GRANNY LUKE’S COURAGE.
BY M. E. W. S.
“COME, Tim, hurry up and be courageous.”
Tim didn’t hurry up, nor was he in a hurry to be courageous.
“Can’t you shoot the creature?”
“No, grandma, I’m afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Well, grandma, I’m afraid of hurting it,” said Tim.
“But that’s what shooting was meant for!” said Granny Luke, indignant at the weak-minded grandson.
“You shoot it, grandma!”
“I don’t know how to shoot—and, well—I am afraid of a gun, because I am a woman!” said Mrs. Luke, who was known in all the mining region as “Granny Luke”—more because she called herself so, than because anybody else gave her that title.
She was an “old country” woman who, having lost her children, was left with a number of young grandchildren to bring up. Fate had wafted her to the lead mines in Iowa, down by one of which she had settled in a log cabin, and had picked up a living by boarding the miners, attending to them in sickness, and by sending her eldest, Tim, down the shaft with the miners’ dinners. A lead mine is worked far under ground, from a shaft which is sunk like a bucket in a well. Tim was not afraid to go down this bucket, nor to crawl on his hands and knees far into Yorkshire Tom’s lead, with a tallow candle in his cap, to carry the miner his dinner; nor did he dread an occasional rattlesnake, who, coiled at the mouth of the cave, would often ring his deadly rattle at the boy. No, Tim was inured to danger, and he knew how to give the rattlesnake a good tap over his ugly head with a stick, and silence his hiss forever; and he knew how to measure and guard against the equally poisonous air, in some parts of the mine, by the uncertain flame of his candle.
But he could not “shoot the creature.” Love made him a coward.
For the “creature” was a beautiful fawn, the loveliest, soft eyed, tender pet that ever lived, whom Tim had trained and fed and educated, and brought in from the prairie when the fawn was a baby. Some hunters had shot the pretty doe, the fawn’s mother, and Tim had educated the orphan.
Granny Luke had a little garden where she raised with her own hands a few vegetables, highly prized by the miners. The fawn had shown a great appreciation of early cabbage sprouts, green peas, beet tops and other succulent green things. No bars could keep him out, and no ropes could tie this gentle robber. He would jump over everything, and he nibbled so neatly and judiciously that Granny Luke’s garden had been ruined several times, and now her really long-suffering patience was at an end.
“No early peas and no late peas, no corn, no squash, no lettuce, no anything,” said Granny, in despair. “The creature shall be shot.”
TIM’S COURAGE FAILS.
She loved Primrose, too—as Tim had named the pretty fawn, whom he found deserted, lying on a bed of those yellow flowers which grow in tufts on the prairie. Primrose had tears in his big eyes, and was crying for his mother just like a human baby, when Tim found him and brought him home in his arms. Granny Luke had fed him with warm milk then, and had tended him as carefully as she did Tim, at a similar tender age; but those days were past, and Primrose was growing every day to be a buck of promise; and although he was tame enough to them, his moral nature could not be cultivated to know that while it was proper to eat green boughs and the coarse grass of the prairie, it was a sin to eat the fine things behind the fence.
Granny Luke gardened like a German woman, and sowed her water-cresses and spinach every day, hoping for continuous crops. But Primrose allowed them to nearly reach perfection, and then down they went, under his even, strong, white teeth.
If Granny Luke threw a stone at him he would give her one tender, loving look out of his beautiful eyes, and run away over the prairie for fifty miles, perhaps, glad of the exercise; always back, however, to greet Tim, when he crawled up out of the well-like bucket and from the cold, dark mine into the sun, and ready to offer him the warm friendship of his own well-furred neck, as the poor boy threw an arm around his four-footed friend, and the twain sat down, to an out door supper.
And now his grandma wished him to shoot this intimate, dear, beautiful friend!
No wonder that Tim’s courage failed.
“I have invited the General to a venison dinner day after to-morrow,” said Granny Luke; “and Primrose must be shot. I shall roast his saddle.”
Poor Tim shuddered. Granny Luke’s sensibilities had been blunted by time, and hard work and poverty. She had been doing very well in her affairs—thanks to the friendship of the General Superintendent of the mines, an old-country friend of her’s; and as he appreciated her excellent cooking, and fresh vegetables, she occasionally gave him and his fellow officers a good dinner. Primrose was to be offered up to two passions—revenge and avarice—for as he ate her spinach, he must therefore be eaten.
The group was standing outside the cabin door, Tim leaning irresolutely on his gun; Granny Luke, her arms akimbo, looking at him; and Primrose, as beautiful as only a fawn can be, was calmly nibbling the lower branches of a tree. Animals are better off than we are; they never suffer from anxiety. So Primrose had no possible idea that those branches might be the last which he would ever munch. He looked up at Mrs. Luke and her grandson and gave a friendly “neigh!”
This upset Tim, and he burst out a-crying: “I can’t shoot him! Granny—and I won’t!”
There came round the corner of the house a slow, massive tread. It was Yorkshire Tom, with his pick-axe on his shoulder.
“What’s all this! what’s all this!” said the man, catching Mrs. Luke’s arm as it was descending on Tim’s back.
“The boy is disobedient, and refuses to shoot Primrose,” said the stern old woman.
Yorkshire Tom was a patient man, and he staid a half hour to listen to the ins and outs of this curious case. He liked Tim and had felt his heart warm many a time as the little pale fellow, with the candle in his cap, came creeping through the dark alleys bringing him a dinner, and staying to chat awhile of the bright upper earth.
“Now, Dame, thee’s a little hard on the young un! ain’t thee!” said Tom, in broad Yorkshire brogue. “Come lad, take the beast, and come along o’ me. I’ll shoot him for thee.”
So Tim, with his arm around the neck of dear Primrose, walked off to Yorkshire Tom’s, far out of sight and hearing of Granny Luke.
It was ten o’clock, of a moonlight night, when Tim came wearily home, with a saddle of venison on his back. Although he was weary, he looked bright, and his cheeks very red—perhaps from the exercise.
