Chapter Ten.
A sad Affair.
“Oh do come in, Fred!” said Harry, blowing and splashing about in the water like a small whale, on the day following the fishing excursion. The lads were down by the side of the river, in a spot called Withy Nook—a green snug place entirely sheltered from all observation—a spot with the emerald grass sloping down to where the river ran by, sparkling and dancing in the golden sunlight, flashing back the bright rays from the tiny wavelets, and making the golden waterlilies rise and fall as they rode upon the bright surface. The water was so limpid that the sand and clean washed pebbles could be easily seen at the bottom, except when the water was put in a state of turmoil by the antics of the two boys who were bathing.
“Oh do come in, Fred!” echoed Philip; “it isn’t a bit cold, and not deep; and you ought to learn to float and swim.”
“Oh come on,” said Harry again.
Fred felt that he would like to go in and have a dip, for the water looked so cool and bright and clear; but there was a certain amount of timidity to be got over; he had never been in anything but a bath in his life, and plunging at once into a river was a novel feat that he could hardly summon courage to attempt. But at last the persuasions of his cousins had the desired effect, and Fred quickly undressed, and then stood upon the bank, afraid to take his first dip; but again were the persuasions of his cousins brought into play, and the London boy took his first step into the water, and then made a half slip, so that he came down sideways and went right under the surface, but regained his feet, with the water singing and rumbling in his ears, his eyes close shut, and the drops streaming down him as fast as they could run.
“Oh—ah—ah,” said Fred, gasping.
“Haw—haw—haw!” burst from Harry, as he laughed heartily at his cousin.
“Don’t grin like that, Hal,” said Philip, helping Fred out of his difficulty, and steadying him as he stood breast high in the water, rubbing his eyes, and trying to get rid of the feeling of bewilderment that had come over him upon his sudden immersion.
“Oh, isn’t it queer?” said Fred, as soon as he had finished gasping, and spitting out the water he had in his mouth.
“Not a bit of it,” said Harry, “only you were in such a hurry to get under the water. Now, then, try and swim: see me go dog’s paddle,” and then the young dog set to paddling away as though he had lived in the water half his lifetime. “Hold his chin up, Phil, and he’ll soon do it.”
But Fred did not want to have his chin held up, nor yet to be touched; he preferred to wade gently about in the clear water by himself, while his cousins swam backwards and forwards across the river—here not twenty yards broad.
“Make haste and learn to swim, Fred, it’s so easy,” said Harry, “and such capital fun. Look here; see me dive.” And then, turning heels upwards in the water, he went down out of sight, to Fred’s great horror, but came up again directly, and then floated upon his back, swam sideways, and did other feats that seemed to Fred little short of wonders—so easily and deftly were they performed.
“Now then, Phil,” said Harry, “I’ll race you up to the pollard, and back to Fred. Come on!”
Philip did “come on,” and the boys swam up stream towards the willow pollard which overhung the river about fifty yards off. Away they went, working away manfully, for it was hard work against the running water. Sometimes Philip got a little ahead, and sometimes it was Harry; but Philip was first when they reached the pollard-tree, and he kept ahead, too, as they came easily back down stream towards the spot from whence they started.
“Hallo!” puffed out Harry, all at once, “where’s Fred?”
“Got out,” gasped Philip, for he was getting out of breath with his exertions.
“No, he hasn’t; I can’t see him,” said Harry, getting excited. “He’s got out of his depth and gone down stream! Oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall we do?”
Just then Philip caught sight of something white slowly washing over the shallows lower down the stream, and he called his brother’s attention to it. “It’s Fred,” said Harry, swimming as hard as he could. “Come on.” Saying which he dashed out of the water and ran along the bank till he came opposite the place, where sure enough poor Fred was slowly drifting over the shallow pebbly-bottomed stream; and then both lads dashed in and, by using great efforts, dragged their cousin inshore, and got him upon the bank.
“Put your trousers and jacket on, and run for Papa, Harry,” cried Philip, as he gazed upon the inanimate countenance of Fred, and tried in vain to open the eyes which kept so obstinately closed.
Harry was not long in obeying his brother’s hint, and in less than ten minutes Mr Inglis, with a couple of the farm-labourers carrying blankets, arrived upon the spot. Very little was said, but in a few minutes more poor Fred was carried off to the Grange; while his cousins stopped behind, shivering with cold and fear, to finish dressing themselves.
Upon reaching home they found the house in the greatest confusion; one servant was watching at the front door so as to give the earliest notice of the doctor’s coming, for a man had been sent for him at full gallop; another was running backwards and forwards from the kitchen carrying hot blankets; while Mr and Mrs Inglis were doing all that lay in their power to restore animation; but all seemed as yet in vain, and when Harry and Philip crept on tiptoe into the bedroom, they trembled at the ghastly look their cousin wore.
Poor Mrs Inglis seemed quite in despair, and would have ceased her efforts but for the Squire, who warned her to persevere, saying that people had been revived even after ill success for two hours or more; and, apparently hopeless as the case seemed, he kept on himself moving the body on to one side and back again with a regular motion, so as to endeavour to promote artificial respiration. On the table was a number of “The Life Boat,” which contained full instructions for recovering the apparently drowned; and to this Mr Inglis kept making references, and giving his instructions accordingly.
At length there was the distant sound of a horse’s feet coming at a gallop along the road; they soon came along the gravel drive, were heard to stop, and then in came quickly, but with a step soft as that of a cat, that awe-inspiring personage—the Doctor. He saw at a glance what had been done, and nodded his satisfaction, then examined the pupil of poor Fred’s eye, felt his pulse, and listened at his chest; and afterwards, drawing off his coat and kneeling by the bedside, continued the efforts that Mr Inglis had so well commenced.
An hour—a long, long hour—one with leaden seconds—slipped by during which time not an effort was relaxed; though the faces of Mr and Mrs Inglis betrayed the despair that had crept over them, while Harry and Philip sobbed so that they had to be sent out of the room; when they stifled the sobs as well as they could, and crept back to the door, where they sat listening outside.
