Author of "Toby Tyler," "Tim and Tip," etc.
Chapter VII.
ATTRACTIONS FOR THE LITTLE CIRCUS.
While he stood there, the wagon in which the skeleton and his wife travelled rolled past; but Toby knew they were still sleeping, and would continue to do so until their tent was ready for them to go into.
The carriage in which the women of the company rode also passed him, and he almost fancied he could see Ella sitting in one of the seats, sleeping, with her head on her mother's shoulder, as she had slept on the stormy night when his head was nearly jerked from his body as he tried to sleep while sitting upright.
There were but three of the drivers who had been with the circus the year before, and after speaking with them, he stood by the side of the road, and watched the preparations for the entrée with feelings far different from those with which he had observed such preparations in that dreary time when he expected each moment to hear Job Lord order him to attend to his work.
The other boys crowded quite as close to him as they could get, as if by this means they allied themselves in some way with the show; and when a number of ponies were led past, Joe Robinson said, longingly:
"There, Toby, if we had one or two of them to train, it would be different work from what it is to make the Douglass hoss remember his way round the ring."
"You wouldn't have to train them any," began Toby; and then he had no time to say anything more, for Ben, who had been talking with the manager, called to him.
"Has your uncle Dan'l got plenty of pasturage?" asked Ben, when the boy approached him.
"Well, he's got twenty acres up by the stone quarry, an' he keeps three cows on it, and Jack Douglass's hoss. He don't count, for he's only there till we boys have our circus," said Toby, never for a moment dreaming of the good fortune that was in store for him.
"So you're goin' to have a circus of your own, eh?" asked Ben, with a smile that alarmed Toby, because he feared it was a signal for one of those terrible laughing spells.
"We're only goin' to have a little three-cent one," replied Toby, modestly, noting with satisfaction that Ben's mirth had gone no further than the smile.
"Two of our ponies are about used up," said the manager, "and we've got to leave them somewhere. Ben tells me he is going to see your uncle Dan'l this noon; so suppose you and one of these boys ride them up to the pasture now. Ben will make a bargain with your uncle for their keeping, and you can use them in your circus if you want to."
Joe Robinson actually jumped for joy as he heard this, and Toby's delight spread itself all over his face, while Bob Atwood and Ben Cushing went near the fence, where they stood on their heads as a way of expressing their elation at thus being able to have real live ponies in their circus.
A black pony and a red one were then pointed out for Toby to take away, and they were not more than twice as large as Newfoundland dogs; they were, in fact, just exactly what was wanted for a little circus such as the boys were about to start.
Joe was so puffed up with pride at being allowed to ride one of these ponies through the village that if his mind could have affected his body, he would not have weighed more than a pound, and he held his head so high that it seemed a matter of impossibility for him to see his feet.
Very much surprised were Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive at seeing Toby and Joe dash into the yard astride of these miniature horses, just as they were sitting down to breakfast; and when the matter had been explained, Abner appeared quite as much pleased that the boys would have this attraction in their circus as if he were the sole proprietor of it.
It was with the greatest reluctance that either of the boys left his pony in the stable-yard and sat down to breakfast, so eager was Joe to get back to the tenting ground to see what was going on, and so anxious was Toby to see the skeleton and his wife as soon as possible. But they ate because Uncle Daniel insisted that they should do so; and when breakfast was over, he advised that the ponies be left in the stable until Chandler Merrill's pony could be removed from the pasture.
When they started down town again, Abner went with them, and it was so late in the morning that Toby was sure the skeleton and his wife would be prepared to receive visitors.
When Toby, Abner, and Joe reached the tenting ground, everything was in that delightful state of bustle and confusion which is attendant upon the exhibition of a circus in a country town, where the company do not expect that the tent will be more than half filled, and where, in consequence, the programme will be considerably shortened.
It did not require much search on Toby's part to find the tent wherein the skeleton and his wife exhibited their contrasting figures, for the pictures which hung outside were so gaudy, and of such an unusually large size, that they commanded the attention of every visitor.
"Now I'm goin' in to see 'em," said Toby, first making sure that the exhibition had not begun; "an', Joe, you take Abner over so's he can see how Nahum Baker keeps a stand, an' then he'll know what to do when we have our circus. I'll come back here for you pretty soon."
Then Toby ran around to the rear of the tent, where he knew he would find a private entrance, and thus less risk of receiving a blow on the head from some watchful attendant. In a few moments he stood before Mr. and Mrs. Treat, who, having just completed their preparations, were about to announce that the exhibition could be opened.
