PREFACE

Beautiful Joe is a real dog, and "Beautiful Joe" is his real name. He

belonged during the first part of his life to a cruel master, who

mutilated him in the manner described in the story. He was rescued from

him, and is now living in a happy home with pleasant surroundings, and

enjoys a wide local celebrity.

 

The character of Laura is drawn from life, and to the smallest detail is

truthfully depicted. The Morris family has its counterparts in real

life, and nearly all of the incidents of the story are founded on

fact.--THE AUTHOR.

INTRODUCTION

 

The wonderfully successful book, entitled "Black Beauty," came like a

living voice out of the animal kingdom. But it spake for the horse, and

made other books necessary; it led the way. After the ready welcome that

it received, and the good it has accomplished and is doing, it followed

naturally that some one should be inspired to write a book to interpret

the life of a dog to the humane feeling of the world. Such a story we

have in "Beautiful Joe."

 

The story speaks not for the dog alone, but for the whole animal

kingdom. Through it we enter the animal world, and are made to see as

animals see, and to feel as animals feel. The sympathetic sight of the

author, in this interpretation, is ethically the strong feature of the

book.

 

Such books as this is one of the needs of our progressive system of

education. The day-school, the Sunday-school, and all libraries for the

young, demand the influence that shall teach the reader how to live in

sympathy with the animal world; how to understand the languages of the

creatures that we have long been accustomed to call "dumb," and the sign

language of the lower orders of these dependent beings. The church owes

it to her mission to preach and to teach the enforcement of the "bird's

nest commandment;" the principle recognized by Moses in the Hebrew

world, and echoed by Cowper in English poetry, and Burns in the "Meadow

Mouse," and by our own Longfellow in songs of many keys.

 

Kindness to the animal kingdom is the first, or a first principle in the

growth of true philanthropy. Young Lincoln once waded across a

half-frozen river to rescue a dog, and stopped in a walk with a

statesman to put back a bird that had fallen out of its nest. Such a

heart was trained to be a leader of men, and to be crucified for a

cause. The conscience that runs to the call of an animal in distress is

girding itself with power to do manly work in the world.

 

The story of "Beautiful Joe" awakens an intense interest, and sustains

it through a series of vivid incidents and episodes, each of which is a

lesson. The story merits the widest circulation, and the universal

reading and response accorded to "Black Beauty." To circulate it is to

do good; to help the human heart as well as the creatures of quick

feelings and simple language.

 

When, as one of the committee to examine the manuscripts offered for

prizes to the Humane Society, I read the story, I felt that the writer

had a higher motive than to compete for a prize; that the story was a

stream of sympathy that flowed from the heart; that it was genuine; that

it only needed a publisher who should be able to command a wide

influence, to make its merits known, to give it a strong educational

mission.

 

I am pleased that the manuscript has found such a publisher, and am sure

that the issue of the story will honor the Publication Society. In the

development of the book, I believe that the humane cause has stood above

any speculative thought or interest. The book comes because it is called

for; the times demand it. I think that the publishers have a right to

ask for a little unselfish service on the part of the public in helping

to give it a circulation commensurate with its opportunity, need, and

influence.

 

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

 

(Of the committee of readers of the prize stories offered to the Humane

Society.)

 

BOSTON, MASS., Dec., 1893.

CONTENTS

 

CHAPTER

 

1. ONLY A CUR

 

1. THE CRUEL MILKMAN

 

III. MY KIND DELIVERER AND MISS LAURA

 

1. THE MORRIS BOYS ADD TO MY NAME

 

1. MY NEW HOME AND A SELFISH LADY

 

1. THE FOX TERRIER BILLY

 

VII. TRAINING A PUPPY

 

VIII. A RUINED DOG

 

1. THE PARROT BELLA

 

1. BILLY'S TRAINING CONTINUED

 

1. GOLDFISH AND CANARIES

 

XII. MALTA THE CAT

 

XIII. THE BEGINNING OF AN ADVENTURE

 

XIV. HOW WE CAUGHT THE BURGLAR

 

1. OUR JOURNEY TO RIVERDALE

 

XVI. DINGLEY FARM

 

XVII. MR. WOOD AND HIS HORSES

 

XVIII. MRS. WOOD'S POULTRY

 

XIX. A BAND OF MERCY

 

1. STORIES ABOUT ANIMALS

 

XXI. MR. MAXWELL AND MR. HARRY

 

XXII. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE TEA TABLE

 

XXIII. TRAPPING WILD ANIMALS

 

XXIV. THE RABBIT AND THE HEN

 

XXV. A HAPPY HORSE

 

XXVI. THE BOX OF MONEY

 

XXVII. A NEGLECTED STABLE

 

XXVIII. THE END OF THE ENGLISHMAN

 

XXIX. A TALK ABOUT SHEEP

 

XXX. A JEALOUS OX

 

XXXI. IN THE COW STABLE

 

XXXII. OUR RETURN HOME

 

XXXIII. PERFORMING ANIMALS

 

XXXIV. A FIRE IN FAIRPORT

 

XXXV. BILLY AND THE ITALIAN

 

XXXVI. DANDY THE TRAMP

 

XXXVII. THE END OF MY STORY

CHAPTER I (ONLY A CUR)

My name is Beautiful Joe, and I am a brown dog of medium size. I am not

called Beautiful Joe because I am a beauty. Mr. Morris, the clergyman,

in whose family I have lived for the last twelve years, says that he

thinks I must be called Beautiful Joe for the same reason that his

grandfather, down South, called a very ugly colored slave-lad Cupid, and

his mother Venus.

 

I do not know what he means by that, but when he says it people always

look at me and smile. I know that I am not beautiful, and I know that I

am not a thoroughbred. I am only a cur.

 

When my mistress went every year to register me and pay my tax, and the

man in the office asked what breed I was, she said part fox-terrier and

part bull-terrier; but he always put me down a cur. I don't think she

liked having him call me a cur; still, I have heard her say that she

preferred curs, for they have more character than well-bred dogs. Her

father said that she liked ugly dogs for the same reason that a nobleman

at the court of a certain king did--namely, that no one else would.

 

I am an old dog now, and am writing, or rather getting a friend to

write, the story of my life. I have seen my mistress laughing and crying

over a little book that she says is a story of a horse's life, and

sometimes she puts the book down close to my nose to let me see the

pictures.

 

I love my dear mistress; I can say no more than that; I love her better

than any one else in the world; and I think it will please her if I

write the story of a dog's life. She loves dumb animals, and it always

grieves her to see them treated cruelly.

 

I have heard her say that if all the boys and girls in the world were to

rise up and say that there should be no more cruelty to animals, they

could put a stop to it. Perhaps it will help a little if I tell a story.

I am fond of boys and girls, and though I have seen many cruel men and

women, I have seen few cruel children. I think the more stories there

are written about dumb animals, the better it will be for us.

 

In telling my story, I think I had better begin at the first and come

right on to the end. I was born in a stable on the outskirts of a small

town in Maine called Fairport. The first thing I remember was lying

close to my mother and being very snug and warm. The next thing I

remember was being always hungry. I had a number of brothers and

sisters--six in all--and my mother never had enough milk for us. She was

always half starved herself, so she could not feed us properly.

 

I am very unwilling to say much about my early life, I have lived so

long in a family where there is never a harsh word spoken, and where no

one thinks of ill-treating anybody or anything, that it seems almost

wrong even to think or speak of such a matter as hurting a poor dumb

beast.

 

The man that owned my mother was a milkman. He kept one horse and three

cows, and he had a shaky old cart that he used to put his milk cans in.

I don't think there can be a worse man in the world than that milkman.

It makes me shudder now to think of him. His name was Jenkins, and I am

glad to think that he is getting punished now for his cruelty to poor

dumb animals and to human beings. If you think it is wrong that I am

glad, you must remember that I am only a dog.

 

The first notice that he took of me when I was a little puppy, just able

to stagger about, was to give me a kick that sent me into a corner of

the stable. He used to beat and starve my mother. I have seen him use

his heavy whip to punish her till her body was covered with blood. When

I got older I asked her why she did not run away. She said she did not

wish to; but I soon found out that the reason she did not run away, was

because she loved Jenkins. Cruel and savage as he was, she yet loved

him, and I believe she would have laid down her life for him.

 

Now that I am old, I know that there are more men in the world like

Jenkins. They are not crazy, they are not drunkards; they simply seem to

be possessed with a spirit of wickedness. There are well-to-do people,

yes, and rich people, who will treat animals, and even little children,

with such terrible cruelty, that one cannot even mention the things that

they are guilty of.

 

One reason for Jenkins' cruelty was his idleness. After he went his

rounds in the morning with his milk cans, he had nothing to do till late

in the afternoon but take care of his stable and yard. If he had kept

them neat, and groomed his horse, and cleaned the cows, and dug up the

garden, it would have taken up all his time; but he never tidied the

place at all, till his yard and stable got so littered up with things he

threw down that he could not make his way about.

 

His house and stable stood in the middle of a large field, and they were

at some distance from the road. Passers-by could not see how untidy the

place was. Occasionally, a man came to look at the premises, and see

that they were in good order, but Jenkins always knew when to expect

him, and had things cleaned up a little.

 

I used to wish that some of the people that took milk from him would

come and look at his cows. In the spring and summer he drove them out to

pasture, but during the winter they stood all the time in the dirty,

dark stable, where the chinks in the wall were so big that the snow

swept through almost in drifts. The ground was always muddy and wet;

there was only one small window on the north side, where the sun only

shone in for a short time in the afternoon.

 

They were very unhappy cows, but they stood patiently and never

complained, though sometimes I know they must have nearly frozen in the

bitter winds that blew through the stable on winter nights. They were

lean and poor, and were never in good health. Besides being cold they

were fed on very poor food.

 

Jenkins used to come home nearly every afternoon with a great tub in the

back of his cart that was full of what he called "peelings." It was

kitchen stuff that he asked the cooks at the different houses where he

delivered milk, to save for him. They threw rotten vegetables, fruit

parings, and scraps from the table into a tub, and gave them to him at

the end of a few days. A sour, nasty mess it always was, and not fit to

give any creature.

 

Sometimes, when he had not many "peelings," he would go to town and get

a load of decayed vegetables, that grocers were glad to have him take

off their hands.

 

This food, together with poor hay, made the cows give very poor milk,

and Jenkins used to put some white powder in it, to give it "body," as

he said.

 

Once a very sad thing happened about the milk, that no one knew about

but Jenkins and his wife. She was a poor, unhappy creature, very

frightened at her husband, and not daring to speak much to him. She was

not a clean woman, and I never saw a worse-looking house than she kept.

 

She used to do very queer things, that I know now no housekeeper should

1. I have seen her catch up the broom to pound potatoes in the pot. She

pounded with the handle, and the broom would fly up and down in the air,

dropping dust into the pot where the potatoes were. Her pan of

soft-mixed bread she often left uncovered in the kitchen, and sometimes

the hens walked in and sat in it.

 

The children used to play in mud puddles about the door. It was the

youngest of them that sickened with some kind of fever early in the

spring, before Jenkins began driving the cows out to pasture. The child

was very ill, and Mrs. Jenkins wanted to send for a doctor, but her

husband would not let her. They made a bed in the kitchen, close to the

stove, and Mrs. Jenkins nursed the child as best she could. She did all

her work near by, and I saw her several times wiping the child's face

with the cloth that she used for washing her milk pans.

 

Nobody knew outside the family that the little girl was ill. Jenkins had

such a bad name, that none of the neighbors would visit them. By-and-by

the child got well, and a week or two later Jenkins came home with quite

a frightened face, and told his wife that the husband of one of his

customers was very ill with typhoid fever.

 

After a time the gentleman died, and the cook told Jenkins that the

doctor wondered how he could have taken the fever, for there was not a

case in town.

 

There was a widow left with three orphans, and they never knew that they

had to blame a dirty, careless milkman for taking a kind husband and

father from them.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER II (THE CRUEL MILKMAN)

I have said that Jenkins spent most of his days in idleness. He had to

start out very early in the morning, in order to supply his customers

with milk for breakfast. Oh, how ugly he used to be, when he came into

the stable on cold winter mornings, before the sun was up.

 

He would hang his lantern on a hook, and get his milking stool, and if

the cows did not step aside just to suit him, he would seize a broom or

fork, and beat them cruelly.

 

My mother and I slept on a heap of straw in the corner of the stable,

and when she heard his step in the morning she always roused me, so that

we could run out-doors as soon as he opened the stable door. He always

aimed a kick at us as we passed, but my mother taught me how to dodge

him.

 

After he finished milking, he took the pails of milk up to the house for

Mrs. Jenkins to strain and put in the cans, and he came back and

harnessed his horse to the cart. His horse was called Toby, and a poor,

miserable, broken-down creature he was. He was weak in the knees, and

weak in the back, and weak all over, and Jenkins had to beat him all the

time, to make him go. He had been a cab horse, and his mouth had been

jerked, and twisted, and sawed at, till one would think there could be

no feeling left in it; still I have seen him wince and curl up his lip

when Jenkins thrust in the frosty bit on a winter's morning.

 

Poor old Toby! I used to lie on my straw sometimes and wonder he did not

cry out with pain. Cold and half starved he always was in the winter

time, and often with raw sores on his body that Jenkins would try to

hide by putting bits of cloth under the harness. But Toby never

murmured, and he never tried to kick and bite, and he minded the least

word from Jenkins, and if he swore at him. Toby would start back, or

step up quickly, he was so anxious to please him.

 

After Jenkins put him in the cart, and took in the cans, he set out on

his rounds. My mother, whose name was Jess, always went with him. I used

to ask her why she followed such a brute of a man, and she would hang

her head, and say that sometimes she got a bone from the different

houses they stopped at. But that was not the whole reason. She liked

Jenkins so much, that she wanted to be with him.

 

I had not her sweet and patient disposition, and I would not go with

her. I watched her out of sight, and then ran up to the house to see if

Mrs. Jenkins had any scraps for me. I nearly always got something, for

she pitied me, and often gave me a kind word or look with the bits of

food that she threw to me.

 

When Jenkins come home, I often coaxed mother to run about and see some

of the neighbors' dogs with me. But she never would, and I would not

leave her. So, from morning to night we had to sneak about, keeping out

of Jenkins' way as much as we could, and yet trying to keep him in

sight. He always sauntered about with a pipe in his mouth, and his hands

in his pockets, growling first at his wife and children, and then at his

dumb creatures.

 

I have not told what became of my brothers and sisters. One rainy day,

when we were eight weeks old, Jenkins, followed by two or three of his

ragged, dirty children, came into the stable and looked at us. Then he

began to swear because we were so ugly, and said if we had been

good-looking, he might have sold some of us. Mother watched him

anxiously, and fearing some danger to her puppies, ran and jumped in the

middle of us, and looked pleadingly up at him.

 

It only made him swear the more. He took one pup after another, and

right there, before his children and my poor distracted mother, put an

end to their lives. Some of them he seized by the legs and knocked

against the stalls, till their brains were dashed out, others he killed

with a fork. It was very terrible. My mother ran up and down the stable,

screaming with pain, and I lay weak and trembling, and expecting every

instant that my turn would come next. I don't know why he spared me. I

was the only one left.

 

His children cried, and he sent them out of the stable and went out

himself. Mother picked up all the puppies and brought them to our nest

in the straw and licked them, and tried to bring them back to life; but

it was of no use; they were quite dead. We had them in our corner of the

stable for some days, till Jenkins discovered them, and swearing

horribly at us, he took his stable fork and threw them out in the yard,

and put some earth over them.

 

My mother never seemed the same after this. She was weak and miserable,

and though she was only four years old, she seemed like an old dog. This

was on account of the poor food she had been fed on. She could not run

after Jenkins, and she lay on our heap of straw, only turning over with

her nose the scraps of food I brought her to eat. One day she licked me

gently, wagged her tail, and died.

 

As I sat by her, feeling lonely and miserable, Jenkins came into the

stable. I could not bear to look at him. He had killed my mother. There

she lay, a little, gaunt, scarred creature, starved and worried to death

by him. Her mouth was half open, her eyes were staring. She would never

again look kindly at me, or curl up to me at night to keep me warm. Oh,

how I hated her murderer! But I sat quietly, even when he went up and

turned her over with his foot to see if she was really dead. I think he

was a little sorry, for he turned scornfully toward me and said, "She

was worth two of you; why didn't you go instead?"

 

Still I kept quiet till he walked up to me and kicked at me. My heart

was nearly broken, and I could stand no more. I flew at him and gave him

a savage bite on the ankle.

 

"Oho," he said, "so you are going to be a fighter, are you? I'll fix you

for that." His face was red and furious. He seized me by the back of the

neck and carried me out to the yard where a log lay on the ground.

"Bill," he called to one of his children, "bring me the hatchet."

 

He laid my head on the log and pressed one hand on my struggling body. I

was now a year old and a full-sized dog. There was a quick, dreadful

pain, and he had cut off my ear, not in the way they cut puppies' ears,

but close to my head, so close that he cut off some of the skin beyond

1. Then he cut off the other ear, and, turning me swiftly round, cut

off my tail close to my body.

 

Then he let me go and stood looking at me as I rolled on the ground and

yelped in agony. He was in such a passion that he did not think that

people passing by on the road might hear me.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER III (MY KIND DELIVERER AND MISS LAURA)

 

There was a young man going by on a bicycle. He heard my screams and

springing off his bicycle, came hurrying up the path, and stood among us

before Jenkins caught sight of him.

 

In the midst of my pain, I heard him in say fiercely "What have you been

doing to that dog?"

 

"I've been cuttin' his ears for fightin', my young gentleman," said

Jenkins. "There is no law to prevent that, is there?"

 

"And there is no law to prevent my giving you a beating," said the young

man, angrily. In a trice he had seized Jenkins by the throat, and was

pounding him with all his might. Mrs. Jenkins came and stood at the

house door, crying, but making no effort to help her husband.

 

"Bring me a towel," the young man cried to her, after he had stretched

Jenkins, bruised and frightened, on the ground. She snatched off her

apron, and ran down with it, and the young man wrapped me in it, and

taking me carefully in his arms, walked down the path to the gate. There

were some little boys standing there, watching him, their mouths wide

open with astonishment. "Sonny," he said to the largest of them, "if you

will come behind and carry this dog, I will give you a quarter."

 

The boy took me, and we set out. I was all smothered up in a cloth, and

moaning with pain, but still I looked out occasionally to see which way

we were going. We took the road to the town and stopped in front of a

house on Washington Street. The young man leaned his bicycle up against

the house, took a quarter from his pocket and put it in the boy's hand,

and lifting me gently in his arms, went up a lane leading to the back of

the house.

 

There was a small stable there. He went into it, put me down on the

floor and uncovered my body. Some boys were playing about the stable,

and I heard them say, in horrified tones, "Oh, Cousin Harry, what is the

matter with that dog?"

 

"Hush," he said. "Don't make a fuss. You, Jack, go down to the kitchen

and ask Mary for a basin of warm water and a sponge, and don't let your

mother or Laura hear you."

 

A few minutes later, the young man had bathed my bleeding ears and tail,

and had rubbed something on them that was cool and pleasant, and had

bandaged them firmly with strips of cotton. I felt much better and was

able to look about me,

 

I was in a small stable, that was evidently not used for a stable, but

more for a play-room. There were various kinds of toys scattered about

and a swing and bar, such as boys love to twist about on, in two

different corners. In a box against the wall was a guinea pig, looking

at me in an interested way. This guinea pig's name was Jeff, and he and

I became good friends. A long-haired French rabbit was hopping about,

and a tame white rat was perched on the shoulder of one of the boys, and

kept his foothold there, no matter how suddenly the boy moved. There

were so many boys, and the stable was so small, that I suppose he was

afraid he would get stepped on if he went on the floor. He stared hard

at me with his little, red eyes, and never even glanced at a

queer-looking, gray cat that was watching me, too, from her bed in the

back of the vacant horse stall. Out in the sunny yard, some pigeons were

pecking at grain, and a spaniel lay asleep in a corner.

 

I had never seen anything like this before, and my wonder at it almost

drove the pain away. Mother and I always chased rats and birds, and once

we killed a kitten. While I was puzzling over it, one of the boys cried

out, "Here is Laura!"

 

"Take that rag out of the way," said Mr. Harry, kicking aside the old

apron I had been wrapped in, and that was stained with my blood. One of

the boys stuffed it into a barrel, and then they all looked toward the

house.

 

A young girl, holding up one hand to shade her eyes from the sun, was

coming up the walk that led from the house to the stable. I thought then

that I never had seen such a beautiful girl, and I think so still. She

was tall and slender, and had lovely brown eyes and brown hair, and a

sweet smile, and just to look at her was enough to make one love her. I

stood in the stable door, staring at her with all my might.

 

"Why, what a funny dog," she said, and stopped short to looked at me. Up

to this, I had not thought what a queer-looking sight I must be. Now I

twisted round my head, saw the white bandage on my tail, and knowing I

was not a fit spectacle for a pretty young lady like that, I slunk into

a corner.

 

"Poor doggie, have I hurt your feelings?" she said, and with a sweet

smile at the boys, she passed by them and came up to the guinea pig's

box, behind which I had taken refuge. "What is the matter with your

head, good dog?" she said, curiously, as she stooped over me.

 

"He has a cold in it," said one of the boys with a laugh; "so we put a

nightcap on." She drew back, and turned very pale. "Cousin Harry, there

are drops of blood on this cotton. Who has hurt this dog?"

 

"Dear Laura," and the young man coming up, laid his hand on her

shoulder, "he got hurt, and I have been bandaging him."

 

"Who hurt him?"

 

"I had rather not tell you."

 

"But I wish to know." Her voice was as gentle as ever, but she spoke so

decidedly that the young man was obliged to tell her everything. All the

time he was speaking, she kept touching me gently with her fingers. When

he had finished his account of rescuing me from Jenkins, she said,

quietly:

 

"You will have the man punished?"

 

"What is the use? That won't stop him from being cruel."

 

"It will put a check on his cruelty."

 

"I don't think it would do any good," said the young man, doggedly,

 

"Cousin Harry!" and the young girl stood up very straight and tall, her

brown eyes flashing, and one hand pointing at me; "will you let that

pass? That animal has been wronged, it looks to you to right it. The

coward who has maimed it for life should be punished. A child has a

voice to tell its wrong--a poor, dumb creature must suffer in silence;

in bitter, bitter silence. And," eagerly, as the young man tried to

interrupt her, "you are doing the man himself an injustice. If he is bad

enough to ill-treat his dog, he will ill-treat his wife and children. If

he is checked and punished now for his cruelty, he may reform. And even

if his wicked heart is not changed, he will be obliged to treat them

with outward kindness, through fear of punishment"

 

The young man looked convinced, and almost as ashamed as if he had been

the one to crop my ears. "What do you want me to do?" he said, slowly,

and looking sheepishly at the boys who were staring open-mouthed at him

and the young girl.

 

The girl pulled a little watch from her belt. "I want you to report that

man immediately. It is now five o'clock. I will go down to the police

station with you, if you like."

 

"Very well," he said, his face brightening, and together they went off

to the house.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER IV (THE MORRIS BOYS ADD TO MY NAME)

The boys watched them out of sight, then one of them, whose name I

afterward learned was Jack, and who came next to Miss Laura in age, gave

a low whistle and said, "Doesn't the old lady come out strong when any

one or anything gets abused? I'll never forget the day she found me

setting Jim on that black cat of the Wilsons. She scolded me, and then

she cried, till I didn't know where to look. Plague on it, how was I

going to know he'd kill the old cat? I only wanted to drive it out of

the yard. Come on, let's look at the dog."

 

They all came and bent over me, as I lay on the floor in my corner. I

wasn't much used to boys, and I didn't know how they would treat me. But

I soon found by the way they handled me and talked to me, that they knew

a good deal about dogs, and were accustomed to treat them kindly. It

seemed very strange to have them pat me, and call me "good dog." No one

had ever said that to me before to-day.

 

"He's not much of a beauty, is he?" said one of the boys, whom they

called Tom.

 

"Not by a long shot," said Jack Morris, with a laugh. "Not any nearer

the beauty mark than yourself, Tom."

 

Tom flew at him, and they had a scuffle. The other boys paid no

attention to them, but went on looking at me. One of them, a little boy

with eyes like Miss Laura's, said, "What did Cousin Harry say the dog's

name was?"

 

"Joe," answered another boy. "The little chap that carried him home told

him."

 

"We might call him 'Ugly Joe' then," said a lad with a round, fat face,

and laughing eyes. I wondered very much who this boy was, and, later on,

I found out that he was another of Miss Laura's brothers, and his name

was Ned. There seemed to be no end to the Morris boys.

 

"I don't think Laura would like that," said Jack Morris, suddenly coming

up behind him. He was very hot, and was breathing fast, but his manner

was as cool as if he had never left the group about me. He had beaten

Tom, who was sitting on a box, ruefully surveying a hole in his jacket.

"You see," he went on, gaspingly, "if you call him 'Ugly Joe,' her

ladyship will say that you are wounding the dear dog's feelings.

'Beautiful Joe,' would be more to her liking."

 

A shout went up from the boys. I didn't wonder that they laughed.

Plain-looking I naturally was; but I must have been hideous in those

bandages.

 

"'Beautiful Joe,' then let it be!" they cried. "Let us go and tell

mother, and ask her to give us something for our beauty to eat."

 

They all trooped out of the stable, and I was very sorry, for when they

were with me, I did not mind so much the tingling in my ears, and the

terrible pain in my back. They soon brought me some nice food, but I

could not touch it; so they went away to their play, and I lay in the

box they put me in, trembling with pain, and wishing that the pretty

young lady was there, to stroke me with her gentle fingers.

 

By-and-by it got dark. The boys finished their play, and went into the

house, and I saw lights twinkling in the windows. I felt lonely and

miserable in this strange place. I would not have gone back to Jenkins'

for the world, still it was the only home I had known, and though I felt

that I should be happy here, I had not yet gotten used to the change.

Then the pain all through my body was dreadful. My head seemed to be on

fire, and there were sharp, darting pains up and down my backbone. I did

not dare to howl, lest I should make the big dog, Jim, angry. He was

sleeping in a kennel, out in the yard.

 

The stable was very quiet. Up in the loft above, some rabbits that I had

heard running about had now gone to sleep. The guinea pig was nestling

in the corner of his box, and the cat and the tame rat had scampered

into the house long ago.

 

At last I could bear the pain no longer, I sat up in my box and looked

about me. I felt as if I was going to die, and, though I was very weak,

there was something inside me that made me feel as if I wanted to crawl

away somewhere out of sight. I slunk out into the yard, and along the

stable wall, where there was a thick clump of raspberry bushes. I crept

in among them and lay down in the damp earth. I tried to scratch off my

bandages, but they were fastened on too firmly, and I could not do it. I

thought about my poor mother, and wished she was here to lick my sore

ears. Though she was so unhappy herself, she never wanted to see me

suffer. If I had not disobeyed her, I would not now be suffering so much

pain. She had told me again and again not to snap at Jenkins, for it

made him worse.

 

In the midst of my trouble I heard a soft voice calling, "Joe! Joe!" It

was Miss Laura's voice, but I felt as if there were weights on my paws,

and I could not go to her.

 

"Joe! Joe!" she said, again. She was going up the walk to the stable,

holding up a lighted lamp in her hand. She had on a white dress, and I

watched her till she disappeared in the stable. She did not stay long in

there. She came out and stood on the gravel. "Joe, Joe, Beautiful Joe,

where are you? You are hiding somewhere, but I shall find you." Then she

came right to the spot where I was. "Poor doggie," she said, stooping

down and patting me. "Are you very miserable, and did you crawl away to

die? I have had dogs to do that before, but I am not going to let you

die, Joe." And she set her lamp on the ground, and took me in her arms.

 

I was very thin then, not nearly so fat as I am now, still I was quite

an armful for her. But she did not seem to find me heavy. She took me

right into the house, through the back door, and down a long flight of

steps, across a hall, and into a snug kitchen.

 

"For the land sakes, Miss Laura," said a woman who was bending over a

stove, "what have you got there?"

 

"A poor sick dog, Mary," said Miss Laura, seating herself on a chair.

"Will you please warm a little milk for him? And have you a box or a

basket down here that he can lie in?"

 

"I guess so," said the woman; "but he's awful dirty; you're not going to

let him sleep in the house, are you?"

 

"Only for to-night. He is very ill. A dreadful thing happened to him,

Mary." And Miss Laura went on to tell her how my ears had been cut off.

 

"Oh, that's the dog the boys were talking about," said the woman. "Poor

creature, he's welcome to all I can do for him." She opened a closet

door, and brought out a box, and folded a piece of blanket for me to lie

1. Then she heated some milk in a saucepan, and poured it in a saucer,

and watched me while Miss Laura went upstairs to get a little bottle of

something that would make me sleep. They poured a few drops of this

medicine into the milk and offered it to me.

 

I lapped a little, but I could not finish it, even though Miss Laura

coaxed me very gently to do so. She dipped her finger in the milk and

held it out to me, and though I did not want it, I could not be

ungrateful enough to refuse to lick her finger as often as she offered

it to me. After the milk was gone, Mary lifted up my box, and carried me

into the washroom that was off the kitchen.

 

I soon fell sound asleep, and could not rouse myself through the night,

even though I both smelled and heard some one coming near me several

times. The next morning I found out that it was Miss Laura. Whenever

there was a sick animal in the house, no matter if it was only the tame

rat, she would get up two or three times in the night, to see if there

was anything she could do to make it more comfortable.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER V (MY NEW HOME AND A SELFISH LADY)

I don't believe that a dog could have fallen into a happier home than I

did. In a week, thanks to good nursing, good food, and kind words, I was

almost well. Mr. Harry washed and dressed my sore ears and tail every

day till he went home, and one day, he and the boys gave me a bath out

in the stable. They carried out a tub of warm water and stood me in it.

I had never been washed before in my life, and it felt very queer. Miss

Laura stood by laughing and encouraging me not to mind the streams of

water trickling all over me. I couldn't help wondering what Jenkins

would have said if he could have seen me in that tub.

 

That reminds me to say, that two days after I arrived at the Morrises',

Jack, followed by all the other boys, came running into the stable. He

had a newspaper in his hand, and with a great deal of laughing and

joking, read this to me:

 

"'Fairport Daily News', June 3d. In the police court this morning,

James Jenkins, for cruelly torturing and mutilating a dog, fined ten

dollars and costs."

 

Then he said, "What do you think of that, Joe? Five dollars apiece for

your ears and your tail thrown in. That's all they're worth in the eyes

of the law. Jenkins has had his fun and you'll go through life worth

about three-quarters of a dog. I'd lash rascals like that. Tie them up

and flog them till they were scarred and mutilated a little bit

themselves. Just wait till I'm president. But there's some more, old

fellow. Listen: 'Our reporter visited the house of the above-mentioned

Jenkins, and found a most deplorable state of affairs. The house, yard

and stable were indescribably filthy. His horse bears the marks of

ill-usage, and is in an emaciated condition. His cows are plastered up

with mud and filth, and are covered with vermin. Where is our health

inspector, that he does not exercise a more watchful supervision over

establishments of this kind? To allow milk from an unclean place like

this to be sold in the town, is endangering the health of its

inhabitants. Upon inquiry, it was found that the man Jenkins bears a

very bad character. Steps are being taken to have his wife and children

removed from him.'"

 

Jack threw the paper into my box, and he and the other boys gave three

cheers for the 'Daily News' and then ran away. How glad I was! It

did not matter so much for me, for I had escaped him, but now that it

had been found out what a cruel man he was, there would be a restraint

upon him, and poor Toby and the cows would have a happier time.

 

I was going to tell about the Morris family.

 

There were Mr. Morris, who was a clergyman and preached in a church in

Fairport; Mrs. Morris, his wife; Miss Laura, who was the eldest of the

family; then Jack, Ned, Carl, and Willie. I think one reason why they

were such a good family was because Mrs. Morris was such a good woman.

She loved her husband and children, and did everything she could to make

them happy.

 

Mr. Morris was a very busy man and rarely interfered in household

affairs. Mrs. Morris was the one who said what was to be done and what

was not to be done. Even then, when I was a young dog, I used to think

that she was very wise. There was never any noise or confusion in the

house, and though there was a great deal of work to be done, everything

went on smoothly and pleasantly, and no one ever got angry and scolded

as they did in the Jenkins family.

 

Mrs. Morris was very particular about money matters. Whenever the boys

came to her for money to get such things as candy and ice cream,

expensive toys, and other things that boys often crave, she asked them

why they wanted them. If it was for some selfish reason, she said,

firmly: "No, my children; we are not rich people, and we must save our

money for your education. I cannot buy you foolish things."

 

If they asked her for money for books or something to make their pet

animals more comfortable, or for their outdoor games, she gave it to

them willingly. Her ideas about the bringing up of children I cannot

explain as clearly as she can herself, so I will give part of a

conversation that she had with a lady who was calling on her shortly

after I came to Washington Street.

 

I happened to be in the house at the time. Indeed, I used to spend the

greater part of my time in the house. Jack one day looked at me, and

exclaimed: "Why does that dog stalk about, first after one and then

after another, looking at us with such solemn eyes?"

 

I wished that I could speak to tell him that I had so long been used to

seeing animals kicked about and trodden upon, that I could not get used

to the change. It seemed too good to be true. I could scarcely believe

that dumb animals had rights; but while it lasted, and human beings were

so kind to me, I wanted to be with them all the time. Miss Laura

understood. She drew my head up to her lap, and put her face down to me:

"You like to be with us, don't you, Joe? Stay in the house as much as

you like. Jack doesn't mind, though he speaks so sharply. When you get

tired of us go out in the garden and have a romp with Jim."

 

But I must return to the conversation I referred to. It was one fine

June day, and Mrs. Morris was sewing in a rocking-chair by the window. I

was beside her, sitting on a hassock, so that I could look out into the

street. Dogs love variety and excitement, and like to see what is going

on out-doors as well as human beings. A carriage drove up to the door,

and a finely-dressed lady got out and came up the steps.

 

Mrs. Morris seemed glad to see her, and called her Mrs. Montague. I was

pleased with her, for she had some kind of perfume about her that I

liked to smell. So I went and sat on the hearth rug quite near her.

 

They had a little talk about things I did not understand and then the

lady's eyes fell on me. She looked at me through a bit of glass that was

hanging by a chain from her neck, and pulled away her beautiful dress

lest I should touch it.

 

I did not care any longer for the perfume, and went away and sat very

straight and stiff at Mrs. Morris' feet. The lady's eyes still followed

me.

 

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Morris," she said; "but that is a very

queer-looking dog you have there."

 

"Yes," said Mrs. Morris, quietly; "he is not a handsome dog."

 

"And he is a new one, isn't he?" said Mrs. Montague.

 

"Yes."

 

"And that makes--"

 

"Two dogs, a cat, fifteen or twenty rabbits, a rat, about a dozen

canaries, and two dozen goldfish, I don't know how many pigeons, a few

bantams, a guinea pig, and--well, I don't think there is anything more."

 

They both laughed, and Mrs. Montague said: "You have quite a menagerie.

My father would never allow one of his children to keep a pet animal. He

said it would make his girls rough and noisy to romp about the house

with cats, and his boys would look like rowdies if they went about with

dogs at their heels."

 

"I have never found that it made my children more rough to play with

their pets," said Mrs. Morris.

 

"No, I should think not," said the lady, languidly. "Your boys are the

most gentlemanly lads in Fairport, and as for Laura, she is a perfect

little lady. I like so much to have them come and see Charlie. They wake

him up, and yet don't make him naughty."

 

"They enjoyed their last visit very much," said Mrs. Morris. "By the

way, I have heard them talking about getting Charlie a dog."

 

"Oh!" cried the lady, with a little shudder, "beg them not to. I cannot

sanction that. I hate dogs."

 

"Why do you hate them?" asked Mrs. Morris, gently.

 

"They are such dirty things; they always smell and have vermin on them."

 

"A dog," said Mrs. Morris, "is something like a child. If you want it

clean and pleasant, you have got to keep it so. This dog's skin is as

clean as yours or mine. Hold still, Joe," and she brushed the hair on my

back the wrong way, and showed Mrs. Montague how pink and free from dust

my skin was.

 

Mrs. Montague looked at me more kindly, and even held out the tips of

her fingers to me. I did not lick them. I only smelled them, and she

drew her hand back again.

 

"You have never been brought in contact with the lower creation as I

have," said Mrs. Morris; "just let me tell you, in a few words, what a

help dumb animals have been to me in the up-bringing of my children--my

boys, especially. When I was a young married woman, going about the

slums of New York with my husband, I used to come home and look at my

two babies as they lay in their little cots, and say to him, 'What are

we going to do to keep these children from selfishness--the curse of the

world?'

 

"'Get them to do something for somebody outside themselves,' he always

said. And I have tried to act on that principle. Laura is naturally

unselfish. With her tiny, baby fingers, she would take food from her own

mouth and put it into Jack's, if we did not watch her. I have never had

any trouble with her. But the boys were born selfish, tiresomely,

disgustingly selfish. They were good boys in many ways. As they grew

older, they were respectful, obedient, they were not untidy, and not

particularly rough, but their one thought was for themselves--each one

for himself, and they used to quarrel with each other in regard to their

rights. While we were in New York, we had only a small, back yard. When

we came here, I said, 'I am going to try an experiment.' We got this

house because it had a large garden, and a stable that would do for the

boys to play in. Then I got them together, and had a little serious

talk. I said I was not pleased with the way in which they were living.

They did nothing for any one but themselves from morning to night. If I

asked them to do an errand for me, it was done unwillingly. Of course, I

knew they had their school for a part of the day, but they had a good

deal of leisure time when they might do something for some one else. I

asked them if they thought they were going to make real, manly Christian

boys at this rate, and they said no. Then I asked them what we should do

about it. They all said, 'You tell us mother, and we'll do as you say.'

I proposed a series of tasks. Each one to do something for somebody,

outside and apart from himself, every day of his life. They all agreed

to this, and told me to allot the tasks. If I could have afforded it, I

would have gotten a horse and cow, and had them take charge of them; but

I could not do that, so I invested in a pair of rabbits for Jack, a pair

of canaries for Carl, pigeons for Ned, and bantams for Willie. I brought

these creatures home, put them into their hands, and told them to

provide for them. They were delighted with my choice, and it was very

amusing to see them scurrying about to provide food and shelter for

their pets and hear their consultations with other boys. The end of it

all is, that I am perfectly satisfied with my experiment. My boys, in

caring for these dumb creatures, have become unselfish and thoughtful.

They had rather go to school without their own breakfast than have the

inmates of the stable go hungry. They are getting a humane education, a

heart education, added to the intellectual education of their schools.

Then it keeps them at home.

 

"I used to be worried with the lingering about street corners, the

dawdling around with other boys, and the idle, often worse than idle,

talk indulged in. Now they have something to do, they are men of

business. They are always hammering and pounding at boxes and partitions

out there in the stable, or cleaning up, and if they are sent out on an

errand, they do it and come right home. I don't mean to say that we have

deprived them of liberty. They have their days for base-ball, and

foot-ball, and excursions to the woods, but they have so much to do at

home, that they won't go away unless for a specific purpose."

 

While Mrs. Morris was talking, her visitor leaned forward in her chair,

and listened attentively. When she finished, Mrs. Montague said,

quietly, "Thank you, I am glad that you told me this. I shall get

Charlie a dog."

 

"I am glad to hear you say that," replied Mrs. Morris. "It will be a

good thing for your little boy. I should not wish my boys to be without

a good, faithful dog. A child can learn many a lesson from a dog. This

one," pointing to me, might be held up as an example to many a human

being. He is patient, quiet, and obedient. My husband says that he

reminds him of three words in the Bible--'through much tribulation.'"

 

"Why does he say that?" asked Mrs. Montague, curiously.

 

"Because he came to us from a very unhappy home." And Mrs. Morris went

on to tell her friend what she knew of my early days.

 

When she stopped, Mrs. Montague's face was shocked and pained. "How

dreadful to think that there are such creatures as that man Jenkins in

the world. And you say that he has a wife and children. Mrs. Morris,

tell me plainly, are there many such unhappy homes in Fairport?"

 

Mrs. Morris hesitated for a minute, then she said, earnestly: "My dear

friend, if you could see all the wickedness, and cruelty, and vileness,

that is practised in this little town of ours in one night, you could

not rest in your bed."

 

Mrs. Montague looked dazed. "I did not dream that it was as bad as

that," she said. "Are we worse than other towns?"

 

"No; not worse, but bad enough. Over and over again the saying is true,

one-half the world does not know how the other half lives. How can all

this misery touch you? You live in your lovely house out of the town.

When you come in, you drive about, do your shopping, make calls, and go

home again. You never visit the poorer streets. The people from them

never come to you. You are rich, your people before you were rich, you

live in a state of isolation."

 

"But that is not right," said the lady in a wailing voice. "I have been

thinking about this matter lately. I read a great deal in the papers

about the misery of the lower classes, and I think we richer ones ought

to do something to help them. Mrs. Morris, what can I do?"

 

The tears came in Mrs. Morris' eyes. She looked at the little, frail

lady, and said, simply "Dear Mrs. Montague, I think the root of the

whole matter lies in this. The Lord made us all one family. We are all

brothers and sisters. The lowest woman is your sister and my sister. The

man lying in the gutter is our brother. What should we do to help these

members of our common family, who are not as well off as we are? We

should share our last crust with them. You and I, but for God's grace in

placing us in different surroundings, might be in their places. I think

it is wicked neglect, criminal neglect in us to ignore this fact."

 

"It is, it is," said Mrs. Montague, in a despairing voice. "I can't help

feeling it. Tell me something I can do to help some one."

 

Mrs. Morris sank back in her chair, her face very sad, and yet with

something like pleasure in her eyes as she looked at her caller. "Your

washerwoman," she said, "has a drunken husband and a cripple boy. I have

often seen her standing over her tub, washing your delicate muslins and

laces, and dropping tears into the water."

 

"I will never send her anything more--she shall not be troubled," said

Mrs. Montague, hastily.

 

Mrs. Morris could not help smiling. "I have not made myself clear. It is

not the washing that troubles her; it is her husband who beats her, and

her boy who worries her. If you and I take our work from her, she will

have that much less money to depend upon, and will suffer in

consequence.

 

"She is a hard-working and capable woman, and makes a fair living. I

would not advise you to give her money, for her husband would find it

out, and take it from her. It is sympathy that she wants. If you could

visit her occasionally, and show that you are interested in her, by

talking or reading to her poor foolish boy or showing him a

picture-book, you have no idea how grateful she would be to you, and how

it would cheer her on her dreary way."

 

"I will go to see her to-morrow," said Mrs. Montague. "Can you think of

any one else I could visit?"

 

"A great many," said Mrs. Morris; "but I don't think you had better

undertake too much at once. I will give you the addresses of three or

four poor families, where an occasional visit would do untold good. That

is, it will do them good if you treat them as you do your richer

friends. Don't give them too much money, or too many presents, till you

find out what they need. Try to feel interested in them. Find out their

ways of living, and what they are going to do with their children, and

help them to get situations for them if you can. And be sure to remember

that poverty does not always take away one's self-respect."

 

"I will, I will," said Mrs. Montague, eagerly. "When can you give me

these addresses?"

 

Mrs. Morris smiled again, and, taking a piece of paper and a pencil from

her work basket, wrote a few lines and handed them to Mrs. Montague.

 

The lady got up to take her leave. "And in regard to the dog," said Mrs.

Morris, following her to the door, "if you decide to allow Charlie to

have one, you had better let him come in and have a talk with my boys

about it. They seem to know all the dogs that are for sale in the town."

 

"Thank you; I shall be most happy to do so. He shall have his dog. When

can you have him?"

 

"To-morrow, the next day, any day at all. It makes no difference to me.

Let him spend an afternoon and evening with the boys, if you do not

object."

 

"It will give me much pleasure," and the little lady bowed and smiled,

and after stooping down to pat me, tripped down the steps, and got into

her carriage and drove away.

 

Mrs. Morris stood looking after her with a beaming face, and I began to

think that I should like Mrs. Montague, too, if I knew her long enough.

Two days later I was quite sure I should, for I had a proof that she

really liked me. When her little boy Charlie came to the house, he

brought something for me done up in white paper. Mrs. Morris opened it,

and there was a handsome, nickel-plated collar, with my name on

it--Beautiful Joe.' Wasn't I pleased! They took off the little shabby

leather strap that the boys had given me when I came, and fastened on my

new collar, and then Mrs. Morris held me up to a glass to look at

myself. I felt so happy. Up to this time I had felt a little ashamed of

my cropped ears and docked tail, but now that I had a fine new collar I

could hold up my head with any dog.

 

"Dear old Joe," said Mrs. Morris, pressing my head tightly between her

hands. "You did a good thing the other day in helping me to start that

little woman out of her selfish way of living."

 

I did not know about that, but I knew that I felt very grateful to Mrs.

Montague for my new collar, and ever afterward, when I met her in the

street, I stopped and looked at her. Sometimes she saw me and stopped

her carriage to speak to me; but I always wagged my tail, or rather my

body, for I had no tail to wag, whenever I saw her, whether she saw me

or not.

 

Her son got a beautiful Irish setter, called "Brisk." He had a silky

coat and soft brown eyes, and his young master seemed very fond of him.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

 

CHAPTER VI (THE FOX TERRIER BILLY)

When I came to the Morrises, I knew nothing about the proper way of

bringing up a puppy, I once heard of a little boy whose sister beat him

so much that he said he was brought up by hand; so I think as Jenkins

kicked me so much, I may say that I was brought up by foot.

 

Shortly after my arrival in my new home, I had a chance of seeing how

one should bring up a little puppy.

 

One day I was sitting beside Miss Laura in the parlor, when the door

opened and Jack came in. One of his hands was laid over the other, and

he said to his sister, "Guess what I've got here."

 

"A bird," she said,

 

"No."

 

"A rat."

 

"No."

 

"A mouse."

 

"No--a pup."

 

"Oh, Jack," she said, reprovingly; for she thought he was telling a

story.

 

He opened his hands and there lay the tiniest morsel of a fox terrier

puppy that I ever saw. He was white, with black and tan markings. His

body was pure white, his tail black, with a dash of tan; his ears black,

and his face evenly marked with black and tan. We could not tell the

color of his eyes, as they were not open. Later on, they turned out to

be a pretty brown. His nose was pale pink, and when he got older, it

became jet black.

 

"Why, Jack!" exclaimed Miss Laura, "his eyes aren't open; why did you

take him from his mother?"

 

"She's dead," said Jack. "Poisoned--left her pups to run about the yard

for a little exercise. Some brute had thrown over a piece of poisoned

meat, and she ate it. Four of the pups died. This is the only one left.

Mr. Robinson says his man doesn't understand raising pups without their

mothers, and as he is going away, he wants us to have it, for we always

had such luck in nursing sick animals."

 

Mr. Robinson I knew was a friend of the Morrises, and a gentleman who

was fond of fancy stock, and imported a great deal of it from England.

If this puppy came from him, it was sure to be good one.

 

Miss Laura took the tiny creature, and went upstairs very thoughtfully.

I followed her, and watched her get a little basket and line it with

cotton wool. She put the puppy in it and looked at him. Though it was

midsummer, and the house seemed very warm to me, the little creature was

shivering, and making a low murmuring noise. She pulled the wool all

over him and put the window down, and set his basket in the sun,

 

Then she went to the kitchen and got some warm milk. She dipped her

finger in it, and offered it to the puppy, but he went nosing about it

in a stupid way, and wouldn't touch it "Too young," Miss Laura said. She

got a little piece of muslin put some bread in it, tied a string round

it, and dipped it in the milk. When she put this to the puppy's mouth,

he sucked it greedily. He acted as if he was starving, but Miss Laura

only let him have a little.

 

Every few hours for the rest of the day, she gave him some more milk,

and I heard the boys say that for many nights she got up once or twice

and heated milk over a lamp for him. One night the milk got cold before

he took it, and he swelled up and became so ill that Miss Laura had to

rouse her mother and get some hot water to plunge him in. That made him

well again, and no one seemed to think it was a great deal of trouble to

take for a creature that was nothing but a dog.

 

He fully repaid them for all his care, for he turned out to be one of

the prettiest and most lovable dogs that I ever saw. They called him

Billy, and the two events of his early life were the opening of his eyes

and the swallowing of his muslin rag. The rag did not seem to hurt him;

but Miss Laura said that, as he had got so strong and so greedy, he must

learn to eat like other dogs.

 

He was very amusing when he was a puppy. He was full of tricks, and he

crept about in a mischievous way when one did not know he was near. He

was a very small puppy and used to climb inside Miss Laura's Jersey

sleeve up to her shoulder when he was six weeks old. One day, when the

whole family was in the parlor, Mr. Morris suddenly flung aside his

newspaper, and began jumping up and down. Mrs. Morris was very much

alarmed, and cried out, "My dear William, what is the matter?"