All this time the Doctor’s face had been as solid as a block of marble, not a trace of any emotion—hopeful or despairing—appeared; he kept on giving order after order, and worked till the perspiration stood in great drops upon his brow; and still no sign of life. The tears coursed silently down Mrs Inglis’s face, and it was only by a great effort that she could keep from sobbing. Glad would she have been to have left the room, but a sense of duty forbade her, and she stayed, lending all the assistance that lay in her power.
All at once, the Doctor brightened up, and turning to the Squire said, “Now, I’ll have a glass of sherry and a biscuit.”
Mr Inglis saw nothing to cause the cheerful way in which the Doctor spoke, but felt that he must have a good reason for hope, or he would not have spoken so lightly. So, ringing the bell for the refreshment, he leaned over the poor boy, and, as he did so, a faint, a very faint, sigh escaped from his chest, and then there was a slight twitching of his eyelids.
“There,” said the Doctor, wiping his forehead, and turning upon Mr and Mrs Inglis with a delighted aspect,—“there, I don’t believe another medical man in the county would have persevered to that extent, and saved the boy’s life; but, there, all the credit belongs to Mr Inglis for commencing the work so well.”
“No; it’s not due to me. If it had not been for that book on the table,” said he, pointing to the little pamphlet, “I should not have known how to proceed.”
“Ah, well,” said the Doctor, “then we will say it was all due to the Life Boat Institution.”
But all this while no efforts were relaxed, for, though symptoms of revival were plainly to be seen, they were like the flickerings of the wick of a lamp, liable at a moment to become extinct; but the endeavours of those present supplied the needful oil, and by slow degrees the cadaverous hue disappeared from Fred’s face; his breathing became firmer and more regular; and at last his eyes opened, staring vacantly at the ceiling, and those bending over him; but, after another lapse of time, a light seemed to be added to the vacant look, and, to the intense delight of all, a smile came over his pale face as he recognised Mr and Mrs Inglis. It was thought better that the lads should not come in at present, so the joyful new was conveyed to them outside the door in a whisper; and then off and away went Harry, followed by his brother, to perform a kind of triumphal war-dance down in the dining-room, where he could make a little noise without being overheard in the sick chamber.
Not very long afterwards, the Doctor took his departure, promising to return in the course of an hour or two; and then Mr and Mrs Inglis came into the room where the boys were, and, announcing; that Fred was in a calm sleep, with one of the maids watching by his side, they asked how the poor fellow came to be so nearly drowned.
This was a question that neither Harry nor Philip could answer; but they told what they knew, and could only suppose that he had walked out of his depth, when the swiftness of the current, and his own timidity, had prevented him from regaining his footing. So that the full explanation had to remain until Fred was in a condition to give it himself.
Mr Inglis talked long and seriously to the boys; but he felt that he could not blame them much, as bathing was an habitual thing with them in the summer-time, and moreover a most healthy habit: joined to which, for such young lads, both Harry and Philip were powerful swimmers. But the act for which Mr Inglis blamed them was not for inducing their cousin to bathe, but leaving him, ignorant as he was of the power of the current, by himself.
“I think, Mamma,” said the Squire, at last, “we had better send poor Fred home again. Here in a space of time of only two or three days has he been lost in the wood; and, but for the blessing of God, he would have this day been drowned.”
“Oh! pray—pray don’t send him away, Papa,” pleaded both the lads at once. “We will be so careful for the future. And—and,” said Harry, breaking down as he spoke; “and—and—indeed, Papa, I wish it had been me to-day sooner than poor Fred, for we do feel that we ought to take care of him when he’s a visitor; don’t we, Philip? But I am such an unlucky beggar; I’m always doing something wrong when I want to do right, and it does make me so miserable, and so it did when I pitched into Fred the first afternoon he was here, and I couldn’t help it.”
“What’s that?” said Mr Inglis; “pitched into Fred? What, have you two been fighting?”
Harry was in too great trouble to speak, so Philip narrated the little skirmish, concluding with the loss of the poor ferret.
Mr Inglis did not say any more upon the subject; but a smile passed between him and Mrs Inglis, and then, shaking hands with his boys, they all went on tiptoe up the stairs to have a look at Fred—Mr Inglis, in spite of the events of the past few days, evidently of the opinion that his boys were not so much worse than boys in general.
Fred was fast asleep, breathing regularly; and the maid said he had not moved; so he was left to his rest, strict injunctions being given that Mrs Inglis should be called directly the invalid woke, or showed symptoms of so doing.
Chapter Eleven.
Bumpitty Bump.—The Wopses.
For two or three days Fred remained very unwell, as might easily be supposed from the shock he had received; but the boys spent the greater part of the days with him reading or playing, and in the evenings came Mr and Mrs Inglis to sit in his bedroom, when Mr Inglis told them natural history anecdotes, or talked about the wondrous changes of insects in so interesting a manner, that the little auditory heard him with the most rapt attention.
On the second evening, in answer to a question, Fred related how it was he managed to be carried away by the stream. It appeared that it was through a sudden fright; for, while wading about with the water up to his armpits, he felt what he thought was a great fish touch him—but which was more probably a piece of wood—and he was so startled and alarmed with the idea that it might be a great pike, such as he had once seen in the river, and also caught by Mr Inglis, that he rushed away from the fancied peril, and, by mishap, this was done on the wrong side; so that directly afterwards he was splashing and paddling in the water, out of his depth, and with the stream bearing him away quite fast. He could remember the water bubbling and thundering in his ears as he was swept away; two or three great struggles to reach the side, and then it seemed like going to sleep, and waking to find himself in his bed, with three faces leaning over him, and everything else misty and bewildered.
On the morning of the fourth day, Fred was up again and out with his cousins before breakfast, getting their feet well soaked by the dewy grass out in the cedar-field as they took it in turns to have a ride upon the pony—one boy running by his side once up and down the field, and holding the pony by his halter. He was a capital quiet fellow, was old Dumpling, and put up with the tricks of his young masters as good-naturedly as possibly, and, on the whole, rather seeming to join in the fun, for he stood perfectly still by their side while they climbed up the fence, and from thence on to his back, and then went along at a jig-jog trot, just as they wished him. As for Harry and Philip, they were well used to being upon his back; but when it came to Fred’s turn, he prepared to mount with considerable trepidation.