“A large, plump saddle!” said his grandmother, “I had no idea Primrose was so fat—that comes from eating my spinach! A nice roast this for the General—why, boy, you look feverish. I must give you some peppermint tea! So Yorkshire Tom did it, did he? Well, Tim, you tell him to keep the rest of the meat to pay himself for the trouble—all but two steaks from the hind leg, remember.”
“Yes, Granny; I’ll remember,” said Tim, whose eyes were sparkling.
That was a good dinner that Granny Luke cooked for the General. The saddle was done to a turn, and she had some wild currant jelly, some fried potatoes, and a few vegetables which Primrose had not eaten. As she waited on the gentlemen, she enjoyed hearing them commend her cooking, and did not hesitate to utter a few words of praise over her departed Primrose! We often think of virtues in our friends after they have gone, which did not occur to us while they were living.
Alas, for human constancy! Tim ate a large plateful of roast Primrose; and what was more, he liked him.
“Well! I was right,” said his grandma; “he has forgotten all about his lost pet, and I am glad I have had Primrose shot!”
But Granny Luke missed the fawn more and more, and she saw her spinach and water-cresses and lettuces grow unmolested without that supreme pleasure which she had thought would be hers! Her days were lonely, as her grandchildren left her for their tasks, and no Primrose came to give her trouble.
She awoke one day feeling rather unwell, and as she was tying her cap over her gray hairs, which were her crown of glory, she saw a little black snake wiggling its way through the logs of her cabin.
It frightened her; not because she cared for the little snake, but because the miners believe it an evil omen if a snake crawls into a house. She was superstitious, the poor old ignorant woman; and although she had plenty of courage in every other way, she was afraid of a “bad sign.”
However, she drove the snake away, and went about her household tasks. Tim was sent off with the miners’ breakfast—her other grandchildren were fed and sent out to pick out the shining bits of metal from a heap of stones, and the strong old woman bent over a wash-tub to do her week’s washing. She had got about half through when she, fairly tired, let the soap fall, rubbed her arms dry, and thought she would look at her spinach and see how it was growing.
“Oh! gracious goodness!” what did she see?
Who was there nibbling the spinach, eating off the young water cresses, and taking an occasional shy glance at the beet tops, and shaking his pretty furry ears? Who but Primrose!
“I knew it! I knew it!” said Granny Luke. “I knew when I saw that black snake that I was going to have bad luck! That is an evil spirit—and he has come after me! Oh, hou! ough! hou! Tim!”
Granny Luke’s courage was all gone. Primrose was dead—and she had eaten him; yes, two steaks out of his hind legs. But there he was, with little horns growing out of his forehead!
But Primrose—for it was he, and no other—hearing her familiar voice, had leaped the paling and ran to lick the kind hand that had fed his infant deership.
GRANNY LUKE LOSES HER COURAGE.
This was too much, and Granny Luke fainted dead away; and when Tim came home he found her on the ground in front of the cabin, and Primrose was licking her forehead with his cool, rough tongue.
“You see, grandma,” said he, in explanation, “Yorkshire Tom goes a-hunting sometimes, and he had just shot a fine buck when you wanted me to shoot Primrose. So he took us both over to his cabin and we tied Primrose up, and he sent you some venison from his buck, and he kept Primrose at his house. I went over to see him every day; and Yorkshire Tom said it was not wicked, so that I didn’t have to tell a lie; and you never asked me anything about Primrose, and so I didn’t have to say anything. And we meant to keep him always tied up, and he has got away to-day and I’m sorry, grandma; but I hope you won’t make me shoot him now, because he’s so big; and all I’m afraid of is that somebody else will shoot him—”
And Tim skipped off as lightly as Primrose himself to caress and fondle the creature who was now no longer a fawn.
It took Granny Luke some time to believe that Primrose was not a spirit! He had to eat a whole crop of lettuces before she believed in him, but she was secretly so glad to see him that she forgave Tim, and only asked of Yorkshire Tom that he would build a more secure paling for Mr. Primrose, and also to make her a higher fence for her vegetables; all of which he did, and she forgave him, particularly as he sent her another saddle of venison, and “two steaks from the hind leg,” of another deer which he had shot, assuring her that Primrose was still too young to make good venison.
BILLY’S HOUND.
(A Two-Part Story.)
BY SARA E. CHESTER.
PART I.
BILLY used to read Sir Walter Scott’s poems when he was not much larger than the book, his sisters say. From Sir Walter he received the idea that there is no such thing as a hero without his steed and hounds. Although Billy did not aim at being a hero exactly, he by no means called himself a coward; and he considered a horse and dog as necessary to a daring, manly fellow as to a regular hero.
The horse Billy confidently expected to own when he should come into long-tailed coats and moustaches. He knew the high price of a good article, and was willing to wait; but a “trusty hound,” which he could have for the asking, he wanted at once. All the boys belonging to his little clan either owned, or had some time owned, a dog; and when the huntsmen set out for the chase (in pursuit of such noble game as nuts or apples, birds’ eggs or nests) the dogs followed their masters. Those who were not followed had tales to tell—either of mysterious strangers who had lurked about the premises and enticed their dogs away on account of their immense market value, or of bloody street fights in which their brave ones had perished. Each boy except Billy had had his experience, and if not the present possessor of a hound, could boast the noble pedigree or gallant death of one departed.
But it was not altogether Sir Walter, nor an ambition to be the owner of a high-born warrior, which made Billy long for a dog; he was born with a love for them as certain people are born with a love for babies, and he had many fancies about his hound which were not of a bold and bloody nature. He pictured him affectionate and gentle. He pictured him comfortably dozing by the fire on winter evenings; sharing a corner of his room at night; sharing his last crust should changing fortunes make them paupers—always faithful, tender and true, a friend to be relied upon though other friends might fail.
Unfortunately he did not inherit his tastes from his father. That gentleman disliked the canine race in proportion as Billy liked it, and although an indulgent parent generally, would not listen to Billy’s petitions for a dog. Occasionally, however, Billy received such a tempting offer that he was emboldened to renew his pleas, and one day, unable to resist the fascination of a fierce little black-and-tan, began:
“Father, there’s a dog——”
“Once for all,” interrupted his father, rather noisily, “I say, no! Don’t mention that subject to me again, sir! Anything that is reasonable, from a parrot to a monkey, I’ll consider. But you are not to mention dogs to me again, sir!”
