Aileen Aroon, A Memoir
Page 18
striking Toby's nose with his umbrella."Stuffed, isn't it?"
Stuffed or not stuffed, there was a stuffed body behind it, as the ownersoon knew to his cost, and a spirit that never brooked a blow, for nextmoment he found himself lying on his back with his legs waggling in theair in the most expressive manner, while Toby stood triumphantly overhim waiting to repeat the dose if required.
The following anecdote shows Toby's reasoning powers. He was standingone day near the dockyard foreman's house, when the dinner bell rang,and just at the same time a servant came out with a piece of bread forToby. Every day after this, as soon as the same bell rang--"That callsme," said Toby to himself, and off he would trot to the foreman's door.If the door was not at once opened he used to knock with his head; andhe would knock and knock again until the servant, for peace' sake,presented him with a slice of bread.
And now Toby's tale draws near its close. The owner never forgave thatblow, and one day coming by chance across the following entry in theship's books, "Tenedos--to one sheep, five shillings," he immediatelyclaimed Toby as his rightful property. It was all in vain that thecaptain begged hard for his poor pet, and even offered ten times hisnominal value for him. The owner was deaf to all entreaties andobdurate. So the two friends were parted. Toby was sent a long wayinto the country to Carnoustie, to amuse some of the owner's children,who were at school there. But the sequel shows how very deeply anddearly even a sheep can love a kind-hearted master. After the captainleft him, poor Toby refused all food and _died of grief in one week'stime_.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
A BIRD-HAUNTED LAWN IN JUNE--PETS OF MY EARLY YEARS.
"Go, beautiful and gentle dove! But whither wilt thou go? For though the clouds tide high above. How sad and waste is all below.
"The dove flies on. In lonely flight She flies from dawn to dark; And now, amidst the gloom of night, Comes weary to the ark. `Oh! let me in,' she seems to say, `For long and lone has been my way; Oh! once more, gentle mistress, let me rest And dry my dripping plumage on thy breast.'"
Rev W. Bowles.
There is a kind of semi-wildness about our back lawn that a great manypeople profess to admire. It stretches downwards from my indoor study,from where the French windows open on to the trellised verandah, whichin this sweet month of June, as I write, is all a smother of roses. Thewalk winds downwards well to one side, and not far from a massive hedge,but this hedge is hidden from view for the most part by a ragged row oftrees. The Portuguese laurel, tasselled with charming white bloom atpresent, but otherwise an immense globe of green (you might swing ahammock inside it and no one know you were there), comes first; thentall, dark-needled Austrian pines, their branches trailing on the grass,with hazels, lilacs, and elders, the latter now in bloom. The lawnproper has it pretty much to itself, with the exception of theflower-beds, the rose-standards, and a sprinkling of youthful pines, andit is bounded on the other side by a tall privet hedge--that, too, isall bedecked in bloom. On the other ride of this hedge the view is shutin to some extent by tapering cypress trees, elms, and oaks, but hereand there you catch glimpses of the hills and the lovely country beyond.Along this hedge, at present, wallflowers, and scarlet and white andpink-belled foxgloves are blooming.
If you go along the winding pathway, past the bonnie nook--where is nowthe grave of my dear old favourite Newfoundland [the well-knownchampion, Theodore Nero]--and if you obstinately refuse to be coaxed bya forward wee side-path into a cool, green grotto, canopied with ivy andlilacs, you will land--nowhere you would imagine at first, but onpushing boughs aside you find a gate, which, supposing you had the key,would lead you out into open country, with the valley of the Thames,stretching from west to east, about a mile distant, and the grand oldwooded hills, blue with the softening mist of distance, beyond that.But the lower part of the lawn near that hidden gate is bounded by abank of glorious foliage--rhododendrons, syringas, trailing roses, andhero-laurels in front, with ash, laburnum, and tall holly trees behind.It may not be right to allow brambles to creep through this bank; norraspberries, with their drooping cane-work; nor blue-eyed, creepingbelladonna; but I like it. I dearly love to see things where you leastexpect them; to find roses peeping through hedgerows, strawberriesbuilding their nests at the foot of gooseberry clumps, and clusters ofyellow or red luscious raspberries peeping out from the midst ofrhododendron banks, as if fairy fingers were holding them up to view.
