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Beautiful Joe: An Autobiography

by Marshall Saunders · English · Gutenberg #2818 · 481,754 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Beautiful Joe: An Autobiography

Author: Marshall Saunders

Author of introduction, etc.: Hezekiah Butterworth


        
Release date: September 1, 2001 [eBook #2818]
                Most recently updated: April 27, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2818

Credits: Produced by David Reed, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEAUTIFUL JOE: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY ***




BEAUTIFUL JOE

By Marshall Saunders



     Beautiful Joe an Autobiography
     By Marshall Saunders
     With an Introduction
     By Hezekiah Butterworth
     Of Youth's Companion
     Philadelphia




     To
     George Thorndike Angell
     President of the American Humane Education Society
     The Massachusetts Society for the Prevention
     Of Cruelty to Animals, and the Parent
     American Band of Mercy
     19 Milk St., Boston.
     This Book Is Respectfully Dedicated
     By the Author




PREFACE

BEAUTIFUL JOE is a real dog, and “Beautiful Joe” is his real name.
He belonged during the first part of his life to a cruel master, who
mutilated him in the manner described in the story. He was rescued from
him, and is now living in a happy home with pleasant surroundings, and
enjoys a wide local celebrity.

The character of Laura is drawn from life, and to the smallest detail
is truthfully depicted. The Morris family has its counterparts in real
life, and nearly all of the incidents of the story are founded on fact.

THE AUTHOR.




INTRODUCTION

The wonderfully successful book, entitled “Black Beauty,” came like a
living voice out of the animal kingdom. But it spake for the horse, and
made other books necessary; it led the way. After the ready welcome that
it received, and the good it has accomplished and is doing, it follows
naturally that some one should be inspired to write a book to interpret
the life of a dog to the humane feeling of the world. Such a story we
have in “Beautiful Joe.”

The story speaks not for the dog alone, but for the whole animal
kingdom. Through it we enter the animal world, and are made to see as
animals see, and to feel as animals feel. The sympathetic sight of the
author, in this interpretation, is ethically the strong feature of the
book.

Such books as this is one of the needs of our progressive system of
education. The day-school, the Sunday-school, and all libraries for the
young, demand the influence that shall teach the reader how to live in
sympathy with the animal world; how to understand the languages of the
creatures that we have long been accustomed to call “dumb,” and the sign
language of the lower orders of these dependent beings. The church owes
it to her mission to preach and to teach the enforcement of the “bird's
nest commandment;” the principle recognized by Moses in the Hebrew
world, and echoed by Cowper in English poetry, and Burns in the “Meadow
Mouse,” and by our own Longfellow in songs of many keys.

Kindness to the animal kingdom is the first, or a first principle in
the growth of true philanthropy. Young Lincoln once waded across
a half-frozen river to rescue a dog, and stopped in a walk with a
statesman to put back a bird that had fallen out of its nest. Such
a heart was trained to be a leader of men, and to be crucified for a
cause. The conscience that runs to the call of an animal in distress is
girding itself with power to do manly work in the world.

The story of “Beautiful Joe” awakens an intense interest, and sustains
it through a series of vivid incidents and episodes, each of which is
a lesson. The story merits the widest circulation, and the universal
reading and response accorded to “Black Beauty.” To circulate it is
to do good, to help the human heart as well as the creatures of quick
feelings and simple language.

When, as one of the committee to examine the manuscripts offered for
prizes to the Humane Society, I read the story, I felt that the writer
had a higher motive than to compete for a prize; that the story was a
stream of sympathy that flowed from the heart; that it was genuine;
that it only needed a publisher who should be able to command a wide
influence, to make its merits known, to give it a strong educational
mission.

I am pleased that the manuscript has found such a publisher, and am sure
that the issue of the story will honor the Publication Society. In the
development of the book, I believe that the humane cause has stood above
any speculative thought or interest. The book comes because it is called
for; the times demand it. I think that the publishers have a right to
ask for a little unselfish service on the part of the public in helping
to give it a circulation commensurate with its opportunity, need, and
influence.

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

(Of the committee of readers of the prize stories offered to the Humane
Society.)

BOSTON, MASS



CONTENTS

     Chapter I. ONLY A CUR
     Chapter II. THE CRUEL MILKMAN
     Chapter III. MY KIND DELIVERER AND MISS LAURA
     Chapter IV. THE MORRIS BOYS ADD TO MY NAME
     Chapter V. MY NEW HOME AND A SELFISH LADY
     Chapter VI. THE FOX TERRIER BILLY
     Chapter VII. TRAINING A PUPPY
     Chapter VIII. A RUINED DOG
     Chapter IX. THE PARROT BELLA
     Chapter X. BILLY'S TRAINING CONTINUED
     Chapter XI. GOLDFISH AND CANARIES
     Chapter XII. MALTA THE CAT
     Chapter XIII. THE BEGINNING OF AN ADVENTURE
     Chapter XIV. HOW WE CAUGHT THE BURGLAR
     Chapter XV. OUR JOURNEY TO RIVERDALE
     Chapter XVI. DINGLEY FARM
     Chapter XVII. MR. WOOD AND HIS HORSES
     Chapter XVIII. MRS. WOOD'S POULTRY
     Chapter XIX. A BAND OF MERCY
     Chapter XX. STORIES ABOUT ANIMALS
     Chapter XXI. MR. MAXWELL AND MR. HARRY
     Chapter XXII. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE TEA TABLE
     Chapter XXIII. TRAPPING WILD ANIMALS
     Chapter XXIV. THE RABBIT AND THE HEN
     Chapter XXV. A HAPPY HORSE
     Chapter XXVI. THE BOX OF MONEY
     Chapter XXVII. A NEGLECTED STABLE
     Chapter XXVIII. THE END OF THE ENGLISHMAN
     Chapter XXIX. A TALK ABOUT SHEEP
     Chapter XXX. A JEALOUS OX
     Chapter XXXI. IN THE COW STABLE
     Chapter XXXII. OUR RETURN HOME
     Chapter XXXIII. PERFORMING ANIMALS
     Chapter XXXIV. A FIRE IN FAIRPORT
     Chapter XXXV. BILLY AND THE ITALIAN
     Chapter XXXVI. DANDY THE TRAMP
     Chapter XXXVII. THE END OF MY STORY




BEAUTIFUL JOE



CHAPTER I ONLY A CUR

MY name is Beautiful Joe, and I am a brown dog of medium size. I am not
called Beautiful Joe because I am a beauty. Mr. Morris, the clergyman,
in whose family I have lived for the last twelve years, says that he
thinks I must be called Beautiful Joe for the same reason that his
grandfather, down South, called a very ugly colored slave-lad Cupid, and
his mother Venus.

I do not know what he means by that, but when he says it, people always
look at me and smile. I know that I am not beautiful, and I know that I
am not a thoroughbred. I am only a cur.

When my mistress went every year to register me and pay my tax, and the
man in the office asked what breed I was, she said part fox-terrier and
part bull-terrier; but he always put me down a cur. I don't think she
liked having him call me a cur; still, I have heard her say that she
preferred curs, for they have more character than well-bred dogs. Her
father said that she liked ugly dogs for the same reason that a nobleman
at the court of a certain king did namely, that no one else would.

I am an old dog now, and am writing, or rather getting a friend to
write, the story of my life. I have seen my mistress laughing and crying
over a little book that she says is a story of a horse's life, and
sometimes she puts the book down close to my nose to let me see the
pictures.

I love my dear mistress; I can say no more than that; I love her better
than any one else in the world; and I think it will please her if I
write the story of a dog's life. She loves dumb animals, and it always
grieves her to see them treated cruelly.

I have heard her say that if all the boys and girls in the world were
to rise up and say that there should be no more cruelty to animals, they
could put a stop to it. Perhaps it will help a little if I tell a story.
I am fond of boys and girls, and though I have seen many cruel men and
women, I have seen few cruel children. I think the more stories there
are written about dumb animals, the better it will be for us.

In telling my story, I think I had better begin at the first and come
right on to the end. I was born in a stable on the outskirts of a small
town in Maine called Fairport. The first thing I remember was lying
close to my mother and being very snug and warm. The next thing I
remember was being always hungry. I had a number of brothers and sisters
six in all and my mother never had enough milk for us. She was always
half starved herself, so she could not feed us properly.

I am very unwilling to say much about my early life. I have lived so
long in a family where there is never a harsh word spoken, and where
no one thinks of ill-treating anybody or anything; that it seems almost
wrong even to think or speak of such a matter as hurting a poor dumb
beast.

The man that owned my mother was a milkman. He kept one horse and three
cows, and he had a shaky old cart that he used to put his milk cans in.
I don't think there can be a worse man in the world than that milkman.
It makes me shudder now to think of him. His name was Jenkins, and I am
glad to think that he is getting punished now for his cruelty to poor
dumb animals and to human beings. If you think it is wrong that I am
glad, you must remember that I am only a dog.

The first notice that he took of me when I was a little puppy, just able
to stagger about, was to give me a kick that sent me into a corner of
the stable. He used to beat and starve my mother. I have seen him use
his heavy whip to punish her till her body was covered with blood. When
I got older I asked her why she did not run away. She said she did not
wish to; but I soon found out that the reason she did not run away, was
because she loved Jenkins. Cruel and savage as he was, she yet loved
him, and I believe she would have laid down her life for him.

Now that I am old, I know that there are more men in the world like
Jenkins. They are not crazy, they are not drunkards; they simply seem to
be possessed with a spirit of wickedness. There are well-to-do people,
yes, and rich people, who will treat animals, and even little children,
with such terrible cruelty, that one cannot even mention the things that
they are guilty of.

One reason for Jenkins' cruelty was his idleness. After he went his
rounds in the morning with his milk cans, he had nothing to do till late
in the afternoon but take care of his stable and yard. If he had kept
them neat, and groomed his horse, and cleaned the cows, and dug up the
garden, it would have taken up all his time; but he never tidied the
place at all, till his yard and stable got so littered up with things he
threw down that he could not make his way about.

His house and stable stood in the middle of a large field, and they were
at some distance from the road. Passers-by could not see how untidy the
place was. Occasionally, a man came to look at the premises, and see
that they were in good order, but Jenkins always knew when to expect
him, and had things cleaned up a little.

I used to wish that some of the people that took milk from him would
come and look at his cows. In the spring and summer he drove them out
to pasture, but during the winter they stood all the time in the dirty,
dark stable, where the chinks in the wall were so big that the snow
swept through almost in drifts. The ground was always muddy and wet;
there was only one small window on the north side, where the sun only
shone in for a short time in the afternoon.

They were very unhappy cows, but they stood patiently and never
complained, though sometimes I know they must have nearly frozen in the
bitter winds that blew through the stable on winter nights. They were
lean and poor, and were never in good health. Besides being cold they
were fed on very poor food.

Jenkins used to come home nearly every afternoon with a great tub in
the back of his cart that was full of what he called “peelings.” It was
kitchen stuff that he asked the cooks at the different houses where he
delivered milk, to save for him. They threw rotten vegetables, fruit
parings, and scraps from the table into a tub, and gave them to him at
the end of a few days. A sour, nasty mess it always was, and not fit to
give any creature.

Sometimes, when he had not many “peelings,” he would go to town and get
a load of decayed vegetables, that grocers were glad to have him take
off their hands.

This food, together with poor hay, made the cows give very poor milk,
and Jenkins used to put some white powder in it, to give it “body,” as
he said.

Once a very sad thing happened about the milk, that no one knew about
but Jenkins and his wife. She was a poor, unhappy creature, very
frightened at her husband, and not daring to speak much to him. She was
not a clean woman, and I never saw a worse-looking house than she kept.

She used to do very queer things, that I know now no housekeeper should
do. I have seen her catch up the broom to pound potatoes in the pot. She
pounded with the handle, and the broom would fly up and down in the
air, dropping dust into the pot where the potatoes were. Her pan of
soft-mixed bread she often left uncovered in the kitchen, and sometimes
the hens walked in and sat in it.

The children used to play in mud puddles about the door. It was the
youngest of them that sickened with some kind of fever early in the
spring, before Jenkins began driving the cows out to pasture. The child
was very ill, and Mrs. Jenkins wanted to send for a doctor, but her
husband would not let her. They made a bed in the kitchen, close to the
stove, and Mrs. Jenkins nursed the child as best she could. She did all
her work near by, and I saw her several times wiping the child's face
with the cloth that she used for washing her milk pans.

Nobody knew outside the family that the little girl was ill. Jenkins had
such a bad name, that none of the neighbors would visit them. By-and-by
the child got well, and a week or two later Jenkins came home with quite
a frightened face, and told his wife that the husband of one of his
customers was very ill with typhoid fever.

After a time the gentleman died, and the cook told Jenkins that the
doctor wondered how he could have taken the fever, for there was not a
case in town.

There was a widow left with three orphans, and they never knew that
they had to blame a dirty careless milkman for taking a kind husband and
father from them.



CHAPTER II THE CRUEL MILKMAN

I HAVE said that Jenkins spent most of his days in idleness. He had to
start out very early in the morning, in order to supply his customers
with milk for breakfast. Oh, how ugly he used to be, when he came into
the stable on cold winter mornings, before the sun was up.

He would hang his lantern on a hook, and get his milking stool, and if
the cows did not step aside just to suit him, he would seize a broom or
fork, and beat them cruelly.

My mother and I slept on a heap of straw in the corner of the stable,
and when she heard his step in the morning she always roused me, so that
we could run out-doors as soon as he opened the stable door. He always
aimed a kick at us as we passed, but my mother taught me how to dodge
him.

After he finished milking, he took the pails of milk up to the house
for Mrs. Jenkins to strain and put in the cans, and he came back and
harnessed his horse to the cart. His horse was called Toby, and a poor,
miserable, broken-down creature he was. He was weak in the knees, and
weak in the back, and weak all over, and Jenkins had to beat him all the
time, to make him go. He had been a cab horse, and his mouth had been
jerked, and twisted, and sawed at, till one would think there could be
no feeling left in it; still I have seen him wince and curl up his lip
when Jenkins thrust in the frosty bit on a winter's morning.

