Master Frisky

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NEW YORK THOMAS Y. CROWELL & Co. PUBLISHERS

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My First Meeting With Master Frisky

MASTER FRISKY.

The story of my first meeting with Master Frisky is quite a long one; but I will tell it as briefly as possible, and then when we have once become acquainted with my little friend, we will come to some of the more interesting stories.

I was on a carriage drive among the beautiful Hampton Hills; it was June, and all the world was singing,—the birds, the brooks, and the locusts. Even the hills sang softly to themselves, but their song was so low and so tender that it was not heard by the average listener. Dame Nature, dressed in her most beautiful gown, was holding her annual carnival of beauty; and as the carriage rolled along the fair roadway, I thought how beautiful the old earth is this morning, and how grand a thing it is to live.

I was going with a friend to visit the As kennels, where many kinds of dogs were kept. Presently, as we rounded a bend in the road, we came in full sight of the home of the dogs; and what a chorus of barking there was, ringing all the way from the deep bay of the great Dane, to the sharp cry of a basket beagle, no larger than a cat.

Many of the dogs were loose, and the younger ones came frolicking about us; but the old ones were more dignified, and stood at a distance, wagging their tails sedately. I had never seen so many dogs all at one time before, and they made a fine show. There were tall Siberian bloodhounds, with beautiful tawny coats; sleek greyhounds, lithe and graceful as the willow. There were fine Saint Bernards, whose ancestors had rescued many a snow-bound traveler in the Alps; queer German dachshunds, terriers, bull-dogs, spaniels, pointers, setters, and scores of others.

The most interesting of all to me was a fine strain of Scotch collies that had been brought from Scotland many years ago from the kennels of a nobleman. These dogs were quick of intelligence, strong and active, and the handsomest creatures that I had ever seen.

They were either red or walnut sable and white with darker markings; most of them had a white stripe on the nose, while a few had a perfect white collar clear around the neck. The owner of the kennels was very proud of these dogs, as well he might be.

I had been thinking for some time of getting a dog, and when I saw these beautiful collies my mind was quite made up. “I must have one of these,” I said; and I stooped to stroke the head of an old dog that had come up to make my acquaintance. At the precise moment when I stooped, I felt something soft and moist upon my cheek, and turning my head, saw a collie pup about three months old, standing on his hind legs in the very act of kissing me; one paw rested upon my shoulder, and the other was extended beseechingly. “You little beauty,” I said, and the puppy laughed all over his expressive face, and then not certain but that he had done wrong in making so free with me, at once looked as sober as a lazy boy on examination day. “It’s all right,” I said, patting his head, “you are a good little doggie;” and as though he understood perfectly and was glad that he had pleased me, he licked my hand.

Of all the collies in the kennels, this newfound friend was the handsomest. He was a rich walnut sable with white markings trimmed with very dark sable to better show the white and red. He had a perfect shirt bosom, two white cuffs on his forepaws, white tips to his hind paws, and a white tip to his tail.

I sat down upon the piazza to talk over the good points about several of the collies; and my little friend came and crawled under my arm and nestled close to me, putting his paw con in my hand and licking it repeatedly, saying as plainly as he could in dog language, “I want to be your doggie; please buy me; I will be good, please get me.”

If I went to pet any of the other dogs, this persistent little collie would push in between and try to attract attention. “I believe I will take this dog,” I said; and as though he at once took possession of me, the little fellow jumped up into my lap, wagging his tail, and grinning from ear to ear.

I paid the price of the collie pup, and found myself the owner of this wriggling, squirming bit of a dog. When I lifted him into the carriage, he trembled and looked very scared; but I patted his head and reassured him, and he soon became quiet. He had never been up so high, though, before, and was frightened when he looked over the side of the carriage, which he kept doing. Finally he cuddled down under my leg and went to sleep, and did not wake up until I lifted him out, and placed him upon the doorsteps safe at home.

Being a Puppy

I suppose a puppy must live in much such a strange and wonderful world as children do. Certainly Master Frisky’s world was full of wonders; many of them he inquired into, and quite frequently to his sorrow.

But I must first tell you about naming him; for a long time we could not find a name that fitted him. All of the ordinary dog names that we tried were either too large, too small, or too dignified for him. So for a long time he was Jack one day, and Ned the next, and still something else the third, until at last he got so that he would answer to almost any name. “This will never do,” I said; “we must have a name for him at once.”

