Front Cover
 Front Matter
 Half Title
 Title Page
 Trouble no.1
 A picnic
 A set of setters
 More troubles
 The Kirks' "at home"
 Back Cover

Title: Tattine
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00087581/00001
 Material Information
Title: Tattine
Physical Description: 48 p. : ill. ; 22 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Ogden, Ruth, 1853-1927
Nister, Ernest ( Publisher )
E.P. Dutton (Firm) ( Publisher )
Publisher: Ernest Nister
E.P. Dutton & Co.
Place of Publication: London
New York
Publication Date: [1899?]
Subject: Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Animals -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Pets -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Parent and child -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Brothers and sisters -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Amusements -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Country life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Family stories -- 1898   ( local )
Bldn -- 1898
Genre: Family stories   ( local )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: England -- London
United States -- New York -- New York
Germany -- Bavaria
Statement of Responsibility: by Ruth Ogden (Mrs. Charles W. Ide).
General Note: Date of publication from inscription.
General Note: "305"--t.p.
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00087581
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002235076
notis - ALH5518
oclc - 262616606

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Front Matter
        Front Matter
    Half Title
        Page 1
        Page 2
    Title Page
        Page 3
        Page 4
    Trouble no.1
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
    A picnic
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
    A set of setters
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
    More troubles
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
    The Kirks' "at home"
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text


* L. d

S by

(rs. ChaLGos5 Ta.'I


^ulKor of
-pis LittIe 3oyal
Highn-ss, eto.

v t


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"'atlline succeeded in making her Iwa across
the lawrtn ack lo the door, allhouqb she
had four puppies in loir "


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CAkrCe5j W. Ic e)

COutkor of

"H-j jft(e 1 ya C iajnejs,"
"'i7 cittrCe Queen of Hec

V ZJoyat Jf fCe Cecd Coat, '


and "'ife Hor\eJpur."

New York
L.P. Dutton & C9

Frirded irn avaria

C rj5.

Ernest J.jter

9af ne-c

these real chil

have you speni
tiul American h

I I. ,1l i

"real boy."

these real chil

have you spend

tiful American h

" Oakdene,"

,. I ll,-ir I I i ,III. *,ries
II,. ,. ,t ,11 I j. 3 SO
rI : h' I a

, ,, l: r: F ,',: I, I', ,,,,_,,. r, F .n c h ,

n ..

,. :, :,, hl r ,: II,. th is
:r, i .- real

i *u -ii .iil I ,i i,....il Ii. is a I

And one thing is certain-all three of

dren would like no better fun than to

d a morning with them at their beau-


Yours very truly, ,


Bernardsville, New Jersey, U.S.A.






I :%?5.

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fu HETHER you happen to be
Sfour years old, 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.
SAt least, so thought little Tattine,
;ti liat troubled her the most was that
m. ic things seemed quite wrong, and yet
no one was able to right them.
All her little lile Tattine's Mother had been setting
things straight lor her, drying every tear, unravelling every
tangle, and Tattine was pretty down-hearted the day she
discovered that there were some things quite beyond even
her Mother's 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. Everything was


".'. i.


so peaceful and quiet, and the world seemed such a beauti-
ful place, that every now and again Tattine gave a soft
little laugh of pure happiness and light-hearted joy.
She was sitting up in an apple-tree, sketching, if you
please, and doing it pretty 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 little tower
that stood on a neighbour's 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. Doctor's beautiful grand-mother Tadjie was
lying, alas! under the grass instead of over it, not very
far away. It was a sad day for the dog world when Tadjie
went out of it, for although she was very old, she was
beautiful 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
other dogs or not.
Well, Tattine, who was much interested in her drawing,
was quite content to sit still up in the tree. She worked
away with a will, trying to do her very best, because this
particular picture was meant for a present to dear Grand-
But Doctor, who was little more than a puppy, was
very dull indeed. He lay with his head between his paws,
now gazing up at Tattine, and then at his mother, and
tried to be happy though quiet. Finally he stretched him-
self, and got on to 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, "I
can't stand this any longer. If you have any love for me,
do, please, come for a run;" and then Betsy took one long


stretch, and with motherly self-sacrifice reluctantly got up,
preparing to humour this lively boy of hers, when suddenly
Doctor craned his head high in the air, and gave a little
sniff, and then Betsy craned her head and sniffed, and then
they stole away as stealthily as though they were stepping
upon eggs, and Tattine never knew that they had gone.
It was no stealthy treading long, however. No sooner
had they crossed the roadway than they made sure of the
scent they thought they had discovered, and then it was
one wild rush down through the sumach and sweet-fern to the
ravine. Then in a few moments it was one wild rush up again.
By that time Tattine had finished her sketch, and,
looking down from her perch in the apple-tree, missed her
doggies. She raised herself upon the branch and began


calling, "Betsy, Doctor! Betsy, Doctor!" at the top of her
shrill little voice. But for once in their lives the dogs were
disobedient and refused to return, and very soon poor Tattine
discovered the reason why they did not answer to her call.
Away in the field she could see them chasing a dear
little rabbit. Oh so fast it ran, doubling this way and that,
to try and escape from its pursuers.
Tattine gave one horrified little scream. She could
scarcely believe her eyes. Surely it could not be her own
Betsy and Doctor who were cruelly chasing the poor terri-
fied little creature? The little girl gave a frightened sob; it
was no use calling to the dogs, they were much too excited
to heed her, but the tears rolled down her chubby cheeks
as she cried sadly, "Oh! Betsy, oh! Doctor, how could
But quite suddenly, just when Doctor's nose had almost
touched Bunny's tail, the rabbit turned aside and disappeared
down a hole in the side of a bank. Bunny was saved, for,
scratch as they might, the dogs could not follow him
through the long twisting underground passages which led
to his home. Tattine took a deep breath of relief, then she
wiped her eyes upon a corner of her pinafore, slid down
from the tree and trotted away to bring back the two culprits
and give them a good scolding.
But neither Betsy nor Doctor seemed in the least
ashamed of themselves; indeed, they waved their tails and
came barking and leaping towards Tattine as though they
had really done something to be proud of.
"You cruel, cruel dogs!" cried the little girl, "what-
ever made you do such a thing as this? I never dreamt
it of you-never! Just fancy if you had caught that poor
little rabbit, you might have killed it, and even now it
must be nearly frightened to death. I should like to know
how you would have liked it, Betsy, if someone had chased


