carried to the grave, she followed close to the coffin, and when it
was let down into the grave, she leaped in and laid down upon it, and
growled and struggled when the men took her out. Every day after that,
she would go to that grave, never missing the spot, though there were
many other little mounds in the old church-yard. She would lie beside
it for hours, patiently waiting, it seemed, for her young friend to
awake and come out into the sunshine, and run about and play with her
as he was used to do. Sometimes she would dig a little way into the
mound, and bark, or whine, and then listen for the voice of Charlie to
answer. But that voice never came, though the faithful Cora listened
and waited and pined for it, through many days. She ate scarcely any
thing; she would not play with us now, nor could we persuade her to go
into the pond. Alas! that fair, sweet child, pale and dripping from the
water, was the last lily she ever brought ashore. She grew so thin,
and weak, and sick, at last, that she could hardly drag herself to the
grave. But still she went there every day. One evening, she did not
come home, and my brother and I went down for her. When we reached the
church-yard, we passed along very carefully, for fear of treading on
some grave, and spoke soft and low, as children should always do in
such places. Sometimes we stopped to read the long inscriptions on
handsome tombstones, and to wonder why so many great and good people
were taken away. Sometimes we pitied the poor dead people who had no
tombstones at all, because their friends could not afford to raise
them, or because they had been too wicked themselves to have their
praises printed in great letters, cut in white marble, and put up in
the solemn burying-ground, where nobody would ever dare to write or say
any thing but the truth. When we came in sight of Charlie’s grave, we
talked about him. We wondered if he thought of his mother, and cried
out any when he was drowning. We thought that he must have grown very
weary with struggling in the water, and we wondered if he was resting
now, sleeping down there with his lilies. We said that perhaps his
_soul_ was awake all the time, and that, when he was drowned, it did
not fly right away to heaven, with the angels, to sing hymns, while
his poor mother was weeping, but stayed about the place, and somehow
comforted her, and made her think of God and heaven, even when she lay
awake in the night, to mourn for her lost boy.
So talking, we came up to the grave. Cora was lying on the mound,
where the grass had now grown green and long. She seemed to be asleep,
and not to hear our steps or our voices. My brother spoke to her
pleasantly, and patted her on the head. But she did not move. I bent
down and looked into her face. She was quite dead!
JACK, THE DRAKE.
I have hesitated a great deal about writing the history of this pet,
for his little life was only a chapter of accidents, and you may think
it very silly. Still, I hope you may have a little interest in it after
all, and that your kind hearts may feel for poor Jack, for he was good
and was unfortunate.
It happened that once, during a walk in the fields, I found a duck’s
egg right in my path. We had then no ducks in our farm-yard, and I
thought it would be a fine idea to have one for a pet. So I wrapped the
egg in wool, and put it into a basket, which I hung in a warm corner by
the kitchen-fire. My brothers laughed at me, saying that the egg would
never be any thing more than an egg, if left there; but I had faith to
believe that I should some time see a fine duckling peeping out of the
shell, very much to the astonishment of all unbelieving boys. I used to
go to the basket, lift up the wool and look at that little blue-hued
treasure three or four times a day, or take it out and hold it against
my bosom, and breathe upon it in anxious expectation; until I began to
think that a watched egg never would hatch. But my tiresome suspense
finally came to a happy end. At about the time when, if he had had a
mother, she would have been looking for him, Jack, the drake, presented
his bill to the world that owed him a living. He came out as plump and
hearty a little fowl as could reasonably have been expected. But what
to do with him was the question. After a while, I concluded to take him
to a hen who had just hatched a brood of chickens, thinking that, as he
was a friendless orphan, she might adopt him for charity’s sake. But
Biddy was already like the celebrated
“Old woman that lived in a shoe,
Who had so many children she didn’t know what to do.”
With thirteen little ones of her own, and living in a small and rather
an inconvenient coop, it was no wonder that she felt unwilling to have
any addition to her family. But she might have declined civilly. I am
afraid she was a sad vixen, for no sooner did she see the poor duckling
among her chickens, than she strode up to him, and with one peck tore
the skin from his head,--scalped him,--the old savage! I rescued Jack
from her as soon as possible, and dressed his wound with lint as well
as I could, for I felt something like a parent to the fowl myself. He
recovered after a while, but, unfortunately, no feathers grew again on
his head,--he was always quite bald,--which gave him an appearance of
great age. I once tried to remedy this evil by sticking some feathers
on to his head with tar; but, like all other wigs, it deceived no one,
only making him look older and queerer than ever. What made the matter
worse was, that I had selected some long and very bright feathers,
which stood up so bold on his head that the other fowls resented it,
and pecked at the poor wig till they pecked it all off.
