"Master Fred set great store by me, as well he might. He's traveled hundreds of miles on my back over the prairies, and we've been out together many a dark night when he'd drop the lines on my neck and say, "Well, Star, go ahead if you know the way, for not one inch can I see before my nose." That was after he learned by experience that I knew better than he did where to go, and when to stop going. For he lost his temper and called me hard names one night, when I stopped short in the middle of the road and wouldn't budge an inch for voice or whip, with the wind blowing a gale, and the rain coming down in bucketsful. But when a flash of lightning showed the bridge before us clean washed away, and only a few feet between us and the steep bank of the river, Master Fred changed his tune. Afraid! not I; but I'm willing to own I was a little scared the day we got into the water down by Cook's Cove, for you see I was hitched to the buggy and the lines got tangled about my legs, and there were chunks of ice and lots of driftwood floating about, and the current sucking me down; but master had got to shore and stood on the bank calling, "This way, Star, this way!" and when I heard his voice I—well, I don't know how I managed to do it, but I turned square round and swam upstream with the buggy behind me, and got safe and sound to land. I've heard Master Fred say my back was covered with river-grass, and I trembled all over with the fright and the hard pull.
"But, dear me, all that happened long ago when master was courting old Tim Bunce's daughter Martha, down Stony Creek Road. How that girl did take to me! She used to say she knew the sound of my hoofs on the road, of a still night, when we were a mile away; and she'd say over a little rhyme she'd got hold of somehow:—
I wish you may and I wish you might
Bring somebody to me I want to see to-night.'
"If she said that twice, looking straight down the road, she told us we were sure to come. She was a plump rosy-cheeked girl when Master Fred brought her to be mistress here, though you mightn't think it to see her now, what with the cooking and the dairy-work and raising a big family of children. But if you want to know what mistress was like twenty years ago, you've only to look at our Ada.
"Now, there's a girl for you, as good as she is pretty, and getting to be a woman grown; though I remember, as though it happened yesterday, her mother's coming out one spring day to where I was nibbling grass in the door-yard, with her baby in her arms, and holding up the little thing to me, and saying, 'This is Ada, Star,—you must be good friends with Ada,' Friends! I should say so. Before that child was a year old, she used to cry to be held on my back for a ride, and when she was getting better of the scarlet fever, she kept saying, 'Me 'ant to tee ole 'Tar,' till, to pacify her, they led me to the open window of the room where she lay, and she reached her mite of a hand from the bed to stroke my nose and give me the lump of sugar she had saved for me under her pillow.
"Bless the child! And it was just so with all the rest, Tim and Martha and Fred and Jenny and baby May—there was a new baby in that house every year. Those young ones would crawl over me, and sit on me, when I was lying down in the stable; ride me, three or four at a time, without bridle or saddle, and cling to my neck and tail when there was no room left on my back. They shared their apples and gingerbread with me, and brought me goodies on a plate sometimes so that I might eat my dinner, they said, 'like the rest of the folks,' I fetched them to and from school, and trotted every day to the post-office and the Corners to do the family errands; and when our Ada was old enough to be trusted to drive, the whole lot of them would pile into the carryall, and away we would go for a long ride, through the lanes and the shady woods that border the pond, stopping a dozen times for the girls to clamber out and pick the wild posies and for the boys to skip stones or wade in the water. For I was in no hurry to go on. There was plenty of tender grass to be cropped by the roadside, and the young leaves of the maples and white birch were sweet and juicy.
"'Take good care of them, Star,' mistress used to say, standing in the door-way to see us off; 'you have a precious load, but we trust you, kind, faithful old friend,'
"And so she might. I knew I must just creep down the hills with those children behind me, and never stop for a drink at Rocky Brook, though I were ever so thirsty, because of the sharp pitch down to the watering-trough. And though from having been scared nearly to death, when I was a colt, by a wheelbarrow in the road, I always have to shy a little when I see one, our Ada will tell you, if you ask her, that in the circumstances, I behaved very well.
"She behaved well. She always chose the well-traveled roads, and gave me plenty of room to turn. Once, I remember, they all wanted to take a short cut by way of an old corduroy road; and though, if master had been driving, I should have made no objection, and, as like as not, with a little jolting and pitching, we should have got safe over, I didn't feel like taking the responsibility, with all those young ones along, of going that way; so I tried to make our Ada understand the state of my mind, and after a while she did; for she said: 'Well, Star, if you don't want to draw us over those logs, I'm not going to make you,' Now, wasn't that sensible?
"Well, if I was proud and happy to be trusted with master's family on week-days, think how I must have felt of a Sunday morning in the summer time, with mistress dressed in her silk gown, and our Ada in muslin and pink ribbons, and the boys in their best clothes, and master riding along-side on Tom or Jerry, all going to meeting together. I liked hearing the bells ring, and I liked being hitched under the maple-trees, with all the neighbors' horses to keep me company. We generally dozed while the folks were indoors, and woke up brisk and lively, and started for home in procession.
"But, dear! dear! there came a time when, with five horses on the farm, not one could be had to give the children a ride or to do a stroke of work, when master had to foot it to the Corners, and the two steers, Old Poke and Eyebright, dragged mistress and the children to meeting in the ox-cart.
"For we were all down with the epizoötic, coughing and sneezing enough to take our heads off, and so sick and low, some of us, that we couldn't stand in our stalls, and a man with a red face, Master Fred had over from Skipton Mills, pouring nasty stuff down our throats, and making us swallow big black balls of medicine that hurt as they went down—as if we hadn't enough to suffer before! But our Jenny came to the stable with a piece of pork-rind, and a bandage she'd made out of her little red-flannel petticoat, and she wanted Master Fred to put it on my neck; for, says she: 'That's what ma put on me when I had the sore throat,'—the blessed child!
"Well, we all pulled through except Filly's colt. He keeled over one morning, poor fellow! and was dragged out and buried under the oaks in the high pasture. But for some reason, I didn't pick up as quick as the others. The cough held on, and I was pestered for breath, and I didn't get back my strength; and what I ate didn't seem to fatten me up much, for Master Fred says one day, laughing, 'Well, Old Star, we've saved your skin and bones, and that's about all!' However, I got round again, only my legs had a bad habit of giving way under me, without the least bit of warning.
"Our Ada did all she could to keep me up, holding a tight rein, and saying, 'Steady, Star! steady!' when she saw any signs of stumbling. But trying to keep from it seemed to make me do it all the more, and down I would come on my poor knees and spill those children out of the wagon, like blackberries from a full basket.
"One day, after this had happened, master told our Ada she was not to drive me any more, and before I had got over feeling bad about that, there came some thing a great deal worse; for I was standing by the pump in the backyard one day, and master and mistress were in the porch, and I heard him tell her he had had an offer from Jones the milkman, to buy me. 'Twould be an easy place, and he'd promised to treat me well, and he'd about made up his mind to take up with it; for he couldn't afford to keep a horse on the place that—well, I don't care to repeat the rest of the speech. 'Twas rather hard on me, but I haven't laid it up against master. Fact is, he had a deal to worry him about that time, for he was disappointed in the wheat crop, and the heavy rains had damaged his corn, and he was feeling mighty poor.
