was forbidden by his father, who said that "gentleman Zac" was the only one who could win on her, and ride he should. Since that day of course he remembered everything very distinctly--how he had been introduced to the little princess, and her sisters, and the king--how frightened he had been at first, and how soon he had got over that feeling--how kind they had all been to him--how he had taken to his learning and delighted in his books; and then all the sad and trying events of the last few months and his sudden downfall from his career of promised happiness. All these thoughts passed through the poor boy's head as he sat in his lonely dungeon, and hours slipped by without his taking any count of them. The shades of evening had now fallen upon the palace, but this made little difference to Zac, and indeed he found he could see rather better than upon his first entrance, since his eyes began to become accustomed to the light. All at once he heard a little noise, as if some animal was scratching close at hand. He looked listlessly round, and thought how little it mattered to him what it was. A rat or a mouse would be a companion to his solitude, but if such a creature appeared it would probably fly as soon as it caught sight of him. The noise continued, and in another moment a little mouse poked its head out of a hole in the corner of the dungeon, and fixed its sharp black eyes upon the prisoner as if it had come on purpose to see him and was very glad to find him disengaged. Zac did not move at first, being fearful lest he should disturb his little visitor; but he need not have been alarmed, for it presently came quite out of the hole and sat a few yards off from him, steadily looking him in the face. Seeing the confidence of the animal, Zac thought there could be no fear of his driving it away by the sound of his voice, so he said, partly to the mouse and partly to himself:-- "Poor little creature, I wonder what _you_ want here?" To his intense surprise the small creature immediately replied, in a shrill but by no means unpleasant voice:-- "I came to see you, Mr. Zac, and to tell you the latest news." "To see me!" exclaimed the astonished boy. "Well, you must be the best mouse that ever was born to come and take pity upon a poor prisoner like me. And since you can talk so well, perhaps you will kindly inform me what news it is you have to tell." "King Fridolin is very, very angry with you, Mr. Zac," replied the mouse. "Unfortunately, my little darling, _that_ is no news at all," rejoined the boy; "I knew it, to my cost, some hours ago, and it is for that very reason that you find me here." "But," continued the mouse, "he is so angry that he is determined to punish you with the most terrible punishment ever known, and is only doubting now whether you shall be thrown into the adder-pit, or stripped, smeared with honey and tied to a tree to amuse the wasps and flies." The poor boy shuddered at these words; but, recovering his firmness immediately, rejoined:-- "Whatever it be, it will be in a good cause that I shall suffer, and I must bear it as best I may." The mouse went on:-- "You really ought not to have tried to kiss the Princess Concaterina, Mr. Zac," she said. "If you know anything at all, little mouse," said the boy, indignantly, "you must know that I did no such thing." "Then," rejoined the other, "why did you not deny it before the king?" "Do you think I would brand Belinda's own sisters as the tellers of a falsehood?" returned Zac. "I think _I_ should, sooner than be thrown into a dungeon, and perhaps into an adder-pit afterwards," gravely observed his visitor. "But they say there is some hope for you yet; for the princesses are really fond of you, and if you will consent to marry Concaterina, all may yet be well with you." "Do you think I would be so base as to save my life upon such terms?" angrily responded the boy. "Well, I don't know," said the mouse in a slow, hesitating tone of voice, "I think I should, if I were you. I should really advise you to do so. Just consider what a disagreeable, uncomfortable place this is, compared with the palace. Then how _very_ unpleasant it would be to feel the adders, creeping all over you with their cold, slimy touch, and then stinging you to death at their leisure afterwards. Or how painful and distressing to feel the wasps and flies biting and stinging you, cheerfully buzzing about to look out for a tender place. Oh, it would be a horrible death to die! I should _strongly_ advise you to marry Concaterina and escape such a fate!" "What!" exclaimed Zac, "do you come here pretending to be a friend of mine, and advise me to be false to Belinda and break my plighted word? I am quite ashamed of you for giving such advice, little mouse; as I should be of myself if I could listen to it for one moment!" "As for Belinda," replied the animal, shaking its head sorrowfully, "I do not think you need concern yourself about _her_. She implicitly believes the charge against you, and is eager that you should be punished; whilst her tender-hearted sisters are inclined to ask their father to pardon you." At these words Zac started up in a great passion. "Belinda false!" he cried. "Belinda believe me _guilty_! Mouse, I will never believe it! You have betrayed yourself, and are an enemy instead of a friend. I would sooner believe evil of myself than of the princess against whom you utter this calumny. Take this for your wicked falsehood!" So saying, he seized his shoe to throw at the mouse; when, to his intense surprise, the little animal became suddenly transformed into a human being, and Belinda herself stood before him. "Dearest Zac!" she said, running up at once to the boy and embracing him tenderly, "forgive me for the trial to which I have put your constancy. It was not _my_ wish to do so, but the order of those who have the right to command. I have found a friend who is as able as he is willing to help us, and by his assistance I believe our happiness will yet be secured. By his power I have been enabled to visit you in your dungeon in the shape of a mouse, in order that I might convey to you some information which is quite necessary to your safety." "But who is this powerful friend?" asked Zac, when, having returned her caress, he found words to express his feelings. "He is Canetto, the Prince of the Forest Mannikins," replied Belinda; "and having been a near relative of my dear mother's, he is very well disposed towards me." "What then am I to do?" asked the boy. "For, shut up, as I am, in this horrid dungeon, it seems to me that nobody can do anything for me, unless indeed they would change me into a mouse, that I might pass out by the same hole as that by which you entered." "That," said Belinda, "might doubtless be a very good plan, but it is not the one which I am directed to follow. You must know that our friend, all-powerful in the forest, has elsewhere bounds and limits to his power, the reasons and degree of which you and I cannot understand. It is for this cause that he does not come here at once and deliver you from the dungeon; but, though he does not attempt this, he will give you such help as shall assuredly procure your deliverance in due time. He bade me tell you that you will certainly be taken out of this place to-morrow, when the king will advise with his council what to do with you. Be firm--though this I need scarcely tell you: if they give you your choice of death, or if they offer you one wish before you die, choose to be killed in the forest, under the shadow of the trees near my foster-mother's cottage, and if they grant that wish the rest will be easy. If (as is of course possible) they offer you no choice at all in the matter, you must pronounce the magic word which alone can prevent them harming you, but with which you are invulnerable." "And what may that word be?" anxiously inquired Zac. "It is not an easy one," replied the princess, "but as I may only say it twice, listen very carefully whilst I do so, that you may remember it well, since the least mistake might be attended with disastrous consequences. The word is--'Ballykaluphmenonabababandleby." "_What?_" exclaimed Zac in a horrified voice; upon which the princess repeated the word again very slowly; but, though it doubtless appears very easy to the reader, it completely puzzled poor Zac. He shook his head mournfully-- "If it depends upon _that_," said he, "the game is up--I should never be able to pronounce that word, if I waited till apples grow on peach trees." "I am very sorry," answered the princess in a sorrowful voice, "but you see I can only tell you what Canetto told _me_, and we must hope for the best. But now it is time for me to be off, for if I am not back at the palace soon, my absence will be discovered, and I may be exposed to unpleasant questions." So saying, she once more embraced the boy, and then, approaching the hole, muttered some words which the mannikin king had, no doubt, told her, and in another moment became once more a mouse, and vanished from his sight. The interview had somewhat encouraged Zac, although he had fearful misgivings about the magic word, which, strange to say, appeared to him both long and difficult. However, he resolved to make the best of it; and having finished his loaf of bread and pitcher of water, lay down on some straw which he found in the corner of his room, and fell fast asleep. In the morning he was awakened by a surly gaoler, who brought him a fresh loaf and some more water, of which he partook with all the relish of a good appetite. Not long after this, he heard the noise of persons descending the steps which led to his dungeon, and presently the door was thrown open, and a guard appeared, whose orders were to conduct the prisoner once more before the king. Fridolin was sitting in his chair of state, surrounded by his courtiers; and near him stood the two elder princesses, with downcast eyes and cheeks suffused with modest blushes. When the boy was brought in, the king frowned angrily upon him, and shook his royal fist in a threatening manner. "Well, you young villain!" he cried; "have you passed the night bewailing your sins, and making ready for the death which certainly awaits you?" "My lord king," answered the boy, with uplifted head and undaunted eye, "I have done no wrong against you or yours, and I deserve no death at your hands." "What?" cried the king in a rage. "Didst thou not admit thy crime yesterday? Art thou not guilty of the charge brought against thee by our daughters?" "Sire," replied the boy, "I said yesterday, and I say again, that I will not deny any statement made by these noble ladies." "This is nonsense," said the king; "this is mere quibbling--again he admits his guilt. What shall we do with him? I say death!" The courtiers all immediately said death too, as they would with equal unanimity have said anything else if their sovereign had happened to say it instead. "Well, then," rejoined the king, "by what death shall he die? What say you, Lord Pompous?" "Boil him," promptly replied the lord chamberlain, who was quite taken aback at being thus suddenly addressed, and who was at the moment thinking of a turkey which he had ordered for dinner, and with which he confused the prisoner at the moment. "Pompous, you are a fool!" shouted the king. "As your majesty pleases," responded the old man, with a low obeisance; and Fridolin went on to ask other opinions, which were all given with a guarded reservation, that they were subject to his majesty thinking the same, and if not, were no opinions at all. "I think," said Fridolin presently, "that the pit of adders is the best place for him." "Just so, sire." "Exactly what we thought." "The very thing," were the muttered exclamations which immediately passed round. At this moment, Amabilia, rushed forward and threw herself at her father's feet. "Oh, no! dear father," she cried in piteous tones; "_not_ such a dreadful fate as that, poor boy. Pray be more merciful, for _my_ sake." Fridolin raised her affectionately from the ground. "Well, well," he said, "have it your own way, my queenly girl; he shall _not_ be thrown into the adder-pit if you have the slightest objection. Gentlemen," he continued, turning to his council, "what say you to the honey torture, and giving the wasps and bees and flies a treat?" "Very good, your Majesty;" "Just the proper punishment for his crime," and similar observations, again proceeded from the crowd of sycophants. But at this instant Concaterina jumped up and performed precisely the same feat as that of her sister. Throwing herself upon her knees, she clasped those of her father, and begged him not to subject poor Zac to such a dreadful fate. "All right," said the king, to whom nothing was so disagreeable as to see his daughters cry, which Concaterina was beginning to do, and that copiously. "He shall not die thus, if you don't wish it, my beauty; but what in the name of all that is wonderful do you want me to do with the fellow, if I am not to execute him according to the regular punishments of the country?" Now both the princesses had begun to be sorry for Zac; for on calmer reflection they had come to the conclusion that it was rather hard that he should die so young, and die, too, for keeping his faith which he had plighted to a lady. True, he was a horrid fool for not preferring one of them; but then fidelity was a virtue, and a rare one, and he punished himself by preferring a plain--not to say ugly--wife to a beauty. They would have been quite content to have given him a little more taste of dungeon life, and then let him off, and all this talk about killing him did not at all chime in with their ideas. Still, they had raised the storm, and, as other people in a similar position have often discovered, knew not how to allay it. If they recommended Zac's pardon, they feared that their father would begin to doubt whether he had really committed any offence at all. So they hung their heads and said nothing, whilst Zac turned upon them a grateful look for having saved him from two such unpleasant alternatives as those which had been suggested. After the king had pondered a minute, he struck violently at Lord Pompous' toe with his sceptre, and gave vent to his usual exclamation when excited by a sudden idea--"I've hit it!" which, fortunately for the lord chamberlain, was in this instance untrue. "The prisoner," continued the king, "shall choose his own death and the place of his execution. Thus shall we blend mercy with justice, and maintain our royal reputation for both." On hearing these gracious words, the courtiers naturally turned their eyes up to the heavens in admiration of such a display of elevated feeling; and Lord Pompous looked wiser than ever, though he instinctively edged a little further off from his august sovereign. The latter now turned to Zac and demanded of him what death he would choose to die, and where it should take place; calling upon him, at the same time, to take notice of the clemency with which he was treated. Although this did not strike Zac very forcibly, he was exceedingly glad that matters had fallen out in this way, especially since his treacherous memory had already completely forgotten the magic word, which might otherwise have been his only chance of escape. He therefore lost no time in answering the king's question. "May it please your majesty," he said, "since my death is resolved upon, I should like to be shot in the breast, so that I may stand face to face with my executioners. For the place, I should like to be taken down to the forest, where of old I kept my father's pigs, a simple boy knowing nothing of palaces and princesses, which have brought me to this. These were the scenes of my happy childhood. There let me end my short life." When the boy had finished speaking, Amabilia and Concaterina both burst into tears, and would have interceded once more with their royal parent, but the stern frown which he wore on his countenance restrained them from so doing. Fridolin directed that preparations should be made for the execution within two hours of that time, and that all his court should be summoned to it. It was to take place in a large open space upon the edge of the forest, not far from the shepherd's cottage; and, in consequence of the magnitude of the crime, and the exalted position which the criminal had lately occupied as the affianced husband of one of the king's daughters, the executioners were to be composed of members of the nobility, all of whom were ordered to draw lots by which it should be decided who should undertake this duty. Some little delay was caused by the name of Lord Pompous being first drawn, who was known to entertain a rooted aversion to fire-arms. This being properly represented to the king, and also the extreme probability that the lord chamberlain would in his confusion certainly shoot the wrong man, his majesty was graciously pleased to allow the name to be set aside, and twelve others selected. This done, and all the other arrangements completed, the royal party set forth at the proper time, and came to the spot which had been selected for the execution. The two princesses who had been the cause of all this were by this time plunged into the deepest distress, for they had never really intended it to go so far, and thought that Zac would probably have been brought to his knees and his senses before this, and would have been pardoned on condition of his marrying one of them. They had not taken into account the necessity of satisfying offended royalty, and that their father, insulted as he believed himself to have been through them, could not possibly pass the matter over without taking summary vengeance on the culprit. Nobody had thought anything of Belinda; but, to the surprise of many of the party, she emerged from the door of her foster-mother's cottage, leaning upon the old woman's arm, and apparently overwhelmed with grief. When the prisoner had been brought forward, the king in a loud voice declared to the people what his crime had been, and what was to be his punishment. Then Zac, in a firm, calm tone, spoke to the crowd in these words. "I have only one thing to answer to what is brought against me. I was betrothed to the Princess Belinda, and I have been loyal and true to her ever since my betrothal." Before any one could prevent her, Belinda here suddenly sprang forward with an agility of which no one believed her capable, and threw herself into Zac's arms, exclaiming at the same time--"I believe you, my own Zac; let us die together." The crowd began to murmur. The king began to waver. The elder sisters cried still more bitterly at the sight of such devotion. There was a moment's hesitation, and a hope that Fridolin might relent from his cruel purpose; when at that very moment a loud, hissing noise was heard, and the figure of a little old woman, long past middle age and without the slightest pretensions to beauty, came driving into the middle of the crowd in a car drawn by pole-cats, whilst upon and around her twined numerous snakes and adders, who hissed in such a threatening manner at the crowd that the latter parted right and left in every direction, and made way for her to advance within a very short distance of the spot upon which stood the royal party and the prisoner. Every eye was at once turned upon the new-comer, who waved her hand in an imperious manner, and looked round with an eye accustomed to command. As soon as it was evident she was about to speak, the snakes and adders left off hissing, and there was a dead silence throughout the whole body of people present. The old woman's voice was not melodious--rather the contrary, in fact--but she spoke clearly enough, and there was not the slightest difficulty in understanding her meaning. "I am the fairy Nuisancenika," she said, "and I reign, as many of you may possibly know, over the Plain country. Having been particularly busy lately in inventing a new kind of adder whose bite shall be beyond the power of any antidote, I had not heard of the event which has been appointed for to-day. As soon as I _did_ hear, I determined to come and witness a righteous act performed by my old friend, King Fridolin. "It is now some years ago since I avenged him upon his abominable wife, whom I always detested, and who fortunately gave me power over her by driving over my best viper in my own country. My vengeance, however, was not satisfied by her death. Although I had no power over her elder daughters, I was enabled to endow the last child with certain defects and deformities which it is pleasant to me to find have been rather increased than lessened by time. But if this girl gets a good and loving husband, these things will cease to trouble her, and I shall be robbed of one half my revenge. The low-born person she has chosen for her husband would be beneath my notice but that she has fixed her affections upon him. That is enough for me. He must die; and, when Fridolin considers that this fellow has insulted his elder and beautiful daughters, I cannot doubt that he will be of my opinion, and direct that the sentence be carried out without further delay." She ceased; and a dead silence prevailed for a few seconds. Then Fridolin turned sharply to Pompous. "Lord chamberlain, what had I better do?" "What your majesty deems best under the circumstances," responded the high functionary thus addressed. "Pompous, you are a fool," retorted the king, angrily. "If your majesty please to say so," replied the courtier, with a low bow, and once more the sovereign had to think for himself. "There is much force, madam, in what you advance upon this subject," he remarked to the fairy. "If there had not been I should not have taken the trouble to advance it," answered she. "Do not make fool of yourself by pretending to doubt as to what you ought to do. Have the young man shot directly, unless you prefer that I should let my adders loose upon him." Scarcely were these words out of her mouth, when a clear, flute-like voice was heard ringing through the assembly. "Who talks of letting loose adders in _my_ country?" The people looked up and beheld a little man in a dark green coat, velveteen waistcoat, and white corduroys, coming out of the forest with a hunting-whip in his hand, which he leisurely flicked about as he walked towards the royal party. But this strange figure was not alone. There trooped after him, three and three at a time, a whole regiment of little men, all dressed in green, and apparently belonging to the first comer. They had also whips, but kept them quiet, whilst they gradually increased in number, until there were really more than you could have easily counted. "I say!" repeated the little man in the same voice. "Who talks of letting loose adders in _my_ country?" "_Your_ country?" asked Fridolin indignantly. "It is _mine_!"--but he was checked by the fairy, who put him aside at once, telling him that his claim was not disputed, but had nothing to do with the question. "_Your_ country?" she asked of the little man. "I like that! why you know quite well it is _mine_, and has been for ages." "I beg your pardon," said the other. "I beg _yours_," retorted the fairy. "What do you mean by your mannikin impudence? It is my country, and I mean to have the prince killed, and settle once for all with this last child of your doll-faced cousin." "Not so fast, madam," replied the little man, calmly. "It has never been disputed that my kingdom--that is, the forest territory--includes all the land within the limits of the forest, and the forest is held by our greatest fairy lawyers, beyond all doubt, to mean all the land upon and within which trees grow which are not separated from the bulk of the forest by any fence. Cast your eyes behind you and you will see that within the last few years, whilst you have been breeding adders, and I have been hunting and travelling, King Fridolin has planted largely, and those chestnut plantations, stretching from the forest on the extreme right, quite across to the fringe of forest on the left, have enclosed every yard of ground on which we are standing to-day, and have rendered it beyond all doubt, part and parcel of the forest territory, and consequently my country." The fairy Nuisancenika looked right and left, and her countenance fell considerably. "Upon my word," she said, reluctantly, "I believe you are right. I had overlooked those plantations. I don't know that I have any right to interfere--I have given my advice--perhaps I had better go--" and she took her whip up as if to lash her polecats forward. "Stop!" cried the little man in a clear, strong voice. "There are two words to that bargain: those who enter the forest territory cannot quit it without my permission!" So saying, he made a sign to his mannikins, who immediately formed a ring, several deep, around the fairy and the whole royal party. Then the little man made a courteous bow to Fridolin, and proceeded as follows: "Do not think for a moment, King Fridolin," he said, "that any usurpation of your rights is intended by my claim, undoubted as it is, to sovereignty over this forest country. It is yours as kingdoms are reckoned among mortals, and mine is a species of power which will never clash with your authority. But you have several things to learn to-day which it would have been well for you if you had learned before. I am Canetto, king like yourself, and cousin to your late lamented wife. Your conduct to her would be perfectly inexcusable if it had not been that your mind was poisoned and you were utterly deceived by this vilest of wicked fairies, Nuisancenika." "'Tis false, villain!" shrieked this person, on finding herself alluded to in this uncomplimentary manner. "Hag!" replied Canetto, with a glance of wrath at her, "I should be sorry to be obliged to proceed at once to extremities, but another such interruption will expose you to the violent probability of being whipped to death with your own adders immediately." The fairy made a gesture of impotent wrath, and gnashed her teeth savagely while the mannikin thus continued: "The letters, king, which you believed to have been written by Queen Rosetta, were all forged by this wretch, and written upon paper which she had stolen from my poor cousin. She it was, moreover, who poisoned the queen by viper-broth, and caused Belinda to be deformed and afflicted as you see her. Fortunately, she was powerless to deprave her mind, or debase her intellect, and you are happy in the possession of such a daughter. But this wrinkled old sinner was not content with this mischief. She it is who has been endeavouring to sow dissension in your family, first, by putting it into the heads of both your elder daughters to try and take away their sister's promised husband, and next, by hardening your heart and preventing your showing mercy when all your children would desire you to do so. But for this she has a reason beyond her hatred of Rosetta, which has lasted even after her death. Did you hear her mention the word 'prince' just now in speaking of Zac? Well, Zac _is_ a prince!" Here all three of the princesses started, and the two elder screamed aloud. "Yes!" continued Canetto, "that which I tell you is quite true, surprising though it be. Zac's father is a powerful monarch, the king of the country of the Red Camellias, which lies beyond my forest. Having a spite against the king, this vile sorceress stole the boy at an early age, and left him at a spot where he was found and taken home by Farmer Dickson, who will verify all that I say. By my magic art I knew this, but as I could do little or nothing beyond my forest, I thought it best to keep quiet. Now, however, you know the secret of Zac's gentle manners and general good behaviour, which, whenever you observe in a boy, you may be perfectly sure that he is either the son of a king, or of somebody else. The continuous and cruel hatred of Nuisancenika has carried her to such a pitch, that she has come here to-day to gratify her vengeance, and feast her murderous old eyes upon the death of this poor boy, and the sufferings of your youngest daughter. Her first punishment, therefore, shall be to witness something precisely the reverse." Then turning to Zac he touched his fetters with the hunting-whip which he held in his hand, when they immediately fell off. He next raised the whip and laid the lash lightly across Belinda's shoulders, at the same time pronouncing the words--"Marlika, Marlika, humphty cambia," which all the world knows to be Mannikin expressions of vast power. In this instance their effect was both instantaneous and marvellous. Belinda's hump fell off, formed itself into a round ball like a cannon ball; bounded up, hit the wicked Fairy a tremendous blow in the chest which knocked her backwards for a moment, and then utterly disappeared. But this was not nearly all. Every defect in the young princess's form and features vanished as if by magic, and she stood before the king, tall, upright, straight as an arrow, and blushing in all the pride of conscious beauty. At this moment, I am glad to say that Amabilia and Concaterina, instead of showing any jealous feeling at a change which really made their younger sister more charming than themselves, gave vent to loud exclamations of joy, and rushed to congratulate and embrace her. The latter ceremony had already been performed by Zac, and all the royal family began to shed tears of happiness together. But Fridolin had buried his face in his hands, and when he lifted up his head, the marks of deep sorrow were set upon his features. "Oh, my Rosetta!" he cried, in bitter anguish. "My lost and loved Rosetta! my only love! my noble queen!" and as he spoke he swung his right arm violently round in the extremity of his grief, catching Lord Pompous full upon the nose with his fist, and causing it to bleed profusely. "Do not grieve so much," observed Canetto with a smile; "look behind you and see what is to be seen." The king turned and perceived a lady of great beauty and stately mien slowly advancing from the shepherd's cottage. "'Tis she! 'Tis she!" he shrieked at the top of his voice, hit Lord Pompous a tremendous blow on the third button of his waistcoat, which doubled him up in no time, and with another cry of "Rosetta!" rushed into the arms of his long lost wife. "You see," said Canetto, still smiling, "Adder-broth is not so deadly but what the forest has an antidote. Although I could not disclose it until now, and even pretended to Belinda that her mother had died during my absence, it was not so. By my magic art I contrived that you should bury a waxen figure instead of your queen, whom I safely conveyed to the forest. Had I not seen that you really repented of your sins against her, and was I not captivated by Belinda's goodness, I really think I should never have let you have her again. But, since she wishes to return to you and to her children, I have agreed that it shall be so. Take care you treat her well and tenderly for the future. "The royal family were now full of joy, and even Amabilia and Concaterina came in for their share of good luck, for the King of the Mannikins chucked each of them pleasantly under the chin, told them that he knew they were good girls at heart, and promised that both should have royal husbands before they were twenty. Then he turned to the fairy Nuisancenika with a dark frown upon his countenance. "Miserable reprobate!" he exclaimed, apparently taking particular delight in finding new epithets applicable to the old woman. "It only remains now to deal with you. During an existence now prolonged to an extent greater than that which any person kindly disposed towards mankind could have wished, you have done an infinite quantity of mischief. You have had considerable power, which you have consistently employed as badly as possible. You are a pitiless, revengeful, remorseless, black-hearted old hag. And now at last you are completely in my power. Nothing can save you." "Oh, mercy, mercy, dear, good King Canetto!" piteously whined the fairy, as she crouched down in her car. "Such mercy as you showed Rosetta and Belinda, and such as you wished to show Zac. Such, I say, and no more, shall be your own portion. And now for the first scene of the last act. Kill the polecats!" He turned to his mannikins as he said this, and in another moment every polecat was knocked on the head. "Now for the adders," said Canetto; and the little men cut them to pieces with their whips in less time than you would have thought possible. Then the king turned to Nuisancenika and spoke again. "I might have you dealt with in the same way," he said; "and if I did so, there is no one present who would not warmly approve and say, 'served her right.' But a true mannikin is never bloodthirsty, and I will not adjudge to you that fate which you so richly deserve. Still, since your power has been always exercised for ill, it must remain to you no longer. I sentence you to be immediately and henceforth confined in a cave at the extreme eastern corner of the world, never to emerge thence until the hour comes when women leave off caring for dress, men labour no more for power, and donkeys abandon braying." Scarcely had Canetto finished speaking, when the unfortunate being, upon whom he had pronounced this appalling sentence, uttered one frantic yell, and then disappeared in a whirlwind, which carried her right away over the forest. Nobody ever saw or heard of her again to my knowledge, but there is very little doubt that the sentence of the King of the Mannikins was duly carried out. The wise men, who have studied these things carefully, say that there is very clear and certain proof of this. In the spring-time of the year, especially about March, a cold, bitter, spiteful wind blows from the east, seizes delicate throats and tender noses, keeps people indoors when they much desire air and exercise; and if they attempt to get either, afflicts them with heavy colds, and what modern doctors call "bronchial affections," meaning much the same thing as that which our poor benighted fathers and mothers used to call "sore throats." Well, do you think this east wind is a common, ordinary, respectable wind? Not at all. It is nothing more nor less (say these wise ones) than the wicked old Fairy Nuisancenika, who, heartily tired of her imprisonment in the cavern, fumes and rages madly about, and sometimes gets near enough to the mouth of the cave to spit and blow out some of her venom into the world. Then comes disease to man and beast, and whenever I think of it I regret that Canetto did not serve the wretched old hag as he did her polecats and adders, and direct his mannikins to cut her in pieces with their hunting-whips. Just fancy if he had! Perhaps we should have had no more of those cruel east winds. But it was fated otherwise, and this is the result. At all events, the bad fairy was comfortably got rid of so far as the royal family of King Fridolin were concerned, and there is very little more to be said about the rest that followed. Of course everything now went rightly. Messages were sent to Zac's real father--the story of Canetto having been entirely confirmed by Farmer Dickson--and the result was in every respect satisfactory. The king of the country of the Red Camellias was delighted to recover his long lost son, and showed his sense of what was right and proper under the circumstances by dying shortly after the wedding of Zac and Belinda had been duly celebrated. The young prince consequently conveyed his lovely and loving bride to his own country, where they reigned for many years in great happiness and prosperity. Amabilia and Concaterina, having a mother's influence to guide them, improved daily in every respect, and had no difficulty whatever in securing royal husbands within the time prophesied by Canetto, whose courts they adorned by their beauty and whose homes they made happy by their domestic virtues. As for King Fridolin, he passed the evening of his days more happily than any other part of his life. Conscious of his former folly, he learned to appreciate his restored queen as she deserved, and their renewed affection for each other was romantic in its strength and fervour. Canetto paid them occasional visits, and was always received by them with that respect and regard which his conduct had so well earned. Everything flourished thenceforward in Fridolin's kingdom. Even Lord Pompous hailed the change with delight, since his sovereign, occupied constantly in the enjoyment of his newly recovered happiness, omitted the practical jokes upon his lord chamberlain with which he had frequently been wont to solace his idle hours. And during the long years that followed before Fridolin's reign and life ended, the king constantly called to mind the thrilling scenes of interest which I have recounted, and invariably spoke with the greatest thankfulness of the happy thought which came into his head upon that memorable day when he first projected the pig-race. EVELYN WITH THE FAIRIES. There was once a little girl who was exceedingly fond of fairy tales. She had read almost all the books that had ever been written about fairies and elves, and never lost an opportunity of hearing a story upon the same subject. The result of so much attention to this particular branch of study was that which might have been expected. She became the most devout believer in the existence of the dear little creatures about whom she read, and had no greater desire than that she might some day or other become personally acquainted with one or more of them. Her chief regret was caused by the fact (which was, unhappily, too true) that no fairy godmother had presided over her birth, and that none of those pleasant adventures had befallen her which usually follow such an event. Not only was this the case, but, so far as she could ascertain, neither her father, mother, or any of her relations had ever come in contact with a fairy, and she had been, little by little, driven to the conclusion that she belonged to a commonplace, unromantic family, with whom the dwellers in fairyland had no concern and no connection whatever. This was a sad thought to the child, who was possessed of an extremely lively imagination, and would have liked nothing better than to have lived in those good old days when either a fairy or a witch, an ogre or a dwarf, were to be found at every corner. She looked back to those days with fond delight, and often wished that they might come again. She loved to muse over the tales she had read and heard, and to imagine curious scenes and strange creatures on every side of her, as she rambled through the shrubberies around her father's house, or strolled away into the great woods on one side of the park. One day she had taken a longer stroll than usual, and suddenly came upon a part of the wood which she never remembered to have seen before. Somehow or other, she had strayed out of the path, and all around her were tangled masses of fern, old pollard-trees bowed down to the ground by age and the weight of their branches, and thickets of thorns and brambles, and here and there patches of smooth grass and moss, without either trees, fern or brambles upon them. The birds were singing sweetly in the wood, the sun was shining brightly in the heavens above (although his rays could not penetrate the dense foliage of the trees), the dewdrops were glistening on the leaves, and everything seemed as beautiful as human eye could behold or human heart desire. The child looked around her for a moment, entranced with the loveliness of the scene; then she heaved a deep sigh (too deep, you would have thought, for so young a creature, who could hardly as yet have sorrows heavy enough to cause such a sigh), and said to herself with a sorrowful air: "What a place this would be for my fairy godmother to meet me, if only I _had_ a fairy godmother! Heigho! Why are there not any fairies here?" Scarcely had she spoken when she started back astonished, for the speech was hardly out of her mouth than the concluding word, "fairies here," seemed repeated by a myriad of tiny voices all round her, in tones so soft, so plaintive, and dying away with such a melancholy cadence that it needed no great amount of cleverness to assure the child that they came from no ordinary or mortal throats. For an instant she trembled, but it was more with expectation than fear, and she looked around her with eager eyes, to the right and left, longing to see the beings who had uttered those soft and touching sounds. She saw nothing, however, and began to fear that, after all, she would hear and see no more, and that nobody at home would believe her when she told of the mysterious voices. But, being a child of courage, and remembering, moreover, that in most of the fairy tales of which she knew, the mortal to whom the kind fairies condescended to speak or appear, was never frightened, but always did exactly the right thing, unless he or she happened to be wicked, when they invariably did the _wrong_ thing and suffered accordingly. So she looked round once again, and then said, in her most polite tones: "Are there _really_ any fairies here?" Scarcely were the words out of her mouth, when the same sounds arose once more, even more distinctly than before, on every side of her. This time, however, there was something more than sound. The fern and the trees, the brambles and the leaves, all seemed to be suddenly agitated as if by the wind swaying gently through them, though there was not a breath of wind in the air. There was one universal rustling all round, and the next moment Evelyn (for that was the little girl's name) saw that she was standing in the middle of a crowd of living, moving, active beings, who looked out upon her from every corner of the place. Every leaf seemed tenanted by one of them; each stem of fern appeared to afford cover, every thicket to give protection to a small creature: they were perched on the trees above her head, and peeped out from the tufts of moss almost beneath her feet. Bright restless eyes seemed to peer eagerly out upon her on all sides, and in an instant she knew that her long-cherished hopes and dreams were at last realized, and that she was in the presence of undeniable fairies. Although Evelyn had read so many fairy tales, and had so often fancied herself in the position she now was, and settled what she ought to do and say in such case, it must be confessed that when the reality came thus suddenly upon her, she was as much at a loss as if she had never read or thought anything at all about the subject. She stood still and stared with eyes wide open with astonishment, just as any child would naturally do under similar circumstances. The little beings about her had nothing in their appearance or demeanour at all likely to frighten her. They were neither ugly in feature, deformed in figure, or evil in the expression of their faces. On the contrary they were graceful, beautiful, and looked remarkably good-natured. Very little they certainly were, for none of them could have been above a foot high, and very numerous also, for, turn her head which way she would, the whole place seemed alive with them. Evelyn stood, as I have said, perfectly silent, and looked about her as if struck dumb with surprise at the unlooked-for appearance of the little creatures. She had not long to wait before one of them hopped lightly from the stem of a venerable hornbeam hard by, and stood immediately in front of her. It was a charming little figure that did this: barely a foot high, but of a form perfectly symmetrical, a face bright with exceeding beauty, and with an air of nobility conspicuous in its features, and, indeed, in its whole bearing. It was dressed in some light drapery, which floated around it in such a manner as to add to instead of concealing, the beauty of its faultless form, and, as it stood erect before Evelyn, she thought she had never seen anything so exquisitely beautiful in the whole course of her existence. [Illustration: EVELYN AND THE FAIRIES.