“You know papa was bitten once, dear,” said his sister, as the door closed after their angry sire. “You really ought not to tease him. Why won’t you try and be contented with a dear little kitten, or a canary?”
“I’d as soon pet a rattlesnake as a kitten,” said Billy; “one is as mean and sly as the other. And that canary of yours—it’s got just about as much soul as a lump of sugar.”
“How would you like a goat? Goats are big and fierce——”
“A goat is a brute,” said Billy. “As for the dog that bit father, you know it was a bull—the only variety of dog that has any treachery in its blood. I don’t ask to own a bull-dog. But a goat! Do you s’pose Byron could ever have said this about a goat?” (Billy had spoken the poem at school, and proceeded to declaim):
“In life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend;
Whose honest heart is still his master’s own;
Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone!”
“I’ll have a dog, or nothing,” he concluded.
“He has his father’s will,” sighed his mother, as he left the room.
A few weeks later Billy was rambling home. He had been sent with a dish to an invalid; and between the fear of spilling its contents and the attention he must pay to his steps had had a wretched time; so on the way home he was thoroughly enjoying liberty. Hands were free to shy stones at balky and rickety horses, and feet were free to roam and linger where they listed. He was a long time on that homeward journey, and only reached the graveyard at half-past four.
Billy had been known to quicken his footsteps when passing the graveyard by moonlight; and it is said that once when the sky was dark above and the night dark beneath, he ran quite around the corner, where he sauntered and whistled indifferently. But there was no occasion for running to-day. Neither moonlight nor darkness brooded over the graves; the white stones were dazzling in the sunshine, and the blades of grass twinkled like so many little stars; birds hopped fearlessly over the graves, not changing their gay tunes nor lowering their loud voices out of respect to the place; and altogether the graveyard looked so cheery and tempting in the afternoon sunshine that Billy stepped over the stile.
There was a general scattering of birds, butterflies, chipmunks and squirrels, each of these inferior creatures being warned by a voice in its little breast to flee. A noble dog would have needed no such warning, but would have approached Billy as an equal, assured of the reception to which his rank entitled him.
Having sole possession of the premises, Billy strolled about with a sovereign air. He pulled off his cap and turned up his face, letting the sunshine warm his cheeks to red and his yellow hair to gold. He surveyed the sky with some interest, as there was quite a variety of colors to-day, which pleased him better than the ordinary white and blue that in his opinion too much resembled milk and water. He cut a willow stick for a whistle, and examined names and dates as he passed the tombstones. Arriving at the grave of a boy who had died at his age, he sat down, took out his knife, and as he worked whistled cheerily above the little fellow whose whistling days were over. By and by an occasional chipmunk or squirrel ventured out in search of nuts; and at last a reckless kitten came within throwing distance. It would have been sad for the kitten had the soil been sterile and stony; but in that grassy region there was nothing to throw except the knife and the stick in the boy’s hands. The knife could by no means be spared, so away went the whistle with the coward cat before it. As the whistle was not to be found after a hunt in the thick grass, Billy resumed his rambles.
This brought him back to the stile in course of time; and he lifted a foot to go over when he was stopped by a faint cry. He paused just as he stood, one foot on the stile and one on the ground, listening breathlessly; for his educated ear knew the animal by its voice. Faint as the tones were they were unmistakable puppy tones. No kitten’s fretty “me-ouw,” no squirrel’s soulless “chir-chir,” was there; it was the noble voice of a puppy, though so faint and far that Billy could not at once detect its source. He listened until the cry came again, prolonged and piteous. It was a puppy in distress, a little baby dog in need of championship! who so ready in the wide world as he to espouse its cause! His knightly soul thrilled with pity as he ran eagerly about, led hither and thither by the repeated cries. He grew wild as he could not find the puppy behind a tree or tombstone or anywhere in the grass; and it was not until a second voice came to his aid that he ran in the right direction. The second voice was loud and angry, and provoked the first to shriller efforts. Puppies at war! Now Billy was doubly anxious to find them, for he could see the fun as well as support the under dog. He had decided by this time that they were near the fence which separated the graveyard from the barley field; and as he ran thither a third cry broke upon his ears, then a fourth, a fifth—till voices innumerable seemed to join the chorus.
“A dozen, as I’m alive!” said Billy; and by this time he had an opportunity to count them, though it was by no means easy to count all the big heads and little feet which he found struggling, pushing and climbing in the old tin pan between the fence and a walnut tree. He bent above the moving mass, and after various attempts learned that their number was seven. In regard to eyes, total blindness indicated extreme youth. And as to the cause of their complaint, it was evident that they had been abandoned in their ignorance and helplessness, and were in need of food.
Billy gazed into the pan with emotions of pride and compassion; the pride of a discoverer and possessor; the compassion of a heart always sensitive to canine grief, but moved to its depths by this spectacle of blind and orphaned infant woe. Seven little wails proceeding from seven hungry mouths, fourteen little paws groping and struggling towards escape from suffering whose cause was hardly comprehended—the sight might rouse a stouter heart than Billy’s.
“They’re a prize,” thought he, viewing the enormous heads and wee paws, critically. “They look like rare ones—Irish setters, perhaps. Bob would know. He’s up on those things.”
Bob might also make some helpful suggestions in regard to the puppies’ future; for Billy could not take them home; he could not leave them to starve, and he was far from willing to distribute among his friends the orphans whom he had rescued from untimely graves, and towards whom his heart was beating with such tender interest.
In his dilemma he left the puppies, to consult with Bob; and as he ran away, looked in vain for the mother dog.
“It would never do to let them starve,” said Bob; “but we must give the mother a fair chance. If she isn’t back by seven we can conclude they’re abandoned, and they shall have a home in my barn, for the present.”
Having met at seven, Bob and Billy hastened to the graveyard. No mother dog could be seen as they approached the stile, and a chorus of loud wails informed them that she had not returned. They were soon kneeling by the pan, criticising forms and faces; at the same time observing with deepest pity how the little mouths told their misery and the weary paws strove to escape from it.
