BY MRS. MOLESWORTH,
AUTHOR OF "A CHRISTMAS POSY," "HERR BABY," "CARROTS," &c.
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HE told it to Evie himself this time. How he managed it, and how "she" managed it: he the telling, she the understanding, I'm sure I can't say. But "I" have it from Evie, for clever as she is at foreign languages—and of all foreign languages I should think "dog" language the hardest to learn—she always declares she can't write down even the simplest story in at all an interesting way. So I said I would do it for her. It does seem a pity that naughty Chéri's second escapade should not be told, for a lesson to dogs, and also to too confiding mistresses of the same.
You remember—each of you, my dear children, who read "Jack Frost's Little Prisoners," two, no, "three" Christmases ago—dear, dear, how time flies!—the story of Chéri's first running away from his happy home. You may perhaps remember how he finished up by hinting that "some day" he thought he might possibly repeat this piece of disobedience. But time passed, and Chéri grew older, and, all his friends began to hope, wiser. Any way there were no signs for a long time of any rebellion on the part of the small person, and everyone interested in him began to breathe freely.
But there came a day, an unfortunate day, in which Chéri went out a walk with his two mistresses, Evie and Dolly—not that Dolly is really his mistress, he is Evie's very own dog, but Dolly is very fond of him, and "very" good to him, and when Evie is away he attaches himself to Dolly as second-best. They were not going far from home, and they had come to have perfect confidence in him, so he was without a "lead," as I believe it is called, free to ramble about a little and make small excursions on his own account, providing he kept within a reasonable distance of the girls, or as Evie always impressed upon him, kept them "well within sight." All went right; Chéri, feeling that as a gentleman he was bound to behave in an attentive and chivalrous manner, took care not to stray far, and kept his eye on the young ladies.
They were walking on briskly, when suddenly they stopped short. It was in front of a house that looked something between a shop and a private dwelling, for though there was a large square window, there were no goods in it for sale—only a few embroidered skirts and handkerchiefs, and such things spread out in a conspicuous, conceited kind of way, as if they were saying "look at us! how clean we are, and how nicely ironed and 'got up'!" And from inside the open doorway came a rather pleasant, clean, hot smell—of freshly washed, drying linen, and irons scorching hot. It was a laundress's. The two girls stopped in front of the window as if its contents interested them very much. But that was not the attraction.
"O Dolly," said Evie, "I never can pass this place without thinking of our darling Wollops" (I must explain that "Wollops" was Chéri's "last" new name), "and the night he was lost—Oh, Dolly, 'what' we went through!—for I feel convinced this is the house he was at all the time, though, of course, I can't be 'quite' sure. They have a horrid little common dog, I have seen him several times. 'Very' likely dear Chéri came here to pay him a visit just out of kind feeling: he has such a good heart. Oh, see, Doll, there is the dog."
For at that moment "Prince," an ugly, nominally white, but really grey, woolly dog with a pink nose—looking not unlike a very dirty big toy-lamb, came out to air himself on the steps.
"'What' an ugly dog!" Dolly exclaimed.
Her voice unluckily attracted Chéri's attention—he had been amusing himself by snuffing at a piece of orange-peel on the curbstone, which at first sight, he thought looked like something good, for Chéri's eyes are not as sharp as they might be, in consequence, perhaps, of the shaggy hair that always overhangs them. But Dolly's exclamation made him turn round, and there, on the door-step, he recognized his friend Prince.
Chéri bristled—this is a figurative expression; nothing could really make his long shaggy silky coat bristle—with indignation.
"Ugly dog, indeed!" he said to himself. "My good Prince. I hope he did not catch the word. Impertinent chit, that Dolly is," and full of anxiety to make amends, up he trotted.
The two dogs had not met for fully two years.
"Upon my word, my dear fellow, this is a pleasure," said Chéri, throwing all the cordiality he could into his bark. "I have so often thought of you, and wished to see you again, since the—the pleasant visit I paid you some time ago."
"H'm," returned Prince, with a slight snarl, "doesn't seem very like it, I must say. You might have looked me up before now, I should think, if—"
"Oh, 'oh,' Evie," shrieked Dolly, "they're going to fight. Look at that nasty, horrid, pink-nosed creature; he 'is' so snarling. Come away, Chéri; 'come away,' sir, I say!"
Chéri turned, and looked at her with bold contempt.
"'Lord, what fools these mortals be!'" he would probably have ejaculated had he known the quotation. What he did—bark—was this:
"'Sir,' indeed, Miss Dolly! ordering me about in this way, and insulting my friend!" Then he turned to Prince, who stood there, pretending he understood what Dolly said, though he really didn't.
"My young ladies are nervous," he said. "You see, when I am out in charge of them I make them my first thought. They are, perhaps, a little jealous of my attentions. So for the moment, my good Prince, I must leave you; but I will look in one day very soon. I will, I assure you, seize the very first opportunity. To—to tell the truth—I was not quite sure of your address."
"All right," said Prince, who was really not an ill-natured dog, "always pleased to see you. Bring a bone with you if you like, and we'll have a nice crunch together."
