Harper's Young People, January 10, 1882

THE STORY OF A LITTLE DOG'S TAIL

Flash was the name of the little dog whose tail I am going to tell you about. Flash's master was a great actor, whose name was David Garrick. Flash and his master lived more than a hundred years ago.

One evening the family and a number of their friends were at a theatre in the great city of London. Flash's master was on the stage, playing his part, while Flash was in the audience, lying on his mistress's lap.

The play was almost over, when a big countryman, whom nobody knew, came out on the stage, and spoke a piece that was called the epilogue. Everybody asked, "Who is he?"

"I don't know," said Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was a great artist, and painted beautiful portraits, to Miss Angelica Kauffman, a lovely young lady, who was also very famous as an artist.

"I don't know," said Dr. Burney to his daughter, Miss Fanny, who had written a charming story-book.

"I don't know," said Dr. Samuel Johnson to his friend Mr. Boswell, who had taken the liberty to nudge the great man's elbow.

"Can you tell me who that actor is?" asked Mrs. Thrale, the wife of a very wealthy brewer.

"No, I can not tell you who he is," replied Mrs. Garrick.

At this the little dog in Mrs. Garrick's lap jumped to his feet, pricked up his ears, looked toward the stage at the big countryman, and began to wag his tail.

Wig-wag, wig-wag, wig-wag went Flash's tail, and Mrs. Garrick said, "Why, it is my husband; Flash knows his master better than his own wife does."

"Sure enough, it is Mr. Garrick!" they all exclaimed.

"We might have known it," said Miss Kauffman.

"Yes, yes: yes, yes," replied Sir Joshua Reynolds. "You see, my dear young lady, the little dog knew more than all of us put together."

This is how Flash Garrick recognized his master, and told everybody in the theatre by the wagging of his little tail.

This is a true story, and it happened, as I told you, more than a hundred years ago.

MY FAMILY OF ORIOLES.

We were down in the country last summer, Fred and I, at Blackberry Farm. Fred is a bright, lively boy, nine years old, and everything there was novelty to him, for he had never been out of the city before, excepting once, when he was too young to notice and remember what he saw. Perhaps no boy who left New York in July enjoyed his vacation more than Fred did his two months at Blackberry Farm.

Among the residents at the farm-house was one Tiglath-Pileser, commonly called Tig for short, though Fred almost always gave him at least one of his two names in full in speaking either to him or of him. Tig was a very handsome Maltese cat, to whom his little mistress, who was very fond of him and very proud of him, had given this name of the old King of Assyria. Now Tig was a very industrious cat; he not only caught mice about the house and barn, but birds also out in the orchard, and once I saw him come in dragging a garter-snake much longer than himself.

One morning Fred came hurrying to the veranda, where I was sitting, closely followed by Tig, both of them in a state of great excitement.

"Oh, Uncle William, Tiglath has killed such a beautiful, beautiful bird! Only see! I made him give it up, though he tried hard to keep it."

And in fact Tig was at that very moment manifesting great dissatisfaction with the condition of things, and a decided determination to recover his property.

"Did you ever see such a beautiful bird, Uncle William? Tiglath-Pileser, keep your foot down. His head is so black and his breast is such a bright orange."

"Yes, Fred, there are few birds of more brilliant plumage which come so far north as New England. It is a Baltimore oriole, though if you should ask any one of the people about here, you would probably be told that it was a hang-bird, or perhaps a fire hang-bird – a name which they give it from the nest which it builds, and from its very bright colors. There are various species of orioles in other countries, but this and the orchard oriole are the only ones which are ever seen in New England."

"But why is he the Baltimore oriole if he comes here to Connecticut to live?"

"Who was the first Governor of the colony of Maryland, Fred?"

"Cecil Calvert, known as Lord Baltimore," replied Fred, in regular school-boy style.

