OLD ROUGH AT HOME.
Our story opens on a dark day in summer, and in a piece of woodland so
far removed from the busy life that stirs cities and large villages,
that it was seldom any sound arose to break the stillness of Nature,
except those made by the animal creation who dwelt there undisturbed by
the depredations of mankind.
At a first glance, it would seem as if not even animal life were there,
so profound was the silence. A brook, or more properly a ditch, for so
sluggish a stream hardly deserved the name of a brook, flowed torpidly
through a meadow which was bordered by forest trees and thickly growing
underbrush.
At a first glance, as we said, no motion was perceptible, but a keen
eye on the lookout for signs of life might have detected a dark object
creeping along the soft and slimy banks of the ditch, often stopping
to look about him and listen. It was a large water-rat, his long rough
fur failing to make him an agreeable object, for the cruel expression
in his keen little eyes that were placed closely together, and the
long, sharp teeth that seemed constantly on the lookout for something
to devour, would have deformed any face.
As the water-rat proceeded cautiously on his way, as we said before, he
stopped frequently and looked about him, sometimes casting his sharp
eyes around to see if anybody were approaching, and at all times on
the watch for trespassers on his domains; for the water-rat considered
himself the proprietor of the meadow, and in a measure also of the
forest that stretched beyond it.
All at once, the old rat stopped short and examined the ground about
him, where the prints of small feet in the mud were visible. “I thought
so!” he exclaimed to himself; “those mischievous field-mice have been
here again, gnawing those tender young roots that I have been keeping
my eye on. Just let me catch them at it, and their tails will be even
shorter than they are now. They’re even worse than the crows, for they
are so small they can slink around without being seen.”
A jeering laugh from behind startled the water-rat, and turning quickly
he descried two young crows seated on a rock near by, and regarding him
with countenances expressive of great amusement.
“Be off, you young thieves,” snarled the old rat, angrily; “how dare
you trespass on my premises?”
For answer the young crows each inclined an ear toward the water-rat
in a listening attitude, as if to catch his words, and then burst into
derisive caws.
“Don’t speak quite so loudly, sir,” remarked one of the crows. “I knew
an old fellow of about your age who busted a blood-vessel, and ’twould
be a pity to have you taken off so suddenly; you’d be a great loss to
the neighborhood, you’re so sociable.”
“And he was first cousin to the fellow who died because he tried to
save expense by living without eating,” said the other crow.
The old water-rat was too wise to continue a conversation in which he
was sure to be worsted; so he continued on his way, followed by the
taunts of the young crows.
“How much will you take for your skin, old Rough?” called out one,
while the other chanted,--
“There was once an old miser, who thought
He could live upon little or nought;
But one day he died,
And his wife sold his hide
For a sum much more than she ought.”
“Young villains!” muttered old Rough to himself, as he scurried home,
“I’ll pay them for this.”
The water-rat stopped before a hole, and looking stealthily behind
him, to make sure that no one was in sight, noiselessly entered his
habitation. A long and narrow passage, in which the darkness increased
as he progressed, led finally into a large apartment, which served
evidently as the living and sleeping room of old Rough; for a pile of
dried leaves and old rags in one corner apparently served as a bed.
Another rat sat on this bed, evidently in the act of taking a hasty
lunch, for so silent had been her husband’s entrance that Ruffina was
not aware of his approach until he appeared before her; then with
a frightened expression she hastily swallowed the mouthful she was
masticating, and with a quick motion concealed something under the
leaves that formed the bed.
“Not so fast, madam,” exclaimed old Rough, springing to the spot where
his wife had hidden her prize; and in a twinkling he drew forth a large
walnut, into which Ruffina had had time only to drill a hole with her
sharp teeth.
“So, madam!” exclaimed the old rat in a harsh voice, looking from
the nut to his trembling wife, whose eyes anxiously followed all his
movements, “so this is the way you obey me, is it? How dared you touch
those nuts when you knew they were not to be eaten?”
“But they are last year’s nuts, and most of them are wormy and musty,”
answered Ruffina, submissively; “and I thought you wouldn’t care.”
“You thought I wouldn’t care?” squealed the old rat, bringing his teeth
together with a snap that made his wife shiver.
“I was so hungry,” pleaded Ruffina, meekly, “and the nuts are really
spoiled.”
“What!” shrieked old Rough, with a spring that brought him in front of
his terrified wife, “have you lost the little sense you ever possessed?
Don’t you know that I can mix those nuts in with this year’s, and pass
them off for fresh ones? And see here, madam, I think you said just now
that you were hungry. Don’t let me hear any more of such nonsense.
Don’t you eat as much as I do? We must pinch and scrape, and _starve_
if necessary, to get a little forehanded, or we shall die paupers.”
“But we are not poor,” replied Ruffina, meekly. “Look at the piles of
roots and mussels and snails over there. Every one says you are richer
than anybody about here, and--”
Poor Ruffina ended her sentence in a cry of pain, for her cruel husband
darted suddenly upon her and fastened his long teeth in one of her ears.
“If you are too stupid to comprehend my words, perhaps you can
understand that!” exclaimed the ill-natured old miser, as his poor wife
retreated to a corner, whining.
A soft voice at the door here attracted old Rough’s attention, and
entering the passage-way, he soon reached the opening, before which
stood a little field-mouse, who glanced timidly up at the hard face of
the old miser.
“Well, what do you want, Bobtilla?” asked the old rat, with a grim
smile at the discomfiture of the little field-mouse.
“I came to ask if I might have one of those tender roots down by the
dam?” said Bobtilla, timidly.
“What!” exclaimed old Rough, harshly, “you have the audacity to ask me
for one of my tender young roots?”
