would take it in his mouth and rush around the house like a child,
squeezing it to make it whistle. When he got a new ball, he would hide
his old one away until the new one was the worse worn of the two, and
then he would bring out the old one again. If Dinnie gave him a nickel
or a dime, when they went down-town, Satan would rush into a store,
rear up on the counter where the rubber balls were kept, drop the coin,
and get a ball for himself. Thus, Satan learned finance. He began to
hoard his pennies, and one day Uncle Carey found a pile of seventeen
under a corner of the carpet. Usually he carried to Dinnie all coins
that he found in the street, but he showed one day that he was going
into the ball-business for himself. Uncle Carey had given Dinnie a
nickel for some candy, and, as usual, Satan trotted down the street
behind her. As usual, Satan stopped before the knick-knack shop.
“Tum on, Saty,” said Dinnie. Satan reared against the door as he always
did, and Dinnie said again:
“Tum on, Saty.” As usual, Satan dropped to his haunches, but what was
unusual, he failed to bark. Now Dinnie had got a new ball for Satan
only that morning, so Dinnie stamped her foot.
“I tell you to tum on, Saty.” Satan never moved. He looked at Dinnie as
much as to say:
“I have never disobeyed you before, little mistress, but this time
I have an excellent reason for what must seem to you very bad
manners——” and being a gentleman withal, Satan rose on his haunches
and begged.
“You’re des a pig, Saty,” said Dinnie, but with a sigh for the candy
that was not to be, Dinnie opened the door, and Satan, to her wonder,
rushed to the counter, put his forepaws on it, and dropped from his
mouth a dime. Satan had found that coin on the street. He didn’t bark
for change, nor beg for two balls, but he had got it in his woolly
little head, somehow, that in that store a coin meant a ball, though
never before nor afterward did he try to get a ball for a penny.
Satan slept in Uncle Carey’s room, for of all people, after Dinnie,
Satan loved Uncle Carey best. Every day at noon he would go to an
upstairs window and watch the cars come around the corner, until a very
tall, square-shouldered young man swung to the ground, and down Satan
would scamper—yelping—to meet him at the gate. If Uncle Carey, after
supper and when Dinnie was in bed, started out of the house, still in
his business clothes, Satan would leap out before him, knowing that he
too might be allowed to go; but if Uncle Carey had put on black clothes
that showed a big, dazzling shirt-front, and picked up his high hat,
Satan would sit perfectly still and look disconsolate; for as there
were no parties or theatres for Dinnie, so there were none for him. But
no matter how late it was when Uncle Carey came home, he always saw
Satan’s little black nose against the window-pane and heard his bark of
welcome.
After intelligence, Satan’s chief trait was lovableness—nobody
ever knew him to fight, to snap at anything, or to get angry; after
lovableness, it was politeness. If he wanted something to eat, if he
wanted Dinnie to go to bed, if he wanted to get out of the door, he
would beg—beg prettily on his haunches, his little red tongue out and
his funny little paws hanging loosely. Indeed, it was just because
Satan was so little less than human, I suppose, that old Satan began
to be afraid he might have a soul. So the wicked old namesake with the
Hoofs and Horns laid a trap for little Satan, and, as he is apt to do,
he began laying it early—long, indeed, before Christmas.
When Dinnie started to kindergarten that autumn, Satan found that there
was one place where he could never go. Like the lamb, he could not go
to school; so while Dinnie was away, Satan began to make friends. He
would bark, “Howdy-do?” to every dog that passed his gate. Many stopped
to rub noses with him through the fence—even Hugo the mastiff, and
nearly all, indeed, except one strange-looking dog that appeared every
morning at precisely nine o’clock and took his stand on the corner.
There he would lie patiently until a funeral came along, and then Satan
would see him take his place at the head of the procession; and thus he
would march out to the cemetery and back again. Nobody knew where he
came from nor where he went, and Uncle Carey called him the “funeral
dog” and said he was doubtless looking for his dead master. Satan even
made friends with a scrawny little yellow dog that followed an old
drunkard around—a dog that, when his master fell in the gutter, would
go and catch a policeman by the coat-tail, lead the officer to his
helpless master, and spend the night with him in jail.
By and by Satan began to slip out of the house at night, and Uncle
Billy said he reckoned Satan had “jined de club”; and late one night,
when he had not come in, Uncle Billy told Uncle Carey that it was
“powerful slippery and he reckoned they’d better send de kerridge after
him”—an innocent remark that made Uncle Carey send a boot after the
old butler, who fled chuckling down the stairs, and left Uncle Carey
chuckling in his room.