Poor old Toby! I used to lie on my straw some times and wonder he did
not cry out with pain. Cold and half starved he always was in the winter
time, and often with raw sores on his body that Jenkins would try
to hide by putting bits of cloth under the harness. But Toby never
murmured, and he never tried to kick and bite, and he minded the least
word from Jenkins, and if he swore at him Toby would start back, or step
up quickly, he was so anxious to please him.

After Jenkins put him in the cart, and took in the cans, he set out on
his rounds. My mother, whose name was Jess, always went with him. I used
to ask her why she followed such a brute of a man, and she would hang
her head, and say that sometimes she got a bone from the different
houses they stopped at. But that was not the whole reason. She liked
Jenkins so much, that she wanted to be with him.

I had not her sweet and patient disposition, and I would not go with
her. I watched her out of sight, and then ran up to the house to see if
Mrs. Jenkins had any scraps for me. I nearly always got something, for
she pitied me, and often gave me a kind word or look with the bits of
food that she threw to me.

When Jenkins come home, I often coaxed mother to run about and see some
of the neighbors' dogs with me. But she never would, and I would not
leave her. So, from morning to night we had to sneak about, keeping
out of Jenkins' way as much as we could, and yet trying to keep him in
sight. He always sauntered about with a pipe in his mouth, and his hands
in his pockets, growling first at his wife and children, and then at his
dumb creatures.

I have not told what became of my brothers and sisters. One rainy day,
when we were eight weeks old, Jenkins, followed by two or three of his
ragged, dirty children, came into the stable and looked at us. Then
he began to swear because we were so ugly, and said if we had been
good-looking, he might have sold some of us. Mother watched him
anxiously, and fearing some danger to her puppies, ran and jumped in the
middle of us, and looked pleadingly up at him.

It only made him swear the more. He took one pup after another, and
right there, before his children and my poor distracted mother, put
an end to their lives. Some of them he seized by the legs and knocked
against the stalls, till their brains were dashed out, others he killed
with a fork. It was very terrible. My mother ran up and down the stable,
screaming with pain, and I lay weak and trembling, and expecting every
instant that my turn would come next. I don't know why he spared me. I
was the only one left.

His children cried, and he sent them out of the stable and went out
himself. Mother picked up all the puppies and brought them to our nest
in the straw and licked them, and tried to bring them back to life; but
it was of no use, they were quite dead. We had them in our corner of
the stable for some days, till Jenkins discovered them, and swearing
horribly at us, he took his stable fork and threw them out in the yard,
and put some earth over them.

My mother never seemed the same after this. She was weak and miserable,
and though she was only four years old, she seemed like an old dog. This
was on account of the poor food she had been fed on. She could not run
after Jenkins, and she lay on our heap of straw, only turning over with
her nose the scraps of food I brought her to eat. One day she licked me
gently, wagged her tail, and died.

As I sat by her, feeling lonely and miserable. Jenkins came into the
stable. I could not bear to look at him. He had killed my mother. There
she lay, a little, gaunt, scarred creature, starved and worried to death
by him. Her mouth was half open, her eyes were staring. She would never
again look kindly at me, or curl up to me at night to keep me warm. Oh,
how I hated her murderer! But I sat quietly, even when he went up and
turned her over with his foot to see if she was really dead. I think he
was a little sorry, for he turned scornfully toward me and said, “She
was worth two of you; why didn't you go instead?”

Still I kept quiet till he walked up to me and kicked at me. My heart
was nearly broken, and I could stand no more. I flew at him and gave him
a savage bite on the ankle.

“Oho,” he said, “so you are going to be a fighter, are you? I'll fix you
for that.” His face was red and furious. He seized me by the back of
the neck and carried me out to the yard where a log lay on the ground.
“Bill,” he called to one of his children, “bring me the hatchet.”

He laid my head on the log and pressed one hand on my struggling body.
I was now a year old and a full-sized dog. There was a quick, dreadful
pain, and he had cut off my ear, not in the way they cut puppies' ears,
but close to my head, so close that he cut off some of the skin beyond
it. Then he cut off the other ear, and, turning me swiftly round, cut
off my tail close to my body.

Then he let me go and stood looking at me as I rolled on the ground and
yelped in agony. He was in such a passion that he did not think that
people passing by on the road might hear me.



CHAPTER III. MY KIND DELIVERER AND MISS LAURA

THERE was a young man going by on a bicycle. He heard my screams, and
springing off his bicycle, came hurrying up the path, and stood among us
before Jenkins caught sight of him.

In the midst of my pain, I heard him say fiercely, “What have you been
doing to that dog?”

“I've been cuttin' his ears for fightin', my young gentleman,” said
Jenkins. “There is no law to prevent that, is there?”

“And there is no law to prevent my giving you a beating,” said the young
man angrily. In a trice he had seized Jenkins by the throat and was
pounding him with all his might. Mrs. Jenkins came and stood at the
house door crying, but making no effort to help her husband.

“Bring me a towel,” the young man cried to her, after he had stretched
Jenkins, bruised and frightened, on the ground. She snatched off her
apron and ran down with it, and the young man wrapped me in it, and
taking me carefully in his arms, walked down the path to the gate. There
were some little boys standing there, watching him, their mouths wide
open with astonishment. “Sonny,” he said to the largest of them, “if you
will come behind and carry this dog, I will give you a quarter.”

The boy took me, and we set out. I was all smothered up in a cloth, and
moaning with pain, but still I looked out occasionally to see which way
we were going. We took the road to the town and stopped in front of a
house on Washington Street. The young man leaned his bicycle up against
the house, took a quarter from his pocket and put it in the boy's hand,
and lifting me gently in his arms, went up a lane leading to the back of
the house.

There was a small stable there. He went into it, put me down on the
floor and uncovered my body. Some boys were playing about the stable,
and I heard them say, in horrified tones, “Oh, Cousin Harry, what is the
matter with that dog?”

“Hush,” he said. “Don't make a fuss. You, Jack, go down to the kitchen
and ask Mary for a basin of warm water and a sponge, and don't let your
mother or Laura hear you.”

A few minutes later, the young man had bathed my bleeding ears and tail,
and had rubbed something on them that was cool and pleasant, and had
bandaged them firmly with strips of cotton. I felt much better and was
able to look about me.

I was in a small stable, that was evidently not used for a stable, but
more for a play-room. There were various kinds of toys scattered
about, and a swing and bar, such as boys love to twist about on; in two
different corners. In a box against the wall was a guinea pig, looking
at me in an interested way. This guinea pig's name was Jeff, and he and
I became good friends. A long-haired French rabbit was hopping about,
and a tame white rat was perched on the shoulder of one of the boys,
and kept his foothold there, no matter how suddenly the boy moved. There
were so many boys, and the stable was so small, that I suppose he was
afraid he would get stepped on if he went on the floor. He stared
hard at me with his little, red eyes, and never even glanced at a
queer-looking, gray cat that was watching me, too, from her bed in the
back of the vacant horse stall. Out in the sunny yard, some pigeons were
pecking at grain, and a spaniel lay asleep in a corner.

I had never seen anything like this before, and my wonder at it almost
drove the pain away. Mother and I always chased rats and birds, and once
we killed a kitten. While I was puzzling over it, one of the boys cried
out, “Here is Laura!”

“Take that rag out of the way,” said Mr. Harry, kicking aside the old
apron I had been wrapped in, and that was stained with my blood. One of
the boys stuffed it into a barrel, and then they all looked toward the
house.

A young girl, holding up one hand to shade her eyes from the sun, was
coming up the walk that led from the house to the stable. I thought then
that I never had seen such a beautiful girl, and I think so still. She
was tall and slender, and had lovely brown eyes and brown hair, and a
sweet smile, and just to look at her was enough to make one love her. I
stood in the stable door, staring at her with all my might.

“Why, what a funny dog,” she said, and stopped short to looked at me. Up
to this, I had not thought what a queer-looking sight I must be. Now I
twisted round my head, saw the white bandage on my tail, and knowing I
was not a fit spectacle for a pretty young lady like that, I slunk into
a corner.

“Poor doggie, have I hurt your feelings?” she said, and with a sweet
smile at the boys, she passed by them and came up to the guinea pig's
box, behind which I had taken refuge. “What is the matter with your
head, good dog?” she said, curiously, as she stooped over me.

“He has a cold in it,” said one of the boys with a laugh; “so we put a
nightcap on.” She drew back, and turned very pale. “Cousin Harry, there
are drops of blood on this cotton. Who has hurt this dog?”

“Dear Laura,” and the young man coming up, laid his hand on her
shoulder, “he got hurt, and I have been bandaging him.”

“Who hurt him?”

“I had rather not tell you.”

“But I wish to know.” Her voice was as gentle as ever, but she spoke so
decidedly that the young man was obliged to tell her everything. All the
time he was speaking, she kept touching me gently with her fingers.
When he had finished his account of rescuing me from Jenkins, she said,
quietly:

“You will have the man punished?”

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

“It will put a check on his cruelty.”

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

“Cousin Harry!” and the young girl stood up very straight and tall, her
brown eyes flashing, and one hand pointing at me; “will you let that
pass? That animal has been wronged, it looks to you to right it. The
coward who has maimed it for life should be punished. A child has a
voice to tell its wrong a poor, dumb creature must suffer in silence;
in bitter, bitter silence. And,” eagerly, as the young man tried to
interrupt her, “you are doing the man himself an injustice. If he is bad
enough to ill-treat his dog, he will ill-treat his wife and children. If
he is checked and punished now for his cruelty, he may reform. And even
if his wicked heart is not changed, he will be obliged to treat them
with outward kindness, through fear of punishment.”

The young man looked convinced, and almost as ashamed as if he had been
the one to crop my ears. “What do you want me to do?” he said, slowly,
and looking sheepishly at the boys who were staring open-mouthed at him
and the young girl.

The girl pulled a little watch from her belt. “I want you to report that
man immediately. It is now five o'clock. I will go down to the police
station with you, if you like.”

“Very well,” he said, his face brightening, and together they went off
to the house.



CHAPTER IV THE MORRIS BOYS ADD TO MY NAME

THE boys watched them out of sight, then one of them, whose name I
afterward learned was Jack, and who came next to Miss Laura in age, gave
a low whistle and said, “Doesn't the old lady come out strong when any
one or anything gets abused? I'll never forget the day she found me
setting Jim on that black cat of the Wilsons. She scolded me, and then
she cried, till I didn't know where to look. Plague on it, how was I
going to know he'd kill the old cat? I only wanted to drive it out of
the yard. Come on, let's look at the dog.”

They all came and bent over me, as I lay on the floor in my corner. I
wasn't much used to boys, and I didn't know how they would treat me. But
I soon found by the way they handled me and talked to me, that they knew
a good deal about dogs, and were accustomed to treat them kindly. It
seemed very strange to have them pat me, and call me “good dog.” No one
had ever said that to me before to-day.

“He's not much of a beauty, is he?” said one of the boys, whom they
called Tom.

“Not by a long shot,” said Jack Morris, with a laugh. “Not any nearer
the beauty mark than yourself, Tom.”

Tom flew at him, and they had a scuffle. The other boys paid no
attention to them, but went on looking at me. One of them, a little boy
with eyes like Miss Laura's, said, “What did Cousin Harry say the dog's
name was?”

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

“We might call him 'Ugly Joe' then,” said a lad with a round, fat face,
and laughing eyes. I wondered very much who this boy was, and, later on,
I found out that he was another of Miss Laura's brothers, and his name
was Ned. There seemed to be no end to the Morris boys.

“I don't think Laura would like that,” said Jack Morris, suddenly coming
up behind him. He was very hot, and was breathing fast, but his manner
was as cool as if he had never left the group about me. He had beaten
Tom, who was sitting on a box, ruefully surveying a hole in his jacket.
“You see,” he went on, gaspingly, “if you call him 'Ugly Joe,' her
ladyship will say that you are wounding the dear dog's feelings.
'Beautiful Joe,' would be more to her liking.”

A shout went up from the boys. I didn't wonder that they laughed.
Plain-looking I naturally was; but I must have been hideous in those
bandages.

“'Beautiful Joe,' then let it be!” they cried, “Let us go and tell
mother, and ask her to give us something for our beauty to eat.”

They all trooped out of the stable, and I was very sorry, for when they
were with me, I did not mind so much the tingling in my ears, and the
terrible pain in my back. They soon brought me some nice food, but I
could not touch it, so they went away to their play, and I lay in the
box they put me in, trembling with pain, and wishing that the pretty
young lady was there, to stroke me with her gentle fingers.

By-and-by it got dark. The boys finished their play, and went into the
house, and I saw lights twinkling in the windows. I felt lonely and
miserable in this strange place. I would not have gone back to Jenkins'
for the world, still it was the only home I had known, and though I felt
that I should be happy here, I had not yet gotten used to the change.
Then the pain all through my body was dreadful. My head seemed to be on
fire, and there were sharp, darting pains up and down my backbone. I
did not dare to howl, lest I should make the big dog, Jim, angry. He was
sleeping in a kennel, out in the yard.

The stable was very quiet. Up in the loft above, some rabbits that I had
heard running about had now gone to sleep. The guinea pig was nestling
in the corner of his box, and the cat and the tame rat had scampered
into the house long ago.

At last I could bear the pain no longer. I sat up in my box and looked
about me. I felt as if I was going to die, and, though I was very weak,
there was something inside me that made me feel as if I wanted to crawl
away somewhere out of sight. I slunk out into the yard, and along the
stable wall, where there was a thick clump of raspberry bushes. I crept
in among them and lay down in the damp earth. I tried to scratch off my
bandages, but they were fastened on too firmly, and I could not do it.
I thought about my poor mother, and wished she was here to lick my sore
ears. Though she was so unhappy herself, she never wanted to see me
suffer. If I had not disobeyed her, I would not now be suffering so much
pain. She had told me again and again not to snap at Jenkins, for it
made him worse.

