IN THE BEGINNING
It was little that Tara, the Wolfhound, cared about lack of space,
so that she could stretch her great length along a hearthrug, with
her long, bearded muzzle resting on her friend's slippers, and gaze
at him, while he sat at his work, through the forest of overhanging
eyebrows which screened her soft, brown eyes. And in any case, the
next four months of her life, after the happy meeting at the Show
which restored her to her old friend, were too full of changing
happenings and variety of scene and occupation to leave time for
much consideration about the size of quarters, and matters of that
like.
For one thing, it was within a few days of the show that Tara was
taken on a two days' visit to a farm in Oxfordshire, where she
renewed her old acquaintance with one of the greatest aristocrats
of her race, Champion Dermot Asthore, the father of those great
young hounds she had given to the world during her life with the
Master; the children whose subsequently earned champion honours
reflected glory upon herself as the most famous living mother of
her breed, though not the most famous show dog. The qualities which
win the greatest honour in the show ring are not always the
qualities which make for famous motherhood. As a show hound merely,
Tara might have been beaten by dames of her race who had not half
her splendid width of flank and chest and general massiveness,
though they might have a shade more than her height and raciness.
After that, something considerable seemed to happen pretty well
every day. The Master spoke laughingly of the spring madness that
was as quicksilver to his heels, and of great profit to furniture
removers. He laughed a good deal in those early spring days, and
took Tara and the Mistress of the Kennels with him on quite a
number of journeys from Victoria railway station. Tara heard much
talk of Sussex Downs, and when she came to scamper over them, found
herself in thorough agreement with every sort of joyous encomium
she heard passed upon them. Then there came a day of extraordinary
confusion at the little flat, when men with aprons stamped about
and turned furniture upside down, and made foolish remarks about
Tara, as she sat beside the writing-table gravely watching them.
That night Tara slept in a loose box in the stable of a country
inn, and in the early morning went out for a glorious run on the
Downs with the Master, who seemed to have grown younger since they
left London.
Within a very few days from this time, Tara and her friends had
settled down comfortably in a new home. An oddly-shaped little
house it was, full of unexpected angles and doors, and having a
garden and orchard which straggled up the lower slope of one of the
Downs. It had a stable, too, of a modest sort, and rather poky, but
the coach-house was admirable, light, airy, facing south-east, and
having a new concrete floor, which the Master helped to lay with
his own hands. The back half of this coach-house consisted of a
slightly raised wooden dais; a very pleasant place for a Wolfhound
to lie, when spring sunshine was flooding the coach-house. But Tara
did not spend much of her time there, for between the stabling and
the house there was a big wooden structure with a tiled roof, large
as a good-sized barn, but with an entrance like an ordinary
house-door, and comfortably matchboarded inside, like a wooden house.
A pleasant old villager who was doing some work in the garden
referred to this place as "th'old parish room," but the Master
made it his own den, lined one of its sides with books, and
pictures of dogs and men, and fields and kennels. He had his big
writing-table established there, with a sufficiency of chairs, a
few rugs upon the forty-feet length of floor, and an old couch upon
one side, manufactured by himself with the aid of an ancient spring
mattress, a few blocks of wood, a big 'possum-skin rug which some
friend had sent him from Australia, and a variety of cushions. The
actual house, for all its rambling shape, was small, and possibly
this was why the Master chose to utilize this outside place as his
den, and to fix a big stove in it for heating. Here, too, at one
end, and just beyond the big writing-table, was a raised wooden
dais or bed, like that in the coach-house, a good six feet square,
with sides to it, perhaps six inches high. Tara watched the making
of this dais, and saw the master cover its floor with a kind of
sawdust that had a strong, pleasant smell, and then nail down a
tightly stretched piece of old carpet over that, making altogether,
as she thought, a very excellent bed. And as such Tara used it by
night, but in the daytime she usually preferred to stretch herself
beside the writing-table, or on the rug by the door, where the
sunshine formed a pool of light and warmth on a fine morning.
Here it was that Tara took her meals, a dish of milk in the
morning, with a little bread or biscuit, and the real meal of the
day, the dinner, which the Mistress of the Kennels always prepared
with her own hands, so that it was full of delightful surprises and
variety, though everything in it had the moisture and flavour of
meat, in the evening. At about this time it was that Tara noticed a
kind of white sediment, quite inoffensive and not at all bad to
eat, in her morning milk dish; and this she welcomed, because in
some dim way it was connected in her mind with happy old days that
came before her parting with the Master, when she had lived with
him in a place not unlike this clean, fragrant down-land, which
stretched now, far as one could see on either hand, outside the
garden and the orchard, all about this new home, which Tara found
so good. (At certain times and in certain circumstances, some
breeders of big hounds believe in mixing precipitated phosphate of
lime with ordinary food, for the sake of its bone-forming
properties.)
To describe one half the many delightful incidents and occupations
which made the days pass quickly for Tara now, would require a
volume; but as time went the great hound tended to become less
active. There were any number of rabbits on the Downs beyond the
orchard, and at first, in her before-breakfast ramble with the
Master, Tara used greatly to enjoy running down one or two of
these. But after a little time the Master seemed to make a point of
discouraging this, even to the extent of resting a hand lightly
upon Tara's collar as she walked beside him; and, gradually, she
herself lost inclination for the sport, except where greatly
tempted, as by a rabbit's jumping suddenly for its burrow close
beside her. In the afternoon, when Tara generally went out with the
Mistress of the Kennels for a good long round, she wore a lead on
her collar now, so that even sudden inspirations to galloping were
checked in the bud, and a sedate gait was maintained always.
Without troubling her head to think much about it, Tara had a
generally contented feeling that these precautions were wise and
good. The same prudent feeling influenced her in the matter of
meals now. Though she frequently felt that she would much rather be
without her morning milk, she always lapped it carefully up, and
conscientiously swabbed the dish bright and dry with her great red
tongue. She could not have explained, even to herself, just why she
did these things; but sub-conscious understanding and fore-knowledge
play a large part in a Wolfhound's life, and so does sub-conscious
memory and the inherited thing we call instinct. Without considering
prehistoric ancestry, there were fifteen hundred years of lineal
Irish Wolfhound ancestry behind Tara; her own family dated back so far.
For instance:--
In the year 391, seven centuries before the Conqueror landed in
England, there was a Roman Consul whose name was Quintus Aurelius
Symmachus. In a letter that he wrote to his brother Flavianus, he
said:--
"In order to win the favour of the Roman people for our Quaestor,
you have been a generous and diligent provider of novel
contributions to our solemn shows and games, as is proved by your
gift of seven Irish hounds. All Rome viewed them with wonder, and
fancied they must have been brought hither in iron cages. For such
a gift, I tender you the greatest possible thanks."
[Illustration]
That these Irish Wolfhounds of fifteen hundred years ago were big
and fierce, and brave and strong, you may know from the conviction
of the Roman people that they must have been brought in iron cages.
Also, friend Symmachus writes in other letters of the boars, and
lions, and the armed Saxons provided to do battle with the Irish
Wolfhounds. Also, he shows the quaintest sort of annoyance over the
fact that some twenty-nine of these perverse Saxons, who were
obtained to fight the Irish Wolfhounds, cut their throats on the
night before the games--their own throats, I mean--and so spoiled
sport for the holiday-loving Romans. In the first century of our
era, Mesroida, the King of the Leinstermen, had an Irish Wolfhound
which was so mighty in battle that it was said to defend the whole
province, and to fill all Ireland with its fame. For this hound,
six thousand cows, besides other property, were offered by the King
of Connaught, and about the same price was offered by the King of
Ulster. Irish Wolfhounds fought regularly in battle, through the
early centuries of our era; and fearsome warriors they were. Right
down to the period of a couple of centuries ago, a leash of Irish
Wolfhounds was considered a fitting and acceptable present for one
monarch, or lord, to offer to another king or great noble; while
from the earliest times, down to the day of Buffon, and, in our own
time, "Stonehenge," the naturalists have written of the Irish
Wolfhound as the greatest, that is finest, and "tallest of all
dogs."
But it was not alone in such matters as refraining from violent
exercise, and the taking of food whether inclined for it or not,
that a sort of prescience guided beautiful Tara at this time in her
new home beside the Sussex Downs. There came a morning when, as she
strolled about the strip of shrubbery and orchard which lay between
the stabling and the house, it occurred to her that it would be a
good thing to dig a hole somewhere in the ground; the sort of hole
or cave into which a great hound like herself could creep for
shelter if need be; a cave in which she could live for a while.
Tara did not know that the Master was watching her at this time;
but he was, and there was a sympathetic and understanding sort of
smile on his face, when Tara forced her way in between two large
shrubs, and began excavating. The earth was soft and moist there,
and Tara's powerful fore-feet scooped it out in regular shovelfuls,
for her hind feet to scatter in an earthy rain behind her. She made
a cavern as big as herself, and then divided the rest of the day
between the beautiful big dais in the coach-house, all dry, and
sweet, and clean, and her fragrant, carpeted great bed in "th'old
parish room." Lying there at her ease, with one eye on the Master's
shoulder, where it showed round the side of his high-topped
writing-table, Tara wondered vaguely why she had troubled to dig
that hole in the wet earth. But the Master knew all about it,
though he could not claim to have fifteen hundred years of
Wolfhound ancestry behind him, and he seemed quite satisfied.
On the following day Tara gravely inspected the hole she had dug,
and decided that it was not altogether good. So she went and dug
another in a rather more secluded spot; and then came back and
dozed comfortably at the Master's feet while he wrote. Later on in
the day she strolled round the whole premises, and inspected
carefully the various places in which, during the past week or so,
she had buried large bones. The next day found Tara extremely
restless and rather unhappy. She had an uncomfortable feeling that
she had forgotten some important matter which required attention.
In her effort to recall what the thing could be that she had
neglected, she dug two or three more holes, and finally, a thing
she had never thought of doing before, took one of the Master's
slippers--always a singularly dear and comforting piece of property
to Tara--and buried it about two feet deep in a little ditch. She
felt vaguely ashamed about this, though she had no idea that the
Master had watched her taking the slipper away; but she could not
bring herself to return the slipper, because of the hazy need she
felt for laying up treasure and taking every sort of precaution
against a rainy day.
During the afternoon, Tara's general uneasiness increased. She felt
thoroughly uncomfortable and worried; convinced that she had
forgotten some really important matter, and disinclined either to
go out or to stay in. Fifty times the Master opened and closed
doors to suit her changing whims, until poor Tara felt quite
ashamed of herself, though still quite unable to settle down. As a
sort of savoury after dinner, the Master gave her some silky, warm
olive oil; an odd thing to take, Tara thought, but upon the whole
pleasing and comforting. Then, suddenly, and as she woke from a
doze of about ten seconds' duration, Tara decided that it would be
a good thing to tear a hole in the middle of the tight-stretched
old carpet on her big bed. She got to work at once, pleased to
think that she had remembered this little matter in good time, and
was distinctly disappointed when the Master came and sat beside her
on the edge of the bed and playfully held her paws, after gently
lowering her into a lying position. Still, it was good to have him
sit there and chat, as he did for some little time, rubbing the
backs of her ears, and being generally sociable. He was the only
human creature, with the exception of the Mistress of the Kennels,
who had ever really chatted with Tara.
While Tara was gradually forgetting her desire to tear the bed
covering, a cart stopped outside the house, and a whiff, the hint
of an odour, drifted in through the open door of the den, and
caused the great hound's nose to wrinkle ominously. Next moment she
gave a savage bark, deep, threatening, and sonorous, and sprang to
her feet. She was not quite sure what ailed her, but she was
conscious of an access of great anger, of passionate hostility.
After soothing her, the Master carefully locked the door of the
den, and then went round through the gateway leading to the front
of the house, and took delivery of a large hamper from the station
carrier. Then the Mistress of the Kennels came and sat in the
Master's den for perhaps half an hour, while he was busy down at
the coach-house with the hamper, and a lantern, and a dish of dog's
dinner of a milky, sloppy sort.
That was a strange, eventful night in the den. All the country
round was silent as the grave, and the air of the June night was
soft and sweet as the petals of wild roses. The Mistress of the
Kennels was persuaded into going early to bed, but the Master sat
behind his big table, writing beneath a carefully shaded lamp, and
rising quietly every now and again, to peer over the top of the
high table in the direction of the big bed in the shadow, where
Tara lay. Many things happened in the meantime, but it was just
after the clock in the tower of the village church had struck the
hour of one, that the Master was thrilled by a cry from his beloved
Tara; the fifth he had heard during the past three and a half
hours.
He leaned forward on his elbows, waiting and listening. Tara had
never heard of duty or self-control. She was a pure child of
Nature. But the moment of that cry of hers was the only moment she
allowed for self-consideration, or the play of her own
inclinations. In the next moment she was busying herself, with the
most exquisite delicacy and precision, over the care of her latest
offspring; the last late-comer in her new family of five. In that
next instant, too, a weak, bleating little cry, a voice that was
not at all like Tara's, smote pleasantly upon the ears of the
Master, where he waited, peering watchfully from beside the deeply
shaded lamp on his table.
It was then, just after the Master heard that little bleating cry
which told of new life in the world, that Tara, with infinite care
and precaution, lowered her great bulk upon the bed in a coil--she
had been standing--the centre of which was occupied by four glossy
Irish Wolfhound puppies, who had arrived respectively at ten,
eleven, twelve, and half-past twelve that night. The four, then
blindly grovelling over the carpeted bed, were now perfectly
sheltered in the still heaving hollow of their mother's flank.
These comparatively world-worn pups had not arranged themselves
conveniently in a cluster to receive their loving mother's caress.
On the contrary, they were all groping in different directions at
the moment in which Tara's pain-racked body was lowered to rest,
and to shelter them. But, while yet that great body hung over them
in the act of descending, it had twisted and curved into the
required lines, and a soft muzzle had thrust this puppy that way,
and the other another way; the mother's soft, filmy eyes missing
nothing before her or behind. One inch of miscalculation, and the
life had been crushed out of one of those tiny creatures. But pain
brought no miscalculation for Tara.
One quick movement of her head satisfied the mother that her four
firstborn were safe and well disposed. Immediately then, with never
a thought of rest, her nose thrust the new-comer into position
between her fore-paws, and she proceeded to administer the
life-giving and stimulating tongue-wash. Over and over the little
shapeless grey form was turned, cheeping and bleating, until every
crevice of its soft anatomy had come under the vivifying sweep of
six inches of scarlet tongue, warm and tenderly rough. Then the
mother's sensitive nose thrust and coaxed the little creature to
its nesting-place under her flank, where three sisters and a
brother already nosed complainingly among milk-swollen dugs, quite
indifferent to the coming of an addition to their number, and
desiring they knew not what--desiring it lustily.
Then, and not till then, did the beautiful mother of these new-born
descendants of an ancient race permit herself to draw a long breath
of relief, and lower her massive head upon her fore-paws. A moment
later, and a desire which overcame weariness impelled Tara to part
her hot jaws, and glance in the direction of the shaded lamp. No
least movement of hers escaped the Master, and in the moment of her
glance, he came forward with a dish of fresh cold water in his
hand. The mother lapped, slowly, weakly, gratefully, thanking
whatever gods she knew, and the friend whose hand and eye were so
ready, for the balm of water. The man moved very gently and deftly
before her, and no anxiety came into her brown eyes when he leaned
forward to examine the now resting litter at her flank. But it had
gone hardly one fancied with the stranger, or even with the casual
acquaintance, who should have approached too inquisitively the
little family.
"There, there, pet; all right, my Tara girl," murmured the man, as
he stepped back softly to his table, to return a moment later with
a dish of warm milk and water, which the slightly rested mother
drank with forethoughtful eagerness, though the effort necessary
for lapping in that constrained position, and without disturbing
the little ones beside her, was far from pleasant, and far enough
from personal inclination.
Ten minutes later the dam very gently changed her position, all
idea of rest having left her now, and proceeded systematically to
lick, first her own swollen dugs, and then the little featureless
faces of her offspring, with many small encouraging muzzle-thrusts
and undulations of her sinuous frame; while the Master (ready to
give assistance if that were required, but too knowledgeable in
these matters to wish to hasten Nature, or botch the delicate
handiwork of the mother) stood in the shadow of his big table,
watching and waiting. Within another few minutes the five pups were
immersed in the most important affair of life (from their point of
view) and, with wriggling tails and tiny, heaving flanks, with
impatient, out-thrust, pink fore-feet, wet faces, and gaping little
jaws, were nursing in a row like clock-work.
The mother turned a proud, filmy eye in the direction of her
friend, the Master, and allowed her massive head to fall on its
side, her whole great form outstretched to reap the benefit of a
few more minutes of needed repose.
"Good girl!" whispered the Master; and stepping backward, he turned
yet lower than it was the wick of his shaded lamp. "Good!
Excellent! Five's a very good number. I should have been sorry to
see a big litter, for dear old Tara. And, anyhow, that last one,
the grey, is about equal to any two I ever saw; an immense whelp;
dog for sure, and a giant at that."
The Master lay down to sleep presently, on the couch with the
'possum-skin rug; and before many hours of the June daylight had
passed, he had verified his impressions of that last-born son of
Tara's as a grey-brindle, and the biggest whelp of its age that he
had ever seen. For purposes of registration in the books of the
Kennel Club--The Debrett of the dog world--the late-comer was
forthwith christened by the Mistress of the Kennels, under the name
of Finn, in honour of the memory of the fourth-century warrior
Finn, son of Cumall, lord of three hundred Irish Wolfhounds, whose
prowess in battle and in the chase were sung by Oisin in two
thousand, two hundred and seventy-two separate verses. Finn was
chief of King Cormac's household and master of his hounds; for the
most honoured counsellor that the ancient Kings of Ireland had were
masters of the hounds always.
And this was the way of the Irish Wolfhound Finn's entry into the
world, at the end of the first hour of a June day, in the Master's
den beside the Sussex Downs. You may see the embalmed body of his
great mother's sire, Champion O'Leary, if you care to look for it,
in the Natural History Museum at Kensington; woefully shorn of his
imposing beard and shaggy eyebrows, it is true, but yet only less
magnificent in death than he was always in life. Her mother was the
dam of the hound who marches to-day at the head of His Majesty's
Irish Guards. Between them, the sire and dam of Finn would have
scaled three hundred pounds, while either could easily have
stretched to a height above the shoulders of a six-foot man. Finn
rested easily in the palm of the Master's right hand when
christened by the Mistress of the Kennels, for he was little bigger
than a week-old kitten. But he was none the less Finn, the lineal
descendant of King Cormac's battle-hounds of fifteen hundred years
ago; and it was said he had the makings of the biggest Wolfhound
ever bred.
[Illustration]