Whether you happen to be four or five, or six, or seven, or even older
than that, no doubt you know by this time that a great many things need
to be learned in this world, everything, in fact, and never more things
than at seven. At least, so thought little Tattine, and what troubled
her the most was that some of the things seemed quite wrong, and yet
no one was able to right them. All her little life Tattine’s Mother had
been setting things straight for her, drying every tear, and unravelling
every tangle, so that Tattine was pretty downhearted the day she
discovered that there were some things that were quite beyond even her
Mother’s power to alter. It was on a lovely June morning that
Tattine made the first of her unwelcome discoveries. She was feeling
particularly happy too, until she made it. She was sitting up in an
apple-tree, sketching, and doing it very well. She had taken only a few
drawing-lessons but had taken to them immensely, and now with one limb
of the tree for a seat and another one for an easel, she was working
away at a pretty chime tower, that stood on a neighbor’s land.
Down on the grass beneath her Betsy and Doctor were lying. Betsy was a
dear, homely red-and-white Laverack setter, and Doctor, black-and-white
and better looking, was her son. Doctor’s beautiful grandmother Tadjie
was lying, alas! under the grass instead of on it, not very far away.
It was a sad day for the dog world when Tadjie left it, for although she
was very old, she was very beautiful up to the last with a glossy
silky coat, a superbly feathered tail, and with brown eyes so soft and
entreating, they fairly made you love her, whether you were fond of dogs
or no.
Well, Tattine was sketching away and was quite absorbed in it, but
Doctor, who was little more than a puppy, thought it very dull. He lay
with his head between his paws, and, without moving a muscle, rolled his
eyes round and round, now gazing up at Tattine, and then at his mother,
trying to be happy though quiet. Finally he stretched himself, got on
his feet, cocked up his ears, and came and stood in front of Betsy,
and although not a sound was heard, he said, so that Betsy perfectly
understood him, “I can’t stand this any longer. If you have any love for
me do please come for a run.”
Then Betsy took one long stretch and with motherly self-sacrifice
reluctantly got up, prepared to humor this lively boy of hers. Suddenly
Doctor craned his head high in the air, and gave a little sniff, and
then Betsy craned her head and sniffed. Then they stole as stealthily
away as though stepping upon eggs, and Tattine never knew that they had
gone. It was no stealthy treading very long, however. No sooner had they
crossed the roadway than they made sure of the scent they thought they
had discovered, and made one wild rush down through the sumach and
sweet-fern to the ravine. In a few moments it was one wild rush up again
right to the foot of Tattine’s apple-tree, and Tattine looked down to
see Doctor--oh, could she believe her two blue eyes!--with a dear little
rabbit clinched firmly between his teeth, and his mother (think of it,
his mother!) actually standing proudly by and wildly waving her tail
from side to side, in the most delighted manner possible. As for
Tattine, she simply gave one horrified little scream and was down
from the tree in a flash, while the scream fortunately brought Maggie
hurrying from the house, and as Maggie was Doctor’s confidential friend
(owing to certain choice little morsels, dispensed from the butler’s
pantry window with great regularity three times a day), he at once, at
her command, relaxed his hold on the little jack-rabbit. The poor little
thing was still breathing, breathing indeed with all his might and main,
so that his heart thumped against his little brown sides with all
the regularity of a Rider Engine. Tattine’s first thought was for the
rabbit, and she held it close to her, stroking it with one little brown
trembling hand and saying, “There! there! Hush, you little dear; you’re
safe now, don’t be frightened! Tattine wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”
Her next thought was for Doctor, and she turned on him with a torrent of
abuse, that ought to have made the hair of that young M.D. stand on end.
“Oh, you cruel, CRUEL dog! whatever made you do such a thing as this? I
never dreamt it of you, never.” At this Betsy’s tail dropped between
her legs, for she was a coward at heart, but Doctor held his ground, his
tail standing on end, as his hair should have done, and his eyes all
the while fairly devouring the little rabbit. “And the worst of it,”
continued Tattine, “is that no matter how sorry you may feel” (Betsy
was the only one who showed any signs of sorrow, and she was more scared
than sorry), “no matter how sorry you may feel, that will not mend
things. You do not know where this baby lived, and who are its father
and mother, and like as not it is too young to live at all away from
them and will die,” and Tattine raised one plump little hand and gave
Doctor a slap that at least made him “turn tail,” and slink rather
doggedly away to his own particular hole under the laundry steps. And
now it was time to find Mamma--high time, for it seemed to Tattine
she would choke with all the feelings, sorrowful and angry, welling up
within her. Mamma was not far afield--that is, she was very near, at
her desk in the cosy little alcove of the upstairs hall-way, and Tattine
soon found her.
“Now, Mamma,” she asked excitedly, “did you know that Betsy or Doctor
would do such a thing as this?”
The trembling little rabbit in Tattine’s hands showed what was meant by
THIS.
Mrs. Gerald paused a moment, then she said reluctantly, “Yes, Tattine, I
did.”
“Have they done it before, Mamma?”
“I am sorry to say they have.”
“Have you seen them bring struggling rabbits dangling in their mouths
right up to the house here, Mamma?”
Mrs. Gerald merely shook her head. She felt so sorry to have to own to
such a sight.
“Why did I never know it, Mamma?”
“You have never chanced to be on the spot, dear, when it happened, and I
was in no hurry to tell you anything that I knew would make you sad.”