In the midst of my trouble I heard a soft voice calling, “Joe! Joe!” It
was Miss Laura's voice, but I felt as if there were weights on my paws,
and I could not go to her.

“Joe! Joe!” she said, again. She was going up the walk to the stable,
holding up a lighted lamp in her hand. She had on a white dress, and I
watched her till she disappeared in the stable. She did not stay long in
there. She came out and stood on the gravel. “Joe, Joe, Beautiful Joe,
where are you? You are hiding somewhere, but I shall find you.” Then she
came right to the spot where I was. “Poor doggie,” she said, stooping
down and patting me. “Are you very miserable, and did you crawl away to
die? I have had dogs do that before, but I am not going to let you die,
Joe.” And she set her lamp on the ground, and took me in her arms.

I was very thin then, not nearly so fat as I am now, still I was quite
an armful for her. But she did not seem to find me heavy. She took me
right into the house, through the back door, and down a long flight of
steps, across a hall, and into a snug kitchen.

“For the land sakes, Miss Laura,” said a woman who was bending over a
stove, “what have you got there?”

“A poor sick dog, Mary,” said Miss Laura seating herself on a chair.
“Will you please warm a little milk for him? And have you a box or a
basket down here that he can lie in?”

“I guess so,” said the woman; “but he's awful dirty; you're not going to
let him sleep in the house, are you?”

“Only for to-night. He is very ill. A dreadful thing happened to him,
Mary.” And Miss Laura went on to tell her how my ears had been cut off.

“Oh, that's the dog the boys were talking about,” said the woman. “Poor
creature, he's welcome to all I can do for him.” She opened a closet
door, and brought out a box, and folded a piece of blanket for me to lie
on. Then she heated some milk in a saucepan, and poured it in a saucer,
and watched me while Miss Laura went upstairs to get a little bottle
of something that would make me sleep. They poured a few drops of this
medicine into the milk and offered it to me. I lapped a little, but I
could not finish it, even though Miss Laura coaxed me very gently to do
so. She dipped her finger in the milk and held it out to me and though I
did not want it, I could not be ungrateful enough to refuse to lick her
finger as often as she offered it to me. After the milk was gone, Mary
lifted up my box, and carried me into the washroom that was off the
kitchen.

I soon fell sound asleep, and could not rouse myself through the night,
even though I both smelled and heard some one coming near me several
times. The next morning I found out that it was Miss Laura. Whenever
there was a sick animal in the house, no matter if it was only the tame
rat, she would get up two or three times in the night, to see if there
was anything she could do to make it more comfortable.



CHAPTER V MY NEW HOME AND A SELFISH LADY

I DON'T believe that a dog could have fallen into a happier home than I
did. In a week, thanks to good nursing, good food, and kind words, I was
almost well. Mr. Harry washed and dressed my sore ears and tail every
day till he went home, and one day, he and the boys gave me a bath out
in the stable. They carried out a tub of warm water and stood me in it.
I had never been washed before in my life and it felt very queer. Miss
Laura stood by laughing and encouraging me not to mind the streams of
water trickling all over me. I couldn't help wondering what Jenkins
would have said if he could have seen me in that tub.

That reminds me to say, that two days after I arrived at the Morrises',
Jack, followed by all the other boys, came running into the stable.
He had a newspaper in his hand, and with a great deal of laughing and
joking, read this to me:

“Fairport Daily News, June 3d. In the police court this morning, James
Jenkins, for cruelly torturing and mutilating a dog, fined ten dollars
and costs.”

Then he said, “What do you think of that, Joe? Five dollars apiece for
your ears and your tail thrown in. That's all they're worth in the eyes
of the law. Jenkins has had his fun and you'll go through life worth
about three-quarters of a dog. I'd lash rascals like that. Tie them
up and flog them till they were scarred and mutilated a little bit
themselves. Just wait till I'm president. But there's some more, old
fellow. Listen: 'Our reporter visited the house of the above-mentioned
Jenkins, and found a most deplorable state of affairs. The house, yard
and stable were indescribably filthy. His horse bears the marks of
ill-usage, and is in an emaciated condition. His cows are plastered up
with mud and filth, and are covered with vermin. Where is our health
inspector, that he does not exercise a more watchful supervision over
establishments of this kind? To allow milk from an unclean place
like this to be sold in the town, is endangering the health of its
inhabitants. Upon inquiry, it was found that the man Jenkins bears a
very bad character. Steps are being taken to have his wife and children
removed from him.'”

Jack threw the paper into my box, and he and the other boys gave three
cheers for the Daily News and then ran away. How glad I was! It did not
matter so much for me, for I had escaped him, but now that it had been
found out what a cruel man he was, there would be a restraint upon him,
and poor Toby and the cows would have a happier time.

I was going to tell about the Morris family. There were Mr. Morris, who
was a clergyman and preached in a church in Fairport; Mrs. Morris, his
wife; Miss Laura, who was the eldest of the family; then Jack, Ned,
Carl, and Willie. I think one reason why they were such a good family
was because Mrs. Morris was such a good woman. She loved her husband and
children, and did everything she could to make them happy.

Mr. Morris was a very busy man and rarely interfered in household
affairs. Mrs. Morris was the one who said what was to be done and what
was not to be done. Even then, when I was a young dog, I used to think
that she was very wise. There was never any noise or confusion in the
house, and though there was a great deal of work to be done, everything
went on smoothly and pleasantly, and no one ever got angry and scolded
as they did in the Jenkins family.

Mrs. Morris was very particular about money matters. Whenever the
boys came to her for money to get such things as candy and ice cream,
expensive toys, and other things that boys often crave, she asked them
why they wanted them. If it was for some selfish reason, she said,
firmly: “No, my children; we are not rich people, and we must save our
money for your education. I cannot buy you foolish things.”

If they asked her for money for books or something to make their pet
animals more comfortable, or for their outdoor games, she gave it to
them willingly. Her ideas about the bringing up of children I cannot
explain as clearly as she can herself, so I will give part of a
conversation that she had with a lady who was calling on her shortly
after I came to Washington Street.

I happened to be in the house at the time. Indeed, I used to spend the
greater part of my time in the house. Jack one day looked at me, and
exclaimed: “Why does that dog stalk about, first after one and then
after another, looking at us with such solemn eyes?”

I wished that I could speak to tell him that I had so long been used to
seeing animals kicked about and trodden upon, that I could not get used
to the change. It seemed too good to be true. I could scarcely believe
that dumb animals had rights; but while it lasted, and human beings
were so kind to me, I wanted to be with them all the time. Miss Laura
understood. She drew my head up to her lap, and put her face down to me:
“You like to be with us, don't you, Joe? Stay in the house as much as
you like. Jack doesn't mind, though he speaks so sharply. When you get
tired of us go out in the garden and have a romp with Jim.”

But I must return to the conversation I referred to. It was one fine
June day, and Mrs. Morris was sewing in a rocking-chair by the window. I
was beside her, sitting on a hassock, so that I could look out into the
street. Dogs love variety and excitement, and like to see what is going
on outdoors as well as human beings. A carriage drove up to the door,
and a finely-dressed lady got out and came up the steps.

Mrs. Morris seemed glad to see her, and called her Mrs. Montague. I
was pleased with her, for she had some kind of perfume about her that I
liked to smell. So I went and sat on the hearth rug quite near her.

They had a little talk about things I did not understand and then the
lady's eyes fell on me. She looked at me through a bit of glass that was
hanging by a chain from her neck, and pulled away her beautiful dress
lest I should touch it.

I did not care any longer for the perfume, and went away and sat very
straight and stiff at Mrs. Morris' feet. The lady's eyes still followed
me.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Morris,” she said, “but that is a very
queer-looking dog you have there.”

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

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

“Yes.”

“And that makes.”

“Two dogs, a cat, fifteen or twenty rabbits, a rat, about a dozen
canaries, and two dozen goldfish, I don't know how many pigeons, a few
bantams, a guinea pig, and well, I don't think there is anything more.”

They both laughed, and Mrs. Montague said: “You have quite a menagerie.
My father would never allow one of his children to keep a pet animal.
He said it would make his girls rough and noisy to romp about the house
with cats, and his boys would look like rowdies if they went about with
dogs at their heels.”

“I have never found that it made my children more rough to play with
their pets,” said Mrs. Morris.

“No, I should think not,” said the lady, languidly. “Your boys are the
most gentlemanly lads in Fairport, and as for Laura, she is a perfect
little lady. I like so much to have them come and see Charlie. They wake
him up, and yet don't make him naughty.”

“They enjoyed their last visit very much,” said Mrs. Morris. “By the
way, I have heard them talking about getting Charlie a dog.”

“Oh!” cried the lady, with a little shudder, “beg them not to. I cannot
sanction that. I hate dogs.”

“Why do you hate them?” asked Mrs. Morris gently.

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

“A dog,” said Mrs. Morris, “is something like a child. If you want it
clean and pleasant, you have got to keep it so. This dog's skin is as
clean as yours or mine. Hold still, Joe,” and she brushed the hair on my
back the wrong way, and showed Mrs. Montague how pink and free from dust
my skin was.

Mrs. Montague looked at me more kindly, and even held out the tips of
her fingers to me. I did not lick them. I only smelled them, and she
drew her hand back again.

“You have never been brought in contact with the lower creation as I
have,” said Mrs. Morris; “just let me tell you, in a few words, what a
help dumb animals have been to me in the up-bringing of my children
my boys, especially. When I was a young married woman, going about the
slums of New York with my husband, I used to come home and look at my
two babies as they lay in their little cots, and say to him, 'What are
we going to do to keep these children from selfishness the curse of the
world?'

“'Get them to do something for somebody outside themselves,' he always
said. And I have tried to act on that principle. Laura is naturally
unselfish. With her tiny, baby fingers, she would take food from her own
mouth and put it into Jack's, if we did not watch her. I have never
had any trouble with her. But the boys were born selfish, tiresomely,
disgustingly selfish. They were good boys in many ways. As they grew
older they were respectful, obedient, they were not untidy, and not
particularly rough, but their one thought was for themselves each one
for himself, and they used to quarrel with each other in regard to their
rights. While we were in New York, we had only a small, back yard. When
we came here, I said, 'I am going to try an experiment.' We got this
house because it had a large garden, and a stable that would do for
the boys to play in. Then I got them together, and had a little serious
talk. I said I was not pleased with the way in which they were living.
They did nothing for any one but themselves from morning to night. If I
asked them to do an errand for me, it was done unwillingly. Of course,
I knew they had their school for a part of the day, but they had a good
deal of leisure time when they might do something for some one else. I
asked them if they thought they were going to make real, manly Christian
boys at this rate, and they said no. Then I asked them what we should do
about it. They all said, 'You tell us mother, and we'll do as you say.'
I proposed a series of tasks. Each one to do something for somebody,
outside and apart from himself, every day of his life. They all agreed
to this, and told me to allot the tasks. If I could have afforded it, I
would have gotten a horse and cow, and had them take charge of them; but
I could not do that, so I invested in a pair of rabbits for Jack, a pair
of canaries for Carl, pigeons for Ned, and bantams for Willie. I brought
these creatures home, put them into their hands, and told them to
provide for them. They were delighted with my choice, and it was very
amusing to see them scurrying about to provide food and shelter for
their pets, and hear their consultations with other boys. The end of it
all is, that I am perfectly satisfied with my experiment. My boys, in
caring for these dumb creatures, have become unselfish and thoughtful.
They had rather go to school without their own breakfast than have the
inmates of the stable go hungry. They are getting a humane education, a
heart education, added to the intellectual education of their schools.
Then it keeps them at home. I used to be worried with the lingering
about street corners, the dawdling around with other boys, and the idle,
often worse than idle, talk indulged in. Now they have something to
do, they are men of business. They are always hammering and pounding
at boxes and partitions out there in the stable, or cleaning up, and if
they are sent out on an errand, they do it and come right home. I don't
mean to say that we have deprived them of liberty. They have their days
for base-ball, and foot-ball, and excursions to the woods, but they have
so much to do at home, that they won't go away unless for a specific
purpose.”

While Mrs. Morris was talking, her visitor leaned forward in her
chair, and listened attentively. When she finished, Mrs. Montague
said, quietly, “Thank you, I am glad that you told me this. I shall get
Charlie a dog.”

“I am glad to hear you say that,” replied Mrs. Morris. “It will be a
good thing for your little boy. I should not wish my boys to be without
a good, faithful dog. A child can learn many a lesson from a dog. This
one,” pointing to me, “might be held up as an example to many a human
being. He is patient, quiet, and obedient. My husband says that he
reminds him of three words in the Bible 'through much tribulation.'”

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

“Because he came to us from a very unhappy home.” And Mrs. Morris went
on to tell her friend what she knew of my early days.

When she stopped, Mrs. Montague's face was shocked and pained. “How
dreadful to think that there are such creatures as that man Jenkins in
the world. And you say that he has a wife and children. Mrs. Morris,
tell me plainly, are there many such unhappy homes in Fairport?”

Mrs. Morris hesitated for a minute, then she said, earnestly: “My dear
friend, if you could see all the wickedness, and cruelty, and vileness,
that is practiced in this little town of ours in one night, you could
not rest in your bed.”

Mrs. Montague looked dazed. “I did not dream that it was as bad as
that,” she said. “Are we worse than other towns?”

“No; not worse, but bad enough. Over and over again the saying is true,
one-half the world does not know how the other half lives. How can all
this misery touch you? You live in your lovely house out of the town.
When you come in, you drive about, do your shopping, make calls, and go
home again. You never visit the poorest streets. The people from them
never come to you. You are rich, your people before you were rich, you
live in a state of isolation.”

“But that is not right,” said the lady in a wailing voice. “I have been
thinking about this matter lately. I read a great deal in the papers
about the misery of the lower classes, and I think we richer ones ought
to do something to help them. Mrs. Morris, what can I do?”

