Chapter IV: Introduction (2)

For two or three days this course of life went on very pleasantly. He ate, and ate, and played the bugbear to perfection. At length, he grew tired of this lonely condition, and longed to mix with his companions again upon the former footing. But the difficulty was, how to get rid of his bell. He pulled and tugged with his fore-feet, and almost wore the skin off his neck in the attempt, but all in vain. The bell was now his plague and torment. He wandered from room to room earnestly desiring to make himself known to one of his companions, but they all kept out of his reach. At last, as he was moping about disconsolate he fell in puss’s way, and was devoured in an instant.

He who is raised so much above his fellow-creatures as to be the object of their terror, must suffer for it in losing all the comforts of society. He is a solitary being in the midst of crowds. He keeps them at a distance, and they equally shun him. Dread and affection cannot subsist together.

THE DOG BALKED OF HIS DINNER.—A TALE.

_Think yourself sure of nothing till you’ve got it_:
This is the lesson of the day.
In metaphoric language I might say,
Count not your bird before you’ve shot it.
Quoth Proverb, “’Twixt the cup and lip
There’s many a slip.”
Not every guest invited sits at table,
So says _my_ fable.

A man once gave a dinner to his friend;
His friend!—his patron I should rather think
By all the loads of meat and drink,
And fruits and gellies without end,
Sent home the morning of the feast.
_Jowler_, his dog, a social beast,
Soon as he smelt the matter out, away
Scampers to old acquaintance _Tray_,
And, with expressions kind and hearty,
Invites him to the party.
Tray wanted little pressing to a dinner;
He was, in truth, a gormandizing sinner.
He lick’d his chops, and wagg’d his tail,
“Dear friend!” he cried, “I will not fail
But what’s your hour?”
“We dine at four;
But if you come an hour too soon,
You’ll find there’s something to be done.”

His friend withdrawn, Tray, full of glee,
As blithe as blithe could be,
Skipp’d, danced, and play’d full many an antic
Like one half frantic,
Then sober in the sun lay winking,
But could not sleep for thinking.
He thought o’er every dainty dish,
Fried, boil’d and roast,
Flesh, fowl, and fish,
With tripes and toast,
Fit for a dog to eat;
And in his fancy made a treat,
Might grace a bill of fare
For my lord-mayor.
At length, just on the stroke of three,
Forth sallied he;
And through a well-known hole
He slyly stole
Pop on the scene of action.
Here he beheld, with wondrous satisfaction
All hands employ’d in drawing, stuffing,
Skewering, spitting, and basting;
The red-faced cook sweating and puffing,
Chopping, mixing, and tasting.
Tray skulk’d about, now here, now there
Peep’d into this, and smelt at that,
And lick’d the gravy, and the fat,
And cried, “O rare! how I shall fare!”

But Fortune, spiteful as Old Nick,
Resolved to play our dog a trick;
She made the cook
Just cast a look
Where Tray, beneath the dresser lying,
His promised bliss was eying.
A cook while cooking is a sort of fury,
A maxim worth remem’bring, I assure ye.
Tray found it true,
And so may you,
If e’er you choose to try.
“How now!” quoth she, “what’s this I spy?
A nasty cur! who let him in?
Would he were hang’d with all his kin!
A pretty kitchen-guest, indeed!
But I shall pack him off with speed.”

So saying, on poor Tray she flew,
And dragg’d the culprit forth to view;
Then, to his terror and amazement,
Whirl’d him like lightning through the casement.

EVENING III.
]

THE KID.

One bleak day in March, _Sylvia_, returning from a visit to the sheepfold, met with a young kidling deserted by its dam on the naked heath. It was bleating piteously, and was so benumbed with the cold that it could scarcely stand. Sylvia took it up in her arms, and pressed it close to her bosom. She hastened home, and showing her little foundling to her parents, begged she might rear it for her own. They consented; and Sylvia immediately got a basketful of clean straw, and made a bed for him on the hearth. She warmed some milk, and held it to him in a platter The poor creature drank it up eagerly, and then licked her hand for more. _Sylvia_ was delighted. She chafed his tender legs with her warm hands, and soon saw him jump out of his basket and frisk across the room. When full, he lay down again, and took a comfortable nap.

The next day, the kid had a name bestowed upon him. As he gave tokens of being an excellent jumper, it was _Capriole_. He was introduced to all the rest of the family, and the younger children were allowed to stroke and pat him; but Sylvia would let nobody be intimate with him out herself. The great mastiff was charged not to hurt him, and indeed, he had no intention to do it.

Within a few days, Capriole followed Sylvia all about the house; trotted by her side into the yard; ran races with her in the home-field; fed out of her hand; and was declared pet and favourite. As the spring advanced, Sylvia roamed in the fields, and gathered wild flowers, with which she wove garlands, and hung them round the kid’s neck. He could not be kept, however, from munching his finery when he could reach it with his mouth. He was likewise rather troublesome in thrusting his nose into the meal-tub and flour-box, and following people into the dairy, and sipping the milk that was set for cream. He now and then got a blow for his intrusion; but his mistress always took his part, and indulged him in every liberty.

Capriole’s horns now began to bud, and a little white beard sprouted at the end of his chin. He grew bold enough to put himself into a fighting posture whenever he was offended. He butted down little Colin into the dirt; quarrelled with the geese for their allowance of corn; and held many a stout battle with the old turkey-cock. Everybody said, “Capriole is growing too saucy; he must be sent away, or taught better manners.” But Sylvia still stood his friend, and he repaid her love with many tender caresses.

The farmhouse where Sylvia lived was situated in a sweet valley, by the side of a clear stream bordered with trees. Above the house rose a sloping meadow, and beyond that, was an open common covered with purple heath and yellow furze. Farther on, at some distance, rose a steep hill, the summit of which was a bare craggy rock, scarcely accessible to human feet. Capriole, ranging at his pleasure, often got upon the common, and was pleased with browsing the short grass and wild herbs which grew there. Still, however, when his mistress came to see him, he would run bounding at her call and accompany her back to the farm.

One fine summer’s day, Sylvia, after having finished the business of the morning, wanted to play with her kid; and missing him, she went to the side of the common, and called aloud, “Capriole! Capriole!” expecting to see him come running to her as usual. No Capriole came. She went on and on, still calling her kid with the most endearing accents; but nothing was to be seen of him. Her heart began to flutter. “What can be come of him? Surely somebody must have stolen him; or perhaps the neighbours’ dogs have worried him. Oh, my poor Capriole! my dear Capriole! I shall never see you again!” and Sylvia began to weep.

She still went on, looking wistfully all around, and making the place echo with “Capriole! Capriole! where are you, my Capriole?” till, at length, she came to the foot of the steep hill. She climbed up its sides to get a better view. No kid was to be seen. She sat down and wept and wrung her hands. After a while she fancied she heard a bleating like the well-known voice of her Capriole. She started up, and looked toward the sound, which seemed a great way overhead. At length, she spied, just on the edge of a steep crag, her Capriole peeping over. She stretched out her hands to him, and began to call, but with a timid voice, lest in his impatience to return to her, he should leap down and break his neck. But there was no such danger. Capriole was inhaling the fresh breeze of the mountains, and enjoying with rapture the scenes for which nature designed him. His bleating was the expression of joy, and he bestowed not a thought on his kind mistress, nor paid the least attention to her call. Sylvia ascended as high as she could toward him, and called louder and louder, but all in vain. Capriole leaped from rock to rock, cropped the fine herbage in the clefts, and was quite lost in the pleasure of his new existence.

Poor Sylvia stayed till she was tired, and then returned disconsolate to the farm, to relate her misfortune. She got her brothers to accompany her back to the hill, and took with her a slice of white bread and some milk to tempt the little wanderer home. But he had mounted still higher, and had joined a herd of companions of the same species, with whom he was frisking and sporting. He had neither eyes nor ears for his old friends of the valley. All former habits were broken at once, and he had commenced free commoner of nature. Sylvia came back crying, as much from vexation as sorrow. “The little ungrateful thing,” said she; “so well as I loved him, and so kindly as I treated him, to desert me in this way at last!—But he was always a rover.”

“Take care, then, Sylvia,” said her mother, “how you set your heart upon _rovers_ again!”

HOW TO MAKE THE BEST OF IT.

Robinet, a peasant of Lorraine, after a hard day’s work at the next market-town, was running home with a basket in his hand. “What a delicious supper shall I have!” said he to himself. “This piece of kid well stewed down, with my onions sliced, thickened with my meal, and seasoned with my salt and pepper, will make a dish for the bishop of the diocese. Then I have a good piece of barley-loaf at home to finish with. How I long to be at it!”

A noise in the hedge now attracted his notice, and he spied a squirrel nimbly running up a tree, and popping into a hole between the branches. “Ha!” thought he, “what a nice present a nest of young squirrels will be to my little master! I’ll try if I can get it.” Upon this, he set down his basket in the road, and began to climb the tree. He had half ascended, when casting a look at his basket, he saw a dog with his nose in it, ferreting out the piece of kid’s flesh. He made all possible speed down, but the dog was too quick for him, and ran off with the meat in his mouth. Robinet looked after him. “Well,” said he, “then I must be contented with soupe maigre—and no bad thing neither.”

He travelled on, and came to a little public-house by the roadside, where an acquaintance of his was sitting on a bench drinking. He invited Robinet to take a draught. Robinet seated himself by his friend, and set his basket on the bench close by him. A tame raven, which was kept at the house, came slyly behind him, and perching on the basket, stole away the bag in which the meal was tied up, and hopped off with it to his hole. Robinet did not perceive the theft till he had got on his way again. He returned to search for his bag, but could hear no tidings of it. “Well,” says he, “my soup will be the thinner; but I will boil a slice of bread with it, and that will do it some good at least.”

