But half convinced, the children went to the summer-house and called Prig; but she would not come. Then they drove her out, and as she stood trembling before them, reproached her, and raising their arms, shouted,—
“Go!”
Prig hesitated a moment, looked from one to another, then with her tail between her legs, her hair on end, she uttered an unearthly howl, and fled at full speed, crowded under the gate, and disappeared.
The children went to bed early, as Mrs. Constant thought the excitement was bad for them, and in the night she was called to the little girl’s room. Dolly was feverish, and ill with a sore throat, and Ada in great pain. They were sick all night, and in the morning Mrs. Constant heard about the second piece of pie and Dolly’s dam building. Her sleeves had been wet all the afternoon, and the grief, added to the pie and wet, had made them both ill.
They were not able to go out that day, and Willie buried Blackhawk alone, while they watched him sadly from the window. They took their last farewell of their pet at the kitchen door, and would have given all their yesterday’s sport to have helped Willie with the funeral. He had meant that Prig should have attended as chief mourner, but she was nowhere to be found. No one had seen her since her flight, and for days they could find no trace of her. This added to their discomfort; for they all loved her, and Ada and Dolly were confined to the house for some time, and wanted her to play with them.
About a week after, on a rainy night, Bridget found her at the kitchen door, and with great difficulty persuaded her to come in. She was very thin and unhappy, and hid from the children, when they, already sorry for their harshness, were kind to her, and tried to play with her. It was a long time before she was the lively Prig she used to be, and was always a little lame in her left fore foot. Something had hurt her in those days of absence; and though after a while the children forgot their holiday and the consequences, I am afraid poor Prig never did.
Sara Conant.
LET HIM LIVE.
WHEN one sees a harmless snake,
Lying torpid, scarce awake,
On a chilly morning,
Is it well his life to take
Without leave or warning?