 

"There's a rat up my leg," he said, shaking it violently. Just then

little Billy fell out on the floor and lay on his back looking up at Mr.

Morris with a surprised face. He had felt cold and thought it would be

warm inside Mr. Morris' trouser's leg.

 

However, Billy never did any real mischief, thanks to Miss Laura's

training. She began to punish him just as soon as he began to tear and

worry things. The first thing he attacked was Mr. Morris' felt hat. The

wind blew it down the hall one day, and Billy came along and began to

try it with his teeth. I dare say it felt good to them, for a puppy is

very like a baby and loves something to bite.

 

Miss Laura found him, and he rolled his eyes at her quite innocently,

not knowing that he was doing wrong. She took the hat away, and pointing

from it to him, said, "Bad Billy!" Then she gave him two or three slaps

with a bootlace. She never struck a little dog with her hand or a stick.

 

She said clubs were for big dogs and switches for little dogs, if one

had to use them. The best way was to scold them, for a good dog feels a

severe scolding as much as a whipping.

 

Billy was very much ashamed of himself. Nothing would induce him even to

look at a hat again. But he thought it was no harm to worry other

things. He attacked one thing after another, the rugs on the floor,

curtains, anything flying or fluttering, and Miss Laura patiently

scolded him for each one, till at last it dawned upon him that he must

not worry anything but a bone. Then he got to be a very good dog.

 

There was one thing that Miss Laura was very particular about, and that

was to have him fed regularly. We both got three meals a day. We were

never allowed to go into the dining room, and while the family was at

the table, we lay in the hall outside and watched what was going on.

 

Dogs take a great interest in what any one gets to eat. It was quite

exciting to see the Morrises passing each other different dishes, and to

smell the nice, hot food. Billy often wished that he could get up on the

table. He said that he would make things fly. When he was growing, he

hardly ever got enough to eat. I used to tell him that he would kill

himself if he could eat all he wanted to.

 

As soon as meals were over, Billy and I scampered after Miss Laura to

the kitchen. We each had our own plate for food. Mary the cook often

laughed at Miss Laura, because she would not let her dogs "dish"

together. Miss Laura said that if she did, the larger one would get more

than his share, and the little one would starve.

 

It was quite a sight to see Billy eat. He spread his legs apart to

steady himself, and gobbled at his food like a duck. When he finished he

always looked up for more, and Miss Laura would shake her head and say

"No, Billy; better longing than loathing. I believe that a great many

little dogs are killed by over feeding."

 

I often heard the Morrises speak of the foolish way in which some people

stuffed their pets with food, and either kill them by it or keep them in

continual ill health. A case occurred in our neighborhood while Billy

was a puppy. Some people, called Dobson, who lived only a few doors from

the Morrises, had a fine bay mare and a little colt called Sam. They

were very proud of this colt, and Mr. Dobson had promised it to his son

James. One day Mr. Dobson asked Mr. Morris to come in and see the colt,

and I went, too. I watched Mr. Morris while he examined it. It was a

pretty little creature, and I did not wonder that they thought so much

of it.

 

"When Mr. Morris went home his wife asked him what he thought of it.

 

"I think," he said, "that it won't live long."

 

"Why, papa!" exclaimed Jack, who overheard the remark, "it is as fat as

a seal."

 

"It would have a better chance for its life if it were lean and

scrawny," said Mr. Morris. "They are over-feeding it, and I told Mr.

Dobson so, but he wasn't inclined to believe me."

 

Now, Mr. Morris had been brought up in the country, and knew a great

deal about animals, so I was inclined to think he was right. And sure

enough, in a few days, we heard that the colt was dead.

 

Poor James Dobson felt very badly. A number of the neighbors' boys went

into see him, and there he stood gazing at the dead colt, and looking as

if he wanted to cry. Jack was there and I was at his heels, and though

he said nothing for a time, I knew he was angry with the Dobsons for

sacrificing the colt's life. Presently he said, "You won't need to have

that colt stuffed now he's dead, Dobson."

 

"What do you mean? Why do you say that?" asked the boy, peevishly.

 

"Because you stuffed him while he was alive," said Jack, saucily.

 

Then we had to run for all we were worth, for the Dobson boy was after

us, and as he was a big fellow he would have whipped Jack soundly.

 

I must not forget to say that Billy was washed regularly--once a week

with nice-smelling soap and once a month with strong-smelling,

disagreeable, carbolic soap. He had his own towels and wash cloths, and

after being rubbed and scrubbed, he was rolled in a blanket and put by

the fire to dry. Miss Laura said that a little dog that has been petted

and kept in the house, and has become tender, should never be washed and

allowed to run about with a wet coat, unless the weather was very warm,

for he would be sure to take cold.

 

Jim and I were more hardy than Billy, and we took our baths in the sea.

Every few days the boys took us down to the shore and we went in

swimming with them.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER VII (TRAINING A PUPPY)

"Ned, dear," said Miss Laura one day, "I wish you would train Billy to

follow and retrieve. He is four months old now, and I shall soon want to

take him out in the street."

 

"Very well, sister," said mischievous Ned; and catching up a stick, he

said, "Come out into the garden, dogs."

 

Though he was brandishing his stick very fiercely, I was not at all

afraid of him; and as for Billy, he loved Ned.

 

The Morris garden was really not a garden but a large piece of ground

with the grass worn bare in many places, a few trees scattered about,

and some raspberry and currant bushes along the fence. A lady who knew

that Mr. Morris had not a large salary, said one day when she was

looking out of the dining-room window, "My dear Mrs. Morris, why don't

you have this garden dug up? You could raise your own vegetables. It

would be so much cheaper than buying them."

 

Mrs. Morris laughed in great amusement.

 

"Think of the hens, and cats, and dogs, and rabbits, and, above all, the

boys that I have. What sort of a garden would there be, and do you think

it would be fair to take their playground from them?"

 

The lady said, "No, she did not think it would be fair."

 

I am sure I don't know what the boys would have done without this strip

of ground. Many a frolic and game they had there. In the present case,

Ned walked around and around it, with his stick on his shoulder, Billy

and I strolling after him. Presently Billy made a dash aside to get a

bone. Ned turned around and said firmly, "To heel!"

 

Billy looked at him innocently, not knowing what he meant. "To heel!"

exclaimed Ned again. Billy thought he wanted to play, and putting his

head on his paws, he began to bark. Ned laughed; still he kept saying

"To heel!" He would not say another word. He knew if he said "Come

here," or "Follow," or "Go behind," it would confuse Billy.

 

Finally, as Ned kept saying the words over and over, and pointing to me,

it seemed to dawn upon Billy that he wanted him to follow him. So he

came beside me, and together we followed Ned around the garden, again

and again.

 

Ned often looked behind with a pleased face, and I felt so proud to

think I was doing well; but suddenly I got dreadfully confused when he

turned around and said, "Hie out!"

 

The Morrises all used the same words in training their dogs, and I had

heard Miss Laura say this, but I had forgotten what it meant. "Good

Joe," said Ned, turning around and patting me, "you have forgotten. I

wonder where Jim is? He would help us."

 

He put his fingers in his mouth and blew a shrill whistle, and soon Jim

came trotting up the lane from the street. He looked at us with his

large, intelligent eyes, and wagged his tail slowly, as if to say,

"Well, what do you want of me?"

 

"Come and give me a hand at this training business, old Sobersides,"

said Ned, with a laugh. "It's too slow to do it alone. Now, young

gentlemen, attention! To heel!" He began to march around the garden

again, and Jim and I followed closely at his heels, while little Billy,

seeing that he could not get us to play with him, came lagging behind.

 

Soon Ned turned around and said, "Hie out!" Old Jim sprang ahead, and

ran off in front as if he was after something. Now I remembered what

"hie out" meant. We were to have a lovely race wherever we liked. Little

Billy loved this. We ran and scampered hither and thither, and Ned

watched us, laughing at our antics.

 

After tea, he called us out in the garden again, and said he had

something else to teach us. He turned up a tub on the wooden platform at

the back door, and sat on it, and then called Jim to him.

 

He took a small leather strap from his pocket. It had a nice, strong

smell. We all licked it, and each dog wished to have it. "No, Joe and

Billy," said Ned, holding us both by our collars; "you wait a minute.

Here, Jim."

 

Jim watched him very earnestly, and Ned threw the strap half-way across

the garden, and said, "Fetch it."

 

Jim never moved till he heard the words, "Fetch it." Then he ran

swiftly, brought the strap, and dropped it in Ned's hand. Ned sent him

after it two or three times, then he said to Jim, "Lie down," and turned

to me. "Here, Joe; it is your turn."

 

He threw the strap under the raspberry bushes, then looked at me and

said, "Fetch it." I knew quite well what he meant, and ran joyfully

after it. I soon found it by the strong smell, but the queerest thing

happened when I got it in my mouth. I began to gnaw it and play with it,

and when Ned called out, "Fetch it," I dropped it and ran toward him. I

was not obstinate, but I was stupid.

 

Ned pointed to the place where it was, and spread out his empty hands.

That helped me, and I ran quickly and got it. He made me get it for him

several times. Sometimes I could not find it, and sometimes I dropped

it; but he never stirred. He sat still till I brought it to him.

 

After a while he tried Billy, but it soon got dark, and we could not

see, so he took Billy and went into the house.

 

I stayed out with Jim for a while, and he asked me if I knew why Ned had

thrown a strap for us, instead of a bone or something hard.

 

Of course I did not know, so Jim told me it was on his account. He was a

bird dog, and was never allowed to carry anything hard in his mouth,

because it would make him hard-mouthed, and he would be apt to bite the

birds when he was bringing them back to any person who was shooting with

him. He said that he had been so carefully trained that he could even

carry three eggs at a time in his mouth.

 

I said to him, "Jim, how is it that you never go out shooting? I have

always heard that you were a dog for that, and yet you never leave

home."

 

He hung his head a little, and said he did not wish to go, and then, for

he was an honest dog, he gave me the true reason.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER VIII (A RUINED DOG)

"I was a sporting dog," he said, bitterly, "for the first three years of

my life. I belonged to a man who keeps a livery stable here in Fairport,

and he used to hire me out to shooting parties.

 

"I was a favorite with all the gentlemen. I was crazy with delight when

I saw the guns brought out, and would jump up and bite at them. I loved

to chase birds and rabbits, and even now when the pigeons come near me,

I tremble all over and have to turn away lest I should seize them. I

used often to be in the woods from morning till night. I liked to have a

hard search after a bird after it had been shot, and to be praised for

bringing it out without biting or injuring it.

 

"I never got lost, for I am one of those dogs that can always tell where

human beings are. I did not smell them. I would be too far away for

that, but if my master was standing in some place and I took a long

round through the woods, I knew exactly where he was, and could make a

short cut back to him without returning in my tracks.

 

"But I must tell you about my trouble. One Saturday afternoon a party of

young men came to get me. They had a dog with them, a cocker spaniel

called Bob, but they wanted another. For some reason or other, my master

was very unwilling to have me go. However, he at last consented, and

they put me in the back of the wagon with Bob and the lunch baskets, and

we drove off into the country. This Bob was a happy, merry-looking dog,

and as we went along, he told me of the fine time we should have next

day. The young men would shoot a little, then they would get out their

baskets and have something to eat and drink, and would play cards and go

to sleep under the trees, and we would be able to help ourselves to legs

and wings of chickens, and anything we liked from the baskets.

 

"I did not like this at all. I was used to working hard through the

week, and I liked to spend my Sundays quietly at home. However, I said

nothing.

 

"That night we slept at a country hotel, and drove the next morning to

the banks of a small lake where the young men were told there would be

plenty of wild ducks. They were in no hurry to begin their sport. They

sat down in the sun on some flat rocks at the water's edge, and said

they would have something to drink before setting to work. They got out

some of the bottles from the wagon, and began to take long drinks from

them. Then they got quarrelsome and mischievous, and seemed to forget

all about their shooting.

 

"One of them proposed to have some fun with the dogs. They tied us both

to a tree, and throwing a stick in the water, told us to get it. Of

course we struggled and tried to get free, and chafed our necks with the

rope.

 

"After a time one of them began to swear at me, and say that he believed

I was gun-shy. He staggered to the wagon and got out his fowling piece,

and said he was going to try me.

 

"He loaded it, went to a little distance, and was going to fire, when

the young man who owned Bob said he wasn't going to have his dog's legs

shot off, and coming up he unfastened him and took him away. You can

imagine my feelings, as I stood there tied to the tree, with that

stranger pointing his gun directly at me. He fired close to me a number

of times--over my head and under my body. The earth was cut up all

around me. I was terribly frightened, and howled and begged to be freed.

 

"The other young men, who were sitting laughing at me, thought it such

good fun that they got their guns, too. I never wish to spend such a

terrible hour again. I was sure they would kill me. I dare say they

would have done so, for they were all quite drunk by this time, if

something had not happened.

 

"Poor Bob, who was almost as frightened as I was, and who lay shivering

under the wagon, was killed by a shot by his own master, whose hand was

the most unsteady of all. He gave one loud howl, kicked convulsively,

then turned over on his side and lay quite still. It sobered them all.

They ran up to him, but he was quite dead. They sat for a while quite

silent, then they threw the rest of the bottles into the lake, dug a

shallow grave for Bob, and putting me in the wagon drove slowly back to

town. They were not bad young men. I don't think they meant to hurt me,

or to kill Bob. It was the nasty stuff in the bottles that took away

their reason.

 

"I was never the same dog again. I was quite deaf in my right ear, and

though I strove against it, I was so terribly afraid of even the sight

of a gun that I would run and hide myself whenever one was shown to me.

My master was very angry with those young men, and it seemed as if he

could not bear the sight of me. One day he took me very kindly and

brought me here, and asked Mr. Morris if he did not want a good-natured

dog to play with the children.

 

"I have a happy home here and I love the Morris boys; but I often wish

that I could keep from putting my tail between my legs and running home

every time I hear the sound of a gun."

 

"Never mind that, Jim," I said. "You should not fret over a thing for

which you are not to blame. I am sure you must be glad for one reason

that you have left your old life."

 

"What is that?" he said.

 

"On account of the birds. You know Miss Laura thinks it is wrong to kill

the pretty creatures that fly about the woods."

 

"So it is," he said, "unless one kills them at once. I have often felt

angry with men for only-half killing a bird. I hated to pick up the

little, warm body, and see the bright eye looking so reproachfully at

me, and feel the flutter of life. We animals, or rather the most of us,

kill mercifully. It is only human beings who butcher their prey, and

seem, some of them, to rejoice in their agony. I used to be eager to

kill birds and rabbits, but I did not want to keep them before me long

after they were dead. I often stop in the street and look up at fine

ladies' bonnets, and wonder how they can wear little dead birds in such

dreadful positions. Some of them have their heads twisted under their

wings and over their shoulders, and looking toward their tails, and

their eyes are so horrible that I wish I could take those ladies into

the woods and let them see how easy and pretty a live bird is, and how

unlike the stuffed creatures they wear. Have you ever had a good run in

the woods, Joe?"

 

"No, never," I said.

 

"Some day I will take you, and now it is late and I must go to bed. Are

you going to sleep in the kennel with me, or in the stable?"

 

"I think I will sleep with you, Jim. Dogs like company, you know, as

well as human beings." I curled up in the straw beside him, and soon we

were fast asleep.

 

I have known a good many dogs, but I don't think I ever saw such a good

one as Jim. He was gentle and kind, and so sensitive that a hard word

hurt him more than a blow. He was a great pet with Mrs. Morris, and as

he had been so well trained, he was able to make himself very useful to

her.

 

When she went shopping, he often carried a parcel in his mouth for her.

He would never drop it nor leave it anywhere. One day, she dropped her

purse without knowing it, and Jim picked it up, and brought it home in

his mouth. She did not notice him, for he always walked behind her. When

she got to her own door, she missed the purse, and turning around saw it

in Jim's mouth.

 

Another day, a lady gave Jack Morris a canary cage as a present for

Carl. He was bringing it home, when one of the little seed boxes fell

out. Jim picked it up and carried it a long way, before Jack discovered

it.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER IX (THE PARROT BELLA)

I often used to hear the Morrises speak about vessels that ran between

Fairport and a place called the West Indies, carrying cargoes of lumber

and fish, and bringing home molasses, spices, fruit, and other things.

On one of these vessels, called the "Mary Jane," was a cabin boy, who

was a friend of the Morris boys, and often brought them presents.

 

One day, after I had been with the Morrises for some months, this boy

arrived at the house with a bunch of green bananas in one hand, and a

parrot in the other. The boys were delighted with the parrot, and called

their mother to see what a pretty bird she was.

 

Mrs. Morris seemed very much touched by the boy's thoughtfulness in

bringing a present such a long distance to her boys, and thanked him

warmly. The cabin boy became very shy, and all he could say was, "Go

way!" over and over again, in a very awkward manner.

 

Mrs. Morris smiled, and left him with the boys.

 

I think that she thought he would be more comfortable with them.

 

Jack put me up on the table to look at the parrot. The boy held her by a

string tied around one of her legs. She was a gray parrot with a few red

feathers in her tail, and she had bright eyes, and a very knowing air.

 

"The boy said he had been careful to buy a young one that could not

speak, for he knew the Morris boys would not want one chattering foreign

gibberish, nor yet one that would swear. He had kept her in his bunk in

the ship, and had spent all his leisure time in teaching her to talk.

Then he looked at her anxiously, and said, "Show off now, can't ye?"

 

"I didn't know what he meant by all this, until afterward. I had never

heard of such a thing as birds talking. I stood on the table staring

hard at her, and she stared hard at me. I was just thinking that I would

not like to have her sharp little beak fastened in my skin, when I heard

some one say, "Beautiful Joe." The voice seemed to come from the room,

but I knew all the voices there, and this was one I had never heard

before, so I thought I must be mistaken, and it was some one in the

hall. I struggled to get away from Jack to run and see who it was. But

he held me fast, and laughed with all his might, I looked at the other

boys and they were laughing, too. Presently, I heard again, "Beautiful

Joe, Beautiful Joe." The sound was close by, and yet it did not come

from the cabin boy, for he was all doubled up laughing, his face as red

as a beet.

 

"It's the parrot, Joe!" cried Ned. "Look at her, you gaby." I did look

at her, and with her head on one side, and the sauciest air in the

world, she was saying: "Beau-ti-ful Joe, Beau-ti-ful Joe!"

 

I had never heard a bird talk before, and I felt so sheepish that I

tried to get down and hide myself under the table. Then she began to

laugh at me. "Ha, ha, ha, good dog--sic 'em, boy. Rats, rats!

Beau-ti-ful Joe, Beau-ti-ful Joe," she cried, rattling off the words as

fast as she could.

 

I never felt so queer before in my life, and the boys were just roaring

with delight at my puzzled face. Then the parrot began calling for Jim:

"Where's Jim, where's good old Jim? Poor old dog. Give him a bone."

 

The boys brought Jim in the parlor, and when he heard her funny, little,

cracked voice calling him, he nearly went crazy: "Jimmy, Jimmy, James

Augustus!" she said, which was Jim's long name.

 

He made a dash out of the room, and the boys screamed so that Mr. Morris

came down from his study to see what the noise meant. As soon as the

parrot saw him, she would not utter another word. The boys told him

though what she had been saying, and he seemed much amused to think that

the cabin boy should have remembered so many sayings his boys made use

of, and taught them to the parrot. "Clever Polly," he said, kindly;

"good Polly."

 

The cabin boy looked at him shyly, and Jack, who was a very sharp boy,

said quickly, "Is not that what you call her, Henry?"

 

"No," said the boy; "I call her Bell, short for Bellzebub."

 

"I beg your pardon," said Jack, very politely.

 

"Bell--short for Bellzebub," repeated the boy. "Ye see, I thought ye'd

like a name from the Bible, bein' a minister's sons. I hadn't my Bible

with me on this cruise, savin' yer presence, an' I couldn't think of any

girls' names out of it, but Eve or Queen of Sheba, an' they didn't seem

very fit, so I asked one of me mates, an' he says, for his part he

guessed Bellzebub was as pretty a girl's name as any, so I guv her that.

'Twould 'a been better to let you name her, but ye see 'twouldn't 'a

been handy not to call her somethin', where I was teachin' her every

day."

 

Jack turned away and walked to the window, his face a deep scarlet. I

heard him mutter, "Beelzebub, prince of devils," so I suppose the cabin

boy had given his bird a bad name.

 

Mr. Morris looked kindly at the cabin boy. "Do you ever call the parrot

by her whole name?"

 

"No, sir," he replied; "I always give her Bell, but she calls herself

Bella."

 

"Bella," repeated Mr. Morris; "that is a very pretty name. If you keep

her, boys, I think you had better stick to that."

 

"Yes, father," they all said; and then Mr. Morris started to go back to

his study. On the doorsill he paused to ask the cabin boy when his ship

sailed. Finding that it was to be in a few days, he took out his

pocket-book and wrote something in it. The next day he asked Jack to go

to town with him, and when they came home, Jack said that his father had

bought an oil-skin coat for Henry Smith, and a handsome Bible, in which

they were all to write their names.

 

After Mr. Morris left the room, the door opened and Miss Laura came in.

She knew nothing about the parrot and was very much surprised to see it.

Seating herself at the table, she held out her hands to it. She was so

fond of pets of all kinds, that she never thought of being afraid of

them. At the same time, she never laid her hand suddenly on any animal.

She held out her fingers and talked gently, so that if it wished to come

to her it could. She looked at the parrot as if she loved it, and the

queer little thing walked right up and nestled its head against the lace

in the front of her dress. "Pretty lady," she said, in a cracked

whisper, "give Bella a kiss."

 

The boys were so pleased with this and set up such a shout, that their

mother came into the room and said they had better take the parrot out

to the stable. Bella seem to enjoy the fun. "Come on, boys," she

screamed, as Henry Smith lifted her on his finger. "Ha, ha, ha--come on,

let's have some fun. Where's the guinea pig? Where's Davy, the rat?

Where's pussy? Pussy, pussy, come here. Pussy, pussy, dear, pretty

puss."

 

Her voice was shrill and distinct, and very like the voice of an old

woman who came to the house for rags and bones. I followed her out to

the stable, and stayed there until she noticed me and screamed out, "Ha,

Joe, Beautiful Joe! Where's your tail? Who cut your ears off?"

 

I don't think it was kind in the cabin boy to teach her this, and I

think she knew it teased me, for she said it over and over again, and

laughed and chuckled with delight. I left her and did not see her till

the next day, when the boys had got a fine, large cage for her.

 

The place for her cage was by one of the hall windows; but everybody in

the house got so fond of her that she was moved about from one room to

another.

 

She hated her cage, and used to put her head close to the bars and

plead, "Let Bella out; Bella will be a good girl. Bella won't run away."

 

After a time the Morrises did let her out, and she kept her word and

never tried to get away. Jack put a little handle on her cage door so

that she could open and shut it herself, and it was very amusing to hear

her say in the morning, "Clear the track, children! Bella's going to

take a walk," and see her turn the handle with her claw and come out

into the room. She was a very clever bird, and I have never seen any

creature but a human being that could reason as she did. She was so

petted and talked to that she got to know a great many words, and on one

occasion she saved the Morrises from being robbed.

 

It was in the winter time. The family was having tea in the dining room

at the back of the house, and Billy and I were lying in the hall

watching what was going on. There was no one in the front of the house.

The hall lamp was lighted, and the hall door closed, but not locked.

Some sneak thieves, who had been doing a great deal of mischief in

Fairport, crept up the steps and into the house, and, opening the door

of the hall closet, laid their hands on the boys' winter overcoats.

 

They thought no one saw them, but they were mistaken. Bella had been

having a nap upstairs, and had not come down when the tea bell rang. Now

she was hopping down on her way to the dining room, and hearing the

slight noise below, stopped and looked through the railing. Any pet

creature that lives in a nice family hates a dirty, shabby person. Bella

knew that those beggar boys had no business in that closet.

 

"Bad boys!" she screamed, angrily. "Get out--get out! Here, Joe, Joe,

Beautiful Joe. Come quick. Billy, Billy, rats--Hie out, Jim, sic 'em

boys. Where's the police. Call the police!"

 

Billy and I sprang up and pushed open the door leading to the front

hall. The thieves in a terrible fright were just rushing down the front

steps. One of them got away, but the other fell, and I caught him by the

coat, till Mr. Morris ran and put his hand on his shoulder.

 

He was a young fellow about Jack's age, but not one-half so manly, and

he was sniffling and scolding about "that pesky parrot." Mr. Morris made

him come back into the house, and had a talk with him. He found out that

he was a poor, ignorant lad, half starved by a drunken father. He and

his brother stole clothes, and sent them to his sister in Boston, who

sold them and returned part of the money.

 

Mr. Morris asked him if he would not like to get his living in an honest

way, and he said he had tried to, but no one would employ him. Mr.

Morris told him to go home and take leave of his father and get his

brother and bring him to Washington street the next day. He told him

plainly that if he did not he would send a policeman after him.

 

The boy begged Mr. Morris not to do that, and early the next morning he

appeared with his brother. Mrs. Morris gave them a good breakfast and

fitted them out with clothes, and they were sent off in the train to one

of her brothers, who was a kind farmer in the country, and who had been

telegraphed to that these boys were coming, and wished to be provided

with situations where they would have a chance to make honest men of

themselves.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER X (BILLY'S TRAINING CONTINUED)

When Billy was five months old, he had his first walk in the street.

Miss Laura knew that he had been well trained, so she did not hesitate

to take him into the town. She was not the kind of a young lady to go

into the street with a dog that would not behave himself, and she was

never willing to attract attention to herself by calling out orders to

any of her pets.

 

As soon as we got down the front steps, she said, quietly to Billy, "To

heel." It was very hard for little, playful Billy to keep close to her,

when he saw so many new and wonderful things about him. He had gotten

acquainted with everything in the house and garden, but this outside

world was full of things he wanted to look at and smell of, and he was

fairly crazy to play with some of the pretty dogs he saw running about.

But he did just as he was told.

 

Soon we came to a shop, and Miss Laura went in to buy some ribbons. She

said to me, "Stay out," but Billy she took in with her. I watched them

through the glass door, and saw her go to a counter and sit down. Billy

stood behind her till she said, "Lie down." Then he curled himself at

her feet.

 

He lay quietly, even when she left him and went to another counter. But

he eyed her very anxiously till she came back and said, "Up," to him.

Then he sprang up and followed her out to the street.

 

She stood in the shop door, and looked lovingly down on us as we fawned

on her. "Good dogs," she said, softly; "you shall have a present." We

went behind her again, and she took us to a shop where we both lay

beside the counter. When we heard her ask the clerk for solid rubber

balls, we could scarcely keep still. We both knew what "ball" meant.

 

Taking the parcel in her hand, she came out into the street. She did not

do any more shopping, but turned her face toward the sea. She was going

to give us a nice walk along the beach, although it was a dark,

disagreeable, cloudy day, when most young ladies would have stayed in

the house. The Morris children never minded the weather. Even in the

pouring rain, the boys would put on rubber boots and coats and go out to

play. Miss Laura walked along, the high wind blowing her cloak and dress

about, and when we got past the houses, she had a little run with us.

 

We jumped, and frisked, and barked, till we were tired; and then we

walked quietly along.

 

A little distance ahead of us were some boys throwing sticks in the

water for two Newfoundland dogs. Suddenly a quarrel sprang up between

the dogs. They were both powerful creatures, and fairly matched as

regarded size. It was terrible to hear their fierce growling, and to see

the way in which they tore at each other's throats. I looked at Miss

Laura. If she had said a word, I would have run in and helped the dog

that was getting the worst of it. But she told me to keep back, and ran

on herself.

 

The boys were throwing water on the dogs, and pulling their tails, and

hurling stones at them, but they could not separate them. Their heads

seemed locked together, and they went back and forth over the stones,

the boys crowding around them, shouting, and beating, and kicking at

them.

 

"Stand back, boys," said Miss Laura; "I'll stop them." She pulled a

little parcel from her purse, bent over the dogs, scattered a powder on

their noses, and the next instant the dogs were yards apart, nearly

sneezing their heads off.

 

"I say, Missis, what did you do? What's that stuff? Whew, it's pepper!"

the boys exclaimed.

 

Miss Laura sat down on a flat rock, and looked at them with a very pale

face. "Oh, boys," she said, "why did you make those dogs fight? It is so

cruel. They were playing happily till you set them on each other. Just

see how they have torn their handsome coats, and how the blood is

dripping from them."

 

"'Taint my fault," said one of the lads, sullenly. "Jim Jones there said

his dog could lick my dog, and I said he couldn't--and he couldn't,

neither.

 

"Yes, he could," cried the other boy; "and if you say he couldn't, I'll

smash your head."

 

The two boys began sidling up to each other with clenched fists, and a

third boy, who had a mischievous face, seized the paper that had had the

pepper in it, and running up to them shook it in their faces.

 

There was enough left to put all thoughts of fighting out of their

heads. They began to cough, and choke, and splutter, and finally found

themselves beside the dogs, where the four of them had a lively time.

 

The other boys yelled with delight, and pointed their fingers at them,

"A sneezing concert. Thank you, gentlemen. 'Angcore, angcore'!"

 

Miss Laura laughed too, she could not help it, and even Billy and I

curled up our lips. After a while they sobered down, and then finding

that the boys hadn't a handkerchief between them, Miss Laura took her

own soft one, and dipping it in a spring of fresh water near by, wiped

the red eyes of the sneezers.

 

Their ill humor had gone, and when she turned to leave them, and said,

coaxingly, "You won't make those dogs fight any more, will you?" they

said, "No, sirree, Bob."

 

Miss Laura went slowly home, and ever afterward when she met any of

those boys, they called her "Miss Pepper."

 

When we got home we found Willie curled up by the window in the hall,

reading a book. He was too fond of reading, and his mother often told

him to put away his book and run about with the other boys. This

afternoon Miss Laura laid her hand on his shoulder and said, "I was

going to give the dogs a little game of ball, but I'm rather tired."

 

"Gammon and spinach," he replied, shaking off her hand, "you're always

tired."

 

She sat down in a hall chair and looked at him. Then she began to tell

him about the dog fight. He was much interested, and the book slipped to

the floor. When she finished he said, "You're a daisy every day. Go now

and rest yourself." Then snatching the balls from her, he called us and

ran down to the basement. But he was not quick enough though to escape

her arm. She caught him to her and kissed him repeatedly. He was the

baby and pet of the family, and he loved her dearly, though he spoke

impatiently to her oftener than either of the other boys.

 

We had a grand game with Willie. Miss Laura had trained us to do all

kinds of things with balls--jumping for them, playing hide-and-seek, and

catching them.

 

Billy could do more things than I could. One thing he did which I

thought was very clever. He played ball by himself. He was so crazy

about ball play that he could never get enough of it.

 

Miss Laura played all she could with him, but she had to help her mother

with the sewing and the housework, and do lessons with her father, for

she was only seventeen years old, and had not left off studying. So

Billy would take his ball and go off by himself. Sometimes he rolled it

over the floor, and sometimes he threw it in the air and pushed it

through the staircase railings to the hall below. He always listened

till he heard it drop, then he ran down and brought it back and pushed

it through again. He did this till he was tired, and then he brought the

ball and laid it at Miss Laura's feet.

 

We both had been taught a number of tricks. We could sneeze and cough,

and be dead dogs, and say our prayers, and stand on our heads, and mount

a ladder and say the alphabet,--this was the hardest of all, and it took

Miss Laura a long time to teach us. We never began till a book was laid

before us. Then we stared at it, and Miss Laura said, "Begin, Joe and

Billy--say A."

 

For A, we gave a little squeal. B was louder. C was louder still. We

barked for some letters, and growled for others. We always turned a

summersault for S. When we got to Z, we gave the book a push and had a

frolic around the room.

 

When any one came in, and Miss Laura had us show off any of our tricks,

the remark always was, "What clever dogs. They are not like other dogs."

 

That was a mistake. Billy and I were not any brighter than many a

miserable cur that skulked about the streets of Fairport. It was

kindness and patience that did it all. When I was with Jenkins he

thought I was a very stupid dog. He would have laughed at the idea of

any one teaching me anything. But I was only sullen and obstinate,

because I was kicked about so much. If he had been kind to me, I would

have done anything for him.

 

I loved to wait on Miss Laura and Mrs. Morris, and they taught both

Billy and me to make ourselves useful about the house. Mrs. Morris

didn't like going up and down the three long staircases, and sometimes

we just raced up and down, waiting on her.

 

How often I have heard her go into the hall and say, "Please send me

down a clean duster, Laura. Joe, you get it." I would run gayly up the

steps, and then would come Billy's turn. "Billy, I have forgotten my

keys. Go get them."

 

After a time we began to know the names of different articles, and where

they were kept, and could get them ourselves. On sweeping days we worked

very hard, and enjoyed the fun. If Mrs. Morris was too far away to call

to Mary for what she wanted, she wrote the name on a piece of paper, and

told us to take it to her.

 

Billy always took the letters from the postman, and carried the morning

paper up to Mr. Morris's study, and I always put away the clean clothes.

After they were mended, Mrs. Morris folded each article and gave it to

me, mentioning the name of the owner, so that I could lay it on his bed.

There was no need for her to tell me the names. I knew by the smell. All

human beings have a strong smell to a dog, even though they mayn't

notice it themselves. Mrs. Morris never knew how she bothered me by

giving away Miss Laura's clothes to poor people. Once, I followed her

track all through the town, and at last found it was only a pair of her

boots on a ragged child in the gutter.

 

I must say a word about Billy's tail before I close this chapter. It is

the custom to cut the ends of fox terrier's tails, but leave their ears

untouched. Billy came to Miss Laura so young that his tail had not been

cut off, and she would not have it done.

 

One day Mr. Robinson came in to see him, and he said, "You have made a

fine-looking dog of him, but his appearance is ruined by the length of

his tail."

 

"Mr. Robinson," said Mrs. Morris, patting little Billy, who lay on her

lap, "don't you think that this little dog has a beautifully

proportioned body?"

 

"Yes, I do," said the gentleman. "His points are all correct, save that

one."

 

"But," she said, "if our Creator made that beautiful little body, don't

you think he is wise enough to know what length of tail would be in

proportion to it?"

 

Mr. Robinson would not answer her. He only laughed and said that he

thought she and Miss Laura were both "cranks."

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER XI (GOLDFISH AND CANARIES)

 

The Morris boys were all different. Jack was bright and clever, Ned was

a wag, Willie was a book-worm, and Carl was a born trader.

 

He was always exchanging toys and books with his schoolmates, and they

never got the better of him in a bargain. He said that when he grew up

he was going to be a merchant, and he had already begun to carry on a

trade in canaries and goldfish. He was very fond of what he called "his

yellow pets," yet he never kept a pair of birds or a goldfish, if he had

a good offer for them.

 

He slept alone in a large, sunny room at the top of the house. By his

own request, it was barely furnished, and there he raised his canaries

and kept his goldfish.

 

He was not fond of having visitors coming to his room, because, he said,

they frightened the canaries. After Mrs. Morris made his bed in the

morning, the door was closed, and no one was supposed to go in till he

came from school. Once Billy and I followed him upstairs without his

knowing it, but as soon as he saw us he sent us down in a great hurry.

 

One day Bella walked into his room to inspect the canaries. She was

quite a spoiled bird by this time, and I heard Carl telling the family

afterward that it was as good as a play to see Miss Bella strutting in

with her breast stuck out, and her little, conceited air, and hear her

say, shrilly, "Good morning, birds, good morning! How do you do, Carl?

Glad to see you, boy."

 

"Well, I'm not glad to see you," he said, decidedly, "and don't you ever

come up here again. You'd frighten my canaries to death." And he sent

her flying downstairs.

 

How cross she was! She came shrieking to Miss Laura. "Bella loves birds.

Bella wouldn't hurt birds. Carl's a bad boy."

 

Miss Laura petted and soothed her, telling her to go find Davy, and he

would play with her. Bella and the rat were great friends. It was very

funny to see them going about the house together. From the very first

she had liked him, and coaxed him into her cage, where he soon became

quite at home,--so much so that he always slept there. About nine

o'clock every evening, if he was not with her, she went all over the

house, crying: "Davy! Davy! time to go to bed. Come sleep in Bella's

cage."

 

He was very fond of the nice sweet cakes she got to eat, but she never

could get him to eat coffee grounds--the food she liked best.

 

Miss Laura spoke to Carl about Bella, and told him he had hurt her

feelings, so he petted her a little to make up for it. Then his mother

told him that she thought he was making a mistake in keeping his

canaries so much to themselves. They had become so timid, that when she

went into the room they were uneasy till she left it. She told him that

petted birds or animals are sociable and like company, unless they are

kept by themselves, when they become shy. She advised him to let the

other boys go into the room, and occasionally to bring some of his

pretty singers downstairs, where all the family could enjoy seeing and

hearing them, and where they would get used to other people besides

himself.

 

Carl looked thoughtful, and his mother went on to say that there was no

one in the house, not even the cat, that would harm his birds.

 

"You might even charge admission for a day or two," said Jack, gravely,

"and introduce us to them, and make a little money."

 

Carl was rather annoyed at this, but his mother calmed him by showing

him a letter she had just gotten from one of her brothers, asking her to

let one of her boys spend his Christmas holidays in the country with

him.

 

"I want you to go, Carl," she said.

 

He was very much pleased, but looked sober when he thought of his pets.

"Laura and I will take care of them," said his mother, "and start the

new management of them."

 

"Very well," said Carl, "I will go then; I've no young ones now, so you

will not find them much trouble."

 

I thought it was a great deal of trouble to take care of them. The first

morning after Carl left, Billy, and Bella, and Davy, and I followed Miss

Laura upstairs. She made us sit in a row by the door, lest we should

startle the canaries. She had a great many things to do. First, the

canaries had their baths. They had to get them at the same time every

morning. Miss Laura filled the little white dishes with water and put

them in the cages, and then came and sat on a stool by the door. Bella,

and Billy, and Davy climbed into her lap, and I stood close by her. It

was so funny to watch those canaries. They put their heads on one side

and looked first at their little baths and then at us. They knew we were

strangers. Finally, as we were all very quiet, they got into the water;

and what a good time they had, fluttering their wings and splashing, and

cleaning themselves so nicely.

 

Then they got up on their perches and sat in the sun, shaking themselves

and picking at their feathers.

 

Miss Laura cleaned each cage, and gave each bird some mixed rape and

canary seed. I heard Carl tell her before he left not to give them much

hemp seed, for that was too fattening. He was very careful about their

food. During the summer I had often seen him taking up nice green things

to them: celery, chickweed, tender cabbage, peaches, apples, pears,

bananas; and now at Christmas time, he had green stuff growing in pots

on the window ledge.

 

Besides that he gave them crumbs of coarse bread, crackers, lumps of

sugar, cuttle-fish to peck at, and a number of other things. Miss Laura

did everything just as he told her; but I think she talked to the birds

more than he did. She was very particular about their drinking water,

and washed out the little glass cups that held it most carefully.

 

After the canaries were clean and comfortable, Miss Laura set their

cages in the sun, and turned to the goldfish. They were in large glass

globes on the window-seat. She took a long-handled tin cup, and dipped

out the fish from one into a basin of water. Then she washed the globe

thoroughly and put the fish back, and scattered wafers of fish food on

the top. The fish came up and snapped at it, and acted as if they were

glad to get it. She did each globe and then her work was over for one

morning.

 

She went away for a while, but every few hours through the day she ran

up to Carl's room to see how the fish and canaries were getting on. If

the room was too chilly she turned on more heat; but she did not keep it

too warm, for that would make the birds tender.

 

After a time the canaries got to know her, and hopped gayly around their

cages, and chirped and sang whenever they saw her coming. Then she began

to take some of them downstairs, and to let them out of their cages for

an hour or two every day. They were very happy little creatures, and

chased each other about the room, and flew on Miss Laura's head, and

pecked saucily at her face as she sat sewing and watching them. They

were not at all afraid of me nor of Billy, and it was quite a sight to

see them hopping up to Bella, She looked so large beside them.

 

One little bird became ill while Carl was away, and Miss Laura had to

give it a great deal of attention. She gave it plenty of hemp seed to

make it fat, and very often the yolk of a hard-boiled egg, and kept a

nail in its drinking water, and gave it a few drops of alcohol in its

bath every morning to keep it from taking cold. The moment the bird

finished taking its bath, Miss Laura took the dish from the cage, for

the alcohol made the water poisonous. Then vermin came on it, and she

had to write to Carl to ask him what to do. He told her to hang a muslin

bag full of sulphur over the swing, so that the bird would dust it down

on her feathers. That cured the little thing, and when Carl came home,

he found it quite well again. One day, just after he got back, Mrs.

Montague drove up to the house with a canary cage carefully done up in a

shawl. She said that a bad-tempered housemaid, in cleaning the cage that

morning, had gotten angry with the bird and struck it, breaking its leg.

She was very much annoyed with the girl for her cruelty, and had

dismissed her, and now she wanted Carl to take her bird and nurse it, as

she knew nothing about canaries.

 

Carl had just come in from school. He threw down his books, took the

shawl from the cage and looked in. The poor little canary was sitting in

a corner. It eyes were half shut, one leg hung loose, and it was making

faint chirps of distress.

 

Carl was very much interested in it. He got Mrs. Montague to help him,

and together they split matches, tore up strips of muslin, and bandaged

the broken leg. He put the little bird back in the cage, and it seemed

more comfortable "I think he will do now," he said to Mrs. Montague,

"but hadn't you better leave him with me for a few days?"

 

She gladly agreed to this and went away, after telling him that the

bird's name was Dick.

 

The next morning at the breakfast table, I heard Carl telling his mother

that as soon as he woke up he sprang out of bed and went to see how his

canary was. During the night, poor foolish Dick had picked off the

splints from his leg, and now it was as bad as ever. "I shall have to

perform a surgical operation," he said.

 

I did not know what he meant, so I watched him when, after breakfast, he

brought the bird down to his mother's room. She held it while he took a

pair of sharp scissors, and cut its leg right off a little way above the

broken place. Then he put some vaseline on the tiny stump, bound it up,

and left Dick in his mother's care. All the morning, as she sat sewing,

she watched him to see that he did not pick the bandage away.

 

When Carl came home, Dick was so much better that he had managed to fly

up on his perch, and was eating seeds quite gayly. "Poor Dick!" said

Carl, "leg and a stump!" Dick imitated him in a few little chirps, "A

leg and a stump!"

 

"Why, he is saying it too," exclaimed Carl, and burst out laughing.

 

Dick seemed cheerful enough, but it was very pitiful to see him dragging

his poor little stump around the cage, and resting it against the perch

to keep him from falling. When Mrs. Montague came the next day, she

could not bear to look at him. "Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, "I cannot take

that disfigured bird home."

 

I could not help thinking how different she was from Miss Laura, who

loved any creature all the more for having some blemish about it. "What

shall I do?" said Mrs. Montague. "I miss my little bird so much. I shall

have to get a new one. Carl, will you sell me one?"

 

"I will _give_ you one, Mrs. Montague," said the boy, eagerly. "I would

like to do so."

 

Mrs. Morris looked pleased to hear Carl say this. She used to fear

sometimes, that in his love for making money, he would become selfish.

 

Mrs. Montague was very kind to the Morris family, and Carl seemed quite

pleased to do her a favor. He took her up to his room, and let her

choose the bird she liked best. She took a handsome, yellow one, called

Barry. He was a good singer, and a great favorite of Carl's. The boy put

him in the cage, wrapped it up well, for it was a cold, snowy day, and

carried it out to Mrs. Montague's sleigh.

 

She gave him a pleasant smile, and drove away, and Carl ran up the steps

into the house. "It's all right, mother," he said, giving Mrs. Morris a

hearty, boyish kiss, as she stood waiting for him. "I don't mind letting

her have it."

 

"But you expected to sell that one, didn't you?" she asked.

 

"Mrs. Smith said maybe she'd take it when she came home from Boston, but

I dare say she'd change her mind and get one there."

 

"How much were you going to ask for him?"

 

"Well, I wouldn't sell Barry for less than ten dollars, or rather, I

wouldn't have sold him," and he ran out to the stable.

 

Mrs. Morris sat on the hall chair, patting me as I rubbed against her,

in rather an absentminded way. Then she got up and went into her

husband's study, and told him what Carl had done.

 

Mr. Morris seemed very pleased to hear about it, but when his wife asked

him to do something to make up the loss to the boy, he said: "I had

rather not do that. To encourage a child to do a kind action, and then

to reward him for it, is not always a sound principle to go upon."

 

But Carl did not go without his reward. That evening, Mrs. Montague's

coachman brought a note to the house addressed to Mr. Carl Morris. He

read it aloud to the family.

 

MY DEAR CARL: I am charmed with my little bird, and he has whispered to

me one of the secrets of your room. You want fifteen dollars very much

to buy something for it. I am sure you won't be offended with an old

friend for supplying you the means to get this something.

 

ADA MONTAGUE.

 

"Just the thing for my stationary tank for the goldfish," exclaimed

Carl. "I've wanted it for a long time;--it isn't good to keep them in

globes; but how in the world did she find out? I've never told any one."

 

Mrs. Morris smiled, and said, "Barry must have told her," as she took

the money from Carl to put away for him.

 

Mrs. Montague got to be very fond of her new pet. She took care of him

herself, and I have heard her tell Mrs. Morris most wonderful stories

about him--stories so wonderful that I should say they were not true if

I did not how intelligent dumb creatures get to be under kind treatment.

 

She only kept him in his cage at night, and when she began looking for

him at bedtime to put him there, he always hid himself. She would search

a short time, and then sit down, and he always came out of his

hiding-place, chirping in a saucy way to make her look at him.

 

She said that he seemed to take delight in teasing her. Once when he was

in the drawing-room with her, she was called away to speak to some one

at the telephone. When she came back, she found that one of the servants

had come into the room and left the door open leading to a veranda.

 

The trees outside were full of yellow birds, and she was in despair,

thinking that Barry had flown out with them. She looked out, but could

not see him. Then, lest he had not left the room, she got a chair and

carried it about, standing on it to examine the walls, and see if Barry

was hidden among the pictures and bric-a-brac. But no Barry was there.

She at last sank down, exhausted, on a sofa. She heard a wicked, little

peep, and looking up, saw Barry sitting on one of the rounds of the

chair that she had been carrying about to look for him. He had been

there all the time. She was so glad to see him, that she never thought

of scolding him.

 

He was never allowed to fly about the dining room during meals, and the

table maid drove him out before she set the table. It always annoyed

him, and he perched on the staircase, watching the door through the

railings. If it was left open for an instant, he flew in. One evening,

before tea, he did this. There was a chocolate cake on the sideboard,

and he liked the look of it so much that he began to peck at it. Mrs.

Montague happened to come in, and drove him back to the hall.

 

While she was having tea that evening, with her husband and little boy,

Barry flew into the room again. Mrs. Montague told Charlie to send him

out, but her husband said, "Wait, he is looking for something."

 

He was on the sideboard, peering into every dish, and trying to look

under the covers. "He is after the chocolate cake," exclaimed Mrs

Montague. "Here, Charlie, put this on the staircase for him."

 

She cut off a little scrap, and when Charlie took it to the hall, Barry

flew after him, and ate it up.

 

As for poor, little, lame Dick, Carl never sold him, and he became a

family pet. His cage hung in the parlor, and from morning till night his

cheerful voice was heard, chirping and singing as if he had not a

trouble in the world. They took great care of him. He was never allowed

to be too hot or too cold. Everybody gave him a cheerful word in passing

his cage, and if his singing was too loud, they gave him a little mirror

to look at himself in. He loved this mirror, and often stood before it

for an hour at a time.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER XII (MALTA, THE CAT)

The first time I had a good look at the Morris cat, I thought she was

the queerest-looking animal I had ever seen. She was dark gray--just the

color of a mouse. Her eyes were a yellowish green, and for the first few

days I was at the Morrises' they looked very unkindly at me. Then she

got over her dislike and we became very good friends. She was a

beautiful cat, and so gentle and affectionate that the whole family

loved her.

 

She was three years old, and she had come to Fairport in a vessel with

some sailors, who had gotten her in a far-away place. Her name was

Malta, and she was called a maltese cat.

 

I have seen a great many cats, but I never saw one as kind as Malta.

Once she had some little kittens and they all died. It almost broke her

heart. She cried and cried about the house till it made one feel sad to

hear her. Then she ran away to the woods. She came back with a little

squirrel in her mouth, and putting it in her basket, she nursed it like

a mother, till it grew old enough to run away from her.

