miniature "belfry," containing a tiny brass bell, and had led the
string into the water, letting it go down to a considerable depth.
At first, I tied a bait at intervals upon the line, and the
sticklebacks, of course, seized upon it, and thus rang the bell.
Generally the ringing was done in a very grave and proper way,
although sometimes, when the bait was too tightly tied, the quick
peals sounded like a call to a fire.
I kept up this system of baiting the string for about a week, until
I thought they understood it, and then replaced the worms by bits
of stone. As I expected, the next morning, as I looked through the
grass and down into the water, tinkle! tinkle! rang the bell, and I
knew my little friends were saying, "Good-morning!" and expected a
breakfast. You may be sure they got it. I put my hand down, and up
they came, and got one worm apiece; and as I raised my hand, down
they rushed, and away went the bell, in an uproarious peal, that
must have startled the whole neighborhood. I was quick to respond,
and they soon learned to ring the bell before coming to the
surface; in fact, if they saw me pass, I always heard their welcome
greeting. But to return to the minnows.
I generally fed them first, about twenty feet up the bank; but one
morning I found one or two had followed me down to the residence of
the stickleback family. They met with a rude reception, however,
and, to avoid making trouble, the next day I went to the willow
first. But no sooner had the bell begun to ring, than I saw a lot
of ripples coming down, and in a second the two factions were in
mortal combat. The sticklebacks were fighting not only for
breakfast, but for their nests, which were near by; and they made
sad work of the poor minnows, who, though smart in some things, did
not know when they were whipped, and so kept up the fight, though
losing one of their number nearly every morning. The bell now and
then rang violently, but I fear it was only sounding an appeal from
a voracious stickleback whose appetite had got the better of his
rage.
So it went on every morning. The minnows had learned what the bell
meant, and though usually defeated in the fight, they in reality
had their betters as servants to ring the bell and call them to
meals. Finally, they succeeded, by force of great numbers, in
driving away their pugnacious little rivals, and the bell hung
silent; for, strange to say, they knew what the sound meant, but I
could never teach them to ring it, when they could rise and steal
the worm from my hand without. But I am inclined to think it was
more laziness than inability to learn, as they afterward picked up
readily some much more difficult tricks. I taught them to leap from
the water into my hand, and lie as if dead; and having arranged a
slide of polished wood upon the bank, by placing worms upon it I
soon had them leaping out and sliding down like so many boys
coasting in the winter. That they afterward did it for amusement I
know, as I often watched them unobserved when there was nothing to
attract but the fun of sliding. This kind of amusement is not
uncommon with many other animals, particularly seals, which delight
in making "slides" on the icy shores.
MARCUS AURELIUS
By Octave Thanet
The ship was nearing the Irish coast. It was a delightful June day
and most of the passengers were on deck. Two ladies sat a little
apart from the crowd of ship-chairs under the cabin awning. One was
fair, plump, pretty and dressed in black; the cabin passengers
called her "the lovely Widow." She was a Mrs. Morris on her way to
Europe to join her brother, accompanied by her two nephews (sons of
two brothers), her sister Nora, and her maid. The other lady was
Miss Nora. She was much younger than her sister whom she did not
resemble in the least, being a tall straight, slim, handsome young
woman with black hair and dark gray eyes in which sparkled a
suspicious gleam of mirth.
Mrs. Morris was speaking: "He is a perfect young savage! Such
manners, and such grammar--I am sure no one would dream that his
father was a bishop. Do you suppose all Western boys are that way?
And such a temper, too! I assure you, Nora, he was fighting the
whole time we were in New York. And look at the way he treats
Edmund--I wonder the boy stands it--poor nice fellow!"
"Edmund is nice," answered Nora, "but Oscar has his good
points--what are they all crowding aft for?"
With an exclamation of "Those dreadful children!" the elder lady
extricated herself from her rug and hurried aft. Nora followed.
Evidently there had been a quarrel of some sort. The purser and the
deck-steward were each holding a boy.
The steward's captive, a handsome, flushed, black-haired lad of
thirteen, was kicking and pushing and making violent efforts to
wiggle out between the steward's legs. The other lad stood
perfectly quiet. He was taller than the dark boy and might have
been two years older, but he was of a much slighter build. His fair
hair was disordered, his nose bleeding, and his collar torn.
Looking up into the purser's face, he said in a low tone,
"_Please_ let us fight it out. He'll bully me again, if you
don't!"
