"Don't you fret, Miss," said Luke, soothingly; "they're nash things,

them lop-eared rabbits; they'd happen ha' died, if they'd been fed.

Things out o' natur niver thrive: God A'mighty doesn't like 'em. He made

the rabbits' ears to lie back, an' it's nothin' but contrairiness to

make 'em hing down like a mastiff dog's. Master Tom 'ull know better nor

buy such things another time. Don't you fret, Miss. Will you come along

home wi' me, and see my wife? I'm a-goin' this minute."

The invitation offered an agreeable distraction to Maggie's grief, and

her tears gradually subsided as she trotted along by Luke's side to his

pleasant cottage, which stood with its apple and pear trees, and with

the added dignity of a lean-to pigsty, at the other end of the Mill

fields.

II

Tom was to arrive early in the afternoon, and there was another

fluttering heart besides Maggie's when it was late enough for the sound

of the gig wheels to be expected; for if Mrs. Tulliver had a strong

feeling, it was fondness for her boy. At last the sound came,--that

quick light bowling of the gig wheels,--and in spite of the wind, which

was blowing the clouds about, and was not likely to respect Mrs.

Tulliver's curls and cap-strings, she came outside the door and even

held her hand on Maggie's offending head, forgetting all the griefs of

the morning.

"There he is, my sweet lad! But, Lord ha' mercy! he's got never a collar

on; it's been lost on the road, I'll be bound, and spoilt the set."

Mrs. Tulliver stood with her arms open; Maggie jumped first on one leg

and then on the other; while Tom descended from the gig, and said, with

masculine reticence as to the tender emotions. "Hallo! Yap--what! are

you there?"

Nevertheless he submitted to be kissed willingly enough, though Maggie

hung on his neck in rather a strangling fashion, while his blue-gray

eyes wandered toward the croft and the lambs and the river, where he

promised himself that he would begin to fish the first thing tomorrow

morning. He was one of those lads that grow everywhere in England, and

at twelve or thirteen years of age look as much alike as goslings,--a

lad with light-brown hair, cheeks of cream and roses, full lips,

indeterminate nose and eyebrows,--face in which it seems impossible to

see anything but boyhood; as different as possible from poor Maggie's

phiz, which Nature seemed to have moulded and colored with the most

decided intention. But that same Nature has the deep cunning which hides

itself under the appearance of openness, so that simple people think

they can see through her quite well, and all the while she is secretly

preparing a refutation of their confident prophecies. Under these

average boyish physiognomies that she seems to turn off by the gross,

she conceals some of her most unmodified characters; and the dark-eyed,

demonstrative, rebellious girl may after all turn out to be a passive

being compared with this pink-and-white bit of masculinity with the

indeterminate features.

"Maggie," said Tom, confidentially, taking her into a corner, as soon as

his mother was gone out to examine his box, and the warm parlor had

taken off the chill he had felt from the long drive, "you don't know

what I've got in _my_ pockets," nodding his head up and down as a means

of rousing her sense of mystery.

"No," said Maggie. "How stodgy they look, Tom! Is it marls (marbles) or

cobnuts?" Maggie's heart sank a little, because Tom always said it was

"no good" playing with _her_ at those games, she played so badly.

"Marls! no; I've swopped all my marls with the little fellows, and

cobnuts are no fun, you silly, only when the nuts are green. But see

here!" He drew something half out of his righthand pocket.

"What is it?" said Maggie, in a whisper. "I can see nothing but a bit of

yellow."

"Why, it's--a--new--guess, Maggie!"

"Oh, I _can't_ guess, Tom," said Maggie, impatiently.

"Don't be a spitfire, else I won't tell you," said Tom, thrusting his

hand back into his pocket and looking determined.

"No, Tom," said Maggie, imploringly, laying hold of the arm that was

held stiffly in the pocket. "I'm not cross, Tom; it was only because I

can't bear guessing. _Please_ be good to me."

Tom's arm slowly relaxed, and he said, "Well, then, it's a new fish

line--two new uns,--one for you, Maggie, all to yourself. And here's

hooks; see here--I say, _won't_ we go and fish to-morrow down by the

Round Pool? And you shall catch your own fish, Maggie, and put the worms

on, and everything; won't it be fun?"

Maggie's answer was to throw her arms round Tom's neck and hug him, and

hold her cheek against his without speaking, while he slowly unwound

some of the line, saying, after a pause,--

"Wasn't I a good brother, now, to buy you a line all to yourself? You

know, I needn't have bought it, if I hadn't liked."

"Yes, very, very good--I _do_ love you, Tom." Tom had put the line back

in his pocket, and was looking at the hooks one by one, before he spoke

again.

"And the fellows fought me, because I wouldn't give in about the

toffee."

"Oh, dear! I wish they wouldn't fight at your school, Tom. Didn't it

hurt you?"

"Hurt me? no," said Tom, putting up the hooks again, taking out a large

pocketknife, and slowly opening the largest blade, which he looked at

meditatively as he rubbed his finger along it. Then he added,--

"I gave Spouncer a black eye, I know; that's what he got by wanting to

leather _me_; I wasn't going to go halves because anybody leathered me."

"Oh, how brave you are, Tom! I think you're like Samson. If there came a

lion roaring at me, I think you'd fight him, wouldn't you, Tom?"

"How can a lion come roaring at you, you silly thing? There's no lions,

only in the shows."

"No, but if we were in the lion countries--I mean Africa, where it's

very hot; the lions eat people there. I can show it you in the book

where I read it."

"Well, I should get a gun and shoot him."

"But if you hadn't got a gun,--we might have gone out, you know, not

thinking, just as we go fishing; and then a great lion might run toward

us roaring, and we couldn't get away from him. What should you do, Tom?"

Tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously, saying, "But the

lion _isn't_ coming. What's the use of talking?"

"But I like to fancy how it would be," said Maggie, following him, "Just

think what you would do, Tom."

"Oh, don't bother, Maggie! you're such a silly. I shall go and see my

rabbits."

Maggie's heart began to flutter with fear. She dared not tell the sad

truth at once, but she walked after Tom in trembling silence as he went

out, thinking how she could tell him the news so as to soften at once

his sorrow and his anger; for Maggie dreaded Tom's anger of all things;

it was quite different anger from her own.

"Tom," she said, timidly, when they were out of doors, "how much money

did you give for your rabbits?"

"Two half-crowns and a sixpence," said Tom, promptly.

"I think I've got a great deal more than that in my steel purse

upstairs. I'll ask mother to give it you."

"What for?" said Tom. "I don't want _your_ money, you silly thing. I've

got a great deal more money than you, because I'm a boy. I always have

half-sovereigns and sovereigns for my Christmas boxes because I shall be

a man, and you have only five-shilling pieces, because you're only a

girl."

"Well, but, Tom--if mother would let me give you two half-crowns and a

sixpence out of my purse to put into your pocket and spend, you know,

and buy some more rabbits with it?"

"More rabbits? I don't want any more."

"Oh, but, Tom, they're all dead."

Tom stopped in his walk and turned round toward Maggie. "You forgot to

feed 'em, then?" he said, his color heightening for a moment, but soon

subsiding. "I don't love you, Maggie. You shan't go fishing with me

tomorrow. I told you to go and see the rabbits every day." He walked on

again.

"Yes, but I forgot--and I couldn't help it, indeed, Tom. I'm so very

sorry," said Maggie, while the tears rushed fast.

"You're a naughty girl," said Tom, severely, "and I'm sorry I bought you

the fish line. I don't love you."

"Oh, Tom, it's very cruel," sobbed Maggie. "I'd forgive you, if _you_

forgot anything--I wouldn't mind what you did--I'd forgive you and love

you."

"Yes, you're a silly; but I never _do_ forget things, _I_ don't."

"Oh, please forgive me, Tom; my heart will break," said Maggie, shaking

with sobs, clinging to Tom's arm, and laying her wet cheek on his

shoulder.

Tom shook her off, and stopped again, saying in a peremptory tone, "Now,

Maggie, you just listen. Aren't I a good brother to you?"

"Ye-ye-es," sobbed Maggie, her chin rising and falling convulsedly.

"Didn't I think about your fish line all this quarter, and mean to buy

it, and saved my money o' purpose, and wouldn't go halves in the toffee,

and Spouncer fought me because I wouldn't?"

"Ye-ye-es--and I--lo-lo-love you so, Tom."

"But you're a naughty girl. Last holidays you licked the paint off my

lozenge box, and the holidays before that you let the boat drag my fish

line down when I'd set you to watch it, and you pushed your head through

my kite, all for nothing."

"But I didn't mean," said Maggie; "I couldn't help it."

"Yes, you could," said Tom, "if you'd minded what you were doing. And

you're a naughty girl, and you sha'n't go fishing with me to-morrow."

With this terrible conclusion, Tom ran away from Maggie toward the mill.

Maggie stood motionless, except from her sobs, for a minute or two; then

she turned round and ran into the house, and up to her attic, where she

sat on the floor and laid her head against the worm-eaten shelf, with a

crushing sense of misery. Tom was come home, and she had thought how

happy she should be; and now he was cruel to her. What use was anything

if Tom didn't love her? Oh, he was very cruel! Hadn't she wanted to give

him the money, and said how very sorry she was? She knew she was naughty

to her mother, but she had never been naughty to Tom--had never _meant_

to be naughty to him.

[Illustration: "OH, HE IS CRUEL!"]

"Oh, he is cruel!" Maggie sobbed aloud, finding a wretched pleasure in

the hollow resonance that came through the long empty space of the

attic. She never thought of beating or grinding her Fetish; she was too

miserable to be angry.

These bitter sorrows of childhood! when sorrow is all new and strange,

when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond the days and weeks, and

the space from summer to summer seems measureless.

Maggie soon thought she had been hours in the attic, and it must be tea

time, and they were all having their tea, and not thinking of her. Well,

then, she would stay up there and starve herself,--hide herself behind

the tub, and stay there all night,--and then they would all be

frightened, and Tom would be sorry. Thus Maggie thought in the pride of

her heart, as she crept behind the tub; but presently she began to cry

again at the idea that they didn't mind her being there. If she went

down again to Tom now--would he forgive her? Perhaps her father would be

there, and he would take her part. But then she wanted Tom to forgive

her because he loved her, not because his father told him. No, she would

never go down if Tom didn't come to fetch her. This resolution lasted in

great intensity for five dark minutes behind the tub; but then the need

of being loved--the strongest need in poor Maggie's nature--began to

wrestle with her pride, and soon threw it. She crept from behind the tub

into the twilight of the long attic, but just then she heard a quick

footstep on the stairs.

Tom had been too much interested in his talk with Luke, in going the

round of the premises, walking in and out where he pleased, and

whittling sticks without any particular reason,--except that he didn't

whittle sticks at school,--to think of Maggie and the effect his anger

had produced on her. He meant to punish her, and that business having

been performed, he occupied himself with other matters, like a practical

person. But when he had been called in to tea, his father said, "Why,

where's the little wench?" and Mrs. Tulliver, almost at the same

moment, said, "Where's your little sister?"--both of them having

supposed that Maggie and Tom had been together all the afternoon.