The tears came in Mrs. Morris' eyes. She looked at the little, frail
lady, and said, simply: “Dear Mrs. Montague, I think the root of the
whole matter lies in this. The Lord made us all one family. We are all
brothers and sisters. The lowest woman is your sister and my sister. The
man lying in the gutter is our brother What should we do to help these
members of our common family, who are not as well off as we are? We
should share our last crust with them. You and I, but for God's grace in
placing us in different surroundings, might be in their places. I think
it is wicked neglect, criminal neglect in us to ignore this fact.”

“It is, it is,” said Mrs. Montague, in a despairing voice. “I can't help
feeling it. Tell me something I can do to help some one.”

Mrs. Morris sank back in her chair, her face very sad, and yet with
something like pleasure in her eyes as she looked at her caller. “Your
washerwoman,” she said, “has a drunken husband and a cripple boy. I have
often seen her standing over her tub, washing your delicate muslins and
laces, and dropping tears into the water.”

“I will never send her anything more she shall not be troubled,” said
Mrs. Montague, hastily.

Mrs. Morris could not help smiling. “I have not made myself clear. It is
not the washing that troubles her; it is her husband who beats her, and
her boy who worries her. If you and I take our work from her, she
will have that much less money to depend upon, and will suffer in
consequence, She is a hard-working and capable woman, and makes a fair
living. I would not advise you to give her money, for her husband would
find it out, and take it from her. It is sympathy that she wants. If you
could visit her occasionally, and show that you are interested in
her, by talking or reading to her poor foolish boy or showing him a
picture-book, you have no idea how grateful she would be to you, and how
it would cheer her on her dreary way.”

“I will go to see her to-morrow,” said Mrs. Montague. “Can you think of
any one else I could visit?”

“A great many,” said Mrs. Morris; “but I don't think you had better
undertake too much at once. I will give you the addresses of three or
four poor families, where an occasional visit would do untold good.
That is, it will do them good if you treat them as you do your richer
friends. Don't give them too much money, or too many presents, till you
find out what they need. Try to feel interested in them. Find out their
ways of living, and what they are going to do with their children, and
help them to get situations for them if you can. And be sure to remember
that poverty does not always take away one's self-respect.”

“I will, I will,” said Mrs. Montague, eagerly. “When can you give me
these addresses?”

Mrs. Morris smiled again, and, taking a piece of paper and a pencil from
her work basket wrote a few lines and handed them to Mrs. Montague.

The lady got up to take her leave. “And in regard to the dog,” said Mrs.
Morris, following her to the door, “if you decide to allow Charlie to
have one, you had better let him come in and have a talk with my boys
about it. They seem to know all the dogs that are for sale in the town.”

“Thank you; I shall be most happy to do so. He shall have his dog. When
can you have him?”

“To-morrow, the next day, any day at all. It makes no difference to
me. Let him spend an afternoon and evening with the boys, if you do not
object.”

“It will give me much pleasure,” and the little lady bowed and smiled,
and after stooping down to pat me, tripped down the steps, and got into
her carriage and drove away.

Mrs. Morris stood looking after her with a beaming face, and I began to
think that I should like Mrs. Montague, too, if I knew her long enough.
Two days later I was quite sure I should, for I had a proof that she
really liked me. When her little boy Charlie came to the house, he
brought something for me done up in white paper. Mrs. Morris opened
it, and there was a handsome nickel-plated collar, with my name on it
Beautiful Joe. Wasn't I pleased! They took off the little shabby leather
strap that the boys had given me when I came, and fastened on my new
collar and then Mrs. Morris held me up to a glass to look at myself. I
felt so happy. Up to this time I had felt a little ashamed of my cropped
ears and docked tail, but now that I had a fine new collar I could hold
up my head with any dog.

“Dear old Joe,” said Mrs. Morris, pressing my head tightly between her
hands. “You did a good thing the other day in helping me to start that
little woman out of her selfish way of living.”

I did not know about that, but I knew that I felt very grateful to Mrs.
Montague for my new collar, and ever afterward, when I met her in the
street, I stopped and looked at her. Sometimes she saw me and stopped
her carriage to speak to me; but I always wagged my tail, or rather my
body, for I had no tail to wag, whenever I saw her, whether she saw me
or not.

Her son got a beautiful Irish setter, called “Brisk.” He had a silky
coat and soft brown eyes, and his young master seemed very fond of him.



CHAPTER VI THE FOX TERRIER BILLY

WHEN I came to the Morrises, I knew nothing about the proper way of
bringing up a puppy. I once heard of a little boy whose sister beat him
so much that he said he was brought up by hand; so I think as Jenkins
kicked me so much, I may say that I was brought up by foot.

Shortly after my arrival in my new home, I had a chance of seeing how
one should bring up a little puppy.

One day I was sitting beside Miss Laura in the parlor, when the door
opened and Jack came in. One of his hands was laid over the other, and
he said to his sister, “Guess what I've got here.”

“A bird,” she said.

“No.”

“A rat.”

“No.”

“A mouse.”

“No a pup.”

“Oh, Jack,” she said, reprovingly; for she thought he was telling a
story.

He opened his hands and there lay the tiniest morsel of a fox terrier
puppy that I ever saw. He was white, with black and tan markings. His
body was pure white, his tail black, with a dash of tan; his ears black,
and his face evenly marked with black and tan. We could not tell the
color of his eyes, as they were not open. Later on, they turned out to
be a pretty brown. His nose was pale pink, and when he got older, it
became jet black.

“Why, Jack!” exclaimed Miss Laura, “his eyes aren't open; why did you
take him from his mother?”

“She's dead,” said Jack. “Poisoned left her pups to run about the yard
for a little exercise. Some brute had thrown over a piece of poisoned
meat, and she ate it. Four of the pups died. This is the only one left.
Mr. Robinson says his man doesn't understand raising pups without their
mothers, and as he is going away, he wants us to have it, for we always
had such luck in nursing sick animals.”

Mr. Robinson I knew was a friend of the Morrises and a gentleman who was
fond of fancy stock, and imported a great deal of it from England. If
this puppy came from him, it was sure to be good one.

Miss Laura took the tiny creature, and went upstairs very thoughtfully.
I followed her, and watched her get a little basket and line it with
cotton wool. She put the puppy in it and looked at him. Though it was
midsummer and the house seemed very warm to me, the little creature was
shivering, and making a low murmuring noise. She pulled the wool all
over him and put the window down, and set his basket in the sun.

Then she went to the kitchen and got some warm milk. She dipped her
finger in it, and offered it to the puppy, but he went nosing about it
in a stupid way, and wouldn't touch it. “Too young,” Miss Laura said.
She got a little piece of muslin, put some bread in it, tied a string
round it, and dipped it in the milk. When she put this to the puppy's
mouth, he sucked it greedily. He acted as if he was starving, but Miss
Laura only let him have a little.

Every few hours for the rest of the day, she gave him some more milk,
and I heard the boys say that for many nights she got up once or twice
and heated milk over a lamp for him. One night the milk got cold before
he took it, and he swelled up and became so ill that Miss Laura had to
rouse her mother and get some hot water to plunge him in. That made him
well again, and no one seemed to think it was a great deal of trouble to
take for a creature that was nothing but a dog.

He fully repaid them for all his care, for he turned out to be one of
the prettiest and most lovable dogs that I ever saw. They called him
Billy, and the two events of his early life were the opening of his eyes
and the swallowing of his muslin rag. The rag did not seem to hurt him,
but Miss Laura said that, as he had got so strong and greedy, he must
learn to eat like other dogs.

He was very amusing when he was a puppy. He was full of tricks, and he
crept about in a mischievous way when one did not know he was near.
He was a very small puppy and used to climb inside Miss Laura's Jersey
sleeve up to her shoulder when he was six weeks old. One day, when the
whole family was in the parlor, Mr. Morris suddenly flung aside his
newspaper, and began jumping up and down. Mrs. Morris was very much
alarmed, and cried out, “My dear William what is the matter?”

“There's a rat up my leg,” he said, shaking it violently. Just then
little Billy fell out on the floor and lay on his back looking up at Mr.
Morris with a surprised face. He had felt cold and thought it would be
warm inside Mr. Morris' trouser's leg.

However, Billy never did any real mischief, thanks to Miss Laura's
training. She began to punish him just as soon as he began to tear and
worry things. The first thing he attacked was Mr. Morris' felt hat. The
wind blew it down the hall one day, and Billy came along and began to
try it with his teeth. I dare say it felt good to them, for a puppy is
very like a baby and loves something to bite.

Miss Laura found him, and he rolled his eyes at her quite innocently,
not knowing that he was doing wrong. She took the hat away, and pointing
from it to him, said, “Bad Billy!” Then she gave him two or three slaps
with a bootlace. She never struck a little dog with her hand or a stick.
She said clubs were for big dogs and switches for little dogs, if one
had to use them. The best way was to scold them, for a good dog feels a
severe scolding as much as a whipping.

Billy was very much ashamed of himself. Nothing would induce him even
to look at a hat again. But he thought it was no harm to worry other
things. He attacked one thing after another, the rugs on the floor,
curtains, anything flying or fluttering, and Miss Laura patiently
scolded him for each one, till at last it dawned upon him that he must
not worry anything but a bone. Then he got to be a very good dog.

There was one thing that Miss Laura was very particular about, and that
was to have him fed regularly. We both got three meals a day. We were
never allowed to go into the dining room, and while the family was at
the table, we lay in the hall outside and watched what was going on.

Dogs take a great interest in what any one gets to eat. It was quite
exciting to see the Morrises' passing each other different dishes, and
to smell the nice, hot food. Billy often wished that he could get up on
the table. He said that he would make things fly. When he was growing,
he hardly ever got enough to eat. I used to tell him that he would kill
himself if he could eat all he wanted to.

As soon as meals were over, Billy and I scampered after Miss Laura to
the kitchen. We each had our own plate for food. Mary the cook often
laughed at Miss Laura, because she would not let her dogs “dish”
 together. Miss Laura said that if she did, the larger one would get more
than his share, and the little one would starve.

It was quite a sight to see Billy eat. He spread his legs apart to
steady himself, and gobbled at his food like a duck. When he finished he
always looked up for more, and Miss Laura would shake her head and say:
“No, Billy: better longing than loathing. I believe that a great many
little dogs are killed by overfeeding.”

I often heard the Morrises speak of the foolish way in which some people
stuffed their pets with food, and either kill them by it or keep them
in continual ill health. A case occurred in our neighborhood while Billy
was a puppy. Some people, called Dobson, who lived only a few doors from
the Morrises, had a fine bay mare and a little colt called Sam. They
were very proud of this colt, and Mr. Dobson had promised it to his son
James. One day Mr. Dobson asked Mr. Morris to come in and see the colt,
and I went, too. I watched Mr. Morris while he examined it. It was a
pretty little creature, and I did not wonder that they thought so much
of it.

When Mr. Morris went home his wife asked him what he thought of it.

“I think,” he said, “that it won't live long.”

“Why, papa!” exclaimed Jack, who overheard the remark, “it is as fat as
a seal.”

“It would have a better chance for its life if it were lean and
scrawny,” said Mr. Morris. “They are over-feeding it, and I told Mr.
Dobson so; but he wasn't inclined to believe me.”

Now, Mr. Morris had been brought up in the country, and knew a great
deal about animals, so I was inclined to think he was right. And sure
enough, in a few days, we heard that the colt was dead.

Poor James Dobson felt very badly. A number of the neighbors' boys went
into see him, and there he stood gazing at the dead colt, and looking as
if he wanted to cry. Jack was there and I was at his heels, and though
he said nothing for a time, I knew he was angry with the Dobsons for
sacrificing the colt's life. Presently he said, “You won't need to have
that colt stuffed now he's dead, Dobson.”

“What do you mean? Why do you say that?” asked the boy, peevishly.

“Because you stuffed him while he was alive,” said Jack, saucily.

Then we had to run for all we were worth, for the Dobson boy was after
us, and as he was a big fellow he would have whipped Jack soundly.

I must not forget to say that Billy was washed regularly once a
week with nice-smelling soaps and once a month with strong-smelling,
disagreeable, carbolic soap. He had his own towels and wash cloths, and
after being rubbed and scrubbed, he was rolled in a blanket and put by
the fire to dry. Miss Laura said that a little dog that has been petted
and kept in the house, and has become tender, should never be washed and
allowed to run about with a wet coat, unless the weather was very warm,
for he would be sure to take cold.

Jim and I were more hardy than Billy, and we took our baths in the sea.
Every few days the boys took us down to the shore and we went swimming
with them.



CHAPTER VII TRAINING A PUPPY

“NED, dear,” said Miss Laura one day, “I wish you would train Billy to
follow and retrieve. He is four months old now, and I shall soon want to
take him out in the street.”

“Very well, sister,” said mischievous Ned, and catching up a stick, he
said, “Come out into the garden, dogs.”

Though he was brandishing his stick very fiercely, I was not at all
afraid of him; and as for Billy, he loved Ned.

The Morris garden was really not a garden but a large piece of ground
with the grass worn bare in many places, a few trees scattered about,
and some raspberry and currant bushes along the fence. A lady who
knew that Mr. Morris had not a large salary, said one day when she was
looking out of the dining-room window, “My dear Mrs. Morris, why don't
you have this garden dug up? You could raise your own vegetables. It
would be so much cheaper than buying them.”

Mrs. Morris laughed in great amusement. “Think of the hens, and cats,
and dogs, and rabbits, and, above all, the boys that I have. What sort
of a garden would there be, and do you think it would be fair to take
their playground from them?”

The lady said, “No, she did not think it would be fair.”

I am sure I don't know what the boys would have done without this strip
of ground. Many a frolic and game they had there. In the present case,
Ned walked around and around it, with his stick on his shoulder, Billy
and I strolling after him. Presently Billy made a dash aside to get a
bone. Ned turned around and said firmly, “To heel!”

