Part 4 (1/2)
”Now, Billy,” she commanded, ”put this bucket of tallow down there in the hottest part of the fire. Look out; don't tip it--there!
Now, you come here an' help me pour this soup into the bottle. I'm goin' to git that ole hoss so het up he'll think he's havin' a sunstroke! Seems sorter bad to keep on pestering him when he's so near gone, but this here soup'll feel good when it once gits inside him.”
When the kettle was empty, the soup was impartially distributed over Mrs. Wiggs and the patient, but a goodly amount had ”got inside,”
and already the horse was losing his rigidity.
Only once did Billy pause in his work, and that was to ask:
”Ma, what do you think I'd better name him?”
Giving names was one of Mrs. Wiggs's chief accomplishments, and usually required much thoughtful consideration; but in this case if there was to be a christening it must be at once.
”I'd like a jography name,” suggested Billy, feeling that nothing was too good to bestow upon his treasure.
Mrs. Wiggs stood with the soup dripping from her hands, and earnestly contemplated the horse. Babies, pigs, goats, and puppies had drawn largely on her supply of late, and geography names especially were scarce. Suddenly a thought struck her.
”I'll tell you what, Billy! We'll call him Cuby! It's a town I heared 'em talkin' 'bout at the grocery.”
By this time the tallow was melted, and Mrs. Wiggs carried it over by the horse, and put each of his hoofs into the hot liquid, while Billy rubbed the legs with all the strength of his young arms.
”That's right,” she said; ”now you run home an' git that piece of carpet by my bed, an' we'll kiver him up. I am goin' to git them fence rails over yonder to keep the fire goin'.”
Through the long night they worked with their patient, and when the first glow of morning appeared in the east, a triumphant procession wended its way across the Cabbage Patch. First came an old woman, bearing sundry pails, kettles, and bottles; next came a very sleepy little boy, leading a trembling old horse, with soup all over its head, tallow on its feet, and a strip of rag-carpet tied about its middle.
And thus Cuba, like his geographical namesake, emerged from the violent ordeal of reconstruction with a mangled const.i.tution, internal dissension, a decided preponderance of foreign element, but a firm and abiding trust in the new power with which his fortunes had been irrevocably cast.
CHAPTER V
A REMINISCENCE
”It is easy enough to be pleasant When life flows along like a song, But the man worth while is the one who will smile When everything goes dead wrong.”
WHEN Miss Hazy was awakened early that morning by a resonant neigh at the head of her bed, she mistook it for the trump of doom. Miss Hazy's cottage, as has been said, was built on the bias in the Wiggses' side yard, and the little lean-to, immediately behind Miss Hazy's bedroom, had been pressed into service as Cuba's temporary abiding-place.
After her first agonized fright, the old woman ventured to push the door open a crack and peep out.
”Chris,” she said, in a tense whisper, to her sleeping nephew--”Chris, what on airth is this here hitched to our shutter?”
Chris, usually deaf to all calls less emphatic than cold water and a broomstick, raised a rumpled head from the bed-clothes.
”Where at?” he asked.
”Right here!” said Miss Hazy, still in a terrified whisper, and holding fast the door, as if the specter might attempt an entrance.
Chris did not stop to adjust his wooden leg, but hopped over to the door, and cautiously put an eye to the opening.
”Why, shucks, 't ain't nothin' but a hoss!” he said, in disgust, having nerved himself for nothing less than a rhinoceros, such as he had seen in the circus.
”How'd he git there?” demanded Miss Hazy.
Chris was not prepared to say.
All through breakfast Miss Hazy was in a flutter of excitement. She had once heard of a baby being left on a doorstep, but never a horse. When the limit of her curiosity was about reached, she saw Mrs. Wiggs coming across the yard carrying a bucket. She hastened to meet her.