PETS: PARTICULARLY CAROLA-CAROLUS
One day a man from Vegassheien came into our kitchen with four live
chickens that he wanted to sell. All hens, he said. We had never had any
pets at our house except Bouncer, our big black cat; and Karsten and I
were seized at once with an overwhelming desire to own these four
half-grown, golden-brown chickens, who lay so patiently in the bottom of
the peasant's basket, put their heads on one side and looked up at us
with their little round black eyes. Oh, if Mother only would buy these
darling chickens for us! It is such fun to have pets.
Speaking of pets makes me think of Uncle Ferdinand, and the pet monkey
he had.
You know Uncle Ferdinand? The elegant old gentleman dressed in gray,
who bows so politely, and has such a friendly smile for everybody. Yes,
all the world knows him. He is not really my uncle--or any one's uncle,
that I know of; every one just calls him Uncle, because it seems as if
it exactly suited him. He is certainly the kindest person in the world.
All poor people love him; and he likes all people and all animals.
His wife is Aunt Octavia, and they are very rich and live in a charming
house, with lots of rooms, where there are a great many beautiful
things, works of art and such things. Off in her little boudoir, Aunt
Octavia lies on a sofa all day. She is not really ill, Mother says; she
just lies there because she is so rich. My! if I had as much money as
Aunt Octavia, I should do something besides lie on a sofa with my eyes
shut!
Uncle Ferdinand and Aunt Octavia have no children. That is why they are
both so terribly fond of pets. Aunt Octavia likes best little white
silky poodles that are bathed in luke warm soap-suds, wrapped in a
bathing sheet and combed with a fine comb, and that roll across the
floor like little white balls. I really believe she likes such silky
poodles better than anything else in the world.
But Uncle Ferdinand likes monkeys best. The pet monkey he had was
brought home on one of his ships. The sailors on board had named it
"Stomach," because it was such a great eater, and it was called that all
the rest of its life.
Uncle Ferdinand certainly was in a scrape that time. At first he didn't
dare to tell Aunt Octavia that he thought of bringing a monkey into the
house; but the ship that Stomach had come on was to leave, you see, and
then Uncle Ferdinand had to tell. I can imagine just how it went for I
know how they talk together.
* * * * *
"Wouldn't you like to have a nice new plaything, Octavia? really a
charming plaything, my dear?"
"A plaything? What do you mean?"
"A very amusing plaything that jumps about and plays tricks, and could
climb up the curtains, for instance, or sit on your shoulder and eat
cakes."
"Sit on my shoulder! The man has gone crazy! Don't come any nearer,
Ferdinand, I beg of you. You are ill!"
"Oh no, Octavia my dear, my mind is all right. I mean--I mean--just a
monkey, my darling."
"Good heavens! Is he calling me a monkey? What do you mean?"
"My love, I only mean that there is a monkey on board the ship, that I
would so much like to have here at home."
"And that is what you were beating about the bush so for! Well, well,
that is just like you. However, I agree to anything you like, of course;
let the creature come--let it come. It will strangle me some fine day,
but I am used to that--I mean, I am used to saying yes and yielding to
others."
And that is how Stomach came into the house.
It was the liveliest, most mischievous monkey you can imagine. It stayed
most of the time in Uncle Ferdinand's office. Up and down the
book-shelves it climbed, just like a squirrel; now and then it threw
itself across the room from one bookcase to another. One time it sprang
straight onto the big lamp that hung from the ceiling, and made the
chimney and shade come down in jingling fragments. Stomach hung from one
of the chains, miserable and screaming with fright. This performance it
never repeated.
Stomach loved nothing in the world so much as matches. Whenever it got
hold of a box of matches it was overjoyed, and immediately climbed up on
the highest bookcase. Here it sat and tossed the matches one by one down
on the carpet. When it grew tired of this it flung the whole box, aiming
with amazing success right at the top of Uncle Ferdinand's head. Uncle
Ferdinand always sat patiently waiting for this last shot; then he got
down on his knees, and picked up every single match!
But what caused Uncle Ferdinand the most trouble and care was that Aunt
Octavia had strictly forbidden that the monkey should ever come anywhere
near her. Uncle Ferdinand was on pins and needles for fear this should
happen, and scarcely did anything all day but go around shutting doors
to keep Stomach away from her.
All the servants had been instructed to do the same. Sometimes they were
furious with Stomach, but when it had the toothache and sat with its
hand under its little swollen cheek, and rocked sorrowfully back and
forth like a little sick child, their hearts softened towards it and
they forgave all its pranks. But to keep Stomach within bounds grew more
and more difficult. It unfastened the window-catches, promenaded along
the house walls and on the window-sills. Now and then it whisked through
an open window of another house, returning with the most unbelievable
things, water-jugs and pillows, and cologne-bottles which it emptied
out very thoughtfully and slowly over the dahlia bed.
No one must even mention Stomach's name before Aunt Octavia. "The mere
name of that disgusting creature nauseates me," she said. Uncle went
about as if on eggs and grew even more careful about shutting the doors.
But one day, in spite of all the caution, the terrible thing happened;
the monkey got into Aunt Octavia's room. Some one had forgotten to shut
a door; like a flash Stomach darted through, ran noiselessly over the
soft carpet even into the sacred boudoir, gave a spring up onto Aunt
Octavia, who lay with closed eyes on her sofa, and burrowed its whole
little body in under her arm.
Then there was a hullabaloo! Aunt Octavia shrieked at the top of her
lungs, and people rushed in.
"I lie here helpless," said Aunt Octavia; "it could have strangled me.
Ferdinand, what was its object? I ask you, Ferdinand, what was it
thinking of, when it burrowed in under my arm?"
"Perhaps it wanted to warm itself," said Uncle Ferdinand meekly.
"Warm itself!" said Aunt Octavia scornfully. "To bite me in the heart
was what it wanted."
Nothing would satisfy her but that Uncle must take Stomach to the doctor
to be chloroformed, though he would rather have done anything else in
the world!
But Uncle Ferdinand's monkey really hasn't the least thing to do with
the chickens from Vegassheien that Karsten and I wanted, and that I
began to tell about.
Hurrah! Mother would buy the four chickens, but only on condition that
Karsten and I should take care of them. Would we do this?
Why, of course; it would be only fun. I never imagined then all the
bother and rumpus that would come of it.
Up in our old barn, that has stood for many years unused, there is a
room partitioned off that we call the salt stall, I don't know why. Here
we established our four chickens. I immediately gave them names: Lova,
Diksy, Valpurga, and Carola. Karsten and I stuffed them with food, and
all day they went about scratching in our kitchen garden, where,
however, nothing ever grows. With shallow, sandy soil, and a frightful
lot of sun, you might know it couldn't amount to anything.
The first thing I did in the morning was to let out the chickens. They
flapped and fluttered around me in the fresh, cool morning stillness
under the maples. It always takes some time for the sunshine to get down
to our place, because of the hill.
Lova, Diksy, and Valpurga were quite ordinary long-legged chickens that
scratched and picked all day long, but Carola began little by little to
behave with more dignity. She stepped out vigorously, and scratched
sideways, stood still for minutes at a time, just as if she were
listening for something, and always let the others help themselves
first. And one fine day she stood on the barn steps, flapped her wings,
and crowed--a regular hoarse, cracked chicken's crow--but crow she did.
Of course she had to be christened over again, and so I called her
Carolus.
And it is Carolus' doings that I want to tell about. Not the first year
he lived; he was well enough behaved then. All summer the chickens were
up in the salt stall, but when winter came they were moved down into our
cellar because of the cold. Br-r-r-r! Hens have a wretched time in
winter. The snow lay thick against the cellar window and shut out what
little gray daylight there was, and down there on the stone floor in the
dampness sat all four chickens and moped, their heads drawn down into
their feathers. At such times one can be very glad not to have been born
a hen. However, I went down there every day and comforted them.
"Think of the summer," I said, "think of the rich ground under the
dewberry hedges, and of the whole kitchen garden in the long sunny
days."
