Old Rough the miser

At the Widow O’Warty’s words, the melancholy singer gave a sudden start, and when the widow herself stood before him, he gazed in astonishment at her stout figure; but with native French courtesy he quickly recovered his self-possession, and bowed with great politeness to the smiling toad.

“An’ is it so cruel ye take me to be as to kape ye longer waiting? ’Dade, an’ I’ll come till ye,” said the widow, tenderly, and she hopped briskly to the bull-frog’s side, and gazed smilingly into his face.

Johnny the basso was much disconcerted at the widow’s advances, and for a moment he was silent. True, however, to his nature, in which was great courtesy toward the fair sex, he quickly suppressed the feeling of aversion that came over him, and answered politely,—

“Madame does me infinite honneur, but Madame mistakes; Madame doubtless has many suitors, and she does me the honneur to sink me one of them.”

“Faith, an it’s not so fur out of the way ye are,” replied the widow, slyly.

The basso found himself in an embarrassing situation. It was evident that this toad, whom he had never before seen, thought the words of his song addressed to her, and his sense of politeness made it difficult for him to tell her that she had made a mistake, and appropriated to herself sentiments that were intended for another.

“Is it that Madame does me zee honneur to sink zat zee words of my song were addressed to her?” asked the basso.

“Fwhat ilse, in the name of the howly saints, would ye have me think, whin it’s afore me door ye sthand? Av coorse I considered the worrds addrissed to meself.”

“If it had been my good fortune to have met Madame, I could not have found words ardent enough to express zee grand passion wiz which Madame would have inspired me,” answered the basso, with great politeness.

“Thin why in the worrld did ye station yeself afore me door, if the worrds were addrissed to another party?” asked the widow, angrily.

“It is because one told me that here lived her whom I sought,—whom I sall always seek while I have life,” answered the bull-frog, with intense feeling.

“Fwhat is the name av the raskill that tould ye this was not me abode?” asked the widow, indignantly.

“Two young crows have informed me,” replied the bull-frog, “and zey sall give me satisfaction. Zey sall learn what it is to trifle wiz zee great basso.”

“An’ it’s the same as tould me ye had lost your heart to meself, an’ apprised me of your coming the night,” answered the widow.

“I will seek zem in zee morning,” said the basso, fiercely. “Zey sall answer to me for their impertinence. Au revoir, Madame. Believe me, I sall lose no time to avenge zis insult;” and as he hopped away, the two young crows, no longer able to conceal their merriment at the success of their joke, flew away, laughing “Caw, caw, caw.”

This naturally added to the basso’s vexation; but the young crows were soon far away, their “caw, caw, caw” being audible as long as they were in sight.

It was at an early hour the next morning that the indignant basso set off to find these mischievous young crows who had caused him so much annoyance; and, early as it was when he reached their home, he found only old Caw, who was perched on his favorite tree in a meditative attitude, and the mother of the young crows, who was engaged in feeding her young family, scolding and complaining all the while.

So engrossed was the mother-crow, that it was some time before the bull-frog succeeded in attracting her attention. As for old Caw, it was impossible to tell whether he was aware of what went on about him, for his one eye was apparently closed, and he seemed in that indifferent state of mind that extreme old age produces. Those who knew him well, however, knew that this was a trick of his to escape observation, and that he was never more alert than when he was apparently in this apathetic state.

“What do you want?” asked the crow-mother, when the bull-frog had succeeded in attracting her attention.

“Zere are two very mischievous young crows whom I seek, Madame,” answered the basso. “I wish to speak wiz zose young crows.”

“There are not any of that description here,” replied the crow-mother, shortly.

“Pardon me, Madame, but one has told me zat I sall find zem here,—zat zey are your sons.”

“They told you wrong, then, for my sons are steady, hard-working fellows, who never did any mischief in their lives.”

The old crow from his tree here gave an abrupt croak, which to the bull-frog sounded like an expression of surprise; but when the bull-frog quickly glanced at him, he found him with such a sleepy and imbecile expression on his pinched countenance that he concluded he must have been mistaken.

