LADDIE
Lowly the soul that waitsAt the white, celestial gates,A threshold soul to greetBelovèd feet.Down the streets that are beams of sunCherubim children run;They welcome it from the wall;Their voices call.But the Warder saith: "Nay, thisIs the City of Holy Bliss.What claim canst thou make goodTo angelhood?""Joy," answereth it from eyesThat are amber ecstasies,Listening, alert, elate,Before the gate.Oh, how the frolic feetOn lonely memory beat!What rapture in a run'Twixt snow and sun!"Nay, brother of the sod,What part hast thou in God?What spirit art thou of?"It answers: "Love,"Lifting its head, no lessCajoling a caress,Our winsome collie wraith,Than in glad faithThe door will open wide,Or kind voice bid: "Abide,A threshold soul to greetThe longed-for feet."Ah, Keeper of the Portal,If Love be not immortal,If Joy be not divine,What prayer is mine?
Lowly the soul that waitsAt the white, celestial gates,A threshold soul to greetBelovèd feet.
Lowly the soul that waits
At the white, celestial gates,
A threshold soul to greet
Belovèd feet.
Down the streets that are beams of sunCherubim children run;They welcome it from the wall;Their voices call.
Down the streets that are beams of sun
Cherubim children run;
They welcome it from the wall;
Their voices call.
But the Warder saith: "Nay, thisIs the City of Holy Bliss.What claim canst thou make goodTo angelhood?"
But the Warder saith: "Nay, this
Is the City of Holy Bliss.
What claim canst thou make good
To angelhood?"
"Joy," answereth it from eyesThat are amber ecstasies,Listening, alert, elate,Before the gate.
"Joy," answereth it from eyes
That are amber ecstasies,
Listening, alert, elate,
Before the gate.
Oh, how the frolic feetOn lonely memory beat!What rapture in a run'Twixt snow and sun!
Oh, how the frolic feet
On lonely memory beat!
What rapture in a run
'Twixt snow and sun!
"Nay, brother of the sod,What part hast thou in God?What spirit art thou of?"It answers: "Love,"
"Nay, brother of the sod,
What part hast thou in God?
What spirit art thou of?"
It answers: "Love,"
Lifting its head, no lessCajoling a caress,Our winsome collie wraith,Than in glad faith
Lifting its head, no less
Cajoling a caress,
Our winsome collie wraith,
Than in glad faith
The door will open wide,Or kind voice bid: "Abide,A threshold soul to greetThe longed-for feet."
The door will open wide,
Or kind voice bid: "Abide,
A threshold soul to greet
The longed-for feet."
Ah, Keeper of the Portal,If Love be not immortal,If Joy be not divine,What prayer is mine?
Ah, Keeper of the Portal,
If Love be not immortal,
If Joy be not divine,
What prayer is mine?
THE CALL OF THE BLOOD
"Come, brother; away!"
—Shakespeare'sMuch Ado About Nothing.
Sigurd was not the only representative of his family in our favored town. His sister Hildigunna, who might well be described in the words applied to Hildigunna of the saga as "one of the fairest," was given to a comparatively remote household in Wellesley Hills from which—alas!—she soon was stolen and spirited away to fates unknown. But his brother Hrut, a name speedily changed by his new owners to Laddie, took up his happy abode at The Orchard, not half a mile from us. These owners, returning from one of their many holidays abroad, had found on shipboard the Lady of Cedar Hill, on her way back from Norway. Of course she told them about the ten puppies and of course she promised them one.
Reared in the best traditions of New England, these travelers had already achieved an ideal success as founders and directors of a famous school for girls and had retired from active labors to a tranquil home whose broad Colonial porches were screened with "white foam flowers" of the clematis. They were Neighborspar excellence, so beloved, so leaned upon, so beset with callers and "old girls," with church committees and town committees, with causes and confidences, that they literally had to go to Europe to secure an occasional rest. And it was charming to see how their modest dignity and winsome graciousness received due meed of honor the Old World over, from titled personages of London to the very cab-drivers of Florence, whom they believed to be "honorable men" and were undoubtedly cheated less for so believing. Hard, shrewd faces of Paris pensions and Swiss hotels softened in their presence, and even the severe old Scotch dame who rated them roundly for gadding about the globe instead of having married and reared a freckled family, like hers, was moved to add: "But I mak nae doobt ye are mooch respectet where ye cam fram." She would have been confirmed in this amiable concession if she could have seen how their return was a village jubilee and how all our accumulated joys and sorrows trooped in at once through their open doors. They were Ladies of rare and precious quality, with a touch of precise, old-fashioned elegance, which made one frank admirer exclaim: "But they are like finest china, like porcelain, likeSèvres. There is nothing so exquisite left on earth. They are classics." Most eminently of all, they were Sisters. A childhood of strange peril and suffering, in which their hearts clung so close together that they grew into one, had fitted naturally dissimilar natures into an utter harmony of desire and deed. Nobody ever thought of one without the other. Not Castor and Pollux shine with a more closely related and serener light.
The Sisters hardly waited for our first tumult of greetings to subside before, on a September afternoon as quietly radiant as their own faces, they drove over to Cedar Hill to see what they described as "ten little fluffy balls, only just large enough to wriggle." The choice of their collie they left to the giver. It was not determined then, but early in April they had a message setting the day on which they were to "come for Hrut." I presume they kissed the telephone. At all events, they went with glad alacrity. As the door opened to admit them, a beautiful little collie, pure white save for touches of a rich golden brown on the ears, on the fall of the tail and on the top of his nobly carried head, ran to meet them and sprang into the outstretched arms of the foremost, cuddling there as if he knew that he had found his Earthly Paradise.
His mistress had followed directly after him, aglow with pride in the grace of his welcome.
"But this one cannot be ours,—he istoolovely," exclaimed the Sister who was already clasping him tight.
"Yes," smiled the Lady of Cedar Hill, "this one is yours," and the puppy acquiesced with wagging tail and lapping tongue and every collie courtesy.
From the first a delicate little fellow, the long drive back made him ill, but he never gave, then or later, the least sign of homesickness, settling at once with aristocratic ease into the comforts and privileges of his new environment and lavishly returning love for love.