Billy looked at him innocently, not knowing what he meant. “To heel!”
 exclaimed Ned again. Billy thought he wanted to play, and putting his
head on his paws, he began to bark. Ned laughed; still he kept saying
“To heel!” He would not say another word. He knew if he said “Come
here,” or “Follow,” or “Go behind,” it would confuse Billy.

Finally, as Ned kept saying the words over and over, and pointing to
me, it seemed to dawn upon Billy that he wanted him to follow him. So
he came beside me, and together we followed Ned around the garden, again
and again.

Ned often looked behind with a pleased face, and I felt so proud to
think I was doing well, but suddenly I got dreadfully confused when he
turned around and said, “Hie out!”

The Morrises all used the same words in training their dogs, and I had
heard Miss Laura say this, but I had forgotten what it meant. “Good
Joe,” said Ned, turning around and patting me, “you have forgotten. I
wonder where Jim is? He would help us.”

He put his fingers in his mouth and blew a shrill whistle, and soon
Jim came trotting up the lane from the street. He looked at us with
his large, intelligent eyes, and wagged his tail slowly, as if to say,
“Well, what do you want of me?”

“Come and give me a hand at this training business, old Sobersides,”
 said Ned, with a laugh. “It's too slow to do it alone. Now, young
gentlemen, attention! To heel!” He began to march around the garden
again, and Jim and I followed closely at his heels, while little Billy,
seeing that he could not get us to play with him, came lagging behind.

Soon Ned turned around and said, “Hie out!” Old Jim sprang ahead, and
ran off in front as if he was after something. Now I remembered what
“hie out” meant. We were to have a lovely race wherever we liked. Little
Billy loved this. We ran and scampered hither and thither, and Ned
watched us, laughing at our antics.

After tea, he called us out in the garden again, and said he had
something else to teach us. He turned up a tub on the wooden platform at
the back door, and sat on it, and then called Jim to him.

He took a small leather strap from his pocket. It had a nice, strong
smell. We all licked it, and each dog wished to have it. “No, Joe and
Billy,” said Ned, holding us both by our collars; “you wait a minute.
Here, Jim.”

Jim watched him very earnestly, and Ned threw the strap half-way across
the garden, and said, “Fetch it.”

Jim never moved till he heard the words, “Fetch it.” Then he ran
swiftly, brought the strap, and dropped it in Ned's hand. Ned sent him
after it two or three times, then he said to Jim, “Lie down,” and turned
to me. “Here, Joe; it is your turn.”

He threw the strap under the raspberry bushes, then looked at me and
said, “Fetch it.” I knew quite well what he meant, and ran joyfully
after it. I soon found it by the strong smell, but the queerest thing
happened when I got it in my mouth. I began to gnaw it and play with it,
and when Ned called out, “fetch it,” I dropped it and ran toward him. I
was not obstinate, but I was stupid.

Ned pointed to the place where it was, and spread out his empty hands.
That helped me, and I ran quickly and got it. He made me get it for him
several times. Sometimes I could not find it, and sometimes I dropped
it; but he never stirred. He sat still till I brought it to him.

After a while he tried Billy, but it soon got dark, and we could not
see, so he took Billy and went into the house.

I stayed out with Jim for a while, and he asked me if I knew why Ned had
thrown a strap for us, instead of a bone or something hard.

Of course I did not know, so Jim told me it was on his account. He was
a bird dog, and was never allowed to carry anything hard in his mouth,
because it would make him hard-mouthed, and he would be apt to bite the
birds when he was bringing them back to any person who was shooting with
him. He said that he had been so carefully trained that he could even
carry three eggs at a time in his mouth.

I said to him, “Jim, how is it that you never go out shooting? I have
always heard that you were a dog for that, and yet you never leave
home.”

He hung his head a little, and said he did not wish to go, and then, for
he was an honest dog, he gave me the true reason.



CHAPTER VIII A RUINED DOG

“I WAS a sporting dog,” he said, bitterly, “for the first three years of
my life. I belonged to a man who keeps a livery stable here in Fairport,
and he used to hire me out shooting parties.

“I was a favorite with all the gentlemen. I was crazy with delight when
I saw the guns brought out, and would jump up and bite at them. I loved
to chase birds and rabbits, and even now when the pigeons come near me,
I tremble all over and have to turn away lest I should seize them. I
used often to be in the woods from morning till night. I liked to have
a hard search after a bird after it had been shot, and to be praised for
bringing it out without biting or injuring it.

“I never got lost, for I am one of those dogs that can always tell where
human beings are. I did not smell them. I would be too far away for
that, but if my master was standing in some place and I took a long
round through the woods, I knew exactly where he was, and could make a
short cut back to him without returning in my tracks.

“But I must tell you about my trouble. One Saturday afternoon a party
of young men came to get me. They had a dog with them, a cocker spaniel
called Bob, but they wanted another. For some reason or other, my master
was very unwilling to have me go. However, he at last consented, and
they put me in the back of the wagon with Bob and the lunch baskets, and
we drove off into the country. This Bob was a happy, merry-looking dog,
and as we went along, he told me of the fine time we should have next
day. The young men would shoot a little, then they would get out their
baskets and have something to eat and drink, and would play cards and go
to sleep under the trees, and we would be able to help ourselves to legs
and wings of chickens, and anything we liked from the baskets.

“I did not like this at all. I was used to working hard through the
week, and I liked to spend my Sundays quietly at home. However, I said
nothing.

“That night we slept at a country hotel, and drove the next morning to
the banks of a small lake where the young men were told there would be
plenty of wild ducks. They were in no hurry to begin their sport. They
sat down in the sun on some flat rocks at the water's edge, and said
they would have something to drink before setting to work. They got out
some of the bottles from the wagon, and began to take long drinks from
them. Then they got quarrelsome and mischievous and seemed to forget
all about their shooting. One of them proposed to have some fun with the
dogs. They tied us both to a tree, and throwing a stick in the water,
told us to get it. Of course we struggled and tried to get free, and
chafed our necks with the rope.

“After a time one of them began to swear at me, and say that he believed
I was gun-shy. He staggered to the wagon and got out his fowling piece,
and said he was going to try me.

“He loaded it, went to a little distance, and was going to fire, when
the young man who owned Bob said he wasn't going to have his dog's legs
shot off, and coming up he unfastened him and took him away. You can
imagine my feelings, as I stood there tied to the tree, with that
stranger pointing his gun directly at me. He fired close to me, a number
of times over my head and under my body. The earth was cut up all around
me. I was terribly frightened, and howled and begged to be freed.

“The other young men, who were sitting laughing at me, thought it such
good fun that they got their guns, too. I never wish to spend such a
terrible hour again. I was sure they would kill me. I dare say they
would have done so, for they were all quite drunk by this time, if
something had not happened.

“Poor Bob, who was almost as frightened as I was, and who lay shivering
under the wagon, was killed by a shot by his own master, whose hand was
the most unsteady of all. He gave one loud howl, kicked convulsively,
then turned over on his side and lay quite still. It sobered them all.
They ran up to him, but he was quite dead. They sat for a while quite
silent, then they threw the rest of the bottles into the lake, dug a
shallow grave for Bob, and putting me in the wagon drove slowly back to
town. They were not bad young men. I don't think they meant to hurt me,
or to kill Bob. It was the nasty stuff in the bottles that took away
their reason.

“I was never the same dog again. I was quite deaf in my right ear, and
though I strove against it, I was so terribly afraid of even the sight
of a gun that I would run and hide myself whenever one was shown to me.
My master was very angry with those young men, and it seemed as if
he could not bear the sight of me. One day he took me very kindly and
brought me here, and asked Mr. Morris if he did not want a good-natured
dog to play with the children.

“I have a happy home here and I love the Morris boys; but I often wish
that I could keep from putting my tail between my legs and running home
every time I hear the sound of a gun.”

“Never mind that, Jim,” I said. “You should not fret over a thing for
which you are not to blame. I am sure you must be glad for one reason
that you have left your old life.”

“What is that?” he said.

“On account of the birds. You know Miss Laura thinks it is wrong to kill
the pretty creatures that fly about the woods.”

“So it is,” he said, “unless one kills them at once. I have often felt
angry with men for only half killing a bird. I hated to pick up the
little warm body, and see the bright eye looking so reproachfully at me,
and feel the flutter of life. We animals, or rather the most of us, kill
mercifully. It is only human beings who butcher their prey, and seem,
some of them, to rejoice in their agony. I used to be eager to kill
birds and rabbits, but I did not want to keep them before me long after
they were dead. I often stop in the street and look up at fine ladies'
bonnets, and wonder how they can wear little dead birds in such dreadful
positions. Some of them have their heads twisted under their wings and
over their shoulders, and looking toward their tails, and their eyes are
so horrible that I wish I could take those ladies into the woods and let
them see how easy and pretty a live bird is, and how unlike the stuffed
creatures they wear. Have you ever had a good run in the woods, Joe?”

“No, never,” I said.

“Some day I will take you, and now it is late and I must go to bed. Are
you going to sleep in the kennel with me, or in the stable?”

“I think I will sleep with you, Jim. Dogs like company, you know, as
well as human beings.” I curled up in the straw beside him and soon we
were fast asleep.

I have known a good many dogs, but I don't think I ever saw such a good
one as Jim. He was gentle and kind, and so sensitive that a hard word
hurt him more than a blow. He was a great pet with Mrs. Morris, and as
he had been so well trained, he was able to make himself very useful to
her.

When she went shopping, he often carried a parcel in his mouth for her.
He would never drop it nor leave it anywhere. One day, she dropped her
purse without knowing it, and Jim picked it up, and brought it home in
his mouth. She did not notice him, for he always walked behind her. When
she got to her own door, she missed the purse, and turning around saw it
in Jim's mouth.

Another day, a lady gave Jack Morris a canary cage as a present for
Carl. He was bringing it home, when one of the little seed boxes fell
out. Jim picked it up and carried it a long way, before Jack discovered
it.



CHAPTER IX THE PARROT BELLA

I OFTEN used to hear the Morrises speak about vessels that ran between
Fairport and a place called the West Indies, carrying cargoes of lumber
and fish, and bringing home molasses, spices, fruit, and other things.
On one of these vessels, called the “Mary Jane,” was a cabin boy, who
was a. friend of the Morris boys, and often brought them presents.

One day, after I had been with the Morrises' for some months, this boy
arrived at the house with a bunch of green bananas in one hand, and a
parrot in the other. The boys were delighted with the parrot, and called
their mother to see what a pretty bird she was.

Mrs. Morris seemed very much touched by the boy's thoughtfulness in
bringing a present such a long distance to her boys, and thanked him
warmly. The cabin boy became very shy and all he could say was, “Go
way!” over and over again, in a very awkward manner.

Mrs. Morris smiled, and left him with the boys. I think that she thought
he would be more comfortable with them.

Jack put me up on the table to look at the parrot. The boy held her by a
string tied around one of her legs. She was a gray parrot with a few red
feathers in her tail, and she had bright eyes, and a very knowing air.

The boy said he had been careful to buy a young one that could not
speak, for he knew the Morris boys would not want one chattering foreign
gibberish, nor yet one that would swear. He had kept her in his bunk in
the ship, and had spent all his leisure time in teaching her to talk.
Then he looked at her anxiously, and said, “Show off now, can't ye?”

I didn't know what he meant by all this, until afterward. I had never
heard of such a thing as birds talking. I stood on the table staring
hard at her, and she stared hard at me. I was just thinking that I would
not like to have her sharp little beak fastened in my skin, when I heard
some one say, “Beautiful Joe.” The voice seemed to come from the room,
but I knew all the voices there, and this was one I had never heard
before, so I thought I must be mistaken, and it was some one in the
hall. I struggled to get away from Jack to run and see who it was. But
he held me fast, and laughed with all his might. I looked at the other
boys and they were laughing, too. Presently, I heard again, “Beautiful
Joe, Beautiful Joe.” The sound was close by, and yet it did not come
from the cabin boy, for he was all doubled up laughing, his face as red
as a beet.

“It's the parrot, Joe!” cried Ned. “Look at her, you gaby.” I did look
at her, and with her head on one side, and the sauciest air in the
world, she was saying: “Beau-ti-ful Joe, Beau-ti-ful Joe!”

I had never heard a bird talk before, and I felt so sheepish that I
tried to get down and hide myself under the table. Then she began to
laugh at me. “Ha, ha, ha, good dog sic 'em, boy. Rats, rats! Beau-ti-ful
Joe, Beau-ti-ful Joe,” she cried, rattling off the words as fast as she
could.

I never felt so queer before in my life, and the boys were just roaring
with delight at my puzzled face. Then the parrot began calling for Jim.
“Where's Jim, where's good old Jim? Poor old dog. Give him a bone.”

The boys brought Jim in the parlor, and when he heard her funny, little,
cracked voice calling him, he nearly went crazy: “Jimmy, Jimmy, James
Augustus!” she said, which was Jim's long name.

He made a dash out of the room, and the boys screamed so that Mr. Morris
came down from his study to see what the noise meant. As soon as the
parrot saw him, she would not utter another word. The boys told him
though what she had been saying, and he seemed much amused to think that
the cabin boy should have remembered so many sayings his boys made use
of, and taught them to the parrot. “Clever Polly,” he said, kindly;
“good Polly.”

The cabin boy looked at him shyly, and Jack, who was a very sharp boy,
said quickly, “Is not that what you call her, Henry?”

“No,” said the boy; “I call her Bell, short for Bellzebub.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Jack, very politely.

“Bell short for Bellzebub,” repeated the boy. “Ye see, I thought ye'd
like a name from the Bible, bein' a minister's sons. I hadn't my Bible
with me on this cruise, savin' yer presences an' I couldn't think of any
girls' names out of it: but Eve or Queen of Sheba, an' they didn't
seem very fit, so I asked one of me mates, an' he says, for his part he
guessed Bellzebub was as pretty a girl's name as any, so I guv her that.
'Twould 'a been better to let you name her, but ye see 'twouldn't 'a
been handy not to call her somethin', where I was teachin' her every
day.”

