DAN ENTERS INTO BUSINESS.
Their plans were commenced the very next day. Susan came round with
her work, and gave Ellen her first lesson in dressmaking. Ellen was as
skilful with the needle as Susan was, and made famous progress. A
cheerful worker is sure to turn out a skilful one.
"I have been thinking in the night, Ellen," said Susan, "that we might
go into partnership."
"Wait," said Dan the Just, looking up from the table, on which the
birds were going through their performances; "there is time enough to
talk of that. I don't intend that you shall sacrifice every thing for
us."
"No sacrifice could be too great for me to make for you, Dan," replied
Susan. "But I think that I should have all the advantage, if we were
partners. Ellen has such a beautiful figure, that she would be sure to
get customers. Stand up, dear--look at her, Dan!" And Susan turned
Ellen about, and looked at her pretty sister's pretty figure without a
tittle of envy. "If you are a judge of any thing but birds, Dan, you
must confess that but is a model."
Dan smiled and said, "If Ellen wasn't good, you would make her vain.
Let the partnership question rest for a little while. Go on with your
work, and don't talk. I've got something very particular to do."
Dan, with his birds before him, appeared to be perplexed with some
more than usually difficult problem concerning them. There was a
curious indecision also in his treatment of them. Now he issued a
command, now he countermanded it; now he ordered a movement, and
before it was executed threw the birds into confusion by giving the
signal for something entirely different. Until at length the birds,
especially the old stagers, stood looking irresolutely at each other,
with the possible thought in their minds (if they have any) that their
master had taken a drop too much to drink; and one young recruit--none
but a young one and a tomtit, who is notoriously the sauciest of
birds, would have dared to do it--advanced, alone and unsupported, to
the edge of the table, and looking up in Dan's face, asked what he
meant by it. Recalled to himself by this act of insubordination, Dan
recovered his usual self-possession, and selected two bullfinches,
somewhat similar to those which he had given to the Old Sailor. They
were young untrained birds, and Dan at once commenced their education.
But Ellen remarked with surprise that he was less tender in his manner
towards them than towards the other birds. He spoke to them more
sternly, and as if the business in which they were engaged was a
serious business, with not a particle of nonsense in it.
"See, Ellen," he said after some days had passed--"see how clever they
are They draw up their own food and their own water; and directly I
sound this whistle, they sing 'God save the King.'"
He blew through the tin whistle, and the birds sang the air through.
"Now you sound the whistle, Ellen." Ellen blew through the whistle,
and the birds repeated the air.
"So you see, Ellen it doesn't matter who blows the whistle; the birds
begin to sing directly they hear it. Here is another whistle--a wooden
one, with a different note. Blow that softly."
Ellen blew, and the bullfinches immediately set to work hauling up
water from the well.
"That is good, isn't it?" said Dan. "They will obey anybody."
"But tell me, Dan, why you don't speak to them as kindly as you do to
the others?"
"Ah, you have noticed it, miss, have you? I thought you did. Well,
then in the first place, I wanted to teach them by a new system. I
wanted to teach them so that anybody can make them do what I do, if he
gives the proper signal; and I have succeeded, as you see. If I had
taught them by my voice as I have taught the others, they wouldn't
have been of use to any one but me. They are such cunning little
thing's, and they have such delicate little ears! In the second place,
Ellen, I did not want to grow fond of them."
"Why, Dan dear?"
"Because, if I had grown fond of them, it would almost break my heart
to part with them. Who could help loving them, I wonder? They have
been my world, you see, and they are such innocent little pets. I have
grown to love them so, you can't tell. And we know each other's
voices, and have made a language of our own, which no one else can
understand."
He chirruped to them, and called to them in endearing tones; and all
the birds, with the exception of the pair of bullfinches, fluttered to
him, and perched about his shoulders and nestled in his breast. The
two little bullfinches, standing alone in the centre of the table,
looked more surprised than forlorn at the desertion.
