us were in the mill-pond, washing the sheep which were soon to be
sheared. I was standing on the bank, watching the work, when one of our
neighbours, a hard, coarse man, came up, and calling to my brother, in
a loud voice, asked if he had been hunting a raccoon the night before.
“Yes, Sir, and I killed him too,” answered my brother. “Well, young
man,” said the farmer, “did you pass through my field, and trample
down the grain?” “I crossed the field, Sir, but I hope I did no great
damage,” replied Charles, in a pleasant way. “Yes, you _did_!” shouted
the man, “and now, you young rascal, if I ever catch you on my land
again, day or night, I’ll thrash you!--_I’ll_ teach you something, if
your father won’t!” As he said this, stretching his great fist out
threateningly toward my brother, he stood on the very edge of the steep
bank. Just behind him were the sheep, headed by the redoubtable Bob,
who suddenly darted forward, and, before the farmer could suspect what
was coming, butted him head over heels into the pond! My brother went
at once to the assistance of his enemy, who scrambled on to the shore,
sputtering and dripping, but a good deal cooled in his rage. I suppose
I was very wicked, but I _did_ enjoy that!
For this one good turn, Bob was always quite a favorite, with all his
faults, and year after year was spared, when worthier sheep were made
mutton of. He was finally sold, with the rest of the flock, when we
left the farm, and though he lived to a good old age, the wool of his
last fleece must long since have been knit into socks and comforters,
or woven into cloth,--must have grown threadbare, and gone to dress
scarecrows, or stop cellar-windows; or been all trodden out in
rag-carpets.
ROBIN REDBREAST.
I must now, dear children, pass over a few years of my life, in which I
had no pets in whose history you would be likely to be interested.
[Illustration: ROBIN REDBREAST]
At the time of my possessing my wonderful Robin, we had left our
country home, my brothers were most of them abroad in the world, and
I was living with my parents in the pleasant city of R----. I was a
school-girl, between fifteen and sixteen years of age. That spring,
I commenced the study of French, and, as I was never a remarkably
bright scholar, I was obliged to apply myself with great diligence to
my books. I used to take my grammar and phrase-book to my chamber,
at night, and study as long as I could possibly keep my eyes open.
In consequence of this, as you may suppose, I was very sleepy in the
morning, and it usually took a prodigious noise and something of a
shaking to waken me. But one summer morning I was roused early, not by
the breakfast-bell, nor by calling, or shaking, but by a glad gush of
sweetest singing. I opened my eyes, and right on the foot-board of my
bed was perched a pretty red-breasted robin, pouring out all his little
soul in a merry morning song. I stole out of bed softly, and shut down
the window through which he had come; then, as soon as I was dressed,
caught him, carried him down stairs, and put him into a cage which had
hung empty ever since the cat made way with my last Canary.
I soon found that I had a rare treasure in my Robin, who was very tame,
and had evidently been carefully trained, for before the afternoon was
over he surprised and delighted us all by singing the air of “Buy a
Broom” quite through, touching on every note with wonderful precision.
We saw that it was a valuable bird, who had probably escaped, and for
some days we made inquiries for its owner, but without success.