--P. 122] The little being regarded her for one moment in silence, and then it spoke. Spoke! it was hardly like speaking: the voice that came from its throat was a mixture of all the most delightful sounds that ever rejoiced the human ear. Think of the soothing, contented hum of the bees in the early summer, when they are sipping the sweetest honey from their favourite flowers; think of the softest murmuring of the sea-waves when they gently break upon the shore, and lovingly kiss the rocks against which, in their hours of anger, they dash so madly; think again, of the blessed sound of distant church bells heard across the water as you stand listening upon a silent summer's eve; think of the warbling of the tender nightingale in the old shrubbery, full of home memories; and think, more than all, of the loving words whispered for the first time in the happy ears of the gentle maiden; think, I say, of all these sounds, and of the music they possess, and you will be able to form some idea of the melody which sounded in the fairy's voice. She spoke in poetry, of course, by which Evelyn was more than ever convinced that she was a regular, proper fairy, because poetry is the natural language of such people, and no fairy, who is at all equal to the position she aspires to hold, ever begins a conversation with a mortal in prose. Of course they get to it, after a bit, because too much rhyme bores people, and fairies never do _that_, because there are so many people in the world who can and do perform that feat to perfection, and fairies only care to do that which human beings cannot accomplish so easily of themselves. And thus ran the speech of the fairy, since such she was beyond all reasonable doubt. "Welcome, gentle maiden child, To the forest grand and wild: Welcome to the lofty trees Gently waving in the breeze: Welcome to the leafy shade, By their spreading branches made: Welcome to the mossy bed, 'Neath their shadows overhead: Welcome to each grassy mound In the open spaces found, And to every flower that springs Near the mighty forest kings. Thou hast wandered here full oft, Never at the fairies scoft, But hast aye essayed to learn From the lovely maiden-fern, From the honeysuckle sweet, From the dew-drops 'neath thy feet, Lessons of the fairy race Not for mortal ken to trace. But to maid of gentle mind Fairy elves are ever kind; If she love them, they can prove (Giving fondly love for love) How their might can work to aid Manly youth or gentle maid. Say, then, maiden, would'st thou seek Knowledge which an elf may speak? Would'st thou (such I scarce suppose) Fairy succour 'gainst thy foes? Would'st thou have another's heart Made thine own by magic art? Would'st thou wealth--or, better still, Freedom from some mortal ill? Speak thy wish, then, maiden dear: Speak it low and speak it clear." Evelyn listened with amazement not unmixed with pleasure. Pleasure it certainly was to find herself at last in the presence of a real live fairy, and amazement she undoubtedly felt both at the sight before her, and at the speech to which she had just listened. She was perfectly aware that her reply ought to be given in verse, and the difficulty was that she was particularly stupid at making rhymes. She was one of those children who always tried to beg off if any of those amusing games was proposed in the evenings at home, in which either everybody has to make four rhymes or more on a certain given subject, generally answering a question and introducing some noun which has nothing to do with it, or else four rhymes are given out, and everybody has to write the previous part of the four lines in any metre they please. Evelyn, I say, always either begged to be excused playing, or else nestled up close to her father (who was rather handy at that kind of thing), and asked him to write her lines quietly for her, which he unfortunately was in the habit of doing--unfortunately, because the consequence was that at the present momentous crisis, the poor child could not by any means think what to say. One reason, perhaps, was that she had nothing particular for which she wished to ask the fairies, but, whatever the reason, no rhyme _would_ come to her mind. All she could think of was an occasional line of some of Dr. Watts's hymns, which did not seem to have anything at all to do with fairies, and one or two old pieces of poetry which she had heard long ago in the school-room and which kept coming into her head now, and probably keeping out something which might have answered her purpose much better. The fairy waited for a few seconds without impatience, but as no answer appeared to be forthcoming, she stamped her foot upon the ground, and appeared visibly annoyed. Conscious that she was hardly acting either a wise or dignified part in remaining silent, Evelyn now made a great effort to remember or to invent something that might be suitable to the occasion, and as the fairy stamped her foot a second time, somewhat impatiently, she hastily blurted out:-- "Let dogs delight to bark and bite-- I don't know how to answer right;" and then stood blushing and trembling just as if she had certainly answered _wrong_. Upon this the fairy gave vent to a low, musical laugh, like the last notes of a _very_ good musical box, and then once more accosted the child as follows: "When fairies speak in kindly mood, To answer nothing back were rude; Yet need you never rack your brain To answer me in rhyme again. Though verse be sweet to us, forsooth, Prose, if it comes of simple truth, From child-like lips and guileless tongue, May pass with elves as well as song. But say, fair child, for what intent, With spirit young and innocent, Untainted with the world's cold touch; (Ah! would that we might keep thee such!) Unfettered yet by Fashion's chain, Untouched by pride or high disdain, As yet unvisited by cares Which fate for mortal life prepares, Why hast thou left the haunts of men To seek the lonely fairy glen?" Whilst the fairy was speaking, Evelyn gathered together her ideas, and resolved to show that she not only had something to say, but knew how to say it. So as soon as the speaker had concluded, she replied, keeping still to rhyme, as if determined not to appear more stupid than she really was, "How doth the little busy bee Improve each shining hour-- For years and years I've longed to see A fairy's woodland bower. How skilfully she builds her cell, How neat she spreads the wax-- Since, now, dear elves, I've seen you well, My spirit nothing lacks." As soon as Evelyn had got through these verses, which she did with some little pride, she was rather surprised and even annoyed to find that their only effect was to cause all the little beings around her to indulge in a hearty fit of laughter. Their musical sounds rang through the forest, and the echo faintly returned them, whilst the child stood listening and wondering at the result of her attempt. Then the fairy queen, for such Evelyn thought she must be, spoke once again:-- "If nothing lack'st thou, mortal child, Why wander through the forest wild And seek, with meditative air, The beings who inhabit there? Since hither thou hast found thy way, Be satisfied awhile to stay: For those who have not been afraid To trespass on the fairy glade, And long, with curious mortal eye, Our elfin mysteries to spy, When once they know where fairies hide, Most there be ready to abide." As Evelyn heard these words, a cold chill ran through her veins, for they betokened to her that something was going to happen upon which she had never calculated. In an instant her thoughts flew back to the many instances of which she had read in fairy tales, of children being changed into dogs, cats, birds, toads, or something which no sensible child has the least wish to become; and the terrible fear arose that she was about to become the victim of some such unpleasant transformation. On second thoughts, however, she remembered that in most of these cases the child concerned had either been naughty and disagreeable at home, or disbelieving in or impertinent to the fairies, and had therefore deserved punishment. In her own case, she had done nothing recently at home more naughty than accidentally dropping some marmalade on her clean frock at breakfast, and had entertained such full and constant belief and respect in and for the fairies, that she was quite sure she deserved no punishment at their hands. Besides, the voice of the queen (if such she was), and the looks and gestures of her companions, had displayed neither anger nor offence at her intrusion into their glen, and she could not believe that any harm was intended to her. All these thoughts passed through the child's mind much faster than I can write them, and although she stood there in uncertainty and doubt, her momentary fear was gone directly. She was not prepared, however, for what followed. The fairy queen waved a sprig of fern three times over her head, advancing nearer and nearer to Evelyn as she did so. At each wave of the hand, the child felt herself growing downwards and becoming smaller and smaller. Yes! there really was no doubt about it; down and down she grew, until the horrible thought crossed her mind that she might grow right down into the earth, and disappear altogether. At the same time a strange drowsiness stole over her, everything appeared to grow less and less distinct, and gradually to fade quite away from sight; sounds grew fainter and fainter, and she seemed to be about to sink into a deep, fast, heavy sleep. Then, all of a sudden, she was as wide awake as ever again, and looked up, bright and lively, trying to remember where she was, and what had happened to her. There was very little doubt about _that_. She was a regular fairy like the rest of them. She was of the same height; she had the same kind of light dress (though what it was made of, she could never describe, although she was very often questioned on the subject,) and she felt such an extraordinary sensation of lightness and elasticity as quite surprised her. She knew in a moment that she could move about in a manner which had been quite impossible to her as a mortal child: that she could stand upon branches and plants and tufts of fern without causing them to bend or break, that she could tread upon the leaves and soft moss without leaving the impression of her tiny feet, and that she possessed new powers, new knowledge, and a new being altogether. But more wonderful still, was the transformation which everything around her seemed to have undergone. The trees, the leaves, the fern, the moss--all appeared ten times as beautiful as they were before. The dewdrops that glistened upon the grass and fern sparkled with twenty-fold brilliancy; the green of the leaves was by far more tender and exquisite than before her change; the mighty trunks of the old trees were more majestic than ever, the whole glen was enriched with greater beauties, and the notes of the woodland birds possessed more melody than she had ever fancied in her old, childish wanderings through the forest. It was as if all these beauties had been but imperfectly seen, and only feebly appreciated by the child of mortals, whose natural perceptions had been blunted by the sin and sorrow of her kind; but, that the moment the earthly nature and form had been shaken off, a purer and more intellectual state of being had brought with it the power to see, to know, and to appreciate in a higher degree the beauties of nature and of nature's God. Never had Evelyn experienced such a delicious sensation of entire pleasure as at that moment. Curiously enough, no recollections of home, of parents, of relations, came across her; all seemed blotted out for the moment as if they had never existed. She only felt the intense pleasure of her present existence--a pleasure so pure and at the same time so utterly absorbing and engrossing that it seemed to leave room for no other thought or sensation, and the child stood as one in a trance--but a trance exquisitely delightful! Presently the fairy queen turned aside, apparently about to occupy herself with other matters, and having no more to say to Evelyn. The latter, however, was not neglected. Two of the other fairies took her, each by one hand, and led her under the great spreading trees, beneath whose branches was a wide open space, where there was room enough for hundreds of such small creatures to sport and play. There they began to dance, lightly and gracefully, first joining hand in hand, then separating and dancing the most curious figures you can imagine, in and out of the hollow of the tree under which they were, round its trunk and its roots, and now and then catching hold of the lower branches and swinging themselves up. Such a dance it was! And the most extraordinary thing was that it all seemed to come quite as natural to Evelyn as if she had been at it all her life. She danced and skipped and swung in the branches with the best of them, and had not the slightest feeling of fatigue after the exertion. She felt, moreover, a lightness and buoyancy of spirit such as she had never felt before, and as to being shy or bashful in the presence of strangers, she experienced no such sensation for a single moment. On the contrary, she laughed and talked with the little elves as happily and merrily as if she had known them from her cradle, and there was no difficulty about learning their language, for they all spoke English as well as any English child could have done. Perhaps they _were_ English children, which would in some measure account for it. However that may be, Evelyn never had a cheerier or more enjoyable dance than this one, and she thoroughly entered into it. Presently they took to climbing. Up the trees they swarmed, ran out on the branches, and balanced themselves on the ends (roaring with laughter when one or other of them lost his balance and had a fall, which he always broke by cleverly catching hold of the next branch below), pelted each other with leaves, and chased one another wildly through the tops of the trees. Then they played at hide-and-seek in and around the trees. One hid in a rabbit-hole under the roots, another in a crevice on the top of one of the hornbeam pollards, and great was the laughter when one little scamp crept into an old magpie's nest, and lay hidden there for several minutes before he was found. But perhaps the best fun of all was when they chased a squirrel, who was thoroughly puzzled by the proceeding, and caused them immense merriment by his chattering, as well as by his various dodges to elude his pursuers. Sometimes he would climb to the very tops of the highest trees, and appear astonished beyond measure when the little elves followed him so high; then, again, he would throw himself off, and catch a branch in falling, as quickly and as cleverly as if he had been himself a fairy. Once more he would lie pressed up so close against the thick branch of a tree, that he would appear to be a part of the tree himself; and then he would betake himself to his nest, and occasionally peer out with his sparkling little eyes, as if to ascertain whether anyone would be daring enough to follow him _there_. But the fairies never attempted to hurt him, and Evelyn soon found that these woodland fairies were not of a sort which at all enjoyed making other people unhappy. _She_ was certainly anything but unhappy, and enjoyed her afternoon amazingly. Nevertheless, as all things come to an end, so at last did these fairy gambols. Suddenly there sounded through the forest a low, sweet, but thrilling whistle, like an unusually melodious railway whistle heard at a long distance off in a still evening. Every elf knew it at once to be the queen's signal, and accordingly they all hurried back to the spot where Evelyn had first seen them, from which they had been wandering right and left through the merry green wood in their sports. The queen graciously smiled as her obedient children flocked around her, and proceeded to give them her directions for the employment of their evening. "Sprightly," said she, addressing one little fellow, whom Evelyn had observed to be particularly lively in the dancing and other games, "go you, with a couple more of your friends, to old Farmer Grubbins. He was very cross this morning to two poor boys who picked a couple of apples from one of his trees which overhung the footpath, and is going to take them before the magistrates to-morrow morning. He goes to bed early and will be asleep before nine. But you need not wait for _that_, for he is sure to doze heavily in his arm-chair after supper. Go and plague him well. Pinch his toe till he thinks it is gout; whisper to him that the rats are in his barn, and that a man with a lucifer matchbox has been seen in his rick-yard. And if _that_ neither keeps him from sleep nor gives him uncomfortable dreams, tell him that wheat is down in the market ten shillings a quarter, American beef is coming into this country in such quantities, that homefed beef will never sell well again, and all his rates and taxes are going to be doubled directly. Give him a real bad night of it, and when he is lying awake, thoroughly uncomfortable, whisper to him a few words in favour of the poor lads in any way you think most likely to be useful. "Mirthful, do you go off to poor old Mrs. Marshall at Nettlebush Cottage. She is down with the rheumatism, very bad, and in a good deal of pain. Cheer the old dame up a bit, whisper all kinds of pleasant things in her ear, gently rub her poor aching limbs, and keep the dust quiet so that her room may be kept cheerful and clean. Sweeten the taste of what food she has, and do what you can to lighten the time to her. "Flittermouse, Childerkin, Gadaway, go to Doctor Backbrusher's school, and comfort the hearts of the youngsters there. The old fellow has flogged a lot of them as usual to-day. Go and cheer them up; and if you _could_ put a few crumbs--good, hard, sleep-stopping crumbs--into the doctor's bed, so much the better. Do it just when he has put his candle out, and is going to step into bed, and one of you take away the box of matches he always has by his bedside, and hide it in his brown pitcher. He'll never find it there, and if he is once well in bed with those crumbs, he'll have a rough time of it. "You, Pitiful and Hoverer, go to little Miss Wilson's room at The Priory, and teach her to remember her French verbs. Poor child! they are sadly too much for her, and it would be a real kindness to get rid of the grammar for her, only they would be sure to get another; so the better way will be to help her to remember. "The rest of you go where you like; sleep or play, visit mortals, or remain unseen by them, only do nothing unkind to anyone, and be sure to be back here precisely at midnight for the ring dance." As soon as the fairy queen had finished speaking, the little elves to whom she had given special directions set off without any delay to obey her orders, while the rest scattered themselves in every direction through the forest, each following the pursuit which seemed best to him. As Evelyn felt herself not only at liberty to go where she pleased, but able to keep up with any of her companions and to go where they went and do as they did, she thought she should very much like to see how Sprightly performed the commission entrusted to him, and as the elf made no objection, off they tripped together, accompanied by another little being whose name I forget, but who was as lively and merry as the rest of them. They went at a pace at which our young friend Evelyn had never gone before, but which somehow or other seemed quite natural to her, and which very speedily brought them to the house of Farmer Grubbins. Arrived there, they walked quietly up to the door, which opened to them without any of the people inside knowing that it had done so, although the fact of its having opened was proved to Evelyn not only by her passing through with the others, but by the remark which she heard the old farmer make as she and her companions entered, namely, that there was a terrible draught from that door. The farmer was an old bachelor, and there was no one in the house with him but his niece and the servants. He and his niece were just finishing supper when the fairies entered, and on seeing this Sprightly winked knowingly at his companions, and they all stood quietly aside until the old man should be asleep and their duties would begin. They had not long to wait. Farmer Grubbins pushed back his chair with a remark to his niece upon the supper, to the effect that the beefsteak pie had been uncommon good, to which she readily assented. The old man then settled himself in his own particular arm-chair by the fireside, drew a long breath, and quietly composed himself to sleep. In a very few moments, after a contented snort or two, much after the fashion of a grampus which found itself more than commonly comfortable, he quietly dozed off and was immediately in the land of dreams. Then Evelyn's companions crept stealthily up to him and began their games. One climbed up on to the old man's shoulder, whilst the other seated himself upon the footstool upon which his feet rested, well encased in large and easy slippers. The first began to whisper in his ear, while the second tickled his feet with a lightness of touch which no one but a fairy could have done. Presently the sleeper suddenly twitched his foot, whereupon the elf waited until it was still again; and then resumed his tickling. Then the farmer moaned in his sleep, and uneasily turned his head upon one side, at which movement the other elf began to whisper more vigorously than ever. A snort, a start, and the sleeper awoke. "Eh, Jane? Did you speak?" he asked his niece, who replied in a low voice that she had said nothing, and almost before she had answered, his head fell back again and once more he dozed. Still the tickling and the whispering continued, and the sleep of the old farmer appeared to be most uncomfortable. Evelyn watched in great amusement, until at last she saw Sprightly, who had taken his place at the footstool, take out what appeared to be a pair of pincers, and, applying them to the great toe of the farmer's right foot, give it a nip with all his force. The old man instantly woke up with a roar. "Oh, my toe!" he called out in evident pain. "Drat that gout, I've got it again!" and he began to groan sadly. His niece got up, put her knitting down upon the table and came across the room to him, but after another groan or two, the pain seemed to subside, and he dozed off again. Presently he started once more and turned in his chair. "Rats in the barn, did you say, Jane?" he muttered rather than said; "can't be--don't bother--keep quiet, there's a good girl," and all was silent again for a few moments, until Sprightly, again producing the pincers and applying them to the same toe, pressed them with both hands as hard as ever he could. The roar which now burst from the farmer's lips really frightened Evelyn, who fancied for the moment that he _must_ discover that some hand, mortal or elfin, had inflicted the injury upon him. Not a bit of it: the elves were certainly invisible, and the old man attributed everything to the gout, and vowed it was the worst pain he had ever had in the whole course of his life. Meanwhile the two elves were laughing ready to split their sides, and, somehow or other, Evelyn felt very much inclined to do the same. It was no laughing matter, however, for Farmer Grubbins. He rose from his chair, not in the best of tempers, nor using the choicest language, and declared that he should go to bed and try if a good night would put matters right with him. As he spoke, the two elves roared again with laughter, and made the most extraordinary grimaces at the old man, which seemed to Evelyn all the more ridiculous from the knowledge that he could not see and was perfectly unconscious of them. Then he slowly ascended the stairs, upon which Sprightly and his companion beckoned to Evelyn, and they all followed the farmer, treading very lightly, and still laughing as he muttered expressions by no means complimentary to the gout. When he reached his bedroom he speedily undressed and turned into bed, having first carefully placed upon his head an old red night-cap, in which he presented an appearance so ludicrous as greatly to increase the amusement of his unseen guests. His niece just looked in, and asked if he wanted anything, and being told that she need not trouble herself about him, quickly took the hint, and retired for the night. Then began the real fun of the little fairies. As soon as the old man had made himself comfortable, and a drowsy comfortable feeling began to steal over him, they were at him again. First one of them tickled his nostrils with a feather until he was obliged to rub his nose violently, which woke him up at the critical moment when he was just about to go off into a quiet sleep. Then the same thing happened to his right ear; then it was his left, and then his nostrils again. Then they left him alone for a few moments until he was really just asleep, when Sprightly said in his ear, quite close, and in a voice that was almost above a whisper, "That man has lighted the match--close to the stacks in the rick-yard. Fire!" The old man started up as if he had been shot. "Fire!" he cried out; "what the dickens was that? Who said fire?" He sat up in his bed and listened, and then he grumbled to himself about the folly of eating dumplings for supper after beefsteak-pudding, and how it always made one dream such nonsense, and then back he sank upon his pillow, grumbling still until he gradually dropped off again. Then, softly uncovering his feet, the cruel Sprightly, before this sleep had lasted more than a minute, gave him a sharp and severe nip on the same toe as before, and again the unhappy man woke with a yell, or rather bellow, of pain, and said bitter words against that gout to which he firmly believed himself to be the victim. The pain kept him awake some minutes, but at last he dozed off again, and then came more tickling and whispering, so that he could by no possibility get any real or prolonged repose. At last there was a long and careful whisper on the part of Sprightly's companion, during which the farmer did not indeed awake but turned over again and again, first on one side and then on the other, muttering to himself meanwhile: "Wheat down again! Ruin--ruin--ruin! Markets awful bad;" and presently again he groaned out in his sleep, "Drat them Yankees and their beef!" all of which remarks, distinctly heard by Evelyn as she stood on a chair by the bedside, told her plainly enough that the little elves were fulfilling the commands of their queen with great and precise exactness. Still the old man dozed and woke, and woke and dozed, and ever and anon turned uneasily in his bed, as if passing a decidedly uncomfortable time of it, until at last, after another tremendous nip from Sprightly's pincers, he quite woke up and groaned audibly. At that moment, to her great surprise (for there seemed no possibility of his thinking it a dream _then_) Sprightly and his companion seated themselves one on each side of the old man's head, and began to wave their hands gently over his eyes. He appeared to see nothing, and to be quite ignorant of what they were doing, or indeed that there was any one there, and presently he closed his eyes, though he did not breathe heavily, or snore, or give any palpable sign of being asleep. Both the little elves now began to whisper eagerly in his ears, and Evelyn quite plainly heard the words, "poor boys!" "only a couple of apples," "honest parents," "no such great offence after all," and various other expressions calculated to appease the wrath of the old farmer against the culprits of whom the fairy queen had spoken. The old man soon began to mutter again, and from what he said it was evident to Evelyn that the words of the whisperers were not without their effect. Presently he seemed to be quite awake. "Curious that I should dream about them lads," he said. "I hope the poor chaps haven't had such a bad night as I seem in for. Maybe they didn't know they was doing so wrong. I've took apples myself, before now, when I hadn't ought to have done so. I don't know as I'll go against them after all! Dash me if I will, either!" Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when the faces of both the elves lighted up with the brightness of conscious triumph; they knew that their queen's commands had been obeyed, and her desire accomplished, and they lost no time in their next proceeding. Abandoning at once their previous endeavours at whispering, tickling, and tormenting, they made sundry passes over the old man's face, which had the effect of immediately plunging him into a profound sleep. Twice he snored heavily, but this time it was not the snore of restlessness or disgust, but the contented sound of a peaceful and happy sleeper. At this moment the three-quarters past eleven sounded on the chimes of the neighbouring church clock. The little elves instantly started up, whispered to Evelyn that the queen would be shortly expecting them, and beckoning the little girl to follow them, crept quietly and stealthily from the farmer's bedroom, descended the stairs, and passing through the front door in the same manner by which they had entered it, hastily sped back to the forest. In the glade they found the queen, standing among a group of elves who were positively convulsed with merriment. They were listening to the account which Flittermouse, Childerkin, and Gadaway were giving of the visit to Dr. Backbrusher, which they had lately paid, and from which they had but just returned, and they seemed to have given the worthy doctor rather a rough time of it, having bothered him with hard crumbs in his bed until he had lost all patience, and bounced out of bed for a light, in searching for which he had tumbled into his bath, and been made thoroughly uncomfortable for the night. Whether this proceeding on the part of the elves was calculated to make the doctor more tender of his pupils' feelings was a question which Evelyn found herself unable to solve, but she hoped for the best when she heard the fairy queen, after expressing her entire approval of what had been done, publicly declare her intention of persevering, and giving orders that Dr. Backbrusher should be persistently and thoroughly plagued every night until he had been brought to a kinder and more satisfactory frame of mind. When the fairies had laughed enough at the account of the schoolmaster's disasters, the queen asked the others to relate how they had fulfilled their several missions, and expressed herself very well satisfied with the manner in which her wishes with regard to Farmer Grubbins had been carried out. Nor was she less pleased with the conduct of the elves who had been sent upon errands of a more emphatically benevolent nature. Tears stood in Evelyn's eyes as she heard little Mirthful relate the gratitude of the poor old woman whom she had been sent to comfort. To be sure, she had not exactly known whom to thank, having seen no one, but for all that she had shown a thankful disposition, and such a cheerful determination to look at the bright side of a life that seemed dark enough, poor thing! and to make the best of everything, come what might, that Evelyn felt quite touched at the narrative. She felt sincere sympathy, too, for and with little Miss Wilson, whom Pitiful and Hoverer had vastly assisted with her French verbs. They told of all her trouble in learning, and how, by their secret help, she had suddenly found herself able to remember, and had been quite astonished at finding that she could learn with such unusual and unexpected ease. She had not the least idea, they said, that she was being helped by fairies, and of course it was the best thing in the world for her to be thus deceived, because having once overcome her difficulties, as she thought, by her own patience and determination, she would always in future employ the same weapons, and that with an additional confidence which would go far to insure success. From all these accounts Evelyn learned that which she had always hoped and believed to be true, namely, that it is the pleasure of good fairies--such as those who principally inhabit forest glades and mountain wilds--to help and comfort mortals who require it, and especially such mortals as love to help and comfort others, and have tender feeling hearts within their breasts. She could not but feel, moreover, that those mortals whom the elves delighted to plague and torment were generally, if not always, people who richly deserved it, and who were not over-scrupulous about hurting the feelings of their fellow-mortals. Thus it appeared to Evelyn that the elfin race performed most useful functions, and were deserving to the utmost of the affection and respect which she had ever bestowed upon them. While these thoughts passed through the child's mind, the messenger elves had all finished their accounts of their doings, and the queen now waved her hand solemnly, upon which they parted right and left, and she remained standing alone. Then she spoke thus: "Midnight hour has struck again, One more day is with the slain: One more morn will soon be here, Heralded by chanticleer. While as yet 'tis sacred night, Practise we the mystic rite:-- Hand-in-hand join, light and free, All beneath the woodland tree; Softly o'er the leafy bed In fantastic measure tread, Soon to mortal eyes to bring Traces of the fairy ring." When she had thus spoken, the queen stepped forward, and taking the hand of another elf in each of her own, paused one moment until all the others had followed her example, and then began the dance. They completely encircled one of the large oaks, and for some time danced round and round it with great solemnity, singing sweetly as they did so. Evelyn found herself irresistibly compelled to join both in the dance and song, but it was ever after a matter of regret to her that she could not recollect the words of the latter, which she remembered to have been full of beauty and most melodious. After a time they separated, and, gaily dancing upon one side, came out into an open space where was luxuriant grass, a perfect carpet of daisies and buttercups being beneath their feet. Here the class formed themselves once more into a circle, and danced round and round as if they were never going to stop. Again they sang, words as pleasant and music as sweet as before, but again Evelyn found herself entirely unable to recollect the air or the words afterwards. At last, whilst they were still dancing, a faint, very faint streak of light began to glimmer in the sky, and to lessen the darkness of the night. Soon after, even as they danced, the note of a robin broke upon their ears: the earliest songster of the wood, waking up at the first dawn of light, and carolling forth his morning hymn before setting out to search for his breakfast. Scarcely had the sound been heard when the fairy queen let fall the hand of her companion elf, and waved her own in the air. Every one of her attendants immediately and exactly followed her example, and Evelyn naturally did the same as the rest. Then they turned without another word or sound, and scampered away as fast as they could go into the thickest part of their favourite glade. Evelyn unhesitatingly went with them, having in fact nothing else to do, and she followed the example of her companions by crouching underneath the fern at the foot of one of the trees which grew around the glade, and hiding herself as well as she could from the gaze of any possible passer-by. All this time, in everything that she did, there seemed to be nothing at all strange, or out of the common way. She felt just as if she had been a fairy all her life, and took everything just as it came with the most perfect unconcern. She thought not of her parents, her home or the pursuits which had daily occupied her whilst she was an ordinary mortal child. All these had passed away from her mind altogether. There was only an intense feeling of present happiness and light-heartedness, and not only no wish to return to her former state, but an entire forgetfulness that she had ever been anything else than that which she now felt herself to be--a subject of the Fairy Queen, and a woodland fairy herself to all intents and purposes. It has often been disputed, by those learned in the history of elves and Elf-land, whether the little creatures ever sleep, or whether, like spirits, they seek and require no rest, but wander over the world at will without sense of fatigue. Evelyn's experience may furnish an answer to the curious inquirer upon this point. She slept; and slept soundly, and always explained the matter in a perfectly intelligible manner. It is not, she said, that fairies are ever really tired: there are different degrees and various kinds of fairies, possessing greater or less power in relation to the earth and to mortal affairs, in accordance with their own rank and position in the great fairy family. But there is no fairy, except some of the very inferior description, who cannot perform almost any given feat of strength if required to do so; and no fairy, properly so called, was ever actually tired in the sense that mortal beings feel fatigue. But that fairies sleep is absolutely certain, and there are two reasons for their doing so. In the first place, their power is much greater by night than by day, and many of them have the greatest objection to the sunlight, though to some few it is little less pleasant than to human beings. This being the case, they find it on all accounts desirable to seek shelter from the rays of the sun during the day, and do not see the use, when doing this, of keeping their eyes open when it is more comfortable to close them. And their other reason is also extremely sensible, namely, that they have an opinion that it is monotonous and tedious to be always running about, sporting, playing, or interfering with the business of mankind, and that by taking some few hours' rest in every twenty-four hours, they come again with greater zest to their ordinary pursuits, and enjoy themselves a great deal more than they would do if they never left off. This was always Evelyn's theory, and having been, as we know, a fairy herself, I have no reason to doubt that it is the correct one. Be this as it may, it is quite certain that, upon the occasion in question, both Evelyn and her companions slept sweetly and quietly, couched under the grass and plants beneath the fern, and sheltered from the rays and warmth of the sun by the overhanging branches of the great forest trees. But yet the sleep of fairies is not such but that they awake, readily and easily enough, if it is necessary that they should be stirring. To believe Evelyn, the voice of a man, or even the passing footstep of an animal pushing its way through the brushwood, was always quite enough to arouse the whole elfin world into activity; and, at the first sound of the kind, a score or two of little elfin heads might be seen peering out from their secret hiding-places, eagerly gazing on every side to discover who or what might be the intruder. No one appeared to disturb this first fairy sleep of our little heroine, and she slumbered calmly on with her new companions. Slowly the sun rose over the forest, tinging the leaves with his golden rays, and warming all creation into life as he lighted up the world with his glorious lamp. Then the sounds in the forest became more and more frequent. From every thicket birds carolled forth their joyous songs; the wood-pigeon softly cooed to her mate in the fir-trees; the jackdaw cackled in the old pollard as he looked out from the hole in which his nest was built; the jay screamed in his harsh, discordant notes, trying to put the blackbirds and thrushes out of tune, and failing signally; the woodpecker began to tap merrily, trying the trees all round till he found one that suited his beak; the squirrels climbed to the top of the highest trees to see what sort of a morning it was, and the still silence of the forest was gradually changed into moving life and bustling sound. Men went out to their daily toil in field and street, in country and city, busy brains schemed and plotted, and the work of the world went on as it had done the day before, and would do the next day again. And there, beneath the green fern of the forest, the little fairies slept peaceably on, and the mortal child that had donned the fairy form slept on with them, little recking of the busy world, with all its cares and woes, its sin and sorrow, its toilings and strife, which lay beyond and outside the forest, and could not disturb or break that sweet sleep. But it has probably struck some of my readers that Evelyn's absence must, before this time, have caused some disturbance at her home. So indeed it was. She had gone out very soon after luncheon, and when tea-time came, Mrs. Trimmer, her governess, began to wonder where she was, and why she had not come back. Perhaps you will think that Mrs. Trimmer ought to have begun to wonder rather before, but really I do not think she was much to blame. She had very kindly started off directly after luncheon to carry some sago-pudding to a sick woman in the village; and as Evelyn's mamma had asked her to do this, and knew she had gone, she naturally supposed that Evelyn would be with her mamma, or would at least be somewhere with the latter's knowledge and permission. Moreover, since the young lady was now twelve years old, and both a sensible and trustworthy child, Mrs. Trimmer would in no case have had any fears for her safety, especially in that peaceful and quiet part of the country in which they lived. But when the good lady bustled in just before tea-time, ran up and took off her things, and then hurried down to make the tea, lo and behold there was no Evelyn. So she rang the bell for Betsy, the school-room maid, and asked whether Miss Evelyn was with her mamma; and on the girl coming back to say she was not, Mrs. Trimmer began to get rather uneasy, and presently went to the boudoir and asked for herself. Evelyn's mamma knew nothing more than that the child had gone out to stroll in the shrubberies after luncheon, since which time she had seen nothing of her, and had fancied she was in the school-room. Beginning to get alarmed, she went to the study in which Evelyn's father was writing his letters for the late post. When he heard what was the matter, he went into the shrubberies and called his daughter's name loudly, but of course with no result. Then he sent a footman down to enquire at the keeper's house by the forest, and another to the stables to order horses to be saddled for himself, the coachman, and the two grooms, and off they set to scour the country in every direction, and make every possible inquiry concerning the lost child. The poor mother remained at home in terrible anxiety, fearing she knew not what, but dreading the worst, according to the usual custom of mothers under such circumstances. It was quite ten o'clock before the horsemen returned, but of course they brought no tidings whatever of the missing young lady, who was, about that time, as we know, amusing herself with Sprightly at the house of Farmer Grubbins, and thinking nothing at all of what was going on at home. The poor father was much distressed, for he was devoted to his little daughter, and the uncertainty about her fate made the affliction still more hard to bear. He could not imagine what had become of her, and therefore knew not what steps to take for her recovery. He would have all the ponds dragged next day, but there were very few in the neighbourhood, and none into which a girl of twelve was likely to have fallen. At one time there used to be a number of gipsies who frequented that neighbourhood, and the half frantic mother suggested that some of these wild people might have stolen her daughter. Her husband, however, discouraged the idea, since no gipsies had been seen or heard of for some time past; nor would they have been at all likely to steal a girl of Evelyn's age. Had any accident befallen her, or even if the unlikely supposition that she had been stolen, hurt, or killed, had been correct, it seemed almost impossible but that some trace must have been left--some portion of clothing, some signs of a struggle, some suspicious strangers seen about the place. But no: there was absolutely nothing of the kind, and no clue whatever to account for her mysterious departure. It never once entered her parents' heads that their daughter could have willingly left her home: she was always so bright, happy, and affectionate; so devoted to the place and to the dear ones who made it so pleasant for her. The thought that her absence was voluntary was banished, if it occurred at all to any of the family, before expression was given to it; although its rejection of course made the sorrow still heavier, since if she had been taken away by violence, or lost her life by some accident, the calamity would really be greater than if she had wilfully played the truant. The only two things left to be done, were attended to next day; namely, the county police were informed of the matter, and advertisements were inserted in the local papers. In both cases the usual results followed. The police arrested two persons who had clearly nothing to do with the matter, and who consequently had to be compensated; and many weeks after the occurrence the same authorities declared that they had known all along that no crime had been committed, and that the child would be restored to her parents in due time. Still less followed from the newspaper advertisements; the papers being but little read in the country districts where Evelyn lived, and having no circulation among the fairies. So the next day passed over in darkness and sorrow for the suffering parents, who feared that they had lost for ever the child who had been so lately the light and comfort of their home. There were two beings, however, who felt the loss of Evelyn little less than the father and mother; and these were her brother Philip and his black terrier Pincher. Philip was only two years older than Evelyn--in fact, not quite so much, and they were great companions whenever he was at home for his holidays. Whenever he had work to do, to settle down to which he felt (as boys sometimes will) disinclined, it was Evelyn who encouraged him to face it boldly, and who helped him in any way she could; and if she was in any trouble about French verbs or German exercises, as will sometimes happen even to the best disposed young ladies, it was to Philip she always flew for sympathy and consolation. And as there was good fellowship between them in their work, so they loved to play together whenever they could, and many a time had Evelyn joined her brother in a game of cricket, or rambled with him in his birds-nesting expeditions through the woods. Sometimes these rambles had extended far into the forest where the adventures which I have been relating had befallen Evelyn; and during these wanderings she had often talked to her brother upon her favourite subject, and told him strange legends of fairies and goblins, at which he had always laughed heartily. He had no great belief in such things himself, he used to say. Perhaps his head was too full of Latin or Greek, or perhaps he had not turned his attention sufficiently to fairy-land stories; but anyhow, he listened to his sister without being convinced by what she said, and she had more than once been rather vexed at his want of faith. Now it so happened that Philip came home for his summer holidays the very day after his sister's disappearance. Great was his consternation, as you may suppose, at finding what had happened, and no less was his sorrow at the loss of his favourite companion. He arrived in the morning, and was so overcome by the news that he was only able to gulp down two plates full of cold beef, some apple tart and custard, a little bread and cheese, and a couple of glasses of beer, at the family luncheon. After this he went out on the lawn, and thought deeply over the business; but without being able to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion. Whilst he stood and thought, Pincher came running up to him, and began to jump upon him with great manifestations of delight. Philip caressed him, and as he did so, remarked to himself half aloud: "Pincher, old boy, why should not you and I have a ramble in the wood?" As he spoke, the thought came into his heart that there was someone else besides Pincher with whom he used to ramble, and a sigh broke involuntarily from him as he remembered that he had no other companion now than his faithful dog. He took a stick in his hand, sauntered over the lawn, through the little gate at the end of the meadow, and into the big wood away among the trees, where he and Evelyn had so often roamed together. He strolled lazily along, and happened, strangely enough, to take the very same line which his sister had taken the day before. Presently Pincher started a rabbit, and, according to the invariable practice of terriers, rushed after it as fast as he could; whilst the rabbit, also following the custom of its race, fled before him at the top of its speed, taking the direction straight as a line towards the fairy glade. Philip gave a shout, and dashed after his dog without hesitation, although he had no expectation either that he would come up with Pincher, or Pincher with the rabbit. But before he had gone many yards, he knew, by unfailing evidence, that the chase had come to an end. Pincher had stopped, probably at the hole into which the rabbit had made its escape, and was no longer yelping as he had continually done during the pursuit, but, as the boy thought most likely, scratching furiously at the hole. Philip pushed his way forward as well as he could, and called to his dog, who presently responded by a bark, the sound of which enabled his master to discover where he was. It was near the roots of a large tree, surrounded by fern and brushwood; and Pincher was running round and round this tree, and then darting off into the fern, and as quickly coming back again, as if something had puzzled him completely and he was anxious to have it set right as soon as possible. The boy stood still for a moment, looked first one way and then another, but could see nothing. Of course the truth was that the fairies were there, and Pincher knew it, but had no means of letting his master know, for he did not happen to understand English or French, and even in Dog Latin would have made but a poor hand in conversing with human beings. But animals, as is well known, can often see fairies and such creatures when they are invisible to human eye; and I suppose that Pincher very likely had not only discovered the elves, but had been surprised and utterly disconcerted by perceiving that his master's sister, his own little friend and kind mistress, was amongst them. I do not say for certain that he discovered this; but dogs of the terrier kind, especially when well-bred as Pincher was, are very keen scented, and could probably smell out their master or mistress even if disguised ten times over as a goblin or fairy. So as the dog chanced to have stumbled upon the very spot where the fairies were all sleeping, it is only natural to suppose from his behaviour that he not only saw the little creatures, but recognised Evelyn. The fairies, for their part, were nearly as much disconcerted as the dog, for they had expected no visitor, and had not intended to wake up and move for two or three hours more at least. They knew that neither dog nor boy could hurt them, of course; but still they were hastily roused from their sleep, and I dare say that their movements, running to and fro to hide themselves wherever they could, considerably added to the confusion of the dog. Philip of course saw nothing at all, for it is a very unusual circumstance for fairies to allow themselves to be seen by any one who has not implicit faith in their existence and power. So he called Pincher to come away, and would presently have quitted the glade altogether without ever knowing how close he had been to his lost sister. But, for the first and only time in his life, Pincher seemed inclined to disobey his master. He ran round the tree again, whined, sat up on his hind quarters, chattering his teeth and half howling, as if he saw a polecat or stoat or squirrel in the top branches of the old pollard, and waited to be put up the tree so as to have a chance of getting at it. Philip thought that this must certainly be the case, and, changing his mind about leaving the place, turned round and again approached the tree. As he did so, to his intense astonishment he heard a voice behind him, which certainly, and beyond all doubt, called him by his name. He turned sharply round, and to his great surprise could see no one at all. At the same time a voice again called him from the other side, and with precisely the same result. This went on for several moments. His name seemed to be called at intervals from every side, and wherever he turned, the voice or voices were always behind him. Profoundly puzzled, and rather vexed by this extraordinary incident, the boy was at a loss to know what to do, and at last exclaimed: "By Jingo, this is a queer thing!" Hardly had he uttered these words, when a chorus of laughter burst upon his astonished ears; and to his unutterable astonishment he heard a number of voices singing, to a tune he well knew, the following words: "We don't want to hide; but by Jingo, if we do, We've got the fern--we've got the trees-- We've got the brambles too." And again loud laughter ran through the forest, whilst Pincher danced round the old pollard more frantically than ever. Philip stood rooted to the ground with surprise, when a sound, somewhat different from the rest, attracted his attention; and looking round he perceived a large white owl attentively regarding him with her eyes wide open. As soon as she saw that he was aware of her presence, the owl gravely bowed her head three times, and then began to speak in a voice so exactly like that of a human being, that you would not have known the difference, unless you had actually seen her in her feathers, and been assured by the evidence of your own eyesight that she was a veritable bird. And these were the words that fell upon the ears of her astonished listener:-- "In every glade of forest lone, Some mystic word of might is known, Which, once pronounced, to mortals' eyes Gives sight they have not otherwise; Gives mortal ears a hearing new Of things much disbelieved--yet true; And suffers mortal hand to trace The circle of the magic space. Boy! list--thou hast obtained this aid. "By Jingo"--motto of our glade-- Converts all here to friends from foes, And bids all secrets to disclose. Break branch from tree where thou dost stand, 'Twill serve thee for a magic wand; Around thee then a circle trace Within this same enchanted place; Then wish a wish, and speak the word-- 'Tis granted ere thy voice be heard; And thou shall rule like any king Within the sacred Fairy Ring." Philip listened with great attention to the observations of the owl, which appeared to him to be exceedingly clear and distinct, although the circumstances under which they were made were singular, and the quarter from which they came unexpected. He felt, however, that he was "in for the thing," as he afterwards expressed it, and that he had better comply with the directions of the worthy bird. He therefore stretched out his hand and broke off a branch from the nearest tree, which happened to be hazel. He then sharpened the end of the branch, and drew with it a circle, in the midst of which he remained standing. Now, of course, the correct and proper thing for the boy to have done would have been to have immediately pronounced the magic words; wished for his sister back at the same moment; for her then to have appeared and thrown herself into his arms, and for the story to have thus ended in a comfortable, good, old-fashioned way, which would have been eminently satisfactory to all parties concerned. Why should not I make this happen? Well, I really would if I could, but you must remember that all these stories are as true as the histories of "Don Quixote," "Baron Munchausen," "Gulliver's Travels," and all those other histories, upon the veracious nature of which no sensible person has ever entertained a doubt. So you will see at once that I cannot, as a fair and true historian, invent anything, even for the purpose of pleasing my beloved readers, but must go on perforce and relate the facts as they really occurred. Philip was doubtless very fond of his sister, and if it had been put to him by anyone at the moment that the above course was that which he ought to pursue, I am sure that he would have done so without the slightest hesitation. But as nobody _did_ tell him, and the owl (probably because it was not her business to do so) made no such suggestion, I regret to say that, for the instant, Philip followed another line of thought, and when he again pronounced the mystic words, "By Jingo," he wished--not that his sister might instantly appear, but--that he might understand what was the nature of the strange place in which he seemed to be, and the meaning of all that had occurred. You will see at once that this was rather a different thing from wishing for his sister; and the reason of his not doing so probably was that, in the hurry and surprise of the whole affair, he did not connect it with her disappearance. So, as I say, he wished that he might be able to understand the mysteries of the place. As soon as ever he had formed this wish, the fairies of course became visible to the boy. They came out on all sides, just as they had come when they had disclosed themselves to Evelyn. They peered from strange corners and holes, they darted quickly from spot to spot, and abandoned altogether the rest and sleep from which the coming of the boy had disturbed them. Soon, however, their proceedings acquired greater regularity. I suppose it was in consequence of his standing in the magic ring, or perhaps it might have been by the mere virtue of the mystic words which he had pronounced; but for some reason or other the fairies had no power over him as they had had over his sister. More than this, they seemed to have been constrained by some one of those mysterious rules which obtain in Fairy-land to pay him some kind of respect and homage. They linked hand in hand, and whilst Philip looked on in the greatest astonishment, they formed in a circle round the space in which he stood, and danced merrily round him for at least a couple of minutes. Then they stopped, and whilst all the rest