"I don't know," said Tom. He didn't want to "tell" of Maggie, though he

was angry with her; for Tom Tulliver was a lad of honor.

"What! hasn't she been playing with you all this while?" said the

father. "She'd been thinking o' nothing but your coming home."

"I haven't seen her this two hours," says Tom, commencing on the

plumcake.

"Goodness heart! she's got drownded!" exclaimed Mrs. Tulliver, rising

from her seat and running to the window. "How could you let her do so?"

she added, as became a fearful woman, accusing she didn't know whom of

she didn't know what.

"Nay, nay, she's none drownded," said Mr. Tulliver. "You've been naughty

to her, I doubt, Tom?"

"I'm sure I haven't, father," said Tom indignantly. "I think she's in

the house."

"Perhaps up in that attic," said Mrs. Tulliver, "a-singing and talking

to herself, and forgetting all about meal times."

"You go and fetch her down, Tom," said Mr. Tulliver, rather

sharply,--his perspicacity or his fatherly fondness for Maggie making

him suspect that the lad had been hard upon "the little un," else she

would never have left his side. "And be good to her, do you hear? Else

I'll let you know better."

Tom never disobeyed his father, for Mr. Tulliver was a peremptory man,

and, as he said, would never let anybody get hold of his whip hand; but

he went out rather sullenly, carrying his piece of plumcake, and not

intending to reprieve Maggie's punishment, which was no more than she

deserved. Tom was only thirteen, and had no decided views in grammar and

arithmetic, regarding them for the most part as open questions, but he

was particularly clear and positive on one point,--namely, that he would

punish everybody who deserved it. Why, he wouldn't have minded being

punished himself if he deserved it; but, then, he never _did_ deserve

it.

It was Tom's step, then, that Maggie heard on the stairs, when her need

of love had triumphed over her pride, and she was going down with her

swollen eyes and dishevelled hair to beg for pity. At least her father

would stroke her head and say, "Never mind, my wench." It is a wonderful

subduer, this need of love,--this hunger of the heart,--as peremptory as

that other hunger by which Nature forces us to submit to the yoke, and

change the face of the world.

But she knew Tom's step, and her heart began to beat violently with the

sudden shock of hope. He only stood still at the top of the stairs and

said, "Maggie, you're to come down." But she rushed to him and clung

around his neck, sobbing, "Oh, Tom, please forgive me--I can't bear

it--I will always be good--always remember things--do love me--please,

dear Tom!"

We learn to restrain ourselves as we get older. We keep apart when we

have quarreled, express ourselves in well-bred phrases, and in this way

preserve a dignified alienation, showing much firmness on one side, and

swallowing much grief on the other. We no longer approximate in our

behavior to the mere impulsiveness of the lower animals, but conduct

ourselves in every respect like members of a highly civilized society.

Maggie and Tom were still very much like young animals, and so she could

rub her cheek against his, and kiss his ear in a random sobbing way; and

there were tender fibres in the lad that had been used to answer to

Maggie's fondling, so that he behaved with a weakness quite inconsistent

with his resolution to punish her as much as she deserved. He actually

began to kiss her in return, and say,--

"Don't cry, then, Magsie; here, eat a bit o' cake."

Maggie's sobs began to subside, and she put out her mouth for the cake

and bit a piece; and then Tom bit a piece, just for company, and they

ate together and rubbed each other's cheeks and brows and noses

together, while they ate, with a humiliating resemblance to two friendly

ponies.

"Come along, Magsie, and have tea," said Tom at last, when there was no

more cake except what was downstairs.

So ended the sorrows of this day, and the next morning Maggie was

trotting with her own fishing rod in one hand and a handle of the basket

in the other, stepping always, by a peculiar gift, in the muddiest

places, and looking darkly radiant from under her beaver-bonnet because

Tom was good to her. She had told Tom, however, that she should like him

to put the worms on the hook for her, although she accepted his word

when he assured her that worms couldn't feel (it was Tom's private

opinion that it didn't much matter if they did). He knew all about

worms, and fish, and those things; and what birds were mischievous, and

how padlocks opened, and which way the handles of the gates were to be

lifted. Maggie thought this sort of knowledge was very wonderful,--much

more difficult than remembering what was in the books; and she was

rather in awe of Tom's superiority, for he was the only person who

called her knowledge "stuff," and did not feel surprised at her

cleverness. Tom, indeed, was of opinion that Maggie was a silly little

thing; all girls were silly,--they couldn't throw a stone so as to hit

anything, couldn't do anything with a pocketknife, and were frightened

at frogs. Still, he was very fond of his sister, and meant always to

take care of her, make her his housekeeper, and punish her when she did

wrong.

They were on their way to the Round Pool,--that wonderful pool, which

the floods had made a long while ago. No one knew how deep it was; and

it was mysterious, too, that it should be almost a perfect round, framed

in with willows and tall reeds, so that the water was only to be seen

when you got close to the brink. The sight of the old favorite spot

always heightened Tom's good humor, and he spoke to Maggie in the most

amicable whispers, as he opened the precious basket and prepared their

tackle. He threw her line for her, and put the rod into her hand. Maggie

thought it probable that the small fish would come to her hook, and the

large ones to Tom's. But she had forgotten all about the fish, and was

looking dreamily at the glassy water, when Tom said, in a loud whisper,

"Look, look, Maggie!" and came running to prevent her from snatching her

line away.

Maggie was frightened lest she had been doing something wrong, as usual,

but presently Tom drew out her line and brought a large tench bouncing

on the grass.

Tom was excited.

"O Maggie, you little duck! Empty the basket."

Maggie was not conscious of unusual merit, but it was enough that Tom

called her Magsie, and was pleased with her. There was nothing to mar

her delight in the whispers and the dreamy silences, when she listened

to the light dipping sounds of the rising fish, and the gentle rustling,

as if the willows and the reeds and the water had their happy whispering

also. Maggie thought it would make a very nice heaven to sit by the pool

in that way, and never be scolded. She never knew she had a bite till

Tom told her; but she liked fishing very much.

III

On Wednesday, the day before the aunts and uncles were coming, there

were such various and suggestive scents, as of plumcakes in the oven and

jellies in the hot state, mingled with the aroma of gravy, that it was

impossible to feel altogether gloomy; there was hope in the air. Tom and

Maggie made several inroads into the kitchen, and, like other marauders,

were induced to keep aloof for a time only by being allowed to carry

away a sufficient load of booty.

"Tom," said Maggie, as they sat on the boughs of the elder-tree, eating

their jam-puffs, "shall you run away to-morrow?"

"No," said Tom, slowly, when he had finished his puff, and was eyeing

the third, which was to be divided between them,--"no, I sha'n't."

"Why, Tom? Because Lucy's coming?"

[Illustration: "IS IT THE TIPSY-CAKE, THEN?"]

"No," said Tom, opening his pocketknife and holding it over the puff,

with his head on one side in a dubitative manner. (It was a difficult

problem to divide that very irregular polygon into two equal parts.)

"What do _I_ care about Lucy? She's only a girl,--_she_ can't play at

bandy."

"Is it the tipsy-cake, then?" said Maggie, exerting her hypothetic

powers, while she leaned forward toward Tom with her eyes fixed on the

hovering knife. "No, you silly, that'll be good the day after. It's the

pudden. I know what's the pudden's to be,--apricot roll-up--O my

buttons!"

With this interjection, the knife descended on the puff, and it was in

two, but the result was not satisfactory to Tom, for he still eyed the

halves doubtfully. At last he said,--

"Shut your eyes, Maggie."

"What for?"

"You never mind what for. Shut 'em when I tell you."

Maggie obeyed.

"Now, which'll you have, Maggie,--right hand or left?

"I'll have that with the jam run out," said Maggie, keeping her eyes

shut to please Tom.

"Why, you don't like that, you silly. You may have it if it comes to you

fair, but I sha'n't give it you without. Right or left,--you choose,

now. Ha-a-a!" said Tom, in a tone of exasperation, as Maggie peeped.

"You keep your eyes shut, now, else you sha'n't have any."

Maggie's power of sacrifice did not extend so far; indeed, I fear she

cared less that Tom should enjoy the utmost possible amount of puff,

than that he should be pleased with her for giving him the best bit. So

she shut her eyes close, till Tom told her to "say which," and then she

said, "Left hand."

"You've got it," said Tom, in rather a bitter tone.

"What! the bit with the jam run out?"

"No; here, take it," said Tom, firmly, handing decidedly the best piece

to Maggie.

"Oh, please, Tom, have it; I don't mind--I like the other; please take

this."

"No, I sha'n't," said Tom, almost crossly, beginning on his own inferior

piece.

Maggie, thinking it was no use to contend further, began too, and ate up

her half puff with considerable relish as well as rapidity. But Tom had

finished first, and had to look on while Maggie ate her last morsel or

two, feeling in himself a capacity for more. Maggie didn't know Tom was

looking at her; she was see-sawing on the elder bough, lost to almost

everything but a vague sense of jam and idleness.

"Oh, you greedy thing!" said Tom, when she had swallowed the last

morsel. He was conscious of having acted very fairly, and thought she

ought to have considered this, and made up to him for it. He would have

refused a bit of hers beforehand, but one is naturally at a different

point of view before and after one's own share of puff is swallowed.

Maggie turned quite pale. "Oh, Tom, why didn't you ask me?"

"I wasn't going to ask you for a bit, you greedy. You might have thought

of it without, when you knew I gave you the best bit."

"But I wanted you to have it; you know I did," said Maggie, in an

injured tone.

"Yes, but I wasn't going to do what wasn't fair. If I go halves, I'll go

'em fair; only I wouldn't be a greedy."

With this cutting innuendo, Tom jumped down from his bough, and threw a

stone with a "hoigh!" as a friendly attention to Yap, who had also been

looking on while the eatables vanished, with an agitation of his ears

and feelings which could hardly have been without bitterness. Yet the

excellent dog accepted Tom's attention with as much alacrity as if he

had been treated quite generously.

But Maggie, gifted with that superior power of misery which

distinguishes the human being, and places him at a proud distance from

the most melancholy chimpanzee, sat still on her bough, and gave herself

up to the keen sense of unmerited reproach. She would have given the

world not to have eaten all her puff, and to have saved some of it for

Tom. Not but that the puff was very nice, for Maggie's palate was not at

all obtuse, but she would have gone without it many times over, sooner

than Tom should call her greedy and be cross with her. And he had said

he wouldn't have it, and she ate it without thinking; how could she help

it? The tears flowed so plentifully that Maggie saw nothing around her

for the next ten minutes; but by that time resentment began to give way

to the desire of reconciliation, and she jumped from her bough to look

for Tom. He was no longer in the paddock behind the rickyard; where was

he likely to be gone, and Yap with him? Maggie ran to the high bank

against the great holly tree, where she could see far away toward the

Floss.

There was Tom; but her heart sank again as she saw how far he was on his

way to the great river, and that he had another companion besides

Yap,--naughty Bob Jakin, whose official, if not natural, function of

frightening the birds was just now at a standstill.