"Yes; and when Lord Baltimore came to America his servants wore a livery of orange with black trimmings; and so this bird, which is very common in Maryland, was called the 'Baltimore oriole' from the colors of his coat. And it is very true of him, as it doubtless was of the servants just mentioned, that his wife and children are much more plainly dressed. The female bird and the young ones wear no such gay colors; you would scarcely suspect that they were part of his family. The people of Baltimore always speak of the oriole as 'our bird,' and if you had kept watch of the papers, Fred, you would have seen that last year in October, when they wanted to have a great festival to celebrate the completion of their splendid water-supply system, they called it 'The Baltimore Oriole Celebration.' Everywhere in the decorations, and in the dresses of the ladies, and in the scarfs and neckties of the gentlemen appeared the black and brilliant gold of the oriole."

"What does he live on, Uncle William? His bill is very smooth, and comes to a round, sharp point. It does not look as though he could bite anything hard."

"Ah! that bill, Fred, is a wonder. And it is not merely for eating that he uses it. You remember I told you the people called him hang-bird, because of the sort of nest he builds. Now that nest he never could build unless he had this curious bill. I must tell you a story about his mode of using his bill; but before I do it we will start out for a walk, and find one of their nests, if possible, even an old one of last year will do. We will put this dead bird away, so that we can examine him again. So, Tig, if you want a bird for your breakfast, you must go and catch another."

"Yes, Tiglath, we can not spare him, even though he does really belong to you. But you can go with us." So away we three went across the fields, Tig, however, soon wandering off in search of a mouse or something.

We had not gone very far before I espied an oriole's nest. It was on the extreme end of the branch of an apple-tree. Fred climbed it, and presently we had the nest in our hands. It was hung where a branch divided into two smaller twigs, and I showed Fred very easily how the bird had begun by fastening an end of a very long soft piece of grass to one of the twigs, and then fastening the other end to the other twig, so that the middle of the grass hung down in a long loop as much as five inches deep. Then it had made another loop, which hung across the first, and of the same depth, but this time the loop was made of a piece of bark. Then there was another loop – actually a string which the bird had found; and so it went on until there were seven or eight loops hanging.

"Now look at these other fibres, Fred, which run across and around the loops, and make a real basket of it. Do you see they go over one loop and under another, and so on? How do you suppose they were put there? There is where that shape of the bill which you noticed comes into play. Come, let us go back to the house, where you can have the bird and the nest together, and I will tell you the story, and you shall see for yourself."

We were soon quietly seated on the veranda, Fred all eagerness for a lesson in ornithology.

"The story is about a family of young orioles, three of them, which I took from their nest just before they were large enough to fly away. Perhaps it was cruel to take them, on their mother's account, but she seemed to care very little about it, and in a few days they would have left her anyway. I carried them to my room, and put them in a large open cage, where I thought they would be as comfortable as possible.

"Knowing that their mother fed them on berries and insects, I gave them plenty of both; but they would not touch them, and all that day they ate nothing. Next morning I tried them again, but it was of no use, and fearing they would starve, I was about to carry them back to the old nest, hoping their mother could do better with them than I could, when an accident showed me how to manage them.

"I was at that time making a collection of birds, and on my working-table lay the body of a robin, whose skin I had just prepared and stuffed. I had one of the little orioles sitting on my finger, when he hopped off on the table, and seeing a piece of the flesh of the robin, he swallowed it on the instant. As he seemed to like that sort of food, I cut him another piece, and down it went like a flash, and I continued to feed him until he could eat no more, and then I brought out his brother and sister and fed them in the same manner.

"After that I had no trouble in keeping them supplied with food, and they grew rapidly. They never ate anything but the flesh of the birds which I was skinning daily. I had no suspicion that such birds would eat meat at all, nor do I think that it is generally known. Neither Mr. Audubon nor any other writer mentions any such habit as belonging to them; but these little fellows were very fond of it, and they certainly throve well on it.

"Of course they were soon strong enough to fly, and I left the door of their cage open for them to come and go as they pleased. They grew very tame, and soon learned to come to the table and get food themselves. They always slept in the cage, but during the day they were everywhere about the room. They grew so much attached to me, that the instant I entered the room every bird with a loud chirrup would start for me with his utmost speed, lighting on the top of my head, on my shoulders, on my finger when I held it out to them – anywhere that they could find a place.

