THE EXCURSION
A particular summer, back in the fifties, I spent in one of the beautiful valley villages of the “Green Mountain State.” The old-fashioned, unpretending country tavern was comfortable and the air and scenery all that could be desired. The amusements, or rather occupations, afforded to the sojourners, aside from reading the solid literature of the period, were neither novel nor exhausting, but they gave pleasure, were reposeful, and were innocent enough to have satisfied the code of the most exacting moralist. The daily routine was limited, not costly, and within easy reach.
Of course, the first rural recreation was to fish in streams where there were no fish; to climb the highest hills as often as possible; argue religious, political, and commercial questions with the numerous oracles of the village, and diagnose the autumn crop question with the farmers. These occupations were staple commodities, always in stock and on tap ready to flow.
The good people of the town were very much astonished when they found I had discovered an additional occupation. I had made the acquaintance of all the town dogs, and found them a most entertaining and sociable lot of easy-going vagabonds. The majority were much given to loafing, barking at strangers and the passing vehicles, and not over-anxious to earn the scant meals grudgingly doled out to them by the thrifty housewives, who frequently addressed them in terms not of a complimentary nature.
Those were not the days of romantic names for dogs. The New England répertoire for the canine race had been handed down, in an unbroken line, from a remote Puritan period. If a dog was of a large size he was sure to respond to the name of Tige, Rover, or Lion, and, if small, he was usually adorned with the name of Skip, Fido, or Zip. In those days there were neither kennel clubs nor dog exhibitions, and the high-flown English names, such as attach to the canine blue-bloods of to-day, were unknown.
Within the ranks of this lazy, good-for-nothing, good-natured tribe, with its headquarters in my particular village, was a characteristic specimen of a perfect nobody’s dog. He was not unpleasant to the vision, but, on the contrary, rather attractive. He was of a light brindle color, with a black nose, and was blessed with a pair of beautiful, sympathetic, and expressive dark-brown eyes, that had a frank way of looking clear into the eyes of whoever addressed him. But he was without pedigree, industry, or hope, cared nothing for worldly possessions, was always ready to wag a hearty response to every salutation, and was an ever-flowing fountain of good nature and kindness, but not devoid of character. Along with all his apparent indifference he had his strong points, and good ones at that.
His great weakness was the woodchuck season. No sportsman was ever more watchful for the return of the shooting period than was Rover for the opening of the first woodchuck hole. For days before the first opening he would range the fields very much after the manner of the truly accomplished shopping woman of a large city in search of opportunities on a “bargain day.” He had the keenest nose for his favorite game of any dog in the town, and so devoted was he to his particular sport, that frequently, while the season lasted, after a hard day’s work, he would go to bed with an empty stomach, his chance mistress having issued an edict to the effect that the kitchen door was to be closed at a certain hour—Rover or no Rover. And so it came to pass that our devoted sportsman often went to his couch in the shed a very hungry dog, not happy for the moment, but always full of hope for the coming morning.
While his sporting season lasted he had but one occupation. As soon as he had licked his breakfast plate clean, even to the last mite of food, he would start off for new adventures, and, as soon as he had succeeded in finding a new subterranean abode of his favorite game, he would give a joyous bark, and commence a most vigorous digging, and, if the soil happened to be of a soft nature, he would soon bury his body so as to leave no part of his belongings in sight but the tip end of a very quick-moving tail amid the débris of flying soil. If called from his pursuit he would come out of his hole wagging most joyously and saying as plainly as possible: “I wish you would turn in and help a fellow.”
He had never been known to capture a “chuck,” but he had his fun all the same.