[Illustration: KETURAH THE KITTEN.]
HISTORY OF MY PETS.
BY
GRACE GREENWOOD.
WITH ENGRAVINGS FROM DESIGNS BY BILLINGS.
NEW EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED.
[Illustration]
BOSTON:
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,
(LATE TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO.)
1871.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850,
BY SARA J. CLARKE,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871,
BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.,
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & CO.,
CAMBRIDGE.
Re-dedicated
TO
MARCEL, FRED, FANNY, AND FRANK BAILEY,
OF WASHINGTON, D. C.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
KETURAH, THE CAT 1
SAM, THE COCKEREL 17
TOBY, THE HAWK 23
MILLY, THE PONY, AND CARLO, THE DOG 34
CORA, THE SPANIEL 49
JACK, THE DRAKE 58
HECTOR, THE GREYHOUND 67
BOB, THE COSSET 79
ROBIN REDBREAST 86
TOM 98
SUPPLEMENTARY STORIES.
FIDO THE BRAVE 109
CAT TALES.
FAITHFUL GRIMALKIN 117
OBEDIENT THOMAS 120
KATRINA AND KATINKA 124
FEATHERED PETS.
OUR COUSINS THE PARROTS 135
THE BENEVOLENT SHANGHAI 151
THE GALLANT BANTAM 153
THE DISOWNED CHICKS 157
HISTORY OF MY PETS.
KETURAH, THE CAT.
The first pet, in whose history you would take any interest, came into
my possession when I was about nine years old. I remember the day as
plainly as I remember yesterday. I was going home from school, very
sad and out of humor with myself, for I had been marked deficient in
Geography, and had gone down to the very foot in the spelling-class.
On the way I was obliged to pass a little old log-house, which stood
near the road, and which I generally ran by in a great hurry, as the
woman who lived there had the name of being a scold and a sort of a
witch. She certainly was a stout, ugly woman, who drank a great deal
of cider, and sometimes beat her husband,--which was very cruel, as
he was a mild, little man, and took good care of the baby while she
went to mill. But that day I trudged along carelessly and slowly,
for I was too unhappy to be afraid, even of that dreadful woman. Yet
I started, and felt my heart beat fast, when she called out to me.
“Stop, little girl!” she said; “don’t you want this ’ere young cat?”
and held out a beautiful white kitten. I ran at once and caught it
from her hands, thanking her as well as I could, and started for home,
carefully covering pussy’s head with my pinafore, lest she should see
where I took her, and so know the way back. She was rather uneasy,
and scratched my arms a good deal;--but I did not mind that, I was so
entirely happy in my new pet. When I reached home, and my mother looked
more annoyed than pleased with the little stranger, and my father and
brothers would take no particular notice of her, I thought they must be
very hard-hearted indeed, not to be moved by her beauty and innocence.
My brother William, however, who was very obliging, and quite a
mechanic, made a nice little house, or “cat-cote,” as he called it, in
the back-yard, and put in it some clean straw for her to lie on. I then
gave her a plentiful supper of new milk, and put her to bed with my own
hands. It was long before I could sleep myself that night, for thinking
of my pet. I remember I dreamed that little angels came to watch over
me, as I had been told they would watch over good children, but that,
when they came near to my bedside, they all turned into white kittens
and purred over my sleep.
The next morning, I asked my mother for a name for pussy. She laughed
and gave me “Keturah,”--saying that it was a good Sunday name, but that
I might call her Kitty, for short.
Soon, I am happy to say, all the family grew to liking my pet very
much, and I became exceedingly fond and proud of her. Every night when
I returned from school, I thought I could see an improvement in her,
till I came to consider her a kitten of prodigious talent. I have seen
many cats in my day, and I still think that Keturah was very bright.
She could perform a great many wonderful exploits,--such as playing
hide and seek with me, all through the house, and lying on her back
perfectly still, and pretending to be dead. I made her a little cloak,
cap, and bonnet, and she would sit up straight, dressed in them, on a
little chair, for all the world like some queer old woman. Once, after
I had been to the menagerie, I made her a gay suit of clothes, and
taught her to ride my brother’s little dog, as I had seen the monkey
ride the pony. She, in her turn, was very fond of me, and would follow
me whenever she could.
It happened that when Kitty was about a year old, and quite a sizable
cat, I became very much interested in some religious meetings which
were held on every Wednesday evening in the village church, about
half a mile from our house. I really enjoyed them very much, for I
loved our minister, who was a good and kind man, and I always felt a
better and happier child after hearing him preach, even though I did
not understand all that he said. One evening it chanced that there
were none going from our house; but my mother, who saw that I was
sadly disappointed, gave me leave to go with a neighbouring family,
who never missed a meeting of the sort. But when I reached Deacon
Wilson’s, I found that they were already gone. Yet, as it was not
quite dark, I went on by myself, intending, if I did not overtake
them, to go directly to their pew. I had not gone far before I found
Kitty at my heels. I spoke as crossly as I could to her, and sent
her back,--looking after her till she was out of sight. But just
as I reached the church, she came bounding over the fence, and went
trotting along before me. Now, what could I do? I felt that it would
be very wicked to take a cat to meeting, but I feared that, if I left
her outside, she might be lost, or stolen, or killed. So I took her up
under my shawl, and went softly into church. I dared not carry her to
Deacon Wilson’s pew, which was just before the pulpit, but sat down in
the farther end of the first slip, behind a pillar, and with nobody
near.
