“Aunt Eunice raised her from a calf, and once last summer, when Ellen
was sick, and had to be tied in the barn, Auntie used to go out and
read to her.”
“Stories?” asked both children eagerly.
“Oh, anything! Ellen wasn’t particular. One day I remember ’twas a
cook-book.”
“What’s he been telling you?” said Grandmother, laughing, as they
went back to the house.
Senator Hicks was waiting for them on the porch, and delighted Eunice
by coming to meet her. He was a large, soft pussy with a comfortable
stomach, and limp white paws that dangled adorably over one’s arm. And
he would purr, even when his mouth was pressed against one’s ear,—a
moist, windy purr, most tickling and sweet.
The other farm cat was named Andrew Banks, Jr., and no one had ever
heard him purr. He lived in the barn, and caught immense rats, with his
double toes like mittens. But Eunice loved him in spite of his wild
ways, and felt sure that his purr, if one could only hear it, would be
fully equal to the Senator’s.
After supper Jansen saddled Ole, and the children took turns riding
him. Ole made no objections, although he had been out all day, but
switched his white tail in a thoughtful manner, when Eunice started
out, for the third time, down the road. “I don’t need to hurry,” she
decided, as she saw Kenneth and Grandmother go back to the house. So
she cantered on still farther, her little petticoats bouncing up nearly
to her ears with each rise of the horse.
It was splendid riding out into the sunset, with no other person or
thing in sight, and feeling that she might gallop on forever and ever
to countries beyond the clouds.
“There’s a red horse in the sky, with a mane like Ole’s,” she thought.
And, indeed Ole’s mane was quite crimson in the glow. “I suppose he has
a red tail too, if I could just turn round and see it.”
Back in the farmhouse Grandmother had begun to watch the road, and when
the red light faded, she became uneasy.
“Perhaps she’s slipped in some back way, without my seeing her,” she
thought, and went out to ask the men.
But at the door she met David, looking much disturbed, “Say, Auntie, I
hate to tell you,” he said; “but the pony’s come home,—without any
saddle, and we’re just hitching up to go down and see what’s happened.”
Grandmother started off down the road on a run, with Kenneth puffing
frantically in her rear.
“Won’t you wait for the buggy?” called David through his hands.
“No!” she answered. And Kenneth thought he had never heard her voice
sound like that before.
“Oh, my baby, Grandma’s baby!” she said once, under her breath, and
tears began to mingle with yellow dust on the face of the small toiler
behind.
“Kenny, hadn’t you better go home, dear?” she asked at last, turning to
the little companion, whose spirit was willing, although his legs were
short.
“No!” he replied, in a voice that was an echo of Grandmother’s own.
“She may be your granddaughter, but,” here he sniffed, and rubbed more
dirt into his eyes, “she’s my sister, and don’t you forget it!”
“Come!” said Grandmother, holding out her hand. “I’ll help you find
your sister. Isn’t that a wagon coming down the road? Perhaps the
driver will have seen her.”
“That isn’t a wagon,” said Kenneth, after looking at it a minute in
silence.
“Yes, it is, boy,—a two-horse wagon. Don’t you see how big it is?”
Kenneth looked again, and broke into a joyous shout. “It’s Eunice!” he
said, and darted off up the road.
“It can’t be!” said Grandmother. “No, it isn’t—yes—no! Haven’t I
lived in this atmosphere long enough not to be fooled by it again?”
For it was Eunice, and the reason that Grandmother had taken her for
a two-horse wagon was, that she was carrying the saddle,—big, heavy
thing though it was,—and the strange effect of the western air had
made her into a sort of mirage. As they approached, she suddenly
dropped to her natural size, and hurried to meet them, with one long
stirrup trailing in the dust.
“I’m so sorry, Grandmother,” she said; “but I turned around to look at
his tail, and the belt burst.”
“The girth, you mean. Then Ole didn’t throw you?”
“No, he just swelled and broke the belt, and then the saddle came off.”
“And you weren’t hurt?”
“Oh, no!” And Eunice laughed. “He looked so s’prised when he saw me
sitting in the road,—just as if he didn’t know where I came from. I
tried to catch him, but he wouldn’t catch. And then he seesawed with
all his legs, and started for home.”
“You can leave the saddle beside the road, now,” said Grandmother.
“David will come after it.”
After they reached home, she said to David: “I’m really glad that she
wasn’t thrown. I never knew a Wood to be thrown!”
In the excitement of her ride, Eunice had almost forgotten Weejums,
but was reminded of her by Mustard, who suffered from shyness under
the cold stare of Senator Hicks, and filled all the night with his
corn-colored howls.
