"Not good poetry, Prince," she gasped, "but Dad says—he says when your heart is bursting, break into verse—any old verse. It's yours. Other fellow doesn't know your thoughts. I'll sing again—about you and Dallas. Echo! loonies," and she began to shout,
I stopped short. I thought she was making too much fuss about my poor young master's pleasant stories—and what about her own made-up tales about the three other ponies in the race with us?
"What's the matter with you, boy?" she asked as she nearly plunged over my head. "Oh! you want me to go say good-night to Happy Harry—bright thought," and in a trice she was off my back and running up a path to a pretty red house.
No pony could get ahead of this girl, and I watched her as she went into the Talker home. I could see the family through the windows. Mr. and Mrs. Talker were sitting each side of an open fire, and on a lounge between them was a young man who must be Happy Harry.
I looked back over the road we had come, and as I looked some electric lights suddenly flashed on, making the market road as beautiful as a dream.
On one side of us was the lake, on the other the narrow frontages of the cottages and a cute little country store with a veranda to it. It was some distance behind us, but I could see men sitting tipped back on chairs on the veranda, and someone was playing on a concertina.
Tall Lombardy poplars that I found out afterward were the pride of Mr. Talker's life, lined the road, and their leaves glistened like silver in the bright light that evidently came from Mr. Devering's power house.
I thought I would go and look in the windows, to see what Miss Cassowary was doing, so I stepped softly up a path in the grass.
The girl was on the hearthrug standing quite still, and listening to the brown-faced boy on the lounge. He was talking in a very lively manner, and made frequent gestures with his hands. His poor legs were quite still under a rug. He had gone away to the war, and having lost his own feet had now artificial ones that often hurt him very much. However, his face was nice and brown, showing that he was out in the sunshine a good deal.
His parents' eyes were glued to his face. He was the joy of their life, and they were so thankful not to have had him killed that they did not seem to mind his lameness.
He minded it, though, and many a time later on when he thought no one was looking, I saw him passing his hand over his eyes as if he wanted to shut out the sight of other young people dashing about on their own strong feet.
Mr. Talker looked quite gentlemanly in dark house clothes, for he had shed his working suit. I soon discovered that he was a clergyman, and the reason he hadn't talked to my young master in coming in from the Lake of Bays was on account of his always choosing the time of long drives for the composition of his sermons.
Just now he was holding a skein of wool for his wife to wind, but they were getting it all tangled because their eyes were on their boy.
Suddenly Cassowary began to speak, and I heard through the open window some nice praise about myself.
She was telling about our race and an old dog who was lying by the fire got up and came to growl at me.
"There's your intelligent wee beastie at the window," said Mrs. Talker.
"Invite him in, please Father," said the young man, lifting himself on his elbow.
Mr. Talker threw him an affectionate glance, then he came to the front door and politely asked me to come in.
I am always sorry for young people who are not strong, and I have often been taken into their rooms to cheer them up.
Pausing in the doorway, I bowed my head to the company, then I went in, picking my steps carefully so as not to bump into chairs or tables.
Happy Harry had been in the artillery and was used to horses. He put his hand out, and I went and stood beside him.
"Fine of bone, and slender of body," he said; "some Arab in him, eh?"
"Lots," said Cassowary, "his grandfather came from Fetlar in the Shetlands."
"He's a good deal more than forty-six inches high," said the young man.
"Yes, for his parents were bred in the American corn belt."
"It's queer," said Happy Harry, "how the Old Country people run to a stocky, blocky pony. We like more refinement of shape."
"Yes," said Cassowary, "I've heard that the real Shetland type over there is like a tiny draft horse."
"This little fellow is a bit too high," said Harry. "He'd be disqualified in a pony show."
"He isn't going to be shown," said Cassowary, patting me, "he's just going to have a good time,—aren't you, Fetlar?"
I pawed the hardwood floor three times, and they all laughed heartily.
"He's a beauty," said Happy Harry, and he grinned cheerfully. "Oh! to be a boy again and on a pony's back!—Can you shake hands, little fellow?"
I lifted my right fore-foot and he shook it heartily and then began to fumble in a basket of wool.
"He knits," said Cassowary to me. "Isn't he splendid! Dad is wearing some of his socks now."
The old dog began to growl again. He saw lumps of sugar coming out from among the balls of wool.
I didn't care. I ate all I wished from the kind palm of the brave young soldier man, then I made one more bow to the company and backed toward the door.
They all clapped their hands. "I didn't know he could do tricks," said Cassowary delightedly. "I'll get Dad to put him through his amusement paces."
As I went out to the veranda the old dog followed me, and as soon as we were alone I gave him a gentle nip.
