BETSY’S FIRST LESSONS
It was a summer full of events for both Van and his mistress. Slowly
and patiently Aunt Kate corrected Betsy’s uncouth ways, and the book
of “Manners” grew. Betsy took smaller mouthfuls now, used her fork
properly and ate quietly. She learned her tricks like Van, having to be
told but once. If she forgot she corrected herself.
[Illustration: “‘I can stand it a week.’”]
Aunt Kate said one day to Uncle Ben,
“The child ‘eats’ everything I say to her, as if she were greedy for
it, and what’s more, she digests it.”
“She’s just at the impressionable age,” said Dr. Johns. “Look at her
out on the lawn there with the dog. When she thinks no one is looking
at her she gambols almost as gracefully as he does.”
“I’m so glad she came to us. Everything seems different. I feel as if I
had a rare, strange plant to tend, and when she grows out of that hard
little bud of shyness, she’ll be the rose of my heart’s desire. It was
a great inspiration, getting her into pretty clothes at the very start.
I really think she is trying to live up to them.”
“I think it more likely that she is trying to live up to her Aunt
Kate,” Uncle Ben chivalrously said, and as he started for the office,
there was on his face the smile that Aunt Kate loved to see--the smile
that made all the Hospital patients love him.
Betsy came in with her book as soon as she saw him go.
“I’m getting a lot of manners, Aunt Kate. My book’s ’most full.”
“I am so glad, dear, and you are getting them by heart, too. I
haven’t heard you say ‘ain’t’ for a week. By the way, how about those
finger-nails? Let me see.”
But instead of showing them Betsy snapped her hands behind her.
“Let me look, dear. Haven’t you remembered?”
“No--no’m--not much. I try, but they just chew theirselves when I’m not
thinking. They aren’t fitten to see.”
Aunt Kate took the two little hands in her own delicate ones. They lay
palms up, showing a row of callous spots at the base of the fingers.
For a moment dear Aunt Kate looked; then she softly stooped and kissed
them. The child stood wide-eyed, wondering.
“What’d you do that for? They aren’t pretty.”
“Because every one of those spots means that a little girl has helped
her mother, and I love them. I almost wish that I could have some
myself for so fine a reason.”
She turned the hands over.
“But these--these--oh, my little Betsy! To trim such good hands in
such a sorry way. Nails are intended to be the ornaments of a hand,
quite as much, and more, than rings are. Every nail should have a
crescent moon at its base, and another little pearl moon-rise at the
tip. There should be no ragged edges or hang-nails. I’ve told you so
many times. Now I shall have to do something to make you remember.
“Remember, too, dear, that I do this because I love you, and I want you
to be sweet in every way.”
Mrs. Johns went to her desk, and returned with a bottle of India ink
and a small brush.
“Now, Betsy, as long as the edges of your nails are rough and black,
the middle might as well be black, too.”
Quickly Aunt Kate put a drop of ink in the center of each nail. Betsy
held her breath with the surprise of it.
“Hold them out like that till they’re dry. If the spots come off when
you wash your hands, I’ll put on more. When you see them you will think
not to bite your nails, and you must keep them on for a week. By that
time your nails will grow out, and then I’ll show you how to take
proper care of them.”
“Oh, Aunt Kate, please! Must I wear them like that to the table--right
before Uncle Ben? What will he say?”
“Uncle Ben will think as I do, that the black spots look no worse than
the close-bitten edges.”
Tears came in Betsy’s eyes. It was not like Aunt Kate to punish. For
a moment she stood with quivering lips, looking down at the queer,
ink-spotted finger-tips. Then she straightened up.
“I can stand it a week. You can stand anything you _got_ to stand. I
guess this’ll be a warnin’ to me.”
Not another whisper of rebellion came from her lips. She wore her
badges of disgrace manfully, hiding her hands, if she could, when any
one came near her. Uncle Ben looked at them, then at Mrs. Johns, but
never a word did he say, and Betsy to this day does not know what he
thought about them.
Aunt Kate replaced the spots as they came off, and the week dragged by.
Then, one morning, Aunt Kate came into Betsy’s room, and instead of
the bottle of ink, she carried a dainty little box.
“See here, Betsy.”
Betsy looked, and saw, under the satin-lined lid, a tiny pair of curved
scissors, a nail file, a buffer with a silver handle, a box of rosy
ointment--all the things that go to make up a manicure set.
“Now, let me see the nails again, Betsy dear. Have you remembered all
the time?”
“I forgot twice, Aunt Kate, but I got black on my lips, so I had to
remember.”
“Why, they’ve grown out beautifully! Good!”
With a bowl of warm, soapy water and a towel, the fingers were
soaked, cleaned and dried. Deftly Aunt Kate cut each tip to a white
“moon-rise,” and with an orange stick she found the beginnings of the
crescent at the base. When the nails had been polished Betsy did not
know them for her own.
“There! They look like rose petals. And now you can do it for yourself
next time. This case is for you.”
“Aunt Kate!”
“Yes, dear.”
“I’m awful much obliged, and--and--I like you a lot. And--may I do
Van’s nails for him, too?”
