dog. He must be disposed of before anyone else is astir. How I hate to take life.”
He sauntered down the walk to the tool shed, went in and soon came out leading a large, brown dog by a chain. This was Bruno. He was snapping and snarling and biting at his chain as he went along, though Mr. Wood led him very kindly, and when he saw me he acted as if he could have torn me to pieces. After Mr. Wood took him behind the barn, he came back and got his gun. I ran away so that I would not hear the sound of it, for I could not help feeling sorry for Bruno.
Miss Laura’s room was on one side of the house, and in the second story. There was a little balcony outside it, and when I got near I saw that she was standing out on it wrapped in a shawl. Her hair was streaming over her shoulders, and she was looking down into the garden where there were a great many white and yellow flowers in bloom.
I barked, and she looked at me. “Dear old Joe, I will get dressed and come down.”
She hurried into her room, and I lay on the veranda till I heard her step. Then I jumped up. She unlocked the front door, and we went for a walk down the lane to the road until we heard the breakfast bell. As soon as we heard it we ran back to the house, and Miss Laura had such an appetite for her breakfast that her aunt said the country had done her good already.
CHAPTER XVIII MRS. WOOD’S POULTRY
AFTER breakfast, Mrs. Wood put on a large apron, and going into the kitchen, said: “Have you any scraps for the hens, Adele? Be sure and not give me anything salty.”
The French girl gave her a dish of food, then Mrs. Wood asked Miss Laura to go and see her chickens, and away we went to the poultry house.
On the way we saw Mr. Wood. He was sitting on the step of the tool shed cleaning his gun “Is the dog dead?” asked Miss Laura.
“Yes,” he said.
She sighed and said: “Poor creature, I am sorry he had to be killed. Uncle, what is the most merciful way to kill a dog? Sometimes, when they get old, they should be put out of the way.”
“You can shoot them,” he said, “or you can poison them. I shot Bruno through his head into his neck. There’s a right place to aim at. It’s a little one side of the top of the skull. If you’ll remind me I’ll show you a circular I have in the house. It tells the proper way to kill animals. The American Humane Education Society in Boston puts it out, and it’s a merciful thing.
“You don’t know anything about the slaughtering of animals, Laura, and it’s well you don’t. There’s an awful amount of cruelty practiced, and practiced by some people that think themselves pretty good. I wouldn’t have my lambs killed the way my father had his for a kingdom. I’ll never forget the first one I saw butchered. I wouldn’t feel worse at a hanging now. And that white ox, Hattie you remember my telling you about him. He had to be killed, and father sent for the butcher. I was only a lad, and I was all of a shudder to have the life of the creature I had known taken from him. The butcher, stupid clown, gave him eight blows before he struck the right place. The ox bellowed, and turned his great black eyes on my father, and I fell in a faint.”
Miss Laura turned away, and Mrs. Wood followed her, saying: “If ever you want to kill a cat, Laura, give it cyanide of potassium. I killed a poor old sick cat for Mrs. Windham the other day. We put half a teaspoonful of pure cyanide of potassium in a long-handled wooden spoon, and dropped it on the cat’s tongue, as near the throat as we could. Poor pussy she died in a few seconds. Do you know, I was reading such a funny thing the other day about giving cats medicine. They hate it, and one can scarcely force it into their mouths on account of their sharp teeth. The way is, to smear it on their sides, and they lick it off. A good idea, isn’t it? Here we are at the hen douse, or rather one of the hen houses.”
“Don’t you keep your hens all together?” asked Miss Laura.
“Only in the winter time,” said Mrs. Wood, “I divide my flock in the spring. Part of them stay here and part go to the orchard to live in little movable houses that we put about in different places. I feed each flock morning and evening at their own little house. They know they’ll get no food even if they come to my house, so they stay at home. And they know they’ll get no food between times, so all day long they pick and scratch in the orchard, and destroy so many bugs and insects that it more than pays for the trouble of keeping them there.”
“Doesn’t this flock want to mix up with the other?” asked Miss Laura, as she stepped into the little wooden house.
“No; they seem to understand. I keep my eye on them for a while at first, and they soon find out that they’re not to fly either over the garden fence or the orchard fence. They roam over the farm and pick up what they can get. There’s a good deal of sense in hens, if one manages them properly. I love them because they are such good mothers.”
We were in the little wooden house by this time, and I looked around it with surprise. It was better than some of the poor people’s houses in Fairport. The walls were white and clean, so were the little ladders that led up to different kinds of roosts, where the fowls sat at night. Some roosts were thin and round, and some were broad and flat. Mrs. Wood said that the broad ones were for a heavy fowl called the Brahma. Every part of the little house was almost as light as it was outdoors, on account of the large windows.
Miss Laura spoke of it. “Why, auntie, I never saw such a light hen house.”
Mrs. Wood was diving into a partly shut-in place, where it was not so light, and where the nests were. She straightened herself up, her face redder than ever, and looked at the windows with a pleased smile.
“Yes, there’s not a hen house in New Hampshire with such big windows. Whenever I look at them, I think of my mother’s hens, and wish that they could have had a place like this. They would have thought themselves in a hen’s paradise. When I was a girl we didn’t know that hens loved light and heat, and all winter they used to sit in a dark hencoop, and the cold was so bad that their combs would freeze stiff, and the tops of them would drop off. We never thought about it. If we’d had any sense, we might have watched them on a fine day go and sit on the compost heap and sun themselves, and then have concluded that if they liked light and heat outside, they’d like it inside. Poor biddies, they were so cold that they wouldn’t lay us any eggs in winter.”
“You take a great interest in your poultry, don’t you, auntie?” said Miss Laura.
“Yes, indeed, and well I may. I’ll show you my brown Leghorn, Jenny, that lay eggs enough in a year to pay for the newspapers I take to keep myself posted in poultry matters. I buy all my own clothes with my hen money, and lately I’ve started a bank account, for I want to save up enough to start a few stands of bees. Even if I didn’t want to be kind to my hens, it would pay me to be so for sake of the profit they yield. Of course they’re quite a lot of trouble. Sometimes they get vermin on them, and I have to grease them and dust carbolic acid on them, and try some of my numerous cures. Then I must keep ashes and dust wallows for them and be very particular about my eggs when hens are sitting, and see that the hens come off regularly for food and exercise. Oh, there are a hundred things I have to think of, but I always say to any one that thinks of raising poultry: ‘If you are going into the business for the purpose of making money, it pays to take care of them.'”
“There’s one thing I notice,” said Miss Laura, “and that is that your drinking fountains must be a great deal better than the shallow pans that I have seen some people give their hens water in.”
“Dirty things they are,” said Mrs. Wood; “I wouldn’t use one of them. I don’t think there is anything worse for hens than drinking dirty water. My hens must have as clean water as I drink myself, and in winter I heat it for them. If it’s poured boiling into the fountains in the morning, it keeps warm till night. Speaking of shallow drinking dishes, I wouldn’t use them, even before I ever heard of a drinking fountain. John made me something that we read about. He used to take a powder keg and bore a little hole in the side, about an inch from the top, then fill it with water, and cover with a pan a little larger round than the keg. Then he turned the keg upside down, without taking away the pan. The water ran into the pan only as far as the hole in the keg, and it would have to be used before more would flow in. Now let us go and see my beautiful, bronze turkeys. They don’t need any houses, for they roost in the trees the year round.”
We found the flock of turkeys, and Miss Laura admired their changeable colors very much. Some of them were very large, and I did not like them, for the gobblers ran at me, and made a dreadful noise in their throats.
Afterward, Mrs. Wood showed us some ducks that she had shut up in a yard. She said that she was feeding them on vegetable food, to give their flesh a pure flavor, and by-and-by she would send them to market and get a high price for them.
Every place she took us to was as clean as possible. “No one can be successful in raising poultry in large numbers,” she said, “unless they keep their quarters clean and comfortable.”
As yet we had seen no hens, except a few on the nests, and Miss Laura said, “Where are they? I should like to see them.”
“They are coming,” said Mrs. Wood. “It is just their breakfast time, and they are as punctual as clockwork. They go off early in the morning, to scratch about a little for themselves first.”
As she spoke she stepped off the plank walk and looked off towards the fields.
Miss Laura burst out laughing. Away beyond the barns the hens were coming. Seeing Mrs. Wood standing there, they thought they were late, and began to run and fly, jumping over each other’s backs, and stretching out their necks, in a state of great excitement. Some of their legs seemed slicking straight out behind. It was very funny to see them.
They were a fine-looking lot of poultry, mostly white, with glossy feathers and bright eyes. They greedily ate the food scattered to them and Mrs. Wood said, “They think I’ve changed their breakfast time, and to-morrow they’ll come a good bit earlier. And yet some people say hens have no sense.”
CHAPTER XIX A BAND OF MERCY
A FEW evenings after we came to Dingley Farm, Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura were sitting out on the veranda, and I was lying at their feet.
“Auntie,” said Miss Laura, “What do those letters mean on that silver pin that you wear with that piece of ribbon?”
“You know what the white ribbon means, don’t you?” asked Mrs. Wood.
“Yes; that you are a temperance woman, doesn’t it?”
“It does; and the star pin means that I am a member of a Band of Mercy. Do you know what a Band of Mercy is?”
“No,” said Miss Laura.
“How strange! I should think that you would have several in Fairport. A cripple boy, the son of a Boston artist, started this one here. It has done a great deal of good. There is a meeting to-morrow, and I will take you to it if you like.”
It was on Monday that Mrs. Wood had this talk with Miss Laura, and the next afternoon, after all the work was done, they got ready to go to the village.
“May Joe go?” asked Miss Laura.
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Wood; “he is such good dog that he won’t be any trouble.”
I was very glad to hear this, and trotted along by them down the lane to the road. The lane was a very cool and pleasant place. There were tall trees growing on each side, and under them, among the grass, pretty wild flowers were peeping out to look at us as we went by.
Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura talked all the way about the Band of Mercy. Miss Laura was much interested, and said that she would like to start one in Fairport.
“It is a very simple thing,” said Mrs. Wood. “All you have to do is to write the pledge at the top of a piece of paper: ‘I will try to be kind to all harmless living creatures, and try to protect them from cruel usage,’ and get thirty people to sign it. That makes a band.
