Dogtown / Being Some Chapters from the Annals of the Waddles Family Set Down in the Language of Housepeople

CHAPTER X TOLD BY THE FIRE

Before flocking swallows and cool nights told that September had come in a-tiptoe, the Herb Witch’s house had been restored, and christened “Robin Hood’s Inn,” and even the thought of the poor-farm banished from the old woman’s mind.

It had been a very easy matter rearranging the house, which had a solid frame; new floors, shingles, window-glass, and pretty wall-papers, chosen by Miss Letty and Anne, working a wonderful transformation within, while a week’s well-directed efforts of a couple of men restored the garden to its quaintness without spoiling it.

Mrs. Carr herself was much more difficult to handle, so anxious was she not to accept anything for which she could not render service in return. Miss Jule and Mr. Hugh had planned very wisely, but, after all, it was Anne herself who broke through the crust of pride that held the old woman so close in its grip.The day after the thunder-storm, when Anne had gone with Mr. Hugh to bring Jill home, that contrary young beagle had absolutely declined to go with her mistress, and, after struggling, barking, and growling in puppy rage, slipped her head through her collar, jumped from Anne’s arms, and ran up and hid in the attic that was littered with rubbish and drying herbs.

Such a strong attachment from a capricious little animal like Jill argued well for Mrs. Carr’s influence over dogs, as did the nicely healed wounds made by the barbed wire for her medical skill and care, and a new idea came to both Mr. Hugh and Miss Jule. They frequently had dogs, both young and old, who needed some special attention or petting that it was impossible to give them in the kennels, or in the little house that stood apart and was called the hospital. One of the old orchards could be fenced, and a small building put in the corner near by Robin Hood’s Inn, the whole to be used as a sort of dog’s excursion resort, for those who needed a change, Mrs. Carr being in charge of it.

Anne begged leave to tell the news to the old woman. At first Mrs. Carr was about to exclaim in delight at the prospect of so much dog companionship, then her habitual distrust seemed about to settle as she said, “I only hopes it’s for their own good and not mine they ha’ planned it; I wish I cauld be main sure.”

Then at last Anne rose up with almost a stamp of impatience, and folding her hands before her, looked the questioner straight in the face, saying: “Mrs. Carr, I’m disappointed in you, you are just as pernickerty as you can be, and stingy beside. Perhaps you don’t know what ‘pernickerty’ means, because it’s one of Baldy’s words for being show-off particular, like the woman father tells about, who was always so dreadfully good. When she went to heaven they gave her an extra beautiful gold crown to wear, with a soft lining, so that it couldn’t hurt, but she took it off and looked it all over, and said, ‘I can do with a cheaper one; beside, linings are heating!’ And you are stingy because you won’t let any of us have the pleasure of thinking we are making you comfortable;” so saying, Anne, with a red spot in the middle of each cheek, walked out of the cottage, mounted Fox, and rode away, without looking behind her.

Miss Jule, who a few moments later drew up from the opposite direction expecting to meet Mr. Hugh and advise with him about the new scheme, was astonished to find that Anne had gone, and to see Mrs. Carr crouching in her arm-chair with her face in her apron.

Making no attempt to hide the fact that she had been crying, the old lady straightened herself, and said in a trembling voice: “Ye’ll be havin’ no more contrairy times with me, yerself and Master Hughie, for the little lassie hit out straight and fetched me between the eyes like the minister in the kirk used, and I see my error, that is, I like shall when I’m through blinkin’. Pride is a good life-buoy when a body’s drownin’ in the waters o’ trouble, but inconvenient and unseemly to wear juist for ornament on dry land.”

Miss Jule asked no questions at the time, but the truth leaked out, and Mrs. Carr herself was the first to tell the story, laughing as she did so, with the dry, harsh laugh that needed use to mellow it, and illustrating with her crutch the emphatic sound of Anne’s boots, as she walked out.

The result of this change of heart, or rather of manner, for at heart the old woman had always been good as gold, was that even when picnic days were over, and the good folks of Dogtown left the fields for the fireside, and children returned to school, Robin Hood’s Inn, remote as it was, became a meeting-place for autumn walks, and Saturday parties out to gather leaves or nuts. Moreover, few people could decide which attracted them the most, the tea and seedcakes, the courtesy of Laddie the old collie, Jill’s coaxing antics, or Mrs. Carr’s fine hospitality.

“Herb Witch you shall still be called, for no one brews tea like you,” said Mr. Hugh, one afternoon as he sat by the wide fireplace, holding one of the precious Lowestoft cups that had been filled the second time.

