All the World Over: Interesting Stories of Travel, Thrilling Adventure and Home Life

BY SARA E. CHESTER.

PART I.

BILLY used to read Sir Walter Scott’s poems when he was not much larger than the book, his sisters say. From Sir Walter he received the idea that there is no such thing as a hero without his steed and hounds. Although Billy did not aim at being a hero exactly, he by no means called himself a coward; and he considered a horse and dog as necessary to a daring, manly fellow as to a regular hero.

The horse Billy confidently expected to own when he should come into long-tailed coats and moustaches. He knew the high price of a good article, and was willing to wait; but a “trusty hound,” which he could have for the asking, he wanted at once. All the boys belonging to his little clan either owned, or had some time owned, a dog; and when the huntsmen set out for the chase (in pursuit of such noble game as nuts or apples, birds’ eggs or nests) the dogs followed their masters. Those who were not followed had tales to tell—either of mysterious strangers who had lurked about the premises and enticed their dogs away on account of their immense market value, or of bloody street fights in which their brave ones had perished. Each boy except Billy had had his experience, and if not the present possessor of a hound, could boast the noble pedigree or gallant death of one departed.

But it was not altogether Sir Walter, nor an ambition to be the owner of a high-born warrior, which made Billy long for a dog; he was born with a love for them as certain people are born with a love for babies, and he had many fancies about his hound which were not of a bold and bloody nature. He pictured him affectionate and gentle. He pictured him comfortably dozing by the fire on winter evenings; sharing a corner of his room at night; sharing his last crust should changing fortunes make them paupers—always faithful, tender and true, a friend to be relied upon though other friends might fail.

Unfortunately he did not inherit his tastes from his father. That gentleman disliked the canine race in proportion as Billy liked it, and although an indulgent parent generally, would not listen to Billy’s petitions for a dog. Occasionally, however, Billy received such a tempting offer that he was emboldened to renew his pleas, and one day, unable to resist the fascination of a fierce little black-and-tan, began:

“Father, there’s a dog——”

“Once for all,” interrupted his father, rather noisily, “I say, no! Don’t mention that subject to me again, sir! Anything that is reasonable, from a parrot to a monkey, I’ll consider. But you are not to mention dogs to me again, sir!”

“You know papa was bitten once, dear,” said his sister, as the door closed after their angry sire. “You really ought not to tease him. Why won’t you try and be contented with a dear little kitten, or a canary?”

“I’d as soon pet a rattlesnake as a kitten,” said Billy; “one is as mean and sly as the other. And that canary of yours—it’s got just about as much soul as a lump of sugar.”

“How would you like a goat? Goats are big and fierce——”

“A goat is a brute,” said Billy. “As for the dog that bit father, you know it was a bull—the only variety of dog that has any treachery in its blood. I don’t ask to own a bull-dog. But a goat! Do you s’pose Byron could ever have said this about a goat?” (Billy had spoken the poem at school, and proceeded to declaim):

“I’ll have a dog, or nothing,” he concluded.

“He has his father’s will,” sighed his mother, as he left the room.

A few weeks later Billy was rambling home. He had been sent with a dish to an invalid; and between the fear of spilling its contents and the attention he must pay to his steps had had a wretched time; so on the way home he was thoroughly enjoying liberty. Hands were free to shy stones at balky and rickety horses, and feet were free to roam and linger where they listed. He was a long time on that homeward journey, and only reached the graveyard at half-past four.

Billy had been known to quicken his footsteps when passing the graveyard by moonlight; and it is said that once when the sky was dark above and the night dark beneath, he ran quite around the corner, where he sauntered and whistled indifferently. But there was no occasion for running to-day. Neither moonlight nor darkness brooded over the graves; the white stones were dazzling in the sunshine, and the blades of grass twinkled like so many little stars; birds hopped fearlessly over the graves, not changing their gay tunes nor lowering their loud voices out of respect to the place; and altogether the graveyard looked so cheery and tempting in the afternoon sunshine that Billy stepped over the stile.

There was a general scattering of birds, butterflies, chipmunks and squirrels, each of these inferior creatures being warned by a voice in its little breast to flee. A noble dog would have needed no such warning, but would have approached Billy as an equal, assured of the reception to which his rank entitled him.

