return last night. This morning I must organise a rescue party and go
after him. The party will be organised not to rescue him, but to rescue
the neighbour on whom he has billeted himself. No one has any idea which
direction he took, so we may have quite a hunt. But I am not afraid of
losing him. An apoplectic gobbler of his size is easy to identify. But
the old pirate should be at home, looking after his family, which is at
present breaking through the shell. Last season he was a most devoted
parent and looked after his family with unflagging care. He took them to
the woods to get beechnuts and still kept one eye on the granary door,
so that they could be on hand when the chickens were being fed. This
year he will not have so large a flock to look after, but that does not
excuse him for desertion and neglect. He must be rounded up, brought
home and reminded of his duties. Much of the time during the past month
he stood, in a very dignified manner, near the nest where his mate has
been brooding, so I am surprised that he should have deserted just when
his family is breaking from the shell. But a thought strikes me. Perhaps
the old rounder is away celebrating.
[Illustration]
_XLIV.--His Belligerency_
Now that his mate is hopefully hatching on a promising nestful of eggs,
the old gobbler finds time hanging heavy on his hands and by way of
diversion is proceeding to beat up all other gobblers in the
neighbourhood. Whenever he hears another gobbler, no matter how faintly,
he lets out a wrathful gobble and starts across the fields to trample on
his rival. Neighbours have had to drive him home in order to save their
flocks, for he is in the heavyweight class, and no ordinary country bird
has any show with him. Of course, when we found out what he was up to we
penned him in, but occasionally he makes his escape, and it takes quick
work to keep him from crossing the fields and committing mayhem and tort
and doing grievous bodily harm to well-meaning gobblers that venture to
gobble their opinions about things. I wouldn't mind so much if he headed
down the road on one of his foraging expeditions, for there is an ecru
gobbler suffering from delusions of grandeur that I have a grudge
against. One day when I was driving to the village with the colt this
earth-coloured gobbler seemed to rise out of the road in front of us,
with a great spreading of tail, fluffing of feathers and rubbing of
wings. His appearance was so startling that the colt shied, and in less
than five seconds we were all piled in the ditch. The colt didn't get
away and nothing was smashed, but things were pretty lively while the
disturbance lasted. If I could only give our warlike bubblyjock the
address of that particular gobbler, and he would go after him, I
wouldn't mind his offensives.
[Illustration]
_XLV.--His Cares_
The big gobbler is a changed bird these days. The cares of fatherhood
are weighing heavily upon him. A few days ago he came across a Plymouth
Rock hen that had hatched out a clutch of turkeys. Although they are
barely able to toddle around, the gobbler recognised them at once as
part of his family and took up his duties as parent in a most
commendable manner. With a subdued and responsible air he follows the
old hen and the little poults wherever they go, stepping softly and
refraining from noisy gobbling. But I am afraid he is not entirely
satisfied with the foster mother of his family. After the last big
thunderstorm he came up to the door where I was sitting and was
evidently very much put out about something. He was wet to his last
feather and I have seldom known him to be in such a bad humour. Possibly
the old Plymouth Rock didn't act as a turkey mother should during a
thunderstorm. Anyway, he seemed to hold me responsible for whatever
went wrong, for he stood out on the lawn and swore at me for half an
hour. When I began to get tired of the rumpus and was reaching for a
copy of Hansard to throw at him Sheppy came around the corner of the
house. The bubblyjock discreetly sidestepped behind the lilac bushes,
for one thing that Sheppy can't endure is a hen, turkey or other fowl on
the lawn. In spite of his complaints the gobbler is still looking after
his duties as a father. A little while ago when the sun was hot I saw
him standing beside his flock tail down, head pulled in like a turtle's
and his wings spread out. He had converted himself into a sort of
feathered pergola, under which his children might have taken shelter.
But they paid no attention to him. Under the busy and clucking guidance
of the old hen they were pursuing the elusive fly and other appetising
insects.