fell back into the fern and brushwood behind, the queen remained, and after a short pause, addressed the boy as follows:-- "Possessor of the magic words Which here control both fays and birds: What would'st thou in this glade to-day, That we can give thee--if we may?" Now Philip was not much of a hand at rhyming: to tell the truth, he disliked all poetry particularly, from Dr. Watts' hymns up to the Latin verses he had to do at school. For an instant he doubted whether, in spite of this, he was not bound to make some reply in rhyme, as well as he could manage it, having been addressed in this manner by the lady before him. However, on second thoughts, it appeared to him that probably this was needless, as he had accidentally acquired a position which was evidently one of authority. Therefore he replied in the way ordinarily employed among mortals, that is, in prose; and, having now remembered the main object of his expedition into the wood, he thus replied:-- "Madam, I want my sister Evelyn. I cannot tell whether or no you can help me in the matter, but my sister has disappeared and I am looking for her everywhere." The fairy bowed with grave courtesy when Philip had spoken thus, and then answered him at once,-- "Those who invade our magic bower, And hold--and speak--the words of power, Have their first wish--and thou hast prayed To know the nature of the glade. If thou had'st wished thy sister free, It had not been denied to thee; And she no longer might have been The subject of the Fairy Queen. But we small children of the moon Are bound to grant no second boon; And if thou would'st regain the lost, Thou now wilt have to count the cost! Reseek thine home--for one whole day No single word to mortal say: And by no sign or look or sigh Permit them to discover _why_! For that same time be only fed With crystal water and with bread, Then, at the rising of the moon, Come here and ask the second boon!" She spoke; and, even as she ended, her little form appeared to grow fainter and less perceptible to Philip's eyes, and at last faded away altogether. He stood at first amazed, and then wrapped in deep thought. It was evident, from what the fairy had said, that she not only knew what had become of Evelyn, but had the power to restore her. It seemed a very wonderful thing, but he could not disbelieve the evidence of his own senses, which had assured him of the presence of fairies; and if they could be present, as he had seen and heard them, they might certainly possess power of which he had previously had no idea. There was no doubt in his mind that, if he could only carry out the directions which the Fairy Queen had given, he would stand a very good chance of recovering his sister. It was true that there might be some difficulty in not speaking to anybody for a whole day, especially as no one would understand or guess the reason, and there would also be required a certain amount of self-denial--especially in the case of a schoolboy just come home for the holidays--in restricting himself to the homely diet of bread and water. However, then and there he made up his mind to try his best, and all the more so as he could not but feel that he had been somewhat thoughtless and negligent of Evelyn's interests in not having made her the subject of his first wish. Pincher now showed as much eagerness to leave the spot as he had previously evinced to keep to the tree. I forgot to mention that he had crept to his master's side within the magic circle just as the fairies appeared. Probably, being a sagacious dog, he knew that if he remained outside it, he might be changed into a rat or a hedgehog, or something unpleasant, and so made sure of his safety from such a fate. Now, however, he seemed actuated by one sole desire, namely, that of leaving the place; and, as his young master was entirely of the same opinion, they made no longer stay. Philip walked back through the wood the same way that he had come, regained the shrubberies, walked up the lawn and re-entered the house. There he was at once encountered by his mother, who accosted him with affectionate words, and eagerly asked him if he had heard any news of his sister. When the boy for reply merely placed one finger upon his mouth and said nothing, the good lady seemed, and doubtless was, rather astonished. "My darling boy," she said, "what is the matter? Why don't you speak? Are you hurt? Have you any pain anywhere?" And withal she poured upon him such a torrent of questions that Philip did not know what to do. Still, however, he persevered in his silence, although it was very hard to do so when his mother kissed him and spoke so kindly to him all the while. He could hardly bear it, so broke hastily from her, and ran up to his own room, pushing almost rudely past Mrs. Trimmer, who met him on the stairs and was quite ready for a chat. When he got to his room he threw himself into a chair, and pondered over all the strange events of that afternoon, which seemed to him beyond belief, only that, as they had actually taken place under his own eyes, he could not help believing them. Whilst thus engaged, the dressing-bell rang, and the servant brought up some warm water and put out his evening clothes. "What time shall I call you to-morrow morning, master Philip?" asked the man, and was exceedingly surprised to find that the young gentleman made no reply whatever. He repeated the question with the same result, and then, supposing that Philip must have some unknown reason for his conduct, left the room without further remark. The boy proceeded to dress and, at the proper time, descended to the drawing-room, where his father and mother already were. They were both in a melancholy frame of mind, as may well be supposed, for no tidings had been heard of their daughter, and they could not but fear that she was lost to them for ever. Philip walked stealthily into the room, in the direst perplexity how he should be able to avoid speaking. "Well, my dear boy," began his mother directly, "have you found your tongue yet?" The boy made no reply, upon which his father joined in. "Philip, my boy, why do not you answer your mother?" Still no word came from Philip, and his father, who was accustomed to be treated with respect and obedience, grew angry at his continued silence. "Why don't you speak, boy?" he asked again. "Your mother and I are in trouble enough to-day without your adding to it by any childish folly of this kind. I should have thought you would have felt the same as we do." Still the poor boy spoke not a word, which made his father still more angry. "Have you got no tongue in your head, sir?" he cried, and laid his hand upon Philip's shoulder somewhat roughly. But the mother here interposed. "Don't scold him, James," she said. "Don't be cross with the boy--remember he is the only child we have left now," and she burst into tears. In soothing her the husband forgot the boy, or perhaps found it more convenient to say nothing further at the moment. They went into dinner, and were astonished to see Philip shake his head when the servants offered him soup, fish, and roast veal (of which he was particularly fond) and content himself with eating his bread and drinking a glass of water. They began to think that their son must be ill; but it was in vain that they questioned him. He only put his finger over his mouth and resolutely declined to speak. Then his father expressed his fear that something or other must have frightened or hurt him in such a manner as to have affected his brain, and, at length, he determined to send for the doctor, who lived about three miles off, in the nearest town. Still Philip remained silent, and the strangeness of the occurrence was so far useful to his parents as that it, in some measure, turned the current of their thoughts from the great sorrow in which they had previously been absorbed. As soon as the doctor came he performed the usual mysteries of his profession. He looked at Philip's tongue and said it was not unhealthy. He felt his pulse and declared there was no fever, and he finally pronounced that his indisposition--for such he termed it--though Philip was never better in his life, proceeded from some temporary disarrangement of the nervous system, which he had no doubt of being able to treat with success. He prescribed two pills to be taken at night, and a draught (the colour of which was the only pleasant thing about it) in the morning, and left the patient with a promise to return next day. During the whole of his visit, however, not one syllable did he get out of Philip, which, as he prided himself upon his conversational powers, and the successful manner in which he always got on, especially with young people, rather annoyed him. When Doctor Pillgiver had gone, the parents, somewhat relieved by his report, strove again to persuade their son to resume his natural habits of conversation, for Philip was a boy neither sullen nor shy, but one that generally talked freely, and had plenty to say for himself. As, however, he entirely declined to say anything, his father at last got angry, and, telling him that he feared he was giving way to an obstinacy which, unless conquered, would prove his ruin, sent him upstairs to bed. Poor Philip was really rejoiced at this, for he was not likely to have any mortal to speak to before morning. But his tender mother, unhappy at the thought that her boy might be ill, and thinking that he might repent of his silence after he had left her and his father, came to his bedside to see him the last thing before she herself retired. This was hard to bear, for to refuse the last kiss and "good-night" to one's mother is difficult indeed. Philip felt this, but he also felt that everything probably depended upon his obeying the conditions of the fairy queen, so the rogue pretended to be asleep, and said nothing, even when the dear mother softly kissed his forehead and invoked a blessing upon her beloved son. All that night the boy could scarcely sleep for thinking over the extraordinary things that had happened. He tossed uneasily to and fro, then got up and drank some water, then laid down in one particular position, and determined to remain just so until he _did_ get to sleep--then changed his mind and turned quite round to try another position, and altogether managed to have such a restless and uncomfortable night as seldom falls to the share of a boy of his age and good health. At last morning came, and Thomas, the footman, called him as usual, wondering again that his young master never wished him "good morning," or asked him if it was a fine day, as he almost always did. Philip dressed and came down to prayers and breakfast, according to his father's rule, or otherwise he would have slipped out of the house and kept away all day, until the time of his silence should be past. It was a great trial to him that morning, for his parents were both evidently vexed with him, and could not understand the meaning of his silence. His father spoke so sharply to him that the tears came into his eyes, but his mother again interceded for him, and as soon as breakfast was over he stole away to take refuge in the garden. Here again he had difficulties to encounter, for the gardener came to ask him some question about the rolling of the cricket-ground, about which Philip was always very anxious, and it was exceedingly tiresome not to be able to answer him, especially as this was the head gardener, and anyone who has ever had anything to do with such people, knows that they are personages of dignity and position, with whom it is never safe to trifle. So the boy knew that he ran no small chance of having his cricket-ground altogether neglected if he offended Mr. Collyflower, and would not have run the risk on any account, had not the recovery of his sister been of paramount importance. Next he sauntered into the park, where the gamekeeper presently appeared to take his wishes as to a hawk's nest which he had found, and the eggs of which he thought he could get, if so be that Master Philip would fancy to have them. It seemed both uncivil and ungrateful to give no answer, but he felt the whole weight of his responsibility and said never a word. But his worst trial was yet to come. Flora Malcolm, a young lady who lived near, and of whom Philip was particularly fond, rode over to luncheon that day, and wanted him to ride part of the way back with her. She was astonished at his silence and at his diet at luncheon, and rallied him considerably upon both. Yet the boy held his tongue. Most fortunately for him, his father had again gone off to renew his search after the lost girl, for had he been at luncheon, I think it more than probable that he would have resorted to some of those paternal remedies for filial disobedience which would have rendered poor Philip extremely uncomfortable, even if it had not ended in his disobeying the injunction of the fairy queen, and so losing Evelyn for ever. Flora's raillery was hard to bear, but after a while she ceased, and being a clever girl, took it into her head that there might be a reason for his silence which she could not understand. For be it observed that there is no more certain sign of cleverness than when a person is able to feel and realise that there may be some things above and beyond his or her comprehension. For the generality of people think they can understand anything and everything, and that what they cannot comprehend is sure to be absurd, unreasonable, and foolish, whereas in all probability these are the epithets which should in reality be applied to themselves. Flora took a different view, and being goodnatured moreover, left off teasing Philip when she perceived that it was no joke with him, but that there was something serious as well as singular in his proceeding. She had to ride back alone, poor girl, for Philip shook his head when she suggested that he should join her, and of course she could say no more. She did not stay long after luncheon, finding the distress in which the family were plunged, and as soon as she was gone, the boy again betook himself to the garden, and got through the afternoon without a word. He looked forward with the greatest horror to dinner time--a feeling which had hitherto been as strange to him as to any other schoolboy. So it was now, however, for he knew he should have a terrible ordeal to go through. His father, having returned from another unsuccessful ride, would not only feel angry, but hurt, if his son made no inquiries as to whether any news had been heard of his sister. If again, he saw him for the second night remaining silent and refusing everything to eat and drink save bread and water, his patience would most likely be exhausted, and he might act in a manner the consequences of which might be unpleasant. Suppose his anger should take the form of sending Philip to his own room immediately after dinner, and thus preventing his being in the forest at the time appointed by the fairy queen! This was a thought which gave the boy so much uneasiness, that he at last made up his mind that, as the risk was too serious to run, he had better shirk dinner altogether. So when the dressing-bell rang at half-past seven (for his parents always dined at eight), instead of going in to dress, Philip slipped quietly out of the shrubberies, with Pincher by his side, and made the best of his way to the forest. The moon would not rise that night till past nine, and of course he would be missed before that; but he thought they would very likely not send for him, or if they did, no one would be likely to find him. He marched into the forest full of hope, feeling sure that he had obeyed the fairy's directions in every particular, and that unless she had grossly deceived him, he should soon see his dear sister once more. On he went, as he thought, exactly in the same direction in which he had gone the day before. The air was mild and pleasant--a gentle breeze rustled in the leaves overhead--the birds had hushed their singing, and Nature seemed to be about taking her rest preparatory to a new day of life and action. The turf was soft and springy under the boy's feet, the trees cast around him their strange and fantastic shadows, the distant bells fell faintly on his ears, and more faintly still as he went further into the forest, and all seemed so peaceful and rest-bringing that he thought it was no wonder that hermits and such like worthy people should generally choose some woodland recess in which to dwell when they have had enough of the outside world, and want to find rest and peace and happiness in the oblivion of worldly strife which such a solitude would engender. But when Philip, thinking these thoughts and a great many others, no doubt, besides, had walked some distance, it struck him that he must somehow or other have missed his way, for he seemed to be in quite a different part of the forest from that in which he had met with his yesterday's adventure. It was getting darker and darker, as far as he could see, and he began to be afraid that he might after all miss the place and never find his sister again. Under these circumstances he did not think it of much use to go wandering on and on, uncertain whether he was going right or wrong, and therefore sat down upon the gigantic roots of a large oak, and there took time to consider what he had better do next. It must now have been getting on for nine o'clock, and presently a soft, tender light began to steal down through the overhanging branches, and illuminate the forest with a silvery tinge. The moon was evidently beginning to assert her dominion over the night, and to tell the darkness that it could not possibly be allowed to have it all its own way. This, then, was the hour of which the Fairy Queen had spoken, when she told him to come at the rising of the moon and make his second request. Yes! beyond all doubt this was the hour; but where the Fairy glade was, was quite a different question. Everything seemed to be quiet and still in the forest, which was going on in its natural way, as if it had never had a fairy in its shades, and did not want one either. Philip rose to his feet and listened attentively. Nothing was to be heard but the distant hoot of an owl. The moon grew brighter and brighter, and very beautiful did the trunks of the old trees appear in her silvery light, seeming to assume quaint and curious shapes, as the boy gazed earnestly around him, in the hope of seeing or hearing something which might direct his next proceeding. For some time he gazed in vain, and then, remembering that he was not forbidden to speak save to a mortal, that Pincher was probably not considered a mortal in the sense in which the word had been used, and that if he was, the command to silence had ceased with the rising of the moon, he addressed his dog in the following words:-- "Pincher, old boy, I wish you would find the glade for me. After making me hold my tongue so long, and eat nothing but bread and water, it would be a thundering shame if the fairy sold me after all!" Pincher, on being thus accosted, looked up in his master's face, whined gently, wagged his tail, and seemed inclined to run off, as if for a hunt on his own account. But at that moment the rustling of wings was heard, accompanied by a rumbling sound inside the oak under which Philip had been sitting, and an instant afterwards he was startled by the sudden appearance of a white owl, very similar to that which he had seen and heard in the fairy glade. She bustled out of the hollow of the tree in just such a hurry as you might fancy her to have been in if she had overslept herself and found she should very likely be late for the train, and, as soon as she got well out, she perched upon a branch for a moment, shook her head once or twice as if to be quite satisfied that she was awake, and then pronouncing in a low tone the word "Follow," flew slowly off. Philip did not hesitate for a moment to obey the bird's directions, as he had found it answer so well to do so before. He followed as fast as he could, though of course, being but a boy, he could not keep up with a bird, and would soon have lost sight of her if the distance had been long. Instead of this, however, it was fortunately short, and before the boy had gone above a hundred yards at the most, he found himself once more at the entrance of the fairy glade. He knew pretty well what to do this time. He advanced to what appeared to be an eligible spot, pronounced the magic words with great emphasis, and then, breaking off a branch from a neighbouring tree as before, drew the mystic circle round himself and the dog, and then stood quietly waiting to see and hear what would happen next. He had hardly completed the circle when the same thing happened as on the previous day: the same chorus of voices all broke out in the same tune, only with words slightly different--they sang "We don't want to drink--but by Jingo if we do, We've got the wine--we've got the rain-- We've got the ev'ning dew," and then came peals of laughter from every side. As these words rang in his ears, the boy wished as hard as he possibly could that his sister might be suffered to come back with him safe and sound, and no sooner had he formed the wish than there she stood under the old pollard, looking very much as usual, and rubbing her eyes as if she had just been suddenly awakened from a very comfortable sleep, and didn't half like it. Philip's first impulse was to rush up to her at once, but he fortunately remembered that he was not in an ordinary place or discharging ordinary duties. On the contrary, he had a tremendous responsibility upon his shoulders, and if he should make any mistake it was impossible to foresee the consequences either to his sister or himself. He therefore stood perfectly still and said in clear and distinct tones,-- "Evelyn, I want you." The child scarcely appeared to see him when bespoke--then she seemed to make an effort to move forward, but stopped as if something prevented her, and the next moment the whole troop of little beings came darting out from every corner of the glade and stood between her and her brother. Then, as they had done on the previous occasion, they joined hands and danced round and round the circle in which Philip stood, although their dance was slower and less merry than before. This went on for several minutes, and then they stopped, and fell back on all sides into the fern and brushwood, whilst the little queen remained. She stood perfectly still for a full minute, casting a look upon Evelyn in which pleasure and sorrow were curiously blended, and seemingly unwilling to break the silence which prevailed. Then she turned her head round and looked upon Philip, who stood there, full of anxiety as to what would be the upshot of the whole affair, and doubtful whether he ought himself to speak or not. Then she said,-- "Once again, alas! we've heard Magic sound of mighty word; Which, tho' we would fain delay, Elfins dare not disobey. Since the maid has joined our ranks, Shared our dance, and played our pranks (Wonder not at what I tell), We have learnt to love her well. Greater grief has none e'er proved Than to love--and lose the loved; And if she would still remain, Gladly we'd the maid detain. Still--when magic word is said, Magic word of mystic dread, 'Tis not as the Fairies please, Save the Maiden's will agrees. Say, dear child, sweet artless maid, Dost thou love the woodland shade? Would'st thou in the forest dwell, Ever haunt the Fairy dell, Ever leave thy former self, And remain a woodland elf? Wish--and thou hast power to be Thing as wild, from earth as free, As the Elf who speaks to thee! Wish it _not_!--then count the cost-- To the Fairies thou art lost, Never more in forest wild Shalt thou act the elfin child; Never, free from mortal care, Flit on elf-wings through the air: Scorning bolt, or bar, or lock, Till the crowing of the cock Summon back thy mates and thee To moss-couches 'neath the tree. Form thy wish, then, maiden dear, None shall dare to interfere!" As the fairy queen spoke, Philip listened with great attention, with some concern, and no little indignation. Her voice was very sweet and pleasant; the picture she drew of the forest life of an elf was by no means disagreeable, and as he gathered from her words that Evelyn had already tasted of its delights, he was apprehensive of the effect which this temptation still to share it might possibly have. He felt, moreover, that as he had honestly fulfilled his part of the bargain, it would be palpably unfair if he got nothing by it, except the knowledge that his sister was a fairy, which would be but a very small consolation to the people at home. So he thought he had better strike in and tell his opinion at once, which he did in the following way:-- "I say!" he cried, "this is not fair. I was to come here to-night and have my second boon--and I have said what it is. It will be no end of a shame if you don't give me back my sister. In fact, you promised it yesterday; and no fellow can stand being made to hold his tongue and eat nothing but bread and water for the best part of a day and a half, and then be sold after all. Come! I say! this won't do at all, you know!" The fairy listened to him with great politeness, and at once replied to his remarks,-- "I bade thee come by light of moon If thou would'st crave a second boon. I bade thee come: and thou art here, A faithful brother, void of fear; And thou hast kept conditions two, Such as had been observed by few. Yet--ere you blame my words, good youth, Be moderate, and hear the truth. When maids or youths o'er fairy lore Attentively are wont to pore, Their hearts 'twould mightily surprise To see how oft our elfin eyes See, and rejoice to see, them read Of many a magic Fairy deed. And when such youth or maiden list To say that Fairies do exist, We love them passing well, forsooth, Because that they believe the truth. So, when beneath our woodland shade There wanders tender youth or maid, On certain spot--at certain hours-- Our might avails to make them ours. And when, resisting not herself, A Maiden once becomes an elf, Dares from her mortal form t' escape, And roam the world in Elfin shape, Unless it be by her free will, She must remain an Elfin still. 'Tis true: the words of power have might To force us into mortal sight, And, tho' in elfin garment drest, A mortal maid must stand confest To eyes of him who once has known And said these words--to him alone. Thy sister, then, thine eyes have seen, But I, thy sister's Fairy queen, Have right to counsel and persuade Her--who is half a woodland maid-- And should she wish it, she must stay Beneath my loving Fairy sway. If so--kind youth, oh! ne'er repine, Or envy this success of mine; _Her_ fate for ever light and free From mortal grief, will happy be, For mortal sin and human woe, Thenceforward she shall never know!" As the fairy queen spoke these words, many thoughts passed rapidly through the mind of the boy. He saw at once that the victory was not yet so entirely won as he had supposed, and that people could not change to and fro between mortal and fairy form as quickly as they pleased. Of course he had not known his sister's fate until the fairy queen uttered these rhymes, and even now he was left somewhat in the dark. Besides, as you will recollect, the excellent elfin had not told him the exact truth after all, because she led him distinctly to infer that Evelyn had become one of the elves by her own consent and free will, whereas we know perfectly well that she had no intention of becoming anything of the kind, and that as to "resisting not herself," she had no idea that resistance would do any good, and if she had thought so, would not have known in what way to resist, when the fern leaf was waved over her head, and she began to be sensible of the magic charm which came over her. It is quite true that she had taken kindly to the life of an elf, but it was certainly hardly fair to let her brother suppose she had become one by choice. This, however, was not a point upon which he was at all troubled. For one instant he doubted whether, if she were really so happy, it would be doing her a real kindness to take her away from the fairies. But it was only for an instant. He felt sure that she must be under some charm which prevented her declaring her own sentiments, and therefore he did not at once put the question to her. But he remembered to have read in various books concerning elves and fairies, that though they are a very interesting part of creation, they are in some respects inferior to mankind, and that they are a kind of being existing entirely and for ever in their present condition, with no soul and with no such future as that for which Christian men and women hope. Therefore, according to this view, his sister's condition would be materially changed for the worse if she remained an elf, and it was his duty, if possible, to prevent it. Moreover, his father and mother had some claim to be considered; and he could not help thinking that if Evelyn was a free agent and could say what she thought, felt, and wished, she would not only promptly recognise that claim, but would long to rejoin the parents of whom she was so devotedly fond. He thought, perhaps, also of the mutual affection which had so long existed between his sister and himself; but I will do him the justice to say that I do not think he would have wished her back if he had been satisfied that it would be best for her own happiness that she should stay where she was. All these thoughts flashed through Philip's mind during the fairy's speech, and by the time it was ended he had quite made up his mind what to do. He looked firmly--though not unkindly--at the little lady, and then, turning to his sister, he said in a loud, clear, steady voice,-- "Evelyn, I wish you to come to me and we will go home together." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, a long, low wailing sound arose on all sides of him, as if the little beings of the glade were bemoaning an affliction which they saw preparing for them and had no power to prevent. It hung in the air for a few seconds, and then died away in mournful cadence among the trees. Meanwhile the effect of Philip's words upon his sister were immediate and wonderful. She threw back her head, rubbed her eyes again, looked first to the right and then to the left, and then stepped straight forward for a couple of yards, and stopped, just as if somebody was trying to hold her back. I suppose that she was too big to be held back by the little elves, since she had resumed her old mortal form at the first summons of her brother; but I also suppose from this circumstance that they tried to keep her, and she always said afterwards, that soft musical voices were in her ears, telling her of the joys of fairy-land and the happiness of the little elves, and begging her not to leave their merry party who had loved her so well. Philip, observing her apparent hesitation, deemed it quite necessary to take forthwith another and a more decided step. Elevating his voice a little, and speaking in a very firm tone, he said: "Come along, Evelyn dear, pray do not dawdle any longer. I wish you would come directly. By jingo, we shall hardly be in time for tea!" The words were scarcely spoken, when the same mournful sound arose, even more piteous than before, and rang through the evening stillness with a melancholy cadence which might have melted the hardest heart, so much did it convey of real sorrow. But at the same moment all attempts to retain Evelyn ceased--her natural look, colour, and manner seemed suddenly to have returned, and she bounded into the magic circle, and ran into her brother's arms. "Oh, Philip dear!" she cried. "Where _have_ you been? I haven't seen you for _such_ a time! How nice it is to have you at home again!" The brother returned her affectionate caresses, and reminding her of the lateness of the hour, said that they must return home at once. He purposely forebore to say anything of what had recently occurred, not knowing what the consequences might be, either to his sister or himself, and putting his arm tenderly round her waist, began to leave the glade, calling Pincher to follow him. They had not moved many yards forward, however, before low strains of sweet music were heard behind them, and turning round, they saw the form of the fairy queen, who was gazing after them with a look of mingled tenderness and regret. She gracefully waved her hand to them as they retreated, and in her own sweet voice thus addressed them: "Farewell! ye mortal children twain, Perchance we ne'er may meet again; Yet, should we ever chance to meet, My elves the twain will kindly greet. And ye, in prose or minstrel lays, When ye shall read of woodland fays, Have friendly feeling for the elves Who love you as they love themselves. No more amid our glade to roam-- The brother leads his sister home. From Fairy-land the twain depart, To gladden soon a mother's heart, And make a saddened home, to-night, Once more enraptured with delight. True brother! thou hast brought thine aid To rob us of our captured maid; Yet wast thou right, and for the same 'Tis not for fairy lips to blame. And thou, sweet Eve, who thus has left Thy elf companions all bereft, Since thou with us no more wilt dwell, We wish thee, lovingly, farewell." Then the fairy stepped lightly and gracefully back, still waving her hand; the music grew fainter and fainter, and ere long both the sound and the fairy form melted away from the sight and hearing of the brother and sister, though the last lingering word, Farewell, once and again repeated, still seemed to fall softly on their ears as they left the glade. They hastened home as fast as they could, and you may imagine the excitement with which their arrival was greeted. Evelyn and her mother devoured each other with kisses, and the father had such share of them as was left for him. Philip was at once restored to favour, and not only was his former silence forgiven, but every amends was made to him, in the way of diet, for his fasting upon the previous day. Mrs. Trimmer was so rejoiced at the happy conclusion of the adventure, that she did not scold Evelyn for a month, in consequence of which her progress in French and German was visibly slower than for some time past. Everybody in the house was glad to get the child back, and the only provoking part of it was that, even after her extraordinary adventures, disbelief in fairies still existed even in that well-informed household. One gave one explanation of Evelyn's absence, and one another; one laid it to the gipsies, another said she had run away and hid in a hollow tree, but nobody seemed to be entirely satisfied with the plain, unvarnished truth as I have told it to you. But so it is in this wicked world. Invent a perfectly untrue story, but make it seem a little probable, and everybody will believe you, and not throw the slightest doubt upon your veracity. On the other hand, let an extraordinary thing really happen, and if it falls to your lot to tell it, you are generally considered a "story-teller" in the worst sense of the word. This makes me so cross sometimes, that I think I will give up writing about fairies altogether, and only write about grave and serious subjects. But if I do that, I am afraid that nobody except members of parliament and diplomatists, politicians and teetotalers, and all those silly sort of people, will read what I write, and so I think I will go on for a little while longer in my old style. _I_ know that elves and fairies exist, and if all the rest of the world believes differently, it does not cause me the slightest inconvenience; _they_ can go their way, and I can go mine; and if they don't see any fairies, it is probably their own fault, as it is, I am sure, their own loss. I have no more to tell you of Philip and Evelyn now, except that they both grew up and prospered, and that Evelyn often tells _her_ little girls the story of her adventure with the fairies; and if anyone who reads this story would like to know more particulars, she is so good-natured that I am quite sure she will tell them all about it if they will only take the trouble to ask her when she does not happen to be particularly engaged. CAT AND DOG. To "live like cat and dog" has long been proverbial as a description of a state of life in which quarrels and bickerings are of frequent occurrence. No one, however, as far as I am aware, has ever followed to its sources the proverb which is so familiar to us all; nor has anyone attempted to explain the reason of the antagonistic spirit which undoubtedly prevails between these domestic animals. Its prevalence is certain, its consequences not seldom unfortunate, and many a once happy household has been rendered miserable by its existence. Animated by a sincere desire to acquire information, which might be at once interesting to myself, and instructive as well as beneficial to my fellow creatures, I have spared no pains to discover the truth upon this all-important subject; and if I can succeed in placing that truth clearly and dispassionately before the world, I shall feel--and I think I may cherish the feeling without exposing myself to the charge of presumption,--that I have not lived in vain. Whatever rumours may, in a less enlightened age, have prevailed upon the subject, I believe that there is no doubt as to the origin of the unfortunate difference which first caused hostility to become deeply rooted in the breasts of the canine and feline races. Some have supposed it to have sprung from certain acts of favouritism displayed by the human race towards one or other of the two species of animals; others have come to the conclusion that in-bred and natural wickedness gave rise to the evil, whilst others again have started different, but equally unsound theories. The true reason--the real beginning--the cause and foundation of the whole thing, is to be found in the words of the old song, so familiar to nursery people: "Hey diddle, diddle; the cat and the fiddle; The cow jumped over the moon: The little dog laughed to see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon." The author of this ballad is unknown, but it has always been vastly popular with the race of cats, who see in it at once a tribute to the musical genius of their people, as being identified with the violin (vulgarly herein called fiddle) and a recognition of their supremacy and superiority over other animals, inasmuch as "the cat" is mentioned first, before either cow or dog, fiddle or moon, and is evidently pointed out as the chief personage celebrated by the rhyme. On the other hand, dogs have never liked the verse. They directly and positively object to the precedence given to the cat; they dispute altogether the statement about the cow and the moon, as being improbable, if not palpably false; and they further say that, if the laughter of the little dog is intended to refer to this occurrence, it is a reflection upon the gravity and decorum of the dog race, whilst, if it is to be referred to the last line of the verse, it displays their representative as treating with unworthy levity that which, as far as the dish is concerned, was either an unlawful elopement or a pitiful theft. At one time, when there was still a hope that the enmity of the two races might be appeased, and a better state of things brought about, a joint committee of dogs and cats sat upon the question, in order to submit a report to the great council of animals, which might form the basis of an amicable settlement. A lengthy and acrimonious discussion ensued. The cats claimed precedence, and advanced many arguments to prove their superiority over their opponents. They boldly purred out their declaration to the effect that nature, custom, and all the evidence at command was clearly in their favour. They cited the opinions of mankind, as given in many books, speeches, wise proverbs, and witty sayings. They called to mind how that, in the case of heavy rain, men always remarked that "it rained cats and dogs;" placing, as they averred, the superior animal of the two first, when it was necessary to mention both, and the inferior one last. Moreover, many other things in the history of mankind denoted the prevalence and undoubted predominance of the same opinion. One of their favourite names for their daughters was Kate--spelt commonly with a C when given in full, Catherine--and evidently a name adopted from that of cat, and affording another implied recognition of the general superiority of the feline race. Then, said they, look at the way in which dogs are habitually spoken of with contempt, and their name used as a reproach. If one man call another a "dog," it is held to be an insult. Tell anyone that such and such a person has a "hang-dog" look about him, and it is known you intend to convey the idea of his being a rascal only fit to be strung up at once. If a man is tiresome in argument, his companions term him "dogmatic;" if he is of an obstinate temper and sullen disposition, he is frequently called dog-ged; whilst on crossing the channel a person who suffers from the malady of the sea is said to be "as sick as a dog;" and when mankind desire to express the failure in life, the ruin, the abject and miserable condition of one of their own race, there is no more common or proverbial expression than that he has "gone to the dogs." All these, and many other instances, they quoted, as bearing upon the great question of the superiority of cats to dogs, and in fact, establishing the same beyond any reasonable doubt. The dogs, having listened to these observations and arguments with an attention which was only equalled by their indignation, advanced their counter-arguments with great force, and evinced much learning and erudition. They took a preliminary objection to the evidence founded upon the manners and habits of human beings; avowing that even if they admitted every instance which had been adduced, they might appeal to the general practice of man, and the greater trust and reliance which he habitually placed in the dog, as utterly negativing the supposition that he had ever intended to imply the superiority of the feline tribe by any casual proverb or familiar saying. When was a cat employed to tend sheep? What keeper would trust a cat to do the office of a retriever, and to watch the young birds? To what cat was ever committed the custody of a house, or when was a kennel provided for a cat, to serve the purpose for which only a mastiff, or some similar specimen of the noble breed of dogs, was fit? All this forbad the supposition that men preferred cats before dogs, or esteemed them at all equally, either as useful or ornamental animals. But if they considered the arguments brought forward by the cats, one by one, with logical acuteness, they would not find a single argument which was not susceptible of an entirely different construction from that put upon it by the cat orators. For instance, the expression that "it rained cats and dogs" clearly signified (if taken for more than a colloquial expression to convey the meaning that it rained hard) that the heavens from which the rain came desired to get rid of the inferior animals first, and that it was only when the cats had been got rid of that a possible superfluity of dogs was taken into consideration. The name Kate (which, by the way, was the abbreviation of Katharine, and had really nothing to do with the name Catherine) was not derived from anything to do with cats or kittens either; and it was much the same as if the dogs on their part were to claim affinity with the ancient Doges of Venice, or to pretend to unwonted holiness because most of the good books of the early church were written or translated by the monks into Dog Latin. Again, as to one man insulting another by calling him a dog, that was not exactly the case. Dogs did not speak with human tongues, and therefore, when a man was called a "dumb dog," it was only implied that he was as dumb as a dog as far as the human tongue was concerned; dogs, moreover, did not pretend to universal goodness--there were good dogs and bad dogs, mad dogs and sad dogs. When men wished to bestow praise upon one of themselves, they constantly called him a "jolly dog;" and if they sometimes called one of their own kind a "cur," they alluded to an inferior species of dog, and in fact acknowledged the superiority of the canine race by the very fact that they selected it as the race with which alone they could fairly compare one of themselves. The "hang-dog" argument also told directly against, instead of for, the cats. What did it mean? Why, that any man who was a villain and a rascal looked as if he would actually be ready to hang a dog; and such a crime would, in fact, constitute him both rascal and villain at once. What better proof could be afforded of the high estimation in which dogs were held by men? The dogs further said that the cats had attributed a bad meaning to the word "dog-matic," but that it was also susceptible of a good interpretation, being derived from a Greek word, dogma, a settled opinion, and signifying one who, knowing the truth, and having confidence in the opinion at which he had duly arrived, had the courage of his convictions and stuck to them gallantly, which was certainly no reproach either to dog or man. The word "dogged" also might of course be taken to mean "sullen" or "sulky," but its primary signification was rather "pertinacious;" and it really meant that steadiness with which an honest dog pursued his course through life, yielding neither to bribes nor temptations, from whatever quarter they might chance to come. With regard to the expression, "sick as a dog," they stated that it was scarcely more commonly used among men than the equivalent expression, "sick as a cat;" and they forbore, out of delicacy, to advance arguments upon so disagreeable a point. It bore but little upon the question, and they might as well say that men hated cats, because they were subjected to catalepsy; or that they evinced their dislike to the feline portion of creation by calling a misfortune a "cat-astrophe," a bad cough a "cat-arrh," and a disease in the eye, a "cataract." The last allusion of the cats, namely, that to a man spoken of as having "gone to the dogs," was the subject of a long and able argument on the part of the latter; who principally contended that the real meaning of the phrase, duly considered and wisely interpreted, was quite different from that which their adversaries supposed; inasmuch as no man, being ruined and miserable, would go to persons or beings who were held in contempt or were in disgrace. What was really meant was, that, when a man had really failed in everything, and, being penniless and wretched, found neither support, sympathy, nor consolation from those of his own species, he went where kindness, good faith, honesty, and charity were ever to be found, and sought among the true-hearted and friendly race of dogs that kindly welcome and reception which had been denied to him by his own people. It was a tribute, indeed, paid to dog-nature by mankind; and nothing of the sort had ever been said with regard to cats, who were well-known to be much more likely to scratch, than to comfort, the unfortunate. The arguments so forcibly advanced by the dogs made very little impression on the cats who were upon the joint committee. There was a good deal of purring, setting up of backs, miawing, and I fear a little spitting; but they listened with tolerable attention, and then replied in the same style as before. They mentioned a bad, useless fish--which was called the dog-fish, on account, they said, of its bad qualities; the dog-days--so called because hotter and more unbearable than any other days in the summer: they drew attention to the fact that loose, bad rhyme was said to be "doggerel," and that an inferior kind of flower was termed "dog-rose." The dogs rejoined, with spirit, that men called a depository for dead bodies a "cat-acomb," a disagreeable insect a "cat-apillar," and that anyone who was made use of by another to obtain his own ends was contemptuously designated a "cat's-paw." A debate carried on in this spirit could clearly lead to no satisfactory result, and the end of the matter was that the committee separated without having been able to agree to any report. The consequence naturally was, that each race continued to regard the other with suspicion and aversion; and that the relations between the two became, and seemed likely to remain, exceedingly unpleasant. This version of the matter was given me by an animal whose veracity is above suspicion, being none other than old Jenny, the donkey. She was a most learned antiquarian, and had lived to a very advanced age before she had finally settled her opinion upon the merits of the question. But, being an ass of well-balanced mind, and entirely impartial between the two races, I believe that she fairly stated the arguments on both sides, and that her accuracy may be thoroughly relied on. She went on to relate to me chronicles of the past, which I found most interesting; and it is with a view to the better understanding, by those who care to read them, of those chronicles, that I have ventured to give the above preliminary facts upon the authority of this venerable quadruped. There was a time, she said, when dogs and cats were certainly upon better terms than at the present day. It was a happier time for both, she had no doubt; but still, being but a donkey, and very humble, she did not wish to put forward her opinion as by any means conclusive upon that or any other point. She could not recollect the time when the two races were positively upon friendly terms, but she believed such a time to have existed, and that within the memory of ravens, if not of asses. There was a curious legend which had been told her by a tinker's donkey, who had been a great traveller, and knew more than most of his kind, though there was, as a rule, much more knowledge among donkeys than men supposed. This particular donkey, however, had seen and learned in his travels a great deal more than many men; who, when they travel abroad, only seem to try how far they can go, and when they arrive at a city, live with their own fellow-countrymen as much as they can, import their own method of life into foreign countries, instead of living as the people of the country do; and come home again with a very small addition to the knowledge with which they started. The tinker's donkey, being of a very different cast of character, and much given to careful and attentive observation of all he saw in the various places he visited, always brought home a vast deal of useful information, with which he never refused to enliven his brother asses as they enjoyed a friendly bray over their thistles. And it was during one of these long journeys of his that he picked up the legend which he told old Jenny, and which she generously imparted to me. At a remote period of history--no matter exactly when and no matter exactly where--perfect love and harmony existed between the two great races of dog and cat. There was neither jealousy nor rivalry between them; and, indeed, why should there have been such at any period of time? Dogs have ever preferred bones, or portions of the carcasses of slaughtered animals, to any other food; whilst, to cats, the flesh of the mouse, disdained as a rule by