Part 3

As soon as I grew sufficiently calm, I sat down and looked through my book. It was a volume of Natural History, Travels, and Wonderful Adventures. Oh! how plainly I remember to this day, every picture it contained. There was one of an old Turk, sitting cross-legged, on a carpet, smoking a great pipe, with such a long winding stem that I wondered the smoke didn't get lost in it. There was a Chinaman, with his hair braided in a long tail that nearly touched the ground--so that if he should step backward suddenly, he might trip himself up. And a Chinawoman, with such tiny little feet that if it had not been for the name of the thing, she might as well have had no feet at all. Then there was a picture of Noah and his family entering the ark--all crowding in as though in a hurry to get out of the rain; and another of a happy Arab family, sitting in their tent, with their horse in the midst, which quite put me out of conceit with houses. Indeed, I proposed to my brothers, to fasten a blanket upon hop-poles and camp out that very night. They all said that it was a brave plan, the only objection being that we had no warm sand to sleep on, and no kind, gentle pony to keep us company--our old gray mare having a young colt, and being always particularly cross at such times. Then there were portraits of wonderful animals and serpents, the like of which I had never seen; there was a boa-constrictor, winding himself round and round a poor antelope, and squeezing him so tight that I almost listened to hear the bones crack. There was a giraffe, stretching his long neck up and out as though to look over the hills to see the sun rise. There was a family of apes on a tree, enjoying themselves, chattering and eating nuts, and swinging by their tails; and a kangaroo mother running away from a tiger, and carrying her little ones in her apron. There was an angry elephant tugging at the body of a great tree, to get at a hunter who had wounded him. I remember how surprised I was on inquiring for his trunk, to find that this was only the common name of the great proboscis which he held before him, for I had been so foolish as to suppose that he carried it on his back, or strapped on behind him.

I treasured up this volume for years and years. I loved it all the better for the grief I had suffered when I supposed I had lost it by my poor reading, and though I have had hosts of handsomer and more costly books since, I have never had one I prized half so highly as My Aunt's Present.

A Curious Dog Story.

A great many anecdotes have been told of dogs, from Ulysses' faithful brute, who, although his master was away twenty years, fighting the Trojans and wandering about the world, did not forget him, but kept one glad wag of affection in his old tail for his return, then dropped dead--down to the "Neptunes" and "Neros," the "Lions" and "Carlos" of which everybody knows;--but we once heard one which we think very few, if any of you, can have heard.

A friend of ours had three dogs,--two tolerably big ones and one little one. The big dogs he had had several years, but the little one, a Scotch terrier, had been bought only a few months before the time I am telling of.

About half a mile from our friend's house there was a mill, and the miller kept a large mastiff dog, who had always been very quiet and peaceable, until just about the time this little terrier came into the neighborhood, when there began a succession of battles between the mastiff and our friend's two big dogs. These battles became so frequent and so fierce, that they attracted the serious attention of both the miller and our friend.

What could it be that had made of these dogs such sudden and bitter enemies? Nobody could tell. But the poor creatures were never without a lame leg, a torn ear, or hurt eye; for as soon as the wounds of one battle got well, and often before, there would be another, even more bloody than the last, until our friend made up his mind that he must either shoot his dogs, or give them away to somebody that lived farther from the mill.

One bright morning, while things were in this condition, the miller was leaning out over the half-door of the second story of the mill, when he noticed our friend's little terrier trotting down the road, with his ears and tail set up very gaily. He thought it queer that the little fellow should be so far away from home alone--so, without exactly knowing that he did so, he watched him. He came running along, first on three legs, then on four--in that funny way that little dogs do, sometimes, you know--right down to where the miller's dog was lying stretched at full length in the sun.

