Produced by Dianne Bean TATTINE by Ruth Ogden [Mrs. Charles W. Ide] CHAPTER I. TROUBLE NO. 1 Whether you happen to be four or five, or six, or seven, or even older than that, no doubt you know by this time that a great many things need to be learned in this world, everything, in fact, and never more things than at seven. At least, so thought little Tattine, and what troubled her the most was that some of the things seemed quite wrong, and yet no one was able to right them. All her little life Tattineâs Mother had been setting things straight for her, drying every tear, and unravelling every tangle, so that Tattine was pretty downhearted the day she discovered that there were some things that were quite beyond even her Motherâs power to alter. It was on a lovely June morning that Tattine made the first of her unwelcome discoveries. She was feeling particularly happy too, until she made it. She was sitting up in an apple-tree, sketching, and doing it very well. She had taken only a few drawing-lessons but had taken to them immensely, and now with one limb of the tree for a seat and another one for an easel, she was working away at a pretty chime tower, that stood on a neighborâs land. Down on the grass beneath her Betsy and Doctor were lying. Betsy was a dear, homely red-and-white Laverack setter, and Doctor, black-and-white and better looking, was her son. Doctorâs beautiful grandmother Tadjie was lying, alas! under the grass instead of on it, not very far away. It was a sad day for the dog world when Tadjie left it, for although she was very old, she was very beautiful up to the last with a glossy silky coat, a superbly feathered tail, and with brown eyes so soft and entreating, they fairly made you love her, whether you were fond of dogs or no. Well, Tattine was sketching away and was quite absorbed in it, but Doctor, who was little more than a puppy, thought it very dull. He lay with his head between his paws, and, without moving a muscle, rolled his eyes round and round, now gazing up at Tattine, and then at his mother, trying to be happy though quiet. Finally he stretched himself, got on his feet, cocked up his ears, and came and stood in front of Betsy, and although not a sound was heard, he said, so that Betsy perfectly understood him, âI canât stand this any longer. If you have any love for me do please come for a run.â Then Betsy took one long stretch and with motherly self-sacrifice reluctantly got up, prepared to humor this lively boy of hers. Suddenly Doctor craned his head high in the air, and gave a little sniff, and then Betsy craned her head and sniffed. Then they stole as stealthily away as though stepping upon eggs, and Tattine never knew that they had gone. It was no stealthy treading very long, however. No sooner had they crossed the roadway than they made sure of the scent they thought they had discovered, and made one wild rush down through the sumach and sweet-fern to the ravine. In a few moments it was one wild rush up again right to the foot of Tattineâs apple-tree, and Tattine looked down to see Doctor--oh, could she believe her two blue eyes!--with a dear little rabbit clinched firmly between his teeth, and his mother (think of it, his mother!) actually standing proudly by and wildly waving her tail from side to side, in the most delighted manner possible. As for Tattine, she simply gave one horrified little scream and was down from the tree in a flash, while the scream fortunately brought Maggie hurrying from the house, and as Maggie was Doctorâs confidential friend (owing to certain choice little morsels, dispensed from the butlerâs pantry window with great regularity three times a day), he at once, at her command, relaxed his hold on the little jack-rabbit. The poor little thing was still breathing, breathing indeed with all his might and main, so that his heart thumped against his little brown sides with all the regularity of a Rider Engine. Tattineâs first thought was for the rabbit, and she held it close to her, stroking it with one little brown trembling hand and saying, âThere! there! Hush, you little dear; youâre safe now, donât be frightened! Tattine wouldnât hurt you for the world.â Her next thought was for Doctor, and she turned on him with a torrent of abuse, that ought to have made the hair of that young M.D. stand on end. âOh, you cruel, CRUEL dog! whatever made you do such a thing as this? I never dreamt it of you, never.â At this Betsyâs tail dropped between her legs, for she was a coward at heart, but Doctor held his ground, his tail standing on end, as his hair should have done, and his eyes all the while fairly devouring the little rabbit. âAnd the worst of it,â continued Tattine, âis that no matter how sorry you may feelâ (Betsy was the only one who showed any signs of sorrow, and she was more scared than sorry), âno matter how sorry you may feel, that will not mend things. You do not know where this baby lived, and who are its father and mother, and like as not it is too young to live at all away from them and will die,â and Tattine raised one plump little hand and gave Doctor a slap that at least made him âturn tail,â and slink rather doggedly away to his own particular hole under the laundry steps. And now it was time to find Mamma--high time, for it seemed to Tattine she would choke with all the feelings, sorrowful and angry, welling up within her. Mamma was not far afield--that is, she was very near, at her desk in the cosy little alcove of the upstairs hall-way, and Tattine soon found her. âNow, Mamma,â she asked excitedly, âdid you know that Betsy or Doctor would do such a thing as this?