Jack turned away and walked to the window, his face a deep scarlet. I
heard him mutter, “Beelzebub, prince of devils,” so I suppose the cabin
boy had given his bird a bad name.

Mr. Morris looked kindly at the cabin boy “Do you ever call the parrot
by her whole name?”

“No, sir,” he replied; “I always give her Bell but she calls herself
Bella.”

“Bella,” repeated Mr. Morris, “that is a very pretty name. If you keep
her, boys, I think you had better stick to that.”

“Yes, father,” they all said; and then Mr. Morris started to go back to
his study. On the doorsill he paused to ask the cabin boy when his
ship sailed. Finding that it was to be in a few days, he took out his
pocket-book and wrote something in it. The next day he asked Jack to go
to town with him, and when they came home, Jack said that his father had
bought an oil-skin coat for Henry Smith, and a handsome Bible, in which
they were all to write their names.

After Mr. Morris left the room, the door opened and Miss Laura came in.
She knew nothing about the parrot and was very much surprised to see it.
Seating herself at the table, she held out her hands to it. She was so
fond of pets of all kinds, that she never thought of being afraid of
them. At the same time, she never laid her hand suddenly on any animal.
She held out her fingers and talked gently, so that if it wished to come
to her it could. She looked at the parrot as if she loved it, and the
queer little thing walked right up and nestled its head against the
lace in the front of her dress. “Pretty lady,” she said, in a cracked
whisper, “give Bella a kiss.”

The boys were so pleased with this and set up such a shout, that their
mother came into the room and said they had better take the parrot
out to the stable. Bella seem to enjoy the fun. “Come on, boys,” she
screamed, as Henry Smith lifted her on his finger. “Ha, ha, ha come
on, let's have some fun. Where's the guinea pig? Where's Davy, the
rat? Where's pussy? Pussy, pussy, come here. Pussy, pussy, dear, pretty
puss.”

Her voice was shrill and distinct, and very like the voice of an old
woman who came to the house for rags and bones. I followed her out to
the stable, and stayed there until she noticed me and screamed out, “Ha,
Joe, Beautiful Joe! Where's your tail? Who cut your ears off?”

I don't think it was kind in the cabin boy to teach her this, and I
think she knew it teased me, for she said it over and over again, and
laughed and chuckled with delight. I left her and did not see her till
the next day, when the boys had got a fine, large cage for her.

The place for her cage was by one of the hall windows; but everybody in
the house got so fond of her that she was moved about from one room to
another.

She hated her cage, and used to put her head close to the bars and
plead, “Let Bella out; Bella will be a good girl. Bella won't run away.”

After a time the Morrises did let her out, and she kept her word and
never tried to get away. Jack put a little handle on her cage door so
that she could open and shut it herself, and it was very amusing to hear
her say in the morning. “Clear the track, children! Bella's going to
take a walk,” and see her turn the handle with her claw and come out
into the room. She was a very clever bird, and I have never seen any
creature but a human being that could reason as she did. She was so
petted and talked to that she got to know a great many words, and on one
occasion she saved the Morrises from being robbed.

It was in the winter time. The family was having tea in the dining
room at the back of the house, and Billy and I were lying in the hall
watching what was going on. There was no one in the front of the house.
The hall lamp was lighted, and the hall door closed, but not locked.
Some sneak thieves, who had been doing a great deal of mischief in
Fairport, crept up the steps and into the house, and, opening the door
of the hall closet laid their hands on the boys' winter overcoats.

They thought no one saw them, but they were mistaken. Bella had been
having a nap upstairs and had not come down when the tea bell rang.
Now she was hopping down on her way to the dining room, and hearing
the slight noise below, stopped and looked through the railing. Any pet
creature that lives in a nice family hates a dirty, shabby person. Bella
knew that those beggar boys had no business in that closet.

“Bad boys!” she screamed, angrily. “Get out get out! Here, Joe, Joe,
Beautiful Joe. Come quick. Billy, Billy, rats Hie out, Jim, sic 'im
boys. Where's the police. Call the police!”

Billy and I sprang up and pushed open the door leading to the front
hall. The thieves in a terrible fright were just rushing down the front
steps. One of them got away, but the other fell, and I caught him by the
coat, till Mr. Morris ran and put his hand on his shoulder.

He was a young fellow about Jack's age, but not one-half so manly, and
he was sniffling and scolding about “that pesky parrot.” Mr. Morris made
him come back into the house, and had a talk with him. He found out that
he was a poor, ignorant lad, half starved by a drunken father. He and
his brother stole clothes, and sent them to his sister in Boston, who
sold them and returned part of the money.

Mr. Morris asked him if he would not like to get his living in an honest
way, and he said he had tried to, but no one would employ him. Mr.
Morris told him to go home and take leave of his father and get his
brother and bring him to Washington street the next day. He told him
plainly that if he did not he would send a policeman after him.

The boy begged Mr. Morris not to do that, and early the next morning he
appeared with his brother. Mrs. Morris gave them a good breakfast and
fitted them out with clothes, and they were sent off in the train to one
of her brothers, who was a kind farmer in the country, and who had been
telegraphed to that these boys were coming, and wished to be provided
with situations where they would have a chance to make honest men of
themselves.



CHAPTER X BILLY'S TRAINING CONTINUED

WHEN Billy was five months old, he had his first walk in the street.
Miss Laura knew that he had been well trained, so she did not hesitate
to take him into the town. She was not the kind of a young lady to go
into the street with a dog that would not behave himself, and she was
never willing to attract attention to herself by calling out orders to
any of her pets.

As soon as we got down the front steps, she said, quietly to Billy, “To
heel.” It was very hard for little, playful Billy to keep close to her
when he saw so many new and wonderful things about him. He had gotten
acquainted with everything in the house and garden, but this outside
world was full of things he wanted to look at and smell of, and he was
fairly crazy to play with some of the pretty dogs he saw running about.
But he did just as he was told.

Soon we came to a shop, and Miss Laura went in to buy some ribbons. She
said to me, “Stay out,” but Billy she took in with her. I watched them
through the glass door, and saw her go to a counter and sit down. Billy
stood behind her till she said, “Lie down.” Then he curled himself at
her feet.

He lay quietly, even when she left him and went to another counter. But
he eyed her very anxiously till she came back and said, “Up,” to him.
Then he sprang up and followed her out to the street.

She stood in the shop door, and looked lovingly down on us as we fawned
on her. “Good dogs,” she said, softly; “you shall have a present.”
 We went behind her again, and she took us to a shop where we both lay
beside the counter. When we heard her ask the clerk for solid rubber
balls, we could scarcely keep still. We both knew what “ball” meant.

Taking the parcel in her hand, she came out into the street. She did not
do any more shopping, but turned her face toward the sea. She was
going to give us a nice walk along the beach, although it was a dark,
disagreeable, cloudy day when most young ladies would have stayed in the
house. The Morris children never minded the weather. Even in the pouring
rain, the boys would put on rubber boots and coats and go out to play.
Miss Laura walked along, the high wind blowing her cloak and dress
about, and when we got past the houses, she had a little run with us.

We jumped, and frisked, and barked, till we were tired; and then we
walked quietly along.

A little distance ahead of us were some boys throwing sticks in the
water for two Newfoundland dogs. Suddenly a quarrel sprang up between
the dogs. They were both powerful creatures, and fairly matched as
regarded size. It was terrible to hear their fierce growling, and to
see the way in which they tore at each other's throats. I looked at Miss
Laura. If she had said a word, I would have run in and helped the dog
that was getting the worst of it. But she told me to keep back, and ran
on herself.

The boys were throwing water on the dogs and pulling their tails, and
hurling stones at them, but they could not separate them. Their heads
seemed locked together, and they went back and forth over the stones,
the boys crowding around them, shouting, and beating, and kicking at
them.

“Stand back, boys,” said Miss Laura, “I'll stop them.” She pulled a
little parcel from her purse, bent over the dogs, scattered a powder
on their noses, and the next instant the dogs were yards apart, nearly
sneezing their heads off.

“I say, Missis, what did you do? What's that stuff? Whew, it's pepper!”
 the boys exclaimed.

Miss Laura sat down on a flat rock, and looked at them with a very pale
face. “Oh, boys,” she said, “why did you make those dogs fight? It is so
cruel. They were playing happily till you set them on each other.
Just see how they have torn their handsome coats, and how the blood is
dripping from them.”

“'Taint my fault,” said one of the lads, sullenly. “Jim Jones there
said his dog could lick my dog, and I said he couldn't and he couldn't,
nuther.”

“Yes, he could,” cried the other boy, “and if you say he couldn't, I'll
smash your head.”

The two boys began sidling up to each other with clenched fists, and a
third boy, who had a mischievous face, seized the paper that had had the
pepper in it, and running up to them shook it in their faces.

There was enough left to put all thoughts of fighting out of their
heads. They began to cough, and choke, and splutter, and finally found
themselves beside the dogs, where the four of them had a lively time.

The other boys yelled with delight, and pointed their fingers at them.
“A sneezing concert. Thank you, gentlemen. Angcore, angcore!”

Miss Laura laughed too, she could not help it, and even Billy and I
curled up our lips. After a while they sobered down, and then finding
that the boys hadn't a handkerchief between them, Miss Laura took her
own soft one, and dipping it in a spring of fresh water near by, wiped
the red eyes of the sneezers.

Their ill humor had gone, and when she turned to leave them, and said,
coaxingly, “You won't make those dogs fight any more, will you?” they
said, “No, sirree, Bob.”

Miss Laura went slowly home, and ever afterward when she met any of
those boys, they called her “Miss Pepper.”

When we got home we found Willie curled up by the window in the hall,
reading a book. He was too fond of reading, and his mother often
told him to put away his book and run about with the other boys. This
afternoon Miss Laura laid her hand on his shoulder and said, “I was
going to give the dogs a little game of ball, but I'm rather tired.”

“Gammon and spinach,” he replied, shaking off her hand, “you're always
tired.”

She sat down in a hall chair and looked at him. Then she began to tell
him about the dog fight. He was much interested, and the book slipped to
the floor. When she finished he said, “You're a daisy every day. Go now
and rest yourself.” Then snatching the balls from her, he called us and
ran down to the basement. But he was not quick enough though to escape
her arm. She caught him to her and kissed him repeatedly. He was the
baby and pet of the family, and he loved her dearly, though he spoke
impatiently to her oftener than either of the other boys.

We had a grand game with Willie. Miss Laura had trained us to do all
kinds of things with balls jumping for them, playing hide-and-seek, and
catching them.

Billy could do more things than I could. One thing he did which I
thought was very clever. He played ball by himself. He was so crazy
about ball play that he could never get enough of it. Miss Laura played
all she could with him, but she had to help her mother with the sewing
and the housework, and do lessons with her father, for she was only
seventeen years old, and had not left off studying. So Billy would take
his ball and go off by himself. Sometimes he rolled it over the floor,
and sometimes he threw it in the air and pushed it through the staircase
railings to the hall below. He always listened till he heard it drop,
then he ran down and brought it back and pushed it through again. He did
this till he was tired, and then he brought the ball and laid it at Miss
Laura's feet.

We both had been taught a number of tricks. We could sneeze and cough,
and be dead dogs, and say our prayers, and stand on our heads, and mount
a ladder and say the alphabet, this was the hardest of all, and it took
Miss Laura a long time to teach us. We never began till a book was laid
before us. Then we stared at it, and Miss Laura said, “Begin, Joe and
Billy say A.”

For A, we gave a little squeal. B was louder C was louder still. We
barked for some letters, and growled for others. We always turned a
summersault for S. When we got to Z, we gave the book a push and had a
frolic around the room.

When any one came in, and Miss Laura had us show off any of our tricks,
the remark always was, “What clever dogs. They are not like other dogs.”

That was a mistake. Billy and I were not any brighter than many a
miserable cur that skulked about the streets of Fairport. It was
kindness and patience that did it all. When I was with Jenkins he
thought I was a very stupid dog. He would have laughed at the idea
of any one teaching me anything. But I was only sullen and obstinate,
because I was kicked about so much. If he had been kind to me, I would
have done anything for him.

I loved to wait on Miss Laura and Mrs. Morris and they taught both Billy
and me to make ourselves useful about the house. Mrs. Morris didn't like
going up and down the three long staircases, and sometimes we just raced
up and down, waiting on her.

How often I have heard her go into the hall and say, “Please send me
down a clean duster, Laura. Joe, you get it.” I would run gayly up the
steps, and then would come Billy's turn. “Billy, I have forgotten my
keys. Go get them.”

After a time we began to know the names of different articles, and where
they were kept, and could get them ourselves. On sweeping days we worked
very hard, and enjoyed the fun. If Mrs. Morris was too far away to call
to Mary for what she wanted, she wrote the name on a piece of paper, and
told us to take it to her.

Billy always took the letters from the postman, and carried the morning
paper up to Mr. Morris's study, and I always put away the clean clothes.
After they were mended, Mrs. Morris folded each article and gave it to
me, mentioning the name of the owner, so that I could lay it on his bed,
There was no need for her to tell me the names. I knew by the smell.
All human beings have a strong smell to a dog, even though they mayn't
notice it themselves. Mrs. Morris never knew how she bothered me by
giving away Miss Laura's clothes to poor people. Once, I followed her
track all through the town, and at last found it was only a pair of her
boots on a ragged child in the gutter.

I must say a word about Billy's tail before I close this chapter. It is
the custom to cut the ends of fox terrier's tails, but leave their ears
untouched. Billy came to Miss Laura so young that his tail had not been
cut off, and she would not have it done.

One day Mr. Robinson came in to see him and he said, “You have made a
fine-looking dog of him, but his appearance is ruined by the length of
his tail.”

“Mr. Robinson,” said Mrs. Morris, patting little Billy, who lay on
her lap, “don't you think that this little dog has a beautifully
proportioned body?”