The next morning I was sitting in my study, not reading, but watching the pranks of my puppy who was chasing a grasshopper. “How he does frisk about!” said a friend, watching the fun over my shoulder. “Why not call him Frisky?” he asked; and the name stuck. Finally, when he got older and more dignified, a master was added when he was uncommonly clever.

Master Frisky’s first adventure, which was not a serious one, came the morning after I arrived home with him; and from that day on I was never quite certain what he would do next. He had gone with me to the barn, and while I was watering the horses, he was lying on the floor trying to catch a sunbeam; of a sudden I heard a few sharp barks, and then a most pitiful yelping.

I rushed to the scene of the disturbance, and found poor Frisky up in one corner of the barn, and our old white gander, Ginger, before him, pounding him fiercely with his wings. I drove Ginger away, and Master Frisky ran between my legs for protection. This was but one of many similar plights from which I rescued this curious pup.

He would get his nose pecked for poking into the hencoop to see the chickens; the cat would scratch him when he got too free with her kittens; and often he would come scurrying into the yard with his tail between his legs, and a large dog in hot pursuit.

For recreation he worried the cat, chased the kittens when the mother was not around, barked at the rooster, hunted grasshoppers, dug holes in the flower-beds, and hid bones under the lounge. Things that a well-behaved dog should do were never thought of by him, but his capers and tricks would fill a large book.

One morning, about a week after my first acquaintance with Master Frisky, I heard a great commotion in the front yard; and on going to the door, I found one of my neighbors, Mrs. Maloney by name, gesturing wildly with the poker, while my small dog was standing at a respectful distance, barking.

“The little haythen,” said Mrs. Maloney, as soon as she saw me, “he stole me beefsteak, grabbed the entire lot from the oven when me back was turned.”

“Where is it now?” I asked.

“The little baste has hid it, and I can't find it at all, at all.”

Master Frisky stood with drooping head and tail, looking every inch a culprit. “Bad dog,” I said in my sternest tones. He at once lay down upon the ground, and turning upon his back held up his front paws in such a beseeching manner, that I laughed in spite of myself, at which he immediately got up and began crawling toward me in a humble and sorrowful attitude.

“It ain’t the first time that the little scamp has been thaving. It was only yisterday that he stole a piece of mince-pie out of me oven, took it out so slick that I thought it was me bye, Patsy, and a good slap I gave him; and I never would have known to this day, had I not seen the crumbs on his sassy little mug, and himself a-lying behint the stove a-making belave slape,” said Mrs. Maloney. I paid for the meat, and promised to keep a sharp eye on my naughty dog.

One of Master Frisky’s most harmless and amusing puppy pranks was to tease the cat. He never was rough with her, or I would have interfered. At first he would merely stand perfectly still in front of the cat and look at her. For two minutes at a time he would stand so, not moving a muscle, but just grinning.

After a while she would move to another part of the room; but Frisky would follow, and take up his position as before. When this sport got tame he would open his mouth very wide, and make believe swallow the cat's head, but never did he offer to bite.

Then, of a sudden, he would rear upon his hind legs and come down astride the cat with his mouth wide open, and almost shut his jaws upon her. It was lucky for him in those puppy days that the cat was long-suffering, or he would have had many a severe lesson.

The Sad Story of the Peep

It was still the middle of February, and as yet there was little indication of spring. The snow lay deep upon the ground, the eaves rarely dripped by day, and the nights were cold and crisp.

As soon as the sun went down and it began to grow dusk, the North Wind would come driving his white-maned horses over the snow at a gallop; and sometimes, when he got to driving too recklessly, you would hear his steeds come bang against the side of the house.

Under the snow, the Daffy-down-dillies were sleeping soundly; or perhaps they dreamed occasionally of spring. So cold it was, and so wintry, that you may imagine my astonishment, on going to the barn one morning, to find Old Speck setting.

“Why, you foolish old hen,” I said, “you don’t want any chickens this time of the year; they would all freeze to death.” I put my hand down to push her off the nest; but she pecked savagely at me, and said “Curr, curr,” which means in her language, “Go away, I want to set, I want some chickens.”

So I let her stay on the nest, thinking, as it was so cold, that she would soon get tired of trying to set. But every morning when I went to the barn, I found her on the nest. At last, like Old Speck, I, too, began to long for some chickens. How cheerful it would sound to hear them peeping.

So, finally, I fixed her a warm nest in the haymow, and put thirteen eggs under her and waited. But how long those three weeks seemed! Each day when I went up-stairs to feed and water the hen, Master Frisky would go too, and stand watching her through the slats of the box, while she ate. I said “Chickens” to him, and he wagged his tail, and seemed to understand.