"Why, Toby Tyler, you dear little thing!" cried the enormous lady, in a joyful tone, after she had looked at the boy intently for a moment, to make sure he was really the one whom she had rescued several times from Job Lord's brutality; and then she took him in her fat arms, hugging him much as if he were a lemon and she an unusually large squeezer. "Where did you come from? How have you been? Did you find your uncle Daniel?"
Her embrace was so vigorous that it was some seconds after she had released him before he could make any reply; and while he was trying to get his breath, the fleshless Mr. Treat took him solemnly by the hand, and cleared his throat as if he were determined to take advantage of the occasion to make one of his famous speeches.
"My dear Mr. Tyler," he said, squeezing Toby's hand until it ached, "it is almost impossible for me to express the joy I feel at meeting you once more. We—Lilly and I—have looked forward to such a moment as this with a great deal of impatience, and even during our most prosperous exhibitions we have found time to speak of you."
"There, there, Samuel, don't take up so much time with your long-winded talk, but let me see the dear little fellow myself;" and Mrs. Treat lifted her slim husband into a chair, where he was out of her way, and again greeted Toby by kissing him on both cheeks with a resounding smack that rivalled anything Reddy Grant had yet been able to do in the way of cracking his whip.
Then she fairly overwhelmed him with questions, nor would she allow her husband to say a word until Toby had answered them all. He was again obliged to tell the story of Mr. Stubbs's death; of his return home, and everything connected with his running away from the circus; while all the time the fat lady alternately kissed and hugged him, until it seemed as if he would never be able to finish his story.
"And now that you are home again, don't ever think of running away, even though I must admit that you made a wonderful success in the ring;" and Mr. Treat crossed one leg over the other in a triumphant way, pleased that he had at last succeeded in getting a chance to speak.
Toby was very emphatic in his assurances that he should never run away again, for he had had quite as much experience in that way as he wanted. After he had finished, Mrs. Treat, by way of further showing her joy at meeting him once more, brought out from a large black trunk fully half a dozen doughnuts, each quite as large among their kind as she was among women.
"Now eat every one of them," she said, as she handed them to Toby, "an' it will do me good to see you, for you always used to be such a hungry little fellow."
Toby had already had two breakfasts that morning, but he did not wish to refuse the kindly proffered gift, and he made every effort to do as she had requested, though one of the cakes would have been quite a feast for him at his hungriest moment.
The food reminded him of the invitation he was to deliver, and as he forced down the rather heavy cake he said:
"Aunt Olive's killed a lamb, an' made an awful lot of things for dinner to-day, an' Uncle Dan'l says he'd be glad to have you come up. Ben's comin', an' I'm goin' to find Ella, so's to have her come, an' we'll have a good time."
"Lilly an' I will be pleased to see your aunt's lamb, and we shall be delighted to meet your uncle Daniel," replied the skeleton, before his wife could speak; and then a "far-away" look came into his eyes, as if he could already taste—or at least smell—the feast in which he was certain he should take so much pleasure.
"That's just the way with Samuel," said Mrs. Treat, as if she would offer some apology for the almost greedy way in which her husband accepted the invitation; "he's always thinking so much about eating that I'm afraid he'll begin to fat up, and then I shall have to support both of us."
"Now, my dear"—and Mr. Treat used a tone of mild reproof—"why should you have such ideas, and why express them before our friend Mr. Tyler? I've eaten considerable, perhaps, at times; but during ten years you have never seen me grow an ounce the fatter, and surely I have grown some leaner in that time."
"Yes, yes, Sammy, I know it, and you shall eat all you can get: only try not to show that you think so much about it." Then, turning to Toby: "He's such a trial, Sam is. We'll go to see your uncle, Toby, and we should be very glad to do so even if we wasn't going for dinner."
"Ben an' me will come 'round when it's time to go," said Toby; and then, in a hesitating way, he added: "Abner's out here—he's a cripple that lives out to the poor-farm—an' he never saw a circus or anything. Can't I bring him in here a minute before you open the show?"
MR. AND MRS. TREAT EXHIBIT PRIVATELY FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE BOYS.
"Of course you can, Toby, my dear, and you may bring all your friends. We'll give an exhibition especially for them. We haven't got a sword-swallower this year, and the albino children that you used to know have had to leave the business, because albinos got so plenty they couldn't earn their salt; but we've got a new snake-charmer, and a man without legs, and a bearded lady, so—"
"So that our entertainment is as morally effective and instructively entertaining as ever," said Mr. Treat, interrupting his wife to speak a good word for the exhibition.
