Chapter Seven.
Lost in the Woods.
“Whoo-oo-oo-oop!” sang out Philip Inglis.
“Hoop—hoop—hoop!” shouted Fred as loud as he could.
And then both stopped to listen, but not a sound could they hear anything like a reply. There was a regular deep humming from the gnats and flies; the twittering of a few distant birds; but with these exceptions all was solemn silence.
The boys had been out in the woods ever since three o’clock, seeking for eggs for the cabinet, and had been very successful; but now the sun was setting, and the last rays were turning the sky overhead into one glorious golden canopy; the forest shades were getting deeper, and as Fred said, he would not have cared only it was so dreadfully quiet, and Harry was lost; and what was worse than all was, they were lost themselves; and this is how it fell out:
Mr Inglis had been talking about the collection of eggs they had in the little museum, and said he would go with the boys to Beechy Wood, to see if they could get a few more specimens; for he particularly wanted two or three eggs rather difficult to obtain, such as the great spotted woodpecker’s, hawfinch’s, and coletit’s.
“Oh, do let’s go to-day, Papa,” said Harry, clapping his hands. “That will be capital.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Philip.
“No; not to-day,” said the Squire; “I have several business matters to attend to in the town, so you had better play cricket in the field, and perhaps we may start to-morrow.”
Not the least disappointed of the trio was Fred, to whom the very name of wood sounded romantic; he almost expected to find such a cave as Ali Baba hit upon when out with his donkey, wood-cutting; or that the place they went to would be the identical forest where the redbreasts covered the unfortunate babes over with leaves when they laid down and died. But it was of no use to be disappointed; they must wait till another day, and, therefore, they went into the field to play cricket till dinner-time.
Cricket is a capital game: it looks well to see light, active figures chasing the ball when the batsman has thrown all his power into the leg hit, and sent the ball bounding and skimming far away beyond the farther fielder; then backwards and forwards run the men at the wickets, while the onlookers cheer and shout at the bowler’s prowess, as he stops the thrown-up ball, and hurls it at the wicket-keeper, who, with apparently one motion for catching and knocking off the bailes, puts the hard hitter out.
Ah, it’s a noble game, is cricket! it puts muscle on young bones, sharpness in young eyes, tone in constitution, and a readiness to meet difficulties and to parry them. Health, that rosy-cheeked goddess, seems to have chosen the game for her own, and to love to place the reflection of her own cheeks upon those of the players, and to make them ruddy brown as well. But, somehow or other, cricket grows to be rather dull and tedious when the players are idle and will not work. Everything, if it is worth doing at all, is worth doing well: the heart must be in it, and it must be done, as the sailors say, “with a will.” When you go to play cricket, it must not happen that you have your mind out in Beechy Wood seeking for woodpeckers’ nests; or else it will be something the same with you as it was with our lads on that bright July day, when things would keep going wrong. Harry would bowl too swiftly, and send the ball right past the wicket ever so far, for Philip to fetch back; and then, again, Philip would hit so savagely, and make Fred run so far after the rolling ball, which in its turn was obstinate, and would keep creeping amongst the long grass, and getting lost; or amongst the stinging-nettles, where Fred, who did not know their qualities, was stung, and had to be rubbed with dock leaves, when they could find any, which, either from idleness or their unrule-like absence, was not for some time. Then Harry sent the bailes flying with a vicious ball as soon as Fred went in for his innings, and so they were lost, and had to be found; and soon after, while Harry was in, Fred threw the ball up so sharply, that Phil, in catching, missed it, and received a blow in the stomach that made him lie down and brought the tears into his eyes, as much from vexation as pain. Then the sun would shine so hotly, and the flies tease, and the nasty cows had been all over the place where they generally played; so at last the game of cricket came to a stand-still till dinner-time; when, having left their bats and stumps in the field, they went in to the mid-day meal.
After dinner, they returned to the cricket-ground, but matters were worse than ever: the flies seemed to be savage to think that the boys had been having a hearty meal while they had been fasting, so they set to work to see if they could not take it out of them, and began by attacking Fred, then Harry, then Philip; till at last, what with the heat, the idle feeling, and the teasing of the flies, the boys gave up playing in despair, and stood lounging under the great cedar, cross, tired, and ill-tempered.
“I should like to go to bed,” said Fred.
“There’s an idle-back,” said Harry; “I shouldn’t I should like to take my clothes off, and lie down under a fountain, and let all the nice cool water trickle and splash all over me. Poof! ain’t it hot?”
“I know what I should like to do,” said Philip; “I should like to sit right up there on the top of the cedar, and rock—rock, rock—rock, backwards and forwards—looking up at the blue sky, and thinking I was a soft, downy bird.”
“Ho! ho! ho!” said Harry. “He’d look like an old cock jackdaw when he’s moulting. Ha! ha! ha! what an old stupid!”
“I don’t care,” said Philip; “I know it would be nice; wouldn’t it, Fred?”
“Well, but you couldn’t sit there; the boughs would break, and you’d come down,” said Fred. “But what makes all that thick bunch of hay and rags up there? Why, it’s a nest, isn’t it?”
“So it is,” said Harry; “why, I never saw that before. Let’s get up and get it. There’s sure to be eggs.”
“I shan’t,” said Phil; “it’s too hot.”
“What a lazy old chap you are, Phil,” said his brother. “It’s a tree-sparrow’s nest, and we haven’t got a single egg. I mean to go.”
Saying which Master Harry stripped off his blouse, threw down his cap, and commenced operations.
“Don’t go, you’ll fall,” said Fred; “it’s ever so high up, and the boughs won’t bear you.”
