until he sang himself right into a snake fence.
"Gee!" he exclaimed, "what am I to do now?"
Mr. Devering smiled, put out his two powerful hands and swung him over.
"Splendiferous!" cried Dallas, "but how will Babe get over?"
How Mr. Devering laughed at him. "Boy," he said, "allow me to introduce you to Bonnie Prince Fetlar of Cobourg Park."
"Now what do you mean by that, Captain?"
"Wait and see."
Of course I took the fence like a bird, then I stood still and waited for the boy to hear my story.
"Sometimes," said Mr. Devering, "it is the jockey that wins the race and sometimes the horse wins the race without the jockey. Two ponies were entered in the pony race at a fair I attended a few weeks ago. Both riders rode bareback. Half way round the track the lad who was riding this demure beast went over his head. Pony went calmly on minus his rider. He stayed with the race like a little man, overhauled all the other ponies and passed the judges' stand a two lengths winner.
"The grand stand went mad—'First money for the riderless pony!' they roared, but the judges judged otherwise, and the race had to be run over again.
"Once more it began, and once more the boy jockey was unhorsed and went flying over the animal's head. Again pony galloped ahead of his leading rival and took first place. The other jockey was determined to win, and neck and neck the two ponies drew near the line. Then didn't our riderless friend here sprint and win the race by a length."
Young Dallas was almost beside himself with admiration and interest. "Of course," he cried, "our brave little lad got first money."
"The grand stand was with you, pal, but the judges awarded the money to the pony that came second with its rider."
"Foul play, foul play," cried my young master, "my beauty, my pride," and throwing his arms round my neck he hugged me for the second time that afternoon. "I'm proud of you, my handsome young prince—Why has he such an odd name as Fetlar, Captain?"
"Because Fetlar is the island in the Shetlands where Arabian ponies have been crossed with the native breed. Look at this little fellow. He is a wonderful combination of his gentle Scottish forbears and the fine Arabian stock. Note his brilliant prominent eyes, his wise air, refined bearing and short, strong neck."
"Arabian blood," repeated the boy, and he began to repeat in a dreamy voice, the lines of "The Arab to His Favourite Steed."
Mr. Devering with a deeply gratified air listened to the boy as he repeated the whole of the touching poem, then he turned on his heel and led us to the smooth wide road running along the edge of the lake.
Dallas was staring at his retreating back in a strange way, and suddenly he ran after him.
"I have a queer feeling about you, sir. You don't seem a stranger to me. You call up something that happened when I was a little boy."
"What was it?" asked Mr. Devering over his shoulder.
"I was walking with Margie on the Common in Boston. A big man came up to us. He sat down on a park bench and took me on his knee. He had toys in his pocket for me. Were you the man, sir?"
"I was," said Mr. Devering, "and that was only one of many visits, but come on, lad, we are losing time."
Dallas shook his young head with a puzzled air and followed him.
I trotted gaily after, my heart as gay as a lark's. After two long months with a horse dealer, I was once more in a family with boys and girls that I love so dearly. What fun I should have watching them and wondering why they do the queer things they do.
"Oh! you hurry-upper," my boy was saying now, "you beat this Sub."
He was addressing Mr. Devering, whose broad back was just visible in the dim green distance, and suddenly picking up his young heels he ran after him.
Of course I ran after the boy, and as I ran I looked about me.
This was a peculiar trail we were on. We had left the nice wide road and had branched off toward the western hills and the afternoon sun. At first there had been grand old maples and beeches standing in groups about pastures each side of us where the black and white Holstein cows were feeding. Now, however, the pastures had given place to dense evergreens which made my young master shudder. There were masses of them standing very close to each other and holding stiff arms across our trail. Precious little of the sun did we see, and it was necessary to keep one's eyes on the path which wound up and down into dark green hollows where beds of maidenhair fern flourished, or up to hilly spots where rock ferns grew in patches on enormous boulders.
Little brownish streamlets ran across our track, and the boy was always jumping over or going on stepping stones to keep his feet from getting wet.
Suddenly Mr. Devering paused. "Sub," he called back, "this used to be an old road leading up to a farm on Lonesome Hill. Mr. Talker, who brought you in, lived here. It was a mile from our main road and it was a great haul to get supplies in."
"Wasn't the lake savage enough for him?" asked the boy ruefully, rubbing his knee that he had just bruised against an outstanding rock.
"No," said Mr. Devering, "he adores the forest primeval. His wife was like you, and she struck at last and he had to move out to a house near mine. I bought this place from him and let it run into extra pasturing ground, but now the bears are bothering me and I won't keep any stock here till they get out."
CHAPTER IV THE WOLF AND THE LAMB
"Are there bears here?" asked Dallas in an awed voice; "real, live bears?"
"Not many usually, this time of year, but there have been bad bush fires over the mountain, and bears, wolves and foxes have been driven down earlier than usual. We always hear wolves howling about us in October, but you see this is only July."
"What did the bears do to you?" asked Dallas eagerly.
"Took six of my sheep."
"Killed them, do you mean?"
"Yes, and I drove the rest of the flock down to a pasture back of my house. Mr. Talker just told me there's a lamb missing and I thought I'd come up to look for him. His mother was one mangled by the bears, and Lammie was found standing by her carcass. He was taken down to the house, but his young nerves must have got a shock for he acted queer, then disappeared."
"Oh! I hope we'll find him," said Dallas.
"I hope so too, but I doubt it. His mother was a great pet with my children and he too has been much pampered."
My young master's face fell. What a tender heart he had, and what was he thinking about as he went nimbly along, his eyes glued to Mr. Devering's back in a way that soon caused him to fall flat on his face. In the city a boy does not need to watch his feet. In the country it is wise to look to your steps.