Toby ran out quickly, that he might not delay the regular business any longer than was absolutely necessary.
"Come right in quick, fellers," he cried, "an' you can see the whole show before it commences."
The invitation was no sooner given than accepted, and in a twinkling every one of those boys was inside the tent.
Toby had told Mr. and Mrs. Treat of the little circus they were intending to have, and he introduced to them his partners in the enterprise.
The fleshy Lilly smiled encouragingly upon them, and the skeleton, moving his chair slightly to prevent his wife from interrupting him, said:
"I am pleased to meet you, gentlemen, principally, and I might almost say wholly, because you are the friends of my old friend Mr. Tyler. Whatever business relations you may have with him, whether in the great profession of the circus or in the humbler walks of life, I am sure he will honor the connection."
From appearances Mr. Treat would have continued to talk for some time, but his wife passed around more doughnuts, and the attention of the visitors was so distracted that he was obliged to stop.
"And this is Abner," said Toby, taking advantage of the break in the skeleton's speech to lead forward his crippled friend.
Abner limped blushingly toward the gigantic lady, and when both she and her thin husband spoke to him kindly, he was so covered with confusion at the honor thus showered upon him that he was hardly able to say a word.
[to be continued.]
["THE SWEETEST MOTHER."]
BY MRS. M. E. SANGSTER.
Little Hans was helping mother
Carry home the lady's basket;
Chubby hands of course were lifting
One great handle—can you ask it?
As he tugged away beside her,
Feeling oh! so brave and strong,
Little Hans was softly singing
To himself a little song.
"Some time I'll be tall as father,
Though I think it's very funny,
And I'll work and build big houses,
And give mother all the money.
For," and little Hans stopped singing,
Feeling, oh! so strong and grand,
"I have got the sweetest mother
You can find in all the land."
[DO BIRDS KNOW THEIR OLD HOMES?]
BY EESUNG EYLISS.
Look on your map for the Sierra Nevada, the range of mountains between California and Nevada. On the east side of them you will find Owen's River, running south through a beautiful valley of the same name. On each side of this valley rises a lofty mountain range. The White Mountains at the north end of the valley end somewhat suddenly in what is called White Mountain Peak, more than thirteen thousand feet high.
It was in the valley at the foot of this grand mountain that I saw the curious scene which I wish to describe to you, and which makes me think that birds do know their old homes, and that they are ready to fight for their rights.
In July, 1874, I stopped for a few hours at the house of Mr. Mack, who owned a quartz mine in the neighboring mountain. As I sat on the veranda I noticed on one of the posts a singular nest, or rather it seemed to be a pile of nests. On examination I found that it was really made up of eight nests, built one upon the other; and that they were of two kinds: first one of soft materials (grass and hair, etc.), then one of mud, then the soft nest again, then the mud, and then in the upper nest (which was of mud) the bird which had built it was sitting on her eggs. In answer to my questions, Mrs. Mack gave me the following account.
In the spring of 1871 a pair of linnets began building a nest in the place which I saw. In this there was nothing uncommon. The linnets love to be about houses, and very frequently make their nests on any exposed beams which they can find in verandas or porches, rather than in trees or bushes. I have seen hundreds of them in such places. This pair of linnets quietly completed their nest, and it already held one or two eggs, when a pair of barn-swallows arrived, and after looking at the place, and evidently talking the matter over in their own fashion, decided to take possession of it for themselves by driving out the linnets, and forthwith a violent battle commenced.
CALIFORNIA LINNET.
But before going further, I must stop a minute to tell you a little about the two kinds of birds. The linnets you have probably never seen, unless you have been in California. There they are extremely abundant: east of the Rocky Mountains they are not found. The females, and all the young birds until they are at least a year old, have much the look of several species of our brown sparrows. The English sparrow, which has become so very common in our cities and villages, gives you quite a good idea of their size and color. The male bird, however, when in full plumage, is very different. His head and shoulders and breast are richly marked with crimson of a purplish hue, giving him a lively and elegant look, decidedly different from his plainly dressed wife and children. He is a fine singer, and it is not an unusual thing to see him in a cage, and hear him called a California canary.
The linnets in California are not migratory; they remain through the winter as well as the summer. The barn-swallows, on the contrary, are migratory, just as they are here, for, unlike the linnets, they inhabit the whole breadth of the continent. In the fall they go south, as far as Mexico and Central America, and return in the spring all along the Pacific coast of the United States.