Doctor when he was a little baby? Oh! you naughty,
naughty dogs, don't you ever do such a thing again."
Betsy's 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 fixed upon the hole into which the rabbit had dis-
appeared, until Tattine raised one plump little hand and

W' "

\ -,^ -?^ '"^^

gave him a slap that at last made him turn tail and slink
away to his own particular hole under the laundry porch.
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, that were 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.


"Mamma," she asked excitedly, "did you know that
Betsy or Doctor would do such a thing as this?" and
proceeded forthwith to tell the story of the rabbit chase.
Mrs. Gerald paused a moment, then she said reluctantly,
"Yes, I did."
"Have they done it before, Mamma?"
"I am sorry to say they have."
"Why did I never know it, Mamma?"
"You 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."
"I think it would have been better to tell me. It's
awful to find such a thing out suddenly about dogs you've
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. Mamma, I don't
believe there's anything meaner than a Laverack setter.
Still, Tadjie never would have done such a thing."
Mrs. Gerald was silent, and Tattine, expecting her to
confirm what she had said, grew a little suspicious. "Would
Tadjie have done it, Mamma ?" she asked, with a directness
that would not admit of indirectness.
"Yes, 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. They don't mean to be
cruel, and you must not be too hard upon your doggies,
girlie, just because they obey their instinct. It is very
difficult to explain things like this to you, but you must
take Mamma's word for it that Betsy and Doctor have not
been naughty, and you must try to forgive them, Tattine,
and only remember how dearly they both love you."
Tattine listened attentively to all this, and was in a


measure comforted. It seemed that Mamma was still able
to cheer matters up considerably, even when not able to
set everything exactly right.
So she kissed her, and then ran away to the kitchen,
where she begged for a saucer of milk and a piece of cake,
and then what do you think she did? She trotted away
to the field where the dogs had chased the rabbit, and set
the food down beside the rabbit-hole, and, stooping low, she
whispered, "That's for you, Bunny dear, because you were
frightened, and I hope it will make you feel better."
She went away and half an hour afterwards when she
went to look, the milk and the cake were gone, so she
hoped that Bunny had eaten them, though she could not
help looking a little suspiciously at Betsy and Doctor, whom
she had met coming away from the field, licking their lips.
Perhaps you would like to hear how the doggies came
to have such funny names. It was Tattine herself who had
given them to them. Long ago, when the little girl was
quite a baby, Betsy was a baby too, though she was not
called Betsy then. Tattine had a nurse who was called by
that name, and somehow or other it happened that "Betsy"
was the first word Tattine learnt to say, and when the
little fat roly-poly puppy was put into her chubby arms,
Miss Baby began to cry, "Betsy, Betsy," as plainly as she
could, and so "Betsy" the puppy was named. Tattine was
no longer a baby when Betsy's little son Doctor put in
an appearance. She was ill in bed with an attack of measles,
and very cross she was, I am sorry to say. You see, it
was very dull for her shut up in the sick-room with no
one to play with, for Mamma would not invite any of
her little friends to see her, because she said they might
take the measles and be ill too.
But one day when Tattine was tossing about in bed,
trying to find a cool place, and wishing that her head did


not ache so badly, she suddenly heard a scratching at the
door. It was not quite latched, so that by giving a little
push to it, Betsy, who was outside, was able to push it
open; then in she trotted, carrying a puppy in her mouth.
She put it down on the floor, and then went off for another
baby, and then another, so anxious and proud was she to
show her new family to her little mistress. But Tattine
had sprung out of bed and picked up the first puppy, and
when Mamma came into the room, she saw the little
creature cuddled up by her little girl's side, and they seemed
so happy together that she hadn't the heart to disturb them.
After that Tattine did not feel dull, for she was allowed
to keep the puppy for her very own, and she forgot to
be cross or to grumble when she had the dear little fellow
to watch and play with.
Very soon she began to get better, and Mamma said
that she really thought the puppy had something to do
with her rapid recovery, so Tattine said that he deserved
to be called "Doctor Puppy," and so he was, and Doctor
he is called to this day.

I c

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r~i4! t,


A TEAM came rushing in between the gate-posts of
the stone wall, and it looked like a run-away. The
horses 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 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,
she would have been tumbled over.
"Well, you are a team," laughed Tattine, and they
laughed back.
"Yes, we know we are," they said, and then sat down
in the porch 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 was "up to," Mabel
was "up to" also, and vice versa. It would have been


easier for those who had charge of them if one or the
other had held back now and then, and gone at a slower
pace, but as that was not their nature, 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 brother and sister to her as
to each other. This morning they had come over by invi-
tation for a long day's picnic in the woods. They were
to go quite by themselves, taking their dinner with them
in a basket, and they meant to be just as happy as the
day was long. Perhaps you will wonder that three such
little people should be allowed to go a-picnicking all by
themselves; but you see, the woods were quite near by, and
the children were so well known in those parts, that it
was almost impossible for them to come to harm-at all
events, they never had come to any harm so far, and they
had had many a day in the woods together.
"Well, I don't see what we are sitting here for," said
Mabel at length, after they had sat side by side upon the
steps of the porch for some minutes.
"Neither do I," answered Tattine, "except that I
thought I had better give you a chance to get a little
breath. You did not seem to have much left when you
reached here."
"No more we had," laughed Rudolph, who was still
taking little swallows and drawing an occasional long breath,
as people do when they have been exercising very vigor-
ously. "But we are rested now, and if everything is ready
we might as well start."
"Well, everything is ready," said Tattine quite com-
placently, as she led the way to the back porch, where
"everything" was lying. There were three baskets, one for
each of them, and into one was packed all sorts of pies
and cakes, into another the drinkables, consisting of milk



, Uj *:.1 ~~:

* .,Dr~

"' 'ery Ioon there wCas a fine fire blazmng,
rotLd wlch te lle ic rosy-cheekced
,qipsies danced erxulllnily."


