The crofter lived down by the marsh, where he owned some fields with
blackish-brown soil, which he was ploughing for the autumn sowing....
The ploughing progressed spasmodically; for he had only one horse, and
that a small one, that had to stop every few minutes for breath.
“Get along!” said the man to it lethargically.... “Gee up!”
But the horse declined; it considered that it should be allowed a
little longer respite.
“Gee up!” came the order again--and now the man took hold of the reins
which hung loose on the horse’s back.
The nag continued to breathe heavily. The whip had to be produced.
“Get along!... Gee up!”
The old crock lunged out behind and gave a hop into the air--the
preliminaries to starting.
At last they got going again.... Slowly, very slowly, the ploughshare
pushed up the wet earth. The horse pulled itself together and strained
at the harness until the traces quivered; it lunged with its legs and
threw its weight forward, making the plough go faster and faster, so
that the little man had to hurry to keep pace, and once or twice had to
run.
Things went like a house afire for about twenty yards; then the horse
stopped abruptly--time for another rest!
“First-rate!” thought the crofter--and rested also.
Thus, each perfectly understanding the other, they ploughed away
patiently the whole day long....
One evening the crofter stopped earlier than usual.... The heavens were
ablaze and the horizon seethed with flame; the last remnants of day
were being cremated!
Having settled his assistant comfortably in the stall, he set out over
the hill to a meadow where he had grazing rights.
A little later he appeared again leading a small red cow-calf, his bent
back and bowed legs silhouetted gnome-like against the sunset.
The weather was too cold now, besides being too rough and stormy, to
leave young cattle out after dark!
* * * * *
After bolting the calf in, he stands a moment outside his door and
reads from a scrap of newspaper. Suddenly he notices a slight movement
at his feet, and, looking down, sees a little white kitten with arched
back and lifted tail rubbing itself affectionately against his wooden
clogs.
“Well I never! Where did you spring from?”
White becomes nervous at hearing a human voice and hops away a little.
The crofter bends down and makes coaxing noises to her.
She comes nearer again, and now she feels a hand grasp her round the
body--how deliciously it tickles!...
* * * * *
The little farmer’s house, which formed one with the stall and barn,
was overrun with mice. Of an evening when he sat reading they would
often come peeping over the edge of the table and crawl over his
trousers.
He never told how they behaved when he was in bed!
At intervals he brought the farm-cat into the rooms; but it never had
the faintest notion of what was required, and rushed about terrified,
knocking everything down until it was let out again.
White-kitten, therefore, was not unwelcome!
She behaved at once as if she had lived in a house all her life! She
learned to chase after mice on the chest-of-drawers without overturning
the shell-mounted frame containing the photograph of the man in his
soldier’s uniform, and to catch flies on the table without stepping
into the dripping-dish or tea-mug.
She was industrious, affectionate, and anxious to please, besides
which, she knew when to keep out of the way when not wanted. In fact,
she behaved in every respect just as the slave nature in man prefers
his dependents to behave!
The mice soon disappeared completely! Not because they were captured,
but because they could not endure the constant persecution....
And White was named the “demon mouser!”