CHAPTER III.
Speculative remarks with which the reader may or may not agree--An
old woman--Hopes and wishes commingled with hard facts--The dog
Crusoe's education begun
.
It is pleasant to look upon a serene, quiet, humble
face. On such a face did Richard Varley look
every night when he entered his mother's cottage. Mrs.
Varley was a widow, and she had followed the fortunes
of her brother, Daniel Hood, ever since the death of her
husband. Love for her only brother induced her to
forsake the peaceful village of Maryland and enter upon
the wild life of a backwoods settlement. Dick's mother
was thin, and old, and wrinkled, but her face was
stamped with a species of beauty which
never
fades--the beauty of a loving look. Ah! the brow of snow
and the peach-bloom cheek may snare the heart of man
for a time, but the
loving look
alone can forge that
adamantine chain that time, age, eternity shall never
break.
Mistake us not, reader, and bear with us if we attempt
to analyze this look which characterized Mrs. Varley.
A rare diamond is worth stopping to glance at, even
when one is in a hurry. The brightest jewel in the
human heart is worth a thought or two. By
a loving
look
we do not mean a look of love bestowed on a
beloved object.
That
is common enough; and thankful
should we be that it is so common in a world that's
overfull of hatred. Still less do we mean that smile
and look of intense affection with which some people--good
people too--greet friend and foe alike, and by
which effort to work out their
beau ideal
of the expression
of Christian love they do signally damage their
cause, by saddening the serious and repelling the gay.
Much less do we mean that
perpetual
smile of good-will
which argues more of personal comfort and self-love
than anything else. No; the loving look we speak of
is as often grave as gay. Its character depends very
much on the face through which it beams. And it
cannot be counterfeited. Its
ring
defies imitation. Like
the clouded sun of April, it can pierce through tears of
sorrow; like the noontide sun of summer, it can blaze
in warm smiles; like the northern lights of winter, it
can gleam in depths of woe;--but it is always the same,
modified, doubtless, and rendered more or less patent to
others, according to the natural amiability of him or her
who bestows it. No one can put it on; still less can
any one put it off. Its range is universal; it embraces
all mankind, though,
of course
, it is intensified on a few
favoured objects; its seat is in the depths of a renewed
heart, and its foundation lies in love to God.
Young Varley's mother lived in a cottage which was
of the smallest possible dimensions consistent with comfort.
It was made of logs, as, indeed, were all the other
cottages in the valley. The door was in the centre, and
a passage from it to the back of the dwelling divided it
into two rooms. One of these was sub-divided by a
thin partition, the inner room being Mrs. Varley's bedroom,
the outer Dick's. Daniel Hood's dormitory was
a corner of the kitchen, which apartment served also as
a parlour.
The rooms were lighted by two windows, one on each
side of the door, which gave to the house the appearance
of having a nose and two eyes. Houses of this kind
have literally got a sort of
expression
on--if we may
use the word--their countenances.
Square
windows
give the appearance of easy-going placidity;
longish
ones, that of surprise. Mrs. Varley's was a surprise
cottage; and this was in keeping with the scene in
which it stood, for the clear lake in front, studded with
islands, and the distant hills beyond, composed a scene
so surprisingly beautiful that it never failed to call forth
an expression of astonished admiration from every new
visitor to the Mustang Valley.
"My boy," exclaimed Mrs. Varley, as her son entered
the cottage with a bound, "why so hurried to-day?
Deary me! where got you the grand gun?"
"Won it, mother!"
"Won it, my son?"
"Ay, won it, mother. Druve the nail
almost
, and
would ha' druve it
altogether
had I bin more used to
Joe Blunt's rifle."
Mrs. Varley's heart beat high, and her face flushed
with pride as she gazed at her son, who laid the rifle on
the table for her inspection, while he rattled off an
animated and somewhat disjointed account of the
match.
"Deary me! now that was good, that was cliver.
But what's that scraping at the door?"
"Oh! that's Fan; I forgot her. Here! here! Fan!
Come in, good dog," he cried, rising and opening the
door.
Fan entered and stopped short, evidently uncomfortable.
"My boy, what do ye with the major's dog?"
"Won her too, mother!"
"Won her, my son?"
"Ay, won her, and the pup too; see, here it is!" and
he plucked Crusoe from his bosom.
Crusoe having found his position to be one of great
comfort had fallen into a profound slumber, and on
being thus unceremoniously awakened he gave forth a
yelp of discontent that brought Fan in a state of frantic
sympathy to his side.
"There you are, Fan; take it to a corner and make
yourself at home.--Ay, that's right, mother, give her
somethin' to eat; she's hungry, I know by the look o'
her eye."
"Deary me, Dick!" said Mrs. Varley, who now proceeded
to spread the youth's mid-day meal before him,
"did ye drive the nail three times?"
"No, only once, and that not parfetly. Brought 'em
all down at one shot--rifle, Fan, an' pup!"