At night I always took Robin’s cage into my chamber, and he was sure
to waken me early with his loud, but delicious, singing. So passed on
a month, in which I had great happiness in my interesting pet. But
one Saturday forenoon I let him out, that I might clean his cage. I
had not observed that there was a window open, but the bird soon made
himself acquainted with the fact, and, with a glad, exulting trill,
he darted out into the sunshine. Hastily catching my bonnet, I ran
after him. At first, he stayed about the trees in front of the house,
provokingly hopping from branch to branch out of my reach, holding his
head on one side, and eyeing me with sly, mischievous glances. At last
he spread his wings and flew down the street. I followed as fast as I
could, keeping my eye upon him all the time. It was curious that he did
not fly across squares, or over the houses, but kept along above the
streets, slowly, and with a backward glance once in a while. At length,
he turned down a narrow court, and flew into the open window of a small
frame-house. Here I followed him, knocking timidly at the door, which
was opened at once by a boy about nine years old. I found myself in
a small parlour, very plainly, but neatly furnished. In an arm-chair
by the window sat a middle-aged woman, who I saw at once was blind. A
tall, dark-eyed, rather handsome girl was sitting near her, sewing. But
I did not look at either of these more than a moment, for on the other
side of the room was an object to charm, and yet sadden, my eyes. This
was a slight girl, about my own age, reclining on a couch, looking very
ill and pale, but with a small, red spot on each cheek, which told me
that she was almost gone with consumption. She was very beautiful,
though so thin and weary looking. She had large, dark, tender eyes, and
her lips were still as sweet as rose-buds. I think I never saw such
magnificent hair as hers; it flowed all over her pillow, and hung down
nearly to the floor, in bright, glossy ringlets.
At that moment she was holding the truant Robin in her white, slender
hands, crying and laughing over him, calling him her “dear lost pet,”
her “naughty runaway,” and a hundred other loving and scolding names.
I, of course, felt rather awkward, but I explained matters to Robin’s
fair mistress as well as I could. She looked pleased, and thanked me
warmly for the good care I had taken of the bird. Then she made me sit
down by her side, and asked my name, and told me hers, which was Ellen
Harper, and introduced me to her mother, sister, and brother, all in
the sweetest manner possible. We got quite well acquainted, and talked
like old friends, till Ellen’s cough interrupted her. Then, as I rose
to go, she made me promise to come again very soon, and raised herself
as though she would kiss me before I went. Just as I bent down to press
my lips to hers, Robin, who, of his own accord, had taken possession of
his old cage, which had been left open for him, burst out into a sweet,
merry warble, full of the most astonishing trills and shakes. Then I
felt that it was well that we two should love one another.
After that, I went almost daily to see Ellen Harper. I carried her
books, I read to her, talked to her, and listened to her low gentle
voice, and looked down deep into her clear hazel eyes, till I grew to
love the sweet, patient girl more than I can tell. I think that she
was a most remarkable person. Her parents were quite poor, and she had
enjoyed few advantages; but she was far beyond me in scholarship and
reading. And then she was a true Christian, with a calm hope, and a
cheerful resignation; she seemed indeed to have given her heart to God.
Ellen knew that she was dying; she knew that, young and fair and
beloved as she was, she had not long to stay in this bright, beautiful
world. But she did not fear, or complain, for she knew also that a kind
Father called her away, to a world far brighter and many times more
beautiful than ours. It was touching to see her trying to comfort her
sister Lucy, whose strength would sometimes give way as she saw that
slight form growing weaker every day; or her young brother Willie, when
he would leave his book, or his play, and come and lay his face against
her bosom and cry; or her father, when he would come home from his work
at night, and sit down beside his darling child, and hold her thin,
fair fingers in his great, brown hand, and say no word, only sigh as
though his poor heart was breaking; or her mother, who was blind, and
could not see the change in her “own little Nellie,” as she called
her, and so had to be told again and again that she was failing fast.
For all these dear ones, Ellen had words of consolation, and they
always felt stronger after she had talked with them.
On some of those mornings when I went over to dress her beautiful hair,
which I dearly loved to do, she talked to me as an angel might talk, I
thought, and told me many sweet and holy things, which I shall remember
all the days of my life.
As long as she stayed with us, Ellen had great pleasure in her pet
Robin. She said that to her ear he always seemed to be singing hymns,
which was a great joy to her after she became too weak to sing them
herself.
Dear Ellen died at night. She had been very restless in the evening,
and at last said that, if she could lie in her mother’s arms, as she
used to lie when she was a little child, she thought that she could
sleep. So Mrs. Harper laid down beside her daughter, who nestled
against her bosom and slept. Ellen’s happy spirit passed away in that
sleep. But her mother was blind, and could not see when her child was
dead; and when her husband, fearing what had happened, came near, she
raised her finger and said, “Hush, don’t wake Nellie!”