â The trembling little rabbit in Tattineâs hands showed what was meant by THIS. Mrs. Gerald paused a moment, then she said reluctantly, âYes, Tattine, I did.â âHave they done it before, Mamma?â âI am sorry to say they have.â âHave you seen them bring struggling rabbits dangling in their mouths right up to the house here, Mamma?â Mrs. Gerald merely shook her head. She felt so sorry to have to own to such a sight. âWhy did I never know it, Mamma?â âYou have never chanced to be on the spot, dear, when it happened, and I was in no hurry to tell you anything that I knew would make you sad.â âI think it would have been better to tell me. Itâs awful to find such a thing out suddenly about dogs youâve trusted, and to think how good and gentle they look when they come and put their heads in your lap to be petted, just as though they would not hurt a fly; but then, of course, anyone who has eyes knows that they do lure flies, snapping at them all day long, and just for the fun of it too, not because they need them for food, as birds do. Mamma, I donât believe thereâs anything meaner than a Laverack setter. Still, Tadjie would never have done such a thing, I know.â Mrs. Gerald was silent, and Tattine, expecting her to confirm what she had said, grew a little suspicious. âWould Tadjie, Mamma?â with a directness that would not admit of indirectness. âYes, Tattine; Tadjie would. She was trained to hunt before ever she was given to Papa, and so were her ancestors before her. That is why Doctor and Betsy, who have never been trained to hunt, go wild over the rabbits. They have inherited the taste.â âTrained to hunt,â said Tattine thoughtfully. âDo you mean that men just went to work to teach them to be so cruel?â âWell, I suppose in a way setters are natural hunters, Tattine, but then their training has doubtless a great deal to do with it, but I want to tell you something that I think will give you just a grain of comfort. I read the other day that Sir John Franklin, the great Arctic explorer, who almost lost his life in being attacked by some huge animal--it must have been a bear, I think--says that the animal when he first gets you in his teeth gives you such a shake that it paralyzes your nerves--this is, it benumbs all your feelings, so, that, strange as it may seem, you really do not suffer. So let us hope that it was that way with this little rabbit.â âBut thereâs a little blood here on one side, Mamma.â âThat doesnât always prove suffering, either, Tattine. Soldiers are sometimes wounded without ever knowing it until they see a little sign of blood somewhere.â Tattine listened attentively to all this, and was in a measure comforted. It seemed that Mamma was still able to better things, even though not able to set everything perfectly right. âNow,â Tattine said,--with a little sigh of relief, âI think I will try and see what I can do for Bunny. Perhaps he would first like a drink,â so downstairs she went, and putting some milk in a shallow tea-cup, she dipped Bunnyâs nose in it, and it seemed to her as though he did take a little of it. Then she trudged up to the garret for a box, and, putting a layer of cotton-batting in the bottom, laid Bunny in one corner. Then she went to the garden and pulled a leaf or two of the youngest, greenest lettuce, and put it right within reach of Bunnyâs nose, and a little saucer of water beside it. Then she went down to tell the gardenerâs little boy all about the sorrowful thing that had happened. The next morning Bunny was still breathing, but the lettuce was un-nibbled; he had not moved an inch, and he was trembling like a leaf. âMamma,â she called upstairs, âI think Iâll put BUN in the sunâ (she was trying not to be too down-hearted); âhe seems to be a little chilly.â Then she sat herself down in the sun to watch him. Soon Bunny ceased to tremble. âPatrick,â she called to the old man who was using the lawn mower, âis this little rabbit dead?â âYes, miss, shure,â taking the little thing gently in his hand. âVery well,â she answered quietly. Tattine used those two little words very often; they meant that she accepted the situation, if you happen to know what that means. âNow I think I will not trouble Mamma about it,â she said to herself thoughtfully, so she went to the closet under the stairs, got a little empty box she knew was there, and, taking it out of doors, she put the little rabbit in it, and then trudged down to the tool-house for her spade and rake. âBunny is dead, Joey,â she called to the gardenerâs little boy as she came back. âCome help me bury him,â and so Joey trotted behind her to the spot already selected. âWe must make this hole good and deep,â she explained (Joey stood looking on in wide-eyed wonder), âfor if Doctor and Betsy would kill a little live rabbit, there is no telling but they would dig up a dead one.