"What's that for?" he asked in an ugly way.
"To teach you manners," I said. "This was my first call, and you received me in a surly way."
He drooped his head so sadly that I said, "What's the matter with you?"
"I'm getting old," he said, "and I'm afraid Mr. Talker will shoot me."
"You don't want to die?"
"No, I want to live. I like the Talkers and the feeding is good."
"Well, if you want to live," I said, "hold up your head and look cheerful. I'd shoot you on sight if you were my dog. You've such a disagreeable air."
He didn't care anything about my opinion. He was a very selfish old dog, but he snapped at my suggestion.
"Do you think it would make a difference?" he said eagerly.
"Don't I just! Toss up your head now, pretend you're a pup, and gambol down the road. Come on, I'll go with you."
He made a desperate little break for a few paces, then he stopped short. "My breath's gone."
"What's the matter with you?" I asked. "You haven't any wind at all. Don't you exercise every day?"
"No. I lie mostly by the fire. I'm old, I tell you."
"Oh! get out, old dog," I replied, "you only think you're old. Let me see your teeth."
He curled back his lips.
"You're lazy," I said. "That's all the trouble with you. Spruce up, and go trotting for a while, then run, then leap. Mr. Talker will say you've got your second wind and he'll spare you."
"But I might fall dead," he said.
"Suppose you did. There's another life for dogs, many good people say. You'll start afresh and live forever. No one could kill you if they tried."
"I like the sound of that," he said, putting his head on one side. "Perhaps I'd better just loaf along here and slip off as soon as I can."
"No, no, that won't do," I said. "While you live, live, and work and play. Don't think about death. The old reaper will do your thinking for you."
"Who's he?" he asked.
"Now you just think that out," I returned. "Your dog mind is as rusty as your dog body. Good-night, here comes my young Missy," and I stepped down to the path.
However, Miss Cassowary did not get on my back. One never knew what that girl would do.
"Race me to the house, Prince Fetlar," she said and off she started on her own young hoofs.
Of course I let her beat me and kept behind watching her long black hair flapping up and down in the wind, for the ribbon had come off. However, I came in a close second when she pulled up in front of her own home.
A voice from the veranda said, "Late again, my daughter. No pocket money this week."
"Ah! Daddy," she said in a wheedling voice.
"Rules must be kept, and wild girls must be broken," he replied gaily, "and poor Dad must be sacrificed on the altar of family affection," and he laid a hand on her head.
"Oh! dear," she said quickly, then she repeated in a rapid voice, "every boy and every girl on coming home from a ride must give his or her mount a rub-down. Rule of the house number three. I'm sorry I'm so late, Dad."
"Go face your mother," he returned, "she's in a fine state about you. No girl must be outside the gates of Devering Farm after dark. Rule six—Come on your highness," and cheerily whistling he led the way to my log cabin.
There was no light in my little home, so he hung up an electric torch, and when he found my brushes he asked me to come outside. The grounds were beautifully illuminated by globes on high poles and he whistled and rubbed till I was in a glow all over.
Here was a man that understood grooming a pony. Oh! there is such a difference in hands—tough hands, harsh hands, impatient hands and cruel hands, all affect a pony's temper. On the other hand if at the end of a hard day nice kind understanding hands smooth your body and comfort your pony soul, you go to bed so happy.
When he finished grooming me he smiled as I went in and nosed over the hay in my rack.
"Fuss-box, eh!" he said. "I thought so. What about some nice warm gruel?"
How I pricked up my ears and whinnied at this.
"Then come up to the barn kitchen," he said, and off we started.
He led the way round the big barn to a room in the carriage house. There was an electric stove here and he soon had water heating and was making me the nicest mess of oatmeal gruel I ever tasted. What a clever man he was! He could do anything, even to the making of good gruel, and I lifted my dripping muzzle from the basin and gave him a grateful look.
"All right, Prince," he said, patting me, "you'd do as much for me if you could. Now go put yourself to bed. I must wash up. 'Leave pots and pans as you find them'—Rule 8, Devering Farm."
I made him a bow, which he did not see, as he was washing his dishes, then I paced thoughtfully to my cabin. This was a remarkable place. There was something in the air here that made a pony feel happy all the time. The master and mistress were kind, and though the children were a bit lively and quarrelsome, they were all right at bottom. I should like it here. I was glad I had been brought up to this wildwood place for this dear new young master, and I glanced toward the room where he was sleeping.
How amazed he would be when he found out that his mother was not dead. All young things love their mothers and cling to them. Even I, middle-aged pony, remember my mother's lovely care and how she would put her little body between me and danger.
