It was the time when lilies blow,
And clouds are highest up in air,
that four young people were vivaciously talking on the front piazza at
Aunt Mary’s.
Aunt Mary was everybody’s friend, but particularly beloved by the
nephews and nieces, of whom this story tells. And her home, “just the
jolliest kind of a place to visit,” Jo said, as he described beforehand
the expected good times his sister Madeline with their cousins,
Madge and Ernest, were to have in the week’s vacation given them for
recuperation after the half-yearly examination.
Aunt Mary’s house was in New Jersey; of course, it was on a farm, for
whoever would think of looking for such fun and frolic anywhere else?
And as all the cousins came from city homes, and Jo and his sister from
a small flat of a large apartment house, the freedom of space which
the country had given, added to the bracing air and sunny, cheerful
atmosphere, was a delightful contrast. But no one would have thought,
though, that Madeline was seventeen years of age, or that Madge was
called “Miss Propriety” at home, for they would race over the farm,
playing the wildest of games “like a couple of tomboys,” their brothers
said. But Aunt Mary let them do exactly as they pleased, and would
always sigh when she would talk of their shut-in city life, and point
to their red cheeks with great pride, which she assured them came from
living with her. And the boys, too, had seemed wonderfully benefited
by their running, racing, riding, ball and tennis playing. Even the
hallooing “got plenty of fresh air in their lungs,” Ernest said, which,
with other things too many to mention, had been done in this brief
holiday.
To-morrow they must start homeward; and just because they were
exhausted with one and another game, they are, at the commencement of
our story, resting and talking on Aunt Mary’s front piazza.
Ernest is rubbing his right arm meanwhile, for he says, “It has pained
me dreadfully ever since that last catch at the ball.”
And Aunt Mary has just joined them, carrying with her a big tin waiter
on which is a large molasses cake, so fresh that it is yet hot from the
oven, and a four-quart pitcher of milk, which Bessie, the brown-eyed
Alderney, had given at the morning milking hour. At sight of their aunt
thus laden, three cheers were laughingly and loudly given, for if there
is one way quicker than another to young people’s hearts, perhaps it
is by the way of hot molasses cake and ice-cold fresh milk, as rich as
many city folks have their cream.
Jo, who was eighteen years old on his last birthday, is considered the
young man of the party. He has always been a gentleman, and he at once
rushed to the sitting-room for his aunt’s favorite rocking-chair. As
Ernest has already disposed of the tray by putting it on a spruce-bark
covered table which stands for all sorts of convenient purposes on the
piazza, Aunt Mary is comfortably placed in her easy-chair before she
realizes that Jo had gone for it. “Oh, what delicious cake!” “How kind
you are!” “I must have another glass of that milk.” “Isn’t this lots
better than being in school?” etc., were the pleasing comments and
ejaculations which any stranger might have heard passing on the other
side of the road from the house, or, indeed, a quarter of a mile beyond
it.
After awhile, however, the eating and drinking were over, and “What
shall we do now?” was the question. “I’m tired out, for one,” said
Ernest, and “I for another,” continued Madge; “still, these are our
last hours and we must do something; we cannot afford to lose a moment.
Aunt Mary, you tell us what to do.”
“Will you promise to do what I tell you?”
“We will,” answered Madeline. “Of course we will,” continued Ernest;
“a likely thing we could say no, now, of all times, after the way this
cake and milk have disappeared.”
“Well, it’s agreed, then,” said Aunt Mary. “I want you to entertain me
awhile by telling a story.”
“A story! How? We don’t exactly understand, do we?” asked Jo, looking
at one and another perplexed face.
“The story,” answered Aunt Mary, “must be altogether, ‘made up,’ as
Madge would say. It must be divided in four chapters or parts, as
nearly equal in length as is possible. Jo can begin it, and, after
talking, say for two minutes, Madge must follow, then Ernest and
Madeline will close.”