At this the dark boy stopped in his violent attacks on the
steward's legs and said, breathlessly: "Well, you ain't such a
milksop after all, Ned!"
"No, no," said the purser; "no fighting on the _Gallia_. You
two young gentlemen must promise to let each other alone while you
are on shipboard or"--
"O, promise, Ned," the dark boy interrupted, "we can have it out
onshore, you know! Say, _I_ promise, let me go."
"I promise, too, then," said the fair boy.
"Mind you both remember," said the purser, releasing his captive;
and turning to Mrs. Morris: "No harm done yet ma'am."
Both boys recognized their aunt; they had been too busy with each
other before to look about. They stood silently by, Oscar grinning
and Edmund frowning, while she apologized for their conduct. Then
she turned to them and led them to an impromptu court of justice
behind the wheel-house. The proceedings were brief. Oscar told his
story. As usual, he related a perfectly plain, uncolored tale,
making no excuse for himself.
"We were up on deck, Aunt Nellie and Aunt Nora, and Ned was reading
and us boys wanted him to play shovel-board and he wouldn't; so
just for fun, I tried to show the boys--while he was reading, you
know--how near I could come to hitting his cap, and not hit it; and
I made a mistake and hit it and just then the wind blowed and it
went overboard, and the boys laughed and he jumped up and said,
'Who knocked my hat off?' and I said it was me, and he said he
wasn't going to take any more bullying from me and up and hit me in
the face and then I hit him back. I told him I was only fooling,
but he didn't mind and kept on getting madder and hitting till I
got mad too and--that's how it happened. But I didn't mean to knock
his hat off, and I'll fight him all he wants on shore."
"I didn't know he was fooling," said Edmund, "and Aunt Nellie, it
isn't just this time; I don't mind once; but it's all the time
and--and I truly can't bear it!" The boy's pale face flushed as he
spoke; his voice trembled over the last words and he turned his
head away, winking his eyes hard. Oscar's own eyes grew round with
amazement; it was all he could do to keep from whistling. He
listened to his aunt's reproaches in silence, abstractedly sliding
up and down a freshly tarred rope; and, at their close, when
sentence was pronounced (keeping his high spirits below deck the
rest of the day), he merely nodded his head and walked off saying:
"All right, Aunt Nellie, that's fair enough, I am sure; I'll stay
all right."
"Well!" said Mrs. Morris in a puzzled way, "did ever one see such a
boy? I don't believe he cares a particle--Mercy!" The last
ejaculation was caused by her seeing Oscar's back.
"Let him go," said Nora, who was shrewder than her sister; "don't
say anything about that to-day; I'm not sure about his not caring."
Oscar went directly to the cabin. His young head was fully occupied
trying to make out his cousin's behavior. The boys had never seen
each other until they met in New York, about a week previous to
sailing. It was Oscar's first visit East. The New York boys were
amused by his Western way of speaking and showed their amusement
openly. They made fun of his dress, too, which to be sure was
rather queer, for his mother had been dead many years and the
bishop, good man, was only anxious to encourage the tradespeople in
his own town, and took whatever they were pleased to offer. Mrs.
Morris soon reformed his wardrobe, and Oscar went to work, himself,
reforming his tormentors' manners with his fists. He was in the
full career of his missionary work, and well covered with bruises,
when it came time to sail.
Edmund was the only New York boy now left him. It happened that
Edmund had taken little notice of Oscar, thinking him a rude,
quarrelsome, noisy fellow; while Oscar had a slight opinion of
Edmund--a boy who did not fight, or play games, and always afraid
of soiling his clothes. He said to himself that he would "give Ned
a pretty lively voyage." At first, Edmund was simply scornful; then
he became irritated--at last, angry in good earnest. The quarrel
was the sequel of a series of petty annoyances. Nevertheless it
bewildered Oscar. Ned had not acted in the least as expected. He
could fight; and though he fought in an ignorant, unskilful fashion
that aroused Oscar's pity, he could fight vigorously, and take hard
knocks without whimpering. Most marvelous of all, "Ned" whom he had
pictured wrapt in self-admiration because he lived in New York and
his father was so rich--Ned had been hurt by the teasing.
While he thought, the boy sat with his feet curled up under him on
the long cabin seat that looks out on the sea; and his cheek was
pressed against a little grimy hand. He could see the steel-blue
waves moving toward the ship in wide scallops and the white
sea-gulls flying between the ocean and the sky. Yet he hardly
noticed them; so deeply was he thinking that he started when a hand
was laid on his shoulder.