It might almost have been thought that, after the last unpleasant adventure, Fred would have been very diffident in joining in any of his cousins’ rather boisterous amusements; but he had a most wholesome dread of being looked upon as a coward: the very idea of being despised by his cousins rendered him ready to dare anything; so that, no matter what they had pressed him to, he would most probably have attempted it, however strongly his reason or inclination might have prompted him otherwise; so, when it came to his turn, he followed the instructions of his cousins, and made a sort of half leap or vault upon the pony’s back; but in so doing he overshot the mark, and went scrambling down, head first, on the other side. The pony, however, never moved, and as Fred was not hurt, he climbed the fence for another try, and this time came down just in the right place, but in doing so, stuck his heels so tightly into the nag’s side, that, without waiting for the leader to take hold of the halter, away he started at a canter, greatly to Fred’s dismay, for the bumping he received seemed something fearful to him, and he had no small difficulty in keeping his seat; but keep it he did, and the pony cantered away till nearly at the bottom of the field, when he subsided into a trot, the boys behind in full chase, laughing and cheering away as hard as they could. Trot—trot, went the pony, and Fred thought it was horrible, for it rucked his trousers up, and shook and bumped him ten times more than when he was cantering. But Fred was too much of a stoic to find fault, and sat it out famously, for Harry now caught up to him, and, seizing the halter, ran by his side till they reached the fence again, when Fred dismounted.
“Why, I thought you said that you couldn’t ride!” said Philip, now coming up quite out of breath. “Why, you ride better than we do; don’t he, Hal?”
“Ride! of course he can,” said Harry, “better than I can; but a couple of old clothes-props, tied together, and put straddling over the pony, would ride better than—Oh! don’t, Phil, it hurts,” he continued, as Philip indulged his brother with a few thumps in the back to repay the compliment that he had given to the punisher.
“There goes the bell,” said Fred, with a hunger-sharpened sense, running off full race towards the house, closely followed by his cousins, who could not, however, catch up to him until they reached the side-door, through which they all rushed together with such impetus, that they came in contact with Mary, who was carrying a plate of hot cake and some eggs into the breakfast parlour.
“Squawk,” said Mary, as she was regularly upset, and they all went down—boys, plate, eggs, tray, and all—in one heap upon the passage floor.
Out came Mrs Inglis, and out came the Squire, and out ran the cook from the kitchen; and then everybody began to talk at once, so that the confusion grew worse than ever.
Master Harry was the first to get up, and, instead of trying to assist his companions in misfortune, or to rub the dust off his clothes, he began to collect the cake together; and, as the plate was broken, he very carefully arranged the three-cornered wedges on the top of his straw hat, as though the cake had been a puzzle.
As for Fred, he had quite a job to disentangle himself from Mary; for, when she was going down, she loosed her hold of the little tray she was carrying, and caught hold of Fred, and, of course, they went down together. But when Fred got up, he stood shaking his ear, and trying to get rid of the buzzing sound produced by Mary’s piercing scream.
Philip was in the worst plight, for he went head first amongst the eggs, and was in consequence rather eggy. He was quite aware of his misfortune, and had been wiping the rich yolk off his face; but, not having a glass before him, he had made it rather smeary, and also left a goodly portion in the roots of his hair.
Poor Mary gathered herself up, sobbing half hysterically that it wasn’t her fault. “No,” said Harry, stoutly. “It wasn’t Mary’s fault. We all had a share in it.”
As for Mr and Mrs Inglis, they took the sensible view of the case, that it was an accident, which only resulted in the breakage of a plate, and the loss of two or three eggs; for Harry declared that the cake was “All right,” and they would eat it; go they returned to the breakfast-parlour, mutually glad that Mary was not bringing in the tea-urn, when the accident might have been of a very serious nature. But when the boys had made themselves respectable, and descended again to breakfast, all this involved some rather serious talk upon the part of Mr and Mrs Inglis, but did not seem to spoil the boys’ breakfast the least bit in the world; while as to the cake, they said it wasn’t a bit the worse, only rather gritty with a few little bits of china that had been left in from the broken plate.
“Well, boys,” said Mr Inglis at last, “what have you been doing this morning?”
“Riding, Papa, in the field, and Fred, too. We had such capital fun, and old Dumpling seems to like it as well as any of us.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said the Squire; “but I should think he liked it best when you left him in peace, and he had got rid of such a pack of wild young dogs, baiting and bothering him. Now,” he continued, “what are we going to do to-day?”
“Let’s go and catch another great pike,” said Fred.
Mr Inglis laughed, and told him that they might go fifty times and not catch such another fish as the last; which I forgot to say in the proper place was baked by the cook, with what she called a pudding inside it, and eaten in triumph by the fishing-party, aided by Mrs Inglis, and declared to be the best fish that ever came out of the river.
“Let’s go botanising, Papa,” said Philip, “and go up the Camp Hill. It would be so nice, and then we should have to take our dinners with us, and Mamma would come too. Oh, do let’s go there. You’ll come, won’t you, Mamma?”
But Mamma declined, for she had promised to go out for a drive with a near neighbour; but said that she should much enjoy, the trip upon another occasion. It was therefore decided that there should be a botanising trip on the next day but two, the following day being Saturday.
“Let’s play cricket, Papa, and you come and bowl for us,” said Harry.
“Bravo!” cried the others. “Oh do, Uncle oh do, Papa!”
But Uncle and Papa, though always ready to do anything to please his boys, seemed to think that bowling all day long, with the thermometer marking some few degrees above summer heat, was rather too arduous a task, so he declined, and said—
“Now, I think it comes to my turn to choose, and I’ll tell you what I think; and that is, as several of the specimens in the butterfly cabinet are getting destroyed by the mites, we might take the nets and boxes, and have a very pleasant ramble by the side of Beechy Wood, and down the meadows, and then, if we happened to get so far, we could call and thank Mrs Benson again; and coming back to a late tea, we should find plenty of moths along by the wood-side.”