Well! there was no hope for it; he was gone now, and Maggie could think

of no comfort but to sit down by the hollow, or wander by the hedgerow,

and fancy it was all different, refashioning her little world into just

what she should like it to be.

IV

Maggie had thrown her bonnet off very carelessly, and coming in with her

hair rough as well as out of curl, rushed at once to Lucy, who was

standing by her mother's knee. Certainly the contrast between the

cousins was conspicuous. It was like the contrast between a rough, dark,

overgrown puppy and a white kitten. Lucy put up the neatest little

rosebud mouth to be kissed; everything about her was neat--her little

round neck, with the row of coral beads; her little straight nose, not

at all snubby; her little clear eyebrows, rather darker than her curls,

to match her hazel eyes, which looked up with shy pleasure at Maggie,

taller by the head, though scarcely a year older. Maggie always looked

at Lucy with delight. She was fond of fancying a world where the people

never got any larger than children of their own age, and she made the

queen of it just like Lucy, with a little crown on her head, and a

little sceptre in her hand--only the queen was Maggie herself in Lucy's

form.

"Oh, Lucy," she burst out, after kissing her, "you'll stay with Tom and

me, won't you? Oh, kiss her, Tom."

Tom, too, had come up to Lucy, but he was not going to kiss her--no; he

came up to her with Maggie, because it seemed easier, on the whole, than

saying, "How do you do?" to all those aunts and uncles. He stood looking

at nothing in particular, with the blushing, awkward air and semi-smile

which are common to shy boys when in company,--very much as if they had

come into the world by mistake, and found it in a degree of undress that

was quite embarrassing.

"Maggie," said Mrs. Tulliver, beckoning Maggie to her, and whispering in

her ear, as soon as this point of Lucy's staying was settled, "go and

get your hair brushed. I told you not to come in without going to Martha

first; you know I did."

"Tom, come out with me," whispered Maggie, pulling his sleeve as she

passed him; and Tom followed willingly enough.

"Come upstairs with me, Tom," she whispered, when they were outside the

door. "There's something I want to do before dinner."

"There's no time to play at anything before dinner," said Tom, whose

imagination was impatient of any intermediate prospect.

"Oh yes, there is time for this; _do_ come, Tom."

Tom followed Maggie upstairs into her mother's room, and saw her go at

once to a drawer, from which she took out a large pair of scissors.

"What are they for, Maggie?" said Tom, feeling his curiosity awakened.

Maggie answered by seizing her front locks and cutting them straight

across the middle of her forehead.

"Oh, my buttons! Maggie, you'll catch it!" exclaimed Tom; "you'd better

not cut any more off."

Snip! went the great scissors again while Tom was speaking, and he

couldn't help feeling it was rather good fun; Maggie would look so

queer.

"Here, Tom, cut it behind for me," said Maggie, excited by her own

daring, and anxious to finish the deed.

"You'll catch it, you know," said Tom, nodding his head in an admonitory

manner, and hesitating a little as he took the scissors.

"Never mind, make haste!" said Maggie, giving a little stamp with her

foot. Her cheeks were quite flushed.

The black locks were so thick, nothing could be more tempting to a lad

who had already tasted the forbidden pleasure of cutting the pony's

mane. I speak to those who know the satisfaction of making a pair of

shears meet through a duly resisting mass of hair. One delicious

grinding snip, and then another and another, and the hinder locks fell

heavily on the floor, and Maggie stood cropped in a jagged, uneven

manner, but with a sense of clearness and freedom, as if she had emerged

from a wood into the open plain.

"Oh, Maggie," said Tom, jumping round her, and slapping his knees as he

laughed, "Oh, my buttons! what a queer thing you look! Look at yourself

in the glass; you look like the idiot we throw out nutshells to at

school."

Maggie felt an unexpected pang. She had thought beforehand chiefly of

her own deliverance from her teasing hair and teasing remarks about it,

and something also of the triumph she should have over her mother and

her aunts by this very decided course of action; she didn't want her

hair to look pretty,--that was out of the question,--she only wanted

people to think her a clever little girl, and not to find fault with

her. But now, when Tom began to laugh at her, and say she was like the

idiot, the affair had quite a new aspect. She looked in the glass, and

still Tom laughed and clapped his hands, and Maggie's flushed cheeks

began to pale, and her lips to tremble a little.

"Oh, Maggie, you'll have to go down to dinner directly," said Tom. "Oh,

my!"

"Don't laugh at me, Tom," said Maggie, in a passionate tone, with an

outburst of angry tears, stamping, and giving him a push.

"Now, then, spitfire!" said Tom. "What did you cut it off for, then? I

shall go down: I can smell the dinner going in."

He hurried downstairs and left poor Maggie to that bitter sense of the

irrevocable which was almost an everyday experience of her small soul.

She could see clearly enough, now the thing was done, that it was very

foolish, and that she should have to hear and think more about her hair

than ever; for Maggie rushed to her deeds with passionate impulse, and

then saw not only their consequences, but what would have happened if

they had not been done, with all the detail and exaggerated

circumstances of an active imagination.

"Miss Maggie, you're to come down this minute," said Kezia, entering the

room hurriedly. "Lawks! what have you been a-doing? I niver _see_ such a

fright!"

"Don't, Kezia," said Maggie, angrily. "Go away!"

"But I tell you you're to come down, Miss, this minute; your mother says

so," said Kezia, going up to Maggie and taking her by the hand to raise

her from the floor.

"Get away, Kezia; I don't want any dinner," said Maggie, resisting

Kezia's arm. "I sha'n't come."

"Oh, well, I can't stay. I've got to wait at dinner," said Kezia, going

out again.

"Maggie, you little silly," said Tom, peeping into the room ten minutes

after, "why don't you come and have your dinner? There's lots o'

goodies, and mother says you're to come. What are you crying for, you

little spooney?"

Oh, it was dreadful! Tom was so hard and unconcerned; if _he_ had been

crying on the floor, Maggie would have cried, too. And there was the

dinner, so nice; and she was _so_ hungry. It was very bitter.

But Tom was not altogether hard. He was not inclined to cry, and did not

feel that Maggie's grief spoiled his prospect of the sweets; but he went

and put his head near her, and said in a lower, comforting tone,--

"Won't you come, then, Magsie? Shall I bring you a bit o' pudding when

I've had mine, and a custard and things?"

"Ye-e-es," said Maggie, beginning to feel life a little more tolerable.

"Very well," said Tom, going away. But he turned again at the door and

said, "But you'd better come, you know. There's the dessert,--nuts, you

know, and cowslip wine."

Maggie's tears had ceased, and she looked reflective as Tom left her.

His good nature had taken off the keenest edge of her sufferings, and

nuts with cowslip wine began to assert their legitimate influence.

Slowly she rose from amongst her scattered locks, and slowly she made

her way downstairs. Then she stood leaning with one shoulder against

the frame of the dining-parlor door, peeping in when it was ajar. She

saw Tom and Lucy with an empty chair between them, and there were the

custards on a side table; it was too much. She slipped in and went

toward the empty chair. But she had no sooner sat down than she repented

and wished herself back again.

Mrs. Tulliver gave a little scream as she saw her, and felt such a

"turn" that she dropped the large gravy-spoon into the dish, with the

most serious results to the tablecloth. For Kezia had not betrayed the

reason of Maggie's refusal to come down, not liking to give her mistress

a shock in the moment of carving, and Mrs. Tulliver thought there was

nothing worse in question than a fit of perverseness, which was

inflicting its own punishment by depriving Maggie of half her dinner.

Mrs. Tulliver's scream made all eyes turn toward the same point as her

own, and Maggie's cheeks and ears began to burn, while uncle Glegg, a

kind-looking, white-haired old gentleman, said,--

"Heyday! what little gell's this? Why, I don't know her. Is it some

little gell you've picked up in the road, Kezia?"

"Why, she's gone and cut her hair herself," said Mr. Tulliver in an

undertone to Mr. Deane, laughing with much enjoyment. "Did you ever know

such a little hussy as it is?"

"Why, little miss, you've made yourself look very funny," said uncle

Pullet, and perhaps he never in his life made an observation which was

felt to be so lacerating.

"Fie, for shame!" said aunt Glegg, in her loudest, severest tone of

reproof. "Little gells as cut their own hair should be whipped and fed

on bread and water,--not come and sit down with their aunts and uncles."

"Ay, ay," said uncle Glegg, meaning to give a playful turn to this

denunciation, "she must be sent to jail, I think, and they'll cut the

rest of her hair off there, and make it all even."

"She's more like a gypsy nor ever," said aunt Pullet, in a pitying tone;

"it's very bad luck, sister, as the gell should be so brown; the boy's

fair enough. I doubt it'll stand in her way i' life to be so brown."

"She's a naughty child, as'll break her mother's heart," said Mrs.

Tulliver, with the tears in her eyes.

Maggie seemed to be listening to a chorus of reproach and derision. Her

first flush came from anger, which gave her a transient power of

defiance, and Tom thought she was braving it out, supported by the

recent appearance of the pudding and custard. Under this impression, he

whispered, "Oh, my! Maggie, I told you you'd catch it." He meant to be

friendly, but Maggie felt convinced that Tom was rejoicing in her

ignominy. Her feeble power of defiance left her in an instant, her heart

swelled, and getting up from her chair, she ran to her father, hid her

face on his shoulder, and burst out into loud sobbing.

"Come, come, my wench," said her father, soothingly, putting his arm

round her, "never mind; you was i' the right to cut it off if it

plagued you; give over crying; father'll take your part."

Delicious words of tenderness! Maggie never forgot any of these moments

when her father "took her part"; she kept them in her heart, and

thought of them long years after, when every one else said that her

father had done very ill by his children.

With the dessert there came entire deliverance for Maggie, for the

children were told they might have their nuts and wine in the

summerhouse, since the day was so mild; and they scampered out among the

building bushes of the garden with the alacrity of small animals getting

from under a burning glass.

V

While the possible troubles of Maggie's future were occupying her

father's mind, she herself was tasting only bitterness of the present.

Childhood has not forebodings; but then, it is soothed by no memories of

out-lived sorrow.

The fact was, the day had begun ill with Maggie. The pleasure of having

Lucy to look at, and the prospect of the afternoon visit to Garum Firs,

where she would hear uncle Pullet's musical box, had been marred as

early as eleven o'clock by the advent of the hairdresser from Saint

Ogg's, who had spoken in the severest terms of the condition in which he

had found her hair, holding up one jagged lock after another and saying,

"see here! tut, tut, tut!" in a tone of mingled disgust and pity, which

to Maggie's imagination was equivalent to the strongest expression of

public opinion. Mr. Rappit, the hairdresser, with his well-anointed

coronal locks tending wavily upward, like the simulated pyramid of flame

on a monumental urn, seemed to her at that moment the most formidable

of her contemporaries, into whose street at Saint Ogg's she would

carefully refrain from entering through the rest of her life.

Already, at twelve o'clock, Mrs. Tulliver had on her visiting costume,

with a protective apparatus of brown holland, as if she had been a piece

of satin furniture in danger of flies; Maggie was frowning and twisting

her shoulders, that she might if possible shrink away from the

prickliest of tuckers, while her mother was remonstrating, "Don't,

Maggie, my dear; don't make yourself so ugly!" and Tom's cheeks were

looking particularly brilliant as a relief to his best blue suit, which

he wore with becoming calmness, having, after a little wrangling,

effected what was always the one point of interest to him in his toilet:

he had transferred all the contents of his everyday pockets to those

actually in wear.

As for Lucy, she was just as pretty and neat as she had been yesterday;

no accidents ever happened to her clothes, and she was never

uncomfortable in them, so that she looked with wondering pity at Maggie,

pouting and writhing under the exasperating tucker. Maggie would

certainly have torn it off, if she had not been checked by the

remembrance of her recent humiliation about her hair; as it was, she

confined herself to fretting and twisting, and behaving peevishly about

the card houses which they were allowed to build till dinner, as a

suitable amusement for boys and girls in their best clothes. Tom could

build perfect pyramids of houses; but Maggie's would never bear the

laying on the roof. It was always so with the things that Maggie made;

and Tom had deduced the conclusion that no girls could ever make

anything. But it happened that Lucy proved wonderfully clever at

building; she handled the cards so lightly, and moved so gently, that

Tom condescended to admire her houses as well as his own, the more

readily because she had asked him to teach her. Maggie, too, would have

admired Lucy's houses, and would have given up her own unsuccessful

building to contemplate them, without ill temper, if her tucker had not

made her peevish, and if Tom had not inconsiderately laughed when her

houses fell, and told her she was "a stupid."

"Don't laugh at me, Tom!" she burst out angrily; "I'm not a stupid. I

know a great many things you don't."

"Oh, I dare say, Miss Spitfire! I'd never be such a cross thing as you,

making faces like that. Lucy doesn't do so. I like Lucy better than you;

_I_ wish Lucy was _my_ sister."

"Then it's very wicked and cruel of you to wish so," said Maggie,

starting up hurriedly from her place on the floor, and upsetting Tom's

wonderful pagoda.

She really did not mean it, but the circumstantial evidence was against

her, and Tom turned white with anger, but said nothing; he would have

struck her, only he knew it was cowardly to strike a girl, and Tom

Tulliver was quite determined he would never do anything cowardly.

Maggie stood in dismay and terror, while Tom got up from the floor and

walked away, pale, from the scattered ruins of his pagoda, and Lucy

looked on mutely, like a kitten pausing from its lapping.

"Oh, Tom," said Maggie, at last, going halfway toward him, "I didn't

mean to knock it down,--indeed, indeed I didn't."

Tom took no notice of her, but took, instead, two or three hard peas out

of his pocket, and shot them with his thumb-nail against the window,

vaguely at first, but presently with the distinct aim of hitting a

superannuated blue bottle which was exposing its imbecility in the

spring sunshine, clearly against the views of Nature, who had provided

Tom and the peas for the speedy destruction of this weak individual.

Thus the morning had been made heavy to Maggie, and Tom's persistent

coldness to her all through their walk spoiled the fresh air and

sunshine for her. He called Lucy to look at the half-built bird's nest

without caring to show it to Maggie, and peeled a willow switch for Lucy

and himself, without offering one to Maggie. Lucy had said, "Maggie,

shouldn't _you_ like one?" but Tom was deaf.

Still, the sight of the peacock opportunely spreading his tail on the

stackyard wall, just as they reached Garum Firs, was enough to divert

the mind temporarily from personal grievances. And this was only the

beginning of beautiful sights at Garum Firs. All the farmyard life was

wonderful there,--bantams, speckled and topknotted; Friesland hens, with

their feathers all turned the wrong way; Guinea fowls that flew and

screamed and dropped their pretty spotted feathers; pouter pigeons and a

tame magpie; nay, a goat, and a wonderful brindled dog, half mastiff,

half bulldog, as large as a lion. Then there were white railings and

white gates all about, and glittering weathercocks of various design,

and garden walks paved with pebbles in beautiful patterns,--nothing was

quite common at Garum Firs; and Tom thought that the unusual size of the

toads there was simply due to the general unusualness which

characterized uncle Pullet's possessions as a gentleman farmer. Toads

who paid rent were naturally leaner. As for the house, it was not less

remarkable; it had a receding centre, and two wings with battlemented

turrets, and was covered with glittering white stucco.

The small demons who had taken possession of Maggie's soul at an earlier

period of the day had returned in all the greater force after a

temporary absence. All the disagreeable recollections of the morning

were thick upon her, when Tom said, "Here, Lucy, you come along with

me," and walked off to the area where the toads were, as if there were

no Maggie in existence. Seeing this, Maggie lingered at a distance,

looking like a small Medusa with her snakes cropped. Lucy was naturally

pleased that cousin Tom was so good to her, and it was very amusing to

see him tickling a fat toad with a piece of string when the toad was

safe down the area, with an iron grating over him. Still Lucy wished

Maggie to enjoy the spectacle also, especially as she would doubtless

find a name for the toad, and say what had been his past history; for

Lucy had a delighted semi-belief in Maggie's stories about the live

things they came upon by accident,--how Mrs. Earwig had a wash at home,

and one of her children had fallen into the hot copper, for which reason

she was running so fast to fetch the doctor. Tom had a profound contempt

for this nonsense of Maggie's, smashing the earwig at once as a

superfluous yet easy means of proving the entire unreality of such a

story; but Lucy, for the life of her, could not help fancying there was

something in it, and at all events thought it was very pretty

make-believe. So now the desire to know the history of a very portly

toad, added to her habitual affectionateness, made her run to Maggie and

say, "Oh, there is such a big, funny toad, Maggie! Do come and see!"

Maggie said nothing, but turned away from her with a deeper frown. As

long as Tom seemed to prefer Lucy to her, Lucy made part of his

unkindness. Maggie would have thought a little while ago that she could

never be cross with pretty little Lucy, any more than she could be cruel

to a little white mouse; but then, Tom had always been quite indifferent

to Lucy before, and it had been left to Maggie to pet and make much of

her. As it was, she was actually beginning to think that she should like

to make Lucy cry by slapping or pinching her, especially as it might vex

Tom, whom it was of no use to slap, even if she dared, because he didn't

mind it. And if Lucy hadn't been there, Maggie was sure he would have

got friends with her sooner.

Tickling a fat toad who is not highly sensitive is an amusement that it

is possible to exhaust, and Tom by and by began to look round for some

other mode of passing the time. But in so prim a garden, where they were

not to go off the paved walks, there was not a great choice of sport.

The only great pleasure such a restriction suggested was the pleasure of

breaking it, and Tom began to meditate an insurrectionary visit to the

pond, about a field's length beyond the garden.

"I say, Lucy," he began, nodding his head up and down with great

significance, as he coiled up his string again, "what do you think I

mean to do?"

"What, Tom?" said Lucy, with curiosity.

"I mean to go to the pond and look at the pike. You may go with me if

you like," said the young sultan.

"Oh, Tom, _dare_ you?" said Lucy. "Aunt said we mustn't go out of the

garden."

"Oh, I shall go out at the other end of the garden," said Tom. "Nobody

'ull see us. Besides, I don't care if they do,--I'll run off home."

"But _I_ couldn't run," said Lucy, who had never before been exposed to

such severe temptation.

"Oh, never mind; they won't be cross with _you_," said Tom. "You say I

took you."

Tom walked along, and Lucy trotted by his side, timidly enjoying the

rare treat of doing something naughty,--excited also by the mention of

that celebrity, the pike, about which she was quite uncertain whether it

was a fish or a fowl. Maggie saw them leaving the garden, and could not

resist the impulse to follow. Anger and jealousy can no more bear to

lose sight of their objects than love, and that Tom and Lucy should do

or see anything of which she was ignorant would have been an intolerable

idea to Maggie. So she kept a few yards behind them, unobserved by Tom,

who was presently absorbed in watching for the pike,--a highly

interesting monster; he was said to be so very old, so very large, and

to have such a remarkable appetite. The pike, like other celebrities,

did not show when he was watched for, but Tom caught sight of something

in rapid movement in the water, which attracted him to another spot on

the brink of the pond.

[Illustration: "HERE, LUCY!"]

"Here, Lucy!" he said in a loud whisper, "come here! take care! keep on

the grass!--don't step where the cows have been!" he added, pointing to

a peninsula of dry grass, with trodden mud on each side of it; for

Tom's contemptuous conception of a girl included the attribute of being

unfit to walk in dirty places.

Lucy came carefully as she was bidden, and bent down to look at what

seemed a golden arrowhead darting through the water. It was a water

snake, Tom told her; and Lucy at last could see the serpentine wave of

its body, very much wondering that a snake could swim. Maggie had drawn

nearer and nearer; she _must_ see it too, though it was bitter to her,

like everything else, since Tom did not care about her seeing it. At

last she was close by Lucy; and Tom, who had been aware of her approach,

but would not notice it till he was obliged, turned round and said,--

"Now, get away, Maggie; there's no room for you on the grass here.

Nobody asked _you_ to come."

There were passions at war in Maggie at that moment to have made a

tragedy, if tragedies were made by passion only; the utmost Maggie could

do, with a fierce thrust of her small brown arm, was to push poor little

pink-and-white Lucy into the cow-trodden mud.

Then Tom could not restrain himself, and gave Maggie two smart slaps on

the arm as he ran to pick up Lucy, who lay crying helplessly. Maggie

retreated to the roots of a tree a few yards off, and looked on

impenitently. Usually her repentance came quickly after one rash deed,

but now Tom and Lucy had made her so miserable, she was glad to spoil

their happiness,--glad to make everybody uncomfortable. Why should she

be sorry? Tom was very slow to forgive _her_, however sorry she might

have been.

"I shall tell mother, you know, Miss Mag," said Tom, loudly and

emphatically, as soon as Lucy was up and ready to walk away. Lucy was

too entirely absorbed by the evil that had befallen her,--the spoiling

of her pretty best clothes, and the discomfort of being wet and

dirty,--to think much of the cause, which was entirely mysterious to

her. She could never have guessed what she had done to make Maggie angry

with her; but she felt that Maggie was very unkind and disagreeable, and

made no magnanimous entreaties to Tom that he would not "tell," only

running along by his side and crying piteously, while Maggie sat on the

roots of the tree and looked after them with her small Medusa face.

"Sally," said Tom, when they reached the kitchen door, and Sally looked

at them in speechless amaze, with a piece of bread-and-butter in her

mouth and a toasting-fork in her hand,--"Sally, tell mother it was

Maggie pushed Lucy into the mud."

"But Lors ha' massy, how did you get near such mud as that?" said Sally,

making a wry face, as she stooped down and examined the _corpus

delicti_.

Tom's imagination had not been rapid and capacious enough to include

this question among the foreseen consequences, but it was no sooner put

than he foresaw whither it tended, and that Maggie would not be

considered the only culprit in the case. He walked quietly away from the

kitchen door, leaving Sally to that pleasure of guessing which active

minds notoriously prefer to ready-made knowledge.