Thus our pair of linnets had had time to begin their housekeeping before the swallows arrived from the south. As I said, the swallows appeared to hold a consultation, and then very deliberately began the fight. The attack was resisted as stoutly as it was made, and for the whole of the first day no material advantage was gained by either party. There was a great amount of violent chattering, and many severe blows struck, causing some loss of feathers; but the linnets held their ground, or rather their nest, and when night came, the swallows retired, leaving them in possession.
Early the next morning the contest was renewed, and all through the forenoon it raged fiercely, with short intervals for rest, but noon had come without any apparent results. A little after noon the swallows suddenly, as if by agreement, flew away to the roof of an adjacent building, as though acknowledging a defeat, and the linnets were left once more in peace. They testified their enjoyment of the release by a constant happy twittering; but this was not to last. After about half an hour, the swallows, having sat without stirring all this time on the one spot where they alighted, sprang together from the roof, and darted like an arrow straight at the nest. The linnets were apparently taken by surprise, and in less than two minutes they were driven out of the nest, down upon the floor of the veranda, then upon the ground outside, and finally, with a loss of many feathers, entirely away from the house, and the swallows, with every demonstration of joy, took possession of the nest.
Their conversation seemed to be very earnest, and at the same time very cheerful, for they doubtless thought the victory was won. But what were the linnets doing all this time? At first, for a few minutes, they were apparently quite downcast. They hopped about restlessly and uneasily on the bush to which they had fled, and were entirely still. After a little while they evidently began to confer with one another, and it was plain that the female was more energetic than the male, and was urging him to do something which he disliked. But as might have been expected, she carried her point. Mrs. Mack was watching them, when the conversation came to an end.
They sat perfectly quiet for a few minutes, and then, with a dash as savage as that of their adversaries had been before, they charged full upon the nest, and, to their credit be it said, they won the victory. The swallows were routed, without having time for scarcely a blow in their own defense. They fled for their lives, and were chased off, not only from the veranda and the house, but even from the neighborhood, and the linnets returned in such a frame of mind that they continued the celebration of their triumph for the remainder of the day, the male maintaining a steady song until evening.
But alas! Though their cause was just, and they were only fighting in defense of their home, they were defeated after all. The next morning about ten o'clock the swallows dashed in again, and the battle raged as fiercely as ever, and before noon the poor linnets were driven off, not to return. They were completely quelled, and for a day or two hung about the place disconsolately, but at the end of that time they recovered their spirits, selected a place on the other side of the house, where they built a new nest, and went on with their housekeeping with as much contentment apparently as though no evil had happened.
BARN-SWALLOWS' NEST.
The swallows had won their house-lot, and they speedily began to build. The linnets' nest was beautifully made of soft grasses and hair and other fibrous materials, and the first thing which the swallows did was to plaster that across the top solidly with mud, so as to make a foundation on which they could work. The barn-swallows always construct their nests of mud, mixing with it a small number of pieces of straw or grass. They heap up the mud until often the nest weighs as much as two pounds, and then the hollow top is beautifully lined with soft materials, grasses, feathers, etc., on which the eggs are laid.
These swallows went on as usual, and just as though they had not obtained their home by robbery and violence. They reared their brood of young ones, and in the fall all flew away to the south with the others of their kind.
In the spring of 1872 the scene was repeated. A pair of linnets—probably the same pair—built their nest on the same post, but it was necessarily placed on the top of the swallows' nest of the last year. Their work was completed just before the swallows arrived. One pair of the latter appeared to understand that the place belonged to them, for without any delay or hesitation they attacked the linnets furiously, and after a conflict lasting until the second day, drove them away, buried the soft nest in mud as before, and occupied the spot as their home for the summer.
The same thing transpired in 1873, and when I saw the structure in 1874 it had occurred for the fourth time. The linnets had built and been driven away, the swallows had occupied the field, and I saw the female bird sitting quietly on her eggs in a nest which was in the summit of a strange-looking pillar. The pillar was a rough mass, four or five inches in diameter, and more than a foot high, composed of eight layers. The layer at the bottom was very thin, of hair and grass, the one above it being a solid heap of mud more than three inches thick, then a thin one again, and so on until the swallows' nest at the top made the eighth.
You can easily see that the linnets' soft nest would be crushed down by the great weight of mud heaped on it, and would thus make only the thin layers as stated. It was plain that no such scene could be witnessed the next year, for the successive building of the nests had heaped up the mass until it almost touched the roof above it. In fact, the swallow had barely room to creep into her nest and out of it. I saw her come and go, and each time her back rubbed against the shingles. When she had settled down on her eggs, she had, of course, a little more free space.