“Pooh!” said Harry, “I can do it;” and running along under the great branches that stretched away, drooping towards the ground, he gave a spring, and caught a bough, turned up his heels, and so made his way, hanging head downwards, to the trunk after the same fashion as he did on the day of the fishing excursion. On reaching the trunk, he scaled up from bough to bough, almost as actively as a monkey, till at last he reached the branch which bore the nest, where he stooped puzzled, for Mrs and Mr Passer must have had an eye to safety when they constructed their nest; for unless Master Harry had possessed the activity and lightness of body of the old cock jackdaw he was so lately talking about, there was no chance of his getting any of the tree-sparrow’s eggs for his collection.
“Well, why don’t you throw the nest down?” said Philip, jeeringly.
“’Cos I can’t,” said Harry. “Why don’t you come and sit up here, and look at the blue sky, and then perhaps you could? I’m not going on a thin branch that wouldn’t bear a cat.”
Whereupon down came Master Harry, all over green, and with the cedar spines sticking through his shirt, in his hair, and down his back, and making him shift and shuffle about in a most uncomfortable manner.
“I say,” said Harry, “let’s go off to the wood.”
“Papa wouldn’t like it,” said Philip; “and besides, we are going to-morrow.”
“Oh! ah! and then perhaps it will rain. Do let’s go; we could get the eggs, and Papa would be so pleased.”
“I don’t think he would,” said Fred. “My Papa would not if I went when he told me not.”
“But he didn’t tell us not,” said Harry; “and I know he would like the eggs. I’ll go.”
“That’s right,” said Philip, “but I’ll go and tell Mamma we are going.”
“No, don’t,” said Harry; “let’s tell her when we come back, because she might say you had better not go.”
“I shan’t go,” said Fred, stoutly.
“There’s a sneak,” said Harry. “Why, we could show you all sorts of things. There’s the fox’s cave; and the waterfall; and the old hollow tree that holds ten people; and the magpies’ nests; and owls, and wood-pigeons, and turtle-doves.”
“And snakes,” said Philip.
“Yes,” said Harry; “and snakes and adders, and the dark tarn where the great eels are. But never mind, you can stop; can’t he, Phil? we don’t want him. We’ll take Dick, and get some rats as we go along. I say, Fred, you can stay in Dick’s kennel, and we’ll put the collar round your neck.”
Now Fred wanted to do what was right, and would not blind himself into the belief that “Papa would be so pleased with the eggs;” for he knew his uncle would not like them to go off in the way proposed; but he was not prepared to withstand the temptations held out to him, for they were enough to turn the head of any town lad. To go to a wood was almost enough, but one with such wonders in was too much—nests and birds of such rarity. Fox cavern, waterfall, and a dark tarn, besides catching rats with the dog; he could not stand all that. And then when the sarcastic remarks of his cousin were put into the scale he was completely done for, and, turning quite reckless of the consequences, he let the scale containing duty fly up into the air, and jumped into the other with his cousins, and away they ran to loosen Dick. But this was easier said than done, for Dick could see at a glance that there was mischief afoot, and nearly ran mad with delight: he barked, he leaped, he tore at his chain, he tugged so that Harry could not unbuckle his collar; and when at last it was dragged over his head, turning his ears inside out, and making his rough hair stand up in a bigger Brutus than ever, and nearly making him blind, he raced round the yard with his mouth wide open; dashed at the old raven, and knocked him over before he could hop upon the wall, where he got at last, and shook the dust off his feathers with an angry “jark;” while Dick, withy staring eyes and his tongue hanging out, ran right between Philip’s legs, made a feint at Fred, and then leaped right on Harry, who caught hold of his short stumpy tail as he went down and dragged him towards the gate.
“Whoop,” and away; over the field right to the far corner, where the cattle drank from the little horse-pond, which was black with podnoddles, wagging and waving their little tails in their hurry to get into deep water. “Whoop,” and away along the lane; all idleness and fatigue forgotten, and every nerve strained to reach the wished-for spot, which was only about two miles from the field where the lads played at cricket.
“Last man there to have two kicks,” said Harry, just as he was well in front, and starting off at full speed, but passed in a moment by Dick, who raced away, making believe to discover a treasure every two minutes; and sniffing and barking at every rat or rabbit hole they passed. Off and away—Harry in front with Dick, Philip next, and Fred panting in the rear, hot and out of breath with his run, and asking his companions to stop.
“Whup! whup! whup! yaff! yaff!” said Dick, as they came up to a field containing a flock of sheep, heavy with their long wool; and over the hedge he went headlong amongst them, making the poor timid, stupid creatures run as fast as their legs would carry them, with their heavy fleeces touzling and shaking about till each sheep looked like a magnified thrum mop being shaken to get rid of the water. A fine game did Dick have of it, for as soon as ever he stopped and gave a farewell bark—as much as to say, “There, I’ve done”—and began to retrace his steps, the sheep would come to a stand-still, stare after him as though he were some unknown monster, never before seen or heard of, and then begin to follow him up, slowly at first, but afterwards at a canter. Now, of course Dick couldn’t stand this running away, and all the sheep apparently in chase of him; so he was obliged to turn round and keep making charges at the flock; and, consequently, poor Dick, in thus being so particular about his honour, would never have got out of the field, for every time he chased the sheep away they followed him up again; and it was all the fault of one great, black-faced, chuckle-headed wether, who was so stupid that he couldn’t keep quiet, and of course all the sheep kept following him, for he had a tinkling copper bell attached to his neck, which seemed to be an especial abhorrence to Dick, from the way he barked at it. But at last the dog heard a summons that he could not disobey, namely, a long whistle from his young masters; so making one last furious charge at the old bell wether, and actually scattering the forces as he got hold of him by the wool. Dick rushed after his masters, and caught them at last with a lot of wool in his mouth, which was entangled in his teeth, and made him cough and sputter dreadfully.
