SPECULATIVE REMARKS WITH WHICH THE READER MAY OR MAY NOT AGREE--AN OLD
WOMAN--HOPES AND WISHES COMMINGLED WITH HARD FACTS--THE DOG CRUSOE'S
EDUCATION BEGUN.
It is pleasant to look upon a serene, quiet, humble face. On such a
face did Richard Varley look every night when he entered his mother's
cottage. Mrs Varley was a widow, and she had followed the fortunes of
her brother, Daniel Hood, ever since the death of her husband. Love for
her only brother induced her to forsake the peaceful village of
Maryland, and enter upon the wild life of a backwoods settlement.
Dick's mother was thin, and old, and wrinkled, but her face was stamped
with a species of beauty which _never_ fades--the beauty of a loving
look. Ah! the brow of snow and the peach-bloom cheek may snare the
heart of man for a time, but the _loving look_ alone can forge that
adamantine chain that time, age, eternity, shall never break.
Mistake us not, reader, and bear with us if we attempt to analyse this
look which characterised Mrs Varley. A rare diamond is worth stopping
to glance at, even when one is in a hurry! The brightest jewel in the
human heart is worth a thought or two! By a _loving look_, we do not
mean a look of love bestowed on a beloved object. That is common
enough, and thankful should we be that it is so common in a world that's
over-full of hatred. Still less do we mean that smile and look of
intense affection with which some people--good people too--greet friends
and foe alike, and by which effort to work out their _beau ideal_ of the
expression of Christian love, they do signally damage their cause, by
saddening the serious and repelling the gay. Much less do we mean that
_perpetual_ smile of good-will which argues more of personal comfort and
self-love than anything else. No, the loving look we speak of is as
often grave as gay. Its character depends very much on the face through
which it beams. And it cannot be counterfeited. Its _ring_ defies
imitation. Like the clouded sun of April, it can pierce through tears
of sorrow; like the noontide sun of summer, it can blaze in warm smiles;
like the northern lights of winter, it can gleam in depths of woe--but
it is always the same, modified, doubtless, and rendered more or less
patent to others, according to the natural amiability of him or her who
bestows it. No one can put it on. Still less can any one put it off.
Its range is universal; it embraces all mankind, though, _of course_, it
is intensified on a few favoured objects; its seat is in the depths of a
renewed heart, and its foundation lies in love to God.
Young Varley's mother lived in a cottage which was of the smallest
possible dimensions consistent with comfort. It was made of logs, as,
indeed, were all the other cottages in the valley. The door was in the
centre, and a passage from it to the back of the dwelling divided it
into two rooms. One of these was subdivided by a thin partition, the
inner room being Mrs Varley's bedroom, the outer Dick's. Daniel Hood's
dormitory was a corner of the kitchen, which apartment served also as a
parlour.
The rooms were lighted by two windows, one on each side of the door,
which gave to the house the appearance of having a nose and two eyes.
Houses of this kind have literally got a sort of _expression_ on--if we
may use the word--their countenances. _Square_ windows give the
appearance of easy-going placidity; _longish_ ones, that of surprise.
Mrs Varley's was a surprised cottage, and this was in keeping with the
scene in which it stood, for the clear lake in front, studded with
islands, and the distant hills beyond, composed a scene so surprisingly
beautiful that it never failed to call forth an expression of astonished
admiration from every new visitor to the Mustang Valley.
"My boy," exclaimed Mrs Varley, as her son entered the cottage with a
bound, "why so hurried to-day? Deary me! where got you the grand gun?"
"Won it, mother!"
"Won it, my son?"
"Ay, won it, mother. Druve the nail _almost_, and would ha' druve it
_altogether_ had I bin more used to Joe Blunt's rifle."
Mrs Varley's heart beat high, and her face flushed with pride as she
gazed at her son, who laid the rifle on the table for her inspection,
while he rattled off an animated and somewhat disjointed account of the
match.
"Deary me! now that was good; that was cliver. But what's that scraping
at the door?"
"Oh! that's Fan; I forgot her. Here! here! Fan! Come in, good dog,"
he cried rising and opening the door.
Fan entered and stopped short, evidently uncomfortable.
"My boy, what do ye with the major's dog?"
"Won her too, mother!"
"Won her, my son?"
"Ay, won her, and the pup too; see, here it is!" and he plucked Crusoe
from his bosom.
Crusoe, having found his position to be one of great comfort, had fallen
into a profound slumber, and on being thus unceremoniously awakened, he
gave forth a yelp of discontent that brought Fan in a state of frantic
sympathy to his side.
"There you are, Fan, take it to a corner and make yourself at home. Ay,
that's right, mother, give her somethin' to eat; she's hungry, I know by
the look o' her eye."
"Deary me, Dick," said Mrs Varley, who now proceeded to spread the
youth's mid-day meal before him, "did ye drive the nail three times?"
