pictures, and delicate decorations, and rich furniture, and no gloom
anywhere, but all the wilderness of dainty colors lit up with
flooding sunshine; and the spacious grounds around it, and the great
garden--oh, greensward, and noble trees, and flowers, no end! And I
was the same as a member of the family; and they loved me, and petted
me, and did not give me a new name, but called me by my old one that
was dear to me because my mother had given it me--Aileen Mavourneen.
She got it out of a song; and the Grays knew that song, and said it
was a beautiful name.
Mrs. Gray was thirty, and so sweet and so lovely, you cannot imagine
it; and Sadie was ten, and just like her mother, just a darling
slender little copy of her, with auburn tails down her back, and short
frocks; and the baby was a year old, and plump and dimpled, and fond
of me, and never could get enough of hauling on my tail, and hugging
me, and laughing out its innocent happiness; and Mr. Gray was
thirty-eight, and tall and slender and handsome, a little bald in
front, alert, quick in his movements, businesslike, prompt, decided,
unsentimental, and with that kind of trim-chiselled face that just
seems to glint and sparkle with frosty intellectuality! He was a
renowned scientist. I do not know what the word means, but my mother
would know how to use it and get effects. She would know how to
depress a rat-terrier with it and make a lap-dog look sorry he came.
But that is not the best one; the best one was Laboratory. My mother
could organize a Trust on that one that would skin the tax-collars
off the whole herd. The laboratory was not a book, or a picture, or a
place to wash your hands in, as the college president's dog said--no,
that is the lavatory; the laboratory is quite different, and is
filled with jars, and bottles, and electrics, and wires, and strange
machines; and every week other scientists came there and sat in the
place, and used the machines, and discussed, and made what they called
experiments and discoveries; and often I came, too, and stood around
and listened, and tried to learn, for the sake of my mother, and in
loving memory of her, although it was a pain to me, as realizing what
she was losing out of her life and I gaining nothing at all; for try
as I might, I was never able to make anything out of it at all.
Other times I lay on the floor in the mistress's workroom and slept,
she gently using me for a footstool, knowing it pleased me, for it was
a caress; other times I spent an hour in the nursery, and got well
tousled and made happy; other times I watched by the crib there, when
the baby was asleep and the nurse out for a few minutes on the baby's
affairs; other times I romped and raced through the grounds and the
garden with Sadie till we were tired out, then slumbered on the grass
in the shade of a tree while she read her book; other times I went
visiting among the neighbor dogs,--for there were some most pleasant
ones not far away, and one very handsome and courteous and graceful
one, a curly haired Irish setter by the name of Robin Adair, who was a
Presbyterian like me, and belonged to the Scotch minister.
The servants in our house were all kind to me and were fond of me, and
so, as you see, mine was a pleasant life. There could not be a happier
dog than I was, nor a gratefuller one. I will say this for myself, for
it is only the truth: I tried in all ways to do well and right, and
honor my mother's memory and her teachings, and earn the happiness
that had come to me, as best I could.
By-and-by came my little puppy, and then my cup was full, my happiness
was perfect. It was the dearest little waddling thing, and so smooth
and soft and velvety, and had such cunning little awkward paws, and
such affectionate eyes, and such a sweet and innocent face; and it
made me so proud to see how the children and their mother adored it,
and fondled it, and exclaimed over every little wonderful thing it
did. It did seem to me that life was just too lovely to--
Then came the winter. One day I was standing a watch in the nursery.