Once an angry bull ran at us and gored her painfully before the men drove him away. She didn't care. She had saved my young skin. Mothers are certainly very comfortable things, and at this point in my thoughts I fell asleep and dreamed I was a foal again running beside this same dear wee mother over the fields of the beautiful estate on Long Island where I was brought up.
CHAPTER X EARLY MORNING ON DEVERING FARM
What a good sleep I had! Then—slowly, slowly I lifted my head, as I thought, from the warm pillow of my mother's side, but alas! it was only the warm pillow of my wheat straw.
I heaved a pony sigh, and staggered to my feet.
a young darky groom that I used to have down South would sing when he was passing his nice black paws over my skin after breakfast.
Then his master, who was a poet, would come and glance in the stable door and say, "Lift up your eyes, boys—there's gold in the sky," and the colored boys would look and wonder and wish the gold would roll down and then their master would laugh in his pleasant Southern way, and say, "Now it's on the water—now it's on the land. Watch it, boys."
The sunlight this morning was certainly a pure gold, but a cool calm northern gold. The lake was exquisite and I noted something that had not struck me the evening before. Nearly all the wooded points running out into the lake had wonderful silver birches on their tips. Their trunks were white and glistening and they stood like beautiful white ladies in front of the close masses of sturdy dark tree boles of the elms behind them. They certainly were the beauties of this northern wildwood.
The dainty little breezes rippling the surface of the lake reminded me that I was thirsty and Mr. Talker, who was passing by with a covered milk pail in each hand, said, "Go down to the lake, boy. You are the only quadruped without running water in your stall."
I felt like a colt, and kicking up my hoofs, raced through the barnyard gates and across the road to the long strip of sandy shore in front of the farm.
While I was drinking and playing with the water by blowing it through my nostrils, a bullhead came, and stared at me, then a full-grown bass gave me a very friendly wink.
We ponies don't have much to say to fishes except by eye-talk. These fellows had some intelligence. They were shy and wild with the children I soon found out, because they fished for them most persistently. However, an old bass told me one day that they were very grateful to the children for fishing with barbless hooks.
I once knew a mother fish on the Maine coast who deliberately gave her life for her little fishes. They were caught in a pool when the tide went out. She couldn't get them to follow her to deep water, so she stayed and perished beside them. When I said to her as she flopped about in the shallow water, "Leave them and call for them next tide," she rolled her dying eyes at me and said, "I can't—they're my little fishes."
Therefore I have great respect for fish. Indeed, I find in my pony life that if you despise any created thing it surprises you.
After I got my nice long drink this morning, I galloped back to the farmyard.
"Go slow, go slow, be careful," someone clucked, and looking down I saw Biddy Pilgrim and a flock of Plymouth Rock hens.
She was quite excited, and began to talk to them about me.
"This is the new pony—he has a good eye. He's kind to hens. Don't put your heads on one side. He won't scare you. Come on. I like ponies. Horses are too big."
"Cut, cut, ca, da, dee," they all said, and I put my head down to them in a kind manner, for to tell the truth there is just a little jealousy between us little ponies and the bigger horses.
While we stood passing the time of day there was a great fuss and flutter and Daddy Single-Comb came rushing along, his wings going, his tail feathers sticking out.
"Oh, here you are, here you are," he gasped, while I thought how queer it is that nearly every winged creature says a thing, then says it over again. We quadrupeds say a thing, and it's over.
"My dears, my dears," cackled Daddy, "come down to the river hollow, come down, come down. The early worms are out. Soon they'll get in. Is it to be in the ground or in our crops? Heyday! Pony, how are you? I like ponies, but how can I stop to talk? I'm in a rush, a rush," and he spread his big wings, but kept on talking.
"So many dears, so many cares; come on, my biddies, come on, come on. Follow me, follow me," and this time he did go with a spring and a flutter and they all chased after him, their hen minds on the worms.
He was very proud of his biddies, and I did not wonder. They were in prime condition, not too fat, not too lean, and not one with a pale head showing poor blood.
I heard him screaming after some wandering ones, "Not to the hill. No, no. Trust me. Cut cut cro! I know, I know. This way, dears. Quick, quick, such a worm—c-crack what a worm. Grab him quick. Biddy first, Biddy first."
I smiled at his jabber. Evidently he was the only rooster on the place, and he had his claws full with all those hens. Well, it was better to fuss than fight, as he would probably have done if there had been another rooster interfering with his route marches.
As I stood listening to their hen talk dying away in the hollow, the cows, led by Princess Pat, came from the little barn, their walk unhurried, for cows do hate a fuss and flutter.
Princess Pat paused beside Mr. Talker, who was returning from the house with empty pails.