81 ,



and lemonade, and there was another full of nice sweet
fruit. What more could three little people wish for?
So, taking their baskets on their arms, away they trudged,
down the path and out at the gate, pausing a moment to
wave good-bye kisses to Mamma, who was watching them
from an upper window.
When the children reached the wood it was too early for
them to eat their dinner, and after they had rested for awhile,
they began to wonder how they should amuse themselves.
"Suppose we play at gipsies?" said Tattine.
"Oh, yes!" screamed both the others.
"I'll tell you what!" Rudolph added; "suppose you
and I pretend to be real gipsies, and Mabel shall be a
little wandering girl in the wood, and we'll steal her and
hide her away, and then we'll pretend to be the papa and
mamma, and look for her again."
Tattine thought this a lovely plan, but Mabel was not
quite sure that she wanted to be stolen and hidden away;
it seemed to her that Rudolph and Tattine were going to
have the best of the fun. However, when Rudolph told
her she should be a little gipsy girl to begin with, and
help them light the gipsies' fire, she didn't mind so much.
"Of course, we must have a fire-all gipsies do," he
said; "but mind, I must be the one to light it, and lean
over it when we pretend to cook, because it's dangerous for
skirts or fluffy hair, like yours and Mabel's, to go near the
fire, and our Mammas wouldn't ever trust us out alone
again if you were burnt. But you girls can go and collect
wood and pile it up here."
Mabel and Tattine both laughed at Rudolph, and called
him "grandfather," but they went to collect the wood, built
a nice big fire on the spot Rudolph cleared for the purpose,
and then stood wondering how they should light it.
"What a pity we didn't think of bringing matches!"


said Tattine, but Rudolph was tugging away at something in
his pocket, and presently brought out a big box of matches.
"Oh, Rudolph, how did you think of them? you didn't
know we should want to light a fire."
"Well, I really borrowed them from Dinah when I
wanted to set my steam-engine going," Rudolph confessed,
"and then I put them in my pocket and forgot all about them."


.^*ssfs1. 'f

-" ,.
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Very soon there was a fine fire blazing, round which
the little rosy-cheeked gipsies danced exultingly, and by
that time they had begun to feel hungry; so they sat down
and had dinner, although it was really not nearly dinner-time.
After that began a most delightful game. Mabel went
for a walk, and suddenly two fierce gipsies, or wild Indians-
they were not quite sure which-pounced down upon her,


seized her, tied her hands together with dried grass, and
bore her away to a secret cave, from which it was impos-
sible for her to escape. Then the gipsies, or Indians, went
away and began to smooth down their ruffled locks and
turned themselves into a nice respectable papa and mamma,
who were going to look for their poor lost little girl.
But the frantic chase after Mabel had made them hot
and thirsty, so they peeped into the fruit basket, and there
lay three such tempting-looking peaches that they couldn't
resist sitting down to eat one each.
In the meanwhile, Mabel, who had a fine spice of mis-
chief in her, had bitten with her sharp white teeth the
grass ropes, which bound her hands, in two, and had stolen
out of her prison and was running as fast as ever she
could away from Rudolph and Tattine. The last day they
had been to the woods Mabel had found a splendid "hidie-
hole," and had kept the secret to herself, meaning to give
the others some trouble to find her when next they played
at "hide-and-seek."
When she reached the place, she parted the creepers
which grew over the entrance, and crept through into the
hollow trunk of an old oak-tree. She too was hot and
thirsty, and she had run so fast that she was quite out of
breath; so she sat down to recover herself, gazing up at
the blue sky through the tangle of creepers.
As she sat there, with the drowsy hum of the wild
bees in her ears, she gave a great yawn. Her eyelids
seemed suddenly to have grown very heavy, so she shut
them, and in two seconds she was as fast asleep as a little
girl could be, so fast that she never heard Tattine and
Rudolph calling to her and begging her to come back, but
never awoke until they had given up the search in despair,
and had gone home to tell Mamma that Mabel was lost.
Rudolph and Tattine had had a very good time together


searching for the lost child, but when at length Rudolph
exclaimed, "Here she is," and sprang into the place where
he had last left her, both he and Tattine were very much
surprised to find she had gone. They searched and searched
in vain, and at last Tattine began to cry, for she thought
that some real gipsies must surely have come and taken
her away. Rudolph was a little frightened himself, although
he put a bold face on it, and declared that Mabel must
have run home.
But when they reached home there was no Mabel
there, and Mamma herself was beginning to look anxious
when in ran the little girl, a trifle cross, and wanting to
know why Rudolph and Tattine had gone home without
looking for her.
"But we did," they both cried; "we looked and looked,
and couldn't find you anywhere."
"And Tattine cried because she thought you were lost,"
Rudolph added.
At first Mabel could scarcely believe that she had slept
for early two hours, whilst the other two could not believe
that she had been lying hidden so close to them without
their being able to find her, and as soon as they had rested
they were very anxious to go back to the wood and see
Mabel's "hidie-hole."
But Mamma said that it was too late for them to go
back that day, and that they would overtire themselves, so
that they had better finish their picnic in the garden.
And this they decided to do, especially, as Mabel said,
"the 'hidie-hole' couldn't run away, and they could have a
picnic another day on purpose to go and find it."


