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Bonnie Prince Fetlar: The Story of a Pony and His Friends

by Marshall Saunders · English · Gutenberg #49459 · 466,842 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Bonnie Prince Fetlar: The Story of a Pony and His Friends

Author: Marshall Saunders


        
Release date: July 16, 2015 [eBook #49459]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BONNIE PRINCE FETLAR: THE STORY OF A PONY AND HIS FRIENDS ***

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|Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.  |
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BONNIE PRINCE FETLAR

MARSHALL SAUNDERS




     Come, walk the open road with us,
       Far out beyond the town,
     Where all the winds of Arcady
       Go wandering up and down.
     If problems vex, if cares perplex,
       O leave them all behind.
     Step lightly here, with vision clear,
       And free, inquiring mind.

     LILIAN LEVERIDGE.




BONNIE PRINCE FETLAR

THE STORY OF A PONY AND HIS FRIENDS

BY

MARSHALL SAUNDERS

AUTHOR OF "BEAUTIFUL JOE," "THE WANDERING DOG," ETC.

[Illustration: Logo]

NEW YORK

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY




COPYRIGHT, 1920,

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




CONTENTS


CHAPTER                                     PAGE
     I THE BOY WITH THE PALE EYES              9

    II THE MAN AND THE BOY                    19

   III THREE FRIENDS ON DEER TRAIL            27

    IV THE WOLF AND THE LAMB                  39

     V A COWARD STANDS ASIDE                  52

    VI THE BELOVED LIAR                       62

   VII PRIZE PIGS AND THEIR DOG FRIENDS       77

  VIII A GREAT SECRET                         95

    IX CASSOWARY TRIES MY PACES              107

     X EARLY MORNING ON DEVERING FARM        118

    XI ANOTHER LIE                           134

   XII THE DRIVE TO THE GAME WARDEN'S        148

  XIII BOLSHY THE RUSSIAN                    168

   XIV THE WHITE PHANTOM                     180

    XV A NIGHT PROWLER                       191

   XVI THE HIGHLANDER WALKS                  202

  XVII A MYSTERIOUS LAMB                     210

 XVIII THE ARRIVAL OF THE PONIES             220

   XIX CASSOWARY LOSES HER TEMPER ONCE       229

    XX CASSOWARY LOSES HER TEMPER TWICE      241

   XXI A FLIGHT BY NIGHT                     253

  XXII BACK TO THE HOME STABLE               264

 XXIII MY MASTER LOSES GROUND                275

  XXIV THE MOTHER MYSTERY                    287

   XXV WE HAUNT THE WOODS                    297

  XXVI THE GREEN LADY AND THE BROWN MAN      310

 XXVII FATHER, MOTHER AND CHILD              319

XXVIII THE FIRE AT WIDOW DETOVER'S           325

  XXIX A RUSSIAN PRINCESS                    330

   XXX AN END AND A BEGINNING                341




BONNIE PRINCE FETLAR




CHAPTER I

THE BOY WITH THE PALE EYES


One day early this last summer I was feeling rather puzzled and
surprised.

I am a black Shetland pony brought up mostly in cities and lovely open
country places, and here was I shut up in a wild hilly spot miles from
any human being except a few settlers.

I wasn't worried. I am a middle-aged pony and have seen enough of life
to know that it does not pay to get stirred up about mysteries for
invariably time straightens them all out.

I was just curious and amused and a little bored. No one was going to
hurt me. I was sure of that. I am worth a great deal of money, but why I
had been toted from down South to New York, and from New York to a
Canadian stock farm and from the stock farm away up here to this
out-of-the-way place in the woods was a problem to me.

I didn't like being shut up this fine day, and I didn't understand the
reason for it. In the distance were children, a whole flock of them
giggling and carrying on and probably crazy to get on my back, but they
were being kept away from me.

"Well," I thought, "I'd better take a little nap while I'm waiting for
this tangle to straighten itself out," and I was just turning my head to
the wall of my log-house stable and drooping my head when there was a
slight noise from the direction of the doorway.

At first I was not going to look round. I thought, "Oh! it's only one of
the calves from the barnyard. They've been gaping at me ever since I
came. What's the use of looking at them. Not one of them understands a
Shetland pony."

However, I did at last turn my head. Anything to pass away the time in
this dull place. To my surprise, it was not a calf but a boy that stood
in the doorway, evidently a city boy for he was smartly dressed and not
clad in overalls like the children in the distance, or poor clothes like
the children in the few log cabins we had passed on the way to this
lonely place.

He was a white-faced lad with light brown hair and pale eyes. I never
saw such eyes before except in the head of a cat. They were greenish in
hue and they grew bigger and darker as he stared at me. He seemed to be
looking right through me at something in the background, and, if I
hadn't known there wasn't a thing in the cabin except a couple of deer
mice that he couldn't possibly see, I would have looked behind me to
find out what he was staring at.

His expression was all right. I divide boys into two classes--kind and
cruel. This lad was good-hearted whatever else he might be, and he
wouldn't hurt a pony.

If he was from the city he spoke my language, and I advanced a bit
toward him and stretched out my neck agreeably.

To my amazement he gave a leap backward.

"Oh! excuse me," he stammered, "I'm a bit cut up. I've had a long
trip--I didn't know but what you were going to bite."

I curled my lip in a pony smile. Who was he and where did he come from,
not to know that a Shetland pony is the soul of good nature. How
different he was from those brown-faced young ones outside who looked as
if they feared neither man nor beast.

Well, I could do nothing more. It was for him to make the advances, and
I examined him more carefully.

He was very much excited. His hands were clenched, his young breast was
heaving, and he had red spots over his cheek bones. I believed that he
had run up here because he thought he was going to cry.

I have had many young masters and my rôle is to keep quiet at first and
see how they treat me. So I just took a nip of hay, and gave him time to
get his nerves together for they seemed to be at pretty loose ends.

He was shuddering now. What was the trouble? I looked over my shoulder
and saw that someone had been killing a sheep and had hung up its
streaked skin on the logs. Well, men have to eat sheep and if they kill
them mercifully I suppose there is no harm in it, but what a sensitive
lad this must be. I rather liked this tenderness in him. It's hard to
die, even if you're only a sheep.

I whinnied sympathetically, and he said quite nicely and as if I were a
person, "You have a very good place here."

I tried not to curl my lip again. If he could have seen the handsomely
appointed quarters I had been used to--the paved floors and fine stalls!
Poor lad! where had he been brought up to think this rough log cabin of
some early backwoodsman a suitable place for a Shetland pony?

However I was not complaining. I was comfortable enough in the mild July
weather. I have been used to roughing it in a nice way with some of my
rich masters, but I certainly wouldn't like to put in a winter here with
those daylight chinks between the big logs.

I wished the boy would let me out. What a stupid he was not to take me
for a good gallop. Advancing very cautiously lest I should frighten him
again, I pressed a shoulder against the half door of the cabin.

He understood. Very cautiously he lifted the bar, and creeping like a
house mouse, not leaping like my deer mice, I placed myself beside him.
Now he could see that I wasn't a lion or a tiger to eat him up.

"Pony-Boy," he said in a trembling voice, "what do you want?"

"I want exercise, you young snail," I tried to tell him by starting
slowly up the gentle slope of the barnyard, and then turning to look
round at him.

The sheep were pasturing away up on the hill. I would lead him toward
them for I guessed that he would not be afraid of them. Those lively
children in the distance would probably jolly the life out of him.

His green eyes glistened. He understood me once more, and a most
beautiful smile broke over his face. That smile was like the opening of
a window in his boy soul. He was a queer acting lad, but he had--Oh! I'm
only a pony and I can't describe it. Anyway it was something that makes
us animals worship certain people. If he chose, he could be my master. I
would certainly be his slave.

I tossed my head and acted quite frisky. "Come on, boy," I tried to say
to him, "be a sport. Have a little run. 'Twill bring some color to your
pale cheeks."

"Stop a minute," he called suddenly, "I want to get my bearings."

I stared at him as he stood--delicate, eager, his pale eyes glistening
with some new emotion.

"We are on the borders of a long beautiful lake," he said, "which is
shaped like an hour-glass."

I didn't know what an hour-glass was, but I guessed that it was like the
egg-glasses I have seen cooks use when I've been looking in kitchen
windows to watch them time the boiling of eggs.

"We are at the waist of the glass," he said, "and all round us are vast
hills clad with forests. Here a clearing has been made, and someone has
built a beautiful long low house with ivy-clad verandas."

How nicely the boy talked and how prettily he waved his slender arm, and
I kept on gazing at him in admiration.

"Also," he went on, "there is a smooth lawn about the house with flower
beds and shrubbery, a driveway leading to the road along the lake and
another driveway leading to a big barn painted red with a queer high
round thing at the end."

That was a silo to store green food for the cattle, but I could not tell
him.

"Beside the big red barn," he said, "is a little brown barn and a number
of out-buildings. I don't know what they are. It is a fine place anyway,
and must, I think, belong to my father's friend who invited me here--now
let us go up to this wide pasture where you were leading me."

I gladly went ahead of him and he was following me quite nicely when
suddenly he stopped.

"Pony-Boy," he said, "I hate these forests with their sour-faced trees."

This was a new thought to me and I turned it over in my mind.

"They've got brains in their tossing heads," he said. "They used to be
wicked giants and some great power turned them into these wooden things
with waving arms that beg us to come in and be choked to death."

What kind of a boy was this, I wondered. He talked something like a
girl and something like a lad who had always had his nose in a
story-book. Well, he wasn't dull anyway. I love to have boys talk to me.
Some of them treat me as if I were an animated rocking-horse with no
brains at all. So I stepped along quite happily while he went on talking
to himself.

"I wonder why my father let me come here. This bird of mystery has
certainly flown to one queer place. The whole trip was owlish. After I
left the cities there were forests like these, then lakes and rivers and
more lakes and rivers. Then that awful drive in a democrat over rocks
and rills and corduroy roads. My bones are most racked apart."

So that was why he didn't want to ride me, I thought. Poor lad! he was
tired.

"Pony-Boy," he said, laying a timid finger on the tip of one of my ears,
"I'm not afraid exactly, but I don't like spooky woods and queer silent
waiting people. That old settler who drove me in wouldn't open his mouth
and his name is Talker--what do you think of that?"

I was amused. This queer man had brought me in the evening before tied
to the tail of his cart. He had taken me from a steamer that came to a
big lake, and all the way in he had said nothing but "Get up" to his old
grey mare, who had not deigned to pass the time of day with me. They
were a pair--but I must listen to the boy who was speaking quite
earnestly now.

"Why in the name of old King Log did my father send me to spend the
summer in this eerie place? Is there no country air south of these wads
of Canadian forest?"

I shook my head. How could I tell anything about his father? I had never
seen him. He must be a peculiar man though, if his son did not dare to
ask him the reason for things.

The lad was venturing now to lay his hand on my head. "Pony-Boy, I've
never had a pet as big as you. I live in a city, and my friends are
small creatures like dogs and cats and mice and rats."

As if he thought I was wondering whether he had no boy friends he went
on slowly, "My father says that human beings may go back on you, but an
animal never does."

I pawed the grass thoughtfully. This boy had been brought up in a queer
way. I'm sorry for boys and girls when they're puzzled and unhappy--boys
especially because I've been more with them. What this lad wanted to do
now was to get his mind off himself. He was travelling about right
inside of his little home cage.

I cautiously touched my muzzle to his shoulder, then glanced at the
sheep.

He was pretty quick to respond and broke into a nice boyish laugh, but a
rather subdued one as if he had been hushed up a good bit.

"Isn't he a caution," he said, pointing to the old ram, who, after one
terrified look at us two strangers, was leading the ewes in and out
among the magnificent old trees scattered about the hillside.

"He's going to hide them in the forest back there," said the boy. "He
doesn't trust us. Poor animals--they run no risks."

I was delighted. This boy was a brother to us of the lower creation, but
why had he been afraid of me? Possibly it was because he was not used to
being with animals, though in his soul he loved them.

"I'm so tired," he said suddenly, and he flopped down on a big flat rock
which was very pleasant and warm in the sunshine.

"_Squattez vous_, Pony," he said, and to be agreeable I lay down, for I
have not the objection to doubling my legs under me that some members of
the horse family have.

"I'm sure out of the world," he was murmuring as he gazed at the blue
waters of the long lake spread out before us. "Of course I've seen
mountains and hills in the distance before, but I never got right up
among them. Pony-Boy, I'm the queerest kid you ever saw."

"You sure are," I thought, but of course I could say nothing.

His attention wandered from the lake to me. "I've often seen ponies like
you in parks and on the streets, but I've never been so near one. Oh! I
wish I had a pony of my own, but I suppose you cost a good deal of
money."

I certainly did, but there was no reason why he should know just how
much. I don't like to hear a lad counting up the cost of everything.

"I shouldn't think a settler away up here could afford you," he said.
"You look like A, number one stock."

I twitched my ears backward and forward as I have a way of doing when
I'm puzzled. Old Talker couldn't own this place. I had my suspicions
that the whole thing was the fad of some rich man. My log cabin was the
only rough thing on the place. The barns, hen-houses, ice-house,
root-house, carriage-house and the flower garden in front and the
vegetable garden at the back were as up-to-date as if they were right
down in my original home in the State of New York.

These sheep running away from us were of standard stock, and the evening
before I had seen a fine herd of Holstein cows and some of the best bred
pigs I had ever come across.

Someone was trying an experiment up on these Highlands. Perhaps it was
the tall man I had just seen coming out of the house and joining the
children.

The boy did not see him. He was lying on the rock, his face propped on
his hands.

"You're talking with your ears, Pony," he said. "I'll bet you want to
know all about me--who I am, where I come from, and why in the mischief
I came up here. Well, as I told you, I'm in a class by myself, for my
father won't allow me to associate with anyone but himself and our two
old servants, John and Margie. Ever since I was a little boy, someone
has been trying to kidnap me. Now what do you think of that?"




CHAPTER II

THE MAN AND THE BOY


I examined the boy carefully. Now I thought of it, though he was
stylish, he was not handsomely dressed. His clothes were of good, but
not fine material, his shoes were well-worn, his blue belted coat had
odd buttons on it. He did not look to me like a rich man's child. He
seemed more like the son of some professional man only moderately well
off--what did he mean by the kidnapping story?

His green eyes were flashing. "I don't know the reason for it, Pony-Boy,
for my father never talks much to me, but he never lets me go out alone,
and I'm not allowed to speak to strangers. He's a criminal lawyer you
know, and perhaps some bad man he has sent to prison thinks he owes him
a grudge."

I was a bit uneasy about this boy. Before this I had had young creatures
tell me the story of their lives and it was always because they had no
sympathetic human ear turned toward them. So now I took on a thoughtful
air as this lad went on.

"Lend me your pony ears--I was born in the great big wonderful country
of the United States of America and I'd lay down my life for Old Glory."

He scrambled to his feet as he spoke, saluted an imaginary flag and
recited the pledge to it.

I, too, got up pretty quick, for I am an American pony and have played
many national games with children in which I always bow and scrape
whenever the flag is mentioned.

As I stepped gaily round and round doing a march step and whinnying with
feeling, the boy fell into an ecstasy.

"Do you mean to say you are a fellow-countryman," he cried, "an American
pony citizen in this strange forest land?" and in his emotion he forgot
his fear of me and throwing his arms round my neck gave me a good hug.

I was thunderstruck. In all my life before and with all my experience
with boys I had never felt the wet tears of any of them against my
smooth neck. Poor lad! What could be the matter with him?

He was crying in a queer way--quietly and as if he were afraid someone
might hear him. Then in a flash he flung up his head and dashed the
tears from his eyes.

"Excuse me, Pony-Boy. You'll find me an utter coward. Let's think of our
country. Hurrah for the Stars and Stripes. Let's sing a verse." Then he
opened his young mouth,


     "My Country 'tis of thee
     Sweet land of liberty
       Of thee I sing."


In amazement, I stopped my processing round the rock. I never in my life
had heard such a sweet even flow of song from the mouth of any living
being, and I had once belonged to the son of a famous concert singer and
had in her home heard many beautiful voices--why! it was like the lovely
upward gush of a fountain--clear, pure and exquisite.

Even a catbird sitting near by in a maple put his head on one side to
listen and then turned to a young goldfinch who was about to fly in
terror from him and motioned him to remain. Cattie recognised the beauty
of the boy's voice, and having no bird of his own kind near wanted to
gossip with the goldfinch about it.

As I stood entranced, I noticed that the boy as he sang the whole of
this one of our national songs kept looking over his shoulder as if he
were afraid someone might interrupt him.

When he dropped on the rock again I went and stood over him.

"Pony-Boy," he said, "I'm not allowed to do that at home. I can only
whistle."

Not allowed to sing with a voice like that, and I was just turning this
over in my pony mind when my new friend sprang to his feet like a shot,
his eyes wild and terrified.

"Pony-Boy--what is that awful sound?"

I rubbed my head against his shoulder. Poor lad! what nerves.

"I know it must be some kind of a bird," he went on, "for the sound came
from the lake, but what a yell. You'd think a child was being murdered."

I knew loons, for I had seen and heard them on lakes in our own
country. Probably the boy had never been in very lonely places. How I
wished I could tell him that those were merely two old gossipy daddy
loons accompanying their mates to their respective home bays on the
lake. They were shrieking the news of the day to each other. Some fish
ducks had been trying to settle near them and they had been biting at
them and trying to drive them away. Then one Mrs. Loon had lost one of
her downy young loonies. She blamed Mr. Red Fox from Merry-Tongue
River--and what a blessing it was that there were so few campers about.
Their beloved lake was really quite quiet with the settlers only.

They liked solitude, they did, and they yelled till the boy was nearly
crazy and whipped his fingers in his ears.

How queer! The average boy likes noise and he had better get his ears
unstopped for the big man was coming up the hill.

I tried to warn the boy, but he did not understand me and had to fly
into another spasm of fright when the big man touched him on the
shoulder.

He was a strapping middle-aged man in corduroys and cowboy hat with
holes punched in it. His face was brown and kind and his eyes were black
and piercing.

These eyes were fixed on the boy in an extraordinary manner. That boy
meant something to him in a heart way. His eyes did not falter, but his
mouth trembled slightly. Suddenly he held out both hands, "Welcome to
Devering Farm, my lad."

My pale-eyed boy put both his slim white hands into the man's big brown
ones. "You're Mr. Devering, of course--my father's friend."

"And you are Dallas Duff--my boy, I have longed for this day."

"That's very kind in you, Sir," said young Dallas, but the man had
turned suddenly to me.

His eyes were quite misty now and I am sure he could not see me very
well, though he said feelingly, "And you, Pony, welcome too. I haven't
seen you since the day of the Cobourg Races."

Now I knew who he was--the kind man who had felt me all over and stroked
me so kindly. So he had remembered me and had had me sent to this lovely
cool summer place.

I nuzzled his coat buttons, then I followed his gaze, which was riveted
on the boy.

"Sir," our young lad was saying excitedly, "my father told me I could
tell you anything. That's the first time he ever said that to me about
any living person."

"I appreciate his confidence," said the big man, wrinkling his eyebrows
in an amused way.

"First of all, sir, please tell me why my father sent me here. I've
never been allowed to leave home before unless John or Margie went with
me."

"Suppose you ask him when he comes up here later."

The boy almost shouted. "Is my father coming here?"

"I hope so. He needs a rest. He sticks too closely to work."

"That's so, sir. He often falls asleep when I'm sitting in the library
with him evenings. He's a wonderful man."

"Indeed he is--I knew him before you did."

"Did you, sir--where?"

"In Toronto--when he went there as a young man to study Canadian law."

"So he's coming here," said the boy musingly. "Will John and Margie
come, too?"

"I dare say."

"I don't think he could get on without them. He likes Margie's cooking
and John looks after his clothes."

"Well, I hope you'll see them all before autumn---- Now tell me how you
used to amuse yourself in that big dreary town house of yours."

"Of course I had my studies, sir."

"Did you find them interesting?"

"Some of them. I had a fine young tutor all these years--a girl tutor."

"Did you never go to school?"

"No, sir."

"Then you don't know much about boys."

"Not much--I know some on our street to nod to. Then John sometimes
takes me to ball games, only when it is warm. When it's cold, he takes
me to the movies."

The big man frowned, then he asked, "Had you any pets?"

"I always had a dog."

"Why didn't you bring him?"

"My old Toby died last week."

The boy's voice broke and the man changed the subject quickly. "You'll
find it cooler here than in Boston."

"Oh, very much. I'm almost shivering in this suit. Margie thought it
would be warm enough. She's been like my mother, sir, since my own
died."

The man smiled. I thought this a strange thing when the boy spoke of
such a sad thing as losing his mother, but later on I had an
explanation.

"Margie watches me as a cat would a mouse," said the boy. "She doesn't
want that kidnapper to get me."

The boy spoke proudly, and Mr. Devering said almost irritably, "Oh!
forget that, my boy. There's nothing in it now."

The boy looked surprised. "And may I go out alone now and speak to
strangers?"

"Certainly, certainly," said Mr. Devering hurriedly.

"Then why," began Dallas, but Mr. Devering interrupted him. "All that is
over. Nobody wants to carry you off. Please put it out of your mind. You
are of no consequence to anyone except your family."

The boy's face fell, and I saw that he was a bit disappointed. He had
been making a little hero of himself. Now he had found out that he
wasn't worth carrying away.

I was sorry for him, and I saw that there was some mystery here to be
explained in the future. I have lived in many interesting families and I
love mysteries and histories. I had something now to turn over in my
pony mind. This place would be no longer dull to me, but I must listen
to Mr. Devering, who was speaking again. "You have had a peculiar life
up to this, but I think it will be more normal in future and I may say
that I have for a long time wished you to come here."

