Tattine
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Ruth Ogden >> Tattine
"I'll tell you what," said Tattine thoughtfully, "shouldn't wonder if they
belong to Betsy. I've seen her crowding herself through one of the air-holes
under the piazza several times lately," whereupon the children hurried to peer
through the air hole. Nothing was to be seen, however, for the piazza floor
was not more than a foot and a half from the ground, and it was filled with
all sorts of weeds that flourished without sunshine. Still the little puppy
cries were persistently wafted out from some remote corner, and, pulling off
his jacket, Rudolph started to crawl in and investigate. It did not seem
possible that he could make his way, for the place was not high enough for him
even to crawl on his hands and knees, and he had rather to worm himself along
on his elbows in quite indescribable fashion. Still, Tattine and Mabel were
more than ready to have him try, and waited patiently, bending over with their
hands upon their knees, and gazing in through the weed-grown hole in
breathless, excited fashion.
"I believe I'll have to give it up," Rudolph called back; "the cries seem as
far off as ever and I'm all but scratched to pieces." "Oh, don't! don't!"
cried Tattine and Mabel, in one breath, and Mabel added, "We MUST know what
they are and where they are. I shall go in myself if you come out."
"Well, you wouldn't go more than three feet then, I can tell you," and Rudolph
was right about that. It was only because he hated to give the thing up, even
more than the girls hated to have him, that made him persevere. "Well, here
they are at last!" he cried exultingly, a few moments later; "one, two three,
four of them, perfect little beauties too. And they must belong to Betsy;
they're just like her."
"Bring one out, bring one out!" called both the children, and fairly dancing
with delight.
"Bring out your grandmother! It's all I can manage to bring myself out,
without holding on to a puppy."
"Very well," Tattine called back, with her usual instant acceptance of the
inevitable, "but I know what," and then she was off in a flash, with Mabel
following closely to find out what WHAT might be.
It was Joseph the gardener whom Tattine wanted, and she found him where she
thought she would, killing potato-bugs in the kitchen-garden.
"What do you think, Joseph? Betsy has a beautiful set of little setters under
the piazza. Come quick, please! and see how we can get them out."
Joseph followed obediently. "Guess we'll have to let them stay there till they
crawl out," said Joseph; "Betsy'll take as good care of them there as
anywhere," whereupon the children looked the picture of misery and despair. At
this moment Rudolph emerged from the hole a mass of grass and dirt stains,
and both Mabel and Tattine thought he had been pretty plucky, though quite too
much preoccupied to tell him so, but Rudolph happily felt himself repaid for
hardships endured, in the delight of his discovery.
"It will be a month before they'll have sense enough to crawl out," he
remarked to Joseph, "and they're wedged in between some old planks in very
uncomfortable fashion. They look like fine little fellows too. I think we
ought to manage in some way to get them out."
"And it would be bad if any of them died there," said Joseph,rubbing his head
and still ruminating on the subject; "very bad. Well, we'll have to see what
we` can do about it."
"Will you see right away?" urged Tattine eagerly.
"May as well, I reckon," and Joseph walked off in the direction of the
tool-house, but to Tattine's regret evidently did not appreciate any need for
extreme haste.
In a little while he was back again with Patrick, and both of them were
carrying spades. "There's only one way to do it," he explained, as they set to
work; "you see, the pillars of this porch rest on a stone foundation, so as to
support the rooms above, and we'll have to dig out three or four of the large
stones and then dig a sort of trench to wherever the puppies are," and Rudolph
was able of course to indicate the exact spot to which the trench must lead.
It was the work of an hour to excavate the foundation-stones, and an
additional half-hour to dig the trench. Meantime Betsy appeared upon the
scene, and, evidently appreciating what was going on, stood about and
superintended matters with quite an important air. Rudolph clambered in and
dug the last few feet of the trench, because it did not need to be as large
for him as for Joseph and Patrick, and then one at a time he brought the dear
little puppies out, and Mabel and Tattine took turns in appropriating them,
while Betsy eyed them proudly but withal a little anxiously. And they were
dear; as prettily marked as their beautiful grandmother Tadjie, and too
cunning for words.
