Evenings at Home; Or, The Juvenile Budget Opened. John Aikin
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THE DOG BALKED OF HIS DINNER.—A Tale.
Think yourself sure of nothing till you’ve got it:
This is the lesson of the day.
In metaphoric language I might say,
Count not your bird before you’ve shot it.
Quoth Proverb, “’Twixt the cup and lip
There’s many a slip.”
Not every guest invited sits at table,
So says my fable.
A man once gave a dinner to his friend;
His friend!—his patron I should rather think
By all the loads of meat and drink,
And fruits and gellies without end,
Sent home the morning of the feast.
Jowler, his dog, a social beast,
Soon as he smelt the matter out, away
Scampers to old acquaintance Tray,
And, with expressions kind and hearty,
Invites him to the party.
Tray wanted little pressing to a dinner;
He was, in truth, a gormandizing sinner.
He lick’d his chops, and wagg’d his tail,
“Dear friend!” he cried, “I will not fail
But what’s your hour?”
“We dine at four;
But if you come an hour too soon,
You’ll find there’s something to be done.”
His friend withdrawn, Tray, full of glee,
As blithe as blithe could be,
Skipp’d, danced, and play’d full many an antic
Like one half frantic,
Then sober in the sun lay winking,
But could not sleep for thinking.
He thought o’er every dainty dish,
Fried, boil’d and roast,
Flesh, fowl, and fish,
With tripes and toast,
Fit for a dog to eat;
And in his fancy made a treat,
Might grace a bill of fare
For my lord-mayor.
At length, just on the stroke of three,
Forth sallied he;
And through a well-known hole
He slyly stole
Pop on the scene of action.
Here he beheld, with wondrous satisfaction
All hands employ’d in drawing, stuffing,
Skewering, spitting, and basting;
The red-faced cook sweating and puffing,
Chopping, mixing, and tasting.
Tray skulk’d about, now here, now there
Peep’d into this, and smelt at that,
And lick’d the gravy, and the fat,
And cried, “O rare! how I shall fare!”
But Fortune, spiteful as Old Nick,
Resolved to play our dog a trick;
She made the cook
Just cast a look
Where Tray, beneath the dresser lying,
His promised bliss was eying.
A cook while cooking is a sort of fury,
A maxim worth remem’bring, I assure ye.
Tray found it true,
And so may you,
If e’er you choose to try.
“How now!” quoth she, “what’s this I spy?
A nasty cur! who let him in?
Would he were hang’d with all his kin!
A pretty kitchen-guest, indeed!
But I shall pack him off with speed.”
So saying, on poor Tray she flew,
And dragg’d the culprit forth to view;
Then, to his terror and amazement,
Whirl’d him like lightning through the casement.
EVENING III.
THE KID.
One bleak day in March, Sylvia, returning from a visit to the sheepfold, met with a young kidling deserted by its dam on the naked heath. It was bleating piteously, and was so benumbed with the cold that it could scarcely stand. Sylvia took it up in her arms, and pressed it close to her bosom. She hastened home, and showing her little foundling to her parents, begged she might rear it for her own. They consented; and Sylvia immediately got a basketful of clean straw, and made a bed for him on the hearth. She warmed some milk, and held it to him in a platter The poor creature drank it up eagerly, and then licked her hand for more. Sylvia was delighted. She chafed his tender legs with her warm hands, and soon saw him jump out of his basket and frisk across the room. When full, he lay down again, and took a comfortable nap.
The next day, the kid had a name bestowed upon him. As he gave tokens of being an excellent jumper, it was Capriole. He was introduced to all the rest of the family, and the younger children were allowed to stroke and pat him; but Sylvia would let nobody be intimate with him out herself. The great mastiff was charged not to hurt him, and indeed, he had no intention to do it.
Within a few days, Capriole followed Sylvia all about the house; trotted by her side into the yard; ran races with her in the home-field; fed out of her hand; and was declared pet and favourite. As the spring advanced, Sylvia roamed in the fields, and gathered wild flowers, with which she wove garlands, and hung them round the kid’s neck. He could not be kept, however, from munching his finery when he could reach it with his mouth. He was likewise rather troublesome in thrusting his nose into the meal-tub and flour-box, and following people into the dairy, and sipping the milk that was set for cream. He now and then got a blow for his intrusion; but his mistress always took his part, and indulged him in every liberty.
Capriole’s horns now began to bud, and a little white beard sprouted at the end of his chin. He grew bold enough to put himself into a fighting posture whenever he was offended. He butted down little Colin into the dirt; quarrelled with the geese for their allowance of corn; and held many a stout battle with the old turkey-cock. Everybody said, “Capriole is growing too saucy; he must be sent away, or taught better manners.” But Sylvia still stood his friend, and he repaid her love with many tender caresses.
The farmhouse where Sylvia lived was situated in a sweet valley, by the side of a clear stream bordered with trees. Above the house rose a sloping meadow, and beyond that, was an open common covered with purple heath and yellow furze. Farther on, at some distance, rose a steep hill, the summit of which was a bare craggy rock, scarcely accessible to human feet. Capriole,