"Do you live here all the time?" asked the boy.

"Yes, this is our home, though we travel a good deal. How do you like
it?"

The boy seemed to find it hard to answer. At last he said, "Do you wish
me to speak politely or truthfully?"

"Truthfully, by all means."

"Well, sir--I find it ghostly and lonely."

Mr. Devering repeated the words, "Ghostly and lonely." Then he broke
into a hearty laugh. "And I'm lonely only when I'm in cities pushing my
way among crowds of weary people who don't care a rap whether I'm dead
or alive."

"Do you love the trees, sir?" asked Dallas, "these startling green
monsters?"

"I worship them, boy. They come next the animals with me. This one here
is Little Sister," and he threw his arm round a slender silver birch.
"And that maple," said Mr. Devering, pointing to the one where the
catbird was still sitting. "Doesn't it look like a slender young living
thing swaying there in the wind? See how it bends its pretty head and
waves its green arms toward us. Can't you throw it a pleasant glance,
boy?"

I was amused with the play of the boy's brown eyebrows. "I might love a
maple," he said, "but those big pines and stiff spruces----" and he
shivered.

"My soldier brothers," said Mr. Devering, "so straight and sturdy,
guarding my property and reaching up their heads to heaven. Do you know
what they are begging for, boy?"

"No, sir."

"Rain, rain and always more rain. Have you been told what happens in
countries like China where foolish people have been allowed to cut down
the trees?"

"Oh, yes, yes," said the boy. "I remember now. My teacher used to tell
me trees keep the soil moist and attract rainfalls. Oh! I don't mind a
few, sir, but these endless forests appal me."

"You'll get over that. I'll soon have you a regular backwoodsman. Come
up Deer Trail with me now and help me look for a missing lamb."

I had heard the boy say that he was lame from his long drive, but he did
not tell this to the man, and prepared to follow him quite bravely.

"May this little beastie go too, sir?" he asked, pointing to me.

"Certainly, the more beasts the merrier for me."




CHAPTER III

THREE FRIENDS ON DEER TRAIL


I trotted after them and the boy looking over his shoulder at me said,
"Is he yours, sir?"

"Yes, I got him as a present for a boy."

"One of your boys, sir--that is, if those children over there belong to
you."

Mr. Devering fell behind Dallas and made a forbidding gesture with his
hand toward the children. I guessed that he was keeping them back so
that he might for some reason or other have this lad to himself for
awhile.

"Yes," he said, catching up to Dallas, "those are my children."

"How many, sir?"

"Six."

"And they have a mother?"

"Oh! yes."

The boy's head was drooping thoughtfully. "There is a big brick house
next door to us in the city," he said. "Every night I look across the
lane and see the children going to bed. The maid undresses them and then
the mother comes in and takes them in her arms and rocks and sings to
them. So whenever I think of my mother there is a lovely sound of
singing in my ears. Was she a fine singer, sir?"

"She was," said the man softly. Then he asked, "Does your father never
speak of her, nor those faithful servants John and Margie?"

"Never, sir; I used to ask questions about her, but they looked so sad
that I gave it up. I fear her death had something painful about it."

Mr. Devering turned his eyes away from the boy toward me, they looked
very troubled. Then he spoke quietly, "Some day I will take it upon
myself to tell you all about your dear mother."

"You knew her?" cried the boy.

"Very well."

Dallas stopped short. His wonderful pale eyes were blazing.
"You--knew--my--mother," he said in a low trembling voice.

"I have said so," remarked Mr. Devering quietly.

"I am glad I came," he said slowly. "Some boys have mothers, some have
not. Some boys miss their mothers, some do not. I tell you, sir, it is a
sore in my soul, a dreadful painful sore that I have no mother. If she
had lived I would be like other boys."

The man put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "My lad," he said, "a great
deal lies between you and me, but this is not the time to thrash things
out. A day will come--later on."

It went to my heart to see the young lip tremble. Boys do not like to
wait. "I hope--I hope," he muttered to himself, "that the day will soon
come. If a boy has had a mother, he should know about her. I--I have not
even a little picture of my dear mother, who of course was beautiful
and good and loved her boy as no one else does."

Mr. Devering looked at him anxiously, then he said, "To come back to the
pony--he is not for one of my boys, he is for a guest."

"Oh, indeed," said Dallas absently. "So you expect another boy."

"Not this summer--the pony is for your use."

"For me!" he exclaimed. "Is this a joke?"

"Decidedly not. My children all have ponies. I wished you to have one."

"For my very own," he gasped, "this wonderful creature," and he suddenly
threw his arm over my back as I pulled up closer to him, feeling oh! so
glad that this gentle lad was to be my master.

"For your own if you treat him properly. I never give an animal outright
till I see how it is used. If you neglect Pony, I shall take him back.
If you are good to him, he belongs to you."

The boy was so excited that he could scarcely breathe. One trembling
hand remained on my back, the other clutched his crumpled shirt front.
"You are a prince among men," he said at last in a choked voice.

"I wish I were," said Mr. Devering humbly. "I am only a commoner."

The boy flung up his handsome head and looked at the blue sky. "Margie
is most religious. She said Providence was guiding my steps here."

"Let us hope so," said Mr. Devering reverently; "I, too, believe in
Providence, which is another name for God."

"Margie goes much to church and sings many hymns," said the boy.

"I heard you singing just now," observed Mr. Devering.

My master looked frightened. "Did you mind?"

"Not a bit--why should I?"

"My father never allows me to sing at home."

Again a dark look came over the man's face. He might like my young
master's father, but he evidently did not approve of all he did.

"You may sing just as much as you wish here," he said; "singing is the
cry of the soul, and I hope you will teach my youngsters to warble half
as well as you do--see, they are running up a flag for you," and he
pointed to a flagpole on the lawn in front of the house.

"Old Glory!" cried the boy, and taking off his cap he waved it in the
air; "but what is that flag they are putting above it?"

"The Union Jack--you are in the British Empire now."

"So I am--I forgot it, for you Canadians are so much like us Americans.
We're great friends, sir, in our two countries now, aren't we?"

"Rather, especially since the war, though there are bad men who are
trying to drive a wedge between English speaking nations."

"Why a wedge, sir?"

"To split us apart."

"Oh! I see--united we stand, divided we fall."

"And if Great Britain and America fall apart, lad, with us go the weaker
peoples of the earth.

"I shall always be against the wedge, sir," said the boy earnestly. "I
like the good old Union Jack, also I like the Lion of Old England. He's
a noble beast."

"Isn't he, and can't he roar when anyone touches any of his cubs? You
must not forget to pay tribute to him, boy."

"Now in what way have I offended the Lion?" asked the boy, and for the
first time I heard his whimsical laugh, which was the one finishing
touch needed to brighten his thoughtful, almost sad, young personality.

"You sang one of your own national songs, boy," he exclaimed, "and never
piped a note for the country offering you hospitality."

"A thousand pardons, Sir Lion," cried the boy, "here goes for the
Empire," and from his beautiful lips came the strains of "God Save the
King."

"A sweet apology," exclaimed the man; "boy, that goes to my heart. Once
years ago I knew a young singer--oh! you take me back."

"The young singer being my mother," said the boy quickly.

The man bit his lip. Then he nodded his head and walked on. Presently he
said in quite a matter-of-fact voice, "This pasture back of the house is
for the sheep. They nibble closer than cows."

"And the grass is slippery," said the boy, "and I am sliding about on
it."

"I will get you some proper country boots with nails," said Mr.
Devering.

"Thank you, sir," said Dallas gratefully.

"You call me sir," said Mr. Devering quite wistfully. "Do you then find
me so old?"

"Oh, no, no, I feel as if you were a big brother very much older and
wiser than I am."

I had never heard a boy talk like this before, but it seemed to please
the man, for he grew quite red and happy.

"It would gratify me very much," he said, "if you and I could be chums
as your Dad and I were."

"Let's be pals," said the boy; "you seem quite young in your ways."

"Do I seem younger than your dad?"

"My father is magnificent," said the boy seriously, "quite magnificent,
but he says he can't call back his youth. It's slipped away from him. I
remember when he said it. We were in his library. He sank 'way down in
his big chair, his face was pale, his eyes were closed, I thought he had
gone to sleep. Then he rose up and called out, 'Son, I'd give all my
books if I could remember what I was thinking about when I was your age.
It's all gone.'"

Mr. Devering looked serious. "You boys don't know how much we men
sympathise with you and long to get down to your level, but the big
world catches us and life is strenuous, and----"

His voice trailed off into silence and young Dallas said eagerly, "Let's
have this wonderful pony for a pal too, and let's have some fancy names.
Do you like baseball, sir, and football?"

"Immensely."

Dallas was enchanted. I saw he was one of those pale faced boys that
light up suddenly. "Let's have some nicknames just for ourselves," he
cried, "like boys in books."

"All right."

"You'll be Captain 'cause you know so much more about things than I do.
I'll be Sub, and what will Pony be?"

"Babe," suggested Mr. Devering, "after Babe King, the great home-run
hitter."

"Fine!" cried Dallas, "Captain, Sub and Babe"; then he flourished his
arm, "Three cheers for Captain, Sub and Babe, hip, hip, hooray. We're
the pals of---- What's the name of this lake?" and he stopped his
shouting, which was quiet and unboyish, and turned inquiringly to Mr.
Devering.

"Fawn Lake."

"We're the pals of Fawn Lake--three good pals and true."

I loved my nickname, which was flattering to my middle-age, and I
stepped more quickly after the man and the boy.

"Hurry up, Sub," Mr. Devering was saying. "I thought we'd be half way up
the trail by this time."

The boy's heart was so full of happiness and he had so thoroughly
forgotten his fatigue that he suddenly broke out into song.

"Sing out, sing out," said Mr. Devering, "no one will chide you here."

So my young master kept on singing,


     "Gamarra is a dainty steed
     Strong, black, and of a noble breed,
     Full of fire and full of bone,
     With all his line of fathers known."


until he sang himself right into a snake fence.

"Gee!" he exclaimed, "what am I to do now?"

Mr. Devering smiled, put out his two powerful hands and swung him over.

"Splendiferous!" cried Dallas, "but how will Babe get over?"

How Mr. Devering laughed at him. "Boy," he said, "allow me to introduce
you to Bonnie Prince Fetlar of Cobourg Park."

"Now what do you mean by that, Captain?"

"Wait and see."

Of course I took the fence like a bird, then I stood still and waited
for the boy to hear my story.

"Sometimes," said Mr. Devering, "it is the jockey that wins the race and
sometimes the horse wins the race without the jockey. Two ponies were
entered in the pony race at a fair I attended a few weeks ago. Both
riders rode bareback. Half way round the track the lad who was riding
this demure beast went over his head. Pony went calmly on minus his
rider. He stayed with the race like a little man, overhauled all the
other ponies and passed the judges' stand a two lengths winner.

"The grand stand went mad--'First money for the riderless pony!' they
roared, but the judges judged otherwise, and the race had to be run over
again.

"Once more it began, and once more the boy jockey was unhorsed and went
flying over the animal's head. Again pony galloped ahead of his leading
rival and took first place. The other jockey was determined to win, and
neck and neck the two ponies drew near the line. Then didn't our
riderless friend here sprint and win the race by a length."

Young Dallas was almost beside himself with admiration and interest. "Of
course," he cried, "our brave little lad got first money."

"The grand stand was with you, pal, but the judges awarded the money to
the pony that came second with its rider."

"Foul play, foul play," cried my young master, "my beauty, my pride,"
and throwing his arms round my neck he hugged me for the second time
that afternoon. "I'm proud of you, my handsome young prince--Why has he
such an odd name as Fetlar, Captain?"

"Because Fetlar is the island in the Shetlands where Arabian ponies have
been crossed with the native breed. Look at this little fellow. He is a
wonderful combination of his gentle Scottish forbears and the fine
Arabian stock. Note his brilliant prominent eyes, his wise air, refined
bearing and short, strong neck."

"Arabian blood," repeated the boy, and he began to repeat in a dreamy
voice, the lines of "The Arab to His Favourite Steed."


     "My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by
     With thy proudly arched and glossy neck and dark and fiery eye."


Mr. Devering with a deeply gratified air listened to the boy as he
repeated the whole of the touching poem, then he turned on his heel and
led us to the smooth wide road running along the edge of the lake.

Dallas was staring at his retreating back in a strange way, and
suddenly he ran after him.

"I have a queer feeling about you, sir. You don't seem a stranger to me.
You call up something that happened when I was a little boy."

"What was it?" asked Mr. Devering over his shoulder.

"I was walking with Margie on the Common in Boston. A big man came up to
us. He sat down on a park bench and took me on his knee. He had toys in
his pocket for me. Were you the man, sir?"

"I was," said Mr. Devering, "and that was only one of many visits, but
come on, lad, we are losing time."

Dallas shook his young head with a puzzled air and followed him.

I trotted gaily after, my heart as gay as a lark's. After two long
months with a horse dealer, I was once more in a family with boys and
girls that I love so dearly. What fun I should have watching them and
wondering why they do the queer things they do.

"Oh! you hurry-upper," my boy was saying now, "you beat this Sub."

He was addressing Mr. Devering, whose broad back was just visible in the
dim green distance, and suddenly picking up his young heels he ran after
him.

Of course I ran after the boy, and as I ran I looked about me.

This was a peculiar trail we were on. We had left the nice wide road and
had branched off toward the western hills and the afternoon sun. At
first there had been grand old maples and beeches standing in groups
about pastures each side of us where the black and white Holstein cows
were feeding. Now, however, the pastures had given place to dense
evergreens which made my young master shudder. There were masses of them
standing very close to each other and holding stiff arms across our
trail. Precious little of the sun did we see, and it was necessary to
keep one's eyes on the path which wound up and down into dark green
hollows where beds of maidenhair fern flourished, or up to hilly spots
where rock ferns grew in patches on enormous boulders.

Little brownish streamlets ran across our track, and the boy was always
jumping over or going on stepping stones to keep his feet from getting
wet.

Suddenly Mr. Devering paused. "Sub," he called back, "this used to be an
old road leading up to a farm on Lonesome Hill. Mr. Talker, who brought
you in, lived here. It was a mile from our main road and it was a great
haul to get supplies in."

"Wasn't the lake savage enough for him?" asked the boy ruefully, rubbing
his knee that he had just bruised against an outstanding rock.

"No," said Mr. Devering, "he adores the forest primeval. His wife was
like you, and she struck at last and he had to move out to a house near
mine. I bought this place from him and let it run into extra pasturing
ground, but now the bears are bothering me and I won't keep any stock
here till they get out."




CHAPTER IV

THE WOLF AND THE LAMB


"Are there bears here?" asked Dallas in an awed voice; "real, live
bears?"

"Not many usually, this time of year, but there have been bad bush fires
over the mountain, and bears, wolves and foxes have been driven down
earlier than usual. We always hear wolves howling about us in October,
but you see this is only July."

"What did the bears do to you?" asked Dallas eagerly.

"Took six of my sheep."

"Killed them, do you mean?"

"Yes, and I drove the rest of the flock down to a pasture back of my
house. Mr. Talker just told me there's a lamb missing and I thought I'd
come up to look for him. His mother was one mangled by the bears, and
Lammie was found standing by her carcass. He was taken down to the
house, but his young nerves must have got a shock for he acted queer,
then disappeared."

"Oh! I hope we'll find him," said Dallas.

"I hope so too, but I doubt it. His mother was a great pet with my
children and he too has been much pampered."

My young master's face fell. What a tender heart he had, and what was
he thinking about as he went nimbly along, his eyes glued to Mr.
Devering's back in a way that soon caused him to fall flat on his face.
In the city a boy does not need to watch his feet. In the country it is
wise to look to your steps.

His young mind was going hop, skip, jump like his feet, and presently he
called out, "Captain, I've been wondering a lot lately what I'll do when
I'm a man."

"What does your fancy run to?" Mr. Devering called back.

"Sometimes I think I'd like to be the greatest home-run king in the
world, and then when I see those high jumpers galloping over the roofs
of houses in the movies I think I'd like to be an actor."

"You like motion pictures."

"Yes, Captain--John's a regular fan, and when we go home from seeing
them he tells me how he used to lay out boys when he was my age. Of
course he never touched a small kid--always fellows as big as himself."

Mr. Devering looked thoughtful, but said nothing.

Young Dallas went on, "But now, I think I'd like a farm some place where
there weren't so many trees, and I'd go after bad bears who kill sheep."

His tone was bold, but his eyes were timid. This was a boy who fought
battles in his mind and kept his fists in his pockets.

"My boy," Mr. Devering called out, "time will settle your doubts. I had
a young cousin who wasn't sure whether he'd run a candy store or drive a
locomotive when he grew up."

"And what did he do?" asked Dallas eagerly.

"Went into a bank, and is vice-president. You see, Sub, when we're young
we don't know everything. We just have to wait. Get a good education and
when you're fit for your life work it will bob up serenely in front of
you."

"When you were a boy did you want to be a settler?" asked Dallas.

"Never--I wanted to practise medicine."

"And did you?"

"No, I took my course in my home University of Toronto and got my
degree, but I never practised."

Young Dallas, who had a great thirst for information, said coaxingly, "I
suppose you got ill and came here for your health."

"No, my lad, I wasn't ill, but I knew I would be if I didn't stop
breathing dust."

"Street dust, Captain?"

"Different kinds of dust. I was one of a struggling ant-heap. There was
system and order, but no beauty, and I love beauty."

"In my city," said the boy thoughtfully, "there was some dust and much
loneliness--but it is a very fine place."

"Your life was abnormal. The boys in my city were rushing from one
place to another. They could not keep their minds on their books, and
here was this beautiful calm north country with air like wine and crying
out for settlers."

"Oh!" exclaimed my young master, "you are here to open up the country,
but you are not poor. If you were, it would not be so agreeable."

"Why not? Of course money talks in the wilds as in cities, but our
government helps men who wish to clear land. Boy!--it's a great life."

Dallas enveloped the big glowing figure of the man with a glance of warm
admiration. "You are splendid, Captain."

Mr. Devering went on as if he did not hear him. "Some day I will tell
you of our great clay belt further north. I am buying farms there for my
boys. Then there is Hudson Bay with its iron ore, coal, silver and pulp
wood almost untouched by man. I tell you, lad, this is a great country
of ours."

Young Dallas grew solemn. "If I felt like that about the country, I
should be happy."

"You will, you will," said the man eagerly. "I hope with my lads you
will push on and----"

He checked himself suddenly, as if he were about to say too much.

"Captain," cried Dallas, "you sound like one of my adventure books. I
believe you are younger than I am."

How Mr. Devering laughed. He even shouted, he was so much amused. Then
he took off his hat and swung it in the air. Oh! he was a very jolly
man. Then something caught his eye on the ground and he bent over.

"Hello! Sub, look here."

Dallas went stepping over damp and mossy stones to stare at a layer of
black mud in a hollow.

"Tracks," said Mr. Devering. "See if you can tell what they are."

"Sheep," said Dallas doubtfully.

"Right you are, and what else?"

"Deer?"

"Yes, there are lots of them about lately. I saw three of them this
morning out back of the barn at my deer-lick."

"What's that, Captain?"

"A natural deer-lick is a salty spot of ground where deer go to nibble
or lick the earth. I made mine, for I have a great fancy for giving
pleasure to our elegant and graceful Virginian deer who come down here
from our provincial Algonquin Park, which is close by."

"Are there many wild animals there, Captain?"

"Heaps of them--they're protected; except wolves. There's a bounty on
their heads of twenty-five dollars."

"I'd love to visit that Park," said the boy.

"You shall--we'll take canoes and go up the Fawn River. There are three
portages that will interest you--come on, boy, I see a fresh track that
I think is Lammie's."

Dallas tore after him, very much excited about the danger threatening
the lamb. He was talking to me quite boastfully. "I'd like to see a
bear lay a paw on any lamb when I was near."

I was uneasy. All the horse family hate bears. Even a big cart-horse
will turn round when he meets one. I knew that some had lately passed
by, and I felt that there might be wolves about too.

As if the boy understood me, he said gallantly, "Don't fret, Babe. If we
find any wild beasts about here we'll make them chase themselves back to
their dens," but as he spoke he gave me a queer look. Being unused to
these solitudes and this wild life, he was frightened to death, and like
a little dog out alone in the cold and darkness he was barking to keep
his courage up.

Afraid of something I knew not what, I went on in this game of Follow my
Leader down into a sombre little valley where scarcely a ray of light
penetrated. The branches not only met overhead but absolutely languished
together. There was not a sound from our footsteps for the trail was
overgrown with a delicate ferny moss into which our feet sank
noiselessly.

Not a bird peeped in this thicket. The most of my bird friends are like
the boy and hate deep dark woods. They love fields with a few trees
scattered here and there, or nice open groves, or best of all the
neighbourhood of houses if cats and boys are not allowed to prey on
them.

Suddenly I heard the boy draw a long breath. He saw the sunlight at the
end of this long leafy tunnel. We were coming to the base of the
abandoned farm on the hill.

Oh! how thankful I was. We were out of the wood and climbing a faint
little foot-path leading up over the grassy top of the hill.

What a curious place! I shuddered, for it was so sad. If we had come
upon a sturdy backwoodsman and his wife with a nice family of children,
I should have tossed my head and kicked up my heels a bit. As it was, I
plodded slowly on, head down, tail drooping.

On our right as we went up the hill was an old grey barn and a desolate
pasture. Here were many sheep tracks and Mr. Devering went into the
lean-to hoping that the lamb might be there.

