[SeeNote Q, Addenda.]
NURSING VAGARIES.
The cat, unlike most animals, seems singularly exempt from the pains of parturition. “In sorrow shalt thou bring forth,” was never meant to apply to pussy. In fact about this time she always appears jollier than at any other, apparently looking upon the whole business as a capital lark—a rather enjoyable practical joke. My own cat, Muffie, invariably gives due notice of the coming event, by some of the most wonderful specimens of cantation I ever listened to. In fact she becomes a small opera in herself, chorus and all. Her song, moreover, is interlarded with little hysterical squeaks, as if she were brim-full of some strange joy, and running over. At the same time she lavishes more caresses than usual upon Nero, who, not knowing what to make of it, looks very foolish indeed.
Cats eating their Kittens.—Numerousinstances might be cited of cats eating their kittens as soon as born. These are curious examples of mistaken affection, and may be put down to a species of feline mania, somewhat analogous to that which is sometimes, though rarely, seen in human beings. Womenenceintehave often curious tastes, as witness the lady whom nothing would please, but a bite of a baker’s shoulder. She had the bite and was satisfied. We trust the baker was. Or the princess who had her husband killed; she ate part of him, and had the remainder salted for future consumption. A lady of my acquaintance,—she was a savage, and lived in Lamoo on the East Coast of Africa,—had twins, a very little baby boy and a big fat baby girl. I saw her some days after, squatting in front of her bamboo hut, and singing low to her little son.
“But, in the name of goodness,” said I, “what have you got in the pot? French missionary?”
“No,” she said; exhibiting no sort of surprise at my question, for a dish of Frenchmissionary was by no means unknown in those parts. And she intimated to me, that it wasonlythe baby girl, with whom she intended to feed the little baby boy, as he had not got fair play; and so the majesty of justice was maintained.
Cats are greatly sensible of the honour of maternity, and when deprived of their kittens feel very wretched indeed. Under these circumstances, they will nurse and suckle almost any creature.
Cats rearing Dogs.—A cat of mine, a few years ago, suckled and reared a beautiful Pomeranian dog. I thought at the time this was rather surprising; but I should not be surprised now at anything a cat did.
A gentleman, the other day, had a very nice fox-terrier bitch. The poor thing died giving birth to a litter of four puppies. His cat, however, whose kittens had been all drowned a day or too before, immediately installed herself in the vacant bed and adopted the puppies. She proved a good mother to them, and successfully reared every one of them.
I know of another similar instance, where a cat was house-mate with a rather valuable bitch; this bitch brought forth a litter of seven pups. The cat had five kittens at the same time. Thinking that seven whelps were rather many for the bitch to rear, four of pussy’s kittens were drowned and two pups put to her instead. But pussy peremptorily refused to have anything to say to them, and persisted in that refusal until the expedient was tried of drowning the remaining kitten. That brought the cat to her senses; and she took to her foster children kindly enough and reared them. This same cat afterwards suckled a puppy and kitten at the same time.
One day she gave birth to her kittens in an out-house, and at once leaving them to shift for themselves, she entered the dwelling house and insisted on giving suck to the dog of her first adoption. As he was now a full-grown dog, and had a great regard for his own respectability, he didn’t see the fun of it. Pussy went after him nevertheless, lying down in front of him, and mewingpiteously up in his face. When, to get rid of her importunities, the dog went out, she even followed him to the street, and only ceased pestering him, when her kittens were discovered and brought to her.
Cat Adopting her Grand-Children.—A lady had two cats, mother and daughter, living in the same house with her. The mother was of a quiet, domesticated turn of mind, and preferred fire-side enjoyments to out-of-door sports; but the daughter was quite the reverse. She was a mighty huntress, and it was no uncommon thing, to see her coming waddling across the fields with a rabbit as big as herself in her mouth. Both these cats had kittens at the same time, but the daughter seemed determined, that nursing should not interfere with her hunting expeditions. She was a strong-minded woman’s-rights sort of a cat, and was often scouring the country in pursuit of game, when her poor little family were starving at home. One day she went off as usual, and was never afterwards seen alive: her mangled remains were found a little way down theline, where she had been run over by a railway train.
“We were just about,” says the lady, “to drown the little orphan kits, when, to our surprise, we found that old grandmamma puss had adopted her ill-fated daughter’s children, and was nursing and tending them, with the same amount of care and attention she bestowed on her own.”
I know an instance where two cats, resident in the same house, had had kittens on the same day. There being no chance of finding homes for so many, they were all drowned with the exception of three. Now these two mother-cats were wise in their day and generation. No one cat, they thought, could nurse and suckle ten kits, and it was equally evident that three kittens did not require the services of two cats. So they concluded that the best plan would be to put the shattered remains of the two families,—“Your one kitty, Mrs. Tom, and my two,”—together in one bed, and take turn about in nursing them. This was accordingly done, and turned out to be a very satisfactory arrangementfor all parties concerned; for either cat could now go abroad when she pleased, happy in the thought that nothing could go wrong at home.
Nursing a Hare.—A certain carpenter whom I knew had a cat which in due season,—as all cats will,—produced a litter of kittens which—very cruel and thoughtless was the action—were all drowned. Poor pussy mourned her offspring for many days, but she was a female philosopher—that may seem a paradox, but she was; so she communed with herself on her bed at night, thus,—
“My inhuman master has most unfeelingly slain all my pretty little babes, and has not left me one; but he cannot dry up the fountains of a mother’s love, with which my heart runs o’er; besides, I’m taking the milk-fever. But behold, day is gently breaking. I’ll seek the mountain, and be it what it may, I’ll have something to love, something to suckle me.”
That day she found, or more probably stole, a fine young hare, which she nursed and reared as tenderly as if it had been one of her own kittens.
Nursing Squirrels.—This is by no means uncommon in cats. They will rear them either along with their own kittens or by themselves; and a very pretty sight it is to see. Squirrels thus reared make most delightful little pets.
