The Cruise of the Land-Yacht "Wanderer" Part 14

Foley has reached the mature age of twenty, and I have known him for eight years. To put it in broad but expressive Scotch, Foley is just "a neebour laddie." He has done many odd jobs for me at home as my librarian, clerk, and gardener, and having expressed a wish to follow my fortunes in this long gipsy tour of mine, I have taken him.

Both John and he have regularly signed articles, shipshape and sailor fashion, for the whole cruise; and I mean to be a good captain to both of them.

As Foley at home is in fairly good circ.u.mstances of life, and has a kind and religious mother, it is needless to say much about his character. I could trust him with untold gold--if I had it. But here is a greater proof of my trust in his integrity--I can trust him with Hurricane Bob, and Hurricane Bob is more to me than much fine gold.

On board the Wanderer, Foley fills the position of my first lieutenant and secretary; with this he combines the duties of valet and cook, I myself sometimes a.s.sisting in the latter capacity. He is also my outrider--on a tricycle--and often my agent in advance.

On the whole he is a good lad. I do not believe he ever flirts with the maids at the bars of the village inns when we buy our modest drop of beer or secure our ginger-ale. And I am certain he reads the Book, and says his prayers every night of his life.

So much for the crew of the Wanderer. Now for the live stock, my companions.

I have already said a word about my horses, Corn-flower and Pear-blossom. We know more about their individual characters now.

Nothing then in the world would annoy or put Corn-flower out of temper.

Come hills or come valleys, on rough road and on smooth, walking or at the trot, he goes on with his head in the air, straight fore and aft, heeding nothing, simply doing his duty.

There is far more of the grace and poetry of motion about Pea-blossom.

She bobs and tosses her head, and flicks her tail, looking altogether as proud as a hen with one chicken.

If touched with the whip, she immediately nibbles round at Corn-flower's head, as much as to say, "Come on, can't you, you lazy stick? There am I getting touched up with the whip all owing to you. You're not doing your share of the work, and you know it."

But Corn-flower never makes the slightest reply. Pea-blossom is a thorough type of the s.e.x to which she belongs. She is jealous of Corn-flower, pretends not to like him. She would often kick him if she could, but if he is taken out of the stable, and she left, she will almost neigh the house down.

If in a field with Corn-flower, she is constantly imagining that he is getting all the best patches of gra.s.s and clover, and keeps nagging at him and chasing him from place to place.

But the contented Corn-flower does not retaliate. For Corn-flower's motto is "Never mind."

Polly--The c.o.c.katoo.

I want my friends--the readers--to know and appreciate my little feathered friend, so far as anyone can to whom she does not grant a private interview. I want them to know her, and yet I feel how difficult it is to describe her--or rather _him_, though I shall continue to say _her_--without writing in a goody-goody or old-maidish style. "Never mind," as Corn-flower says, I'll do my best.

_Polly's Birth and Parentage_.--The bird came about five years ago from the wilds of West Australia, though she has been in my possession but little more than a year. She belongs to the great natural family Psattacidae, and to the soft-billed species of non-crested c.o.c.katoos.

As regards the softness of her bill, however, it is more imaginary than real, for though she cannot crack a cocoa-nut, she could slit one's nose or lay a finger open to the bone.

I daresay Polly was born in some old log of wood in the bosh, and suffered, as all parrots do coming to this country, from vile food, close confinement, and want of water.

_Polly's Personal Appearance_.--Having no crest--except when excited-- she looks to the ordinary eye a parrot and nothing else. Pure white is she all over except for a garland of crimson across her breast, a blue patch round her wondrous eyes, and the red of the gorc.o.c.k over the beak.

This latter is a curious apparatus; so long and bent is it that the dealers usually call this species of c.o.c.katoo "Nosey," which is more expressive than polite.

_Polly's Tricks and Manners_.--These are altogether very remarkable and quite out of the common run.