“That’s the best idea yet,” said the boys; although it is most probable that they would have agreed to anything that Mr Inglis had proposed, and said it was the best idea that could have been thought of.
But this arrangement only provided for the afternoon: there was still the morning to be employed.
“If I were you, boys,” said Mrs Inglis, “I should find something quiet to do indoors, and then you will not be tired before you start in the afternoon.”
“Ah,” said the Squire, “have a look at your lessons. You have not touched them all through the holidays.”
“Oh-h-h—Ah-h-h—Er-r-r—Um-m-m,” groaned the boys. “Oh, Pa; oh-h-h,” they exclaimed, with such pitiful faces that any one might have thought that they had been required to quaff, each of them, a great goblet of salts and senna, or something equally nasty.
Mr and Mrs Inglis both laughed heartily, and the boys then saw that Papa was only joking, and the clouds disappeared from their faces instanter; and off they scampered into the garden to spend the morning quietly, so as not to be tired at the time appointed for starting.
“Come on, boys,” said Harry, taking flying leaps over all the flower-beds in the parterre, as they went down the garden—greatly to the disgust of old Sam, who very reasonably said, “As flower-gardens warn’t made to be jumped over;” and he then took off his old battered hat, and scratched his bald head viciously.
“Shouldn’t I like to kick old Sam’s hat!” said Philip; “he always will wear such an old scarecrow of a thing.”
“I say, Sam,” said Harry, grinning, “we are going to stop quietly in the garden all the morning and help you.”
Sam grinned too, as he looked sideways at the mischievous laughing face beside him.
“Then I shall go,” said Sam. “I won’t stop; for I know you’ll be plaguing my very life out.”
“No, we won’t, Sam, if you’ll come and help us do our gardens up.”
“Oh, ah!” said Sam, “and I’ve got no end of things as wants doing: there’s all the wall fruit wants nailing in, and the grapes wants thinning, and— There now, just look at that! Master Harry, you mustn’t. If you don’t put it down directly, I’ll go and fetch out the Maester.”
Sam might well exclaim, for Harry was beginning to help him, and had seized the scythe. With cut number one he had shaved off the top of a fine verbena. With cut number two, he had driven the point of the sharp tool into the sod. Where the third cut would have gone, I can’t say; for Sam, hobbling up to the young workman, the young workman frisked off, and seized the barrow half full of grass.
“Jump in, Fred!” he exclaimed; and of course Fred soon made himself a seat on the soft green contents, and then away went the barrow as fast as Harry could run, and of course right away from the place where Sam would require it next.
Poor old Sam! He loved his master’s boys, and he loved to scold them too, as much as they loved to torment him; and in all their skirmishes—one of which always occurred whenever they came into his garden, as he called it—Sam always got the worst of it, and had to yield to numbers. And so in this case he saw that he should lose the day, and therefore he declared a truce, and called up Philip to act as mediator.
“Now, Master Phil, if you’ll promise not to bother me any more, I’ll put you all up to something.”
“What is it?” said Philip.
“Ah, you fetch them tother ones here, and I’ll show you.”
Away darted Philip, and soon returned with Harry, the barrow, and Fred.
Old Sam made sure of the barrow by sitting down upon the edge, and would have been canted over by Harry, only he expected, and very naturally, that it would make the poor old man cross.
“Now, Sam, what is it?” said Harry. “Come, look sharp.”
“Ah,” said Sam, “I’ve a good mind not to tell you. You don’t deserve it, you know.”
“Oh, I don’t care,” said Harry, seizing the old man’s broom, and darting off with it. “Come along, Phil, Fred, and we’ll have such a game.”
“Now, Master Harry,” said Sam, appealingly. Then to himself, “I never did see sich a young dog in my life. Do come, please,” he continued aloud.
“Well, what is it?” said Harry, advancing with the broom, held like a gun with fixed bayonet brought to the charge, and poking with the birch part at the old gardener.
“Well, you know, you promised to be quiet, you know, didn’t you?”
“Why, of course we did,” said Harry and Philip together. “Now, come, tell us what it is.”
“Well,” said Sam at last, “it’s a wopses’ nest as wants taking.”
“Capital!” said Harry, throwing down the broom; “where is it?”
Old Sam’s eyes twinkled with triumph as he got slowly up and led the way to his tool-shed, where he reached down the large fumigating bellows, and in the hollow made for the purpose he put in some hot cinders, which Harry fetched in a shovel from the kitchen, and then on them a lump of brimstone, and closed the nozzle over all; but not so quickly but that a puff or two of the penetrating fumes escaped, and made the boys’ eyes water, and old Sam cough and choke most terribly for a minute or two.
“Now then,” said Sam, wheezing away at a dreadful rate, “I’m not going with you, you know, so you take the bellows, Master Harry; and I should take some boughs, if I were you, and beat the wopses off if they gets loose. The nest is in the plantation, in the dead willow-tree that lies by the path; so now go on, and good luck to you.”
The lads wanted no further incentive, but started off at full speed, to come back again directly to say that the brimstone wasn’t burning. However, on giving two or three puffs with the bellows, Sam found this was not the case, for it was alight; so off they started, half wild with excitement, across the lawn, and old Sam rubbing his hands down the sides of his trousers to give vent to his intense feeling of satisfaction to think how well his device had succeeded; and then the old man returned to his work, chuckling away, and, I am sorry to add, muttering that he hoped they’d “some on ’em get stung;” an uncharitable wish, however, that had no fulfilment in the sequel.
“Come along, boys,” said Harry, who was bellows-bearer; and away they scudded till they reached the wooden bridge over the ditch, and then they stood together beneath the trees.
Puff, puff. Yes, the brimstone was all right, and now for the wasps.
“Let me do it,” said Philip, catching at the bellows.
“No, no; I’ll do it,” said Harry, putting them behind his back.
“Now, Harry, you know I’m older than you, and you carried them here, so you ought to give way,” said Philip.