"If Lammie-noo is here," he said, "this is where he would pass his
nights."

"Is that the lamb's name?" asked Dallas.

"Yes, my children named him that from a song I sing."


     "'Ba ba Lammie-noo
     Cuddle doon tae mammie.'"


"Wouldn't bears come after him in this place with no door?" asked the
boy with a shudder.

"Yes, they would if they were hungry, but Lammie-noo has probably not
been here more than a couple of nights, and if the bears have been
roaming in some other direction they would not get wind of the fact that
there was a nice plump lamb on the old Lonesome Hill farm---- Come up
higher, and we'll spy the landscape o'er."

We walked beyond the discolored barn which was shedding its shingles as
a pony sheds his hair, and came to a dull old orchard where some quite
nice crab apple trees stood knee deep in selfish weeds that were taking
the goodness out of the soil.

"Poor patient trees," said Mr. Devering, "every year they give us some
fruit for preserving. I've a great mind to build up this place again for
some young settler."

"Oh! please do so, Captain," said young Dallas whose sensitive soul was
quivering with the loneliness of his surroundings.

"Would you like it?" asked the man keenly.

"I--I don't know," stammered Dallas.

"Let old Mother Nature put her hand on your head, my boy, and listen to
what she says; then you'll learn to love all her children, even the
trees--I'll renew this offer later."

When we passed the orchard and came to the dreary house I thought,
"There's no chance of this young lad ever coming to live here."

The building was like some old drunkard trying to stagger down hill. Its
roof was gone, its window eyes were broken, its doors were flapping and
the well beside it had half the curbstone broken down.

Mr. Devering looked into it. I suppose he thought Lammie-noo might have
tumbled in, then he swung back the partly open front door, which at his
touch groaned and fell down flat.

Dallas started back, then went bravely forward, only to fall back again
and lay a trembling hand on my neck. "Oh! what is that dead thing?" he
asked.

I looked over his shoulder and saw a porcupine shedding his quills for
the last time. The corner of the open door had been gnawed by him or
some other creature. I knew what that meant. Many wild animals will dig
and tear at anything the salty hand of man has passed over, and in the
back part of the room I noticed an old table worried up and down its
seams by the teeth probably of this little creature who had found food
crumbs in the cracks.

Mr. Devering passed through the mournful little house. The bedrooms were
deserted, the kitchen stove was lopping over, and the pots and pans were
strewn about the floor. Chairs were broken and blinds tumbling from the
windows.

"Mischievous boys or campers have been here," said Mr. Devering, "the
Talkers left the house in good shape. Before I'm a month older, I'll
have it cleared up. It gives me the blues to see a former neat place in
this condition---- Come outside, my lad."

"Ah! there is a view," he said a few minutes later when we stood under
the blue sky and surveyed the ranges and ranges of green hills
surrounding us on every side with here and there a glimpse of a distant
lake. "The everlasting hills--the everlasting hills."

Young Dallas stood with the fresh wind blowing some color in his pale
cheeks. He was smiling now as he asked, "What is that highest peak of
all, Captain?"

"Old Mount Terror."

"Why Terror?"

"So many persons have been lost there. The Indians have a legend about
its being bewitched, and about a pre-historic monster much larger than a
moose who haunts its forests. I'll tell you about it some day. In the
meantime I'm watching Lammie-noo."

"You don't mean to say you've found him?"

"Yes, down there against the cat-tails of Lonesome Lake. Can't you pick
out that patch of dull white?"

"Oh, yes--among the rushes. Has he gone there for a drink?"

"Possibly, though he doesn't drink much when he gets plenty of green
feed. I daresay he's sick and feverish. Would you like to be lost up
here away from your friends?"

"Good gracious! no, sir. To tell the truth, this place is a thousand
times worse than your farm."

Mr. Devering was not offended. With a glance of unspeakable love and
sympathy he laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Watch Lammie--he's
probably coming up to the barn thinking he has to sleep all night with
his lonely little head in a corner."

Poor Lammie-noo was turning round, and quite unaware of his good master
so near at hand was wearily plodding up the hill. He went over
everything. He was too tired to go round, and he breasted weed patches
and climbed over the heaps of rocks left by men in clearing the fields.
He had the waning courage of a little creature whose heart has all gone
out of him.

"Won't my young ones feast him to-night?" said Mr. Devering. "Won't he
get a brimming pail of milk from our good cook!"

Dallas' face beamed. He and Mr. Devering were both intent on the lamb,
but I with my lower animal instinct was terribly uneasy. The cool north
wind brought us a wild gamy smell. Something lurked and crouched in that
dreadful little hollow where the spruces grew so thickly. I could not
see it, but I felt it. It was not a bear--it was something long and
slinking.

I was nearly crazy. Ponies and horses rarely cry out, they die without a
sound, but we Shetlands are more like dogs than ponies and I am more
dog-like than most Shetlands, for from the time I was a baby foal I have
been like a brother to various human beings. So now, just because I knew
it would pain my nice lad to see the lamb injured, I resolved to warn
poor Lammie-noo.

To get to the barn he had to pass the orchard, and to reach the orchard
he had to skirt the spruce thicket where the wild creature waited for
him.

I gave the loud shrill alarm snort of a wild pony just as the dark
streak took the form of a long lean wolf who sprang with a sideways leap
from the shelter of the spruces and caught one of the hind legs of the
unsuspecting lamb.

Mr. Devering was a pretty clever man. He flashed one swift glance at my
trembling form, then he gave the biggest yell I ever heard from human
lips, and started leaping down hill so violently that if the wolf had
been as slow as some animals Mr. Devering would have landed on his back.

However, I have heard hunters say that the wolf is the cutest animal
that roams the woods--cuter even than the fox. This fellow just had time
for one crunching bite, then he was away like a shot.

Now that the lamb was all right, I turned my attention to my young
master. Wasn't I sorry for him! I guessed that he had known nothing very
much wilder than the peaceful stretches of Boston Common--and to come to
this!

He was in a pitiable state of fright, and unable to plan for himself, he
started to do as his Captain has done, namely run down the hill.

However, he didn't go very far. The ugly old house leering at him with
its open doorway tempted him, and he whipped in. Of course I whipped in
after him, for my place was with my master. I wasn't afraid of the wolf,
for I knew there was no wolf there. He was legging it for home, the most
surprised animal in the Highlands of Ontario.

My boy skipped past the dead porcupine and the broken chairs and dishes,
and threw himself flat against a mildewed wall that he would have shrunk
from had not his eyes been blinded by fear.

I nuzzled his neck with my soft lips. It was dreadful to see a boy
suffer so much, and reaching out a hand he laid it gropingly on my head.

After he had gasped for a few seconds like a dying fish, he dragged
himself to one of the broken windows.

Down there on the grass Mr. Devering was bending over the lamb. No wolf
was in sight, and my young lad pulled himself together and cried in a
relieved voice, "Come on, Babe," then he tore out of the house and down
the hill.

When we got to Mr. Devering we saw that he had an open first-aid case on
the grass beside him, and he was unwinding a roll of bandage.

"Is Lammie much hurt?" asked Dallas miserably.

"One nip--hind leg--it isn't bad. I'll take a few stitches. Hold his
head and shoulders, will you?"




CHAPTER V

A COWARD STANDS ALONE


Lammie's leg was soon bound up, and Mr. Devering said to Dallas, "Do you
know that verse in the Bible--'The sheep follow him for they know his
voice, and a stranger will they not follow, but will flee from him, for
they know not the voice of strangers'?"

"Yes, Captain, Margie has read it to me."

"Well, we're going to start now, so you please stand back a bit. Lammie
is eyeing you as if he thought you were another wolf--but why are you
hanging your young head?"

"I'm a coward," said the boy brokenly.

"In what way?"

"I ran into the house when I saw the wolf."

"Were you afraid?"

"I was, sir."

"That the wolf would attack you?"

"Yes."

"Suppose he had attacked me, would you have come out to help me?"

"I don't know, sir, but I hope so."

"You're not sure."

"No, sir."

"And we're pals," said Mr. Devering. "I could have staked my worldly
all on your standing by me--one can never tell."

He looked thoughtfully down at the grass, and the poor lamb standing on
three legs stared patiently up at him.

Mr. Devering had forgotten him for the minute. The boy's wound was of
more importance than the lamb's.

"What kind of wolves have you read about?" he asked presently.

"Fierce wild wolves like the Russian ones who pursued the sledge, and
the servant threw himself out to save his master."

Mr. Devering said nothing. He just stared and Dallas began to howl just
like a human wolf, "Oh! I feel yellow--I should have stood by you," then
he flung himself on the grass and began to kick and bite.

This was temper--poor lad! he had been so proud of himself with his
boasting about what he would do if a wild animal appeared, and when it
did come he had scuttled to the nearest shelter.

Mr. Devering came and stood over him. The boy was just raging now, and
snapping out words. "I didn't think I'd run. I thought I'd make a stand.
I didn't know I was a quitter."

"Did you ever see a wild animal before outside a Zoo?" Mr. Devering
bawled at him, for the boy was making so much noise that an ordinary
voice would not have pierced his ears.

"No, I never did--I wasn't on to him. I'm not acquainted with wolves and
bears--I hate this place. I want to go back to my father and Margie and
John."

Mr. Devering spoke to me in a low voice as I stood gazing regretfully at
my undignified young master. "A good time for a sermon, Prince Fetlar,
but it will keep---- Come on Lammie," and turning to the suffering
animal he walked slowly toward the trail, the lamb limping after him.

Of course I stayed by our angry young lad, and presently getting over
his temper, he lifted his swollen face.

He was alone with me, and the wolf might still be lurking in the
spruces. So he thought, and didn't he jump up and go stumbling over the
grass, slipping, falling, getting up again, dashing the tears from his
eyes, and muttering to himself.

But soon a very cheerful sound from far ahead floated back to him. Ah!
that was one of the songs we used to hear in our own dear country when
our boys went marching away to war.


     "Put all your troubles in your old kit bag,
     And smile, smile, smile!"


Certain tones in the man's hearty voice reminded me of the boy's sweet
notes, and wasn't there a queer suggestion of each other when I stood
near them? We Shetland ponies as I have said before are very close to
human beings for our ancestors were literally brought up with the
children in the crofters' huts, and my mother has often told me that her
mother had many a lick at the family platter and many a time her soft
muzzle was buried in the children's necks.... I had it--the man was some
relation to the boy. That explained the man's patient interest in him,
and the fascination that the man had for the boy. Blood is thicker than
water every time.

I was very pleased with myself. Now I would have to find out the exact
relationship. That would be something to amuse me in these solitudes,
and I pressed closer to my young master so that he might steady himself
by laying a hand on my neck.

"Gee whiz!" he exclaimed with a sob, "if Captain isn't carrying that
beast."

Sure enough, the good shepherd singing so easily in front of us, and
stepping so firmly over the trail in his big leather hunting boots, had
both hands up to his shoulders. Lammie-noo lay across his back like a
pillow, his head wig-wagging, his manner content. He wasn't afraid. I
suspected that he had been carried that way before.

"Captain," cried Dallas anxiously as he ran after him, "I'm here."

Mr. Devering stopped singing. "All right," he called, "I'm glad to hear
you."

"You can't see me," said the boy, very anxious to make conversation,
"but I'm here all the same."

"Good for you, Sub, we'll have a fine appetite for our supper."

"You don't dine in the evening then," said Dallas agreeably.

"No, sir--country hours--dine at twelve p.m. No afternoon tea except on
occasions. Supper at six."

"I like those hours for the country," said Dallas.

As he spoke a last sob broke his voice. "Captain," he called out, "will
you tell your kids that I ran from the wolf?"

"Certainly not," said Mr. Devering in tones of surprise. "Aren't we
pals?"

Dallas winced terribly at this. "I'm going to tell them myself," he
said; "I've got to rub it in or maybe I'll do it again. My father hates
cowards. He'd kill me if he thought I'd grow up to be a white-heart."

"I'd scarcely go as far as that," said Mr. Devering with his jolly
laugh. "You take things hard, boy."

"Was that wolf a dangerous beast?" asked Dallas sharply.

"Not at all--he'd have run like a deer if he'd scented us. The wind was
off the lake."

"But I didn't know that," cried the boy.

Mr. Devering said nothing. He just stalked on with the lamb.

Young Dallas' shoulders drooped sadly. "If he had been a wild, wild
wolf," he said at last, "he might have attacked you, and there was I
safe in the house."

Mr. Devering stopped in his tracks, slid the lamb to a bed of moss, and
said: "Let's rest a bit."

I knew he had paused to have a chat with the boy and ease his aching
young heart. He was certainly a man who remembered that he had been a
boy himself, and that the sorrows of youth are as painful as they are
brief.

When they were seated quietly side by side on a log, while Lammie-noo
reached out for some stray sickly blades of grass that were just begging
him to eat them and put them out of their misery, Mr. Devering said
quite decidedly: "My lad, I know your ancestry. If any real danger
should threaten me, you would rush to my rescue."

Such a wave of relief swept over Dallas' face. "How do you know? Oh, how
do you know?" he cried sharply.

"Because the Duffs and the Deverings have never bred a coward."

"The Duffs and the Deverings," repeated the boy slowly. "My father is a
Duff, but was my mother a Devering?"

The big man bit his lip. "There! I have let that family cat out of the
bag. That splendid man your Dad did not wish you to know till later, but
I who hate mysteries about family affairs, am glad pussy jumped out."

"But my mother's name was not Devering," said Dallas.

"Yes it was, my boy. She was adopted in early life by our aunt Mrs.
Beverly Ronald, who gave her her own name."

"And what relation are you to me?" asked Dallas springing to his feet.

"I am your uncle."

"My mother's brother."

"Her only brother."

"And I thought I had no relatives."

The boy was in an ecstasy. He stood with eyes fixed on his new relative,
his face going from red to white like a girl's. Then in a trice he had
his arms round the neck of this good uncle, and was hugging him warmly.

"I love you!... I love you!" he cried.

"And I love you, my boy," said the man simply.

"I feel weak like that lamb," said Dallas, and his arms slipped down
from the man's shoulders and he re-seated himself on the log close to
his side. "I want something strong to hold on to."

Mr. Devering threw an impatient glance in the direction of Boston, and I
knew that he was blessing the splendid, but peculiar man, the boy's
father. Aloud he said: "Let us change the subject. I want to tell you a
story about General Wolfe."

The boy was gazing deep into the wood interior, his eyes vacant and
dreamy. With an effort he turned around, and said softly, "Uncle--that
is even better than Captain. Uncle--I never had one before."

"Well, you'll never be without one now," remarked Mr. Devering, then he
said again quite patiently, "Wolfe, the Conqueror of Quebec."

"The Conqueror of Quebec," repeated young Dallas like a parrot.

"This story is little known, but it is true," said Mr. Devering. "Now
pull yourself together, boy,--imagine a dinner table, seated at it
William Pitt, Lord Temple and General Wolfe. The next morning Wolfe was
to sail from England for Canada. Pitt's eyes were on him. How was this
young general going to acquit himself? Suddenly to his dismay, Wolfe got
up, began to strut about the room, drew his sword, struck the table with
it, and boasted about what this good sword was to do in Canada.

"The two ministers were aghast, and when Wolfe's carriage was announced
and he left the room, Pitt threw up his hands and said, 'To think that
the fate of my country is in such hands!'"

My young master was still in his beautiful dream cloud about this nice
man being his uncle, but he came out of it long enough to say quite
calmly, and with no bitterness now, "Wolfe was like me--he boasted."

"Don't you wish to know why he acted so strangely?"

"Yes, Uncle."

"He was timid and nervous, and very often he acted in a way contrary to
his real nature."

"You're trying to smooth things over for me," said Dallas sweetly, "but
you do it because I'm your nephew. You can't fool me.... Please tell me
another story about Wolfe. He is one of my heroes."

Mr. Devering was shaking with inward laughter. However he subdued it,
for boys don't like to be laughed at, and went on: "The Duke of
Newcastle told George III. that Pitt's new General Wolfe was a mad fool,
and the old King said, 'If he is mad, I hope he will bite some of my
generals.'"

Dallas smiled absently, then he said, "We're sort of mixed up when we're
young, aren't we?"

"Tadpoles, my boy, tadpoles. You don't know how you'll turn out. But
young people mature. Think of Wolfe banging the dining-table with his
sword, then turning into the sensitive young man of such deep feeling
who recited to his officers 'The paths of glory lead but to the grave.'"

"And then," cried Dallas suddenly waking up, "Wolfe was the brave
officer leading the attack on the enemy, wrapping his handkerchief
around his wounded wrist and faithful to his motto, 'While a man is able
to do his duty and to stand and hold his arms it is infamous to
retire'---- What is infamous, my Uncle?"

"Odious, detestable---- Well, Wolfe was almost too brave, for his bright
uniform made him a target for the sharpshooters who finally got him."

"I know the rest," said Dallas excitedly, "I remember it in my Canadian
history. 'Support me,' cried Wolfe, 'my brave soldiers must not see me
fall.' Then they laid him on the grass in a hollow, but he said, 'I'm
done for.' Those supporting him thought he was unconscious, but when
they cried out, 'They run! they run!' Wolfe asked, 'Who run?'

"'The enemy, the enemy,' said his soldiers, 'they give way everywhere.'
Then he turned on his side, murmured, 'God be praised! I die happy,'
and expired---- Ah! sir, Wolfe stuck to his guns. I did not."

Mr. Devering just roared with laughter. "You can't forget that, Sub.
Well remember too that you're at the period of beating the dining-table.
Come on, I want to get home," and shouldering Lammie he began to tramp
along the trail whistling,


     "When I was young, I went astray,
       Went astray, went astray."




CHAPTER VI

THE BELOVED LIAR


When we got near the house, we heard the supper horn sounding cheerily
in our direction.

Mr. Devering strode along more quickly than ever in the lovely late
afternoon sunshine, and when we reached the snake fence he leaned over
and put Lammie-noo on his own hoofs.

Then he and Dallas just howled with laughter. Wasn't that sick lamb
legging it for one of the back doors of the house. I found out later
that it was the woodshed door. He had seen a young Japanese come and
look out and then disappear.

"Bingi gives Lammie-noo warm milk every night," said Mr. Devering. "Come
and see him."

In a few seconds we too were at the woodshed door. Lammie-noo had gone
through to the kitchen and stood by the big stove bleating pitifully and
occasionally butting the good Bingi who was as patient as a lamb
himself.

I had often seen Japanese servants before, but this one was particularly
clean and intelligent, and I heard Mr. Devering tell Dallas in an
undertone that he was a young man of good family, assistant editor of a
Japanese newspaper and had come to Canada to perfect his English.

He was trying to pour some milk from a pail into a pot on the stove,
but the lamb butted him so violently and persistently that he kept
spilling the milk.

"May I request you, honorable sir," he said to Mr. Devering, "to remove
this quadruped for a season?"

Mr. Devering soon made Lammie-noo come back to the woodshed and closed
the door on him.

Lammie immediately ran round to another door on the other side of the
house.

Bingi smiled amiably and said, "Let him remain, I beg. His portion is
about complete. He will then follow me. He is strangely fastidious about
the warmness of it."

Two minutes later, the Jap ardently pursued by the lamb had carried a
huge pan of milk outside.

Young Dallas' eyes grew big as he watched the hungry lamb sucking
greedily at the milk and bobbing his funny tail with each mouthful.

When the young animal drew back at last with a satisfied air, some hens
who had been waiting politely came forward, and leaning far over dipped
their beaks in the pan to drink up Lammie-noo's leavings.

"Those hens," said Bingi amiably, "never forget their habitude of milk
waiting and afterward drinking."

"Just like us, just like us," said Mr. Devering. "Don't we all run when
the bugle or horn blows for meals--but we must go get ready for supper,
nephew," and he took my young master away from me.

To my delight, no one had said, "Go to your stable," so I made a
discreet circle of the house, which was pretty well spread out over the
ground instead of being built away up in the air.

I glanced in the different windows to see which ones belonged to the lad
I was beginning to love so much.

I counted four boys and two girls, brushing, washing, and taking off
their overalls in six different rooms. How nice for them each to have a
place. Even an animal likes to have a corner of his very own. They all
called out a greeting to me, but I did not linger with any of them as I
wished to find my own boy.

He had a dear little room on the side of the house looking toward the
barnyard and out-buildings. I was glad to see that for I could watch his
light at night.

"Hello Babe," he said, "I wish you were a valet or John or Margie," and
his eyes went to his big wardrobe trunk standing open against the wall.
"I haven't time to unpack now. I'll just give my hands and face a lick
and a promise," and he went up to a wash basin and turned on the water.

"Gee!" he exclaimed, "hot and cold water in the wilderness. Some farm
this, Prince Fetlar."

Then after giving his young poll a good rubbing down with two military
brushes that he took out of a hand-bag, he turned to the door where some
one was knocking. "Come in, please."

Mr. Devering stood in the hall, and putting a hand on his nephew's
shoulder he came right across the room with him and out through the open
French window, smiling at me as I bolted away under some seringa bushes.

The dining place was not in the house but out on one of the wide
verandas. A long table was set with plates for nine people, and wishing
to see what went on at it I crept quietly around to the back of a clump
of lilacs while my young master was being shown round the garden.

"Well, if here isn't another beggar for crumbs," chattered an impudent
little voice near me, and looking round I saw a chipmunk sitting on a
sun dial and washing his face and paws for supper.

"Don't be afraid," I said mildly, "I am no beggar. I am here because I
love to watch human beings when they eat. I belong to the new boy, and I
beg that you will not call attention to me by any unnecessary
chattering."