While Jack was yet young, he one day fell into the cistern, which had
been left open. Of course he could not get out, and he soon tired of
swimming, I suppose, and sunk. At least, when he was drawn up, he
looked as though he had been in the water a long time, and seemed
quite dead. Yet, hoping to revive him, I placed him in his old basket
of wool, which I set down on the hearth. He did indeed come to life,
but the first thing the silly creature did on leaving his nest was to
run into the midst of the fire, and before I could get him out, he
was very badly burned. He recovered from this also, but with bare
spots all over his body. In his tail there never afterwards grew more
than three short feathers. But his trials were not over yet. After
he was full-grown, he was once found fast by one leg in a great iron
rat-trap. When he was released, his leg was found to be broken. But my
brother William, who was then inclined to be a doctor, which he has
since become, and who had watched my father during surgical operations,
splintered and bound up the broken limb, and kept the patient under a
barrel for a week, so that he should not attempt to use it. At the end
of that time, Jack could get about a little, but with a very bad limp,
which he never got over. But as the duck family never had the name of
walking very handsomely, that was no great matter.
After all these accidents and mishaps, I hardly need tell you that Jack
had little beauty to boast of, or plume himself upon. He was in truth
sadly disfigured,--about the ugliest fowl possible to meet in a long
day’s journey. Indeed, he used to be shown up to people as a curiosity
on account of his ugliness.
I remember a little city girl coming to see me that summer. She talked
a great deal about her fine wax-dolls with rolling eyes and jointed
legs, her white, curly French lap-dog, and, best and prettiest of every
thing, her beautiful yellow canary-bird, which sung and sung all the
day long. I grew almost dizzy with hearing of such grand and wonderful
things, and sat with my mouth wide open to swallow her great stories.
At last, she turned to me and asked, with a curl of her pretty red
lips, “Have you no pet-birds, little girl?” Now, she always called me
“little girl,” though I was a year older and a head taller than she. I
replied, “Yes, I have one,” and led the way to the back-yard, where I
introduced her to Jack. I thought I should have died of laughter when
she came to see him. Such faces as she made up!
I am sorry to say, that the other fowls in the yard, from the oldest
hen down to the rooster without spurs, and even to the green goslings,
seemed to see and feel Jack’s want of personal pretensions and
attractions, and always treated him with marked contempt, not to say
cruelty. The little chickens followed him about, peeping and cackling
with derision, very much as the naughty children of the old Bible times
mocked at the good, bald-headed prophet. But poor Jack didn’t have it
in his power to punish the ill-mannered creatures as Elisha did those
saucy children, when he called the hungry she-bears to put a stop to
their wicked fun. In fact, I don’t think he would have done so if he
could, for all this hard treatment never made him angry or disobliging.
He had an excellent temper, and was always meek and quiet, though
there was a melancholy hang to his bald head, and his three lonesome
tail-feathers drooped sadly toward the ground. When he was ever so
lean and hungry, he would gallantly give up his dinner to the plump,
glossy-breasted pullets, though they would put on lofty airs, step
lightly, eye him scornfully, and seem to be making fun of his queer
looks all the time. He took every thing so kindly! He was like a few, a
very few people we meet, who, the uglier they grow, the more goodness
they have at heart, and the worse the world treats them, the better
they are to it.
But Jack had one true friend. I liked him, and more than once defended
him from cross old hens, and tyrannical cocks. But perhaps my love was
too much mixed up with pity for him to have felt highly complimented by
it. Yet he seemed to cherish a great affection for me, and to look up
to me as his guardian and protector.
As you have seen, Jack was always getting into scrapes, and at last he
got into one which even I could not get him out of. He one day rashly
swam out into the mill-pond, which was then very high, from a freshet,
and which carried him over the dam, where, as he was a very delicate
fowl, he was drowned, or his neck was broken, by the great rush and
tumble of the water. I have sometimes thought that it might be that he
was tired of life, and grieved by the way the world had used him, and
so put an end to himself. But I hope it was not so; for, with all his
oddities and misfortunes, Jack seemed too sensible for that.
ELEGY.
Alas, poor lame, bald-headed Jack!