At last they reached the edge of the wood, into which Dick dashed with a leap and a bound, running his nose down amongst the dead leaves, and smelling an enemy in every bush, and at last giving chase to a squirrel which ran across the open to a great beech-tree, up which it scampered until it reached the forked boughs, where it sat with its tail curled up, looking tormentingly down upon his pursuer Dick, who rushed headlong at the tree, scrambled up a couple of feet, and then came down flop upon his back, without the squirrel of course; but he made up for it by running round and round the trunk, barking, baying, and snapping in impotent rage, while little nut-nibbler gave a sort of “skirr,” and then ran up the tree, leaped to the next, and the next, and disappeared in his hole far up the trunk of a great elm. Harry now took the lead down the narrow path that led into the wood, parting the tangled branches every now and then to get through, and all the time looking carefully round for nests. They very soon heard the harsh cry of the jay, who was letting all the inhabitants of the woodlands know that enemies were at hand, and away flew the birds. The blackbird was the first to take the alarm from the jay, and away he flew, crying, “Kink, kink, kink,” as he started from his nest in a great ivy tod on an old pollard-tree. The lads soon found the nest, and peeped in, but instead of eggs there were four wretched-looking little objects, all eyes and beak, with long, scraggy necks, wide throats, and naked bodies with little downy tufts upon them. All three had a peep, while Dick snapped his teeth together as though to say he would like to make a meal of one or all of them; but the callow brood was left unmolested for their yellow-billed parents to take care of, while Harry led the way to the fox’s cave. This, however, proved rather a disappointment to Fred, who had been picturing to himself a huge stalactite cavern, which they would require torches to explore, while the cave in question proved to be only a hole in the side of a gravelly ravine, big enough to creep in, certainly, but anything but majestic in appearance; while the probabilities were that a fox had never been in it since it was a hole. However, it was called the fox’s cave, and that was enough.
The waterfall was certainly better worthy of attention, for a tiny stream trickled over a huge mossy rock, and fell with a musical plash into a little rocky basin full of clear water; and all around it in the damp soil grew mosses and ferns of luxuriant size. It was just such a spot as the old poets used to write about—cool, and shaded from the heat and glare of the sun; but, instead of there being wood-nymphs and satyrs in the little dell, there was nothing but the three young visitors, and plenty of toads and frogs which crawled and hopped away as fast as ever they could.
“Oh, what a pretty place!” said Fred; “do let’s stop here. Look, look,” he exclaimed, “what’s that?” as, like a streak of blue light, a bird with rapid flight came down the dell, perched upon a bare twig just long enough for the boys to see his bright colours, and then, seeing himself watched, darted away again.
“That’s a kingfisher,” said Philip. “He’s got a nest here, somewhere, I know. Let’s look, for we must have some of the eggs, if we can. Perhaps the hen-bird is sitting somewhere close by.”
The boys then set to work searching the bushes of the little rivulet that flowed from the basin, and no doubt their search would have been in vain, but for the timid hen-bird, who flew out from the hole where, sure enough, she was sitting, and betrayed the place in which her nest had been made.
It was a hole in the overhanging bank, and Harry had little difficulty in thrusting his hand in and drawing out three eggs, which he carefully deposited in his pocket.
They then followed the course of the rivulet for about a quarter of a mile to where it emptied itself into the tarn or little lake of which Harry had spoken. It was indeed a dark tarn, with water looking almost black from its depth, which was said to be enormous, and here some gigantic eels were supposed to dwell, though nobody had ever caught, nobody had ever seen, and nobody ever heard of any being either seen or caught; but still eels of a mighty size were said to be in the tarn, and the reason for their not being caught was supposed to be the depth. As they came up to the lake, Dick ran on first and dashed into the reeds at the side, splashing and paddling about, and here and there taking to swimming. Just as he entered one great tuft of green reeds, rushes, and withes, there was an extra amount of splashing, and away flew, or rather ran along the surface of the water, a moorhen, with her thin attenuated toes just paddling the surface.
“Hooray,” said Harry, calling Dick off, “here’s a nest; moorhen’s eggs, boys, moorhen’s eggs!” and off he started to reach the nest; but here Master Harry was as badly off as when in the cedar-tree at home, for the moorhen had evidently intended to keep human visitors away, and Harry found that the coveted eggs, if any, were certainly not upon terra firma. Every step the lad took showed more plainly how treacherous was the surface round the tarn; for it was entirely composed of bog-moss—that pretty moss that turns of a creamy white, tinged with pink or salmon colour, when dried—and soon Master Harry could only progress by stepping daintily upon the little bunches of heath that grew amidst it, or upon the occasional tufts of last year’s dead reeds and rushes. But, light as the boy was, he soon found this mode of progression would not do, for, making a bound on to what looked a particularly dry spot, in he went up to his knees in the soft bog, and it was only with great difficulty that he scrambled out again to where his brother and Fred stood laughing and cheering him.
“I don’t care,” said Harry, shaking himself like a dog; “I don’t mind being wet, and, now I am wet, I mean to have the eggs.”
“No, don’t,” said Fred, “you’ll sink in.”
“No, I shan’t,” said Harry; “I mean to make a corduroy-road, like they do over the swamps in America, that we read about.”
“Ah, that will be capital,” said Philip; “come on.”
And so the lads set to work, and in amongst the trees close by they soon found a large dead branch, and laid it down across the first soft place, and they very soon would have had a firm pathway to the moorhen’s nest, but for the simple reason that they were not provided with woodcutter’s axes, ropes, etc; the consequence was, that they could find no more wood fit for the purpose, and Harry’s corduroy-road was composed only of one cord.
“Oh,” said Philip, “don’t I wish we had a lot of the faggots out of the stack-yard.”
“Let’s fetch some,” said Fred, which would have been a capital plan, only the faggots would have been rather awkward things to carry through the thick underwood; and, besides, they could only have carried one each, and home was now about four miles off, while they would have wanted at least twenty.
