Scene: The ante-room of the fairy palace, Effie reading, Leonard
listening. Don Caesar de Bazan and Lady Purr-a-Meow all attention.
Man never _is_ but always to be blest. The delightful and happy life
our Leonard and Effie had lived all the long sweet summer through could
surely--one would think--have left nothing to be desired.
Both were little naturalists in their way, though they did not know it;
both were poets also, though they wrote no verses, for their hearts were
attuned to the music of the wild woods, the song of birds, the rippling
laughter of the rill, the whisper of the low wind through the trees, or
even the dash of the cataract and roar of the storm. No beetle or other
insect was there, in all the romantic country through which they passed
on their way to and from school, that they did not know all about; every
wild flower was a friend; and the little furry denizens of the forest,
that dwelt in old tree stumps, or had their cosy nests among the verdant
moss or the beds of pine-needles--all knew them, and never fled at their
approach.
Curious children both were, for they cared but little for company in
their rambles; they were indeed all in all to each other. And even
though they knew well that a welcome-home awaited them every day, they
made no great hurry, and hardly ever went back from school without a
bagful of delicacies for their pets in the fairy palace--green food and
seeds for the birds, worms and dead mice or dead birds for the owl, and
nuts for all who cared for them.
They ought to have been very happy, and so they were, yet Leonard was
continually planning strange adventures.
The kind of books they read had much to do with the formation of the
boy's character, as they have on the minds of all boys. But in those
good old times there were fewer writers for the young than we have now,
so poetry was more in fashion, and books of travel and weird tales of
ghost and goblin, and old, old, strange stories of romance.
Sometimes Effie read while Leonard listened, but just as often it was
the other way.
"I tell you what I should like to have," said Leonard, one day, throwing
down his book. "What do you think, Effie?"
"Oh! I could never guess. Perhaps a balloon."
"N-no," said Leonard, thoughtfully; "some day we might perhaps get a
balloon, and fly away in it, and see all those beautiful countries that
we read of, but that isn't it. Guess again."
"A large, large eagle, like what Sinbad the Sailor had, to carry us
away, and away, and away through the skies and over the clouds and the
sea."
"No, you're not right yet. Guess again."
"A real live fairy, who would strike on the black rock where they say
all the treasure is buried, and open up a door and take us down into the
caves of gold and gems and everything beautiful."
"No," said Leonard. "I see you can't get at it."
"Well, tell me."
"Why, a real gipsy-waggon to wander away in, when summer days are fine,
and see strange people and strange places."
"And tell fortunes, Leonie?"
"Well, we might do that, you know."
"Ah! but summer isn't anywhere near yet; the chrysanthemums have only
just begun to blow. Then we couldn't go far away, because poor papa and
mamma would miss us quite a deal, and who would feed our pets?"
"Why, Peter, to be sure. He does more than half now. And although
winter _will_ come soon, summer will return, Eff, and the woods grow
green again, and the birds begin to sing once more, and the streams be
clear as crystal, instead of brown as they now are."
"Well," said Effie, "it is worth thinking about. Would Don do?"
Don was the donkey.
"Yes, I think Don would do first-rate. I'm sure he wouldn't run off."
Effie laughed at this idea.
"Don would do. Don must do," continued Leonard, "and the carpenter
would help Peter to build us a cart--no, a van, with a canvas roof. It
would be no end of good fun. And really, Eff, I'm so full of the notion
that I must run right away and tell father."
Leonard burst into the room where Captain Lyle was writing.
"Father," he said, "what can I do for you?"
"Nothing at present. Oh! yes, you can though."
"Well, I'll do it."
"Leave me alone."
Leonard's face fell, and his father began to laugh.
"Father," said Leonard, "when I grow a great big big man, and you are
old, old, and white-haired, and crawling about on crutches like Admiral
Boffin, with perhaps a wooden leg and a hook for an arm--"
"Thank you for the prospect," said Captain Lyle.
"How can you imagine such things?" said his mother, much amused.
"Oh! because I wish him to be just like that."
"Indeed, sir, why?"
"Why, to give me the chance to be so good to him, you know, because he
is so good to me."
"Well, now," Captain Lyle said, "let us come to the point. I don't
admire the prospect of crutches, hook arm, and a wooden leg, and I hope
you're not a true prophet, but you've got some new scheme in your
noddle, and you've come to ask a favour. Anything in reason, Leonie.
Sit down, lad."
Then the boy took a seat and unfolded his plans, and coaxed, and teased,
and what not, till he had gained his father's consent, and then off back
to Castle Beautiful he went. As he scrambled over the fence Effie knew
he had succeeded, because he was singing, and because he had not
troubled to open the gate.
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Spring returned. The snow left the woods and the fields; it lingered
long in the ditches and by the wayside, and made one last sturdy stand
on the hill-tops, but was forced to fly from even there at last. Then
the honeysuckle on the hedgerows unfolded its leaves, the blackthorn
itself began to bud, and the larch woods grew green. The dormouse and
hedgehog, who had slept through all the wild weather, rolled in leaves
at the tree foot, showed their pinched and weary wee faces at their
holes, wondering if there was anything yet to eat. The squirrel had
eaten his very last nut, and stretched himself on a bough to enjoy the
glorious sunshine.
The rook and the mavis, the blackbird and hedge-sparrow had built their
nests, and laid their eggs ever so long ago, only the chaffinch and the
green linnet were waiting for still warmer weather, and the lark wanted
the grass or corn to be just a little higher, while the rose-linnets
sang for more leaves to hide their nests from prying eyes.
But the brooklets, bright and clear now, went singing along over their
pebbly beds, the river rolled softly on, and the silver sallows and
weeping willows bent low over the water, and westerly winds were
blowing, and sunshine was everywhere.
Leonard's waggon or caravan was built and ready. It was the lightest
thing and the neatest thing ever seen in the shape of a one-horse
conveyance, that horse, be it remembered, being a donkey. The little
house-upon-wheels had not two but four small wheels, and instead of
being built of wood its sides and roof were canvas.
It was a gipsy cart of the neatest description, and Effie as well as
Leonard was delighted with it, and as for Don, the donkey, so proud was
he when put into the shafts that he wanted to gallop away with it,
instead of walking at that slow and solemn pace which respectable
thinking donkeys usually affect. But Don was no common ass, I can
assure you. He was not called Don as short for donkey. No, but because
he had been brought from Spain by Captain Lyle, and there, I may tell
you, they have the very best donkeys in the world. Don was very strong
and sturdy, and very wise in his day and generation; his colour was
silver-grey, with a great brown cross on his shoulders and back, while
his ears must have been fully half a yard long. Need I say he was
well-kept and cared for, or that he dearly loved his little master and
mistress, and was, upon the whole, as quiet and docile as a great sheep?
Well, even while the spring lasted, Leonard and Effie had many a long
delightful ramble in their little caravan, and were soon as well known
all over the country for miles around as the letter-carrier himself, and
that is saying a good deal.
But in the bonnie month of May Captain Lyle, and Mrs Lyle as well, had
to make a long, long journey south. In fact, they were going all the
way to London, and in those days this was not only a slow journey but a
dangerous one as well, for many parts of the road were infested by
foot-pads, who cared not whom they killed so long as they succeeded in
getting their money and their valuables.
Farewells were spoken with many tears and caresses, and away went the
parents at last, and Leonard and Effie were left alone.
When they had fairly gone, poor Effie began to cry again.
"Oh, Leonie!" she said, "the house seems so lonely now, so cold and
still, with only the ticking of the dreadful clocks."
But Leonard answered, and said,--"Why, Effie dear, haven't you me? And
am I not big enough to protect you? Come along out and see the
Menagerie."
It was not half so lonesome here, at least, so they thought. They were
high above the woods, and the sun shone very brightly, and all their
curious pets seemed doubly amusing to-day, so before long both were
laughing as merrily as if they were not orphans for the time being.
Three days passed away, and on the morning of the fourth, when, after
breakfast, old Peter the butler came shuffling in, Leonard said,--
"Now, Peter, of course you are aware that I am now master of the house
of Glen Lyle?"
Peter bowed and bowed and bowed, but I think he was laughing quietly to
himself.
"Very well, Peter; straighten yourself up, please, and listen. Miss
Lyle here--"
"That's me," said Effie, in proud defiance of grammar.
"And myself," continued Leonard, "are going away for a week in our
caravan in search of--ahem! the picturesque."
"Preserve us a'!" cried Peter, turning his eyes heavenwards. "What'll
your parents say if I allow it?"
"We will write to them, Peter. Don't you worry. We start to-morrow.
You will look after the Menagerie till we return. And we will want your
assistance to-day to help us to pack."
"Will naething prevail upo' ye to stop at hame?" cried Peter, wringing
his hands.
"Nothing. I'm master, don't forget that." This from Leonard.
"And I'm mistress," said Effie.
So poor Peter had to give in.
They spent a very busy afternoon, but next morning the caravan was
brought to the door, the brass work on Don's new harness being polished
till it looked like gold. Effie sprang lightly in, Ossian, the big
deerhound, who stood nearly as high as Don, went capering about, for he
was to be one of the party.
Up jumped Leonard. Crack went his whip, and off they all were in a
hand-clap.
And poor old Peter fell on his knees and prayed for their safety, till
on a turn of the road the woods seemed to swallow them up.
"Now we're free! It's glorious, isn't it, Effie?"
"It's delightful."
"Aren't you glad you've come?"
"Yes, aren't you?"
"Yes. Which way shall we go?"
"Oh, away and away and away, through the forests and fens, through the
woods and the wilds, on and on and on."
"I say," said Leonard, after a pause, "it would be a good thing to give
Don quite a deal of his own way, and if he wants particularly to go
along any road, just to let him go."
"O yes, that will be such fun. I'm so happy, hungry. I feel it coming
on now."
"Well, by-and-bye we'll dine. Agnes made such a splendid pie; it will
last us quite two days."
At noon they found themselves in a dark pine wood, the bare stems of the
trees looking like the pillars supporting the roof of some majestic
cavern. Here they stopped and unlimbered, because there was a little
stream where Don and the deerhound could drink, besides nice, long,
green grass for the donkey.
They had a portion of the pie for dinner, and it was more delicious,
they thought, than anything they had ever eaten. So thought Ossian.
But of course hunger is sweet sauce.
Then they tied Don to the wheel of the cart, and hand in hand went off
to cull wild flowers. They gathered quite a garland, and put this round
Don's neck on their return, then turned him loose again to eat for an
hour, while Leonard took a volume from a little book-shelf, and read to
Effie a few chapters of a beautiful tale.
But the sun began to decline in the west, so they now put Don to, and
off they went once more.
They came to cross roads soon, and as Don evinced a desire to turn to
the right, they allowed him to do so.