These words were followed with whistles from the boys, and “Oh, my!”
from the girls, to all of which Aunt Mary said, “You promised, and
of course you will do it. And when the story is told, we will all
drive over to Bear’s Gulch, and that will take the remainder of the
afternoon.”
These words were followed by a halt and sighs. “But it would be a
burning shame,” said Madeline, “not to please Aunt Mary; besides, of
course, we can do it. We can do anything, if we try.”
“So say we all of us; so say we all,” sang Ernest.
And Aunt Mary laughingly replied, “The sooner the story is started,
the sooner it is through, and the sooner it is through, the sooner we
have the drive.”
“Well, as I’m the starter, here goes!” said Jo.
“And,” interrupted his aunt, “when your time is up I’ll call Madge’s
name, and so on. Don’t let us have any breaks. Tell me a story just as
smoothly as if you were reading it from a book. Now, Jo.”
“My title is, ‘The Adventures of an Irish Setter.’ When Ned Armstrong
was so small a boy that he yet wore knickerbockers, he received a short
visit from his cousin William Adams. He, too, was a little boy and was
often called ‘Sweet William,’ on account of his sunny disposition, for,
notwithstanding he was sole heir to great wealth, being the only child
of rich parents, rich enough to count their wealth by many millions of
dollars,—he was neither selfish, exacting, nor in any way disagreeable,
thereby an example to some grown-up people we have met. When William
came on this visit, he brought with him a large, well-trained dog. He
was a magnificent fellow, and Ned, his cousin, was as amazed as he was
pleased to find that the dog was a present to himself from William’s
father, his Uncle Ned, after whom he was named. This uncle had long
known he must sometime part with Moselle; he had been his own from
the time Moselle was a puppy but two months old. The reason for the
separation of master and dog was the giving up of housekeeping for life
in a hotel, as Aunt Cornelia, Uncle Ned’s wife, was now too much of an
invalid to continue caring for a house, even with the assistance of a
housekeeper, of whom she had tried many, and dogs are among the ‘not
allowed’ in hotels. So, Uncle Ned, remembering his little nephew in the
country, and knowing how he would prize and kindly treat his old pet
and friend, sent Moselle by his son William to him. This gift made Ned,
however, nearly crazy with delight, and the old gardener often feared
the results to his flower beds after the races which Ned and Moselle
would take over them. Indeed the dog was not to blame if he forgot
many of his well-trained ways, country life with the little boy was so
ungoverned by comparison with what it had been with his staid, but kind
old master.
“One day, five months after Moselle had changed his home, Ned was
missing. No one knew where the child had gone. He did not have a
regular nurse; but an old colored servant called Tamar had been in the
family many years, and she, with other duties, was supposed to keep
an eye on this child. But Tamar had been negligent this time. Ned was
missing. The big garden was searched everywhere, thinking possibly he
had fallen asleep under some of the rose or berry bushes, but Ned was
not in the garden. Strangely enough, as the boy and dog were counted
inseparable, Moselle was all right and contentedly sunning himself on a
pansy bed, which was a favorite place of his, though often scolded and
chased away for thus flattening the beautiful flowers——”
“Madge, it is your time.”
“As Ned was not found in the garden, the next place to look was all
over the house, while the cry of ‘Ned! Ned!’ was heard in every room
and from several windows, for as one after another looked they would
throw up a window-sash, thinking Ned must be somewhere outside in the
grounds and would surely hear them call, and they would hear his voice
in answer, even if they did not see him. But it was all in vain. Ned
could neither be seen nor heard, and his mother and sister Mary, a girl
of twelve years old, who were the only ones of the family then at home,
finally cried with fright and anxiety. But their fright was of short
duration, for, before an hour had passed, Ned was back perfectly safe,
without scratch or injury, and having the rested dewy look to his eyes
which all children have who have lately woke from sleep.
“It was Isaac, the stableman, who found him. No one ever could really
explain why Moselle was not with him at the time, but the child had
wandered alone into the stable, and the man passing in and out had
not noticed him, who, probably tired with play, had fallen asleep
on the hay. While thus asleep, Isaac had closed the stable door and
fastened it, preparatory to a three miles’ drive to the flour mill.