“Why,” said Harry, “we ought neither of us to do it, because Cousin Fred’s here, and he’s a visitor. Here, Fred,” he said, holding out the bellows, “you do it.”
“Do what?” said Fred, staring. “I don’t know what you are going to do.”
“Why, take the wasps’ nest in that old touchwood tree. You’re only got to put the nose of the bellows into the hole where they are going in and out, and blew, and then keep them tight there till all the wasps are dead.”
Fred looked at the bellows, then at his cousins, then at the hole in the fallen trunk where the wasps were flying about; and after giving a puff with the bellows, when smoke issued from the nozzle, he slowly approached the hole, and stooped over it to insert the death-dealing instrument.
“Buzz—booz—whooz—ooz—ooz—ooz,” said a couple of wasps, coming home in a hurry, and circling round Fred’s head so very closely that the boy shut his eyes, and, stooping down very low, backed away crab fashion as fast as ever he could.
“I shan’t do it,” said Fred, rather red in the face; “they’ll sting.”
“No, they won’t,” said Harry; “I’ll go,” and catching up the bellows, he walked boldly up towards the hole.
“I say,” he said, “you two get boughs, and if the wasps do come out you can beat them down.”
There was a minute of intense interest, during which Harry crept close up to the hole, and Philip and Fred, armed with lime-tree boughs, stood as body guard to protect the assaulting party.
Nearer and nearer went Harry, and then pushed the nozzle right in up to the part holding the brimstone, and puffed away as hard as he could.
“Whir—whooz—whooz—booz—wooz—buzz—wooz—burr—urr-r-r-r—whir-r-r-r,” said the wasps, scuffling out past the nozzle by the dozen; and one, which must have been the leader, made a lodgment in Harry’s hair.
Down went the bellows, and away went the boys as hard as ever they could run out of the plantation, and over the wooden bridge, till they were safe from the infuriated wasps, whose loud hum they could hear even after they were some distance off.
“Here,” said Harry, “knock this beggar out of my head; make haste, or he’ll sting me.” For there, buzzing and struggling in the boy’s curls, was one of the wasps, which was killed by Fred, who squeezed it between two pieces of stick, and placed it beyond the power of doing mischief.
“Ha, ha, ha!” said Philip, when there was no more danger: and when he had got his breath again, “What a game!”
“Booh,” said Harry; “was it? You wouldn’t like to go and try again.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” said Philip; “I shouldn’t run faster than you did.”
“Ah! never mind,” said Harry; “you run fast enough this time. I only wish,” he continued sulkily, “that I had let you go.”
Now, Philip was generally most terribly teased by his brother, and therefore it was not surprising that he, who was generally such a mild and inoffensive lad, should take this opportunity of making a little retaliation. But one thing was very certain, and that was, that he would have backed out of the task even if Harry had given it up to him.
“Can’t we fetch the bellows?” said Harry. “Let’s go and see.”
Off they went again, but at a slower pace this time, in case there should be any of the fierce little insects waiting for them. But their caution was needless, for the wasps were busy at work trying to stick their stings into the bellows, and some of them losing their lives through the vapour that came reeking out of the opening. But when the lads got near enough to see what a cloud there was buzzing about, they gave up all idea of getting the bellows till night, and took vengeance for their defeat by getting a little farther off and pelting the tree, but only hitting it about once in twenty times, so that they very soon tired of that pastime, and went back to see what poor old Sam could find for them fresh.
“Now, then,” said Sam, when they came up, “where’s the wopses’ nest? The Squire wants some grabs for fishing.”
“Ain’t got it,” said Harry, shortly.
“How’s that?” said the old man; “you weren’t afeard, was you?”
“No,” said Harry, stoutly; “I wasn’t afraid, only they came buzzing out so we were obliged to give in.”
Chuckle, chuckle, went the old man at their defeat; but he would not go himself to fetch the bellows, although he laughed at the boys’ expense.
“You’d better leave off laughing,” said Philip, taking Harry’s part, “or we’ll stop here all the morning.”
Sam grew serious in a moment, for the boy couldn’t have uttered a more dire threat against his peace of mind.
“Ah! I ain’t laughing, Master Phil, only it is good fun to see the wopses make any one run. If I was you, I should go and have a look at Bramble Dyke; they say as the water’s nearly all dried up, and you can get fish out of it.”
“It’s too far,” said Philip, “because we are going out with Papa directly after dinner.”
Sam was done for a moment; but a bright thought flashed across his brain. “Ah,” said he, “if I was a young gentleman, I should go down the north planting hedge, close to the dung-heaps; they do say there is a sight of snakes there; but in course you young gentlemen won’t go, for as you’re afraid of wopses, in course you won’t like to go where there’s snakes.”
“Who’s afraid?” said Harry; “I’m not; come on, boys,” and away they scampered again on their new expedition; while Sam leaned upon his broom with which he was brushing the velvet green lawn, and chuckled again at the success of his ruse.
The boys armed themselves with stout sticks, and let Dick loose to take with them; and then away down by the big fence to the north planting Dick industriously hunting along the hedges and ditches as they went.
“Keep back, Dick!” said Harry, when they reached the manure heaps; “keep back, sir; quiet; down, dog, down!”
But Dick was not a well-trained dog at all. He did not often come out, and when he did he seemed to make the most of it; so every command given by his master Dick answered by a leap, a scamper, and a bark, and doing everything but what he was told.
“Catch hold of him, Phil; he’ll frighten all the snakes away before we see them.”
But Dick would not be caught hold of, but capered about just out of reach, and lolled his tongue out as though in derision of the efforts made to secure him, till, growing more bold and impudent, he kept making charges at his young masters’ legs, until by one quick snatch Philip caught the rascal by one of his ears, and so secured him in a most ignoble manner, dragging him along with his skin all drawn on one side, his eyes out of place, and his mouth wearing a most serio-comical expression.
Poor Dick! he did not mean any harm; but as to being a trained and obedient dog, he was, as I said before, nothing of the kind, and often spoiled a great deal of sport by his wild harum-scarum ways. But now, as he was secured, a handkerchief was tied tightly round his neck, and another to that by way of a chain or slip, and then the search was prosecuted.