Satan had “jined de club”—the big club—and no dog was too lowly in
Satan’s eyes for admission; for no priest ever preached the brotherhood
of man better than Satan lived it—both with man and dog. And thus he
lived it that Christmas night—to his sorrow.
Christmas Eve had been gloomy—the gloomiest of Satan’s life. Uncle
Carey had gone to a neighboring town at noon. Satan had followed him
down to the station, and when the train started, Uncle Carey had
ordered him to go home. Satan took his time about going home, not
knowing it was Christmas Eve. He found strange things happening to dogs
that day. The truth was, that policemen were shooting all dogs found
that were without a collar and a license, and every now and then a bang
and a howl somewhere would stop Satan in his tracks. At a little yellow
house on the edge of town he saw half a dozen strange dogs in a kennel,
and every now and then a negro would lead a new one up to the house
and deliver him to a big man at the door, who, in return, would drop
something into the negro’s hand. While Satan waited, the old drunkard
came along with his little dog at his heels, paused before the door,
looked a moment at his faithful follower, and went slowly on. Satan
little knew the old drunkard’s temptation, for in that yellow house
kind-hearted people had offered fifteen cents for each dog brought to
them, without a license, that they might mercifully put it to death,
and fifteen cents was the precise price for a drink of good whiskey.
Just then there was another bang and another howl somewhere, and Satan
trotted home to meet a calamity. Dinnie was gone. Her mother had taken
her out in the country to Grandmother Dean’s to spend Christmas, as was
the family custom, and Mrs. Dean would not wait any longer for Satan;
so she told Uncle Billy to bring him out after supper.
“Ain’t you ’shamed o’ yo’self—suh—?” said the old butler, “keeping me
from ketchin’ Christmas gifts dis day?”
Uncle Billy was indignant, for the negroes begin at four o’clock in
the afternoon of Christmas Eve to slip around corners and jump from
hiding-places to shout “Christmas Gif’—Christmas Gif’”; and the one
who shouts first gets a gift. No wonder it was gloomy for Satan—Uncle
Carey, Dinnie, and all gone, and not a soul but Uncle Billy in the
big house. Every few minutes he would trot on his little black legs
upstairs and downstairs, looking for his mistress. As dusk came on, he
would every now and then howl plaintively. After begging his supper,
and while Uncle Billy was hitching up a horse in the stable, Satan
went out in the yard and lay with his nose between the close panels of
the fence—quite heart-broken. When he saw his old friend, Hugo the
mastiff, trotting into the gas-light, he began to bark his delight
frantically. The big mastiff stopped and nosed his sympathy through
the fence for a moment and walked slowly on, Satan frisking and barking
along inside. At the gate Hugo stopped, and raising one huge paw,
playfully struck it. The gate flew open, and with a happy yelp Satan
leaped into the street. The noble mastiff hesitated as though this were
not quite regular. He did not belong to the club, and he didn’t know
that Satan had ever been away from home after dark in his life. For a
moment he seemed to wait for Dinnie to call him back as she always did,
but this time there was no sound, and Hugo walked majestically on, with
absurd little Satan running in a circle about him. On the way they met
the “funeral dog,” who glanced inquiringly at Satan, shied from the
mastiff, and trotted on. On the next block the old drunkard’s yellow
cur ran across the street, and after interchanging the compliments of
the season, ran back after his staggering master. As they approached
the railroad track a strange dog joined them, to whom Hugo paid no
attention. At the crossing another new acquaintance bounded toward
them. This one—a half-breed shepherd—was quite friendly, and he
received Satan’s advances with affable condescension. Then another came
and another, and little Satan’s head got quite confused. They were a
queer-looking lot of curs and half-breeds from the negro settlement
at the edge of the woods, and though Satan had little experience, his
instincts told him that all was not as it should be, and had he been
human he would have wondered very much how they had escaped the carnage
that day. Uneasy, he looked around for Hugo; but Hugo had disappeared.
Once or twice Hugo had looked around for Satan, and Satan paying no
attention, the mastiff trotted on home in disgust. Just then a powerful
yellow cur sprang out of the darkness over the railroad track, and
Satan sprang to meet him, and so nearly had the life scared out of him
by the snarl and flashing fangs of the new-comer that he hardly had the
strength to shrink back behind his new friend, the half-breed shepherd.