BILLY EXPERIENCES UNSPEAKABLE HAPPINESS.
“I should judge you were a pointer by your nose,” said Bob, addressing the only puppy who could be said to have an attempt at the feature. “This may be a Newfoundland,” referring to one whose nose they would not have discovered but for the end of a wee pair of nostrils. “They’re a splendid lot, poor babies! It’s a clear case of desertion, Billy. We mustn’t leave them here without food another moment.”
Billy lifted the rusty old pan and clasped it tenderly against his jacket. Then they stepped briskly towards the stile, for the graveyard was by no means the tempting place it had been two hours ago.
“Keep an eye out for my father,” said Billy. “They make such a noise they may get us into trouble.”
But by sometimes crossing streets and turning corners suddenly, sometimes running and sometimes dodging, they succeeded in reaching the barn without encountering friend or acquaintance who would betray them.
“Take them in and make them at home on the hay while I go for their supper,” said Bob.
At the barn door Billy and the puppies were received by no less a person than Timothy, the coachman, who had consented to give the orphans a temporary asylum. He also bent gravely and critically over the pan; but his verdict did not agree with Bob’s.
“Mongrel, very mongrel,” said Timothy, shaking his head.
The fact that they belonged to his own humble rank in life may possibly have increased his sympathy; but it is certain that no orphaned kittens could have roused such emotions of pity in his manly breast. He had a corner ready, cushioned with hay; and they were soon rubbing against something better adapted to their tender sides than cold tin. But though they nestled in the hay as if they liked it, their wails continued, and they soon began to toddle about in search of food. When Bob came bringing it, however, Timothy shook his head and said:
“Ten chances to one against touching a drop, Billy. I’ve known ’em to die rather than drink it out of a saucer at that age.”
A vision of seven little puppies wailing and toddling to their doom, of seven cold, stiff forms, seven green graves in a row, clouded Billy’s fancy for a moment. But no, he would not accept such dark possibilities. The puppies must be tenderly persuaded what was for their good; and canine reason must triumph over mere brute prejudice.
But, alas, for Billy’s faith in canine intelligence—no sooner were the little noses introduced to the saucer than wails broke forth with tenfold energy. One after another they struggled from his hands and toddled away, until the seventh sat afar in the hay, with milky nose and empty stomach protesting against the insult it had received.
Billy was sorely tried and disappointed; but he considered their youth and blindness; he reflected that even human intelligence fears what it cannot see, and that it becomes one to have much patience with blind puppy babies. So he captured them again, individually, and repeated the process several times, until each, in spite of kicks and screams, had been compelled to sniff or lap up a few drops. He did not rest till the saucer was emptied; and by that time Timothy thought they had probably taken enough to preserve life through the night, though not enough to make them comfortable and hush their wails.
Billy went home with the wails still in his ears. You may be sure, however, that it was not of seven weak, blind, crying infants that he dreamed; but of seven gallant hounds full-statured, noses cold and keen of scent, heads erect and proud—for faith and hope are brave at the age of twelve.
But like other dreams which faith and hope have dreamed at night, Billy’s fled at dawn. One-seventh of it at least could never come true. One-seventh of it was found stiff and still in the hay; and was speedily borne to a lonely little grave beneath the apple tree.
“What did I tell you?” said Timothy. “They’ll all be dead afore night, sooner’n drink from a saucer. You’d best drown ’em, Billy, and put ’em out o’ misery.”
But Billy vowed he would never drown them; that he wouldn’t hesitate if they were kittens; but he’d as soon drown a baby as a puppy. He was going to raise the six! No pains should be spared to rear a round half-dozen. Number Seven was the obstinate member of the family anyway. Billy knew him by the spot on his right ear; and didn’t he remember how much harder he kicked than the other six last night? Drown them! Never!
An expression, not of disappointment, might have been observed on Timothy’s face; although he shook his head, saying:
“Mongrel, very mongrel, Billy. It’s my advice to drown ’em.”
That head shook frequently during the day; indeed, whenever Timothy appeared in the barn door to see how Bob and Billy were succeeding. They were not to be discouraged by head-shakings; but were rather provoked to greater efforts, as perhaps, Timothy intended. Hopes prevailed over fears until evening, when it became only too evident that a pair of the puppies toddled more and more feebly as the shadows fell. Applications of milk to their nostrils, force, and even mild persuasion, so annoyed them that it seemed true kindness to let them depart in peace. They were allowed therefore to toddle into a secluded corner, where they lay down together, and from which they toddled out no more.
“It’s better so,” said Timothy. “They ain’t got nothing to go a-huntin’ and cryin’ for now. If they ain’t found what they wanted by this time, they don’t know the difference.”
It was said with quite a softening of Timothy’s big voice, as he gently lifted them for the burial. Billy and Bob sat apart, silent and abject, their hands in their pockets and scowls upon their brows. But they rose and followed Timothy as he advanced to the cemetery, bearing a puppy in each hand. Few remarks were made until they were returning to the barn, when Bob said:
“Brace up, Billy. Four’s a better number than seven. You would have found seven a big family on your hands. I’ve always noticed a difference in their constitutions. Those two never had as much strength as the others.”
“Do you think the others will come on?” Billy asked, timidly.
“I do,” said Bob. “They’re robust compared to the others; and they’ve eaten quite a lot to-day. I shouldn’t wonder if their eyes would be open by morning.”
Billy was only too glad to hope again, and went home to dream of a gallant quartette, in spite of Timothy’s parting words:
“Very mongrel, Billy, and no constitution. The sooner you put an end to ’em, the better for all parties.”
Timothy having spoken, went immediately to the kitchen, where he confided to cook the whole tragic tale, and said he had heard how oatmeal porridge was nourishing for young puppies; “and suppose you make us a little, Eliza, with not too much oatmeal and a plenty of milk, so ’s ’t’ll go down easy.”
Later, Timothy might have been seen, by the light of a lantern, kneeling upon the hay, feeding the puppies porridge, which he promised would give them “sound sleep with something on their stomachs,” and save them perhaps from being dead puppies in the morning.