"All right," he said, winking a beautiful brown eye at me, "if you'll
promise not to tease for scraps from the table. There are too many of us
now. I'm always hungry, and there are about a dozen juncos, some hermit
thrushes, a bluejay, a tame raccoon, a white rabbit, the cat and about a
score of other creatures--we're the steadies but there are lots of
chancers."

"What do you mean by chancers?"

"Ones who happen along like that Plymouth Rock hen there sneaking down
from the hen-houses. She knows she's not allowed here--but to come back
to you. Of course you won't hurt any of us?"

"Hurt you, my dear chipmunk," I replied. "I believe in the rights of all
creatures--even deer mice. I have an arrangement with two already that
they may come in my stable, but if they bring any more in or if they run
over my food I'll drive them out."

"You drive a mouse," he said. "A clumsy thing like you couldn't do it."

"Couldn't I?" I remarked sarcastically.

"How would you do it?" he asked.

"Quickly, my friend. You ought to see the fancy play of my hoofs."

"You think you're very smart," he said, and he hobbled slowly away to
the veranda where he could be nearer the table.

I looked after him wondering what was the matter with his paws, and
reflecting that although I don't dislike chipmunks, I find them very
disrespectful.

Such a darling little junco called to me with his sharp kissing note. He
was in the lilacs over me and he had been watching the chipmunk. "Chew,
chew, Pony," he went on. "Supper's ready--I'm glad, aren't you?"

I stared up at him and said, "Junco with the grey head and white tail
feathers, I like you."

"And I'll like you," he returned, "if you'll not get between me and the
supper table. I'm hungry."

"What's wrong with that chipmunk's feet?" I asked the junco.

"He was a performing squirrel in a show. They used to make him dance by
turning on a gas flame under his cage."

"Why didn't he cling to the bars?" I asked.

"They were charged with electricity. Though I am only a country bird I
have heard how cruelly animals are treated in cities."

"How did the chipmunk get here?" I inquired.

"Mr. Devering was at the show and rescued him. He had the showman fined
heavily--but, Pony, here comes the human mother-bird."

Such a fine matronly young woman with a grave sweet face was coming out
of the house.

Her hands were full of wild roses that she put in a bowl of water on the
table.

"Good gracious!" I said to the junco, "what is that furry brown creature
curled up and clinging to the skirt of her gown?"

"That is Black-Paws, the raccoon. He is a great pet of this
house-mother's mother, a wee old lady who comes here in summer. When
Grammie is not here, he follows her daughter about and slides along the
floor holding on to her dress."

"Mrs. Devering must be a very kind lady," I said. "That fat raccoon is
heavy."

"She is very patient with him, but see now she is shaking him off."

"Go away, Black-Paws," the lady was saying, "You tire me. Here take this
piece of cake," and she went to a side table.

To my great amusement, the stout-bodied little creature with the funny
black patches on his face held up his fore paws, took the cake, and when
her back was turned began to wash it in one of the glasses of water on
the table.

"He's the cleanest animal on the place," said the junco. "He nearly
washes his food away."

"If I had had that piece of cake," I said, "I should have eaten the
icing instead of leaving it in the water. Junco, is this young looking
woman the mother of all those children?"

"Yes, yes, and a good one too."

"But she looks so young, junco."

"Northland air is good for human beings and good for animals. Look at
her skin--just like a cherry. I could bite it--chew, chew. Oh! where is
my mate, my mate? She's late, she's late. Supper's ready, chew, chew."

"Here I be, dearie, dearie," and we heard another sweet twittering
trill, and there was Mrs. Junco coming like the wind.

"Oh! my dearie dearie," he said, and putting their heads close together,
they sat talking in low bird notes in such a comfortable way that it
made me feel quite lonely.

I turned my head away, and saw two little gliding creatures slipping
under the veranda steps.

"Hello!" I said; "do I see snakes?"

"Yes," said some one in a whisper close to me, and lowering my head I
saw the Plymouth Rock hen right by my hoofs.

"Aren't those snakes cute?" she said. "I love to see them, darting their
heads out and in. They're the children's pets and are waiting for
worms---- Pony-Boy, don't call attention to me. Being grey I don't show
up much. I'm the biggest girl's pet, and she is the only one that knows
I'm here. By and by she'll sneak me a bit of something. I'm not afraid
of your hoofs. I'm very light on my feet."

"Yes and light in the head too," said a contemptuous voice, and glancing
up we saw a blue jay sitting solitary and looking rather ugly on a bough
just near us.

"Nobody loves a jay," said Biddy in a hoarse whisper. "What about those
eggs you broke yesterday? The master of the house will shoot you if he
sees you."

"Hold your tongue," said the jay impudently, and Biddy, turning away
from him, said to me, "You know ponies are not allowed down here at meal
times. You'd better back up a bit. Get your head behind those long
purple blossoms. Now you won't show so much---- We were talking about
snakes; those two pets belong to the younger of the two girls and she
keeps a worm pit for them. She buries bones and meal, and these two come
here every night for their after dinner feed. If you want to see
lightning, just watch their tongues when they take the worms."

"Biddy," I said, "I'll keep my eye on them, but I must watch my young
master who is coming to the table."

"I saw him walking about the garden," she said, "with the big master.
Pony, I like your boy."

Mr. Devering was guiding Dallas to the table. "My wife," he said to the
boy. Then he said to her, "Bretta, may I commend another young thing to
your care?"

He did not mention Dallas' name, but Mrs. Devering pronounced it very
nicely when she took the boy's hand and gave him a long look.

"And what do you think of your new aunt?" asked Mr. Devering jokingly.

"She seems very young," said the boy slowly. "Margie is old."

Such a look of compassion came over the lady's face. "I am very glad to
be your aunt," she said softly.

Dallas, with a gentle gesture, took the hand that was hanging by her
side and raised it to his lips.

She blushed with pleasure at this grown-up caress, and taking a rose
from the bowl she fastened it in the lapel of the boy's coat.

"Pretty, pretty," I heard the juncos say.

"Very kind," observed Biddy, and then the whole family of boys and girls
came trooping to the veranda.

"Family," said Mrs. Devering, "come here and be introduced."

I could see that their names made no impression on my young master. He
was staring at their faces. These were his cousins, his real cousins,
though they did not know it, and in spite of the cool wind blowing, a
line of perspiration sprang to his upper lip. Would they like him, oh!
would they like him?

They all looked very smart, the girls in thick white dresses, the boys
in navy blue belted cloth suits like that of my young master.

There was a family resemblance--I could see it, though these children
were robust and rollicking, while my young master was refined and
delicate in appearance.

Their table manners were very good, but they were so full of life that
they had hard work to keep still.

It was a charming sight to see this happy, clean, and well-bred family
sitting at this long table with no walls between them and the lovely
lake that was shining and beautiful as the sides of the big silver soup
tureen from which Mrs. Devering was ladling a delicious dark liquid that
smelt like beans. I thought the Deverings' supper table was like a
dinner table until I saw what a wonderful lot of things they gave those
happy children to eat in the middle of the day.

The soup course did not interest the creatures of the second table. Not
a bird peeped or stirred, except to glare at a big white rabbit who came
loping easily down the hill from the wood, and went noiselessly under
the veranda.

"Old Muffy," whispered Biddy hoarsely; "he has a bottomless appetite. We
hate to see him come--there are the robins. They're late too."

Four plump fat birds had just settled themselves over us with much
shaking of wings and flirting of tails, though they did not speak.

I looked back at the table. Everybody had finished their soup and to my
surprise the eldest girl, who had heavy black hair and a straight nose
like her mother's, got up and piling all the empty soup plates on a
tea-waggon rolled them along the veranda toward the kitchen.

On the way Bingi crossed her with a big roast of cold lamb on a platter.

Now there was a faint murmuring sound about me, and one of the boys
called out, "Wait, robin babies, your turn will quickly come."

"That boy," said Biddy, who had asked permission to fly up to my back in
order to get a better view of the table, "that nice boy makes a
specialty of robins, and often brings them up by hand when the parents
are killed. This is not a very good worm country as the soil is stony,
so he buys worms from his sister's pit and makes worm hash."

"Worm hash," I repeated; "I never heard of such a thing."

"He never loses a young robin from crop trouble," said Biddy, "though
they sometimes bathe themselves to death, being great water-lovers. He
makes his hash of worms, bread, oatmeal and a few drops of milk. If he
can't get worms he takes raw meat, but when his robins are grown they
eat almost anything. Hush! don't cackle nor cluck. Here comes something
for me."

"I'm not likely to do either," I said, then I eyed the black-haired girl
who, before taking her seat at the table, had made a detour and with her
left hand tossed Biddy a morsel of something.

"She sneaked that from the cake course," gurgled the hen from my back.
"My! how good it tastes. It's raspberry shortcake. That Jap certainly
knows how to cook. I hope I'll get something more."

I paid little attention to Biddy, for I was eyeing Mr. Devering and
grieving over something he had just said, "This is lamb, my boy. We are
as bad as the wolf."

The nice man was biting his lip now. He remembered how terribly my young
master had felt about his cowardice, but who can recall the spoken word?

Dallas was in a fine state of nerves. He had been so happy in coming to
his own at last by being one of an interesting group of boys and girls.
Now the charm was broken. He grew red and fussed about his seat, his
appetite all gone.

The children were all speaking at once, "Wolf! what wolf, Dad?"

Mr. Devering struggled with the joint for a few seconds, then he said
shortly, "Up Deer Trail."

"What were you up there for, Dad? Is that where you went with Dallas? I
wish you'd taken us. We love that trail."

More questions and more remarks were showered upon the poor man, but he
went on carving silently.

My young master, instead of leaving matters to this clever man, was
unfortunate enough to open his young mouth and put his foot in it. To
please these dear cousins was his burning desire, therefore he thought
he must create a sensation, so with a heightened color he announced
solemnly, "We were after the lamb."

Mr. Devering rolled his eyes at him, but said nothing, while the
children just shrieked, "Not Lammie-noo. He isn't alive, is he? Dad, you
said he must be dead."

"Sit down, sit down, children," said Mrs. Devering in a quiet voice.
"Not another word, please, from anybody till every boy and girl is
seated."

The children were on fire. Their eyes flashed, their tongues were going,
but they obeyed their mother.

Biddy not liking my slippery back had shifted her position to a stick
laid crosswise in the lilacs and she clucked in my ear, "Those children
love their pets. They hate to see us go to the Good-Bye House."

Struck by the name, I asked, "What is that?"

"It's the place where hens walk in after tid-bits in somebody's hand and
never walk out again. Nothing hurts them. They just stop eating and go
to another poultry yard."

I thought this over a minute. Probably the Deverings had some very
merciful way of killing their stock; then I listened to Mrs. Devering,
who was saying, "Is everybody still? Now you may go on, Dallas."

However, Mr. Devering interrupted, "There's nothing much to tell. We
found your Lammie-noo, bairns, and he is at present in the woodshed in
his usual sleeping place."

Another rain of questions fell on his devoted head. "Where had he found
Lammie-noo? Was he hungry? Why had he left the sheep?"

"There you have me," said Mr. Devering with a shrug of his broad
shoulders. "Why do human lambs and sheep and goats and kids do the queer
things they do? He's home anyway--Mother, what have you been doing this
afternoon?"

The children turned to Dallas. They didn't wish to talk about anything
but the lamb, and my young master, whose cheeks had been getting redder
and redder, and whose eyes had been devouring the faces of these lively
children, burst now into a flood of talk.

Oh! how he wanted to impress them, and he certainly did. Their Dad was a
second David. He had caught up a stick and half killed the wolf and
wrenched his jaws from the trembling lamb. He, Dallas, had stood back in
wonder at such heroism.

I saw the children's faces falling, falling while these fiery words just
flew from between my young master's thin beautiful lips. What fairy tale
was this, and what kind of a boy was this pale city lad?

"At last," cried Dallas, "the wolf ran away like a whipped cur."

Oh! how I wanted to help my young master, and thrusting my head out from
my hiding place I neighed shrilly.

This brought young Dallas down from his high horse, and he stopped
short, grew terribly pale, and his eyes ceased flashing and became dull.

He hadn't been lying as some children lie. He was a dreamer, and he
really thought that what he was relating had taken place. He was trying
to glorify this wonderful new relative of his--this dear, strong uncle.

However, the children didn't understand this, and while the older ones
were politely silent, the smallest boy of all piped up sweetly, while he
pointed his cruel little fork at Dallas, "Wolfths don't bite peoplths,
they runs."

Dallas, trembling on the edge of his chair, let his eyes run up and down
the rows of faces. Mr. and Mrs. Devering understood and were sorry for
him. The children did not understand, and had him branded as a liar.

His self-control was just giving way, when his uncle said kindly, "Look
at that pony of yours--almost on the table. Suppose you take him up to
his own quarters."

Wasn't my young master grateful! He sprang up and went like a shot to my
log cabin, I trotting after him.

I imagined the grown people trying to keep the children from laughing at
this queer way of taking a pony to a stable, then I forgot them all in
my interest in my dear young master.




CHAPTER VII

PRIZE PIGS AND THEIR DOG FRIENDS


He was sobbing his young soul out on a heap of straw.

"Oh! Pony, Pony, what a fool I am--my head was going round and round.
What did I say?--What an awful day. I wish I were dead."

I had heard boys say this before, so I rubbed his shoulder consolingly
with my soft lips. He was my own little master even if he did lie, but
for his own sake I hoped he would learn to tell the truth at all times.

Suddenly he sprang up. "I've got to go back, I've got to face them--it's
worse than the wolf. Where's my handkerchief? I've lost it," and he
sniffed and snuffled and dried his face on my mane and with his coat
sleeve. Then he started on a funeral march to the house.

Knowing that I was supposed to be tied up, I kept at a discreet distance
from him, and skulked behind shrubs until I reached my old hiding-place
under the lilacs.

Dinner was over now, and the pets were having their good time. The four
fat young robins stood demurely round a plate of food on the lawn
stuffing themselves and looking thankfully up toward the blue sky while
their feathery vests swelled out more and more.

Biddy was gorging herself behind a tree trunk, the juncos and thrushes
were eating seeds and cake crumbs scattered over the lawn, while the
rabbit with a bland air surveyed the pleasant scenery and regaled
himself on juicy lettuce leaves.

The younger girl was bending affectionately over her pet garter-snakes,
whose names I found out were Squamata and Flash-In-The-Pan.

The raccoon was under Mrs. Devering's chair and occasionally stuck out
his black paws for tid-bits that she handed to him.

Mr. Devering had moved to his wife's end of the table, and was drinking
coffee with her. She motioned to Dallas to come beside her, and there
was a plate of shortcake for him.

"Will you have some milk?" she asked, laying her hand on a pitcher. "We
don't give our young people coffee here."

The boy was feverish, and drank three glasses. He was very happy to be
with the grown people, and kept rolling his eyes doubtfully at the
children.

The eldest girl was trundling the tea-waggon back and forth to the
kitchen, occasionally speaking impatiently to the chipmunk, who would
get in her way.

"Chippie Sore-Feet," she said, "your pouches are packed. Get out of this
or I shall step on you."

Chippie chattered angrily, but went away.

"You little miser," she called after him. "Here it is only July, and
you have enough winter stuff buried for ten chipmunks."

He gave her an angry glance, and went to unload his booty in some safe
hiding place.

When the table was all cleared, the black-haired girl who had been
eyeing Dallas with much curiosity and a kind of serious interest, came
to her father and said, "Mother thinks our guest would like to be shown
round the place."

"With all respect for your mother's wishes," said Mr. Devering, "I think
Dallas had better go to bed. He's fagged out. That's why he told you all
that fairy tale about me and the wolf."

The girl still stood and Dallas said eagerly, "I am not too tired. I
should love to go."

Poor lad! he did not want to go--he would rather have stayed with his
uncle and aunt, but he did not want to hurt the girl's feelings.

I followed the two as they went along the veranda, and listened to the
girl who was saying, "Let's call on Lammie-noo first. I had to finish my
work, so I haven't seen him."

The lamb was reclining on a bed of straw in the wood-shed with the air
of a patient young prince. The whole troop of children had joined us,
and what pet names they did shower on the happy animal.

He was Angel darling, and Lovey dear, and Beauty lamb, and he took all
their praise quite calmly as if it were his due.

The black-haired girl touched his bandaged leg with gentle fingers, but
said nothing. She was much quieter than the others, though she could
yell, too, at times, as I soon found out.

The younger children were calling the wolf all manner of names, when
suddenly the biggest boy of all turned on his heel and said, "Ah! hush
up--he wants to know how you enjoyed your dinner to-night."

"We'll never eat Lammie-noo," said the younger girl indignantly, "Dad
says so."

"Does the lamb always sleep here?" Dallas asked the black-haired girl.

"Yes, his mother was a pet before him, and this was her bed-place. I'm
sorry the bears got her," and the girl looked very sad.

"What's that black stuff hanging under his chin?" asked Dallas. "It
looks like beads."

"I must shave him again," said the girl soberly. "It's clotted milk on
his wool. He sticks his head down in the pail to drink, and his wool
gets messed up with the milk and then he lies down on the earth and it
turns black. He's a great little boy to eat lying down--aren't you,
Lammie-noo?" and she patted him.

The lamb winked at me. I was quite surprised, for I had fancied him
rather stupid-looking. I should have known better. Any living thing has
some brains.

Having finished with the lamb, the children gathered round me. My head,
neck, throat, withers, chest, shoulders, knees, legs, feet, body and
tail all came under discussion. They knew, the clever young ones, that a
pony's points like a child's points should harmonise. Even the baby
lifted one of my forefeet and peered at it knowingly, saying as he did
so, "Heelths open, frogths thound."

After they took me to pieces, they put me together again by making me
walk, trot and gallop. Then they pronounced me a well-shaped pony, but
my chest was a trifle too wide and my fetlocks were too small. However,
my action was fine.

Then each one of them took me for a ride, but such a short one that I
wondered, until I remembered that their father had said they had ponies
of their own, so I was no treat to them.

The black-haired girl was the only one who did not mount me, and as she
stood a little aside Dallas said to her, "I wish you would tell me your
names again. Not one of them has stuck in my memory."

"We're all named from Canadian history," she said. "I'm Jeanne Mance."

"I never heard of her," said Dallas.

"Of course not, being an American," said the eldest boy so patronisingly
that I saw my young master wince. I foresaw that this boy, who was a
big, sturdy fellow with a round bull-like head, would probably get on
young Dallas' nerves.

"The real Jeanne," the girl went on, "was born in France in 1606. French
people loved Canada then as now--she sailed for Quebec and spent her
life in taking care of sick Indians and whites."

"And she died in the odor of sanctity," broke in the bull-headed boy,
"but this one is nicknamed Cassowary and will probably be hanged."

"Why Cassowary?" asked Dallas.

"Don't you know about the great big Cassowary in Timbuctoo," said the
lad, "who ate up the missionary and his hymn-book too?"

"Never heard of him," said Dallas. "There are lots of things I don't
know."

Poor little master--he felt very humble that beautiful July evening.

Jeanne laid her hand on the big boy's shoulder--"This is Tecumseh
Hallowell Devering, and he is fourteen years old--by the way, how old
are you, Dallas?"

"Thirteen."

"Just my age," she said.

"I know who Tecumseh was," said Dallas; "he was an Indian brave who
fought against us Americans and you British made him a
brigadier-general."

"That's so," said the big boy, his rather small eyes flashing, "and my
nickname is Big Chief."

Dallas shrugged his shoulders. He didn't like Big Chief. The younger
children were howling with laughter. Here were two boys barely
introduced, and one of them was glowering at the other.

"All dressed up, and no one to fight," giggled the merry-eyed younger
girl.

Big Chief scuffed his way behind the circle of children and Jeanne, or
Cassowary, as they called her, drew Merry-Eyes to the front.

"This is Marguerite Bourgeoys Devering, and she is eleven and a half and
is named for a young French girl who came to New France, built schools,
cared for the sick and was called Sister Bourgeoys."

"Now she ought to have a nice pet name," said Dallas smiling at the
cheerful little girl.

"She has--she's called Dovey 'cause most people think doves are so dear,
but we know they're the worst fighters in the lot, don't we, Dovey?" and
Cassowary shook her sturdy young sister, who gave her a good thump on
the back.

"Look at that," said Cassowary, "see her fists, she's just like a boy.
Sleeping Dog, come here."

A fine up-standing boy with dark hair was trying to slip out of sight,
but his elder sister dragged him forward.

"Samuel de Champlain," she said, "also nicknamed Champ. He's eleven and
a half, too, 'cause he's Dovey's twin."

"I know de Champlain," said Dallas, "we have a lake named for him. Why
is this brother called Sleeping Dog?"

"'Cause it's hard to rouse him," said Cassowary. "His eyes look sleepy,
but they have a trick of lighting up and when they do, look out."

"So he's a fighter, too," said Dallas politely.

"Rather, but luckily for us he usually takes it out with the gloves.
He's the only one in the family that Dad can get to box with any of the
boys round here."

Champ made a quiet but very comical face at her, then caught a smaller
boy by the shoulder and swung him forward.

"James Wolfe," said Cassowary, "ten years old and known as Sojer.
'Tention, Sojer. Hands out of pockets. Mother's going to sew them up.
Eyes front."

Dallas blushed. The name called back his wolf adventure, then he roared
with laughter, for the freckled-faced fat pudgy little boy known as
Sojer was doing a goose-step toward the flower beds.

"And last, but not least," said Cassowary, "is dear baby John Graves
Simcoe, who already has shown himself rather snobbish and is called
Little Big-Wig."

Dallas looked admiringly at the beautiful child, who was blue-eyed,
golden-haired, and as straight as a reed. He promised to be graceful and
slender like my young master, and Dallas impulsively stretched out a
hand which the pretty young creature took and pressed between his own
like the little gentleman he was.