His young mind was going hop, skip, jump like his feet, and presently he called out, "Captain, I've been wondering a lot lately what I'll do when I'm a man."
"What does your fancy run to?" Mr. Devering called back.
"Sometimes I think I'd like to be the greatest home-run king in the world, and then when I see those high jumpers galloping over the roofs of houses in the movies I think I'd like to be an actor."
"You like motion pictures."
"Yes, Captain—John's a regular fan, and when we go home from seeing them he tells me how he used to lay out boys when he was my age. Of course he never touched a small kid—always fellows as big as himself."
Mr. Devering looked thoughtful, but said nothing.
Young Dallas went on, "But now, I think I'd like a farm some place where there weren't so many trees, and I'd go after bad bears who kill sheep."
His tone was bold, but his eyes were timid. This was a boy who fought battles in his mind and kept his fists in his pockets.
"My boy," Mr. Devering called out, "time will settle your doubts. I had a young cousin who wasn't sure whether he'd run a candy store or drive a locomotive when he grew up."
"And what did he do?" asked Dallas eagerly.
"Went into a bank, and is vice-president. You see, Sub, when we're young we don't know everything. We just have to wait. Get a good education and when you're fit for your life work it will bob up serenely in front of you."
"When you were a boy did you want to be a settler?" asked Dallas.
"Never—I wanted to practise medicine."
"And did you?"
"No, I took my course in my home University of Toronto and got my degree, but I never practised."
Young Dallas, who had a great thirst for information, said coaxingly, "I suppose you got ill and came here for your health."
"No, my lad, I wasn't ill, but I knew I would be if I didn't stop breathing dust."
"Street dust, Captain?"
"Different kinds of dust. I was one of a struggling ant-heap. There was system and order, but no beauty, and I love beauty."
"In my city," said the boy thoughtfully, "there was some dust and much loneliness—but it is a very fine place."
"Your life was abnormal. The boys in my city were rushing from one place to another. They could not keep their minds on their books, and here was this beautiful calm north country with air like wine and crying out for settlers."
"Oh!" exclaimed my young master, "you are here to open up the country, but you are not poor. If you were, it would not be so agreeable."
"Why not? Of course money talks in the wilds as in cities, but our government helps men who wish to clear land. Boy!—it's a great life."
Dallas enveloped the big glowing figure of the man with a glance of warm admiration. "You are splendid, Captain."
Mr. Devering went on as if he did not hear him. "Some day I will tell you of our great clay belt further north. I am buying farms there for my boys. Then there is Hudson Bay with its iron ore, coal, silver and pulp wood almost untouched by man. I tell you, lad, this is a great country of ours."
Young Dallas grew solemn. "If I felt like that about the country, I should be happy."
"You will, you will," said the man eagerly. "I hope with my lads you will push on and——"
He checked himself suddenly, as if he were about to say too much.
"Captain," cried Dallas, "you sound like one of my adventure books. I believe you are younger than I am."
How Mr. Devering laughed. He even shouted, he was so much amused. Then he took off his hat and swung it in the air. Oh! he was a very jolly man. Then something caught his eye on the ground and he bent over.
"Hello! Sub, look here."
Dallas went stepping over damp and mossy stones to stare at a layer of black mud in a hollow.
"Tracks," said Mr. Devering. "See if you can tell what they are."
"Sheep," said Dallas doubtfully.
"Right you are, and what else?"
"Deer?"
"Yes, there are lots of them about lately. I saw three of them this morning out back of the barn at my deer-lick."
"What's that, Captain?"
"A natural deer-lick is a salty spot of ground where deer go to nibble or lick the earth. I made mine, for I have a great fancy for giving pleasure to our elegant and graceful Virginian deer who come down here from our provincial Algonquin Park, which is close by."
"Are there many wild animals there, Captain?"
"Heaps of them—they're protected; except wolves. There's a bounty on their heads of twenty-five dollars."
"I'd love to visit that Park," said the boy.
"You shall—we'll take canoes and go up the Fawn River. There are three portages that will interest you—come on, boy, I see a fresh track that I think is Lammie's."
Dallas tore after him, very much excited about the danger threatening the lamb. He was talking to me quite boastfully. "I'd like to see a bear lay a paw on any lamb when I was near."
I was uneasy. All the horse family hate bears. Even a big cart-horse will turn round when he meets one. I knew that some had lately passed by, and I felt that there might be wolves about too.
As if the boy understood me, he said gallantly, "Don't fret, Babe. If we find any wild beasts about here we'll make them chase themselves back to their dens," but as he spoke he gave me a queer look. Being unused to these solitudes and this wild life, he was frightened to death, and like a little dog out alone in the cold and darkness he was barking to keep his courage up.
Afraid of something I knew not what, I went on in this game of Follow my Leader down into a sombre little valley where scarcely a ray of light penetrated. The branches not only met overhead but absolutely languished together. There was not a sound from our footsteps for the trail was overgrown with a delicate ferny moss into which our feet sank noiselessly.
Not a bird peeped in this thicket. The most of my bird friends are like the boy and hate deep dark woods. They love fields with a few trees scattered here and there, or nice open groves, or best of all the neighbourhood of houses if cats and boys are not allowed to prey on them.
Suddenly I heard the boy draw a long breath. He saw the sunlight at the end of this long leafy tunnel. We were coming to the base of the abandoned farm on the hill.
Oh! how thankful I was. We were out of the wood and climbing a faint little foot-path leading up over the grassy top of the hill.
What a curious place! I shuddered, for it was so sad. If we had come upon a sturdy backwoodsman and his wife with a nice family of children, I should have tossed my head and kicked up my heels a bit. As it was, I plodded slowly on, head down, tail drooping.