I was very sorry to find that it was not our handsome, young minister
that preached, but an old man and a stranger. His sermon may have been
a fine one, for the grown-up people, but it struck me as rather dull. I
had been a strawberrying that afternoon, and was sadly tired,--and the
cat in my lap purred so drowsily, that I soon found my eyes closing,
and my head nodding wisely to every thing the minister said. I tried
every way to keep awake, but it was of no use. I finally fell asleep,
and slept as soundly as I ever slept in my life.
When I awoke at last, I did not know where I was. All was dark around
me, and there was the sound of rain without. The meeting was over, the
people had all gone, without having seen me, and I was alone in the old
church at midnight!
As soon as I saw how it was, I set up a great cry, and shrieked and
called at the top of my voice. But nobody heard me,--for the very good
reason that nobody lived anywhere near. I will do Kitty the justice to
say, that she showed no fear at this trying time, but purred and rubbed
against me, as much as to say,--“Keep a good heart, my little mistress!”
O, ’twas a dreadful place in which to be, in the dark night!--There,
where I had heard such awful things preached about, before our new
minister came, who loved children too well to frighten them but who
chose rather to talk about our good Father in Heaven, and the dear
Saviour, who took little children in his arms and blessed them. I
thought of Him then, and when I had said my prayers I felt braver, and
had courage enough to go and try the doors; but all were locked fast.
Then I sat down and cried more bitterly than ever, but Kitty purred
cheerfully all the time.
At last I remembered that I had seen one of the back-windows open that
evening,--perhaps I might get out through that. So I groped my way up
the broad aisle, breathing hard with awe and fear. As I was passing the
pulpit, there came a clap of thunder which jarred the whole building,
and the great red Bible, which lay on the black velvet cushions of
the desk, fell right at my feet! I came near falling myself, I was
so dreadfully scared; but I made my way to the window, which I found
was open by the rain beating in. But though I stretched myself up on
tiptoe, I could not quite reach the sill. Then I went back by the
pulpit and got the big Bible, which I placed on the floor edgeways
against the wall, and by that help I clambered to the window. I feared
I was a great sinner to make such use of the Bible, and such a splendid
book too, but I could not help it. I put Kitty out first, and then
swung myself down. It rained a little, and was so dark that I could see
nothing but my white kitten, who ran along before me, and was both a
lantern and a guide. I hardly know how I got home, but there I found
myself at last. All was still, but I soon roused the whole house; for,
when the danger and trouble were over, I cried the loudest with fright
and cold. My mother had supposed that Deacon Wilson’s family had kept
me for the night, as I often stayed with them, and had felt no anxiety
for me.
Dear mother!--I remember how she took off my dripping clothes, and made
me some warm drink, and put me snugly to bed, and laughed and cried,
as she listened to my adventures, and kissed me and comforted me till I
fell asleep. Nor was Kitty forgotten, but was fed and put as cosily to
bed as her poor mistress.
The next morning I awoke with a dreadful headache, and when I tried to
rise I found I could not stand. I do not remember much more, except
that my father, who was a physician, came and felt my pulse, and said
I had a high fever, brought on by the fright and exposure of the night
previous. I was very sick indeed for three or four weeks, and all that
time my faithful Kitty stayed by the side of my bed. She could be kept
out of the room but a few moments during the day, and mewed piteously
when they put her in her little house at night. My friends said that
it was really very affecting to see her love and devotion; but I knew
very little about it, as I was out of my head, or in a stupor, most
of the time. Yet I remember how the good creature frolicked about me
the first time I was placed in an arm-chair, and wheeled out into the
dining-room to take breakfast with the family; and when, about a week
later, my brother Charles took me in his strong arms and carried me out
into the garden, how she ran up and down the walks, half crazy with
delight, and danced along sideways, and jumped out at us from behind
currant-bushes, in a most cunning and startling manner.
I remember now how strange the garden looked,--how changed from what I
had last seen it. The roses were all, all gone, and the China-asters
and marigolds were in bloom. When my brother passed with me through
the corn and beans, I wondered he did not get lost, they were grown so
thick and high.
It was in the autumn after this sickness, that one afternoon I was
sitting under the shade of a favorite apple-tree, reading Mrs.
Sherwood’s sweet story of “Little Henry and his Bearer.” I remember how
I cried over it, grieving for poor Henry and his dear teacher. Ah, I
little thought how soon my tears must flow for myself and my Kitty! It
was then that my sister came to me, looking sadly troubled, to tell me
the news. Our brother William, who was a little mischievous, had been
amusing himself by throwing Kitty from a high window, and seeing her
turn somersets in the air, and alight on her feet unhurt. But at last,
becoming tired or dizzy, she had fallen on her back and broken the
spine, just below her shoulders. I ran at once to where she lay on the
turf, moaning in her pain. I sat down beside her, and cried as though
my heart would break. There I stayed till evening, when my mother had
Kitty taken up very gently, carried into the house, and laid on a soft
cushion. Then my father carefully examined her hurt. He shook his head,
said she could not possibly get well, and that she should be put out
of her misery at once. But I begged that she might be allowed to live
till the next day. I did not eat much supper that night, or breakfast
in the morning, but grieved incessantly for her who had been to me a
fast friend in sickness as in health.
