Chapter IV (1)

WILLY always walked home from school alone. The school was round the corner of the square, and he would have felt it below his dignity to be fetched.

He had been inattentive at lessons all day; he could not get the thought of that grieving child out of his head.

His father had not returned, as he often did, at lunchtime. Was the baby better? Was it worse? Had the angel of Death taken it away from its sister-mother?

He answered his teacher in such an anyhow manner that the kind lady shook her head and said the fog had got into his brain, and that his geography and history and Latin grammar had lost their way there, and were knocking against each other.

When afternoon class was over, instead of returning home straight he looked about him.

It was a most uncomfortable afternoon. It was misty above and muddy below, the snow had begun to melt and the sky was murky.

Willy looked up to the yellow sky once, and down on the ground, and then he set off running. He made a dash to the right, and then he ran on until he came to a turning on the left. He kept on running until he came to a shabby street which lay at the back of the handsome thoroughfares. The street had a depressed yet genteel air; it seemed an apologetic street, as if it were a humble relation of the very rich neighbouring streets.

This was the street where Janie lived. He knew the number of the house—No. 14. It was more slippery here. There was very little light, except where there was a great stream of brilliant gas, which issued from a public-house. Groups were standing about—rough groups of men and women; laughter and loud talk streamed through the door.

Willy hurried on faster, but the ground was so slippery that suddenly he fell. There was a roar of hoarse laughter. Willy picked himself up; he did not look to the right or left; he went on once more.

Where was No. 14? It was like trying to find a house in a nightmare; every number seemed to be there except No. 14. The tall houses with their dingy windows seemed to be mocking him.

It was growing colder and darker and more slippery. The street seemed never to come to an end. He thought he would turn back, and yet something in his heart seemed to urge him to go on to little Janie.

All at once it stood before him, with a gas-light shining inside and throwing the number out distinctly—No. 14.

He stood on tip-toe and knocked, and the door was opened by a very fat woman. Willy thought she was the fattest woman he had ever seen. She had three double chins.

"Dear, dear! I thought you were the doctor," she said, in a melancholy gurgle.

"I am the doctor's son," replied Willy, with an air that implied it was the next best thing.

Then a fat man, who was, if possible, fatter than the fat woman, came out and looked at Willy.

"I want to know how the baby is," said Willy feeling shy.

"Bless him!" said the fat woman, sighing.

"Bless him!" said the fat man.

Willy looked from one to the other. They did not say how the baby was, but repeated "Bless him!" and sighed.

"I'll take the little gentleman up," said the fat woman dolefully.

"No; I'll take him," said the fat man. "She is too fat to go up easily," he added, with a twinkle in his small eyes.

He led the way; he seemed to grunt at every step.

Up, up they went. The higher they went the shabbier grew the stairs, the dingier the walls; and what with the yellow sky outside, and the dismal look of the house, and the melancholy panting of his guide, Willy's heart grew heavier and heavier.

At last the fat man stopped before a door and knocked. Willy's heart felt like lead. What grief was he about to behold?

His first impression was of a brightly-burning fire, of a familiar little figure stirring something in a saucepan. It looked round as he entered, dropped the spoon, and ran to meet him, forefinger pressed on lips. It was Janie. She was pale and heavy-eyed, but the despair was gone from her face.

"Baby is better; come and see," she whispered, taking Willy's hand and leading him to the cot's side. The baby looked pale, but was sleeping peacefully.

"Don't she look fine?" whispered Janie softly, drawing the blanket closer about the baby.

A thin old man, with long, straight, white hair, was sitting in the shadow on the other side of the bed. "Yes, yes, she is going to be well again. The little mother has nursed her back to life. She will soon be as merry again as a fiddle playing at a pantomime," he said in a gay whisper.

"That's Uncle Sam, I let him sing baby to sleep," said Janie, flitting back to her saucepan.

The old man nodded to Willy, "Sit down, sir, sit down; you're kindly welcome."

"He is the little boy of the doctor who is making baby well," whispered Janie, who had flitted back to the bedside, and was giving a pat to baby's pillow.

"Father's so clever! He makes everybody well whom he attends," said Willy, proudly.

"Begging your pardon, sir, the little mother there had something to do with it, too. Why, she makes a poultice as soon as look at it, and gruel that's as pleasant as a tune to take. She nurses us all," said the old man.

"No; it's the doctor made her well," said Janie.

"Little mother helped, bless her!" said the fat man, in a voice soft, suetty, and slow.

If a plum pudding could speak, it would have just such a voice.

"Why, when I go to the theatre," he continued, "and see her a-dancing and pirouetting on tip-toe, I split my sides laughing, thinking that's the little mother. At night there's a fairy for ye, and in the day ye see her a-boiling, and cooking, and nursing, and ye say there's a grannie for ye, and she's Janie all the time—little Janie Sprigs."

"Hush!" said Janie, for the baby had begun to move.

"That's true, every word of it," said the old man, rubbing his hands, and, forgetting to whisper, speaking in a shrill voice. "It is Janie and the doctor together!" He gave a thump to the pillow. "They're like the bow and the fiddle making music together—they're making baby well." He gave another thump, and the baby, waking, began to cry.

"Go away, Uncle Sam," cried Janie, coming up with outstretched arms. "Ye've no thought but of your fiddle. You forget baby is not a senseless thing."

She took up the wailing child in her arms, and began walking up and down, soothing and hushing its cries.

