TOLD BY THE FIRE
Before flocking swallows and cool nights told that September had come
in a-tiptoe, the Herb Witch’s house had been restored, and christened
“Robin Hood’s Inn,” and even the thought of the poor-farm banished from
the old woman’s mind.
It had been a very easy matter rearranging the house, which had a solid
frame; new floors, shingles, window-glass, and pretty wall-papers,
chosen by Miss Letty and Anne, working a wonderful transformation
within, while a week’s well-directed efforts of a couple of men
restored the garden to its quaintness without spoiling it.
Mrs. Carr herself was much more difficult to handle, so anxious was
she not to accept anything for which she could not render service in
return. Miss Jule and Mr. Hugh had planned very wisely, but, after all,
it was Anne herself who broke through the crust of pride that held the
old woman so close in its grip.
The day after the thunder-storm, when Anne had gone with Mr. Hugh to
bring Jill home, that contrary young beagle had absolutely declined to
go with her mistress, and, after struggling, barking, and growling in
puppy rage, slipped her head through her collar, jumped from Anne’s
arms, and ran up and hid in the attic that was littered with rubbish
and drying herbs.
Such a strong attachment from a capricious little animal like Jill
argued well for Mrs. Carr’s influence over dogs, as did the nicely
healed wounds made by the barbed wire for her medical skill and care,
and a new idea came to both Mr. Hugh and Miss Jule. They frequently had
dogs, both young and old, who needed some special attention or petting
that it was impossible to give them in the kennels, or in the little
house that stood apart and was called the hospital. One of the old
orchards could be fenced, and a small building put in the corner near
by Robin Hood’s Inn, the whole to be used as a sort of dog’s excursion
resort, for those who needed a change, Mrs. Carr being in charge of it.
Anne begged leave to tell the news to the old woman. At first Mrs.
Carr was about to exclaim in delight at the prospect of so much dog
companionship, then her habitual distrust seemed about to settle as
she said, “I only hopes it’s for their own good and not mine they ha’
planned it; I wish I cauld be main sure.”
Then at last Anne rose up with almost a stamp of impatience, and
folding her hands before her, looked the questioner straight in the
face, saying: “Mrs. Carr, I’m disappointed in you, you are just as
pernickerty as you can be, and stingy beside. Perhaps you don’t know
what ‘pernickerty’ means, because it’s one of Baldy’s words for being
show-off particular, like the woman father tells about, who was always
so dreadfully good. When she went to heaven they gave her an extra
beautiful gold crown to wear, with a soft lining, so that it couldn’t
hurt, but she took it off and looked it all over, and said, ‘I can do
with a cheaper one; beside, linings are heating!’ And you are stingy
because you won’t let any of us have the pleasure of thinking we are
making you comfortable;” so saying, Anne, with a red spot in the middle
of each cheek, walked out of the cottage, mounted Fox, and rode away,
without looking behind her.
Miss Jule, who a few moments later drew up from the opposite direction
expecting to meet Mr. Hugh and advise with him about the new scheme,
was astonished to find that Anne had gone, and to see Mrs. Carr
crouching in her arm-chair with her face in her apron.
Making no attempt to hide the fact that she had been crying, the old
lady straightened herself, and said in a trembling voice: “Ye’ll be
havin’ no more contrairy times with me, yerself and Master Hughie, for
the little lassie hit out straight and fetched me between the eyes
like the minister in the kirk used, and I see my error, that is, I
like shall when I’m through blinkin’. Pride is a good life-buoy when a
body’s drownin’ in the waters o’ trouble, but inconvenient and unseemly
to wear juist for ornament on dry land.”
Miss Jule asked no questions at the time, but the truth leaked out,
and Mrs. Carr herself was the first to tell the story, laughing as she
did so, with the dry, harsh laugh that needed use to mellow it, and
illustrating with her crutch the emphatic sound of Anne’s boots, as she
walked out.