About nine o’clock of a pleasant September morning, my brothers came
and held a council round poor Kitty, who was lying on a cushion in my
lap, moaning with every breath; and they decided that, out of pity
for her suffering, they must put her to death. The next question was,
how this was to be done. “Cut her head off with the axe!” said my
brother Charles, trying to look very manly and stern, with his lip
quivering all the while. But my brother William, who had just been
reading a history of the French Revolution, and how they took off the
heads of people with a machine called the guillotine, suggested that
the straw-cutter in the barn would do the work as well, and not be so
painful for the executioner. This was agreed to by all present.
Weeping harder than ever, I then took a last leave of my dear pet, my
good and loving and beautiful Kitty. They took her to the guillotine,
while I ran and shut myself up in a dark closet, and stopped my ears
till they came and told me that all was over.
The next time I saw my poor pet, she was lying in a cigar-box, ready
for burial. They had bound her head on very cleverly with bandages, and
washed all the blood off from her white breast; clover-blossoms were
scattered over her, and a green sprig of catnip was placed between her
paws. My youngest brother, Albert, drew her on his little wagon to the
grave, which was dug under a large elm-tree, in a corner of the yard.
The next day I planted over her a shrub called the “pussy-willow.”
After that I had many pet kittens, but none that ever quite filled the
place of poor Keturah. Yet I still have a great partiality for the
feline race. I like nothing better than to sit, on a summer afternoon
or in a winter evening, and watch the graceful gambols and mischievous
frolics of a playful kitten.
For some weeks past we have had with us on the sea-shore a beautiful
little Virginian girl,--one of the loveliest creatures alive,--who
has a remarkable fondness for a pretty black and white kitten,
belonging to the house. All day long she will have her pet in her arms,
talking to her when she thinks nobody is near,--telling her every
thing,--charging her to keep some story to herself, as it is a very
great secret,--sometimes reproving her for faults, or praising her
for being good. Her last thought on going to sleep, and the first on
waking, is this kitten. She loves her so fondly, that her father has
promised that she shall take her all the way to Virginia. We shall miss
the frolicsome kitten much, but the dear child far more.
O, we’ll be so sad and lonely
In the dreary autumn weather,
For the birds and little Mary
Are going South together!
When upon the flowers of summer
Falls the cruel autumn blight,
And the pretty face of Mary
Has faded from our sight.
[Illustration: SAM, THE ROOSTER.]
SAM, THE COCKEREL.
The next pet which I remember to have had was a handsome cockerel,
as gay and gallant a fellow as ever scratched up seed-corn, or
garden-seeds, for the young pullets.
Sam was a foundling; that is, he was cast off by an unnatural mother,
who, from the time he was hatched, refused to own him. In this sad
condition my father found him, and brought him to me. I took and put
him in a basket of wool, where I kept him most of the time, for a week
or two, feeding him regularly and taking excellent care of him. He grew
and thrived, and finally became a great house-pet and favorite. My
father was especially amused by him, but my mother, I am sorry to say,
always considered him rather troublesome, or, as she remarked, “more
plague than profit.” Now I think of it, it must have been rather trying
to have had him pecking at a nice loaf of bread, when it was set down
before the fire to raise, and I don’t suppose that the print of his
feet made the prettiest sort of a stamp for cookies and pie-crust.
Sam was intelligent, very. I think I never saw a fowl turn up his eye
with such a cunning expression after a piece of mischief. He showed
such a real affection for me, that I grew excessively fond of him. But
ah, I was more fond than wise! Under my doting care, he never learnt
to roost like other chickens. I feared that something dreadful might
happen to him if he went up into a high tree to sleep; so when he grew
too large to lie in his basket of wool, I used to stow him away very
snugly in a leg of an old pair of pantaloons, and lay him in a warm
place under a corner of the wood-house. In the morning I had always to
take him out; and as I was not, I regret to say, a very early riser,
the poor fellow never saw daylight till two or three hours after all
the other cocks in the neighbourhood were up and crowing.
After Sam was full-grown, and had a “coat of many colors” and a tail
of gay feathers, it was really very odd and laughable to see how every
evening, just at sundown, he would leave all the other fowls with whom
he had strutted and crowed and fought all day, and come meekly to me,
to be put to bed in the old pantaloons.
But one morning, one sad, dark morning, I found him strangely still
when I went to release him from his nightly confinement. He did not
flutter, nor give a sort of smothered crow, as he usually did. The leg
of which I took hold to pull him out, seemed very cold and stiff. Alas,
he had but one leg! Alas, he had no head at all! My poor Sam had been
murdered and partly devoured by a cruel rat some time in the night!
