Part 37 (1/2)
”Our Bathsheba is of an inexhaustible good temper, stupid, and wonderfully stolid and gentle. She is never crusty, and is the untiring playmate of any child. The 'Lubber fiend' we call her sometimes in fun, for she seems to extend over acres of carpet when she takes a siesta in the drawing-room.
”'Has she a soul?' inquired a friend who admired the great gentle creature. 'I fear not,' was my reply; 'only a stomach.'
”Besides Bathsheba, we have a large retriever called 'Frolic.' He and Bath are given sometimes to running after people who go to the back door; they never bite, but growl, and bark if it is a complete stranger.
”On one occasion, an Irishman who had been employed to do some draining met with this hostile reception. ''Tis gude house-dogs,' said my guardian of the poultry grimly.
”On hearing that the Irishman had been frightened, I sought him, expressed to him my regrets, and said that, though big, the dogs were quite harmless. With ready wit he retorted: 'Begorra, it isn't dogs that I am afraid of, but your ladys.h.i.+p keeps lions.'”
”Just one more story,” cry the children as I cease speaking, and Mrs.
Hamilton points to the clock, as their bedtime is long past. After a few minutes' pause, I continue:
”The other day I was told of a little girl who attended a distribution of prizes given by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.
”She had won, you must know, a book as a reward for writing the best essay on the subject given, and, with the other successful children, was undergoing a _viva voce_ examination.
”'Well, my dear,' said the gentleman who had given away the prizes, 'can you tell me why it is cruel to dock horses' tails and trim dogs' ears?'
'Because,' answered the little girl, 'what G.o.d has joined together let no man put asunder.'”
An explosion of childish laughter follows my story, and then the little ones troop up in silence to bed. I sit on, quietly looking into the fire, and as I sit so the voices of my friends seem to grow distant, and I fall into a reverie.
[Sidenote: A Cornish story of a girl's sorrow.]
Daft Bess
BY
KATE BURNLEY BELT
Up and down the little pier they paced in quarter-deck fas.h.i.+on, each with his hands tucked deep down in the pockets of his sea-blanket coat, and his oilskin cap pulled well over his ears.
They were very silent in their walk, these three old men, who had watched the breakers come and go at Trewithen for over sixty years, and handled the ropes when danger threatened. Trewithen Cove had sheltered many a storm-driven s.h.i.+p within their memories, and there were grave-mounds in the churchyard on the cliff still unclaimed and unknown that had been built up by their hands.
Up and down, to and fro they went in the face of the flying spray, in spite of the deepening mist that was creeping up over the darkening sea.
Benjamin Blake--once the handiest craftsman in the cove--was the first to break the silence.
”'Tis a sa-ad night at sea, mates!” he shouted, and the roar of the waves nearly drowned the sound of his voice.
”Iss, tu be zure, Benjamin Blake!” shouted Tom Pemberthy in answer, ”an'
'twill be a ba-ad job fer more'n wan boat, I reckin, 'gainst marnin'!”
Then Joe Clatworthy, whose opinions were valued highly in the settlement of all village disputes, so that he had earned for himself the nickname of ”Clacking Joe,” stood still as they once more turned their backs on the threatening sea, and said his say.
”A tell ee wot 'twill be, mates,” he said solemnly and slowly. ”You mark my wurrds ef it dawn't c.u.m truthy too,--there'll be terble loss uv li-ife out there tu-night,” and he waved his hand towards the blackening sea, ”an' us'll hev tu dig a fuu more graves, I reckin', c.u.m marnin'!”