_XLVI.--His Prussianism_
I don't see how the children failed to name the turkey gobbler. He is
the most distinct character on the farm just now, but they have not
given him a name. Perhaps they felt that they were not equal to the
task. He is in a constant state of belligerency. As he is a
super-turkey, weighing at least forty pounds, he is able to make quite a
stir. Apparently he has laid to heart Nietzsche's advice and proposes to
"Live dangerously." His mildest moments are threatening, and when he
gobbles and rubs his wings on the ground he is an embodied offensive.
This morning he renewed a trick that was a favourite with him last
summer. At daybreak he began to air his grandeurs under my bedroom
window and there was no more sleeping from that time. But as it is
necessary to be up betimes in this spring weather I did not object. But
if he keeps it up in the summer, when daybreak comes shortly after 3
o'clock, there will be trouble.
[Illustration]
DOGS
[Illustration]
_XLVII.--A Moral Tale_
The general slipperiness of things has been a great boon to Sheppy.
Although I have seen him lose his footing several times, he gets along
much better than the cows or the colts. As it is his daily chore to
start the animals on their way to the Government drain to get their
drink, he is now able to satisfy some old grudges. In ordinary weather
he has to be very watchful for flying heels and prodding horns, but just
now the animals have to concentrate their minds on keeping their feet
under them, and are at a disadvantage when it comes to self-defence.
Sheppy is now able to slip in on them and nip their heels, and they do
not dare to take a chance on kicking at him. They find it hard enough to
navigate with all four feet under them and their toe nails all in use,
and an attempt to balance on two feet, or even three, would almost
surely mean disaster. He was having such a high old time that I was
thinking of scolding him away at watering time, but this morning
something happened that gave me an excellent hint, and, besides, gives
me a chance to moralise wisely. A few minutes before the cattle were
turned out some one gave Sheppy a bone. It was a nice fresh bone that
offered much palatable gnawing, and he was taking no chances on losing
it. When he started to do his morning chore he carried the bone in his
mouth, and the result was that he drove the animals without nipping them
or making them wiggle too wildly over the ice. Ah, my friends, how often
have I seen an ardent reformer, who was in the habit of herding the
unregenerate, abate his passion for reform when he happened to get a
nice juicy bone in his mouth! Yea, I have even known newspapers and
political parties to be made much more temperate in their expressions of
opinion by the timely contribution of a few bones. Here assuredly is a
lesson for all of us.
[Illustration]
_XLVIII.--Sheppy's First Coon Hunt_
Last night Sheppy was initiated into the mysteries of coon-hunting. The
opinion has prevailed in the neighbourhood for some time past that coons
are becoming plentiful again. Their tracks have been seen along the
government drains and around watering ponds where they probably went to
hunt for frogs. Moreover, before the corn was cut ears were found partly
stripped and gnawed, and the work was pronounced by experts who had been
coon-hunters in the old days as the work of coons. The matter was
brought to a head yesterday when I saw coon tracks on the sideroad while
driving home from the village. It was unquestionable that there were
coons in the neighbourhood, and a coon hunt was quite in order. Of
course, we had no reason to believe that Sheppy would prove to be a good
coon-dog, but he has a hasty way of dealing with woodchucks and muskrats
that he manages to catch at a distance from their holes, and more than
once he has tracked rabbits though he has never managed to catch one.
The only way to find out whether he had in him the makings of a coon-dog
would be to try him. After discussing the matter with an eager boy it
was decided that we would sneak away from the house after all the chores
were done and give Sheppy a tryout. We would have to sneak in order to
keep the younger children from begging to be taken along. Having laid
our plans we managed to sneak away about half past eight, after giving a
warning whisper in the right quarter that we might be away for a couple
of hours. Sheppy seemed doubtful about the wisdom of taking a night
ramble, but after some coaxing he decided to come along.
* * * * *
We took the dog to our own cornfield first and were gratified to see how
thoroughly he entered into the game. It was a dim night with the moon
almost hidden by thin clouds, but there was enough light for us to see
Sheppy racing over the cornfield in the most approved manner of the
coon-dogs of a bygone age. He crossed and recrossed it thoroughly
without finding even a mouse--if he had found one we should have known
for he is a gifted mouser and often gets a mouse when crossing the
pasture. When he had done the cornfield thoroughly we decided to put
him through the wood-lot, and after starting him in with an encouraging
"Hunt him up, sir," we sat on the bars in the fence and waited. We had
not been waiting long before a sound of distress was heard. A cat was
meowing piteously along the path over which we had just walked. There
was no doubt about it. "Lady Jane Grey" had noticed us starting out and
had decided to share in the fun. But she was evidently in distress and
the boy started back to see what was the matter. He found her in the
branches of a shade-tree in which she had evidently sought refuge from
Sheppy, who would not recognise her so far away from home at night.
After she had been rescued and "scatted" back to the house we sat on the
bars and waited patiently for the dog. At last he returned to us panting
as if he had run for miles. There was no doubt about it. He was working
splendidly and would probably need only a little training to make him a
first rate coon-dog. But he had not managed to locate anything on the
home farm so we decided to visit a neighbour's corn-patch which backs
against the largest wood-lot in the neighbourhood. The wood-lots on four
farms happen to be on four corners where the line fences cross, and the
result is a wood-lot about four times as large as can be found on
ordinary farms. Besides there are still some big elms left in this patch
and if there would be coons anywhere it would be there. We started
towards this happy hunting ground with Sheppy in the lead. We climbed
over two wire fences in crossing the road and the second one was too
tight for Sheppy. He could not get through so he ran along the road
until he came to a rail fence and then he travelled parallel with us on
the other side of another wire fence that would not let him through. We
were sorry for this at first but afterwards we were glad. When we had
travelled about twenty rods through the field towards the other wood-lot
Sheppy suddenly began to show signs of excitement. He began to run round
with his nose to the ground and was quite evidently following a trail of
some kind. Presently he started away across the pasture field he was in
and was lost to sight. A moment later there were a series of sharp
snarling barks and the boy was filled with sudden alarm. He remembered
that there were sheep in that field so I whistled for Sheppy. After a
bit we saw him coming--he is largely marked with white--and his nose was
to the ground. In fact he seemed to be fairly ploughing it through the
long grass. We debated for a moment whether he had been molesting the
sheep and then things began to happen. The boy was nearer to the wire
fence than I was and Sheppy tried to get as close to him as possible.
Suddenly the boy yelled, "Wow! Whew!" and began to act as if he had
taken an emetic. I had no time to solve the mystery before the wind blew
on me and I understood. Sheppy had not been bothering the sheep. No
indeed. Sheppy had been having an argument with a skunk and there was
strong reason--very strong--to suppose that he got the worst of it. It
was then that we were glad that there was a tight wire fence between us
and Sheppy. After failing to get the sympathy he was looking for he
proceeded to wipe his nose on the grass. Then he found a hole of water
and wallowed in it. He evidently felt a wild need of a bath. I don't
think I ever saw a dog so earnest about his toilet. When he got out of
the water hole he wiped himself dry on the grass by lying on his side
and pushing himself along with his feet. Then he rolled over and wiped
the other side. Still he was not satisfied. He rubbed his nose with his
paws for a while and then plunged into the water hole again. And all the
time we mingled wild laughter with words of mourning and wondered what
on earth we would do. At last we decided that we might as well call off
the hunt as he couldn't trail an automobile, much less a coon, after
getting such a dose. So we started towards the road with Sheppy still on
the other side of the fence. He kept abreast of us as we moved homeward,
"An amber scent of odorous perfume
His harbinger."
When we reached the road Sheppy came along like a comet with a tail of
odour streaming out behind him. He seemed to be trying to run away from
it, but it was no use. If he could quote Milton he would no doubt have
said:
"Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell."
After noisily repulsing his attempts to nuzzle against us for sympathy
we sat on another set of bars and moodily reviewed the situation. It was
far from probable that our home-coming would be the signal for
rejoicing. Sheppy is the family pet and now his usefulness as a pet was
seriously impaired. While we were talking this over Sheppy came and
stood right under us. That ended the talk. We went away from there.