I took the mangled body into the house, and sat down in a corner with
it in my lap, and cried over it for a long time. It may seem very odd
and ridiculous, but I really _grieved_ for my dead pet; for I believed
he had loved and respected me as much as it is in a cockerel’s heart
to love and respect any one. I knew I had loved him, and I reproached
myself bitterly for never having allowed him to learn to roost.
At last, my brothers came to me, and very kindly and gently persuaded
me to let Sam be buried out of my sight. They dug a little grave under
the elm-tree, by the side of Keturah, laid the body down, wrapped in a
large cabbage-leaf, filled in the earth, and turfed over the place. My
brother Rufus, who knew a little Latin, printed on a shingle the words,
“_Hic jacet Samuelus_,”--which mean, Here lies Sam,--and placed it
above where the head of the unfortunate fowl should have been.
I missed this pet very much; indeed, every body missed him after he was
gone, and even now I cannot laugh heartily when I think of the morning
when I found him dead.
A short time after this mournful event, my brother Rufus, who was
something of a poet, wrote some lines for me, which he called a
“Lament.” This I then thought a very affecting, sweet, and consoling
poem, but I have since been inclined to think that my brother was
making sport of me and my feelings all the time. I found this same
“Lament” the other day among some old papers, and as it is quite a
curiosity, I will let you see it:--
“Full twenty suns have risen and set
And eke as many moons,
Since I found thee dead, without a head,
In the bloody pantaloons!
“As thy foe did rob thee of a leg
In his hunger and despite,
An L. E. G. I give to thee,
In song, dear Sam, to-night.
“Thy tail was full of feathers gay;
Thy comb was red and fine;
I hear no crow, where’er I go,
One half so loud as thine.
“O, I mourn thee still, as on the morn
When cold and stiff I found thee,
And laid thee dead, without a head,
The cabbage-leaf around thee!”
[Illustration: TOBY, THE HAWK.]
TOBY, THE HAWK.
About the queerest pet that I ever had was a young hawk. My brother
Rufus, who was a great sportsman, brought him home to me one night in
spring. He had shot the mother-hawk, and found this young half-fledged
one in the nest. I received the poor orphan with joy, for he was too
small for me to feel any horror of him, though his family had long
borne rather a bad name. I resolved that I would bring him up in
the way he should go, so that when he was old he should not destroy
chickens. At first, I kept him in a bird-cage, but after a while he
grew too large for his quarters, and had to have a house built for him
expressly. I let him learn to roost, but I tried to bring him up on
vegetable diet. I found, however, that this would not do. He eat the
bread and grain to be sure, but he did not thrive; he looked very lean,
and smaller than hawks of his age should look. At last I was obliged
to give up my fine idea of making an innocent dove, or a Grahamite,
out of the poor fellow, and one morning treated him to a slice of raw
mutton. I remember how he flapped his wings and cawed with delight,
and what a hearty meal he made of it. He grew very fat and glossy
after this important change in his diet, and I became as proud of him
as of any pet I ever had. But my mother, after a while, found fault
with the great quantity of meat which he devoured. She said that he
eat more beef-steak than any other member of the family. Once, when I
was thinking about this, and feeling a good deal troubled lest some
day, when I was gone to school, they at home might take a fancy to
cut off the head of my pet to save his board-bill, a bright thought
came into my mind. There was running through our farm, at a short
distance from our house, a large mill-stream, along the banks of which
lived and croaked a vast multitude of frogs. These animals are thought
by hawks, as well as Frenchmen, very excellent eating. So, every
morning, noon, and night, I took Toby on my shoulder, ran down to the
mill-stream, and let him satisfy his appetite on all such frogs as were
so silly as to stay out of the water and be caught. He was very quick
and active,--would pounce upon a great, green croaker, and have him
halved and quartered and hid away in a twinkling. I generally looked
in another direction while he was at his meals,--it is not polite to
keep your eye on people when they are eating, and then I couldn’t help
pitying the poor frogs. But I knew that hawks must live, and say what
they might, my Toby never prowled about hen-coops to devour young
chickens. I taught him better morals than that, and kept him so well
fed that he was never tempted to such wickedness. I have since thought
that, if we want people to do right, we must treat them as I treated my
hawk; for when we think a man steals because his heart is full of sin,
it may be only because his stomach is empty of food.
When Toby had finished his meal, he would wipe his beak with his wing,
mount on my shoulder, and ride home again; sometimes, when it was a
very warm day and he had dined more heartily than usual, he would fall
asleep during the ride, still holding on to his place with his long,
sharp claws. Sometimes I would come home with my pinafore torn and
bloody on the shoulder, and then my mother would scold me a little
and laugh at me a great deal. I would blush and hang my head and cry,
but still cling to my strange pet; and when he got full-grown and had
wide, strong wings, and a great, crooked beak that every body else was
afraid of, I was still his warm friend and his humble servant, still
carried him to his meals three times a day, shut him into his house
every night, and let him out every morning. Such a life as that bird
led me!
Toby was perfectly tame, and never attempted to fly beyond the yard.
