 | Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
THE SHEEP AND THE DOGS.
“What do you think has become of Richard?” said Mrs.
Claverel to her husband, the third morning after his departure.
Mr. Claverel continued to puff his cigar and read the newspaper
for some time after this appeal; but when the really distressed
woman repeated, “What do you think, Sammy?” and went on
to say he had left everything in his room as though he expected
to be back in a little while, that a book was open on the table,
that his watch hung on a nail at the head of the bed, that she
could not see as he had taken anything with him, and that it
seemed so strange—he threw down the remnant of his cigar,
and said, “When he wears out his clothes and gets hungry,
he'll come back, Dolly, I'll warrant you. He's gone to his uncle
Peter's, like enough; when I go to town Saturday, if I see
anything of Peter I'll ask him, if I think of it; but if he isn't
there, he's on some wild-goose chase, so don't fret about him—
what can't be cured must be endured.”
“O, I don't know, I don't know; it seems to me so strange,”
said Mrs. Claverel.
“What is it, mother? what is it?” said little Jane, coming
close and looking bewildered and anxious.
“Never mind, never mind—children mustn't ask questions,”
said Mr. Claverel, and then added, “we were talking about
your brother Richard.”
This was no particular gratification to the child. She wanted
to know what they were saying, and not the subject of their
conversation; but not feeling at liberty to ask any further questions,
or to say anything more at all, Jane did not tell what
she knew on the subject, for she had seen Richard drive away
with Dr. Hilton. The parents were not, however, destined to
closely clipped red hair stood endwise all over his head, suddenly
appeared, and through fright and stammering managed
to make known his errand, that ten of his father's sheep had
been killed the night before, and that he had come to see
whether Mr. Claverel's dog, Carlo, had been at home.
“Why, yes, he has been at home. Here Carlo, here Carlo,
here Carlo!” and, wagging his tail and licking his jaws, the
huge watch-dog presented himself; upon which Mr. Claverel
proceeded to examine and cross-examine him, as though the
dumb animal were a prisoner at the bar. It was useless, however:
what master ever pronounced other verdict than not
guilty, on his own dog?
Meantime, the neighbors were seen hurrying in all directions
from their own to the premises of Mr. Bates, where the sheep
had been so unmercifully slaughtered, urged thither by curiosity,
and fear for their own flocks; and Mr. Claverel among
the rest, with the red-haired boy at his side, was speedily on
his way. “How many did you say you lost?” he inquired.
“Ten,” replied the boy; “ten of the very best; father
would not have taken twenty dollars of any body's money for
them yesterday.”
“Whose dogs do you suspect?” continued Mr. Claverel.
“The fact is,” said the boy, “we suspect a dog that looked
mightily like Carlo; I saw such a one this morning going
across our fields towards your house. It was a big white dog,
at any rate.”
“It could not have been Carlo; I never heard of a white dog
killing sheep; it is not in the nater of things.” And Mr. Claverel
made no further inquiry.
At the door of Mr. Bates, some half dozen men were standing,
discussing eagerly the probabilities and possibilities of the
disaster's originating with such and such dogs; while a larger
number of boys gathered in a knot at one side, and talked more
earnestly and confidently. “I'll just bet you,” said one, “it
was Pete Hill's Growler.”
“Yes,” responded another, “he is the one that set them on,
but I expect he had half a dozen to help him.”
“I know one dog it wasn't,” said the first speaker, “it wasn't
ours; but if he should be proved guilty,” he continued, drawing
himself up, “I should be willing that justice should take its
course.”
At this speech there was a general murmur of admiration;
each boy wished that he had said it, or that he could say something
equally disinterested and noble. It was of no use, however;
two such hits could not be made in one day, and the
group gradually dispersed and mingled with the men, among
whom the most important personage was Mr. Bates, as of right
he should have been. In fact he was almost reconciled to the
loss of the ten sheep, for which, as he said, he would not have
taken twenty dollars of any man's money, in view of the importance
to which he was suddenly elevated.
Mrs. Bates herself, while the excitement was at its height,
felt more of exaltation than sorrow. She could not attend to
any of her usual avocations with the energetic ability upon
which she prided herself, but kept constantly going to the door,
and, feigning excuses, to the cistern and the well, in order to hear
what was being said; and on hearing some one say, “Have
you any idea, sir, whose dogs it was?” and her husband reply,
that, “If he had an idea, it would not do for him, poor as he
was, to accuse even a rich man's dog,” she could restrain her
indignation and sturdy independence no longer, but said out
aloud, addressing herself to no one in particular, “For my part,
I think we live in a free country!” a hackneyed cry of the vulgar,
to which no very definite idea is attached, save that no superiors
are acknowledged.
“Certainly, Mrs. Bates,” said Mr. Claverel, who caught the
words, and was courteous enough to notice them.
“But suppose we do, of what use is it, unless we dare say
what we think.”
“That is certainly among our privileges; can you not say
what you think?” and Mr. Claverel scratched his head in a
puzzled sort of way, without precisely knowing why he felt
uneasy.