“Why, if you want to. But his paws have to be on the ground, and he
never bites his nails.”
“Well, I’m never going to bite mine any more. Van chews other things,
though, Aunt Kate, and--and--may we have another ball, please? He’s
chewed that little rubber one all up.”
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Betsy. We’ll try him with a rope-end. I
found just the thing in the store-room this morning. Here it is, and
I’ll tie a knot at each end. See how he likes that. A rubber ball every
day is rather expensive.”
The rope proved highly successful, and Betsy and Van at either end made
a great team. Betsy jerked and pulled and Van growled and shook. Then
Van got the rope and flew all over the house and the lawn, and when
Betsy finally caught her end there was a terrific growling and barking.
Van liked it so much that he soon got in the way of trailing his rope
on all occasions, hunting for some one who could be coaxed to play with
him. Even a neighbor’s dog was invited to take part in the game; but,
although he wagged his tail pleasantly, he showed no intelligence, and
Van gave him up in disgust.
There was another beautiful game, even better than Rope, because the
whole family could play it of an evening, and Van was never happier
than when he could stir up everything and everybody on the place. This
was “Hide-and-Seek.” Mrs. Johns or the Doctor would hold Van tightly,
his little body quivering with excitement, while Betsy hid in some
corner, behind a curtain or screen. Then she would call,
“Coop!”
At the sound Van would be released, and would dart like an arrow in the
direction of Betsy’s voice. It never took him long to find her, for his
little nose was even keener than his eyes and ears.
With a joyful bark he would pounce on her and drag her back by her
skirts, growling as if he had caught a lion. Then somebody else must
hide and be found.
Once, when Van and Betsy had strayed as far as the park gates, an old
hen loomed up in their path. She was bigger than Van, but a puppy
who could tree a cat could surely get some sport out of a large bird
like that. After her went Van, and Mrs. Dorking took to her awkward
legs. These, not filling entirely the necessity for speed, she added
wing-power to the effort. Squawking, and frightened almost out of her
feathers, she skimmed the ground, with Van close at her heels--if hens
have heels.
Betsy laughed heartily at the funny sight, and that was a grave
mistake, as later events proved. Of course Mrs. Dorking got away with
all her feathers, so Van gave up the chase, and came back panting and
wildly enthusiastic.
Van’s education did not consist of tricks and games alone. No, indeed!
Fox terriers have a special use in the world; they are, above all
things, a breed of rat-catchers, and Van was a sportsman, to the tips
of his brown ears.
One morning he clambered out of his basket in the kitchen just in time
to see a small, gray, furry thing dodge behind the basket and into
the pantry. He did not stop to question; every instinct in him told
him that this was Game. Like a flash he was after it. Mary was mixing
pancakes at the far end of the pantry, and it went right under her
feet. She jumped and screamed and nearly landed on Van’s toes.
“It’s a mouse! It’s a mouse! Quick, Van! There it goes!”
The door of the closet where the pots and pans were kept stood ajar. In
went the mouse; in went Van. The mouse went under a skillet, Van turned
it over and jumped after; he chased it around a vinegar jug; he knocked
over a pile of pans, and they fell with a terrible clatter; the mouse
crept under one, and Van rooted up the whole of them, and sent them
flying galley-west, while Mary took turns screaming and laughing.
Van hunted the mouse through the pantry, out into the kitchen again,
and behind a broom in the corner. Bang! That was the broom falling.
Pounce! That was Van, and Mrs. Mouse was no more.
By this time the whole Johns family was on the spot. They could not,
unless they had been stone deaf, have escaped hearing the racket. Van
was in his element. Not only had he brought down his first game, but he
had an admiring audience, which he loved of all things. He swaggered
around and tossed the mouse into the air, as if by so doing he could
make them all understand just what a grand, brave dog he was. Lastly,
he came proudly to lay his prize at the feet of his beloved mistress.
And Betsy spoiled his fun by taking the mouse away from him. It was all
right for Van to kill a mouse, she argued, because mice are harmful,
but one should not gloat over it. Van did not see things that way. He
gave one grieved look at the unfeeling Betsy, jumped into his basket
and sulked.
Then Betsy added insult to injury by pulling him out of the basket and
carrying him upstairs. Aunt Kate, passing by, saw the child on the
window seat. Very busy Betsy was with something, and that something was
Van, who was wriggling tremendously.
“See here just a minute, Aunt Kate. Ai--aren’t they nice?”
She exhibited Van’s paws, with every nail scraped clean and white.
“He didn’t like it a mite, but he knew it had to be did, or he couldn’t
be a gentleman. I washed ’em with a nail brush to get the mouse off.”
The catching of the mouse was the clinching nail in Dr. Johns’ respect
for Van. He looked upon him now as a good and useful dog, and no
longer as a mere plaything.
As for Betsy, that evening, beside her napkin at the dinner table,
there lay a tiny white box, and in it shone a gold circlet set with a
tiny diamond. Uncle Ben’s card lay on top, with the words
“For the hand with the little pink nails.”
[Illustration: “‘Go back, Van!’”]