â So the hole was made at least four inches deep, Bunny was buried in it, and the earth, with Joeyâs assistance, stamped down hard, but afterwards it was loosened somewhat to plant a little wild-wood plant atop of the tiny grave. âNow, Joey, you wait here till I go bring something for a tombstone,â Tattine directed, and in a second she was back again with the cover of a box in one hand and a red crayon in the other. Sitting flat upon the grass, she printed on the cover in rather irregular letters:-- BORN--I donât know when. DIED June 17th. LAVERACK SETTERS NOT ALLOWED. This she put securely into place, while Joey raked up a little about the spot, and they left the little rabbit grave looking very neat and tidy. The next morning Tattine ran out to see how the little wild-wood plant was growing, and then she stood with her arms akimbo in blank astonishment. The little grave had disappeared. She kicked aside the loose earth, and saw that box and Bunny were both gone, and, not content with that, they had partially chewed up the tombstone, which lay upon its face a little distance away. They, of course, meant Betsy and Doctor. âThere was no use in my putting: âLaverack setters not allowed,ââ she said to herself sorrowfully, and she ran off to tell her Mother of this latest tragedy. âYes, I know, Tattine dear,â said Mrs. Gerald, in the first pause; âthere is neither pity nor mercy in the heart of a setter when he is on the scent of a rabbit, alive or dead--but, Tattine, donât forget they have their good sides, Doctor and Betsy; just think how fond they are of you and me. Why, the very sight of us always makes them beat a tattoo with their tails.â âYes, I know, Mamma, but I canât feel somehow that tattoos with their tails make up for killing rabbits with their teeth.â CHAPTER II. A MAPLE-WAX MORNING A team came rushing in between the gate-posts of the stone wall, and it looked like a run-away. They were riderless and driverless, and if there had been any harness, there was not a vestige of it to be seen; still, they kept neck and neck, which means in horsey language side by side, and on they came in the maddest fashion. Tattine stood on the front porch and watched them in high glee, and not a bit afraid was she, though they were coming straight in her direction. When they reached her they considerately came to a sudden stop, else there is no doubt whatever but she would have been tumbled over. âWell, you are a team,â laughed Tattine, and they laughed back, âYes, we know we are,â and sat down on the step on either side of her. Of course, that would have been a remarkable thing for some teams to do, but not for this one, for, as you can guess, they were just two little people, Mabel and Rudolph, but they were a perfect team all the same; everybody said so, and what everybody meant was this--that whatever Rudolph âwas up to,â Mabel was âup toâ also, and vice versa. They traveled together finely, right âup on the bitâ all the time. It would have been easier for those who had charge of them if one or the other had held back now and then, and set a slower pace, but as that was not their nature and could not be helped, everybody tried to make the best of them, and everybody loved them. Tattine did not see how she could ever have lived without them, for they were almost as much a brother and sister to her as to each other. This morning hey had come over by invitation for what they called a Maple-wax morning, and that was exactly what it was, and if you have never had one of your own, wait till you read about this one of Tattineâs, and then give your dear Mamma no peace until you have had one, either in your kitchen in town, or in the woods out of town, which is better. One thing is necessary to its complete enjoyment, however: you must have a âsweet tooth,â but as most little people cut that particular tooth very early, probably you are among the fortunate number. âWell, I donât see what we are sitting here for,â said Mabel at last. âNeither do I,â said Tattine; âI was only giving you a chance to get a little breath. You did not seem to have much left.â âNo more we had,â laughed Rudolph, who was still taking little swallows and drawing an occasional long breath, as people do when they have been exercising very vigorously. âBut if everything is ready.â he added, âlet us start.â âWell, everything is ready,â said Tattine quite complacently, as she led the way to the back piazza, where âeverythingâ was lying in a row. There was the maple sugar itself, two pounds of it on a plate, two large kitchen spoons, a china cup, two sheets of brown wrapping-paper, two or three newspapers, a box of matches, a pail of clear spring water, a hammer, an ice-pick, and last, and most important of all, a granite-ware kettle. âNow if youâll carry these,â explained Tattine, âIâll run and tell Philip to bring the ice,â so Rudolph and Mabel âloaded upâ and marched down to the camp, and Tattine disappeared in the direction of the ice-house. The camp was not far away, and consisted of a cosy little âAâ tent, a hammock hung between two young chestnuts, and a fire-place made of a circle of stones on the ground, with a crane hanging above it. The crane was quite an elaborate contrivance, for which Joseph the gardener was to be thanked. The long branch on which the pot hung was pivoted, if you know what that is, on an upright post fastened firmly in the ground, and in such a way that you could âhigher it,â as Tattine said, or lower it, or swing it clear of the fire on either side. At the end of the branch away from the fire hung a chain, with a few blocks tied into it, for a weight, so that you lifted the weight with one hand when you wished to change the position of the branch with the other, and then let it rest on the ground again at the spot where you wanted the pole to stay. You see, the great advantage of this was that, when you wished to see how things were going on inside of the kettle, or to stop its boiling instantly--you could just swing it away from the fire in no time, and not run the risk of burning face or hands, or petticoats, if you belong to the petticoat family.