Sally lost no time in presenting Lucy at the parlor door, for to have so

dirty an object introduced into the house at Garum Firs was too great a

weight to be sustained by a single mind.

"Goodness gracious!" aunt Pullet exclaimed, after preluding by an

inarticulate scream; "keep her at the door, Sally! Don't bring her off

the oilcloth, whatever you do."

"Why, she's tumbled into some nasty mud," said Mrs. Tulliver, going up

to Lucy to examine into the amount of damage to clothes for which she

felt herself responsible to her sister Deane.

"If you please, 'um, it was Miss Maggie as pushed her in," said Sally;

"Master Tom's been and said so, and they must ha' been to the pond, for

it's only there they could ha' got into such dirt."

"There it is, Bessy; it's what I've been telling you," said Mrs. Pullet,

in a tone of prophetic sadness; "it's your children,--there's no knowing

what they'll come to."

Mrs. Tulliver was mute, feeling herself a truly wretched mother. As

usual, the thought pressed upon her that people would think she had done

something wicked to deserve her maternal troubles, while Mrs. Pullet

began to give elaborate directions to Sally how to guard the premises

from serious injury in the course of removing the dirt. Meantime tea was

to be brought in by the cook, and the two naughty children were to have

theirs in an ignominious manner in the kitchen. Mrs. Tulliver went out

to speak to these naughty children, supposing them to be close at hand;

but it was not until after some search that she found Tom leaning with a

careless air against the white paling of the poultry yard, and lowering

his piece of string on the other side as a means of exasperating the

turkey cock.

"Tom, you naughty boy, where's your sister?" said Mrs. Tulliver, in a

distressed voice.

"I don't know," said Tom; his eagerness for justice on Maggie had

diminished since he had seen clearly that it could hardly be brought

about without the injustice of some blame on his own conduct.

"Why, where did you leave her?" said the mother, looking round.

"Sitting under the tree, against the pond," said Tom, apparently

indifferent to everything but the string and the turkey cock.

"Then go and fetch her in this minute, you naughty boy. And how could

you think o' going to the pond, and taking your sister where there was

dirt? You know she'll do mischief if there's mischief to be done."

It was Mrs. Tulliver's way, if she blamed Tom, to refer his misdemeanor,

somehow or other, to Maggie.

The idea of Maggie sitting alone by the pond roused an habitual fear in

Mrs. Tulliver's mind, and she mounted the horse block to satisfy herself

by a sight of that fatal child, while Tom walked--not very quickly--on

his way toward her.

"They're such children for the water, mine are," she said aloud, without

reflecting that there was no one to hear her; "they'll be brought in

dead and drownded some day. I wish that river was far enough."

But when she not only failed to discern Maggie, but presently saw Tom

returning from the pool alone, this hovering fear entered and took

complete possession of her, and she hurried to meet him.

"Maggie's nowhere about the pond, mother," said Tom; "she's gone away."

You may conceive the terrified search for Maggie, and the difficulty of

convincing her mother that she was not in the pond. Mrs. Pullet observed

that the child might come to a worse end if she lived, there was no

knowing; and Mr. Pullet reached down a key to the goose-pen as a likely

place for Maggie to lie concealed in.

Tom, after a while, started the idea that Maggie was gone home, and the

suggestion was seized as a comfort by his mother.

"Sister, for goodness' sake let 'em put the horse in the carriage and

take me home; we shall perhaps find her on the road. Lucy can't walk in

her dirty clothes," she said, looking at that innocent victim, who was

wrapped up in a shawl, and sitting with naked feet on the sofa.

Aunt Pullet was quite willing to take the shortest means of restoring

her premises to order and quiet, and it was not long before Mrs.

Tulliver was in the chaise, looking anxiously at the most distant point

before her. What the father would say if Maggie was lost, was a question

that predominated over every other.

VI

Maggie's intentions, as usual, were on a larger scale than Tom had

imagined. The resolution that gathered in her mind, after Tom and Lucy

had walked away, was not so simple as that of going home. No! she would

run away and go to the gypsies, and Tom should never see her any more.

That was by no means a new idea to Maggie; she had been so often told

she was like a gypsy, and "half wild," that when she was miserable it

seemed to her the only way of escaping opprobrium, and being entirely in

harmony with circumstances, would be to live in a little brown tent on

the commons; the gypsies, she considered, would gladly receive her and

pay her much respect on account of her superior knowledge. She had once

mentioned her views on this point to Tom, and suggested that he should

stain his face brown, and they should run away together; but Tom

rejected the scheme with contempt, observing that gypsies were thieves,

and hardly got anything to eat, and had nothing to drive but a donkey.

To-day, however, Maggie thought her misery had reached a pitch at which

gypsydom was her only refuge, and she rose from her seat on the roots of

the tree with the sense that this was a great crisis in her life; she

would run straight away till she came to Dunlow Common, where there

would certainly be gypsies; and cruel Tom, and the rest of her relations

who found fault with her, should never see her any more. She thought of

her father as she ran along, but she reconciled herself to the idea of

parting with him, by determining that she would secretly send him a

letter by a small gypsy, who would run away without telling where she

was, and just let him know that she was well and happy, and always loved

him very much.

Maggie soon got out of breath with running, but by the time Tom got to

the pond again she was at the distance of three long fields, and was on

the edge of the lane leading to the highroad. She stopped to pant a

little, reflecting that running away was not a pleasant thing until one

had got quite to the common where the gypsies were, but her resolution

had not abated; she presently passed through the gate into the lane, not

knowing where it would lead her; for it was not this way that they came

from Dorlcote Mill to Garum Firs, and she felt all the safer for that,

because there was no chance of her being overtaken. But she was soon

aware, not without trembling, that there were two men coming along the

lane in front of her; she had not thought of meeting strangers, she had

been too much occupied with the idea of her friends coming after her.

The formidable strangers were two shabby-looking men with flushed faces,

one of them carrying a bundle on a stick over his shoulder; but to her

surprise, while she was dreading their disapprobation as a runaway, the

man with the bundle stopped, and in a half-whining, half-coaxing tone

asked her if she had a copper to give a poor man. Maggie had a sixpence

in her pocket, which she immediately drew out and gave this poor man

with a polite smile, hoping that he would feel very kindly toward her as

a generous person. "That's the only money I've got," she said

apologetically. "Thank you, little miss," said the man, in a less

respectful and grateful tone than Maggie anticipated, and she even

observed that he smiled and winked at his companion. She walked on

hurriedly, but was aware that the two men were standing still, probably

to look after her, and she presently heard them laughing loudly.

Suddenly it occurred to her that they might think she was an idiot; Tom

had said that her cropped hair made her look like an idiot, and it was

too painful an idea to be readily forgotten. Besides, she had no

sleeves on--only a cape and a bonnet. It was clear that she was not

likely to make a favorable impression on passengers, and she thought she

would turn into the fields again.

She turned through the first gate that was not locked, and felt a

delightful sense of privacy in creeping along by the hedgerows, after

her recent humiliating encounter. She was used to wandering about the

fields by herself, and was less timid there than on the highroad.

Sometimes she had to climb over high gates, but that was a small evil;

she was getting out of reach very fast, and she would probably soon come

within sight of Dunlow Common, or at least of some other common, for she

had heard her father say that she couldn't go very far without coming to

a common. She hoped so, for she was getting rather tired and hungry, and

until she reached the gypsies there was no definite prospect of bread

and butter. It was still broad daylight; so though it was nearly an hour

since Maggie started, there was no gathering gloom on the fields to

remind her that the night would come. Still, it seemed to her that she

had been walking a very great distance indeed, and it was really

surprising that the common did not come within sight.

At last, however, the green fields came to an end, and Maggie found

herself looking through the bars of a gate into a lane with a wide

margin of grass on each side of it. She had never seen such a wide lane

before, and, without her knowing why, it gave her the impression that

the common could not be far off; perhaps it was because she saw a donkey

with a log to his foot feeding on the grassy margin, for she had seen a

donkey with that pitiable encumbrance on Dunlow Common when she had

been across it in her father's gig. She crept through the bars of the

gate and walked on with new spirit, though not without haunting images

of Apollyon, and a highwayman with a pistol, and a blinking dwarf in

yellow with a mouth from ear to ear, and other miscellaneous dangers.

For poor little Maggie had at once the timidity of an active

imagination, and the daring that comes from over-mastering impulse. She

had rushed into the adventure of seeking her unknown kindred, the

gypsies; and now she was in this strange lane, she hardly dared look on

one side of her, lest she should see the diabolical blacksmith in his

leathern apron grinning at her with arms akimbo. It was not without a

leaping of the heart that she caught sight of a small pair of bare legs

sticking up, feet uppermost, by the side of a hillock; they seemed

something hideously preternatural,--a diabolical kind of fungus; for she

was too much agitated at the first glance to see the ragged clothes and

the dark shaggy head attached to them. It was a boy asleep, and Maggie

trotted along faster and more lightly, lest she should wake him; it did

not occur to her that he was one of her friends the gypsies, who in all

probability would have very genial manners. But the fact was so, for at

the next bend in the lane Maggie actually saw the little semi-circular

black tent with the blue smoke rising before it, which was to be her

refuge from all the blighting obloquy that had pursued her in civilized

life. She even saw a tall female figure by the column of smoke,

doubtless the gypsy-mother, who provided the tea and other groceries; it

was astonishing to herself that she did not feel more delight. But it

was startling to find the gypsies in a lane, after all, and not on a

common; indeed, it was rather disappointing; for a mysterious

illimitable common, where there were sand pits to hide in, and one was

out of everybody's reach, had always made part of Maggie's picture of

gypsy life. She went on, however, and thought with some comfort that

gypsies most likely knew nothing about idiots, so there was no danger of

their falling into the mistake of setting her down at the first glance

as an idiot.

It was plain she had attracted attention; for the tall figure, who

proved to be a young woman with a baby on her arm, walked slowly to meet

her. Maggie looked up in the new face rather tremblingly as it

approached, and was reassured by the thought that her aunt Pullet and

the rest were right when they called her a gypsy; for this face, with

the bright dark eyes and the long hair, was really something like what

she used to see in the glass before she cut her hair off.

"My little lady, where are you going to?" the gypsy said, in a tone of

coaxing deference.

It was delightful, and just what Maggie expected; the gypsies saw at

once that she was a little lady, and were prepared to treat her

accordingly.

"Not any farther," said Maggie, feeling as if she were saying what she

had rehearsed in a dream. "I'm come to stay with _you_, please."

"That's pretty; come, then. Why, what a nice little lady you are, to be

sure!" said the gypsy, taking her by the hand. Maggie thought her very

agreeable, but wished she had not been so dirty.