 

She was a very knowing cat, and always came when she was called. Miss

Laura used to wear a little silver whistle that she blew when she wanted

any of her pets. It was a shrill whistle, and we could hear it a long

way from home. I have seen her standing at the back door whistling for

Malta, and the pretty creature's head would appear somewhere--always

high up, for she was a great climber, and she would come running along

the top of the fence, saying, "Meow, meow," in a funny, short way.

 

Miss Laura would pet her, or give her something to eat, or walk around

the garden carrying her on her shoulder. Malta was a most affectionate

cat, and if Miss Laura would not let her lick her face, she licked her

hair with her little, rough tongue. Often Malta lay by the fire, licking

my coat or little Billy's, to show her affection for us.

 

Mary, the cook, was very fond of cats, and used to keep Malta in the

kitchen as much as she could, but nothing would make her stay down there

if there was any music going on upstairs. The Morris pets were all fond

of music. As soon as Miss Laura sat down to the piano to sing or play,

we came from all parts of the house. Malta cried to get upstairs, Davy

scampered through the hall, and Bella hurried after him. If I was

outdoors I ran in the house, and Jim got on a box and looked through the

window.

 

Davy's place was on Miss Laura's shoulder, his pink nose run in the

curls at the back of her neck. I sat under the piano beside Malta and

Bella, and we never stirred till the music was over; then we went

quietly away.

 

Malta was a beautiful cat--there was no doubt about it. While I was with

Jenkins I thought cats were vermin, like rats, and I chased them every

chance I got. Mrs, Jenkins had a cat, a gaunt, long-legged, yellow

creature, that ran whenever we looked at it.

 

Malta had been so kindly treated that she never ran from any one, except

from strange dogs. She knew they would be likely to hurt her. If they

came upon her suddenly, she faced them, and she was a pretty good

fighter when she was put to it. I once saw her having a brush with a big

mastiff that lived a few blocks from us, and giving him a good fright,

which just served him right.

 

I was shut up in the parlor. Some one had closed the door, and I could

not get out. I was watching Malta from the window, as she daintily

picked her way across the muddy street. She was such a soft, pretty,

amiable-looking cat. She didn't look that way, though, when the mastiff

rushed out of the alleyway at her.

 

She sprang back and glared at him like a little, fierce tiger. Her tail

was enormous. Her eyes were like balls of fire, and she was spitting and

snarling, as if to say, "If you touch me, I'll tear you to pieces!"

 

The dog, big as he was, did not dare attack her. He walked around and

around, like a great clumsy elephant, and she turned her small body as

he turned his, and kept up a dreadful hissing and spitting. Suddenly I

saw a Spitz dog hurrying down the street. He was going to help the

mastiff, and Malta would be badly hurt. I had barked and no one had come

to let me out, so I sprang through the window.

 

Just then there was a change. Malta had seen the second dog, and she

knew she must get rid of the mastiff. With an agile bound she sprang on

his back, dug her sharp claws in, till he put his tail between his legs

and ran up the street, howling with pain. She rode a little way, then

sprang off and ran up the lane to the stable.

 

I was very angry and wanted to fight something, so I pitched into the

Spitz dog. He was a snarly, cross-grained creature, no friend to Jim and

me, and he would have been only too glad of a chance to help kill Malta.

 

I gave him one of the worst beatings he ever had. I don't suppose it was

quite right for me to do it, for Miss Laura says dogs should never

fight; but he had worried Malta before, and he had no business to do it.

She belonged to our family. Jim and I never worried 'his' cat. I

had been longing to give him a shaking for some time, and now I felt for

his throat through his thick hair, and dragged him all around the

street. Then I let him go, and he was a civil dog ever afterward.

 

Malta was very grateful, and licked a little place where the Spitz bit

1. I did not get scolded for the broken window. Mary had seen me from

the kitchen window, and told Mrs. Morris that I had gone to help Malta.

 

Malta was a very wise cat. She knew quite well that she must not harm

the parrot nor the canaries, and she never tried to catch them, even

though she was left alone in the room with them.

 

I have seen her lying in the sun, blinking sleepily, and listening with

great pleasure to Dick's singing. Miss Laura even taught her not to hunt

the birds outside.

 

For a long time she had tried to get it into Malta's head that it was

cruel to catch the little sparrows that came about the door, and just

after I came, she succeeded in doing so,

 

Malta was so fond of Miss Laura, that whenever she caught a bird, she

came and laid it at her feet. Miss Laura always picked up the little,

dead creature, pitied it and stroked it, and scolded Malta till she

crept into a corner. Then Miss Laura put the bird on a limb of a tree,

and Malta watched her attentively from her corner.

 

One day Miss Laura stood at the window, looking out into the garden.

Malta was lying on the platform, staring at the sparrows that were

picking up crumbs from the ground. She trembled, and half rose every few

minutes, as if to go after them. Then she lay down again. She was trying

very hard not to creep on them. Presently a neighbor's cat came stealing

along the fence, keeping one eye on Malta and the other on the sparrows.

Malta was so angry! She sprang up and chased her away, and then came

back to the platform, where she lay down again and waited for the

sparrows to come back. For a long time she stayed there, and never once

tried to catch them.

 

Miss Laura was so pleased. She went to the door, and said, softly, "Come

here, Malta."

 

The cat put up her tail, and, meowing gently, came into the house. Miss

Laura took her up in her arms, and going down to the kitchen, asked Mary

to give her a saucer of her very sweetest milk for the best cat in the

United States of America.

 

Malta got great praise for this, and I never knew of her catching a bird

afterward. She was well fed in the house, and had no need to hurt such

harmless creatures.

 

She was very fond of her home, and never went far away, as Jim and I

did. Once, when Willie was going to spend a few weeks with a little

friend who lived fifty miles from Fairport, he took it into his head

that Malta should go with him. His mother told him that cats did not

like to go away from home; but he said he would be good to her, and

begged so hard to take her, that at last his mother consented.

 

He had been a few days in this place, when he wrote home to say that

Malta had run away. She had seemed very unhappy, and though he had kept

her with him all the time, she had acted as if she wanted to get away.

 

When the letter was read to Mr. Morris, he said, "Malta is on her way

home. Cats have a wonderful cleverness in finding their way to their own

dwelling. She will be very tired. Let us go out and meet her."

 

Willie had gone to this place in a coach. Mr. Morris got a buggy and

took Miss Laura and me with him, and we started out. We went slowly

along the road. Every little while Miss Laura blew her whistle, and

called, "Malta, Malta," and I barked as loudly as I could. Mr. Morris

drove for several hours, then we stopped at a house, had dinner, and

then set out again. We were going through a thick wood, where there was

a pretty straight road, when I saw a small, dark creature away ahead,

trotting toward us. It was Malta. I gave a joyful bark, but she did not

know me, and plunged into the wood.

 

I ran in after her, barking and yelping, and Miss Laura blew her whistle

as loudly as she could. Soon there was a little gray head peeping at us

from the bushes, and Malta bounded out, gave me a look of surprise and

then leaped into the buggy on Miss Laura's lap.

 

What a happy cat she was! She purred with delight, and licked Miss

Laura's gloves over and over again. Then she ate the food they had

brought, and went sound asleep. She was very thin, and for several days

after getting home she slept the most of the time.

 

Malta did not like dogs, but she was very good to cats. One day, when

there was no one about and the garden was very quiet, I saw her go

stealing into the stable, and come out again, followed by a sore-eyed,

starved-looking cat, that had been deserted by some people that lived in

the next street. She led this cat up to her catnip bed, and watched her

kindly, while she rolled and rubbed herself in it. Then Malta had a roll

in it herself, and they both went back to the stable.

 

Catnip is a favorite plant with cats, and Miss Laura always kept some of

it growing for Malta.

 

For a long time this sick cat had a home in the stable. Malta carried

her food every day, and after a time Miss Laura found out about her, and

did what she could to make her well. In time she got to be a strong,

sturdy-looking cat, and Miss Laura got a home for her with an invalid

lady.

 

It was nothing new for the Morrises to feed deserted cats. Some summers,

Mrs. Morris said that she had a dozen to take care of. Careless and

cruel people would go away for the summer, shutting up their houses, and

making no provision for the poor cats that had been allowed to sit

snugly by the fire all winter. At last, Mrs. Morris got into the habit

of putting a little notice in the Fairport paper, asking people who were

going away for the summer to provide for their cats during their absence.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER XIII (THE BEGINNING OF AN ADVENTURE)

The first winter I was at the Morrises', I had an adventure. It was a

week before Christmas, and we were having cold, frosty weather. Not much

snow had fallen, but there was plenty of skating, and the boys were off

every day with their skates on a little lake near Fairport.

 

Jim and I often went with them, and we had great fun scampering over the

ice after them, and slipping at every step.

 

On this Saturday night we had just gotten home. It was quite dark

outside, and there was a cold wind blowing, so when we came in the front

door, and saw the red light from the big hall stove and the blazing fire

in the parlor they looked very cheerful.

 

I was quite sorry for Jim that he had to go out to his kennel. However,

he said he didn't mind. The boys got a plate of nice, warm meat for him

and a bowl of milk, and carried them out, and afterward he went to

sleep. Jim's kennel was a very snug one. Being a spaniel, he was not a

very large dog, but his kennel was as roomy as if he was a great Dane.

He told me that Mr. Morris and the boys made it, and he liked it very

much, because it was large enough for him to get up in the night and

stretch himself, when he got tired of lying in one position.

 

It was raised a little from the ground, and it had a thick layer of

straw over the floor. Above was a broad shelf, wide enough for him to

lie on, and covered with an old catskin sleigh robe. Jim always slept

here in cold weather, because it was farther away from the ground.

 

To return to this December evening. I can remember yet how hungry I was.

I could scarcely lie still till Miss Laura finished her tea. Mrs.

Morris, knowing that her boys would be very hungry, had Mary broil some

beefsteak and roast some potatoes for them; and didn't they smell good!

 

They ate all the steak and potatoes. It didn't matter to me, for I

wouldn't have gotten any if they had been left. Mrs. Morris could not

afford to give to the dogs good meat that she had gotten for her

children, so she used to get the butcher to send her liver, and bones,

and tough meat, and Mary cooked them, and made soup and broth, and mixed

porridge with them for us.

 

We never got meat three times a day. Miss Laura said it was all very

well to feed hunting dogs on meat, but dogs that are kept about a house

get ill if they are fed too well. So we had meat only once a day, and

bread and milk, porridge, or dog biscuits, for our other meals.

 

I made a dreadful noise when I was eating. Ever since Jenkins cut my

ears off, I had had trouble in breathing. The flaps had kept the wind

and dust from the inside of my ears. Now that they were gone my head was

stuffed up all the time. The cold weather made me worse, and sometimes I

had such trouble to get my breath that it seemed as if I would choke. If

I had opened my mouth, and breathed through it, as I have seen some

people doing, I would have been more comfortable, but dogs always like

to breathe through their noses.

 

"You have taken more cold," said Miss Laura, this night, as she put my

plate of food on the floor for me. "Finish your meat, and then come and

sit by the fire with me. What! do you want more?"

 

I gave a little bark, so she filled my plate for the second time. Miss

Laura never allowed any one to meddle with us when we were eating. One

day she found Willie teasing me by snatching at a bone that I was

gnawing. "Willie," she said, "what would you do if you were just sitting

down to the table feeling very hungry, and just as you began to eat your

meat and potatoes, I would come along and snatch the plate from you?"

 

"I don't know what I'd _do_" he said, laughingly; "but I'd _want_ to

wallop you."

 

"Well," she said, "I'm afraid that Joe will 'wallop' you some day if you

worry him about his food, for even a gentle dog will sometimes snap at

any one who disturbs him at his meals; so you had better not try his

patience too far." Willie never teased me after that, and I was very

glad, for two or three times I had been tempted to snarl at him.

 

After I finished my tea, I followed Miss Laura upstairs. She took up a

book and sat down in a low chair, and I lay down on the hearth rug

beside her.

 

"Do you know, Joe," she said with a smile, "why you scratch with your

paws when you lie down, as if to make yourself a hollow bed, and turn

around a great many times before you lie down?"

 

Of course I did not know, so I only stared at her. "Years and years

ago," she went on, gazing down at me, "there weren't any dogs living in

people's houses, as you are, Joe. They were all wild creatures running

about the woods. They always scratched among the leaves to make a

comfortable bed for themselves, and the habit has come down to you, Joe,

for you are descended from them."

 

This sounded very interesting, and I think she was going to tell me some

more about my wild forefathers, but just then the rest of the family

came in.

 

I always thought that this was the snuggest time of the day--when the

family all sat around the fire--Mrs. Morris sewing, the boys reading or

studying, and Mr. Morris with his head buried in a newspaper, and Billy

and I on the floor at their feet.

 

This evening I was feeling very drowsy, and had almost dropped asleep,

when Ned gave me a push with his foot. He was a great tease, and he

delighted in getting me to make a simpleton of myself. I tried to keep

my eyes on the fire, but I could not, and just had to turn and look at

him.

 

He was holding his book up between himself and his mother, and was

opening his mouth as wide as he could and throwing back his head,

pretending to howl.

 

For the life of me I could not help giving a loud howl. Mrs. Morris

looked up and said, "Bad Joe, keep still."

 

The boys were all laughing behind their books, for they knew what Ned

was doing. Presently he started off again, and I was just beginning

another howl that might have made Mrs. Morris send me out of the room,

when the door opened, and a young girl called Bessie Drury came in.

 

She had a cap on and a shawl thrown over her shoulders, and she had just

run across the street from her father's house. "Oh, Mrs. Morris," she

said, "will you let Laura come over and stay with me to-night? Mamma has

just gotten a telegram from Bangor, saying that her aunt, Mrs. Cole, is

very ill, and she wants to see her, and papa is going to take her there

by to-night's train, and she is afraid I will be lonely if I don't have

Laura."

 

"Can you not come and spend the night here?" said Mrs. Morris.

 

"No, thank you; I think mamma would rather have me stay in our house."

 

"Very well," said Mrs. Morris, "I think Laura would like to go."

 

"Yes, indeed," said Miss Laura, smiling at her friend. "I will come over

in half an hour."

 

"Thank you, so much," said Miss Bessie. And she hurried away.

 

After she left, Mr. Morris looked up from his paper. "There will be some

one in the house besides those two girls?"

 

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Morris; "Mrs. Drury has her old nurse, who has been

with her for twenty years, and there are two maids besides, and Donald,

the coachman, who sleeps over the stable. So they are well protected."

 

"Very good," said Mr. Morris. And he went back to his paper.

 

Of course dumb animals do not understand all that they hear spoken of;

but I think human beings would be astonished if they knew how much we

can gather from their looks and voices. I knew that Mr. Morris did not

quite like the idea of having his daughter go to the Drury's when the

master and mistress of the house were away, so I made up my mind that I

would go with her.

 

When she came down stairs with her little satchel on her arm, I got up

and stood beside her. "Dear, old Joe," she said, "you must not come."

 

I pushed myself out the door beside her after she had kissed her mother

and father and the boys. "Go back, Joe," she said, firmly.

 

I had to step back then, but I cried and whined, and she looked at me in

astonishment. "I will be back in the morning, Joe," she said, gently;

"don't squeal in that way," Then she shut the door and went out.

 

I felt dreadfully. I walked up and down the floor and ran to the window,

and howled without having to look at Ned. Mrs. Morris peered over her

glasses at me in utter surprise. "Boys," she said, "did you ever see Joe

act in that way before?"

 

"No, mother," they all said.

 

Mr. Morris was looking at me very intently. He had always taken more

notice of me than any other creature about the house, and I was very

fond of him. Now I ran up and put my paws on his knees.

 

"Mother," he said, turning to his wife, "let the dog go."

 

"Very well," she said, in a puzzled way. "Jack, just run over with him,

and tell Mrs. Drury how he is acting, and that I will be very much

obliged if she will let him stay all night with Laura."

 

Jack sprang up, seized his cap, and raced down the front steps, across

the street, through the gate, and up the gravelled walk, where the

little stones were all hard and fast in the frost.

 

The Drurys lived in a large, white house, with trees all around it, and

a garden at the back. They were rich people and had a great deal of

company. Through the summer I had often seen carriages at the door, and

ladies and gentlemen in light clothes walking over the lawn, and

sometimes I smelled nice things they were having to eat They did not

keep any dogs, nor pets of any kind, so Jim and I never had an excuse to

call there.

 

Jack and I were soon at the front door, and he rang the bell and gave me

in charge of the maid who opened it. The girl listened to his message

for Mrs. Drury, then she walked upstairs, smiling and looking at me over

her shoulder.

 

There was a trunk in the upper hall, and an elderly woman was putting

things in it. A lady stood watching her, and when she saw me, she gave a

little scream, "Oh, nurse! look at that horrid dog! Where did he come

from? Put him out, Susan."

 

I stood quite still, and the girl who had brought me upstairs, gave her

Jack's message.

 

"Certainly, certainly," said the lady, when the maid finished speaking.

"If he is one of the Morris dogs, he is sure to be a well-behaved one.

Tell the little boy to thank his mamma for letting Laura come over, and

say that we will keep the dog with pleasure. Now, nurse, we must hurry;

the cab will be here in five minutes."

 

I walked softly into a front room, and there I found my dear Miss Laura.

Miss Bessie was with her, and they were cramming things into a

portmanteau. They both ran out to find out how I came there, and just

then a gentleman came hurriedly upstairs, and said the cab had come.

 

There was a scene of great confusion and hurry, but in a few minutes it

was all over. The cab had rolled away, and the house was quiet.

 

"Nurse, you must be tired, you had better go to bed," said Miss Bessie,

turning to the elderly woman, as we all stood in the hall. "Susan, will

you bring some supper to the dining-room, for Miss Morris and me? What

will you have, Laura?"

 

"What are you going to have?" asked Miss Laura, with a smile.

 

"Hot chocolate and tea biscuits."

 

"Then I will have the same."

 

"Bring some cake too, Susan," said Miss Bessie, "and something for the

dog. I dare say he would like some of that turkey that was left from

dinner."

 

If I had had any ears I would have pricked them up at this, for I was

very fond of fowl, and I never got any at the Morrises', unless it might

be a stray bone or two.

 

What fun we had over our supper! The two girls sat at the big dining

table, and sipped their chocolate, and laughed and talked, and I had the

skeleton of a whole turkey on a newspaper that Susan spread on the

carpet.

 

I was very careful not to drag it about, and Miss Bessie laughed at me

till the tears came in her eyes. "That dog is a gentleman," she said;

"see how he holds bones on the paper with his paws, and strips the meat

off with his teeth. Oh, Joe, Joe, you are a funny dog! And you are

having a funny supper. I have heard of quail on toast, but I never heard

of turkey on newspaper."

 

"Hadn't we better go to bed?" said Miss Laura, when the hall clock

struck eleven.

 

"Yes, I suppose we had," said Miss Bessie. "Where is this animal to

sleep?" "I don't know," said Miss Laura; "he sleeps in the stable at

home, or in the kennel with Jim."

 

"Suppose Susan makes him a nice bed by the kitchen stove?" said Miss

Bessie.

 

Susan made the bed, but I was not willing to sleep in it. I barked so

loudly when they shut me up alone, that they had to let me go upstairs

with them.

 

Miss Laura was almost angry with me, but I could not help it. I had come

over there to protect her, and I wasn't going to leave her, if I could

help it.

 

Miss Bessie had a handsomely furnished room, with a soft carpet on the

floor, and pretty curtains at the windows. There were two single beds in

it, and the two girls dragged them close together, so that they could

talk after they got in bed.

 

Before Miss Bessie put out the light, she told Miss Laura not to be

alarmed if she heard any one walking about in the night, for the nurse

was sleeping across the hall from them, and she would probably come in

once or twice to see if they were sleeping comfortably.

 

The two girls talked for a long time, and then they fell asleep. Just

before Miss Laura dropped off, she forgave me, and put down her hand for

me to lick as I lay on a fur rug close by her bed.

 

I was very tired, and I had a very soft and pleasant bed, so I soon fell

into a heavy sleep. But I waked up at the slightest noise. Once Miss

Laura turned in bed, and another time Miss Bessie laughed in her sleep,

and again, there were queer crackling noises in the frosty limbs of the

trees outside, that made me start up quickly out of my sleep.

 

There was a big clock in the hall, and every time it struck I waked up.

Once, just after it had struck some hour, I jumped up out of a sound

nap. I had been dreaming about my early home. Jenkins was after me with

a whip, and my limbs were quivering and trembling as if I had been

trying to get away from him.

 

I sprang up and shook myself. Then I took a turn around the room. The

two girls were breathing gently; I could scarcely hear them. I walked to

the door and looked out into the hall. There was a dim light burning

there. The door of the nurse's room stood open. I went quietly to it and

looked in. She was breathing heavily and muttering in her sleep.

 

I went back to my rug and tried to go to sleep, but I could not. Such an

uneasy feeling was upon me that I had to keep walking about. I went out

into the hall again and stood at the head of the staircase. I thought I

would take a walk through the lower hall, and then go to bed again.

 

The Drurys' carpets were all like velvet, and my paws did not make a

rattling on them as they did on the oil cloth at the Morrises'. I crept

down the stairs like a cat, and walked along the lower hall, smelling

under all the doors, listening as I went. There was no night light

burning down here, and it was quite dark, but if there had been any

strange person about I would have smelled him.

 

I was surprised when I got near the farther end of the hall, to see a

tiny gleam of light shine for an instant from under the dining-room

door. Then it went away again. The dining-room was the place to eat.

Surely none of the people in the house would be there after the supper

we had.

 

I went and sniffed under the door. There was a smell there; a strong

smell like beggars and poor people. It smelled like Jenkins. It

_was_ Jenkins.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER XIV (HOW WE CAUGHT THE BURGLAR)

 

What was the wretch doing in the house with my dear Miss Laura? I

thought I would go crazy. I scratched at the door, and barked and

yelped. I sprang up on it, and though I was quite a heavy dog by this

time, I felt as light as a feather.

 

It seemed to me that I would go mad if I could not get that door open.

Every few seconds I stopped and put my head down to the doorsill to

listen. There was a rushing about inside the room, and a chair fell

over, and some one seemed to be getting out of the window.

 

This made me worse than ever. I did not stop to think that I was only a

medium-sized dog, and that Jenkins would probably kill me, if he got his

hands on me. I was so furious that I thought only of getting hold of

him.

 

In the midst of the noise that I made, there was a screaming and a

rushing to and fro upstairs. I ran up and down the hall, and half-way up

the steps and back again. I did not want Miss Laura to come down, but

how was I to make her understand? There she was, in her white gown,

leaning over the railing, and holding back her long hair, her face a

picture of surprise and alarm.

 

"The dog has gone mad," screamed Miss Bessie. "Nurse, pour a pitcher of

water on him." The nurse was more sensible. She ran downstairs, her

night-cap flying, and a blanket that she had seized from her bed,

trailing behind her. "There are thieves in the house," she shouted at

the top of her voice, "and the dog has found it out."

 

She did not go near the dining-room door, but threw open the front one,

crying, "Policeman! Policeman! help, help, thieves, murder!"

 

Such a screaming as that old woman made! She was worse than I was. I

dashed by her, out through the hall door, and away down to the gate,

where I heard some one running. I gave a few loud yelps to call Jim, and

leaped the gate as the man before me had done.

 

There was something savage in me that night. I think it must have been

the smell of Jenkins. I felt as if I could tear him to pieces. I have

never felt so wicked since. I was hunting him, as he had hunted me and

my mother, and the thought gave me pleasure.

 

Old Jim soon caught up with me, and I gave him a push with my nose, to

let him know I was glad he had come. We rushed swiftly on, and at the

corner caught up with the miserable man who was running away from us.

 

I gave an angry growl, and jumping up, bit at his leg. He turned around,

and though it was not a very bright night, there was light enough for me

to see the ugly face of my old master.

 

He seemed so angry to think that Jim and I dared to snap at him. He

caught up a handful of stones, and with some bad words threw them at us.

Just then, away in front of us, was a queer whistle, and then another

one like it behind us. Jenkins made a strange noise in his throat, and

started to run down a side street, away from the direction of the two

whistles.

 

I was afraid that he was going to get away, and though I could not hold

him, I kept springing up on him, and once I tripped him up. Oh, how

furious he was! He kicked me against the side of a wall, and gave me two

or three hard blows with a stick that he caught up, and kept throwing

stones at me.

 

I would not give up, though I could scarcely see him for the blood that

was running over my eyes. Old Jim got so angry whenever Jenkins touched

me, that he ran up behind and nipped his calves, to make him turn on

him.

 

Soon Jenkins came to a high wall, where he stopped, and with a hurried

look behind, began to climb over it. The wall was too high for me to

jump. He was going to escape. What shall I do? I barked as loudly as I

could for some one to come, and then sprang up and held him by the leg

as he was getting over.

 

I had such a grip, that I went over the wall with him, and left Jim on

the other side. Jenkins fell on his face in the earth. Then he got up,

and with a look of deadly hatred on his face, pounced upon me. If help

had not come, I think he would have dashed out my brains against the

wall, as he dashed out my poor little brothers' against the horse's

stall. But just then there was a running sound. Two men came down the

street and sprang upon the wall, just where Jim was leaping up and down

and barking in distress.

 

I saw at once by their uniform and the clubs in their hands, that they

were policemen. In one short instant they had hold of Jenkins. He gave

up then, but he stood snarling at me like an ugly dog. "If it hadn't

been for that cur, I'd never a been caught. Why----," and he staggered

back and uttered a bad word, "it's me own dog."

 

"More shame to you," said one of the policemen, sternly; "what have you

been up to at this time of night, to have your own dog and a quiet

minister's spaniel dog a chasing you through the street?"

 

Jenkins began to swear and would not tell them anything. There was a

house in the garden, and just at this minute some one opened a window

and called out: "Hallo, there, what are you doing?"

 

"We're catching a thief, sir," said one of the policemen, "leastwise I

think that's what he's been up to. Could you throw us down a bit of

rope? We've no handcuffs here, and one of us has to go to the lock-up

and the other to Washington street, where there's a woman yelling blue

murder; and hurry up, please, sir."

 

The gentleman threw down a rope, and in two minutes Jenkins' wrists were

tied together, and he was walked through the gate, saying bad words as

fast as he could to the policeman who was leading him. "Good dogs," said

the other policeman to Jim and me. Then he ran up the street and we

followed him.

 

As we hurried along Washington street, and came near our house, we saw

lights gleaming through the darkness, and heard people running to and

fro. The nurse's shrieking had alarmed the neighborhood. The Morris boys

were all out in the street only half clad and shivering with cold, and

the Drurys' coachman, with no hat on, and his hair sticking up all over

his head, was running about with a lantern.

 

The neighbors' houses were all lighted up, and a good many people were

hanging out of their windows and opening their doors, and calling to

each other to know what all this noise meant.

 

When the policeman appeared with Jim and me at his heels, quite a crowd

gathered around him to hear his part of the story. Jim and I dropped on

the ground panting as hard as we could, and with little streams of water

running from our tongues. We were both pretty well used up. Jim's back

was bleeding in several places from the stones that Jenkins had thrown

at him, and I was a mass of bruises.

 

Presently we were discovered, and then what a fuss was made over us.

"Brave dogs! noble dogs!" everybody said, and patted and praised us. We

were very proud and happy, and stood up and wagged our tails, at least

Jim did, and I wagged what I could. Then they found what a state we were

1. Mrs. Morris cried, and catching me up in her arms, ran in the house

with me, and Jack followed with old Jim.

 

We all went into the parlor. There was a good fire there, and Miss Laura

and Miss Bessie were sitting over it. They sprang up when they saw us,

and right there in the parlor washed our wounds, and made us lie down by

the fire.

 

"You saved our silver, brave Joe," said Miss Bessie; "just wait till my

papa and mamma come home, and see what they will say. Well, Jack, what

is the latest?" as the Morris boys came trooping into the room.

 

"The policeman has been questioning your nurse, and examining the

dining-room, and has gone down to the station to make his report, and do

you know what he has found out?" said Jack, excitedly.

 

"No--what?" asked Miss Bessie.

 

"Why that villain was going to burn your house."

 

Miss Bessie gave a little shriek. "Why, what do you mean?"

 

"Well," said Jack, "they think by what they discovered, that he planned

to pack his bag with silver, and carry it off; but just before he did so

he would pour oil around the room, and set fire to it, so people would

not find out that he had been robbing you."

 

"Why we might have all been burned to death," said Miss Bessie. "He

couldn't burn the dining-room without setting fire to the rest of the

house."

 

"Certainly not," said Jack, that shows what a villain he is."

 

"Do they know this for certain, Jack?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"Well, they suppose so; they found some bottles of oil along with the

bag he had for the silver."

 

"How horrible! You darling old Joe, perhaps you saved our lives," and

pretty Miss Bessie kissed my ugly, swollen head. I could do nothing but

lick her little hand, but always after that I thought a great deal of

her.

 

It is now some years since all this happened, and I might as well tell

the end of it. The next day the Drurys came home, and everything was

found out about Jenkins. The night they left Fairport he had been

hanging about the station. He knew just who were left in the house, for

he had once supplied them with milk, and knew all about their family. He

had no customers at this time, for after Mr. Harry rescued me, and that

piece came out in the paper about him, he found that no one would take

milk from him. His wife died, and some kind people put his children in

an asylum, and he was obliged to sell Toby and the cows. Instead of

learning a lesson from all this, and leading a better life, he kept

sinking lower.

 

He was, therefore, ready for any kind of mischief that turned up, and

when he saw the Drurys going away in the train, he thought he would

steal a bag of silver from their sideboard, then set fire to the house,

and run away and hide the silver. After a time he would take it to some

city and sell it.

 

He was made to confess all this. Then for his wickedness he was sent to

prison for ten years, and I hope he will get to be a better man there,

and be one after he comes out.

 

I was sore and stiff for a long time, and one day Mrs. Drury came over

to see me. She did not love dogs as the Morrises did. She tried to, but

she could not.

 

Dogs can see fun in things as well as people can, and I buried my muzzle

in the hearth-rug, so that she would not see how I was curling up my lip

and smiling at her.

 

"You--are--a--good--dog," she said, slowly. "You are"--then she stopped,

and could not think of anything else to say to me. I got up and stood in

front of her, for a well-bred dog should not lie down when a lady speaks

to him. I wagged my body a little, and I would gladly have said

something to help her out of her difficulty, but I couldn't. If she had

stroked me it might have helped her; but she didn't want to touch me,

and I knew she didn't want me to touch her, so I just stood looking at

her.

 

"Mrs. Morris," she said, turning from me with a puzzled face, "I don't

like animals, and I can't pretend to, for they always find me out; but

can't you let that dog know that I shall feel eternally grateful to him

for saving not only our property--for that is a trifle--but my darling

daughter from fright and annoyance, and a possible injury or loss of

life?"

 

"I think he understands," said Mrs. Morris. "He is a very wise dog." And

smiling in great amusement, she called me to her and put my paws on her

lap. "Look at that lady, Joe. She is pleased with you for driving

Jenkins away from her house. You remember Jenkins?"

 

I barked angrily and limped to the window.

 

"How intelligent he is," said Mrs. Drury. "My husband has sent to New

York for a watchdog, and he says that from this on our house shall never

be without one. Now I must go. Your dog is happy, Mrs. Morris, and I can

do nothing for him, except to say that I shall never forget him, and I

wish he would come over occasionally to see us. Perhaps when we get our

dog he will. I shall tell my cook whenever she sees him to give him

something to eat. This is a souvenir for Laura of that dreadful night. I

feel under a deep obligation to you, so I am sure you will allow her to

accept it." Then she gave Mrs. Morris a little box and went away.

 

When Miss Laura came in, she opened the box, and found in it a handsome

diamond ring. On the inside of it was engraved: "Laura, in memory of

December 20th, 18--. From her grateful friend, Bessie."

 

The diamond was worth hundreds of dollars, and Mrs. Morris told Miss

Laura that she had rather she would not wear it then, while she was a

young girl. It was not suitable for her, and she knew Mrs. Drury did not

expect her to do so. She wished to give her a valuable present, and this

would always be worth a great deal of money.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER XV (OUR JOURNEY TO RIVERDALE)

 

Every other summer, the Morris children were sent to some place in the

country, so that they could have a change of air, and see what country

life was like. As there were so many of them they usually went different

ways.

 

The summer after I came to them, Jack and Carl went to an uncle in

Vermont, Miss Laura went to another in New Hampshire, and Ned and Willie

went to visit a maiden aunt who lived in the White Mountains.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Morris stayed at home. Fairport was a lovely place in

summer, and many people came there to visit.

 

The children took some of their pets with them, and the others they left

at home for their mother to take care of. She never allowed them to take

a pet animal anywhere, unless she knew it would be perfectly welcome.

"Don't let your pets be a worry to other people," she often said to

them, "or they will dislike them and you too."

 

Miss Laura went away earlier than the others, for she had run down

through the spring, and was pale and thin. One day, early in June, we

set out. I say "we," for after my adventure with Jenkins, Miss Laura

said that I should never be parted from her. If any one invited her to

come and see them and didn't want me, she would stay at home.

 

The whole family went to the station to see us off. They put a chain on

my collar and took me to the baggage office and got two tickets for me.

One was tied to my collar and the other Miss Laura put in her purse.

Then I was put in a baggage car and chained in a corner. I heard Mr.

Morris say that as we were only going a short distance, it was not worth

while to get an express ticket for me.

 

There was a dreadful noise and bustle at the station. Whistles were

blowing and people were rushing up and down the platform. Some men were

tumbling baggage so fast into the car where I was, that I was afraid

some of it would fall on me.

 

For a few minutes Miss Laura stood by the door and looked in, but soon

the men had piled up so many boxes and trunks that she could not see me.

Then she went away. Mr. Morris asked one of the men to see that I did

not get hurt, and I heard some money rattle. Then he went away too.

 

It was the beginning of June and the weather had suddenly become very

hot. We had a long, cold spring, and not being used to the heat, it

seemed very hard to bear.

 

Before the train started, the doors of the baggage car were closed, and

it became quite dark inside. The darkness, and the heat, and the close

smell, and the noise, as we went rushing along, made me feel sick and

frightened.

 

I did not dare to lie down, but sat up trembling and wishing that we

might soon come to Riverdale Station. But we did not get there for some

time, and I was to have a great fright.

 

I was thinking of all the stories that I knew of animals traveling. In

February, the Drurys' Newfoundland watch-dog, Pluto, had arrived from

New York, and he told Jim and me that he had a miserable journey.

 

A gentleman friend of Mr. Drury's had brought him from New York. He saw

him chained up in his car, and he went into his Pullman, first tipping

the baggage-master handsomely to look after him. Pluto said that the

baggage-master had a very red nose, and he was always getting drinks for

himself when they stopped at a station, but he never once gave him a

drink or anything to eat, from the time they left New York till they got

to Fairport. When the train stopped there, and Pluto's chain was

unfastened, he sprang out on the platform and nearly knocked Mr. Drury

down. He saw some snow that had sifted through the station roof and he

was so thirsty that he began to lick it up. When the snow was all gone,

he jumped up and licked the frost on the windows.

 

Mr. Drury's friend was so angry. He found the baggage-master, and said

to him: "What did you mean, by coming into my car every few hours, to

tell me that the dog was fed, and watered, and comfortable? I shall

report you."

 

He went into the office at the station, and complained of the man, and

was told that he was a drinking man, and was going to be dismissed.

 

I was not afraid of suffering like Pluto, because it was only going to

take us a few hours to get to Riverdale. I found that we always went

slowly before we came in to a station, and one time when we began to

slacken speed I thought that surely we must be at our journey's end.

However, it was not Riverdale. The car gave a kind of jump, then there

was a crashing sound ahead, and we stopped.

 

I heard men shouting and running up and down, and I wondered what had

happened. It was all dark and still in the car, and nobody came in, but

the noise kept up outside, and I knew something had gone wrong with the

train. Perhaps Miss Laura had got hurt. Something must have happened to

her or she would come to me.

 

I barked and pulled at my chain till my neck was sore, but for a long,

long time I was there alone. The men running about outside must have

heard me. If ever I hear a man in trouble and crying for help I go to

him and see what he wants.

 

After such a long time that it seemed to me it must be the middle of the

night, the door at the end of the car opened, and a man looked in. "This

is all through baggage for New York, miss," I heard him say; "they

wouldn't put your dog in here."

 

"Yes, they did--I am sure this is the car," I heard in the voice I knew

so well; "and won't you get him out, please? He must be terribly

frightened."

 

The man stooped down and unfastened my chain, grumbling to himself

because I had not been put in another car. "Some folks tumble a dog

round as if he was a junk of coal," he said, patting me kindly.

 

I was nearly wild with delight to get with Miss Laura again, but I had

barked so much, and pressed my neck so hard with my collar that my voice

was all gone. I fawned on her, and wagged myself about, and opened and

shut my mouth, but no sound came out of it.

 

It made Miss Laura nervous. She tried to laugh and cry at the same time,

and then bit her lip hard, and said: "Oh, Joe, don't."

 

"He's lost his bark, hasn't he?" said the man, looking at me curiously.

 

"It is a wicked thing to confine an animal in a dark and closed car,"

said Miss Laura, trying to see her way down the steps through her tears.

 

The man put out his hand and helped her. "He's not suffered much, miss,"

he said; "don't you distress yourself. Now if you'd been a brakeman on a

Chicago train, as I was a few years ago, and seen the animals run in for

the stock yards, you might talk about cruelty. Cars that ought to hold a

certain number of pigs, or sheep, or cattle, jammed full with twice as

many, and half of 'em thrown out choked and smothered to death. I've

seen a man running up and down, raging and swearing because the railway

people hadn't let him get in to tend to his pigs on the road."

 

Miss Laura turned and looked at the man with a very white face. "Is it

like that now?" she asked.

 

"No, no," he said, hastily. "It's better now. They've got new

regulations about taking care of the stock; but mind you, miss, the

cruelty to animals isn't all done on the railways. There's a great lot

of dumb creatures suffering all round everywhere, and if they could

speak, 'twould be a hard showing for some other people besides the

railway men."

 

He lifted his cap and hurried down the platform, and Miss Laura, her

face very much troubled, picked her way among the bits of coal and wood

scattered about the platform, and went into the waiting room of the

little station.

 

She took me up to the filter and let some water run in her hand, and

gave it to me to lap. Then she sat down and I leaned my head against her

knees, and she stroked my throat gently.

 

There were some people sitting about the room, and, from their talk, I

found out what had taken place. There had been a freight train on a side

track at this station, waiting for us to get by. The switchman had

carelessly left the switch open after this train went by, and when we

came along afterward, our train, instead of running in by the platform,

went crashing into the freight train. If we had been going fast, great

damage might have been done. As it was, our engine was smashed so badly

that it could not take us on; the passengers were frightened; and we

were having a tedious time waiting for another engine to come and take

us to Riverdale.

 

After the accident, the trainmen were so busy that Miss Laura could get

no one to release me.

 

While I sat by her, I noticed an old gentleman staring at us. He was

such a queer-looking old gentleman. He looked like a poodle. He had

bright brown eyes, and a pointed face, and a shock of white hair that he

shook every few minutes. He sat with his hands clasped on the top of his

cane, and he scarcely took his eyes from Miss Laura's face. Suddenly he

jumped up and came and sat down beside her.

 

"An ugly dog, that," he said, pointing to me.

 

Most young ladies would have resented this, but Miss Laura only looked

amused. "He seems beautiful to me," she said, gently.

 

"H'm, because he's your dog," said the old man, darting a sharp look at

1. "What's the matter with him?"

 

"This is his first journey by rail, and he's a little frightened."

 

"No wonder. The Lord only knows the suffering of animals in

transportation," said the old gentleman. "My dear young lady, if you

could see what I have seen, you'd never eat another bit of meat all the

days of your life."

 

Miss Laura wrinkled her forehead. "I know--I have heard," she faltered.

"It must be terrible."

 

"Terrible--it's awful," said the gentleman. "Think of the cattle on the

western plains. Choked with thirst in summer, and starved and frozen in

winter. Dehorned and goaded on to trains and steamers. Tossed about and

wounded and suffering on voyages. Many of them dying and being thrown

into the sea. Others landed sick and frightened. Some of them

slaughtered on docks and wharves to keep them from dropping dead in

their tracks. What kind of food does their flesh make? It's rank poison.

Three of my family have died of cancer. I am a vegetarian."

 

The strange old gentleman darted from his seat, and began to pace up and

down the room. I was very glad he had gone, for Miss Laura hated to hear

of cruelty of any kind, and her tears were dropping thick and fast on my

brown coat.

 

The gentleman had spoken very loudly, and every one in the room had

listened to what he said. Among them, was a very young man, with a cold,

handsome face. He looked as if he was annoyed that the older man should

have made Miss Laura cry.

 

"Don't you think, sir," he said, as the old gentleman passed near him in

walking up and down the floor, "that there is a great deal of mock

sentiment about this business of taking care of the dumb creation? They

were made for us. They've got to suffer and be killed to supply our

wants. The cattle and sheep, and other animals would over-run the earth,

if we didn't kill them."

 

"Granted," said the old man, stopping right in front of him. "Granted,

young man, if you take out that word suffer. The Lord made the sheep,

and the cattle, and the pigs. They are his creatures just as much as we

are. We can kill them, but we've no right to make them suffer."

 

"But we can't help it, sir."

 

"Yes, we can, my young man. It's a possible thing to raise healthy

stock, treat it kindly, kill it mercifully, eat it decently. When men do

that I, for one, will cease to be a vegetarian. You're only a boy. You

haven't traveled as I have. I've been from one end of this country to

the other. Up north, down south, and out west, I've seen sights that

made me shudder, and I tell you the Lord will punish this great American

nation if it doesn't change its treatment of the dumb animals committed

to its care."

 

The young man looked thoughtful, and did not reply. A very sweet faced

old lady sitting near him answered the old gentleman. I don't think I

have ever seen such a fine-looking old lady as she was. Her hair was

snowy white, and her face was deeply wrinkled, yet she was tall and

stately, and her expression was as pleasing as my dear Miss Laura's.

 

"I do not think we are a wicked nation," she said, softly. "We are a

younger nation than many of the nations of the earth, and I think that

many of our sins arise from ignorance and thoughtlessness."

 

"Yes, madame, yes, madame," said the fiery old gentleman, staring hard

at her. "I agree with you there."

 

She smiled very pleasantly at him and went on. "I, too, have been a

traveler, and I have talked to a great many wise and good people on the

subject of the cruel treatment of animals, and I find that many of them

have never thought about it. They, themselves, never knowingly ill-treat

a dumb creature, and when they are told stories of inhuman conduct, they

say in surprise, 'Why, these things surely can't exist!' You see they

have never been brought in contact with them. As soon as they learn

about them, they begin to agitate and say, 'We must have this thing

stopped. Where is the remedy?'"

 

"And what is it, what is it, madame, in your opinion?" said the old

gentleman, pawing the floor with impatience.

 

"Just the remedy that I would propose for the great evil of

intemperance," said the old lady, smiling at him. "Legislation and

education. Legislation for the old and hardened, and education for the

young and tender. I would tell the schoolboys and schoolgirls that

alcohol will destroy the framework of their beautiful bodies, and that

cruelty to any of God's living creatures will blight and destroy their

innocent young souls."

 

The young man spoke again. "Don't you think," he said, "that you

temperance and humane people lay too much stress upon the education of

our youth in all lofty and noble sentiments? The human heart will always

be wicked. Your Bible tells you that, doesn't it? You can't educate all

the badness out of children."

 

"We don't expect to do that," said the old lady, turning her pleasant

face toward him; "but even if the human heart is desperately wicked,

shouldn't that make us much more eager to try to educate, to ennoble,

and restrain? However, as far as my experience goes, and I have lived in

this wicked world for seventy-five years, I find that the human heart,

though wicked and cruel, as you say, has yet some soft and tender spots,

and the impressions made upon it in youth are never, never effaced. Do

you not remember better than anything else, standing at your mother's

knee--the pressure of her hand, her kiss on your forehead?"

 

By this time our engine had arrived. A whistle was blowing, and nearly

every one was rushing from the room, the impatient old gentleman among

the first. Miss Laura was hurriedly trying to do up her shawl strap, and

I was standing by, wishing that I could help her. The old lady and the

young man were the only other people in the room, and we could not help

hearing what they said.

 

"Yes, I do," he said in a thick voice, and his face got very red. "She

is dead now--I have no mother."

 

"Poor boy!" and the old lady laid her hand on his shoulder. They were

standing up, and she was taller than he was. "May God bless you. I know

you have a kind heart. I have four stalwart boys, and you remind me of

the youngest. If you are ever in Washington come to see me." She gave

him some name, and he lifted his hat and looked as if he was astonished

to find out who she was. Then he, too, went away, and she turned to Miss

Laura. "Shall I help you, my dear?"

 

"If you please," said my young mistress. "I can't fasten this strap."

 

In a few seconds the bundle was done up, and we were joyfully hastening

to the train. It was only a few miles to Riverdale, so the conductor let

me stay in the car with Miss Laura. She spread her coat out on the seat

in front of her, and I sat on it and looked out of the car window as we

sped along through a lovely country, all green and fresh in the June

sunlight. How light and pleasant this car was--so different from the

baggage car. What frightens an animal most of all things, is not to see

where it is going, not to know what is going to happen to it. I think

that they are very like human beings in this respect.

 

The lady had taken a seat beside Miss Laura, and as we went along, she

too looked out of the window and said in a low voice:

 

"What is so rare as a day in June,

Then, if ever, come perfect days."

 

"That is very true," said Miss Laura; "how sad that the autumn must

come, and the cold winter."

 

"No, my dear, not sad. It is but a preparation for another summer."

 

"Yes, I suppose it is," said Miss Laura. Then she continued a little

shyly, as her companion leaned over to stroke my cropped ears "You seem

very fond of animals."

 

"I am, my dear. I have four horses, two cows, a tame squirrel, three

dogs, and a cat."

 

"You should be a happy woman," said Miss Laura, with a smile.

 

"I think I am. I must not forget my horned toad, Diego, that I got in

California. I keep him in the green-house, and he is very happy catching

flies and holding his horny head to be scratched whenever any one comes

near."

 

"I don't see how any one can be unkind to animals," said Miss Laura,

thoughtfully.

 

"Nor I, my dear child. It has always caused me intense pain to witness

the torture of dumb animals. Nearly seventy years ago, when I was a

little girl walking the streets of Boston, I would tremble and grow

faint at the cruelty of drivers to over-loaded horses. I was timid and

did not dare speak to them. Very often, I ran home and flung myself in

my mother's arms with a burst of tears, and asked her if nothing could

be done to help the poor animals. With mistaken, motherly kindness, she

tried to put the subject out of my thoughts. I was carefully guarded

from seeing or hearing of any instances of cruelty. But the animals went

on suffering just the same, and when I became a woman, I saw my

cowardice. I agitated the matter among my friends, and told them that

our whole dumb creation was groaning together in pain, and would

continue to groan, unless merciful human beings were willing to help

them. I was able to assist in the formation of several societies for the

prevention of cruelty to animals, and they have done good service. Good

service not only to the horses and cows, but to the nobler animal, man.

I believe that in saying to a cruel man, 'You shall not overwork,

torture, mutilate, nor kill your animal, or neglect to provide it with

proper food and shelter,' we are making him a little nearer the kingdom

of heaven than he was before. For 'Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall

he also reap.' If he sows seeds of unkindness and cruelty to man and

beast, no one knows what the blackness of the harvest will be. His poor

horse, quivering under a blow, is not the worst sufferer. Oh, if people

would only understand that their unkind deeds will recoil upon their own

heads with tenfold force--but, my dear child, I am fancying that I am

addressing a drawing-room meeting--and here we are at your station.

Good-bye; keep your happy face and gentle ways. I hope that we may meet

again some day." She pressed Miss Laura's hand, gave me a farewell pat,

and the next minute we were outside on the platform, and she was smiling

through the window at us.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER XVI (DINGLEY FARM)

"My dear niece," and a stout, middle-aged woman, with a red, lively

face, threw both her arms around Miss Laura, "How glad I am to see you,

and this is the dog. Good Joe, I have a bone waiting for you. Here is

Uncle John."

 

A tall, good-looking man stepped up and put out a big hand, in which my

mistress' little fingers were quite swallowed up. "I am glad to see you,

Laura. Well, Joe, how d'ye do, old boy? I've heard about you."

 

It made me feel very welcome to have them both notice me, and I was so

glad to be out of the train that I frisked for joy around their feet as

we went to the wagon. It was a big double one, with an awning over it to

shelter it from the sun's rays, and the horses were drawn up in the

shade of a spreading tree. They were two powerful black horses, and as

they had no blinders on, they could see us coming. Their faces lighted

up and they moved their ears and pawed the ground, and whinnied when Mr.

Wood went up to them. They tried to rub their heads against him, and I

saw plainly that they loved him. "Steady there, Cleve and Pacer," he

said; "now back, back up."

 

By this time, Mrs. Wood, Miss Laura and I were in the wagon. Then Mr.

Wood jumped in, took up the reins, and off we went. How the two black

horses did spin along! I sat on the seat beside Mr. Wood, and sniffed in

the delicious air, and the lovely smell of flowers and grass. How glad I

was to be in the country! What long races I should have in the green

fields. I wished that I had another dog to run with me, and wondered

very much whether Mr. Wood kept one. I knew I should soon find out, for

whenever Miss Laura went to a place she wanted to know what animals

there were about.

 

We drove a little more than a mile along a country road where there were

scattered houses. Miss Laura answered questions about her family, and

asked questions about Mr. Harry, who was away at college and hadn't got

home. I don't think I have said before that Mr. Harry was Mrs. Wood's

son. She was a widow with one son when she married Mr. Wood, so that Mr.

Harry, though the Morrises called him cousin, was not really their

cousin.

 

I was very glad to hear them say that he was soon coming home, for I had

never forgotten that but for him I should never have known Miss Laura

and gotten into my pleasant home.

 

By-and-by, I heard Miss Laura say: "Uncle John, have you a dog?"

 

"Yes, Laura," he said; "I have one to-day, but I sha'n't have one

to-morrow."

 

"Oh, uncle, what do you mean?" she asked.

 

"Well, Laura," he replied, "you know animals are pretty much like

people. There are some good ones and some bad ones. Now, this dog is a

snarling, cross-grained, cantankerous beast, and when I heard Joe was

coming, I said: 'Now we'll have a good dog about the place, and here's

an end to the bad one.' So I tied Bruno up, and to-morrow I shall shoot

him. Something's got to be done, or he'll be biting some one."

 

"Uncle," said Miss Laura, "people don't always die when they are bitten

by dogs, do they?"

 

"No, certainly not," replied Mr. Wood. "In my humble opinion there's a

great lot of nonsense talked about the poison of a dog's bite and people

dying of hydrophobia. Ever since I was born I've had dogs snap at me and

stick their teeth in my flesh; and I've never had a symptom of

hydrophobia, and never intend to have. I believe half the people that

are bitten by dogs frighten themselves into thinking they are fatally

poisoned. I was reading the other day about the policemen in a big city

in England that have to catch stray dogs, and dogs supposed to be mad,

and all kinds of dogs, and they get bitten over and over again, and

never think anything about it. But let a lady or a gentleman walking

along the street have a dog bite them, and they worry themselves till

their blood is in a fever, and they have to hurry across to France to

get Pasteur to cure them. They imagine they've got hydrophobia, and

they've got it because they imagine it. I believe if I fixed my

attention on that right thumb of mine, and thought I had a sore there,

and picked at it and worried it, in a short time a sore would come, and

I'd be off to the doctor to have it cured. At the same time dogs have no

business to bite, and I don't recommend any one to get bitten."

 

"But, uncle," said Miss Laura, "isn't there such a thing as

hydrophobia?"

 

"Oh, yes; I dare say there is. I believe that a careful examination of

the records of death reported in Boston from hydrophobia for the space

of thirty-two years, shows that two people actually died from it. Dogs

are like all other animals. They're liable to sickness, and they've got

to be watched. I think my horses would go mad if I starved them, or

over-fed them, or over-worked them, or let them stand in laziness, or

kept them dirty, or didn't give them water enough. They'd get some

disease, anyway. If a person owns an animal, let him take care of it,

and it's all right. If it shows signs of sickness, shut it up and watch

1. If the sickness is incurable, kill it. Here's a sure way to prevent

hydrophobia. Kill off all ownerless and vicious dogs. If you can't do

that, have plenty of water where they can get at it. A dog that has all

the water he wants, will never go mad. This dog of mine has not one

single thing the matter with him but pure ugliness. Yet, if I let him

loose, and he ran through the village with his tongue out, I'll warrant

you there'd be a cry of 'mad dog!' However, I'm going to kill him. I've

no use for a bad dog. Have plenty of animals, I say, and treat them

kindly, but if there's a vicious one among them, put it out of the way,

for it is a constant danger to man and beast. It's queer how ugly some

people are about their dogs. They'll keep them no matter how they worry

other people, and even when they're snatching the bread out of their

neighbors' mouths. But I say that is not the fault of the four-legged

dog. A human dog is the worst of all. There's a band of sheep-killing

dogs here in Riverdale, that their owners can't, or won't, keep out of

mischief. Meek-looking fellows some of them are. The owners go to bed at

night, and the dogs pretend to go, too; but when the house is quiet and

the family asleep, off goes Rover or Fido to worry poor, defenseless

creatures that can't defend themselves. Their taste for sheep's blood is

like the taste for liquor in men, and the dogs will travel as far to get

their fun, as the men will travel for theirs. They've got it in them,

and you can't get it out.

 

"Mr. Windham cured his dog," said Mrs. Wood.

 

Mr. Wood burst into a hearty laugh. "So he did, so he did. I must tell

Laura about that. Windham is a neighbor of ours, and last summer I kept

telling him that his collie was worrying my Shropshires. He wouldn't

believe me, but I knew I was right, and one night when Harry was home,

he lay in wait for the dog and lassoed him. I tied him up and sent for

Windham. You should have seen his face, and the dog's face. He said two

words, 'You scoundrel!' and the dog cowered at his feet as if he had

been shot. He was a fine dog, but he'd got corrupted by evil companions.

Then Windham asked me where my sheep were. I told him in the pasture. He

asked me if I still had my old ram Bolton. I said yes, and then he

wanted eight or ten feet of rope. I gave it to him, and wondered what on

earth he was going to do with it. He tied one end of it to the dog's

collar, and holding the other in his hand, set out for the pasture. He

asked us to go with him, and when he got there, he told Harry he'd like

to see him catch Bolton. There wasn't any need to catch him, he'd come

to us like a dog. Harry whistled, and when Bolton came up, Windham

fastened the rope's end to his horns, and let him go. The ram was

frightened and ran, dragging the dog with him. We let them out of the

pasture into an open field, and for a few minutes there was such a

racing and chasing over that field as I never saw before. Harry leaned

up against the bars and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks,

Then Bolton got mad, and began to make battle with the dog, pitching

into him with his horns. We soon stopped that, for the spirit had all

gone out of Dash. Windham unfastened the rope, and told him to get home,

and if ever I saw a dog run, that one did. Mrs. Windham set great store

by him, and her husband didn't want to kill him. But he said Dash had

got to give up his sheep-killing, if he wanted to live. That cured him.

He's never worried a sheep from that day to this, and if you offer him a

bit of sheep's wool now, he tucks his tail between his legs, and runs

for home. Now, I must stop my talk, for we're in sight of the farm.

Yonder's our boundary line, and there's the house. You'll see a

difference in the trees since you were here before."

 

We had come to a turn in the road where the ground sloped gently upward.

We turned in at the gate, and drove between rows of trees up to a long,

low, red house, with a veranda all round it. There was a wide lawn in

front, and away on our right were the farm buildings. They too, were

painted red, and there were some trees by them that Mr. Wood called his

windbreak, because they kept the snow from drifting in the winter time.

 

I thought it was a beautiful place. Miss Laura had been here before, but

not for some years, so she, too, was looking about quite eagerly.

 

"Welcome to Dingley Farm, Joe," said Mrs. Wood, with her jolly laugh, as

she watched me jump from the carriage seat to the ground. "Come in, and

I'll introduce you to pussy."

 

"Aunt Hattie, why is the farm called Dingley Farm?" said Miss Laura, as

we went into the house. "It ought to be Wood Farm."

 

"Dingley is made out of 'dingle,' Laura. You know that pretty hollow

back of the pasture? It is what they call a 'dingle.' So this farm was

called Dingle Farm till the people around about got saying 'Dingley'

instead. I suppose they found it easier. Why, here is Lolo coming to see

Joe."

 

Walking along the wide hall that ran through the house was a large

tortoise-shell cat. She had a prettily marked face, and she was waving

her large tail like a flag, and mewing kindly to greet her mistress. But

when she saw me what a face she made. She flew on the hall table, and

putting up her back till it almost lifted her feet from the ground,

began to spit at me and bristle with rage.

 

"Poor Lolo," said Mrs. Wood, going up to her. "Joe is a good dog, and

not like Bruno. He won't hurt you."

 

I wagged myself about a little, and looked kindly at her, but she did

nothing but say bad words to me. It was weeks and weeks before I made

friends with that cat. She was a young thing, and had known only one

dog, and he was a bad one, so she supposed all dogs were like him.

 

There was a number of rooms opening off the hall, and one of them was

the dining room where they had tea. I lay on a rug outside the door and

watched them. There was a small table spread with a white cloth, and it

had pretty dishes and glassware on it, and a good many different kinds

of things to eat. A little French girl, called Adele, kept coming and

going from the kitchen to give them hot cakes, and fried eggs, and hot

coffee. As soon as they finished their tea, Mrs. Wood gave me one of the

best meals that I ever had in my life.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER XVII (MR. WOOD AND HIS HORSES)

The morning after we arrived in Riverdale I was up very early and

walking around the house. I slept in the woodshed, and could run

outdoors whenever I liked.

 

The woodshed was at the back of the house, and near it was the tool

shed. Then there was a carriage house, and a plank walk leading to the

barnyard.

 

I ran up this walk, and looked into the first building I came to. It was

the horse stable. A door stood open, and the morning sun was glancing

1. There were several horses there, some with their heads toward me,

and some with their tails. I saw that instead of being tied up, there

were gates outside their stalls, and they could stand in any way they

liked.

 

There was a man moving about at the other end of the stable, and long

before he saw me, I knew that it was Mr. Wood. What a nice, clean stable

he had! There was always a foul smell coming out of Jenkins's stable,

but here the air seemed as pure inside as outside. There was a number of

little gratings in the wall to let in the fresh air, and they were so

placed that drafts would not blow on the horses. Mr. Wood was going from

one horse to another, giving them hay, and talking to them in a cheerful

voice. At last he spied me, and cried out, "The top of the morning to

you, Joe! You are up early. Don't come too near the horses, good dog,"

as I walked in beside him; "they might think you are another Bruno, and

give you a sly bite or kick. I should have shot him long ago. 'Tis hard

to make a good dog suffer for a bad one, but that's the way of the

world. Well, old fellow, what do you think of my horse stable? Pretty

fair, isn't it?" And Mr. Wood went on talking to me as he fed and

groomed his horses, till I soon found out that his chief pride was in

them.

 

I like to have human beings talk to me. Mr. Morris often reads his

sermons to me, and Miss Laura tells me secrets that I don't think she

would tell to any one else.

 

I watched Mr. Wood carefully, while he groomed a huge, gray cart-horse,

that he called Dutchman. He took a brush in his right hand, and a

curry-comb in his left, and he curried and brushed every part of the

horse's skin, and afterward wiped him with a cloth. "A good grooming is

equal to two quarts of oats, Joe," he said to me.

 

Then he stooped down and examined the horse's hoofs. "Your shoes are too

heavy, Dutchman," he said; "but that pig-headed blacksmith thinks he

knows more about horses than I do. 'Don't cut the sole nor the frog,' I

say to him. 'Don't pare the hoof so much, and don't rasp it; and fit

your shoe to the foot, and not the foot to the shoe,' and he looks as if

he wanted to say, 'Mind your own business.' We'll not go to him again.

''Tis hard to teach an old dog new tricks.' I got you to work for me,

not to wear out your strength in lifting about his weighty shoes."

 

Mr. Wood stopped talking for a few minutes, and whistled a tune. Then he

began again. "I've made a study of horses, Joe. Over forty years I've

studied them, and it's my opinion that the average horse knows more than

the average man that drives him. When I think of the stupid fools that

are goading patient horses about, beating them and misunderstanding

them, and thinking they are only clods of earth with a little life in

them, I'd like to take their horses out of the shafts and harness them

in, and I'd trot them off at a pace, and slash them, and jerk them, till

I guess they'd come out with a little less patience than the animal

does.

 

"Look at this Dutchman--see the size of him. You'd think he hadn't any

more nerves than a bit of granite. Yet he's got a skin as sensitive as a

girl's. See how he quivers if I run the curry-comb too harshly over him.

The idiot I got him from didn't know what was the matter with him. He'd

bought him for a reliable horse, and there he was, kicking and stamping

whenever the boy went near him. 'Your boy's got too heavy a hand, Deacon

Jones,' said I, when he described the horse's actions to me. 'You may

depend upon it, a four-legged creature, unlike a two-legged one, has a

reason for everything he does.' 'But he's only a draught horse,' said

Deacon Jones. 'Draught horse or no draught horse,' said I, 'you're

describing a horse with a tender skin to me, and I don't care if he's as

big as an elephant.' Well, the old man grumbled and said he didn't want

any thoroughbred airs in his stable, so I bought you, didn't I,

Dutchman?" and Mr. Wood stroked him kindly and went to the next stall.

 

In each stall was a small tank of water with a sliding cover, and I

found out afterward that these covers were put on when a horse came in

too heated to have a drink. At any other time, he could drink all he

liked. Mr. Wood believed in having plenty of pure water for all his

animals and they all had their own place to get a drink.

 

Even I had a little bowl of water in the woodshed, though I could easily

have run up to the barnyard when I wanted a drink. As soon as I came,

Mrs. Wood asked Adele to keep it there for me and when I looked up

gratefully at her, she said: "Every animal should have its own feeding

place and its own sleeping place, Joe; that is only fair."

 

The next horses Mr. Wood groomed were the black ones, Cleve and Pacer.

Pacer had something wrong with his mouth, and Mr. Wood turned back his

lips and examined it carefully. This he was able to do, for there were

large windows in the stable and it was as light as Mr. Wood's house was.

 

"No dark corners here, eh Joe!" said Mr. Wood, as he came out of the

stall and passed me to get a bottle from a shelf. "When this stable was

built, I said no dirt holes for careless men here. I want the sun to

shine in the corners, and I don't want my horses to smell bad smells,

for they hate them, and I don't want them starting when they go into the

light of day, just because they've been kept in a black hole of a

stable, and I've never had a sick horse yet."

 

He poured something from a bottle into a saucer and went back to Pacer

with it. I followed him and stood outside. Mr. Wood seemed to be washing

a sore in the horse's mouth. Pacer winced a little, and Mr. Wood said:

"Steady, steady, my beauty; 'twill soon be over."

 

The horse fixed his intelligent eyes on his master and looked as if he

knew that he was trying to do him good.

 

"Just look at these lips, Joe," said Mr. Wood; "delicate and fine like

our own, and yet there are brutes that will jerk them as if they were

made of iron. I wish the Lord would give horses voices just for one

week. I tell you they'd scare some of us. Now, Pacer, that's over. I'm

not going to dose you much, for I don't believe in it. If a horse has

got a serious trouble, get a good horse doctor, say I. If it's a simple

thing, try a simple remedy. There's been many a good horse drugged and

dosed to death. Well, Scamp, my beauty, how are you, this morning?"

 

In the stall next to Pacer, was a small, jet-black mare, with a lean

head, slender legs, and a curious restless manner. She was a regular

greyhound of a horse, no spare flesh, yet wiry and able to do a great

deal of work. She was a wicked looking little thing, so I thought I had

better keep at a safe distance from her heels.

 

Mr. Wood petted her a great deal and I saw that she was his favorite.

"Saucebox," he exclaimed, when she pretended to bite him, "you know if

you bite me, I'll bite back again. I think I've conquered you," he said,

proudly, as he stroked her glossy neck; "but what a dance you led me. Do

you remember how I bought you for a mere song, because you had a bad

habit of turning around like a flash in front of anything that

frightened you, and bolting off the other way? And how did I cure you,

my beauty? Beat you and make you stubborn? Not I. I let you go round and

round; I turned you and twisted you, the oftener the better for me, till

at last I got it into your pretty head that turning and twisting was

addling your brains, and you had better let me be master.

 

"You've minded me from that day, haven't you? Horse, or man, or dog

aren't much good till they learn to obey, and I've thrown you down and

I'll do it again if you bite me, so take care."

 

Scamp tossed her pretty head, and took little pieces of Mr. Wood's shirt

sleeve in her mouth, keeping her cunning brown eye on him as if to see

how far she could go. But she did not bite him. I think she loved him,

for when he left her she whinnied shrilly, and he had to go back and

stroke and caress her.

 

After that I often used to watch her as she went about the farm. She

always seemed to be tugging and striving at her load, and trying to step

out fast and do a great deal of work. Mr. Wood was usually driving her.

The men didn't like her, and couldn't manage her. She had not been

properly broken in.

 

After Mr. Wood finished his work he went and stood in the doorway. There

were six horses altogether: Dutchman, Cleve, Pacer, Scamp, a bay mare

called Ruby, and a young horse belonging to Mr. Harry, whose name was

Fleetfoot.

 

"What do you think of them all?" said Mr. Wood, looking down at me. "A

pretty fine-looking lot of horses, aren't they? Not a thoroughbred

there, but worth as much to me as if each had pedigree as long as this

plank walk. There's a lot of humbug about this pedigree business in

horses. Mine have their manes and tails anyway, and the proper use of

their eyes, which is more liberty than some thoroughbreds get.

 

"I'd like to see the man that would persuade me to put blinders or

check-reins or any other instrument of torture on my horses. Don't the

simpletons know that blinders are the cause of--well, I wouldn't like to

say how many of our accidents, Joe, for fear you'd think me extravagant

and the check-rein drags up a horse's head out of its fine natural curve

and presses sinews, bones, and joints together, till the horse is

well-nigh mad. Ah, Joe, this is a cruel world for man or beast. You're a

standing token of that, with your missing ears and tail. And now I've

got to go and be cruel, and shoot that dog. He must be disposed of

before anyone else is astir. How I hate to take life."

 

He sauntered down the walk to the tool shed, went in and soon came out

leading a large, brown dog by a chain. This was Bruno. He was snapping

and snarling and biting at his chain as he went along, though Mr. Wood

led him very kindly, and when he saw me he acted as if he could have

torn me to pieces. After Mr. Wood took him behind the barn, he came back

and got his gun. I ran away so that I would not hear the sound of it,

for I could not help feeling sorry for Bruno.

 

Miss Laura's room was on one side of the house, and in the second story.

There was a little balcony outside it, and when I got near I saw that

she was standing out on it wrapped in a shawl. Her hair was streaming

over her shoulders, and she was looking down into the garden where there

were a great many white and yellow flowers in bloom.

 

I barked, and she looked at me. "Dear old Joe, I will get dressed and

come down."

 

She hurried into her room, and I lay on the veranda till I heard her

step. Then I jumped up. She unlocked the front door, and we went for a

walk down the lane to the road until we heard the breakfast bell. As

soon as we heard it we ran back to the house, and Miss Laura had such an

appetite for her breakfast that her aunt said the country had done her

good already.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER XVIII (MRS. WOOD'S POULTRY)

After breakfast, Mrs. Wood put on a large apron, and going into the

kitchen, said: "Have you any scraps for the hens, Adele? Be sure and not

give me anything salty."

 

The French girl gave her a dish of food, then Mrs. Wood asked Miss Laura

to go and see her chickens, and away we went to the poultry house.

 

On the way we saw Mr. Wood. He was sitting on the step of the tool shed

cleaning his gun. "Is the dog dead?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"Yes," he said.

 

She sighed and said: "Poor creature, I am sorry he had to be killed.

Uncle, what is the most merciful way to kill a dog? Sometimes, when they

get old, they should be put out of the way."

 

"You can shoot them," he said, "or you can poison them. I shot Bruno

through his head into his neck. There's a right place to aim at. It's a

little one side of the top of the skull. If you'll remind me I'll show

you a circular I have in the house. It tells the proper way to kill

animals: The American Humane Education Society in Boston puts it out,

and it's a merciful thing.

 

"You don't know anything about the slaughtering of animals, Laura, and

it's well you don't. There's an awful amount of cruelty practised, and

practised by some people that think themselves pretty good. I wouldn't

have my lambs killed the way my father had his for a kingdom. I'll never

forget the first one I saw butchered. I wouldn't feel worse at a hanging

now. And that white ox, Hattie--you remember my telling you about him.

He had to be killed, and father sent for the butcher, I was only a lad,

and I was all of a shudder to have the life of the creature I had known

taken from him. The butcher, stupid clown, gave him eight blows before

he struck the right place. The ox bellowed, and turned his great black

eyes on my father, and I fell in a faint."

 

Miss Laura turned away, and Mrs. Wood followed her, saying: "If ever you

want to kill a cat, Laura, give it cyanide of potassium. I killed a poor

old sick cat for Mrs. Windham the other day. We put half a teaspoonful

of pure cyanide of potassium in a long-handled wooden spoon, and dropped

it on the cat's tongue, as near the throat as we could. Poor pussy--she

died in a few seconds. Do you know, I was reading such a funny thing the

other day about giving cats medicine. They hate it, and one can scarcely

force it into their mouths on account of their sharp teeth. The way is,

to smear it on their sides, and they lick it off. A good idea, isn't it?

Here we are at the hen house, or rather one of the hen houses."

 

"Don't you keep your hens all together?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"Only in the winter time," said Mrs. Wood. "I divide my flock in the

spring. Part of them stay here and part go to the orchard to live in

little movable houses that we put about in different places. I feed each

flock morning and evening at their own little house. They know they'll

get no food even if they come to my house, so they stay at home. And

they know they'll get no food between times, so all day long they pick

and scratch in the orchard, and destroy so many bugs and insects that it

more than pays for the trouble of keeping them there."

 

"Doesn't this flock want to mix up with the other?" asked Miss Laura, as

she stepped into the little wooden house.

 

"No; they seem to understand. I keep my eye on them for a while at

first, and they soon find out that they're not to fly either over the

garden fence or the orchard fence. They roam over the farm and pick up

what they can get. There's a good deal of sense in hens, if one manages

them properly. I love them because they are such good mothers."

 

We were in the little wooden house by this time, and I looked around it

with surprise. It was better than some of the poor people's houses in

Fairport. The walls were white and clean, so were the little ladders

that led up to different kinds of roosts, where the fowls sat at night.

Some roosts were thin and round, and some were broad and flat. Mrs. Wood

said that the broad ones were for a heavy fowl called the Brahma. Every

part of the little house was almost as light as it was out doors, on

account of the large windows.

 

Miss Laura spoke of it. "Why, auntie, I never saw such a light hen

house."

 

Mrs. Wood was diving into a partly shut-in place, where it was not so

light, and where the nests were. She straightened herself up, her face

redder than ever, and looked at the windows with a pleased smile.

 

"Yes, there's not a hen house in New Hampshire with such big windows.

Whenever I look at them, I think of my mother's hens, and wish that they

could have had a place like this. They would have thought themselves in

a hen's paradise. When I was a girl we didn't know that hens loved light

and heat, and all winter they used to sit in a dark hencoop, and the

cold was so bad that their combs would freeze stiff, and the tops of

them would drop off. We never thought about it. If we'd had any sense,

we might have watched them on a fine day go and sit on the compost heap

and sun themselves, and then have concluded that if they liked light and

heat outside, they'd like it inside. Poor biddies, they were so cold

that they wouldn't lay us any eggs in winter."

 

"You take a great interest in your poultry, don't you auntie?" said Miss

Laura.

 

"Yes, indeed, and well I may. I'll show you my brown Leghorn, Jenny,

that lay eggs enough in a year to pay for the newspapers I take to keep

myself posted in poultry matters. I buy all my own clothes with my hen

money, and lately I've started a bank account, for I want to save up

enough to start a few stands of bees. Even if I didn't want to be kind

to my hens, it would pay me to be so for sake of the profit they yield.

Of course they're quite a lot of trouble. Sometimes they get vermin on

them, and I have to grease them and dust carbolic acid on them, and try

some of my numerous cures. Then I must keep ashes and dust wallows for

them and be very particular about my eggs when hens are sitting, and see

that the hens come off regularly for food and exercise. Oh, there are a

hundred things I have to think of, but I always say to any one that

thinks of raising poultry: 'If you are going into the business for the

purpose of making money, it pays to take care of them.'"

 

"There's one thing I notice," said Miss Laura, "and that is that your

drinking fountains must be a great deal better than the shallow pans

that I have seen some people give their hens water in."

 

"Dirty things they are," said Mrs. Wood; "I wouldn't use one of them. I

don't think there is anything worse for hens than drinking dirty water.

My hens must have as clean water as I drink myself, and in winter I heat

it for them. If it's poured boiling into the fountains in the morning,

it keeps warm till night. Speaking of shallow drinking dishes, I

wouldn't use them, even before I ever heard of a drinking fountain. John

made me something that we read about. He used to take a powder keg and

bore a little hole in the side, about an inch from the top, then fill it

with water, and cover with a pan a little larger round than the keg.

Then he turned the keg upside down, without taking away the pan. The

water ran into the pan only as far as the hole in the keg, and it would

have to be used before more would flow in. Now let us go and see my

beautiful, bronze turkeys. They don't need any houses, for they roost in

the trees the year round."

 

We found the flock of turkeys, and Miss Laura admired their changeable

colors very much. Some of them were very large, and I did not like them,

for the gobblers ran at me, and made a dreadful noise in their throats.

 

Afterward, Mrs. Wood showed us some ducks that she had shut up in a

yard. She said that she was feeding them on vegetable food, to give

their flesh a pure flavor, and by-and-by she would send them to market

and get a high price for them.

 

Every place she took us to was as clean as possible. "No one can be

successful in raising poultry in large numbers," she said, "unless they

keep their quarters clean and comfortable."

 

As yet we had seen no hens, except a few on the nests, and Miss Laura

said, "Where are they? I should like to see them."

 

"They are coming," said Mrs. Wood. "It is just their breakfast time, and

they are as punctual as clockwork. They go off early in the morning, to

scratch about a little for themselves first."

 

As she spoke she stepped off the plank walk, and looked off towards, the

fields.

 

Miss Laura burst out laughing. Away beyond the barns the hens were

coming. Seeing Mrs. Wood standing there, they thought they were late,

and began to run and fly, jumping over each other's backs, and

stretching out their necks, in a state of great excitement. Some of

their legs seemed sticking straight out behind. It was very funny to see

them.

 

They were a fine-looking lot of poultry, mostly white, with glossy

feathers and bright eyes. They greedily ate the food scattered to them,

and Mrs. Wood said, "They think I've changed their breakfast time, and

to-morrow they'll come a good bit earlier. And yet some people say hens

have no sense."

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER XIX (A BAND OF MERCY)

A few evenings after we came to Dingley Farm, Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura

were sitting out on the veranda, and I was lying at their feet.

 

"Auntie," said Miss Laura, "What do those letters mean on that silver

pin that you wear with that piece of ribbon?"

 

"You know what the white ribbon means, don't you?" asked Mrs. Wood.

 

"Yes; that you are a temperance woman, doesn't it?"

 

"It does; and the star pin means that I am a member of a Band of Mercy.

Do you know what a Band of Mercy is?"

 

"No," said Miss Laura.

 

"How strange! I should think that you would have several in Fairport. A

cripple boy, the son of a Boston artist, started this one here. It has

done a great deal of good. There is a meeting to-morrow, and I will take

you to it if you like."

 

It was on Monday that Mrs. Wood had this talk with Miss Laura, and the

next afternoon, after all the work was done, they got ready to go to the

village.

 

"May Joe go?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"Certainly," said Mrs. Wood; "he is such a good dog that he won't be any

trouble."

 

I was very glad to hear this, and trotted along by them down the lane to

the road. The lane was a very cool and pleasant place. There were tall

trees growing on each side, and under them, among the grass, pretty wild

flowers were peeping out to look at us as we went by.

 

Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura talked all the way about the Band of Mercy.

Miss Laura was much interested, and said that she would like to start

one in Fairport.

 

"It is a very simple thing," said Mrs. Wood. "All you have to do is to

write the pledge at the top of a piece of paper: 'I will try to be kind

to all harmless living creatures, and try to protect them from cruel

usage,' and get thirty people to sign it. That makes a band.

 

"I have formed two or three bands by keeping slips of paper ready, and

getting people that come to visit me to sign them. I call them

'Corresponding Bands,' for they are too far apart to meet. I send the

members 'Band of Mercy' papers, and I get such nice letters from them,

telling me of kind things they do for animals.

 

"A Band of Mercy in a place is a splendid thing. There's the greatest

difference in Riverdale since this one was started. A few years ago,

when a man beat or raced his horse, and any one interfered, he said:

'This horse is mine; I'll do what I like with him.' Most people thought

he was right, but now they're all for the poor horse and there isn't a

man anywhere around who would dare to abuse any animal.

 

"It's all the children. They're doing a grand work, and I say it's a

good thing for them. Since we've studied this subject, it's enough to

frighten one to read what is sent us about our American boys and girls.

Do you know, Laura, that with all our brag about our schools and

colleges, that really are wonderful, we're turning out more criminals

than any other civilized country in the world, except Spain and Italy?

The cause of it is said to be lack of proper training for the youth of

our land. Immigration has something to do with it, too. We're thinking

too much about educating the mind, and forgetting about the heart and

soul. So I say now, while we've got all our future population in our

schools, saints and sinners, good people and bad people, let us try to

slip in something between the geography, and history, and grammar that

will go a little deeper, and touch them so much, that when they are

grown up and go out in the world, they will carry with them lessons of

love and good-will to men.

 

"A little child is such a tender thing. You can bend it anyway you like.

Speaking of this heart education of children, as set over against mind

education, I see that many school-teachers say that there is nothing

better than to give them lessons on kindness to animals. Children who

are taught to love and protect dumb creatures will be kind to their

fellow-men when they grow up."

 

I was very much pleased with this talk between Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura,

and kept close to them so that I would not miss a word.

 

As we went along, houses began to appear here and there, set back from

the road among the trees. Soon they got quite close together, and I saw

some shops.

 

This was the village of Riverdale, and nearly all the buildings were

along this winding street. The river was away back of the village. We

had already driven there several times.

 

We passed the school on our way. It was a square, white building,

standing in the middle of a large yard. Boys and girls, with their arms

full of books, were hurrying down the steps and coming into the street.

Two quite big boys came behind us, and Mrs. Wood turned around and spoke

to them, and asked if they were going to the Band of Mercy.

 

"Oh, yes; ma'am," said the younger one "I've got a recitation, don't you

remember?"

 

"Yes, yes; excuse me for forgetting," said Mrs. Wood, with her jolly

laugh. "And here are Dolly, and Jennie, and Martha," she went on, as

some little girls came running out of a house that we were passing.

 

The little girls joined us and looked so hard at my head and stump of a

tail, and my fine collar, that I felt quite shy, and walked with my head

against Miss Laura's dress.

 

She stooped down and patted me, and then I felt as if I didn't care how

much they stared. Miss Laura never forgot me. No matter how earnestly

she was talking, or playing a game, or doing anything, she always

stopped occasionally to give me a word or look, to show that she knew I

was near.

 

Mrs. Wood paused in front of a building on the main street. A great many

boys and girls were going in, and we went with them. We found ourselves

in a large room, with a platform at one end of it. There were some

chairs on this platform and a small table.

 

A boy stood by this table with his hand on a bell. Presently he rang it,

and then every one kept still. Mrs. Wood whispered to Miss Laura that

this boy was the president of the band, and the young man with the pale

face and curly hair who sat in front of him was Mr. Maxwell, the

artist's son, who had formed this Band of Mercy.

 

The lad who presided had a ringing, pleasant voice. He said they would

begin their meeting by singing a hymn. There was an organ near the

platform, and a young girl played on it, while all the other boys and

girls stood up, and sang very sweetly and clearly.

 

After they had sung the hymn, the president asked for the report of

their last meeting.

 

A little girl, blushing and hanging her head, came forward, and read

what was written on a paper that she held in her hand.

 

The president made some remarks after she had finished, and then every

one had to vote. It was just like a meeting of grown people, and I was

surprised to see how good those children were. They did not frolic nor

laugh, but all seemed sober and listened attentively.

 

After the voting was over, the president called upon John Turner to give

a recitation. This was the boy whom we saw on the way there. He walked

up to the platform, made a bow, and said that he had learned two stories

for his recitation, out of the paper, "Dumb Animals." One story was

about a horse, and the other was about a dog, and he thought that they

were two of the best animal stories on record. He would tell the horse

story first.

 

"A man in Missouri had to go to Nebraska to see about some land. He went

on horseback, on a horse that he had trained himself, and that came at

his whistle like a dog. On getting into Nebraska, he came to a place

where there were two roads. One went by a river, and the other went over

the hill. The man saw that the travel went over the hill, but thought

he'd take the river road. He didn't know that there was a quicksand

across it, and that people couldn't use it in spring and summer. There

used to be a sign board to tell strangers about it, but it had been

taken away. The man got off his horse to let him graze, and walked along

till he got so far ahead of the horse that he had to sit down and wait

for him. Suddenly he found that he was on a quicksand. His feet had sunk

in the sand, and he could not get them out. He threw himself down, and

whistled for his horse, and shouted for help, but no one came. He could

hear some young people singing out on the river, but they could not hear

him. The terrible sand drew him in almost to his shoulders, and he

thought he was lost. At that moment the horse came running up, and stood

by his master. The man was too low down to get hold of the saddle or

bridle, so he took hold of the horse's tail, and told him to go. The

horse gave an awful pull, and landed his master on safe ground."

 

Everybody clapped his hands, and stamped when this story was finished,

and called out: "The dog story--the dog story!"

 

The boy bowed and smiled, and began again. "You all know what a

'round-up' of cattle is, so I need not explain. Once a man down south

was going to have one, and he and his boys and friends were talking it

over. There was an ugly, black steer in the herd, and they were

wondering whether their old yellow dog would be able to manage him. The

dog's name was Tige, and he lay and listened wisely to their talk. The

next day there was a scene of great confusion. The steer raged and tore

about, and would allow no one to come within whip touch of him. Tige,

who had always been brave, skulked about for a while, and then, as if he

had got up a little spirit, he made a run at the steer. The steer

sighted him, gave a bellow, and, lowering his horns, ran at him. Tige

turned tail, and the young men that owned him were frantic. They'd been

praising him, and thought they were going to have it proven false. Their

father called out: 'Don't shoot Tige, till you see where he's running

to.' The dog ran right to the cattle pen. The steer was so enraged that

he never noticed where he was going, and dashed in after him. Tige

leaped the wall, and came back to the gate, barking and yelping for the

men to come and shut the steer in. They shut the gate and petted Tige,

and bought him a collar with a silver plate."

 

The boy was loudly cheered, and went to his seat. The president said he

would like to have remarks made about these two stories.

 

Several children put up their hands, and he asked each one to speak in

turn. One said that if that man's horse had had a docked tail, his

master wouldn't have been able to reach it, and would have perished.

Another said that if the man hadn't treated his horse kindly, he never

would have come at his whistle, and stood over him to see what he could

do to help him. A third child said that the people on the river weren't

as quick at hearing the voice of the man in trouble as the horse was.

 

When this talk was over, the president called for some stories of

foreign animals.

 

Another boy came forward, made his bow, and said, in a short, abrupt

voice, "My uncle's name is Henry Worthington. He is an Englishman, and

once he was a soldier in India. One day when he was hunting in the

Punjab, he saw a mother monkey carrying a little dead baby monkey. Six

months after, he was in the same jungle. Saw same monkey still carrying

dead baby monkey, all shriveled up. Mother monkey loved her baby monkey,

and wouldn't give it up."

 

The boy went to his seat, and the president, with a queer look in his

face, said, "That's a very good story, Ronald--if it is true."

 

None of the children laughed, but Mrs. Wood's face got like a red poppy,

and Miss Laura bit her lip, and Mr. Maxwell buried his head in his arms,

his whole frame shaking.

 

The boy who told the story looked very angry He jumped up again. "My

uncle's a true man, Phil. Dodge, and never told a lie in his life."

 

The president remained standing, his face a deep scarlet, and a tall boy

at the back of the room got up and said, "Mr. President, what would be

impossible in this climate, might be possible in a hot country like

India. Doesn't heat sometimes draw up and preserve things?"

 

The president's face cleared. "Thank you for the suggestion," he said.

"I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings; but you know there is a rule

in the band that only true stories are to be told here. We have five

more minutes for foreign stories. Has any one else one?"

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER XX (STORIES ABOUT ANIMALS)

 

A small girl, with twinkling eyes and a merry face, got up, just behind

Miss Laura, and made her way to the front. "My dranfadder says," she

began, in a piping little voice, "dat when he was a little boy his

fadder brought him a little monkey from de West Indies. De naughty boys

in de village used to tease de little monkey, and he runned up a tree

one day. Dey was drowing stones at him, and a man dat was paintin' de

house druv 'em away. De monkey runned down de tree, and shook hands wid

de man. My dranfadder saw him," she said, with a shake of her head at

the president, as if she was afraid he would doubt her.

 

There was great laughing and clapping of hands when this little girl

took her seat, and she hopped right up again and ran back. "Oh, I

fordot," she went on, in her squeaky, little voice, "dat my dranfadder

says dat afterward de monkey upset de painter's can of oil, and rolled

in it, and den jumped down in my dranfadder's flour barrel."

 

The president looked very much amused, and said, "We have had some good

stories about monkeys, now let us have some more about our home animals.

Who can tell us another story about a horse?"

 

Three or four boys jumped up, but the president said they would take one

at a time. The first one was this: A Riverdale boy was walking along the

bank of a canal in Hoytville. He saw a boy driving two horses, which

were towing a canal-boat. The first horse was lazy, and the boy got

angry and struck him several times over the head with his whip. The

Riverdale boy shouted across to him, begging him not to be so cruel; but

the boy paid no attention. Suddenly the horse turned, seized his

tormentor by the shoulder, and pushed him into the canal. The water was

not deep, and the boy, after floundering about for a few seconds, came

out dripping with mud and filth, and sat down on the tow path, and

looked at the horse with such a comical expression, that the Riverdale

boy had to stuff his handkerchief in his mouth to keep from laughing.

 

"It is to be hoped that he would learn a lesson," said the president,

"and be kinder to his horse in the future. Now, Bernard Howe, your

story."

 

The boy was a brother to the little girl who had told the monkey story,

and he, too, had evidently been talking to his grandfather. He told two

stories, and Miss Laura listened eagerly, for they were about Fairport.

 

The boy said that when his grandfather was young, he lived in Fairport,

Maine. On a certain day he stood in the market square to see their first

stage-coach put together. It had come from Boston in pieces, for there

was no one in Fairport that could make one. The coach went away up into

the country one day, and came back the next. For a long time no one

understood driving the horses properly, and they came in day after day

with the blood streaming from them. The whiffle-tree would swing round

and hit them, and when their collars were taken off, their necks would

be raw and bloody. After a time, the men got to understand how to drive

a coach, and the horses did not suffer so much.

 

The other story was about a team-boat, not a steamboat. More than

seventy years ago, they had no steamers running between Fairport and the

island opposite where people went for the summer, but they had what they

called a team-boat, that is, a boat with machinery to make it go, that

could be worked by horses. There were eight horses that went around and

around, and made the boat go. One afternoon, two dancing masters, who

were wicked fellows, that played the fiddle, and never went to church on

Sundays, got on the boat, and sat just where the horses had to pass them

as they went around.

 

Every time the horses went by, they jabbed them with their penknives.

The man who was driving the horses at last saw the blood dripping from

them, and the dancing masters were found out. Some young men on the boat

were so angry that they caught up a rope's end, and gave the dancing

masters a lashing, and then threw them into the water and made them swim

to the island.

 

When this boy took a seat, a young girl read some verses that she had

clipped from a newspaper:

 

"Don't kill the toads, the ugly toads,

   That hop around your door;

Each meal the little toad doth eat

   A hundred bugs or more.

 

"He sits around with aspect meek,

   Until the bug hath neared,

Then shoots he forth his little tongue

   Like lightning double-geared.

 

"And then he soberly doth wink,

   And shut his ugly mug,

And patiently doth wait until

   There comes another bug."

 

Mr. Maxwell told a good dog story after this. He said the president need

not have any fears as to its truth, for it had happened in his boarding

house in the village, and he had seen it himself. Monday, the day

before, being wash-day, his landlady had put out a large washing. Among

the clothes on the line was a gray flannel shirt belonging to her

husband. The young dog belonging to the house had pulled the shirt from

the line and torn it to pieces. The woman put it aside and told him

master would beat him. When the man came home to his dinner, he showed

the dog the pieces of the shirt, and gave him a severe whipping. The dog

ran away, visited all the clothes lines in the village, till he found a

gray shirt very like his master's. He seized it and ran home, laying it

at his master's feet, joyfully wagging his tail meanwhile.

 

Mr. Maxwell's story done, a bright-faced boy, called Simon Grey, got up

and said: "You all know our old gray horse Ned. Last week father sold

him to a man in Hoytville, and I went to the station when he was

shipped. He was put in a box car. The doors were left a little open to

give him air, and were locked in that way. There was a narrow, sliding

door, four feet from the floor of the car, and, in some way or other,

old Ned pushed this door open, crawled through it, and tumbled out on

the ground. When I was coming from school, I saw him walking along the

track. He hadn't hurt himself, except for a few cuts. He was glad to see

me, and followed me home. He must have gotten off the train when it was

going full speed, for he hadn't been seen at any of the stations, and

the trainmen were astonished to find the doors locked and the car empty,

when they got to Hoytville. Father got the man who bought him to release

him from his bargain, for he says if Ned is so fond of Riverdale, he

shall stay here."

 

The president asked the boys and girls to give three cheers for old Ned,

and then they had some more singing. After all had taken their seats, he

said he would like to know what the members had been doing for animals

during the past fortnight.

 

One girl had kept her brother from shooting two owls that came about

their barnyard. She told him that the owls would destroy the rats and

mice that bothered him in the barn, but if he hunted them, they would go

to the woods.

 

A boy said that he had persuaded some of his friends who were going

fishing, to put their bait worms into a dish of boiling water to kill

them before they started, and also to promise him that as soon as they

took their fish out of the water, they would kill them by a sharp blow

on the back of the head. They were all the more ready to do this, when

he told them that their fish would taste better when cooked, if they had

been killed as soon as they were taken from the water into the air.

 

A little girl had gotten her mother to say that she would never again

put lobsters into cold water and slowly boil them to death. She had also

stopped a man in the street who was carrying a pair of fowls with their

heads down, and asked him if he would kindly reverse their position. The

man told her that the fowls didn't mind, and she pursed up her small

mouth and showed the band how she said to him, "I would prefer the

opinion of the hens." Then she said he had laughed at her, and said,

"Certainly, little lady," and had gone off carrying them as she wanted

him to. She had also reasoned with different boys outside the village

who were throwing stones at birds and frogs, and sticking butterflies,

and had invited them to come to the Band of Mercy.

 

This child seemed to have done more than any one else for dumb animals.

She had taken around a petition to the village boys, asking them not to

search for birds' eggs, and she had even gone into her father's stable,

and asked him to hold her up, so that she could look into the horses'

mouths to see if their teeth wanted filing or were decayed. When her

father laughed at her, she told him that horses often suffer terrible

pain from their teeth, and that sometimes a runaway is caused by a metal

bit striking against the exposed nerve in the tooth of a horse that has

become almost frantic with pain.

 

She was a very gentle girl, and I think by the way that she spoke that

her father loved her dearly, for she told how much trouble he had taken

to make some tiny houses for her that she wanted for the wrens that came

about their farm. She told him that those little birds are so good at

catching insects that they ought to give all their time to it, and not

have any worry about making houses. Her father made their homes very

small, so that the English sparrows could not get in and crowd them out.

 

A boy said that he had gotten a pot of paint, and painted in large

letters on the fences around his father's farm: "Spare the toads, don't

kill the birds. Every bird killed is a loss to the country."

 

"That reminds me," said the president, "to ask the girls what they have

done about the millinery business."

 

"I have told my mother," said a tall, serious-faced girl, "that I think

it is wrong to wear bird feathers, and she has promised to give up

wearing any of them except ostrich plumes."

 

Mrs. Wood asked permission to say a few words just here, and the

president said: "Certainly, we are always glad to hear from you."

 

She went up on the platform, and faced the roomful of children. "Dear

boys and girls," she began, "I have had some papers sent me from Boston,

giving some facts about the killing of our birds, and I want to state a

few of them to you: You all know that nearly every tree and plant that

grows swarms with insect life, and that they couldn't grow if the birds

didn't eat the insects that would devour their foliage. All day long,

the little beaks of the birds are busy. The dear little rose-breasted

gross-beak carefully examines the potato plants, and picks off the

beetles, the martins destroy weevil, the quail and grouse family eats

the chinch-bug, the woodpeckers dig the worms from the trees, and many

other birds eat the flies and gnats and mosquitoes that torment us so.

No flying or crawling creature escapes their sharp little eyes. A great

Frenchman says that if it weren't for the birds human beings would

perish from the face of the earth. They are doing all this for us, and

how are we rewarding them? All over America they are hunted and killed.

Five million birds must be caught every year for American women to wear

in their hats and bonnets. Just think of it, girls, Isn't it dreadful?

Five million innocent, hardworking, beautiful birds killed, that

thoughtless girls and women may ornament themselves with their little

dead bodies. One million bobolinks have been killed in one month near

Philadelphia. Seventy song-birds were sent from one Long Island village

to New York milliners.

 

"In Florida, cruel men shoot the mother birds on their nests while they

are rearing their young, because their plumage is prettiest at that

time, The little ones cry pitifully, and starve to death. Every bird of

the rarer kinds that is killed, such as humming birds, orioles and

kingfishers, means the death of several others--that is, the young that

starve to death, the wounded that fly away to die, and those whose

plumage is so torn that it is not fit to put in a fine lady's bonnet. In

some cases where birds have gay wings, and the hunters do not wish the

rest of the body, they tear off the wings from the living bird, and

throw it away to die.

 

"I am sorry to tell you such painful things, but I think you ought to

know them. You will soon be men and women. Do what you can to stop this

horrid trade. Our beautiful birds are being taken from us, and the

insect pests are increasing. The State of Massachusetts has lost over

one hundred thousand dollars because it did not protect its birds. The

gypsy moth stripped the trees near Boston, and the State had to pay out

all this money, and even then could not get rid of the moths. The birds

could have done it better than the State, but they were all gone. My

last words to you are, 'Protect the birds.'"

 

Mrs. Wood went to her seat, and though the boys and girls had listened

very attentively, none of them cheered her. Their faces looked sad, and

they kept very quiet for a few minutes. I saw one or two little girls

wiping their eyes. I think they felt sorry for the birds.

 

"Has any boy done anything about blinders and check-reins?" asked the

president, after a time.

 

A brown-faced boy stood up. "I had a picnic last Monday," he said;

"father let me cut all the blinders off our head-stalls with my

penknife."

 

"How did you get him to consent to that?" asked the president.

 

"I told him," said the boy, "that I couldn't get to sleep for thinking

of him. You know he drives a good deal late at night. I told him that

every dark night he came from Sudbury I thought of the deep ditch

alongside the road, and wished his horses hadn't blinders on. And every

night he comes from the Junction, and has to drive along the river bank

where the water has washed away the earth till the wheels of the wagon

are within a foot or two of the edge, I wished again that his horses

could see each side of them, for I knew they'd have sense enough to keep

out of danger if they could see it. Father said that might be very true,

and yet his horses had been broken in with blinders, and didn't I think

they would be inclined to shy if he took them off; and wouldn't they be

frightened to look around and see the wagon wheels so near. I told him

that for every accident that happened to a horse without blinders,

several happened to a horse with them; and then I gave him Mr. Wood's

opinion--Mr. Wood out at Dingley Farm. He says that the worst thing

against blinders is that a frightened horse never knows when he has

passed the thing that scared him. He always thinks it is behind him. The

blinders are there and he can't see that he has passed it, and he can't

turn his head to have a good look at it. So often he goes tearing madly

on; and sometimes lives are lost all on account of a little bit of

leather fastened over a beautiful eye that ought to look out full and

free at the world. That finished father. He said he'd take off his

blinders, and if he had an accident, he'd send the bill for damages to

Mr. Wood. But we've had no accident. The horses did act rather queerly

at first, and started a little; but they soon got over it, and now they

go as steady without blinders as they ever did with them."

 

The boy sat down, and the president said: "I think it is time that the

whole nation threw off this foolishness of half covering their horses'

eyes, just put your hands up to your eyes, members of the band. Half

cover them, and see how shut in you will feel; and how curious you will

be to know what is going on beside you. Suppose a girl saw a mouse with

her eyes half covered, wouldn't she run?"

 

Everybody laughed, and the president asked some one to tell him who

invented blinders.

 

"An English nobleman," shouted a boy, "who had a wall-eyed horse! He

wanted to cover up the defect, and I think it is a great shame that all

the American horses have to suffer because that English one had an ugly

eye."

 

"So do I," said the president. "Three groans for blinders, boys."