This was a little vulgar, but Chéri was in a contradictory humour, and determined to stand up for Prince the more Dolly spoke against him.
He followed the girls, feeling very irate.
"We must be very careful, Evie," Dolly went on, "or we shall have Billy running off again. He 'evidently' knows that horrid pink-nosed dog."
"It's only his good-nature," said Evie. "He would never really make a friend of a common dirty dog like that. And after all we don't 'know' that it was there he went that night."
All of which remarks, as Chéri—Billy, Wollops, etc.—afterwards confessed to his mistress only made him the more determined to carry out the intention in his head.
No "opportunity," as he had said to Prince, offered itself for some days. Perhaps the girls, Dolly especially, were rather on the alert; any how, though he sneaked to the front door every time he heard the bell ring, which was not very often, as he was generally shut up in a room upstairs, and once or twice had a try at the area steps when he was having his dinner in the kitchen, he never managed to get even as far as the pavement. The young ladies did not take him out walking except with a lead, and his only running about was in the garden at the back, whence, not having wings, nor being able to climb like a cat, he could not escape.
But "Tout vient à qui sait attendre."
One evening, Evie and Dolly were out on their own account, paying a quiet visit to two young friends of theirs. The carriage came round at ten o'clock to call for their maid, who was to fetch them.
"Be sure you put Billums to bed before you come for us," had been Evie's last injunction to Thecla before starting. But Thecla was a little hurried, Chéri was in a sweet sleep on the work-room rug, she thought it a pity to disturb him, he would be "ganz recht" till she and her young ladies came home again. Ah, Thecla! Little did she dream "who" came softly creeping downstairs behind her, hidden by her skirts, who watched his moment, keeping in a shady corner of the hall, while she chattered to the footman about the address he was to tell the coachman, who sneaked out while the door was open—out, silly little self-willed dog, into the dark street—trotting off in triumph, away from his safe, happy home, into the great wide desert of London, where dog stealers abound, and Evies and Dollies are not to be met with at every turn.
He was going to call on Prince. He was quite sure he knew the way, even in the dark. And he was quite sure he could find his own home again, even though—yes, as he glanced about him a little, it did strike him that the door-steps all down the street were ridiculously, absurdly like each other. The feeble light of the gas-lamps had to do with this, doubtless; by day there were one or two little distinctions—the shape of the scraper, for instance, that he had learnt to notice. But he tossed aside all misgivings; how pleased Prince would be to see him! and he hastened his steps.
Hush! There came in the solitary street the sound of heavy, measured footsteps. A tall policeman drew near.
"A strayed dog," he said to himself, as he lowered his bull's eye to have a look at him. "Well, my fine fellow, and where do you hail from?" he was beginning, but Chéri was too sharp for him. To be captured at the outset by a policeman, and ignominiously carried home! for Chéri was conceited enough to think himself well-known in the neighbourhood. No thank you. There was a side street just where the policeman was standing. In an instant Chéri had darted round the corner, and was careering away. The policeman could have caught him had he chosen, but he thought better of it.
"Seems to know his way about," he said. "No use botherin' if he's not a real stray;" and he marched on again.
Chéri, hearing his footsteps growing fainter in the distance, stopped to look about him. Was he on his way to Prince's house? He hesitated. Then the sight of a better-lighted street some little way ahead, a street with shops, and, late as it was, cabs and carts, and plenty of people about still, made him run on again. For it was in a busy street like this that the laundress lived.
But he passed shop after shop, peeping in at several, but none looked like, none "smelt" quite like Prince's home. At last a brilliant idea struck him—he would cross the road. And cross it he did, escaping with his life more by luck than good management, I can assure you, as a heavy dray came crashing up on one side, followed by a dashing hansom, and an omnibus boomed along on the other. Chéri's heart, by the time he reached the opposite pavement, was beating so that he felt choking.
"I think," he said to himself, "that when I get to Prince's I'll ask him to put me up for the night, as he did before. It's really scandalous to allow all these carts and carriages in the street so late."
He tried to feel important, and trotted along a little way in a brisk, would-be-easy-minded fashion. But he did not arrive at the laundress's on this side of the road either, and he began to feel tired, and just a little frightened.
"I almost think," he said to himself at last, "I almost think I'll give it up for to-night. Stay; I might enquire," and as that moment he caught sight of a fox-terrier following his master, he accosted him politely.
"Excuse me," he said, "do you happen to know if a—a dog of the name of Prince lives hereabouts? They take in washing at his place, I believe."
The fox-terrier looked at him superciliously.
"I never make chance acquaintances," he said. "Washerwomen indeed! Where do you get such low tastes? You look a well-bred dog, but I advise you to make the best of your way home. It's getting late; you'll find yourself at the police station en route for Battersea, I can tell you, if you don't take care."
Chéri was terribly frightened. What did the fox-terrier mean? Police and Battersea?
"Oh dear," he thought at last, "I wish I were safe at home again. Let me see—I must cross the road—bless me, how nervous I feel."