T was a great bird-year at Oakdene. Never had there been
so many. The same dear old Phcebe-birds were back,
building under the eaves of both the front and back porch.
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 under-
stood until Dr. Van Dyke told us, in his beautiful little poem,
that it is "witchery, witchery, witchery," 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 glimmering 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 "Hark,
what was that ?"-Mabel and Rudolph and Tattine were run-
ning across the end of the porch, and it was Rudolph who
brought them to a standstill.
The sound the children heard was just "squeak, squeak,
squeak," and "whimper, whimper, whimper," and for some
time they could not think what the funny little noises meant.
But presently Tattine's sharp little ears discovered the truth.
"It's puppies under the piazza, that's what it is," she
declared; "where ever did they come from, and how ever do
you suppose they got here ?"
"I think it's a good deal more important to know how
you'll ever get them out," answered Rudolph, who was of a
practical turn of mind.
"I'll tell you what," answered Tattine thoughtfully, "I
shouldn't wonder if they belong to Betsy. I've seen her
squeezing herself through one of the air-holes under the piazza
several times lately," whereupon the children of course hurried
off to peer through the air-hole.
Nothing was to be seen, however, for the piazza floor was
not more than a foot above ground, and it was filled with all
sorts of weeds that flourish 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, and he
had rather to worm himself along on his elbows in a quite.
indescribable fashion. Still, Tattine and Mabel were more than
ready to have him try, and waited outside, bending over with


their hands upon their knees, and gazing in through the weed-
grown hole in a breathless, excited fashion.
"I believe I'll have to give it up," Rudolph called back;
"the cries seem as far off as ever, and I'm all but scratched to
"Oh, don't! don't !" cried Tattine and Mabel, in one breath,
and Mabel added, "We must know what they are and where
they are. I shall go in myself if you come out."
"Well, you wouldn't go more than three feet then, I can
tell you," 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. "Well, here
they are at last!" he cried exultingly, a few moments later;
"one, two, three, four of them-perfect little beauties too.
And they must belong to Betsy; they're just like her."
"Bring one out, bring one out!" called both the children,
fairly dancing with delight.
"Bring out your grandmother! It's all I can manage to
bring myself out, without holding on to a puppy."
"Very well," Tattine called out, with her usual instant
acceptance of the inevitable, "but I know what," and then she
ran off in a flash, with Mabel following closely to discover
what "what" might be. Joseph the gardener was Tattine's
destination, and she found him, where she thought she would,
hoeing potatoes in the kitchen-garden. "What 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."
Joseph followed obediently. "Guess we'll have to let
them stay there till they crawl out," said Joseph. "Betsy'll
take as good care of them there as anywhere." 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 they were quite too much pre-occupied


to tell him so, but Rudolph happily felt himself repaid for
hardships endured, in the delight of his discovery.
"It will be a month before they'll be able to crawl out,"
he remarked to Joseph, "and they're wedged in between some
old planks in a very uncomfortable fashion. They look like
fine little fellows too. I think we ought to manage in some
way to get them out."


"And it would be bad if any of them died there," said
Joseph, scratching his head, "very bad. Well, we'll have to
see what we can do about it."
"Will you see right away?" urged Tattine eagerly.
"May as well, I reckon," and Joseph walked off in the
direction of the tool-house, but, to Tattine's regret, evidently
did not appreciate any need for extreme haste.


In a little while he was back again with .Patrick; both of
them were carrying shovels.
"There's only one way to do it," he explained, as they
set to work. "You see, the pillars of this porch rest on a stone
foundation, so as to support the.rooms above, and we'll have
to dig out three or four of the large stones and then dig a
sort of trench to wherever the puppies are," and Rudolph was,
of course, able to point out the exact spot to which the trench
must lead.
It was the work of an hour to dig out the foundation-
stones and of another half-hour to make the trench. Mean-
time Betsy appeared on 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 or Patrick, and then one at a
time he brought the dear little fellows out, and Mabel and
Tattine took turns in holding them, while Betsy eyed them
proudly, though a little anxiously. And they were sweet; as
beautifully marked as their beautiful grandmother, Tadjie, and
too pretty for words.
"You have given us a great deal of trouble, Betsy," said
Tattine, "but the puppies are such beauties we forgive you,"
whereat Betsy looked up so affectionately that Tattine added,
"and perhaps some day I'll forget all about the way you chased
that rabbit, since Mamma says it's natural for you to hunt
But Betsy did not care a thing about rabbits just then;
all her 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 Betsy's 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.
"Rudolph ought to have made sure how many there were,"
he said rather crossly.
"But, Joseph, this puppy cry comes from another place-
away over there, it seems to me," said Tattine, pointing to a
spot several yards from that under which the others had been
found. "I 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 the way Rudolph missed finding it."
Joseph put his hand to his ear and, listening carefully,
concluded that Tattine was right. "Now, I'll tell you what I'm
going to do," he said; "I can make just a little hole, large
enough for a puppy to get through, without taking out a founda-
tion-stone, and I'm going to make it here, near where the
cry seems to come from. Then I'm going to tie Betsy to this
pillar of the porch, and I believe she'll have sense enough to
try and coax the little fellow out, and if he is such an enter-
prising little chap as you think, he'll have sense enough to
come out."
It seemed a good plan. Betsy was brought, and Tattine
sat down to listen and to 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.
Tattine's ears, which were dear little shells of ears to look at,
and 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, growing more excited every minute, kept
pushing each other away from the hole the better to look into
it, until at last two round beads of eyes glared out at them,


and it was an easy thing for Tattine to reach in and draw out
the prettiest puppy of all.
I think the children loved this puppy better than any of
the others, because there had been so much trouble to get
him out, and so much excitement when his funny little nose
came poking out of the hole.
"Why didn't you tell us there were five, Betsy, and save
us all this extra trouble ?" asked Tattine, hurrying away to place
number five in the kennel.
But Betsy looked up with the most reproachful look
imaginable, as if to say, "How much talking could you do,
I should like to know, if you had to do it all with your eyes
and tail?"



