As soon as they were out of sight Cassowary turned to my young master, "Oh! boy, we've got to hurry, but first let us call on the Phantom," and she ran up the hill to the fire belt where the doe lay with the soldier watching beside her.
Bolshy followed us, putting his big hand out quite kindly to lay it on my hips, but I always kept a bit ahead of him.
When Cassowary and my young master stood peering through the trees at the white creature on the grass, Dallas broke down and began to cry.
"The brutes!" he said, "to chase a lovely thing like that. Why did they not spare her to brighten the woods? I'd like to shoot them."
"Naughty boy," said Cassowary. "You mustn't shoot even the pot-hunters. Fine 'em or put 'em in jail and educate 'em—Dad will see that they get some humane teaching."
Dallas dashed his tears away. "Do you think that the warden will get them?"
"He'll not sleep till he does. You don't know the warden. That doe is like a child to him. When she was a little fawn she used to run to him and hide her head in his bosom. He's all alone here in the winter, you know—won't he have those men fined to the limit of the law! Deer are out of season now."
"When can bad men shoot them?" asked Dallas.
"Not till November, and then only one deer a man, but it isn't always bad to shoot them, Cousin. The government had 700 shot last year for settlers. Meat was so dear."
"But they would shoot mercifully," said Dallas.
"Oh! yes—when the Ontario Government shoots, it shoots to kill. It wouldn't torture man nor beast. Dad thinks deer should be shot every year if there is enough natural overflow from the parks. Precious as they are, hungry people are more precious. Now let's go home. We'll see if you remember my lesson about harnessing—Good night, Denty. Will you stay here till morning?"
He smiled cheerfully. "Why not? A couple of blankets on the grass, and the owls and the stars for company. It's Paradise compared with the trenches."
"Good boy," said Cassowary in a motherly way. "I might have known you wouldn't leave our wonderful Phantom alone in her suffering—Au revoir," and she went nimbly to the place where she had left the cart, and bossed Dallas unmercifully while he with active fingers harnessed me in what I thought was a very remarkable way for a boy who had had only one lesson.
"Room for improvement, Cousin," she said, "but you're doing fine."
Bolshy got in our way dreadfully. I did not like the manner in which he followed my young master about. He might be quite trustworthy, but when the soldier wasn't there to watch him he was too bold. He seemed perfectly fascinated by the boy, and Cassowary remarked that she thought the poor fellow in some way connected Dallas with his own dead children.
Now if there was any question of kidnapping, here was the person who would like to have my handsome little lad for his own charge.
Poor creature! the last sound we heard as I trotted away from the Last House, was Bolshy's roar of disappointment at being deprived of his new-found treasure.
"Thank goodness!" I said to myself, "we've done with him,"—but it was only a few hours before the bewitched Bolshy was skulking about Devering Farm and taxing my pony wits to know how to manage him.
CHAPTER XV A NIGHT PROWLER
I was a very tired pony that night, but I did not get much sleep.
I knew something was going to try to happen to my dear young master, and I was to prevent it.
I don't know how animals—dogs and horses especially, have these warnings—I only know that we just have them.
I had been put, not in pony stall number eight, for I fidgeted when Cassowary motioned me in there. I did not wish to be tied, so she gave me a loose box stall. This stall had a rolling door, always much better for a stable because a swinging door is apt to catch a pony or horse and give him a good whack. This was also better for my plans, for like those naughty people who can always get out of jail, I can nearly always find a way to open a door if it is not locked.
This night, all I had to do was to take hold of the metal handle with my teeth and pull the door back. I was the only pony on that side of the big stable—in fact there were only two horses on the other side. The other horses and ponies were still out to pasture.
These two Clydesdales had been working hard in the hay field and were so sleepy that they paid little attention to my movements.
The entrance doors were wide open, so I slipped out and stood in the shadow and looked about me.
It was a beautiful moonlight night. A big round Lady Moon stared and stared down at Fawn Lake and the Devering Farm. The electric lights were out, but one scarcely missed them owing to this wonderfully bright bigger light in the sky.
Now what was I fussing about? Everything was calm and still. There was not a breath of wind. Drunkard, whose real name was Baywell, was travelling head down about the house and grounds like a swift fleet shadow-dog. Occasionally he looked up at the moon, but he did not make a sound that would wake anyone up.