Although Billy dreamed his brave dreams of an unbroken quartette, still he stepped into the barn with some anxiety the next morning. But the oatmeal porridge had proved popular; the puppies took it with little urging, and even learned to smell their way into its neighborhood. It did not make them strong and sprightly; it did not open their eyes; but it kept them from dying, and surely this was not a small thing to accomplish. The very fact that three days went by and no death occurred in the family, encouraged them all to hope that a stronger tide of life would soon set in, forcing eyes open and making legs frisky. But when three other days had dragged along, Timothy, in a moment of impatience declared that their eyes would never open.
“A blind dog is sure no good,” said he; “and mongrel as they are, you’ll drop ’em in the river, if you take my advice, Billy.”
NOTWITHSTANDING THEY ARE MONGREL.
Nevertheless he went to Eliza and said: “Why not try a little juice of the beef? Meat, as all know, is the food for grown dogs. Why not the juice of the meat for young dogs without teeth to chew the solid? I’ll step around to the butcher’s, Eliza.”
He returned from the butcher’s with a pound of chopped beef. Eliza put the water to it; and early the next morning Timothy might again have been seen kneeling on the hay. He endeavored to persuade the puppies that his cup had invigorating properties and a cure for blindness; and urged them as they loved life and desired to view the face of nature, to partake. But, alas, once more for canine reason! One after another they sniffed, spit, sputtered, wailed and retreated.
“You’re a mongrel, brutish set,” said Timothy, in righteous indignation; “and I’ll be blowed if you’re worth saving!”
But before he could leave them to their fate, either his words, or a sudden instinct of self-preservation, turned one of the retreating puppies straight about. Timothy was not inclined to offer any assistance and run the risk of another disappointment. But when it became evident that the puppy was trying to smell his way to the beef-tea, he put the cup under his nose, and was rewarded by seeing a small pink tongue come out for a taste. One taste led to another and another, until the little fellow had breakfasted bravely, and Timothy was so rejoiced that he tried the obstinate three again. But his efforts were vain; and he fastened all his hopes on the good puppy, whose conduct he hastened to report to Bob and Billy.
THE BEEF-TEA PREVAILS.
Now whether medical science will allow any direct connection between beef-tea and the eyes, we do not know, but it is certain that when Billy entered the barn two hours later he was startled by a bright gaze. If a pair of stars had fallen from the sky to gaze at him out of that corner, he could hardly have been more amazed than to discover that the bright objects were the eyes of a dog—of his little dog.
“Bob! Timothy!” he screamed. But before they could arrive he had bounded towards the puppy and lifted him up. Seated upon Billy’s hands he held his head erect and looked at his master with (the foolish master fancied) affectionate recognition.
“It’s the beef-tea!” said Timothy, who had by this time arrived.
“And thanks to you, old friend,” said Billy. “He’ll live now, Tim. Do you s’pose he’d change the world that’s to be taken a good look at for a hole in the ground? Not he!”
“You’re right!” said Timothy. “We must make these blind fellows take some of the eye-opener and get a look at the world before it’s too late.”
They were all so encouraged by that pair of bright eyes that they labored patiently with the three blind brothers; but though they still partook of oatmeal porridge freely, they could never be induced to imbibe more than an occasional drop of beef-tea; and instead of waxing fat and active on oatmeal, they waned daily.
All the love which Billy had divided among seven was given to the quartette; and so a greater portion was blighted when the next puppy died.
“It makes me think of the ‘ten little Injuns,’ the way they drop off one after another,” said Billy, as they laid him away from the sunshine which he had never seen.
So the love of four fell to three; and though Billy was very proud of the puppy who ate beef-tea, who was learning to walk firmly and briskly, he was equally as tender of the less fortunate brothers. It is true that on entering the barn one morning he forgot them for a moment as the other trotted towards him and laid—yes, actually rubbed!—his nose in his hand. But he recovered from the glad surprise directly, and looked over at the bed in the corner. Still asleep, the lazy fellows! He tossed some hay at them, which caused a languid paw to appear; then a head stirred, and another until the little soft heap had shaken itself apart and separated into two puppies, who faced about and looked at each other. Yes, for the first and last time, they celebrated their awakening after the usual fashion of opening the eyes.
“Hurrah!” shouted Billy.
(END OF PART I.)
IN YE OLDEN TIME.—“BEWITCHED!”
BILLY’S HOUND.
(A Two-Part Story.)
BY SARA E. CHESTER.
PART II.
BUT it was his last hurrah; for puppies, like people, view the world through their own eyes, and where their brother had seen, approved, and desired, they gazed quite indifferently. Bob and Billy carried them out-doors for a broader view of life; but could not persuade them that sunshine and verdure were more to be desired than two snug little beds underground. Better death, with no good Puppy-land to go to; better an end of all things, than life with its ups and downs, its roses and thorns, the uncertain joys and certain ills that puppy flesh is heir to—such seemed their reflections as they gazed upon the world with languid, melancholy eyes. They shunned their brother’s gay society; they refused food and wailed with hunger; they partook of a little and wailed with pain; one died in the evening, yawning and stretching; the other in the morning, kicking and squealing; two new graves were dug under the apple-tree: and one puppy fell heir to the love of six.
“I wouldn’t care so much if they hadn’t opened their eyes,” said Billy; “but I thought they were sure to live then. It’s discouraging, I declare; I’m afraid it’s going to end like the ten little Injuns, ‘And then there were none.’”
“No, it won’t,” said Bob. “We’ll raise this fellow.”
“Yes,” said Timothy, “he’s going to live.” When Timothy spoke so positively one could afford to hope.
“Do you hear?” said Billy, capturing the lively puppy, who was behaving like anything but a mourner after the funeral. “We have hopes of you, sir; and beware how you disappoint us. See what obstinacy has done, and take warning by your brothers. I advise you to make the most of all the life you’ll ever get, for it isn’t soul that gives you such a knowing look. There is nothing behind those eyes but brains; and brains die out as much as bodies, sir. Bob,” he exclaimed, “see him look at me. Don’t tell me he doesn’t understand!”
“I wouldn’t risk such an opinion,” said Bob. “They say that eyes are the windows of the mind. Now that he’s got his windows open why shouldn’t you take looks back and forth.”