A strange thing then happened. The other dogs became suddenly quiet,
and every eye was on the yellow cur. He sniffed the air once or twice,
gave two or three peculiar low growls, and all those dogs except Satan
lost the civilization of centuries and went back suddenly to the time
when they were wolves and were looking for a leader. The cur was Lobo
for that little pack, and after a short parley, he lifted his nose high
and started away without looking back, while the other dogs silently
trotted after him. With a mystified yelp, Satan ran after them. The
cur did not take the turnpike, but jumped the fence into a field,
making his way by the rear of houses, from which now and then another
dog would slink out and silently join the band. Every one of them
Satan nosed most friendlily, and to his great joy the funeral dog, on
the edge of town, leaped into their midst. Ten minutes later the cur
stopped in the midst of some woods, as though he would inspect his
followers. Plainly, he disapproved of Satan, and Satan kept out of his
way. Then he sprang into the turnpike and the band trotted down it,
under flying black clouds and shifting bands of brilliant moonlight.
Once, a buggy swept past them. A familiar odor struck Satan’s nose, and
he stopped for a moment to smell the horse’s tracks; and right he was,
too, for out at her grandmother’s Dinnie refused to be comforted, and
in that buggy was Uncle Billy going back to town after him.
Snow was falling. It was a great lark for Satan. Once or twice, as he
trotted along, he had to bark his joy aloud, and each time the big cur
gave him such a fierce growl that he feared thereafter to open his
jaws. But he was happy for all that, to be running out into the night
with such a lot of funny friends and not to know or care where he was
going. He got pretty tired presently, for over hill and down hill they
went, at that unceasing trot, trot, trot! Satan’s tongue began to hang
out. Once he stopped to rest, but the loneliness frightened him and
he ran on after them with his heart almost bursting. He was about to
lie right down and die, when the cur stopped, sniffed the air once or
twice, and with those same low growls, led the marauders through a rail
fence into the woods, and lay quietly down. How Satan loved that soft,
thick grass, all snowy that it was! It was almost as good as his own
bed at home. And there they lay—how long, Satan never knew, for he
went to sleep and dreamed that he was after a rat in the barn at home;
and he yelped in his sleep, which made the cur lift his big yellow
head and show his fangs. The moving of the half-breed shepherd and the
funeral dog waked him at last, and Satan got up. Half crouching, the
cur was leading the way toward the dark, still woods on top of the
hill, over which the Star of Bethlehem was lowly sinking, and under
which lay a flock of the gentle creatures that seemed to have been
almost sacred to the Lord of that Star. They were in sore need of a
watchful shepherd now. Satan was stiff and chilled, but he was rested
and had had his sleep, and he was just as ready for fun as he always
was. He didn’t understand that sneaking. Why they didn’t all jump and
race and bark as he wanted to, he couldn’t see; but he was too polite
to do otherwise than as they did, and so he sneaked after them; and one
would have thought he knew, as well as the rest, the hellish mission on
which they were bent.
Out of the woods they went, across a little branch, and there the big
cur lay flat again in the grass. A faint bleat came from the hill-side
beyond, where Satan could see another woods—and then another bleat,
and another. And the cur began to creep again, like a snake in the
grass; and the others crept too, and little Satan crept, though it
was all a sad mystery to him. Again the cur lay still, but only long
enough for Satan to see curious, fat, white shapes above him—and
then, with a blood-curdling growl, the big brute dashed forward. Oh,
there was fun in them after all! Satan barked joyfully. Those were
some new playmates—those fat, white, hairy things up there; and Satan
was amazed when, with frightened snorts, they fled in every direction.
But this was a new game, perhaps, of which he knew nothing, and as did
the rest, so did Satan. He picked out one of the white things and fled
barking after it. It was a little fellow that he was after, but little
as he was, Satan might never have caught up, had not the sheep got
tangled in some brush. Satan danced about him in mad glee, giving him a
playful nip at his wool and springing back to give him another nip, and
then away again. Plainly, he was not going to bite back, and when the
sheep struggled itself tired and sank down in a heap, Satan came close
and licked him, and as he was very warm and woolly, he lay down and
snuggled up against him for a while, listening to the turmoil that was
going on around him. And as he listened, he got frightened.
If this was a new game it was certainly a very peculiar one—the wild
rush, the bleats of terror, gasps of agony, and the fiendish growls of
attack and the sounds of ravenous gluttony. With every hair bristling,
Satan rose and sprang from the woods—and stopped with a fierce
tingling of the nerves that brought him horror and fascination. One of
the white shapes lay still before him. There was a great steaming red
splotch on the snow, and a strange odor in the air that made him dizzy;
but only for a moment. Another white shape rushed by. A tawny streak
followed, and then, in a patch of moonlight, Satan saw the yellow cur
with his teeth fastened in the throat of his moaning playmate. Like
lightning Satan sprang at the cur, who tossed him ten feet away and
went back to his awful work. Again Satan leaped, but just then a shout
rose behind him, and the cur leaped too as though a bolt of lightning
had crashed over him, and, no longer noticing Satan or sheep, began
to quiver with fright and slink away. Another shout rose from another
direction—another from another.
“Drive ’em into the barn-yard!” was the cry.
Now and then there was a fearful bang and a howl of death-agony, as
some dog tried to break through the encircling men, who yelled and
cursed as they closed in on the trembling brutes that slunk together
and crept on; for it is said, every sheep-killing dog knows his fate if
caught, and will make little effort to escape. With them went Satan,
through the barn-yard gate, where they huddled in a corner—a shamed
and terrified group. A tall overseer stood at the gate.
“Ten of ’em!” he said grimly.
He had been on the lookout for just such a tragedy, for there
had recently been a sheep-killing raid on several farms in that
neighborhood, and for several nights he had had a lantern hung out on
the edge of the woods to scare the dogs away; but a drunken farm-hand
had neglected his duty that Christmas Eve.
“Yassuh, an’ dey’s jus’ sebenteen dead sheep out dar,” said a negro.
“Look at the little one,” said a tall boy who looked like the overseer;
and Satan knew that he spoke of him.
“Go back to the house, son,” said the overseer, “and tell your mother
to give you a Christmas present I got for you yesterday.” With a glad
whoop the boy dashed away, and in a moment dashed back with a brand-new
.32 Winchester in his hand.
The dark hour before dawn was just breaking on Christmas Day. It was
the hour when Satan usually rushed upstairs to see if his little
mistress was asleep. If he were only at home now, and if he only had
known how his little mistress was weeping for him amid her playthings
and his—two new balls and a brass-studded collar with a silver plate
on which was his name, Satan Dean; and if Dinnie could have seen him
now, her heart would have broken; for the tall boy raised his gun.
There was a jet of smoke, a sharp, clean crack, and the funeral dog
started on the right way at last toward his dead master. Another crack,
and the yellow cur leaped from the ground and fell kicking. Another
crack and another, and with each crack a dog tumbled, until little
Satan sat on his haunches amid the writhing pack, alone. His time was
now come. As the rifle was raised, he heard up at the big house the
cries of children; the popping of fire-crackers; tooting of horns and
whistles and loud shouts of “Christmas Gif’, Christmas Gif’!” His
little heart beat furiously. Perhaps he knew just what he was doing;
perhaps it was the accident of habit; most likely Satan simply wanted
to go home—but when that gun rose, Satan rose too, on his haunches,
his tongue out, his black eyes steady and his funny little paws hanging
loosely—and begged! The boy lowered the gun.
“Down, sir!” Satan dropped obediently, but when the gun was lifted
again, Satan rose again, and again he begged.
“Down, I tell you!” This time Satan would not down, but sat begging for
his life. The boy turned.
“Papa, I can’t shoot that dog.” Perhaps Satan had reached the stern old
overseer’s heart. Perhaps he remembered suddenly that it was Christmas.
At any rate, he said gruffly:
“Well, let him go.”
“Come here, sir!” Satan bounded toward the tall boy, frisking and
trustful and begged again.
“Go home, sir!”
Satan needed no second command. Without a sound he fled out the
barn-yard, and, as he swept under the front gate, a little girl ran out
of the front door of the big house and dashed down the steps, shrieking:
“Saty! Saty! Oh, Saty!” But Satan never heard. On he fled, across the
crisp fields, leaped the fence and struck the road, lickety-split! for
home, while Dinnie dropped sobbing in the snow.
“Hitch up a horse, quick,” said Uncle Carey, rushing after Dinnie and
taking her up in his arms. Ten minutes later, Uncle Carey and Dinnie,
both warmly bundled up, were after flying Satan. They never caught him
until they reached the hill on the outskirts of town, where was the
kennel of the kind-hearted people who were giving painless death to
Satan’s four-footed kind, and where they saw him stop and turn from the
road. There was divine providence in Satan’s flight for one little dog
that Christmas morning; for Uncle Carey saw the old drunkard staggering
down the road without his little companion, and a moment later, both he
and Dinnie saw Satan nosing a little yellow cur between the palings.