Some owls hooted gently in the distance. How foolish I was to worry. This was a very safe region. No one ever heard of anyone being attacked or injured.
But something was going to happen. I just knew it, and nothing would satisfy me, but to keep near my young master, so I paced slowly toward the house.
Drunkard passed me on the dead run. "Smelling out trouble?" he asked me as he flashed by.
"Stop!" I said, and he pulled up.
"Do you feel anything in your bones?" I asked.
"Not a thing," he replied, "except a little rheumatism. All hunting dogs get it in time."
"Will you just keep your ears open, old fellow?" I said. "Something, or someone, is going to surprise us to-night."
He didn't laugh at me. We animals have a great regard for each other's ability to smell, hear or feel things that often escape human beings.
"Is it the ghost?" he asked.
"No—whose ghost?"
"The old Highlander's. You know he was the first white man to come to this Lake. He traded with the Indians before they were all moved to the Reservation."
"Oh! is that why we see no Indians here—well, tell me about the Highlander."
Drunkard and I were by the garden as we talked, and the old dog settled down on the gravel walk and began to lick a sore place on his paw. Between whiles he told me about the Highlander who used to wear a rabbit cap and a coonskin coat, and who had the gift of second sight to a marked degree.
"I've often seen him," said Drunkard, "especially on moonlight nights like this. He goes all over the place—a kind of shadowy furry figure, and then he smiles and disappears in the log cabin. I think he sleeps in the loft."
"I believe I've seen that old coonskin coat," I said. "I once saw a kind of misty shape bending down from the wheat mow in the log cabin. It was hovering over me. He knew I was a stranger."
"Wait till you've been here long enough," said Drunkard. "You'll see him quite plainly. He's a nice, kind old fellow and he loves to know that the Deverings have this place. Did you know Mr. Devering had gone with the warden to catch the bad poachers who shot at the White Phantom?"
"Yes," I said, "I watched them paddling up the Lake."
"I hate to have him away," said Drunkard gloomily. "Mrs. Devering sometimes forgets to tie me up when daylight comes."
"Can't you keep straight for one night?" I asked.
"No. I can't and there's an end of it. I have the dogging habit."
"I'll tie you up," I said. "I'm pretty good with my teeth if I have a rope."
"No you won't tie me up," he said hastily. "I enjoy a run in the woods. It's lovely to feel the springy moss underfoot and——"
"And you chase deer," I interrupted. "How can you?"
"I never run them down. I give them a gallop, then I switch off and try another lot. It's such fun to see the graceful creatures go bounding through the bush."
"Fun for you," I said, "but what about them?"
"I never dogged the White Phantom," he said.
"I wonder how she is now?" I remarked. "I do hope she won't die."
"She must not die," said Drunkard. "She is the pearl of the woods. It makes me feel quite moonstruck to look at her. Hark! the owls are giving the latest bulletin from her. One just flew across from Old Woman's Islands."
We listened to the low-pitched deep-toned, "Whoo, hoo, hoo, hoo," coming from the nearby tree tops.
"Oh! that's good," exclaimed Drunkard. "The White Phantom is better, and has nibbled some maple tips from the hand of the soldier."
"Bless her," I said, "I scarcely know her, but it would grieve me if she died."
"Her eyes are like forest pools," said Drunkard. "Hist!—who goes there? Maybe it's your something."
We both listened. The night was solemnly quiet. It always takes me a little while to get used to the dead stillness of a backwoods night—so different from a night in the open farming country, where one can hear creatures calling to each other and enlivening the solitude.
Out of the great silence up the road came a faint pit-a-pat growing louder and louder.
"Human being," said Drunkard.
"I've got it!" I exclaimed. "I might have known. I'll wager anything it's that Russian coming to see my young master. Perhaps he'd like to coax him away from here. Let's go meet him, Drunkard. I wish we could drive him away. It would frighten the timid young Dallas to wake up and find that hairy creature bending over him."
"All right," said Drunkard, and we both went loping down the driveway to the road.
It was the Russian, and he was grinning along the moonlit way as if he were doing something very smart. The pale yellow light poured down on his tousled head. It was touching to see tightly clenched in his fist a little bouquet of wild flowers who were crying out that he was choking them to death, only the poor boor could not understand them. They were for the boy he admired.
