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Pussy Black-Face: The Story of a Kitten and Her Friends

<h2 class='c006'>CHAPTER XVII THE MISCHIEVOUS GUINEA-HEN</h2></div> After dinner Della and Mary went out on the front veranda, and after Mrs. Gleason had given me something to eat, I trotted after them. There were two hammocks on the veranda, and Mary was swinging in one, and Della in the other. “How old are you?” the farmer's little girl was asking as I arrived. “Twelve,” said Mary. “And I'm thirteen,” returned Della. “I'm going to tell you a secret—just between you and me, and Pussy there,” she added, looking down at me as I walked under her hammock. “Very well,” said Mary excitedly. “What is it?” “You're going to be my second-best friend. I've got a best one, but I guess I can 274pass her on to another girl, then I'll have you for first best.” “That's lovely,” said Mary. “I'll be true to you, and you'll be true to me.” “We'll have to write our names in gore,” murmured Della in a blood-curdling voice. “In gore?” repeated Mary. “Whose gore?” “Yours and mine. You take a pin and scratch your arm, then when the blood comes, you get a pen, and write your name and your best friend's name on a piece of paper. Then you fold it, and wear it in a little silk bag round your neck next your heart.” “We never do that in Boston,” said Mary in dismay. “And I wouldn't scratch anybody's arm with a pin for the world. Why, you might get a germ in it.” “What's that?” inquired Della. “A germ is a microbe, I think,” replied Mary. “And what's a microbe?” “I fancy it's a bacillus.” “And what's a bacillus?” “I don't know,” said Mary frankly; 275“only it's something that might give you scarlet fever, or small-pox, or diphtheria, or measles, or lots of diseases. No, Della, you must never scratch yourself with a pin. If you just have to take a splinter out of your hand, hold a needle point in the flame of a candle before you stick it in you. That kills the disease germs.” “Why, I must be full of diseases,” said Della in a queer voice. “I stick a pin in myself every day of my life.” “Of course there are little healthy germs in us,” pursued Mary, “that fight the unhealthy ones. There's always a battle going on, or else we'd all die right off, of some disease.” “Is that why I feel so queer sometimes inside of me?” continued Della. “I don't know. I dare say it is,” replied Mary. “I'm not much of a doctor. I hear mamma and papa talking about these things.” Della looked thoughtful, but made no answer, as she was watching a man drive into the yard. After jumping from his wagon he 276lifted out a box and put it on the back door-step. “That's Bill Seaforth,” said Della. “He wants to see daddy, I guess,” and she sprang out of the hammock and ran to the kitchen door. Mary and I followed more slowly. “Hello, Mr. Seaforth,” said Della. “How are you?” “Oh! I'm whippin' the cat,” he said easily. “How's all your care?” “Whipping the cat,” I repeated in a shocked voice to Aunt Tabby, who was sitting on the door-step. “What does he mean?” “It's just a country expression,” she said. “He's always saying something queer.” But it was Della who was saying the queer thing now. “We're all stubbin' along,” she said cheerfully. I could not help smiling. It sounded like tight shoes. “Is your pa above ground?” pursued the man. “No, he's in the barn cellar,” said Della, “beddin' the pigs.” 277“I'll resurrect him,” said Mr. Seaforth. “He owes me two dollars for them two hawk guards.” “Oh! the guinea-hens,” said the sharp, young Della, who seemed to know all her father's business. “Do you s'pose, Bill Seaforth, that they'll actshually scare the hawks?” “Well, if we ain't all black liars up on the Little Purple Hill, they do,” drawled the man. “Denno says it's all bosh,” remarked Della, “however, I'll tell pa.” The man did not seem at all offended with her, and she hurried to the barn. In a few minutes Mr. Gleason appeared, and seizing the box and followed by the man, he made his way to the hen-house. Mary who was delighted with this new happening, followed closely behind, and I kept at the heels of her pretty Boston shoes. Della wore brass-toed ones. Arrived at the hen-house, the farmer called us all in, closed the door, and let the guinea-hens out. Mary was convulsed with 278amusement. It seemed she had never seen any creatures like this before, and her fascinated eyes followed them, as they went round and round the hen-house uttering plaintive, little cries, and walking with mincing steps like two little old women. “They look as if they had little gray shawls on,” said Mary. “Oh! how queer they are—what tiny heads.” “Ain't as brainy as hens,” said the man who had brought them, “and they wander powerful. You'll have to keep 'em in limbo for a while.” They all stood for a long time watching the guinea-hens. I used to marvel at the amount of time everybody had in the country. Nobody hurried, and yet they worked for a longer time each day than the people in Boston. Finally the man got his two dollars and went away, and Mary, Della and I went back to the hammocks. Serena was very much interested in my account of the guinea-hens. She wasn't going out much those days. She kept indoors, 279except at night when she took a little walk all about the barn. This particular evening she stole up to the hen-house to see the guinea-hens, and when the time came for them to be let out, as they had become “wonted” to the place, she used to lie under a clump of rose-bushes and watch them. Their actions interested her very much. They trotted all round the house, the barn, and the carriage-house, only stopping occasionally to eat. “They're humbugs,” said Serena. “I've seen a swift hawk take two chickens to-day, when the guinea-hens were only a few feet away from him. They never opened their beaks, and he wasn't a bit afraid of them. There he is coming back.” “Meow, meow,” I said loudly, and I ran toward Mary who had thrown herself on the grass at the side of the house, and was reading a book. She looked up. The bird soaring overhead appeared in the distance like one of Della's blue homing pigeons that nested in the loft of the carriage-house. When it came near, 280we saw it was larger than a pigeon. Like a bullet it dropped over an unsuspecting mother hen, seized one of her baby chickens, and bore the dear little thing up in the air with its legs dangling helplessly. Mary burst into tears, and tried to find Della. “I hate those guinea-hens,” said Serena contemptuously. “You just lie down here beside me, sister, and watch. You have seen one of their sins of omission, now find out one of commission.” I didn't know what she meant, but I crouched down beside her. She was much nicer to me since the downfall of her pride, and I really enjoyed being with her. “Now,” she went on, “keep your eyes on the smaller of those old maids.” I always laughed when she called the guinea-hens the old maids, for with their little, prim ways, and gray tippet-like feathers, they certainly did look like bachelor hen girls. <div id='p281' class='figcenter id008'> <ANTIMG src='images/p280.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> <div class='ic004'> “THE ROOSTER KEPT SO FAR AHEAD THAT NO ONE BUT OURSELVES SUSPECTED THE MISCHIEF SHE WAS DOING.” </div> </div> 281“Just see how one of the little wretches is persecuting that lovely big rooster,” said Serena viciously. I could not help smiling. “Dear Serena,” I said, “it is impossible that that small hen should worry that huge Wyandotte.” “You just observe,” she said decidedly, and I did observe. The hen, apparently trotting aimlessly round the back-yard and the wood-house, and the young orchard, was really all the time in pursuit of the Wyandotte. The rooster kept so far ahead that no one but ourselves suspected the mischief she was doing. “I've watched her for two days,” said Serena, “she just trots after him. It makes him nervous, and he keeps going. Sometimes he gets so exhausted that he lies down. She'll kill him if some one doesn't notice.” “What makes her do it?” I asked of my wise sister. “I don't know,” she said in a puzzled voice. “Just mischief, I fancy.” “Why doesn't he stop and beat her?” I went on. “He could do it in a minute.” “She has got more brains than he has,” 282said Serena. “I don't care if her head is small, she is his master.” “I'd like to punish her,” I said angrily. “I love that big Wyandotte. He is so noble and generous about the hens.” “He hasn't talked to them for two days,” said Serena. “I too liked to hear him say, 'Come, girls,' as he led them down to the meadow for worms. I can tell you how to get ahead of her, Black-Face, if you will. I'd do it myself, only I don't want to attract attention.” “How?” I asked eagerly. “Get up and travel after her, till some one notices you. If you take to chasing, you'll be remarked.” My blood was boiling at the meanness of the guinea-hen. Why didn't she go play with her sister, instead of chasing the poor Wyandotte! So I gladly adopted Serena's suggestion, and started in pursuit of the little miscreant, keeping about three feet behind her. She didn't like it, and kept looking over her shoulder, but I didn't care. I kept on trotting, but I got terribly tired, for we 283went for an hour before any one but Serena noticed us. My sister lay under the bushes, encouraging me by kind glances whenever we went near her, but the poor Wyandotte in his despair led us a dance all over the place, and we seldom got near the rose-bushes. Strange to say, the first one to notice us was Mr. Denville. Like most men brought up in the country, he was a very shrewd observer. About the middle of the afternoon he came out of the house to get a drink from the old well, where he said a moss-covered bucket had hung when he was a lad on the farm. There was a fine pump in the kitchen now, but he always came for his drinks to the well that he had had cleaned out, and equipped with a sanitary drinking fountain. After he had satisfied his thirst, his eyes roamed over the meadows, and the pasture, and the hills in the distance, all of which were visible from the high land at the back of the house. I saw his lips form the word “Beautiful!” The Wyandotte was just sprinting down from the barn to the chip yard. Mr. 284Denville barely noticed the three of us as we tailed by, but when, after leading us round the house, and the old orchard, back to the side door, the Wyandotte made again for the well, Mr. Denville gave us a puzzled glance. I threw him an appeal over my shoulder as we went travelling up to the spring where the trout lived. It was not a very hot day, but there is no fun in running when you don't want to, and I was getting tired. Mr. Denville took the hint and followed us. When we got back of the barn the Wyandotte flopped and lay with his beak open and his eyes shut. Guinea stood patiently watching him. I hissed at her, but she didn't care. Just as the poor rooster was rousing himself, preparatory to a fresh start, Mr. Denville arrived on the scene. When we started again he joined us, and calling to Mary and Della, he had them come too. Serena hasn't much sense of humor, but I could see she was nearly killing herself laughing under the rose-bushes. Della understood almost as quickly as Mr. Denville had done. 285Mary was mystified. Della and Mr. Denville put their heads together, and soon the chase was over. Guinea was caught and held firmly, while Della went to rummage in her mother's workbasket. Mr. Denville took the empty spool and made a little clog. This he fastened to guinea's leg. Then he set her down. The poor rooster who was thankfully reposing under a tree, started up as soon as he saw her coming, but she did not pursue. Every step she took, the little clog flapped against her leg. She would stop to look at it and the rooster would stop to see why she wasn't coming. Dear little Mary just shrieked at the guinea-hen's foolish actions. She was so boisterous in her mirth that soon she had all the family out in the back-yard. The men were coming home from work, and I think guinea was well paid for her unkindness. Everybody made fun of her, and finally she slunk away very quietly, and climbed to the top of an apple-tree. There is a wild streak in guinea-hens, and they hate hen-houses. 286Della petted the rooster and gave him a special supper from the farm table. Next day he came out of the hen-house refreshed from a good night's sleep, and led his girls gaily down to the meadow. His head was up, he stepped high. Guinea was so taken up with her clog that she never noticed him. She had something to do now that kept her active mind out of mischief, and later on, when I got acquainted with her, I found she was quite a nice sort of a creature, as fowls go. There is good in every created thing, even mischievous guinea-hens. <div class='chapter'> 287 <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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