 

All the children in the room made three dreadful noises away down in

their throats. Then they had another good laugh, and the president

became sober again. "Seven more minutes," he said; "this meeting has got

to be let out at five sharp."

 

A tall girl at the back of the room rose, and said. "My little cousin

has two stories that she would like to tell the band."

 

"Very well," said the president; "bring her right along."

 

The big girl came forward, leading a tiny child that she placed in front

of the boys and girls. The child stared up into her cousin's face,

turning and twisting her white pinafore through her fingers. Every time

the big girl took her pinafore away from her, she picked it up again.

"Begin, Nannie," said the big girl, kindly.

 

"Well, Cousin Eleanor," said the child, "you know Topsy, Graham's pony.

Well, Topsy _would_ run away, and a big, big man came out to papa and

said he would train Topsy. So he drove her every day, and beat her, and

beat her, till he was tired, but still Topsy would run away. Then papa

said he would not have the poor pony whipped so much, and he took her

out a piece of bread every day, and he petted her, and now Topsy is very

gentle, and never runs away."

 

"Tell about Tiger," said the girl.

 

"Well, Cousin Eleanor," said the child, "you know Tiger, our big dog. He

used to be a bad dog, and when Dr. Fairchild drove up to the house he

jumped up and bit at him. Dr. Fairchild used to speak kindly to him, and

throw out bits of meat, and now when he comes, Tiger follows behind and

wags his tail. Now, give me a kiss."

 

The girl had to give her a kiss, right up there before every one, and

what a stamping the boys made. The larger girl blushed and hurried back

to her seat, with the child clinging to her hand.

 

There was one more story, about a brave Newfoundland dog, that saved

eight lives by swimming out to a wrecked sailing vessel, and getting a

rope by which the men came ashore, and then a lad got up whom they all

greeted with cheers, and cries of, "The Poet! the Poet!" I didn't know

what they meant, till Mrs. Wood whispered to Miss Laura that he was a

boy who made rhymes, and the children had rather hear him speak than any

one else in the room.

 

He had a snub nose and freckles, and I think he was the plainest boy

there, but that didn't matter, if the other children loved him. He

sauntered up to the front, with his hands behind his back, and a very

grand manner.

 

"The beautiful poetry recited here to-day," he drawled, "put some verses

in my mind that I never had till I came here to-day." Everyone present

cheered wildly, and he began in a singsong voice:

 

 

"I am a Band of Mercy boy,

   I would not hurt a fly,

I always speak to dogs and cats,

   When'er I pass them by.

 

"I always let the birdies sing,

   I never throw a stone,

I always give a hungry dog

   A nice, fat, meaty bone.

 

"I wouldn't drive a bob-tailed horse,

   Nor hurry up a cow,

I----"

 

 

Then he forgot the rest. The boys and girls were so sorry. They called

out, "Pig," "Goat," "Calf," "Sheep," "Hens," "Ducks," and all the other

animals' names they could think of, but none of them was right, and as

the boy had just made up the poetry, no one knew what the next could be.

He stood for a long time staring at the ceiling, then he said, "I guess

I'll have to give it up."

 

The children looked dreadfully disappointed. "Perhaps you will remember

it by our next meeting," said the president, anxiously.

 

"Possibly", said the boy, "but probably not. I think it is gone

forever." And he went to his seat.

 

The next thing was to call for new members. Miss Laura got up and said

she would like to join their Band of Mercy. I followed her up to the

platform, while they pinned a little badge on her, and every one laughed

at me. Then they sang, "God Bless our Native Land," and the president

told us that we might all go home.

 

It seemed to me a lovely thing for those children to meet together to

talk about kindness to animals. They all had bright and good faces, and

many of them stopped to pat me as I came out. One little girl gave me a

biscuit from her school bag.

 

Mrs. Wood waited at the door till Mr. Maxwell came limping out on his

crutches. She introduced him to Miss Laura, and asked him if he wouldn't

go and take tea with them. He said he would be very happy to do so, and

then Mrs. Wood laughed; and asked him if he hadn't better empty his

pockets first. She didn't want a little toad jumping over her tea table,

as one did the last time he was there.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER XXI (MR. MAXWELL AND MR. HARRY)

 

Mr. Maxwell wore a coat with loose pockets, and while she was speaking,

he rested on his crutches, and began to slap them with his hands. "No;

there's nothing here to-day," he said; "I think I emptied my pockets

before I went to the meeting."

 

Just as he said that there was a loud squeal: "Oh, my guinea pig," he

exclaimed; "I forgot him," and he pulled out a little spotted creature a

few inches long. "Poor Derry, did I hurt you?" and he soothed it very

tenderly.

 

I stood and looked at Mr. Maxwell, for I had never seen any one like

him. He had thick curly hair and a white face, and he looked just like a

girl. While I was staring at him, something peeped up out of one of his

pockets and ran out its tongue at me so fast that I could scarcely see

it, and then drew back again. I was thunderstruck. I had never seen such

a creature before. It was long and thin like a boy's cane, and of a

bright green color like grass, and it had queer shiny eyes. But its

tongue was the strangest part of it. It came and went like lightning. I

was uneasy about it, and began to bark.

 

"What's the matter, Joe?" said Mrs. Wood; "the pig won't hurt you."

 

But it wasn't the pig I was afraid of, and I kept on barking. And all

the time that strange live thing kept sticking up its head and putting

out its tongue at me, and neither of them noticed it.

 

"Its getting on toward six," said Mrs. Wood; "we must be going home.

Come, Mr. Maxwell."

 

The young man put the guinea pig in his pocket, picked up his crutches,

and we started down the sunny village street. He left his guinea pig at

his boarding house as he went by, but he said nothing about the other

creature, so I knew he did not know it was there.

 

I was very much taken with Mr. Maxwell. He seemed so bright and happy,

in spite of his lameness, which kept him from running about like other

young men. He looked a little older than Miss Laura, and one day, a week

or two later, when they were sitting on the veranda, I heard him tell

her that he was just nineteen. He told her, too, that his lameness made

him love animals. They never laughed at him, or slighted him, or got

impatient, because he could not walk quickly. They were always good to

him, and he said he loved all animals while he liked very few people.

 

On this day as he was limping along, he said to Mrs. Wood: "I am getting

more absent-minded every day. Have you heard of my latest escapade?"

 

"No," she said.

 

"I am glad," he replied. "I was afraid that it would be all over the

village by this time. I went to church last Sunday with my poor guinea

pig in my pocket. He hasn't been well, and I was attending to him before

church, and put him in there to get warm, and forgot about him.

Unfortunately I was late, and the back seats were all full, so I had to

sit farther up than I usually do. During the first hymn I happened to

strike Piggy against the side of the seat. Such an ear-splitting squeal

as he set up. It sounded as if I was murdering him. The people stared

and stared, and I had to leave the church, overwhelmed with confusion."

 

Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura laughed, and then they got talking about other

matters that were not interesting to me, so I did not listen. But I kept

close to Miss Laura, for I was afraid that green thing might hurt her. I

wondered very much what its name was. I don't think I should have feared

it so much if I had known what it was.

 

"There's something the matter with Joe," said Miss Laura, when we got

into the lane. "What is it, dear old fellow?" She put down her little

hand, and I licked it, and wished so much that I could speak.

 

Sometimes I wish very much that I had the gift of speech, and then at

other times I see how little it would profit me, and how many foolish

things I should often say. And I don't believe human beings would love

animals as well, if they could speak.

 

When we reached the house, we got a joyful surprise. There was a trunk

standing on the veranda, and as soon as Mrs. Wood saw it, she gave a

little shriek: "My dear boy!"

 

Mr. Harry was there, sure enough, and stepped out through the open door.

He took his mother in his arms and kissed her, then he shook hands with

Miss Laura and Mr. Maxwell, who seemed to be an old friend of his. They

all sat down on the veranda and talked, and I lay at Miss Laura's feet

and looked at Mr. Harry. He was such a handsome young man, and had such

a noble face. He was older and graver looking than when I saw him last,

and he had a light, brown moustache that he did not have when he was in

Fairport.

 

He seemed very fond of his mother and of Miss Laura, and however grave

his face might be when he was looking at Mr. Maxwell, it always lighted

up when he turned to them. "What dog is that?" he said at last, with a

puzzled face, and pointing to me.

 

"Why, Harry," exclaimed Miss Laura, "don't you know Beautiful Joe, that

you rescued from that wretched milkman?"

 

"Is it possible," he said, "that this well-conditioned creature is the

bundle of dirty skin and bones that we nursed in Fairport? Come here,

sir. Do you remember me?"

 

Indeed I did remember him, and I licked his hands and looked up

gratefully into his face. "You're almost handsome now," he said,

caressing me with a firm, kind hand, "and of a solid build, too. You

look like a fighter--but I suppose you wouldn't let him fight, even if

he wanted to, Laura," and he smiled and glanced at her.

 

"No," she said; "I don't think I should; but he can fight when the

occasion requires it." And she told him about our night with Jenkins.

 

All the time she was speaking, Mr. Harry held me by the paws, and

stroked my body over and over again. When she finished, he put his head

down to me, and murmured, "Good dog," and I saw that his eyes were red

and shining.

 

"That's a capital story, we must have it at the Band of Mercy," said Mr.

Maxwell. Mrs. Wood had gone to help prepare the tea, so the two young

men were alone with Miss Laura. When they had done talking about me, she

asked Mr. Harry a number of questions about his college life, and his

trip to New York, for he had not been studying all the time that he was

away.

 

"What are you going to do with yourself, Gray, when your college course

is ended?" asked Mr. Maxwell.

 

"I am going to settle right down here," said Mr. Harry.

 

"What, be a farmer?" asked his friend.

 

"Yes; why not?"

 

"Nothing, only I imagined that you would take a profession."

 

"The professions are overstocked, and we have not farmers enough for the

good of the country. There is nothing like farming, to my mind. In no

other employment have you a surer living. I do not like the cities. The

heat and dust, and crowds of people, and buildings overtopping one

another, and the rush of living, take my breath away. Suppose I did go

to a city. I would sell out my share of the farm, and have a few

thousand dollars. You know I am not an intellectual giant. I would never

distinguish myself in any profession. I would be a poor lawyer or

doctor, living in a back street all the days of my life, and never watch

a tree or flower grow, or tend an animal, or have a drive unless I paid

for it. No, thank you. I agree with President Eliot, of Harvard. He says

scarcely one person in ten thousand betters himself permanently by

leaving his rural home and settling in a city. If one is a millionaire,

city life is agreeable enough, for one can always get away from it; but

I am beginning to think that it is a dangerous thing, in more ways than

one, to be a millionaire. I believe the safety of the country lies in

the hands of the farmers; for they are seldom very poor or very rich. We

stand between the two dangerous classes--the wealthy and the paupers."

 

"But most farmers lead such a dog's life," said Mr. Maxwell.

 

"So they do; farming isn't made one-half as attractive as it should be,"

said Mr. Harry.

 

Mr. Maxwell smiled. "Attractive farming. Just sketch an outline of that,

will you, Gray?"

 

"In the first place," said Mr. Harry, "I would like to tear out of the

heart of the farmer the thing that is as firmly implanted in him as it

is in the heart of his city brother--the thing that is doing more to

harm our nation than anything else under the sun."

 

"What is that?" asked Mr. Maxwell, curiously.

 

"The thirst for gold. The farmer wants to get rich, and he works so hard

to do it that he wears himself out soul and body, and the young people

around him get so disgusted with that way of getting rich, that they go

off to the cities to find out some other way, or at least to enjoy

themselves, for I don't think many young people are animated by a desire

to heap up money."

 

Mr. Maxwell looked amused. "There is certainly a great exodus from

country places cityward," he said. "What would be your plan for checking

it?"

 

"I would make the farm so pleasant, that you couldn't hire the boys and

girls to leave it. I would have them work, and work hard, too, but when

their work was over, I would let them have some fun. That is what they

go to the city for. They want amusement and society, and to get into

some kind of a crowd when their work is done. The young men and young

women want to get together, as is only natural. Now that could be done

in the country. If farmers would be contented with smaller profits and

smaller farms, their houses could be nearer together. Their children

would have opportunities of social intercourse, there could be societies

and clubs, and that would tend to a distribution of literature. A farmer

ought to take five or six papers and two or three magazines. He would

find it would pay him in the long run, and there ought to be a law made

compelling him to go to the post office once a day."

 

Mr. Maxwell burst out laughing. "And another to make him mend his roads

as well as mend his ways. I tell you Gray, the bad roads would put an

end to all these fine schemes of yours. Imagine farmers calling on each

other on a dark evening after a spring freshet. I can see them mired and

bogged, and the house a mile ahead of them."

 

"That is true," said Mr. Harry, "the road question is a serious one. Do

you know how father and I settle it?"

 

"No," said Mr. Maxwell.

 

"We got so tired of the whole business, and the farmers around here

spent so much time in discussing the art of roadmaking, as to whether it

should be viewed from the engineering point of view, or the farmers'

practical point of view, and whether we would require this number of

stump extractors or that number, and how many shovels and crushers and

ditchers would be necessary to keep our roads in order, and so on, that

we simply withdrew. We keep our own roads in order. Once a year, father

gets a gang of men and tackles every section of the road that borders

upon our land, and our roads are the best around here. I wish the

government would take up this matter of making roads and settle it. If

we had good, smooth, country roads, such as they have in some parts of

Europe, we would be able to travel comfortably over them all through the

year, and our draught animals would last longer, for they would not have

to expend so much energy in drawing their loads."

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER XXII (WHAT HAPPENED AT THE TEA TABLE)

From my station under Miss Laura's chair, I could see that all the time

Mr. Harry was speaking, Mr. Maxwell, although he spoke rather as if he

was laughing at him, was yet glancing at him admiringly.

 

When Mr. Harry was silent, he exclaimed, "You are right, you are right,

Gray. With your smooth highways, and plenty of schools, and churches,

and libraries, and meetings for young people, you would make country

life a paradise, and I tell you what you would do, too; you would empty

the slums of the cities. It is the slowness and dullness of country

life, and not their poverty alone, that keep the poor in dirty lanes and

tenement houses. They want stir and amusement, too, poor souls, when

their day's work is over. I believe they would come to the country if it

were made more pleasant for them."

 

"That is another question," said Mr. Harry, "a burning question in my

mind--the labor and capital one. When I was in New York, Maxwell, I was

in a hospital, and saw a number of men who had been day laborers. Some

of them were old and feeble, and others were young men, broken down in

the prime of life. Their limbs were shrunken and drawn. They had been

digging in the earth, and working on high buildings, and confined in

dingy basements, and had done all kinds of hard labor for other men.

They had given their lives and strength for others, and this was the end

of it--to die poor and forsaken. I looked at them, and they reminded me

of the martyrs of old. Ground down, living from hand to mouth, separated

from their families in many cases--they had had a bitter lot. They had

never had a chance to get away from their fate, and had to work till

they dropped. I tell you there is something wrong. We don't do enough

for the people that slave and toil for us. We should take better care of

them, we should not herd them together like cattle, and when we get

rich, we should carry them along with us, and give them a part of our

gains, for without them we would be as poor as they are."

 

"Good, Harry--I'm with you there," said a voice behind him, and looking

around, we saw Mr. Wood standing in the doorway, gazing down proudly at

his step-son.

 

Mr. Harry smiled, and getting up, said, "Won't you have my chair, sir?"

 

"No, thank you; your mother wishes us to come to tea. There are muffins,

and you know they won't improve with keeping."

 

They all went to the dining-room, and I followed them. On the way, Mr.

Wood said, "Right on top of that talk of yours, Harry, I've got to tell

you of another person who is going to Boston to live."

 

"Who is it?" said Mr. Harry.

 

"Lazy Dan Wilson. I've been to see him this afternoon. You know his wife

is sick, and they're half starved. He says he is going to the city, for

he hates to chop wood and work, and he thinks maybe he'll get some light

job there."

 

Mr. Harry looked grave, and Mr. Maxwell said, "He will starve, that's

what he will do."

 

"Precisely," said Mr. Wood, spreading out his hard, brown hands, as he

sat down at the table. "I don't know why it is, but the present

generation has a marvelous way of skimming around any kind of work with

their hands, They'll work their brains till they haven't got any more

backbone than a caterpillar, but as for manual labor, it's old-timey and

out of fashion. I wonder how these farms would ever have been carved out

of the backwoods, if the old Puritans had sat down on the rocks with

their noses in a lot of books, and tried to figure out just how little

work they could do, and yet exist."

 

"Now, father," said Mrs. Wood, "you are trying to insinuate that the

present generation is lazy, and I'm sure it isn't. Look at Harry. He

works as hard as you do."

 

"Isn't that like a woman?" said Mr. Wood, with a good-natured laugh.

"The present generation consists of her son, and the past of her

husband. I don't think all our young people are lazy, Hattie; but how in

creation, unless the Lord rains down a few farmers, are we going to

support all our young lawyers and doctors? They say the world is getting

healthier and better, but we've got to fight a little more, and raise

some more criminals, and we've got to take to eating pies and doughnuts

for breakfast again, or some of our young sprouts from the colleges will

go a begging."

 

"You don't mean to undervalue the advantages of a good education, do

you, Mr. Wood?" said Mr. Maxwell.

 

"No, no; look at Harry there. Isn't he pegging away at his studies with

my hearty approval? and he's going to be nothing but a plain, common

farmer. But he'll be a better one than I've been though, because he's

got a trained mind. I found that out when he was a lad going to the

village school. He'd lay out his little garden by geometry, and dig his

ditches by algebra. Education's a help to any man. What I am trying to

get at is this, that in some way or other we're running more to brains

and less to hard work than our forefathers did."

 

Mr. Wood was beating on the table with his forefinger while he talked,

and every one was laughing at him. "When you've quite finished

speechifying, John," said Mrs. Wood, "perhaps you'll serve the berries

and pass the cream and sugar. Do you get yellow cream like this in the

village, Mr. Maxwell?"

 

"No, Mrs. Wood," he said; "ours is a much paler yellow," and then there

was a great tinkling of china, and passing of dishes, and talking and

laughing, and no one noticed that I was not in my usual place in the

hall. I could not get over my dread of the green creature, and I had

crept under the table, so that if it came out and frightened Miss Laura,

I could jump up and catch it.

 

When tea was half over, she gave a little cry. I sprang up on her lap,

and there, gliding over the table toward her, was the wicked-looking

green thing. I stepped on the table, and had it by the middle before it

could get to her. My hind legs were in a dish of jelly, and my front

ones were in a plate of cake, and I was very uncomfortable. The tail of

the green thing hung in a milk pitcher, and its tongue was still going

at me, but I held it firmly and stood quite still.

 

"Drop it, drop it!" cried Miss Laura, in tones of distress, and Mr.

Maxwell struck me on the back, so I let the thing go, and stood

sheepishly looking about me. Mr. Wood was leaning back in his chair,

laughing with all his might, and Mrs. Wood was staring at her untidy

table with rather a long face. Miss Laura told me to jump on the floor,

and then she helped her aunt to take the spoiled things off the table.

 

I felt that I had done wrong, so I slunk out into the hall. Mr. Maxwell

was sitting on the lounge, tearing his handkerchief in strips and tying

them around the creature where my teeth had stuck in. I had been careful

not to hurt it much, for I knew it was a pet of his; but he did not know

that, and scowled at me, saying: "You rascal; you've hurt my poor snake

terribly."

 

I felt so badly to hear this that I went and stood with my head in a

corner. I had almost rather be whipped than scolded. After a while, Mr.

Maxwell went back into the room, and they all went on with their tea. I

could hear Mr. Wood's loud, cheery voice, "The dog did quite right. A

snake is mostly a poisonous creature, and his instinct told him to

protect his mistress. Where is he? Joe, Joe!"

 

I would not move till Miss Laura came and spoke to me. "Dear old dog,"

she whispered, "You knew the snake was there all the time, didn't you?"

Her words made me feel better, and I followed her to the dining room,

where Mr. Wood made me sit beside him and eat scraps from his hand all

through the meal.

 

Mr. Maxwell had got over his ill humor, and was chatting in a lively

way. "Good Joe," he said, "I was cross to you, and I beg your pardon It

always riles me to have any of my pets injured. You didn't know my poor

snake was only after something to eat. Mrs. Wood has pinned him in my

pocket so he won't come out again. Do you know where I got that snake,

Mrs. Wood?"

 

"No," she said; "you never told me."

 

"It was across the river by Blue Ridge," he said. "One day last summer I

was out rowing, and, getting very hot, tied my boat in the shade of a

big tree. Some village boys were in the woods, and, hearing a great

noise, I went to see what it was all about They were Band of Mercy boys,

and finding a country boy beating a snake to death, they were

remonstrating with him for his cruelty, telling him that some kinds of

snakes were a help to the farmer, and destroyed large numbers of field

mice and other vermin. The boy was obstinate. He had found the snake,

and he insisted upon his right to kill it, and they were having rather a

lively time when I appeared. I persuaded them to make the snake over to

1. Apparently it was already dead. Thinking it might revive, I put it

on some grass in the bow of the boat. It lay there motionless for a long

time, and I picked up my oars and started for home. I had got half way

across the river, when I turned around and saw that the snake was gone.

It had just dropped into the water, and was swimming toward the bank we

had left. I turned and followed it.

 

"It swam slowly and with evident pain, lifting Its head every few

seconds high above the water, to see which way it was going. On reaching

the bank it coiled itself up, throwing up blood and water. I took it up

carefully, carried it home, and nursed it. It soon got better, and has

been a pet of mine ever since."

 

After tea was over, and Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura had helped Adele finish

the work, they all gathered in the parlor. The day had been quite warm,

but now a cool wind had sprung up, and Mr. Wood said that it was blowing

up rain.

 

Mrs. Wood said that she thought a fire would be pleasant; so they

lighted the sticks of wood in the open grate, and all sat round the

blazing fire.

 

Mr. Maxwell tried to get me to make friends with the little snake that

he held in his hands toward the blaze, and now that I knew that it was

harmless I was not afraid of it; but it did not like me, and put out its

funny little tongue whenever I looked at it.

 

By-and-by the rain began to strike against the windows, and Mr. Maxwell

said, "This is just the night for a story. Tell us something out of your

experience, won't you, Mr. Wood?"

 

"What shall I tell you?" he said, good-humoredly. He was sitting between

his wife and Mr. Harry, and had his hand on Mr. Harry's knee.

 

"Something about animals," said Mr. Maxwell. "We seem to be on that

subject to-day."

 

"Well," said Mr. Wood, "I'll talk about something that has been running

in my head for many a day. There is a good deal of talk nowadays about

kindness to domestic animals; but I do not hear much about kindness to

wild ones. The same Creator formed them both. I do not see why you

should not protect one as well as the other. I have no more right to

torture a bear than a cow. Our wild animals around here are getting

pretty well killed off, but there are lots in other places. I used to be

fond of hunting when I was a boy; but I have got rather disgusted with

killing these late years, and unless the wild creatures ran in our

streets, I would lift no hand to them. Shall I tell you some of the

sport we had when I was a youngster?"

 

"Yes, yes!" they all exclaimed.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER XXIII (TRAPPING WILD ANIMALS)

 

"Well," Mr. Wood began. "I was brought up, as you all know, in the

eastern part of Maine, and we often used to go over into New Brunswick

for our sport. Moose were our best game. Did you ever see one, Laura?"

 

"No, uncle," she said.

 

"Well, when I was a boy there was no more beautiful sight to me in the

world than a moose with his dusky hide, and long legs, and branching

antlers, and shoulders standing higher than a horse's. Their legs are so

long that they can't eat close to the ground. They browse on the tops of

plants, and the tender shoots and leaves of trees. They walk among the

thick underbrush, carrying their horns adroitly to prevent their

catching in the branches, and they step so well, and aim so true, that

you'll scarcely hear a twig fall as they go.

 

"They're a timid creature except at times. Then they'll attack with

hoofs and antlers whatever comes in their way. They hate mosquitoes, and

when they're tormented by them it's just as well to be careful about

approaching them. Like all other creatures, the Lord has put into them a

wonderful amount of sense, and when a female moose has her one or two

fawns she goes into the deepest part of the forest, or swims to islands

in large lakes, till they are able to look out for themselves.

 

"Well, we used to like to catch a moose, and we had different ways of

doing it. One way was to snare them. We' d make a loop in a rope and

hide it on the ground under the dead leaves in one of their paths. This

was connected with a young sapling whose top was bent down. When the

moose stepped on the loop it would release the sapling, and up it would

bound, catching him by the leg. These snares were always set deep in the

woods, and we couldn't visit them very often. Sometimes the moose would

be there for days, raging and tearing around, and scratching the skin

off his legs. That was cruel. I wouldn't catch a moose in that way now

for a hundred dollars.

 

"Another way was to hunt them on snow shoes with dogs. In February and

March the snow was deep, and would carry men and dogs. Moose don't go

together in herds. In the summer they wander about over the forest, and

in the autumn they come together in small groups, and select a hundred

or two of acres where there is plenty of heavy undergrowth, and to which

they usually confine themselves. They do this so that their tracks won't

tell their enemies where they are.

 

"Any of these places where there were several moose we called a moose

yard. We went through the woods till we got on to the tracks of some of

the animals belonging to it, then the dogs smelled them and went ahead

to start them. If I shut my eyes now I can see one of our moose hunts.

The moose running and plunging through the snow crust, and occasionally

rising up and striking at the dogs that hang on to his bleeding flanks

and legs. The hunters' rifles going crack, crack, crack, sometimes

killing or wounding dogs as well as moose. That, too, was cruel.

 

"Two other ways we had of hunting moose: Calling and stalking. The

calling was done in this way: We took a bit of birch bark and rolled it

up in the shape of a horn. We took this horn and started out, either on

a bright moonlight night or just at evening, or early in the morning.

The man who carried the horn hid himself, and then began to make a

lowing sound like a female moose. He had to do it pretty well to deceive

them. Away in the distance some moose would hear it, and with answering

grunts would start off to come to it. If a young male moose was coming,

he'd mind his steps, I can assure you, on account of fear of the old

ones, but if it was an old fellow, you'd hear him stepping out bravely

and rapping his horns against the trees, and plunging into any water

that came in his way. When he got pretty near, he'd stop to listen, and

then the caller had to be very careful and put his trumpet down close to

the ground, so as to make a lower sound. If the moose felt doubtful he'd

turn; if not, he'd come on, and unlucky for him if he did, for he got a

warm reception, either from the rifles in our hands as we lay hid near

the caller, or from some of the party stationed at a distance.

 

"In stalking, we crept on them the way a cat creeps on a mouse. In the

daytime a moose is usually lying down. We'd find their tracks and places

where they'd been nipping off the ends of branches and twigs, and follow

them up. They easily take the scent of men, and we'd have to keep well

to the leeward. Sometimes we'd come upon them lying down, but, if in

walking along, we'd broken a twig, or made the slightest noise, they'd

think it was one of their mortal enemies, a bear--creeping on them, and

they'd be up and away. Their sense of hearing is very keen, but they're

not so quick to see. A fox is like that, too. His eyes aren't equal to

his nose.

 

"Stalking is the most merciful way to kill a moose. Then they haven't

the fright and suffering of the chase."

 

"I don't see why they need to be killed at all," said Mrs. Wood. "If I

knew that forest back of the mountains was full of wild creatures, I

think I'd be glad of it, and not want to hunt them, that is, if they

were harmless and beautiful creatures like the deer."

 

"You're a woman," said Mr. Wood, "and women are more merciful than men.

Men want to kill and slay. They're like the Englishman, who said: 'What

a fine day it is; let's go out and kill something.'"

 

"Please tell us some more about the dogs that helped you catch the

moose, uncle," said Miss Laura, I was sitting up very straight beside

her, listening to every word Mr. Wood said, and she was fondling my

head.

 

"Well, Laura, when we camped out on the snow and slept on spruce boughs

while we were after the moose, the dogs used to be a great comfort to

1. They slept at our feet and kept us warm. Poor brutes, they mostly

had a rough time of it. They enjoyed the running and chasing as much as

we did, but when it came to broken ribs and sore heads, it was another

matter, Then the porcupines bothered them. Our dogs would never learn to

let them alone. If they were going through the woods where there were no

signs of moose and found a porcupine, they'd kill it. The quills would

get in their mouths and necks and chests, and we'd have to gag them and

take bullet molds or nippers, or whatever we had, sometimes our

jack-knives, and pull out the nasty things. If we got hold of the dogs

at once, we could pull out the quills with our fingers. Sometimes the

quills had worked in, and the dogs would go home and lie by the fire

with running sores till they worked out. I've seen quills work right

through dogs. Go in on one side and come out on the other."

 

"Poor brutes," said Mrs. Wood. "I wonder you took them."

 

"We once lost a valuable hound while moose hunting," said Mr. Wood. "The

moose struck him with his hoof and the dog was terribly injured, and lay

in the woods for days, till a neighbor of ours, who was looking for

timber, found him and brought him home on his shoulders. Wasn't there

rejoicing among us boys to see old Lion coming back, We took care of him

and he got well again.

 

"It was good sport to see the dogs when we were hunting a bear with

them. Bears are good runners, and when dogs get after them, there is

great skirmishing. They nip the bear behind, and when they turn, the

dogs run like mad, for a hug from a bear means sure death to a dog. If

they got a slap from his paws, over they'd go. Dogs new to the business

were often killed by the bears."

 

"Were there many bears near your home, Mr. Wood?" asked Mr. Maxwell.

 

"Lots of them. More than we wanted. They used to bother us fearfully

about our sheep and cattle. I've often had to get up in the night, and

run out to the cattle. The bears would come out of the woods, and jump

on to the young heifers and cows, and strike them and beat them down and

the cattle would roar as if the evil one had them. If the cattle were

too far away from the house for us to hear them, the bears would worry

them till they were dead.

 

"As for the sheep, they never made any resistance. They'd meekly run in

a corner when they saw a bear coming, and huddle together, and he'd

strike at them, and scratch them with his claws, and perhaps wound a

dozen before he got one firmly. Then he'd seize it in his paws, and walk

off on his hind legs over fences and anything else that came in his way,

till he came to a nice, retired spot, and there he' d sit down and skin

that sheep just like a butcher. He'd gorge himself with the meat, and in

the morning we'd find the other sheep that he'd torn, and we'd vow

vengeance against that bear. He'd be almost sure to come back for more,

so for a while after that we always put the sheep in the barn at nights

and set a trap by the remains of the one he had eaten.

 

"Everybody hated bears, and hadn't much pity for them; still they were

only getting their meat as other wild animals do, and we'd no right to

set such cruel traps for them as the steel ones. They had a clog

attached to them, and had long, sharp teeth. We put them on the ground

and strewed leaves over them, and hung up some of the carcass left by

the bear near by. When he attempted to get this meat, he would tread on

the trap, and the teeth would spring together, and catch him by the leg.

They always fought to get free. I once saw a bear that had been making a

desperate effort to get away. His leg was broken, the skin and flesh

were all torn away, and he was held by the tendons. It was a foreleg

that was caught, and he would put his hind feet against the jaws of the

trap, and then draw by pressing with his feet, till he would stretch

those tendons to their utmost extent.

 

"I have known them to work away till they really pulled these tendons

out of the foot, and got off. It was a great event in our neighborhood

when a bear was caught. Whoever caught him blew a horn, and the men and

boys came trooping together to see the sight. I've known them to blow

that horn on a Sunday morning, and I've seen the men turn their backs on

the meeting house to go and see the bear."

 

"Was there no more merciful way of catching them than by this trap?"

asked Miss Laura.

 

"Oh, yes, by the deadfall--that is by driving heavy sticks into the

ground, and making a box-like place, open on one side, where two logs

were so arranged with other heavy logs upon them, that when the bear

seized the bait, the upper log fell down and crushed him to death.

Another way was to fix a bait in a certain place, with cords tied to it,

which cords were fastened to triggers of guns placed at a little

distance. When the bear took the bait, the guns went off, and he shot

himself.

 

"Sometimes it took a good many bullets to kill them. I remember one old

fellow that we put eleven into, before he keeled over. It was one fall,

over on Pike's Hill. The snow had come earlier than usual, and this old

bear hadn't got into his den for his winter's sleep. A lot of us started

out after him. The hill was covered with beech trees, and he'd been

living all the fall on the nuts, till he'd got as fat as butter. We took

dogs and worried him, and ran him from one place to another, and shot at

him, till at last he dropped. We took his meat home, and had his skin

tanned for a sleigh robe.

 

"One day I was in the woods, and looking through the trees espied a

bear. He was standing up on his hind legs, snuffing in every direction,

and just about the time I espied him, he espied me. I had no dog and no

gun, so I thought I had better be getting home to my dinner. I was a

small boy then, and the bear, probably thinking I'd be a mouthful for

him anyway, began to come after me in a leisurely way. I can see myself

now going through those woods--hat gone, jacket flying, arms out, eyes

rolling over my shoulder every little while to see if the bear was

gaining on me. He was a benevolent-looking old fellow, and his face

seemed to say, 'Don't hurry, little boy.' He wasn't doing his prettiest,

and I soon got away from him, but I made up my mind then, that it was

more fun to be the chaser than the chased.

 

"Another time I was out in our cornfield, and hearing a rustling, looked

through the stalks, and saw a brown bear with two cubs. She was slashing

down the corn with her paws to get at the ears. She smelled me, and

getting frightened began to run. I had a dog with me this time, and

shouted and rapped on the fence, and set him on her. He jumped up and

snapped at her flanks, and every few instants she'd turn and give him a

cuff, that would send him yards away. I followed her up, and just back

of the farm she and her cubs took into a tree. I sent my dog home, and

my father and some of the neighbors came. It had gotten dark by this

time, so we built a fire under the tree, and watched all night, and told

stories to keep each other awake. Toward morning we got sleepy, and the

fire burnt low, and didn't that old bear and one cub drop right down

among us and start off to the woods. That waked us up. We built up the

fire and kept watch, so that the one cub, still in the tree, couldn't

get away. Until daylight the mother bear hung around, calling to the cub

to come down."

 

"Did you let it go, uncle?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"No, my dear, we shot it."

 

"How cruel!" cried Mrs. Wood.

 

"Yes, weren't we brutes?" said her husband; "but there was some excuse

for us, Hattie. The bears ruined our farms. This kind of hunting that

hunts and kills for the mere sake of slaughter is very different from

that. I'll tell you what I've no patience with, and that's with these

English folks that dress themselves up, and take fine horses and packs

of dogs, and tear over the country after one little fox or rabbit. Bah,

it's contemptible. Now if they were hunting cruel, man-eating tigers, or

animals that destroy property, it would be a different thing."

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER XXIV (THE RABBIT AND THE HEN)

 

"You had foxes up in Maine, I suppose, Mr. Wood, hadn't you?" asked Mr.

Maxwell.

 

"Heaps of them. I always want to laugh when I think of our foxes, for

they were so cute. Never a fox did I catch in a trap, though I'd set

many a one. I'd take the carcass of some creature that had died, a

sheep, for instance, and put it in a field near the woods, and the foxes

would come and eat it. After they got accustomed to come and eat and no

harm befell them, they would be unsuspecting. So just before a

snowstorm, I'd take a trap and put it in this spot. I'd handle it with

gloves, and I'd smoke it, and rub fir boughs on it to take away the

human smell, and then the snow would come and cover it up, and yet those

foxes would know it was a trap and walk all around it. It's a wonderful

thing, that sense of smell in animals, if it is a sense of smell. Joe

here has got a good bit of it."

 

"What kind of traps were they, father?" asked Mr. Harry.

 

"Cruel ones--steel ones. They'd catch an animal by the leg and sometimes

break the bone, the leg would bleed, and below the jaws of he trap it

would freeze, there being no circulation of the blood. Those steel traps

are an abomination. The people around here use one made on the same

principle for catching rats. I wouldn't have them on my place for any

money. I believe we've got to give an account for all the unnecessary

suffering we put on animals."

 

"You'll have some to answer for, John, according to your own story,"

said Mrs. Wood.

 

"I have suffered already," he said. "Many a night I've lain on my bed

and groaned, when I thought of needless cruelties I'd put upon animals

when I was a young, unthinking boy--and I was pretty carefully brought

up, too, according to our light in those days. I often think that if I

was cruel, with all the instruction I had to be merciful, what can be

expected of the children that get no good teaching at all when they're

young."

 

"Tell us some more about the foxes, Mr. Wood," said Mr. Maxwell.

 

"Well, we used to have rare sport hunting them with fox-hounds. I'd

often go off for the day with my hounds. Sometimes in the early morning

they'd find a track in the snow. The leader for scent would go back and

forth, to find out which way the fox was going. I can see him now. All

the time that he ran, now one way and now another on the track of the

fox, he was silent, but kept his tail aloft, wagging it as a signal to

the hounds behind. He was leader in scent, but he did not like bloody,

dangerous fights. By-and-by, he would decide which way the fox had gone.

Then his tail, still kept high in the air, would wag more violently. The

rest followed him in single file, going pretty slow, so as to enable us

to keep up to them. By-and-by, they would come to a place where the fox

was sleeping for the day. As soon as he was disturbed he would leave his

bed under some thick fir or spruce branches near the ground. This flung

his fresh scent into the air. As soon as the hounds sniffed it, they

gave tongue in good earnest. It was a mixed, deep baying, that made the

blood quicken in my veins. While in the excitement of his first fright,

the fox would run fast for a mile or two, till he found it an easy

matter to keep out of the way of the hounds. Then he, cunning creature,

would begin to bother them. He would mount to the top pole of the worm

fence dividing the fields from the woods. He could trot along here quite

a distance and then make a long jump into the woods. The hounds would

come up, but could not walk the fence, and they would have difficulty in

finding where the fox had left it. Then we saw generalship. The hounds

scattered in all directions, and made long detours into the woods and

fields. As soon as the track was lost, they ceased to bay, but the

instant a hound found it again, he bayed to give the signal to the

others. All would hurry to the spot, and off they would go baying as

they went.

 

"Then Mr. Fox would try a new trick. He would climb a leaning tree, and

then jump to the ground. This trick would soon be found out. Then he'd

try another. He would make a circle of a quarter of a mile in

circumference. By making a loop in his course, he would come in behind

the hounds, and puzzle them between the scent of his first and following

tracks. If the snow was deep, the hounds had made a good track for him.

Over this he could run easily, and they would have to feel their way

along, for after he had gone around the circle a few times, he would

jump from the beaten path as far as he could, and make off to other

cover in a straight line. Before this was done it was my plan to get

near the circle, taking care to approach it on the leeward side. If the

fox got a sniff of human scent, he would leave his circle very quickly,

and make tracks fast to be out of danger. By the baying of the hounds,

the circle in which the race was kept up could be easily known. The last

runs to get near enough to shoot had to be done when the hounds' baying

came from the side of the circle nearest to me. For then the fox would

be on the opposite side farthest away. As soon as I got near enough to

see the hounds when they passed, I stopped. When they got on the

opposite side, I then kept a bright lookout for the fox. Sometimes when

the brush was thick, the sight of him would be indistinct. The shooting

had to be quick. As soon as the report of the gun was heard, the hounds

ceased to bay, and made for the spot. If the fox was dead, they enjoyed

the scent of his blood. If only wounded, they went after him with all

speed.

 

"Sometimes he was overtaken and killed, and sometimes he got into his

burrow in the earth, or in a hollow log, or among the rocks.

 

"One day, I remember, when I was standing on the outside of the circle,

the fox came in sight. I fired. He gave a shrill bark, and came toward

1. Then he stopped in the snow and fell dead in his tracks. I was a

pretty good shot in those days."

 

"Poor little fox," said Miss Laura. "I wish you had let him get away."

 

"Here's one that nearly got away," said Mr. Wood. "One winter's day, I

was chasing him with the hounds. There was a crust on the snow, and the

fox was light, while the dogs were heavy. They ran along, the fox

trotting nimbly on the top of the crust and the dogs breaking through,

and every few minutes that fox would stop and sit down to look at the

dogs. They were in a fury, and the wickedness of the fox in teasing

them, made me laugh so much that I was very unwilling to shoot him."

 

"You said your steel traps were cruel things, uncle," said Miss Laura.

"Why didn't you have a deadfall for the foxes as you had for the bears?"

 

"They were too cunning to go into deadfalls. There was a better way to

catch them, though. Foxes hate water, and never go into it unless they

are obliged to, so we used to find a place where a tree had fallen

across a river, and made a bridge for them to go back and forth on. Here

we set snares, with spring poles that would throw them into the river

when they made struggles to get free, and drown them. Did you ever hear

of the fox, Laura, that wanted to cross a river, and lay down on the

bank pretending that he was dead, and a countryman came along, and,

thinking he had a prize, threw him in his boat and rowed across, when

the fox got up and ran away?"

 

"Now, uncle," said Miss Laura, "you're laughing at me. That couldn't be

true."

 

"No, no," said Mr. Wood, chuckling; "but they're mighty cute at

pretending they're dead. I once shot one in the morning, carried him a

long way on my shoulders, and started to skin him in the afternoon, when

he turned around and bit me enough to draw blood. At another time I dug

one out of a hole in the ground. He feigned death, I took him up and

threw him down at some distance, and he jumped up and ran into the

woods."

 

"What other animals did you catch when you were a boy?" asked Mr.

Maxwell.

 

"Oh, a number. Otters and beavers--we caught them in deadfalls and in

steel traps. The mink we usually took in deadfalls, smaller, of course,

than the ones we used for the bears. The musk-rat we caught in box traps

like a mouse trap. The wild-cat we ran down like the 'loup cervier'--"

 

"What kind of an animal is that?" asked Mr. Maxwell.

 

"It is a lynx, belonging to the cat species. They used to prowl about

the country killing hens, geese, and sometimes sheep. They'd fix their

tushes in the sheep's neck and suck the blood.

 

"They did not think much of the sheep's flesh. We ran them down with

dogs. They'd often run up trees, and we'd shoot them. Then there were

rabbits that we caught, mostly in snares. For musk-rats, we'd put a

parsnip or an apple on the spindle of a box trap. When we snared a

rabbit, I always wanted to find it caught around the neck and strangled

to death. If they got half through the snare and were caught around the

body, or by the hind legs, they'd live for some time, and they'd cry

just like a child. I like shooting them better, just because I hated to

hear their pitiful cries. It's a bad business this of killing dumb

creatures, and the older I get, the more chicken-hearted I am about it."

 

"Chicken-hearted--I should think you are," said Mrs. Wood. "Do you know,

Laura, he won't even kill a fowl for dinner. He gives it to one of the

men to do."

 

"Blessed are the merciful," said Miss Laura, throwing her arm over her

uncle's shoulder. "I love you, dear Uncle John, because you are so kind

to every living thing."

 

"I'm going to be kind to you now," said her uncle, "and send you to bed.

You look tired."

 

"Very well," she said, with a smile. Then bidding them all good-night,

she went upstairs. Mr. Wood turned to Mr. Maxwell. "You're going to stay

all night with us, aren't you?"

 

"So Mrs. Wood says," replied the young man, with a smile.

 

"Of course," she said. "I couldn't think of letting you go back to the

village such a night as this. It's raining cats and dogs--but I mustn't

say that, or there'll be no getting you to stay. I'll go and prepare

your old room next to Harry's." And she bustled away.

 

The two young men went to the pantry for doughnuts and milk, and Mr.

Wood stood gazing down at me. "Good dog," he said; "you look as if you

sensed that talk to-night. Come, get a bone, and then away to bed."

 

He gave me a very large mutton bone, and I held it in my mouth, and

watched him opening the woodshed door. I love human beings; and the

saddest time of day for me is when I have to be separated from them

while they sleep.

 

"Now, go to bed and rest well, Beautiful Joe," said Mr. Wood, "and if

you hear any stranger round the house, run out and bark. Don't be

chasing wild animals in your sleep, though. They say a dog is the only

animal that dreams. I wonder whether it's true?" Then he went into the

house and shut the door.

 

I had a sheepskin to lie on, and a very good bed it made. I slept

soundly for a long time; then I waked up and found that, instead of rain

pattering against the roof, and darkness everywhere, it was quite light.

The rain was over, and the moon was shining beautifully. I ran to the

door and looked out. It was almost as light as day. The moon made it

very bright all around the house and farm buildings, and I could look

all about and see that there was no one stirring. I took a turn around

the yard, and walked around to the side of the house, to glance up at

Miss Laura's window. I always did this several times through the night,

just to see if she was quite safe. I was on my way back to my bed, when

I saw two small, white things moving away down the lane. I stood on the

veranda and watched them. When they got nearer, I saw that there was a

white rabbit hopping up the road, followed by a white hen.

 

It seemed to me a very strange thing for these creatures to be out this

time of night, and why were they coming to Dingley Farm? This wasn't

their home. I ran down on the road and stood in front of them.

 

Just as soon as the hen saw me, she fluttered in front of the rabbit,

and, spreading out her wings, clucked angrily, and acted as if she would

peck my eyes out if I came nearer.

 

I saw that they were harmless creatures, and, remembering my adventure

with the snake, I stepped aside. Besides that, I knew by their smell

that they had been near Mr. Maxwell, so perhaps they were after him.

 

They understood quite well that I would not hurt them, and passed by me.

The rabbit went ahead again and the hen fell behind. It seemed to me

that the hen was sleepy, and didn't like to be out so late at night, and

was only following the rabbit because she thought it was her duty.

 

He was going along in a very queer fashion, putting his nose to the

ground, and rising up on his hind legs, and sniffing the air, first on

this side and then on the other, and his nose going, going all the time.

 

He smelled all around the house till he came to Mr. Maxwell's room at

the back. It opened on the veranda by a glass door, and the door stood

ajar. The rabbit squeezed himself in, and the hen stayed out. She

watched for a while, and when he didn't come back, she flew upon the

back of a chair that stood near the door, and put her head under her

wing.

 

I went back to my bed, for I knew they would do no harm. Early in the

morning, when I was walking around the house, I heard a great shouting

and laughing from Mr. Maxwell's room. He and Mr. Harry had just

discovered the hen and the rabbit; and Mr. Harry was calling his mother

to come and look at them. The rabbit had slept on the foot of the bed.

 

Mr. Harry was chaffing Mr. Maxwell very much, and was telling him that

any one who entertained him was in for a traveling menagerie. They had a

great deal of fun over it, and Mr. Maxwell said that he had had that

pretty, white hen as a pet for a long time in Boston. Once when she ha$

some little chickens, a frightened rabbit, that was being chased by a

dog, ran into the yard. In his terror he got right under the hen's

wings, and she sheltered him, and pecked at the dog's eyes, and kept him

off till help came. The rabbit belonged to a neighbor's boy, and Mr.

Maxwell bought it from him. From the day the hen protected him, she

became his friend, and followed him everywhere.

 

I did not wonder that the rabbit wanted to see his master. There was

something about that young man that made dumb animals just delight in

him. When Mrs. Wood mentioned this to him he said, "I don't know why

they should--I don't do anything to fascinate them."

 

"You love them," she said, "and they know it. That is the reason."

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER XXV (A HAPPY HORSE)

For a good while after I went to Dingley Farm I was very shy of the

horses, for I was afraid they might kick me, thinking that I was a "bad

dog" like Bruno. However, they all had such good faces, and looked at me

so kindly, that I was beginning to get over my fear of them.

 

Fleetfoot, Mr. Harry's colt, was my favorite, and one afternoon, when

Mr. Harry and Miss Laura were going out to see him, I followed them.

Fleetfoot was amusing himself by rolling over and over on the grass

under a tree, but when he saw Mr. Harry, he gave a shrill whinny, and

running to him, began nosing about his pockets.

 

"Wait a bit," said Mr. Harry, holding him by the forelock. "Let me

introduce you to this young lady, Miss Laura Morris. I want you to make

her a bow." He gave the colt some sign, and immediately he began to paw

the ground and shake his head.

 

Mr. Harry laughed and went on: "Here is her dog Joe. I want you to like

him, too. Come here, Joe." I was not at all afraid, for I knew Mr, Harry

would not let him hurt me, so I stood in front of him, and for the first

time had a good look at him. They called him the colt, but he was really

a full-grown horse, and had already been put to work. He was of a dark

chestnut color, and had a well-shaped body and a long, handsome head,

and I never saw, in the head of a man or beast, a more beautiful pair of

eyes than that colt had--large, full, brown eyes they were that he

turned on me almost as a person would. He looked me all over as if to

say: "Are you a good dog, and will you treat me kindly, or are you a bad

one like Bruno, and will you chase me and snap at my heels and worry me,

so that I shall want to kick you?"

 

I looked at him very earnestly and wagged my body, and lifted myself on

my hind legs toward him. He seemed pleased and put down his nose to

sniff at me, and then we were friends. Friends, and such good friends,

for next to Jim and Billy, I have loved Fleetfoot.

 

Mr. Harry pulled some lumps of sugar out of his pocket, and giving them

to Miss Laura, told her to put them on the palm of her hand and hold it

out flat toward Fleetfoot. The colt ate the sugar, and all the time eyed

her with his quiet, observing glance, that made her exclaim: "What a

wise-looking colt!"

