CHAPTER V.

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NO. 108.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, JANUARY 23, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]

AN ANGLER’S IDYLL.

I am once more at the water’s edge. It is the Tweed, silver-voiced,

musical, its ripples breaking into liquid crystals as the rushing

stream leaps into the breast of the softly-circling pool. Here, in its

upper reaches, amid the pastoral hills of Peeblesshire, its volume of

fair water is untainted by pollution. It has miles and miles yet to

run ere it comes up with the floating scum and dismal discoloration of

‘mill-races’ and the refuse of the dye-house. And, there!—is not that

Drummelzier Castle on the opposite bank above, its gray walls powdered

with the yellows and browns of spreading lichens, and its shattered

bastions waving here and there a crest of summer’s greenest grass? The

fierce old chieftains who wrangled Border-fashion in its halls are

silent to-day; the wild Tweedies and Hays and Veitches have had their

rough voices smothered in the churchyard dust. From the shady angle of

the old tower steps out a great brindled bull, leading his following

of milky dames to where the pasture is juicy in the haughs below. I

am thankful the broad deep stream is between us, for as he lifts his

head and sees me where I stand, he announces his displeasure in a short

angry snort and a sudden lashing of his ponderous tail. Perhaps it is

only the flies tormenting him. In any case, it is well to be beyond his

reach.

Above me and around are the great brown hills of Tweed-dale. They have

this morning a dreamy look. The soft west wind plays about them, and

the sunlight weaves a web of mingled glory and gloom over their broad

summits and down their furrowed sides. The trees wave green branches

in the soft warm air; but I hear them not—only the swish and tinkle of

the waters. The sheep that feed upon the long gray slopes move about

in a kind of spectral stillness; I almost fancy I hear them bleat, but

may be mistaken, so far-off and dream-like is the sound. A distant shot

is heard, and a flock of white pigeons rise with swift wing from the

summit of the battered old keep, and wheel quick circles round the

tower, then settle down as still and unseen as before. And something

else is moving on the farther side. It is a milkmaid, tripping down the

bank towards the river, her pitchers creaking as she goes. She pauses

ere dipping them in the stream, and looks with level hand above her

eyes across the meadows now aflame with the morning sun. Perhaps she

expects to see some gallant Patie returning from the ‘wauking o’ the

fauld,’ or some bashful Roger hiding mouse-like behind the willows.

Her light hair has been bleached to a still lighter hue by the suns

and showers of many a summer day, but these, though they have bronzed

her broad brow and shapely neck, have left undimmed the rosy lustre

of her cheek. Light-handed, red-cheeked Peggy, go thy way in sweet

expectation! When the westering sun flings purple shadows over the

hills, he whose rustic image stirs thy glowing pulses shall steal to

meet thee here.

And I?—what have I to do? There is the tempting stream; the pliant rod,

with its gossamer line and daintily busked lures, is ready to hand.

Deft fingers have mounted it for me without ostentation or display.

There has been no struggling with hanked line or tangled cast; I have

been served like a prince among anglers, and am ready-equipped to step

into the stream. And yet at the moment I am all alone; for round me

only are the silent hills, and beneath me the broadly-flowing Tweed.

I have never fished so before. I feel as light as if the normal fifteen

pounds to the square inch of atmospheric pressure no longer existed

for me. Ah, with what delight I feel the cool water lapping round my

limbs, as I fling the light line far across the rippling stream, and

watch the ‘flies’ as they drop and float downwards with the current.

The broad brown hills, the dewy woods, the gray tower, are forgotten

now. The brindled bull and his milky following have gone, with the

rosy milkmaid, out of sight and out of mind. The pigeons high on the

shattered keep may wheel fleet circles as they choose, and spread white

wings in the orient sun, but they cannot draw my eyes from the charmed

spot. Down there, in the haugh beneath, near to where Powsail Burn

joins the Tweed, the thorn-tree is shading the wizard’s grave; but gray

Merlin, sleeping or waking, living or dead, is nothing to me. Yonder,

up the river, is Mossfennan Yett, and the Scottish king, for all I

know, may once more be riding round the Merecleugh-head, ‘booted and

spurred, as we a’ did see,’ to alight him down, as in days of old, and

‘dine wi’ the lass o’ the Logan Lea;’ but to me that old royal lover is

at this moment a thing of nought. Border story and Border song, tale

of love and deed of valour—what are they now to me, with the soft wind

sighing round my head and the swift river rushing at my feet?

A splendid stream, indeed! For a hundred yards it sweeps with broken

and jagged surface, from the broad shallow above to the deep dark pool

below. In the strong rush of its current, it is not easy keeping your

feet. The bottom is of small pebbles, smooth and round, gleaming yellow

and brown through the clear water, and they have an awkward knack of

slipping cleverly from beneath your feet, giving you every now and

then a queer sensation of standing upon nothing. But this is only for

a moment, or ever so much less than a moment. For if it were longer

than the quickest thought, it might bring you a bad five minutes. To

lose your footing in this swift-hurrying stream, might be to have a

fleet passage into the great pool that hugs its black waters beneath

the shadow of yonder gloomy rock over which the pine-trees wave their

sunless boughs. But really, after all, one has no fear of that. Usage

gives security. The railway train in which you sit quietly reading the

morning paper, might at any moment leave the rails, or break an axle,

or collide with the stone bridge ahead; but you do not think of that,

or anticipate it—or, if you did, life would not be worth living. So is

it here in the broad Tweed. With the faculties engrossed in the work of

the moment, foot and hand are equally and instinctively alert. Slowly

and securely you move over the shining pebbles, making cast after

cast—wondering if ever you are to have a rise.

I must work here with cautious hand and shortened line. For a belt

of trees borders the river on the farther side, and a long-armed ash

is pushing his boughs far out over the stream, as if seeking to dip

his leaf-tips in the cool-flowing water. To hank one’s line on these

quivering boughs would lead to a loss of time and probably of temper,

and this morning everything is too beautiful and bright for any angry

mood. As yet I have no success. Not a fin is on the rise; not a single

silvery scale has glittered. Still, what beauties I know to be lurking

there. You see that point, where the ground juts out a little into

the stream, and a ragged alder hangs with loosened roots from the

crumbling bank? It is being slowly undermined by the stream, and one

day will slip down and be carried away. But as yet, it affords a rare

sheltering-place for the finny tritons. It was but last season I hooked

one at that very spot, and after a long and stubborn fight got my net

beneath him, and went victor home.

And I know that others are there still, as brave and as beautiful as

he. In fancy’s eye I can see them even now, lying with head up-stream,

and motionless but for now and then a quick jerk of the tail sideways,

their yellow flanks gleaming in speckled radiance when a sunbeam

reaches them through the fret-work of the overhanging leaves. That

sharp jerk of the tail sideways means that they are keeping their

weather-eye open. Being, among other things, insectivorous, they know

if they would secure their prey they must be quick about it, hence they

are ever on the alert. And yet, the flies which I am offering must have

passed close by them a dozen times, but still they have stirred not,

except in that knowing way which indicates they are not to be taken

in. They have learned a thing or two, these Tweed trout, since the

time of the Cæsars. Speak about animals not having reasoning powers?

Let any one who deludes himself with this vain fallacy, purchase the

best angling apparatus going, and then try his hand upon Tweed trout.

Three hours afterwards he will not feel quite so satisfied as to the

immeasurable superiority of man over the lower creatures. He may even

have some half-defined suspicion that it is himself, and not the other

party, that has been taken in. And not without cause. These Tweed trout

can pick you out an artificial fly as skilfully as a tackle-maker.

The thought disheartens me for a moment, as I stand here, lashing away,

middle-deep in the stream. But it is only for a moment. The wind is

soft; the air is bright, but not too bright, with sunshine; a luminous

haze is gathering between me and the distant mountains, and the skies

have now more of gray than of blue in their airy texture. Everything is

beautiful, from the soft contour of the rounded hills to the glitter

and sparkle of the silvery stream.—But, there! My reel is whirring off

with a sound that seals the senses against everything else. He is _on_!

I saw him rise, and as he turned to descend I struck—and there he is!

It was all quicker than thought. He has rushed up-stream a dozen yards,

but is turning now. As I reel in, I begin mentally to calculate the

ratio of his weight to his strength of pull. This is a useful thing to

do; because if you should happen to lose your fish, you are then in

a position to assure your friend Jones, who is higher up the water,

and very likely has done nothing, that you had one ‘on’ which was two

pounds if it was an ounce. Jones will of course believe it, and condole

with you upon your loss—perhaps with a secret chuckle.

But this is digressive. I have other work than to talk about Jones at

present. Master Fario is not taking kindly to the bridle which I have

put in his mouth, and is having another run for it. There he goes,

swish out of the water a couple of feet. What an exhilarating moment!

Another leap and whirl, and off he goes careering towards the pool

below in a way you never saw. But the line is running out after him,

and still he is fast. The fight is keen, but he is worth fighting for.

With the point of the rod well up, and a considerable strain upon the

line, he must soon either yield—or break off. The alternative is

dreadful to contemplate. So I renew my caution, and play him gently.

By-and-by I feel he is yielding. Reeling in once more, I soon draw him

within range of eyesight. What a beauty he is! Plump and fat, the very

pink of trouts! Moving uneasily from side to side—boring occasionally

as if he would make his way down to catch hold of something, but

with a swinging and swaying motion about him indicative of failing

power—he comes nearer and nearer to me where I stand, breathless with

excitement, dreading lest, even at this last stage of the struggle,

I may yet lose him. The supreme moment is at hand! He is almost

at my feet. I hold the rod with one hand, and with the other undo

the landing-net. He circles round me at as great a distance as the

shortened line will allow, and though I have tried once or twice to

pass the net beneath him, he has hitherto managed to baffle me. But

now, at last, the net is under him—and, there——

* * * * *

Tap, tap!—‘Come in!’—And enter two or three little ones to hid papa

good-night. Ah, little sweethearts, what a vision you have undone! The

flowing stream, the overhanging trees, the old gray tower, the silent

hills, have all, at the touch of your tiny fingers, vanished!

I was not dreaming—no, nor yet asleep. My hook lies turned face down

on my knee, and my pipe, extinguished, is still between my lips. It

is towards the end of December; the Christmas bells have already rung

out their message, and the New Year is waiting, in a few days to be

ushered in. Outside, the wind is blowing in loud noisy gusts through

the darkness, scattering the snow-flakes before it in a level drift.

Here, in my bookroom, as I sat with foot on fender, watching the

glowing embers in the grate, thoughts of summer days had stolen over

me. I was once more by silvery Tweed, under sunny skies, plying ‘the

well-dissembled fly’—the storm and the snow-drift without, being as

if they were not. To you, reader, I have uttered aloud the reverie of

those brief five minutes of swift fancy; to you, brother anglers, may

that phantasmal expedition be the harbinger of coming sport; and with

each and all of you I now will part, bidding you reverently, as I bid

my little ones, Good-night!

IN ALL SHADES.

CHAPTER V.

The letter from Edward that had so greatly perturbed old Mr Hawthorn

had been written, of course, some twenty days before he received

it, for the mail takes about that time, as a rule, in going from

Southampton across the Atlantic to the port of Trinidad. Edward had

already told his father of his long-standing engagement to Marian; but

the announcement and acceptance of the district judgeship had been so

hurried, and the date fixed for his departure was so extremely early,

that he had only just had time by the first mail to let his father

know of his approaching marriage, and his determination to proceed at

once to the West Indies by the succeeding steamer. Three weeks was all

the interval allowed him by the inexorable red-tape department of the

Colonial Office for completing his hasty preparations for his marriage,

and setting sail to undertake his newly acquired judicial functions.

‘Three weeks, my dear,’ Nora cried in despair to Marian; ‘why, you

know, it can’t possibly be done! It’s simply impracticable. Do those

horrid government-office people really imagine a girl can get together

a trousseau, and have all the bridesmaids’ dresses made, and see about

the house and the breakfast and all that sort of thing, and get herself

comfortably married, all within a single fortnight? They’re just like

all men; they think you can do things in less than no time. It’s

absolutely preposterous.’

‘Perhaps,’ Marian answered, ‘the government-office people would say

they engaged Edward to take a district judgeship, and didn’t stipulate

anything about his getting married before he went out to Trinidad to

take it.’

‘Oh, well, you know, if you choose to look at it in that way, of course

one can’t reasonably grumble at them for their absurd hurrying. But

still the horrid creatures ought to have a little consideration for a

girl’s convenience. Why, we shall have to make up our minds at once,

without the least proper deliberation, what the bridesmaids’ dresses

are to be, and begin having them cut out and the trimmings settled this

very morning. A wedding at a fortnight’s notice! I never in my life

heard of such a thing. I wonder, for my part, your mamma consents to

it.—Well, well, I shall have you to take charge of me going out, that’s

one comfort; and I shall have my bridesmaid’s dress made so that I can

wear it a little altered, and cut square in the bodice, when I get

to Trinidad, for a best dinner dress. But it’s really awfully horrid

having to make all one’s preparations for the wedding and for going

out in such a terrible unexpected hurry.’ However, in spite of Nora,

the preparations for the wedding were duly made within the appointed

fortnight, even that important item of the bridesmaids’ dresses being

quickly settled to everybody’s satisfaction.

Strange that when two human beings propose entering into a solemn

contract together for the future governance of their entire joint

existence, the thoughts of one of them, and that the one to whom the

change is most infinitely important, should be largely taken up for

some weeks beforehand with the particular clothes she is to wear on the

morning when the contract is publicly ratified! Fancy the ambassador

who signs the treaty being mainly occupied for the ten days of the

preliminary negotiations with deciding what sort of uniform and

how many orders he shall put on upon the eventful day of the final

signature!

At the end of that short hurry-scurrying fortnight, the wedding

actually took place; and an advertisement in the _Times_ next morning

duly announced among the list of marriages, ‘At Holy Trinity, Brompton,

by the Venerable Archdeacon Ord, uncle of the bride, assisted by

the Rev. Augustus Savile, B.D., EDWARD BERESFORD HAWTHORN, M.A.,

Barrister-at-law, of the Inner Temple, late Fellow of St Catherine’s

College, Cambridge, and District Judge of the Westmoreland District,

Trinidad, to MARIAN ARBUTHNOT, only daughter of General C. S. Ord,

C.I.E., formerly of the Bengal Infantry.’ ‘The bride’s toilet,’ said

the newspapers, ‘consisted of white broché satin de Lyon, draped with

deep lace flounces, caught up with orange blossoms. The veil was

of tulle, secured to the hair with a pearl crescent and stars. The

bouquet was composed of rare exotics.’ In fact, to the coarse and

undiscriminating male intelligence, the whole attire, on which so much

pains and thought had been hurriedly bestowed, does not appear to have

differed in any respect whatsoever from that of all the other brides

one has ever looked at during the entire course of a reasonably long

and varied lifetime.

After the wedding, however, Marian and Edward could only afford a

single week by way of a honeymoon, in that most overrun by brides and

bridegrooms of all English districts, the Isle of Wight, as being

nearest within call of Southampton, whence they had to start on their

long ocean voyage. The aunt in charge was to send down Nora to meet

them at the hotel the day before the steamer sailed; and the general

and Mrs Ord were to see them off, and say a long good-bye to them on

the morning of sailing.

Harry Noel, too, who had been best-man at the wedding, for some reason

most fully known to himself, professed a vast desire to ‘see the last

of poor Hawthorn,’ before he left for parts unknown in the Caribbean;

and with that intent, duly presented himself at a Southampton hotel on

the day before their final departure. It was not purely by accident,

however, either on his own part or on Marian Hawthorn’s, that when

they took a quiet walk that evening in some fields behind the battery,

he found himself a little in front with Nora Dupuy, while the newly

married pair, as was only proper, brought up the rear in a conjugal

tête-à-tête.

‘Miss Dupuy,’ Harry said suddenly, as they reached an open space in the

fields, with a clear view uninterrupted before them, ‘there’s something

I wish to say to you before you leave to-morrow for Trinidad—something

a little premature, perhaps, but under the circumstances—as you’re

leaving so soon—I can’t delay it. I’ve seen very little of you, as yet,

Miss Dupuy, and you’ve seen very little of me, so I daresay I owe you

some apology for this strange precipitancy; but—— Well, you’re going

away at once from England; and I may not see you again for—for some

months; and if I allow you to go without having spoken to you, why’——

Nora’s heart throbbed violently. She didn’t care very much for Harry

Noel at first sight, to be sure; but still, she had never till now had

a regular offer of marriage made to her; and every woman’s heart beats

naturally—I believe—when she finds herself within measurable distance

of her first offer. Besides, Harry was the heir to a baronetcy, and

a great catch, as most girls counted; and even if you don’t want to

marry a baronet, it’s something at least to be able to say to yourself

in future, ‘I refused an offer to be Lady Noel.’ Mind you, as women

go, the heir to an old baronetcy and twelve thousand a year is not

to be despised, though you may not care a single pin about his mere

personal attractions. A great many girls who would refuse, the man

upon his own merits, would willingly say ‘Yes’ at once to the title and

the income. So Nora Dupuy, who was, after all, quite as human as most

other girls—if not rather more so—merely held her breath hard and tried

her best to still the beating of her wayward heart, as she answered

back with childish innocence: ‘Well, Mr Noel; in that case, what would

happen?’

‘In that case, Miss Dupuy,’ Harry replied, looking at her pretty little

pursed-up guileless mouth with a hungry desire to kiss it incontinently

then and there—‘why, in that case, I’m afraid some other man—some

handsome young Trinidad planter or other—might carry off the prize on

his own account before I had ventured to put in my humble claim for

it.—Miss Dupuy, what’s the use of beating about the bush, when I see

by your eyes you know what I mean! From the moment I first saw you,

I said to myself: “She’s the one woman I have ever seen whom I feel

instinctively I could worship for a lifetime.” Answer me yes. I’m no

speaker. But I love you. Will you take me?’

Nora twisted the tassel of her parasol nervously between her finger

and thumb for a few seconds; then she looked back at him full in the

face with her pretty girlish open eyes, and answered with charming

naïveté—just as if he had merely asked her whether she would take

another cup of tea:—‘Thank you, no, Mr Noel; I don’t think so.’

Harry Noel smiled with amusement—in spite of this curt and simple

rejection—at the oddity of such a reply to such a question. ‘Of

course,’ he said, glancing down at her pretty little feet to hide his

confusion, ‘I didn’t expect you to answer me _Yes_ at once on so very

short an acquaintance as ours has been. I acknowledge it’s dreadfully

presumptuous in me to have dared to put you a question like that, when

I know you can have seen so very little in me to make me worth the

honour you’d be bestowing upon me.’

‘Quite so,’ Nora murmured mischievously, in a parenthetical undertone.

It wasn’t kind; I daresay it wasn’t even lady-like; but then you see

she was really, after all, only a school-girl.

Harry paused, half abashed for a second at this very literal acceptance

of his conventional expression of self-depreciation. He hardly knew

whether it was worth while continuing his suit in the face of such

exceedingly outspoken discouragement. Still, he had something to say,

and he determined to say it. He was really very much in love with Nora,

and he wasn’t going to lose his chance outright just for the sake of

what might be nothing more than a pretty girl’s provoking coyness.

‘Yes,’ he went on quietly, without seeming to notice her little

interruption, ‘though you haven’t yet seen anything in me to

care for, I’m going to ask you, not whether you’ll give me any

definite promise—it was foolish of me to expect one on so brief an

acquaintance—but whether you’ll kindly bear in mind that I’ve told you

I love you—yes, I said love you’—for Nora had clashed her little hand

aside impatiently at the word. ‘And remember, I shall still hope, until

I see you again, you may yet in future reconsider the question.—Don’t

make me any promise, Miss Dupuy; and don’t repeat the answer you’ve

already given me; but when you go to Trinidad, and are admired and

courted as you needs must be, don’t wholly forget that some one in

England once told you he loved you—loved you passionately.’

‘I’m not likely to forget it, Mr Noel,’ Nora answered with malicious

calmness; ‘because nobody ever proposed to me before, you know; and

one’s sure not to forget one’s first offer.’

‘Miss Dupuy, you are making game of me! It isn’t right of you—it isn’t

generous.’

Nora paused and looked at him again. He was dark, but very handsome. He

looked handsomer still when he bridled up a little. It was a very nice

thing to look forward to being Lady Noel. How all the other girls at

school would have just jumped at it! But no; he was too dark by half

to meet her fancy. She couldn’t give him the slightest encouragement.

‘Mr Noel,’ she said, far more seriously this time, with a little sigh

of impatience, ‘believe me, I didn’t really mean to offend you. I—I

like you very much; and I’m sure I’m very much flattered indeed by what

you’ve just been kind enough to say to me. I know it’s a great honour

for you to ask me to—to ask me what you have asked me. But—you know, I

don’t think of you in that light, exactly. You will understand what I

mean when I say I can’t even leave the question open. I—I have nothing

to reconsider.’

Harry waited a moment in internal reflection. He liked her all the

better because she said _no_ to him. He was man of the world enough to

know that ninety-nine girls out of a hundred would have jumped at once

at such an eligible offer. ‘In a few months,’ he said quietly, in an

abstracted fashion, ‘I shall be paying a visit out in Trinidad.’

‘Oh, don’t, pray, don’t,’ Nora cried hastily. ‘It’ll be no use, Mr

Noel, no use in any way. I’ve quite made up my mind; and I never change

it. Don’t come out to Trinidad, I beg of you.’

‘I see,’ Harry said, smiling a little bitterly. ‘Some one else has

been beforehand with me already. No wonder. I’m not at all surprised

at him. How could he possibly see you and help it?’ And he looked with

unmistakable admiration at Nora’s face, all the prettier now for its

deep blushes.

‘No, Mr Noel,’ Nora answered simply. ‘There you are mistaken. There’s

nobody—absolutely nobody. I’ve only just left school, you know, and

I’ve seen no one so far that I care for in any way.’

‘In that case,’ Harry Noel said, in his decided manner, ‘the quest will

still be worth pursuing. No matter what you say, Miss Dupuy, we shall

meet again—before long—in Trinidad. A young lady who has just left

school has plenty of time still to reconsider her determinations.’

‘Mr Noel! Please, don’t! It’ll be quite useless.’

‘I must, Miss Dupuy; I can’t help myself. You will draw me after you,

even if I tried to prevent it. I believe I have had one real passion in

my life, and that passion will act upon me like a magnet on a needle

for ever after. I shall go to Trinidad.’

‘At anyrate, then, you’ll remember that I gave you no encouragement,

and that for me, at least, my answer is final.’

‘I _will_ remember, Miss Dupuy—and I won’t believe it.’

* * * * *

That evening, as Marian kissed Nora good-night in her own bedroom at

the Southampton hotel, she asked archly: ‘Well, Nora, what did you

answer him?’

‘Answer who? what?’ Nora repeated hastily, trying to look as if she

didn’t understand the suppressed antecedent of the personal pronoun.

‘My dear girl, it isn’t the least use your pretending you don’t know

what I mean by it. I saw in your face, Nora, when Edward and I caught

you up, what it was Mr Noel had been saying to you. And how did you

answer him? Tell me, Nora!’

‘I told him _no_, Marian, quite positively.’

‘O Nora!’

‘Yes, I did. And he said he’d follow me out to Trinidad; and I told him

he really needn’t take the trouble, because in any case I could never

care for him.’

‘O dear, I _am_ so sorry. You wicked girl! And, Nora, he’s such a nice

fellow too! and so dreadfully in love with you! You ought to have taken

him.’

‘My dear Marian! He’s so awfully black, you know. I really believe he

must positively be—be _coloured_.’

OUR DOMESTICATED OTTER.

One fine day in early autumn, while straying along the banks of one

of the sparkling little trout streams which appear to be at once the

cause and the purpose of those lovely winding valleys so numerous in

Northern Devon, our attention was drawn, by a faint distressed chirping

sound, to a small dark object stirring in the grass at some distance

from the stream. We hurried to the spot, and there saw, to our great

surprise, wet, muddy, and uneasily squirming at our feet, a baby otter!

Poor infant! how came it there? By what concatenation of untoward

circumstances did the helpless innocent find itself in a position so

foreign to the habits of its kind? Its appearance under conditions so

utterly at variance with our experience of the customs and manners of

otter society, was so amazing, that we could scarcely believe our eyes.

However, there the little creature undoubtedly was; and congratulating

ourselves on this unlooked-for and valuable addition to our home

menagerie—for these animals are rare in Devon, and to light upon a

young scion of the race in evident need of a home and education was

quite a piece of good luck—the forlorn bantling was promptly deposited

in a coat-pocket and proudly borne homewards.

Introduced to the family circle, ‘Tim’—as he was afterwards duly

christened—became at once the centre of domestic interest and unceasing

care. To feed him was necessarily our first consideration. A feline

or canine mother deprived of her young was suggested as a suitable

foster-mother; but, unfortunately, no such animal was at hand, and

meantime the creature must be fed. We therefore procured an ordinary

infant’s feeding-bottle, and filling it with lukewarm cow’s milk,

essayed thus to make good the absence of mamma-otter. At first the

little stranger absolutely declined even to consider this arrangement,

and in consequence pined somewhat; but in the end the pangs of hunger

wrought a change in his feelings, and after several energetic though

unscientific attempts, he overcame the difficulties of his new feeding

apparatus, and was soon vigorously sucking. For a time, all went well.

Tim, with commendable regularity, alternately filled himself with milk

and slept peacefully in his basket of sweet hay. But at the close of

the second day, a change came over our interesting charge; he was

restless and uneasy during the night, and in the morning, refused to

feed, and appeared to be suffering pain. Finally, his respiration

became laboured and difficult, and for a whole day and night our hopes

of rearing him were at the lowest ebb. But at the end of that time, to

our great satisfaction, the distressing symptoms began to abate, and in

a few hours had disappeared, and the convalescent returned _con amore_

to his bottle. Believing his attack was attributable to over-feeding,

we henceforth diluted the cow’s milk with warm water, and removed his

bottle at the first sign of approaching satiety, nor did we again

administer it until his demands for sustenance became vociferous and

imperative. On this system we were successful in rearing him in the

face of many prophecies of failure.

At this early stage of his existence, being exhibited to admiring

friends, he crawled laboriously and flatly about on the carpet, with

a decided preference for backward motion; but if he encountered

a perpendicular surface, such as the sides of his hamper or a

trouser-leg, he would, with the aid of his claws, climb up it with

considerable agility. He distinctly showed a love of warmth, and gave

us to understand that he appreciated caresses, by nestling down in

feminine laps, and ceasing his plaintive cry while our hands were about

him. On awakening from sleep, he would begin, as do ducklings and

chickens, with a gentle reminder of his existence and requirements.

If no notice were taken of this, the note—which was something between

the magnified chirp of a chicken and the very earliest bark of a

puppy—would steadily increase in power and insistence, until it became

an absolute clamour. When his bottle was given to him, he would seize

on the leather teat and tug at it, and plunge about with a violence and

impatience which defeated its own end, and woe to the unwary or awkward

fingers which came in the way of the tiny fine white teeth at this

moment!

Obstacles overcome and success attained, Tim settled down to steady

sober enjoyment; the webbed paws were alternately spread and closed

like a cat’s when thoroughly content, and the tail curled and uncurled

and wagged to and fro, as does a lamb’s when happily feeding. After the

lapse of a few days, our new pet showed decided signs of intelligence

and a sense of fun: he would run round after one’s finger in a

clumsy-lively way, and a jocular poke in the ribs would rouse him to an

awkwardly playful attempt to seize the offending digit. In less than

three weeks he knew his name, and scuttled across the room when called,

followed us about the garden, and endeavoured to establish friendly

relations with a pet wild rabbit, which was furiously jealous of the

new favourite, and administered sly scratches, and ‘hustled’ him on

every possible occasion.

About this time, he also acquired a charming habit of beginning, the

moment the sun rose, a clamour which deprived half the household of

further sleep, and which was only to be quieted by his being taken

into some one’s bed, where he would at once ‘snuggle’ down and lie

motionless for hours. At first we resisted this importunity on the

part of Tim, partly because an otter is not exactly the animal one

would select as a bedfellow, and partly because we could not think it

a desirable or wholesome habit for the creature itself. But Master Tim

was too much for us. ‘If you won’t let me sleep with you, you shan’t

sleep at all!’ he declared in unmistakable language, and by dint of

sticking to his point he carried it.

At the end of the first month of his civilised life, some one gave him

a scrap of raw meat; and after that, though he ate bread and milk very

contentedly between times, he made us understand that his constitution

required the support of animal food, and was never satisfied without

his daily ration of uncooked flesh. Fish, strange to say, he seemed to

prefer cooked. When we were seated at meals, a hand held down would

bring Tim quickly to one’s side with an eager look in the small yellow

eyes; his cold nose sniffed at one’s fingers with rapid closing and

unclosing of the curiously formed nostrils; the softly furred head

would be thrust into the palm in search of the expected dainty morsel.

If none were to be found, his temper would be sadly ruffled, sometimes

to the extent of inflicting with his teeth a sharp reminder that not

even an otter’s feelings should be trifled with!

As he grew older, he developed an amount of intelligence scarcely to

be expected from the small brain contained in the flat and somewhat

snake-like head; he showed decided preferences for some members of

the family over others; if permitted, he would follow everywhere at

our heels like a dog, and played with the children after the manner

of one, but with awkward springs and jumps that put us in mind of a

particularly ungraceful lamb. He occasionally made quite energetic

assaults on the ankles of some of the ladies of the family; and if he

perceived that the owner of unprotected ankles went in fear of him,

showed a malicious pleasure in renewing the attack at every favourable

opportunity.

When the children went for a country ramble, Tim frequently accompanied

them, taking the greatest delight in these excursions. He would be

carried until beyond danger from wandering dogs, and then being set at

liberty, the fun would begin. Master Tim, all eagerness, trotting on

before in search of interesting facts, the children take advantage of a

moment when all his faculties are engaged with some novelty attractive

to the otter mind, to vanish through a neighbouring gate or behind a

haystack. The unusual quiet soon arouses Tim’s suspicions; he looks

round, and finds himself alone. The situation, from its strangeness,

is appalling to him; he utters a shriek of despair, and scurries back

as fast as his legs can take him, squeaking loudly all the time. If

he should chance, in his fright, to pass by the hiding-place of his

young protectors without discovering them, great is their delight.

One little face after another peers out and watches, with mischievous

glee, poor Tim’s plump and anxious form trundling along as fast as is

possible to it in the wrong direction! But very soon the humour of the

situation is too much for some young spirit, and a smothered laugh or

a half-suppressed giggle reaches the tiny sharp ears, and Tim quickly

turns, and with another shriek of mingled satisfaction and indignation,

gives chase to his playful tormentors. Once arrived in the open

meadows, where this novel game of hide-and-seek is not possible, it is

Tim’s turn. Still, he follows obediently enough, frisking and gamboling

in the fresh soft grass, until one of the innumerable small streams is

approached. As soon as he catches sight of the water, he is off. At a

rapid trot he hurries to the brink, and with swift and noiseless dart,

in a flash he has disappeared in the current, and in another reappeared

some yards away. Rolling over, turning, twisting, diving, he revels

in his cold bath, and it is sometimes a matter of no small difficulty

to get him out of the water. A cordon of children is formed—the two

biggest with bare feet and legs, to cut off his retreat up and down

stream—which, gradually closing in on him, seizes him at last; and

reluctantly he is compelled to dry himself in the grass preparatory to

returning to the forms and ceremonies of civilised life.

A GOLDEN ARGOSY.

_A NOVELETTE._