Chapter Thirty Two.Harry’s Holiday—King John; or, The Tale of a Tub—Sindbad; or, the Dog of Penellan.“Country life,—let us confess it,Man will little help to bless it,Yet, for gladness thereWe may readily possess itIn its native air.“Rides and rambles, sports and farming,Home, the heart for ever warming,Books and friends and ease,Life must after all be charming,Full of joys like these.”Tupper.“I’m not sure, Ida, that you will like the following story. There is truth in it, though, and a moral mixed up with it which you may unravel if you please. I call it—”Harry’s Holiday.“The hero of my little story was a London boy. Truth is, he had spent all the days and years of his young life in town. I do not think that he had ever, until a certain great event in his life took place, seen even the suburbs of the great city in which it was his lot to reside. His whole world consisted of stone walls, so to speak, of an interminable labyrinth of streets and lanes and terraces, for ever filled with a busy multitude, hurrying to and fro in the pursuit of their avocations. I believe he got to think at last that there was nothing, that therecouldbe nothing beyond this mighty London; and of country life, with all its joys and pleasures, he knew absolutely nothing. A tree to him was merely a dingy, sooty kind of shrub, that grew in the squares; flowers were gaudy vegetables used in window decorations; a lark was a bird that spent all its life in a box-cage, chiefly, in the neighbourhood of Seven Dials. As to trees growing in woods and in forests where the deer and the roe live wild and free; as to flowers carpeting the fields with a splendour of bloom; as to larks mounting high in air to troll their happy songs—he had not even the power of conception. True, he had read of such things, just as he had read of the moon as seen through a telescope, and the one subject was just as vague to him as the other.“Harry at this time was, I fear, just a little sceptical. He lacked in a great measure that excellent quality, without which there would be very little real happiness in this world—I mean faith. He only believed in what he really saw and could understand, from which, of course, you will readily infer that his mind was neither a very comprehensive nor a very clever one. And you are right.“Harry was not a strong boy; his face was pale, his eyes were large and lustrous, his poor little arms and legs were far from robust, and you could have found plenty of country lads who measured twice as much round the chest as Harry. Well, his parents, who really did all they could for their boy, were very pleased when one morning the postman brought them a letter from the far north, inviting their little son to come and spend a long autumn holiday at the farm of Dunryan, in the wilds of Aberdeenshire. He was to go all alone in the steamboat, simply in care of the steward, who promised to be very kind to him and look well after his comforts. And so he did, too; but I think that from the very moment that the great ship began to drop down the river, leaving the city behind it, with all its smoke and its gloom, Harry began to be a new boy. A new current of life seemed to begin to circulate in his veins, a better state of feeling to take possession of his soul. There was no end to the wonders Harry saw during his voyage to Aberdeen. The sea itself was a sight which until now he could not have imagined—could not have even dreamed of. Then there was the long line of wonderful coast. He had seen a panorama, but that couldn’t have been very large, because it was contained within the four stone walls of a concert-room. But here was a panorama gradually unrolling itself before his astonished gaze hundreds and hundreds of miles in extent. No wonder that his eyes dilated as he beheld it: the black, beetling cliffs that frowned over the ocean’s depths; the beautiful sandy beaches; the broad bays, with cities slumbering in the mists beyond; the green-topped hills; the waving woods; the houses; the palaces; and the grey old ruined castles that told of the might and strength of ages past and gone. All and every one of these seemed to whisper to Harry—seemed to tell him that there were more wonderful things even in this world than he had ever before believed in.“When night came on, the stars shone out—stars more beautiful than he had ever seen before—so clear, so large, so bright. And they carried his thoughts far, far beyond the earth. In their pure presence he felt a better boy than ever he had felt before, but at the same time he could not help feeling ashamed of that feeling of unbelief that had possessed him in London. He was beginning to have faith already—a little, at all events. Were I to tell you of all Harry’s adventures, and all the strange sights he saw ere he reached Aberdeen, I would have quite a long story to relate. His uncle met him at the pier with a dog-cart, into which he helped him, the handsome, spirited horse giving just one look round, to see who was getting up. When he saw this mite of a hero of ours,—“‘Oh,’ said the horse to himself, ‘he won’t make much additional weight. I’d trot along with a hundred of such as he is.’“So away they went. Now Harry had been taught to look upon London as the finest and prettiest town in the world; but when he rattled along the wide and magnificent streets of the capital of the north, he found ample reason to alter his opinion. Here was no smoke—here was a sun shining down from a sky of cerulean hue, and here were houses built apparently of the costliest and whitest of marble. On went the dog-cart, and the closely-built streets gave place to avenues and terraces, and rows of palatial buildings peeping up through the greenery of trees.“Harry was a little tired that night before he reached the good farm of Dunryan; but his aunt and cousins were kindness itself, and after a bigger and nicer supper than ever he had eaten before in his life, he was shown to his snow-white couch, and the next thing he became conscious of was that the sun was shining broad and clearly into his chamber, and there was a perfect babel of sounds right down under his window, sounds that a country boy would easily have understood, but which were worse than Greek to Harry. He soon jumped out of bed, however, washed and dressed, and then opened the casement and looked down. I have already told you that Harry’s eyes were large, but the sight he now witnessed made him open them considerably wider than he had done for many a day. A vast courtyard crowded with feathered bipeds of every kind that could be imagined. Harry hurried on with his toilet, so that he might be able to go downstairs and examine them more closely.“Everybody was glad to see him, but he had to eat his breakfast all alone nevertheless, for his cousins had been up and had theirs hours and hours before. One of his relatives was a pretty little auburn-haired lass of some nine or ten summers, with blue, laughing eyes, and modest mien. She volunteered to show Harry round the farm. But Harry felt just a little afraid nevertheless, and considerably ashamed for being so, when he found himself in the great yard quite surrounded by hens and ducks and gobbling geese and turkeys. I think the animals themselves knew this, and did all they could to frighten him. The hens were content with cackling and grumbling, evidently trying to incite the cocks to acts of open hostility against our trembling hero. The cocks crew loudly at him, or defiantly approached him, looking as if they meant to imply that he owed it entirely to their generosity that his life was spared. The turkey-cocks put themselves into all sorts of queer shapes—tried to look like fretful porcupines, elevated the red rag that Harry was astonished to see depending from their noses, and made terrible noises at him. The ducks were content with standing on tiptoe, clapping their snow-white wings, and crying, ‘What! what! what!’ at the top of their voices. The peahens were merely curious and impertinent; but the geese were alarmingly intrusive. They stretched out their necks to the longest extent, approached him thus, and gave vent to hissings unutterable by any other creature than a goose.“‘They won’t bite or anything, will they?’ faltered our hero, feeling very small indeed.“But his little companion only laughed right merrily. Then taking Harry’s hand, she ran him off to show him more wonders—great horses that looked to the London boy as big as elephants; enormous oxen as big as rhinoceroses; donkeys that looked wiser than he could have believed it possible for a donkey to look; and goats that looked simply mischievous and nothing else. What a blessing it was for Harry that he had such a wise little guardian and mentor as his Cousin Lizzie. She went everywhere with him, and explained away all his doubts and difficulties. Ay, and she chaffed him not a little either, and laughed at all his queer mistakes; but I think she pitied him a good deal at the same time. ‘Poor boy,’ Lizzie used to think to herself, ‘he has never been out of London before. What can he know?’“Little Lizzie had the same kind pity on Harry’s physical weakness as she had for his mental. Her cousin couldn’t climb the broom-clad hills as she could—not at first, at all events; but after one month’s stay in this wild, free country, new life and spirit seemed to be instilled into him. He could climb hills now fast enough; and he was never tired wandering in the dark pine forests, or over the mountains that were now bedecked in the glorious purple of the heather’s bloom.“Harry’s uncle gave him many a bit of good advice, which went far to dispel both his doubts and fears, and that means his ignorance; for only the very ignorant dare to doubt what they cannot understand. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth,’ said his uncle one day, ‘than we have dreamed of in our philosophy. What would you think of my honest dog there if he told you the electric telegraph was an impossibility, simply becausehecouldn’t understand it? Have faith, boy, have faith.’“But would it be believed that this boy, this London boy, didn’t know where chickens came from? He really didn’t. Very little things sometimes form the turning-point in the history of great men, and lead them to a better train of thought. For remember that our mighty rivers that bear great navies to the ocean, like mighty thoughts, have very small beginnings.“Harry observed a hen one day in a very great blaze of excitement. Her chickens were hatching. One after another they were popping out of the shell, and going directly to seek for food. One little fellow, who had just come out, was clapping his wings and stretching himself as coolly as if he had just come by train, and was glad the journey was over. This was all very wonderful to Harry; it led him to think; the thought led to wisdom and faith.“Harry took a long walk that day in his favourite pine forest, and for the first time in his life, it struck him that every creature he saw there had some avocation; flies, beetles, and birds, all were working. Says Harry to himself, ‘I, too, will be industrious. I may yet be something in this great world, in which I am now convinced everything is well ordained.’