Mrs. Carr, for some unknown reason, never served anyone but him she termed her “landlord,” and Miss Letty from these cups.

Miss Jule, her niece, Anne, and her mother had been driving together and had likewise stopped for a chat, also to inquire for a delicate little spaniel, one of an overlarge litter, that Mrs. Carr was mothering.

“Ah, but I’ve fostered a rival at the tea drawin’,” said the old lady with a smile. “Miss Lettice here betters me at it, ’twas she that drew that very potful as your foot was on the sill.”

“Why didn’t you put a few poison ivy leaves in it? I’m quite surprised,” laughed Mr. Hugh, never thinking how the jest might hurt the young girl with whom he had been on very friendly terms since the day of the storm. But that was Mr. Hugh’s chief fault; he often sharpened his little jokes upon other people’s feelings, while Miss Letty never did. She said nothing, however, but going to the window picked up Jill, and resting her upon the sill laid her face against one of the long soft ears.

“Some day, Hugh,” said Miss Jule, rather sharply, “Letty and I will find a thin spot in your cuticle, and then we will always keep salt ready to rub in it!”

“Ah! but there’s a bonnie fortune here,” said Mrs. Carr, discerning something awry and lifting Letty’s empty cup she looked in the bottom; “but what’s this on tother side?” she muttered, “two horses travelling even, and then one ahead and riderless. I can’t read that—best wash the cup.”

No matter how warm the noontide sun might be, when September came Waddles liked to lie by a fire in the evening. If there was none in the hall chimney-corner he would nose open the door into the kitchen and stretch himself on the warm hearth before the range, for though he would not like to have had it mentioned, he was rheumatic, and his left hind leg often gave him trouble in crossing stone walls. As for rail fences, he had ceased even going through them, and always crawled under.Mrs. Waddles also enjoyed fireside evenings, and had coaxed her way until she shared the rug with her spouse as a matter of course, though he alone slept at Anne’s door, Happy going back to the nursery kennel for the night. Jack still slept there with her, for if ever there was a “mother boy” it was he. All day long he kept her in sight, and at night drew as close to her as in the days of his dependent puppyhood.

It was one of the first of these evenings. A log was smouldering lazily on the hearth in the hall, though doors and windows were open and the house was full of moonlight.

The family had all gone to Miss Jule’s for supper and to talk over a harvest festival with outdoor sports that Mr. Hugh proposed to hold at Robin Hood’s Inn.

Before Anne went out she ran to the hall table to take one more look at something very precious that had come that afternoon—her camera, so long wished for, had actually arrived, and she was all eagerness for daylight that she might use it, as she had watched her father at his work so often that she felt as if she really knew how. He had insisted that she begin with plates instead of films, that she might the more easily develop her pictures and thus discover her own mistakes, so the camera was a substantial four by five instrument in a leather-covered case, with a light tripod for time work.

Waddles lay on the outer edge of the bearskin rug, Happy being next the fire, everything was quiet except her little whimpering snore and the crickets that chanted outside, led, it seemed, by one persistent individual in the wood-box.

Suddenly Happy gave a groan, and began to shiver and cry in her sleep. Up started Waddles, stumbled over her before he understood from where the noise came, and then gave her a little shake, saying, in a language that, deaf though she was, she understood: “Wake up. What is the matter? You were so greedy about that cold sausage at supper that I knew you’d have trouble.”

Happy gave a despairing kick or two, then rolled over, and, gaining her feet, sniffed once or twice, her back bristling, and then opened her eyes. “I thought that I was a kennel dog again,” she said with a little gasp, settling herself close by Waddles, as if craving protection from such a catastrophe, and scratching an ear to be sure that she was herself.

“I never lived in a kennel, though when I was very young I used to wish I did. The Hilltop dogs got lots to eat and I didn’t.” “Why didn’t you like it?” asked Waddles, who, having thoroughly waked up, was in the mood for a lazy, comfortable chat.

“Ting, ting, ting, bur-r-r,” said the telephone bell by the door, Waddles jumped up bristling, and barked his yap, yap, “treed-cat” bark at it; he always regarded the telephone as a personal insult, and as he did not quite fathom its workings or understand a voice unattached to a person he was not a little afraid of it, a fact he managed to conceal by bluster.

Through it he heard his mistress’s voice when she was at Miss Jule’s and wanted to ask if she might stay to dinner or supper, but he could get no scent of her whereabouts. Also he could hear the master talking to the fishman, whose odour was oban and forbidden of good dogs, and was his chief enemy besides, having dared to flick his whip at him. Was it not aggravating to hear those rasping tones without having a chance to pretend to nip his heels or bark his bony horse into a gallop?

Now that there was no one at home to take down the magic tube that released the evil spirit, he could take his revenge and bark his mind, which he did until he was hoarse.“Why didn’t I like it?” asked Happy, now also quite awake, and with great energy. “There was enough to eat, I suppose, but how, and when, and where? I should like you to tell me that first.”

As Waddles didn’t know, he could not tell, so Happy took the floor, or rather the bearskin, and began her story, occasionally punctuating it by pauses caused by stopping to give her paws an extra washing.

“Melody, my mother, was not born in a kennel, though after she had great sport and hunted a few years, she came to live at Hilltop. I was born there, and the difference between living in a kennel and running free begins even before your eyes are open.

“Of course you’ve looked into the kennel yard four acres big, inside the tall wire fence and seen the grass-run, and the swimming-pool, but have you ever been inside the long red house made into rooms with many windows and doors, and a little yard by each?”

“No,” said Waddles, “I’ve often tried, but some one always drove me away, though once, when I had stepped inside the door, I ran down a long hallway when a big black and white setter, who seemed to be all by himself in a small room, told me I’d best get out while I could, for maybe if I waited I couldn’t, and begged me to bring him a bone next time I came.”

“That was old Antonio, a boarder,” said Happy, looking into the fire as if she saw the past in it. “His master used to have a country house like this, and he raised Antonio from a pup, took him hunting every leaf fall, and let him lie on the hearth-rug winter nights, but when the master sold the house and went away, he sent Antonio to board at Hilltop until he should come back for him. He promised to come soon, but that was the summer that I was a pup, and Antonio is still waiting.

“Of course he is comfortable in a way; he and Rufus, the Irish setter with red hair, have a good room together, each with a boxed straw bed, and a private yard to lie in when they are not turned into the great yard for running, but they are in chain when they sleep at night, and when they are fed, and that is a grievous thing to an old dog who has once run free, and owned his bones. My mother told me so then, but being born a kennel dog I did not understand.”

“What were the other rooms in that long house?” asked Waddles, now sitting up wide awake and interested. “I saw more doors than there are in this whole house or at Miss Jule’s, and though I was in a hurry, I sniffed good crisp brown smells.”

“Some rooms like Antonio’s are for the grown dogs that live there all the time except when they go away for hunting. Then there are others closer and warmer for the mother dogs with families; I was born in one of these, and stayed there with my little brothers and sisters until I was six weeks old, and could stand firm upon my feet without resting on my stomach. Before this, for many days, when my mother was let out for her airing, she stayed away longer and longer, and when we were hungry they gave us milk to lap from a tin, which was tiresome and took much more trouble than to eat the way our mother taught us, lying close to her where we could knead her warm sides with our paws. Finally, one night she did not come back at all. Then we were taken from our little bedroom to a great square place, all wood dust on the floor and with a great black thing standing in the middle that frightened me terribly, but afterward I found that it was called a stove, and was warm inside and pleasant to lie by, though it could not feed us as our mother did.

“In this big room were many other pups of different kinds and sizes, who played or dozed in corners, but there were none as small as we, and we felt sad and lonely. I well remember how we squealed that night until Baldy’s brother brought Miss Jule and she had us put back into our little room, but our mother was not there. Once in the night she answered as from far away; but she couldn’t come for there were many doors between. They called this weaning us, so that we should learn to care for ourselves; but if you are born free like our Jack and Jill it all happens of itself and there is no sorrow. Next day we went back to the big room with all the other puppies, and four times every day each one of us was put into a little box like a chicken-coop—there was a row of them all round the wall—and given a dish of food.”

“What was that for?” asked Waddles, “why did they shut you up? I like to walk about when I eat.”

“Because,” answered Happy, feeling proud and important at knowing something that wise Waddles did not, “if the food was given to us at once the biggest would gobble two or three shares and the small pups would get none. At the kennels grown dogs are tied when they eat, but pups wear no collars, for they are bad things for their soft necks.

“After a while we became used to the life and had good times playing in the puppy pasture. One day we saw our mother in the other enclosure with the grown dogs, and we ran close to the fence and tried to dig under it; but kennel fences are set deep with melted stone poured round the posts. When we found we could not get through we barked and wagged our tails and then even our bodies when we saw her coming toward us; but she did not notice us at all—she had forgotten us!”

“Then who taught you to play snatch-bone and wrestle, who killed your fleas for you and washed you?” asked Waddles, with indignation.

“We learned to wrestle by tumbling about together. As to snatch-bone, how could we play it, we who have no bones?”

“No bones!” echoed Waddles, in amazement.

“None to keep, or to bury, or play with; such as we had must be gnawed at a meal or they were taken away. How could kennel dogs who are never alone bury bones without having them stolen and breeding a fight?

“One day after I had left the puppy yard old Antonio kept a round bone hidden in his mouth to gnaw on later. Forgetting himself he barked and dropped it. Oh, but there was a commotion that took three men, besides Miss Jule, to quell, and all the dogs were bristling and angry for three days.

“Waddles,” and there were almost tears in Happy’s eyes, “you don’t know what it was to be a well-fed kennel dog, and yet be so poor that you had not even a bone to bury! And if you had one you could not hide it in a floor of melted stone.

“I noticed that as I grew bigger and stronger and hungrier I had fewer meals, until when I was grown and slept in a separate room with Flo, the English setter, we had but one a day; a great pan of warm stew with bread in it, every evening when we were chained up for the night beside our beds.”

“That stew sounds good,” said Waddles, licking his lips, “and what for breakfast?”

“No breakfast. No bits of toast from Tommy, or chop shank from the master. It’s always supper with a kennel dog. It isn’t Miss Jule’s fault, or anybody’s; there aren’t enough bits of toast or chop bones to feed a yard full of pups and dogs.

“As to the fleas and baths, when we were old enough Baldy’s brother Martin washed us every week. There is a room next to the nursery kennel that has a water-box in it like the one our cows drink out of, and above it hang rows and rows of collars of all sizes, ready for dogs to wear who are to go away or come to the kennel without them.

“We little pups were washed in this box, and if we cried or jumped about Martin would put a collar on to hold us by. The washing wasn’t bad at first, but it was very wet and sometimes cold, and the big brush he used wasn’t as soft and warm as our mother’s tongue that washed and wiped at the same time.

“Sometimes if Martin was tired or in a hurry he did not dry us well, and often dogs grew sick and sneezed and shivered. Then the big doctor-man came hurrying out from over town with his quick horse, to see them, and said they had ‘distemper.’ When this happened Miss Jule would often sit up at night with them; and sometimes they got well, and sometimes they were taken away and never came back, then Miss Jule would say ‘This is an unlucky season.’ But we knew it most often happened when Martin forgot something, for Miss Jule could not feel each dog’s nose every day, and see if its eyes look bright, and ask us if we feel well, as our mistress does.

“The flea-killing was worse; our mother took them one by one, but Martin rubbed sneezy powder in our hair, so if we tried to lick ourselves a bit we coughed and choked. Our Jack is nearly grown, and yet he has never had a bath from any one but me, and there’s not a flea upon him. See what it is to be born free and live a private life!”

Then Mrs. Waddles’s broad chest swelled with pride, as she yawned, stretched her feet toward the fire, and curved her back.

“Where did the good smells come from?” asked Waddles. “Part of them might be soup, but the others were too much like the village bakery where Mistress sometimes buys us broken cakes.”

“That smell came from the kennel kitchen, you must have been there on a baking day. There are four rooms together that dogs must never go in, but the day our Mistress bought me from Miss Jule and I walked home with her, she went out through those rooms, then I saw and knew. The littlest room was full of the soap they wash us with, and bottles of the stuff they give us when we are sick or sprinkle on the melted stone floors, that are through all the kennels, to sweeten them.

“The next room had boxes in it like those that hold the horse food in our stable, and they were full of the stuff Martin makes the dog-bread of. I saw him take some out, and in the corner was a great cold box, and though I could not see inside I smelled that it held meat, and near by was the kettle they cooked our soup in. In the biggest room of all there was a great block like that our butcher chops the meat on while we wait to catch the bits, also a big can full of milk and rows of tin pans piled on more shelves.

“Just then I smelled something delicious and Mistress turned round, I following her; there I saw Martin standing by the open door of a great oven with a red fire below, and in it were pans and pans of crispy bread ready to take out, and more upon a table to go in, and Mistress broke off a crust that overhung, and threw it to me. I sha’n’t forget that crust; it was my first bite of liberty.”

“Did you never run free at all, or never go out alone to have any sport? I should have jumped that fence or dug out somehow.”

“No, you would not,” said Happy, decidedly. “Silver Tongue, the biggest foxhound, could not. Ah, yes, we had good sport sometimes, all through the swamp woods trailing for rabbits though we never got any, and do you know, Silver Tongue told me once that they tied the smell up in a bag and dragged it on the ground just to make us run, and there was no rabbit!

“One day, though, they took me with some older dogs to track real rabbits, for I saw them and I had run one into a fence corner, and it turned round and looked at me, when such an awful noise came down upon my head I thought the sky had fallen. I forgot the rabbit and fell over for my head ached terribly. Martin picked me up and rubbed my head and wrapped me in his coat, then everything was still. It has been so ever since, pleasant and quiet. When I felt better I saw Martin’s gun was broken and burst, and now I have to see with my eyes what people want of me, for my ears catch nothing.

“There was always sport, too, when new dogs came, either to live or board with us. They didn’t know the rules and so of course they made lots of mistakes. Sometimes they felt sulky and would not eat their supper because they didn’t know that there was no breakfast, and they would cry and beg, and if Miss Jule came by she would understand and give them some, but Martin only went by rule.

“You know the open shed up at Hilltop where the log-wood is kept, and the old grindstone? for we’ve often chased squirrels up the back of it. That shed is in the puppy yard, and the boxes that dogs travel in are kept there. We pups used to have great sport lying there in the shade to watch the boxes brought in and out, and see who came, who went away.

“We all thought it would be fun to go travelling and often scrambled in and out of them, but if Martin shut the door we were frightened, and glad enough to be loose again. The boxes were not tight but opened and latticed like hen-coops, and they called them dog crates. It was a fine thing at the end of summer to see the crates brought out and cleaned, and the old dogs, setters, hounds, and spaniels, who had been away before for the hunting, go nearly wild with joy at sight of them, and clamour for the start.

“The youngsters who had never been, and thought the crate a punishment, trembled at first, but the others explained, and so all through the autumn there was coming, going, and excitement.

“Sometimes, on fine days, Miss Jule would come with an apronful of dog-bread, and throw the bits for us to catch, and that day was held a great festival. For the one who jumped the highest, or caught the quickest, would get an extra bit, or be taken out to spend the day at the house, and have its dinner with Mr. Wolf, Miss Jule’s very own best dog, and Tip, the head retriever. When these dogs came back to the kennels, though, there was always a row, for they felt so very fine and big, and bragged so about what they had seen, and the dozens of bones they had gnawed or buried, that finally, we who were neither quick nor clever could not bear it, so we agreed that whenever a dog came back from running free we would all bark together so loud that not a word of what he said could be heard.

“Flo, the English setter, one of my best friends, who lives up there still, tells me that times are much better now, for Miss Letty takes a great interest in the dogs, and every morning, as soon as she has had breakfast, she comes to the fence of the front yard, bringing a basket of dog-bread. She gives a whistle, and when the dogs are all collected then she begins throwing them bread, bit by bit, aiming it so carefully that even the stupidest, slowest dog of them gets at least one piece. Then sometimes she will go inside the fence of the big field and throw a ball for the dogs to chase, and Flo says that when Miss Letty calls the dog who wins by name, or praises him, he likes it better than a bone, and wags away like mad. So now the kennel dogs have two things a day to look forward to, supper at night, and Miss Letty in the morning.”

“I call that a very stupid life,” said Waddles, yawning and stretching in his turn; “isn’t there any real hunting or real fun?”

“Yes, in the autumn and once already this season there was a hunt, Flo says. It was Miss Letty who let the dogs out to go to it, and Silver Tongue, the foxhound, who showed them the way. My, but they had fine running and catching, only Flo says that their getting out was an accident, and that Mr. Hugh was very angry, but Squire Burley and Miss Jule only laughed and laughed, and it was a week before the dogs all got back.”

“Hurry up, and go on and tell about it,” said Waddles, sniffing uneasily. “Mistress will be at home soon, and then you will have to go out to bed, and I sha’n’t hear what they hunted.”“They are here now,” said Happy, holding her head on one side, for though she could not hear, she could feel the vibration of coming footsteps.

“Keep quiet,” said Waddles, “it is so dark that maybe mistress will go by and forget you.”

Miss Letty feeding the Kennel Dogs.

The master went through the hallway to the library, Tommy stumbled sleepily along toward the stairs, holding his mother’s hand, while Anne went to the table where the moonlight showed her that the camera was safe and sound, and after giving it a caressing touch, called Waddles and went up to bed, but not to sleep.

Clyx.com