` âNow,â panted Tattine, for it was her turn to be breathless with running, âIâll break the sugar if you two will make the fire, but Rudolphâs to light it and heâs the only one who is to lean over it and put the wood on when itâs needed. Mamma says there is to be a very strict rule about that, because skirts and fluffy hair like mine and Mabelâs are very dangerous about a fire,â and then Tattine proceeded to roll the maple sugar in the brown paper so as to have two or three thicknesses about it, and then, laying it upon a flat stone, began to pound and break it with the hammer. âYes,â said Rudolph, on his knees on the ground, and making balls of newspaper for the foundation of the fire; âitâs lucky for Mabel and me that fire is one thing about which we can be trusted.â âI shouldnât wonder if itâs the only thing,â laughed Tattine, whereupon Mabel toppled her over on the grass by way of punishment. âNo, but honest!â continued Rudolph, âI have just been trained and trained about fire. I know itâs an awfully dangerous thing. Itâs just foolhardy to run any sort of risk with it, and itâs wise when you make a fire in the open air like this, to stand on the same side as the wind comes from, even if you havenât any skirts or fluffy hair to catch.â âHereâs some more wood, grandfather,â said Mabel solemnly, dumping an armful down at his side; âI should think you were eighty to hear you talk,â and then Mabel had her punishment by being chased down the path and plumped down rather hard in the veriest tangle of brambles and briars. It chanced, however, that her corduroy skirt furnished all the protection needed from the sharp little thorns, so that, like âBrer Rabbit,â she called out exultingly, ââBorn and bred in a briar-patch, Brer Rudolph, born and bred in a briar-patch,ââ and could have sat there quite comfortably, no one`knows how long, but that she heard the maple sugar go tumbling into the kettle. And then she heard Tattine say, âA cup of water to two pounds, isnât it?â Then she heard the water go splash on top of the maple sugar. Now she could stand it no longer, and, clearing the briars at one bound, was almost back at the camp with another. By this time the fire was blazing away finely, and the sugar, with the help of an occasional stirring from the long-handled spoon in Rudolphâs hand, soon dissolved. Dissolving sometimes seems to be almost a dayâs journey from boiling, and the children were rather impatient for that stage to be reached. At last, however, Rudolph announced excitedly, âIt boils, it boils! and now I mustnât leave it for a minute. More wood, Mabel! donât be so slow, and, Tattine, hurry Philip up with that ice,â but Philip was seen at that moment bringing a large piece of ice in a wheelbarrow, so Tattine was saved that journey, and devoted the time instead to spreading out one of the pieces of wrapping-paper, to keep the ice from the ground, because of the dead leaves and âthingsâ that were likely to cling to it. âNow break off a good-sized piece, Tattine,â Rudolph directed, âand put it on a piece of paper near the fire,â but Tattine knew that was the next thing to do, so what was the use of Rudolphâs telling her? It happens quite frequently that people who are giving directions give too many by far. âNow, Mabel,â continued the drum-major, âwill you please bring some more wood, and will you please put your mind on it and keep bringing it? These little twigs that make the best fire burn out in a twinkling, please notice,â but Mabel did not hurry so very much for the next armful; since she could see for herself there was no great need for haste. Rudolph was simply getting excited, but then the making of maple-wax is such a very responsible undertaking, he could not be blamed for that. You need to stop its boiling at precisely the right moment, else it suddenly reaches the point where, when you cool it, it grows brittle like âtaffy,â and then good-bye to maple-wax for that kettleful. So Rudolph, every half-minute, kept dripping little streams of the boiling sugar from the spoon upon the piece of ice, and Tattine and Mabel kept testing it with their fingers and tongues, until both at last exclaimed in one and the same breath, âItâs done! itâs done! Lift it off the fire quickly; itâs just right.â Just right means when the sugar hardens in a few seconds, or in a little more than half a minute, into a delicious consistency like--well, just like maple-wax, for there is nothing else in the world that I know of with which to compare it. Then the children seated themselves around the great cake of ice, and Rudolph, with the kettle on the ground beside him, tipped against a log of wood at just the right angle, continued to be master of ceremonies, and dipped spoonful after spoonful of the syrup, and let it trickle over the ice in queer fantastic shapes or in little, thin round discs like griddle-cakes. The children ate and ate, and fortunately it seems for some reason, to be the most harmless sweet that can be indulged in by little people. âWell, Iâve had enough,â remarked Rudolph at the expiration of say a quarter of an hour, âbut isnât it wonderful that anything so delicious can just trickle out of a tree?â his unmannerly little tongue the while making the circuit of his lips in search of any lingering traces of sweetness. âTrickle out of a tree!â exclaimed astonished Tattine. âWhy, yes, donât you know thatâs the way they make maple sugar? In the spring, about April, when the sap begins to run up into the maple-trees, and often while the snow is still on the ground, they what they call tap the tree; they drive a sort of little spout right into the tree and soon the sap begins to ooze out and drop into buckets that are placed to catch it. Afterwards they boil it down in huge kettles made for the purpose. They call it sugaring off, and it must be great fun.