Chapter 24

"Miau, miau, miau," was the linked shrillness, long drawn out, of the feline reply.

"Poor old puss, then, was it ill? Puss, puss. Henry, the horrid beast is going to fly at me! Whist, whist, cat."

"Ps-s-s-s. ps-s-s-s, miau; ps-s-s-s-s-s-s-s," replied the other, in a voice like fat in the fire.

"My dear love," cried I, almost suffocated with a combination of laughter and quinsy; "you have never opened the door; where is the poor thing to run to?"

Mrs. B. had all this time been exciting the bewildered animal to frenzy by her conversation and shovel, without giving it the opportunity to escape, which, as soon as offered, it took advantage of with an expression of savage impatience partaking very closely indeed of the character of an oath.

This is, however, the sole instance of Mrs. B.'s having ever taken it in hand to subdue her own alarms. It is I who, ever since her marriage, have done the duty, and more than the duty, of an efficient house-dog, which before that epoch, I understand, was wont to be discharged by one of her younger sisters. Not seldom, in these involuntary rounds of mine, I have become myself the cause of alarm or inconvenience to others. Our little foot-page, with a courage beyond his years, and a spirit worthy of a better cause, very nearly transfixed me with the kitchen spit as I was trying, upon one occasion, the door of his own pantry. Upon another nocturnal expedition, I ran against a human body in the dark--that turned out to be my brother-in-law's, who was also in search of robbers--with a shock to both our nervous systems such as they have not yet recovered from. It fell to my lot, upon a third, to discover one of the rural police up in our attics, where, in spite of the increased powers lately granted to the county constabulary, I could scarcely think he was entitled to be. I once presented myself, an uninvited guest, at a select morning entertainment--it was at 1.30 A.M.--given by our hired London cook to nearly a dozen of her male and female friends. No wonder that Mrs. B. had "staked her existence" that night that she had heard the area gate "go." When I consider the extremely free and unconstrained manner in which I was received, poker and all, by that assembly, my only surprise is that they did not signify their arrivals by double knocks at the front door.

On one memorable night, and on one only, have I found it necessary to use that formidable weapon which habit has rendered as familiar to my hand as its flower to that of the Queen of Clubs.

The grey of morning had just begun to steal into our bedchamber, when Mrs. B. ejaculated with unusual vigour, "Henry, Henry, they're in the front drawing-room; and they've just knocked down the parrot screen."

"My love," I was about to observe, "your imaginative powers have now arrived at the pitch of _clairvoyance_," when a noise from the room beneath us, as if all the fireirons had gone off together with a bang, compelled me to acknowledge, to myself at least, that there was something in Mrs. B.'s alarms at last. I trod downstairs as noiselessly as I could, and in almost utter darkness. The drawing-room door was ajar, and through the crevice I could distinguish, despite the gloom, as many as three muffled figures. They were all of them in black clothing, and each wore over his face a mask of crape, fitting quite closely to his features. I had never been confronted by anything so dreadful before. Mrs. B. had cried "Wolf!" so often that I had almost ceased to believe in wolves of this description at all. Unused to personal combat, and embarrassed by the novel circumstance under which I found myself, I was standing undecided on the landing, when I caught that well-known whisper of "_Henry, Henry!_" from the upper story. The burglars caught it also. They desisted from their occupation of examining the articles of _vertu_ upon the chimney-piece, while their fiendish countenances relaxed into a hideous grin. One of them stole cautiously towards the door where I was standing. I hear his burglarious feet, I heard the "_Henry, Henry!_" still going on from above-stairs; I heard my own heart pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat within me. It was one of those moments in which one lives a life. The head of the craped marauder was projected cautiously round the door, as if to listen. I poised my weapon, and brought it down with unerring aim upon his skull. He fell like a bullock beneath the axe, and I sped up to my bedchamber with all the noiselessness and celerity of a bird. It was I who locked the door this time, and piled the washhand-stand, two band-boxes, and a chair against it with the speed of lightning.

Was Mrs. B. out of her mind with terror that at such an hour as that she should indulge in a paroxysm of mirth?

"Good heavens!" I cried, "be calm, my love; there are burglars in the house at last."

"My dear Henry," she answered, laughing so that the tears quite stood in her eyes, "I am very sorry; I tried to call you back. But when I sent you downstairs, I quite forgot that this was the morning upon which I had ordered the sweeps!"

One of those gentlemen was at that moment lying underneath with his skull fractured, and it cost me fifteen pounds to get it mended, besides the expense of a new drawing-room carpet.

--_From "Humorous Stories" by James Payn. By permission of Messrs. Chatto & Windus_.

SHELTERED.

BY SARAH ORME JEWETT.

It was a cloudy, dismal day, and I was all alone, For early in the morning John Earl and Nathan Stone Came riding up the lane to say--I saw they both looked pale-- That Anderson the murderer had broken out of jail.

They only stopped a minute, to tell my man that he Must go to the four corners, where all the folks would be; They were going to hunt the country, for he only had been gone An hour or so when they missed him, that morning just at dawn.

John never finished his breakfast; he saddled the old white mare. She seemed to know there was trouble, and galloped as free and fair And even a gait as she ever struck when she was a five-year-old: The knowingest beast we ever had, and worth her weight in gold.

He turned in the saddle and called to me--I watched him from the door-- "I shan't be home to dinner," says he, "but I'll be back by four. I'd fasten the doors if I was you, and keep at home to-day;" And a little chill came over me as I watched him ride away.

I went in and washed the dishes--I was sort of scary too. We had 'ranged to go away that day. I hadn't much to do, Though I always had some sewing work, and I got it and sat down; But the old clock tick-tacked loud at me, and I put away the gown.

I thought the story over: how Anderson had been A clever, steady fellow, so far's they knew, till then. Some said his wife had tried him, but he got to drinking hard, Till last he struck her with an axe and killed her in the yard.

The only thing I heard he said was, he was most to blame; But he fought the men that took him like a tiger. 'Twas a shame He'd got away; he ought to swing: a man that killed his wife And broke her skull in with an axe--he ought to lose his life!

Our house stood in a lonesome place, the woods were all around, But I could see for quite a ways across the open ground; I couldn't help, for the life o' me, a-looking now and then All along the edge o' the growth, and listening for the men.

I thought they would find Anderson: he couldn't run till night, For the farms were near together, and there must be a sight Of men out hunting for him; but when the clock struck three, A neighbour's boy came up with word that John had sent to me.

He would be home by five o'clock. They'd scour the woods till dark; Some of the men would be off all night, but he and Andrew Clark Would keep watch round his house and ours--I should not stay alone. Poor John, he did the best he could, but what if he had known!

The boy could hardly stop to tell that the se-lec'men had said They would pay fifty dollars for the man alive or dead, And I felt another shiver go over me for fear That John might get that money, though we were pinched that year.

I felt a little easier then, and went to work again: The sky was getting cloudier, 'twas coming on to rain. Before I knew, the clock struck six, and John had not come back; The rain began to spatter down, and all the sky was black.

I thought and thought, what shall I do if I'm alone all night? I wa'n't so brave as I am now. I lit another light, And I stirred round and got supper, but I ate it all alone. The wind was blowing more and more--I hate to hear it moan.

I was cutting rags to braid a rug--I sat there by the fire; I wished I'd kep' the dog at home; the gale was rising higher; O own I had hard thoughts o' John; I said he had no right To leave his wife in that lonesome place alone that dreadful night.

And then I thought of the murderer, afraid of God and man; I seemed to follow him all the time, whether he hid or ran; I saw him crawl on his hands and knees through the icy mud in the rain, And I wondered if he didn't wish he was back in his home again.

I fell asleep for an hour or two, and then I woke with a start; A feeling come across me that took and stopped my heart; I was 'fraid to look behind me; then I felt my heart begin; And I saw right at the window-pane two eyes a-looking in.

I couldn't look away from them--the face was white as clay. Those eyes, they make me shudder when I think of them to-day. I knew right off 'twas Anderson. I couldn't move nor speak; I thought I'd slip down on the floor, I felt so light and weak.

"O Lord," I thought, "what shall I do?" Some words begun to come, Like some one whispered to me: I set there, still and dumb: "I was a stranger--took me in--in prison--visited me;" And I says, "O Lord, I couldn't; it's a murderer, you see!"

And those eyes they watched me all the time, in dreadful still despair-- Most like the room looked warm and safe; he watched me setting there; And what 'twas made me do it, I don't know to this day, But I opened the door and let him in--a murderer at bay.

He laid him right down on the floor, close up beside the fire. I never saw such a wretched sight: he was covered thick with mire; His clothes were torn to his very skin, and his hands were bleeding fast. I gave him something to tie 'em up, and all my fears were past.

I filled the fire place up with wood to get the creature warm, And I fetched him a bowl o' milk to drink--I couldn't do him harm; And pretty soon he says, real low, "Do you know who I be?" And I says, "You lay there by the fire; I know you won't hurt me."

I had been fierce as any one before I saw him there, But I pitied him--a ruined man whose life had started fair. I somehow or 'nother never felt that I was doing wrong, And I watched him laying there asleep almost the whole night long.

I thought once that I heard the men, and I was half afraid That they might come and find him there; and so I went and staid Close to the window, watching, and listening for a cry; And he slept there like a little child--forgot his misery.

I almost hoped John wouldn't come till he could get away; And I went to the door and harked awhile, and saw the dawn of day. 'Twas bad for him to have slept so long, but I couldn't make him go From the City of Refuge he had found; and he was glad, I know.

It was years and years ago, but still I never can forget How grey it looked that morning; the air was cold and wet; Only the wind would howl sometimes, or else the trees would creak-- All night I'd 'a given anything to hear somebody speak.

He heard me shut the door again, and started up so wild And haggard that I 'most broke down. I wasn't reconciled To have the poor thing run all day, chased like a wolf or bear; But I knew he'd brought it on himself; his punishment was fair.

I gave him something more to eat; he couldn't touch it then, "God pity you, poor soul!" says I. May I not see again A face like his, as he stood in the door and looked which way to go! I watched him making towards the swamps, dead-lame and moving slow.

He had hardly spoken a word to me, but as he went away He thanked me, and gave me such a look! 'twill last to my dying day. "May God have mercy on me, as you have had!" says he, And I choked, and couldn't say a word, and he limped away from me.

John came home bright and early. He'd fell and hurt his head, And he stopped up to his father's; but he'd sent word, he said, And told the boy to fetch me there--my cousin, Johnny Black-- But he went off with some other folks, who thought they'd found the track.

Oh yes, they did catch Anderson, early that afternoon And carried him back to jail again, and tried and hung him soon. Justice is justice! but I say, although they served him right, I'm glad I harboured the murderer that stormy April night.

Some said I might have locked him up, and got the town reward; But I couldn't have done it if I'd starved, and I do hope the Lord Forgave it, if it was a sin; but I could never see 'Twas wrong to shelter a hunted man, trusting his life to me.

_From "Harper's Magazine." By special permission of Harper & Brothers_.

GUILD'S SIGNAL.

BY BRET HARTE.

[William Guild was engineer of the train which plunged into Meadow Brook, on the line of the Stonington and Providence Railroad. It was his custom, as often as he passed his home, to whistle an "All's well" to his wife. He was found, after the disaster, dead, with his hand on the throttle-valve of his engine.]

Two low whistles, quaint and clear, That was the signal the engineer-- That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said-- Gave to his wife at Providence, As through the sleeping town, and thence, Out in the night, On to the light, Down past the farms, lying white, he sped!

As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt, Yet to the woman looking out, Watching and waiting, no serenade, Love song, or midnight roundelay Said what that whistle seemed to say: "To my trust true, So love to you! Working or wailing, good night!" it said.

Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine, Old commuters along the line, Brakemen and porters glanced ahead, Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense, Pierced through the shadows of Providence: "Nothing amiss-- Nothing!--it is Only Guild calling his wife," they said.

Summer and winter the old refrain Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain, Pierced through the budding boughs o'erhead: Flew down the track when the red leaves burned Like living coals from the engine spurned; Sang as it flew: "To our trust true, First of all, duty. Good night!" it said.

And then one night it was heard no more From Stonington over Rhode Island shore, And the folk in Providence smiled and said, As they turned in their beds, "The engineer Has once forgotten his midnight cheer." _One_ only knew, To his trust true, Guild lay under his engine dead.

BILL MASON'S BRIDE.

BY BRET HARTE.

Half an hour till train time, sir, An' a fearful dark time, too; Take a look at the switch lights, Tom, Fetch in a stick when you're through. _On time?_ Well, yes, I guess so-- Left the last station all right; She'll come round the curve a-flyin'; Bill Mason comes up to-night.

You know Bill? _No?_ He's engineer, Been on the road all his life-- I'll never forget the mornin' He married his chuck of a wife. 'Twas the summer the mill hands struck, Just off work, every one; They kicked up a row in the village And killed old Donevan's son.

Bill hadn't been married mor'n an hour, Up comes a message from Kress, Orderin' Bill to go up there And bring down the night express. He left his gal in a hurry, And went up on Number One, Thinking of nothing but Mary, And the train he had to run.

And Mary sat down by the window To wait for the night express; And, sir, if she hadn't 'a done so, She'd been a widow, I guess.

For it must 'a been nigh midnight When the mill hands left the Ridge; They came down--the drunken devils, Tore up a rail from the bridge, But Mary heard 'em a-workin' And guessed there was something wrong-- And in less than fifteen minutes, Bill's train it would be along!

She couldn't come here to tell us, A mile--it wouldn't 'a done; So she jest grabbed up a lantern, And made for the bridge alone. Then down came the night express, sir, And Bill was makin' her climb! But Mary held the lantern, A-swingin' it all the time.

Well, by Jove! Bill saw the signal, And he stopped the night express, And he found his Mary cryin' On the track in her weddin' dress; Cryin' an' laughin' for joy, sir, An' holdin' on to the light-- Hello! here's the train--good-bye, sir, Bill Mason's on time to-night.

THE CLOWN'S BABY.

FROM "ST. NICHOLAS."

It was out on the Western frontier, The miners, rugged and brown, Were gathered around the posters-- The circus had come to town! The great tent shone in the darkness, Like a wonderful palace of light, And rough men crowded the entrance; Shows didn't come every night.

Not a woman's face among them, Many a face that was bad, And some that were very vacant, And some that were very sad. And behind a canvas curtain, In a corner of the place, The clown with chalk and vermilion Was making up his face.

A weary-looking woman, With a smile that still was sweet, Sewed, on a little garment, With a cradle at her feet. Pantaloon stood ready and waiting, It was time for the going on; But the clown in vain searched wildly-- The "property baby" was gone.

He murmured, impatiently hunting, "It's strange that I cannot find; There! I've looked in every corner; It must have been left behind!" The miners were stamping and shouting, They were not patient men; The clown bent over the cradle-- "I must take _you_, little Ben."

The mother started and shivered, But trouble and want were near; She lifted her baby gently; "You'll be very careful, dear?" "Careful? You foolish darling"-- How tenderly it was said! What a smile shone thro' the chalk and paint-- "I love each hair of his head!"

The noise rose into an uproar, Misrule for a time was king; The clown with a foolish chuckle, Bolted into the ring. But as, with a squeak and flourish, The fiddles closed their tune, "You hold him as if he was made of glass!" Said the clown to the pantaloon.

The jovial fellow nodded; "I've a couple myself," he said, "I know how to handle 'em, bless you; Old fellow, go ahead!" The fun grew fast and furious, And not one of all the crowd Had guessed that the baby was alive, When he suddenly laughed aloud.

Oh, that baby laugh! it was echoed From the benches with a ring, And the roughest customer there sprang up With "Boys, it's the real thing!" The ring was jammed in a minute, Not a man that did not strive For "a shot at holding the baby"-- The baby that was "alive!"

He was thronged by kneeling suitors In the midst of the dusty ring, And he held his court right royally, The fair little baby king; Till one of the shouting courtiers, A man with a bold, hard face, The talk for miles of the country And the terror of the place,

Raised the little king to his shoulder, And chuckled, "Look at that!" As the chubby fingers clutched his hair, Then, "Boys, hand round the hat!" There never was such a hatful Of silver, and gold, and notes; People are not always penniless Because they won't wear coats!

And then "Three cheers for the baby!" I tell you those cheers were meant, And the way in which they were given Was enough to raise the tent. And then there was sudden silence, And a gruff old miner said, "Come, boys, enough of this rumpus; It's time it was put to bed."

So, looking a little sheepish, But with faces strangely bright, The audience, somewhat lingering, Flocked out into the night. And the bold-faced leader chuckled, "He wasn't a bit afraid! He's as game as he is good-looking; Boys, that was a show that paid!"

AUNT TABITHA.

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Whatever I do and whatever I say, Aunt Tabitha tells me that isn't the way; When _she_ was a girl (forty summers ago), Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.

Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice-- But I like my own way, and I find it _so_ nice! And besides, I forget half the things I am told, But they all will come back to me--when I am old.

If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt, He may chance to look in as I chance to look out; _She_ would never endure an impertinent stare, It is _horrid_, she says, and I mustn't sit there.

A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own, But it isn't quite safe to be walking alone; So I take a lad's arm,--just for safety, you know,-- But Aunt Tabitha tells me, _they_ didn't do so.

How wicked we are, and how good they were then! They kept at arm's length those detestable men; What an era of virtue she lived in!--but stay-- Were the men all such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day?

If the men _were_ so wicked--I'll ask my papa How he dared to propose to my darling mamma? Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! who knows? And what shall _I_ say if a wretch should propose?

I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin, What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's _aunt_ must have been! And her _grand-aunt_--it scares me--how shockingly sad That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad!

A martyr will save us, and nothing else can; Let _me_ perish to rescue some wretched young man Though when to the altar a victim I go, Aunt Tabitha'll tell me _she_ never did so!

LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE.

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.