pay the weekly visit to Grandma, which was busy Mother Bhaer’s
one holiday and greatest pleasure. Nat was not strong enough for
the long walk, and asked to stay at home with Tommy, who kindly
offered to do the honors of Plumfield. “You’ve seen the house, so
come out and have a look at the garden, and the barn, and the
menagerie,” said Tommy, when they were left alone with Asia, to
see that they didn’t get into mischief; for, though Tommy was one
of the best-meaning boys who ever adorned knickerbockers,
accidents of the most direful nature were always happening to him,
no one could exactly tell how.
“What is your menagerie?” asked Nat, as they trotted along the
drive that encircled the house.
“We all have pets, you see, and we keep ’em in the corn-barn, and
call it the menagerie. Here you are. Isn’t my guinea-pig a beauty?”
and Tommy proudly presented one of the ugliest specimens of that
pleasing animal that Nat ever saw.
“I know a boy with a dozen of ’em, and he said he’d give me one,
only I hadn’t any place to keep it, so I couldn’t have it. It was white,
with black spots, a regular rouser, and maybe I could get it for you
if you’d like it,” said Nat, feeling it would be a delicate return for
Tommy’s attentions.
“I’d like it ever so much, and I’ll give you this one, and they can
live together if they don’t fight. Those white mice are Rob’s, Franz
gave ’em to him. The rabbits are Ned’s, and the bantams outside
are Stuffy’s. That box thing is Demi’s turtle-tank, only he hasn’t
begun to get ’em yet. Last year he had sixty-two, whackers some of
’em. He stamped one of ’em with his name and the year, and let it
go; and he says maybe he will find it ever so long after and know
it. He read about a turtle being found that had a mark on it that
showed it must be hundreds of years old. Demi’s such a funny
chap.”
“What is in this box?” asked Nat, stopping before a large deep one,
half-full of earth.
“Oh, that’s Jack Ford’s worm-shop. He digs heaps of ’em and keeps
’em here, and when we want any to go afishing with, we buy some
of him. It saves lots of trouble, only he charged too much for ’em.
Why, last time we traded I had to pay two cents a dozen, and then
got little ones. Jack’s mean sometimes, and I told him I’d dig for
myself if he didn’t lower his prices. Now, I own two hens, those
gray ones with top knots, first-rate ones they are too, and I sell
Mrs. Bhaer the eggs, but I never ask her more than twenty-five
cents a dozen, never! I’d be ashamed to do it,” cried Tommy, with
a glance of scorn at the worm-shop.
“Who owns the dogs?” asked Nat, much interested in these
commercial transactions, and feeling that T. Bangs was a man
whom it would be a privilege and a pleasure to patronize.
“The big dog is Emil’s. His name is Christopher Columbus. Mrs.
Bhaer named him because she likes to say Christopher Columbus,
and no one minds it if she means the dog,” answered Tommy, in
the tone of a show-man displaying his menagerie. “The white pup
is Rob’s, and the yellow one is Teddy’s. A man was going to drown
them in our pond, and Pa Bhaer wouldn’t let him. They do well
enough for the little chaps, I don’t think much of ’em myself. Their
names are Castor and Pollux.”
“I’d like Toby the donkey best, if I could have anything, it’s so nice
to ride, and he’s so little and good,” said Nat, remembering the
weary tramps he had taken on his own tired feet.
“Mr. Laurie sent him out to Mrs. Bhaer, so she shouldn’t carry
Teddy on her back when we go to walk. We’re all fond of Toby,
and he’s a first-rate donkey, sir. Those pigeons belong to the whole
lot of us, we each have our pet one, and go shares in all the little