"If a stranger came with me, they were doubtful; would let him take them, and possibly sit a minute on his finger, but nothing more. It was when one of them was sitting on my finger that I first learned that curious use of his bill in nest-building of which I spoke before we went out.

"I had brought him up to my face, when, to my great surprise, he put the point of his bill between my lips, and tried to pry them open. I tried him again, and he did it the second time. I lifted one of the others, the female, and she used her bill in the same manner. It occurred to me at once that that was the way in which they built their nests. I watched them constantly, and became perfectly certain that I was right. They would try to pry open my fingers; if I separated my lips, they would try to part my teeth. They often went up to books, and put in the point of the bill to pry apart the leaves, opening the bill each time with all their strength."

"And is that the way, Uncle William, he has done with this nest? Sure enough, I can see. Look! – look here! that piece of grass has gone under this loop, and then it comes over, and here it goes under again."

"That is just what the bird did, Fred. At first it was all open work, and easy; but as the nest was getting nearly finished, the bill was shoved in under that loop and opened widely, and the grass passed through, and so on one after the other. And the nest could not have been made as you see it now except for that singular way of using the bill.

"But I must tell you more of their doings. They soon learned that their food came from birds, and that it was because I skinned the birds, and they learned just how I did it. If a bird lay on the table, they gave no attention to him till I sat down ready for work. Then every oriole flew immediately to the table; but each one looked around carelessly, as though he had come there by accident, and had nothing particular on his mind. They would walk about, and try to pry open books and whatever else came in their way, and very often I waited some time, just to try them and see what they would do. I would profess to read something, as though skinning a bird was not in my thoughts at all.

"But no; they knew better; one would look up at me, and then another, and then they would run about again, but all the while keeping a sly and cunning watch of me; they knew they would get the better of me in a few minutes. For the instant I took up the bird, turned him on his back, and raised my knife, a rush was made, and there they stood watching for the first bite.

"It was a most comical sight, and time and time again I used to laugh to see them. I parted the bird's feathers with two fingers of my left hand, almost always with an oriole on each finger, while three little heads were thrust close down, and as I cut through the skin; in went three bills digging and tearing for a mouthful each."

"Oh, Uncle William, what a strange thing! Do tell me what ever became of the little orioles! What did you do with them in the winter, when there were no birds for them to eat?"

"Two of them, the female and one of the males, died very shortly after they were fully grown. The other used to fly in and out of the window as he pleased, into the orchard, and across to the woods. The first time he went out he seemed quite uncomfortable, and called very loudly for me to come and bring him back again, and when I climbed up the apple tree to him, he hopped on my finger, and settled himself down in a contented way that showed he was very glad to be at home again. But after a number of excursions he learned to prefer living out-of-doors, and doubtless went to the South in the autumn with the others of his kind."

It is early morning in a cathedral town of Germany, and a boy is muffling his head in the bedclothes, trying to keep out the sound of bells and the sight of the bright sun-beams. His comrade, however, is doing all he can to arouse him.

"Go away, I say," is all the reply to these well-meant efforts. "What's the use of getting up to be knocked about and scolded? When mother was here, one was sure of a cup of hot milk and a kind word. I'm going to sleep again. Do hush! There, take that!" and he gave his friend a cuff on the ear.

The friend howled, which sent a pang through the boy's heart. He stretched out his hand with a gesture prompted by remorse.

"Come here, come here. I've given you just what I don't like for myself, poor fellow. I beg your pardon."

His face was well washed after that by a dog's warm tongue, which had also the effect of waking the boy very thoroughly. The conversation too went on.

"Turk, old dog, you're the best friend I have in the world, and if you didn't wake me up every day, I'd never be in school. Since mother's death, father is so cross and still and dull! he does nothing but work, work, work. But my rose-tree must be planted to-day, and if I don't do it now, I don't know when I will have the chance."