"Well, well, now that was cliver; but--." Here the
old woman paused and looked grave.
"But what, mother?"
"You'll be wantin' to go off to the mountains now, I
fear me, boy."
"Wantin'
now
!" exclaimed the youth earnestly; "I'm
always
wantin'. I've bin wantin' ever since I could
walk; but I won't go till you let me, mother, that I
won't!" And he struck the table with his fist so forcibly
that the platters rung again.
"You're a good boy, Dick; but you're too young yit
to ventur' among the Redskins."
"An' yit, if I don't ventur' young, I'd better not ventur'
at all. You know, mother dear, I don't want to
leave you; but I was born to be a hunter, and everybody
in them parts is a hunter, and I can't hunt in the
kitchen you know, mother!"
At this point the conversation was interrupted by a
sound that caused young Varley to spring up and seize
his rifle, and Fan to show her teeth and growl.
"Hist, mother! that's like horses' hoofs," he whispered,
opening the door and gazing intently in the
direction whence the sound came.
Louder and louder it came, until an opening in the
forest showed the advancing cavalcade to be a party of
white men. In another moment they were in full view--a
band of about thirty horsemen, clad in the leathern
costume and armed with the long rifle of the far west.
Some wore portions of the gaudy Indian dress, which
gave to them a brilliant, dashing look. They came on
straight for the block-house, and saluted the Varleys
with a jovial cheer as they swept past at full speed.
Dick returned the cheer with compound interest, and
calling out, "They're trappers, mother; I'll be back in an
hour," bounded off like a deer through the woods, taking
a short cut in order to reach the block-house before
them. He succeeded, for, just as he arrived at the
house, the cavalcade wheeled round the bend in the
river, dashed up the slope, and came to a sudden halt
on the green. Vaulting from their foaming steeds they
tied them to the stockades of the little fortress, which
they entered in a body.
Hot haste was in every motion of these men. They
were trappers, they said, on their way to the Rocky
Mountains to hunt and trade furs. But one of their
number had been treacherously murdered and scalped
by a Pawnee chief, and they resolved to revenge his
death by an attack on one of the Pawnee villages. They
would teach these "red reptiles" to respect white men,
they would, come of it what might; and they had
turned aside here to procure an additional supply of
powder and lead.
In vain did the major endeavour to dissuade these
reckless men from their purpose. They scoffed at the
idea of returning good for evil, and insisted on being
supplied. The log hut was a store as well as a place of
defence, and as they offered to pay for it there was no
refusing their request--at least so the major thought.
The ammunition was therefore given to them, and in
half-an-hour they were away again at full gallop over
the plains on their mission of vengeance. "Vengeance
is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord." But these men
knew not what God said, because they never read his
Word and did not own his sway.
Young Varley's enthusiasm was considerably damped
when he learned the errand on which the trappers were
bent. From that time forward he gave up all desire
to visit the mountains in company with such men, but
he still retained an intense longing to roam at large
among their rocky fastnesses and gallop out upon the
wide prairies.
Meanwhile he dutifully tended his mother's cattle and
sheep, and contented himself with an occasional deer-hunt
in the neighbouring forests. He devoted himself
also to the training of his dog Crusoe--an operation
which at first cost him many a deep sigh.
Every one has heard of the sagacity and almost reasoning
capabilities of the Newfoundland dog. Indeed, some
have even gone the length of saying that what is called
instinct in these animals is neither more nor less than
reason. And in truth many of the noble, heroic, and
sagacious deeds that have actually been performed by
Newfoundland dogs incline us almost to believe that,
like man, they are gifted with reasoning powers.
But every one does not know the trouble and patience
that is required in order to get a juvenile dog to understand
what its master means when he is endeavouring
to instruct it.
Crusoe's first lesson was an interesting but not a very
successful one. We may remark here that Dick Varley
had presented Fan to his mother to be her watch-dog,
resolving to devote all his powers to the training of the
pup. We may also remark, in reference to Crusoe's
appearance (and we did not remark it sooner, chiefly
because up to this period in his eventful history he was
little better than a ball of fat and hair), that his coat
was mingled jet-black and pure white, and remarkably
glossy, curly, and thick.
A week after the shooting-match Crusoe's education
began. Having fed him for that period with his own
hand, in order to gain his affection, Dick took him out
one sunny forenoon to the margin of the lake to give
him his first lesson.
And here again we must pause to remark that,
although a dog's heart is generally gained in the first
instance through his mouth, yet, after it is thoroughly
gained, his affection is noble and disinterested. He can
scarcely be driven from his master's side by blows; and
even when thus harshly repelled, is always ready, on the
shortest notice and with the slightest encouragement, to
make it up again.
Well; Dick Varley began by calling out, "Crusoe!
Crusoe! come here, pup."
Of course Crusoe knew his name by this time, for it
had been so often used as a prelude to his meals that
he naturally expected a feed whenever he heard it.