The Sisters, as well as the elder Cousin who dwelt with them, were "lovers of all things alive," from bishops and other dignitaries, who paid them appreciative homage, to the South Sea Islanders, of whose costumes they disapproved but to whom, from babyhood up, they had helped send missionaries. The grimiest urchin in town would grin confidentially as he touched his cap to them, and their sympathy overflowed all local limits to childhood everywhere. Little cripples were the special objects of their care and tenderness. Of birds and beasts they were spirited champions. No man dared whip his horse if they were in sight. One of the Sisters had a magic pen, and many of her stories, whimsical and wise, carried an appeal for human gratitude toward the domestic animals who spend their patient strength in human service, and for friendliness toward all these sensitive fellow-creatures, our brief companions on a whirling star. The quadrupeds must have passed on from one to another the glad tidings of these Ladies of Lovingkindness, for many a hungry and thirsty cur sought the hospitalities of their kitchen, and stray cats, forsaken by selfish owners on vacation, used their piazza and even their parlor as a summer hotel. Early one July morning I was starting out for the college grounds on the search for a wretched mongrel that, having appeared from nowhere in the spring term, as dogs will, had become a cheerful hobo of the campus, living sumptuously through unlimited attendance on the out-of-door luncheon parties of the village students. A Commencement auto had broken one of his legs and frightened him into hiding, and now the ebb of all that girl life which had fed and petted him and the disappearance of chance bones from the closed back doors of the dormitories had brought upon the college, I was informed by special delivery letter from an indignant alumna, "the disgrace of leaving one of God's creatures to suffer slow starvation." Old experience led me, before setting forth to the rescue, to telephone the Sisters and ask if they had any news of this divine vagabond.
"Yes, indeed," rang back a cheery voice. "He is breakfasting with us now on the porch. He came limping up the walk just as the bell rang, exactly as if he had been invited. Such a pleasant dog in his manners, though dreadfully thin and—it's not his fault, poor dear—sodirty! I have just been calling Dr. Vet. to come and see what can be done for that poor leg."
Of course Laddie was not their first dog. The checks of the school are still stamped with the head of Don, their black Newfoundland, who had a passion for attending the morning service in the school hall and nipping the heels of the kneeling girls. In the repeating of the Lord's Prayer he would join with a subdued rumble, doubtless acceptable to his Creator, but when shut out from the sacred exercises, he would howl under the windows an anthem of his own that offended both Heaven and earth.
In the inexorable process of the years, Don grew old, becoming a very Uncle Roly-Poly, but he was only loved the more. A cherished legend of the school relates how he was sleeping on his rug by the bed of one of his mistresses on a winter night, dreaming a saintly dream of chasing cats out of Paradise, when some real or fancied noise awoke him and, the faithful guardian of the school, he rushed through the low, open window and out upon the piazza roof, barking his thunderous warning to all trespassers. But he was still so bewildered with sleep that his legs ran faster than his mind and, before he knew it, he had pitched off the edge of that icy roof and was floundering in the snow beneath, the most astonished dog that ever bayed the moon. What happened to him then is supposed to have been related by Don himself:
"My howls dismayed the starry skies,The Great and Little Dippers,O!Till came an angel in disguise,In dressing gown and slippers,O!I staggered up the steepy stair;She pushed me from behind,Bow wow!She tended me with mickle care,O winsome womankind!Bow wow!She bathed my brow and bruisèd knee.I only whined the louder,O!She murmured: 'Homeopathy!I'll give dear Don a powder,'O!And may I be a pink-eyed rabbitIf she chose not from her stock,Bow wow!FOR PERSONS OF A GOUTY HABITWHO'VE HAD A NERVOUS SHOCK.Bow wow!"
"My howls dismayed the starry skies,The Great and Little Dippers,O!Till came an angel in disguise,In dressing gown and slippers,O!I staggered up the steepy stair;She pushed me from behind,Bow wow!She tended me with mickle care,O winsome womankind!Bow wow!She bathed my brow and bruisèd knee.I only whined the louder,O!She murmured: 'Homeopathy!I'll give dear Don a powder,'O!And may I be a pink-eyed rabbitIf she chose not from her stock,Bow wow!FOR PERSONS OF A GOUTY HABITWHO'VE HAD A NERVOUS SHOCK.Bow wow!"
"My howls dismayed the starry skies,
The Great and Little Dippers,O!
Till came an angel in disguise,
In dressing gown and slippers,O!
I staggered up the steepy stair;
She pushed me from behind,Bow wow!
She tended me with mickle care,
O winsome womankind!Bow wow!
She bathed my brow and bruisèd knee.
I only whined the louder,O!
She murmured: 'Homeopathy!
I'll give dear Don a powder,'O!
And may I be a pink-eyed rabbit
If she chose not from her stock,Bow wow!
FOR PERSONS OF A GOUTY HABIT
WHO'VE HAD A NERVOUS SHOCK.Bow wow!"
Other dogs had come after, notably Cardigan, a stately St. Bernard, who made the fatal mistake of biting a pacifist, but Laddie, the only real rival of Don in the Sisters' affections, was the crown of their delight in doghood.
Sigurd had been with us only a few days when we took him over to see his brother, already for nearly three months a resident at The Orchard. We found Laddie, slender, white and dainty, quite at home on the luxurious drawing-room sofa.
"I'm stronger than you," growled Sigurd, but Laddie, always the gentlest and sweetest tempered of collies, acquiesced so pleasantly that it was an amicable meeting. At the first hint of a second growl, Laddie gave up the place of honor to his guest.
Of course we remonstrated, admonished Sigurd and urged the accommodating host, whose good manners delighted the Sisters, to jump back, which he did, tucking himself unobtrusively into the further corner of the sofa. Sigurd immediately claimed that corner, which Laddie yielded to him with unruffled magnanimity, crossing over to the other. Sigurd promptly changed his mind again, pushing Laddie, this time a little inclined to demur, down to the floor. Unable to devise a plan by which he could curl into both corners at once, Sigurd stretched himself out at full length, doing his best to reach from end to end of the sofa, while Laddie, closely copying the attitude of this arrogant big brother, lay along the rug below. Scandalized by Sigurd's conduct, we would have removed him from his usurped throne in short order, but the Sisters, rejoicing in the perfection of Laddie's social graces and secretly convinced of their collie's moral superiority to ours, would not allow any interference with the visiting puppy's comfort.