“I have formed two or three bands by keeping slips of paper ready, and getting people that come to visit me to sign them. I call them ‘Corresponding Bands,’ for they are too far apart to meet. I send the members ‘Band of Mercy’ papers, and I get such nice letters from them, telling me of kind things they do for animals.
“A Band of Mercy in a place is a splendid thing. There’s the greatest difference in Riverdale since this one was started. A few years ago, when a man beat or raced his horse, and any one interfered, he said: ‘This horse is mine; I’ll do what I like with him.’ Most people thought he was right, but now they’re all for the poor horse, and there isn’t a man anywhere around who would dare to abuse any animal.
“It’s all the children. They’re doing a grand work, and I say it’s a good thing for them. Since we’ve studied this subject, it’s enough to frighten one to read what is sent us about our American boys and girls. Do you know, Laura, that with all our brag about our schools and colleges, that really are wonderful, we’re turning out more criminals than any other civilized country in the world, except Spain and Italy? The cause of it is said to be lack of proper training for the youth of our land. Immigration has something to do with it, too. We’re thinking too much about educating the mind, and forgetting about the heart and soul. So I say now, while we’ve got all our future population in our schools, saints and sinners, good people and bad people, let us try to slip in something between the geography, and history, and grammar that will go a little deeper, and touch them so much, that when they are grown up and go out in the world, they will carry with them lessons of love and good-will to men.
“A little child is such a tender thing. You can bend it anyway you like. Speaking of this heart education of children, as set over against mind education, I see that many school-teachers say that there is nothing better than to give them lessons on kindness to animals. Children who are taught to love and protect dumb creature, will be kind to their fellow-men when they grow up.”
I was very much pleased with this talk between Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura, and kept close to them so that I would not miss a word.
As we went along, houses began to appear here and there, set back from the road among the trees. Soon they got quite close together, and I saw some shops.
This was the village of Riverdale, and nearly all the buildings were along this winding street. The river was away back of the village. We had already driven there several times.
We passed the school on our way. It was a square, white building, standing in the middle of a large yard. Boys and girls, with their arms full of books, were hurrying down the steps and coming into the street. Two quite big boys came behind us, and Mrs. Wood turned around and spoke to them, and asked if they were going to the Band of Mercy.
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” said the younger one “I’ve got a recitation, don’t you remember?”
“Yes, yes; excuse me for forgetting,” said Mrs. Wood, with her jolly laugh. “And here are Dolly, and Jennie, and Martha,” she went on, as some little girls came running out of a house that we were passing.
The little girls joined us and looked so hard at my head and stump of a tail, and my fine collar, that I felt quite shy, and walked with my head against Miss Laura’s dress.
She stooped down and patted me, and then I felt as if I didn’t care how much they stared. Miss Laura never forgot me. No matter how earnestly she was talking, or playing a game, or doing anything, she always stopped occasionally to give me word or look, to show that she knew I was near.
Mrs. Wood paused in front of a building on the main street. A great many boys and girls were going in, and we went with them. We found ourselves in a large room, with a platform at one end of it. There were some chairs on this platform and a small table.
A boy stood by this table with his hand on a bell. Presently he rang it, and then every one kept still. Mrs. Wood whispered to Miss Laura that this boy was the president of the band, and the young man with the pale face and curly hair who sat in front of him was Mr. Maxwell, the artist’s son, who had formed this Band of Mercy.
The lad who presided had a ringing, pleasant voice. He said they would begin their meeting by singing a hymn. There was an organ near the platform and a young girl played on it, while all the other boys and girls stood up, and sang very sweetly and clearly.
After they had sung the hymn, the president asked for the report of their last meeting.
A little girl, blushing and hanging her head, came forward, and read what was written on a paper that she held in her hand.
The president made some remarks after she had finished, and then every one had to vote. It was just like a meeting of grown people, and I was surprised to see how good those children were. They did not frolic nor laugh, but all seemed sober and listened attentively.
After the voting was over, the president called upon John Turner to give a recitation This was the boy whom we saw on the way there. He walked up to the platform, made a bow, and said that he had learned two stories for his recitation, out of the paper, “Dumb Animals.” One story was about a horse, and the other was about a dog, and he thought that they were two of the best animal stories on record. He would tell the horse story first.
“A man in Missouri had to go to Nebraska to see about some land. He went on horseback, on a horse that he had trained himself, and that came at his whistle like a dog. On getting into Nebraska, he came to a place where there were two roads. One went by a river, and the other went over the hill. The man saw that the travel went over the hill, but thought he’d take the river road. He didn’t know that there was a quicksand across it, and that people couldn’t use it in spring and summer. There used to be a sign board to tell strangers about it, but it had been taken away. The man got off his horse to let him graze, and walked along till he got so far ahead of the horse that he had to sit down and wait for him. Suddenly he found that he was on a quicksand. His feet had sunk in the sand, and he could not get them out. He threw himself down, and whistled for his horse, and shouted for help, but no one came. He could hear some young people singing out on the river, but they could not hear him. The terrible sand drew him in almost to his shoulders, and he thought he was lost. At that moment the horse came running up, and stood by his master. The man was too low down to get hold of the saddle or bridle, so he took hold of the horse’s tail, and told him to go. The horse gave an awful pull, and landed his master on safe ground.”
Everybody clapped his hands, and stamped when this story was finished, and called out: “The dog story the dog story!”
The boy bowed and smiled, and began again. “You all know what a ’round-up’ of cattle is, so I need not explain. Once a man down south was going to have one, and he and his boys and friends were talking it over. There was an ugly, black steer in the herd, and they were wondering whether their old yellow dog would be able to manage him. The dog’s name was Tige, and he lay and listened wisely to their talk. The next day there was a scene of great confusion. The steer raged and tore about, and would allow no one to come within whip touch of him. Tige, who had always been brave, skulked about for a while, and then, as if he had got up a little spirit, he made a run at the steer. The steer sighted him, gave a bellow, and, lowering his horns, ran at him. Tige turned tail, and the young men that owned him were frantic. They’d been praising him, and thought they were going to have it proven false. Their father called out: ‘Don’t shoot Tige, till you see where he’s running to.’ The dog ran right to the cattle pen. The steer was so enraged that he never noticed where he was going, and dashed in after him. Tige leaped the wall, and came back to the gate, barking and yelping for the men to come and shut the steer in. They shut the gate and petted Tige, and bought him a collar with a silver plate.”
The boy was loudly cheered, and went to his seat. The president said he would like to have remarks made about these two stories.
Several children put up their hands, and he asked each one to speak in turn. One said that if that man’s horse had had a docked tail, his master wouldn’t have been able to reach it, and would have perished. Another said that if the man hadn’t treated his horse kindly, he never would have come at his whistle, and stood over him to see what he could do to help him. A third child said that the people on the river weren’t as quick at hearing the voice of the man in trouble as the horse was.
When this talk was over, the president called for some stories of foreign animals.
Another boy came forward, made his bow, and said, in a short, abrupt voice, “My uncle’s name is Henry Worthington. He is an Englishman, and once he was a soldier in India. One day when he was hunting in the Punjab, he saw a mother monkey carrying a little dead baby monkey. Six months after, he was in the same jungle. Saw same monkey still carrying dead baby monkey, all shriveled up. Mother monkey loved her baby monkey, and wouldn’t give it up.”
The boy went to his seat, and the president, with a queer look in his face, said, “That’s a very good story, Ronald if it is true.”
None of the children laughed, but Mrs. Wood’s face got like a red poppy, and Miss Laura bit her lip, and Mr. Maxwell buried his head in his arms, his whole frame shaking.
The boy who told the story looked very angry. He jumped up again. “My uncle’s a true man, Phil Dodge, and never told a lie in his life.”
The president remained standing, his face a deep scarlet, and a tall boy at the back of the room got up and said, “Mr. President, what would be impossible in this climate, might be possible in a hot country like India. Doesn’t heat sometimes draw up and preserve things?”
The president’s face cleared. “Thank you for the suggestion,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings; but you know there is a rule in the band that only true stories are to be told here. We have five more minutes for foreign stories. Has any one else one?”
CHAPTER XX STORIES ABOUT ANIMALS
A SMALL girl, with twinkling eyes and a merry face, got up, just behind Miss Laura, and made her way to the front. “My dranfadder says,” she began, in a piping little voice, “dat when he was a little boy his fadder brought him a little monkey from de West Indies. De naughty boys in de village used to tease de little monkey, and he runned up a tree one day. Dey was drowing stones at him, and a man dat was paintin’ de house druv ’em away. De monkey runned down de tree, and shook hands wid de man. My dranfadder saw him,” she said, with a shake of her head at the president, as if she was afraid he would doubt her.
There was great laughing and clapping of hands when this little girl took her seat, and she hopped right up again and ran back. “Oh, I fordot,” she went on, in her squeaky, little voice, “dat my dranfadder says dat afterward de monkey upset de painter’s can of oil, and rolled in it, and den jumped down in my dranfadder’s flour barrel.”
The president looked very much amused, and said, “We have had some good stories about monkeys, now let us have some more about our home animals. Who can tell us another story about a horse?”
Three or four boys jumped up, but the president said they would take one at a time. The first one was this: A Riverdale boy was walking along the bank of a canal in Hoytville. He saw a boy driving two horses, which were towing a canal-boat. The first horse was lazy, and the boy got angry and struck him several times over the head with his whip. The Riverdale boy shouted across to him, begging him not to be so cruel; but the boy paid no attention. Suddenly the horse turned, seized his tormentor by the shoulder, and pushed him into the canal. The water was not deep, and the boy, after floundering about for a few seconds, came out dripping with mud and filth, and sat down on the tow path, and looked at the horse with such a comical expression, that the Riverdale boy had to stuff his handkerchief in his mouth to keep from laughing.
“It is to be hoped that he would learn a lesson,” said the president, “and be kinder to his horse in the future. Now, Bernard Howe, your story.”
The boy was a brother to the little girl who had told the monkey story, and he, too, had evidently been talking to his grandfather. He told two stories, and Miss Laura listened eagerly, for they were about Fairport.
The boy said that when his grandfather was young, he lived in Fairport, Maine. On a certain day he stood in the market square to see their first stage-coach put together. It had come from Boston in pieces, for there was no one in Fairport that could make one. The coach went away up into the country one day, and came back the next. For a long time no one understood driving the horses properly, and they came in day after day with the blood streaming from them. The whiffletree would swing round and hit them, and when their collars were taken off, their necks would be raw and bloody. After a time, the men got to understand how to drive a coach, and the horses did not suffer so much.
