Chapter IV: The Felling of the Tree (2)

Christmas Eve had been gloomy—the gloomiest of Satan’s life. Uncle Carey had gone to a neighboring town at noon. Satan had followed him down to the station, and when the train started, Uncle Carey had ordered him to go home. Satan took his time about going home, not knowing it was Christmas Eve. He found strange things happening to dogs that day. The truth was, that policemen were shooting all dogs found that were without a collar and a license, and every now and then a bang and a howl somewhere would stop Satan in his tracks. At a little yellow house on the edge of town he saw half a dozen strange dogs in a kennel, and every now and then a negro would lead a new one up to the house and deliver him to a big man at the door, who, in return, would drop something into the negro’s hand. While Satan waited, the old drunkard came along with his little dog at his heels, paused before the door, looked a moment at his faithful follower, and went slowly on. Satan little knew the old drunkard’s temptation, for in that yellow house kind-hearted people had offered fifteen cents for each dog brought to them, without a license, that they might mercifully put it to death, and fifteen cents was the precise price for a drink of good whiskey. Just then there was another bang and another howl somewhere, and Satan trotted home to meet a calamity. Dinnie was gone. Her mother had taken her out in the country to Grandmother Dean’s to spend Christmas, as was the family custom, and Mrs. Dean would not wait any longer for Satan; so she told Uncle Billy to bring him out after supper.

“Ain’t you ’shamed o’ yo’self—suh—?” said the old butler, “keeping me from ketchin’ Christmas gifts dis day?”

Uncle Billy was indignant, for the negroes begin at four o’clock in the afternoon of Christmas Eve to slip around corners and jump from hiding-places to shout “Christmas Gif’—Christmas Gif’”; and the one who shouts first gets a gift. No wonder it was gloomy for Satan—Uncle Carey, Dinnie, and all gone, and not a soul but Uncle Billy in the big house. Every few minutes he would trot on his little black legs upstairs and downstairs, looking for his mistress. As dusk came on, he would every now and then howl plaintively. After begging his supper, and while Uncle Billy was hitching up a horse in the stable, Satan went out in the yard and lay with his nose between the close panels of the fence—quite heart-broken. When he saw his old friend, Hugo the mastiff, trotting into the gas-light, he began to bark his delight frantically. The big mastiff stopped and nosed his sympathy through the fence for a moment and walked slowly on, Satan frisking and barking along inside. At the gate Hugo stopped, and raising one huge paw, playfully struck it. The gate flew open, and with a happy yelp Satan leaped into the street. The noble mastiff hesitated as though this were not quite regular. He did not belong to the club, and he didn’t know that Satan had ever been away from home after dark in his life. For a moment he seemed to wait for Dinnie to call him back as she always did, but this time there was no sound, and Hugo walked majestically on, with absurd little Satan running in a circle about him. On the way they met the “funeral dog,” who glanced inquiringly at Satan, shied from the mastiff, and trotted on. On the next block the old drunkard’s yellow cur ran across the street, and after interchanging the compliments of the season, ran back after his staggering master. As they approached the railroad track a strange dog joined them, to whom Hugo paid no attention. At the crossing another new acquaintance bounded toward them. This one—a half-breed shepherd—was quite friendly, and he received Satan’s advances with affable condescension. Then another came and another, and little Satan’s head got quite confused. They were a queer-looking lot of curs and half-breeds from the negro settlement at the edge of the woods, and though Satan had little experience, his instincts told him that all was not as it should be, and had he been human he would have wondered very much how they had escaped the carnage that day. Uneasy, he looked around for Hugo; but Hugo had disappeared. Once or twice Hugo had looked around for Satan, and Satan paying no attention, the mastiff trotted on home in disgust. Just then a powerful yellow cur sprang out of the darkness over the railroad track, and Satan sprang to meet him, and so nearly had the life scared out of him by the snarl and flashing fangs of the new-comer that he hardly had the strength to shrink back behind his new friend, the half-breed shepherd.

A strange thing then happened. The other dogs became suddenly quiet, and every eye was on the yellow cur. He sniffed the air once or twice, gave two or three peculiar low growls, and all those dogs except Satan lost the civilization of centuries and went back suddenly to the time when they were wolves and were looking for a leader. The cur was Lobo for that little pack, and after a short parley, he lifted his nose high and started away without looking back, while the other dogs silently trotted after him. With a mystified yelp, Satan ran after them. The cur did not take the turnpike, but jumped the fence into a field, making his way by the rear of houses, from which now and then another dog would slink out and silently join the band. Every one of them Satan nosed most friendlily, and to his great joy the funeral dog, on the edge of town, leaped into their midst. Ten minutes later the cur stopped in the midst of some woods, as though he would inspect his followers. Plainly, he disapproved of Satan, and Satan kept out of his way. Then he sprang into the turnpike and the band trotted down it, under flying black clouds and shifting bands of brilliant moonlight. Once, a buggy swept past them. A familiar odor struck Satan’s nose, and he stopped for a moment to smell the horse’s tracks; and right he was, too, for out at her grandmother’s Dinnie refused to be comforted, and in that buggy was Uncle Billy going back to town after him.

