OUR BOYS & GIRLS.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 746, 18 June 1886, Page 4

OUR BOYS & GIRLS.

THE RIVER-END MOREYS' RAB

By A. G. Pjaatpton.

There were two Scotch collies in Cloverbank, one belonging to the rich Moreys mi the hill, and the other the river-end Moreys’ Rub. The former was a pampered animal, in whom I have no interest whatever ; but the latter was a most affectionate, faithful creature, and the only companion poor little Martha Morey ever had. It was thif dog that had the misfortune to mistake the taxcollector for a tramp. Old Sam Morey and little Martha lived alone in an unpainted, tumble down house with old-fashioned ‘ lights ’ over the door and a dove cote under the eaves. The house had a fine view of the river which marked the boundary of this end of ;he town, —‘ the river end,’ as tiie Cloverbank people called it, and in a tone which betrayed the fact that it was by no means the court end of the town. The Moreys on the hill did not exchange calls with the river-end Moreys, although both were descended from a certain sturdy old John Morey, who had settled in Cloverbank over a hundred years ago. It is doubtful whether the richer and luckier of the two families could have told exactly what the connection was ; and the daughter of the house, little Isabel, never dreamed that the same blood flowed in her veins as in the wild little creature’s who lived at the river end. Martha Morey, however, had often listened to the family history, and sometimes told Ilab—who received the intelligence with a sniff of indifference—that he was a sixteenth cousin of that other Scotch collie that lived in the big house on tlie hill.

‘ Why,’ said Bill Swift, who, on one occasion, overheard this boast, * they arn’t anv better folks than you and your father be.’

‘ Better folks 1 Why, Bill, they are—they 7 are the best family in town. They have silver forks, Bill. Why, they have a piano 1 I forgot Bill Swift, when I said Martha and her father lived alone. But then, he went home every night to a little shanty of his own, and, besides, Bill was just next to nobody. If he had not been, he would never have worked for old Sam Morey 7 * for his keep. And such keep !’ You can imagine what it must have been, with shiftless Sam to provide, and poor little Martha as housekeeper and cook. Poor little Martha, indeed ! What a life the child had led before that never-to-be-forgotten day 7 when Rab came 1 How she had longed for companionship, even trying to make friends with the frogs in the spring. There were long days, often with, no human face to look upon, except, perhaps, the grimy 7 countenance of a tramp, whose rough look would cause her heart to beat like a trip hammer. And, worse than all, there were the sights when Sam—heaven help him !—did not come home at all, and which Martha passed listening to the wind whistling in the pine tops and the windows rattling in the casement. But enough of these dismal memories : for the day came at last, when her father brought home a lovely black-and-white puppy (with a sharp little no3e and a tail just like a rat’s), and said in his pleasant way,—for with all his faults old Sam Morey always spoke kindly to hi 3 little girl,— ‘ Marthy, here’s a playmate for you.’ Dear old Rab ! A playmate ! Why, he was the most, loyal, adoring of friends, and a brave protector besides. He grew big and handsome every day 7 ,, with a sleek black coat, aud a white vest : and his tail, which he had so grand a way of waving in the air, became unusually bushy and majestic. He was an endless diversion to Martha with his funny dog-ways—such dancing around after his’ tail, and giving sly licks at her cheek in unguarded moments; even the funny little flap of his ears when he ran delighted her, and his trick of resting his chin on her lap when she ate, and nudging her with it from time to time to attract her attention to the fact that he, too, was hungry. Maltha knew that he longed for the gift of speech, if only to tell her how he lovecl her. At least, so his brown eyes seemed to say, as he sometimes stood by her side looking patiently, wistfully into her face.

Rab fully 7 realised what au unguarded life his little mistress led, and constituted himself her body-guard. No grimy tramp set Martha’s heart beating now, for Rab became a terror even to the innocent passerby. You would have thought, to hear him growl, that old Sam Morey’s dilapidated buildings were store-houses of wealth. One day, old Isaac Hunter was driving to the village, and his harness broke in front

of the Morey house. Isaac stopped his horse and descended slowly from his wagon, when Rab, who with ears upright and glaring eyes had been watching him from the doorstep, dashed down the path, barking furiously, and seized the old man by the leg. If Martha had not appeared just then upon the scene, there is no knowing how the encounter would have ended. As it was, there was a hole in Isaacs boot-top. «Is that your dog ?’ asked he of Martha, who was holding Rab by the ear.

‘ Yes, sir.’ ‘ Had him long ?' ‘ Two years,’ answered innocent Martha, with a fond pat on Rab’s sleek black head. * Long enough to have taught him better manners,’ said ungracious Isaac, as he gathered his reins together and drove That very evening, as Sam sat, with his pipe, in the front yard, a neighbor leaned over the gate and thus addressed him : ‘ Hello, Sam, why don’t you shingle your roof ?’ ‘ Wall,’ said Sam, taking the pipe from his mouth, ‘there dcn't seem to be aDy right time to shingle a house. Can’t when it rains, you know. And when it’s pleasant, there's no need of it.’ The neighbour laughed, and presently began again ? ‘ I say, Sam, have you paid your dog tax this year?’ < Blest, now, if I haven t forgotten that tax !’ said Sam, scratching his head ; but addin", with a sudden glance of suspicion, why are you so free with your questions ?’ • Well, it isn’t exactly from curiosity, Sam. You see, old Isaac Hunter passed hereto-day, and your dog introduced himself to notice. Isaac collects the dog tax, you know, and he says there hasn't any tax been paid on your dog this year ; nor last ’•ear, either, for the matter of that. I thought I’d be neighborly, and let you know that he is coming down to morrow night to collect.’ ‘You don’t mean it?’ said Sam. ‘lt’ll be uncommon inconvenient. I can’t let him have the money then.’ ‘ Well, there is no way to avoid the tax, they say, but to kill tlie clog.’ To kill clear old Rab ! Can you understand, you children with tender parents, with brothers and sisters, with hosts of friends, with never-ending amusements, — can you understand what the words meant to lonelv little Martha Morey? ; Oh, father,’ she cried, ‘ you wouldn't kill Rab !’ , , . ‘ Marthy,’ answered Sam,_ with his eyes on the vanishing figure of his neighbor, ‘ I haven’t got a penny to my name, and that’s the truth.’ She flung her arms around the dog, and buried lier face in his shaggy coat. Her faithful, only friend; and he loved her so ! . « I dunno as I could kill him myself, continued Sam. looking at the two with a troubled face. ‘ Bill Swift will have to do it. Come, fMarthy,— come little gal, don t take on so !’ The tax was two dollars —such a trifle against Rab’s life! Sam went out,—poorweak, old fellow, —unable to witness Martha’s misery. It was bright moonlight, and the child wiped her eyes bravely, for she remembered to have heard that buckleberries were ripe in the lower pasture 5 and she would work instead of cry. Would her father try to raise the money and save Rab ? She. seized a basket, poor little desperate soul, and calling her dog, shut the door of the house. It was a long walk to the pasture, but she had soon scrambled over the wall and made her way to the place where the berries grew. I have never picked berries by moonlight, but I can imagine what the difficulties may be. Martha trailed through the wet bushes and picked with nervous, eager fingers, without daring to think how many berries it would take to earn two dollars, or whether four dollars, even, might not be demanded by that hard-hearted collector of taxes. Meantime, Rab kept close to her side, watching proceedings with wise eyes, as if he, too, understood all about it. By midnight the moon went down, and Martha sadly groped her way home. There, she lit a lamp and measured the berries. Only two quarts ; but in her desperation a thought had come to her, and holding fast to the hope it held, she at last fell asleep. (To be continued.)