The result of this change of heart, or rather of manner, for at heart
the old woman had always been good as gold, was that even when picnic
days were over, and the good folks of Dogtown left the fields for the
fireside, and children returned to school, Robin Hood’s Inn, remote as
it was, became a meeting-place for autumn walks, and Saturday parties
out to gather leaves or nuts. Moreover, few people could decide which
attracted them the most, the tea and seedcakes, the courtesy of Laddie
the old collie, Jill’s coaxing antics, or Mrs. Carr’s fine hospitality.
“Herb Witch you shall still be called, for no one brews tea like you,”
said Mr. Hugh, one afternoon as he sat by the wide fireplace, holding
one of the precious Lowestoft cups that had been filled the second time.
Mrs. Carr, for some unknown reason, never served anyone but him she
termed her “landlord,” and Miss Letty from these cups.
Miss Jule, her niece, Anne, and her mother had been driving together
and had likewise stopped for a chat, also to inquire for a delicate
little spaniel, one of an overlarge litter, that Mrs. Carr was
mothering.
“Ah, but I’ve fostered a rival at the tea drawin’,” said the old lady
with a smile. “Miss Lettice here betters me at it, ’twas she that drew
that very potful as your foot was on the sill.”
“Why didn’t you put a few poison ivy leaves in it? I’m quite
surprised,” laughed Mr. Hugh, never thinking how the jest might hurt
the young girl with whom he had been on very friendly terms since
the day of the storm. But that was Mr. Hugh’s chief fault; he often
sharpened his little jokes upon other people’s feelings, while Miss
Letty never did. She said nothing, however, but going to the window
picked up Jill, and resting her upon the sill laid her face against one
of the long soft ears.
“Some day, Hugh,” said Miss Jule, rather sharply, “Letty and I will
find a thin spot in your cuticle, and then we will always keep salt
ready to rub in it!”
“Ah! but there’s a bonnie fortune here,” said Mrs. Carr, discerning
something awry and lifting Letty’s empty cup she looked in the bottom;
“but what’s this on tother side?” she muttered, “two horses travelling
even, and then one ahead and riderless. I can’t read that--best wash
the cup.”
* * * * *
No matter how warm the noontide sun might be, when September came
Waddles liked to lie by a fire in the evening. If there was none in
the hall chimney-corner he would nose open the door into the kitchen
and stretch himself on the warm hearth before the range, for though
he would not like to have had it mentioned, he was rheumatic, and his
left hind leg often gave him trouble in crossing stone walls. As for
rail fences, he had ceased even going through them, and always crawled
under.
Mrs. Waddles also enjoyed fireside evenings, and had coaxed her way
until she shared the rug with her spouse as a matter of course, though
he alone slept at Anne’s door, Happy going back to the nursery kennel
for the night. Jack still slept there with her, for if ever there was a
“mother boy” it was he. All day long he kept her in sight, and at night
drew as close to her as in the days of his dependent puppyhood.
It was one of the first of these evenings. A log was smouldering lazily
on the hearth in the hall, though doors and windows were open and the
house was full of moonlight.
The family had all gone to Miss Jule’s for supper and to talk over a
harvest festival with outdoor sports that Mr. Hugh proposed to hold at
Robin Hood’s Inn.
Before Anne went out she ran to the hall table to take one more look at
something very precious that had come that afternoon--her camera, so
long wished for, had actually arrived, and she was all eagerness for
daylight that she might use it, as she had watched her father at his
work so often that she felt as if she really knew how. He had insisted
that she begin with plates instead of films, that she might the more
easily develop her pictures and thus discover her own mistakes, so the
camera was a substantial four by five instrument in a leather-covered
case, with a light tripod for time work.
Waddles lay on the outer edge of the bearskin rug, Happy being next
the fire, everything was quiet except her little whimpering snore and
the crickets that chanted outside, led, it seemed, by one persistent
individual in the wood-box.