I thought this was because he loved me too well to leave me; but my
brothers, to whom he was rather cross, said it was because he was a
stupid fowl. Of course they only wanted to tease me. I said that Toby
was rough, but honest; that it was true he did not make a display of
his talents like some folks, but that I had faith to believe that, some
time before he died, he would prove himself to them all to be a bird of
good feelings and great intelligence.
Finally the time came for Toby to be respected as he deserved. One
autumn night I had him with me in the sitting-room, where I played
with him and let him perch on my arm till it was quite late. Some of
the neighbours were in, and the whole circle told ghost-stories, and
talked about dreams, and warnings, and awful murders, till I was half
frightened out of my wits; so that, when I went to put my sleepy hawk
into his little house, I really dared not go into the dark, but stopped
in the entry, and left him to roost for one night on the hat-rack,
saying nothing to any one. Now it happened that my brother William, who
was then about fourteen years of age, was a somnambulist,--that is, a
person who walks in sleep. He would often rise in the middle of the
night, and ramble off for miles, always returning unwaked. Sometimes he
would take the horse from the stable, saddle and bridle him, and have
a wild gallop in the moonlight. Sometimes he would drive the cows home
from pasture, or let the sheep out of the pen. Sometimes he would wrap
himself in a sheet, glide about the house, and appear at our bedside
like a ghost. But in the morning he had no recollection of these
things. Of course, we were very anxious about him, and tried to keep a
constant watch over him, but he would sometimes manage to escape from
all our care. Well, that night there was suddenly a violent outcry set
up in the entry. It was Toby, who shrieked and flapped his wings till
he woke my father, who dressed and went down stairs to see what was
the matter. He found the door wide open, and the hawk sitting uneasily
on his perch, looking frightened and indignant, with all his feathers
raised. My father, at once suspecting what had happened, ran up to
William’s chamber and found his bed empty; he then roused my elder
brothers, and, having lit a lantern, they all started off in pursuit of
the poor boy. They searched through the yard, garden, and orchard, but
all in vain. Suddenly they heard the saw-mill, which stood near, going.
They knew that the owner never worked there at night, and supposed
that it must be my brother, who had set the machinery in motion. So
down they ran as fast as possible, and, sure enough, they found him
there, all by himself. A large log had the night before been laid in
its place ready for the morning, and on that log sat my brother, his
large black eyes staring wide open, yet seeming to be fixed on nothing,
and his face as pale as death. He seemed to have quite lost himself,
for the end of the log on which he sat was fast approaching the saw. My
father, with great presence of mind, stopped the machinery, while one
of my brothers caught William and pulled him from his perilous place.
Another moment, and he would have been killed or horribly mangled
by the cruel saw. With a terrible scream, that was heard to a great
distance, poor William awoke. He cried bitterly when he found where he
was and how he came there. He was much distressed by it for some time;
but it was a very good thing for all that, _for he never walked in his
sleep again_.
As you would suppose, Toby, received much honor for so promptly giving
the warning on that night. Every body now acknowledged that he was a
hawk of great talents, as well as talons. But alas! he did not live
long to enjoy the respect of his fellow-citizens. One afternoon that
very autumn, I was sitting at play with my doll, under the thick
shade of a maple-tree, in front of the house. On the fence near by
sat Toby, lazily pluming his wing, and enjoying the pleasant, golden
sunshine,--now and then glancing round at me with a most knowing and
patronizing look. Suddenly, there was the sharp crack of a gun fired
near, and Toby fell fluttering to the ground. A stupid sportsman had
taken him for a wild hawk, and shot him in the midst of his peaceful
and innocent enjoyment. He was wounded in a number of places, and was
dying fast when I reached him. Yet he seemed to know me, and looked
up into my face so piteously, that I sat down by him, as I had sat
down by poor Keturah, and cried aloud. Soon the sportsman, who was a
stranger, came leaping over the fence to bag his game. When he found
what he had done, he said he was very sorry, and stooped down to
examine the wounds made by his shot. Then Toby roused himself, and
caught one of his fingers in his beak, biting it almost to the bone.
The man cried out with the pain, and tried to shake him off, but Toby
still held on fiercely and stoutly, and held on till he was dead. Then
his ruffled wing grew smooth, his head fell back, his beak parted and
let go the bleeding finger of his enemy.
I did not want the man hurt, for he had shot my pet under a mistake,
but I was not sorry to see Toby die like a hero. We laid him with the
pets who had gone before. Some were lovelier in their lives, but none
more lamented when dead. I will venture to say that he was the first
of his race who ever departed with a clean conscience as regarded
poultry. No careful mother-hen cackled with delight on the day he
died,--no pert young rooster flapped his wings and crowed over his
grave. But I must say, I don’t think that the frogs mourned for him.
I thought that they were holding a jubilee that night; the old ones
croaked so loud, and the young ones sung so merrily, that I wished the
noisy green creatures all quietly going brown, on some Frenchman’s
gridiron.
MILLY, THE PONY, AND CARLO, THE DOG.
When I was ten or eleven years of age, I had two pets, of which I was
equally fond, a gentle bay pony and a small pointer dog. I have always
had a great affection for horses, and never knew what it was to be
afraid of them, for they are to me exceedingly obliging and obedient.