That freedom of the sofa was precious to Sigurd's pride and by repeated efforts he tried to convince his obtuse mistresses that he was entitled to the same privilege at home. But Joy-of-Life, who did not believe in "pampering pets," stood firm. There was one evening, in particular, when Sigurd jumped up on our living-room lounge some score of times, keeping all the while a challenging eye on her, and just as many times was ignominiously tumbled off. When she finally took possession herself, laughing at his discomfiture, he banged his way out into the kitchen and went down with a thump on the bare floor, hoping that we would hear how hard it was and realize how sorely poor Sigurd was abused. Finding that no apologies were forthcoming, he bounded to the front door, barked his orders to have it opened and shot out into the dark. Within five minutes the familiar tinkle called us to the telephone and over the wire flowed the blithe voice of one of the Sisters.
"Imusttell you what a lovely call we are having from dear Sigurd. He barked to come in only a minute ago and went right up to the sofa and took it all for himself—oh, yes, our Cousin had been sitting there with Laddie, but they didn't mind at all—and there he is now, making himself so charmingly at home, the beautiful boy. Idowish you could see him."
"We will," responded Joy-of-Life, and off we started to chastise Young Impudence, whom we had begun to suspect of being a trifle self-willed; but when we arrived the Sisters would by no means consent to his overthrow. So there, while the chat went on, Sigurd lolled and sprawled, yawning, stretching himself to an incredible length, rolling over on his back with paws held high as if to applaud his victory and continually turning up to Joy-of-Life eyes of such sparkling glee that her purposes of discipline melted in mirth.
None the less, she was a match for him, resorting to strategy when she was forbidden the exercise of force. Calling Laddie to her, she began to stroke his nestling head. Instantly Sigurd, with a multitudinous flourish of legs that might have moved a centipede to envy, flung himself off the sofa and roared imperiously at the front door:
"Open this, Somebody, and be quick about it, too. Time to be off. Oh, come along, Folks. You've no need to pat any dog but me. Good-night, Lovely Ladies. S'long, Lad. See you tomorrow in the gloaming."
And unless we kept a strict watch, so he would. How often, while surveying from our west porch, with Sigurd demurely sitting up between us, the last faint flushes of the sunset sky, from across the road there would be suddenly visible against the dusk a presence like a celestial apparition, so white and hushed it was, the shining figure, the lifted, listening head! And in the fraction of a second, even while we were catching at his collar, off would go Sigurd with a great leap, and away the brother collies would tear on a mighty run that kept two households anxious far into the night. There was nothing celestial about their behavior.
These lawless excursions often culminated in garbage-pail raids, debauches from which the young prodigals would sneak home, abashed with nausea. Once in a Commencement season we returned late in the evening, with a guest, from the high solemnity of the President's Reception, to find our hall strewn with Jonah strips of ham-rind and junks of pumpkin. Our guest was a brilliant, worldly being, a very dragon-fly of swiftness and gleam, and there she stood, exquisitely gowned in rose-red under lace whose color was that of moonlight seen through thin clouds, beholding our culprit, who an hour before had been exultantly ranging a world of mysterious and infinite adventure, flattened contritely in the midst of his enormities.
"How human!" was her only comment.
Often they came back injured, with bitten ears, scratched faces, bleeding feet, and pretended to be worse off than they were, so as to divert our reproaches into pity. Sigurd limped home one dawn with a cruelly torn claw and lay all day in a round clothes-basket, to which he had taken a fancy, curled up like a yellow caterpillar and sleeping like a dormouse. But when I was sitting on the piazza steps that evening, putting a fresh bandage on the claw, while Sigurd, almost too feeble to stir, watched the process with pathetic eyes, a blanched sprite glistened by, only a white motion through the dark, and in an instant the invalid had sped away, bandage trailing, to be wicked all over again.
No matter how often the four mistresses agreed that discipline required doors to be shut against the truants till daybreak, on these nights of their escapes ours were light slumbers that a pleading whine too easily broke and many were the tiptoe journeys down derisively creaking stairs to let the wanderers in. The next day such lame, dirty, subdued, meek-minded stay-at-homes as our collies were! It was hard to scold them properly when they rolled over on their backs and presented aching stomachs to be comforted. But sometimes these stampedes took place by day, for whenever they met out-of-doors these brothers, otherwise fairly obedient, would disregard all human commands for the authoritative call of the blood and dart away side by side like arrows shot from a single bow. The sins that neither would commit alone they reveled in without scruple when they were together. From all over town we heard of our paragons as chasing cats, jumping at horses' heads, over-running gardens and upsetting children. One sedate young woman on whom they leaped, entreating her to play with them, sent in a substantial bill to "the owner of the dog that tore my dress." When we inquired whether it was the golden collie or the white that did the damage she coldly replied that "the animals were so mixed up" she couldn't tell whether it was "the brown one or the drab,"—to such a condition had a bath of mud brought our dandies. One mother sternly confronted us with a weepy little boy who complained that "zem two dogs made me frow sticks for 'em all the way home from school an' my arm's most bwoke with tiredness."
I remember clearly one typical escapade. It had snowed for three successive days and nights. Joy-of-Life was away in Washington, reading a learned paper before some convention of economists. Her mother passed the shut-in hours patiently by the fireside, meditating with disapproval on Dante'sInfernowhich I was reading to her, at intervals, for cheer during her daughter's absence. Sigurd was spoiling for a romp. At last, in desperation, he amused himself by eating everything he came across,—a tube of paste, a roll of tissue paper, one of his own ribbons. I saw the latter end of the ribbon disappearing into his mouth and sprang to seize it, meaning to drag the rest out of his inner recesses, but Sigurd secured it by a furious gulp and capered away in triumph. At last the flakes had ceased falling, the snow plow had struggled through and, yielding to the big puppy's desperate urgency, I took him out to walk, following after the plow between glittering walls as high as my shoulder. At a turn in the road, I caught sight, across the level expanse, of the Younger Sister exercising an invisible Laddie. Suddenly there appeared above the parapet the tips of two golden-brown ears, pricked up in eager inquiry. Sigurd, overtopped by our own wall, could not have seen them, but with one tremendous lurch he was up and out, wallowing madly through the drifts to meet Laddie, who, like a miniature snow plow, was already breaking a way toward him. The collies touched noses and, ranging themselves side by side, plunged off into that blank of white, utterly deaf to the human calls that would check the onward impulse of their sacred brotherhood.
They had another glorious run two days later, when the snow was frosted and could bear their weight. Mad with mischief, they raced miles on miles,—to Oldtown and beyond, barking at every man they met and leaping at every horse; they dashed into Waban Way and out over the spacious Honeymoon estates; they scampered hither and thither across the three hundred acres of the campus; they careered back and forth over the frozen lake and challenged the college girls to a rough-and-tumble in the snow. Meanwhile the Younger Sister and I, seriously alarmed lest some nervous horse, startled by their antics, should bring about disaster, had taken a sleigh and gone forth in pursuit. Disquieting news of them kept coming to us as we drove.
"Two young collies? I should say so. I met them an hour ago, way over in Dover. They both jumped at my old Dobbin's head, barking all Hallelujah."
"O yes, I've seen two runaway dogs. Shepherds, white and fawn. They were chasing an express team down by Eliot Oak. The driver was standing up and whipping out at them for all he was worth."
Presently we came on their fresh tracks in the snow, tracks of running feet always side by side, until at last we overtook the truants. There they were, barking in duet, hoarse but happy, trying to scramble up an icy telephone pole after a spitting cat. They bounded to greet us and followed the sleigh home like lambs. The Sister, secretly condemning Sigurd as the dangerous misleader of her angel Laddie, assured them firmly that they wereneverto play together again.
Sigurd still had so much frolic in him that, when we had arrived at our own door, he coaxed me to stay outside and throw sticks for him from the piazza into the drifts. But soon I noticed red touches on the snow and, bringing him in, found that his feet were ice-cut and bleeding. I told him sternly that such were his just deserts and he rolled over on his back, holding up his paws to be healed. While I was anointing them with vaseline, a vain remedy because of the avidity with which Sigurd licked it off, I discovered that he had lost, in his wild whirl, the ornamental blue-bead collar, wrought for him by a student devotee at the cost of many patient hours. When I had done what he would let me for his feet and he had curled up cosily in his basket, I solemnly set about my duty of rebuking him, but the youngster was too tired for rhetoric. With an apologetic grunt, he instantly fell fast asleep. Being inwardly persuaded that Laddie was chiefly to blame, I left my misguided innocent to his repose.
The next afternoon he limped demurely down the hill and, in about two minutes, was on The Orchard porch, exchanging vociferous greetings with Laddie, but for once his effrontery failed of its effect. Steeling their hearts, the Sisters refused to let the outside collie in or the inside collie out. Sigurd, always most dignified when his feelings were hurt, rose against one of the drawing-room windows, took a long look at the sofa and vanished into the early winter twilight, not to be seen again by our anxious eyes for thirty-six hours. It was just on the silver edge of the third day that a wistfulwoofon our porch sent four hastily slippered feet skurrying to the door. Such a famished, unkempt, exhausted collie as stood wagging there! His coat was grimy, his ruff gray and tangled, and from his collar, drawn cruelly tight, dragged a cumbrous length of iron chain. The Sisters, who, suffering all the pangs of contrition, had been no less eager than we in prosecuting the search, hurried over (without Laddie) straight from their breakfast table, and one of them, flinging her arms about Sigurd as he nestled in the forbidden easy-chair—for he never missed the opportunity to wrest some special privilege out of any emotional crisis—sobbed with relief. Spent as he was, the collie licked her cheek, forgiving and consoling, even while his happy, love-beaming eyes could hardly hold themselves open. If an attempt had been made to kidnap him, Sigurd's strength and often proved cleverness in extricating himself from bonds had stood him in good stead. More fortunate than his sister Hildigunna and than another high-spirited sister, Unna, likewise supposed to have been stolen—though in the saga Unna ran away from her home (and husband),—Sigurd, if he could not break the chain of captivity, had managed to pull it out of its staple and lug it along with him back to freedom.
By an assiduous use of the telephone to the effect, "We are taking Laddie for a walk. Will you please keep Sigurd in?" or "Sigurd has just started off in your direction. Where's Laddie?" we kept a certain check on their escapades for the rest of that winter, but they contrived to meet at some secret rendezvous in apple-blossom time and came home panting and jubilant, with pink and white blossoms all over their coats. Sigurd apparently liked the effect, considering himself a King of the May, for no sooner were those petals brushed off than he frisked out and rolled over in the tulip-bed to accumulate some more. On the few occasions when our runaways, oozing through the merest cracks of doors, gave us the slip, we dropped all minor occupations and hunted them down, calling in the aid of an amused liveryman, an Irish neighbor whose white hairs thatched a pate where wit and kindliness kept house together.
"It's the goolden dog y'are to me," he would say to Sigurd. "Many's the good dollar I've made out o' yez thraipsin's and throublin's."
The Lady of Cedar Hill had given away to appreciative friends all the puppies save Gunnar, but several of them had homes nearby and she thought it would be pleasant to have a family reunion once a year, on their common birthday. One such gathering proved enough for all time.
On a delectable autumn afternoon we set forth, just after luncheon, in a roomy surrey, The Sisters, Joy-of-Life, my nephew—then a wide-eyed small boy, now a surgeon working for the wounded in France,—and I, with Sigurd and Laddie racing alongside, to attend Gunnar's birthday party. Six or seven of his brothers and sisters were assembled, but at this distance of time I cannot call the roll. Among them were probably Helga, who, becoming Lady Gwendolyn, lived to a reverend age; certainly Flosi, who returned from the new owner to Cedar Hill, where his frolicsome years were nine; perhaps Hauskuld, dearly beloved, who, like Sigurd, was tormented in hot weather by the aristocratic ailment of eczema, and perhaps Helgi, who, as far as the family record is known, outlived all his generation, dying at the ripe age, for a high-bred collie, of thirteen. There was no receiving line and never a moment that afternoon when it was easy to distinguish them, for it was all one glorious scrimmage from arrival to departure.
Ralph, growing more and more inhospitable with the years, had been locked up as a precaution against tragedy, and resplendent young Gunnar, the host of the day, assailed his guests so violently that he, too, had to be put on his chain, where he alternately strained and sulked all the afternoon. No wonder he never gave another party. But Dora, always bewitching in her ways, found the occasion entertaining and tolerated her children, if she could not be said to welcome them. Meanwhile, by unremitting vigilance on the part of masters and mistresses, the guests were restrained from too furious attacks on one another, until the banquet, consisting of a row of extraordinarily big and marrowy bones, was served. Each dog was instantly prompted by the Evil One to covet his neighbor's bone, but after a really magnificent display of authority on the part of their respective guardians, the raging bunch of white and sable was disentangled. Separated by wide distances, the collies, graceful figures lying on green lawn and bank, fell to their crunching in comparative peace, while Gunnar, spurning his own birthday dinner, roared grace from the end of his chain, with Ralph's gruffamencoming down from the open windows of his prison chamber. I blush to record that Sigurd, having polished off his bone at top speed, proceeded without ceremony to appropriate Laddie's. This was rescued and returned to its gentle owner, already so bewildered by these social excitements that, when a game of toss-and-catch followed the feast, Laddie bit the leg of the short-trousered small boy, my nephew, not unnaturally mistaking that long, thin, flourishing object for a stick. This regrettable incident, as the Dog Gazette would put it, broke up the party, but the distressed Sisters made such ample amends to the victim that he came to consider, as birthdays and Christmases rolled around, that scar on his calf one of his best assets.
During the period of Sigurd's distemper and convalescence we took the utmost care, of course, to shut him away from Laddie, whose bonny brown head often appeared on the outside of one window or another, the shining eyes wistful for his playmate.
On one occasion the contagious element in the disease stood us in good stead. Sigurd was better, but still so weak that the least of walks tired him out. We kept him off the highways, lest any germs yet lingering about him might bring disaster on other puppies, but thought we were safe in the woods behind the house. On a certain Sunday afternoon I had coaxed Sigurd, by short stages, further than before. He had spent his little stock of strength and, with his usual eye for becoming effects, had disposed himself to sleep under a white-blossoming wild cherry,—that exquisite springtide delight which the campaign against browntail and gypsy moth is fast banishing from eastern Massachusetts. Suddenly a group of young roughs from a neighboring factory town burst through the brush, attended by a gaunt mastiff, and for the fun of the thing, jovially deaf to my remonstrances, proceeded to get up a dog fight, though the betting was monotonously one-sided. "Buster," obedient to command, approached growling and bristling, and Sigurd, who was never one to turn the other ear, trotted out with gallant readiness to meet an opponent who would have made an end of him with the first clinch.
"Very well!" I said, blazing at those boyish rowdies, who may, by this time, have bloomed out into heroes and won thecroix de guerre. "If you want your dog to sicken and probably die of distemper, set him on. This collie is full of it and will infect him at the first touch."
Without staying to question my scientific accuracy, the hoodlums hastily called off their champion, threatened me in uncivil terms with the police and the jail for bringing a distempered dog abroad and took themselves off to look for safer holiday sport. Sigurd thought he had frightened them away and swaggered home with a marked revival of spirits.
When Dr. Vet at last pronounced all danger of contagion over, the Sisters, leaving Laddie behind, made a congratulatory call on our invalid, whose lyric cry, albeit hoarse and squeaky, shrilled to the Dogstar as he welcomed them, now climbing up to their shoulders in fervent embrace, now modulating his roundelay to the plaintive note as he tried his best to tell them what "Poor Sigurd" had suffered.Theywere sympathetic;theywere intelligent; and tumbling into the forbidden easy chair, Sigurd made it clear to them, and they in turn made it clear to his dull mistresses, that his swollen throat could nowhere be so comfortable as here, where the chair-arm supported the chin. It was then that our last shred of arbitrary discipline gave way. Sigurd had won the throne of his ambition. In course of time, this became Sigurd's Chair, given over to his exclusive occupancy, scratched and rubbed and shabby, the most disreputable and, to his mind, the most enjoyable of our furnishings.
Laddie escaped the distemper, but of other mischances he had more than his share. He was scalded by his own dear Annie, against whom he had unluckily run when she was carrying a pitcher of boiling water; he was shot through the leg, as he was assisting in a midnight serenade given by the dogs of the neighborhood to a belle shut up in the house of her bad-tempered master; but the sorest pang of all was the departure of his mistresses for another year abroad. The Elder Cousin had gone on a longer journey; the corner by the hearth was lonely for the lack of that small gray figure, the hands so busy with their knitting, the face so shrewd and kindly; and all we village-folk called to express our sympathy and remained to burden theirs with long recitals of our various tribulations until the Sisters, utterly worn out, had again to seek solitude overseas.
What to do with Laddie? Gunnar, disgusted enough at having Flosi back again, flatly avowed that he would not put up with another brother on the premises. Ralph, in the fullness of years, and little Dora, prematurely, had slipped away to Shadowland, bequeathing the care of Cedar Hill to Gunnar, who was keenly alive to his responsibilities. From one of our recent visits Sigurd had come back with a bleeding ear and a red blotch on the top of his head. So the farmhouse of the estate opened its doors to Laddie, but he had other views and, running away the first afternoon, made a valiant effort to get back to the Sisters. He took one wrong turn and was lost for a night and a day, but his rare beauty and appealing charm won him a friend who allowed him to follow her home, fed him, read his collar and soon made telephone connection with his distressed mistresses, already resolved to let their steamer go without them rather than sail in ignorance of Laddie's fate. They were stout-hearted enough, however, when they knew that he was found, to ask the Cedar Hill farmer to go and reclaim the stray, denying themselves and Laddie another farewell.
We hoped that in the year's separation the two brothers would forget each other or, at least, outgrow their propensity to revert to the wild together. It seemed the more likely because Laddie, always fragile, had suffered a severe attack of pneumonia at the farmhouse, and came back to the Sisters looking more like a white spirit than ever. But he took time, on arrival, only to greet his household saints and indulge in a brief nap on the sofa before dashing off to find Sigurd. Away they went on an impassioned run, from which, seven hours later, Laddie came drooping home, and even Sigurd spent the next day curled up in his green easy chair, subdued and quiescent, looking like an illustration for "After the Ball."
Although we kept what guard we could upon them, they managed to elude us several times that autumn, but after the first wild spurt they would run more slowly, Sigurd slackening his natural speed in order to keep side by side with Laddie, whose hard panting could be heard above the rustling of the autumn leaves through which they raced. The worry cow hooked us badly on Christmas day. Laddie, who had coughed all night, had to be coaxed to come out for a little walk after breakfast and was dragging behind the Younger Sister when, turning the corner of a bright barberry hedge, they came upon Sigurd, gorgeous in his new, upstanding bow of holly ribbon. Hey, presto! Off they shot like young wolves on the trail. Under the starlight our truant returned, a damp wisp hanging from his collar. That white, wavy front of his, so carefully groomed for the festal day, was all red and green from the holly ribbon that he had been chewing up for his Christmas dinner. As for poor Laddie, he was ill for a week, but rallied again, and, despite our doubled and redoubled vigilance, the brothers had still two or three runs together before the end of February brought with it the end of Laddie's life.
Beautiful being that he was, he had gladdened earth for five and a half years. If it is hard to believe in immortality, it is harder to understand how his Maker could cast away a spirit of such pure sweetness as Laddie's. Perhaps he ranges the celestial meadows now and has found out what King Lear wanted to know,—"the cause of thunder." For thunder was Laddie's terror. He could be quieted only by the Younger Sister, who, going to the piano, would play her loudest, while the trembling collie crouched against her feet.
This second attack of pneumonia was relentless. Laddie was not allowed to suffer it to the end, but was tenderly put to sleep. Shortly after, Sigurd trotted over to The Orchard of his own impulse and, without any of the customary lurking and looking for Laddie, went straight in to the Sisters, licking their hands and pressing close against their knees.
That afternoon a few of Laddie's closest friends—though all the town loved Laddie—gathered about a little grave on The Orchard lawn, while the delicate Elder Sister, wrapped in a white shawl, with Sigurd, wearing a white ribbon, close beside her for comfort, looked down on the scene from an open chamber window. In the group below, one of us after another quietly spoke of Laddie's gentleness and gladness and affection, of the happiness he had given and received. The Younger Sister read a lyric good-bye that the Elder Sister had written and thanked God, as simply as if He were standing in our midst, for all the joy of Laddie. Then we lowered the box, dropping upon it the white rosebuds that the Dryad had sent and the white carnations that Jack's mistress had brought. When the earth went in, one voice said softly, "Dust to dust," but another responded clearly, "Love to love." All the while Sigurd's intent eyes and golden head peered from the window above and once he gave a short, troubled bark.
SIGURD'S MEDITATIONS IN THE CHURCH-PORCH
The gaze of a dog is blindTo splendors of summit and sky,Ocean and isle,But never a painter shall findThe beautiful more than IIn my lady's smile.The thought of a dog is dim.Not even a wag he deignsTo the wisest book.Philosophy dwells for himIn loving the law that reignsIn voice, in look.The heart of a dog is meek.He places his utter trustIn a mortal grace,Contented his God to seekIn a creature framed of dustWith a dreaming face.The human is our divine.In the porch of the church, I prayFor a rustling dress,For those dear, swift steps of thine,Whose path is my perfect wayOf holiness.
The gaze of a dog is blindTo splendors of summit and sky,Ocean and isle,But never a painter shall findThe beautiful more than IIn my lady's smile.
The gaze of a dog is blind
To splendors of summit and sky,
Ocean and isle,
But never a painter shall find
The beautiful more than I
In my lady's smile.
The thought of a dog is dim.Not even a wag he deignsTo the wisest book.Philosophy dwells for himIn loving the law that reignsIn voice, in look.
The thought of a dog is dim.
Not even a wag he deigns
To the wisest book.
Philosophy dwells for him
In loving the law that reigns
In voice, in look.
The heart of a dog is meek.He places his utter trustIn a mortal grace,Contented his God to seekIn a creature framed of dustWith a dreaming face.
The heart of a dog is meek.
He places his utter trust
In a mortal grace,
Contented his God to seek
In a creature framed of dust
With a dreaming face.
The human is our divine.In the porch of the church, I prayFor a rustling dress,For those dear, swift steps of thine,Whose path is my perfect wayOf holiness.
The human is our divine.
In the porch of the church, I pray
For a rustling dress,
For those dear, swift steps of thine,
Whose path is my perfect way
Of holiness.
ADVENTURES
"Puntarvolo.Is he religious?
Gentleman.I know not what you call religious, but he goes to church, I am sure."
—Jonson'sEvery Man out of his Humour.
The zest, the fun, the excitement Sigurd infused into our human humdrum outwent all expectation. I think it added a relish even to Joy-of-Life's devotions at the early service of St. Andrew's that a suppressed yelp and a vehement scamper might at any second denote Laddie's appearance and Sigurd's instant reversion from her pious attendant in the vestibule to a wild creature of enraptured speed. He opened our eyes to a new vision of the most familiar things. What we had considered merely gray squirrels were revealed, through his glorious campaign against them, as goblin banditti bent on insult and robbery. For on those enchanted autumn days, when we would be wandering through the rich-colored, spicy woods, where winds laughed among the branches and chased leaves bright as jewels down the air, these impertinent squirrels were always scolding overhead and dropping acorns on us. I remember one such stroll, when a falling chestnut smacked Sigurd soundly on the nose. He at once attributed the indignity to the squirrels—quite unjustly this time—and made off in pursuit of a wily old fellow that whisked in and out among the slender birch boles and led him, as if for the mere sport of it, on a far chase. I was absorbed meanwhile in altruistic combat with a troop of ants, a foraging party returning to their hill-castle with a company of belated beetles as booty. As often as I brushed the ranks into confusion with a spray of goldenrod, it was astonishing to see how quickly the discomfited ants would rally and how immediately every one of the madly skurrying beetles—for their pitiless captors had deprived them of their wings—would be again a prisoner, surrounded in close formation by a marching escort. Looking up from this insect tragedy, I saw Sigurd tearing back with something in his mouth that, for one horrified instant, I thought was the slaughtered squirrel. It turned out to be my hat, which, blowing merrily away from the bramble whereon it was hung, had been captured by my friend in need, who proudly restored it, somewhat the worse for the manner of its rescue. Later on, in the hushed Indian summer noons, Joy-of-Life and I would take our luncheon out into the woods, where our golden collie would roll over and over in a rustling bed of leaves much of his own color or of brown, fragrant pine-needles, his bright eyes always on the watch for any aggression from the peering citizens of the trees.
The winter, however, was Sigurd's heroic season. He had the soul of a helper, not of a pet, and longed for occupation, responsibility, service. His sentry duty at night, his guardianship in our walks, his herding of the family into the dining-room three times a day with punctual solicitude, these were not enough. It was amusing and yet, in a way, touching to see with what strenuous earnestness he took upon himself the task of driving the squirrels away from the bird boxes. For our neighbors, the "shadowtails," as the Greeks called them, were so obtuse as to appropriate to their own comfort and convenience every provision we made for the flying folk. We had put up in the trees near the house a few bird palaces, variously named, according to the dominant interest of those whose respective windows overlooked them, Toynbee Hall, the Tabard Inn, the Waldorf-Astoria, the Mermaid Tavern; but their bluebird tenants were soon ejected, and families of baby squirrels, for whose repose their parents busily chewed up mattresses of leaf and bark, were reared in those proud abodes. To this Sigurd had to submit, though he would lie for hours on the piazza, his chin on his paws, wondering why the Collie Creator, whom he probably took to be much like his adorable father Ralph, only a thousand times as big—for had not Sigurd heard in the skies the thunder of his bark?—denied to dogs the gift of climbing trees. But their attack on the food-boxes brought these pirates almost within Sigurd's reach.
From several of the upper windows had been built out simple and practical feeding-shelves,—shallow wooden boxes partitioned off by cross-pieces into some six or eight compartments. Here we would put out marrowbones, suet, shreds and scraps from the dinner-plates, nuts, acorns, pinecones, grains, crumbs, fragments of cheese, and here, all the long winter through, our welcome guests were chickadees, nut-hatches, tree sparrows, downy woodpeckers, juncos, with an occasional fox sparrow or purple finch or flock of Canadian crossbills. Our unwelcome guests were English sparrows, of whom, however, we had but few and those of rather subdued deportment; blue jays, who would fly away with big pieces of meat or cocoanut, and the gray squirrels, who would come stealing softly down the edge of the casement and suddenly leap into the box. Here they would sit up on their haunches, defying us through the pane with hard, black eyes, and gobble till they could gobble no more. Then they would stuff their elastic cheeks almost to bursting and make off with their plunder only to be back again before the little birds, so long and so patiently waiting on the snowy branches of the nearest tree, had really settled down to enjoy the leavings.
Sigurd instinctively understood that the little birds were guests—to the English sparrows he gave the benefit of the doubt—and that the blue jays and squirrels were intruders. On a keen winter day, when the boxes had been freshly filled, he was indeed an overworked collie, scampering from room to room and window to window, barking furiously at the raiders. This vociferous warning that no trespassers were allowed sufficed for the blue jays, who would flap sullenly away, but the squirrels were quick to learn that a bark was not a bite. Shadowtail would only drop his nut and sit up erect and alert, his little fists pressed to his heart, his beady eyes staring straight against the dog's honest, indignant gaze. Seeing that his loudest roar had lost its terrors, Sigurd would leap up toward the window and give it a resounding thump with his paw. At first this new menace put the squirrels to precipitate retreat. Off they went, nor stood upon the order of their going. A few minutes later, one shrewd little gray face after another would peer around the casement edge, but at the first view of that upright, shining figure, with the flowing snow-white ruff, mounting guard on chair or hassock, the goblin faces vanished. Sigurd was immensely proud of himself during this epoch of the warfare. A very Casabianca in his firm conception of duty, only the most imperative summons could call him from his post. But when the squirrels had learned that the barrier between the collie and themselves was, though transparent, an effective screen, and would, as before, saucily plant themselves in the middle of the box and resume the stuffing and pillaging process more diligently than ever, under his very eyes, Sigurd, frantic with fury, would beat an utterly tremendous tattoo upon the pane. Three times one January he crashed through the glass in one of my chamber windows, cutting his face and paws and subjecting the room to a more Arctic ventilation than I cared for. On these occasions the squirrels saved themselves by prodigious leaps into the nearest tree and did not venture back while that jagged gap remained,—so satisfactory a result, from Sigurd's point of view, that he marveled at my folly in calling in a glazier to repair the damage. As the man was working at the window, Sigurd would look from him to me with a puzzled and reproachful expression accentuated by the long strips of court plaster across his nose.
He had a vigorous ally in my mother, who brought her own bright wits to bear on the circumvention of the enemy. She knitted a little bag, filled it with nutmeats and hung it from the middle sash outside the window, so that it dangled halfway down in the open space which gave the squirrels no footing but delighted our winged pensioners. It was fun to see two spirited fluffs squaring at each other atop a lump of suet for the best chance to rise at the bag, till another plumy midget came fiercely down upon them and drove them, chirping remonstrance, off to the outer edges of the box. Then the newcomer, bristling with victory, flew up and secured the most desirable position on that swinging dinner-pail, while the others, nudging and scrambling, sought for a footing on the further side. But the squirrels studied the situation from above and from below and presently learned to run up the blind, make a sidelong leap to the bag and cling to it with all four legs and feet, while they gnawed through the threads until the goodies literally poured into their mouths. There they would cling and feast, while on the other side of the glass my mother and Sigurd, both of them sharply protesting and angrily rapping the pane, held a Council of War. As a result, my mother bought two iron sink-mops, wired them together and triumphantly fashioned a bag which even the strong teeth of the furry burglars, for all their persevering and ingenious efforts, could not bite open. But the happy chickadees and nut-hatches would perch there, by relays, all day long, thrusting their bills through the iron interstices and drawing out, bit by bit, the finely broken nutmeats.
The blue jays were routed quite by accident. The support of my box, a strip of wood running from the underside of that little feeding table to the house wall, had loosened its lower nail, and one day, when some passing touch of grippe kept me in bed, with Sigurd sitting upright on a chair beside me, playing nurse, a plump jay lit heavily upon the edge of the shelf and screeched with fright as it shook and slid beneath him. He took to his glossy wings and, within five minutes, the oak hard by was alive with our whole colony of blue jays, all eying that box and deep in agitated discussion. At last one venturesome fellow struck boldly out and lit on it, only to feel it sway and sag and, with a shriek rivaling that of his predecessor, flapped up just in time to save himself, as he believed, from a terrific disaster. This performance was repeated twice more and then the whole blue jay crew abandoned, for the rest of the winter, not only their attacks on my particular bird box, though its support was promptly made secure, but on all the bird boxes of the house. Sigurd and I were well content as we heard them croaking to one another, "A trap! Jam my feathers, a hateful, human trap! But they couldn't hoodwinkus. Yah, yah, yah!"
The squirrels, however, continued to be Sigurd's chief household care. Out of doors, too, he was forever chasing them, but never, to my knowledge, so much as brushed the tail of one. In his sleep, he often seemed to be dreaming of a squirrel hunt, his feet running eagerly even while his body lay at full stretch upon the rug, and his breath coming in short pants. Sometimes he would howl in nightmare slumbers, but generally he appeared elate, climbing, perhaps, the trees of Dreamland, less slippery than our icy oaks, and driving out his enemies from their loftiest fastness.
Sigurd bore no grudges and when, as the pussy-willows, anemones and violets, the robins and the orioles were bringing in the spring, he was called upon to adorn a blue jay funeral procession, he wore his black ribbon with decorum. The chief mourner, a little lad by name of Wallace, was one of our nearest neighbors and most honored friends. He had been much perturbed in spirit over the perils of the blue jay brood whose nursery, so reckless were their parents, tilted precariously on a pine branch that overhung a ledge just beyond one end of Wallace's porch. He feared every wind would overthrow that nest, but when the shocking old mother, apparently in a fit of temper, deliberately pushed her children out herself, and they fell, one by one, to instant death on the rock below, Wallace's grief and horror were too great for a child's good. His resourceful father therefore proposed a grand funeral, as the only testimony of regard and regret that we could offer to the unlucky fledgelings, and Wallace, who was much preoccupied with his future career, having at one time planned to be a dentist in the forenoon, a musician in the afternoon, and an editor at night, entered with enthusiasm upon the duties of undertaker, sexton, and clergyman. Called upon for an anthem, I responded with a lament which Wallace found "too sad" to hear more than twice. On the second occasion it was intoned at the tiny grave, above which Sigurd drooped a puzzled head, not understanding a game that had in it neither romp nor laughter.
Though fond of Wallace, our collie's bearing toward small boys in general was not conspicuous for cordiality. Women he accepted as essential to the running of the universe; men—except for those vindictive monsters perched on express teams with long whips in hand—he regarded with amiable indifference; but about small boys he was dubious. Some of our rougher little neighbors had stoned and snowballed the new puppy. At Christmas we met that situation by converting Sigurd into Santa Claus,—dressing him up in holly ribbon and sleighbells and hanging on him the little gifts which we were in the way of taking about to the children on our hill. The immediate effect was excellent. Sigurd was thanked and patted and, in his pleasure at such appreciation, he would magnanimously lick the boyish hands that had been so often raised against him. One urchin was so impressed by a toy fire-engine that, at least through January, he touched his cap to "Mr. Sigurd" whenever they met; but with Fourth of July and Hallowe'en our troubles were all renewed. Firecrackers and torpedoes are so disconcerting to collie nerves that no normally bad boy could resist setting them off under Sigurd's very nose, somersaulting with ecstasy to see his instantaneous bolt for home; while on Hallowe'en all the youngsters on the hill would call in a troop, weirdly disguised, swinging Jack-o'-Lanterns and banging, scraping, whistling, piping, on strange instruments not of music. On these distracting occasions Sigurd was ready to tear those giggling spooks to bits, and either Joy-of-Life or I had to hold him tight, while the other passed the cookies and candies for which our supernatural visitants had come.
May Day was better fun for Sigurd. He quickly understood that the Maybasket chase was only a game and played it with a vim. But in general he did not care for festivals nor for any variation of the usual round. Just everyday living was joy enough for him. If Sigurd had made the calendar, the week would have been all Mondays. Even Christmas puzzled more than it pleased him. Such a confusion of brown paper and tissue paper, such a flourishing of queer, lumpy stockings, such tangles of string, such excitement over objects that had no thrill for his inquiring nose! And for himself, the rubber cats with gruesome squeaks inside them, the mechanical beetles that shook his courage as they charged at him across the floor! He could not make it out. Once when all the people present were shouting with mirth over a new, preposterous game of cards, Sigurd quietly picked up from under the table a pack not yet called into service and carried it out into the kitchen, where he was presently discovered with one forefoot set on the cards tumbled about before him, while he gazed dejectedly down at them in a defeated effort to find out why they were amusing. And the Christmas parties, for which he had to be scrubbed until he shone like an image of white and gold! And if it happened that, between his toilet and the party, he whizzed off with Laddie, what unpleasantness on his return!
"Sigurd was especially invited for to-night and I promised Wallace to bring him. But he's too dirty now and he hasn't had his dinner."
"All his own doing. He shall come dirty and dinnerless and learn to be ashamed of himself."
Not that he felt ashamed at all, but very tired and lame, hobbling behind his family into a bright, chattering room, where everybody wanted to pet him and where all he wanted was to be let alone to sleep his frolic off. Why must he be waked up with foolish laughter because that glittering tree, which he had not been allowed to investigate for squirrels, had given, in his name, a toy ship to Wallace, whose father, Professor Wit, must needs observe: "How like dear Sigurd, to present his neighbors with hisbarque!" And though for him the Christmas tree bore a chocolate caramel in the inmost box of a nest of boxes, he would, to the disappointment of the company who had heard of his skill in opening parcels, yawn and fall asleep over each box in turn. At his best, he bit drowsily into the pasteboard and pushed at the string more clumsily than usual with a pair of grimy paws from which the circle of silken skirts would draw away. Christmas, indeed, and an inaccessible chocolate caramel for dinner!
Sigurd's most thrilling adventures, naturally, had to do with dogs, but cats were an interesting side issue. The self-protective qualities of the feline race I realized on our first Sunday walk with the puppy, when a gray kitten bobbed up in our path. Sigurd romped forward, Joy-of-Life caught him by the collar, and I, for my sins, picked up the kitten. It looked so tiny, helpless and soft; it felt like a frame of steel and wire, every little muscle tense, while its claws flashed out like daggers and ripped up the back of my hand. In due time Sigurd learned how formidable a cat may be. If she ran, he pelted after until she took refuge up a tree, but if she proved to be some shrewd old grimalkin who held her ground he suddenly slackened his pace and sauntered casually by, trying to look as if he did not see her.
His one constant dog friend was Laddie. Their escapades were the top of all adventure,—such orgies of wild joy that I would gladly lie awake again listening for the hoarse bark of our returning prodigal. But with other dogs of his own sex, acquaintance, however affably begun, would soon ripen into a fight, unless the new comrade were too small and weak or had reasons of his own for declining the test of battle. With Gyp, across the way, a sly little black and tan, well-named, for his ancestors must have run with the Romany folk and bequeathed to him a genius for thievery, Sigurd did not take the trouble to quarrel. Gyp, always skulking about our premises, would make off with any of our lighter possessions carelessly left on porch or lawn. We had suffered these losses without redress—for to the dog's master, only too ready to beat poor Gyp cruelly on the least provocation, we would not make complaint—till Sigurd came. He had been with us barely a week when, one afternoon, as we were reading under the trees, Joy-of-Life reached a hand behind her for her parasol. It was not there. As we both exclaimed, questioned and looked about under the shrubbery where the wind, had there been a wind, could not possibly have blown it, our new guardian stood watching our