“What a jolly bother!” said Philip. “Why don’t you go round the other side, Harry, and swim?”
“You go,” said Harry: “I’d go, if it wasn’t for the eels, and the water being so deep; I wouldn’t mind, if it was only eight or nine feet, but they say it’s hundreds of feet to the bottom.”
But Philip did not feel disposed to go, and Fred could not swim, so, to their great disappointment, they were obliged to leave the moorhen’s nest,—with at least a dozen eggs in, so Harry said; but, as he had been very little nearer to the receptacle than his brother and cousin, this statement was rather of a doubtful nature; still, as the others had not been so near, they did not feel themselves justified in contradicting, neither did they wish to, so the party reluctantly left the much-coveted treasure, the two wet members of the party—namely, Dick and Harry—leading the way further into the wood.
And now there were so many objects to take attention, that the professed purpose of the trip was quite forgotten, till Harry by chance spied a woodpecker just entering a hole in a hollow tree, and then called his companions’ attention to the fact. To scale the tree was the work of a very few minutes, and, to Harry’s intense delight, he found the hole sufficiently large to admit his hand and arm, and this time he was successful, for he drew forth with great care, one at a time, three woodpecker’s eggs, which he placed its his cap, and then descended.
So far the trip had been most successful, for they had obtained the eggs generally reckoned as scarce in most parts of the country, from the secluded habits of the birds; and now the lads turned their attention to find the nest of a turtle-dove. The part of the wood they were in was very thick and full of underwood, a large proportion of which consisted of hazel stubs so dense that, almost before they were aware of it, Fred and Philip were separated from Harry and Dick; and when they did miss them, and called out, a faint and distant “Halloo!” was the response.
“Never mind,” said Philip, “I’m tired. Let’s sit down here and let him come to us.”
Saying which he took his seat upon the mossy trunk of an old fallen tree, an example which Fred was not long in following; and there they waited, enjoying the delicious sensation of rest felt in a shady spot after a long, toilsome walk, and thinking very little about poor Harry.
“What a while Harry is,” said Fred at last; “isn’t he coming?”
“Oh, yes; he’ll be here presently,” said Philip; “he’ll be sure to find us.”
After a few minutes’ pause, “What’s that?” said Fred, pointing to some rustling and moving leaves close by the opening where they sat.
“Hush,” said Philip; “don’t move; it’s a stoat or a weasel. You’ll see him directly;” and in a moment after a long thin body came creeping out from the herbage. But it was neither weasel nor stoat, but a very large snake, which came right across the open space they were in—making Fred turn quite pale, for his imagination immediately whispered to him of poison fangs, rattlesnakes, cobras, and all sorts of venomous brutes. But the snake had no idea of touching the intruders on the silence of the forest, but made directly for a spot upon the other side of the opening, which he would soon have reached if it had depended upon Fred; but Philip possessed the animosity of his race against the serpent tribe, so caught up a rough branch that he had previously broken from a tree and slightly trimmed with his knife, and rushed after the retreating snake.
The poor thing struggled hard for its life and liberty, but in spite of its struggles and menacing attitude, Philip struck at it boldly with his stick and soon rendered his adversary hors de combat, when the victor dragged his prize to his companion, and displayed to his wondering gaze a snake upwards of a yard long, and very thick. Philip then secured his trophy by slipping a noose of whipcord over its head, and tying it to his stick.
At last, time slipped by and no Harry made his appearance, while plenty of indications showed that evening was fast closing in: moths began to flutter about the different leaves; every now and then, too, came the low evening drowsy hum of the cockchafer, while Fred gave a regular jump when a gigantic stag-beetle stuck him right in the cheek and then fell crawling about in his lap.
“Ouf!” said Fred, “take the beast off. Is it poisonous?”
Philip laughed heartily at his cousin, as he assured him to the contrary; but the beetle saved him the trouble of brushing his horny body away by making a fresh flight, and disappearing over the trees.
“Come on,” said Philip, “let’s go.”
“But how about Harry?” said Fred.
“Oh, we’ll go and find him,” and so the lads pushed right ahead as they thought, and in the direction in which Harry’s voice was last heard; but they soon grew bewildered, and at last stood gazing disconsolately at one another, and then, as is stated at the beginning of this chapter, “Whoo-oo-oo-oop!” sang out Philip.
“Hoop—hoop—hoop!” shouted Fred as loudly as he could, and then, feeling the loneliness oppress him more than he could bear, he sat down on a stump, and seemed half disposed to cry.
“Oh, I say,” said Philip, who was nearly as bad, “don’t look like that, or we shall never get out of the wood. Don’t you know what a many times Robert Bruce tried before he got his kingdom? Let’s try again; the wood is not so very big, and we must come out somewhere.”
“Do you think we ever shall get out again?” said Fred.
“Oh, of course we shall,” said Philip, “and there ain’t no wild beasts or anything of that kind, so come on and let’s start.”
And start they did—creeping through some bushes, pushing others aside, but somehow or another getting flogged by the returning twigs, and scratched by the brambles in a way they had not suffered in the morning. Once Fred tripped over a stump and fell heavily down, where he lay crying silently, but without trying to get up again; and it was only by Philip dragging at him that he could be got upon his legs. Duskier grew the wood, till under the big trees it was quite dark; but Philip pressed manfully on, though he felt completely bewildered; still his good sense told him that they must eventually find an outlet.
On and on they went, slowly and toilsomely, and still nothing but trees and bushes, looking gloomy and shadowy—very different to the appearance presented in the afternoon when the sun shone upon them, sending a checkery shade amongst the waving grass; and at last Philip felt his heart sink within him at the hopelessness of his task. All at once a happy thought struck the boy as they stood in a more open space, where they could see the stars shining down brightly upon them.
“I say, Fred,” he said, “hasn’t your papa ever told you about how the people used to guide their ships by the stars.”