He managed to get across, however—there were rather fewer vehicles than before. Then he ran along a little way and turned into a dark street, which he felt sure must be Winchester Crescent, "his" street. And—oh, joy!—yes, there were houses with steps, just like his house. He chose one hap-hazard; he was getting stupid and confused—the scraper seemed like his own house's scraper—and, tired and weary, he mounted to the top step and there sat himself down and whined. Whined and then yelped, till the door opened, and with a bark of delight he prepared to rush in. But "Off with you, you nasty whining thing," said a rough voice; not that of James, Chéri's own footman, but a stranger's—a cross parlour-maid, who was shutting up for the night, and had no pity for a poor, naughty little runaway. "Off with you!" and off crept Chéri—his tail very dejected, his ears very limp, his heart very, "very" sore.
He tried one or two other door-steps in vain—either no attention was paid to his piteous attempts to attract it, or he was scolded and "shoo'ed" away. Then he decided that after all this was not his street (though it was, for the cross parlour-maid, whose mistress knew Evie and Dolly, confessed the next day that had she recognized the dog she would have taken him in), and off he set again on another voyage of discovery, a fruitless one, of course. He grew very tired indeed; he remembered little more of the details of that dreary night, he told Evie only one idea haunted him—at all costs he must keep out of the way of policemen and that unknown danger the fox-terrier had told him of, "Battersea." So as soon as ever he heard the measured tramp coming down the street, off he set; the police had no need to "move him on," poor, terrified little truant, though after all they would have been his best friends had he only known it. Fortunately, it was a mild night; he must have slept a good deal, Evie thinks—slept on some dark door-step probably, or in the shade of a wall, on the cold, hard stone, uncovered, unsheltered—he, the tenderly cared-for little dog whom Evie put to bed like a baby under his blanket every night! See what comes of disobedience, children!
The next morning, as soon as it was light, he set off again to search for home. He fancied it would be easier in the day-time. But, alas! it did not prove so. And the unusual amount of exercise he had had was beginning to make him very hungry, though it was still some hours to his dinnertime. He found a crust which some "pretence beggar," as the children say, had contemptuously thrown away, and though it was dirty and muddy, he eat it thankfully enough. Then he wandered about, the streets growing more and more crowded and his stupid little brain more and more confused. Once, about eleven o'clock that morning, he heard his own name called.
"Chéri! Can that be Evangeline's Chéri?" a little girl said. And he tried to run up to her, but in an instant she was lost in the crowd. "I should have been sure to hear if he was lost," she said to her mother as they walked on. "There are so many little dogs something like him."
Not long after that, Chéri found himself in a less crowded street. He was so perfectly miserable now that he thought he would like to die, and he was wondering how he could best manage it when a cheery, good-natured voice made him look up.
"Are you lost, old fellow?" it said. And Chéri, seeing that the speaker's face matched his voice—he was a stout, honest-looking man in working clothes—pulled himself together a little, saying, "Yes, yes; I am lost indeed," as plainly as wagging tail and pleading eyes and appealing whine "could" speak.
"If I could but make him understand where I live," he said to himself. But that, alas, was out of the question.
"You'd best come 'ome with me," said the man, picking him up gently, as he spoke. "I'll leave 'im with Bella when I'm out. And there'll be posters about him in a day or two—sure to be."
So Chéri journeyed to the workman's home in the good fellow's arms. "Home" meant two rooms in a small stuffy little house, and the back room was really a work-shop, all littered over with shavings. Chéri could not make it out; he had never seen shavings before, and thought they were good to eat, and then when he found out his mistake, he was just as puzzled by the queer sort of wheel in the middle of the room, that the man was always turning. Afterwards, Evie told him that his host was a wood-turner, but I don't know that he understands what that means, even now. The shavings were not so bad, however; a little heap of them made a pretty decent bed, better than the cold stones any way, though not to be compared with his own little rug and baskets at home! But oh, how tired Chéri got of that work-room, and of the little yard about five feet square at the back, which was his only pleasure ground. For though the wood-turner and his wife were very kind to him, they never took him out. They were probably afraid of his running away, and afraid too, very likely, of being pounced upon by the police as dog stealers.
It was a good thing Evie had taken such pains to teach Chéri to understand human talking, otherwise, he would have been still more wretched than he was. For by listening to the conversation of his hosts he found there was still some hope for him. The first day or two they seemed in very good spirits. Stephens, that was the man's name, turned over his work so as to get out early to have "a look round," as he called it. And each time he came in, his wife looked up eagerly.
"Seen anything?" she said; but Stephens shook his head.
"Neither seen nor 'eard. Yet 'someone's' a enquirin' for 'im, I'm sure. He's a pet, and no mistake, wherever 'e comes from."
"That's certing," said Bella. "Just to watch 'ow he creeps up to my skirts and settles hisself as cozy as may be. It'll come—make your mind easy, Stephens. There'll be posters up in a day or two."
But a day or two, and more than a day or two passed, and no clue was found by the wood-turner. Chéri grew thin, though the poor people fed him well—so well, that they began to wonder how they could afford to keep him much longer, and Stephens decided one evening that he would go the next morning to consult a friend of his at the neighbouring mews, who was known to do a little business now and then privately in the dog line.
