DEATH AND BURIAL OF TIGE RHINES.
THERE is no animal that seems to be so closely allied to man as the
dog. He lives in his master’s smiles, defends his person, guards his
property, and is grateful for the smallest favors.
In respect to other animals, they are naturally shy; we must attach
them to us by food and caresses.
Take, for instance, a kitten, born in the house, and her parents before
her for generations; yet the moment it gets its eyes open, it will
round up its back, and spit at the little boy or girl who approaches to
fondle it, and must be wonted; but a puppy, why, the moment his eyes
are open, he’s right on to you, and you have hard work to keep him from
licking your face.
When the family leaves the house, the cat will seldom, if ever, follow
them, because she cares more about the place than the people; but the
dog’s home is where his master is.
John Rhines’s dog, Tige, a Newfoundland of the largest size,
possessed—as those who have read the Elm Island stories know—a
sagacity greater than that which generally pertains even to that noble
breed.
Tige Rhines, as he was called, was known and loved by both young and
old, the protector and playmate of all the children, and bore on his
neck a broad brass collar, on which were inscribed the date of the year
and the day on which he pulled little Fannie Williams from the bottom
of the mill-pond, and many other things that he had done.
For many years Tige had been gradually losing his activity, and was
quite infirm with age. He had never been accustomed to leave the home
of his master, except when sent upon some errand, with a basket or
letter in his mouth, unless with some of the family; but after Mary
and Elizabeth were married, he would once in a while go to visit each
of them in the forenoon, stop to dinner and tea, see the babies, and
go home at night. He would also go down to the cove in front of the
house, and play with the children of the neighborhood by the hour
together. All through Fannie Williams’s childhood (whose life he saved)
he was, whenever she came up to see him, which was generally once a
month, sent home with her by Captain Rhines. But age, which comes alike
upon dogs and men, had compelled him to relinquish all these pleasant
excursions. His legs had grown stiff and crooked; his glossy black coat
had become a dirty yellow, except along the back and at the roots of
the tail; his intelligent eye was dim; and all around his eyes and nose
gray hairs were plentifully scattered. It was with great difficulty
he could walk; he would attempt sometimes to follow John to the barn,
go part way there, and moan because he could get no farther; then
John would go back and pat and comfort him. Everything that care and
affection could do to render him comfortable and happy in his old age,
was done by Captain Rhines and John.
As the weather grew cooler, John made him a bed of sheep-skins with
the wool on; for though once apparently insensible to cold, never
hesitating in the dead of winter to plunge into the waves, he now
trembled before every blast. Captain Rhines would catch smelts and
bring to him, for Tige was a dear lover of fish; John would put him
in the cart, haul him down in the field, and put him in the sun, at
the end of the piece where he was digging potatoes, and as the sun
went down, cover him with his jacket. The children around brought him
titbits, and all the dogs in the neighborhood came to visit him. He
at length became so feeble it was with difficulty he could get out of
his kennel. Mornings when John went to the barn to feed the cattle, he
would bid him good morning; Tige would wag his tail and look wistfully
in his face, unable to rise.
One morning, John, as he passed the kennel, spoke, as usual; but not
hearing the noise of Tige’s tail striking against the side of the
house, he went back and looked in; he was stretched out, apparently
asleep; he put his fingers in his mouth; there was no warmth. “He is
dead! poor old Tige,” cried John; “there never was such a dog in this
world, and never will be again. I never will love another dog;” and
he burst into tears; “I don’t care if I do cry,” he said, at length,
wiping away the tears; “he’s been my playmate, ever since I was a boy;
has saved my life; and nobody sees me; but if Charlie and Fred were
here, they would cry, too.”
Captain Rhines was not yet up. John fed the cattle, and then went to
the door of his bedroom.
“Father.”
“What is it, John?”
“Tige’s dead.”
“I’m sorry; poor fellow! I’d give the best cow I’ve got in the barn to
have him back as smart as he was once.”
“_I’d_ give them _all_, father.”