The next morning, Lucy sent over for me to come and dress Ellen’s hair
for the last time. I found my friend looking very much as I had always
seen her, only with a sweeter smile, if possible, hovering about her
lips. She was lying on her couch, dressed in white muslin, and with
many flowers scattered around her. A vase of roses stood on a stand at
her feet, and over it hung the pretty cage of Robin, and Robin himself
was singing very sweetly, but in lower tones than usual, as if he
thought his young mistress was sleeping, and feared to waken her.
They had cut away some of the hair from the back of Ellen’s head, but
around the forehead the familiar ringlets were all left. These I
dressed very carefully, though my tears fell so fast, I could scarcely
see what I was doing. I shall never forget the scene when the family
came into the parlour to look upon Ellen, after she had been laid out,
that morning. Lucy, sobbing and trembling, led her mother to the couch.
The poor woman felt in the air above the dead face a moment, and said,
“How I miss her sweet breath round me!” Then she knelt down, and, with
her arms flung over the body, swayed back and forth, and seemed to
pray silently. The father took those shining curls in his hands, and
smoothed them tenderly and kissed them many times, while his great hot
tears fell fast on the head of his child, and on the rose-buds which
lay upon her pillow, and seemed to give a flush to her white, cold
cheek.
I noticed that little Willie was the calmest of them all. He seemed to
have taken to heart the words of his sister, when she told him that
she was going into a better and happier life, where she would continue
to love him, and whither he would come, if he was good and true in this
life. So he did not grieve for her, as most children grieve, but was
quiet and submissive.
Ellen was buried in a beautiful cemetery a mile or two from the noise
and dust of the city. The morning after she had been laid there, I went
to plant a little rose-tree over her grave. I was somewhat surprised to
find Willie there, and with him Robin Redbreast, in his pretty cage.
“Why have you brought the bird here, Willie?” I asked.
“Because,” said he, in a low, trembling voice, “I thought that, now
sister’s spirit was free, I ought not to keep her bird a prisoner any
longer.”
“That is right,” I said, for I thought that this was a beautiful idea
of the child’s.
So Willie opened the door of the cage, and out flew the Robin. This
time he did not alight on the trees, but mounted right up toward
heaven. There was a light cloud floating over us, and, as we stood
looking up after the bird, Willie seemed troubled to see that it passed
into this, and so was lost to our sight. “Ah,” he said, “I hoped he
would follow Nellie! but he has gone into the cloud, and sister’s soul,
I am very sure, passed away into the sunshine.”
TOM.
I now come to the very prince of pets, the one of all I ever had the
most noble and most dear,--Tom, a Newfoundland setter, the favorite dog
of my brother Albert. He has been a member of our family for five or
six years past. We brought him from the city to our pleasant village
home in Pennsylvania, where we now live.
Tom is a dog of extraordinary beauty, sagacity, and good feeling. He
is very large, and, with the exception of his feet and breast, jet
black, with a thick coat of fine hair, which lies in short curls,
glossy and silken. He has a well-formed head, and a handsome, dark eye,
full of kindness and intelligence. His limbs are small, and his feet
particularly delicate. He is, I am sorry to say, rather indolent in
his habits, always prefers to take a carriage to the hunting-ground,
when he goes sporting with his master, and he sleeps rather too soundly
at night to be a good watch-dog. We make him useful in various ways,
however, such as carrying baskets and bundles, and sometimes we send
him to the post-office with and for letters and papers. These he always
takes the most faithful care of, never allowing any one to look at
them on the way. He is a remarkably gentlemanly dog in his manner,
never making free with people, or seeming too fond at first sight; but
if you speak to him pleasantly, he will offer you a friendly paw in a
quiet way, and seem happy to make your acquaintance. He never fawns,
nor whines, nor skulks about, but is dignified, easy, and perfectly at
home in polite society. He is a sad aristocrat, treats all well-dressed
comers most courteously, but with shabby people he will have nothing
to do. Tom knows how to take and carry on a joke. I recollect one
evening, when we had visitors, and he was in the parlour, I put on
him a gay-colored sack of my own, and a large gypsy hat, which I tied
under his throat. Instead of looking ashamed and trying to get these
off, as most dogs would have done, he crossed the room and sprang on
to the sofa, where he sat upright, looking very wise and grave, like
some old colored woman at church. The illustrious General Tom Thumb
once travelled with my brother and this dog, and, falling very much
in love with his namesake, offered any price for him. Of course, my
brother would not think for a moment of selling his faithful friend,
and even had he felt differently, I doubt very much whether Tom, who
had been used to looking up to full-grown men, would have shown much
obedience or respect, for such a funny little fellow as the General.
It was amusing to observe the dog’s manner toward his small, new
acquaintance. He was kind and condescending, though he sometimes seemed
to think that the General was a little too much inclined to take
liberties with his superiors in age and size,--rather more forward and
familiar than was quite becoming in a child.
Two or three years ago, Tom was the beloved playfellow of my brother
Frederic’s youngest daughter,--our little Jane. She always seemed to
me like a fairy-child, she was so small and delicate, with such bright
golden curls falling about her face,--the sweetest face in the world.
It was beautiful to see her at play with that great, black dog, who was
very tender with her, for he seemed to know that she was not strong.
One evening she left her play earlier than usual, and went and laid her
head in her mother’s lap, and said, “Little Jane is tired.” That night
she sickened, and in a few, a very few days she died. When she was hid
away in the grave, we grieved deeply that we should see her face no
more, but we had joy to know that it would never be pale with sickness
in that heavenly home to which she had gone; and though we miss her
still, we have great happiness in the thought that she will never be
“tired” any more, for we believe her to be resting on the bosom of the
Lord Jesus.
One day last spring, I remember, her mother gave me a bunch of violets,
saying, “They are from the grave of little Jane.” I suppose they were
like all other blue violets, but I thought then I had never seen any
so beautiful. It seemed to me that the sweet looks of the child were
blooming out of the flowers which had sprung up over the place where we
had laid her.
Tom seems much attached to all our family, but most devotedly so
to my brother Albert. They two have hunted very much together, and
seem equally fond of the sport. If Tom sees his master with his
hunting-dress on, and his fowling-piece in hand, he is half beside
himself with joy. But when he returns from the hunt, spent and weary,
he always comes to me to be fed and petted.
You will remember that years have passed by since this brother and
I were schoolmates and playmates together. He is now a fine young
man, while I am a full-grown woman, who have seen the world I used to
think so grand and glorious, and found it--no better than it should
be. But of my brother. He is our youngest, you know, and so has never
outgrown that peculiar fondness, that dear love, we always give to
“the baby.” While I have been writing these histories, and recalling
in almost every scene the playmate of my childhood, I can only see him
as a boy,--a little black-eyed, rosy-cheeked boy; it is very difficult
to think of him as a _man_, making his own way bravely in the world.
Last spring we observed that dear Albert’s bright face had become very
thoughtful and serious; we knew that something was weighing on his
mind, and finally it came out. He was about to leave us all for a long
time, it might be for ever; _he was going to California_! We were very
unhappy to hear this, but, as it was on some accounts the best thing
that my brother could do, we finally consented, and all went to work as
cheerfully as we could to help him off.
It was a bright May morning when he left, but it seemed to us that
there never was a darker or sadder day. The dear fellow kept up good
courage till it came to the parting; then his heart seemed to melt and
flow out in his tears, fast dropping on the brows and necks of his
mother and sisters, as he held them for the last time to his heaving
breast. But I will not dwell on this parting, for my own eyes grow so
dim I cannot well see to write.
I remember that poor Tom seemed greatly troubled that morning; he knew
that something sad was happening, and looked anxiously in our faces,
as though he would ask what it was; and when my brother patted him on
the head, bade him good by, and passed out of the gate, forbidding him
to follow, the faithful creature whined sadly, and looked after him
wistfully, till he was out of sight.
After Albert had been gone about an hour, I remember that I went up
into his room, and sat down in his favorite seat, by the window. O,
how still and lonely and mournful it seemed there! Near me hung my
brother’s fencing-sword and mask, which he had used only the day
before,--on the floor lay the game-bag, which he had always worn in
hunting, and which he had flung out of his trunk, not having room for
it. This brought my merry brother before me more clearly than any thing
else. I took it up and held it a long time, mourning at heart, but I
could not weep. Suddenly I heard a low whine in the hall, and Tom stole
softly into the room. He came to me and laid his head in my lap; but
when he saw the game-bag there, he set up a most mournful cry. Then I
flung my arms about him, bowed my head down against his neck, and burst
into tears. I forgot that he was a poor dumb brute, and only remembered
that he loved my brother, and my brother loved him, and that he mourned
with me in my sorrow. After this, it was very affecting to see Tom go
every day, for a long while, to the gate, out of which he had seen his
master pass for the last time, and then stand and look up the street,
crying like a grieved child.
As you will readily believe, Tom is now dearer than ever to us all; we
cannot see him without a sweet, sad thought of that beloved one so far
away. I am not now at home, but I never hear from there without hearing
of the welfare of the noble dog which my brother, in going, bestowed
upon me.
SUPPLEMENTARY STORIES.
It is twenty years since the first part of this little volume was
published. The dear children for whom those simple stories of my
childhood were told are men and women now, and wonderful changes have
taken place in all our lives and in all the world. But in growing old
I have not lost any thing of my old love of pets; and I hope that my
little readers of this time will understand and share that feeling. I
hope that you, dear boys and girls, look on all innocent dumb creatures
about you as friends, and have not only a kindly interest in them,
but respect them for all that is lovely and wonderful in their brief
existences, and as objects of the unceasing care and tenderness of
our Father in heaven. Every smallest creature that lives represents a
thought of God,--was born out of his great, deep, infinite life.
I hope you especially like to hear about dogs and cats, birds and
chickens, for it is of them that I have a few new stories to relate, as
true as they are amusing or marvellous.
FIDO THE BRAVE.
First I must relate the somewhat tragical history of a certain little
shaggy brown-and-white spaniel belonging to some friends of ours in
the country. He was a stray dog, and came to them in a very forlorn
condition, and had evidently been vagabondizing about in the fields
and woods for some days, for he was ravenously hungry, and his long
hair was dirty, and stuck full of straws, briers, and burrs, till he
bristled like a hedgehog. The first thing that the kind lady did, after
feeding him, was to put him into a warm bath. Then she set herself
to work to rid him of his encumbrances,--sticks, straws, briers, and
burrs. It was a long time before she got down to the dog; but when at
last she laid down scissors, scrubbing-brush, and comb, and deposited
her poor _protégé_ on the floor, he was a good deal diminished in size,
but looked really handsome, and very bright, quaint, and droll.
He took at once to his new home, and soon became a great pet, showing
himself to be grateful, affectionate, and full of cleverness, fun,
and fire. His pluck was beyond all question. Though not quarrelsome,
he would, when in the least degree put upon, fight any dog in the
neighborhood, whatever his size and breed, and he generally came off
victorious. But he was altogether too rash and venturesome, given to
worrying cows, horses, hogs, and old stragglers; rushing into all sorts
of danger, and coming out, when he did come out, and was not brought
out, with his little eyes dancing and his bushy tail in air, as though
enjoying the risk of the thing, and the terror of his kind mistress.
Among other sportive tricks was a way he had of running before the
locomotive when the train was coming in or going out of the station,
near by the house of my friends. Nearly every day he could be seen
frisking about it, dancing frantically up and down before it, and
barking valorously. He really seemed to take a malicious satisfaction
in defying and insulting that rumbling, puffing, snorting monster,
that, big as it was, ran away from him as fast as possible.
“The pitcher goes often to the well, but is broken at last.”