Chéri was lying on his heap of shavings depressed and dejected when the wood-turner came back from his visit. The dog was losing heart altogether now—he just turned his head a little and blinked feebly with his sad eyes. But Stephens' first words made him prick up his ears (this, also, I beg to say, is a figurative expression in Chéri's case) and listen eagerly for more.
"I've got on the track at last, if I'm not oncommonly mistook," he said to Mrs. Bella, as she followed him in from the other room, wiping her hands on her apron, to hear the news. Stephens was holding a newspaper, which he flourished about.
"Tom Swires, at the mews, bethought him of this 'ere. It's the great card for local advertisements, and he 'unted up last week's hissue, and just you listen, Bella."
Then Mr. Stephens proceeded to read aloud: "Lost, on the evening of the 20th May, from 58, Winchester Crescent, a small silky, long-haired Scotch terrier. Whoever brings him to the above address, will receive £1 reward."
"It's 'im," said Mrs. Stephens. "Off with you. Clean yourself up a bit first."
Chéri quivered with anxiety. He had not quite understood his hosts' conversation, for you see Evie had been very particular to accustom him only to a truly refined and cultivated way of speaking. Still, he understood a good deal; the words "58, Winchester Crescent," were very familiar.
"Oh dear, oh 'dear,'" he thought, "if it could be—oh, if I 'could' get home again!" and he crept forward, wagging his tail and staring up in Stephens' face with eyes that all but spoke.
"All right, old fellow," said the workman. "You'll give us a good character, won't you? It's been more comfortabler for you 'ere than at that there Battersea, any how."
Again that queer word. What could it mean? Evie has told him about it since. Poor Evie—she had got to know the Battersea home for strayed dogs only too well in the last few days. That very morning, she and Dolly, escorted by the faithful Thecla, had set off on their third pilgrimage thither, only to return home again saddened and hopeless. There was no Chéri there, no naughty disobedient darling, his feathery little body in a quiver of delight at the sight of his dear mistresses at last, among the scores of poor doggies in the barred-in kennels.
"I can't go there again, Dolly," said Evie as they came away. "It's too heart-breaking. Did you see how the poor dogs looked up in our faces, 'begging' us to take them home with us? No, I can't bear it. It is a very good thing, I'm sure—they are kindly treated, and have plenty of water. But I almost think the kindest part of it is that they put them to death before long."
"And without it hurting them at all," said Dolly, softly. "'Chloroform is just like going gently to sleep,' mamma says. But oh, Evie, to 'think' of what that keeper told us—that lots and lots of these dogs are very old ones, turned out by their owners on purpose! after a life of faithful service. Is it not too horrible?"
Evie shuddered.
"I wish I knew that poor Chéri was dead," she said quietly.
It was a long way home, and sore hearts make more miles. Evie felt as if she really could not have walked a yard further, when at last they found themselves on their own door-step. A head was peeping out from behind the dining-room curtain—it was actually mamma's! What a funny thing for mamma to do! There was a queer feeling in the air as James most promptly opened the door—a sort of repressed excitement and expectancy.
"Mamma," said Evie, in a half-dazed way, "is—has?"
"Yes, yes, darling, it is. He—he's come home," and then not another word, but a fluffy ball, all quivering and dancing, seemed to leap into her arms, and, oh yes, it was her own naughty, repentant little doggie back again at last!
"I'll never, 'never,' NEVER do it again," he said to her—how, I don't know, but she understood, and that is all that matters.
He had been lost for ten days!
He crept up to me just as I wrote the last words. Fancy his finding out it was all about him! I'm afraid he is very conceited.
"Please be sure to say I'll 'never' do it again," he says—dear me, I'm getting nearly as clever as Evangeline about dog language—"I have really had a good lesson this time."
(FOUNDED ON FACT.)
BY C. M. YONGE.
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"HE—HE—HE—HEIGH! What are you doing at my hedge?"
"Heigh—high—hoity-toity! The hedge is as much mine as yours!"
"Yours, you scrubby, hairy, low-born thing, that wouldn't know how to eat a mouthful of corn if it was set before you? Ha! Ha!"
"I thank my stars that I'm not so fine and dainty as not to be able to do my work without being pampered upon corn! Heigh! heigh!"
"Work! To creep along with a cart-load of potatoes and cabbages, no faster than old Timothy can crawl. Do you call that work?"
"A pretty deal more work than trotting along with a baby-boy atop of you, or drawing a bit of a basket with a lady in it! I wouldn't be such a useless creature, not I," rushing off with a flourish of heels.
"Stay till you are asked;" and another career, with heels kicked up. For Pearl and Peggy were ponies! Each was turned out for the night into a paddock, and between them there was a low hedge, chiefly of snowberry bushes, but with a strong wire or two running the whole length, to make all secure.