“Pretty good,” said Billy. “Duke has spied out the fact, somewhere, that I’m his master.”
They had named him, in contempt of Timothy, and in anticipation of the rank which was expected to assert itself with his growth.
“He certainly makes a difference between you and the rest of us,” said Bob.
The difference became more marked each day. In no one’s hand did Duke rub his little nose so often as in his master’s; no one else’s cheeks were licked so affectionately. It was Billy that he trotted after, and squealed for, when the big gate separated them and his master’s face was set towards home. These signs of preference were very flattering to Billy, but also caused him pangs, for the fonder he became of the dog, the more he feared to lose him. Although he increased rapidly in bulk, strength, vivacity and intelligence, it was a long time before Billy could cease to be alarmed if he appeared languid, over-slept, or ate lightly. However, he developed at last into such a sturdy fellow that anxiety on his account was absurd. All lingering doubts as to his loyalty, also, came to an end, for Billy had feared that his best affections might be won over to the master who fed him. But Duke knew his own master, and did not seem disposed to inquire why he was banished from his table.
AFTER HIS MASTER.
The devotion of “Bob’s dog” to Billy was a constant source of surprise to the boys who had not heard the secret of the mastership. Wherever Billy went, the dog was sure to go—unless ordered to the contrary, for whatever Billy ordered, the dog was sure to do. His absolute obedience, rather than natural talent, made him the accomplished fellow which he became. Billy’s will was his dog’s will, and so great was the patience of both teacher and scholar that in course of time there was hardly a dog in town so skilled as Duke in leaping, vaulting, fetching and carrying, so at home on land and water—whether summoned to scour a field, explore a bush, stem a tide, or save a boy from drowning.
Assured, then, of his life and loyalty, proud of his character and his accomplishments, Billy had but two things to regret: that Duke was a plebeian and an exile.
He had grown to full size, and neither developed into pointer, spaniel nor mastiff; into setter, Irish or English; into hound, fox, blood or grey. Indeed, he had not the positive traits which would admit him into any family, however humble. Duke was hopelessly “mongrel.”
Considering his stubby paws, blunt nose, ungainly shape and indefinite color on the one hand, and on the other his intelligence, good-humor, honor and fidelity, Billy could not but learn a gradual lesson on the folly of judging from appearances. Never, he reflected, was canine exterior more plebeian, canine character more noble. So, though something of an aristocrat by nature, radical principles slowly worked in Billy’s mind, until one day, at Timothy’s suggestion that he should change Duke’s name, he was prepared to answer:
HE WAS A FAMOUS VAULTER.
“No, sir! I believe people ought to rank according to their actions. What difference does it make how you happen to look, or what family you happen to be born into, if you’re a good fellow? My dog and I are Americans, and we’ll stand by our principles, and take rank according to the way we behave; won’t we, old fellow? I claim that he’s a duke in character, Tim; and he’s handsome enough to suit me. I wouldn’t have a spot on him changed now.”
To which plebeian Timothy, with an approving smile, replied:
“There’s no danger of his getting stolen, neither, Billy, for the price he’d fetch in market; no more’n he’ll get shot or poisoned for his bad temper.”
“No great loss without some small gain,” said Billy. “I’m satisfied, except for one thing, Tim.”
That one remaining cause of dissatisfaction Timothy appreciated. He knew that Billy would never be contented to have the dog which he had saved from death, reared and educated an exile from his home; and, though he and Bob would have missed Duke from their table, they made various plans for getting him admitted to Billy’s.
“I was screwing up my courage to lay the case before father,” said Billy, “when out he came with something about that ugly little dog of Bob’s that he’d seen around our house. He warned me not to encourage him—but I can tell you it’s hard work to keep Duke away, though he’s such an obedient fellow, and the cook never feeds him.”
“Billy,” said Bob, “he’ll have to save your father’s life. That’s the way the enemies in books always get into favor. Can’t you have him pull him out of the water one of these windy days?”
“That’s not such a bad suggestion,” said Billy; “the best you’ve made yet. What do you think, Duke? Could you swim a mile and pull him ashore? I believe he’s equal to it, Bob; and you know father’s always tipping over. He generally rights himself, to be sure; but he may be glad of a little assistance some time. I’ll keep Duke trained on bringing logs ashore, and we’ll be on the lookout windy mornings; for father never misses a breeze.”
But many a windy morning a dog and his master saw a stout gentleman set sail in a frail bark on a crafty sea; many a morning they roamed the beach, practicing on drowning logs, as they watched the wind sport with a distant sail; and however the sail might swell and veer, and lie over toward the waves, it always came erect and stately into port, while a stout gentleman stepped safely ashore.
“The winds are against us, Duke,” said Billy. “There’s no use in fooling around the shore any longer. I’m going to make a bold strike to-day; and if father won’t listen to reason, we’ll just have to give it up—unless we run away and live together. What do you say to that?”
Duke replied by a series of barks which Billy understood to signify assent.
“We’ll try father first,” said Billy.
He waited till his father was in his after-dinner mood. He followed him from the dining-room to the piazza, watched his chair go back on two legs, his feet go up on the railing, his cigar take its place in his teeth, the smoke curl and climb, the newspaper turn and turn, and still the courage of the boy on the steps did not rise to the occasion. It was not until the chair came down on four feet, and the stump of cigar dropped over the railing, that Billy ventured to speak:
“Father!”
He looked so well pleased with life as he walked, portly and smiling, towards his hat, that Billy thought now, if ever, he would be willing to please his son.
Hats of various shapes and degrees hung upon the rack. There was the broad-brimmed straw in which Judge Jenks appeared the country squire; there was the little cloth cap in which he rode the waves a gallant mariner; there was the soft felt which suited rough-and-ready moods; there was the second-best beaver; and there was the best beaver, known to Billy and his sisters as the “Pet and Pride.”
The choice to-day fell on the “Pet and Pride.”
“Good luck!” thought Billy. “I can get anything out of him when he’s petting that hat.”
“Well, my son,” said papa, holding the hat in one hand and passing the other caressingly around and around the crown, until the fur lay in silkiest smoothness.