Uncle Carey knew the little cur, and while Dinnie was shrieking for
Satan, he was saying under his breath:
“Well, I swear!—I swear!—I swear!” And while the big man who came to
the door was putting Satan into Dinnie’s arms, he said sharply:
“Who brought that yellow dog here?” The man pointed to the old
drunkard’s figure turning a corner at the foot of the hill.
“I thought so; I thought so. He sold him to you for—for a drink of
whiskey.”
The man whistled.
“Bring him out. I’ll pay his license.”
So back went Satan and the little cur to Grandmother Dean’s—and Dinnie
cried when Uncle Carey told her why he was taking the little cur along.
With her own hands she put Satan’s old collar on the little brute, took
him to the kitchen, and fed him first of all. Then she went into the
breakfast-room.
“Uncle Billy,” she said severely, “didn’t I tell you not to let Saty
out?”
“Yes, Miss Dinnie,” said the old butler.
“Didn’t I tell you I was goin’ to whoop you if you let Saty out?”
“Yes, Miss Dinnie.”
Miss Dinnie pulled forth from her Christmas treasures a toy riding-whip
and the old darky’s eyes began to roll in mock terror.
“I’m sorry, Uncle Billy, but I des got to whoop you a little.”
“Let Uncle Billy off, Dinnie,” said Uncle Carey, “this is Christmas.”
“All wite,” said Dinnie, and she turned to Satan.
In his shining new collar and innocent as a cherub, Satan sat on the
hearth begging for his breakfast.
A NEST-EGG
BY
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
This is the simple character sketch in which there is
romance treated with a fine reserve. It employs the local
color so characteristic of Mr. Riley’s poems of Indiana.
A NEST-EGG[8]
But a few miles from the city here, and on the sloping
banks of the stream noted more for its plenitude of
“chubs” and “shiners” than the gamier two- and
four-pound bass for which, in season, so many credulous
anglers flock and lie in wait, stands a country residence,
so convenient to the stream, and so inviting in its pleasant
exterior and comfortable surroundings—barn, dairy,
and spring-house—that the weary, sunburnt, and disheartened
fisherman, out from the dusty town for a
day of recreation, is often wont to seek its hospitality.
The house in style of architecture is something of a departure
from the typical farmhouse, being designed
and fashioned with no regard to symmetry or proportion,
but rather, as is suggested, built to conform to the
matter-of-fact and most sensible ideas of its owner, who,
if it pleased him, would have small windows where large
ones ought to be, and vice versa, whether they balanced
properly to the eye or not. And chimneys—he would
have as many as he wanted, and no two alike, in either
height or size. And if he wanted the front of the house
turned from all possible view, as though abashed at any
chance of public scrutiny, why, that was his affair and
not the public’s; and, with like perverseness, if he chose
to thrust his kitchen under the public’s very nose, what
should the generally fagged-out, half-famished representative
of that dignified public do but reel in his dead
minnow, shoulder his fishing-rod, clamber over the back
fence of the old farmhouse and inquire within, or jog
back to the city, inwardly anathematizing that very particular
locality or the whole rural district in general.
That is just the way that farmhouse looked to the writer
of this sketch one week ago—so individual it seemed—so
liberal, and yet so independent. It wasn’t even
weather-boarded, but, instead, was covered smoothly with
some cement, as though the plasterers had come while
the folks were visiting, and so, unable to get at the
interior, had just plastered the outside.
I am more than glad that I was hungry enough, and
weary enough, and wise enough to take the house at
its first suggestion; for, putting away my fishing-tackle
for the morning, at least, I went up the sloping bank,
crossed the dusty road, and confidently clambered over
the fence.
Not even a growling dog to intimate that I was trespassing.
All was open—gracious-looking—pastoral. The
sward beneath my feet was velvet-like in elasticity, and
the scarce visible path I followed through it led promptly
to the open kitchen door. From within I heard a woman
singing some old ballad in an undertone, while at the
threshold a trim, white-spurred rooster stood poised on
one foot, curving his glossy neck and cocking his wattled
head as though to catch the meaning of the words.
I paused. It was a scene I felt restrained from breaking
in upon, nor would I, but for the sound of a strong
male voice coming around the corner of the house:
“Sir. Howdy!”
Turning, I saw a rough-looking but kindly featured
man of sixty-five, the evident owner of the place.