At last the longed-for day came; and Old Speck, with much clucking and scolding, came off with just one chicken. But what a cute little fellow he was, as black as a coal, and as lively as a grasshopper. I held him in my hand, and let Master Frisky look at him; and he laughed and wagged his tail, and gave three or four glad barks.

Old Speck scratched around as hard in the straw for this one chicken as she would have done for a dozen; and how this little bit of black down would peep. When he was nestled under his mother’s wings, his peep was soft and contented; but when running about the box, it was shrill and loud; and if you had not seen him, you would have thought that there were a dozen chickens instead of one.

At first he was but a ball of fuzz; but after about a week, the tiniest feathers began to show at the tips of his wings; and by the third week he had quite a growth of them.

He did not eat much at first; but Old Speck broke up bits of the egg-shell, and he swallowed those; and that gave him a chance to grind the other things that he soon learned to eat. When I would bring him out a soaked cracker, his mother would say, “Break, break, break.” This meant breakfast; and he would first peep out from under her wing, and then come scampering out and peck at the cracker with the cutest little yellow bill.

When he had finished his breakfast, you could hardly see that the cracker had been touched; but he was a very little chicken, and it was all he wanted. Then he would go up to the water, and, standing on the edge of a box-cover that I had filled, dip his bill in, pausing each time to give thanks as his mother did.

It was a new and strange world into which this young chick had just pecked his way; and he felt very important of his conquest of that tough egg-shell, and proud of himself as well. His bright eyes saw everything, and his quick little feet were eager to carry him to all parts of the world.

At present his world was a box about three feet square and two high. It seemed a very large place to the young chick, who was so small, that when his mother scratched in the straw, she would occasionally cover him entirely up, and then there would be such a peeping and scratching until he had uncovered himself again and saw daylight.

It was not long before he had peeped into all the corners of the box, and explored all the holes in the straw; so then he began looking through the slats on the box, and wondering what was on the outside. At this Old Speck clucked sternly, and told him not to venture outside, for it was very dangerous. But the next day, when his mother was scratching for him in the loose dirt, he slipped through the slats, but was terribly frightened to see a large, strange thing crouching on the hay watching him.

“Peep, peep,” he said, “I am so frightened.” Old Speck ran quickly, and beat against the side of the box, and made a great noise with her wings, so that the cat did not dare come near; and the poor little chicken scrambled back into the box as soon as he could. He hid under his mother’s wing, and was so frightened that he did not dare look out, for fear that he would see those two terrible eyes.

All the next day he was very good, staying close to his mother, and coming quickly when she called. That night they heard a strange nibbling noise at one end of the box; they listened for a long time, and finally it ceased. Old Speck told the chick that it was a wicked rat, who was an old enemy of theirs, and that they must be careful.

During the days that followed it was very cold and the wind howled. Old Speck and the chick kept quiet; and the wise old hen told him of the outside world into which they should soon go, and of its many dangers and deceits, all of which should have terrified so young a chicken, and made him keep close to his mother.

But this one was not terrified, and he longed for the time when they should go forth from the box and see all these strange and terrible things about which his mother had been telling him.

He did not think that Red Tail, the hawk, could get him,—not if he saw him coming; and he would always know when Whiteplume was about by the smell. He would keep his eye out for Sly-boy, whom his mother described as so terrible. The rats and the cats had not got him yet, and he did not believe that they could.

And as for Lord Reynard, who lived in the woods beyond the meadow, and who had carried his great-grandfather off one night, notwithstanding that he was a large rooster—well, that was a long time ago, and such things did not happen now; anyhow, Lord Reynard would not want a small chicken, and when he got larger he would look out for him.

At last the longed-for day came. It was about the first of April: the winds were still cold, but the snow was all gone, and there was a touch of green on the lawns along the sunny south sides. Dandelion had not yet lifted up his golden head; but he was restless, and his leaves had put on a pale green.

I knocked off one of the boards of the box, and forth came Old Speck, clucking and bristling, closely followed by the black chicken. About the lawn they went, “Cluck, cluck, cluck; peep, peep, peep.” I never have seen a chicken before or since that could peep like this little black bunch of feathers. His note was as loud and as clear as a canary’s, and as persistent as it was delightful. “Spring, spring, spring,” he seemed to be saying; “Spring, spring, spring,” from morning until night.

“What, have you got chickens?” asked a neighbor. “Yes, one,” I said. “One, I should think that there were twenty,” said the friend. So we named him the Peep, and took this bold little chick to our hearts, and he became as one of the family.

Many were the adventures that befell him, and many a time Old Speck's courage and wisdom saved him from destruction. Once Red Tail bore down upon them when they were far from cover, and Old Speck beat at him furiously with her wings, and for a moment kept him at a distance. But, fortunately for them both, Master Frisky happened to hear the noise and came running, barking so fiercely that the terrible hawk flew away. Master Frisky had a great liking for the Peep from the first, and if he saw the cat looking longingly at him, he would chase the cat under the barn or up a tree.

Sir Cock-a-doodle, too, took a shine to the precocious youngster; and he took it upon himself to keep the hens from pecking it, which was quite a condescension on his part.

When it was time to go to roost, the Peep would get upon his mother’s back, and then she would fly upon a low roost, and from that to a higher one. When they were safe upon the roost, the Peep would wiggle down from her back, and then walk carefully along to Sir Cock-a-doodle, and adroitly slip between his legs, and there he would stand upon the perch all night.

It was a comical and amusing picture, the great white rooster, tall and dignified, and the bit of a chicken, that came barely up to his spurs, standing between his legs; and when once safely settled for the night, the Peep would swell up and try to look like Sir Cock-a-doodle. He seemed to say, “Don’t you see us, Sir Cock-a-doodle and I? We are the guardians of the roost.”

It is hard to conjecture what this young chicken might have become, or what he might have accomplished, had it not been for a most lamentable “if.”

One morning he was standing upon the perch between the legs of his protector as usual. It was not yet light, but his bright eyes were wide open. He could hear the hens and Sir Cock-a-doodle breathing peacefully, and through the window he could see the pale morning stars. How still it was, and how strange! Presently he began studying a certain hole in one corner of the henhouse. He had often wondered what was in it; but his mother had told him that it was a very dangerous hole, and that he must keep away from it.

Here was an adventure; he would explore the hole this morning, before any of the hen family were awake; so down he slipped from the roost, and started toward the hole. But when he got to the corner he stopped; something seemed to say “Go back, go back,” and then he heard a little noise. What could it be? He must see what that noise was, so into the hole he slipped. How dark it was, and how frightful and cold. He would go back at once, but which was the way? Instead of looking back into the comfortable henhouse, he was looking directly into the beady, wicked eyes of Charkey Nibbler.

About him, on every side, were a half dozen wicked looking rats. He tried to peep, but his voice, that was usually so loud and shrill, was a mere squeak; and then the rats came closer, and he could feel their hot breath and see their white cruel teeth. And then he found his voice: “Peep, peep,” he cried; “Sir Cock-a-doodle, Sir Cock-a-doodle, save me.”

With a loud note of alarm, Sir Cock-a-doodle came down from the roost, followed by all the hens. Old Speck scratched at the hole frantically, while Sir Cock-a-doodle beat his strong wings against the boards with a great noise, but all to no purpose. They all knew too well the meaning of those pathetic peeps that grew fainter and fainter, until all was still.

When I arrived at the henhouse, the commotion had stopped, and many of the hens had gone back to the roost; but Sir Cock-a-doodle and Old Speck still stood in the corner. When by the light of my lantern I discovered a few small black feathers and a drop of blood upon the dirt, I did not need to search further; the sad end of the Peep was only too apparent.

I filled the hole with dirt, and went sorrowfully back to bed, thinking how we should miss his shrill peeping on the morrow. “How lonely it is without him!” said Old Speck to Sir Cock-a-doodle, the next night upon the roost.

“Did you notice how my voice broke to-day?” returned that worthy. “I could scarcely crow; he was a chicken after my own heart, and would have made a fine cock; but alas, the good die young.”

How Master Frisky Saved Old Fan

Fan was our sober, steady-going old horse; and being of so sedate a turn of mind, she had little liking for Master Frisky, who was full of pranks and capers. At night he occupied the empty stall next to her; and many were the disputes that they had about their speed, Master Frisky claiming that he could go faster than Fan, which greatly angered the horse.

“If I was a dog,” old Fan would say with a scornful snort, “I would not always have my tail full of burrs; see my coat, how shiny it is.”

“That is no credit to you,” Frisky would reply; “it is because our master is always scraping and brushing you. If I was a horse I wouldn’t always be hitched up by the head, and have to stand one way.”

“That is better than running away as you do,” old Fan would retort.

When Master Frisky felt mischievously inclined, he would circle about Fan, teasing and barking in a manner that greatly irritated and disturbed her. During one of these pranks she brought her hoof squarely down upon his paw. It was badly crushed, and it was many a day before its owner could touch it to the ground.

A comical picture he made going about on three legs, and holding up his paw for sympathy and inspection. After that he did not bother the horse any more, but they were no better friends for the occurrence.

One night old Fan came in late from a long hard drive; and after rubbing her down and giving her a good feed, I went to bed. She was feeling quite cross from her long day’s work, and paid little attention to Master Frisky’s inquiry as to where we had been. Finally she lay down and went to sleep; and Frisky, seeing that no more conversation was to be had with her, did the same.

He had been sleeping but a short time, when he was awakened by a strange noise. At first he thought it must be a bear; although, as he had never heard one except in his dreams, of course he was not sure, but when he got fairly waked up, he discovered that it came from old Fan's stall.

“What is the matter?” he asked.

“Oh, I am cast, and the halter is choking me to death,” groaned Fan. “Call master, that’s a good dog, quick.” Master Frisky thought of his broken paw, and at first did not; but seeing that the horse was in real distress, he barked loud and imperatively, a note that I well knew, but I was fast asleep and did not hear.

“Oh, oh! I am strangling, I shall die,” groaned Fan. At this, Master Frisky barked fiercer than before, but no master came. “Can’t you help me?” groaned the poor horse.

“I would if I could,” said Frisky, as he felt real frightened about Fan, for they were not really as bad friends as they had made believe.

Then a bright idea came to Frisky.

“I might gnaw the rope,” he said.

“Do,” groaned the choking horse.

“But you might kick me; you said you would if I came near you.”

“Oh, no, I won’t,” said Fan; “do help me.”

“You broke my paw,” said Master Frisky, doubtfully.

“I didn’t mean to,” said Fan; “and I will never step on you again.”

Then Master Frisky climbed over the prostrate horse, and began at the rope. He had just sharpened his teeth that morning on a hard bone; and in a very few seconds the rope gave way, and the frightened and half-strangled horse scrambled to her feet.

“I think you saved my life,” she said to Frisky, as soon as she could speak.

“I am very glad I thought to gnaw the rope,” he replied.

“Thank you ever so much,” said Fan; “let’s be better friends; we ought to, you know, we sleep together.”

“All right,” said Frisky. “I am sorry I barked at you and made you nervous and I won’t do it any more.”

“I will not strike at you any more,” said Fan; “let's rub noses.” So they did, and then the new friends lay down and went to sleep.

Some Lessons in Good Behavior

About a week after his stealing Mrs. Maloney’s meat, Master Frisky’s education began; for no dog, it matters not how well behaved he may be naturally, but is improved by a few lessons in good behavior.

The first step in the training of a dog is to teach him to mind the whistle. This is very important, for one can handle him so much easier if he will come when he is called.

I got a long, light cord, and tied one end in Master Frisky’s collar, and the other I let him drag upon the ground, and together we went for a walk across the fields. He was all eagerness and excitement, for he thought I had come out to see him hunt grasshoppers; but that was not my intention.

When he had gotten real interested in following up a grasshopper, I whistled to him, at the same time taking hold of the loose end of the cord. He looked up, wagged his tail, and plainly said in dog language, “I had rather stay here,” and began to look for the grasshopper again.

I gave a sharp pull at the cord. Frisky looked up very much astonished when it twitched on his collar; he had not imagined that my arm was so long. I whistled and pulled sharply again. This time there was no mistaking my meaning. I had a long arm indeed, and he at once ran to me and lay down in the grass.

A few repetitions of this object lesson and the point was gained. When master whistled, it meant “Come here;” and he would run quickly and stand very still while I patted his head and told him he was a good dog. The next morning I taught him to heel, which is almost as important an accomplishment for a dog about town as mind the whistle. This time I put a short cord on him; and instead of letting him drag it on the ground, I held the loose end in my hand.

When we started for the post-office, he bounded about me like a crazy dog, and wound the rope around my legs in a very unpleasant manner; but this was what I had expected. So I untangled the cord, and carrying a little stick in my hand, made him walk behind me, and whenever he got in front I hit him gently on the nose. At first this was a great hardship to have to walk behind, and not go racing about, looking into all the corners and getting into mischief. But he soon learned what I wanted; and then he would walk behind, looking as prompt and dignified as a dog could well look, and he seemed to say, “What a well behaved dog I am!” and he would look scornfully at the puppies that were racing about bothering their masters.