Old Rough the miser

The path was indeed much wider, and the old water-rat took courage, for he knew from experience that these passageways always grow wide as they approach the exit. If he could but escape from this subterranean abode, he felt there was a chance for him, for he could when outside at least face his enemy and make a fight for his life.

The weasel was still close behind; but now that the water-rat had once more a wide passage-way, he could make more progress, and he bounded rapidly forward. Realizing so fully his dangerous position, his silent enemy pursuing him relentlessly and surely, not one pang of conscience smote him for the many times he had put others in the same danger the weasel now placed him. If he had reflected on the matter at all, he would have resolved to make others suffer, in the future, what he was now suffering; for not one ray of pity was in the old miser’s heart. Self, alone, had always been the one purpose of his life, and always would be, as long as life remained to him.

No such reflections, however, disturbed the old water-rat’s mind; his sole aim was to escape this ferocious enemy, that was so silently pursuing him. With a bound of his wicked old heart, he descried a faint ray of light in the distance, and, filled with new courage, redoubled his efforts.

His unusual exertion had told heavily on the old water-rat, and in spite of his efforts the steady progress of the weasel, who was as fresh as when he started, enabled him to gain on the exhausted rat. As the latter emerged once more into the open space under the floor of the hen-house, the weasel was close upon him, and the old miser, who now felt that the decisive moment had arrived, turned and faced his enemy.

The deadly contest began in earnest. The weasel was bent on fastening his long, sharp teeth in the old water-rat’s neck, that he might drain his blood, and the old rat, with his sharp teeth and strong paws, endeavored to keep him at bay.

The old water-rat’s strength was fast giving way, however. Almost sightless from the weakness that came so fast upon him, and faint from loss of blood that flowed from the wounds inflicted by the sharp teeth of his enemy, he knew that a few moments must decide his fate. At last he realized that the decisive moment had indeed come, as his now feeble paws could no longer keep back the strong weasel; and as he felt the last remnant of strength depart, and saw his enemy preparing for his final grip, squeal after squeal of agony issued from his throat. So penetrating were they in their shrillness that even the fierce weasel arrested the final blow, and paused for an instant.

During this instant a loud clamor arose from the terrified hens assembled in the corner of the hen-yard, and this was immediately followed by the loud barking of a little terrier, who at once rushed in the direction whence the squeals of the water-rat issued, and pushed his inquisitive nose in between the crevices of the stones, while with his strong little paws he set to work to enlarge an opening. At the same instant, too, the voice of the farmer was heard directly behind the terrier, saying, as he dislodged a large stone: “Go in and find ’em, old boy,—go in and find ’em!”

Into the breach sprang the excited terrier, and away sped the weasel back to the same retreat from which he had first emerged; and while the terrier was scratching and snuffing at the opening, the wounded water-rat, unnoticed by the eager terrier, managed to drag his exhausted body to the wall, and emerged on the outside of the hen-house.

Weary and wounded as the old miser was, he succeeded in reaching a pile of boards that stood behind the barns, and crawling beneath them threw himself down on the ground thoroughly exhausted, and lay motionless. If the weasel could have discovered him now, he might have despatched him without any resistance on the old rat’s part.

Long did old Rough lie under the pile of boards, until day lengthened into twilight, and twilight deepened into night; and then, when all was still and dark, the old miser arose on his stiff legs and crawled slowly forth from his hiding-place. Before him lay the stream which had so often risen to his mind as he lay hot and aching under the pile of boards, and toward it he now directed his steps,—not with the agility and alertness with which he had passed over the same ground a few hours before, but slowly and listlessly, dragging along his aching body.

At last the soft mud on the bank of the brook was reached, and the weary old miser slid into the turbid stream, sighing with relief as the cool water came into contact with his feverish body.

Refreshing and invigorating was the old water-rat’s native element, and under its soothing and healing influence he felt a portion of his old strength gradually coming back to him. At first he floated slowly along, abandoning himself to the pleasing sensations the cool water afforded him; by degrees he increased his progress, swimming with ease, and before long stopped before his own door. Not a feeling of gratitude or joy at having had his life so mercifully and unexpectedly preserved did the sordid old miser feel, but he dragged his wounded body into his den, and with an angry squeak aroused Ruffina from slumber.

“Dear me, Rough!” exclaimed his wife, who was thus suddenly disturbed in her dreams, “what a long time you’ve been gone. I thought something must have happened to you.”

“Much it would trouble you,” muttered the old rat. “Come, bustle around and bring me something to eat, for I’m precious weak from loss of blood.”

“Good gracious!” squealed Ruffina, “what have you been about? Why, you are bitten all to pieces. You don’t mean to say those horrid crows did that?”

“Stop that noise, and don’t be a fool,—if you can help it. How do you suppose crows could give me such wounds as these?”

“Who did, then?” asked his wife, examining the sharp cuts about his neck and face, from which the blood still oozed.

“No matter who it was. You just bustle around and bring me some of that pork-rind I brought home the other day,—that will set me up quicker than anything else.”

“There isn’t any,” answered Ruffina, in a faint voice.

“What!” snarled the old miser. “No pork? What do you mean?”

“It’s been stolen,” explained his wife, trembling under her lord’s angry glances; “but I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t to blame.”

“You’ve eaten it up, you thief!” cried the old miser, in a rage. “How dared you, when I told you not so much as to look at it?”

“Indeed, I didn’t touch it,” explained his wife, timidly; “I put it away in one corner, for fear I might be tempted to taste it; but he found it and carried it off.”

“He? Whom do you mean by he, you exasperating idiot? Why can’t you explain yourself properly? You are at no loss for words when you ought to keep still.”

Thus adjured, Ruffina related the visit of the two young crows, and explained how one had enticed her away from the house, while the other entered it and stole the pork-rind, and she ended by repeating the verse the crow had addressed to her.

His wife’s account of the theft seemed sufficiently plausible to the miser, and he now realized the extent of the young crows’ treachery. That they had purposely led him to the weasel’s abode, thinking he would never return thence, he did not for a moment doubt, and he resolved to inflict sure and summary vengeance upon them in return.

Long after his wife was sleeping soundly, did the old water-rat lie awake, concocting plans to carry out his revenge, not only on the impudent young crows, but also on the defenceless Bobtilla and the officious chipmunks who had interfered in his plans. After long thought, a scheme occurred to him which made him smile grimly to himself, and mutter,—“It may be long before I can accomplish it, but I will bide my time.”

This thought was so gratifying that the old water-rat at once betook himself to bed, and soon fell into a deep and refreshing slumber.

We will leave old Rough to enjoy his much needed rest, and follow the adventures of other friends.

The Widow O’Warty was quite disconcerted for a time at the trick played upon her by the saucy crows; but she was too good-natured to bear resentment long, and soon laughed at the recollection of the event.

“It’s meself that injoyed the pleasure of a serenade that was intinded for another,” she said to herself; “an’ afther all, there’s no harrm done. It’s a rale gintleman is Johnny the basso, an’ a foine singer, an’ it’s pl’ased I should account meself to continue his acquaintance.”

So a few days later, when the widow met the basso in the meadow, she accosted him graciously.

“It’s pl’ased I am to see ye; an’ it’s proud I should account meself to see you at me reciption the evening,” said the smiling widow.

“You do me great honor, Madame La Warty,” replied the basso, courteously; “at what hour will Madame permit me to visit her?”

“Whin the jew is on the grass and the moon is up,” said the widow, “the company will assimble forninst me dwilling. Is it the swate singer Signor Trillo ye have mit?”

“No, I have not had the plaisir to meet him,” answered the basso, somewhat haughtily; for the name suggested a possible rival.

“Is that the troot?” asked the widow. “It’s surprised I am to hear the same. The gintleman houlds a high station in his own counthry; indade, I’m tould he’s nixt removed from the king. It’s many the reciptions an’ kittle-dhrums an’ shmoketalks the ‘tin million’ have given him, an’ indade it’s surprised I am yees have niver mit. Two such swate singers should become known to each ither, an’ it’s meself that will have the pl’isure of introjucing yees. It’s foine the v’ices of yees will blind togither, for it’s a swate tenor the signor possesses.”

“I do not wish to sing wiz zee tenor, Madame La Warty,” replied the basso, excitedly. “I ’ate ze tenor voice. He squeal, he know not what musique is. Zee great basso-profundo will not sing wiz your tenor, Madame.”

“Oh, no! you are mistaken,” answered the widow, good-naturedly; “the signor does not squeal; it is a full rich v’ice himself has,—not sich a foine v’ice as yourself, to be sure,” added the widow, quickly, who saw the effect of her injudicious praise of the tenor, and who wished to retain the favor of the sensitive basso, “but a swate v’ice for a tenor, av coorse, I m’ane.”

The feeling of jealousy that had taken possession of the basso’s breast during the widow’s praise of the tenor, made his throat swell and vibrate with the strength of the emotion that raged within him; but the effect of her last words caused the tumult within him to subside, and with an effort he regained his usual composure.

“I sail have zee honneur to wait on Madame La Warty zis evening,” replied the basso, politely. “I will make my adieu to Madame if she will permit, as I have an appointment to meet.”

“Who is zis tenor, zis Signor Trillo?” said the basso to himself. “I do not believe zat he is one great noble. I do not believe zat he can sing; but I will see him,—I will laugh at zis tenor when he goes to sing! I, zee great basso-profundo, will sing so loud zat zey sail not hear one tone from zis squealing pig.”