"Near pasture, Pattie," he said and waved his hand up the hill.
The beautiful Holstein turned in her calm way and with her friends lagged up to the top of the hill and over to a low-lying field that would be green and fresh in spite of the slight drought they had been having.
While I gazed admiringly after this fine herd a great yapping and snarling came from under the big barn.
I ran over and found Sir Veteran and Guardie were having a scrap. Oh! how provoked the good dog was, and how furious Sir Veteran was. Animals have their tempers just like human beings.
While Sir Vet and Guardie had their spat, Girlie was rounding the other pigs away from them.
I listened to the abuse.
"Down the lake," Guardie was growling.
"Up, up," grunted Sir Vet. "I say I won't go down."
"You shall," yapped Guardie, "the boss said so. Up work is done. The rocks are loose. We've got to clear burnt land by the dam."
"Up," snorted Sir Vet again. "Better feeding up. I'm boss. I hate down. I'm a prize boar. I cost a thousand dollars. Shut up, you cur."
Collies are high strung and Guardie just yelled at this insult. "My father was a show dog—and they refused ten thousand dollars for him at the Wissahickon Kennels in Pennsylvania. I never boasted before, but you make me, you runt of a pig," and he gave him a good nip on his loin.
That settled matters. Sir Vet squealed miserably, and bursting into pig sobs started down the road pretty quick.
"He's forever setting up his boar mind against Guardie," said Girlie in my ear as I put my head down to get her opinion of the quarrel. "I'll lick his wound a bit when we get settled down. He and Guardie really love each other, but they're always quarrelling—all right, boy, I'm ready."
Guardie had given her a signal bark, and it was pretty to see her wheel about right and start her charges down the road after the snorting prize boar, who was pursuing his lonely short-legged way toward the dam on the Merry-Tongue River at the foot of the Lake.
"Everybody fights," I called after her, "ponies and pigs and everybody. Don't worry, just keep from fighting till you have to and forget your fight when it's over. A scrap clears the air."
"Right-O! bow wow," she barked back at me, then she ran on after her mate who was joyfully welcoming his drove of golden dollars rolling down the road in such fine style.
When they were out of sight, I was about to run to my young master's bed-room, but was arrested by an extraordinary sight.
A big dark man who was not very tall though his shoulders were as broad as a table came down from a bed-room over the carriage-house. Picking up a mowing machine that stood in the yard, he carried it quite easily into a shed where other machines stood.
I stopped and stared at him, and Mr. Talker who happened to be near smiled at me.
"Intelligent wee beastie," he said, "you know that is an odd sight."
I moved closer to him—that strange man after putting down the machine was moving toward the barn cellar, a barrel under each arm. Then he came out with a small tractor on his back.
"He's Samp, short for Sampson," said Mr. Talker. "Mr. Devering rescued him from a situation as strong man in a theatre where bad air and long hours were killing him. He's made of iron, Pony, and carries pianos and chests of drawers as easily as I would chairs. He's half Macedonian and half Canadian. Come here, Samp."
The strong man grinned and coming to us picked me up and to my terror put me on his shoulder where I balanced, all four legs in the air, fearful that I might fall and break my back.
I have a voice and can use it, and I don't see why other ponies and horses don't do more of this calling out.
At my shrill protesting neigh Mr. Talker told him to put me on the ground and with a fearful glance over my shoulder I scampered away to the house, wondering what this strange creature was made of. I don't like unnatural beings.
However I soon forgot him in the pretty sight of all the kiddies sleeping out on the lower verandas. Their beds had evidently been drawn out through the French windows for there has been none in sight in the day time.
Big Chief was a sight, lying across his narrow bed, his pajama clad legs hanging down one side, his head the other. Every bit of bed clothing was on the floor. He was snorting and blowing in his sleep like old Sir Vet. What dreadful dreams he must be having.
I picked up his bed covers in my strong teeth and dropped them neatly over him.
Champ, Sojer and Little Big-Wig were all sleeping nicely and in straight lines. The girls must be behind some high screens. I could hear their gentle breathing, but could not see them.
I went on very quiet shoes to the veranda outside my young master's window. He was sleeping inside his room but the windows were wide open. He was lying flat on his back, not a bit of color in his fine young face. The white covers were drawn up close to his chin. Oh! I did hope that he would soon get brown and ruddy like the other kiddies—my own dear little lad, and I ventured to take a step into the room and stretched my head out longingly toward him.
"Now, Pony—you're not a dog," said someone, and I got a slight slap behind.
I started—there was the young mother of the household looking like a girl in her pretty dark bathing suit and white rubber cap.
