LITMIR.BIZ

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look ’ee here,” said Ransey, “if ye’re good and brings my letters every day, and hangs yer stockin’ out at Christmas-time, I may put somethin’ in it.”

      “Gur long, ye ragged young nipper!”

      Ransey was dandling Babs upon his knee, but he now put her gently down beside the cat. Then he jumped up.

      “I’se got to teach you a lesson,” he said to the boorish postman, “on the hadvantages o’ civeelity. I ain’t agoin’ to waste a good pertater on such a sconce as yours, don’t be afeard; but ’ere’s an old turmut (turnip) as’ll meet the requirements o’ the occasion.”

      It was indeed an old turnip, and well aimed too, for it caught the postman on the back of the neck and covered him with slush from head to toe.

      The lout yelled with rage, and flew at Ransey stick in hand. Next moment, and before he could deal the boy a blow, he was lying flat on the grass, with Bob standing triumphantly over him growling like a wild wolf.

      “Call off yer dog, and I won’t say no more about it.”

      “Oh, ye won’t, won’t ye? I calls that wery considerate. But look ’ee here, I ain’t agoin’ to call Bob off, until ye begs my parding in a spirit o’ humility, as t’old parson says. If ye don’t, I’ll hiss Bob on to ye, and ye’ll be a raggeder nipper nor me afore Bob’s finished the job to his own satisfaction.”

      Well, discretion is the better part of valour, and after grumbling out an apology, the postman was allowed to sneak off with a whole skin.

      Then Ransey kissed Bob’s shaggy head, and opened his letter.

      “Dear Sonnie, – Can’t get home before four days. Look after Babs. Your Loving Father.”

      That was all. The writing certainly left something to be desired, but it being the first letter the boy had ever received, he read it twice over to himself and twice over to Babs; then he put it away inside his New Testament.

      “Hurrah, Babs!” he cried, picking the child up again, and swinging her to and fro till she laughed and kicked and crowed with delight – “hurrah, Babs! we’ll all away to the woods. Murrams shall keep house, and we’ll take our dinner with us.”

      It was a droll procession. First walked Bob, looking extremely solemn and wise, and carrying Ransey’s fishing-rod. Close behind him came the tall and graceful crane, not quite so solemn as Bob; for he was catching flies, and his head and neck were in constant motion, and every now and then he would hop, first on one leg, and then on the other. Ransey Tansey himself brought up the rear, with a small bag slung in front of him, and Babs in a shawl on his back.

      Away to the woods? Yes; and there was a grand little stream there, and the boy knew precisely where the biggest fish lay, and meant to have some for supper. The leveret could hang for a few days.

      Arrived at his fishing-ground, where the stream swept slowly through the darkling wood, Ransey lowered his back-burden gently on the moss, and lay down on his face in front of her to talk Babs into the best of tempers.

      This was not difficult to do, for she was really a good-natured child; so he gave her his big clasp-knife and his whistle, and proceeded to get his rod in order and make a cast. Bob lay down beside the tiny mite to guard her. She could whistle herself, but couldn’t get Bob to do the same, although she rammed the whistle halfway down his throat, and afterwards showed him how she did it.

      Well, there are a few accomplishments that dogs cannot attain to, and I believe whistling is one of them.

      The fish were very kind to-day, and Ransey was making a very good bag. Whenever he had finished fishing in about forty yards of stream, he threw down his rod and trotted off back for Babs, and placed her down about twenty yards ahead of him, fished another forty yards and changed her position again, Bob always following close at the boy’s heels and lying down beside his charge, and permitting himself to be pulled about, and teased, and cuddled, and kissed one moment, and hammered over the nose with that tin whistle the next. Even when Babs tried to gouge his eye out with a morsel of twig, he only lifted his head and licked her face till, half-blinded, she had to drop the stick and tumble on her back.

      “You’s a funny dog, Bob,” she said; “’oor tisses is so lough (rough).”

      Of course they were. He meant them to be, for Bob couldn’t afford to lose an eye.

      I think the Admiral enjoyed himself quite as much as any one. He chose a bit of the stream for himself where the bank was soft, and there he waded and fished for goodness only knows what – beetles, minnows, tiny frogs, anything alive and easy to swallow.

      I don’t think, however, that the Admiral was a very good Judge of his swallowing capabilities. That neck of his was so very, very long, and though distensible enough on the whole, sometimes he encountered difficulties that it was almost impossible to surmount. Tadpoles slid down easily enough, so did flies and other tiny insects; but a too-big frog, if invited to go down head-foremost, often had a disagreeable way of throwing his hind-legs out at right angles to the entrance of the Admiral’s gullet. This placed the Admiral in a somewhat awkward predicament. No bird can look his best with its beak held forcibly agape, and the two legs of a disorderly frog sticking out one at each side.

      The crane would hold his head in the air and consider for a bit, then lower his face against the bank and rub one leg in, then change cheeks and rub the other in; but lo! while doing so, leg number one would be kicked out again, and by the time that was replaced out shot leg number two.

      It was very annoying and ridiculous. So the Admiral would step cautiously on to the green bank, and stride very humbly down the stream to Ransey Tansey, with his neck extended and his head on a level with his shoulders.

      “You see the confounded fix I’m in,” he would say, looking up at his master with one wonderfully wise eye.

      Then Ransey would pull out the frog, and the little rascal would hop away, laughing to himself apparently.

      “Crok – crok – cray – ay!” the Admiral would cry, and go joyfully back to his fishing-ground.

      But sometimes Mr Crane would swallow a big water-beetle, and if this specimen had a will of its own, as beetles generally have, it would catch hold of the side of the gullet and hang on halfway down.

      “I ain’t going another step,” the beetle would say; “it isn’t good enough. The road is too long and too dark.”

      So this disobliging beetle would just stop there, making a kind of a mump in the poor Admiral’s neck.

      When Ransey saw his droll pet stride out of the pool and walk solemnly towards a tree and lean his head against it, and close his eyes, the lad knew pretty well what was the matter.

      There is nothing like patience and plenty of it, and presently the beetle would go to sleep, relax its hold, and slip quietly down to regions unknown. There would be no more mump now, and the crane would suddenly take leave of his senses with joy.

      “Kaik – kaik – kay – ay?” he would scream, and go madly hopping and dancing round the tree, a most weird and uncanny-looking object, raising one leg at a time as high as he could, and swinging his head and neck fore and aft, low and aloft, from starboard to port, in such a droll way that Ransey Tansey felt impelled to throw himself on his back, so as to laugh without bursting that much-prized solitary suspender of his, while Bob sat up to bark, and Babs clapped her tiny hands and crowed.

      Ransey got tired of fishing at last, and made up his rod. There was some sort of silent joy or happiness away down at the bottom of the boy’s heart, and for a moment he couldn’t make out what was causing it. The big haul of fish he had caught? Oh, no; that was a common exploit. Having smashed the postman with a mushy turnip? That was capital, of course, but that wasn’t it. Ah! now he has remembered – father was coming home in four days. Hurrah! he must have some fun on the head of it. Ransey loved to have a good time.

      But, duty first. Babs was a good little girl – or a “dood ’ittle dirl,” as she phrased it – but even good girls get hungry sometimes. Babs must be fed. She held her arms straight out towards him.

      “Babs

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