None mourned when he was dead,
And for the sake of her drowned drake
No young duck hung her head!
The old cocks said they saw him go,
Yet did not call him back,
For a death from hydropathy
Was a fit death for a _quack_.
The cockerels said, “Well, that poor fowl
Is gone,--who cares a penny?”
And guessed he found that last deep dive
Was one _duck-in_ too many.
The heartless pullets saw him,
Yet raised no warning cries,
As he swam o’er the dam,
And was drowned before their eyes!
[Illustration: HECTOR THE GREY-HOUND]
HECTOR, THE GREYHOUND.
Hector was the favorite hound of my brother Rufus, who was extremely
fond of him, for he was one of the most beautiful creatures ever
seen, had an amiable disposition, and was very intelligent. You would
scarcely believe me, should I tell you all his accomplishments and
cunning tricks. If one gave him a piece of money, he would take it in
his mouth and run at once to the baker, or butcher, for his dinner. He
was evidently fond of music, and even seemed to have an ear for it,
and he would dance away merrily whenever he saw dancing. He was large
and strong, and in the winter, I remember, we used to harness him to
a little sleigh, on which he drew my youngest brother to school. As
Hector was as fleet as the wind, this sort of riding was rare sport.
At night we had but to start him off, and he would go directly to the
school-house for his little master. Ah, Hector was a wonderful dog!
A few miles from our house, there was a pond, or small lake, very deep
and dark, and surrounded by a swampy wood. Here my brothers used to go
duck-shooting, though it was rather dangerous sport, as most of the
shore of the pond was a soft bog, but thinly grown over with grass
and weeds. It was said that cattle had been known to sink in it, and
disappear in a short time.
One night during the hunting season, one of my elder brothers brought
a friend home with him, a fine, handsome young fellow, named Charles
Ashley. It was arranged that they should shoot ducks about the pond the
next day. So in the morning they all set out in high spirits. In the
forenoon they had not much luck, as they kept too much together; but in
the afternoon they separated, my brothers giving their friend warning
to beware of getting into the bogs. But Ashley was a wild, imprudent
young man, and once, having shot a fine large duck, which fell into
the pond near the shore, and Hector, who was with him, refusing to
go into the water for it, he ran down himself. Before he reached the
edge of the water, he was over his ankles in mire; then, turning to go
back, he sunk to his knees, and in another moment he was waist-high
in the bog, and quite unable to help himself. He laid his gun down,
and, fortunately, could rest one end of it on a little knoll of firmer
earth; but he still sunk slowly, till he was in up to his arm-pits.
Of course, he called and shouted for help as loud as possible, but
my brothers were at such a distance that they did not hear him so as
to know his voice. But Hector, after looking at him in his sad fix a
moment, started off on a swift run, which soon brought him to his
master. My brother said that the dog then began to whine, and run back
and forth in a most extraordinary manner, until he set out to follow
him to the scene of the accident. Hector dashed on through the thick
bushes, as though he were half distracted, every few moments turning
back with wild cries to hurry on his master. When my brother came up
to where his friend was fixed in the mire, he could see nothing of
him at first. Then he heard a faint voice calling him, and, looking
down near the water, he saw a pale face looking up at him from the
midst of the black bog. He has often said that it was the strangest
sight that he ever saw. Poor Ashley’s arms, and the fowling-piece he
held, were now beginning to disappear, and in a very short time he
would have sunk out of sight for ever! Only to think of such an awful
death! My brother, who had always great presence of mind, lost no time
in bending down a young tree from the bank where he stood, so that
Ashley could grasp it, and in that way be drawn up, for, as you see,
it would not have been safe for him to go down to where his friend
sunk. When Ashley had taken a firm hold of the sapling, my brother
let go of it, and it sprung back, pulling up the young man without
much exertion on his part. Ashley was, however, greatly exhausted with
fright and struggling, and lay for some moments on the bank, feeling
quite unable to walk. As soon as he was strong enough, he set out for
home with my brother, stopping very often to rest and shake off the
thick mud, which actually weighed heavily upon him. I never shall
forget how he looked when he came into the yard about sunset. O, what
a rueful and ridiculous figure he cut! We could none of us keep from
laughing, though we were frightened at first, and sorry for our guest’s
misfortune. But after he was dressed in a dry suit of my brother’s, he
looked funnier than ever, for he was a tall, rather large person, and
the dress was too small for him every way. Yet he laughed as heartily
as any of us, for he was very good-natured and merry. It seems to me I
can see him now, as he walked about with pantaloons half way up to his
knees, coat-sleeves coming a little below the elbows, and vest that
wouldn’t meet at all, and told us queer Yankee stories, and sung songs,
and jested and laughed all the evening. But once, I remember, I saw him
go out on to the door-step, where Hector was lying, kneel down beside
the faithful dog, and actually hug him to his breast.