â âNot half so much fun, I should think, as sugaring down,â laughed Mabel, with her right hand placed significantly where stomachs are supposed to be. âAnd now I am going to run up to the house,â explained Tattine, getting stiffly up from a rather cramped position, âfor three or four plates, and Rudolph, you break off some pieces of ice the right size for them, and we will make a little plateful from what is left for each one up at the house, else I should say we were three little greedies. And Mabel, while I am gone you commence to clear up.â âWell, you are rather cool, Tattine,â said Mabel, but she obediently set to work to gather things together. As you and I cannot be a bit of help in that direction, and have many of a clearing-up of our own to do, I propose that we lose not a minute in running away from that little camp, particularly as we have not had so much as a taste of the delicious wax theyâve been making. CHAPTER III. A SET OF SETTERS It was a great bird-year at Oakdene. Never had there been so many. The same dear old Phoebe-birds were back, building under the eaves of both the front and back piazzas. The robins, as usual, were everywhere. The Maryland yellow-throats were nesting in great numbers in the young growth of woods on the hill of the ravine, and ringing out their hammer-like note in the merriest manner; a note that no one understood until Dr. Van Dyke told us, in his beautiful little poem, that it is âwitchery, witchery, witchery,â and now we wonder that we could have been so stupid as not to have discovered it was exactly that, long ago. But the glory of the summer were the orioles and the scarlet tanagers; the orioles with their marvellous notes, and the tanagers in their scarlet golfing coats glinting here and there in the sunshine. Nests everywhere, and Tattine on one long voyage of discovery, until she knew where at least twenty little bird families were going to crack-shell their way into life. But there was one little family of whose whereabouts she knew nothing, nor anyone else for that matter, until âHark, what was that?â--Mabel and Rudolph and Tattine were running across the end of the porch, and it was Rudolph who brought them to a standstill. âItâs puppies under the piazza, thatâs what it is,â declared Tattine; âwhere ever did they come from, and how ever do you suppose they got there?â âI think itâs a good deal more important to know how youâll ever get them out,â answered Rudolph, who was of a practical turn of mind. âIâll tell you what,â said Tattine thoughtfully, âshouldnât wonder if they belong to Betsy. Iâve seen her crowding herself through one of the air-holes under the piazza several times lately,â whereupon the children hurried to peer through the air hole. Nothing was to be seen, however, for the piazza floor was not more than a foot and a half from the ground, and it was filled with all sorts of weeds that flourished without sunshine. Still the little puppy cries were persistently wafted out from some remote corner, and, pulling off his jacket, Rudolph started to crawl in and investigate. It did not seem possible that he could make his way, for the place was not high enough for him even to crawl on his hands and knees, and he had rather to worm himself along on his elbows in quite indescribable fashion. Still, Tattine and Mabel were more than ready to have him try, and waited patiently, bending over with their hands upon their knees, and gazing in through the weed-grown hole in breathless, excited fashion. âI believe Iâll have to give it up,â Rudolph called back; âthe cries seem as far off as ever and Iâm all but scratched to pieces.â âOh, donât! donât!â cried Tattine and Mabel, in one breath, and Mabel added, âWe MUST know what they are and where they are. I shall go in myself if you come out.â âWell, you wouldnât go more than three feet then, I can tell you,â and Rudolph was right about that. It was only because he hated to give the thing up, even more than the girls hated to have him, that made him persevere. âWell, here they are at last!â he cried exultingly, a few moments later; âone, two three, four of them, perfect little beauties too. And they must belong to Betsy; theyâre just like her.â âBring one out, bring one out!â called both the children, and fairly dancing with delight. âBring out your grandmother! Itâs all I can manage to bring myself out, without holding on to a puppy.â âVery well,â Tattine called back, with her usual instant acceptance of the inevitable, âbut I know what,â and then she was off in a flash, with Mabel following closely to find out what WHAT might be. It was Joseph the gardener whom Tattine wanted, and she found him where she thought she would, killing potato-bugs in the kitchen-garden. âWhat do you think, Joseph? Betsy has a beautiful set of little setters under the piazza. Come quick, please! and see how we can get them out.â Joseph followed obediently. âGuess weâll have to let them stay there till they crawl out,â said Joseph; âBetsyâll take as good care of them there as anywhere,â whereupon the children looked the picture of misery and despair. At this moment Rudolph emerged from the hole a mass of grass and dirt stains, and both Mabel and Tattine thought he had been pretty plucky, though quite too much preoccupied to tell him so, but Rudolph happily felt himself repaid for hardships endured, in the delight of his discovery. âIt will be a month before theyâll have sense enough to crawl out,â he remarked to Joseph, âand theyâre wedged in between some old planks in very uncomfortable fashion. They look like fine little fellows too. I think we ought to manage in some way to get them out.