We were now living in England, in a country place—fields and woods and lanes all around. We took great pleasure in all the amusements of country life.
Our Papa had some ferrets, which he used to take out for rat-hunting in the corn stacks with a terrier we had, named Tawney, and other dogs; and now and then he went to a rabbit warren at some little distance. A boy one day brought from this warren a hat full of young rabbits for the ferrets to eat. They were all supposed to be dead; but when Papa was looking at them, he saw that one of the poor little things was alive, so he brought it into the house and gave it to me and my sister, saying that if we thought we could feed it we might keep it.
The poor little thing was so young, that it was a great chance whether we could bring it up; but we had a cook who was very fond of all animals, and she helped us to nurse it. She fed it with milk for a few days, and then it soon began to nibble at bran and vegetables, and in a week or two could eat quite as well as a full-grown rabbit.
The gardener made us a nice little house for it, by nailing some bars across the open side of an old box, and it slept in this by the side of the kitchen fire; but we never fastened it up so that it could not get out, and in the day-time it was seldom in its box, but running about the kitchen, and it soon found its way along the passage into the sitting-room, and then upstairs to the nursery, and into all the bed-rooms. It went up and down stairs quite easily, and seemed perfectly happy running about the house.
It was a very strange thing that our terrier Tawney, of whom I have much to tell afterwards, never thought of touching Bunny, for when out of doors he was most eager after any sort of animal, would run for miles after a rabbit or a hare, went perfectly crazy at the sight of a cat, and was famous for rat-hunting and all such things; but as soon as he entered the house, even if the saucy little Bunny bounded about just before his nose, he would quietly pass by, apparently without an idea that it was a thing to be hunted. In the evenings, when Tawney would lie asleep on the rug, Bunny used to run over him, sometimes nestling itself against his back or legs; then would pat his face with its fore paws, and take all manner of liberties with him, he never so much as growled or snapped at it, and seemed really to like the companionship of the poor little creature.
One very favourite hiding-place of Bunny's was behind the books on the dining-room shelves. These were quite low down to the floor, and if he could find a gap where a book was taken out, he squeezed himself in, and as the shelves were very wide, there was plenty of room for him to run about behind the books. I suppose he liked the darkness, and thought it was something like one of his native burrows, and if he could not remember them, it was his natural propensity to live in narrow dark passages, and therefore he preferred such places to the open daylight. It was very funny to see his little brown face peeping out between the books. Sometimes it happened that a book was replaced whilst Bunny was snugly hidden behind, and then we missed him when we went to put him to bed in his box for the night. First we went to look for him in all the rooms, and about the passages, and if he was not in the bookcase he would always come when we called, so when we saw nothing of the little animal, we went and took a book out of each shelf, and we were sure to see his bright eyes glistening in the dark, and then out came little Bunny with a bound. He did not seem to care for running into the garden or yard, which was odd; but as he grew older his taste for burrowing showed itself strongly.
As he used to follow the cook about everywhere, he had of course been often down to the cellar and larder. These were paved with small round stones, and there was an inner cellar, or rather a sort of receptacle for lumber of all sorts, which was not paved at all; it had a floor of earth. Old hampers and boxes were put away there, sometimes potatoes and carrots, etc., were spread on the floor there, and altogether the place had a very damp, earthy sort of smell, perhaps very like the inside of a rabbit burrow, and one day the cook came to ask Mamma to come and look at the litter Bunny had made in the cellar. We all ran down, and saw that Bunny had scratched up a quantity of earth from between the little stones with which the cellar was paved; in fact the cellar floor looked almost like a flower-bed, all earth. The door into the inner cellar happened to be shut, or most probably he would have commenced his operations where there were no stones to hinder him.
Mamma said that the gardener should press down the earth again between the stones, and tighten any that were loose, and that Bunny must not be allowed at any time to go down into the cellar. But it was very difficult to prevent his doing so. In summer, the meat and the milk were kept down there, as being the coolest place, and the beer barrels were there, and the coals, in different compartments; and to fetch all these different things somebody or other was perpetually opening the door at the top of the stairs. So Bunny frequently found opportunities for slipping in at the open door, and he came every day less and less into the sitting-rooms. One evening he had the cunning to hide himself behind some of the empty hampers in the inner cellar, and when we called him, and looked about for him in the evening, no Bunny appeared. In vain we took books out of all the shelves, hunted behind the curtains, under the sofas, and in all his usual hiding-places, we were obliged to give it up, and go to bed without finding him.
The next morning, we renewed our search, and seeing no sign of his work in the outer cellar, we determined to have a regular rummage in the inner one. After moving a great many bottles, baskets, boxes, and barrels, we found a great hole. The earth had evidently been just scratched out; for it was quite moist and fresh. The busy little fellow had made a long burrow during the night in the floor of the cellar. When he heard our voices, he came out of his newly-made retreat, and we took him up stairs and gave him some food; for he was quite ravenous after his hard work. Then we consulted with his friend the cook, how to manage about him in future. It would certainly never do to let him go on burrowing under the house; in time we should have all the walls undermined, and the house would come tumbling down upon us, burying us in the ruins. Terrible, indeed, was the catastrophe that we created in our imagination from the small foundation of Bunny's having scratched a hole in the cellar! And now that he had once tried and enjoyed the pleasures of burrowing, we could scarcely expect that he would relinquish it again.
We went to talk about it to Mamma; and we proposed that Bunny should live in the garden.
"But," said Mamma, "I shall have all my nice borders scratched into holes; and the roots of my beautiful rose-trees laid bare; and, in short, the whole flower-garden destroyed, to say nothing of the kitchen-garden, which would, of course, become a mere burrow."