“No,” said Fred moodily, “but I have heard they used to.”
“Well” said Philip, “let’s see if we can’t get out that way. I think we can. I know which is the North-pole star, because Papa showed them all to us; and there it is,” said the boy, joyfully, “That’s the north, and right hand will be west, and left hand east; no, it won’t, it will be right hand east, and left hand west. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I dare say it is,” said Fred, dolefully.
“Well, when we are at home the wood lies in the west, because the sun sets behind it in the evening, so we must travel to the east, and then we shall be going towards home; and we have been going south, because I was looking that way, and had to turn round to find the Pole Star. Come on, Fred, we’ll soon be home now.”
“Oh, dear,” said Fred, “let’s lie down and go to sleep; I’ve got such a blister on my toe.”
“No, come on,” said the other, “for poor Mamma will be so frightened.”
“Oh, and won’t Uncle be cross?” said Fred.
This last remark almost frightened Philip out of his hurry to get home, for he directly felt disposed to put off the evil—the scolding that he expected to receive; but the knowledge that it would be making bad worse, if he loitered now, made him summon up the determination to proceed; and it required no little determination, for, since they had been star-gazing, their joints had grown stiff; aches and pains had come upon them; and they both would have given anything to have gone to sleep where they were.
“Oh, do come on,” said Philip at last, roughly shaking Fred. “It ain’t far now; for I remember that the wood is very long, but not very broad from east to west, so if we keep walking east we shall soon get out.”
So onward they pressed again, very slowly and laboriously, for about another half-hour, and then Philip stumbled and fell, for a spiteful bramble had caught him by the foot, and the poor boy could hold up no longer; he had cheered his cousin on in every way he could, and taken the lead throughout, though his heart was sinking, and he knew the trouble all proceeded from their own folly; but though he kept down his faint-heartedness and tried manfully to put a bold face on the matter, he was beaten, thoroughly beaten, at last, and lay upon the dewy grass, completely jaded, and without energy or spirit to make another attempt, while Fred, seeing his cousin’s heart fail, broke down as well.
But all at once Philip’s eyes brightened, and he started up as though touched by the wire of an electrical machine.
“Bow-wow-wow; wuph, wuph, wuph!” sounded upon the clear night air.
“Trill—lill—lill—lill—chug—chug—chug—chug—chug!” rang out the sweet notes of a nightingale close by; and then again—
“Bow-wow-wow; wuph, wuph, wuph!” from a dog apparently not far off.
“Come on,” said Philip again, with fresh energy; and casting one glance up at the stars, he pushed forward due east for about a dozen yards with Fred close behind him, and then, forcing his way through a dense hazel stub, he made a step forward, slipped, and went down crash into a deep ditch. But he did not stop in despair this time, although scratched and bruised, for he was out of the wood, and leaping up he stood upon the green turf by the side of the white chalky road.
“Jump, Fred,” he exclaimed, “right over the ditch.”
Fred jumped; but instead of jumping right over he jumped right in, and had to be helped out by Philip; but he shared in his companion’s renewed spirit, and now stood with him in the dusty road looking about.
“Bow-wow-wow; wuph, wuph!” barked the dog again.
“Why, I know where we are,” said Philip; “that’s Mr Benson’s farm, and we are six miles away from home. Never mind; let’s go and tell Mrs Benson, I know she will let us rest a little while.”
Fred was willing enough, and in a minute or two they stood under the porch of the old farm-house, with the dewy roses bending over them as they rapped at the door; while all the time the dog in the yard rattled his chain, and made a terrible disturbance.
“If you please, Mrs Benson,” said Philip, as the door opened and a comely, motherly young face appeared; “if you please, Mrs Benson, we lost our way in the wood—and—and—and—and oh, dear! oh, dear; what shall I do!” sobbed poor Philip, now out of his peril but thoroughly beaten, “what shall I do?” and then he sobbed and cried as though his heart would break, Fred helping him him to the best of his ability.
“Why, thee poor dear bairns!” said Mrs Benson; “come in, and sit thee down.—Why, one of ’em’s Squire Inglis’s Philip, John,” she continued to her husband, “and here they be ammost bet out.”
Mrs Benson could talk, but she could act as well, and she soon had the two lads upon the snug “keeping-room” sofa.
“Bless thou, my poor bairns!” she exclaimed; and then in a breath to her husband. “Thou’dst better send Tom over to the Grange, and tell them where the poor things are, or they’ll be frightened to death; and let him tell Mrs Inglis well drive them over as we go to market in the morning.”
So off packed Mr Benson to send the messenger, while his wife bustled the great red-armed maid about; and then with warm water and towels bathed the boys’ faces and hands, and brushed their hairs, as though she had done it every day since they were babies; while during all this time the red-armed maid had spread a cloth on one end of the table and tea-things on the other, while Farmer Benson, who had been taking his evening pipe and hot gin and water when the boys knocked at the door, now insisted upon their each taking a sip or two out of his glass. Directly after there was a steaming hot cup of tea before each visitor, with plenty of rich yellow cream in it, while Mrs Benson cut from a sweet-scented light-brown-crusted home-baked loaf slices which were as though made of honeycomb, and which she gilded over with the bright golden butter from her own snowy churn. Mr Benson; too, he could not be idle, so he cut two great wedges out of a raised pork pie, and placed in the boys’ plates—pie that looked all of a rich marble jelly, veined with snow-white fat, and so tempting after some hours’ ramble in the woods.
“I ham glad thou came, bairns,” said Mrs Benson, kissing her visitors in the most motherly way imaginable.
“Ay, lads, and so am I; but there, doan’t take on. Yeat, lads, yeat, and then ye’ll soon be all right again.”
And the boys choked down their sobs, and did “yeat” in a way that made their worthy host and hostess smile with pleasure, as well as to see the faces that a few minutes before looked so worn, pale, and wretched, brightening up under the treatment their complaint was receiving.