â âAnd it would be bad if any of them died there,â said Joseph, rubbing his head and still ruminating on the subject; âvery bad. Well, weâll have to see what we` can do about it.â âWill you see right away?â urged Tattine eagerly. âMay as well, I reckon,â and Joseph walked off in the direction of the tool-house, but to Tattineâs regret evidently did not appreciate any need for extreme haste. In a little while he was back again with Patrick, and both of them were carrying spades. âThereâs only one way to do it,â he explained, as they set to work; âyou see, the pillars of this porch rest on a stone foundation, so as to support the rooms above, and weâll have to dig out three or four of the large stones and then dig a sort of trench to wherever the puppies are,â and Rudolph was able of course to indicate the exact spot to which the trench must lead. It was the work of an hour to excavate the foundation-stones, and an additional half-hour to dig the trench. Meantime Betsy appeared upon the scene, and, evidently appreciating what was going on, stood about and superintended matters with quite an important air. Rudolph clambered in and dug the last few feet of the trench, because it did not need to be as large for him as for Joseph and Patrick, and then one at a time he brought the dear little puppies out, and Mabel and Tattine took turns in appropriating them, while Betsy eyed them proudly but withal a little anxiously. And they were dear; as prettily marked as their beautiful grandmother Tadjie, and too cunning for words. âYou have made us a great deal of trouble, Betsy,â said Tattine, âbut they are such beauties we forgive you,â whereat Betsy looked up so affectionately that Tattine added, âand perhaps some day Iâll forgive you about that rabbit, since Mamma says itâs natural for you to hunt them.â But Betsy, indifferent creature, did not care a fig about all that; her only care was to watch her little puppies stowed away one by one on fresh sweet-smelling straw, in the same kennel where Doctor and his brothers and sisters had enjoyed their puppy-hood, and then to snuggle up in a round ball close beside them. They were Betsyâs puppies for a certainty. There had been no doubt of that from the first glimpse Rudolph gained of them in their dark little hole under the porch. But the next morning came and then what do you suppose happened? A very weak little puppy cry came from under the porch. Another puppy, that was what it meant, and Joseph was very much out of patience, for the trench had been filled up and the foundation-stones carefully replaced. âRudolph ought to have made sure how many there were,â he said rather growlily. âBut, Joseph, this puppy cry comes from another place way over here, it seems to me,â and Tattine ran to a spot on the porch several yards from that under which the others had been found. âI believe it must have been a cleverer little puppy than the others, and crawled away by itself to see what the world was like, and that is why Rudolph missed finding it.â Joseph put his hand to his ear and, listening carefully, concluded that Tattine was right. âNow Iâll tell you what I am going to do,â he said; âI can make just a little hole, large enough for a puppy to get through, without taking out a foundation-stone, and Iâm going to make it here, near where the cry seems to come from. Then I am going to tie Betsy to this pillar of the porch, and I believe sheâll have sense enough to try and coax the little fellow out, and if the is such an enterprising little chap as you think heâll have sense enough to come out.â It seemed a good plan. Betsy was brought, and Tattine sat down to listen and watch. Betsy, hearing the little cries, began at once to coax, giving little sharp barks at regular intervals, and trying to make the hole larger with her paws. Tattineâs ears, which were dear little shells of ears to look at, and very sharp little ears to hear with, thought the cries sounded a little nearer, and now a little nearer; then she was sure of it, and Betsy and she, both growing more excited every minute, kept pushing each other away from the hole the better to look into it, until at last two little beads of eyes glared out at them, and then it was an easy thing for Tattine to reach in and draw out the prettiest puppy of all. âWhy didnât you tell us there were five, Betsy, and save us all this extra trouble?â and Tattine hurried away to deposit number five in the kennel; but Betsy looked up with the most reproachful look imaginable as though to say, âHow much talking could you do if you had to do it all with your eyes and a tail?â CHAPTER IV. MORE TROUBLES Patrick Kirk was raking the gravel on the road into pretty criss-cross patterns, and Tattine was pretending to help him with her own garden rake. Patrick was one of Tattineâs best friends and she loved to work with him and to talk to him. Patrick was a fine old Irishman, there was no doubt whatever about that, faithful and conscientious to the last degree. Every morning he would drive over in his old buggy from his little farm in the Raritan Valley, in abundant time to begin work on the minute of seven, and not until the minute of six would he lay aside spade or hoe and turn his steps towards his old horse tied under the tree, behind the barn. But the most attractive thing about Patrick was his genial kindly smile, a smile that said as plainly as words, that he had found life very comfortable and pleasant, and that he was still more than content with it notwithstanding that his back was bowed with work month in and month out, and the years were hurrying him fast on into old age. And so Tattine was fond of Patrick, for what (child though she was) she knew him to be, and they spent many a delightful hour in each otherâs company. âPatrick,â said Tattine, on this particular morning, when they were raking away side by side, âdoes Mrs. Kirk ever have a day at home?