Some people think that I control them with a sort of animal magnetism.
I only know that I treat them with _kindness_, which is, I believe,
after all, the only magnetism necessary for one to use in this world.
When I ride, I give my horse to understand that I expect him to behave
very handsomely, like the gentleman I take him to be, and he never
disappoints me.
[Illustration: MILLY THE PONY & CARLO THE DOG.]
Our Milly was a great favorite with all the family, but with the
children especially. She was not very handsome or remarkably fleet,
but was easily managed, and even in her gait. I loved her dearly,
and we were on the best terms with each other. I was in the habit of
going into the pasture where she fed, mounting her from the fence or
a stump, and riding about the field, often without saddle or bridle.
You will see by this that I was a sad romp. Milly seemed to enjoy the
sport fully as much as I, and would arch her neck, and toss her mane,
and gallop up and down the little hills in the pasture, now and then
glancing round at me playfully, as much as to say, “Aint we having
times!”
Finally, I began to practise riding standing upright, as I had seen the
circus performers do, for I thought it was time I should do something
to distinguish myself. After a few tumbles on to the soft clover,
which did me no sort of harm, I became quite accomplished that way. I
was at that age as quick and active as a cat, and could save myself
from a fall after I had lost my balance, and seemed half way to the
ground. I remember that my brother William was very ambitious to rival
me in my exploits; but as he was unfortunately rather fat and heavy, he
did a greater business in turning somersets from the back of the pony
than in any other way. But these were quite as amusing as any other
part of the performances. We sometimes had quite a good audience of the
neighbours’ children, and our schoolmates, but we never invited our
parents to attend the exhibition. We thought that on some accounts it
was best they should know nothing about it.
In addition to the “ring performances,” I gave riding lessons to my
youngest brother, Albert, who was then quite a little boy. He used to
mount Milly behind me, and behind him always sat one of our chief
pets, and our constant playmate, Carlo, a small black and white
pointer. One afternoon, I remember, we were all riding down the long,
shady lane which led from the pasture to the house, when a mischievous
boy sprang suddenly out from a corner of the fence, and shouted at
Milly. I never knew her frightened before, but this time she gave a
loud snort, and reared up almost straight in the air. As there was
neither saddle nor bridle for us to hold on by, we all three slid off
backward into the dust, or rather the mud, for it had been raining that
afternoon. Poor Carlo was most hurt, as my brother and I fell on him.
He set up a terrible yelping, and my little brother cried somewhat from
fright. Milly turned and looked at us a moment to see how much harm
was done, and then started off at full speed after the boy, chasing
him down the lane. He ran like a fox when he heard Milly galloping
fast behind him, and when he looked round and saw her close upon him,
with her ears laid back, her mouth open, and her long mane flying in
the wind, he screamed with terror, and dropped as though he were dead.
She did not stop, but leaped clear over him as he lay on the ground.
Then she turned, went up to him, quietly lifted the old straw hat from
his head, and came trotting back to us, swinging it in her teeth. We
thought that was a very cunning trick of Milly’s.
Now it happened that I had on that day a nice new dress, which I had
sadly soiled by my fall from the pony; so that when I reached home, my
mother was greatly displeased. I suppose I made a very odd appearance.
I was swinging my bonnet in my hand, for I had a natural dislike to any
sort of covering for the head. My thick, dark hair had become unbraided
and was blowing over my eyes. I was never very fair in complexion, and
my face, neck, and arms had become completely browned by that summer’s
exposure. My mother took me by the shoulder, set me down in a chair,
not very gently, and looked at me with a real frown on her sweet
face. She told me in plain terms that I was an idle, careless child!
I put my finger in one corner of my mouth, and swung my foot back and
forth. She said I was a great romp! I pouted my lip, and drew down my
black eyebrows. She said I was more like a wild, young squaw, than a
white girl! Now this was too much; it was what I called “twitting upon
facts”; and ’twas not the first time that the delicate question of my
complexion had been touched upon without due regard far my feelings. I
was not to blame for being dark,--I did not make myself,--I _had_ seen
fairer women than my mother. I felt that what she said was neither more
nor less than an insult, and when she went out to see about supper, and
left me alone, I brooded over her words, growing more and more out of
humor, till my naughty heart became so hot and big with anger, that
it almost choked me. At last, I bit my lip and looked very stern, for
I had made up my mind to something great. Before I let you know what
this was, I must tell you that the Onondaga tribe of Indians had their
village not many miles from us. Every few months, parties of them came
about with baskets and mats to sell. A company of five or six had
been to our house that very morning, and I knew that they had their
encampment in our woods, about half a mile distant. These I knew very
well, and had quite a liking for them, never thinking of being afraid
of them, as they always seemed kind and peaceable.
To them I resolved to go in my trouble. They would teach me to weave
baskets, to fish, and to shoot with the bow and arrow. They would not
make me study, nor wear bonnets, and they would never find fault with
my dark complexion.
