Like Mother, Like Son.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIX, Issue 1, 6 July 1907, Page 43

Like Mother, Like Son.

(By MRS. EDITH K. CUTHELL, Author of “ A Fearful Flight.”)

Roy, the old retriever, opened half an eye and growled. Patch, the pointer, sprang up half asleep ami pointed. Trim, the terrier, cocked his head on one side and yapped interogatively, “ Who on earth are you?”

“What do you want?” asked Fateh. “ Stop that row, kids, and don't disturb me,” grumbled Roy. ■'

For, with a rush and tumble, their entranee hastened by a push behind from Carey the keeper, came bundling, suddenly and hurriedly, two fat and active puppies, into the kennel at the Homo Farm.

“ Foreigners,” criticised Trim, taking their measure with is black eyes. “ Not sportsmen, I’ll be bound, remarked Patch and Roy. The puppies sat down on their haunehes and surveyed their new home solemnly. “ I’m Brother Bernard,” said one.

“ And I’m Sister Charite,” eehoed the other.

" And we’ve conic such a long way,” they said, both together. “ We’ve been days in that horrid and stuffy basket, and the world’s been going up and down, and jolting and banging, and whistling and puffing—oh! it is nice to be able to stretch one’s legs! ” With which they scampered round the yard, scrambling over the prostrate Roy, jostling Patch, till they fell one over the other and landed in a corner on their backs and out of breath.

The occupants of the kennel all heaved a sigh. “ What an awful couple of kids! Why on earth have you come here?”

Would you, too, like to know? Well, then, this is the story. It was on a dull day, with a lowering sky, a few months back, that the Squire, motoring back from Italy, homeward bound, thought he would attempt the pass of the great St. Bernard, which leads into Switzerland. He had been well-ad-vised had he lingered on' the south side of the Alps till the weather looked more, promising. -For the storm burst ere the car was half-way up. The Hakes fell thicker and faster every yard they went, and the road grew deeper in snow. Slower and more laboured drove tho ear. Denser grew the air, more and more difficult was it to steer the way.

Then suddenly, before the occupants had time to think, there came a. jolt, a lurch, the ear turned slowly on one side, and down—down —down—over the edge of the precipice. And with a bang some of the machinery exploded. Up on the summit of the pass, at the Hospice of the good monks of St. Bernard. a lay-brother at the porter's lodge looked out into the night. Miserieorde! what a storm! And so sudden! If but mercifully it do not cabeh unawares some poor travellers tempted by the spring season to cross the pass! I will loose the dogs. For centuries the good monks have kept this breed of huge and sturdy mastitis. Generations of training and practice have taught these wonderfully sagacious dogs to seek and find and tsuecour travellers lost in Hie snow. But it was surely the first time in the annals of the race that one of them had brought help to the victims of a motor-ear smash! The strange form lying overturned in the snow, the stranger smell that pervaded it. made even Charite, the oldest, wisest, and most experienced of all the dogs of the Hospice, pause in her search and sniff suspiciously. But she soon went on with her duty. Scratching here in the snow, smelling there, snilling in tracks, nosing heaps and hollows, she suddenly stopped short, and began to dig furiously with her great paws. Charite's nose had told her true, as it always did. Ere long she had scraped up the snow and uncovered the Squire's head. He lay motionless, and the blood oozed slowly from a cut. (Xante waited. The next move she expected from those she found was that they should notice the flask of brandy she wore hanging round her neek and restore themselves w'ith a drink from it. But the Squire made no sign. So Charite went on with her work of mercy. • “800-oof! 800-oof! 800-oof!” Deep and resounding, like the tone nt a church bell, her haying rang over the mountain-side through the frozen midnight air.

The monks heard it at the Hospice, and hastily gra>|M*d their staves and lit their lanterns. **lt i« t’harite again. She has found some j» >or aoui. Hod be praised!” they said. It uaa some weeks afterwards, a beautiful sunny spring day. that the fiquirr. pale and feeble, but himself Jsgain. was preparing to leave the Hoepice where he had been so carefully pursed tack to life and health. “An.l the dog Charite, that found me? I would like to have her for my own. What will you take for her?** be asked the Father Prior. But the latter shook his head. ‘•Not all the gold in Europe will buy Charite, Monsieur. She is too valuable h»»re for her work. But the monastery is poor and times are hard, for -ince the opening of the railway tunnels under the mountains, fewer travellers come over the pa** and lodge with us. But it is Well known that Englishmen are rich. If. a- .< little thanks-offering. you would buy two of Charite’s puppies—nice promising puppies!** And that was how Brother Bernard and Si>ter t ha rite found their way to the kennel ax the Squire’s Home Farm in Berkshire. Nice promising indeed! If only the other denizens of the kennel could have heard the Father Prior they would have let him know what they thought of them. ‘‘Never a moment’s peace.” growled old Boy; "and in June. too, when 1 want to be getting all the rest I can before my work tagins in September.” "And *o noisy! Voices deep enough for dogs twice their sie.” grumbled Patch. ‘ And so strong for puppies. I tried to put them down, but they were too much for me.” grunted Trim. ‘‘And so spoilt.” growled Roy. "The fuss that’s made over them compared with me. after all the years the master’s shot over me!** ‘•Stupid, unintelligent things that can’t point a bit.” sneered Patch. ‘They’re the pets now.” and poor Trim had tears in his bark. “Fetched Dut of the kennel at al! times—shown

off to visitors —taken for walks! Why. Harry actually wanted to have them sleep in his bedroom last night." Nice promising pups! That was what little Harry thought them. Never did he tire of exhibiting them, never did he weary of telling the wonderful story of how their mother had saved his father’s life. Bernard and Charite amply repaid his affection. When Harry appeared they both bounded on to him till they nearly knocked him flat. Bernard carried off one of his boots and gnawed a hole in it. and Charite spolit a clean white sailor suit by sleeping on it one muddy day. If the kennel had peace the afternoon that Bernard was lost, it was Harry who cried his eyes out. Roy. Patch, and Trim did not regret Bernard's absence, especially at feeding time. But Harry refused to be comforted. Bernard had last been seen sniffing and scraping near a rabbit-hole in the sand pit in the park. Probably he smelt something live within and his hereditary instincts were aroused. He scraped at the sand as his forefathers did at the snow, with the result that he was missing at supper time. Next morning not a sign of him anywhere. Little Master Harry's grief awoke every man and boy about the Hall into activity to find the puppy. The Squire, too, was anxious. He felt this was ill repaying Charite's kindness to him. But it was Harry who suggested digging down the rabbit hole. As they dug they Ifeard a deep whimper. Encouraged, they* dug on. to find the pup safe and sound some way down, buried in by a fall of sand after he had squeezed his way down. After this rescue there was no holding Bernard. He was free of everywhere. and. like the king, could do no wrong. He inveigled Charite into all manner of scrapes, and Roy. Patch, and Trim wished they had never been born, such a life the puppies led them. It was not to be expected that they did not exult over the good setting down that the geese gave Bernard and Charite not long after the sand-pit adventure. The pups were at large, roaming the

yard, into which the big barn oppened. Very free and independent they felt themselves.

“Poor things!" exclaimed Charite, referring to Roy and Co.; “shut up in that dull old kennel, while we're allowed to do as we like."

Sss! Sss!” came a queer noise round the corner of the barn—a noise such as the puppies in all their headlong career had never heard before —and there hove in sight a procession, Mr Gander solemn ly waddling in front, and his two wives respectfully following him. The pups stopi»ed short and stared. Horses they knew, eows with bells they knew, and mules that kicked. But what were these? “Sss! Sss!" came the hissing again. Down came three long white necks, open went three huge pink beaks, as they seemed to the astounded puppies, and “Sss!" the Gander and his wives quickened their pace an dwent for the puppies. How Roy and Patch and Trim in the kennel chortled, and how Bernard and Charite ran! Behind them the craning long necks and the sharp beaks, in their ears rang that alarming hiss. Pursued by these strange and unknown monsters, the panic-stricken puppies fled across the yard. Just in time. Charite leapt up the high step which led into the barn, and to the delighted ears of the inhabitants of the kennel came the sound of a piercing squeak as Mr Gander peeked the leg of Bernard the hinderniost. The puppies were quite good and quiet that night in the kennel. Ever afterwards Harry had only to hiss, if they were tiresome, to cow them at once. Poor Harry! Time went on, spring grew into summer, and the dreadful event happened in which the pups were to play such a noble part. It was haytime. Harry, his morning lessons over, ran out to see the mowing machine at work. The sun was pouring down from the noonday sky, and Harry had only put on his little cap. On he ran in the blazing heat, struggling through the high grass, taking a short cut across the bayfield to get to the machine. Then, quite suddenly, the little

white figure eollapsed and the graz, closed over him. Harry had got * sunstroke.

Nearer and nearer on its ceaseless journey round the field came the whirring machine with its cruel slashing blades, and no one had seen the little boy running through the grass, no ona had seen him fall.

Except the four bright eyes of Bernard and Charite, who had followed him. “800-oof! 800-oof!” came the deep yap of the pups as they stood over the prostrate form of the unconscious child buried in the grass. The instinct ef their race was aroused. Nearer and nearer whirred the machine. “800-oof! 800-oof! 800-oof!" “Mind them puppies'. What’s they barkin' atf

The machine stopped. The Squire’s little son was saved from a horrible death, and Bernard and Charite had proved themselves worthy descendants of the noble race of St. Bernard mastiffs.—E. R. Cuthell.