"But why, uncle? It is only a little way, and we will be very careful."
"I am afraid, my children; do not say any more: you can have the pony,
and Tray, and play at home."
"But, uncle----"
"You need say no more, my child."
I pinch the hand of little Isabel, and look in her eye--my own half
filling with tears. I feel that my forehead is flushed, and I hide it
behind Bella's tresses--whispering to her at the same time--"Let us go."
"What, sir," says my uncle, mistaking my meaning--"do you persuade her
to disobey?"
Now I am angry, and say blindly--"No, sir, I didn't!" And then my rising
pride will not let me say, that I wished only Isabel should go out with
me.
Bella cries; and I shrink out; and am not easy until I have run to bury
my head in my mother's bosom. Alas! pride cannot always find such
covert! There will be times when it will harass you strangely; when it
will peril friendships--will sever old, standing intimacy; and then--no
resource but to feed on its own bitterness. Hateful pride!--to be
conquered, as a man would conquer an enemy, or it will make whirlpools
in the current of your affections--nay, turn the whole tide of the heart
into rough and unaccustomed channels.
But boyhood has its GRIEF too, apart from PRIDE.
You love the old dog, Tray; and Bella loves him as well as you. He is a
noble old fellow, with shaggy hair, and long ears, and big paws, that he
will put up into your hands, if you ask him. And he never gets angry
when you play with him, and tumble him over in the long grass, and pull
his silken ears. Sometimes, to be sure, he will open his mouth, as if he
would bite, but when he gets your hand fairly in his jaws, he will
scarce leave the print of his teeth upon it. He will swim, too, bravely,
and bring ashore all the sticks you throw upon the water; and when you
fling a stone to tease him, he swims round and round, and whines, and
looks sorry, that he cannot find it.
He will carry a heaping basket full of nuts, too, in his mouth, and
never spill one of them; and when you come out to your uncle's home in
the spring, after staying a whole winter in the town, he knows you--old
Tray does! And he leaps upon you, and lays his paws on your shoulder,
and licks your face; and is almost as glad to see you, as cousin Bella
herself. And when you put Bella on his back for a ride, he only
pretends to bite her little feet--but he wouldn't do it for the world.
Ay, Tray is a noble old dog!
But one summer, the farmers say that some of their sheep are killed, and
that the dogs have worried them; and one of them comes to talk with my
uncle about it.
But Tray never worried sheep; you know he never did; and so does nurse;
and so does Bella; for in the spring, she had a pet lamb, and Tray never
worried little Fidele.
And one or two of the dogs that belong to the neighbors are shot; though
nobody knows who shot them; and you have great fears about poor Tray;
and try to keep him at home, and fondle him more than ever. But Tray
will sometimes wander off; till finally, one afternoon, he comes back
whining piteously, and with his shoulder all bloody.
Little Bella cries loud; and you almost cry, as nurse dresses the wound;
and poor old Tray whines very sadly. You pat his head, and Bella pats
him; and you sit down together by him on the floor of the porch, and
bring a rug for him to lie upon; and try and tempt him with a little
milk, and Bella brings a piece of cake for him--but he will eat nothing.
You sit up till very late, long after Bella has gone to bed, patting his
head, and wishing you could do something for poor Tray; but he only
licks your hand, and whines more piteously than ever.
In the morning, you dress early, and hurry downstairs; but Tray is not
lying on the rug; and you run through the house to find him, and
whistle, and call--Tray--Tray! At length you see him lying in his old
place, out by the cherry tree, and you run to him; but he does not
start; and you lean down to pat him--but he is cold, and the dew is wet
upon him--poor Tray is dead!
[Illustration: POOR TRAY IS DEAD]
You take his head upon your knees, and pat again those glossy ears, and
cry; but you cannot bring him to life. And Bella comes, and cries with
you. You can hardly bear to have him put in the ground; but uncle says
he must be buried. So one of the workmen digs a grave under the cherry
tree, where he died--a deep grave, and they round it over with earth,
and smooth the sods upon it--even now I can trace Tray's grave.
You and Bella together put up a little slab for a tombstone; and she
hangs flowers upon it, and ties them there with a bit of ribbon. You
can scarce play all that day; and afterward, many weeks later, when you
are rambling over the fields, or lingering by the brook, throwing off
sticks into the eddies, you think of old Tray's shaggy coat, and of his
big paw, and of his honest eye; and the memory of your boyish grief
comes upon you; and you say with tears, "Poor Tray!" And Bella too, in
her sad sweet tones, says--"Poor old Tray--he is dead!"