When not hunting with his master Hector went with Albert and me in all
our rambles, berrying and nutting. We could hardly be seen without him,
and we loved him almost as we loved one another.
One afternoon in early spring, we had been into the woods for
wild-flowers. I remember that I had my apron filled with the sweet
claytonias, and the gay trilliums, and the pretty white flowers
of the sanguinaria, or “blood-root,” and hosts and handfuls of the
wild violets, yellow and blue. My brother had taken off his cap and
filled it with beautiful green mosses, all lit up with the bright red
squaw-berry. We had just entered the long, shady lane which ran down
to the house, and were talking and laughing very merrily, when we saw
a crowd of men and boys running toward us and shouting as they ran.
Before them was a large, brown bull-dog, that, as he came near, we saw
was foaming at the mouth. Then we heard what the men were crying. It
was, “_Mad dog!_”
My brother and I stopped and clung to each other in great trouble.
Hector stood before us and growled. The dog was already so near that we
saw we could not escape; he came right at us, with his dreadful frothy
mouth wide open. He was just upon us, when Hector caught him by the
throat, and the two rolled on the ground, biting and struggling. But
presently one of the men came up and struck the mad dog on the head
with a large club,--so stunned him and finally killed him. But Hector,
poor Hector, was badly bitten in the neck and breast, and all the men
said that he must die too, or he would go mad. One of the neighbours
went home with us, and told my father and elder brothers all about
it. They were greatly troubled, but promised that, for the safety of
the neighbourhood, Hector should be shot in the morning. I remember
how, while they were talking, Hector lay on the door-step licking his
wounds, every now and then looking round, as if he thought that there
was some trouble which he ought to understand.
I shall never, never forget how I grieved that night! I heard the clock
strike ten, eleven, and twelve, as I lay awake weeping for my dear
playfellow and noble preserver, who was to die in the morning. Hector
was sleeping in the next room, and once I got up and stole out to
see him as he lay on the hearth-rug in the clear moonlight, resting
unquietly, for his wounds pained him. I went and stood so near that my
tears fell on his beautiful head; but I was careful not to wake him,
for I somehow felt guilty toward him.
That night the weather changed, and the next morning came up chilly
and windy, with no sunshine at all,--as though it would not have been
a gloomy day enough, any how. After breakfast--ah! I remember well how
little breakfast was eaten by any of us that morning--Hector was led
out into the yard, and fastened to a stake. He had never before in
all his life been tied, and he now looked troubled and ashamed. But
my mother spoke pleasantly to him and patted him, and he held up his
head and looked proud again. My mother was greatly grieved that the
poor fellow should have to die for defending her children, and when she
turned from him and went into the house, I saw she was in tears; so
I cried louder than ever. One after another, we all went up and took
leave of our dear and faithful friend. My youngest brother clung about
him longest, crying and sobbing as though his heart would break. It
seemed that we should never get the child away. My brother Rufus said
that no one should shoot his dog but himself, and while we children
were bidding farewell, he stood at a little distance loading his rifle.
But finally he also came up to take leave. He laid his hand tenderly on
Hector’s head, but did not speak to him or look into his eyes,--those
sad eyes, which seemed to be asking what all this crying meant. He
then stepped quickly back to his place, and raised the rifle to his
shoulder. Then poor Hector appeared to understand it all, and to know
that he must die, for he gave a loud, mournful cry, trembled all over,
and crouched toward the ground. My brother dropped the gun, and leaned
upon it, pale and distressed. Then came the strangest thing of all.
Hector seemed to have strength given him to submit to his hard fate; he
stood up bravely again, but turned away his head and closed his eyes.
My brother raised the rifle. I covered my face with my hands. Then came
a loud, sharp report. I looked round and saw Hector stretched at full
length, with a great stream of blood spouting from his white breast,
and reddening all the grass about him. He was not quite dead, and as we
gathered around him, he looked up into our faces and moaned. The ball
which pierced him had cut the cord in two that bound him to the stake,
and he was free at the last. My brother, who had thrown down his rifle,
drew near also, but dared not come close, because, he said, he feared
the poor dog would look reproachfully at him. But Hector caught sight
of his beloved master, and, rousing all his strength, dragged himself
to his feet. Rufus bent over him and called him by name. Hector looked
up lovingly and forgivingly into his face, licked his hand, and died.
Then my brother, who had kept a firm, manly face all the while, burst
into tears.
My brother William, who was always master of ceremonies on such
occasions, made a neat coffin for Hector, and laid him in it, very
gently and solemnly. I flung in all the wild-flowers which Albert and I
had gathered on the afternoon of our last walk with our noble friend,
and so we buried him. His grave was very near the spot where he had so
bravely defended us from the mad dog, by the side of the way, in the
long, pleasant lane where the elm-trees grew.
BOB, THE COSSET.
One cold night in March, my father came in from the barn-yard, bringing
a little lamb, which lay stiff and still in his arms, and appeared to
be quite dead. But my mother, who was good and kind to all creatures,
wrapped it in flannel, and, forcing open its teeth, poured some warm
milk down its throat. Still it did not open its eyes or move, and when
we went to bed it was yet lying motionless before the fire. It happened
that my mother slept in a room opening out of the sitting-room, and in
the middle of the night she heard a little complaining voice, saying,
“Ma!” She thought it must be some one of us, and so answered, “What,
my child?” Again it came, “Ma!” and, turning round, she saw by the
light of the moon the little lamb she had left for dead standing by her
bedside. In the morning it was found that the own mother of “Bob,” (for
we gave him that name,) had died of cold in the night; so we adopted
the poor orphan into our family. We children took care of him, and
though it was a great trouble to bring him up by hand, we soon became
attached to our charge, and grew very proud of his handsome growth and
thriving condition. He was, in truth, a most amusing pet, he had such
free manners with every body and was so entirely at home everywhere.
He would go into every room in the house,--even mount the stairs and
appear in our chambers in the morning, sometimes before we were up, to
shame us with his early rising. But the place which of all others he
decidedly preferred was the pantry. Here he was, I am sorry to say,
once or twice guilty of breaking the commandment against stealing,
by helping himself to fruit and to slices of bread which did not
rightfully belong to him. He was tolerably amiable, though I think that
lambs generally have a greater name for sweetness of temper than they
deserve. But Bob, though playful and somewhat mischievous, had never
any serious disagreement with the dogs, cats, pigs, and poultry on the
premises. My sister and I used to make wreaths for his neck, which he
wore with such an evident attempt at display, that I sometimes feared
he was more vain and proud than it was right for such an innocent and
poetical animal to be.
But our trials did not really commence until Bob’s horns began to
sprout. It seemed that he had no sooner perceived those little
protuberances in his looking glass, the drinking-trough, than he took
to butting, like any common pasture-reared sheep, who had been wholly
without the advantages of education and good society. It was in vain
that we tried to impress upon him that such was not correct conduct
in a cosset of his breeding; he would still persevere in his little
interesting trick of butting all such visitors as did not happen to
strike his fancy. But he never treated us to his horns in that way, and
so we let him go, like any other spoiled child, without punishing him
severely, and rather laughed at his sauciness.
But one day our minister, a stout, elderly gentleman, solemn-faced and
formal, had been making us a parochial visit, and as he was going away,
we all went out into the yard to see him ride off, on his old sorrel
pacer. It seems he had no riding-whip; so he reached up to break off
a twig from an elm-tree which hung over the gate. This was very high,
and he was obliged to stand on tiptoe. Just then, before he had grasped
the twig he wanted, Bob started out from under a large rose-bush near
by, and run against the reverend gentleman, butting him so violently
as to take him quite off his feet. My father helped the good man up,
and made a great many apologies for the impiety of our pet, while we
children did our best to keep our faces straight. After our venerable
visitor was gone, my father sternly declared that he would not bear
with Bob any longer, but that he should be turned into the pasture with
the other sheep, for he would not have him about, insulting respectable
people and butting ministers of the Gospel at that rate.
So the next morning Bob was banished in disgrace from the house and
yard, and obliged to mingle with the vulgar herd of his kind. With them
I regret to say that he soon earned the name of being very bold and
quarrelsome. As his horns grew and lengthened, he grew more and more
proud of the consequence they gave him, and went forth butting and to
butt. O, he was a terrible fellow!