I remember to this day how softly and slyly I slid out of the house
that evening. I never stopped once, nor looked round, but ran swiftly
till I reached the woods. I did not know which way to go to find
the encampment, but wandered about in the gathering darkness, till
I saw a light glimmering through the trees at some distance. I made
my way through the bushes and brambles, and after a while came upon
my copper-colored friends. In a very pretty place, down in a hollow,
they had built them some wigwams with maple saplings, covered with
hemlock-boughs. There were in the group two Indians, two squaws, and a
boy about fourteen years old. But I must not forget the baby, or rather
pappoose, who was lying in a sort of cradle, made of a large, hollow
piece of bark, which was hung from the branch of a tree, by pieces of
the wild grape-vine. The young squaw, its mother, was swinging it back
and forth, now far into the dark shadows of the pine and hemlock, now
out into the warm fire-light, and chanting to the child some Indian
lullaby. The men sat on a log, smoking gravely and silently; while
the boy lay on the ground, playing lazily with a great yellow hound,
which looked mean and starved, like all Indian dogs. The old squaw was
cooking the supper in a large iron pot, over a fire built among a pile
of stones.
For some time, I did not dare to go forward, but at last I went up to
the old squaw, and looking up into her good-humored face, said, “I am
come to live with you, and learn to make baskets, for I don’t like my
home.” She did not say any thing to me, but made some exclamation in
her own language, and the others came crowding round. The boy laughed,
shook me by the hand, and said I was a brave girl; but the old Indian
grinned horribly and laid his hand on my forehead, saying, “What a
pretty head to scalp!” I screamed and hid my face in the young squaw’s
blue cloth skirt. She spoke soothingly, and told me not to be afraid,
for nobody would hurt me. She then took me to her wigwam, where I
sat down and tried to make myself at home. But somehow I did’nt feel
quite comfortable. After a while, the old squaw took off the pot, and
called us to supper. This was succotash, that is, a dish of corn and
beans, cooked with salt pork. We all sat down on the ground near the
fire, and eat out of great wooden bowls, with wooden spoons, which
I must say tasted rather too strong of the pine. But I did not say
so then,--by no means,--but eat a great deal more than I wanted, and
pretended to relish it, for fear they would think me ill bred. I would
not have had them know but what I thought their supper served in the
very best style, and by perfectly polite and genteel people. I was a
little shocked, however, by one incident during the meal. While the
young squaw was helping her husband for the third or fourth time, she
accidentally dropped a little of the hot succotash on his hand. He
growled out like a dog, and struck her across the face with his spoon.
I thought that she showed a most Christian spirit, for she hung her
head and did not say any thing. I had heard of white wives behaving
worse.
When supper was over, the boy came and laid down at my feet, and talked
with me about living in the woods. He said he pitied the poor white
people for being shut up in houses all their days. For his part, he
should die of such a dull life, he knew he should. He promised to
teach me how to shoot with the bow and arrows, to snare partridges and
rabbits, and many other things. He said he was afraid I was almost
spoiled by living in the house and going to school, but he hoped
that, if they took me away and gave me a new name, and dressed me
properly, they might make something of me yet. Then I asked him what
he was called, hoping that he had some grand Indian name, like Uncas,
or Miantonimo, or Tushmalahah; but he said it was Peter. He was a
pleasant fellow, and while he was talking with me I did not care about
my home, but felt very brave and squaw-like, and began to think about
the fine belt of wampum, and the head-dress of gay feathers, and the
red leggins, and the yellow moccasons I was going to buy for myself,
with the baskets I was going to learn to weave. But when he left me,
and I went back to the wigwam and sat down on the hemlock-boughs
by myself, somehow I couldn’t keep home out of my mind. I thought
first of my mother, how she would miss the little brown face at the
supper-table, and on the pillow, by the fair face of my blue-eyed
sister. I thought of my young brother, Albert, crying himself to sleep,
because I was lost. I thought of my father and brothers searching
through the orchard and barn, and going with lights to look in the
mill-stream. Again, I thought of my mother, how, when she feared I was
drowned, she would cry bitterly, and be very sorry for what she had
said about my dark complexion. Then I thought of myself, how I must
sleep on the hard ground, with nothing but hemlock-boughs for covering,
and nobody to tuck me up. What if it should storm before morning, and
the high tree above me should be struck by lightning! What if the old
Indian should not be a tame savage after all, but should take a fancy
to set up the war-whoop, and come and scalp me in the middle of the
night!
The bell in the village church rang for nine. This was the hour for
evening devotions at home. I looked round to see if my new friends were
preparing for worship. But the old Indian was already fast asleep, and
as for the younger one, I feared that a man who indulged himself in
beating his wife with a wooden spoon would hardly be likely to lead
in family prayers. Upon the whole, I concluded I was among rather a
heathenish set. Then I thought again of home, and doubted whether they
would have any family worship that night, with one lamb of the flock
gone astray. I thought of all their grief and fears, till I felt that
my heart would burst with sorrow and repentance, for I dared not cry
aloud.
Suddenly, I heard a familiar sound at a little distance,--it was
Carlo’s bark! Nearer and nearer it came; then I heard steps coming fast
through the crackling brushwood, then little Carlo sprang out of the
dark into the fire-light, and leaped upon me, licking my hands with
joy. He was followed by one of my elder brothers, and by my _mother_!