The other story was about a team-boat, not a steamboat. More than seventy years ago, they had no steamers running between Fairport and the island opposite where people went for the summer, but they had what they called a team-boat, that is, a boat with machinery to make it go, that could be worked by horses. There were eight horses that went around and around, and made the boat go. One afternoon, two dancing masters, who were wicked fellows, that played the fiddle, and never went to church on Sundays, got on the boat, and sat just where the horses had to pass them as they went around.
Every time the horses went by, they jabbed them with their penknives. The man who was driving the horses at last saw the blood dripping from them, and the dancing masters were found out. Some young men on the boat were so angry that they caught up a rope’s end, and gave the dancing masters a lashing, and then threw them into the water and made them swim to the island.
When this boy took a seat, a young girl read some verses that she had clipped from a newspaper:
“Don’t kill the toads, the ugly toads,
That hop around your door;
Each meal the little toad doth eat A hundred bugs or more.
“He sits around with aspect meek,
Until the bug hath neared,
Then shoots he forth his little tongue
Like lightning double-geared.
“And then he soberly doth wink,
And shut his ugly mug,
And patiently doth wait until
There comes another bug.”
Mr. Maxwell told a good dog story after this. He said the president need not have any fears as to its truth, for it had happened in his boarding house in the village, and he had seen it himself. Monday, the day before, being wash-day, his landlady lady had put out a large washing. Among the clothes on the line was a gray flannel shirt belonging to her husband. The young dog belonging to the house had pulled the shirt from the line and torn it to pieces. The woman put it aside and told him master would beat him. When the man came home to his dinner, he showed the dog the pieces of the shirt, and gave him a severe whipping. The dog ran away, visited all the clothes lines in the village, till he found a gray shirt very like his master’s. He seized it and ran home, laying it at his master’s; feet, joyfully wagging his tail meanwhile
Mr. Maxwell’s story done, a bright-faced boy, called Simon Grey, got up and said, “You all know our old gray horse Ned. Last week father sold him to a man in Hoytville, and I went to the station when he was shipped. He was put in a box car. The doors were left a little open to give him air, and were locked in that way. There was a narrow, sliding door, four feet from the floor of the car, and, in some way or other, old Ned pushed this door open, crawled through it, and tumbled out on the ground. When I was coming from school, I saw him walking along the track. He hadn’t hurt himself, except for a few cuts. He was glad to see me, and followed me home. He must have gotten off the train when it was going full speed, for he hadn’t been seen at any of the stations, and the trainmen were astonished to find the doors locked and the car empty, when they got to Hoytville. Father got the man who bought him to release him from his bargain, for he says if Ned is so fond of Riverdale, he shall stay here.”
The president asked the boys and girls to give three cheers for old Ned, and then they had some more singing. After all had taken their seats, he said he would like to know what the members had been doing for animals during the past fortnight.
One girl had kept her brother from shooting two owls that came about their barnyard. She told him that the owls would destroy the rats and mice that bothered him in the barn, but if he hunted them, they would go to the woods.
A boy said that he had persuaded some of his friends who were going fishing, to put their bait worms into a dish of boiling water to kill them before they started, and also to promise him that as soon as they took their fish out of the water, they would kill them by a sharp blow on the back of the head. They were all the more ready to do this, when he told them that their fish would taste better when cooked, if they had been killed as soon as they were taken from the water into the air.
A little girl had gotten her mother to say that she would never again put lobsters into cold water and slowly boil them to death. She had also stopped a man in the street who was carrying a pair of fowls with their heads down, and asked him if he would kindly reverse their position. The man told her that the fowls didn’t mind, and she pursed up her small mouth and showed the band how she said to him, “I would prefer the opinion of the hens.” Then she said he had laughed at her, and said, “Certainly, little lady,” and had gone off carrying them as she wanted him to. She had also reasoned with different boys outside the village who were throwing stones at birds and frogs, and sticking butterflies, and had invited them to come to the Band of Mercy.
This child seemed to have done more than any one else for dumb animals. She had taken around a petition to the village boys, asking them not to search for birds’ eggs, and she had even gone into her father’s stable, and asked him to hold her up, so that she could look into the horses’ mouths to see if their teeth wanted filing or were decayed. When her father laughed at her, she told him that horses often suffer terrible pain from their teeth, and that sometimes a runaway is caused by a metal bit striking against the exposed nerve in the tooth of a horse that has become almost frantic with pain.
She was a very gentle girl, and I think by the way that she spoke that her father loved her dearly, for she told how much trouble he had taken to make some tiny houses for her that she wanted for the wrens that came about their farm, She told him that those little birds are so good at catching insects that they ought to give all their time to it, and not have any worry about making houses. Her father made their homes very small, so that the English sparrows could not get in and crowd them out.
A boy said that he had gotten a pot of paint, and painted in large letters on the fences around his father’s farm: “Spare the toads, don’t kill the birds. Every bird killed is a loss to the country.”
“That reminds me,” said the president, “to ask the girls what they have done about the millinery business.”
“I have told my mother,” said a tall, serious faced girl, “that I think it is wrong to wear bird feathers, and she has promised to give up wearing any of them except ostrich plumes.”
Mrs. Wood asked permission to say a few words just here, and the president said: “Certainly, we are always glad to hear from you.”
She went up on the platform, and faced the roomful of children. “Dear boys and girls,” she began, “I have had some papers sent me from Boston, giving some facts about the killing of our birds, and I want to state a few of them to you: You all know that nearly every tree and plant that grows swarms with insect life, and that they couldn’t grow if the birds didn’t eat the insects that would devour their foliage. All day long, the little beaks of the birds are busy. The dear little rose-breasted gross-beak carefully examines the potato plants, and picks off the beetles, the martins destroy weevil, the quail and grouse family eats the chinchbug, the woodpeckers dig the worms from the trees, and many other birds eat the flies and gnats and mosquitoes that torment us so. No flying or crawling creature escapes their sharp little eyes. A great Frenchman says that if it weren’t for the birds human beings would perish from the face of the earth. They are doing all this for us, and how are we rewarding them? All over America they are hunted and killed. Five million birds must be caught every year for American women to wear in their hats and bonnets. Just think of it, girls. Isn’t it dreadful? Five million innocent, hard-working, beautiful birds killed, that thoughtless girls and women may ornament themselves with their little dead bodies. One million bobolinks have been killed in one month near Philadelphia. Seventy song-birds were sent from one Long Island village to New York milliners.
“In Florida, cruel men shoot the mother bird. on their nests while they are rearing their young. because their plumage is prettiest at that time. The little ones cry pitifully, and starve to death. Every bird of the rarer kinds that is killed, such as humming birds, orioles and kingfishers, means the death of several others that is, the young that starve to death, the wounded that fly away to die, and those whose plumage is so torn that it is not fit to put in a fine lady’s bonnet. In some cases where birds have gay wings, and the hunters do not wish the rest of the body, they tear off the wings from the living bird, and throw it away to die.
“I am sorry to tell you such painful things, but I think you ought to know them. You will soon be men and women. Do what you can to stop this horrid trade. Our beautiful birds are being taken from us, and the insect pests are increasing. The State of Massachusetts has lost over one hundred thousand dollars because it did not protect its birds. The gypsy moth stripped the trees near Boston, and the State had to pay out all this money, and even then could not get rid of the moths. The birds could have done it better than the State, but they were all gone. My last words to you are, ‘ Protect the birds.'” Mrs. Wood went to her seat, and though the boys and girls had listened very attentively, none of them cheered her. Their faces looked sad, and they kept very quiet for a few minutes. I saw one or two little girls wiping their eyes. I think they felt sorry for the birds.
“Has any boy done anything about blinders and check-reins?” asked the president, after a time.
A brown-faced boy stood up. “I had a picnic last Monday,” he said; “father let me cut all the blinders off our head-stalls with my penknife.”
“How did you get him to consent to that?” asked the president.
“I told him,” said the boy, “that I couldn’t get to sleep for thinking of him. You know he drives a good deal late at night. I told him that every dark night he came from Sudbury I thought of the deep ditch alongside the road, and wished his horses hadn’t blinders on. And every night he comes from the Junction, and has to drive along the river bank where the water has washed away the earth till the wheels of the wagon are within a foot or two of the edge, I wished again that his horses could see each side of them, for I knew they’d have sense enough to keep out of danger if they could see it. Father said that might be very true, and yet his horses had been broken in with blinders, and didn’t I think they would be inclined to shy if he took them off; and wouldn’t they be frightened to look around and see the wagon wheels so near. I told him that for every accident that happened to a horse without blinders, several happened to a horse with them; and then I gave him Mr. Wood’s opinion Mr. Wood out at Dingley Farm. He says that the worst thing against blinders is that a frightened horse never knows when he has passed the thing that scared him. He always thinks it is behind him. The blinders are there and he can’t see that he has passed it, and he can’t turn his head to have a good look at it. So often he goes tearing madly on; and sometimes lives are lost all on account of a little bit of leather fastened over a beautiful eye that ought to look out full and free at the world. That finished father. He said he’d take off his blinders, and if he had an accident, he’d send the bill for damages to Mr. Wood. But we’ve had no accident. The horses did act rather queerly at first, and started a little; but they soon got over it, and now they go as steady without blinders as they ever did with them.”
The boy sat down, and the president said: “I think it is time that the whole nation threw off this foolishness of half covering their horses’ eyes. Just put your hands up to your eyes, members of the band. Half cover them, and see how shut in you will feel; and how curious you will be to know what is going on beside you. Suppose a girl saw a mouse with her eyes half covered, wouldn’t she run?”
Everybody laughed, and the president asked some one to tell him who invented blinders.
“An English nobleman,” shouted a boy, “who had a wall-eyed horse! He wanted to cover up the defect, and I think it is a great shame that all the American horses have to suffer because that English one had an ugly eye.”
“So do I,” said the president. “Three groans for blinders, boys.”
And the children in the room made three dreadful noises away down in their throats. Then they had another good laugh, and the president became sober again. “Seven more minutes,” he said; “this meeting has got to be let out at five sharp.”
A tall girl at the back of the room rose, and said: “My little cousin has two stories that she would like to tell the band.”
