possible, we sallied forth in different directions to find her. The
police were communicated with, and a letter duly written to the manager
of the Dogs' Home at Battersea, whilst my husband and I spent the
evening in wandering from police-station to police-station, giving
descriptions of the missing favourite.
"Large fawn mastiff, answers to the name of 'Rory Bean,' black face and
perfectly gentle. I got quite wearied out in giving over and over again
the same account. However, to cut a long story short, she was at last
discovered by the butler, who heard her frantic baying a mile off in the
centre of Hyde Park, and brought her back, and so ended Rory Bean's last
season in London.
"A few days before this escapade I took out Rory in one of the few
squares where dogs are still allowed to accompany their masters. Bean
had a naïve way, when bored, of inviting you or any casual passer-by
that she might chance to see, to a good game of romps with her. Her
method was very simple. She would run round barking, but her voice was
very deep, as of a voice in some subterranean cavern; and with strangers
this did not invariably awaken on their side a joyous reciprocity.
Somehow, big dogs always ignore their size.
"They have a confirmed habit of creeping under tiny tables, and hanker
after squeezing themselves through impossible gaps. Being, as a rule,
quite innocent of all desire to injure any member of the human race,
they cannot realise that it is possible that they in their turn can
frighten anybody.
"I remember on this particular occasion that I was interested in my
book, and that when Rory had barked round me I had refused to play with
her. For some time she had lain down quietly beside me, when suddenly an
old gentleman came into view. He held in his hand a stick, with which he
meditatively struck the pebbles of the pathway as he walked along.
"At the sight of him Rory jumped up. She could not resist this
particular action on his part, which she considered a special invitation
to come and join in a good romp. To my consternation, before I could
prevent her, I saw her barking and jumping round the poor frightened old
gentleman, in good-natured but ominous-looking play.
"Seeing that he was really alarmed, I rushed off to his rescue, seized
my dog and apologised. Wishing at the same time to say something that
might somewhat condone her conduct, I said: 'I am very sorry, sir, but
you see she is only a puppy,' and pointed to Rory.
"This was not quite a correct statement, as my four-footed friend was at
that time about two years old, and measured nearly thirty inches from
the shoulder, but, as the old man seemed really frightened and muttered
two ugly words in connection with each other, 'Hydrophobia' and
'Police,' I was determined to do all I could to reassure him and smooth
down his ruffled plumes.
"However, my elderly acquaintance would not be comforted, and I heard
him muttering to himself as he retired from the square, 'Puppy indeed!
Puppy indeed!'
"Bean's death was very sad. Two years ago we left her in Yorkshire
whilst we went to London. We heard of her continually whilst we were
away, and she seemed very flourishing although growing old, till one day
I got a letter to say that the old dog was suddenly taken very ill and
could hardly move. The servants had taken her to a loose box, given her
a good clean bed of straw, and were feeding her with such delicacies as
she could be prevailed upon to take.
[Sidenote: Rory's Last Welcome]
"I had a sad journey home, thinking of the sufferings of my trusty old
friend. I shall never forget her joy at seeing me once more. The poor
faithful creature could not walk, but crawled along upon her stomach to
meet me when I entered the loose box, filling the place with her cries
of joy. She covered my hands with kisses, and then laid her head upon my
knees whilst I sat down beside her. She whined with a sort of
half-sorrow, half-pleasure--the first that she could not get up and show
me round the gardens as was her wont, the second that she was happy to
be thus resting in the presence of her beloved mistress. Around her lay
a variety of choice foods and tit-bits, but she was in too great pain to
feed except from my hands.
"Poor dear Bean! she looked at me out of her great solemn eyes. Those
dear loving eyes; with only one expression shining in them--a daily,
hourly love--a love in spite of all things--a love invincible.
"During those last few days of her life Rory could not bear to be left
alone. Her eyes followed me tenderly round and round the stables
wherever I went. Although constantly in great pain, I shall never forget
her patience and her pathetic conviction that I could always do her some
good, and she believed in the miracle which I, alas! had no power to
perform. The veterinary surgeon who attended her said she was suffering
from sudden paralysis of the spine, and that she was incurable. This
disease, it appears, is not very rare amongst old dogs who have lived,
not always wisely, but too well."
"Do tell us about some other dogs," cry the children as I cease
speaking. I search my memory, and then turn to the group of little faces
that are waiting expectantly for me to begin, and continue:
"Amongst the various breeds of dogs that I have come across personally,
I know of none more faithful than the little fox-terrier is to his first
devotion. He is a perfect little bantam-cock to fight, and never so
happy as when he is in a row. 'The most unredeemed thing in nature,' was
a true remark I once heard made of one; and yet there is no dog more
devoted to his master, or more gentle to the children of his own
household.
"I remember a little white terrier of my mother's, a celebrated
prize-winner, and of the old Eggesford breed, called 'Spite.' Before I
married she was my special dog, and used to sleep in my room. For years
afterwards, although a general pet, whenever I returned to my old home
she would prefer me to every one else, and, when old and blind, would
toddle up the polished oak staircase to my room, in spite of being
terribly afraid of slipping through the carved bannisters. She never
forgot me or wavered when I was with her in giving me the first place in
her affections.
"I have heard that the first of this noted strain was given many years
ago to my father as a boy by 'Parson Jack.' It seems that the terriers
of Parson Russell were noted in the days when the manners and customs of
the parsons of the West were 'wild and furious.'
"A parson of the 'Parson Froude' type called upon him one evening in the
dusk, to say that he had brought his terrier to fight 'Parson Jack's' in
a match.
"My father's old friend, as I have often heard him tell the story to my
mother, sent down word that he would not fight his dog because he
'looked upon dog-fights as beastly sights,' but if his brother clergyman
would come upstairs, they would clear the tables, and he would take his
jacket off, and they would have some rounds, and see which was the best
man, and he who won should keep the other's dog.
[Sidenote: "Parson Jack"]
"When the fight was fought and won, and when 'Parson Jack' came off
victorious, he claimed the other terrier.
"'And don't yu goe for to think, my dear,' he would add, turning to one
of us children, as he ended the story, and speaking in broad Devonshire,
as he often did when his heart kindled at the memory of the county in
the old days--'don't yu goe for tu think as my having a set-tu zhocked
the people in my parish. My vulk were only plazed to think as parsan was
the best man of the tu, and if a parsan could stand up like a man in a
round in they days, er was all the more likely to zuit 'em in the pulpit
on Zundays.'
"Once every year 'Parson Jack' used to come and dine and sleep at my old
home to keep his birthday, in company with my father and mother. At such
times we as children used to come down to dessert to hear him tell
stories in his racy way of Katerfelto, of long gallops over Exmoor after
the stag, or of hard runs after the little 'red rover' with Mr.
Fellowes' hounds."
"What dogs have you now?" inquired Mrs. Hamilton.
"Amongst others, a large St. Bernard," is my reply--"Bathsheba, so
called after Mr. Hardy's heroine. Not that she has any of that young
lady's delicate changes and complications of character, nor is she even
'almighty womanish.'
"Our Bathsheba is of an inexhaustible good temper, stupid, and
wonderfully stolid and gentle. She is never crusty, and is the untiring
playmate of any child. The 'Lubber fiend' we call her sometimes in fun,
for she seems to extend over acres of carpet when she takes a siesta in
the drawing-room.
"'Has she a soul?' inquired a friend who admired the great gentle
creature. 'I fear not,' was my reply; 'only a stomach.'
"Besides Bathsheba, we have a large retriever called 'Frolic.' He and
Bath are given sometimes to running after people who go to the back
door; they never bite, but growl, and bark if it is a complete
stranger.
"On one occasion, an Irishman who had been employed to do some draining
met with this hostile reception. ''Tis gude house-dogs,' said my
guardian of the poultry grimly.
"On hearing that the Irishman had been frightened, I sought him,
expressed to him my regrets, and said that, though big, the dogs were
quite harmless. With ready wit he retorted: 'Begorra, it isn't dogs that
I am afraid of, but your ladyship keeps lions.'"
* * * * *
"Just one more story," cry the children as I cease speaking, and Mrs.
Hamilton points to the clock, as their bedtime is long past. After a few
minutes' pause, I continue:
"The other day I was told of a little girl who attended a distribution
of prizes given by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.
"She had won, you must know, a book as a reward for writing the best
essay on the subject given, and, with the other successful children, was
undergoing a _vivâ voce_ examination.
"'Well, my dear,' said the gentleman who had given away the prizes, 'can
you tell me why it is cruel to dock horses' tails and trim dogs' ears?'
'Because,' answered the little girl, 'what God has joined together let
no man put asunder.'"
An explosion of childish laughter follows my story, and then the little
ones troop up in silence to bed. I sit on, quietly looking into the
fire, and as I sit so the voices of my friends seem to grow distant, and
I fall into a reverie.
[Sidenote: A Cornish story of a girl's sorrow.]
Daft Bess
BY
KATE BURNLEY BELT
Up and down the little pier they paced in quarter-deck fashion, each
with his hands tucked deep down in the pockets of his sea-blanket coat,
and his oilskin cap pulled well over his ears.
They were very silent in their walk, these three old men, who had
watched the breakers come and go at Trewithen for over sixty years, and
handled the ropes when danger threatened. Trewithen Cove had sheltered
many a storm-driven ship within their memories, and there were
grave-mounds in the churchyard on the cliff still unclaimed and unknown
that had been built up by their hands.
Up and down, to and fro they went in the face of the flying spray, in
spite of the deepening mist that was creeping up over the darkening sea.
Benjamin Blake--once the handiest craftsman in the cove--was the first
to break the silence.
"'Tis a sa-ad night at sea, mates!" he shouted, and the roar of the
waves nearly drowned the sound of his voice.
"Iss, tu be zure, Benjamin Blake!" shouted Tom Pemberthy in answer, "an'
'twill be a ba-ad job fer more'n wan boat, I reckin, 'gainst marnin'!"
Then Joe Clatworthy, whose opinions were valued highly in the settlement
of all village disputes, so that he had earned for himself the nickname
of "Clacking Joe," stood still as they once more turned their backs on
the threatening sea, and said his say.
"A tell ee wot 'twill be, mates," he said solemnly and slowly. "You mark
my wurrds ef it dawn't cum truthy too,--there'll be terble loss uv
li-ife out there tu-night," and he waved his hand towards the blackening
sea, "an' us'll hev tu dig a fuu more graves, I reckin', cum marnin'!"
"The Lard hev murcy!" said Benjamin Blake, and the three resumed their
walk again.
Half an hour afterwards they were making their way along the one little
street of which Trewithen boasted to their homes; for a storm--the
roughest they had known for years--had burst overhead, and a man's life
is a frail thing in the teeth of a gale.
* * * * *
At the top of the cliff and beyond Trewithen churchyard by the length of
a field there stood a tiny cottage, in which lived Jacob Tresidder,
fisherman, and his daughter Bess.
"Daft Bess" the children called her as they played with her on the
sands, though she was a woman grown, and had hair that was streaked with
white.
She was sitting now by the dying fire in the little kitchen listening to
the storm without; the hands of the grandfather clock were nearing the
midnight hour, and Jacob Tresidder lay in a sound sleep upstairs hearing
nought. She was of the type of fisher-maid common to the depths of
Cornwall. The soft rich colouring of her skin reminded one more of the
sunny south, and her big brown eyes had always a glow in them.
To-night they were more luminous than ever as she sat by the fire
watching the sparks flicker and die, as if the dawn of some hidden
knowledge were being borne to them on the breath of the storm. The roar
of the sea as it dashed up the face of the cliff seemed to soothe her,
and she would smile and turn her ear to catch the sound of its breaking
on the beach below.
And yet, seven years before, "Daft Bess" had been the brightest and
prettiest girl in Trewithen, and the admiration of every lad in the
country round! And Big Ben Martyn, who had a boat of his own, had been
the pride of every girl! But he only cared for Bess and she for him. All
their lives they had been together and loved,--and a simple, truthful
love can only produce its own affinity, though in its travail it pass
through pain and suffering, and, maybe, the laying down of life!
Ben Martyn was twenty-five, and his own master, when he asked Bess, who
had just turned twenty, to be his wife.
"The cottage be waitin', Bess, my gurrl!" he whispered as they sat on
the cliff in the summer night; she knitting as usual, and he watching
the needles dart in and out. They were very silent in their love, these
two, who had been lovers ever since they could paddle.
"'Tis so lawnly betimes!" he pleaded.
And Bess set his longing heart at rest.
"So soon as vather can spare I, Ben," she said; and she laid her
knitting on the rock beside them, and drew his sea-tanned face close
down beside her own. "Ee dawn't seek fer I more'n I seek fer ee, deary!"
and kissed him.
Thus they plighted their troth.
[Sidenote: One Dark Night]
Then came the winter and the hard work. And one dark stormy night, when
the waves rose and fought till they nearly swept Trewithen out of sight,
Ben Martyn was drowned.
He had been trying to run his boat into the shelter of the cove and
failed, and in the morning his battered body lay high and dry on the
quiet beach among the wreckage.
For weeks Bess lay in a high fever; and then, when the strain was
greater than her tortured mind could bear, and she had screamed loud and
long, something snapped in her brain and gave relief. But it left her
without a memory, and with the ways and speech of a little child.
Her mind was a blank! She played with the seaweed and smiled, till the
women's hearts were like to break for her, and the words stuck in the
men's throats as they looked at her and talked.
"She be mazed, poor maid!" they said gently lest she should hear them.
"'Twould break Ben's heart ef ee knawed 'ur was so!"
That was seven long years ago. And to-night Bess seemed loth to leave
the fire, but sat hugging her knees in a restless fashion, and staring
at the blackening embers in a puzzled way. A tremendous blast struck the
cottage, and nearly shook the kitchen window out of its fastenings. The
wind came shrieking through the holes in the shutter like a revengeful
demon, and retreated again with a melancholy groan.
It pleased Bess, and she hugged her knees the tighter, and turned her
head and waited for the next loud roar. It came, and then another, and
another, till it seemed almost impossible for the little cottage to hold
out against its fury!
Then "Daft Bess" sprang from her seat with a cry of gladness, and ran
out into the night!
Along the path of the cliff she ran as fast as her bare feet would carry
her, struggling and buffeting with the wind and spray till she reached
the "cutting" down to the beach.
It was only a broken track where the rocks sloped and jagged a little,
and not too safe at the best of times. She tried to get a foothold, but
the wind was too strong, and she was driven back again and again. Then
it lulled a little, and she began to descend.
Half-way down there was an ugly turn in the path, and she waited for a
gust to pass before taking it. The wind was stronger than ever out here
on the front of the cliff, but she held tight to the jagged rock
above.
Round it swept, tearing loose bits of rock and soil from every corner,
till her face was cut by the sharpness of the flints!
[Illustration: THE ROCK SHE CLUNG TO GAVE WAY.]
Close against the cliff it blew until she was almost breathless, when
the rock she clung to gave way, and she fell down and down!
* * * * *
Jacob Tressider was awake. He had heard a noise like the breaking of
delf in the kitchen below, and he wondered if Bess had heard it too. He
got out of bed and dressed himself, and then came down the ladder which
did service for a staircase to see what was amiss. The flags in the
kitchen were strewn with broken plates, and the front kitchen door swung
loosely on its hinges.
[Sidenote: No Answer!]
He called Bess, but there was no answer! He went into her room, the bed
was untouched since day! Then he pulled on his great sea-boots and cap
and went out to look for her.
The day was dawning when they brought her in and laid her on the bed of
her little room more dead than alive. She was soaked through and
through, and the seaweed still clung about her hair. Jacob Tresidder
stood watching her like a man in a dream as she lay there white and
silent.
"Us be mighty sore fer ee, so us be!" said old Benjamin Blake, who had
helped to bring her home. "But teddin fer yew nor I, Jacob, tu go
fornenst His will." And he went out crying like a child.
There was a slight movement of the quiet figure on the coverlid, and
Jacob Tresidder's heart stopped beating for a moment as he watched his
daughter's brown eyes open once more! They wandered wonderingly to where
he was, and rested there, and a faint smile crossed the dying lips.
Then he bowed his head between his hands as he knelt beside her, for he
knew that God had given her back her memory again; and his sobs were
the sobs of a thankful heart.
"Vather!" she whispered, and with an effort she stretched the hand
nearest to him and touched his sleeve. "'Tis--all right--now--I be
gwine--tu--Ben."
The dying eyes glowed with love; then with a restful sigh the life
passed out.
* * * * *
They had battened down the last spadeful of new-dug earth, and once
again there was a storm-bred mound in Trewithen churchyard.
The three old comrades stood together in silence looking down on it,
making little or no attempt to hide the sorrow that was theirs.
Then Tom Pemberthy said, drawing his hand across his tear-dimmed eyes:
"Us'll miss ur simple wa-ays, sure 'nuff!"
But it was given to "Clacking Joe" to speak the final words ere they
turned their faces homewards.
"'Twas awnly right that we laid ur 'longside o' Ben! When ur was a
little chile ur shrimped with 'n! an' when ur was a gert maiden ur
walked out with 'n! Please God, ur'll be the furrst tu spake tu 'n--cum
the aftermath!"
[Illustration: SPRING CLEANING.]
[Sidenote: A seasonable chant, possibly useful for recitation purposes.]
A Spring-time Duet
BY
MARY LESLIE
_1st Maiden._ "Oh, Spring is here, the golden sun
Has routed Winter's gloom!"
_2nd Maiden._ "Good gracious! Jane has not _begun_
To scrub the dining-room!"
_1st Maiden._ "And now the first sweet buds appear,
Symbolic of new hope."
_2nd Maiden._ "I didn't say 'carbolic,' dear,
I want the _yellow_ soap."
_1st Maiden._ "Like nectar is the morning dew,
Its purity divine
Refreshes all the earth anew."
_2nd Maiden._ "Ah! here's the turpentine."
_1st Maiden._ "And crystal webs shine bright, as though
Spun on some fairy loom."
_2nd Maiden._ "A spider's web? I didn't know;
I'll run and fetch the broom!"
_1st Maiden._ "Blooms Nature scatters, fresh and free,
From out her treasure-house."
_2nd Maiden._ "I'll dust this cupboard thoroughly."
_Both together._ "Oh, horrors! There's a _mouse_!"
[Sidenote: A Canadian boy and girl together were at one moment as happy
as youth and health could make them, and at the next in imminent danger
of their lives.]
Out of Deadly Peril
BY
K. BALFOUR MURPHY
What on earth had happened to Gladys Merritt?
In the course of a few short weeks the girl was transformed from the
merriest, most light-hearted creature into one often thoughtful, silent,
and serious. The question then was, Why had she suddenly changed
completely? Many guessed, but only two knew the real reason.
Barrie, where Judge Merritt lived, lies at the head of lovely little
Lake Simcoe, in Western Ontario, Canada. In summer the lake is blue as
the heavens above, the borders of it are fringed with larch and maple
that grow right down to the rippling edge and bow to their own
reflections in the clear waters beneath, while on its glassy surface can
be seen daily numbers of boats and launches, the whole scene animated by
merry voices of happy folks, with picnic baskets, bound for the woods,
or others merely seeking relief from the intense heat on shore. Work is
finished early in the day in the Colonies, and when school is over and
the scorching sun begins slowly to sink to rest, social life begins.
But in Canada winter is long and extremely cold. With the fall of the
beautiful tinted leaves that have changed from green to wonderful shades
of red, purple, and yellow, Canadians know that summer is gone and that
frost and snow may come any day, and once come will stay, though an
unwelcome guest, for at least seven or eight months.
Now the young folks in Barrie relished this long spell of cold--to them
no part of the year was quite so delightful as winter. What could
compare with a long sleigh drive over firm thick snow, tucked in with
soft warm furs and muffled up to the eyes--or tobogganing in the
moonlight down a long hill--or skimming over clear, smooth ice--or
candy-making parties--or dances, or a dozen other delights? What indeed?
On every occasion Gladys seemed to be the centre figure; she was the
life and soul of every party.
[Sidenote: The "Bunch"]
She was an only child of wealthy parents. Her home was beautiful, her
father indulgent, her mother like a sister to her; she was a favourite
everywhere, loved alike by rich and poor. Together with two intimate
friends and schoolfellows, the girls were commonly known as the "Buds,"
and they, with half a dozen boys, were called the "Bunch" throughout the
town. They admitted no outsider to their circle. They danced together at
parties, boated, picniced, skated, sometimes worked together. There was
an invisible bond that drew the group near each other, a feeling of
sympathy and good fellowship, for the "Bunch" was simply a
whole-hearted, happy crowd of boys and girls about sixteen to nineteen
years of age.
Winter was at its height. Christmas with all its joys was past, church
decorations had surpassed the usual standard of beauty, holidays were in
full swing, and the "Buds" were in great demand. The cold had for five
weeks been intense, and the barometer on the last day of January sank to
fifteen below zero. Snow had fallen but little, and the ring of merry,
tinkling sleigh bells was almost an unknown sound. Tobogganing of
course was impossible. But as Gladys philosophically remarked one day,
"Where could you find such skating as in Barrie?"
Great excitement prevailed when the moon was full, for the lake, some
nine miles in length, was frozen from end to end, with an average
thickness of three feet, and to the delight of skaters, was entirely
snow free. Of course parties were the order of the day. Such a chance to
command a magnificent icefield might not occur again for a long, long
time.