PARABLE THIRD.

THE FOXGLOVES' STRATAGEM—GRATITUDE.

e lived on the garden wall of an old-farmhouse, over which the vines grew in rare luxuriance, covering it with their climbing tendrils and leaves; and in the autumn the purple and white grapes peeped from beneath their leafy shelter, mocking the thirsty throats of the village lads who passed that way, and who looked longingly up at the ripe clusters.

It was a very old place, I am told, and had been inhabited by the same family for many successive generations. Fathers had tilled the soil, then laid aside the plough for ever. Sons had sprung up to take their place, and they too, in their turn, were gathered in, when the bearded grain was ripe for the sickle of the great 'Reaper, whose name is Death,' leaving the old homestead to others of the same name and race, who loved the home in which they were born, and wherein those they most cherished had lived and died.

The Swallows, too, loved it, returning year after year to their nests under the eaves, and from early dawn 'to dewy eve,' all through the warm summer days, flew hither and thither with swift, untiring wing, chasing each other, as it were, or teaching their young to fly. As to the Robins, they hopped in at the open door under the rustic porch, just as if they belonged to the place, and were sure of a welcome, which indeed they were! And that porch—what a cosy corner it was, with seats on either side, inviting weary feet to rest! the sunbeams were always playing bo-peep through the leaves which hung clustering around; the Honeysuckles and Clematis decking it, too, with their blossoms, scattering their delicious perfume the while. But I always thought the spot looked brightest when little Susie was there—she who was the very sunshine of the old home! And how they all loved her, from the white-headed grandfather down to the little ploughboy, who brought her all the poor motherless or sick creatures he found on the farm, were it but a half-fledged bird or a stray kitten, certain of her thanks, and a sweet smile; and as to her three big brothers, who had such influence over them as little Susie? for even when they were disputing as to whose turn it was to ride Brown Bess (the joint property of the children), Susie was always chosen umpire to decide the important question, and they abode by her decision.

Why, it was Susie who saved us from being ruthlessly destroyed! for it happened that one day old Peter was at work in the garden, and, to make the place 'a bit more tidy,' as he said, was proceeding to cut us off from the wall.

'They bain't o' much account,' he muttered, sharpening his hook; 'not loike them there Roses maister sets sich store by, and thinks so much on.'

Certainly it seemed very sad that, because we were merely 'common flowers,' our lives were to be cut short long before the appointed time; we had endeavoured to bloom as brightly as our more refined sisters, and in sunshine or shower had tried our best to look gay, and, I think, had succeeded, for we do not shut our petals as if we were sulking when dark clouds come, but keep them always open. But the fiat had gone forth—old Peter was the stern arbitrator of our destinies! and, feeling that our fate was inevitable, we sighed a last long farewell to each other, just as we saw him raise his sharp hook to cut us down. At that moment, so 'big with fate' for us, who should come into the garden, singing for very gladness like the birds themselves, but little Susie; the sunlight was playing with her waving hair, her eyes sparkled as the dewdrops in the sun, and her tiny feet skipped lightly along as she came dancing up the pathway.

That prolonged our lives! Old Peter dropped his hook to turn round and look at his young mistress.

'What are you going to do, Peter?' she inquired, as she drew near, and saw him take up his tools to resume work.

'Whoy, lop doun these 'ere things, Miss Zusie,' he replied, pointing at us contemptuously.

'Oh, please don't destroy them! they are so pretty!' was her eager exclamation.

'Purty, missie!' the old man repeated, with astonishment; 'whoy, them be wild loike.'

'But I love them dearly,' she persisted; 'so please leave them there.'

'But the maister?' pursued Peter, rubbing his rough head in his perplexity; 'he told me to clear roight up.'

Peter, it must be observed, was 'the odd man' about the farm; there is always one.

'Father will say you did quite right to let them live,' replied the little lady; 'he likes them as much as I do, for he says he remembers them always growing here, coming up year after year without troubling any one to look after them, and making the old wall a very flower-garden.'

'Well, Miss Zusie, if so be ye sez so, I s'pose I must,' he acquiesced, though I think he was greatly disappointed that he could not have his own way about it; so there we were left, and we bloomed more than ever, striving to do our best in gratitude to the little maiden.

Now, I have noticed, as a rule,—mind, every rule has exceptions,—that good deeds, like good seed, seldom fall to the ground and wither away. Both may lie fallow, for a while at least, but the flower comes up after a while, and 'with what measure ye mete, it is meted to you again.' You may not have remarked this, perhaps, but the fact holds good, proving most emphatically the sacred truth, 'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.'

Now, when Susie saved our lives, she never thought that simple flowers could ever repay her kindness, and for some time, it is true, we did nothing, only strove to make the garden wall look gay with our sturdy buds and blossoms.

