Harper's Young People, October 12, 1880 Part 1

Harper's Young People, October 12, 1880.

by Various.

COACHY.

BY ELINOR VEY.

The first time I ever saw Coachy she was scratching about on the garden walk, kicking the dirt out in two ways behind her, and then nimbly hitching back a step or two and staring and pecking at the hole that she had made. Every little while she said something to herself in a comical drawling tone, standing on one foot, and looking up at me with curious eye, as if wondering who I was, and what in the world I was there for.

But who was Coachy?--an old yellowish-brown _hen_, all tousled and sort of round-shouldered. As I was laughing quietly at this old hen scratching, and kicking, and pecking, and crooning about on the garden walk, it occurred to me to toss the least bit of a stone at her. So picking one up, I took aim, when, click! click! upon the porch I heard a pair of slippers. They were down the steps in no time, with their cunning toes pointing straight toward mine. I put that stone into my pocket, and took off my hat to "little slippers." They were blue as the softest blue sky--little slippers--and ever and ever so small. Mine had purple worsted flowers all over them, big flat heels, and were ever and ever so large. Inside those little slippers stood the sweetest mite of a lady the world ever saw; while inside old "flat heels" was the fattest and fondest Uncle John.

Bessie Rathbun's cheeks were about the color of an oleander blossom, her small red mouth was about the color of a cranberry, and her two wide-open eyes about the color of her slippers. Her hair hung in yellow fuzzy curls away down to the strings of her ap.r.o.n; and it always seemed to me there must be a gold dollar rolling off the end of each curl, each end was so round and gold yellow. Dainty Bessie!--and what do you suppose? Why, she was deep in love with that old brown hen. Many and many a time she had sent me sc.r.a.ps of news about her wonderful Coachy, and had wished and wished that I would come and see her for myself. So when, one day, a letter came from Bessie's father, asking me if I would please hurry over to Featherdale to take charge of his house, and his silver spoons, and his little daughter, while he took a journey with his wife to visit a sick friend, I just threw my papers and pens into my valise (I was writing a lecture then), jumped aboard the first train, and went. So here we were together, on a breezy bright June morning--Bessie and Coachy and I.

"There she is, uncle--there's my Coachy!" cried Bessie, as she slipped from my arms. "Come, darling, come;" and Coachy spread out her wings, and rushed toward her little mistress, who eagerly bent down and took her. She kissed her brown back, and from a snowy ap.r.o.n pocket gave her corn, and even while eating, this funny old hen brokenly hummed a tune.

"Let's go on the porch with her," said Bessie at last. So we settled on the porch, with Coachy nestling between us.

"She isn't what you may call a very handsome hen--now is she, Bessie?"

laughed I.

But Bessie scarcely smiled. "If you knew something that I know," said she, "you wouldn't make fun of her."

"Why--what?"

"Why, she was a poor orphan chicken--an' a dog killed her mother--an'

she had a _dreadful_ hard time getting grown up as big as she is now.

She's fallen into the well, an' had two of her toes froze off--"

"What! in the well?"

"No; in the winter," said Bessie, gravely. "And she's been so lonesome down here, without any other hens to talk to, that papa says she'll have to go out to the farm, where the other hens are, real soon, or she'll die."

"Is that so?" said I, feeling sorry and a trifle awkward.

The little maid smoothed the rumpled feathers this way and that. "Yes, that's so," she sighed. "Our farm is more'n a mile from here, but I'm going to let her go."

"You can see her very often, can't you?" I asked.

"Yes; but, oh dear!" and there was another kiss put upon the brown back.

Perhaps that is what made Coachy look round-shouldered--carrying such a load of sweet kisses on her back.

Just at this moment Bridget came out, and picked up the door-mat. I have never known for certain what Bridget did to the door-mat. Maybe it was taken off somewhere, like a bad child, for a shaking. Anyway, she picked it up quickly, and went back to the kitchen. And right where the mat had lain--so near that we could reach out and take it--was a letter; and the letter was addressed, in big scrawling characters that looked very much indeed like "hen tracks," to

_Miss Bessie Rathbun_, _Featherdale._

The little lady's eyes and mouth grew perfectly round; she gave a little scream, and Coachy, half scared, went hopping down the steps. I opened the letter, and this is what we found:

"MY DEAR MISTRESS,--You can't guess how sad I am at the thought of leaving you, even for a few short months; but I do believe my general health and spirits would be much improved if you would kindly take me out to the farm to spend the balance of the summer.

I miss the Brahmas, and the Shanghais, and the Plymouth Rocks, and even the pert little Bantams, more than I can tell. I get very downhearted somehow, thinking of the merry times they must be having all together in the fields or on the old barn floor. You are very, very good to me, and I love you dearly; but oh! _please_ take me back to the farm. I shall be so happy whenever you come out there to see me, and will thank you as long as I live. Answer soon.

"With one peck at your sweet lips,

"COACHY.

"P. S.--Please don't ever hug me again as you did on the lawn last Sunday. I thought I should choke."

Bessie was smiling; still in the same moment she had to put up her hand and whisk something away from her cheek. I knew what it was--a tear.

"Uncle," she said, putting both hands into her ap.r.o.n pockets, "let's take Coachy to the farm to-morrow;" and we did.

Early next morning we drove out of town, the dear old hen in Bessie's arms, and Bessie and I in the phaeton. Bessie talked softly to her favorite all the way; and when we reached the farm, I have an idea that, in spite of the request in the postscript, Coachy was hugged as hard as she ever was hugged in her life. Down the lane we went toward a group of noisy fowls. The nearer we came to them, the harder was Coachy hugged. I began to be anxious. Her mouth was open, and each particular toe was standing out stiff and straight. Bessie's nose and lips were out of sight in the ruffled back, and Coachy had closed her eyes.

"Darling," said the little girl, steadily, "good-by," and she bravely dropped her pet beside the old companions.

We saw her shake herself, eye the others a moment, and walk quietly into the crowd.

The man who lived on Bessie's papa's farm was named Beck. We hunted all over for Mr. Beck to tell him there was a guest among the poultry; but he was not to be found. So we got into the carriage and started for home.

My little niece was silent during nearly all of our drive back to Featherdale. Her mind was still filled full of Coachy.

By-and-by, though, the cherry lips opened.

"Uncle John," she said, "do you s'pose there'll be room?"

"On the roost?"

"Yes."

"Why, plenty of it--plenty!" said the reckless Uncle John.

I was out of bed an hour before Bessie next morning to take a horseback ride. "Guess I'll go over to the farm," said I to myself, "and see how Coachy is doing." So off to the farm I cantered.

I hitched my horse to a post by the farm-house door, and walked out where the chickens were picking up a breakfast. I looked them all over, and--and--well, Coachy was not there.

Seeing a man coming down the path, and feeling quite sure it was Mr.

Beck, I waited. A narrow-faced, fair-haired, frail-looking man--not at all like a farmer, I thought.

"Good-morning, Mr. Beck," said I.

"Morning," said Mr. Beck, looking puzzled.

"My name is Rathbun. I was just looking around for a hen I brought up from my brother's house yesterday. I don't seem to find her," I said, still peering about.

"Did you bring that hen?" asked the man.

I turned and looked at him then.

"That old yellowish-brown hen?" he went on.