"But mistress was up in arms in a minute. 'What, sell Star!' says she, 'our good, faithful Star, who's been in the family ever since you were a boy! and to Ki Jones to peddle milk round Skipton Mills and Hull Station! O pa!' says mistress, says she, 'have we got down so low as that? Why 't would break our Ada's heart, and mine too, to see Star hitched to a milk-cart. Rather than have you do that, says she, 'I'll go in rags, and keep the children on mush and molasses;' and she put her apron to her eyes.
"'Well, well, don't fret!' says master,—and I thought he looked kind o' ashamed,—'I haven't sold him yet I've a notion to turn him out to grass a while, and see what that'll do for him,' So the next day he put me in this pasture.
"You see that plank bridge yonder, over the creek? That's where our Ada fell into the water. Master has put up a railing, and made all safe since the accident happened. 'T was a risky place always, though the children have crossed it hundreds of times, and none of them ever tumbled over before.
"But I hadn't been here a week, when one sunshiny afternoon our Ada came through the pasture, on her way to visit the sick Simmonses—there's always some of that tribe down with the chills. She came running up to me—her little basket, full of goodies, on her arm,—stopped to talk a minute and feed me an apple, and then passed along, while I went on nibbling grass, till I heard a scream and a splash, and knew, all in a minute, she must have fallen off the plank bridge into the water. Dear! dear! what was to be done? I ran to the fence, and looked up and down the road. Some men were burning brush at the far end of the next field. I galloped toward them, and back again to the creek, and whinnied and snorted, and tried my best to make them understand that they were needed; but they didn't appear to notice, and I just made up my mind, that if any thing was done to save our Ada from drowning, I was the one to do it.
"I made my way through the alder-bushes down by the bank, to a place where the current sets close in shore. At first I couldn't see any thing, then all at once, there floated on the muddy water close to me, the little red shawl she wore, then a hand and arm, and her white face and brown hair all streaming. I caught at her clothes, and though Ada is a stout girl of her age, and the wet things added a deal to her weight, I lifted her well out of the water. I remember thinking, 'If only my poor legs don't give out, I shall do very well,' And they didn't give out, for when help came—it seems those men in the field had noticed me, and came to see what was the matter—they found me all in a lather of sweat, and my eyes starting out of their sockets, but with my feet braced against a rock, keeping our Ada's head and shoulders well above water.
"They got her home as quick as they could, and put her to bed between hot blankets, and the next day she was none the worse for her ducking, though she carried the print of my teeth in her tender flesh for many a day; for how was I to know where the child's clothes left off and her side began.
"Of course they made a great fuss over me. Mistress came running to meet me, and put both arms around my neck, and said: 'O Star, you have saved our darling's life!' and the little ones hugged and kissed me, and the boys took turns rubbing me down; and I stood knee deep in my stall that night in fresh straw, and besides my measure of oats, had a warm mash, three cookies, and half a pumpkin-pie for my supper.
"But master only patted my neck, and said: 'Well done, Old Star!' Master Fred and I always did understand one another.
"There hasn't been any thing more said about selling me to Ki Jones. In the winter I have a stall at the south side of the stable, where I get the sun at my window all day, and in summer I live in this pasture, with shady trees, and cool water, and grass and clover-tops in plenty. I have nothing to do the live-long day, but to eat and drink and enjoy myself; but I do hope folks passing along the road don't think I'm turned out in this field because I'm too old to work."
"Good-by, Old Star!" said Mollie, as her aunt laid down the paper. "We are much obliged for your nice story, and we hope you'll live ever so many years. I wouldn't hint for the world that you aren't as smart as you used to be."
"Isn't he rather a self-conceited old horse?" said Nellie Dimock.
"Well, yes; but that is natural. I suppose he has been more or less spoiled and petted all his life."
"When he told about going to meeting," Fannie Eldridge said, "it reminded me of a story mamma tells, of an old horse up in Granby, that went to church one Sunday all by himself."
"How droll! How did it happen, Fannie?"
"Why, he belonged to two old ladies who went to church always, and exactly at such a time every Sunday morning Dobbin was hitched to the chaise and brought round to the front door and Miss Betsey and Miss Sally got in and drove to church. But one Sunday something hindered them, and Dobbin waited and waited till the bell stopped ringing and all the other horses which attended church had gone by; and at last he got clear out of patience, and started along without them. Mamma says the people laughed to see him trot up to the church-door and down to the sheds and walk straight into his own place, and when service was over back himself out and trot home again."
"What did Miss Betsey and Miss Sally do?"
"Oh, they had to stay at home. When they came out they saw the old chaise ever so far off, going toward the church, and they felt pretty sure old Dobbin was going to meeting on his own account. That is a true story Miss Ruth, every word of it—mamma says so."
"Our old Ned cheated us all last summer," said Florence Austin, "by pretending to be lame. He really was made lame, at first, one day when mamma was driving, by getting a stone in his foot, and she turned directly and walked him all the way back to the stable. But when William had taken out the stone, he seemed to be all right, and the next afternoon mamma and Alice and I started for a drive. We got about a mile out of town, when all at once Ned began to limp. Mamma and Alice got out of the phaeton, and looked his feet all over, for they thought may be he had picked up another stone; but they couldn't see the least thing out of the way, only that he limped dreadfully as if it half-killed him to go. Well, there was nothing to be done but to give up our drive; for we couldn't bear to ride after a lame horse!"
"I can't either!" Mollie interjected.
"Well, he had been lately shod, and our coachman thought that perhaps a nail from one of the shoes pricked his foot, so he started to take him to the blacksmith's. But don't you think, as soon as Ned knew that William was driving, he started off at a brisk trot and wasn't the least bit lame I but the next time mamma took him out, he began to limp directly, and kept looking round as much as to say: 'How can you be so cruel as to make me go, when you must see every step I take hurts me?' But when mamma came home with him again, William said: 'It's chatin' you he is, marm.'"
"And what did your mother do?"
"Well, as soon as she made up her mind that he was shamming, she took no notice of his little trick, but touched him up with the whip, and made him go right along. He knew directly that she had found him out. Oh, he is such a knowing horse! The other day Alice was leading him through the big gate, to give him a mouthful of grass in the door-yard. Alice likes to lead him about. When he stepped on her gown, and she held it up to him all torn, and scolded him, she said: 'O Ned! aren't you ashamed of yourself? how could you be so clumsy and awkward?' and she said he dropped his head and looked so sorry and ashamed, as if he wanted to say: 'Oh, I beg pardon! I didn't mean to do it,' that she really pitied him, and answered as if he had spoken: 'Well, don't worry, Ned; it's of no consequence,' Ned is such a pet. Papa got him in Canada, on purpose for mamma and Alice to drive; and it was so funny when he first came—he didn't understand a word of English, not even whoa. He belonged to a Frenchman way up the country, and had never been in a large town, and acted so queer—like a green countryman, you know, turning his head and staring at all the sights. And it's lovely to see him play in the snow. He was brought up in the midst of it, you know. When there's a snow-storm he's wild to be out of the stable, and the deeper the drifts, the better pleased he is. He plunges in and rolls over and over, and rears and dances. Oh, it is too funny to see him! But I beg pardon, Miss Ruth! I didn't mean to talk so long about Ned."