Then Dan said: "This is part of my scheme. I commence business to-day
as a bird-merchant. I have trained these two bullfinches to sell. You
are earning money already, Ellen dear, and you are a girl. I am not
quite a man in years, although I think I am here"--touching his
forehead--"and I am not going to let you beat me at moneymaking."
He pulled out a paper, on which was written, in Roman letters, and
neat round hand,
THIS PAIR OF BULLFINCHES
FOR SALE.
_They draw up their own food and water; and they sing_
"GOD SAVE THE KING,"
_And other Tunes, to the Sound of a Whistle_.
_Inquire within of_ DAN TAYLOR.
"What I propose to do, Ellen, is to put the cage with the bullfinches
in the parlor-window, with this announcement over the cage. Perhaps it
will attract the attention of some one or other, and he will be
curious about it, and will come in and make inquiries."
So the birds were exhibited in the parlor-window, and above their cage
was hung the announcement that they were for sale. The neighbors saw
the birds, and there was not a woman for a quarter of a mile around
who did not make a pilgrimage to the parlor-window of the Taylors.
"Dan is selling his birds," they said, "because of his brute of a
father;" and they shook their heads sorrowfully, and admired Dan's
writing, and said he was quite a scholar. Ellen, working in the
parlor, would pause in the midst of her hemming, or stitching, or
basting, as the shadow of a passer-by darkened the window, and pray
that he would come in and buy the birds.
The exhibition was a great boon to the dirty little boys and girls in
the neighborhood, who at first stood in open-mouthed admiration, and
would have stood so for hours, neglectful of the gutters, if an
occasional raid against their forces by anxious mothers had not
scattered them now and then. Those of the children who could get near
enough, would flatten their noses and mouths against the window-panes
in the fervor of their enthusiasm. The bullfinches, looking down from
their perch upon the queerly-distorted features, had the advantage of
studying human nature from an entirely novel point of view, and were
doubtless interested in the study. For the purpose of attracting the
passers-by, Dan, at certain intervals during the day, caused the birds
to draw up their water and food; and those exhibitions were the
admiration of the entire neighborhood.
"I wish some one would come in and ask the price of them," sighed
Ellen, wishing that she had a fairy-wand to turn the sight-gazers into
customers.
Dan only smiled, and bade Ellen have patience.
In the mean time Mr. Taylor, becoming every day more devoted in his
worship to his god, fell every day into a worse and worse condition.
One evening, Ellen, being tired, went to bed soon after tea, and on
that evening Mr. Taylor happened to come home earlier than usual.
There was a reason for it: he had spent all his money, had quite
exhausted his credit, and had been turned out of the public-houses.
Being less drunk than usual, he was more ill-tempered than usual, and
he stumbled into the parlor with the intention of venting his
ill-humor upon Ellen. But Ellen was not there. Dan was the only
occupant of the room, and he was reading. He raised his eyes, and
seeing his father half-drunk, he lowered them to his book again. He
was ashamed and grieved.
"Where is Ellen?" demanded Mr. Taylor.
"Gone to bed," replied Dan shortly.
"Why isn't she here to get my supper?" asked the gin-worshipper
irritably. Dan made no reply; but, although he appeared to be
continuing his reading, a quivering of his lips denoted that his
attention was not wholly given to his book. "Do you hear me?"
continued Mr. Taylor after a pause, thumping his fist upon the table.
"Why isn't she here to get my supper? What business has she to go to
bed without getting my supper?"
"She was up at five this morning to do the washing, and has been
working all day."
Dan spoke very quietly, and did not look at his father.
"Her mother wouldn't have done it," whimpered Mr. Taylor. "Here am I
without two pence in my pocket, and my very children rebel against me.
Is there any thing in the house for supper?--tell me that."
"I don't know. I don't think there is."
"You don't know! You don't think there is!" sneered Mr. Taylor.
"You've had yours, I suppose?"
"No, sir, I have not had any."
"What do you mean by 'sir'?" cried Mr. Taylor furiously. "How dare you
call your father 'sir'? Is that what you learned from your friend
Joshua?"
Dan clasped his hands nervously together; he was agitated and
indignant, and he did not dare to give expression to his thoughts.
"Why don't you speak?" demanded Mr. Taylor with unreasoning anger.
"What do you mean by sitting there mocking your father?"
"I am not mocking you," said Dan. "And as for speaking, I am too much
ashamed to say what I think; so I had better remain silent."
"How dare you speak to me in that way? Haven't I kept you for years in
idleness and luxury? Haven't I provided for you? And now when I am in
bad luck, and haven't sixpence to get a quartern loaf"--he meant a
quatern of gin, but the loaf was the more dignified way of putting
it--"my children turn against me."
"It isn't my fault that you have had to keep me," Dan said quietly.
"If I had been like other boys, I should have been glad to work and
earn money; but I am crippled, and never felt that I was unfortunate
until now. I don't think mother would have thrown my misfortune in my
teeth as you have done."
Mr. Taylor was too much steeped in gin to feel the reproachful words.
He continued to bemoan his hard fate and the ingratitude of his
children. In the midst of his bemoaning he caught sight of an empty
cage. An inspiration fell upon him. That bird-cage could probably be
exchanged for a pint of gin. Present bliss was before him, and the
prospect of it made him cunning.
He ordered Dan to bed, and Dan, who could crawl with the aid of his
crutches, went, thankful to escape from so painful an interview. When
Dan came down the next morning he discovered his loss. He was much
grieved; not so much at the loss of the bird-cage, but at the thought
that his other cages and the birds might be appropriated in like
manner. He said nothing of what had occurred, but that night when he
went to bed he had all his birds and cages removed to his bedroom, and
he locked his door.
It was midnight when Mr. Taylor came home. Although he was drunk, he
crept like a thief into the house. The proceeds of the cage had
supplied him with drink for the day; and having conscientiously spent
every penny, he was in the same impoverished condition as he had been
the previous night. As he could not live without gin, he determined to
appropriate another bird cage. What right had Dan to them? They were
his, the father's, who had kept his son in idleness, and who had
clothed and sheltered him. Yet in the midst of his drunken muttering
he was oppressed with a shamefaced consciousness of the villainy of
his logic, and it was with difficulty he obtained a light from the
tinder-box. The poor little rush-light flickered when it was lighted,
as if it also were oppressed with shame.
Unsteadily, and with much stumbling, Mr. Taylor groped his way to
Dan's room. Looking around on the walls he discovered, to his dismay
and astonishment, that the birds and the cages were gone. His first
surprise over, he gave way to passion. The boy had no doubt taken the
cages to his bedroom for fear his father should steal them. How dared
Dan suspect him? He would teach Dan a lesson--a lesson that he would
not forget. Working himself into a state of maudlin indignation he
stumbled up the stairs to Dan's bedroom, and tried the door. It was
locked. Here was another proof of his son's ingratitude and want of
confidence. What was he to do for gin the next day? He must have gin;
he could not live without it. Ellen's bedroom was next to Dan's. The
drunken father turned the handle of the door, and looked in. On the
floor were Ellen's boots. He saw gin marked on them, and catching them
up, he clutched them to his breast, and slunk guiltily to bed.
Ellen, rising the next morning, looked about in vain for her boots.
She searched for them up stairs and down stairs, wondering what had
become of them. The door of her father's room was open, and she
entered it; but Mr. Taylor, knowing that Ellen was an early riser, had
taken care to get out of the house before she was about. When Ellen
saw the empty bed, some glimmering of the truth flashed upon her. At
first the poor girl sat down upon the bed and began to cry; the loss
of her boots was a grievous loss indeed to her. She had no money to
buy another pair with; they were such beautiful boots, too, and fitted
her so nicely! What was she to do? How it would grieve Dan to know?
That thought calmed her. Dan must not know--it would hurt him too
much. She might be able to get an old pair from somebody during the
day; perhaps Susan had an old pair to lend her. She dried her eyes and
washed them well with cold water, and altogether managed so
successfully, that breakfast was over, and she and Dan and the birds
were all together in the parlor, without Dan ever suspecting what had
occurred.