ATRICK KIRK was raking the
gravel on the road into pretty
s criss-cross patterns, and Tattine
was pretending to help him with her
yi ,.' own garden rake. Patrick was one of
Tattine's best friends, and she loved
Sto work with him and to talk to him.
i Patrick was a fine old Irishman, there
was no doubt about that, faithful and
conscientious to the last degree.
Every morning he would drive
over in his old cart from his little
farm, in abundant time to begin
work on the stroke of seven, and
/" not until the stroke of six would
She 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 other's company.
"Patrick," said Tattine, on this particular morning, when
they were raking away side by side, "does Mrs. Kirk ever
have a day at home?" and she glanced at Patrick a little
mischievously, doubting if he would know just what she
"Shure she has all her days at home, Miss Tattine, save
on a holiday, when we go for a day's drive to some of our
neighbours', but I doubt if I'm catching just what you're
"Oh! 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 ?"
"Well, no, miss; she don't do that, for, tin to one, nobody'd
come if she did. We belongs to the working' classes, Molly
and I, and we has no time for the doing of the likes of city
"I'm sorry she hasn't a day," said Tattine, "because-
"If ye're manning that you'd like to give us a'call, miss,"
said Patrick, beginning to take in the situation, "shurs she
could have a day at home as aisy as the foingst lady, and
proud indeed she'd be to have it with your little self for the
guest of honour."
"I would like to bring Rudolph and Mabel, Patrick."
"And what should hinder, miss?"
"And I'd 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."

""sald atilt*e .. does ltars.
7Cirk ever have a day at home?'"


,"Of course, miss, a regular long day, with your donkey
put into a stall in the barn, and yerselves and the donkey
biding for the best dinner we can give you."
"And I'd like to have you there, Patrick, because we might
not feel just at home only with Mrs. Kirk."
"Well, I don't know, miss; do you s'pose your Father
could spare me ?" 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 un-
^ gracious thought. "Indade, miss, if
you'll arrange for me to
e ~s. have the day I'll gladly
stay at home to make
/ you welcome."
,.<" "Then that's settled,
S'" Patrick, and we'll make it
SlL the very first day that
Papa can spare you."
They had raked down, while they
l'ad been having this conversation, close
to, the pretty rows of apple-trees that
ad been left on the front lawn, for the
house had once been a farm, though
these trees were almost all that remained to show that it had,
and now, as Tattine raked away industriously, she suddenly
heard a queer chirping sort of noise just above her head.
"Oh Patrick, what is it?" she asked.
"I'm thinking it's someone trying to rob a bird's nest,
missy," answered Patrick, peering up into the tree.
"Patrick, who would be so cruel and wicked? Besides,
I can't see anyone-yes! I can," she added, as her sharp eyes
caught sight of a little fluffy black-and-white form clawing its
way steadily up the bark of the apple-tree.


"Oh, the poor little birds!-save them, Patrick, oh, do!
oh, do!" Tattine fairly danced with rage, fear, and excitement,
but a moment later down came Miss Kitty, greatly assisted in
her descent by a poke from Patrick's rake, and was there and

then chased into the big barn by her little mistress, who pro-
ceeded to read her a long lecture about her naughtiness.
"I don't suppose you would have really hurt the birdies,"
she said, "but think how you must have frightened them,


Kitty. Kitty, promise me you will never do anything so
naughty again."
"Miou, miou," cried Kitty penitently, so Tattine felt sure
she was sorry, and gave her a forgiving hug, and left her, to
go back to Patrick.
"I know you're sorry, but still I think I had better shut
you up for a little time," she said, as the kitten tried hard to
squeeze through the door with her. "You know, you were
naughty, and you must be punished."
So in the barn Kitty had to stay, where she had plenty
of time to think over what she had done, and let us hope she
was a better cat in future.
When Tattine came back to the apple-tree in which the
bird's nest was, Patrick lifted her up so that she could peep
up into the nest. There she saw the mother bird sitting with
her outspread wings covering her nestlings. She was still
making queer little chirping noises, for she had scarcely
recovered from the fright Kitty had given her.
"Wasn't she brave, Patrick?" said Tattine, "because she
might easily have flown away from Kitty, only then her
babies might have been frightened."
"Yes, missy," said Patrick; "you see, most birds and beasts
love their little ones, the same as human beings do, and you
don't suppose your Mamma would run away and leave you if
she saw a big lion or a tiger coming along, do you?"
Tattine laughed very heartily at the idea of Mamma doing
such a thing, and then she begged Patrick to put her down,
gave him her rake, and turned her steps towards the house,
meaning to go and tell Mamma all about the brave little
birdie. But she had only gone half-way when the coachman,
who was sitting at the door with the little grey mare and the
dog-cart, motioned her to come quietly. Tattine saw at a
glance what had happened, and sped swiftly back to Patrick.
"Keep Kitty shut up in the barn," she said, in a breathless


whisper; "don't let her get out, whatever you do, for the
little Phoebe-birds up at the house are taking their first flight."
"All right, miss," said Patrick, 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 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 dog-cart, 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 little untried 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
the dreadful grey mare. But the little fledglings were in better
hands than they knew, for, with the exception of Betsy and
Doctor and Kitty, every living thing at Oakdene was kind to
every other living thing.
"Whoa, girlie; whoa, girlie," had been the coachman's
quieting words to Lizzie, the mare, and then, when Tattine
came hurrying that way, lie had motioned her to come softly
for fear of frightening them. Then, as you know, Tattine
flew to make sure that Kitty was kept close guarded, and back
she flew again to help them out of their difficult situation.
Noiselessly she drew nearer and nearer, saying over gently,
"Whoa, Lizzie! dear little birdies," until she came very near,
and then she put out one hand towards them. That was
enough for the little birdlings. Refreshed by their rest on the
shafts, they flapped their tiny wings, and fluttered up to the
anxious father and mother birds on the branches above them,
wholly unconscious that they had been in any peril whatever.