Having sole possession of the premises, Billy strolled about with a sovereign air. He pulled off his cap and turned up his face, letting the sunshine warm his cheeks to red and his yellow hair to gold. He surveyed the sky with some interest, as there was quite a variety of colors to-day, which pleased him better than the ordinary white and blue that in his opinion too much resembled milk and water. He cut a willow stick for a whistle, and examined names and dates as he passed the tombstones. Arriving at the grave of a boy who had died at his age, he sat down, took out his knife, and as he worked whistled cheerily above the little fellow whose whistling days were over. By and by an occasional chipmunk or squirrel ventured out in search of nuts; and at last a reckless kitten came within throwing distance. It would have been sad for the kitten had the soil been sterile and stony; but in that grassy region there was nothing to throw except the knife and the stick in the boy’s hands. The knife could by no means be spared, so away went the whistle with the coward cat before it. As the whistle was not to be found after a hunt in the thick grass, Billy resumed his rambles.

This brought him back to the stile in course of time; and he lifted a foot to go over when he was stopped by a faint cry. He paused just as he stood, one foot on the stile and one on the ground, listening breathlessly; for his educated ear knew the animal by its voice. Faint as the tones were they were unmistakable puppy tones. No kitten’s fretty “me-ouw,” no squirrel’s soulless “chir-chir,” was there; it was the noble voice of a puppy, though so faint and far that Billy could not at once detect its source. He listened until the cry came again, prolonged and piteous. It was a puppy in distress, a little baby dog in need of championship! who so ready in the wide world as he to espouse its cause! His knightly soul thrilled with pity as he ran eagerly about, led hither and thither by the repeated cries. He grew wild as he could not find the puppy behind a tree or tombstone or anywhere in the grass; and it was not until a second voice came to his aid that he ran in the right direction. The second voice was loud and angry, and provoked the first to shriller efforts. Puppies at war! Now Billy was doubly anxious to find them, for he could see the fun as well as support the under dog. He had decided by this time that they were near the fence which separated the graveyard from the barley field; and as he ran thither a third cry broke upon his ears, then a fourth, a fifth—till voices innumerable seemed to join the chorus.

“A dozen, as I’m alive!” said Billy; and by this time he had an opportunity to count them, though it was by no means easy to count all the big heads and little feet which he found struggling, pushing and climbing in the old tin pan between the fence and a walnut tree. He bent above the moving mass, and after various attempts learned that their number was seven. In regard to eyes, total blindness indicated extreme youth. And as to the cause of their complaint, it was evident that they had been abandoned in their ignorance and helplessness, and were in need of food.

Billy gazed into the pan with emotions of pride and compassion; the pride of a discoverer and possessor; the compassion of a heart always sensitive to canine grief, but moved to its depths by this spectacle of blind and orphaned infant woe. Seven little wails proceeding from seven hungry mouths, fourteen little paws groping and struggling towards escape from suffering whose cause was hardly comprehended—the sight might rouse a stouter heart than Billy’s.

“They’re a prize,” thought he, viewing the enormous heads and wee paws, critically. “They look like rare ones—Irish setters, perhaps. Bob would know. He’s up on those things.”

Bob might also make some helpful suggestions in regard to the puppies’ future; for Billy could not take them home; he could not leave them to starve, and he was far from willing to distribute among his friends the orphans whom he had rescued from untimely graves, and towards whom his heart was beating with such tender interest.

In his dilemma he left the puppies, to consult with Bob; and as he ran away, looked in vain for the mother dog.

“It would never do to let them starve,” said Bob; “but we must give the mother a fair chance. If she isn’t back by seven we can conclude they’re abandoned, and they shall have a home in my barn, for the present.”

Having met at seven, Bob and Billy hastened to the graveyard. No mother dog could be seen as they approached the stile, and a chorus of loud wails informed them that she had not returned. They were soon kneeling by the pan, criticising forms and faces; at the same time observing with deepest pity how the little mouths told their misery and the weary paws strove to escape from it.

“I should judge you were a pointer by your nose,” said Bob, addressing the only puppy who could be said to have an attempt at the feature. “This may be a Newfoundland,” referring to one whose nose they would not have discovered but for the end of a wee pair of nostrils. “They’re a splendid lot, poor babies! It’s a clear case of desertion, Billy. We mustn’t leave them here without food another moment.”

Billy lifted the rusty old pan and clasped it tenderly against his jacket. Then they stepped briskly towards the stile, for the graveyard was by no means the tempting place it had been two hours ago.

“Keep an eye out for my father,” said Billy. “They make such a noise they may get us into trouble.”

But by sometimes crossing streets and turning corners suddenly, sometimes running and sometimes dodging, they succeeded in reaching the barn without encountering friend or acquaintance who would betray them.

“Take them in and make them at home on the hay while I go for their supper,” said Bob.

At the barn door Billy and the puppies were received by no less a person than Timothy, the coachman, who had consented to give the orphans a temporary asylum. He also bent gravely and critically over the pan; but his verdict did not agree with Bob’s.