With its wraps and its shawls, and its large head bobbing against Janie's shoulder, the baby looked as large as did its tender nurse.

Willy watched the motherly little figure, and noted how worn and white was Janie's face, and something like a feeling of reverence stole into his heart for that poorly-clad girl.

"That's the way she has been all night, a-walking up and down, never resting; never a wink of sleep did she take, and to think she's a-going to dance at the theatre to-night," said Uncle Sam.

"Dance!" cried Willy, aghast.

"I am a-going to-night," cried Janie, stopping straight in front of Willy, rocking softly backwards and forwards to keep the baby still. "Everything must be paid for, and I'm a-going to dance, to pay for things. If baby had died I'd never have danced no more—never." She gave a little hug closer to the child in her arms. "But now, as she's going to live, I'll dance—dance till—" her voice choked.

"Till baby is danced into health, and baby is danced into education and grows tall and hearty. God bless the little mother!" said the doctor, who suddenly came into the room.

"Yea, God bless her!" said the thin old man and the fat landlord.

"I could not help coming," said Willy, as he caught his father's astonished glance. "I wanted to know how the baby was."

"You may hold her!" said Janie; and before he knew where he was the big-headed baby was in his arms.

"Oh!" said Willy, in a great fright lest he should drop it.

Janie snatched it back in a moment. "Why you are as awkward as Uncle Sam," she cried with a laugh.

And now the fat landlady came panting into the room, saying it was time to get ready for the play.

Then all was fuss and bustle. Baby was put into Fatty's arms, and Janie gave all sorts of directions as she put on her cloak and hat in a hurry.

"You'll come and see me dance?" she said to Willy.

"I would rather come here," he replied.

"He would rather see the little mother than the fairy Pea Blossom," said the doctor.

"That is true," exclaimed Willy.

"Good-bye," said Janie, taking Willy's hand—suddenly she stooped and kissed it—"I like you because you care for the baby," she said, and was off.

How the Starling Caught Cold.

A GARDEN LEGEND.

_BY GEO. MANVILLE FENN,_

AUTHOR OF "DICK O' THE FENS," "IN THE KING'S NAME,"
"NAT THE NATURALIST," &c., &c.

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"HALLO!"

"Spuzz!"

"Eh?"

"Spitz, spuzz."

It was a marigold with an orange frill about her neck that said "Hallo!" and it was a queer looking, zigzag, blunt headed creature, with his perambulators doubled under him making him look like an insect engine, that emitted the harsh sounds as soon as he had alighted on one of the leaves of the marigold.

Then there was a pause till the soft breeze stole through the garden, when the Canterbury bell gave forth a gentle tinkle that nobody could hear, the sunflower bowed his head and scratched one petal against a garden nail in the old brick wall, and a bird away in the meadow cried, "Cuckoo."

"Spuzz, spuzz, spitz, spuzz!" came from the little creature on the marigold's leaf, as if it had touched a spring and set its works in motion.

"Well," cried the marigold, "of all the crinketty cranketty creatures that ever came for a walk on me, you are about the queerest. What are you! A green wasp walking on stilts?"

"Spuzz, spitz, spuzz!"

"I say, what are you a doing of?" cried the marigold, who was a very vulgar flower.

"Spuzz, spuzz!"

"Well, don't spuzz again," cried the marigold. "Why I do declare you've got saws on your legs. What yer doing of? Trying to saw off your wings?"

"Spuzz, spuzz!"

"Here, what's your name?"

"Spitz, spuzz!"

"Then I hope you're proud of it. Is it a Christian name or a surname?"

There was a curiously rapid mechanical motion of the angular legs, and a repetition of the sound like a tooth-pick being rubbed along the edge a small comb.

"I don't know what you say," shouted the marigold.

"Spuzz, spuzz, spuzz!"

"He's a foreigner," said the marigold to herself. "Shouldn't wonder if he's one of the queer things that come over in boxes with the bulbs." Then aloud, "Are you from foreign abroad?"

"Tchah, tchizz! Nonsense: I am as English as you are!"

"Then why didn't you say so sooner?"

"You didn't say I was a foreigner sooner."

"Then why do you keep on saying, 'spuzz, spuzz,' every time one speaks?"

"I don't know," said the little stranger, "spuzz, spuzz!"

"That's it! why do you keep on saying that?"

"I don't. Spuzz, spuzz!"

"O my! You wicked thing," cried the marigold, "why you said it then."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did; I heard you."

"Stuff! people don't talk with their legs, do they?"

"Well, no," said the marigold. "I don't think they do. But," she added, triumphantly, "they talk with their hands. I've seen the gardener's deaf and dumb boy."

"But this isn't talking; I always go like that."

"Why?"

"Because it is my nature to. See here."

As he spoke he set his legs in motion, and made the peculiarly sharp sound again.

"Oh, I say, don't!" cried the marigold. "It tickles."

"Eh?"

"It makes me feel all creepy. What's the good of doing it?"

"I don't know," said the little fellow, "but I always do."

"Humph!" said the marigold, waving a leaf thoughtfully, "you are a rum-looking fellow. Why you've got your legs all dibbly-double under your body. Don't it hurt?"

"Not a bit. They're spring-heeled-jack legs. I can jump like a kangaroo with them. Didn't you see me jump on to your leaf?"

"No: you flew on."

"That I didn't."

"Of course you didn't," said the marigold thoughtfully. "You haven't any wings."

"That I have; beauties!"

"Where are they, then?" said the marigold. "At home?"