"We've got to obey the law of the road," growled Drunkard. "We can't touch him here, but the minute he tries to enter the farm gates we have a right to stop him."
Alas! Poor Drunkard. When he stood up to the Russian, growling horribly and showing his white teeth, all except the front one that Mr. Devering had taken out when he had toothache, the Russian just gave an extra grin at the good dog strutting up and down between the gateposts, and lifting him on the toe of his big boot sent him flying into the air.
The unfortunate dog came down so heavily that he was shunned, and lay perfectly still.
Bolshy stopped short and gazed at him quite sadly. He really was sorry that he had hurt him, and bent over him grunting in a sympathetic manner. Then he raised himself and took up his march to the house.
Learning a lesson from Drunkard's mishap, I took care not to be in the spot I had been a few minutes before, and I trotted to my young master's windows.
Bolshy was coming on and on. I knew he would not hurt my beloved Dallas. I guessed that he had come merely to feast his eyes on him, or to try to induce him to go away and live with him and the soldier and be their little boy. Well! I would have something to say to that.
I could hear him plodding along the veranda, trying to go quietly, but in reality making quite a noise. However, the children were all fine sleepers and he woke no one up.
He bent over Big Chief, Champ, Sojer, and Big-Wig. No, they were not the dear one he sought. When he came to the part of the veranda where I stood, his face brightened, and brushing me aside as if I had been a fly he entered the room.
The moon showed him the beautiful face on the pillow, and he gave a snort of satisfaction, and stared as if he would never have enough of this interesting sight.
Now was my time to act. I hated to alarm Mrs. Devering, but my young master must be protected. I went on soft shoes to her room and passing Mr. Devering's empty bed nipped the black hair lying spread over the pillow.
My gentle pulling awoke her at once, and she said composedly, "Well, Pony—are you having nightmare?"
I whinnied entreatingly, and being a clever woman, she sat up, seized a warm gown hanging at her bed-head, and taking a small shining thing from under her pillow, motioned me forward.
I took her to Bolshy, who at a word from her dropped his wild flowers pretty quick, and lifted both hands in the air.
"Now march——" she said, "go home—don't come again."
I ventured to place myself between her and Bolshy. I felt that the poor creature, standing there with tears running down his cheeks, was terribly distressed to think that she thought he would hurt anyone belonging to her when she had been so kind to him.
At that moment, there was a queer sound from Bolshy. He had caught sight of a picture that I had seen Mr. Devering hanging on the wall very hurriedly before he went away with the warden.
Ponies and other animals, though they can enjoy natural scenery, do not get much out of flat pictures, but I heard the Deverings talking about this photograph afterward, so I found out what it was.
Mr. Devering wished the lad to find out that his mother was alive in some way that would not shock him, so he hung on the wall this large photograph of her in the costume of a Red Cross nurse. He hoped that Dallas would piece together her story from what Bolshy had said in the afternoon. However, as it turned out the boy had no chance to examine the picture.
The overjoyed Bolshy, forgetting all about keeping his hands up, sprang across the room, unhooked the picture, and hanging it round his neck began to hug it as if it had been a bag of gold.
Mrs. Devering smiled, then knowing that she could not get this man mountain out of the room herself, she stepped to the veranda and gave the Devering Farm yodel for help.
It rang out startlingly clear in the still night air, and in a jiffy Mr. Talker came tearing down the road, dressing as he came, and the Macedonian rolled heavily along from the carriage-house.
Bolshy, paying no more attention to them than if they had been two more ponies, went on talking rapid Russian to the picture, not noticing Dallas, who was now wide awake, and curious, but not at all frightened, I was glad to see.
"Send him home, please," said Mrs. Devering. "Tell him the soldier will be angry with him."
The yodel had waked the children up, and they came staggering to the room sleepy but unafraid like true children of the wild.
Big Chief scowled and placed himself beside his mother, while Cassowary threw protecting arms about the little ones.
"Send him home," repeated Mrs. Devering. "Quick!"
"Go home, sir," said Mr. Talker with dignity.
Bolshy put his head on one side, and said something deep in his throat to the picture.
