BY
Some true dog-stories for all who love dogs.
Some years ago I was the guest of my friends Colonel and Mrs. Hamilton. Besides myself, there was a large Christmas party of friends and children staying in the house. One evening in the drawing-room we all joined in the children's play.
"What would you say," interposed Mr. Hillary, one of the guests, and he addressed the children, "if we were all in turn to tell you stories of all the dogs we have known?"
A little buzz of applause met this proposal, and our hostess, being pressed to tell the first tale, began by saying, "Well, then, I will tell you how I found my little terrier 'Snap.'"
"One day, about two years ago, I was driving into Charleston, which, as you know, is about two miles off. A little distance from the park gates I noticed that my pony carriage was followed by a little white dog—or at least by a little dog that had once been white. It ran along through the black mud of the roads, but nothing seemed to discourage it. On it came, keeping up some ten yards behind my carriage.
"At first I thought we only happened both of us to be going in the same direction, and that it was merely hurrying home; but I was soon undeceived, for to my surprise the little dog followed me first into one shop and then into another.
AT THE SHOW.AT THE SHOW.
"Finally I got out again and went into the last. On returning to the ponies I was astonished to find that the poor little wanderer had jumped into the carriage, and ensconced herself comfortably amongst the cushions."
"'The brute won't let me take it out,' said Dick, my diminutive groom; 'it growls if I only touch it, something terrible.'
"'Oh, leave it, then,' I replied, and Snap, as I afterwards christened her, drove back with me, sitting up proudly by my side.
"The next day I went out for a long ride. Without any encouragement on my part, the little terrier insisted upon following my horse. I think we must have gone over a distance of some twenty-four miles, through woods, over fields, and along the high-roads, but never once had I to call or whistle to bring her to my side. My little friend was always just behind me.
"'She be determined to earn herself a good home,' said our old coachman, when I returned in the afternoon and he saw the little dog still following faithfully behind me. I asked him to catch and feed her, but Snap would not trust herself to his care. She showed her teeth and growled furiously when he approached her.
"'More temper than dawg,' murmured our old retainer as he relinquished his pursuit of her. 'Cum, lassie, I'll do thee no harm;' but the terrier was not to be caught by his blandishments, and I had to catch her myself and feed her. To me she came at once, looking at me with her earnest, wistful eyes, and placing complete trust in me immediately.
"One of my friends says, 'Snap is redeemed by her many vices.' What made her confidence in me from the very first most remarkable was her general disliketo all strangers. She hates nearly every one. 'Snap spakes to us all about place,' is said of her by our old gardener.
"Obviously, I am sorry to say, her former master must have been opposed to law and order, for of all human beings she most hates policemen!
Only Just in Time!
"She also entertains a strong dislike to ministers of all denominations. Last year when a high dignitary of the Church came to call upon me, imagine my dismay when I saw during our interview Snap, with evil designs, crawling under the furniture to nip his lordship's legs. I was only just in time to prevent the catastrophe!
"The 'nasty sneak,' as my nephew Harry called her when he heard the story, was almost able before I could stop her to fulfil her wicked intentions. Happily, his lordship was unconscious of her inhospitable purpose, and when I caught her up only said: 'Poor little dog! don't trouble, Mrs. Hamilton, I am not at all nervous about dogs.'
"Another time I remember taking Snap to a meeting got up to further the interests of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.
"All went well till a clergyman rose and addressed the meeting, when Snap jumped up also, barking ferociously, and tried to bite him. She was carried out struggling and yelping with rage.
"'Yon tyke can't do with a parson,' is the dictum of the villagers when they see her go by with me. Snap is very faithful, very crotchety, distrusting nearly everybody, greeting every fresh acquaintance with marked suspicion, and going through life with a most exalted and ridiculous notion of her own importance, and also of that of her master and mistress."
"Snap's dislike to the clergy reminds me," said Colonel Hamilton, "of a story I heard the other day from my friend Gordon, the artist: You must know that last year the county gave old Vaughan of Marshford Grange, for his services as M.F.H., a testimonial.'Old V.,' as he is known, has the hereditary temper of all the Vaughans—in fact, might vie with 'Our Davey' of Indian fame. Gordon, as you know, was selected by the Hunt Committee to paint the picture, and he went to stay at the Grange.
"The day after his arrival he went down to breakfast, but found nobody there but the old squire seated at his table, and by him a favourite large lean white bull terrier.