"No, only once, and that not parfetly. Brought 'em all down at one
shot--rifle, Fan, an' pup!"
"Well, well, now that was cliver; but--" Here the old woman paused and
looked grave.
"But what, mother?"
"You'll be wantin' to go off to the mountains now, I fear me, boy."
"Wantin' _now_!" exclaimed the youth earnestly; "I'm _always_ wantin'.
I've bin wantin' ever since I could walk; but I won't go till you let
me, mother, that I won't!" And he struck the table with his fist so
forcibly that the platters rung again.
"You're a good boy, Dick; but you're too young yit to ventur' among the
Red-skins."
"An' yit, if I don't ventur' young, I'd better not ventur' at all. You
know, mother dear, I don't want to leave you; but I was born to be a
hunter, and everybody in them parts is a hunter, and I can't hunt in the
kitchen you know, mother!"
At this point the conversation was interrupted by a sound that caused
young Varley to spring up and seize his rifle, and Fan to show her teeth
and growl.
"Hist! mother; that's like horses' hoofs," he whispered, opening the
door and gazing intently in the direction whence the sound came.
Louder and louder it came, until an opening in the forest showed the
advancing cavalcade to be a party of white men. In another moment they
were in full view--a band of about thirty horsemen, clad in the leathern
costume, and armed with the long rifle of the far west. Some wore
portions of the gaudy Indian dress which gave to them a brilliant,
dashing look. They came on straight for the block-house, and saluted
the Varleys with a jovial cheer as they swept past at full speed. Dick
returned the cheer with compound interest, and calling out, "They're
trappers, mother, I'll be back in an hour," bounded off like a deer
through the woods, taking a short cut in order to reach the block-house
before them. He succeeded, for, just as he arrived at the house, the
cavalcade wheeled round the bend in the river, dashed up the slope, and
came to a sudden halt on the green. Vaulting from their foaming steeds
they tied them to the stockades of the little fortress, which they
entered in a body.
Hot haste was in every motion of these men. They were trappers, they
said, on their way to the Rocky Mountains to hunt and trade furs. But
one of their number had been treacherously murdered and scalped by a
Pawnee chief, and they resolved to revenge his death by an attack on one
of the Pawnee villages. They would teach these "red reptiles" to
respect white men, they would, come of it what might; and they had
turned aside here to procure an additional supply of powder and lead.
In vain did the major endeavour to dissuade these reckless men from
their purpose. They scoffed at the idea of returning good for evil, and
insisted on being supplied. The log hut was a store as well as a place
of defence, and as they offered to pay for it there was no refusing
their request--at least so the major thought. The ammunition was
therefore given to them, and in half an hour they were away again at
full gallop over the plains on their mission of vengeance. "Vengeance
is Mine, I will repay, saith the Lord." But these men knew not what God
said, because they never read His Word, and did not own His sway.
Young Varley's enthusiasm was considerably damped when he learned the
errand on which the trappers were bent. From that time forward he gave
up all desire to visit the mountains in company with such men, but he
still retained an intense longing to roam at large among their rocky
fastnesses, and gallop out upon the wide prairies.
Meanwhile he dutifully tended his mother's cattle and sheep, and
contented himself with an occasional deer-hunt in the neighbouring
forests. He devoted himself also to the training of his dog Crusoe--an
operation which at first cost him many a deep sigh.
Every one has heard of the sagacity and almost reasoning capabilities of
the Newfoundland dog. Indeed, some have even gone the length of saying
that what is called instinct in these animals is neither more nor less
than reason. And, in truth, many of the noble, heroic, and sagacious
deeds that have actually been performed by Newfoundland dogs incline us
almost to believe that, like man, they are gifted with reasoning powers.
But every one does not know the trouble and patience that is required in
order to get a juvenile dog to understand what its master means when he
is endeavouring to instruct it.
Crusoe's first lesson was an interesting, but not a very successful one.
We may remark here that Dick Varley had presented Fan to his mother to
be her watch-dog, resolving to devote all his powers to the training of
the pup. We may also remark, in reference to Crusoe's appearance (and
we did not remark it sooner, chiefly because up to this period in his
eventful history he was little better than a ball of fat and hair), that
his coat was mingled jet-black and pure white, and remarkably glossy,
curly, and thick.
A week after the shooting match Crusoe's education began. Having fed
him for that period with his own hand, in order to gain his affection,
Dick took him out one sunny forenoon to the margin of the lake to give
him his first lesson.
And here again we must pause to remark that, although a dog's heart is
generally gained in the first instance through his mouth, yet, after it
is thoroughly gained, his affection is noble and disinterested. He can
scarcely be driven from his master's side by blows, and even when thus
harshly repelled is always ready, on the shortest notice and with the
slightest encouragement, to make it up again.
Well, Dick Varley began by calling out, "Crusoe! Crusoe! come here,
pup."