Mr. Talker nodded to Samp, and each man put a hand on Bolshy's shoulder, and tried to propel him toward the veranda.
Bolshy stood firm, whereupon the Macedonian promptly laid him on the floor.
Bolshy was astonished. Getting up, and holding his precious picture so that he would not break the glass, he stared at the Macedonian as if to say, "Who are you that you can throw me down?"
Then he began to jabber to him in Russian and Samp replied in some foreign gibberish that delighted Bolshy so completely that he patted him on the back and stroked his cheeks.
The affair ended by Bolshy's insisting on shaking hands with Samp. Then he bowed deeply to everyone present, especially Mrs. Devering, and went up the road between the two men, talking most sociably to them.
"If you can, Mr. Talker," Mrs. Devering called after them, "make him understand that we do not care for midnight calls."
"And now, Mother," said Big Chief, "what's all this fuss about?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "Nothing much, my son. The Russian had an impulse to call on us."
"On us?" asked Big Chief, "or on him," and he pointed an accusing finger at the sleepy blinking Dallas, who was sitting straight up in bed.
"On him, if you will," she said. "He has taken a fancy to your cousin."
"Did you know he was coming?" asked Big Chief solemnly of the bed.
My young master was not as sleepy as he looked, and rising up on his knees he made Big Chief a profound bow. "Yes, Sir Curiosity Box," he said in a ridiculous voice, "I had full knowledge of the honor in store for me. Pardon me for not informing your knightship."
The Deverings, who were always ready to laugh, burst into a howl of amusement at Big Chief's confounded face. Then Mrs. Devering, checking her laughter, said, "Back to bed, children."
"I wanths to go theepy with you," said little Big Wig. "My beddieths cold."
Big Chief turned on him in a hateful way and said, "'Fraid cat."
The baby gave him a good slap in the face, and the discomfited Big Chief, seeing that his brothers and sisters were again convulsed with amusement at his funny twisted features, took his cross self back to his bed.
"Feels his oats," said Champ. "Dad's away."
"Ah! children—we should not have laughed at him," said Mrs. Devering sweetly.
"Where's Drunkard?" asked Cassowary suddenly. "How did that Russian get by him?"
"Perhaps he's off to the bush," said Mrs. Devering.
"No, Mother, it isn't daylight yet," replied Cassowary. "He's hurt. I feel it."
"I'll go with you to look him up," said Champ.
"Everybody to bed but Cassowary and me," said a sudden voice.
CHAPTER XVI THE HIGHLANDER WALKS
Oh! how glad we all were to see Big Chief back again.
The lad was ashamed of himself. It was just as I thought. He had a good heart under all his follies.
"I wanths thomething to eat," cried Big Wig.
"All right, brother," said Big Chief kindly, "I'll get it for you."
"No, boy," said his mother and her eyes glistened as she gazed at him, "I will take them all to the pantry. You and Cassowary go after the hound."
He gave her an affectionate glance, then turned to me. "Mother says you gave the alarm to-night. Now if you know where Drunkard is, take us to him."
Of course I led them to the gates, where Drunkard lay moaning now.
"Leg's broken," said Big Chief, bending over him; "right fore-leg," and gathering the dog up in his arms he came back to the house.
Cassowary ran ahead, and turned on the light in her father's office.
Then putting Drunkard on a table, the two clever young ones set his leg.
"You'll dog no more deer for a time, my boy," said Cassowary.
Drunkard could not talk to them, but he lifted his head and threw me a glance as I stood in the doorway. "I'm going to be lame, Prince Fetlar. This is my punishment for persecuting the deer. Mr. Devering will never have to tie me up again. I shall be able to hop about daytimes—that's one consolation."
"I'm glad Bolshy didn't break your neck," I said. Drunkard was licking the children's hands. How much he loved this dear boy and girl.
"Now a little milk for the patient," said Cassowary, and she flew away to the kitchen.
Big Chief lifted Drunkard to a sofa. "I shall spend the rest of the night beside you in this big chair, old man," he said. "I don't want that bandage disturbed."
Drunkard whined in embarrassed pleasure.
"It's all right," said Big Chief. "I don't mind. You're our dog and we're bound to look after you. Now, Miss Cassowary will stay here while I'm gone," and he turned to me.
Drunkard, in spite of his distress, grinned at me. The boy's grand air amused him.
I thought I'd better start for the stable, so I trotted quickly to my stall.
"Oh! boy," said Big Chief behind me when he saw the door rolled back. "So you can use your teeth as well as your brains. You're as clever as that bally master of yours. I do hope you will continue to do as you please. Perhaps you would like to take my bed and have me stay here?"
I said nothing to this. I don't like to be made fun of.
"When I'm master," this queer boy went on, "I'll not drive with the loose rein Dad does. Too much liberty—too much given away. I'll show 'em what's what," and he waved his hand about the stable, with the air of a master.
Then he stepped to the door and surveyed barnyard and out-buildings.
"I'm fourteen now, soon I'll be twenty-one. Dad's forty-five. Likely he'll live till he's sixty—maybe till seventy. Split the differ and say sixty-five. Then I'll be thirty-four—a long time to wait, but time passes, they say, as one gets older. I'll be married by that time, and have children of my own. Probably I'll build up this place into the best known stock farm in the province—but I shan't have twice the help Dad has. There's too much money spent here," and the young scamp had the audacity to look up at the calm Lady Moon, who stopped smiling as she heard his folly and drew a cloud of displeasure across her face.
Under pretence of nosing him affectionately, I stepped up and rubbed his shoulder. He had on a bath-robe over his pajamas, but it was quite easy for my strong teeth to give him a quiet little nip.
He drew off to hit me, but I wasn't there. Then he stopped and shivered.
I was delighted. A most beautiful thing was taking place. A wave of cool air swept over us, then I saw the old Highlander in his coon skin coat and rabbit cap coming slowly toward us.
He was a cheerful old spirit, and I could tell by his misty face that he loved the boy and wished to help him.
Big Chief started to walk to the house. Three times the Highlander stood in front of him, pale, shadowy, smiling, but quite decided.
Three times the lad shuddered. He was no coward, but something more powerful than himself was making him feel lonely.
Suddenly he stopped short, and turned toward the lake.
A wind had sprung up. One of the sudden summer squalls was coming. The trees were sighing mournfully, and as they sighed the boy's better spirit rose gently within him.
"Dad!" he murmured, "Dad! where are you?—Suppose you never came back—God forgive me—what should I do without my father?" and throwing himself on the grass, he buried his face in his arms.
He got up when the Highlander willed him to, and went sadly toward the house, his head hanging.
"Highlander," I ventured to say, "you've done a good deed to-night."
Good and bad spirits never speak to human beings. They just hover over them, but they can speak to animals.
"Pony," said the good old man, "the boy is God's child. He will soon be God's man. You must respect him for you, too, are God's little animal—not as high as the boy, but still having rights."
I listened quietly, and feeling very much happier watched the old man's cloud with its misty fur points melt into the gloom of the log cabin.
Then I went toward the barn cellar. I, too, had a little missionary work to do that night.
It was just as I expected. The pigs were snoring like thunderstorms and the two dogs were lying on the threshold as sound as tops.
They never stirred till my shoes struck the sill, then they were close to me, one on each side like wolves closing on a deer.
"Well! dogs," I said sarcastically, "I hope you are having pleasant dreams."
"Quite, thank you," said Guardie. "May I ask why you are at this hour of the night waking our charges from well-deserved slumbers?"
"Certainly," I said, listening to old Sir Vet who was snorting disagreeably as he raised his head from his fresh straw bed and Lady Annabella who was ejaculating, "Unk! Unk!—What's the row?"
"I merely called to tell you that we have had a night prowler who knocked poor Drunkard silly. Why weren't you on the alert? I've been keeping dog watch."
Guardie yawned. "Awfully sorry, old boy, but we've trained ourselves not to budge unless we hear someone approaching our pigs."
"Pretty selfish policy that," I said. "If you'd been more generous you might have saved Drunkard a broken leg."
"Is that so!" both dogs exclaimed, "too bad!" and then I had to tell them about Bolshy.
While we were talking, old Sir Vet got up from his bed and pegged along toward us.
When I finished he turned his small but intelligent eyes on Guardie. "Do I understand Prince Fetlar to say that you are an insufficient protection for us at night?"
