Stories of Childhood | Page 3

far worse to him, not
having tasted water for nearly twelve, being blind with dust, sore with
blows, and stupefied with the merciless weight which dragged upon his
loins, Patrasche, for once, staggered and foamed a little at the mouth,
and fell.
He fell in the middle of the white, dusty road, in the full glare of the
sun: he was sick unto death, and motionless. His master gave him the
only medicine in his pharmacy,--kicks and oaths and blows with a
cudgel of oak, which had been often the only food and drink, the only
wage and reward, ever offered to him. But Patrasche was beyond the
reach of any torture or of any curses. Patrasche lay, dead to all
appearances, down in the white powder of the summer dust. After a
while, finding it useless to assail his ribs with punishment and his ears
with maledictions, the Brabantois--deeming life gone in him, or going
so nearly that his carcass was forever useless, unless indeed some one
should strip it of the skin for gloves--cursed him fiercely in farewell,
struck off the leathern bands of the harness, kicked his body heavily
aside into the grass, and, groaning and muttering in savage wrath,
pushed the cart lazily along the road up hill, and left the dying dog
there for the ants to sting and for the crows to pick.
It was the last day before Kermesse away at Louvain, and the
Brabantois was in haste to reach the fair and get a good place for his
truck of brass wares. He was in fierce wrath, because Patrasche had
been a strong and much-enduring animal, and because he himself had
now the hard task of pushing his charette all the way to Louvain. But to
stay to look after Patrasche never entered his thoughts: the beast was
dying and useless, and he would steal, to replace him, the first large
dog that he found wandering alone out of sight of its master. Patrasche

had cost him nothing, or next to nothing, and for two long, cruel years
he had made him toil ceaselessly in his service from sunrise to sunset,
through summer and winter, in fair weather and foul.
He had got a fair use and a good profit out of Patrasche: being human,
he was wise, and left the dog to draw his last breath alone in the ditch,
and have his bloodshot eyes plucked out as they might be by the birds,
whilst he himself went on his way to beg and to steal, to eat and to
drink, to dance and to sing, in the mirth at Louvain. A dying dog, a dog
of the cart,--why should he waste hours over its agonies at peril of
losing a handful of copper coins, at peril of a shout of laughter?
Patrasche lay there, flung in the grass-green ditch. It was a busy road
that day, and hundreds of people, on foot and on mules, in wagons or in
carts, went by, tramping quickly and joyously on to Louvain. Some saw
him, most did not even look: all passed on. A dead dog more or less,--it
was nothing in Brabant: it would be nothing anywhere in the world.
After a time, amongst the holiday-makers, there came a little old man
who was bent and lame, and very feeble. He was in no guise for
feasting: he was very poorly and miserably clad, and he dragged his
silent way slowly through the dust amongst the pleasure-seekers. He
looked at Patrasche, paused, wondered, turned aside, then kneeled
down in the rank grass and weeds of the ditch, and surveyed the dog
with kindly eyes of pity. There was with him a little rosy, fair-haired,
dark-eyed child of a few years old, who pattered in amidst the bushes,
that were for him breast-high, and stood gazing with a pretty
seriousness upon the poor great, quiet beast.
Thus it was that these two first met,--the little Nello and the big
Patrasche.
The upshot of that day was, that old Jehan Daas, with much laborious
effort, drew the sufferer homeward to his own little hut, which was a
stone's-throw off amidst the fields, and there tended him with so much
care that the sickness, which had been a brain-seizure, brought on by
heat and thirst and exhaustion, with time and shade and rest passed
away, and health and strength returned, and Patrasche staggered up
again upon his four stout, tawny legs.
Now for many weeks he had been useless, powerless, sore, near to
death; but all this time he had heard no rough word, had felt no harsh
touch, but only the pitying murmurs of the little child's voice and the

soothing caress of the old man's hand.
In his sickness they two had grown to care