“Yes, I can,” answered the sturdy little woman, “but some
folks can't.”
“Who can't?” said Mr. Claverel, laconically.
“Bates, for one,” she replied.
“What does Bates think?”
“He thinks a certain rich man's dog, not a thousand miles
from here, killed the biggest part of our sheep.”
`Do you mean to say it was my dog?” Mr. Claverel said,
coming close to her, his blue eyes sparkling with sudden anger.
“If the shoe fits, you must wear it—I didn't say it was your
dog.”
“No, you seem afraid to say what you think, notwithstanding
your boast about a free country. I should like to know upon
what evidence your suspicions are founded.”
“The evidence of my eyes and ears. I don't know as we
need other evidence in this free country.”
“Then you mean to say that you saw my dog kill your
sheep! I understood your boy to say they were killed in the
night. Was it so? And if so, how did you chance to see it?”
By this time their discussion had attracted general attention,
and Mrs. Bates, pleased with the opportunity of being heard,
went on to explain the grounds of her belief, which she did on
this wise:—“It was along about midnight, I reckon, that I
waked up; I don't know what made me, for I generally sleep
pretty sound, unless some of the children are sick, or Bates is
going to market, and, such times, I get but little rest. Here a
while ago I took my baby, Saryanne her name is, and went
visiting, fool like, (Mrs. Bates was fond of visiting,) and the
little toad took the whooping-cough; I suppose it was good
enough for me, but how she got it was the greatest wonder in
the world. It could be no other way than that she took it of
somebody in the street. I remember of stopping to speak to
one person, Polly Kitterly. I wanted to buy some pasnip seed
—Kitterly's folks always raised the best of vegitables—and she
had her baby, Lizabeth Vanholt, in her arms; she's named for
the old man, Vanholt, and they say it's like enough he will
leave her a silver spoon or two when he dies. Well, I can't
remember, now, whether her baby's head was towards my
baby's head, or whether her baby's head was turned away from
my baby's head; but if her baby's head was towards my baby's
been easy for my baby to take it of her baby.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Bates,” said Mr. Claverel, now thoroughly
good-humored, “but you forget about the sheep.”
“No I haven't; I reckon I can speak a word in this free
country, without talking as though I was giving state's evidence,
and must have my head cut off, if I said a word more or
less.”
Mr. Claverel again said “Certainly,” his smile almost deepening
to laughter, and the voluble little woman, somewhat appeased,
went on with, “Well, as I said, Saryanne took the
whooping-cough, and though she had it pretty light, for she
didn't whoop much, Bates wouldn't believe she had it for a
good while; the other children took the whooping-cough of her,
and every one of them whooped as bad as ever I saw children
whoop with the whooping-cough, and I have seen children whoop
with the whooping-cough till their faces were fairly black and
blue. But since they got over the whooping-cough, I have
scarcely been broke of my rest at all, as you may say, unless I
have a spell of the tooth-ache, or newrology, or just before a
rain, when my corns are troublesome; and how I happened to
wake up last night, I don't know. I might have had an ugly
dream, but I couldn't remember any of it, if I had; and yet it
seems as if I remember something of spreading clothes down to
bleach in the corner of our little peach orchard, and of hearing
dogs bark, and I think likely I heard our dog barking at the
neighbors' dogs” (here she looked at Mr. Claverel) “that had
come to kill the sheep, for our dog will be cross to other dogs
in the night, when other dogs come where our dog is, though he
is just as good a dog to other dogs in the daytime, and even
along in the early part of the evening, good as any dog need be
to other dogs; but about midnight, and on till daylight, he is
as cross a dog to other dogs as a dog can be.”
“Meantime, Mr. Bates, who, it must be owned, looked a little
sheepish, slipped into the house, where by dint of whipping one
of the children he raised such a hue and cry as brought the story
of his good wife to an untimely conclusion—the whole amounting
only to this, that most probably she was awake at the very
inference, save the vague impression of a half-remembered
dream; and why her suspicions had fallen on Mr. Claverel's
dog, she said not. It was, however, supposed to be for that
Mr. Claverel owned more land than Mr. Bates, and that Mrs.
Claverel sometimes wore a black silk dress, which she had actually
hired made.
When Mrs. Bates, having rid her bosom of its perilous stuff,
had retired within doors, Mr. Jameson, a man whose opinions
were regarded by his neighbors as of great weight, partly because
he spoke in a deliberate and consequential sort of way, and
partly that he was one of the largest landed proprietors in the
county, stepping a little aside from the group, and elevating
himself on a block of wood, delivered this speech: “Friends
and neighbors: Whereas we have been brought together by the
sudden and unexpected calamity which last night, or probably
on the morning of this very day, fell with the weight of a millstone
upon William A. Bates,” (here Mr. Bates, overpaid for his
loss, looked solemnly dignified,) “it becomes us as diligent
seekers of justice to ascertain, if possible, the guilty perpetrators
of the bloody deed; and whether it be your dog, (suiting
his gestures to his words,) or whether it be my dog, let the punishment
be speedy and decisive, for there are some instances,
and in my humble opinion, friends and neighbors, this is one,
in which severity is merey. I would therefore respectfully suggest,
and humbly as becomes me, for I see around me gray
hairs that betoken wisdom, that Dr. Hilton be forthwith professionally
summoned, and that he decide, or that his doctorstuff
decide, which of our dogs has breakfasted on mutton!”
