Part 19 (1/2)

Her father had dug the ground and made it ready for her, and so she took her little red basket full of seeds of different kinds, each kind tied up by itself and labelled, and down in the little beds she dropped candy-tuft, and phlox, and lady-slippers.

How happy she was at her work! Her cheeks were the color of ripe peaches, her eyes were as sweet as twin violets, and her little mouth was like a fresh rosebud, but better and brighter far than the cheeks and lips was the light of kindness that shone in her eyes.

Her sister Jennie, who sat sewing by the window, watched her with loving interest.

”Mother,” she said, at length, looking up from her work, ”do you know what a generous little girl our Nelly would be if she was only a rich man's child?”

”Is she not generous now, Jennie?” asked her mother.

”Oh yes, surely she is. But I was thinking how much good she would do, and how much she would give away, if only we were not poor.”

She saw that her mother was smiling softly to herself.

”She gives away more now, of course, than some rich children do. Just think how faithfully she works in that little garden, so as to have flowers to give away! I do not believe there is a house anywhere near us into which sickness or poverty comes where her simple flowers will not go.”

”Did you ever think, dear Jennie, of the other garden which Nelly weeds and waters every day?”

”No, mother. What garden do you mean?”

”The garden of her heart, my dear child. You know that the rain which the clouds take from the lakes and rivers comes back to refresh and beautify our fields and gardens; and so it is with our little Nelly's good deeds and kind, loving words. She gives away more than a handful of violets, for with them goes a bright smile, which is like suns.h.i.+ne to the sick heart. She gives more than a bunch of roses, for with them always goes a kind word. And doing these little things, she gets a large reward. Her own heart grows richer.”

A STRANGE COMBAT.

We are told that the old Romans greatly delighted in witnessing the combats of wild beasts, as well as gladiators, and that they used to ransack their whole broad empire for new and unheard-of animals--anything and everything that had fierceness and fight in it.

Those vast amphitheatres, like the Coliseum, were built to gratify these rather sanguinary tastes in that direction.

But I doubt whether even the old Romans, with all their large experience, ever beheld so strange and grotesque a ”set-to” (I'm pretty sure none of our American boys ever did) as the writer once stumbled upon, on the sh.o.r.es of one of our Northern Maine lakes--Lake Pennesseewa.s.see, if you can p.r.o.nounce that; it trips up editors sometimes.

I had been spending the day in the neighboring forest, hunting for a black squirrel I had seen there the evening before, having with me a great, red-s.h.i.+rted lumberman, named Ben--Ben Murch. And not finding our squirrel, we were making our way, towards evening, down through the thick alders which skirted the lake, to the sh.o.r.e, in the hope of getting a shot at an otter, or a mink, when all at once a great sound, a sort of _quock, quock_, accompanied by a great splas.h.i.+ng of the water, came to our ears.

”Hus.h.!.+” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Ben, clapping his hand to his ear (as his custom was), to catch the sound. ”Hear that? Some sort of a fracas.”

And cautiously pus.h.i.+ng through the dense copse, a very singular and comical spectacle met our eyes. For out some two or three rods from the muddy, gra.s.sy sh.o.r.e stood a tall, a very tall bird,--somewhere from four to five feet, I judged,--with long, thin, black legs, and an awkward body, slovenly clad in dull gray-blue plumage. The neck was as long as the legs, and the head small, and nearly bare, with a long, yellowish bill. Standing knee deep in the muddied water, it was, on the whole, about the most ungainly-looking fowl you can well imagine; while on a half-buried tree trunk, running out towards it into the water, crouched a wiry, black creature, of about average dog size, wriggling a long, restless tail, and apparently in the very act of springing at the long-legged biped in the water. Just now they were eying each other very intently; but from the splashed and bedraggled appearance of both, it was evident there had been recent hostilities, which, judging from the att.i.tude of the combatants, were about to be renewed.

”Show!” exclaimed Ben, peering over my shoulder from behind. ”An old _hairn_--ain't it? Regular old _pokey_. Thought I'd heered that _quock_ before. And that creatur'? Let's see. Odd-looking chap. Wish he'd turn his head this way. Fisher--ain't it? Looks like one. Should judge that's a fisher-cat. What in the world got them at loggerheads, I wonder?”

By ”hairn” Ben meant _heron_, the great blue heron of American waters--_Ardea Herodias_ of the naturalists. And fisher, or fisher-cat, is the common name among hunters for Pennant's marten, or the _Mustela canadensis_, a very fierce carnivorous animal, of the weasel family, growing from three to four feet in length, called also ”the black cat.”

The fisher had doubtless been the a.s.sailant, though both had now that intent, tired-down air which marks a long fray. He had probably crept up from behind, while old long-shanks was quietly frogging along the sh.o.r.e.

But he had found his intended victim a game one. The heron had a character to sustain; and although he might easily have flown away, or even waded farther out, yet he seemed to scorn to do either.

Not an inch would it budge, but stood with its long, javelin-like beak poised, ready to strike into the fisher's eye, uttering, from moment to moment, that menacing, guttural _quock_, which had first attracted our attention.

This sound, mingling with the eager snarling and fretting of the cat, made the most dismal and incongruous duet I had ever listened to. For some moments they stood thus threatening and defying each other; but at length, las.h.i.+ng itself up to the proper pitch of fury, the fisher jumped at his antagonist with distended jaws, to seize hold of the long, slender throat. One bite at the heron's slim neck would settle the whole affair. But this attempt was very adroitly balked by the plucky old wader's taking a long step aside, when the fisher fell into the water with a great splash, and while struggling back to the log, received a series of strokes, or, rather, stabs, from the long, pointed beak, dealt down with wonderful swiftness, and force, too; for we distinctly heard them _prod_ into the cat's tough hide, as he scrambled upon the log, and ran spitting up the bank. This defeat, however, was but temporary, as any one acquainted with the singular persistence and perseverance of the whole weasel family will readily guess. The fisher had soon worked his way down the log again, the heron retiring to his former position in the water.

Another succession of quocks and growlings, and another spring, with even less success, on the side of the cat. For this time the heron's bill wounded one of his eyes; and as he again retreated up the log, we could see the b.l.o.o.d.y tears trickling down over his s.h.a.ggy jowl.