"'Bob,' he declared, looked at him out of the corner of his evil eye, and therefore it was with some trepidation that he approached the table.
"'Swear, man, swear, or say something that he'll take for swearing,' exclaimed his host. 'If Bob takes you for a parson he'll bite you.' The explanation of this supposed hostility on Bob's part to the clergy consisted in the known and open warfare that existed between Vaughan and his parson.
"Some forty years before, the Squire had given his best living to his best college friend, and ever since there had been internecine war as a consequence.
"Poor Gordon was that curious anomaly, an artist combined with the pink of spinsterly propriety; and he could see no humour in the incident, but always declared that he felt nervous during his visit at the Grange lest Bob's punishing jaws should mistake his antecedents and profession.
"But now, Lady Constance, it is your turn, as the children say."
"I have a very clever old dog at home," said Lady Constance, turning to the children, "called 'Sloe.' She was, in her youth and prime, a most valuable retriever, but now is grown too old to do much but sleep in the sunshine. Eddie and Molly were given some time ago two pretty young white rabbits. They looked like balls of white fluff, and were the prettiest toy-like pets you can imagine. One night, unfortunately, they escaped from their protecting hutch.
"Sloe is one of those dogs that cannot resist temptation, and although she has often been whipped and scolded for massacring rabbits, never listens to the voice of conscience. In fact, she hardly seems as if she could help doing so, and appears to think, like the naughty boy of the story, that, in spite of the beating, the fun was too great to forgo.
Sloe and Duchess
"Sloe is always loose, but has a kennel to sleep in at nights in the stable-yard. Opposite to her kennel is chained another dog—a retriever—'Duchess' by name, a lovely dog of a soft flaxen colour. This dog on this occasion, it so happened, had not yet been unchained.
"Sloe disappeared amongst the shrubberies, and found there her innocent victims. The poor little things were soon caught, and breathed their last in her ferocious jaws. When Sloe had killed them she did not care to eat them, and, strange to say, she determined not to bury them, but resolved that it should appear that the murder had been committed by her companion, and that Duchess should bear the blame.
"It is said that she is jealous of her companion sharing the favour of her master, and so decided upon doing her a bad turn.
"Prompted probably by this evil thought, she carried her victims one after the other into Duchess's kennel and left them there. The coachman, who was up betimes cleaning his harness, saw her do this. After which the old sly-boots retired to her own lair and went to sleep as if nothing had happened."
"Did you ever owe your life to a dog?" inquired Colonel Hamilton, turning to Lady Constance.
"Oh, yes, I did once," was her reply.
"Some years ago I was given a large dog—half bloodhound and half mastiff. To women and children he was very gentle, but he had an inveterate dislike to all men. There was nothing he would not allow a baby to do to him. It might claw his eyes, sit on his back, tap his nose, scream in his ears, and pull his hair;and 'George,' for such was his name, would sit and look at me with a sort of broad good-natured smile.
"One year we all went up to a shooting-lodge in Perthshire. In the paddock before the house there was a bull. I complained of our neighbour, for I thought he had an evil eye, and might some day do the children some mischief.
"Our landlord, however, would not listen to my complaints.
"'Dinna ye fash yersel,' Geordie,' he said to his herdsman, 'or take notice of what the women-folk say. It is a douce baistie, and he'll nae harm bairns nor doggies.'
"In spite of this, one afternoon I had occasion to cross the meadow, when suddenly I turned round and saw the bull running behind me. He bellowed fiercely as he advanced.
"Happily, when he charged I was able to spring aside, and so he passed me. But I saw that the wall at the end of the field was several hundreds yards off, and I felt, if the bull turned again to pursue me, my life would not be worth much.
"Then I saw my faithful George standing sullenly beside me, all his 'hackles' up, and waiting for the enemy with an ominous growl.
"The bull again turned, but my dog met him, and something of the inherited mastiff love of feats in the bull-ring must have awoke within him, for when the bull came after me the old dog flew at his nose, courageously worried him, and fairly ended by routing him. In the meantime I slipped over the loose stone wall, and ran and opened the gate at the bottom of the field, through which trotted a few minutes later my protector.
"I told my story when I returned to the house, and the keeper promised me that he would speak to the bailiff at our landlord's farm and have the bull taken away on the following day.