“One of my children is ill,” squeaked Bobtilla in her mild voice, “and
he thought he would relish one of them. He has so little appetite now
that he can’t eat the scraps I manage to pick up.”
“Oh, he can’t!” growled the old rat. “Well, what will you give me in
exchange for my tender young root? Do you know, madam, that every one
of those little roots brings me a pile of corn?”
“I shall without doubt be able to pay you when the crops are ripe,”
answered the little field-mouse; “but we have eaten up all our winter
store, and shall have to scrape along as best we can till midsummer.”
“The more fool you,” snarled the old water-rat. “Let me tell you,
madam, that I don’t indulge in luxuries; if I did, I should probably
have to go about begging as you do. No, when you come with your pile of
corn, you shall have the tender root that your sick child craves, not
before. Now be off. You’re a thieving set, like all the others about
here, and I want you to keep off my premises;” and the old miser turned
and re-entered his dwelling.
Poor little Bobtilla turned sorrowfully away from the miser’s abode,
and retraced her steps to her home. How could she go back to her sick
child and tell him that she had returned without the tender root he so
much desired? The more Bobtilla thought over the matter, the harder it
seemed to her, and she cast many a longing glance toward the dam where
the tender roots grew.
“Why did the miser claim the whole meadow?” thought Bobtilla. He had
no more right to it than she or many others. Merely by right of his
superior strength did he claim it. Was it possible she could gnaw off a
small piece without being detected? Bobtilla hesitated as she arrived
opposite the dam, and glanced quickly in the direction of the tyrant’s
abode. Far off as it was, she was certain she saw the miser sitting in
the doorway, and trembling at the thought of the terrible revenge that
would overtake her should she attempt to touch the coveted root, she
reluctantly continued her way.
As Bobtilla passed under the wall that led to her home, pleasant tones
fell on her ear, and the voice being a new one, she stopped and looked
about her. A chipmunk whom she had never before seen, sat on the top
of the wall, holding in her little forepaws a large nut, into which she
was drilling a hole, at the same time conversing in a cheerful voice
with another chipmunk, who sat on the branch of a large chestnut-tree
above her. Bobtilla, hidden behind a stone, paused to listen.
“So he told you they were his trees, and that we couldn’t have any of
the nuts when they were ripe, did he?” said the squirrel on the wall,
examining the nut to see how deep the hole had become.
“Yes, my dear,” replied the squirrel on the tree; “but I reminded him
that the wood was a large place, and that there was room for all in it.”
“What did he say to that?” asked the other squirrel, whose sharp teeth
had now penetrated the hard shell of the nut.
“Oh! he still kept up his bluster; but I think we needn’t fear him. I
don’t know who he is, that he should give himself so many airs, but we
can let him alone, and perhaps he will not interfere with us.”
“I can tell you who he is,” squeaked Bobtilla; “he is a disagreeable
old miser, and his name is old Rough.”
The two squirrels looked about them in astonishment, for they had
thought themselves alone, and the little field-mouse hopped onto the
stone behind which she had been concealed.
“I can tell you all about him,” she said. “You must be strangers about
here not to know who old Rough is. I was at his house just now, to
beg a little root of him. There are ever so many of them growing down
by the dam, and I thought he might let me have one for my sick child;
but he refused, because I had no corn to give him in exchange. You see
our winter supply has gone,” continued Bobtilla, who was encouraged to
proceed by the good-natured countenances of her listeners, “and one
of my children is ill, and can’t eat as the rest of us do. All we had
was a grasshopper’s leg that was hard and dry. It is of no use to try
to soften old Rough’s heart, and I suppose I must see my child die for
want of proper food.”
The two squirrels exchanged glances, and the mother squirrel,
Squirrella, said,--
“Would your sick child relish a nut, do you think? I am quite sure
we have a few chestnuts left, and they are quite easy to break;” and
before Bobtilla could reply, Squirrella had disappeared in a hole in
the wall. In an instant she was back again, carrying a chestnut in her
mouth; and depositing it at the feet of the little field-mouse, she
said in her motherly way,--
“When he has eaten that come back for more. I know what it is to have
sick children.
“We have but just moved here,” continued Squirrella, interrupting
Bobtilla’s profuse thanks. “We have always lived in one place, but the
woods were being thinned out to make room for human habitations, and we
felt the necessity for a change. One day our friend Swift the swallow
told us of this place, so we moved here.”
“This seems a very peaceful place,” said Squirrello, the squirrel on
the tree, “and I don’t see how old Rough can hurt us if we keep out of
his way. All of your other neighbors are harmless, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” replied Bobtilla, “I believe so,--unless it is old Blinkeye.
He is very strong and fierce, you know,--that is at night. Nobody is
afraid of him in the daytime, for then he can’t see a thing.”
“Old Blinkeye,--and what kind of a creature is he?” asked Squirrello.
“A very large owl,” replied the field-mouse. “As I said before, look
out for him at night, for then he is dangerous; but in the daytime,
why he couldn’t harm a fly, and I wouldn’t even turn out of the way if
I met him.”
Here a slight rustling of the leaves in a tall tree near by attracted
their attention, and, giving one hurried glance in that direction,
Bobtilla shrieked, “Old Blinkeye!” and in spite of her assertion that
he was perfectly harmless in the daytime, seized her chestnut, and
darted off to her home with great speed, not once stopping to look
behind her.
The two squirrels, startled by Bobtilla’s sudden exclamation, took the
alarm, and whisked into their hole in the wall.
[Illustration: “Well, young gentlemen, he began in the high, cracked
voice of extreme age, you did well to return.”]