"We are all glad to hear about him," she said, and Susie added that it was very interesting.
"My Uncle John owned a horse," said Roy Tyler, "that opened a gate and a barn-door to get to the oat-bin, and he shut the barn-door after him too. I guess you can't any of you tell how he did that!"
"He jumped the gate, and shoved his nose in the crack of the door and pried it open," said Sammy.
"No, he didn't. That wouldn't be opening the gate, would it?" Roy retorted. "And how did he shut it after him?"
"I think you had better tell us, Roy," said Miss Ruth.
"Well, he reached over the fence, and lifted the latch with his teeth, that's how he opened the gate; and he shut it by backing up against it till it latched itself. Then he pulled out the wooden pin of the barn-door, and it swung open by its own weight—see?"
"Well, pa had a horse that slipped his halter and shoved up the cover of the oat-bin, when he got hungry in the night and wanted a lunch," said Sammy; "and I read about a horse the other day which turned the water-tap when he wanted a drink, and pulled the stopper out of the pipe over the oat-bin, just as he 'd seen the coachman do, so the oats would come down, and"—
"But really now," Ruth Elliot, interrupted, "interesting and wonderful as all this is, we must stop somewhere. I have another story to tell you, about a minister's horse, but it can wait over till next week. Lay aside your work, girls; it is past five o'clock."
CHAPTER IX.
TUFTY AND THE SPARROWS.
Florence Austin came early to the Society the next Wednesday afternoon, and found Miss Ruth on the piazza,
"I am glad to see you, Florence," she said. "I was just wishing for a helper. Mollie and Susie have gone on an errand, and I am alone in the house, and here is a whole family in trouble that I can't relieve."
"What is the matter?" said the little girl.
"A baby bird has fallen out of the nest, and I am too lame to-day to venture down the steps; and papa and mamma are in great distress, and the babies in the nest half-starved, and can't have their dinner because the old birds dare not leave poor chippy a moment lest some stray cat should get him. See the little thing down there in the grass just under the woodbine!"
Florence descended the piazza-steps at two jumps, and was back with the young bird in her hand.
"Now where shall I put him, Miss Ruth?"
Ruth Elliot pointed out the nest. It was in the thickest growth of the woodbine, just over their heads; and when Florence had climbed in a chair, she had her first look at a nest of young birds. The little city girl was delighted.
"How cunning!" she exclaimed. "Oh, how awfully cunning! four in all—three of them with their mouths wide open. No wonder this little fellow got pushed out. Here, you droll little specimen, crowd in somewhere! He isn't hurt at all, for he seems as lively as any of them."
As Florence jumped down from the chair, Susie and Mollie and the Jones girls came up the walk.
"What are you two doing?" Mollie called out.
"Florence has just restored a lost baby to his distressed family," her aunt answered. "Come into the house, girls, and let papa and mamma Chippy get over their fright and look after the babies. Florence, I am greatly obliged to you. I should have felt very sorry if harm had come to the little one, for I have watched that nest ever since the old birds began to build."
The little girl replied politely that she was glad she had been of use.
"I know what chippies' nests are made of," said Mollie: "fine roots and fibers, and lined beautifully with soft fine hair,"
"Did you watch the birds while they were making it, Mollie?"
"No; but one night after tea, when Auntie and Susie and I were playing at choosing birds,—telling which bird we liked best and why, you know,—papa came along and said: 'I choose the chirping sparrow for my bird'; and when we laughed at him and called for his reasons (because chippies are such insignificant things, you know, and no singers), he told us he liked them because they were tame and friendly, and because they built such neat, pretty nests; and he pulled an old nest he had saved in pieces, and showed us how it was put together."
"Yes," said Susie; "and the other reason he gave for liking them best was, that they got up early and rang the rising-bell for all the other birds. That was such a funny reason for papa to give, for we all know he dearly loves his morning nap."
"Really, now, do the chippies get up first in the morning?" said Florence.
"With the first peep of day," Miss Ruth answered. "This morning I heard their cheerful twitter before a ray of light had penetrated to my room; and a welcome sound it was, for it told me the long night was over. One dear little fellow sang two or three strains before he succeeded in waking any body; then a robin joined in, in a sleepy kind of way; then two or three wrens, and then a cat-bird; and, last of all, my little weather-bird, which, from the topmost branches of the elm-tree, warbled out to me that it was a pleasant day. Oh, what a sweet concert they all gave me before the sun rose!"
"I never heard of a weather-bird, Aunt Ruth."
"Your Uncle Charlie gave him that name, Susie, when we were children. His true name is Warbling Verio; but we used to fancy the little fellow announced what kind of day it would be. If clear he called out: 'Pleasant day!' three times over, with a pause between each sentence and a long-drawn-out Yes at the close; or, if it rained, he said 'Rainy day' or 'Windy day,' describing the weather, whatever it might be, always with an emphatic Yes.
"One day he talked to me, but it was not about the weather. Things had gone wrong with me all the morning. I had spoken disrespectfully to my grandmother, and had been so cross and impatient with baby Walter that mother had taken him from me, though she could ill spare the time to tend him. Then I ran through the garden to a little patch of woods behind the house, and sat on an old log, in a very bad humor.
"Presently, high above my head in the branches of the walnut-tree, the weather-bird began his monotonous strain. I paid no attention to him at first, I was so taken up with my own disagreeable thoughts, till it came to me all at once that he was not telling me it was a pleasant day, though the sun was shining gloriously and a lovely breeze rustled the green leaves. What was it the little bird was saying over and over again, as plain as plain could be? 'NAUGHTY GIRL! NAUGHTY GIRL! NAUGHTY GIRL! Y-E-S.'
"I rubbed my eyes and pinched my arm, to make sure I was awake; for I thought I must have dreamed it. But no, there it was again, sweet, sad, reproachful: 'NAUGHTY GIRL! NAUGHTY GIRL! NAUGHTY GIRL! Y-E-S,'
"I jumped up in a rage, and called it a horrid thing; and when it wouldn't stop, but kept on reproaching me with my evil behavior, I could bear it no longer, but put my fingers in my ears and ran back to the house and up to my own room, where I cried with anger and shame. But solitude and reflection soon brought me to a better state of mind; and, long before the day was over, I had confessed my fault and was forgiven. But though I wanted very much to see a new water-wheel Charlie set up that afternoon in the brook, I dared not go through the wood to get to it, lest that small bird should still be calling, 'Naughty girl! Y-e-s.'
"Charlie grumbled the next morning when I wakened him out of a sound sleep by shouting gayly from my little bed in the next room that his weather-bird was calling, 'Pleasant day!' 'Why, what should he call,' he wanted to know, 'with the sun shining in at both windows?'
"I never told my brother how the bird had given voice to my accusing conscience, nor has the lesson ever been repeated; for from that day to this the Warbling Verio has made no more personal remarks to me."
"There's a bird down in Maine" said Ann Eliza Jones, "they call the Yankee bird, 'cause he keeps saying, 'All day whittling—whittling—whittling.'"
"Yes; and the quails there always tell the farmers when they must hurry and get in their hay," said her sister. "When it's going to rain they sing out: 'More wet! more wet!' and 'No more wet!' when it clears off."
"Aunt Ruth," said Mollie, "please tell us about the funny little bantam rooster who used to call to his wife every morning: 'Do—come out—n-o-w!'"
"Very well; but we are getting so much interested in this bird-talk that we are making rather slow progress with our work. Suppose we all see how much we can accomplish in the next ten minutes."
Upon this Mollie caught up the block lying in her lap, Florence re-threaded her needle, Nellie Dimock hunted up her thimble, which had rolled under the table, and industry was the order of the day.
And while they worked, Miss Ruth told the story of
THE WIDOW BANTAM.
"She belonged to our next-door neighbor, and we called her the Widow because her mate—a fine plucky little bantam rooster—was one day slain while doing battle with the great red chanticleer who ruled the hen-yard.
"I took pity on the little hen in her loneliness, and singled her out from the flock for special attention. She very soon knew my voice, would come at my call, and used to slip through a gap in the fence and pay me a visit every day. If the kitchen door were open she walked in without ceremony; if closed, she flew to the window, tapped on the glass with her bill, flapped her wings, and gave us clearly to understand that she wished to be admitted. Once inside, she set up a shrill cackling till I attended to her wants, and scolded me at the top of her voice if I kept her long waiting. When she had eaten more cracked corn and Indian meal than you would think so small a body could contain, she walked about in a slow, contented way, and was ready for all the petting we chose to give her.
"She was a pretty creature, with a speckled coat and a comb the color of red coral: very small, but lively and vigorous, and exhibiting in all her movements both grace and stateliness. She would nestle in my lap, take a ride on my shoulder, and walk the length of my arm to peck at a bit of cake in my hand, regarding me all the while with a queer sidelong glance, and croaking out her satisfaction and content. When she was ready to go she walked to the kitchen door, and asked in a very shrill voice to be let out. She continued these visits till late in the fall, when she was shut up with the rest of our neighbor's flock for the winter.
"One bitter cold day in January we heard a faint cackle outside, and, opening the kitchen door, found our poor widow in a sorry plight. One foot was frozen, her feathers were all rough and dirty, her wings drooping, her bright comb changed to a dull red. How she escaped from the hen-house, surmounted the high fence, and hobbled or flew to our door, we did not know; but there she was, half-dead with hunger and cold.
"We did what we could for her. I bathed and bandaged the swollen foot, and made a warm bed for her in a box in the shed, from which she did not offer to stir for many days. I fed her with bits of bread soaked in warm milk, and Charlie said, nursed and tended her as if she had been a sick baby. She was very gentle and patient, poor thing! and allowed me to handle her as I pleased, always welcomed my coming with a cheerful little cackle, and, as she got stronger, trotted after me about the shed and kitchen like a pet kitten.
"In the spring, when she was quite well again, I restored her to her rightful owner. Perhaps she had grown weary of her solitary life, for she seemed delighted to rejoin her old companions; but every day she made us a visit, and at night came regularly to roost in the shed.
"One morning we heard two voices instead of one outside our window, and behold! Mrs. Bantam had taken another mate—a fine handsome fellow, so graceful in form and brilliant in plumage that we at once pronounced him a fit companion to our favorite hen. They were evidently on the best of terms, croaking and cackling to each other, and exchanging sage opinions about us as we watched them from the open door. I am sure she must have told him all about her long illness the previous winter, and pointed me out as her nurse, for he nodded and croaked and cast sidelong looks of friendly regard in my direction.
"But when Mrs. Bantam came into the kitchen for her luncheon she could not induce Captain Bantam to follow. In vain she coaxed and cackled, running in and out a dozen times to convince him there was nothing to fear. He would not believe her nor budge one inch over the door-sill. She lost patience at last, and rated him soundly; but as neither coaxing nor scolding availed, and she was eating her meal with a poor relish inside, while he waited unhappily without, we settled the difficulty by putting the dish on the door-step, where they ate together in perfect content.
"But a more serious trouble came at bed-time, for Mrs. Bantam expected to roost as usual in the shed, while the Captain preferred the old apple-tree where the rest of the flock spent their nights. The funny little couple held an animated discussion about it which lasted far into the twilight—and neither would yield. The Captain was very polite and conciliatory. He evidently had no mind to quarrel: but neither would he give up the point. He occasionally suspended the argument by a stroll into the garden, where, by vigorous scratching, he would produce a choice morsel, to which he called her attention by an insinuating 'Have a worm, dear?' She never failed to accept the offering, gulping it down with great satisfaction, but was too old a bird to be caught by so shallow a trick, for she would immediately return to her place by the shed window, and resume her discourse. When she had talked herself sleepy she ended the contest for that night by flying through the window and settling herself comfortably in the old place, while the Captain took his solitary way across the garden and over the fence to the apple-tree.
Every night for a week this scene occurred under the shed window; then, by mutual consent, they seemed to agree to go their several ways without further dispute. About sunset the Captain might be seen politely escorting his mate to her chosen lodging-house, and, after seeing her safely disposed of for the night, quietly betaking himself to his roost in the apple-tree.
"He was at her window early every morning crowing lustily. Charlie and I were sure he said: 'Do—come—out—now! Do—come—out—n-o-w!' and were vexed with the little hen for keeping him waiting so long. But his patience never failed; and, when at last she flew down and joined him, a prouder, happier bantam rooster never strutted about the place. All day long he kept close at her side, providing her with the choicest tidbits the garden afforded, and watching her with unselfish delight while she swallowed each dainty morsel. In the middle of the day they rested under the currant-bushes, crooning sleepily to each other or taking a quiet nap.
"One day we missed them both, and for three weeks saw them only at intervals, Mrs. Bantam always coming alone, eating a hurried meal, and stealing away as quickly as possible; while the Captain wandered about rather dejectedly, we thought, in the society of the other hens.
"But one bright morning we heard Mrs. Bantam clucking and calling with all her old vigor; and there she was at the kitchen-door, the prettiest and proudest of little mothers, with three tiny chicks not much larger than the baby chippies you saw in the nest, Florence, but wonderfully active and vigorous for their size. We named them Bob and Dick and Jenny, and, as they grew older, were never tired of watching their comical doings. Their mother, too, afforded us great amusement, while we found much in her conduct to admire and praise. She was a fussy, consequential little body, but unselfishly devoted, and ready to brave any danger that threatened her brood. Charlie and and I learned more than one useful lesson from the bantam hen and her young family.
"One of these lessons we put into verse, which, if I can remember, I will repeat to you. We called it
CHICKEN DICK THE BRAGGER.
In the garden-patch,
Goes good Mother Henny;
Cluck! cluck!
Good luck! Good luck!
Come, Bob and Dick and Jenny!
See him squirm!
Who comes first to catch it!
Quick! quick!
Chicken Dick,
You are the chick to snatch it!
While you creep,
My long legs have won it!
Cuck-a-doo!
I've beat you!
Don't you wish you'd done it?"
That foolish trick
Of bragging lost your dinner;
For while to crow
You let it go,
Bob snatched it up—the sinner!
'T was wrong to rob
Your silly little brother,
And in the bush
To fight and push,
And peck at one another.
And ate the treat.—
Dear children, though you're winners,
Be modest all;
For pride must fall,
And braggers lose their dinners.'
"And now I will tell you an adventure of young Dick's, in which a habit he had of crowing on all occasions proved very useful to him. He grew to be a fine handsome fellow, and was sold to a family who lived on the meadow-bank.
"There was a big freshet the next autumn, the water covering the meadows on both sides of the river, and creeping into cellars and yards and houses. It came unexpectedly, early one morning, into the enclosure where Dick, with his half-dozen hens, was confined, and all flew for refuge to the roof of the neighboring pig-pen. But the incoming flood soon washed away the supports of the frail building, and it floated slowly out into the current to join company with the wrecks of wood-piles and rail fences, the spoils from gardens and orchards, in the shape of big yellow pumpkins and rosy apples, bobbing about in the foaming muddy stream, and all the other queer odds and ends a freshet gathers in its course.
"From his commanding position, Dick surveyed the scene, and thought it a fitting occasion to raise his voice. He stretched himself to the full height of his few inches, flapped his wings, and crowed—not once or twice, but continually. Over the waste of waters came his shrill 'Cock-a-doodle-doo!' All the cocks along the shore answered his call; all the turkeys gobbled, and the geese cackled. His vessel struck the heavy timber of a broken bridge, and lurched and dipped, threatening every moment to go to pieces. The waves splashed and drenched them, and the swift current carried them faster and faster down to the sea. It was all Dick and his little company could do to keep their footing, and still the plucky little fellow stood and crowed.
"A neighbor who was out in his boat gathering drift-wood, recognizing Dick's peculiar voice, went to the rescue, and, taking this strange craft in tow, brought the little company, with their gallant leader, drenched and draggled but still crowing lustily, safe to land.
"And that is all I can tell you about Dick, for it is five o'clock, and time to put up our work."
"I like every kind of bird," said Florence Austin at the next meeting of the Society, "except the English sparrows. They are a perfect nuisance!"
"Why, what harm do they do?" Nellie asked.
"Harm!" said Florence; "you don't know any thing about it here in the country. We had to cut down a beautiful wisteria-vine that climbed over one side of our house because the sparrows would build their nests in it, and made such a dreadful noise in the morning that nobody on that side of the house could sleep. And they drive away all the other birds. We used to have robins hopping over our lawn, and dear little yellow-birds used to build their nests in the pear-trees; but since the sparrows have got so thick, they have stopped coming. My father says the English sparrow is the most impudent bird that ever was hatched. He actually saw one snatch away a worm a robin had just dug up. I believe I hate sparrows!"
"I don't," said Nellie. "I have fed them all winter. They came to the dining-room window every morning, and waited for their breakfast; and a funny little woodpecker, blind of one eye, came with them sometimes."
"They do lots of good in our gardens," said Mollie, "digging up grubs and beetles. Papa told us so."
"There's nobody in this world so bad," said Susie, sagely, "but that you can find something good to say about them." At which kindly speech Aunt Ruth smiled approval.
"I think," she said, "this will be a good time to tell you a story about an English sparrow and a canary-bird I will call it
TUFTY AND THE SPARROW.
"One morning in April a young canary-bird whose name was Tufty escaped through an open window carelessly left open while he was out of his cage, and suddenly found himself, for the first time in his life, in the open air. He alighted first on an apple-tree in the yard, and then made a grand flight half-way to the top of the elm-tree.
"The sun was bright and the air so still that the light snow which had fallen in the night yet clung to the branches and twigs of the tree, and Tufty examined it with interest, thinking it pretty but rather cold as he poked it about with his bill, and tucked first one little foot, and then the other, under him to keep it warm. Presently he heard an odd little noise below him, and, looking down, saw on the trunk of the tree a bird about his own size, with wings and back of a steel-gray color, a white breast with a dash of dull red on it, and a long bill, with which he was making the noise Tufty had heard by tapping on the tree.
"'Good-morning!' said Tufty, who was of a friendly and social disposition, and was beginning to feel the need of company.
"'Morning!' said the woodpecker, very crisp and shorthand not so much as looking up to see who had spoken to him.
"If you had heard this talk you would have said Tufty called out: 'Peep! peep!' and the woodpecker—but that's because you don't understand bird-language.
"'What are you doing down there?' said Tufty, continuing the conversation.
"'Getting my breakfast,' said the woodpecker.
"'Why, I had mine a long time ago!' said Tufty.
"He didn't in the least understand how that knocking on the tree was to bring Mr. Longbill's morning meal; but he was afraid to ask any more questions, the other had been so short with him.
"Just then he heard a hoarse voice overhead saying, 'Come along! come along!' and, looking up, saw a monstrous black creature sailing above the tops of the trees. It was only a crow on his way to the swamp, and he was trying to hurry up his mate, that always would lag behind in that corn-field where there wasn't so much as a grain left; but Tufty, which by this time you must have discovered was a very ignorant bird, thought the black monster was calling him, and piped back feebly: 'I can't! I can't!' and was all of a tremble till Mr. Crow was quite out of sight.
"He sat quiet, looking a little pensive, for the fact was, he was beginning to feel lonely, when there flew past him a flock of brown birds chirping and chattering away at a brisk rate. 'Now for it!' thought Tufty, 'here's plenty of good company;' and he spread his wings and flew after them as fast as he could. But he could not keep up with them, but, panting and weary, alighted on the roof of a house to rest. And here he saw such a pretty sight; for on a sunny roof just below him were two snow-white pigeons. One was walking about in a very consequential way, his tail-feathers spread in the shape of a fan, and turning his graceful neck from side to side in quite a bewitching fashion. Just as Tufty alighted, the pretty dove began to call: 'Come, dear, come! Do, dear, do!' in such a sweet, soft, plaintive voice, as if his heart would certainly break if his dear didn't come, that Tufty, who in his silly little pate never once doubted that it was he the lovely white bird was pining for, felt sorry to disappoint him, and piped back: 'Oh, if you please, I should like to ever so much! but you see I must catch up with those brown birds over there;' and, finding his wind had come back to him, he flew away. The pigeon, which had not even seen him, and had much more important business to attend to than to coax an insignificant little yellow-bird, went on displaying all his beauties, and crooning softly, 'Do, dear! do! do! do!'
"Tufty had no trouble in finding the brown birds, for long before he came to the roof of the barn where they had alighted he heard their loud voices in angry dispute; and they made such an uproar, and seemed so fractious and ill-tempered, that Tufty felt afraid to join them, but lingered on a tree near by.
"Presently one of them flew over to him. She was a young thing—quite fresh and trim-looking for a sparrow.
"'Good-morning!' she said, hopping close to him and looking him all over with her bright little eyes,
"'Good-morning!' said Tufty, as brisk as you please.
"'Now, I wonder where you come from and what you call yourself,' said the sparrow. 'I never saw a yellow-bird like you before. How pretty the feathers grow on your head!' and she gave a friendly nip to Tufty's top-knot.
"Tufty thought she was getting rather familiar on so short an acquaintance, but he answered her politely, told her his name, and that he came from the house where he had always lived, and was out to take an airing.
"'I want to know!' said the sparrow. 'Well, my name is Brownie. Captain Bobtail's Brownie, they call me, because Brownie is such a common name in our family. It's pleasant out-of-doors, isn't it? Oh, never mind the fuss over there!'—for Tufty's attention was constantly diverted to the scene of the quarrel—'they are always at it, scolding and fighting. Come, let's you and I have a good time!'
"'What is the fuss about?' said Tufty.
"'A nest,' said Brownie, contemptuously. 'Ridiculous, isn't it? Snow on the ground, and not time to build this two weeks; but you see, he wants to keep the little house on top of the pole lest some other bird should claim it, and she wants to build in the crotch of the evergreen, and the neighbors are all there taking sides. She has the right of it—the tree is much the prettier place; but dear me! she might just as well give up first as last, for he's sure to have his way—husbands are such tyrants!' said Captain Bobtail's Brownie, with a coquettish turn of her head; 'but come, now, what shall we do?'
"'I'm too cold to do any thing,' said Tufty, dolefully.
"The sun was hidden by a cloud and a cold wind was blowing, and the house-bird, accustomed to a stove-heated room, was shivering.
"'Take a good fly,' said Brownie; 'that will warm you,'
"'But I'm hungry,' piped Tufty.
"'All right!' said Brownie. 'I know a place where there's a free lunch set out every day for all the birds that will come—bread-crumbs, seeds, and lovely cracked corn. Come along! you'll feel better after dinner,'
"So they flew, and they flew, and Brownie was as kind as possible, and stopped for a rest whenever Tufty was tired, and chatted so agreeably and pleasantly, that before they reached their journey's end Tufty had quite fallen in love with her. Then, too, the sun was shining again, and the brisk exercise of flying had set the little bird's blood in motion, so that he was warm again, but oh, so hungry!
"They came at last to a brown cottage with a broad piazza, and it was on the roof of this piazza that a feast for the birds was every day spread. But as they flew round the house Tufty became very much excited.
"'Stop, Brownie!' he cried; 'let me look at this place! Surely I've been here before. That red curtain, that flower-stand in the window, that—Oh! oh! there's my own little house! Why, Captain Bobtail's Brownie, you've brought me home!'
"Now, all this time Tufty's mistress had been in great trouble. As soon as she discovered her loss she ran out-of-doors, holding up the empty cage and calling loudly on her little bird to return. But he was high up in the elm-tree watching the woodpecker, and, if he heard her call, paid no attention to it. Very soon he flew after the sparrows, and she lost sight of him. Not a mouthful of breakfast could the poor child eat.
"'I shall never see my poor little Tufty again, mamma!' she said. 'I saw him flying straight for the swamp, and he never can find his way back!' and she cried as if her heart would break.
"In the middle of the forenoon her brother Jack called to her from the foot of the stairs:—
"'What will you give me, Kittie,' he said, 'if I will tell you where Tufty is?'
"'O Jack! do you know? Have you seen him? Where? where?' cried the little girl, coming downstairs in a great hurry.
"'Be quiet!' said Jack. 'Now, don't get excited; your bird is all right, though I'm sorry to say he's in rather low company,' And he led her to the dining-room window that looked into the garden, and there, sure enough, was Tufty on a lilac-bush. Brownie was there too. She was hopping about and talking in a most earnest and excited manner. It was easy to see that she was using all her powers of persuasion to coax Tufty not to go back to his old home, but to help her build a little house out-of-doors, where they could set up housekeeping together.
"Kittie knew just what to do. She ran for the cage and for a sprig of dried pepper-grass (of all the good things she gave her bird to eat, he liked pepper-grass best), and, standing in the open door-way, called: 'Tufty! Tufty!' He gave a start, a little flutter of his wings, and then, with one glad cry of recognition, and without so much as a parting look at poor Brownie, flew straight for the door, and alighted on the top of his cage.
"'How strangely things come about, mamma?' Kittie said that evening as they talked over this little incident. 'Jack has laughed at me all winter for feeding the sparrows, and called them hateful, quarrelsome things, and said I should get nicely paid next summer when they drove away all the pretty song-birds that come about the house. And now, don't you see, mamma, one of the sparrows I have fed all winter—I knew her right away by a funny little dent in her breast—has done me such good service? Why, I am paid a hundred thousand times over for all I have ever done for the sparrows.'"
"And what became of poor Brownie?" Nellie asked. "I almost hoped Tufty would stay out with her, she was such a good little sparrow."
"She lingered about the garden for a while, making a plaintive little noise; but when the family of Brownies came to dinner she ate her allowance, and flew away with them, apparently in good spirits. But Tufty moped for a day or two, and, as long as he lived, showed great excitement at the sight of a flock of sparrows; and it is my private opinion that, if a second opportunity had been given him, Kittie Grant's Tufty would have gone off for good and all with Captain Bobtail's Brownie."
Susie Elliot walked part of the way home with Florence Austin, and the two little girls, who were fast becoming intimate friends, talked over the events of the afternoon.
"How much your auntie knows about animals and birds!" said Florence; "she seems almost as fond of them as if they were people."
"Yes," Susie answered; "she was always fond of pets, papa says; and, ever since she has been ill, she has spent a great deal of time watching them and studying their ways. I think it makes her forget the pain,"
"Is it the pain that keeps her awake at night, Susie? You know she said this afternoon she was glad to hear the chippy-birds, because then she knew the long night was over; and she looked so white, and couldn't get down those three little easy steps to pick up the baby-bird. But she walks about the garden sometimes with a crutch, doesn't she?"
"Oh, yes! and she's better than when she first came here to live, only she never can be well, you know. Today is one of her poor days; but she used to be so ill that she was hardly ever free from pain. You never would have known it, though, she was always so cheerful and doing something to give us good times."
"Can't she ever be made well, Susie? There's doctors in town, you know, who cure every thing," said the little girl.
Susie shook her head.
"Papa says she has an incurable disease;" and then seriously—"I think if Jesus were here he would put his hands on auntie and make her well."
CHAPTER X.
PARSON LORRIMER'S WHITE HORSE.
"And now for the story of the minister's horse," Mollie Elliot said, when Miss Ruth's company of workers had assembled on the next Wednesday afternoon. "I suppose he was an awfully good horse, which set an example to all the other horses in the parish to follow. Say, Auntie, wasn't he?"
"When my grandmother was a little girl," Ruth Elliot began, "she lived with her father and mother in a small country town among the New Hampshire hills: and of all the stories she told in her old age about the quiet simple life of the people of Hilltown, the one her grandchildren liked best to hear was
THE STORY OF PARSON LORRIMER'S WHITE HORSE.
"Parson Lorrimer had lived thirty years in Hilltown before he owned a horse. He began to preach in the big white meeting-house when he was a young man, and, as neither he nor his people wanted a change, when he was sixty years old he was preaching there still. It was a scattered parish, with farm-houses perched on the hill-sides and nestled in the valleys; and the minister, in doing his work, had trudged over every mile of it a great many times. He made nothing of walking five miles to a meeting on a December evening, with the thermometer below zero, or of climbing the hills in a driving snow-storm to visit a sick parishioner. He was a tall, spare man, healthy and vigorous, with iron-gray hair, a strong kind face, and a smile in his brown eyes that made every baby in Hilltown stretch out its arms to him to be taken.
"Not a chick or child had Parson Lorrimer of his own. He had never married, but lived in the old parsonage, a stately mansion, with rooms enough in it to accommodate a big family, with only an elderly widow and her grown-up son to minister to his wants and to keep him company. His study was at the back of the house, and looked out upon the garden and orchard, so that the smell of his pinks and roses came to him as he wrote, and the same robins, year by year, built their nests within reach of his hand in the branches of the crooked old apple-tree that shaded his window.
"The minister was fond of caring for living creatures, both small and great, and every domestic animal about the place knew it. The cat jumped fearlessly to his knee, sure of a welcome. The cow lowed after him if he showed himself at the window. The little chicks fluttered to his shoulder when he appeared in the door-yard, and the old sow with her litter of pigs kept close at his heels as he paced the orchard, pondering next Sunday's sermon.
"He remembered them all. There was always a handful of grain for the chickens in the pocket of his study-gown, a ripe pumpkin in the shed for Sukey; and the good man would laugh like a school-boy, as the funny little baby-pigs rolled and tumbled over each other for the apples he tossed them. A great, good, gentle man, learned and wise in theology and knowledge of the Scriptures, with tastes and habits as simple as a child.
"But I must hurry on with my story, or you will think I am telling you more about the parson than his horse. The good man realized, one day, that he was not as young as he used to be, and that climbing Harrison Hill on a July afternoon and walking five miles in a drizzling rain after a preaching service were not so easy to do as he had found them a dozen years before. So he wisely concluded to call in the aid of four strong legs in carrying on his work, and that is how he came to buy a horse.
"The people of Hilltown heartily approved of this plan, and several were anxious to help him.
"Deacon Cowles had a four-year-old colt, raised on the farm, 'a real clever steady-goin' creetur, that he guessed he could spare—might be turned in for pew-rent;' and Si Olcott didn't care if he traded off his gray mare on the same conditions. She was about used up for farm-work, but had considerable go in her yet—could jog round with the parson for ten years to come.
"The minister received these offers with politeness, and promised to think of them; and then one day after a brief absence from home, set every body in the parish talking, by driving into town seated in an open wagon, shining with fresh paint and varnish, and drawn by a horse the like of which had never been seen in Hilltown before.
"He was of a large and powerful build, and most comely and graceful in proportion, with a small head, slender legs, and flowing mane and tail. In color, he was milk-white, while his nose and the inside of his pointed ears were of a delicate pink. He held his head high, stepping proudly and glancing from side to side in a nervous, excited way; but he had a kind eye, and the watching neighbors saw him take an apple from the hand of his new master, after they turned in at the parsonage gate. In answer to all questions, the parson said he had purchased the horse at Winterport, of a seafaring man, that he was eight years old, and his name was Peter. But to neither man nor woman in Hilltown did he ever tell the sum he paid in yellow gold and good bank-notes for the white horse,
"A few days after the purchase, Parson Lorrimer attended a funeral, and when the service at the house was ended, and he had shaken hands all round with the mourners, and exchanged greetings with neighbors and friends, he stepped out to the side-yard, where he had fastened his horse, and drove round the house to take his place before the hearse; for in Hilltown it was the custom for the minister to lead the procession to the burying-ground.
"It was Peter's first appearance in an official capacity, and he stepped with sufficient dignity into the street, where a long line of wagons and chaises, led off by the mourners' coach and the big black hearse, waited the signal to start, while in the door-yard and along the sidewalk were ranged the foot-passengers; for at a funeral in Hilltown everybody went to the grave.
"A passing breeze caught a piece of paper lying in the road, and flirted it close to Peter's eyes. He gave a tremendous leap sideways, and it was a marvel no one was struck by his flying heels, then gathering himself together he ran. How he did run! The good folks scattered right and left with amazing quickness, considering their habits of life; for in the slow little town, every body took things fair and easy, and the white horse dashed past the string of wagons, the mourners' equipage, and the tall black hearse. There was a cloud of dust, a rattling of wheels, a clatter of hoofs, and Peter and the parson were far down the road. The people gazed after their departing spiritual guide in speechless astonishment. The mourners' heads were thrust far out of the coach windows. Even the sleepy farm-horses pricked up their ears: while old Bill, the sexton's clumsy big-footed beast, which for fifteen years had carried the dead folks of Hilltown to their graves, and had never before been known, on these solemn occasions to depart from his slow walk, made a most astonishing departure; for, taking his driver unawares, he suddenly started after the flying white steed, breaking into a lumbering gallop, that set plumes nodding, curtains flapping, and glasses rattling, and made the huge unwieldly vehicle lurch and bob about in a way to threaten a shocking catastrophe.
"A vigorous twitch of the lines, and a loud 'Whoa, now, Bill! Whoa, I tell ye!' soon brought the sexton's beast to a stand-still. I am sure he must have shared his master's surprise at such unseeming conduct, who wondered 'What in time had got into the blamed crittur!' But neither voice nor rein checked Peter's speed. On he flew, down the hill past the post-office, the meeting-house, and the tavern. It was a straight road, and his driver kept him to it. Fortunately there were no collisions, and at the last long ascent his pace slackened and he turned of his own accord in at the parsonage gate.
"At the village store and the tavern that evening, Peter's evil behavior was talked about.
"'He's a sp'iled horse,' Jonathan Goslee, the minister's hired man, said, 'though you can't make parson think so. He's dead sure to run ag'in. A horse knows when he's got the upper hand, jest as well as a child, and he'll watch his chance to try it over ag'in, you see if he don't.'
"But the next time Peter shied and tried to run, it was the minister who got the upper hand; and when the short excitement was over, and the horse quiet and subdued, he was driven back to within a few paces of the object of his fright. A neighbor was called to stand at his head, while his master took down the flaming yellow placard that had caused all the trouble, and slowly and cautiously brought it to him, that he might see, smell, and touch it, talking soothingly to him and petting and caressing him. When he had become accustomed to its appearance, and had learned by experience that it was harmless, it was nailed to the tree again and Peter passed it the second time without trouble.
"'If I'd owned the horse,' the minister's helper said, when he told this story, 'I s'pose I should have licked him by,—but I guess, in the long run, parson's way was best.'
"This was one of many lessons Peter received to correct his only serious fault. He was willing and swift, intelligent and kind, but so nervous and timid, and made so frantic by his fear of any unknown object, that he was constantly putting the minister's life and limbs in jeopardy. But he had a wise, patient teacher, and he was apt to learn.
"My grandmother was fond of telling some of the means adopted to bring about the cure;—how one day after Peter had shied at sight of a wheelbarrow, the parson trundled the obnoxious object about the yard for half an hour in view of the stable window, then emptied a measure of oats in it, and opened the stable door; how the horse trotted round and round, drawing each time a little nearer, then came close, snorted and wheeled,—his master standing by encouraging him by hand and voice,—until, unable longer to resist the tempting bait, he put his pink nose to the pile and ate first timidly, then with confidence. After that, the old lady said, Peter felt a particular regard for wheelbarrows in general, hoping in each one he happened to pass to find another toothsome meal.
"He suffered at first agonies of terror at sight of the long line of waving, flapping garments he had to pass every Monday in his passage from the big gate to the stable; but, through the minister's devices, grew so familiar with their appearance, that he took an early opportunity of making their closer acquaintance, and mouthed the parson's ruffled shirt, and took a bite of the Widow Goslee's dimity short-gown.
"And so the kindly work went on. Peter gained trust and confidence every day, learning little by little that his master was his friend, that under his guidance no harm came to him, no impossible task was given to him; until at length confidence cast out fear, and the white horse became as docile and obedient as he had always been willing and strong.
"These qualities, on one occasion, stood him in good stead; for the parsonage barn and stable one night burned to the ground. Peter's stall was bright with the red light of the fire, and the flames crackled overhead in the barn-loft when the parson led out his favorite, trembling in every limb, his eyes wild with terror, but perfectly obedient to his master's hand. It was as if he had said: 'I must go, even through this dreadful fire, if master leads the way.'
"There was a Fourth of July celebration in the next parish, and Parson Lorrimer was invited to deliver the oration. He rode over on horseback, took the saddle from Peter's back, and turned him loose in a pasture where other of the guests' horses were grazing. A platform was erected on the green, with seats for the band, the invited guests, and the speaker of the day; while the people gathered from both parishes were standing about in groups waiting for the exercises to commence. Flags were flying, bells ringing, and a field-piece, that had seen service in the War of the Revolution, at intervals belched out a salute in honor of the day. The band was playing a lively tune, when suddenly there was a stir and a dividing to the right and left of the crowd gathered about the stand, and through the lane thus formed came the minister's white horse.
"He trotted leisurely up, stopped before the platform, and made a bow, then began to dance, keeping time to the music, and going round and round in a space quickly cleared for him by the lookers-on. I don't know whether it was a waltz the band was playing, or if horses were taught to waltz so long ago; but whatever kind of dance it was,—gallopade, quickstep, or cotillion,—Peter, in his horse-fashion, danced it well. Faster and faster played the music, and round and round went the pony. The people laughed and shouted, and Peter made his farewell bow and trotted soberly out of the ring, in the midst of a great shout of applause.
"How did Parson Lorrimer feel? Of all that amused and wondering crowd, not one was more taken by surprise than he—both at this exhibition of Peter's accomplishments and at the tale it told of his early days; for it was impossible to doubt that at some time in his life he had been a trained horse in a circus. From the field near by he had recognized the familiar strains that used to call him to his task, and had leaped the fence and made his way to where the crowd was gathered, to play his pretty part on the village green, before the sober citizens of Centerville and Hilltown, as he had played it hundreds of times before, under the canvas, to the motley crowd drawn together by the attractions of the ring.
"Of course the minister felt sorry and ashamed when he learned, in this public way, of the low company Peter had kept in his youth. Whenever a traveling circus had stopped at Winterport, Parson Lorrimer had not failed to warn his young people from the pulpit to keep their feet from straying to this place of sinful amusement. But mingled with his chagrin, I think he must have felt a little pride in the ownership of the beautiful creature, so intelligent to remember, and so supple of limb to perform, the unaccustomed task.
"He took pains to narrate more fully than he had thought necessary before, how he had come in possession of the animal. He had gone, he said, on business to Winterport, and on the wharf, early one morning, had met a man in the dress of a sailor leading the white horse. In answer to inquiries, the stranger said he had taken the horse In payment of a debt, and was about to ship him on board a trading-vessel then lying in the dock, bound to the East Indies. Would he sell, the minister asked, on this side of the water? Yes, if he could get his price. While they talked, Parson Lorrimer caressed the horse, who responded in so friendly a way that the minister, who had lost his heart at first sight to the beautiful creature, then and there made the purchase, waiting only till the banks were open to pay over the money. He had asked few questions; had known, he said, by Peter's eyes that he was kind, and by certain unmistakable marks about him that he came of good stock. Of the stranger, he had seen nothing from that day, and could not even remember his name.
"'I always knew,' Jonathan Goslee said, 'that the critter had tricks and ways different from common horses, I've catched him at 'em sometimes. One day I found him with his bran-tub bottom upwards, amusin' himself tryin' to stand with all four legs on it at once. And he'll clear marm's clothes-line at a leap as easy as you'd jump over a pair of bars. But I never happened to catch him practisin' his dancin'-lesson—must have done it, though, on the sly, or he couldn't have footed it so lively that day over to Centerville. Well, sometimes I think—and then ag'in I don't know. If that there sailor feller stole the horse he sold in such a hurry to parson, why didn't the owner make a hue and cry about it, and follow him up? 'Twould have been easy enough to track the beast to Hilltown. And then ag'in, if 'twas all fair and square, and he took the horse for a debt, why didn't he sell him to a show company for a fancy price, instead of shippin' him off to the Indys in one of them rotten old tubs, that as like as not would go under before she'd made half the voyage. But there, we never shall get to the bottom facts in the case, any more than we shall ever know how much money parson paid down for that horse,'
"And they never did.
"My grandmother remembered Parson Lorrimer as an old man, tall and straight, with flowing white hair, a placid face, and kind, dim eyes that gradually grew dimmer, till their light faded to darkness. For the last four years of his life he was totally blind, She remembered how he used to mount the pulpit-stairs, one hand resting upon the shoulder of his colleague, and, standing in the old place, with lifted face and closed eyes, carry on the service, repeating chapter and hymns from memory, his voice tremulous, but still sweet and penetrating.
"She remembered going to visit the old man in his study. It was summer-time, and he sat in his arm-chair at the open window, and on the grass-plat outside—so near that his head almost touched his master's shoulder—the old white horse was standing; for they had grown old together, and together were enjoying a peaceful and contented old age. Every bright day for hours Peter stood at the window, and in the winter-time, when he was shut in his stable, the old man never failed to visit him.
"But one November afternoon, Parson Lorrimer being weary laid himself down upon his bed, where presently the sleep came to him God giveth to his beloved.
"The evening after his funeral a member of the household passing the study-door was startled at seeing in the pale moonlight a long, ghostly white face peering in at the window.
"It was only Peter, that had slipped his halter and wandered round to the old place looking for his master. He allowed them to lead him back to his stable, but every time the door was opened he whinnied and turned his head. As the days passed and the step he waited for came no more, hope changed to patient grief. His food often remained untasted; he refused to go out into the sunshine; and so, gradually wasting and without much bodily suffering, he one day laid himself down and his life slipped quietly away.
"He was buried outside the grave-yard, at the top of the hill, as near as might be to the granite head-stone that recorded the virtues of 'Ye most faithful Servant and Man of God Silus Timothy Lorrimer Who for 52 Yrs did Minister to This Ch and Congregation in Spiritual Things.