 

"He is like an old horse," said Mr. Harry. "When he hears a sudden

noise, he stops and looks all about him to find an explanation."

 

"He has been well trained," said Miss Laura.

 

"I have brought him up carefully," said Mr. Harry. "Really, he has been

treated more like a dog than a colt. He follows me about the farm and

smells everything I handle, and seems to want to know the reason of

things.

 

"Your mother says," replied Miss Laura. "that she found you both asleep

on the lawn one day last summer, and the colt's head was on your arm."

 

Mr. Harry smiled and threw his arm over the colt's neck. "We've been

comrades, haven't we, Fleetfoot? I've been almost ashamed of his

devotion. He has followed me to the village, and he always wants to go

fishing with me. He's four years old now, so he ought to get over those

coltish ways. I've driven him a good deal. We're going out in the buggy

this afternoon, will you come?"

 

"Where are you going?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"Just for a short drive back of the river, to collect some money for

father. I'll be home long before tea time."

 

"Yes, I should like to go," said Miss Laura, "I will go to the house and

get my other hat."

 

"Come on, Fleetfoot," said Mr. Harry. And he led the way from the

pasture, the colt following behind with me. I waited about the veranda,

and in a short time Mr. Harry drove up to the front door. The buggy was

black and shining, and Fleetfoot had on a silver-mounted harness that

made him look very fine. He stood gently switching his long tail to keep

the flies away, and with his head turned to see who was going to get

into the buggy. I stood by him, and as soon as he saw that Miss Laura

and Mr. Harry had seated themselves, he acted as if he wanted to be off.

Mr. Harry spoke to him and away he went, I racing down the lane by his

side, so happy to think he was my friend. He liked having me beside him,

and every few seconds put down his head toward me. Animals can tell each

other things without saying a word. When Fleetfoot gave his head a

little toss in a certain way, I knew that he wanted to have a race. He

had a beautiful even gait, and went very swiftly. Mr. Harry kept

speaking to him to check him.

 

"You don't like him to go too fast, do you?" said Miss Laura.

 

"No," he returned. "I think we could make a racer of him if we liked,

but father and I don't go in for fast horses. There is too much said

about fast trotters and race horses. On some of the farms around here,

the people have gone mad on breeding fast horses. An old farmer out in

the country had a common cart-horse that he suddenly found out had great

powers of speed and endurance. He sold him to a speculator for a big

price, and it has set everybody wild. If the people who give all their

time to it can't raise fast horses, I don't see how the farmers can. A

fast horse on a farm is ruination to the boys, for it starts them racing

and betting. Father says he is going to offer a prize for the fastest

walker that can be bred in New Hampshire. That Dutchman of ours, heavy

as he is, is a fair walker, and Cleve and Pacer can each walk four and a

half miles an hour."

 

"Why do you lay such stress on their walking fast?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"Because so much of the farm work must be done at a walk. Ploughing,

teaming, and drawing produce to market, and going up and down hills.

Even for the cities it is good to have fast walkers. Trotting on city

pavements is very hard on the dray horses. If they are allowed to go at

a quick walk, their legs will keep strong much longer. It is shameful

the way horses are used up in big cities. Our pavements are so bad that

cab horses are used up in three years. In many ways we are a great deal

better off in this new country than the people in Europe; but we are not

in respect of cab horses, for in London and Paris they last for five

years. I have seen horses drop down dead in New York just from hard

usage. Poor brutes, there is a better time coming for them though. When

electricity is more fully developed, we'll see some wonderful changes.

As it is, last year in different places, about thirty thousand horses

were released from those abominable horse cars, by having electricity

introduced on the roads. Well, Fleetfoot, do you want another spin? All

right, my boy, go ahead."

 

Away we went again along a bit of level road. Fleetfoot had no

check-rein on his beautiful neck, and when he trotted, he could hold his

head in an easy, natural position. With his wonderful eyes and flowing

mane and tail, and his glossy, reddish-brown body, I thought that he was

the handsomest horse I had ever seen. He loved to go fast, and when Mr.

Harry spoke to him to slow up again, he tossed his head with impatience.

But he was too sweet-tempered to disobey. In all the years that I have

known Fleetfoot, I have never once seen him refuse to do as his master

told him.

 

"You have forgotten your whip, haven't you Harry?" I heard Miss Laura

say, as we jogged slowly along, and I ran by the buggy panting and with

my tongue hanging out.

 

"I never use one," said Mr. Harry; "if I saw any man lay one on

Fleetfoot, I'd knock him down." His voice was so severe that I glanced

up into the buggy. He looked just as he did the day that he stretched

Jenkins on the ground, and gave him a beating.

 

"I am so glad you don't," said Miss Laura. "You are like the Russians.

Many of them control their horses by their voices, and call them such

pretty names. But you have to use a whip for some horses, don't you,

Cousin Harry?"

 

"Yes, Laura. There are many vicious horses that can't be controlled

otherwise, and then with many horses one requires a whip in case of

necessity for urging them forward.

 

"I suppose Fleetfoot never balks," said Miss Laura.

 

"No," replied Mr. Harry; "Dutchman sometimes does, and we have two cures

for him, both equally good. We take up a forefoot and strike his shoe

two or three times with a stone. The operation always interests him

greatly, and he usually starts. If he doesn't go for that, we pass a

line round his forelegs, at the knee joint, then go in front of him and

draw on the line. Father won't let the men use a whip, unless they are

driven to it."

 

"Fleetfoot has had a happy life, hasn't he?" said Miss Laura, looking

admiringly at him. "How did he get to like you so much, Harry?"

 

"I broke him in after a fashion of my own. Father gave him to me, and

the first time I saw him on his feet, I went up carefully and put my

hand on him. His mother was rather shy of me, for we hadn't had her

long, and it made him shy too, so I soon left him. The next time I

stroked him; the next time I put my arm around him. Soon he acted like a

big dog. I could lead him about by a strap, and I made a little halter

and a bridle for him. I didn't see why I shouldn't train him a little

while he was young and manageable. I think it is cruel to let colts run

till one has to employ severity in mastering them. Of course, I did not

let him do much work. Colts are like boys--a boy shouldn't do a man's

work, but he had exercise every day, and I trained him to draw a light

cart behind him. I used to do all kinds of things to accustom him to

unusual sounds. Father talked a good deal to me about Rarey, the great

horse-tamer, and it put ideas into my head. He said he once saw Rarey

come on a stage in Boston with a timid horse that he was going to

accustom to a loud noise. First a bugle was blown, then some louder

instrument, and so on, till there was a whole brass band going. Rarey

reassured the animal, and it was not afraid."

 

"You like horses better than any other animals, don't you, Harry?" asked

Miss Laura.

 

"I believe I do, though I am very fond of that dog of yours. I think I

know more about horses than dogs. Have you noticed Scamp very much?"

 

"Oh, yes; I often watched her. She is such an amusing little creature."

 

"She's the most interesting one we've got, that is, after Fleetfoot.

Father got her from a man who couldn't manage her, and she came to us

with a legion of bad tricks. Father has taken solid comfort though, in

breaking her of them. She is his pet among our stock. I suppose you know

that horses, more than any other animals, are creatures of habit. If

they do a thing once, they will do it again. When she came to us, she

had a trick of biting at a person who gave her oats. She would do it

without fail, so father put a little stick under his arm, and every time

she would bite, he would give her a rap over the nose. She soon got

tired of biting, and gave it up. Sometimes now, you'll see her make a

snap at father as if she was going to bite, and then look under his arm

to see if the stick is there. He cured some of her tricks in one way,

and some in another. One bad one she had was to start for the stable the

minute one of the traces was unfastened when we were unharnessing. She

pulled father over once, and another time she ran the shaft of the sulky

clean through the barn door. The next time father brought her in, he got

ready for her. He twisted the lines around his hands, and the minute she

began to bolt, he gave a tremendous jerk, that pulled her back upon her

haunches, and shouted, 'Whoa!' It cured her, and she never started

again, till he gave her the word. Often now, you'll see her throw her

head back when she is being unhitched. He only did it once, yet she

remembers. If we'd had the training of Scamp, she'd be a very different

animal. It's nearly all in the bringing up of a colt, whether it will

turn out vicious or gentle. If any one were to strike Fleetfoot, he

would not know what it meant. He has been brought up differently from

Scamp.

 

"She was probably trained by some brutal man who inspired her with

distrust of the human species. She never bites an animal, and seems

attached to all the other horses. She loves Fleetfoot and Cleve and

Pacer. Those three are her favorites."

 

"I love to go for drives with Cleve and Pacer," said Miss Laura, "they

are so steady and good. Uncle says they are the most trusty horses he

has. He has told me about the man you had, who said that those two

horses knew more than most 'humans.'"

 

"That was old Davids," said Mr. Harry; "when we had him, he was courting

a widow who lived over in Hoytville. About once a fortnight, he'd ask

father for one of the horses to go over to see her. He always stayed

pretty late, and on the way home he'd tie the reins to the whip-stock

and go to sleep, and never wake up till Cleve or Pacer, whichever one he

happened to have, would draw up in the barnyard. They would pass any

rigs they happened to meet, and turn out a little for a man. If Davids

wasn't asleep, he could always tell by the difference in their gait

which they were passing. They'd go quickly past a man, and much slower,

with more of a turn out, if it was a team. But I dare say father told

you this. He has a great stock of horse stories, and I am almost as bad.

You will have to cry 'halt,' when we bore you."

 

"You never do," replied Miss Laura. "I love to talk about animals. I

think the best story about Cleve and Pacer is the one that uncle told me

last evening. I don't think you were there. It was about stealing the

oats."

 

"Cleve and Pacer never steal," said Mr. Harry. "Don't you mean Scamp?

She's the thief."

 

"No, it was Pacer that stole. He got out of his box, uncle says, and

found two bags of oats, and he took one in his teeth and dropped it

before Cleve, and ate the other himself, and uncle was so amused that he

let them eat a long time, and stood and watched them."

 

"That _was_ a clever trick," said Mr. Harry. "Father must have forgotten

to tell me. Those two horses have been mates ever since I can remember,

and I believe if they were separated, they'd pine away and die. You have

noticed how low the partitions are between the boxes in the horse

stable. Father says you wouldn't put a lot of people in separate boxes

in a room, where they couldn't see each other, and horses are just as

fond of company as we are. Cleve and Pacer are always nosing each other.

A horse has a long memory. Father has had horses recognize him, that he

has been parted from for twenty years. Speaking of their memories

reminds me of another good story about Pacer that I never heard till

yesterday, and that I would not talk about to any one but you and

mother. Father wouldn't write me about it, for he never will put a line

on paper where any one's reputation is concerned."

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER XXVI (THE BOX OF MONEY)

 

"This story," said Mr. Harry, "is about one of the hired men we had last

winter, whose name was Jacobs. He was a cunning fellow, with a hangdog

look, and a great cleverness at stealing farm produce from father on the

sly, and selling it. Father knew perfectly well what he was doing, and

was wondering what would be the best way to deal with him, when one day

something happened that brought matters to a climax.

 

"Father had to go to Sudbury for farming tools, and took Pacer and the

cutter. There are two ways of going there--one the Sudbury Road, and the

other the old Post Road, which is longer and seldom used. On this

occasion father took the Post Road. The snow wasn't deep, and he wanted

to inquire after an old man who had been robbed and half frightened to

death, a few days before. He was a miserable old creature, known as

Miser Jerrold, and he lived alone with his daughter. He had saved a

little money that he kept in a box under his bed. When father got near

the place, he was astonished to see by Pacer's actions that he had been

on this road before, and recently, too. Father is so sharp about horses,

that they never do a thing that he doesn't attach a meaning to. So he

let the reins hang a little loose, and kept his eye on Pacer. The horse

went along the road, and seeing father didn't direct him, turned into

the lane leading to the house. There was an old red gate at the end of

it, and he stopped in front of it, and waited for father to get out.

Then he passed through, and instead of going up to the house, turned

around, and stood with his head toward the road.

 

"Father never said a word, but he was doing a lot of thinking. He went

into the house, and found the old man sitting over the fire, rubbing his

hands, and half-crying about 'the few poor dollars,' that he said he had

had stolen from him. Father had never seen him before, but he knew he

had the name of being half silly, and question him as much as he liked,

he could make nothing of him. The daughter said that they had gone to

bed at dark the night her father was robbed. She slept up stairs, and he

down below. About ten o'clock she heard him scream, and running down

stairs, she found him sitting up in bed, and the window wide open. He

said a man had sprung in upon him, stuffed the bedclothes into his

mouth, and dragging his box from under the bed, had made off with it.

She ran to the door and looked out, but there was no one to be seen. It

was dark, and snowing a little, so no traces of footsteps were to be

perceived in the morning.

 

"Father found that the neighbors were dropping in to bear the old man

company, so he drove on to Sudbury, and then returned home. When he got

back, he said Jacobs was hanging about the stable in a nervous kind of a

way, and said he wanted to speak to him. Father said very good, but put

the horse in first. Jacobs unhitched, and father sat on one of the

stable benches and watched him till he came lounging along with a straw

in his mouth, and said he'd made up his mind to go West, and he'd like

to set off at once.

 

"Father said again, very good, but first he had a little account to

settle with him, and he took out of his pocket a paper, where he had

jotted down, as far as he could, every quart of oats, and every bag of

grain, and every quarter of a dollar of market money that Jacobs had

defrauded him of. Father said the fellow turned all the colors of the

rainbow, for he thought he had covered up his tracks so cleverly that he

would never be found out. Then father said, 'Sit down, Jacobs, for I

have got to have a long talk with you.' He had him there about an hour,

and when he finished, the fellow was completely broken down. Father told

him that there were just two courses in life for a young man to take,

and he had gotten on the wrong one. He was a young, smart fellow, and if

he turned right around now, there was a chance for him. If he didn't

there was nothing but the State's prison ahead of him, for he needn't

think he was going to gull and cheat all the world, and never be found

out. Father said he'd give him all the help in his power, if he had his

word that he'd try to be an honest man. Then he tore up the paper, and

said there was an end of his indebtedness to him.

 

"Jacobs is only a young fellow, twenty-three or thereabout, and father

says he sobbed like a baby. Then, without looking at him, father gave an

account of his afternoon's drive, just as if he was talking to himself.

He said that Pacer never to his knowledge had been on that road before,

and yet he seemed perfectly familiar with it, and that he stopped and

turned already to leave again quickly, instead of going up to the door,

and how he looked over his shoulder and started on a run down the lane,

the minute father's foot was in the cutter again. In the course of his

remarks, father mentioned the fact that on Monday, the evening that the

robbery was committed, Jacobs had borrowed Pacer to go to the Junction,

but had come in with the horse steaming, and looking as if he had been

driven a much longer distance than that. Father said that when he got

done, Jacobs had sunk down all in a heap on the stable floor, with his

hands over his face. Father left him to have it out with himself, and

went to the house.

 

"The next morning, Jacobs looked just the same as usual, and went about

with the other men doing his work, but saying nothing about going West.

Late in the afternoon, a farmer going by hailed father, and asked if

he'd heard the news.

 

"Old Miser Jerrold's box had been left on his doorstep some time through

the night, and he'd found it in the morning. The money was all there,

but the old fellow was so cute that he wouldn't tell any one how much it

was. The neighbors had persuaded him to bank it, and he was coming to

town the next morning with it, and that night some of them were going to

help him mount guard over it. Father told the men at milking time, and

he said Jacobs looked as unconscious as possible. However, from that day

there was a change in him. He never told father in so many words that

he' d resolved to be an honest man, but his actions spoke for him. He

had been a kind of sullen, unwilling fellow, but now he turned handy and

obliging, and it was a real trial to father to part with him."

 

Miss Laura was intensely interested in this story. "Where is he now,

Cousin Harry?" she asked, eagerly. "What became of him?"

 

Mr. Harry laughed in such amusement that I stared up at him, and even

Fleetfoot turned his head around to see what the joke was. We were going

very slowly up a long, steep hill, and in the clear, still air, we could

hear every word spoken in the buggy.

 

"The last part of the story is the best, to my mind," said Mr. Harry,

"and as romantic as even a girl could desire. The affair of the stolen

box was much talked about along Sudbury way, and Miss Jerrold got to be

considered quite a desirable young person among some of the youth near

there, though she is a frowsy-headed creature, and not as neat in her

personal attire as a young girl should be. Among her suitors was Jacobs.

He cut out a blacksmith, and a painter, and several young farmers, and

father said he never in his life had such a time to keep a straight

face, as when Jacobs came to him this spring, and said he was going to

marry old Miser Jerrold's daughter. He wanted to quit father's employ,

and he thanked him in a real manly way for the manner in which he had

always treated him. Well, Jacobs left, and mother says that father would

sit and speculate about him, as to whether he had fallen in love with

Eliza Jerrold, or whether he was determined to regain possession of the

box, and was going to do it honestly, or whether he was sorry for having

frightened the old man into a greater degree of imbecility, and was

marrying the girl so that he could take care of him, or whether it was

something else, and so on, and so on. He had a dozen theories, and then

mother says he would burst out laughing, and say it was one of the

cutest tricks that he had ever heard of.

 

"In the end, Jacobs got married, and father and mother went to the

wedding. Father gave the bridegroom a yoke of oxen, and mother gave the

bride a lot of household linen, and I believe they're as happy as the

day is long. Jacobs makes his wife comb her hair, and he waits on the

old man as if he was his son, and he is improving the farm that was

going to rack and ruin, and I hear he is going to build a new house."

 

"Harry," exclaimed Miss Laura, "can't you take me to see them?"

 

"Yes, indeed; mother often drives over to take them little things, and

we'll go, too, sometime. I'd like to see Jacobs myself, now that he is a

decent fellow. Strange to say, though he hadn't the best of character,

no one has ever suspected him of the robbery, and he's been cunning

enough never to say a word about it. Father says Jacobs is like all the

rest of us. There's mixture of good and evil in him, and sometimes one

predominates, and sometimes the other. But we must get on and not talk

here all day. Get up, Fleetfoot."

 

"Where did you say we were going?" asked Miss Laura, as we crossed the

bridge over the river.

 

"A little way back here in the woods," he replied. "There's an

Englishman on a small clearing that he calls Penhollow. Father loaned

him some money three years ago, and he won't pay either interest or

principal."

 

"I think I've heard of him," said Miss Laura "Isn't he the man whom the

boys call Lord Chesterfield?"

 

"The same one. He's a queer specimen of a man. Father has always stood

up for him. He has a great liking for the English. He says we ought to

be as ready to help an Englishman as an American, for we spring from

common stock."

 

"Oh, not Englishmen only," said Miss Laura, warmly; "Chinamen, and

Negroes, and everybody. There ought to be a brotherhood of nations,

Harry."

 

"Yes, Miss Enthusiasm, I suppose there ought to be," and looking up, I

could see that Mr. Harry was gazing admiringly into his cousin's face.

 

"Please tell me some more about the Englishman," said Miss Laura.

 

"There isn't much to tell. He lives alone, only coming occasionally to

the village for supplies, and though he is poorer than poverty, he

despises every soul within a ten-mile radius of him, and looks upon us

as no better than an order of thrifty, well-trained lower animals."

 

"Why is that?" asked Miss Laura, in surprise.

 

"He is a gentleman, Laura, and we are only common people. My father

can't hand a lady in and out of a carriage as Lord Chesterfield can, nor

can he make so grand a bow, nor does he put on evening dress for a late

dinner, and we never go to the opera nor to the theatre, and know

nothing of polite society, nor can we tell exactly whom our

great-great-grandfather sprang from. I tell you, there is a gulf between

us and that Englishman, wider than the one young Curtius leaped into."

 

Miss Laura was laughing merrily. "How funny that sounds, Harry. So he

despises you," and she glanced at her good-looking cousin, and his

handsome buggy and well-kept horse, and then burst into another merry

peal of laughter.

 

Mr. Harry laughed, too. "It does seem absurd. Sometimes when I pass him

jogging along to town in his rickety old cart, and look at his pale,

cruel face, and know that he is a broken-down gambler and man of the

world, and yet considers himself infinitely superior to me--a young man

in the prime of life, with a good constitution and happy prospects, it

makes me turn away to hide a smile."

 

By this time we had left the river and the meadows far behind us, and

were passing through a thick wood. The road was narrow and very broken,

and Fleetfoot was obliged to pick his way carefully. "Why does the

Englishman live in this out-of-the-way place, if he is so fond of city

life?" said Miss Laura.

 

"I don't know," said Mr. Harry. "Father is afraid that he has committed

some misdeed, and is in hiding; but we say nothing about it. We have not

seen him for some weeks, and to tell the truth, this trip is as much to

see what has become of him, as to make a demand upon him for the money.

As he lives alone, he might lie there ill, and no one would know

anything about it. The last time that we knew of his coming to the

village was to draw quite a sum of money from the bank. It annoyed

father, for he said he might take some of it to pay his debts. I think

his relatives in England supply him with funds. Here we are at the

entrance to the mansion of Penhollow. I must get out and open the gate

that will admit us to the winding avenue."

 

We had arrived in front of some bars which were laid across an opening

in the snake fence that ran along one side of the road. I sat down and

looked about. It was a strange, lonely place. The trees almost met

overhead, and it was very dim and quiet. The sun could only send little

straggling beams through the branches. There was a muddy pool of water

before the bars that Mr. Harry was letting down, and he got his feet wet

in it. "Confound that Englishman," he said, backing out of the water,

and wiping his boots on the grass. "He hasn't even gumption enough to

throw down a load of stone there. Drive in, Laura, and I'll put up the

bars." Fleetfoot took us through the opening, and then Mr. Harry jumped

into the buggy and took up the reins again.

 

We had to go very slowly up a narrow, rough road. The bushes scratched

and scraped against the buggy, and Mr. Harry looked very much annoyed.

 

"No man liveth to himself," said Miss Laura, softly. "This man's

carelessness is giving you trouble. Why doesn't he cut these branches

that overhang the road?"

 

"He can't do it, because his abominable laziness won't let him," said

Mr. Harry. "I'd like to be behind him for a week, and I'd make him step

a little faster. We have arrived at last, thank goodness."

 

There was a small grass clearing in the midst of the woods. Chips and

bits of wood were littered about, and across the clearing was a

roughly-built house of unpainted boards. The front door was propped open

by a stick. Some of the panes of glass in the windows were broken, and

the whole house had a melancholy, dilapidated look. I thought that I had

never seen such a sad-looking place.

 

"It seems as if there was no one about," said Mr. Harry, with a puzzled

face. "Barron must be away. Will you hold Fleetfoot, Laura, while I go

and see?"

 

He drew the buggy up near a small log building that had evidently been

used for a stable, and I lay down beside it and watched Miss Laura.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER XXVII (A NEGLECTED STABLE)

I had not been on the ground more than a few seconds, before I turned my

eyes from Miss Laura to the log hut. It was deathly quiet, there was not

a sound coming from it, but the air was full of queer smells, and I was

so uneasy that I could not lie still. There was something the matter

with Fleetfoot, too. He was pawing the ground and whinnying, and

looking, not after Mr. Harry, but toward the log building.

 

"Joe," said Miss Laura, "what is the matter with you and Fleetfoot? Why

don't you stand still? Is there any stranger about?" and she peered out

of the buggy.

 

I knew there was something wrong somewhere, but I didn't know what it

was; so I stretched myself up on the step of the buggy, and licked her

hand, and barking, to ask her to excuse me, I ran off to the other side

of the log hut. There was a door there, but it was closed, and propped

firmly up by a plank that I could not move, scratch as hard as I liked.

I was determined to get in, so I jumped against the door, and tore and

bit at the plank, till Miss Laura came to help me.

 

"You won't find anything but rats in that ramshackle old place,

Beautiful Joe," she said, as she pulled the plank away; "and as you

don't hurt them, I don't see what you want to get in for. However, you

are a sensible dog, and usually have a reason for having your own way,

so I am going to let you have it."

 

The plank fell down as she spoke, and she pulled open the rough door and

looked in. There was no window inside, only the light that streamed

through the door, so that for an instant she could see nothing. "Is any

one here?" she asked, in her clear, sweet voice. There was no answer,

except a low, moaning sound. "Why, some poor creature is in trouble,

Joe," said Miss Laura, cheerfully. "Let us see what it is," and she

stepped inside.

 

I shall never forget seeing my dear Miss Laura going into that wet and

filthy log house, holding up her white dress in her hands, her face a

picture of pain and horror. There were two rough stalls in it, and in

the first one was tied a cow, with a calf lying beside her. I could

never have believed, if I had not seen it with my own eyes, that an

animal could get so thin as that cow was. Her backbone rose up high and

sharp, her hip bones stuck away out, and all her body seemed shrunken

1. There were sores on her sides, and the smell from her stall was

terrible. Miss Laura gave one cry of pity, then with a very pale face

she dropped her dress, and seizing a little penknife from her pocket,

she hacked at the rope that tied the cow to the manger, and cut it so

that the cow could lie down. The first thing the poor cow did was to

lick her calf, but it was quite dead. I used to think Jenkins's cows

were thin enough, but he never had one that looked like this. Her head

was like the head of a skeleton, and her eyes had such a famished look,

that I turned away, sick at heart, to think that she had suffered so.

 

When the cow lay down, the moaning noise stopped, for she had been

making it. Miss Laura ran outdoors, snatched a handful of grass and took

it in to her. The cow ate it gratefully, but slowly, for her strength

seemed all gone.

 

Miss Laura then went into the other stall to see if there was any

creature there. There had been a horse. There was now a lean,

gaunt-looking animal lying on the ground, that seemed as if he was dead.

There was a heavy rope knotted round his neck, and fastened to his empty

rack. Miss Laura stepped carefully between his feet, cut the rope and

going outside the stall spoke kindly to him. He moved his ears slightly,

raised his head, tried to get up, fell back again, tried again, and

succeeded in staggering outdoors after Miss Laura, who kept encouraging

him, and then he fell down on the grass.

 

Fleetfoot stared at the miserable-looking creature as if he did not know

what it was. The horse had no sores on his body, as the cow had, nor was

he quite so lean; but he was the weakest, most distressed-looking animal

that I ever saw. The flies settled on him, and Miss Laura had to keep

driving them away. He was a white horse, with some kind of pale-colored

eyes, and whenever he turned them on Miss Laura, she would look away.

She did not cry, as she often did over the sick and suffering animals.

This seemed too bad for tears. She just hovered over that poor horse

with her face as white as her dress, and an expression of fright in her

eyes. Oh, how dirty he was! I would never have imagined that a horse

could get in such a condition.

 

All this had only taken a few minutes, and just after she got the horse

out, Mr. Harry appeared. He came out of the house with a slow step, that

quickened to a run when he saw Miss Laura. "Laura!" he exclaimed, "what

are you doing?" Then he stopped and looked at the horse, not in

amazement, but very sorrowfully. "Barron is gone," he said, and

crumpling up a piece of paper, he put it in his pocket "What is to be

done for these animals? There is a cow, isn't there?"

 

He stepped to the door of the log hut, glanced in, and said, quickly:

"Do you feel able to drive home?"

 

"Yes," said Miss Laura.

 

"Sure?" and he eyed her anxiously.

 

"Yes, yes," she returned; "what shall I get?"

 

"Just tell father that Barron has run away and left a starving pig, cow,

and horse. There's not a thing to eat here. He'll know what to do. I'll

drive you to the road."

 

Miss Laura got into the buggy and Mr. Harry jumped in after her. He

drove her to the road and put down the bars; then he said: "Go straight

1. You'll soon be on the open road, and there's nothing to harm you.

Joe will look after you. Meanwhile I'll go back to the house and heat

some water."

 

Miss Laura let Fleetfoot go as fast as he liked on the way home, and it

only seemed a few minutes before we drove into the yard. Adele came out

to meet us. "Where's uncle?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"Gone to de big meadow," said Adele.

 

"And auntie?"

 

"She had de colds and chills, and entered into de bed to keep warm. She

lose herself in sleep now. You not go near her."

 

"Are there none of the men about?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"No, mademoiselle. Dey all occupied way off."

 

"Then you help me, Adele, like a good girl," said Miss Laura, hurrying

into the house. "We've found a sick horse and cow. What shall I take

them?"

 

"Nearly all animals like de bran mash," said Adele.

 

"Good!" cried Miss Laura. "That is the very thing. Put in the things to

make it, will you please, and I would like some vegetables for the cow.

Carrots, turnips, anything you have; take some of those you have

prepared for dinner tomorrow, and please run up to the barn, Adele, and

get some hay, and corn, and oats, not much, for we'll be going back

again; but hurry, for the poor things are starving, and have you any

milk for the pig? Put it in one of those tin kettles with covers."

 

For a few minutes, Miss Laura and Adele flew about the kitchen, then we

set off again. Miss Laura took me in the buggy, for I was out of breath

and wheezing greatly. I had to sit on the seat beside her, for the

bottom of the buggy and the back were full of eatables for the poor sick

animals. Just as we drove into the road, we met Mr. Wood. "Are you

running away with the farm?" he said with a laugh, pointing to the

carrot tops that were gaily waving over the dashboard.

 

Miss Laura said a few words to him, and with a very grave face he got in

beside her. In a short time, we were back on the lonely road. Mr. Harry

was waiting at the gate for us, and when he saw Miss Laura, he said,

"Why did you come jack again? You'll be tired out. This isn't a place

for a sensitive girl like you."

 

"I thought I might be of some use," said she, gently.

 

"So you can," said Mr. Wood. "You go into the house and sit down, and

Harry and I will come to you when we want cheering up. What have you

been doing, Harry?"

 

"I've watered them a little, and got a good fire going. I scarcely think

the cow will pull through. I think we'll save the horse. I tried to get

the cow out-doors, but she can't move."

 

"Let her alone," said Mr. Wood. "Give her some food and her strength

will come to her. What have you got here?" and he began to take the

things out of the buggy. "Bless the child, she's thought of everything,

even the salt. Bring those things into the house, Harry, and we'll make

a bran mash."

 

For more than an hour they were fussing over the animals. Then they came

in and sat down. The inside of the Englishman's house was as untidy as

the outside. There was no upstairs to it--only one large room with a

dirty curtain stretched across it. On one side was a low bed with a heap

of clothes on it, a chair and a wash-stand. On the other was a stove, a

table, a shaky rocking-chair that Miss Laura was sitting in, a few

hanging shelves with some dishes and books on them, and two or three

small boxes that had evidently been used for seats.

 

On the walls were tacked some pictures of grand houses and ladies and

gentlemen in fine clothes, and Miss Laura said that some of them were

noble people. "Well, I'm glad this particular nobleman has left us,"

said Mr. Wood, seating himself on one of the boxes, "if nobleman he is.

I should call him in plain English, a scoundrel. Did Harry show you his

note?"

 

"No, uncle," said Miss Laura.

 

"Read it aloud," said Mr. Wood. "I'd like to hear it again."

 

Miss Laura read:

 

1. WOOD, Esq.

Dear Sir:--It is a matter of great regret to me that I am suddenly

called away from my place at Penhollow, and will, therefore, not be

able to do myself the pleasure of calling on you and settling my

little account. I sincerely hope that the possession of my live stock

which I make entirely over to you, will more than reimburse you for

any trifling expense which you may have incurred on my account. If it

is any gratification to you to know that you have rendered a slight

assistance to the son of one of England's noblest noblemen, you have

1. With expressions of the deepest respect, and hoping that my stock

may be in good condition when you take possession,

 

I am, dear sir, ever devotedly yours,

HOWARD ALGERNON LEDUC BARRON.

 

Miss Laura dropped the paper. "Uncle, did he leave those animals to

starve?"

 

"Didn't you notice," said Mr. Wood, grimly, "that there wasn't a wisp of

hay inside that shanty, and that where the poor beasts were tied up the

wood was knawed and bitten by them in their torture for food? Wouldn't

he have sent me that note, instead of leaving it here on the table, if

he'd wanted me to know? The note isn't dated, but I judge he's been gone

five or six days. He has had a spite against me ever since I lent him

that hundred dollars. I don't know why, for I've stood up for him when

others would have run him out of the place. He intended me to come here

and find every animal lying dead.

 

"He even had a rope around the pig's neck. Harry, my boy, let us go and

look after them again. I love a dumb brute too well to let it suffer,

but in this case I'd give two hundred dollars more if I could make them

live and have Barron know it."

 

They left the room, and Miss Laura sat turning the sheet of paper over

and over, with a kind of horror in her face. It was a very dirty piece

of paper, but by-and-by she made a discovery. She took it in her hand

and went out-doors. I am sure that the poor horse lying on the grass

knew her. He lifted his head, and what a different expression he had now

that his hunger had been partly satisfied. Miss Laura stroked and patted

him, then she called to her cousin, "Harry, will you look at this?"

 

He took the paper from her, and said: "That is a crest shining through

the different strata of dust and grime, probably that of his own family

We'll have it cleaned, and it will enable us to track the villain. You

want him punished, don't you?" he said, with a little, sly laugh at Miss

Laura.

 

She made a gesture in the direction of the suffering horse, and said,

frankly, "Yes, I do."

 

"Well, my dear girl," he said, "father and I are with you. If we can

hunt Barron down, we'll do it." Then he muttered to himself as she

turned away, "She is a real Puritan, gentle, and sweet, and good, and

yet severe. Rewards for the virtuous, punishments for the vicious," and

he repeated some poetry:

 

"She was so charitable and so piteous,

She would weep if that she saw a mouse

Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled."

 

Miss Laura saw that Mr. Wood and Mr. Harry were doing all that could be

done for the cow and horse, so she wandered down to a hollow at the back

of the house, where the Englishman had kept his pig. Just now, he looked

more like a greyhound than a pig. His legs were so long, his nose so

sharp, and hunger, instead of making him stupid like the horse and cow,

had made him more lively. I think he had probably not suffered so much

as they had, or perhaps he had had a greater store of fat to nourish

him. Mr. Harry said that if he had been a girl, he would have laughed

and cried at the same time when he discovered that pig. He must have

been asleep or exhausted when we arrived, for there was not a sound out

of him, but shortly afterward he had set up a yelling that attracted Mr.

Harry's attention, and made him run down to him. Mr. Harry said he was

raging around his pen, digging the ground with his snout, falling down

and getting up again, and by a miracle, escaping death by choking from

the rope that was tied around his neck.

 

Now that his hunger had been satisfied, he was gazing contentedly at his

little trough that was half full of good, sweet milk. Mr. Harry said

that a starving animal, like a starving person, should only be fed a

little at a time; but the Englishman's animals had always been fed

poorly, and their stomachs had contracted so that they could not eat

much at one time.

 

Miss Laura got a stick and scratched poor piggy's back a little, and

then she went back to the house. In a short time we went home with Mr.

Wood. Mr. Harry was going to stay all night with the sick animals, and

his mother would send him things to make him comfortable. She was better

by the time we got home, and was horrified to hear the tale of Mr.

Barron's neglect. Later in the evening, she sent one of the men over

with a whole box full of things for her darling boy, and a nice, hot

tea, done up for him in a covered dish.

 

When the man came home, he said that Mr. Harry would not sleep in the

Englishman's dirty house, but had slung a hammock out under the trees.

However, he would not be able to sleep much, for he had his lantern by

his side, all ready to jump up and attend to the horse and cow. It was a

very lonely place for him out there in the woods, and his mother said

that she would be glad when the sick animals could be driven to their

own farm.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER XXVIII (THE END OF THE ENGLISHMAN)

In a few days, thanks to Mr. Harry's constant care, the horse and cow

were able to walk. It was a mournful procession that came into the yard

at Dingley Farm. The hollow-eyed horse, and lean cow, and funny, little

thin pig, staggering along in such a shaky fashion. Their hoofs were

diseased, and had partly rotted away, so that they could not walk

straight. Though it was only a mile or two from Penhollow to Dingley

Farm, they were tired out, and dropped down exhausted on their

comfortable beds.

 

Miss Laura was so delighted to think that they had all lived, that she

did not know what to do. Her eyes were bright and shining, and she went

from one to another with such a happy face. The queer little pig that

Mr. Harry had christened "Daddy Longlegs," had been washed, and he lay

on his heap of straw in the corner of his neat little pen, and surveyed

his clean trough and abundance of food with the air of a prince. Why, he

would be clean and dry here, and all his life he had been used to dirty,

damp Penhollow, with the trees hanging over him, and his little feet in

a mass of filth and dead leaves. Happy little pig! His ugly eyes seemed

to blink and gleam with gratitude, and he knew Miss Laura and Mr. Harry

as well as I did.

 

His tiny tail was curled so tight that it was almost in a knot. Mr. Wood

said that was a sign that he was healthy and happy, and that when poor

Daddy was at Penhollow he had noticed that his tail hung as limp and as

loose as the tail of a rat. He came and leaned over the pen with Miss

Laura, and had a little talk with her about pigs. He said they were by

no means the stupid animals that some people considered them. He had had

pigs that were as clever as dogs. One little black pig that he had once

sold to a man away back in the country had found his way home, through

the woods, across the river, up hill and down dale, and he'd been taken

to the place with a bag over his head. Mr. Wood said that he kept that

pig because he knew so much.

 

He said the most knowing pigs he ever saw were Canadian pigs. One time

he was having a trip on a sailing vessel, and it anchored in a long,

narrow harbor in Canada, where the tide came in with a front four or

five feet high called the "bore." There was a village opposite the place

where the ship was anchored, and every day at low tide, a number of pigs

came down to look for shell-fish. Sometimes they went out for half a

mile over the mud flats, but always a few minutes before the tide came

rushing in they turned and hurried to the shore. Their instincts warned

them that if they stayed any longer they would be drowned.

 

Mr. Wood had a number of pigs, and after a while Daddy was put in with

them, and a fine time he had of it making friends with the other little

grunters. They were often let out in the pasture or orchard, and when

they were there, I could always single out Daddy from among them,

because he was the smartest. Though he had been brought up in such a

miserable way, he soon learned to take very good care of himself at

Dingley Farm, and it was amusing to see him when a storm was coming on,

running about in a state of great excitement carrying little bundles of

straw in his mouth to make himself a bed. He was a white pig, and was

always kept very clean. Mr. Wood said that it is wrong to keep pigs

dirty. They like to be clean as well as other animals, and if they were

kept so, human beings would not get so many diseases from eating their

flesh.

 

The cow, poor unhappy creature, never, as long as she lived on Dingley

Farm, lost a strange, melancholy look from her eyes. I have heard it

said that animals forget past unhappiness, and perhaps some of them do.

I know that I have never forgotten my one miserable year with Jenkins,

and I have been a sober, thoughtful dog in consequence of it, and not

playful like some dogs who have never known what it is to be really

unhappy.

 

It always seemed to me that the Englishman's cow was thinking of her

poor dead calf, starved to death by her cruel master. She got well

herself, and came and went with the other cows, seemingly as happy as

they, but often when I watched her standing chewing her cud, and looking

away in the distance, I could see a difference between her face and the

faces of the cows that had always been happy on Dingley Farm. Even the

farm hands called her "Old Melancholy," and soon she got to be known by

that name, or Mel, for short. Until she got well, she was put into the

cow stable, where Mr. Wood's cows all stood at night upon raised

platforms of earth covered over with straw litter, and she was tied with

a Dutch halter, so that she could lie down and go to sleep when she

wanted to. When she got well, she was put out to pasture with the other

cows.

 

The horse they named "Scrub," because he could never be, under any

circumstance, anything but a broken-down, plain-looking animal. He was

put into the horse stable in a stall next Fleetfoot, and as the

partition was low, they could look over at each other. In time, by dint

of much doctoring, Scrub's hoofs became clean and sound, and he was able

to do some work. Miss Laura petted him a great deal. She often took out

apples to the stable, and Fleetfoot would throw up his beautiful head

and look reproachfully over the partition at her, for she always stayed

longer with Scrub than with him, and Scrub always got the larger share

of whatever good thing was going.

 

Poor old Scrub! I think he loved Miss Laura. He was a stupid sort of a

horse, and always acted as if he was blind. He would run his nose up and

down the front of her dress, nip at the buttons, and be very happy if he

could get a bit of her watch-chain between his strong teeth. If he was

in the field he never seemed to know her till she was right under his

pale-colored eyes. Then he would be delighted to see her. He was not

blind though, for Mr. Wood said he was not. He said he had probably not

been an over-bright horse to start with, and had been made more dull by

cruel usage.

 

As for the Englishman, the master of these animals, a very strange thing

happened to him. He came to a terrible end, but for a long time no one

knew anything about it. Mr. Wood and Mr. Harry were so very angry with

him that they said they would leave no stone unturned to have him

punished, or at least to have it known what a villain he was. They sent

the paper with the crest on it to Boston. Some people there wrote to

England, and found out that it was the crest of a noble and highly

esteemed family, and some earl was at the head of it. They were all

honorable people in this family except one man, a nephew, not a son, of

the late earl. He was the black sheep of them all. As a young man, he

had led a wild and wicked life, and had ended by forging the name of one

of his friends, so that he was obliged to leave England and take refuge

in America. By the description of this man, Mr. Wood knew that he must

be Mr. Barron, so he wrote to these English people, and told them what a

wicked thing their relative had done in leaving his animals to starve.

In a short time, he got an answer from them, which was, at the same

time, very proud and very touching. It came from Mr. Barron's cousin,

and he said quite frankly that he knew his relative was a man of evil

habits, but it seemed as if nothing could be done to reform him. His

family was accustomed to send a quarterly allowance to him, on condition

that he led a quiet life in some retired place, but their last

remittance to him was lying unclaimed in Boston, and they thought he

must be dead. Could Mr. Wood tell them anything about him?

 

Mr. Wood looked very thoughtful when he got this letter, then he said,

"Harry, how long is it since Barron ran away?"

 

"About eight weeks," said Mr. Harry.

 

"That's strange," said Mr. Wood. "The money these English people sent

him would get to Boston just a few days after he left here. He is not

the man to leave it long unclaimed. Something must have happened to him.

Where do you suppose he would go from Penhollow?"

 

"I have no idea, sir," said Mr. Harry.

 

"And how would he go?" said Mr. Wood. "He did not leave Riverdale

Station, because he would have been spotted by some of his creditors."

 

"Perhaps he would cut through the woods to the Junction," said Mr.

Harry.

 

"Just what he would do," said Mr. Wood, slapping his knee. "I'll be

driving over there to-morrow to see Thompson, and I'll make inquiries."

 

Mr. Harry spoke to his father the next night when he came home, and

asked him if he had found out anything. "Only this," said Mr. Wood.

"There's no one answering to Barron's description who has left Riverdale

Junction within a twelvemonth. He must have struck some other station.

We'll let him go. The Lord looks out for fellows like that."

 

"We will look out for him if he ever comes back to Riverdale," said Mr.

Harry, quietly. All through the village, and in the country it was known

what a dastardly trick the Englishman had played, and he would have been

roughly handled if he had dared return.

 

Months passed away, and nothing was heard of him. Late in the autumn,

after Miss Laura and I had gone back to Fairport, Mrs. Wood wrote her

about the end of the Englishman. Some Riverdale lads were beating about

the woods, looking for lost cattle, and in their wanderings came to an

old stone quarry that had been disused for years. On one side there was

a smooth wall of rock, many feet deep. On the other the ground and rock

were broken away, and it was quite easy to get into it. They found that

by some means or other, one of their cows had fallen into this deep pit,

over the steep side of the quarry. Of course, the poor creature was

dead, but the boys, out of curiosity, resolved to go down and look at

her. They clambered down, found the cow, and, to their horror and

amazement, discovered near-by the skeleton of a man. There was a heavy

walking-stick by his side, which they recognized as one that the

Englishman had carried.

 

He was a drinking man, and perhaps he had taken something that he

thought would strengthen him for his morning's walk, but which had, on

the contrary, bewildered him, and made him lose his way and fall into

the quarry. Or he might have started before daybreak, and in the

darkness have slipped and fallen down this steep wall of rock. One leg

was doubled under him, and if he had not been instantly killed by the

fall, he must have been so disabled that he could not move. In that

lonely place, he would call for help in vain, so he may have perished by

the terrible death of starvation--the death he had thought to mete out

to his suffering animals.

 

Mrs. Wood said that there was never a sermon preached in Riverdale that

had the effect that the death of this wicked man had, and it reminded

her of a verse in the Bible: "He made a pit and he digged it, and is

fallen into the ditch which he made." Mrs. Wood said that her husband

had written about the finding of Mr. Barron's body to his English

relatives, and had received a letter from them in which they seemed

relieved to hear that he was dead. They thanked Mr. Wood for his plain

speaking in telling them of their relative's misdeeds, and said that

from all they knew of Mr. Barron's past conduct, his influence would be

for evil and not for good, in any place that he choose to live in. They

were having their money sent from Boston to Mr. Wood, and they wished

him to expend it in the way he thought best fitted to counteract the

evil effects of their namesake's doings in Riverdale.

 

When this money came, it amounted to some hundreds of dollars. Mr. Wood

would have nothing to do with it. He handed it over to the Band of

Mercy, and they formed what they called the "Barron Fund," which they

drew upon when they wanted money for buying and circulating humane

literature. Mrs. Wood said that the fund was being added to, and the

children were sending all over the State leaflets and little books which

preached the gospel of kindness to God's lower creation. A stranger

picking one of them up, and seeing the name of the wicked Englishman

printed on the title-page, would think that he was a friend and

benefactor to the Riverdale people--the very opposite of what he gloried

in being.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER XXIX (A TALK ABOUT SHEEP)

Miss Laura was very much interested in the sheep on Dingley Farm. There

was a flock in the orchard near the house that she often went to see.

She always carried roots and vegetables to them, turnips particularly,

for they were very fond of them; but they would not come to her to get

them, for they did not know her voice. They only lifted their heads and

stared at her when she called them. But when they heard Mr. Wood's

voice, they ran to the fence, bleating with pleasure, and trying to push

their noses through to get the carrot or turnip, or whatever he was

handing to them. He called them his little Southdowns, and he said he

loved his sheep, for they were the most gentle and inoffensive creatures

that he had on his farm.

 

One day when he came into the kitchen inquiring for salt, Miss Laura

said: "Is it for the sheep?"

 

"Yes," he replied; "I am going up to the woods pasture to examine my

Shropshires."

 

"You would like to go too, Laura," said Mrs. Wood. "Take your hands

right away from that cake. I'll finish frosting it for you. Run along

and get your broad-brimmed hat. It's very hot."

 

Miss Laura danced out into the hall and back again, and soon we were

walking up, back of the house, along a path that led us through the

fields to the pasture. "What are you going to do, uncle?" she said; "and

what are those funny things in your hands?"

 

"Toe-clippers," he replied, "and I am going to examine the sheeps'

hoofs. You know we've had warm, moist weather all through July, and I'm

afraid of foot-rot. Then they're sometimes troubled with overgrown

hoofs."

 

"What do you do if they get foot-rot?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"I've various cures," he said. "Paring and clipping, and dipping the

hoof in blue vitriol and vinegar, or rubbing it on, as the English

shepherds do. It destroys the diseased part, but doesn't affect the

sound."

 

"Do sheep have many diseases?" asked Miss Laura. "I know one of them

myself--that is the scab."

 

"A nasty thing that," said Mr. Wood, vigorously; "and a man that builds

up a flock from a stockyard often finds it out to his cost."

 

"What is it like?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"The sheep get scabby from a microbe under the skin, which causes them

to itch fearfully, and they lose their wool."

 

"And can't it be cured?"

 

"Oh, yes! with time and attention. There are different remedies. I

believe petroleum is the best."

 

By this time we had got to a wide gate that opened into the pasture. As

Mr. Wood let Miss Laura go through and then closed it behind her, he

said, "You are looking at that gate. You want to know why it is so long,

don't you?"

 

"Yes, uncle," she said; "but I can't bear to ask so many questions."

 

"Ask as many as you like," he said, good-naturedly. "I don't mind

answering them. Have you ever seen sheep pass through a gate or door?"

 

"Oh, yes, often."

 

"And how do they act?"

 

"Oh, so silly, uncle. They hang back, and one waits for another; and,

finally, they all try to go at once."

 

"Precisely; when one goes they all want to go, if it was to jump into a

bottomless pit. Many sheep are injured by overcrowding, so I have my

gates and doors very wide. Now, let us call them up." There wasn't one

in sight, but when Mr. Wood lifted up his voice and cried: "Ca nan, nan,

nan!" black faces began to peer out from among the bushes; and little

black legs, carrying white bodies, came hurrying up the stony paths from

the cooler parts of the pasture. Oh, how glad they were to get the salt!

Mr. Wood let Miss Laura spread it on some flat rocks, then they sat down

on a log under a tree and watched them eating it and licking the rocks

when it was all gone. Miss Laura sat fanning herself with her hat and

smiling at them. "You funny, woolly things," she said; "You're not so

stupid as some people think you are. Lie still, Joe. If you show

yourself, they may run away."