BARNEY, the donkey, was harnessed, and Tattine sat in the
little donkey-cart waiting, and as she waited she was
saying aloud, "What, Grandma Luty? Yes, Grandma Luty.
No, Grandma Luty. What did you say, Grandma Luty ?" and
this she said over in the most polite tone imaginable. Mean-
time Rudolph and Mabel, discerning that Tattine did not see
them, came stealing along under cover of the apple-trees.
"Whatever is Tattine doing, talking to herself like that?"
whispered Mabel, and then they came near enough to hear
what she was saying.
"She's out of her mind," said Rudolph, when they had
listened some minutes, and then Tattine turned round and
saw them.
"No, I'm not out of my mind at all," she laughed; "I
was just practising a little while I waited for you."
"Practising your grandmother," which, as you have ob-
served, was a pet expression with Rudolph whenever he wished
to intimate that he considered one's remarks to be silly.
"Yes, that's exactly it," Tattine answered good-naturedly;



"I am practising my Grandmother. Grandma Luty, that's
Mamma's Mother, has come to pay us a visit, and Mamma has
discovered that I'm not very polite to old people. Children
used to be taught, you know, to say, 'Yes, ma'am,' and, 'Yes,
sir,' 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," and Tattine sounded quite like a little grandmother
herself as she talked.
"Yes, we know, and it's an awful bother," sighed Rudolph.
"We're fairly nagged about it, Mabel and I, but Mother says
she's going to keep it up until we always do it. Perhaps we
could get on faster if we practised by ourselves as you do, but
really, Tattine, it did sound rather silly to hear you saying all
those sentences over to yourself."
"I daresay it did," said Tattine, beginning to laugh at her
own expense. "But once upon a time it was no laughing
matter, for Mother told me that when she was a little girl she
once had a terrible punishment, and only because she said
'What?' when her Grandmamma told her to do something.
She was to have gone for a beautiful water-party, but her
Grandmamma was so angry with her that she sent her up to
her room and kept her there all day writing out-'I beg your
pardon, Grandmamma.'"
While the little children were having this talk about polite-
ness, Rudolph and Mabel had climbed into the wagon, Tattine
touched the donkey with her whip, and away she started, down
the roadway, and the trio were off for Patrick's, for this was
to be the day of the Kirks' "At Home," and, dressed in his
Sunday-best, Patrick that very minute was waiting at his door
to receive them.
But there were three miles ahead of the children, and
although Barney, the donkey, fortunately, seemed to be in the
mood for going, Patrick would still have half an hour to wait.

i~8i~La" .u.. x ~ ~.~.~ .~.~~
:~q~~fg.-.. ~. ~ ~
r~~ -..~;~~~.7~~r~,Rs

Ni- 'A

",7tLnmpinq ino tIe ir'aler and tlhen, gelling a little
ahead of C3arney, he bean to walk and pull."



1 rfll

I~I ~


At last the donkey-cart drew up at the Kirks' door, and two
happy old people welcomed three happy children into their
humble, comfortable, and cosy 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 coverlet of the
great high feather-bed in the best room, and then Mrs. Kirk
sat them down to three little blue bowls of bread-and-milk,
remarking, "There, you must be hungry after your long drive,"
and the children ate it with far more relish than home bread-
and-milk was ever eaten.
"Now, I'm doubting," said Patrick, standing with his back
to the cooking-stove, and with a corn-cob pipe in his mouth,
"if it's the style to have bread-and-milk at 'at homes' in
the city."
"Patrick," answered Tattine seriously, "we do not want
this to be like a city 'at home.' I don't care for them at
all. Everybody stays for just a little while, and everybody
talks at once, and as loud as they can, and at some of them
they only have tea and a little cake, or something like that,
to eat," and Tattine glanced at the kitchen-table over by the
window with a smile and a shake of the head, as though very
much pleased with what she saw there.
A pair of chickens lay on a blue platter ready for broiling.
The vegetables were ready for the pot they were to be boiled
in. A plate of cold potatoes looked as though waiting for
the frying-pan,, and from the depths .of a glass fruit-dish a
beautiful pile of pippins towered up to a huge red apple at
the top.
"Indade, thin, but we'll do our best," said Mrs. Kirk, "to
make it as different from what you be calling a city 'at home'
as possible, and now suppose you let Patrick take you over
our bit of a farm, and see what you can foind to interest you,
and I'm going with you while ye have a look at my geese,


for there's not the like of my geese at any of the big gentle-
min's farms within tin miles of us."
Nothing loth, the little party filed out of the house, and
after all hands had assisted in unharnessing Barney and tying
him into his stall, with a manger full of sweet, crisp hay for
his dinner, they followed Mrs. Kirk's lead to the little pond
at the foot of the apple-orchard.
And then what did they see but a truly beautiful great
flock of white geese. Some were sailing gracefully around the
pond, some were pluming their snowy breasts on the shore
beside it, and three, the finest of them all, each with a bow
of ribbon tied round its long neck, were confined in a little
picket-fence enclosure apart from the others.
"Why, what beauties, Mrs. Kirk!" exclaimed Tattine the
minute she spied them, "and what are the ribbons for? Do
they mean they have taken a prize at some show or other ?
And why do they each have a different colour?"
"They mane," said Mrs. Kirk proudly, standing with her
hands upon her hips and her face fairly beaming, "they mane
as how they're to be presented to you three children. The
red is for Master Rudolph, the white is for Miss Mabel, and
the blue is for you, Miss Tattine."
"Oh, Mrs. Kirk !" the three children exclaimed, with delight,
and Mabel added politely, "But do you really think you can
spare them, Mrs. Kirk?"
"Why, of course, she can! can't you, Mrs. Kirk?" put in
Rudolph warmly, for the idea of relinquishing such a splendid
gift was not for a moment to be thought of. I wonder how
we can ever get them home," he added, by way of settling the
"Indade, thin, I have this foine crate ready to go right
in the back of your cart," and there, to be sure, was a sort
of cage made of laths, with a board top and bottom, and
with a few other laths lying at one side ready to be


