Short Stories for High Schools. Various

him, and as he was very warm and woolly, he lay down and snuggled up against him for a while, listening to the turmoil that was going on around him. And as he listened, he got frightened.

      If this was a new game it was certainly a very peculiar one—the wild rush, the bleats of terror, gasps of agony, and the fiendish growls of attack and the sounds of ravenous gluttony. With every hair bristling, Satan rose and sprang from the woods—and stopped with a fierce tingling of the nerves that brought him horror and fascination. One of the white shapes lay still before him. There was a great steaming red splotch on the snow, and a strange odor in the air that made him dizzy; but only for a moment. Another white shape rushed by. A tawny streak followed, and then, in a patch of moonlight, Satan saw the yellow cur with his teeth fastened in the throat of his moaning playmate. Like lightning Satan sprang at the cur, who tossed him ten feet away and went back to his awful work. Again Satan leaped, but just then a shout rose behind him, and the cur leaped too as though a bolt of lightning had crashed over him, and, no longer noticing Satan or sheep, began to quiver with fright and slink away. Another shout rose from another direction—another from another.

      “Drive ’em into the barn-yard!” was the cry.

      Now and then there was a fearful bang and a howl of death-agony, as some dog tried to break through the encircling men, who yelled and cursed as they closed in on the trembling brutes that slunk together and crept on; for it is said, every sheep-killing dog knows his fate if caught, and will make little effort to escape. With them went Satan, through the barn-yard gate, where they huddled in a corner—a shamed and terrified group. A tall overseer stood at the gate.

      “Ten of ’em!” he said grimly.

      He had been on the lookout for just such a tragedy, for there had recently been a sheep-killing raid on several farms in that neighborhood, and for several nights he had had a lantern hung out on the edge of the woods to scare the dogs away; but a drunken farm-hand had neglected his duty that Christmas Eve.

      “Yassuh, an’ dey’s jus’ sebenteen dead sheep out dar,” said a negro.

      “Look at the little one,” said a tall boy who looked like the overseer; and Satan knew that he spoke of him.

      “Go back to the house, son,” said the overseer, “and tell your mother to give you a Christmas present I got for you yesterday.” With a glad whoop the boy dashed away, and in a moment dashed back with a brand-new .32 Winchester in his hand.

      The dark hour before dawn was just breaking on Christmas Day. It was the hour when Satan usually rushed upstairs to see if his little mistress was asleep. If he were only at home now, and if he only had known how his little mistress was weeping for him amid her playthings and his—two new balls and a brass-studded collar with a silver plate on which was his name, Satan Dean; and if Dinnie could have seen him now, her heart would have broken; for the tall boy raised his gun. There was a jet of smoke, a sharp, clean crack, and the funeral dog started on the right way at last toward his dead master. Another crack, and the yellow cur leaped from the ground and fell kicking. Another crack and another, and with each crack a dog tumbled, until little Satan sat on his haunches amid the writhing pack, alone. His time was now come. As the rifle was raised, he heard up at the big house the cries of children; the popping of fire-crackers; tooting of horns and whistles and loud shouts of “Christmas Gif’, Christmas Gif’!” His little heart beat furiously. Perhaps he knew just what he was doing; perhaps it was the accident of habit; most likely Satan simply wanted to go home—but when that gun rose, Satan rose too, on his haunches, his tongue out, his black eyes steady and his funny little paws hanging loosely—and begged! The boy lowered the gun.

      “Down, sir!” Satan dropped obediently, but when the gun was lifted again, Satan rose again, and again he begged.

      “Down, I tell you!” This time Satan would not down, but sat begging for his life. The boy turned.

      “Papa, I can’t shoot that dog.” Perhaps Satan had reached the stern old overseer’s heart. Perhaps he remembered suddenly that it was Christmas. At any rate, he said gruffly:

      “Well, let him go.”

      “Come here, sir!” Satan bounded toward the tall boy, frisking and trustful and begged again.

      “Go home, sir!”

      Satan needed no second command. Without a sound he fled out the barn-yard, and, as he swept under the front gate, a little girl ran out of the front door of the big house and dashed down the steps, shrieking:

      “Saty! Saty! Oh, Saty!” But Satan never heard. On he fled, across the crisp fields, leaped the fence and struck the road, lickety-split! for home, while Dinnie dropped sobbing in the snow.

      “Hitch up a horse, quick,” said Uncle Carey, rushing after Dinnie and taking her up in his arms. Ten minutes later, Uncle Carey and Dinnie, both warmly bundled up, were after flying Satan. They never caught him until they reached the hill on the outskirts of town, where was the kennel of the kind-hearted people who were giving painless death to Satan’s four-footed kind, and where they saw him stop and turn from the road. There was divine providence in Satan’s flight for one little dog that Christmas morning; for Uncle Carey saw the old drunkard staggering down the road without his little companion, and a moment later, both he and Dinnie saw Satan nosing a little yellow cur between the palings. Uncle Carey knew the little cur, and while Dinnie was shrieking for Satan, he was saying under his breath:

      “Well, I swear!—I swear!—I swear!” And while the big man who came to the door was putting Satan into Dinnie’s arms, he said sharply:

      “Who brought that yellow dog here?” The man pointed to the old drunkard’s figure turning a corner at the foot of the hill.

      “I thought so; I thought so. He sold him to you for—for a drink of whiskey.”

      The man whistled.

      “Bring him out. I’ll pay his license.”

      So back went Satan and the little cur to Grandmother Dean’s—and Dinnie cried when Uncle Carey told her why he was taking the little cur along. With her own hands she put Satan’s old collar on the little brute, took him to the kitchen, and fed him first of all. Then she went into the breakfast-room.

      “Uncle Billy,” she said severely, “didn’t I tell you not to let Saty out?”

      “Yes, Miss Dinnie,” said the old butler.

      “Didn’t I tell you I was goin’ to whoop you if you let Saty out?”

      “Yes, Miss Dinnie.”

      Miss Dinnie pulled forth from her Christmas treasures a toy riding-whip and the old darky’s eyes began to roll in mock terror.

      “I’m sorry, Uncle Billy, but I des got to whoop you a little.”

      “Let Uncle Billy off, Dinnie,” said Uncle Carey, “this is Christmas.”

      “All wite,” said Dinnie, and she turned to Satan.

      In his shining new collar and innocent as a cherub, Satan sat on the hearth begging for his breakfast.

      A NEST-EGG

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      BY

      James Whitcomb Riley

      This is the simple character sketch in which there is romance treated with a fine reserve. It employs the local color so characteristic of Mr. Riley’s poems of Indiana.

      A NEST-EGG[8]

      But a few miles from the city here, and on the sloping banks of the stream noted more for its plenitude of “chubs” and “shiners” than the gamier two- and four-pound bass for which, in season, so many credulous anglers flock and lie in wait, stands a country residence, so convenient to the stream, and so inviting in its pleasant exterior and comfortable