On our right as we went up the hill was an old grey barn and a desolate pasture. Here were many sheep tracks and Mr. Devering went into the lean-to hoping that the lamb might be there.
"If Lammie-noo is here," he said, "this is where he would pass his nights."
"Is that the lamb's name?" asked Dallas.
"Yes, my children named him that from a song I sing."
"Wouldn't bears come after him in this place with no door?" asked the boy with a shudder.
"Yes, they would if they were hungry, but Lammie-noo has probably not been here more than a couple of nights, and if the bears have been roaming in some other direction they would not get wind of the fact that there was a nice plump lamb on the old Lonesome Hill farm—— Come up higher, and we'll spy the landscape o'er."
We walked beyond the discolored barn which was shedding its shingles as a pony sheds his hair, and came to a dull old orchard where some quite nice crab apple trees stood knee deep in selfish weeds that were taking the goodness out of the soil.
"Poor patient trees," said Mr. Devering, "every year they give us some fruit for preserving. I've a great mind to build up this place again for some young settler."
"Oh! please do so, Captain," said young Dallas whose sensitive soul was quivering with the loneliness of his surroundings.
"Would you like it?" asked the man keenly.
"I—I don't know," stammered Dallas.
"Let old Mother Nature put her hand on your head, my boy, and listen to what she says; then you'll learn to love all her children, even the trees—I'll renew this offer later."
When we passed the orchard and came to the dreary house I thought, "There's no chance of this young lad ever coming to live here."
The building was like some old drunkard trying to stagger down hill. Its roof was gone, its window eyes were broken, its doors were flapping and the well beside it had half the curbstone broken down.
Mr. Devering looked into it. I suppose he thought Lammie-noo might have tumbled in, then he swung back the partly open front door, which at his touch groaned and fell down flat.
Dallas started back, then went bravely forward, only to fall back again and lay a trembling hand on my neck. "Oh! what is that dead thing?" he asked.
I looked over his shoulder and saw a porcupine shedding his quills for the last time. The corner of the open door had been gnawed by him or some other creature. I knew what that meant. Many wild animals will dig and tear at anything the salty hand of man has passed over, and in the back part of the room I noticed an old table worried up and down its seams by the teeth probably of this little creature who had found food crumbs in the cracks.
Mr. Devering passed through the mournful little house. The bedrooms were deserted, the kitchen stove was lopping over, and the pots and pans were strewn about the floor. Chairs were broken and blinds tumbling from the windows.
"Mischievous boys or campers have been here," said Mr. Devering, "the Talkers left the house in good shape. Before I'm a month older, I'll have it cleared up. It gives me the blues to see a former neat place in this condition—— Come outside, my lad."
"Ah! there is a view," he said a few minutes later when we stood under the blue sky and surveyed the ranges and ranges of green hills surrounding us on every side with here and there a glimpse of a distant lake. "The everlasting hills—the everlasting hills."
Young Dallas stood with the fresh wind blowing some color in his pale cheeks. He was smiling now as he asked, "What is that highest peak of all, Captain?"
"Old Mount Terror."
"Why Terror?"
"So many persons have been lost there. The Indians have a legend about its being bewitched, and about a pre-historic monster much larger than a moose who haunts its forests. I'll tell you about it some day. In the meantime I'm watching Lammie-noo."
"You don't mean to say you've found him?"
"Yes, down there against the cat-tails of Lonesome Lake. Can't you pick out that patch of dull white?"
"Oh, yes—among the rushes. Has he gone there for a drink?"
"Possibly, though he doesn't drink much when he gets plenty of green feed. I daresay he's sick and feverish. Would you like to be lost up here away from your friends?"
"Good gracious! no, sir. To tell the truth, this place is a thousand times worse than your farm."
Mr. Devering was not offended. With a glance of unspeakable love and sympathy he laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Watch Lammie—he's probably coming up to the barn thinking he has to sleep all night with his lonely little head in a corner."
Poor Lammie-noo was turning round, and quite unaware of his good master so near at hand was wearily plodding up the hill. He went over everything. He was too tired to go round, and he breasted weed patches and climbed over the heaps of rocks left by men in clearing the fields. He had the waning courage of a little creature whose heart has all gone out of him.
"Won't my young ones feast him to-night?" said Mr. Devering. "Won't he get a brimming pail of milk from our good cook!"
Dallas' face beamed. He and Mr. Devering were both intent on the lamb, but I with my lower animal instinct was terribly uneasy. The cool north wind brought us a wild gamy smell. Something lurked and crouched in that dreadful little hollow where the spruces grew so thickly. I could not see it, but I felt it. It was not a bear—it was something long and slinking.
I was nearly crazy. Ponies and horses rarely cry out, they die without a sound, but we Shetlands are more like dogs than ponies and I am more dog-like than most Shetlands, for from the time I was a baby foal I have been like a brother to various human beings. So now, just because I knew it would pain my nice lad to see the lamb injured, I resolved to warn poor Lammie-noo.
To get to the barn he had to pass the orchard, and to reach the orchard he had to skirt the spruce thicket where the wild creature waited for him.
I gave the loud shrill alarm snort of a wild pony just as the dark streak took the form of a long lean wolf who sprang with a sideways leap from the shelter of the spruces and caught one of the hind legs of the unsuspecting lamb.
Mr. Devering was a pretty clever man. He flashed one swift glance at my trembling form, then he gave the biggest yell I ever heard from human lips, and started leaping down hill so violently that if the wolf had been as slow as some animals Mr. Devering would have landed on his back.
However, I have heard hunters say that the wolf is the cutest animal that roams the woods—cuter even than the fox. This fellow just had time for one crunching bite, then he was away like a shot.
