While the ladies were cooling off, there was a boxing match between two of the most athletic of the gentlemen, and it was declared a draw at the end of the fifth round. These gay young bloods refreshed themselves with liberal draughts of beer, which was very innocent, however, being made of Frog hops. I tried it, but it was not to my taste, being clammy in flavour and not cold enough.
The play lasted till long past midnight, and I do not believe the merry party would have broken up then had I not risen to go home. My little furry friends clustered around me with many unspoken regrets, but I fear that the loss of the concertina was uppermost in their thoughts. They had never had music to dance to before.
My suspicion was strengthened the next day when I finished my packing. As before, Jenny and Chee-Wee came and camped on the instrument, refusing to move when I attempted to put it into my suit case. A generous impulse struck me, and, attracting her attention, I spelled out: “You can use it this Winter if you will be very careful of it and not leave it outdoors. I shall want it again in the Spring.”
They forgot me, then, and dragged it away to some secret treasure-house. Such was the ingratitude of the beasts that I never saw either of them again, not to mention my instrument, but there are drawbacks in all callings, so why should there not be in mine? When you come to think of it, the work of a concertina is wholly composed of drawbacks.
Sometimes on moonlight nights, when the earth is exquisitely still, I fancy I see the Rabbits dancing in the clearing, and when a faint, far-off melody comes to my listening ears, so delicate that it might be fairies touching cobweb strings, I think perhaps it may be Chee-Wee or Jenny Ragtail, playing on my lost concertina.
HOOT-MON
I was in the woods one night at twilight, sitting on a stump, with my face hidden in my hands, thinking. I had written about everything I knew for the magazines, and my work was still in demand, but, seemingly, there were no new animals.
While I was thinking, I was knocked senseless by a blow on the head. When I came to, there was nothing in sight, and no tracks on the smooth mould around me. Only the blood which streamed down my face convinced me that I was not suffering from an hallucination.
The doctor who sewed up my head gave me a very queer look when I told him how it had happened, and then tapped his forehead suggestively. I suppose he was endeavouring to comprehend the situation and was trying to stimulate the place in which the phrenologists have located the faculty of comprehension.
After my head got well, I went out and sat on the stump once more, determined to pursue my investigations at whatever cost. Just as I expected, I was hit again, only this time not quite so hard. I chased around madly through the underbrush, but, as before, I saw nothing.