CHAPTER X EARLY MORNING ON DEVERING FARM
What a good sleep I had! Then—slowly, slowly I lifted my head, as I thought, from the warm pillow of my mother's side, but alas! it was only the warm pillow of my wheat straw.
I heaved a pony sigh, and staggered to my feet.
"My land! what a morning,
My land! what a morning!"
a young darky groom that I used to have down South would sing when he was passing his nice black paws over my skin after breakfast.
Then his master, who was a poet, would come and glance in the stable door and say, "Lift up your eyes, boys—there's gold in the sky," and the colored boys would look and wonder and wish the gold would roll down and then their master would laugh in his pleasant Southern way, and say, "Now it's on the water—now it's on the land. Watch it, boys."
The sunlight this morning was certainly a pure gold, but a cool calm northern gold. The lake was exquisite and I noted something that had not struck me the evening before. Nearly all the wooded points running out into the lake had wonderful silver birches on their tips. Their trunks were white and glistening and they stood like beautiful white ladies in front of the close masses of sturdy dark tree boles of the elms behind them. They certainly were the beauties of this northern wildwood.
The dainty little breezes rippling the surface of the lake reminded me that I was thirsty and Mr. Talker, who was passing by with a covered milk pail in each hand, said, "Go down to the lake, boy. You are the only quadruped without running water in your stall."
I felt like a colt, and kicking up my hoofs, raced through the barnyard gates and across the road to the long strip of sandy shore in front of the farm.
While I was drinking and playing with the water by blowing it through my nostrils, a bullhead came, and stared at me, then a full-grown bass gave me a very friendly wink.
We ponies don't have much to say to fishes except by eye-talk. These fellows had some intelligence. They were shy and wild with the children I soon found out, because they fished for them most persistently. However, an old bass told me one day that they were very grateful to the children for fishing with barbless hooks.
I once knew a mother fish on the Maine coast who deliberately gave her life for her little fishes. They were caught in a pool when the tide went out. She couldn't get them to follow her to deep water, so she stayed and perished beside them. When I said to her as she flopped about in the shallow water, "Leave them and call for them next tide," she rolled her dying eyes at me and said, "I can't—they're my little fishes."
Therefore I have great respect for fish. Indeed, I find in my pony life that if you despise any created thing it surprises you.
After I got my nice long drink this morning, I galloped back to the farmyard.
"Go slow, go slow, be careful," someone clucked, and looking down I saw Biddy Pilgrim and a flock of Plymouth Rock hens.
She was quite excited, and began to talk to them about me.
"This is the new pony—he has a good eye. He's kind to hens. Don't put your heads on one side. He won't scare you. Come on. I like ponies. Horses are too big."
"Cut, cut, ca, da, dee," they all said, and I put my head down to them in a kind manner, for to tell the truth there is just a little jealousy between us little ponies and the bigger horses.
While we stood passing the time of day there was a great fuss and flutter and Daddy Single-Comb came rushing along, his wings going, his tail feathers sticking out.
"Oh, here you are, here you are," he gasped, while I thought how queer it is that nearly every winged creature says a thing, then says it over again. We quadrupeds say a thing, and it's over.
"My dears, my dears," cackled Daddy, "come down to the river hollow, come down, come down. The early worms are out. Soon they'll get in. Is it to be in the ground or in our crops? Heyday! Pony, how are you? I like ponies, but how can I stop to talk? I'm in a rush, a rush," and he spread his big wings, but kept on talking.
"So many dears, so many cares; come on, my biddies, come on, come on. Follow me, follow me," and this time he did go with a spring and a flutter and they all chased after him, their hen minds on the worms.
He was very proud of his biddies, and I did not wonder. They were in prime condition, not too fat, not too lean, and not one with a pale head showing poor blood.
I heard him screaming after some wandering ones, "Not to the hill. No, no. Trust me. Cut cut cro! I know, I know. This way, dears. Quick, quick, such a worm—c-crack what a worm. Grab him quick. Biddy first, Biddy first."
I smiled at his jabber. Evidently he was the only rooster on the place, and he had his claws full with all those hens. Well, it was better to fuss than fight, as he would probably have done if there had been another rooster interfering with his route marches.
As I stood listening to their hen talk dying away in the hollow, the cows, led by Princess Pat, came from the little barn, their walk unhurried, for cows do hate a fuss and flutter.
