Rather a lonely place, one would say, for a little girl to grow up in. But Buddie never thought of that. She was always busy, and the days passed quickly enough. Colonel was a lively companion, if he was only a dog, and a yellow one at that; and he had one good quality which even a yellow dog can have—he was entirely devoted to his young mistress. If she wandered too far up or down the road, or seemed to be disregarding her mother’s command to keep out of the wood, he would take hold of her dress with his teeth and gently pull her back.
And now to return to the strange flower Buddie found. Pay attention, Little One: if it were not for the flower I should not be telling you this story.
Botanists call it Circæa Alpina, but you never could remember that. The other name for it is “Enchanter’s Nightshade,” which you may not forget so easily. It is a small plant, and the flower books do not say much about it; but I feel quite sure it must have originated on the Ææan Isle, where Circe the Enchantress lived, ever so many years ago. I think very likely Ulysses, whom you have read about or will read about some day, carried off a bouquet of it when he sailed away from the isle, and in the course of time the seeds reached our land. Anyhow, you must have guessed that there was some sort of enchantment in Buddie’s bouquet, even if I had not tried to explain; for no sooner had she fastened it under her hair-ribbon than Colonel exclaimed, in “really talk”:
“Who cares for flowers! Throw me a stick to fetch!”
CHAPTER II
ON THE WAY TO BEAVERTOWN
If a dog were to speak to you, Little One, in “really talk,” I dare say you would jump a foot—unless you happened to be sitting on a fallen tree at the time; then, very likely, you would do as Buddie did, jump to both feet.
“Why, Colonel!” she cried; “I didn’t know you could talk.”
“Indeed?” replied the Yellow Dog. “Well, I assure you I am an excellent talker, if you start me off on subjects in which I am interested. Like all persons that really have something to say, I need to be drawn out.”
Certainly he did not talk like a common dog, and he no longer looked like one. He held his head proudly, and his once dejected tail had an upward and aristocratic sweep. Could this be the same yellow dog that her father kicked around and accused of stealing eggs? Buddie rubbed her eyes and looked again. Yes; it was the same dog: around his neck was the rope collar with which she dragged him about.