On his return with the meal, the clatter connected with the moving of
the stable door and getting the horses back had wakened the child, who
came hurriedly out, rubbing his eyes as he ran, and calling at the
top of his lungs for Moselle, not knowing others had as loudly been
calling for him. But Moselle did not answer. There was no running,
jumping and wagging of the tail from his dog-friend, for Moselle was
now the missing one. In the gladness of Ned’s being found, neither Mrs.
Armstrong, nor Mary, nor, indeed, any of the servants, had given the
dog a thought, and it was not until Ned refused to be comforted that
one of the help slowly said, ‘There was a poor old soldier here this
morning, just at the time Isaac came home with the meal. I thought,
perhaps, Isaac had given him a lift up. He asked for a cup of coffee,
but I had none made, and didn’t want to take the trouble to make any,
so I gave him a couple of slices of bread with apple-sauce between. I
reckon he’s made way with the dog, the mean, contemptible wretch!’
“And he had. Moselle was already miles away from the house of little
Ned Armstrong, and his companion was the same poorly-clad half-sick
looking soldier that the housemaid had given the apple-sauce sandwich
to that morning. The dog was prevented from running home by a strong
cord fastened around his neck at one end and the other end firmly
clutched by the man’s hand, and both dog and man had had several helps
over the road, as their rested-looking condition proved. That night,
in the city of Wilmington, North Carolina, the soldier sold the dog
for twenty-three dollars to a handsome young army officer, at present
stationed at Old Point Comfort, but who had a three days’ leave of
absence to visit a sick relative at Wilmington. The dog and his new
master had already started for ‘Old Point’ when the officer suddenly
remembered—”
“Ernest, your time now.”
“That he had forgotten to ask the dog’s name, and, as he could not take
time to hunt the man up from whom he had bought the dog, he decided to
christen him Duke.
“It was the month of March, and the Hygeia Hotel was a gay scene of
life and beauty. Among the guests was a charming young woman, talented
and rich, but also very lame. She could not walk without the aid of a
crutch; but, notwithstanding this detraction, she fascinated everybody
by her lovely manner and cheerful, sunny disposition. The gentleman who
had bought Moselle, now called Duke, daily dined at the Hygeia, and
in a particularly fortunate time was presented to the lame lady. He
was, therefore, the envy of all the unmarried army officers who, with
every one else, would delight in thinking of her as their friend. The
young lady admired Duke very much, and often petted and caressed him,
and the dog seemed proud and pleased to be in her company. However,
the time came for the lame lady to return to her home in New York,
and the dog was left alone with his master, though I might add, not
alone, for everybody living at the ‘Point’ seemed to know Duke and
would always praise his beauty. One old gentleman offered two hundred
dollars for him once, but it was refused, his owner saying, ‘I will
never sell Duke, though some day I may be tempted to give him away.’
Duke was taught many tricks while at the Fortress, among others, to
carry letters. These he would hold in his mouth, but would neither tear
them with his teeth, nor wet them with his tongue. He was also taught
to ‘say his prayers,’ which he always did kneeling on a wooden chair,
with his head resting with closed eyes on the back. When ‘Amen’ was
said this was the signal to jump over the chair-back and shake himself
as if pleased to have prayer-time over. One day, as the mail was being
distributed, Duke, as was his wont, was standing near, and one of the
officers putting a letter in the dog’s mouth, said: ‘Take that to your
master. It’s from his friend, the lame lady.’ This the officer meant
for a joke, but it was really true, and, as the letter concerned Duke,
we will insert it here:
“‘DEAR MR. G——:
“‘According to promise, I write you the result of the
operation, which I am sure you will be glad to learn is
a complete success. My physicians say if I will have
patience for another month I will then walk as well as
anybody. Please give Duke an extra pat on my account,
and whenever you feel constrained to part with him,
remember
“‘Your friend
“‘PAULINE JEROME.’
