‘The fact is, my dear Colonel,’ she said, ‘I am thinking of giving a party, and you must help me make out the lists.’
‘My dear, you make me the happiest of Katy-dids.’
‘Now,’ said Miss Katy-did, drawing an azalia-leaf towards her, ‘Let us see — whom shall we have? The Fireflies, of course; everybody wants them, they are so brilliant, — a little unsteady, to be sure, but quite in the higher circles.’
‘Yes, we must have the Fireflies,’ echoed the Colonel..
‘Well, then — and the Butterflies and the Moths. Now, there’s a trouble. There’s such an everlasting tribe of those Moths; and if you invite dull people, they’re always sure all to come, every one of them. Still, if you have the Butterflies, you can’t leave out the Moths.’
‘Old Mrs. Moth has been laid up lately with a gastric fever, and that may keep two or three of the Misses Moth at home,’ said the Colonel ‘Whatever could give the old lady such a turn?’ said Miss Katy. ‘I thought she never was sick.’
‘I suspect it’s high living. I understand she and her family ate up a whole ermine cape last month, and it disagreed with them.’
‘For my part, I can’t conceive how the Moths can Jive as they do,’ said Miss Katy, with a face of disgust. ‘Why, I could no more eat worsted and fur, as they do —
‘That is quite evident from the fairy-like delicacy of your appearance,’ said the Colonel. ‘One can see that nothing so gross and material has ever entered into your system.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Miss Katy, ‘ Mamma says she don’t know what does keep me alive; half a dew-drop and a little bit of the nicest part of a rose-leaf, I assure you, often last me for a day. But we are forgetting our list. Let’s see — the Fireflies, Butterflies, Moths. The Bees must come, I suppose.’
‘The Bees are a worthy family,’ said the Colonel. ‘Worthy enough, but dreadfully hum-drum,’ said Miss Katy. ‘They never talk about anything but honey and housekeeping; still they are a class of people one cannot neglect.’
‘Well, then, there are the Bumble-Bees.’
‘Oh, I doat on them! General Bumble is one of the most dashing, brilliant fellows of the day.’
‘I think he is shockingly corpulent,’ said Colonel Katy-did, not at all pleased to hear him praised.
‘Don’t you?’
‘I don’t know but he is a little stout,’ said Miss Katy; ‘but so distinguished and elegant in his manners — something martial and breezy about him.’
‘Well, if you invite the Bumble-Bees you must have the Hornets.’
‘Those spiteful Hornets! I detest them!’
‘Nevertheless, dear Miss Katy, one does not like to offend the Hornets.’
‘No, one can’t. There are those five Misses Hornet — dreadful old maids! — as full of spite as they can live. You may be sure they will every one come, and be looking about to make spiteful remarks. Put down the Hornets, though.’
Just at this moment the conference was interrupted by a visitor, Miss Keziah Cricket, who came in with her work-bag on her arm to ask a subscription for a poor family of Ants who had just had their house hoed up in clearing the garden-walks.
‘How stupid of them,’ said Katy, ‘not to know better than to put their house in the garden-walk! That’s just like those Ants!’
‘Well they are in great trouble — all their stores destroyed, and their father killed — cut quite in two by a hoe.’
‘How very shocking! I don’t like to hear of such disagreeable things; it affects my nerves terribly.
Well, I’m sure I haven’t anything to give. Mamma said yesterday she was sure she didn’t know how our bills were to be paid; and there’s my green satin with point-lace yet to come home.’ And Miss Katy-did shrugged her shoulders and affected to be very busy with Colonel Katy-did, in just the way that young ladies sometimes do when they wish to signify to visitors that they had better leave.
Little Miss Cricket perceived how the case stood, and so hopped briskly off without giving herself even time to be offended. ‘ Poor extravagant little thing!’ said she to herself; ‘it was hardly worth while to ask her.’
‘Pray, shall you invite the Crickets?’ said Colonel Katy-did.
‘Who? I? Why, Colonel, what a question! Invite the Crickets? Of what can you be thinking?’
‘And shall you not ask the Grasshoppers?’
