CHAPTER ELEVEN.

A BIRD-HAUNTED LAWN IN JUNE--PETS OF MY EARLY YEARS.

"Go, beautiful and gentle dove! But whither wilt thou go? For though the clouds tide high above. How sad and waste is all below.

"The dove flies on. In lonely flight She flies from dawn to dark; And now, amidst the gloom of night, Comes weary to the ark. `Oh! let me in,' she seems to say, `For long and lone has been my way; Oh! once more, gentle mistress, let me rest And dry my dripping plumage on thy breast.'"

Rev W. Bowles.

There is a kind of semi-wildness about our back lawn that a great many people profess to admire. It stretches downwards from my indoor study, from where the French windows open on to the trellised verandah, which in this sweet month of June, as I write, is all a smother of roses. The walk winds downwards well to one side, and not far from a massive hedge, but this hedge is hidden from view for the most part by a ragged row of trees. The Portuguese laurel, tasselled with charming white bloom at present, but otherwise an immense globe of green (you might swing a hammock inside it and no one know you were there), comes first; then tall, dark-needled Austrian pines, their branches trailing on the grass, with hazels, lilacs, and elders, the latter now in bloom. The lawn proper has it pretty much to itself, with the exception of the flower-beds, the rose-standards, and a sprinkling of youthful pines, and it is bounded on the other side by a tall privet hedge--that, too, is all bedecked in bloom. On the other ride of this hedge the view is shut in to some extent by tapering cypress trees, elms, and oaks, but here and there you catch glimpses of the hills and the lovely country beyond. Along this hedge, at present, wallflowers, and scarlet and white and pink-belled foxgloves are blooming.

If you go along the winding pathway, past the bonnie nook--where is now the grave of my dear old favourite Newfoundland [the well-known champion, Theodore Nero]--and if you obstinately refuse to be coaxed by a forward wee side-path into a cool, green grotto, canopied with ivy and lilacs, you will land--nowhere you would imagine at first, but on pushing boughs aside you find a gate, which, supposing you had the key, would lead you out into open country, with the valley of the Thames, stretching from west to east, about a mile distant, and the grand old wooded hills, blue with the softening mist of distance, beyond that. But the lower part of the lawn near that hidden gate is bounded by a bank of glorious foliage--rhododendrons, syringas, trailing roses, and hero-laurels in front, with ash, laburnum, and tall holly trees behind. It may not be right to allow brambles to creep through this bank; nor raspberries, with their drooping cane-work; nor blue-eyed, creeping belladonna; but I like it. I dearly love to see things where you least expect them; to find roses peeping through hedgerows, strawberries building their nests at the foot of gooseberry clumps, and clusters of yellow or red luscious raspberries peeping out from the midst of rhododendron banks, as if fairy fingers were holding them up to view.

I'm not sure that the grass on this pet lawn of mine, is always kept so cleanly shaven as some folks might wish, but for my own part I like it snowed over with daisies and white clover; and, what is more to the point, the birds and the bees like it. Indeed, the lawn is little more than a vast outdoor aviary--it is a bird-haunted lawn. There is a rough, shallow bath under a tree at the end of it, and here the blackbirds, thrushes, and starlings come to splash early in the morning, and stare up at my window as I dress, as coolly as if they had not been all up in the orchard trees breakfasting off the red-heart cherries. I have come now, after a lapse of four years, to believe that those cherries belong to the birds and not to me, just as a considerable number of pounds of the greengages belong to the wasps.

The nightingales hop around the lawn all day, but they do not bathe, and they do not sing now; they devour terribly long earthworms instead. In the sweet spring-time, in the days of their wooing, they did nothing but sing, and they never slept. Now all is changed, and they do little else save sleep and eat.

There are wild pigeons build here, though it is close to two roads, and I see turtle-doves on the lawn every day.

"Did you commence the study of natural history at an early age, Gordon?" said Frank to me one evening, as we all sat together on this lawn.

"In a practical kind of a way, yes, Frank," I replied, "and if I live for the next ten thousand years I may make some considerable progress in this study. _Ars longa vita brevia est_, Frank."

"True; and now," he continued, "spin us a yarn or two about some of the pets you have had."

"Well, Frank," I replied, "as you ask me in that off-hand way, you must be content to take my reminiscences in an off-hand way, too."

"We will," said Frank; "won't we, Ida?"

Ida nodded.

"Given a pen and put in a corner, Frank, I can tell a story as well as my neighbours, but the _extempore_ business floors me. I'm shy, Frank, shy. Another cup of tea, Dot--thank you--ahem!"

PETS OF MY EARLY YEARS.

There was no school within about three miles of a property my father bought when I was a little over two years of age. With some help from the neighbours my father built a school, which I believe is now endowed, but at that time it was principally supported by voluntary contributions. I was sent there as a first instalment. I was an involuntary contribution. Nurse carried me there every morning, but I always managed to walk coming back. By sending a child of tender years to a day-school, negative rather than positive good was all that was expected, for my mother frankly confessed that I was only sent to keep me out of mischief. The first few days of my school life flew past quickly enough, for my teacher, a little hunchback, be it remembered, whom you may know by the name of Dominie W--, was very kind to me, candied me and lollipopped me, and I thought it grand fun to sit all day on my little stool, turning over the pages of picture-books, and looking at the other boys getting thrashed. This latter part indeed was the best to me, for the little fellows used to screw their miserable visages so, and make such funny faces, that I laughed and crowed with delight. But I didn't like it when it came to my own turn. And here is how that occurred:--There was a large pictorial map that hung on the schoolroom wall, covered with delineations of all sorts of wild beasts. These were pointed out to the Bible-class one by one, and a short lecture given on the habits of each, which the boys and girls were supposed to retain in their memories, and retail again when asked to. One day, however, the dromedary became a stumbling-block to all the class; not one of them could remember the name of the beast.

"Did ever I see such a parcel of numskulls?" said Dominie W--. "Why, I believe that child there could tell you."

I felt sure I could, and intimated as much.

"What is it, then, my dear?" said my teacher encouragingly. "Speak out, and shame the dunces."

I did speak out, and with appalling effect.

"It's a schoolmaster," I said.

"A what?" roared the dominie.

"A schoolmaster," I said, more emphatically; "it has a hump on its back."

I didn't mean to be rude, but I naturally imagined that the hump was the badge of the scholastic calling, and that the dromedary was dominie among the beasts.

"Oh! indeed," said Dominie W--; "well, you just wait there a minute, and I'll make a hump on your back." And he moved off towards the desk for the strap.

As I didn't want a hump on my back, instant flight suggested itself to me, as the only way of meeting the difficulty; so I made tracks for the door forthwith.

"Hold him, catch him!" cried the dominie, and a big boy seized me by the skirt of my dress. But I had the presence of mind to meet my teeth in the fleshy part of the lad's hand; then I was free to flee. Down the avenue I ran as fast as two diminutive shanks could carry me, but I had still a hundred yards to run, and capture seemed inevitable, for the dominie was gaining on me fast. But help was most unexpectedly at hand, for, to my great joy, our pet bull-terrier, "Danger," suddenly put in an appearance. The dog seemed to take in the whole situation at a glance, and it was now the dominie's turn to shake in his shoes. And Danger went for him in grand style, too. I don't know that he hurt him very much, but to have to return to school with five-and-thirty pounds of pure-bred bull-terrier hanging to one's hump, cannot be very grateful to one's feelings. I was not sent to that seminary any more for a year, but it dawned upon me even thus early that dogs have their uses.

When I was a year or two older I had as a companion and pet a black-and-tan terrier called "Tip," and a dear good-hearted game little fellow he was; and he and I were always of the same mind, full of fan and fond of mischief. Tip could fetch and carry almost anything; a loose railway rug, for example, would be a deal heavier than he, but if told he would drag one up three flights of stairs walking backwards. Again, if you showed him anything, and then hid it, he would find it wherever it was. He was not on friendly terms with the cat though; she used him shamefully, and finding him one day in a room by himself she whacked him through the open window, and Tip fell two storeys. Dead? No. Tip fell on his feet.

One day Tip was a long time absent, and when he came into the garden he came up to me and placed a large round ball all covered with thorns at my feet.

"Whatever is it, Tip?" I asked.

"That's a hoggie," said Tip, "and ain't my mouth sore just."

I put down my hands to lift it up, and drew them back with pricked and bleeding fingers. Then I shrieked, and nursie came running out, and shook me, and whacked me on the back as if I had swallowed a bone. That's how she generally served me.

"What is it now?" she cried; "you're never out of mischief; did Tip bite you?"

"No, no," I whimpered, "the beastie bited me."

Then I had three pets for many a day, Tip and the cat and the hedgehog, who grew very tame indeed.

Maggie Hay was nursie's name. I was usually packed off to bed early in the evening, and got the cat with me, and in due time Maggie came. But one night the cat and I quarrelled, so I slipped out of bed, and crept quietly down to the back kitchen, and returned with my hoggie in the front of my nightdress, and went back to my couch. I was just in that blissful state of independence, between sleeping and waking, when Maggie came upstairs to bed. The hoggie had crept out of my arms, and had gone goodness knows whither, and I didn't care, but I know this much, that Maggie had no sooner got in and laid down, than she gave vent to a loud scream, and sprang on to the floor again, and stood shaking and shivering like a ghost in the moonlight. I suppose she had laid herself down right on top of my hoggie, and hoggie not being used to such treatment had doubtless got its spines up at once. I leave you to guess whether Maggie gave me a shaking or not. This pet lived for three long happy months, and its food was porridge and milk, morsels of green food, and beetles, which it caught on its own account. But I suppose it longed for its old gipsy life in the green fields, and missed the tender herbs and juicy slugs it had been wont to gather by the foot of the hedgerows. I don't know, but one morning I found my poor hoggie rolled up in a little ball with one leg sticking out; it was dead and stiff.

Maggie took it solemnly up by that one leg as if it had been a handle and carried it away and buried it; then she came back with her eyes wet and kissed me, and gave me a large--very large--slice of bread with an extra allowance of treacle on it. But there seemed to be a big lump in my throat; I tried hard to eat, but failed miserably, only--I managed to lick the treacle off.

My little friend Tip was of a very inquiring turn of mind, and this trait in his character led to his miserable end.

One day some men were blasting stones in a neighbouring field, and Tip seeing what he took to be a rat's tail sticking out of a stone, and a thin wreath of blue smoke curling up out of it, went to investigate.

He did not come back to tell tales; he was carried on high with the hurtling stones and _debris_, and I never saw my poor Tip any more.