This portal to his brain had already been open for
some days; but all the other doors were fast locked,
and it required a great deal of careful picking to open
them.
"Now, Crusoe, come here."
Crusoe bounded clumsily to his master's side, cocked
his ears, and wagged his tail,--so far his education was
perfect. We say he bounded
clumsily
, for it must be
remembered that he was still a very young pup, with
soft, flabby muscles.
"Now, I'm goin' to begin yer edication, pup; think
o' that."
Whether Crusoe thought of that or not we cannot
say, but he looked up in his master's face as he spoke,
cocked his ears very high, and turned his head slowly
to one side, until it could not turn any farther in that
direction; then he turned it as much to the other side;
whereat his master burst into an uncontrollable fit of
laughter, and Crusoe immediately began barking vociferously.
"Come, come," said Dick, suddenly checking his mirth,
"we mustn't play, pup, we must work."
Drawing a leathern mitten from his belt, the youth
held it to Crusoe's nose, and then threw it a yard away,
at the same time exclaiming in a loud, distinct tone,
"Fetch it."
Crusoe entered at once into the spirit of this part of
his training; he dashed gleefully at the mitten, and
proceeded to worry it with intense gratification. As
for "Fetch it," he neither understood the words nor
cared a straw about them.
Dick Varley rose immediately, and rescuing the
mitten, resumed his seat on a rock.
"Come here, Crusoe," he repeated.
"Oh! certainly, by all means," said Crusoe--no! he
didn't exactly
say
it, but really he
looked
these words
so
evidently that we think it right to let them stand as
they are written. If he could have finished the sentence,
he would certainly have said, "Go on with that game
over again, old boy; it's quite to my taste--the jolliest
thing in life, I assure you!" At least, if we may not
positively assert that he would have said that, no one
else can absolutely affirm that he wouldn't.
Well, Dick Varley did do it over again, and Crusoe
worried the mitten over again, utterly regardless of
"Fetch it."
Then they did it again, and again, and again, but
without the slightest apparent advancement in the path
of canine knowledge; and then they went home.
During all this trying operation Dick Varley never
once betrayed the slightest feeling of irritability or impatience.
He did not expect success at first; he was
not therefore disappointed at failure.
Next day he had him out again--and the next--and
the next--and the next again, with the like unfavourable result. In
short,
it seemed at last as if Crusoe's
mind had been deeply imbued with the idea that he
had been born expressly for the purpose of worrying
that mitten, and he meant to fulfil his destiny to the
letter.
Young Varley had taken several small pieces of meat
in his pocket each day, with the intention of rewarding
Crusoe when he should at length be prevailed on to
fetch the mitten; but as Crusoe was not aware of the
treat that awaited him, of course the mitten never was
"fetched."
At last Dick Varley saw that this system would never
do, so he changed his tactics, and the next morning gave
Crusoe no breakfast, but took him out at the usual hour
to go through his lesson. This new course of conduct
seemed to perplex Crusoe not a little, for on his way
down to the beach he paused frequently and looked
back at the cottage, and then expressively up at his
master's face. But the master was inexorable; he went
on, and Crusoe followed, for
true
love had now taken
possession of the pup's young heart, and he preferred his
master's company to food.
Varley now began by letting the learner smell a piece
of meat, which he eagerly sought to devour, but was
prevented, to his immense disgust. Then the mitten
was thrown as heretofore, and Crusoe made a few steps
towards it, but being in no mood for play he turned
back.
"Fetch it," said the teacher.
"I won't," replied the learner mutely, by means of
that expressive sign--
not doing it
.
Hereupon Dick Varley rose, took up the mitten, and
put it into the pup's mouth. Then, retiring a couple of
yards, he held out the piece of meat and said, "Fetch it."
Crusoe instantly spat out the glove and bounded
towards the meat--once more to be disappointed.
This was done a second time, and Crusoe came forward
with the mitten in his mouth
. It seemed as if it
had been done accidentally, for he dropped it before
coming quite up. If so, it was a fortunate accident,
for it served as the tiny fulcrum on which to place the
point of that mighty lever which was destined ere long
to raise him to the pinnacle of canine erudition. Dick
Varley immediately lavished upon him the tenderest
caresses and gave him a lump of meat. But he quickly
tried it again lest he should lose the lesson. The dog
evidently felt that if he did not fetch that mitten he
should have no meat or caresses. In order, however,
to make sure that there was no mistake, Dick laid the
mitten down beside the pup, instead of putting it into
his mouth, and, retiring a few paces, cried, "Fetch it."
Crusoe looked uncertain for a moment, then he picked
up the mitten and laid it at his master's feet. The
lesson was learned at last! Dick Varley tumbled all
the meat out of his pocket on the ground, and, while
Crusoe made a hearty breakfast, he sat down on a rock
and whistled with glee at having fairly picked the lock,
and opened
another
door into one of the many chambers
of his dog's intellect.