Now that the lamb was all right, I turned my attention to my young master. Wasn't I sorry for him! I guessed that he had known nothing very much wilder than the peaceful stretches of Boston Common—and to come to this!
He was in a pitiable state of fright, and unable to plan for himself, he started to do as his Captain has done, namely run down the hill.
However, he didn't go very far. The ugly old house leering at him with its open doorway tempted him, and he whipped in. Of course I whipped in after him, for my place was with my master. I wasn't afraid of the wolf, for I knew there was no wolf there. He was legging it for home, the most surprised animal in the Highlands of Ontario.
My boy skipped past the dead porcupine and the broken chairs and dishes, and threw himself flat against a mildewed wall that he would have shrunk from had not his eyes been blinded by fear.
I nuzzled his neck with my soft lips. It was dreadful to see a boy suffer so much, and reaching out a hand he laid it gropingly on my head.
After he had gasped for a few seconds like a dying fish, he dragged himself to one of the broken windows.
Down there on the grass Mr. Devering was bending over the lamb. No wolf was in sight, and my young lad pulled himself together and cried in a relieved voice, "Come on, Babe," then he tore out of the house and down the hill.
When we got to Mr. Devering we saw that he had an open first-aid case on the grass beside him, and he was unwinding a roll of bandage.
"Is Lammie much hurt?" asked Dallas miserably.
"One nip—hind leg—it isn't bad. I'll take a few stitches. Hold his head and shoulders, will you?"
CHAPTER V A COWARD STANDS ALONE
Lammie's leg was soon bound up, and Mr. Devering said to Dallas, "Do you know that verse in the Bible—'The sheep follow him for they know his voice, and a stranger will they not follow, but will flee from him, for they know not the voice of strangers'?"
"Yes, Captain, Margie has read it to me."
"Well, we're going to start now, so you please stand back a bit. Lammie is eyeing you as if he thought you were another wolf—but why are you hanging your young head?"
"I'm a coward," said the boy brokenly.
"In what way?"
"I ran into the house when I saw the wolf."
"Were you afraid?"
"I was, sir."
"That the wolf would attack you?"
"Yes."
"Suppose he had attacked me, would you have come out to help me?"
"I don't know, sir, but I hope so."
"You're not sure."
"No, sir."
"And we're pals," said Mr. Devering. "I could have staked my worldly all on your standing by me—one can never tell."
He looked thoughtfully down at the grass, and the poor lamb standing on three legs stared patiently up at him.
Mr. Devering had forgotten him for the minute. The boy's wound was of more importance than the lamb's.
"What kind of wolves have you read about?" he asked presently.
"Fierce wild wolves like the Russian ones who pursued the sledge, and the servant threw himself out to save his master."
Mr. Devering said nothing. He just stared and Dallas began to howl just like a human wolf, "Oh! I feel yellow—I should have stood by you," then he flung himself on the grass and began to kick and bite.
This was temper—poor lad! he had been so proud of himself with his boasting about what he would do if a wild animal appeared, and when it did come he had scuttled to the nearest shelter.
Mr. Devering came and stood over him. The boy was just raging now, and snapping out words. "I didn't think I'd run. I thought I'd make a stand. I didn't know I was a quitter."
"Did you ever see a wild animal before outside a Zoo?" Mr. Devering bawled at him, for the boy was making so much noise that an ordinary voice would not have pierced his ears.
"No, I never did—I wasn't on to him. I'm not acquainted with wolves and bears—I hate this place. I want to go back to my father and Margie and John."
Mr. Devering spoke to me in a low voice as I stood gazing regretfully at my undignified young master. "A good time for a sermon, Prince Fetlar, but it will keep—— Come on Lammie," and turning to the suffering animal he walked slowly toward the trail, the lamb limping after him.
Of course I stayed by our angry young lad, and presently getting over his temper, he lifted his swollen face.
He was alone with me, and the wolf might still be lurking in the spruces. So he thought, and didn't he jump up and go stumbling over the grass, slipping, falling, getting up again, dashing the tears from his eyes, and muttering to himself.
But soon a very cheerful sound from far ahead floated back to him. Ah! that was one of the songs we used to hear in our own dear country when our boys went marching away to war.
Certain tones in the man's hearty voice reminded me of the boy's sweet notes, and wasn't there a queer suggestion of each other when I stood near them? We Shetland ponies as I have said before are very close to human beings for our ancestors were literally brought up with the children in the crofters' huts, and my mother has often told me that her mother had many a lick at the family platter and many a time her soft muzzle was buried in the children's necks.... I had it—the man was some relation to the boy. That explained the man's patient interest in him, and the fascination that the man had for the boy. Blood is thicker than water every time.
I was very pleased with myself. Now I would have to find out the exact relationship. That would be something to amuse me in these solitudes, and I pressed closer to my young master so that he might steady himself by laying a hand on my neck.
"Gee whiz!" he exclaimed with a sob, "if Captain isn't carrying that beast."
Sure enough, the good shepherd singing so easily in front of us, and stepping so firmly over the trail in his big leather hunting boots, had both hands up to his shoulders. Lammie-noo lay across his back like a pillow, his head wig-wagging, his manner content. He wasn't afraid. I suspected that he had been carried that way before.
"Captain," cried Dallas anxiously as he ran after him, "I'm here."
Mr. Devering stopped singing. "All right," he called, "I'm glad to hear you."
"You can't see me," said the boy, very anxious to make conversation, "but I'm here all the same."
"Good for you, Sub, we'll have a fine appetite for our supper."
"You don't dine in the evening then," said Dallas agreeably.
"No, sir—country hours—dine at twelve p.m. No afternoon tea except on occasions. Supper at six."
"I like those hours for the country," said Dallas.
As he spoke a last sob broke his voice. "Captain," he called out, "will you tell your kids that I ran from the wolf?"