That is to say, I was asleep on the bed. The baby was asleep in the
crib, which was alongside the bed, on the side next the fireplace. It
was the kind of crib that has a lofty tent over it made of a gauzy
stuff that you can see through. The nurse was out, and we two sleepers
were alone. A spark from the wood-fire was shot out, and it lit on the
slope of the tent. I suppose a quiet interval followed, then a scream
from the baby woke me, and there was that tent flaming up toward the
ceiling! Before I could think, I sprang to the floor in my fright, and
in a second was half-way to the door; but in the next half-second my
mother's farewell was sounding in my ears, and I was back on the bed
again. I reached my head through the flames and dragged the baby
out by the waistband, and tugged it along, and we fell to the floor
together in a cloud of smoke; I snatched a new hold, and dragged the
screaming little creature along and out at the door and around the
bend of the hall, and was still tugging away, all excited and happy
and proud, when the master's voice shouted:
"Begone, you cursed beast!" and I jumped to save myself; but he was
wonderfully quick, and chased me up, striking furiously at me with his
cane, I dodging this way and that, in terror, and at last a strong
blow fell upon my left fore-leg, which made me shriek and fall, for
the moment, helpless; the cane went up for another blow, but never
descended, for the nurse's voice rang wildly out, "The nursery's on
fire!" and the master rushed away in that direction, and my other
bones were saved.
The pain was cruel, but, no matter, I must not lose any time; he might
come back at any moment; so I limped on three legs to the other end
of the hall, where there was a dark little stairway leading up into a
garret where old boxes and such things were kept, as I had heard say,
and where people seldom went. I managed to climb up there, then I
searched my way through the dark among the piles of things, and hid in
the secretest place I could find. It was foolish to be afraid there,
yet still I was; so afraid that I held in and hardly even whimpered,
though it would have been such a comfort to whimper, because that
eases the pain, you know. But I could lick my leg, and that did me
some good.
For half an hour there was a commotion down-stairs, and shoutings,
and rushing footsteps, and then there was quiet again. Quiet for some
minutes, and that was grateful to my spirit, for then my fears began
to go down; and fears are worse than pains,--oh, much worse. Then
came a sound that froze me! They were calling me--calling me by
name--hunting for me!
It was muffled by distance, but that could not take the terror out of
it, and it was the most dreadful sound to me that I had ever heard. It
went all about, everywhere, down there: along the halls, through all
the rooms, in both stories, and in the basement and the cellar; then
outside, and further and further away--then back, and all about the
house again, and I thought it would never, never stop. But at last it
did, hours and hours after the vague twilight of the garret had long
ago been blotted out by black darkness.
Then in that blessed stillness my terror fell little by little away,
and I was at peace and slept. It was a good rest I had, but I woke
before the twilight had come again. I was feeling fairly comfortable,
and I could think out a plan now. I made a very good one; which was,
to creep down, all the way down the back stairs, and hide behind the
cellar door, and slip out and escape when the iceman came at dawn,
while he was inside filling the refrigerator; then I would hide all
day, and start on my journey when night came; my journey to--well,
anywhere where they would not know me and betray me to the master. I
was feeling almost cheerful now; then suddenly I thought, Why, what
would life be without my puppy!
That was despair. There was no plan for me; I saw that; I must stay
where I was; stay, and wait, and take what might come--it was not my
affair; that was what life is--my mother had said it. Then--well, then
the calling began again! All my sorrows came back. I said to myself,
the master will never forgive. I did not know what I had done to make
him so bitter and so unforgiving, yet I judged it was something a dog
could not understand, but which was clear to a man and dreadful.
They called and called--days and nights, it seemed to me. So long that
the hunger and thirst near drove me mad, and I recognized that I was
getting very weak. When you are this way you sleep a great deal, and I
did. Once I woke in an awful fright--it seemed to me that the calling
was right there in the garret! And so it was: it was Sadie's voice,
and she was crying; my name was falling from her lips all broken, poor
thing, and I could not believe my ears for the joy of it when I heard
her say,
"Come back to us--oh, come back to us, and forgive--it is all so sad
without our--"
I broke in with _such_ a grateful little yelp, and the next moment
Sadie was plunging and stumbling through the darkness and the lumber
and shouting for the family to hear, "She's found! she's found!"