She was not cross with me, for she was smiling kindly, so I followed her along the veranda to the front of the house where she went lightly into the living room and began to tidy chairs, tables and sofas.
She glided about so quickly that she reminded me of Cassowary.
"These bathing suits are fine for housework, Pony-Boy," she said. "Long skirts should be for dress-up occasions only. Now let's start the fire," and dancing out through one of the open glass doors of the room she hurried to the back of the house.
White-clad Bingi was bending over a cook book lying open on a glass-topped table, but occasionally he cast a glance at pots boiling merrily on the stove and sending out delicious odors. Oh! what a good breakfast the family was going to have.
It was the big wood stove instead of the gas one that was going this morning. It seemed to be shouting with glee. He had crammed it full of wood sticks happy to give up their lives for the dear human beings they were so fond of, for trees have much sentiment.
They were all telling the story of their lives in the forest, and telling it very quickly before they were overcome by their pleasant death in the warm embrace of the flames. Of course they weren't really going to die forever, for their ashes would be spread on the breast of Mother Earth who would make new young trees out of them.
"I was a white birch," I heard one shriek, "and it was under my branches the White Phantom stood while she drank from the haunted stream. Alas! the poor White Phantom. In a few days she will be lying in the ferns."
I pricked up my ears. What was this story? A few days later I heard the sequel, so I will not put it down here.
"And I was a beech," roared a deeper voice, "and for twenty years I shaded the sugaring-off place. Then a great wind blew me down and men cut me to pieces."
"I was a tamarac," and "I an elm," I heard in other dying voices, but I had to follow Mrs. Devering who had seized a basket and was going to the woodshed.
Bingi looked at me strangely. There was something sympathetic in his narrow eyes. Did he too understand tree talk, I wondered? He was certainly kind to every living thing as far as I had observed him.
I was to have further proof of this for Lammie-noo suddenly appeared and tried the patience of his cook friend.
He stood looking at the stove in a way that showed he had morning as well as evening milk.
Sheep are usually very patient creatures, too patient perhaps, for if they asserted themselves a little more they would get better treatment. Lammie-noo being petted was not a typical sheep. He became impatient at Bingi's devotion to the book on the pastry table and deliberately going up to a stand of empty preserve jars he butted the whole thing over. Then he stood back to see what Bingi would say to him.
The little Oriental turned round gravely. Then he stared at the broken glass—and then he did not beat the lamb. "Of somewhat precipitousness thou," he said, "but thy stomach is thy god. Broken glass is my sin, for I tardied to feed," all of which meant that Lammie-noo was forgiven.
The creature even had the impudence to go up and say, "Ba-a-a!" meaning that he wished to be petted for being put to the trouble of losing his temper.
Bingi was stroking him with one hand when I left, and heating his milk with the other.
Once I saw a man beating a lamb. It was a dreadful sight.
However in my ramblings I am forgetting the little house-mother who was building a great roaring fire in the living-room.
"Ah! Prince Fetlar," she said when I trotted in and stood warming myself. "I wondered why you stopped dogging or perhaps I should say ponying my footsteps—— Now we'll play the rising tune," and going to the hall she took a bugle from a hook and began a lovely tune, first soft and low, then high and piercing.
Out on the verandas we heard calls and cries. "Mother don't—— It's too early to get up—— Please a little longer."
Oh! how the bugle shrilled at them—then she sang at the top of her lungs,
Then she listened. "Silence on the veranda, Pony. I'll try another song," and she chanted,
At this, there was a great sound of running and jumping, and I stepped to my young master's windows to find out whether all this noise had awakened him.
It had. He was sitting up in bed, a bewildered look on his face as if to say, "Where am I?"
When he caught sight of me he cried, "Oh! my Bonnie Prince Fetlar—then this is not a dream," and springing out of bed he ran to caress me.
Someone opened his door and flung a bathing suit in. "You said you hadn't one," remarked Champ and he withdrew his tousled head.
"My Prince," said Dallas, "do you suppose those crazy kids are going in the water this cold day?"
I looked up and down the veranda. The children were certainly coming out in bathing suits. I had been taught to pull clothes off boys, so I nipped the back of his pajama jacket in my teeth. The button-holes must have been large, for it came off at once, and he laughed and put on the woollen suit.
"Are you ready, Cousin?" yelled Cassowary. "If so, come."
"Yes," and young Dallas' teeth chattered. He stepped out to the veranda and there was Cassowary dancing up and down and looking more like a bird than ever in her tight fitting suit with its bobbing tail.
"Are you really going in the lake this chilly morning?" asked Dallas.
"Shut up," she said good naturedly. "Don't let the other kids hear you say it's cold. It's only because you're not used to it."