"Certainly not," said Mr. Devering in tones of surprise. "Aren't we pals?"
Dallas winced terribly at this. "I'm going to tell them myself," he said; "I've got to rub it in or maybe I'll do it again. My father hates cowards. He'd kill me if he thought I'd grow up to be a white-heart."
"I'd scarcely go as far as that," said Mr. Devering with his jolly laugh. "You take things hard, boy."
"Was that wolf a dangerous beast?" asked Dallas sharply.
"Not at all—he'd have run like a deer if he'd scented us. The wind was off the lake."
"But I didn't know that," cried the boy.
Mr. Devering said nothing. He just stalked on with the lamb.
Young Dallas' shoulders drooped sadly. "If he had been a wild, wild wolf," he said at last, "he might have attacked you, and there was I safe in the house."
Mr. Devering stopped in his tracks, slid the lamb to a bed of moss, and said: "Let's rest a bit."
I knew he had paused to have a chat with the boy and ease his aching young heart. He was certainly a man who remembered that he had been a boy himself, and that the sorrows of youth are as painful as they are brief.
When they were seated quietly side by side on a log, while Lammie-noo reached out for some stray sickly blades of grass that were just begging him to eat them and put them out of their misery, Mr. Devering said quite decidedly: "My lad, I know your ancestry. If any real danger should threaten me, you would rush to my rescue."
Such a wave of relief swept over Dallas' face. "How do you know? Oh, how do you know?" he cried sharply.
"Because the Duffs and the Deverings have never bred a coward."
"The Duffs and the Deverings," repeated the boy slowly. "My father is a Duff, but was my mother a Devering?"
The big man bit his lip. "There! I have let that family cat out of the bag. That splendid man your Dad did not wish you to know till later, but I who hate mysteries about family affairs, am glad pussy jumped out."
"But my mother's name was not Devering," said Dallas.
"Yes it was, my boy. She was adopted in early life by our aunt Mrs. Beverly Ronald, who gave her her own name."
"And what relation are you to me?" asked Dallas springing to his feet.
"I am your uncle."
"My mother's brother."
"Her only brother."
"And I thought I had no relatives."
The boy was in an ecstasy. He stood with eyes fixed on his new relative, his face going from red to white like a girl's. Then in a trice he had his arms round the neck of this good uncle, and was hugging him warmly.
"I love you!... I love you!" he cried.
"And I love you, my boy," said the man simply.
"I feel weak like that lamb," said Dallas, and his arms slipped down from the man's shoulders and he re-seated himself on the log close to his side. "I want something strong to hold on to."
Mr. Devering threw an impatient glance in the direction of Boston, and I knew that he was blessing the splendid, but peculiar man, the boy's father. Aloud he said: "Let us change the subject. I want to tell you a story about General Wolfe."
The boy was gazing deep into the wood interior, his eyes vacant and dreamy. With an effort he turned around, and said softly, "Uncle—that is even better than Captain. Uncle—I never had one before."
"Well, you'll never be without one now," remarked Mr. Devering, then he said again quite patiently, "Wolfe, the Conqueror of Quebec."
"The Conqueror of Quebec," repeated young Dallas like a parrot.
"This story is little known, but it is true," said Mr. Devering. "Now pull yourself together, boy,—imagine a dinner table, seated at it William Pitt, Lord Temple and General Wolfe. The next morning Wolfe was to sail from England for Canada. Pitt's eyes were on him. How was this young general going to acquit himself? Suddenly to his dismay, Wolfe got up, began to strut about the room, drew his sword, struck the table with it, and boasted about what this good sword was to do in Canada.
"The two ministers were aghast, and when Wolfe's carriage was announced and he left the room, Pitt threw up his hands and said, 'To think that the fate of my country is in such hands!'"
My young master was still in his beautiful dream cloud about this nice man being his uncle, but he came out of it long enough to say quite calmly, and with no bitterness now, "Wolfe was like me—he boasted."
"Don't you wish to know why he acted so strangely?"
"Yes, Uncle."
"He was timid and nervous, and very often he acted in a way contrary to his real nature."
"You're trying to smooth things over for me," said Dallas sweetly, "but you do it because I'm your nephew. You can't fool me.... Please tell me another story about Wolfe. He is one of my heroes."
Mr. Devering was shaking with inward laughter. However he subdued it, for boys don't like to be laughed at, and went on: "The Duke of Newcastle told George III. that Pitt's new General Wolfe was a mad fool, and the old King said, 'If he is mad, I hope he will bite some of my generals.'"
Dallas smiled absently, then he said, "We're sort of mixed up when we're young, aren't we?"
"Tadpoles, my boy, tadpoles. You don't know how you'll turn out. But young people mature. Think of Wolfe banging the dining-table with his sword, then turning into the sensitive young man of such deep feeling who recited to his officers 'The paths of glory lead but to the grave.'"
"And then," cried Dallas suddenly waking up, "Wolfe was the brave officer leading the attack on the enemy, wrapping his handkerchief around his wounded wrist and faithful to his motto, 'While a man is able to do his duty and to stand and hold his arms it is infamous to retire'—— What is infamous, my Uncle?"
"Odious, detestable—— Well, Wolfe was almost too brave, for his bright uniform made him a target for the sharpshooters who finally got him."
"I know the rest," said Dallas excitedly, "I remember it in my Canadian history. 'Support me,' cried Wolfe, 'my brave soldiers must not see me fall.' Then they laid him on the grass in a hollow, but he said, 'I'm done for.' Those supporting him thought he was unconscious, but when they cried out, 'They run! they run!' Wolfe asked, 'Who run?'
