Chapter III

I RUN AWAY—AM FOUND AND TAKEN HOME AGAIN.

But my unruly spirit was by no means tamed. After much thinking over what had happened to me, and much wondering as to what might happen, I made up my mind to run away.

So around and around the fence I wandered, looking for a chance to get through, and at last I came to a low stile. I was overjoyed at the sight, and, making a long run for freedom, took a clear leap over it.

“No more bridles and no more bits for me!” thought I, as soon as I found myself on the other side.

I looked around me, this way and that, wondering in which direction I should go. It did not take me long to decide. Not far off, as it seemed to my inexperienced eyes, was a large and beautiful forest. So I ran and ran until I was far out of sight and hearing of my home. But the forest was farther off than I expected, and I was thoroughly tired out when I reached it. However, it was as large and as beautiful as I had imagined it to be, and I was soon wandering in its quiet depths, where I found plenty of good juicy grass to eat, and plenty of bright, cool, sparkling water to drink.

After a good night’s rest, I awoke feeling ready for any adventure. “I shall never be found now,” thought I; “no one will ever come to torment me in this quiet refuge, and this shall be my starting-point from which to explore the world.”

My peace of mind was not to last long, however, for just then I heard the deep baying of a big hound, then of another, and presently a whole pack of them were coming toward me in full cry.

Frightened almost to death, and feeling sure the dogs were after me,—such is the effect of a guilty conscience,—I fled as fast as I could to a little brook which I knew was not far off, for I had learned that if I walked in the water the dogs could not follow my scent.

Soon I heard a voice saying: “Find him, dogs! Fetch him, dogs! Bring him back, dogs!”

But, so long as I remained in the water, I was safe from the dogs, and I began to run along in the brook. I was safe also from the men, because there were high hedges on each side of the brook which hid me from their view.

I ran, and I ran, and I ran, for quite a long time without stopping, until I was entirely out of breath. Presently the barking of the hounds began to grow fainter and fainter. I ceased to hear the voice of the man who was urging them on, and at last all was silence.

Out of breath, as I said, and thoroughly tired, I rested now to eat and drink. I was stiff and cold by this time through being so long in the water, but I did not dare to go far from it, for fear the dogs should pick up the scent and be after me again. But presently I regained my courage, got on to dry land, and trotted along by the side of the brook until at last I was out of the forest, and into a meadow where a large number of cattle were feeding. There I lay down in the sun in a corner, all by myself, and rested for a long while in ease and comfort.

Just as the evening shadows began to fall, two men came into the meadow, and one of them said to the other: “We had better take the cattle in to-night. They say that a wolf has escaped from the circus and is running wild in the wood.”

“Nonsense!” said the other. “Who told you that fairy tale?”

“Well, I heard that the young donkey belonging to Old Thomas has been taken away and eaten by a wolf in the forest.”

“Bah! don’t you believe it! I expect that the little fool has run away.”

“They say the wolf is out, anyway, and we had better call the cattle home.”

“Just as you say,” said the other; “it’s all the same to me.”

I lay still in my corner. Fortunately the grass was long enough to hide me, and as the cattle were not on my side of the field, the men drove them out of it to the farm where their masters lived, without seeing me.

Now I knew there was no wolf in the forest, because the donkey of whom they spoke was myself, and I had not seen a sign of a wolf anywhere. So I settled down to sleep as soon as the darkness came, and in the morning the cattle came back to the meadow with the two men who drove them home the night before, accompanied by two large dogs.

They belonged to the same pack of hounds from which I had had so narrow an escape the day before, and as soon as they caught sight or scent of me, they ran madly barking in my direction. Now I was in real trouble. What should I do? How could I possibly escape them this time?

Away to the edge of the meadow I flew like lightning; over the hedge I jumped like a mad donkey, and once more I found my friendly brook.

Soon I heard the voices of the men I had seen yesterday. They looked after me as I was trotting in the brook, and one of them said:

“Call off the dogs; that is not our donkey.”

“Whose is it, then, I wonder,” said the other.

“That must be the donkey the wolf did not eat,” was the reply.

“Well, as we have found our own, we need not trouble about this one.”

And so the dogs were called off. After all, you see, it was not me the dogs were after, but another donkey who had run away. How true it is, as I have heard it said, that,—

“A guilty conscience doth make cowards of us all.”

Now I went on my way unafraid, and walked and grazed, and walked and grazed until I came to another forest. How many miles I had gone I could not tell, but I was free,—free from bit and bridle and dogs and men, and that was all I cared for just then.

I did not think of the kind, good friends I had left behind. I did not think of their anxiety as to what had become of me. I thought of nothing but that I was free.

But it began to grow cold as night came on, and I began to wonder where I should find shelter till the morning. I trotted on right through the wood, until I came out on the other side, and saw a village ahead of me.

Just outside of the village was a pretty little cottage in a garden all by itself. It was very clean, and very neat and tidy. At the door sat an old woman busy with her needle. What put it into my head to do it I do not know, but I trotted up to her and put my head on her shoulder.

She jumped up quickly with a little scream. But I did not stir, and she began to pat my neck, and stroke my ears, until I was sure I had found a friend.

“I’m sure you’re a well-bred donkey,” she said, presently. “I wonder where you came from, and to whom you belong. If I can’t find your owner, I shall keep you myself, for I’m sure I can make you useful. But I think you must have a master somewhere.”

I shuddered at the words “make you useful,” for I had an idea that that must mean bit and bridle again. But when I heard the word “master,” I could not help regretting the home I had left,—Old Thomas and Miss Annie, and my mother and all her lessons, which I had so badly learned.

However, I was determined to keep the liberty I had earned, and when a bright-looking little boy of about six or seven years of age came out of the door to ask his grandmother to whom she was talking, I at once made up my mind that we could be friends.

“Why, granny, where did that donkey come from? May I stroke him?” said he.

“Of course, my boy, but he is a stranger to me,—a lost donkey, I think,—so take care he does not bite you.”

Georgie, for that was his name, tiptoed to reach me. I did not stir, so as not to frighten him, but I liked the little lad so well that I could not help turning my head and licking his hand.

“Oh, what a dear donkey!” said Georgie. “Look, granny, he is licking my hand.”

“I wonder how he came here all by himself,” said the old lady. “Run into the village, Georgie, and inquire if any one has lost a donkey. I am sure any one to whom he belongs must be very anxious about him.”

Off went Georgie, and off I went after him. When he saw me coming, he said: “Oh, dear, I must not lose him,” and he set off at a run back to the house. Soon he came with a piece of cord, which he put around my neck, and we started again for the village.

First Georgie went to the village inn. But the innkeeper had not heard of a lost donkey. Then he went from place to place where he thought a donkey might have been living, but nobody was missing a donkey in that village.

At last, however, the village policeman came along.

“Hello, Georgie; where did you get that donkey?” cried he.

“He came up to our door this afternoon, and I am trying to find his owner,” said the brave little fellow.

“This must be the donkey from the Hall,” said the policeman. “I will put him in the pound until I can send for Old Thomas.”

“Oh, don’t lock him up,” said Georgie. “Let me keep him and feed him for one night, until his master comes and fetches him.”

The policeman was a kind-hearted man. He knew the donkey was safe with Georgie and his grandmother. He knew, too, that she had a warm and safe stable for the donkey, and so Georgie and I trotted back to his home, where I had a comfortable night.

And now I began to think seriously of what had been happening in the home I had left, since I had been so foolish as to run away. I did not learn until afterward how much distress I had caused everybody there, or how much trouble I had given to those who had my best welfare at heart. When I did so, I felt remorse and sorrow enough, I assure you.

Well, to make a long story short, the next morning Old Thomas came and fetched me away. He did not say much, and I was not sure if he were glad or sorry to have me back again. But there was no mistaking the delighted welcome which my young mistress gave me, and I made anew the vows of good behaviour of which I told you at the end of the last chapter.

CHAPTER IV.

NEDDY’S TRICK, AND WHAT CAME OF IT