Pearl belonged to the lady at the pretty house just above, with the projecting eaves, and the deep oriel windows, all covered with roses. She had a beautiful cosy stable, only it was so hot in the long days of summer that it was thought better to turn her out in the pleasant dewy field for the night, after her work was done—taking little master out for a ride in the morning, and drawing her mistress in the basket carriage in the afternoon. She was a slender, shining bay pony, with black mane and tail, and a very pretty head—indeed it was said that her great, great, great grandmother was an Arabian, so no wonder she gave herself airs, and she was washed and curry-combed every day by her own groom.
Peggy was rough, dark, and sturdy, with a short neck, a hog mane, and stout legs. Two days in the week she drew the cart to market along the dusty roads. On two others she took kindlings to the same town. On another she fetched clothes for the wash, and received another load of clean ones, and there was always something hard and heavy for her to do on the sixth day. Nobody groomed her; she had no place to sleep in, in all weathers but a shed in the corner of the field; she never got a feed of corn, far less lumps of sugar, and pieces of bread, but she was turned out when her work was over, to pick up her living in that little rough field as best she might, only now and then getting a little bran, or a few carrots.
It was Sunday, so neither had done any work, and they had the more time to look, and teaze each other with snorts and scornful laughter. Presently Peggy's master, hobbling up on his way to Church, held out his hand with a carrot in it, crying, "Coup, coup, old lass," and when she came up, petted her, and played with her forelock while she munched the carrot.
"As if I would stand still for such a dirty old man!" snorted Pearl.
"He's not dirty, you impudence," whinnied back Peggy, "he is groomed for Sunday!"
"Much you know about grooming that rough coat of yours," was the retort of satin-skinned Pearl, while the old man went on his way to Church.
The bells ceased to sound, and all was quiet. Presently a big gipsy-looking man in a fur cap, and a boy with a black shock head of hair looked over the hedge.
"Handsome pony that!" said the man, looking at Pearl.
Pearl liked praise, from whomsoever it came, so she pricked up her ears and whinnied.
"Wouldn't I like to be upon the back of her," said the boy.
"Too smart and spirited for you, my lad," said the man, "but she would fetch a pretty penny. That's the serviceable article! Here!" and he moved to Peggy's untidy old gate, and chirruped, but Peggy was more wary, and kept her distance.
The days were long just then; the sun rose very early, and even before he rose, the lark which had its nest in the corner of Peggy's field had waked, and was singing, singing away, far, far up in the sky.
Just as the first beams were touching the brown breast, a wary whistle, and "coup, coup" sounded in the corner of Peggy's field. She awoke, and turned an ear to listen. The sound came again, and there was the shaking of a sieve. Corn, the greatest delicacy a horse knows, had been very seldom tasted by Peggy, and, strange as the hour was for a breakfast, she was so much enticed as to lose all her suspicions, and trotted up in a moment. Her nose was scarcely among the oats before a halter was over her head, and she found herself being dragged off!
It was all done so quietly that Pearl had heard nothing but the first call, which made her prick up her delicate black ears, and bend up one fore-leg in preparation for rising. No doubt, then she thought, that hard-worked, beggarly old master of Peggy's wanted to set to work at this dreadful time in the morning. She would go to sleep again.
The call was sounding again in her own field. The sieve rattled, but Pearl was too well fed, and corn was too common a thing with her for her to care much about that. She thought it dangerous, and stood up, with her nostrils spread, and her eyes full of alarm. The man advanced upon her; she cantered away to the further end of her field. Then the boy ran after her, while, thoroughly alarmed, she galloped wildly about, neighing as loud as she could to call for help. Alas! nobody was up, nothing answered her but poor Peggy's frightened neighs! and though she led the man, the boy, and a girl, who now appeared, a pretty dance, at last she was penned up in a corner, and the great, hard, dirty hand had got hold of her mane, pulling it hard and spitefully, and abusing her fiercely for all the trouble she had given.
She tried to kick, but he held her fast, and a whip came down stinging on her satin sides whenever she struggled. Presently she found herself and Peggy tied side by side, by their halters, at the back of a very dirty old gipsy cart, with a tilt over it, ten times worse than the one that Peggy was used to draw, and filled with straw and ragged little children, whose shouts of glee were shocking to the ponies. They were, however, silenced at once by rough words from the father and mother. A poor lean horse was in the shafts, and the boy, running beside him, pulled his bridle, and gave him two or three blows, so that he moved on, dragging behind Pearl and Peggy—past the dear, beautiful stable where Pearl had her own comfortable stall, near the two fine tall carriage-horses, past the thatched cottage where old Timothy lived, past the neat garden where abode Pearl's groom! How they struggled and neighed, but all in vain—nobody would hear, or look-out, everyone was fast asleep, and on, on they went. The ponies pulled and dragged at their halters, and strove with all their might, but in vain—the ropes would not yield, and they only hurt themselves; while on, on they were forced to go, at that weary, slow pace, which fretted Pearl the most, and with nothing to eat.
Once, a mile or more from home, Peggy saw a man whom she knew, because he had dealings with her master, and she neighed, and strained at her halter, doing all she could to attract his attention, but he would not, or did not, take any notice, and on they went. Pearl did not like the movement, and kicked at Peggy, who returned it, but the man, seeing the commotion, turned back, and with rude words laid his whip across both of them.
Very, very weary were the two poor ponies, dragged on through stony lanes, as the sun became hotter and hotter, but at last the cart stopped under a hedge, on the border of a wide heath. The hungry and thirsty creatures tried to get their mouths to the grass, but the ropes were too short, and in her disappointment Peggy tried to bite at her companion.
"Oh!" whinnied out Pearl, "we had best be friends in this strange, terrible place—we who are old neighbours."
"Ha! ha! You aren't so proud now you are brought as low as I am," returned Peggy.
It was a rude answer; but Peggy was very tired and miserable, and though she was more used to rough it than was Pearl, she had less spirit to stand up against their distress.
However, their new master seemed to remember them. He and the boy led them down to a muddy pond under the hedge, and though Pearl in general would have scorned such water, she was glad enough to suck it up. Then an armful of hay was thrown down before each. It had perhaps been pulled out of a hay-rick, but that was not the ponies' business, and they gladly ate it up, and only wished there was more. Then the halters were drawn up tighter, and the cart set out again, but both were in better heart, and Peggy was good-humoured, and ready to believe, as Pearl did, that biting and kicking at one another was not the way to be less distressed, so they journeyed on in quite a friendly manner, and tried to flick off each other's flies with their tails. When at last the long day's journey was over, Pearl sadly missed the groom's hand washing her, and curry-combing her to make her comfortable, and Peggy not only forbore to laugh at her for being such a fine lady as to expect it, but really tried to do what she could for her by biting at a lump that a horse-fly had made in her neck.
They could both understand what human beings said, and when the rumbling of the cart was over, they listened anxiously to what the man, his wife, and eldest son were saying about them.
The woman wanted to take them to a great fair near at hand, and sell them early in the day. They squeezed closer together, and Pearl put her neck across Peggy's, as they felt how dreadful it would be to be parted from all that was left of home.
They were relieved to hear the man say that it could not be done safely; but then the woman answered that was nonsense—they had only to cut off the long hair of the rough pony, clip the mane and tail of the bay, and paint over the white star on her forehead.
Dreadful! the mane and tail that little master was so proud of! Poor Pearl gave a jerk to her halter, and determined to kick and bite her hardest before any such thing should be done to her. However, by the time the kettle was boiled, and the evening meal eaten, the man declared he must have his beer, and though his wife declared that without him to hold the horses she could not trim them, he would not listen, but started off for the public-house in the village, whose chimneys and their smoke could just be seen far down in the valley below.
The ponies were tied by ropes and allowed to graze, but the grass was very short, and there were a great many thistles, more fit for a donkey than a horse, as Pearl sighed when they pricked her delicate nose, and there was no water, except that a fine drizzling rain came on. Tinker, the old horse in the shafts, who was turned loose, did not cheer them. He told them he led a wretched life, beaten, starved, and tired, and his only hope was to have Peggy put on to help him with his loads. Pearl would at home have been safely housed in her own stable, here she could only creep as near the shelter of the cart as she could, and shiver. And good-natured Peggy, who was used to such things, and had much longer hair, came and squeezed up against her to keep her warmer; but still it was a wretched time, and the poor ponies felt damp, and limp, and tired when the cart set off again in the morning, and the halters were too short to allow of their even hanging down their poor disconsolate heads.
They went down the hill, over a rough chalk road, stumbling along, but they stopped at the public-house for beer for the people in the cart, and a little hay and water for the horses.
Just as they were enjoying clean water, a rough-looking man sauntered up, "I say, mate," said he, "there be notices up everywhere about a couple of ponies, and I heard tell as the bobbies were on the look-out for them at the Fair."
Those words did Pearl and Peggy more good than even the water.
There followed a few more words, and then the whole family were bundled back into the cart, and Tinker was forced to drag them all up the same steep hill.
There they halted, and the boy was sent on the further road to spy out what he could. Presently, he came running back as hard as he could. "Two policemen out in front of their station," he declared.
"There's nothing else for it," said the man.
"All your fault for going off and not helping me with them," said the woman.
However that might be, the halters were taken off their necks, there was a hard parting smack, and behold, Pearl and Peggy were free! They could hardly believe it, but the man and boy stamped and whooped at them, and off they went, putting down their heads and prancing with heels in the air for joy, and only wishing for a moment that poor Tinker was with them.
When they came to the end of the down, they stood still and consulted how to get home. Peggy snuffed about, but it was beyond where she had ever been before, or Pearl either, but there was a feeling in them for the right way, and they cantered along side by side as merrily as could be.
Presently Pearl said, "I've been in this corner with my mistress! I remember the white post that made me shy! This way!" How they tossed their heads and trotted on.
"Soh!" there was a call Pearl knew well.
It was her own kind groom in the trap with the superintendent of police.
What rejoicing there was; Pearl's little master kissed her when she came home, and old Timothy did almost as much by Peggy.
And whenever the two ponies were turned out in their two fields, they used to get to the fence between and rub their noses together, and they whinnied kind greetings to one another whenever they met. Their adventures had quite cured them of their two kinds of pride.
The Giant Fishers of Hertzenberg.