There was quite a group round the fire when they reached it. An old

gypsy woman was seated on the ground nursing her knees, and occasionally

poking a skewer into the round kettle that sent forth an odorous steam;

two small shock-headed children were lying prone and resting on their

elbows something like small sphinxes; and a placid donkey was bending

his head over a tall girl, who, lying on her back, was scratching his

nose and indulging him with a bite of excellent stolen hay. The slanting

sunlight fell kindly upon them, and the scene was really very pretty and

comfortable, Maggie thought, only she hoped they would soon set out the

teacups. Everything would be quite charming when she had taught the

gypsies to use a washing basin, and to feel an interest in books. It was

a little confusing, though, that the young woman began to speak to the

old one in a language which Maggie did not understand, while the tall

girl, who was feeding the donkey, sat up and stared at her without

offering any salutation. At last the old woman said,--

"What! my pretty lady, are you come to stay with us? Sit ye down and

tell us where you come from."

It was just like a story; Maggie liked to be called pretty lady and

treated in this way. She sat down and said,--

"I'm come from home because I'm unhappy, and I mean to be a gypsy. I'll

live with you if you like, and I can teach you a great many things."

"Such a clever little lady," said the woman with the baby, sitting down

by Maggie, and allowing baby to crawl; "and such a pretty bonnet and

frock," she added, taking off Maggie's bonnet and looking at it while

she made an observation to the old woman, in the unknown language. The

tall girl snatched the bonnet and put it on her own head hind-foremost

with a grin; but Maggie was determined not to show any weakness on this

subject, as if she were susceptible about her bonnet.

"I don't want to wear a bonnet," she said; "I'd rather wear a red

handkerchief, like yours" (looking at her friend by her side). "My hair

was quite long till yesterday, when I cut it off; but I dare say it will

grow again very soon," she added apologetically, thinking it probable

the gypsies had a strong prejudice in favor of long hair. And Maggie had

forgotten even her hunger at that moment in the desire to conciliate

gypsy opinion.

"Oh, what a nice little lady!--and rich, I'm sure," said the old woman.

"Didn't you live in a beautiful house at home?"

"Yes, my home is pretty, and I'm very fond of the river, where we go

fishing, but I'm often very unhappy. I should have liked to bring my

books with me, but I came away in a hurry, you know. But I can tell you

almost everything there is in my books, I've read them so many times,

and that will amuse you. And I can tell you something about Geography

too--that's about the world we live in--very useful and interesting. Did

you ever hear about Columbus?"

Maggie's eyes had begun to sparkle and her cheeks to flush--she was

really beginning to instruct the gypsies, and gaining great influence

over them. The gypsies themselves were not without amazement at this

talk, though their attention was divided by the contents of Maggie's

pocket, which the friend at her right hand had by this time emptied

without attracting her notice.

"Is that where you live, my little lady?" said the old woman, at the

mention of Columbus.

"Oh, no!" said Maggie, with some pity; "Columbus was a very wonderful

man, who found out half the world, and they put chains on him and

treated him very badly, you know; it's in my Catechism of Geography, but

perhaps it's rather too long to tell before tea--_I want my tea so_."

The last words burst from Maggie, in spite of herself, with a sudden

drop from patronizing instruction to simple peevishness.

"Why she's hungry, poor little lady," said the younger woman. "Give her

some o' the cold victual. You're been walking a good way, I'll be bound,

my dear. Where's your home?"

"It's Dorlcote Mill, a good way off," said Maggie. "My father is Mr.

Tulliver, but we mustn't let him know where I am, else he'll fetch me

home again. Where does the queen of the gypsies live?"

"What! do you want to go to her, my little lady?" said the younger

woman. The tall girl meanwhile was constantly staring at Maggie and

grinning. Her manners were certainly not agreeable.

"No," said Maggie, "I'm only thinking that if she isn't a very good

queen you might be glad when she died, and you could choose another. If

I was a queen, I'd be a very good queen, and kind to everybody."

"Here's a bit o' nice victual, then," said the old woman, handing to

Maggie a lump of dry bread, and a piece of cold bacon.

"Thank you," said Maggie, looking at the food without taking it; "but

will you give me some bread-and-butter and tea instead? I don't like

bacon."

"We've got no tea nor butter," said the old woman, with something like a

scowl, as if she were getting tired of coaxing.

"Oh, a little bread and treacle would do," said Maggie.

"We han't got no treacle," said the old woman, crossly, whereupon there

followed a sharp dialogue between the two women in their unknown tongue,

and one of the small sphinxes snatched at the bread and bacon, and began

to eat it. At this moment the tall girl, who had gone a few yards off,

came back, and said something which produced a strong effect. The old

woman, seeming to forget Maggie's hunger, poked the skewer into the pot

with new vigor, and the younger crept under the tent, and reached out

some platters and spoons. Maggie trembled a little, and was afraid the

tears would come into her eyes. Meanwhile the tall girl gave a shrill

cry, and presently came running up the boy whom Maggie had passed as he

was sleeping,--a rough urchin about the age of Tom. He stared at Maggie,

and there ensued much incomprehensible chattering. She felt very lonely,

and was quite sure she should begin to cry before long; the gypsies

didn't seem to mind her at all, and she felt quite weak among them. But

the springing tears were checked by new terror, when two men came up,

whose approach had been the cause of the sudden excitement. The elder of

the two carried a bag, which he flung down, addressing the women in a

loud and scolding tone, which they answered by a shower of treble

sauciness; while a black cur ran barking up to Maggie, and threw her

into a tremor that only found a new cause in the curses with which the

younger man called the dog off, and gave him a rap with a great stick he

held in his hand.

Maggie felt that it was impossible she should ever be queen of these

people, or ever communicate to them amusing and useful knowledge.

Both the men now seemed to be inquiring about Maggie, for they looked at

her, and the tone of the conversation became of that pacific kind which

implies curiosity on one side and the power of satisfying it on the

other. At last the younger woman said in her previous deferential,

coaxing tone,--

"This nice little lady's come to live with us; aren't you glad?"

"Ay, very glad," said the younger man, who was looking at Maggie's

silver thimble and other small matters that had been taken from her

pocket. He returned them all except the thimble to the younger woman,

with some observation, and she immediately restored them to Maggie's

pocket, while the men seated themselves, and began to attack the

contents of the kettle,--a stew of meat and potatoes,--which had been

taken off the fire and turned out into a yellow platter.

Maggie began to think that Tom must be right about the gypsies; they

must certainly be thieves, unless the man meant to return her thimble by

and by. She would willingly have given it to him, for she was not at all

attached to her thimble; but the idea that she was among thieves

prevented her from feeling any comfort in the revival of deference and

attention toward her; all thieves, except Robin Hood, were wicked

people. The women saw she was frightened.

"We've got nothing nice for a lady to eat," said the old woman, in her

coaxing tone. "And she's so hungry, sweet little lady."

"Here, my dear, try if you can eat a bit o' this," said the younger

woman, handing some of the stew on a brown dish with an iron spoon to

Maggie, who, remembering that the old woman had seemed angry with her

for not liking the bread and bacon, dared not refuse the stew, though

fear had chased away her appetite. If her father would but come by in

the gig and take her up! Or even if Jack the Giantkiller, or Mr.

Greatheart, or Saint George who slew the dragon on the half-pennies,

would happen to pass that way! But Maggie thought with a sinking heart

that these heroes were never seen in the neighborhood of Saint Ogg's;

nothing very wonderful ever came there.

Maggie Tulliver, you perceive, was by no means that well-trained,

well-informed young person that a small female of eight or nine

necessarily is in these days; she had only been to school a year at

Saint Ogg's, and had so few books that she sometimes read the

dictionary; so that in traveling over her small mind you would have

found the most unexpected ignorance as well as unexpected knowledge. She

could have informed you that there was such a word as "polygamy," and

being also acquainted with "polysyllable," she had deduced the

conclusion that "poly" meant "many"; but she had had no idea that

gypsies were not well supplied with groceries, and her thoughts were the

oddest mixture of clear-eyed acumen and blind dreams.

Her ideas about the gypsies had undergone a rapid modification in the

last five minutes. From having considered them very respectful

companions, amenable to instruction, she had begun to think that they

meant perhaps to kill her as soon as it was dark, and cut up her body

for gradual cooking; the suspicion crossed her that the fierce-eyed old

man was in fact the Devil, who might drop that transparent disguise at

any moment, and turn either into a grinning blacksmith, or else a

fiery-eyed monster with dragon's wings. It was no use trying to eat the

stew, and yet the thing she most dreaded was to offend the gypsies, by

betraying her extremely unfavorable opinion of them; and she wondered,

with a keenness of interest that no theologian could have exceeded,

whether, if the Devil were really present, he would know her thoughts.

"What! you don't like the smell of it, my dear," said the young woman,

observing that Maggie did not even take a spoonful of the stew. "Try a

bit, come."

"No, thank you," said Maggie, summoning all her force for a desperate

effort, and trying to smile in a friendly way. "I haven't time, I think;

it seems getting darker. I think I must go home now, and come again

another day, and then I can bring you a basket with some jam-tarts and

things."

Maggie rose from her seat as she threw out this illusory prospect,

devoutly hoping that Apollyon was gullible; but her hope sank when the

old gypsy woman said, "Stop a bit, stop a bit, little lady; we'll take

you home, all safe, when we've done supper; you shall ride home, like a

lady."

Maggie sat down again, with little faith in this promise, though she

presently saw the tall girl putting a bridle on the donkey, and throwing

a couple of bags on his back.

"Now, then, little missis," said the younger man, rising, and leading

the donkey forward, "tell us where you live; what's the name of the

place?"

"Dorlcote Mill is my home," said Maggie, eagerly. "My father is Mr.

Tulliver; he lives there."

"What! a big mill a little way this side o' Saint Ogg's?"

"Yes," said Maggie. "Is it far off? I think I should like to walk there,

if you please."

"No, no, it'll be getting dark, we must make haste. And the donkey'll

carry you as nice as can be; you'll see."

He lifted Maggie as he spoke, and set her on the donkey. She felt

relieved that it was not the old man who seemed to be going with her,

but she had only a trembling hope that she was really going home.

"Here's your pretty bonnet," said the younger woman, putting that

recently despised but now welcome article of costume on Maggie's head;

"and you'll say we've been very good to you, won't you? and what a nice

little lady we said you was."

"Oh yes, thank you," said Maggie, "I'm very much obliged to you. But I

wish you'd go with me too." She thought anything was better than going

with one of the dreadful men alone; it would be more cheerful to be

murdered by a larger party.

"Ah, you're fondest o' _me_, aren't you?" said the woman. "But I can't

go; you'll go too fast for me."

[Illustration: "AH, YOU'RE FONDEST O' ME, AREN'T YOU?"]

It now appeared that the man also was to be seated on the donkey,

holding Maggie before him, and she was as incapable of remonstrating

against this arrangement as the donkey himself, though no nightmare had

ever seemed to her more horrible. When the woman had patted her on the

back and said "Good-bye," the donkey, at a strong hint from the man's

stick, set off at a rapid walk along the lane toward the point Maggie

had come from an hour ago, while the tall girl and the rough urchin,

also furnished with sticks, obligingly escorted them for the first

hundred yards, with much screaming and thwacking.

