Old Rough the miser

For a short time after her mishap on the battle-field, the Widow O’Warty was not in her usual good-humor; but anger with one of her sanguine temperament is short lived; so before long the recollection of her wrongs faded away, and she regained her usual amiability.

The widow recalled the little brown frog’s devotion to her at the time she was trampled upon by those thousands of feet, the recollection of which would always cause a cold shiver to run down her spine; she also remembered Brownella’s frantic appeals to her for some sign that she still lived. All this was very soothing to the widow’s feelings, and pleasant to dwell upon.

“An’ the poor little thing has throuble enough of her own,” said the widow to herself; “and it’s mesilf that will aid her wid me own ixparience.”

So, acting on this resolution, the widow sought the little brown frog, whom she found in a most dejected condition.

“It’s mesilf that will be afther giving ye the good advice,” said the good-natured widow, “for it’s throuble of the same kind mesilf has had. It’s the gineral ye want, me dear, ye can’t conc’ale it.”

“But he doesn’t want me,” sobbed Brownella. “Once he couldn’t think enough of me; and now, although I try with all my might to please him, he takes every occasion to show how he despises me.”

“That’s jist it,” replied the widow, seriously; and in her eagerness she hopped closer to the little brown frog. “Ye’re afther thrying too much to pl’ase him.”

“How can that be?” asked Brownella; “isn’t it natural to try to please those we like?”

“Av coorse it is,” answered the widow; “but whin it’s more ixparience ye have, ye’ll find that the ither sex place no value on what they obtain without pains. What they have throuble to get is swate to thim.”

“That seems strange,” said Brownella. “I can’t understand it; but I believe there is truth in what you say, for when I was rude and avoided him, Johnny the basso followed me everywhere.”

“I tould ye so,” replied the widow, triumphantly. “Now listen, till I relate the charrm I used with O’Warty. ’Twas tould to me by an auld toad who was wan of the wisest craturs that iver lived, an’ me own grandmither, askin’ your pardin.”

“Oh! do tell me,” cried Brownella, eagerly. “I will do anything you say.”

“Well,” began the widow in a low and mysterious tone, “come near till me, for not to a living sowl have I iver afore bra’thed the charrm. It’s a dark night ye must choose, whin neither moon nor stars are in the heavens; and whin ye approach the gineral’s dwilling it’s backwards ye must hop, and repate a charrm for the spirit of the woods:—

“Thin whin ye have arrived forninst the dwilling, it’s on the big toe of the right hind foot ye must sthand, an’ wid the lift front foot (mind it’s the lift), schrape up a thrifle of wather an’ mud from the brook, an’ throw it into the countenance of the gineral, rep’ating at the same time the following verse:—

If ye follow the directions the charrm will work; an’ it’s good luck I wishes ye,” added the widow.

The little brown frog was profuse in her thanks for this valuable secret; and while she is waiting for a dark night to carry out the widow’s instructions, we will follow the fortunes of other friends.

Little Fluff was so happy to be at home again that you may be sure he did not venture far away; and the fear that old Rough would seek him out and again imprison him was so strong, that for some time he imagined every rustling of the leaves, or sighing of the wind through the trees, to be the old miser coming in search of him. Gradually this feeling wore away, as day after day passed and old Rough did not appear, for Fluff was by nature bold and fearless.

For some time after the little squirrel’s return, he and his brothers and sister did not venture off the tree beneath which their house stood; but by degrees they extended their playground, and raced over the neighboring trees, and hid among the rocks and stumps as before, taking care, however, not to go out of sight of home. It is hardly necessary to add that the old squirrels were as apprehensive as the younger ones, and since the dreadful day when Fluff was captured, never left their home unguarded, one always remaining to watch the little brood.

One warm, sunny afternoon, Squirrella sat in her doorway watching her little ones at play, thinking, as they raced about, that nowhere in the world could four other little squirrels be found with such bright eyes and such bushy tails. Up and down the tallest trees ran the happy little ones, jumping from bough to bough and from tree to tree, an occasional shrill chirrup from Squirrella warning them when the leap was too venturesome. Every thought of old Rough was forgotten by the frolicsome little creatures.

No one could have seen the innocent things sporting among the green leaves, or sitting on their little haunches, with their bright eyes shining with merriment and their bushy tails tilted over their striped backs, without thinking it would be difficult to find a more pleasing picture. Their brisk little chirrups, too, rang through the still woods in response to Squirrella’s anxious calls; and timid little Bobtilla, with her young family about her, appeared at her door, and watched the frolics with great interest.

The excitement of the game was at its height, and Fluff’s old venturesome spirit returned in full force, when a sudden impulse seized him to play a trick upon his companions; so he quickly slipped behind an old stump, where he waited, hoping soon to hear them calling to him, and laughing to himself all the while.

Fluffs absence was soon discovered, and loudly and eagerly did his name resound from the shrill voices of his playmates. This was great fun for the mischief-loving Fluff, who kept as still as a mouse, for fear his hiding-place would be discovered. Before long, however, he heard his mother’s anxious call, and his merriment suddenly ceased; for at the sound of her distressed chirrup came the recollection of those dreary days of imprisonment in the old miser’s dark den, and he hastened to assure her of his safety.

Fluff turned quickly to leave his hiding-place, and was about to utter a shrill cry of joy, when a dark shadow suddenly stood between him and the light, and the huge form and savage countenance of old Rough, with his long, sharp teeth and cruel black eyes was before him. The cry that was on Fluff’s lips died away; and trembling from head to foot, he stood transfixed by the power of that cruel face.