"No; folded up neatly in their cases. Spuzz, spuzz!"

"I say, don't do that!" cried the marigold angrily. "It isn't nice."

"Isn't it? Spuzz, spuzz!"

"Don't—do—that; it's rude. You don't see me playing scratchy tunes with my legs."

"You couldn't. You haven't got any legs."

"Well, perhaps not legs," said the marigold, giving her head a gentle toss. "But I've got a leg, and foot-stalks. How else could I stand?"

"Oh, I don't know," said the queer little fellow. "On your head, perhaps. Wizz, wizzle, wizz, spitz, spuzz."

"Why can't you leave off when you are asked?" said the marigold, looking quite annoyed. "How can you be so rude? I wasn't planted here for you to come and stand upon and saw."

"How do you know? Why shouldn't I stand on you? I always do on the tall grass in the meadows. Spuzz!"

"Then go and stand on the tall grass now. You jar me all through. Don't come sharpening your wooden saws on me."

"Get out, you nasty proud yellow-faced thing! It's no such very great pleasure to stop on your rough leaf."

"Rough, indeed," said the marigold.

"Yes, rough; and what common scent you use. Pah! It's disgusting!"

"Well, I'm sure!" cried the marigold, colouring up, and growing so excited that she opened a fresh bud. "And of all the nasty—Well now! look at that! Why he went off like a cold firework!"

For all at once the little fellow gave a double kick, and darted through the air to alight on the big, soft leaf of a moth mullein.

"Not at home," said the tall plant, as the curious little fellow began to walk up his high spire like a Steeple Jack, right to the very top, where he gave another kick, darted through the air, and alighted on the snapdragon's finest sprig.

"Here! hi!" cried the flower. "Keep off the grass! mean, don't turn me into a door-mat. I mean, are your feet clean?"

"Of course they are, old dragon's mouth."

"Don't call names," said the flower fiercely. "What do you want?"

"Only a friendly visit. I've just come out of the fields."

"But who are you? Not one of our insect friends?"

"I'm the grasshopper."

"Then why don't you go and hop on your grass?" said the flower shortly.

"Well, the fact is," said the grasshopper, "honey is dreadfully scarce out there this season, so I've come on my travels. I've come hopping."

"Well, you're not coming hopping here. I don't grow hops."

"You? No!" said the artful little insect. "You are too beautiful. My! what lovely colours!"

The snapdragon coughed slightly, feeling flattered.

"And what a sweet expression there is about your mouth."

"Oh, really! I don't know," said the snapdragon.

"Oh, but I do."

"Well, I must own that I have been admired," said the foolish flower.

"Admired! I should think so, indeed. What a pity it is though that you have no honey."

"No honey! Why I've plenty."

"Where? Down in your roots?"

"Nonsense! In my blossoms, shut up close."

"Dear me!" said the grasshopper. "Well, with honey and such lovely colours you only want a little scent to make you perfect."

"I'm quite as perfect as I wish to be," said the snapdragon.

"And as I wish you to be," replied the grasshopper. "But, I say, isn't it nearly lunch time?"

"What do you mean?"

"Thought perhaps you might feel disposed to offer me a little honey. Just a wee taste, you know."

"Oh, I couldn't think of such a thing. I don't even give any to the bees."

"Really!"

"No; not a bit."

"What do you do with it then?"

"Keep it till it's stolen."

"Better give it away then. Who steals it?"

"Oh, some wretched little insects eat a hole through my flowers close up to the stalk, and get it all."

"Well, you might give me a taste," said the grasshopper. "There, open your mouth, and shut your eyes. I won't take much."

"But if I did, you'd creep in, and wouldn't go again when I told you."

"Oh! don't say that! On the honour of a grasshopper. Now just you try me. Oh! you beauty."

"Well," said the flower, smiling with every mouth, "I think I will try you, for I don't like to be greedy. But mind, you are not to have much; and when I cry, 'Stop!' out you must come."

"Spitz, spuzz, spuzz, spuzz, spuzz!"

"Oh, I say, don't!" cried the snapdragon in alarm. "Why if you did that when you were in one of my blossoms you'd tickle my throat, and make me cough."

"That was because I was so pleased. It was only my hop legs."

"Then you had better leave your legs outside."

"Well, I couldn't very well do that," said the grasshopper; "but don't you be alarmed. You may trust me."

As he spoke he could not contain his joy in the anticipation of a feast that was not even offered to the bees; and he went off with such a fierce fizz that it sounded as if he had let off a baby cracker all at once.

"There!" cried the snapdragon, "you see you really are not to be trusted."

"That was like a clearing up shower," said the grasshopper. "Come along; open your mouth, and give us a taste."

"I really hardly like to venture," replied the snapdragon.

"You don't trust me, and yet I'm ready to trust you. Suppose I said I was afraid you might bite me in two."

"But I've got no teeth," cried the flower.

"Well, there then," cried the grasshopper, "fair play's a jewel, I'll trust you if you'll trust me."

"But couldn't you really leave your legs outside?"

"Impossible! the birds might steal them while I was gone, and where should I be then?"

"In my blossom."

"Yes, but where would my legs be?"

"Well, I will trust you," said the flower, opening one of its blossoms slowly. "And you will come out when I call?"

The grasshopper wanted no second permission, but often declaring upon his honour that he would come out when called, he crept into the open flower, and without heeding a remonstrance to be careful—consequent upon his scratching the roof of the snapdragon's mouth with his awkward top joints—he dashed right to the end, and began feasting merrily upon the flower's honey pots, eating ten times as much as was good for him or just to the generous flower.

"Gently, please!" said the snapdragon.

"'Lishus," said the grasshopper thickly.

"I think that will do now," said the snapdragon.

"'Tis good!" replied the grasshopper, smacking his lips, "rather thick sticky sort of honey, though."

"Yes, you have had enough."

"Can't hear what you say. The door's shut."

The snapdragon opened the door immediately—a regular yawning mouth, all rose, amber, orange and gold, but the grasshopper gobbled away.

"Door's open now," said the snapdragon. "Come out!"

"Shan't!" said the voracious little monster.

"Don't answer in that rude manner, but come out," cried the snapdragon.

"Had too much trouble to get in," said the grasshopper.

"Now don't be unfair. I trusted you," said the snapdragon, "so come out."

"Not I! I am going to stop."

"If you do not come out directly," cried the flower angrily, "I'll shut the door, and you'll be obliged to stay."

"Don't care!"

"'Don't care' came to a bad end."

"But he had no honey pots to feast upon. One can't starve here."

"Now then, I warn you," said the snapdragon. "Come out!"

"Shan't!"

"I warn you again."

"Don't care!"

"I'll shut you up in prison for stealing."

"Shut away!"

"'Snap!'"

That was the noise made by the flower dragon's mouth, and then there was silence, while the grasshopper kept on eating away till he could eat no more.

"Phew!" he said; "it's rather hot in here. What nasty sticky honey it is."

There was a pause.

"Oh, dear me!" he said. "I didn't think this place was so tight. One can't turn round. Must have another taste, though."

He attacked the honey once more, but left off directly.

"Bah! not good honey—much too sweet. Here, open your mouth; I've had enough of this stuff."

"Of course," said the snapdragon. "You've broken faith, so you may stop in now till I choose to let you out."

"Here, open this door," cried the grasshopper. "Be quick, or I'll kick it down. This honey's stifling, and I've got it all over my front."

"You'll stop there till I please to let you out," said the flower, angrily.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" cried the grasshopper. "Well, we will soon see who is master. Do you know I can kick?"

"No; but I know you can hop sometimes. You can't hop now."

"Do you want me to choke you?"

"You may do just what you like," said the snapdragon, sternly. "I've got you, and I don't mean to let you go."

"How tight and hot this nasty place is!" grumbled the grasshopper, "and how fearfully sticky. Only wait till I get out. Here, open this door!"

The grasshopper waited a few minutes to see if the flower would set him at liberty, but he waited in vain, and, growing fierce now, he drew up his legs.

"Now then," he said, "we shall see!"

There was a moment's pause, and then he began to saw away, rasping the edges of his wing cases and making such a jarring, hideous noise as was never heard before in blossom or bell.

"Spuz-z-z-z-z. Fidz-z-z-z-z-z. Budz-z-z-z-z-z. Dzar-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-z-z-z-z-z-z," and the sound was a hundred times the more strange from being shut up in the quaint-looking flower.

"Oh, my pods and seeds!" exclaimed the snapdragon, "this is horrible. It tickles my throat so! I can't bear it. I—Oh, dear me! It is impossible to bear this. I shall—shall—"

The snapdragon did not say what it would do, but began to cough so violently that its mouth opened wide, and the grasshopper laughed, and began to back out with a shuffling motion.

He laughed too soon, for, annoyed by its enemy's mirth, the flower snapped its mouth to again, and there was the grasshopper, caught tightly round the middle, and with its long, dibble-double legs kicking about outside, with nothing to rest on, like a frog swimming in water, but without being able to move away, for the honey thief was regularly caught in a trap.

It was a tight trap, too, and one in which he was helpless, for though he kicked and threw out his legs, and tried to rasp the little combs upon the edges of his wing cases, so as to make his jarring sounds, he could not reach them, and as he kicked the flower looked on and laughed; while, to make matters worse for him, a merry blue larkspur which grew close by began to tickle him with his spurs, making the little fellow kick more than ever.

"Serve him right for being rude," said the marigold.

"Put him on a kicking-strap with one of my leaves," said the ribbon grass.

"No, no; let the greedy little creature be," cried the snapdragon. "I'll punish him, and—oh! he's gone!"

No wonder: for the snapdragon had opened the wrong mouth when he spoke, and suffered like the crow with the cheese in the fable. For the grasshopper dropped down on the ground quite out of breath with his struggles. He soon recovered though, and vented his spleen upon the snapdragon by backing up close to the stems, and kicking and rasping till the poor flower was all of a quiver, and gaped, and looked foolish with its many mouths.

After a long rest the grasshopper made a fresh start. He began though by leaping upon the helpless snapdragon, and then jumped to and fro, whizzing at the flower derisively. From there he hopped on to the marigold's leaf, serving her the same, before making one grand effort which sent him flying through the air into the mignonette, which he insulted by telling the tiny flower it smelt nasty.

A sharp spring carried the mechanical-looking little creature into the grass, where he crawled up a stout bent, gathered up his strength, and leaped to the foot of the lily.

"Get away!" cried the elegant lady of the silver chalice and golden dust, but the grasshopper had no reverence, and crawled right to the tip-top bud for a few moments, before spinning himself right away on to the sunflower's high stem.

"Oh! you're here now!" said the giant, shaking his great head.

But the grasshopper was out of temper, and contented himself with turning the tall flower into a scaffold from which he could leap on to the velvet-green moss on the top of the red brick wall.

"Here we are!" he cried joyously, as he rubbed his legs and emitted his harsh, horny sound, and from the point of vantage he looked right and left, hesitating whether to leap to the right, among the flowers, or to the left, among the vegetables.

He had no time, though, to choose, for a fat young blackbird in mottled-brown came hopping along the top of the wall, caught sight of the insect, and made an inexperienced dab at him with his soft beak. He was quick, but the grasshopper was quicker, and flew hurriedly away into the tall, green feathers of the carrot, where there was room to hide from all the sharp-eyed birds in the garden.

"No business here," said the biggest carrot in the bed. "Do you hear? No business in my bed."

"Spuzz!" went the grasshopper derisively, as he slowly climbed the tallest leaf. "I shall stop as long as I—"

"Peck!" went the robin, caught the little fellow by the waist, and flew away, flitter, flutter, till the grasshopper drew his legs well up under him, and then gave so loud and jarring a spuzz that the robin said "murder!" opening his beak in his fright, and down went the little grasshopper right into the heart of the fattest cabbage in the garden.

"Oh! spuzz, spuzz. I shall be killed if I don't go back to the fields. I'll creep down here to be safe."

"No lodgings to let," said the fat cabbage, "I'm eaten up as it is. There are the earwigs and little earwigses in number two; there's a snail in number four with a small family; fourteen caterpillars in number six; and every other leaf occupied by slugs, except number a hundred-and-two, which has been turned into a storehouse for new laid eggs. And now you've come."

"Spuzz, spuzz. Ditz. And I mean to stop," cried the grasshopper. "Who are you?"

"I'm a regular riddle," said the cabbage, "so full of holes you must give me up. Everybody takes advantage of me without so much as saying by your leaf. But, I say, who are you?"

"The grasshopper."

"Mind that bird," whispered the cabbage, as a sparrow alighted on an apple tree, and looked down with his head on one side.

"Fizz!" went the grasshopper into the mint, and made the sparrow stare. Spuzz again, and he was down among the thyme. Away into the curly-headed parsley, and off to the wise old sage, but after taking a sniff at sweet marjoram and another at balm, he declared the herbs were a dowdy lot, and not half so nice as new mown hay.

Off on his travels again he hopped and spun about from vegetable to tree and bush, and then on to the wall once more, where he stopped for a rest and looked down at the flowers.

"Now then," he cried, "here goes for the biggest spin of all, and then I'll have another feast on the snapdragon's honey."

His wings must have been used that time, for the spin seemed many yards long, but instead of his coming down in the flower bed, he made too big a leap, and dropped upon the other side right on the lawn, when—

"Peck!"

A sharp-billed starling had him by the middle.

"Fidz-fidz-fidz, wizz-wizz-wizzle," went the grasshopper's combs, but he began too late. The starling had dropped him, but it was down inside, and thus they say he lives still in the starling's throat. For though there are many who think that the speckled, sharp-billed bird has made himself hoarse by getting up too early in search of grubs, the genuine truth in Birdland is that his cold was caught by swallowing the grasshopper, and, for proof of this, you have but to listen to the starling's note as he sits high up in some elm tree, with the spiky feathers of his head and throat erect.

Sweet, melodious, and true come his notes—sweeter than those of a thrush, pure as the soft flute of the blackbird for two or three bars of his song, and then you hear the grasshopper in his throat, wizzling and wheezing, all sputter and fidz, like the rasping of the tiny combs of the insect's legs on the horny cases at his sides.

But someone says, "This can't be true?"

Well, in the chronicles of Birdland nothing is written down. Everything is handed from parent to child by word of beak, and I must confess that the only thing in support of the truth of this legend is the starling's husky, wheezing song.

Chéri's Second Escapade.

_BY MRS. MOLESWORTH,_

AUTHOR OF "A CHRISTMAS POSY," "HERR BABY," "CARROTS," &c.

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HE told it to Evie himself this time. How he managed it, and how "she" managed it: he the telling, she the understanding, I'm sure I can't say. But "I" have it from Evie, for clever as she is at foreign languages—and of all foreign languages I should think "dog" language the hardest to learn—she always declares she can't write down even the simplest story in at all an interesting way. So I said I would do it for her. It does seem a pity that naughty Chéri's second escapade should not be told, for a lesson to dogs, and also to too confiding mistresses of the same.

You remember—each of you, my dear children, who read "Jack Frost's Little Prisoners," two, no, "three" Christmases ago—dear, dear, how time flies!—the story of Chéri's first running away from his happy home. You may perhaps remember how he finished up by hinting that "some day" he thought he might possibly repeat this piece of disobedience. But time passed, and Chéri grew older, and, all his friends began to hope, wiser. Any way there were no signs for a long time of any rebellion on the part of the small person, and everyone interested in him began to breathe freely.

But there came a day, an unfortunate day, in which Chéri went out a walk with his two mistresses, Evie and Dolly—not that Dolly is really his mistress, he is Evie's very own dog, but Dolly is very fond of him, and "very" good to him, and when Evie is away he attaches himself to Dolly as second-best. They were not going far from home, and they had come to have perfect confidence in him, so he was without a "lead," as I believe it is called, free to ramble about a little and make small excursions on his own account, providing he kept within a reasonable distance of the girls, or as Evie always impressed upon him, kept them "well within sight." All went right; Chéri, feeling that as a gentleman he was bound to behave in an attentive and chivalrous manner, took care not to stray far, and kept his eye on the young ladies.

They were walking on briskly, when suddenly they stopped short. It was in front of a house that looked something between a shop and a private dwelling, for though there was a large square window, there were no goods in it for sale—only a few embroidered skirts and handkerchiefs, and such things spread out in a conspicuous, conceited kind of way, as if they were saying "look at us! how clean we are, and how nicely ironed and 'got up'!" And from inside the open doorway came a rather pleasant, clean, hot smell—of freshly washed, drying linen, and irons scorching hot. It was a laundress's. The two girls stopped in front of the window as if its contents interested them very much. But that was not the attraction.

"O Dolly," said Evie, "I never can pass this place without thinking of our darling Wollops" (I must explain that "Wollops" was Chéri's "last" new name), "and the night he was lost—Oh, Dolly, 'what' we went through!—for I feel convinced this is the house he was at all the time, though, of course, I can't be 'quite' sure. They have a horrid little common dog, I have seen him several times. 'Very' likely dear Chéri came here to pay him a visit just out of kind feeling: he has such a good heart. Oh, see, Doll, there is the dog."

For at that moment "Prince," an ugly, nominally white, but really grey, woolly dog with a pink nose—looking not unlike a very dirty big toy-lamb, came out to air himself on the steps.

"'What' an ugly dog!" Dolly exclaimed.

Her voice unluckily attracted Chéri's attention—he had been amusing himself by snuffing at a piece of orange-peel on the curbstone, which at first sight, he thought looked like something good, for Chéri's eyes are not as sharp as they might be, in consequence, perhaps, of the shaggy hair that always overhangs them. But Dolly's exclamation made him turn round, and there, on the door-step, he recognized his friend Prince.

Chéri bristled—this is a figurative expression; nothing could really make his long shaggy silky coat bristle—with indignation.

"Ugly dog, indeed!" he said to himself. "My good Prince. I hope he did not catch the word. Impertinent chit, that Dolly is," and full of anxiety to make amends, up he trotted.

The two dogs had not met for fully two years.

"Upon my word, my dear fellow, this is a pleasure," said Chéri, throwing all the cordiality he could into his bark. "I have so often thought of you, and wished to see you again, since the—the pleasant visit I paid you some time ago."

"H'm," returned Prince, with a slight snarl, "doesn't seem very like it, I must say. You might have looked me up before now, I should think, if—"

"Oh, 'oh,' Evie," shrieked Dolly, "they're going to fight. Look at that nasty, horrid, pink-nosed creature; he 'is' so snarling. Come away, Chéri; 'come away,' sir, I say!"

Chéri turned, and looked at her with bold contempt.

"'Lord, what fools these mortals be!'" he would probably have ejaculated had he known the quotation. What he did—bark—was this:

"'Sir,' indeed, Miss Dolly! ordering me about in this way, and insulting my friend!" Then he turned to Prince, who stood there, pretending he understood what Dolly said, though he really didn't.

"My young ladies are nervous," he said. "You see, when I am out in charge of them I make them my first thought. They are, perhaps, a little jealous of my attentions. So for the moment, my good Prince, I must leave you; but I will look in one day very soon. I will, I assure you, seize the very first opportunity. To—to tell the truth—I was not quite sure of your address."

"All right," said Prince, who was really not an ill-natured dog, "always pleased to see you. Bring a bone with you if you like, and we'll have a nice crunch together."

This was a little vulgar, but Chéri was in a contradictory humour, and determined to stand up for Prince the more Dolly spoke against him.

He followed the girls, feeling very irate.

"We must be very careful, Evie," Dolly went on, "or we shall have Billy running off again. He 'evidently' knows that horrid pink-nosed dog."

"It's only his good-nature," said Evie. "He would never really make a friend of a common dirty dog like that. And after all we don't 'know' that it was there he went that night."

All of which remarks, as Chéri—Billy, Wollops, etc.—afterwards confessed to his mistress only made him the more determined to carry out the intention in his head.

No "opportunity," as he had said to Prince, offered itself for some days. Perhaps the girls, Dolly especially, were rather on the alert; any how, though he sneaked to the front door every time he heard the bell ring, which was not very often, as he was generally shut up in a room upstairs, and once or twice had a try at the area steps when he was having his dinner in the kitchen, he never managed to get even as far as the pavement. The young ladies did not take him out walking except with a lead, and his only running about was in the garden at the back, whence, not having wings, nor being able to climb like a cat, he could not escape.

But "Tout vient à qui sait attendre."

One evening, Evie and Dolly were out on their own account, paying a quiet visit to two young friends of theirs. The carriage came round at ten o'clock to call for their maid, who was to fetch them.

"Be sure you put Billums to bed before you come for us," had been Evie's last injunction to Thecla before starting. But Thecla was a little hurried, Chéri was in a sweet sleep on the work-room rug, she thought it a pity to disturb him, he would be "ganz recht" till she and her young ladies came home again. Ah, Thecla! Little did she dream "who" came softly creeping downstairs behind her, hidden by her skirts, who watched his moment, keeping in a shady corner of the hall, while she chattered to the footman about the address he was to tell the coachman, who sneaked out while the door was open—out, silly little self-willed dog, into the dark street—trotting off in triumph, away from his safe, happy home, into the great wide desert of London, where dog stealers abound, and Evies and Dollies are not to be met with at every turn.

He was going to call on Prince. He was quite sure he knew the way, even in the dark. And he was quite sure he could find his own home again, even though—yes, as he glanced about him a little, it did strike him that the door-steps all down the street were ridiculously, absurdly like each other. The feeble light of the gas-lamps had to do with this, doubtless; by day there were one or two little distinctions—the shape of the scraper, for instance, that he had learnt to notice. But he tossed aside all misgivings; how pleased Prince would be to see him! and he hastened his steps.

Hush! There came in the solitary street the sound of heavy, measured footsteps. A tall policeman drew near.

"A strayed dog," he said to himself, as he lowered his bull's eye to have a look at him. "Well, my fine fellow, and where do you hail from?" he was beginning, but Chéri was too sharp for him. To be captured at the outset by a policeman, and ignominiously carried home! for Chéri was conceited enough to think himself well-known in the neighbourhood. No thank you. There was a side street just where the policeman was standing. In an instant Chéri had darted round the corner, and was careering away. The policeman could have caught him had he chosen, but he thought better of it.

"Seems to know his way about," he said. "No use botherin' if he's not a real stray;" and he marched on again.

Chéri, hearing his footsteps growing fainter in the distance, stopped to look about him. Was he on his way to Prince's house? He hesitated. Then the sight of a better-lighted street some little way ahead, a street with shops, and, late as it was, cabs and carts, and plenty of people about still, made him run on again. For it was in a busy street like this that the laundress lived.

But he passed shop after shop, peeping in at several, but none looked like, none "smelt" quite like Prince's home. At last a brilliant idea struck him—he would cross the road. And cross it he did, escaping with his life more by luck than good management, I can assure you, as a heavy dray came crashing up on one side, followed by a dashing hansom, and an omnibus boomed along on the other. Chéri's heart, by the time he reached the opposite pavement, was beating so that he felt choking.

"I think," he said to himself, "that when I get to Prince's I'll ask him to put me up for the night, as he did before. It's really scandalous to allow all these carts and carriages in the street so late."

He tried to feel important, and trotted along a little way in a brisk, would-be-easy-minded fashion. But he did not arrive at the laundress's on this side of the road either, and he began to feel tired, and just a little frightened.

"I almost think," he said to himself at last, "I almost think I'll give it up for to-night. Stay; I might enquire," and as that moment he caught sight of a fox-terrier following his master, he accosted him politely.

"Excuse me," he said, "do you happen to know if a—a dog of the name of Prince lives hereabouts? They take in washing at his place, I believe."

The fox-terrier looked at him superciliously.

"I never make chance acquaintances," he said. "Washerwomen indeed! Where do you get such low tastes? You look a well-bred dog, but I advise you to make the best of your way home. It's getting late; you'll find yourself at the police station en route for Battersea, I can tell you, if you don't take care."

Chéri was terribly frightened. What did the fox-terrier mean? Police and Battersea?

"Oh dear," he thought at last, "I wish I were safe at home again. Let me see—I must cross the road—bless me, how nervous I feel."

He managed to get across, however—there were rather fewer vehicles than before. Then he ran along a little way and turned into a dark street, which he felt sure must be Winchester Crescent, "his" street. And—oh, joy!—yes, there were houses with steps, just like his house. He chose one hap-hazard; he was getting stupid and confused—the scraper seemed like his own house's scraper—and, tired and weary, he mounted to the top step and there sat himself down and whined. Whined and then yelped, till the door opened, and with a bark of delight he prepared to rush in. But "Off with you, you nasty whining thing," said a rough voice; not that of James, Chéri's own footman, but a stranger's—a cross parlour-maid, who was shutting up for the night, and had no pity for a poor, naughty little runaway. "Off with you!" and off crept Chéri—his tail very dejected, his ears very limp, his heart very, "very" sore.

He tried one or two other door-steps in vain—either no attention was paid to his piteous attempts to attract it, or he was scolded and "shoo'ed" away. Then he decided that after all this was not his street (though it was, for the cross parlour-maid, whose mistress knew Evie and Dolly, confessed the next day that had she recognized the dog she would have taken him in), and off he set again on another voyage of discovery, a fruitless one, of course. He grew very tired indeed; he remembered little more of the details of that dreary night, he told Evie only one idea haunted him—at all costs he must keep out of the way of policemen and that unknown danger the fox-terrier had told him of, "Battersea." So as soon as ever he heard the measured tramp coming down the street, off he set; the police had no need to "move him on," poor, terrified little truant, though after all they would have been his best friends had he only known it. Fortunately, it was a mild night; he must have slept a good deal, Evie thinks—slept on some dark door-step probably, or in the shade of a wall, on the cold, hard stone, uncovered, unsheltered—he, the tenderly cared-for little dog whom Evie put to bed like a baby under his blanket every night! See what comes of disobedience, children!

The next morning, as soon as it was light, he set off again to search for home. He fancied it would be easier in the day-time. But, alas! it did not prove so. And the unusual amount of exercise he had had was beginning to make him very hungry, though it was still some hours to his dinnertime. He found a crust which some "pretence beggar," as the children say, had contemptuously thrown away, and though it was dirty and muddy, he eat it thankfully enough. Then he wandered about, the streets growing more and more crowded and his stupid little brain more and more confused. Once, about eleven o'clock that morning, he heard his own name called.

"Chéri! Can that be Evangeline's Chéri?" a little girl said. And he tried to run up to her, but in an instant she was lost in the crowd. "I should have been sure to hear if he was lost," she said to her mother as they walked on. "There are so many little dogs something like him."

Not long after that, Chéri found himself in a less crowded street. He was so perfectly miserable now that he thought he would like to die, and he was wondering how he could best manage it when a cheery, good-natured voice made him look up.

"Are you lost, old fellow?" it said. And Chéri, seeing that the speaker's face matched his voice—he was a stout, honest-looking man in working clothes—pulled himself together a little, saying, "Yes, yes; I am lost indeed," as plainly as wagging tail and pleading eyes and appealing whine "could" speak.

"If I could but make him understand where I live," he said to himself. But that, alas, was out of the question.

"You'd best come 'ome with me," said the man, picking him up gently, as he spoke. "I'll leave 'im with Bella when I'm out. And there'll be posters about him in a day or two—sure to be."

So Chéri journeyed to the workman's home in the good fellow's arms. "Home" meant two rooms in a small stuffy little house, and the back room was really a work-shop, all littered over with shavings. Chéri could not make it out; he had never seen shavings before, and thought they were good to eat, and then when he found out his mistake, he was just as puzzled by the queer sort of wheel in the middle of the room, that the man was always turning. Afterwards, Evie told him that his host was a wood-turner, but I don't know that he understands what that means, even now. The shavings were not so bad, however; a little heap of them made a pretty decent bed, better than the cold stones any way, though not to be compared with his own little rug and baskets at home! But oh, how tired Chéri got of that work-room, and of the little yard about five feet square at the back, which was his only pleasure ground. For though the wood-turner and his wife were very kind to him, they never took him out. They were probably afraid of his running away, and afraid too, very likely, of being pounced upon by the police as dog stealers.

It was a good thing Evie had taken such pains to teach Chéri to understand human talking, otherwise, he would have been still more wretched than he was. For by listening to the conversation of his hosts he found there was still some hope for him. The first day or two they seemed in very good spirits. Stephens, that was the man's name, turned over his work so as to get out early to have "a look round," as he called it. And each time he came in, his wife looked up eagerly.

"Seen anything?" she said; but Stephens shook his head.

"Neither seen nor 'eard. Yet 'someone's' a enquirin' for 'im, I'm sure. He's a pet, and no mistake, wherever 'e comes from."

"That's certing," said Bella. "Just to watch 'ow he creeps up to my skirts and settles hisself as cozy as may be. It'll come—make your mind easy, Stephens. There'll be posters up in a day or two."

But a day or two, and more than a day or two passed, and no clue was found by the wood-turner. Chéri grew thin, though the poor people fed him well—so well, that they began to wonder how they could afford to keep him much longer, and Stephens decided one evening that he would go the next morning to consult a friend of his at the neighbouring mews, who was known to do a little business now and then privately in the dog line.

Chéri was lying on his heap of shavings depressed and dejected when the wood-turner came back from his visit. The dog was losing heart altogether now—he just turned his head a little and blinked feebly with his sad eyes. But Stephens' first words made him prick up his ears (this, also, I beg to say, is a figurative expression in Chéri's case) and listen eagerly for more.

"I've got on the track at last, if I'm not oncommonly mistook," he said to Mrs. Bella, as she followed him in from the other room, wiping her hands on her apron, to hear the news. Stephens was holding a newspaper, which he flourished about.

"Tom Swires, at the mews, bethought him of this 'ere. It's the great card for local advertisements, and he 'unted up last week's hissue, and just you listen, Bella."

Then Mr. Stephens proceeded to read aloud: "Lost, on the evening of the 20th May, from 58, Winchester Crescent, a small silky, long-haired Scotch terrier. Whoever brings him to the above address, will receive £1 reward."

"It's 'im," said Mrs. Stephens. "Off with you. Clean yourself up a bit first."

Chéri quivered with anxiety. He had not quite understood his hosts' conversation, for you see Evie had been very particular to accustom him only to a truly refined and cultivated way of speaking. Still, he understood a good deal; the words "58, Winchester Crescent," were very familiar.

"Oh dear, oh 'dear,'" he thought, "if it could be—oh, if I 'could' get home again!" and he crept forward, wagging his tail and staring up in Stephens' face with eyes that all but spoke.

"All right, old fellow," said the workman. "You'll give us a good character, won't you? It's been more comfortabler for you 'ere than at that there Battersea, any how."

Again that queer word. What could it mean? Evie has told him about it since. Poor Evie—she had got to know the Battersea home for strayed dogs only too well in the last few days. That very morning, she and Dolly, escorted by the faithful Thecla, had set off on their third pilgrimage thither, only to return home again saddened and hopeless. There was no Chéri there, no naughty disobedient darling, his feathery little body in a quiver of delight at the sight of his dear mistresses at last, among the scores of poor doggies in the barred-in kennels.

"I can't go there again, Dolly," said Evie as they came away. "It's too heart-breaking. Did you see how the poor dogs looked up in our faces, 'begging' us to take them home with us? No, I can't bear it. It is a very good thing, I'm sure—they are kindly treated, and have plenty of water. But I almost think the kindest part of it is that they put them to death before long."

"And without it hurting them at all," said Dolly, softly. "'Chloroform is just like going gently to sleep,' mamma says. But oh, Evie, to 'think' of what that keeper told us—that lots and lots of these dogs are very old ones, turned out by their owners on purpose! after a life of faithful service. Is it not too horrible?"

Evie shuddered.

"I wish I knew that poor Chéri was dead," she said quietly.