The Project Gutenberg EBook of Beautiful Joe, by by Marshall Saunders
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Title: Beautiful Joe
An Autobiography of a Dog
Author: by Marshall Saunders
Release Date: November 24, 2003 [EBook #10226]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEAUTIFUL JOE ***
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Clytie Siddall and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.
Beautiful Joe
an autobiography
by
Marshall Saunders
author of My Spanish Sailor, Charles and his Lamb, Daisy etc.
with an introduction
by Hezekiah Butterworth
of Youth's Companion
1903.
Table of Contents
- Only a Cur
- The Cruel Milkman
- My Kind Deliverer and Miss Laura
- The Morris Boys Add to My Name
- My New Home and a Selfish Lady
- The Fox Terrier Billy
- Training a Puppy
- A Ruined Dog
- The Parrot Bella
- Billy's Training Continued
- Goldfish and Canaries
- Malta the Cat
- The Beginning of an Adventure
- How We Caught the Burglar
- Our Journey to Riverdale
- Dingley Farm
- Mr. Wood and his Horses
- Mrs. Wood's Poultry
- A Band of Mercy
- Stories about Animals
- Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Harry
- What Happened at the Tea Table
- Trapping Wild Animals
- The Rabbit and the Hen
- A Happy Horse
- The Box of Money
- A Neglected Stable
- The End of the Englishman
- A Talk about Sheep
- A Jealous Ox
- In the Cow Stable
- Our Return Home
- Performing Animals
- A Fire in Fairport
- Billy and the Italian
- Dandy the Tramp
- The End of My Story
To
George Thorndike Angell
President Of The American Humane Education Society
The Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,
and the Parent American Band of Mercy
19 Milk St., Boston
This Book is Respectfully Dedicated
by the Author
Contents
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.
Contents
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
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
do. 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.
Contents
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
it. 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.
Contents
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.
Contents
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
on. 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.
Contents
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.
Contents
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.
Contents
"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.
Contents
"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.
Contents
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.
Contents
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."
Contents
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.
Contents
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
me. 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
Unite