“You’ll have to take him to bed with you,” said Grandmother. So Eunice
and Mustard went to sleep in each other’s arms, and shared a common
grief.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE SON OF SILVER BELL
It seemed only a little later when Mustard wakened Eunice by a sudden
jump, and she saw three bars of light moving across her wall. The light
came from the yard, and the person who carried it must have been going
toward the barn.
“Well, I suppose it’s morning,” she thought. “They always milk early.”
But when she looked out, the stars were still shining, and there was
not a sound to be heard.
“I think I’ll go and see where that lantern went to,” she thought, and
slipping on one of her own shoes, and one of Kenneth’s, which were all
that she could find in the dark, she crept softly out through the hall
to the back door. To her surprise, it was unlocked, and she picked her
way carefully over the lettuce beds, holding up her long night-dress in
one hand.
“It’s quite warm out,” she observed, from the top of a large red
cabbage, which could not have told itself from a green cabbage at this
time of night.
Something black sprang past her as she opened the gate, and leaped to
the top of a shed, with a great scratching of claws; then she saw two
little moons of fire watching her through the darkness.
“I suppose Andrew Banks, Jr., is hoping I’ll take him for a wildcat,”
she thought, “but I shan’t.”
Suddenly she tripped and fell headlong over a wagon-tongue, scraping
one little knee quite badly. But Eunice had always made it a point not
to cry over anything unless it bled, and as it was too dark to see
whether this bled or not, of course she could not cry. She went on,
and into the cattle-barn, guided by the faint light of the moon, which
showed her the long rows of patient forms, lying in their stalls and
chewing the cuds that probably served them as dreams. Some of them
knelt, and then struggled to their feet as Eunice approached, tossing
their heads in fright.
She went to the stall of Wild-Eyes, the bull, who shook his chains, and
pointed his horns at her until she spoke to him, when he thrust out his
head, with a long sigh of fragrant breath, to be petted. Grandmother
was the only other person who dared to caress Wild-Eyes, for he had not
a cordial disposition, and dreadful stories were told of his behavior
in the past.
Eunice pushed open the door that led to the horses’ stalls, and there,
in the great open space of the barn, sat Grandmother on a pile of
straw, with the lantern beside her, and the head of a sick horse on her
lap.
“Good gracious!” she said, with a jump, as Eunice appeared. “What are
you doing out here?”
“I saw the light. Oh, Grandmother, is Chucklehead sick?”
“Colic,” said Grandmother, briefly.
“Has he got a hot-water bag?”
“No—one bag wouldn’t go far, when he has several square yards of pain.”
“Are you giving him peppermint out of that bottle?”
“Ginger-tea. Just as good.”
“Is he getting old, Grandmother? David said so.”
“Not a bit too old to enjoy company, and relish his meals. And that’s
all that a horse that’s worked as well as he has, ought to have asked
of him.”
“How did you know he was sick?”
“I woke up feeling that something was wrong at the barn. That’s
happened before.”
“And do you always find there is?”
“No, sometimes it’s what I ate for supper. Come, we’ll go back to the
house now. He’s feeling better.”
She made a pillow for the horse’s head in the straw, covered him with
an extra blanket, and took up her lantern.
“How did you find your way out here in the dark?” she asked, as they
reached the garden.
“I don’t know,” Eunice answered. “I’m not afraid of the dark.”
“I never knew a Wood to be afraid of the dark,” said Grandmother,
smiling.
They found Cousin David sitting in the kitchen with Kenneth on his lap.
“Well, here you are at last!” he said. “Kenny’s been scared to death
about you. Poor little chap, he’s been crying!”
“Ain’t neither,” said Kenneth, kicking his leg.
“Well, let’s have some bread and butter,” said Grandmother, hanging
up the lantern. “David, you get some milk from the pantry, and don’t
disturb the cream pans.”
“Grandma,” said Eunice, as they sat eating in the candlelight, “What
makes you love Chucklehead more than the other horses? He’s the
homeliest.”
“Oh, that’s a long story,” said Grandmother, yawning. “I’m going to
bed.”
“Can’t David tell it?” asked Kenneth.
“This is no time of night for stories,” said David, taking a drink of
milk. “’Specially Injun stories.”
“Oh, is it an Indian story?” asked both children in delight.
“Hadn’t you better wait till morning?” said Grandmother, going to
the door. “The trouble with you children is, that you slept all the
afternoon.”
“Let us sit up fifteen minutes more, please, Grandma!” said Eunice, and
Grandmother was too sleepy to refuse.
“Well,” began David, in a loud voice, “one reason Aunt Eunice likes
Chucklehead, is that he’s the good-for-nothingest horse on the farm.”
“That’s not so!” called Grandmother from the other side of the door,
and David laughed.
“No,” he continued, as her footsteps died away, “the real reason she
likes Chucklehead, is that he’s the son of Silver Bell, the finest
horse ever raised in this State.”
“Was she pretty?” Eunice asked.
“Pretty? She was a regular Christmas card! and as full of airs as
any mistress of the White House. Why, her feet were so little you’d
scarcely know she had ’em, and her mane was all crinkly and wavy like a
lady’s hair.”
“What color was she?” asked Kenneth.
“Brown, with a bell-shaped mark of white on her forehead. And spirited?
Why, she’d sling Swedes all over the prairie, even when she was an old
horse. She didn’t take after her son.”
“Tell the story about her,” said Eunice.
“Well, she belonged to a young woman who came out here with her husband
in Injun times, and, as they hadn’t many horses, this Silver Bell was a
great pet. She’d come when you called her, and kind of snuff round. She
was company for the young woman, too, when her husband was off with
the cattle, and there was nobody but her and the baby in the house.”
“Go on,” said Kenneth. “Did the Indians come?”
“Well, I just guess they did! One day she heard a shot, and saw smoke
coming from a ranch four miles away. You know how sound carries in this
air, and the smoke looked big, just as Eunice did the other night. So
she just grabbed her baby, and put a bridle on Silver Bell, who came
right up to the corral. If Silver Bell hadn’t come when she was called
that day—”
“Well?” asked both children, breathlessly.
“Well—we mightn’t have been telling this story here to-night.”
“Oh, go on!” said Kenneth, impatiently. “Did the Injuns catch her?”
“No, but they would have, if it hadn’t been for Silver Bell. Once, when
they were down in a hollow, the girl saw about a dozen Injuns riding
towards her as hard as they could go, and she knew if she came out of
that hollow they’d see her for sure. But if she stayed in the hollow,
of course they’d find her when they got there. So for a moment she
couldn’t decide just what to do.”
“Shouldn’t think there was anything,” said Kenneth.
“Well, that’s just where you’re wrong. There was Silver Bell. You see
she’d trained Silver Bell to do a lot of little tricks, and one of them
was to pretend to be a dead horse; and as there was a real, dead horse
a little way down the trail, it gave her an idea. So she made Silver
Bell lie down across a little ditch at the bottom of the hollow, and
crept in under her, so that she couldn’t be seen. Then she told her to
‛be a dead horse,’ and Silver Bell never moved a hair, even when the
Injuns almost jumped over her in crossing the ditch.”
“Then didn’t anybody get scalped?” asked Kenneth, disappointed.
“Yes, lots of people; for this was the beginning of the great massacre
at New Ulm. But the young woman got away safe and sound, and all
because of a horse. She often said afterwards that if the baby had
cried, or Silver Bell had wiggled so much as an ear, why—the Injuns
might have guessed she wasn’t any dead horse.”
“But how does Chucklehead come into the story?”
“Chucklehead was Silver Bell’s last colt, and when everybody else
laughed at him for being such a funny shape, and wanted him killed,
Aunt Eunice kissed his mother on the forehead, and said, ‛You saved my
baby once, and I’ll save yours!’”
“But it was the other woman’s baby that Silver Bell had saved,” said
Eunice, puzzled.
“No, it wasn’t, kid. The young woman that the story is about was
Grandmother, when she first came out here. And the little baby that
she carried in her arms that day was—” David stopped a minute, and
his voice grew softer, as he said, “was your own father, children. Now
come to bed, for the fifteen minutes is more than up, and I want a nap
before milking-time.”
He tossed Kenneth on his back, took Eunice in his arms, and tucked
them both in their beds, with the caution not to think any more about
“Injuns” that night.
Kenneth soon dropped asleep; but Eunice lay awake for some time,
wondering how it would have seemed to be alive in Indian times, when
red danger might come riding to meet one from over the peaceful
prairie. And as she fell asleep, she seemed once more to hear David
say, “And the little baby that she carried in her arms that day
was—your own father.”
When she wakened, a sunbeam was creeping across her quilt, and
she heard the shouts of the men at their work. She hurried into
her clothes, and went out to breakfast with the back of her frock
unfastened, as Kenneth, who usually helped her, was up and away. But
Grandmother proved that she could pour coffee, button Eunice’s dress,
and give orders to the men at one and the same time.
There was a rattle of harness in the yard, and David put his head in
at the door, saying: “There’s a fellow just come out from town with a
telegram.”
“Tell him to unhitch and come in,” said Grandmother. “Yes, dear,
Kenny’s off with Peterson and the Norman colt. Will you have sugar on
your mush?”
David came in, followed by the messenger, who said, “Yes, I guessed it
might be important, and hustled for all I was worth. I’ve been on the
road since four.”
He handed Grandmother the telegram, and she poured out his coffee
before opening it.
“Anything serious, Aunt Eunice?” David asked.
“Not serious, but most important,” Grandmother said, and, turning to
Eunice, she read:
Weejums has arrived. Will take her up to Mrs. Wood to-morrow.
M. TEECHOUT.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CLYTIE, THE CAT WITH MITTENS
Clytie was a cat who might certainly be called young for her age. She
had frisked through a thoughtless kitten-hood with Ivanhoe, and now
spent many hours in playing with Neddy, the white rat, for whom she
had conceived an early passion. Neddy’s real name was Editor, because
he sat up nights; and he differed from other rats in having a sense of
humor. Clytie did not know this however; she only thought it must be
fine to have pink eyes, and a tail that never swelled, no matter how
embarrassed one might be.
Seated on the top of Neddy’s house, she would draw her claws across the
wire netting, and Neddy would shoot out of his inner oatmeal box, as
if cheese itself had called. Up and down he would chase the wandering
paw, until it vanished above his head, and then there would be the
large excitement of waiting for it to come again. There was a knot-hole
in the top of the box, and one day Clytie’s tail slipped down through
it. Shortly afterwards the family was summoned by howls of terror, to
find Neddy swinging merrily back and forth on his furry chandelier,
evidently not connecting it at all in his mind with the owner of the
paw.
Clytie gave up playing with Neddy after this, and devoted herself to
the general good. Every night Mrs. Wood made a tour of all the bedrooms
with a folded newspaper, killing mosquitoes and flies, and after
watching her several times Clytie suddenly decided what double toes
were meant for. Bang! would go the newspaper on the wall, and, thud!
would go the mittened paws beneath it. One fly for the newspaper, and
yes—two for the mittened paws! Clytie did not stop to eat the flies,
but swept them into a little heap to serve as a quick lunch later
on. Ceiling flies had to be brushed off, of course, but even the most
high-roosting flies adorned the heap before the swift paws ceased their
work. Clytie had at last become a useful member of the family, and
Franklin said that it was because her experience with Neddy had aged
her.
When Eunice and Kenneth came back from the farm, they found Weejums and
Clytie in full possession of the house,—Weejums with a new family of
two, and Clytie with a new air of dignity and cathood. She was a very
handsome pussy, yellow and white, with lovely brown eyes and a great
deal of fur in her tail. Several people had wanted to buy her; but
Eunice always answered: “No, she is Weejums’ eldest child, and not for
sale.”
About a month after Weejums’ kittens came, Clytie had some of her own
in the barn, and came in to tell the family about it. Eunice met her
first, and knew that the proud quiver of her tail could mean but one
thing.
“Biddy,” she said, “I know they’re there!”
“Well, whin it sthops rainin’ we’ll go out and see,” Biddy replied.
Eunice hovered about the house in a great state of excitement, making
guesses as to the number of kittens, and what color they might be.
Only two would be kept, she knew; but suppose that there should be one
tortoise-shell, and one maltese, and one pure white!—which would she
be able to spare?
“Weejums, you’re a grandmother! You’re a grandmother! _Weejums_,—do
you understand?” she whispered. And Weejums looked up with what Eunice
called “fumes” over her eyes, and smiled.
“I want to go, too!” Kenneth said, as Eunice and Biddy started for the
barn.
“Me too,” Mrs. Wood added. So everybody joined the procession, and
Clytie led them proudly across the yard to the barn, up the steps to
the barn chamber, and over some old mattresses to an empty nest! There
was the little bed that Clytie had made for her babies, but not one
kitten was to be seen.
“Perhaps they’ve crawled under the mattress,” said Franklin, lifting
it up; but there was no sign of a kitten anywhere in the room, and
Clytie’s surprise was at first greater than her sorrow. Then, “Ow!” she
remarked in a melancholy voice, and “Wow!” came in echoing tones from
her mother on the stairs. “Yow!” said Clytie again, and “Row!” answered
Weejums, sympathetically. “Come, let’s hunt for them! _Pur-r? Wur-r?_”
So all day long, and all of the next day, the two cats hunted for the
missing kittens, calling them high and low. But neither they nor any
one else ever discovered what had become of them. Some members of the
family thought it was rats,—others that a certain morose neighbor who
rented a part of the barn for his horse, objected to having so many
cats on the premises. In any case, Weejums’ grandchildren never turned
up, and after a two-days’ search Clytie decided that she must have
been mistaken about them, and that Weejums’ kittens were hers. So she
walked in and took possession, and Weejums, who had always disliked
the confinement of nursing, was very thankful to be rid of them.
She resumed her social evenings with the family, attended midnight
concerts, and chased boot-buttons around the kitchen floor.
Meanwhile, poor Clytie became pale and wan with anxiety, from trying to
make month-old kittens behave as if they were new. Of course they liked
to climb out of the box, but, as fast as they reached the floor, she
would jump after them, and bring them back. She also carried them all
over the house, and they became quite lazy from being carried, so long
after their own little legs should have done the work. Their names were
Paul Jones and Proserpine,—Paul Jones, black, with white nose, shirt,
and slippers; and Proserpine, pure white, except for two inky ears and
one black tail, most charming to behold. Proserpine’s ears and tail did
not show at all after dark, so it looked as if she had none.
Both kittens grew up, thinking that Weejums was their grandmother, and
once, when Torn-nose inquired whose they were, she replied that they
belonged to a yellow-and-white cat living in the same house.
“To be sure,” Torn-nose said, “I might have known that you could not
have kittens of so advanced an age.”
But this was only his way, for he knew perfectly well that Clytie was
Weejums’ daughter, and even paid her compliments when her mother was
not looking.
The only times that Weejums showed any interest in her children, was
when a dog entered the yard. Then both cats would fly at him, and send
him off, ki-yi-ing down the street. They discovered so many new ways of
scratching a dog, that it became a kind of fancy-work with them, and
all the friends that Cyclone invited to dinner, sent polite but firm
regrets.
One day two strange-looking animals trotted down the road, from some
distant shanties, and began nosing around the back door after food.
Weejums and Clytie decided that they must be dogs, although they were
stouter than any dogs that they had ever chased, and made astonishing
remarks, in a language that they failed to understand.
“Ooof—umph,” said the spotted one, who had brown, red-rimmed eyes,
trimmed with white eyelashes.
“Humph—humph!” replied the white one, who had but one eye, and no
eyelashes at all, except along the ridge of his spine. “Wee, wee!
Murder! Help! Help!” they both squealed, as two spitting balls of fur
shot across the yard, and landed on their backs.
“Hivin save us!” exclaimed Biddy, rushing to the window, as two
shrieking pigs, each ridden by an angry cat, dashed past, and out of
the yard. The departure of the pigs through a fence on the other side
of the street, caused the cats to dismount before they had planned. But
Franklin was so proud of this feat, that he went around boasting among
his friends, that “his sister had a cat that could lick anything on
four legs.” So, of course, all the boys were anxious to prove that his
sister had nothing of the kind.
“Bet you it couldn’t lick Boston’s bull-pup,” one of them said.
“Bet you it couldn’t lick my thorough-bred mastiff-poodle,” said
another.
“Ho!” said Franklin, “Weejums would claw up the pedigree of your dog,
so that you’d have to cart home the mastiff and the poodle part of him,
in separate loads.”
It was this remark that caused Boston’s bull-pup to go in training
for action, as it was well known that no cat on whom he was set, ever
escaped him, and he had a shameful record of little paws hushed in the
beginning of their play, and gentle purrs silenced through murderous
intent. For the bull-pup’s owner was a cruel boy, and a boy’s dog
always tries to be like his master.
[Illustration: “THE SASH WAS NOT TOO TIGHT TO ALLOW FOR DINNER”]
That fall, Eunice had begun dressing all her cats in little blankets;
and this naturally suggested petticoats, and, later on, pantalettes.
The pantalettes were cut like cross-sections of stove-pipe, and
were held on the cat’s front paws by a little suspender going over
her shoulders. Clytie had a charming pair made of white flannel,
feather-stitched with light blue silk, and the effect of these, peeping
from under her Mother Hubbard blanket with the _guimpe_, was most
unusual. This blanket did not fasten with a buttoned belt underneath,
like her plaid gingham ones, for morning, but had two little slits in
the side, for a sash to come through, and tie in a huge bow on top.
When fully dressed, she looked like a cross between a circus clown and
a chrysanthemum. But of course she could run about perfectly well, and
the sash was not too tight to allow for dinner.