Now what do you say? Did not both the linnets and the swallows know the old nest, and did not they consider that it belonged to them individually, and that they were determined to occupy it because it belonged to them, and then to fight for the possession of it if necessary? Otherwise why should the linnets in 1872 have persisted in building on the top of the swallows' nest? There were other posts all around the veranda, each one of them just as good as that, so far as I could judge, and then, too, that one was spoiled by having the nest already there, for the linnets are not in the habit of building where another nest has occupied the place. But no: that spot was theirs, and they had been unjustly driven from it the year before, and they seemed to consider that, though it was not so convenient as a dozen other places close at hand, justice to themselves required that they should assert their ownership. No birds with spirit could allow themselves to be despoiled of their rightful possession in any such manner. Then presently came the swallows, with just the same feelings, and the battle followed.
But this brings in another question. Do birds choose their mates for life? We have always thought that it was not so—that their partnership lasted for but a single year. We see, however, that when the swallows returned, they plunged into the conflict as though they both understood it, and were interested in the ownership. It may be, however, that the female came alone, and when she found that her house was occupied, she said nothing until she had selected a mate, and then she informed him that before any housekeeping could be commenced he must be prepared to fight for his "altars and his fires," for his "hearth and home," and so, like a dutiful husband, he toed the mark at once, and the battle commenced.
In whatever light you look at it, it is a remarkable example of the intelligence of birds, and of their power of communicating ideas to one another. I give you my assurance that the story is absolutely true, just as I have written it.
"ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP."
[MAX RANDER'S FRENCH EGGS.]
BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.
Shortly after my call upon the young noblemen, father and mother returned, but only to start off at once with Thad and me for Paris. Remembering my experiences in Germany, and finding that the Frenchmen were even harder to understand than the Germans, as they seemed to speak a whole sentence just as if it were one word, I determined to be extra careful whenever I went out.
But as I was taking my very first walk on the boulevard in front of the hotel, a young fellow with a wild sort of expression in his eye stopped me and began "parlez-vooing" away, with his arms flopping about like water-wheels. Of course I thought I ought to say something, and as I didn't know anything else in the language I replied, "Oui," which made the young man look at me so queerly as to convince me that I must have given my consent to do some horrible deed.
In my confusion I cried out, "Oh no, I don't mean that!" upon which the fellow began to laugh awfully, and then it turned out that he was English and had taken me for French. He had asked what line of omnibuses ran nearest to the Champ de Mars, and when I answered "Yes," you can imagine why he stared at me.
This affair having ended all right, I was thrown a little off my guard; so when mother, who was suffering from loss of appetite, asked me to go out to one of the suburbs and bring in a basket of fresh eggs a friend had promised to send her, I felt no fears of any unpleasant consequences.
As I started she placed in my hands the pretty little basket with, "Now, Max, above all things, don't drop this, and be very careful to allow no one to touch it but yourself."
I declared I would stand by the eggs to the last, and promising to return with them as speedily as possible, set out for Neu— But there! as I never could pronounce the name of the place, there's no use in my attempting to spell it.
It was a long distance from the hotel, but as a line of street-cars ran right past the house, and mother told me that the number was painted in big figures on the gate post, I was not afraid of losing my way.
On reaching the car I saw that there was a crowd of people on both the front and back platforms, and was wondering if there was any room for me, when I suddenly discovered to my amazement that there was nobody at all inside. I squeezed through the crowd, and presently the car started, with six or seven persons standing on each platform, and not a soul sitting down but myself.
I puzzled over the reason for this during the whole ride, and never found it out until mother's lady friend, at the end of it, told me that only half-fare was charged outside.
On hearing this, I affirmed that in my opinion the pleasure of standing next the driver was worth double the money, and hinted that I would much prefer returning home in that exalted locality. However, Mrs. Freemack begged that I would not think of doing so with a basket of eggs to guard; and after she had put on her hat and gone out to the gate with me, to make sure the car would stop, I stepped carefully aboard and took a seat inside. The basket I established safely on my knees, with both arms encircling it by way of protection.
Just as we reached the city gates a man came up and got into the car. He did not sit down, but glanced at the lady, the girl, and the soldier, and then at—the basket on my lap. With a quick stride he placed himself in front of me, and put out his hand to catch up the treasure in my charge, calling upon me at the same time to vous-vous something or other, in very stern tones.