Carolus flapped his wings a little, but the others didn't even do
that--they were utterly discouraged.
But at last came the summer.
Lova, Diksy, and Valpurga each laid a pretty little egg every day up in
the salt stall. What fun it is to go and hunt for eggs! You go and poke
around and hunt and hunt, but they are clever and sly, these hens, and
hide themselves well under pieces of board and rubbish. By and by, off
in some corner you see a gleam of white and there are the eggs, round
and smooth and warm.
Carolus had become a fine noble-looking cock with long curved
tail-feathers which shone with metallic colors in the sun; but oh, the
trouble he gave me!
Right at the foot of our hill lives Madam Land in a little old gray
house. Madam Land keeps hens, too. Well! nothing would do but that
Carolus must go down to her chicken-yard. It wasn't half as nice as our
kitchen-garden but he couldn't keep away from it a single day.
The instant the hens were let out in the morning Carolus made a dash
down the hill, flying and running straight to Madam Land's gate. If the
gate were not open, Carolus flew over the board fence and down into the
midst of Madam Land's flock of hens. I called and I coaxed; I scolded
him and chased him. No, thank you! Carolus crowed and squawked, and flew
up on the board fence; he put his head on one side and looked down at
me, and no sooner was I well out of the way than he was in the yard
again and there he stayed all day.
Every single night I had to go down to get him after he had gone to
roost with Madam Land's hens. Then there was a racket, I can tell you!
The hens cackled and squawked and flew down from the roost, even hitting
against my face as they flew. You couldn't hear yourself think in Madam
Land's hen-house.
But I took firm hold of my good Carolus. He kicked and struggled, but I
held his shining warm body close to me and could feel his heart beating
and hammering as I ran home with him.
Every single night this performance had to be gone through, and every
single night Madam Land stood in her kitchen door and scolded when I
went past with Carolus in my arms.
"Oh, yes! he's the pampered one--oh, yes, he's the one that's getting
fat--he eats enough for four hens--there's surely law and justice to be
had in such cases--yes, indeed, he's the pampered one." I could hear
Madam Land's voice following me all the way up our hill.
Madam Land herself doesn't look as if she were pampered. Her husband is
a boatman. She is frightfully saving. They say in the town that Madam
Land boils only three potatoes for dinner every day, "two potatoes for
Land, one for the maid, and I don't need any," says Madam Land. And only
think, day after day she had to see that big Carolus of ours eating out
of the dish she had filled for her own hens. Any one could understand
Madam Land's being angry.
One day Madam Land came up to our house to complain to Mother about
Carolus.
Now I hadn't said a word to Mother about the way Carolus had been
behaving lately. I had a dark misgiving that it would work against my
gallant Carolus in some way. Mother was very much annoyed, and said that
I was to be so good as to keep Carolus shut up hereafter. For two days I
kept him in the salt stall. He hopped up on the window-sill and pecked
at the small green panes. But the third day I was so terribly sorry for
him that I let him out.
"You'll see he has forgotten all about it," said Karsten.
Forgotten!--no, thank you! Carolus was already off. He screeched for joy
and flew straight into Madam Land's yard.
"Well, then, we'll tie him," said Karsten suddenly. That was an
excellent idea, I thought. First we found a long string, and then we
went down after the sinner. Naturally he didn't want to come home again;
Madam Land's whole yard was just one uproar of frightened hens, we ran
about so, driving them here and there, before we got hold of Carolus. We
tied the string around his leg and tethered him beside the barn steps.
After we had done this, I went in to study my lessons, but I hadn't been
studying five minutes before I had a queer feeling of uneasiness, and
had to go out to see how Carolus was getting on. There he lay on the
ground; he had twisted and wound the string around himself countless
times,--he just lay on his side and gasped. I freed him in no time; for
a moment he lay still, then he got up suddenly, flapped his wings hard
and--away he went, with outspread wings that fairly swept the ground,
and disappeared in Madam Land's yard. That night I didn't go to get him.
The fact is I didn't dare to, because of Madam Land.
As I came home from school the next day I went round by Madam Land's.
Carolus stood in the yard eating Madam Land's chicken-feed and sour milk
with excellent appetite. His big red comb hung down over one eye. The
other eye, that was free, he turned towards me as if he would say, "I
know you well enough, Mistress Inger Johanne, but go your way--I intend
to stay here for good and all."
"Well," I thought, "let them scold as they please about you, Carolus;
you are surely the most beautiful cock in all the world--but you are
mine, you must remember."
When evening came I had studied out a plan for catching Carolus without
Madam Land's seeing me. She kept her hens in a part of the wood-shed
that was boarded off. Behind this was an open field, and high up in the
back wall, right under the roof, there was a little window that always
stood open. Through that window I meant to go to get Carolus. There was
an old ladder in our barn; I got Peter and Karsten to carry it down the
hill and set it up under the window. Both Peter and Karsten wanted to
climb up, but I said no; such a difficult undertaking no one but myself
could manage.
It was about nine o'clock in the evening and growing dark. I climbed the
ladder and got to the top round all right. But whether it was that the
ladder was rotten or that Peter and Karsten let go of it,--I had no
sooner got hold of the window-sill and dragged myself in than down fell
the ladder, breaking all to pieces as it fell.
So there I was in a pretty fix! And how Karsten and Peter laughed down
below! I was furiously angry with them, especially at the way Peter
laughed. When Peter laughs it is just as if some one had suddenly
tickled him in the stomach; he doubles himself together, twists like a
worm, and laughs without making a sound. But Karsten roared at the top
of his voice.
"Will you stop your laughing, Karsten? You will betray me making such a
noise."
"How will you get down again?"
"Oh, I'll jump down." It was certainly ten or twelve feet to the ground.
"Now I am going in after Carolus; I'll drop him down from here, and you
must be sure to catch him."
I groped my way down the half-dark stairway from the loft, stumbled
along, in the pitch-black darkness of the shed, over a chopping-block
and a heap of shavings, and at last got to the part of the wood-shed
where the hens were. I opened the door softly and fumbled with my hand
along the roost they were sitting on. But, O dear! O dear! such a
squawking and screeching! You haven't the least idea how Madam Land's
hens could squawk. It was exactly as if I were murdering them all at
once. Outside of the wall I could hear Karsten fairly howling with
laughter. I kept fumbling around in the dark, for I wanted to find
Carolus. I think I got hold of every single hen; all their beaks were
stretched wide, letting out one and the same piercing squawk.
[Illustration: And how Karsten and Peter laughed down below!--_Page
109._]
Then I heard the door of Madam Land's kitchen thrown open, and footsteps
across the yard--then Madam Land's voice, "Come with your stick, Land,
there are thieves in the hen-house." The door of the wood-shed was
opened and Madam Land's maid burst in and saw me. "It is the judge's
Inger Johanne, madam," she called.
"Is it that spindleshanks again?" I heard Madam Land say--yes, she
really said "spindleshanks"; but to me she only said, "Your cock is not
here, girl; he has not been here all day--not for two or three days, I
believe."
"But he was here this morning."
"Not at all. You didn't see straight. He is not here, I tell you."
I ran home completely at a loss. What in the world had become of
Carolus? The next day I searched everywhere. I went around to all the
houses in the neighborhood and asked after my cock. No, no one had seen
him anywhere.
Then all at once a frightful suspicion arose in my mind: Madam Land had
cut off Carolus' head!
Oh, what a shame, what a shame!--what a shame for her to do that! How I
cried that day! It did no good for them to say at home that perhaps
Carolus would come back, and that even if he didn't, it wasn't at all
sure that Madam Land had made an end of him; he might easily have just
gone astray himself.
No, I didn't believe that for a moment. It was Madam Land who had
murdered him, and I thought it was mighty queer of Father that he
wouldn't put her on bread and water for twenty days, for she deserved
it.
The only thing that consoled me was that I myself never had to see
Carolus served up in white sauce in a covered dish on the dinner table.
Never--never in the world--would I have tasted a bit of Carolus!
* * * * *
Well, something always does happen to pets--think of Uncle Ferdinand's
monkey.