"No, I'm not—I'm a good guard," snarled the collie.
"But you said you only woke up when someone came near the barn cellar," pursued the boar. "Suppose there was a fire outside. We might be burned up."
"If there was a fire, I'd smell it, and bunch you all up and run you out pretty quick," said Guardie.
"You're too much taken up with yourself," said Sir Vet testily. "You think we can't live without you. I'd advise you to have eyes for something else beside us. Make yourself familiar with our environment. That Russian might have stood back from the doorway and shot me."
Girlie began to snicker at this, and Guardie looked so furious that I said, "Permit me, gentlemen—Sir Vet is right and Guardie is right. Each one must attend to his own business in this world, but it is right and it is also wise to have a thought for your neighbour. For pigs to prosper, all the animals on the farm must prosper. For pigs to sleep well, all the animals must sleep well. Therefore all dogs must be interested in all animals."
"If you expect me to run this farm," said Guardie sulkily, "you're mistaken. I have enough to do to take care of these ungrateful creatures here," and he nodded toward the other pigs who were waking up and grunting irritably.
"You're not expected to run the farm, Guardie, dear," said Girlie. "You're merely expected to sleep with one ear open. You needn't do it if you don't want to. I will. I fear we have been selfish."
"You are never selfish, madam," said Sir Vet respectfully, "but your dog of a husband is."
"Now I'm going to bite you for that," said Guardie.
"Oh! no, you're not," I said putting myself between them, "and if you don't go lie down, Guardie, and sleep off your ill-humour, you'll wish you had been born an armadillo."
"So you can kick, can you," sneered Guardie. "You! gentle creature."
I just gave him a little curved one to stop his nonsense, and he drew back panting.
"Go to bed, handsome Prince Fetlar," said Girlie coaxingly. "Guardie isn't well. There was too much fat in his soup to-night. He has a delicate stomach."
"His stomach's all right," I said. "So are his legs. It's his temper that's sick," and I kept a wary eye on the hysterical collie, who was making a mad leap in the air at me.
Of course he didn't get me, but fell fair on Sir Vet's back. The old boar started to give him a dressing-down, and Lady Annabella came to help him. Girlie pitched in to assist her mate, and we were having a fine mix-up, when a cold shadow stepped in between us.
The good old Highlander was walking again, and had sent his pet wolf cub to recall us to ourselves, and to remind us that fighting is not the chief end of life.
I stopped, just as I was about to give Guardie's hind leg a sly nip. An icy muzzle was touching my own. I shrank back from the wolf cub, and saw the Highlander standing in the moonlight by the doorway and smiling at us.
We had all been naughty—dogs, pigs and pony—and the human being was rebuking us. We all slunk slowly away to bed, our tails between our legs.
The wolf cub followed his master. He was a noble looking animal now.
"Can it be that beyond this life even wolves are made over?" I heard Girlie whisper as I left.
As I paced slowly to my stall I heard a great horned owl cry solemnly from the ridge-pole of the carriage house, "Whoo, hoo, hoo, the old man walks often lately. A good heart never dies. A kind body cannot lie still, hoo—hoo,—Lady Moon, I love you.
CHAPTER XVII A MYSTERIOUS LAMB
Of course Guardie and I made up our little difference. Before he took his pigs back on Deer Trail the next morning he came bounding toward me and apologised handsomely.
"I've thought the matter over," he said. "Selfishness doesn't pay in dog or man—I'll keep an ear open at night, and Girlie will, too, and we'll be on the lookout for strange scents. Of course we dogs don't depend much on our eyes."
"I was disagreeable, too," I said frankly. "Ponies have nerves, and I was tired."
"Barklo ought to come home" said Guardie.
"Who is Barklo?" I asked curiously.
"Children's dog—I haven't time to tell—ask someone else—pigs are wandering from trail," and off he dashed.
"Who is Barklo?" I repeated.
It was very early in the morning, and away up on the hillside where I was standing there wasn't a creature in sight, but Lammie-noo, who was lying down and eating grass in a sideways fashion. His leg was better, but he still put on great airs, for he liked the children to wait on him and pity him.
"Ba, ba," he said in his silly way, "Barklo's a dog—a Hairdale."