Princess Pat paused beside Mr. Talker, who was returning from the house with empty pails.
"Near pasture, Pattie," he said and waved his hand up the hill.
The beautiful Holstein turned in her calm way and with her friends lagged up to the top of the hill and over to a low-lying field that would be green and fresh in spite of the slight drought they had been having.
While I gazed admiringly after this fine herd a great yapping and snarling came from under the big barn.
I ran over and found Sir Veteran and Guardie were having a scrap. Oh! how provoked the good dog was, and how furious Sir Veteran was. Animals have their tempers just like human beings.
While Sir Vet and Guardie had their spat, Girlie was rounding the other pigs away from them.
I listened to the abuse.
"Down the lake," Guardie was growling.
"Up, up," grunted Sir Vet. "I say I won't go down."
"You shall," yapped Guardie, "the boss said so. Up work is done. The rocks are loose. We've got to clear burnt land by the dam."
"Up," snorted Sir Vet again. "Better feeding up. I'm boss. I hate down. I'm a prize boar. I cost a thousand dollars. Shut up, you cur."
Collies are high strung and Guardie just yelled at this insult. "My father was a show dog—and they refused ten thousand dollars for him at the Wissahickon Kennels in Pennsylvania. I never boasted before, but you make me, you runt of a pig," and he gave him a good nip on his loin.
That settled matters. Sir Vet squealed miserably, and bursting into pig sobs started down the road pretty quick.
"He's forever setting up his boar mind against Guardie," said Girlie in my ear as I put my head down to get her opinion of the quarrel. "I'll lick his wound a bit when we get settled down. He and Guardie really love each other, but they're always quarrelling—all right, boy, I'm ready."
Guardie had given her a signal bark, and it was pretty to see her wheel about right and start her charges down the road after the snorting prize boar, who was pursuing his lonely short-legged way toward the dam on the Merry-Tongue River at the foot of the Lake.
"Everybody fights," I called after her, "ponies and pigs and everybody. Don't worry, just keep from fighting till you have to and forget your fight when it's over. A scrap clears the air."
"Right-O! bow wow," she barked back at me, then she ran on after her mate who was joyfully welcoming his drove of golden dollars rolling down the road in such fine style.
When they were out of sight, I was about to run to my young master's bed-room, but was arrested by an extraordinary sight.
A big dark man who was not very tall though his shoulders were as broad as a table came down from a bed-room over the carriage-house. Picking up a mowing machine that stood in the yard, he carried it quite easily into a shed where other machines stood.
I stopped and stared at him, and Mr. Talker who happened to be near smiled at me.
"Intelligent wee beastie," he said, "you know that is an odd sight."
I moved closer to him—that strange man after putting down the machine was moving toward the barn cellar, a barrel under each arm. Then he came out with a small tractor on his back.
"He's Samp, short for Sampson," said Mr. Talker. "Mr. Devering rescued him from a situation as strong man in a theatre where bad air and long hours were killing him. He's made of iron, Pony, and carries pianos and chests of drawers as easily as I would chairs. He's half Macedonian and half Canadian. Come here, Samp."
The strong man grinned and coming to us picked me up and to my terror put me on his shoulder where I balanced, all four legs in the air, fearful that I might fall and break my back.
I have a voice and can use it, and I don't see why other ponies and horses don't do more of this calling out.
At my shrill protesting neigh Mr. Talker told him to put me on the ground and with a fearful glance over my shoulder I scampered away to the house, wondering what this strange creature was made of. I don't like unnatural beings.
However I soon forgot him in the pretty sight of all the kiddies sleeping out on the lower verandas. Their beds had evidently been drawn out through the French windows for there has been none in sight in the day time.
Big Chief was a sight, lying across his narrow bed, his pajama clad legs hanging down one side, his head the other. Every bit of bed clothing was on the floor. He was snorting and blowing in his sleep like old Sir Vet. What dreadful dreams he must be having.
I picked up his bed covers in my strong teeth and dropped them neatly over him.
Champ, Sojer and Little Big-Wig were all sleeping nicely and in straight lines. The girls must be behind some high screens. I could hear their gentle breathing, but could not see them.
I went on very quiet shoes to the veranda outside my young master's window. He was sleeping inside his room but the windows were wide open. He was lying flat on his back, not a bit of color in his fine young face. The white covers were drawn up close to his chin. Oh! I did hope that he would soon get brown and ruddy like the other kiddies—my own dear little lad, and I ventured to take a step into the room and stretched my head out longingly toward him.