He went on again, and arrived at a little brook, over which was laid a narrow plank. A young woman coming up to pass at the same time, Robinet gallantly offered his hand. As soon as she was got to the middle, either through fear or sport, she shrieked out, and cried she was falling. Robinet hastening to support her with his other hand, let his basket drop into the stream. As soon as she was safe over, he jumped in and recovered it; but when he took it out he perceived that all the salt was melted, and the pepper washed away. Nothing was now left but the onions. “Well!” says Robinet, “then I must sup to-night upon roasted onions and barley-bread. Last night I had the bread alone. To-morrow morning it will not signify what I had.” So saying, he trudged on singing as before.

ORDER AND DISORDER.—A FAIRY TALE.

Juliet was a clever, well-disposed girl, but apt to be heedless. She could learn her lessons very well, but commonly as much time was taken up in getting her things together as in doing what she was set about. If she was at work, there was generally the housewife to seek in one place, and the thread-papers in another. The scissors were left in her pocket upstairs, and the thimble was rolling about the floor. In writing, the copybook was generally missing, the ink dried up, and the pens, new and old, all tumbled about the cupboard. The slate and slate-pencil were never found together. In making her exercises, the English dictionary always came to hand instead of the French grammar; and when she was to read a chapter, she usually got hold of Robinson Crusoe, or the World Displayed, instead of the Testament.

Juliet’s mamma was almost tired of teaching her, so she sent her to make a visit to an old lady in the country, a very good woman, but rather strict with young folks. Here she was shut up in a room above stairs by herself after breakfast every day, till she had quite finished the tasks set her. This house was one of the very few that are still haunted by fairies. One of these, whose name was _Disorder_, took a pleasure in plaguing poor Juliet. She was a frightful figure to look at, being crooked and squint-eyed, with her hair hanging about her face, and her dress put on all awry, and full of rents and tatters. She prevailed on the old lady to let her set Juliet her tasks; so one morning she came up with a workbag full of threads of silk of all sorts of colours, mixed and entangled together, and a flower very nicely worked to copy. It was a pansy, and the gradual melting of its hues into one another was imitated with great accuracy and beauty. “Here, miss,” said she, “my mistress has sent you a piece of work to do, and she insists upon having it done before you come down to dinner. You will find all the materials in this bag.”

Juliet took the flower and the bag, and turned out all the silks upon the table. She slowly pulled out a red and a purple, and a blue and a yellow, and at length fixed upon one to begin working with. After taking two or three stitches, and looking at her model, she found another shade was wanted. This was to be hunted out from the bunch, and a long while it took her to find it. It was soon necessary to change it for another. Juliet saw that, in going on at this rate, it would take days instead of hours to work the flower, so she laid down the needle and fell a crying. After this had continued some time, she was startled at the sound of something stamping on the floor; and taking her handkerchief from her eyes, she spied a diminutive female figure advancing toward her. She was upright as an arrow, and had not so much as a hair out of its place, or the least article of her dress rumpled or discomposed. When she came up to Juliet, “My dear,” said she, “I heard you crying, and knowing you to be a good girl in the main, I am come to your assistance. My name is _Order_: your mamma is well acquainted with me, though this is the first time you ever saw me; but I hope we shall know one another better for the future.” She then jumped upon the table, and with a wand gave a tap upon the heap of entangled silk.—Immediately the threads separated, and arranged themselves in a long row consisting of little skeins, in which all of the same colour were collected together, those approaching nearest in shade being placed next each other. This done, she disappeared. Juliet, as soon as her surprise was over, resumed her work, and found it go on with ease and pleasure. She finished the flower by dinner-time, and obtained great praise for the neatness of the execution.

The next day the ill-natured fairy came up, with a great book under her arm. “This,” said she, “is my mistress’s house-book, and she says you must draw out against dinner an exact account of what it has cost her last year in all the articles of housekeeping, including clothes, rent, taxes, wages, and the like. You must state separately the amount of every article, under the heads of baker, butcher, milliner, shoemaker, and so forth, taking special care not to miss a single thing entered down in the book. Here is a quire of paper and a parcel of pens.” So saying, with a malicious grin, she left her.

Julia turned pale at the very thought of the task she had to perform. She opened the great book, and saw all the pages closely written, but in the most confused manner possible. Here was, “Paid Mr. Crusty for a week’s bread and baking” so much. Then, “Paid Mr. Pinchtoe for shoes,” so much. “Paid half a year’s rent,” so much. Then came a butcher’s bill, succeeded by a milliner’s, and that by a tallow-chandler’s. “What shall I do?” cried poor Juliet—“where am I to begin, and how can I possibly pick out all these things? Was ever such a tedious, perplexing task? O that my good little creature were here again with her wand!”

She had but just uttered these words when the fairy Order stood before her. “Don’t be startled, my dear,” said she; “I knew your wish, and made haste to comply with it. Let me see your book.” She turned over a few leaves, and then cried, “I see my crossgrained sister has played you a trick. She has brought you the _daybook_ instead of the _leger_; but I will set the matter to rights instantly.” She vanished, and presently returned with another book, in which she showed Juliet every one of the articles required, standing at the tops of the pages, and all the particulars entered under them from the daybook; so that there was nothing for her to do but cast up the sums, and copy out the heads with their amount in single lines. As Juliet was a ready accountant, she was not long in finishing the business, and produced her account neatly written on one sheet of paper, at dinner.

The next day, Juliet’s tormentor brought her up a large box full of letters stamped upon small bits of ivory, capitals and common letters of all sorts, but jumbled together promiscuously, as if they had been shaken in a bag. “Now, miss,” said she, “before you come down to dinner, you must exactly copy out this poem in these ivory letters, placing them line by line on the floor of your room.”

Juliet thought at first that this task would be pretty sport enough; but when she set about it, she found such trouble in hunting out the letters she wanted, every one seeming to come to hand before the right one, that she proceeded very slowly; and the poem being a long one, it was plain that night would come before it was finished. Sitting down and crying for her kind friend was, therefore, her only resource.

Order was not far distant, for, indeed, she had been watching her proceedings all the while. She made herself visible, and giving a tap on the letters with her wand, they immediately arranged themselves alphabetically in little double heaps, the small in one, and the great in the other. After this operation, Juliet’s task went on with such expedition, that she called up the old lady an hour before dinner, to be witness to its completion.

The good lady kissed her, and told her, that as she hoped she was now made fully sensible of the benefits of order, and the inconveniences of disorder, she would not confine her any longer to work by herself at set tasks, but she should come and sit with her. Juliet took such pains to please her, by doing everything with the greatest neatness and regularity, and reforming all her careless habits, that when she was sent back to her mother, the following presents were made her, constantly to remind her of the beauty and advantage of order:—

A cabinet of English coins, in which all the gold and silver money of the kings was arranged in the order of their reigns.

A set of plaster casts of the Roman emperors.

A cabinet of beautiful shells, displayed according to the most approved system.

A very complete box of water-colours, and another of crayons, sorted in all the shades of the primary colours.

And a very nice housewife, with all the implements belonging to a seamstress, and a good store of the best needles in sizes.

LIVE DOLLS.

Mrs. Lacour was accustomed to lay out for her daughter, a girl about eight years old, a great deal of money in playthings. One morning Eliza (that was her name) was in raptures over a new wax-doll, which her mamma had given two guineas for in Fleet street. By means of a concealed wire, it had been made to open and shut its eyes, to the no small surprise of the little girl, not unmixed with a certain degree of terror, when her mother first exhibited the phenomenon; but having had the principle explained to her, she had spent the greatest part of the morning in moving the wires up and down, and making them alternately open and shut the eyelids. It is true the mechanism had one defect, which we record, in hopes that the ingenuity of future doll-makers may find a remedy for it. The doll shut her eyes after the manner of a bird, by drawing up the membrane over the eye, instead of letting the eyelid fall over it, as is the custom in human creatures; but as Eliza had not studied comparative anatomy, this slight irregularity was not noticed. She was still in raptures over her new acquisition, when she was surprised by a visit from Mrs. Dorcas, a maiden sister of her father, who sometimes called upon her. “Look here, my dear aunt,” said she, “what a charming doll I have got; see, now its eyes are shut, now they are open again—how curious! I dare say you cannot guess how I do it. I can hardly help fancying it alive. To-morrow I shall begin to dress it, for it must have a fine worked cap, with a laced border, and a long muslin robe and shoes. I do not know whether it should have shoes yet, for it is only a baby; and I shall lay it in the cradle, and rock it; and when I want it to go to sleep, its eyes shall be shut, and in the morning they shall be open again, just as if it were really alive: I wish it could eat and drink—why could they not make its mouth to open?”

_Mrs. D._ Your doll is very pretty, indeed, and I commend you for intending to make its clothes yourself, but would not you like better to have a real live doll to dress?

_Eliza._ O yes! that I should, indeed; but I believe—I am afraid there is no such doll.

_Mrs. D._ I will find you such a one if you will dress it.

_Eliza._ And will it open its mouth and eat?

_Mrs. D._ Yes, it will.

_Eliza._ And can it speak, too?

_Mrs. D._ I do not say it can speak yet; it has not been taught; but you shall hear its voice, and you shall see it breathe; your doll does not breathe. [Eliza took her doll and placed her hand upon its waxen bosom, as if she expected to feel it heave.] And the clothes you will make will warm it too. A wax-doll is not warmed by its clothes. Your doll is as cold when she is wrapped up in a quilt and placed in the cradle as if she were laid naked upon a marble slab.

_Eliza._ Is she?

_Mrs. D._ Yes; you may convince yourself of that whenever you please; but this live doll will not only be warmed by the clothes you make, but perhaps she may die if you do not make them.

_Eliza._ O! do not let her die—I will set about making the clothes directly.

_Mrs. D._ Then come along with me.

Eliza sallied forth with her aunt Dorcas: she was all the way silent, and breathless with expectation. After leading her through a few streets, her aunt stopped at a house, and asked to be shown into the workroom. It was a room where a number of young girls were sitting at a long table, with cheerful and busy looks. The table was covered with workbags, needlecases, thread-papers, and such like sewing implements, and spread with flannel, calico, dimity, and old linen; one of the girls was making a cap, another a petticoat, a third a frock—the elder ones were cutting out the cloth—some of the little ones were stretching out their hands to hold a skein of thread for the others to wind; not one was unemployed. “What are they all doing?” said Eliza.

_Mrs. D._ They are all working for live dolls.

_Eliza._ But where are the dolls?

_Mrs. D._ You cannot see them yet; they would suffer if the clothes were not prepared for them before they came.

_Eliza._ But here are no laces nor worked muslins; here is nothing very pretty.

_Mrs. D._ No, because pretty things seldom have the property of keeping the wearers warm.

_Eliza._ But who are they working for?

At that instant, a woman, with a child upon her bosom, pale, but with a countenance shining with joy and gratitude, entered the workroom, pouring out her thanks to the good young ladies, as she truly called them, for their well-timed bounty. “But for you,” she said, “this dear little infant might perhaps have perished, or at least its little limbs would have been chilled with cold for want of good and substantial clothing. My husband was ill, and could not work, and I had no money to buy anything but necessary food. If I could have bought the materials, or if you had given them me, I could not have cut them out and contrived them, and made them up myself: for I was never taught to be handy at my needle as you have been, ladies. I was only set to coarse work. Look what a sweet little infant it is, and how comfortable he looks. God bless you, dear ladies! and make you all happy wives and mothers, when the time comes!” The girls, with great pleasure, rose when she had finished her address to them; and after congratulating the mother, took the infant, and handing it from one to another, kissed and played with it. Eliza, too, advanced, but timidly, and as if she had not yet earned a right to caress it. “Approach, my niece,” said Mrs. Dorcas, “kiss the lips of this infant, and imbibe that affection which is one of the characteristics of your sex. Women are made to love children, and they should begin to love them while they themselves are children; nor is there any surer way of learning to love a being, than by doing good to it. You see now why I brought you hither. This is the live doll I promised you; its limbs are not the work of a clumsy mechanic, they are fashioned by consummate wisdom and skill, and it will not always remain as it is: this little frame has a principle of improvement in it—it has powers that will unfold themselves by degrees—the limbs will stretch and grow; after a while it will walk, it will speak, it will play, it will be like one of you. How precious then is the life of such a creature! But it has pleased the Creator of all things that this excellent being should come into the world naked and helpless; it has neither hair, nor wool, nor fur, nor feathers to keep it warm; if not clothed and cherished, it would soon be killed with the cold. It is, therefore, very desirable to help those poor people who cannot afford to clothe their infants, lest so admirable a work of God as a human creature should perish for want of care. There is a great deal of pain and danger in bearing children in any situation of life; but when people are poor as well as sick, the distress is very much increased. These good young ladies, Eliza, have formed a society among themselves for making baby-linen for the poor. Nobody bid them do it; it was entirely of their own accord. They have agreed to subscribe a penny a week out of their little pocket-money. A penny is a very small matter; girls who have a great deal of money perhaps would not suppose it worth thinking about, but a great many pennies every week will in time come to a sum that is not so contemptible. With this they buy the materials, such as warm flannels, coarse printed cottons, and dimity. Their mammas give them, every now and then, some fine old linen and cast-off clothes; but the value of their work is a great deal more than that of the materials: if they did not cut and contrive, and make them up, they would be of little service comparatively to the poor people; besides, the doing so will make them clever managers when they come to have children of their own. None of these good girls are above fourteen; and they have clothed a number of little helpless infants, and made, as you have seen, the mothers’ hearts very glad. Now, if you wish it, I dare say they will let you work with them; but here is no finery, and if you like better to work for your wax-doll, do so.”—“O, no!” said Eliza, “the live doll for me;” and she bespoke a place at the long worktable.

THE HOG AND OTHER ANIMALS.

A debate once arose among the animals in a farmyard, which of them was most valued by their common master. After the horse, the ox, the cow, the sheep, and the dog, had stated their several pretensions, the hog took up the discourse.

“It is plain,” said he, “that the greatest value must be set upon that animal which is kept most for his own sake, without expecting from him any return of use and service. Now, which of you can boast so much in that respect as I can?

“As for you, horse, though you are very well fed and lodged, and have servants to attend upon you, and make you sleek and clean, yet all this is for the sake of your labour. Do not I see you taken out early every morning, put in chains, or fastened to the shafts of a heavy cart, and not brought back till noon; when, after a short respite, you are taken to work again till late in the evening? I may say just the same to the ox, except that he works for poorer fare.

“For you, Mrs. Cow, who are so dainty over your chopped straw and grains, you are thought worth keeping only for your milk, which is drained from you twice a day to the last drop, while your poor young ones are taken from you, and sent I know not whither.

“You, poor innocent sheep, who are turned out to shift for yourselves upon the bare hills, or penned upon the fallows with now and then a withered turnip or some musty hay, you pay dearly enough for your keep by resigning your warm coat every year, for want of which you are liable to be frozen to death on some of the cold nights before summer.

“As for the dog, who prides himself so much on being admitted to our master’s table, and made his companion, that he will scarce condescend to reckon himself one of us, he is obliged to do all the offices of a domestic servant by day, and to keep watch during the night, while we are quietly asleep.

“In short, you are all of you creatures maintained for use—poor subservient things, made to be enslaved or pillaged. I, on the contrary, have a warm stye and plenty of provisions all at free cost. I have nothing to do but grow fat and follow my amusement; and my master is best pleased when he sees me lying at ease in the sun, or filling my belly.”

Thus argued the hog, and put the rest to silence by so much logic and rhetoric. This was not long before winter set in. It proved a very scarce season for fodder of all kinds; so that the farmer began to consider how he was to maintain all his live stock till spring. “It will be impossible for me,” thought he, “to keep them all; I must therefore part with those I can best spare. As for my horses and working oxen, I shall have business enough to employ them; they must be kept, cost what it will. My cows will not give me much milk in the winter, but they will calve in the spring, and be ready for the new grass. I must not lose the profit of my dairy. The sheep, poor things, will take care of themselves as long as there is a bite upon the hills; and if deep snow comes, we must do with them as well as we can by the help of a few turnips and some hay, for I must have their wool at shearing-time to make out my rent with. But my hogs will eat me out of house and home, without doing me any good. They must go to pot, that’s certain; and the sooner I get rid of the fat ones, the better.”

So saying, he singled out the orator as one of the prime among them, and sent him to the butcher the very next day.

EVENING IV.
]

THE BULLIES.

As young Francis was walking through a village with his tutor, they were annoyed by two or three cur-dogs, that came running after them with looks of the utmost fury, snarling and barking as if they would tear their throats, and seeming every moment ready to fly upon them. Francis every now and then stopped and shook his stick at them, or stooped down to pick up a stone, upon which the curs retreated as fast as they came; but as soon as he turned about, they were after his heels again. This lasted till they came to a farmyard, through which their road lay. A large mastiff was lying down in it at his ease in the sun. Francis was almost afraid to pass him, and kept as close to his tutor as possible. However, the dog took not the least notice of them.

Presently, they came upon a common, where, going near a flock of geese, they were assailed with hissings, and pursued some way by these foolish birds, which, stretching out their long necks, made a very ridiculous figure. Francis only laughed at them, though he was tempted to give the foremost a switch across his neck. A little further was a herd of cows with a bull among them, upon which Francis looked with some degree of apprehension; but they kept quietly grazing, and did not take their heads from the ground as he passed.

“It is a lucky thing,” said Francis to his tutor, “that mastiffs and bulls are not so quarrelsome as curs and geese; but what can be the reason of it?”

“The reason,” replied the tutor, “is, that paltry and contemptible animals, possessing no confidence in their own strength and courage, and knowing themselves liable to injury from most of those that come in their way, think it safer to take the part of bullies, and to make a show of attacking those of whom in reality they are afraid: whereas, animals which are conscious of force sufficient for their own protection, suspecting no evil designs from others, entertain none themselves, but maintain dignified composure.

“Thus you will find it among mankind. Weak, mean, petty characters are suspicious, snarling, and petulant. They raise an outcry against their superiors in talents and reputation, of whom they stand in awe, and put on airs of defiance and insolence through mere cowardice. But the truly great are calm and inoffensive. They fear no injury, and offer none. They even suffer slight attacks to go unnoticed, conscious of their power to right themselves whenever the occasion shall seem to require it.”

THE TRAVELLED ANT.

There was a garden enclosed with high brick walls, and laid out somewhat in the old fashion. Under the walls were wide beds planted with flowers, garden-stuff, and fruit-trees. Next to them was a broad gravel-walk running round the garden; and the middle was laid out in grass-plots, and beds of flowers and shrubs with a fish-pond in the centre.

Near the root of one of the wall fruit-trees, a numerous colony of ants was established, which had extended its subterraneous works over great part of the bed in its neighbourhood. One day, two of the inhabitants, meeting in a gallery under ground, fell into the following conversation:—

“Ha! my friend,” said the first, “is it you? I am glad to see you. Where have you been this long time? All your acquaintance have been in pain about you, lest some accident should have befallen you.”

“Why,” replied the other, “I am, indeed, a sort of stranger, for you must know I am but just returned from a long journey.”

“A journey! whither, pray, and on what account?”

“A tour of mere curiosity. I had long felt dissatisfied with knowing so little about this world of ours; so, at length, I took a resolution to explore it. And I may now boast that I have gone round its utmost extremities, and that no considerable part of it has escaped my researches.”

“Wonderful! What a traveller you have been, and what sights you must have seen!”

“Why, yes—I have seen more than most ants, to be sure; but it has been at the expense of so much toil and danger, that I know not whether it was worth the pains.”

“Would you oblige me with some account of your adventures?”

“Willingly: I set out, then, early one sunshiny morning; and, after crossing our territory and the line of plantation by which it is bordered; I came upon a wide open plain, where, as far as the eye could reach, not a single green thing was to be descried, but the hard soil was everywhere covered with huge stones, which made travelling equally painful to the eye and the feet. As I was toiling onward, I heard a rumbling noise behind me, which became louder and louder. I looked back, and with the utmost horror beheld a prodigious rolling mountain approaching me so fast that it was impossible to get out of the way. I threw myself flat on the ground behind a stone, and lay expecting nothing but present death. The mountain soon passed over me, and I continued (I know not how long) in a state of insensibility. When I recovered, I began to stretch my limbs one by one, and, to my surprise, found myself not in the least injured! but the stone beside me was almost buried in the earth by the crash!”

“What an escape!”

“A wonderful one, indeed. I journeyed on over the desert, and at length came to the end of it, and entered upon a wide green tract consisting chiefly of tall, narrow, pointed leaves, which grew so thick and entangled, that it was with the greatest difficulty I could make my way between them; and I should continually have lost my road, had I not taken care to keep the sun in view before me. When I had got near the middle of this region, I was startled with the sight of a huge four-legged monster, with a yellow speckled skin, which took a flying leap directly over me. Somewhat farther, before I was aware, I ran upon one of those long, round, crawling creatures, without head, tail, or legs, which we sometimes meet with under ground, near our settlement. As soon as he felt me upon him, he drew back into his hole so swiftly, that he was near drawing me in along with him. However, I jumped off, and proceeded on my way.

“With much labour I got, at last, to the end of this perplexed tract, and came to an open space like that in which we live, in the midst of which grew trees so tall that I could not see to their tops. Being hungry, I climbed the first I came to, in expectation of finding some fruit; but after a weary search I returned empty. I tried several others with no better success. There were, indeed, leaves and flowers in plenty, but nothing of which I could make a meal; so that I might have been famished, had I not found some sour harsh berries upon the ground, on which I made a poor repast. While I was doing this, a greater danger than any of the former befell me. One of those two-legged feathered creatures, which we often see to our cost, jumped down from a bough, and picked up in his enormous beak the very berry on which I was standing. Luckily, he did not swallow it immediately, but flew up again with it to the tree; and, in the meantime, I disengaged myself, and fell from a vast height to the ground, but received no hurt.

“I crossed this plantation, and came to another entangled green like the first. After I had laboured through it, I came on a sudden to the side of a vast glittering plain, the nature of which I could not possibly guess at. I walked along a fallen leaf which lay on the side, and coming to the farther edge of it, I was greatly surprised to see another ant coming from below to meet me. I advanced to give him a fraternal embrace; but instead of what I expected, I met a cold yielding matter, in which I should have sunk, had I not speedily turned about, and caught hold of the leaf, by which I drew myself up again. And now I found this great plain to consist of that fluid which sometimes falls from the sky, and causes so much trouble by filling our holes.

“As I stood considering how to proceed on my journey, a gentle breeze arose, which, before I was aware, carried the leaf I was upon away from the solid land into this yielding fluid, which, however, bore it up and me along with it. At first, I was greatly alarmed, and ran round and round my leaf in order to find some way of getting back; but perceiving this to be impracticable, I resigned myself to my fate, and even began to take some pleasure in the easy motion by which I was borne forward. But what new and wonderful forms of living creatures did I see inhabiting this liquid land! Bodies of prodigious bulk, covered with shining scales of various colours, shot by me with vast rapidity, and sported a thousand ways. They had large heads and staring eyes, tremendous wide mouths, but no legs; and they seemed to be carried on by the action of something like small wings planted on various parts of the body, and especially at the end of the tail, which continually waved about. Other smaller creatures, of a great variety of extraordinary forms, were moving through the clear fluid, or resting upon its surface; and I saw with terror numbers of them continually seized and swallowed by the larger ones before-mentioned.

“When I had got near the middle, the smooth surface of this plain was all roughened, and moved up and down, so as to toss about my leaf, and nearly overset it. I trembled to think what would become of me, should I be thrown amidst all these terrible monsters. At last, however, I got safe to the other side, and with joy set my feet on dry land again. I ascended a gentle green slope, which led to a tall plantation like that I had before passed through. Another green plain, and another stony desert, succeeded; which brought me, at length, to the opposite boundary of our world, enclosed by the same immense mound rising to the heavens, which limits us on this side.

“Here I fell in with another nation of our species differing little in way of life from ourselves. They invited me to their settlement, and entertained me hospitably, and I accompanied them in several excursions in the neighbourhood. There was a charming fruit-tree at no great distance, to which we made frequent visits. One day as I was regaling deliciously on the heart of a green-gage plum, I felt myself on a sudden carried along with great swiftness, till I got into a dark place, where a horrid crash threw me upon a soft moist piece of flesh, whence I was soon driven forth in a torrent of wind and moisture, and found myself on the ground all covered with slime. I disengaged myself with difficulty and looking up, descried one of those enormous two-legged animals, which often shake the ground over our heads, and put us in terror.

“My new friends now began to hint to me that it was time to depart, ‘for you know we are not fond of naturalizing strangers.’ And lucky, indeed, it was for me that I received the hint when I did; for I had but just left the place, and was travelling over a neighbouring eminence, when I heard behind me a tremendous noise; and looking back I saw the whole of their settlement blown into the air with a prodigious explosion of fire and smoke. Numbers of half-burnt bodies, together with the ruins of their habitations, were thrown to a vast distance around; and such a suffocating vapour arose, that I lay for some time deprived of sense and motion. From some of the wretched fugitives I learned that the disaster was attributed to subterranean fire bursting its way to the surface: the cause of which, however, was supposed to be connected with the machinations of that malignant two-legged monster, from whose jaws I had so narrowly escaped, who had been observed, just before the explosion, to pour through the holes leading to the great apartment of the settlement, a number of black shining grains.

“On my return from this remote country, I kept along the boundary-wall, which I knew by observation must at length bring me back to my own home. I met with several wandering tribes of our species in my road, and frequently joined their foraging parties in search of food. One day, a company of us, allured by the smell of something sweet, climbed some lofty pillars, on which was placed a vast round edifice, having only one entrance. At this, were continually going in and coming out those winged animals, somewhat like ourselves in form, but many times bigger, and armed with a dreadful sting, which we so often meet with sipping the juices of flowers; but whether they were the architects of this great mansion, or it was built for them by some beneficent being of great powers, I am unable to decide. It seemed, however, to be the place where they deposited what they so industriously collect; for they were perpetually arriving loaded with a fragrant substance, which they carried in, and then returned empty. We had a great desire to enter with them, but were deterred by their formidable appearance, and a kind of angry hum, which continually proceeded from the house. At length two or three of the boldest of our party, watching a time when the entrance was pretty free, ventured to go in: but we soon saw them driven out in great haste, and trampled down and massacred at the gateway. The rest of us made a speedy retreat.

“Two more adventures which happened to me had very nearly prevented my return to my own country. Having one evening, together with a companion, taken up my quarters in an empty snail-shell, there came on such a shower of rain in the night, that the shell was presently filled. I awaked just suffocated; but, luckily, having my head turned towards the mouth of the shell, I rose to the top, and made a shift to crawl to a dry place. My companion, who had got farther into the shell, never rose again.

“Not long after, as I was travelling under the wall, I descried a curious pit, with a circular orifice, gradually growing narrower to the bottom. On coming close to the brink in order to survey it, the edge, which was of fine sand, gave way and I slid down the pit. As soon as I had reached the bottom, a creature with a huge pair of horns and dreadful claws made his appearance from beneath the sand, and attempted to seize me. I flew back, and ran up the side of the pit; when he threw over me such a shower of sand as blinded me, and had like to have brought me down again. However, by exerting all my strength, I got out of his reach, and did not cease running till I was at a considerable distance. I was afterward informed that this was the den of an antlion, a terrible foe of our species, which, not equalling us in speed, is obliged to make use of this crafty device to entrap his heedless prey.

“This was the last of my perils. To my great joy, I reached my native place last night, where I mean to stay content for the future. I do not know how far I have benefited from my travels, but one important conclusion I have drawn from them.”

“What is that?” said his friend.

“Why, you know it is the current opinion with us, that everything in this world was made for our use. Now, I have seen such vast tracts not at all fit for our residence, and peopled with creatures so much larger and stronger than ourselves, that I cannot help being convinced that the Creator had in view their accommodation as well as ours, in making this world.”

“I confess this seems probable enough; but you had better keep your opinion to yourself.”

“Why so?”

“You know we ants are a vain race, and make high pretensions to wisdom as well as antiquity. We shall be affronted with any attempts to lessen our importance in our own eyes.”

“But there is no wisdom in being deceived.”

“Well—do as you think proper. Meantime, farewell, and thanks for the entertainment you have given me.”

“Farewell!”

THE COLONISTS.

“Come,” said Mr. Barlow to his boys, “I have a new play for you. I will be the founder of a colony; and you shall be people of different trades and professions coming to offer yourselves to go with me. What are you, _A._?”

_A._ I am a farmer, sir.

_Mr. B._ Very well! Farming is the chief thing we have to depend upon, so we cannot have too much of it. But you must be a working farmer, not a gentleman-farmer. Labourers will be scarce among us, and every man must put his own hand to the plough. There will be woods to clear, and marshes to drain, and a great deal of stubborn work to do.

_A._ I shall be ready to do my part, sir.

_Mr. B._ Well, then, I shall entertain you willingly, and as many more of your profession as you can bring. You shall have land enough, and utensils; and you may fall to work as soon as you please. Now for the next.

_B._ I am a miller, sir.