"Not Hairdale," I said, "Airedale."
"Just as you like," he replied amiably; "he's very hairy. He's visiting now."
"Was he the watch-dog?" I asked.
"Yes, Pony Prince. Barklo lay on the children's beds, and if a stranger didn't went, he barked high."
"Not 'went,'" I corrected; "'Go,' Lammie-noo."
"All right, but what difference does it make?" he asked languidly. "You know what I mean."
"Even a lamb should talk properly," I replied.
"You're a snob," responded Lammie sweetly. "Every animal about the place says so."
I was stung to the quick, for I pride myself on my brotherhood to all creatures.
"My grandfather was a prize ram and mingled in the best society," babbled Lammie.
"Now who's the snob?" I asked.
"And I always go in the woodshed when it rains," pursued Lammie-noo. "I can't help it. The sheep say I'm stuck up, but I'm not. I was brought up that way. My mamma never cared to wet her fleece—and I can't associate with that whole flock all the time. I have favourites—I don't deny it. I admire to eat beside Roxy and Woxy and Daffy-Down-Dilly. Persimmon and Emma and Maximilian I detest, but they're always crowding up to me. Are you troubled with bores?"
"Very much," I said, glaring at him. "I see one before me at this present moment. You don't impress me at all. I think you're silly, eating in that nibbling way, and sticking your far from beautiful head on one side. Also your ideas are as crude as your mode of expressing yourself."
"Don't go, my Prince," he said anxiously. "I really am pining for your acquaintance, but you have never noticed me since that day on Deer Trail when your darling young master looked so sweet. What eyes! What a manner—quite a young prince!"
I began to laugh. "Oh! Lammie-noo, what a goose was spoiled in you, but really I'm quite flattered that you wish to make my acquaintance. Have I snubbed you?"
"Very much," bleated Lammie touchingly, "and you know you are the leader in animal society on this farm."
"Am I?" I exclaimed. "I didn't know it."
"Quite easily Princeps," he said in a languishing way.
"Princeps! What's that?" I asked.
"I don't know, sir. It's foreign. I heard Mr. Devering use it—'Silly Princeps,' he said. I would guess that it is some elegance."
I tossed my head, then I said, "Lammie-noo, you remind me of young Pony Pale-Face I knew in years gone by. He used to stand leaning against walls and looking up at the sky. We never could make out whether he was a fool pony or a wise one—Now please tell me about Barklo."
"Well! Barklo's a nice kind dog, and he's lent to a nice kind widow woman."
"Lent," I repeated. "What do you mean?"
"Just loaned for a season, not guv away."
"Given," I said, "but why send a good dog from home?"
"Oh! is he with that nice old widow who lives beyond the Talkers?"
"Yes—that's her."
"You should say, 'That's she,' Lammie-noo."
"Very well—that's she. I'd like to talk real elegant like you, Prince."
"Are you an American lamb?" I asked quickly.
"It's hard to say what I am," he replied mysteriously. "They call me the Wandering Lamb."
"Why 'Wandering'?"
"'Cause I wander, wander. Legs wander, mind wanders, and sometimes I feel so old. The ancient ram," and he nodded toward the crown of the hill where Silver Hoof, King of Muskoka, stood calmly contemplating the landscape, "first called me that."
"Perhaps," I said, "you have lived before."
"I think I have," he replied in a dreamy voice, "'cause sometimes I get up on my hind legs and try to walk. Perhaps I was a boy of some kind—maybe a prince."
"What do you dream about?" I asked.
"Oh! fighting, always fighting. I give dreadful whacks, but not with my noble brow."
"Then you don't fight the sheep way?"
"No, sir—I don't like the forehead way. It gives me a headache. Now just see those two foolish ewes."
We both looked up the hill where two sheep having a difference about something were standing off from each other, then running and banging their heads together.
"So you dream about fighting," I went on.
"Oh! yes—horrible battles. The dead are piled high around me."
"What kind of dead?"
"Wolves mostly—sometimes bears and foxes."
"I wonder whether that will be your heaven?" I said musingly. "No—it couldn't be, for in a future life, you will lie down with the bears and wolves."
"I shall never sleep with a wolf," said Lammie-noo, decidedly. "Never!"