“It cannot be that I have wrong,” said the bull-frog, firmly. “Zee mischievous young crows of whom I speak live here. I have seen them often. It was yesterday zat zese young crows played me a sad trick,—I wish to speak wiz zem.”

“If it were yesterday, it couldn’t have been my sons, for they were at home all day,” answered the crow-mother, decidedly.

The bull-frog, happening to glance in the direction of old Caw, caught sight of his one eye wide open, and the bull-frog imagined that he detected a particularly amused look in that expressive feature; but the eye closed again so sleepily and naturally that he concluded he must have been again mistaken.

The bull-frog was far from being convinced that the mother-crow was telling the truth about her sons, but courtesy prevented him from pushing the matter further.

“If Madame their mother says her sons to have been at home yesterday, zen I have nozzing to say,” said the bull-frog, courteously. “I have zee honneur to wish Madame good-day;” and the discomfited singer ended the unsatisfactory interview.

As the bull-frog hopped toward home, he revolved in his mind the best course to take in order to bring about a meeting with the young crows, for he felt sure their mother would put them on their guard against him; when suddenly he was surprised in his meditations by a caw overhead, and looking quickly up, he beheld the old crow Caw sitting on a branch above him.

Old Caw was wide awake now, and his one eye beamed with as much vivacity and intelligence as that of any young crow could have been capable.

“Stop a minute, friend Johnny,” said the old crow; “don’t be in such a hurry.”

The bull-frog, thus addressed, stopped, breathing fast from his exertions, and regarded the self-possessed old crow with an angry countenance.

“Don’t be in such a hurry; take it easy, Johnny,” said the old crow, coolly.

“You have zee advantage of me, sair,” said the bull-frog, haughtily; “you appear to be familiar wiz my name. I have not zee great honneur to be acquainted wiz zee illustrious name of Monsieur.”

“Oh, yes, I know you well, Johnny,—I’ve heard you croak often enough on moonlight nights,” replied the crow, with exasperating coolness, at the same time bringing his one eye to bear on the indignant bull-frog.

“You insult me, sair,” exclaimed the basso, excitedly. “It is that you have no soul for musique. Croak, you say! You say zee greatest living basso on zee earth croak!”

“Don’t get excited, Johnny, I didn’t intend any insult,” said the old crow, persuasively. “I came after you to be of service.”

But the insult still rankled in the singer’s capacious bosom, and his great throat swelled and vibrated with wounded pride, as he repeatedly gave expression to his indignation.

“Oh, come, Johnny, cool down and hear what I’ve got to tell you,” said old Caw, soothingly. “You want to find the young crows who played a trick on you, don’t you?”

The bull-frog made a great effort to recover his self-possession, and with much difficulty swallowed his resentment.

“Yes,” he answered, after a great inward struggle, “I wish to know where to find zose young crows.”

“The old lady fibbed, of course,” said old Caw. “They are her sons, and I knew they were up to some mischief, for they went away yesterday afternoon, after whispering and giggling together, and didn’t come home until this morning.”

“Can you tell me where I sall find zem?” asked the basso, eagerly.

“Yes, I can,” replied the old crow. “I listened when they thought I was asleep, and overheard their plans. They intend to hang around old Rough’s place until he has gone out on one of his foraging expeditions; and when he is out of the way, they have planned to steal into his hole and help themselves to a fine bit of pork-rind they saw him scurrying off with yesterday. You’ll find them somewhere in that neighborhood.”

“I sank you, sair,” said the bull-frog, politely, “for your very kind information. I sall go at once to Monsieur Rough’s abode. Adieu, Monsieur Corbeau;” and with his usual impetuosity, the bull-frog hurried away in the direction of the old miser’s dwelling.

Old Caw followed the bull-frog with his one eye as long as he was in sight, and then gave expression to a caw of satisfaction. “I think this will make me even with you for stealing my pig’s ear, you young thieves,” said the old crow to himself. “I made you think I hid it purposely, to teach you shrewdness in discovering hidden treasures, but it wasn’t true. Old Caw must be getting old indeed, when two young fools get the better of him. Yes, I think this last move of mine will make us even;” and having uttered these sentiments, old Caw slowly wended his way homeward.