I'm not sure that the grass on this pet lawn of mine, is always kept socleanly shaven as some folks might wish, but for my own part I like itsnowed over with daisies and white clover; and, what is more to thepoint, the birds and the bees like it. Indeed, the lawn is little morethan a vast outdoor aviary--it is a bird-haunted lawn. There is arough, shallow bath under a tree at the end of it, and here theblackbirds, thrushes, and starlings come to splash early in the morning,and stare up at my window as I dress, as coolly as if they had not beenall up in the orchard trees breakfasting off the red-heart cherries. Ihave come now, after a lapse of four years, to believe that thosecherries belong to the birds and not to me, just as a considerablenumber of pounds of the greengages belong to the wasps.
The nightingales hop around the lawn all day, but they do not bathe, andthey do not sing now; they devour terribly long earthworms instead. Inthe sweet spring-time, in the days of their wooing, they did nothing butsing, and they never slept. Now all is changed, and they do little elsesave sleep and eat.
There are wild pigeons build here, though it is close to two roads, andI see turtle-doves on the lawn every day.
"Did you commence the study of natural history at an early age, Gordon?"said Frank to me one evening, as we all sat together on this lawn.
"In a practical kind of a way, yes, Frank," I replied, "and if I livefor the next ten thousand years I may make some considerable progress inthis study. _Ars longa vita brevia est_, Frank."
"True; and now," he continued, "spin us a yarn or two about some of thepets you have had."
"Well, Frank," I replied, "as you ask me in that off-hand way, you mustbe content to take my reminiscences in an off-hand way, too."
"We will," said Frank; "won't we, Ida?"
Ida nodded.
"Given a pen and put in a corner, Frank, I can tell a story as well asmy neighbours, but the _extempore_ business floors me. I'm shy, Frank,shy. Another cup of tea, Dot--thank you--ahem!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PETS OF MY EARLY YEARS.
There was no school within about three miles of a property my fatherbought when I was a little over two years of age. With some help fromthe neighbours my father built a school, which I believe is now endowed,but at that time it was principally supported by voluntarycontributions. I was sent there as a first instalment. I was aninvoluntary contribution. Nurse carried me there every morning, but Ialways managed to walk coming back. By sending a child of tender yearsto a day-school, negative rather than positive good was all that wasexpected, for my mother frankly confessed that I was only sent to keepme out of mischief. The first few days of my school life flew pastquickly enough, for my teacher, a little hunchback, be it remembered,whom you may know by the name of Dominie W--, was very kind to me,candied me and lollipopped me, and I thought it grand fun to sit all dayon my little stool, turning over the pages of picture-books, and lookingat the other boys getting thrashed. This latter part indeed was thebest to me, for the little fellows used to screw their miserable visagesso, and make such funny faces, that I laughed and crowed with delight.But I didn't like it when it came to my own turn. And here is how thatoccurred:--There was a large pictorial map that hung on the schoolroomwall, covered with delineations of all sorts of wild beasts. These werepointed out to the Bible-class one by one, and a short lecture given onthe habits of each, which the boys and girls were supposed to retain intheir memories, and retail again when asked to. One day, however, thedromedary became a stumbling-block to all the class; not one of themco
uld remember the name of the beast.
"Did ever I see such a parcel of numskulls?" said Dominie W--. "Why, Ibelieve that child there could tell you."
I felt sure I could, and intimated as much.
"What is it, then, my dear?" said my teacher encouragingly. "Speak out,and shame the dunces."
I did speak out, and with appalling effect.
"It's a schoolmaster," I said.
"A what?" roared the dominie.
"A schoolmaster," I said, more emphatically; "it has a hump on itsback."
I didn't mean to be rude, but I naturally imagined that the hump was thebadge of the scholastic calling, and that the dromedary was dominieamong the beasts.
"Oh! indeed," said Dominie W--; "well, you just wait there a minute,