"I—I thought you said there was a bathhouse," remarked poor Dallas, "with hot and cold water."
"So there is," and she pointed to a little green house among the lilacs, "and bath-rooms in the house too."
Unfortunately Big Chief who had just come leaping out of his room heard these last remarks.
"Lots of bath-rooms," he cried, "for sissies and old women." Then he did cart-wheels down the drive to the road.
Dallas' face fell, but lightened when Mrs. Devering tapped him on the shoulder. "You wait for me," she said. "Cassowary, take the children down. Get the ball and have a game of water polo—Dad and I will follow."
Then she drew Dallas in to the big fire where he got nicely warmed by the blaze.
When Mr. Devering appeared—such a handsome lean brown-armed man in his blue bathing suit, the two good people took the boy between them, and raced down to the wharf.
"Go on, Mother," said Mr. Devering, "I'll keep the boy with me," and didn't she go diving off the end of the wharf and was soon playing water polo with her lively children.
What a sporty lot they were! In the boat-house beside a big launch there were canoes, racing skiffs, aqua-planes, life preservers, fishing tackle and many other things useful in life in the backwoods.
Dallas was entering the water very slowly, and holding tight to Mr. Devering's hand.
"Have you never been in open water before?" asked my little lad's uncle.
"Once on a beach on a hot day with John and Margie, but usually only in a bath-tub," said the poor lad.
To encourage him, I ran before and did my water stunts.
He smiled when he saw me swimming and frisking and said, "The Prince is braver than I am."
"He's an old campaigner," said Mr. Devering. "That pony hasn't lived in vain. Come out deeper, boy. You won't find the water cold when you've been in a few minutes."
"It's simply freezing my heart," said the boy pitifully.
"Jump up and down with me—there that is better. Now may I splash you a bit? I hate to frighten newcomers in the water."
"Y-yes, Uncle, and I'll try to splash you."
The splashing was a failure for he fell down. Mr. Devering picked him up by the back as if he had been a puppy dog and said, "Tear up to the house—touch a match to the kindling in the box stove in your room and dress like sixty."
Dallas cast an apprehensive look over his shoulder.
"They're not paying any attention to you," said Mr. Devering. "Skedaddle," and he clapped his hands.
"And you, Prince Fetlar," he called after me, "run up and down the road to dry yourself—we're all too busy to give you a rub-down now."
I ran along beside my master up to the house and found to my dismay that his eyes were full of tears. "I'm an awful baby, my Pony," he gulped, "but I can't help it."
I just tore up and down the fine piece of road in front of the house until my blood was like liquid fire. Then I went to see how young Dallas was getting on.
Poor chap—he had forgotten to light his fire, and he was blue with cold. Suddenly his door opened and Mr. Devering came in fully dressed, his face red and glowing.
He had his nephew's clothes all on in a trice, brushed his hair, fastened his tie, then took him to the living room.
"Mother," he called through the open doorway to the dining veranda, "may Dallas and I have our breakfast by the fire?"
She opened her eyes a bit, but her husband gave her a glance, and she said, "Certainly. Big Chief, set a wee table for two."
It was most unfortunate that it happened to be Big Chief's morning to wait on table. He gave Dallas a surly glance and very unwillingly took a little wheeled table out to the veranda, put knives and forks and spoons and plates on it and brought it back to a settle in the chimney corner.
Dallas shrank back against the seat, then to make matters worse a sudden terrible sound arose from the Lake that frightened even me—the old campaigner as Mr. Devering had called me.
CHAPTER XI ANOTHER LIE
I had hidden myself among the lilacs but I could see quite plainly across the veranda into the big living-room.
Dallas had sprung up and clutched the nearest person who happened to be Big Chief carrying a pile of plates in his hand.
Smash! went the plates on the floor, and whack went Big Chief's empty hands against Dallas' shoulders.
"What's the matter with you?" he exclaimed. "Are you crazy?"
"That yell," gasped Dallas. "Is someone drowning?"
"No, no," said Mr. Devering, "it's only Bolshy getting his bath."
White and ashamed, young Dallas had sunk back on the settle, and Mr. Devering turned to his son.
"Tecumseh, my boy," he said good-naturedly, "it seems to me you were laying rather violent hands on our guest."
His tone was not stern. I saw he was not a person to aggravate a boy into revolt; however when Big Chief scowled and came to stare out in my direction, both hands rammed sulkily into his pockets, his father stepped after him.
"Your ugly humors are riding you to a fall," he said quietly. "Go apologise to your cousin."
Big Chief gave him a quick look, then he went to Dallas and said gruffly, "I hope I didn't hurt you, when I grabbed your shoulders."