And, casting a look of inquiry upon his admiring audience, Mr.
Jameson descended from the block.
The boys volunteered, one after another, to go for the Doctor,
till finally, the Jameson suggestion being unanimously approved,
the whole assembly set out in high glee.
The village of Clovernook at that time contained but one
three-story brick house, known by all the district round as the
Clovernook Hotel. Here the stage coach stopped, here all bills
of vendues, and school-house debates, and travelling shows,
were posted. The village had also a free school and a
select school, a milliner shop, two blacksmiths' shops, two
churches, and some fifty dwelling-houses; one of the best of
which was Dr. Hilton's, a wooden building, painted of a bright
yellow, with doors and shutters of green, and garnished with a
tin sign, in two places. In front of the main entrance several
stout posts were driven in the ground, with iron rings attached,
for convenience in fastening horses, and against one of these a
sort of ladder was placed for the benefit of country women who
came to get their teeth drawn, or to consult the Doctor about
teething babies. The Hotel was nearly opposite, and the immediate
neighborhood was considered the business part of the
town: though it was more fashionable a mile or so out west,
toward Squire Middleton's, or up north where Dr. Haywood
was living. In a dingy little house, in the edge of the village,
lived Mr. Bates, though the farm he cultivated had many more
retired and pretty situations for a residence; he had selected this,
surrounded by stables and mechanies' shops, that his wife and
daughter might have the advantages of good society—an advantage
of which the daughter availed herself pretty largely; and
though Mrs. Bates was proud of staying at home more and
working harder than anybody else, she rejoiced in making her
daughter a fine lady, as she deemed it, as she was brought up
in idleness, and dressed in the best style, and suffered to gad
and gossip from house to house as she pleased.
In truth, Sally Bates was rather a pretty girl; her eyes were
dark and bright, her cheeks full and red, her curls heavy and
smooth, her figure, by Mrs. Bates's rule, unexceptionable, and
her waist more slender even than fashion required. Her temper
was genial, and her talk exceedingly sprightly. Her particular
talent consisted in shirking all hardships and captivating all the
beaux, young and old, great and small, who came within her
reach.
No sooner had Dr. Hilton, with saddle-bags on his arm, and
his young student by his side, appeared in sight, than, tastefully
arrayed in white muslin, and with a wreath of artificial flowers
around her forehead, Sally appeared at the window, drawing
she called him, did look, though she was manifestly not unwilling
that he should see how she looked in the mean time.
“Mr. Claverel,” said Mr. Jameson, as the new-comers drew
near, “is your oldest son, Richard, gone forth from the paternal
roof to be initiated in the mysteries of the materia medica?”
Mr. Claverel looked puzzled and ashamed, as this was the
first intimation he had had of the whereabouts of his son, and in
his bewilderment he forgot to make any reply. But Mr. Bates,
taking advantage of the opportunity to say something spiteful,
said he didn't think Mr. Claverel had much control of the young
Doctor, since his return from college.
General expressions of surprise followed, to the great mortification
of Mr. Claverel, of course; and without waiting for the
adjustment of the difficulty, or even asking a single question of
Richard, he abruptly departed; not, however, till Mr. Bates
had time to say he hoped Dr. Claverel's professional career
would not be confined to the sphere in which it was likely to
open. Richard, presenting a sort of half-slovenly, half-genteel
appearance, was not much less mortified than his father, at
being so unexpectedly brought in contact with him; it was not,
however, very long before his attention was attracted by the
bright eyes and flowing curls of Sally Bates, and he was presently
so completely absorbed by the arrowy glances, and
saucily bewitching tosses of the girl, as to quite forget his first
embarrassment.
Farther and farther the lady leaned from the window, gaily
fluttered the roses among her curls, when suddenly a somewhat
stronger gust of air than was common, lifted the wreath
from her head, and deposited it little way from the grave
assembly; and Richard, recovering it with alacrity, was a moment
afterward presenting it at the open window, and Miss
Bates blushing and bowing her acknowledgments.
Richard was astonished that he had never before discovered
her beauty. A month after, Mr. Claverel returned one morning
from Clovernook, whither some errand had called him, with
a hurried and unsteady step. Rumor had kindly informed him,
Bates were shortly to be married!
“Dolly,” he said, seating himself on the porch, as one completely
exhausted, “Dolly, I wish you would hand me the
sperits of camphire.”
It should already have been stated, that the suspected members
of the canine tribe, having each undergone a prescribed
ordeal, were honorably acquitted, except that notable guardian
that “was as cross a dog to other dogs as any dog could be
when other dogs disturbed his nightly watch.”
| Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |