"There were once wolves in the wilder parts of the country, but they
have long since been killed, because they did so much mischief. The
only large animals which now remain in a wild state, are deer, and they
belong to the proprietors of the land, so that those alone to whom they
give permission may shoot them."
"But have you not got some deer?" asked Norman, "I should so like to see
you shoot one."
"My days for deer-stalking are over," answered the laird. "There are a
few on my estate, but I do not allow them to be shot. They are
beautiful creatures, and I like to see them bounding across the hills
and moors, and enjoying the existence God has given them."
"I should like to shoot one though," said Norman, giving his head a
shake in an independent way. "Won't you lend me your gun."
"A gun would tumble you over oftener than you could bring down a deer,
laddie," answered the laird, laughing heartily. "As you are so
determined to be a sportsman you shall come with me on the loch this
evening, and we will try and catch some fish, only you must promise me
not to fall overboard again."
"I will take good care not to do that; I did not like it the last time,"
said Norman.
"I suspect that what the boy wants is careful training to turn out
better than he promises to do at present," thought the laird. "He has
been allowed to do what he chooses, and has not been shown by the
argument of the rod, as Solomon advises, when he has chosen to do wrong.
I wish his father would let me take him in hand for a few months, I
think something might be made of him."
"Come along, laddie," said the honest laird aloud, "we will get my
fishing-tackle, but we will not carry a big basket this time. I will
show you how to string up your fish to carry them home without one."
The laird was quickly equipped, for his fishing-tackle was always kept
in readiness for use, and Norman being allowed the honour of carrying
his landing-net, they took their way down to the loch. The laird told
Norman to jump into the boat, and lifting the grapnel which held her to
the bank, he stepped in after him, then taking the oars he pulled away
up the loch.
"What! can you row?" exclaimed Norman. "I thought only sailors and
boatmen could do that."
"You have a good many things to learn, laddie. I could pull an oar when
I was no bigger than you are. It is what every English boy ought to be
able to do, and I will teach you if you try to behave yourself
properly."
"I should like to learn; can you teach me now?" asked Norman.
"I cannot teach you and fish at the same time," said the laird.
"Besides these oars are too heavy for you, but I will get a small one
made that you can handle. Remember, however, that I make the promise
only on condition that you are a good boy, and try to please not only me
but everybody else."
"I will try," said Norman, but still he did not forget his evil
intentions against Fanny and her bird.
People often promise that they will be good, but they must have an
honest desire to be so, and must seek for help from whence alone they
can obtain it, in order to enable them to keep their promise. Norman
had never even tried to be good, but had always followed his own
inclinations, regardless of the pain or annoyance he inflicted on even
those who were most kind to him. He could appear very amiable when he
was pleased, and had everything his own way, but that is not sufficient.
A person should be amiable when opposed, and even when hardly treated
should return good for evil.
He sat in the boat talking away very pleasantly to Mr Maclean, who
began to think that he was a much nicer boy than he had supposed, and
felt very glad that he had brought him out with him that evening.
The laird rowed on for some distance, till he came to the spot where he
proposed fishing. He then put his rod together, and told Norman to
watch what he did, that he might imitate him as soon as he had a rod of
his own.
"I must get a nice light one which you can handle properly," observed
the laird kindly.
"Oh, but I think I could hold yours, it does not seem very heavy," said
Norman.
"You might hold it upright, but you could not move it about as I do, and
certainly you could not throw a fly with it," answered Mr Maclean.
"However, I like to see a boy try to do a thing. It is only by trying
that a person can succeed. But trying alone will not do, a person must
learn his alphabet before he can read; unless he did so, he might try
very hard to read, and would not succeed. In the same way you must
learn the a, b, c of every handicraft, and art, and branch of knowledge,
before you can hope to understand or accomplish the work. The a, b, c
of fly-fishing is to handle your rod and line, and I must see you do
that well, before I let you use a hook, with which you would otherwise
only injure yourself or any one else in the boat."
"But I should feel so foolish throwing a line backwards and forwards
over the water," answered Norman, "I should not like that."
"You would be much more foolish throwing it backwards and forwards and
not catching anything," remarked the laird. "Will you follow my advice
or not? I want your answer."
"I will do as you wish me," said Norman, after some hesitation.
"Then I will teach you how to become a fly-fisher, and perhaps another
year when you pay me a visit, you will be able to catch as many fish as
I am likely to do this evening."
The good laird had now got his tackle in order, and applied himself to
the sport, telling Norman to sit quiet in the stern. Norman watched him
eagerly.
"I cannot see what difficulty there is," he said to himself. "I think
in ten minutes or so I should be able to make the fly leap about over
the water just as well as he does. Ah! he has caught a fish, I should
like to do that! I must try as soon as he will let me have a rod."
The laird quickly lifted the trout into the boat, and in half-an-hour
caught five or six more.
It was now growing dusk, and observing that the fish would no longer
rise, he wound up his line, and again took to his oars. They soon
reached the shore. Norman begged that he might be allowed to carry the
fish, which the laird had strung through the gills with a piece of osier
which he cut from the bank.
Norman felt very proud as he walked away with the fish, persuading
himself that he had had some part in catching them. They were, however,
rather heavy, and before he reached the house his arms began to ache.
He felt ashamed of acknowledging this, but continued changing them from
hand to hand. The laird observed him, and with a smile, asked if he
should take them. Norman was very glad to accept his offer.
"You will find playing a fly much harder work than carrying the fish you
catch with it, young gentleman," he remarked.
Before entering the house, Norman begged that he might have the fish
again, to show them to the ladies in the drawing-room. He rushed in
eagerly holding them up.
"See mamma! see Mrs Maclean! see granny! what fine fish the laird and I
have caught," he exclaimed.
"I congratulate you, my dear," said his grandmamma, "which of them did
you catch?"
"Oh, the laird hooked them, and I sat in the boat, and brought them some
of the way up to the house!" answered Norman.
Fanny burst into a merry laugh.
"You are always grinning at me," exclaimed Norman, turning round and
going out of the room.
Again his evil feelings were aroused.
"I won't be laughed at by a girl," he said to himself, as he made his
way towards the kitchen to deliver the fish to the cook. "I will pay
her off, and she will be sorry that she jeered at me."
"Well, young gentleman. These are fine fish," said the cook, "did you
catch them all?"
"No I didn't," answered Norman turning away, for he was afraid the cook
would laugh at him, as Fanny had done, if he boasted of having caught
them.
"Fanny, you should not laugh at Norman," observed Mrs Vallery, "he
cannot endure that sort of thing, as he has not been accustomed to it."
"But, my dear Mary, don't you think it would be better that he should
learn to endure it, and get accustomed to be joked with?" said Mrs
Maclean. "When he goes to school he will be compelled to bear the jokes
of his companions, if he gets angry on such occasions, they will only
joke at him the more, and he will have a very uncomfortable time of it."
"Poor boy! I am afraid what you say is true, but still, I do not
consider that his sister should be the person to teach him the
unpleasant lesson," answered Mrs Vallery.
"I did not intend to hurt his feelings, and will find him and try to
comfort him as well as I can," said Fanny, putting up her work.
Fanny found Norman just going into his room to get ready for tea. "I am
so sorry I laughed when you told us about the fish just now, Norman,"
she said putting her hand on his arm; "I did not intend to laugh at you,
but only at what you said."
"I do not see why you should have laughed at all, I don't like it, and
won't stand it, and you had better not do it again," he answered,
tearing himself away from her, and running into his room. She attempted
to follow, but he slammed the door in her face, and shot the bolt, so
that she could not enter.
"My dear brother, do listen to me, I am very very sorry to have offended
you, and will not, if I can help it, laugh at you again," she said, much
grieved at his petulant behaviour.
Norman made no answer, but she heard him stamping about in his room and
knocking over several things.
Finding all her efforts vain, she got ready for tea, and went to the
dining-room, where that meal was spread in Highland fashion.
Norman who was hungry, at last made his appearance. He went to his seat
without speaking or even looking at her. Mr Maclean who knew nothing
of what had passed, talked to him in his usual kind way, and promised to
take him out the next morning that he might commence his lessons in
fly-fishing. Norman being thus treated, was perfectly satisfied with
himself, and considered that Fanny alone was to blame for the
ill-feeling in which he allowed himself to indulge towards her. She
made several attempts to get him to speak, but to no purpose.
How sad it was that Norman should have been able to place his head on
his pillow and not experience any feeling of compunction at doing so
without being reconciled to his gentle sister.
Next morning he was up betimes, and went off soon after breakfast with
Mr Maclean to the loch.
Fanny amused herself for some time with her little bird. It now knew
her so well that when she opened the door of its cage, it would fly out
as she called it, and come and perch on her finger, and when she put
some crumbs on the table, it would hop forward, turning its head about,
and pick them up one after the other, watching lest any stranger should
approach. If any one entered the room it immediately came close up to
Fanny, or perched on her hand, and seemed to feel that it was perfectly
safe while under her protection. It would not, however, venture out if
any one else was in the room. Fanny kept its cage hung up on a peg near
the window of her bedroom. She brought it down that morning to show to
Mrs Leslie.