“He kept that resolve firmly, unflinchingly; he is, while I write, one of the wealthiest merchants in London city; he is happy enough in this world, and has something in his breast which enables him to look beyond.”“Now one other,” said Ida; “I know you have lots of pretty tales in that old portfolio.”“Well,” I said, smiling, “here goes; and then you’ll sleep.”King John; or, The Tale of a Tub.“King John, he called himself, but every human being about the farm of Buttercup Hill called him Jock—simply that, and nothing else. But Jock, or King John, there was one thing that nobody could deny—he was not only the chief among all the other fowls around him, but he thought himself a very important and a very exalted bird indeed; and no wonder that he clapped his wings and crowed defiance at any one who chanced to take particular notice of him, or that he asked in defiant tones, ‘Kokaikuk uk?’ with strong emphasis on the ‘aik,’ and which in English means, ‘How dare you stand and stare atme?’“King John’s tail was a mass of nodding plumage of the darkest purple, his wattles and comb were of the rosiest red, his wings and neck were crimson and gold, and his batonlike legs were armed with spurs as long as one’s little finger, and stronger and sharper than polished steel. Had you dared to go too near any one of his feathered companions—that is, those whom he cared about—you would have repented it the very next minute, and King John’s spurs would have been brought into play. But Jock wouldn’t have objected to your admiring them, so long as you kept at a respectable distance, on the other side of the fence, for instance. And pretty fowls they were—most of them young too—golden-pencilled Hamburgs, sprightly Spaniards, and sedate-looking Dorkings, to say nothing of two ancient grand hens of no particular breed at all, but who, being extremely fat and imposing in appearance, were admitted to the high honour of roosting every night one on each side of the king, and were moreover taken into consultation by him, in every matter likely to affect the interests of his dynasty, or the welfare of the junior members of the farmyard.“Now Jock was deeply impressed with the dignity of the office he held. He was a very proud king—though, to his credit be it said, he was also a very good king. And never since he had first mounted his throne—an old water-tub, by the way—and sounded his shrill clarion, shouting a challenge to every cock or king within hearing—never, I say, had he been known to fill his own crop of a morning until the crops of all the hens about him were well packed with all good comestibles. Such then was Jock, such was King John. But, mind you, this gallant bird had not been a king all his life. No, and neither had he been born a prince. There was a mystery about his real origin and species. Judging from the colour of the egg from which he was hatched, Jockoughtto have been a Cochin. But Jock was nothing of the sort, as one glance at our picture will be sufficient to convince you. But I think it highly probable that the egg in question was stained by some unprincipled person, to cause it to look like that of the favourite Cochin. Be that as it may, Jock was duly hatched, and in course of time was fully fledged, and one day attempted to crow, for which little performance he was not only pecked on the back by the two fat old hens, but chased all round the yard by King Cockeroo, who was then lord and master of the farmyard. When he grew a little older he used to betake himself to places remote from observance, and study the song of chanticleer. But the older he grew the prettier he grew, and the prettier he grew the more King Cockeroo seemed to dislike him; indeed, he thrashed him every morning and every evening, and at odd times during the day, so that at last Jock’s life became most unbearable. One morning, however, when glancing downwards at his legs, he observed that his spurs had grown long and strong and sharp, and after this he determined to throw off for ever the yoke of allegiance to cruel King Cockeroo; he resolved to try the fortune of war even, and if he lost the battle, he thought to himself he would be no worse off than before.“Now on the following day young Jock happened to find a nice large potato, and said he to himself, ‘Hullo! I’m fortunate to-day; I’ll have such a nice breakfast.’“‘Will you indeed?’ cried a harsh voice quite close to his ear, and he found himself in the dread presence of King Cockeroo, a very large yellow Cochin China. ‘Will you indeed?’ repeated his majesty. ‘How dareyouattempt to eat awholepotato. Put it down at once and leave the yard.’“‘I won’t,’ cried the little cock, quite bravely.“‘Then I’ll make you,’ roared the big one.“‘Then I shan’t,’ was the bold reply.“Now, like all bullies, King Cockeroo was a coward at heart, so the battle that followed was of short duration, but very decisive for all that, and in less than five minutes King Cockeroo was flying in confusion before his young but victorious enemy.“When he had left the yard, the long-persecuted but now triumphant Jock mounted his throne—the afore-mentioned water-butt—and crew and crew and crew, until he was so hoarse that he couldn’t crow any longer; then he jumped down and received the congratulations of all the inhabitants of the farmyard. And that is how Jock became King John.“The poor deposed monarch never afterwards dared to come near the yard, in which he had at one time reigned so happily. He slept no longer on his old roost, but was fain to perch all alone on the edge of the garden barrow in the tool-house. He found no pleasure now in his sad and sorrowful life, except in eating; and having no one to share his meals with him, he began to get lazy and fat, and every day he got lazier and fatter, till at last it was all he could do to move about with anything like comfort. When he wanted to relieve his mind by crowing, he had to waddle away to a safe distance from the yard, or else King John would have flown upon him and pecked him most cruelly.“And now those very fowls, who once thought so much of him, used to laugh when they heard him crowing, and remark to young King John—“‘Just listen to that asthmatical old silly,’ for his articulation was not so distinct as it formerly was.“‘Kurr-r-r!’ the new king would reply, ‘he’d better keep at a respectable distance, or cock-a-ro-ri-ko! I’ll—I’ll eat him entirely up!’“‘I think,’ said the farmer of Buttercup Hill one day to his wife—‘I think we’d better have t’ould cock for our Sunday’s dinner.’“‘Won’t he be a bit tough?’ his good wife replied.“‘Maybe, my dear,’ said the farmer, ‘but fine and fat, and plenty of him, at any rate.’“Poor Cockeroo, what a fall was his! And oh! the sad irony of fate, for on the very morning of this deposed monarch’s execution, the sun was shining, the birds singing, the corn springing up and looking so green and bonny; and probably the last thing he heard in life was King John crowing, as he proudly perched himself on the edge of his water-tub throne. One could almost afford to drop a tear of pity for the dead King Cockeroo, were it possible to forget that, while in life and in power, he had been both a bully and a coward.“But bad as bullying and cowardice are, there are other faults in many beings which, if not eradicated, are apt to lead the possessors thereof to a bad end. I have nothing to say against ambition, so long as it is lawful and kept within due bounds, but pride is a bad trait in the character of even old or young; and if you listen I will tell you how this failing brought even brave and gallant King John to an untimely end.“After the death of King Cockeroo the pride of Jack knew no bounds. His greatest enemy was gone, and there was not—so he thought—another cock in creation who would dare to face him; for did they not all prefer crowing at a distance, and did he not always answer them day or night, and defy them? His bearing towards the other fowls began to change. He still collected food for the hens, it is true, but he no longer tried to coax them to eat it. They would doubtless, he said, partake of it if they were hungry, and if they were not hungry, why, they could simply leave it.“Jack had never had much respect for human beings—they! poor helpless things, had no wings to clap, and they couldn’t crow;theyhad no pretty plumage of their own, but were fain to clothe themselves in sheep’s raiment or the cocoons of caterpillars; andnowhe wholly despised them, and showed it too, for he spurred the legs of Gosling the ploughboy, and rent into ribbons the new dress of Mary the milkmaid, because she had invaded his territory in search of eggs. Even the death of the two favourite hens I have told you of, which took place somewhat suddenly one Saturday morning, failed to sober him or tone down his rampant pride. He installed two other very fat hens in their place on the perch, and then crowed more loudly than ever.“He spent much of his time now on his old throne; for it was always well filled with water, which served the purpose of a looking-glass, and reflected his gay and sprightly person, his rosy comb, and his nodding plumes. He would sometimes invite a favourite fowl to share the honours of his throne with him, but I really believe it was merely that its plainer reflection might make his own beautiful image the more apparent.“‘Oh!’ he would cry, ‘don’t I look lovely, and don’t you look dowdy besideme? Kurr! Kurr-r-r! Am I not perfection itself?’“Of course no one of the fowls in the yard dared to contradict him or gainsay a word he spoke, but still I doubt whether they believed him to be altogether such a very exalted personage as he tried to make himself out.“And now my little tale draws speedily to its dark, but not, I trust, uninstructive close.“The sun rose among clouds of brightest crimson one lovely summer’s morning, and his beams flooded all the beautiful country, making every creature and everything glad, birds and beasts, flowers and trees, and rippling streams. Alas! how often in this world of ours is the sunrise in glory followed by a sunset in gloom. Noon had hardly passed ere rock-shaped clouds began to bank up in the south and obscure the sun, the wind fell to a dead calm, and the stillness became oppressive; but it was broken at length by a loud peal of thunder, that seemed to rend the earth to its very foundations. Then the sky grew darker and darker; and the darker it grew, the more vividly the lightning flashed, the more loudly pealed the thunder. Then the rain came down, such rain as neither the good farmer of Buttercup Hill nor his wife ever remembered seeing before. King John was fain to seek shelter for himself and his companions under the garden seat, but even there they were drenched, and a very miserable sight they presented.“‘Oh I what a terrible storm!’ cried a wise old hen.“‘Who is afraid?’ said the proud King John, stepping out into the midst of it. ‘Behold my throne; it shall never be moved.’“Dread omen! at that very moment a hoop suddenly sprang up with a loud bang, the staves began to separate, and the water came pouring out between them, deluging all the place, and well-nigh drowning one of the two hens which had bravely tried to share Jock’s peril with him!“‘Kur-r-r!’ cried the king, astonishment and rage depicted on every lineament of his countenance. ‘Kurr! kurr! what trickery is this? But, behold, I have but to mount my throne and crow, and at once the thunder and the rain will cease, and the sun will shine again!’“He suited the action to the word, but, alas! the sun never shone again for him. His additional weight completed the mischief, and the tottering throne gave way with a crash.“There was woe in the farmyard that day, for under the ruins of his throne lay the lifeless body of Jock—the once proud, the once mighty King John.”“Oh!” cried Ida, “but that istooshort. Pray, just one little one more, then I will sleep. You shall play me to sleep. Let it be about a dog,” she continued. “You can always tell a story about a dog.”I looked once more into the old portfolio, and found this—Sindbad; or, The Dog of Penellan.“Unless you go far, very far north indeed, you will hardly find a more primitive place than the little village of Penellan, which nestles quite close to the sea on the southern coast of Cornwall. I say itnestles, and so it does, and nice and cosy it looks down there, in a kind of glen, with green hills rising on either side of it, with its pebbly beach and the ever-sounding sea in front of it.“It was at Widow Webber’s hostelry that there arrived, many years ago, the hero, or rather heroes, of this short tale. Spring was coming in, the gardens were already gay with flowers, and the roses that trailed around the windows and porches of the pilchard fishermen’s huts were all in bud, and promised soon to show a wealth of bloom.“Now, not only Widow Webber herself, but the whole village, were on tiptoe to find out who the two strangers were and what could possibly be their reason for coming to such a little outlying place—fifteen miles, mind you, from the nearest railway town. It appeared they were not likely soon to be satisfied, for the human stranger—the other was his beautiful Newfoundland retriever, ‘Sindbad’—simply took the widow’s best room for three months, and in less than a week he seemed to have settled down as entirely in the place, as though he had been born there, and had never been out of it. The most curious part of the business was that he never told his name, and he never even received a letter or a visitor. He walked about much out of doors, and over the hills, and he hired a boat by the month, and used to go long cruises among the rocks, at times not returning until sun was set, and the bright stars twinkling in the sky. He sketched a great deal, too—made pictures, the pilchard fishermen called it. Was he an artist? Perhaps.“The ‘gentleman,’ as he was always called, had a kind word and a pleasant smile, for every one, and his dog Sindbad was a universal favourite with the village children. How they laughed to see him go splashing into the water! And the wilder the sea, and the bigger the waves, the more the dog seemed to enjoy the fun.“Being so quiet and neighbourly, it might have been thought that the gentleman would have been as much a favourite with the grown-up people as Sindbad was with the young folk. Alas! for the charity of this world, he was not so at first. Where, they wondered, did he come from? Why didn’t he give his name, and tell his story? It couldn’t possibly be all right, they felt sure of that.“But when the summer wore away, and winter came round, and those policemen, whom they fully expected to one day take the gentleman away, never came, and when the gentleman seemed more a fixture than ever, they began to soften down, and to treat him as quite one of themselves. Sindbad had been one of them for a very long time, ever since he had pulled the baker’s little Polly out of the sea when she fell over a rock, and would assuredly have been drowned except for the gallant dog’s timely aid.“So they were content at last to take the gentleman just as they had him.“‘Concerts!’ cried Widow Webber one evening, in reply to a remark made by the stranger. ‘Why, sir, concerts in our little village! Whoever will sing?’“But the stranger only laid down his book with a quiet smile, and asked the widow to take a seat near the fire, and he would tell her all about it.“With honest Sindbad asleep on the hearthrug, and pussy singing beside him, and the kettle singing too, and a bright fire in the grate, the room looked quite cosy and snug-like. So the poor widow sat down, and the stranger unfolded all his plans.“And it all fell out just as the stranger wished it. He was an accomplished pianist, and also a good performer on the violin. And he had good-humour and tact, and the way he kept his class together, and drew them out, and made them all feel contented with their efforts and happy, was perfectly wonderful. The first concert was a grand success, a crowded house, though the front seats were only sixpence and the back twopence. And all the proceeds were handed over to the clergyman to buy books and magazines.“So the winter passed more quickly and cheerfully than any one ever remembered a winter to pass before, and summer came once more.“It would need volumes, not pages, to tell of all poor Sindbad’s clever ways. Indeed, he became quite the village dog; he would go errands for any one, and always went to the right shop with his basket. Every morning, with a penny in his mouth, he went trotting away to the carrier’s and bought a paper for his master; after that he was free to romp and play all the livelong day with the children on the beach. It might be said of Sindbad as Professor Wilson said of his beautiful dog—‘Nota child of three years old and upwards in the neighbourhood that had not hung by his mane and played with his paws, and been affectionately worried by him on the flowery greensward.’“Another winter went by quite as cheerily as the last, and the stranger was by this time as much a favourite as his dog. The villagers had found out now that he was not by any means a rich man, although he had enough to live on; but they liked him none the less for that.“The Easter moon was full, and even on the wane, for it did not, at the time I refer to, rise till late in the evening. A gale had been blowing all day, the sea was mountains high, for the wind roared wildly from off the broad Atlantic. One hundred years ago, if the truth must be told, the villagers of Penellan would have welcomed such a gale; it might bring them wealth. They had been wreckers.“Every one was about retiring for rest, when boom boom! from out of the darkness seaward came the roar of a minute gun. Some great ship was on the rocks not far off. Boom! and no assistance could be given. There was no rocket, no lifeboat, and no ordinary boat could live in that sea. Boom! Everybody was down on the beach, and ere long the great red moon rose and showed, as had been expected, the dark hull of a ship fast on the rocks, with her masts gone by the board, and the sea making a clean breach over her. The villagers were brave; they attempted to launch a boat. It was staved, and dashed back on the beach.“‘Come round to the point, men,’ cried the stranger. ‘I will send Sindbad with a line.’“The point was a rocky promontory almost to windward of the stranded vessel.“The mariners on board saw the fire lighted there, and they saw that preparations of some kind were being made to save them, and at last they discerned some dark object rising and falling on the waves, but steadily approaching them. It was Sindbad; the piece of wood he bore in his mouth had attached to it a thin line.“For a long time—it seemed ages to those poor sailors—the dog struggled on and on towards them. And now he is alongside.“‘Good dog!’ they cry, and a sailor is lowered to catch the morsel of wood. He does so, and tries hard to catch the dog as well. But Sindbad has now done his duty, and prepares to swim back.“Poor faithful, foolish fellow! if he had but allowed the sea to carry him towards the distant beach. But no; he must battle against it with the firelight as his beacon.“And in battlinghe died.“But communication was effected by Sindbad betwixt the ship and the shore, and all on board were landed safely.“Need I tell of the grief of that dog’s master? Need I speak of the sorrow of the villagers? No; but if you go to Penellan, if you inquire about Sindbad, children even yet will show you his grave, in a green nook near the beach, where the crimson sea-pinks bloom.“And older folk will point you out ‘the gentleman’s grave’ in the old churchyard. He did notverylong survive Sindbad.“The grey-bearded old pilchard fisherman who showed it to me only two summers ago, when I was there, said—“‘Ay, sir! there he do lie, and the sod never hid a warmer heart than his. The lifeboat, sir? Yes, sir, it’s down yonder; his money bought it. There is more than me, sir, has shed a tear over him. You see, we weren’t charitable to him at first. Ah, sir! what a blessed thing charity do be!’”
“Country life,—let us confess it,Man will little help to bless it,Yet, for gladness thereWe may readily possess itIn its native air.“Rides and rambles, sports and farming,Home, the heart for ever warming,Books and friends and ease,Life must after all be charming,Full of joys like these.”Tupper.
“Country life,—let us confess it,Man will little help to bless it,Yet, for gladness thereWe may readily possess itIn its native air.“Rides and rambles, sports and farming,Home, the heart for ever warming,Books and friends and ease,Life must after all be charming,Full of joys like these.”Tupper.
“I’m not sure, Ida, that you will like the following story. There is truth in it, though, and a moral mixed up with it which you may unravel if you please. I call it—”
“The hero of my little story was a London boy. Truth is, he had spent all the days and years of his young life in town. I do not think that he had ever, until a certain great event in his life took place, seen even the suburbs of the great city in which it was his lot to reside. His whole world consisted of stone walls, so to speak, of an interminable labyrinth of streets and lanes and terraces, for ever filled with a busy multitude, hurrying to and fro in the pursuit of their avocations. I believe he got to think at last that there was nothing, that therecouldbe nothing beyond this mighty London; and of country life, with all its joys and pleasures, he knew absolutely nothing. A tree to him was merely a dingy, sooty kind of shrub, that grew in the squares; flowers were gaudy vegetables used in window decorations; a lark was a bird that spent all its life in a box-cage, chiefly, in the neighbourhood of Seven Dials. As to trees growing in woods and in forests where the deer and the roe live wild and free; as to flowers carpeting the fields with a splendour of bloom; as to larks mounting high in air to troll their happy songs—he had not even the power of conception. True, he had read of such things, just as he had read of the moon as seen through a telescope, and the one subject was just as vague to him as the other.
“Harry at this time was, I fear, just a little sceptical. He lacked in a great measure that excellent quality, without which there would be very little real happiness in this world—I mean faith. He only believed in what he really saw and could understand, from which, of course, you will readily infer that his mind was neither a very comprehensive nor a very clever one. And you are right.
“Harry was not a strong boy; his face was pale, his eyes were large and lustrous, his poor little arms and legs were far from robust, and you could have found plenty of country lads who measured twice as much round the chest as Harry. Well, his parents, who really did all they could for their boy, were very pleased when one morning the postman brought them a letter from the far north, inviting their little son to come and spend a long autumn holiday at the farm of Dunryan, in the wilds of Aberdeenshire. He was to go all alone in the steamboat, simply in care of the steward, who promised to be very kind to him and look well after his comforts. And so he did, too; but I think that from the very moment that the great ship began to drop down the river, leaving the city behind it, with all its smoke and its gloom, Harry began to be a new boy. A new current of life seemed to begin to circulate in his veins, a better state of feeling to take possession of his soul. There was no end to the wonders Harry saw during his voyage to Aberdeen. The sea itself was a sight which until now he could not have imagined—could not have even dreamed of. Then there was the long line of wonderful coast. He had seen a panorama, but that couldn’t have been very large, because it was contained within the four stone walls of a concert-room. But here was a panorama gradually unrolling itself before his astonished gaze hundreds and hundreds of miles in extent. No wonder that his eyes dilated as he beheld it: the black, beetling cliffs that frowned over the ocean’s depths; the beautiful sandy beaches; the broad bays, with cities slumbering in the mists beyond; the green-topped hills; the waving woods; the houses; the palaces; and the grey old ruined castles that told of the might and strength of ages past and gone. All and every one of these seemed to whisper to Harry—seemed to tell him that there were more wonderful things even in this world than he had ever before believed in.
“When night came on, the stars shone out—stars more beautiful than he had ever seen before—so clear, so large, so bright. And they carried his thoughts far, far beyond the earth. In their pure presence he felt a better boy than ever he had felt before, but at the same time he could not help feeling ashamed of that feeling of unbelief that had possessed him in London. He was beginning to have faith already—a little, at all events. Were I to tell you of all Harry’s adventures, and all the strange sights he saw ere he reached Aberdeen, I would have quite a long story to relate. His uncle met him at the pier with a dog-cart, into which he helped him, the handsome, spirited horse giving just one look round, to see who was getting up. When he saw this mite of a hero of ours,—
“‘Oh,’ said the horse to himself, ‘he won’t make much additional weight. I’d trot along with a hundred of such as he is.’
“So away they went. Now Harry had been taught to look upon London as the finest and prettiest town in the world; but when he rattled along the wide and magnificent streets of the capital of the north, he found ample reason to alter his opinion. Here was no smoke—here was a sun shining down from a sky of cerulean hue, and here were houses built apparently of the costliest and whitest of marble. On went the dog-cart, and the closely-built streets gave place to avenues and terraces, and rows of palatial buildings peeping up through the greenery of trees.
“Harry was a little tired that night before he reached the good farm of Dunryan; but his aunt and cousins were kindness itself, and after a bigger and nicer supper than ever he had eaten before in his life, he was shown to his snow-white couch, and the next thing he became conscious of was that the sun was shining broad and clearly into his chamber, and there was a perfect babel of sounds right down under his window, sounds that a country boy would easily have understood, but which were worse than Greek to Harry. He soon jumped out of bed, however, washed and dressed, and then opened the casement and looked down. I have already told you that Harry’s eyes were large, but the sight he now witnessed made him open them considerably wider than he had done for many a day. A vast courtyard crowded with feathered bipeds of every kind that could be imagined. Harry hurried on with his toilet, so that he might be able to go downstairs and examine them more closely.
“Everybody was glad to see him, but he had to eat his breakfast all alone nevertheless, for his cousins had been up and had theirs hours and hours before. One of his relatives was a pretty little auburn-haired lass of some nine or ten summers, with blue, laughing eyes, and modest mien. She volunteered to show Harry round the farm. But Harry felt just a little afraid nevertheless, and considerably ashamed for being so, when he found himself in the great yard quite surrounded by hens and ducks and gobbling geese and turkeys. I think the animals themselves knew this, and did all they could to frighten him. The hens were content with cackling and grumbling, evidently trying to incite the cocks to acts of open hostility against our trembling hero. The cocks crew loudly at him, or defiantly approached him, looking as if they meant to imply that he owed it entirely to their generosity that his life was spared. The turkey-cocks put themselves into all sorts of queer shapes—tried to look like fretful porcupines, elevated the red rag that Harry was astonished to see depending from their noses, and made terrible noises at him. The ducks were content with standing on tiptoe, clapping their snow-white wings, and crying, ‘What! what! what!’ at the top of their voices. The peahens were merely curious and impertinent; but the geese were alarmingly intrusive. They stretched out their necks to the longest extent, approached him thus, and gave vent to hissings unutterable by any other creature than a goose.
“‘They won’t bite or anything, will they?’ faltered our hero, feeling very small indeed.
“But his little companion only laughed right merrily. Then taking Harry’s hand, she ran him off to show him more wonders—great horses that looked to the London boy as big as elephants; enormous oxen as big as rhinoceroses; donkeys that looked wiser than he could have believed it possible for a donkey to look; and goats that looked simply mischievous and nothing else. What a blessing it was for Harry that he had such a wise little guardian and mentor as his Cousin Lizzie. She went everywhere with him, and explained away all his doubts and difficulties. Ay, and she chaffed him not a little either, and laughed at all his queer mistakes; but I think she pitied him a good deal at the same time. ‘Poor boy,’ Lizzie used to think to herself, ‘he has never been out of London before. What can he know?’
“Little Lizzie had the same kind pity on Harry’s physical weakness as she had for his mental. Her cousin couldn’t climb the broom-clad hills as she could—not at first, at all events; but after one month’s stay in this wild, free country, new life and spirit seemed to be instilled into him. He could climb hills now fast enough; and he was never tired wandering in the dark pine forests, or over the mountains that were now bedecked in the glorious purple of the heather’s bloom.
“Harry’s uncle gave him many a bit of good advice, which went far to dispel both his doubts and fears, and that means his ignorance; for only the very ignorant dare to doubt what they cannot understand. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth,’ said his uncle one day, ‘than we have dreamed of in our philosophy. What would you think of my honest dog there if he told you the electric telegraph was an impossibility, simply becausehecouldn’t understand it? Have faith, boy, have faith.’
“But would it be believed that this boy, this London boy, didn’t know where chickens came from? He really didn’t. Very little things sometimes form the turning-point in the history of great men, and lead them to a better train of thought. For remember that our mighty rivers that bear great navies to the ocean, like mighty thoughts, have very small beginnings.
“Harry observed a hen one day in a very great blaze of excitement. Her chickens were hatching. One after another they were popping out of the shell, and going directly to seek for food. One little fellow, who had just come out, was clapping his wings and stretching himself as coolly as if he had just come by train, and was glad the journey was over. This was all very wonderful to Harry; it led him to think; the thought led to wisdom and faith.
“Harry took a long walk that day in his favourite pine forest, and for the first time in his life, it struck him that every creature he saw there had some avocation; flies, beetles, and birds, all were working. Says Harry to himself, ‘I, too, will be industrious. I may yet be something in this great world, in which I am now convinced everything is well ordained.’
“He kept that resolve firmly, unflinchingly; he is, while I write, one of the wealthiest merchants in London city; he is happy enough in this world, and has something in his breast which enables him to look beyond.”
“Now one other,” said Ida; “I know you have lots of pretty tales in that old portfolio.”
“Well,” I said, smiling, “here goes; and then you’ll sleep.”
“King John, he called himself, but every human being about the farm of Buttercup Hill called him Jock—simply that, and nothing else. But Jock, or King John, there was one thing that nobody could deny—he was not only the chief among all the other fowls around him, but he thought himself a very important and a very exalted bird indeed; and no wonder that he clapped his wings and crowed defiance at any one who chanced to take particular notice of him, or that he asked in defiant tones, ‘Kokaikuk uk?’ with strong emphasis on the ‘aik,’ and which in English means, ‘How dare you stand and stare atme?’
“King John’s tail was a mass of nodding plumage of the darkest purple, his wattles and comb were of the rosiest red, his wings and neck were crimson and gold, and his batonlike legs were armed with spurs as long as one’s little finger, and stronger and sharper than polished steel. Had you dared to go too near any one of his feathered companions—that is, those whom he cared about—you would have repented it the very next minute, and King John’s spurs would have been brought into play. But Jock wouldn’t have objected to your admiring them, so long as you kept at a respectable distance, on the other side of the fence, for instance. And pretty fowls they were—most of them young too—golden-pencilled Hamburgs, sprightly Spaniards, and sedate-looking Dorkings, to say nothing of two ancient grand hens of no particular breed at all, but who, being extremely fat and imposing in appearance, were admitted to the high honour of roosting every night one on each side of the king, and were moreover taken into consultation by him, in every matter likely to affect the interests of his dynasty, or the welfare of the junior members of the farmyard.
“Now Jock was deeply impressed with the dignity of the office he held. He was a very proud king—though, to his credit be it said, he was also a very good king. And never since he had first mounted his throne—an old water-tub, by the way—and sounded his shrill clarion, shouting a challenge to every cock or king within hearing—never, I say, had he been known to fill his own crop of a morning until the crops of all the hens about him were well packed with all good comestibles. Such then was Jock, such was King John. But, mind you, this gallant bird had not been a king all his life. No, and neither had he been born a prince. There was a mystery about his real origin and species. Judging from the colour of the egg from which he was hatched, Jockoughtto have been a Cochin. But Jock was nothing of the sort, as one glance at our picture will be sufficient to convince you. But I think it highly probable that the egg in question was stained by some unprincipled person, to cause it to look like that of the favourite Cochin. Be that as it may, Jock was duly hatched, and in course of time was fully fledged, and one day attempted to crow, for which little performance he was not only pecked on the back by the two fat old hens, but chased all round the yard by King Cockeroo, who was then lord and master of the farmyard. When he grew a little older he used to betake himself to places remote from observance, and study the song of chanticleer. But the older he grew the prettier he grew, and the prettier he grew the more King Cockeroo seemed to dislike him; indeed, he thrashed him every morning and every evening, and at odd times during the day, so that at last Jock’s life became most unbearable. One morning, however, when glancing downwards at his legs, he observed that his spurs had grown long and strong and sharp, and after this he determined to throw off for ever the yoke of allegiance to cruel King Cockeroo; he resolved to try the fortune of war even, and if he lost the battle, he thought to himself he would be no worse off than before.
“Now on the following day young Jock happened to find a nice large potato, and said he to himself, ‘Hullo! I’m fortunate to-day; I’ll have such a nice breakfast.’
“‘Will you indeed?’ cried a harsh voice quite close to his ear, and he found himself in the dread presence of King Cockeroo, a very large yellow Cochin China. ‘Will you indeed?’ repeated his majesty. ‘How dareyouattempt to eat awholepotato. Put it down at once and leave the yard.’
“‘I won’t,’ cried the little cock, quite bravely.
“‘Then I’ll make you,’ roared the big one.
“‘Then I shan’t,’ was the bold reply.
“Now, like all bullies, King Cockeroo was a coward at heart, so the battle that followed was of short duration, but very decisive for all that, and in less than five minutes King Cockeroo was flying in confusion before his young but victorious enemy.
“When he had left the yard, the long-persecuted but now triumphant Jock mounted his throne—the afore-mentioned water-butt—and crew and crew and crew, until he was so hoarse that he couldn’t crow any longer; then he jumped down and received the congratulations of all the inhabitants of the farmyard. And that is how Jock became King John.
“The poor deposed monarch never afterwards dared to come near the yard, in which he had at one time reigned so happily. He slept no longer on his old roost, but was fain to perch all alone on the edge of the garden barrow in the tool-house. He found no pleasure now in his sad and sorrowful life, except in eating; and having no one to share his meals with him, he began to get lazy and fat, and every day he got lazier and fatter, till at last it was all he could do to move about with anything like comfort. When he wanted to relieve his mind by crowing, he had to waddle away to a safe distance from the yard, or else King John would have flown upon him and pecked him most cruelly.
“And now those very fowls, who once thought so much of him, used to laugh when they heard him crowing, and remark to young King John—
“‘Just listen to that asthmatical old silly,’ for his articulation was not so distinct as it formerly was.
“‘Kurr-r-r!’ the new king would reply, ‘he’d better keep at a respectable distance, or cock-a-ro-ri-ko! I’ll—I’ll eat him entirely up!’
“‘I think,’ said the farmer of Buttercup Hill one day to his wife—‘I think we’d better have t’ould cock for our Sunday’s dinner.’
“‘Won’t he be a bit tough?’ his good wife replied.
“‘Maybe, my dear,’ said the farmer, ‘but fine and fat, and plenty of him, at any rate.’
“Poor Cockeroo, what a fall was his! And oh! the sad irony of fate, for on the very morning of this deposed monarch’s execution, the sun was shining, the birds singing, the corn springing up and looking so green and bonny; and probably the last thing he heard in life was King John crowing, as he proudly perched himself on the edge of his water-tub throne. One could almost afford to drop a tear of pity for the dead King Cockeroo, were it possible to forget that, while in life and in power, he had been both a bully and a coward.
“But bad as bullying and cowardice are, there are other faults in many beings which, if not eradicated, are apt to lead the possessors thereof to a bad end. I have nothing to say against ambition, so long as it is lawful and kept within due bounds, but pride is a bad trait in the character of even old or young; and if you listen I will tell you how this failing brought even brave and gallant King John to an untimely end.
“After the death of King Cockeroo the pride of Jack knew no bounds. His greatest enemy was gone, and there was not—so he thought—another cock in creation who would dare to face him; for did they not all prefer crowing at a distance, and did he not always answer them day or night, and defy them? His bearing towards the other fowls began to change. He still collected food for the hens, it is true, but he no longer tried to coax them to eat it. They would doubtless, he said, partake of it if they were hungry, and if they were not hungry, why, they could simply leave it.
“Jack had never had much respect for human beings—they! poor helpless things, had no wings to clap, and they couldn’t crow;theyhad no pretty plumage of their own, but were fain to clothe themselves in sheep’s raiment or the cocoons of caterpillars; andnowhe wholly despised them, and showed it too, for he spurred the legs of Gosling the ploughboy, and rent into ribbons the new dress of Mary the milkmaid, because she had invaded his territory in search of eggs. Even the death of the two favourite hens I have told you of, which took place somewhat suddenly one Saturday morning, failed to sober him or tone down his rampant pride. He installed two other very fat hens in their place on the perch, and then crowed more loudly than ever.
“He spent much of his time now on his old throne; for it was always well filled with water, which served the purpose of a looking-glass, and reflected his gay and sprightly person, his rosy comb, and his nodding plumes. He would sometimes invite a favourite fowl to share the honours of his throne with him, but I really believe it was merely that its plainer reflection might make his own beautiful image the more apparent.
“‘Oh!’ he would cry, ‘don’t I look lovely, and don’t you look dowdy besideme? Kurr! Kurr-r-r! Am I not perfection itself?’
“Of course no one of the fowls in the yard dared to contradict him or gainsay a word he spoke, but still I doubt whether they believed him to be altogether such a very exalted personage as he tried to make himself out.
“And now my little tale draws speedily to its dark, but not, I trust, uninstructive close.
“The sun rose among clouds of brightest crimson one lovely summer’s morning, and his beams flooded all the beautiful country, making every creature and everything glad, birds and beasts, flowers and trees, and rippling streams. Alas! how often in this world of ours is the sunrise in glory followed by a sunset in gloom. Noon had hardly passed ere rock-shaped clouds began to bank up in the south and obscure the sun, the wind fell to a dead calm, and the stillness became oppressive; but it was broken at length by a loud peal of thunder, that seemed to rend the earth to its very foundations. Then the sky grew darker and darker; and the darker it grew, the more vividly the lightning flashed, the more loudly pealed the thunder. Then the rain came down, such rain as neither the good farmer of Buttercup Hill nor his wife ever remembered seeing before. King John was fain to seek shelter for himself and his companions under the garden seat, but even there they were drenched, and a very miserable sight they presented.
“‘Oh I what a terrible storm!’ cried a wise old hen.
“‘Who is afraid?’ said the proud King John, stepping out into the midst of it. ‘Behold my throne; it shall never be moved.’
“Dread omen! at that very moment a hoop suddenly sprang up with a loud bang, the staves began to separate, and the water came pouring out between them, deluging all the place, and well-nigh drowning one of the two hens which had bravely tried to share Jock’s peril with him!
“‘Kur-r-r!’ cried the king, astonishment and rage depicted on every lineament of his countenance. ‘Kurr! kurr! what trickery is this? But, behold, I have but to mount my throne and crow, and at once the thunder and the rain will cease, and the sun will shine again!’
“He suited the action to the word, but, alas! the sun never shone again for him. His additional weight completed the mischief, and the tottering throne gave way with a crash.
“There was woe in the farmyard that day, for under the ruins of his throne lay the lifeless body of Jock—the once proud, the once mighty King John.”
“Oh!” cried Ida, “but that istooshort. Pray, just one little one more, then I will sleep. You shall play me to sleep. Let it be about a dog,” she continued. “You can always tell a story about a dog.”
I looked once more into the old portfolio, and found this—
“Unless you go far, very far north indeed, you will hardly find a more primitive place than the little village of Penellan, which nestles quite close to the sea on the southern coast of Cornwall. I say itnestles, and so it does, and nice and cosy it looks down there, in a kind of glen, with green hills rising on either side of it, with its pebbly beach and the ever-sounding sea in front of it.
“It was at Widow Webber’s hostelry that there arrived, many years ago, the hero, or rather heroes, of this short tale. Spring was coming in, the gardens were already gay with flowers, and the roses that trailed around the windows and porches of the pilchard fishermen’s huts were all in bud, and promised soon to show a wealth of bloom.
“Now, not only Widow Webber herself, but the whole village, were on tiptoe to find out who the two strangers were and what could possibly be their reason for coming to such a little outlying place—fifteen miles, mind you, from the nearest railway town. It appeared they were not likely soon to be satisfied, for the human stranger—the other was his beautiful Newfoundland retriever, ‘Sindbad’—simply took the widow’s best room for three months, and in less than a week he seemed to have settled down as entirely in the place, as though he had been born there, and had never been out of it. The most curious part of the business was that he never told his name, and he never even received a letter or a visitor. He walked about much out of doors, and over the hills, and he hired a boat by the month, and used to go long cruises among the rocks, at times not returning until sun was set, and the bright stars twinkling in the sky. He sketched a great deal, too—made pictures, the pilchard fishermen called it. Was he an artist? Perhaps.
“The ‘gentleman,’ as he was always called, had a kind word and a pleasant smile, for every one, and his dog Sindbad was a universal favourite with the village children. How they laughed to see him go splashing into the water! And the wilder the sea, and the bigger the waves, the more the dog seemed to enjoy the fun.
“Being so quiet and neighbourly, it might have been thought that the gentleman would have been as much a favourite with the grown-up people as Sindbad was with the young folk. Alas! for the charity of this world, he was not so at first. Where, they wondered, did he come from? Why didn’t he give his name, and tell his story? It couldn’t possibly be all right, they felt sure of that.
“But when the summer wore away, and winter came round, and those policemen, whom they fully expected to one day take the gentleman away, never came, and when the gentleman seemed more a fixture than ever, they began to soften down, and to treat him as quite one of themselves. Sindbad had been one of them for a very long time, ever since he had pulled the baker’s little Polly out of the sea when she fell over a rock, and would assuredly have been drowned except for the gallant dog’s timely aid.
“So they were content at last to take the gentleman just as they had him.
“‘Concerts!’ cried Widow Webber one evening, in reply to a remark made by the stranger. ‘Why, sir, concerts in our little village! Whoever will sing?’
“But the stranger only laid down his book with a quiet smile, and asked the widow to take a seat near the fire, and he would tell her all about it.
“With honest Sindbad asleep on the hearthrug, and pussy singing beside him, and the kettle singing too, and a bright fire in the grate, the room looked quite cosy and snug-like. So the poor widow sat down, and the stranger unfolded all his plans.
“And it all fell out just as the stranger wished it. He was an accomplished pianist, and also a good performer on the violin. And he had good-humour and tact, and the way he kept his class together, and drew them out, and made them all feel contented with their efforts and happy, was perfectly wonderful. The first concert was a grand success, a crowded house, though the front seats were only sixpence and the back twopence. And all the proceeds were handed over to the clergyman to buy books and magazines.
“So the winter passed more quickly and cheerfully than any one ever remembered a winter to pass before, and summer came once more.
“It would need volumes, not pages, to tell of all poor Sindbad’s clever ways. Indeed, he became quite the village dog; he would go errands for any one, and always went to the right shop with his basket. Every morning, with a penny in his mouth, he went trotting away to the carrier’s and bought a paper for his master; after that he was free to romp and play all the livelong day with the children on the beach. It might be said of Sindbad as Professor Wilson said of his beautiful dog—‘Nota child of three years old and upwards in the neighbourhood that had not hung by his mane and played with his paws, and been affectionately worried by him on the flowery greensward.’
“Another winter went by quite as cheerily as the last, and the stranger was by this time as much a favourite as his dog. The villagers had found out now that he was not by any means a rich man, although he had enough to live on; but they liked him none the less for that.
“The Easter moon was full, and even on the wane, for it did not, at the time I refer to, rise till late in the evening. A gale had been blowing all day, the sea was mountains high, for the wind roared wildly from off the broad Atlantic. One hundred years ago, if the truth must be told, the villagers of Penellan would have welcomed such a gale; it might bring them wealth. They had been wreckers.
“Every one was about retiring for rest, when boom boom! from out of the darkness seaward came the roar of a minute gun. Some great ship was on the rocks not far off. Boom! and no assistance could be given. There was no rocket, no lifeboat, and no ordinary boat could live in that sea. Boom! Everybody was down on the beach, and ere long the great red moon rose and showed, as had been expected, the dark hull of a ship fast on the rocks, with her masts gone by the board, and the sea making a clean breach over her. The villagers were brave; they attempted to launch a boat. It was staved, and dashed back on the beach.
“‘Come round to the point, men,’ cried the stranger. ‘I will send Sindbad with a line.’
“The point was a rocky promontory almost to windward of the stranded vessel.
“The mariners on board saw the fire lighted there, and they saw that preparations of some kind were being made to save them, and at last they discerned some dark object rising and falling on the waves, but steadily approaching them. It was Sindbad; the piece of wood he bore in his mouth had attached to it a thin line.
“For a long time—it seemed ages to those poor sailors—the dog struggled on and on towards them. And now he is alongside.
“‘Good dog!’ they cry, and a sailor is lowered to catch the morsel of wood. He does so, and tries hard to catch the dog as well. But Sindbad has now done his duty, and prepares to swim back.
“Poor faithful, foolish fellow! if he had but allowed the sea to carry him towards the distant beach. But no; he must battle against it with the firelight as his beacon.
“And in battlinghe died.
“But communication was effected by Sindbad betwixt the ship and the shore, and all on board were landed safely.
“Need I tell of the grief of that dog’s master? Need I speak of the sorrow of the villagers? No; but if you go to Penellan, if you inquire about Sindbad, children even yet will show you his grave, in a green nook near the beach, where the crimson sea-pinks bloom.
“And older folk will point you out ‘the gentleman’s grave’ in the old churchyard. He did notverylong survive Sindbad.
“The grey-bearded old pilchard fisherman who showed it to me only two summers ago, when I was there, said—
“‘Ay, sir! there he do lie, and the sod never hid a warmer heart than his. The lifeboat, sir? Yes, sir, it’s down yonder; his money bought it. There is more than me, sir, has shed a tear over him. You see, we weren’t charitable to him at first. Ah, sir! what a blessed thing charity do be!’”
Chapter Thirty Three.A Short, Because a Sad One.“Why do summer roses fade,If not to show how fleetingAll things bright and fair are made,To bloom awhile as half afraidTo join our summer greeting?”“Now,” said Frank one evening to me, “a little change is all that is needed to make the child as well again as ever she was in her life.”“I think you are right, Frank,” was my reply; “change will do it—a few weeks’ residence in a bracing atmosphere; and it would do us all good too; for of course you would be of the party, Frank?”“I’ll go with you like a shot,” said this honest-hearted, blunt old sailor.“What say you, then, to the Highlands?”“Just the thing,” replied Frank. “Just the place—“‘My heart’s in the Hielans.My heart is not here;My heart’s in the Hielans, chasing the deer;Chasing the wild deer and following the roe—My heart’s in the Hielans, wherever I go.’”“Bravo! Frank,” I cried; “now let us consider the matter as practically settled. And let us go in for division of labour in the matter of preparation for this journey due north. You two old folks shall do the packing and all that sort of thing, and Ida and I will—get the tickets.”And, truth to tell, that is really all Ida and myself did do; but we knew we were in good hands, and a better caterer for comfort on a journey, or a better baggage-master than Frank never lived.He got an immense double kennel built for Aileen and Nero; all the other pets were left at home under good surveillance, not even a cat being forgotten. This kennel, when the dogs were in it, took four good men and true to lift it, and the doing so was as good as a Turkish bath to each of them.We had a compartment all to our four selves, and as we travelled by night, and made a friend of the burly, brown-bearded guard, the dogs had water several times during the journey, and we human folks were never once disturbed until we found ourselves in what Walter Scott calls—“My own romantic town.”A week spent in Edinburgh in the sweet summer-time is something to dream about ever after. We saw everything that was to be seen, from the Castle itself to Greyfriars’ Bobby’s monument, and the quiet corner in which he sleeps.Then onward we went to beautiful and romantic Perth. Then on to Callander and Doune. At the latter place we visited the romantic ruin called Doune Castle, where my old favourite Tyro is buried. In Perthshire we spent several days, and once had the good or bad fortune to get storm-stayed at a little wayside hotel or hostelry, where we had stopped to dine. The place seemed a long way from anywhere. I’m not sure that it wasn’t at the back of the north wind; at all events, there was neither cab nor conveyance to be had for love nor money, and a Scotch mist prevailed—that is, the rain came down in streams as solid and thick as wooden penholders. So we determined to make the best of matters and stay all night; the little place was as clean as clean could be, and the landlady, in mutch of spotless white, was delighted at the prospect of having us.She heaped the wood on the hearth as the evening glome began to descend; the bright flames leapt up and cast great shadows on the wall behind us, and we all gathered round the fire, the all including Nero and Aileen; the circle would not have been complete without them.No, thank you, we told the landlady, we wouldn’t have candles; it was ever so much cosier by the light of the fire. But, by-and-by, we would have tea.Despite the Scotch mist, we spent a very happy evening. Ida was more than herself in mirth and merriment; her bright and joyous face was a treat to behold. She sang some little simple Highland song to us that we never knew she had learned; she said she had picked it up on purpose; and then she called on Frank to “contribute to the harmony of the evening”—a phrase she had learned from the old tar himself.“Me!” said Frank; “bless you, you would all run out if I began to sing.”But we promised to sit still, whatever might happen, and then we got the “Bay of Biscay” out of him, and he gave it that genuine, true sea-ring and rhythm, that no landsman, in my opinion, can imitate. As he sang, in fact, you could positively imagine you were on the deck of that storm-tossed ship, with her tattered canvas fluttering idly in the breeze, her wave-riddled bulwarks, and wet and slippery decks. You could see the shivering sailors clinging to shroud or stay as the green seas thundered over the decks; you could hear the wind roaring in the rigging, and the hissing boom of the breaking waters, all about and around you.He stopped at last, laughing, and—“Now, Gordon, it is your turn at the wheel,” he said. “You must either sing or tell a story.”“My dear old sailor man,” I replied, “I will sing all the evening if you don’t ask me to tell a story.”“But,” cried Ida, shaking a merry forefinger at me, “you’ve got to doboth, dear.”There were more stories than mine told that night by the “ingleside” of that Highland cot, for Frank himself must “open out” at last, and many a strange adventure he told us, some of them humorous enough, others pathetic in the extreme. Frank was not a bad hand at “spinning a yarn,” as he called it, only he was like a witness in a box of justice: he required a good deal of drawing out, and no small amount of encouragement in the shape of honest smiles and laughter. Like all sailors, he was shy.“There’s where you have me,” Frank would say. “I am shy; there’s no getting over it; and no getting out of it but when I know I’m amusing you, then I could go on as long as you like.”I have pleasing reminiscences of that evening. As I sit here at my table, I have but to pause for a moment, put my hands across my eyes, and the Rembrandt picture comes up again in every feature. Yonder sits Frank, with his round, rosy face, looking still more round and rosy by the peat-light. Yonder, side by side, with their great heads pointing towards the blaze, lie the “twa dogs,” and Ida crouched beside them, her fair face held upwards, and all a-gleam with happiness and joy.When lights were brought at last, it was plain that the honest old landlady, bustling in with the tea-things, had dressed for the occasion, and from the pleased expression on her face I felt sure she had been listening somewhere in the gloom behind us.The cottage where we went at last to reside in the remote Highlands was a combination of comfort and rusticity, and Ida especially was delighted with everything, more particularly with her own little room, half bedroom, half boudoir, and the rustic flowers which old Mrs McF— brought every day were in her eyes gems of matchless beauty.Then everything out of doors was so new to her, and so beautiful and grand withal, that we did not wonder at her being happy and pleased.“When I roved a young Highlander o’er the dark heath—”So sings Byron. Well,hehad some kind of training to this species of progression. Ida had none.Shewas a young Highlander from the very first day, and a bold and adventuresome one too. Nor torrent, cataract, nor cliff feared she. And no bird, beast, or butterfly was afraid of Ida.Her chief companion was a matchless deerhound, whom we called Ossian.Sometimes, when we were all seated together among the heather, Ossian used to put his enormous head on her lap and gaze into her face for minutes at a time. I’ve often thought of this since.Nero, I think, was a little piqued and jealous when Ossian went bounding, deer-like, from rock to rock. Ah! but when we came to the lake’s side, then it was Ossian’s turn to be jealous, for in the days of his youth he had neglected the art of swimming, in which many of his breed excel.Two months of this happy and idyllic life, then fell the shadow and the gloom.There was nothing romantic about Ida’s illness and death. She suffered but little pain, and bore that little with patience. She just faded away, as it were; the young life went quietly out, the young barque glided peacefully into the ocean of eternity.Poor Frank had an accident in the same year, and ere the winter was over succumbed to his injuries. He died on such a night as one seldom sees in England. The bravest man dared not face that terrible snowstorm unless he courted death. Therefore I could not be with Frank at the end.The generous reader will easily understand why I say no more than these few words about my dear friend’s death. Alas! how few true friends there are in this world, and it seems but yesterday he was with us, seems but yesterday that I looked into his honest, smiling face, as I bade him good-bye at my garden gate.
“Why do summer roses fade,If not to show how fleetingAll things bright and fair are made,To bloom awhile as half afraidTo join our summer greeting?”
“Why do summer roses fade,If not to show how fleetingAll things bright and fair are made,To bloom awhile as half afraidTo join our summer greeting?”
“Now,” said Frank one evening to me, “a little change is all that is needed to make the child as well again as ever she was in her life.”
“I think you are right, Frank,” was my reply; “change will do it—a few weeks’ residence in a bracing atmosphere; and it would do us all good too; for of course you would be of the party, Frank?”
“I’ll go with you like a shot,” said this honest-hearted, blunt old sailor.
“What say you, then, to the Highlands?”
“Just the thing,” replied Frank. “Just the place—
“‘My heart’s in the Hielans.My heart is not here;My heart’s in the Hielans, chasing the deer;Chasing the wild deer and following the roe—My heart’s in the Hielans, wherever I go.’”
“‘My heart’s in the Hielans.My heart is not here;My heart’s in the Hielans, chasing the deer;Chasing the wild deer and following the roe—My heart’s in the Hielans, wherever I go.’”
“Bravo! Frank,” I cried; “now let us consider the matter as practically settled. And let us go in for division of labour in the matter of preparation for this journey due north. You two old folks shall do the packing and all that sort of thing, and Ida and I will—get the tickets.”
And, truth to tell, that is really all Ida and myself did do; but we knew we were in good hands, and a better caterer for comfort on a journey, or a better baggage-master than Frank never lived.
He got an immense double kennel built for Aileen and Nero; all the other pets were left at home under good surveillance, not even a cat being forgotten. This kennel, when the dogs were in it, took four good men and true to lift it, and the doing so was as good as a Turkish bath to each of them.
We had a compartment all to our four selves, and as we travelled by night, and made a friend of the burly, brown-bearded guard, the dogs had water several times during the journey, and we human folks were never once disturbed until we found ourselves in what Walter Scott calls—
“My own romantic town.”
“My own romantic town.”
A week spent in Edinburgh in the sweet summer-time is something to dream about ever after. We saw everything that was to be seen, from the Castle itself to Greyfriars’ Bobby’s monument, and the quiet corner in which he sleeps.
Then onward we went to beautiful and romantic Perth. Then on to Callander and Doune. At the latter place we visited the romantic ruin called Doune Castle, where my old favourite Tyro is buried. In Perthshire we spent several days, and once had the good or bad fortune to get storm-stayed at a little wayside hotel or hostelry, where we had stopped to dine. The place seemed a long way from anywhere. I’m not sure that it wasn’t at the back of the north wind; at all events, there was neither cab nor conveyance to be had for love nor money, and a Scotch mist prevailed—that is, the rain came down in streams as solid and thick as wooden penholders. So we determined to make the best of matters and stay all night; the little place was as clean as clean could be, and the landlady, in mutch of spotless white, was delighted at the prospect of having us.
She heaped the wood on the hearth as the evening glome began to descend; the bright flames leapt up and cast great shadows on the wall behind us, and we all gathered round the fire, the all including Nero and Aileen; the circle would not have been complete without them.
No, thank you, we told the landlady, we wouldn’t have candles; it was ever so much cosier by the light of the fire. But, by-and-by, we would have tea.
Despite the Scotch mist, we spent a very happy evening. Ida was more than herself in mirth and merriment; her bright and joyous face was a treat to behold. She sang some little simple Highland song to us that we never knew she had learned; she said she had picked it up on purpose; and then she called on Frank to “contribute to the harmony of the evening”—a phrase she had learned from the old tar himself.
“Me!” said Frank; “bless you, you would all run out if I began to sing.”
But we promised to sit still, whatever might happen, and then we got the “Bay of Biscay” out of him, and he gave it that genuine, true sea-ring and rhythm, that no landsman, in my opinion, can imitate. As he sang, in fact, you could positively imagine you were on the deck of that storm-tossed ship, with her tattered canvas fluttering idly in the breeze, her wave-riddled bulwarks, and wet and slippery decks. You could see the shivering sailors clinging to shroud or stay as the green seas thundered over the decks; you could hear the wind roaring in the rigging, and the hissing boom of the breaking waters, all about and around you.
He stopped at last, laughing, and—
“Now, Gordon, it is your turn at the wheel,” he said. “You must either sing or tell a story.”
“My dear old sailor man,” I replied, “I will sing all the evening if you don’t ask me to tell a story.”
“But,” cried Ida, shaking a merry forefinger at me, “you’ve got to doboth, dear.”
There were more stories than mine told that night by the “ingleside” of that Highland cot, for Frank himself must “open out” at last, and many a strange adventure he told us, some of them humorous enough, others pathetic in the extreme. Frank was not a bad hand at “spinning a yarn,” as he called it, only he was like a witness in a box of justice: he required a good deal of drawing out, and no small amount of encouragement in the shape of honest smiles and laughter. Like all sailors, he was shy.
“There’s where you have me,” Frank would say. “I am shy; there’s no getting over it; and no getting out of it but when I know I’m amusing you, then I could go on as long as you like.”
I have pleasing reminiscences of that evening. As I sit here at my table, I have but to pause for a moment, put my hands across my eyes, and the Rembrandt picture comes up again in every feature. Yonder sits Frank, with his round, rosy face, looking still more round and rosy by the peat-light. Yonder, side by side, with their great heads pointing towards the blaze, lie the “twa dogs,” and Ida crouched beside them, her fair face held upwards, and all a-gleam with happiness and joy.
When lights were brought at last, it was plain that the honest old landlady, bustling in with the tea-things, had dressed for the occasion, and from the pleased expression on her face I felt sure she had been listening somewhere in the gloom behind us.
The cottage where we went at last to reside in the remote Highlands was a combination of comfort and rusticity, and Ida especially was delighted with everything, more particularly with her own little room, half bedroom, half boudoir, and the rustic flowers which old Mrs McF— brought every day were in her eyes gems of matchless beauty.
Then everything out of doors was so new to her, and so beautiful and grand withal, that we did not wonder at her being happy and pleased.
“When I roved a young Highlander o’er the dark heath—”
“When I roved a young Highlander o’er the dark heath—”
So sings Byron. Well,hehad some kind of training to this species of progression. Ida had none.Shewas a young Highlander from the very first day, and a bold and adventuresome one too. Nor torrent, cataract, nor cliff feared she. And no bird, beast, or butterfly was afraid of Ida.
Her chief companion was a matchless deerhound, whom we called Ossian.
Sometimes, when we were all seated together among the heather, Ossian used to put his enormous head on her lap and gaze into her face for minutes at a time. I’ve often thought of this since.
Nero, I think, was a little piqued and jealous when Ossian went bounding, deer-like, from rock to rock. Ah! but when we came to the lake’s side, then it was Ossian’s turn to be jealous, for in the days of his youth he had neglected the art of swimming, in which many of his breed excel.
Two months of this happy and idyllic life, then fell the shadow and the gloom.
There was nothing romantic about Ida’s illness and death. She suffered but little pain, and bore that little with patience. She just faded away, as it were; the young life went quietly out, the young barque glided peacefully into the ocean of eternity.
Poor Frank had an accident in the same year, and ere the winter was over succumbed to his injuries. He died on such a night as one seldom sees in England. The bravest man dared not face that terrible snowstorm unless he courted death. Therefore I could not be with Frank at the end.
The generous reader will easily understand why I say no more than these few words about my dear friend’s death. Alas! how few true friends there are in this world, and it seems but yesterday he was with us, seems but yesterday that I looked into his honest, smiling face, as I bade him good-bye at my garden gate.
Chapter Thirty Four.The Last.“Once more farewell!Once more, my friends, farewell!”Coleridge.I have never mentioned Frank’s dog, this for the simple reason that I hope one day ere long to write a short memoir of her.Meggie was a collie, a Highland collie, and a very beautiful one too. So much for her appearance. As for her moral qualities, it is sufficient to say that she was Frank’s dog—and I myself never yet saw the dog that did not borrow some of the mental qualities of the master, whose constant companion he was, especially if that master made much of him.Frank loved his dog, and she loved but him. Shelikedbut few.Wewere among the number of those she liked, but, strange creature that she was, she was barely civil to any one else in the world. She had one action which I never saw any other dog have, but it might have been taught her by Frank himself. She used to stand with her two paws on his knees, and lean her head sideways, or ear downwards, against his breast, just like a child who is being fondled, and thus she would remain for half an hour at a time, if not disturbed.When my friend was ill in bed, poor loving Meggie would put her paws on the edge of it, and lay her head sideways on his breast, and thus remain for an hour. What a comfort this simple act of devotedness was to Frank!When Frank died, Meggie fell into the best of hands, that of a lady who had a very great regard for her, and so was happy; but I know she never forgot her master.She died only a few months ago. Her owner—she, may I say, who held her in trust—brought her over for me to look at one afternoon. I prescribed some gentle medicine for her, but told Miss W— she could only nurse her, that her illness was very serious. Meggie’s breath came very short and fast, and there was a pinched and anxious look about her face that spoke volumes to me. So when Miss W— was in the house I took the opportunity of going back to the carriage, and patting Frank’s dog’s head and whispering, “Good-bye.”I cannot help confessing here, although many of my readers may have guessed it before, that I believe in immortality for the creatures, we are only too fond of calling “the lower animals.”I have many great-souled men on my side in the matter of this belief, but if I stood alone therein, I would still hold fast thereto.I have one firm supporter, at all events, in the person of my friend, the Rev. J.G. Wood (Note 1).Nay, but my kindly poet Tupper, whose face I have never seen, but whose verses have given me many times and oft so much of real pleasure, have I not another supporter in you?Aileen Aroon left us at last, dying of the fatal complaint that had so long lain dormant in her blood.We had hopes of her recovery from the attack that carried her off until the very end. She herself was as patient as a lamb, and her gratitude was invariably expressed in her looks.There are those reading these lines who may ask me why I did not forestall the inevitable. Might it not have been more merciful to have done so? These must seek for answer to such questions in my other books, or ask them of any one who has everloveda faithful dog, and fully appreciated his fidelity, his affection, and his almost human amount of wisdom and sagacity.The American Indians did use to adopt this method of forestalling the inevitable; in fact, they slew their nearest and dearest when they got old and feeble. Let who will follow their example, I could notif the animal had loved me and been my friend.Theodore Nero lived for years afterwards, but I do not think he ever forgot Aileen Aroon—poor simple Sable.I buried her in the garden, in a flower border close to the lawn, and I did not know until the grave was filled in that Nero had been watching the movements of my man and myself.A fortnight after this I went to her grave to plant a rosebush there, Nero following; but when he saw me commencing to dig, a change that I had never seen the like of before passed over his face; it was wonder, blended with joy. He thought that I was about to bring her back to life and him.In his last illness, poor Nero’s mattress and pillow were placed in a comfortable warm room. He seldom complained, though suffering at times; and whenever he did, either myself or my wife went and sat by him, and he was instantly content.I had ridden down with the evening letters, and was back by nine o’clock. It was a night in bleak December, ’twixt Christmas and the New Year. When I went to the poor patient’s room I could see he was just going, and knelt beside him, after calling my wife. In the last short struggle he lifted his head, as if looking for some one. His eyes were turned towards me, though he could not see; and then his head dropped on my knee, and he was gone.Down at the foot of our bird-haunted lawn, in a little grassy nook, where the nightingales are now singing at night, where the rhododendrons bloom, and the starry-petalled syringas perfume the air, is Nero’s grave—a little grassy mound, where the children always put flowers, and near it a broken, rough, wooden pillar, on which hangs a life-buoy, with the words—“Theodore Nero. Faithful to the end.”Note 1. Author of “Man and Beast.” Two volumes. Messrs Daldy and Isbister.
“Once more farewell!Once more, my friends, farewell!”Coleridge.
“Once more farewell!Once more, my friends, farewell!”Coleridge.
I have never mentioned Frank’s dog, this for the simple reason that I hope one day ere long to write a short memoir of her.
Meggie was a collie, a Highland collie, and a very beautiful one too. So much for her appearance. As for her moral qualities, it is sufficient to say that she was Frank’s dog—and I myself never yet saw the dog that did not borrow some of the mental qualities of the master, whose constant companion he was, especially if that master made much of him.
Frank loved his dog, and she loved but him. Shelikedbut few.Wewere among the number of those she liked, but, strange creature that she was, she was barely civil to any one else in the world. She had one action which I never saw any other dog have, but it might have been taught her by Frank himself. She used to stand with her two paws on his knees, and lean her head sideways, or ear downwards, against his breast, just like a child who is being fondled, and thus she would remain for half an hour at a time, if not disturbed.
When my friend was ill in bed, poor loving Meggie would put her paws on the edge of it, and lay her head sideways on his breast, and thus remain for an hour. What a comfort this simple act of devotedness was to Frank!
When Frank died, Meggie fell into the best of hands, that of a lady who had a very great regard for her, and so was happy; but I know she never forgot her master.
She died only a few months ago. Her owner—she, may I say, who held her in trust—brought her over for me to look at one afternoon. I prescribed some gentle medicine for her, but told Miss W— she could only nurse her, that her illness was very serious. Meggie’s breath came very short and fast, and there was a pinched and anxious look about her face that spoke volumes to me. So when Miss W— was in the house I took the opportunity of going back to the carriage, and patting Frank’s dog’s head and whispering, “Good-bye.”
I cannot help confessing here, although many of my readers may have guessed it before, that I believe in immortality for the creatures, we are only too fond of calling “the lower animals.”
I have many great-souled men on my side in the matter of this belief, but if I stood alone therein, I would still hold fast thereto.
I have one firm supporter, at all events, in the person of my friend, the Rev. J.G. Wood (Note 1).
Nay, but my kindly poet Tupper, whose face I have never seen, but whose verses have given me many times and oft so much of real pleasure, have I not another supporter in you?
Aileen Aroon left us at last, dying of the fatal complaint that had so long lain dormant in her blood.
We had hopes of her recovery from the attack that carried her off until the very end. She herself was as patient as a lamb, and her gratitude was invariably expressed in her looks.
There are those reading these lines who may ask me why I did not forestall the inevitable. Might it not have been more merciful to have done so? These must seek for answer to such questions in my other books, or ask them of any one who has everloveda faithful dog, and fully appreciated his fidelity, his affection, and his almost human amount of wisdom and sagacity.
The American Indians did use to adopt this method of forestalling the inevitable; in fact, they slew their nearest and dearest when they got old and feeble. Let who will follow their example, I could notif the animal had loved me and been my friend.
Theodore Nero lived for years afterwards, but I do not think he ever forgot Aileen Aroon—poor simple Sable.
I buried her in the garden, in a flower border close to the lawn, and I did not know until the grave was filled in that Nero had been watching the movements of my man and myself.
A fortnight after this I went to her grave to plant a rosebush there, Nero following; but when he saw me commencing to dig, a change that I had never seen the like of before passed over his face; it was wonder, blended with joy. He thought that I was about to bring her back to life and him.
In his last illness, poor Nero’s mattress and pillow were placed in a comfortable warm room. He seldom complained, though suffering at times; and whenever he did, either myself or my wife went and sat by him, and he was instantly content.
I had ridden down with the evening letters, and was back by nine o’clock. It was a night in bleak December, ’twixt Christmas and the New Year. When I went to the poor patient’s room I could see he was just going, and knelt beside him, after calling my wife. In the last short struggle he lifted his head, as if looking for some one. His eyes were turned towards me, though he could not see; and then his head dropped on my knee, and he was gone.
Down at the foot of our bird-haunted lawn, in a little grassy nook, where the nightingales are now singing at night, where the rhododendrons bloom, and the starry-petalled syringas perfume the air, is Nero’s grave—a little grassy mound, where the children always put flowers, and near it a broken, rough, wooden pillar, on which hangs a life-buoy, with the words—“Theodore Nero. Faithful to the end.”
Note 1. Author of “Man and Beast.” Two volumes. Messrs Daldy and Isbister.