"Would like to ride your pony," he said. "Big-Wigth's ponyth very
under-bred."

"You shall," said Dallas heartily, then he turned to Cassowary. "A
fellow would want a double-barrelled memory to keep all your names
straight. Let's see if I can rattle them off--Cassowary, Big Chief,
Champ or Sleeping Dog, Dovey, Sojer, Little Big-Wig."

"Good," cried Cassowary. "Now you'll know what to call us. Only Dad and
Mother use our real names, and even they forget sometimes. Now what
shall we call you? Dallas is too grand."

My young master pressed his lips together. He wanted to tell them that
he was their cousin, but he felt that he did not dare to spring another
sensation on them. They might not believe him. They would think he was
crying wolf again.

"Call him Stranger," said Dovey, "'cause he's new."

"No, that isn't polite," said Cassowary; "name him something friendly."

Her brothers suggested different names--Neighbour, Visitor, Crony, Chum,
Pal, Mate, all but Big Chief, who stood aside smiling wickedly. Finally
he shouted, "Let him swap nicknames with Sleeping Dog."

Only Cassowary and Dallas saw the point of this cruel joke.

My young master became so red that he was almost purple. What lively
blood he had that it could so quickly surge to his face.

He felt already that I was his friend through thick and thin, and
turning his head to me he muttered, "Let sleeping dogs lie."

These children, in spite of their politeness, had sized him up, judged
him and condemned him in spite of their father's apology for him to
Cassowary.

While they all stood staring at him, Cassowary did a very kind thing, as
girls often do when boys have been unkind. She put her arm through
Dallas' and said, "Don't mind him--he's an awful tease. You'll get
something on him some day---- Come on and see the pigs. They're coming
home to roost."

This was such a queer statement that it distracted my young master's
attention from himself. He gave a kind of stagger, and went along with
Cassowary.

"We'll call Dallas, Cousin," she suddenly screamed at the top of her
young lungs. "That will make him feel at home."

As she said this we were all--children and pony--sweeping over the lawn
toward the road. Mr. Devering was walking in the rose garden with his
wife. He heard Cassowary's cheerful yell and he called, "Hooray! So you
have found that out."

They didn't hear him--the wild young creatures. Cassowary was the
wildest of all and a great runner. She just seemed to pick up her long
legs and skim over the ground like her namesake, who can out-distance a
horse. We had a fine dash up the road in the direction of the head of
the lake, and then they all came to a stop, not one winded but Dallas,
who was breathing heavily.

Coming from the north was a grunting drove of creatures. Almost
priceless Tamworth pigs I saw they were, and in prime condition. This
wild country seemed to agree with pigs as well as with human beings. A
yellowish brown old fellow was leading them, and Cassowary said to
Dallas, "Another introduction--Sir Veteran Vere de Vere, and Lady
Annabella Vere de Vere and all the little Vere de Vere
piggie-wiggies--Yellow Boy, Saffron, Quince, Crocus, Jaundice, Topaz,
Sulphur, London Fog, Sandy, Amberine, Tawny and their cousins and second
cousins too numerous to mention. They salute our guest. Now watch Big
Chief playing with them. They are his dearest pets."

Big Chief was giving a series of peculiar howls, and every time he
howled the pigs squealed and grunted.

"What is he saying to them?" asked Dallas; "he talks so fast I can't
understand."

"He's telling them what lovely things they are going to have to eat.
He'll soon have them dancing, tired as they are."

"Are they performing pigs?" asked Dallas.

"No, not really performing. We're not allowed to tease any animal by
making it do unnatural tricks. They just do what they're inclined to.
See--they're circling round him now trying to find out what he's got in
his pockets."

"Latest dance," yelled Big Chief. "Pig-trot," and he twisted and turned,
and the pigs followed him and really seemed to be enjoying themselves,
for he kept throwing them popcorn, ends of cake, and candy, and as he
pranced, he sang, "Golden Dollars Rolling Down the Road, Roll, Golden
Dollars, Roll."

"That's his pig song," said Cassowary, "he made it up himself. He's very
proud of it. Oh! I say, didn't Amberine do a fine fancy step then--threw
out his hoofs just like a little man."

Big Chief kept moving toward the children and me, and seeing that my
young master was half afraid of this drove of lusty pigs, I went toward
him so that he could get on my back if he wished.

He understood--the clever lad, and looked at me wistfully, but alas! he
did not know how to mount even a pony. Of course I am nearly twelve
hands high--I am not a tiny Shetland.

The pigs were most crazy, and Big Chief delighted in exciting them still
more. "Rewards," he yelled, "rewards for my pets. Do you suppose this is
a free show?" and every child had to dig into his pockets to see whether
there was anything to eat there.

Soon the pigs were all round us. "Sir Vet," said Cassowary, giving him a
loving tap, "you're not much like the overgrown fellow that came in here
three years ago. Dad doesn't believe in keeping creatures shut up and
soon fat old Sir Vet had become quite slim and my! couldn't he root. Now
he's as strong as a moose. Come on, race me to the barn," and down the
road they all went, children and pigs, young Dallas and I tagging after.

As we whirled along the road in front of the rose garden Mr. Devering
called out, "Where are the dogs?" and Cassowary stopped short.

"Ah! my beloveds," she exclaimed, "I was forgetting them."

I looked up the road, and there were two tired looking collies lagging
along side by side, their heads down, their tails drooping.

Cassowary held out her arms. "Did their trotties feel sore after
guarding piggies all day? Come up to the house and Bingi will give us a
foot-reviving supper for doggums."

She was down on her knees caressing the two beautiful animals who were
responding somewhat wearily. Then she led them to the wood-shed, where
the cook handed her two bowls of soup, some bones and dog biscuits.

While Lammie-noo surveyed them benevolently, they ate and drank in a
dainty well-bred fashion, then without offering to lie down turned their
faces toward the barn.

"Don't they sleep here?" asked Dallas.

"Not much," said the girl. "Do you suppose anyone could wean them away
from their precious pigs? They were brought up with them. As puppies
they lay close to Lady Annabella's warm sides every night."

"And they watch the pigs through the day?"

"Yes, they are both splendid fighters, and no wild beast would dare to
go near the Vere de Veres when they are about. Never a fox will take a
piggie-wiggie. I can tell you a story about that. Would you like to hear
it?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Well, one day this spring Mr. Talker had Lady Annabella up at his
house. She had a litter of young, and he wanted to keep her quiet. She
was in a small yard and there was a hole in the fence. Mr. Talker was in
his barn loft looking out the window. He saw a Mr. Fox come slyly down
from the wood, and look through the hole longingly at the pigs. Mr.
Talker was going to run down, then he stopped. He has a great admiration
for Lady Annabella and he saw that she had got up and her little pig
eyes were glued to the hole in the fence.

"Mr. Talker says Foxy, after staring at the piglets, picked up a stick
about the length of one of them and jumped through the hole with it in
his mouth.

"Mr. Talker says undoubtedly he was measuring the hole. Finally he
dropped the stick, went through the hole, seized a piggy and tried to go
back through the hole with it. Piggy being no longer than the stick but
much fatter, stuck in the hole and then there was Lady Annabella
suddenly very much alive and crowding Mr. Fox so hard against the fence
that he could scarcely breathe.

"He dropped his squealing burden, and hobbled away, so crushed in body
and spirit that he could scarcely crawl back to the woods."

"And what did Mr. Talker do?" asked Dallas breathlessly.

"Ran down and gave Lady Annabella some milk and petted her, but come
on--Guardie and Girlie are trotting up to the barn to put their pigs to
bed."

"Where are the other kids?" asked Dallas as he and Cassowary loped along
after the two collies, who were in a great hurry.

"I don't know--Oh! there they are down at the crib. The fire warden must
be there, I see his red canoe."

"Is he the man to prevent forest fires?"

"Yes for this district. Then the government has a lovely big hydroplane.
You'll see it soaring overhead. Big Wig calls it the fire-bird."

"And when there's a blaze anywhere in the forest the plane reports it?"
asked Dallas.

"Sure--Canada doesn't want her splendid settlers burnt up. And Dad says
trees are so valuable now that all the governments in the world are
protecting them."

"Do the pigs sleep under the barn?" asked Dallas as he looked ahead and
saw the Tamworth procession filing in under the big barn, which was
painted green like the house.

"Yes, in the cellar, though it's as airy as the barn floor. It's fun to
see them make their beds. Hurry up. You're a slow boy."

"Are they fussy?" panted Dallas as he hurried along beside her. "I
thought pigs liked dirt."

"Indeed they don't. You just watch them travelling round with their
mouths full of clean straw. First, though, comes pig-wash."

As we stepped inside the cellar we saw the lines of pigs part. The big
ones went to long troughs full of sour milk, the little fellows filed
through a small door.

"Where are the young chappies going?" asked Dallas.

"To the pig cafeteria. There are self-feeders there. What in the name of
common sense are they yelling about?" and she vaulted over a railing.

"It's that scamp Big Chief," she called presently. "He pretends to love
his pigs, yet the little darlings haven't a morsel of food. I'll tell
Dad on him," and she scuttled up a stairway to the barn floor.

Presently she came back with two pails of feed.

Dallas watched her with wondering eyes. Then he put his fingers in his
ears. The yells of the indignant small pigs were terrific. One would
think they were being murdered.

"And no corn for the big pigs," said Cassowary presently. "I'll have to
go to the grain-room again. Dad will dock Big Chief's weekly pocket
money for this. I hope he won't leave him a cent."

"I'd hate to kill one of those feasting brown things," said Dallas.
"They do seem to enjoy life so much."

"Kill them!" squealed Cassowary. "I'd like to see you try. They're never
killed. They're sold to stockmen--good stockmen. Big Chief found one
farmer was going to ring the snout of London Fog there, and he howled so
that Dad had to call off the sale."

"Why ring the snout?" asked Dallas.

"To prevent their rooting. This farmer lived in a good fat farming
country. Up here it's wild and poor land for farms. We use the pigs to
clear fields for grain."

"How can pigs clear fields?"

"They root the soil from around stumps and rocks. The men either pile up
the rocks or put them in a crusher to make good roadbeds."

"That's a fine road along the lake," said Dallas.

"Yes, because Dad believes that good roads open up a country. He says he
wishes his crusher would break enough rocks to make a highway to the
North Pole."

"Your Dad is a perfectly splendid man," said Dallas enthusiastically.

"Isn't he!" said the girl. Then she lowered her voice and put her head
close to the boy's. "I cry myself to sleep some nights thinking what
would I do if Dad died."

"This seems a safe sort of a place," said Dallas consolingly.

"It is and it isn't. One day he fell from a tree and hurt his back. He's
too bold."

My young master's mind took a youthful skip. "I say," he observed, "you
tell me you don't kill pigs, but you must kill sheep. I saw a skin."

"Mr. Talker did it. That was Mrs. Goodbody. We didn't eat her. She was
sold. Dad gets our meat from across the lake. We couldn't eat our
friends. Mrs. Goodbody didn't know what was happening to her. Mr. Talker
held out some salt. She followed him to the little electric house. She
licked the salt, then she just fell down peacefully. There's some new
way of killing sheep. I don't know what it is."

"Of course," said Dallas uneasily, "we all have to die."

"Dad says to live well and not fuss about death and when our time comes
he says he hopes we'll all go as comfortably as our animals do. It isn't
the death that's bad, Cousin. It's the teasing and torturing before
death."

Dallas shuddered. "It's awful to suffer."

"But sometimes you've got to suffer," said this sensible girl. "Then
grin and bear it--Hello! What's the matter, Guardie?"

The collie was pulling her white frock with his teeth.

Cassowary went over the railing again to a corner where a shoat lay on a
heap of clean straw.

The other collie was licking his shoulder.

"Only a scratch, Guardie," said the girl "It's not worth washing."

But the dog persisted. I knew what he wished, but my young master asked
Cassowary why he was behaving so peculiarly.

"Because young Jaundice has bruised his shoulder and Guardie wants some
lotion put on it. Watch him take me to the medicine room. Lead on, my
boy."

The good dog, looking over his shoulder, led the way to the barn floor,
and presently the laughing girl came back with a basin and white cloth
in her hand.

"It's all nonsense, you know, Guardie," she said. "Your old tongue is as
good as this antiseptic; however, one must oblige a friend, if only a
dog," and she washed the shoulder of the pig who took on great airs at
having two dogs and a girl fussing over him while a pony and a boy
looked on.

"Now let's go," said Cassowary. "I'll just shut the little pigs' bedroom
door. They're old enough to sleep alone and if they run to their mammas
sometimes they get rolled on. Good night, children," and with a motherly
air she led us away from the barn cellar.

"Hello! what's the fuss about?" she cried when we got outside.




CHAPTER VIII

A GREAT SECRET


The children had all swept up to the nice clean barnyard.

"I say," cried Cassowary, pushing her way among them, "what's the
trouble?"

Champ was speaking--"Dad said Drunkard wasn't to be let loose till dark
and it's only dusk now."

"He didn't," yelled Big Chief, "he said in blindman's holiday."

"Well, blindman's holiday is black dark."

"It isn't," said the Chief, "it's betwixt and between."

Champ took hold of Cassowary's arm and drew her forward. "You talk to
him. He's a nut-head."

"I'll attend to Drunkard myself," said the girl loftily. "Dad put him in
my care. He said you two boys were too jerky in your little attentions
to the dear soul. I'm not so undependable," and she tossed her black
head. "You didn't attend to the cafeteria to-night; Big Chief. I'm going
to tell on you."

The two boys turned on her. "Undependable," sneered Champ. "I don't
believe there's any such word," while Big Chief shook an irritated fist
at her. "Look here, Miss Cassowary--you've just got to stop bossing me.
I'm going to speak to mother about it."

A pony hasn't any sleeve to laugh in, so I turned round and hid my smile
in my mane. Children are the same the world over. Nothing made me feel
as much at home as this bickering between these young Canadians. They
were just like youthful undeveloped ponies, loving, teasing, rebelling,
watching each other, and over them they knew was the wise whip hand of
the parents. Well, I could tell them one thing if they asked my advice.
If the parents didn't discipline them a bit, the bad old world would
lick them into shape when they were full grown, which is a painful time
to be educated.

Miss Cassowary was not too big to be naughty. She was in a corner about
this accusation of bossing, so she stopped talking, and ran a saucy
tongue out at her brothers, then turning to Dallas she said, "You don't
know what they're talking about, Cousin. Come on and I'll introduce you
to Drunkard."

With her I showed the discomfited boys two clean pairs of shoes, and ran
round the corner of the big barn to the little barn where Mr. Talker was
superintending the milking of the cows by patent milkers.

"Not so much noise, please," he said agreeably. "The cows can't hear the
nightingale song."

To my amusement I saw that he was running a stable gramophone, which of
course arrested my bright boy's attention.

He stood stock still and said to Cassowary, "Well--I never thought
before that cows would enjoy music, but why shouldn't they?"

"They give more milk when they hear sweet strains," said Cassowary. "It
started when the men used to milk and shout out things to each other.
The cows didn't like it, so Dad had this gramophone installed to keep
the stable quiet while milking was going on. He took it out when we
bought the milkers, but the cows fussed so that he had to put it back.
Now here is Drunkard."

In front of the cow stable was a kennel with a running chain for a dog.

A deerhound was tearing up and down like mad, only stopping occasionally
to go through all the motions of barking without uttering a sound. He
knew better than to disturb the placid Holsteins who were sweetly
chewing their cud.

He was a dreadfully nervous dog. The cows had no quieting effect on him,
and when he saw us he pawed the air and almost wagged his ratty tail
off.

"Angel Drunkard," said Cassowary, caressing his glossy head. "Is he
longing for the night to come? Cassowary will let her boy loose," and
taking a lead from the kennel, she fastened it to his collar.

Dallas was looking eagerly at him. "Why Drunkard?" he asked, "and why
the chain?"

"'Cause he's just drunk about dogging deer in season and out of season.
He hikes to the woods the minute he's free, and sometimes he goes 'way
over the mountain."

"Can't you break him of the habit?"

"Nohow," she said solemnly. "Dad has tried most everything. Nothing but
chains and exile will do. Of course it isn't exile, but that sounds
better. Chains and exile except at night. When it's really black dark he
won't leave home one step for deer or anything."

"What about moonlight nights?" asked Dallas.

"Oh, night's night to him, light or dark. Besides, he's on guard then
and feels solemn. Every evening before Dad goes to bed he says in a
deep, deep voice, 'Drunkard, watch out, don't let the bears come and
take our good cows and calves; don't let the foxes steal the chickens
nor the wolves kill the lambs.' When Dad gets to the wolves, Drunkard is
just squealing with excitement. He's very sensitive. Then Dad goes on,
'Nor skunks, nor woodchucks, nor porcupines, nor beavers' till he has
all the animals of the woods. Drunkard just howls with anxiety. He
couldn't go dogging deer with all that charge on his hound shoulders. So
all night, if you're awake, you can see him tearing round the place,
watching and spying, and spying and watching and stopping for a drink."

"Gee whizz!" exclaimed my young master, "but if he is only true to you
at night, what does he do when daylight comes?"

"Runs through the French windows into Dad's room," said Cassowary. "Dad
always sleeps with one hand hanging out of bed. Drunkard bumps into it.
Dad has a chain and snap fastened to his bed leg. He only half wakes,
fastens the snap to Drunkard's collar, then goes to sleep again.
Drunkard sleeps, too, and after breakfast Dad brings him out here to
spend the weary livelong day or else puts him near the kitchen door for
Bingi, who loves him."

"Well! I never heard of a dog like that," said Dallas.

"Lots of 'em up here," said Cassowary, "and in many places they're kept
pretty well chained up except in the hunting season. That makes Dad
furious. He hates to have Drunkard chained even for part of the time.
He's just meditating some way to cure him. Come on, old boy, with all
thy faults I love thee still."

"Is that for me or the dog?" asked Dallas comically.

"Dog," said Cassowary quite seriously.

"Where are you going now?" asked Dallas as he suppressed a yawn.

"The round of the cow stable to say good night to the Holsteins," and
she actually went and patted each serious-eyed creature in their
comfortable stalls.

I found her a very amusing girl and very active and boyish with her
short skirts and long legs, but not tomboyish. There was quite a
difference between her age and her young sisters', so I fancied that
Cassowary was much with her brothers.

"Do you want to see Daddy Single-Comb and his family?" she asked
suddenly.

"I do just," said my young master, "though I don't know who Daddy
Single-Comb is."

"He's my Daddy, he's my dear," said Cassowary, skipping out of the
stable. "If you want to see him, come right here."

Trailing Drunkard behind her she flew south across the barnyard and
brought him up with a round turn at the door of a very up-to-date hen
house.

"Good evening, precious pets," she said in a sweet voice as she flung
open the door.

Faint clucks and hen whispers reached my ears, but when she turned on
some bright lights several of the hens spoke to her quite amiably and
distinctly, while a finely feathered Plymouth Rock rooster got off his
perch and shaking his big wings came to put his beak in her hand.

"Even your hens have lights," said Dallas.

"Yes--they prolong the daylight and make them lay better. You must go
see the power house to-morrow. It's back of this barn. Then we must
visit the Falls on the Merry-Tongue River that gives us energy to make
things hum here--Look at Daddy cocking his eye at you. He knows you're
strange. Pet him a bit. Ah! that's right. Tell him you adore roosters."

"I adore roosters," said Dallas obligingly; then he began to laugh so
violently that old Daddy started, gave him a reproachful glance and
flew back to his place on the roost between two of the fattest hens.

"Who's calling me?" said the young girl as her pet left my young master.

From outside we could hear clear voices--"Cass--Cass--Cassowary!"

"Coming," she replied. "Dallas, you wait here, I want to show you the
other hen houses," and she and the dog dashed away.

My young master stood in the doorway staring at the drowsy hens. Then
his head began to droop. He leaned against the doorpost and little by
little his young legs folded under him like tape, and he sank down, his
head against the hard wood.

He was too sleepy to keep his eyes open any longer. When Cassowary came
back she stared at him. "Upon my weary word, he's gone sleepy." Then she
shook him. "Wake up and walk to bed."

He wouldn't budge and she looked round for help.

Her father was coming across the yard, and his eyes twinkled when he saw
Dallas.

"Daughter," he said, "I warned you that the boy was dead tired."

"He's as sound as a drugged top," she replied.

Mr. Devering shook my young master slightly, then smiled as he heard a
murmur from the half-open lips.

"What's he muttering in his sleep?" asked Cassowary.

"Over the mountain."

"Is he thinking of the wolf?"

"Who knows--that active young brain of his goes leaping like a mountain
stream. These words have a peculiar significance from him."

"What is it?" she asked.

"My daughter, there are some things I can not tell even you."

She was laughing at the antics of young Dallas, whom Mr. Devering was
trying to set on his feet.

"Poor lamb," said this strong man, and he lifted my young master's limp
body as easily as if he had been Lammie-noo.

Cassowary and her dog and I trotted alongside, as we went to the house.
Her eyes were on Dallas' head bobbing over her father's shoulder.

"Fallen comrade," she said presently, "just rescued from under the
guns."

I could see Mr. Devering's broad shoulders shaking with amusement in
spite of the burden he carried.

"Cassowary," he said, "there's some truth in that statement of yours,
only the guns are family and not enemy."

"He's a queer boy," she said. "Not like us."

"You're highland plants. He's a hot-house product. Be good to him, my
daughter--promise me."

"He's an awful liar," she said bluntly.

"He has more imagination than all you young ones put together," said her
father warmly. "He knows


     'How short the way to fairyland
        Across the purple hill.'


He will go further than----" then he stopped.

"I know what you were going to say," she remarked shrewdly. "You think
he'll go further than any of us."

"He will when he gets his horns out of the velvet. I see in him a leader
of men. Don't you feel his strange fascination?"

"Not a bit. He's a nice boy, but he's not as much of a boy as Big Chief.
This chap couldn't lick me. Big Chief can."

"You wait till he develops, you young thing," said Mr. Devering. "You're
very much less gushing over strangers than most girls your age."

"I don't love people the way you do, Dad," she said. "You're a dear.
Everyone likes you. I'm hard as nails."

"No, no, child, you have a tender heart."

"I love my animals," she said softly, "better I think than human
beings."

"Don't say that," said her father; "don't say that, my daughter."

"Why not, Dad?"

"We come first. Love animals, but keep them second. Now I want you to
promise to stand by this lad."

"I've kept him on the trot all the evening."

"You know what I mean. The boys may bully him. I depend on you to look
out for him till he gets his footing here."

"Big Chief will beat him if he lies," she said calmly.

"He must not. I won't have it. Don't you know he is of your own blood?"

"No, Dad--is he a relative?"

"Your own and only first cousin."

"What! Has Aunt Ranna a son?"

"She has, indeed."

"Why didn't we know before?"

"Family reasons."

"Why isn't he with his mother?"

Mr. Devering stopped short despite his burden, and didn't I pull up
closer and prick up my pony ears. Now I was going to hear something
interesting about my boy.

"I don't know whether to tell you or not," he said.

"Tell me, Dad," she begged softly. "You and I have lots of secrets and I
never tell one. Mother doesn't dream that Grandmother is going to give
her a lovely surprise by coming up soon."

"Well, girlie," said Mr. Devering as he walked on slowly, "I will
confide in you. When my young sister went as a girl to live with
multi-millionaire Great-Aunt Beverly Ronald, our family virtually gave
her up. The old lady took her to Europe, had her beautiful voice trained
and made a wonderful singer of her. During one of their brief visits to
Canada your aunt met my American chum, Douglas Duff, who was visiting
me. They fell in love with each other and were married, despite
great-aunt's protests. However, she consented to go and live with them
in Boston, where she made their lives miserable with her complaints. She
said the dull life of a hard-working attorney was killing her bright
young niece and there was some truth in the statement. Douglas wished
his wife to stay quietly at home and he never allowed her to sing in
public. Finally her health gave way, and great-aunt rushed her off to
Europe to consult a specialist. Her baby boy, this lad on my shoulder,
was only a year old at the time. The two women never came back and Duff
was so angry that he allowed the boy to grow up thinking that his mother
was dead."

"Case of temper," said Cassowary.

"Of three tempers. One was as bad as the others. Well, the boy suffered
more particularly because the old aunt at intervals made silly attempts
to kidnap him, thereby angering his father and making him keep the boy
shut up with old servants."

"The old lady is dead now, isn't she?"

"Yes, and your aunt is coming back to America. I hope to have her meet
her son here."

"You will be glad to see your only sister," said the girl gently.

"Tremendously glad--we were devoted to each other as children and we
should never have been separated. The love of money, my child, is indeed
the root of all evil."

"And she let her great-aunt boss her all these years?"

"She has a gentle, yielding disposition like her boy's."

"They call her the Ronalda, don't they?"

"Yes, that is her stage name--her old aunt's choice. Now here we are at
the house. Remember you are to speak of this to no one but your mother."

"Cross my heart, Dad--my! wouldn't I fret if I'd had no mother."

The man gave her a strange look that I had interpreted later. "And you
promise to stand by your cousin," he went on.

"Sure, Dad."

She spoke with great conviction, yet in a few days this queer girl was
beating my young master like a little fury.

Mr. Devering sauntered in to Dallas' room through the open French window
and Cassowary turned to me.




CHAPTER IX

CASSOWARY TRIES MY PACES


"The evening is young yet. Dad says you are a racing pony. Come, show me
your paces," and in a jiffy this swift girl had Drunkard chained to a
veranda post, and had seized a new riding bridle that someone had thrown
on a chair.

Then she sprang on my back, and giving my neck a slap said, "Head of the
Lake, racer."

I went slowly for a few paces to see what kind of a seat she had, but I
soon found that she rode like a fearless boy and would stick on no
matter if I went like the wind.

Now what about the road? I didn't want to break a leg and have to be
shot.

There was no trouble here. It was as smooth as a table. Mr. Devering's
crusher had been at work, so I pricked up my hoofs and showed her what
an Arabian-Shetland can do when on its mettle.

"Prince Fetlar," said my rider as we galloped along, "you may be a
winner, but so far you don't beat my Apache Girl, who is an Indian
pony."

I pricked up my ears and she went on just as if she knew that I
understood her, "Apache Girl is a dear and don't you dare to cross her.
If you do, you'll reckon with me. She's up in the far pasture now with
the other ponies, but she is soon coming home and you'll have a chance
to get acquainted. Now away, away. I'm jockey number one and my colors
are blue and white. Next us is a sorrel pony, his jockey is red and
green, next him a white pony, colors black and gold. Beat them, Pony,
beat them!" and she gave me a good whack.

So this nice wild girl wanted me to beat those imaginary ponies, did
she? Well, I could pretend to see them as distinctly as she could, and I
entered on a pace that grew and grew till we seemed to be flying.

She had all she could do to hold on now, yet she screamed, "Go it! Go
it!--We've overhauled blue and white, but red and green is three lengths
ahead. Beat him, Pony, beat him!" and she thumped me well.

"There now!" she exclaimed presently, "the sound of his hoofs is getting
fainter and fainter. He's fallen behind--we're it--we're it."

I had not been exercised for some days, and the road did feel good to my
hoofs, while the keen sharp air seemed to cut open to let us through and
to bathe us with wood scents as we passed.

There was the pungent odor of burning logs in the settlers' cottages
that seemed to dance by us and the lovely scent of flowers and young
leaves in the woodland patches between the houses. The air was like
velvet to my nostrils. How different from the irritating city dust that
made me sneeze and cough.

I stretched out my neck, and as for my tail it floated out so straight
behind that I didn't seem to have any. My every stride was a little
longer, a little faster.

By and by we passed the last of the settlers' houses and the summer
cottages, and now there were only the flying trees on one side and the
cool gloom and pallor of the lake on the other.

Suddenly we came into shadow and partial darkness. We were rounding the
head of the lake and high above us towered forbidding steep rock cliffs
shorn of all greenness by a bush fire that had passed over and left them
desolate.

I flashed by them like a streak of lightning, but just beyond them when
we got into the neighbourhood of some gaunt pines fire-scorched but not
burnt, my clatter over the bare hard road suddenly ceased. My rider had
pulled me up.

"Bang!" she yelled, "over the line, over the line, first money for us,"
and flinging herself off my back, she threw her arms about my neck.

"There's your share," she said and she gave me a regular bear hug. Then
she sprang on my back again. "Home, Prince Fetlar, home! Mother will be
saying, 'Cassowary is as bad as the robins. She won't go to bed--she
won't go to bed.'"

I hated to think of this nice girl being scolded, so I took her back as
quickly as we had come, she clinging to my back like a crab and making
as much noise as a loon.

She did wake the loons up, and afterward I learned that they knew her
voice and loved her, for she was good to them and protected them.

They were in full cry that night and answered every line of the victory
song she howled as she clung to me with her bony young knees.


     "I ran my pony in a race,
     He leaped and bounded full of grace,
     The loons they called, they called to me,
     I answered them quite daft with glee."


"Not good poetry, Prince," she gasped, "but Dad says--he says when your
heart is bursting, break into verse--any old verse. It's yours. Other
fellow doesn't know your thoughts. I'll sing again--about you and
Dallas. Echo! loonies," and she began to shout,


     "With hoofs of gold and temper sweet,
     A pony's come to our farm,
     He brought a master trim and neat
     And full of charm.

     Alas! the master likes to lie,
     He does not know that Satan waits,
     And pitchforks boys to bye and bye,
     Who wander out from Truth's dear gates."


I stopped short. I thought she was making too much fuss about my poor
young master's pleasant stories--and what about her own made-up tales
about the three other ponies in the race with us?

"What's the matter with you, boy?" she asked as she nearly plunged over
my head. "Oh! you want me to go say good-night to Happy Harry--bright
thought," and in a trice she was off my back and running up a path to a
pretty red house.

No pony could get ahead of this girl, and I watched her as she went into
the Talker home. I could see the family through the windows. Mr. and
Mrs. Talker were sitting each side of an open fire, and on a lounge
between them was a young man who must be Happy Harry.

I looked back over the road we had come, and as I looked some electric
lights suddenly flashed on, making the market road as beautiful as a
dream.

On one side of us was the lake, on the other the narrow frontages of the
cottages and a cute little country store with a veranda to it. It was
some distance behind us, but I could see men sitting tipped back on
chairs on the veranda, and someone was playing on a concertina.

Tall Lombardy poplars that I found out afterward were the pride of Mr.
Talker's life, lined the road, and their leaves glistened like silver in
the bright light that evidently came from Mr. Devering's power house.

I thought I would go and look in the windows, to see what Miss Cassowary
was doing, so I stepped softly up a path in the grass.

The girl was on the hearthrug standing quite still, and listening to the
brown-faced boy on the lounge. He was talking in a very lively manner,
and made frequent gestures with his hands. His poor legs were quite
still under a rug. He had gone away to the war, and having lost his own
feet had now artificial ones that often hurt him very much. However,
his face was nice and brown, showing that he was out in the sunshine a
good deal.

His parents' eyes were glued to his face. He was the joy of their life,
and they were so thankful not to have had him killed that they did not
seem to mind his lameness.

He minded it, though, and many a time later on when he thought no one
was looking, I saw him passing his hand over his eyes as if he wanted to
shut out the sight of other young people dashing about on their own
strong feet.

Mr. Talker looked quite gentlemanly in dark house clothes, for he had
shed his working suit. I soon discovered that he was a clergyman, and
the reason he hadn't talked to my young master in coming in from the
Lake of Bays was on account of his always choosing the time of long
drives for the composition of his sermons.

Just now he was holding a skein of wool for his wife to wind, but they
were getting it all tangled because their eyes were on their boy.

Suddenly Cassowary began to speak, and I heard through the open window
some nice praise about myself.

She was telling about our race and an old dog who was lying by the fire
got up and came to growl at me.

"There's your intelligent wee beastie at the window," said Mrs. Talker.

"Invite him in, please Father," said the young man, lifting himself on
his elbow.

Mr. Talker threw him an affectionate glance, then he came to the front
door and politely asked me to come in.

I am always sorry for young people who are not strong, and I have often
been taken into their rooms to cheer them up.

Pausing in the doorway, I bowed my head to the company, then I went in,
picking my steps carefully so as not to bump into chairs or tables.

Happy Harry had been in the artillery and was used to horses. He put his
hand out, and I went and stood beside him.

"Fine of bone, and slender of body," he said; "some Arab in him, eh?"

"Lots," said Cassowary, "his grandfather came from Fetlar in the
Shetlands."

"He's a good deal more than forty-six inches high," said the young man.

"Yes, for his parents were bred in the American corn belt."

"It's queer," said Happy Harry, "how the Old Country people run to a
stocky, blocky pony. We like more refinement of shape."

"Yes," said Cassowary, "I've heard that the real Shetland type over
there is like a tiny draft horse."

"This little fellow is a bit too high," said Harry. "He'd be
disqualified in a pony show."

"He isn't going to be shown," said Cassowary, patting me, "he's just
going to have a good time,--aren't you, Fetlar?"

I pawed the hardwood floor three times, and they all laughed heartily.

"He's a beauty," said Happy Harry, and he grinned cheerfully. "Oh! to be
a boy again and on a pony's back!--Can you shake hands, little fellow?"

I lifted my right fore-foot and he shook it heartily and then began to
fumble in a basket of wool.

"He knits," said Cassowary to me. "Isn't he splendid! Dad is wearing
some of his socks now."

The old dog began to growl again. He saw lumps of sugar coming out from
among the balls of wool.

I didn't care. I ate all I wished from the kind palm of the brave young
soldier man, then I made one more bow to the company and backed toward
the door.

They all clapped their hands. "I didn't know he could do tricks," said
Cassowary delightedly. "I'll get Dad to put him through his amusement
paces."

As I went out to the veranda the old dog followed me, and as soon as we
were alone I gave him a gentle nip.

"What's that for?" he asked in an ugly way.

"To teach you manners," I said. "This was my first call, and you
received me in a surly way."

He drooped his head so sadly that I said, "What's the matter with you?"

"I'm getting old," he said, "and I'm afraid Mr. Talker will shoot me."

"You don't want to die?"

"No, I want to live. I like the Talkers and the feeding is good."

"Well, if you want to live," I said, "hold up your head and look
cheerful. I'd shoot you on sight if you were my dog. You've such a
disagreeable air."

He didn't care anything about my opinion. He was a very selfish old dog,
but he snapped at my suggestion.

"Do you think it would make a difference?" he said eagerly.

"Don't I just! Toss up your head now, pretend you're a pup, and gambol
down the road. Come on, I'll go with you."

He made a desperate little break for a few paces, then he stopped short.
"My breath's gone."

"What's the matter with you?" I asked. "You haven't any wind at all.
Don't you exercise every day?"

"No. I lie mostly by the fire. I'm old, I tell you."

"Oh! get out, old dog," I replied, "you only think you're old. Let me
see your teeth."

He curled back his lips.

"You're lazy," I said. "That's all the trouble with you. Spruce up, and
go trotting for a while, then run, then leap. Mr. Talker will say you've
got your second wind and he'll spare you."

"But I might fall dead," he said.

"Suppose you did. There's another life for dogs, many good people say.
You'll start afresh and live forever. No one could kill you if they
tried."

"I like the sound of that," he said, putting his head on one side.
"Perhaps I'd better just loaf along here and slip off as soon as I can."

"No, no, that won't do," I said. "While you live, live, and work and
play. Don't think about death. The old reaper will do your thinking for
you."

"Who's he?" he asked.

"Now you just think that out," I returned. "Your dog mind is as rusty as
your dog body. Good-night, here comes my young Missy," and I stepped
down to the path.

However, Miss Cassowary did not get on my back. One never knew what that
girl would do.

"Race me to the house, Prince Fetlar," she said and off she started on
her own young hoofs.

Of course I let her beat me and kept behind watching her long black hair
flapping up and down in the wind, for the ribbon had come off. However,
I came in a close second when she pulled up in front of her own home.

A voice from the veranda said, "Late again, my daughter. No pocket money
this week."

"Ah! Daddy," she said in a wheedling voice.

"Rules must be kept, and wild girls must be broken," he replied gaily,
"and poor Dad must be sacrificed on the altar of family affection," and
he laid a hand on her head.

"Oh! dear," she said quickly, then she repeated in a rapid voice, "every
boy and every girl on coming home from a ride must give his or her mount
a rub-down. Rule of the house number three. I'm sorry I'm so late, Dad."

"Go face your mother," he returned, "she's in a fine state about you.
No girl must be outside the gates of Devering Farm after dark. Rule
six--Come on your highness," and cheerily whistling he led the way to my
log cabin.

There was no light in my little home, so he hung up an electric torch,
and when he found my brushes he asked me to come outside. The grounds
were beautifully illuminated by globes on high poles and he whistled and
rubbed till I was in a glow all over.

Here was a man that understood grooming a pony. Oh! there is such a
difference in hands--tough hands, harsh hands, impatient hands and cruel
hands, all affect a pony's temper. On the other hand if at the end of a
hard day nice kind understanding hands smooth your body and comfort your
pony soul, you go to bed so happy.

When he finished grooming me he smiled as I went in and nosed over the
hay in my rack.

"Fuss-box, eh!" he said. "I thought so. What about some nice warm
gruel?"

How I pricked up my ears and whinnied at this.

"Then come up to the barn kitchen," he said, and off we started.

He led the way round the big barn to a room in the carriage house. There
was an electric stove here and he soon had water heating and was making
me the nicest mess of oatmeal gruel I ever tasted. What a clever man he
was! He could do anything, even to the making of good gruel, and I
lifted my dripping muzzle from the basin and gave him a grateful look.

"All right, Prince," he said, patting me, "you'd do as much for me if
you could. Now go put yourself to bed. I must wash up. 'Leave pots and
pans as you find them'--Rule 8, Devering Farm."

I made him a bow, which he did not see, as he was washing his dishes,
then I paced thoughtfully to my cabin. This was a remarkable place.
There was something in the air here that made a pony feel happy all the
time. The master and mistress were kind, and though the children were a
bit lively and quarrelsome, they were all right at bottom. I should like
it here. I was glad I had been brought up to this wildwood place for
this dear new young master, and I glanced toward the room where he was
sleeping.

How amazed he would be when he found out that his mother was not dead.
All young things love their mothers and cling to them. Even I,
middle-aged pony, remember my mother's lovely care and how she would put
her little body between me and danger.

Once an angry bull ran at us and gored her painfully before the men
drove him away. She didn't care. She had saved my young skin. Mothers
are certainly very comfortable things, and at this point in my thoughts
I fell asleep and dreamed I was a foal again running beside this same
dear wee mother over the fields of the beautiful estate on Long Island
where I was brought up.




CHAPTER X

EARLY MORNING ON DEVERING FARM


What a good sleep I had! Then--slowly, slowly I lifted my head, as I
thought, from the warm pillow of my mother's side, but alas! it was only
the warm pillow of my wheat straw.

I heaved a pony sigh, and staggered to my feet.


     "My land! what a morning,
     My land! what a morning!"


a young darky groom that I used to have down South would sing when he
was passing his nice black paws over my skin after breakfast.

Then his master, who was a poet, would come and glance in the stable
door and say, "Lift up your eyes, boys--there's gold in the sky," and
the colored boys would look and wonder and wish the gold would roll down
and then their master would laugh in his pleasant Southern way, and say,
"Now it's on the water--now it's on the land. Watch it, boys."

The sunlight this morning was certainly a pure gold, but a cool calm
northern gold. The lake was exquisite and I noted something that had not
struck me the evening before. Nearly all the wooded points running out
into the lake had wonderful silver birches on their tips. Their trunks
were white and glistening and they stood like beautiful white ladies in
front of the close masses of sturdy dark tree boles of the elms behind
them. They certainly were the beauties of this northern wildwood.

The dainty little breezes rippling the surface of the lake reminded me
that I was thirsty and Mr. Talker, who was passing by with a covered
milk pail in each hand, said, "Go down to the lake, boy. You are the
only quadruped without running water in your stall."

I felt like a colt, and kicking up my hoofs, raced through the barnyard
gates and across the road to the long strip of sandy shore in front of
the farm.

While I was drinking and playing with the water by blowing it through my
nostrils, a bullhead came, and stared at me, then a full-grown bass gave
me a very friendly wink.

We ponies don't have much to say to fishes except by eye-talk. These
fellows had some intelligence. They were shy and wild with the children
I soon found out, because they fished for them most persistently.
However, an old bass told me one day that they were very grateful to the
children for fishing with barbless hooks.

I once knew a mother fish on the Maine coast who deliberately gave her
life for her little fishes. They were caught in a pool when the tide
went out. She couldn't get them to follow her to deep water, so she
stayed and perished beside them. When I said to her as she flopped about
in the shallow water, "Leave them and call for them next tide," she
rolled her dying eyes at me and said, "I can't--they're my little
fishes."

Therefore I have great respect for fish. Indeed, I find in my pony life
that if you despise any created thing it surprises you.

After I got my nice long drink this morning, I galloped back to the
farmyard.

"Go slow, go slow, be careful," someone clucked, and looking down I saw
Biddy Pilgrim and a flock of Plymouth Rock hens.

She was quite excited, and began to talk to them about me.

"This is the new pony--he has a good eye. He's kind to hens. Don't put
your heads on one side. He won't scare you. Come on. I like ponies.
Horses are too big."

"Cut, cut, ca, da, dee," they all said, and I put my head down to them
in a kind manner, for to tell the truth there is just a little jealousy
between us little ponies and the bigger horses.

While we stood passing the time of day there was a great fuss and
flutter and Daddy Single-Comb came rushing along, his wings going, his
tail feathers sticking out.

"Oh, here you are, here you are," he gasped, while I thought how queer
it is that nearly every winged creature says a thing, then says it over
again. We quadrupeds say a thing, and it's over.

"My dears, my dears," cackled Daddy, "come down to the river hollow,
come down, come down. The early worms are out. Soon they'll get in. Is
it to be in the ground or in our crops? Heyday! Pony, how are you? I
like ponies, but how can I stop to talk? I'm in a rush, a rush," and he
spread his big wings, but kept on talking.

"So many dears, so many cares; come on, my biddies, come on, come on.
Follow me, follow me," and this time he did go with a spring and a
flutter and they all chased after him, their hen minds on the worms.

He was very proud of his biddies, and I did not wonder. They were in
prime condition, not too fat, not too lean, and not one with a pale head
showing poor blood.

I heard him screaming after some wandering ones, "Not to the hill. No,
no. Trust me. Cut cut cro! I know, I know. This way, dears. Quick,
quick, such a worm--c-crack what a worm. Grab him quick. Biddy first,
Biddy first."

I smiled at his jabber. Evidently he was the only rooster on the place,
and he had his claws full with all those hens. Well, it was better to
fuss than fight, as he would probably have done if there had been
another rooster interfering with his route marches.

As I stood listening to their hen talk dying away in the hollow, the
cows, led by Princess Pat, came from the little barn, their walk
unhurried, for cows do hate a fuss and flutter.