But Billy waited until the hat was on, and papa surveyed the result in the mirror. It gave him an elegant judicial aspect, and was vastly becoming beyond a doubt.
“Now’s my time,” thought Billy.
“Father,” said he, “I’d like to have a little talk with you—a little discussion on a certain subject.”
“What is it?” said papa. “The Greenback movement? Or have you been catching Communism from Pat? What is it, Billy? Have you got the questions of the day settled for us? Which shall it be: hard or soft money, free-trade or the tariff?”
“I’m not just up on those matters, sir,” said Billy. “It’s a different subject.”
“Well,” said papa, giving the “Pet and Pride” a parting glance, ere he walked to the door, “well, Billy, what is it?”
“It’s—it’s—dogs, sir,” said Billy, meekly.
Stern and cold grew the beaming face beneath the “Pet and Pride.” Aversion was in the tones which repeated Billy’s word “Dogs!”
“And what have you to say on this subject?” inquired his father; “that they are faithful, trusty beasts? I tell you they are treacherous and villainous; that you wish to own one for no reason but that they are odious to your father and you are determined to have your own way! I reply better than you deserve, and offer you once more a goat, or a pair of them.”
“Thanks. It’s a dog or nothing, sir,” said Billy.
“As you please,” said his father. “But understand that this subject is not to come up again. Nothing could induce me to have a snarling, snapping, vicious, treacherous cur on the premises; and you are never to mention dogs to me again, sir.”
Billy stalked out of one gate and his father out of another.
“He has the Jenks will,” reflected his father, not without an emotion of pride. “A dog or nothing, indeed!”
But the Jenks will did not support Billy very bravely as he walked on towards Bob’s; and by the time he reached the gate, anger, pride and all harsh, inspiring feelings had given place to sadness. Bob told Timothy afterwards that he had never seen Billy so nearly “floored.” He did not need to ask the result of his interview; but proposed that he should accompany him to the post-office, whither he was hastening with a letter.
The wind which had lured Billy to the shore in the morning still rose in fitful gusts, playing tricks with all detached objects, greatly to the delight of Duke who ran in pursuit of every flying thing.
Billy’s eyes followed the dog gloomily.
“If it wasn’t for that leg of father’s that got bitten thirty years ago!” he said. “Speaking of angels, there goes father now. Hold on to your hat, Bob.”
Each boy seized his hat as a sudden gust came sweeping down the street. But papa, who had appeared in view a block ahead of them, walked calmly on, as if assured that no impertinent breeze would dare molest the “Pet and Pride.” He was so confident and careless that the wind could not resist taking him down a little, and lifting the hat whirled it about his head.
The uncovered judge put forth his hand, but the movement was too grave and deliberate; the wind wished to play tag, and it takes two to play at that game, so the judge must be taught how. As the deliberate hand almost reached the hat, off skipped the wind with it, compelling the judge with a stately skip to follow. But he could be taught even swifter motions than those; a second time he almost reached the hat, and it moved on with a hop and a whirl; while he, with something like a hop and a whirl, moved after. But still the hat, so near his hand, was not in it. His indignation rose. He could not allow matters to proceed after this unruly fashion. With a plunge he pounced on his property—when, lo! it lay across the ditch in the dust of the road, while his tormentor laughed at him!
But no, it was not the wind that laughed after all, though it seemed quite human enough to do so—the shrill tones proceeded from three open mouths on the corner. How dare those ragged urchins lift up their voices in derision of a Judge of the Supreme Court! Better, perhaps, to lose the hat than gratify them by pursuing it. But it was his “Pet and Pride”—by no means an inexpensive affair; a city hat, only to be replaced by a day’s journey; and then he might never find such an easy fit again.
After two or three somersets the hat stood still, unhurt, except for a little dust. The wind fell as suddenly as it had risen, and the judge was enabled to recover his property without sacrificing his dignity. At least so he flattered himself as he walked at his usual gait over the ditch, into the road. He had not calculated on another gust; and when the hat was actually snatched almost out of his grasp again, rather than become the sport of those rascals on the corner he decided to let it go, and run the risk of getting it at the next ebb of the wind.
He was turning away when he happened to see near the corner a big, black mud-puddle, lying in wait for unwary victims of the wind. If the wind and water had conspired to tease him they could not have succeeded better. While the hat was blown directly towards the puddle, the water was at the same time lashed upward to show him how black and muddy it was, how totally destructive to hats.
He felt tempted to pursue the “Pet and Pride” at a flying gait; but as he paused to consider the boys on the corner, the mud-puddle lost its terrors in a new object which appeared upon the scene. This was nothing less than a dog that came galloping after the hat with almost the speed of the wind. Better that the “Pet and Pride” should be drowned in the muddiest depths than become a puppy’s plaything, thought the judge. It was too late for him to rescue it by this time. The hat was doomed to the dog or the water—the water he sincerely hoped, as he prepared to seek the nearest store where a covering for his head could be found.
But as he was turning away he observed that the chances were in the dog’s favor. It was wonderful to see those four little paws fly over the ground. They were gaining on the wind, no doubt about it. Gaining, gaining—till the race was so close that one must wait a moment and see it out. “Ah, the rascal has it! No, you little scamp, you’re beaten! You didn’t count on that gust, sir!”
But as the judge so soliloquized, a familiar voice behind him shouted, “Fly, Duke, fly!” With a leap those four winged feet overtook the gust; and there stood the dog at the edge of the mud-puddle, carefully holding the “Pet and Pride” in his teeth.
The judge recognized that “ugly little dog of Bob’s” at the same time that he recognized his son’s voice; and presently he discovered that the race had been run not for his torment, nor for mere amusement, but for the purpose of rescuing and restoring his property.
“Well, well,” said the judge, as Duke trotted up and presented the hat to him; “well, well, Bob, you’ve a fine dog, sir; a gentlemanly fellow, upon my word. You’ve trained him well, Bob. He does you credit, he does indeed.”
Bob rapped Billy with his elbow, as much as to say, “Here’s your golden opportunity; speak up!”
“He’s mine, sir,” Billy blurted out.