"Now, Pony—you're not a dog," said someone, and I got a slight slap behind.
I started—there was the young mother of the household looking like a girl in her pretty dark bathing suit and white rubber cap.
She was not cross with me, for she was smiling kindly, so I followed her along the veranda to the front of the house where she went lightly into the living room and began to tidy chairs, tables and sofas.
She glided about so quickly that she reminded me of Cassowary.
"These bathing suits are fine for housework, Pony-Boy," she said. "Long skirts should be for dress-up occasions only. Now let's start the fire," and dancing out through one of the open glass doors of the room she hurried to the back of the house.
White-clad Bingi was bending over a cook book lying open on a glass-topped table, but occasionally he cast a glance at pots boiling merrily on the stove and sending out delicious odors. Oh! what a good breakfast the family was going to have.
It was the big wood stove instead of the gas one that was going this morning. It seemed to be shouting with glee. He had crammed it full of wood sticks happy to give up their lives for the dear human beings they were so fond of, for trees have much sentiment.
They were all telling the story of their lives in the forest, and telling it very quickly before they were overcome by their pleasant death in the warm embrace of the flames. Of course they weren't really going to die forever, for their ashes would be spread on the breast of Mother Earth who would make new young trees out of them.
"I was a white birch," I heard one shriek, "and it was under my branches the White Phantom stood while she drank from the haunted stream. Alas! the poor White Phantom. In a few days she will be lying in the ferns."
I pricked up my ears. What was this story? A few days later I heard the sequel, so I will not put it down here.
"And I was a beech," roared a deeper voice, "and for twenty years I shaded the sugaring-off place. Then a great wind blew me down and men cut me to pieces."
"I was a tamarac," and "I an elm," I heard in other dying voices, but I had to follow Mrs. Devering who had seized a basket and was going to the woodshed.
Bingi looked at me strangely. There was something sympathetic in his narrow eyes. Did he too understand tree talk, I wondered? He was certainly kind to every living thing as far as I had observed him.
I was to have further proof of this for Lammie-noo suddenly appeared and tried the patience of his cook friend.
He stood looking at the stove in a way that showed he had morning as well as evening milk.
Sheep are usually very patient creatures, too patient perhaps, for if they asserted themselves a little more they would get better treatment. Lammie-noo being petted was not a typical sheep. He became impatient at Bingi's devotion to the book on the pastry table and deliberately going up to a stand of empty preserve jars he butted the whole thing over. Then he stood back to see what Bingi would say to him.
The little Oriental turned round gravely. Then he stared at the broken glass—and then he did not beat the lamb. "Of somewhat precipitousness thou," he said, "but thy stomach is thy god. Broken glass is my sin, for I tardied to feed," all of which meant that Lammie-noo was forgiven.
The creature even had the impudence to go up and say, "Ba-a-a!" meaning that he wished to be petted for being put to the trouble of losing his temper.
Bingi was stroking him with one hand when I left, and heating his milk with the other.
Once I saw a man beating a lamb. It was a dreadful sight.
However in my ramblings I am forgetting the little house-mother who was building a great roaring fire in the living-room.
"Ah! Prince Fetlar," she said when I trotted in and stood warming myself. "I wondered why you stopped dogging or perhaps I should say ponying my footsteps—— Now we'll play the rising tune," and going to the hall she took a bugle from a hook and began a lovely tune, first soft and low, then high and piercing.
Out on the verandas we heard calls and cries. "Mother don't—— It's too early to get up—— Please a little longer."
Oh! how the bugle shrilled at them—then she sang at the top of her lungs,
"I can't get 'em up,
I can't get 'em up,
I can't get 'em up in the morning.
The girls are right slow
The boys they are worse
And Daddy's the worst of all."
Then she listened. "Silence on the veranda, Pony. I'll try another song," and she chanted,
"Hot cakes for breakfast,
Maple sugar and cream,
Potatoes and bacon
And apples and eggs."
At this, there was a great sound of running and jumping, and I stepped to my young master's windows to find out whether all this noise had awakened him.
It had. He was sitting up in bed, a bewildered look on his face as if to say, "Where am I?"
When he caught sight of me he cried, "Oh! my Bonnie Prince Fetlar—then this is not a dream," and springing out of bed he ran to caress me.