Suddenly Happy gave a groan, and began to shiver and cry in her sleep.
Up started Waddles, stumbled over her before he understood from where
the noise came, and then gave her a little shake, saying, in a language
that, deaf though she was, she understood: “Wake up. What is the
matter? You were so greedy about that cold sausage at supper that I
knew you’d have trouble.”
Happy gave a despairing kick or two, then rolled over, and, gaining her
feet, sniffed once or twice, her back bristling, and then opened her
eyes. “I thought that I was a kennel dog again,” she said with a little
gasp, settling herself close by Waddles, as if craving protection from
such a catastrophe, and scratching an ear to be sure that she was
herself.
“I never lived in a kennel, though when I was very young I used to wish
I did. The Hilltop dogs got lots to eat and I didn’t.” “Why didn’t you
like it?” asked Waddles, who, having thoroughly waked up, was in the
mood for a lazy, comfortable chat.
“Ting, ting, ting, bur-r-r,” said the telephone bell by the door,
Waddles jumped up bristling, and barked his yap, yap, “treed-cat” bark
at it; he always regarded the telephone as a personal insult, and as he
did not quite fathom its workings or understand a voice unattached to a
person he was not a little afraid of it, a fact he managed to conceal
by bluster.
Through it he heard his mistress’s voice when she was at Miss Jule’s
and wanted to ask if she might stay to dinner or supper, but he could
get no scent of her whereabouts. Also he could hear the master talking
to the fishman, whose odour was _oban_ and forbidden of good dogs, and
was his chief enemy besides, having dared to flick his whip at him. Was
it not aggravating to hear those rasping tones without having a chance
to pretend to nip his heels or bark his bony horse into a gallop?
Now that there was no one at home to take down the magic tube that
released the evil spirit, he could take his revenge and bark his mind,
which he did until he was hoarse.
“Why didn’t I like it?” asked Happy, now also quite awake, and with
great energy. “There was enough to eat, I suppose, but how, and when,
and where? I should like you to tell me that first.”
As Waddles didn’t know, he could not tell, so Happy took the floor, or
rather the bearskin, and began her story, occasionally punctuating it
by pauses caused by stopping to give her paws an extra washing.
“Melody, my mother, was not born in a kennel, though after she had
great sport and hunted a few years, she came to live at Hilltop. I was
born there, and the difference between living in a kennel and running
free begins even before your eyes are open.
[Illustration]
“Of course you’ve looked into the kennel yard four acres big, inside
the tall wire fence and seen the grass-run, and the swimming-pool, but
have you ever been inside the long red house made into rooms with many
windows and doors, and a little yard by each?”
“No,” said Waddles, “I’ve often tried, but some one always drove me
away, though once, when I had stepped inside the door, I ran down a
long hallway when a big black and white setter, who seemed to be all by
himself in a small room, told me I’d best get out while I could, for
maybe if I waited I couldn’t, and begged me to bring him a bone next
time I came.”
“That was old Antonio, a boarder,” said Happy, looking into the fire
as if she saw the past in it. “His master used to have a country house
like this, and he raised Antonio from a pup, took him hunting every
leaf fall, and let him lie on the hearth-rug winter nights, but when
the master sold the house and went away, he sent Antonio to board at
Hilltop until he should come back for him. He promised to come soon,
but that was the summer that I was a pup, and Antonio is still waiting.
“Of course he is comfortable in a way; he and Rufus, the Irish setter
with red hair, have a good room together, each with a boxed straw bed,
and a private yard to lie in when they are not turned into the great
yard for running, but they are in chain when they sleep at night, and
when they are fed, and that is a grievous thing to an old dog who has
once run free, and owned his bones. My mother told me so then, but
being born a kennel dog I did not understand.”
[Illustration]
“What were the other rooms in that long house?” asked Waddles, now
sitting up wide awake and interested. “I saw more doors than there are
in this whole house or at Miss Jule’s, and though I was in a hurry, I
sniffed good crisp brown smells.”