Of course Crusoe knew his name by this time, for it had been so often
used as a prelude to his meals, that he naturally expected a feed
whenever he heard it. This portal to his brain had already been open
for some days; but all the other doors were fast locked, and it required
a great deal of careful picking to open them.
"Now, Crusoe, come here."
Crusoe bounded clumsily to his master's side, cocked his ears, and
wagged his tail--so far his education was perfect. We say he bounded
_clumsily_, for it must be remembered that he was still a very young
pup, with soft, flabby muscles.
"Now, I'm goin' to begin yer edication, pup; think o' that."
Whether Crusoe thought of that or not we cannot say, but he looked up in
his master's face as he spoke, cocked his ears very high, and turned his
head slowly to one side, until it could not turn any further in that
direction; then he turned it as much to the other side, whereat his
master burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, and Crusoe
immediately began barking vociferously.
"Come, come," said Dick, suddenly checking his mirth, "we mustn't play,
pup, we must work."
Drawing a leathern mitten from his belt, the youth held it to Crusoe's
nose, and then threw it a yard away, at the same time exclaiming in a
loud, distinct tone, "_Fetch it_."
Crusoe entered at once into the spirit of this part of his training; he
dashed gleefully at the mitten, and proceeded to worry it with intense
gratification. As for "_Fetch it_," he neither understood the words nor
cared a straw about them.
Dick Varley rose immediately, and rescuing the mitten, resumed his seat
on a rock.
"Come here, Crusoe," he repeated.
"Oh! certainly, by all means," said Crusoe--no! he didn't exactly _say_
it, but really he _looked_ these words so evidently, that we think it
right to let them stand as they are written. If he could have finished
the sentence he would certainly have said, "Go on with that game over
again, old boy; it's quite to my taste--the jolliest thing in life, I
assure you!" At least, if we may not positively assert that he would
have said that, no one else can absolutely affirm that he wouldn't.
Well, Dick Varley did do it over again, and Crusoe worried the mitten
over again--utterly regardless of "_Fetch it_."
Then they did it again, and again, and again, but without the slightest
apparent advancement in the path of canine knowledge,--and then they
went home.
During all this trying operation Dick Varley never once betrayed the
slightest feeling of irritability or impatience. He did not expect
success at first; he was not, therefore, disappointed at failure.
Next day he had him out again--and the next--and the next--and the next
again, with the like unfavourable result. In short, it seemed at last
as if Crusoe's mind had been deeply imbued with the idea that he had
been born expressly for the purpose of worrying that mitten, and he
meant to fulfil his destiny to the letter.
Young Varley had taken several small pieces of meat in his pocket each
day, with the intention of rewarding Crusoe when he should at length be
prevailed on to fetch the mitten, but as Crusoe was not aware of the
treat that awaited him, of course the mitten never was "fetched."
At last Dick Varley saw that this system would never do, so he changed
his tactics, and the next morning gave Crusoe no breakfast, but took him
out at the usual hour to go through his lesson. This new course of
conduct seemed to perplex Crusoe not a little, for on his way down to
the beach he paused frequently and looked back at the cottage, and then
expressively up at his master's face. But the master was inexorable; he
went on and Crusoe followed, for _true_ love had now taken possession of
the pup's young heart, and he preferred his master's company to food.
Varley now began by letting the learner smell a piece of meat which he
eagerly sought to devour, but was prevented, to his immense disgust.
Then the mitten was thrown as heretofore, and Crusoe made a few steps
towards it, but being in no mood for play he turned back.
"_Fetch it_," said the teacher.
"I won't," replied the learner mutely, by means of that expressive
sign--_not doing it_.
Hereupon Dick Varley rose, took up the mitten, and put it into the pup's
mouth. Then, retiring a couple of yards, he held out the piece of meat
and said, "_Fetch it_."
Crusoe instantly spat out the glove and bounded towards the meat--once
more to be disappointed.
This was done a second time, and Crusoe came forward _with the mitten in
his mouth_. It seemed as if it had been done accidentally, for he
dropped it before coming quite up. If so it was a fortunate accident,
for it served as the tiny fulcrum on which to place the point of that
mighty lever which was destined ere long to raise him to the pinnacle of
canine erudition. Dick Varley immediately lavished upon him the
tenderest caresses and gave him a lump of meat. But he quickly tried it
again lest he should lose the lesson. The dog evidently felt that if he
did not fetch that mitten he should have no meat or caresses. In order,
however, to make sure that there was no mistake, Dick laid the mitten
down beside the pup, instead of putting it into his mouth, and, retiring
a few paces, cried, "_Fetch it_."
Crusoe looked uncertain for a moment, then he _picked up_ the mitten and
laid it at his master's feet. The lesson was learned at last! Dick
Varley tumbled all the meat out of his pocket on the ground, and, while
Crusoe made a hearty breakfast, he sat down on a rock and whistled with
glee at having fairly picked the lock, and opened _another_ door into
one of the many chambers of his dog's intellect!