So saying, he dressed rapidly, tossed open his lattice, and took a small plant from the window-sill, ran down the outside flight of steps leading from the door of his father's shop, paused a moment to snatch up a roll and his bag of books, and then with his dog hurried down the village street.

He was soon past the houses and shops, and nearing the vast towers of the great church, which was but partly finished; and as he looked up at the points and pinnacles of heaven-aspiring height a thought which had long been in his mind burst into bloom.

It was a simple thought, but a religious one, and it so absorbed him that for a while he forgot his errand, and stood gazing up into the pure sky, blue as forget-me-nots. He was startled, however, by the village bells and clocks, and a hurrying group of workmen approaching, so he quickly sought out a lonely grave, took his plant from its pot, and digging a little hole, set the rose-bush in it.

Quick as he was, he was yet too late for school, and received frowning disapprobation from the master as he took his seat.

Unfortunately Felix was often late, often too his lessons were unprepared. But he was so ready to make amends, and was so quick in learning, that he could get on better than the duller pupils who labored more systematically.

But to-day everything went wrong; his head was full of fancies, and with his ready pencil he was sketching when he should have been studying, scrawling scrolls and rose-windows over his Latin, and sending flocks of pigeons up and down the margin of oceans and continents. He stumbled at his lessons, he bothered those who knew them, and perplexed those who did not, until the master's patience was exhausted, and he gave him a sound thrashing.

After that there was silence, sullenness, and an appearance of work, but a sudden roar of laughter from the boys made the master look up. Felix was bending over his book as if he were the only one undisturbed. The master was not, however, easily deceived.

"Come here, Felix."

"Yes, sir;" and the lad slowly obeyed.

"Give me that book."

"I'd rather not, sir."

"Give it to me."

Now Felix had a real liking for his master, and was usually sorry for offending him; but the whipping had not been beneficial, although his conscience told him that it was deserved. He presented the book. On its fly-leaf was a drawing of the master – a very clever caricature – as Cupid drawing his bow at a group of girls, who, with much disdain and derision, were pelting him with sticks and stones.

The master's face flushed at the disrespect; but he quietly laid the book aside, and proceeded with his duties, Felix remaining standing.

The recitations went on, the hum of study, the drawl of the lazy ones, and the quick, eager replies of the ambitious. Felix was forgotten.

The boy began to think he had made a mistake. What had he gained by misconduct? Where were the thoughts of the morning under the cathedral windows? How was he fitting himself to work on the beautiful structure which was to be the medium of praise and prayer for multitudes, in the long ages to come? And yet he knew this had been his mother's hope and wish. Was he making good use of the talents God had given him?

He was looking out the window now, watching the lights and shadows on the carved stone of buttress and gable.

The boys were dismissed. He sat down to the extra tasks assigned him. He was hungry, he was miserable, but he plodded on, and finished his work. The master bade him go, and he went, but not home.

He lingered about the cathedral, watching the workmen. Finally he became fascinated by their employment; and taking up their tools, worked out a leaf pattern on a bit of refuse stone. The men left him there. Tired and faint, he sought his mother's resting-place. The rose was drooping for want of water.

"Come, it is time you were home," said a familiar voice.

Felix looked up astonished. It was the master.

"You must go with me to your father. I wish to speak to him."

Felix obeyed. The climax had come. His father was stern and hard, and the master, of course, would have a sorry tale to tell.

Fortunately the village people had gone in to their evening meal, and he would be spared the disgrace of being seen conducted like a culprit to his father. He did not speak a word, nor did the master, but shame and remorse were written on every feature. He felt as if he were a criminal about to receive sentence – a sentence, too, which was deserved, and which justice demanded.

"Well, what now, Herr Professor, is the matter?" asked the father, grimly surveying his son.

"Felix is in trouble again, Mr. Zimmerman."

"Hah! idle as usual – good for nothing – won't study?"

"Yes, a little of all, I am sorry to say. But I have a remedy to propose."

"A thrashing, of course."