"Now, the grass of the paddock being particularlytender and sweet, it was the custom for the 'hill ponies' to graze at night in company with the cows and the bull. The horses and cattle had hitherto done so, without causing any damage to each other; but the morning after my adventure one of the ponies was found gored to death, and an old cart-mare who had been running there with a foal was discovered to be so terribly injured that she had to be shot. It was noticed that the bull's horns were crimson with blood, so there could be no doubt who was the delinquent.
"'The more you know of a bull, the less faith you can put in one,' said our old cowherd to me one day when I recounted to him in Yorkshire my escape; 'and, saving your ladyship's presence,' he added, 'bulls are as given to tantrums as young females.'
George's Tricks
"When George was young we tried to teach him some tricks," continued Lady Constance, "but, like a village boy, he 'was hard to learn;' and the only accomplishment he ever acquired was, during meals, to stand up and plant his front paws upon our shoulders, look over into our plates, and receive as a reward some tit-bit. Sometimes he would do this without any warning, and he seemed to derive a malicious pleasure in performing these antics upon the shoulders of some nervous lady, or upon some guest who did not share with us our canine love."
It had now come to my turn to contribute a story, and in answer to the children's appeal I told them that I would tell them all that I could remember of my old favourite mastiff, "Rory Bean," so-called after the Laird of Dumbiedike's pony in the "Heart of Midlothian."
"Rory was a very large fawn mastiff, with the orthodox black mask. I remember my little girl, when she was younger, having once been told that she must not go downstairs to her godmamma with a dirty face, resolved that if this was the case Rory must have a clean face too.
"So the next day, on entering the nursery, I found she had got some soap and water in a basin, and beside her I saw the great kindly beast, sitting up on her haunches, patiently waiting whilst her face was being washed; but in spite of all the child's efforts the nose remained as black as ever. My little girl's verdict, 'that mastiffs is the best nursery dogs,' was for a long time a joke amongst our friends.
"For several years we took Rory up to London, but her stay there was always rather a sad one, for when out walking the crossings in the streets were a great source of terror to her. No maiden-aunt could have been more timid. She would never go over by herself, but would either bound forward violently or else hang back, and nearly pull over her guide. She had also a spinsterly objection to hansoms, and never would consent to be driven in one. On the other hand, she delighted in a drive in a 'growler,' and, if the driver were cleaning out his carriage, would often jump in and refuse to be taken out.
"When Rory followed us in London she had a foolish habit of wishing to seem independent of all restraint, and of desiring to appear 'a gentleman at large.'
"On one unfortunate occasion, whilst indulging in this propensity, she was knocked over by a hansom—not badly hurt, but terribly overcome by a sense of the wickedness of the world, where such things could be possible.
"The accident happened in Dover Street. Rory had strayed into the gutter after some tempting morsel she had espied there, and a dashing hansom had bowled her over. She lay yelping and howling and pitying herself intensely. My companion and I succeeded in dragging her into a baker's shop, where she was shown every kindness and consideration, and then we drove home in a four-wheeler. Rory was not much hurt, but for many days could hardly be induced to walk in the streets again. She seemed to be permeated with a sense of the instability and uncertainty of all things, andnever appeared able to recover from her surprise that she, 'Rory Bean,' a mastiff of most ancient lineage and of the bluest blood, should not be able to walk about in safety wherever she pleased—even in the streets of the metropolis.
Lost in London
"I recollect we once lost her in London. She made her escape out of the house whilst we had gone for a ride in the park. When we returned from our ride, instead of hearing her joyous bark of welcome, and seeing her flop down in her excitement the last four steps of the staircase, as was her wont, we were met instead by the anxious face of the butler, who told us Rory had run out and could not be found.
"Fortunately, we were not dining out that night, and so, as quickly as possible, we sallied forth in different directions to find her. The police were communicated with, and a letter duly written to the manager of the Dogs' Home at Battersea, whilst my husband and I spent the evening in wandering from police-station to police-station, giving descriptions of the missing favourite.
"Large fawn mastiff, answers to the name of 'Rory Bean,' black face and perfectly gentle. I got quite wearied out in giving over and over again the same account. However, to cut a long story short, she was at last discovered by the butler, who heard her frantic baying a mile off in the centre of Hyde Park, and brought her back, and so ended Rory Bean's last season in London.
"A few days before this escapade I took out Rory in one of the few squares where dogs are still allowed to accompany their masters. Bean had a naïve way, when bored, of inviting you or any casual passer-by that she might chance to see, to a good game of romps with her. Her method was very simple. She would run round barking, but her voice was very deep, as of a voice in some subterranean cavern; and with strangers this did not invariably awaken on their side a joyous reciprocity. Somehow, big dogs always ignore their size.
"They have a confirmed habit of creeping under tiny tables, and hanker after squeezing themselves through impossible gaps. Being, as a rule, quite innocent of all desire to injure any member of the human race, they cannot realise that it is possible that they in their turn can frighten anybody.
"I remember on this particular occasion that I was interested in my book, and that when Rory had barked round me I had refused to play with her. For some time she had lain down quietly beside me, when suddenly an old gentleman came into view. He held in his hand a stick, with which he meditatively struck the pebbles of the pathway as he walked along.
"At the sight of him Rory jumped up. She could not resist this particular action on his part, which she considered a special invitation to come and join in a good romp. To my consternation, before I could prevent her, I saw her barking and jumping round the poor frightened old gentleman, in good-natured but ominous-looking play.
"Seeing that he was really alarmed, I rushed off to his rescue, seized my dog and apologised. Wishing at the same time to say something that might somewhat condone her conduct, I said: 'I am very sorry, sir, but you see she is only a puppy,' and pointed to Rory.
"This was not quite a correct statement, as my four-footed friend was at that time about two years old, and measured nearly thirty inches from the shoulder, but, as the old man seemed really frightened and muttered two ugly words in connection with each other, 'Hydrophobia' and 'Police,' I was determined to do all I could to reassure him and smooth down his ruffled plumes.
"However, my elderly acquaintance would not be comforted, and I heard him muttering to himself as he retired from the square, 'Puppy indeed! Puppy indeed!'
"Bean's death was very sad. Two years ago weleft her in Yorkshire whilst we went to London. We heard of her continually whilst we were away, and she seemed very flourishing although growing old, till one day I got a letter to say that the old dog was suddenly taken very ill and could hardly move. The servants had taken her to a loose box, given her a good clean bed of straw, and were feeding her with such delicacies as she could be prevailed upon to take.
Rory's Last Welcome
"I had a sad journey home, thinking of the sufferings of my trusty old friend. I shall never forget her joy at seeing me once more. The poor faithful creature could not walk, but crawled along upon her stomach to meet me when I entered the loose box, filling the place with her cries of joy. She covered my hands with kisses, and then laid her head upon my knees whilst I sat down beside her. She whined with a sort of half-sorrow, half-pleasure—the first that she could not get up and show me round the gardens as was her wont, the second that she was happy to be thus resting in the presence of her beloved mistress. Around her lay a variety of choice foods and tit-bits, but she was in too great pain to feed except from my hands.
"Poor dear Bean! she looked at me out of her great solemn eyes. Those dear loving eyes; with only one expression shining in them—a daily, hourly love—a love in spite of all things—a love invincible.
"During those last few days of her life Rory could not bear to be left alone. Her eyes followed me tenderly round and round the stables wherever I went. Although constantly in great pain, I shall never forget her patience and her pathetic conviction that I could always do her some good, and she believed in the miracle which I, alas! had no power to perform. The veterinary surgeon who attended her said she was suffering from sudden paralysis of the spine, and that she was incurable. This disease, it appears, is not very rare amongst old dogs who have lived, not always wisely, but too well."
"Do tell us about some other dogs," cry the children as I cease speaking. I search my memory, and then turn to the group of little faces that are waiting expectantly for me to begin, and continue:
"Amongst the various breeds of dogs that I have come across personally, I know of none more faithful than the little fox-terrier is to his first devotion. He is a perfect little bantam-cock to fight, and never so happy as when he is in a row. 'The most unredeemed thing in nature,' was a true remark I once heard made of one; and yet there is no dog more devoted to his master, or more gentle to the children of his own household.
"I remember a little white terrier of my mother's, a celebrated prize-winner, and of the old Eggesford breed, called 'Spite.' Before I married she was my special dog, and used to sleep in my room. For years afterwards, although a general pet, whenever I returned to my old home she would prefer me to every one else, and, when old and blind, would toddle up the polished oak staircase to my room, in spite of being terribly afraid of slipping through the carved bannisters. She never forgot me or wavered when I was with her in giving me the first place in her affections.
"I have heard that the first of this noted strain was given many years ago to my father as a boy by 'Parson Jack.' It seems that the terriers of Parson Russell were noted in the days when the manners and customs of the parsons of the West were 'wild and furious.'
"A parson of the 'Parson Froude' type called upon him one evening in the dusk, to say that he had brought his terrier to fight 'Parson Jack's' in a match.
"My father's old friend, as I have often heard him tell the story to my mother, sent down word that he would not fight his dog because he 'looked upon dog-fights as beastly sights,' but if his brother clergyman would come upstairs, they would clear the tables, and he would take his jacket off, and they would have some rounds, and see which was the best man, and he who won should keep the other's dog.
"Parson Jack"
"When the fight was fought and won, and when 'Parson Jack' came off victorious, he claimed the other terrier.
"'And don't yu goe for to think, my dear,' he would add, turning to one of us children, as he ended the story, and speaking in broad Devonshire, as he often did when his heart kindled at the memory of the county in the old days—'don't yu goe for tu think as my having a set-tu zhocked the people in my parish. My vulk were only plazed to think as parsan was the best man of the tu, and if a parsan could stand up like a man in a round in they days, er was all the more likely to zuit 'em in the pulpit on Zundays.'
"Once every year 'Parson Jack' used to come and dine and sleep at my old home to keep his birthday, in company with my father and mother. At such times we as children used to come down to dessert to hear him tell stories in his racy way of Katerfelto, of long gallops over Exmoor after the stag, or of hard runs after the little 'red rover' with Mr. Fellowes' hounds."
"What dogs have you now?" inquired Mrs. Hamilton.
"Amongst others, a large St. Bernard," is my reply—"Bathsheba, so called after Mr. Hardy's heroine. Not that she has any of that young lady's delicate changes and complications of character, nor is she even 'almighty womanish.'
"Our Bathsheba is of an inexhaustible good temper, stupid, and wonderfully stolid and gentle. She is never crusty, and is the untiring playmate of any child. The 'Lubber fiend' we call her sometimes in fun, for she seems to extend over acres of carpet when she takes a siesta in the drawing-room.
'Has she a soul?' inquired a friend who admired the great gentle creature. 'I fear not,' was my reply; 'only a stomach.'
"Besides Bathsheba, we have a large retriever called 'Frolic.' He and Bath are given sometimes to running after people who go to the back door; theynever bite, but growl, and bark if it is a complete stranger.
"On one occasion, an Irishman who had been employed to do some draining met with this hostile reception. ''Tis gude house-dogs,' said my guardian of the poultry grimly.
"On hearing that the Irishman had been frightened, I sought him, expressed to him my regrets, and said that, though big, the dogs were quite harmless. With ready wit he retorted: 'Begorra, it isn't dogs that I am afraid of, but your ladyship keeps lions.'"
"Just one more story," cry the children as I cease speaking, and Mrs. Hamilton points to the clock, as their bedtime is long past. After a few minutes' pause, I continue:
"The other day I was told of a little girl who attended a distribution of prizes given by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.
"She had won, you must know, a book as a reward for writing the best essay on the subject given, and, with the other successful children, was undergoing avivâ voceexamination.
"'Well, my dear,' said the gentleman who had given away the prizes, 'can you tell me why it is cruel to dock horses' tails and trim dogs' ears?' 'Because,' answered the little girl, 'what God has joined together let no man put asunder.'"
An explosion of childish laughter follows my story, and then the little ones troop up in silence to bed. I sit on, quietly looking into the fire, and as I sit so the voices of my friends seem to grow distant, and I fall into a reverie.
BY
A Cornish story of a girl's sorrow.
Up and down the little pier they paced in quarter-deck fashion, each with his hands tucked deep down in the pockets of his sea-blanket coat, and his oilskin cap pulled well over his ears.
They were very silent in their walk, these three old men, who had watched the breakers come and go at Trewithen for over sixty years, and handled the ropes when danger threatened. Trewithen Cove had sheltered many a storm-driven ship within their memories, and there were grave-mounds in the churchyard on the cliff still unclaimed and unknown that had been built up by their hands.
Up and down, to and fro they went in the face of the flying spray, in spite of the deepening mist that was creeping up over the darkening sea.
Benjamin Blake—once the handiest craftsman in the cove—was the first to break the silence.
"'Tis a sa-ad night at sea, mates!" he shouted, and the roar of the waves nearly drowned the sound of his voice.
"Iss, tu be zure, Benjamin Blake!" shouted Tom Pemberthy in answer, "an' 'twill be a ba-ad job fer more'n wan boat, I reckin, 'gainst marnin'!"
Then Joe Clatworthy, whose opinions were valued highly in the settlement of all village disputes, so that he had earned for himself the nickname of "Clacking Joe," stood still as they once more turned their backs on the threatening sea, and said his say.
"A tell ee wot 'twill be, mates," he said solemnly and slowly. "You mark my wurrds ef it dawn't cum truthy too,—there'll be terble loss uv li-ife out there tu-night," and he waved his hand towards the blackening sea, "an' us'll hev tu dig a fuu more graves, I reckin', cum marnin'!"
"The Lard hev murcy!" said Benjamin Blake, and the three resumed their walk again.
Half an hour afterwards they were making their way along the one little street of which Trewithen boasted to their homes; for a storm—the roughest they had known for years—had burst overhead, and a man's life is a frail thing in the teeth of a gale.
At the top of the cliff and beyond Trewithen churchyard by the length of a field there stood a tiny cottage, in which lived Jacob Tresidder, fisherman, and his daughter Bess.
"Daft Bess" the children called her as they played with her on the sands, though she was a woman grown, and had hair that was streaked with white.
She was sitting now by the dying fire in the little kitchen listening to the storm without; the hands of the grandfather clock were nearing the midnight hour, and Jacob Tresidder lay in a sound sleep upstairs hearing nought. She was of the type of fisher-maid common to the depths of Cornwall. The soft rich colouring of her skin reminded one more of the sunny south, and her big brown eyes had always a glow in them.
To-night they were more luminous than ever as she sat by the fire watching the sparks flicker and die, as if the dawn of some hidden knowledge were beingborne to them on the breath of the storm. The roar of the sea as it dashed up the face of the cliff seemed to soothe her, and she would smile and turn her ear to catch the sound of its breaking on the beach below.
And yet, seven years before, "Daft Bess" had been the brightest and prettiest girl in Trewithen, and the admiration of every lad in the country round! And Big Ben Martyn, who had a boat of his own, had been the pride of every girl! But he only cared for Bess and she for him. All their lives they had been together and loved,—and a simple, truthful love can only produce its own affinity, though in its travail it pass through pain and suffering, and, maybe, the laying down of life!
Ben Martyn was twenty-five, and his own master, when he asked Bess, who had just turned twenty, to be his wife.
"The cottage be waitin', Bess, my gurrl!" he whispered as they sat on the cliff in the summer night; she knitting as usual, and he watching the needles dart in and out. They were very silent in their love, these two, who had been lovers ever since they could paddle.
"'Tis so lawnly betimes!" he pleaded.
And Bess set his longing heart at rest.
"So soon as vather can spare I, Ben," she said; and she laid her knitting on the rock beside them, and drew his sea-tanned face close down beside her own. "Ee dawn't seek fer I more'n I seek fer ee, deary!" and kissed him.
Thus they plighted their troth.
One Dark Night
Then came the winter and the hard work. And one dark stormy night, when the waves rose and fought till they nearly swept Trewithen out of sight, Ben Martyn was drowned.
He had been trying to run his boat into the shelter of the cove and failed, and in the morning his battered body lay high and dry on the quiet beach among the wreckage.
For weeks Bess lay in a high fever; and then, whenthe strain was greater than her tortured mind could bear, and she had screamed loud and long, something snapped in her brain and gave relief. But it left her without a memory, and with the ways and speech of a little child.
Her mind was a blank! She played with the seaweed and smiled, till the women's hearts were like to break for her, and the words stuck in the men's throats as they looked at her and talked.
"She be mazed, poor maid!" they said gently lest she should hear them. "'Twould break Ben's heart ef ee knawed 'ur was so!"
THE ROCK SHE CLUNG TO GAVE WAY.THE ROCK SHE CLUNG TO GAVE WAY.
That was seven long years ago. And to-night Bess seemed loth to leave the fire, but sat hugging her knees in a restless fashion, and staring at the blackening embers in a puzzled way. A tremendous blast struck the cottage, and nearly shook the kitchen window out of its fastenings. The wind came shrieking through the holes in the shutter like a revengeful demon, and retreated again with a melancholy groan.
It pleased Bess, and she hugged her knees the tighter, and turned her head and waited for the next loud roar. It came, and then another, and another, till it seemed almost impossible for the little cottage to hold out against its fury!
Then "Daft Bess" sprang from her seat with a cry of gladness, and ran out into the night!
Along the path of the cliff she ran as fast as her bare feet would carry her, struggling and buffeting with the wind and spray till she reached the "cutting" down to the beach.
It was only a broken track where the rocks sloped and jagged a little, and not too safe at the best of times. She tried to get a foothold, but the wind was too strong, and she was driven back again and again. Then it lulled a little, and she began to descend.
Half-way down there was an ugly turn in the path, and she waited for a gust to pass before taking it. The wind was stronger than ever out here on the front of the cliff, but she held tight to the jagged rock above.
Round it swept, tearing loose bits of rock and soil from every corner, till her face was cut by the sharpness of the flints!
Close against the cliff it blew until she was almost breathless, when the rock she clung to gave way, and she fell down and down!
Jacob Tressider was awake. He had heard a noise like the breaking of delf in the kitchen below, and he wondered if Bess had heard it too. He got out of bed and dressed himself, and then came down the ladder which did service for a staircase to see what was amiss. The flags in the kitchen were strewn with broken plates, and the front kitchen door swung loosely on its hinges.
No Answer!
He called Bess, but there was no answer! He went into her room, the bed was untouched since day! Then he pulled on his great sea-boots and cap and went out to look for her.
The day was dawning when they brought her in and laid her on the bed of her little room more dead than alive. She was soaked through and through, and the seaweed still clung about her hair. Jacob Tresidder stood watching her like a man in a dream as she lay there white and silent.
"Us be mighty sore fer ee, so us be!" said old Benjamin Blake, who had helped to bring her home. "But teddin fer yew nor I, Jacob, tu go fornenst His will." And he went out crying like a child.
There was a slight movement of the quiet figure on the coverlid, and Jacob Tresidder's heart stopped beating for a moment as he watched his daughter's brown eyes open once more! They wandered wonderingly to where he was, and rested there, and a faint smile crossed the dying lips.
Then he bowed his head between his hands as he knelt beside her, for he knew that God had given herback her memory again; and his sobs were the sobs of a thankful heart.
"Vather!" she whispered, and with an effort she stretched the hand nearest to him and touched his sleeve. "'Tis—all right—now—I be gwine—tu—Ben."
The dying eyes glowed with love; then with a restful sigh the life passed out.
They had battened down the last spadeful of new-dug earth, and once again there was a storm-bred mound in Trewithen churchyard.
The three old comrades stood together in silence looking down on it, making little or no attempt to hide the sorrow that was theirs.
Then Tom Pemberthy said, drawing his hand across his tear-dimmed eyes: "Us'll miss ur simple wa-ays, sure 'nuff!"
But it was given to "Clacking Joe" to speak the final words ere they turned their faces homewards.
"'Twas awnly right that we laid ur 'longside o' Ben! When ur was a little chile ur shrimped with 'n! an' when ur was a gert maiden ur walked out with 'n! Please God, ur'll be the furrst tu spake tu 'n—cum the aftermath!"
A seasonable chant, possibly useful for recitation purposes.
BY
SPRING CLEANING.SPRING CLEANING.1st Maiden."Oh, Spring is here, the golden sunHas routed Winter's gloom!"2nd Maiden."Good gracious! Jane has notbegunTo scrub the dining-room!"1st Maiden."And now the first sweet buds appear,Symbolic of new hope."2nd Maiden."I didn't say 'carbolic,' dear,I want theyellowsoap."1st Maiden."Like nectar is the morning dew,Its purity divineRefreshes all the earth anew."2nd Maiden."Ah! here's the turpentine."1st Maiden."And crystal webs shine bright, as thoughSpun on some fairy loom."2nd Maiden."A spider's web? I didn't know;I'll run and fetch the broom!"1st Maiden."Blooms Nature scatters, fresh and free,From out her treasure-house."2nd Maiden."I'll dust this cupboard thoroughly."Both together."Oh, horrors! There's amouse!"
SPRING CLEANING.SPRING CLEANING.
BY
A Canadian boy and girl together were at one moment as happy as youth and health could make them, and at the next in imminent danger of their lives.
What on earth had happened to Gladys Merritt?
In the course of a few short weeks the girl was transformed from the merriest, most light-hearted creature into one often thoughtful, silent, and serious. The question then was, Why had she suddenly changed completely? Many guessed, but only two knew the real reason.
Barrie, where Judge Merritt lived, lies at the head of lovely little Lake Simcoe, in Western Ontario, Canada. In summer the lake is blue as the heavens above, the borders of it are fringed with larch and maple that grow right down to the rippling edge and bow to their own reflections in the clear waters beneath, while on its glassy surface can be seen daily numbers of boats and launches, the whole scene animated by merry voices of happy folks, with picnic baskets, bound for the woods, or others merely seeking relief from the intense heat on shore. Work is finished early in the day in the Colonies, and when school is over and the scorching sun begins slowly to sink to rest, social life begins.
But in Canada winter is long and extremely cold.With the fall of the beautiful tinted leaves that have changed from green to wonderful shades of red, purple, and yellow, Canadians know that summer is gone and that frost and snow may come any day, and once come will stay, though an unwelcome guest, for at least seven or eight months.
Now the young folks in Barrie relished this long spell of cold—to them no part of the year was quite so delightful as winter. What could compare with a long sleigh drive over firm thick snow, tucked in with soft warm furs and muffled up to the eyes—or tobogganing in the moonlight down a long hill—or skimming over clear, smooth ice—or candy-making parties—or dances, or a dozen other delights? What indeed? On every occasion Gladys seemed to be the centre figure; she was the life and soul of every party.
The "Bunch"
She was an only child of wealthy parents. Her home was beautiful, her father indulgent, her mother like a sister to her; she was a favourite everywhere, loved alike by rich and poor. Together with two intimate friends and schoolfellows, the girls were commonly known as the "Buds," and they, with half a dozen boys, were called the "Bunch" throughout the town. They admitted no outsider to their circle. They danced together at parties, boated, picniced, skated, sometimes worked together. There was an invisible bond that drew the group near each other, a feeling of sympathy and good fellowship, for the "Bunch" was simply a whole-hearted, happy crowd of boys and girls about sixteen to nineteen years of age.
Winter was at its height. Christmas with all its joys was past, church decorations had surpassed the usual standard of beauty, holidays were in full swing, and the "Buds" were in great demand. The cold had for five weeks been intense, and the barometer on the last day of January sank to fifteen below zero. Snow had fallen but little, and the ring of merry, tinkling sleigh bells was almost an unknown sound. Tobogganing of course was impossible. But as Gladys philosophically remarked one day, "Where could you find such skating as in Barrie?"
Great excitement prevailed when the moon was full, for the lake, some nine miles in length, was frozen from end to end, with an average thickness of three feet, and to the delight of skaters, was entirely snow free. Of course parties were the order of the day. Such a chance to command a magnificent icefield might not occur again for a long, long time.
The "Bunch" instantly decided on a party of their own, and chose a glorious night for the expedition. It consisted of the "Buds" and three boys. For some time all went well, but Gladys's skate needed tightening, and before it was satisfactorily done, the other four were far away, and Harry Elliott was left as sole protector to the girl.
Their conversation was mainly about school concerns. The boy was in a bank, the girl in her last term at the High School.
"If only I could work at something after I'm finished! What shall I do with my life when I have no more lessons? I think everybody should do something; I shall soon be tired of lazing through the days."
"Your pater would never let you do anything for money, he is so rich."
"But simply to have a lot of money won't satisfy me, although I'd like to earn some. To be a teacher would suit me best, and keep my mind from rusting."
"You are awfully clever, you know. I never cared for books and never worked till one day—a day I shall never forget."
"What was it about, Harry? Tell me."
The two had chattered about their own concerns without noticing that the rest of the "Bunch" had kept to the left side of the lake while they had skated straight forward ignoring the deep bay, and were now nearing the right shore. The ice was smooth as glass, each wasan accomplished skater, and together they had made a brilliant run without a pause after the tightening of the screw. Now, hot and breathless, they paused for a few moments, and only then realised that they were about three miles distant from the rest of the party. Harry drew off his thick woollen mittens and unloosened his muffler, as together they stood looking at the glistening landscape around them.
"I think we ought to turn; we are a long way from home."
"Just let us touch shore first and get to the 'Black Stone'; that would be a record spin."
"All right, then, come along, and tell me what happened that day. You know."
Hand-in-hand the two started off once more in the direction of the "Black Stone." Far and wide there was not a human being visible. Not a sound except the swish, swish of their skates and their own voices fell on the clear, still air of the glorious night.