"You have made us a great deal of trouble, Betsy," said Tattine, "but they are
such beauties we forgive you," whereat Betsy looked up so affectionately that
Tattine added, "and perhaps some day I'll forgive you about that rabbit, since
Mamma says it's natural for you to hunt them." But Betsy, indifferent
creature, did not care a fig about all that; her only care was to watch her
little puppies stowed away one by one on fresh sweet-smelling straw, in the
same kennel where Doctor and his brothers and sisters had enjoyed their
puppy-hood, and then to snuggle up in a round ball close beside them. They
were Betsy's puppies for a certainty. There had been no doubt of that from the
first glimpse Rudolph gained of them in their dark little hole under the
porch. But the next morning came and then what do you suppose happened? A very
weak little puppy cry came from under the porch. Another puppy, that was what
it meant, and Joseph was very much out of patience, for the trench had been
filled up and the foundation-stones carefully replaced.
"Rudolph ought to have made sure how many there were," he said rather
growlily.
"But, Joseph, this puppy cry comes from another place way over here, it seems
to me," and Tattine ran to a spot on the porch several yards from that under
which the others had been found. "I believe it must have been a cleverer
little puppy than the others, and crawled away by itself to see what the world
was like, and that is why Rudolph missed finding it."
Joseph put his hand to his ear and, listening carefully, concluded that
Tattine was right. "Now I'll tell you what I am going to do," he said; "I can
make just a little hole, large enough for a puppy to get through, without
taking out a foundation-stone, and I'm going to make it here, near where the
cry seems to come from. Then I am going to tie Betsy to this pillar of the
porch, and I believe she'll have sense enough to try and coax the little
fellow out, and if the is such an enterprising little chap as you think he'll
have sense enough to come out."
It seemed a good plan. Betsy was brought, and Tattine sat down to listen and
watch. Betsy, hearing the little cries, began at once to coax, giving little
sharp barks at regular intervals, and trying to make the hole larger with her
paws.
Tattine's ears, which were dear little shells of ears to look at, and very
sharp little ears to hear with, thought the cries sounded a little nearer, and
now a little nearer; then she was sure of it, and Betsy and she, both growing
more excited every minute, kept pushing each other away from the hole the
better to look into it, until at last two little beads of eyes glared out at
them, and then it was an easy thing for Tattine to reach in and draw out the
prettiest puppy of all.
"Why didn't you tell us there were five, Betsy, and save us all this extra
trouble?" and Tattine hurried away to deposit number five in the kennel; but
Betsy looked up with the most reproachful look imaginable as though to say,
"How much talking could you do if you had to do it all with your eyes and a
tail?"
CHAPTER IV. MORE TROUBLES
Patrick Kirk was raking the gravel on the road into pretty criss-cross
patterns, and Tattine was pretending to help him with her own garden rake.
Patrick was one of Tattine's best friends and she loved to work with him and
to talk to him. Patrick was a fine old Irishman, there was no doubt whatever
about that, faithful and conscientious to the last degree. Every morning he
would drive over in his old buggy from his little farm in the Raritan Valley,
in abundant time to begin work on the minute of seven, and not until the
minute of six would he lay aside spade or hoe and turn his steps towards his
old horse tied under the tree, behind the barn. But the most attractive thing
about Patrick was his genial kindly smile, a smile that said as plainly as
words, that he had found life very comfortable and pleasant, and that he was
still more than content with it notwithstanding that his back was bowed with
work month in and month out, and the years were hurrying him fast on into old
age.
And so Tattine was fond of Patrick, for what (child though she was) she knew
him to be, and they spent many a delightful hour in each other's company.
"Patrick," said Tattine, on this particular morning, when they were raking
away side by side, "does Mrs. Kirk ever have a day at home?" and she glanced
at Patrick a little mischievously, doubting if he would know just what she
meant.
"Shure she has all her days at home, Miss Tattine, save on a holiday, when we
go for a day's drive to some of our neighbors', but I doubt if I'm catching
just what you're maning."
"Oh! I mean does she have a day sometimes when she gets ready for company and
expects to have people come and see her, the way ladies do in town?"
"Well, no, miss; she don't do tbat, for, tin to one, nobody'd come if she did.
We belongs to the workin' classes, Molly and I, and we has no time for the
doing of the loikes of city people."
"I'm sorry she hasn't a day," said Tattine, "because--because--"
"If ye're maning that you'd like to give us a call, miss," said Patrick,
beginning to take in the situation, "shure she could have a day at home as
aisy as the foinest lady, and proud indeed she'd be to have it with your
little self for the guest of honor."
"I would like to bring Rudolph and Mabel, Patrick."
"And what should hinder, miss?"
"And I'd like to have it an all-day-at-home, say from eleven in the morning
until five in the afternoon, and not make just a little call, Patrick."
"Of course, miss, a regular long day, with your donkey put into a stall in the
barn, and yourselves and the donkey biding for the best dinner we can give
ye."
"And I'd like to have you there, Patrick, because we might not feel AT HOME
just with Mrs. Kirk."
"Well, I don't know, miss; do you suppose your Father could spare me?" and
Patrick thought a little regretfully of the dollar and a half he would insist
upon foregoing if he took a day off, but at the same moment he berated himself
soundly for having such an ungenerous thought. "Indade, miss, if you'll manage
for me to have the day I'll gladly stay to home to make ye welcome."
"Then it's settled, Patrick, and we'll make it the very first day Papa can
spare you. " The had raked down, while they had been having this conversation,
to close proximity to two pretty rows of apple-trees that had been left on the
front lawn, a reminder of the farm that "used to be," and the sight of the
trees brought a troubled look into Tattine's face. "Patrick," she said
ruefully, "do you know that some of the nests in these trees have been robbed
of their eggs? Four or five of them are empty now. Have you an idea who could
do such a thing?"
"Yes, I have an idea," and Patrick rested his hands upon the handle of his
rake and looked significantly towards the barn; "somebody who lives in the
barn, I'm thinkin'."
"Why, Joseph would not do it, nor Philip the groom, and little Joey is too
small to climb these trees."
"It's something smaller than Joey, miss. Whisht now, and see if she's not up
to mischief this minute."
Tattine's little black-and-white kitten, whose home was in the barn, had been
frisking about her feet during all the raking, but as the raking came under
the apple-trees, other thoughts came into her little black-and-white head, and
there she was stealthily clawing her way up the nearest tree. Tattine stood
aghast, but Patrick's "whisht" kept her still for a moment, while the cat made
its way along one of the branches. Tattine knowing well the particular nest
she was seeking, made one bound for her with her rake, and with such a scream
as certainly to scare little Black-and-white out of at least one of the nine
lives to which she is supposed to be entitled. But pussy was too swift and
swiftly scrambled to the very topmost twig that would hold her weight, while
Tattine danced about in helpless rage on the grass beneath the tree. "Tattine
is having a fit," thought little Black-and-white, scared half to death and
quite ready to have a little fit of her own, to judge from her wild eyes and
bristling tail.
Tattine's futile rage was followed in a few minutes by, "Oh, Patrick, I never
dreamt it was Kittie. Has SHE been TRAINED to do it, do you think?"
"Oh. no, miss; it just comes natural to cats and kittens to prey upon birds
and birds' nests."
"Patrick," said Tattine solemnly, "there is not going to be any four-legged
thing left for me to love. I am done with Betsy and Doctor, and now I'm done
with Black-and-white. I wonder if Mamma can make it seem any better," and then
she turned her steps to the house in search of comfort, but she had gone only
half-way when the coachman, who was waiting at the door with the little grey
mare and the phaeton, motioned to her to come quietly. Tattine saw at a glance
what had happened, and sped swiftly back to Patrick. "Keep Black-and-white up
the tree," she said, in a breathless whisper; "don't let her go near the nest,
and don't let her come down for the world. The little Phoebe-birds have lit."
"All right, miss," not at all understanding the situation, but more than
willing to obey orders. Tattine was in such haste to get back to the house
that she hardly heard his answer. What she had tried to tell him was that the
five little fledglings, crowded into the tiny nest under the eaves of the
porch, had taken it into their heads to try their first flight at that precise
moment, and there they were perched on the shafts of the phaeton, lighting, as
it seemed, on the first thing they came to, while the father and mother birds
were flying about in frantic anxiety to see them in such a perilous situation.
How could those tiny little untrained claws keep their hold on that big round,
slippery shaft, and if the carriage started down they would surely go under
the wheels or under the feet of that merciless little grey mare. But the
little fledglings were in better hands than they knew, for, with the
exceptions of Betsy, Doctor, and Black-and-white, every living thing at
Oakdene was kind to every other living thing.
"Whoa, girlie; whoa, girlie," had been Patrick's quieting words to Lizzie, and
then when Tattine came hurrying that way he had motioned her to come quietly
for fear of frightening them. Then, as you know, Tattine flew to make sure
that treacherous Black- and-white was kept close guarded, and then back she
fl‡w again to the aid of the little birds themselves. Softly she drew nearer
and nearer, saying over gently, "Whoa, Lizzie! dear little birdies!" until she
came very near and then she put out one hand towards them. That was enough for
the fledglings. Refreshed by their rest on the shafts, they flapped their
tiny wings and fluttered up to the anxious mother bird on the branches above
them, wholly unconscious that they had been in any peril whatsoever.
"And Black-and-white would have killed them, every one, if she had had the
chance," thought Tattine; "oh, if I only knew how to teach her a lesson!"
CHAPTER V. THE KIRKS AT HOME
Barney the donkey was harnessed, and Tattine sat in the little donkey-cart
waiting, and as she waited she was saying aloud, "What, Grandma Luty? Yes,
Grandma Luty. No, Grandma Luty. What did you say, Grandma Luty?" and this she
said in the most polite little tone imaginable. Meantime Rudolph and Mabel,
discovering that Tattine did not see them, came stealing along under cover of
the apple-trees.
"Whatever is Tattine doing, talking to herself like that?" whispered Mabel,
and then they came near enugh to hear what she was saying.
"She's out of her head," said Rudolph, wh‚n they had listened'some moments,
and then Tattine turned round and saw them.
"No, I'm not out of my head at all," she laughed; "I was just practicing a
little while I waited for you."
"Practicing your GRANDMOTHER," which as you have observed was a pet expression
with Rudolph, whenever he wished to intimate that he considered your remarks
to be simply absurd.
"Yes, that's exactly it," Tattine answered good-naturedly. "I am practicing my
Grandmother. Grandma Luty, that's Mamma's mother, has come to make us a visit,
and Mamma has discovered that I'm not very polite to old people. Children used
to be taught, you know, to say, 'Yes'm,' and 'Yes, sir,' but now that is not
considered nice at all, and you must always say the name of the person you are
speaking to, especially if they are older people, to whom you ought to be
respectful," and Tattine sounded quite like a little grandmother herself as
she talked.
"Yes, we know, and it's an awful bother," sighed Rudolph. "We're fairly nagged
about it, Mabel and I, but Mother says she's going to keep it up until we
always do it. Perhaps we would get on faster if we practised by ourselves as
you do, but really, Tattine, it did sound as though you were out of your head,
to hear you saying all those sentences over to yourself."
While the children were having this little talk about politeness, Rudolph and
Mabel had climbed into the wagon, and the donkey, acting upon a suggestion
from Tattine's whip, had started down the roadway. The trio were off for
Patrick's, for this was to be the day of the Kirks' "At Home," and, dressed in
kis Sunday-best, Patrick that very minute was waiting at his door to receive
them.
Full two miles lay ahead of the children, and though Barney fortunately seemed
to be in the mood for doing his best, Patrick would still have a full
half-hour to wait. At last the donkey-cart drew up at the Kirks' door and two
happy old people welcomed three happy little people into their comfortable
little home. It would take another book, the size of this one, to tell you all
the doings of that August day. First they went into the house and laid their
wraps on the white coverlid of the great high feather-bed in the little spare
room, and then Mrs. Kirk sat them down to three little blue bowls of
bread-and-milk, remarking, "shure you must be after being hungry from your
long drive," and the children ate it with far more relish than home
bread-and-milk was ever eaten.
"Now I'm doubting"" said Patrick, standing with his back to the cooking-stove
and with a corn-cob pipe in his mouth, "if it's the style to have
bread-and-milk at 'At Homes' in the city."
"Patrick," answered Tattine seriously, "we do not want this to be a city 'At
Home.' I don't care for them at all. Everybody stays for just a little while,
and everybody talks at once, and as loudly as they can, and at some of them
they only have tea and a little cake or something like that to eat," and
Tattine glanced at the kitchen-table over by the window with a smile and a
shake of the head, as though very much better pleased with what she saw there.
A pair of chickens lay ready for broiling on a blue china platter. Several
ears of corn were husked ready for the pot they were to be boiled in. A plate
of cold potatoes looked as though waiting for the frying-pan, and from the
depths of a glass fruit-dish a beautiful pile of Fall-pippins towered up to a
huge red apple at the top.
"Indade, thin, but we'll do our best," said Mrs. Kirk, "to make it as
different from what you be calling a city 'At Home' as possible, and now
suppose you let Patrick take you over our bit of a farm, and see what you
foind to interest you, and I'm going wid yer, while ye have a look at my
geese, for there's not the loike of my geese at any of the big gentlemin's
farms within tin miles of us."
And so, nothing loth, the little party filed out of the house, and after all
hands had assisted in unharnessing Barney and tying him into his stall, with a
manger-full of sweet, crisp hay for his dinner, they followed Mrs. Kirk's lead
to the little pond at the foot of the apple-orchard. And then what did they
see! but a truly beautiful great flock of white geese. Some were sailing
gracefully around the pond, some were pluming their snowy breasts on the shore
beside it, and three, the finest of them all, and each with a bow of ribbon
tied round its long neck, were confined within a little picket-fence apart
from the others.
"Why, what beauties, Mrs. Kirk!" exclaimed Tattine, the minute she spied them,
"and what are the ribbons for? Do they mean they have taken a prize at some
show or other? And why do they each have a different color?"
"They mane," said Mrs. Kirk proudly, standing with her hands upon her hips and
her face fairly beaming, "they mane as how they're to be presinted to you
three children. The red is for Master Rudolph, the white is for Miss Mabel,
and the blue is for you, Miss Tattine."
"Oh, Mrs. Kirk!" the three children exclaimed, with delight, and Mabel added
politely, "But do you really think you can spare them, Mrs. Kirk?"
"Why, of course she can! can't you, Mrs. Kirk?" cut in Rudolph warmly, for the
idea of relinquishing such a splendid gift was not for a moment to be thought
of. "I wonder how we can get them home," he added, by way of settling the
matter.
"Indade, thin, and I have this foine crate ready to go right in the back of
your cart," and there, to be sure, was a fine sort of cage with a board top
and bottom and laths at the sides, while other laths were lying ready to be
nailed into place after the geese should have been stowed away within it. The
children were simply wild over this addition to their separate little sets of
live-stock, and although the whole day was delightful, there was all the while
an almost impatient looking forward to the supreme moment when they should
start for home with those beautiful geese in their keeping. And at last it
came.
"I wonder if my goose will be a little lonely," said Tattine, as they all
stood about, watching Patrick nail on the laths.
"Faith and it will thin," said Mrs. Kirk. "It never came to my moind that they
wouldn't all three be together. Here's little Grey-wing to keep Blue-ribbon
company," and Mrs. Kirk seized one of the smaller geese that happened to be
near her, and squeezed it into the cage through the small opening that was
left.
"Well, if you can spare it, I think that is better, Mrs. Kirk, because
everything has a companion over at our place. We have two cats, two pairs of
puppies, two little bay horses, and two greys, and two everything, but as
there's only one of me I am friends with them all--"
"Bless your heart, but I'm glad you thought to mintion it," and then Patrick
and Mrs. Kirk gave each little extended hand a hearty shake, and the
children--declaring over and over that "they had a lovely time and were so
much obliged for the geese"--climbed into the cart and set off for home.
"I'd go the short cut by the ford," advised Patrick; "it looks like we might
get a shower by sunset."
"Yes, I think we would better," said Rudolph, glancing toward the clouds in
the west Rudolph prided himself on his ability to forecast the weather, and
was generally able to tell correctly when a shower was pretty sure to come and
when it was likely to "go round."
So Barney was coaxed into a good gait, which he was ready as a rule to take
towards home, and the little ford by way of a farm-lane, and which saved a
good mile on the road home, was soon reached. Barney knew the place well and,
always enjoying it, picked his way carefully to the middle of the ford, and
then he took it into his stubborn little head to stand stock still, and to
plant his four hoofs firmly in the nice soft mud at the bottom of the stream.
"Go on," urged Tattine; "Go on," urged Mabel, and Rudolph applied his sapling
whip with might and main, but all to no effect. Meantime some geese from a
neighboring farm had come sailing out into the ford, to have a look at their
friends in the crate, and the geese in the crate, wild to be out on the water
with their comrades, craned their long necks far out between the laths, and
set up a tremendous squawking. It was rather a comical situation, and the
children laughed till their sides ached, but after a while it ceased to be so
funny. The clouds were rolling up blacker, and there was an occasional flash
of lightning far off in the distance, but Barney stood still obdurate and
unmoved, simply revelling in the sensation of the cool water, running
down-stream against his four little donkey-legs. At last Rudolph was at his
wits' end, for what did Tattine and Mabel do but commence to cry. Great drops
of rain were falling now, and they COULD NOT BEAR THE THOUGHT of being mid-way
in that stream with the storm breaking right above their heads, and when
girls, little or big, young or old, cannot bear the thought of things they
cry. It does not always help matters; it frequently makes them more difficult,
but then again sometimes it does help a little, and this appeared to be one of
those things, for when the girls' crying put Rudolph to his wits' end, he
realized that there was just one thing left to try, and that was to jump
overboard and try and pull Barney to land, since Barney would not pull him. So
into the water he jumped, keeping the reins in his hand, and then, getting a
little ahead of Barney, he began to walk and pull. Now fortunately, there is
nothing like the force of example, which simply means that when Barney saw
Rudolph walking and pulling he began to walk and pull too.