"Don't say you'll never do a thing," I replied. "I've heard many an animal say that, and the thing he'll never do is the thing he does do. You just have to give in sometime during your life."
"I shall never sleep with a wolf," said Lammie-noo, "never, never," and he said this so many times, and in such an imbecile fashion that I left him, and ran up to speak to the ram who was now cropping short grass most industriously.
Silver-Hoof was a beauty—calm, sure of himself, no fighter, yet able to cope with any difficulty among the ewes, or to meet any other ram who tried to impose on him.
"Good morning," I said. "I often see you at a distance, but we don't seem to have much to say to each other."
"Ba-a-a-a!" he replied in his deep voice. "You are busy with your young master. I am occupied with my ewes and lambs. To each his duty, ram or pony."
"I've been talking to that pet down below," I said with a toss of my head toward the languishing Lammie-noo. "What do you make of him?"
The ram looked thoughtful. "I don't just know," he said. "Sometimes he acts like a foolish creature, sometimes like a wise one. He is a lamb with a past, but he can't recall it. Now my great-grandfather told my great-aunt's mother that——" and he went on with such a long story about old sheep who used to see things in the heaven and on the earth, and who acted strangely and waggled their heads, that I became most extremely bored. I backed and backed, and he kept on talking and staring out at the lake and not looking at me, until I finally got behind a clump of alders. Then I went discreetly toward the house, and he wandered on till he put himself to sleep and sank on the ground.
My young master had just waked up. I watched him running down to the lake with the other children. He did not seem to mind the cool air now. He was getting hardened. How much better this was for him than the great heat of some summer places I had been in.
Bingi was up in the kitchen garden pulling carrots, so I trotted up beside him and stepping carefully between the rows of vegetables took little carrots by the top, shook the earth off and dropped them in his basket.
This pleased him so much that I ventured to draw one between my teeth instead of putting it in the basket.
This pleased him still more, and he laughed so heartily that Chippie Sore-Feet came hobbling over the ground, and sitting on his hind legs begged for one, too.
"Of need of it, thou hast not," said Bingi. "Merely jealous art thou."
"What a pretty picture!" called someone. "Bingi and Chippie and Bonnie Prince Fetlar bathing in this glorious August sunlight, and all looking so happy."
We all turned round, and there was Mrs. Devering with a pile of white linen that she was going to hang out to dry.
The Jap got up and bowed respectfully. "Good morning to Mistress of mansion, stoutful and strongful as a man, and in no wise fearsome of work."
Mrs. Devering smiled kindly, and turned to young Dovey, who had not gone in to bathe because she had cut her foot.
"Dovey, dear, tell Bingi the nice surprise we have for him. I wish him to hear it from you, because you were the first to suggest it."
Dear little Dovey, who was angelic when she was not naughty, came limping up to Bingi.
"Once, long, long ago, about five months, I said 'Daddy, Bingi has no little boy and no little girl, and I guess he's lonely.' Daddy said, 'Shouldn't wonder if he is,' and I said, 'He's got a little wifie in Vancouver—I know 'cause he showed me her picture—Daddy, send for the little wee wifie, please, to play with Bingi,' and Daddy he sent and she's coming next week, and you won't be lonely any more—and you're to live with her in that housie on the hill," and she pointed to a pretty green cottage that some carpenters were working at every day.
The young Jap turned as pale as a ghost, and staring from her to her mother sank on the ground on his heels between the carrot rows.
"It's true, Bingi," said Mrs. Devering. "Your young O-Mayo-San is really coming."
The little man struggled to his feet, bowed and bowed again, tried to make one of his pretty speeches, failed, and hiding his face in his sleeve went trot, trotting in a funny way toward the kitchen, his carrots toppling from the basket as he ran.
Mrs. Devering's face was bright and shining. "Girlie," she said, "when you grow up to be a woman, you will never wear more beautiful jewels than those tears glistening in that little man's eyes."
The merry-eyed Dovey was very matter-of-fact. "Bingi's a good cook," she said. "I hope he's got something nice for breakfast—I'm starving. Can't we have it, Mummy? The kids are coming up from the water."
I stepped along to my young master's window. He was brushing his hair with his military brushes as if he would tear it all out, and singing as he did so,