The days that followed--well, they were wonderful. The mother and
Sadie and the servants--why, they just seemed to worship me. They
couldn't seem to make me a bed that was fine enough; and as for food,
they couldn't be satisfied with anything but game and delicacies that
were out of season; and every day the friends and neighbors flocked in
to hear about my heroism--that was the name they called it by, and it
means agriculture. I remember my mother pulling it on a kennel once,
and explaining it that way, but didn't say what agriculture was,
except that it was synonymous with intramural incandescence; and
a dozen times a day Mrs. Gray and Sadie would tell the tale to
new-comers, and say I risked my life to save the baby's, and both of
us had burns to prove it, and then the company would pass me around
and pet me and exclaim about me, and you could see the pride in the
eyes of Sadie and her mother; and when the people wanted to know
what made me limp, they looked ashamed and changed the subject, and
sometimes when people hunted them this way and that way with questions
about it, it looked to me as if they were going to cry.
And this was not all the glory; no, the master's friends came, a whole
twenty of the most distinguished people, and had me in the laboratory,
and discussed me as if I was a kind of discovery; and some of them
said it was wonderful in a dumb beast, the finest exhibition of
instinct they could call to mind; but the master said, with vehemence,
"It's far above instinct; it's _reason_, and many a man, privileged
to be saved and go with you and me to a better world by right of its
possession, has less of it than this poor silly quadruped that's
foreordained to perish"; and then he laughed, and said, "Why, look at
me--I'm a sarcasm! Bless you, with all my grand intelligence, the only
thing I inferred was that the dog had gone mad and was destroying the
child, whereas but for the beast's intelligence--it's _reason_, I tell
you!--the child would have perished!"
They disputed and disputed, and _I_ was the very centre and subject of
it all, and I wished my mother could know that this grand honor had
come to me; it would have made her proud.
Then they discussed optics, as they called it, and whether a certain
injury to the brain would produce blindness or not, but they could not
agree about it, and said they must test it by experiment by-and-by;
and next they discussed plants, and that interested me, because in the
summer Sadie and I had planted seeds--I helped her dig the holes, you
know,--and after days and days a little shrub or a flower came up
there, and it was a wonder how that could happen; but it did, and I
wished I could talk,--I would have told those people about it and
shown them how much I knew, and been all alive with the subject; but I
didn't care for the optics; it was dull, and when they came back to it
again it bored me, and I went to sleep.
Pretty soon it was spring, and sunny and pleasant and lovely, and the
sweet mother and the children patted me and the puppy good-bye, and
went away on a journey and a visit to their kin, and the master wasn't
any company for us, but we played together and had good times, and the
servants were kind and friendly, so we got along quite happily and
counted the days and waited for the family.
And one day those men came again, and said now for the test, and they
took the puppy to the laboratory, and I limped three-leggedly along,
too, feeling proud, for any attention shown the puppy was a pleasure
to me, of course. They discussed and experimented, and then suddenly
the puppy shrieked, and they set him on the floor, and he went
staggering around, with his head all bloody, and the master clapped
his hands, and shouted:
"There, I've won--confess it! He's as blind as a bat!"
And they all said,
"It's so--you've proved your theory, and suffering humanity owes you
a great debt from henceforth," and they crowded around him, and wrung
his hand cordially and thankfully, and praised him.
But I hardly saw or heard these things, for I ran at once to my little
darling, and snuggled close to it where it lay, and licked the blood,
and it put its head against mine, whimpering softly, and I knew in
my heart it was a comfort to it in its pain and trouble to feel its
mother's touch, though it could not see me. Then it drooped down,
presently, and its little velvet nose rested upon the floor, and it
was still, and did not move any more.
Soon the master stopped discussing a moment, and rang in the footman,
and said, "Bury it in the far corner of the garden," and then went on
with the discussion, and I trotted after the footman, very happy and
grateful, for I knew the puppy was out of its pain now, because it was
asleep. We went far down the garden to the furthest end, where the
children and the nurse and the puppy and I used to play in the summer
in the shade of a great elm, and there the footman dug a hole, and I
saw he was going to plant the puppy, and I was glad, because it would
grow and come up a fine handsome dog, like Robin Adair, and be a
beautiful surprise for the family when they came home; so I tried to
help him dig, but my lame leg was no good, being stiff, you know, and
you have to have two, or it is no use. When the footman had finished
and covered little Robin up, he patted my head, and there were tears
in his eyes, and he said, "Poor little doggie, you SAVED _his_ child."
I have watched two whole weeks, and he doesn't come up! This last
week a fright has been stealing upon me. I think there is something
terrible about this. I do not know what it is, but the fear makes me
sick, and I cannot eat, though the servants bring me the best of food;
and they pet me so, and even come in the night, and cry, and say,
"Poor doggie--do give it up and come home; _don't_ break our hearts!"
and all this terrifies me the more, and makes me sure something has
happened. And I am so weak; since yesterday I cannot stand on my feet
any more. And within this hour the servants, looking toward the sun
where it was sinking out of sight and the night chill coming on, said
things I could not understand, but they carried something cold to my
heart.
"Those poor creatures! They do not suspect. They will come home in
the morning, and eagerly ask for the little doggie that did the brave
deed, and who of us will be strong enough to say the truth to them:
'The humble little friend is gone where go the beasts that perish.'"
THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT[1]
[Footnote 1: From _The Luck of Roaring Camp_. 1871.]
_Bret Harte_ (1839-1902)
As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the main street of Poker
Flat on the morning of the 23d of November, 1850, he was conscious of
a change in its moral atmosphere since the preceding night. Two or
three men, conversing earnestly together, ceased as he approached, and
exchanged significant glances. There was a Sabbath lull in the air,
which, in a settlement unused to Sabbath influences, looked ominous.
Mr. Oakhurst's calm, handsome face betrayed small concern in these
indications. Whether he was conscious of any predisposing cause was
another question. "I reckon they're after somebody," he reflected;
"likely it's me." He returned to his pocket the handkerchief with
which he had been whipping away the red dust of Poker Flat from his
neat boots, and quietly discharged his mind of any further conjecture.
In point of fact, Poker Flat was "after somebody." It had lately
suffered the loss of several thousand dollars, two valuable horses,
and a prominent citizen. It was experiencing a spasm of virtuous
reaction, quite as lawless and ungovernable as any of the acts that
had provoked it. A secret committee had determined to rid the town of
all improper persons. This was done permanently in regard of two men
who were then hanging from the boughs of a sycamore in the gulch,
and temporarily in the banishment of certain other objectionable
characters. I regret to say that some of these were ladies. It is
but due to the sex, however, to state that their impropriety was
professional, and it was only in such easily established standards of
evil that Poker Flat ventured to sit in judgment.
Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was included in this
category. A few of the committee had urged hanging him as a possible
example, and a sure method of reimbursing themselves from his pockets
of the sums he had won from them. "It's agin justice," said Jim
Wheeler, "to let this yer young man from Roaring Camp--an entire
stranger--carry away our money." But a crude sentiment of equity
residing in the breasts of those who had been fortunate enough to win
from Mr. Oakhurst overruled this narrower local prejudice.
Mr. Oakhurst received his sentence with philosophic calmness, none the
less coolly that he was aware of the hesitation of his judges. He was
too much of a gambler not to accept fate. With him life was at best an
uncertain game, and he recognized the usual percentage in favor of the
dealer.
A body of armed men accompanied the deported wickedness of Poker Flat
to the outskirts of the settlement. Besides Mr. Oakhurst, who was
known to be a coolly desperate man, and for whose intimidation the
armed escort was intended, the expatriated party consisted of a young
woman familiarly known as the "Duchess"; another who had won the title
of "Mother Shipton"; and "Uncle Billy," a suspected sluice-robber
and confirmed drunkard. The cavalcade provoked no comments from the
spectators, nor was any word uttered by the escort. Only when the
gulch which marked the uttermost limit of Poker Flat was reached, the
leader spoke briefly and to the point. The exiles were forbidden to
return at the peril of their lives.
As the escort disappeared, their pent-up feelings found vent in a
few hysterical tears from the Duchess, some bad language from Mother
Shipton, and a Parthian volley of expletives from Uncle Billy. The
philosophic Oakhurst alone remained silent. He listened calmly to
Mother Shipton's desire to cut somebody's heart out, to the repeated
statements of the Duchess that she would die in the road, and to the
alarming oaths that seemed to be bumped out of Uncle Billy as he rode
forward. With the easy good-humor characteristic of his class, he
insisted upon exchanging his own riding-horse, "Five Spot," for the
sorry mule which the Duchess rode. But even this act did not draw
the party into any closer sympathy. The young woman readjusted her
somewhat draggled plumes with a feeble, faded coquetry; Mother Shipton
eyed the possessor of "Five Spot" with malevolence, and Uncle Billy
included the whole party in one sweeping anathema.
The road to Sandy Bar--a camp that, not having as yet experienced the
regenerating influences of Poker Flat, consequently seemed to offer
some invitation to the emigrants--lay over a steep mountain range. It
was distant a day's severe travel. In that advanced season, the party
soon passed out of the moist, temperate regions of the foot-hills into
the dry, cold, bracing air of the Sierras. The trail was narrow and
difficult. At noon the Duchess, rolling out of her saddle upon the
ground, declared her intention of going no farther, and the party
halted.
The spot was singularly wild and impressive. A wooded amphitheatre,
surrounded on three sides by precipitous cliffs of naked granite,
sloped gently toward the crest of another precipice that overlooked
the valley. It was, undoubtedly, the most suitable spot for a camp,
had camping been advisable. But Mr. Oakhurst knew that scarcely half
the journey to Sandy Bar was accomplished; and the party were not
equipped or provisioned for delay. This fact he pointed out to his
companions curtly, with a philosophic commentary on the folly of
"throwing up their hand before the game was played out." But they were
furnished with liquor, which in this emergency stood them in place of
food, fuel, rest, and prescience. In spite of his remonstrances, it
was not long before they were more or less under its influence. Uncle
Billy passed rapidly from a bellicose state into one of stupor, the
Duchess became maudlin, and Mother Shipton snored. Mr. Oakhurst alone
remained erect, leaning against a rock, calmly surveying them.
Mr. Oakhurst did not drink. It interfered with a profession which
required coolness, impassiveness, and presence of mind, and, in his
own language, he "couldn't afford it." As he gazed at his recumbent
fellow-exiles, the loneliness begotten of his pariah-trade, his habits
of life, his very vices, for the first time seriously oppressed him.
He bestirred himself in dusting his black clothes, washing his hands
and face, and other acts characteristic of his studiously neat habits,
and for a moment forgot his annoyance. The thought of deserting his
weaker and more pitiable companions never perhaps occurred to him.
Yet he could not help feeling the want of that excitement which,
singularly enough, was most conducive to that calm equanimity for
which he was notorious. He looked at the gloomy walls that rose a
thousand feet sheer above the circling pines around him; at the sky,
ominously clouded; at the valley below, already deepening into shadow.
And, doing so, suddenly he heard his own name called.
A horseman slowly ascended the trail. In the fresh, open face of the
new-comer Mr. Oakhurst recognized Tom Simson, otherwise known as the
"Innocent," of Sandy Bar. He had met him some months before over
a "little game," and had, with perfect equanimity, won the entire
fortune--amounting to some forty dollars--of that guileless youth.
After the game was finished, Mr. Oakhurst drew the youthful speculator
behind the door and thus addressed him: "Tommy, you're a good little
man, but you can't gamble worth a cent. Don't try it over again." He
then handed him his money back, pushed him gently from the room, and
so made a devoted slave of Tom Simson.
There was a remembrance of this in his boyish and enthusiastic
greeting of Mr. Oakhurst. He had started, he said, to go to Poker
Flat to seek his fortune. "Alone?" No, not exactly alone; in fact
(a giggle), he had run away with Piney Woods. Didn't Mr. Oakhurst
remember Piney? She that used to wait on the table at the Temperance
House? They had been engaged a long time, but old Jake Woods had
objected, and so they had run away, and were going to Poker Flat to be
married, and here they were. And they were tired out, and how lucky it
was they had found a place to camp, and company. All this the Innocent
delivered rapidly, while Piney, a stout, comely damsel of fifteen,
emerged from behind the pine-tree where she had been blushing unseen,
and rode to the side of her lover.