The manure heaps were very long and large, and lay on a piece of waste ground beside the park palings, and it was through the rents and gaps in these pales that the snakes came out of the plantation to lay their eggs in the warm manure; and, of course, if Master Dick had been left alone, he would have run barking and scratching all along and alarmed the game. As it was, they went the whole length of the first heap without hearing so much as a rustle. The second heap was nearly passed in the same way, when Harry, who was first, stepped nimbly back and caught hold of the handkerchief that held Dick, who, seeing that something exciting was going on, immediately became rampant, but was soon guided to a spot where a snake had nearly buried itself in the rotten straw, and lay with about nine inches of its tail exposed, after the fashion of an ostrich, which supposes that if its head is hidden it must be all right and safe. But there was no safety for the poor snake, for Dick was down upon him in a moment and hanging on to its tail, in spite of the struggles of the poor thing to get away.
All Dick’s efforts were directed towards dragging the snake out of its hole, while the snake, by means of its scaly and plated body, offered a most powerful resistance, and tried hard to creep farther in; and so they went on for some time, the snake, however, gradually losing ground, until the lads began to dig round it with their sticks, and loosen the manure, when out it came all at once, writhing and twining, and trying to fasten upon Dick’s head; but the dog’s shaggy, wiry hair protected him, and shaking the unco’ brute off for a moment, he got another gripe at it close up to the head, and shook it, and worried it, until the poor snake hardly moved, but gave in, conquered and dying.
The trophy was secured, and Dick’s stumpy tail wag-waggled, as much as to say, “Didn’t I do that well?” and then he kept snapping and leaping up at the handkerchief which held the snake, while his red tongue quivered and stuck out between his sharp shiny teeth that were longing to have another snap at something. The huntsmen then cautiously went along the side of the two remaining heaps, but not another trace of a snake could they find, so they went back the whole length of the four heaps, but with no better success, till Dick, who was down at the bottom of the bramble-covered ditch, suddenly set up a sharp, short bark, then there was a rustle and skurry for a moment, and he rushed open-mouthed up the bank head fust at the oak palings, and came against them with a thud just after a snake’s tail was seen to disappear through a hole at the bottom, where a small piece had rotted away.
Dick whined and howled with rage at being thus stopped in his career, and seizing a piece of the broken pale in his teeth, dragged it so that he would shortly have made himself a way through, but his young masters were soon by his side.
“Throw him over, Harry,” said Philip, excitedly, and in a moment Harry had the struggling dog in his arms, raising him till he got his feet on the top of the palings, when he leaped lightly down on the other side, and began hunting about through the fallen leaves and twigs for the escaped quarry; but all in vain, as his whining testified, so that poor Dick was called off, and had to run nearly a quarter of a mile before he could find a place to creep through, which he did at last by scraping a little of the earth from beneath the pales, and then grovelling through, getting stuck about the middle of his back, though, and whining till he got free, which he did after two or three struggles, and then ran to join his young masters, who were whistling and calling him as loudly as they could, and who now turned their steps homeward, for Harry declared he could smell the roast beef they were going to have for dinner.
Chapter Twelve.
A Flight with the Flies.
I don’t suppose Harry could smell the roast beef when he was a mile from home, but sure enough it was done when the boys got there, and they had only just time to get themselves ready before the dinner-bell rang.
“Well, boys, I suppose you have been very quiet,” said Mr Inglis, “and are ready for a good long walk this afternoon?”
“We’re ready for the walk, Papa, but we haven’t been very quiet,” said Philip. “One don’t seem as if one could keep very quiet this fine weather. I never do. I should like to be always out.”
“I shouldn’t,” said Harry, with his mouth full of beef and potato; “I should like to come in when dinner and tea were ready.”
“Well said, Harry!” exclaimed Mr Inglis; “that was certainly not a very polite speech, but there was a good deal of common sense in it; and I don’t think Master Phil, there, would care much about stopping out when it rained. But make haste, boys; we must not stop talking, for there are all the things to get ready, and we have a long walk before us.”
Half an hour after, Mr Inglis and the boys were passing out of the gate, and they soon reached the spot where the lads entered the wood the day they were lost; but this time they kept along the fields by the side; and beautiful those fields looked, and beautiful, too, the wood-side. There were wood anemones and hyacinths by the thousand, spangling the bright green grass here with delicate white, and there with the dark blue bells; while the brionies and honeysuckle clustered in every direction along the dwarf bushes by the side of the wood.
“There he goes,” said Harry, all at once starting off full speed after a sulphur butterfly.
“Stop, stop!” cried Mr Inglis. “Here, Philip, take the net, and go steadily and quietly and see if you cannot catch it, but you must not hurry, or you will send it right away.”
Philip took the green clap-net and went in chase of the beautiful fly which flitted on before him, now stopping, now going on again, and sipping flower after flower. At last he got close enough, and stooping as far forward as he could reach, popped the green gauze net down upon the grass.
The other boys ran breathlessly up, while Mr Inglis drew from his pocket a large-sized pill-box and a pair of forceps, and on coming up to the spot where Philip and the other boys were, he stooped down to secure the prize.
“Well, where is it?” said Mr Inglis.
“Just underneath,” said Philip.
“I don’t think it is,” said Mr Inglis, looking down at the net.
“Oh yes, it is,” said Philip; “I’m sure I caught it.”
So Mr Inglis looked through the net in all directions, but not a sign could he see of any sulphur butterfly, for Philip had popped the net down just behind it, and the bright-coloured fly was off and away far enough by that time.
“Never mind; try again,” said Mr Inglis, “only don’t be so impetuous; go quietly after the butterfly till you get within reach, and then press the net down firmly and quickly, or close it over the prize. If you go so impetuously you agitate the air, and drive a volume of it before you, which not only alarms the insect, but helps to force it out of your reach.”
“But I was sure I had it,” said Philip.
“Just so,” said Mr Inglis, smiling; “but it does not do to be too sure of anything. Now, Philip,” he continued, “take the net again, and see if you cannot have a little better success; there’s one of the little blue butterflies hovering over that dry bank—there, where we picked the harebells last year. Don’t you see it?—it almost looks like a harebell itself.”