“Mongrel, very mongrel,” said Timothy, shaking his head.

The fact that they belonged to his own humble rank in life may possibly have increased his sympathy; but it is certain that no orphaned kittens could have roused such emotions of pity in his manly breast. He had a corner ready, cushioned with hay; and they were soon rubbing against something better adapted to their tender sides than cold tin. But though they nestled in the hay as if they liked it, their wails continued, and they soon began to toddle about in search of food. When Bob came bringing it, however, Timothy shook his head and said:

“Ten chances to one against touching a drop, Billy. I’ve known ’em to die rather than drink it out of a saucer at that age.”

A vision of seven little puppies wailing and toddling to their doom, of seven cold, stiff forms, seven green graves in a row, clouded Billy’s fancy for a moment. But no, he would not accept such dark possibilities. The puppies must be tenderly persuaded what was for their good; and canine reason must triumph over mere brute prejudice.

But, alas, for Billy’s faith in canine intelligence—no sooner were the little noses introduced to the saucer than wails broke forth with tenfold energy. One after another they struggled from his hands and toddled away, until the seventh sat afar in the hay, with milky nose and empty stomach protesting against the insult it had received.

Billy was sorely tried and disappointed; but he considered their youth and blindness; he reflected that even human intelligence fears what it cannot see, and that it becomes one to have much patience with blind puppy babies. So he captured them again, individually, and repeated the process several times, until each, in spite of kicks and screams, had been compelled to sniff or lap up a few drops. He did not rest till the saucer was emptied; and by that time Timothy thought they had probably taken enough to preserve life through the night, though not enough to make them comfortable and hush their wails.

Billy went home with the wails still in his ears. You may be sure, however, that it was not of seven weak, blind, crying infants that he dreamed; but of seven gallant hounds full-statured, noses cold and keen of scent, heads erect and proud—for faith and hope are brave at the age of twelve.

But like other dreams which faith and hope have dreamed at night, Billy’s fled at dawn. One-seventh of it at least could never come true. One-seventh of it was found stiff and still in the hay; and was speedily borne to a lonely little grave beneath the apple tree.

“What did I tell you?” said Timothy. “They’ll all be dead afore night, sooner’n drink from a saucer. You’d best drown ’em, Billy, and put ’em out o’ misery.”

But Billy vowed he would never drown them; that he wouldn’t hesitate if they were kittens; but he’d as soon drown a baby as a puppy. He was going to raise the six! No pains should be spared to rear a round half-dozen. Number Seven was the obstinate member of the family anyway. Billy knew him by the spot on his right ear; and didn’t he remember how much harder he kicked than the other six last night? Drown them! Never!

An expression, not of disappointment, might have been observed on Timothy’s face; although he shook his head, saying:

“Mongrel, very mongrel, Billy. It’s my advice to drown ’em.”

That head shook frequently during the day; indeed, whenever Timothy appeared in the barn door to see how Bob and Billy were succeeding. They were not to be discouraged by head-shakings; but were rather provoked to greater efforts, as perhaps, Timothy intended. Hopes prevailed over fears until evening, when it became only too evident that a pair of the puppies toddled more and more feebly as the shadows fell. Applications of milk to their nostrils, force, and even mild persuasion, so annoyed them that it seemed true kindness to let them depart in peace. They were allowed therefore to toddle into a secluded corner, where they lay down together, and from which they toddled out no more.

“It’s better so,” said Timothy. “They ain’t got nothing to go a-huntin’ and cryin’ for now. If they ain’t found what they wanted by this time, they don’t know the difference.”

It was said with quite a softening of Timothy’s big voice, as he gently lifted them for the burial. Billy and Bob sat apart, silent and abject, their hands in their pockets and scowls upon their brows. But they rose and followed Timothy as he advanced to the cemetery, bearing a puppy in each hand. Few remarks were made until they were returning to the barn, when Bob said:

“Brace up, Billy. Four’s a better number than seven. You would have found seven a big family on your hands. I’ve always noticed a difference in their constitutions. Those two never had as much strength as the others.”

“Do you think the others will come on?” Billy asked, timidly.

“I do,” said Bob. “They’re robust compared to the others; and they’ve eaten quite a lot to-day. I shouldn’t wonder if their eyes would be open by morning.”

Billy was only too glad to hope again, and went home to dream of a gallant quartette, in spite of Timothy’s parting words:

“Very mongrel, Billy, and no constitution. The sooner you put an end to ’em, the better for all parties.”

Timothy having spoken, went immediately to the kitchen, where he confided to cook the whole tragic tale, and said he had heard how oatmeal porridge was nourishing for young puppies; “and suppose you make us a little, Eliza, with not too much oatmeal and a plenty of milk, so ’s ’t’ll go down easy.”

Later, Timothy might have been seen, by the light of a lantern, kneeling upon the hay, feeding the puppies porridge, which he promised would give them “sound sleep with something on their stomachs,” and save them perhaps from being dead puppies in the morning.

Although Billy dreamed his brave dreams of an unbroken quartette, still he stepped into the barn with some anxiety the next morning. But the oatmeal porridge had proved popular; the puppies took it with little urging, and even learned to smell their way into its neighborhood. It did not make them strong and sprightly; it did not open their eyes; but it kept them from dying, and surely this was not a small thing to accomplish. The very fact that three days went by and no death occurred in the family, encouraged them all to hope that a stronger tide of life would soon set in, forcing eyes open and making legs frisky. But when three other days had dragged along, Timothy, in a moment of impatience declared that their eyes would never open.

“A blind dog is sure no good,” said he; “and mongrel as they are, you’ll drop ’em in the river, if you take my advice, Billy.”

Nevertheless he went to Eliza and said: “Why not try a little juice of the beef? Meat, as all know, is the food for grown dogs. Why not the juice of the meat for young dogs without teeth to chew the solid? I’ll step around to the butcher’s, Eliza.”

He returned from the butcher’s with a pound of chopped beef. Eliza put the water to it; and early the next morning Timothy might again have been seen kneeling on the hay. He endeavored to persuade the puppies that his cup had invigorating properties and a cure for blindness; and urged them as they loved life and desired to view the face of nature, to partake. But, alas, once more for canine reason! One after another they sniffed, spit, sputtered, wailed and retreated.

“You’re a mongrel, brutish set,” said Timothy, in righteous indignation; “and I’ll be blowed if you’re worth saving!”

But before he could leave them to their fate, either his words, or a sudden instinct of self-preservation, turned one of the retreating puppies straight about. Timothy was not inclined to offer any assistance and run the risk of another disappointment. But when it became evident that the puppy was trying to smell his way to the beef-tea, he put the cup under his nose, and was rewarded by seeing a small pink tongue come out for a taste. One taste led to another and another, until the little fellow had breakfasted bravely, and Timothy was so rejoiced that he tried the obstinate three again. But his efforts were vain; and he fastened all his hopes on the good puppy, whose conduct he hastened to report to Bob and Billy.

Now whether medical science will allow any direct connection between beef-tea and the eyes, we do not know, but it is certain that when Billy entered the barn two hours later he was startled by a bright gaze. If a pair of stars had fallen from the sky to gaze at him out of that corner, he could hardly have been more amazed than to discover that the bright objects were the eyes of a dog—of his little dog.

“Bob! Timothy!” he screamed. But before they could arrive he had bounded towards the puppy and lifted him up. Seated upon Billy’s hands he held his head erect and looked at his master with (the foolish master fancied) affectionate recognition.

“It’s the beef-tea!” said Timothy, who had by this time arrived.

“And thanks to you, old friend,” said Billy. “He’ll live now, Tim. Do you s’pose he’d change the world that’s to be taken a good look at for a hole in the ground? Not he!”

“You’re right!” said Timothy. “We must make these blind fellows take some of the eye-opener and get a look at the world before it’s too late.”

They were all so encouraged by that pair of bright eyes that they labored patiently with the three blind brothers; but though they still partook of oatmeal porridge freely, they could never be induced to imbibe more than an occasional drop of beef-tea; and instead of waxing fat and active on oatmeal, they waned daily.

All the love which Billy had divided among seven was given to the quartette; and so a greater portion was blighted when the next puppy died.

“It makes me think of the ‘ten little Injuns,’ the way they drop off one after another,” said Billy, as they laid him away from the sunshine which he had never seen.

So the love of four fell to three; and though Billy was very proud of the puppy who ate beef-tea, who was learning to walk firmly and briskly, he was equally as tender of the less fortunate brothers. It is true that on entering the barn one morning he forgot them for a moment as the other trotted towards him and laid—yes, actually rubbed!—his nose in his hand. But he recovered from the glad surprise directly, and looked over at the bed in the corner. Still asleep, the lazy fellows! He tossed some hay at them, which caused a languid paw to appear; then a head stirred, and another until the little soft heap had shaken itself apart and separated into two puppies, who faced about and looked at each other. Yes, for the first and last time, they celebrated their awakening after the usual fashion of opening the eyes.

“Hurrah!” shouted Billy.

(END OF PART I.)