"No, once a day is enough. We've tried that; it did not answer in this case as well as it does sometimes. May I have the pleasure of Master Felix's company to supper?"

"What, sir, you want the boy to be rewarded for bad behavior?"

"Not at all – not at all. Run away, Felix; get your face washed and your jacket on, and you shall be my guest for this evening."

Felix was almost too much surprised to be able to move, but without daring to question his father, he did as the master told him. While he was gone, a conversation went on between Mr. Zimmerman and the teacher.

It is not necessary to repeat it; but Felix saw a different expression on his father's face when, neatly dressed, he came down the steps and followed the master home.

He was fearfully hungry, and yet almost ashamed to take the good broth and bread which were set before him in the master's quaint and quiet little parlor; they somehow choked him; and as he looked about at the book-covered shelves and old engravings, the detestable caricature he had drawn in the morning danced before his eyes.

At last he could stand it no longer. The teacher seemed to have disappeared, and only this kind, genial host sat opposite him, heaping up his plate and bowl.

"Herr Professor," he stammered, "I beg your pardon – indeed I do."

"I am very glad to hear that, my boy; but don't think any more about it just now," was the response, and filling his pipe, wreaths of smoke began to play about the old man's head.

"It is a great pity that a lad of your talent should waste any time, Felix, and if you are willing, I think your father will let me give you drawing lessons."

Felix could hardly believe his ears.

"To be sure, you will have to apply yourself more diligently, be prompt and industrious, or all the lessons in the world won't make a man of you."

"I'll try," said Felix, though a mist was in his eyes.

"That's right," said the Professor, and then he opened some great volumes full of pictures, and the boy gazed in delighted wonder at a world more beautiful than his dreams. Not an allusion did the Professor make again to anything that had happened during the day.

When evening was over, and he courteously bade him good-night, Felix was dazed, and went home with light steps to his little bed.

As soon as Turk woke him next morning he sprang up with alacrity, and would have been off with the dawn to water his rose-bush, but his father detained him.

"Felix," said he, somewhat sternly, "the master says there's good stuff in you if you'll use it. Come here and eat your breakfast before you go, and let me hear what you have to say for yourself."

"I'll try," was the sum and substance of Felix's talk over his brown bread and milk.

Ten years after this there was a great celebration in the town, for the cathedral was finished. Cannon thundered, bells pealed, and a grand "Te Deum" was chanted to the rolling rhythm of the magnificent organ.

A group of visitors standing near a certain pillar of great beauty were applauding it, while they complimented a young architect and sculptor, whose work it was. His head was modestly bent as he received the commendation, but in a moment he raised it, and turning to a very old man in a professor's gown, whose hair was white with the snows of many winters, he took him by the hand and presented him to the visitors.

"Gentlemen, this is the person you must thank for the pillar. Whatever beauty it possesses, whatever expression it is of truth and religion, is due to my master, whose kindness rescued me from idleness, whose skill directed my youthful efforts."

Sleep, little daughter!

Ay, chill is the weather,

But we in our cottage

Are cheerful together.

Father is sailing

Across the wild water;

Father in heaven

Smiles down on my daughter!

Sleep, little daughter!

The wind is abating;

Father is sailing,

And mother is waiting.

Soon he will come,

In the soft sunny weather;

Father in heaven

Will bring us together.

I don't like Mr. Travers as much as I did. Of course I know he's a very nice man, and he's going to be my brother when he marries Sue, and he used to bring me candy sometimes, but he isn't what he used to be.

One time – that was last summer – he was always dreadfully anxious to hear from the Post-office, and whenever he came to see Sue, and he and she and I would be sitting on the front piazza, he would say, "Jimmy, I think there must be a letter for me; I'll give you ten cents if you'll go down to the Post-office"; and then Sue would say, "Don't run, Jimmy; you'll get heart-disease if you do"; and I'd walk 'way down to the Post-office, which is pretty near half a mile from our house. But now he doesn't seem to care anything about his letters; and he and Sue sit in the back parlor, and mother says I mustn't go in and disturb them; and I don't get any more ten cents.