Princess Pat paused beside Mr. Talker, who was returning from the house
with empty pails.

"Near pasture, Pattie," he said and waved his hand up the hill.

The beautiful Holstein turned in her calm way and with her friends
lagged up to the top of the hill and over to a low-lying field that
would be green and fresh in spite of the slight drought they had been
having.

While I gazed admiringly after this fine herd a great yapping and
snarling came from under the big barn.

I ran over and found Sir Veteran and Guardie were having a scrap. Oh!
how provoked the good dog was, and how furious Sir Veteran was. Animals
have their tempers just like human beings.

While Sir Vet and Guardie had their spat, Girlie was rounding the other
pigs away from them.

I listened to the abuse.

"Down the lake," Guardie was growling.

"Up, up," grunted Sir Vet. "I say I won't go down."

"You shall," yapped Guardie, "the boss said so. Up work is done. The
rocks are loose. We've got to clear burnt land by the dam."

"Up," snorted Sir Vet again. "Better feeding up. I'm boss. I hate down.
I'm a prize boar. I cost a thousand dollars. Shut up, you cur."

Collies are high strung and Guardie just yelled at this insult. "My
father was a show dog--and they refused ten thousand dollars for him at
the Wissahickon Kennels in Pennsylvania. I never boasted before, but you
make me, you runt of a pig," and he gave him a good nip on his loin.

That settled matters. Sir Vet squealed miserably, and bursting into pig
sobs started down the road pretty quick.

"He's forever setting up his boar mind against Guardie," said Girlie in
my ear as I put my head down to get her opinion of the quarrel. "I'll
lick his wound a bit when we get settled down. He and Guardie really
love each other, but they're always quarrelling--all right, boy, I'm
ready."

Guardie had given her a signal bark, and it was pretty to see her wheel
about right and start her charges down the road after the snorting prize
boar, who was pursuing his lonely short-legged way toward the dam on the
Merry-Tongue River at the foot of the Lake.

"Everybody fights," I called after her, "ponies and pigs and everybody.
Don't worry, just keep from fighting till you have to and forget your
fight when it's over. A scrap clears the air."

"Right-O! bow wow," she barked back at me, then she ran on after her
mate who was joyfully welcoming his drove of golden dollars rolling down
the road in such fine style.

When they were out of sight, I was about to run to my young master's
bed-room, but was arrested by an extraordinary sight.

A big dark man who was not very tall though his shoulders were as broad
as a table came down from a bed-room over the carriage-house. Picking up
a mowing machine that stood in the yard, he carried it quite easily into
a shed where other machines stood.

I stopped and stared at him, and Mr. Talker who happened to be near
smiled at me.

"Intelligent wee beastie," he said, "you know that is an odd sight."

I moved closer to him--that strange man after putting down the machine
was moving toward the barn cellar, a barrel under each arm. Then he came
out with a small tractor on his back.

"He's Samp, short for Sampson," said Mr. Talker. "Mr. Devering rescued
him from a situation as strong man in a theatre where bad air and long
hours were killing him. He's made of iron, Pony, and carries pianos and
chests of drawers as easily as I would chairs. He's half Macedonian and
half Canadian. Come here, Samp."

The strong man grinned and coming to us picked me up and to my terror
put me on his shoulder where I balanced, all four legs in the air,
fearful that I might fall and break my back.

I have a voice and can use it, and I don't see why other ponies and
horses don't do more of this calling out.

At my shrill protesting neigh Mr. Talker told him to put me on the
ground and with a fearful glance over my shoulder I scampered away to
the house, wondering what this strange creature was made of. I don't
like unnatural beings.

However I soon forgot him in the pretty sight of all the kiddies
sleeping out on the lower verandas. Their beds had evidently been drawn
out through the French windows for there has been none in sight in the
day time.

Big Chief was a sight, lying across his narrow bed, his pajama clad legs
hanging down one side, his head the other. Every bit of bed clothing
was on the floor. He was snorting and blowing in his sleep like old Sir
Vet. What dreadful dreams he must be having.

I picked up his bed covers in my strong teeth and dropped them neatly
over him.

Champ, Sojer and Little Big-Wig were all sleeping nicely and in straight
lines. The girls must be behind some high screens. I could hear their
gentle breathing, but could not see them.

I went on very quiet shoes to the veranda outside my young master's
window. He was sleeping inside his room but the windows were wide open.
He was lying flat on his back, not a bit of color in his fine young
face. The white covers were drawn up close to his chin. Oh! I did hope
that he would soon get brown and ruddy like the other kiddies--my own
dear little lad, and I ventured to take a step into the room and
stretched my head out longingly toward him.

"Now, Pony--you're not a dog," said someone, and I got a slight slap
behind.

I started--there was the young mother of the household looking like a
girl in her pretty dark bathing suit and white rubber cap.

She was not cross with me, for she was smiling kindly, so I followed her
along the veranda to the front of the house where she went lightly into
the living room and began to tidy chairs, tables and sofas.

She glided about so quickly that she reminded me of Cassowary.

"These bathing suits are fine for housework, Pony-Boy," she said. "Long
skirts should be for dress-up occasions only. Now let's start the fire,"
and dancing out through one of the open glass doors of the room she
hurried to the back of the house.

White-clad Bingi was bending over a cook book lying open on a
glass-topped table, but occasionally he cast a glance at pots boiling
merrily on the stove and sending out delicious odors. Oh! what a good
breakfast the family was going to have.

It was the big wood stove instead of the gas one that was going this
morning. It seemed to be shouting with glee. He had crammed it full of
wood sticks happy to give up their lives for the dear human beings they
were so fond of, for trees have much sentiment.

They were all telling the story of their lives in the forest, and
telling it very quickly before they were overcome by their pleasant
death in the warm embrace of the flames. Of course they weren't really
going to die forever, for their ashes would be spread on the breast of
Mother Earth who would make new young trees out of them.

"I was a white birch," I heard one shriek, "and it was under my branches
the White Phantom stood while she drank from the haunted stream. Alas!
the poor White Phantom. In a few days she will be lying in the ferns."

I pricked up my ears. What was this story? A few days later I heard the
sequel, so I will not put it down here.

"And I was a beech," roared a deeper voice, "and for twenty years I
shaded the sugaring-off place. Then a great wind blew me down and men
cut me to pieces."

"I was a tamarac," and "I an elm," I heard in other dying voices, but I
had to follow Mrs. Devering who had seized a basket and was going to the
woodshed.

Bingi looked at me strangely. There was something sympathetic in his
narrow eyes. Did he too understand tree talk, I wondered? He was
certainly kind to every living thing as far as I had observed him.

I was to have further proof of this for Lammie-noo suddenly appeared and
tried the patience of his cook friend.

He stood looking at the stove in a way that showed he had morning as
well as evening milk.

Sheep are usually very patient creatures, too patient perhaps, for if
they asserted themselves a little more they would get better treatment.
Lammie-noo being petted was not a typical sheep. He became impatient at
Bingi's devotion to the book on the pastry table and deliberately going
up to a stand of empty preserve jars he butted the whole thing over.
Then he stood back to see what Bingi would say to him.

The little Oriental turned round gravely. Then he stared at the broken
glass--and then he did not beat the lamb. "Of somewhat precipitousness
thou," he said, "but thy stomach is thy god. Broken glass is my sin, for
I tardied to feed," all of which meant that Lammie-noo was forgiven.

The creature even had the impudence to go up and say, "Ba-a-a!" meaning
that he wished to be petted for being put to the trouble of losing his
temper.

Bingi was stroking him with one hand when I left, and heating his milk
with the other.

Once I saw a man beating a lamb. It was a dreadful sight.

However in my ramblings I am forgetting the little house-mother who was
building a great roaring fire in the living-room.

"Ah! Prince Fetlar," she said when I trotted in and stood warming
myself. "I wondered why you stopped dogging or perhaps I should say
ponying my footsteps---- Now we'll play the rising tune," and going to
the hall she took a bugle from a hook and began a lovely tune, first
soft and low, then high and piercing.

Out on the verandas we heard calls and cries. "Mother don't---- It's too
early to get up---- Please a little longer."

Oh! how the bugle shrilled at them--then she sang at the top of her
lungs,


     "I can't get 'em up,
     I can't get 'em up,
     I can't get 'em up in the morning.
     The girls are right slow
     The boys they are worse
     And Daddy's the worst of all."


Then she listened. "Silence on the veranda, Pony. I'll try another
song," and she chanted,


     "Hot cakes for breakfast,
     Maple sugar and cream,
     Potatoes and bacon
     And apples and eggs."


At this, there was a great sound of running and jumping, and I stepped
to my young master's windows to find out whether all this noise had
awakened him.

It had. He was sitting up in bed, a bewildered look on his face as if to
say, "Where am I?"

When he caught sight of me he cried, "Oh! my Bonnie Prince Fetlar--then
this is not a dream," and springing out of bed he ran to caress me.

Someone opened his door and flung a bathing suit in. "You said you
hadn't one," remarked Champ and he withdrew his tousled head.

"My Prince," said Dallas, "do you suppose those crazy kids are going in
the water this cold day?"

I looked up and down the veranda. The children were certainly coming out
in bathing suits. I had been taught to pull clothes off boys, so I
nipped the back of his pajama jacket in my teeth. The button-holes must
have been large, for it came off at once, and he laughed and put on the
woollen suit.

"Are you ready, Cousin?" yelled Cassowary. "If so, come."

"Yes," and young Dallas' teeth chattered. He stepped out to the veranda
and there was Cassowary dancing up and down and looking more like a bird
than ever in her tight fitting suit with its bobbing tail.

"Are you really going in the lake this chilly morning?" asked Dallas.

"Shut up," she said good naturedly. "Don't let the other kids hear you
say it's cold. It's only because you're not used to it."

"I--I thought you said there was a bathhouse," remarked poor Dallas,
"with hot and cold water."

"So there is," and she pointed to a little green house among the lilacs,
"and bath-rooms in the house too."

Unfortunately Big Chief who had just come leaping out of his room heard
these last remarks.

"Lots of bath-rooms," he cried, "for sissies and old women." Then he did
cart-wheels down the drive to the road.

Dallas' face fell, but lightened when Mrs. Devering tapped him on the
shoulder. "You wait for me," she said. "Cassowary, take the children
down. Get the ball and have a game of water polo--Dad and I will
follow."

Then she drew Dallas in to the big fire where he got nicely warmed by
the blaze.

When Mr. Devering appeared--such a handsome lean brown-armed man in his
blue bathing suit, the two good people took the boy between them, and
raced down to the wharf.

"Go on, Mother," said Mr. Devering, "I'll keep the boy with me," and
didn't she go diving off the end of the wharf and was soon playing water
polo with her lively children.

What a sporty lot they were! In the boat-house beside a big launch there
were canoes, racing skiffs, aqua-planes, life preservers, fishing tackle
and many other things useful in life in the backwoods.

Dallas was entering the water very slowly, and holding tight to Mr.
Devering's hand.

"Have you never been in open water before?" asked my little lad's uncle.

"Once on a beach on a hot day with John and Margie, but usually only in
a bath-tub," said the poor lad.

To encourage him, I ran before and did my water stunts.

He smiled when he saw me swimming and frisking and said, "The Prince is
braver than I am."

"He's an old campaigner," said Mr. Devering. "That pony hasn't lived in
vain. Come out deeper, boy. You won't find the water cold when you've
been in a few minutes."

"It's simply freezing my heart," said the boy pitifully.

"Jump up and down with me--there that is better. Now may I splash you a
bit? I hate to frighten newcomers in the water."

"Y-yes, Uncle, and I'll try to splash you."

The splashing was a failure for he fell down. Mr. Devering picked him up
by the back as if he had been a puppy dog and said, "Tear up to the
house--touch a match to the kindling in the box stove in your room and
dress like sixty."

Dallas cast an apprehensive look over his shoulder.

"They're not paying any attention to you," said Mr. Devering.
"Skedaddle," and he clapped his hands.

"And you, Prince Fetlar," he called after me, "run up and down the road
to dry yourself--we're all too busy to give you a rub-down now."

I ran along beside my master up to the house and found to my dismay that
his eyes were full of tears. "I'm an awful baby, my Pony," he gulped,
"but I can't help it."

I just tore up and down the fine piece of road in front of the house
until my blood was like liquid fire. Then I went to see how young Dallas
was getting on.

Poor chap--he had forgotten to light his fire, and he was blue with
cold. Suddenly his door opened and Mr. Devering came in fully dressed,
his face red and glowing.

He had his nephew's clothes all on in a trice, brushed his hair,
fastened his tie, then took him to the living room.

"Mother," he called through the open doorway to the dining veranda, "may
Dallas and I have our breakfast by the fire?"

She opened her eyes a bit, but her husband gave her a glance, and she
said, "Certainly. Big Chief, set a wee table for two."

It was most unfortunate that it happened to be Big Chief's morning to
wait on table. He gave Dallas a surly glance and very unwillingly took a
little wheeled table out to the veranda, put knives and forks and spoons
and plates on it and brought it back to a settle in the chimney corner.

Dallas shrank back against the seat, then to make matters worse a sudden
terrible sound arose from the Lake that frightened even me--the old
campaigner as Mr. Devering had called me.




CHAPTER XI

ANOTHER LIE


I had hidden myself among the lilacs but I could see quite plainly
across the veranda into the big living-room.

Dallas had sprung up and clutched the nearest person who happened to be
Big Chief carrying a pile of plates in his hand.

Smash! went the plates on the floor, and whack went Big Chief's empty
hands against Dallas' shoulders.

"What's the matter with you?" he exclaimed. "Are you crazy?"

"That yell," gasped Dallas. "Is someone drowning?"

"No, no," said Mr. Devering, "it's only Bolshy getting his bath."

White and ashamed, young Dallas had sunk back on the settle, and Mr.
Devering turned to his son.

"Tecumseh, my boy," he said good-naturedly, "it seems to me you were
laying rather violent hands on our guest."

His tone was not stern. I saw he was not a person to aggravate a boy
into revolt; however when Big Chief scowled and came to stare out in my
direction, both hands rammed sulkily into his pockets, his father
stepped after him.

"Your ugly humors are riding you to a fall," he said quietly. "Go
apologise to your cousin."

Big Chief gave him a quick look, then he went to Dallas and said
gruffly, "I hope I didn't hurt you, when I grabbed your shoulders."

"Not a bit," said Dallas; "but do tell me what that noise was."

I saw Big Chief's lips just forming a W that meant he was going to say
"Wolf." Then he changed his mind, for his father stood near him.

"It's a Russian," he said. "He fought in France, was wounded, came to
Canada as a stoker on a steamer, was arrested and put in a camp near
here. The war over, he was released. He didn't want to go to Russia. He
got lost in the woods. The game warden found him, and washes him and the
Russian yells."

"The warden is trying to make a good Canadian citizen out of him," said
Mr. Devering quietly.

By this time, the children were all standing by the table singing their
pretty grace before meat. When they sat down Cassowary called out, "Dad,
can't we take Cousin over to see the Russian? You'll like him, Dallas.
He's all hairy like a dog."

"Thank you," said my young master politely; "if he isn't getting hurt, I
should like to see him."

"We can take over the Russian blouse Mother is making for him," said the
girl, "and you can see for yourself, Dallas, how kind the warden and his
son are to him. But of course he must keep clean."

Dallas shuddered. He had great sympathy for anyone forced to go into
the water that cold morning.

"We'll go after breakfast," said Cassowary, "just the big kids."

At this, there was a howl from Sojer, Dovey and Big-Wig who were
evidently the little kids. Up here in the Canadian backwoods it was just
like the same old story as in cities--the big children were always
trying to get away from the little ones.

Mrs. Devering gave her husband a helpless look. By this time the cereal
had been put on the table by Big Chief and the children were busily
eating it and pouring on plenty of rich wonderful cream. Oh! how I
wished that some of the pale young children in cities could have such
cream.

"Daddy," said Mrs. Devering, "what are we going to do with these noisy
children? They are as full of sound as empty vessels."

"I don't know," said Mr. Devering. "I wonder whether it is because they
are growing so fast. They never yelled like this before."

"We've got to do something about it," his wife went on. "If their
grandmother should come up this summer, she would be deafened."

"It's nothing to worry about," he said, "only misdirected energy. The
trouble with young things is that they can't remember to remember. What
do they propose to do themselves about it?" and he glanced through the
doorway at his children.

My dear young master was going on eating quite comfortably. For once
this trouble was none of his. Whatever his faults might be he was no
yeller.

"Thpank the howlerths," cried little Big-Wig, who was the worst screamer
of all.

"Gate them," said Cassowary in a high-pitched voice.

"Fine them," called Champ.

"Send them to bed," exclaimed Sojer.

"Take away their toys," shrieked Dovey.

"And you Big Chief," said Cassowary pertly, "you with the brassiest
voice of all, what say you?"

He was finishing his oatmeal quickly, so he could get up and change the
plates, and he said in a thick voice, "Cut their grub."

Mrs. Devering smiled quite contentedly. "I think this expression of
opinion goes to prove that each child has mentioned the punishment most
disliked. Therefore if you baby don't stop screaming we'll spank you;
Jeanne will be put in bounds; Champlain fined, James sent to bed,
Marguerite deprived of her dolls and Tecumseh put on bread and water."

The children all shrieked with laughter at the neat way in which their
parents had trapped them, and I saw that there was good feeling in this
family even in the matter of punishments. Big Chief was the only naughty
one, and something would come to reform him I was sure, for he could not
be a bad boy at heart--with such parents.

The children were careful to speak in very even polite tones as they ate
their bacon and eggs and griddle cakes. I watched my young master's
face and was delighted to see it growing redder as he sat by the fire
and stuffed his young self with this good food. Soon he would be as
hardy as these children.

How he loved his uncle. He watched him as a cat would watch a mouse, and
ate everything he ate and drank whatever he drank---- No one had coffee
or tea, they had milk, cocoa, buttermilk, and cold water, which latter
the kiddies drank as if it had been something that would make them
super-children.

As soon as breakfast was finished Mrs. Devering looked round at the
squirming family and said, "Another reform--please get up quietly and
push your chairs in to the table, but don't rise till I do. I'm
hostess."

In two minutes there wasn't a child in sight. "Where have they gone?"
asked Dallas.

"All have tasks," said Mr. Devering. "When I was a boy I thought as a
boy who was a rich man's child. Servants waited on me. My children live
in a new age. They must learn to wait on themselves."

I could see the children flying about the place. Cassowary was carrying
food from the kitchen to the hen-house, Big Chief had gone to help clean
the stables, Sojer was sweeping the verandas, Dovey was putting seeds
and scraps on the wild bird tables about the lawn. It seems there
weren't enough birds about to kill the insect pests, so Mr. Devering was
giving extra food to attract more.

The curled darling Big-Wig was picking up scraps of paper and bits of
litter from the drive, and grumbling to his little aristocratic self as
he did so. He would be a regular small slave-driver with servants if he
had his head. Just as well there was a check-rein.

"And what shall I do?" asked Dallas eagerly.

"Come and see," said Mr. Devering, and to my delight he began to lead
the way to my cabin, first calling out, "Come from behind the lilacs,
you sly-boots."

That was I, and I bowed my head a great many times to propitiate him as
I joined them.

Oh! what a lesson he gave my young master on the proper way to take care
of a pony.

"Horses are true friends of man," he said, as he led the way past my
cabin and the barns up to the long horse stable on the hill. "Every boy
should know how to take care of them. There are two classes of
stables--town and country. We won't talk about the first to-day. This is
supposed to be a model country stable. It is not in a barn where if the
hay got on fire the horses might burn. It has a double row of stalls
with doors opening outward--you see the ground is high, well-drained,
and the stalls have an east and west exposure so all the horses can get
a bit of sunshine."

"Is it of stone?" asked Dallas.

"No, concrete with a hollow centre for a dead air space."

We walked inside the nice fresh-smelling stable and Dallas looked round
him. "Where are the horses?"

"Out to pasture--let us go down this main alleyway and I will explain
the lay-out to you."

My young master was intensely interested as his uncle talked to him
about the width of stalls, the size of windows, the proper kind of
concrete flooring which should have wooden stall racks, the ventilating
flues and rolling doors.

"Why didn't you bring my Prince Fetlar up to this grand stable?" asked
young Dallas, smiling at me as I thrust an inquiring muzzle over his
shoulder.

"Because we never assign a stall till we find out a horse's disposition.
If you went to boarding-school you wouldn't want to bed next a boy you
disliked."

"Not I," said my sensitive young master with a shiver. "It makes me sick
to be near people I don't care for."

"Well, ponies are almost as particular as boys. Now come over to this
side of the stable where the ponies face west. Here's your pet's stall
next Apache Girl's. She won't have every pony next her, but she will get
on with his amiable highness."

This was a compliment for me, so I licked a bit of this nice man's
shoulder in a caressing way, and he turned and gazed deep into what he
called my "soft and soulful" eyes.

"So you are to come up here, Prince Fetlar," said Dallas, stroking me
kindly. "Now I wonder what this big stall beyond yours is for. It looks
as if you could put a dozen ponies in it."

"That's the hospital stall," said his uncle. "See, there is a bed above
it for a man to sleep when a pony or horse requires to be watched at
night. A button by his bed enables him to turn on the light."

"I see you have lights all over the stable," said Dallas.

"Yes, the horse race likes cheerfulness as much as we do. Now let us
groom the Prince."

Didn't I step forward with alacrity when I heard this.

"He knows every word we say," remarked Mr. Devering. "I'm mighty glad I
chanced on so knowing a little fellow. Now, Dallas, a few words on
grooming. Indians use the bare hand and arm--utensils in common stable
use among us whites are the metal curry-combs, bristle body-brushes,
corn-brushes, rub rags, sponges, whisks and hoof picks. Do you know why
one grooms?"

