We nearly had a garden tragedy yesterday afternoon. The sounds of a
little dog in great distress broke the peace of the drowsy day. Loki’s
Ma-Ma dashed out of the house thinking it was Loki—caught in a trap!
Certainly the little dog—whichever it was—was in desperate straits.
“That’s the voice of my Betty,” cried Juvenal, galloping to the rescue
in his shirt-sleeves. “My treasure, my little girl! I’m coming!”
It was well indeed that he did hurry, for Betty had fallen into the deep
water-butt in the Rose Garden; and if she had not had the sense to
scream for help, and to hold on to the rim of the barrel with all her
little claws, she would have been a drowned Betty, and nobody the wiser,
perhaps, for days and days.
We think it would have broken Juvenal’s heart.
Both Arabella and Loki were standing staring stiffly instead of doing
what was expected of dogs of such intellect: which was running to fetch
human help.
[Sidenote: PERSIANS AND A WICKED WORLD]
On a former occasion however, when Kitty-Wee had a fit, poor little
darling, Loki acted up to our opinion of him. We had gone for a walk on
the moor, and the Persian Princess, still half in her kittenhood, had
accompanied us, with that touching display of pleasure at being in our
company which makes the Fur Children so endearing. She had to roll on
the grass in front of us, sharpen her claws on every tree, and rub her
pretty head against our skirts in the endeavour to show her feelings. We
suppose these feelings were too much for her. We had halted in the
greenhouse when Loki dashed in upon us, whimpering in a frightful state
of agitation. He drew his Grandmother out of the greenhouse, and rushed
up to stand over his little fur sister, crying out loud in sympathy and
distress.
She was a small convulsed heap upon the ground. Fortunately the tap,
which ran into one of those delectable barrels of odoriferous water so
precious to the garden, was quite close, and we were able to administer
first aid with promptitude.
For all who do not know it: cold water to the head gives immediate
relief to any little creature in such a seizure.
* * * * *
She quite grew out of them. But, alas! our thistledown Princess, our
dear pretty silver lady! We have delayed to write her sad fate into the
pages of the chronicle of the happy Fur Family. She was stolen! We often
lie awake thinking of her. Pampered as she was; so accustomed to be
thought of, and cherished, and made much of; to have her pearly robe
brushed and combed to the last point of perfection, her dainty appetite
catered for; to find a caress and a cuddle whenever she was in the mood
for it! A lurid mystery ‹accompanied by a great deal of hard swearing›
envelops her loss. She was lost on a half-hour’s motor-trip which her
family, struck with momentary idiocy, was allowing her to undertake
alone. She was, in fact, about to contract another matrimonial alliance
with a prince of her own race, and was so securely packed in her
luxurious travelling basket, so unmistakably labelled, so solemnly
handed over to the care of the conductor of the motor ’bus, that it did
not seem as if she could come to harm.
But Blue Persians, as well as pink pearls, are over-precious chattels to
confide to a dishonest world! The conductor of the next ’bus to that by
which she was expected, handed an empty basket to the envoy from the
other side; and when this was refused, declared the cat had escaped on
the way. As the basket was hermetically closed, this lie had not even
the merit of being plausible. But puzzle succeeded puzzle when the
waiter from the Golf Club House, a reliable witness, deposed having
picked up the same basket still securely fastened at every corner—but
minus the cat—on the first round of the ’bus. “It could have gone to
Siberia in that basket,” he declared, “it was that strong and solid!”
The local police, a most intelligent and valuable body of men, declared
that nothing could be done, “as no man could be taken up for telling a
lie.” And the railway company, after punching a large hole in the
basket, announced that as the cat was not insured, we might sue them for
five shillings! We advertised and beat the countryside in vain—Kitty-Wee
has gone out of our lives. If we only knew that she was happy, the ache
at our hearts would be less.
We must fill the gap, and are deliberating whether a pair of Blue
Persians, or an orange couple, would afford us the greater joy. We think
to decide on the latter would be less callous to the memory of
Kitty-Wee, and provide perhaps a better match in the little Villino that
runs so much to orange and yellow.
* * * * *
Never could there be anything more beautiful than the St. John’s Wort
along the moorland roads. It has been a day of golden heat, the distant
woods have shimmering purple vapours in their hollows, and the hills are
misty blue. There had been a fire last year in a great flat stretch of
pinewood that runs into heather and moor, high above where the road
begins to fall into the first of the little country towns between us and
London. The wood had been cleared of the dead trees and we suppose it is
this which has given encouragement to the great yellow weed. However it
may be, it is a field of cloth of gold now. Pines rise up at intervals
in their dark solemnity. Royal purple of the heather runs into the gold.
It is a meeting of colour that ought to be immortalized.
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