“Aha!” squeaked the old rat, with a vicious grin. “I’ve caught you at last, have I? I haven’t watched you for nothing all these days, I can tell you. I knew a heedless little fool like you would venture off before long. This time, my young friend, you will not get away so easily; old Rough isn’t caught in the same trap twice, let me tell you. Come along, youngster!”

As the old rat approached, Fluff found voice, and his terrified cries rang through the silent wood, to be answered immediately by the agitated calls of his anxious family, and the fainter squeaks of Bobtilla’s sympathetic children.

“Come along, I say,” repeated old Rough, approaching the poor little squirrel.

“I won’t!” screamed Fluff, boldly, for the answering cries came nearer and nearer, and what child does not believe that its mother’s love is capable of saving it from the most powerful enemy? Fluff had the utmost confidence in his mother’s power; and as her sharp cries came nearer and nearer, all his boldness returned, and he fearlessly faced his enemy.

“Go away, I tell you!” cried Fluff, valiantly, “or it will be the worse for you when my mother catches you! Here I am, Mother, right behind this old stump!”

“Little idiot!” snarled the old rat, “do you suppose a dozen such feeble creatures as your mother could intimidate me? Take that for your insolence in daring to oppose me!”

A piercing cry rang out as the old rat’s sharp teeth penetrated Fluff’s tender skin. The cry was immediately answered not only by the shrill tones of the squirrel family, and the distressed squeaks of Bobtilla, but by loud and harsh caws, and the two young crows lighted behind the old water-rat.

“Come, let the youngster alone!” demanded the elder of the crows. “Run home, Sonny,” he added to Fluff.

“He’d better not,” snarled old Rough, savagely, “he’d better not. As for you, you impudent fellows, I advise you to mind your own business, and not interfere in what doesn’t concern you. Be off, I say!”

“We’re in no hurry, thank you,” pertly answered the younger crow; “and as for attending to our own business, why, we haven’t any on hand just now, and we have plenty of time to settle this matter,—so don’t make yourself uneasy on our account. Come, Sonny, hurry home; your anxious mamma is looking for you.”

Fluff needed no second bidding, but made a sudden rush by old Rough; the latter, however, was on the alert, and as the little squirrel was in the act of passing him, fastened his sharp, strong paws in Fluff’s furry back. In another moment his long teeth would have buried themselves in Fluff’s neck, had not the crows with a sudden movement come up behind, each seizing an ear of the old water-rat, and holding him fast with his strong beak.

At the same moment a flock of crows, attracted by the loud squeals of the old water-rat, flew down and fiercely attacked him, until the old miser wriggled himself free of his persecutors, and darting away, followed by the loudly-cawing crows, he slipped into an empty hole, where he secreted himself until the noisy band had departed. For once in their lives, the two young crows had made themselves useful.

This attempt to recapture the little squirrel was the absorbing topic of conversation among the inhabitants of the meadow and surrounding woods for some time to come. Indignation meetings were held, and many were the complaints made against the disagreeable old miser. The veteran Caw presided, for all felt great confidence in his sagacity if they did not in his honesty. These meetings grew more and more frequent as time wore on, and old Rough grew bolder after every success.

“This state of affairs must end,” exclaimed an excited field-mouse. “We are tired of seeing our homes laid waste and our families houseless.”

“Houseless!” cackled a motherly looking hen from Farmer Smith’s poultry-yard; “is that the worst he has done to you? What would you say to having your children carried off before your very eyes, as he has done with mine?”

“And to be driven off when you are looking for food for your starving families?” squeaked Bobtilla’s high voice.

“Talking and complaining will not mend the matter,” croaked old Caw, who had listened with his head shrewdly turned to one side, taking in every word that had been uttered, “While you have been wasting time in talking, I’ve been making up my mind as to the best means of stopping it.”

“How? Tell us how!” cried many eager voices.

“Since old Rough is so powerful, and carries things with such a high hand, meet him on his own ground, and confront him with an enemy who inspires him with the same terror he does you.”

“Who is there he is afraid of?” asked the hen who had before made her complaint. “Who but Blinkeye is old Rough afraid of? And he is harmless by daylight, and Rough knows enough to keep out of his way at night.”

“Have you forgotten the terrible fight Rough had with the weasel, who would have finished him, had not the farmer made his appearance when he did?” asked old Caw in his deepest croak.

“Oh!” cackled the hen, whose feathers stood up stiff with fright at the remembrance of that dreadful scene; “but old Rough has not ventured near the premises since,—he is too shrewd for that.”

“The weasel can go to him, can’t he?” croaked Caw.

“To be sure,” assented all. “What a bright idea!”

“The weasel can make his headquarters under the wall, not far from old Rough’s den, and take his own time about the matter,” said Caw.

This easy solution of the question was so satisfactory that the spirits of the assembly rose suddenly, and all talked together in their excitement. The cackling of the hen, the shrill squeaking of the mice, and the croaks of the frogs and toads became so loud, that old Caw interposed.

“If you want to give old Rough notice of what is going to be done, keep on talking, that is all; but if you want the plan to succeed, make less noise about it,” he said briefly.

Dead silence followed these words, the truth of which was so apparent; and soon the friends separated, returning quietly to their homes, secretly satisfied that old Caw was the wisest counsellor that ever lived, and would prove more than a match for even old Rough.

A few nights later, when the moon was hidden behind dark clouds, and a heavy fog had settled over the meadow, a lithe form might have been seen emerging from the direction of Farmer Smith’s barn, and under cover of darkness gliding noiselessly toward old Rough’s abode. After critically examining the stone wall that commanded a fine view of the old miser’s den, it carefully selected a suitable opening, and in the same noiseless manner wriggled out of sight. It was the weasel, to whom old Caw had given instructions.