â and she glanced at Patrick a little mischievously, doubting if he would know just what she meant. âShure she has all her days at home, Miss Tattine, save on a holiday, when we go for a dayâs drive to some of our neighborsâ, but I doubt if Iâm catching just what youâre maning.â âOh! I mean does she have a day sometimes when she gets ready for company and expects to have people come and see her, the way ladies do in town?â âWell, no, miss; she donât do that, for, tin to one, nobodyâd come if she did. We belongs to the workinâ classes, Molly and I, and we has no time for the doing of the loikes of city people.â âIâm sorry she hasnât a day,â said Tattine, âbecause--because--â âIf yeâre maning that youâd like to give us a call, miss,â said Patrick, beginning to take in the situation, âshure she could have a day at home as aisy as the foinest lady, and proud indeed sheâd be to have it with your little self for the guest of honor.â âI would like to bring Rudolph and Mabel, Patrick.â âAnd what should hinder, miss?â âAnd Iâd like to have it an all-day-at-home, say from eleven in the morning until five in the afternoon, and not make just a little call, Patrick.â âOf course, miss, a regular long day, with your donkey put into a stall in the barn, and yourselves and the donkey biding for the best dinner we can give ye.â âAnd Iâd like to have you there, Patrick, because we might not feel AT HOME just with Mrs. Kirk.â âWell, I donât know, miss; do you suppose your Father could spare me?â and Patrick thought a little regretfully of the dollar and a half he would insist upon foregoing if he took a day off, but at the same moment he berated himself soundly for having such an ungenerous thought. âIndade, miss, if youâll manage for me to have the day Iâll gladly stay to home to make ye welcome.â âThen itâs settled, Patrick, and weâll make it the very first day Papa can spare you.â They had raked down, while they had been having this conversation, to close proximity to two pretty rows of apple-trees that had been left on the front lawn, a reminder of the farm that âused to be,â and the sight of the trees brought a troubled look into Tattineâs face. âPatrick,â she said ruefully, âdo you know that some of the nests in these trees have been robbed of their eggs? Four or five of them are empty now. Have you an idea who could do such a thing?â âYes, I have an idea,â and Patrick rested his hands upon the handle of his rake and looked significantly towards the barn; âsomebody who lives in the barn, Iâm thinkinâ.â âWhy, Joseph would not do it, nor Philip the groom, and little Joey is too small to climb these trees.â âItâs something smaller than Joey, miss. Whisht now, and see if sheâs not up to mischief this minute.â Tattineâs little black-and-white kitten, whose home was in the barn, had been frisking about her feet during all the raking, but as the raking came under the apple-trees, other thoughts came into her little black-and-white head, and there she was stealthily clawing her way up the nearest tree. Tattine stood aghast, but Patrickâs âwhishtâ kept her still for a moment, while the cat made its way along one of the branches. Tattine knowing well the particular nest she was seeking, made one bound for her with her rake, and with such a scream as certainly to scare little Black-and-white out of at least one of the nine lives to which she is supposed to be entitled. But pussy was too swift and swiftly scrambled to the very topmost twig that would hold her weight, while Tattine danced about in helpless rage on the grass beneath the tree. âTattine is having a fit,â thought little Black-and-white, scared half to death and quite ready to have a little fit of her own, to judge from her wild eyes and bristling tail. Tattineâs futile rage was followed in a few minutes by, âOh, Patrick, I never dreamt it was Kittie. Has SHE been TRAINED to do it, do you think?â âOh. no, miss; it just comes natural to cats and kittens to prey upon birds and birdsâ nests.â âPatrick,â said Tattine solemnly, âthere is not going to be any four-legged thing left for me to love. I am done with Betsy and Doctor, and now Iâm done with Black-and-white. I wonder if Mamma can make it seem any better,â and then she turned her steps to the house in search of comfort, but she had gone only half-way when the coachman, who was waiting at the door with the little grey mare and the phaeton, motioned to her to come quietly. Tattine saw at a glance what had happened, and sped swiftly back to Patrick. âKeep Black-and-white up the tree,â she said, in a breathless whisper; âdonât let her go near the nest, and donât let her come down for the world. The little Phoebe-birds have lit.