“I think it would have been better to tell me. It’s awful to find such a
thing out suddenly about dogs you’ve trusted, and to think how good and
gentle they look when they come and put their heads in your lap to be
petted, just as though they would not hurt a fly; but then, of course,
anyone who has eyes knows that they do lure flies, snapping at them all
day long, and just for the fun of it too, not because they need them for
food, as birds do. Mamma, I don’t believe there’s anything meaner than
a Laverack setter. Still, Tadjie would never have done such a thing,
I know.” Mrs. Gerald was silent, and Tattine, expecting her to confirm
what she had said, grew a little suspicious. “Would Tadjie, Mamma?” with
a directness that would not admit of indirectness.
“Yes, Tattine; Tadjie would. She was trained to hunt before ever she was
given to Papa, and so were her ancestors before her. That is why
Doctor and Betsy, who have never been trained to hunt, go wild over the
rabbits. They have inherited the taste.”
“Trained to hunt,” said Tattine thoughtfully. “Do you mean that men just
went to work to teach them to be so cruel?”
“Well, I suppose in a way setters are natural hunters, Tattine, but then
their training has doubtless a great deal to do with it, but I want to
tell you something that I think will give you just a grain of comfort.
I read the other day that Sir John Franklin, the great Arctic explorer,
who almost lost his life in being attacked by some huge animal--it must
have been a bear, I think--says that the animal when he first gets you
in his teeth gives you such a shake that it paralyzes your nerves--this
is, it benumbs all your feelings, so, that, strange as it may seem,
you really do not suffer. So let us hope that it was that way with this
little rabbit.”
“But there’s a little blood here on one side, Mamma.”
“That doesn’t always prove suffering, either, Tattine. Soldiers are
sometimes wounded without ever knowing it until they see a little sign
of blood somewhere.”
Tattine listened attentively to all this, and was in a measure
comforted. It seemed that Mamma was still able to better things, even
though not able to set everything perfectly right. “Now,” Tattine
said,--with a little sigh of relief, “I think I will try and see what
I can do for Bunny. Perhaps he would first like a drink,” so downstairs
she went, and putting some milk in a shallow tea-cup, she dipped Bunny’s
nose in it, and it seemed to her as though he did take a little of it.
Then she trudged up to the garret for a box, and, putting a layer of
cotton-batting in the bottom, laid Bunny in one corner. Then she went to
the garden and pulled a leaf or two of the youngest, greenest lettuce,
and put it right within reach of Bunny’s nose, and a little saucer of
water beside it. Then she went down to tell the gardener’s little boy
all about the sorrowful thing that had happened.
The next morning Bunny was still breathing, but the lettuce was
un-nibbled; he had not moved an inch, and he was trembling like a leaf.
“Mamma,” she called upstairs, “I think I’ll put BUN in the sun” (she was
trying not to be too down-hearted); “he seems to be a little chilly.”
Then she sat herself down in the sun to watch him. Soon Bunny ceased
to tremble. “Patrick,” she called to the old man who was using the lawn
mower, “is this little rabbit dead?”
“Yes, miss, shure,” taking the little thing gently in his hand.
“Very well,” she answered quietly. Tattine used those two little words
very often; they meant that she accepted the situation, if you happen to
know what that means. “Now I think I will not trouble Mamma about it,”
she said to herself thoughtfully, so she went to the closet under the
stairs, got a little empty box she knew was there, and, taking it out
of doors, she put the little rabbit in it, and then trudged down to the
tool-house for her spade and rake.
“Bunny is dead, Joey,” she called to the gardener’s little boy as she
came back. “Come help me bury him,” and so Joey trotted behind her to
the spot already selected. “We must make this hole good and deep,” she
explained (Joey stood looking on in wide-eyed wonder), “for if Doctor
and Betsy would kill a little live rabbit, there is no telling but they
would dig up a dead one.” So the hole was made at least four inches
deep, Bunny was buried in it, and the earth, with Joey’s assistance,
stamped down hard, but afterwards it was loosened somewhat to plant a
little wild-wood plant atop of the tiny grave. “Now, Joey, you wait here
till I go bring something for a tombstone,” Tattine directed, and in a
second she was back again with the cover of a box in one hand and a red
crayon in the other. Sitting flat upon the grass, she printed on the
cover in rather irregular letters:--
BORN--I don’t know when. DIED June 17th.
LAVERACK SETTERS NOT ALLOWED.
This she put securely into place, while Joey raked up a little about the
spot, and they left the little rabbit grave looking very neat and tidy.
The next morning Tattine ran out to see how the little wild-wood
plant was growing, and then she stood with her arms akimbo in blank
astonishment. The little grave had disappeared. She kicked aside the
loose earth, and saw that box and Bunny were both gone, and, not content
with that, they had partially chewed up the tombstone, which lay upon
its face a little distance away. They, of course, meant Betsy and
Doctor. “There was no use in my putting: ‘Laverack setters not
allowed,’” she said to herself sorrowfully, and she ran off to tell her
Mother of this latest tragedy.
“Yes, I know, Tattine dear,” said Mrs. Gerald, in the first pause;
“there is neither pity nor mercy in the heart of a setter when he is on
the scent of a rabbit, alive or dead--but, Tattine, don’t forget they
have their good sides, Doctor and Betsy; just think how fond they are
of you and me. Why, the very sight of us always makes them beat a tattoo
with their tails.”
“Yes, I know, Mamma, but I can’t feel somehow that tattoos with their
tails make up for killing rabbits with their teeth.”