Snow was falling. It was a great lark for Satan. Once or twice, as he trotted along, he had to bark his joy aloud, and each time the big cur gave him such a fierce growl that he feared thereafter to open his jaws. But he was happy for all that, to be running out into the night with such a lot of funny friends and not to know or care where he was going. He got pretty tired presently, for over hill and down hill they went, at that unceasing trot, trot, trot! Satan’s tongue began to hang out. Once he stopped to rest, but the loneliness frightened him and he ran on after them with his heart almost bursting. He was about to lie right down and die, when the cur stopped, sniffed the air once or twice, and with those same low growls, led the marauders through a rail fence into the woods, and lay quietly down. How Satan loved that soft, thick grass, all snowy that it was! It was almost as good as his own bed at home. And there they lay—how long, Satan never knew, for he went to sleep and dreamed that he was after a rat in the barn at home; and he yelped in his sleep, which made the cur lift his big yellow head and show his fangs. The moving of the half-breed shepherd and the funeral dog waked him at last, and Satan got up. Half crouching, the cur was leading the way toward the dark, still woods on top of the hill, over which the Star of Bethlehem was lowly sinking, and under which lay a flock of the gentle creatures that seemed to have been almost sacred to the Lord of that Star. They were in sore need of a watchful shepherd now. Satan was stiff and chilled, but he was rested and had had his sleep, and he was just as ready for fun as he always was. He didn’t understand that sneaking. Why they didn’t all jump and race and bark as he wanted to, he couldn’t see; but he was too polite to do otherwise than as they did, and so he sneaked after them; and one would have thought he knew, as well as the rest, the hellish mission on which they were bent.

Out of the woods they went, across a little branch, and there the big cur lay flat again in the grass. A faint bleat came from the hill-side beyond, where Satan could see another woods—and then another bleat, and another. And the cur began to creep again, like a snake in the grass; and the others crept too, and little Satan crept, though it was all a sad mystery to him. Again the cur lay still, but only long enough for Satan to see curious, fat, white shapes above him—and then, with a blood-curdling growl, the big brute dashed forward. Oh, there was fun in them after all! Satan barked joyfully. Those were some new playmates—those fat, white, hairy things up there; and Satan was amazed when, with frightened snorts, they fled in every direction. But this was a new game, perhaps, of which he knew nothing, and as did the rest, so did Satan. He picked out one of the white things and fled barking after it. It was a little fellow that he was after, but little as he was, Satan might never have caught up, had not the sheep got tangled in some brush. Satan danced about him in mad glee, giving him a playful nip at his wool and springing back to give him another nip, and then away again. Plainly, he was not going to bite back, and when the sheep struggled itself tired and sank down in a heap, Satan came close and licked him, and as he was very warm and woolly, he lay down and snuggled up against him for a while, listening to the turmoil that was going on around him. And as he listened, he got frightened.

If this was a new game it was certainly a very peculiar one—the wild rush, the bleats of terror, gasps of agony, and the fiendish growls of attack and the sounds of ravenous gluttony. With every hair bristling, Satan rose and sprang from the woods—and stopped with a fierce tingling of the nerves that brought him horror and fascination. One of the white shapes lay still before him. There was a great steaming red splotch on the snow, and a strange odor in the air that made him dizzy; but only for a moment. Another white shape rushed by. A tawny streak followed, and then, in a patch of moonlight, Satan saw the yellow cur with his teeth fastened in the throat of his moaning playmate. Like lightning Satan sprang at the cur, who tossed him ten feet away and went back to his awful work. Again Satan leaped, but just then a shout rose behind him, and the cur leaped too as though a bolt of lightning had crashed over him, and, no longer noticing Satan or sheep, began to quiver with fright and slink away. Another shout rose from another direction—another from another.

“Drive ’em into the barn-yard!” was the cry.

Now and then there was a fearful bang and a howl of death-agony, as some dog tried to break through the encircling men, who yelled and cursed as they closed in on the trembling brutes that slunk together and crept on; for it is said, every sheep-killing dog knows his fate if caught, and will make little effort to escape. With them went Satan, through the barn-yard gate, where they huddled in a corner—a shamed and terrified group. A tall overseer stood at the gate.

“Ten of ’em!” he said grimly.

He had been on the lookout for just such a tragedy, for there had recently been a sheep-killing raid on several farms in that neighborhood, and for several nights he had had a lantern hung out on the edge of the woods to scare the dogs away; but a drunken farm-hand had neglected his duty that Christmas Eve.

“Yassuh, an’ dey’s jus’ sebenteen dead sheep out dar,” said a negro.

“Look at the little one,” said a tall boy who looked like the overseer; and Satan knew that he spoke of him.

“Go back to the house, son,” said the overseer, “and tell your mother to give you a Christmas present I got for you yesterday.” With a glad whoop the boy dashed away, and in a moment dashed back with a brand-new .32 Winchester in his hand.

The dark hour before dawn was just breaking on Christmas Day. It was the hour when Satan usually rushed upstairs to see if his little mistress was asleep. If he were only at home now, and if he only had known how his little mistress was weeping for him amid her playthings and his—two new balls and a brass-studded collar with a silver plate on which was his name, Satan Dean; and if Dinnie could have seen him now, her heart would have broken; for the tall boy raised his gun. There was a jet of smoke, a sharp, clean crack, and the funeral dog started on the right way at last toward his dead master. Another crack, and the yellow cur leaped from the ground and fell kicking. Another crack and another, and with each crack a dog tumbled, until little Satan sat on his haunches amid the writhing pack, alone. His time was now come. As the rifle was raised, he heard up at the big house the cries of children; the popping of fire-crackers; tooting of horns and whistles and loud shouts of “Christmas Gif’, Christmas Gif’!” His little heart beat furiously. Perhaps he knew just what he was doing; perhaps it was the accident of habit; most likely Satan simply wanted to go home—but when that gun rose, Satan rose too, on his haunches, his tongue out, his black eyes steady and his funny little paws hanging loosely—and begged! The boy lowered the gun.

“Down, sir!” Satan dropped obediently, but when the gun was lifted again, Satan rose again, and again he begged.

“Down, I tell you!” This time Satan would not down, but sat begging for his life. The boy turned.

“Papa, I can’t shoot that dog.” Perhaps Satan had reached the stern old overseer’s heart. Perhaps he remembered suddenly that it was Christmas. At any rate, he said gruffly:

“Well, let him go.”

“Come here, sir!” Satan bounded toward the tall boy, frisking and trustful and begged again.

“Go home, sir!”

Satan needed no second command. Without a sound he fled out the barn-yard, and, as he swept under the front gate, a little girl ran out of the front door of the big house and dashed down the steps, shrieking:

“Saty! Saty! Oh, Saty!” But Satan never heard. On he fled, across the crisp fields, leaped the fence and struck the road, lickety-split! for home, while Dinnie dropped sobbing in the snow.

“Hitch up a horse, quick,” said Uncle Carey, rushing after Dinnie and taking her up in his arms. Ten minutes later, Uncle Carey and Dinnie, both warmly bundled up, were after flying Satan. They never caught him until they reached the hill on the outskirts of town, where was the kennel of the kind-hearted people who were giving painless death to Satan’s four-footed kind, and where they saw him stop and turn from the road. There was divine providence in Satan’s flight for one little dog that Christmas morning; for Uncle Carey saw the old drunkard staggering down the road without his little companion, and a moment later, both he and Dinnie saw Satan nosing a little yellow cur between the palings. Uncle Carey knew the little cur, and while Dinnie was shrieking for Satan, he was saying under his breath:

“Well, I swear!—I swear!—I swear!” And while the big man who came to the door was putting Satan into Dinnie’s arms, he said sharply:

“Who brought that yellow dog here?” The man pointed to the old drunkard’s figure turning a corner at the foot of the hill.

“I thought so; I thought so. He sold him to you for—for a drink of whiskey.”

The man whistled.

“Bring him out. I’ll pay his license.”

So back went Satan and the little cur to Grandmother Dean’s—and Dinnie cried when Uncle Carey told her why he was taking the little cur along. With her own hands she put Satan’s old collar on the little brute, took him to the kitchen, and fed him first of all. Then she went into the breakfast-room.

“Uncle Billy,” she said severely, “didn’t I tell you not to let Saty out?”

“Yes, Miss Dinnie,” said the old butler.

“Didn’t I tell you I was goin’ to whoop you if you let Saty out?”

“Yes, Miss Dinnie.”

Miss Dinnie pulled forth from her Christmas treasures a toy riding-whip and the old darky’s eyes began to roll in mock terror.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Billy, but I des got to whoop you a little.”

“Let Uncle Billy off, Dinnie,” said Uncle Carey, “this is Christmas.”

“All wite,” said Dinnie, and she turned to Satan.

In his shining new collar and innocent as a cherub, Satan sat on the hearth begging for his breakfast.

A NEST-EGG

BY

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

This is the simple character sketch in which there is
romance treated with a fine reserve. It employs the local
color so characteristic of Mr. Riley’s poems of Indiana.

A NEST-EGG[8]

But a few miles from the city here, and on the sloping
banks of the stream noted more for its plenitude of
“chubs” and “shiners” than the gamier two- and
four-pound bass for which, in season, so many credulous
anglers flock and lie in wait, stands a country residence,
so convenient to the stream, and so inviting in its pleasant
exterior and comfortable surroundings—barn, dairy,
and spring-house—that the weary, sunburnt, and disheartened
fisherman, out from the dusty town for a
day of recreation, is often wont to seek its hospitality.
The house in style of architecture is something of a departure
from the typical farmhouse, being designed
and fashioned with no regard to symmetry or proportion,
but rather, as is suggested, built to conform to the
matter-of-fact and most sensible ideas of its owner, who,
if it pleased him, would have small windows where large
ones ought to be, and vice versa, whether they balanced
properly to the eye or not. And chimneys—he would
have as many as he wanted, and no two alike, in either
height or size. And if he wanted the front of the house
turned from all possible view, as though abashed at any
chance of public scrutiny, why, that was his affair and
not the public’s; and, with like perverseness, if he chose
to thrust his kitchen under the public’s very nose, what
should the generally fagged-out, half-famished representative
of that dignified public do but reel in his dead
minnow, shoulder his fishing-rod, clamber over the back
fence of the old farmhouse and inquire within, or jog
back to the city, inwardly anathematizing that very particular
locality or the whole rural district in general.
That is just the way that farmhouse looked to the writer
of this sketch one week ago—so individual it seemed—so
liberal, and yet so independent. It wasn’t even
weather-boarded, but, instead, was covered smoothly with
some cement, as though the plasterers had come while
the folks were visiting, and so, unable to get at the
interior, had just plastered the outside.

I am more than glad that I was hungry enough, and
weary enough, and wise enough to take the house at
its first suggestion; for, putting away my fishing-tackle
for the morning, at least, I went up the sloping bank,
crossed the dusty road, and confidently clambered over
the fence.

Not even a growling dog to intimate that I was trespassing.
All was open—gracious-looking—pastoral. The
sward beneath my feet was velvet-like in elasticity, and
the scarce visible path I followed through it led promptly
to the open kitchen door. From within I heard a woman
singing some old ballad in an undertone, while at the
threshold a trim, white-spurred rooster stood poised on
one foot, curving his glossy neck and cocking his wattled
head as though to catch the meaning of the words.
I paused. It was a scene I felt restrained from breaking
in upon, nor would I, but for the sound of a strong
male voice coming around the corner of the house:

“Sir. Howdy!”

Turning, I saw a rough-looking but kindly featured
man of sixty-five, the evident owner of the place.

I returned his salutation with some confusion and much
deference. “I must really beg your pardon for this
intrusion,” I began, “but I have been tiring myself
out fishing, and your home here looked so pleasant—and
I felt so thirsty—and——”

“Want a drink, I reckon,” said the old man, turning
abruptly toward the kitchen door, then pausing as
suddenly, with a backward motion of his thumb—“jest
foller the path here down to the little brick—that’s the
spring—and you’ll find ’at you’ve come to the right place
fer drinkin’-worter! Hold on a minute tel I git you a
tumbler—there’re nothin’ down there but a tin.”

“Then don’t trouble yourself any further,” I said,
heartily, “for I’d rather drink from a tin cup than a
goblet of pure gold.”

“And so’d I,” said the old man, reflectively, turning
mechanically, and following me down the path.
“‘Druther drink out of a tin—er jest a fruit-can with
the top knocked off—er—er—er a gourd,” he added
in a zestful, reminiscent tone of voice, that so heightened
my impatient thirst that I reached the spring-house
fairly in a run.

“Well-sir!” exclaimed my host, in evident delight,
as I stood dipping my nose in the second cupful of the
cool, revivifying liquid, and peering in a congratulatory
kind of way at the blurred and rubicund reflection of my
features in the bottom of the cup, “well-sir, blame-don!
ef it don’t do a feller good to see you enjoyin’ of it that-a-way!
But don’t you drink too much o’ the worter!—’cause
there’re some sweet milk over there in one o’ them
crocks, maybe; and ef you’ll jest, kindo’ keerful-like,
lift off the led of that third one, say, over there to yer
left, and dip you out a tinful er two o’ that, w’y, it’ll
do you good to drink it, and it’ll do me good to see you
at it——But hold up!—hold up!” he called, abruptly,
as, nowise loath, I bent above the vessel designated.
“Hold yer hosses fer a second! Here’s Marthy; let her
git it fer ye.”

If I was at first surprised and confused, meeting the
master of the house, I was wholly startled and chagrined
in my present position before its mistress. But as I
arose, and stammered, in my confusion, some incoherent
apology, I was again reassured and put at greater ease
by the comprehensive and forgiving smile the woman
gave me, as I yielded her my place, and, with lifted hat,
awaited her further kindness.

“I came just in time, sir,” she said, half laughingly,
as with strong, bare arms she reached across the gurgling
trough and replaced the lid that I had partially removed.—“I
came just in time, I see, to prevent father
from having you dip into the ’morning’s-milk,’ which, of
course, has scarcely a veil of cream over the face of it
as yet. But men, as you are doubtless willing to admit,”
she went on jocularly, “don’t know about these things.
You must pardon father, as much for his well-meaning
ignorance of such matters, as for this cup of cream,
which I am sure you will better relish.”

She arose, still smiling, with her eyes turned frankly
on my own. And I must be excused when I confess
that as I bowed my thanks, taking the proffered cup
and lifting it to my lips, I stared with an uncommon
interest and pleasure at the donor’s face.

She was a woman of certainly not less than forty years
of age. But the figure, and the rounded grace and fulness
of it, together with the features and the eyes, completed
as fine a specimen of physical and mental health
as ever it has been my fortune to meet; there was something
so full of purpose and resolve—something so wholesome,
too, about the character—something so womanly—I
might almost say manly, and would, but for the petty
prejudice maybe occasioned by the trivial fact of a
locket having dropped from her bosom as she knelt; and
that trinket still dangles in my memory even as it then
dangled and dropped back to its concealment in her
breast as she arose. But her face, by no means handsome
in the common meaning, was marked with a breadth
and strength of outline and expression that approached
the heroic—a face that once seen is forever fixed in
memory—a personage once met one must know more of.
And so it was, that an hour later, as I strolled with the
old man about his farm, looking, to all intents, with the
profoundest interest at his Devonshires, Shorthorns, Jerseys,
and the like, I lured from him something of an
outline of his daughter’s history.

“There’re no better girl ‘n Marthy!” he said, mechanically
answering some ingenious allusion to her worth.
“And yit,” he went on reflectively, stooping from his
seat in the barn door and with his open jack-knife picking
up a little chip with the point of the blade—“and
yit—you wouldn’t believe it—but Marthy was the oldest
o’ three daughters, and hed—I may say—hed more advantages
o’ marryin’—and yit, as I was jest goin’ to say,
she’s the very one ’at didn’t marry. Hed every advantage—Marthy
did. W’y, we even hed her educated—her
mother was a-livin’ then—and we was well enough
fixed to afford the educatin’ of her, mother allus contended—and
we was—besides, it was Marthy’s notion,
too, and you know how women is thataway when they git
their head set. So we sent Marthy down to Indianop’lus,
and got her books and putt her in school there, and paid
fer her keepin’ and ever’thing; and she jest—well, you
may say, lived there stiddy fer better’n four year. O’
course she’d git back ever’ once-an-a-while, but her visits
was allus, some-way-another, onsatisfactory-like, ’cause,
you see, Marthy was allus my favorite, and I’d allus
laughed and told her ’at the other girls could git married
if they wanted, but _she_ was goin’ to be the ‘nest-egg’
of our family, and ’slong as I lived I wanted her at home
with me. And she’d laugh and contend ’a’t she’d as lif
be an old maid as not, and never expected to marry,
ner didn’t want to. But she had me sceart onc’t,
though! Come out from the city one time, durin’ the
army, with a peart-lookin’ young feller in blue clothes
and gilt straps on his shoulders. Young lieutenant he
was—name o’ Morris. Was layin’ in camp there in the
city somers. I disremember which camp it was now adzackly—but
anyway, it ’peared like he had plenty o’
time to go and come, fer from that time on he kep’
on a-comin’—ever’ time Marthy ’ud come home, he’d
come, too; and I got to noticin’ ’a’t Marthy come home
a good ’eal more’n she used to afore Morris first brought
her. And blame ef the thing didn’t git to worryin’ me!
And onc’t I spoke to mother about it, and told her ef
I thought the feller wanted to marry Marthy I’d jest
stop his comin’ right then and there. But mother she
sorto’ smiled and said somepin’ ’bout men a-never seein’
through nothin’; and when I ast her what she meant,
w’y, she ups and tells me ’a’t Morris didn’t keer nothin’
fer Marthy, ner Marthy fer Morris, and then went on
to tell me that Morris was kindo’ aidgin’ up to’rds Annie—she
was next to Marthy, you know, in pint of years
and experience, but ever’body allus said ’a’t Annie was
the purtiest one o’ the whole three of ’em. And so when
mother told me ’a’t the signs pinted to’rds Annie, w’y, of
course, I hedn’t no particular objections to that, ’cause
Morris was of good fambly enough it turned out, and,
in fact, was as stirrin’ a young feller as ever I’d want
fer a son-in-law, and so I hed nothin’ more to say—ner
they wasn’t no occasion to say nothin’, ’cause right along
about then I begin to notice ’a’t Marthy quit comin’
home so much, and Morris kep’ a-comin’ more. Tel
finally, one time he was out here all by hisself, ’long
about dusk, come out here where I was feedin’, and ast
me, all at onc’t, and in a straightfor’ard way, ef he
couldn’t marry Annie; and, some-way-another, blame ef
it didn’t make me as happy as him when I told him
yes! You see that thing proved, pine-blank, ’a’t he
wasn’t a-fishin’ round fer Marthy. Well-sir, as luck
would hev it, Marthy got home about a half-hour later,
and I’ll give you my word I was never so glad to see
the girl in my life! It was foolish in me, I reckon, but
when I see her drivin’ up the lane—it was purt’ nigh
dark then, but I could see her through the open winder
from where I was settin’ at the supper-table, and so I
jest quietly excused myself, p’lite-like, as a feller will,
you know, when they’s comp’ny round, and I slipped off
and met her jest as she was about to git out to open
the barn gate. ’Hold up, Marthy,’ says I; ’set right
where you air; I’ll open the gate fer you, and I’ll do
anything else fer you in the world ’a’t you want me
to!’

“‘W’y, what’s pleased _you_ so?’ she says, laughin’,
as she druv through slow-like and a-ticklin’ my nose with
the cracker of the buggy-whip.—’What’s pleased _you_?’

“‘Guess,’ says I, jerkin’ the gate to, and turnin’ to
lift her out.

“‘The new peanner’s come?’ says she, eager-like.

“‘Yer new peanner’s come,’ says I; ’but that’s not
it.’

“‘Strawberries fer supper?’ says she.

“‘Strawberries fer supper,’ says I; ’but that ain’t
it.’

“Jest then Morris’s hoss whinnied in the barn, and
she glanced up quick and smilin’ and says, ’Somebody
come to see somebody?’

“‘You’re a-gittin’ warm,’ says I.

“‘Somebody come to see _me_?’ she says, anxious-like.

“‘No,’ says I, ’a’nd I’m glad of it—fer this one ’a’t’s
come wants to git married, and o’ course I wouldn’t
harber in my house no young feller ’a’t was a-layin’ round
fer a chance to steal away the “Nest-egg,’” says I,
laughin’.

“Marthy had riz up in the buggy by this time, but
as I helt up my hands to her, she sorto’ drawed back
a minute, and says, all serious-like and kindo’ whisperin’:

“‘Is it _Annie_?’

“I nodded. ’Yes,’ says I, ’a’nd what’s more, I’ve
give my consent, and mother’s give hern—the thing’s
all settled. Come, jump out and run in and be happy
with the rest of us!’ and I helt out my hands ag’in, but
she didn’t ’pear to take no heed. She was kindo’ pale,
too, I thought, and swallered a time er two like as ef she
couldn’t speak plain.

“‘Who is the man?’ she ast.

“‘Who—who’s the man?’ I says, a-gittin’ kindo’ out
o’ patience with the girl.—’W’y, you know who it is,
o’ course.—It’s Morris,’ says I. ’Come, jump down!
Don’t you see I’m waitin’ fer ye?’

“‘Then take me,’ she says; and blame-don! ef the girl
didn’t keel right over in my arms as limber as a rag!
Clean fainted away! Honest! Jest the excitement, I
reckon, o’ breakin’ it to her so suddent-like—’cause she
liked Annie, I’ve sometimes thought, better’n even she
did her own mother. Didn’t go half so hard with
her when her other sister married. Yes-sir!” said
the old man, by way of sweeping conclusion, as he rose
to his feet—“Marthy’s the on’y one of ’em ’a’t never
married—both the others is gone—Morris went all
through the army and got back safe and sound—’s livin’
in Idyho, and doin’ fust-rate. Sends me a letter ever’
now and then. Got three little chunks o’ grandchildren
out there, and I’ never laid eyes on one of ’em. You
see, I’m a-gittin’ to be quite a middle-aged man—in fact,
a very middle-aged man, you might say. Sence mother
died, which has be’n—lem-me-see—mother’s be’n dead
somers in the neighborhood o’ ten year.—Sence mother
died I’ve be’n a-gittin’ more and more o’ _Marthy’s_ notion—that
is,—you couldn’t ever hire _me_ to marry
nobody! and them has allus be’n and still is the ’Nest-egg’s’
views! Listen! That’s her a-callin’ fer us now.
You must sorto’ overlook the freedom, but I told Marthy
you’d promised to take dinner with us to-day, and it
’ud never do to disappint her now. Come on.” And,
ah! it would have made the soul of you either rapturously
glad or madly envious to see how meekly I consented.

I am always thinking that I never tasted coffee till
that day; I am always thinking of the crisp and steaming
rolls, ored over with the molten gold that hinted
of the clover-fields, and the bees that had not yet permitted
the honey of the bloom and the white blood of
the stalk to be divorced; I am always thinking that the
young and tender pullet we happy three discussed was
a near and dear relative of the gay patrician rooster that
I first caught peering so inquisitively in at the kitchen
door; and I am always—always thinking of “The Nest-egg.”

WEE WILLIE WINKIE

BY

RUDYARD KIPLING

As the sub-title, “An Officer and a Gentleman,” indicates, this is a story of character. Mr. Kipling, like Robert Louis Stevenson, James Whitcomb Riley, and Eugene Field, has carried into his maturity an imperishable youth of spirit which makes him an interpreter of children. Here he has shown what our Anglo-Saxon ideals—honor, obedience, and reverence for woman—mean to a little child.

WEE WILLIE WINKIE[9]

“An officer and a gentleman.”

His full name was Percival William Williams, but he picked up the other name in a nursery-book, and that was the end of the christened titles. His mother’s _ayah_ called him Willie-_Baba_, but as he never paid the faintest attention to anything that the _ayah_ said, her wisdom did not help matters.

His father was the Colonel of the 195th, and as soon as Wee Willie Winkie was old enough to understand what Military Discipline meant, Colonel Williams put him under it. There was no other way of managing the child. When he was good for a week, he drew good-conduct pay; and when he was bad, he was deprived of his good-conduct stripe. Generally he was bad, for India offers many chances of going wrong to little six-year-olds.

Children resent familiarity from strangers, and Wee Willie Winkie was a very particular child. Once he accepted an acquaintance, he was graciously pleased to thaw. He accepted Brandis, a subaltern of the 195th, on sight. Brandis was having tea at the Colonel’s, and Wee Willie Winkie entered strong in the possession of a good-conduct badge won for not chasing the hens round the compound. He regarded Brandis with gravity for at least ten minutes, and then delivered himself of his opinion.

“I like you,” said he slowly, getting off his chair and coming over to Brandis. “I like you. I shall call you Coppy, because of your hair. Do you _mind_ being called Coppy? It is because of ve hair, you know.”

Here was one of the most embarrassing of Wee Willie Winkie’s peculiarities. He would look at a stranger for some time, and then, without warning or explanation, would give him a name. And the name stuck. No regimental penalties could break Wee Willie Winkie of this habit. He lost his good-conduct badge for christening the Commissioner’s wife “Pobs”; but nothing that the Colonel could do made the Station forego the nickname, and Mrs. Collen remained “Pobs” till the end of her stay. So Brandis was christened “Coppy,” and rose, therefore, in the estimation of the regiment.

If Wee Willie Winkie took an interest in any one, the fortunate man was envied alike by the mess and the rank and file. And in their envy lay no suspicion of self-interest. “The Colonel’s son” was idolized on his own merits entirely. Yet Wee Willie Winkie was not lovely. His face was permanently freckled, as his legs were permanently scratched, and in spite of his mother’s almost tearful remonstrances he had insisted upon having his long yellow locks cut short in the military fashion. “I want my hair like Sergeant Tummil’s,” said Wee Willie Winkie, and, his father abetting, the sacrifice was accomplished.

Three weeks after the bestowal of his youthful affections on Lieutenant Brandis—henceforward to be called “Coppy” for the sake of brevity—Wee Willie Winkie was destined to behold strange things and far beyond his comprehension.

Coppy returned his liking with interest. Coppy had let him wear for five rapturous minutes his own big sword—just as tall as Wee Willie Winkie. Coppy had promised him a terrier puppy, and Coppy had permitted him to witness the miraculous operation of shaving. Nay, more—Coppy had said that even he, Wee Willie Winkie, would rise in time to the ownership of a box of shiny knives, a silver soap-box, and a silver-handled “sputter-brush,” as Wee Willie Winkie called it. Decidedly, there was no one except his own father, who could give or take away good-conduct badges at pleasure, half so wise, strong, and valiant as Coppy with the Afghan and Egyptian medals on his breast. Why, then, should Coppy be guilty of the unmanly weakness of kissing—vehemently kissing—a “big girl,” Miss Allardyce to wit? In the course of a morning ride Wee Willie Winkie had seen Coppy so doing, and, like the gentleman he was, had promptly wheeled round and cantered back to his groom, lest the groom should also see.

Under ordinary circumstances he would have spoken to his father, but he felt instinctively that this was a matter on which Coppy ought first to be consulted.

“Coppy,” shouted Wee Willie Winkie, reining up outside that subaltern’s bungalow early one morning—“I want to see you, Coppy!”

“Come in, young ’un,” returned Coppy, who was at early breakfast in the midst of his dogs. “What mischief have you been getting into now?”

Wee Willie Winkie had done nothing notoriously bad for three days, and so stood on a pinnacle of virtue.

“_I’ve_ been doing nothing bad,” said he, curling himself into a long chair with a studious affectation of the Colonel’s languor after a hot parade. He buried his freckled nose in a tea-cup and, with eyes staring roundly over the rim, asked: “I say, Coppy, is it pwoper to kiss big girls?”

“By Jove! You’re beginning early. Who do you want to kiss?”

“No one. My muvver’s always kissing me if I don’t stop her. If it isn’t pwoper, how was you kissing Major Allardyce’s big girl last morning, by ve canal?”

Coppy’s brow wrinkled. He and Miss Allardyce had with great craft managed to keep their engagement secret for a fortnight. There were urgent and imperative reasons why Major Allardyce should not know how matters stood for at least another month, and this small marplot had discovered a great deal too much.

“I saw you,” said Wee Willie Winkie calmly. “But ve _sais_ didn’t see. I said, ’_Hut jao!_’”

“Oh, you had that much sense, you young Rip,” groaned poor Coppy, half amused and half angry. “And how many people may you have told about it?”

“Only me myself. You didn’t tell when I twied to wide ve buffalo ven my pony was lame; and I fought you wouldn’t like.”

“Winkie,” said Coppy enthusiastically, shaking the small hand, “you’re the best of good fellows. Look here, you can’t understand all these things. One of these days—hang it, how can I make you see it!—I’m going to marry Miss Allardyce, and then she’ll be Mrs. Coppy, as you say. If your young mind is so scandalized at the idea of kissing big girls, go and tell your father.”

“What will happen?” said Wee Willie Winkie, who firmly believed that his father was omnipotent.

“I shall get into trouble,” said Coppy, playing his trump card with an appealing look at the holder of the ace.

“Ven I won’t,” said Wee Willie Winkie briefly. “But my faver says it’s un-man-ly to be always kissing, and I didn’t fink _you’d_ do vat, Coppy.”

“I’m not always kissing, old chap. It’s only now and then, and when you’re bigger you’ll do it too. Your father meant it’s not good for little boys.”

“Ah!” said Wee Willie Winkie, now fully enlightened. “It’s like ve sputter-brush?”

“Exactly,” said Coppy gravely.

“But I don’t fink I’ll ever want to kiss big girls, nor no one, ’cept my muvver. And I _must_ do vat, you know.”

There was a long pause, broken by Wee Willie Winkie.

“Are you fond of vis big girl, Coppy?”

“Awfully!” said Coppy.

“Fonder van you are of Bell or ve Butcha—or me?”

“It’s in a different way,” said Coppy. “You see, one of these days Miss Allerdyce will belong to me, but you’ll grow up and command the Regiment and—all sorts of things. It’s quite different, you see.”

“Very well,” said Wee Willie Winkie, rising. “If you’re fond of ve big girl, I won’t tell any one. I must go now.”

Coppy rose and escorted his small guest to the door, adding—“You’re the best of little fellows, Winkie. I tell you what. In thirty days from now you can tell if you like—tell any one you like.”

Thus the secret of the Brandis-Allardyce engagement was dependent on a little child’s word. Coppy, who knew Wee Willie Winkie’s idea of truth, was at ease, for he felt that he would not break promises. Wee Willie Winkie betrayed a special and unusual interest in Miss Allardyce, and, slowly revolving round that embarrassed young lady, was used to regard her gravely with unwinking eye. He was trying to discover why Coppy should have kissed her. She was not half so nice as his own mother. On the other hand, she was Coppy’s property, and would in time belong to him. Therefore it behooved him to treat her with as much respect as Coppy’s big sword or shiny pistol.

The idea that he shared a great secret in common with Coppy kept Wee Willie Winkie unusually virtuous for three weeks. Then the Old Adam broke out, and he made what he called a “camp-fire” at the bottom of the garden. How could he have foreseen that the flying sparks would have lighted the Colonel’s little hay-rick and consumed a week’s store for the horses? Sudden and swift was the punishment—deprivation of the good-conduct badge and, most sorrowful of all, two days’ confinement to barracks—the house and veranda—coupled with the withdrawal of the light of his father’s countenance.

He took the sentence like the man he strove to be, drew himself up with a quivering under-lip, saluted, and, once clear of the room, ran to weep bitterly in his nursery—called by him “my quarters.” Coppy came in the afternoon and attempted to console the culprit.

“I’m under awwest,” said Wee Willie Winkie mournfully, “and I didn’t ought to speak to you.”

Very early the next morning he climbed on to the roof of the house—that was not forbidden—and beheld Miss Allardyce going for a ride.

“Where are you going?” cried Wee Willie Winkie.

“Across the river,” she answered, and trotted forward.

Now the cantonment in which the 195th lay was bounded on the north by a river—dry in the winter. From his earliest years, Wee Willie Winkie had been forbidden to go across the river, and had noted that even Coppy—the almost almighty Coppy—had never set foot beyond it. Wee Willie Winkie had once been read to, out of a big blue book, the history of the Princess and the Goblins—a most wonderful tale of a land where the Goblins were always warring with the children of men until they were defeated by one Curdie. Ever since that date it seemed to him that the bare black and purple hills across the river were inhabited by Goblins, and, in truth, every one had said that there lived the Bad Men. Even in his own house the lower halves of the windows were covered with green paper on account of the Bad Men who might, if allowed clear view, fire into peaceful drawing-rooms and comfortable bedrooms. Certainly, beyond the river, which was the end of all the Earth, lived the Bad Men. And here was Major Allardyce’s big girl, Coppy’s property, preparing to venture into their borders! What would Coppy say if anything happened to her? If the Goblins ran off with her as they did with Curdie’s Princess? She must at all hazards be turned back.

The house was still. Wee Willie Winkie reflected for a moment on the very terrible wrath of his father; and then—broke his arrest! It was a crime unspeakable. The low sun threw his shadow, very large and very black, on the trim garden-paths, as he went down to the stables and ordered his pony. It seemed to him in the hush of the dawn that all the big world had been bidden to stand still and look at Wee Willie Winkie guilty of mutiny. The drowsy _sais_ gave him his mount, and, since the one great sin made all others insignificant, Wee Willie Winkie said that he was going to ride over to Coppy Sahib, and went out at a foot-pace, stepping on the soft mould of the flower-borders.

The devastating track of the pony’s feet was the last misdeed that cut him off from all sympathy of Humanity. He turned into the road, leaned forward, and rode at fast as the pony could put foot to the ground in the direction of the river.

But the liveliest of twelve-two ponies can do little against the long canter of a Waler. Miss Allardyce was far ahead, had passed through the crops, beyond the Police-posts, when all the guards were asleep, and her mount was scattering the pebbles of the river-bed as Wee Willie Winkie left the cantonment and British India behind him. Bowed forward and still flogging, Wee Willie Winkie shot into Afghan territory, and could just see Miss Allardyce a black speck flickering across the stony plain. The reason of her wandering was simple enough. Coppy, in a tone of too-hastily-assumed authority, had told her over night that she must not ride out by the river. And she had gone to prove her own spirit and teach Coppy a lesson.

Almost at the foot of the inhospitable hills, Wee Willie Winkie saw the Waler blunder and come down heavily. Miss Allardyce struggled clear, but her ankle had been severely twisted, and she could not stand. Having fully shown her spirit, she wept, and was surprised by the apparition of a white, wide-eyed child in khaki, on a nearly spent pony.

“Are you badly, badly hurted?” shouted Wee Willie Winkie, as soon as he was within range. “You didn’t ought to be here.”

“I don’t know,” said Miss Allardyce ruefully, ignoring the reproof. “Good gracious, child, what are _you_ doing here?”

“You said you was going acwoss ve wiver,” panted Wee Willie Winkie, throwing himself off his pony. “And nobody—not even Coppy—must go acwoss ve wiver, and I came after you ever so hard, but you wouldn’t stop, and now you’ve hurted yourself, and Coppy will be angwy wiv me, and—I’ve bwoken my awwest! I’ve bwoken my awwest!”

The future Colonel of the 195th sat down and sobbed. In spite of the pain in her ankle, the girl was moved.

“Have you ridden all the way from cantonments, little man? What for?”

“You belonged to Coppy. Coppy told me so!” wailed Wee Willie Winkie disconsolately. “I saw him kissing you, and he said he was fonder of you van Bell or ve Butcha or me. And so I came. You must get up and come back. You didn’t ought to be here. Vis is a bad place, and I’ve bwoken my awwest.”

“I can’t move, Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, with a groan. “I’ve hurt my foot. What shall I do?”

She showed a readiness to weep anew, which steadied Wee Willie Winkie, who had been brought up to believe that tears were the depth of unmanliness. Still, when one is as great a sinner as Wee Willie Winkie, even a man may be permitted to break down.

“Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, “when you’ve rested a little, ride back and tell them to send out something to carry me back in. It hurts fearfully.”

The child sat still for a little time, and Miss Allardyce closed her eyes; the pain was nearly making her faint. She was roused by Wee Willie Winkie tying up the reins on his pony’s neck and setting it free with a vicious cut of his whip that made it whicker. The little animal headed towards the cantonments.

“Oh, Winkie! What are you doing?”

“Hush!” said Wee Willie Winkie. “Vere’s a man coming—one of ve Bad Men. I must stay wiv you. My faver says a man must _always_ look after a girl. Jack will go home, and ven vey’ll come and look for us. Vat’s why I let him go.”

Not one man, but two or three, had appeared from behind the rocks of the hills, and the heart of Wee Willie Winkie sank within him, for just in this manner were the Goblins wont to steal out and vex Curdie’s soul. Thus had they played in Curdie’s garden (he had seen the picture), and thus had they frightened the Princess’s nurse. He heard them talking to each other, and recognized with joy the bastard Pushto that he had picked up from one of his father’s grooms lately dismissed. People who spoke that tongue could not be the Bad Men. They were only natives, after all.

They came up to the boulders on which Miss Allardyce’s horse had blundered.

Then rose from the rock Wee Willie Winkie, child of the Dominant Race, aged six and three-quarters, and said briefly and emphatically, “_Jao!_” The pony had crossed the river-bed.

The man laughed, and laughter from natives was the one thing Wee Willie Winkie could not tolerate. He asked them what they wanted and why they did not depart. Other men with most evil faces and crooked-stocked guns crept out of the shadows of the hills, till, soon, Wee Willie Winkie was face to face with an audience some twenty strong. Miss Allardyce screamed.

“Who are you?” said one of the men.

“I am the Colonel Sahib’s son, and my order is that you go at once. You black men are frightening the Miss Sahib. One of you must run into cantonments and take the news that the Miss Sahib has hurt herself, and that the Colonel’s son is here with her.”

“Put our feet into the trap?” was the laughing reply. “Hear this boy’s speech!”

“Say that I sent you—I, the Colonel’s son. They will give you money.”

“What is the use of this talk? Take up the child and the girl, and we can at least ask for the ransom. Ours are the villages on the heights,” said a voice in the background.

These _were_ the Bad Men—worse than Goblins—and it needed all Wee Willie Winkie’s training to prevent him from bursting into tears. But he felt that to cry before a native, excepting only his mother’s _ayah_, would be an infamy greater than any mutiny. Moreover, he, as future Colonel of the 195th, had that grim regiment at his back.

“Are you going to carry us away?” said Wee Willie Winkie, very blanched and uncomfortable.

“Yes, my little Sahib Bahadur,” said the tallest of the men, “and eat you afterwards.”

“That is child’s talk,” said Wee Willie Winkie. “Men do not eat men.”

A yell of laughter interrupted him, but he went on firmly—“And if you do carry us away, I tell you that all my regiment will come up in a day and kill you all without leaving one. Who will take my message to the Colonel Sahib?”

Speech in any vernacular—and Wee Willie Winkie had a colloquial acquaintance with three—was easy to the boy who could not yet manage his “r’s” and “th’s” aright.