All at once Philip came to a stand-still, and said, “I wonder where Harry is?”
“What! was he out with thee?” said the farmer and his wife.
“Yes,” said Philip, “and he had got Dick with him.”
“Ah!” said the farmer, “I don’t know Dick. Who’s he?”
“Why, our rough dog,” said Philip; “the ratter.”
“Oh, ah, ha!” said the farmer; “so he had Dick with him, had he?”
“Yes,” said Philip, mournfully, and with another great sob creeping up his throat.
“Theer, theer,” said Mr Benson, “doan’t do that, bairn. He’s safe enough if he’s got that dog wi’ him; he’d be sewer to find the way out o’ the wood.”
This seemed to act as a kind of comfort to Philip, who resumed his meal, but only to find out a new trouble directly after. “Where’s my snake?” he exclaimed, jumping up, and looking at the end of the rough stick he had brought in with him. But nobody knew, so nobody replied to his question; the snake was gone, for it had not been even remembered all through the time of their bewilderment, and now that it was brought to mind there was not even a trace of the whipcord.
“Now, my dears,” said Mrs Benson, seeing that the lads had finished their meal,—“now, my dears, I have had clean sheets put on the best bed, so, if I was you, I should go and have a good rest.”
But Mrs Benson’s motherly ideas were put to the rout by the sound of wheels and directly after a horse was pulled up at the gate. Some one rapped at the door, and, upon its being opened, in rushed Dick, closely followed by Mr Inglis, Harry, and Mr Benson’s lad, Tom, who had not gone far upon the road before he met the above party in search of the lost ones. They had been making inquiries all down the road at every cottage they passed, and it was during one of these stoppages that Tom recognised Mr Inglis’s voice, and brought him on to the farm.
The first act of Dick on entering the room was to leap upon Philip and Fred, and bark as loudly as he could—scampering round the place, and at last misbehaving so much that he had to be turned out, to stay outside the door, howling, till his master was ready to start again.
Harry, who looked a perfect scarecrow, grinned with delight upon seeing his lost companions found, while Mr Inglis warmly thanked the farmer and his wife for their hospitality, and then, refraining from uttering any words of blame, hurried the lads into the four-wheeled chaise, so as to hasten home to quiet the alarm of Mrs Inglis, who was, of course, in a state of great anxiety.
“Good-byes” were said, and promises made to go and see Mrs Benson again, and then off trotted the horse, and round spun the wheels; while Dick every now and then gave a short bark, evidently of pleasure at being allowed to ride. As for Philip and Fred, they were both soon fast asleep, with their heads nodding and rolling about enough to shake them off.
At last the Grange was reached, Mrs Inglis’s fears set at rest, and, half-asleep, all three boys were soon up in their bedrooms, and the next morning, when the eight o’clock bell rang, more soundly asleep than ever, so that they had to be shaken and shouted at to make them get up, which they did at last, yawning fearfully, and feeling so stiff, sore, and aching, that they could scarcely move.
Chapter Eight.
A short Scolding.
Soon after breakfast on the morning after the wander in Beechy Wood, Mr Inglis sent for his sons and Fred to come to the library, into which room they all walked, after having almost a scuffle outside the door to decide who should be the first to enter, the scuffle resulting in Fred being made the advance-guard, and pushed in before his cousins; Harry, being the most active, securing to himself the last place. The boys were in a dreadful fidget: they had done wrong, and they knew it well, and therefore felt prepared to receive a terrible scolding; but the anticipation proved worse than the punishment itself, for Mr Inglis looked up smiling when they entered, and seeing Harry’s scheming to get last, called him at once to the front, and said—
“Now, boys, you see that if you had behaved rightly yesterday all that trouble and inconvenience would have been spared to us all. I cannot say that you acted in direct disobedience to what you were told, for you had no commands; but you all well knew that you had no right to go to Beechy Wood, which is of course proved by your hiding your intentions from Mamma. But, there, I am not going to scold, for you have all been well punished; but, my boys, I want you to promise me one thing, and that is, that full confidence shall always exist between us. I want my boys to grow up men of honour—Englishmen whose word and every action can be looked upon as the very essence of truth and openness. I want you to love, and not to fear me; and, there now, that’s all over, we must not make Fred miserable, so we will dine early, and start this afternoon for a couple of hours’ fishing; so bustle about, boys, and get all the baits and tackle ready.”
But they could not bustle just then, for—
But, there, I won’t say anything about it, for the library door was shut, and of course I could only be supposed to know what took place from seeing some eyes looking rather red, and hearing noses blown rather loudly, besides knowing that all three boys wanted dry pocket handkerchiefs, when at last they did come out of the library, Mr Inglis shaking hands with them as he closed the door.
As they stood upon the mat outside, “I say,” said Harry, with a great gulp something like a sob, “I say, ain’t he a jolly father?”
Chapter Nine.
Which is rather fishy.
That very same afternoon, Dusty Bob was in the mill, looking dustier than ever, and trying, as he sat upon a sack of corn that had come to be ground, to spell out the contents of the county paper; but he did not get on very fast, for the white or papery part had, through ill-usage, turned very black, and the black or printed part, by means of the fine flour dust, turned very white. Joining to this the fact that Bob was, as he expressed it, “no skollard,” it may easily be judged that he did not arrive at very correct ideas respecting the news of the day, or rather of the day a month ago; for Dusty Bob did not indulge in the luxury of new news, but bought it fifth, sixth, or seventh hand, not disdaining sometimes the piece which had come from the grocer’s shop wrapping up the pound of salt. The mill was not quite so noisy this afternoon as upon the last occasion when we were all here together, for the flood had gone down, and there was no rush and hurried turmoil from the portion of the river passing down by the waste-water, while the mill wheels turned slowly and steadily round as a sheet of crystal clearness flowed upon them from the great dam.