Those two children sitting there were fully aware that a grave crisis
was approaching. Young as they were to bear the weight of serious
trouble, they bore it cheerfully, and strove in their humble way to
fight with the world and with the hard circumstances of their lives.
Dan cripple as he was had much hope; and often when he was thinking
over certain schemes which had been suggested by the stern necessity
of his condition, a quaint smile would play upon his lips, and a
humorous light would shine in his eyes. Ellen, looking up from her
work, would sometimes see that smile, which, for all its quaintness,
had a shade of thoughtfulness in it; and on her lips, too, a pleasant
smile would wreathe in sympathy. They were very tender towards each
other; and their love made them strong.
Ellen busy with her needle, sat close to the table, so that Dan should
not catch a glimpse of her shoeless feet. Dan was industriously at
work training two birds, which were to replace those in the window
when they were sold.
The education of this second pair of birds was almost completed, and
Dan said as much to Ellen. He had taught them different tricks, and
had fitted two ladders in the cage, up and down which they hopped,
keeping time, step for step.
"But will they ever be sold?" exclaimed Ellen almost despairingly.
"It _is_ a long time before we make a commencement," said Dan.
"There's Susan."
When Susan entered, she examined the dress which Ellen was making, and
suddenly exclaimed,--
"Why, Ellen, where are your boots?"
Dan looked up quickly, and then directed his eyes to Ellen's feet.
Poor Ellen stammered a good deal, and striving to hide the truth from
Dan, got into a sad bewilderment of words.
"Nay, but, Ellen," interposed Dan in a grave voice, "you don't mean to
say that you have been sitting all the morning without your boots?"
"Yes, I have," said Ellen, compelled to confess.
"But why, my dear?"
"When I got up this morning, I looked for them, and could not find
them. Perhaps I can find them now." And Ellen ran out of the room; but
she soon returned, shaking her head, and saying, "No, they're gone.
Never mind; it can't be helped."
"You really don't know what has become of them?"
"No, Dan."
"Did you see father last night?"
Ellen shook her head.
"Nor this morning?"
Ellen shook her head again.
"I can't quite see what is to be the end of all this," said Dan sadly.
"It is almost too dreadful to think of. Father must have taken your
boots, Ellen dear. The night before last he took a bird-cage; that was
the reason I had all my birds in my bedroom last night. It is very,
very dreadful. Poor dear mother! Poor dear Joshua! I _do_ wish you
were here now to advise us what to do!"
And the three children then drew closer together, and strove to
comfort each other.
"Dry your eyes, Ellen," said Dan stoutly; "brighter days will come.
Susan, have you a pair of old boots that you can lend to Ellen?"
Susan ran out of the house and returned with a pair of boots which she
had bought at a second-hand clothes-shop, and which Ellen was very
thankful for, although they were much too large for her.
Mr. Taylor came home at midnight in a state of drunken delirium. He
had drunk deeply--so deeply, that when he slammed the street-door
behind him, he found himself in the midst of a thousand mocking eyes,
growing upon him and blasting him with hideous looks; and as he groped
his way in terror up the dark stairs, a thousand misshapen hands
strove to bar his progress. They fastened on him and clung to him; and
the faster his trembling hands beat them down and tore them away, the
more thickly they multiplied. So, fighting and suffering and groaning
in his agony, the drunkard staggered to his room, and Dan and Ellen
shuddered as they lay and listened. Well for them that they could not
see as well as hear; well for them that they could not see him pick
the crawling things (existing only in his imagination) off his
bed-clothes and throw them off with loathing; that they could not see
him, bathed in perspiration, writhing in his bed and fighting with his
punishment. He could not endure it. It was too horrible to bear.
The room was full of creeping shapes, visible in the midst of the
darkness. He would go out into the streets, into the light, where they
could not follow him. Where was the door? He felt about the walls for
it. It was gone; he was closed in, imprisoned with his terrors. He
beat about with his hands deliriously. The window! ah, they had not
closed that! He dashed at the panes, and tearing open the casement
with his bleeding fingers, fell from a height of twenty feet, and met
a drunkard's death.