"'The enemy, the enemy,' said his soldiers, 'they give way everywhere.' Then he turned on his side, murmured, 'God be praised! I die happy,' and expired—— Ah! sir, Wolfe stuck to his guns. I did not."
Mr. Devering just roared with laughter. "You can't forget that, Sub. Well remember too that you're at the period of beating the dining-table. Come on, I want to get home," and shouldering Lammie he began to tramp along the trail whistling,
CHAPTER VI THE BELOVED LIAR
When we got near the house, we heard the supper horn sounding cheerily in our direction.
Mr. Devering strode along more quickly than ever in the lovely late afternoon sunshine, and when we reached the snake fence he leaned over and put Lammie-noo on his own hoofs.
Then he and Dallas just howled with laughter. Wasn't that sick lamb legging it for one of the back doors of the house. I found out later that it was the woodshed door. He had seen a young Japanese come and look out and then disappear.
"Bingi gives Lammie-noo warm milk every night," said Mr. Devering. "Come and see him."
In a few seconds we too were at the woodshed door. Lammie-noo had gone through to the kitchen and stood by the big stove bleating pitifully and occasionally butting the good Bingi who was as patient as a lamb himself.
I had often seen Japanese servants before, but this one was particularly clean and intelligent, and I heard Mr. Devering tell Dallas in an undertone that he was a young man of good family, assistant editor of a Japanese newspaper and had come to Canada to perfect his English.
He was trying to pour some milk from a pail into a pot on the stove, but the lamb butted him so violently and persistently that he kept spilling the milk.
"May I request you, honorable sir," he said to Mr. Devering, "to remove this quadruped for a season?"
Mr. Devering soon made Lammie-noo come back to the woodshed and closed the door on him.
Lammie immediately ran round to another door on the other side of the house.
Bingi smiled amiably and said, "Let him remain, I beg. His portion is about complete. He will then follow me. He is strangely fastidious about the warmness of it."
Two minutes later, the Jap ardently pursued by the lamb had carried a huge pan of milk outside.
Young Dallas' eyes grew big as he watched the hungry lamb sucking greedily at the milk and bobbing his funny tail with each mouthful.
When the young animal drew back at last with a satisfied air, some hens who had been waiting politely came forward, and leaning far over dipped their beaks in the pan to drink up Lammie-noo's leavings.
"Those hens," said Bingi amiably, "never forget their habitude of milk waiting and afterward drinking."
"Just like us, just like us," said Mr. Devering. "Don't we all run when the bugle or horn blows for meals—but we must go get ready for supper, nephew," and he took my young master away from me.
To my delight, no one had said, "Go to your stable," so I made a discreet circle of the house, which was pretty well spread out over the ground instead of being built away up in the air.
I glanced in the different windows to see which ones belonged to the lad I was beginning to love so much.
I counted four boys and two girls, brushing, washing, and taking off their overalls in six different rooms. How nice for them each to have a place. Even an animal likes to have a corner of his very own. They all called out a greeting to me, but I did not linger with any of them as I wished to find my own boy.
He had a dear little room on the side of the house looking toward the barnyard and out-buildings. I was glad to see that for I could watch his light at night.
"Hello Babe," he said, "I wish you were a valet or John or Margie," and his eyes went to his big wardrobe trunk standing open against the wall. "I haven't time to unpack now. I'll just give my hands and face a lick and a promise," and he went up to a wash basin and turned on the water.
"Gee!" he exclaimed, "hot and cold water in the wilderness. Some farm this, Prince Fetlar."
Then after giving his young poll a good rubbing down with two military brushes that he took out of a hand-bag, he turned to the door where some one was knocking. "Come in, please."
Mr. Devering stood in the hall, and putting a hand on his nephew's shoulder he came right across the room with him and out through the open French window, smiling at me as I bolted away under some seringa bushes.
The dining place was not in the house but out on one of the wide verandas. A long table was set with plates for nine people, and wishing to see what went on at it I crept quietly around to the back of a clump of lilacs while my young master was being shown round the garden.
"Well, if here isn't another beggar for crumbs," chattered an impudent little voice near me, and looking round I saw a chipmunk sitting on a sun dial and washing his face and paws for supper.
"Don't be afraid," I said mildly, "I am no beggar. I am here because I love to watch human beings when they eat. I belong to the new boy, and I beg that you will not call attention to me by any unnecessary chattering."
"All right," he said, winking a beautiful brown eye at me, "if you'll promise not to tease for scraps from the table. There are too many of us now. I'm always hungry, and there are about a dozen juncos, some hermit thrushes, a bluejay, a tame raccoon, a white rabbit, the cat and about a score of other creatures—we're the steadies but there are lots of chancers."
"What do you mean by chancers?"
"Ones who happen along like that Plymouth Rock hen there sneaking down from the hen-houses. She knows she's not allowed here—but to come back to you. Of course you won't hurt any of us?"
"Hurt you, my dear chipmunk," I replied. "I believe in the rights of all creatures—even deer mice. I have an arrangement with two already that they may come in my stable, but if they bring any more in or if they run over my food I'll drive them out."
"You drive a mouse," he said. "A clumsy thing like you couldn't do it."
"Couldn't I?" I remarked sarcastically.
"How would you do it?" he asked.
"Quickly, my friend. You ought to see the fancy play of my hoofs."
"You think you're very smart," he said, and he hobbled slowly away to the veranda where he could be nearer the table.
I looked after him wondering what was the matter with his paws, and reflecting that although I don't dislike chipmunks, I find them very disrespectful.
Such a darling little junco called to me with his sharp kissing note. He was in the lilacs over me and he had been watching the chipmunk. "Chew, chew, Pony," he went on. "Supper's ready—I'm glad, aren't you?"
I stared up at him and said, "Junco with the grey head and white tail feathers, I like you."