Not Leonore, in that preternatural midnight excursion with her phantom

lover, was more terrified than poor Maggie in this entirely natural ride

on a short-paced donkey, with a gypsy behind her, who considered that he

was earning half-a-crown. The red light of the setting sun seemed to

have a portentous meaning, with which the alarming bray of the second

donkey with the log on its foot must surely have some connection. Two

low thatched cottages--the only houses they passed in this lane--seemed

to add to its dreariness; they had no windows to speak of, and the doors

were closed; it was probable that they were inhabited by witches, and it

was a relief to find that the donkey did not stop there.

At last--oh, sight of joy!--this lane, the longest in the world, was

coming to an end, was opening on a broad highroad, where there was

actually a coach passing! And there was a finger-post at the

corner,--she had surely seen that finger-post before,--"To Saint Ogg's,

2 miles." The gypsy really meant to take her home, then; he was probably

a good man, after all, and might have been rather hurt at the thought

that she didn't like coming with him alone. This idea became stronger as

she felt more and more certain that she knew the road quite well, and

she was considering how she might open a conversation with the injured

gypsy, and not only gratify his feelings, but efface the impression of

her cowardice, when, as they reached a crossroad, Maggie caught sight of

some one coming on a white-faced horse.

"Oh, stop, stop!" she cried out. "There's my father! Oh, father,

father!"

The sudden joy was almost painful, and before her father reached her,

she was sobbing. Great was Mr. Tulliver's wonder, for he had made a

round from Basset, and had not yet been home.

"Why, what's the meaning o' this?" he said, checking his horse, while

Maggie slipped from the donkey and ran to her father's stirrup.

"The little miss lost herself, I reckon," said the gypsy. "She'd come to

our tent at the far end o' Dunlow Lane, and I was bringing her where she

said her home was. It's a good way to come after being on the tramp all

day."

"Oh yes, father, he's been very good to bring me home," said Maggie,--"a

very kind, good man!"

"Here, then, my man," said Mr. Tulliver, taking out five shillings.

"It's the best day's work _you_ ever did. I couldn't afford to lose the

little wench; here, lift her up before me."

"Why, Maggie, how's this, how's this?" he said, as they rode along,

while she laid her head against her father and sobbed. "How came you to

be rambling about and lose yourself?"

"Oh, father," sobbed Maggie, "I ran away because I was so unhappy; Tom

was so angry with me. I couldn't bear it."

"Pooh, pooh," said Mr. Tulliver, soothingly, "you mustn't think o'

running away from father. What 'ud father do without his little wench?"

"Oh, no, I never will again, father--never."

Mr. Tulliver spoke his mind very strongly when he reached home that

evening; and the effect was seen in the remarkable fact that Maggie

never heard one reproach from her mother, or one taunt from Tom, about

this foolish business of her running away to the gypsies. Maggie was

rather awe-stricken by this unusual treatment, and sometimes thought

that her conduct had been too wicked to be alluded to.

Of the three children who are presented to us in these chapters,

Tom, Maggie and little Lucy, which is the most attractive to you?

Do you think the author meant us to receive this impression?

Is Maggie proud? Is she impetuous? Is she highly sensitive? Find as

many passages as you can which prove your answers to these

questions. Do these qualities usually make a person attractive?

What is the mainspring of Maggie's character--the motive for most

of her actions? Does Tom seem to you worthy of the intense

affection she bestows upon him? Do you think a person with Maggie's

nature would be likely to live a happy or an unhappy life?

Few writers have ever been able to draw as distinct, lifelike a

picture of a child as we have of Maggie Tulliver in _The Mill on

the Floss_. This is to be in part accounted for by the fact that it

is herself as a child that George Eliot is describing.

A GORILLA HUNT

_By_ PAUL DU CHAILLU

I had not been at the village long before news came that gorillas had

been recently seen in the neighborhood of a plantation only half a mile

distant. Early in the morning of the twenty-fifth of June, I wended my

way thither, accompanied by one of my boys, named Odanga. The plantation

was a large one, and situated on very broken ground, surrounded by the

virgin forest. It was a lovely morning; the sky was almost cloudless,

and all around was still as death, except the slight rustling of the

tree tops moved by the gentle land breeze. When I reached the place, I

had first to pick my way through the maze of tree stumps and half-burnt

logs by the side of a field of cassada. I was going quietly along the

borders of this, when I heard, in the grove of plantain trees towards

which I was walking, a great crashing noise, like the breaking of trees.

I immediately hid myself behind a bush, and was soon gratified with the

sight of a female gorilla; but before I had time to notice its

movements, a second and third emerged from the masses of colossal

foliage; at length no less than four came into view.

They were all busily engaged in tearing down the larger trees. One of

the females had a young one following her. I had an excellent

opportunity of watching the movements of the impish-looking band. The

shaggy hides, the protuberant abdomens, the hideous features of these

strange creatures, whose forms so nearly resemble man, made up a picture

like a vision in some morbid dream. In destroying a tree, they first

grasped the base of the stem with one of their feet, and then with their

powerful arms pulled it down, a matter of not much difficulty with so

loosely formed a stem as that of the plantain. They then set upon the

juicy heart of the trees at the bases of the leaves, and devoured it

with great voracity. While eating they made a kind of clucking noise,

expressive of contentment. Many trees they destroyed apparently out of

pure mischief. Now and then they stood still and looked around. Once or

twice they seemed on the point of starting off in alarm, but recovered

themselves and continued their work. Gradually they got nearer to the

edge of the dark forest, and finally disappeared. I was so intent on

watching them, that I let go the last chance of shooting one almost

before I became aware of it.

The next day I went again with Odanga to the same spot. I had no

expectation of seeing gorillas in the same plantation, and was carrying

a light shot gun, having given my heavy double-barreled rifle to the boy

to carry. The plantation extended over two hills, with a deep hollow

between, planted with sugar cane. Before I had crossed the hollow I saw

on the opposite slope a monstrous gorilla, standing erect and looking

directly towards me. Without turning my face I beckoned to the boy to

bring me my rifle, but no rifle came,--the little coward had bolted, and

I lost my chance. The huge beast stared at me for about two minutes, and

then, without uttering any cry, moved off to the shade of the forest,

running nimbly on his hands and feet.

As my readers may easily imagine, I had excellent opportunity of

observing, during these two days, the manner in which the gorillas

walked when in open ground. They move along with great rapidity and on

all fours, that is, with the knuckles of their hands touching the

ground. Artists, in representing the gorilla walking, generally make the

arms too much bowed outwards, and the elbows too much bent; this gives

the figures an appearance of heaviness and awkwardness. When the

gorillas that I watched left their plantain trees, they moved off at a

great pace over the ground, with their arms extended straight forward

towards the ground, and moving rapidly. I may mention also that having

now opened the stomachs of several freshly killed gorillas, I have never

found anything but vegetable matter in them.

When I returned to Nkongon Mboumba I found there my old friend Akondogo,

chief of one of the Commi villages, who had just returned from the Ngobi

country, a little further south. To my great surprise and pleasure, he

had brought for me a living gorilla, a young one, but the largest I had

ever seen captured alive. Like Joe, the young male whose habits in

confinement I described in 'Equatorial Africa,' this one showed the most

violent and ungovernable disposition. He tried to bite every one who

came near him, and was obliged to be secured by a forked stick closely

applied to the back of his neck. This mode of imprisoning these animals

is a very improper one if the object be to keep them alive and to tame

them, but, unfortunately, in this barbarous country, we had not the

materials requisite to build a strong cage. The injury caused to this

one by the forked stick eventually caused his death. As I had some more

hunting to do, I left the animal in charge of Akondogo until he should

have an opportunity of sending it to me on the Fernand Vaz.

The natives of all the neighboring country were now so well aware that I

wanted live gorillas, and was willing to give a high price for them,

that many were stimulated to search with great perseverance; the good

effects of this were soon made evident.

One day as I was quietly dining with Captain Holder, of the _Cambria_ (a

vessel just arrived from England), one of my men came in with the

startling news that three live gorillas had been brought, one of them

full grown. I had not long to wait; in they came. First, a very large

adult female, bound hand and foot; then her female child, screaming

terribly; and lastly, a vigorous young male, also tightly bound. The

female had been ingeniously secured by the negroes to a strong stick,

the wrists bound to the upper part and the ankles to the lower, so that

she could not reach to tear the cords with her teeth. It was dark, and

the scene was one so wild and strange that I shall never forget it. The

fiendish countenances of the Calibanish trio, one of them distorted by

pain, for the mother gorilla was severely wounded, were lit up by the

ruddy glare of native torches. The thought struck me, what would I not

give to have the group in London for a few days!

[Illustration: GORILLA WITH HER YOUNG]

The young male I secured by a chain which I had in readiness, and gave

him henceforth the name of Tom. We untied his hands and feet; to show

his gratitude for this act of kindness he immediately made a rush at me,

screaming with all his might; happily the chain was made fast, and I

took care afterwards to keep out of his way. The old mother gorilla was

in an unfortunate plight. She had an arm broken and a wound in the

chest, besides being dreadfully beaten on the head. She groaned and

roared many times during the night, probably from pain.

I noticed next day, and on many occasions, that the vigorous young male

whenever he made a rush at any one and missed his aim, immediately ran

back. This corresponds with what is known of the habits of the large

males in their native woods; when attacked they make a furious rush at

their enemy, break an arm or tear his bowels open, and then beat a

retreat, leaving their victim to shift for himself.

The wounded female died in the course of the next day; her moanings were

more frequent in the morning, and they gradually became weaker as her

life ebbed out. Her death was like that of a human being, and afflicted

me more than I could have thought possible. Her child clung to her to

the last, and tried to obtain milk from her breast after she was dead. I

photographed them both when the young one was resting in its dead

mother's lap. I kept the young one alive for three days after its

mother's death. It moaned at night most piteously. I fed it on goat's

milk, for it was too young to eat berries. It died the fourth day,

having taken an unconquerable dislike to the milk. It had, I think,

begun to know me a little. As to the male, I made at least a dozen

attempts to photograph the irascible little demon, but all in vain. The

pointing of the camera towards him threw him into a perfect rage, and I

was almost provoked to give him a sound thrashing. The day after,

however, I succeeded with him, taking two views, not very perfect, but

sufficient for my object.

I must now relate how these three animals were caught, premising that

the capture of the female was the first instance of an adult gorilla

being taken alive. The place where they were found was on the left bank

of the Fernand Vaz, about thirty miles above my village. At this part a

narrow promontory projects into the river. It was the place where I had

intended to take the distinguished traveler, Captain Burton, to show him

a live gorilla, if he had paid me a visit, as I had expected, for I had

written to invite him whilst he was on a tour from his consulate at

Fernando Po to several points on the West African coast.

A woman, belonging to a neighboring village, had told her people that

she had seen two squads of female gorillas, some of them accompanied by

their young ones, in her plantain field. The men resolved to go in chase

of them, so they armed themselves with guns, axes, and spears, and

sallied forth.

The situation was very favorable for the hunters; they formed a line

across the narrow strip of land and pressed forward, driving the animals

to the edge of the water. When they came in sight of them, they made all

the noise in their power, and thus bewildered the gorillas, who were

shot or beaten down in their endeavors to escape. There were eight

adult females altogether, but not a single male. The negroes thought the

males were in concealment in the adjoining woods, having probably been

frightened away by the noise.