Then he saw and pulled Aunt Nora down beside him. "What were you
thinking of?" said she.
"Of Ned," he answered. "He ain't so mean as I thought he was. At
any rate, he ain't a coward."
"I could have told you better than that," said Nora. "Why, Oscar,
once I saw him hold a mad dog so that some little girls could run
away. He held it until a man came running up and knocked the poor
beast over the head. It was Ned's favorite dog, too, and when it
had drawn its last breath he sat down and cried over it."
"Humph," said Oscar, "he was pretty brave; what did you do?"
"I was in the house; I ran down to him, but when I got there the
dog was dying. I heard Ned say, 'Oh! please kill him quick. Poor
Louis!'"
"Guess he felt bad," said Oscar.
"He is fond of animals, even those most people dislike. Didn't you
hear of his collection of snakes? He has tamed them so that he can
do anything with them. Once, most unluckily, they got out of the
box and came down stairs into the drawing-room which was filled
with ladies."
"And they, every one, jumped on the chairs and hollered," said
Oscar.
"They did precisely that, Oscar; every one except your Aunt Lizzie.
She stood still and told us how harmless the snakes were until,
knowing her I suppose, they all glided up to her when _she_
climbed a chair, too, very quickly. Luckily Ned happened to be in
the house and heard the commotion and ran in. He whipped the snakes
up and wound them about his arm as coolly as though they had been
pieces of rope."
Oscar was evidently impressed. But his prejudice made a last rally.
He muttered something about Ned's being a nice boy if he were not
so "airy;" always "fussing about his clothes and talking in a
mincing way--just like a New York boy."
"Do you remember," said Nora, "how the boys plagued you in New
York, merely because you didn't talk and dress quite as they do?
Didn't you think it mean of them?"
"Mean as dirt," Oscar said promptly; "and I made 'em sick of it,
too. I guess they won't try it on another Western feller!"
"But, my dear boy, don't you see you are doing the same thing? You
tease Ned and make him unhappy because he doesn't dress and talk
like the boys you know at home."
Oscar shrugged his shoulders; then he laughed. "Maybe you're right,
Aunt Nora. Anyhow I didn't mean to be mean and I'm willing to make
up if Ned is!"
Nora squeezed the little grimy hand so affectionately that he
shrank back lest she should kiss him, "before everybody"--the
erratic and inconsiderate conduct of women in kissing boys was one
of his trials. However, she was more judicious. She went on: "I
knew I could trust you to be just, Oscar. Only you must remember
that Ned isn't impulsive like you; it takes him a long time to get
over things. You have made him unhappy and he may not be ready to
forgive you at a minute's notice. But if you persevere, I am sure
he will understand you and you will be the best friends possible."
Privately, she resolved to try to soften Edmund's resentment before
Oscar should speak to him. But the unfortunate Oscar did not let a
moment slip. No sooner was his aunt's back turned to speak to an
acquaintance than he darted away "to find Ned." Ned was easily
found. He was lying in his berth so bundled up in a rug that only a
patch of his hair was visible. The poor boy had been crying; but of
course Oscar could not know that. He began in a loud, cheerful
voice that grated on Edmund's nerves. "I say, Ned, s'pose we make
up! we'd have lots more fun being friends; and I'll learn you how
to box and everything."
No answer.
"Say, Ned, are you 'sleep?"
"No, I'm not," came in a fierce, smothered voice from the heap on
the berth, "and I wish you'd leave me alone!"
"Then you don't want to make up and be friends?" said Oscar, in a
changed voice.
"No, I don't."
"All right for you, then!" said Oscar. With which withering sarcasm
and a vast deal of dignity he marched out of the room. "Catch me
trying that again," thought he.
Nevertheless his pride was soon conquered by his new admiration of
Edmund and his longing for society. In a day or two he brought his
best cap to his cousin, saying with assumed carelessness: "You can
have it, if you want it, for the one I knocked overboard."
"Thanks," answered Edmund stiffly; "I don't want it; I've plenty of
caps."
He met all Oscar's rough yet timid advances in the same spirit. He
was always civil, but an iceberg would have been as companionable.
To Nora who remonstrated with him he said: "I can't help it; I
don't like him and I never shall. He's bullied me all the voyage
and now he thinks he has only to ask me and I'll make up. I wish
he'd let me alone!"
"How unforgiving you are, Ned," said Nora, "don't you ever do wrong
things yourself?"
"I never do mean things. And it's no use talking; I shall always
despise him."