To her I ran. I dared not look in her eyes, but hid my face in her
bosom, sobbing out, “O mother, forgive me! forgive me!” She pressed me
to her heart, and bent down and kissed me very tenderly, and when she
did so, I felt the tears on her dear cheek.
I need hardly say that I never again undertook to make an Onondaga
squaw of myself, though my mother always held that I was dark enough
to be one, and I suppose the world would still bear her out in her
opinion.
I am sorry to tell the fate of the faithful dog who tracked me out on
that night, though his story is not quite so sad as that of some of my
pets. A short time after this event, my brother Charles was going to
the city of S----, some twenty miles away, and wished to take Carlo for
company. I let him go very reluctantly, charging my brother to take
good and constant care of him. The last time I ever saw Carlo’s honest,
good-natured face, it was looking out at me through the window of the
carriage. The _last time_, for he never came back to us, but was lost
in the crowded streets of S----.
He was a simple, country-bred pointer, and, like many another poor dog,
was bewildered by the new scenes and pleasures of the city, forgot his
guide, missed his way, wandered off, and was never found.
CORA, THE SPANIEL.
The pet which took little Carlo’s place in our home and hearts was a
pretty, chestnut-colored water-spaniel, named Cora. She was a good,
affectionate creature, and deserved all our love. The summer that
we had her for our playmate, my brother Albert, my sister Carrie,
and I, spent a good deal of time down about the pond, in watching
her swimming, and all her merry gambols in the water. There grew,
out beyond the reeds and flags of that pond, a few beautiful, white
water-lilies, which we taught her to bite off and bring to us on shore.
Cora seemed to love us very much, but there was one whom she loved
even more. This was little Charlie Allen, a pretty boy of about four
or five years old, the only son of a widow, who was a tenant of my
father, and lived in a small house on our place. There grew up a great
and tender friendship between this child and our Cora, who was always
with him while we were at school. The two would play and run about for
hours, and when they were tired, lie down and sleep together in the
shade. It was a pretty sight, I assure you, for both were beautiful.
It happened that my father, one morning, took Cora with him to the
village, and was gone nearly all day; so little Charlie was without his
playmate and protector. But after school, my sister, brother, and I
called Cora, and ran down to the pond. We were to have a little company
that night, and wanted some of those fragrant, white lilies for our
flower-vase. Cora barked and leaped upon us, and ran round and round
us all the way. Soon as she reached the pond, she sprang in and swam
out to where the lilies grew, and where she was hid from our sight by
the flags and other water-plants. Presently, we heard her barking and
whining, as though in great distress. We called to her again and again,
but she did not come out for some minutes. At last, she came through
the flags, swimming slowly along, dragging something by her teeth. As
she swam near, we saw that it was a child,--little Charlie Allen! We
then waded out as far as we dared, met Cora, took her burden from her,
and drew it to the shore. As soon as we took little Charlie in our
arms, we knew that he was dead. He was cold as ice, his eyes were fixed
in his head, and had no light in them. His hand was stiff and blue, and
still held tightly three water-lilies, which he had plucked. We suppose
the poor child slipped from a log, on which he had gone out for the
flowers, and which was half under water.
Of course we children were dreadfully frightened. My brother was half
beside himself, and ran screaming up home, while my sister almost flew
for Mrs. Allen.
O, I never shall forget the grief of that poor woman, when she came to
the spot where her little dead boy lay!--how she threw herself on the
ground beside him, and folded him close in her arms, and tried to warm
him with her tears and her kisses, and tried to breathe her own breath
into his still, cold lips, and tried to make him hear by calling,
“Charlie, Charlie, speak to mamma! speak to your poor mamma!”
But Charlie did not see her, nor feel her, nor hear her any more; and
when she found that he was indeed gone from her for ever, she gave the
most fearful shriek I ever heard, and fell back as though she were dead.
By this time, my parents and a number of the neighbours had reached the
spot, and they carried Mrs. Allen and her drowned boy home together,
through the twilight. Poor Cora followed close to the body of Charlie,
whining piteously all the way. That night, we could not get her out of
the room where it was placed, but she watched there until morning.
Ah, how sweetly little Charlie looked when he was laid out the next
day! His beautiful face had lost the dark look that it wore when he was
first taken from the water; his pretty brown hair lay in close ringlets
all around his white forehead. One hand was stretched at his side, the
other was laid across his breast, still holding the water-lilies. He
was not dressed in a shroud, but in white trousers, and a pretty little
spencer of pink gingham. He did not look dead, but sleeping, and he
seemed to smile softly, as though he had a pleasant dream in his heart.
Widow Allen had one other child, a year younger than Charlie, whose
name was Mary, but who always called herself “Little May.” O, it would
have made you cry to have seen her when she was brought to look on her
dead brother. She laughed at first, and put her small fingers on his
shut eyes, trying to open them, and said, “Wake up Charlie! wake up,
and come play out doors, with little May!” But when she found that
those eyes would not unclose, and when she felt how cold that face
was, she was grieved and frightened, and ran to hide her face in her
mother’s lap, where she cried and trembled; for though she could not
know what death was, she felt that something awful had happened in the
house.