"I must give it a name, dear granny," she said; "can you help me? Do
you recollect the pretty story you used to read to me when I was a very
little girl, about the three robins--Dickey, and Flapsey, and Pecksy. I
have been thinking of calling it by one of those names, but I could not
make up my mind."
"Which name do you like the best, my dear?" asked Mrs Leslie.
"I think Pecksy. Pecksy was a good, obedient, little bird, and I am
sure my dear little bird is as good as a bird can be."
"Then I think I would call it Pecksy, dear," answered Mrs Leslie; and
Fanny decided on so naming her little favourite.
"Now you shall see, granny, how Pecksy will come out when I call it, if
you will just hold up your shawl as you sit in your arm-chair, so that
it may not see you; yet I am sure it would not be afraid of you if it
knew how kind you are, and I shall soon be able to teach it to love
you;" so Fanny placed the cage on a little table at the farther end of
the room, and, opening the door, went to some distance and called to
Pecksy, and out came Pecksy and perched on her fingers. She then,
talking to it and gently stroking its back, brought it quietly up to her
granny. Greatly to her delight, Pecksy did not appear at all afraid.
"There, granny! there! I was sure Pecksy would learn to love you," she
exclaimed; and Pecksy looked up into the kind old lady's face, and
seemed perfectly satisfied that no harm would come to it.
"Oh, I wish Norman would be fond of the little bird too," she said, "but
he does not seem to care about it, and thinks it beneath his notice; and
yet I have heard of many boys--not only little ones, but big boys, and
even grown-up men--who were fond of birds, and have tamed them, and
taught them to come to them, and learn to trust and love them."
"I do, indeed, wish that Norman was fond of your little bird," observed
Mrs Leslie; "many noble and great men have been fond of dumb animals,
and have found pleasure in the companionship even of little birds. It
is no sign of true manliness to despise even the smallest of God's
creatures, or to treat them otherwise than with kindness. You remember
those lines of the poet Cowper which begin thus--
"`I would not enter on my list of friends
(Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
Yet wanting sensibility) the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.'
"They refer rather to cruelty to animals, but they occurred to me just
now when thinking of Norman, and we must try to get him to learn them,
as I am afraid that he does not consider that all God's creatures have
feeling, and that he would carelessly injure them if they came in his
way."
"I fear that at present he would do so, but then, he is very little,"
said Fanny, "and perhaps if he learns those lines they may teach him to
be kinder than he now is to dumb animals; still, I am sure he would not
have the heart to hurt little Pecksy."
Poor Fanny judged of Norman by herself, notwithstanding the way he had
so constantly behaved. She little thought of what he was capable of
doing, still less of what he would become capable as he grew older,
unless he was altogether changed.
Fanny had just returned Pecksy to his cage when the laird and Norman
entered. Norman boasted of the way in which he had handled his rod.
"Mr Maclean says that I shall soon become a first-rate fly-fisher," he
exclaimed. "I should have caught some fish to-day if I had had a hook.
He would not let me put one on for fear I should hook him or myself, but
I am determined to have one next time, and then you will see I shall
bring back a whole basketful of fish."
Fanny did not laugh at what Norman said, though she felt much inclined
to do so. She remembered too well the effect her laughter had produced
on the previous evening, and she was most anxious not to irritate his
feelings.
The laird had now, as he called it, taken Norman in hand, and for
several days allowed the boy to accompany him when he went fishing on
the loch. On each occasion he made him practise with his little rod and
line, but would not permit him to put on a hook, in spite of the earnest
request Norman made that he might be allowed to use one.
"No, laddie, no; not till I see that you can throw a fly with sufficient
skill to entice a fish shall you use a hook while you are with me," he
answered.
His refusal greatly annoyed Norman, who one day, losing his temper,
declared that unless he was allowed to have a hook he would not go out
any more in the boat.
"Very well, laddie, ye maun just stay at home and amuse yourself as best
you can," was the answer he received from the laird, who, taking up his
rod, went off, accompanied by old Sandy, without him.
Norman walked about the grounds in a very ill-humour, wishing that he
had kept his agreement with his good-natured host. At last, growing
tired of his own company, he returned to the house, thinking that a game
of some sort or other, even with Fanny, would be better than being all
alone. She, supposing that he had gone off with the laird, did not
expect to see him, and having brought Pecksy down to the library, was
amusing herself by playing with her little favourite. Having collected
some crumbs after breakfast in a paper, she brought them with her, and
seating herself in a large arm-chair at the library table, placed the
cage by her side, and took Pecksy out of it. Having given him one or
two crumbs, she thought she would make him run round and round the
table, and then from one end to the other, so she placed the crumbs at
intervals round the edge, and then in a line down the centre.
