Tattine
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Ruth Ogden >> Tattine
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TATTINE
by Ruth Ogden [Mrs. Charles W. Ide]
CHAPTER I. TROUBLE NO. 1
Whether you happen to be four or five, or six, or seven, or even older than
that, no doubt you know by this time that a great many things need to be
learned in this world, everything, in fact, and never more things than at
seven. At least, so thought little Tattine, and what troubled her the most was
that some of the things seemed quite wrong, and yet no one was able to right
them. All her little life Tattine's Mother had been setting things straight
for her, drying every tear, and unravelling every tangle, so that Tattine was
pretty downhearted the day she discovered that there were some things that
were quite beyond even her Mother's power to alter. It was on a lovely June
morning that Tattine made the first of her unwelcome discoveries. She was
feeling particularly happy too, until she made it. She was sitting up in an
apple-tree, sketching, and doing it very well. She had taken only a few
drawing-lessons but had taken to them immensely, and now with one limb of the
tree for a seat and another one for an easel, she was working away at a pretty
chime tower, that stood on a neighbor's land.
Down on the grass beneath her Betsy and Doctor were lying. Betsy was a dear,
homely red-and-white Laverack setter, and Doctor, black-and-white and better
looking, was her son. Doctor's beautiful grandmother Tadjie was lying, alas!
under the grass instead of on it, not very far away. It was a sad day for the
dog world when Tadjie left it, for although she was very old, she was very
beautiful up to the last with a glossy silky coat, a superbly feathered tail,
and with brown eyes so soft and entreating, they fairly made you love her,
whether you were fond of dogs or no.
Well, Tattine was sketching away and was quite absorbed in it, but Doctor, who
was little more than a puppy, thought it very dull. He lay with his head
between his paws, and, without moving a muscle, rolled his eyes round and
round, now gazing up at Tattine, and then at his mother, trying to be happy
though quiet. Finally he stretched himself, got on his feet, cocked up his
ears, and came and stood in front of Betsy, and although not a sound was
heard, he said, so that Betsy perfectly understood him, "I can't stand this
any longer. If you have any love for me do please come for a run."
Then Betsy took one long stretch and with motherly self-sacrifice reluctantly
got up, prepared to humor this lively boy of hers. Suddenly Doctor craned his
head high in the air, and gave a little sniff, and then Betsy craned her head
and sniffed. Then they stole as stealthily away as though stepping upon eggs,
and Tattine never knew that they had gone. It was no stealthy treading very
long, however. No sooner had they crossed the roadway than they made sure of
the scent they thought they had discovered, and made one wild rush down
through the sumach and sweet-fern to the ravine. In a few moments it was one
wild rush up again right to the foot of Tattine's apple-tree, and Tattine
looked down to see Doctor--oh, could she believe her two blue eyes!--with a
dear little rabbit clinched firmly between his teeth, and his mother (think of
it, his mother!) actually standing proudly by and wildly waving her tail from
side to side, in the most delighted manner possible. As for Tattine, she
simply gave one horrified little scream and was down from the tree in a flash,
while the scream fortunately brought Maggie hurrying from the house, and as
Maggie was Doctor's confidential friend (owing to certain choice little
morsels, dispensed from the butler's pantry window with great regularity three
times a day), he at once, at her command, relaxed his hold on the little
jack-rabbit. The poor little thing was still breathing, breathing indeed with
all his might and main, so that his heart thumped against his little brown
sides with all the regularity of a Rider Engine. Tattine's first thought was
for the rabbit, and she held it close to her, stroking it with one little
brown trembling hand and saying, "There! there! Hush, you little dear; you're
safe now, don't be frightened! Tattine wouldn't hurt you for the world." Her
next thought was for Doctor, and she turned on him with a torrent of abuse,
that ought to have made the hair of that young M.D. stand on end. "Oh, you
cruel, CRUEL dog! whatever made you do such a thing as this? I never dreamt it
of you, never." At this Betsy's tail dropped between her legs, for she was a
coward at heart, but Doctor held his ground, his tail standing on end, as his
hair should have done, and his eyes all the while fairly devouring the little
rabbit. "And the worst of it," continued Tattine, "is that no matter how sorry
you may feel" (Betsy was the only one who showed any signs of sorrow, and she
was more scared than sorry), "no matter how sorry you may feel, that will not
mend things. You do not know where this baby lived, and who are its father and
mother, and like as not it is too young to live at all away from them and will
die," and Tattine raised one plump little hand and gave Doctor a slap that at
least made him "turn tail," and slink rather doggedly away to his own
particular hole under the laundry steps. And now it was time to find Mamma--
high time, for it seemed to Tattine she would choke with all the feelings,
sorrowful and angry, welling up within her. Mamma was not far afield--that is,
she was very near, at her desk in the cosy little alcove of the upstairs
hall-way, and Tattine soon found her.
"Now, Mamma," she asked excitedly, "did you know that Betsy or Doctor would do
such a thing as this?"
The trembling little rabbit in Tattine's hands showed what was meant by THIS.
Mrs. Gerald paused a moment, then she said reluctantly, "Yes, Tattine, I did."
"Have they done it before, Mamma?"
"I am sorry to say they have."
"Have you seen them bring struggling rabbits dangling in their mouths right up
to the house here, Mamma?"
Mrs. Gerald merely shook her head. She felt so sorry to have to own to such a
sight.
"Why did I never know it, Mamma?"
"You have never chanced to be on the spot, dear, when it happened, and I was
in no hurry to tell you anything that I knew would make you sad."
"I think it would have been better to tell me. It's awful to find such a thing
out suddenly about dogs you've trusted, and to think how good and gentle they
look when they come and put their heads in your lap to be petted, just as
though they would not hurt a fly; but then, of course, anyone who has eyes
knows that they do lure flies, snapping at them all day long, and just for the
fun of it too, not because they need them for food, as birds do. Mamma, I
don't believe there's anything meaner than a Laverack setter. Still, Tadjie
would never have done such a thing, I know." Mrs. Gerald was silent, and
Tattine, expecting her to confirm what she had said, grew a little suspicious.
"Would Tadjie, Mamma?" with a directness that would not admit of indirectness.
"Yes, Tattine; Tadjie would. She was trained to hunt before ever she was given
to Papa, and so were her ancestors before her. That is why Doctor and Betsy,
who have never been trained to hunt, go wild over the rabbits. They have
inherited the taste."
"Trained to hunt," said Tattine thoughtfully. "Do you mean that men just went
to work to teach them to be so cruel?"
"Well, I suppose in a way setters are natural hunters, Tattine, but then their
training has doubtless a great deal to do with it, but I want to tell you
something that I think will give you just a grain of comfort. I read the other
day that Sir John Franklin, the great Arctic explorer, who almost lost his
life in being attacked by some huge animal--it must have been a bear, I
think--says that the animal when he first gets you in his teeth gives you such
a shake that it paralyzes your nerves--this is, it benumbs all your feelings,
so, that, strange as it may seem, you really do not suffer. So let us hope
that it was that way with this little rabbit."
"But there's a little blood here on one side, Mamma."
"That doesn't always prove suffering, either, Tattine. Soldiers are sometimes
wounded without ever knowing it until they see a little sign of blood
somewhere."
Tattine listened attentively to all this, and was in a measure comforted. It
seemed that Mamma was still able to better things, even though not able to set
everything perfectly right. "Now," Tattine said,--with a little sigh of
relief, "I think I will try and see what I can do for Bunny. Perhaps he would
first like a drink," so downstairs she went, and putting some milk in a
shallow tea-cup, she dipped Bunny's nose in it, and it seemed to her as though
he did take a little of it. Then she trudged up to the garret for a box, and,
putting a layer of cotton-batting in the bottom, laid Bunny in one corner.
Then she went to the garden and pulled a leaf or two of the youngest, greenest
lettuce, and put it right within reach of Bunny's nose, and a little saucer of
water beside it. Then she went down to tell the gardener's little boy all
about the sorrowful thing that had happened.
The next morning Bunny was still breathing, but the lettuce was un-nibbled; he
had not moved an inch, and he was trembling like a leaf. "Mamma," she called
upstairs, "I think I'll put BUN in the sun" (she was trying not to be too
down-hearted); "he seems to be a little chilly." Then she sat herself down in
the sun to watch him. Soon Bunny ceased to tremble. "Patrick," she called to
the old man who was using the lawn mower, "is this little rabbit dead?"
"Yes, miss, shure," taking the little thing gently in his hand.