‘Certainly — a very old and distinguished family; the Grasshoppers ought to be asked. But we must draw a line somewhere, and the Crickets — why, it’s shocking even to think of!’
‘I thought they were nice, respectable people.’
‘Oh, perfectly nice and respectable — very good people, in fact, so far as that goes. But then you must see the difficulty.’
‘My dear cousin, I am afraid you must explain.’
‘Why, their colour, to be sure. Don’t you see?’
‘Oh!’ said the Colonel, ‘That’s it, is it? Excuse me, but I have been living in France, where these distinctions are wholly unknown, and I have not ye’ got myself in the train of fashionable ideas here.’
‘Well, then, let me teach you,’ said Miss Katy. ‘You know we go for no distinctions except those created by Nature herself, and we found our rank upon colour, because that is clearly a thing that none has any hand in but our Maker. You see?’
‘Yes; but who decides what colour shall be the reigning colour?’
‘I’m surprised to hear the question! The only true colour — the only proper one — is our colour, to be sure. A lovely pea-green is the precise shade on which to found aristocratic distinction. But then we are liberal; we associate with the Moths, who are grey; with the Butterflies, who are blue-and-gold-coloured; with the Grasshoppers, yellow and brown. And society would become dreadfully mixed if it were not fortunately ordered that the Crickets are black as jet The fact is, that a class to be looked down upon is necessary to all elegant society; and if the Crickets were not black, we could not keep them down, because, as everybody knows, they are often a great deal cleverer than we are. They have a vast talent for music and dancing; they are very quick at learning, and would be getting to the very top of the ladder if we once allowed them to climb. But their being black is a convenience, because, as long as we are green and they black, we have a superiority that can never be taken from us. Don’t you see now?’
‘Oh yes, I see exactly,’ said the Colonel.
‘Now that Keziah Cricket, who just came in here, is quite a musician, and her old father plays the violin beautifully; — by the way, we might engage him for our orchestra.’
And so Miss Katy’s ball came off, and the performers kept it up from sundown till daybreak, so that it seemed as if every leaf in the forest were alive. The Katy-dids and a full orchestra of Crickets made the air perfectly vibrate, insomuch that old Parson Too-Whit, who was preaching a Thursday evening lecture to a very small audience, announced to his hearers that he should certainly write a discourse against dancing for the next weekly meeting.
The good doctor was even with his word in the matter, and gave out some very sonorous discourses, without in the least stopping the round of gaieties kept up by these dissipated Katy-dids, which ran on, night after night, till the celebrated Jack Frost epidemic, which occurred somewhere about the first of December, Poor Miss Katy, with her flimsy green satin and point-lace, was one of the first victims, and fell from the bough in company with a sad shower of last year’s leaves. The worthy Cricket family, however, avoided Jack Frost by emigrating in time to the chimney-corner of a nice little cottage that had been built in the wood that summer.
There good old Mr and Mrs. Cricket, with sprightly Miss Keziah and her brothers and sisters, found a warm and welcome home; and when the storm howled without, and lashed the poor naked trees, the Crickets on the warm hearth would chirp out cheery welcome to papa as he came in from the snowy path, or mamma as she sat at her work-basket.
‘Cheep, cheep, cheep!’ little Freddy would say.
‘M
amma, who is it says “cheep”?’
‘Dear Freddy, it’s our own dear little Cricket, who loves us and comes to sing to us when the snow is on the ground.’
So when poor Miss Katy-did’s satin and lace were all swept away, the warm home-talents of the Crickets made for them a welcome refuge.
PRINCE AND PERO.
AUNT ESTHER used to be a constant at tendant upon us young ones whenever we were a little ill, or any of the numerous accidents of childhood overtook us. In such seasons of adversity she always came to sit by our bedside, and take care of us. She did not, as some do, bring a long face and a doleful whining voice into a sick-room, but was always so bright, and cheerful, and chatty, that we began to think it was almost worth while to be sick to have her about us. I remember that once when my throat was so swollen that it brought the tears to my eyes every time I swallowed anything, Aunt Esther talked to me so gaily, and told me so many stories, that I found myself laughing heartily, and disposed to regard my aching throat as on the whole rather an amusing circumstance.
Aunt Esther’s stories were not generally fairy tales, but stories about real things, — and more often on her favourite subject of the habits of animals, and the different animals she had known, than about anything else.
One of these was a famous Newfoundland dog, named Prince, which belonged to an uncle of hers in the country, and was, as we thought, a far more useful and faithful member of society than many of us youngsters. Prince used to be a grave, sedate dog, that considered himself put in trust of the farm, the house, the cattle, and all that was on the place. At night he slept before the kitchen door, which, like all other doors in the house in those innocent days, was left unlocked all night; and if such a thing had ever happened as that a beggar or an improper person of any kind had even touched the latch of the door, Prince would have been up attending to him as master of ceremonies.
At early dawn, when the family began to stir, Prince was up and out to superintend the milking of the cows, after which he gathered them all together, and started out with them to the pasture, padding steadily along behind, dashing out once in a while to reclaim some wanderer that thoughtlessly began to make her breakfast by the roadside, instead of saving her appetite for the pastures, as a properly behaved cow should. Arrived at the pasture field, Prince would take down the bars with his teeth, drive in the cows, put up the bars, and then soberly turn tail and trot off home, and carry the dinner-basket for the men to the men who were mowing, or in the potato-field, or wherever the labours of the day might be. There arrived, he was extremely useful to send on errands after anything forgotten or missing. ‘Prince! the rake is missing; go to the barn and fetch it!’ and away Prince would go, and come back with his head very high, and the long rake very judiciously balanced in his mouth.
One day a friend was wondering at the sagacity of the dog, and his master thought he would show off his tricks in a still more original style; and so, calling Prince to him, he said, ‘ Go home and bring puss to me!’
Away bounded Prince towards the farm-house, and, looking about, found the younger of the two cats, fair Mistress Daisy, busy cleaning her white velvet in the summer sun. Prince took her gently up by the nape of her neck, and carried her, hanging head and heels together, to the fields, and laid her down at his master’s feet.
‘How’s this, Prince?’ said the master; ‘you didn’t understand me. I said the cat, and this is the kitten. Go back and bring the old cat.’
Prince looked very much ashamed of his mistake, and turned away, with drooping ears and tail, and went back to the house.
The old cat was a venerable, somewhat portly old dame, and no small weight for Prince to carry; but he reappeared with old puss hanging from his jaws, and set her down, a little discomposed, but not a whit hurt, by her unexpected ride.
Sometimes, to try Prince’s skill, his master would hide his gloves or riding-whip in some out-of-the-way corner, and when ready to start, would say, ‘Now, where have I left my gloves? Prince, good fellow, run in, and find them and Prince would dash into the house, and run hither and thither with his nose to every nook and corner of the room; and, no matter how artfully they were hid, he would upset and tear his way to them. He would turn up the corners of the carpet, snuff about the bed, run his nose between the feather-bed and mattress, pry into the crack of a half-opened drawer, and show as much zeal and ingenuity as a policeman, and seldom could anything be so hid as to baffle his perseverance.
Many people laugh at the idea of being careful of a dog’s feelings, as if it were the height of absurdity; and yet it is a fact that some dogs are as exquisitely sensitive to pain, shame, and mortification, as any human being. See, when a dog is spoken harshly to, what a universal droop seems to come over him! His head and ears sink, his tail drops and slinks between his legs, and his whole air seems to say, ‘I wish I could sink into the earth to hide myself.’
Prince’s young master, without knowing it, was the means of inflicting a mort terrible mortification on him at one time. It was very hot weather, and Prince, being a shaggy dog, lay panting, and lolling his tongue out, apparently suffering from the heat.
‘I declare,’ said young Master George, ‘ I do believe Prince would be more comfortable for being sheared.’ And so forthwith he took him and began divesting him of his coat. Prince took it all very obediently; but when he appeared without his usual attire, every one saluted him with roars of laughter, and Prince was dreadfully mortified. He broke away from his master, and scampered off home at a desperate pace, ran down into a cellar and disappeared from view. His young master was quite distressed that Prince took the matter so to heart; he followed him in vain, calling, ‘ Prince! Prince!’ No Prince appeared. He lighted a candle and searched the cellar, and found the poor creature cowering away in the darkest nook under the stairs. Prince was not to be comforted; he slunk deeper and deeper into the darkness, and crouched on the ground when he saw his master, and for a long time refused even to take food. The family all visited and condoled with him, and finally his sorrows were somewhat abated; but he would not be persuaded to leave the cellar for nearly a week. Perhaps by that time he indulged the hope that his hair was beginning to grow again, and all were careful not to destroy the illusion by any jests or comments on his appearance.
Such were some of the stories of Prince’s talents and exploits which Aunt Esther used to relate to us. What finally became of the old fellow we never heard. Let us hope that, as he grew old, and gradually lost his strength, and felt the infirmities of age creeping on, he was tenderly and kindly cared for, in memory of the services of his best days, — that he had a warm corner by the kitchen fire, and was daily spoken to in kindly tones by his old friends. Nothing is a sadder sight than to see a poor old favourite, that once was petted and caressed by every member of a family, now sneaking and cowering as if dreading every moment a kick or a blow, — turned from the parlour into the kitchen, driven from the kitchen by the cook’s broomstick, half starved and lonesome.
Oh, how much kinder if the poor thread of life were at once cut by some pistol-shot, than to have the neglected favourite linger only to suffer! Now, boys, I put it to you, is it generous or manly, when your old pet and playmate grows sickly and feeble, and can no longer amuse you, to forget all the good old sport you have had with him, and let him become a poor, trembling, hungry, abused vagrant? If you cannot provide comforts for his old age, and see to his nursing, you can at least secure him an easy and painless passage from this troublesome world. A manly fellow I once knew, who, when his old hound became so diseased that he only lived to suffer, gave him a nice meal with his own hand, patted his head, got him to sleep, and then shot him, — so that he was dead in a moment, felt no pain, and knew nothing but kindness to the last.
And now to Aunt Esther’s stories of a dog I must add one more which occurred in a town where I once lived. I have told you of the fine traits of Prince, and his sagacity; I will now tell you about a poor mongrel dog.
The dog I am going to tell you about belonged to a man who had not, in one respect, half the sense that his dog had. A dog will never eat or drink a thing that has once made him sick, or injured him,’ but this man would drink, over and over again, a deadly draught, that took away his senses and unfitted him for any of his duties. Poor little Pero, however, set her ignorant dog’s heart on her drinking master, and used to patter faithfully after him, and lick his hand respectfully, when nobody else thought he was in a condition to be treated with respect.
One bitter cold winter day, Pero’s master went to a grocery, at some distance from home, on pretence of getting groceries, but in reality to fill a very dreadful bottle, that was the cause of all his misery; and little Pero trotted after him through the whirling snow, although she left three poor little pups of her own in the bam. Was it that she was anxious for the poor man who was going the bad road, or was there some secret thing in her dog’s heart that warned her that her master was in danger? We know not, but the sad fact is, that at the grocery the poor man took enough to make his brain dizzy, and coming home he lost his way in a whirling snow-storm, and fell down stupid and drunk, not far from his own barn, in a lonesome place, with the cold winter’s wind sweeping the snow-drift over him. Poor little Pero cuddled close to her master and nestled in his bosom, as in trying to keep the warm life in him.
Two or three days passed, and nothing was seen or heard of the poor man. The snow had drifted over him in a long white winding-sheet, when a neighbour one day heard a dog in the barn crying to get out. It was poor Pero, that had come back and slipped in to nurse her puppies while the barn-door was open, and was now crying to get out and go back to her poor master. It suddenly occurred to the man that Pero might find the body; and in fact, when she started off, he saw a little path which her small paws had worn in the snow, and tracking after her, found the frozen body. This poor little friend had nestled the snow away around the breast, and stayed watching and waiting by her dead master, only taking her way back occasionally to the barn to nurse her little ones.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 567