"It would amuse granny to see Pecksy at my word of command hop round the
table, and then come back to me, and as she would not observe the
crumbs, she would wonder, till I told her how very obedient he has
become. But I would tell her directly afterwards, for I would not
really deceive her even in that way," Fanny said to herself.
Fanny, having placed the crumbs, was delighted to find how well her plan
succeeded, for as soon as Pecksy had picked up one crumb, seeing another
before him, he hopped forward and picked that up, and so on, till he had
gone round the whole circle.
Fanny had made him go through his performance once or twice, for she had
wisely put down very small crumbs indeed, so that his appetite was not
satisfied. Having placed Pecksy at the further end of the table where
she had left him a few crumbs to occupy his attention, she had just
resumed her seat, when, unperceived by her, Norman stole into the room.
A large book lay on a chair near him. On a sudden an evil thought
entered his mind. Pecksy was in his power, and he had an opportunity of
venting the ill-feeling he had long entertained against Fanny and her
little pet.
Taking up the book, he stole round behind a high-backed chair, which was
placed against the table. Fanny was so engaged with her bird that she
did not see him. Rising up suddenly with the book in his hands, the
cruel boy let it fall directly down on the little bird. Perhaps he was
scarcely aware of the fatal consequences of his act, perhaps he thought
that the falling book would only frighten the bird, which would fly away
and save itself. We cannot bear to suppose that, ill-tempered as he
was, he could have meditated the destruction of his gentle sister's
little favourite. People often do not consider the sad results of their
evil temper and bad conduct.
The book fell directly on poor little Pecksy. Fanny gave a cry of grief
and terror.
"Oh, what have you done, Norman!" she exclaimed, as she saw his face
just above the chair, with an expression, oh how different to what she
could have supposed that of her little brother could wear.
He did not utter a word, but gazed intently at the book. She lifted it
up. There lay her dear little Pecksy motionless. She took the bird up
in her hands, examining it anxiously, while the tears fell fast from her
eyes.
Norman, conscience-stricken for the first time in his life, could not
bear to look at her any longer, and rushed out of the room.
"Oh, what have I done! what have I done!" he exclaimed; "it cannot be
dead! the book was not so very big--that could not have killed it all in
a moment."
He was afraid of meeting anybody, and he hurried out into the grounds.
At first he ran very fast, supposing that some one would come after him,
then finding that he was not pursued, he went at a slower pace. On
reaching the woods he turned off the path and plunged into them to hide
himself. First he crouched down beneath some thick bushes, thinking
that no one would discover him there, but he felt too uncomfortable to
stay long quiet--he must keep moving on. Slowly he made his way through
the woods. He thought he heard footsteps. He tried to push deeper into
the woods. On and on he went--he tore his clothes, and scratched his
face and hands, he did not know where he was going, he did not care--
provided he could keep out of the way of everybody. Never before had he
been so miserable, his feelings at last became intolerable.
"Perhaps after all the bird is not dead," he thought.
The idea brought him some relief. "I must go back and try and find
out," he said to himself. "If I hear Fanny crying, and making a noise,
I will run off again. I could not face mamma and granny and the rest of
them if they were to know that I had killed Fanny's bird."
To his surprise, as he went on through the woods, he suddenly saw the
house directly before him. He ran towards it. He met the gardener,
who, however, took no notice of him. "He at all events knows nothing
about what has happened," he thought. At a little distance off was Mrs
Maclean with scissors in hand, trimming; her roses, but she only looked
up for a moment, wondering why Norman should be running about without
his hat.
"It's all right, the bird cannot have been killed after all," he
thought.
He entered the house, and went into the library. There sat Fanny in the
arm-chair, hiding her weeping eyes with one hand, while in the other,
which rested on the table, lay poor little Pecksy. Norman, stealing up
close to her, gazed at the bird. It lay on its back with its delicate
little legs in the air, its feathers were ruffled, and a drop of blood
was on its beak.
"It does not move, but perhaps it is sleeping," thought Norman; "yet I
never saw a bird sleep in that way. I am afraid it must be dead; and if
it is, what will Fanny do to me? She will box my ears harder than she
ever did, and then she will tell the laird, and he will whip me, to a
certainty."
Norman moved a little nearer. Fanny heard him, and, lifting up her head
from her hand, she looked at him for a moment, and said in a low voice--
"O Norman, poor Pecksy is dead," and then again burst into tears.