“Very well,” said the president; “bring her right along.”
The big girl came forward, leading a tiny child that she placed in front of the boys and girls. The child stared up into her cousin’s face, turning and twisting her white pinafore through her fingers. Every time the big girl took her pinafore away from her, she picked it up again. “Begin, Nannie,” said the big girl, kindly.
“Well, Cousin Eleanor,” said the child, “you know Topsy, Graham’s pony. Well, Topsy would run away, and a big, big man came out to papa and said he would train Topsy. So he drove her every day, and beat her, and beat her, till he was tired, but still Topsy would run away. Then papa said he would not have the poor pony whipped so much, and he took her out a piece of bread every day, and he petted her and now Topsy is very gentle, and never runs away.”
“Tell about Tiger,” said the girl.
“Well, Cousin Eleanor,” said the child, “you know Tiger, our big dog. He used to be a bad dog, and when Dr. Fairchild drove up to the house he jumped up and bit at him. Dr. Fairchild used to speak kindly to him, and throw out bits of meat, and now when he comes, Tiger follows behind and wags his tail. Now, give me a kiss.”
The girl had to give her a kiss, right up there before every one, and what a stamping the boys made. The larger girl blushed and hurried back to her seat, with the child clinging to her hand.
There was one more story, about a brave Newfoundland dog, that saved eight lives by swimming out to a wrecked sailing vessel, and getting a rope by which the men came ashore, and then a lad got up whom they all greeted with cheers, and cries of, “The Poet! the Poet!” I didn’t know what they meant, till Mrs. Wood whispered to Miss Laura that he was a boy who made rhymes, and the children had rather hear him. speak than any one else in the room.
He had a snub nose and freckles, and I think he was the plainest boy there, but that didn’t matter, if the other children loved him. He sauntered up to the front, with his hands behind his back, and a very grand manner.
“The beautiful poetry recited here to-day,” he drawled, “put some verses in my mind that I never had till I came here to-day.” Every one present cheered wildly, and he began in a sing song voice:
“I am a Band of Mercy boy,
I would not hurt a fly,
I always speak to dogs and cats,
When’er I pass them by.
“I always let the birdies sing,
I never throw a stone,
I always give a hungry dog
A nice, fat, meaty bone.
I wouldn’t drive a bob-tailed horse,
Nor hurry up a cow,
I “
Then he forgot the rest. The boys and girls ,were so sorry. They called out, “Pig,” “Goat,” “Calf,” “Sheep,” “Hens,” “Ducks,” and all the other animals’ names they could think of, but none of them was right, and as the boy had just made up the poetry, no one knew what the next could be. He stood for a long time staring at the ceiling, then he said, “I guess I’ll have to give it up.”
The children looked dreadfully disappointed. “Perhaps you will remember it by our next meeting,” said the president, anxiously.
“Possibly, said the boy, “but probably not. I think it is gone forever.” And he went to his seat.
The next thing was to call for new members. Miss Laura got up and said she would like to join their Band of Mercy. I followed her up to the platform, while they pinned a little badge on her, and every one laughed at me. Then they sang, “God Bless our Native Land,” and the president told us that we might all go home.
It seemed to me a lovely thing for those children to meet together to talk about kindness to animals. They all had bright and good faces, and many of them stopped to pat me as I came out. One little girl gave me a biscuit from her school bag.
Mrs. Wood waited at the door till Mr. Maxwell came limping out on his crutches. She introduced him to Miss Laura, and asked him if he wouldn’t go and take tea with them. He said he would be very happy to do so, and then Mrs. Wood laughed; and asked him if he hadn’t better empty his pockets first. She didn’t want a little toad jumping over her tea table, as one did the last time he was there.
CHAPTER XXI MR. MAXWELL AND MR. HARRY
MR. MAXWELL wore a coat with loose pockets, and while she was speaking, he rested on his crutches, and began to slap them with his hands. “No; there’s nothing here to-day,” he said; “I think I emptied my pockets before I went to the meeting.”
Just as he said that there was a loud squeal: “Oh, my guinea pig,” he exclaimed; “I forgot him,” and he pulled out a little spotted creature a few inches long. “Poor Derry, did I hurt you?” and he soothed it very tenderly.
I stood and looked at Mr. Maxwell, for I had never seen any one like him. He had thick curly hair and a white face, and he looked just like a girl. While I was staring at him, something peeped up out of one of his pockets and ran out its tongue at me so fast that I could scarcely see it, and then drew back again. I was thunderstruck. I had never seen such a creature before. It was long and thin like a boy’s cane, and of a bright green color like grass, and it had queer shiny eyes. But its tongue was the strangest part of it. It came and went like lightning. I was uneasy about it, and began to bark.
“What’s the matter, Joe?” said Mrs. Wood; “the pig won’t hurt you.”
But it wasn’t the pig I was afraid of, and I kept on barking. And all the time that strange live thing kept sticking up its head and putting out its tongue at me, and neither of them noticed it.
“It’s getting on toward six,” said Mrs. Wood; “we must be going home. Come, Mr. Maxwell.”
The young man put the guinea pig in his pocket, picked up his crutches, and we started down the sunny village street. He left his guinea pig at his boarding house as he went by, but he said nothing about the other creature, so I knew he did not know it was there.
I was very much taken with Mr. Maxwell. He seemed so bright and happy, in spite of his lameness, which kept him from running about like other young men. He looked a little older than Miss Laura, and one day, a week or two later, when they were sitting on the veranda, I heard him tell her that he was just nineteen. He told her, too, that his lameness made him love animals. They never laughed at him, or slighted him, or got impatient, because he could not walk quickly. They were always good to him, and he said he loved all animals while he liked very few people.
On this day as he was limping along, he said to Mrs. Wood: “I am getting more absent-minded every day. Have you heard of my latest escapade?”
“No,” she said.
“I am glad,” he replied. “I was afraid that it would be all over the village by this time. I went to church last Sunday with my poor guinea pig in my pocket. He hasn’t been well, and I was attending to him before church, and put him in there to get warm, and forgot about him. Unfortunately I was late, and the back seats were all full, so I had to sit farther up than I usually do. During the first hymn I happened to strike Piggy against the side of the seat. Such an ear-splitting squeal as he set up. It sounded as if I was murdering him. The people stared and stared, and I had to leave the church, overwhelmed with confusion.”
Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura laughed, and then they got talking about other matters that were not interesting to me, so I did not listen. But I kept close to Miss Laura, for I was afraid that green thing might hurt her. I wondered very much what its name was. I don’t think I should have feared it so much if I had known what it was.
“There’s something the matter with Joe,” said Miss Laura, when we got into the lane. “What is it, dear old fellow?” She put down her little hand, and I licked it, and wished so much that I could speak.
Sometimes I wish very much that I had the gift of speech, and then at other times I see how little it would profit me, and how many foolish things I should often say. And I don’t believe human beings would love animals as well, if they could speak.
When we reached the house, we got a joyful surprise. There was a trunk standing on the veranda, and as soon as Mrs. Wood saw it, she gave a little shriek: “My dear boy!”
Mr. Harry was there, sure enough, and stepped out through the open door. He took his mother in his arms and kissed her, then he shook hands with Miss Laura and Mr. Maxwell, who seemed to be an old friend of his. They all sat down on the veranda and talked, and I lay at Miss Laura’s feet and looked at Mr. Harry. He was such a handsome young man, and had such a noble face. He was older and graver looking than when I saw him last, and he had a light, brown mustache that he did not have when he was in Fairport.
He seemed very fond of his mother and of Miss Laura, and however grave his face might be when he was looking at Mr. Maxwell, it always lighted up when he turned to them. “What dog is that?” he said at last, with a puzzled face, and pointing to me.
“Why, Harry,” exclaimed Miss Laura, “don’t you know Beautiful Joe, that you rescued from that wretched milkman?”
“Is it possible,” he said, “that this well-conditioned creature is the bundle of dirty skin and bones that we nursed in Fairport? Come here, sir. Do you remember me?”
Indeed I did remember him, and I licked his hands and looked up gratefully into his face. “You’re almost handsome now,” he said, caressing me with a firm, kind hand, “and of a solid build, too. You look like a fighter but I suppose you wouldn’t let him fight, even if he wanted to, Laura,” and he smiled and glanced at her.
“No,” she said; “I don’t think I should; but he can fight when the occasion requires it.” And she told him about our night with Jenkins.
All the time she was speaking, Mr. Harry held me by the paws, and stroked my body over and over again. When she finished, he put his head down to me, and murmured, “Good dog,” and I saw that his eyes were red and shining.
“That’s a capital story, we must have it at the Band of Mercy,” said Mr. Maxwell. Mrs. Wood had gone to help prepare the tea, so the two young men were alone with Miss Laura. When they had done talking about me, she asked Mr. Harry a number of questions about his college life, and his trip to New York, for he had not been studying all the time that he was away.
“What are you going to do with yourself, Gray, when your college course is ended?” asked Mr. Maxwell.
“I am going to settle right down here,” said Mr. Harry.
“What, be a farmer?” asked his friend.
“Yes; why not?”
“Nothing, only I imagined that you would take a profession.”
“The professions are overstocked, and we have not farmers enough for the good of the country. There is nothing like farming, to my mind. In no other employment have you a surer living. I do not like the cities. The heat and dust, and crowds of people, and buildings overtopping one another, and the rush of living, take my breath away. Suppose I did go to a city. I would sell out my share of the farm, and have a few thousand dollars. You know I am not an intellectual giant. I would never distinguish myself in any profession. I would be a poor lawyer or doctor, living in a back street all the days of my life, and never watch a tree or flower grow, or tend an animal, or have a drive unless I paid for it. No, thank you. I agree with President Eliot, of Harvard. He says scarcely one person in ten thousand betters himself permanently by leaving his rural home and settling in a city. If one is a millionaire, city life is agreeable enough, for one can always get away from it; but I am beginning to think that it is a dangerous thing, in more ways than one, to be a millionaire. I believe the safety of the country lies in the hands of the farmers; for they are seldom very poor or very rich. We stand between the two dangerous classes the wealthy and the paupers.”
“But most farmers lead such a dog’s life,” said Mr. Maxwell.
“So they do; farming isn’t made one-half as attractive as it should be,” said Mr. Harry.
Mr. Maxwell smiled. “Attractive farming. Just sketch an outline of that, will you, Gray?”
“In the first place,” said Mr. Harry, “I would like to tear out of the heart of the farmer the thing that is as firmly implanted in him as it is in the heart of his city brother the thing that is doing more to harm our nation than anything else under the sun.”
“What is that?” asked Mr. Maxwell, curiously.
“The thirst for gold. The farmer wants to get rich, and he works so hard to do it that he wears himself out soul and body, and the young people around him get so disgusted with that way of getting rich, that they go off to the cities to find out some other way, or at least to enjoy themselves, for I don’t think many young people are animated by a desire to heap up money.”
Mr. Maxwell looked amused. “There is certainly a great exodus from country places cityward,” he said. “What would be your plan for checking it?”
“I would make the farm so pleasant, that you couldn’t hire the boys and girls to leave it. I would have them work, and work hard, too, but when their work was over, I would let them have some fun. That is what they go to the city for. They want amusement and society, and to get into some kind of a crowd when their work is done. The young men and young women want to get together, as is only natural. Now that could be done in the country. If farmers would be contented with smaller profits and smaller farms, their houses could be nearer together. Their children would have opportunities of social intercourse, there could be societies and clubs, and that would tend to a distribution of literature. A farmer ought to take five or six papers and two or three magazines. He would find it would pay him in the long run, and there ought to be a law made, compelling him to go to the post office once a day.”
Mr. Maxwell burst out laughing. “And another to make him mend his roads as well as mend his ways. I tell you Gray, the bad roads would put an end to all these fine schemes of yours. Imagine farmers calling on each other on a dark evening after a spring freshet. I can see them mired and bogged, and the house a mile ahead of them.”
“That is true,” said Mr. Harry, “the road question is a serious one. Do you know how father and I settle it?”
“No,” said Mr. Maxwell.
“We got so tired of the whole business, and the farmers around here spent so much time in discussing the art of roadmaking, as to whether it should be viewed from the engineering point of view, or the farmers’ practical point of view, and whether we would require this number of stump extractors or that number, and how many shovels and crushers and ditchers would be necessary to keep our roads in order, and so on, that we simply withdrew. We keep our own roads in order. Once a year, father gets a gang of men and tackles every section of the road that borders upon our land, and our roads are the best around here. I wish the government would take up this matter of making roads and settle it. If we had good, smooth, country roads, such as they have in some parts of Europe, we would be able to travel comfortably over them all through the year, and our draught animals would last longer, for they would not have to expend so much energy in drawing their loads.”
CHAPTER XXII WHAT HAPPENED AT THE TEA TABLE
FROM my station under Miss Laura’s chair, I could see that all the time Mr. Harry was speaking, Mr. Maxwell, although he spoke rather as if he was laughing at him, was yet glancing at him admiringly.
When Mr. Harry was silent, he exclaimed, “You are right, you are right, Gray. With your smooth highways, and plenty of schools, and churches, and libraries, and meetings for young people, you would make country life a paradise, and I tell you what you would do, too; you would empty the slums of the cities. It is the slowness and dullness of country life, and not their poverty alone, that keep the poor in dirty lanes and tenement houses. They want stir and amusement, too, poor souls, when their day’s work is over. I believe they would come to the country if it were made more pleasant for them.”
“That is another question,” said Mr. Harry, “a burning question in my mind the labor and capital one. When I was in New York, Maxwell, I was in a hospital, and saw a number of men who had been day laborers. Some of them were old and feeble, and others were young men, broken down in the prime of life. Their limbs were shrunken and drawn. They had been digging in the earth, and working on high buildings, and confined in dingy basements, and had done all kinds of hard labor for other men. They had given their lives and strength for others, and this was the end of it to die poor and forsaken. I looked at them, and they reminded me of the martyrs of old. Ground down, living from hand to mouth, separated from their families in many cases they had had a bitter lot. They had never had a chance to get away from their fate, and had to work till they dropped. I tell you there is something wrong. We don’t do enough for the people that slave and toil for us. We should take better care of them, we should not herd them together like cattle, and when we get rich, we should carry them along with us, and give them a part of our gains, for without them we would be as poor as they are.”
“Good, Harry I’m with you there,” said voice behind him, and looking around, we saw Mr. Wood standing in the doorway, gazing down proudly at his step-son.
Mr. Harry smiled, and getting up, said, “Won’t you have my chair, sir?”
“No, thank you; your mother wishes us to come to tea. There are muffins, and you know they won’t improve with keeping.”
They all went to the dining-room, and I followed them. On the way, Mr. Wood said, “Right on top of that talk of yours, Harry, I’ve got to tell you of another person who is going to Boston to live.”
“Who is it?” said Mr. Harry.
“Lazy Dan Wilson. I’ve been to see him this afternoon. You know his wife is sick, and they’re half starved. He says he is going to the city, for he hates to chop wood and work, and he thinks maybe he’ll get some light job there.”
Mr. Harry looked grave, and Mr. Maxwell said, “He will starve, that’s what he will do.”
“Precisely,” said Mr. Wood, spreading out his hard, brown hands, as he sat down at the table. “I don’t know why it is, but the present generation has a marvelous way of skimming around any kind of work with their hands. They’ll work their brains till they haven’t got any more backbone than a caterpillar, but as for manual labor, it’s old-timey and out of fashion. I wonder how these farms would ever have been carved out of the backwoods, if the old Puritans had sat down on the rocks with their noses in a lot of books, and tried to figure out just how little work they could do, and yet exist.”
“Now, father,” said Mrs. Wood, “you are trying to insinuate that the present generation is lazy, and I’m sure it isn’t. Look at Harry. He works as hard as you do.”
“Isn’t that like a woman?” said Mr. Wood, with a good-natured laugh. “The present generation consists of her son, and the past of her husband. I don’t think all our young people are lazy, Hattie; but how in creation, unless the Lord rains down a few farmers, are we going to support all our young lawyers and doctors? They say the world is getting healthier and better, but we’ve got to fight a little more, and raise some more criminals, and we’ve got to take to eating pies and doughnuts for breakfast again, or some of our young sprouts from the colleges will go a begging.”
“You don’t mean to undervalue the advantages of a good education, do you, Mr. Wood?” said Mr. Maxwell.
“No, no; look at Harry there. Isn’t he pegging away at his studies with my hearty approval? and he’s going to be nothing but a plain, common farmer. But he’ll be a better one than I’ve been though, because he’s got a trained mind. I found that out when he was a lad going to the village school. He’d lay out his little garden by geometry, and dig his ditches by algebra. Education’s a help to any man. What I am trying to get at is this, that in some way or other we’re running more to brains and less to hard work than our forefathers did.”
Mr. Wood was beating on the table with his forefinger while he talked, and every one was laughing at him. “When you’ve quite finished speechifying, John,” said Mrs. Wood, “perhaps you’ll serve the berries and pass the cream and sugar Do you get yellow cream like this in the village, Mr. Maxwell?”
“No, Mrs. Wood,” he said; “ours is a much paler yellow,” and then there was a great tinkling of china, and passing of dishes, and talking and laughing, and no one noticed that I was not in my usual place in the hall. I could not get over my dread of the green creature, and I had crept under the table, so that if it came out and frightened Miss Laura, I could jump up and catch it.
When tea was half over, she gave a little cry. I sprang up on her lap, and there, gliding over the table toward her, was the wicked-looking green thing. I stepped on the table, and had it by the middle before it could get to her. My hind legs were in a dish of jelly, and my front ones were in a plate of cake, and I was very uncomfortable. The tail of the green thing hung in a milk pitcher, and its tongue was still going at me, but I held it firmly and stood quite still.
“Drop it, drop it!” cried Miss Laura, in tones of distress, and Mr. Maxwell struck me on the back, so I let the thing go, and stood sheepishly looking about me. Mr. Wood was leaning back in his chair, laughing with all his might, and Mrs. Wood was staring at her untidy table with rather a long face. Miss Laura told me to jump on the floor, and then she helped her aunt to take the spoiled things off the table.
I felt that I had done wrong, so I slunk out into the hall. Mr. Maxwell was sitting on the lounge, tearing his handkerchief in strips and tying them around the creature where my teeth had stuck in. I had been careful not to hurt it much, for I knew it was a pet of his; but he did not know that, and scowled at me, saying: “You rascal; you’ve hurt my poor snake terribly.”
I felt so badly to hear this that I went and stood with my head in a corner. I had almost rather be whipped than scolded. After a while, Mr. Maxwell went back into the room, and they all went on with their tea. I could hear Mr. Wood’s loud, cheery voice, “The dog did quite right. A snake is mostly a poisonous creature, and his instinct told him to protect his mistress. Where is he? Joe, Joe!”
I would not move till Miss Laura came and spoke to me. “Dear old dog,” she whispered, “you knew the snake was there all the time, didn’t you?” Her words made me feel better, and I followed her to the dining room, where Mr. Wood made me sit beside him and eat scraps from his hand all through the meal.
Mr. Maxwell had got over his ill humor, and was chatting in a lively way. “Good Joe,” he said, “I was cross to you, and I beg your pardon It always riles me to have any of my pets injured. You didn’t know my poor snake was only after something to eat. Mrs. Wood has pinned him in my pocket so he won’t come out again. Do you know where I got that snake, Mrs. Wood?”
“No,” she said; “you never told me.”
“It was across the river by Blue Ridge,” he said. “One day last summer I was out rowing, and, getting very hot, tied my boat in the shade of a big tree. Some village boys were in the woods, and, hearing a great noise, I went to see what it was all about. They were Band of Mercy boys, and finding a country boy beating a snake to death, they were remonstrating with him for his cruelty, telling him that some kinds of snakes were a help to the farmer, and destroyed large numbers of field mice and other vermin. The boy was obstinate. He had found the snake, and he insisted upon his right to kill it, and they were having rather a lively time when I appeared. I persuaded them to make the snake over to me. Apparently it was already dead. Thinking it might revive, I put it on some grass in the bow of the boat. It lay there motionless for a long time, and I picked up my oars and started for home. I had got half way across the river, when I turned around and saw that the snake was gone. It had just dropped into the water, and was swimming toward the bank we had left. I turned and followed it.
“It swam slowly and with evident pain, lifting its head every few seconds high above the water, to see which way it was going. On reaching the bank it coiled itself up, throwing up blood and water. I took it up carefully, carried it home, and nursed it. It soon got better, and has been a pet of mine ever since.”
After tea was over, and Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura had helped Adele finish the work, they all gathered in the parlor. The day had been quite warm, but now a cool wind had sprung up, and Mr. Wood said that it was blowing up rain.
Mrs. Wood said that she thought a fire would be pleasant; so they lighted the sticks of wood in the open grate, and all sat round the blazing fire.
Mr. Maxwell tried to get me to make friends with the little snake that he held in his hands toward the blaze, and now that I knew that it was harmless I was not afraid of it; but it did not like me, and put out its funny little tongue whenever I looked at it.
By-and-by the rain began to strike against the windows, and Mr. Maxwell said, “This is just the night for a story. Tell us something out of your experience, won’t you, Mr. Wood?”
“What shall I tell you?” he said, good-humoredly. He was sitting between his wife and Mr. Harry, and had his hand on Mr. Harry’s knee.
“Something about animals,” said Mr. Maxwell. “We seem to be on that subject to-day.”
“Well,” said Mr. Wood, “I’ll talk about something that has been running in my head for many a day. There is a good deal of talk nowadays about kindness to domestic animals; but I do not hear much about kindness to wild ones. The same Creator formed them both. I do not see why you should not protect one as well as the other. I have no more right to torture a bear than a cow. Our wild animals around here are getting pretty well killed off, but there are lots in other places. I used to be fond of hunting when I was a boy; but I have got rather disgusted with killing these late years, and unless the wild creatures ran in our streets, I would lift no hand to them. Shall I tell you some of the sport we had when I was youngster?”
“Yes, yes!” they all exclaimed.
CHAPTER XXIII TRAPPING WILD ANIMALS
“WELL Mr. Wood began: “I was brought up, as you all know, in the eastern part of Maine, and we often used to go over into New Brunswick for our sport. Moose were our best game. Did you ever see one, Laura?”
“No, uncle,” she said.
“Well, when I was a boy there was no more beautiful sight to me in the world than a moose with his dusky hide, and long legs, and branching antlers, and shoulders standing higher than a horse’s. Their legs are so long that they can’t eat close to the ground. They browse on the tops of plants, and the tender shoots and leaves of trees. They walk among the thick underbrush, carrying their horns adroitly to prevent their catching in the branches, and they step so well, and aim so true, that you’ll scarcely hear a twig fall as they go.
“They’re a timid creature except at times. Then they’ll attack with hoofs and antlers whatever comes in their way. They hate mosquitoes, and when they’re tormented by them it’s just as well to be careful about approaching them. Like all other creatures, the Lord has put into them a wonderful amount of sense, and when a female moose has her one or two fawns she goes into the deepest part of the forest, or swims to islands in large lakes, till they are able to look out for themselves.
“Well, we used to like to catch a moose, and we had different ways of doing it. One way was to snare them. We’d make a loop in a rope and hide it on the ground under the dead leaves in one of their paths. This was connected with a young sapling whose top was bent down. When the moose stepped on the loop it would release the sapling, and up it would bound, catching him by the leg. These snares were always set deep in the woods, and we couldn’t visit them very often; Sometimes the moose would be there for days, raging and tearing around, and scratching the skin off his legs. That was cruel. I wouldn’t catch a moose in that way now for a hundred dollars.
“Another way was to hunt them on snow shoes with dogs. In February and March the snow was deep, and would carry men and dogs. Moose don’t go together in herds. In the summer they wander about over the forest, and in the autumn they come together in small groups, and select a hundred or two of acres where there is plenty of heavy undergrowth, and to which they usually confine themselves. They do this so that their tracks won’t tell their enemies where they are.
“Any of these places where there were several moose we called a moose yard. We went through the woods till we got on to the tracks of some of the animals belonging to it, then the dogs smelled them and went ahead to start them. If I shut my eyes now I can see one of our moose hunts. The moose running and plunging through the snow crust, and occasionally rising up and striking at the dogs that hang on to his bleeding flanks and legs. The hunters’ rifles going crack, crack, crack, sometimes killing or wounding dogs as well as moose. That, too, was cruel.
“Two other ways we had of hunting moose: Calling and stalking. The calling was done in this way: We took a bit of birch bark and rolled it up in the shape of a horn. We took this horn and started out, either on a bright moonlight night, or just at evening, or early in the morning. The man who carried the horn hid himself, and then began to make a lowing sound like a female moose. He had to do it pretty well to deceive them. Away in the distance some moose would hear it, and with answering grunts would start off to come to it. If a young male moose was coming, he’d mind his steps, I can assure you, on account of fear of the old ones; but if it was an old fellow, you’d hear him stepping out bravely and rapping his horns against the trees, and plunging into any water that came in his way. When he got pretty near, he’d stop to listen, and then the caller had to be very careful and put his trumpet down close to the ground, so as to make a lower sound. If the moose felt doubtful he’d turn; if not, he’d come on, and unlucky for him if he did, for he got a warm reception, either from the rifles in our hands as we lay hid near the caller, or from some of the party stationed at a distance.
“In stalking, we crept on them the way a cat creeps on a mouse. In the daytime a moose is usually lying down. We’d find their tracks and places where they’d been nipping off the ends of branches and twigs, and follow them up. They easily take the scent of men, and we’d have to keep well to the leeward. Sometimes we’d come upon them lying down, but, if in walking along, we’d broken a twig, or made the slightest noise, they’d think it was one of their mortal enemies, a bear creeping on them, and they’d be up and away. Their sense of hearing is very keen, but they’re not so quick to see. A fox is like that, too. His eyes aren’t equal to his nose.
“Stalking is the most merciful way to kill moose. Then they haven’t the fright and suffering of the chase.”
“I don’t see why they need to be killed at all,” said Mrs. Wood. “If I knew that forest back of the mountains was full of wild creatures, I think I’d be glad of it, and not want to hunt them, that is, if they were harmless and beautiful creatures like the deer.”
“You’re a woman,” said Mr. Wood, “and women are more merciful than men. Men want to kill and slay. They’re like the Englishman, who said ‘What a fine day it is; let’s go out and kill something.'”
“Please tell us some more about the dogs that helped you catch the moose, uncle,” said Miss Laura. I was sitting up very straight beside her listening to every word Mr. Wood said, and she was fondling my head.
“Well, Laura, when we camped out on the snow and slept on spruce boughs while we were after the moose, the dogs used to be a great comfort to us. They slept at our feet and kept us warm. Poor brutes, they mostly had a rough time of it. They enjoyed the running and chasing as much as we did, but when it came to broken ribs and sore heads, it was another matter. Then the porcupines bothered them. Our dogs would never learn to let them alone. If they were going through the woods where there were no signs of moose and found a porcupine, they’d kill it. The quills would get in their mouths and necks and chests, and we’d have to gag them and take bullet molds or nippers, or whatever we had, sometimes our jack-knives, and pull out the nasty things. If we got hold of the dogs at once, we could pull out the quills with our fingers. Sometimes the quills worked in, and the dogs would go home and lie by the fire with running sores till they worked out. I’ve seen quills work right through dogs. Go in on one side and come out on the other.”
“Poor brutes,” said Mrs. Wood. “I wonder you took them.”
“We once lost a valuable hound while moose hunting,” said Mr. Wood. “The moose struck him with his hoof and the dog was terribly injured. He lay in the woods for days, till a neighbor of ours, who was looking for timber, found him and brought him home on his shoulders. Wasn’t there rejoicing among us boys to see old Lion coming back. We took care of him and he got well again.
“It was good sport to see the dogs when we were hunting a bear with them. Bears are good runners, and when dogs get after them, there is great skirmishing. They nip the bear behind, and when they turn, the dogs run like mad, for a hug from a bear means sure death to a dog. If they got a slap from his paws, over they’d go. Dogs new to the business were often killed by the bears.”
“Were there many bears near your home, Mr. Wood?” asked Mr. Maxwell
“Lots of them. More than we wanted. They used to bother us fearfully about our sheep and cattle. I’ve often had to get up in the night, and run out to the cattle. The bears would come out of the woods, and jump on to the young heifers and cows, and strike them and beat them down, and the cattle would roar as if the evil one had them. If the cattle were too far away from the house for us to hear them, the bears would worry them till they were dead.
“As for the sheep, they never made any resistance. They’d meekly run in a corner when they saw a bear coming, and huddle together, and he’d strike at them, and scratch them with his claws, and perhaps wound a dozen before he got one firmly. Then he’d seize it in his paws, and walk off on his hind legs over fences and anything else that came in his way, till he came to a nice, retired spot, and there he’d sit down and skin that sheep just like a butcher. He’d gorge himself with the meat, and in the morning we’d find the other sheep that he’d torn, and we’d vow vengeance against that bear. He’d be almost sure to come back for more, so for a while after that we always put the sheep in the barn at nights and set a trap by the remains of the one he had eaten.
“Everybody hated bears, and hadn’t much pity for them; still they were only getting their meat as other wild animals do, and we’d no right to set such cruel traps for them as the steel ones. They had a clog attached to them, and had long, sharp teeth. We put them on the ground and strewed leaves over them, and hung up some of the carcass left by the bear near by. When he attempted to get this meat, he would tread on the trap, and the teeth would spring together, and catch him by the leg. They always fought to get free. I once saw a bear that had been making a desperate effort to get away. His leg was broken, the skin and flesh were all torn away, and he was held by the tendons. It was a foreleg that was caught, and he would put his hind feet against the jaws of the trap, and then draw by pressing with his feet, till he would stretch those tendons to their utmost extent.
“I have known them to work away till they really pulled these tendons out of the foot, and got off. It was a great event in our neighborhood when a bear was caught. Whoever caught him blew a horn, and the men and boys came trooping together to see the sight. I’ve known them to blow that horn on a Sunday morning, and I’ve seen the men turn their backs on the meeting house to go and see the bear.”
“Was there no more merciful way of catching them than by this trap?” asked Miss Laura.
“Oh, yes, by the deadfall that is by driving heavy sticks into the ground, and making a boxlike place, open on one side, where two logs were so arranged with other heavy logs upon them, that when the bear seized the bait, the upper log fell down and crushed him to death. Another way was to fix a bait in a certain place, with cords tied to it, which cords were fastened to triggers of guns placed at a little distance. When the bear took the bait, the guns went off, and he shot himself.
“Sometimes it took a good many bullets to kill them. I remember one old fellow that we put eleven into, before he keeled over. It was one fall, over on Pike’s Hill. The snow had come earlier than usual, and this old bear hadn’t got into his den for his winter’s sleep. A lot of us started out after him. The hill was covered with beech trees, and he’d been living all the fall on the nuts, till he’d got as fat as butter. We took dogs and worried him, and ran him from one place to another, and shot at him, till at last he dropped. We took his meat home, and had his skin tanned for a sleigh robe.
“One day I was in the woods, and looking through the trees espied a bear. He was standing up on his hind legs, snuffing in every direction, and just about the time I espied him, he espied me. I had no dog and no gun, so I thought I had better be getting home to my dinner. I was a small boy then, and the bear, probably thinking I’d be a mouthful for him anyway, began to come after me in a leisurely way. I can see myself now going through those woods hat gone, jacket flying, arms out, eyes rolling over my shoulder every little while to see if the bear was gaining on me. He was a benevolent-looking old fellow, and his face seemed to say, ‘Don’t hurry, little boy.’ He wasn’t doing his prettiest, and I soon got away from him, but I made up my mind then, that it was more fun to be the chaser than the chased.
“Another time I was out in our cornfield, and hearing a rustling, looked through the stalks, and saw a brown bear with two cubs. She was slashing down the corn with her paws to get at the ears. She smelled me, and getting frightened. began to run. I had a dog with me this time, and shouted and rapped on the fence, and set him on her. He jumped up and snapped at her flanks, and every few instants she’d turn and give him a cuff, that would send him yards away. I followed her up, and just back of the farm she and her cubs took into a tree. I sent my dog home, and my father and some of the neighbors came. It had gotten dark by this time, so we built a fire under the tree, and watched all night, and told stories to keep each other awake. Toward morning we got sleepy, and the fire burnt low, and didn’t that old bear and one cub drop right down among us and start off to the woods. That waked us up. We built up the fire and kept watch, so that the one cub, still in the tree, couldn’t get away. Until daylight the mother bear hung around, calling to the cub to come down.”
“Did you let it go, uncle?” asked Miss Laura.
“No, my dear, we shot it.”
“How cruel!” cried Mrs. Wood.
“Yes, weren’t we brutes?” said her husband; “but there was some excuse for us, Hattie. The bears ruined our farms. This kind of hunting that hunts and kills for the mere sake of slaughter is very different from that. I’ll tell you what I’ve no patience with, and that’s with these English folks that dress themselves up, and take fine horses and packs of dogs, and tear over the country after one little fox or rabbit. Bah, it’s contemptible. Now if they were hunting cruel, man-eating tigers or animals that destroy property, it would be different thing.”
CHAPTER XXIV THE RABBIT AND THE HEN
“YOU had foxes up in Maine, I suppose Mr. Wood, hadn’t you?” asked Mr. Maxwell.
“Heaps of them. I always want to laugh when I think of our foxes, for they were so cute. Never a fox did I catch in a trap, though I’d set many a one. I’d take the carcass of some creature that had died, a sheep, for instance, and put it in a field near the woods, and the foxes would come and eat it. After they got accustomed to come and eat and no harm befell them, they would be unsuspecting. So just before a snowstorm, I’d take a trap and put it this spot. I’d handle it with gloves, and I’d smoke it, and rub fir boughs on it to take away the human smell, and then the snow would come and cover it up, and yet those foxes would know it was a trap and walk all around it. It’s a wonderful thing, that sense of smell in animals, if it is a sense of smell. Joe here has got a good bit of it.”
“What kind of traps were they, father?” asked Mr. Harry.
“Cruel ones steel ones. They’d catch an animal by the leg and sometimes break the bone. The leg would bleed, and below the jaws of the trap it would freeze, there being no circulation of the blood. Those steel traps are an abomination. The people around here use one made on the same principle for catching rats. I wouldn’t have them on my place for any money. I believe we’ve got to give an account for all the unnecessary suffering we put on animals.”
“You’ll have some to answer for, John, according to your own story,” said Mrs. Wood.
“I have suffered already,” he said. “Many a night I’ve lain on my bed and groaned, when I thought of needless cruelties I’d put upon animals when I was a young, unthinking boy and I was pretty carefully brought up, too, according to our light in those days. I often think that if I was cruel, with all the instruction I had to be merciful, what can be expected of the children that get no good teaching at all when they’re young.”
“Tell us some more about the foxes, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Maxwell.
“Well, we used to have rare sport hunting them with fox-hounds. I’d often go off for the day with my hounds. Sometimes in the early morning they’d find a track in the snow. The leader for scent would go back and forth, to find out which way the fox was going. I can see him now. All the time that he ran, now one way and now another on the track of the fox, he was silent, but kept his tail aloft, wagging it as a signal to the hounds behind. He was leader in scent, but he did not like bloody, dangerous fights. By-and-by, he would decide which way the fox had gone. Then his tail, still kept high in the air, would wag more violently. The rest followed him in single file, going pretty slow, so as to enable us to keep up to them. By-and-by, they would come to a place where the fox was sleeping for the day. As soon as he was disturbed he would leave his bed under some thick fir or spruce branches near the ground. This flung his fresh scent into the air. As soon as the hounds sniffed it, they gave tongue in good earnest. It was a mixed, deep baying, that made the blood quicken in my veins. While in the excitement of first fright, the fox would run fast for a mile or two, till he found it an easy matter to keep out of the way of the hounds. Then he, cunning creature, would begin to bother them. He would mount to the top pole of the worm fence dividing the fields from the woods. He could trot along here quite a distance and then make a long jump into the woods. The hounds would come up, but could not walk the fence, and they would have difficulty in finding where the fox had left it. Then we saw generalship. The hounds scattered in all directions, and made long detours into the woods and fields. As soon as the track was lost, they ceased to bay, but the instant a hound found it again, he bayed to give the signal to the others. All would hurry to the spot, and off they would go baying as they went.
“Then Mr. Fox would try a new trick. He would climb a leaning tree, and then jump to the ground. This trick would soon be found out. Then he’d try another. He would make a circle of a quarter of a mile in circumference. By making a loop in his course, he would come in behind the hounds, and puzzle them between the scent of his first and following tracks. If the snow was deep, the hounds had made a good track for him. Over this he could run easily, and they would have to feel their way along, for after he had gone around the circle a few times, he would jump from the beaten path as far as he could, and make off to other cover in a straight line. Before this was done it was my plan to get near the circle; taking care to approach it on the leeward side. If the fox got a sniff of human scent, he would leave his circle very quickly, and make tracks fast to be out of danger. By the baying of the hounds, the circle in which the race was kept up could be easily known. The last runs to get near enough to shoot had to be done when the hounds’ baying came from the side of the circle nearest to me. For then the fox would be on the opposite side farthest away. As soon as I got near enough to see the hounds when they passed, I stopped. When they got on the opposite side, I then kept a bright lookout for the fox. Sometimes when the brush was thick, the sight of him would be indistinct. The shooting had to be quick. As soon as the report of the gun was heard, the hounds ceased to bay, and made for the spot. If the fox was dead, they enjoyed the scent of his blood. If only wounded, they went after him with all speed. Sometimes he was overtaken and killed, and sometimes he got into his burrow in the earth, or in a hollow log, or among the rocks.
“One day, I remember, when I was standing on the outside of the circle, the fox came in sight. I fired. He gave a shrill bark, and came toward me. Then he stopped in the snow and fell dead in his tracks. I was a pretty good shot in those days.”
“Poor little fox,” said Miss Laura. “I wish you had let him get away.”
“Here’s one that nearly got away,” said Mr. Wood. “One winter’s day, I was chasing him with the hounds. There was a crust on the snow, and the fox was light, while the dogs were heavy. They ran along, the fox trotting nimbly on the top of the crust and the dogs breaking through, and every few minutes that fox would stop and sit down to look at the dogs. They were in a fury, and the wickedness of the fox in teasing them, made me laugh so much that I was very unwilling to shoot him.”
“You said your steel traps were cruel things, uncle,” said Miss Laura. “Why didn’t you have a deadfall for the foxes as you had for the bears?”
“They were too cunning to go into deadfalls. There was a better way to catch them, though. Foxes hate water, and never go into it unless they are obliged to, so we used to find a place where a tree had fallen across a river, and made a bridge for them to go back and forth on. Here we set snares, with spring poles that would throw them into the river when they made struggles to get free, and drown them. Did you ever hear of the fox, Laura, that wanted to cross a river, and lay down on the bank pretending that he was dead, and a countryman came along, and, thinking he had a prize, threw him in his boat and rowed across, when the fox got up and ran away?”
“Now, uncle,” said Miss Laura, “you’re laughing at me. That couldn’t be true.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Wood, chuckling; “but they’re mighty cute at pretending they’re dead. I once shot one in the morning, carried him a long way on my shoulders, and started to skin him in the afternoon, when he turned around and bit me enough to draw blood. At another time I dug one out of a hole in the ground. He feigned death. I took him up and threw him down at some distance, and he jumped up and ran into the woods.”
“What other animals did you catch when you were a boy?” asked Mr. Maxwell.
“Oh, a number. Otters and beavers we caught them in deadfalls and in steel traps. The mink we usually took in deadfalls, smaller, of course, than the ones we used for the bears. The musk-rat we caught in box traps like a mouse trap. The wild-cat we ran down like the loup cervier “
“What kind of an animal is that?” asked Mr. Maxwell.
“It is a lynx, belonging to the cat species. They used to prowl about the country killing hens, geese, and sometimes sheep. They’d fix their tusks in the sheep’s neck and suck the blood. They did not think much of the sheep’s flesh. We ran them down with dogs. They’d often run up trees, and we’d shoot them. Then there were rabbits that we caught, mostly in snares. For musk-rats, we’d put a parsnip or an apple on the spindle of a box trap. When we snared a rabbit, I always wanted to find it caught around the neck and strangled to death. If they got half through the snare and were caught around the body, or by the hind legs, they’d live for some time, and they’d cry just like a child. I like shooting them better, just because I hated to hear their pitiful cries. It’s a bad business this of killing dumb creatures, and the older I get, the more chicken-hearted I am about it.”
“Chicken-hearted I should think you are,” said Mrs. Wood. “Do you know, Laura, he won’t even kill a fowl for dinner. He gives it to one of the men to do.”
“‘Blessed are the merciful,'” said Miss Laura, throwing her arm over her uncle’s shoulder. “I love you, dear Uncle John, because you are so kind to every living thing.”
“I’m going to be kind to you now,” said her uncle, “and send you to bed. You look tired.”
“Very well,” she said, with a smile. Then bidding them all good-night, she went upstairs. Mr. Wood turned to Mr. Maxwell. “You’re going to stay all night with us, aren’t you?”
“So Mrs. Wood says,” replied the young man, with a smile.
“Of course,” she said. “I couldn’t think of letting you go back to the village such a night as this. It’s raining cats and dogs but I mustn’t say that, or there’ll be no getting you to stay. I’ll go and prepare your old room next to Harry’s.” And she bustled away.
The two young men went to the pantry for doughnuts and milk, and Mr. Wood stood gazing down at me. “Good dog,” he said; “you look as if you sensed that talk to-night. Come, get a bone, and then away to bed.”
He gave me a very large mutton bone, and I held it in my mouth, and watched him opening the woodshed door. I love human beings; and the saddest time of day for me is when I have to be separated from them while they sleep.
“Now, go to bed and rest well, Beautiful Joe,” said Mr. Wood, “and if you hear any stranger round the house, run out and bark. Don’t be chasing wild animals in your sleep, though. They say a dog is the only animal that dreams. I wonder whether it’s true?” Then he went into the house and shut the door.
I had a sheepskin to lie on, and a very good bed it made. I slept soundly for a long time; then I waked up and found that, instead of rain pattering against the roof, and darkness everywhere, it was quite light. The rain was over, and the moon was shining beautifully. I ran to the door and looked out. It was almost as light as day. The moon made it very bright all around the house and farm buildings, and I could look all about and see that there was no one stirring. I took a turn around the yard, and walked around to the side of the house, to glance up at Miss Laura’s window. I always did this several times through the night, just to see if she was quite safe. I was on my way back to my bed, when I saw two small, white things moving away down the lane. I stood on the veranda and watched them. When they got nearer, I saw that there was a white rabbit hopping up the road, followed by a white hen.
It seemed to me a very strange thing for these creatures to be out this time of night, and why were they coming to Dingley Farm? This wasn’t their home. I ran down on the road and stood in front of them.
Just as soon as the hen saw me, she fluttered in front of the rabbit, and, spreading out her wings, clucked angrily, and acted as if she would peck my eyes out if I came nearer.
I saw that they were harmless creatures, and, remembering my adventure with the snake, I stepped aside. Besides that, I knew by their smell that they had been near Mr. Maxwell, so perhaps they were after him.
They understood quite well that I would not hurt them, and passed by me. The rabbit went ahead again and the hen fell behind. It seemed to me that the hen was sleepy, and didn’t like to be out so late at night, and was only following the rabbit because she thought it was her duty.
He was going along in a very queer fashion, putting his nose to the ground, and rising up on his hind legs, and sniffing the air, first on this side and then on the other, and his nose going, going all the time.
He smelled all around the house till he came to Mr. Maxwell’s room at the back. It opened on the veranda by a glass door, and the door stood ajar. The rabbit squeezed himself in, and the hen stayed out. She watched for a while, and when he didn’t come back, she flew upon the back of a chair that stood near the door, and put her head under her wing.
I went back to my bed, for I knew they would do no harm. Early in the morning, when I was walking around the house, I heard a great shouting and laughing from Mr. Maxwell’s room. He and Mr. Harry had just discovered the hen and the rabbit; and Mr. Harry was calling his mother to come and look at them. The rabbit had slept on the foot of the bed.
Mr. Harry was chaffing Mr. Maxwell very much, and was telling him that any one who entertained him was in for a traveling menagerie. They had a great deal of fun over it, and Mr. Maxwell said that he had had that pretty, white hen as a pet for a long time in Boston. Once when she had some little chickens, a frightened rabbit, that was being chased by a dog, ran into the yard. In his terror he got right under the hen’s wings, and she sheltered him, and pecked at the dog’s eyes, and kept him off till help came. The rabbit belonged to a neighbor’s boy, and Mr. Maxwell bought it from him. From the day the hen protected him, she became his friend, and followed him everywhere.
I did not wonder that the rabbit wanted to see his master. There was something about that young man that made dumb animals just delight in him. When Mrs. Wood mentioned this to him be said, “I don’t know why they should I don’t do anything to fascinate them.”
“You love them,” she said, “and they know it. That is the reason.”
CHAPTER XXV A HAPPY HORSE
FOR a good while after I went to Dingley Farm I was very shy of the horses, for I was afraid they might kick me, thinking that I was a bad dog like Bruno. However, they all had such good faces, and looked at me so kindly, that I was beginning to get over my fear of them.
Fleetfoot, Mr. Harry’s colt, was my favorite, and one afternoon, when Mr. Harry and Miss Laura were going out to see him, I followed them. Fleetfoot was amusing himself by rolling over and over on the grass under a tree, but when he saw Mr. Harry, he gave a shrill whinny, and running to him, began nosing about his pockets.
“Wait a bit,” said Mr. Harry, holding him by the forelock. “Let me introduce you to this young lady, Miss Laura Morris. I want you to make her a bow.” He gave the colt some sign, and immediately he began to paw the ground and shake his head.
Mr. Harry laughed and went on: “Here is her dog Joe. I want you to like him, too. Come here, Joe.” I was not at all afraid, for I knew Mr. Harry would not let him hurt me, so I stood in front of him, and for the first time had a good look at him. They called him the colt, but he was really a full-grown horse, and had already been put to work. He was of a dark chestnut color, and had a well-shaped body and a long, handsome head, and I never saw, in the head of a man or beast, a more beautiful pair of eyes than that colt had large, full, brown eyes they were that he turned on me almost as a person would. He looked me all over as if to say: “Are you a good dog, and will you treat me kindly, or are you a bad one like Bruno, and will you chase me and snap at my heels and worry me, so that I shall want to kick you?”
I looked at him very earnestly and wagged my body, and lifted myself on my hind legs toward him. He seemed pleased and put down his nose to sniff at me, and then we were friends. Friends, and such good friends, for next to Jim and Billy, I have loved Fleetfoot.
Mr. Harry pulled some lumps of sugar out of his pocket, and giving them to Miss Laura, told her to put them on the palm of her hand and hold it out flat toward Fleetfoot. The colt ate the sugar, and all the time eyed her with his quiet, observing glance, that made her exclaim: “What wise-looking colt!”
“He is like an old horse,” said Mr. Harry, “When he hears a sudden noise, he stops and looks all about him to find an explanation.”
“He has been well trained,” said Miss Laura.
“I have brought him up carefully,” said Mr. Harry. “Really, he has been treated more like a dog than a colt. He follows me about the farm and smells everything I handle, and seems to want to know the reason of things.”
“Your mother says,” replied Miss Laura, “that she found you both asleep on the lawn one day last summer, and the colt’s head was on your arm.”
Mr. Harry smiled and threw his arm over the colt’s neck. “We’ve been comrades, haven’t we, Fleetfoot? I’ve been almost ashamed of his devotion. He has followed me to the village, and he always wants to go fishing with me. He’s four years old now, so he ought to get over those coltish ways. I’ve driven him a good deal. We’re going out in the buggy this afternoon, will you come?”
“Where are you going?” asked Miss Laura.
“Just for a short drive back of the river, to collect some money for father. I’ll be home long before tea time.”
“Yes, I should like to go,” said Miss Laura “I shall go to the house and get my other hat.”
“Come on, Fleetfoot,” said Mr. Harry. And he led the way from the pasture, the colt following behind with me. I waited about the veranda, and in a short time Mr. Harry drove up to the front door. The buggy was black and shining, and Fleetfoot had on a silver-mounted harness that made him look very fine. He stood gently switching his long tail to keep the flies away, and with his head turned to see who was going to get into the buggy. I stood by him, and as soon as he saw that Miss Laura and Mr. Harry had seated themselves, he acted as if he wanted to be off. Mr. Harry spoke to him and away he went, I racing down the lane by his side, so happy to think he was my friend. He liked having me beside him, and every few seconds put down his head toward me. Animals can tell each other things without saying a word. When Fleetfoot gave his head a little toss in a certain way, I knew that he wanted to have a race. He had a beautiful even gait, and went very swiftly. Mr. Harry kept speaking to him to check him.
“You don’t like him to go too fast, do you?” said Miss Laura.
“No,” he returned. “I think we could make a racer of him if we liked, but father and I don’t go in for fast horses. There is too much said about fast trotters and race horses. On some of the farms around here, the people have gone mad on breeding fast horses. An old farmer out in the country had a common cart-horse that he suddenly found out had great powers of speed and endurance. He sold him to a speculator for a big price, and it has set everybody wild. If the people who give all their time to it can’t raise fast horses I don’t see how the farmers can. A fast horse on a farm is ruination to the boys, for it starts them racing and betting. Father says he is going to offer a prize for the fastest walker that can be bred in New Hampshire. That Dutchman of ours, heavy as he is, is a fair walker, and Cleve and Pacer can each walk four and a half miles an hour.”
“Why do you lay such stress on their walking fast?” asked Miss Laura.
“Because so much of the farm work must be done at a walk. Ploughing, teaming, and drawing produce to market, and going up and down hills. Even for the cities it is good to have fast walkers. Trotting on city pavements is very hard on the dray horses. If they are allowed to go at a quick walk, their legs will keep strong much longer. It is shameful the way horses are used up in big cities. Our pavements are so bad that cab horses are used up in three years. In many ways we are a great deal better off in this new country than the people in Europe, but we are not in respect of cab horses, for in London and Paris they last for five years. I have seen horses drop down dead in New York just from hard usage. Poor brutes, there is a better time coming for them though. When electricity is more fully developed we’ll see some wonderful changes. As it is, last year in different places, about thirty thousand horses were released from those abominable horse cars, by having electricity introduced on the roads. Well, Fleetfoot, do you want another spin? All right, my boy, go ahead.”
Away we went again along a bit of level road. Fleetfoot had no check-rein on his beautiful neck, and when he trotted, he could hold his head in an easy, natural position. With his wonderful eyes