“Well, we’ve done all we could for him, John, and he’s gone where
the good dogs go. It will make Ben feel bad; he and Tige were great
friends.”
“And Fannie, father.”
“Yes.”
It was soon known in the neighborhood. About nine o’clock, Fannie
Williams came in, now grown to be, by universal consent, the prettiest
girl in town; industrious, capable, and, as Captain Rhines was
accustomed to say, as good as she was handsome.
“Is Tige dead, John?” she asked, taking the chair he proffered her.
“Yes, Fannie.”
She was silent for a few minutes, then began to cry.
“Don’t cry, Fannie,” said John.
“I know it’s foolish, but I can’t help it; you know he saved my life.”
“That he did,” said the captain; “for I took you from his jaws, when he
brought you to the shore. I would cry as much as I had a mind to.”
“I’m sure,” said Mrs. Rhines, “I don’t see what anybody could be made
of, not to feel bad to lose such a good creature as Tige, even if he
was a dumb animal. I used to feel just as safe with him, when Captain
Rhines was at sea, and I left alone with the children, as though the
men folks were round. When Captain Rhines was about home, or we had
a hired man, he would lie under the big maple, or, if it was cold
weather, in his house; but the very first night I was left alone, he
would (without my saying a word to him) come right into the house, and,
after I went to bed, stretch himself out before my bedroom door; it
seemed as if he knew.”
“_Knew!_ I guess he did know,” said John; “only think how long he smelt
us before we got here, when Charlie and I came from Portland, and how
glad he was to see us! I thought he would have jumped out of his skin.”
John persuaded Fannie to stop to dinner, as Tige was to be buried in
the afternoon.
“Where would you bury him, father?”
“I’ll tell you, John. Under the big maple, where he loved so much to
lie in the hot summer days.”
While this conversation was going on at Captain Rhines’s, Joe Griffin,
Charlie, and Fred were expatiating upon the merits of Tige, and
regretting his loss, in Fred’s store. Joe Bradish came in, and after
listening a while to their conversation, broke in with, “Such a fuss
about a dog—an old dog, that ought to have been knocked on the head
years ago. Anybody would think it was a Christian you was lamenting
about.”
Fred was naturally of a warm temper, shared in the universal feeling
of dislike to Bradish, and this rough remark, in his present state of
feeling, was more than he could bear.
“There _was_ more Christianity in him than there ever was in _you_,”
retorted Fred; “more in one of his nails than in your whole body. He
saved the lives of three of us, when we went to sleep in the tide’s
way, at Indian Cave. If it hadn’t been for him, I should have been as
miserable to-day as Pete Clash. It will be news to me when I hear of
your lifting a finger to help anybody. You may keep still or leave the
store.”
Bradish, without making any reply, went out.
“You’ve lost his custom, I reckon,” said Charlie.
“It won’t be much loss. He came in here the other day, lolling round,
and upset the inkstand upon a whole piece of muslin. I was out of
doors, and before I could get in, it went through the whole piece. He
said he was master sorry, supposed he ought to buy something, and would
take a darning-needle.”
The three friends, with Fannie and Captain Rhines’s family, buried
Tige beneath a large rock maple that stood on the side of the hill, in
the edge of the orchard. It was all full of holes, where Ben and John
had tapped it. Between its roots they had made many a hoard of apples;
and here Tige had loved to lie, as it was a cool place, and from it he
could see everything that moved upon the water. They put a stone at
the grave, on which his noble deeds were recorded.
John Rhines had long cherished a secret attachment to Fannie Williams;
but the death of Tige occasioned a mingling of sympathies that brought
matters to a focus, and after a short engagement they were married.
Captain Rhines and his wife, with whom Fannie had been a favorite from
childhood, were highly gratified; for since their daughters had married
and gone, the large house seemed lonely, and this beautiful, lively,
sweet-tempered girl was to them a perfect treasure.
A week after the occurrences narrated, a stranger, in the dress of a
working man, with his coat on his arm, came into Fred’s store, and
called for some crackers and cheese, and half a pint of new rum.
Fred placed before him the crackers and cheese, but told him he must go
to the other store for the liquor. He then called for a quart of cider.