"Not a bit," said Dallas; "but do tell me what that noise was."
I saw Big Chief's lips just forming a W that meant he was going to say "Wolf." Then he changed his mind, for his father stood near him.
"It's a Russian," he said. "He fought in France, was wounded, came to Canada as a stoker on a steamer, was arrested and put in a camp near here. The war over, he was released. He didn't want to go to Russia. He got lost in the woods. The game warden found him, and washes him and the Russian yells."
"The warden is trying to make a good Canadian citizen out of him," said Mr. Devering quietly.
By this time, the children were all standing by the table singing their pretty grace before meat. When they sat down Cassowary called out, "Dad, can't we take Cousin over to see the Russian? You'll like him, Dallas. He's all hairy like a dog."
"Thank you," said my young master politely; "if he isn't getting hurt, I should like to see him."
"We can take over the Russian blouse Mother is making for him," said the girl, "and you can see for yourself, Dallas, how kind the warden and his son are to him. But of course he must keep clean."
Dallas shuddered. He had great sympathy for anyone forced to go into the water that cold morning.
"We'll go after breakfast," said Cassowary, "just the big kids."
At this, there was a howl from Sojer, Dovey and Big-Wig who were evidently the little kids. Up here in the Canadian backwoods it was just like the same old story as in cities—the big children were always trying to get away from the little ones.
Mrs. Devering gave her husband a helpless look. By this time the cereal had been put on the table by Big Chief and the children were busily eating it and pouring on plenty of rich wonderful cream. Oh! how I wished that some of the pale young children in cities could have such cream.
"Daddy," said Mrs. Devering, "what are we going to do with these noisy children? They are as full of sound as empty vessels."
"I don't know," said Mr. Devering. "I wonder whether it is because they are growing so fast. They never yelled like this before."
"We've got to do something about it," his wife went on. "If their grandmother should come up this summer, she would be deafened."
"It's nothing to worry about," he said, "only misdirected energy. The trouble with young things is that they can't remember to remember. What do they propose to do themselves about it?" and he glanced through the doorway at his children.
My dear young master was going on eating quite comfortably. For once this trouble was none of his. Whatever his faults might be he was no yeller.
"Thpank the howlerths," cried little Big-Wig, who was the worst screamer of all.
"Gate them," said Cassowary in a high-pitched voice.
"Fine them," called Champ.
"Send them to bed," exclaimed Sojer.
"Take away their toys," shrieked Dovey.
"And you Big Chief," said Cassowary pertly, "you with the brassiest voice of all, what say you?"
He was finishing his oatmeal quickly, so he could get up and change the plates, and he said in a thick voice, "Cut their grub."
Mrs. Devering smiled quite contentedly. "I think this expression of opinion goes to prove that each child has mentioned the punishment most disliked. Therefore if you baby don't stop screaming we'll spank you; Jeanne will be put in bounds; Champlain fined, James sent to bed, Marguerite deprived of her dolls and Tecumseh put on bread and water."
The children all shrieked with laughter at the neat way in which their parents had trapped them, and I saw that there was good feeling in this family even in the matter of punishments. Big Chief was the only naughty one, and something would come to reform him I was sure, for he could not be a bad boy at heart—with such parents.
The children were careful to speak in very even polite tones as they ate their bacon and eggs and griddle cakes. I watched my young master's face and was delighted to see it growing redder as he sat by the fire and stuffed his young self with this good food. Soon he would be as hardy as these children.
How he loved his uncle. He watched him as a cat would watch a mouse, and ate everything he ate and drank whatever he drank—— No one had coffee or tea, they had milk, cocoa, buttermilk, and cold water, which latter the kiddies drank as if it had been something that would make them super-children.
As soon as breakfast was finished Mrs. Devering looked round at the squirming family and said, "Another reform—please get up quietly and push your chairs in to the table, but don't rise till I do. I'm hostess."
In two minutes there wasn't a child in sight. "Where have they gone?" asked Dallas.
"All have tasks," said Mr. Devering. "When I was a boy I thought as a boy who was a rich man's child. Servants waited on me. My children live in a new age. They must learn to wait on themselves."
I could see the children flying about the place. Cassowary was carrying food from the kitchen to the hen-house, Big Chief had gone to help clean the stables, Sojer was sweeping the verandas, Dovey was putting seeds and scraps on the wild bird tables about the lawn. It seems there weren't enough birds about to kill the insect pests, so Mr. Devering was giving extra food to attract more.
The curled darling Big-Wig was picking up scraps of paper and bits of litter from the drive, and grumbling to his little aristocratic self as he did so. He would be a regular small slave-driver with servants if he had his head. Just as well there was a check-rein.