"Well, then, Mamma," we said; "we must make him a much larger house, and keep him in it altogether. We will not let him have his liberty at all; and then it will be impossible for him to do any mischief."
But Mamma said, that although that plan would certainly prevent Bunny from burrowing; she thought that it would not be a very happy life for the poor little animal, who had been accustomed all his life to perfect liberty, and had never been confined to one place.
We could think of no other plan; so begged Mamma to tell us what she thought we had better do.
"Do you remember," said Mamma, "seeing a number of little brown rabbits, running about and darting in and out of their holes, in the wild part of the fir-woods, where we sometimes drive. There is a great deal of fern and grass about there, and nothing at all to prevent the rabbits from burrowing and enjoying their lives without any one to molest them. I advise you to take Bunny there, and to turn him loose in the fir-wood; he will very soon find some companion and make himself a home; and do you not think he will be far happier when leading that life of freedom, than if kept in a wooden house, or even if allowed to burrow in a cellar?"
After some deliberation, we agreed to follow Mamma's advice; and the next day we drove to the fir-wood, taking Bunny with us in a basket.
We drove slowly along the skirts of the wood, looking for a nice place to turn him out. At last, we came to an open space among the fir-trees; the ground was there thickly covered with long grass, ferns, and wild-flowers, and the banks beneath the firs were full of rabbit-holes; we saw many little heads popping in and out.
"This is just the place," we cried. "What a beautiful sweet fresh place to live in; and we got down and went a little way into the grass; then we placed the basket on the ground and opened it. Bunny soon put up his head, snuffed the sunny sweet air, and glanced about him in all directions. No doubt he was filled with wonder at the change from our kitchen or dark cellars, to this lovely wood; with a bright blue sky, instead of a ceiling; waving green trees, instead of white walls; and on the ground, in place of a bare stone floor; inexhaustible delights in the way of food; and soft earth for burrowing. Having admired all this, he jumped out of the basket; first he nibbled a little bit of grass, then ran a little way among the ferns.
"Do let us watch him till he runs into a rabbit hole," we said to Mamma.
And Mamma said she would drive up and down the road that skirted the firs, for about half-an-hour, and we might watch Bunny.
He wandered about for a long time among the grass and plants; and at last we lost sight of him in a thick mass of broom and ferns.
Mamma thought it was useless to search for him; there was no doubt that he would thoroughly appreciate the advantages of the fir-wood. So we gathered a large bunch of wild flowers, jumped into the carriage, and left Bunny in his beautiful new home.
One morning, my sister was sitting with Mamma at the dining-room window, when they saw me coming down the garden walk, with my head bent down, and something perched on my back.
"Look!" said Mamma, "What has your brother got on his back?"
Up started my sister.
"Oh!" cried she, "It is something alive; it is black: what can it be?"
And she darted out to look at my prize.
It was a fine glossy fully-fledged Jackdaw. The gardener, knowing my love for pets of all kinds, had rescued it from the hands of some boys, who had found a nest of jackdaws, and had presented it to me.
Although it was quite young, it looked like a solemn old man; the crown of its head was becoming very grey; and it put its head on one side, and examined us in such a funny manner, listening with a wise look when we spoke, as if considering what we were saying.
The gardener had cut one of his wings pretty close, and the remaining wing was not very large. We set him down in the garden, and watched him for some time, in order to be certain that he could not fly over the low wall that separated our garden from the road. And we soon saw that he could only flutter a few inches from the ground, and hop in a very awkward sidelong manner; there was no fear of his escaping.
Luckily, there was a large wicker cage, that had once been used for a thrush, in the coach-house. We fetched this out, cleaned it, and placed Jacky in it on the ground near some shady bushes. We left the door open, that he might hop in and out, and always kept a saucer of food for him in the cage.
He soon became very tame; would hop on our wrists and let us carry him about, and liked sitting on our shoulders, as we went about the garden. Near his cage was a large lilac-bush, and he found that he could hop nearly to the top by means of its branches; and he picked out for himself a nice perch there, in a sort of bower of lilac-leaves and flowers.
Finding this much pleasanter than the cage, he soon deserted that entirely; and at night, and whenever he was not hopping about the garden, or playing with us, he was to be found always on the same twig in the lilac bush.
We used to place his saucer of sopped bread, and his saucer of water at the foot of the bush.
When we passed, he used to shout "Jacky!" and soon began to try other words; and tried to imitate all sorts of sounds and noises.
In the heat of summer, when the bed-room windows were all opened at daylight, we used to hear him practising talking in his bush. He barked like the dogs; utterly failed in his attempt to sing like the canaries; mewed like pussy very well, indeed; and then kept up an indescribable kind of chattering, which we called saying his lessons; for we supposed that he intended it to imitate our repeating of lessons, which he heard every morning through the dining-room window.
Sometimes we heard more noise than he could possibly make alone; and we softly got out of our beds, and peeped through the window to discover what it was about. There must have been six or seven other jackdaws, running round and about his bush, hopping up and down into it; apparently trying how they liked his house, and having all sorts of fun and conversation with our Jacky.
Within a few fields of our garden walls, stood the old ruin of a hall or manor-house; it had once, doubtless, been large and handsome; nothing now remained of it but the outer wall, a few mullioned windows, and some remnants of stone-staircases. The walls being very thick and much broken, afforded excellent holes and corners for jackdaws'-nests; for owls and such things. Indeed, it was from one of these holes in the ruined hall, that Jacky had been taken. And the numerous feathered inhabitants of the "Old Hall," as it was called, having spied our pet, sitting in lonely state in his bower among the lilac leaves, doubtless thought he would be grateful for a little company, and the society of his equals; so kindly used to pay him a visit in the early morning, before children or gardener were likely to interfere.
We were rather afraid that the wild jackdaws might entice away our Jacky, by describing to him their own free life, and the mode of existence in the crumbling walls of their home. But when Mamma made us observe how very awkwardly he hopped about with his cropped wing, and how utterly impossible it was for him to fly across two or three fields, and to the top of the ruin, we were satisfied that his stay in our garden was compulsory; and we agreed that the "Old Hall" jackdaws might visit him as much as they pleased. But they never once came at any other time than very early in the morning.
I suppose Jacky thought that he had kept these visits a profound secret from us.
As he grew older, he became extremely mischievous. When Mamma was busy in the garden, he used to come down from his tree and follow her about from one border to another, watching earnestly whatever she was doing; and whilst she tied up the plants, or gathered away the dead leaves and flowers, he used to put his head on one side, and seemed to be considering for what purpose this or that was done.
Mamma was planting a quantity of sweet peas, in order to have a second and late crop, after the first had begun to fade. She planted them in circles, twelve peas in each, and a white marker was stuck in the centre of each patch. As it was fine warm weather, Mamma expected that these peas would very soon appear; but in a few days, when she went to look at them, she saw that all the white markers had been pulled up and thrown on one side.
So she called to us, "Children! I am afraid you have meddled with my seed markers; for they have all been taken out, and I stuck them firmly in the ground; some one must have touched them."
We assured Mamma that we were not the delinquents; indeed, we were too fond of all the beautiful flowers to injure them in any way.
When we looked closer, we saw that there was an empty hole in each place where Mamma had planted a pea. They had every one been picked out.
Whilst we were wondering who could have done this, the gardener passed, and Mamma showed him the empty holes, and the markers pulled up; and asked him who he thought likely to have done such a piece of mischief.
"I shouldn't wonder if it war he," said the gardener, pointing to Jacky, who, as usual, was close to Mamma, listening attentively to all we said.
"Jacky, Jacky!" shouted he, making some of his awkward jumps at the same time, and going close to the ring of little holes, he peeped down them, with his head on one side, as if to make sure that he had left nothing at the bottom.
We could not help laughing at the queer old-fashioned manner of the creature; but, at the same time, it was very annoying for Mamma to lose all the pretty and sweet flowers through Jacky's greediness.
She said she would plant some more immediately; and she sent my sister, with Jacky on her wrist, to the front of the house, with orders to stay there till the planting was finished, so that the mischievous bird might not watch the whole process, and would not know where the seeds were planted.
I staid to help Mamma; we planted rings of sweet peas in different places from the old ones; and instead of white markers, which might attract Jacky's notice, we stuck in a great many bramble-sticks, all round every patch, so closely that a much smaller bird than Jacky would have found it difficult to squeeze himself in between the rough prickly twigs. Then we thought that all was safe, and we let Jacky come back to his perch.
The next day he had not touched the brambles; but I suppose he had thought it necessary to do something in the way of gardening; so he had fetched up, from the farthest end of the kitchen garden, a roll of bass, or strips of old matting, that was used for tying plants and flowers to sticks. This he had pulled into little shreds, all about the lawn and the flower-beds, and a great deal of time and trouble he must have spent upon his work. How the gardener did scold! saying, that it would take the whole afternoon to clear away the litter, and that Jacky did more mischief than he was worth; and so on.
But Jacky was a privileged person, and did pretty much as he liked; so it was of no use to complain about him.
It was most amusing to see how he teased the gardener when mowing was going on; he would watch his opportunity, and when no one chanced to be looking, he would run away with a bit of carpet or piece of old flannel, that the gardener used to wipe his scythe; or else he would drag away the hone, or sharpening-stone, and hide it under his lilac-bush.
So gardener, finding him a great nuisance on mowing days, told us that he should certainly mow off Jacky's head or legs some day; for he would come hopping about among the cut grass; and if taken up and landed in his tree, he would immediately come down again, and thrust himself just in the way.
So for the future, we took care on mowing days to shut up Jacky in the nursery, or in the dining-room, where he used with a rueful countenance to watch all proceedings through the window, pecking now and then in a spiteful way at the glass.
A bird and a catTHE SPARROW-HAWK AND CAT.Page 45.
A bird and a catTHE SPARROW-HAWK AND CAT.Page 45.
THE SPARROW-HAWK AND CAT.Page 45.
Whilst Jacky was in our possession, we had a sparrow-hawk for a short time. Papa brought him home one evening in a paper bag; he was a very handsome fellow, with such brilliant eyes, and such a beak! He was perfectly wild, and bit furiously at any hand that approached him; so we covered up his head in a pocket-handkerchief, whilst gardener fastened a small chain round his leg. Then we fixed a short stump in the grass, not far from Jacky's lilac, and fastened the end of the chain to the stump. So he could run and hop about for a yard or two round the stump; we intended to keep him there until he became a little tamer, and hoped that the example of his neighbour would teach him good manners. But instead of taking Jacky as a pattern, the new comer bullied him in a most dreadful way. We might have saved ourselves the trouble of chaining him, for he snapped the chain in two with his strong beak, and came down from his stump quite at liberty to roam about. Strange to say, he did not go away altogether, but walked in at the dining-room window. We were seated at tea, and not knowing that the hawk had liberated himself, we were quite startled at hearing a curious flapping in the corner of the room, but we soon saw the two brilliant eyes, and there sat Mr. Sparrow-hawk, on the top of the book-case. We took him out and confined him to his stump again. There he staid quietly all night; but next day we heard Jacky pitying himself in his bush, and we found him fidgetting about in the top of the lilac, and fearing to come down, because Mr. Sparrow-hawk was walking about at the bottom, and whenever poor Jacky ventured down, he was darted at by the new comer, and hastily scrambled up the bush again. This was done out of pure love of teasing, for the hawk would not condescend to touch Jacky's food, consisting of sopped bread; but yet he would not let the poor old grey-head come down to eat his own breakfast. Jacky was quite crest-fallen, and we procured a stronger chain which held Mr. Sparrow-hawk fast on his stump for several days, during which time Jacky regained his equanimity.
But then the chain was burst again, and this time the hawk took to chasing the cats as well as tormenting Jacky. We had two cats, they were very good friends with Jacky, and used wander about the garden a good deal; quite unconscious of what was in store for them; they commenced playing about Mr. Sparrow-hawk's stump, when down stepped the gentleman and nipped the tail of the nearest cat quite tightly in his sharp beak, poor pussy shrieked and mewed, and we had to go to her rescue. At last we left off chaining the hawk, as we found that he did not try to escape, but sat on his stump or else came into the house; and we often were startled by finding him perched on a table, or on the bannisters, but at the same time he would not become tame, and he so terrified and annoyed poor Jacky, that we soon sent him away; and certainly the cats and Jacky must have rejoiced, when they found the savage owner of the stump had disappeared. The only sign of civilization which Mr. Sparrow-hawk had shown, was one evening, when a gentleman who visited us, happened to be playing the flute in the drawing-room. The hawk never came into the room when any one was there, and had very often heard the piano and singing; but probably the peculiar sound of the flute had something very pleasing to the bird's ear, for although this room was full of people, he came to the open window, hopped in, and gradually approached the flute-player, till he perched himself on the end of the flute. When the music ceased, the hawk, quietly took himself out of the window again, and next day was as wild as ever.
One of Jacky's great pleasures during the summer, was bathing or washing at the sink in the back kitchen. We always took care that he was provided with a large saucer of water, which stood beneath his lilac bush, but this did not appear to be sufficient. One day when the cook was pumping water out of the sink-pump, Jacky jumped up, and put his head under the stream, shouting and fluttering, with expressions of the greatest delight; and after this he generally came every day into the back kitchen, and called and hopped about until cook came and pumped over him. Such a miserable half drowned creature as he looked, with all his feathers sticking close to his body; then he used to repair to the kitchen and sit before the fire, till he became dry. Sometimes he got upon the fender, and when the fire was large, it made his feathers appear quite to smoke, by so rapidly drawing out the water. Once he was actually singeing, when the cook snatched him up and put him out of the window, and it was strange that he seemed to like the roasting at the fire, quite as well as the cold water.
He soon discovered the time that tea was prepared in the kitchen, and regularly came to the window to ask for tea and bread and butter; so a saucer of tea and a piece of bread and butter were placed on the window-sill for him, as punctually as the cook's own tea was prepared; and Jacky sipped his tea, and ate his bread and butter like any old washerwoman. But whilst sitting at the kitchen window he spied all sorts of things on cook's little work-table that strongly tempted his thieving propensities, and coming cautiously one morning, when the cook was absent, he pretty well cleared the table; very many journeys in and out must it have cost him, for when the poor cook returned to her kitchen, she began exclaiming. "Who has been meddling with my work and all my things?" and she called to me and my sister, and asked if we had hidden her work materials to plague her. "No indeed," we said, "we have not been here this morning at all."
"Well then," said she, "what has become of my thimble, my scissors, and reels of cotton, my work, that I laid upon the table, and there was also an account-book of your Mamma's, and a pen; I don't see one of them!" We hunted about for the missing articles. The kitchen window looked out on a plantation, not far from Jacky's bush. My sister looked out. "Oh!" cried she, "there is one leaf of your account-book on the border." "And I declare," exclaimed cook, who had run to the window, "there is one of my new reels twisted round and round yon rose tree; I do believe it's that mischeevous bird." We were delighted. We both sprang out of the window—"There's your thimble," I shouted, "full of wet mould!" "And here are your scissors," cried my sister, "in Jacky's drinking saucer! And there is your half-made shirt, hanging on the rose bush beneath the window!" Poor cook could not forbear laughing. "Well," said she, "he must have been right-down busy to take off all these things in about five minutes. Gather up my things for me, like good bairns." So we ran about picking up the things; the cotton reels were restored with about half their supply of cotton, as he had twisted them all round about the stems of different plants; the pen was stuck into the earth, and as for the account-book, the leaves were all about the garden, some he had even carried down to the cucumber frame, quite at the other end. But he was such a favourite, that even this sort of trick was allowed to pass unpunished. He furnished us with much amusement; and I am now coming to his sad end.
The wall which separated our garden from the road, was very rough and old, full of holes and crumbling mortar. Once or twice, when sitting at the windows, we had seen a small animal run across the gravel walk; we could not discern whether it was most like a rat or a weasel, and probably it came in through one of the holes in the wall. We did think of Jacky; but knowing that he always roosted at the top of the lilac bush, we supposed that he was quite out of the reach of rat or weasel. One morning quite early, our Papa whose window was open, heard a very strange sort of chattering from poor Jacky, so unlike his usual language, that he got up and looked out of his window. Seeing nothing, and hearing no more, he went to bed again; but when Mamma went as usual to give Jacky his breakfast, no call of pleasure came from the bush, no Jacky was there, and he was no where to be seen.
"Then a weasel has taken him," said Papa, when we told him; "the singular cry he made this morning, was doubtless when the weasel seized him." And when we searched about the garden, there we found on a grass bank, at some distance, the remains of our poor pet. The weasel had bitten him behind the ear, and sucked the blood; his feathers were a good deal ruffled, but no other bite had been made. We blamed ourselves much, for not having safely fastened him in a cage every night in the house. But now we could do nothing but bury the body of poor Jacky.
Shortly after poor Jacky's death, Papa called us into the garden.
"Children!" he said, "Here is something for you in my handkerchief. Guess what it is; but don't touch."
The handkerchief looked as if something very heavy was in it; and we guessed all sorts of things, but in vain.
At last Papa let us feel, and my sister grasped it rather roughly; but withdrew her hand quickly, with five or six sharp pricks.
"Oh! it is a nasty hedgehog," cried she; "look how my fingers are bleeding!"
"Not anastyhedgehog," I said, "but a curious nice creature; where did you get it, Papa?"
"It was given to me this morning for you," he replied; "It will live in the garden; and you must sometimes give it a little milk, and it will do very well; and perhaps become quite tame."
The little creature, when placed on the grass, did not curl itself up and appear affrighted, but looked about him, and ran quickly to and fro. We brought some milk out in a saucer, but he could not manage to get his nose over the side; so we made a little pond of the milk on the grass, and he dipped his black snout into it, and then sucked it up greedily.
This hedgehog soon became very tame; when we took him up in our hands, he did not curl up in afright, but let us look at his feet, and touch and pat his curious little pig's face. He helped himself to what he liked best in the garden; and we never found that he rooted up anything, or did the slightest damage; he liked the milk which we gave him daily; and when we were playing on the grass, he used to run about us, as if he liked our company.
We had been told that we should never be able to keep a hedgehog; that they always climbed over the walls, and escaped to the fields and hedges.
But although we did not in any way confine Pricker, he never attempted to leave us, being apparently quite content with his run of the kitchen garden, flower garden and house; for we sometimes carried him into the kitchen, and up stairs into the nursery, where he would roll himself up into some snug corner, and remain apparently asleep for an hour or more.
When we had had Pricker for some weeks, we received a present of a second hedgehog. He was larger, but never became so tame as our first friend; he did not like to be taken up in our hands, and we never could obtain a good look at his black face and legs, as he rolled up on the slightest touch; and when Pricker was running about on the grass, his shy companion used to remain hidden beneath the leaves and plants.
We had, at this time, a very favourite dog; and at the first coming of the hedgehogs, we were in some fear that Tawney would kill them, for he was a most eager hunter of rats, weasels, rabbits, cats; in short, of anything that would run from him.
But every one assured us that a dog would not kill a hedgehog, on account of his sharp prickles; and the first time that we showed Pricker to Tawney, he made a sort of dart at him, and received, of course, a violent prick on the nose; at this he retreated, barking and licking his lips, and dancing round poor Pricker, with every desire to attack again; but hoping to find a spot unprotected by the formidable spikes.
Pricker, however, having tightly rolled himself up, such a spot was not to be found; and, after a great deal of noise and excitement, Tawney retired, and we never observed him to venture again.
When Pricker was running on the grass, or when we were feeding him with milk, Tawney used to play about without condescending to take the slightest notice of the little animal; in short, he pretended not to see him. So that we felt quite easy about the safety of Pricker and his comrade.
What it was that induced Tawney not only toseePricker, but to attack him again, we do not know, as nobody was witness of the catastrophe.
On going into the garden one brilliant morning, Tawney made his appearance in a very excited state, bounding about our feet with a short delighted bark, that was not usually his morning salutation; and on looking more closely at him, we saw that his nose was bleeding; indeed, his whole head and ears were much ruffled and marked.
We did not at first think of Pricker; but on wiping Tawney's face with a wet towel, we found that he was bleeding from many wounds.
"The hedgehog!" we exclaimed, "He must have killed poor Pricker."
So we commenced a grand hunt through the garden, looking under all the cabbage-plants, and in all the usual haunts.
Behind the cucumber frame we found our hedgehog; but as he curled up the moment we looked at him, we knew that it was not Pricker; and on further search we discovered the mangled remains of the poor animal, whose natural armour had not been sufficient to protect him from so brave and plucky a little dog as our Tawney, who must really have suffered greatly from the deep thrusts into his face and head before he could have inflicted a mortal bite.
Now, we thought, what shall we do with the other; as, doubtless, Tawney, would not allow him to live, having found himself the conqueror in the present instance.
Papa said that a gentlemen, one of our neighbours, had been telling him that his kitchen was infested with black beetles; and that he had tried beetle-traps, and all sorts of methods of getting rid of them in vain. Papa had told him that the surest way was to keep a hedgehog in the kitchen, as they devour black-beetles greedily.
"Now," said Papa, "as you cannot keep the little creature in safety here, you had better make a present of it to Mr. D——; and I advise you to carry it to him at once."
Accordingly, we took the hedgehog to our neighbour, and it was duly installed in the kitchen.
In a day or two, we went to enquire whether the beetles were decreasing.
Alas! the poor hedgehog had fallen a victim to his own greediness; for, having eaten too many beetles, he was found dead amidst a heap of the slain.
It happened at this time that we passed another winter in Ireland; and missing our garden, and other occupations, my father made us a present of a dog.
Drake was a large handsome retriever of a dark brown colour, with very short curly hair. I believe that sort of dog is called the "Irish Retriever;" they are certainly very common in that country. I remember to have seen many of them; but our Drake, we thought, was handsomer than the generality; his coat was more curly and of a better colour, and he was taller—for they often have rather short legs in proportion to their body. He was a very rough bouncing creature, full of life and activity; many a tumble, and many a hard knock we received in our games with him; he used to bound at us, and putting both paws on our shoulders, roll us over like ninepins.
It was winter when he came to us—a very hard winter, almost constant frost, and now and then heavy falls of snow—we were at that time in a small fort on the bank of the Shannon; and although that is a very broad, deep, and rapid river, it was once, during the winter, quite frozen over for more than a week; and, after that, when the strongest current remained unfrozen, there was still a great deal of ice on the sides, and all among the sedges and rushes that grew among the flat banks.
Drake liked the cold very much, and liked rolling in the snow, and being pelted with snow-balls, which was our chief amusement out of doors during the winter.
In the house we had fine games of hide and seek; we hid a glove or pocket-handkerchief under the sofa-cushion, or in the curtain, or in Mamma's pocket, and telling Drake to find it; he would rush frantically about the room, snuffing in every hole and corner, until he brought to light the hidden article. Then we had races, in and out the bed-rooms and sitting-rooms, up and down the stairs, and round the tables; but these races generally ended by something being thrown down, or, at least, by our clothes being torn in Drake's exultation at catching us.
Whilst the hard frosts lasted, Papa had Drake out with him a great deal.
Wild geese and wild ducks abounded on the river; but they were extremely difficult to shoot; they generally flew in great numbers, and seemed to keep a sentinel, or one to look out; for it was almost impossible to approach them near enough to have them within the reach of a shot.
It was now that Drake's fetching and carrying propensities became most valuable.
Papa had a flat punt constructed; it was a most curious-looking boat, so flat that it scarcely stood out of the water at all; inside was fixed a large duck-gun on a swivel, and then there was just room for Papa, and one man, to lie down at the bottom, with Drake; it was rowed by one paddle at the stern.
A dogDRAKE, THE RETRIEVER.Page 57.
A dogDRAKE, THE RETRIEVER.Page 57.
DRAKE, THE RETRIEVER.Page 57.
The geese and ducks used to come to feed on the river's banks very early indeed in the morning; and so watchful and shy were they, that even in the flat punt, Papa found that he could not come at all near them unperceived. Off they would all go again, making such a flapping with their great wings, and quacking as they went.
So Papa, having noticed a flat swampy sort of place, some way down the river, set out late at night in the punt; and, reaching this feeding-ground, waited there till the flock came flying over them. They made themselves heard sometime before they arrived; and then Papa, the man, and Drake, all crouched down and remained immoveable until the birds were right overhead; and then, bang went the great duck-gun, and down tumbled, at least, half-a-dozen great fat geese.
Now was Drake's time; and but for him no geese would have been brought home, although many might have been shot.
Out of the punt sprang Drake, and soon carried back one or two that had fallen into the open water; then he would carefully get upon the thin ice, between the rushes and the coarse grass, and bring to light any wounded bird that had sought to find a shelter there. Then again into the water where great thick reeds prevented the boat from going; if the birds dived, he dived after them; and, in short, none escaped him; he swam after them, scrambled along the ice after them, rummaged in the weeds all stiff with frozen snow, and having seized one and hurried back to the boat with it, off he would start for another.
But when the flock had once received a shot, they came no more to the same place that night; so no more was to be done, unless a chance bird or two on the way home. Sometimes they flew one or two together; we have seen them from the windows of the fort, fly quite close to the bridge in the daytime; but only great hunger could have driven them to this.
When the party reached home, and the birds were spread out on the floor to be looked at, how pleased Drake was, and how proudly he snuffed from one to the other.
The wild geese were very handsome birds, not so large as common geese, but very plump, and with a beautiful dark brown plumage. They were very good to eat, for they do not live on fish, as some suppose, but eat only the weeds and grass that they find in certain spots along the river's bank. But the ducks were handsomer still, very nearly as large as the geese; less tough when cooked, and having brilliant blue feathers in each wing. Then there was a smaller kind of duck, with green feathers instead of blue, in the wings; this green was like the humming bird's green, as bright as emerald.
Besides these, there were teals, very pretty-looking things with silvery looking feathers on the breast, and a variety of small ducks, and curlews. All pretty, and all good to eat; we had to thank Drake for every one of them, as without his help very few would have been picked up; there was so much thin ice along the river, that would not have borne a greater weight than Drake, so when they fell upon this, they were quite out of man's reach, to say nothing of the difficulty of groping out a wounded bird from a wilderness of long grass and rushes, growing in pretty deep water. Drake highly enjoyed the night expeditions, and when the punt was getting ready, or the gun cleaning, he would jump about and bark, as if to say "I know what is in contemplation."
When the winter was nearly passed, we went back to England, leaving Drake in the fort; being much played with and sometimes teazed by the soldiers, he became very rough, and rather inclined to snap and bite. Shortly afterwards he was sent to us in England, and on his arrival we brought him in, to have a game with us in the house. We had a large ball, and were making Drake fetch it, when we rolled it to the end of the room. This went on very well for some time, excepting that Drake did not give the ball up without a growl, which he had never done formerly; and at last, he laid down with it between his fore feet, and I desired him to bring it in vain, so I went to him and took it in my hand, when he flew at me with a growl, and bit my cheek. It was not a very severe bite, but Mamma said she would not keep the best dog in the world after he had bitten one of us, and that Drake must immediately be sent away. Then Papa wrote to a gentleman who knew what a clever dog at finding game Drake was, and he agreed to buy him. So he was sent off without our seeing him again.
We now come to the very chief of our favourites, our dear dog Tawney. Before he arrived, we only had a setter who lived in his kennel in the yard, and we never petted him much; and once when Papa went away for several months, he took the dog with him, so we were without any guard.
At this time a great many robberies had taken place, and houses had been broken into in the neighbouring town. There appeared to be a gang of house-breakers going about. And when Mamma was writing to our Grandmamma, she said that she quite expected a visit from this gang, some night, as Papa was away, and no man in the house. Grandmamma replied that the best safeguard was a little terrier, sleeping inside the house, and that she would send her one; and in a few days we received a beautiful terrier, close haired and compact, with such brilliant dark eyes and of a yellowish colour, more the colour of a lion than anything else, so we named him "Tawney." A bed was arranged for him in a flat basket, which was placed every evening near the back door, and we soon found what sharp ears he had, and what a good watch-dog he would prove. If Mamma got up after every one had gone to bed, and opened her own door as softly as possible, Tawney heard the lock turn, and barked instantly. He always gave notice when anybody entered the front gate, or came into the yard, and we felt sure that no housebreaker could approach the houseunheardat least.
Tawney became our constant companion. He took his meals with us, sat under the table during our lessons, walked out with us, joined in all our romps and games; and was really almost as companionable as another child could have been. At hide and seek, running races, leaping over a pole, and blind man's buff, he played as well as any boy, and when we drove in the pony carriage, he amused us excessively. He darted into every door or gate he found open, and in passing through the town he behaved so badly with respect to the cats, that we were obliged to take him into the carriage, until we had quite left the streets. If he saw a poor quiet cat sitting at a door he flew at her; and if the cat took refuge in the house, Tawney followed, barking and yelping, and doing all he could to worry poor puss. Of course this was not at all pleasing to the inmates, and generally Tawney emerged, as quickly as he entered, followed by a flying broom-stick, sometimes by the contents of a pail of dirty water; and often by an angry scolding woman, whom we had to appease as we best could. Then if he saw a little child with a piece of bread, or a mug of milk, he would seize upon the food, knocking down the child by the roughness of his spring; and then we had again to apologise and explain, and regret, and so on; and although all these pranks were done in the joy and delight of his heart, at starting for a good run in the country, that was no comfort to the aggrieved cats and children; and he became so unbearable when in the town, that we used to make a circuit to avoid the streets, or else as I said before, take him inside the carriage.
Then when we reached the lanes and roads, we gave him his liberty, which he thoroughly enjoyed. How he raced before us, how he sprang over the hedges and walls, sometimes disappearing entirely for a field or two, and then suddenly darting out from some wood or garden! Once or twice he returned to the carriage with his nose bloody; we could not discover what he had been worrying. But it must be confessed that he was a fierce little animal, and had no idea of fearing anything.
Sometimes he disappeared altogether when running after the carriage, and more than once staid out all night and even two nights; but always returned safely and in good plight, as if he had not been starved.
We used to wish that he had the power of telling us his adventures on these occasions: where he had slept; what pranks he had played; and in how many scrapes and difficulties he had found himself.
His greatest delight was when Papa took him with us to hunt a stack for rats. Oh! what a wonderful state of excitement was Tawney in; he used to sit staring at a hole in the stack as if his eyes would spring from his head, and shaking in every limb with delightful expectation. Then, when the rat bolted from his concealment, what a sharp spring did the little fellow make; and having dispatched his victim, would peer up to the top of the stack and seem to examine so carefully all up the side, to discover another hole that looked promising. If none offered, he would run off to another stack, and snuffing all round it, search most carefully for signs of rat holes.
One of Tawney's most annoying tricks, was his love of fighting; he scarcely ever met with another dog, without flying at him and provoking him to a severe contest, in which torn ears were his usual reward; but this sort of hurt was perfectly disregarded by him.
On one occasion, we went a journey to the sea-shore, and Tawney was put into a dog-box, with several other dogs.
While the train was in motion the rattle and noise prevented us from hearing them; but at the first station a most tremendous yelping, snarling, and shrieking arose from the dog-box; and, on opening the door, the whole number of dogs were tearing and biting each other; no doubt, having been invited to the contest by our naughty Tawney. The combatants having been separated by dint of dragging at their tails, legs, and bodies, Tawney, with damaged mouth and ears, though wagging his tail and wriggling about with pleasure, was consigned to a solitary prison for the rest of the journey; and the remaining dogs were left to lick their wounds in peace.
We were anxious to see what Tawney would think of the sea; we had neither river, pond, or lake, near our home in the country, so had never had an opportunity of trying his powers of swimming.
The first day that we went down to the shingle, the sea was very rough; great tops of white foam rolling over on the beach; and we had no idea that the little fellow would venture into the midst of such a very novel-looking element.
However, we flung a stick in. "Fetch it, Tawney! Fetch it!"
And in plunged the bold little animal; the first wave threw him up on the beach again, looking rather astonished; but he did not hesitate to try again. The water being so rough, we did not urge his going in any further, fearing that he might be washed away; but on smooth days, he would swim out a long way, and bring back any floating thing that was thrown in; and he enjoyed his swims as much as any regular water-dog could do.
He had a habit of paying visits by himself, when we were at home; he used regularly to go down the road to a farmer, at some little distance, every morning about eight o'clock, and quietly return, trotting along the footpath at nine, which, doubtless, he knew to be the breakfast hour.
Whilst we were at the sea-side, he used to visit a family with whom we were intimate. Running to their gate, he waited till some one rang, and entered with them; if their business was not in the drawing-room, he again waited till some other person opened the door, and then he settled himself on the hearth-rug for about half an hour; after which, he took leave by wagging his tail, and came home again.
The lodging in which we were, was one on a long terrace, the front looking on the sea, and the back having a long strip of yard opening into a lane. The kitchen being in front, Tawney found that he was not heard when he barked to be let in at the back of the house.
But the servant did not approve of coming up the steep kitchen stairs to let in Mr. Tawney, when the back door was level with the kitchen, and only a step for her; and, in some way, Tawney comprehended this; for he used to come to the front of the house; and the area of the kitchen-window being close to the front door, he was sure that his bark was heard. Then he raced round the end of the terrace, and through the lane, to the back door; and by the time cook had gone to open it, there was Mr. Tawney ready to enter.
There being no fear of housebreakers or thieves here, the dog was allowed to sleep in Mamma's bed-room; we provided him with a box and some folds of carpeting at the bottom, and made him, we thought, a soft comfortable bed.
But Tawney much preferred sheets and blankets, and, my sister sleeping in a little bed in the corner of Mamma's room, he used to wait till she was fast asleep, and then slip himself on to the bed so quietly as not to wake her; and, getting down to the foot of the bed, would remain there till morning.
But Mamma said he must stay in his box; and forbad my sister to allow him to get on the bed.
As, however, he never tried to do so until she was asleep, she could not prevent it. So Mamma listened, and when she heard Tawney very softly leave his box and go to the bed, she got up and whipped him, and put him back in his box, ordering him to stay there.
Several nights this took place; till Tawney had the cunning to wait till Mamma also was asleep, when he crept into the warm resting-place, and staid there in peace till the morning.
When daylight appeared, he returned to his own bed, in order to avoid the morning whipping, which he knew would come, were he discovered in the forbidden place.
When we were returning home, we were to make some visits in London; so, thinking it best not to take Tawney, we entrusted him to a man who was going to our own town, with many charges as to feeding and watching him.
And when we had left London and arrived at home, there was poor Tawney safe and well, and extravagantly delighted to see us.
When we enquired about his behaviour on the road, of the man who had brought him, he told us that he had been in a terrible fright at the London station, thinking that he had lost Tawney entirely.
He had to cross London from one station to another; and there was an hour or two to spare before the starting of the train from the second station; so, wishing to leave the station for that time, and fearing to risk Tawney in the street, he tied him up, as he thought, safely in a shed belonging to the station. He was also taking with him some luggage belonging to us, among which was a large round packing-case, that usually stood in Mamma's room; these were shut up in a store-house at the other end of the station.
At the appointed hour our friend returned to the station, and went to claim the dog; but no Tawney was in the shed, only the end of the broken rope which had fastened him. In great anxiety he ran about enquiring of all he met. No one knew anything of the dog, no one had seen him pass out of the station; and after fruitless search in all the waiting and refreshment rooms, and in short through the whole station; he was reluctantly obliged to go for the luggage in order to pursue his journey, when, on opening the door of the store-house, what was his joy on beholding the missing Tawney, seated on the top of the round packing case, that he well knew to belong to his mistress. How he found out that the luggage was in the store-house, and how he got in, we could not of course discover; and it only confirmed us in our opinion of Tawney's intense wisdom. We and Tawney enjoyed ourselves much for some weeks, taking long walks, long drives, and hunting rats in all the neighbours' stacks. We had some fine games in our own field, and a great deal of basking in the sun, as it was a beautiful summer, with constant sunshine.
I mentioned, that Tawney used to enrage the people in the cottages by trying to worry their cats. On one of these occasions, when he had made a dreadful confusion at the door of a cottage containing children, upsetting a tub of soap-suds, dirtying the clean sanded floor, and frightening an old woman nearly out of her wits, by his reckless endeavour to seize on the cat; a man had come angrily out of the cottage, and coming close up to the carriage, declared with a clenched fist, and a furious countenance, that if Tawney ever approached his door again, he would kill him. Papa, who happened to be with us, said that if he would give Tawney a good beating, it would punish the dog without punishing us; and as he was a great favourite, he begged that he would not think of killing him. Then we drove on, leaving the man standing sulkily in the road.
Whether Tawney had gone alone to this cottage for the purpose of worrying the cat, or whether the man had taken his revenge for the first offence, or whether he had done any thing in the matter, we shall never know; but we could not help suspecting him when the following sad affair happened.
It was a very sultry day, too much so to run or to do anything but lie on the grass, which we did during the whole morning. Papa sat reading on a bench placed in the shady side of the house, and we were on the grass beside him; Tawney lay roasting in the sun, and, now and then, panting with heat, came to us in the shade, or even went into the dining-room window and flung himself down under the table; some steps led into the garden from the window, and as the window-sill was not level with the dining-room floor, but raised about two feet above it, we had a stool or sort of step inside the window, as well as outside; Tawney generally sprang through, without troubling himself about the steps.
Soon after Tawney had entered the house, apparently for the purpose of cooling himself, we heard a tumble, then another, and I got up to see what he was doing. "Why Papa," I cried, "what can be the matter with Tawney, he is trying to jump out of the window and cannot reach the sill, and falls back again." Papa came to see, and again the dog made an ineffectual spring at the low window-sill. Papa lifted him out into the garden, saying he supposed he had half blinded himself with lying so long in the hot sunshine. But we continued to watch him, and presently we saw his limbs twitching in a sort of fit, and he ran wildly about us. Papa called to the gardener, and they took him into the stable, forbidding us to approach him, as they feared he was going mad; they dashed water over him as he lay exhausted on the straw in the stable; but soon the fits became more and more violent, and our poor dog in a few hours was dead.
A man that examined him by Papa's desire, said there was no doubt that he had been poisoned by strychnine. He might have picked up something so poisoned while running in the roads, or it might have been purposely done by the angry man to whom I alluded. We never found out the manner in which it had been administered, and could only regret most heartily the loss of our dear playfellow. We had not another dog for a very long time, and never shall love one so well as Tawney.