“Yes, I do,” said the gentleman. “His points are all correct, save that
one.”

“But,” she said, “if our Creator made that beautiful little body, don't
you think he is wise enough to know what length of tail would be in
proportion to it?”

Mr. Robinson would not answer her. He only laughed and said that he
thought she and Miss Laura were both “cranks.”



CHAPTER XI GOLDFISH AND CANARIES

THE Morris boys were all different. Jack was bright and clever, Ned was
a wag, Willie was a book-worm, and Carl was a born trader.

He was always exchanging toys and books with his schoolmates, and they
never got the better of him in a bargain. He said that when he grew up
he was going to be a merchant, and he had already begun to carry on a
trade in canaries and goldfish. He was very fond of what he called “his
yellow pets,” yet he never kept a pair of birds or a goldfish, if he had
a good offer for them.

He slept alone in a large, sunny room at the top of the house. By his
own request, it was barely furnished, and there he raised his canaries
and kept his goldfish.

He was not fond of having visitors coming to his room, because, he said,
they frightened the canaries. After Mrs. Morris made his bed in the
morning, the door was closed, and no one was supposed to go in till he
came from school. Once Billy and I followed him upstairs without his
knowing it, but as soon as he saw us he sent us down in a great hurry.

One day Bella walked into his room to inspect the canaries. She was
quite a spoiled bird by this time, and I heard Carl telling the family
afterward that it was as good as a play to see Miss Bella strutting in
with her breast stuck out, and her little, conceited air, and hear her
say, shrilly, “Good morning, birds, good morning! How do you do, Carl?
Glad to see you, boy.”

“Well, I'm not glad to see you,” he said decidedly, “and don't you ever
come up here again. You'd frighten my canaries to death.” And he sent
her flying downstairs.

How cross she was! She came shrieking to Miss Laura. “Bella loves birds.
Bella wouldn't hurt birds. Carl's a bad boy.”

Miss Laura petted and soothed her, telling her to go find Davy, and he
would play with her. Bella and the rat were great friends. It was very
funny to see them going about the house together. From the very first
she had liked him, and coaxed him into her cage, where he soon became
quite at home, so much so that he always slept there. About nine o'clock
every evening, if he was not with her, she went all over the house,
crying, “Davy! Davy! time to go to bed. Come sleep in Bella's cage.”

He was very fond of the nice sweet cakes she got to eat, but she never
could get him to eat coffee grounds food she liked best.

Miss Laura spoke to Carl about Bella, and told him he had hurt her
feelings, so he petted her a little to make up for it. Then his mother
told him that she thought he was making a mistake in keeping his
canaries so much to themselves. They had become so timid, that when she
went into the room they were uneasy till she left it. She told him that
petted birds or animals are sociable and like company, unless they are
kept by themselves, when they become shy. She advised him to let the
other boys go into the room, and occasionally to bring some of his
pretty singers downstairs, where all the family could enjoy seeing and
hearing them, and where they would get used to other people besides
himself.

Carl looked thoughtful, and his mother went on to say that there was no
one in the house, not even the cat, that would harm his birds.

“You might even charge admission for a day or two,” said Jack, gravely,
“and introduce us to them, and make a little money.”

Carl was rather annoyed at this, but his mother calmed him by showing
him a letter she had just gotten from one of her brothers, asking her
to let one of her boys spend his Christmas holidays in the country with
him.

“I want you to go, Carl,” she said.

He was very much pleased, but looked sober when he thought of his pets.
“Laura and I will take care of them,” said his mother, “and start the
new management of them.”

“Very well,” said Carl, “I will go then; I've no young ones now, so you
will not find them much trouble.”

I thought it was a great deal of trouble to take care of them. The first
morning after Carl left, Billy, and Bella, and Davy, and I followed Miss
Laura upstairs. She made us sit in a row by the door, lest we should
startle the canaries. She had a great many things to do. First, the
canaries had their baths. They had to get them at the same time every
morning. Miss Laura filled the little white dishes with water and put
them in the cages, and then came and sat on a stool by the door. Bella,
and Billy, and Davy climbed into her lap, and I stood close by her. It
was so funny to watch those canaries. They put their heads on one side
and looked first at their little baths and then at us. They knew we were
strangers. Finally, as we were all very quiet, they got into the water;
and what a good time they had, fluttering their wings and splashing, and
cleaning themselves so nicely.

Then they got up on their perches and sat in the sun, shaking themselves
and picking at their feathers.

Miss Laura cleaned each cage, and gave each bird some mixed rape and
canary seed. I heard Carl tell her before he left not to give them much
hemp seed, for that was too fattening. He was very careful about their
food. During the summer I had often seen him taking up nice green things
to them: celery, chickweed, tender cabbage, peaches, apples, pears,
bananas; and now at Christmas time, he had green stuff growing in pots
on the window ledge.

Besides that he gave them crumbs of coarse bread, crackers, lumps of
sugar, cuttle-fish to peck at, and a number of other things. Miss Laura
did everything just as he told her; but I think she talked to the birds
more than he did. She was very particular about their drinking water,
and washed out the little glass cups that held it most carefully.

After the canaries were clean and comfortable, Miss Laura set their
cages in the sun, and turned to the goldfish. They were in large glass
globes on the window-seat. She took a long-handled tin cup, and dipped
out the fish from one into a basin of water. Then she washed the globe
thoroughly and put the fish back, and scattered wafers of fish food on
the top. The fish came up and snapped at it, and acted as if they were
glad to get it. She did each globe and then her work was over for one
morning.

She went away for a while, but every few hours through the day she ran
up to Carl's room to see how the fish and canaries were getting on. If
the room was too chilly she turned on more heat; but she did not keep it
too warm, for that would make the birds tender.

After a time the canaries got to know her, and hopped gayly around their
cages, and chirped and sang whenever they saw her coming. Then she began
to take some of them downstairs, and to let them out of their cages for
an hour or two every day. They were very happy little creatures, and
chased each other about the room, and flew on Miss Laura's head, and
pecked saucily at her face as she sat sewing and watching them. They
were not at all afraid of me nor of Billy, and it was quite a sight to
see them hopping up to Bella. She looked so large beside them.

One little bird became ill while Carl was away, and Miss Laura had to
give it a great deal of attention. She gave it plenty of hemp seed to
make it fat, and very often the yolk of a hard boiled egg, and kept a
nail in its drinking water, and gave it a few drops of alcohol in its
bath every morning to keep it from taking cold. The moment the bird
finished taking its bath, Miss Laura took the dish from the cage, for
the alcohol made the water poisonous. Then vermin came on it; and she
had to write to Carl to ask him what do. He told her to hang a muslin
bag full of sulphur over the swing, so that the bird would dust it down
on her feathers. That cured the little thing, and when Carl came home,
he found it quite well again. One day, just after he got back, Mrs.
Montague drove up to the house with canary cage carefully done up in a
shawl. She said that a bad-tempered housemaid, in cleaning the cage that
morning, had gotten angry with the bird and struck it, breaking its
leg. She was very much annoyed with the girl for her cruelty, and had
dismissed her, and now she wanted Carl to take her bird and nurse it, as
she knew nothing about canaries.

Carl had just come in from school. He threw down his books, took the
shawl from the cage and looked in. The poor little canary was sitting In
a corner. Its eyes were half shut, one leg hung loose, and it was making
faint chirps of distress.

Carl was very much interested in it. He got Mrs. Montague to help him,
and together they split matches, tore up strips of muslin, and bandaged
the broken leg. He put the little bird back in the cage, and it seemed
more comfortable. “I think he will do now,” he said to Mrs. Montague,
“but hadn't you better leave him with me for a few days?”

She gladly agreed to this and went away, after telling him that the
bird's name was Dick.

The next morning at the breakfast table, I heard Carl telling his mother
that as soon as he woke up he sprang out of bed and went to see how
his canary was. During the night, poor, foolish Dick had picked off the
splints from his leg, and now it was as bad as ever. “I shall have to
perform a surgical operation.” he said.

I did not know what he meant, so I watched him when, after breakfast, he
brought the bird down to his mother's room. She held it while he took a
pair of sharp scissors, and cut its leg right off a little way above the
broken place. Then he put some vaseline on the tiny stump, bound it up,
and left Dick in his mother's care. All the morning, as she sat sewing,
she watched him to see that he did not pick the bandage away.

When Carl came home, Dick was so much better that he had managed to fly
up on his perch, and was eating seeds quite gayly. “Poor Dick!” said
Carl, “A leg and a stump!” Dick imitated him in a few little chirps, “A
leg and a stump!”

“Why, he is saying it too,” exclaimed Carl, and burst out laughing.

Dick seemed cheerful enough, but it was very pitiful to see him dragging
his poor little stump around the cage, and resting it against the perch
to keep him from falling. When Mrs. Montague came the next day, she
could not bear to look at him. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, “I cannot take
that disfigured bird home.”

I could not help thinking how different she was from Miss Laura, who
loved any creature all the more for having some blemish about it.

“What shall I do?” said Mrs. Montague. “I miss my little bird so much. I
shall have to get a new one. Carl, will you sell me one?”

“I will give you one, Mrs. Montague,” said the boy, eagerly. “I would
like to do so.” Mrs. Morris looked pleased to hear Carl say this. She
used to fear sometimes, that in his love for making money, he would
become selfish.

Mrs. Montague was very kind to the Morris family, and Carl seemed quite
pleased to do her a favor. He took her up to his room, and let her
choose the bird she liked best. She took a handsome, yellow one, called
Barry. He was a good singer, and a great favorite of Carl's. The boy put
him in the cage, wrapped it up well, for it was a cold, snowy day, and
carried it out to Mrs. Montague's sleigh.

She gave him a pleasant smile, and drove away, and Carl ran up the steps
into the house. “It's all right, mother,” he said, giving Mrs. Morris a
hearty, boyish kiss, as she stood waiting for him. “I don't mind letting
her have it.”

“But you expected to sell that one, didn't you?” she asked.

“Mrs. Smith said maybe she'd take it when she came home from Boston, but
I dare say she'd change her mind and get one there.”

“How much were you going to ask for him?”

“Well, I wouldn't sell Barry for less than ten dollars, or rather, I
wouldn't have sold him,” and he ran out to the stable.

Mrs. Morris sat on the hall chair, patting me as I rubbed against
her, in rather an absent minded way. Then she got up and went into her
husband's study, and told him what Carl had done.

Mr. Morris seemed very pleased to hear about it, but when his wife asked
him to do something to make up the loss to the boy, he said: “I had
rather not do that. To encourage a child to do a kind action, and then
to reward him for it, is not always a sound principle to go upon.”

But Carl did not go without his reward. That evening, Mrs. Montague's
coachman brought a note to the house addressed to Mr. Carl Morris. He
read it aloud to the family.



MY DEAR CARL: I am charmed with my little bird, and he has whispered to
me one of the secrets of your room. You want fifteen dollars very much
to buy something for it. I am sure you won't be offended with an old
friend for supplying you the means to get this something.

ADA MONTAGUE.



“Just the thing for my stationary tank for the goldfish,” exclaimed
Carl. “I've wanted it for a long time; it isn't good to keep them in
globes, but how in the world did she find out? I've never told any one.”

Mrs. Morris smiled, and said; “Barry must have told her;” as she took
the money from Carl to put away for him.

Mrs. Montague got to be very fond of her new pet. She took care of him
herself, and I have heard her tell Mrs. Morris most wonderful stories
about him stories so wonderful that I should say they were not true if I
did not how intelligent dumb creatures get to be under kind treatment.

She only kept him in his cage at night, and when she began looking for
him at bedtime to put him there, he always hid himself. She would
search a short time, and then sit down, and he always came out of his
hiding-place, chirping in a saucy way to make her look at him.

She said that he seemed to take delight in teasing her. Once when he was
in the drawing-room with her, she was called away to speak to some one
at the telephone. When she came back, she found that one of the servants
had come into the room and left the door open leading to a veranda.
The trees outside were full of yellow birds, and she was in despair,
thinking that Barry had flown out with them. She looked out, but could
not see him. Then, lest he had not left the room, she got a chair and
carried it about, standing on it to examine the walls, and see if Barry
was hidden among the pictures and bric-a-brac. But no Barry was there.
She at last sank down, exhausted, on a sofa. She heard a wicked, little
peep, and looking up, saw Barry sitting on one of the rounds of the
chair that she had been carrying about to look for him. He had been
there all the time. She was so glad to see him, that she never thought
of scolding him.

He was never allowed to fly about the dining room during meals, and the
table maid drove him out before she set the table. It always annoyed
him, and he perched on the staircase, watching the door through the
railings. If it was left open for an instant, he flew in. One evening,
before tea, he did this. There was a chocolate cake on the sideboard,
and he liked the look of it so much that he began to peck at it. Mrs.
Montague happened to come in, and drove him back to the hall.

While she was having tea that evening, with her husband and little boy,
Barry flew into the room again. Mrs. Montague told Charlie to send him
out, but her husband said, “Wait, he is looking for something.”

He was on the sideboard, peering into every dish, and trying to look
under the covers. “He is after the chocolate cake,” exclaimed Mrs.
Montague. “Here, Charlie; put this on the staircase for him.”

She cut off a little scrap, and when Charlie took it to the hall, Barry
flew after him, and ate it up.

As for poor, little, lame Dick, Carl never sold him, and he became a
family pet. His cage hung in the parlor, and from morning till night
his cheerful voice was heard, chirping and singing as if he had not a
trouble in the world. They took great care of him. He was never allowed
to be too hot or too cold. Everybody gave him a cheerful word in passing
his cage, and if his singing was too loud, they gave him a little mirror
to look at himself in. He loved this mirror, and often stood before it
for an hour at a time.