But one day, I remember, Susie sat on the lawn close by the wall on which we grew, very busy making a smart new dress for her doll, Miss Arabella, who sat propped up by a work-box at her back, with her arms straight out, and her toes turned in, but with a sweet smile upon her waxen face. They were evidently engaged in earnest conversation, for Susie kept speaking in her own voice for herself, and using a very shrill falsetto for Arabella, who, by the bye, appeared to reply only in monosyllables.

In the midst of this very entertaining discourse I heard another voice exclaiming,—

'Look 'ee 'ere, Miss Zusie, this vowl 'ave airt her vut;' and the small ploughboy I before mentioned came in at the garden gate, holding a hen in his arms.

'Oh, give it to me, Joey,' cried the little girl, full of sympathy for the wounded bird. 'How did it happen? Poor dear, poor dear!'

With that Joey poured forth a long account of the accident, to which she listened attentively, all the while soothing the lamed hen, and wrapping it up in her soft frock.

'I will bathe its poor foot in warm water, and try to get it well,' she said, after thanking Joey for bringing it to her; and she went into the house, leaving Arabella alone on the lawn, cautioning her, however, 'to be a good child until mamma returned.'

It was some days before we again saw the hen, and then she was quite restored, and had been given to Susie as her 'very own' because of the care she had bestowed upon her; indeed, she had become quite a pet, actually was allowed to roam about the flower-garden and lawns; and some one had given her the name of 'Zenobia,'—an inconvenient name to call when in a hurry, but Susie was very satisfied with it, and so, I suppose, was the hen, who seemed to love her little mistress, following her wherever she went, eating from her hand, and even perching on her shoulder! After some time Zenobia was to be seen walking about, followed by a family of nine chickens; and really I cannot tell which was most proud of the young brood, Susie or the hen. Susie called them 'loves' and 'beauties,' and the hen, she clucked, and made a great fuss over them, and, as if determined that their bed should be of roses, insisted on roosting every night under a rose-bush which grew near the garden gate, instead of the cosy coop with which she had been provided.

Well, one moonlight night we, of course, were awake, though the church clock had long since struck the hour of midnight; and it was so still, only the voices of the night murmuring among the trees, though occasionally we could hear the soft crooning of the hen, as she hushed her little family to sleep beneath the rose-bush. Suddenly we heard the sound of stealthy footsteps creeping under the wall.

'It is only Dash, the house dog,' whispered a sister-flower, who grew on the same stem as myself.

'Dash does not steal along in that crafty manner,' said another.

'Perhaps it is a rabbit,' suggested one, 'or a cat taking a walk.'

'It may be a rat.'

Various conjectures were hazarded by those who grew low down on the wall, but I was higher up than they, so, looking cautiously over, what should I see but a Fox creeping along, and scenting his prey, with his sharp nose close to the ground.

'Good evening!' I called out to him.

He started with alarm, for great rascals are always great cowards.

'Oh, good evening, my friend,' he replied, very blandly. 'Charming evening this for a walk.'

'Yes,' I answered sharply; 'but rather late for respectable folks to be abroad!'

'Ah yes, just so,' was his response; 'but, you see, my doctor has advised me to take quiet rambles.'

'It was not Dr. Quack, was it?' I asked; 'because, poor fellow, he came to an untimely end the other night,—had his head bitten off, and his body was then dragged across the yard, as I suppose you already know?'

'Dear me!' he ejaculated, with affected pity, and glancing slyly up at me out of the corner of his red eyes; 'but how should I know, my friend?'

'Oh, because some of your family are strongly suspected,' was my reply; 'indeed, our Dash is on the watch, so I would advise you to'—

'Good-night, good-night,' he hurriedly exclaimed. 'I feel the winds are becoming very chilly.'

So saying, he shuffled off as fast as possible, more especially as at that moment Dash began barking furiously, as though he scented a foe. How we laughed to think we had frightened the artful fellow away, and some of us thought we should never see him again; but we were mistaken, for, a few nights after, there he was creeping along so stealthily outside the garden wall.

'What do you want?' I called out to him.

'Nothing, my friend, nothing,' was his answer.

'Well, since we do not keep that article here, you had better seek it elsewhere,' interposed a brother of mine who is rather saucy.

The Fox paused for a moment, as if hesitating what to say; at length he began, in a whining tone of voice,—

'My beloved friends, I perceive I must take you into my confidence. The fact is, my worthy doctor says I am in delicate health, and has therefore directed me'—

'Well,' I said, seeing that he hesitated; 'what of that?'

'Simply this; he has ordered me to eat only light, digestible food, such as chicken,' he went on to say.

'Oh, has he?' I remarked; and then I thought to myself, 'Now can your craftiness be seen through: you are after Zenobia; but Susie saved our lives, she shall not find the poor despised Fox-gloves ungrateful. We will save Zenobia!'