"Very well," she answered quietly. Tattine used those two little words very
often; they meant that she accepted the situation, if you happen to know what
that means. "Now I think I will not trouble Mamma about it," she said to
herself thoughtfully, so she went to the closet under the stairs, got a little
empty box she knew was there, and, taking it out of doors, she put the little
rabbit in it, and then trudged down to the tool-house for her spade and rake.
"Bunny is dead, Joey," she called to the gardener's little boy as she came
back. "Come help me bury him," and so Joey trotted behind her to the spot
already selected. "We must make this hole good and deep," she explained (Joey
stood looking on in wide-eyed wonder), "for if Doctor and Betsy would kill a
little live rabbit, there is no telling but they would dig up a dead one." So
the hole was made at least four inches deep, Bunny was buried in it, and the
earth, with Joey's assistance, stamped down hard, but afterwards it was
loosened somewhat to plant a little wild-wood plant atop of the tiny grave.
"Now, Joey, you wait here till I go bring something for a tombstone," Tattine
directed, and in a second she was back again with the cover of a box in one
hand and a red crayon in the other. Sitting flat upon the grass, she printed
on the cover in rather irregular letters:--
BORN--I don't know when. DIED June 17th.
LAVERACK SETTERS NOT ALLOWED.
This she put securely into place, while Joey raked up a little about the spot,
and they left the little rabbit grave looking very neat and tidy. The next
morning Tattine ran out to see how the little wild-wood plant was growing, and
then she stood with her arms akimbo in blank astonishment. The little grave
had disappeared. She kicked aside the loose earth, and saw that box and Bunny
were both gone, and, not content with that, they had partially chewed up the
tombstone, which lay upon its face a little distance away. They, of course,
meant Betsy and Doctor. "There was no use in my putting: 'Laverack setters not
allowed,' " she said to herself sorrowfully, and she ran off to tell her
Mother of this latest tragedy.
"Yes, I know, Tattine dear," said Mrs. Gerald, in the first pause; "there is
neither pity nor mercy in the heart of a setter when he is on the scent of a
rabbit, alive or dead--but, Tattine, don't forget they have their good sides,
Doctor and Betsy; just think how fond they are of you and me. Why, the very
sight of us always makes them beat a tattoo with their tails."
"Yes, I know, Mamma, but I can't feel somehow that tattoos with their tails
make up for killing rabbits with their teeth."
CHAPTER II. A MAPLE-WAX MORNING
A team came rushing in between the gate-posts of the stone wall, and it looked
like a run-away. They were riderless and driverless, and if there had been any
harness, there was not a vestige of it to be seen; still, they kept neck and
neck, which means in horsey language side by side, and on they came in the
maddest fashion. Tattine stood on the front porch and watched them in high
glee, and not a bit afraid was she, though they were coming straight in her
direction. When they reached her they considerately came to a sudden stop,
else there is no doubt whatever but she would have been tumbled over.
"Well, you are a team," laughed Tattine. and they laughed back, "Yes, we know
we are," and sat down on the step on either side of her. Of course, that would
have been a remarkable thing for some teams to do, but not for this one, for,
as you can guess, they were just two little people, Mabel and Rudolph, but
they were a perfect team all the same; everybody said so, and what everybody
meant was this--that whatever Rudolph "was up to," Mabel was "up to" also, and
vice versa. They traveled together finely, right "up on the bit" all the time.
It would have been easier for those who had charge of them if one or the other
had held back now and then, and set a slower pace, but as that was not their
nature and could not be helped, everybody tried to make the best of them, and
everybody loved them. Tattine did not see how she could ever have lived
without them, for they were almost as much a brother and sister to her as to
each other. This morning hey had come over by invitation for what they called
a Maple-wax morning, and that was exactly what it was, and if you have never
had one of your own, wait till you read about this one of Tattine's, and then
give your dear Mamma no peace until you have had one, either in your kitchen
in town, or in the woods out of town, which is better. One thing is necessary
to its complete enjoyment, however: you must have a "sweet tooth," but as most
little people cut that particular tooth very early, probably you are among the
fortunate number.
"Well, I don't see what we are sitting here for," said Mabel at last.
"Neithet do I," said Tattine; "I was only giving you a chance to get a little
breath. You did not seem to have much left."
"No more we had," laughed Rudolph, who was still taking little swallows and
drawing an occasional long breath, as people do when they have been exercising
very vigorously. "But if everything is ready." he added, "let us start."
"Well, everything is ready," said Tattine quite complacently, as she led the
way to the back piazza, where "everything" was lying in a row. There was the
maple sugar itself, two pounds of it on a plate, two large kitchen spoons, a
china cup, two sheets of brown wrapping-paper, two or three newspapers, a box
of matches, a pail of clear spring water, a hammer, an ice-pick, and last, and
most important of all, a granite-ware kettle.
"Now if you'll carry these," explained Tattine, "I'll run and tell Philip to
bring the ice," so Rudolph and Mabel "loaded up" and marched down to the camp,
and Tattine disappeared in the direction of the ice-house. The camp was not
far away, and consisted of a cosy little "A" tent, a hammock hung between two
young chestnuts, and a fire-place made of a circle of stones on the ground,
with a crane hanging above it. The crane was quite an elaborate contrivance,
for which Joseph the gardener was to be thanked.
The long branch on which the pot hung was pivoted, if you know what that is,
on an upright post fastened firmly in the ground, and in such a way that you
could "higher it," as Tattine said, or lower it, or swing it clear of the fire
on either side. At the end of the branch away from the fire hung a chain, with
a few blocks tied into it, for a weight, so that you lifted the weight with
one hand when you wished to change the position of the branch with the other,
and then let it rest on the ground again at the spot where you wanted the pole
to stay. You see, the great advantage of this was that, when you wished to see
how things were going on inside of the kettle, or to stop its boiling
instantly--you could just swing it away from the fire in no time, and not run
the risk of burning face or hands, or petticoats, if you belong to the
petticoat family.`
"Now," panted Tattine, for it was her turn to be breathless with running,
"I'll break the sugar if you two will make the fire, but Rudolph's to light it
and he's the only one who is to lean over it and put the wood on when it's
needed. Mamma says there is to be a very strict rule about that, because
skirts and fluffy hair like mine and Mabel's are very dangerous about a
fire," and then Tattine proceeded to roll the maple sugar in the brown paper
so as to have two or three thicknesses about it, and then, laying it upon a
flat stone, began to pound and break it with the hammer.
"Yes," said Rudolph, on his knees on the ground, and making balls of newspaper
for the foundation of the fire; "it's lucky for Mabel and me that fire is one
thing about which we can be trusted."
"I shouldn't wonder if it's the only thing," laughed Tattine, whereupon Mabel
toppled her over on the grass by way of punishment.
"No, but honest!" continued Rudolph, "I have just been trained and trained
about fire. I know it's an awfully dangerous thing. It's just foolhardy to run
any sort of risk with it, and it's wise when you make a fire in the open air
like this, to stand on the same side as the wind comes from, even if you
haven't any skirts or fluffy hair to catch."
"Here's some more wood, grandfather," said Mabel solemnly, dumping an armful
down at his side; "I should think you were eighty to hear you talk," and then
Mabel had her punishment by being chased down the path and plumped down rather
hard in the veriest tangle of brambles and briars. It chanced, however, that
her corduroy skirt furnished all the protection needed from the sharp little
thorns, so that, like "Brer Rabbit," she called out exultingly, " 'Born and
bred in a briar-patch, Brer Rudolph, born and bred in a briar-patch,'" and
could have sat there quite comfortably, no one`knows how long, but that she
heard the maple sugar go tumbling into the kettle. And then she heard Tattine
say, "A cup of water to two pounds, isn't it?" Then she heard the water go
splash on top of the maple sugar. Now she could stand it no longer, and,
clearing the briars at one bound, was almost back at the camp with another.
By this time the fire was blazing away finely, and the sugar, with the help of
an occasional stirring from the long-handled spoon in Rudolph's hand, soon
dissolved. Dissolving sometimes seems to be almost a day's journey from
boiling, and the children were rather impatient for that stage to be reached.
At last, however, Rudolph announced excitedly, "It boils, it boils! and now I
mustn't leave it for a minute. More wood, Mabel! don't be so slow, and,
Tattine, hurry Philip up with that ice," but Philip was seen at that moment
bringing a large piece of ice in a wheelbarrow, so Tattine was saved that
journey, and devoted the time instead to spreading out one of the pieces of
wrapping-paper, to keep the ice from the ground, because of the dead leaves
and "things" that were likely to cling to it.
"Now break off a good-sized piece, Tattine," Rudolph directed, "and put it on
a piece of paper near the fire," but Tattine knew that was the next thing to
do, so what was the use of Rudolph's telling her? It happens quite frequently
that people who are giving directions give too many by far.
"Now, Mabel," continued the drum-major, "will you please bring some more wood,
and will you please put your mind on it and keep bringing it? These little
twigs that make the best fire burn out in a twinkling, please notice," but
Mabel did not hurry so very much for the next armful; since she could see for
herself there was no great need for haste. Rudolph was simply getting excited,
but then the making of maple-wax is such a very responsible undertaking, he
could not be blamed for that. You need to stop its boiling at precisely the
right moment, else it suddenly reaches the point where, when you cool it, it
grows brittle like "taffy," and then good-bye to maple-wax for that kettleful.
So Rudolph, every half-minute, kept dripping little streams of the boiling
sugar from the spoon upon the piece of ice, and Tattine and Mabel kept testing
it with their fingers and tongues, until both at last exclaimed in one and the
same breatlg, "It's done! it's done! Lift it off the fire quickly; it's just
right." Just right means when the sugar hardens in a few seconds, or in a
little more than half a minute, into a delicious consistency like--well, just
like maple-wax, for there is nothing else in the world that I know of with
which to compare it. Then the children seated themselves around the great cake
of ice, and Rudolph, with the kettle on the ground beside him, tipped against
a log of wood at just the right angle, continued to be master of ceremonies,
and dipped spoonful after spoonful of the syrup, and let it trickle over the
ice in queer fantastic shapes or in little, tbin round discs like
griddle-cakes. The children ate and ate, and fortunately it seems for some
reason, to be the most harmless sweet that can be indulged in by little
people.
"Well, I've had enough," remarked Rudolph at the expiration of say a quarter
of an hour, "but isn't it wonderful that anything so delicious can just
trickle out of a tree?" his unmannerly little tongue the while making the
circuit of his lips in search of any lingering traces of sweetness.
"Trickle out of a tree!" exclaimed astonished Tattine.
"Why, yes, don't you know that's the way they make maple sugar? In the spring,
about April, when the sap begins to run up into the maple-trees, and often
while the snow is still on the ground, they what they call tap the tree; they
drive a sort of little spout right into the tree and soon the sap begins to
ooze out and drop into buckets that are placed to catch it. Afterwards they
boil it down in huge kettles made for the purpose. They call it sugaring off,
and it must be great fun."
"Not half so much fun, I should think, as sugaring down," laughed Mabel, with
her right hand placed significantly where stomachs are supposed to be.
"And now I am going to run up to the house," explained Tattine, getting
stiffly up from a rather cramped position, "for three or four plates, and
Kudolph, you break off some pieces of ice the right size for them, and we will
make a little plateful from what is left for each one up at the house, else I
should say we were three little greedies. And Mabel, while I am gone you
commence to clear up."
"Well, you are rather cool, Tattine," said Mabel, but she obediently set to
work to gather things together.
As you and I cannot be a bit of help in that direction, and have many of a
clearing-up of our own to do, I propose that we lose not a minute in running
away from that little camp, particularly as we have not had so much as a taste
of the delicious wax they've been making.
CHAPTER III. A SET OF SETTERS
It was a great bird-year at Oakdene. Never had there been so many. The same
dear old Phoebe-birds were back, building under the eaves of both the front
and back piazzas. The robins, as usual, were everywhere. The Maryland
yellow-throats were nesting in great numbers in the young growth of woods on
the hill of the ravine, and ringing out their hammer-like note in the merriest
manner; a note that no one understood until Dr. Van Dyke told us, in his
beautiful little poem, that it is "witchery, witchery, witchery," and now we
wonder that we could have been so stupid as not to have discovered it was
exactly that, long ago. But the glory of the summer were the orioles and the
scarlet tanagers; the orioles with their marvellous notes, and the tanagers in
their scarlet golfing coats glinting here and there in the sunshine. Nests
everywhere, and Tattine on one long voyage of discovery, until she knew where
at least twenty little bird families were going to crack-shell their way into
life. But there was one little family of whose whereabouts she knew nothing,
nor anyone else for that matter, until "Hark, what was that?"--Mabel and
Rudolph and Tattine were running across the end of the porch, and it was
Rudolph who brought them to a standstill.
"It's puppies under the piazza, that's what it is," declared Tattine; "where
ever did they come from, and how ever do you suppose they got there?"
"I think it's a good deal more important to know how you'll ever get them
out," answered Rudolph, who was of a practical turn of mind.