She said no more, thinking, "I will leave it to time. They will be
so much together that they will have to like each other to be
comfortable. If only Oscar doesn't lose his temper and take to
tormenting him again!"
Happily Oscar kept his temper. He had a great notion of fairness
and, once convinced that he had done wrong, he took his punishment
unflinchingly, angry for the moment, sometimes, but bearing no
malice.
By this time the voyage had ended and they were in Warwickshire,
visiting an English friend of Mrs. Morris. It was while there that
they went one afternoon to drink tea with Lady Margaret Vincent.
Lady Margaret was a Scotchwoman. She had married an Englishman
(long since dead), and for many years had lived in England, but she
travelled far and often, having even been to America, which is
considered a prodigious journey in England.
Edmund was charmed with Lady Margaret's home. He could not look
enough at the quaint old garden with its formal flower-beds and
primly cut yew-trees, or the wonderful old house, the front of
which had not been changed since Henry and Elizabeth. As they went
through the hall, he gazed in an awe-stricken way at the great
carved staircase and the walls where armor was hanging and
strangely fashioned weapons. He felt as though he were stepping
into the Middle Ages.
Meanwhile, Oscar, oblivious of the Middle Ages and every other
improving subject, was getting acquainted with the page. Oscar had
seen pages, for the first time, in New York. He pitied them; they
couldn't like it, rigged out in those ridiculous clothes and never
able to laugh or play. Always willing to talk, he did his best to
amuse them. Now he was busy questioning James: Did his high collar
hurt him? Did he have to rub up his buttons to keep them bright?
Did--here his aunt saw him and jerked him away.
From the hall they passed into a room as odd as delightful. All the
woodwork was of oak, age-darkened to a brown-black, and most
curiously carved. The mantelpiece had high pillars decorated with
ribbons and scrolls and shields and griffin's heads cut out of the
wood; and deep shelves on which were arranged queerly shaped and
colored china vases, teapots and teacups. Oscar thought them ugly,
wondering at the ladies' admiration. Before the doors and windows
hung tapestry curtains in which pictures of hunting scenes were
woven. The stuff was darned in so many places that Oscar quite
pitied Lady Margaret who must have such old curtains; but Mrs.
Morris gave a little scream of delight and cried "Oh!" and "How
priceless!" and something that sounded like "Goblins!" But though
Oscar looked hard at the curtains to find the goblins, he saw none.
Then his eyes strayed over the polished floor and the dull-hued
rugs, over ebony and ivory cabinets and stiff-backed chairs, to be
fixed, finally, by a huge Wardian case.
There were rocks in the case, coated with moss; ferns and strange
sea-weeds grew on the edge of the water; crabs clung below; lizards
crept above; innumerable slimy things swam about, midway. The case
stood on a long table. Near it, on another box, half a dozen snakes
lay coiled into one indistinguishable mass. Under the table three
monkey-like little creatures were dancing and chattering. A wee
Scotch terrier ran about, sniffing at the guests' clothing. Before
the fire of coals--for the day was chilly for June--was stretched a
great white stag-hound. The room and all the animals made Oscar
think of _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_.
Lady Margaret was standing close to the staghound. Her tall, large
figure was clad in black satin; her fair old face was framed by
abundant white hair which had a gloss like silver; and her dark
eyes were bright as her diamonds. She greeted them cordially, at
once taking a fancy to Edmund because of his evident delight in
animals. Perhaps she might have thought better of Oscar, had she
not caught him in the act of winking at the page. Very soon she
began to speak of the creatures about her. "Marmosets, my dears,"
clutching one of the little chatterers under the table; "they make
a deal of noise, but like most noisy people's talk it doesn't mean
much. This is my aquarium; the sea-horses are most odd, don't you
think? And here," coolly pushing back her sleeve and plunging a
plump, white arm into the water, "this, you know--just a frog! See
how tame! And people call them ugly! That's all they know about it.
Look at his beautiful skin and his honest eye! Isn't he handsome,
now? Here are some lizards, but they are not so interesting; quite
pleasant, you know, but not fascinating, like frogs and snakes.
Yes, my lad, I dare say you will be wanting to see the snakes. Here
they are. They are as tame as they are beautiful."
"She isn't going to take _them_ out in her hands, is she?"
Mrs. Morris whispered to her English friend.
"She always does," was the placid answer. "See!"