"And what shall I do?" asked Dallas eagerly.
"Come and see," said Mr. Devering, and to my delight he began to lead the way to my cabin, first calling out, "Come from behind the lilacs, you sly-boots."
That was I, and I bowed my head a great many times to propitiate him as I joined them.
Oh! what a lesson he gave my young master on the proper way to take care of a pony.
"Horses are true friends of man," he said, as he led the way past my cabin and the barns up to the long horse stable on the hill. "Every boy should know how to take care of them. There are two classes of stables—town and country. We won't talk about the first to-day. This is supposed to be a model country stable. It is not in a barn where if the hay got on fire the horses might burn. It has a double row of stalls with doors opening outward—you see the ground is high, well-drained, and the stalls have an east and west exposure so all the horses can get a bit of sunshine."
"Is it of stone?" asked Dallas.
"No, concrete with a hollow centre for a dead air space."
We walked inside the nice fresh-smelling stable and Dallas looked round him. "Where are the horses?"
"Out to pasture—let us go down this main alleyway and I will explain the lay-out to you."
My young master was intensely interested as his uncle talked to him about the width of stalls, the size of windows, the proper kind of concrete flooring which should have wooden stall racks, the ventilating flues and rolling doors.
"Why didn't you bring my Prince Fetlar up to this grand stable?" asked young Dallas, smiling at me as I thrust an inquiring muzzle over his shoulder.
"Because we never assign a stall till we find out a horse's disposition. If you went to boarding-school you wouldn't want to bed next a boy you disliked."
"Not I," said my sensitive young master with a shiver. "It makes me sick to be near people I don't care for."
"Well, ponies are almost as particular as boys. Now come over to this side of the stable where the ponies face west. Here's your pet's stall next Apache Girl's. She won't have every pony next her, but she will get on with his amiable highness."
This was a compliment for me, so I licked a bit of this nice man's shoulder in a caressing way, and he turned and gazed deep into what he called my "soft and soulful" eyes.
"So you are to come up here, Prince Fetlar," said Dallas, stroking me kindly. "Now I wonder what this big stall beyond yours is for. It looks as if you could put a dozen ponies in it."
"That's the hospital stall," said his uncle. "See, there is a bed above it for a man to sleep when a pony or horse requires to be watched at night. A button by his bed enables him to turn on the light."
"I see you have lights all over the stable," said Dallas.
"Yes, the horse race likes cheerfulness as much as we do. Now let us groom the Prince."
Didn't I step forward with alacrity when I heard this.
"He knows every word we say," remarked Mr. Devering. "I'm mighty glad I chanced on so knowing a little fellow. Now, Dallas, a few words on grooming. Indians use the bare hand and arm—utensils in common stable use among us whites are the metal curry-combs, bristle body-brushes, corn-brushes, rub rags, sponges, whisks and hoof picks. Do you know why one grooms?"
"To keep horses clean, my Uncle."
"Exactly—horses shed particles of skin the way we do. One must remove them. To begin with I may say that I do not permit in my stables any metal curry-combs. Men are careless about filing the new ones and they worry a horse. I use no metal brushes. Now here is a brush for you—no, don't rub your Prince the right way of the hair—the reverse way to get out the dandruff and dry dirt. Here let me show you. The body brush is the one used to rub the hair the way it grows."
I stood quite still, very much amused at the feeble pawing little hand of my young master, such a contrast to the steady firm one of the man. Well, all young things have to learn.
Mr. Devering showed the boy how to do my tail and mane and hand-pick the latter.
Young Dallas shone best on the use of the rub rag with which he gave me a fine polish. Then, as I am a racer, his uncle showed him how to massage me.
Dallas was delighted. "I never did this before for any animal," he said. "Why it almost makes my dear Pony human."
"Ah! lad," said his uncle, "when one thinks of the state of uncleanness in which animals are allowed to exist one is appalled."
"Don't nearly all our domestic animals come from wild ones?" asked Dallas.
"Yes, my boy—and in a wild state they keep themselves clean, but when domesticated they can't. I think myself there is too much housing of dumb animals. Even in winter my creatures have their freedom for at least a part of the day."
"It's pretty cold here in winter, isn't it?" asked Dallas.
Mr. Devering's black eyes twinkled. "Forty and fifty below zero."
"Why how do you keep warm?"
"It's all a question of food supply. We eat nourishing things and dress warmly. You should see my children and animals disporting themselves in the snow and on the ice—often icicles hanging to them, their breath like steam. Nature provides them with coats of fat or extra hair."
"That is most interesting," said Dallas with a wise air, and putting his head on one side.
Then he listened to his uncle who was singing four lines to him,