BY MRS. A. M. GOODHART.
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IN the good old days in Germany, when wild beasts and giants still ravaged the country, and the fairies danced by moonlight on the banks of the shining rivers, and the kindly little earthmen crept into the farmhouse kitchens and tidied the hearths and re-laid the rushes in return for the brimming bowls of milk, which the tired peasants, however weary, never forgot to set out for the tiny people at night, a pretty village, the village of Hertzenberg, lay nestled under the shadow of a mighty hill, a hill so mighty and venerable, that time had wrapped its rugged sides in a mantle of rustling pines, and crowned its lofty head with a garland of perpetual snow.
Nowhere could you have found a more secluded spot, for it lay between this great hill and a broad and noble river, which flowed tumultuously down to the unknown sea.
Now the Hertzenbergers were a happy people, young and old they knew no cares, and the children, the sweet, rosy, blue-eyed children, played without check or fear the whole year through, knowing that at the worst, nothing more terrible would happen to them than to be hauled before the village elders to receive a few strokes of the rod in pickle, that celebrated rod which was kept in state (chained to the village pump) for the punishment of any of the Hertzenberg youngsters, whose overflowing spirits might lead them into mischief.
The village was a pretty place; in the centre of its tiny green stood the farrier's shop and smithy, not to mention the aforesaid pump, where the old folk gathered together morning, noon, and night to discuss the news of the place, while scattered around in groups of twos and threes, the cosy red-roofed cottages beyond, looked for all the world like merry children playing at bo-peep with one another.
One house alone stood by itself, turning its back with an air of dignified grandeur upon the rest of the cosy little cottages, and facing the pine-clad hill; this was the abode of the village school-mistress, a quaint old dame in a high-crowned hat and scarlet cloak, whom the children of Hertzenberg either loved or feared according to their own behaviour, for it was not altogether a pleasant thing to find oneself in the old lady's black books, with the rod in pickle, so clearly to be seen through the little lattice window! What they learnt from this old dame I hardly know, I fancy they spent most of their time in teazing her black cat, Cæsar, or in gazing out of the open door at the great hill opposite, in the hope of catching a glimpse of the golden eagles swooping in rapid circles over the stony crags.
Now the hill itself belonged to all the villagers, but no one was allowed to build upon it, or even to lop one branch off the smallest of its countless pines; imagine, therefore, the surprise, indignation, and consternation of everybody when, one fine morning, a gang of strange workmen, clad in an outrageous fashion, and jabbering an unknown tongue, were discovered at work on the side of the hill, directly overlooking the village. How they came there no one knew, but what they were doing, alas, was only too clear! They were felling as quickly as possible the beautiful straight-limbed trees, which had been the pride of the Hertzenbergers for generation after generation; cutting, hacking, slashing, too, with reckless cruelty, clearing the ground as if by magic.
The Hertzenbergers at first could not believe their eyes; then, as another, and another, and another tree fell with a mighty crash that echoed through the wood, they suddenly rose up as one man to defend their beloved property. Hastily forming into a procession, headed by the blacksmith in his leathern apron, they marched towards the hill with the intention of driving off the impudent workmen, who had dared to trespass upon their domain. But, alas, this was easier said than done, for when they got up to them, the workmen turned out to be huge and powerful monkeys, who upon the first show of fight, rushed so fiercely upon the villagers that the latter, scared out of their wits, were glad to retreat as fast as their legs would carry them.
After this discovery, the strange workmen were left alone, and every day saw them busy at work, dressed in their uncouth garb, with their tails tucked cleverly out of sight, and their caps drawn down so carefully over their brown wizen faces that, at a little distance, it would have been impossible to detect them from ordinary workmen, except by their size and extreme quickness of movement.
Even when night fell, they never ceased their restless activity, but lit great watch-fires, by whose lurid flames they toiled unceasingly, throwing off, under cover of the darkness, the workmen's habiliments, which had been so effectual a disguise; wild, uncouth creatures they were, and as they leapt and capered about in the glare and shadow of the flames, clad only in the hairy skins, and long powerful tails with which mother Nature had adorned them, their strange ungainly figures struck fresh terror and astonishment into the hearts of the villagers. Ere long a deeper thrill of excitement ran through the village as the leader of the troupe, a fierce and powerful baboon, was seen to advance towards the stone quarry, closely followed by the whole band of monkeys.
Too soon, alas, the air was ringing with the blows of hammers and chisels, as stone after stone was cut out from the rock, and dragged with much gesticulating and quarrelling to the spot where the monkeys had already dug out the foundations of what was afterwards to be so widely known and dreaded as the stronghold of the Giant Fishers of Hertzenberg.
All too rapidly the work progressed under the indignant eyes of the poor helpless Hertzenbergers, and soon there arose against the clear blue sky, a grim forbidding tower of solid stone.
This tower, which seemed to frown down upon, and menace the whole village, was not long left empty, but was soon taken possession of by a family of giants, for whom, indeed, it had been purposely built.
