[Illustration: KETURAH THE KITTEN.]




  HISTORY OF MY PETS.

  BY
  GRACE GREENWOOD.

  WITH ENGRAVINGS FROM DESIGNS BY BILLINGS.

  NEW EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED.

  [Illustration]

  BOSTON:
  JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,
  (LATE TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO.)
  1871.




  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850,
  BY SARA J. CLARKE,
  in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of
  Massachusetts.


  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871,
  BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.,
  in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

  UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & CO.,
  CAMBRIDGE.




  Re-dedicated
  TO
  MARCEL, FRED, FANNY, AND FRANK BAILEY,
  OF WASHINGTON, D. C.




CONTENTS.


                                         PAGE

  KETURAH, THE CAT                          1

  SAM, THE COCKEREL                        17

  TOBY, THE HAWK                           23

  MILLY, THE PONY, AND CARLO, THE DOG      34

  CORA, THE SPANIEL                        49

  JACK, THE DRAKE                          58

  HECTOR, THE GREYHOUND                    67

  BOB, THE COSSET                          79

  ROBIN REDBREAST                          86

  TOM                                      98


              SUPPLEMENTARY STORIES.

  FIDO THE BRAVE                          109

  CAT TALES.

    FAITHFUL GRIMALKIN                    117

    OBEDIENT THOMAS                       120

    KATRINA AND KATINKA                   124

  FEATHERED PETS.

    OUR COUSINS THE PARROTS               135

    THE BENEVOLENT SHANGHAI               151

    THE GALLANT BANTAM                    153

    THE DISOWNED CHICKS                   157




HISTORY OF MY PETS.




KETURAH, THE CAT.


The first pet, in whose history you would take any interest, came into
my possession when I was about nine years old. I remember the day as
plainly as I remember yesterday. I was going home from school, very
sad and out of humor with myself, for I had been marked deficient in
Geography, and had gone down to the very foot in the spelling-class.
On the way I was obliged to pass a little old log-house, which stood
near the road, and which I generally ran by in a great hurry, as the
woman who lived there had the name of being a scold and a sort of a
witch. She certainly was a stout, ugly woman, who drank a great deal
of cider, and sometimes beat her husband,--which was very cruel, as
he was a mild, little man, and took good care of the baby while she
went to mill. But that day I trudged along carelessly and slowly,
for I was too unhappy to be afraid, even of that dreadful woman. Yet
I started, and felt my heart beat fast, when she called out to me.
“Stop, little girl!” she said; “don’t you want this ’ere young cat?”
and held out a beautiful white kitten. I ran at once and caught it
from her hands, thanking her as well as I could, and started for home,
carefully covering pussy’s head with my pinafore, lest she should see
where I took her, and so know the way back. She was rather uneasy,
and scratched my arms a good deal;--but I did not mind that, I was so
entirely happy in my new pet. When I reached home, and my mother looked
more annoyed than pleased with the little stranger, and my father and
brothers would take no particular notice of her, I thought they must be
very hard-hearted indeed, not to be moved by her beauty and innocence.
My brother William, however, who was very obliging, and quite a
mechanic, made a nice little house, or “cat-cote,” as he called it, in
the back-yard, and put in it some clean straw for her to lie on. I then
gave her a plentiful supper of new milk, and put her to bed with my own
hands. It was long before I could sleep myself that night, for thinking
of my pet. I remember I dreamed that little angels came to watch over
me, as I had been told they would watch over good children, but that,
when they came near to my bedside, they all turned into white kittens
and purred over my sleep.

The next morning, I asked my mother for a name for pussy. She laughed
and gave me “Keturah,”--saying that it was a good Sunday name, but that
I might call her Kitty, for short.

Soon, I am happy to say, all the family grew to liking my pet very
much, and I became exceedingly fond and proud of her. Every night when
I returned from school, I thought I could see an improvement in her,
till I came to consider her a kitten of prodigious talent. I have seen
many cats in my day, and I still think that Keturah was very bright.
She could perform a great many wonderful exploits,--such as playing
hide and seek with me, all through the house, and lying on her back
perfectly still, and pretending to be dead. I made her a little cloak,
cap, and bonnet, and she would sit up straight, dressed in them, on a
little chair, for all the world like some queer old woman. Once, after
I had been to the menagerie, I made her a gay suit of clothes, and
taught her to ride my brother’s little dog, as I had seen the monkey
ride the pony. She, in her turn, was very fond of me, and would follow
me whenever she could.

It happened that when Kitty was about a year old, and quite a sizable
cat, I became very much interested in some religious meetings which
were held on every Wednesday evening in the village church, about
half a mile from our house. I really enjoyed them very much, for I
loved our minister, who was a good and kind man, and I always felt a
better and happier child after hearing him preach, even though I did
not understand all that he said. One evening it chanced that there
were none going from our house; but my mother, who saw that I was
sadly disappointed, gave me leave to go with a neighbouring family,
who never missed a meeting of the sort. But when I reached Deacon
Wilson’s, I found that they were already gone. Yet, as it was not
quite dark, I went on by myself, intending, if I did not overtake
them, to go directly to their pew. I had not gone far before I found
Kitty at my heels. I spoke as crossly as I could to her, and sent
her back,--looking after her till she was out of sight. But just
as I reached the church, she came bounding over the fence, and went
trotting along before me. Now, what could I do? I felt that it would
be very wicked to take a cat to meeting, but I feared that, if I left
her outside, she might be lost, or stolen, or killed. So I took her up
under my shawl, and went softly into church. I dared not carry her to
Deacon Wilson’s pew, which was just before the pulpit, but sat down in
the farther end of the first slip, behind a pillar, and with nobody
near.

I was very sorry to find that it was not our handsome, young minister
that preached, but an old man and a stranger. His sermon may have been
a fine one, for the grown-up people, but it struck me as rather dull. I
had been a strawberrying that afternoon, and was sadly tired,--and the
cat in my lap purred so drowsily, that I soon found my eyes closing,
and my head nodding wisely to every thing the minister said. I tried
every way to keep awake, but it was of no use. I finally fell asleep,
and slept as soundly as I ever slept in my life.

When I awoke at last, I did not know where I was. All was dark around
me, and there was the sound of rain without. The meeting was over, the
people had all gone, without having seen me, and I was alone in the old
church at midnight!

As soon as I saw how it was, I set up a great cry, and shrieked and
called at the top of my voice. But nobody heard me,--for the very good
reason that nobody lived anywhere near. I will do Kitty the justice to
say, that she showed no fear at this trying time, but purred and rubbed
against me, as much as to say,--“Keep a good heart, my little mistress!”

O, ’twas a dreadful place in which to be, in the dark night!--There,
where I had heard such awful things preached about, before our new
minister came, who loved children too well to frighten them but who
chose rather to talk about our good Father in Heaven, and the dear
Saviour, who took little children in his arms and blessed them. I
thought of Him then, and when I had said my prayers I felt braver, and
had courage enough to go and try the doors; but all were locked fast.
Then I sat down and cried more bitterly than ever, but Kitty purred
cheerfully all the time.

At last I remembered that I had seen one of the back-windows open that
evening,--perhaps I might get out through that. So I groped my way up
the broad aisle, breathing hard with awe and fear. As I was passing the
pulpit, there came a clap of thunder which jarred the whole building,
and the great red Bible, which lay on the black velvet cushions of
the desk, fell right at my feet! I came near falling myself, I was
so dreadfully scared; but I made my way to the window, which I found
was open by the rain beating in. But though I stretched myself up on
tiptoe, I could not quite reach the sill. Then I went back by the
pulpit and got the big Bible, which I placed on the floor edgeways
against the wall, and by that help I clambered to the window. I feared
I was a great sinner to make such use of the Bible, and such a splendid
book too, but I could not help it. I put Kitty out first, and then
swung myself down. It rained a little, and was so dark that I could see
nothing but my white kitten, who ran along before me, and was both a
lantern and a guide. I hardly know how I got home, but there I found
myself at last. All was still, but I soon roused the whole house; for,
when the danger and trouble were over, I cried the loudest with fright
and cold. My mother had supposed that Deacon Wilson’s family had kept
me for the night, as I often stayed with them, and had felt no anxiety
for me.

Dear mother!--I remember how she took off my dripping clothes, and made
me some warm drink, and put me snugly to bed, and laughed and cried,
as she listened to my adventures, and kissed me and comforted me till I
fell asleep. Nor was Kitty forgotten, but was fed and put as cosily to
bed as her poor mistress.

The next morning I awoke with a dreadful headache, and when I tried to
rise I found I could not stand. I do not remember much more, except
that my father, who was a physician, came and felt my pulse, and said
I had a high fever, brought on by the fright and exposure of the night
previous. I was very sick indeed for three or four weeks, and all that
time my faithful Kitty stayed by the side of my bed. She could be kept
out of the room but a few moments during the day, and mewed piteously
when they put her in her little house at night. My friends said that
it was really very affecting to see her love and devotion; but I knew
very little about it, as I was out of my head, or in a stupor, most
of the time. Yet I remember how the good creature frolicked about me
the first time I was placed in an arm-chair, and wheeled out into the
dining-room to take breakfast with the family; and when, about a week
later, my brother Charles took me in his strong arms and carried me out
into the garden, how she ran up and down the walks, half crazy with
delight, and danced along sideways, and jumped out at us from behind
currant-bushes, in a most cunning and startling manner.

I remember now how strange the garden looked,--how changed from what I
had last seen it. The roses were all, all gone, and the China-asters
and marigolds were in bloom. When my brother passed with me through
the corn and beans, I wondered he did not get lost, they were grown so
thick and high.

It was in the autumn after this sickness, that one afternoon I was
sitting under the shade of a favorite apple-tree, reading Mrs.
Sherwood’s sweet story of “Little Henry and his Bearer.” I remember how
I cried over it, grieving for poor Henry and his dear teacher. Ah, I
little thought how soon my tears must flow for myself and my Kitty! It
was then that my sister came to me, looking sadly troubled, to tell me
the news. Our brother William, who was a little mischievous, had been
amusing himself by throwing Kitty from a high window, and seeing her
turn somersets in the air, and alight on her feet unhurt. But at last,
becoming tired or dizzy, she had fallen on her back and broken the
spine, just below her shoulders. I ran at once to where she lay on the
turf, moaning in her pain. I sat down beside her, and cried as though
my heart would break. There I stayed till evening, when my mother had
Kitty taken up very gently, carried into the house, and laid on a soft
cushion. Then my father carefully examined her hurt. He shook his head,
said she could not possibly get well, and that she should be put out
of her misery at once. But I begged that she might be allowed to live
till the next day. I did not eat much supper that night, or breakfast
in the morning, but grieved incessantly for her who had been to me a
fast friend in sickness as in health.

About nine o’clock of a pleasant September morning, my brothers came
and held a council round poor Kitty, who was lying on a cushion in my
lap, moaning with every breath; and they decided that, out of pity
for her suffering, they must put her to death. The next question was,
how this was to be done. “Cut her head off with the axe!” said my
brother Charles, trying to look very manly and stern, with his lip
quivering all the while. But my brother William, who had just been
reading a history of the French Revolution, and how they took off the
heads of people with a machine called the guillotine, suggested that
the straw-cutter in the barn would do the work as well, and not be so
painful for the executioner. This was agreed to by all present.

Weeping harder than ever, I then took a last leave of my dear pet, my
good and loving and beautiful Kitty. They took her to the guillotine,
while I ran and shut myself up in a dark closet, and stopped my ears
till they came and told me that all was over.

The next time I saw my poor pet, she was lying in a cigar-box, ready
for burial. They had bound her head on very cleverly with bandages, and
washed all the blood off from her white breast; clover-blossoms were
scattered over her, and a green sprig of catnip was placed between her
paws. My youngest brother, Albert, drew her on his little wagon to the
grave, which was dug under a large elm-tree, in a corner of the yard.
The next day I planted over her a shrub called the “pussy-willow.”

After that I had many pet kittens, but none that ever quite filled the
place of poor Keturah. Yet I still have a great partiality for the
feline race. I like nothing better than to sit, on a summer afternoon
or in a winter evening, and watch the graceful gambols and mischievous
frolics of a playful kitten.

For some weeks past we have had with us on the sea-shore a beautiful
little Virginian girl,--one of the loveliest creatures alive,--who
has a remarkable fondness for a pretty black and white kitten,
belonging to the house. All day long she will have her pet in her arms,
talking to her when she thinks nobody is near,--telling her every
thing,--charging her to keep some story to herself, as it is a very
great secret,--sometimes reproving her for faults, or praising her
for being good. Her last thought on going to sleep, and the first on
waking, is this kitten. She loves her so fondly, that her father has
promised that she shall take her all the way to Virginia. We shall miss
the frolicsome kitten much, but the dear child far more.

  O, we’ll be so sad and lonely
    In the dreary autumn weather,
  For the birds and little Mary
    Are going South together!
  When upon the flowers of summer
    Falls the cruel autumn blight,
  And the pretty face of Mary
    Has faded from our sight.




[Illustration: SAM, THE ROOSTER.]




SAM, THE COCKEREL.


The next pet which I remember to have had was a handsome cockerel,
as gay and gallant a fellow as ever scratched up seed-corn, or
garden-seeds, for the young pullets.

Sam was a foundling; that is, he was cast off by an unnatural mother,
who, from the time he was hatched, refused to own him. In this sad
condition my father found him, and brought him to me. I took and put
him in a basket of wool, where I kept him most of the time, for a week
or two, feeding him regularly and taking excellent care of him. He grew
and thrived, and finally became a great house-pet and favorite. My
father was especially amused by him, but my mother, I am sorry to say,
always considered him rather troublesome, or, as she remarked, “more
plague than profit.” Now I think of it, it must have been rather trying
to have had him pecking at a nice loaf of bread, when it was set down
before the fire to raise, and I don’t suppose that the print of his
feet made the prettiest sort of a stamp for cookies and pie-crust.

Sam was intelligent, very. I think I never saw a fowl turn up his eye
with such a cunning expression after a piece of mischief. He showed
such a real affection for me, that I grew excessively fond of him. But
ah, I was more fond than wise! Under my doting care, he never learnt
to roost like other chickens. I feared that something dreadful might
happen to him if he went up into a high tree to sleep; so when he grew
too large to lie in his basket of wool, I used to stow him away very
snugly in a leg of an old pair of pantaloons, and lay him in a warm
place under a corner of the wood-house. In the morning I had always to
take him out; and as I was not, I regret to say, a very early riser,
the poor fellow never saw daylight till two or three hours after all
the other cocks in the neighbourhood were up and crowing.

After Sam was full-grown, and had a “coat of many colors” and a tail
of gay feathers, it was really very odd and laughable to see how every
evening, just at sundown, he would leave all the other fowls with whom
he had strutted and crowed and fought all day, and come meekly to me,
to be put to bed in the old pantaloons.

But one morning, one sad, dark morning, I found him strangely still
when I went to release him from his nightly confinement. He did not
flutter, nor give a sort of smothered crow, as he usually did. The leg
of which I took hold to pull him out, seemed very cold and stiff. Alas,
he had but one leg! Alas, he had no head at all! My poor Sam had been
murdered and partly devoured by a cruel rat some time in the night!