"And I'll like you," he returned, "if you'll not get between me and the supper table. I'm hungry."
"What's wrong with that chipmunk's feet?" I asked the junco.
"He was a performing squirrel in a show. They used to make him dance by turning on a gas flame under his cage."
"Why didn't he cling to the bars?" I asked.
"They were charged with electricity. Though I am only a country bird I have heard how cruelly animals are treated in cities."
"How did the chipmunk get here?" I inquired.
"Mr. Devering was at the show and rescued him. He had the showman fined heavily—but, Pony, here comes the human mother-bird."
Such a fine matronly young woman with a grave sweet face was coming out of the house.
Her hands were full of wild roses that she put in a bowl of water on the table.
"Good gracious!" I said to the junco, "what is that furry brown creature curled up and clinging to the skirt of her gown?"
"That is Black-Paws, the raccoon. He is a great pet of this house-mother's mother, a wee old lady who comes here in summer. When Grammie is not here, he follows her daughter about and slides along the floor holding on to her dress."
"Mrs. Devering must be a very kind lady," I said. "That fat raccoon is heavy."
"She is very patient with him, but see now she is shaking him off."
"Go away, Black-Paws," the lady was saying, "You tire me. Here take this piece of cake," and she went to a side table.
To my great amusement, the stout-bodied little creature with the funny black patches on his face held up his fore paws, took the cake, and when her back was turned began to wash it in one of the glasses of water on the table.
"He's the cleanest animal on the place," said the junco. "He nearly washes his food away."
"If I had had that piece of cake," I said, "I should have eaten the icing instead of leaving it in the water. Junco, is this young looking woman the mother of all those children?"
"Yes, yes, and a good one too."
"But she looks so young, junco."
"Northland air is good for human beings and good for animals. Look at her skin—just like a cherry. I could bite it—chew, chew. Oh! where is my mate, my mate? She's late, she's late. Supper's ready, chew, chew."
"Here I be, dearie, dearie," and we heard another sweet twittering trill, and there was Mrs. Junco coming like the wind.
"Oh! my dearie dearie," he said, and putting their heads close together, they sat talking in low bird notes in such a comfortable way that it made me feel quite lonely.
I turned my head away, and saw two little gliding creatures slipping under the veranda steps.
"Hello!" I said; "do I see snakes?"
"Yes," said some one in a whisper close to me, and lowering my head I saw the Plymouth Rock hen right by my hoofs.
"Aren't those snakes cute?" she said. "I love to see them, darting their heads out and in. They're the children's pets and are waiting for worms—— Pony-Boy, don't call attention to me. Being grey I don't show up much. I'm the biggest girl's pet, and she is the only one that knows I'm here. By and by she'll sneak me a bit of something. I'm not afraid of your hoofs. I'm very light on my feet."
"Yes and light in the head too," said a contemptuous voice, and glancing up we saw a blue jay sitting solitary and looking rather ugly on a bough just near us.
"Nobody loves a jay," said Biddy in a hoarse whisper. "What about those eggs you broke yesterday? The master of the house will shoot you if he sees you."
"Hold your tongue," said the jay impudently, and Biddy, turning away from him, said to me, "You know ponies are not allowed down here at meal times. You'd better back up a bit. Get your head behind those long purple blossoms. Now you won't show so much—— We were talking about snakes; those two pets belong to the younger of the two girls and she keeps a worm pit for them. She buries bones and meal, and these two come here every night for their after dinner feed. If you want to see lightning, just watch their tongues when they take the worms."
"Biddy," I said, "I'll keep my eye on them, but I must watch my young master who is coming to the table."
"I saw him walking about the garden," she said, "with the big master. Pony, I like your boy."
Mr. Devering was guiding Dallas to the table. "My wife," he said to the boy. Then he said to her, "Bretta, may I commend another young thing to your care?"
He did not mention Dallas' name, but Mrs. Devering pronounced it very nicely when she took the boy's hand and gave him a long look.
"And what do you think of your new aunt?" asked Mr. Devering jokingly.
"She seems very young," said the boy slowly. "Margie is old."
Such a look of compassion came over the lady's face. "I am very glad to be your aunt," she said softly.
Dallas, with a gentle gesture, took the hand that was hanging by her side and raised it to his lips.
She blushed with pleasure at this grown-up caress, and taking a rose from the bowl she fastened it in the lapel of the boy's coat.
"Pretty, pretty," I heard the juncos say.
"Very kind," observed Biddy, and then the whole family of boys and girls came trooping to the veranda.
"Family," said Mrs. Devering, "come here and be introduced."
I could see that their names made no impression on my young master. He was staring at their faces. These were his cousins, his real cousins, though they did not know it, and in spite of the cool wind blowing, a line of perspiration sprang to his upper lip. Would they like him, oh! would they like him?
They all looked very smart, the girls in thick white dresses, the boys in navy blue belted cloth suits like that of my young master.
There was a family resemblance—I could see it, though these children were robust and rollicking, while my young master was refined and delicate in appearance.
Their table manners were very good, but they were so full of life that they had hard work to keep still.
It was a charming sight to see this happy, clean, and well-bred family sitting at this long table with no walls between them and the lovely lake that was shining and beautiful as the sides of the big silver soup tureen from which Mrs. Devering was ladling a delicious dark liquid that smelt like beans. I thought the Deverings' supper table was like a dinner table until I saw what a wonderful lot of things they gave those happy children to eat in the middle of the day.
The soup course did not interest the creatures of the second table. Not a bird peeped or stirred, except to glare at a big white rabbit who came loping easily down the hill from the wood, and went noiselessly under the veranda.
"Old Muffy," whispered Biddy hoarsely; "he has a bottomless appetite. We hate to see him come—there are the robins. They're late too."