This incident led me to modify somewhat the opinions I had expressed, in

'Adventures in Equatorial Africa,' regarding some of the habits of the

gorilla. I there said I believed it impossible to capture an adult

female alive, but I ought to have added, unless wounded. I have also

satisfied myself that the gorilla is more gregarious than I formerly

considered it to be; at least it is now clear that, at certain times of

the year, it goes in bands more numerous than those I saw in my former

journey. Then I never saw more than five together. I have myself seen,

on my present expedition, two of these bands of gorillas, numbering

eight or ten, and have had authentic accounts from the natives of other

similar bands. It is true that, when gorillas become aged, they seem to

be more solitary, and to live in pairs, or, as in the case of old males,

quite alone. I have been assured by the negroes that solitary and aged

gorillas are sometimes seen almost white; the hair becomes grizzled with

age, and I have no doubt that the statement of their becoming

occasionally white with extreme old age is quite correct.

The gorilla is of migratory habits at some seasons of the year. He is

then not found in the districts usually resorted to by him when the

berries, fruits, and nuts are in season.

Besides my other collections I embarked a live gorilla, our little

friend Tom, and had full hopes that he would arrive safely and gratify

the world of London with a sight of this rare and wonderful ape in the

living state; unfortunately, he died on the passage. He did very well

for a few weeks, I am told, as long as the supply of bananas lasted

which I placed on board for his sustenance. The repugnance of the

gorilla to cooked food, or any sort of food except the fruits and juicy

plants he obtains in his own wilds, will always be a difficulty in the

way of bringing him to Europe alive. I had sent him consigned to Messrs.

Baring, who, I am sure, never had any such consignment before. I

promised the Captain that he should receive one hundred pounds if he

succeeded in taking the animal alive to London.

During the few days Tom was in my possession he remained, like all the

others of his species that I had seen, utterly untractable. The food

that was offered to him he would come and snatch from the hand, and then

bolt with it to the length of his tether. If I looked at him he would

make a feint of darting at me, and in giving him water I had to push the

bowl towards him with a stick, for fear of his biting me. When he was

angry I saw him often beat the ground and his legs with his fists, thus

showing a similar habit to that of the adult gorillas, which I described

as beating their breasts with their fists when confronting an enemy.

Before lying down to rest he used to pack his straw very carefully as a

bed to lie on. Tom used to wake me in the night by screaming suddenly,

and in the morning I more than once detected him in the attempt to

strangle himself with his chain, no doubt through rage at being kept

prisoner. He used to twist the chain round and round the post, to which

it was attached until it became quite short and then pressed with his

feet the lower part of the post until he had nearly done the business.

As I have before related, I took photographs of Tom, and succeeded very

well. These photographs I was unwilling to send home, and kept them

until I should have completed my whole series of photographs of African

subjects. They are now, unfortunately, lost forever; for they were left

behind in the bush during my hurried retreat from Ashango-land, as will

be related in the sequel.

When the last boat which took on board the Captain and the live animals

left the shore for the vessel, I trembled for the safety of the cargo,

for the surf was very rough. The negroes, however, could have managed to

get her safely through if they had not been too careful. They were

nervous at having a white man on board, and did not seize the proper

moment to pass the breakers; their hesitation was very near proving

fatal, for a huge billow broke over them and filled the boat. It did

not, happily, upset, but they had to return. Captain Berridge thus

escaped with a wetting, and the Potamochoerus and eagles were half

drowned. As to poor Tom, the bath, instead of cooling his courage, made

him more violent than ever. He shouted furiously, and as soon as I

opened the door of his cage he pounced on the bystanders, clinging to

them and screaming. A present of a banana, which he ate voraciously,

quieted him down, and the passage was again tried in the afternoon with

a better result.

THE CLOUD

_By_ PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,

From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet buds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,

As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under;

And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast;

And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.

Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers

Lightning, my pilot, sits,

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder;

It struggles and howls by fits.

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,

This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move

In the depths of the purple sea;

Over the rills and the crags and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,

The spirit he loves remains;

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,

Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,

And his burning plumes outspread,

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning star shines dead.

As, on the jag of a mountain crag

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

An eagle, alit, one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings;

And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,

Its ardors of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,

With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden,

Whom mortals call the moon,

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor

By the midnight breezes strewn;

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer;

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.

From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.

The triumphal arch, through which I march,

With hurricane, fire, and snow,

When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,

Is the million-colored bow;

The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of earth and water,

And the nursling of the sky;

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;

I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when, with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,

Build up the blue dome of air,--

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,

I rise and upbuild it again.

BRUTE NEIGHBORS

_By_ HENRY DAVID THOREAU

NOTE.--The author of this sketch, Henry David Thoreau, who lived

from 1817 to 1862, was one of the oddest of American men of genius.

He was educated at Harvard University, but he did not care, in the

common phrase, to "turn his learning to practical account;" that

is, save for a short time when he taught school, he did not make it

earn his living for him. His theory was that life and energy were

being wasted when a man spent in working more time than he

absolutely needed to in order to provide himself with necessities;

and this theory he carried out in his own life. While he lived in

Concord, he did odd jobs at carpentering, surveying, and gardening,

and worked for a time at his father's trade of pencil making.

However, he contended that a man was doing himself an injustice if

he kept on at that work after he had reached the point where he

could make no further improvement in his pencils.

From 1845 to 1847 Thoreau lived as a hermit in a hut which he had

built on the shore of Walden Pond, and the simple life he led there

gave him plenty of leisure for the things he liked best--the study

of nature, the grappling with philosophical problems, and the

society of friends. The result of the two years at Walden Pond was

his best book, _Walden, or Life in the Woods_, a work which is

distinguished for its peculiarly truthful and sympathetic studies

of nature.

Thoreau refused to perform any of the ordinary duties of a citizen;

he never voted, he never paid taxes. Once he was arrested because

he refused to pay his taxes, and was thrown into jail; his friends

remonstrated with him, but still he refused to pay. However, when

his friends paid the sum he made no objections to accepting his

release, nor did he in the future make any objections when his

friends quietly paid his taxes.

_The Pond in Winter_ and _Winter Animals_, which are contained in

this volume, are also from Thoreau.

Why do precisely these objects which we behold make a world? Why has man

just these species of animals for his neighbors; as if nothing but a

mouse could have filled this crevice? I suspect that Pilpay & Co. have

put animals to their best use, for they are all beasts of burden, in a

sense, made to carry some portion of our thoughts.

The mice which haunted my house were not the common ones, which are said

to have been introduced into the country, but a wild native kind not

found in the village. I sent one to a distinguished naturalist, and it

interested him much. When I was building, one of these had its nest

underneath the house, and before I had laid the second floor, and swept

out the shavings, would come out regularly at lunch time and pick up the

crumbs at my feet. It probably had never seen a man before; and it soon

became quite familiar, and would run over my shoes and up my clothes. It

could readily ascend the sides of the room by short impulses, like a

squirrel, which it resembled in its motions. At length, as I leaned with

my elbow on the bench one day, it ran up my clothes, and along my

sleeve, and round and round the paper which held my dinner, while I kept

the latter close, and dodged and played at bo-peep with it; and when at

last I held still a piece of cheese between my thumb and finger, it

came and nibbled it, sitting in my hand, and afterward cleaned its face

and paws, like a fly, and walked away.

A phoebe soon built in my shed, and a robin for protection in a pine

which grew against the house. In June the partridge (_Tetrao umbellus_),

which is so shy a bird, led her brood past my windows, from the woods in

the rear to the front of my house, clucking and calling to them like a

hen, and in all her behavior proving herself the hen of the woods. The

young suddenly disperse on your approach, at a signal from the mother,

as if a whirlwind had swept them away, and they so exactly resemble the

dried leaves and twigs that many a traveler has placed his foot in the

midst of a brood, and heard the whir of the old bird as she flew off,

and her anxious calls and mewing, or seen her trail her wings to attract

his attention, without suspecting their neighborhood. The parent will

sometimes roll and spin round before you in such a dishabille, that you

cannot, for a few moments, detect what kind of creature it is. The young

squat still and flat, often running their heads under a leaf, and mind

only their mother's directions given from a distance, nor will your

approach make them run again and betray themselves. You may even tread

on them, or have your eyes on them for a minute, without discovering

them. I have held them in my open hand at such a time, and still their

only care, obedient to their mother and their instinct, was to squat

there without fear or trembling. So perfect is this instinct, that once,

when I had laid them on the leaves again, and one accidentally fell on

its side, it was found with the rest in exactly the same position ten

minutes afterward. They are not callow like the young of most birds, but

more perfectly developed and precocious even than chickens. The

remarkably adult yet innocent expression of their open and serene eyes

is very memorable. All intelligence seems reflected in them. They

suggest not merely the purity of infancy, but a wisdom clarified by

experience. Such an eye was not born when the bird was, but is coeval

with the sky it reflects. The woods do not yield another such gem. The

traveler does not often look into such a limpid well. The ignorant or

reckless sportsman often shoots the parent at such a time, and leaves

these innocents to fall a prey to some prowling beast or bird, or

gradually mingle with the decaying leaves which they so much resemble.

It is said that when hatched by a hen they will directly disperse on

some alarm, and are so lost, for they never hear the mother's call which

gathers them again. These were my hens and chickens.

It is remarkable how many creatures live wild and free though secret in

the woods, and still sustain themselves in the neighborhood of towns,

suspected by hunters only. How retired the otter manages to live there!

He grows to be four feet long, as big as a small boy, perhaps without

any human being getting a glimpse of him. I formerly saw the raccoon in

the woods behind where my house is built, and probably still heard their

whinnering at night. Commonly I rested an hour or two in the shade at

noon, after planting, and ate my lunch, and read a little by a spring

which was the source of a swamp and of a brook, oozing from under

Brister's Hill, half a mile from my field. The approach to this was

through a succession of descending grassy hollows, full of young pitch

pines, into a larger wood about the swamp. There, in a very secluded and

shaded spot, under a spreading white pine, there was yet a clean firm

sward to sit on. I had dug out the spring and made a well of clear gray

water, where I could dip up a pailful without roiling it, and thither I

went for this purpose almost every day in midsummer, when the pond was

warmest. Thither, too, the woodcock led her brood, to probe the mud for

worms, flying but a foot above them down the bank, while they ran in a

troop beneath; but at last, spying me, she would leave her young and

circle round and round me, nearer and nearer till within four or five

feet, pretending broken wings and legs, to attract my attention, and get

off her young, who would already have taken up their march, with faint

wiry peep, single file through the swamp, as she directed. Or I heard

the peep of the young when I could not see the parent bird. There too

the turtledoves sat over the spring, or fluttered from bough to bough of

the soft white pines over my head; or the red squirrel, coursing down

the nearest bough, was particularly familiar and inquisitive. You only

need sit still long enough in some attractive spot in the woods that all

its inhabitants may exhibit themselves to you by turns.

[Illustration: BATTLE OF THE ANTS]