Lady Margaret had made a bracelet of a snake and was holding out
her arm. One by one she added the others while Mrs. Morris, having
interposed her friend between her and the spectacle, controlled her
nerves as best she could. "They are quite harmless, quite, I assure
you," said Lady Margaret, making a reassuring gesture with her arm,
on which it happened two snakes were coiled. "Now, look, my lads,
I'll put this one back; he is a well-meaning snake but rather
stupid. _This_ one I'll lay on the table."
Mrs. Morris rapidly retreated towards the fire, stepping on the
hound's tail by the way, and naturally bringing out a deep growl
which sent her back again.
Unconscious of her guest's alarm, Lady Margaret continued: "His
name is Marcus Aurelius; I call him that after the great Roman
emperor, because he is so sweet-tempered and intelligent. See what
a humorous expression he has!" (And, in fact, the snake's tiny eyes
and wide mouth had something the look of an ironical grin about
them.) "Look! See him follow me about the table. He knows his
friend--don't you, my pet? Now, Marcus, I'll put up my arm for a
pole; make a monkey of yourself. Climb down, again. Now," tapping
the table, "be a dead snake. Very good. Now, show them what you
think of strangers." She motioned to Oscar; but he edged back
behind Nora, muttering, "No, they are nasty!"
Then Nora stepped forward. Instantly the snake coiled itself up,
hissing.
"Now, you," said Lady Margaret to Edmund.
"He won't be afraid of me," laughed Edmund, stretching forth his
hand; "come, pet!"
And to Lady Margaret's surprise the snake came, twining about the
boy's wrist as it was used to twine about hers. "Ah, you have my
gift, my dear!" she cried, delighted.
She put the snake back in the box and excused herself for a moment.
The page brought in the tea-tray. In a moment Lady Margaret
returned and made the tea, Mrs. Morris who had been looking on all
this while in a kind of trance of horror, recovered enough, at
these refreshing signs, to sink into a chair by a low table. She
clutched her sister's arm--Nora sat next to her--and murmured, "Was
there ever such an awful menagerie of a house?"
"Be quiet," whispered Nora.
"I can't be quiet! Those dreadful little monkey things are under
the table, nibbling at my ankles, I shall _have_ to scream!"
"You can't scream. Don't disgrace your country. Lady Margaret will
hear us, I much fear!"
"She's making tea at the other table. Besides, Mrs. Darrel and Eddy
are talking to her, Nora. Are you sure that big dog is safe? Did
you hear him growl? It was an awfully fierce-sounding growl! And,
Nora, I _think_ one of the snakes is loose. There were six in
the box and I can count only five--yes, Lady Margaret, the tea is
quite right. It is delicious."
But though, in truth it was delicious, and though equally to be
praised were the thin bread and butter, the Scotch shortbread from
Edinburgh, and the English plum cake, Mrs. Morris never enjoyed a
repast less. She spent her time making little sorties with her feet
at the marmosets, which took it for play and returned to the attack
with new zest; and she whispered to Nora that she was morally sure
the sixth snake was crawling up her chair.
Nora, herself, was not at ease; nevertheless, her patriotic
politeness conquered; she ate everything, looked at everything,
praised everything. Lady Margaret found her "most agreeable."
Mrs. Darrel had seen the snakes too often to be disturbed, and
Edmund was in his element. As for Oscar, he fell into sad
disgrace--he kicked the marmosets. Lady Margaret was too kind to
say anything; but Mrs. Morris did the subject justice all the way
home. "At least you might have kicked them, quietly, under the
table," said she; "but no, you do it sideways in full view of
everyone!"
The next day the party journeyed on towards London. The sun shone
brightly and the weather, which had been so abnormally cold as to
require overcoats, or as the English term them, "top coats," grew
warmer, so that there was nothing to mar enjoyment unless it were
the lack of harmony between the two boys. This still continued. If
there were times when Edmund felt his dislike yielding ever so
slightly to Oscar's good humor and gay spirits, his pride and his
contempt for his cousin stiffened it at once.
It was two days after their arrival in a quiet town near London
where they were to stay a few days for rest at a picturesque old
inn, that Mrs. Morris received a letter from Mrs. Darrel. She read
it at the breakfast table. Before she was half down the first page
she turned to Nora: "There! Didn't I tell you one of those snakes
was gone? Listen to this: 'Poor Lady Margaret is in such distress
over losing her pet snake, the one she called Marcus Aurelius. She
thinks she didn't replace the cover of the box securely the day you
were there, for she hasn't seen it since. She fears it crawled away
and wandered into the village and was killed. Isn't she a dear old
goose?'"