Finally, after many hesitations, we reached the house and through the
kitchen window looked at a scene of domestic peace. The family was
assembled around the table reading. The temptation was too great for the
boy. Sheppy was standing at the door, and stepping forward the boy
opened it and quietly let him in. For a few seconds there was no change
in the peaceful scene. Then arose a wild cry of dismay. The family
bulged out of the kitchen through both doors. It was a good thing that
there were two doors or someone might have been trampled on. Every one
wanted fresh air. In fact I never knew fresh air to be so much in favour
as it was for a few minutes. Poor Sheppy came out again to see what all
the excitement was about and seemed hurt that his best friends went back
on him so unanimously. When peace was restored and the house aired, we
were allowed to enter, though insinuations were cast out that we smelled
about as bad as the dog. This was a libel, however. This morning Sheppy
found himself so unpopular that he went out to the cornfield to catch
mice when the shocks were overturned for husking. When he came home at
noon he looked hurt and humiliated and stood about a rod away from me
and looked as if he thought I was to blame for all the trouble. I am
not sure but he was right. Anyway he and I know that there is truth in
the political maxim: "When you fight with a skunk it doesn't matter
whether you win or lose; you are bound to stink after it." We are hoping
that it will wear off before spring.
[Illustration]
_XLIX.--A Rabbit Chase_
This morning after the chores were done I decided that I should take a
look at the young orchard to see that mice and rabbits were not damaging
the little trees. The sun was shining, and as most of the snow
disappeared in the recent thaw it was the best day for a ramble that we
have had since winter began. And I am glad that I went, for I not only
enjoyed the fresh air but had a few minutes of excitement that started
the blood coursing in my veins. Sheppy decided that he would like a
ramble too, and thereby hangs a tale. While I was examining the trees he
made little excursions about the field nosing for mice. While I was
rejoicing that there were none for him to find and because there were no
rabbit tracks I almost stepped on a little cotton-tail that had a form
in a bunch of wild grass that was shaded by a big weed. The rabbit
popped out, and at the same instant I yelled, "Sic him!" Sheppy was a
few rods away, but when he saw the game he let out one quick, yapping
bark and gave chase. The rabbit had started towards a haystack at the
other side of the field, but when the dog took after him he changed his
mind and began to circle towards the south. He looked like a streak of
brown fur, and about four rods behind him Sheppy looked like a streak of
black and white. Both stretched themselves out until their bellies
seemed to touch the ground, but my eye could not detect any change in
the distance between them. Neither seemed to gain an inch. They kept it
up for about thirty rods and then Sheppy stumbled over a corn stubble
and lost a few feet. The race went on in absolute silence until they
reached the wire fence at the road. The rabbit slipped through and
Sheppy had to stop. He ran around and barked with rage as his quarry
scooted up a neighbour's lane and disappeared among some piles of rails.
I then had time to examine the cosy form where the rabbit had been
resting. After noting how nicely it was lined with grass I ruthlessly
kicked it to pieces, for rabbits are not to be encouraged in a young
orchard. I could not find that he had done any damage, but I am not
taking any chances, and this afternoon I am going to take the rifle and
Sheppy and hunt through the orchard carefully. After the race was over
Sheppy was so much ashamed of his failure that he went back to the house
without coming near me. When I got home he thrust his muzzle into my
hand and wagged his tail and tried to make me understand that rabbits
are not in his line. A slow-footed woodchuck suits him better. But I am
going to train him to chase rabbits, even if he cannot catch them, for
if he keeps them moving they may decide that they are not popular here
and move away to some one else's orchard.