“Some rooms like Antonio’s are for the grown dogs that live there all
the time except when they go away for hunting. Then there are others
closer and warmer for the mother dogs with families; I was born in one
of these, and stayed there with my little brothers and sisters until I
was six weeks old, and could stand firm upon my feet without resting on
my stomach. Before this, for many days, when my mother was let out for
her airing, she stayed away longer and longer, and when we were hungry
they gave us milk to lap from a tin, which was tiresome and took much
more trouble than to eat the way our mother taught us, lying close to
her where we could knead her warm sides with our paws. Finally, one
night she did not come back at all. Then we were taken from our little
bedroom to a great square place, all wood dust on the floor and with a
great black thing standing in the middle that frightened me terribly,
but afterward I found that it was called a stove, and was warm inside
and pleasant to lie by, though it could not feed us as our mother did.
“In this big room were many other pups of different kinds and sizes,
who played or dozed in corners, but there were none as small as we,
and we felt sad and lonely. I well remember how we squealed that night
until Baldy’s brother brought Miss Jule and she had us put back into
our little room, but our mother was not there. Once in the night she
answered as from far away; but she couldn’t come for there were many
doors between. They called this weaning us, so that we should learn to
care for ourselves; but if you are born free like our Jack and Jill it
all happens of itself and there is no sorrow. Next day we went back to
the big room with all the other puppies, and four times every day each
one of us was put into a little box like a chicken-coop--there was a
row of them all round the wall--and given a dish of food.”
“What was that for?” asked Waddles, “why did they shut you up? I like
to walk about when I eat.”
“Because,” answered Happy, feeling proud and important at knowing
something that wise Waddles did not, “if the food was given to us at
once the biggest would gobble two or three shares and the small pups
would get none. At the kennels grown dogs are tied when they eat, but
pups wear no collars, for they are bad things for their soft necks.
“After a while we became used to the life and had good times playing
in the puppy pasture. One day we saw our mother in the other enclosure
with the grown dogs, and we ran close to the fence and tried to dig
under it; but kennel fences are set deep with melted stone poured round
the posts. When we found we could not get through we barked and wagged
our tails and then even our bodies when we saw her coming toward us;
but she did not notice us at all--she had forgotten us!”
“Then who taught you to play snatch-bone and wrestle, who killed your
fleas for you and washed you?” asked Waddles, with indignation.
“We learned to wrestle by tumbling about together. As to snatch-bone,
how could we play it, we who have no bones?”
“No bones!” echoed Waddles, in amazement.
“None to keep, or to bury, or play with; such as we had must be gnawed
at a meal or they were taken away. How could kennel dogs who are never
alone bury bones without having them stolen and breeding a fight?
“One day after I had left the puppy yard old Antonio kept a round bone
hidden in his mouth to gnaw on later. Forgetting himself he barked and
dropped it. Oh, but there was a commotion that took three men, besides
Miss Jule, to quell, and all the dogs were bristling and angry for
three days.
“Waddles,” and there were almost tears in Happy’s eyes, “you don’t know
what it was to be a well-fed kennel dog, and yet be so poor that you
had not even a bone to bury! And if you had one you could not hide it
in a floor of melted stone.
“I noticed that as I grew bigger and stronger and hungrier I had fewer
meals, until when I was grown and slept in a separate room with Flo,
the English setter, we had but one a day; a great pan of warm stew with
bread in it, every evening when we were chained up for the night beside
our beds.”
“That stew sounds good,” said Waddles, licking his lips, “and what for
breakfast?”
“No breakfast. No bits of toast from Tommy, or chop shank from the
master. It’s always supper with a kennel dog. It isn’t Miss Jule’s
fault, or anybody’s; there aren’t enough bits of toast or chop bones to
feed a yard full of pups and dogs.