"To keep horses clean, my Uncle."

"Exactly--horses shed particles of skin the way we do. One must remove
them. To begin with I may say that I do not permit in my stables any
metal curry-combs. Men are careless about filing the new ones and they
worry a horse. I use no metal brushes. Now here is a brush for you--no,
don't rub your Prince the right way of the hair--the reverse way to get
out the dandruff and dry dirt. Here let me show you. The body brush is
the one used to rub the hair the way it grows."

I stood quite still, very much amused at the feeble pawing little hand
of my young master, such a contrast to the steady firm one of the man.
Well, all young things have to learn.

Mr. Devering showed the boy how to do my tail and mane and hand-pick the
latter.

Young Dallas shone best on the use of the rub rag with which he gave me
a fine polish. Then, as I am a racer, his uncle showed him how to
massage me.

Dallas was delighted. "I never did this before for any animal," he said.
"Why it almost makes my dear Pony human."

"Ah! lad," said his uncle, "when one thinks of the state of uncleanness
in which animals are allowed to exist one is appalled."

"Don't nearly all our domestic animals come from wild ones?" asked
Dallas.

"Yes, my boy--and in a wild state they keep themselves clean, but when
domesticated they can't. I think myself there is too much housing of
dumb animals. Even in winter my creatures have their freedom for at
least a part of the day."

"It's pretty cold here in winter, isn't it?" asked Dallas.

Mr. Devering's black eyes twinkled. "Forty and fifty below zero."

"Why how do you keep warm?"

"It's all a question of food supply. We eat nourishing things and dress
warmly. You should see my children and animals disporting themselves in
the snow and on the ice--often icicles hanging to them, their breath
like steam. Nature provides them with coats of fat or extra hair."

"That is most interesting," said Dallas with a wise air, and putting
his head on one side.

Then he listened to his uncle who was singing four lines to him,


     "And Nature, the old nurse, took
       The child upon her knee
     Saying, 'Here is a story book
       Thy Father hath written for thee.'"


Dallas began to laugh merrily and said, "Uncle, I believe you are a
magician. Already I feel myself beginning to like this place and even to
look with a friendly eye upon the trees."

Mr. Devering showed every one of his strong white teeth in a pleased
smile, then he said, "Come and see one of the most useful things on the
farm."

"A vacuum cleaner for horses," exclaimed Dallas after we had crossed to
the horses' side of the stable. "I never heard of such a thing."

"Let's try it on the Prince," said Mr. Devering. "I see by the look in
the tail of his eye that he is acquainted with its use."

Then he passed over my back the soft rubber mouth with the high wind
inside it.

I liked it and did not wince. Then I listened to Mr. Devering who was
saying, "We use this cleaner for the work-horses only. I prefer that you
children rub down your ponies. Now I see a man from the sawmill out
there and you have had lesson enough for one morning. Let us go back to
the house."

Arrived there, the children all swept young Dallas down to the wharf. I
went along too, feeling as light as a feather after my good grooming
and vacuum cleaning.

"Have you ever been in a canoe?" Cassowary inquired of my young master.

"Oh! yes," he said quickly.

Poor little lad. I knew by his face that he was not telling the truth.
Oh! why would he lie? In the first place a pony or a child who lies is
usually found out, and if you're not found out you feel so like a little
fool that you lose self-respect.

Cassowary was doubtful and said shrewdly, "Where were you ever in a
canoe--not on the pond on Boston Common surely."

"On beaches," said Dallas boldly, "with John and Margie."

Now she had already found out that John and Margie were two elderly city
servants. It was most unlikely that they would entrust their old bones
to such skittish things as canoes. However she said nothing, but got out
her slim blue canoe, put a paddle in it, and casting a glance at Big
Chief, who was launching a larger canoe and calling out directions to
the younger children, who after all had been permitted to come.

"Champ, go to the bow," he was roaring. "I'll take the stern myself.
Sojer sit down. Dovey, if you wriggle, I'll pitch you out. No you shan't
take Sideways."

I turned around. Who was Sideways? Of all things--a common tortoiseshell
cat. Why in the name of cat sense would she want to go on the water?

Later on I found out all about her. One cat after another had been
electrocuted on this farm for hunting birds, and this was a case of the
survival of the fittest. She loved birds; she told me afterward; it was
perfectly delicious to feel a little feathery ball wiggling between your
claws, but she said, "I wanted to live, so I gave them up and as I just
had to hunt something, I got after the things that even my masters hunt,
namely fishes. I assure you I enjoy curling my claws in the water and
catching little silly minnows, and I have learned to wade, so I have no
fear of the water. I like sitting by a good fire and licking myself
dry!"

When I heard Cassowary speaking in a low voice to Dallas I turned from
the cat. I think she dropped her voice so Big Chief would not hear. "You
haven't been in a canoe before," she said. "You don't know how to get
in. Give me your hand. Step in the middle of the road. Now fold yourself
up like a jack-knife. So----"

Dallas looked confused, took her hand, stepped into the canoe,
over-balanced and went ker-splash! into the water and down under the
crib from which the canoes were being launched.

I waited two seconds, saw Cassowary drop like a loon after him, but she
did not bring him up. Then I galloped to the beach and wading out swam
carefully to the edge of the crib, thinking perhaps I could aid with
teeth or tail, for one of my water stunts is to bring ashore children
who pretend they are drowning.

Cassowary, who was almost as much at home under the water as on it, was
plunging about like a seal, and just as I arrived had brought Dallas to
the surface, and holding him by the collar with one hand and hanging on
to the crib with the other she gravely watched Champ and Big Chief
giving first aid to the drowning by putting my poor little master on his
face and pressing the water out of his lungs.

Mr. Devering came springing down the path like a boy, and when he saw
his dear lad, his face went white and he said irritably, "What does this
mean?"

Dallas by this time was sitting up and spitting out last mouthfuls of
water, so his uncle saw he was in no danger.

"Come here, Dad, please," said Cassowary.

Mr. Devering bent over his young daughter as she swayed herself idly to
and fro in the water, only her head and shoulders visible.

"Do you remember the picture," she said, "in the comic paper about the
six boys and girls going gaily to pick mushrooms and it was labelled,
'They thought they knew mushrooms'?"

"Yes, I remember it," he said impatiently.

She went on, "Then there was another picture of six little funerals
marked, 'But they didn't.'"

"Yes, I remember that too," he said. "Now do come out of the water and
go put on dry overalls."

"Dallas thought he knew canoes, but he didn't," she said as she accepted
her father's hand and climbed meekly out of the lake. Then she added,
"And Mother calls these frilly ankled things 'overettes,' not
'overalls.'"

I heard a sound of sly laughter in my ears as I stood shaking myself
and looking round saw Sideways the cat.

"Girls are queer," she said. "Cassowary is jealous of the new boy. She
has snubbed her father and praised her mother who does not pet the lad."

"You mind your own affairs," I said crossly. "There are too many animals
and humans watching my young master."

As if he heard me Mr. Devering turned round. "You water-monkey," he said
to me. "Champ, take him up to pony stall number 8 and dry and blanket
him, and above all tie him."

Then he went on helping my young master walk slowly to the house.

So I was led away to my pony stall and Dallas was put in his room stall
and kept there for some hours.

"Dad! Dad!" howled the younger children who were not at all impressed by
this accident, "aren't we going to see Bolshy?"

"Another time," he called. "How would you like to have a picnic supper
over there, and have Mother go?"

They made the welkin ring when they heard this proposal, and smiling
kindly on the little flock this patient man went on his way up to the
house.

I wondered what he would say to his nephew, but as it turned out he
never mentioned the affair till days later. He just sat by the fire with
Dallas, reading to him and trying to get his young mind off himself. The
lesson came when they were both with me.




CHAPTER XII

THE DRIVE TO THE GAME WARDEN'S


Mr. Devering kept Dallas quiet for several days. He saw that the boy had
been under a great nervous strain in coming here and he had him lounge
about the veranda while I was detained in my stall. It is not good for
ponies and horses to be too much in cold water and I had had a chill.

I dozed and slept and had a fine petting from Cassowary, who was the one
detailed to look after me. A friendship sprang up between us that will
never die and often she would perch on my manger and talk to me at
length about her beloved Indian pony Apache Girl.

This young girl was not much of a talker except in streaks. I saw she
was not just like the other children, and later on I found out the
reason.

One lovely warm day when the afternoon was half over I stood looking out
the big window before me and to my joy saw Mr. Devering and Dallas
coming up to the stable.

They walked in, and Dallas after petting me affectionately said shyly to
his uncle, "Seeing Prince Fetlar again reminds me that you have not yet
spoken to me about the other morning. I know you wish to do so."

I too was nervous. Ponies that are well brought up always worry when
their young masters worry.

The man had an opportunity for a good lecture, but instead of beginning
to scold he put us both at our ease by bursting into one of his ringing
laughs.

It echoed all through the big empty stable where the western sun was
streaming in on the pony stalls.

His laugh was the kind that makes one feel like joining in and soon
young Dallas was giggling feebly. Then he too burst into a jolly peal.
Tears ran down his cheeks. "Oh! Uncle," he said, getting out his
handkerchief which was white and clean like a girl's, "I don't know what
I'm laughing at."

"Neither do I," said his uncle, and then they both laughed harder than
ever until at last I felt my own lips curling.

"You're such a funny lad," said the man after a time, wiping his eyes
and then laying a hand kindly on the boy's head. "You take me back to
the days of my youth when I used to play with your dear mother. There
were just the two of us. Oh! you are like her, so much like her. Boy,
she used to lie too in her young days, but never to me, only to persons
she was afraid of."

"I don't lie to you," said Dallas seriously, "I don't want to."

"Are you afraid of my children that you tell stories to them?"

"N-no, not exactly. I want to please them."

"Oh!" said Mr. Devering, "that fatal wish to please. It has slain its
millions."

"I love to see boys and girls comfortable in their minds," said Dallas
wistfully.

"And if they expect you to know how to do a thing you lie to gratify
them--but when they find you out--then they're not happy."

Dallas said nothing and his uncle went on, "When I was a boy there was a
weak-minded lad living near us. The children all picked at him. The
grown-ups were always after us for it. Do you catch my meaning?"

Dallas hung his head. "Yes, my Uncle. The weak go to the wall. I've read
that in history."

"Now my children know you have weak points. They'll play on them. We
must stop them. You want to be a decent man, don't you?"

"Oh! yes, I do indeed."

"Well! what are you going to do about it?"

"I've got to get a grip on myself," said Dallas. "If you knew how queer
it seems to me to be here with all these kids----"

"I can guess. You see, boy, the trouble is that the first five years of
a child's life are the ones in which he gets his mould. You had
seclusion and shyness stamped on you. We've got to get a new
imprint--and don't be too humble. You're just as bright as my children.
You're too meek when you think you must tell stories to over-awe them.
Plain truth will save you, lad, and you can do some things that my
children can't do. Just wait till they find out how well you can sing.
Now let me hear you promise to stop this fairy story business."

Dallas put up a slight hand, and said solemnly, "I promise to speak the
truth and the truth only from this on."

Mr. Devering clapped him on the shoulder. Then he slipped his hand under
my blanket, felt me to see whether I was warm, and folding the blanket
backward drew it off in the proper way so as to leave my hair smooth.

Then he said, "Bonnie Prince Fetlar, I didn't understand your
manoeuvres the other morning. I ask your pardon."

Fancy a man asking a pony's pardon! I just loved him for it and tucked
my muzzle in the pocket of his corduroy jacket as we went out of the
stable.

"Stop your tickling, Prince," he said; "here's a bit of sugar for you.
Now keep your soft old nose to yourself--let's go get the deer-hound.
He'd enjoy an afternoon out."

We all went up to the kennel by the cow stable where Drunkard welcomed
us frantically.

Mr. Devering unchained him and led him toward the house.

When we got near the veranda and I saw the joyful group on it my heart
died within me. Preparations for a picnic were going on. Probably they
would go by water and I should be left at home. However I could have a
little fun before they went, in watching them.

They were well-drilled children. A list was hung on a veranda post, and
each child kept consulting it while packing baskets. So many knives,
forks, spoons, napkins, cups and saucers and plates must go in, also a
huge frying-pan, a big pot for coffee which they were allowed on
picnics. Bingi brought bacon, cold potatoes, an egg salad, jelly,
chicken sandwiches, a chocolate cake, ginger snaps, two cream pies and
lots of spread bread and butter. Oh! it was going to be a picnic that
would warm a pony's heart--and I do so enjoy a picnic with nice boys and
girls.

I stepped mournfully back under the lilacs and watched the closing of
the baskets and the forming of the procession to the lake.

Everybody was smiling; even Big Chief who was a boy that was always
cheered by the sight of food.

I paced slowly after the joyful children, my head drooping, my eyes on
my young master who walked beside me, his gaze fixed apprehensively on
the lake.

Suddenly that clever woman Mrs. Devering gave us an understanding glance
over her shoulder.

"Daddy," she called in her clear voice to Mr. Devering, who was leading
with the biggest baskets, "is this little pony broken to harness?"

"Oh! yes, he was for some years in Ohio, where one sees ponies hauling
two or four persons in carts and small surreys."

"Good!" she exclaimed. "I'd like to drive to the warden's. It will be
all right for me to put Pony in the small cart?"

"Certainly," he said. "Who will go with you?"

Childlike every boy and girl but Dallas cried out.

"Dallas goes," she said. "He is the only one who was politely silent. My
darlings--you must not run after invitations. Let them run after you."
And so speaking she was just about to drop out of the procession when
Cassowary said pleadingly, "Mother, let me drive Dallas. You'd have to
handle the harness and you know you cut your hand this morning."

"Thank you, girlie," said her mother, "I believe I will resign in your
favor. Show your cousin how to help you."

Cassowary, who was ahead with Drunkard, passed his lead to Champ and my
young master and I joyfully followed her to the carriage-house, where
she wheeled out a two-seated cart.

"I suppose you know nothing about harnessing," she said to Dallas.

"Oh! yes," he began, then he checked himself and said over again, "Oh!
yes, you are right. I know nothing about attaching an animal to a
carriage."

"Come to the harness room," she said, and there she gave young Dallas
quite a nice talk about four and two-wheelers for passengers and also
about the even more important waggons for carrying loads. Then she
explained the difference between work harness and light harness.

Dallas had a good memory and when she gave him a brief examination she
found he had forgotten nothing, but he stood staring at me.

"All very fine," he remarked. "I understand about the bridle, collar,
traces, breeching, hip-strap and so on, but how do you get harness and
cart together?"

Cassowary did not smile. She was as sober as a judge.

"Back up, Pony," she said, and she showed Dallas how to lift the shafts
and buckle straps until I and my smart tan harness were firmly attached
to the cart.

"Now, jump in," she said, "box seat. Take the reins or as you, I
suppose, would call them, the lines. Not that way. Here change your
fingers--reins held in left hand, right free for take-back or whip."

"And would you whip this beautiful little creature?" asked Dallas in a
shocked voice.

"Not I--I'm merely teaching you form--near rein over your forefinger,
off rein between middle and ring fingers. Grip reins by edges, not by
flat sides."

"Am I really driving?" asked Dallas in an astonished voice as I turned
them smoothly out to the road.

"Looks like it," she said.

Happy in having no blinds I could cast a glance back toward the proud
and delighted boy.

"Don't look so nervous," said Cassowary. "That pony could go it alone.
Tighten your reins though. If he were a stumbler down he would go. It's
hard lines you couldn't have had this fun sooner. If I were Queen I'd
give every boy and girl a pony and a dog."

"I feel as if I were in heaven," said Dallas in an awed voice.

"Wait till you ride," said Cassowary, "then you'll be in the seventh
heaven."

"Cousin," said Dallas, "it's mighty good in you to take so much trouble
with an awkward boy like me."

"Dad told me," she said sheepishly. "Then I know everyone has to learn.
Hello! there's Happy Harry--want to go to a picnic, Harry?"

The lame young man was going slowly on his crutches along the road under
the poplars. "No, thank you," he said with a brilliant smile. "I'm going
to walk over to Neighbour Detover's with Mother."

"Nice boy," she said as we spun along. "My! I'm glad I haven't lost my
feet--look out, you're heading the Prince for those cows. Give them a
bit of the road. Cows have rights."

The cows politely stepped into the bushes as we went by. Soon I could
tell by the movement of the hand on the lines that my young master was
getting calmer. By the time we reached the head of the lake Cassowary
began to praise him.

"I'm glad you haven't too many impulses," she said.

"I don't know what that means," said Dallas.

"How are you telling Prince Fetlar the way to go?"

"By these lines, I suppose."

"Which lead to the bit in Pony's soft mouth. Your feelings run along
the lines to the bit. Pony feels them and his mind and yours keep
working together. This fellow is bright enough to do things himself. If
you don't approve you will check him by flashing a counter order along
the lines. You must always keep your animal in hand."

"I wouldn't like to hurt his nice mouth," said Dallas.

"You'll never hurt him. You'll be too gentle probably."

"I'm glad we're meeting no one," said Dallas.

"We'll just pretend we are," she said promptly. "Now I'll show you how
to turn out on a narrow road."

"Why do automobiles not come up here on this fine road?" asked Dallas.

"They do, but they can't come just now because the government is
repairing the new road. It's a beauty, and where the big flat rocks are
too dreadful overhead bridges are made. You came the old bad road."

"It was certainly bad," said Dallas feelingly.

"Dad is tremendously keen on road-making," said the girl. "He's never so
happy as when he's laying out a new one. Roads spell progress he says."

"Ah! here we are at the top of the lake," said Dallas, "and entering
quite thick deep woods. How lovely the air is. I can smell the nice damp
earth and the breath of the pines--and there is a meadow in the
distance," he went on.

"That is Beaver Meadow," said Cassowary, "and that lazy little river
poking through it as if looking for the shortest way to the lake is Fawn
River."

"What pretty little islands those are at the river mouth," said Dallas.

"That's the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe--you've heard of her?"

"Oh! yes, quite often."

"Well! there she is on that biggest island which is shaped like a green
shoe. See her head sticking up from behind that high rock."

"Do you mean the silver birch broken off short?" asked Dallas; "that one
with the queer bunch on its head?"

"Yes, that's her bonnet," said Cassowary. "One day we paddled over and
nailed a big coalscuttle bonnet on her. See those birds on that tiniest
island of all. What are they?"

"You're a born school-teacher," said Dallas admiringly. Then he added,
"They are gulls--herring gulls, I think."

"Yes, don't they look wise? They sit there and ponder, ponder, then they
fly away and come back and ponder some more. They're not a bit afraid of
us. Hear me call them," and she gave a very good gull yell, "Cack, cack,
ker-ack, ker-ack, ker-ack."

"Cack, cack, hah, hah, hah!" came back from one of the gulls who raised
himself on his brownish black wings and circled over our heads.

"If it isn't my dear old friend Buffy!" cried Cassowary, rising up in
her seat in her excitement. "Where have you been, my angel gull?"

"Kay-auk, kay-ow," squawked the gull, then he gave a kind of groan.

"Been having adventures, my darling?" she shrieked up at him. "Come and
tell your old girl all about them. Did you go to Cuba or Lower
California last winter?"

"Cow-ow," he responded with a long deep harsh sob.

"This boy won't hurt you, my pet," she shrilled up in the air. "Quick,
Dallas, tell him you wouldn't shoot a gull to save your life."

My young master not knowing what to do with one creature on earth and
another in the air, tightened the reins until he nearly sawed my tender
mouth in two, while he threw up his young head and cried in his sweet
voice, "I wouldn't shoot a gull, for I'm frightened to death of a gun!"

The gull brayed like a donkey, "Ha, ha ha!"

"He doesn't trust you," said Cassowary; "hunters must have been shooting
at him. Good-bye, my angel. Come play with me when I'm bathing in the
morning. Bah! my neck aches," and she dropped down on the seat of the
cart. "Drive on, boy! For mercy sake!--the Prince is most on his hind
legs. Do you want to choke him?"

"Tell me about that gull, will you?" asked Dallas as he gave me more
liberty. "He's following us."

"He'd be down on my lap if it weren't for you. When he was a baby gull
a strange bad boy out in a boat on this lake shot at him and wounded his
wing. I was out in my canoe Bluebird, and didn't I pick up that poor
gull baby pretty quick as he lay flopping in the water, then I
overhauled the boat, trounced the boy who was quite astonished to find
that a girl had fists, swam to my canoe, paddled home, mothered Gullie
who made his home with the hens, and revelled in bread and milk. When he
grew old, he flew away to Old Woman's Islands but whenever I went in the
water he came and played with me. He wouldn't go near the boys. He
thinks you're all bad."

"How would he play with you?" asked Dallas.

"Oh! he flaps round me in the water--strikes me with his wings. He's
very rough but I give him as good as he gives me--slap for slap. He
knows I like him. Hurry up, Prince, and don't try to listen to every
word we say. The others will get there before us, although they have to
go down the lake for fish."

"Does someone there get fish for them?" asked Dallas.

"Yes--the fire warden. He lives by the dam and catches fine big bass.
Hush! Now, maybe well see Mr. Beaver."

"Who is he?" asked Dallas.

"Such a naughty little man. He and Mrs. Beaver are making a dam across
the river and soon they'll have to be checked for they would stop up the
water and make it so deep that the cows would drown when crossing from
one meadow to another. Mr. Beaver is Dad's pet, though they don't have
anything much to do with each other now. They just love each other
apart."

"Then how does your Dad pet him?"

"It was in the past. He got him in Toronto. You know we have two rivers
down there, one each side of t

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