Chapter XXIII · A PEEP THROUGH THE ROSES.

That night, when the round harvest moon was throwing her soft light on the earth, we climbed up the rose-tree by the window, and, quietly pushing aside the fragrant flowers, peeped in upon such a scene as rarely meets the eye of a rat.

There was a neat little kitchen, with a sanded floor and white-washed walls, so clean, so perfectly clean, that not even the sharp eyes of the race of Mus could have detected a speck upon them. Rows of plates lined the shelves on the wall, pans burnished till they shone like silver, a framed sampler hung over the mantelpiece, and a large clock merrily ticked behind the door. Near the wide hearth there was a table, on which a substantial supper was spread on a cloth white as new-fallen snow.

Round this table were seated the farmer, his wife, and our two old friends, Bob and Billy, in their clean smock-frocks, with country roses on their once sickly and sunken cheeks. One might have read Will Grange’s character in his kind, honest face; and his wife looked like a morning in May, all sweetness, brightness, and beauty,—such beauty as is not merely skin-deep.

The farmer tapped gaily on the table, and at the signal, Oddity, whom I had not at first perceived, clambered up to his knee, and from thence jumped on the cloth, to be fed from his master’s hand. He made his round of the party,—every one had something to give him; and I heard the merry voice of Billy as he patted his favourite’s snub nose,—“He’s a pretty little fellow! now, an’t he? I wonder what’s become of the old blind rat that he used to lead about in the shed?”

“Whiskerandos,” said I, pensively, to my companion, “I could almost wish myself in Oddity’s place!”

“So do not I,” he replied quickly, as he turned from the window. “One rat in ten millions may be petted and trusted, and show himself worthy of the trust; but our race was never intended by nature to hold the position of lap-dogs or cats.”

“And are we always to be hated by the lords of creation, never to be useful to man?”

“We are useful to man,” said my companion.

“Ah! in those places where he bakes us in pies, or makes hats or glove-thumbs of our poor skins. But in London—”

“When you join me in London I will show you, friend Ratto, how, by acting the part of a scavenger, and clearing away that which, if left, would poison the air, the race of Mus does good service to man.”

“Little man thanks us for it!” cried I.

“Well, Bob,” said the farmer, as he leant back in his chair, and watched, with an air of amusement, his piebald favourite nibbling at a nut, “is it true what my good wife here tells me, that the post this morning actually brought a letter for you?”

“From Master Neddy,” exclaimed Bob, with sparkling eyes.

“He’s come back from Russy, and so has his father, and they’re so glad to be in old England again,” cried Billy, as in old times the most ready to speak. “The letter was sent first to the school,—the dear old school!—for they warn’t to know that missus was married, and we so snug down here in the country. Oh! won’t they be pleased to hear it? And is it not good in them, after all their travels, not to forget poor boys like us? Do you know, there was money in the letter?” he added, lowering his voice.

“Ah! Captain Blake did you some good turn, did he not?” said the farmer to Bob.

“He saved me from—” the boy coloured and paused,—

“From want, I suppose,” said Grange, ending his sentence for him, and stroking back Oddity’s sleek ears.

“From worse,” said Bob, looking down.

“Not from death?”

“Worse than that,” murmured the boy.

“Eh?” said the farmer, in surprise.

“But for him what should I have been now! Oh sir!” cried Bob, suddenly raising his eyes, “I’ve often thought I should have told you this before,—before you took me in here,—me and my brother too,—and treated us so kindly, and trusted us and all. You should have known what I was before that day when Captain Blake—bless him for it!—first took me into a ragged school.”

“My business is with what you are, not what you were,” said the farmer, kindly; but Bob did not seem to hear the interruption, for he continued, in an agitated voice, the tears rising into and then overflowing his eyes:—“He found me a poor, ignorant, miserable creature, not knowing so much as that it was a sin to take what was not my own. He found me with no comfort and no hope, going on the broad way which leads to the prison and the gallows; and worse,—worse beyond,—I know that now. He found me a wretched thief, and he did not hate me, despise me, despair of me: he gave me a chance, he gave me a friend! Blessings on him!—he saved me from ruin!”

Here let me drop the curtain, here let me close my tale. These are feelings, these are scenes, into which higher beings alone can enter; they are too solemn for a story like mine.

And here I and my companions divide;—I to luxuriate for awhile in the plenty with which rich autumn crowns the fields around; my bold comrade to return to the city, and there, in new adventures, to display a sagacity and courage which even the lords of the creation would admire if belonging to any race but ours; Oddity, in the happy home of his kind master, remains to share the board and the hearth,—an instance that even a rat can show fidelity to man, where man can show mercy to a rat!

Perhaps the human race would despise us less proudly, and persecute us less severely,—perhaps even boys would take less pleasure in torturing, worrying, and hunting us down,—if our characters and instincts were better known. Who can say that some truth may not be learned, some lesson of kindliness gained, even from a narration simple as mine,—the history of

THE RAMBLES OF A RAT.