nailed into place after the geese should have been stowed
away within it.
The children were simply wild over this addition to their
separate little sets of live stock, and although the whole day
was delightful, there was all the while an almost impatient
looking forward to the supreme moment when they should
start for home with those beautiful geese in their keeping.
And at last it came.
"I wonder if my goose will be a little lonely," said Tattine,
as they all stood about watching Patrick nail on the laths.
"Faith and it will, thin," said Mrs. Kirk. "It never came
to my moind that they wouldn't all three be together. Here's
little Grey-Wing to keep little Blue-Ribbon company," and
Mrs. Kirk seized one of the smaller geese that happened to be
near her and squeezed it into the cage through the small
opening that was left.
"Well, if you can spare it, I think that is better, Mrs. Kirk,
because everything has a companion over at our place. We
have two cats, two dogs, two pair of puppies, two little bay
horses, and two greys, and two of everything, but as there's
only one of me I am friends with them all."
"Bless your little heart, but I'm glad you thought to
mention it," and then Patrick and Mrs. Kirk gave each little
extended hand a hearty shake, and the children, declaring over
and over again "that they had had a lovely time and were so
much obliged for the geese," climbed into the cart and set off
for home.
"I'd go the short cut by the ford," advised Patrick; "it
looks like we might get a shower by sunset."
"Yes, I think we had better," said Rudolph, glancing
towards the clouds in the west. Rudolph prided himself on
his ability to forecast the weather, and was generally able to
tell correctly when a shower was pretty sure to come, and
when it was more likely to "go round."


So Barney was coaxed into a good trot, which he was
ready, as a rule, to take towards home, and they went by way
of a farm-lane which saved a good mile on the road home.
The ford was soon reached. Barney knew the place well, and
picked his way briskly to the middle of the ford, and then he
took it into his stubborn little head to stand stock-still, and to
plant his four hoofs firmly in the thick soft mud at the bottom
of the stream.
"Go on," urged Tattine; "Go on," urged Mabel, and
Rudolph applied his sapling whip with might and main, but
all to no effect. Meantime some geese from the neighboring
farm had come sailing out into the ford, to have a look at
their friends in the crate, and the geese in the crate, wild to
be out on the water with their comrades, craned their long
necks far out between the laths, and set up a tremendous
squawking. It was rather a comical situation, and the children
laughed till their sides ached, but after a while it ceased to be
so funny.
The clouds were rolling up blacker and blacker, and there
was an occasional flash of lightning far off in the distance, but
Barney still stood there unmoved, apparently thoroughly en-
joying the sensation of the cool water, running downstream
against his four little donkey-legs.
At last Rudolph was at his wits' end, for what did Tattine
and Mabel do but commence to cry. Great drops of rain were
falling now, and they could not bear the thought of being
mid-way in that stream with the storm breaking right over
their heads, and when girls, little or big, young or old, cannot
bear the thoughts of things, they cry.
Crying does not always help matters; it frequently makes
them more difficult, but then again sometimes it does help a
little, and this time it did. For when the girls' crying put
Rudolph to his wits' end, he realized that there was just one
thing left to try, and that was to jump overboard and try and


pull Barney to land, since Barney would not pull him. So
into the water he jumped, keeping the reins in his hand, and
then, getting a little ahead of Barney, he began to walk and
There is nothing like the force of example, which simply
means that when Barney saw Rudolph walking and pulling, he
began to walk and pull too.
Meantime, while Patrick and his wife were happily think-
ing that the children had had plenty of time to reach home

before the storm broke, there was great anxiety in the two
homes where those three dear children lived. Patrick, the
coachman, and Philip, the groom, had been sent with the
wagonette by the main road to Patrick Kirk's, to bring the
children, and Philip to take charge of Barney, but as the
children were coming home, or rather trying to come home,
by the ford, of course they missed them.
And all the while the storm was growing in violence, and
suddenly for about five minutes great hail-stones came beating


down, till the lawn at Oakdene was fairly white with them,
and the panes of glass in the green-house roof cracked and
broke beneath them. "And those three dear children are pro-
bably out in it all," thought Tattine's Mother, standing pale
and trembling at her window, and watching the road up which
the wagonette would have to come. And then what did she
see but Barney, trotting bravely up the hill, with the geese
still craning their necks through the laths of the cage, but with
the reins dragging through the mud of the roadway, and with
no children in the little cart. Close behind him came the
wagonette, which Barney was cleverly managing to keep
well ahead of, but Mrs. Gerald soon discovered that the
children were not in that either. Then in an instant she
was down the stairs and out on the porch to meet Patrick
at the door.
"It isn't possible that you have no word of the children ?"
she said excitedly.
"Patrick Kirk says that they started to come by the ford
in time to reach home an hour before the storm," gasped
Patrick, "but we came back by the ford ourselves and not a
sign have we seen of them, till Barney cut out of the woods
ahead of us five minutes ago."
And then a dreadful thought flashed through Mrs. Gerald's
mind. Could it be possible they had been drowned in the ford ?
But at that moment her eyes saw something that made her
heart leap for joy, something that looked drowned enough, but
wasn't. Rudolph was running up the hill as fast as his dripping
clothing would let him, and, reaching the door, he sank down
on the floor of the porch.
"Oh, Mrs. Gerald," he said, as soon as he could get his
breath, "Mabel and Tattine are all right; they're safe in the
log play-house at the Cornwells', but we've had an awful
fright. Is Barney home? When the hail came we tied him
to a tree and ran into the log house, but he broke away