Four plump fat birds had just settled themselves over us with much shaking of wings and flirting of tails, though they did not speak.
I looked back at the table. Everybody had finished their soup and to my surprise the eldest girl, who had heavy black hair and a straight nose like her mother's, got up and piling all the empty soup plates on a tea-waggon rolled them along the veranda toward the kitchen.
On the way Bingi crossed her with a big roast of cold lamb on a platter.
Now there was a faint murmuring sound about me, and one of the boys called out, "Wait, robin babies, your turn will quickly come."
"That boy," said Biddy, who had asked permission to fly up to my back in order to get a better view of the table, "that nice boy makes a specialty of robins, and often brings them up by hand when the parents are killed. This is not a very good worm country as the soil is stony, so he buys worms from his sister's pit and makes worm hash."
"Worm hash," I repeated; "I never heard of such a thing."
"He never loses a young robin from crop trouble," said Biddy, "though they sometimes bathe themselves to death, being great water-lovers. He makes his hash of worms, bread, oatmeal and a few drops of milk. If he can't get worms he takes raw meat, but when his robins are grown they eat almost anything. Hush! don't cackle nor cluck. Here comes something for me."
"I'm not likely to do either," I said, then I eyed the black-haired girl who, before taking her seat at the table, had made a detour and with her left hand tossed Biddy a morsel of something.
"She sneaked that from the cake course," gurgled the hen from my back. "My! how good it tastes. It's raspberry shortcake. That Jap certainly knows how to cook. I hope I'll get something more."
I paid little attention to Biddy, for I was eyeing Mr. Devering and grieving over something he had just said, "This is lamb, my boy. We are as bad as the wolf."
The nice man was biting his lip now. He remembered how terribly my young master had felt about his cowardice, but who can recall the spoken word?
Dallas was in a fine state of nerves. He had been so happy in coming to his own at last by being one of an interesting group of boys and girls. Now the charm was broken. He grew red and fussed about his seat, his appetite all gone.
The children were all speaking at once, "Wolf! what wolf, Dad?"
Mr. Devering struggled with the joint for a few seconds, then he said shortly, "Up Deer Trail."
"What were you up there for, Dad? Is that where you went with Dallas? I wish you'd taken us. We love that trail."
More questions and more remarks were showered upon the poor man, but he went on carving silently.
My young master, instead of leaving matters to this clever man, was unfortunate enough to open his young mouth and put his foot in it. To please these dear cousins was his burning desire, therefore he thought he must create a sensation, so with a heightened color he announced solemnly, "We were after the lamb."
Mr. Devering rolled his eyes at him, but said nothing, while the children just shrieked, "Not Lammie-noo. He isn't alive, is he? Dad, you said he must be dead."
"Sit down, sit down, children," said Mrs. Devering in a quiet voice. "Not another word, please, from anybody till every boy and girl is seated."
The children were on fire. Their eyes flashed, their tongues were going, but they obeyed their mother.
Biddy not liking my slippery back had shifted her position to a stick laid crosswise in the lilacs and she clucked in my ear, "Those children love their pets. They hate to see us go to the Good-Bye House."
Struck by the name, I asked, "What is that?"
"It's the place where hens walk in after tid-bits in somebody's hand and never walk out again. Nothing hurts them. They just stop eating and go to another poultry yard."
I thought this over a minute. Probably the Deverings had some very merciful way of killing their stock; then I listened to Mrs. Devering, who was saying, "Is everybody still? Now you may go on, Dallas."
However, Mr. Devering interrupted, "There's nothing much to tell. We found your Lammie-noo, bairns, and he is at present in the woodshed in his usual sleeping place."
Another rain of questions fell on his devoted head. "Where had he found Lammie-noo? Was he hungry? Why had he left the sheep?"
"There you have me," said Mr. Devering with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "Why do human lambs and sheep and goats and kids do the queer things they do? He's home anyway—Mother, what have you been doing this afternoon?"
The children turned to Dallas. They didn't wish to talk about anything but the lamb, and my young master, whose cheeks had been getting redder and redder, and whose eyes had been devouring the faces of these lively children, burst now into a flood of talk.
Oh! how he wanted to impress them, and he certainly did. Their Dad was a second David. He had caught up a stick and half killed the wolf and wrenched his jaws from the trembling lamb. He, Dallas, had stood back in wonder at such heroism.
I saw the children's faces falling, falling while these fiery words just flew from between my young master's thin beautiful lips. What fairy tale was this, and what kind of a boy was this pale city lad?
"At last," cried Dallas, "the wolf ran away like a whipped cur."
Oh! how I wanted to help my young master, and thrusting my head out from my hiding place I neighed shrilly.
This brought young Dallas down from his high horse, and he stopped short, grew terribly pale, and his eyes ceased flashing and became dull.
He hadn't been lying as some children lie. He was a dreamer, and he really thought that what he was relating had taken place. He was trying to glorify this wonderful new relative of his—this dear, strong uncle.
However, the children didn't understand this, and while the older ones were politely silent, the smallest boy of all piped up sweetly, while he pointed his cruel little fork at Dallas, "Wolfths don't bite peoplths, they runs."
Dallas, trembling on the edge of his chair, let his eyes run up and down the rows of faces. Mr. and Mrs. Devering understood and were sorry for him. The children did not understand, and had him branded as a liar.
His self-control was just giving way, when his uncle said kindly, "Look at that pony of yours—almost on the table. Suppose you take him up to his own quarters."
Wasn't my young master grateful! He sprang up and went like a shot to my log cabin, I trotting after him.
I imagined the grown people trying to keep the children from laughing at this queer way of taking a pony to a stable, then I forgot them all in my interest in my dear young master.