Aileen Aroon, A Memoir

“Hurroosh! hurroosh!

“Then Allan would make a grab at his tail.

“‘Oh, that’s your game!’ Oscar would say; ‘then down you go!’

“And down Allan would roll, half buried in the powdery snow, and not be able to get up again for laughing; then away Oscar would rush wildly round and round in a complete circle, having a radius of some fifty yards, with Allan McGregor on his broad back for a centre.”

Theodore Nero was as full of sauciness and chique as ever was an Eton boy home for the holidays, or a midshipman on shore for a cruise. The following anecdote will illustrate his merry sauciness and Aileen’s good-natured simplicity at the same time.

Nero was much quicker in all his motions than Aileen, so that although she never failed to run after my walking-stick, she was never quick enough to find first. Now one day in throwing my stick it fell among a bed of nettles. Nero sprang after it as light as a cork, and brought it out; but having done so, he was fain to put it down on the road till he should rub his nose and sneeze, for the nettles had stung him in a tender part. To see what he would do, I threw the stick again among the nettles. But mark the slyness of the dog: he pretended not to see where it had fallen, and to look for it in quite another place, until poor simple Aileen had found it and fetched it. As soon as she got on to the road she must needs put down the stick to rub her nose, when, laughing all over, he bounded on it and brought it back to me. I repeated the experiment several times, with precisely the same result. Aileen was too simple and too good-natured to refuse to fetch the stick from the nettle-bed.

About five minutes afterwards the fun was over. Nero happened to look at Aileen, who had stopped once more to rub her still stinging nose. Then the whole humour of the joke seemed to burst upon his imagination. Simply to smile was not enough; he must needs burst through a hedge, and get into a field, and it took ten minutes good racing round and round, as hard as his four legs could carry him, to restore this saucy rascal’s mental equilibrium.

Aileen Aroon was as fond of the lower animals, pet mice, cats, and rats, as any dog could be. Our pet rats used to eat out of her dish, run all over her, sit on her head while washing their faces, and go asleep under her chin.

I saw her one day looking quite unhappy. She wanted to get up from the place where she was lying, but two piebald rats had gone to sleep in the bend of her forearm, and she was afraid to move, either for fear of hurting the little pets or of offending me.

Seeing the situation, I at once took the rats away and put them in the cage; then Aileen got up, made a low and grateful bow, and walked out.

The following is the life-story of one of Aileen’s especial favourites: —

“Fairy Mary.”

My Mary is a rat. It is just as well to state this much at the outset. Candour, indeed, necessitates my doing so, because I know the very name of “rat” carries with it feelings which are far from pleasing to many. And now, having broken the ice, I may tell you that Mary is not an ordinary black or brown rat, but a rat of high, high caste indeed, having come from a far-away Oriental clime – Java, to wit. If you had never seen one of the same breed before, you would hardly take Mary to be a rat at all. Children are exceedingly fond of her; gentlemen admire her; old ladies dote on her, and young ones love her. I think even my black tom-cat is especially fond of her, judging from the notice he takes of her; he will sit for hours, and hardly ever take his green eyes off her cage.

Black Tom once paid Mary a domiciliary visit, by way of appearing neighbourly. It was a grand spring, but missed by an inch, so Tom returned, looking inglorious.

Having so far introduced my Mary, and confident you will like her better as you read on, let me try to describe the winsome wee thing. Mary – my rodent, let me call her – is smaller than a rat, and not quite the same in shape, for Mary’s symmetry is elegance itself. Her eyes round, protrusive, but loving withal, are living burning garnets – garnets that speak. Her whole body is covered with long snowy fur, far richer than the finest ermine, and with an almost imperceptible golden tint at the tips, this tint being only seen in certain lights. Her tail is perhaps one of her principal points of beauty – long, sweeping, and graceful; she positively seems to talk with it. The forearms are very short and delicate, the hind-legs strong and muscular. Sitting on one end is Mary’s almost constant position – kangaroo-like; then she holds up her little hands beseechingly before her. These latter are almost human in shape, and when she gives you her delicate, cold, transparent paw, you might easily fancy you were shaking hands with a fairy; and thus she is often called “Fairy Mary.” Mary’s hands are bare and pink, and the wrists are covered with very short downy fur, after which the coat suddenly elongates, so much so, that when she stands on end to watch a fly on the ceiling, you would imagine she wore a gown tight at the wrist, and with drooping sleeves.

Now Mary is not only beautiful, but she is winning and graceful as well, for every one says so who sees her. And in under her soft fur Mary’s skin is as clean and white and pure as mother-of-pearl. It only remains to say of this little pet, that in all her ways and manners she is as cleanly as the best-bred Persian cat, and her fur has not the faintest odour, musky or otherwise.

Fairy Mary was originally one of three which came to me as a present. Alas for the fate of Mary’s twin sister and only brother! A vagrant cat one evening in summer, while I was absent, entered by the open window, broke into the cage, and Mary alone was left alive. For a long time after this Mary was missing. She was seen at times, of an evening, flitting ghost-like across the kitchen floor, but she persistently refused to return to her desolated cage-home. She much preferred leading a free and easy vagrant kind of life between the cellar, the pantry, and the kitchen. She came out at times, however, and took her food when she thought nobody was looking, and she was known to have taken up her abode in one corner of the pantry, where once a mouse had lived. When she took this new house, I suppose she found it hardly large enough for her needs, because she speedily took to cleaning it out, and judging from the shovelfuls of rags, paper, shavings, and litter of all sorts, very industrious indeed must have been the lives of the “wee, tim’rous, cowerin’ beasties” who formerly lived there. Then Mary built unto herself a new home in that sweet retirement, and very happy she seemed to be.

Not happening to possess a cat just then, the mice had it all their own way; they increased and multiplied, if they didn’t replenish the kitchen, and Mary reigned among them – a Bohemian princess, a gipsy queen. I used to leave a lamp burning in the kitchen on purpose to watch their antics, and before going to bed, and when all the house was still, I used to go and peep carefully through a little hole in the door. And there Fairy Mary would be, sure enough, racing round and round the kitchen like a mad thing, chased by at least a dozen mice, and every one of them squeaking with glee. But if I did but laugh – which, for the life of me, I could not sometimes help – off bolted the mice, leaving Fairy Mary to do an attitude wherever she might be. Then Mary would sniff the air, and listen, and so, scenting danger, hop off, kangaroo fashion, to her home in the pantry corner.

It really did seem a pity to break up this pleasant existence of Mary’s, but it had to be done. Mice eat so much, and destroy more. My mice, with Mary at their head, were perfect sappers and miners. They thought nothing of gutting a loaf one night, and holding a ball in it the next. So, eventually, Mary was captured, and once more confined to her cage, which she insisted upon having hung up in our sitting-room, where she could see all that went on. Here she never attempted, even once, to nibble her cage, but if hung out in the kitchen nothing could keep her in.

At this stage of her existence, the arrangements for Mary’s comfort were as follows: she dwelt in a nice roomy cage, with two perches in it, which she very much enjoyed. She had a glass dish for her food, and another for her milk, and the floor of the cage was covered with pine shavings, regularly changed once in two days, and among which Mary built her nest.

Now, Fairy Mary has a very strong resemblance to a miniature polar bear, that is, she has all the motions of one, and does all his attitudes – in fact, acts the part of Bruin to perfection. This first gave me the notion – which I can highly recommend to the reader – of making Mary not only amusing, but ornamental to our sitting-room as well, for it must be confessed that a plain wooden cage in one’s room is neither graceful nor pretty, however lovely the inmate may be. And here is how I managed it. At the back of our sitting-room is the kitchen, the two apartments being separated by a brick wall. Right through this wall a hole or tunnel was drilled big enough for Mary to run through with ease. The kitchen end of this tunnel was closed by means of a little door, which was so constructed that by merely touching an unseen spring in the sitting-room, it could be opened at will. Against the kitchen end of the tunnel a cage for Mary was hung. This was to be her dining-room, her nest, and sleeping-berth. Now, for the sitting-room end of the tunnel, I had a painting made on a sheet of glass, over two feet long by eighteen inches high. The scene represented is from a sketch in North Greenland, which I myself had made, a scene in the frozen sea – the usual blue sky which you always find over the ice, an expanse of snow, a bear in the distance, and a ship frozen in and lying nearly on her beam ends. A dreary enough look-out, in all conscience, but true to nature.

There was a hole cut in the lower end of this glass picture, to match the diameter of the tunnel, and the picture was then fastened close against the wall. So far you will have followed me. The next thing was to frame this glass picture in a kind of cage, nine inches deep; the peculiarity of this cage being, that the front of it was a sheet of clear white glass, the sides only being of brass wire; the floor and top were of wood, the former being painted white, like the snow, and the latter blue, to form a continuation of the sky; a few imitation icebergs were glued on here and there, and one of these completely hides the entrance to the tunnel, forming a kind of rude cave – Fairy Mary’s cave.

In the centre of this cage was raised a small bear’s pole steps and all complete. We call it the North Pole. The whole forms a very pretty ornament indeed, especially when Mary is acting on this little Greenland stage.

Mary knows her name, and never fails to come to call, and indeed she knows a very great deal that is said to her. Whenever she pops through her tunnel, the little door at the kitchen end closes behind her, and she is a prisoner in Greenland until I choose to send her off. If she is in her kitchen cage, and I wish her to come north, and disport herself to the amusement of myself or friends – one touch to the spring, one cabalistic word, and there comes the little performer, all alive and full of fun.

Now I wish the reader to remember that Fairy Mary is not only the very essence of cleanliness, but the pink of politeness as well. Hence, Mary is sometimes permitted to come to table. And Mary is an honest rat. She has been taught to look at everything, but handle nothing. Therefore there cannot be the slightest possible objection to her either sitting on my shoulder on one end, and gazing wonderingly around her, or examining my ear, or making a nest of my beard, or running down my arm, and having a dance over the tablecloth. I think I said Mary was an honest rat, but she has just one tiny failing in the way of honesty, which, as her biographer, I am bound to mention. She can’t quite resist the temptation of a bit of butter. But she helps herself to just one little handful, and does it, too, with such a graceful air, that, for the life of me, I couldn’t be angry with her.

Well, except a morsel of butter, Mary will touch nothing on the table, nor will she take anything from your hand, if you offer it to her ever so coaxingly. She prefers to eat her meals in Greenland, or on the North Pole itself.

Mary’s tastes as regards food are various. She is partial to a bit of cheese, but would not touch bacon for the world. This is rather strange, because it was exactly the other way with her brother and sister.

The great treat of the twenty-four hours with Mary is to get down in the evening, when the lamps are lighted, to have a scamper on the table. Her cage is brought in from the kitchen, and set down, and the door of it thrown open. This cage thus becomes Mary’s harbour of refuge, from which she can sally forth and play tricks. Anything you place on the table is seized forthwith, and carried inside. She will carry an apple nearly as big as herself, and there will not be much of it left in the morning; for one of Mary’s chief delights is to have a little feast all to herself, when the lights are out. Lettuce leaves she is partial to, and will carry them to her cage as fast as you can throw them down to her. She rummages the work-basket, and hops off with every thimble she can find.

After Fairy Mary’s private establishment was broken up in the kitchen, it became necessary to clean up the corner of the pantry where she had dwelt. Then was Mary’s frugality and prudence as a housewife made clear to the light of day I could hardly be supposed to tell you everything she had stored up, but I remember there were crusts of bread, bits of cheese, lumps of dog-biscuit, halves of apples, small potatoes, and crumbs of sugar, and candle ends, and bones and herrings’ heads, besides one pair of gold sleeve-links, an odd shirt-stud, a glass stopper from a scent-bottle, brass buttons, and, to crown the lot, one silver threepenny-piece of the sterling coin of the realm.

And that is the story of my rat; and I’m sure if you knew her you, too, would like her. She is such a funny, wee, sweet little mite of a Mary.

Chapter Seven.

Only a Dog

“Old dog, you are dead – we must all of us die —
You are gone, and gone whither? Can any one say?
I trust you may live again, somewhat as I,
And haply, ‘go on to perfection’ – some way!”

    Tupper.
Poor little Fairy Mary, the favourite pet of Aileen Aroon, went the way of all rats at last. She was not killed. No cat took her. Our own cats were better-mannered than to touch a pet. But we all went away on a summer holiday, and as it was not convenient to take every one of our pets with us, Mary was left at home in charge of the servants. When we returned she was gone, dead and buried. She had succumbed to a tumour in the head which was commencing ere we started.

I think Aileen missed her very much, for she used to lie and watch the empty cage for an hour at a time, thinking no doubt that by-and-by Fairy Mary would pop out of some of her usual haunts.

“Dolls” was one of Aileen’s contemporaries, and one that she had no small regard for. Dolls was a dog, and a very independent little fellow he was, as his story which I here give will show.

Dolls: His Little Story

There was a look in the dark-brown eyes of Dolls that was very captivating when you saw it. I say when you saw it, because it wasn’t always you could see it, for Dolls’ face was so covered with his dishevelled locks, that the only wonder was that he could find his way about at all.

Dolls was a Scotch terrier – a real Scotch terrier. Reddish or sandy was he all over – in fact, he was just about the colour of gravel in the gloaming; I am quite sure of this, because when he went out with me about the twilight hour, I couldn’t see him any more than if he wasn’t in existence; when it grew a little darker, strange to say, Dolls became visible once more.

Plenty of coat had Dolls too. You could have hidden a glove under his mane, and nobody been a bit the wiser. When he sat on one end, gazing steadfastly up into a tree, from which some independent pussy stared saucily down upon him, Dolls looked for all the world like a doggie image draped in a little blanket.

Dolls had a habit of treeing pussies. This, indeed, was about the only bad trait in Dolls’ character. He hated a pussy more than sour milk, and nobody knew this better than the pussies themselves. Probably, indeed, they were partly to blame for maintaining the warfare. I’ve seen a cat in a tree, apparently trying her very best to mesmerise poor Dolls – Dolls blinking funnily up at her, she gazing cunningly down. There they would sit and sit, till suddenly down to the ground would spring pussy, and with a warlike and startling “Fuss!” that quite took the doggie’s breath away, and made all his hair stand on end, clout Master Dolls in the face, and before that queer wee specimen of caninity could recover his equanimity, disappear through a neighbouring hedgerow.

Now cats have a good deal more patience than dogs. Sometimes on coming trotting home of an evening, Dolls would find a cat perched up in the pear-tree sparrow-expectant.

“Oh! you’re there, are you?” Dolls would say. “Well, I’m not in any particular hurry, I can easily wait a bit.” And down he would sit, with his head in the air.

“All right, Dolls, my doggie,” Pussy would reply. “I’ve just eaten a sparrow, and not long ago I had a fine fat mouse, and, milk with it, and now I’ll have a nap. Nice evening, isn’t it?”

Well, Master Dolls would watch there, maybe for one hour and maybe for two, by which time his patience would become completely exhausted.

“You’re not worth a wag of my tail,” Dolls would say. “So good-night.” Then off he would trot.

But Dolls wasn’t a beauty, by any manner of means. I don’t think anybody who wasn’t an admirer of doormats, and a connoisseur in heather besoms could have found much about Dolls to go into raptures over, but, somehow or other, the little chap always managed to find friends wherever he went.

Dolls was a safe doggie with children, that is, with well-dressed, clean-looking children, but with the gutter portion of the population Dolls waged continual warfare. Doubtless, because they teased him, and made believe to throw pebbles at him, though I don’t think they ever did in reality.