doorstep.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
A TALE TOLD BY THE OLD PINE-TREE.
"Dumb innocents, often too cruelly treated, May well for their patience find future reward."
Tupper.
Bonnie Berkshire! It is an expression we often make use of. BonnieBerks--bonnie even in winter, when the fields are robed in starry snow;bonnie in spring-time, when the fields are rolling clouds of tenderestgreen, when the young wheat is peeping through the brown earth, whenprimroses cluster beneath the hedgerows, and everything is so gay and sohappy and hopeful that one's very soul soars heavenwards with the lark.
But Berks I thought never looked more bonnie than it did one lovelyautumn morning, when Ida and I and the dogs walked up the hill towardsour favourite seat in the old pine wood. It was bright and cool andclear. The hedges alone were a sight, for blackthorn and brambles hadtaken leave of their senses in summer-time, and gone trailing here andclimbing there, and playing all sorts of fantastic tricks, and now withthe autumn tints upon them, they formed the prettiest patches of lightand shade imaginable; and though few were the flowers that still peepedthrough the green moss as if determined to see the last of the sunshine,who could miss them with such gorgeous colour on thorn and tree? Theleaves were still on the trees; only whenever a light gust of wind sweptthrough the tall hedge with a sound like ocean shells, Ida and I werequite lost for a time, in a shower as of scented yellow snow.
My niece put her soft little hand in mine, as she said--"You haven'tforgotten the manuscript, have you?"
"Oh! no," I said, smiling, "I haven't forgotten it."
"Because," she added, "I do like you to tell me a story when we are allby ourselves."
"Thank you," said I, "but this story, Ida, is one I'm going to tell toAileen, because it is all about a Newfoundland dog."
"Oh! never mind," she cried, "Nero and I shall sit and listen, and itwill be all the same."
"Well, Ida," I said, when we were seated at last, "I shall call mytale--"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
BLUCHER: THE STORY OF A NEWFOUNDLAND.
"We usually speak of four-in-hands rattling along the road. There wasno rattling about the mail-coach, however, that morning, as she seemedto glide along towards the granite city, as fast as the steaming horsescould tool her. For the snow lay deep on the ground, and but for therattle of harness, and champing of bits, you might have taken her forone of Dickens's phantom mails. It was a bitter winter's morning. Thedriver's face was buried to the eyes in the upturned neck of hisfear-nothing coat; the passengers snoozed and hibernated behind thefolds of their tartan plaids; the guard, poor man! had to look abroad onthe desolate scene and his face was like a parboiled lobster inappearance. He stamped in his seat to keep his feet warm, although itwas merely by reasoning from analogy that he could get himself tobelieve that he had any feet at all, for, as far as feeling went, hisbody seemed to end suddenly just below the knees, and when he attemptedto emit some cheering notes from the bugle, the very notes seemed tofreeze in the instrument. Presently, the coach pulled up at theeighth-milehouse to change horses, and every one was glad to come downif only for a few moments.
"The landlord,--remember, reader, I'm speaking of the far north, wheremail-coaches are still extant, and the landlords of hostelries stillvisible to the naked eye. The landlord was there himself to welcome thecoach, and he rubbed his hands and hastened to tell everybody that itwas a stormy morning, that there would, no doubt, be a fresh fall erelong, and that there was a roaring fire in the room, and oceans ofmulled porter. Few were able to resist hints like these, and orders formulled porter and soft biscuits became general.
"Big flakes of snow began to fall slowly earthward, as the coach oncemore resumed its journey, and before long so thick and fast did it comedown that nothing could be seen a single yard before the horses' heads.
"Well, there was something or other down there in the road that didn'tseem to mind the snow a bit, something large, and round, and black,feathering round and round the coach, and under the horses' noses--here,there, and everywhere. But its gambols, whatever it was, came to a verysudden termination, as that howl of anguish fully testified. The driverwas a humane man, and pulled up at once.
"`I've driven over a bairn, or a dog, or some o' that fraternity,' hesaid; `some o' them's continually gettin' in the road at the wrang time.Gang doon, guard, and see aboot it. It howls for a' the warld like ayoung warlock.'
"Down went the guard, and presently remounted, holding in his arms therecipient of the accident. It was a jet-black Newfoundland puppy, whowas whining in a most mournful manner, for one of his paws had beenbadly crushed.
"`Now,' cried the guard, `I'll sell the wee warlock cheap. Wha'll giean auld sang for him? He is onybody's dog for a gill of whuskey.'
"`I'll gie ye twa gills for him, and chance it,' said a quiet-lookingfarmer in one of the hinder seats. The puppy was handed over at once,and both seemed pleased with the transfer. The farmer nursed hispurchase inside a fold of his plaid until the coach drew up before thedoor of the city hotel, when he ordered warm water, and bathed thelittle creature's wounded paw.
"Little did the farmer then know how intimately connected that dog wasyet to be, with one of the darkest periods of his life's history.
"Taken home with the farmer to the country, carefully nursed and tended,and regularly fed, `Blucher,' as he was called, soon grew up into a veryfine dog, although always more celebrated for his extreme fidelity tohis master, than for any large amount of good looks.
"One day the farmer's shepherd brought in a poor little lamb, wrapped upin the corner of his plaid. He had found it in a distant nook of afield, apparently quite deserted by its mother. The lamb was brought upon the bottle by the farmer's little daughter, and as time wore on grewquite a handsome fellow.
"The lamb was Blucher's only companion. The lamb used to follow Blucherwherever he went, romped and played with him, and at night the twocompanions used to sleep together in the kitchen; the lamb's headpillowed on the dog's neck, or _vice versa_, just as the case might be.Blucher and his friend used to take long rambles together over thecountry; they always came back safe enough, and looking pleased andhappy, but for a considerable time nobody was able to tell where theyhad been to. It all came out in good time, however. Blucher, it seems,in his capacity of _chaperon_ to his young friend, led the poor lambinto mischief. It was proved, beyond a doubt, that Blucher was in thedaily habit of leading `Bonny' to different cabbage gardens, showing himhow to break through, and evidently rejoicing to see the lamb enjoyinghimself. I do not believe that poor Blucher knew that he was doing anyinjury or committing a crime. `At all events,' he might reason withhimself, `it isn't I who eat the cabbage, and why shouldn't poor Bonnyhave a morsel when he seems to like it so much?'
"But Blucher suffered indirectly from his kindness to Bonny, forcomplaints from the neighbours of the depredations committed in theirgardens by the `twa thieves,' as they were called, became so numerous,that at last poor Bonny had to pay the penalty for his crimes with hislife. He became mutton. A very disconsolate dog now was poor Blucher,moaning mournfully about the place, and refusing his food, and, in aword, just behaving as you and I would, reader, if we lost the only onewe loved. But I should not say the only one that Blucher loved, for hestill had his master, the farmer, and to him he seemed to attach himselfmore than ever, since the death of the lamb; he would hardly ever leavehim, especially when the farmer's calling took him anywhere abroad.
"About one year after Bonny's demise, the farmer began to notice apeculiar numbness in the limbs, but paid little attention to it,thinking that no doubt time--the poor man's physician--would cure it.Supper among the peasantry of these northern latitudes is generally laidabout half-past six. Well, one dark December's day, at the accustomedhour, both the dog and his master were missed from the table. For sometime little notice was taken of this, but as time flew by, and the nightgrew da
rker, his family began to get exceedingly anxious.
"`Here comes father at last,' cried little Mary, the farmer's daughter.
"Her remark was occasioned by hearing Blucher scraping at the door, anddemanding admittance. Little Mary opened the door, and there stoodBlucher, sure enough; but although the night was clear and starlight,there wasn't a sign of father. The strange conduct of Blucher nowattracted Mary's attention. He never had much affection for her, or forany one save his master, but now he was speaking to her, as plain as adog could speak. He was running round her, barking in loud sharp tones,as he gazed into her face, and after every bark pointing out into thenight, and vehemently
Aileen Aroon, A Memoir Page 12