Chapter 19
CHAPTER XIX. GRANDPA'S DREAM. Hank's prediction came true, but not just in the way he thought it would. Dodge and Grappler, as Perletta called her two pets, Dodge being her adaptation of Diogenes, and Grappler, a playful allusion to a fighting propensity, became in time two fine-looking prosperous and, at an exhibition held in Kiskaset, bore off the prize awarded to young hogs.
Perletta's joy was ludicrous, but it was also touching, and after one look at her ecstatic face as she stood surveying her two blue-ribboned and admired pets in the little country fair, Hank registered a mental vow not to bereave her of the creatures she loved so dearly. They were only pigs, but they were her pigs, and, owing to their upbringing, they had developed a most peculiar pig originality. They were the worst pigs that ever lived, Hank declared.
By feeding one at a time and making the other wait, they had become very pugnacious with each other, and with Perletta, and three-sided fights in the backyard were a frequent occurrence. Now they were, of course, old enough to feed themselves, but for a long time, Perletta had patiently attended to them one at a time in the little harness room. While she presented the bottle to one, the other would bite her feet and butt against her knees, until Hank,
discovering her one day undergoing this martyrdom, got a rope so that she could attach one pig to the wall by the hind leg while feeding the other. This made no difference in the pig's feelings toward Perletta. They bore her a steady grudge, though at the same time they had more attachment for her than for any other person. They were also jealous of each other and beat and punished each other continually, though they were never happy apart. Perletta, who was as strong as a man,
had herself made a pen in the backyard for them, and Hank had built a small house, but their intelligence and perversity were so great that they were rarely in this enclosure. They would work their way out no matter how many obstacles were presented to them, and, strangely enough, reverted to a wild type, preferring to make their own beds rather than to sleep in the soft one provided for them. Their favorite lair was at the back of the garden,
in a tangle of current bushes and lilacs, and they could be seen frequently running from the barn with their mouths full of straw to replenish this lair. They slept late in the morning, but about breakfast time would appear at the back door, clamoring for the nice, warm breakfast Perletta always had ready for them. After breakfast, they crossed the road and went down to the river, where they wallowed in the soft mud, coming back at noon for another meal and to see whether the
dogs had left any bones about the yard for them to nose over. Though they fought each other constantly, they never quarreled with the dogs, and even the puppy lost his fear of them, and if they presumed to steal one of his bones, would snatch it from them. Occasionally, the pigs took it into their heads to make calls, and urgent messages would come to Perletta from some neighboring house that her pigs were in the yard and would not get out. Arming herself with a broom,
she would go in search of them, and with mutual snarling, snapping, and recrimination, would guide them toward their home. Tilda Jane was kind and forbearing with the new household pets, and would feed them in Perletta's absence, but Hank took an amused and constant interest in them, so curious did he become with regard to the habits of the genus Seuss that he bought a large natural history and devoted evening after evening to reading aloud from it to anyone who would listen
to him. Tilda Jane was usually busy with her lessons, so it fell to his father to become chief auditor. Hank soon became an expert with respect to the different types of pigs, domesticated and wild, large-bodied, big-eared English breeds with convex backs, small-bodied, short-eared Chinese breeds with concave backs, dwarf pigs, river hogs, Indian wild pigs, French short-tusked pigs, but most of all he read over and over again accounts of the doings of the long-legged,
large-headed, and thin-bodied greyhound pigs of old Ireland. One bright spring evening, immediately after supper, he sat in the dining room with his natural history in hand while his father listened to him from his armchair opposite. Just think, Dad, Hank was exclaiming, what simpletons some folks are to say that any critter has no sense. Here it tells that pigs are intelligent if you treat them right and that their scent is
fine. I believe that's so, for I've seen our two-track perletta. Grandpa said nothing and Hank went on. This book says one man had a pig he trained to stand to game as steady as the best bred pointer. Do you calculate, asked Grandpa Dryley, to let those two hogs rampage all over our garden this coming summer? The weather is getting warmer. It will soon be time to stir up the ground and we've always had something of a plot. This year, Dad, said Hank, I allowed to buy our
vegetables and let the pigs snout up the garden all they like. It will do the ground good to rest and the dogs and milkweed will have a chance to stretch their legs. What would Puppy there do with a garden? And he pointed to Handy Andy, who lay stretched out in his red plush chair. Grandpa hesitated a few instants. Then he said huskily, Mr. Waysmith will soon be taking him away. In fact, tis his last night with us. He wants to send him to Boston. Hank's face fell, but he said
nothing and stared at the dog. By this time the little brindled animal had grown to be a handsome young dog. His big head was lighted by a pair of brilliant and eloquent eyes that bespoke a somewhat chastened and disciplined puppy nature. He did not perform half the mischievous tricks of a few months ago, but he was by no means a model character yet, as a large hole in the plaster in Grandpa's room testified. Hank had discovered it an hour before as he went to get a thinner coat
for his father, and when he mildly remarked upon it, Grandpa had said testily, Never mind, never mind, it's where the dog gets his lime. He looks like muffles, remarked Hank at last, but even better looking, finer somehow, perhaps from his house upbringing. Of course, that's it, said Grandpa shortly. The dog book says that raising pups in large kennels restricts brain development, for they lead a routine life. This dog has been brought up like a child.
So he has, Dad, and you ought to be proud of him, you and Tilda, for you've raised him between you, though I guess you've had the heft of the work. Tilda Jane has fussed about his food, and I've kept him warm nights, said Grandpa. He'll miss us. I'm as doubt taking him away. I don't like it. He's too young. Maybe Mr. Waysmith is going to bring him back again, suggested Hank. I don't know. I don't know, replied Grandpa bitterly. That's the way with things in this world,
change and decay. I'm breaking up. I feel it. Don't say that, Dad, replied Hank uneasily. Why, you haven't been as smart for years as you have been this winter and spring. You're just a little down in the mouth on account of the pups going away. I down in the mouth, repeated Grandpa indignantly, and on account of a pup, get out, boy. You're taking liberties. Hank closed his book and got up, muttering to himself. It's funny, but it's mostly the bare, solemn truth that hurts in
this life. Half the truth don't offend. Then he said aloud, All right, Dad, all right. I feel cranky myself tonight, and something seems to tell me that I'm going to die young. Must be cause Sissy's gone out and left us. She goes so seldom. Young girls should stay at home, said Grandpa in a crabbed voice. I don't believe in getting. Well, I guess I'll go feed the stock, said Hank, stretching out his fat arms. And, by the way, I mustn't forget to give Tilda's pigeon some hemp.
That was a cute trick of little housetops yesterday, Dad, wasn't it? Grandpa's face softened. Yes, it was. I like birds. Hank went out through the kitchen to the backyard, where he shaded his eyes with his hand and looked up toward Tilda Jane's window. Yesterday, her little dark pet housetop, who had got into the habit of flying in and out of her room, had brought another pigeon with him to the window-seal. The strange pigeon, though one of
those accustomed to feed about the yard, would not enter the house. So housetop, with many pleading coos and bowing prettily, had given his young mistress to understand that he had chosen a little mate, and as she would not come in his room, he did not know what to do about a nest. Tilda Jane had run downstairs and reported the matter to Hank, who told her that it would be better to move housetop's box outside the window. He had accordingly fastened the capacious cracker box
on a shelf near the window ledge, and now the two pigeons were flying busily back and forth from the barn carrying straws to add to the already luxurious nest Tilda Jane had provided for them. Seems as if they want to do something to help, said Hank, and passing per letta, who was vigorously brushing one of the pigs being rewarded by grunts and snaps of disapproval, he went to get an evening meal for the birds and hens.
Guess I'll give them buckwheat tonight, he murmured, feathered folk like a change in diet, as well as humans, land. How we miss Sissy. It's wholesome for her to get out once in a coon's age, but she leaves a powerful blank. Women and girls have a lot in their power, he went on as he mechanically pursued his way into the barn. Now it don't seem as if Tilda Jane was of much account in the world, but she makes a home, and there are millions of homes to be made,
and if the home ain't made right, nothing goes right. Women are the homekeepers. What can the smartest man do toward getting his breakfast? If the coffee is cold and the toast burnt and the mush sour, he goes out in the world with a load on his stomach and wrath in his heart. That wrath's got to be poured on someone, and it's all some woman's fault. I rate a cook high. Cooks keep the peace of the world. Who's going to fight on smooth victuals? I believe brotherly love starts in the
pantry. I'm a better man since I stopped having dyspepsi. Greasy fodder used to make me hate everyone by spells. Now I love all men and especially all women. Yes, Milkweed, I'm a-coming. Good old girl, you'll winnie your lungs out if you don't take care. No, bitties, Tilda ain't here. You needn't cackle for her. I'm going to be your provider for tonight. Tilda Jane, in the meantime, accompanied by Poacher and Gippie, who had received a special
invitation, had gone to spend the afternoon and evening and night with the Tracy's, the two good persons who had advised her what to do when she first came to Kiscissette, and Grandpa treated her unkindly. In Hank's absence, they had been warm friends and safe counselors, and now, at intervals in the little girl's busy life, they took her to their own home for as long a time as she would stay. Of the three members of the household, Grandpa missed her most, though he said least about her
absence. He's as dull as a beetle. Hank muttered an hour later as he sat staring at him. Dad, you look tuckered out. Don't you want to go to bed? Yes, I guess I'll go, said the old man getting up. You'll mind and put the blower on the stove so the sparks won't fly out. Yes, sir, replied Hank, and he got up to open the door for his father and the pup who was frolicking round him, loath to go to bed so early. Come, sir, said Grandpa sternly. None of your
nonsense. And he pushed Handy Andy with his crutch, yet at the same time his face softened. Where would his pet be at this time tomorrow night? Hank sighed as the bedroom door closed on his father. If the old man wasn't so smart in his mind, I'd say he was in his dotage. Think of hating dogs till most 80, and then turning a somersault right in the middle of indulging them. Grandpa could not sleep well. He lay awake for hours and at last fell not into a light dozing slumber, but into a
heavy, dream-haunted sleep that did not rest him. He thought that he was a boy again hunting wild cats. There they went through the woods to the swamp where their prey, the rabbits, abounded. He could see the boys and the dogs running gleefully after them. Now he and his hound, Trip, had singled out a wild cat. It went up a tree, but Trip went too. He was the one dog in the farming community that could climb a tree, provided a fence were nearby to enable him to
spring up among the branches. In the meantime, poor Grandpa in his dream felt his strength giving out. He fell on the soft moss and the wild cat, pursued by the hound, leaped from the tree to his breast. He could feel it tearing and scratching at his throat. Would it kill him or would good dog Trip descend from the tree in time to save him? He would try to help himself and he put a feeble hand to his throat. He could not push the wild cat away. With deadly celerity, it was nipping
and tearing his garments. Soon it would reach the tender flesh. With a supreme effort, he roused himself and seized the wild cat by the throat. He would kill it and he was just beginning to shake it violently when he awoke and discovered, fortunately, that the wild cat in his grasp had been changed into the petted pup Handy Andy. End of chapter 19, Grandpa's Dream.