[Illustration]
“As to the fleas and baths, when we were old enough Baldy’s brother
Martin washed us every week. There is a room next to the nursery kennel
that has a water-box in it like the one our cows drink out of, and
above it hang rows and rows of collars of all sizes, ready for dogs to
wear who are to go away or come to the kennel without them.
“We little pups were washed in this box, and if we cried or jumped
about Martin would put a collar on to hold us by. The washing wasn’t
bad at first, but it was very wet and sometimes cold, and the big brush
he used wasn’t as soft and warm as our mother’s tongue that washed and
wiped at the same time.
“Sometimes if Martin was tired or in a hurry he did not dry us well,
and often dogs grew sick and sneezed and shivered. Then the big
doctor-man came hurrying out from over town with his quick horse, to
see them, and said they had ‘distemper.’ When this happened Miss Jule
would often sit up at night with them; and sometimes they got well,
and sometimes they were taken away and never came back, then Miss
Jule would say ‘This is an unlucky season.’ But we knew it most often
happened when Martin forgot something, for Miss Jule could not feel
each dog’s nose every day, and see if its eyes look bright, and ask us
if we feel well, as our mistress does.
“The flea-killing was worse; our mother took them one by one, but
Martin rubbed sneezy powder in our hair, so if we tried to lick
ourselves a bit we coughed and choked. Our Jack is nearly grown, and
yet he has never had a bath from any one but me, and there’s not a flea
upon him. See what it is to be born free and live a private life!”
Then Mrs. Waddles’s broad chest swelled with pride, as she yawned,
stretched her feet toward the fire, and curved her back.
“Where did the good smells come from?” asked Waddles. “Part of them
might be soup, but the others were too much like the village bakery
where Mistress sometimes buys us broken cakes.”
“That smell came from the kennel kitchen, you must have been there on a
baking day. There are four rooms together that dogs must never go in,
but the day our Mistress bought me from Miss Jule and I walked home
with her, she went out through those rooms, then I saw and knew. The
littlest room was full of the soap they wash us with, and bottles of
the stuff they give us when we are sick or sprinkle on the melted stone
floors, that are through all the kennels, to sweeten them.
“The next room had boxes in it like those that hold the horse food in
our stable, and they were full of the stuff Martin makes the dog-bread
of. I saw him take some out, and in the corner was a great cold box,
and though I could not see inside I smelled that it held meat, and near
by was the kettle they cooked our soup in. In the biggest room of all
there was a great block like that our butcher chops the meat on while
we wait to catch the bits, also a big can full of milk and rows of tin
pans piled on more shelves.
[Illustration]
“Just then I smelled something delicious and Mistress turned round, I
following her; there I saw Martin standing by the open door of a great
oven with a red fire below, and in it were pans and pans of crispy
bread ready to take out, and more upon a table to go in, and Mistress
broke off a crust that overhung, and threw it to me. I sha’n’t forget
that crust; it was my first bite of liberty.”
“Did you never run free at all, or never go out alone to have any
sport? I should have jumped that fence or dug out somehow.”
“No, you would _not_,” said Happy, decidedly. “Silver Tongue, the
biggest foxhound, could not. Ah, yes, we had good sport sometimes, all
through the swamp woods trailing for rabbits though we never got any,
and do you know, Silver Tongue told me once that they tied the smell up
in a bag and dragged it on the ground just to make us run, and there
was no rabbit!
[Illustration]
“One day, though, they took me with some older dogs to track real
rabbits, for I saw them and I had run one into a fence corner, and it
turned round and looked at me, when such an awful noise came down upon
my head I thought the sky had fallen. I forgot the rabbit and fell over
for my head ached terribly. Martin picked me up and rubbed my head and
wrapped me in his coat, then everything was still. It has been so ever
since, pleasant and quiet. When I felt better I saw Martin’s gun was
broken and burst, and now I have to see with my eyes what people want
of me, for my ears catch nothing.
“There was always sport, too, when new dogs came, either to live or
board with us. They didn’t know the rules and so of course they made
lots of mistakes. Sometimes they felt sulky and would not eat their
supper because they didn’t know that there was no breakfast, and they
would cry and beg, and if Miss Jule came by she would understand and
give them some, but Martin only went by rule.
“You know the open shed up at Hilltop where the log-wood is kept, and
the old grindstone? for we’ve often chased squirrels up the back of it.
That shed is in the puppy yard, and the boxes that dogs travel in are
kept there. We pups used to have great sport lying there in the shade
to watch the boxes brought in and out, and see who came, who went away.
“We all thought it would be fun to go travelling and often scrambled
in and out of them, but if Martin shut the door we were frightened,
and glad enough to be loose again. The boxes were not tight but opened
and latticed like hen-coops, and they called them dog crates. It was
a fine thing at the end of summer to see the crates brought out and
cleaned, and the old dogs, setters, hounds, and spaniels, who had been
away before for the hunting, go nearly wild with joy at sight of them,
and clamour for the start.
[Illustration]
“The youngsters who had never been, and thought the crate a punishment,
trembled at first, but the others explained, and so all through the
autumn there was coming, going, and excitement.
“Sometimes, on fine days, Miss Jule would come with an apronful of
dog-bread, and throw the bits for us to catch, and that day was held
a great festival. For the one who jumped the highest, or caught the
quickest, would get an extra bit, or be taken out to spend the day at
the house, and have its dinner with Mr. Wolf, Miss Jule’s very own best
dog, and Tip, the head retriever. When these dogs came back to the
kennels, though, there was always a row, for they felt so very fine and
big, and bragged so about what they had seen, and the dozens of bones
they had gnawed or buried, that finally, we who were neither quick nor
clever could not bear it, so we agreed that whenever a dog came back
from running free we would all bark together so loud that not a word of
what he said could be heard.
“Flo, the English setter, one of my best friends, who lives up there
still, tells me that times are much better now, for Miss Letty takes a
great interest in the dogs, and every morning, as soon as she has had
breakfast, she comes to the fence of the front yard, bringing a basket
of dog-bread. She gives a whistle, and when the dogs are all collected
then she begins throwing them bread, bit by bit, aiming it so carefully
that even the stupidest, slowest dog of them gets at least one piece.
Then sometimes she will go inside the fence of the big field and throw
a ball for the dogs to chase, and Flo says that when Miss Letty calls
the dog who wins by name, or praises him, he likes it better than a
bone, and wags away like mad. So now the kennel dogs have two things a
day to look forward to, supper at night, and Miss Letty in the morning.”
“I call that a very stupid life,” said Waddles, yawning and stretching
in his turn; “isn’t there any real hunting or real fun?”
“Yes, in the autumn and once already this season there was a hunt, Flo
says. It was Miss Letty who let the dogs out to go to it, and Silver
Tongue, the foxhound, who showed them the way. My, but they had fine
running and catching, only Flo says that their getting out was an
accident, and that Mr. Hugh was very angry, but Squire Burley and Miss
Jule only laughed and laughed, and it was a week before the dogs all
got back.”
“Hurry up, and go on and tell about it,” said Waddles, sniffing
uneasily. “Mistress will be at home soon, and then you will have to go
out to bed, and I sha’n’t hear what they hunted.”
“They are here now,” said Happy, holding her head on one side, for
though she could not hear, she could feel the vibration of coming
footsteps.
“Keep quiet,” said Waddles, “it is so dark that maybe mistress will go
by and forget you.”
[Illustration: _Miss Letty feeding the Kennel Dogs._]
The master went through the hallway to the library, Tommy stumbled
sleepily along toward the stairs, holding his mother’s hand, while
Anne went to the table where the moonlight showed her that the camera
was safe and sound, and after giving it a caressing touch, called
Waddles and went up to bed, but not to sleep.