Meanwhile, the bull-frog, his heart set on confronting the crows with their treachery, proceeded as fast as his slow powers of locomotion enabled him to travel. At last, after a tedious journey, he reached the neighborhood of old Rough, and halting within a short distance of the miser’s abode, glanced about him.

There was the old water-rat’s dwelling just above the ditch, and at a short distance behind it grew a fine tree, among whose branches the frog detected two black motionless objects.

“Zee old crow had right,” said the singer, to himself, “zere are zee two mischievous crows.”

Stopping long enough to recover his breath, and keeping his eyes on the two black objects in the tree, the bull-frog proceeded toward the tree, followed at a distance by a dark object that slid through the tall meadow grass, that halted as he halted, and that proceeded as he proceeded.

This dark object that followed the bull-frog, and was so careful to escape detection, was old Rough, the water-rat.

The bull-frog proceeded boldly to the foot of the tree and stopped, and the water-rat concealed himself behind a large stone not far off, and within convenient hearing distance. No other living creatures were in sight, except a swallow that flew noiselessly over the meadow, occasionally swooping on some unfortunate insect, and then soaring swiftly high into the air.

“Is it zat you are zere, my fine Messieurs!” cried the bull-frog, fiercely, looking up at the young crows perched far above him.

“Yes, friend Johnny, it is that we are here. How’s the little brown frog you serenaded last night?”

“It is zat I wish to confront you wiz your treachery, Messieurs,” exclaimed the bull-frog, furious at this taunt. “I wish to tell you zat you are great imposters; zat you have deceived Madame La Warty; zat you have deceived me,—me, zee great singer, I say! But I have my great reputation to avenge! I have Madame La Warty’s honneur to defend.”

“Oh, bother! the widow doesn’t mind that,” said the younger crow. “You don’t mean to say she isn’t the brown frog you were looking for?”

“Madame La Warty is one great fat toad, Monsieur!” exclaimed the bull-frog, indignantly. “Did you sink zat I, zee great singer, would have one toad for his sweetheart! No, sair, zat is not possible! Zee young, zee beautiful are for zee great basso-profundo.”

“How did you expect us to know the difference?” asked the elder crow. “They look alike to us, any way.”

The singer glared fiercely on the impudent young crow. “I sall have revenge,” he cried in his deepest tones; “you sall answer to me for zis insult. Mon Dieu! he say a fat toad look like a frog!”

“Well, we didn’t know,” said the younger crow. “We were told she was the one, and we thought we were doing you a favor to tell you. How could we tell you’d make such a row about it?”

“Who is it zat told you Madame La Warty was zee leetle brown frog?” inquired the singer, fiercely.

Before the crows could reply, old Rough, who had listened with great satisfaction to the conversation, and had by degrees crept unperceived to the tree, hastened to reply,—

“Why don’t you tell the whole story, boys? Why not say that it was Bobtilla who told you? If any one is to blame it is she. You only repeated her words, you know.”

“Yes, it was Bobtilla who told us,” asserted the young crows, boldly, greatly surprised at the information, but glad to throw the blame upon anybody’s shoulders.

“Who is Bobtilla? I have not zee pleasure of her acquaintance,” said the bull-frog, addressing the water-rat.

“A meddlesome field-mouse,” explained the miser, viciously. “She looks meek enough, but she is a mischievous creature, and takes delight in getting honest people, like our young friends here, into trouble.”

“I cannot demand satisfaction of a lady,” exclaimed the bull-frog; “but I will challenge zee whole race of field-mice. I will exterminate zee race. Zey sall know what it is to insult zee great singer. It sall be war, until every field-mouse sall die.”

“Now, Bobtilla,” said old Rough to himself, as he went toward his home, “we will see how much help your new friends can give you. It will not pay, my dear madam, to stand out against old Rough; he’s more than a match for you, my dear! War against the field-mice, friend Johnny! Just what I want. I couldn’t have arranged matters better myself. Now their houses will be destroyed, and what a harvest for me!” And the old miser squeaked with joy, as he slipped through the meadow grass, and his long nose moved viciously about, as it always did when he experienced any strong emotion.