In Touch with Nature: Tales and Sketches from the Life

“He did not think any more just then, for he had fallen sound asleep.

“The hours flew by. The sun went round and down, and a big moon rose slowly up in the east and smiled upon the landscape.

“The time flew by, as time only flies in a fairy forest.

“The wolf moaned in his sleep, then he shivered, and shivering awoke. No wonder he shivers: he had lain down to sleep with the soft balmy summer winds playing around him; now all is cold snow.

“No wonder he shivers, for yonder in front of him, and not two yards away, stands one of the most terrible-looking apparitions ever his eyes beheld. A great grizzly boar!

“‘O! dear me,’ cried the wolf, ‘what a fright you gave me! Who are you at all?’

“‘I’m Remorse,’ was the stern reply; ‘you used to call me Conscience once.’

“‘O! well,’ said the wolf, ‘do go away, you have no idea how dreadful you look. I’ll – hoo – oo – oo!’

“And the wolf laid back his ears, lifted up his head and voice, and howled till the welkin rang, just as you see him in the picture.

“‘I didn’t always look dreadful,’ said the boar; ‘when I was young I was tender, but you seared me and hardened me, and tried to bury me. Do you remember the days when I used to beseech you to do unto others as you would that others would do unto you? Now I’m come to do unto you as you have done to others. Aha!’

“‘Hoo – oo – oo!’ howled the wolf. ‘O! pray go away. Hoo – oo – oo!’

“‘Nay, nay,’ said Remorse, ‘I’ll never leave you more.’

“‘You must be joking,’ cried the wolf, ‘you must be mad. Hoo – oo – oo!’

“‘Must I?’ said Remorse; ‘you’ve led a life of discontent. Your evil deeds are more in number than the bristles on my back.’

“‘Pray don’t mention them,’ exclaimed the wolf, shivering all over.

“‘You’ve led a cruel, selfish, useless life. Do you feel any the better for it now? You don’t look any better.’

“‘O! no, no, no.’

“‘Now look at me.’

“‘I daren’t. Hoo – oo – oo!’

“‘Well, listen.’

“‘I must.’

“‘Yes, you cannot shut your ears, though you may close your eyes. Before you tried to crush and kill me, I was your best friend, the still small voice within you guiding you on to good. What am I now? Your foe, your tormentor – Remorse!’

“‘Mercy, mercy!’ cried the wolf. ‘O! give me back my innocence. Be my Conscience once again.’

“‘Too late!’

“And now a cloud passed over and hid the moon, and next moment, had you looked, neither wolf nor wild boar would you have seen.

“Nothing there save the distant fairy forest, with the wind bending its branches and sighing mournfully across that dreary waste of snow.”

Chapter Eight.

On the Road. – Neptune: A Story of Strange Meetings

“Love, now a universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
One moment now may give us more
Than fifty years of reason;
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.”

    Wordsworth.
It was on a lovely morning early in the month of June that – after many trial trips here and there across country – we started on our long and romantic tour, away to the distant north.

Come weal or woe, we determined never to turn our horses’ heads southwards until we had reached and crossed the Grampian mountains.

All the village turned out to see us start – the older folks shouting us a friendly farewell, the children waving their arms in the air and cheering.

But in an hour’s time we were away in the lonesome woods, and when we stopped on a piece of moorland to eat our first real gipsy lunch, there was not a sound to be heard anywhere except the bleat of sheep, and the singing of the joyous birds in the adjoining copse.

A blue June sky was above us, June butterflies floated in the soft June air, June sunshine glittered in the quivering beech-tree leaves, June wild flowers were everywhere, and the joy of June was in all our hearts. I had never seen Frank look so buoyant and young as he did now, despite those tell-tale hairs of silver in his brown beard. Some of the roses of June seemed to have settled in Maggie May’s cheeks already, my wife looked calmly happy, and wee Ida madly merry, while Hurricane Bob rolled lazily on his back and pulled up and threw to the winds great tufts of verdant moss.

Ida was Frank’s coupé companion. His caravan came behind ours, and sure enough these two gipsies had plenty to say, and they saw plenty to laugh at.

It is time to tell the reader about one little wanderer that has not been mentioned before – Mysie, the caravan cat. We really had intended leaving Miss Mysie at home in charge of the old cook, but Miss Mysie did not mean to be left. She had watched with the most motherly interest all our preparations for the tour, and at the very last moment in she jumped and took possession of a corner of the caravan sofa, commencing forthwith to sing herself to sleep.

And there she was now, while we sat on the greensward at lunch, walking round big Bob, and rubbing her shoulders against his head, as happy as a feline queen.

For believe me, dear reader, cats are very much what you make them. I have made these animals a study, and found that the old ideas about them which naturalists possessed, and the conclusions they so ungenerously jumped at, are all wrong. I do assure you – and you can easily prove it for yourself – that if you use a cat well, feed her regularly and treat her as the rational being it undoubtedly is, you will find that pussy is not a thief, that she is fonder far of persons than places, that she is true and faithful, loving and good.

As soon as luncheon was over, and we had rested a little and the horses’ mouths were washed out – they had been busy all the time with nose-bags on – we resumed our journey. We had no intention, however, of seeking for, or of sojourning even for a single night, in any large town. As our home by night and by day for months to come would be the caravans, so our bivouac must be in woods and wilds. At all events we must keep far away from the bustle and din, the trouble and turmoil, of towns.

Towards evening we found ourselves drawing near to a cosy little roadside inn, and here we not only got a meadow in which to place our wooden houses, but stabling for our steeds. And while Frank put up the tent and dinner was being prepared, I busied myself looking after the horses, and seeing to their bedding and general comfort. This was to be one of my duties every evening.

The day had not been altogether devoid of adventures, for we lost our way entirely once in a labyrinth of lanes that seemed to lead nowhere, or rather everywhere, through beautiful woods on the banks of the Thames. We got clear at last, however, and soon found ourselves on a hill so steep, that it was with the greatest difficulty our powerful horses managed to drag the caravans up and over it.

But now all our troubles were forgotten; and no wonder, for such a dinner as our cook and valet Frank placed before us in the tent, surely gipsies never sat down to before.

We were all as happy, if not as merry, as larks, for everything was so new to us; and this life of perfect freedom seemed, somehow or other, precisely what each of us had been born for.

When, after the tent had been cleared, and Frank had brought in his violin and commenced to play, it appeared quite a natural thing that the figure of a handsome young man in cyclist’s uniform should come to the doorway to listen.

I beckoned him in, and presently he was squatting in the midst of us.

“Now, Gordon,” said Frank, when he had finished playing a symphony, “we’ll have your story, and then perhaps the young stranger will give us some of his experiences.”

“I’ll be delighted, I’m sure,” said the cyclist, smiling. “That is,” he added, “if I can think of anything.”