PRIZE PIGS AND THEIR DOG FRIENDS
He was sobbing his young soul out on a heap of straw.
"Oh! Pony, Pony, what a fool I am--my head was going round and round.
What did I say?--What an awful day. I wish I were dead."
I had heard boys say this before, so I rubbed his shoulder consolingly
with my soft lips. He was my own little master even if he did lie, but
for his own sake I hoped he would learn to tell the truth at all times.
Suddenly he sprang up. "I've got to go back, I've got to face them--it's
worse than the wolf. Where's my handkerchief? I've lost it," and he
sniffed and snuffled and dried his face on my mane and with his coat
sleeve. Then he started on a funeral march to the house.
Knowing that I was supposed to be tied up, I kept at a discreet distance
from him, and skulked behind shrubs until I reached my old hiding-place
under the lilacs.
Dinner was over now, and the pets were having their good time. The four
fat young robins stood demurely round a plate of food on the lawn
stuffing themselves and looking thankfully up toward the blue sky while
their feathery vests swelled out more and more.
Biddy was gorging herself behind a tree trunk, the juncos and thrushes
were eating seeds and cake crumbs scattered over the lawn, while the
rabbit with a bland air surveyed the pleasant scenery and regaled
himself on juicy lettuce leaves.
The younger girl was bending affectionately over her pet garter-snakes,
whose names I found out were Squamata and Flash-In-The-Pan.
The raccoon was under Mrs. Devering's chair and occasionally stuck out
his black paws for tid-bits that she handed to him.
Mr. Devering had moved to his wife's end of the table, and was drinking
coffee with her. She motioned to Dallas to come beside her, and there
was a plate of shortcake for him.
"Will you have some milk?" she asked, laying her hand on a pitcher. "We
don't give our young people coffee here."
The boy was feverish, and drank three glasses. He was very happy to be
with the grown people, and kept rolling his eyes doubtfully at the
children.
The eldest girl was trundling the tea-waggon back and forth to the
kitchen, occasionally speaking impatiently to the chipmunk, who would
get in her way.
"Chippie Sore-Feet," she said, "your pouches are packed. Get out of this
or I shall step on you."
Chippie chattered angrily, but went away.
"You little miser," she called after him. "Here it is only July, and
you have enough winter stuff buried for ten chipmunks."
He gave her an angry glance, and went to unload his booty in some safe
hiding place.
When the table was all cleared, the black-haired girl who had been
eyeing Dallas with much curiosity and a kind of serious interest, came
to her father and said, "Mother thinks our guest would like to be shown
round the place."
"With all respect for your mother's wishes," said Mr. Devering, "I think
Dallas had better go to bed. He's fagged out. That's why he told you all
that fairy tale about me and the wolf."
The girl still stood and Dallas said eagerly, "I am not too tired. I
should love to go."
Poor lad! he did not want to go--he would rather have stayed with his
uncle and aunt, but he did not want to hurt the girl's feelings.
I followed the two as they went along the veranda, and listened to the
girl who was saying, "Let's call on Lammie-noo first. I had to finish my
work, so I haven't seen him."
The lamb was reclining on a bed of straw in the wood-shed with the air
of a patient young prince. The whole troop of children had joined us,
and what pet names they did shower on the happy animal.
He was Angel darling, and Lovey dear, and Beauty lamb, and he took all
their praise quite calmly as if it were his due.
The black-haired girl touched his bandaged leg with gentle fingers, but
said nothing. She was much quieter than the others, though she could
yell, too, at times, as I soon found out.
The younger children were calling the wolf all manner of names, when
suddenly the biggest boy of all turned on his heel and said, "Ah! hush
up--he wants to know how you enjoyed your dinner to-night."
"We'll never eat Lammie-noo," said the younger girl indignantly, "Dad
says so."
"Does the lamb always sleep here?" Dallas asked the black-haired girl.
"Yes, his mother was a pet before him, and this was her bed-place. I'm
sorry the bears got her," and the girl looked very sad.
"What's that black stuff hanging under his chin?" asked Dallas. "It
looks like beads."
"I must shave him again," said the girl soberly. "It's clotted milk on
his wool. He sticks his head down in the pail to drink, and his wool
gets messed up with the milk and then he lies down on the earth and it
turns black. He's a great little boy to eat lying down--aren't you,
Lammie-noo?" and she patted him.
The lamb winked at me. I was quite surprised, for I had fancied him
rather stupid-looking. I should have known better. Any living thing has
some brains.
Having finished with the lamb, the children gathered round me. My head,
neck, throat, withers, chest, shoulders, knees, legs, feet, body and
tail all came under discussion. They knew, the clever young ones, that a
pony's points like a child's points should harmonise. Even the baby
lifted one of my forefeet and peered at it knowingly, saying as he did
so, "Heelths open, frogths thound."
After they took me to pieces, they put me together again by making me
walk, trot and gallop. Then they pronounced me a well-shaped pony, but
my chest was a trifle too wide and my fetlocks were too small. However,
my action was fine.
Then each one of them took me for a ride, but such a short one that I
wondered, until I remembered that their father had said they had ponies
of their own, so I was no treat to them.
The black-haired girl was the only one who did not mount me, and as she
stood a little aside Dallas said to her, "I wish you would tell me your
names again. Not one of them has stuck in my memory."
"We're all named from Canadian history," she said. "I'm Jeanne Mance."
"I never heard of her," said Dallas.
"Of course not, being an American," said the eldest boy so patronisingly
that I saw my young master wince. I foresaw that this boy, who was a
big, sturdy fellow with a round bull-like head, would probably get on
young Dallas' nerves.
"The real Jeanne," the girl went on, "was born in France in 1606. French
people loved Canada then as now--she sailed for Quebec and spent her
life in taking care of sick Indians and whites."
"And she died in the odor of sanctity," broke in the bull-headed boy,
"but this one is nicknamed Cassowary and will probably be hanged."
"Why Cassowary?" asked Dallas.
"Don't you know about the great big Cassowary in Timbuctoo," said the
lad, "who ate up the missionary and his hymn-book too?"
"Never heard of him," said Dallas. "There are lots of things I don't
know."
Poor little master--he felt very humble that beautiful July evening.
Jeanne laid her hand on the big boy's shoulder--"This is Tecumseh
Hallowell Devering, and he is fourteen years old--by the way, how old
are you, Dallas?"
"Thirteen."
"Just my age," she said.
"I know who Tecumseh was," said Dallas; "he was an Indian brave who
fought against us Americans and you British made him a
brigadier-general."
"That's so," said the big boy, his rather small eyes flashing, "and my
nickname is Big Chief."
Dallas shrugged his shoulders. He didn't like Big Chief. The younger
children were howling with laughter. Here were two boys barely
introduced, and one of them was glowering at the other.
"All dressed up, and no one to fight," giggled the merry-eyed younger
girl.
Big Chief scuffed his way behind the circle of children and Jeanne, or
Cassowary, as they called her, drew Merry-Eyes to the front.
"This is Marguerite Bourgeoys Devering, and she is eleven and a half and
is named for a young French girl who came to New France, built schools,
cared for the sick and was called Sister Bourgeoys."
"Now she ought to have a nice pet name," said Dallas smiling at the
cheerful little girl.
"She has--she's called Dovey 'cause most people think doves are so dear,
but we know they're the worst fighters in the lot, don't we, Dovey?" and
Cassowary shook her sturdy young sister, who gave her a good thump on
the back.
"Look at that," said Cassowary, "see her fists, she's just like a boy.
Sleeping Dog, come here."
A fine up-standing boy with dark hair was trying to slip out of sight,
but his elder sister dragged him forward.
"Samuel de Champlain," she said, "also nicknamed Champ. He's eleven and
a half, too, 'cause he's Dovey's twin."
"I know de Champlain," said Dallas, "we have a lake named for him. Why
is this brother called Sleeping Dog?"
"'Cause it's hard to rouse him," said Cassowary. "His eyes look sleepy,
but they have a trick of lighting up and when they do, look out."
"So he's a fighter, too," said Dallas politely.
"Rather, but luckily for us he usually takes it out with the gloves.
He's the only one in the family that Dad can get to box with any of the
boys round here."
Champ made a quiet but very comical face at her, then caught a smaller
boy by the shoulder and swung him forward.
"James Wolfe," said Cassowary, "ten years old and known as Sojer.
'Tention, Sojer. Hands out of pockets. Mother's going to sew them up.
Eyes front."
Dallas blushed. The name called back his wolf adventure, then he roared
with laughter, for the freckled-faced fat pudgy little boy known as
Sojer was doing a goose-step toward the flower beds.
"And last, but not least," said Cassowary, "is dear baby John Graves
Simcoe, who already has shown himself rather snobbish and is called
Little Big-Wig."