“Oh! I see it now,” said Philip, seizing the net and rushing off.
“Not so fast—not so fast,” cried Mr Inglis; but it was of no use, for Philip darted up to the bank, and as he did so the little blue butterfly gently rose in the air, and disappeared over the hedge into the next field.
“Here, Fred,” said Mr Inglis, handing his nephew a small bag net fitted to a joint of a fishing-rod; “now try what you can do, and see if you cannot creep up quietly without all that rush and fuss your cousins make. Now, then, there goes another sulphur butterfly.”
Fred started off, and followed the insect all along one side of the field by the wood, and then partly along the other, when the game gently rose and went over to the other side. But there was a gap in the hedge, and Fred crept through; but on reaching the other side no butterfly could he see for a minute, when all at once it rose from a flower close beside him, and began flitting down the hedge-side again. At last it alighted upon a bunch of Mayflower, quite low down, a late cluster that ought to have been out in bloom a month earlier; and now Fred crept up closer and closer till he stood within reach, when he dashed the net down and just missed the insect, which began to rise, when, recovering his net, Fred made another flying dash, and to his great delight he saw that the yellow treasure was fluttering about inside.
Just then his uncle and the boys came through the gap, and the butterfly, which Mr Inglis said was a very fine specimen, was secured and placed in one of the large pill-boxes.
The captures now made became frequent: at one time it was a gorgeous peacock admiral, with the splendid eyes upon its wings; then one of the pretty tortoiseshell butterflies, or a red admiral, with its lovely lace-edged wings; then again, one of the curious dusky-veined, or an orange-tipped, with its under wings so beautifully traced with green. Down by the pond side, too, they captured some of the fierce libellulae, the gauzy-winged dragon-flies, that darted about with such a powerful flight over the water, and then hovered apparently motionless, as though looking at their beautiful bodies reflected on the bright surface. On one bank, too, a bright little green lizard was captured, and carefully secured, to place in one of the fern cases; besides which there were rose beetles, watchmen, spiders, and tiny flies, that Fred considered were neither curious nor pretty, but which Mr Inglis said were quite the contrary, being both curious and pretty, or, rather, beautiful, as he would show Master Fred when they reached home. There were plenty of specimens, too, to have been obtained from the water; but this was not a water expedition, so they contented themselves with the productions of the air, and rich indeed was this part of the country in insect wonders. Fred at first only looked upon the gaily-painted butterflies, and bright rose beetles, as being beautiful, till he heard some of the explanations from Mr Inglis, when he found that in some of the smallest insects they captured there were ten times the beauties and wonders that were to be found in their larger companions. There were numberless things that he would have passed over because they were not striking at the first glance, but which the eye of the naturalist had sought out, and made known to those who had not chosen insect life for their study. Fred never before saw such plumes of feathers as some little gnats wore on their heads, nor knew of such a wondrous or dangerous instrument as the sting of a bee, so fine and so sharp; and yet fine as it was, able to contain a channel by which the minute portion of poison was injected into the tiny wound to rankle and create such great pain.
“But come,” said Mr Inglis, “we must talk about these things when we get back to-night, and have the microscope out. We must have some more specimens yet. Try after those great cabbage butterflies, boys’—those we have are getting very shabby in appearance.”
Away started Harry and Philip, forgetting in a moment all the advice they had received, and dashing off after the inserts in a wild chase, that ended, of course, in the butterflies soaring up out of reach, and the boys coming back hot and out of breath to be laughed at by their father and Fred.
At last they reached Mr Benson’s farm, where they were most cordially received by the farmer’s happy-faced dame, who seemed delighted to see her belated friends again, and soon had them into the house to feast upon fresh-gathered strawberries and some of the thick yellow cream that she skimmed morning and night from the pans in her snowy dairy; and when they had finished, and Mr Inglis was having a quiet chat with Farmer Benson about crops, and markets, and similar matters, which Harry classed together as “all bother,” Mrs Benson showed the boys her famous dairy, which I was quite right in calling “snowy,” for it was in everything of the whitest and coldest. For Mrs Benson’s dairy was famous for the butter and cream it produced, and was well known at all the markets round, for from nowhere else was there such sweet golden-looking butter to be obtained.
After Fred had been initiated in the mysteries of churning and cheese pressing, they all went into the orchard, and saw what a goodly promise of apples there was, and then and there Mrs Benson promised them a basketful, which she said she would send to them at the school. Then into the garden, which seemed to be overflowing with fruit and vegetables; and then into the farm-yard to see the fowls, cows, and calves, and have a peep in at the great brindle bull, whose low thundering bellow made the door vibrate and rattle upon its hinges, and who turned round his great heavy, stupid-looking face to the full length of his bright chain, and stared at his visitors as much as to say, “Did you ever see such a great bull-headed thing before in all your life?” He seemed to be anything but the great savage, roaring beast that Fred had expected to see. But for all his dull look, this very bull could fly into a passion sometimes when he was out in the fields, and stamp and bellow and tear up the ground, making the sods fly in all directions. He once charged at the cowman who was going to drive the cows all up for milking, and as soon as the man saw him coming away he ran for the gate, and after him came the bull, full tear. The more the cowman ran the more the bull ran, till at last the gate was reached, and over it went the poor fellow, in a half jump, half tumble sort of fashion, and then away again on the other side; while the bull, evidently considering the gate as unworthy of his notice, disdained to try and leap, but went rush at it like a small railway train at a crossing where the gates have been accidentally left open.
“Crash” went the gate, and “Bellow” went the bull, for it really hurt him, as was testified by one of his horns being broken short off, making the poor beast stop short, and stamp and bellow louder than ever; and, giving up all thought of chasing the cowman, run tearing round the field in a great clumsy gallop, frightening the cows till they all did the same, with tails sticking straight up, and having plenty of difficulty to get out of the poor bull’s way, I say “poor” bull, for the animal must have been suffering intense pain, though he deserved very little pity, for there is no knowing what might have been the cowman’s fate if it had not been for the gate.