Of course no American boy was going to stand being robbed in this daring daylight fashion without making an attempt at defending himself; so I grasped the basket with a firmer grip, and pressed it closer to my heart, as I cried out, "Don't touch this, if you please!"
You see, I never could remember that nobody would understand my English; and besides, it comes a great deal more natural to stand up for your rights in an easy language like your own.
Well, the man stood and looked at me a minute when I said that, while the old lady, the little girl, and the soldier all moved toward me, staring as hard as if I had suddenly been transformed into a three-legged chicken.
"What's the matter? what do you want?" I continued, still tightly hugging the basket.
Another outburst of French followed, in which the other three passengers, and also the driver and conductor, joined, and I began to grow somewhat alarmed.
Still, there were the eggs I had promised to guard, and I was determined not to give up that basket; so I planted my arms firmly on the cover, and sat there confronting "my man" like a dragon—at least I hope he thought so. By this time two other men had entered the car, and my persecutor left me for an instant to speak with them.
This was my opportunity, and with the basket still pressed close to my breast, I sprang up and made a dash for the door. But alas! that soldier saw me just in time to put out his foot and seek to stay my course. And this he did most effectually; for I tripped, and fell full length to the floor, and might have been badly hurt had not the basket acted as a sort of cushion to receive me, for of course it went down under me.
And the eggs! There were two dozen of them, and they and I and the bottom of the car were all "scrambled" together with a vengeance before I got up. Oh, how I wished I was young enough to cry, as I heard the roars of laughter!
But I had one consolation: nobody wanted to touch either me or the basket after that, and I was left in peace to wipe off my jacket with my pocket-handkerchief as the car rolled on its way again into Paris.
I took the basket and a few of the egg-shells home with me, where I learned from father that there is a sort of custom-house at every gate of the city, and that if I had only shown the man what I was carrying, it would probably have been all right. It seems Mrs. Freemack forgot to tell me about it.
Somehow I am not as fond of omelet as I used to be.
[RABBITS AS PETS.]
BY SHERWOOD RYSE.
Perhaps the reason why rabbits are so popular with boys is that they are something which they can attend to and care for entirely alone.
A rabbit-hutch is a simple affair, but if the animals are worth caring for, they are worth something better than an old packing case for a house. One of these, if water-tight, does well enough for the shell of the hutch, but it will require some fixing up before it is ready to be the abode of a rabbit that "knows what's what."
In the first place, as regards the floor. If this is not kept sweet and clean, the inhabitants will be liable to disease. Let the floor slope gently to the back of the hutch, and let it be double, so that the upper one can be drawn out to be cleaned. This upper board should be painted with two or three coats of paint, and every day it should be drawn out to be washed and brushed. The advantage of the slope is that the floor may be easily drained, and to carry off the drainage a gutter should be placed along it. When the board is cleaned it should have a layer of sand sprinkled over it after it has been put back in its place.
The hutch should be from thirty to thirty-six inches long, eighteen inches wide, and about as many high. As a rabbit should not be expected to eat in its sleeping-room any more than a human being should, the hutch should be partitioned off by a board, leaving the sleeping-room about twelve inches long. In this board should be a round hole large enough for a rabbit to pass through, and protected by a door sliding up and down in a groove.
The simplest way to make the front of the hutch is to nail strips of wood down it, but this is not the best way. Galvanized (white) wire netting is perhaps the best thing, and it can be bought very cheap at any hardware store. The mesh should not be more than three-quarters of an inch wide, or some prowling cat may get her paw into the house and do mischief. The writer lost his first young rabbits by allowing too large a space between the bars of his hutch. The open front of the hutch should extend as far as the end of the living-room. The sleeping-room should be inclosed by a solid door, opening in the ordinary way; and inside this should be a shutter about six inches high, sliding in a groove up and down. The advantage of this is that when the doe has young ones you may open the door and look at them without danger of their falling out.
The bedding should be of straw, well broken and bruised. It need be used only in the sleeping-room, except in very cold weather, and it should be changed at least once a week. It should always be put in dry. The hutch should be raised about a foot from the ground.
It used to be thought that cabbage and bran were all that were necessary for rabbits, but modern fanciers have learned better. The principal thing in rabbit-feeding is variety, and as rabbits will eat almost every kind of vegetable, this is easily managed.
A little book called The Practical Rabbit-Keeper gives a table of diet for a week. This is printed here, not because it need be strictly followed, but to show what is meant by variety of feeding:
Sunday.—Morning, roots and dry oats; afternoon, green food and hay; evening, mash of potatoes and meal.