Dallas looked admiringly at the beautiful child, who was blue-eyed,
golden-haired, and as straight as a reed. He promised to be graceful and
slender like my young master, and Dallas impulsively stretched out a
hand which the pretty young creature took and pressed between his own
like the little gentleman he was.
"Would like to ride your pony," he said. "Big-Wigth's ponyth very
under-bred."
"You shall," said Dallas heartily, then he turned to Cassowary. "A
fellow would want a double-barrelled memory to keep all your names
straight. Let's see if I can rattle them off--Cassowary, Big Chief,
Champ or Sleeping Dog, Dovey, Sojer, Little Big-Wig."
"Good," cried Cassowary. "Now you'll know what to call us. Only Dad and
Mother use our real names, and even they forget sometimes. Now what
shall we call you? Dallas is too grand."
My young master pressed his lips together. He wanted to tell them that
he was their cousin, but he felt that he did not dare to spring another
sensation on them. They might not believe him. They would think he was
crying wolf again.
"Call him Stranger," said Dovey, "'cause he's new."
"No, that isn't polite," said Cassowary; "name him something friendly."
Her brothers suggested different names--Neighbour, Visitor, Crony, Chum,
Pal, Mate, all but Big Chief, who stood aside smiling wickedly. Finally
he shouted, "Let him swap nicknames with Sleeping Dog."
Only Cassowary and Dallas saw the point of this cruel joke.
My young master became so red that he was almost purple. What lively
blood he had that it could so quickly surge to his face.
He felt already that I was his friend through thick and thin, and
turning his head to me he muttered, "Let sleeping dogs lie."
These children, in spite of their politeness, had sized him up, judged
him and condemned him in spite of their father's apology for him to
Cassowary.
While they all stood staring at him, Cassowary did a very kind thing, as
girls often do when boys have been unkind. She put her arm through
Dallas' and said, "Don't mind him--he's an awful tease. You'll get
something on him some day---- Come on and see the pigs. They're coming
home to roost."
This was such a queer statement that it distracted my young master's
attention from himself. He gave a kind of stagger, and went along with
Cassowary.
"We'll call Dallas, Cousin," she suddenly screamed at the top of her
young lungs. "That will make him feel at home."
As she said this we were all--children and pony--sweeping over the lawn
toward the road. Mr. Devering was walking in the rose garden with his
wife. He heard Cassowary's cheerful yell and he called, "Hooray! So you
have found that out."
They didn't hear him--the wild young creatures. Cassowary was the
wildest of all and a great runner. She just seemed to pick up her long
legs and skim over the ground like her namesake, who can out-distance a
horse. We had a fine dash up the road in the direction of the head of
the lake, and then they all came to a stop, not one winded but Dallas,
who was breathing heavily.
Coming from the north was a grunting drove of creatures. Almost
priceless Tamworth pigs I saw they were, and in prime condition. This
wild country seemed to agree with pigs as well as with human beings. A
yellowish brown old fellow was leading them, and Cassowary said to
Dallas, "Another introduction--Sir Veteran Vere de Vere, and Lady
Annabella Vere de Vere and all the little Vere de Vere
piggie-wiggies--Yellow Boy, Saffron, Quince, Crocus, Jaundice, Topaz,
Sulphur, London Fog, Sandy, Amberine, Tawny and their cousins and second
cousins too numerous to mention. They salute our guest. Now watch Big
Chief playing with them. They are his dearest pets."
Big Chief was giving a series of peculiar howls, and every time he
howled the pigs squealed and grunted.
"What is he saying to them?" asked Dallas; "he talks so fast I can't
understand."
"He's telling them what lovely things they are going to have to eat.
He'll soon have them dancing, tired as they are."
"Are they performing pigs?" asked Dallas.
"No, not really performing. We're not allowed to tease any animal by
making it do unnatural tricks. They just do what they're inclined to.
See--they're circling round him now trying to find out what he's got in
his pockets."
"Latest dance," yelled Big Chief. "Pig-trot," and he twisted and turned,
and the pigs followed him and really seemed to be enjoying themselves,
for he kept throwing them popcorn, ends of cake, and candy, and as he
pranced, he sang, "Golden Dollars Rolling Down the Road, Roll, Golden
Dollars, Roll."
"That's his pig song," said Cassowary, "he made it up himself. He's very
proud of it. Oh! I say, didn't Amberine do a fine fancy step then--threw
out his hoofs just like a little man."
Big Chief kept moving toward the children and me, and seeing that my
young master was half afraid of this drove of lusty pigs, I went toward
him so that he could get on my back if he wished.
He understood--the clever lad, and looked at me wistfully, but alas! he
did not know how to mount even a pony. Of course I am nearly twelve
hands high--I am not a tiny Shetland.
The pigs were most crazy, and Big Chief delighted in exciting them still
more. "Rewards," he yelled, "rewards for my pets. Do you suppose this is
a free show?" and every child had to dig into his pockets to see whether
there was anything to eat there.
Soon the pigs were all round us. "Sir Vet," said Cassowary, giving him a
loving tap, "you're not much like the overgrown fellow that came in here
three years ago. Dad doesn't believe in keeping creatures shut up and
soon fat old Sir Vet had become quite slim and my! couldn't he root. Now
he's as strong as a moose. Come on, race me to the barn," and down the
road they all went, children and pigs, young Dallas and I tagging after.
As we whirled along the road in front of the rose garden Mr. Devering
called out, "Where are the dogs?" and Cassowary stopped short.
"Ah! my beloveds," she exclaimed, "I was forgetting them."
I looked up the road, and there were two tired looking collies lagging
along side by side, their heads down, their tails drooping.
Cassowary held out her arms. "Did their trotties feel sore after
guarding piggies all day? Come up to the house and Bingi will give us a
foot-reviving supper for doggums."
She was down on her knees caressing the two beautiful animals who were
responding somewhat wearily. Then she led them to the wood-shed, where
the cook handed her two bowls of soup, some bones and dog biscuits.
While Lammie-noo surveyed them benevolently, they ate and drank in a
dainty well-bred fashion, then without offering to lie down turned their
faces toward the barn.
"Don't they sleep here?" asked Dallas.
"Not much," said the girl. "Do you suppose anyone could wean them away
from their precious pigs? They were brought up with them. As puppies
they lay close to Lady Annabella's warm sides every night."
"And they watch the pigs through the day?"
"Yes, they are both splendid fighters, and no wild beast would dare to
go near the Vere de Veres when they are about. Never a fox will take a
piggie-wiggie. I can tell you a story about that. Would you like to hear
it?"
"Yes, indeed."
"Well, one day this spring Mr. Talker had Lady Annabella up at his
house. She had a litter of young, and he wanted to keep her quiet. She
was in a small yard and there was a hole in the fence. Mr. Talker was in
his barn loft looking out the window. He saw a Mr. Fox come slyly down
from the wood, and look through the hole longingly at the pigs. Mr.
Talker was going to run down, then he stopped. He has a great admiration
for Lady Annabella and he saw that she had got up and her little pig
eyes were glued to the hole in the fence.
"Mr. Talker says Foxy, after staring at the piglets, picked up a stick
about the length of one of them and jumped through the hole with it in
his mouth.
"Mr. Talker says undoubtedly he was measuring the hole. Finally he
dropped the stick, went through the hole, seized a piggy and tried to go
back through the hole with it. Piggy being no longer than the stick but
much fatter, stuck in the hole and then there was Lady Annabella
suddenly very much alive and crowding Mr. Fox so hard against the fence
that he could scarcely breathe.
"He dropped his squealing burden, and hobbled away, so crushed in body
and spirit that he could scarcely crawl back to the woods."
"And what did Mr. Talker do?" asked Dallas breathlessly.
"Ran down and gave Lady Annabella some milk and petted her, but come
on--Guardie and Girlie are trotting up to the barn to put their pigs to
bed."
"Where are the other kids?" asked Dallas as he and Cassowary loped along
after the two collies, who were in a great hurry.
"I don't know--Oh! there they are down at the crib. The fire warden must
be there, I see his red canoe."
"Is he the man to prevent forest fires?"
"Yes for this district. Then the government has a lovely big hydroplane.
You'll see it soaring overhead. Big Wig calls it the fire-bird."
"And when there's a blaze anywhere in the forest the plane reports it?"
asked Dallas.
"Sure--Canada doesn't want her splendid settlers burnt up. And Dad says
trees are so valuable now that all the governments in the world are
protecting them."
"Do the pigs sleep under the barn?" asked Dallas as he looked ahead and
saw the Tamworth procession filing in under the big barn, which was
painted green like the house.
"Yes, in the cellar, though it's as airy as the barn floor. It's fun to
see them make their beds. Hurry up. You're a slow boy."
"Are they fussy?" panted Dallas as he hurried along beside her. "I
thought pigs liked dirt."
"Indeed they don't. You just watch them travelling round with their
mouths full of clean straw. First, though, comes pig-wash."
As we stepped inside the cellar we saw the lines of pigs part. The big
ones went to long troughs full of sour milk, the little fellows filed
through a small door.
"Where are the young chappies going?" asked Dallas.
"To the pig cafeteria. There are self-feeders there. What in the name of
common sense are they yelling about?" and she vaulted over a railing.
"It's that scamp Big Chief," she called presently. "He pretends to love
his pigs, yet the little darlings haven't a morsel of food. I'll tell
Dad on him," and she scuttled up a stairway to the barn floor.
Presently she came back with two pails of feed.
Dallas watched her with wondering eyes. Then he put his fingers in his
ears. The yells of the indignant small pigs were terrific. One would
think they were being murdered.
"And no corn for the big pigs," said Cassowary presently. "I'll have to
go to the grain-room again. Dad will dock Big Chief's weekly pocket
money for this. I hope he won't leave him a cent."
"I'd hate to kill one of those feasting brown things," said Dallas.
"They do seem to enjoy life so much."
"Kill them!" squealed Cassowary. "I'd like to see you try. They're never
killed. They're sold to stockmen--good stockmen. Big Chief found one
farmer was going to ring the snout of London Fog there, and he howled so
that Dad had to call off the sale."
"Why ring the snout?" asked Dallas.
"To prevent their rooting. This farmer lived in a good fat farming
country. Up here it's wild and poor land for farms. We use the pigs to
clear fields for grain."
"How can pigs clear fields?"
"They root the soil from around stumps and rocks. The men either pile up
the rocks or put them in a crusher to make good roadbeds."
"That's a fine road along the lake," said Dallas.
"Yes, because Dad believes that good roads open up a country. He says he
wishes his crusher would break enough rocks to make a highway to the
North Pole."
"Your Dad is a perfectly splendid man," said Dallas enthusiastically.
"Isn't he!" said the girl. Then she lowered her voice and put her head
close to the boy's. "I cry myself to sleep some nights thinking what
would I do if Dad died."
"This seems a safe sort of a place," said Dallas consolingly.
"It is and it isn't. One day he fell from a tree and hurt his back. He's
too bold."
My young master's mind took a youthful skip. "I say," he observed, "you
tell me you don't kill pigs, but you must kill sheep. I saw a skin."
"Mr. Talker did it. That was Mrs. Goodbody. We didn't eat her. She was
sold. Dad gets our meat from across the lake. We couldn't eat our
friends. Mrs. Goodbody didn't know what was happening to her. Mr. Talker
held out some salt. She followed him to the little electric house. She
licked the salt, then she just fell down peacefully. There's some new
way of killing sheep. I don't know what it is."
"Of course," said Dallas uneasily, "we all have to die."
"Dad says to live well and not fuss about death and when our time comes
he says he hopes we'll all go as comfortably as our animals do. It isn't
the death that's bad, Cousin. It's the teasing and torturing before
death."
Dallas shuddered. "It's awful to suffer."
"But sometimes you've got to suffer," said this sensible girl. "Then
grin and bear it--Hello! What's the matter, Guardie?"
The collie was pulling her white frock with his teeth.
Cassowary went over the railing again to a corner where a shoat lay on a
heap of clean straw.
The other collie was licking his shoulder.
"Only a scratch, Guardie," said the girl "It's not worth washing."
But the dog persisted. I knew what he wished, but my young master asked
Cassowary why he was behaving so peculiarly.
"Because young Jaundice has bruised his shoulder and Guardie wants some
lotion put on it. Watch him take me to the medicine room. Lead on, my
boy."
The good dog, looking over his shoulder, led the way to the barn floor,
and presently the laughing girl came back with a basin and white cloth
in her hand.
"It's all nonsense, you know, Guardie," she said. "Your old tongue is as
good as this antiseptic; however, one must oblige a friend, if only a
dog," and she washed the shoulder of the pig who took on great airs at
having two dogs and a girl fussing over him while a pony and a boy
looked on.
"Now let's go," said Cassowary. "I'll just shut the little pigs' bedroom
door. They're old enough to sleep alone and if they run to their mammas
sometimes they get rolled on. Good night, children," and with a motherly
air she led us away from the barn cellar.
"Hello! what's the fuss about?" she cried when we got outside.