“Yours!” said the judge, removing his hand from the canine head he was actually condescending to pat; “yours!”
Encouraged by another rap Billy continued:
“You can’t say that he’s ever given you any trouble, father. He’s never eaten a mouthful at home.”
“What do you think of such deception, sir?” said his father. “Do you mean to tell me that you have been boarding him out?”
“No, sir; he lives on charity. Bob supports him.”
“Charity!” said his father. “What do you mean, sir?”
But as he dusted the “Pet and Pride,” caressing it as of old, he took a kindly peep at the little head by his knee, and gave it one more pat before moving away.
“You’re all right, old boy,” said Bob. “You’ve had your chance; that wind did you a good turn, after all. It doesn’t sound quite so fine to say Duke saved his hat as his life, but it amounts to the same in the end. Just keep cool, Billy, and you’re all right.”
It was not very easy to keep cool, however. Billy hoped and watched and waited a whole day before the subject of dogs was mentioned again.
“Where did you get him?” asked his father, as the smoke began to curl from his after-dinner cigar.
“Him?” said Billy, confusedly. “Oh, Duke? I found him in the graveyard, with six more. The mother had left them, and I couldn’t let them die—though the rest did, after all. But we succeeded in raising Duke; and I couldn’t part with him after all that, sir.”
“Don’t attempt to excuse your obstinacy,” said his father, inwardly commenting on “that Jenks will.” “He’s a trained animal, I see. That is where the time has gone which should have been devoted to Latin. A very bad report that last, sir. Is he anything of a mouser?”
“Splendid!” said Billy.
Nothing more was said until the “Pet and Pride,” after the usual amount of caressing, was surveyed in the mirror—then tender memories prompted papa to say, gruffly:
“He is not to live on charity like a beggar. Shut him up in the store-room, if he’s good for anything, and let him have it out with the rats. But keep him away from me, sir. Let him be fed in the basement, but let him understand that he is not to come above ground where I can see him; and remember that he is on trial—distinctly on trial.”
WITH DUKE’S COMPLIMENTS.
The glad news was at once conveyed to Duke, Bob and Timothy; and Billy was a happy boy—for a few days. Like other mortals of whom we hear, having gained much he wished to gain more. He was not satisfied that Duke had conquered the rats and won the servants’ affections. He wished his higher accomplishments to shine in higher circles. He wanted his dog admitted to the full privileges of citizenship. He longed to introduce him to his own room on the second floor, and he found stern discipline necessary to keep him from the first floor.
Having investigated the kitchen, Duke felt a natural curiosity as to the parlor, and he was often caught on the top stair, peeping into the hall. Billy’s sisters called him up, but could not make him disobey his master. However he might stretch his neck, wag, cry and peer wistfully, he could not be tempted to put a paw on the hall floor.
“Where did he learn obedience?” said the judge one day, after observing his daughters’ vain attempts. “Certainly not of his master. But perhaps you know the secret, Billy, and can give it to me to try on my son. I should like to see if there’s anything to be done with that will of his.”
“Duke has never had any teacher but me, sir,” said Billy. “Shall I forbid his coming on the stairs?”
“Come up here,” said the judge, snapping his fingers towards Duke. “Let’s see what you think of this hall before we send you down.”
But to his surprise the dog did not obey.
“Come!” said Billy; and at the word he leaped toward his master, then looked about for some means of expressing gratitude. Spying a newspaper, and newspapers and elderly gentlemen being associated in his mind, he fetched it and presented it to the judge. The next noon he was summoned again. By that time he had discovered that the newspaper was taken with the cigar, and no sooner saw the one produced than he ran in search of the other. After a few days it happened that the judge dropped all responsibility in regard to his paper. He took his cigar and sat down, assured that wherever the paper might be, to what remote corner of the house any careless member of the family might have taken it, that knowing little dog would find it for him.
THE CIRCUS.
Having proved that he was a useful member of society, Billy wished Duke to display his higher accomplishments, and one day introduced to the dining-room what was known down-stairs as the Circus. Judge Jenks was greatly entertained, and the next day undertook to be circus-manager himself. He succeeded so well that it became an after-dinner custom for Duke to speak, leap and dance at his bidding. It was funny to see the portly gentleman whistling sprightly airs, with the greatest gravity of countenance, while the little dog, with countenance as grave, spun around on two feet, wholly intent upon keeping time to the tune. He would become a lion, monkey, or squirrel at command, but the last was his favorite character, as it involved nuts, which he must sit upright and nibble. After his fondness for almonds was discovered Billy noticed that they were seldom missing from dessert without being called for. By many little indications he was persuaded that Duke’s merits had overcome his father’s prejudices. But after all Duke was only a dog, with faults as well as virtues; and while he was still on trial Billy could not help fearing that some mischievous prank might end the trial unfavorably. He waited many days, hoping that his father would declare the probation ended; but at last there came a day when Duke gave a table-cloth a shaking which brought the judge’s favorite meerschaum pipe to ruin. Billy considered the misfortune fatal.
NOTHING COULD BE WORSE THAN THIS.
“It’s come at last. All’s up with us,” he thought, as he administered the punishment customary for such offences. But what was his surprise to hear his father say, sternly:
“That will do; that will do, sir! Who left the pipe on the table? You had better find out and save some of your blows for the chief offender. How would you fare if I should deal out justice to you at that rate? Dogs will be dogs, sir; and Duke’s none the worse for an occasional overflow of spirits.”
“Thank you, father, for defending my dog,” said Billy, warmly. “I was afraid it might end in my having to part with him.”
“Part with him?” said his father. “A very good suggestion. The best thing you can do. I advise you to part with him by all means. I should recommend an elderly gentleman who has learned to temper justice with mercy; one who needs a cheerful, young companion, competent and willing either to wait upon him or amuse him; one who will promise the dog a permanent home, and agree not to be too hard upon him for trifling offences. Allow me to recommend Judge Jenks, sir.”
“With Judge Jenks’ permission, I’ll take the home and keep the dog,” said Billy.
“We will call it a bargain,” said his father, his eyes twinkling as he added, “remarkable what a difference there is in dogs; eh, Billy?”
“Yes, sir!” said Billy.