No c.o.c.katoo that ever I saw would beat a well-trained red-tail grey parrot at talking, but in motion-making and in tricks the latter is nowhere with Nosey.

I place no value on Polly's ordinary tricks, for any c.o.c.katoo will shake hands when told, will kiss one or ask to be kissed or scratched, or even dance. This last, however, if with a musical accompaniment, is a very graceful action. Polly also, like other c.o.c.katoos, stands on her head, swings by head or feet, etc, etc. But it is her extreme love for music that makes this bird of mine so winning.

When she first came to me she was fierce, vindictive, and sulky. It was the guitar that brought her round. And now when I play either guitar or violin she listens most attentively or beats time with her bill on the bars of the cage.

This she does when I am playing quadrille or waltz, but the following I think very remarkable: Polly cannot stand a Scotch strathspey, and often, when I begin to play one, she commences to imitate a dog and cat fighting, which she does to perfection. Again, if I play a slow or melancholy air on the violin, Polly seems entranced, and sits on her perch with downcast head, with one foot in the air, slowly opening and shutting her fist in time to the music.

Polly plays the guitar with her beak when I hold it close to her cage, ie, she touches the strings while I do the fingering.

I am teaching her to turn a little organ, and soon she will be perfect.

Heigho! who knows that when, after a lapse of years, my pen and my gigantic intellect fail me, Polly may not be the prop of my declining years--Polly and the fiddle?

Another of Polly's strange motions is moving her neck as if using a whip. This she always does when she sees boys, so I daresay she knows what boys need.

Her words and sayings are too numerous to mention. She calls for breakfast, for food, for sugar, for supper, etc. She calls Bob and the cat, and imitates both. She calls hens, imitates their being killed, puts them up to auction, and sells them for half-a-crown. She laughs and she sings, _words_ and _music_ both being her own composition.

She drinks from cup, or bottle, or spoon, milk, coffee, or tea, but no beer or ginger-ale.

Her water is merely used to float and steep her seeds or crusts in.

When frozen one day last winter, I found her throwing the seeds on top of the ice, and saying, "Poor dear Polly?" in a most mournful tone of voice.

In conclusion, Polly is most affectionate and loving to _me_, and--

"If to her lot some human errors fall, Look in her face, and you'll forget them all."

Hurricane Bob.

He is the caravan dog, a n.o.ble fellow, straight in coat, and jetty-black, without one curly hair. He is the admired of all beholders.

He has gained prizes enough to ent.i.tle him to be dubbed champion according to the older rules. His real or bench name is Theodore Nero the Second. In his day his father was known all over the world.

As to pedigree, Bob's father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and great-great-grandfather were all champions, and he is himself the father of a champion, Mr Farquharson's, MP, celebrated Gunville.

[Vide "Aileen Aroon," by the same author. Published by Messrs.

Partridge and Co, 9 Paternoster Row, EC.]

In character, Bob--NB: We call him Robert on the Sabbath Day and on bank-holidays--is most gentle and amiable. And though, like all pure Newfoundlands, he is fond of fighting, he will never touch a small dog.

Wherever Bob is seen he is admired, and neither children nor babies are ever afraid of him, while--

"His locked and lettered braw bra.s.s collar Shows him the gentleman and scholar."

The words of North and the Shepherd, in the "Noctes Ambrosianae," come into my head as I write:--

"A dog barks. _Shepherd_. Heavens! I could hae thocht that was Bronte.

"_North_. No bark like his, James, now belongs to the world of sound.

"_Shepherd_. Purple black was he all over, as the raven's wing.

Strength and sagacity emboldened his bounding beauty, but a fierceness lay deep down within the quiet l.u.s.tre o' his een that tauld ye, had he been enraged, he could hae torn in pieces a lion.

"_North_. Not a child of three years old and upwards in the neighbourhood that had not hung by his mane, and played with his paws, and been affectionately worried by him on the flowery greensward."