Monday.—Morning, roots, crushed oats, and tea leaves; afternoon, small quantity of green food and hay; evening, bread and meal mash.
Tuesday.—Morning, soaked oats; afternoon, roots and green food; evening, crusts of bread (dry).
Wednesday.—Morning, barley or wheat (dry); afternoon, roots and green food; evening, mash of meal and pollard.
Thursday.—Morning, roots and dry oats; afternoon, green stuff and hay; evening, soaked pease or lentils.
Friday.—Morning, hay and roots; afternoon, green food; evening, meal and potato mash.
Saturday.—Morning, dry oats and chaff; afternoon, green stuff and roots; evening, bread.
The diet given above provides for three meals a day, which makes the rabbit appear to be a very greedy animal. But, on the contrary, it is very dainty in its feeding, and will neither eat much at a time nor return to that which it has left. Hence it is best to give but little at a time, and to feed regularly. Food should be given in a trough like a gutter, and to prevent the rabbits getting into it, it is well to fasten wires from end to end of the trough, just far enough from the sides to allow the rabbits to get their heads into it.
When a doe has "babies," she will eat nearly twice as much as at other times, and she should be separated from the little ones at her meal-times, so that she may eat in peace. The young ones may stay with their mother for seven or eight weeks, but should then be taken away, one at a time, and put with other young rabbits, if there are any, the bucks and does being kept separate. The father buck will often kill the little ones, so he should be kept apart from them.
If good care is taken of the rabbits, they will probably escape disease, but in a long spell of wet weather, or in a sudden cold snap, "snuffles" may make its appearance. The symptoms are like those of a severe cold with us—running at the eyes and nose, etc. A good authority recommends sponging the eyes and nose with warm tea, and a few drops of camphorated spirit given twice a day.
FALSE COLORS.[2]
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
For the first ten minutes our drive was enchanting. But presently the chatter of the others became more personal, and on subjects of which I knew nothing. Before we reached the academy, they had begun to whisper now and then, and I felt a little embarrassed; but this feeling wore off under the excitement of entering the noisy lecture-room, where we took our places with a great deal of flourish, and where a circle of Mattie's boy friends was soon around us. Kate Rivers sat on one side of me, and Mattie on the other, and the two leaned across me, continually chatting on things I did not understand, while the boys now and then spoke to me with an easy tone, half jest, half, as it seemed to me, rude familiarity.
Slowly it began to come upon me that these fine friends of Mattie's never would be ladies and gentlemen. Fine as they were, much as they talked of "fun" they had had and were going to have, I knew they were unlike the simple-minded, refined young people I had been among in my quiet country home; and then I began to wish I had not come.
I was ashamed of sitting there in Mattie's finery—of being teased about "running away," of being asked if it wasn't "too jolly to escape the dragon," as Bob and Mattie called our dear Miss Harding, and last, but worst of all, glancing across the crowded hall, I saw in the distance Philip and Laura Sydney. Then they had come! The voices of my new friends buzzed in my ears, their loud laughter was dreadful for that moment.
I shrank back, afraid to meet Laura's gentle gaze, ashamed to have either her or Philip see me in my borrowed plumes, and with such a company.
I heard Kate Rivers's voice in a whisper behind my back.
"Your old muslin, isn't it?"
"Yes," was Mattie's giggling rejoinder. "She hadn't anything of her own."
A contemptuous "Humph!" from Bob's sister followed.
My cheeks flamed. Could I get away? No; the speeches were beginning. How it went on for an hour I do not know. It was a dreadful period for me, and Mattie vainly tried to rouse me. Finally I managed to say:
"Mattie, I see the Sydneys," and to my horror she answered, promptly:
"Oh, what fun! I do want to know them. Come, Cecy, after all I've done for you, you'll have to introduce me."
"But, Mattie," I faltered, "how can I—I—"
"Nonsense!" was the retort. "Here, now, we have an intermission. Come along, Kate, Bob; we're going over to see some friends."
"I STOOD BACK, ASHAMED OF MY POSITION AMONG THEM ALL."
How it was done I never knew, but in a few moments I was following Mattie along a corridor, ashamed of everything about me, the more so when we got into the side room, where she knew the Sydneys were to be found, and I saw Laura's startled recognition of me, and Philip's evident surprise. Mattie pushed me forward. I managed the introductions; and, oh! what a contrast there was between the two girls! Laura's pretty, gentle manner, Mattie's boisterous, dashing one, and Bob and Philip looking at each other with nothing to say, while I stood back, ashamed of my position among them all.
"We went to the school for you," Laura said, presently, "and Miss Harding was out."
Mattie said nothing for an instant; then, with a blush, she said, looking straight into Laura's honest face:
"Miss Harding made an exception in our favor. She refused the general invitation."
In the silence which followed this audacious speech I turned away, not daring to meet the look Philip gave me. I stood by the window, looking out, and while Mattie chatted on, I tried to see how this day would end. Not that I feared Miss Harding, but that I felt I never should know how to shake myself free of the vulgar associations in which my dear Laura had found me; nor could I ever forget I had so placed myself that a lie was told for my benefit. Benefit! If you could have seen me, a miserable, unhappy little girl in borrowed clothes, standing in that window, with a forlorn expression and tightly clasped hands, you would not have thought there was much "fun" in this escapade, nor much "benefit" in its results; I heard the voices in a dreamy sort of way; I heard Philip and Laura saying they were going to take tea at Professor Patton's—the big brick house next the academy. Then, to my surprise, I heard Mattie say we were to stay all night at the Riverses'. There was to be a sort of party. I felt desperate. Laura and Philip said good-by pleasantly, and I could only look at them with a piteous air of appeal. They were gone; we were again in the lecture-room, and I had not recovered my wits, or at least my sense of what I ought to do, until I found myself, with the same boisterous party, driving to Mrs. Rivers's house, half a mile from the academy.
The Riverses had a large showy house; and on entering I was received by an overdressed stout lady, to whom all the young people talked with the sort of rough freedom which is sometimes called "Young America," and which so completely does away with the sacredness of "Mother."
We went upstairs to lay aside our wraps; and remembering I had left something I needed in the hall, I ran down for it while Mattie and Kate were busy washing their hands in the dressing-closet, chattering all the time. As I passed a hall window I saw it had grown suddenly dark, and that rain-drops were pattering against the pane. It was a sudden summer storm, and I began to think of my particular dread—thunder and lightning.
I found what I wanted, and sped back; but on entering the room, I heard my name spoken by Mattie, and stood still in a sort of nameless wonder or dread.
"I had to bring her," Mattie was saying; "I wanted to put her under an obligation to me, don't you see, so that she wouldn't tell of different things. I can always hold this over her. Doesn't she look horrid in my clothes?"
A laugh from Kate was the answer.
"Little goose," Mattie went on, "I wish we could get rid of her. She'd spoil any fun. I've taken to her at school because all the girls told me she was Miss Harding's favorite, it's a good thing for me, you see."
For a moment the revelation of Mattie's real character overpowered me. I do not remember that at first I thought of anything but that she was not what I had believed her to be. Then mortification, fright, tears—everything—seemed to follow, and then, in a sort of dream, I turned and ran down-stairs and out into the rain, thinking only that I must find Laura and ask her to help me.
I knew the way to Professor Patton's house; but long before I reached it I was drenched through, Mattie's thin muslin being draggled and soaked when I stumbled up against the big doorway, within which lights were shining, and voices sounding of laughter and happy cheer.
I wondered, long afterward, what the servant thought of me, standing there in my soaked finery. Whatever she thought, little was said. In a moment Laura appeared from a side door, coming out with a look that went to my heart. I tried to speak. I began to cry; then I remember moving a little toward her, and darkness seemed to close in about me.
Laura Sydney was—and is—one of those people who always know just what to do on every occasion. So it was no surprise to me to find myself, on coming to consciousness, warm and snug in a comfortable bed, with a tray of tea and toast at my side, and curtains drawn about the windows, on which the rain was beating. It took only a few words to make Laura understand everything. She sent a message to Mattie and one to Miss Harding, and the next day brought that kind lady to Professor Patton's house. I was ill with a feverish cold: perhaps that is why they were all so good to me. At all events, when I had freely confessed all of my wrong-doing there seemed no more to be said, and the only reference made to it was when I went home and Aunt Anna reminded me I had spoiled Mattie's dress.
"I think, dear," she said, one morning, when we were in the garden, "you had better send her a new one. Perhaps it would be a good idea to save some of your pocket-money for this purpose." And very gladly I consented to this little discipline.
Laura, who is opposite me as I write, teaching my little girl to pronounce f, has just asked me if I remember how long ago all this happened.
"Can it be fifteen years?" she says—and in my heart it seems only yesterday, although never since have I forgotten the lesson that day taught: that false colors never help us to be happy, and that "fun" built up on wrong-doing never can be honest enjoyment.