 

I crouched behind the log, and only lifted my head occasionally to see

what the sheep were doing. Some of them went back into the woods, for it

was very hot in this bare part of the pasture, but the most of them

would not leave Mr. Wood, and stood staring at him. "That's a fine

sheep, isn't it?" said Miss Laura, pointing to one with the blackest

face, and the blackest legs, and largest body of those near us.

 

"Yes; that's old Jessica. Do you notice how she's holding her head close

to the ground?"

 

"Yes; is there any reason for it?"

 

"There is. She's afraid of the grub fly. You often see sheep holding

their noses in that way in the summer time. It is to prevent the fly

from going into their nostrils, and depositing an egg, which will turn

into a grub and annoy and worry them. When the fly comes near, they give

a sniff and run as if they were crazy, still holding their noses close

to the ground. When I was a boy, and the sheep did that, we thought that

they had colds in their heads, and used to rub tar on their noses. We

knew nothing about the fly then, but the tar cured them, and is just

what I use now. Two or three times a month during hot weather, we put a

few drops of it on the nose of every sheep in the flock."

 

"I suppose farmers are like other people, and are always finding out

better ways of doing their work, aren't they, uncle?" said Miss Laura.

 

"Yes, my child. The older I grow, the more I find out, and the better

care I take of my stock. My grandfather would open his eyes in

amazement; and ask me if I was an old women petting her cats, if he were

alive, and could know the care I give my sheep. He used to let his flock

run till the fields were covered with snow, and bite as close as they

liked, till there wasn't a scrap of feed left. Then he would give them

an open shed to run under, and throw down their hay outside. Grain they

scarcely knew the taste of. That they would fall off in flesh, and half

of them lose their lambs in the spring, was an expected thing. He would

say I had them kennelled, if he could see my big, closed sheds, with the

sunny windows that my flock spend the winter in. I even house them

during the bad fall storms. They can run out again. Indeed, I like to

get them in, and have a snack of dry food, to break them in to it. They

are in and out of those sheds all winter. You must go in, Laura, and see

the self-feeding racks. On bright, winter days they get a run in the

cornfields. Cold doesn't hurt sheep. It's the heavy rain that soaks

their fleeces.

 

"With my way I seldom lose a sheep, and they're the most profitable

stock I have. If I could not keep them, I think I'd give up farming.

Last year my lambs netted me eight dollars each. The fleeces of the ewes

average eight pounds, and sell for two dollars each. That's something to

brag of in these days, when so many are giving up the sheep industry."

 

"How many sheep have you, uncle?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"Only fifty, now. Twenty-five here and twenty-five down below in the

orchard. I've been selling a good many this spring."

 

"These sheep are larger than those in the orchard, aren't they?" said

Miss Laura.

 

"Yes; I keep those few Southdowns for their fine quality. I don't make

as much on them as I do on these Shropshires. For an all-around sheep I

like the Shropshire. It's good for mutton, for wool, and for rearing

lambs. There's a great demand for mutton nowadays, all through our

eastern cities. People want more and more of it. And it has to be

tender, and juicy, and finely flavored, so a person has to be particular

about the feed the sheep get."

 

"Don't you hate to have these creatures killed, that you have raised and

tended so carefully?" said Miss Laura with a little shudder.

 

"I do," said her uncle; "but never an animal goes off my place that I

don't know just how it's going to be put to death. None of your sending

sheep to market with their legs tied together, and jammed in a cart, and

sweating and suffering for me. They've got to go standing comfortably on

their legs, or go not at all. And I'm going to know the butcher that

kills my animals, that have been petted like children. I said to

Davidson, over there in Hoytville, 'If I thought you would herd my sheep

and lambs and calves together, and take them one by one in sight of the

rest, and stick your knife into them, or stun them, and have the others

lowing, and bleating, and crying in their misery, this is the last

consignment you would ever get from me.'

 

"He said, 'Wood, I don't like my business, but on the word of an honest

man, my butchering is done as well as it can be. Come and see for

yourself.'

 

"He took me to his slaughter-house, and though I didn't stay long, I saw

enough to convince me that he spoke the truth. He has different pens and

sheds, and the killing is done as quietly as possible; the animals are

taken in one by one, and though the others suspect what is going on,

they can't see it."

 

"These sheep are a long way from the house," said Miss Laura; "don't the

dogs that you were telling me about attack them?"

 

"No; for since I had that brush with Windham's dog, I've trained them to

go and come with the cows. It's a queer thing, but cows that will run

from a dog when they are alone will fight him if he meddles with their

calves or the sheep. There's not a dog around that would dare to come

into this pasture, for he knows the cows would be after him with lowered

horns, and a business look in their eyes. The sheep in the orchard are

safe enough, for they're near the house, and if a strange dog came

around, Joe would settle him, wouldn't you, Joe?" and Mr. Wood looked

behind the log at me.

 

I got up and put my head on his arm, and he went on: "By and by, the

Southdowns will be changed up here, and the Shropshires will go down to

the orchard. I like to keep one flock under my fruit trees. You know

there is an old proverb, 'The sheep has a golden hoof.' They save me the

trouble of ploughing. I haven't ploughed my orchard for ten years, and

don't expect to plough it for ten years more. Then your Aunt Hattie's

hens are so obliging that they keep me from the worry of finding ticks

at shearing time. All the year round, I let them run among the sheep,

and they nab every tick they see."

 

"How closely sheep bite," exclaimed Miss Laura, pointing to one that was

nibbling almost at his master's feet.

 

"Very close, and they eat a good many things that cows don't

relish--bitter weeds, and briars, and shrubs, and the young ferns that

come up in the spring."

 

"I wish I could get hold of one of those dear little lambs," said Miss

Laura. "See that sweet little blackie back in the alders. Could you not

coax him up?"

 

"He wouldn't come here," said her uncle, kindly; "but I'll try and get

him for you."

 

He rose, and after several efforts succeeded in capturing the

black-faced creature, and bringing him up to the log. He was very shy of

Miss Laura, but Mr. Wood held him firmly, and let her stroke his head as

much as she liked. "You call him little," said Mr. Wood; "if you put

your arm around him, you'll find he's a pretty substantial lamb. He was

born in March. This is the last of July; he'll be shorn the middle of

next month, and think he's quite grown up. Poor little animal! he had

quite a struggle for life. The sheep were turned out to pasture in

April. They can't bear confinement as well as the cows, and as they bite

closer they can be turned out earlier, and get on well by having good

rations of corn in addition to the grass, which is thin and poor so

early in the spring. This young creature was running by his mother's

side, rather a weak-legged, poor specimen of a lamb. Every night the

flock was put under shelter, for the ground was cold, and though the

sheep might not suffer from lying out-doors, the lambs would get

chilled. One night this fellow's mother got astray, and as Ben neglected

to make the count, she wasn't missed. I'm always anxious about my lambs

in the spring, and often get up in the night to look after them. That

night I went out about two o'clock. I took it into my head, for some

reason or other, to count them. I found a sheep and lamb missing, took

my lantern and Bruno, who was some good at tracking sheep, and started

out. Bruno barked and I called, and the foolish creature came to me, the

little lamb staggering after her. I wrapped the lamb in my coat, took it

to the house, made a fire, and heated some milk. Your Aunt Hattie heard

me and got up. She won't let me give brandy even to a dumb beast, so I

put some ground ginger, which is just as good, in the milk, and forced

it down the lamb's throat. Then we wrapped an old blanket round him, and

put him near the stove, and the next evening he was ready to go back to

his mother. I petted him all through April, and gave him

extras--different kinds of meal, till I found what suited him best; now

he does me credit."

 

"Dear little lamb," said Miss Laura, patting him. "How can you tell him

from the others, uncle?"

 

"I know all their faces, Laura. A flock of sheep is just like a crowd of

people. They all have different expressions, and have different

dispositions."

 

"They all look alike to me," said Miss Laura.

 

"I dare say. You are not accustomed to them. Do you know how to tell a

sheep's age?"

 

"No, uncle."

 

"Here, open your mouth, Cosset," he said to the lamb that he still held.

"At one year they have two teeth in the centre of the jaw. They get two

teeth more every year up to five years. Then we say they have 'a full

mouth.' After that you can't tell their age exactly by the teeth. Now,

run back to your mother," and he let the lamb go.

 

"Do they always know their own mothers?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"Usually. Sometimes a ewe will not own her lamb. In that case we tie

them up in a separate stall till she recognizes it. Do you see that

sheep over there by the blueberry bushes--the one with the very pointed

ears?"

 

"Yes, uncle," said Miss Laura.

 

"That lamb by her side is not her own. Hers died and we took its fleece

and wrapped it around a twin lamb that we took from another ewe, and

gave to her. She soon adopted it. Now, come this way, and I'll show you

our movable feeding troughs."

 

He got up from the log, and Miss Laura followed him to the fence. "These

big troughs are for the sheep," sad Mr. Wood; "and those shallow ones in

the enclosure are for the lambs. See, there is just room enough for them

to get under the fence. You should see the small creatures rush to them

whenever we appear with their oats, and wheat, or bran, or whatever we

are going to give them. If they are going to the butcher, they get corn

meal and oil meal. Whatever it is, they eat it up clean. I don't believe

in cramming animals. I feed them as much as is good for them, and not

any more. Now, you go sit down over there behind those bushes with Joe,

and I'll attend to business."

 

Miss Laura found a shady place, and I curled myself up beside her. We

sat there a long time, but we did not get tired, for it was amusing to

watch the sheep and lambs. After a while, Mr. Wood came and sat down

beside us. He talked some more about sheep-raising; then he said,

 

"You may stay here longer if you like, but I must get down to the house.

The work must be done, if the weather is hot."

 

"What are you going to do now?" asked Miss Laura, jumping up.

 

"Oh! more sheep business. I've set out some young trees in the orchard,

and unless I get chicken wire around them, my sheep will be barking them

for me."

 

"I've seen them," said Miss Laura, "standing up on their hind legs and

nibbling at the trees, taking off every shoot they can reach."

 

"They don't hurt the old trees," said Mr. Wood; "but the young ones have

to be protected. It pays me to take care of my fruit trees, for I get a

splendid crop from them, thanks to the sheep."

 

"Good-bye, little lambs and dear old sheep," said Miss Laura, as her

uncle opened the gate for her to leave the pasture. "I'll come and see

you again some time. Now, you had better go down to the brook in the

dingle and have a drink. You look hot in your warm coats."

 

"You've mastered one detail of sheep-keeping," said Mr. Wood, as he

slowly walked along beside his niece. "To raise healthy sheep one must

have pure water where they can get to it whenever they like. Give them

good water, good food, and a variety of it, good quarters--cool in

summer, comfortable in winter, and keep them quiet, and you'll make them

happy and make money on them."

 

"I think I'd like sheep-raising," said Miss Laura; "won't you have me

for your flock mistress, uncle?"

 

He laughed, and said he thought not, for she would cry every time any of

her charge were sent to the butcher.

 

After this Miss Laura and I often went up to the pasture to see the

sheep and the lambs. We used to get into a shady place where they could

not see us, and watch them. One day I got a great surprise about the

sheep. I had heard so much about their meekness that I never dreamed

that they would fight; but it turned out that they did, and they went

about it in such a business-like way, that I could not help smiling at

them. I suppose that like most other animals they had a spice of

wickedness in them. On this day a quarrel arose between two sheep; but

instead of running at each other like two dogs they went a long distance

apart, and then came rushing at each other with lowered heads. Their

object seemed to be to break each other's skull; but Miss Laura soon

stopped them by calling out and frightening them apart. I thought that

the lambs were more interesting than the sheep. Sometimes they fed

quietly by their mothers' sides, and at other times they all huddled

together on the top of some flat rock or in a bare place, and seemed to

be talking to each other with their heads close together. Suddenly one

would jump down, and start for the bushes or the other side of the

pasture. They would all follow pell-mell; then in a few minutes they

would come rushing back again. It was pretty to see them playing

together and having a good time before the sorrowful day of their death

came.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER XXX (A JEALOUS OX)

Mr. Wood had a dozen calves that he was raising, and Miss Laura

sometimes went up to the stable to see them. Each calf was in a crib,

and it was fed with milk. They had gentle, patient faces, and beautiful

eyes, and looked very meek, as they stood quietly gazing about them, or

sucking away at their milk. They reminded me of big, gentle dogs.

 

I never got a very good look at them in their cribs, but one day when

they were old enough to be let out, I went up with Miss Laura to the

yard where they were kept. Such queer, ungainly, large-boned creatures

they were, and such a good time they were having, running and jumping

and throwing up their heels.

 

Mrs. Wood was with us, and she said that it was not good for calves to

be closely penned after they got to be a few weeks old. They were better

for getting out and having a frolic. She stood beside Miss Laura for a

long time, watching the calves, and laughing a great deal at their

awkward gambols. They wanted to play, but they did not seem to know how

to use their limbs.

 

They were lean calves, and Miss Laura asked her aunt why all the nice

milk they had taken had not made them fat. "The fat will come all in

good time," said Mrs. Wood. "A fat calf makes a poor cow, and a fat,

small calf isn't profitable to fit for sending to the butcher. It's

better to have a bony one and fatten it. If you come here next summer,

you'll see a fine show of young cattle, with fat sides, and big, open

horns, and a good coat of hair. Can you imagine," she went on,

indignantly, "that any one could be cruel enough to torture such a

harmless creature as a calf?"

 

"No, indeed," replied Miss Laura. "Who has been doing it?"

 

"Who has been doing it?" repeated Mrs. Wood, bitterly; "they are doing

it all the time. Do you know what makes the nice, white veal one gets in

big cities? The calves are bled to death. They linger for hours, and

moan their lives away. The first time I heard it, I was so angry that I

cried for a day, and made John promise that he'd never send another

animal of his to a big city to be killed. That's why all of our stock

goes to Hoytville, and small country places. Oh, those big cities are

awful places, Laura. It seems to me that it makes people wicked to

huddle them together. I'd rather live in a desert than a city. There's

Ch--o. Every night since I've been there I pray to the Lord either to

change the hearts of some of the wicked people in it, or to destroy them

off the face of the earth. You know three years ago I got run down, and

your uncle said I'd got to have a change, so he sent me off to my

brother's in Ch--o. I stayed and enjoyed myself pretty well, for it is a

wonderful city, till one day some Western men came in, who had been

visiting the slaughter houses outside the city. I sat and listened to

their talk, and it seemed to me that I was hearing the description of a

great battle. These men were cattle dealers, and had been sending stock

to Ch--o, and they were furious that men, in their rage for wealth,

would so utterly ignore and trample on all decent and humane feelings as

to torture animals as the Ch--o men were doing.

 

"It is too dreadful to repeat the sights they saw. I listened till they

were describing Texan steers kicking in agony under the torture that was

practised, and then I gave a loud scream, and fainted dead away. They

had to send for your uncle, and he brought me home, and for days and

days I heard nothing but shouting and swearing, and saw animals dripping

with blood, and crying and moaning in their anguish, and now, Laura, if

you'd lay down a bit of Ch------o meat, and cover it with gold, I'd

spurn it from me. But what am I saying? you're as white as a sheet. Come

and see the cow stable. John's just had it whitewashed."

 

Miss Laura took her aunt's arm, and I walked slowly behind them. The cow

stable was a long building, well-built, and with no chinks in the walls,

as Jenkins's stable had. There were large windows where the afternoon

sun came streaming in, and a number of ventilators, and a great many

stalls. A pipe of water ran through the stalls from one end of the

stable to the other. The floor was covered with sawdust and leaves, and

the ceiling and tops of the walls were whitewashed. Mrs. Wood said that

her husband would not have the walls a glare of white right down to the

floor, because he thought it injured the animals' eyes. So the lower

parts of the walls were stained a dark, brown color.

 

There were doors at each end of the stable, and just now they stood

open, and a gentle breeze was blowing through, but Mrs. Wood said that

when the cattle stood in the stalls, both doors were never allowed to be

open at the same time. Mr. Wood was most particular to have no drafts

blowing upon his cattle. He would not have them chilled, and he would

not have them overheated. One thing was as bad as the other. And during

the winter they were never allowed to drink icy water. He took the chill

off the water for his cows, just as Mrs. Wood did for her hens.

 

"You know, Laura," Mrs. Wood went on, "that when cows are kept dry and

warm, they eat less than when they are cold and wet. They are so

warm-blooded that if they are cold, they have to eat a great deal to

keep up the heat of their bodies, so it pays better to house and feed

them well. They like quiet, too. I never knew that till I married your

uncle. On our farm, the boys always shouted and screamed at the cows

when they were driving them, and sometimes they made them run. They're

never allowed to do that here."

 

"I have noticed how quiet this farm seems," said Miss Laura. "You have

so many men about, and yet there is so little noise."

 

"Your uncle whistles a great deal," said Mrs. Wood. "Have you noticed

that? He whistles when he's about his work, and then he has a calling

whistle that nearly all of the animals know, and the men run when they

hear it. You'd see every cow in this stable turn its head, if he

whistled in a certain way outside. He says that he got into the way of

doing it when he was a boy and went for his father's cows. He trained

them so that he'd just stand in the pasture and whistle, and they'd come

to him. I believe the first thing that inclined me to him was his clear,

happy whistle. I'd hear him from our house away down on the road,

jogging along with his cart, or driving in his buggy. He says there is

no need of screaming at any animal. It only frightens and angers them.

They will mind much better if you speak clearly and distinctly. He says

there is only one thing an animal hates more than to be shouted at, and

that's to be crept on--to have a person sneak up to it and startle it.

John says many a man is kicked, because he comes up to his horse like a

thief. A startled animal's first instinct is to defend itself. A dog

will spring at you, and a horse will let his heels fly. John always

speaks or whistles to let the stock know when he's approaching."

 

"Where is uncle this afternoon?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"Oh, up to his eyes in hay. He's even got one of the oxen harnessed to a

hay cart."

 

"I wonder whether it's Duke?" said Miss Laura.

 

"Yes, it is. I saw the star on his forehead," replied Mrs. Wood.

 

"I don't know when I have laughed at anything as much as I did at him

the other day," said Miss Laura. "Uncle asked me if I had ever heard of

such a thing as a jealous ox, and I said no. He said, 'Come to the

barnyard, and I'll show you one.' The oxen were both there, Duke with

his broad face, and Bright so much sharper and more intelligent looking.

Duke was drinking at the trough there, and uncle said: 'Just look at

him. Isn't he a great, fat, self-satisfied creature, and doesn't he look

as if he thought the world owed him a living, and he ought to get it?'

Then he got the card and went up to Bright, and began scratching him.

Duke lifted his head from the trough, and stared at uncle, who paid no

attention to him but went on carding Bright, and stroking and petting

him. Duke looked so angry. He left the trough, and with the water

dripping from his lips, went up to uncle, and gave him a push with his

horns. Still uncle took no notice, and Duke almost pushed him over. Then

uncle left off petting Bright, and turned to him. He said Duke would

have treated him roughly, if he hadn't. I never saw a creature look as

satisfied as Duke did, when uncle began to card him. Bright didn't seem

to care, and only gazed calmly at them."

 

"I've seen Duke do that again and again," said Mrs. Wood. "He's the most

jealous animal that we have, and it makes him perfectly miserable to

have your uncle pay attention to any animal but him. What queer

creatures these dumb brutes are. They're pretty much like us in most

ways. They're jealous and resentful, and they can love or hate equally

well--and forgive, too, for that matter; and suffer--how they can

suffer, and so patiently, too. Where is the human being that would put

up with the tortures that animals endure and yet come out so patient?"

 

"Nowhere," said Miss Laura, in a low voice; "we couldn't do it."

 

"And there doesn't seem to be an animal," Mrs. Wood went on, "no matter

how ugly and repulsive it is, but what has some lovable qualities. I

have just been reading about some sewer rats, Louise Michel's rats----"

 

"Who is she?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"A celebrated Frenchwoman, my dear child, 'the priestess of pity and

vengeance,' Mr. Stead calls her. You are too young to know about her,

but I remember reading of her in 1872, during the Commune troubles in

France. She is an anarchist, and she used to wear a uniform, and

shoulder a rifle, and help to build barricades. She was arrested and

sent as a convict to one of the French penal colonies. She has a most

wonderful love for animals in her heart, and when she went home she took

four cats with her. She was put into prison again in France and took the

cats with her. Rats came about her cell and she petted them and taught

her cats to be kind to them. Before she got the cats thoroughly drilled

one of them bit a rat's paw. Louise nursed the rat till it got well,

then let it down by a string from her window. It went back to its sewer,

and, I suppose, told the other rats how kind Louise had been to it, for

after that they came to her cell without fear. Mother rats brought their

young ones and placed them at her feet, as if to ask her protection for

them. The most remarkable thing about them was their affection for each

other. Young rats would chew the crusts thrown to old toothless rats, so

that they might more easily eat them, and if a young rat dared help

itself before an old one, the others punished it."

 

"That sounds very interesting, auntie," said Miss Laura. "Where did you

read it?"

 

"I have just got the magazine," said Mrs. Wood; "you shall have it as

soon as you come into the house."

 

"I love to be with you, dear auntie," said Miss Laura, putting her arm

affectionately around her, as they stood in the doorway; "because you

understand me when I talk about animals. I can't explain it," went on my

dear young mistress, laying her hand on her heart, "the feeling I have

here for them. I just love a dumb creature, and I want to stop and talk

to every one I see. Sometimes I worry poor Bessie Drury, and I'm so

sorry, but I can't help it. She says, 'What makes you so silly, Laura?'"

 

Miss Laura was standing just where the sunlight shone through her

light-brown hair, and made her face all in a glow. I thought she looked

more beautiful than I had ever seen her before, and I think Mrs. Wood

thought the same. She turned around and put both hands on Miss Laura's

shoulders. "Laura," she said, earnestly, "there are enough cold hearts

in the world. Don't you ever stifle a warm or tender feeling toward a

dumb creature. That is your chief attraction, my child: your love for

everything that breathes and moves. Tear out the selfishness from your

heart, if there is any there, but let the love and pity stay. And now

let me talk a little more to you about the cows. I want to interest you

in dairy matters. This stable is new since you were here, and we've made

a number of improvements. Do you see those bits of rock salt in each

stall? They are for the cows to lick whenever they want to. Now, come

here, and I'll show you what we call 'The Black Hole.'"

 

It was a tiny stable off the main one, and it was very dark and cool.

"Is this a place of punishment?" asked Miss Laura, in surprise.

 

Mrs. Wood laughed heartily. "No, no; a place of pleasure. Sometimes when

the flies are very bad and the cows are brought into the yard to be

milked and a fresh swarm settles on them, they are nearly frantic; and

though they are the best cows in New Hampshire, they will kick a little.

 

"When they do, those that are the worst are brought in here to be milked

where there are no flies. The others have big strips of cotton laid over

their backs and tied under them, and the men brush their legs with tansy

tea, or water with a little carbolic acid in it. That keeps the flies

away, and the cows know just as well that it is done for their comfort,

and stand quietly till the milking is over. I must ask John to have

their nightdresses put on sometimes for you to see. Harry calls them

'sheeted ghosts,' and they do look queer enough standing all round the

barnyard robed in white."

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER XXXI (IN THE COW STABLE)

 

"Isn't it a strange thing," said Miss Laura, "that a little thing like a

fly, can cause so much annoyance to animals as well as to people?

Sometimes when I am trying to get more sleep in the morning, their

little feet tickle me so that I am nearly frantic and have to fly out of

bed."

 

"You shall have some netting to put over your bed," said Mrs. Wood; "but

suppose, Laura, you had no hands to brush away the flies. Suppose your

whole body was covered with them, and you were tied up somewhere and

could not get loose. I can't imagine more exquisite torture myself. Last

summer the flies here were dreadful. It seems to me that they are

getting worse and worse every year, and worry the animals more. I

believe it is because the birds are getting thinned out all over the

country. There are not enough of them to catch the flies. John says that

the next improvements we make on the farm are to be wire gauze at all

the stable windows and screen doors to keep the little pests from the

horses and cattle.

 

"One afternoon last summer, Mr. Maxwell's mother came for me to go for a

drive with her. The heat was intense, and when we got down by the river,

she proposed getting out of the phaeton and sitting under the trees, to

see if it would be any cooler. She was driving a horse that she had got

from the hotel in the village, a roan horse that was clipped, and

check-reined, and had his tail docked. I wouldn't drive behind a

tailless horse now. Then, I wasn't so particular. However, I made her

unfasten the check-rein before I'd set foot in the carriage. Well, I

thought that horse would go mad. He'd tremble and shiver, and look so

pitifully at us. The flies were nearly eating him up. Then he'd start a

little. Mrs. Maxwell had a weight at his head to hold him, but he could

easily have dragged that. He was a good dispositioned horse, and he

didn't want to run away, but he could not stand still. I soon jumped up

and slapped him, and rubbed him till my hands were dripping wet. The

poor brute was so grateful and would keep touching my arm with his nose.

Mrs. Maxwell sat under the trees fanning herself and laughing at me, but

I didn't care. How could I enjoy myself with a dumb creature writhing in

pain before me?

 

"A docked horse can neither eat nor sleep comfortably in the fly season.

In one of our New England villages they have a sign up, 'Horses taken in

to grass. Long tails, one dollar and fifty cents. Short tails, one

dollar.' And it just means that the short-tailed ones are taken cheaper,

because they are so bothered by the flies that they can't eat much,

while the long-tailed ones are able to brush them away, and eat in

peace. I read the other day of a Buffalo coal dealer's horse that was in

such an agony through flies, that he committed suicide. You know animals

will do that. I've read of horses and dogs drowning themselves. This

horse had been clipped, and his tail was docked, and he was turned out

to graze. The flies stung him till he was nearly crazy. He ran up to a

picket fence, and sprang up on the sharp spikes. There he hung, making

no effort to get down. Some men saw him, and they said it was a clear

case of suicide.

 

"I would like to have the power to take every man who cuts off a horse's

tail, and tie his hands and turn him out in a field in the hot sun, with

little clothing on, and plenty of flies about. Then we would see if he

wouldn't sympathize with the poor, dumb beast. It's the most senseless

thing in the world, this docking fashion. They've a few flimsy arguments

about a horse with a docked tail being stronger-backed, like a

short-tailed sheep, but I don't believe a word of it. The horse was made

strong enough to do the work he's got to do, and man can't improve on

him. Docking is a cruel, wicked thing. Now, there's a ghost of an

argument in favor of check-reins, on certain occasions. A fiery, young

horse can't run away, with an overdrawn check, and in speeding horses a

tight check-rein will make them hold their heads up, and keep them from

choking.

 

"But I don't believe in raising colts in a way to make them fiery, and I

wish there wasn't a race horse on the face of the earth, so if it

depended on me, every kind of check-rein would go. It's a pity we women

can't vote, Laura. We'd do away with a good many abuses."

 

Miss Laura smiled, but it was a very faint, almost an unhappy smile, and

Mrs. Wood said hastily, "Let us talk about something else. Did you ever

hear that cows will give less milk on a dark day than on a bright one?"

 

"No; I never did," said Miss Laura.

 

"Well, they do. They are most sensitive animals. One finds out all

manners of curious things about animals if he makes a study of them.

Cows are wonderful creatures, I think, and so grateful for good usage

that they return every scrap of care given them, with interest. Have you

ever heard anything about dehorning, Laura?"

 

"Not much, auntie. Does uncle approve of it?"

 

"No, indeed. He'd just as soon think of cutting their tails off, as of

dehorning them. He says he guesses the Creator knew how to make a cow

better than he does. Sometimes I tell John that his argument doesn't

hold good, for a man in some ways can improve on nature. In the natural

course of things, a cow would be feeding her calf for half a year, but

we take it away from her, and raise it as well as she could and get an

extra quantity of milk from her in addition. I don't know what to think

myself about dehorning. Mr. Windham's cattle are all polled, and he has

an open space in his barn for them, instead of keeping them in stalls,

and he says they're more comfortable and not so confined. I suppose in

sending cattle to sea, it's necessary to take their horns off, but when

they're going to be turned out to grass, it seems like mutilating them.

Our cows couldn't keep the dogs away from the sheep if they didn't have

their horns. Their horns are their means of defense."

 

"Do your cattle stand in these stalls all winter?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"Oh, yes, except when they're turned out in the barnyard, and then John

usually has to send a man to keep them moving or they'd take cold.

Sometimes on very fine days they get out all day. You know cows aren't

like horses. John says they're like great milk machines. You've got to

keep them quiet, only exercising enough to keep them in health. If a cow

is hurried or worried, or chilled or heated, it stops her milk yield.

And bad usage poisons it. John says you can't take a stick and strike a

cow across the back, without her milk being that much worse, and as for

drinking the milk that comes from a cow that isn't kept clean, you'd

better throw it away and drink water. When I was in Chicago, my

sister-in-law kept complaining to her milkman about what she called the

'cowy' smell to her milk. 'It's the animal odor, ma'am,' he said, 'and

it can't be helped. All milk smells like that.' 'It's dirt,' I said,

when she asked my opinion about it. 'I'll wager my best bonnet that that

man's cows are kept dirty. Their skins are plastered up with filth, and

as the poison in them can't escape that way it's coming out through the

milk, and you're helping to dispose of it.' She was astonished to hear

this, and she got her milkman's address, and one day dropped in upon

him. She said that his cows were standing in a stable that was

comparatively clean, but that their bodies were in just the state that I

described them as living in. She advised the man to card and brush his

cows every day, and said that he need bring her no more milk.

 

"That shows how you city people are imposed upon with regard to your

milk. I should think you'd be poisoned with the treatment your cows

receive, and even when your milk is examined you can't tell whether it

is pure or not. In New York the law only requires thirteen per cent. of

solids in milk. That's absurd, for you can feed a cow on swill and still

get fourteen per cent. of solids in it. Oh! you city people are queer."

 

Miss Laura laughed heartily "What a prejudice you have against large

towns, auntie."

 

"Yes, I have," said Mrs. Wood, honestly. "I often wish we could break up

a few of our cities, and scatter the people through the country. Look at

the lovely farms all about here, some of them with only an old man and

woman on them. The boys are off to the cities, slaving in stores and

offices, and growing pale and sickly. It would have broken my heart if

Harry had taken to city ways. I had a plain talk with your uncle when I

married him, and said, 'Now, my boy's only a baby, and I want him to be

brought up so that he will love country life. How are we going to manage

it?'

 

"Your uncle looked at me with a sly twinkle in his eye, and said I was a

pretty fair specimen of a country girl, suppose we brought up Harry the

way I'd been brought up. I knew he was only joking, yet I got quite

excited. 'Yes,' I said, 'Do as my father and mother did. Have a farm

about twice as large as you can manage. Don't keep a hired man. Get up

at daylight and slave till dark. Never take a holiday. Have the girls do

the housework, and take care of the hens, and help pick the fruit, and

make the boys tend the colts and the calves, and put all the money they

make in the bank. Don't take any papers, for they would waste their time

reading them, and it's too far to go the postoffice oftener than once a

week; and'--but, I don't remember the rest of what I said. Anyway your

uncle burst into a roar of laughter. 'Hattie,' he said, 'my farm's too

big. I'm going to sell some of it, and enjoy myself a little more.' That

very week he sold fifty acres, and he hired an extra man, and got me a

good girl, and twice a week he left his work in the afternoon, and took

me for a drive. Harry held the reins in his tiny fingers, and John told

him that Dolly, the old mare we were driving, should be called his, and

the very next horse he bought should be called his, too, and he should

name it and have it for his own; and he would give him five sheep, and

he should have his own bank book and keep his accounts; and Harry

understood, mere baby though he was, and from that day he loved John as

his own father. If my father had had the wisdom that John has, his boys

wouldn't be the one a poor lawyer and the other a poor doctor in two

different cities; and our farm wouldn't be in the hands of strangers. It

makes me sick to go there. I think of my poor mother lying with her

tired hands crossed out in the churchyard, and the boys so far away, and

my father always hurrying and driving us--I can tell you, Laura, the

thing cuts both ways. It isn't all the fault of the boys that they leave

the country."

 

Mrs. Wood was silent for a little while after she made this long speech,

and Miss Laura said nothing. I took a turn or two up and down the

stable, thinking of many things. No matter how happy human beings seem

to be, they always have something to worry them. I was sorry for Mrs.

Wood, for her face had lost the happy look it usually wore. However, she

soon forgot her trouble, and said:

 

"Now, I must go and get the tea. This is Adele's afternoon out."

 

"I'll come, too," said Miss Laura, "for I promised her I'd make the

biscuits for tea this evening and let you rest." They both sauntered

slowly down the plank walk to the house, and I followed them.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER XXXII (OUR RETURN HOME)

In October, the most beautiful of all the months, we were obliged to go

back to Fairport. Miss Laura could not bear to leave the farm, and her

face got very sorrowful when any one spoke of her going away. Still, she

had gotten well and strong, and was as brown as a berry, and she said

that she knew she ought to go home, and get back to her lessons.

 

Mr. Wood called October the golden month. Everything was quiet and

still, and at night and in the morning the sun had a yellow, misty look.

The trees in the orchard were loaded with fruit, and some of the leaves

were floating down, making a soft covering on the ground.

 

In the garden there were a great many flowers in bloom, in flaming red

and yellow colors. Miss Laura gathered bunches of them every day to put

in the parlor. One day when she was arranging them, she said,

regretfully, "They will soon be gone. I wish it could always be summer."

 

"You would get tired of it," said Mr. Harry, who had come up softly

behind her. "There's only one place where we could stand perpetual

summer, and that's in heaven."

 

"Do you suppose that it will always be summer there?" said Miss Laura,

turning around, and looking at him.

 

"I don't know. I imagine it will be, but I don't think anybody knows

much about it. We've got to wait."

 

Miss Laura's eyes fell on me. "Harry," she said, "do you think that dumb

animals will go to heaven?"

 

"I shall have to say again, I don't know," he replied. "Some people hold

that they do. In a Michigan paper, the other day, I came across one

writer's opinion on the subject. He says that among the best people of

all ages have been some who believed in the future life of animals.

Homer and the later Greeks, some of the Romans and early Christians held

this view--the last believing that God sent angels in the shape of birds

to comfort sufferers for the faith. St. Francis called the birds and

beasts his brothers. Dr. Johnson believed in a future life for animals,

as also did Wordsworth, Shelley, Coleridge, Jeremy Taylor, Agassiz,

Lamartine, and many Christian scholars. It seems as if they ought to

have some compensation for their terrible sufferings in this world. Then

to go to heaven, animals would only have to take up the thread of their

lives here. Man is a god to the lower creation. Joe worships you, much

as you worship your Maker. Dumb animals live in and for their masters.

They hang on our words and looks, and are dependent on us in almost

every way. For my own part, and looking at it from an earthly point of

view, I wish with all my heart that we may find our dumb friends in

paradise."

 

"And in the Bible," said Miss Laura, "animals are often spoken of. The

dove and the raven, the wolf and the lamb, and the leopard, and the

cattle that God says are his, and the little sparrow that can't fall to

the ground without our Father's knowing it."

 

"Still, there's nothing definite about their immortality," said Mr.

Harry. "However, we've got nothing to do with that. If it's right for

them to be in heaven, we'll find them there. All we have to do now is to

deal with the present, and the Bible plainly tells us that 'a righteous

man regardeth the life of his beast.'"

 

"I think I would be happier in heaven if dear old Joe were there," said

Miss Laura, looking wistfully at me. "He has been such a good dog. Just

think how he has loved and protected me. I think I should be lonely

without him."

 

"That reminds me of some poetry, or rather doggerel," said Mr. Harry,

"that I cutout of a newspaper for you yesterday;" and he drew from his

pocket a little slip of paper, and read this:

 

"Do doggies gang to heaven, Dad?

   Will oor auld Donald gang?

For noo to tak' him, faither wi' us,

   Wad be maist awfu' wrang."

 

 

There was a number of other verses, telling how many kind things old

Donald the dog had done for his master's family, and then it closed with

these lines:

 

"Withoot are dogs. Eh, faither, man,

     'Twould be an awfu' sin

To leave oor faithfu' doggie _there_,

     He's _certain_ to win in.

 

"Oor Donald's no like ither dogs,

     He'll _no_ be lockit oot,

If Donald's no let into heaven,

     I'll no gang there one foot."

 

"My sentiments exactly," said a merry voice behind Miss Laura and Mr.

Harry, and looking up they saw Mr. Maxwell. He was holding out one hand

to them, and in the other kept back a basket of large pears that Mr.

Harry promptly took from him, and offered to Miss Laura. "I've been

dependent upon animals for the most part of my comfort in this life,"

said Mr. Maxwell, "and I sha'n't be happy without them in heaven. I

don't see how you would get on without Joe, Miss Morris, and I want my

birds, and my snake, and my horse--how can I live without them? They're

almost all my life here."

 

"If some animals go to heaven and not others, I think that the dog has

the first claim," said Miss Laura. "He's the friend of man--the oldest

and best. Have you ever heard the legend about him and Adam?"

 

"No," said Mr. Maxwell.

 

"Well, when Adam was turned out of paradise, all the animals shunned

him, and he sat bitterly weeping with his head between his hands, when

he felt the soft tongue of some creature gently touching him. He took

his hands from his face, and there was a dog that had separated himself

from all the other animals, and was trying to comfort him. He became the

chosen friend and companion of Adam, afterward of all men."

 

"There is another legend," said Mr. Harry, "about our Saviour and a dog.

Have you ever heard it?"

 

"We'll tell you that later," said Mr. Maxwell, "when we know what it

is."

 

Mr. Harry showed his white teeth in an amused smile, and began: "Once

upon a time our Lord was going through a town with his disciples. A dead

dog lay by the wayside, and every one that passed along flung some

offensive epithet at him. Eastern dogs are not like our dogs, and

seemingly there was nothing good about this loathsome creature, but as

our Saviour went by, he said, gently, 'Pearls cannot equal the whiteness

of his teeth.'"

 

"What was the name of that old fellow," said Mr. Maxwell, abruptly, "who

had a beautiful swan that came every day for fifteen years, to bury its

head in his bosom and feed from his hand, and would go near no other

human being?"

 

"Saint Hugh, of Lincoln. We heard about him at the Band of Mercy the

other day," said Miss Laura.

 

"I should think that he would have wanted to have that swan in heaven

with him," said Mr. Maxwell. "What a beautiful creature it must have

been. Speaking about animals going to heaven, I dare say some of them

would object to going, on account of the company that they would meet

there. Think of the dog kicked to death by his master, the horse driven

into his grave, the thousands of cattle starved to death on the

plains--will they want to meet their owners in heaven?"

 

"According to my reckoning, their owners won't be there," said Mr.

Harry. "I firmly believe that the Lord will punish every man or woman

who ill-treats a dumb creature just as surely as he will punish those

who ill-treat their fellow-creatures. If a man's life has been a long

series of cruelty to dumb animals, do you suppose that he would enjoy

himself in heaven, which will be full of kindness to every one? Not he;

he'd rather be in the other place, and there he'll go, I fully believe."

 

"When you've quite disposed of all your fellow-creatures and the dumb

creation, Harry, perhaps you will condescend to go out into the orchard

and see how your father is getting on with picking the apples," said

Mrs. Wood, joining Miss Laura and the two young men, her eyes twinkling

and sparkling with amusement.

 

"The apples will keep, mother," said Mr. Harry, putting his arm around

her. "I just came in for a moment to get Laura. Come, Maxwell, we'll all

go."

 

"And not another word about animals," Mrs. Wood called after them.

"Laura will go crazy some day, through thinking of their sufferings, if

some one doesn't do something to stop her."

 

Miss Laura turned around suddenly. "Dear Aunt Hattie," she said, "you

must not say that. I am a coward, I know, about hearing of animals'

pains, but I must get over it, I want to know how they suffer. I _ought_

to know, for when I get to be a woman, I am going to do all I can to

help them."

 

"And I'll join you," said Mr. Maxwell, stretching out his hand to Miss

Laura. She did not smile, but looking very earnestly at him, she held it

clasped in her own. "You will help me to care for them, will you?" she

said.

 

"Yes, I promise," he said, gravely. "I'll give myself to the service of

dumb animals, if you will."

 

"And I, too," said Mr. Harry, in his deep voice, laying his hand across

theirs. Mrs. Wood stood looking at their three fresh, eager, young

faces, with tears in her eyes. Just as they all stood silently for an

instant, the old village clergyman came into the room from the hall. He

must have heard what they said, for before they could move he had laid

his hands on their three brown heads. "Bless you, my children," he said,

"God will lift up the light of his countenance upon you, for you have

given yourselves to a noble work. In serving dumb creatures, you are

ennobling the human race."

 

Then he sat down in a chair and looked at them. He was a venerable old

man, and had long, white hair, and the Woods thought a great deal of

him. He had come to get Mrs. Wood to make some nourishing dishes for a

sick woman in the village, and while he was talking to her, Miss Laura

and the two young men went out of the house. They hurried across the

veranda and over the lawn, talking and laughing, and enjoying themselves

as only happy young people can, and with not a trace of their

seriousness of a few moments before on their faces.

 

They were going so fast that they ran right into a flock of geese that

were coming up the lane. They were driven by a little boy called Tommy,

the son of one of Mr. Wood's farm laborers, and they were chattering and

gabbling, and seemed very angry. "What's all this about?" said Mr.

Harry, stopping and looking at the boy. "What's the matter with your

feathered charges, Tommy, my lad?"

 

"If it's the geese you mean," said the boy, half crying and looking very

much put out, "it's all them nasty potatoes. They won't keep away from

them."

 

"So the potatoes chase the geese, do they," said Mr. Maxwell, teasingly.

 

"No, no," said the child, pettishly; "Mr. Wood he sets me to watch the

geese, and they runs in among the buckwheat and the potatoes, and I

tries to drive them out, and they doesn't want to come, and,"

shamefacedly, "I has to switch their feet, and I hates to do it, 'cause

I'm a Band of Mercy boy."

 

"Tommy, my son," said Mr. Maxwell, solemnly, "you will go right to

heaven when you die, and your geese will go with you."

 

"Hush, hush," said Miss Laura; "don't tease him," and putting her arm on

the child's shoulder, she said, "You are a good boy, Tommy, not to want

to hurt the geese. Let me see your switch, dear."

 

He showed her a little stick he had in his hand, and she said, "I don't

think you could hurt them much with that, and if they will be naughty

and steal the potatoes, you have to drive them out. Take some of my

pears and eat them, and you will forget your trouble." The child took

the fruit, and Miss Laura and the two young men went on their way,

smiling, and looking over their shoulders at Tommy, who stood in the

lane, devouring his pears and keeping one eye on the geese that had

gathered a little in front of him, and were gabbling noisily and having

a kind of indignation meeting, because they had been driven out of the

potato field.

 

Tommy's father and mother lived in a little house down near the road.

Mr. Wood never had his hired men live in his own house. He had two small

houses for them to live in, and they were required to keep them as neat

as Mr. Wood's own house was kept. He said that he didn't see why he

should keep a boarding house, if he was a farmer, nor why his wife

should wear herself out waiting on strong, hearty men, that had just as

soon take care of themselves. He wished to have his own family about

him, and it was better for his men to have some kind of family life for

themselves. If one of his men was unmarried, he boarded with the married

one, but slept in his own house.

 

On this October day we found Mr. Wood hard at work under the fruit

trees. He had a good many different kind of apples. Enormous red ones,

and long, yellow ones that they called pippins, and little brown ones,

and smooth-coated sweet ones, and bright red ones, and others, more than

I could mention. Miss Laura often pared one and cut off little bits for

me, for I always wanted to eat whatever I saw her eating.

 

Just a few days after this, Miss Laura and I returned to Fairport, and

some of Mr. Wood's apples traveled along with us, for he sent a good

many to the Boston market. Mr. and Mrs. Wood came to the station to see

us off. Mr. Harry could not come, for he had left Riverdale the day

before to go back to his college. Mrs. Wood said that she would be very

lonely without her two young people, and she kissed Miss Laura over and

over again, and made her promise to come back again the next summer.

 

I was put in a box in the express car, and Mr. Wood told the agent that

if he knew what was good for him he would speak to me occasionally, for

I was a very knowing dog, and if he didn't treat me well, I'd be apt to

write him up in the newspapers. The agent laughed, and quite often on

the way to Fairport, he came to my box and spoke kindly to me. So I did

not get so lonely and frightened as I did on my way to Riverdale.

 

How glad the Morrises were to see us coming back. The boys had all

gotten home before us, and such a fuss as they did make over their

sister. They loved her dearly, and never wanted her to be long away from

them. I was rubbed and stroked, and had to run about offering my paw to

every one. Jim and little Billy licked my face, and Bella croaked out,

"Glad to see you, Joe. Had a good time? How's your health?"

 

We soon settled down for the winter. Miss Laura began going to school,

and came home every day with a pile of books under her arm. The summer

in the country had done her so much good that her mother often looked at

her fondly, and said the white-faced child she sent away had come home a

nut-brown maid.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER XXXIII (PERFORMING ANIMALS)

 

A week or two after we got home, I heard the Morris boys talking about

an Italian who was coming to Fairport with a troupe of trained animals,

and I could see for myself, whenever I went to town, great flaming

pictures on the fences, of monkeys sitting at tables, dogs, and ponies,

and goats climbing ladders, and rolling balls, and doing various tricks.

I wondered very much whether they would be able to do all those

extraordinary things, but it turned out that they did.

 

The Italian's name was Bellini, and one afternoon the whole Morris

family went to see him and his animals, and when they came home, I heard

them talking about it. "I wish you could have been there, Joe," said

Jack, pulling up my paws to rest on his knees. "Now listen, old fellow,

and I'll tell you all about it. First of all, there was a perfect jam in

the town hall. I sat up in front, with a lot of fellows, and had a

splendid view. The old Italian came out dressed in his best suit of

clothes--black broadcloth, flower in his buttonhole, and so on. He made

a fine bow, and he said he was 'pleased too see ze fine audience, and he

was going to show zem ze fine animals, ze finest animals in ze world.'

Then he shook a little whip that he carried in his hand, and he said

'zat zat whip didn't mean zat he was cruel. He cracked it to show his

animals when to begin, end, or change their tricks.' Some boy yelled,

'Rats! you do whip them sometimes,' and the old man made another bow,

and said, 'Sairteenly, he whipped zem just as ze mammas whip ze naughty

boys, to make zem keep still when zey was noisy or stubborn.'

 

"Then everybody laughed at the boy, and the Italian said the performance

would begin by a grand procession of all the animals, if some lady would

kindly step up to the piano and play a march. Nina Smith--you know Nina,

Joe, the girl that has black eyes and wears blue ribbons, and lives

around the corner--stepped up to the piano, and banged out a fine loud

march. The doors at the side of the platform opened, and out came the

animals, two by two, just like Noah's ark. There was a pony with a

monkey walking beside it and holding on to its mane, another monkey on a

pony's back, two monkeys hand in hand, a dog with a parrot on his back,

a goat harnessed to a little carriage, another goat carrying a birdcage

in its mouth with two canaries inside, different kinds of cats, some

doves and pigeons, half a dozen white rats with red harness, and

dragging a little chariot with a monkey in it, and a common white gander

that came in last of all, and did nothing but follow one of the ponies

about.

 

"The Italian spoke of the gander, and said it was a stupid creature, and

could learn no tricks, and he only kept it on account of its affection

for the pony. He had got them both on a Vermont farm, when he was

looking for show animals. The pony's master had made a pet of him, and

had taught him to come whenever he whistled for him. Though the pony was

only a scrub of a creature, he had a gentle disposition, and every other

animal on the farm liked him. A gander, in particular, had such an

admiration for him that he followed him wherever he went, and if he lost

him for an instant, he would mount one of the knolls on the farm and

stretch out his neck looking for him. When he caught sight of him, he

gabbled with delight, and running to him, waddled up and down beside

him. Every little while the pony put his nose down, and seemed to be

having a conversation with the goose. If the farmer whistled for the

pony and he started to run to him, the gander, knowing he could not keep

up, would seize the pony's tail in his beak, and flapping his wings,

would get along as fast as the pony did. And the pony never kicked him.

The Italian saw that this pony would be a good one to train for the

stage, so he offered the farmer a large price for him, and took him

away.

 

"Oh, Joe, I forgot to say, that by this time all the animals had been

sent off the stage except the pony and the gander, and they stood

looking at the Italian while he talked. I never saw anything as human in

dumb animals as that pony's face. He looked as if he understood every

word that his master was saying. After this story was over, the Italian

made another bow, and then told the pony to bow. He nodded his head at

the people, and they all laughed. Then the Italian asked him to favor us

with a waltz, and the pony got up on his hind legs and danced. You

should have seen that gander skirmishing around, so as to be near the

pony and yet keep out of the way of his heels. We fellows just roared,

and we would have kept him dancing all the afternoon if the Italian

hadn't begged 'ze young gentlemen not to make ze noise, but let ze pony

do ze rest of his tricks.' Pony number two came on the stage, and it was

too queer for anything to see the things the two of them did. They

helped the Italian on with his coat, they pulled off his rubbers, they

took his coat away and brought him a chair, and dragged a table up to

1. They brought him letters and papers, and rang bells, and rolled

barrels, and swung the Italian in a big swing, and jumped a rope, and

walked up and down steps--they just went around that stage as handy with

their teeth as two boys would be with their hands, and they seemed to

understand every word their master said to them.

 

"The best trick of all was telling the time and doing questions in

arithmetic. The Italian pulled his watch out of his pocket and showed it

to the first pony, whose name was Diamond, and said, 'What time is it?'

The pony looked at it, then scratched four times with his forefoot on

the platform. The Italian said, 'Zat's good--four o'clock. But it's a

few minutes after four--how many?' The pony scratched again five times.

The Italian showed his watch to the audience, and said that it was just

five minutes past four. Then he asked the pony how old he was. He

scratched four times. That meant four years. He asked him how many days

in a week there were; how many months in a year; and he gave him some

questions in addition and subtraction, and the pony answered them all

correctly. Of course, the Italian was giving him some sign; but, though

we watched him closely, we couldn't make out what it was. At last, he

told the pony that he had been very good, and had done his lessons well;

if it would rest him, he might be naughty a little while. All of a

sudden a wicked look came into the creature's eyes. He turned around,

and kicked up his heels at his master, he pushed over the table and

chairs, and knocked down a blackboard where he had been rubbing out

figures with a sponge held in his mouth. The Italian pretended to be

cross, and said, 'Come, come; this won't do,' and he called the other

pony to him, and told him to take that troublesome fellow off the stage.

The second one nosed Diamond, and pushed him about, finally bit him by

the ear, and led him squealing off the stage. The gander followed,

gabbling as fast as he could, and there was a regular roar of applause.

 

"After that, there were ladders brought in, Joe, and dogs came on; not

thoroughbreds, but curs something like you. The Italian says he can't

teach tricks to pedigree animals as well as to scrubs. Those dogs jumped

the ladders, and climbed them, and went through them, and did all kinds

of things. The man cracked his whip once, and they began; twice, and

they did backward what they had done forward; three times, and they

stopped, and every animal, dogs, goats, ponies, and monkeys, after they

had finished their tricks, ran up to their master, and he gave them a

lump of sugar. They seemed fond of him, and often when they weren't

performing went up to him, and licked his hands or his sleeve. There was

one boss dog, Joe, with a head like yours. Bob, they called him, and he

did all his tricks alone. The Italian went off the stage, and the dog

came on and made his bow, and climbed his ladders, and jumped his

hurdles, and went off again. The audience howled for an encore, and

didn't he come out alone, make another bow, and retire. I saw old Judge

Brown wiping the tears from his eyes, he'd laughed so much. One of the

last tricks was with a goat, and the Italian said it was the best of

all, because the goat is such a hard animal to teach. He had a big ball,

and the goat got on it and rolled it across the stage without getting

off. He looked as nervous as a cat, shaking his old beard, and trying to

keep his four hoofs close enough together to keep him on the ball.

 

"We had a funny little play at the end of the performance. A monkey

dressed as a lady in a white satin suit and a bonnet with a white veil,

came on the stage. She was Miss Green and the dog Bob was going to elope

with her. He was all rigged out as Mr. Smith, and had on a light suit of

clothes, and a tall hat on the side of his head, high collar, long

cuffs, and he carried a cane. He was a regular dude. He stepped up to

Miss Green on his hind legs, and helped her on to a pony's back. The

pony galloped off the stage; then a crowd of monkeys, chattering and

wringing their hands, came on. Mr. Smith had run away with their child.

They were all dressed up, too. There were the father and mother, with

gray wigs and black clothes, and the young Greens in bibs and tuckers.

They were a queer-looking crowd. While they were going on in this way,

the pony trotted back on the stage; and they all flew at him and pulled

off their daughter from has back, and laughed and chattered, and boxed

her ears, and took off her white veil and her satin dress, and put on an

old brown thing, and some of them seized the dog, and kicked his hat,

and broke his cane, and stripped his clothes off, and threw them in a

corner, and bound his legs with cords. A goat came on, harnessed to a

little cart, and they threw the dog in it, and wheeled him around the

stage a few times. Then they took him out and tied him to a hook in the

wall, and the goat ran off the stage, and the monkeys ran to one side,

and one of them pulled out a little revolver, pointed it at the dog,

fired, and he dropped down as if he was dead.

 

"The monkeys stood looking at him, and then there was the most awful

hullabaloo you ever heard. Such a barking and yelping, and half a dozen

dogs rushed on the stage, and didn't they trundle those monkeys about.

They nosed them, and pushed them, and shook them, till they all ran

away, all but Miss Green, who sat shivering in a corner. After a while,

she crept up to the dead dog, pawed him a little, and didn't he jump up

as much alive as any of them? Everybody in the room clapped and shouted,

and then the curtain dropped, and the thing was over. I wish he'd give

another performance. Early in the morning he has to go to Boston."

 

Jack pushed my paws from his knees and went outdoors, and I began to

think that I would very much like to see those performing animals. It

was not yet tea time, and I would have plenty of time to take a run down

to the hotel where they were staying; so I set out. It was a lovely

autumn evening. The sun was going down in a haze, and it was quite warm.

Earlier in the day I had heard Mr. Morris say that this was our Indian

summer, and that we should soon have cold weather.

 

Fairport was a pretty little town, and from the principal street one

could look out upon the blue water of the bay and see the island

opposite, which was quite deserted now, for all the summer visitors had

gone home, and the Island House was shut op.

 

I was running down one of the steep side streets that led to the water

when I met a heavily-laden cart coming up. It must have been coming from

one of the vessels, for it was full of strange-looking boxes and

packages. A fine-looking nervous horse was drawing it, and he was

straining every nerve to get it up the steep hill. His driver was a

burly, hard-faced man, and instead of letting his horse stop a minute to

rest he kept urging him forward. The poor horse kept looking at his

master, his eyes almost starting from his head in terror. He knew that

the whip was about to descend on his quivering body. And so it did, and

there was no one by to interfere. No one but a woman in a ragged shawl

who would have no influence with the driver. There was a very good

humane society in Fairport, and none of the teamsters dared ill-use

their horses if any of the members were near. This was a quiet

out-of-the-way street, with only poor houses on it, and the man probably

knew that none of the members of the society would be likely to be

living in them. He whipped his horse, and whipped him, till every lash

made my heart ache, and if I had dared I would have bitten him severely.

Suddenly, there was a dull thud in the street. The horse had fallen

down. The driver ran to his head, but he was quite dead. "Thank God!"

said the poorly-dressed woman, bitterly; "one more out of this world of

misery." Then she turned and went down the street. I was glad for the

horse. He would never be frightened or miserable again, and I went

slowly on, thinking that death is the best thing that can happen to

tortured animals.

 

The Fairport hotel was built right in the centre of the town, and the

shops and houses crowded quite close about it. It was a high, brick

building, and it was called the Fairport House. As I was running along

the sidewalk, I heard some one speak to me, and looking up I saw Charlie

Montague. I had heard the Morrises say that his parents were staying at

the hotel for a few weeks, while their house was being repaired. He had

his Irish setter, Brisk, with him, and a handsome dog he was, as he

stood waving his silky tail in the sunlight. Charlie patted me, and then

he and his dog went into the hotel. I turned into the stable yard. It

was a small, choked-up place, and as I picked my way under the cabs and

wagons standing in the yard, I wondered why the hotel people didn't buy

some of the old houses near by, and tear them down, and make a stable

yard worthy of such a nice hotel. The hotel horses were just getting

rubbed down after their day's work, and others were coming in. The men

were talking and laughing, and there was no sign of strange animals, so

I went around to the back of the yard. Here they were, in an empty cow

stable, under a hay loft. There were two little ponies tied up in a

stall, two goats beyond them, and dogs and monkeys in strong traveling

cages. I stood in the doorway and stared at them. I was sorry for the

dogs to be shut up on such a lovely evening, but I suppose their master

was afraid of their getting lost, or being stolen, if he let them loose.

 

They all seemed very friendly. The ponies turned around and looked at me

with their gentle eyes, and then went on munching their hay. I wondered

very much where the gander was, and went a little farther into the

stable. Something white raised itself up out of the brownest pony's

crib, and there was the gander close up beside the open mouth of his

friend. The monkeys make a jabbering noise, and held on to the bars of

their cage with their little black hands, while they looked out at me.

The dogs sniffed the air, and wagged their tails, and tried to put their

muzzles through the bars of their cage. I liked the dogs best, and I

wanted to see the one they called Bob, so I went up quite close to them.

There were two little white dogs, something like Billy, two mongrel

spaniels, an Irish terrier, and a brown dog asleep in the corner, that I

knew must be Bob. He did look a little like me, but he was not quite so

ugly, for he had his ears and his tail.

 

While I was peering through the bars at him, a man came in the stable.

He noticed me the first thing, but instead of driving me out, he spoke

kindly to me, in a language that I did not understand. So I knew that he

was the Italian. How glad the animals were to see him! The gander

fluttered out of his nest, the ponies pulled at their halters, the dogs

whined and tried to reach his hands to lick them, and the monkeys

chattered with delight. He laughed and talked back to them in queer,

soft-sounding words. Then he took out of a bag on his arm, bones for the

dogs, nuts and cakes for the monkeys, nice, juicy carrots for the

ponies, some green stuff for the goats, and corn for the gander.

 

It was a pretty sight to see the old man feeding his pets, and it made

me feel quite hungry, so I trotted home. I had a run down town again

that evening with Mr. Morris, who went to get something from a shop for

his wife. He never let his boys go to town after tea, so if there were

errands to be done, he or Mrs. Morris went. The town was bright and

lively that evening, and a great many people were walking about and

looking into the shop windows.

 

When we came home, I went into the kennel with Jim, and there I slept

till the middle of the night. Then I started up and ran outside. There

was a distant bell ringing, which we often heard in Fairport, and which

always meant fire.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER XXXIV (A FIRE IN FAIRPORT)

I had several times run to a fire with the boys, and knew that there was

always a great noise and excitement. There was a light in the house, so

I knew that somebody was getting up. I don't think--indeed I know, for

they were good boys--that they ever wanted anybody to lose property, but

they did enjoy seeing a blaze, and one of their greatest delights, when

there hadn't been a fire for some time, was to build a bonfire in the

garden.

 

Jim and I ran around to the front of the house and waited. In a few

minutes, some one came rattling at the front door, and I was sure it was

Jack. But it was Mr. Morris, and without a word to us, he set off almost

running toward the town. We followed after him, and as we hurried along

other men ran out from the houses along the streets, and either joined

him, or dashed ahead. They seemed to have dressed in a hurry, and were

thrusting their arms in their coats, and buttoning themselves up as they

went. Some of them had hats and some of them had none, and they all had

their faces toward the great red light that got brighter and brighter

ahead of us. "Where's the fire?" they shouted to each other. "Don't

know--afraid it's the hotel, or the town hall. It's such a blaze. Hope

not. How's the water supply now? Bad time for a fire."

 

It was the hotel. We saw that as soon as we got on to the main street.

There were people all about, and a great noise and confusion, and smoke

and blackness, and up above, bright tongues of flame were leaping

against the sky, Jim and I kept close to Mr. Morris's heels, as he

pushed his way among the crowd. When we got nearer the burning building,

we saw men carrying ladders and axes, and others were shouting

directions, and rushing out of the hotel, carrying boxes and bundles and

furniture in their arms. From the windows above came a steady stream of

articles, thrown among the crowd. A mirror struck Mr. Morris on the arm,

and a whole package of clothes fell on his head and almost smothered

him; but he brushed them aside and scarcely noticed them. There was

something the matter with Mr. Morris--I knew by the worried sound of his

voice when he spoke to any one, I could not see his face, though it was

as light as day about us, for we had got jammed in the crowd, and if I

had not kept between his feet, I should have been trodden to death. Jim,

being larger than I was, had got separated from us.

 

Presently Mr. Morris raised his voice above the uproar, and called, "Is

every one out of the hotel?" A voice shouted back, "I'm going up to

see."

 

"It's Jim Watson, the fireman," cried some one near. "He's risking his

life to go into that pit of flame. Don't go, Watson." I don't think that

the brave fireman paid any attention to this warning, for an instant

later the same voice said, "He's planting his ladder against the third

story. He's bound to go. He'll not get any farther than the second,

anyway."

 

"Where are the Montagues?" shouted Mr. Morris. "Has any one seen the

Montagues?"

 

"Mr. Morris! Mr. Morris!" said a frightened voices and young Charlie

Montague pressed through the people to us. "Where's papa?"

 

"I don't know. Where did you leave him?" said Mr. Morris, taking his

hand and drawing him closer to him. "I was sleeping in his room," said

the boy, "and a man knocked at the door, and said, 'Hotel on fire. Five

minutes to dress and get out,' and papa told me to put on my clothes and

go downstairs, and he ran up to mamma."

 

"Where was she?" asked Mr. Morris, quickly.

 

"On the fourth flat. She and her maid Blanche were up there. You know,

mamma hasn't been well and couldn't sleep, and our room was so noisy

that she moved upstairs where it was quiet." Mr. Morris gave a kind of

groan. "Oh, I'm so hot, and there's such a dreadful noise," said the

little boy, bursting into tears, "and I want mamma." Mr. Morris soothed

him as best he could, and drew him a little to the edge of the crowd.

 

While he was doing this, there was a piercing cry. I could not see the

person making it, but I knew it was the Italian's voice. He was

screaming, in broken English that the fire was spreading to the stables,

and his animals would be burned. Would no one help him to get his

animals out? There was a great deal of confused language Some voices

shouted, "Look after the people first Let the animals go." And others

said, "For shame. Get the horses out." But no one seemed to do anything,

for the Italian went on crying for help, I heard a number of people who

were standing near us say that it had just been found out that several

persons who had been sleeping in the top of the hotel had not got out.

They said that at one of the top windows a poor housemaid was shrieking

for help. Here in the street we could see no one at the upper windows,

for smoke was pouring from them.

 

The air was very hot and heavy, and I didn't wonder that Charlie

Montague felt ill. He would have fallen on the ground if Mr. Morris

hadn't taken him in his arms, and carried him out of the crowd. He put

him down on the brick sidewalk, and unfastened his little shirt, and

left me to watch him, while he held his hands under a leak in a hose

that was fastened to a hydrant near us. He got enough water to dash on

Charlie's face and breast, and then seeing that the boy was reviving, he

sat down on the curbstone and took him on his knee, Charlie lay in his

arms and moaned. He was a delicate boy, and he could not stand rough

usage as the Morris boys could.

 

Mr. Morris was terribly uneasy. His face was deathly white, and he

shuddered whenever there was a cry from the burning building. "Poor

souls--God help them. Oh, this is awful," he said; and then he turned

his eyes from the great sheets of flame and strained the little boy to

his breast. At last there were wild shrieks that I knew came from no

human throats. The fire must have reached the horses. Mr. Morris sprang

up, then sank back again. He wanted to go, yet he could be of no use.

There were hundreds of men standing about, but the fire had spread so

rapidly, and they had so little water to put on it, that there was very

little they could do. I wondered whether I could do anything for the

poor animals. I was not afraid of fire, as most dogs, for one of the

tricks that the Morris boys had taught me was to put out a fire with my

paws. They would throw a piece of lighted paper on the floor, and I

would crush it with my forepaws; and If the blaze was too large for

that, I would drag a bit of old carpet over it and jump on it. I left

Mr, Morris, and ran around the corner of the street to the back of the

hotel. It was not burned as much here as in the front, and in the houses

all around, people were out on their roofs with wet blankets, and some

were standing at the windows watching the fire, or packing up their

belongings ready to move if it should spread to them. There was a narrow

lane running up a short distance toward the hotel, and I started to go

up this, when in front of me I heard such a wailing, piercing noise,

that it made me shudder and stand still. The Italian's animals were

going to be burned up and they were calling to their master to come and

let them out. Their voices sounded like the voices of children in mortal

pain. I could not stand it. I was seized with such an awful horror of

the fire, that I turned and ran, feeling so thankful that I was not in

1. As I got into the street I stumbled over something. It was a large

bird--a parrot, and at first I thought it was Bella. Then I remembered

hearing Jack say that the Italian had a parrot. It was not dead, but

seemed stupid with the smoke. I seized it in my mouth, and ran and laid

it at Mr. Morris's feet. He wrapped it in his handkerchief, and laid it

beside him.

 

I sat, and trembled, and did not leave him again. I shall never forget

that dreadful night. It seemed as if we were there for hours, but in

reality it was only a short time. The hotel soon got to be all red

flames, and there was very little smoke. The inside of the building had

burned away, and nothing more could be gotten out. The firemen and all

the people drew back, and there was no noise. Everybody stood gazing

silently at the flames. A man stepped quietly up to Mr. Morris, and

looking at him, I saw that it was Mr. Montague. He was usually a

well-dressed man, with a kind face, and a head of thick, grayish-brown

hair. Now his face was black and grimy, his hair was burnt from the

front of his head, and his clothes were half torn from his back. Mr.

Morris sprang up when he saw him, and said, "Where is your wife?"

 

The gentleman did not say a word, but pointed to the burning building.

"Impossible!" cried Mr. Morris. "Is there no mistake? Your beautiful

young wife, Montague. Can it be so?" Mr. Morris was trembling from head

to foot.

 

"It is true," said Mr. Montague, quietly. "Give me the boy." Charlie had

fainted again, and his father took him in his arms, and turned away.

 

"Montague!" cried Mr. Morris, "my heart is sore for you. Can I do

nothing?"

 

"No, thank you," said the gentleman, without turning around; but there

was more anguish in his voice than in Mr. Morris's, and though I am only

a dog, I knew that his heart was breaking.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER XXXV (BILLY AND THE ITALIAN)

Mr. Morris stayed no longer. He followed Mr. Montague along the sidewalk

a little way, and then exchanged a few hurried words with some men who

were standing near, and hastened home through streets that seemed dark

and dull after the splendor of the fire. Though it was still the middle

of the night, Mrs. Morris was up and dressed and waiting for him. She

opened the hall door with one hand and held a candle in the other. I

felt frightened and miserable, and didn't want to leave Mr. Morris, so I

crept in after him.

 

"Don't make a noise," said Mrs. Morris. "Laura and the boys are

sleeping, and I thought it better not to wake them. It has been a

terrible fire, hasn't it? Was it the hotel?" Mr. Morris threw himself

into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

 

"Speak to me, William!" said Mrs. Morris, in a startled tone. "You are

not hurt, are you?" and she put her candle on the table and came and sat

down beside him.

 

He dropped his hands from his face, and tears were running down his

cheeks. "Ten lives lost," he said; "among them Mrs. Montague."

 

Mrs. Morris looked horrified, and gave a little cry, "William, it can't

be so!"

 

It seemed as if Mr. Morris could not sit still. He got up and walked to

and fro on the floor. "It was an awful scene, Margaret. I never wish to

look upon the like again. Do you remember how I protested against the

building of that deathtrap? Look at the wide, open streets around it,

and yet they persisted in running it up to the sky. God will require an

account of those deaths at the hands of the men who put up that

building. It is terrible--this disregard of human lives. To think of

that delicate woman and her death agony." He threw himself in a chair

and buried his face in his hands.

 

"Where was she? How did it happen? Was her husband saved, and Charlie?"

said Mrs. Morris, in a broken voice.

 

"Yes; Charlie and Mr. Montague are safe. Charlie will recover from it.

Montague's life is done. You know his love for his wife. Oh, Margaret!

when will men cease to be fools? What does the Lord think of them when

they say, 'Am I my brother's keeper?' And the other poor creatures

burned to death--their lives are as precious in his sight as Mrs.

Montague's."

 

Mr. Morris looked so weak and ill that Mrs. Morris, like a sensible

woman, questioned him no further, but made a fire and got him some hot

tea.

 

Then she made him lie down on the sofa, and she sat by him till

day-break, when she persuaded him to go to bed. I followed her about,

and kept touching her dress with my nose. It seemed so good to me to

have this pleasant home after all the misery I had seen that night. Once

she stopped and took my head between her hands, "Dear old Joe," she

said, tearfully, "this a suffering world. It's well there's a better one

beyond it."

 

In the morning the boys went down town before breakfast and learned all

about the fire. It started in the top story of the hotel, in the room of

some fast young men, who were sitting up late playing cards. They had

smuggled wine into their room and had been drinking till they were

stupid. One of them upset the lamp, and when the flames began to spread

so that they could not extinguish them, instead of rousing some one near

them, they rushed downstairs to get some one there to come up and help

them put out the fire. When they returned with some of the hotel people,

they found that the flames had spread from their room, which was in an

"L" at the back of the house, to the front part, where Mrs. Montague's

room was, and where the housemaids belonging to the hotel slept. By this

time Mr. Montague had gotten upstairs; but he found the passageway to

his wife's room so full of flames and smoke, that, though he tried again

and again to force his way through, he could not. He disappeared for a

time, then he came to Mr. Morris and got his boy, and took him to some

rooms over his bank, and shut himself up with him.

 

For some days he would let no one in; then he came out with the look of

an old man on his face, and his hair as white as snow, and went out to

his beautiful house in the outskirts of the town.

 

Nearly all the horses belonging to the hotel were burned. A few were

gotten out by having blankets put over their heads, but the most of them

were so terrified that they would not stir.

 

The Morris boys said that they found the old Italian sitting on an empty

box, looking at the smoking ruins of the hotel. His head was hanging on

his breast, and his eyes were full of tears. His ponies were burned up,

he said, and the gander, and the monkeys, and the goats, and his

wonderful performing dogs. He had only his birds left, and he was a

ruined man. He had toiled all his life to get this troupe of trained

animals together, and now they were swept from him. It was cruel and

wicked, and he wished he could die. The canaries, and pigeons, and

doves, the hotel people had allowed him to take to his room, and they

were safe. The parrot was lost--an educated parrot that could answer

forty questions, and, among other things, could take a watch and tell

the time of day.

 

Jack Morris told him that they had it safe at home, and that it was very

much alive, quarreling furiously with his parrot Bella. The old man's

face brightened at this, and then Jack and Carl, finding that he had had

no breakfast, went off to a restaurant near by, and got him some steak

and coffee. The Italian was very grateful, and as he ate, Jack said the

tears ran into his coffee cup. He told them how much he loved his

animals, and, how it "made ze heart bitter to hear zem crying to him to

deliver zem from ze raging fire."

 

The boys came home, and got their breakfast and went to school. Miss

Laura did not go out. She sat all day with a very quiet, pained face.

She could neither read nor sew, and Mr. and Mrs. Morris were just as

unsettled. They talked about the fire in low tones, and I could see that

they felt more sad about Mrs. Montague's death than if she had died in

an ordinary way. Her dear little canary, Barry, died with her. She would

never be separated from him, and his cage had been taken up to the top

of the hotel with her. He probably died an easier death than his poor

mistress. Charley's dog escaped, but was so frightened that he ran out

to their house, outside the town.

 

At tea time, Mr. Morris went down town to see that the Italian got a

comfortable place for the night. When he came back, he said that he had

found out that the Italian was by no means so old a man as he looked,

and that he had talked to him about raising a sum of money for him among

the Fairport people, till he had become quite cheerful, and said that if

Mr. Morris would do that, he would try to gather another troupe of

animals together and train them.

 

"Now, what can we do for this Italian?" asked Mrs. Morris. "We can't

give him much money, but we might let him have one or two of our pets.

There's Billy, he's a bright, little dog, and not two years old yet. He

could teach him anything."

 

There was a blank silence among the Morris children. Billy was such a

gentle, lovable, little dog, that he was a favorite with every one in

the house. "I suppose we ought to do it," said Miss Laura, at last; "but

how can we give him up?"

 

There was a good deal of discussion, but the end of it was that Billy

was given to the Italian. He came up to get him, and was very grateful,

and made a great many bows, holding his hat in his hand. Billy took to

him at once, and the Italian spoke so kindly to him, that we knew he

would have a good master. Mr. Morris got quite a large sum of money for

him, and when he handed it to him, the poor man was so pleased that he

kissed his hand, and promised to send frequent word as to Billy's

progress and welfare.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER XXXVI (`DANDY THE TRAMP)

About a week after Billy left us, the Morris family, much to its

surprise, became the owner of a new dog. He walked into the house one

cold, wintry afternoon and lay calmly down by the fire. He was a

brindled bull-terrier, and he had on a silver-plated collar with "Dandy"

engraved on it. He lay all the evening by the fire, and when any of the

family spoke to him, he wagged his tail, and looked pleased. I growled a

little at him at first, but he never cared a bit, and just dozed off to

sleep, so I soon stopped.

 

He was such a well-bred dog, that the Morrises were afraid that some one

had lost him. They made some inquiries the next day, and found that he

belonged to a New York gentleman who had come to Fairport in the summer

in a yacht. This dog did not like the yacht. He came ashore in a boat

whenever he got a chance, and if he could not come in a boat, he would

swim. He was a tramp, his master said, and he wouldn't stay long in any

place, The Morrises were so amused with his impudence, that they did not

send him away, but said every day, "Surely he will be gone to-morrow."

 

However, Mr. Dandy had gotten into comfortable quarters, and he had no

intention of changing them, for a while at least. Then he was very

handsome, and had such a pleasant way with him, that the family could

not help liking him. I never cared for him. He fawned on the Morrises,

and pretended he loved them, and afterward turned around and laughed and

sneered at them in a way that made me very angry. I used to lecture him

sometimes, and growl about him to Jim, but Jim always said, "Let him

alone. You can't do him any good. He was born bad. His mother wasn't

good. He tells me that she had a bad name among all the dogs in her

neighborhood. She was a thief and a runaway." Though he provoked me so

often, yet I could not help laughing at some of his stories, they were

so funny.

 

We were lying out in the sun, on the platform at the back of the house,

one day, and he had been more than usually provoking, so I got up to

leave him. He put himself in my way, however, and said, coaxingly,

"Don't be cross, old fellow. I'll tell you some stories to amuse you,

old boy. What shall they be about?"

 

"I think the story of your life would be about as interesting as

anything you could make up," I said, dryly.

 

"All right, fact or fiction, whichever you like. Here's a fact, plain

and unvarnished. Born and bred in New York. Swell stable. Swell

coachman. Swell master. Jewelled fingers of ladies poking at me, first

thing I remember. First painful experience--being sent to vet. to have

ears cut."

 

"What's a vet.?" I said.

 

"A veterinary--animal doctor. Vet. didn't cut ears enough. Master sent

me back. Cut ears again. Summer time, and flies bad. Ears got sore and

festered, flies very attentive. Coachman set little boy to brush flies

off, but he'd run out in yard and leave me. Flies awful. Thought they'd

eat me up, or else I'd shake out brains trying to get rid of them.

Mother should have stayed home and licked my ears, but was cruising

about neighborhood. Finally coachman put me in dark place, powdered

ears, and they got well."

 

"Why didn't they cut your tail, too?" I said, looking at his long, slim

tail, which was like a sewer rat's.

 

"'Twasn't the fashion, Mr. Wayback; a bull-terrier's ears are clipped to

keep them from getting torn while fighting."

 

"You're not a fighting dog," I said.

 

"Not I. Too much trouble. I believe in taking things easy."

 

"I should think you did," I said, scornfully. "You never put yourself

out for any one, I notice; but, speaking of cropping ears, what do you

think of it?"

 

"Well," he said, with a sly glance at my head, "it isn't a pleasant

operation; but one might as well be out of the world as out of the

fashion. I don't care, now my ears are done."

 

"But," I said, "think of the poor dogs that will come after you."

 

"What difference does that make to me?" he said. "I'll be dead and out

of the way. Men can cut off their ears, and tails, and legs, too, if

they want to."

 

"Dandy," I said, angrily, "you're the most selfish dog that I ever saw."

 

"Don't excite yourself," he said, coolly. "Let me get on with my story.

When I was a few months old, I began to find the stable yard narrow, and

wondered what there was outside of it. I discovered a hole in the garden

wall, and used to sneak out nights. Oh, what fun it was. I got to know a

lot of street dogs, and we had gay times, barking under people's windows

and making them mad, and getting into back yards and chasing cats. We

used to kill a cat nearly every night. Policeman would chase us, and we

would run and run till the water just ran off our tongues, and we hadn't

a bit of breath left. Then I'd go home and sleep all day, and go out

again the next night. When I was about a year old, I began to stay out

days as well as nights. They couldn't keep me home. Then I ran away for

three months. I got with an old lady on Fifth Avenue, who was very fond

of dogs. She had four white poodles, and her servants used to wash them,

and tie up their hair with blue ribbons, and she used to take them for

drives in her phaeton in the park, and they wore gold and silver

collars. The biggest poodle wore a ruby in his collar worth five hundred

dollars. I went driving, too, and sometimes we met my master. He often

smiled, and shook his head at me. I heard him tell the coachman one day

that I was a little blackguard, and he was to let me come and go as I

liked."

 

"If they had whipped you soundly," I said, "it might have made a good

dog of you."

 

"I'm good enough now," said Dandy, airily. "The young ladies who drove

with my master used to say that it was priggish and tiresome to be too

good. To go on with my story: I stayed with Mrs. Judge Tibbett till I

got sick of her fussy ways. She made a simpleton of herself over those

poodles. Each one had a high chair at the table, and a plate, and they

always sat in these chairs and had meals with her, and the servants all

called them Master Bijou, and Master Tot, and Miss Tiny, and Miss Fluff.

One day they tried to make me sit in a chair, and I got cross and bit

Mrs. Tibbett, and she beat me cruelly, and her servants stoned me away

from the house."

 

"Speaking about fools, Dandy," I said, "if it is polite to call a lady

one, I should say that that lady was one. Dogs shouldn't be put out of

their place. Why didn't she have some poor children at her table, and in

her carriage, and let the dogs run behind?"

 

"Easy to see you don't know New York," said Dandy, with a laugh. "Poor

children don't live with rich, old ladies. Mrs. Tibbett hated children,

anyway. Then dogs like poodles would get lost in the mud, or killed in

the crowd if they ran behind a carriage. Only knowing dogs like me can

make their way about." I rather doubted this speech; but I said nothing,

and he went on, patronizingly: "However, Joe, thou hast reason, as the

French say. Mrs. Judge Tibbett 'didn't' give her dogs exercise

enough. Their claws were as long as Chinamen's nails, and the hair grew

over their pads, and they had red eyes and were always sick, and she had

to dose them with medicine, and call them her poor, little,

'weeny-teeny, sicky-wicky doggies.' Bah! I got disgusted with her. When

I left her, I ran away to her niece's, Miss Ball's. She was a sensible

young lady, and she used to scold her aunt for the way in which she

brought up her dogs. She was almost too sensible, for her pug and I were

rubbed and scrubbed within an inch of our lives, and had to go for such

long walks that I got thoroughly sick of them. A woman, whom the

servants called Trotsey, came every morning, and took the pug and me by

our chains, and sometimes another dog or two, and took us for long

tramps in quiet streets. That was Trotsey's business, to walk dogs, and

Miss Ball got a great many fashionable young ladies who could not

exercise their dogs, to let Trotsey have them, and they said that it

made a great difference in the health and appearance of their pets.

Trotsey got fifteen cents an hour for a dog. Goodness, what appetites

those walks gave us, and didn't we make the dog biscuits disappear? But

it was a slow life at Miss Ball's. We only saw her for a little while

every day. She slept till noon. After lunch she played with us for a

little while in the greenhouse, then she was off driving or visiting,

and in the evening she always had company, or went to a dance, or to the

theatre. I soon made up my mind that I'd run away. I jumped out of a

window one fine morning, and ran home. I stayed there for a long time.

My mother had been run over by a cart and killed, and I wasn't sorry. My

master never bothered his head about me, and I could do as I liked. One

day when I was having a walk, and meeting a lot of dogs that I knew, a

little boy came behind me, and before I could tell what he was doing, he

had snatched me up, and was running off with me. I couldn't bite him,

for he had stuffed some of his rags in my mouth. He took me to a

tenement house, in a part of the city that I had never been in before.

He belonged to a very poor family. My faith, weren't they badly off--six

children, and a mother and father, all living in two tiny rooms.

Scarcely a bit of meat did I smell while I was there. I hated their

bread and molasses, and the place smelled so badly that I thought I

should choke.

 

"They kept me shut up in their dirty rooms for several days; and the

brat of a boy that caught me slept with his arm around me at night. The

weather was hot and sometimes we couldn't sleep, and they had to go up

on the roof. After a while, they chained me up in a filthy yard at the

back of the house, and there I thought I should go mad. I would have

liked to bite them all to death, if I had dared. It's awful to be

chained, especially for a dog like me that loves his freedom. The flies

worried me, and the noises distracted me, and my flesh would fairly

creep from getting no exercise. I was there nearly a month, while they

were waiting for a reward to be offered. But none came; and one day, the

boy's father, who was a street peddler, took me by my chain and led me

about the streets till he sold me. A gentleman got me for his little

boy, but I didn't like the look of him, so I sprang up and bit his hand,

and he dropped the chain, and I dodged boys and policemen, and finally

got home more dead than alive, and looking like a skeleton. I had a good

time for several weeks, and then I began to get restless and was off

again. But I'm getting tired; I want to go to sleep."

 

"You're not very polite," I said, "to offer to tell a story, and then go

to sleep before you finish it."

 

"Look out for number one, my boy," said Dandy, with a yawn; "for if you

don't, no one else will," and he shut his eyes and was fast asleep in a

few minutes.

 

I sat and looked at him. What a handsome, good-natured, worthless dog he

was. A few days later, he told me the rest of his history. After a great

many wanderings, he happened home one day just as his master's yacht was

going to sail, and they chained him up till they went on board, so that

he could be an amusement on the passage to Fairport.

 

It was in November that Dandy came to us, and he stayed all winter. He

made fun of the Morrises all the time, and said they had a dull, poky,

old house, and he only stayed because Miss Laura was nursing him. He had

a little sore on his back that she soon found out was mange. Her father

said it was a bad disease for dogs to have, and Dandy had better be

shot; but she begged so hard for his life, and said she would cure him

in a few weeks, that she was allowed to keep him. Dandy wasn't capable

of getting really angry, but he was as disturbed about having this

disease as he could be about anything. He said that he had got it from a

little, mangy dog, that he had played with a few weeks before. He was

only with the dog a little while, and didn't think he would take it, but

it seemed he knew what an easy thing it was to get.

 

Until he got well he was separated from us. Miss Laura kept him up in

the loft with the rabbits, where we could not go; and the boys ran him

around the garden for exercise. She tried all kind of cures for him, and

I heard her say that though it was a skin disease, his blood must be

purified. She gave him some of the pills that she made out of sulphur

and butter for Jim, and Billy, and me, to keep our coats silky and

smooth. When they didn't cure him, she gave him a few drops of arsenic

every day, and washed the sore, and, indeed his whole body, with tobacco

water or carbolic soap. It was the tobacco water that cured him.

 

Miss Laura always put on gloves when she went near him, and used a brush

to wash him, for if a person takes mange from a dog, they may lose their

hair and their eyelashes. But if they are careful, no harm comes from

nursing a mangy dog, and I have never known of any one taking the

disease.

 

After a time, Dandy's sore healed, and he was set free. He was right

glad, he said, for he had got heartily sick of the rabbits. He used to

bark at them and make them angry, and they would run around the loft,

stamping their hind feet at him, in the funny way that rabbits do. I

think they disliked him as much as he disliked them. Jim and I did not

get the mange. Dandy was not a strong dog, and I think his irregular way

of living made him take diseases readily. He would stuff himself when he

was hungry, and he always wanted rich food. If he couldn't get what he

wanted at the Morrises', he went out and stole, or visited the dumps at

the back of the town.

 

When he did get ill, he was more stupid about doctoring himself than any

dog that I have ever seen. He never seemed to know when to eat grass or

herbs, or a little earth, that would have kept him in good condition. A

dog should never be without grass. When Dandy got ill he just suffered

till he got well again, and never tried to cure himself of his small

troubles. Some dogs even know enough to amputate their limbs. Jim told

me a very interesting story of a dog the Morrises once had, called Gyp,

whose leg became paralyzed by a kick from a horse. He knew the leg was

dead, and gnawed it off nearly to the shoulder, and though he was very

sick for a time, yet in the end he got well.

 

To return to Dandy. I knew he was only waiting for the spring to leave

us, and I was not sorry. The first fine day he was off, and during the

rest of the spring and summer we occasionally met him running about the

town with a set of fast dogs. One day I stopped and asked him how he

contented himself in such a quiet place as Fairport, and he said he was

dying to get back to New York, and was hoping that his master's yacht

would come and take him away.

 

Poor Dandy never left Fairport. After all, he was not such a bad dog.

There was nothing really vicious about him, and I hate to speak of his

end. His master's yacht did not come, and soon the summer was over, and

the winter was coming, and no one wanted Dandy, for he had such a bad

name. He got hungry and cold, and one day sprang upon a little girl, to

take away a piece of bread and butter that she was eating. He did not

see the large house-dog on the door sill, and before he could get away,

the dog had seized him, and bitten and shaken him till he was nearly

dead. When the dog threw him aside, he crawled to the Morrises, and Miss

Laura bandaged his wounds, and made him a bed in the stable.

 

One Sunday morning she washed and fed him very tenderly, for she knew he

could not live much longer. He was so weak that he could scarcely eat

the food that she put in his mouth, so she let him lick some milk from

her finger. As she was going to church, I could not go with her, but I

ran down the lane and watched her out of sight. When I came back, Dandy

was gone. I looked till I found him. He had crawled into the darkest

corner of the stable to die, and though he was suffering very much, he

never uttered a sound. I sat by him and thought of his master in New

York. If he had brought Dandy up properly he might not now be here in

his silent death agony. A young pup should be trained just as a child

is, and punished when he goes wrong. Dandy began badly, and not being

checked in his evil ways, had come to this. Poor Dandy! Poor, handsome

dog of a rich master! He opened his dull eyes, gave me one last glance,

then, with a convulsive shudder, his torn limbs were still. He would

never suffer any more.

 

When Miss Laura came home, she cried bitterly to know that he was dead.

The boys took him away from her, and made him a grave in the corner of

the garden.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *      *

 

CHAPTER XXXVII (THE END OF MY STORY)

I have come now to the last chapter of my story. I thought when I began

to write, that I would put down the events of each year of my life, but

I fear that would make my story too long, and neither Miss Laura nor any

boys and girls would care to read it. So I will stop just here, though I

would gladly go on, for I have enjoyed so much talking over old times,

that I am very sorry to leave off.

 

Every year that I have been at the Morrises', something pleasant has

happened to me, but I cannot put all these things down, nor can I tell

how Miss Laura and the boys grew and changed, year by year, till now

they are quite grown up. I will just bring my tale down to the present

time, and then I will stop talking, and go lie down in my basket, for I

am an old dog now, and get tired very easily.

 

I was a year old when I went to the Morrises, and I have been with them

for twelve years. I am not living in the same house with Mr. and Mrs,

Morris now, but I am with my dear Miss Laura, who is Miss Laura no

longer, but Mrs. Gray. She married Mr. Harry four years ago, and lives

with him and Mr. and Mrs. Wood, on Dingley Farm. Mr. and Mrs. Morris

live in a cottage near by. Mr. Morris is not very strong, and can preach

no longer. The boys are all scattered. Jack married pretty Miss Bessie

Drury, and lives on a large farm near here. Miss Bessie says that she

hates to be a farmer's wife, but she always looks very happy and

contented, so I think that she must be mistaken. Carl is a merchant in

New York, Ned is a clerk in a bank, and Willie is studying at a place

called Harvard. He says that after he finishes his studies, he is going

to live with his father and mother.

 

The Morrises' old friends often come to see them. Mrs. Drury comes every

summer on her way to Newport, and Mr. Montague and Charlie come every

other summer. Charlie always brings with him his old dog Brisk, who is

getting feeble, like myself. We lie on the veranda in the sunshine, and

listen to the Morrises talking about old days, and sometimes it makes us

feel quite young again. In addition to Brisk we have a Scotch collie. He

is very handsome, and is a constant attendant of Miss Laura's. We are

great friends, he and I, but he can get about much better than I can.

One day a friend of Miss Laura's came with a little boy and girl, and

"Collie" sat between the two children, and their father took their

picture with a "kodak." I like him so much that I told him I would get

them to put his picture in my book.

 

When the Morris boys are all here in the summer we have gay times. All

through the winter we look forward to their coming, for they make the

old farmhouse so lively. Mr. Maxwell never misses a summer in coming to

Riverdale. He has such a following of dumb animals now, that he says he

can't move them any farther away from Boston than this, and he doesn't

know what he will do with them, unless he sets up a menagerie. He asked

Miss Laura the other day, if she thought that the old Italian would take

him into partnership. He did not know what had happened to poor Bellini,

so Miss Laura told him.

 

A few years ago the Italian came to Riverdale, to exhibit his new stock

of performing animals. They were almost as good as the old ones, but he

had not quite so many as he had before. The Morrises and a great many of

their friends went to his performance, and Miss Laura said afterward,

that when cunning little Billy came on the stage, and made his bow, and

went through his antics of jumping through hoops, and catching balls,

that she almost had hysterics. The Italian had made a special pet of him

for the Morrises' sake, and treated him more like a human being than a

dog. Billy rather put on airs when he came up to the farm to see us, but

he was such a dear, little dog, in spite of being almost spoiled by his

master, that Jim and I could not get angry with him. In a few days they

went away, and we heard nothing but good news from them, till last

winter. Then a letter came to Miss Laura from a nurse in a New York

hospital. She said that the Italian was very near his end, and he wanted

her to write to Mrs. Gray to tell her that he had sold all his animals

but the little dog that she had so kindly given him. He was sending him

back to her, and with his latest breath he would pray for heaven's

blessing on the kind lady and her family that had befriended him when he

was in trouble.

 

The next day Billy arrived, a thin, white scarecrow of a dog. He was

sick and unhappy, and would eat nothing, and started up at the slightest

sound. He was listening for the Italian's footsteps, but he never came,

and one day Mr. Harry looked up from his newspaper and said, "Laura,

Bellini is dead." Miss Laura's eyes filled with tears, and Billy, who

had jumped up when he heard his master's name, fell back again. He knew

what they meant, and from that instant he ceased listening for

footsteps, and lay quite still till he died. Miss Laura had him put in a

little wooden box, and buried him in a corner of the garden, and when

she is working among her flowers, she often speaks regretfully of him,

and of poor Dandy, who lies in the garden at Fairport.

 

Bella, the parrot, lives with Mrs. Morris, and is as smart as ever. I

have heard that parrots live to a very great age. Some of them even get

to be a hundred years old. If that is the case, Bella will outlive all

of us. She notices that I am getting blind and feeble, and when I go

down to call on Mrs. Morris, she calls out to me, "Keep a stiff upper

lip, Beautiful Joe. Never say die, Beautiful Joe. Keep the game a-going,

Beautiful Joe."

 

Mrs. Morris says that she doesn't know where Bella picks up her slang

words. I think it is Mr. Ned who teaches her, for when he comes home in

the summer he often says, with a sly twinkle in his eye, "Come out into

the garden, Bella," and he lies in a hammock under the trees, and Bella

perches on a branch near him, and he talks to her by the hour. Anyway,

it is in the autumn after he leaves Riverdale that Bella always shocks

Mrs. Morris with her slang talk.

 

I am glad that I am to end my days in Riverdale. Fairport was a very

nice place, but it was not open and free like this farm. I take a walk

every morning that the sun shines. I go out among the horses and cows,

and stop to watch the hens pecking at their food. This is a happy place,

and I hope my dear Miss Laura will live to enjoy it many years after I

am gone.

 

I have very few worries. The pigs bother me a little in the spring, by

rooting up the bones that I bury in the fields in the fall, but that is

a small matter, and I try not to mind it. I get a great many bones here,

and I should be glad if I had some poor, city dogs to help me eat them.

I don't think bones are good for pigs.

 

Then there is Mr. Harry's tame squirrel out in one of the barns that

teases me considerably. He knows that I can't chase him, now that my

legs are so stiff with rheumatism, and he takes delight in showing me

how spry he can be, darting around me and whisking his tail almost in my

face, and trying to get me to run after him, so that he can laugh at me.

I don't think that he is a very thoughtful squirrel, but I try not to

notice him.

 

The sailor boy who gave Bella to the Morrises has got to be a large,

stout man, and is the first mate of a vessel. He sometimes comes here,

and when he does, he always brings the Morrises presents of foreign

fruits and curiosities of different kinds.

 

Malta, the cat, is still living, and is with Mrs. Morris. Davy, the rat,

is gone, so is poor old Jim. He went away one day last summer, and no

one ever knew what became of him. The Morrises searched everywhere for

him, and offered a large reward to any one who would find him, but he

never turned up again. I think that he felt he was going to die, and

went into some out-of-the-way place. He remembered how badly Miss Laura

felt when Dandy died, and he wanted to spare her the greater sorrow of

his death. He was always such a thoughtful dog, and so anxious not to

give trouble. I am more selfish. I could not go away from Miss Laura

even to die. When my last hour comes, I want to see her gentle face

bending over me, and then I shall not mind how much I suffer.

 

She is just as tender-hearted as ever, but she tries not to feel too

badly about the sorrow and suffering in the world, because she says that

would weaken her, and she wants all her strength to try to put a stop to

some of it. She does a great deal of good in Riverdale, and I do not

think that there is any one in all the country around who is as much

beloved as she is.

 

She has never forgotten the resolve that she made some years ago, that

she would do all that she could to protect dumb creatures. Mr. Harry and

Mr. Maxwell have helped her nobly. Mr. Maxwell's work is largely done in

Boston, and Miss Laura and Mr. Harry have to do the most of theirs by

writing, for Riverdale has got to be a model village in respect of the

treatment of all kinds of animals. It is a model village not only in

that respect, but in others. It has seemed as if all other improvements

went hand in hand with the humane treatment of animals. Thoughtfulness

toward lower creatures has made the people more and more thoughtful

toward themselves, and this little town is getting to have quite a name

through the State for its good schools, good society, and good business

and religious standing. Many people are moving into it, to educate their

children. The Riverdale people are very particular about what sort of

strangers come to live among them.

 

A man, who came here two years ago and opened a shop, was seen kicking a

small kitten out of his house. The next day a committee of Riverdale

citizens waited on him, and said they had had a great deal of trouble to

root out cruelty from their village, and they didn't want any one to

come there and introduce it again, and they thought he had better move

on to some other place.

 

The man was utterly astonished, and said he'd never heard of such

particular people. He had had no thought of being cruel. He didn't think

that the kitten cared; but now when he turned the thing over in his

mind, he didn't suppose cats liked being kicked about any more than he

would like it himself, and he would promise to be kind to them in

future. He said, too, that if they had no objection, he would just stay

on, for if the people there treated dumb animals with such

consideration, they would certainly treat human beings better, and he

thought it would be a good place to bring up his children in. Of course

they let him stay, and he is now a man who is celebrated for his

kindness to every living thing; and he never refuses to help Miss Laura

when she goes to him for money to carry out any of her humane schemes.

 

There is one most important saying of Miss Laura's that comes out of her

years of service for dumb animals that I must put in before I close, and

it is this. She says that cruel and vicious owners of animals should be

punished; but to merely thoughtless people, don't say "Don't" so much.

Don't go to them and say, "Don't overfeed your animals, and don't starve

them, and don't overwork them, and don't beat them," and so on through

the long list of hardships that can be put upon suffering animals, but

say simply to them, "Be kind. Make a study of your animals' wants, and

see that they are satisfied. No one can tell you how to treat your

animal as well as you should know yourself, for you are with it all the

time, and know its disposition, and just how much work it can stand, and

how much rest and food it needs, and just how it is different from every

other animal. If it is sick or unhappy, you are the one to take care of

it; for nearly every animal loves its own master better than a stranger,

and will get well quicker under his care."

 

Miss Laura says that if men and women are kind in every respect to their

dumb servants, they will be astonished to find how much happiness they

will bring into their lives, and how faithful and grateful their dumb

animals will be to them.

 

Now, I must really close my story. Good-bye to the boys and girls who

may read it; and if it is not wrong for a dog to say it, I should like

to add, "God bless you all." If in my feeble way I have been able to

impress you with the fact that dogs and many other animals love their

masters and mistresses, and live only to please them, my little story

will not be written in vain. My last words are, "Boys and girls, be kind

to dumb animals, not only because you will lose nothing by it, but

because you ought to; for they were placed on the earth by the same Kind

Hand that made all living creatures."

 

 

END OF TEXT

 

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 22.04.2015

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