The poor villagers, once so happy and free of care, now trembled in their shoes for dread of what might happen next; they knew that their new neighbours meant them no good, and they could not hide their fears from their children, who were even more alarmed than they were, for it was not long before a rumour ran like wild-fire through the place, a rumour so dreadful, that it curdled the blood of every little boy and girl who heard it, and was conscious of possessing a plump, tender body, and a sleek rosy face! Dreadful as it was, the report could be put into four tiny words:
"BOY AND GIRL PIE!!!"
Yes, that was the long and short of it, "boy and girl pie!" And a terrible thing it was to the poor little Hertzenbergers, who knew that they were only too likely to find their way into the giants' gigantic pie dishes!
For many weeks the villagers were afraid to venture out of doors except in the dark; the dame's school was shut up, and the poor children played dismally inside their own houses, being forbidden by their mothers so much as to put their curly locks or even the tip of their tiny snub noses out of the windows, for fear that the giants might catch sight of them. One poor widow, who had only two children left to comfort her—a sturdy, high-spirited boy, named Kaspar, and a delicate little daughter called Gretchen, went so far as to bolt and bar the wooden shutters of all her casements which looked towards the giants' tower, but after a while, when it was found that the giants never attempted to come out of their stronghold, the panic grew less, and, as is often the case, public confidence began to revive at the very moment when the peril was at its highest, for it was about this time that the giants hit upon that strange mode of attack which won for them the nickname of "The Giant Fishers of Hertzenberg!"
Out of the castle windows came first of all showers of gaily-coloured sweetmeats, just to attract the children's attention; then, when these had all been picked up and eaten, without any harm happening to anybody, public opinion veered round, and began to vote the giants "rather good fellows after all!" But there was more behind, as you shall hear, for the showers of sweets ceased all too soon, and then the giants began to amuse themselves by casting down fishing lines into the village, baited with all the most tempting things that you could possibly imagine.
The lines were hung so cleverly over the green that the children could not come out of school, or cross over to the pump for a pail of water without finding gingerbreads and sweetmeats, and toys of every kind dangling in the air in front of them, or lying, as if by chance, on the ground beneath their feet. Of course they were strictly forbidden by their parents to touch any of these things, and at first fear made them obedient, but one of the first to grow reckless was Kaspar, the poor widow's son.
He was a high-spirited lad, full of pluck and self-confidence, and being tempted, beyond endurance, one day, by a box of tin soldiers, which pursued him everywhere, he determined at last to throw caution to the winds, and to make one desperate effort to snatch them off the line. Alas, poor Kaspar, no sooner did he thus resolve, and seize hold of the coveted box with his eager hands, than the giant, who was fishing out of the castle above, by a clever twist of the line, jerked the cord tightly round and round his wrists, and having thus secured his prey, began pulling his struggling victim slowly, but surely, towards the tower.
Kaspar struggled, and kicked, and fought in vain, he grew red with rage, then white with fear, and screamed so loudly that the whole village rushed out to see what was the matter; but alas, by this time the poor fellow was already dangling in mid-air, about half way up the castle wall! While down below, like one distracted, stood his weeping mother, wringing her hands, and crying aloud so that all could hear her, "Oh my poor Kaspar, my brave bonny boy . . . he will be made into mincemeat, and baked in the oven!"
Having made sure of his fish, however, the giant fisher seemed in no hurry to pull him right up into the castle, and when twilight fell, and the sorrowing villagers went sadly back into their cottages and left him to his fate, Kaspar was still dangling below the giants' larder window. How long he hung there he never knew! Of course, he gave himself up for lost, but when it had grown quite dark, and he was almost dead from fright and cold, he heard a gruff, but not unkindly, voice above him, bidding him not to be afraid! He could not see who was speaking to him, but it was no other than the old giant's wife, who had determined to try and save the boy, whilst her husband and sons were taking their forty winks after supper.
Presently, Kaspar felt something touch his shoulder; it was an old clasp knife, and with one hand, which he had managed to free in his struggles, he set to work to sever the rope, and after a tough struggle cut it right through, and before he knew where he was, had dropped like a stone to the ground, and remembered nothing more for some time.
Luckily, however, the ground was soft, and as he was only half stunned, he no sooner began to recover his senses, than fear lent wings to his feet, and he set off as fast as his legs could carry him in the direction of his mother's cottage, where such a welcome-home awaited him, as no words of mine can describe.
The next morning, a great stir arose in the castle, when Grimbo, the old giant, discovered that his prisoner had escaped. His wife did not let out her share in the matter, and when the rope was hauled up and found to be severed in such an uneven way, both the giant and his sons jumped to the conclusion, as they examined the jagged and frayed ends, that they owed the loss of their prisoner to some flaw in the cord, which had caused it to break of itself. "I'll kill and stew that cheating rope-maker, I will," cried the father giant in a rage, "as sure as my name is Grimbo! A nice trick he has been serving us, to sell us rope that will not stand the weight of a little shrimp like that! I'll teach him that he can't cheat honest giants for nothing! If he is too tough to roast or boil, he needn't think to escape for all that, I'll eat him with pleasure in a stew, if it is only to serve him out for playing us such a shabby, mean trick!!!"