Someone opened his door and flung a bathing suit in. "You said you hadn't one," remarked Champ and he withdrew his tousled head.
"My Prince," said Dallas, "do you suppose those crazy kids are going in the water this cold day?"
I looked up and down the veranda. The children were certainly coming out in bathing suits. I had been taught to pull clothes off boys, so I nipped the back of his pajama jacket in my teeth. The button-holes must have been large, for it came off at once, and he laughed and put on the woollen suit.
"Are you ready, Cousin?" yelled Cassowary. "If so, come."
"Yes," and young Dallas' teeth chattered. He stepped out to the veranda and there was Cassowary dancing up and down and looking more like a bird than ever in her tight fitting suit with its bobbing tail.
"Are you really going in the lake this chilly morning?" asked Dallas.
"Shut up," she said good naturedly. "Don't let the other kids hear you say it's cold. It's only because you're not used to it."
"I—I thought you said there was a bathhouse," remarked poor Dallas, "with hot and cold water."
"So there is," and she pointed to a little green house among the lilacs, "and bath-rooms in the house too."
Unfortunately Big Chief who had just come leaping out of his room heard these last remarks.
"Lots of bath-rooms," he cried, "for sissies and old women." Then he did cart-wheels down the drive to the road.
Dallas' face fell, but lightened when Mrs. Devering tapped him on the shoulder. "You wait for me," she said. "Cassowary, take the children down. Get the ball and have a game of water polo—Dad and I will follow."
Then she drew Dallas in to the big fire where he got nicely warmed by the blaze.
When Mr. Devering appeared—such a handsome lean brown-armed man in his blue bathing suit, the two good people took the boy between them, and raced down to the wharf.
"Go on, Mother," said Mr. Devering, "I'll keep the boy with me," and didn't she go diving off the end of the wharf and was soon playing water polo with her lively children.
What a sporty lot they were! In the boat-house beside a big launch there were canoes, racing skiffs, aqua-planes, life preservers, fishing tackle and many other things useful in life in the backwoods.
Dallas was entering the water very slowly, and holding tight to Mr. Devering's hand.
"Have you never been in open water before?" asked my little lad's uncle.
"Once on a beach on a hot day with John and Margie, but usually only in a bath-tub," said the poor lad.
To encourage him, I ran before and did my water stunts.
He smiled when he saw me swimming and frisking and said, "The Prince is braver than I am."
"He's an old campaigner," said Mr. Devering. "That pony hasn't lived in vain. Come out deeper, boy. You won't find the water cold when you've been in a few minutes."
"It's simply freezing my heart," said the boy pitifully.
"Jump up and down with me—there that is better. Now may I splash you a bit? I hate to frighten newcomers in the water."
"Y-yes, Uncle, and I'll try to splash you."
The splashing was a failure for he fell down. Mr. Devering picked him up by the back as if he had been a puppy dog and said, "Tear up to the house—touch a match to the kindling in the box stove in your room and dress like sixty."
Dallas cast an apprehensive look over his shoulder.
"They're not paying any attention to you," said Mr. Devering. "Skedaddle," and he clapped his hands.
"And you, Prince Fetlar," he called after me, "run up and down the road to dry yourself—we're all too busy to give you a rub-down now."
I ran along beside my master up to the house and found to my dismay that his eyes were full of tears. "I'm an awful baby, my Pony," he gulped, "but I can't help it."
I just tore up and down the fine piece of road in front of the house until my blood was like liquid fire. Then I went to see how young Dallas was getting on.
Poor chap—he had forgotten to light his fire, and he was blue with cold. Suddenly his door opened and Mr. Devering came in fully dressed, his face red and glowing.
He had his nephew's clothes all on in a trice, brushed his hair, fastened his tie, then took him to the living room.
"Mother," he called through the open doorway to the dining veranda, "may Dallas and I have our breakfast by the fire?"
She opened her eyes a bit, but her husband gave her a glance, and she said, "Certainly. Big Chief, set a wee table for two."
It was most unfortunate that it happened to be Big Chief's morning to wait on table. He gave Dallas a surly glance and very unwillingly took a little wheeled table out to the veranda, put knives and forks and spoons and plates on it and brought it back to a settle in the chimney corner.
Dallas shrank back against the seat, then to make matters worse a sudden terrible sound arose from the Lake that frightened even me—the old campaigner as Mr. Devering had called me.