No, those jaguars and pumus have been in America for ages: and there are those who will tell you--and I think they have some reason on their side--that the jaguar, with his round patches of spots, was once very much the same as the African and Indian leopard, who can climb trees well. So when he got into the tropic forests of America, he took to the trees, and lived among the branches, feeding on sloths and monkeys, and never coming to the ground for weeks, till he grew fatter and stronger and far more terrible than his forefathers. And they will tell you, too, that the puma was, perhaps--I only say perhaps--something like the lion, who (you know) has no spots. But when he got into the forests, he found very little food under the trees, only a very few deer; and so he was starved, and dwindled down to the poor little sheep-stealing rogue he is now, of whom nobody is afraid.
Oh, yes! I remember now A. said he and his men killed six in one day. But do you think it is all true about the pumas and jaguars?
My child, I don't say that it is true: but only that it is likely to be true. In science we must be cautious and modest, and ready to alter our minds whenever we learn fresh facts; only keeping sure of one thing, that the truth, when we find it out, will be far more wonderful than any notions of ours. See! As we have been talking we have got nearly home: and luncheon must be ready.
* * *
Why are you opening your eyes at me like the dog when he wants to go out walking?
Because I want to go out. But I don't want to go out walking. I want to go in the yacht.
In the yacht? It does not belong to me.
Oh, that is only fun. I know everybody is going out in it to see such a beautiful island full of ferns, and have a picnic on the rocks; and I know you are going.
Then you know more than I do myself.
But I heard them say you were going.
Then they know more than I do myself.
But would you not like to go?
I might like to go very much indeed; but as I have been knocked about at sea a good deal, and perhaps more than I intend to be again, it is no novelty to me, and there might be other things which I liked still better: for instance, spending the afternoon with you.
Then am I not to go?
I think not. Don't pull such a long face: but be a man, and make up your mind to it, as the geese do to going barefoot.
But why may I not go?
Because I am not Madam How, but your Daddy.
What can that have to do with it?
If you asked Madam How, do you know what she would answer in a moment, as civilly and kindly as could be? She would say--Oh yes, go by all means, and please yourself, my pretty little man. My world is the Paradise which the Irishman talked of, in which "a man might do what was right in the sight of his own eyes, and what was wrong too, as he liked it."
Then Madam How would let me go in the yacht?
Of course she would, or jump overboard when you were in it; or put your finger in the fire, and your head afterwards; or eat Irish spurge, and die like the salmon; or anything else you liked.
Nobody is so indulgent as Madam How: and she would be the dearest old lady in the world, but for one ugly trick that she has. She never tells any one what is coming, but leaves them to find it out for themselves. She lets them put their fingers in the fire, and never tells them that they will get burnt.
But that is very cruel and treacherous of her.
My boy, our business is not to call hard names, but to take things as we find them, as the Highlandman said when he ate the braxy mutton. Now shall I, because I am your Daddy, tell you what Madam How would not have told you? When you get on board the yacht, you will think it all very pleasant for an hour, as long as you are in the bay. But presently you will get a little bored, and run about the deck, and disturb people, and want to sit here, there, and everywhere, which I should not like. And when you get beyond that headland, you will find the great rollers coming in from the Atlantic, and the cutter tossing and heaving as you never felt before, under a burning sun. And then my merry little young gentleman will begin to feel a little sick; and then very sick, and more miserable than he ever felt in his life; and wish a thousand times over that he was safe at home, even doing sums in long division; and he will give a great deal of trouble to various kind ladies--which no one has a right to do, if he can help it.
Of course I do not wish to be sick: only it looks such beautiful weather.
And so it is: but don't fancy that last night's rain and wind can have passed without sending in such a swell as will frighten you, when you see the cutter climbing up one side of a wave, and running down the other; Madam How tells me that, though she will not tell you yet.
Then why do they go out?
Because they are accustomed to it. They have come hither all round from Cowes, past the Land's End, and past Cape Clear, and they are not afraid or sick either. But shall I tell you how you would end this evening?--at least so I suspect. Lying miserable in a stuffy cabin, on a sofa, and not quite sure whether you were dead or alive, till you were bundled into a boat about twelve o'clock at night, when you ought to be safe asleep, and come home cold, and wet, and stupid, and ill, and lie in bed all to-morrow.
But will they be wet and cold?