[Illustration]
_L.--Fights and Feuds_
I don't know why it is, but every time there is something interesting
going on, like a political meeting or a dog-fight, I am always away from
home or I have a previous engagement of some kind. Here is Sheppy having
a whole series of fights to maintain the supremacy of the farm, the
freedom of the concession line, and his place in the sun, and I haven't
seen one of them. According to the uncensored and detailed reports I
have received, the fights were well worth seeing, and Sheppy acquitted
himself in a creditable manner. The trouble is all due to a couple of
dogs belonging to a gang of ditchers working in the neighbourhood. These
dogs--a big hound and a little terrier--have done so much coon-hunting
in their day that they consider themselves at liberty to roam wherever
they please. Several times they insolently crossed our fields and that
is something that Sheppy will not stand for. Any dog that ventures on
this farm has to put up a fight for the privilege. Up to date Sheppy
has defended his dominions successfully, but in all previous battles he
has had to deal with one dog at a time. But it seems that the present
invaders have learned in many coon-fights that team play is best and
their tactics have been surprising and somewhat discomfiting. Sheppy
scorns to attack the terrier, which wouldn't make a decent mouthful for
him, but when he grapples with the hound the terrier catches him by a
hind leg or by the tail, and as I guess a little dog's bite hurts just
as much as a big one's, Sheppy can't give his undivided attention to the
hound. I am told that in the first scrap he kept whirling around
distributing his bites impartially and managed to chase both the other
dogs off the farm, but in later attacks they worried him some. When I
came home he whimpered around me and showed me his scratched nose and
tried his best to tell me about his troubles. He had done his best to
protect the farm during my absence at the village, and it was quite
evident from his manner that he thought he deserved some praise and
petting. I sympathised with him entirely, but I half regret that the
ditchers have moved on with their dogs. I shall not have a chance to see
Sheppy in action with two dogs. But I never have any luck.
Sheppy has a standing feud with a neighbour's dog that is amusing rather
than bloodthirsty. Though they have been barking at each other and
threatening each other with much bad language for three or four years, I
don't think they have come to grips yet. Whenever either of them starts
barking at anything the other immediately flies into a rage and begins
to make disparaging remarks in a loud tone of voice. Sometimes Sheppy
goes half way across the field towards his enemy, barking defiance, but
when his enemy finally gets mad and runs towards him he rushes back to
the house to safety. In the same way the neighbour's dog sometimes comes
half-way across the field, making insulting remarks, until Sheppy
finally gets so mad that he starts after him. The neighbour dog then
makes a strategic retreat. I don't think I have ever seen them nearer
than ten rods to each other, and I don't think they have ever had a
fight, but they keep up their quarrelling every day. I suspect that each
has so impressed the other with his prowess that if they ever met
accidentally they would both run for their lives. On moonlight nights
they keep up such a rumpus that no one in the neighbourhood can get any
sleep until both are taken indoors and ordered to be quiet.
CATS
_LI.--A Page of High History_
This is the story of a "harmless, necessary cat." I think I told you
some time ago that the children make it a practice to name their cats
after prominent personages in history and public life. Lady Jane Grey is
a gentle, domesticated cat of many admirable qualities and her name
seems very appropriate. Her fur is grey, her table manners perfect, and
in disposition she is kind and affectionate. The other cats have been
named with equal judgment and discretion, but I dare not mention their
names for fear that public men who have not been honoured might feel
jealous. I had become quite accustomed to the high sounding names of the
household pets, and had acquired the habit of inquiring every night at
bedtime for the whereabouts of certain distinguished persons. Often and
often when shutting up the house for the night I have kicked out some of
our most honoured names just as ruthlessly as if I were an office-hungry
Opposition returning to power. And now it is my privilege to record a
great event. New Year's Day there was great news. The children learned
with pride and delight that their favourite cat had been honoured with a
title. Instantly there was wild excitement. The distinguished cat was
called by his familiar name, and finally was found in a shed, where he
was trying to think up some scheme for commandeering a quarter of beef
that hung beyond his reach. He was hurried into the house for the
ceremony of dubbing, and while the preparations were being made he
purred as contentedly as if he knew just what was happening. I was
really surprised to see how well the children understood what to do.
While one held him in a respectful attitude in front of a Morris chair
another got the carving knife and prepared to administer the accolade.
There was only a moment's pause while they asked me to indicate the
exact spot on his neck that should be smitten by the ennobling sword.
Then they completed the ceremony with
"a ribband to stick in his coat."
* * * * *