When the visitors stood looking at the great staring-eyed, one-horned beast, the place was quite well, and but for the one-sided appearance given to him by the ragged stump having been sawn short off, there was no trace of the feat he had performed in rushing at the gate.
There was so much to see at the farm that Mr Inglis had a hard matter to get away; besides which, the farmer and his dame were very anxious that they should all stay to tea, and the lads had not the slightest objection; but Mr Inglis said, when they came out for a specified purpose they ought no to turn aside from it, and now; as they had paid their visit to the farm, as previously arranged, they ought to return to their collecting, for the moths would now be coming out fast.
At last they were off, and this time took their way across the meadows by the river side, so as to get to the wood again a couple of miles nearer home, Mr Inglis considering that several pleasing objects of natural history might here be collected.
They had not gone far before he called the attention of the boys to the Ephemene or Mayflies dancing up and down in their beautiful light over the banks of the stream. Beautiful little objects they seemed, with their spotted wings and three tails, as straight up they flew rapidly for five or six feet, and then, spreading out wings and tails, allowed themselves, without effort, but with evenly balanced bodies, to sink down again, presenting a beautiful appearance as the fast descending sun shone sideways upon them.
Fred could have stopped for half an hour watching these Mayflies, but time was flying as well, and they had to get home to tea; but two or three fine specimens were captured by Mr Inglis and put safely in as many pill-boxes, and during their stay as many more were snapped up by the fish in the river. Then on the party went again towards the wood, capturing insect treasures as they passed through the pleasant green meadows and by hedge-rows, all now of a bright golden green with the rays of the sinking sun. Now it was a great stag-beetle that was caught—a great horny-headed and horny-bodied fellow, so strong that he could force his way out of a closed hand by sheer pushing, like his friend the cockchafer, who now began to whirr and drone about under the shady boughs of the trees, but who would not come near enough to be captured, till at last one of them came bump up against Mr Inglis’s hat, in its headlong flight, when Fred picked it out of the grass where it had fallen, and was astonished at the slow but strenuous efforts the insect made to escape.
As they came up to the wood Fred stopped short, for from out of its dark recesses came a peculiar whirring sound, as if somebody was busy with a spinning-wheel.
“Chur–r–r–r–r–r–r–r–r,” went the noise, rising and falling, now farther off, now nearer, and all the time kept up with the greatest regularity.
“Whatever is that?” said Fred to his cousins.
“Oh!” said Harry, laughing, “that’s old Dame Durden spinning her yarn.”
“What?” said Fred incredulously.
“There, look,” said Mr Inglis, for the noise had stopped. “There goes Harry’s Dame Durden;” and just then there came swooping out of the wood with noiseless flight, a large brown bird, which then went skimming along by the wood-side and back to where there stood a noble beech with wide-spreading boughs, beneath whose shade the bird went circling round with a beautifully easy flight, sometimes keeping quite in the shade, and every now and then rising higher up the tree; but still skimming along almost like a swallow, “There,” said Mr Inglis again, when they had watched the bird for some minutes, “that is the way to turn entomologist; see how easily that bird captures the moths that flit round the tree. If we could only secure specimens like that, what rare ones we should get sometimes of those that always fly high out of our reach! There, did you see him catch that moth, high up above the big bough? With what a graceful curve he turned upon the wing, caught it, and then dipped downward. See, he must have got a mouthful, and has gone off to the wood again, where perhaps he has nestlings.”
“Well, but,” said Fred, “that can’t be a swallow, it is so big, and I thought swallows were the only birds that caught flies and moths upon the wing.”
“No,” said Mr Inglis, “it is not a swallow, though it has similar habits, and always catches its prey upon the wing. It is a bird that bears a good many different names; one of the most appropriate is that of the ‘night-jar,’—though it is not really a night bird, but more of the twilight. It is called ‘jar,’ from the peculiar jarring noise which you heard, just like that made by the vibrating of a spinning-wheel. In some places they call it the ‘goatsucker,’ from a foolish idea that it sucked the milk from the goats, as it is sometimes seen to fly close down to them, and, between the legs of various animals, to capture the flies that infest them in the soft, tender parts of their bodies. A glance at the bird’s great gaping mouth should be sufficient to convince anybody that it was meant for nothing else but catching flies, and the spiny fringe of hair at the side for caging them there when caught. In some places it is called the ‘night-hawk,’ and I should scarcely think there is any bird that has more names than our friend there.”
A few more moths and insects were captured, among which was a very fine puss moth, whose downy appearance made it a great object of attraction to the boys, as was also one of those noble-looking insects, the privet hawk moth, which was also captured, with gold-tails, tigers, etc, etc; and at last, regularly tired out, the lads walked quietly along by the side of Mr Inglis, listening to the mellow evening notes of the cuckoo, the distant lowing of the cows, and the occasional “tink, tink” of a sheep bell; while skimming along the surface of the fields, the never-tired swallows kept sweeping away the flies front out of their path. With the setting sun, however, the last swallow disappeared; and one by one in the pearly-grey sky appeared the stars; and then, loud, sweet, and clear, from out the grove came the notes of the nightingales, ringing away through the distance, till bird answered bird, and the song seemed almost continuous, cheering the party till they finished their walk.
Mr Inglis had been highly amused with Harry’s humorous description of how they had attacked the citadel of the wasps. And how ignominiously they had been put to flight; and told them how foolish their plan was, for they might have been sure that a large number of the insects would be out, seeking for food; and, as they would be constantly returning, they would be certain to attack those whom they found interfering with their castle; for soldiers as they were among insects, and armed too with such a powerful weapon, the attack was nothing more than the boys might have expected. However, he promised the lads that he would assist them the next evening, and detailed his plan of attack, giving them a long description of the way he should proceed, for he saw that they could hardly get along; but his account so took up their attention, that just in the midst of one of his remarks they reached the gates, and he exclaimed:—“Now, boys, enough entomology for one day; for, like you, I’m tired out; so let’s see what Mamma there, who is waiting at the door, has in store for us.”