the next minute and took to his heels, and ran as fast as
his legs could carry him. Barney's not at all a nice donkey,
Mrs. Gerald."
But Mrs. Gerald had no time just then to give heed to
Barney's misdoings. Seizing a wrap from the hall, she ordered
Rudolph into the house and to bed, as quickly as he could be
got there, sent Philip to Rudolph's Mother with word that
the children were safe, and then started off in the wagonette
to bring Mabel and Tattine home.
"Mamma," said Tattine, snuggling her wet little self close
to her Mother's side in the carriage, "Rudolph's just splendid.
You should have seen the way he hauled Barney and us and
the cart out of the water; but, Mamma, I don't think much of
Barney now. He's not to be trusted."
Mrs. Gerald thought of two or three things that might be
urged in Barney's favour, but it did not seem kind even to
attempt to reason with two such tired and soaking little people;
so she only said, "Well, Barney can never again be trusted in
the ford-that's one sure thing."
And the children warmly agreed with her.

L .


TATTINE was getting on beautifully with her attempt to
use Grandma Luty's name at the proper time and in
the proper place, and she was getting on beautifully with
Grandma herself as well.
She loved everything about her, and wished it might not
be so very long till she could be a grandma and have white
hair and wear snowy caps, and kerchiefs round her neck, and
use gold eye-glasses and a knitting-basket. Grandma Luty,
you see, was one of the dear, old-fashioned grandmothers, and
her visit had been a great pleasure to Tattine; and so, when
just at daylight one morning, the setter puppies in their kennel
at the back of the house commenced a prodigious barking,
Tattine's first thought was for Grandma.
"It's a perfect shame to have them wake her up," she
said to herself, "and I know a way to stop them."
And so, as quietly as a mouse, she stole out of bed,
slipped into her bed-room slippers and her nurse's dressing-
gown that was lying across the chair, and then just as noise-
lessly stole downstairs, and, unlatching the door leading on
to the porch, hurried to open the gate of the kennel.




She knew that if she let the puppies run they would stop
their barking. Tattine was right about that, but just as she
swung the gate open a happy thought struck those four little
puppy minds, and as she started to run back to the house all
four of them buried their sharp little teeth in the frill of Pris-
cilla's dressing-gown. Still, Tattine succeeded in making her
way across the lawn back to the door, although she had four
puppies in tow, and was almost weak from laughing.
She knew perfectly well what a funny picture she must


make, with the dressing-gown that was so much too large
for her, only kept on by the big puff sleeves, and with the
puppies pulling away for dear life, like four lively little train-
When she reached the screen door she had a tussle with
them one by one. Taking a sort of reef in the train, she got
rid of each puppy, until the whole of the gown was clear of
the sharp little teeth, and she could bang the door behind them
and herself.
But the puppies had by no means had enough fun, and
they did not mean to let their little mistress escape without
a protest. So the naughty little rascals set to work to try and
scratch the door down, all the while barking as loudly as they
Now, the door had been newly painted, and Tattine
well knew that the fresh paint would soon be spoilt by the
little sharp claws so busily at work upon it. So she was forced
to open the door again, just a tiny way, but the puppies
scrambled through, and when the little girl tried to run up-
stairs, up they came, helter-skelter after her.
I do not believe Grandma Luty ever laughed harder in
her life than when Tattine told her all about it, as they sat
together on the porch that morning after breakfast. She even
laughed her cap over on one side, so that Tattine had to take
out the gold pins and put them in again to straighten it.
"But, Grandma," said Tattine, when they had sobered down,
"those puppies, pretty as they are now, won't be very kind
when they grow up, but will chase rabbits very likely, just as
Betsy and Doctor did."
"Tattine," said Grandma Luty, with her dear kindly smile,
"your Mother has told me how disappointed you have been
this summer in Betsy and Doctor, and even in your little
pussy, and that now Barney has fallen into disgrace, since he
kept you so long in the ford the other day, but I want to


tell you something. You must not stop loving them at all
because they do what you call cruel things. You have heard
the old rhyme:-

"'Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For God has made them so;
Let bears and lions growl and fight,
For 'tis their nature to.' "

"Oh, yes, I know that," said Tattine, "and I don't think
it's all quite true; our dogs don't bite (I suppose it means
biting people), even when they are naughty."
"No, I've always thought myself that line was not quite
fair to the dogs either, but the verse means that we musn't
blame animals for doing things that it is their nature to."
"And yet, Grandma, I'm not allowed to do bad things
because it is my nature to."
"Ah, but, Tattine, there lies the beautiful difference. You
can be reasoned with, and made to understand things, so that
you can change your nature. I mean the part of your nature
that makes you love to do bad things, as you say. There's
another part that is dear and good and sweet, and doesn't need
to be changed at all. But Betsy and Doctor can only be
trained in a few ways, and never to really change their nature.
And even if Betsy and Doctor and Barney don't always happen
to please you, you must remember that perhaps you don't
always please them, or other people.
"When Doctor wants to have a scamper along the path,
and you want to sit still and read your picture-book or learn
your lessons, perhaps in his doggie mind he thinks you are
unreasonable or unkind, because he doesn't understand that
little girls can't play the whole day long.
"And though it was certainly wrong of Barney to behave
as he did that time at the ford, yet I have heard of little
girls who can be obstinate too sometimes."


Tattine blushed, but laughed as well. "It's quite like
having a little sermon all to myself, Grandma," she said.
And Grandma kissed her and smiled, and said the sermon
was over, so away ran Tattine to find her pets. Betsy and
Doctor came running to meet her, leaping and barking, and
were rewarded with a good hug each. Miss Kitty was soon
made happy with a nice saucer of milk; and even Barney was
not forgotten, for his little mistress gave him a fresh-pulled
And so "good-bye" to Tattine and her pets, though some
day perhaps we may meet them again.

__. -- ,,}

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