I took the mangled body into the house, and sat down in a corner with
it in my lap, and cried over it for a long time. It may seem very odd
and ridiculous, but I really _grieved_ for my dead pet; for I believed
he had loved and respected me as much as it is in a cockerel’s heart
to love and respect any one. I knew I had loved him, and I reproached
myself bitterly for never having allowed him to learn to roost.

At last, my brothers came to me, and very kindly and gently persuaded
me to let Sam be buried out of my sight. They dug a little grave under
the elm-tree, by the side of Keturah, laid the body down, wrapped in a
large cabbage-leaf, filled in the earth, and turfed over the place. My
brother Rufus, who knew a little Latin, printed on a shingle the words,
“_Hic jacet Samuelus_,”--which mean, Here lies Sam,--and placed it
above where the head of the unfortunate fowl should have been.

I missed this pet very much; indeed, every body missed him after he was
gone, and even now I cannot laugh heartily when I think of the morning
when I found him dead.

A short time after this mournful event, my brother Rufus, who was
something of a poet, wrote some lines for me, which he called a
“Lament.” This I then thought a very affecting, sweet, and consoling
poem, but I have since been inclined to think that my brother was
making sport of me and my feelings all the time. I found this same
“Lament” the other day among some old papers, and as it is quite a
curiosity, I will let you see it:--

  “Full twenty suns have risen and set
    And eke as many moons,
  Since I found thee dead, without a head,
    In the bloody pantaloons!

  “As thy foe did rob thee of a leg
    In his hunger and despite,
  An L. E. G. I give to thee,
    In song, dear Sam, to-night.

  “Thy tail was full of feathers gay;
    Thy comb was red and fine;
  I hear no crow, where’er I go,
    One half so loud as thine.

  “O, I mourn thee still, as on the morn
    When cold and stiff I found thee,
  And laid thee dead, without a head,
    The cabbage-leaf around thee!”




[Illustration: TOBY, THE HAWK.]




TOBY, THE HAWK.


About the queerest pet that I ever had was a young hawk. My brother
Rufus, who was a great sportsman, brought him home to me one night in
spring. He had shot the mother-hawk, and found this young half-fledged
one in the nest. I received the poor orphan with joy, for he was too
small for me to feel any horror of him, though his family had long
borne rather a bad name. I resolved that I would bring him up in
the way he should go, so that when he was old he should not destroy
chickens. At first, I kept him in a bird-cage, but after a while he
grew too large for his quarters, and had to have a house built for him
expressly. I let him learn to roost, but I tried to bring him up on
vegetable diet. I found, however, that this would not do. He eat the
bread and grain to be sure, but he did not thrive; he looked very lean,
and smaller than hawks of his age should look. At last I was obliged
to give up my fine idea of making an innocent dove, or a Grahamite,
out of the poor fellow, and one morning treated him to a slice of raw
mutton. I remember how he flapped his wings and cawed with delight,
and what a hearty meal he made of it. He grew very fat and glossy
after this important change in his diet, and I became as proud of him
as of any pet I ever had. But my mother, after a while, found fault
with the great quantity of meat which he devoured. She said that he
eat more beef-steak than any other member of the family. Once, when I
was thinking about this, and feeling a good deal troubled lest some
day, when I was gone to school, they at home might take a fancy to
cut off the head of my pet to save his board-bill, a bright thought
came into my mind. There was running through our farm, at a short
distance from our house, a large mill-stream, along the banks of which
lived and croaked a vast multitude of frogs. These animals are thought
by hawks, as well as Frenchmen, very excellent eating. So, every
morning, noon, and night, I took Toby on my shoulder, ran down to the
mill-stream, and let him satisfy his appetite on all such frogs as were
so silly as to stay out of the water and be caught. He was very quick
and active,--would pounce upon a great, green croaker, and have him
halved and quartered and hid away in a twinkling. I generally looked
in another direction while he was at his meals,--it is not polite to
keep your eye on people when they are eating, and then I couldn’t help
pitying the poor frogs. But I knew that hawks must live, and say what
they might, my Toby never prowled about hen-coops to devour young
chickens. I taught him better morals than that, and kept him so well
fed that he was never tempted to such wickedness. I have since thought
that, if we want people to do right, we must treat them as I treated my
hawk; for when we think a man steals because his heart is full of sin,
it may be only because his stomach is empty of food.

When Toby had finished his meal, he would wipe his beak with his wing,
mount on my shoulder, and ride home again; sometimes, when it was a
very warm day and he had dined more heartily than usual, he would fall
asleep during the ride, still holding on to his place with his long,
sharp claws. Sometimes I would come home with my pinafore torn and
bloody on the shoulder, and then my mother would scold me a little
and laugh at me a great deal. I would blush and hang my head and cry,
but still cling to my strange pet; and when he got full-grown and had
wide, strong wings, and a great, crooked beak that every body else was
afraid of, I was still his warm friend and his humble servant, still
carried him to his meals three times a day, shut him into his house
every night, and let him out every morning. Such a life as that bird
led me!

Toby was perfectly tame, and never attempted to fly beyond the yard.
I thought this was because he loved me too well to leave me; but my
brothers, to whom he was rather cross, said it was because he was a
stupid fowl. Of course they only wanted to tease me. I said that Toby
was rough, but honest; that it was true he did not make a display of
his talents like some folks, but that I had faith to believe that, some
time before he died, he would prove himself to them all to be a bird of
good feelings and great intelligence.

Finally the time came for Toby to be respected as he deserved. One
autumn night I had him with me in the sitting-room, where I played
with him and let him perch on my arm till it was quite late. Some of
the neighbours were in, and the whole circle told ghost-stories, and
talked about dreams, and warnings, and awful murders, till I was half
frightened out of my wits; so that, when I went to put my sleepy hawk
into his little house, I really dared not go into the dark, but stopped
in the entry, and left him to roost for one night on the hat-rack,
saying nothing to any one. Now it happened that my brother William, who
was then about fourteen years of age, was a somnambulist,--that is, a
person who walks in sleep. He would often rise in the middle of the
night, and ramble off for miles, always returning unwaked. Sometimes he
would take the horse from the stable, saddle and bridle him, and have
a wild gallop in the moonlight. Sometimes he would drive the cows home
from pasture, or let the sheep out of the pen. Sometimes he would wrap
himself in a sheet, glide about the house, and appear at our bedside
like a ghost. But in the morning he had no recollection of these
things. Of course, we were very anxious about him, and tried to keep a
constant watch over him, but he would sometimes manage to escape from
all our care. Well, that night there was suddenly a violent outcry set
up in the entry. It was Toby, who shrieked and flapped his wings till
he woke my father, who dressed and went down stairs to see what was
the matter. He found the door wide open, and the hawk sitting uneasily
on his perch, looking frightened and indignant, with all his feathers
raised. My father, at once suspecting what had happened, ran up to
William’s chamber and found his bed empty; he then roused my elder
brothers, and, having lit a lantern, they all started off in pursuit of
the poor boy. They searched through the yard, garden, and orchard, but
all in vain. Suddenly they heard the saw-mill, which stood near, going.
They knew that the owner never worked there at night, and supposed
that it must be my brother, who had set the machinery in motion. So
down they ran as fast as possible, and, sure enough, they found him
there, all by himself. A large log had the night before been laid in
its place ready for the morning, and on that log sat my brother, his
large black eyes staring wide open, yet seeming to be fixed on nothing,
and his face as pale as death. He seemed to have quite lost himself,
for the end of the log on which he sat was fast approaching the saw. My
father, with great presence of mind, stopped the machinery, while one
of my brothers caught William and pulled him from his perilous place.
Another moment, and he would have been killed or horribly mangled
by the cruel saw. With a terrible scream, that was heard to a great
distance, poor William awoke. He cried bitterly when he found where he
was and how he came there. He was much distressed by it for some time;
but it was a very good thing for all that, _for he never walked in his
sleep again_.

As you would suppose, Toby, received much honor for so promptly giving
the warning on that night. Every body now acknowledged that he was a
hawk of great talents, as well as talons. But alas! he did not live
long to enjoy the respect of his fellow-citizens. One afternoon that
very autumn, I was sitting at play with my doll, under the thick
shade of a maple-tree, in front of the house. On the fence near by
sat Toby, lazily pluming his wing, and enjoying the pleasant, golden
sunshine,--now and then glancing round at me with a most knowing and
patronizing look. Suddenly, there was the sharp crack of a gun fired
near, and Toby fell fluttering to the ground. A stupid sportsman had
taken him for a wild hawk, and shot him in the midst of his peaceful
and innocent enjoyment. He was wounded in a number of places, and was
dying fast when I reached him. Yet he seemed to know me, and looked
up into my face so piteously, that I sat down by him, as I had sat
down by poor Keturah, and cried aloud. Soon the sportsman, who was a
stranger, came leaping over the fence to bag his game. When he found
what he had done, he said he was very sorry, and stooped down to
examine the wounds made by his shot. Then Toby roused himself, and
caught one of his fingers in his beak, biting it almost to the bone.
The man cried out with the pain, and tried to shake him off, but Toby
still held on fiercely and stoutly, and held on till he was dead. Then
his ruffled wing grew smooth, his head fell back, his beak parted and
let go the bleeding finger of his enemy.

I did not want the man hurt, for he had shot my pet under a mistake,
but I was not sorry to see Toby die like a hero. We laid him with the
pets who had gone before. Some were lovelier in their lives, but none
more lamented when dead. I will venture to say that he was the first
of his race who ever departed with a clean conscience as regarded
poultry. No careful mother-hen cackled with delight on the day he
died,--no pert young rooster flapped his wings and crowed over his
grave. But I must say, I don’t think that the frogs mourned for him.
I thought that they were holding a jubilee that night; the old ones
croaked so loud, and the young ones sung so merrily, that I wished the
noisy green creatures all quietly going brown, on some Frenchman’s
gridiron.




MILLY, THE PONY, AND CARLO, THE DOG.


When I was ten or eleven years of age, I had two pets, of which I was
equally fond, a gentle bay pony and a small pointer dog. I have always
had a great affection for horses, and never knew what it was to be
afraid of them, for they are to me exceedingly obliging and obedient.
Some people think that I control them with a sort of animal magnetism.
I only know that I treat them with _kindness_, which is, I believe,
after all, the only magnetism necessary for one to use in this world.
When I ride, I give my horse to understand that I expect him to behave
very handsomely, like the gentleman I take him to be, and he never
disappoints me.

[Illustration: MILLY THE PONY & CARLO THE DOG.]

Our Milly was a great favorite with all the family, but with the
children especially. She was not very handsome or remarkably fleet,
but was easily managed, and even in her gait. I loved her dearly,
and we were on the best terms with each other. I was in the habit of
going into the pasture where she fed, mounting her from the fence or
a stump, and riding about the field, often without saddle or bridle.
You will see by this that I was a sad romp. Milly seemed to enjoy the
sport fully as much as I, and would arch her neck, and toss her mane,
and gallop up and down the little hills in the pasture, now and then
glancing round at me playfully, as much as to say, “Aint we having
times!”

Finally, I began to practise riding standing upright, as I had seen the
circus performers do, for I thought it was time I should do something
to distinguish myself. After a few tumbles on to the soft clover,
which did me no sort of harm, I became quite accomplished that way. I
was at that age as quick and active as a cat, and could save myself
from a fall after I had lost my balance, and seemed half way to the
ground. I remember that my brother William was very ambitious to rival
me in my exploits; but as he was unfortunately rather fat and heavy, he
did a greater business in turning somersets from the back of the pony
than in any other way. But these were quite as amusing as any other
part of the performances. We sometimes had quite a good audience of the
neighbours’ children, and our schoolmates, but we never invited our
parents to attend the exhibition. We thought that on some accounts it
was best they should know nothing about it.

In addition to the “ring performances,” I gave riding lessons to my
youngest brother, Albert, who was then quite a little boy. He used to
mount Milly behind me, and behind him always sat one of our chief
pets, and our constant playmate, Carlo, a small black and white
pointer. One afternoon, I remember, we were all riding down the long,
shady lane which led from the pasture to the house, when a mischievous
boy sprang suddenly out from a corner of the fence, and shouted at
Milly. I never knew her frightened before, but this time she gave a
loud snort, and reared up almost straight in the air. As there was
neither saddle nor bridle for us to hold on by, we all three slid off
backward into the dust, or rather the mud, for it had been raining that
afternoon. Poor Carlo was most hurt, as my brother and I fell on him.
He set up a terrible yelping, and my little brother cried somewhat from
fright. Milly turned and looked at us a moment to see how much harm
was done, and then started off at full speed after the boy, chasing
him down the lane. He ran like a fox when he heard Milly galloping
fast behind him, and when he looked round and saw her close upon him,
with her ears laid back, her mouth open, and her long mane flying in
the wind, he screamed with terror, and dropped as though he were dead.
She did not stop, but leaped clear over him as he lay on the ground.
Then she turned, went up to him, quietly lifted the old straw hat from
his head, and came trotting back to us, swinging it in her teeth. We
thought that was a very cunning trick of Milly’s.

Now it happened that I had on that day a nice new dress, which I had
sadly soiled by my fall from the pony; so that when I reached home, my
mother was greatly displeased. I suppose I made a very odd appearance.
I was swinging my bonnet in my hand, for I had a natural dislike to any
sort of covering for the head. My thick, dark hair had become unbraided
and was blowing over my eyes. I was never very fair in complexion, and
my face, neck, and arms had become completely browned by that summer’s
exposure. My mother took me by the shoulder, set me down in a chair,
not very gently, and looked at me with a real frown on her sweet
face. She told me in plain terms that I was an idle, careless child!
I put my finger in one corner of my mouth, and swung my foot back and
forth. She said I was a great romp! I pouted my lip, and drew down my
black eyebrows. She said I was more like a wild, young squaw, than a
white girl! Now this was too much; it was what I called “twitting upon
facts”; and ’twas not the first time that the delicate question of my
complexion had been touched upon without due regard far my feelings. I
was not to blame for being dark,--I did not make myself,--I _had_ seen
fairer women than my mother. I felt that what she said was neither more
nor less than an insult, and when she went out to see about supper, and
left me alone, I brooded over her words, growing more and more out of
humor, till my naughty heart became so hot and big with anger, that
it almost choked me. At last, I bit my lip and looked very stern, for
I had made up my mind to something great. Before I let you know what
this was, I must tell you that the Onondaga tribe of Indians had their
village not many miles from us. Every few months, parties of them came
about with baskets and mats to sell. A company of five or six had
been to our house that very morning, and I knew that they had their
encampment in our woods, about half a mile distant. These I knew very
well, and had quite a liking for them, never thinking of being afraid
of them, as they always seemed kind and peaceable.

To them I resolved to go in my trouble. They would teach me to weave
baskets, to fish, and to shoot with the bow and arrow. They would not
make me study, nor wear bonnets, and they would never find fault with
my dark complexion.

I remember to this day how softly and slyly I slid out of the house
that evening. I never stopped once, nor looked round, but ran swiftly
till I reached the woods. I did not know which way to go to find
the encampment, but wandered about in the gathering darkness, till
I saw a light glimmering through the trees at some distance. I made
my way through the bushes and brambles, and after a while came upon
my copper-colored friends. In a very pretty place, down in a hollow,
they had built them some wigwams with maple saplings, covered with
hemlock-boughs. There were in the group two Indians, two squaws, and a
boy about fourteen years old. But I must not forget the baby, or rather
pappoose, who was lying in a sort of cradle, made of a large, hollow
piece of bark, which was hung from the branch of a tree, by pieces of
the wild grape-vine. The young squaw, its mother, was swinging it back
and forth, now far into the dark shadows of the pine and hemlock, now
out into the warm fire-light, and chanting to the child some Indian
lullaby. The men sat on a log, smoking gravely and silently; while
the boy lay on the ground, playing lazily with a great yellow hound,
which looked mean and starved, like all Indian dogs. The old squaw was
cooking the supper in a large iron pot, over a fire built among a pile
of stones.

For some time, I did not dare to go forward, but at last I went up to
the old squaw, and looking up into her good-humored face, said, “I am
come to live with you, and learn to make baskets, for I don’t like my
home.” She did not say any thing to me, but made some exclamation in
her own language, and the others came crowding round. The boy laughed,
shook me by the hand, and said I was a brave girl; but the old Indian
grinned horribly and laid his hand on my forehead, saying, “What a
pretty head to scalp!” I screamed and hid my face in the young squaw’s
blue cloth skirt. She spoke soothingly, and told me not to be afraid,
for nobody would hurt me. She then took me to her wigwam, where I
sat down and tried to make myself at home. But somehow I did’nt feel
quite comfortable. After a while, the old squaw took off the pot, and
called us to supper. This was succotash, that is, a dish of corn and
beans, cooked with salt pork. We all sat down on the ground near the
fire, and eat out of great wooden bowls, with wooden spoons, which
I must say tasted rather too strong of the pine. But I did not say
so then,--by no means,--but eat a great deal more than I wanted, and
pretended to relish it, for fear they would think me ill bred. I would
not have had them know but what I thought their supper served in the
very best style, and by perfectly polite and genteel people. I was a
little shocked, however, by one incident during the meal. While the
young squaw was helping her husband for the third or fourth time, she
accidentally dropped a little of the hot succotash on his hand. He
growled out like a dog, and struck her across the face with his spoon.
I thought that she showed a most Christian spirit, for she hung her
head and did not say any thing. I had heard of white wives behaving
worse.

When supper was over, the boy came and laid down at my feet, and talked
with me about living in the woods. He said he pitied the poor white
people for being shut up in houses all their days. For his part, he
should die of such a dull life, he knew he should. He promised to
teach me how to shoot with the bow and arrows, to snare partridges and
rabbits, and many other things. He said he was afraid I was almost
spoiled by living in the house and going to school, but he hoped
that, if they took me away and gave me a new name, and dressed me
properly, they might make something of me yet. Then I asked him what
he was called, hoping that he had some grand Indian name, like Uncas,
or Miantonimo, or Tushmalahah; but he said it was Peter. He was a
pleasant fellow, and while he was talking with me I did not care about
my home, but felt very brave and squaw-like, and began to think about
the fine belt of wampum, and the head-dress of gay feathers, and the
red leggins, and the yellow moccasons I was going to buy for myself,
with the baskets I was going to learn to weave. But when he left me,
and I went back to the wigwam and sat down on the hemlock-boughs
by myself, somehow I couldn’t keep home out of my mind. I thought
first of my mother, how she would miss the little brown face at the
supper-table, and on the pillow, by the fair face of my blue-eyed
sister. I thought of my young brother, Albert, crying himself to sleep,
because I was lost. I thought of my father and brothers searching
through the orchard and barn, and going with lights to look in the
mill-stream. Again, I thought of my mother, how, when she feared I was
drowned, she would cry bitterly, and be very sorry for what she had
said about my dark complexion. Then I thought of myself, how I must
sleep on the hard ground, with nothing but hemlock-boughs for covering,
and nobody to tuck me up. What if it should storm before morning, and
the high tree above me should be struck by lightning! What if the old
Indian should not be a tame savage after all, but should take a fancy
to set up the war-whoop, and come and scalp me in the middle of the
night!

The bell in the village church rang for nine. This was the hour for
evening devotions at home. I looked round to see if my new friends were
preparing for worship. But the old Indian was already fast asleep, and
as for the younger one, I feared that a man who indulged himself in
beating his wife with a wooden spoon would hardly be likely to lead
in family prayers. Upon the whole, I concluded I was among rather a
heathenish set. Then I thought again of home, and doubted whether they
would have any family worship that night, with one lamb of the flock
gone astray. I thought of all their grief and fears, till I felt that
my heart would burst with sorrow and repentance, for I dared not cry
aloud.

Suddenly, I heard a familiar sound at a little distance,--it was
Carlo’s bark! Nearer and nearer it came; then I heard steps coming fast
through the crackling brushwood, then little Carlo sprang out of the
dark into the fire-light, and leaped upon me, licking my hands with
joy. He was followed by one of my elder brothers, and by my _mother_!
To her I ran. I dared not look in her eyes, but hid my face in her
bosom, sobbing out, “O mother, forgive me! forgive me!” She pressed me
to her heart, and bent down and kissed me very tenderly, and when she
did so, I felt the tears on her dear cheek.

I need hardly say that I never again undertook to make an Onondaga
squaw of myself, though my mother always held that I was dark enough
to be one, and I suppose the world would still bear her out in her
opinion.

I am sorry to tell the fate of the faithful dog who tracked me out on
that night, though his story is not quite so sad as that of some of my
pets. A short time after this event, my brother Charles was going to
the city of S----, some twenty miles away, and wished to take Carlo for
company. I let him go very reluctantly, charging my brother to take
good and constant care of him. The last time I ever saw Carlo’s honest,
good-natured face, it was looking out at me through the window of the
carriage. The _last time_, for he never came back to us, but was lost
in the crowded streets of S----.

He was a simple, country-bred pointer, and, like many another poor dog,
was bewildered by the new scenes and pleasures of the city, forgot his
guide, missed his way, wandered off, and was never found.




CORA, THE SPANIEL.


The pet which took little Carlo’s place in our home and hearts was a
pretty, chestnut-colored water-spaniel, named Cora. She was a good,
affectionate creature, and deserved all our love. The summer that
we had her for our playmate, my brother Albert, my sister Carrie,
and I, spent a good deal of time down about the pond, in watching
her swimming, and all her merry gambols in the water. There grew,
out beyond the reeds and flags of that pond, a few beautiful, white
water-lilies, which we taught her to bite off and bring to us on shore.

Cora seemed to love us very much, but there was one whom she loved
even more. This was little Charlie Allen, a pretty boy of about four
or five years old, the only son of a widow, who was a tenant of my
father, and lived in a small house on our place. There grew up a great
and tender friendship between this child and our Cora, who was always
with him while we were at school. The two would play and run about for
hours, and when they were tired, lie down and sleep together in the
shade. It was a pretty sight, I assure you, for both were beautiful.

It happened that my father, one morning, took Cora with him to the
village, and was gone nearly all day; so little Charlie was without his
playmate and protector. But after school, my sister, brother, and I
called Cora, and ran down to the pond. We were to have a little company
that night, and wanted some of those fragrant, white lilies for our
flower-vase. Cora barked and leaped upon us, and ran round and round
us all the way. Soon as she reached the pond, she sprang in and swam
out to where the lilies grew, and where she was hid from our sight by
the flags and other water-plants. Presently, we heard her barking and
whining, as though in great distress. We called to her again and again,
but she did not come out for some minutes. At last, she came through
the flags, swimming slowly along, dragging something by her teeth. As
she swam near, we saw that it was a child,--little Charlie Allen! We
then waded out as far as we dared, met Cora, took her burden from her,
and drew it to the shore. As soon as we took little Charlie in our
arms, we knew that he was dead. He was cold as ice, his eyes were fixed
in his head, and had no light in them. His hand was stiff and blue, and
still held tightly three water-lilies, which he had plucked. We suppose
the poor child slipped from a log, on which he had gone out for the
flowers, and which was half under water.

Of course we children were dreadfully frightened. My brother was half
beside himself, and ran screaming up home, while my sister almost flew
for Mrs. Allen.

O, I never shall forget the grief of that poor woman, when she came to
the spot where her little dead boy lay!--how she threw herself on the
ground beside him, and folded him close in her arms, and tried to warm
him with her tears and her kisses, and tried to breathe her own breath
into his still, cold lips, and tried to make him hear by calling,
“Charlie, Charlie, speak to mamma! speak to your poor mamma!”

But Charlie did not see her, nor feel her, nor hear her any more; and
when she found that he was indeed gone from her for ever, she gave the
most fearful shriek I ever heard, and fell back as though she were dead.

By this time, my parents and a number of the neighbours had reached the
spot, and they carried Mrs. Allen and her drowned boy home together,
through the twilight. Poor Cora followed close to the body of Charlie,
whining piteously all the way. That night, we could not get her out of
the room where it was placed, but she watched there until morning.

Ah, how sweetly little Charlie looked when he was laid out the next
day! His beautiful face had lost the dark look that it wore when he was
first taken from the water; his pretty brown hair lay in close ringlets
all around his white forehead. One hand was stretched at his side, the
other was laid across his breast, still holding the water-lilies. He
was not dressed in a shroud, but in white trousers, and a pretty little
spencer of pink gingham. He did not look dead, but sleeping, and he
seemed to smile softly, as though he had a pleasant dream in his heart.

Widow Allen had one other child, a year younger than Charlie, whose
name was Mary, but who always called herself “Little May.” O, it would
have made you cry to have seen her when she was brought to look on her
dead brother. She laughed at first, and put her small fingers on his
shut eyes, trying to open them, and said, “Wake up Charlie! wake up,
and come play out doors, with little May!” But when she found that
those eyes would not unclose, and when she felt how cold that face
was, she was grieved and frightened, and ran to hide her face in her
mother’s lap, where she cried and trembled; for though she could not
know what death was, she felt that something awful had happened in the
house.

But Cora’s sorrow was also sad to see. When the body of Charlie was
carried to the grave, she followed close to the coffin, and when it
was let down into the grave, she leaped in and laid down upon it, and
growled and struggled when the men took her out. Every day after that,
she would go to that grave, never missing the spot, though there were
many other little mounds in the old church-yard. She would lie beside
it for hours, patiently waiting, it seemed, for her young friend to
awake and come out into the sunshine, and run about and play with her
as he was used to do. Sometimes she would dig a little way into the
mound, and bark, or whine, and then listen for the voice of Charlie to
answer. But that voice never came, though the faithful Cora listened
and waited and pined for it, through many days. She ate scarcely any
thing; she would not play with us now, nor could we persuade her to go
into the pond. Alas! that fair, sweet child, pale and dripping from the
water, was the last lily she ever brought ashore. She grew so thin,
and weak, and sick, at last, that she could hardly drag herself to the
grave. But still she went there every day. One evening, she did not
come home, and my brother and I went down for her. When we reached the
church-yard, we passed along very carefully, for fear of treading on
some grave, and spoke soft and low, as children should always do in
such places. Sometimes we stopped to read the long inscriptions on
handsome tombstones, and to wonder why so many great and good people
were taken away. Sometimes we pitied the poor dead people who had no
tombstones at all, because their friends could not afford to raise
them, or because they had been too wicked themselves to have their
praises printed in great letters, cut in white marble, and put up in
the solemn burying-ground, where nobody would ever dare to write or say
any thing but the truth. When we came in sight of Charlie’s grave, we
talked about him. We wondered if he thought of his mother, and cried
out any when he was drowning. We thought that he must have grown very
weary with struggling in the water, and we wondered if he was resting
now, sleeping down there with his lilies. We said that perhaps his
_soul_ was awake all the time, and that, when he was drowned, it did
not fly right away to heaven, with the angels, to sing hymns, while
his poor mother was weeping, but stayed about the place, and somehow
comforted her, and made her think of God and heaven, even when she lay
awake in the night, to mourn for her lost boy.

So talking, we came up to the grave. Cora was lying on the mound,
where the grass had now grown green and long. She seemed to be asleep,
and not to hear our steps or our voices. My brother spoke to her
pleasantly, and patted her on the head. But she did not move. I bent
down and looked into her face. She was quite dead!




JACK, THE DRAKE.


I have hesitated a great deal about writing the history of this pet,
for his little life was only a chapter of accidents, and you may think
it very silly. Still, I hope you may have a little interest in it after
all, and that your kind hearts may feel for poor Jack, for he was good
and was unfortunate.

It happened that once, during a walk in the fields, I found a duck’s
egg right in my path. We had then no ducks in our farm-yard, and I
thought it would be a fine idea to have one for a pet. So I wrapped the
egg in wool, and put it into a basket, which I hung in a warm corner by
the kitchen-fire. My brothers laughed at me, saying that the egg would
never be any thing more than an egg, if left there; but I had faith to
believe that I should some time see a fine duckling peeping out of the
shell, very much to the astonishment of all unbelieving boys. I used to
go to the basket, lift up the wool and look at that little blue-hued
treasure three or four times a day, or take it out and hold it against
my bosom, and breathe upon it in anxious expectation; until I began to
think that a watched egg never would hatch. But my tiresome suspense
finally came to a happy end. At about the time when, if he had had a
mother, she would have been looking for him, Jack, the drake, presented
his bill to the world that owed him a living. He came out as plump and
hearty a little fowl as could reasonably have been expected. But what
to do with him was the question. After a while, I concluded to take him
to a hen who had just hatched a brood of chickens, thinking that, as he
was a friendless orphan, she might adopt him for charity’s sake. But
Biddy was already like the celebrated

                      “Old woman that lived in a shoe,
  Who had so many children she didn’t know what to do.”

With thirteen little ones of her own, and living in a small and rather
an inconvenient coop, it was no wonder that she felt unwilling to have
any addition to her family. But she might have declined civilly. I am
afraid she was a sad vixen, for no sooner did she see the poor duckling
among her chickens, than she strode up to him, and with one peck tore
the skin from his head,--scalped him,--the old savage! I rescued Jack
from her as soon as possible, and dressed his wound with lint as well
as I could, for I felt something like a parent to the fowl myself. He
recovered after a while, but, unfortunately, no feathers grew again on
his head,--he was always quite bald,--which gave him an appearance of
great age. I once tried to remedy this evil by sticking some feathers
on to his head with tar; but, like all other wigs, it deceived no one,
only making him look older and queerer than ever. What made the matter
worse was, that I had selected some long and very bright feathers,
which stood up so bold on his head that the other fowls resented it,
and pecked at the poor wig till they pecked it all off.

While Jack was yet young, he one day fell into the cistern, which had
been left open. Of course he could not get out, and he soon tired of
swimming, I suppose, and sunk. At least, when he was drawn up, he
looked as though he had been in the water a long time, and seemed
quite dead. Yet, hoping to revive him, I placed him in his old basket
of wool, which I set down on the hearth. He did indeed come to life,
but the first thing the silly creature did on leaving his nest was to
run into the midst of the fire, and before I could get him out, he
was very badly burned. He recovered from this also, but with bare
spots all over his body. In his tail there never afterwards grew more
than three short feathers. But his trials were not over yet. After
he was full-grown, he was once found fast by one leg in a great iron
rat-trap. When he was released, his leg was found to be broken. But my
brother William, who was then inclined to be a doctor, which he has
since become, and who had watched my father during surgical operations,
splintered and bound up the broken limb, and kept the patient under a
barrel for a week, so that he should not attempt to use it. At the end
of that time, Jack could get about a little, but with a very bad limp,
which he never got over. But as the duck family never had the name of
walking very handsomely, that was no great matter.

After all these accidents and mishaps, I hardly need tell you that Jack
had little beauty to boast of, or plume himself upon. He was in truth
sadly disfigured,--about the ugliest fowl possible to meet in a long
day’s journey. Indeed, he used to be shown up to people as a curiosity
on account of his ugliness.

I remember a little city girl coming to see me that summer. She talked
a great deal about her fine wax-dolls with rolling eyes and jointed
legs, her white, curly French lap-dog, and, best and prettiest of every
thing, her beautiful yellow canary-bird, which sung and sung all the
day long. I grew almost dizzy with hearing of such grand and wonderful
things, and sat with my mouth wide open to swallow her great stories.
At last, she turned to me and asked, with a curl of her pretty red
lips, “Have you no pet-birds, little girl?” Now, she always called me
“little girl,” though I was a year older and a head taller than she. I
replied, “Yes, I have one,” and led the way to the back-yard, where I
introduced her to Jack. I thought I should have died of laughter when
she came to see him. Such faces as she made up!

I am sorry to say, that the other fowls in the yard, from the oldest
hen down to the rooster without spurs, and even to the green goslings,
seemed to see and feel Jack’s want of personal pretensions and
attractions, and always treated him with marked contempt, not to say
cruelty. The little chickens followed him about, peeping and cackling
with derision, very much as the naughty children of the old Bible times
mocked at the good, bald-headed prophet. But poor Jack didn’t have it
in his power to punish the ill-mannered creatures as Elisha did those
saucy children, when he called the hungry she-bears to put a stop to
their wicked fun. In fact, I don’t think he would have done so if he
could, for all this hard treatment never made him angry or disobliging.
He had an excellent temper, and was always meek and quiet, though
there was a melancholy hang to his bald head, and his three lonesome
tail-feathers drooped sadly toward the ground. When he was ever so
lean and hungry, he would gallantly give up his dinner to the plump,
glossy-breasted pullets, though they would put on lofty airs, step
lightly, eye him scornfully, and seem to be making fun of his queer
looks all the time. He took every thing so kindly! He was like a few, a
very few people we meet, who, the uglier they grow, the more goodness
they have at heart, and the worse the world treats them, the better
they are to it.

But Jack had one true friend. I liked him, and more than once defended
him from cross old hens, and tyrannical cocks. But perhaps my love was
too much mixed up with pity for him to have felt highly complimented by
it. Yet he seemed to cherish a great affection for me, and to look up
to me as his guardian and protector.

As you have seen, Jack was always getting into scrapes, and at last he
got into one which even I could not get him out of. He one day rashly
swam out into the mill-pond, which was then very high, from a freshet,
and which carried him over the dam, where, as he was a very delicate
fowl, he was drowned, or his neck was broken, by the great rush and
tumble of the water. I have sometimes thought that it might be that he
was tired of life, and grieved by the way the world had used him, and
so put an end to himself. But I hope it was not so; for, with all his
oddities and misfortunes, Jack seemed too sensible for that.


ELEGY.

  Alas, poor lame, bald-headed Jack!
    None mourned when he was dead,
  And for the sake of her drowned drake
    No young duck hung her head!

  The old cocks said they saw him go,
    Yet did not call him back,
  For a death from hydropathy
    Was a fit death for a _quack_.

  The cockerels said, “Well, that poor fowl
    Is gone,--who cares a penny?”
  And guessed he found that last deep dive
    Was one _duck-in_ too many.

  The heartless pullets saw him,
    Yet raised no warning cries,
  As he swam o’er the dam,
    And was drowned before their eyes!




[Illustration: HECTOR THE GREY-HOUND]




HECTOR, THE GREYHOUND.


Hector was the favorite hound of my brother Rufus, who was extremely
fond of him, for he was one of the most beautiful creatures ever
seen, had an amiable disposition, and was very intelligent. You would
scarcely believe me, should I tell you all his accomplishments and
cunning tricks. If one gave him a piece of money, he would take it in
his mouth and run at once to the baker, or butcher, for his dinner. He
was evidently fond of music, and even seemed to have an ear for it,
and he would dance away merrily whenever he saw dancing. He was large
and strong, and in the winter, I remember, we used to harness him to
a little sleigh, on which he drew my youngest brother to school. As
Hector was as fleet as the wind, this sort of riding was rare sport.
At night we had but to start him off, and he would go directly to the
school-house for his little master. Ah, Hector was a wonderful dog!

A few miles from our house, there was a pond, or small lake, very deep
and dark, and surrounded by a swampy wood. Here my brothers used to go
duck-shooting, though it was rather dangerous sport, as most of the
shore of the pond was a soft bog, but thinly grown over with grass
and weeds. It was said that cattle had been known to sink in it, and
disappear in a short time.

One night during the hunting season, one of my elder brothers brought
a friend home with him, a fine, handsome young fellow, named Charles
Ashley. It was arranged that they should shoot ducks about the pond the
next day. So in the morning they all set out in high spirits. In the
forenoon they had not much luck, as they kept too much together; but in
the afternoon they separated, my brothers giving their friend warning
to beware of getting into the bogs. But Ashley was a wild, imprudent
young man, and once, having shot a fine large duck, which fell into
the pond near the shore, and Hector, who was with him, refusing to
go into the water for it, he ran down himself. Before he reached the
edge of the water, he was over his ankles in mire; then, turning to go
back, he sunk to his knees, and in another moment he was waist-high
in the bog, and quite unable to help himself. He laid his gun down,
and, fortunately, could rest one end of it on a little knoll of firmer
earth; but he still sunk slowly, till he was in up to his arm-pits.
Of course, he called and shouted for help as loud as possible, but
my brothers were at such a distance that they did not hear him so as
to know his voice. But Hector, after looking at him in his sad fix a
moment, started off on a swift run, which soon brought him to his
master. My brother said that the dog then began to whine, and run back
and forth in a most extraordinary manner, until he set out to follow
him to the scene of the accident. Hector dashed on through the thick
bushes, as though he were half distracted, every few moments turning
back with wild cries to hurry on his master. When my brother came up
to where his friend was fixed in the mire, he could see nothing of
him at first. Then he heard a faint voice calling him, and, looking
down near the water, he saw a pale face looking up at him from the
midst of the black bog. He has often said that it was the strangest
sight that he ever saw. Poor Ashley’s arms, and the fowling-piece he
held, were now beginning to disappear, and in a very short time he
would have sunk out of sight for ever! Only to think of such an awful
death! My brother, who had always great presence of mind, lost no time
in bending down a young tree from the bank where he stood, so that
Ashley could grasp it, and in that way be drawn up, for, as you see,
it would not have been safe for him to go down to where his friend
sunk. When Ashley had taken a firm hold of the sapling, my brother
let go of it, and it sprung back, pulling up the young man without
much exertion on his part. Ashley was, however, greatly exhausted with
fright and struggling, and lay for some moments on the bank, feeling
quite unable to walk. As soon as he was strong enough, he set out for
home with my brother, stopping very often to rest and shake off the
thick mud, which actually weighed heavily upon him. I never shall
forget how he looked when he came into the yard about sunset. O, what
a rueful and ridiculous figure he cut! We could none of us keep from
laughing, though we were frightened at first, and sorry for our guest’s
misfortune. But after he was dressed in a dry suit of my brother’s, he
looked funnier than ever, for he was a tall, rather large person, and
the dress was too small for him every way. Yet he laughed as heartily
as any of us, for he was very good-natured and merry. It seems to me I
can see him now, as he walked about with pantaloons half way up to his
knees, coat-sleeves coming a little below the elbows, and vest that
wouldn’t meet at all, and told us queer Yankee stories, and sung songs,
and jested and laughed all the evening. But once, I remember, I saw him
go out on to the door-step, where Hector was lying, kneel down beside
the faithful dog, and actually hug him to his breast.

When not hunting with his master Hector went with Albert and me in all
our rambles, berrying and nutting. We could hardly be seen without him,
and we loved him almost as we loved one another.

One afternoon in early spring, we had been into the woods for
wild-flowers. I remember that I had my apron filled with the sweet
claytonias, and the gay trilliums, and the pretty white flowers
of the sanguinaria, or “blood-root,” and hosts and handfuls of the
wild violets, yellow and blue. My brother had taken off his cap and
filled it with beautiful green mosses, all lit up with the bright red
squaw-berry. We had just entered the long, shady lane which ran down
to the house, and were talking and laughing very merrily, when we saw
a crowd of men and boys running toward us and shouting as they ran.
Before them was a large, brown bull-dog, that, as he came near, we saw
was foaming at the mouth. Then we heard what the men were crying. It
was, “_Mad dog!_”

My brother and I stopped and clung to each other in great trouble.
Hector stood before us and growled. The dog was already so near that we
saw we could not escape; he came right at us, with his dreadful frothy
mouth wide open. He was just upon us, when Hector caught him by the
throat, and the two rolled on the ground, biting and struggling. But
presently one of the men came up and struck the mad dog on the head
with a large club,--so stunned him and finally killed him. But Hector,
poor Hector, was badly bitten in the neck and breast, and all the men
said that he must die too, or he would go mad. One of the neighbours
went home with us, and told my father and elder brothers all about
it. They were greatly troubled, but promised that, for the safety of
the neighbourhood, Hector should be shot in the morning. I remember
how, while they were talking, Hector lay on the door-step licking his
wounds, every now and then looking round, as if he thought that there
was some trouble which he ought to understand.

I shall never, never forget how I grieved that night! I heard the clock
strike ten, eleven, and twelve, as I lay awake weeping for my dear
playfellow and noble preserver, who was to die in the morning. Hector
was sleeping in the next room, and once I got up and stole out to
see him as he lay on the hearth-rug in the clear moonlight, resting
unquietly, for his wounds pained him. I went and stood so near that my
tears fell on his beautiful head; but I was careful not to wake him,
for I somehow felt guilty toward him.

That night the weather changed, and the next morning came up chilly
and windy, with no sunshine at all,--as though it would not have been
a gloomy day enough, any how. After breakfast--ah! I remember well how
little breakfast was eaten by any of us that morning--Hector was led
out into the yard, and fastened to a stake. He had never before in
all his life been tied, and he now looked troubled and ashamed. But
my mother spoke pleasantly to him and patted him, and he held up his
head and looked proud again. My mother was greatly grieved that the
poor fellow should have to die for defending her children, and when she
turned from him and went into the house, I saw she was in tears; so
I cried louder than ever. One after another, we all went up and took
leave of our dear and faithful friend. My youngest brother clung about
him longest, crying and sobbing as though his heart would break. It
seemed that we should never get the child away. My brother Rufus said
that no one should shoot his dog but himself, and while we children
were bidding farewell, he stood at a little distance loading his rifle.
But finally he also came up to take leave. He laid his hand tenderly on
Hector’s head, but did not speak to him or look into his eyes,--those
sad eyes, which seemed to be asking what all this crying meant. He
then stepped quickly back to his place, and raised the rifle to his
shoulder. Then poor Hector appeared to understand it all, and to know
that he must die, for he gave a loud, mournful cry, trembled all over,
and crouched toward the ground. My brother dropped the gun, and leaned
upon it, pale and distressed. Then came the strangest thing of all.
Hector seemed to have strength given him to submit to his hard fate; he
stood up bravely again, but turned away his head and closed his eyes.
My brother raised the rifle. I covered my face with my hands. Then came
a loud, sharp report. I looked round and saw Hector stretched at full
length, with a great stream of blood spouting from his white breast,
and reddening all the grass about him. He was not quite dead, and as we
gathered around him, he looked up into our faces and moaned. The ball
which pierced him had cut the cord in two that bound him to the stake,
and he was free at the last. My brother, who had thrown down his rifle,
drew near also, but dared not come close, because, he said, he feared
the poor dog would look reproachfully at him. But Hector caught sight
of his beloved master, and, rousing all his strength, dragged himself
to his feet. Rufus bent over him and called him by name. Hector looked
up lovingly and forgivingly into his face, licked his hand, and died.
Then my brother, who had kept a firm, manly face all the while, burst
into tears.

My brother William, who was always master of ceremonies on such
occasions, made a neat coffin for Hector, and laid him in it, very
gently and solemnly. I flung in all the wild-flowers which Albert and I
had gathered on the afternoon of our last walk with our noble friend,
and so we buried him. His grave was very near the spot where he had so
bravely defended us from the mad dog, by the side of the way, in the
long, pleasant lane where the elm-trees grew.




BOB, THE COSSET.


One cold night in March, my father came in from the barn-yard, bringing
a little lamb, which lay stiff and still in his arms, and appeared to
be quite dead. But my mother, who was good and kind to all creatures,
wrapped it in flannel, and, forcing open its teeth, poured some warm
milk down its throat. Still it did not open its eyes or move, and when
we went to bed it was yet lying motionless before the fire. It happened
that my mother slept in a room opening out of the sitting-room, and in
the middle of the night she heard a little complaining voice, saying,
“Ma!” She thought it must be some one of us, and so answered, “What,
my child?” Again it came, “Ma!” and, turning round, she saw by the
light of the moon the little lamb she had left for dead standing by her
bedside. In the morning it was found that the own mother of “Bob,” (for
we gave him that name,) had died of cold in the night; so we adopted
the poor orphan into our family. We children took care of him, and
though it was a great trouble to bring him up by hand, we soon became
attached to our charge, and grew very proud of his handsome growth and
thriving condition. He was, in truth, a most amusing pet, he had such
free manners with every body and was so entirely at home everywhere.
He would go into every room in the house,--even mount the stairs and
appear in our chambers in the morning, sometimes before we were up, to
shame us with his early rising. But the place which of all others he
decidedly preferred was the pantry. Here he was, I am sorry to say,
once or twice guilty of breaking the commandment against stealing,
by helping himself to fruit and to slices of bread which did not
rightfully belong to him. He was tolerably amiable, though I think that
lambs generally have a greater name for sweetness of temper than they
deserve. But Bob, though playful and somewhat mischievous, had never
any serious disagreement with the dogs, cats, pigs, and poultry on the
premises. My sister and I used to make wreaths for his neck, which he
wore with such an evident attempt at display, that I sometimes feared
he was more vain and proud than it was right for such an innocent and
poetical animal to be.

But our trials did not really commence until Bob’s horns began to
sprout. It seemed that he had no sooner perceived those little
protuberances in his looking glass, the drinking-trough, than he took
to butting, like any common pasture-reared sheep, who had been wholly
without the advantages of education and good society. It was in vain
that we tried to impress upon him that such was not correct conduct
in a cosset of his breeding; he would still persevere in his little
interesting trick of butting all such visitors as did not happen to
strike his fancy. But he never treated us to his horns in that way, and
so we let him go, like any other spoiled child, without punishing him
severely, and rather laughed at his sauciness.

But one day our minister, a stout, elderly gentleman, solemn-faced and
formal, had been making us a parochial visit, and as he was going away,
we all went out into the yard to see him ride off, on his old sorrel
pacer. It seems he had no riding-whip; so he reached up to break off
a twig from an elm-tree which hung over the gate. This was very high,
and he was obliged to stand on tiptoe. Just then, before he had grasped
the twig he wanted, Bob started out from under a large rose-bush near
by, and run against the reverend gentleman, butting him so violently
as to take him quite off his feet. My father helped the good man up,
and made a great many apologies for the impiety of our pet, while we
children did our best to keep our faces straight. After our venerable
visitor was gone, my father sternly declared that he would not bear
with Bob any longer, but that he should be turned into the pasture with
the other sheep, for he would not have him about, insulting respectable
people and butting ministers of the Gospel at that rate.

So the next morning Bob was banished in disgrace from the house and
yard, and obliged to mingle with the vulgar herd of his kind. With them
I regret to say that he soon earned the name of being very bold and
quarrelsome. As his horns grew and lengthened, he grew more and more
proud of the consequence they gave him, and went forth butting and to
butt. O, he was a terrible fellow!

One summer day, my brother Charles and a young man who lived with
us were in the mill-pond, washing the sheep which were soon to be
sheared. I was standing on the bank, watching the work, when one of our
neighbours, a hard, coarse man, came up, and calling to my brother, in
a loud voice, asked if he had been hunting a raccoon the night before.
“Yes, Sir, and I killed him too,” answered my brother. “Well, young
man,” said the farmer, “did you pass through my field, and trample
down the grain?” “I crossed the field, Sir, but I hope I did no great
damage,” replied Charles, in a pleasant way. “Yes, you _did_!” shouted
the man, “and now, you young rascal, if I ever catch you on my land
again, day or night, I’ll thrash you!--_I’ll_ teach you something, if
your father won’t!” As he said this, stretching his great fist out
threateningly toward my brother, he stood on the very edge of the steep
bank. Just behind him were the sheep, headed by the redoubtable Bob,
who suddenly darted forward, and, before the farmer could suspect what
was coming, butted him head over heels into the pond! My brother went
at once to the assistance of his enemy, who scrambled on to the shore,
sputtering and dripping, but a good deal cooled in his rage. I suppose
I was very wicked, but I _did_ enjoy that!

For this one good turn, Bob was always quite a favorite, with all his
faults, and year after year was spared, when worthier sheep were made
mutton of. He was finally sold, with the rest of the flock, when we
left the farm, and though he lived to a good old age, the wool of his
last fleece must long since have been knit into socks and comforters,
or woven into cloth,--must have grown threadbare, and gone to dress
scarecrows, or stop cellar-windows; or been all trodden out in
rag-carpets.




ROBIN REDBREAST.


I must now, dear children, pass over a few years of my life, in which I
had no pets in whose history you would be likely to be interested.

[Illustration: ROBIN REDBREAST]

At the time of my possessing my wonderful Robin, we had left our
country home, my brothers were most of them abroad in the world, and
I was living with my parents in the pleasant city of R----. I was a
school-girl, between fifteen and sixteen years of age. That spring,
I commenced the study of French, and, as I was never a remarkably
bright scholar, I was obliged to apply myself with great diligence to
my books. I used to take my grammar and phrase-book to my chamber,
at night, and study as long as I could possibly keep my eyes open.
In consequence of this, as you may suppose, I was very sleepy in the
morning, and it usually took a prodigious noise and something of a
shaking to waken me. But one summer morning I was roused early, not by
the breakfast-bell, nor by calling, or shaking, but by a glad gush of
sweetest singing. I opened my eyes, and right on the foot-board of my
bed was perched a pretty red-breasted robin, pouring out all his little
soul in a merry morning song. I stole out of bed softly, and shut down
the window through which he had come; then, as soon as I was dressed,
caught him, carried him down stairs, and put him into a cage which had
hung empty ever since the cat made way with my last Canary.

I soon found that I had a rare treasure in my Robin, who was very tame,
and had evidently been carefully trained, for before the afternoon was
over he surprised and delighted us all by singing the air of “Buy a
Broom” quite through, touching on every note with wonderful precision.
We saw that it was a valuable bird, who had probably escaped, and for
some days we made inquiries for its owner, but without success.

At night I always took Robin’s cage into my chamber, and he was sure
to waken me early with his loud, but delicious, singing. So passed on
a month, in which I had great happiness in my interesting pet. But
one Saturday forenoon I let him out, that I might clean his cage. I
had not observed that there was a window open, but the bird soon made
himself acquainted with the fact, and, with a glad, exulting trill,
he darted out into the sunshine. Hastily catching my bonnet, I ran
after him. At first, he stayed about the trees in front of the house,
provokingly hopping from branch to branch out of my reach, holding his
head on one side, and eyeing me with sly, mischievous glances. At last
he spread his wings and flew down the street. I followed as fast as I
could, keeping my eye upon him all the time. It was curious that he did
not fly across squares, or over the houses, but kept along above the
streets, slowly, and with a backward glance once in a while. At length,
he turned down a narrow court, and flew into the open window of a small
frame-house. Here I followed him, knocking timidly at the door, which
was opened at once by a boy about nine years old. I found myself in
a small parlour, very plainly, but neatly furnished. In an arm-chair
by the window sat a middle-aged woman, who I saw at once was blind. A
tall, dark-eyed, rather handsome girl was sitting near her, sewing. But
I did not look at either of these more than a moment, for on the other
side of the room was an object to charm, and yet sadden, my eyes. This
was a slight girl, about my own age, reclining on a couch, looking very
ill and pale, but with a small, red spot on each cheek, which told me
that she was almost gone with consumption. She was very beautiful,
though so thin and weary looking. She had large, dark, tender eyes, and
her lips were still as sweet as rose-buds. I think I never saw such
magnificent hair as hers; it flowed all over her pillow, and hung down
nearly to the floor, in bright, glossy ringlets.

At that moment she was holding the truant Robin in her white, slender
hands, crying and laughing over him, calling him her “dear lost pet,”
her “naughty runaway,” and a hundred other loving and scolding names.
I, of course, felt rather awkward, but I explained matters to Robin’s
fair mistress as well as I could. She looked pleased, and thanked me
warmly for the good care I had taken of the bird. Then she made me sit
down by her side, and asked my name, and told me hers, which was Ellen
Harper, and introduced me to her mother, sister, and brother, all in
the sweetest manner possible. We got quite well acquainted, and talked
like old friends, till Ellen’s cough interrupted her. Then, as I rose
to go, she made me promise to come again very soon, and raised herself
as though she would kiss me before I went. Just as I bent down to press
my lips to hers, Robin, who, of his own accord, had taken possession of
his old cage, which had been left open for him, burst out into a sweet,
merry warble, full of the most astonishing trills and shakes. Then I
felt that it was well that we two should love one another.

After that, I went almost daily to see Ellen Harper. I carried her
books, I read to her, talked to her, and listened to her low gentle
voice, and looked down deep into her clear hazel eyes, till I grew to
love the sweet, patient girl more than I can tell. I think that she
was a most remarkable person. Her parents were quite poor, and she had
enjoyed few advantages; but she was far beyond me in scholarship and
reading. And then she was a true Christian, with a calm hope, and a
cheerful resignation; she seemed indeed to have given her heart to God.

Ellen knew that she was dying; she knew that, young and fair and
beloved as she was, she had not long to stay in this bright, beautiful
world. But she did not fear, or complain, for she knew also that a kind
Father called her away, to a world far brighter and many times more
beautiful than ours. It was touching to see her trying to comfort her
sister Lucy, whose strength would sometimes give way as she saw that
slight form growing weaker every day; or her young brother Willie, when
he would leave his book, or his play, and come and lay his face against
her bosom and cry; or her father, when he would come home from his work
at night, and sit down beside his darling child, and hold her thin,
fair fingers in his great, brown hand, and say no word, only sigh as
though his poor heart was breaking; or her mother, who was blind, and
could not see the change in her “own little Nellie,” as she called
her, and so had to be told again and again that she was failing fast.
For all these dear ones, Ellen had words of consolation, and they
always felt stronger after she had talked with them.

On some of those mornings when I went over to dress her beautiful hair,
which I dearly loved to do, she talked to me as an angel might talk, I
thought, and told me many sweet and holy things, which I shall remember
all the days of my life.

As long as she stayed with us, Ellen had great pleasure in her pet
Robin. She said that to her ear he always seemed to be singing hymns,
which was a great joy to her after she became too weak to sing them
herself.

Dear Ellen died at night. She had been very restless in the evening,
and at last said that, if she could lie in her mother’s arms, as she
used to lie when she was a little child, she thought that she could
sleep. So Mrs. Harper laid down beside her daughter, who nestled
against her bosom and slept. Ellen’s happy spirit passed away in that
sleep. But her mother was blind, and could not see when her child was
dead; and when her husband, fearing what had happened, came near, she
raised her finger and said, “Hush, don’t wake Nellie!”

The next morning, Lucy sent over for me to come and dress Ellen’s hair
for the last time. I found my friend looking very much as I had always
seen her, only with a sweeter smile, if possible, hovering about her
lips. She was lying on her couch, dressed in white muslin, and with
many flowers scattered around her. A vase of roses stood on a stand at
her feet, and over it hung the pretty cage of Robin, and Robin himself
was singing very sweetly, but in lower tones than usual, as if he
thought his young mistress was sleeping, and feared to waken her.

They had cut away some of the hair from the back of Ellen’s head, but
around the forehead the familiar ringlets were all left. These I
dressed very carefully, though my tears fell so fast, I could scarcely
see what I was doing. I shall never forget the scene when the family
came into the parlour to look upon Ellen, after she had been laid out,
that morning. Lucy, sobbing and trembling, led her mother to the couch.
The poor woman felt in the air above the dead face a moment, and said,
“How I miss her sweet breath round me!” Then she knelt down, and, with
her arms flung over the body, swayed back and forth, and seemed to
pray silently. The father took those shining curls in his hands, and
smoothed them tenderly and kissed them many times, while his great hot
tears fell fast on the head of his child, and on the rose-buds which
lay upon her pillow, and seemed to give a flush to her white, cold
cheek.

I noticed that little Willie was the calmest of them all. He seemed to
have taken to heart the words of his sister, when she told him that
she was going into a better and happier life, where she would continue
to love him, and whither he would come, if he was good and true in this
life. So he did not grieve for her, as most children grieve, but was
quiet and submissive.

Ellen was buried in a beautiful cemetery a mile or two from the noise
and dust of the city. The morning after she had been laid there, I went
to plant a little rose-tree over her grave. I was somewhat surprised to
find Willie there, and with him Robin Redbreast, in his pretty cage.

“Why have you brought the bird here, Willie?” I asked.

“Because,” said he, in a low, trembling voice, “I thought that, now
sister’s spirit was free, I ought not to keep her bird a prisoner any
longer.”

“That is right,” I said, for I thought that this was a beautiful idea
of the child’s.

So Willie opened the door of the cage, and out flew the Robin. This
time he did not alight on the trees, but mounted right up toward
heaven. There was a light cloud floating over us, and, as we stood
looking up after the bird, Willie seemed troubled to see that it passed
into this, and so was lost to our sight. “Ah,” he said, “I hoped he
would follow Nellie! but he has gone into the cloud, and sister’s soul,
I am very sure, passed away into the sunshine.”




TOM.


I now come to the very prince of pets, the one of all I ever had the
most noble and most dear,--Tom, a Newfoundland setter, the favorite dog
of my brother Albert. He has been a member of our family for five or
six years past. We brought him from the city to our pleasant village
home in Pennsylvania, where we now live.

Tom is a dog of extraordinary beauty, sagacity, and good feeling. He
is very large, and, with the exception of his feet and breast, jet
black, with a thick coat of fine hair, which lies in short curls,
glossy and silken. He has a well-formed head, and a handsome, dark eye,
full of kindness and intelligence. His limbs are small, and his feet
particularly delicate. He is, I am sorry to say, rather indolent in
his habits, always prefers to take a carriage to the hunting-ground,
when he goes sporting with his master, and he sleeps rather too soundly
at night to be a good watch-dog. We make him useful in various ways,
however, such as carrying baskets and bundles, and sometimes we send
him to the post-office with and for letters and papers. These he always
takes the most faithful care of, never allowing any one to look at
them on the way. He is a remarkably gentlemanly dog in his manner,
never making free with people, or seeming too fond at first sight; but
if you speak to him pleasantly, he will offer you a friendly paw in a
quiet way, and seem happy to make your acquaintance. He never fawns,
nor whines, nor skulks about, but is dignified, easy, and perfectly at
home in polite society. He is a sad aristocrat, treats all well-dressed
comers most courteously, but with shabby people he will have nothing
to do. Tom knows how to take and carry on a joke. I recollect one
evening, when we had visitors, and he was in the parlour, I put on
him a gay-colored sack of my own, and a large gypsy hat, which I tied
under his throat. Instead of looking ashamed and trying to get these
off, as most dogs would have done, he crossed the room and sprang on
to the sofa, where he sat upright, looking very wise and grave, like
some old colored woman at church. The illustrious General Tom Thumb
once travelled with my brother and this dog, and, falling very much
in love with his namesake, offered any price for him. Of course, my
brother would not think for a moment of selling his faithful friend,
and even had he felt differently, I doubt very much whether Tom, who
had been used to looking up to full-grown men, would have shown much
obedience or respect, for such a funny little fellow as the General.
It was amusing to observe the dog’s manner toward his small, new
acquaintance. He was kind and condescending, though he sometimes seemed
to think that the General was a little too much inclined to take
liberties with his superiors in age and size,--rather more forward and
familiar than was quite becoming in a child.

Two or three years ago, Tom was the beloved playfellow of my brother
Frederic’s youngest daughter,--our little Jane. She always seemed to
me like a fairy-child, she was so small and delicate, with such bright
golden curls falling about her face,--the sweetest face in the world.
It was beautiful to see her at play with that great, black dog, who was
very tender with her, for he seemed to know that she was not strong.
One evening she left her play earlier than usual, and went and laid her
head in her mother’s lap, and said, “Little Jane is tired.” That night
she sickened, and in a few, a very few days she died. When she was hid
away in the grave, we grieved deeply that we should see her face no
more, but we had joy to know that it would never be pale with sickness
in that heavenly home to which she had gone; and though we miss her
still, we have great happiness in the thought that she will never be
“tired” any more, for we believe her to be resting on the bosom of the
Lord Jesus.

One day last spring, I remember, her mother gave me a bunch of violets,
saying, “They are from the grave of little Jane.” I suppose they were
like all other blue violets, but I thought then I had never seen any
so beautiful. It seemed to me that the sweet looks of the child were
blooming out of the flowers which had sprung up over the place where we
had laid her.

Tom seems much attached to all our family, but most devotedly so
to my brother Albert. They two have hunted very much together, and
seem equally fond of the sport. If Tom sees his master with his
hunting-dress on, and his fowling-piece in hand, he is half beside
himself with joy. But when he returns from the hunt, spent and weary,
he always comes to me to be fed and petted.

You will remember that years have passed by since this brother and
I were schoolmates and playmates together. He is now a fine young
man, while I am a full-grown woman, who have seen the world I used to
think so grand and glorious, and found it--no better than it should
be. But of my brother. He is our youngest, you know, and so has never
outgrown that peculiar fondness, that dear love, we always give to
“the baby.” While I have been writing these histories, and recalling
in almost every scene the playmate of my childhood, I can only see him
as a boy,--a little black-eyed, rosy-cheeked boy; it is very difficult
to think of him as a _man_, making his own way bravely in the world.
Last spring we observed that dear Albert’s bright face had become very
thoughtful and serious; we knew that something was weighing on his
mind, and finally it came out. He was about to leave us all for a long
time, it might be for ever; _he was going to California_! We were very
unhappy to hear this, but, as it was on some accounts the best thing
that my brother could do, we finally consented, and all went to work as
cheerfully as we could to help him off.

It was a bright May morning when he left, but it seemed to us that
there never was a darker or sadder day. The dear fellow kept up good
courage till it came to the parting; then his heart seemed to melt and
flow out in his tears, fast dropping on the brows and necks of his
mother and sisters, as he held them for the last time to his heaving
breast. But I will not dwell on this parting, for my own eyes grow so
dim I cannot well see to write.

I remember that poor Tom seemed greatly troubled that morning; he knew
that something sad was happening, and looked anxiously in our faces,
as though he would ask what it was; and when my brother patted him on
the head, bade him good by, and passed out of the gate, forbidding him
to follow, the faithful creature whined sadly, and looked after him
wistfully, till he was out of sight.

After Albert had been gone about an hour, I remember that I went up
into his room, and sat down in his favorite seat, by the window. O,
how still and lonely and mournful it seemed there! Near me hung my
brother’s fencing-sword and mask, which he had used only the day
before,--on the floor lay the game-bag, which he had always worn in
hunting, and which he had flung out of his trunk, not having room for
it. This brought my merry brother before me more clearly than any thing
else. I took it up and held it a long time, mourning at heart, but I
could not weep. Suddenly I heard a low whine in the hall, and Tom stole
softly into the room. He came to me and laid his head in my lap; but
when he saw the game-bag there, he set up a most mournful cry. Then I
flung my arms about him, bowed my head down against his neck, and burst
into tears. I forgot that he was a poor dumb brute, and only remembered
that he loved my brother, and my brother loved him, and that he mourned
with me in my sorrow. After this, it was very affecting to see Tom go
every day, for a long while, to the gate, out of which he had seen his
master pass for the last time, and then stand and look up the street,
crying like a grieved child.

As you will readily believe, Tom is now dearer than ever to us all; we
cannot see him without a sweet, sad thought of that beloved one so far
away. I am not now at home, but I never hear from there without hearing
of the welfare of the noble dog which my brother, in going, bestowed
upon me.




SUPPLEMENTARY STORIES.


It is twenty years since the first part of this little volume was
published. The dear children for whom those simple stories of my
childhood were told are men and women now, and wonderful changes have
taken place in all our lives and in all the world. But in growing old
I have not lost any thing of my old love of pets; and I hope that my
little readers of this time will understand and share that feeling. I
hope that you, dear boys and girls, look on all innocent dumb creatures
about you as friends, and have not only a kindly interest in them,
but respect them for all that is lovely and wonderful in their brief
existences, and as objects of the unceasing care and tenderness of
our Father in heaven. Every smallest creature that lives represents a
thought of God,--was born out of his great, deep, infinite life.

I hope you especially like to hear about dogs and cats, birds and
chickens, for it is of them that I have a few new stories to relate, as
true as they are amusing or marvellous.




FIDO THE BRAVE.


First I must relate the somewhat tragical history of a certain little
shaggy brown-and-white spaniel belonging to some friends of ours in
the country. He was a stray dog, and came to them in a very forlorn
condition, and had evidently been vagabondizing about in the fields
and woods for some days, for he was ravenously hungry, and his long
hair was dirty, and stuck full of straws, briers, and burrs, till he
bristled like a hedgehog. The first thing that the kind lady did, after
feeding him, was to put him into a warm bath. Then she set herself
to work to rid him of his encumbrances,--sticks, straws, briers, and
burrs. It was a long time before she got down to the dog; but when at
last she laid down scissors, scrubbing-brush, and comb, and deposited
her poor _protégé_ on the floor, he was a good deal diminished in size,
but looked really handsome, and very bright, quaint, and droll.

He took at once to his new home, and soon became a great pet, showing
himself to be grateful, affectionate, and full of cleverness, fun,
and fire. His pluck was beyond all question. Though not quarrelsome,
he would, when in the least degree put upon, fight any dog in the
neighborhood, whatever his size and breed, and he generally came off
victorious. But he was altogether too rash and venturesome, given to
worrying cows, horses, hogs, and old stragglers; rushing into all sorts
of danger, and coming out, when he did come out, and was not brought
out, with his little eyes dancing and his bushy tail in air, as though
enjoying the risk of the thing, and the terror of his kind mistress.

Among other sportive tricks was a way he had of running before the
locomotive when the train was coming in or going out of the station,
near by the house of my friends. Nearly every day he could be seen
frisking about it, dancing frantically up and down before it, and
barking valorously. He really seemed to take a malicious satisfaction
in defying and insulting that rumbling, puffing, snorting monster,
that, big as it was, ran away from him as fast as possible.

“The pitcher goes often to the well, but is broken at last.”

One fatal day the little spaniel miscalculated the speed of his big
enemy, and failed to get out of the way in time. He was all off the
track but one hind leg, when he was struck by the locomotive and
knocked into a ditch,--that one hind leg being pretty badly mashed,
you may believe. The poor little fellow set up a great outcry, but the
unfeeling engineer never stopped the train to attend to him, and the
railroad folks kept the accident out of the papers. Fido made his way
home all alone, dragging his mashed leg behind him. Though greatly
shocked, his mistress did not scold him, but sent for a surgeon, who,
after a careful examination, and consulting his books, decided that
an amputation was necessary. Then the good, brave lady held her poor,
dear pet on her lap while the dreadful operation was performed. She
asked a gentleman of the family to hold him, but he had not the nerve.
After the stump had been skilfully dressed, the little dog evidently
felt better, soon ceased to bemoan his loss, and took kindly to a
light supper. He rested well that night, and in the morning the doctor
pronounced him better. His kind mistress nursed him faithfully till
he was restored to perfect health. He never seemed to fret about his
maimed condition, but hopped around on three legs as merry and active
as ever. It was observed, however, that he gave a wide berth to
railway trains, and howled whenever he heard the whistle of the engine,
ever after. Still the fight wasn’t out of him. He was as jealous of his
honor and as fiery and plucky as before his disaster.

One afternoon, while taking a quiet three-legged stroll some distance
away from home, he encountered on the highway a big, surly bull-dog,
who presumed on the spaniel’s diminutive size and crippled condition
to insult him and rail at him. Brave Fido dashed at once at the ugly
bully’s throat, and bit and hung on in the most furious and desperate
way. It was a gallant fight he made, and it did seem for a while as
though he must come off victorious, like David after his engagement
with Goliah. But at last the infuriated bull-dog tore himself free, and
then proceeded to make mince-meat of the poor spaniel. He tore his ears
half off, and his eyes half out, and mangled his head generally, till
it was disfigured to the last degree. Then he bit and chewed the left,
the only _left_ hind leg, till one might say that he was next to a
locomotive and a whole train of cars at the mangling business. At this
desperate stage of the combat a woman came out of a farm-house near by,
drove the bull-dog away with a poker, and took up poor Fido. As he had
become insensible, she thought him dead, and flung him down in a fence
corner, out of the way of travel, and there left him, meaning, let us
hope, to have him decently buried in the morning. But Fido was not yet
ready to give up this life. The cool evening dew revived him; brought
him to his senses, in part at least. He could not yet see, but, guided
by some mysterious instinct, he made his sure way, dragging himself
by his _fore_ legs, which were only _two_ you know, across the fields
to his home. His mistress was awakened in the night by hearing him
scratching and whining at the door, and made haste to arise and take
in the poor crippled, blinded, bleeding creature, who laid himself
panting and moaning at her feet. I hope I need not tell you that she
did not give him up. She prepared a soft bed for him in an old basket,
washed and dressed his wounds, and though every body, especially the
doctor, said he must die, that he was as good as dead then, she was
sure she could fetch him round, and she did fetch him round amazingly.

But alas! Fido’s troubles were not over, even when he got so that he
could hobble about on his three legs, and see tolerably well; for one
cold morning, as he lay curled up in his basket near the kitchen stove,
he was, I grieve to say, terribly scalded by a careless cook, who
spilled a kettle of hot water over him. Even then his mistress refused
to give him up to die, but dressed his burns with sweet oil, or applied
a pain-killer, or “Dalley’s Salve,” and administered Mrs. Winslow’s
Soothing Syrup, perhaps,--anyhow she nursed him so skilfully and
faithfully that she fetched him round again. He is no beauty nowadays,
but alive, and alive like to be. It is my opinion that, like the great
Napoleon, that dog bears a charmed life.




CAT TALES.




FAITHFUL GRIMALKIN.


Many years ago, when my parents lived in old Connecticut, my mother
had a pet cat, a pretty graceful creature, frisky and arch and gay,
though clad in sober gray. She was a favorite with all the large
household, but especially attached herself to my mother, following her
about everywhere,--“up stairs, down stairs, and in my lady’s chamber,”
accompanying her in her walks, hiding behind every bush, and prancing
out upon her in a surprising, not to say startling, manner.

At last she grew out of kittenhood, laid aside, in a measure, kittenish
things, and became the happiest, fondest, proudest feline mamma ever
beheld. She caressed and gloated over her little, blind, toddling,
mewing, miniature tigers in a perfect ecstasy of maternal delight.
Just at this interesting period of pussy’s life our family moved from
the old place to a house in the country, about a mile away. My mother
was ill, and was carried very carefully on a bed from one sick-room to
another. In the hurry, trouble, and confusion of that time, poor pussy,
who lodged with her family in an attic, was quite forgotten. But early
in the morning of the first day in the new house,--a pleasant summer
morning, when all the doors and windows were open,--as my mother lay on
her bed, in a parlor on the first floor, she saw her cat walk into the
hall and look eagerly around. The moment the faithful creature caught
sight of her beloved mistress, she came bounding into the room, across
it, and on to the bed, where she purred and mewed in a delighted, yet
reproachful way, quite hysterical, licking my mother’s hand and rubbing
up against her cheek in a manner that said more plainly than words,
“Ah! my dear madam, didst thou think to leave thy faithful Grimalkin
behind? Where thou goest, I will go.”

She was taken into the kitchen and treated to a cup of new milk; but
after a few moments given to rest and refreshment she disappeared. Yet
she went only to come again in the course of an hour, lugging one of
her kittens, which she deposited on the bed, commended to my mother’s
care, and straightway departed. In an almost incredibly short time
she came bounding in with a second kitten. She continued her journeys
till the whole litter had been safely transported, over hill and
dale, ditches and stone-walls, through perils of unfriendly dogs and
mischievous boys, and the family flitting was complete.

After this, our noble puss was loved and respected more than ever. She
dwelt long in the land, and her kits grew up, I believe, to be worthy
of such a mother.




OBEDIENT THOMAS.


Now I want to give you an instance of filial respect and submission in
a young cat. When we first came to Washington, nearly two years ago,
I took to petting a handsome cat belonging to the relatives with whom
we then lived. I fed and caressed her, and she became very fond of me,
always running to meet me when I entered the garden which she haunted,
or the barn in which she lodged. She was rather wild in her ways, and
so stole a nest, in which she finally hid away some kittens, that she
afterwards reared to be wilder than herself. These somehow disappeared,
all but one, which, when he was about half grown, I undertook to tame.
It was a difficult, tedious job; but I persevered, and at last found
him a more affectionate, docile pet than ever his mother had been.
She had seemed fond of him in his wild, unregenerate days, but as
soon as he became domesticated, and I began to show a partiality for
him, she grew very severe with him, scratching his face and boxing his
ears whenever she saw me caressing him. I soon noticed that when she
was near he was shy, pretending not to be on intimate terms with me;
while, if she was out of the way, I had only to call his name, to have
him come galloping up from the furthest part of the long garden, to
rub against me, to lick my hand, and show every feline fondness and
delight. Now we live at another house, and I seldom see my pets, mother
and son; but they are loving and constant still, proving that the poet
Coleridge didn’t know every thing when he talked about “the little
short memories” of cats.

Master Thomas has grown large and strong, and is accounted a gallant
young fellow by all the young pussies in the neighborhood. But while
toward cats of his own sex he is fierce and combative, he is just as
meek and deferential to his mother as he was in his tender kittenhood.
The other day I encountered him in the old garden, and was surprised to
find how stalwart he had become. I stooped to caress him, and he seemed
as susceptible to gentle overtures as ever, arched his back, switched
his tail, and purred rapturously. Suddenly the mother cat stole out
from behind a tree, and confronted us. “Good morning, madam,” I said,
for I always talk to cats and dogs just as I talk to other people.
“You have a fine son here; a handsome young fellow, that favors you,
I think.” But she wasn’t to be softened by the compliment. She walked
straight up to him, and boxed him first on one ear and then on the
other, quite in the old motherly way. As for him he never thought of
resenting the old lady’s act, or opposing her will, but drooped his
lordly tail, and hastily retreated. Now that is what I call good family
discipline.

This city of Washington is a place where the wits of people are
sharpened, if anywhere, and perhaps even cats and dogs become
uncommonly clever and knowing here. Only yesterday I was told of a
Washington cat which had just been found out in a wonderful trick.
Observing that, when the door-bell rang, the one servant of the
household was obliged to leave the kitchen, she managed to slyly ring
the bell, by jumping up against the wire, and invariably, when her
enemy, the cook, went to the door, she would slip into the kitchen, and
help herself to whatever tempting article of food was within reach. At
last some one watched, and caught her at her secret “wire-pulling.”
Poor puss retired with a drooping tail and a most dejected aspect,
evidently realizing that the game was up.

Another cat I know of was of so amiable and benevolent a disposition
that she actually adopted into her own circle of infant kits a poor,
forlorn little foundling of a _rat_. As her nursling he grew and
thrived, seeming quite as tame as the others; and when a mischievous
boy set a rat-terrier on him, and so finished him, cat and kittens
really seemed to mourn for their foster son and brother.




KATRINA AND KATINKA.

Once on a time--no matter when--in a certain beautiful city--no matter
where--there lived two lovely twin sisters, with the brightest eyes,
and the cunningest little roly-poly figures, and the slenderest ears
with the softest pink satin lining, and the spryest motions imaginable.
They were brunettes in complexion, with white breasts and tail-tips,
and they were kittens. Katrina and Katinka were their names, if I
remember rightly,--maybe I don’t, but anyhow they _might_ have had
those names, which, to my thinking, are very pretty and appropriate
for kittens.

Well, these same twin pussies were singularly fond of each other,
and more singularly good to each other. They never called names,
or scratched, or spat in each other’s pretty faces, or pulled each
other’s little smellers, or quarrelled over their meals. They were so
marvellously alike that it was always difficult to tell them apart; and
when they slept, as they always did, hugged close in each other’s arms,
you couldn’t have told to save you where one kitten left off and the
other kitten began.

They not only slept, ate, and played together, but, as they grew older,
took their strolls for health and recreation and their mouse-hunts
in the same close and loving companionship. They were very curious
and wide-awake little bodies, and liked to see all they could of the
great, busy world; so every pleasant afternoon, when there was much
driving and walking up and down the fine street on which they lived,
they could be seen strolling down the long walk to the gate, always
exactly side by side,--“neck and neck,” as the horse people say,--as
even in their pace, and as perfectly matched in their action, as ever
were a pair of trained ponies in Hyde Park. Reaching the gate, they
would pause and stand quite still for a half-hour or so, gravely
gazing through the palings at the passers,--pedestrians, equestrians,
and drivers of fast horses,--like a pair of dear little brigadiers
reviewing their brigades marching by. Then, with the air of having
discharged a public duty to the entire satisfaction of the community,
they would wheel exactly together, and again, precisely neck and neck
and tail and tail, trot gently homeward.

So they lived on, in and for each other, almost as much united as if
they had been a pair of small feline female Siamese twins, amiable,
loving, and virtuous, and grew in knowledge and stature up to a
comely young cathood. At last it happened that a very interesting
event occurred to the twin sisters at precisely the same time,--they
became happy mothers, were blessed with three or four fine kittens
apiece. But alas! before the little strangers had got fairly to
feel their legs, before they had got their eyes open, all save one
mysteriously disappeared from each nest. It was one fatal morning
when the twin sisters had slipped out of their happy attic apartment
for a little air,--to take their “Constitutional” in a trot down the
long gravel walk to see how the world would look to them now they were
mothers,--that this kit-napping occurred. When they returned to their
families, they found them strangely thinned out; but they were mothers
for all that, and did not seem to fret much, or abate their maternal
pride a jot.

You see the ruling power in the human household in which they were
domesticated, and who was to them as a providence, had ordered
a little hydropathy for their poor, feeble, sprawling, blind
darlings,--beginning with what is called in water-cures “the heroic
treatment,” a cold plunge; and it didn’t agree with them,--it never
does with any but the healthy and hardy patients,--so it was they never
came back. But under the blue waves they sleep well, though never a
mew or a purr comes bubbling up to the surface to tell the spot where
they lie on beds of tangled sea-grass. “_Requies-cat in pace_,” as old
tombstones say.

The next mournful event in this true family history was the untimely
death of Katrina’s one darling. This had proved to be but a frail
flower of kittenhood; very pretty she was,--“too sweet to live,” people
said. Her constitution was defective, her nervous system was extremely
delicate. Before she was a week old she had something alarmingly like
a fit of _cat_alepsy. Suddenly, while imbibing nourishment, with her
fond mother purring over her, and two or three children looking on
in smiling sympathy, she gave a piteous wild mew, rolled over on her
back, and stuck up her four little legs and laid out her little tail
stiff as a poker! On the ninth day of her little life she opened her
blinking blue eyes on this great wonderful world, in which she had as
good a right to be as you or I; but she didn’t seem to like the looks
of things, for she soon closed those small eyes again, and never opened
them more. Life was evidently too hard a conundrum for her poor, weak
little brain, and she gave it up.

Of course Katrina was greatly afflicted, but she did not abandon
herself utterly to grief. Had not her sister a kitten left? and had
not they two always had every thing in common? So as soon as the
sympathetic children had buried her dead out of her sight under a
lilac-bush, she went straightway to Katinka, and, with her full
consent, began to divide with her the duties and joys of maternity.
All three just cuddled down together in one nest; from mamma or
auntie Master Catkin took nourishment, just as it suited his whim
or convenience, and, as you might suppose, he grew and thrived
astonishingly. So equal and perfect was this partnership in the kitten,
that it was impossible for a stranger to tell which of the two cats was
the real mother. One day all three were brought down to the parlor to
amuse some visitors. Both mammas seemed equally nervous about having
the baby kitten handled, and presently one of them caught it by the
neck,--the cat’s usual, immemorial way of transporting her young,--and
started with it for the attic; when, to the surprise and immense
amusement of all present, the other caught hold of the tail, and so the
two bore it away in triumph.

After this I am afraid the children gave the little kitten rather more
travelling than he liked. It was such fun to see the two anxious cats
following him, mewing, and at the first chance catching him up, and
lugging him home in that absurd manner. Generally the real certain true
mother seized on the head, but sometimes she was magnanimous enough to
yield the post of honor to the aunt, and take to the tail herself.

So things went on for a few weeks, and then there happened to this
estimable cat-family another sad event,--for this is a tragedy I am
writing, though you may not have suspected it,--Katinka died! What
of has never yet been decided; physicians differed about it, and the
coroner could not make it out. But this much is certain, Katinka
died. The grief of Katrina was and is very affecting to behold.
She mopes, she mews, and her slender tail, which she used to carry
erect with such a jaunty air, droops dolefully. She takes no longer
the “Constitutional” trot down the walk to the front gate. Life
seems to have grown dull and wearisome to her, and the pleasures of
mouse-hunting and tree-climbing appear to have lost their zest. If she
remembers at all the halcyon period when much of her precious time
was spent in a dizzy round of gayety, in a swift pursuit of a ball of
cotton, or a futile pursuit of her own tail, it is in sad wonder that
she could ever have been so merry and thoughtless. She grows thin,
neglects her toilet, and often refuses food; but when the children
offer her catnip, she turns languidly away. If she were acquainted with
Shakespeare, she would doubtless say,--“_Canst thou minister to a mind
diseased?_” “_Throw physic to Bose and Jowler,--I’ll none of it!_”

Friendly cat-neighbors call in occasionally, but they cannot console
her. All the petting of the household fails thus far to make her cheery
and playful as once she was. She is fed on the very “milk of human
kindness,” but grief has licked the cream off.

She seems to find her only consolation in her care and affection for
the motherless catkin, and in his fondness for her. I am sorry to
say that he does not show a very deep sense of his loss; perhaps he
is too young to realize it. His good aunt seems sufficient for all
his needs, and he thrives finely, is fat and jolly, and full of all
kittenish pranks and mischievous tricks. Poor Katrina will have a time
with him, I fear, as he is sadly petted and indulged. Such a lazy
rascal as he is too,--don’t earn the salt of his porridge, that is,
if he took it salted,--and, though quite old enough to “go on the war
path,” has never yet killed his mouse, or brought home a rat’s scalp,
or a ground-squirrel’s brush, or as much as a feather from a tomtit’s
wing. Ah! of all the darlings in the world, an aunty’s darling is the
likeliest to be spoiled.

This is all I know about this curious cat-family. I hope, dear
children, that my true story may not sadden you, for I really wish you,
one and all, the merriest of merry Christmases, and the happiest of
happy New Years.

All I can say in the way of a moral to my little story is: How
beautiful is love! even when shown in the fortunes and sorrows of cats
and kittens, how beautiful is love!




FEATHERED PETS.




OUR COUSINS THE PARROTS.


These strangely interesting birds, according to natural history,
belong to the second bird family, the _Psittacidæ_. I never knew how
many wonderful and splendid varieties this family contained until
I saw living varieties of all, or nearly all, in the known world,
in the Zoölogical Gardens of London, where they are kept in a great
gallery,--a beautiful parrot paradise, all by themselves. They were
a wonder to behold, but a perfect astonishment to listen to. The
confusion of tongues was something almost distracting. The Tower of
Babel, in its talkingest day, never approached it, I am sure. A large
sewing-circle of elderly ladies might come nearer the mark. The colors
of their plumage I have no words to describe. They fill my memory with
tropic splendors whenever I think of them, to this day.

’Tis strange that but one species of parrots was known to the ancient
Greeks and Romans,--the Parakeet of India,--at least up to the time of
Nero. That gentle prince, with his amiable love of pets, is said to
have sent emissaries far up the Nile to collect new varieties for the
gratification of his royal whim and dainty appetite; for, when the poor
little captives ceased to amuse him by their conversational powers, he
ate them. I hope they lay hard on his stomach, and made him talk in his
sleep!

The early Portuguese navigators found parrots at the Cape of Good
Hope, and at other points on the African coast; and the very first
creatures that welcomed Columbus to the isles of the New World were
Parakeets. The Macaws of South America are very handsome birds, but
not remarkably tractable or agreeable. They are fond of old friends,
but are fierce to strangers, and have a singular dislike to children.
The gray and scarlet parrot, called the Yaco, is a charming bird for a
pet. It is clever and docile, and learns readily to talk, preferring
to imitate the voices of children. The Cockatoos of New Guinea are
very pretty and graceful pets. They do not like to be caged, but may
be safely allowed to have the range of the premises, as they will
immediately come when called; thus setting an excellent example to
rebellious children. The green parrot, most common in this country, is
a native of Africa.

Dear old Dr. Goldsmith, whose Natural History is all out of fashion
now, except with us old folks, tells some amusing stories about
parrots. Among these is an anecdote of a famous fellow, belonging to
King Henry the Seventh, Queen Elizabeth’s grandfather. This bird,
sitting on his perch in the palace-yard at Westminster, used to
hear the talk of gentlemen who came to the river to take boats. And
one day, while overlooking the busy traffic of the Thames, he fell
from a tree into the water; and while there, floating helplessly, he
cried: “A boat! twenty pounds for a boat!” A waterman rescued him, and
took him to the king, demanding his twenty pounds. The king, who was
not remarkably generous, hesitated about giving so large a sum; but
finally agreed to leave the amount of the reward to the parrot. That
ungrateful fellow, who sat on his perch, still shaking the water from
his feathers, when appealed to, turned his head slyly on one side, and
said, “Give the knave a groat” (about fourpence). I hope, children,
you won’t doubt the truth of this story; it isn’t good to get into
sceptical habits of mind in early life.

For many years there lived in the porter’s lodge of the old
Pennsylvania Hospital a distinguished and venerable citizen,--a parrot
of rare cleverness and intelligence. This famous bird belonged to the
porter, and was one of many feathered pets, the chief favorite and
familiar. A remarkable affection and sympathy existed between these
two friends; yet I am sorry to say their relations were not altogether
pleasant and peaceful. Innumerable were their quarrels and make-ups.
The bird was very knowing, and almost supernaturally gifted as a
talker, especially, like some human orators, in the language of railing
and taunting. The old man, his master, had one deplorable weakness,--he
would occasionally drink too much whiskey; so much that, getting quite
beside himself, he would leave his lodge and his innocent feathered
family, and go off on a desperate spree, which sometimes lasted for
days. Now, Master Paul Parrot thought this weakness, through which he
suffered in loneliness and neglect, very reprehensible and not to be
winked at, and when the fit of dissipation was coming on his master,
it is said, would remonstrate with him, in a friendly way, like a very
Mentor. When this proved in vain, and he saw the misguided old man
leave the lodge for some of his disreputable haunts, he would endeavor
to put a good face on the matter, would hop about on his perch in great
excitement, and call out to the other birds: “The old man has gone on a
spree!--on a spree! He won’t be back for a week! Let’s have a time. Ha,
ha!”

When the old porter came home, this naughty bird would be very apt
to mock and taunt him, calling out: “So you’ve come back,--have you?
O, how drunk you are! Now we’ll have a row.” And there always was a
row; for the indignant porter never failed to beat Mr. Paul, for his
impudence, soundly. Then the bird, seeking the dignified retirement of
the darkest corner of the lodge, sulked and muttered, till, the old
porter’s good-humor returning, he made friendly overtures. The two were
reconciled, and “every thing was lovely” again.

At length the poor old porter died; and as his successor was no
bird-fancier the feathered family at the lodge was broken up and
dispersed. The clever parrot was kindly treated in a new home; but he
never seemed happy. He evidently missed his old master,--missed his
caresses and his scoldings. Or perhaps he found the steady goings-on of
a moral household too dull for his taste, for when I went to see him, I
found him as glum, stupid, and morose as an old politician who had had
his day. All he would say was, “O you goose!”

There is another curious parrot in Philadelphia, in a store kept by a
maiden lady whose voice is so exceeding shrill and parrot-like that it
is difficult to tell when she leaves off talking and the parrot begins.
One day, as a customer was examining an article on the counter, Miss
Polly called out: “What are you doing with that? Put it down! put it
down!” The lady looked round very indignantly for the offender, saying:
“Well, ma’am, I must say you have a very impudent child.”

There is in the same city another parrot, who recites a verse of an old
song in a most distinct and triumphant manner:--

  “O pretty Polly,
    Don’t you cry,
  For your true-love
    Will come by and by.”

There is in Brooklyn, New York, a parrot that sings many of the popular
airs correctly, and with as much expression as many fashionable singers
give to them. This bird is singularly social and affectionate, and
has a horror of being alone. He will sometimes awake in the middle
of the night, and arouse the household by crying: “O dear! I am all
alone!--all alone! Somebody come to me!”

I have heard much of a clever parrot once kept by some relatives of
ours on an old place in a quiet little village. Mistress Polly had free
range of the house and yard, and throughout the town was as well known
as the oldest inhabitant. Through all the pleasant weather she haunted
the tall trees in front of the house, climbing to the highest branches,
and from there superintending the affairs of the neighborhood, and
making astronomical and meteorological observations. In the spring
and autumn she watched from these lofty perches the flight of great
flocks of pigeons and crows with intense but decidedly unfriendly
interest. She would scream and scold at them in a most insolent and
defiant manner, evidently criticising the order of their march and all
their manœuvres and evolutions, for all the world like a newspaper
editor finding fault with the conduct of great armies. Doubtless she
was astonished and disgusted to see the great host sweep steadily
on, following their leader, paying no heed to her shrieking, railing,
and evil prophecies. Yet she was never so absorbed by her duties on
the watch-tower that she failed to come to her meals. These she took
with the family, perched on the back of a chair or the corner of the
table. She was very fond of coffee, and was always provided with a
cup. She would take it up by the handle with her claws, and drink from
it without spilling a drop. A terrible gossip and busybody was she,
talking perpetually and doing all the mischief that lay in her power.
She was the terror and torment of all cats and kittens; for, wary and
watchful as they might be, Polly was always surprising them by attacks
in the rear, and cunning ambuscades and flank movements. Nothing more
still and soft-footed could be imagined than her approaches; nothing
more sly, sudden, and sharp than the nips she gave with her horrid
hooked bill. A cat’s extended tail was especially tempting to her. She
generally fought the battle out on that line. “In maiden meditation
fancy free,” this parrot roamed about the yard, and laughed and railed
at patient sitting hens, and the proud mothers of newly hatched chicks
and ducklings. Sometimes she would follow a brood about, sneering
and advising, until the poor mother was in an agony of worriment. At
last she came to grief in this way. A spirited speckled hen, with a
fine brood of young ones, tired of being snubbed and of hearing her
offspring depreciated, and shocked at seeing the domestic virtues set
at naught by a flaunting foreign fowl of infidel sentiments, turned
upon her, sprang upon her back, and began pecking and tearing at her
sleek plumage like mad! The feathers fell all around, like a shower of
green snow; and the parrot began screaming with all her might: “Let up!
Let up! Poor Polly! Poor Polly!”

Her mistress came to the rescue, and Polly skulked away to her cage,
where she remained several days, sullen and deeply humiliated; but when
she emerged from her retirement she gave the hens and chickens a wide
berth.

Several parrots, the pets and companions of religious persons, have
been distinguished by their piety, or what passed for such. These
have usually belonged to devout Catholics. I have read of one, named
_Vert-Vert_,--the inmate of a convent in France, and taught by the
holy nuns,--who was esteemed a most blessed and miraculously gifted
bird. His fame spread far and wide. Many made pilgrimages to the
convent to be edified by his pious exhortations; and at last the nuns
of another convent, in a distant province, solicited the loan of him
for a few months, for the good of their souls. He went forth as a
sort of feathered apostle, followed by the prayers and blessings of
the bereaved sisters, and looking very solemn and important. But,
unfortunately, on his journey, he was compelled to spend a night on a
steamer; and being kept awake by such new scenes, and perhaps a little
sea-sickness, he listened too much to the unprofitable and profane talk
of the sailors and some soldiers who were on board. And so it happened
that, when he reached the convent, where he was received with great
joy and impressive religious ceremonies, instead of edifying the good
sisters with exhortations and chants, delivered in a grave, decorous
manner, he horrified them by shouting like a rough old sea-captain
and swearing like a major-general, while he assumed the most knowing,
rollicking air imaginable. Those saintly women stopped their ears,
and fled from him as though he had been a demon-bird, and he was
immediately sent home in utter disgrace. There, through fasts and
penances, he was brought round to more correct habits and behavior; but
he never became the shining light he had been before his sudden fall.
No more pilgrimages were made to his perch. Though grown a sadder and a
wiser bird, it was impossible to tell whether he most sorrowed for his
fault or regretted the wicked world of which he had had a taste. Still
he made a good end, I believe, within the convent’s hallowed cloisters.

A certain pious cardinal in Rome once gave a hundred crowns in gold for
a parrot that could repeat the Apostles’ Creed. Another religiously
trained parrot once served as a chaplain on board of a ship,--actually
reciting the service for the sailors, who listened and responded with
becoming solemnity. I have never seen a clerical parrot; but I have
seen clergymen who suggested parrots. By the way, the parrot would
make a very economical sort of minister. After the first cost of the
bird, his education, and a respectable cage or parsonage, there would
be no demands on the congregation for increase of salary. As he would
have no scruples about repeating old sermons, he would not desire new
fields of labor. Parrots seldom have any family, so he would expect
no donation-parties. They never have dyspepsia, so he would require
no trips to Europe. He would not, I fear, be very popular in the
sewing-circles and Dorcas societies,--for he would talk down all the
ladies.

       *       *       *       *       *

A dear young friend of ours has a lovely pair of turtle-doves, that are
constantly making love to each other, these soft spring days, in that
delicious, drowsy honey-moon coo, “most musical, most melancholy.”

Awhile ago the disastrous experiment was tried, of putting these doves
into the cage with a parrot. Miss Polly did not fancy her dainty
visitors in the least. She glared at them as they cuddled together
in a corner, eying her askance, and murmuring in the sweet dove
dialect,--Madame Columba very timidly, and Monsieur in a tender,
reassuring tone. Miss Polly abominated such soft, love-sick voices,
and such a parade of matrimonial bliss and affection just exasperated
her; so she pitched into them, scolding fearfully at first, but soon
coming to blows with her wings, then to scratching and pecking with
her steel-like claws and fearful, hooked bill. When the hapless pair
were rescued, it was found that the husband, who had fought gallantly
to protect his wife, had met with a serious loss, in the upper part
of his bill, which had been quite bitten off by that inhospitable old
termagant, who had doubtless thought thus to put an end to his billing
and cooing.

The poor fellow lost some glossy feathers in this encounter. They
have been replaced, but the broken beak has never been restored. Thus
maimed, he is only able to drink from a perfectly full cup, and his
loving mate invariably stands back till his thirst is satisfied. She
also feeds him when he has difficulty in eating, and always carefully
plumes him, as he can no longer perform that service for himself.
Indeed, she attends to his toilet before her own. No fond wife of a
disabled soldier could surpass her in watchful care and devotion. What
a touching little lesson is this, of tender, faithful love! I wonder if
he would have done as much for her. Let us hope so.




THE BENEVOLENT SHANGHAI.


I have long wished to record the admirable behavior of a certain
Shanghai rooster, once belonging to a relative of ours in the West.
This fowl was old, but he was tender; he was ugly, but he was virtuous,
as you shall see. One of the hens of his flock died suddenly and
mysteriously,--of too many family cares, perhaps, for she left a brood
of twelve hearty, clamorous young chickens. One of the children, the
poet of the family, said:--

  “Grandfather Shanghai
  Stood sadly by,
  And saw her die,
  With a tear in his eye.”

Perhaps he received her last instructions,--her dying bequest. If so,
never was a legatee more burdened with responsibilities; for from that
hour the good rooster adopted all those chickens, and devoted himself
to them. When the fowls were fed, he guarded their portion; he watched
over them when hawks were hovering near; he scratched and fought for
them and stalked around after them all day, and at night, after leading
the other fowls to roost, he would descend from the old pear-tree,
gather those poor sleepy little things under him, and do his best to
brood them. His legs were so long and stiff that it was a difficult
job. First he would droop one wing down to shelter them; then, seeing
that they were exposed on the other side, would let down the other.
Then, finding that he could not keep both down at once, he would try
to crouch lower, and would sometimes tip himself entirely over. It was
a laughable sight, I assure you. But somehow he managed to keep them
warm, to feed them, and bring them up in the way they should go; and I
hope they always loved him, and never made fun of their gaunt, ungainly
old guardian, when they grew up, and went among the other young people
of the farm-yard, especially when chatting with the foreign fowls, the
proud Spanish hens, and the pretty Dorking pullets.




THE GALLANT BANTAM.


I have observed that while the Bantam pullet is a quiet, modest, little
pantaletted lady, the Bantam cockerel always makes up in big feeling
for what he lacks in size. A gentleman farmer owned a Bantam of this
sort, that was always full and bubbling over with fight. He would go
at any gentleman-fowl in the yard, with beak and spur. He would defy
the fiercest old gander, and challenge the biggest “cock of the walk”
to mortal combat. At last he grew so uncomfortably quarrelsome, and
presented such a disreputable appearance,--having had the best part
of his tail-feathers torn out, and his spurs broken off,--that his
master was obliged to put him out to board with a nice old lady who
had no fighting fowls for him to contend with. It was hoped that he
would be content to tarry in that Jericho until his tail-feathers
should be grown; but one day, when his master paid a visit to his good
neighbor, he found the little Bantam with his head badly swollen, and
with a patch over one eye and across his beak, placed there by the kind
old lady. He had gone outside the yard, and picked a quarrel with a
strange rooster, only about six times his size, and been pretty badly
punished.

A short time after, a big turkey gobbler was added to the feathered
community of that farm-yard, the old lady not dreaming of the Bantam
cock daring to make hostile demonstrations against such a potentate.
But she had done our little hero injustice. As soon as he saw the
mighty spread the arrogant old fellow was making, he just gathered
himself up, and “went for him,” if I may use a slang expression, which
I know boys, at least, will understand only too well.

The big gobbler looked down upon him at first in contemptuous
astonishment, as much as to say, “What fooling is this?” But when he
saw that the fiery little fellow was in earnest, he just struck him one
blow with his terrible wing, and--well, the gallant Bantam went “on
his raids no more.” He was served as another savage Turkey served poor
Crete. This is a world of tragedies and downfalls.

On a late visit to the Central Park, we noticed, among the collection
of fowls there, a Bantam cock, of the very smallest pattern, that
yet seemed to have a big, gallant heart. We saw him in one of his
soft moments, when, in fact, he was making love. He had been very
ambitious in selecting the object of his adoration, for he was actually
paying his addresses to a full-sized Shanghai hen, who was in a large
cage, separated from him by a light lattice. He would strut up and
down before her, ruffling his fine feathers, and making eyes at her.
Sometimes he would dance up sideways, declaring his passion with a
soft, musical murmur, that sounded like “coort, coort,” which it would
seem she could hardly resist; but she did,--not so much as a feather
on her breast was stirred by his appeal; she regarded him in placid
disdain. Indeed, it was almost as funny to watch the tiny, strutting
little creature making love to that superior fowl, as it would be to
see Commodore Nutt courting Miss Swan, the giantess.

  “So daring in love and so dauntless in war,
  Have ye e’er heard of knight like the young Lochinvar?”




THE DISOWNED CHICKS.


I have a friend living in the very heart of the big city of Chicago,
who owns several hens of rare varieties, and a flock of young chickens
of remarkable promise. She keeps them in her back-yard, which they
utterly devastate, not suffering a green thing to live, making it
look like a small copy of the Desert of Sahara. Yet she says keeping
them reminds her of the country! She is a very poetic and imaginative
lady. It is very likely that a hand-organ reminds her of music, and
fish-balls of the mighty, briny deep.

One of this good lady’s hens is a handsome, stately fowl, dressed in
gray satin, and wearing a top-knot that is like a crown of silver. She
has one chicken, almost full-grown,--the last of many lively children,
the victims of rats and the pip. Of him she is very fond. There was, at
one time, great danger that he would be spoiled,--for she toiled for
him all day, trotting about everywhere with him “at her apron-strings,”
so to speak; and she actually broods him at night, though, do the best
she can in spreading herself, she can’t take in all of his tail, unless
she lets his head stick out somewhere. Thus he is content to sleep
ingloriously, when he ought to be roosting on some lofty perch, ready
to greet the first streak of dawn with a brave crow, prophetic of the
day.

A few weeks ago another hen, a young pullet, dressed gayly every
day in gold and brown, with a gorgeous top-knot, came, one morning,
triumphantly out from under the porch, with a large flock of charming
little chicklings, who toddled along after her, and glanced up at
the sky, and round on the earth,--that vast sandy plain of the
back-yard,--in a most knowing and patronizing manner. Nobody would have
guessed it was their first day out of the shell. They were not going to
show their greenness,--not they.

For a while those downy, yellow, cunning little roly-poly creatures
seemed to amuse their mother; she appeared fond of them, taking
pleasure in parading them before such of her neighbors as were
chickenless. But she was a giddy biddy, lazy and selfish; so, as soon
as she found that she must scratch to fill so many little crops, she
threw up maternity in disgust. She actually cast off her whole brood,
pecked at them, and scolded them till they ran from her in fright,
and huddled together in a corner of the fence, peeping piteously,
and doubtless wishing they had never been hatched. Perhaps some were
chicken-hearted enough to wish for death to end their troubles, till
they caught sight of some ugly old rat prowling about “seeking whom
he might devour,” when they reconsidered the matter, and took a more
cheerful view of life.

Well, it came to pass that the excellent gray hen, with the one big
chicken, seeing their forlorn condition, pitied them exceedingly, and
actually adopted the whole flock. Only think, children, it was as
though your mother should adopt a small orphan asylum, and all of them
twins!

She toils for them and protects them all day, treating them in all
respects as her own chicks, till sundown; then, not having room for
them under her wings without dislodging her only son and heir, she
always escorts them up the steps of the porch and sees them go to
bed in a little box, which has been prepared for them by their kind
mistress, with a cover of slats to guard them from rats and cats and
bats and owls, and every thing that prowls or lies in wait for small
fowls. Well, when she has seen the last chick tumble in, and cuddle
down to its place with a sleepy good-night “peep,” to be brooded under
the invisible wings of the soft summer night, that good, motherly
creature descends with stately dignity from the porch to her own
sleeping apartment underneath, when she mounts on a box, and, calling
her one long-legged darling, does her best to hover him, and to make
believe he is a baby-chicken still. In the morning she is astir
betimes, scratching and pecking for him and his adopted brothers and
sisters with wonderful impartiality. I must do this same big chicken
the justice to say that he has never made any violent opposition
to this sudden addition to the family; but he has rather a haughty
manner towards the little interlopers, and could we understand the
sort of Chickasaw language he speaks, we might find him occasionally
remonstrating with his maternal parent in this wise: “Really, mother,
it strikes me you are running your benevolence into the ground, in
scratching your nails off for a lot of other hen’s chickens! such
things don’t pay, ma’am; charity begins at home, and one would think
you had enough on your claws, in providing for the wants of a growing
young cockerel like me, without doing missionary work. Besides, you
are encouraging idleness and shiftlessness; it just sticks in my crop
to have you burden yourself with the cast-off responsibilities of that
impudent pullet, who goes cawking lazily about, carrying her top-knot
as high as ever.”

The conduct of that unnatural young mother is, indeed, reprehensible.
At meal-times she always comes elbowing her way through the crowd of
her virtuous neighbors, to secure the largest share of corn-mush,
not hesitating to rob her own children! She will be likely to have
a disturbing and demoralizing influence on the female feathered
community. She shirks her duties,--declines to lay eggs lest chickens
should come of them. She believes the chicken population is too
large already for the average supply of chickweed and grubworms. She
discourages nest-making, and despises her weak-minded sisters, who, in
spite of her warning, persist in laying, sitting, and hatching; who
really believe in the innocence of chickenhood, and actually love to
brood their chicks, to feel the soft little things stir against their
breasts, and to hear now and then, in the still, dark night, their
drowsy “peep, peep.” She goes against all such silly sentiment and
loving slavery. She pities any poor pullet who has to spend her days in
a coop, especially in Chicago. She is a sort of hen-emancipator, and
strolls about at “her own sweet will,” “in maiden meditation, fancy
free.”

If she could have the management of the hatchway, all chickens
would be hatched with equal rights to wear the spur, and with equal
gifts of crest and crow; all hatching would be done by steam, in a
general incubatorium at government expense, in a way to astonish all
grandmother Biddies; sittings would be abolished, coops levelled to the
earth, and the sound of the cluck be heard no more in the land.

As for the poor cast-off chicks, they grow and thrive, get more steady
on their legs, and put out tiny tail-feathers, tinged with gold, as the
bright summer days go on. They doubtless think that their first mother
was a mistake, and that their second mother is the certain true one,
and honor her silver top-knot accordingly.

So you see, dear children, there is a Providence for little chickens,
as well as for little sparrows.


THE END.


Cambridge: Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.