Nursing Chickens.—I know several instances of cats supplying the place of their lost kittens with a chicken. One cat, for example, had had all her offspring,—it was her first litter,—drowned; she went at once out into the court-yard, where a hen was gathering crumbs to a large brood of chickens. One of these pussy, watching her chance, sprang upon and seized by the neck, and although hotly pursued by the enraged mother, managed to reach the house in safety, and went straight to her own bed. Here she deposited the chicken, and, lying down beside it, commenced to sing, clearly intimating that she wished her little adopted one to have a drink. But unfortunately, chickie’s mouth wasn’t adapted for sucking, but it cowered beside her for warmth; and as there were plenty of crumbs on the kitchenfloor, it did not want. So it became a sort of household pet, and when not eating, it was always cuddling down beside its funny foster-mother. I may mention here, that next time this same cat had kittens they were all drowned again; but this time she did a wiser thing. She found out that a cat, belonging to one of the neighbours, was the happy mother of three kittens which she had been allowed to keep. Off goes puss to this neighbour’s house, and having thrashed the mother to begin with, she kidnapped and carried home one of her family. Several times was the kitten taken back, and each time pussy went and stole it again; and as she never failed to give the other cat a preliminary hiding, it was at last deemed most prudent to let her retain it.
Miss G—— is an old maid, and a great lover of cats and poultry. Once she had a cat nursing a litter of kittens, and one of the chickens in the yard being rather deformed and not thriving, Miss G. brought it and flung it to the cat, thinking it would be a great treat to her. It was a treat to her,though hardly in the way she expected, for pussy commenced licking it all over, and forthwith adopted it, and nursed it along with her kittens. She continued to do so until it grew into a large, leggy, and withal rather ungainly hen; and the most ridiculous part of the business was, that if at any time Tuckie longed for the society of her feathered fellow-creatures, pussy went after her like a shot, and seizing her by the neck lugged her back into the house, and jumped with her into Miss G.’s bed where her kittens were.
A gentleman in New Deer, also possessed a cat who reared a chicken to hen-hood. In this case the adopted chicken was nursed alone, pussy’s kittens having been drowned. This fowl’s neck, was actually crooked with the cat’s carrying her about so much in her mouth, so she always held her head very much to one side, and was upon the whole a very ugly hen. We see, then, that chicken-rearing by cats does not give that amount of satisfaction which is desired. It might pay, though, if they could do the hatching; but cats at present cannotbe taught to sit upon eggs. There is no saying what the future may bring forth, though, for a much more gifted animal will bethe coming cat.
I think the reader will now be prepared to hear of cats—
Nursing Hedgehogs.—Yes, three of those thorny little things were actually nursed, suckled, and reared lately by a cat belonging to a gentleman, who is very fond of trying experiments of this sort. When they grew up, and were in good feather, they were very tricky and funny; but pussy soon found out that they didn’t stand correction well. If she lifted a paw to them, pooh! they were transformed into three round prickly balls, before the blow fell, and pussy’s paw had the worst of it. Then the poor cat would look sulkily from one little ball to another, and turning about, walk off in disgust. But three pairs of bright beady eyes were keeking at her from among the thorns; and before she had reached the fender, the little pigs were all unfolded and after her at the galop. Round would wheelthe cat, and up would roll the hogs again, then pussy would seat herself in front, and keep them thus for an hour at a time, by gently tapping each ball as it attempted to unroll itself.
Suckling Rats.—Some years ago there was a cat in Scotland who, when three of her kittens were drowned, supplied their place by bringing in three young rats to make up the number. She must have known something of arithmetic too, for, when one of the little rats died, she went out and carried in another, still to have the number five. But still another died, and probably she could not find any more, for she contented herself with nursing, and tending the two remaining ones, along with her own two kittens. I never heard what eventually became of the rats. I don’t think she would have eaten them. More probably they lived and grew, and went back as missionaries to their own people.
[SeeNote R, Addenda.]
PUSSY’S PLAYMATES.
I have already shown in former chapters, how loving and affectionate pussy is towards her master and mistress, and how thoughtful and kind a mother she is. But to her playmates also she is ever gentle and true, whether that playmate be another cat, or an animal of quite a distinct breed. I have never known a cat cement a friendship with any creature, without such friendship lasting till death. How very wrong then to accuse pussy of being treacherous! With almost any animal that happens to be domesticated about the same house, a cat will strike up a friendship, and will be ready at any time to fight for it, and protect it from harm. It is quite a common thing to see a cat amusing itself playing with rabbits, or guinea pigs, at hide-and-seek among the bushes, or on the lawn. There is often a distinct understandingbetween some old horse or cow about the place. I have known a cat live entirely in the stable, and invariably go to sleep on a particular horse’s back; the horse in his turn used to welcome her with a fond neigh when she came home at night.
In a village in the Highlands of Scotland, where I resided, there was a crow, a very very old, bald-headed crow, used to come morning and evening, for many months, and sit on the fence opposite, until I threw him a slice of bread or a cold boiled potato. One morning I was surprised on opening the door to find the old Bird-o’-freedom, as I called him, standing on the step. Instead of flying away, he hopped past me into the room, and perching himself on the fender, looked so knowingly first at me and then at the fire, that for the life of me I could not help thinking about Poe’s raven and shuddering, fully expecting the bird would presently say, “Nevermore.” If he could have spoken, I am sure he would have addressed me something after this fashion:—
“Doctor, you’re something of an animal fancier, and I know you’re not a bad-hearted chap on the whole. Now the fact is, I’m feeling rather poorly, and the forest winds are cold of a night; besides, I’m not so young as I have been,—I’m nigh on ninety, lad,—so I intend for my few remaining days to take my pick in a homely way at your fireside. The cat won’t bite, will she?”
In fact, Muffie had fully made up her mind to turn him out of doors there and then, and with that hospitable intention was now approaching him. But Bird-o’-freedom opened his mouth, and gave vent to two such caws, as nearly shook the house. I never heard any bird have such lungs. Muffie was fairly startled, and scampered off with her tail in the air; but in a few days the cat and he were as thick as thieves. In truth, Bird-o’-freedom was a thief, at least, as far as eggs went. If he spied one in the cupboard, he watched his chance, and when it came, one dig laid the egg open, and next second the contents were down his throat with one almighty gulp. I allowed him twoeggs a day, but he would not take them if I offered them to him, or before my face; I had to lay them one by one in the cupboard, and give him the pleasure of stealing them. Muffie was never better pleased than when he was eating, and she sat and sang to him while he drank the milk from her saucer. Then she would sit and sleep cheek by jowl with him for hours. A cat with whom Muffie had never had any words before, once looked into the room, Muffie drove her out with terrible suddenness, and thrashed her properly outside the door. When the candles were lit in the long winter evenings, Bird-o’-freedom, perched upon the fender, used to look up at me so slyly, and yet so solemnly with one wicked eye, that I used to doubt whether he wasn’t the devil entirely, and fly to my fiddle to dispel the thoughts. The poor crow had a fit one morning, and died on his back on the hearth-rug; and when he was dead, the cat was chief mourner. She went about for days, searching for her lost favourite, and mourning all the while, for her grief was really sincere.
“Tabby,” writes a lady to me, “had been poisoned. Shortly before her death, we had her brought upstairs and laid down on the rug in front of the fire,—she was very ill, and unable to lift her head. Tom came bouncing as usual into the room, and sitting down beside her, with his paw playfully patted her on the face; but getting no response, it actually then seemed as if he understood how serious the case really was, because with the same paw he gently raised her head up a little, and kindly licked her all over. It was very affecting, and was more than we expected from him; but certainly he got great credit for the good deed, and ever after had the character of being the warmest-hearted of cats,—and poor Tabby died in his arms.”
Every one knows what a warm friendship will often spring up between a cat and a dog, both resident in the same house. How they will sleep in each other’s arms, eat together, fight for one another; how generous the dog is towards any weaknesses she may display; and how grateful pussy is in return. They will have their little tiffs occasionally, ofcourse. I have seen my cat jump on the piano-stool more than once, in order to slap Master Nero in the face; upon which the dog, swearing like the British in Flanders, hauled her off, and rubbed her well on the carpet, but did not really hurt her.
The Czar and Whiskey.—Whiskey in this case does not mean something to drink. It was the name—and a very appropriate name it was—of a little Scotch terrier, who lived in a village in the far north of Scotland. In the same house with him dwelt the Czar,—this was a large bluish-black cat, who was said to have been imported from Russia—hence his name. No two animals in the world could have loved each other more devotedly, than did the Czar and little Whiskey. And Whiskey was the gamest of the game, yet he never showed his teeth to his feline friend. From the same dish they took their meals, Whiskey merely premising that he should have all the bones. They were together all day, save when Whiskey’s duty to his master called him away, and at night they shared the same couch, the Czar fondlytaking Whiskey in his arms because he was the biggest. I’m not sure, indeed, whether the Czar did not waken Whiskey, when that little gentleman took the nightmare. However, they were as loving as loving could be. And, once or twice every week, this kindly couple used to go out hunting together. They did not care for game-laws, and heeded not the keepers—they were a law unto themselves. On these occasions, they used to go out together in the morning, and after spending all the long day among the hills and woods, they invariably came home before dark. This coming home before nightfall, was doubtless a suggestion of Whiskey’s, for a dog can neither see so well in the dark as a cat, nor can his constitution so well withstand the dews of night. But the very fact of the Czar’s keeping early hours to please Whiskey, is another proof of how he loved him. And almost every night, these sons of Nimrod brought home with them some trophy from the hunting-ground. Sometimes it was a rabbit, more often a bird—if the latter, Whiskey generally had thehonour of carrying it, and very proud he was of the distinction; if a rabbit, the Czar bore the burden. And so things went on, till one mournful night, poor Whiskey came home later than usual, and all alone. He came in, but lay down on the door-mat, out of which he would not budge an inch. He refused his porridge and all consolation, and lay there in a listening attitude, starting up every minute at the slightest sound. His mistress went to bed and left him. It must have been long past midnight, when Whiskey came dashing into his mistress’s bedroom, knocking over a chair in his hurry, and barking wildly as he dashed hither and thither, like a mad thing. When his mistress got up at last, poor little Whiskey preceded her to the door, barking and looking very anxious and excited. A pitiful mew was heard, and on the lady opening the door, in rushed Czar the cat on three legs—he had left the other in a trap. Nothing could exceed the kindness of Whiskey to his wounded playmate. He threw himself down beside her on the rug whining and crying with grief, and gentlylicked her bleeding stump. And every day for weeks did Whiskey apply hot fomentations, with his soft wee tongue to pussy’s leg, till it was entirely healed. But they had no more romping together in the fields and woods, for the Czar’s hunting-days were over—in this world at least.
[SeeNote S, Addenda.]
PUSSY AND THE HARE.
In the parish of P——, Aberdeenshire, there lived some years ago a crofter and his wife, and a little boy their only son. A fine she-tabby cat who nightly sang duets with the kettle to welcome the master home, was the only other member of the family.
One day, while roaming over the moorland in search of birds’ nests, the boy found a young hare, sound asleep among the heather. Such a prize was worth any number of birds’ eggs, and the lad carried it tenderly home and presented it to his mother, and it was that night placed in a box in the cow-byre. Next morning it was gone—puss had eaten it no doubt, and no one could blame her. Pussy had had kittens, only a day or two before, and they had all been drowned. For about a week after the disappearance of the hare, it was observed, that pussy was not so regular in her attendance on the house as usual.She never lay by the fire—the kettle might sing its duets by itself; she ate her meals hurriedly and greedily, and then escaped out.
“It’s the hare she ate that’s no agreeing wi’ her,” said the goodman. “There’s mair in it than that,” said the canny goodwife; and, with a woman’s instinct, she followed pussy out and up into the hay-loft; and, lo and behold! there lay the cat, in a snug little bed, suckling the lost hare, and singing as sweetly as a linnet. Pussy reared the hare, and they became inseparables. At breakfast pussy always waited until the hare had finished, and when there happened to be broth for dinner—a dish the hare did not relish—the cat never failed to beg for a piece of bread, which she carried at once to her strange foster-child. The cat and hare went everywhere together; sometimes indeed they might be seen fully a mile from home. This cat was a famous hunter, and always brought her dead rabbits home. It was funny, at times, to see the pair coming from the fields at even, the cat with her dead quarry in her mouth, creeping stealthily along, her eyes inevery direction, and the big hare, rather out of breath, bringing up the rear, and looking very foolish, as if he didn’t exactly know what it all meant, and rather deprecated the cat’s conduct than otherwise. This cat could fish; for one day a gentleman hooked a large salmon in the river, and after running it for nearly two hours his line broke and he lost it. Now, this salmon was found next morning on the cottar’s door-step. The cat and hare were both present; and as there is no account on record of hares fishing, we think the credit of the capture must be given to pussy. For two years this strangely matched couple were friends, and bosom companions, for they slept together. But, one fine summer’s day they were lying in front of the house half-asleep in the sunshine,—the hare at one side of the door, pussy at the other, and the cottar’s wife knitting between them.
The whole scene was one “of peas,” and might have remained so, only tragedy, in the shape of farmer Dick’s big, disreputable collie, was at that precise moment peeping round a corner and taking stock.
“Hullo!” said the dog to himself; “it’s a—no, it isn’t; yes, it is; hang me, if it isn’t—a hare—as cheeky as you like too. I’ll teach him.”
And he did. The poor hare never required another lesson. Nor did pussy lose any time in giving the dog one. Rendered frantic by her poor friend’s death, she sprang on his back and tore him with tooth and nail. One of the dog’s eyes was entirely destroyed; and it need not be added he ever after gave that house a wide berth. After the untimely fate of her foster-child, pussy was extremely disconsolate, moping about and never caring to leave the house. She had not long to mourn for him however, for some months after she fell a victim to her own curiosity; for, like women, cats are extremely prying.
The cottar’s wife was one day melting some tallow in a large tea-pot, which after using she left by the fire-side; and that night, when every one was in bed, pussy, who had been dying all day to know what was inside that tea-pot, “pirled” off the lid and popped her imprudent head in. Alas! she nevergot it out again. About midnight the honest couple—snug in bed—were awakened by a dreadful clattering noise in the kitchen, along the passage, and on the stair.
“Geordie, Geordie! rise and see,” said the good wife, nudging her goodman.
“Jean, Jean! rise and see yersel’,” said he, nudging her in turn.
“It’sHallow E’en, Geordie,” cried Jean; “and there is a deil, ordeilsrather, in the house, I ken.” For the reader must bear in mind that, though banished from English soil, fairies, bogles, and all that ilk, still linger among the breckans of our Scottish glades and glens; and annually on the night of 31st October, they play a thousand pranks under the direct supervision of the archfiend himself. This superstition proved fatal to poor puss. Gradually the noise got less, and soon ceased entirely. Next morning, the cottar’s wife was up betimes and downstairs. She soon returned, wringing her hands and weeping bitterly.
“Oh! Geordie,” she cried; “come doon and see what the deil has done to our poor pussy.”
[SeeNote T, Addenda.]
THE MILLER’S FRIEND—A TALE.
You might have travelled many a long summer’s day and not met with such another. The very look of him was enough to dispel all ideas of hunger: he was so big and so stout, yet withal so rosy and hardy. His voice had a cheery ring with it, which, combined with the merry twinkle in his eye, set you on good terms with yourself at once, if indeed it did not make you laugh outright. As forhislaugh, to hear it once was to remember it for ever. It was hearty, it was musical; in pitch something between theHa! ha! ha!and theHo! ho! ho!and it rang through the old mill, wakening a dozen sleeping echoes, and causing the old bulldog to bark, although that quadruped had to lean against a pillar to perform the feat. The miller wasn’t a young man by any means; but thoughhe had no wife, he was the jolliest widower ever you saw, albeit his hair and whiskers were like the powdery snow. But his voice—ay, that was the bit—you should have heard it rising in song-snatches, and rolling high over the double bass of the grinding wheels and the shrill clack-clack of that merry old mill.
He was honest moreover. No one in the parish had ever been heard to accuse him of giving light weight, or adding sand to the meal to make it turn the scale sooner. And, as a matter of course, he was a general favourite, especially among the farmer’s daughters and servant-maids; so much so indeed, that all round the country it became the general custom to take meal by the stone, instead of by the bushel, that the “errands to the mill” might be all the more frequent. And indeed, however dull a lass might be, when she was going to the mill, she never left it without a rosier blush on her bonnie cheek, and a smile playing around her lips, as she trundled cheerily along with her bag upon herhead. Yes, indeed, had he wanted a wife, the miller might have married the youngest of them all. Such was the miller, and such too were the race he sprang from,—they were in the habit of getting young again, just at the age that other folks began to get old. They were in their prime at eighty, and never thought of departing this life, until the dial shadow of their existence began to creep near the hundred. Then all at once it used to strike Old Death, that he had forgotten all about them, so he would lift his scythe, and cut them down smartly and suddenly.
And as the miller was jolly, so everything about that old mill was jolly too. There was music in the mill-lead as the waters leapt joyously from under the sluice, and hurried along to their task, and the great wheel itself, as it turned slowly and steadily round, seemed actually bursting with suppressed merriment. Then you should have seen the sweet little bit of scenery the mill was set down in. Ah! English tourists have yet to learn, thatthere is one part of Scotland yet unhackneyed, yet uncockneyed, yet unspoiled, but still romantic enough to repay a journey from London-town. The mill was built by the banks of the wimpling Don,—built in a dingle, green rolling braes sloping up at one side, steep rocks on the other, and the river, here broad and fordable, rippling between. On the top of the rocks waved a tall pine forest; some of the trees hung by their roots over the cliff just as the storm had left them. ’Twas sweet in summertime to hear the birds singing in that forest, or to see the crimson glow of sunset glimmering through the branches; but how tall and dark and weirdly looked those trees, as they stretched their branches up into the green frosty sky of a quiet winter’s gloaming.
To my friend the miller this wood had an especial attraction, for within its shade he had wooed his first, his early love. If you had scaled the little foot-path, that struggled up through the rocks, at the place where they were less precipitous, andfinally gained the cliff, just at the point where Snuffie Sandy tumbled over in the dark and broke his neck, you would have come to a little foot-path, that went windingly away among the tall solemn Scotch pines, to the roots of which the sun never penetrated even at noon, and whose massive trunks might have been mistaken in the sombre light, for the pillars in some gigantic cavern. Onward for a quarter of an hour, and you would suddenly have found yourself in a clearing in the midst of the forest. This clearing was fully a square mile in extent, and was tastefully laid out as a little farm, neat cottage and garden, barnyard, field, and fence, and all complete, as snug a little place as you could wish to see. Owing to its situation, there was quite an understanding between the domestic animals, and the denizens of the surrounding wood. In summertime the hare and the rabbit, browsed peacefully beside the cows and the sheep; the birds came regularly to the latter for a supply of wool to line their nests;the hens and ducks shared their oats amicably with the wild pigeons; and old Dobbin the horse, who used to be tethered among the clover, didn’t mind the crows a bit: they used his back as a sort of moving hustings on which to debate politics or have an occasional stand-up fight, and when Dobbin lay down to rest they lovingly picked his teeth. And everything immediately around the cottage, was as natty and neat as the little farm itself. The greenest of garden gates led you into the sprucest of little gardens; the box was neatly trimmed; never a blade of grass grew on the gravel; and although there were not many flowers, it did one’s heart good in early spring to see the blue and yellow crocuses, peeping through the dun earth, and the sweet-scented primrose discs, diamonded with dew, reclining on the delicate green of their tender leaves. There was a rustic porch around the cottage door; it was formed of the unbarked stems of the spruce fir-tree, with just an inch of branch left on for effect, and the dooritself boasted of a brass knocker, bright enough to shave at; and had you knocked and been invited “ben” to the best-parlour, you would have found everything there too both trig and trim. There was nothing either on the mantle-piece or on the walls to offend your feelings. There were no hideous ornaments or foxy lithographs, but shells, and grass, and moss, and a few modest engravings and photo’s of friends. Instead of a chiffonier there was a neat chest of drawers, and instead of a piano a spinning-wheel. At this latter, Nannie, when not milking or attending to household matters, sat birring all day long, making music which, if not operatic, was at least natural, and suited Nannie and pleased the cat to a nicety. Nannie of course was the presiding goddess of the cottage and farm. The place was all her own. She kept a man and a laddie to do the out-work, and a tidy bit of a girl to assist her in-doors. Nannie from all accounts must have been alarmingly near forty, though she looked a full dozen of years younger, and beautifulfor even that age,—beautiful in regularity of features, in just sufficient colour, and in a lack of all coarseness. Taking her, figure and all combined, you would have said that, if not a lady, she was at least born to adorn a higher sphere. She had never been married, but didn’t look an old maid by any means. For Nannie had had her little history. And merry and cheerful as she always was during the day, still, when the day’s duties were over, and she had retired to her little chamber, after she had read her chapter and psalm and sat down to muse, there would come a strange sad look in her eyes, and at times a tear stood there, as she took from her pocket a portrait and a lock of dark brown hair. And that portrait on which she grazed so fondly, although the face was younger, was the miller’s; his, too, though different in colour, that lock of hair tied with blue, that seemed to cling caressingly around poor Nannie’s finger. For the miller and she had loved each other all their lives long. Oh! their story is quitea common one,—a lover’s quarrel, a harsh word, and a silent parting: that was all. And the miller had gone off in a pet, and married a woman double his age. The marriage was as uncongenial as snow in summer; but now, though his wife had been long in her grave, the miller, though he knew he could get forgiveness at once from Nannie, never went to ask it, feeling he had erred too deeply to deserve it. So they had lived for years—those two loving hearts—with only the dark pine forest and the broad river between them.
One dark Christmas morning the miller was astir long before his usual time, for there was more to do than he could well manage. There was barley to prepare for Christmas broth, and meal for Christmas brose; so long before the sun had dreamt of getting out of bed, he had hauled up the sluice. The waters rushed headlong on towards the great mill-wheel; the great mill-wheel turned slowly round; and suddenly the old mill, previously as silent and dark as the grave itself, became instinct with life and sound.
It was a good quarter of a mile walk, from the mill-dam sluice to the mill. Hundreds of times he had gone the road before, but on this particular morning, somehow or other, the miller felt peculiarly nervous. It was so dark, and everything was so still, and being Christmas morning, what more likely than that he should see a ghost. He tried to sing, but for once in his life he failed; and he felt quite a sense of relief when the farmer’s cocks awoke, and began hallooing to each other all over the country. So, in no enviable frame of mind, he reached the mill and opened the door. The old dog came to meet him, and he struck a light, and shaking off for a time his superstitious fears, he donned a dusty coat, and set to work in earnest. First there was the corn to spread upon the kiln. That done, he went below to put a match to the kiln-fire which was already laid. In this furnace it was not coals that were burned, nor wood either, but the outside husks of the oats themselves,—what are called in Scotland “shealings.” This made a roaring fire, and was easily lit. All was darkness when themiller went down, but he soon had both light and heat. Indeed, from the latter he was fain to stand back; and so, leaning on his shovel, as he contemplated his work, with the firelight playing around his handsome face and figure and the darkness behind him, he would have formed no mean study for a painter. But suddenly the spade dropped from his grasp, his face turned pale,—pale as it never would be again until death set his seal on it,—and the perspiration stood in big drops on his brow, while his frightened gaze was riveted on the furnace before him. He had seena face in the fire, apparently that of a demon—what else could it be?—black and unearthly looking, with white teeth and green glaring eyes; it showed but a moment, and disappeared again in the smoke beneath the kiln. For a few seconds which seemed like ages, he stood there transfixed; then again that awful face in the blaze, and this time a horrid yell which seemed to rend the very mill; and something sprang wildly from the furnace,—sprung at him, over him, through him, somehow or anyhow, the miller could nottell,—he had tumbled down in a dead faint. Daylight was just coming in when he awoke. The fire was black out, and the mill still grinding away at nothing in particular. Outside, the snow lay on the ground to a depth of several inches; it was no wonder then that the poor miller began to shiver, as soon as he gathered himself up. He shivered,—and when he thought of that terrible apparition, he shuddered as well as shivered.
“An awfu’ visitation,” he muttered to himself,—“a truly awfu’ visitation on a Christmas morning;” and he began to wonder what he had ever done to deserve it. He went over his whole life,—honest man, it had been anything but a chequered or eventful one,—and finally came to the conclusion that it must be a judgment on him for forsaking his early love.
“Poor lonely Nannie!” he sighed, as he dragged himself wearily away to begin his work.
The miller was a steady, sober man, but he did feel glad when visitors began to arrive at the mill, and being Christmas morning, bringa bottle with them. But he could not find exhilaration in the whisky,—no, nor consolation either. He simply could not get warm, only his face seemed to glow; and there was a weight at his heart, as if he had swallowed one of his own millstones. When at last the day wore over, and he found himself at home, he thought he had never felt so tired in his life before. His decent old body of a housekeeper marked how ill he looked, and insisted on putting him to bed at once, with a bottle of hot water, an extra blanket, and a basin of gruel.
Next day the miller was in a raging fever, and for many weeks he seemed only hovering between life and death. Mrs. Fowler, as his housekeeper was called, could not have been more kind to him if he had been her own son. But one day she said to herself, as she looked upon his poor worn face, “I see I canna cure him, and the man will die if assistance doesna come soon. I’ll try it,—I’ll try it.”
What the trying it had reference to we shall soon see. Mrs. Fowler put on herSunday’s gown and bonnet, put on her scarlet shawl and her sable boa, and telling the miller she would soon return, went out into the keen January air, and took her way to the bridge that spanned the rapid Don. For the good lady was far too old to try the ford, or climb the rocks, or trust herself in the dark little footpath, that led through the forest to Nannie’s house. She arrived there in good time for all that.
Nannie was spinning, but strange to say, she was always glad to see Mrs. Fowler. So she put aside the reel and bustled about to get tea ready.
“And is he getting any better?” asked Nannie at length, referring to the miller. The question was asked in seemingly a half-careless tone, but none knew but herself, how her heart was beating all the while.
“Na, na, poor man,” said Janet, for that was her maiden name, “he is no long for this world.”
Nannie had turned away her head, and buried her face in her hands. Presently she was sobbing like a child. Janet spoke not.
“Oh,” cried poor Nannie, “I must, Ishallsee him before he dies.”
Then Janet spoke.
“And God in heaven bless you, my bonnie bairn, for those words; for you’re the only one in this weary world that can save his life.”
“No,—but,” said Nannie, “if he really is going to live, you know,—I—a—”
Oh the inconsistency of women! A moment before, and she would have given all she possessed in the world for one glance of the loved face; now, because he was going to live,—oh, dear!
But Janet hastened to tell her all the story,—how in his wild delirium he had spoke of no one, raved of no one, save her; and now that the fever had subsided and left him weak as a baby, how he always led the subject on to Nannie, his early love, their rambles in the pine-forest, and his cruel desertion of her, and how he always wound up with the melancholy reflection, that he knew poor Nannie would forgive him when she saw him being carried to his “lang hame.”
And so well did Janet represent the whole matter and argue her case, that Nannie gave her consent to go along with her even then. And she laughed and cried at the same time, in quite a hysterical way, as she said,—
“Well, Mistress Fowler,—he! he! he!—you know best and—he! he!—if you really think it will do the poor man good, I’ll go; and—but—oh! Mistress Fowler, Imusthave a cry.”
And she did.
And it really seemed to do her good; for she smiled quite calm and happy-like afterwards—the heightened flush in her cheeks making her look ten times prettier; and she was soon dressed and ready to march.
Just as she was going out, however, her countenance fell, and,—
“Oh! Mistress Fowler, my poor cat,” cried Nannie.
“Your cat?” said Janet.
“Aye, woman, my cat,” replied Nannie; “come and see the poor darling. Somehow or other it got dreadfully burnt, about three weeks ago, and it isn’t better yet; come and see.”
“That a cat!” said Janet with uplifted hands and eyes; “dearie me! dearie me!”
In good sooth it might have been taken for a kangaroo, or anything else you liked. There wasn’t a hair on its whole body; and although the wounds and scars were healed, it was still in a state of prostration and debility. It purred kindly, however, when its mistress gently stroked it, showing how fully it appreciated her kindness. * * *
“You’ll even take the poor thing wi’ you, Nannie,” said old Janet.
“Three whole hours,” said the miller to himself as he lay in bed and looked up at the old-fashioned eight-day clock, whose melancholy ticking had been his only solace since Janet left,—“three whole hours, and she promised she would be back in one.” Presently big flakes of snow began to fall slowly ground-wards, and the poor man’s spirits seemed to fall along with them. It was so gloomy being all alone in the still house; the very fire had forsaken him; and he shivered as he gazed out into the fast closing winter’s day. He remembered how different had beenhis feelings one evening, long, long ago, when he had stood with her by his side, looking upwards through the maze of snow-flakes,—how they had crept closer together from the cold, and sworn to be for ever near each other. Ah, that lost love! He was sure he was dying, even now; and how dreadful he thought it was to die all alone. He wondered ifshewould feel sorry, when she heard of his death. And then he slept—a nasty fitful starting sleep, with painful racking dreams; now he was climbing interminable precipices, every moment ready to fall; now he was walking over long trackless moors that would never, never have an end; and now he was toiling at the mill with wheels, wheels all around him, and horrid shapes with brown skinny arms, that tried to clutch and pull him down among the dark grinding machinery; then he screamed, or tried to scream, and at once his dream took another form. He seemed to be lying in his own room, and could hear the ticking of the old clock; but it was no longer dark and dismal, the blinds were drawn, the lamp was lit, acheerful fire burned on the clean-swept hearth, and the kettle sang on the hob, and—ah, blissful vision! there, beside the bed, sat Nannie,—his Nannie, as he had seen her years and years ago; a bright blush was on her cheek, and her bonnie eyes were bent on his face with so sad a look. The miller held his breath, lest the vision should vanish into darkness.
“Oh! oh!” cried poor Nannie, “he doesn’t know me, he doesn’t know me;” and she hid her face on his breast and sobbed aloud.Nowhe knew it was no dream. He stretched out his arms, but it had all come so suddenly, everything seemed to swim before his eyes, and his head sank like lead on the pillow. He had fainted.
When he opened his eyes again, it was only to meet once more Nannie’s loving anxious gaze; he could only smile as he pressed her hand, and fell into a sleep, sweeter than he had slept since childhood.
Well may the poet call sleep “Nature’s sweet restorer.” But there is something more important than even sleep itself, andwithout which, refreshing sleep can never come—happiness and contentment. Psychics, or mental treatment, is not now overlooked by medical men as it used to be; and if ever the philosopher’s stone, or the secret of making men immortal, be found, it will be through this science.
It was far into the middle of next day, before the miller awoke. He felt a sensation of happiness at his heart even before he opened his eyes, or remembered the cause. The cause indeed was just then busy getting ready his breakfast. It was a clear frosty day outside, with the sky ever so bright and blue, and the whole landscape white with dry powdery snow; and inside everything was as neat as new pins. How pretty and home-like Nannie looked, bustling about with her peachy cheeks and her nut-brown hair. It was quite refreshing to look at her,—at least so the miller thought; and he gave a big double-shuffle sigh, like what a child does when it is just finishing a good cry.
“Oh! you’re awake, are you?” said Nannie, going to the bedside, and taking his hot hand between her cold little palms.
“I’ve been keeking at you from under the coverlit for mair than an hour,” said the miller, honestly.
“And what made ye come, Nannie?”
“I heard you were dying, John.”
“Oh! bless you, bless you, poor lassie; it is mair than kind,—it’s what only an angel would do. But if ye knew what I’ve suffered a’ these lang lang years,—”
“I do know, John; Janet has told me everything.”
“And bye-gones are bye-gones; and I’m forgiven?”
“Bye-gones are bye-gones, John; and you’re forgiven.”
“Nannie,” said the miller, emphatically, “that wee deevilock (imp) that lap oot at me through the kiln-fire was a saint, I’ll be sworn.”
“It’s here,” said Nannie.
“Eh?” said John, somewhat nervously.
“Here,” continued Nannie; and she held up the cat which had been sleeping cosily at the miller’s feet all the night.
“Dear me! dear me!” said the invalid.“Well, well; and the deevilock was a cat—your cat—after all. Well, Nannie, it’s no bonnie; but, Lord bless it, give me it, till I take it into my bosom.”
Pussy, purring, was duly deposited under the bed-clothes; and then Nannie enjoined her patient not to talk any more. “But,” she added, “you do feel better; don’t you?”
“Better! Nannie,” quo’ John; “if I had any mortal thing on besides my sark, I would rise this vera minute, and dance the reel o’ Bogie.”
It was a treat to John to see Nannie infusing the tea in Janet’s best brown-stone,—it was a treat to see her kneeling there, making the toast and then putting on the butter, and crushing the hard edges with the knife, and seaming it across and across, that the butter might find its way to the interior; and it was a treat to see the way she placed the little table at his pillow-side, and spread a clean white towel over the tray, that held the plates for the toast, and the pot with the fragrant tea. But when she placed her own cup on the same tray, and satdown beside him, John was indeed a happy man; and scarcely a mouthful could he swallow for looking at her, although she had cut the tender juicy steak into the most tempting tiny morsels that ever were seen.
Now although the miller began to revive, from the very day that Nannie first became his gentle nurse, still he had a hard tussle for his life; and the winter’s snow had melted, the ploughed fields—dotted here and there with sacks of golden grain—were changing from black to brown in the spring sunshine, ere, leaning on Nannie’s arm, he could take even a short walk. It was wonderful, though, the amount of good even that first little outing did him. It seemed to put new life into his veins, to see the buds coming out on the trees, the grass turning green, and the sturdy farmers busy scattering the corn, with the reverend-looking rooks in swallowtail coats, religiously following at their heels. Oh! bless you, it was the worms, not the grain, they were gobbling up. To the upper moorland the peewits had returned, and the curlew was mingling his shrill scream withtheir laughing voices; and of course there was the lark up yonder in heaven’s blue, all a-quiver with song, and ever and anon cocking his head, and giving another look down, to see if that hussy of a hen of his—who couldn’t sing a stave to save her life—was duly appreciating his efforts to amuse her. Well, then, if I tell you that the soft spring-wind was blowing balmily from the south-west,—as properly educated spring-winds always ought to, and do blow,—you will not marvel that, when the miller at last sought the house, there was a brighter look in his eye, and that the roses of returning health had already begun to bud on his cheeks. Old Janet met him in the door, and noted this.
“Ay, my lad,” she said, with a cheery nod, “you’ll live yet awhile.”
That same evening Janet beckoned Nannie into her own room, and having closed the door,—
“Now,” she said, “my dear lassie, I’m just going to tell you, you’ve done your duty like a Christian. Wi’ the blessing of God ye hae saved John’s life.”
“You think he is really out of danger, then?” asked Nannie, anxiously.
“He’ll be in danger lang eno’, if you bide ony mair wi’ him,” answered Janet, with Scottish bluntness.
“Ye’ll even gang home the morn, my lass, and I’ll make John himsel’ come over and thank you for a’ you’ve done for him, as soon as he can walk as far; and mark my words, he won’t let that be lang.”
So next morning Nannie took her departure, back to her little farm in the pine forest. But pussy had no such intention. She had quite recovered the effects of her late incineration; and had got a complete new coat of the silkiest fur. Besides, she had taken quite a fancy to the miller,—for here again cats are like women: allow them to nurse and attend you when ill, and they are sure to love you. There were water-rats to catch in the dam, mice in the mill, and plenty of trout in the mill-lead, and this cat was madly fond of sport,—so she stayed.
Nannie was right about the miller’s recovery. Every day he extended his walk alittle farther, and by-and-by was quite able to superintend matters at the mill.
Well, one fine morning, when the country-side was busy laying down the turnips, John, dressed in his best, with a smart cane in his hand,—for the day was to be big with his fate,—took the road and shaped his course for Nannie’s farm. Mind you, all the time that Nannie was nursing him, John never breathed a word of his love for her or his hopes for the future,—he was much too honourable to take so unfair an advantage.
Nannie was busy in her little garden; and either the pleasure of meeting the miller, or the excitement of labour had flushed her cheeks, and made her look very pretty indeed.
“I just came over to help you with the garden a bit,” said John,—the hypocrite! “for thanks to you, Nannie, I’m just as strong as a young colt.”
So they worked in the garden most industriously all day, just like a second edition of Adam and Eve; and at sunset Nannie set out to convoy the miller through the pine wood. Now, although they had both beenchattering all day like a couple of magpies, neither now had a word to say. Nevertheless they took the path as if by instinct, that led down into the hazel-copse that overlooked the wimpling Don. There were yellow primroses growing here, and wild sorrel, and a mossy bank; and on this our lovers sat.
“Ah!” said John, “it does seem strange, but this is the very spot where we parted years ago,—and in anger, dear lassie.”
Nannie was silent.
“You’ll marry me now; won’t you?” continued John.
A soft warm hand placed in his, was the reply; a wee mouth held up to kiss, and a face all wet with tears. What little fools women are, to be sure!
In the first harvest-moon the miller and she were married. There was a wedding-breakfast, a wedding-dinner, ay, and a wedding-ball. To this latter came all the flower of the country; it was held in the old mill, and began as early as six in the evening. Never before in the country-side had such a rant been seen or heard tell of. Therewere three small fiddles and a blind bass, besides a clarionet and a squinting fifer;—what do you think of that for music? And there were four-and-twenty “sweetie wives”[7]round the door, with baskets full to the brim; and they were allsold out before morning,—think of that. Now the English reader has little notion how important a personage a “sweetie-wife” is at a country ball. The “sweeties” are made up in little ornamented sixpenny bags, and to these a young man treats his partner after a dance; so you may tell how any girl is appreciated by the number of bags of sweeties in her possession. Highest of all is the belle of the ball herself,—a lovely and stately girl, who will only dance with men with beards, and who has so many bags that her pockets will hold no more; so she keeps dealing them out with a queenly hand, to her plainer and less fair friends. Then there are stars of lesser magnitude, with enough but none to spare; and minor constellations, with perhaps a dozen bags; and there are ten-bag beauties, and seven-bagbeauties, and five-bag beauties, three-bag beauties, and beauties with never a bag at all, who have only been thought worthy of getting their sweeties in loose handfuls.
Ay, that was a ball. The miller had given orders that the lads and lasses should “dance the day-light in,” and that not even a “sweetie-wife” should go home sober. Then, hey! how the fiddlers played! Hey! how the dancers danced! and hey! how the sweeties flew!
And when, during a lull, the miller himself and his pretty wife came in to dance one reel, just for fashion sake,—oh, dear! wasn’t the floor quickly filled? The fiddlers played as they hadn’t played yet; and the way the old blind bass screwed his mouth, and turned up the whites of his eyes was a caution to see. The tune was that rattling old Scotch strathspey, “The Miller of Drone”; and you should just have heard the cracking of thumbs and the hooch-!-ing,—if you had had a single drop of Scottish blood, twelve generations removed, you would have been on your pins at once. But when they came to the reel, thehoochs! were fired off like pistol shots, till they ended in one jubilant hurrah!! and the rafters rang as the music stopped. Then steaming whiskey punch was handed round in bumpers from buckets, and all drank the miller’s health, and the miller’s wife’s health, and long life and happiness, and three times three, with Highland honours. Then the miller and his bride drove off,—in a real carriage and pair, mind you; with wedding-favours on the horses’ heads, and tassels at their ears, oh! none of your half-and-half affairs; and eight-and-forty old shoes from four-and-twenty old sweetie wives, came whistling after them, as they rattled round the corner and were lost to view.
I am in a position to state, that John and his Nannie spent a most happy honeymoon in the Highlands of their native land, in that most pleasant of all seasons when the bloom still lingers on the heather and the autumn tints are on the trees.
Years have fled since then, but the old mill-wheel goes merrily round as in the days of yore; and Nannie and John are still alive, andlikely to live for many a long year. And when the miller returns from his labour of an evening to his home in the pine-wood, there are a clean fireside and a singing kettle to welcome him; and better still, a little curly-haired boy with his mother’s eyes, and a wee baby-girl with its father’s dimples and its mother’s smile. Pussy is getting old, but in the long fore-nights of winter she loves to play with the little ones on the rug, or lull them to sleep with her drowsy purr; but, when “summer days are fine,” she will follow them far a-field, and the children gather gowans on the leas and string them into garlands to hang around her neck; and at sundown, pussy, they think, must be very tired; the good-natured cat humours the bairnies’ fancy, and pretends to be nothing short of dead-beat, and so they carry pussy home.