The miller's dog took no notice of him at first, but kept lazily blinking his eyes and now and then snapping a saucy fly off his side; but the little dog began to walk around and around him, apparently saying something, in dog-talk, which seemed to make him uncomfortable, and to gradually rouse him up and make him angry, for he stuck up his tail and bristles, and began to walk around too, growling and looking very ferocious. This seemed to be all the little terrier wanted, for he trotted off up the road, leaving the other to growl to himself. The miller then went to his work, forgetting all about the matter until some ten minutes afterwards, when chancing to look out the door, what should he see but the little terrier, followed by the _two big dogs_ of our friend, running toward the mill, and looking as though they were a good deal excited about something.

Thinking it possible that the trouble between his own and neighbor's dogs might now be explained, he went to the door and carefully watched the movements of the animals.

Our friend's two big dogs followed the little one until they came just opposite the mill, when they stopped in the road, bristled up their backs, and began to walk round and round after each other, snarling and looking dreadfully savage, while the little terrier went over to the miller's dog, who had already begun to put on his fierce looks, and entered into a growling conversation with him, which grew more and more violent, till the two parties got nearer and nearer, and finally pounced upon each other, and began a most terrific fight. As soon as this was accomplished, the little terrier coolly seated himself in the sun by the mill, to "see it out."

The secret was out at last. The little terrier had been playing the part of mischief-maker between his master's and the miller's dogs, just for the pleasure of seeing them fight. He had gone down to the miller's dog, and told him, probably, that our friend's two dogs had said that his tail was not so long as theirs, nor, consequently, his coat so fashionable, nor were his manners so elegant; neither, being only a miller's dog, was his position in society so distinguished as theirs--nor was he altogether so well-bred and gentlemanly a dog as either of themselves.

This, of course, would make any miller's dog who was so foolish as to be sensitive about such matters, very angry; but a sober-minded, cool-headed miller's dog, would first, before getting angry, have found out whether all these things were _true_; if so, he would then have ever after treated our friend's two dogs with the silent contempt they deserved. But it seems this miller's dog was not sober-minded, or cool-headed, for he at once got very angry, and turned about, and said a great many insulting things of our friend's two dogs, which the little terrier very carefully remembered, and trotted back and repeated to them, with some nice little additions of his own. Whereupon they too--without thinking whether this little trickstering Iago of a terrier was not imposing upon them, appear to have immediately declared their intention of chastising the insolence of this low-bred miller's dog; which intention we suppose the little terrier ingeniously applauded, so that they allowed him to lead them off by their noses, as it were, to the mill, where they got into a fight, and got sorely bitten by the miller's dog (who was bigger than they, and had a much _longer_ tail), besides being thoroughly drenched with cold water by the miller himself, as did also the miller's dog--just as they all deserved, for being so silly and foolish as to take everything that a little gossipping busy-body of a terrier had told them for truth.

Is there not a moral somewhere in all this?

Willie Watson.

Once on a time, I cannot just say when, but it was years on years ago, there lived near a pleasant village in England, a nice, kind-tempered, elderly woman, whom the neighbors called "dear old Dame Watson." She was not rich, this worthy dame, but she would never allow herself to be called poor, for as she had a comfortable home, and was industrious and healthy, she never felt want. She was a very neat seamstress, and so diligent and obliging that she never lacked employment.

Dame Watson was a widow and childless, but she had living with her, two orphan children of her youngest son. William Watson was long the comfort of her sad widowhood, but when he grew to be a man, he chose the hard and dangerous life of a sailor. After awhile there came a long war-time, and there was fighting on the sea as well as on the land, and at last poor William was killed in a battle between two great ships. Then he was let down into the deep sea, to where the water is always still and clear--where the drifting silver sand covered him like a grave-mound--where the long sea-weed waved over him like grass, and bright mosses and beautiful shells shone round him like flowers.

When the news of the brave sailor's death reached his home, his mother, who had seen a great deal of trouble and learned to submit to God's will, bowed her head and prayed; and soon the good Lord gave her strength, so that she wiped away her tears, and went about her daily duties; but William's young wife was ill and weak and could not bear her grief, but pined away fast and died, leaving a little daughter and a baby son to the care of their grandmother.

These children were a great charge to the good woman, you may depend--but still they comforted her, and made the cottage cheerful; so she never fretted about the trouble. Kitty Watson was a bright, intelligent, good-tempered little girl, and so rosy, fat, and funny that nobody could look at her without smiling. Kitty was handy and industrious, and for all her merry, frolicsome ways, was a great help to her grandmamma, in the cottage and garden.

Willie grew to be a fine handsome hearty child, full of play and laughter and chatter, and was the pet and darling of the whole neighborhood.

The cottage garden was very small, yet, with care and industry, Dame Watson was able to raise in it not only vegetables enough for her own use, but a few choice salads, peas, and cauliflowers, which she disposed of to the Rector of the parish, whose learned old gardener could not grow anything so fine, though he boasted that he once gardened for a real lord.

At first, Dame Watson used to carry these to the rectory in a hand-basket, but at last, she hit upon a plan for saving herself time and trouble. She had a house-dog that was the petted playfellow of little Willie, and which she treated kindly for the child's sake, though she had no love for dogs in general, and Bran's laziness and voracious appetite tried her very much. Now, she resolved to make him useful, so she had a little cart and harness made, and taught him to draw the baskets of vegetables from the cottage to the rectory, with Kitty for a driver or leader. Bran was strong, though he was not very large--he was good and intelligent, and always did the best he knew how. The widow said that though the dog grew thin and had pretty much given up frolicking, she knew he must be happier in his conscience for earning his living; but perhaps Bran had his own private opinion on this matter.

One morning, little Master Willie insisted on riding over to the rectory on top of the load of vegetables. There he sat, grand as a lord, flourishing his whip over poor Bran, who pulled and panted along and thought his lot was a very hard one indeed, almost too much for patient dog-nature to bear. And so it was, for the baskets were uncommonly heavy--Willie was fat, and Kitty too full of frolic to think of helping, even by pushing when they were going up hill. But how Willie enjoyed his ride, selfish, thoughtless little fellow! He laughed and shouted and flung his arms about, and bounced up and down, and kicked with delight.

The next morning, when they were getting ready to send the baskets over to the rectory, Bran's harness was found so gnawed and torn that it could not be used. The widow said that the rats had been at it--but Bran, naughty dog, knew better. The good dame had a new one made, but when she went to put it on to Bran he gave a dreadful howl and ran away, as fast as he could. After a day or two, he came back, bringing a huge mastiff, which he introduced to his mistress, as a better cart-horse than himself. The widow was so much amused by this cunning trick that she made use of the stray mastiff and let Bran go back into his old lazy ways.

I cannot stay to tell you any more of Willie's childhood. He was always a good boy at home, and a diligent scholar at school; so everybody liked and respected him. When he grew to be a young man the good Rector got him a situation in a London counting-house. There he always remembered his grandmamma's teachings, and was prudent, industrious, and honest; so he rose and rose, till he became a great, rich merchant, and was knighted by the king. He married a beautiful lady and they had children--some half dozen I believe, and I have heard that they were all handsome and clever and good. Kitty Watson never married, but she always had a pleasant home with her brother.

At last Sir William (for that was his title now) bought the estate on which his grandmamma's cottage stood, and built a fine house on it. He would not have the cottage torn down, but kept it carefully for the dear old dame's sake, though she had been gone to Heaven ten years or more.

The first time that Sir William and his family drove over to the rectory, in their grand yellow-bodied coach, with a big-wigged coachman on the box and two footmen in smart liveries behind, the good merchant said to his sister--"Do you remember, Kitty, my first ride over this road on the little dog-cart? Oh never, never have I enjoyed a ride half as much as that. I never shall have such another, for I never can be _little Willie_ again."

The Tale of our Kite.

One bright October afternoon, when I was about twelve years old, for some reason there was no school; so half a dozen of us went out into a great field that adjoined our play-ground, to try a new kite which we had hired one of the big boys, who was a great hand at such things, to make for us.

It was a handsome round-headed kite, with a broad jolly face very cleverly painted on it. Because of this face, we gave it the name of "Diddle Diddle Dumpling," in honor of that old rhyme, in which a youth named "John" is said to have gone to bed with "one stocking off and one stocking on."

The first time we tried to raise it, like the negro minstrel's chicken, its "tail" was "too short to fly high," and it went darting and pitching and bobbing its jolly head about in so many directions, and in such queer, drunken ways, that if we had not known Diddle to be a most proper individual, we should have supposed he had been taking something to drink, and it had "gone to his head." But, as I said above, the trouble was not with his _head_; and besides, although it is the nature of kites usually, to "get high" whenever they have a chance, we knew that Diddle had never got so.

After we had added another bob or two, and pinned (I was half afraid the _pin_ would make him dart about more than ever) a tuft of slashed paper to his tail, we tried him once more.

One boy climbed up on the fence, and held Diddle as high as he could--another held his tail, which was already squirming about, but I think it was the wind and _not_ the pin, that made it--while I held the string and was to do the running. When they cried "Ready!" I started, at the top of my speed, across the field towards the woods, which were about a quarter of a mile off.

At the first bound I made, up shot Diddle like a rocket, with his long, graceful tail streaming behind him;--up, and up, and up, till the distance seemed to rub his jolly face out. First the laughing wrinkles disappeared, then his eyes, then his fat rosy cheeks melted away; and, last of all, his fiery nose went out, and there was nothing to be seen of our kite but a little speck floating like a bird away up in the blue heaven.

By this time we had almost reached the woods, and had climbed up on a fence to rest, and watch Diddle.

We had not sat there long, before _bang_! went a gun just behind us. We had been so still, and the report was so sudden and so near, that we were nigh tumbling off the fence from the shock. We turned around just in time to see a flock of blackbirds rise out of the woods like a drift of black leaves carried up by a swoop of wind. At first they rose almost straight up into the air, and then swept away over the school-house, directly toward our kite, which they soon hid from our sight entirely.

Some minutes passed before we got sight of poor Diddle again, and very soon after we decided that it was time to get him down and go home. So I began to pull in the string, while the other boys took turns in winding it up.

Nearer and nearer he came; but just as his flaming nose began to show itself clearly, we noticed a black spot which seemed to be almost directly over it. We all wondered what this could be, for we knew it was not there when Diddle went up.

Faster and faster I pulled in the string, and nearer and nearer came the kite, when what should the spot be but a dear little _blackbird_, perched quietly on the upper rim of it! But what made him sit there? we wondered. Why didn't he fly away and join his companions, that were now just vanishing into the far distance? Nearer and nearer it came, to our very feet.--

_He was dead!_

One little crimson drop that had rolled down his glossy breast, and fallen upon Diddle's cheek, like a tear of blood, told the story. He had been shot.

Poor little bird! He had flown up with the others, and had tried to follow them; but, faint with pain and bleeding, he could not keep up, and so, as the flock was passing our kite, he had settled down upon that, hoping, may be, that the pain in his little breast would get better soon. But, alas! his gold and crimson wings were never again to beat the sunny air as he piped his blithe gossip to his dusky-winged mate: they were folded at his sides, and would be still for ever.

We did not say much to each other, and what we did say, was in a lower and softer tone than usual; for the piteous history of the little bird had touched our hearts.

At first we decided to make a little coffin and bury him. But, suddenly, I remembered that my uncle, the doctor, sometimes stuffed birds and animals; so I proposed that we should go to him, tell the story, and ask him to stuff our blackbird. Uncle was a kind-hearted man, and, after listening to the story, which he said was a very singular one, he promised to stuff the bird.

In about ten days he gave it back to us, looking almost alive. We took it, fixed its little feet on the kite, just as they had been, and persuaded our teacher to put it up on the top of his mineral cabinet; and there it stood all the rest of the time I went to that school.

May be it stands there yet.

Philip Annesley's Return.

It was a stormy November night, many years ago, in an old town in old England. Without, the wind howled and the rain poured, but within the happy and comfortable home of Doctor Annesley, all was quiet, warmth, and brightness. A cheerful circle was gathered round the hearth. There was Doctor Annesley himself, a tall, handsome man, standing in the ruddy firelight, tossing the baby in his arms, while two young children, a boy and a girl, stood before him, one affectionately clasping his knee, yet both, with their father, listening respectfully to their Grandpapa, old Sir Hugh Annesley, who was relating a story of his boyhood. By a table sat Mrs. Annesley, the Doctor's good and beautiful wife, busy with her sewing, yet not too busy to attend to the low-voiced talk of her eldest son, a noble boy of about ten years.

"It seems so strange, mamma," he said, "to think of Grandpapa ever having been a little boy like me! 'tis harder a great deal, than to think of my tall papa as small, like brother Harry, because _he_ has such long beautiful hair, and such a full, rosy face, and can laugh and play as merrily as any boy. So could Uncle Philip. But Grandpapa has thin, white hair, and such dim, deep eyes--he stoops and trembles, and looks very sad sometimes. He scarcely ever plays with us, and never laughs in the merry way he used to, when Uncle Philip told him funny stories. I wish Uncle Philip would come home! Why don't he, mamma?"

"Hush, Herbert!" said Mrs. Annesley in a low tone, "remember, I have told you to be very careful not to speak of _him_ before your Grandpapa. Your Uncle Philip was a wild, passionate, self-willed boy, and though we all loved him dearly, he has caused us much sorrow by his misconduct. He was Grandpapa's youngest, darling son, yet gave him a great deal of trouble by refusing to do as he wished to have him; and finally, almost broke his heart, by running away from college, and going to sea. Several years have passed since we heard from him, and it is sorrow and anxiety about him, more than old age, that has whitened dear Grandpapa's hair, dimmed his eyes, and bowed him toward the grave. This, my love, is the reason that you must not speak of your Uncle Philip."

Just at this moment there came a quick ring at the door, and a servant soon entered, bringing a message to the Doctor. A sailor, just off the sea, was thought to be dying of fever at the hospital, and had sent for him.

Dr. Annesley did not hesitate for an instant to leave the comfort and pleasant talk he was enjoying, to go where duty called him through the tempestuous night, and not one of his loving family thought of murmuring or remonstrating. He did not return until morning, and then he brought some one with him, wrapped in shawls and blankets--his patient--whom he lifted carefully from the carriage in his strong arms, carried gently into the house and laid on a bed, in a room which had long been unoccupied, but which Mrs. Annesley, at her husband's request, had prepared for an invalid inmate, that very morning.

About half an hour after this arrival, Dr. Annesley entered his father's chamber. He found the good old man sitting by his window, reading over the Psalms, in a low, fervent tone. He was so absorbed that he did not notice the approach of his son, till a hand was laid gently on his shoulder.

"Why bless me, Hugh," he exclaimed, "how you startled me! pray what brings you here so early?"

"Unusual business, dear father," replied the Doctor, "I have something of much moment to tell you. Do you think you can bear it?"

"I will try," answered the old man bracing himself, yet trembling visibly.

"Well, father, the young sailor whom I was called to see last night, was--"

"Oh, I know! I know! my poor, lost boy! my Philip!" cried Sir Hugh, covering his pale face with his hands. "Is he dead?"

"No, dear father, and he may possibly recover. He is very penitent and sorrowful. He says he would have written to you long ago, if he had dared--that he was on the way home when he was taken ill--coming to entreat your forgiveness, and that if you will grant it to him now, he can die content."