Baby Pitcher's Trials Part 6

"Flora, is anybody dead?"

"He is."

"Who?"

"The robin. Died to-day. Going to have a funeral in the porch."

"Ho, ho!" laughed Charley.

"You have given me such a fright!" said Amy. "I have not strength enough left to take me home."

Charley offered to carry her on his back, but she declined the offer.

After leaning against a tree for a moment, she was able to go on.

"I don't know what the dear child means, do you?"

"Haven't the least idea," said Charley.

"And what is Bertie so busy about?"

"Can't make that out either."

"What is Bertie doing, pet?"

"Making the box," said Flora.

"What box?"

"Can't bury the robin without making a box!"

"Oh!"

"Course not. You ought to know better."

"That's so. When did Mr. R. shuffle off, &c.?"

"Didn't go nowhere, only to be dead."

"Oh!"

"And when Bertie gets the box done, we must form a line and march. Me and Dinah will go first, because she is the blackest."

"Good. She shall be chief mourner."

"Me, too."

"You shall be the marshal."

"Well."

She had not the slightest idea what it was to be the marshal but she liked the sound of it. Bertie was not long in finishing the box. Before they put the birdy in, Amy brought a handful of hay and made a soft nest. She could not bear to see it lying on the bottom of the hard box.

Bertie nailed the cover on, and bored a hole with a gimlet. "To look through," he said. But as the hole was very small, and it was very dark inside, you could not see anything.

Bertie wanted to march with the box under his arm and the spade over his shoulder, but Flora insisted upon the wheelbarrow, and as Flora was the marshal, the wheelbarrow was brought out to head the procession. Flora and Dinah followed as chief mourners, while Amy and Charley walked in single file to make the procession as long as possible. They marched round and round the grounds as long as Flora wished, and then Bertie dug a deep hole in the middle of Amy's garden, and buried the robin.

CHAPTER V.

BERTIE MEETS JACK MIDNIGHT AT THE SPRING.

Flora enjoyed the funeral very much. She had never had a dead bird to bury before, and she thought it a very nice thing; so nice in fact, that she meant to come back some day and have it over again. So she marked the spot with a stick, that she might know where to find the bird when she wanted it for another funeral. That it was hid from her sight forever she had not the least idea, or that she could not re-bury it whenever she choose. So she planted the stick, and went away with a happy heart.

When she knew that the birdy could be buried only once, and that she was not to disturb the spot, she mourned her loss afresh. But Amy told her she would plant a daisy on the little mound, and it should be her own, and she should think of her bird whenever the flowers bloomed. And Charley promised to buy a bright yellow canary, if he could ever save money enough, and it should be "a regular screamer." She wanted Bertie to make the cage at once, but Bertie thought he could not make a cage good enough for a canary. He would have a beauty on hand, however, by the time Charley got ready to purchase the bird. This was meant as a sly hit at Charley who never had any money. He fully intended to buy the bird, but canaries cost money, and Charley's pockets were always empty, so far as money was concerned.

Flora had little faith in Charley's promises. Bertie had a new idea in his head. He wanted to prepare a trap for a musk-rat. That was why he could not attend to making the cage. If he succeeded in catching one--and he thought he should, for the spring was full of them--Flora was to have all the perfumery she wanted. So she was comforted, and in time--a very short time--forgot all about the robin. Bertie set his trap, and waited. n.o.body believed in the musk-rat but Flora. She had faith in the success of all Bertie's undertakings. Everybody else laughed at him for his pains. Charley said he was a "goney," whatever that may be, and Amy advised him to turn his attention to something sensible. He travelled down to the spring every morning before breakfast, and with quickly beating heart examined the trap. There was nothing in it, but there were tracks all around. He resolved to follow up those tracks, and see what would come of them. It was a long walk to the spring, and a lonely walk. Other traps were set thereabouts, but their owners lived near by, or came from the upper road. Of course he never asked for Charley's company. Charley had no faith, and he ridiculed the idea of going so often on a wild-goose chase. But Bertie reasoned within himself,--other fellows caught musk-rats, why should not he? His traps were as good as theirs, his bait the same. To be sure he never had caught one, but that was no reason he never should. There must be a first time for every thing. And when he did trap one, wouldn't Charley change his tune? The spring was alive with musk-rats. One _should_ find the way into his trap. He hoped it would be a "buster." He was on the road to the spring, when these thoughts pa.s.sed through his mind. There had been a white frost, and the air was keen. He thrust his hands into his pockets, and ran along, whistling cheerfully. His spirits were light, and his hopes high. He half expected to find a musk-rat in his trap. He had made the path to it so easy and inviting, surely something must have found the way thither. Not a musk-rat, perhaps, but something. When he got there, he was surprised to find a boy examining his trap. It was not an agreeable surprise, for the boy was Jack Midnight; the very last person in the world with whom he desired to have any dealings. It was the same Jack who dishonestly made way with Charley's calico rooster. Bertie was angry. Without stopping to inquire into the circ.u.mstances, as he would have done if it had been any other boy, he at once jumped to a wrong conclusion. He thought that Jack was plotting mischief, and without waiting for his hot blood to cool, he called, quickly,

"Come out of that!"

"Do you know what you are gabbing about?" queried Jack.

"I guess I do."

"And I guess you don't. Supposing you hold your horses a minute?"

"It is a mean thing, any how, to meddle with another fellow's trap."

"It is your trap, is it?"

"Yes, it is."

"Well, who's a meddling?"

"You."

"I ain't."

"You are."

"I say I ain't; and who knows best, I should like to know?"

You may know that Bertie was angry, or he would not have stooped to bandy words with such a boy. Besides he would have been afraid, for Jack was a big boy. He was larger, stronger, and a great deal older than Bertie, and he was much better qualified for fighting in every way. He had had a deal of practice. But when a boy is angry, he does not stop to consider consequences. It was fortunate for Bertie that Jack did not feel disposed to quarrel with him. He could have shaken him as easily as a dog shakes a squirrel, and resistance would have been of no avail. For once, Jack was doing nothing to be ashamed of, and he knew he was right.

That helps a boy a great deal. When he knows he is right, he does not feel half so much like striking back. Perhaps you think he did strike back when he replied to Bertie's uncivil words; but you must remember that Jack was a desperate fellow, and if he had not been well disposed he would hardly have taken the trouble to strike with his tongue. And language that would sound very rough from the lips of a better bred boy, was not so bad, after all, coming from Jack Midnight. He was secretly very much ashamed of his conduct towards the rooster, particularly as Charley and Bertie had never taken any notice of it. They had simply allowed him to go his own way, taking care, however, that his track never crossed theirs. When they could avoid it, they did not speak to him; when they could not, they were civil in speech--never rude. This annoyed and humbled Jack. To have enemies that were not enemies, was a new experience. He looked upon all as against him who were not his avowed friends. But here were two boys who could not be friends, and, although he had deeply injured them, he could not call them enemies. He wanted to do something to show that he was very sorry about the rooster; something to show that he was not bad, clear through. Bertie's quick temper flashed, and then went out.

"It looked very much like it, as I came up," he said, in a more gentle tone.

"Somebody's been a meddling," retorted Jack; "but 'twas not me."