However, Mr. Reynard had not guessed our thoughts (for we all thought alike on the subject), but continued,—

'Now, charming friends, I know you have a most delightful hen in this garden.'

'Oh yes, and nine such plump chickens!' cried my brother.

'Oh dear, how very nice!' exclaimed the Fox.

'And I have no doubt,' continued my brother, whilst we could hardly restrain our mirth, 'but that Zenobia would willingly give them up to you, for the honour of being devoured by so distinguished a personage.'

'Would she really?' he cried, swallowing this piece of flattery as greedily as he would the chickens.

'Oh yes,' I chimed in; 'but there's one thing I would mention. Grandees like you must be formally introduced. Zenobia would be horrified were you to appear before her so unceremoniously; she might even refuse your request for one of the chickens.'

'What shall I do, then?' he eagerly questioned.

'Why, dress yourself of course, appear en grande toilette,' I replied; 'brush up your whiskers a little more, make your coat look glossy, and, above all, put on a pair of gloves!'

'Gloves!' he repeated. 'I have not a single pair; tell me where I can purchase them?'

'Leave that to us,' said my brother, bursting with glee. 'Originally, you must know, we were Fox-glovers, but somehow we have lost our ancient privilege; therefore have the supreme graciousness to restore it to us, and we will be only too proud to serve you.'

'Oh, certainly,' assented the Fox, assuming at once an air of patronage that was highly amusing. 'I take six and three-quarters,' extending his forepad.

'No, surely not!' protested my merry brother; 'you must be mistaken; such a pretty little paw as yours cannot possibly require such a large glove. Allow me to suggest six and a quarter.'

The Fox agreed to the size named.

'If you will condescend to call here to-morrow night about this time, they shall be ready for you,' one of us declared.

'Thank you,' he said loftily, as though he was conferring a favour upon us, and off he went, no doubt congratulating himself on his diplomacy. As to us, we laughed heartily, knowing how the crafty old fellow would be caught in his own toils.

The next day, when we saw Susie feeding and caressing Zenobia, how we longed for the power to tell her of the danger that so fearfully menaced her pet, but we could not; for, though there is a 'language of flowers,' it does not discourse on such a topic as this, therefore we were compelled to keep silence; but we were determined to do our best to guard little Susie's treasure. Night came, and dark and dreary it was too, with heavy clouds drifting across the moon, almost hiding its brightness; and it grew so late, past twelve, we began to think Mr. Reynard suspected us, and would not come. But he did, looking so sleek and shiny, with his coat all spick and span, being freshly brushed, I expect.

'Here I am, my friends; it has taken me so long to dress,' he said, panting with the haste he had evidently made. 'Is Zenobia—what a sweet name, to be sure!' he added in a fawning voice,—'is she here?'

'Of course she is,' I replied; 'can you not hear her crooning to her nine children?' with a strong emphasis on the number.

'Sweet, tender creature!' he exclaimed. 'Oh, but to know her yet more intimately! Let me jump over the gate to her!'

'What! without your gloves on?' cried several of us at once; 'consider how very vulgar you would look.'

'Dear, dear, I quite forgot,' he ejaculated rather impatiently; evidently he wanted his supper.

'Here they are,' said my brother; 'pray allow me the honour of putting them on for you.'

He saw the fox was all impatience; however, he was obliged to consent, and my brother proceeded forthwith to fit on a pair of Fox-gloves made expressly by us.

'They are rather a tight fit,' he nervously remarked.

'Rather,' we cried, as my brother held him fast by the paws, and we went to assist him in keeping the scoundrel a prisoner.

He saw, when too late, the trap into which he had fallen, and struggled hard to get free, even trying to pull us from off the old wall in his futile efforts to escape. But we were too securely fixed there for his strength to be of any avail; our roots were the growth of years, and, besides, we clasped him so tightly—for unity is indeed strength—that at last the cowardly fellow roared aloud with mingled pain and fright; perhaps he thought to startle us, and make us lose our hold. But we knew better than that—we only gripped him the faster; but the noise aroused Dash, who came bounding to the spot (he was always unchained at night), and, flying at Mr. Reynard's throat, he soon pinned him to the ground.

The farmer and his sons must have heard the cries of the Fox and the baying of Dash, for presently they came running as fast as possible to the spot, armed with all sorts of weapons, and soon despatched the rascal.

And it would have pleased you to have heard the praises bestowed upon the brave old dog for his courage, which praise he most certainly deserved; but no one thought of us. However, we had our reward in feeling that we had done our duty, and tried to repay our debt of gratitude to little Susie; that was recompense enough for us, nor did we wish for more, for—

and so say we simple Foxgloves.