the canine species, and the tender breast of the newly-fledged bird, form more attractive feasts. True it is, that both races are fond of milk, but there is nothing in that single similarity of taste to excite ill-feeling and bitterness; and no dog ever clashed with the love of the cat for fish, nor have cats the same partiality for biscuits which some of the other race have frequently displayed. Then, again, their pursuits in life are of a somewhat different character, those of the dog being more varied than those of the feline species. The sheep-dog guards with vigilance the flock entrusted to his care; the foxhound follows his prey with keen scent and unfailing ardour; the greyhound stretches his lanky form in eager pursuit of the unfortunate hare; the mastiff, seated in front of his kennel in the backyard, warns the inmates of the house of the approach of beggars or persons of doubtful character: the pug-dog, the terrier, the pomeranian, all have their separate employments and varied uses, in none of which does a cat seek to share, and with none of which does she ever wish to interfere. The cat, on the other hand, has amusements and occupations to a great extent peculiar to herself. She loves to bask in the sun, upon the window-sill if such be available, on fine days, and in wet or cold weather to nestle snugly upon the hearthrug. When she goes out, it is not to run here and there and everywhere, after the fearless and sometimes intrusive manner of the dog. She prefers to steal quietly and leisurely along, placing her velvety feet softly upon the ground, and peering round on each side of her, to see that the country is secure. Crawling along the top of a wall, or creeping up the stem of a tree, she strives to capture the unwary bird, who may afford her sport and amusement first, and a meal afterwards. Or, seated demurely in some corner of a room or near some tree, where mice frequent, she does not object to watch patiently, whilst minutes and hours pass away, in the hope of at last finding an opportunity to pounce upon her favourite victim. With all this no dog has any reason to interfere, and none has ever attempted to rival the cat in the pursuit of bird or mouse. Again: dogs are more apt to attach themselves to the persons of men or women, cats more readily become attached to the places in which they have lived; so that, once for all, if we consider the nature, the character, and the habits of these two great races, we shall, I am confident, come to the conclusion that there can be no real cause for their natural enmity, but that, in the great scheme of creation, they were intended to be upon as friendly and harmonious terms as was certainly the case at the time of which we now speak. Such were the reflections of Jenny, and I am inclined to endorse them all, and to think that I see the confirmation of their truth in the legend which I am about to tell as she told to me. It chanced that at this time a worthy couple possessed an animal of each sort, of which they were extremely fond. The dog was a handsome, black, curly fellow; of what particular breed I don't know, but this description of him sounds as if he was a Romney-Marsh retriever, or something of the sort. The cat was a tortoise-shell, and one of the most perfect specimens of her kind; with glossy fur, elegantly-shaped body, and tail like a fox's brush, which swept the ground as she walked. Jenny did not know the names of the worthy couple who owned these animals; and in fact I have noticed that, in most of the stories which animals have told me from time to time, men and women are made to play a very subordinate part, and are indeed for the most part considered as altogether inferior beings by the excellent animals of and by whom the stories are told. Thus, in the present instance, although the good ass knew perfectly well that the dog's name was Rover, and the cat's Effie, she knew no more than an ignorant calf might have done of the names of the people with whom they lived. Nay, if I remember rightly, her expression was that, "Some people lived in and kept the house in which Rover and Effie dwelt;" so that very likely the donkey, and perhaps the animals themselves, considered that the premises belonged to themselves, and that the man and woman were merely lodgers on sufferance. And very likely, as a matter of fact, this is the actual view entertained by many of our animals--horses, dogs, cats, possibly even pigs and chickens--at the present day, if we did but know it. Perhaps it is as well we do not, as we might consider our supremacy challenged and our rights invaded, and this might make us less kind to the poor animals, which would be very sad. I should not wonder, however, if it was the truth; for I am sure our servants--or some of them--have firmly-rooted convictions that our houses and everything in them, are at least as much, if not more, theirs than ours, and some of us give in to them very much as if we thought so too. So I do not see why the four-legged creatures, as well as the two-legged, should not think the same thing,--and perhaps they do. Rover and Effie, as I have said, lived in this house, which, to put the matter in a way not likely to be offensive to anybody, was also inhabited by an old couple--I mean a man and his wife; because, of course, "a couple" might, standing alone, mean a couple of ducks, or a couple of fowls, or rabbits, or anything else of the kind. But it was a man and his wife, and they had no children, and they were very fond of the dog and cat, and petted them both exceedingly. They passed very happy lives, having very little to trouble themselves about, and being possessed of a comfortable home, and plenty of agreeable neighbours. Rover and Effie used to walk out together, and were for some time, as most of their respective races were, the very best of friends. Neither of them would have suffered a strange dog or cat to breathe a syllable against the other; and in their tastes, thoughts, and actions, they were as much allied as was possible under the circumstances. Things continued in this happy condition until an old weasel, who lived in the immediate neighbourhood, cast his envious and malicious eye upon the two friends and determined it possible to interrupt their amicable relations. He had his own reasons for so doing. The family of weasels, though of ancient lineage and old blood, had never been considered as particularly respectable. In fact they had always been a set of arrant scamps. The rats and rabbits complained bitterly of their intrusive habits, and extremely disliked their abominable practice of entering the holes used by other animals, and carrying blood and murder into homes that were otherwise peaceful and contented. The hens also raised their homely cackle in the same strain, and counting egg-sucking as among the worst of crimes, brought heavy charges against the weasels on that account. In fact, no one had a good word for the little animals, except indeed their cousins the stoats, and some of the unclean sorts of birds, to wit, the jay, the magpie and the carrion crow, who themselves lived chiefly by thieving. The weasel had a great jealousy of the cat, because she interfered with him in the matter of rats, mice, and small birds, to all of which he was partial; and he also saw in the dog a rival as regarded rabbits. Whilst the two remained in such close alliance, he thought that they were able to wield a power which, although not actively exerted against himself, was little likely to be ever used in his favour; and he therefore resolved to lessen that power if he possibly could, by sowing the seeds of discord between the hitherto friendly animals. But clever as he was, the weasel racked his brains in vain for a long time. He could think of nothing which would effect his object, and could satisfy himself with no plan by which he might approach the two animals with that intent. It would not, indeed, have been hard for him to have entered the house by the means open to him, namely, a drain or a rat's hole, of which there were several. But, should he do so, he ran the greatest risk of having his intentions mistaken, and of suddenly falling a victim to one of the very two animals with whom (though not from any kindly feeling) he wished to communicate. The same fear prevented his accosting them during their walks, for he could not tell but that they might turn upon him and seize him before he could escape. Direct communication, then, appeared to be out of the question; and he accordingly resolved to seek a confederate, through whom he might perchance accomplish his wicked ends. So he went to a neighbouring magpie, knowing the love of meddling which characterises that class of birds, and sought her aid in his scheme. The magpie was a very wary and cunning bird, and would not trust herself within paws' length of the weasel, for although she knew that, happily for herself, she was not a morsel which even a weasel could eat with relish, yet she was also well aware of the bloodthirsty nature of the animal, and thought it better not to expose him to the temptation of getting her neck into his mouth. So she sat up in the old hawthorn tree, and chattered away to herself, whilst the little animal came underneath and tried to attract her attention. When at last she condescended to see him, she would not enter upon business for some time, but, like many persons who, not being blameless themselves, are very ready to blame other people, chattered away to him for a good five minutes upon the subject of his general bad behaviour, and read him a lesson upon morality, coupled with a homily upon the sin of thieving, which would have come admirably from the beak of a respectable rook, but was very ill-placed in that of a notorious bad liver and evil-doer like the magpie. The weasel, however, keeping his object steadily in view, heard her remarks with great apparent politeness, although as a matter of fact her advice (like that which many better people give, both in and out of season) went in at one of his ears and out at the other, and produced not the smallest effect upon his future conduct. When her chatter came at last to an end, he unfolded the nature of his business and asked her counsel and assistance in the matter. Now the magpie was by no means friendly to the dog and cat, having an idea that they were better off in their worldly affairs than she was, which is always a sufficient cause for evil-minded people to dislike others. So she had no objection at all to enter upon a scheme which might annoy and injure them, and indeed her natural love of mischief would have prompted her to do so, had she had no other feeling in the matter. Having always, however, an eye to the main chance, she asked the weasel what she should gain by the transaction, and having been faithfully promised the eye-picking out of the first twelve young rabbits he should catch, she at once consented to go into the business. The idea of the two confederates was to create in the first place a coldness between the dog and cat, by means of inducing the couple already mentioned, to show greater favour to one than the other. Here, however, arose another difficulty. How could either weasel or magpie obtain access to a man and woman, or in any shape exercise an influence over their conduct and actions? The idea was so preposterous that they had to give it up. Then came the question whether they could not persuade either the cat or dog to do something which would offend and annoy the other, either by being opposed to his or her feelings and prejudices, or being actually unpleasant and disagreeable. If they could only settle on something of this kind, it did not appear so impossible to carry out the plan. The weasel need not be seen in the matter, and would incur no such personal danger as that to which he might have been exposed by any scheme which entailed his actual communication with the enemy. The thing must be done by the magpie, who, seated upon the roof of the house, or in an adjacent tree, could converse with either cat or dog without the smallest risk, and was sly and crafty enough to poison the minds of both. So it was agreed that this should be the course taken, and what was to be the precise form of the magpie's address will be speedily gathered from the story. The two innocent animals who were the object of this nefarious plot upon the part of creatures so vastly inferior to themselves, were all the while quite unconscious of the conspiracy which was being hatched against them. They went on just the same, and were as friendly as ever. Nor was their harmony disturbed by the introduction into the household of a small poodle, whom somebody gave to the mistress of the house, and who rather amused them than otherwise by his curious antics and grotesque behaviour. He was a curious dog, and had some funny tricks, but old Jenny said that she never heard that there was much against him, or that he had any concern in the wicked plot of the weasel and the magpie. Having fully determined upon the plan to be pursued, the crafty pair of rascals waited until they could hit upon a time when the cat and dog were not together. The opportunity soon occurred. One fine morning the human occupier of the house (who laboured under the strange but, among human beings, not uncommon delusion that the place and all that it contained belonged to him) went out for a walk in the country, accompanied, as was frequently the case, by honest Rover. The sun was shining so brightly that Mrs. Effie thought that she had better make the most of it, and get some fresh air at the same time, with no more exertion than was necessary. So she climbed quietly up on the window-sill, stretched herself at full length thereupon, and basked luxuriously in the warm rays of the sun. Seeing her thus enjoying herself, the magpie flew leisurely into an apple tree which grew near the house, and began to chatter in a way which was certain to attract the cat's attention before long. After a little while Effie began to wink and blink her eyes, move her ears against the woodwork on which she lay, and appear as if disturbed by the noise. Presently she lifted up her head, shook it, and sneezed violently. "Bless you, Pussy," immediately said the magpie from the apple tree. Effie looked at her in some surprise. "Many thanks," she said; "the more so, indeed, since I do not happen to have the pleasure of your acquaintance." "More's the pity," replied the bird; "but that is no reason why I should refrain from giving a civil blessing to a person who happens to sneeze, for you know well enough that if you sneeze three times without someone blessing you, evil is sure to follow within the week." "Indeed," answered the cat, somewhat coldly, for she hardly approved of being addressed by a mere bird, and that, too, a perfect stranger, in such a familiar manner. "Indeed, I am sure you are very kind." And she laid her head calmly down again upon the windowsill. But the magpie was not to be daunted, and determined not to lose the opportunity which she had so carefully sought. "Although you don't know me," continued she, "which is not surprising, considering that you move in high circles, whilst I am only, as one may say, a humble drudge among the inferior parts of creation, it does not follow, madam, that I am not well acquainted with _you_, and have long wished to obtain your friendship. The beauty of your fur, the elegant shape of your body, the graceful action with which you move, and, above all, the sweetness of your voice (which I have sometimes been fortunate enough to hear at nights), have all made an impression upon me which will not easily be removed. I only wish I might know you better." As the bird spoke, she hopped from twig to twig of the apple-tree, until she came within easy speaking distance of Effie, and lowered her voice so as to make it less harsh, and more impressive in conversation. Now cats, as is well known to the attentive student of natural history, are by no means averse to flattery. It has sometimes been said that the same is true of women, but this is by no means fair as a general description of the latter, many of them cordially disliking it, and taking it as anything but a compliment when men bespangle them with empty flattery, instead of carrying on sensible conversation, and treating them like reasonable beings. But it is undoubtedly true of cats. Three things they can never resist: cream, scratching their heads, and flattery; and as the magpie had no cream, and forbore to attempt scratching the cat's head for reasons of her own, she fell back, as we have seen, upon flattery. Effie listened, it must be confessed, with pleasure, and drank in the words of the magpie as greedily as if they had been inspired by the undoubted spirit of truth. As a matter of fact, her elegance of body, beauty of fur, and gracefulness of action might all have been fairly conceded to be matters of opinion, in which many would have agreed with the magpie. But as to the beauty of her voice, anybody who has ever lain awake at night and listened to a concert of cats upon the adjacent roofs will be inclined to stop his ears at the bare recollection of it, and to confess that the magpie must have well known that she was telling a--well, a tarradiddle. Strange to say, however, the allusion to her voice touched and pleased Effie more than anything else in the magpie's speech, and this the cunning bird had fully expected. She knew cat nature well, which differs but little from human nature in this respect, that people very often fancy themselves to possess some talent or virtue, in which they are, as a matter of fact, deficient, and not unfrequently, whilst priding themselves upon the fancied possession, neglect to cultivate and develop some other quality which they really have, and which might be made much more useful to themselves and others. So Effie was proud of her voice--where there was nothing to be proud of--and extremely pleased to hear it praised by the magpie, whom she instantly set down in her mind as an evidently respectable and well-informed bird, and one whose acquaintance it might be well to make. Without lifting her head, however, or disturbing the position of her body, which was so placed as to get as much sun as possible, she replied in a languid tone of voice: "You are really very kind, Madam Magpie, and I am far from wishing to decline the acquaintance you offer." The magpie broke in at once in a quick chatter, her words tumbling one over another as if they could not get fast enough out of her beak. "Oh, how good, and kind, and nice, and polite, and generous, and affable, and altogether charming you are! I have often watched you sunning on the window-sill or strolling about the gardens, or looking out for mice, or amusing yourself in one way or another, and I have always looked, and longed, and hoped, and wished, and wondered if I might make so bold as to speak to such a grand, lady-like, beautiful, queenly creature; and when I've heard your voice, I've often said to myself, 'Here's music, and melody, and taste, and feeling, and harmony, and everything that is delightful in sound, and if the lady would only learn singing (though little learning it is she wants), and take it up as a profession, how happy the world and everybody in it would be made: and what so pleasant as to make people happy with the good gifts we have, and who has more than she?'" As the magpie rattled on, Effie felt more and more pleased, and became still more strongly convinced than before that the bird was a superior creature, who had well used her opportunities, and possessed opinions which were entitled to great weight. Meantime the weasel, who was listening to the conversation from an old rat's hole in which he had hidden hard by, was fit to kill himself with laughter when he heard the flattery of his ally, and how the cat took it all in. The latter now raised not only her head but her body, and sat up upon the window-ledge, looking with friendly glance at the old bird in the tree. "Really," she said, in rather an affected tone, "really, you think too well of me--you do indeed--but now you speak of it, I _have_ (so my friends say at least) something of a voice, and have often thought of cultivating it more than I have hitherto done. But all are not of the same opinion, and I know that my friend Rover the dog thinks differently." Here the magpie quickly interposed. "Oh the jealousy of this wicked world and of them dogs in particular! To hear that black, ugly, shaggy animal howl at the moon, or what not, of a night. I declare if it isn't enough to drive one crazy; and for such an animal as _that_ to think anything but good of your lovely, sweet, tuneful, angelic notes! 'Tis really shocking to think he should do so--but envy and meanness, my dear creature, and malice and jealousy was ever in the hearts of dogs--forgive me that I should say so, knowing as how you live in the same house and bear with him as you do." These words rather gave Effie a new idea of her situation, but as they were evidently intended to be complimentary to herself, though at her friend's expense, she listened to them with complacency. "You must not blame my friend," she demurely answered, "because he has not such a voice as mine. Few have such, as I think I may say without being suspected of vanity, and I have no reason to think that he is either mean or envious. True, he does not evince the same pleasure in my notes as that which you so kindly express, but this is merely a matter of taste." "Ah, you dear, kind, good, charitable creature," rejoined the magpie, "it is so like you to take the best and most pleasant view of whatever anybody else says or does. But never mind, if the dog don't like it, others do, and for _my_ part, I should like to hear you play and sing all day and all night long." "As for playing," returned the cat, "I do not pretend to do _that_; in fact I have never learned, and have always been accustomed to trust to my natural voice without any accompaniment." "Never learned to play?" cried the magpie in a voice of astonishment. "Dear me, dear me, what a pity! I have so often heard good singers like you speak of the pleasure of being able to accompany oneself, and I am sure you _could_ play if you liked. Now I have a neighbour who plays the violin in the most delightful manner, and what is more, he gives lessons upon that charming instrument. A very few lessons from him, and I am sure you would play so well that the whole neighbourhood would flock to hear you!" "Really," said Effie, "this sounds very tempting. I have always felt that one ought to cultivate one's talents, and make the most of the gifts which Nature has given us. Your words are well worth consideration," and she mused for a few moments, purring all the while in a contented and self-satisfied tone. The magpie, who had now brought the conversation to the very point she desired, according to the plan agreed upon with the weasel, began to press the matter home to the cat, telling her that she was wronging herself as well as all the other animals in not making her talents of more avail to them, and taking advantage of the opportunity which now offered. The musical neighbour of whom she had spoken, turned out to be "Honest John," the hare, and although his services were in great requisition, the magpie said, she was sure that she should be able to secure them for so distinguished a person as the cat, provided that she would consent to take lessons. After a little more talk, Mrs. Effie decided to allow the magpie to sound the hare upon the subject, and appointed another meeting upon the following day in order to discuss the matter further. Then the magpie, having done a good morning's work, and successfully laid the train by which she hoped to carry out her plot with the weasel, flew chuckling off, whilst the weasel stole silently away, and occupied himself on his own affairs. Meanwhile the cat was much gratified by all that had passed. She felt that she was appreciated; and that those who lived around evidently recognized her as a person to be considered and made much of. She resolved that she would tell the dog nothing whatever of her interview with the magpie, partly because she thought he would laugh at the readiness with which she had listened to the bird's flattery, and partly because she was quite sure that he would entirely disapprove of her proposed lessons upon the violin. Thus, then, were the first seeds sown of that unhappy quarrel which was destined to divide the two once united races. Rover returned from his walk in a cheerful and pleasant mood, and behaved in the most friendly spirit towards his old friend. He could not help observing, however, that she hardly treated him after the same fashion. She seemed to hold her head higher than usual, and stood more upon her dignity than had formerly been the case. Being a good-natured dog, he took no notice of this, and, in fact, attributed her conduct to some accidental derangement of the nerves or the digestion. But when the same thing continued during the whole of the next day, he began to feel rather annoyed. Still he said nothing, and went for his walk as usual. As soon as his back was fairly turned, the magpie again made her appearance, and commenced another conversation with the cat. She had not been able to see Honest John, she said, but had made an appointment for the following day, and would call again on the morning after. Then she went on in her former strain, praising the cat's beauty and sweetness of voice to the skies, and throwing in all the nasty insinuations she could think of against poor Rover. Jenny always used to get angry when she came to this part of the story, vowing that no faithful person, and, in fact, no real lady, would have allowed anyone to say such things of an absent friend, but would have stopped the mischievous gossip at once. Effie, however, did no such thing; and after all, we must own that she only acted in the same manner as a great many men and women, for everybody likes to hear himself praised, and when a person wants to abuse or run down another, if he manages to do so in the same conversation in which he flatters his listener, he has an excellent chance of escaping without rebuke from the latter. Besides, whatever Jenny's opinion may have been, we know very well that, after all, she was but an ass. So the second visit passed off as successfully as the magpie could have wished, and then there was a third, and at each interview she scattered her poisoned seed so cleverly, that day by day the difference between the two old friends grew imperceptibly wider. I think it was not until the magpie had paid her fourth visit that the arrangement about the violin lessons was finally made. "Honest John" had reasons for declining to visit the house in which Mrs. Effie lived, but, on being bribed by promises of lettuce and parsley from the garden, freely given by the cat, and conveyed to him by the magpie, the hare consented to give evening lessons three times a week to Effie, provided that she would consent to come down and receive them by the stream which crossed the meadow close to the wood in which Honest John generally resided. In that meadow lived a most respectable cow, reputed to be a great lover of music, and John suggested that after a short time it might be possible for the two to take lessons together, and that a duet between them would be most melodious. Still this arrangement was kept completely secret from the dog, and the results that followed almost entirely arose from this silence on Effie's part, which was really as foolish as it was unnecessary. Had she opened her heart to her old friend, all might yet have been well, but she had promised the magpie to conceal the matter, and so she did. She was obliged to practise deceit in order to go forth to her lessons without the knowledge of the dog. She therefore pretended to him that she had a great fancy for cockchafers, which always came buzzing about in the early summer evenings, which was the best time to catch them. So she made this the excuse for stealing out of the house somewhat late, and Rover, finding that she evidently did not want his company, and being too proud to force himself upon anybody, stayed quietly at home. So the lessons began, and it must have been a curious sight to see the hare and the cat sitting side by side between the wood and the stream, the former instructing the latter how to hold the violin and to wring from it those sounds with which, according to the magpie, she would soon delight the world. The worthy Rover, albeit quite unsuspicious of what was going on, saw no improvement in the manners and behaviour of his old friend. She was not only cold to him, but not unfrequently behaved with positive discourtesy, making faces when he wished to engage in a friendly game of play with her, frequently setting up her back at him, and occasionally going to the length of spitting. In fact, whatever harmony she might be learning from the hare, the harmony of the household was certainly not increased, and a most uncomfortable state of things prevailed. The good dog became positively unhappy when he found that such an estrangement had grown up between his old friend and himself, and often wondered whether he had given her any just cause of offence, and whether any action on his part would be able to set matters right again. So matters went on for some time, and the magpie and weasel chuckled vastly over the success of their wicked plot. The cat, meanwhile, made some progress with her lessons, and received the compliments of honest John upon her performance, which in reality was execrable. She had not the slightest idea of time or tune, and could hardly produce a sound from the violin, whilst her voice was so disagreeable that the cow, far from consenting to join her in a duet, invariably left that part of the meadow as soon as she began, and went away to moo by herself as far off as possible. Still the cat persevered, the foolish hare expressed himself satisfied, and the magpie lost no opportunity of encouraging Effie in her praiseworthy exertions. She irritated Rover exceedingly about this time by caterwauling frequently at night, which made the honest fellow quite fidgety, and no doubt contributed in some degree to the final catastrophe which was now drawing near. The magpie, who, as it may be seen, cared neither for dog, cat, hare, nor for anything nor anybody except her own interest and amusement, saw plainly enough that the cat could not be deceived for ever by her flattery, and that some day or other she would discover the truth, namely that she was making no progress at all with her music, and was in fact no further advanced than when she first began. Having no regard whatever for the hare, upon whose large eyes she sometimes cast a covetous glance as if longing to peck them out, the wicked old bird thought that her best plan to turn the cat's possible anger from herself, would be to persuade her that her progress towards musical perfection was only delayed by the negligence or stupidity of "Honest John." She began by suggesting to Effie that although her voice was as fine as ever, and her notes as clear and true, she did not seem to be able to accompany herself as yet upon the violin. Considering her great natural talent this was certainly rather strange. Was she _quite_ satisfied with her master? Hares were jealous animals. Was this one free from the disease? Would it not be well to ask him why she could not yet accompany herself as she wished to do? By means of such words as these, the cunning magpie succeeded in gradually instilling into the mind of Effie discontent and suspicion of the hare, towards whom she had up to that time entertained nothing but feelings of gratitude and friendship. At her very next lesson she complained of not getting on fast enough, and questioned Honest John sharply upon the subject. The hare made the best excuses that he could, took most of the blame upon himself, denied that there was any such want of progress as was supposed, and promised that the very next evening he would persuade the cow to be present, and join in their musical performance. That night Effie nearly drove Rover mad with her attempts at a private rehearsal. The dog passed a sleepless night, baying angrily but uselessly at the moon, and wondering how on earth any living creature, cat, dog, or man, could find pleasure in squalling all night instead of going comfortably to bed, and seeking their natural rest. When next morning came, he had nearly had enough of it, and felt cross all day towards the cat, who had really become such a disagreeable inmate of the house as to have almost altogether destroyed its comfort as a home. The day wore on, and as evening approached, the cat made her usual preparations to leave the house for the purpose of taking her lesson. In order fully to understand how it was that the events came to pass which I am about to relate, I must here remark that the little poodle, whose name was Frisky, had observed the constant absence of Effie at this particular time, and had once or twice spoken about it to Rover. On this evening, when the same thing happened again, he remarked to the old dog that it was curious that the cat should so often go out of an evening, and suggested that they should stroll out together and see if they could find out where she had gone to, and how she managed to catch the cockchafers. To this Rover consented, partly out of good nature towards the little poodle, and partly because, being rather out of sorts, and irritated by all he had lately had to go through, he thought a moonlight stroll might cool his heated blood and do him good. So, about an hour after the departure of the cat, when the moon was up and shining brightly, the two dogs sauntered forth for their walk. Meanwhile Effie had gone down to her accustomed trysting place with the hare, and there she found Honest John, and saw that, true to his word, he had induced the cow to cross the stream and consent to join in their performance. [Illustration: THE CAT'S LAST MUSIC LESSON.--P. 212] They began well enough: the hare playing a solo upon the violin, on which he was really skilful; and the cow afterwards mooing melodiously; then the cat, after a gentle "miauw," which hurt nobody's ears, took the violin, and made a prodigious effort after success, raising her voice at the same time in tones so discordant that the hare involuntarily clapped his paws to his ears to keep out the horrible sounds. This action suddenly and at once disclosed to the cat the real poverty of her performance; and the manner in which she had been deceived by those who had flattered her upon an excellence of voice which she had never possessed. Forgetful of the real culprit, who had led her to the pass at which she had now arrived, she turned the full current of her rage against the master who had failed to supply her with that voice and taste for music which nature had denied. Dropping the violin in a paroxysm of rage, she clasped the unhappy hare suddenly round the neck, as if in a loving embrace, perhaps meaning at first only to give him a good shaking for his misbehaviour. As she did so, she exclaimed-- "Honest John, Honest John, do you laugh at your pupils, then, and stop your ears against the sounds you yourself have taught them to make?" The hare could only reply by a faint squeak, for the cat held him tight, and pressed his body close to her own. As she did so, I suppose nature asserted itself in her breast, and she could not resist the temptation of fastening her teeth in the throat which was so invitingly near her mouth. A fatal nip it was that she gave the poor hare. The warm blood followed immediately. The tiger's thirst was awakened in the cat at once, and, all the more excited by the struggles of the hare to escape, she threw her paws more closely around him, and bit so fiercely that the poor wretch soon knew that he was lost indeed. Forgetful of music, of the cow, of the violin, of everything but the mad passion of the moment, Effie clung tightly to the dying hare, purring to herself with a savage and horrible satisfaction as she did him slowly to death, and his large liquid eyes, turned to her at first with a piteous look as if to ask for mercy, grew fixed and glassy and dull as he yielded up his innocent life and lay dead beneath his cruel pupil. All this passed in a minute, and so indeed did that which followed. The cow, too utterly astonished at what had happened to think of interfering, even if her peaceful disposition would not in any case have prevented her doing so, stood aghast during the short struggle, rooted to the ground with horror and amazement. Then, when the horrid deed was done, she gave vent to a mighty, unearthly bellow, turned round, rushed to the stream, in which the reflection of the glorious moon above was clearly shining at the moment, leaped straight over it, and ran wildly away to the other end of the meadow. Other actors appeared upon the scene at the same moment. Rover and Frisky had by chance come that way in their stroll, and had seen the musical performers just at the very moment when the cat gave vent to those discordant notes which had so offended the ears of the unfortunate hare. They had precisely the same effect upon worthy Rover, who no sooner heard them than he threw himself upon the ground, buried his head in his paws, and tried to shut them out altogether. As he shut his eyes at the time, he did not immediately see what followed. In fact he lay still, groaning audibly for a minute or two, until aroused by shouts of laughter from his little companion. "Look, Mr. Rover," exclaimed little Frisky, still holding his sides with merriment. "See what fun they are having! Effie and a hare are rolling about together so funnily. And see--oh, _do_ look. Here comes the cow! Oh, what a jump!" And he went off into another fit of laughter as the cow came thundering by them in her mad career. But when Rover raised his head and looked forward, he comprehended the scene at once, and knew that it was no laughing matter, at least for one of the actors. For an instant--but only for an instant--he paused, but in the next moment his resolution was taken. With a loud, indignant bark, he sprang forward, and rushed towards the spot where the treacherous Effie still held her lifeless victim in her fatal embrace. "Murderess!" he shouted, as he sprang across the stream. "Vile murderess, these then are your cockchafers, and this the meaning of your moonlight rambles! But you shall be punished for this abominable crime, and that without delay!" Perhaps if good Rover had made a shorter speech, or rushed upon the cat without making one at all until he had caught her, he would have succeeded in his object, and avenged the poor hare. But Effie was no fool, and as soon as she heard the honest bark of her old companion, she knew by instinct that the game was up, and that the sooner she was off the better. Therefore, without a moment's delay, she tore herself from the still panting body of the luckless hare, and darted into the wood scarce half-a-dozen yards in front of the pursuing Rover. In fact I think he would actually have caught her, and possibly changed the whole current of the future relations which were thenceforward to exist between their respective races, but for her skill in climbing, of which she took advantage by rushing up a large leafy oak which stood near the outside of the wood, and from the lofty branches of which she presently sat licking her lips and looking down in safety upon her late friend, but now justly incensed enemy. With bitter words did the good dog upbraid her with her cold unkindness and deceit towards himself, and with her still worse treachery and cruelty towards her more recent acquaintance, the hare. He warned her against approaching any more the house which had hitherto been their joint home, and declared that for his part he could no longer have any friendship for one so utterly base and wicked. The cat, having no real defence to make against honest Rover's attack, contented herself with setting up her back, and spitting violently until she had somewhat cooled down. Then, with consummate craft, she began to excuse herself, declaring that the dog was himself in fault, that his arrogance and overbearing manners had become perfectly insufferable, and that if she had done anything unworthy of her noble race, it was not to a dog that she looked to be reproved for the same. The bitter language which passed between these two animals is believed by Jenny to have been the source and origin of the subsequent estrangement of the two races, and there seems no reason to doubt the accuracy of her information. Certain it is that Effie never returned home; whether remorse for her disgraceful conduct had any share in producing this result, or whether it was simply from the fear of Rover's threats, it is at this distance of time impossible to say. But from that day to this not only did this particular cat never associate with dogs upon friendly terms, but for any cat to do so, after she had left kittenhood and reached years of discretion, was and is quite exceptional conduct. Some of Effie's race frequent the woods and mountain fastnesses, avoiding altogether the abodes of men; others, indeed, consent to be considered as "domestic" animals, but they, for the most part, regard a dog as an intruder if he enters the house-door, and keep him at arm's length as much as possible. Rover returned home on that eventful night tired in body and sad at heart. To his honest and confiding nature it had been a cruel blow to find that one whom he had of old trusted and loved had turned out to be both treacherous and cruel. Singularly enough, in his return home, whom should he encounter but the weasel, who, forgetful of his usual caution, and desirous of annoying his enemy, let him know that he was aware of the cat having deceived him, and too plainly showed his exultation at the quarrel which had taken place, and his hope that it would be permanent. Rover rushed upon the little beast before he could escape, and made an end of him with a single shake. The result as regarded the magpie was more curious still. Being an inveterate thief, she no sooner saw that both the dogs, as well as the cat, were out of the house, than she flew in through the window, and seized a silver spoon which was lying upon an ordinary meat dish for the usual purpose to which such articles are devoted, namely, the helping of the gravy. Delighted with her booty, she flew to the window-sill, and having hid the spoon in the ivy which clustered round it, had just hopped into the room again, when the door suddenly opened, and the window blew to with a bang in consequence of the sudden draught. As it was a self-fastening window, the bird was unable to get out, and sat there trembling whilst the man-servant belonging to the house entered the room. Looking round, he presently perceived some gravy spilt on the clean table-cloth, and another glance satisfied him that the silver gravy spoon was missing. As he knew he should be held responsible for the loss, the plate being all in his charge, the man was naturally much annoyed, and looked right and left to see where on earth the spoon could have flown to. Soon he espied the magpie crouching in the corner of the window-seat, and trying to hide herself. "There's the thief, I'll be bound!" he cried, and stepped towards her. The bird, quite beside herself with fear, fluttered on this side and that, vainly endeavouring to escape through the window. "No you don't!" said the man. "You've been stealing, have you, Mistress Mag. Where's the silver gravy spoon?" "Oh!" shrieked the magpie; "I never stole it!--I never stole it!" "What has become of it?" said the man. "Oh, I don't know--indeed I don't know! The dish ran away with it!" shrieked the magpie, in great distress of mind, as the man reached out his hand to seize her. "Tell that to the marines!" replied the man, which was an idle and useless saying, for there were no marines there; and if there had been, it was highly improbable that the magpie would have told _them_. He seized the bird by the wing, and in the agitation and confusion of the moment, she resented the affront by giving him a sharp peck on the hand, a compliment which he returned by immediately wringing her neck. Thus (said Jenny invariably, when she reached this point in her story) you see that treachery and cunning, although they may be successful for a time, in the long run always bring those who practise them into trouble. So the magpie and weasel, who, by their malicious tricks brought disunion among friends, and introduced strife into a once united family, both lost their own lives within a very short time after the success of their wily arts had been accomplished. It was upon this old legend that the song was founded to which I alluded at the beginning of the story. I confess that I am not quite clear about the first words, "Hey diddle diddle!" Wise men and learned writers have given several interpretations of this interjaculation, or invocation, or exclamation, or whatever you please to call it. Some think that the word "diddle" (not to be found in any English dictionary of repute) must be a proper name, and that either it belonged to the man who, owning the house in which the dog and cat lived, knew all the circumstances of the story, and being likely to be interested in it, was naturally invoked by the author at the beginning of his song; or that it was, in fact, the name of the author himself, and that the words mean that "I, Diddle, wish to call your attention to the following extraordinary facts." Others, however, equally learned, hold that the word to "diddle" signifies, in slang or common language, to "do"--to "get the better of"--"to cheat," and that so the words intend to convey the moral of the whole story; namely, that those who try to cheat others generally suffer for it in some way or other. Another interpretation is that it is only another form of the word "Idyll," and that this song about the cat and dog is meant as a species of "Idyll" or "Diddle," on one of the most important topics which has ever agitated the animal world. But, whatever be their origin, there the words are, and they are the only words in the song which have caused me the slightest doubt. They are the more curious if the story be true that the song was composed by a very respectable jay, who was fully acquainted with the facts as they occurred. _She_ could have known nothing about "Diddle," if he was a man; and very likely only put the words in to suit the jingle of the rhyme. There can be no doubt that "the cat and the fiddle," are words in which is intended a satirical allusion to Effie's lessons on the violin with the unfortunate hare; and "the cow jumped over the moon," is an unmistakeable allusion to the cow's leap over the stream in which the image of the moon was reflected at the moment. When I think of the palpable reference in the next words to the conduct of the little poodle who had accompanied Rover, and remember the unhappy magpie's attempt to avoid her well-deserved fate by attempting to impute her crime to the dish, I can have no difficulty whatever in coming to the conclusion that it is upon Jenny's legend that this remarkable song has been founded. Judging, moreover, from the acknowledged antiquity of the legend, and the extraordinary way in which the facts it relates seem to fit and dove-tail in with the circumstances we all know of as bearing upon the general relations between cat and dog, I am inclined to strongly favour the opinion that the story is the correct version of the first beginning of the great and terrible schism which exists between the races. It should be a warning to us human beings to be careful how we place confidence either in dog or cat with regard to the other. If a breakage occurs in my house, and the servant in whose department it has happened brings forward the not altogether unfamiliar statement that "the cat did it," I always suspect that some dog has probably whispered it in his or her ear; and any imputation upon the conduct of my dogs I invariably attribute to the suggestion of some old cat. Still, the world is wide enough for both races; and, looking at it from a selfish point of view, their feud does not so much matter, so long as they are both obedient and useful to mankind. Wherefore, after I had heard Jenny's narrative, and duly rewarded her with a carrot, I always used to go home and think how much we may all learn from the habits of the different animals with which our world is peopled, and how their errors are in reality no greater than our own. For I am sure I have before now heard people both sing and play the fiddle, without any more pretension than Effie to be able to do either; I have heard people boast of having done things quite as impossible as that the cow should really have jumped over the moon; I have known people over and over again laugh in the wrong place like the little dog, and call things sport which are nothing of the kind, and I have listened to those who could accuse their neighbours of crimes just as unlikely as that which the magpie attributed to the dish. I will say no more, save that I hope it never happens _now_ among men and women, that husband and wife ever live in such a manner as to justify the description of their existence as being "like Cat and Dog!" OPHELIA. Next to an insane Giant there is nothing more terrible than a mad Pigmy. It was therefore a dreadful event for all people concerned when the King of the Pigmies went out of his senses. The disease came on gradually, and was not immediately discovered. His majesty had never been of a very lively disposition, and the court was therefore not much amazed when he withdrew from the public gaze, little by little, until he was very rarely visible beyond the precincts of the palace, and was understood to be deep in his studies. Those, however, who had the privilege of being immediately about his royal person, were well aware that his majesty was seriously indisposed. At first the symptoms were only those of profound melancholy. He declined his food repeatedly, refused to open his letters, buried his face constantly in his hands, and went to bed when the dinner bell rang. This was unpleasant, as the royal household were forbidden by the laws of that kingdom to have any dinner except at the same time with the king, and as pigmies are invariably blessed with good appetites, much inconvenience would have been caused but for the recognised fact that nobody ever obeyed the laws unless it happened to suit him to do so. In this manner the difficulty was got over, and the illness of the king might have been concealed from his people if no other symptoms had appeared. But from silent melancholy the unhappy monarch shortly passed to the stage of frantic violence. He threw anything he could lay hands on at the head of any individual who came near him, used the most fearful language, and gave the most extraordinary orders. These at first were evaded or received in silence in the hope they might be forgotten as soon as spoken. But when the king insisted upon it that the Prime Minister should be cut in pieces, the Lord Chamberlain fed upon rabbit skins and oil, and the Chief Justice baked without further delay, these functionaries severally and together came to the conclusion that the thing could go no further. The laws of Pigmyland were clear and well known; upon the death or incapacity through illness of the reigning sovereign, his eldest son always ascended the throne as a matter of course, and, failing sons, his nearest relative succeeded to the sceptre. Unfortunately, however, the King of the Pigmies had neither son nor relative of any kind, which arose principally from the fact of his having destroyed his father's and mother's families, owing to those jealous fears which often disturb and distract the minds of tyrants, and from the additional circumstance that he had never seen fit to marry. Thus King Pugpoz was the last of his race, and although he was undoubtedly no longer fit to govern the nation, the question as to his successor was, as will readily be imagined, one of very great doubt and difficulty. The three great officers of state, that is to say, the Prime Minister, the Lord Chamberlain and the Chief Justice, who rejoiced in the ancient and highsounding names of Binks, Chinks and Pigspud, laid their heads together several times before they could by any means agree as to what should be done. Each of them would have been willing to undertake the government himself, and each thought that he was the best person to whom it could possibly be entrusted. But the other two held quite a different opinion. Chinks and Pigspud well knew that Binks, eaten up with gout and rheumatism, was not a person whom the Pigmy nation would ever accept for their king: Pigspud and Binks were perfectly well aware that Chinks had a wife and family, whose combined arrogance and extravagance would certainly ruin the kingdom if he were placed upon the throne, and Binks and Chinks were thoroughly acquainted with the evil life which caused the public to regard Pigspud as one of the worst of men though the best of judges. So, since it was evident that none of the three could be safely elevated to the throne, it became necessary to look about for somebody else. The names of all the great people about the court were duly considered, but although there were several who would have been very willing to undertake the business, there were objections to all. One was too old, another too idle, a third of too tyrannous a disposition, and a fourth too stupid for the place. So for a time it really seemed as if it would be impossible to find a king, and that they must either put up with their mad sovereign or go without one altogether. Neither of these results, however, would have been satisfactory, either to the court or to the nation, and it was therefore with joy rather than anger that the three great officers of state received the news that a relation of the royal family had been discovered to exist, in whom a successor to the unhappy madman might be found. This was the only son of the king's uncle, who, having been cruelly treated by his father in early youth, had left Pigmyland in disgust and had been currently reported to have died shortly afterwards. This, however, had not been the case. Prince Famcram had done nothing of the kind, and had never intended to leave the world unless compelled to do so, by circumstances beyond his control. He had embarked on board a vessel which was bound on a long voyage, and had possibly cherished the hope that his absence from home would soften his father's heart, and procure for him kinder treatment upon his return. It is impossible to say whether this might or might not have been the result, inasmuch as the opportunity of proving the same never occurred. It was not long after the prince's flight, that his cousin the king took it into his royal head to destroy all his blood relations, among whom his uncle, the prince's father, naturally perished. When, therefore, the young man next received news of his family, he learned that there were none of them left alive except the royal destroyer of the rest. This news, strange as it may appear, afforded him no inducement to return to the land of his nativity, for, dear as one's country should be to every well regulated mind, life is not unfrequently dearer still, and Prince Famcram was unable to discover any sufficient reason why he should imperil the one by visiting the other. He stayed away, therefore, and lived as best he could in foreign lands, until the insanity of his cousin King Pugpoz had been officially proclaimed and publicly made known. Then, having no longer any fear for his life, he returned to Pigmyland without delay, and at once advanced his claim to the sovereignty. There were, as is usual in such cases, some persons who pretended to doubt his identity and declared that he was only an impostor. The evidence in his favour was, however, too strong for these disloyal and worthless persons. The prince had all the characteristics of his noble family. His hair was of a bright, staring red; he squinted frightfully with both eyes, had one leg considerably shorter than the other, and was gifted with a protuberance between his shoulders which was not far removed from a hump. He had, moreover, the family dislike to cold water, a strong propensity to drink spirits, and a temper which of itself was enough to stamp him as one of the royal line which he claimed to represent. Add to this, that his language was by no means well chosen or polite, that his disposition was cowardly and cruel, and that he cared for nobody in the world but himself, and you have a fair and accurate picture of the prince upon whose head the crown of the unhappy Pugpoz was about to descend. It may readily be inferred that the prospects of Pigmyland did not seem to have been much brightened by the change. Indeed, between a mad king and a bad king the difference appeared so small to some people that they were unable to see what the country had gained by the substitution of the one for the other. Nevertheless, the unswerving devotion to royalty which has always distinguished Pigmies did not fail that mighty nation upon the present occasion. Famcram was welcomed by the voice of the people, and those who doubted his identity were got rid of as soon as possible. His first act, indeed, put beyond doubt the righteous nature of his claim. He directed Pugpoz to be immediately strangled, partly to avenge the death of his relatives, and partly because he thought it a safer and more satisfactory arrangement that any chance of his returning to a sane condition of mind should at once be destroyed. Being now undeniably the only legitimate claimant to the throne of his ancestors, he determined to enjoy himself as much as he possibly could. There were considerable treasures in the royal coffers, which had been amassed by Pugpoz and his predecessors, and with which King Famcram might have purchased as much enjoyment as would have served him for a prolonged life-time. Being, however, of opinion that to be merry at other people's expense is by far the best plan if you can possibly manage it, he gave out that he expected the principal grandees of the country to entertain him at banquets, balls, croquet and lawn-tennis parties, and in order to encourage them in their endeavours to out-do each other in pleasing their beloved monarch, he declared his intention of marrying the daughter of the nobleman who, at the end of the next six months, should have best succeeded in that laudable attempt. The influence of such a promise was of course prodigious. To be the father-in-law of the king was an object well worth the attainment, and every great man throughout the length and breadth of the country felt his heart beat high at the royal announcement. Some indeed there were, who, having no daughters, were not particularly impressed by the circumstance, and spoke of the whole affair as a whim of the monarch to which slight importance was to be attached. Others, who, having seen the manner in which the late king had disposed of his relations, doubted the advantage of becoming too closely connected with the royal family, proposed to themselves to take no particular pains to surpass their neighbours in the attempt to please King Famcram. But, to tell the truth, the great majority of those who heard the royal determination, and who happened to have marriageable daughters, received the news with great delight, and determined to spare no exertion which might secure such a son-in-law for themselves. Conspicuous among these would-be competitors for the prize were the three great officials, Binks, Chinks, and Pigspud. Each was married, and none was daughterless. To all three, therefore, the field was open, and hope beat high in their official breasts. Since they first heard of the arrival and claims of Famcram, the three statesmen had unitedly and steadily welcomed and supported him. They had therefore some claims upon the royal gratitude, and hitherto their interests had been so far identical that they had been able to work together. Now, however, the interests of each were opposed to those of the other two. According to the laws of Pigmyland, the king could only marry one wife, and therefore his selection of the daughter of either of the three ministers would at once throw the others in the shade, and place the father of the bride in a position far superior to that of the other two. This circumstance, as might have been expected, caused some slight interruption of the harmony which had hitherto prevailed between these three illustrious personages. At first, however, the only intention of each of them was honestly to outdo the other two in the splendour of the reception which he should afford his sovereign. To Binks, as Prime Minister, fell the first opportunity, and King Famcram gave him due notice that he should shortly honour him with a visit to his villa, which was situate near the Pigmy metropolis. Now it so chanced that Binks was a widower, principally in consequence of his wife having died, and of his having thought it unnecessary to seek another. He had, however, two fair daughters, gems of their sex, and bright ornaments of the court of Pigmydom. Euphemia was above the height ordinarily allotted to her race, and could not have been less than three feet and a half high. Her nose was aquiline, her cheeks flushed with the red blossom of youth, her eyes dark and piercing, her figure all that could be desired, and her voice clear as a lover's lute in a still evening. Araminta, less tall than her sister, had a delicacy of complexion unrivalled in Pigmyland; her blue eyes were modestly cast down if you accosted her. She spoke in tones soft and low like the south wind whispering in the mulberry-trees, and whilst her sister took your heart by storm, she stole into it unawares, and made you captive before you knew you were in danger. Such is the description of the two daughters of the noble house of Binks, as given by a Pigmy writer of eminence at that time, and such were the charms against which King Famcram had to contend at the beginning of the campaign. The Prime Minister had intended that his entertainment should take the shape of a banquet; but the ladies insisted upon a ball, and a ball it was consequently to be. Immense preparations were made for days, nay, for weeks beforehand. The villa was gorgeously decorated, the ball-room tastefully arranged, the choicest music was provided, and no pains spared to ensure the desired success. At last the day arrived, and the hearts of Binks and his daughters beat high with expectation. The villa was beautifully placed upon the slope of a mountain, at the foot of which a broad river wound through flowery meads and fertile fields, enriching and beautifying both in its onward course. The grounds of the villa stretching along the banks of the river, were beautiful to a degree seldom seen out of Pigmyland, and never had they appeared to greater advantage than on the present occasion. Gay flags streamed from staffs placed in the most conspicuous positions as well as from many of the tallest of the trees which abounded in those magnificent gardens; sounds of lively music were wafted upon the soft summer breeze to the entranced ear of the listener; and every heart was filled with rejoicing and merriment. King Famcram was received at the entrance by a crowd of well-dressed courtiers and obsequious attendants, who awaited his coming with all that exuberant loyalty which is pre-eminently characteristic of the true Pigmy. He appeared somewhat late, as was in those days always deemed becoming in royal personages, and his coming was announced by the enthusiastic cheers of the dense crowd which thronged the approaches to the garden gates. Seated in the hereditary coach of the Pigmy monarchs, drawn by eight cream-coloured guinea-pigs, and clad in rich garments of various hue, Famcram drew near to the habitation of the honoured Binks. In his hand he held the ancient sceptre of his race, which was nothing less than the petrified skull of an early occupant of the Pigmy throne, who had by his will left his head to be devoted to this purpose, and directed that it should be rivetted in gold settings upon his favourite walking-stick, and further ornamented by such gifts as his faithful subjects might choose to bestow out of respect for the memory of their deceased lord. As his successors, each upon his accession to the throne, invited new gifts to the sceptre as a test of continuous loyalty and devotion to the throne, the head of the dead king had practically brought greater wealth to his family than it had ever done during his life-time, and although an additional precious stone or two was set in the skull after each recurrence of gifts, the greater portion of these were, it was more than supposed, converted into cash by the various monarchs who received them, and appropriated to their own royal purposes. This valuable weapon King Famcram waved in his hand as he neared his prime minister's dwelling, and looked round upon his people with a proud and kingly gaze as he passed along. Binks, as was but natural, met his royal master at the gate, and prepared to escort him up the avenue to the door of the villa, across a profusion of flowers with which the way thereto was covered. Famcram alighted from his carriage, and suffered his host to conduct him through the great gates, and to go bowing and scraping before him up the avenue. He followed, squinting around him in a friendly manner, and graciously expressing his approval of the beauty of the place. But as soon as he had reached the stone steps which led up to the villa door, the latter was thrown open, and, one on each side of the doorway, stood the two daughters of the ancient house of Binks, clad in gorgeous attire, and each holding in her hand a magnificent bouquet of the choicest flowers, which it was their intention to humbly offer to their august sovereign, and which they lost not a moment in presenting. Scarcely, however, had Famcram set eyes upon the sisters and perceived their intention, than he positively snorted with disgust, and starting hastily backwards, (during which process he planted his heel firmly upon the gouty toe of his Prime Minister,) he turned round fiercely upon the latter and accused him of having intended to poison him: "Wretch!" he cried, "there is poison in those flowers which your daughters--if such they be--offer to me, and doubtless it has not been placed there without the knowledge and consent of their vile parent. I know it but too well. Make no excuses, for they will all be useless. The nose of a Pigmy of the royal race is never mistaken. My great-great-grandfather was poisoned by a subtle venom concealed in a carnation, and in the similar flowers which are conspicuous in each of the bouquets I see before me, I detect the fate you had in store for your sovereign. But you shall bitterly rue it! Seize him, guard!" The unhappy Binks, overcome with astonishment and terror, in vain raised his voice to protest that nothing was further from his thoughts than to perpetrate such a terrible crime as that which the king suspected--and that, too, against a prince whose cause he had espoused from the first, and in whose favour his whole hopes were placed. He vowed that his daughters were certainly as innocent as he was, and implored that the bouquets might be carefully examined, in order to prove that no poisonous substance had been placed therein. It was all to no purpose. Famcram only flew into a still more violent passion. "No poison in the flowers!" he cried. "The villain doubts his king's nose and his king's words! Off with him, guards, at once; and let his daughters be taken too!" At these words Euphemia and Araminta, who had listened with awe-struck countenances and beating hearts to the extraordinary remarks of the king, gave utterance to wild shrieks, and fell fainting upon the doorway, from which they were speedily dragged by the king's orders, and hurried away, with their unhappy father, to the dungeons of the palace. Having thus got rid of his host and hostess, Famcram allowed himself to calm down gradually, and, entering the ball-room, permitted those to dance who wished to do so, whilst he himself proceeded without delay to the supper-room, and made himself as comfortable as possible. He then directed all the plate and valuables of the luckless Binks to be packed up and taken to the palace; and, having placed a guard over the villa, which he declared should in future be a royal residence, he departed, with the satisfactory feeling of having made a good night's work of it. When news of what had been done reached Chinks, the soul of the Lord Chamberlain was greatly exercised thereat. He did not for a moment imagine that Binks or his daughters had been guilty of the crime imputed to them by their royal master; but in the acts of the latter he discerned a steady determination to possess himself of the wealth of his richest subjects, and to reign more absolutely and despotically than his predecessors. How to escape the fate of Binks was a problem by no means easy of solution. He was blessed with three daughters, Asphalia, Bettina, and Paraphernalia, so much alike that they could not be known apart, and so beautiful that nobody could see them without immediately becoming devoted to them. In these damsels Chinks placed his hopes, and could not but believe that the king, however hardly he had dealt with his Prime Minister, would not be insensible to the charms of his Lord Chamberlain's daughters. Still, he received with some fear and trembling the notice which Famcram shortly sent him, that he would visit him at his country house in the following week. As the selection of a ball had not turned out well in the case of Binks, the Chinks family resolved upon another sort of entertainment, and at vast expense hired a celebrated conjuror to perform before the sovereign and his court. The preparations were great--the company numerous--the weather all that could be desired, and the monarch, with his attendant courtiers, arrived in due time at the house, and was ushered into the spacious hall, where everything had been arranged for his reception. The three daughters of the house, dressed exactly alike, were there to receive him; but not a flower was to be seen about any of them, so that the fatal error of the Prime Minister's children might be avoided. They were dressed simply, and reverently knelt before the king as they raised their voices to sing (in tones as true as they were sweet) an ode which their father had himself composed in honour of his sovereign's visit. Scarcely, however, had they finished the first verse, when the little tyrant roared out at the top of his voice-- "They sing out of tune! they sing out of tune! A royal ear is never deceived! He has made them do it because he knows I cannot bear a false note. Seize him, guards! away with him and his shabbily-dressed girls!" Chinks stepped forward to explain matters in his most courtly fashion, when the king brought down his sceptre upon his head with such a "thwack," that you might have heard it at the other end of the hall, and, though his wig, which was particularly large, partially saved him, he dropped senseless upon the floor, whilst his daughters broke into shrieks of despair which were really out of tune, and were painful indeed to hear. Famcram stopped his ears, and howled loudly for his guard, and before many minutes had passed, the Lord Chamberlain and his daughters were on their way to the same dungeons whither Binks and his girls had preceded them, and the king was occupied in selecting everything in the house which appeared to be most costly and beautiful, and directing that it should be forthwith sent to his palace. Thus within a few days were two out of the three great functionaries of the kingdom dismissed, disgraced, and left in great peril of their lives, whilst the king had added considerably to his wealth, and had got rid of two people whom he had either suspected or pretended to suspect of being likely to be troublesome. These events made a profound impression upon the mind of Pigspud, and all the more so when notice came from the king that he should pay him a visit in the following week. The Lord Chief Justice was a wily and astute man. Although his life had not been reputable, the peccadilloes of great lawyers in that country were so usual as to be regarded by the public with a lenient eye, and, late in life, his appearance had become so eminently respectable, that a stranger would certainly have taken him for a dean rather than for a judge, for a deep divine rather than for a learned lawyer. He had but one daughter. Tall, majestic of stature (for she was nearly four feet high), and with dark hair and eyes so bright that they seemed to look right through you, Ophelia Pigspud was a most remarkable woman. She was well read; so well read that people said she could have passed an examination with credit in almost any subject she had been pleased to try. Reading, in fact, was no effort to her, and her powers of memory were extraordinarily great. It was even said that she knew more of law than many lawyers of the day, whilst no one could deny her skill in modern languages, and her astonishing proficiency in general literature. As the venerable Chief Justice gazed upon his child, who was indeed the pride of his heart, he could not but feel uneasy at the prospect of her being sent to join the families of Binks and Chinks in the dungeons of the royal palace. "Never," he exclaimed, "shall such a fate befall my peerless Ophelia!" And having given utterance to this exalted sentiment, he thought for three days and three nights how to carry it out, and utterly failed to discover anything at all likely to succeed. Then he bethought himself of consulting the young lady herself, of whose opinion he thought so highly that it is curious he had not done so before. She smiled calmly when he laid the case before her, reminding her at the same time that there wanted but three more days to the time fixed by the king for his visit. "Be not alarmed, my beloved father," said she, "but be assured that the blood of a true Pigspud will not be untrue to itself in the coming trial. Besides, the education which your kind care has provided for me, has taught me means of escape from even worse dangers than those which can proceed from our tyrannical sovereign. Doubt not that it will turn out well." With such reassuring words did the daughter of the Chief Justice restore courage to the heart of her parent, and he began to look forward with less fear to the banquet at which it had been arranged that he should entertain his royal master. It was to be served in the large banqueting hall of his town house, and great preparations were set on foot for several days before that appointed for the festive gathering. But instead of busying herself about the matter, Ophelia treated it as if it was one wholly indifferent to her, and refused to be troubled about it in any way whatever. It was in vain that the domestics, who were accustomed to take all orders from her, besought her to give various directions upon different questions which arose. She declined altogether; deputing everything to Mrs. Brushemup, the housekeeper; and telling old Winelees, the butler, not to come near her on pain of instant dismissal. Her own rooms were in a wing of the house which stretched down to the banks of the river already mentioned, and from a private door she could get down upon the banks without coming in sight of the windows of the principal apartments. But before I relate that which happened to the fair Ophelia at this eventful time, it is but right to inquire what had become of the unhappy families who had already felt the weight of the tyrant Famcram's displeasure. Binks, with his two, and Chinks, with his three daughters, had been cast into the dungeons of the Royal Palace, and the wife of Chinks having been added to the party, greatly increased the misery of all by her continual upbraidings of her husband and his friend as the cause of the misfortune which had befallen their two families, which were all the more hard to bear, because they were totally unreasonable and without foundation. The dungeons were small, hot, and unsavoury, and the prisoners suffered greatly, especially as the food supplied to them was scanty in quantity and wretched in quality. The young ladies endeavoured to pass away the time in composing epitaphs upon their parents and themselves, which after all did but little towards raising their spirits, being, as such things not uncommonly are, of a somewhat melancholy character. Euphemia and Araminta, however, were so proud of one of their compositions, that it would be a pity that it should be lost to the world:-- "Here lies the minister, great Binks, No more he for his country thinks; No more he eats--no more he drinks-- But, conquered by misfortune, sinks." The daughters of the Lord Chamberlain were scarcely equal to such a poetic effort as the above; but, determined not to be behindhand, presented their parent with the following stanza:-- "Look through these bars with eye of lynx, And see the chamberlain, Lord Chinks! He scarce can breathe, and feebly winks, Quite done to death by prison stinks." In this manner did the innocent maidens endeavour to lighten the hours of captivity which passed over their heads, and when, upon the second week of their imprisonment, they were moved into larger and more airy apartments, hope at once revived within their drooping bosoms. It must, however, be confessed, that in the midst of their distress both Binks and Chinks contemplated with silent but real satisfaction the probably speedy advent of Pigspud to join them in their prison, and share their sorrows. This event they both regarded as quite certain to occur, and without having any particular ill-feeling towards the Chief Justice, the three had been too long in the position of rivals to make either two sorry for any misfortune that befell the third, especially if it had previously fallen upon themselves. Leaving these worthies to their expectations, we will now endeavour to discover what was passing at the abode of Pigspud. It was the evening but one before the projected banquet. The shades of evening were fast closing in around the city, and the mists of the river were beginning to rise like vapoury spirits from the water, when the private door of Ophelia's wing was stealthily and quietly opened, and a figure emerged, clothed from head to foot in a cloak of dark gray. Slowly but surely, as one who knew the road well, the figure passed along the low terrace-walk that led down to the bank of the river, and stood at the brink, silently for a few moments, and then began to murmur words in a low tone. A listener, however attentive, could scarcely have made out the meaning of that which Ophelia (for it was none other than the daughter of the house of Pigspud) was reciting, for the language in which she spoke was strange, and her tone somewhat indistinct;-- "Marley-quarley-pachel-farley, Mansto macken furlesparley, Mondo pondo sicho pinto, Framsigalen hannotinto." Such were the mystic words which issued from the lips of the maiden. Nor was it long before a response was given. A low murmuring sound proceeded from the river, and out of the rushes which fringed the bank there presently arose a form of strange and weird appearance. It was that of an old, a very old woman, with a red cloak wrapped around her, an umbrella in her hand, and a poke bonnet upon the top of her head. She was small, though not much below the ordinary height of a Pigmy; but the most remarkable thing about her was the extreme keenness of her eye, which seemed to pierce you through and through when she fixed it upon you. Slowly she rose from among the rushes, and scrambled, somehow or other, up the bank, until she stood opposite to the maiden who had summoned her. As soon as she had accomplished this feat, she struck her umbrella upon the ground, and remarked in a somewhat masculine tone of voice: "What is it, Ophelia, and what do you fear, That you've called your affectionate godmother here? Has your 'Pa' been unkind? (since no 'Ma' you have got), Or a lover appeared when you'd rather he'd _not_? Are you ill, or unhappy, or is't for a freak That your godmother's presence you suddenly seek?" Ophelia listened with respectful attention whilst the old woman uttered these words, and then replied in a low, sweet voice:-- "Did I not deem the crisis grave I had not called thee from thy wave: And if in doing so I err, Forgive me, gracious godmother! My father knows thee not, great dame; My mother told me, all the same, Thou _wast_ my godmother, and so I love thee in my weal and woe. O'ercome by cruel destiny, Poor Binks and Chinks in dungeons lie, And our bad king--a grievous sin-- Hath likewise put their daughters in. Dear godmother! 'twere sad, you know, My father should to prison go; But sadder still (you'll hardly fail To see) that _I_ should go to gaol. Yet is the time but two days hence When Famcram comes; on some pretence He'll surely send us both to pris'n, And make _our_ valuables hisn. Dear Godmother! Pray leave thy wave Thy loving god-daughter to save, Or tell me how, by thy kind aid, The tyrant's power I may evade!" Whilst Ophelia was speaking, the old woman kept tapping her umbrella upon the ground in visible wrath, and a frown appearing upon her face, which was otherwise not particularly beautiful, did not greatly improve her personal appearance. As soon as the maiden ceased, she lost not a moment in making her reply:-- "I'm ready, my darling, to do your behest, For tyrants like Famcram I greatly detest, And if your good father was not such a dolt, From the land of the despot he'd speedily bolt. For Binks and for Chinks I have nothing to say, And they're probably just as well out of the way; But as to their daughters--I'm really inclined To think that the king has gone out of his mind, And in _your_ case, I'll teach him, as well as I can, A woman has rights just as much as a man, And he's vastly mistaken, poor wretch, if he thinks A god-child of mine is the same as Miss Binks. Now listen to me: when King Famcram comes here, Betray not the slightest suspicion of fear, But enter, quite calmly, the banqueting room Arrayed in your commonest morning costume. He'll show irritation; and rage, beyond doubt (You know he could scarcely be royal without); But never mind _that_, tho' he rages meanwhile, Bestow on the fool a contemptuous smile; In spite of his anger, continue the same, And ask 'If he isn't content, why he came?' Whate'er he replies, pray be careful of this, And do not one word or one syllable miss; As soon as he threatens, stand just as you are, But hold up before him this earthenware jar, Remarking, 'King Famcram, determined I am To ask you to taste of my raspberry jam.' He'll do it--he must--since, the truth for to tell, This jar carries with it a wonderful spell; And when I've said o'er it the words I'll now say, Whoever you choose will acknowledge your sway. While kept in your hand (not a difficult task) Each person you speak to will do what you ask; And once the jam tasted, you'll have for your slave King Famcram, and teach him the way to behave. But keep the jar safe, for, broken or chipped, Of your spell and your sway you'll be speedily stripped." With these words the old lady, who, whilst speaking, had pulled out of some pocket or other, or else from the folds of her umbrella, a small jar, now held it aloft in her hand and displayed it before the eyes of Ophelia. As soon as she had done so for as long a time as she thought fit, she stuck her umbrella firmly into the ground, and holding the jar immediately over it, pronounced certain mystic and fearful words, which no mortal of ordinary nature could utter, much less write, and which there is the less reason to mention, because if they were written or uttered, no child of man could possibly understand them. But when she had finished this fearful muttering to herself, she spoke out more loudly, addressing herself thus to the jar and its contents: "Jar! possessed of mighty spell, Do thy work, and do it well. Serve Ophelia night and day-- Famcram bring beneath her sway. Jam! do duty day and night; Tempt the royal appetite-- Be to Famcram wine and meat, Bring him to Ophelia's feet; Cause him eagerly to crave Life but as Ophelia's slave; Bow him humbly, bring him down, At her footstool place his crown, And, thy mission to fulfil, Let him live but by her will." Having finished her incantation, and repeated these lines in a voice sufficiently distinct, though not unlike the croak of a raven, the old woman now turned once more to Ophelia, as if to ascertain whether she had anything more to say. The maiden smiled sweetly upon her, and at once expressed her thanks in the following words:-- "Dear godmother! how good thou art! The burden now has left my heart, Which like a weight has bowed me down With fear of tyrant Famcram's frown. Well do I know 'twere hard to find A councillor more wise and kind; And, with thy might and magic aid No longer shall I feel afraid. I'll use the jar and jam as told, And very tight the former hold, And when King Famcram is subdued I, with this magic power imbued, Will make him slave--and let him know it-- And ne'er forget to whom I owe it!" So speaking, Ophelia held out her hand for the promised jar, when the old woman, making a stride forward, placed it in her hands, and then, throwing both her arms round the maiden, clasped her tightly in a long and loving embrace with which she could very well have dispensed. Gratitude, however, for the immense favour which she was about to receive at the hands of her excellent godmother, prevented her from disclosing the repugnance which she probably felt at the vehemence of the old lady's affection, and having endured it with silent fortitude, she took the jar into her hands, and, bidding her companion a respectful farewell, forthwith re-entered the private door through which she had come, and shortly disappeared within the house. The old woman then took up her umbrella, and slowly descending the bank of the river to the rushes from which she had emerged, speedily became invisible. The shades of night closed in, and darkness soon set its seal upon the Pigmy capital and nation. The Chief Justice did not see his daughter that evening, and although he had great confidence in her sagacity, talents, and resources, it must be confessed that he rose next morning with a heavy heart. In all probability, he thought, it was his last day of office, and not only of office, but of freedom. With the fate of the Prime Minister and the Lord Chamberlain before his eyes, how could he possibly hope to escape? For a moment the thought of flight crossed his mind, but was as instantly banished. His hopes, his wealth, his relations, his home--everything that could make life pleasant was fixed and centred in his native country, and at his age no change was to be thought of or could be endured. And then, where could he fly to, and how escape from the tyrant's spies? No: the thought was madness--the event, be it what it might, must be encountered: the morrow must come in its due course, and, after all, he, a lawyer, a statesman and a philosopher, ought to be able to put up with his fate at least as well as other people. While the worthy Pigspud thus mused upon the melancholy prospect before him, he was interrupted by the approach of his daughter, the calmness of whose countenance and demeanour was certainly calculated to reassure her anxious parent. However, although she spoke hopefully and bade the old man take courage and be sure that things would turn out better than he expected, she told him not one word about her secret interview of the previous evening, or of the powerful assistance she had procured. So the old gentleman passed but a sad day, and could only console himself by resolving to be loyal to the last to his sovereign, and to provide him an entertainment of which he should not be ashamed. Vast, indeed, were the preparations made for that banquet. So many delicacies had probably not been collected together for one repast within the memory of man. Nothing was omitted. From the oysters with which each guest was to be furnished at the beginning, down to the liqueurs at the end of the feast, everything was there, and everything was in perfection. Pigspud had even hired a special poet to compose and recite an ode in praise of the King, but there were doubts expressed as to the complete success of the composition, confined as it was to the doings of the table, and celebrating dishes which were made to tickle the palate by their taste rather than the ear by their well-sung praises. The ode began,-- "Come servants all, the table put on Well-roasted beef and tender mutton. Guests, down your throats white veal and lamb cram, And drink the health of good King Famcram! Consume the oaten cakes and wheat-bread, The calves-foot jelly and the sweet-bread, And own the table splendid, that is So well supplied with oyster-patties." There was much more of this, in a similar strain, but in the confusion that afterwards followed, and in the interesting events which I shall presently have to chronicle, the ode itself was lost, and as no copies could be afterwards obtained, I am unable to supply the rest of it to the anxious reader. With regard to the entertainment, generally, there was certainly no fault to be found. Old Winelees and Mrs. Brushemup had surpassed themselves, and the confectioners, cooks and pastrycooks to whom had been assigned the duties connected with the preparation of the affair, had exerted themselves beyond all praise. The decorations were gorgeous, and everything appeared to have been arranged with such care and good taste, and with such an utter disregard of expense, that there were not wanting many, even among those who were acquainted (as who was not) with the upshot of the efforts made by the Prime Minister and the Lord Chamberlain to do honour to their sovereign, who prophesied a greater success and even a triumphant result to the Chief Justice. The hour drew near at which Famcram was expected, and ere long the distant trumpets heralded his approach. The mob cheered him lustily along the streets, not because he was popular, but because he was handsomely dressed, had his crown upon his head and the famous sceptre in his hand, which facts were quite sufficient to justify a mob in cheering anybody. Nearer and nearer his carriage drew, and at last stopped before the door of Pigspud's mansion. Then, after one last loud flourish, the trumpets ceased to sound. The king alighted to his feet. The Chief Justice received him kneeling on one knee. Famcram bowed coldly, glanced right and left, and then slowly entered the banqueting room, while his host tremblingly followed behind, his heart balanced between hope and fear, but much, it must be owned, inclining to the latter. The king paused at the entrance of the room. Everything was so beautifully arranged that it was difficult to find fault, even for one who was determined to do so. The flowers, the fruit, the flags, the garlands, the decorations which met his eye were all so splendid, that those who saw them, and knew at the same time that the tyrant was certain to find some occasion to carry out his purpose, marvelled within themselves, what cause for fault-finding he could possibly discover, or what excuse he would be able to invent for his action. They had not long to marvel, however, for the next moment the eyes of all were turned upon Ophelia, who came sauntering down the room, between the tables, very leisurely, even carelessly, and advanced towards the king. She was dressed in her morning dress of an unpretending brown colour, fitting closely to the figure, and unadorned by ornament of any kind save a steel chatelaine, from which hung sundry useful articles, scissors, thimble, needlecase and the like; but which added to the suspicion which her general appearance created, that she had merely walked from her sitting-room to the banquetting-hall without any change of toilet in honour of the king. This was quite enough for Famcram, and furnished him with an excuse for anger against his Chief Justice, far more legitimate than those which had been made the pretext for the punishment of his two brother officials. The king lost no time in flying into a violent passion. "What ho!" he cried, in as loud a voice as his anger would permit him to raise. "What bold hussey is this who comes to meet her sovereign in common everyday garments? What malapert conduct have we here?" and he strutted forward puffing and fuming like a turkey-cock. Ophelia, who had learned her lesson well, and knew how much depended upon it, paid not the smallest attention to the anger of the king, but advanced towards him with the same careless step, and a contemptuous smile upon her countenance. Of course this made matters worse, and the unhappy Pigspud trembled in his shoes in dire anticipation of what would follow, whilst the courtiers and attendants opened their eyes wider than they had ever done at the strange conduct of the infatuated maiden. The sight of the smile upon the maiden's face incensed Famcram to a still greater degree. He stamped violently upon the floor, and turning to the Chief Justice demanded in imperious tones what was the meaning of this insult. "Who is it?" he cried, "who is this brazen-faced daughter of a demon who dares to come thus into our presence?" The unhappy Pigspud in trembling tones admitted that it was his own daughter. "Your daughter?" exclaimed the king, with a smile or rather grin in which fury, triumph and revenge contended for the mastery. "It is then in your house and by your daughter that I am thus treated? I will deal with you presently, Chief Justice. What do you mean, hussey, by this shameful impudence?" To the surprise of the king himself and of every person present, Ophelia actually yawned whilst the monarch was speaking, and when he had concluded, kept smiling upon him with palpable contempt, and glancing round at the decorations and beautiful objects right and left of her, remarked in a languid, drawling tone--"If you are not content, King Famcram, why did you come?" This filled up the measure of her iniquity, and drove the king nearly mad. Half beside himself with rage, he seemed to those about him to foam at the mouth as he spluttered forth his furious answer. "Vile wench! you and your father shall suffer for this! You shall, by all that a Pigmy holds dear I swear it. The fate of Binks and Chinks shall be paradise to _your_ lot, you wretched scum of the earth. Ho! guard, seize these traitors at once, and have the lowest and darkest dungeon made ready for them without delay!" A groan burst from the lips of the unfortunate Pigspud as the royal lips pronounced these words, for in them he naturally saw the realisation of his worst fears. But before one of the guards could move hand or foot, the fair Ophelia, with the same smile continuously upon her lips, took a step or two forward, and, holding out in her hand the little jar of which we know--but of the existence of which everyone present was profoundly ignorant, said in a remarkably calm and clear voice-- "Pray listen: King Famcram, determined I am To ask you to taste of my raspberry jam!" Scarcely were the words out of her mouth when a perceptible change came over the face, voice, and manner of Famcram. The first turned ghastly white; the second sank to a low whisper; and the third lost all its violence, and became as quiet as the manner of a sheep when in the hands of its executioner. One shiver passed over the king's frame, as if there was a strong internal struggle; but it was over in a moment. Murmuring something so indistinctly that no one was quite sure what he said, but apparently something about "not liking to refuse a lady," he shuffled forward to meet Ophelia, whilst the crowd around was plunged in the deepest amazement at his strange and altered conduct. The maiden, as he approached, took a small silver salt-spoon from the table near her, scooped out of her jar a good spoonful of the jam, and held it to Famcram's mouth. He meekly received the spoon therein, and devoured the jam without a word, good, bad, or indifferent. The next moment he grovelled--literally grovelled--at Ophelia's feet, covering them with kisses, and vowing that he was her slave for life. The people could hardly believe their eyes, and looked at each other as if they felt that they must all be in a dream, or suffering from some optical delusion, and that it could not be a reality which was passing before them. But Ophelia took it all quite as a matter of course. She ordered Famcram, in haughty tones, to kneel on all fours, and as soon as he had done so, she sat down upon him with the greatest calmness. Wonder upon wonders! The tyrant, who had shown every disposition to treat his people like miserable slaves, seemed now to be reduced to more abject slavery than the meanest of his vassals. A moment before, he was uttering threats of vengeance against his host; now, he was prostrate and humble, the meek servitor of that host's daughter. No one could imagine whence or how this mighty change had come, but the voice of Ophelia soon turned their thoughts to other things. Still seated upon her living stool, she bade the guests be seated, and told them that her father would do the honours. Having seen her power displayed in so miraculous a manner, no one felt the least inclined to disobey her, the more particularly as her commands were by no means of an unwelcome nature, and the feast was one of a very inviting description. No one offered to interfere between the lady and the sovereign, being probably of opinion that to do so would expose themselves to danger without benefit to their lord and master, for whom, moreover, none of them had any very particular affection. Accordingly they obeyed Ophelia's commands without either reluctance or hesitation, seated themselves at the tables and began to attack the good things thereupon without any unnecessary delay. Meantime Ophelia kept her seat, and Famcram, not being particularly strong, soon groaned beneath her weight, especially as she did not try to lighten his burden, but sat as heavy as she could, occasionally lifting her feet from the ground to give greater weight to her body. The king spoke not a word, however, being apparently restrained by some power. He merely panted and breathed deeply, once or twice trembling so as to shake the maiden. Whenever he did so, she struck him a sharp blow on the side of the head with the back of her hand, addressing him at the same time with epithets the reverse of complimentary. "Beast, keep quiet." "Be still, you stupid brute," and such like ejaculations were all the king got from his fair mistress, and this continued until the banquet was well nigh over, and most of the good things consumed. Then Ophelia arose, and taking the king by the ear (which she pinched and twisted so that an involuntary yell broke from the unhappy sufferer), led him to the head of the table at which her father was presiding. The latter trembled even then, partly for fear of the extraordinary power possessed by his daughter, and perhaps in a greater degree lest it should suddenly fail her after all, and the vengeance of the enslaved monarch be worse to endure than would have been his first anger. No such fear, however, troubled Ophelia, who had her own purpose in what she was now about to do. She desired to show to the people her great and full power over their sovereign, and this she had already done; but it was by no means part of her plan that they should cease to pay him deference, or at least obedience, for it was through him that she could alone possess that power over them which she fully intended to gain. She therefore caused him to be seated at her father's right hand, and to be supplied with food and drink of which she directed him to partake. Famcram obeyed at once, meekly and without complaint, and ate what was given to him with a grateful glance at Ophelia, such as a dog might have given to a master who had thrown him a bone. She, meanwhile, seating herself on the other side of her father, listlessly asked for some boiled chicken, and, whilst she trifled with her knife and fork, began to converse upon indifferent subjects, making no allusion whatever to the incidents of the day. This behaviour caused the Chief Justice the greatest astonishment, and at another time he would have demanded explanations of his daughter without delay. But his joy at the unexpected turn which things had taken, and at his own safety, at least for the time, from the peril with which he had been so recently threatened, caused him to take less notice of the matter than he would otherwise have done. To speak the truth, moreover, his joy had been somewhat increased and his spirits in no small degree elated by an unusual quantity of dry champagne which he had imbibed in the excitement of the moment, so that things appeared natural and reasonable to him which would generally have seemed most extraordinary. Ophelia meantime was playing her game well. She judged--and judged rightly--that the conduct of the king in throwing himself at her feet, in allowing her to sit upon him as if he were a chair or stool, and in afterwards meekly following her to the head of the table, would be attributed to nothing else than devoted love by a great many of those who were present, and especially by such as had not been near enough to witness his first outburst of anger, or to hear his first words, which had certainly not been those of affection. This idea would be speedily followed by another, when the guests saw her seated on one side of the Chief Justice and King Famcram on the other. What _could_ it mean save that she was about to be raised to the highest dignity in the kingdom, and to share the throne and power of Famcram as his queen? This was in fact the resolution which she had formed, and determined to omit no precaution which might ensure its success. So she sat and ate at the banquet, already looking and feeling like a queen, and her device fully succeeded in making the people believe that things were as she desired. But all this would be insufficient without some public avowal on the part of the king, and she resolved that this should be given. Presently, therefore, she leant forward across her father, and, steadily looking Famcram in the face, thus addressed him:-- "King, your wish--the anxious wish of your heart--shall be gratified. I consent to become your queen, and you may at once announce the happy tidings to this august assembly." As she said these words, the luckless Famcram turned quite red in the face, and there was visibly another struggle within his breast between contending passions. This struggle lasted longer than the first, and not only did he make no sign of acquiescence to the lady's proposal, but there were those who afterwards declared that they heard--deep and low like the sound of fire struggling to burst loose from walls within which it is enclosed--a sepulchral voice within the king which muttered the words--"I don't want any queen." But, whether such words were spoken or not, Ophelia was equal to the occasion. "Jam, dear, did you say?" she asked in her most winning tones, and in another second the salt-spoon was out, and a portion of the contents of the little jar transferred without delay to the king's mouth, whilst in a low, determined voice, the maiden continued, speaking in tones which could scarcely be heard by anyone save the king himself and the Chief Justice. "Speak out, slave, at once, and acknowledge me as your only queen." Mechanically, as if moved by springs, uprose King Famcram. There was a dead silence for a moment; then there burst forth a loud cheer, for the guests naturally supposed that the king was about to speak, and knew that it was proper to cheer before he said anything, in order to show that they were ready to do so afterwards. Then again there was a silence, and Famcram spoke these words: "Ophelia Pigspud is my queen, and only she." And down he sat again so suddenly that everybody thought it was by accident, and there must be something more coming. As, however, there was _not_, it was evidently the duty of all present to cheer again, and this they did most lustily, again and again, though a great many of them had not heard what the king had said, a great many more thought there was something in the proceeding which they could not understand, and still a great many more did not care sixpence, one way or other, about the announcement. Nevertheless, Ophelia had gained her end: the king had publicly declared that she, and she only, was his queen, and the rest appeared to depend upon herself. By this time the Chief Justice was in a condition which rendered it desirable that no further business of importance should be transacted, for the excitement of the afternoon had proved altogether too much for him. He was therefore assisted to his room, and retired amid loud cheers from such of the guests as had not made sufficient noise before. Then Ophelia directed the butler and his attendants to conduct Famcram to the state chamber, and to direct the guards to be placed in the usual manner. The courtiers and guests were forthwith dismissed, and the eventful day drew to its close. Many and deep were the thoughts which occupied Ophelia's mind that night; she had a difficult game to play, and though her spirit was high and her courage undaunted, it was impossible that she should not feel some anxiety as to the result. So far, indeed, all had gone well. Famcram, who had evidently entered the banqueting-room with no better intentions towards her father and herself than those which he had entertained and carried out in the case of the unhappy families of Binks and Chinks, had been entirely overcome by the magic assistance of her godmother. The jam had proved most efficacious indeed, and the evening had been one continued triumph. But doubts and fears still remained as to the future. At the very moment of the king's recognition of her as his queen, he had but too plainly evinced a disinclination to the step which appeared to indicate that the power of the jam was but temporary, unless, indeed, it was the last struggle of his obstinate nature against that power. He had certainly yielded, and nothing could have been more complete than Ophelia's victory. But then came the question, if the jam had not sufficient force to keep the king enchained as her slave for a longer time than the duration of the banquet, might not its power die away altogether before morning? In that case, what would be her position if the monarch, too wary to see her, and so run the risk of being again subjected to the same treatment, should issue orders directed against her and hers, and fully revenge himself for the events of the previous evening? True--if she retained the jar, she might operate upon his messengers in such a manner as to prevent their inflicting personal injury upon herself, but she would probably be unable to protect her father or his property, as the power she possessed seemed to be personal, closely connected with the jam, and such as could only be exercised when she had the jar in her hand. Suppose, again, that Famcram should awake during the night, discover that he was not in his own palace, summon his attendants, and surprise her father and slay or capture him whilst asleep. Or suppose he should leave the house by stealth, and that next morning it should be surrounded by royal guards before she was awake, and her jar possibly taken from her. All these thoughts passed constantly through the mind of the daughter of Pigspud, and she got but little rest throughout the whole of that long and dreary night. Early in the morning she arose, performed her toilet with the greatest care, and forthwith descended to the grand drawing-room of the mansion, where several of the courtiers had already assembled. The king had not yet made his appearance, and it must be owned that Ophelia awaited his coming with some anxiety. Presently, however, the doors were thrown open, and the sun shining through the great windows on the staircase, fell full upon the bright red hair of the little monarch, making it brighter than ever. As he slowly descended, Ophelia grasped tightly in her hand the little jar, which she kept concealed in the folds of her dress, quite prepared to have recourse to it again immediately, if occasion should require. She soon saw, however, that she need be under no immediate apprehension. There was a submissive look about Famcram's general appearance, and a humility even in his squint (which seemed that morning to be more frightful than ever), which greatly re-assured the maiden. He came limping into the room, and bowed before her as he entered. Now was the moment when Ophelia's course of action must be clear and certain. She had already resolved upon it, and proceeded according to her determination. To keep Famcram in awe of herself--to preserve their last evening's relations of mistress and slave--was positively necessary, but it was equally desirable not to lower her future husband in the eyes of his courtiers and attendants. She therefore saluted him with a graceful bend of the head, and invited him to the breakfast-room, where they took their seats side by side. The Chief Justice was rather late that morning, at which nobody manifested any surprise, having seen that his fatigue was great on the previous evening. Ophelia therefore had everything to do, and she did it admirably. The guests were well treated, the breakfast was excellently arranged, and everybody appeared satisfied and in good spirits. At the conclusion of the repast, Ophelia notified to the king that he should appoint a time that morning at which he would receive his subjects, and publicly fix the day upon which their marriage should be celebrated. The little man made no objection, and trembled visibly when the maiden fixed her eyes upon him. So it was arranged that at a public audience to be held at twelve o'clock, the king should make solemn proclamation of his intended marriage, and that, as delays in such matters were undesirable, the ceremony should be performed the very next day. Thus far had Ophelia Pigspud certainly overcome the evils with which fate had threatened her, and she began to feel confident that all would go well, and that her triumph would be final and complete. Twelve o'clock came, and the appointed reception was duly held, the proclamation that it would be so having attracted many of the better class of Pigmies. The shortness of the notice was no hindrance to this result. In some countries, I have been told, when subjects are admitted to the presence of their sovereign, they are compelled, whether men or women, to adopt a costume which they never think of wearing at any other time, which is exceedingly inconvenient and sometimes ridiculous. Although these ceremonies take place, like the royal receptions in Pigmyland, in the broad daylight, the ladies who attend are obliged to do so in dresses more fit for evening parties, with their heads fantastically arranged and crowned with feathers, more ludicrous than imposing, while, irrespective of weather, their throats and chests are exposed in a manner exceedingly likely to produce colds and coughs and such like undesirable ailments. The gentlemen, all armed with swords, as if the sovereign was likely to order a sudden attack upon them, or to require their services in order to repel one upon himself, are dressed in various degrees of absurdity, according to the particular rank or grade to which each belongs, but no one wears an ordinary dress, and the whole thing is somewhat like a fancy ball or a masquerade without the masks. These, however, are of course only half civilized people, and not an intelligent and progressive race such as the Pigmies. The latter appear before their monarch in their ordinary clothes, the only regulation being that they shall be decent and respectable, as in fact they always are. Thus the sovereign sees his people as they really are, whilst they on their part come into the royal presence without restraint, or the uncomfortable feeling of presenting an appearance similar to that of a jackdaw in peacock's feathers. This ensures a large attendance on reception days, which are also the more frequently held, and at short notice, since they do not entail upon the people, as in the countries to which I have alluded, the necessity of long notice to dress-makers and tailors, and the not inconsiderable expense contingent upon dealings with such people. So although the proclamation was only made upon the same morning, the greater part of the aristocracy of Famcram's capital, together with many of the middle classes, who were not excluded from that court, attended his reception. Ophelia stood by his side, carefully retaining the jar of jam all the time, and the little monarch was as submissive as upon the previous day. The people saw and recognised her position. Whether they murmured at all, or entertained any objection to the sudden elevation of the daughter of Pigspud, I cannot say, but at all events no such feeling was evinced, the reception passed off as well as Ophelia could possibly have wished, and Famcram was as much her slave as ever. For greater security, she gave him a small piece of bread and jam immediately after luncheon, and he really seemed to require no more in order to keep him perfectly submissive and obedient to the will of his mistress. Of course it was necessary to make great preparations for the next day. Chief Justice Pigspud, finding his daughter's position, to all appearance, firmly established, took heart again, recovered much of his former confidence, and began to hold up his head and to prepare to take a full share in the future government of the kingdom. He naturally took the lead in arranging the proceedings of the following day, the more especially as Famcram seemed to have suddenly changed his character. Instead of being captious, jealous, ill-tempered, arbitrary, and tyrannical, he appeared to have subsided into a meek, quiet, timid being, who hardly dared call his soul his own. He spoke, looked, and moved as if in a kind of stupor, and obeyed every command of Ophelia without a protest or even a murmur of objection. The Chief Justice, seeing that this result had been obtained in some mysterious way, was too well satisfied with it to trouble his daughter by inquiries into the means she had used or the agencies she had employed. It is due to the old man to say that he suspected nothing unlawful, but even had he entertained such suspicions, I do not know that he would have deemed it necessary to take any action upon them, since, whatever the means taken, the end secured had been one so desirable. With all his faults Pigspud was not without generosity, and now that he saw good prospects of prosperity before him and his house, he bethought himself of his old associates, Binks and Chinks, and determined, if possible, to effect their release from unmerited imprisonment. With this object he went to his daughter in the afternoon of the day before the wedding, representing to her that it would be a graceful act on her part, and one likely to be popular with the people, if she were to persuade the king to release his old ministers and their families, and invite them to be present at his approaching nuptials. Ophelia was somewhat vexed at the request. She hardly felt as yet sufficiently secure in her position to run any risks, and, although she would have been glad enough to have aided in the release of the Prime Minister and the Lord Chamberlain, an indefinable something seemed to tell her that in the daughters of the two ministers she would find enemies who had better not be placed in any position in which they could possibly do harm. She knew the power which jealousy has over the female mind--that is to say, in Pigmyland, though, of course, in ordinary countries, such a feeling is unknown to the softer sex--and she feared she knew not what. However, she felt that it would be ungracious, as well as ungrateful, to refuse her father his first request, and she, therefore, told Famcram that the prisoners must be released in order to be present at the wedding next day. The king raised no objection, but did as he was told, and orders were immediately sent to the dungeons for the liberation of the ex-ministers and their families, at which they were, of course, delighted; but some difficulty was experienced after their release from prison, as to where they should go to, inasmuch as King Famcram had appropriated all their property. As, however, their respective houses remained unoccupied, they were permitted to return thither, and make themselves as comfortable as they could. The ladies of the party were the worst off, and great were their complaints of total inability to appear in proper dresses at the festivities on the ensuing day. Ophelia felt for their difficulty, and did all she could to remove it, supplying them with many articles of dress from her own wardrobe, and assuring them of her sincere sympathy for their sufferings in the past, and her readiness to promote their happiness in the future. So when the morning fixed for the royal marriage dawned, all seemed likely to go well, and content reigned upon the face of every Pigmy. Owing to a conflagration which, at a subsequent period, destroyed all the records in the public offices of that country, I am unable to supply my readers with a full and accurate account of all the details of the interesting ceremony which united Ophelia to her royal husband. Various accounts were written and published at the time, but none of them by authority, and I am unwilling to trust to unauthorized narratives when dealing with a subject of such immense importance. That which it most concerns us to know, however, is that the wedding actually took place, which fact having been once ascertained, even the appearance of the bride and the dresses of the bridesmaids become matters of comparatively little moment Of this great fact there is happily no doubt. King Famcram was legally married to Ophelia Pigspud after the custom of Pigmy marriages, and the maiden was undoubtedly Queen of the Pigmies. Her first act was at once gracious and becoming. She caused Binks and Chinks to be reinstated in their former offices, and arranged that pecuniary compensation should be given them for the losses they had sustained. Furthermore, she appointed Euphemia and Araminta Binks, together with the three daughters of the lord chamberlain, Asphalia, Bettina, and Paraphernalia, as her ladies in waiting, and promised to them and to herself that the court should ever be made the scene of gaieties and entertainments to which it had long been a stranger. But however good were the motives of Ophelia, however kind her feeling towards these five young ladies, however pleasant her plans might have appeared to them under other circumstances, I am sorry to say that they neither believed in nor appreciated them. Feelings of jealousy had sprung up within their tender breasts, from the first moment that they had found Ophelia preferred to the throne before themselves. Possessed, as has been related, of beauty, wit, and fascination in different degrees, but in the case of each of them, a superior degree to the generality of maidens, they felt that they had, each and all, as good a right to have shared the throne of Famcram as the more fortunate damsel who had obtained that position. Instead, therefore, of being loyal to Ophelia, and grateful for her kindness towards them, they regarded her with envy and spite, and their beautiful faces but ill reflected the ugly feelings which occupied their hearts. Ignorant of this, Ophelia had forgotten her first fears and doubts upon the question of their release, and, unsuspicious of evil, kept one or other of the maidens constantly near her. For a day or two all went well. The king kept in the same state of torpor, and his passive obedience to his wife made him, in the general opinion of Pigmy ladies, a model for all husbands. Ophelia, however, knowing the source from which her power was derived, kept her jar always at hand, so that she might be able to have immediate recourse to it if the occasion should arise. It was not extraordinary that, under these circumstances, her ladies in waiting should become acquainted with, and take notice of, the fact. It became, very shortly after their appointment, a matter of conversation amongst them, and of wonder that the Queen should always carry about with her a common looking little jar, of which they knew neither the use nor the contents. Paraphernalia, the youngest and prettiest of the Chinks family, wished to ask a question about it outright, but the worldly wisdom of her elder sisters checked her, for they feared that their position at court might be imperilled by any forwardness or impertinence of the kind. Whether Ophelia, if asked, would have given such information, or at least have dropped such hints, as might have prevented the occurrence of the facts I am about to relate, cannot now be known. The opportunity was not afforded her, and the five ladies in waiting remained in ignorance upon the subject. On the third day after her marriage, Ophelia was to receive the ladies of the court and such of the fairer portion of Pigmyland as desired to be presented to her. She was richly arrayed in garments well suited to the occasion, and looked right royal as she stood to receive her guests. The king, with meek and submissive gait, stood by her side, and never had she looked more lovely or felt more triumphant. Resolved, however, to take care of safety as well as of appearance, she kept in her left hand the little jar, having a scarf lightly thrown over her arm and concealing it from view. It had not, however, escaped the sharp eyes of Paraphernalia Chinks, who determined in her own mind that the day should not pass by without her knowing something more about the evident mystery to which that jar related. The ladies in waiting were, naturally enough, near the queen, and stood looking on whilst those who were presented to her majesty trooped by, making their reverent obeisances as they did so. After a while, Ophelia began to feel rather tired of bowing and smiling, but still continued graciously to do so, until an elderly dame in passing, tripped over her train and seemed in danger of falling. The queen made an involuntary movement forward as if to save her, and in so doing happened to loosen her hold upon the jar in her left hand. At the very same instant, Paraphernalia, who had been watching her opportunity all the time, started forward as if to assist her majesty, and, as if by accident, gave a violent push to her left arm, when, sad to relate, the jar fell from her hand upon the marble pavement at her feet, and was instantly broken in pieces. At the sight of the contents, which appeared to be ordinary jam, the ladies-in-waiting could hardly restrain themselves from exclamations of surprise, and all the more so when they perceived the pallor which immediately overspread the countenance of the queen. But their attention was at once directed to something else. Scarcely had the accident happened, and the jar slipped from Ophelia's grasp and met with the fate I have described, when a great and marvellous change came over the appearance and demeanour of the king. No longer meek and subdued, his countenance flushed with rage, his squinting appeared more furiously malicious than ever, and he stood before the Court, not the obedient slave and husband, but once more the tyrant Famcram, restored to his former self. He passed his hand across his brow, as if to sweep away from him some unpleasant memories, and then glared fiercely around him for a minute without uttering a syllable. There was a dead silence. Everybody feared some dreadful outburst, and nobody knew what to expect. Then Famcram broke forth in fury-- "What sorcery is here?" he cried. "What witchcraft has been going on? What drab is this whom I see beside me assuming a place as if she were queen? Who are these over-dressed peacocks on every side? Toads, vipers, serpents! Ho, guards! away with them!" and again he looked with frightful grimaces upon those who stood about him. Binks, Chinks, and Pigspud fell instantly on their knees, all in a row. The ladies-in-waiting, between trembling and fainting, did nothing for the moment, whilst Ophelia, recognising at once that her power of compulsion was gone, resolved to make an instant appeal to the better feelings of the king. "Sire," she said, turning round and confronting him with dignity, "I am your lawful queen. Three days ago you wedded me, and I share your throne. Pray let us govern with justice and mercy, and you shall never have cause to repent of having elevated me to this position." "Position! You! Throne! Queen! _Us_ govern!" shrieked Famcram at the top of his voice, now perfectly beside himself with fury. "You fool! You idiot! You jackanapes! You witch! You vile creature! _You_ a queen, forsooth! Out upon your folly, that led you to try and deceive Famcram. Seize her, guards!" he continued; "seize the whole lot of them! Strip off their fine robes, and away with them to the palace dungeons! We will soon see who is to be king and master here!" As he spoke, the obedient guards came forward; and, in spite of all that Ophelia could do or say, stripped her of her ornaments, and cloak of rich fur, took from her head the crown with which the queens of that country were always decorated on state occasions, and began to drag her away. Famcram grinned with malicious spite as he saw her in the hands of his rough attendants. "Ah!" said he, "this is _real_ jam, now!" and from these casual words of the king sprang an expression which has now become proverbial in that country, indicating some special pleasure or remarkably gratifying incident. Ophelia was not alone in her misfortune. Her five ladies-in-waiting were all seized at the same time, their fine clothing taken from them, and themselves conveyed back again to the same dungeons which they had previously occupied, and which the wretched Ophelia now shared with them. Their behaviour to the fallen queen was, I am sorry to say, neither ladylike nor generous. Forgetful of the fact that it was to her they had owed their liberty, and that she had shown them all possible kindness during her brief period of prosperity, they only remembered that it was through her discomfiture that they were themselves suffering at the moment They overwhelmed her with reproaches, in which Paraphernalia, herself the real cause of their joint misfortune, was especially forward, and not content with this, the three daughters of Chinks set upon her, cuffed her, scratched her, slapped her, pulled her hair, and vowed that they would do much worse before they had done with her. Paraphernalia went so far as to suggest cutting off all her hair, and spoiling her beauty by burning or otherwise marking her face; but the others had hardly come to such a state of wickedness and malice as this, although they joined in making the poor girl more miserable than she would otherwise have been, and showed a want of consideration and good feeling which was much to be blamed. The discomfort and misery of all the ladies were, as may be supposed, considerable; nor was their condition at all improved by the news that Famcram had resolved that the parents of the three families, Binks, Chinks, and Pigspud, should be executed in the public market place within three days. This news, conveyed to them by some of those officious persons who always like to bring unpleasant tidings, if only that they may watch their effects upon the people they are likely to make unhappy, plunged all six ladies into the deepest sorrow. Nor was the next piece of news at all calculated to lighten the burden of affliction which weighed them down. Famcram sent a special messenger to inform the captives that they should all suffer the extreme penalty of the law also. At first he had declared that they should be publicly whipped in the square opposite the palace, and afterwards be beheaded, but upon an earnest representation being made to him by a deputation from the anti-flogging society, who were numerous in the city, he consented to forego that part of the punishment, and to have them sewn up in sacks and thrown into the river, which was a form of punishment much in vogue in that part of the world. Resolved, however, to make them suffer as much as possible, he directed that their execution should take place upon the day preceding that of their fathers, and that the latter should be obliged to tie the mouths of the sacks, and roll their own children into the water. The girls heard this doom with horror, but there was no way of averting it. On the morning of the day on which the sentence was to be carried into effect, the daughters of Chinks became more furious than ever against Ophelia, and declared that she ought to be scratched to death in the dungeon, and not share the fate of honourable damsels like themselves. But a better spirit had come over Euphemia and Araminta, the daughters of the late Prime Minister. They had felt some compunction at the treatment of Ophelia by their friends and prison companions, and had not joined in the personal attack which had been led by Paraphernalia. And when they remembered how Ophelia had behaved as queen, and saw how meekly she bore the cruel insults now heaped upon her by the others, they spoke out boldly, and interfered to prevent further violence. So the hours passed by until the afternoon arrived, and all six ladies, having a thick coarse white sheet cast round each of them, as if about to stand and do penance, were led forth from the palace dungeons and taken to the appointed place of execution. Everything had been arranged under the direct orders of the tyrant himself. Marshalled two and two between their guards, the poor girls found that they had to pass through a crowd of gaping and staring people, and to walk over the mud and stones upon their bare feet. Their beauty attracted general notice, but Ophelia's form and bearing made by far the greatest impression upon the bystanders. Side by side she walked by Euphemia Binks, but the latter's beauty was entirely eclipsed by that of the late queen. The daughter of Pigspud walked with a royal air--upright, majestic in figure, with a look of resignation and yet contempt of fate--she excited an universal feeling of pity and admiration. Low murmurs were heard among the crowd, and whispers which, had they come to Famcram's ears, would certainly have caused the whisperers trouble. The tyrant, however, was so much feared, and the loyalty of Pigmies is ever so devoted, even when their sovereign is one whom no one can love or respect, that no sign of an outbreak was shown. Slowly the mournful procession marched upon its way, until it reached the road leading directly to the river. At this moment the great cathedral bell began to toll, filling the hearts of those who heard it with a certain awful feeling impossible to be described in words, which was increased in intensity when men in black garments, with masks over their faces, appeared, carrying the sacks which were to be employed in the execution of the unhappy maidens. With a refinement of cruelty, the brutal tyrant had directed that the procession should turn aside and pass through the hall of the Chief Justice's house, so that Ophelia in her disgrace and misery, should be made to look upon the place in which her recent but shortlived triumph had occurred. So they marched into the house and through the great banqueting-room, and out into the gardens, and as they slowly descended to the river, again the solemn deep death-warning clang of the cathedral bell sounded in their ears, and the girls knew that now indeed their end was very near. Close to the spot which he had fixed for the execution, in a magnificent arm-chair upon a kind of temporary dais erected for the occasion, sat Famcram himself, uglier than ever, with his crown upon his head, and the famous sceptre in his hand. As the procession drew near he arose from his chair, around which stood his principal courtiers, whilst at a little distance might be observed the wretched Binks, Chinks, and Pigspud, each guarded by two armed attendants. When the ladies had approached quite close to the king, he grinned upon them with more than his usual malice, and began to sneer at and abuse them. "Is this our queen?" he asked in a jeering tone. "The queen that was to share our throne, and it was to be 'us' who would govern, was it not? Poor wretch! the bed of the river will soon be your royal couch, and you shall share it with the eels--if" (and here he grinned horribly) "they can make their way through the sack which will hold your lovely form. _You_ to be queen, you nasty, staring, goggle-eyed vixen! And here come our Prime Minister's and Lord Chamberlain's children! Pretty ducklings, you shall be sown up nice and tight, and your own fathers shall give you to the pike and the rats. Nice tender morsels for these ye will be!" To these taunts the poor girls made no reply, and the tyrant continued to insult them, having ordered the procession to stand still for the purpose. And still the great bell tolled on. They had stopped very near to the river, and now, at a signal from the king, the men clothed in black came forward with the sacks, the white sheets were taken from the fair shoulders of the victims, and each was thrust into her sack in the dishevelled garments she wore, and left there for a few moments until the unhappy fathers should perform the duties assigned to them. Up to this time Ophelia had kept silence. She despised the wretched Famcram too much to condescend to answer his taunts. If death was to be met, she would meet it like a true daughter of Pigspud, and her ancient lineage should never be disgraced by her behaviour. But, at this extreme moment, a ray of hope darted suddenly into her heart. Where was she? Upon the very spot where she had received the mystic jar which had worked for her such wonders. The place was the same--the hour, though not so late, was possibly not unpropitious, for the sun was beginning to sink behind the higher buildings of the city. Was it impossible that the same power which had helped her before might again befriend her? The effort was at least worth making, and failure could make matters no worse. So, even in the sack, before it was closed over her head, with enemies seemingly all around, and death staring her in the face, Ophelia lifted up her head and looking towards the river, slowly pronounced these words. "Marley-quarley-pachel-farley-- Mansto macken furlesparley,-- Mondo pondo sicho pinto, Framsigalen hannotinto!" Everybody was surprised at the words and behaviour of the unfortunate lady. But what followed surprised them infinitely more. A curious whining, murmuring, incomprehensible sound came along the banks of the river, filling the hearts of those who heard it with a strange sense of fear, and a feeling that something wonderful was about to happen. The river, too, instead of flowing on in its usual quiet and majestic manner, seemed perturbed in an extraordinary manner, and became as rough as the open ocean in a storm. By common consent everyone who was present stood as if struck by one feeling of awe, which palsied and unfitted them for action. The men who were supporting the sacks in which the unhappy maidens stood, shivering with fear, remained rooted to their places, and mingled fear and wonder sat upon the faces of the people. Then slowly arose from the rushes by the waterside the same grotesque figure which had once before held converse with Ophelia. The red cloak, the umbrella, the poke bonnet, the keen eye, were all there, and the old woman stood upon the bank within a very short distance of the sacks. She looked round upon the people as if rather surprised at seeing them there, but appeared after a short time to have eyes only for Ophelia, upon whom she fixed her gaze attentively, and striking her umbrella upon the ground accosted her in the following words: "What is it, Ophelia! and what do you fear That you've called your affectionate godmother here? Have matters gone wrong since you wanted me last? I fear that they have, as my eyes round I cast-- You haven't got on the same dress that you wore When you came down to see the old lady before-- And unless my old eyesight its certainty lacks You seem hampered and bound in the coarsest of sacks, And some other girls, too! in what sad plight you are; My darling; has aught gone amiss with the jar?" In a mournful voice Ophelia replied at once:-- "Dear godmother! my woes are great, And miserable is my fate: The jar is broken! and I am Both 'out of luck' and 'out of' jam! This cruel tyrant, whom I wed (I would I'd been at Bath instead!) His senses managed to recover, And, now no more obedient lover, Used language really quite past bearing (He always _was_ too prone to swearing), Swore I no more his wealth should sponge on, And clapt me in a dirty dungeon. And then, his wrath no way abating, My ladies--five of them--in waiting He also sent there--scarce politely-- And tho' they've not behaved quite rightly, They scarcely have in crime abounded So much--as to be sacked--and drownded! Tho' if my throne I once were back in _I_ should have given _three_ a "sacking"-- But, godmother, see what I'm brought to! That naughty king!--he didn't ought to!" Ophelia sobbed aloud when she had concluded these words, which were uttered somewhat incoherently, as if the poor girl was quite overcome by her misfortune. But scarcely had she finished, when the old woman strode up to the sack without another word, and drawing a large pair of scissors from her belt, immediately cut it open in such a manner that the maiden was set free. Up to this time King Famcram had remained quiet, as if sharing in the general fear and astonishment. No sooner, however, did he see that the old woman's purpose was to set free at least one of his prisoners, and that the chief offender, than fear gave way to wrath, and he leaped up from his armchair in a tremendous passion. "Who is this?" he cried loudly, "who is this that interferes with the King's sentence? Seize her, guards! Vile hag, you shall soon receive your deserts." But not a guard moved. Some power greater than that of Famcram seemed to restrain them, and the old woman quietly accomplished her task without taking the slightest notice of anybody but Ophelia. When the latter was free, and standing by her side, she once more spoke in the same masculine voice as at first, and smiling upon the maiden, thus addressed her:-- "Tho' jars may be broken and jam may be spoiled, The plans of your godmother never are foiled, And power and good-will I must certainly lack Ere my favourite god-child be drowned in a sack. Yet if you desire it, my god-daughter sweet, These ladies of thine shall their recompense meet-- And since they've behaved, dear, so badly to thee, We'll give them a ducking--just say--shall it be!" Ophelia, who now began to feel sure that she was safe, was too much rejoiced thereat to wish harm to anyone else, and in a few well chosen words she begged her godmother not to be severe on the poor creatures, who, she was certain, would never do it again. She also told her of the better behaviour of the two daughters of Binks, upon which the old lady cut their sacks open immediately, but could hardly be restrained from punishing the others, especially Paraphernalia, who cried like a great baby from sheer fright and begged Ophelia to forgive her. The godmother then took from her finger a ring which she held before Ophelia and addressed her in these words. "I give thee, my daughter, this emerald ring (Its colour, you see, is a wonderful green), And tho' you may lose your detestable king You still shall be owned as the Pigmy-land queen. Reign long and be happy--through many bright days, May all your past troubles your happiness prove, And would you be safe--hear what godmother says, Be kind to your people, and govern by love!" As she said these words the old woman placed the ring upon Ophelia's finger, and smiled upon her in an affectionate manner. At this moment Famcram's rage grew beyond all bounds. He literally foamed at the mouth with fury--both at the scene which was being enacted before his eyes, and the unwillingness or impotence of his guards to help him. He yelled out to them again at the top of his voice, whilst his red hair seemed to blaze with fury as he whirled his sceptre round his head. "Seize the vile witch, I say!" he shouted. "Who dares to talk of any one reigning here while Famcram lives? Seize her and burn her! Varlets! Will none of ye stand by your king?" With these words the king jumped from the dais on which he had been sitting, and rushed forward himself, calling loudly to his guards to come on. But his cries were to no purpose--every man stood rooted to the ground, and not a hand was lifted to help the tyrant. Then the smile left the face of the old woman, and she turned from Ophelia to face the king. He paused, as she raised her hand and pointed at him with her umbrella, while she spoke again in the same voice as before. And these were her words:-- "Thou slayer of women, disgrace to thy line, The vengeance is near--be thy punishment mine-- You wished my dear god-child in river to drown. No, no, tyrant Famcram, _this_ time you're 'done brown!'" She had no time for more, for, overcoming his fear or whatever had hitherto restrained him, the little tyrant rushed upon her. The old woman now adopted a most curious course. Dropping her umbrella upon the ground, she made no more ado, but seized Famcram the moment he was within reach, wrenched his sceptre from him, and shook him severely. He struggled, bit, kicked and yelled, but it was all in vain. That fearful grasp was upon him, against which twenty times his strength had been of no avail. The fight, if such indeed it could be called, was soon over. The wretched creature writhed in the hands of his enemy, who shook him to her heart's content, and then, raising him with apparent ease by the scruff of the neck, calmly placed him in the sack from which she had just liberated her goddaughter. In spite of his continued struggles, she swiftly tied the mouth of the sack in a knot, which she managed to make; and then, without a word more, good, bad, or indifferent, descended the bank, threw in the sack, and sat down upon it. [Illustration: OPHELIA.--P. 280] To the surprise of the people, instead of sinking, the sack floated away into the midst of the river, which boiled and surged around it, so that every now and then it went down, and then came up again in sight of the crowd--the old woman keeping her seat upon it all the time, and smiling grimly as she bobbed up and down in a manner which would have made many respectable old ladies of my acquaintance feel remarkably unwell. No such effect, however, was produced upon the old woman, and she apparently enjoyed the whole thing very much. When they first left the bank, stifled screams were heard issuing from the sack, but these soon died away, and it was plain enough that the wretched Famcram must have been very speedily drowned. In a little while the old woman and the sack had floated out of sight, and the people began to recover somewhat from their amazement. Then occurred another marvellous thing. The river suddenly rose in several places, in the form of a waterspout, and came dashing over the crowd. But the extraordinary part of it was that whilst it drenched and half drowned the black executioners and all Famcram's particular friends, Ophelia and those who were on her side were not touched by it. The courtiers and guards of Famcram turned and fled. Then, after a short pause, the three late ministers, Binks, Chinks, and Pigspud came forward together and knelt at Ophelia's feet. Binks was the spokesman of the party. "Madam," he said, "after what has just happened, we cannot doubt that a higher power than ours has designated you as our queen. I am sure that I speak in the name of all that is great, good and powerful in Pigmyland, when I ask you to reign over us in the place of him who has proved himself so unworthy to do so." Ophelia replied at once:--"Rise, sir," she said, "and you too, dear father, for it is not meet that you should kneel before your child. There might, doubtless, have been found worthier sovereigns for our country, but since Fate has thus decreed it, I accept the position which is offered." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, loud shouts of joy broke forth from the surrounding people. At a sign from Ophelia, the other damsels were all set free, and they now came and stood humbly before her, expressing in meek and lowly tones their deep contrition for the offences they had committed against her. Paraphernalia was especially vehement in her expressions of regret, vowing that she had always entertained the greatest affection for Ophelia, and that if some demon had not possessed her, she should never have acted as she had done. Her sisters made various protestations of the same sort, whilst Euphemia and Araminta stood with blushing cheeks and downcast eyes awaiting the queen's decision. Ophelia did not keep them long in suspense. She told the two daughters of the Prime Minister that she freely forgave them all that had occurred, being satisfied that it was not from them or their hostility that it arose. Moreover, they had been the playmates of her childhood, and she should wish still to retain them about her person. She told the daughters of the Lord Chamberlain, however, that she must take a different course with them. At these words Asphalia, Bettina, and Paraphernalia burst into a dreadful howl, and the latter threw herself at the feet of Ophelia and endeavoured to kiss them. But the queen bade her arise, and told her that she and her sisters need not fear that the commencement of her reign would be sullied by the infliction of any severe punishment upon those who had been her companions in misfortune. Upon this Paraphernalia turned joyous again, and began vociferously to express her thanks, but was again stopped by the royal lady. "I cannot have about my court," she said, "persons who have behaved as you have done, nor indeed can I retain you in my service. I wish that I could have done so for your father's sake, but he must himself acknowledge that it is impossible. Out of respect to him I will only condemn Asphalia and Bettina to be confined to the limits of the city walls for a year, and during that time they will be forbidden to attend my court. As for Paraphernalia, she must be banished from Pigmyland altogether, until I shall have proofs--which I much doubt my ever receiving--of her entire reformation of character." At this decision the unhappy Paraphernalia raised a shrill scream and fell fainting upon the ground, but was speedily carried off by the attendants. Her sisters, who felt that they had deserved, and fully expected, to share her fate, returned thanks to Ophelia for her great clemency, and vowed to lead such lives as should convince her of their undying loyalty and sincere devotion to her throne and person. These professions the queen received with a gracious inclination of the head, and expressed her hope that they might prove to be founded on a true desire on the part of the damsels to repent of the past and do better for the future. She then turned to her father and requested that he, Binks, and Chinks would again resume their former offices, and render her their best assistance in carrying on the government of the country. To this the three statesmen readily assented, having, in fact, desired nothing better. Ophelia in the first place directed them to prepare a proclamation, announcing her accession to the throne, and her determination to govern upon constitutional principles, which, being a high sounding phrase, and one which nobody exactly understood, naturally gave great satisfaction. One or two discontented people did indeed whisper that as the constitution of Pigmyland had always been a pure despotism, Ophelia only meant to say that she should rule as other Pigmy kings and queens had ruled before her. These murmurs, however, were soon silenced, and this the more effectually when the queen issued the next day a second proclamation, in which she gave free pardon to all those who had supported Famcram in his late acts of tyranny, provided they would at once acknowledge her as their sovereign and obey her authority. Some people indeed objected to this proclamation, on the ground that those who had obeyed Famcram, whether he had been right or wrong, were only acting in accordance with the country's laws in carrying out the orders of their lawful sovereign (which he undoubtedly was), and required no pardon at all. But these people, again, were held to be mere cavillers and idle talkers, and so general was Ophelia's popularity that whatever she might have chosen to make the subject of a proclamation would have been hailed with delight by her loving and loyal subjects. She ascended the throne under the happiest auspices: the good-will of her people filled her heart with happiness and strengthened the stability of her throne, whilst her great talents secured for her kingdom the blessings of good government, her many virtues afforded a bright example to all her subjects, and her reign was throughout, that which it promised at the first to become, an era of unmixed happiness and prosperity to Pigmyland. THE CRONES OF MERSHAM. Things are very dull now-a-days in the country districts of England. The country gentlemen have got into the habit of going to London a great deal more than they used to do before railroads were made as extensively as has been the case of late years. The farmers, too, move about more than they did in the olden days, and act very differently in many respects from their forefathers. Nor are the labourers quite the same; they ask more wages, touch their hats to master, squire, and parson less than they did, and discuss matters of politics and the government of the country, which formerly never entered their heads. I dare say it is all right: it is a wise and good frame of mind to cherish, which teaches one that whatever _is_, is right, although it is sometimes very difficult to think so. For instance, when my tooth takes to aching without any obvious cause, and certainly very much against my will, the fact of its doing so is well established, but the existing state of things in my face is not recognised by me--not for one single moment--as right because it _is_ the existing state. And when I have overdrawn my account at my banker's, and the state of things is that he will not let me do so any more, the circumstance that it is so does not reconcile me to the fact in the very slightest degree. Still, as regards the progress which this country has made, and the condition at which we have now arrived, I am ready to bow my head meekly, and allow that as a general maxim, the general results may be admitted by me to be "all right." There _are_ the railroads, and (though the carriages are not always comfortable, and the trains generally late) they afford such facilities for the gentryfolk to go to town, that we cannot wonder at their doing so. If it is not right that they should, surely railroads would never have been permitted, cutting up the beautiful country as they do, and sending their screaming engines along through the green fields and thriving plough-lands, where all before was peaceful and quiet. Then if the farmers are changed, it is also all for the best without doubt. Changed they are, beyond all question. They are a different class of men from the old species of farmer who existed fifty years ago, and who seldom went further than his market town. Our farmers, now-a-days, have all visited London again and again, and instead of the homely talk over a market dinner which used to take place in old days, they have got "Chambers of Agriculture," in which they evince a remarkable ability in discussing anything which Parliament proposes to do about agricultural matters, and talk nearly as wisely, I am told, as the members of the House of Commons itself! Still, however, I stick to my text, and say that, being as it is, it must be all right. Of course it is, and so also with regard to the labourers. When I was a boy they did not know half as much as they do now, but they worked well for all that. I have lodged in two rooms in this farmhouse in which I write for twenty-seven years come next Michaelmas, and I have often heard farmer Barrett say that his best labourers were generally those who could neither read nor write. Most of them can do both now, and people used to say that it was a sin and a shame that every labourer should not be able to read his Bible and write his name in it. "All right," again say I, only unfortunately (as I sometimes venture to think) it is not their Bibles they read, so much as the penny papers, and these sometimes teach them different lessons from the Bible, I fancy. Then there is a lot of cheap--well, trash I was going to say, and I think I must, too--a lot of cheap trash which is sent about all over the country, or which they pick up here and there, and which teaches them lessons altogether mischievous. Moreover, they have societies, which are curious sort of concerns, I am told, and through which they are taught actually to demand an increase of wages, and various other things which were never thought of in old times. All these things have made the country districts of England very different places from what they used to be when I first knew them. That is now a long time ago, but I know a great deal that happened before I knew anything from my own eyesight and observation--I mean before I was born. I am an old man now, and having enough money to live upon and be comfortable, I have all my lifetime indulged my inclination for living in the country. I used to make it my principal endeavour to avoid railways. I hired lodgings in rustic villages, and lived quietly therein, studying the ways and habits of the people, and picking up old legends, which was always my chief delight. But wherever I went, a railroad was sure to be immediately afterwards projected through that particular district. The steam fiend seemed to have marked me out as an involuntary pioneer to herald his advance; and, move where I would, he and his myrmidons very shortly appeared in my wake. This continued for five and twenty years--for I began my system of country-lodging when I was a tolerably young man--barely turned thirty. When I tell you, as I did just now, that I have been in my present abode for twenty-seven years, a little calculation will show you that I shall never again see my eighty-second birthday. You will therefore, I hope, excuse the garrulity of old age, and forgive me if I have somewhat wandered from the tale which in fact I have not yet begun, but which I have been leading up to all this time. For you must know that the changes of which I have been speaking have had great effect upon other people besides gentry, farmers, and labourers. There are nothing like so many witches, wizards and curious creatures of that kind as there were, in country places, in the good old times. I do not for one moment say that this is to be regretted. On the contrary, I say again, that being so, I have no doubt it is "all right." But, right or wrong, it is undoubtedly true that the witches, warlocks and wise women have greatly diminished, if indeed they have not altogether vanished. I hope it will be understood that by "wise women" I do not allude to the ladies who give scientific lectures and talk about a variety of subjects upon which they evidently know much more than an old gentleman like I am could ever know, and, I must say, more than I should like to know about some things. This is a different kind of wisdom altogether, and there are plenty of persons who possess it, or think they do, which serves their purpose quite as well. I mean "wise," in the sense of possessing an unusual and supernatural insight into things which are commonly hidden from mortal knowledge. Of these people there are few, if any, left in the present day; or if there are such, they do not come to the front as they once did. There are, indeed, many persons in the world now, who actually disbelieve in witches and all creatures of that sort, and who not only disbelieve in their existence now, but who stoutly maintain that they never _did_ exist. I don't know how they get over the Witch of Endor, or the various other allusions to witches in the Bible, but I suppose they _do_ somehow or other. People are much too clever for me, nowadays, and get over any difficulty that comes in their way--or fancy that they do so, and trouble themselves no more about it. I have even heard people disbelieve in fairies, but that of course is sheer nonsense; and no one who wanders--as I have often done, at all seasons and at all hours--through the glorious English woodlands, can doubt the existence of the dear little elves. Doubt their existence! I should as soon think of doubting my own! How do the fairy-rings come, I should like to know? Whence comes the name of "the Fairy Well"--not uncommon by any means? Oh, no! I do not believe that anybody disbelieves that fairies exist, though I know that there is a dreadful amount of unbelief in the world regarding warlocks and witches. I am glad to say that good Farmer Barrett was never one of the unbelievers. He was near upon seventy when I first came to lodge under his roof, so that if he had lived till now he would have been ninety-seven. As he didn't, however, it is no use making the remark. He died some twelve years ago, when about eighty-five; cut off, as one may say, in the prime of life. Ah, me! how our friends, young and old, fall around us, like grass. My godson, Jack Barrett, here remarks, with less of reverence than I could have wished, in speaking of his grandfather, that a man taken away at eighty-five would be better compared to hay than grass. Well, well, Jack is young; barely forty, and boys _must_ have their jokes, as we all know. I was going to say that good Farmer Barrett's death affected me very much. He was a very great comfort to me, was Farmer Barrett. It was not only that we agreed upon most points, and thought alike in a manner most satisfactory to both of us. _That_ was a great comfort, living as we did under the same roof, and sitting together, either in his kitchen or my parlour, almost every evening, to enjoy a quiet gossip. But there were other comforts too, and the chief one--that which I may fairly consider the principal advantage which I reaped from the society of Farmer Barrett--was derived from his extraordinary knowledge of the legends and traditions of his native county concerning witches and wizards. Many and many an evening have we sat talking upon such matters, till I have really felt quite nervous about going to bed. Not that I am a nervous man: not by any means; but I own that more than once, after discussing witches and their cats to a late hour, I have felt a curious sensation when the house cat came rubbing herself against my shins, and have looked with a species of creepy feeling over my left shoulder as I went upstairs to bed, almost thinking I should see something "uncanny" close behind me. I never knew any man with such a collection of stories and legends as old Barrett. He had tales without end of the "Warlock of Coombe," the "Wizard of Bockhanger," and the "Witch of Brook Hollow." He could tell of the dark doings of the "Hag of Hothfield," and the fearful creature who so long inhabited the regions of Charing, and darkened the woods of Longbeach with her awesome shadow. I do not believe that any witch or wizard ever existed in Kent whose story was not well known to Barrett. Of his own knowledge he could tell something. Once there happened a curious thing in his stables. His two teams of horses, fed alike, housed equally well, and treated with precisely the same care, strangely varied in their appearance and condition. One team were always sleek and slim, "fat and well-liking," like Pharaoh's fat kine, and the admiration of all beholders. The other team were just the reverse. Nothing they took seemed to agree with them, they fell away, their bones started through their skins, and their appearance was a disgrace to the farm. This state of things greatly puzzled and annoyed the farmer and his men. Barrett himself laid the blame upon the waggoner and his mate, and threatened to discharge both of them if things went on so, as he felt sure they petted one team of horses at the expense of the other. The men earnestly denied the charge, and were evidently much vexed at its having been made. Things went on the same until at last the waggoner, who was a clever and withal a courageous man, determined to sit up all night and watch. He did so, being carefully hidden in the corner of the stable. The horses fed well, and lay down as usual. All was quiet until twelve o'clock struck. At that moment several little men, about a foot high, leaped down from the loft above the stables, and going to the favoured team, began to brush and comb them with great care and energy, rubbing them well all over and uttering no words to anybody as they did so, save to each other as they worked, as if to encourage themselves to greater exertions. "I work--you work, I work--you work," they kept saying, and the coats of the horses rapidly became more smooth and glossy, until, when the little men had finished, they were perfect models of what horses should be. They merely looked at the other team with funny faces, and then hastened up again to their loft. All this the waggoner duly told his master next morning, and, of course, with the natural incredulity of man, he at first refused to believe it. But when, upon the man again and again assuring him of its truth, he determined to put the matter to the proof by hiding himself that same night, he saw precisely the same thing, and was of course convinced. I forget how the story ended, but I know that, somehow or other, he managed to get some "wise" person in the neighbourhood to speak up for the poor, thin team, and prevent the little elves, or whatever they were, from "spiting" them any more. Then the farmer had a tale which had been told him by a groom he had once in his service, who came from the hill above Charing. Up over the hill there was a reputed witch, Mrs. Dorland. I questioned the groom about this woman myself, so I may as well give the story in his own words. "She were a noted witch, she were," he said. "How do you know?" I asked, not because I myself doubted for a moment, but because I wanted to glean all the particulars I possibly could. "Bless ye, sir," replied the youth, "I knows all about it because o' my grandfather. She wouldn't never let him alone. I expect he'd affronted her, one time or other. I recollect when I was a-staying along with him once, and the door locked and all--he looked over the stairs and there, sure enough, was old Dame Dorland on the mat at the bottom, and her eyes! oh they _glounded_ in her head, they did!" "But how did she get in?" I asked. "That's just what I want to know," answered the boy. "The door was shut and fast locked; but there she was, anyhow. Another time my grandfather had to drive some bullocks down to Ashford market, and he overtook Dame Dorland. She had a basket on her arm, and she asked my grandfather to carry it for her. He wouldn't. I expect he didn't know what bad game might be up. Well, do you think he could keep his bullocks in the road, after that? Not he: they was over the hedge, first one side and then another, and then they was for running back. He couldn't do nothing with them, so he turns back and offers to carry the old girl's basket. Then the bullocks was all right directly, and he hadn't no trouble in getting them along all the way to Ashford." Since Farmer Barrett had lived all his life in a county where such people as Dame Dorland were to be found, there can hardly be much surprise felt at his entire and implicit belief in witchcraft. But the most wonderful tale that he ever told me was that which not only concerned the county, but the very district in which he dwelt. It is a story to which I listened with intense interest when first I heard it, and my interest was never lessened by its repetition. Again and again I asked the old farmer to go over it once more, and I cross-examined him upon all the particulars of his tale in a manner which would really have offended some people of my acquaintance. He, however, was not only not offended, but pleased at the perseverance with which I questioned him. He told me the story, in fact, so often, that I got to know it nearly by heart; and I think it is one which I ought to relate for the benefit of a world, in which, as far as I can see, belief of any kind, and certainly belief in witches and the like, will shortly be extinct. The parish of Mersham has long been known as a favourite resort of queer people of the kind of whom I am speaking. It is a very long, narrow parish: much narrower, of course, at some parts than others. Its north end runs into and beyond the park of Mersham Hatch--that is, the west side of the park, the east side being in the parishes of Brabourne and Smeeth. The south part of the parish joins Bilsington and Aldington, and on the south west you are very close upon the Ruckinge and Orlestone big woods--so close that I am not sure whether a portion of that vast tract of woodland does not actually lie within the boundaries of the parish of Mersham. Be that as it may, it is a wild part of the world, and just the very sort of place in which you would fancy witches and their confederates to abound. Whether you fancy it or not, however, beyond all doubt such was the case, in the good old times of which I speak. No one ever dreamed of being out at night in those parts if he could possibly help it. The roads were wretchedly bad, full of deep ruts and big stones, with ditches inconveniently exposed on either side, and bushes jutting out from the adjoining woods in the most awkward manner for the traveller. But it was not the badness of the roads which deterred people from moving about at night, or towards evening, but something much worse, namely the strange and terrible beings who frequented the locality. All kinds of rumours were current with respect to witch meetings, and gatherings held by wicked creatures, upon which, if a mortal man of ordinary mould happened to come, he ran a terrible risk of some dreadful misfortune happening to him and his, shortly afterwards. Cottages were few and far between: there was scarce a public house to be found in the neighbourhood, save one or two which had an evil reputation as the haunt of smugglers and outlawed men. No gentleman's house was near, and Bilsington Priory had passed away with all its holy train of priests, and nothing was to be seen of their former glory, and no vestige of themselves either, unless it was true that a monk walked occasionally round the walls with ghostly tread, and moaned, deeply and sadly, as he compared the past with the present. In short, it was a wild, weird country, and wild, weird people dwelt there. From Aldington Knoll, right away down to the other side of Ham-street, the thick woods contained a class of beings who, if they lived there nowadays, would be a horror to all Christian men, and an intolerable nuisance to the Kent County Constabulary. There were, however, honest men there, as everywhere else; and, although for the most part such people preferred to dwell nearer Mersham-street or immediately below the church, yet the scattered cottages further south were not altogether without inmates, who, having nowhere else to live, lived there. John Gower was one of these, a respectable middle-aged man, who won his bread by the sweat of his brow, and was proud of the name of a Kentish labourer. John had married early in life, lost his wife after the birth of their fourth child, and remained a widower ever since. Although he could neither read nor write, he was blessed with good common sense, and was able to give his children plain and sensible advice, which might serve them, he said, in as good stead as book-learning, if they would only lay it to heart and act upon it. His eldest girl, Mary, was as good a girl as you would meet in a day's journey. She had her good looks (as most Mersham girls have), but she had that which is even better than good looks, an even temper and a good disposition. She was about seventeen when our story begins; her brother Jack, between fifteen and sixteen, was away at work "down in the sheers" (shires), as the neighbours called all other counties but their own; and two little ones, Jane, under fourteen, and Billy, just twelve, were at home, the former helping her sister as well as she could, and the latter doing such odd jobs as could be found for him, and doing no more mischief than a boy of his age could help. The cottage in which they lived was very near the big woods--too near to be pleasant for anyone who feared witches or wizards--and it must be confessed that John Gower was not without his fears. He had various horse-shoes nailed up about his premises to keep the evil creatures off, and he carefully barred his doors and windows every night, not knowing what might happen if any of them were left open. He could tell of strange cries heard in the woods at night, and if you suggested that they might proceed from owls, he shook his head sadly and gravely, as one who knew better, and grieved over your doubting spirit. But in spite of his fears and precautions, and the strange locality in which he lived, Gower could not be called otherwise than a cheerful man. He worked all day, got home as soon as he could, was pleasant and happy with his children (of whom he was very fond), and was certainly of a contented disposition, and one who made the best of the world and took things as he found them. Such was he and such was his family at the time that the occurrences took place which I am about to relate. Some years before the date at which our story commences, there had lived at the extreme south of the parish of Mersham a woman of the name of Betty Bartlet. She was not only a reputed witch, but the fact of her being so was testified to by a great number of credible witnesses who had either suffered in their own persons from her evil power, or had seen and heard things which could not have been had she been an ordinary and Christian woman. She lived to a very great age--nobody knew exactly how old she was when she died; and, although the rumours respecting her career caused the clergyman of the Parish to entertain serious doubts as to the course he should pursue, she was eventually carried to Mersham churchyard to be therein interred. But if I am correctly informed--and I obtained my information from highly respectable people--there were strange and terrible doings at her funeral. She was carried on a waggon, from the cottage in which she had breathed her last, as far as the bridge over the river Stour, which flows, as all the world knows, a few hundred yards south of the church. There, from some unknown cause, the horses would not cross the bridge; and it was told me that they seemed quite exhausted with the short journey--little over three miles--which they had performed. So the people unharnessed them from the waggon, placed all that remained of old Betty on the shoulders of eight stout bearers, and marched forward towards the churchyard. But not only was their burden wondrously heavy, but it seemed to grow heavier as they went on, and they had the greatest difficulty in making their way up the short hill, and so round to the right towards the churchyard. And just before they got to the gate, why or wherefore nobody could tell, one of the bearers stumbled, and in doing so tripped up another, and down came the whole concern with a great crash upon the ground. Everything connected with their burden suddenly disappeared: a vast cloud of black dust arose and blew all over the place, and out of the dust flew a great black bird, with a strange and awful croak, with which it terribly frightened the bystanders and bearers, as it flew off directly in the contrary direction to the churchyard. What happened immediately afterwards Farmer Barrett never heard, or, at least, he never told me, but nobody ever doubted that the old witch had flown off in the shape of the black, fearsome bird, being unable to enter the holy ground of the churchyard. Be this as it may, the ancient woman left behind her three daughters, who had all inherited their mother's wickedness, and were witches every one of them. Their actual names were Betty, Jane, and Sarah, but they were popularly known as Skinny, Bony, and Humpy, the two elder sisters being thin and gaunt, whilst the youngest was shorter, and had a species of hump between her shoulders. Every one in Mersham, and, for the matter of that, in the adjoining parishes also, knew these three sisters by sight, and avoided them as much as possible. No conceivable misfortune ever happened in that neighbourhood that was not attributed to their influence, and all that went wrong was immediately laid at their door. The sisters were well aware of the awe with which the neighbours regarded them, and took good care that it should not diminish, never losing an opportunity of frightening those simple people with whom they came in contact. They lived in a long, low cottage--scarcely worthy of the name of cottage--so miserable was it both as regards the outside building and the inside accommodation. The roof was of thatch, and the dwelling itself was at one end built of Kentish rag-stone, but badly constructed, and all the rest of it was composed entirely of wood, and apparently afforded but poor shelter against wind and rain. The women lived mostly at the stone-built end of their house, for there was their kitchen, such as it was; but very little was known of the interior of this place, inasmuch as nobody came near it who could possibly go another way. It was situate, however, barely half a mile from John Gower's cottage, a fact which caused him and his no little annoyance, inasmuch as the three Crones of Mersham, as they were usually called, were not the best of neighbours, and never very particular as far as other people's property was concerned. Now John Gower had a great number of relations; in fact there was and is an old proverb in his native parish, to the effect that "if you know the Gowers, you know all Mersham;" and certainly the knowledge would to this day make you acquainted with a large quantity of people. They were none of them rich relations, certainly, unless you might have applied that adjective to the wife of a certain Farmer Long who lived a few miles off, and whose husband might certainly be said to be thriving. Sally Long was a stout, comfortable-looking dame, who could not fairly have found fault if you had called her fat, but who, unlike most fat people, was not gifted with the best of tempers. If all reports were true, she led her husband rather a life of it, and scolded pretty equally all her household. She had no children, and her husband's son by a former wife being a trifle weak in the head, and for that reason generally known by the name of "Simple Steenie," there was no one to dispute her authority in house, yard or farm. These worthy people lived in the parish of Aldington, and although John Gower was no looker after dead men's shoes, and a man who would have scorned to bow down before any one for the sake of their wealth, he thought it was but right and fair towards his children to encourage them to maintain friendly relations with his distant cousin, Dame Long. She had noticed the children more than once, when they were quite little things; and when a woman of a certain age, with no children of her own, notices the children of other people, who happen to be her own relations, there is no telling what may come of it. So the boys had orders to take their caps off and the girls to drop a respectful curtsey whenever they passed Mrs. Long, and any little act of civility which they could possibly perform was never forgotten. Now it happened that someone, many years ago, had given to the Gower family a very particular cat. When I use the word "particular," I do not mean to imply a very strict or fastidious cat, but one that was particular in the sense of being different from the general run of cats, which was certainly true of this individual cat. She was jet black, which you will say is not at all uncommon; but Farmer Barrett always maintained that no cats that he ever heard of were _so_ jet and so glossy as the Gower cats. She was a magnificent animal: her whiskers unusually long, her tail splendidly bushy, her body beautifully and symmetrically made, and her head, in size, shape, and the intelligence which was displayed upon her face, little short of perfection. This cat lived until a great age, and nobody exactly knew when or where it died. To tell the truth there was always a legend in the Gower family that it never _did_ die, at least not in their cottage, but that it disappeared on the very day of old Betty Bartlet's death. I do not know--for Farmer Barrett could not tell me, though I asked him more than once--how they connected the two events, but nevertheless they had this legend, if so I may call it. But whatever happened to this cat, of one thing there is certainly no doubt, namely, that during her lifetime she several times went through the ceremony of kittening, and that her race seemed by no means likely to be extinct. Her kittens were always black, always very glossy and always remarkably clever and intelligent, and people were always glad to get a kitten of the Gower breed. So when, upon a fine summer's morning, one of the descendants of the famous animal of which I have spoken was found by John Gower with a little family of four kittens around her, he and his children were not displeased at the addition to their household. And when, after a few days, one of these kittens appeared to be developing into an animal more comely and more sprightly than the rest, the worthy man thought it would be a proper and becoming compliment upon his part if he made a present of it to good Mrs. Long. So he told Mary that she should take it up in a little basket the very next day, give his "duty" to "old aunt Sally" (for so they called her in the cottage when they spoke of her among themselves, though it was always "Mrs. Long" when they spoke _to_ her) and ask her acceptance of the gift. Mary made her preparations accordingly. She could not go up to the farm in the morning, for she had the rooms to "do," the house to sweep, father's dinner to get ready and carry to him, and a number of little jobs to get done which it was necessary to finish before she could feel herself at liberty to go out. At last, however, every duty seemed to have been discharged, as is always the case, at some time or other, if people will only set themselves at work to do resolutely that which they have before them to do, instead of sitting down with folded hands and sighing over the prospect of it. It must have been between three and four o'clock in the afternoon when Mary found that she could get away with a clear conscience. Then she put on her little straw hat, donned her grey cloak, put the kitten in a little basket with a little hay for it to lie on, and called her brother Billy to come with her, wisely thinking this the most likely way to keep him out of mischief. It was a truly glorious afternoon, such as an English summer's afternoon often is. "Talk to me about foreign countries," as Farmer Barrett often used to say, snapping his fingers audibly, "_that_ for your furrineerers; there an't no land like old England, to my mind;" and, being myself old and prejudiced, I confess that I am very much of the good old farmer's opinion. It is very charming, no doubt, to roam through foreign lands, and there is doubtless much to admire. When I shut my eyes and muse over beautiful views that I have seen, many such come back to me with pleasing memories. I see the sparkling Rhine with castle-crowned heights, and scenery world-worshipped for its varied beauty; I gaze with a delight tempered with awe upon the mighty snow-clad mountains of life-breathing Switzerland; I sit upon the shores of the sea of seas, the Mediterranean, and I cast my eyes upon its waters of eternal blue; and, most wonderful sight of all, I stand upon the plateau opposite the Cascatelle at Tivoli, and, with the waterfall and town on one side, Adrian's Villa nestling below on the left, and the hills behind, look out over the vast Campagna with its ever-changing lights, see Rome--grand, glorious Rome--in the far distance, and feel carried out of myself and away from all ideas of mere earth and earthly things as I lose all individuality of being in the absorbing contemplation of a beauty so divinely sublime. And then--as the magic power of thought enables me to move faster than railroads, steamers, or electric telegraphs--I suddenly transport myself to a quiet, homely, English scene upon a summer's afternoon; and I think to myself that neither the Rhine, Switzerland, nor Italy can produce anything more pleasing to the eye, more soothing to the senses, or more entirely enjoyable to any person capable of enjoyment, and not given to despise the beauties of scenery merely because they can be seen at home without hurrying off to foreign lands. [Illustration: MARY AND BILLY MEET THE CRONES.--P. 305] Such a summer's afternoon fell on this particular day of which we are now speaking. There was hardly a breath of air, but the woods having got their shady green dress on, kept off the heat of the sun from the traveller on the road which intersected them. It was very warm, though, and very still; and you might hear the voices of the woodland birds, singing in notes which seemed somewhat subdued, as if the heat forbade the songsters to exert themselves to their full strength. But, warm as it was, there was a very pleasant feeling in the air. Nature seemed to be basking in the sun and thoroughly enjoying herself--the rabbits hopped across the road as quietly as if there were no such things as weasels in the world, and keepers had never existed: the old jay flitted heavily from tree to tree, her hard note softened down to a low guttural sound--all insect life was on the move, and every living being seemed to delight in the genial weather. Of course, under these circumstances, Mary and Billy Gower did not walk very fast. On the contrary, they rather dawdled, for Billy saw now and then a butterfly, now and then a birds' nest, and was constantly tempted to leave the road and dive into the woods on either side, whilst his sister did not like to hurry on and leave him, and saw no reason for particular haste. They passed along for some way without adventure, until Aldington Knoll came in sight, although they were still in the shady lanes of their own parish. Then, on turning a corner, they came suddenly upon two figures approaching them from the opposite direction, that is to say, as if they had come from Aldington Knoll. The children needed no second glance to tell them that they were in the presence of two of the Mersham crone. "Lanky" and "Skinny" were the lovely pair whom they had the good fortune thus to meet, and the children felt by no means comfortable when they saw them. Mary, indeed, being now seventeen, and hardly to be deemed a child any longer, felt no babyish fear at the sight of the old women. She was, as I have said, a good sort of girl, and one who tried to do her duty; and she had a feeling within her (as such people generally have) that as long as she did so, no great harm would be allowed to happen to her. But, as for little Billy, who had occasionally been threatened, when naughty, that he should be given to the crones, he could by no means be restrained from great manifestations of fear. He trembled greatly as soon as he saw the two, clutched hold of his sister's gown, and begged her to turn back and run away, as they were still forty or fifty yards from the old women. This, however, would have been contrary to Mary's sense of right. She had been sent by her father to perform a certain duty, and that duty, come what would, she meant to discharge, unless prevented by superior force. So she trudged on steadily along the road, and her brother accompanied her, probably because he thought it the least of two evils, and was too much terrified to run away. As they neared the two crones, they could not but feel that there was nothing either prepossessing or agreeable in the appearance of the latter. Their clothes were untidy and ill-fitting: each had a kind of hood half drawn over her head; but not sufficiently so as to conceal her decidedly ugly features, whilst a certain wild, haggard look, which sat upon their faces, was anything but calculated to put the traveller at his ease. They walked, or rather crawled, along one side of the road, and close behind them followed a gaunt cat, which, if formerly black, was now gray with age, and which wore upon its face the same haggard look which was so plainly discernible upon those of the hags themselves. Mary and Billy walked quietly on, and were just passing these strange beings, and really beginning to hope they might be allowed to do so without interruption, when they were suddenly pulled up by the harsh voice of the crone nearest to them, who called out "Stop!" in a voice harsher than the croak of a raven, but with such a tone of authority that no thought of disobeying her entered the head of either of those she addressed even for a single moment. "Stop, young people!" she said a second time; "whither away so fast this afternoon?" Mary civilly replied, "We are going up to Farmer Long's, ma'am; father sent us." "Ah!" replied the crone; "going up to Farmer Long's for father, are ye, my chickens? Fine times, forsooth, when John Gower's children go visiting instead of minding their business at home. But pray, what have you got in that basket, my pretty Minnikin?" "Only a kitten, ma'am, that father is going to give to Aunt Sal--I mean to Mrs. Long," replied the girl. "_Only_ a kitten!" cried the other crone, who had not yet spoken; "_only_ a kitten, indeed! and how does John Gower the labourer have kittens to give away, I should like to know? Our poor old Grimalkin here has lost a kitten lately--I wonder whether this can be the same, strayed over to John Gower's house. If he _had_ a kitten to give away, he might have thought of his poor neighbours, methinks, instead of the rich farmer's wife!" When Mary heard these words she begin to tremble for the safety of her kitten, for as I have already remarked, the Crones of Mersham were not famous for distinguishing clearly between other people's property and their own. So she made reply very quickly in these words: "Please, ma'am, this kitten can't be your cat's, because we've known it ever since it was born, and its mother too, and it has never been out of our charge yet." "No matter, no matter," said the crone in a testy voice; "let me see it, and I shall soon know all about it." Mary did not dare refuse, nor would it have been of much use if she had done so. The crone stretched out her long, skinny hand, and lifting the basket-lid, saw the little black kitten; which, immediately that it saw her, crouched down in the corner of the basket and uttered a low moaning sound. "Poor little thing!" said the old hag. "Poor little thing! I can hardly see it so. Look, sister Jane!" and the other crone came and peered also into the basket, whilst the kitten continued to crouch and moan. "The very image of our grimalkin, I do declare!" cried the second crone after a moment. "It _must_ be hers--there can be no doubt at all about it." So saying, she put her hand down and stroked the back of the kitten, as if about to take it out of the basket. As soon as she touched it, however, the little animal, young as it was, appeared to go into a paroxysm of fear and fury; it growled and spit, made as if it would spring out of the basket, and suddenly inflicted a severe scratch on the hand which was about to seize it. The old woman's face immediately became distorted with rage, and as she hastily withdrew her hand, she fixed her eyes steadily upon the kitten, muttering at the same time some words which the children could not understand, but which sounded in their ears like anything but a prayer. Neither of the crones, however, tried further to interfere with the kitten, but begged of the children to give them money, saying that they were nearly starving. Billy of course had nothing, and Mary only a penny, but she thought it best to give that for fear of being bewitched if she refused; so, sorrowfully enough, the poor child drew out her only coin and placed it in the hand of one of the hags, who grinned frightfully by way of thanks, and allowed the children to proceed on their way--although before they did so they could not help noticing the strange conduct of grimalkin, who threw herself on the side of the road, turned over and over, grinned like a Cheshire cat, and appeared to be convulsed with laughter at all that had occurred. Mary and Billy, however, glad to have got away from the old women, hurried forward towards Farmer Long's dwelling. But now the conduct of the kitten became inexplicable. Up to the time of their meeting the crones, it had behaved like a decent little animal of tender years, nestling quietly in its basket, and giving no trouble to anybody. It now took quite a different course. It moaned and whined as if it wanted to get out--it pushed against the basket, first on one side and then on the other, as if trying to force its way through, and behaved in all respects as if it was a mad kitten,--although, as I never saw a mad kitten, I am not sure how they _do_ behave exactly--but this was Farmer Barrett's expression, and a man of his years and experience was not likely to be wrong. But more than this, although the kitten was young and small, and had therefore been very light and easy to carry, scarcely had the children passed the crones than its weight seemed to increase vastly, and it became four times as heavy as before, until poor Mary's arm quite ached with carrying it. Billy, seeing her trouble, advised her to turn it out into the woods; but Mary would not do this, being determined to obey her father's orders, so she trudged steadily on until they came to the farm to which they had been sent. There they asked if Mrs. Long was at home, and were presently ushered into the presence of that good lady, to whom they told the object of their visit. She received them very graciously, and expressed herself much pleased with John Gower's attention in sending her the kitten, saying that she had always desired to have one of that breed. They opened the basket, and she was going to take the creature out, when it looked her straight in the face, and she drew back her hand at once. "Lawkes! child!" she said to Mary; "how the thing's eyes do shine! Like live coals of fire, I do declare. I never seen such eyes in all my born days, that I never did!" As she spoke, the kitten saved her the trouble of removing it from the basket by jumping out of its own accord on to the table, where it sat glowering at the party, and making a low noise between a purr and a growl, until Mrs. Long brought it some milk, with which it proceeded to regale itself, and the children, having had a slice of cake each, and been duly charged with the good lady's thanks to their father, took their departure, and reached the cottage without further adventure. Now I verily believe that the doings of that kitten at Farmer Long's farm were of such a wonderful and unheard of character that a whole book, and a very amusing book, too, might be written about them. But people did not write many books in those days, and Farmer Barrett could not recollect many particulars about this part of his story. At all events, there can be no doubt (to use his own expression) that the animal's "tantrums" were extraordinary; the cream was constantly devoured, and the best cream-jug broken on one occasion, in order to get at it; the milk was for ever being upset; the marks of dirty paws were daily to be seen on clean table cloths, or on the counterpanes of beds just made, and, in short, just wherever they ought not to be. Mrs. Long's best cap, having mysteriously disappeared one afternoon, was seen in the kitten's clutches upon the hearthrug, a perfect wreck of a cap, and useless for ever afterwards. Then the perverse little animal appeared to entertain a strong and marked partiality for young ducks and chickens, which she ruthlessly murdered whenever she could lay her paws upon them, neglecting to touch any of the rats upon which her energies might have been much more beneficially employed. Day by day depredations were committed, all of which were attributed to the kitten, and most of which were probably perpetrated by her. From the moment of her arrival at the farm, nothing seemed to prosper with the Longs. Everything turned out just the reverse way to that which they had hoped, and it really seemed as if some evil spell had been cast upon them. Looking calmly back upon the whole history, I have no doubt at all but that the crones had bewitched the kitten when they met the children on that memorable afternoon, and that to this must be attributed all that afterwards occurred. However this may be, it was certainly an unlucky day for the Longs when that kitten came upon their premises, and that they very soon found out. Still, people do not always put the saddle upon the right horse immediately, and they did not at first believe that the animal had anything to do with their ill-luck. Mrs. Long, however, who had an eye to business, could not stand the constant inroad upon her ducks and chickens, to say nothing of the cream-jug, and the loss of her cap very nearly brought matters to a climax. She might perhaps, however, have borne it a little longer, had not an event occurred which was really beyond anybody's bearing. One morning, when the worthy couple were at breakfast, the kitten calmly jumped on to the table, seized a piece of bacon which the farmer was about to place upon his own plate, and deliberately carried it off. After this it was quite evident that she must be got rid of. No man can stand being robbed of his breakfast in such a barefaced manner, and the good farmer spoke up pretty strongly on the subject. As the breed was supposed to be a particularly good one, he did not order the animal to be killed, nor indeed would he have ventured to do so unless his wife had especially wished it, but he expressed himself in forcible terms as to the desirability of its quitting his premises with as little delay as possible. Mrs. Long had by this time become so entirely of the same opinion, that she resolved to take immediate steps to carry out the joint views of her husband and herself. She accordingly directed that the cart should be got ready the same afternoon, and that Tom the Bailiff should drive her down to Mersham, where she determined to restore the kitten to the Gowers with her own hands. Accordingly, at the appointed time the cart was brought round, old Dapple, the steady pony, was in it, and Tom prepared to drive. Mrs. Long got in, and the kitten, who had shown an unwonted and marvellous docility in submitting to be placed once more in a basket, was safely deposited in her lap. Off they went, out of the farmyard into the lane, and taking a turn which brought them near to Aldington Knoll, descended towards the woods through which runs the road from Mersham and Aldington to the canal, and so away across Romney Marsh to Dymchurch. You must understand that Tom and his mistress were heading away from the canal, only they had come into that road in order to reach the lower part of Mersham, in which was situate John Gower's cottage. So when they came past Aldington Knoll, and descended the hill, the marsh road led back to the left, nearly parallel with that from which they came, whilst they pushed straight forward along the road through the woods. As soon as they got well into the wood, or rather, into the road on each side of which the wood was wide and thick, old Dapple began to show visible signs of uneasiness. He swerved first on one side of the road, and then on the other, abandoning all the good, quiet habits of a respectable middle-aged pony, and behaving much more like a giddy young colt who had never been broken to harness. Tom the Bailiff who was a simple country lout, did not know what to make of it, and was both confused and frightened when his mistress began to tell him that it was only his bad driving. But this was evidently not the case. Dapple wanted very little driving at all, and the best "whip" in the world could not have kept him straight when he was in the mood which seemed now to have possessed him. Another cause also disquieted good Mrs. Long. The kitten began to fidget in her basket in a most unaccountable way, and to give vent to various discordant sounds, whilst the weight upon the good lady's knees, as the basket had been on Mary's arm, was really unpleasantly heavy. They managed to get through the wood somehow or other, until they were well out of the parish of Aldington and had entered that of Mersham. Here all their troubles increased--the kitten's struggles were more violent than before, and Dapple became perfectly unmanageable, until all at once they perceived a large black cat upon one side of the road, which suddenly darted in front of the cart, and so startled the pony that he shied quite across the road, brought the wheel of the cart over the side of the ditch, and in another moment it was overset and its occupants were tumbled into the brambles and bushes with which the ditch was choked. Had it been winter, or had there been much rain lately, poor Mrs. Long would probably have been drowned, or at best would only have escaped with a severe ducking. As it was, the principal risk of life or limb she ran was from the kicking of the pony and as Dapple was too fat to indulge in any great manifestations of this kind, she was tolerably safe from personal injury. But a stout woman overturned into a ditch full of brambles, is, after all, a pitiable object, and is not likely to be improved either in temper or in appearance by the event. So as soon as the good lady could scramble up into a sitting position she began to abuse everybody and everything to the best of her ability, which was not inconsiderable when applied to such an attempt. She told Tom he should certainly "get the sack" as soon as they got home; she declared Dapple was old and worn out, and only fit to draw the dung-cart in future, and she abused the kitten in no measured terms. But where was the kitten? In the tumble and scrimmage, the lid of the basket had come off, and the animal had disappeared. Disappeared, however, only for a moment, for Tom the bailiff suddenly exclaimed in a terrified voice,-- "Look'ee, missis, do look'ee now--there be our kitten sure-ly!" and casting up her eyes, Mrs. Long beheld--or at least so she always declared to her dying day--the kitten, seated upon the back of the large black cat which had been the cause of their disaster, and which was now careering full tilt down the road with this rider upon it. The old lady, being brave as she was stout (which is saying a great deal) felt nothing but rage when she saw what had happened, not only at the impudence of the cat, but because this occurrence threw a light upon the past, and at once opened her eyes to the truth, and disclosed the reason of the kitten's abominable behaviour at the farm. After a moment's pause she broke out in great wrath: "It's them crones!" she cried in loud and excited tones. "It's them crones, or some like 'em! That kitten's been bewitched--that's what come to it, Tom, you may depend upon't. Drat them witches!" Scarcely were the words out of her mouth when she shrieked loudly--"Ah-a-ah!" "What's the matter, missis?" said Tom. "Why," replied she, "something scratched me;" and pointing to her arm, the sleeve around which had been pushed up high in her struggles to sit upright, there indeed was a long, red scratch as if inflicted by the nail of a hand or the claw of an angry cat. To be sure, a lady who is seated in the middle of a bed of brambles cannot be expected to escape unscratched, and no supernatural agency need be invoked in order to produce such a misfortune. Still Mrs. Long always declared that this was no bramble scratch, and coming as it did at the very moment when she was speaking strongly against the witches, there could be very little doubt as to the source from which the injury really came. However, witches or no witches, it was impossible to sit all the livelong afternoon in a ditch full of brambles, so with much difficulty and many struggles, Mrs. Long contrived to get up, and Tom the Bailiff having looked to Dapple, found there was no very serious damage done either to him or to the cart. So they righted the latter, and having got into it, proceeded on their journey. True it was that there was now no kitten to take back to the Gowers, but the farmer's wife was determined to let them know the extraordinary manner in which the animal had conducted itself, and had a great dislike to turning back without reaching the place for which she had started. So she directed Tom to drive on along the cross road which leads from the Aldington woods to Bilsington, and comes out into the main road from Mersham to Romney Marsh. At that point, if you turn to the left you can go to the Marsh, or to Ruckinge and Orlestone by a road which lies a little further south, and if you turn to the right, you pass through the end of the great range of woods which occupy so much of that district, and presently come from Bilsington into Mersham. Of course it was to the right that Mrs. Long turned, having made a kind of half-circle round Bilsington Priory, which was thus at her right hand all the time. It is necessary to be thus particular, in order that no innocent parish may be wrongfully suspected of having harboured the strange and wicked creatures whose power was almost entirely confined to parts of Mersham, Bilsington and Aldington, and some parishes further west on the borders of the Marsh. A good name is a great possession, and the adjacent parishes of Sevington, Hinxhill, Smeeth and Sellinge have always been so free from the worst class of witches that, in writing of this neighbourhood, one wishes to be precise. After they had turned to the right, as I say, a short mile brought our travellers to John Gower's cottage; but before they reached it, they had to pass within a hundred yards or so of the abode of the crones, to which a very little-frequented by-road led, branching off from the road on which they were driving. It showed courage in Mrs. Long to take this route, especially after what had happened, but she was naturally a bold woman, and perhaps she thought that the witches had probably done all that they cared to do in having overturned her cart once, and stolen her kitten. Be this as it may, she reckoned without her host, for Dapple, who had been quiet enough since the accident, began to grow restive again as they neared the part of the road which I have mentioned, and, when within fifty yards of it, suddenly stopped and refused to move an inch. Tom the Bailiff laid the whip over the pony's back with a will, but the only effect was to make him rear and back, so that they were in imminent danger of a disaster similar to the first. Then, to make matters worse, there arose a cloud of fog before them, which was so thick they could see nothing, and had a disagreeable smell of smoke about it. Whence or wherefore it came they could not tell, for the sun was still high in the heavens and the sky above their heads clear and blue. It was evident that something evil was at hand and at work, and neither Mrs. Long nor her servant knew what to make of it. Presently the good lady called out angrily, "How dare you pinch my arm, Tom?" and gave a short, sharp scream as she said so. "Oh, don't, please don't, missis!" cried the man at the same moment, as a hand hit him a cruel box on the ear. It need scarcely be said that neither of the occupants of the cart had touched the other; but the matter did not end there. Pinches, pushes, scratches, thumps, hair-pulling, and kicking began to a most extraordinary extent. No one could be seen, but invisible hands assailed both Mrs. Long and Tom so fiercely and so vigorously, that they both shouted aloud with pain and terror, whilst, as if in answer to their cries, hoarse chuckles and deep bursts of laughter rang in their astonished ears, although no human being of any description was to be seen. Never was there a more unpleasant experience than that which the worthy pair underwent, and how it would have ended I really cannot say, but for an unlooked-for and fortunate event. All of a sudden the pinching and beating ceased, the laughter came to an end, and the fog or cloud disappeared, as it had come, by magic, as a cheery voice shouted out, close at hand,-- "Halloo! who is this making such a noise in the road. My good people, it is too bad that you should let drink get the better of you in this way!" Glancing indignantly round, they beheld no less a person than the worthy rector of Mersham himself, riding upon a stout gray cob, and evidently coming home from some expedition to the further extremity of his parish. Mrs. Long knew not what reply to make, but as soon as she recovered herself sufficiently, she answered the appeal. "I am sure, sir, there is no call to say a word about drink, to which some folk lays everything that happens, be it what it will. But if you'd keep your parish clear of these here witches, you'd find things go a good deal better!" The clergyman gravely shook his head. "You must know, my good woman," he replied, "that there are no such beings as witches, and you ought not to wrong elderly and respectable females by using such terms. There is nobody here, and nothing to hinder your journey. I am quite ashamed to see you stopping your cart in the middle of the road and quarrelling as has evidently been the case. Take my advice, and get home as fast as you can." So saying, the good man passed the cart and began to trot gently on. Dapple, as if his difficulties were suddenly over, and his objections to advance removed, immediately started after the rector's cob, and thus they passed the dreaded by-road without further trouble. But to her dying day, Mrs. Long always declared that she was sure they never would have got past if the rector hadn't come along just when he did. This shows the great and proper respect for the clergy which then existed, and is, moreover, a proof that Mrs. Long was a decent and respectable woman, whose word may be taken as establishing beyond doubt the truth of the events which I have undertaken to relate. But it lay heavy on her soul, for many a long day, that the reverend man should have thought she had been drinking, and made her more than ever angry with the crones whose wicked dealings had caused such an imputation to rest upon her. The rector had trotted briskly on, and was before long out of sight, but the cart was soon close to John Gower's cottage, between which and the road was a bit of waste land; it might be as much as two or three perches in size, for in those days every strip of land was not enclosed as it is now-a-days, but there were plenty of green patches by the side of the roads, and in many places you could ride on grass for miles together. It is very different now, and although it may be said on the one hand that we travel faster, witches are not heard of, and England is richer than in those days; yet I often say to Jack Barrett that I think there were a good many pleasant things in the old times, especially in country life, which we do not get now, and for my part I should not mind having them back again, even with a few witches here and there with them, provided we could get rid of some of the strange new-fangled ideas and curious goings on which we have got instead, and which are much worse for all of us, than a witch or two or even a stray wizard. Well, Mrs. Long told Tom the Bailiff to drive upon this bit of waste as near to the garden gate of John Gower's cottage as he could manage to get, and then down she scrambled and went into the house. John had not yet come home from his work, though he was expected every moment; but Mary received her guest with much civility, for she was a good-mannered girl, and knew how to behave to her betters. So she did the honours of the house, whilst her sister and Billy sat still and listened. Mrs. Long was, as you may suppose, not exactly in the best of humours, nor was her dress in precisely that condition in which ladies like their dresses to be when they go out visiting. You cannot be overturned into a ditch, scratched, pinched, hustled, and pushed, without some little disarrangement of your attire, and Mrs. Long's dress consequently required a good deal of "putting tidy," in which Mary Gower assisted her to the best of her ability. Whilst doing so, she listened to the account of all that had occurred since the day upon which she and Billy had left the kitten at the farm, and, upon being questioned by Mrs. Long as to the possible cause of its behaviour, she told her of their having met the two crones as I have described. The farmer's wife then said that, had she known the circumstances, she would have had nothing to do with the kitten; but that she did not blame Mary for not having told her, as of course she had not suspected that there was anything wrong with the animal. As she spoke, in came John Gower from his work, and to him the whole story was soon told. John expressed his great regret at what had happened, and went so far as to offer the farmer's wife another kitten, but, under the circumstances, she deemed it better to decline the offer; and, presently afterwards departed, taking good care to avoid the road by which she had come, and turning up instead by the road, at the corner of which the "Good Intent" public-house now stands; by which means she kept to the north of the big woods, and got safely home. Her adventure, however, made no little talk in the neighbourhood, and people shook their heads, gravely and wisely, whenever the matter was mentioned. Mrs. Long herself was so angry at the disrespectful manner in which she had been treated, and the unjust suspicion that had been raised in the clergyman's breast, that she could by no means be satisfied to rest quiet. Before taking any steps, however, to get matters set right, she determined to make an expedition to Brabourne, where lived a wise woman named Goody Flaskett, from whom she obtained sundry charms against witchcraft, with which she decorated herself, in order that she might be able to speak and act against witches with impunity. Thus armed, she never lost an opportunity of doing both the one and the other; and I suppose the charms must have had a certain power, because Farmer Barrett declared that the good woman, when she had them on, never felt any of those strange scratches from invisible hands which she had experienced when speaking against witches on the occasion already mentioned. Still, say and do what she would, the power of the Mersham crones did not seem to be diminished. They seldom appeared all three together, but might be said, generally, to "hunt in couples," although sometimes they were met singly, but hardly ever without a great black cat. The kitten was never again seen by its former owners, but in all probability had been taken by the crones to form one of the guardian cats by which they were thus attended. Petty thefts abounded in the neighbourhood, and no one suffered from them more than Farmer Long, although his farm was at a considerable distance from the cottage of the crones. At last things got so bad that the farmer really thought he could stand it no longer. So one day, after the disappearance of a fine lamb from one of his fields, when the crone Humpy had shortly before been seen in the immediate proximity of the flock, and one man went so far as to say he had seen her driving a lamb before her in the road, the farmer boldly applied to the nearest justice of the peace for a warrant to search the cottage. There was some little difficulty in the matter, owing to the circumstance that old Finn, the Mersham constable, positively declined for some time to go near the place, but upon being encouraged by the parish constable of Smeeth, bold Joe Worrell, who offered to go with him, they proceeded to perform their duty, accompanied by the farmer. Mrs. Long had gone to Dymchurch that day for a breath of sea air, so that he knew she would not be uneasy about him, and deemed it but right to back up the officers of justice, whom he met by appointment at the foot of Collier's Hill in Mersham, and they advanced together. But the road appeared to be endless, for although it could not be much more than two miles, if so much, to the cottage, it seemed as if they would never get there. Then, although the weather had been fine, there came on a hailstorm which nearly blinded them, and, notwithstanding that Finn had been born in the parish and the others knew it well, they actually lost their way, and found themselves close to Kingsnorth Church, which everybody knows to be in quite an opposite direction. They hastily retraced their steps, but then it suddenly became dark. Finn and the farmer both had their hats plucked off their heads by invisible hands, and although Worrell was untouched (it being well-known that no witch dare lay hands on a Smeeth man) yet he felt far from comfortable. Determined, however, to do their duty, the men made another attempt, and going round towards Aldington, were about to try and approach that side, when, all darkness having cleared away, they saw at a distance a light in the sky which betokened a fire, and from the direction, it appeared to be burning somewhere very near to Farmer Long's house. This put out of his head altogether the business upon which he was out, and he immediately retraced his steps as fast as possible, accompanied by the constables. When he got near home the flames seemed to have died away, but a heavy smoke hung over the place, and as he approached still nearer a sad sight indeed met his eyes. His stables were utterly burned to the ground, and three valuable horses destroyed, despite every effort to save them. Farmer Long rushed hastily to the spot, but all he found was his poor half-witted son sitting calmly on the grass contemplating the smouldering embers with a vacant expression of countenance. "What has happened, Stephen lad? Where's Tom? How did all this begin? Who has done it?" were the eager questions of the excited man; but to all of them the youth replied with the stolid indifference of idiocy, "Steenie not know." Subsequent inquiries proved that two (as usual) of the crones had been seen in the vicinity of the farm that day. As a public road ran very near, this may perhaps be deemed by some to have been slight and inconclusive evidence of their guilt; but it was universally accepted at the time as beyond all doubt connecting them with the affair. Some few there were who insinuated that the idiot boy had set the stables on fire for amusement, unconscious of the mischief he was doing; but these of course were some of those foolish and obstinate people who always like to differ from the rest of the world, and put forward their own views against those of everybody else. Of course it was the Mersham crones who had done the thing, else why should it have occurred at the very time when Farmer Long was engaged on an expedition, the object of which was to search their cottage? At all events, so entirely convinced upon the subject was the whole neighbourhood, that it was resolved that the matter could not rest there, but must be taken up seriously. The question was, how to do it? Inquiry before the magistrates appeared useless, for if two constables, and one of them a Smeeth man, too, could not even approach the crones' dwelling, of what avail was it to invoke the authority of the law? The church might be tried, but the rector of Mersham was known to have steadily set his face against any belief in witches, and it was more than probable that no other clergyman would like to interfere in his parish without his knowledge and consent. Long consultations were held, and wise heads laid together about the business, and at last it was determined to rouse the honest people of the neighbourhood round, most of whom had suffered more or less from the pilfering habits of the crones, and, covered with as many charms and magic tokens as they could obtain from old Goody Flaskett and one or two other wise women who lived near the place, to advance in great numbers against the enemy, in order to try what ducking in a horsepond would do for them. So on one fine afternoon, a great concourse of people, meeting in several parties, bore down from different quarters upon the cottage of the crones. It was a mellow day in autumn, and hopping was just over at the time when this proceeding took place. John Gower had come home that day to dinner, and a memorable day it was in his family. Mary, Jane, and Billy were all at home and they had just sat down to their homely meal when a low, hurried knocking was heard at the door. At this very moment it so happened that the horse-shoe which was usually nailed over that door had fallen down, owing to one of the nails which supported it having given way, and consequently it lay on the grass near the door instead of hanging in its usual place. Farmer Barrett was always particular in mentioning this circumstance, else, he said, people might think that a horseshoe is not a real protection against witches, whereas it is the best and surest safeguard, only it must be nailed up against a wall or over a door. John bade his son open the door, and as soon as he had done so, they perceived a good-looking young woman leading two others, apparently older than herself, but perfectly blind, whilst on her arm each carried a basket. They were quite strangers to John and his family, and appeared to have walked some way. "Might we ask to rest awhile in your cottage, good friend?" asked the young woman. "I and my two blind sisters have walked all the way from Ashford to-day, and are bound to Romney." "Sartainly, ma'am," said John in reply. "But surely this be a long walk for such as ye?" "Ah!" replied the other, "we should have thought so once, but a cruel landlord has turned us out of our house, these poor afflicted creatures and me, and having relations at Romney we are going there in the only way the poor can travel--on our feet, and we have nothing with us but our tame rabbits, poor creatures, which we always carry in our baskets. We should be very thankful if we might come in for a couple of hours or so." "By all means," said worthy John, whose simple heart was at once touched by this tale. "Come in, come in by all means," and stepping forward, he helped one of the blind girls over the threshold and they all entered the cottage. The moment they were inside, Mary's favourite cat, who had been seated by the fireside, intently watching the proceeding, jumped up and sprang through the open window without saying a word to anybody, which indeed, as a respectable but ordinary cat, she was not likely to have done under any circumstances. Mary observed this, and wondered at the animal being so shy of strangers; but nobody made any remark upon the incident, and seats being found for the new comers, they not only sat down, but condescended to share the family dinner, and that with such appetites, that the children of the house themselves came off but second best. John Gower asked several questions which were satisfactorily answered, but he always said afterwards that he never felt quite at home with his visitors, which he put down to their being better educated and of a position apparently somewhat above his own. As they sat and ate and talked, a distant shout was heard, and then another. "Father, what's that?" asked Billy. "Oh!" replied Gower, "I expect it's the people out after the crones. I forgot all about it, not being a busy man in such matters, or I ought to have helped my neighbours, perhaps, for those old women are no better than they should be--ah! oh! oh, dear!" and whilst the words were still in his mouth, John Gower jumped up and began to hop about the room upon one leg, having been suddenly seized, he said, with a violent fit of cramp therein. "What are they going to do with the crones, father?" asked Billy. "Duck 'em, I expect, boy," replied he; upon which the lad rejoined,-- "Oh, what fun! how I should like to see it!" and almost immediately afterwards burst out crying, saying that he had such a bad pain come in his inside. Meanwhile more shouting was heard, and not very far off, and presently the door was thrown open, and in came a neighbour, James Firminger by name, and a noted enemy to witches, besides being so worthy and well-thought-of a man that he had more than once been spoken of as fit to be parish churchwarden. "Neighbour Gower!" he shouted, as he came in, "why ar't not out with the rest of us after the crones? 'Twill be a grand day for Mersham if we get quit of them. But you've got company, I see--bless us, what a smell of sulphur!" As he spoke, he turned his eyes on the young woman and her two blind companions, and started as he did so. Firminger never went about without some potent witch-charm upon him, which at once protected him from the malice of such creatures, and enabled him to detect them when disguised, and upon this occasion he had nothing less than a relic of the great Kentish saint, Thomas à Becket, being a small piece of the hair-shirt of that holy man, cut off shortly after his death by one of the monks of Canterbury, who happened to be a Firminger, and religiously preserved in the Firminger family ever afterwards. Naturally, as Farmer Barrett observed, no witch could stand against _that_, and Firminger was a lucky man to possess it. It was doubtless in consequence, and by virtue of this relic, that as soon as the good man was well inside the cottage, he not only smelt the sulphur which had not been smelt by the family, but saw what was the real character of John Gower's visitors. He took no second look, but shouted aloud, "The crones! the crones!" and seizing the little case in which was his relic in his hands, displayed it openly before them. The effect was instantaneous. All beauty disappeared from the face of the young woman, her form changed, her countenance shrivelled, and she stood confessed before the party as Humpy, the youngest of the three Crones of Mersham. No less sudden and complete was the alteration in her two companions, who recovered their sight at once, but together therewith resumed the unpleasant forms and features of Skinny and Bony, the two other sisters of this disreputable family. There was a visible agitation at the same moment in the baskets which the sisters had carried upon their arms, and which they had deposited on the floor upon taking their seats. The lids shook, the baskets quivered, and in another instant overturned, when out sprang three enormous black cats upon the floor of the room. With a yell, which seemed to burst simultaneously from the throats of all the crones and all the cats, they rushed out at the door; flying from the charm which James Firminger kept earnestly shaking before their eyes. Out of the door, over the green space in front of the cottage, into the road, and as far and fast as they could get away from the object of their terror. John Gower and his children sat stupified with mingled surprise and awe for some seconds; and then, jumping from their seats, they all rushed through the door after Firminger; who, having done so, stood still outside, eagerly gazing after the retreating crones. He knew well enough that, if nought had prevented them, the honest people who were out after the witches, would by this time have attacked and harried their home. Whither, then, would they fly? If they had quitted their cottage ignorant of the coming of their enemies, and only bent on paying John Gower a visit--doubtless intending to do him some mischief or other; it might be that they would hurry home, and encounter the angry mob of people, in which case there would be wild work one way or the other. If, however, as was more probable (and as was generally believed to be the case when the matter was considered afterwards), the three crones had been well aware of the projected attack upon them, and had purposely left home--hoping that they might lie safely hid in the abode of so honest and quiet a man as Gower until the danger was over, then it became a serious question as to what other refuge they would seek, now that they had been so manfully driven from their intended place of safety. The doubts of the lookers-on, however, were soon solved. A strange thing happened, which would never have been believed in those days, but that Firminger and Gower both solemnly declared it, and which perhaps actually will _not_ be believed in these days of doubt and want of faith, but which I must nevertheless relate as Farmer Barrett told it to me. As soon as they were well on the other side of the road, each crone jumped upon her cat, and the animals, lightly springing over the hedge into the next field, set off full gallop in an easterly direction--or, in other words, heading as straight as a line to Aldington Knoll, well-known in those good old days as the great fortress of witches. That was their point, no doubt, and it looked very much as if they were going to give up Mersham as a bad job, and betake themselves to other and safer quarters. As soon as Firminger saw the line which the crones took, he turned to Gower and said in a hasty tone, "Come on, mate, this must be seen to at once. Let us join the chaps who are gone to the old cottage as fast as we can, and tell them what we have seen, and all that has happened." John Gower was too wise a man to hesitate. Had he done so, he knew well enough that he would be suspected of having knowingly harboured the crones, and of being in league with them, a suspicion which would have ruined him for ever in his native parish, and probably driven him from the county. So he bade Mary mind the house, and keep Jane and Billy at home, and then he set off at best pace with Firminger down the road in the direction of the cottage of the crones. They very soon reached it, and found it surrounded by a number of people, who were engaged in demolishing the premises altogether. They had not found much, probably because there was not much to find; and the owners of the place, as we know, had taken themselves off before the arrival of their unwelcome visitors. But they broke everything they could find, tore down the thatched roof to search for magic charms, none of which they found, but only a number of mice, and a great deal of dust. They pulled to pieces the wooden part of the cottage, and knocked down a great part of the stone corner, counting everything as fair game, as witches' property, and striving their utmost to destroy as much as they possibly could. There were more than a couple of hundred people, all told, Farmer Barrett believed, and he gave me a great many names, but I forget most of them. There was Bully Robus, of the "Farriers' Arms," I know, and little Dick Broadfoot, the tailor, of Mersham Street, and Bill Parsons, all the way from Warehorne Green. There were Gowers, and Farrances, Sillibournes and Swaflers, Swinerds and Finns--in short, not a family in that or any of the other parishes which was not represented, and they all seemed to vie with each other, which should do the most mischief, and be foremost in pulling down and destroying that evil place. It was several minutes before James Firminger and John Gower could command the attention of people so eagerly occupied about their business as these witch-seekers, and it would have been still longer, but for the position and character of Firminger, and his known hatred of all that pertained to witchcraft. He presently succeeded in making them listen to the wonders he had to relate, and when they knew for certain what had happened and the direction which the crones had taken, the whole current of their thoughts was turned into one eager desire to follow, and, if possible, to make an end of the inmates of that awful cottage as well as of the abode itself. They lost no time, therefore, in finishing the work on which they were then engaged, and immediately afterwards the whole party swarmed up the road in the direction of Aldington Knoll, keeping up each other's courage by many brave words, and shouting uncomplimentary epithets with regard to the three crones. So they pushed on until they came to the spot where four roads met; one, that which our party had traversed in walking from the cottage, another bearing back to Bilsington and Ruckinge, a third to Newchurch and the Marsh, and the fourth to Aldington Knoll. Down this last road the people turned, and then, immediately before them they had the mass of wood upon the side of the hill, which then, as now, encompassed the knoll itself upon the north, west, and south, the ground to the east being somewhat less woody. The knoll--apparently a grass hill, only that the grass being a good deal worn away, showed the bare rock at several places--peered over the woods, and the road to it lay right through the latter for some distance, until by turning into a gate upon your right hand, you entered the field out of which the knoll rose, and from the higher points of which were magnificent views over the Marsh and all the country east, west, and south, the hills behind shutting out the view to the north. The people were now some three-quarters of a mile from this gate, and, if the truth could be known, I have no doubt whatever that some of them would very gladly have been a great deal further off. The power of the crones themselves was so well known, and the reputation of Aldington Knoll was so bad, that no one felt sure that some terrible misfortune might not result from braving the one and attacking the other. They had all heard strange tales of people bewitched, changed into animals, losing their senses, and all kinds of other disagreeable things, and of course such tales _would_ recur to them at such a moment. But there were brave hearts--then as now--among the men of Kent, and although fears and doubts may have been there, they did not operate so as to turn any man back from the work he had undertaken. The people moved down the road towards Aldington, and reached the point at which the woods began. At that moment a loud clap of thunder pealed through the air, and vivid lightning flashed across the sky. A shudder passed through many a stout frame, but the men pushed boldly on. Then came a severe hailstorm--so severe that the people took shelter beneath the trees, and waited until its violence seemed to be passed. But none turned back. Then came a bitter, chilling wind, though it had been a lovely, soft, mellow day: the wind cut through the trees with a moaning sound, and pierced the people like a mid-winter blast. Still they pressed on, knowing that witchcraft was at work, and that retreat would be ruin. They were half-way between the point at which the road entered the woods and the gate before mentioned, when a loud and terrible roaring was heard upon the right, from the woods which stretched up close to the knoll itself. So strange and so dreadful was this sound, that it made the blood of those who heard it run cold, and for a moment the foremost men of the throng paused. But three men there were in that crowd who neither quailed nor paused for a moment, so resolutely determined were they to carry out the work they had commenced that day. These men were James Firminger, Farmer Long, and old David Finn, the parish clerk of Mersham. The last named knew but little of crones or witches, but tradition said that there always must be a Finn for parish clerk, and that Mersham would not be Mersham without one. This being the case, the old man felt it to be his duty to take such prominent part in an affair like the present as became one of an ancient family, filling an hereditary office. Therefore, although he knew that the rector would most likely have disapproved of the step he was taking, he had started early that day, and in company with Bully Robus and sundry other notables of the parish, had taken an active part in the proceedings from the beginning. These three men, then, were not deterred by the roaring, though it much resembled that of wild and savage beasts desiring their prey, and seeing it before their eyes. And when no beasts appeared, and it seemed to be nothing but sound, the rest of the people regained their courage, and all continued to push on towards the gate into the knoll-field. About a hundred yards before they reached it, however, they found that they had to encounter an unexpected obstacle in the shape of several enormous elms which lay stretched across the road in such a manner as to most effectually bar any further progress. But to the astonishment of all, no sooner had Firminger, Long, and Finn (who were now recognised as the leaders of the expedition) approached close to the barrier, than it vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, and left the roadway free. Encouraged by this result, as unexpected as it was satisfactory, the party advanced a few yards farther, to find a great ditch yawning in front of them, and evidently intended to stop their farther advance. On seeing this, Finn rushed to the front, and standing close to the edge of the abyss, pronounced in a loud voice the word "Amen," which he had long held to be the most sacred and powerful form of invocation known to the world, and one which never failed to repel any evil creature to whom it was addressed. Whether from the effects of his utterance, or from any other reason, I cannot say, but certain it is that as the worthy clerk put one leg forward as if to step into the ditch, it closed up as if it had never been dug, which perhaps was the case. At all events, whether it was a real ditch or only a delusion of the eye, the chasm disappeared altogether, and once more the party proceeded, until they reached the gate of the field, and faced it, about to enter and approach the knoll, which now lay upon their right, the field in which it was situate stretching back into the woods. On entering the gate, they were at once struck by the novel and curious appearance of the knoll. Smoke appeared to envelope it on all sides, and a deep rumbling proceeded from within it, as if a volcano were at work, and a volcano that meant mischief too. The party paused for a moment, looked at each other and then at the knoll, and began to wonder what they had better do next. Everybody thought that everybody else was stopping quite unnecessarily, but nobody seemed inclined to move on first. Even the three bold men, Firminger, Long, and Finn, seemed less eager than hitherto, and whispered to each other in low, mysterious tones, that they fancied they saw dark and fearful figures moving about among the smoke in which the knoll was enveloped. It was well known to these men, and indeed to most or all of their companions, that Aldington knoll was reputed to be the abode and principal gathering-place of all the evil creatures in that part of the country. By common consent men had for a long time past shunned it as a haunted and wicked spot, and it was no common evidence of courage that so many men had been found to approach it upon this occasion. After a few moments, the three men recollected the responsibility of their position, and the absolute certainty that if their party returned home defeated, the neighbourhood would thenceforward be worse off than ever. The crones would never forget the plunder and destruction of their cottage, and would doubtless exact a severe compensation from the perpetrators of that ruthless deed. Moreover, for a couple of hundred people to have it said that they had been circumvented and beaten by three old women, was a thing not to be thought of; so, shame overcoming their reluctance, they boldly marched forward again, and encouraged their followers to charge up to the very foot of the knoll. They had got quite close to it when, either by accident, or because he pulled it too hard in his nervous fidgeting with it, the string by which James Firminger's relic was tied round his neck suddenly broke, and the charm itself fell to the ground. Hardly had this occurred, when a yell, most discordant in its tone, but appearing to express a mingled feeling of joy, triumph, fury and revengeful longing all in one, broke from the interior of the mount. The next instant the knoll itself opened wide, just like the mouth of a man preparing for a tremendous yawn, and a whole volley of cinders and ashes came bursting over the approaching party in a most disconcerting and unpleasant manner. At the same time strange and uncouth figures suddenly appeared issuing from the knoll, some with goat's heads and horns, others with the bodies of men but a pig's head, snout and bristles, others like monkeys (but oh! such frightful monkeys as never were seen) and all with eyes that rolled fearfully in their heads and glittered like fire. Conspicuous among this awful band appeared the figures of the three crones, Bony, Skinny, and Humpy, each carrying a broomstick in her hand, and followed by her cat, which bounded forward as if to attack the invaders of the haunted hill. This was more than the latter could stand--they wavered--looked round--tottered a step or two backward, and then, as the cinders, hot cinders too, came upon them and the evil creatures almost touched them, they turned round with one accord, and fled down from the knoll as fast as their legs would carry them. Farmer Long was the first of the three leaders who gave way, for he afterwards declared that he recognized the lost kitten in a cat which seemed to select him as her particular object of attack, and as he ran, he vowed that he felt a scratch which penetrated, sharp and deep, in such a manner that he could not sit down comfortably for a fortnight, and felt perfectly sure that only the claws of that kitten could or would have dealt him such a wound. As for Finn, he so lost his head, that he ran off, bawling out "Amen" continuously at the top of his voice, but in a tone which conveyed so little of the real importance and dignity attaching to the word, that it is little wonder that it had no effect. James Firminger--as became a man of his character and position--stood his ground longest, but his charm being gone, he felt less confidence, and when he, too, turned and ran, he felt himself belaboured by an invisible stick all the way down to the gate of the field. Shouts, shrieks and yells of laughter, followed the retreating party, and there was scarcely a man in whose breast, amid all his fears, the thought did not arise that the result of this day's work had turned out to be one so utterly unfortunate for the people, and so triumphant for the crones, that the neighbourhood would have to submit to be witch-ridden for ever after. But, sometimes, in human affairs, whether those of an individual or a community, at the very moment when things seem to be at their worst, they begin to mend, and that amendment is not unfrequently brought about by some agent which, to the wise and knowing of mankind, would have appeared the most insignificant and the most unlikely to have effected the change. So it was in the present instance. The affrighted people came rushing through the gate, and, avoiding the road through the wood, which was their natural way home, turned in an easterly direction, and ran up the road leading away from the woods, and into the main road leading from Aldington Corner to Hythe. They had run but a very short distance when they came upon the "innocent," simple Steenie Long, sitting on the bank of the road side, apparently looking for flowers. He looked up with a vacant expression upon his face (which I am told was not unusual with idiots in those days) and seemed astonished to see so many people all running in such a hurry. Several of the party hurried past the boy, too much occupied about providing for their own safety to think either of him or of anybody else. Presently, however, Farmer Long came running by, already somewhat out of breath, and burning with rage and shame at having been unable to resist the impulse which had made him fly before the power of the evil creatures of the knoll. When he came to the place where his son was sitting, he stopped short in his flight, and seizing the boy by the arm, hastily exclaimed, "Come along, lad, come along; this is no place for the likes of you!" endeavouring at the same time to hurry the youth away with him. But "Simple Steenie" was by no means of the same opinion. He drew himself away from his father's hold, opened his large blue eyes to their fullest extent, and observed in a calm but very decided tone. "Steenie not." "Not _what_, boy?" said the farmer eagerly. "You'd better not stop here, anyhow; leastways if you do, the witches will have you." But the boy, who had by this time risen to his feet, only smiled pleasantly upon his father, with the simple smile of the weak of intellect, and answered in a gentle tone. "Steenie not 'fraid. People run. Steenie not run." At this moment up came James Firminger, already bitterly repenting the flight which seemed certain to lead to such disastrous consequences. Overhearing the words of the boy, the thought instantly struck him that they might be turned to good account. Well did stout Firminger know that whatever be the power of witches and warlocks, it has no effect upon those whom Heaven has deprived of their full share of reason and intellect, and it occurred to him (and perhaps it was true) that this unexpected meeting with "Simple Steenie" was not accidental, but that it was possibly so ordered, that the victory of the evil ones might be prevented. He stopped instantly, and shouted aloud to the rest of the party. "Mates!" he cried. "Are we not shamed by the words of this innocent? _He_ will not run, he--why then should _we_ do so? The power which protects _him_ can protect _us_. Let us turn once more, and never give way like this to the evil ones." The words of Firminger produced a great effect upon those who heard him. Some indeed there were who had already made their way so far that they neither saw nor heard anything that followed, but fully two-thirds of the party checked their flight, and waited to see what would follow. They were much reassured by that which immediately occurred. James Firminger went up to the boy and spoke to him kindly to the following effect. "Steenie boy, that's right! _You_ won't run, will you, lad? _You_ ban't afraid of no witches nor crones neither, be you?" Thus addressed, Steenie drew himself up to his full height, smiled upon his questioner as he had upon his father, and said very gravely. "No. Steenie not 'fraid. Good people help Steenie." As this was immediately interpreted by all who heard him to mean that the half-witted lad was assured of supernatural assistance in any encounter which might ensue, it had a wonderfully comforting effect upon the whole party. The courage which, in the case of most of them, had been "oozing out at their fingers' ends," suddenly and miraculously returned to its natural home in their hearts, and they began to encourage each other by speech and gesture, and to ask what there was to be afraid of. Seeing his opportunity, Firminger used all his arts of persuasion, and the result was that those of the party who had not got beyond hearing when the above mentioned incident took place, wheeled boldly and bodily round, and retraced their steps towards the knoll-field, Firminger and Long leading the way, preceded by "Simple Steenie," who declined to walk with any of them, but trotted on ahead. As for Finn, he had disappeared and was no more seen that day, having been so completely overcome by the total failure of the great invocation to which he had pinned his faith, that he was incapable of further action for the time, and was indeed never quite the same man afterwards. When the party got near the gate, there was no sign of anything unusual, but as soon as they set foot within the field, the same roaring arose which they had heard before, and the same smoke began to puff out from the knoll and to enwrap it once more in dark wreaths. At this moment Firminger, Long, and their followers suddenly started with surprise. "Simple Steenie" was indeed walking before them, having left the trotting pace at which he had started, but he was no longer alone! A short, thick-set man, clad entirely in gray from head to foot, was leading the boy by the hand as they advanced together. In his hand he held a long staff, but otherwise appeared to be entirely unarmed. Whence he had sprung from no one could tell; they had not seen any of their own party rush forward, and certainly no one had descended from the knoll. However, there was the Gray Man, sure enough, and on he marched by "Simple Steenie's" side, as if they were the best friends in the world, and had long ago arranged the enterprise on which they were jointly bound. The others followed at a respectful distance, more and more astonished as matters went on. The roaring continued and presently the same process was repeated as that which the people had previously witnessed and undergone. Figures moved rapidly amid the thick smoke, and ever and anon a lurid flame flashed from one side of the knoll to the other, affording a momentary glimpse of awful forms with threatening gestures directed towards those who appeared desirous to invade their territory. Still "Simple Steenie" and his companion walked calmly on until they were within a very short distance of the knoll, when, as before, it opened, and a volume of cinders and ashes was again poured forth. But, at the same instant, the Gray Man raised his staff high above his head and shook it in the air. Suddenly, without a cloud in the sky or any appearance whatever of rain, a perfect torrent of water descended from the heavens upon the knoll, the effect of which was to produce just such a "fiz" as when you throw a tumbler of water upon the fire, only this sound was as if several hundred thousand tumblers had been thrown upon the same number of fires all at once, producing the loudest and most wonderful "fiz" that you can imagine. At the same moment a prolonged and terrible howl arose from inside the hill, as if the effects of the water had caused great discomfort therein. Next happened a remarkable incident. The mouth of the knoll opened with the same kind of yawning action as has been already described, as if the same onslaught as before was about to be repeated. But instead of waiting for this, "Steenie" and the "Gray Man" both raised a loud shout, the latter brandished his staff once more over his head, and both of them rushed boldly forward into the mound, which immediately closed behind them. The bystanders were struck with horror and amazement. Was the Gray Man in league with the enemy, and had he thus lured poor Steenie to his destruction? If so--why and whence the torrent of water, which had evidently not been relished by the inhabitants of the knoll? What on earth did it all mean? For a few moments the whole party stood fearful and irresolute. Soon it became evident that warm work was going on inside the knoll. Shouts, yells, rumblings, howls, and the most discordant noises were heard within, whilst there were those among the people, and notably James Firminger and Bully Robus, who always declared that they heard, in and above the outcry, the word, "Dunstan! Dunstan!" repeated ever and anon, and the same thought crossed the minds of both of them at the same time, namely, that the appearance of the Gray Man greatly resembled the description of the great Saint Dunstan, so famous for the manner in which he tackled the arch-enemy upon one occasion with a pair of tongs, and whose name was said to be especially dreaded by all evil creatures. Be this as it may, the noise had not continued above a minute or two, before the spirit of James Firminger became too much excited to allow of his remaining quiet any longer. Calling to his companions to come on and help poor Steenie, he rushed boldly forward, and was followed by most of the others. But they were still several yards away from the scene of action, when they were stopped by an occurrence so extraordinary that no one who witnessed it ran the smallest chance of ever forgetting it. The knoll burst open in at least twenty different places, and from it there issued the same sort of creatures as those who had previously attacked and routed the Mersham forces. But their aspect was now as completely changed as their behaviour. Cowering, shrieking, huddling together as if to escape some terrible pursuer, they rushed frantically away on all sides, with heart-rending cries of despair and anguish. Then, in the very middle of the knoll, rushing after the retreating foe, appeared no less a personage than the Gray Man, flourishing his staff, and closely followed by "Simple Steenie," whose features were glowing with excitement, and whom they distinctly saw in the act of administering a violent kick to a repulsive-looking creature with a serpent's head and man's body, who was beyond all question an evil one of the worst description, but whose departure was much quickened by the action of the "innocent." As everybody among the lookers-on was greatly confused and alarmed at the extraordinary spectacle suddenly presented to their view, one hardly knows how far it would be safe to rely upon the many different accounts which were afterwards given of the details of the transaction of which I am writing, and good Farmer Barrett always used to warn me against believing as gospel every particular of this part of the story. However, there were many worthy people out upon this day who declared solemnly that among the strange and horrible creatures who were turned out of Aldington Knoll that day, they recognised the faces and features of several of their neighbours, dead and gone, who had been reputed witches in their life-times. And little Dick Broadfoot, the tailor of Mersham Street, an acute man as well as an honest, and one that would not willingly either lie or exaggerate, always took his bible oath that he saw, as plainly as he ever saw anything in his life, three awful creatures, with cats' heads and bodies, but with horns and wings, and with claws longer than any possessed by mortal cat, fly out of the mount and down the woods, each having fast hold of and carrying with it a form which writhed and struggled as if in fearful agony, but writhed and struggled in vain. And furthermore, Dick avowed that he saw--though how he had time to see it I don't know--he saw, I say, and knew it for a certain fact, that these three unhappy wretches were the three crones of Mersham, doubtless being carried off to their own place by the three evil ones who had hitherto served them under the form of cats. Whether to believe the little tailor or not I hardly know, but Bully Robus backed him up in the story, and as the three crones never again appeared in that part of the world, it may have been quite true. Certain it is that all those creatures who issued from the knoll in the way I have described were evidently driven out against their will, utterly defeated and brought to tribulation by a superior power. In a very short time they had utterly disappeared, a strong smell of sulphur being the only remaining token that they had ever been there, whilst upon the knoll, which had closed up behind them, "Simple Steenie" and his companion remained, standing alone in triumph. The people saw the Gray Man lay his hand upon the lad's head for an instant, as if calling down a blessing upon him; then there came a mist or cloud over the knoll, and when they looked again, Steenie was standing alone. They hurried towards him, instinctively knowing that there was no more danger to be apprehended from the place, and he turned smilingly to meet them with an air of triumph. "Steenie not 'fraid," he said. "Naughty people run 'way! All gone!" [Illustration: SIMPLE STEENIE AND THE GRAY MAN ON THE KNOLL--P. 344] But to all their questions about his late companion he could only answer by a vacant smile and incoherent words, which left them as ignorant as before. They had, however, the great consolation of knowing that, whether it had come about by the aid of "Simple Steenie's" innocent efforts, or whether the Gray Man had of his own accord planned the whole affair, and arranged for the discomfiture of the wicked ones, that discomfiture was certain and complete. From that day forth Aldington Knoll has been a peaceful quiet spot, from whence the views to which I have already alluded may be contemplated without any fear of interference by any unpleasant inmates of the mound, for there are none worse than rabbits now. More might be told about some of the characters of our story, but short and casual allusions are not desirable, and to do more would be to lengthen the story too much. So I will leave my readers to fancy for themselves all that happened afterwards to John Gower and his family, as well as to Farmer Long, Simple Steenie, and all the rest of them. It is a good many years ago now since these things occurred, and the actors in the stirring scenes which I have related have long since passed away. If I had not chronicled them now, from my recollection of good old Farmer Barrett's gossips, I dare say Jack Barrett--who is a careless fellow at best, and not equal to his father--(young men seldom are in these days, according to my opinion) would have told the story differently, and only in fragments, to his children, and they would have varied it again in telling it to _their_ children, so that in a couple of generations it would have been quite uncertain, and the real truth never would have been known. This is why I have thought it right to tell it. I drove down in my pony-carriage the other day, with a young lady by my side, to see the very spot where the crones' cottage used to stand, and to go through all the places where these scenes occurred. I could make them all out pretty clearly, though there is no vestige of the cottage left. We drove on to Bilsington and back towards Aldington by the same road that Mrs. Long and Tom the Bailiff drove, when they were taking the kitten back to the Gowers. We did not see any witches for certain, and perhaps there are none left, though, as it is a good way from a railroad, I am not very sure on this point. In a secluded spot by one of the woods, there was the figure of a man seated by the side of the road breaking stones, and I thought there was something in his look more than common. It was on a hill, up which I was walking, and if I had been alone I might have stopped and tried to find out more. But as I did not want to run the least chance of the young lady with me being frightened, I only took care to walk on the side of the road between the pony-carriage and the figure, and as we passed it I laid my right hand on my heart, and pronounced that famous mystic word of power---- Oh! I forgot, I must not write it, because that is forbidden, but if any little girl wants to know (boys are never curious, of course, so they won't mind not being told) she must just write me a pretty little letter and ask, and as I am very easily coaxed, I shall very likely either come and tell her, or make some arrangement by which she shall be able to find out for herself. It answered very well that day (as, indeed, it always does) and we got home quite safe. Home is the best place at which to leave one's friends, and therefore, having brought myself there in my writing, I think I will stop, and only hope that others beside myself will be interested in hearing the famous legend of the "Crones of Mersham." BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed.