She was always checking and reproving him, and setting his sins in order before him. These were many. He came in without wiping his shoes; he hung his hat on the wrong nail, or didn’t hang it anywhere; he slopped water when he went to help himself to it; he whistled; he drummed; he brought home and domesticated a puppy who was seven-fold more mischievous than he was.
He was always taming rabbits and squirrels and birds, who all made litter and dirt. Above all, he whittled from morning till night and everywhere.
His clothes were in a chronic state of dilapidation; hat, trousers, stockings, shoes, all giving out before his endless activity.
Poor Miss Zarviah was in despair, and told him so in varied phrases almost every hour of the twenty-four till he began to have an uneasy sense of being a sinner all the time, simply for being a boy. He was secretly of the opinion that his sister hated him, — a point where he did her the greatest injustice.
When he was fourteen years old he fell out of a boat in one of his fishing expeditions, wet himself to the skin, and had in consequence one of those good old-fashioned “runs” of fever, that used to be the support of village doctors, and Miss Zarviah nursed him with unfailing care and tenderness, and used to rehearse to her friends how for ten days and nights she never had her clothes off, nor got a regular night’s rest.
So her boy was nursed back from the very borders of the grave, but as soon as he was up and well, he began again to be a sinner, and Miss Zarviah to tell him so.
There is an age when the waves of manhood pour in on the boy like the tides in the Bay of Fundy. He does not know himself what to do with himself, and nobody else knows, either; and it is exactly at this point that many a fine fellow has been ruined for want of faith and patience and hope, in those who have the care of him.
When Eben Avery was seventeen, he flung away from the homestead and his sister at the end of a bitter discussion, in which many sharp and true things had been said on both sides, and away he went to California, seeking his fortune.
He never wrote. He had committed the oversight of his share of the property to a faithful old lawyer, a friend of his father, through whom Miss Zarviah heard only that he was living and doing well, — and so she was left alone.
But there was a sore spot in her old heart. A conscientious person should beware of getting into a passion, for every sharp word one speaks comes back and lodges like a sliver in one’s own heart; and such slivers hurt us worse than they ever can any one else.
It was true she was now mistress of the house, with not a soul to disarrange any of her matters. She could clean and shut up rooms, and nobody opened them. There was no litter, no dirt anywhere, for there was nobody to make any. She and her house were as clean and orderly as she wanted to be; nobody whittled; nobody whistled; there were no footsteps to track the floors; no tramping up and down stairs.
The old clock ticked away hour after hour, the only sound to be heard in the ancient dwelling. Miss Avery had a sort of shivering, unspoken sense of lonesomeness. The waters of life were freezing around her, and the circle unfrozen narrowed every year, as one crony and acquaintance after another dropped out of life and came no more.
Still, from year to year, she opened and aired chambers that nobody ever slept in, and at stated intervals routed everything out and conducted a severe house-cleaning where no dirt had been made. As for her own personal quarters, they had narrowed themselves down to one room, which was to her, bedroom, kitchen, and sitting-room.
The old family “keeping-room’’ was shut up and kept in an immaculately clean state, with its bright brass andirons, with a bright brass candlestick on each end of the mantel-piece. One day in the week she scrubbed the white floor on her hands and knees, as also the table and dresser in like manner. All her tins were brightened, and everything made resplendent, and she sat down to her knitting victorious.
One would have said that she had nothing to do but to rest on her laurels, but alas! perfection is not for mortals.
The dust from the avenue before the house, kept lively by whirling carriages, would filter through the cracks of the old mansion, and rest on tables and chairs in a manner to keep her combativeness on the stretch.
Then rats and mice bred, mustered, and multiplied in the house. Certain cockroaches, too, had invaded the ancient dwelling, and set up housekeeping in its old cracks and crannies. In vain Miss Avery scolded, scrubbed, scoured; they throve and multiplied and grew impudently bold.
But the dust and the cockroaches, and the rats and the mice, were nothing to another trial of Miss Zarviah’s life, — the boys!
Back of her fence ran a little alley that abounded with some of the noisiest and most graceless little wretches in Hindford.
— These boys were in the habit of swarming over her fence and through her yard as a shorter cut to the avenue.
This, which was at first a matter of mere convenience, became amusing to the boys when Miss Zarviah, broom in hand, and with her mouth filled with objurgations, chased them and ordered them out of her yard, and threatened them with the police.
Then the matter became exciting, and the fun of making old Witch Avery mad, cutting through her yard and over her fence, and hearing her scold when safely lodged behind it, was a stimulating form of recreation to these graceless little wretches, and our frontispiece shows the glee of the boys and the energetic rage of Miss Zarviah on one of these occasions, which is the subject of our next chapter.
Such was Miss Zarviah, such her troubles and tribulations, when our story opens.
CHAPTER II. THE DOG TAKES REFUGE WITH THE OLD WOMAN.
IT was a dreary, dripping November night, just between daylight and dusk. Miss Zarviah had hung on her lonely tea-kettle, and was proceeding with her arrangements for an evening meal, when, Whoop! hurrah! hallo! and a sound of a yelping dog and of pattering footsteps came through her yard.
Instantly she seized the broom, and ran and opened the back door. Something that looked like a draggled bundle of rags swept by her into the house with a rattling noise, and fled into the room and under her bed.
“Now, you wretches, if you don’t get out this minute, I’ll—”
Vigorous blows of the broom finished the sentence. The little imps danced and shouted, but retreated towards the fence.
“We want our dog. He’s run into your old house!” shouted the boldest.
“You sha’n’t have your dog! anti if you don’t clear out, I’ll call the watch! - and Miss Avery seconded her words with well-directed thwacks and thumps, which sent the whole posse in a giggling cataract over the fence, behind which rose such parting salutes as these:
“Who cares for you, old Witch Avery?”
“We’ll come in for all you!”
“Catch us if you can! Where’s your policeman?” and away they went.
Miss Avery went in and shut the door.
She came back into her room and hung up nor broom. She felt on the whole that she had gained a victory, — the enemy had lost the dog and she had got him. That was some comfort, and instantly her whole nature rose in determination that they never should have him again.
She looked under her bed, and there, crouching in the far corner, the fire-light gleamed upon a pair of great mournful eyes, and a subdued whine came from the obscurity.
Miss Avery never had been fond of dogs, but this dog she had resolved to protect, and all her combativeness was on his side.
“Come here, doggie!” she said; “good doggie!” So she tried to call him out.
But the tones were rather dry, and wanting in native cordiality, and doggie only crouched farther in his corner, and gave another piteous whine.
Miss Zarviah moved the bed, and walking straight into the dark comer, reached down and took him.
The poor wretch was drabbled with mud, and an old tin kettle, which had been tied to his tail, rattled dubiously as she lifted him.
“Well, did I ever!” exclaimed Miss Zarviah, and she brought him out to the fire-light, and se
tting him down, put on her spectacles, took her scissors and cut the string.
The pail fell off, and the creature looked up at her with his great sad eyes, and licked her hand humbly.
“Well, I do declare! you poor cre’tur!” said Miss Zarviah.
The dog was quivering and trembling with wet, cold, and fright, but seemed to understand that Miss Zarviah meant well by him; he tried to wag his bedraggled tail, and then raising himself on his hind legs, he made vigorous gestures of supplication with his two fore-paws. Evidently this was an accomplishment which had been taught him in more prosperous days, and which he now brought forth as a means of conciliation.
It had its effect on Miss Zarviah.
“Well, I will,” she said; “poor doggie! I won’t let any one catch you again; but you must be washed clean.”
And Miss Zarviah brought a small tub which she filled tenderly and carefully, adding warm water from her tea-kettle, and testing it with her hand as if for a baby. Then she produced soap and towels, and set to work vigorously.
She washed and scrubbed till the dog seemed really to half melt away, and be no bigger than a good-sized cat. Then she wiped him dry, wrapped him in an old flannel petticoat, tucked him up in a basket and set him in the warmest corner to dry, while she proceeded to get her supper.
Her protégé stopped shivering, gave a sound of satisfaction as he nestled himself in the warm flannel, and followed her with his great bright eyes as she arranged her supper Miss Avery was methodical in all her ways, and this night was the precise night of the week when she always made milk toast, and so milk toast she proceeded to make.
She shook down a glowing clear bed of coals; she cut a couple of slices of very nice bread; she put a skillet of milk down to heat, and proceeded to toast her bread on the end of a long fork. The large bright eyes in the flannel surveyed these proceedings with much apparent interest.
When the milk was poured into the skillet, there was a stir in the basket, and the occupant struggled to get a good view of her progress.
“The cre’tur really seems to know that there are victuals getting ready,” said Miss Zarviah; “no doubt he’s hungry;” and with this thought she cut another half slice.
When the dipped toast was made, and the tea drawn, and the little round stand set out front of the fire, and Miss Avery sat down to enjoy her tea, there was another commotion in the flannel.
Miss Avery looked; the dog was standing up in his basket, gazing very intelligently at the tea-table.
“Lie down, doggie,” she said, “you shall have your supper by-and-by.”
But doggie did not lie down, but got out of his basket, and gave himself a shake and a lick here and there, and having repaired to the best of his ability the defects in his toilet, he came and sat down by Miss Zarviah, and rising on his hind legs, made as before supplicating gestures with his fore-paws.
The mouthful of dipped toast that was going to Miss Zarviah’s mouth was arrested, and she held it to him.
He took it off her fork and swallowed it with evident appreciation ‘“Well, did I ever!” said Miss Avery. “No, I never did; why, the cre’tur all but talks! Well, well,” she said, “you shall have your supper right away,” and she cut up his halfslice of toast, and put a liberal allowance of milk over it, and set it down before him, and he fell to work at it with gratifying earnestness.
Miss Avery certainly enjoyed seeing the way that half-slice of toast was disposed of more than she did the corresponding t morsel which she was eating herself.
“What, more?” she said, cheerfully, as, after the half-slice had disappeared, the great, bright, silent eyes looked up at her; and immediately the saucer was replenished with another portion nicely cut-up, which speedily went the way of the former; and thus sociably she and her protégé finished the supper.
CHAPTER III. SHE DISCOVERS THAT HE IS A PROVIDENCE.
“WELL, of all things! Who would have thought it?” mused Miss Avery, as, supper being over, she leaned back n her chair and took a dispassionate survey of her new acquisition.
He was now quite dry, and his soft flossy hair of a tine silver color would, if Miss Avery had known anything of such matters, have proclaimed him a dog of blood and breeding; one of those sagacious little Scotch terriers that are pets in high places.
But Miss Avery only knew that he was a dog who, by a strange “Providence,” as she called it, had become her dog, and now she was meditating what to call him.
Her mind reverted to the days long since, when Eben brought home the puppy that made such trouble, and called him Trip.
“Poor Eben!” she said, “I reely was hard on him. I wish now I had been more patient with Trip — just for his sake.
Well, well, we do things that we can’t take back, if we want to ever so much,” and Miss Avery gave a sigh to those old days, and concluded to call her adopted pet Trip.
She tried the name on him, and he looked bright and wise, and started at it to go after her as she moved about the room, setting up dishes and sweeping the hearth.
If ever a dog could express eager, quivering, joyful devotion, it was Trip; and his assent to being called by this name was so unequivocal that Miss Avery flattered herself she had hit upon the very cognomen he had always gone by.
Miss Avery swept up the hearth, mended her fire, and took out her knitting-work. Trip, who had no knitting-work of his own, looked ardent interest in and approbation of all her movements.
It was a new sensation to Miss Zarviah to be looked upon with such admiration and devotion as were evident in Trip’s great soft eyes. He seemed so every way companionable that she could not help talking to him.
“Did the wicked boys plague you?” she said, in a sympathizing tone. “Well, they sha’n’t any more; I’ll take care of you.”
The effect of these words was most unexpected. Trip jumped up and rested his paws against Miss Avery’s knees a moment, and then, as if taking a sudden resolution, he sprang into her lap boldly, and began kissing her face with eager dog-caresses.
“Oh! oh! Why, Trip -pee! Why! why! Good dog! Don’t! don’t!” said Miss Avery, as much flustered as if it was a suitor that was declaring his regard for her. “There, there! get down, Trip.”
But Trip had no idea of getting down; he only quirled himself round, and established himself composedly in the hollow of her lap.
“Did I ever!” said Miss Avery; “he’s determined to sit in my lap; well, if you will, you will,” and Trip nestled down, closed his eyes, and seemed inclined to take a nap in this comfortable situation.
Outside the wind whistled drearily; the rain dripped from the eaves with a dull, lonely thud; but inside the fire purred and snapped and crackled, and the knitting-needle clicked, and Miss Avery said to herself, —
“Well, how much company a cre’tur is!” and she looked down at Trip with patronizing complacency.
Miss Avery had not had so pleasant an evening within her recollection.
It seemed wonderful to her that she, who had always despised dogs and opposed their way, should be sitting now with one in her lap, and enjoying his being there. Certainly, there must be a Providence in it, said Miss Avery.
When the clock struck nine, Miss Avery knit into her seam-needle, and rolled up her knitting-work, and then, in company with Trip, proceeded to fasten and bolt all the doors, and to take a tour of survey through all the house, and look under every bed and in every closet, lest a robber might have slipped in and hidden himself.
Trip entered into this survey in high spirits, scampering before her, racing into corners, smelling complacently at rat-holes, and giving here and there a lively bark, for Trip had rat-catching blood in his veins, and felt his foot upon his native heath in an old rat-haunted house.
He ran under beds with cheerful alacrity, and saved Miss Avery’s creaking joints the trouble.
When they entered the pantry there was a sudden scuffle and squeak, and Trip stood growling and glorious, his soft eyes blazing, shaking a rat in
his teeth.
It was all over with Mr. Rat in a minute; but Trip barked and leaped and shook the victim over, and thrice he slew the slain.
“Well, I declare, you are a good dog; there’s that rat that has been plaguing me night after night!” and Miss Avery glorified and fondled Trip to his heart’s content, and was more than ever convinced that he was “a Providence.”
CHAPTER IV. HE MAKES HIMSELF AGREEABLE.
WHEN they were a little settled down from this excitement, Miss Avery raked up the fire, and proceeded to array herself for the night, putting on a portentous night-cap that so altered her appearance that Trip at first ran away and barked, and was only to be reconciled when she stroked and talked to him.
Then she arranged his basket in the warm corner, put him in it, and told him to lie down and be a good doggie, and, having extinguished her candle, turned in to her bed.
She felt a sweet serenity and composure in having her protégé so nicely disposed of, and shut her eyes, and was dropping off to sleep, when a tick of paws on the floor aroused her.
Trip had got out of his basket, and was standing by her bedside looking up wistfully.
“Why, Trip, Trippy! what’s the matter? Go lie down, Trip!”
A whine, and a begging gesture of the forepaws.
“Trippy, go lie down; there’s a good dog.”
Instead of this, Trip gave a spring, and jumped upon the foot of the bed, with evident indications that he wanted to sleep there.
She was astonished at his presumption, and rising, she took him firmly in her arms, and, carrying him back to his basket, said, as she laid him down, —
“There, Trip, that is a nice warm bed in a warm corner, and you must lie down and be still.” And she patted him down, and drew the flannel over him.
Trip made no more remarks for that time, but lay quite still in his basket; and Miss Avery, complacently reflecting how easy it was to train dogs in the way they should go, resigned herself to her slumbers.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 571