“Ah, aw, yaw—yaw, aw,” said Bob, bursting out into such a yawn that his not very handsome face looked as if it had been cut in two. “Aw, yaw, aw, aw, heigho—ha, ha—hum.”
“Knock, knock; rap, rap, rap.”
“Hah! more corn; more corn; more corn. Tain’t no use to bring’t, a bit; for we have more noo than we’ve got watter for; and then yow’ll come grummle, grummle, grummle, because ’tisn’t doone; sow yow’d betther tak’t somewheres else.”
“Knock, knock; rap, rap, rap,” came the summons at the gate again; and this time, instead of muttering and “grumbling” to himself, Dusty Bob got up and went to see who was there.
“Sarvant, sir,” said Bob, as he saw who it was, and then burst out into a grin; for behind Squire Inglis stood his visitors of a few days before, and Bob was luxuriating in the recollection of how he had restored the lost basket of fish.
“Well, Bob,” said Mr Inglis, entering the mill, followed by the three boys, each armed with a fishing-rod and basket, big enough apparently to hold a great many more fish than they would catch that afternoon; “Well, Bob,” said Mr Inglis, “how are you off for fish?”
“Heaps on ’em, sir, down below in the pool; but I’m ’feard they weant feed, for it’s rather a bad time. Thou’d best fish off the right bank just over the stream from number one wheel. There be plenty o’ fishing, for this mornin’, only, when the mill was stopped for half-an-hour, the great fat chub lay a-top of the water as long as your arm ammost; but I’m most ’feard that the roach weant look at a bait.”
Bob then led the way through the mill, and the fishing-party soon stood on the long, narrow, tree-o’ershadowed strip of land that separated the mill tail from the waste-water; and here, where the stream ran swiftly and deeply, did the party prepare to secure some of the finny treasures.
Rods were quickly put together; lines securely fixed; and best new gut hooks added. Then the depth was plumbed; the floats adjusted and shotted to the correct “cock;” and then hooks baited, and ground-bait of bran and clay and rice thrown upon the mill apron, to dissolve slowly and spread all over the pool. Lastly, lines are thrown in, and silence proclaimed, so that the first nibbles might be duly attended to.
In every place where there are fish one is sure to hear of a mighty jack that lies out in some particular part, and is occasionally seen in the early morning, or basking in the mid-day sun, looking almost as big as a man,—in fact, so big that nobody could catch him, one that ever so many fishermen had had hold of, but which always broke away and escaped; and somehow or other, although this mighty fellow must have swallowed and got stuck in his mouth and gills enough hooks, and trailing away from him enough line, to stock a small shop, yet, leave alone being caught, he never even dies, and floats wrong way up on the top of the water. Well, this was the case here: Bob had seen a pike so big that no mortal rod and line could ever bear it; he could tell of somewhere about ten or a dozen fishermen who had once had hold of him, so that Mr Jack must have thought no more of the sharpest barbed hooks than he would of so many quill toothpicks.
“Lord, sir,” said Bob, “whoy doan’t thee trowl for the big jack? I see him this morning ligging a-top of the waiter like a big log o’ wood.”
“Indeed, Bob; well, I’ll try for a few chub first, and then, if unsuccessful, see what I can do in the pike way.”
So Mr Inglis fished very patiently and quietly for some time, and tried two or three different kinds of bait to tempt the chubby fellows; but they would not be tempted, until at last a small gudgeon was placed on the hook, one which Fred had caught, being the first fish taken that afternoon, for Bob had turned out a very respectable prophet, and the boys were having very poor sport indeed.
And now Mr Inglis tried in all the most likely spots for a chub with his live-bait, and at last one took it, was struck, and then darted away swift as an arrow from a bow—right, left, straight ahead, through the smooth water, and off again where the stream ran swiftest; but it was of no avail; the line that he had run out was wound up, and the fine fellow drawn inshore so closely that Harry could put the landing-net under him, and then, with a tremendous burst of impotent flapping and splashing, a great chub about two pounds and a half weight was laid upon the grass, with his broad scales glistening in the sun.
“That’s a napper,” said Bob.
“Oh—oh—oh—oh!” burst in chorus from the boys—a shout of pleasure nearly turned into a groan, for Philip, in lifting the fish to put him in the basket, felt it give a great spring, which so startled him that he dropped it, so there it lay close to the edge of the wood embankment, and a single flap of his tail would have borne him away; but time enough was not allowed, for Harry pounced upon him like a cat after a mouse, and, in spite of his slimy jacket, he was soon safely shut down in one of the baskets.
The boys kept on with indifferent success—only securing a few small roach and gudgeon; and Mr Inglis, too, seemed as though he would have no further good fortune, for the chub appeared to have turned sulky because their big companion was taken away, and would not even smell the gudgeon. At last, however, Mr Inglis made a cast, and the little bait-fish fell lightly just beneath a bush close under the bank; when there was a rush through the water, and a swirling that took everybody’s attention, and then, as Mr Inglis swiftly drew out the line from off his reel, away it glided through the rings of the rod, yard after yard—yard after yard—swifter and swifter—as though the fish that had taken the gudgeon meant to run the line all out; and sure enough it did the whole fifty yards; and Mr Inglis was reaching out his rod as far as he could stretch his hand, so as to avoid checking the fish, if possible, and so losing it, when the line suddenly grew slack. There all eyes were strained towards the spot where the large tell-tale cork-float slowly rose to the surface, and its white top could be seen stationary right on the far side of the mill-pool. What little slack line there was, Mr Inglis now wound in, and telling Harry to be ready with the landing-net, he waited patiently for a few minutes to give the fish time to gorge his prey, though, from the way in which the float had run to the surface, he was afraid that the fish had left his bait. At last, Mr Inglis gathered the line up in his hand, and gave a sharp twist of his wrist, and all eyes were bent upon the spot to witness the struggle; but alas! there was no resistance. The great float glided easily over the water, and then Mr Inglis began to wind in, for it was evident that the pike had merely taken the bait because he could not bear to see it pass him—not because he was hungry—and then, after playing with it, let it go again.