After eating, drinking, and resting a while, and smoking his pipe,
he took a piece of chalk from his pocket, and drew a line across the
floor. “There,” said he, “the first man that steps over that line has
got to take hold of me.”
This was altogether too much for Fred, who instantly stepped over the
line. They went out before the door, and the stranger threw Fred in a
moment, and several others who came in. The thing was noised abroad,
and quite a crowd assembled, but they were careful not to step over the
line. Fred sent for Charlie, and the stranger threw him. The matter was
now getting serious; the reputation of the town was at stake.
“Send for Joe Griffin,” said Uncle Isaac.
Joe had gone up river after logs.
“Then send for Edmund Griffin.”
He had gone with Joe. A boy was now despatched for Joel Ricker, who
brought back word that he was on Elm Island, doing some joiner-work for
Lion Ben.
“Then,” said Uncle Isaac, “we must send for the Lion. This fellow
shan’t go off and make his brags that he has stumped the place, and
got off clear. I’ll take hold of him myself first, though I haven’t
wrestled these twenty-five year.”
“Why haven’t we thought of John Rhines?” said Fred.
“Sure enough,” said Uncle Isaac; “he’ll handle him.”
“John,” said the captain, “has gone to Tom Stanley’s to buy a yoke
of oxen; but I’ve got a horse that will go there and back in three
quarters of an hour, if anybody will drive him.”
“I’ll go,” said Fred.
By the time John arrived, half the town was there. A ring was made
before the door.
“You’ve brought a man big enough this time,” said the stranger, looking
up at John, who towered far above him.
They took hold. John threw him as easily as he had thrown Fred, while
shout after shout went up from the crowd, who had been holding their
breath, in anxious suspense.
“You _crushed_ me down by main strength,” said the stranger; “but I
would like to try you at arms’ length.”
They took hold at arms’ length, and although the grapple was longer,
John threw him twice.
“You have stout men up in this place,” said he. “I am thirty years old
next July, and this is the first time I’ve been thrown since I was
nineteen.”
“_Men!_” said Uncle Isaac. “You have as yet wrestled only with boys.
Our men all happen to be away.”
“If you call these boys, I should like to see your men.”
“Here comes one of them,” said Uncle Isaac, pointing towards the water.
The eyes of the stranger, following the direction of his finger, rested
upon the massive shoulders of Lion Ben, who was approaching the shore
in his big canoe, pulling cross-handed, while Joel Ricker, with his
tools in his lap, was sitting in the stern.
They landed, wondering much at the crowd assembled. Ricker walked up
the beach with his tools, while Ben followed, dragging the canoe with
one hand over the gravel.
The stranger gazed with dilating eyes, as he straightened up to his
full proportions. Then he went to the canoe, but found himself unable
to move it, even down hill.
“What may I call your name, friend?” asked Uncle Isaac, approaching.
“Libby—Lemuel Libby, from Black Pint, in Scarboro’.”
Uncle Isaac then introduced him to Captain Rhines, John, and Lion Ben,
at the same time informing him that they were the father and two sons.
Libby gazed a moment upon these superb specimens of manly vigor, and
resuming his clothes, said, “This is no place for common men, like me.
I’ll make tracks for home.”
“Not so, friend Libby,” said John. “Everything has been done fair and
above-board. There’s no occasion for hardness. Spend the night with me.
I’ll take the horse, and start you on your way in the morning.”
“Neighbors,” said Captain Rhines, who was greatly delighted at the
triumph of his son, “I invite you all to take dinner at our house
to-morrow, at twelve o’clock; and Mr. Libby will stop and eat with us.”
“The house won’t hold us, Benjamin,” said Uncle Isaac.
“Well, the barn will. We’ll make two crews, and set two tables.”
“John,” said Charlie, after the crowd had dispersed, “do you remember
what you said so long ago?”
“No. What was it?”
“That you meant to be the greatest wrestler, and marry the handsomest
girl. I don’t see but you are in a fair way to do both, if all tales
are true.”