â âAll right, miss,â not at all understanding the situation, but more than willing to obey orders. Tattine was in such haste to get back to the house that she hardly heard his answer. What she had tried to tell him was that the five little fledglings, crowded into the tiny nest under the eaves of the porch, had taken it into their heads to try their first flight at that precise moment, and there they were perched on the shafts of the phaeton, lighting, as it seemed, on the first thing they came to, while the father and mother birds were flying about in frantic anxiety to see them in such a perilous situation. How could those tiny little untrained claws keep their hold on that big round, slippery shaft, and if the carriage started down they would surely go under the wheels or under the feet of that merciless little grey mare. But the little fledglings were in better hands than they knew, for, with the exceptions of Betsy, Doctor, and Black-and-white, every living thing at Oakdene was kind to every other living thing. âWhoa, girlie; whoa, girlie,â had been Patrickâs quieting words to Lizzie, and then when Tattine came hurrying that way he had motioned her to come quietly for fear of frightening them. Then, as you know, Tattine flew to make sure that treacherous Black-and-white was kept close guarded, and then back she flew again to the aid of the little birds themselves. Softly she drew nearer and nearer, saying over gently, âWhoa, Lizzie! dear little birdies!â until she came very near and then she put out one hand towards them. That was enough for the fledglings. Refreshed by their rest on the shafts, they flapped their tiny wings and fluttered up to the anxious mother bird on the branches above them, wholly unconscious that they had been in any peril whatsoever. âAnd Black-and-white would have killed them, every one, if she had had the chance,â thought Tattine; âoh, if I only knew how to teach her a lesson!â CHAPTER V. THE KIRKS AT HOME Barney the donkey was harnessed, and Tattine sat in the little donkey-cart waiting, and as she waited she was saying aloud, âWhat, Grandma Luty? Yes, Grandma Luty. No, Grandma Luty. What did you say, Grandma Luty?â and this she said in the most polite little tone imaginable. Meantime Rudolph and Mabel, discovering that Tattine did not see them, came stealing along under cover of the apple-trees. âWhatever is Tattine doing, talking to herself like that?â whispered Mabel, and then they came near enough to hear what she was saying. âSheâs out of her head,â said Rudolph, when they had listened some moments, and then Tattine turned round and saw them. âNo, Iâm not out of my head at all,â she laughed; âI was just practicing a little while I waited for you.â âPracticing your GRANDMOTHER,â which as you have observed was a pet expression with Rudolph, whenever he wished to intimate that he considered your remarks to be simply absurd. âYes, thatâs exactly it,â Tattine answered good-naturedly. âI am practicing my Grandmother. Grandma Luty, thatâs Mammaâs mother, has come to make us a visit, and Mamma has discovered that Iâm not very polite to old people. Children used to be taught, you know, to say, âYesâm,â and âYes, sir,â but now that is not considered nice at all, and you must always say the name of the person you are speaking to, especially if they are older people, to whom you ought to be respectful,â and Tattine sounded quite like a little grandmother herself as she talked. âYes, we know, and itâs an awful bother,â sighed Rudolph. âWeâre fairly nagged about it, Mabel and I, but Mother says sheâs going to keep it up until we always do it. Perhaps we would get on faster if we practised by ourselves as you do, but really, Tattine, it did sound as though you were out of your head, to hear you saying all those sentences over to yourself.â While the children were having this little talk about politeness, Rudolph and Mabel had climbed into the wagon, and the donkey, acting upon a suggestion from Tattineâs whip, had started down the roadway. The trio were off for Patrickâs, for this was to be the day of the Kirksâ âAt Home,â and, dressed in kis Sunday-best, Patrick that very minute was waiting at his door to receive them. Full two miles lay ahead of the children, and though Barney fortunately seemed to be in the mood for doing his best, Patrick would still have a full half-hour to wait. At last the donkey-cart drew up at the Kirksâ door and two happy old people welcomed three happy little people into their comfortable little home. It would take another book, the size of this one, to tell you all the doings of that August day. First they went into the house and laid their wraps on the white coverlid of the great high feather-bed in the little spare room, and then Mrs. Kirk sat them down to three little blue bowls of bread-and-milk, remarking, âshure you must be after being hungry from your long drive,â and the children ate it with far more relish than home bread-and-milk was ever eaten. âNow Iâm doubting,â said Patrick, standing with his back to the cooking-stove and with a corn-cob pipe in his mouth, âif itâs the style to have bread-and-milk at âAt Homesâ in the city.â âPatrick,â answered Tattine seriously, âwe do not want this to be a city âAt Home.â I donât care for them at all. Everybody stays for just a little while, and everybody talks at once, and as loudly as they can, and at some of them they only have tea and a little cake or something like that to eat,â and Tattine glanced at the kitchen-table over by the window with a smile and a shake of the head, as though very much better pleased with what she saw there. A pair of chickens lay ready for broiling on a blue china platter. Several ears of corn were husked ready for the pot they were to be boiled in. A plate of cold
{'title': 'Tattine by Ruth Ogden', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}