“Never mind, boys,” said the Squire, “better success next time.”
The words, however, were hardly out of his mouth, when there was a tremendous swirl and rush again in the water; and away with a bob—bob—bob—went the float, then under water, and out of sight once more.
There was another pause of five minutes, and then again Mr Inglis drew in what slack line there was very carefully, waited another minute, when, the float again rose to the surface, but only to move off in another direction, for it was evident that the pike had this time well taken the bait.
And now followed moments of interest, as the Squire struck the fish, and then gave him line, for with one flick of his great tail he went across the pool in a fresh direction, luckily making a great deal of slack line as he did so. The battle now began in real earnest, for every time the pike felt the line tightened away he darted, first in one direction, and then in another, while once he came close in to where his tormentor was standing, so that a great deal of the running line was wound in; but, the moment after, he started off with a swifter rush than ever right across the pool, making the line sing and the winch spin furiously, as the thin cord ran through the rings as it was reeled off. Mr Inglis had to slightly check the line so as to retard his progress, or else most probably the cord would have been snapped; but no sooner did the fish find that he was held than he made a leap of fully a yard right out of the water, displaying to the lookers-on his great gold and green sides, and looking, in the momentary glance that was afforded, almost a yard long.
In he dashed again, full of fury, and round and round, and backwards and forwards, he was played; at one time sweeping right up to the mill wheels, and nearly getting the line entangled in the piles; then making a mighty spurt to gain the river where the weeds grew so thickly; but he got no farther than the sandy bar at the mouth of the pool, where he had to turn on one side to swim in the shallows, for here he was checked again, and brought back almost unresisting into the deep water, his master’s rod bending like a cart-whip as the fish was dragged back. And so for nearly half an hour did the battle continue, the fish being gently brought back after every dash he made, for Mr Inglis dared not attempt to land the monster till he was thoroughly exhausted; and well was it that the line was one of the newest and strongest, or the slight silk cord would never have borne the strain that was put upon it... But it held good, and now the exhausted fish seemed to make its last effort to escape; and it was very nearly a successful one, for, after darting about ten yards almost to the bottom of the pool, Mr Inglis found that there was some extra resistance, and that the line was entangled.
Had this happened earlier in the struggle, the pike must have been lost, for the line would have snapped; but now the fish had fought out his fight, and scarcely attempted to move, while Dusty Bob, who had been watching the proceedings with the most intense interest, went to the mill-yard and fetched the great rake he used to clear the weeds away with, and by means of a little raking he got hold of the obstruction, which upon being drawn to the surface proved to be an old branch, and round a rugged part the line was just hitched. A sharp blow from the rake snapped the bough in two, and the line was again at liberty, the great fish being drawn to the side at the mouth of the pool, where the water was only a few inches deep, and landed amidst a burst of cheers from the delighted boys, while even Bob gave a loud “Hooray,” though he seemed rather sorry than otherwise that the water should lose so fine a fish; but the “Hooray” was brought forth by the thoughts of a prospective shilling which Mr Inglis would most likely give him, and then perhaps he would have to carry the fish home as well, and get some bread and cheese and ale up at the house.
So “Hooray,” said Dusty Bob, with a most hypocritical countenance; and “Hooray—ay—ay—ay—ay—ay,” cheered the boys again; and there were no end of epithets lavished upon the fish, such as “Beauty,” “Monster,” “Jolly one.” etc, etc, for the admiration of the party seemed boundless.
Bob then had to carry the pike into the mill, where it was put into the flour-scales and weighed, and found to balance nineteen pounds and a half in the weight-scale—an announcement which was received with renewed cheers; and upon measurement he was found to be two feet six inches long; while of all the mouths that ever pike had, his seemed the widest and fullest of long hooked teeth—projecting backwards, so as to render it impossible for a fish to escape out of his jaws if once he caught hold of it.
This brought the fishing to a conclusion for that afternoon; and so the lines were wound up, rods disjointed and placed in their bags, and all the rest of the angling paraphernalia collected into the baskets, while one was expressly devoted to the fish. But now a new difficulty arose—the chub could be got into the basket, but how about a pike two feet six inches long? Then, too, Bob wanted to carry the pike right up to the house—evidently meaning to make a show of it by the way, so as to be asked to have a glass of beer or two for his trouble. But this was an honour that Bob was not to have, for the boys were almost squabbling as to who should have the duty. Fred, however, soon backed out, for while touching the pike, and feeling its weight, it bent itself like a bow, and then gave such a spring that he jumped away as thou eh be had been shot, and directly waived all claims to the honour of carriage, which now lay between Harry and Philip, who at last grew so warm on the subject, that one had hold of the head and the other the tail, the latter place of vantage being occupied by Harry, and a matter of French and English tugging was about to commence when Mr Inglis interposed, and settled the matter by arranging that Philip should carry the trophy half-way, and Harry the remainder: which decision had hardly been arrived at, when Master Harry must try whether the pike would bite; which he did by holding the gasping mouth to the tail of Dusty Bob’s coat.
Whether sensible that it was biting or no, the fish’s mouth closed upon the floury cloth, and held there with such tenacity that the piece had to be cut out—so firmly were the jagged and hooked teeth inserted in the woolly fabric.
This, of course, produced a scolding for Master Harry for his mischievous trick, and a piece of coin for Bob to get the hole repaired; and then the party returned in triumph to tea—the boys as proud of their acquisition as any Roman conqueror who led his treasure-burdened slave through the streets of the city of Romulus.