“That settles it!” exclaimed Duke’s master. ‘I learned last night I was
soon to be sent to California, and I at once decided my good dog and I
must separate. And now that he can have so kind a mistress, and I have
this opportunity to win the gratitude of my lovely friend, what a fool
I would be to hesitate longer. On my way to California, I will arrange
to pass through New York City, and will then personally give my dog to
Miss Jerome.’”
“Madeline, will you finish the story?”
“Six months have now passed since Duke exchanged his home at Fortress
Monroe for the luxurious apartments of his beautiful mistress. The
dog is constantly tended with the greatest care, groomed as tenderly
as if made of human flesh. He sleeps in my lady’s room and seems truly
aristocratic with his lordly bearing. His baby-blue satin ribbon bow,
knotted into the solid gold collar, which bears his name and address, a
Christmas gift from his mistress, causes him to appear what indeed he
has become—almost spoiled with good fortune.
“But what a change a few short hours can make! That night there was
a cry of ‘Fire!’ My! the alarm and panic it raised! for the fire was
not noticed until there was so much flame and smoke that it was with
the utmost difficulty the inmates of the house escaped with their
lives. Nothing else was saved. Miss Jerome calling to a fireman, said:
‘Take care of my dog, and I will pay you well.’ The man, catching
the dog harshly by the collar, fairly dragged him out of the burning
building, for Duke seemed dazed with smoke and fright. But, on reaching
the street, the dog was entirely beyond control, and, with wonderful
strength freed himself from the man’s grasp, strong as it was, and
dashed down the street. Miss Jerome offered at different times large
rewards for his return; but it was useless, Duke and his mistress were
never again to meet, he was as lost to her as if he had never existed.
Several months passed, after the fire, and the dog once more found
friends, a home, and his old name, Moselle. Peculiar events happen
in life, and few more so than the following. Mr. and Mrs. Adams of
whom this story first told, had gone to the South of France, hoping
to recover the health of Mrs. Adams, on whose account it will be
remembered the valued dog had to be parted with. They were accompanied
by Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong and their children, Ned and May. The older
people of this party were one morning talking on the lawn connected
with the Hôtel de Grace, when Ned and May suddenly burst upon them
accompanied by a large dog, who was jumping and tearing around as if
wild with joy. Seeing Mr. Adams, he left the children, and, jumping on
his lap, laid his head on his shoulder and moaned and actually seemed
to weep with gladness. ‘This is Moselle, Moselle!’ shouted Ned; ‘we
saw him with an old fiddler out here on the road. I thought he looked
like my dear old dog, though he is so thin and starved looking, and I
called “Moselle,” and you should have seen him run. Those long legs
of his fairly raced to reach me. Indeed, he knocked me down. He was
too happy to behave, wasn’t you, Moselle?’ and Ned tenderly smoothed
his beautiful head, which he yet kept on his old master’s shoulder, as
though they must never be separated again, while his tender brown eyes
seemed to speak of affectionate content. The family never again parted
with Moselle until he died, which sad event occurred towards the close
of the same year. The dog’s exposures and privations after the fire,
during his varied life, seemed to have weakened and injured him to such
an extent that, though tender care was constantly lavished, it came too
late. All that Mr. Adams ever learned of Moselle’s history, he heard
from the fiddler, who had bought him from an old woman, who said he
belonged to her son, and that they had had nothing but bad luck since
the dog was theirs, and she would be glad to get rid of him at any
price. The fiddler thought the son had stolen the dog, and, as he was
himself having bad fortune, he determined to leave America and return
to his own country, and had brought the dog over the sea, thinking in
that way if there was any wrong dealing connected with the dog he would
never be discovered. ‘But,’ said the old fiddler, gravely shaking his
head, ‘I’ve always heard “wrong will out,” and I’m thankful to dispose
of him for so liberal a compensation as you have so kindly made me.’
With these words, the fiddler folded his money over, thrust it in his
pocket and walked away.”
“Thank you for such an entertaining story,” said Aunt Mary; “and now we
will have our promised drive.”