CHAPTER XII MALTA THE CAT

THE first time I had a good look at the Morris cat, I thought she was
the queerest-looking animal I had ever seen. She was dark gray just the
color of a mouse. Her eyes were a yellowish green, and for the first few
days I was at the Morrises' they looked very unkindly at me. Then
she got over her dislike and we became very good friends. She was a
beautiful cat, and so gentle and affectionate that the whole family
loved her.

She was three years old, and she had come to Fairport in a vessel with
some sailors, who had gotten her in a far-away place. Her name was
Malta, and she was called a maltese cat.

I have seen a great many cats, but I never saw one as kind as Malta.
Once she had some little kittens and they all died. It almost broke her
heart. She cried and cried about the house till it made one feel sad to
hear her. Then she ran away to the woods. She came back with a little
squirrel in her mouth, and putting it in her basket, she nursed it like
a mother, till it grew old enough to run away from her.

She was a very knowing cat, and always came when she was called. Miss
Laura used to wear a little silver whistle that she blew when she wanted
any of her pets. It was a shrill whistle, and we could hear it a long
way from home. I have seen her standing at the back door whistling for
Malta, and the pretty creature's head would appear somewhere always high
up, for she was a great climber, and she would come running along the
top of the fence, saying, “Meow, meow,” in a funny, short way.

Miss Laura would pet her, or give her something to eat, or walk around
the garden carrying her on her shoulder. Malta was a most affectionate
cat, and if Miss Laura would not let her lick her face, she licked her
hair with her little, rough tongue. Often Malta lay by the fire, licking
my coat or little Billy's, to show her affection for us.

Mary, the cook, was very fond of cats, and used to keep Malta in the
kitchen as much as she could, but nothing would make her stay down there
if there was any music going on upstairs. The Morris pets were all fond
of music. As soon as Miss Laura sat down to the piano to sing or play,
we came from all parts of the house. Malta cried to get upstairs,
Davy scampered through the hall, and Bella hurried after him. If I was
outdoors I ran in the house; and Jim got on a box and looked through the
window.

Davy's place was on Miss Laura's shoulder, his pink nose run in the
curls at the back of her neck. I sat under the piano beside Malta
and Bella, and we never stirred till the music was over; then we went
quietly away.

Malta was a beautiful cat there was no doubt about it. While I was with
Jenkins I thought cats were vermin, like rats, and I chased them every
chance I got. Mrs. Jenkins had a cat, a gaunt, long-legged, yellow
creature, that ran whenever we looked at it.

Malta had been so kindly treated that she never ran from any one, except
from strange dogs. She knew they would be likely to hurt her. If they
came upon her suddenly, she faced them, and she was a pretty good
fighter when she was put to it. I once saw her having a brush with a
big mastiff that lived a few blocks from us, and giving him good fright;
which just served him right.

I was shut up in the parlor. Some one had closed the door, and I could
not get out. I was watching Malta from the window, as she daintily
picked her way across the muddy street. She was such a soft, pretty,
amiable-looking cat. She didn't look that way, though, when the mastiff
rushed out of the alleyway at her.

She sprang back and glared at him like a little, fierce tiger. Her tail
was enormous. Her eyes were like balls of fire, and she was spitting and
snarling, as if to say, “If you touch me, I'll tear you to pieces!”

The dog, big as he was, did not dare attack her. He walked around and
around, like a great clumsy elephant, and she turned her small body as
he turned his, and kept up a dreadful hissing and spitting. Suddenly
I saw a Spitz dog hurrying down the street. He was going to help the
mastiff, and Malta would be badly hurt. I had barked and no one had come
to let me out, so I sprang through the window.

Just then there was a change. Malta had seen the second dog, and she
knew she must get rid of the mastiff. With an agile bound she sprang on
his back, dug her sharp claws in, till he put his tail between his legs
and ran up the street, howling with pain. She rode a little way, then
sprang off, and ran up the lane to the stable.

I was very angry and wanted to fight something so I pitched into the
Spitz dog. He was a snarly, cross-grained creature, no friend to Jim and
me, and he would have been only too glad of a chance to help kill Malta.

I gave him one of the worst beatings he ever had. I don't suppose it
was quite right for me to do it, for Miss Laura says dogs should never
fight; but he had worried Malta before, and he had no business to do it.
She belonged to our family. Jim and I never worried his cat. I had been
longing to give him a shaking for some time, and now I felt for his
throat through his thick hair and dragged him all around the street.
Then I let him go, and he was a civil dog ever afterward.

Malta was very grateful, and licked a little place where the Spitz bit
me. I did not get scolded for the broken window. Mary had seen from the
kitchen window, and told Mrs. Morris that I had gone to help Malta.

Malta was a very wise cat. She knew quite well that she must not harm
the parrot nor the canaries, and she never tried to catch them, even
though she was left alone in the room with them.

I have seen her lying in the sun, blinking sleepily, and listening with
great pleasure to Dick's singing. Miss Laura even taught her not to hunt
the birds outside.

For a long time she had tried to get it into Malta's head that it was
cruel to catch the little sparrows that came about the door, and just
after I came, she succeeded in doing so.

Malta was so fond of Miss Laura, that whenever she caught a bird, she
came and laid it at her feet. Miss Laura always picked up the little,
dead creature, pitied it and stroked it, and scolded Malta till she
crept into a corner. Then Miss Laura put the bird on a limb of a tree,
and Malta watched her attentively from her corner.

One day Miss Laura stood at the window, looking out into the garden.
Malta was lying on the platform, staring at the sparrows that were
picking up crumbs from the ground. She trembled, and half rose every few
minutes, as if to go after them. Then she lay down again. She was trying
very hard not to creep on them. Presently a neighbor's cat came stealing
along the fence, keeping one eye on Malta and the other on the sparrows.
Malta was so angry! She sprang up and chased her away, and then came
back to the platform, where she lay down again and waited for the
sparrows to come back. For a long time she stayed there, and never once
tried to catch them.

Miss Laura was so pleased. She went to the door, and said, softly, “Come
here, Malta.”

The cat put up her tail, and, meowing gently, came into the house. Miss
Laura took her up in her arms, and going down to the kitchen, asked Mary
to give her a saucer of her very sweetest milk for the best cat in the
United States of America.

Malta got great praise for this, and I never knew of her catching a bird
afterward. She was well fed in the house, and had no need to hurt such
harmless creatures.

She was very fond of her home, and never went far away, as Jim and I
did. Once, when Willie was going to spend a few weeks with a little
friend who lived fifty miles from Fairport, he took it into his head
that Malta should go with him. His mother told him that cats did not
like to go away from home; but he said he would be good to her, and
begged so hard to take her, that at last his mother consented.

He had been a few days in this place, when he wrote home to say that
Malta had run away. She had seemed very unhappy, and though he had kept
her with him all the time, she had acted as if she wanted to get away.

When the letter was read to Mr. Morris, he said, “Malta is on her way
home. Cats have a wonderful cleverness in finding their way to their own
dwelling. She will be very tired. Let us go out and meet her.”

Willie had gone to this place in a coach. Mr. Morris got a buggy and
took Miss Laura and me with him, and we started out. We went slowly
along the road. Every little while Miss Laura blew her whistle, and
called, “Malta, Malta,” and I barked as loudly as I could. Mr. Morris
drove for several hours, then we stopped at a house, had dinner, and
then set out again. We were going through a thick wood, where there was
a pretty straight road, when I saw a small, dark creature away ahead,
trotting toward us. It was Malta. I gave a joyful bark, but she did not
know me, and plunged into the wood.

I ran in after her, barking and yelping, and Miss Laura blew her whistle
as loudly as she could. Soon there was a little gray head peeping at us
from the bushes, and Malta bounded out, gave me a look of surprise and
then leaped into the buggy on Miss Laura's lap.

What a happy cat she was! She purred with delight, and licked Miss
Laura's gloves over and over again. Then she ate the food they had
brought, and went sound asleep. She was very thin, and for several days
after getting home she slept the most of the time.

Malta did not like dogs, but she was very good to cats. One day, when
there was no one about and the garden was very quiet, I saw her go
stealing into the stable, and come out again, followed by a sore-eyed,
starved-looking cat, that had been deserted by some people that lived in
the next street. She led this cat up to her catnip bed, and watched her
kindly, while she rolled and rubbed herself in it. Then Malta had a roll
in it herself, and they both went back to the stable.

Catnip is a favorite plant with cats, and Miss Laura always kept some of
it growing for Malta.

For a long time this sick cat had a home in the stable. Malta carried
her food every day and after a time Miss Laura found out about her and
did what she could to make her well. In time she got to be a strong,
sturdy-looking cat, and Miss Laura got a home for her with an invalid
lady.

It was nothing new for the Morrises to feed deserted cats. Some summers,
Mrs. Morris said that she had a dozen to take care of. Careless and
cruel people would go away for the summer, shutting up their houses,
and making no provision for the poor cats that had been allowed to sit
snugly by the fire all winter. At last, Mrs. Morris got into the habit
of putting a little notice in the Fairport paper, asking people who
were going away for the summer to provide for their cats during their
absence.



CHAPTER XIII THE BEGINNING OF AN ADVENTURE

THE first winter I was at the Morrises', I had an adventure. It was a
week before Christmas, and we were having cold, frosty weather. Not much
snow had fallen, but there was plenty of skating, and the boys were off
every day with their skates on a little lake near Fairport.

Jim and I often went with them, and we had great fun scampering over the
ice after them, and slipping at every step.

On this Saturday night we had just gotten home. It was quite dark
outside, and there was a cold wind blowing, so when we came in the front
door, and saw the red light from the big hall stove and the blazing fire
in the parlor they looked very cheerful.

I was quite sorry for Jim that he had to go out to his kennel. However,
he said he didn't mind. The boys got a plate of nice, warm meat for
him and a bowl of milk, and carried them out, and afterward he went to
sleep. Jim's kennel was a very snug one. Being a spaniel, he was not a
very large dog, but his kennel was as roomy as if he was a great Dane.
He told me that Mr. Morris and the boys made it, and he liked it very
much, because it was large enough for him to get up in the night and
stretch himself, when he got tired of lying in one position.

It was raised a little from the ground, and it had a thick layer of
straw over the floor. Above was a broad shelf, wide enough for him to
lie on, and covered with an old catskin sleigh robe. Jim always slept
here in cold weather, because it was farther away from the ground.

To return to this December evening. I can remember yet how hungry I
was. I could scarcely lie still till Miss Laura finished her tea. Mrs.
Morris, knowing that her boys would be very hungry, had Mary broil some
beefsteak and roast some potatoes for them; and didn't they smell good!

They ate all the steak and potatoes. It didn't matter to me, for I
wouldn't have gotten any if they had been left. Mrs. Morris could
not afford to give to the dogs good meat that she had gotten for her
children, so she used to get the butcher to send her liver, and bones,
and tough meat, and Mary cooked them, and made soup and broth, and mixed
porridge with them for us.

We never got meat three times a day. Miss Laura said it was all very
well to feed hunting dogs on meat, but dogs that are kept about a house
get ill if they are fed too well. So we had meat only once a day, and
bread and milk, porridge, or dog biscuits, for our other meals.

I made a dreadful noise when I was eating. Ever since Jenkins cut my
ears off, I had had trouble in breathing. The flaps had kept the wind
and dust from the inside of my ears. Now that they were gone my head was
stuffed up all the time. The cold weather made me worse, and sometimes I
had such trouble to get my breath that it seemed as if I would choke.
If I had opened my mouth, and breathed through it, as I have seen some
people doing, I would have been more comfortable, but dogs always like
to breathe through their noses.

“You have taken more cold,” said Miss Laura, this night, as she put my
plate of food on the floor for me. “Finish your meat, and then come and
sit by the fire with me. What! do you want more?”

I gave a little bark, so she filled my plate for the second time. Miss
Laura never allowed any one to meddle with us when we were eating.
One day she found Willie teasing me by snatching at a bone that I was
gnawing. “Willie,” she said, “what would you do if you were just sitting
down to the table feeling very hungry, and just as you began to eat your
meat and potatoes, I would come along and snatch the plate from you?”

“I don't know what I'd do,” he said, laughingly; “but I'd want to wallop
you.”

“Well,” she said, “I'm afraid that Joe will 'wallop' you some day if you
worry him about his food, for even a gentle dog will sometimes snap at
any one who disturbs him at his meals; so you had better not try his
patience too far.”

Willie never teased me after that, and I was very glad, for two or three
times I had been tempted to snarl at him.

After I finished my tea, I followed Miss Laura upstairs. She took up
a book and sat down in a low chair, and I lay down on the hearth rug
beside her.

“Do you know, Joe,” she said with a smile, “why you scratch with your
paws when you lie down, as if to make yourself a hollow bed, and turn
around a great many times before you lie down?”

Of course I did not know, so I only stared at her. “Years and years
ago,” she went on, gazing down at me, “there weren't any dogs living in
people's houses, as you are, Joe. They were all wild creatures running
about the woods. They always scratched among the leaves to make a
comfortable bed for themselves, and the habit has come down to you, Joe,
for you are descended from them.”

This sounded very interesting, and I think she was going to tell me some
more about my wild forefathers, but just then the rest of the family
came in.

I always thought that this was the snuggest time of the day when the
family all sat around the fire Mrs. Morris sewing, the boys reading or
studying, and Mr. Morris with his head buried in a newspaper, and Billy
and I on the floor at their feet.

This evening I was feeling very drowsy, and had almost dropped asleep,
when Ned gave me a push with his foot. He was a great tease, and he
delighted in getting me to make a simpleton of myself. I tried to keep
my eyes on the fire, but I could not, and just had to turn and look at
him.

He was holding his book up between himself and his mother, and was
opening his mouth as wide as he could and throwing back his head,
pretending to howl.

For the life of me I could not help giving a loud howl. Mrs. Morris
looked up and said, “Bad Joe, keep still.”

The boys were all laughing behind their books, for they knew what Ned
was doing. Presently he started off again, and I was just beginning
another howl that might have made Mrs. Morris send me out of the room,
when the door opened, and a young girl called Bessie Drury came in.

She had a cap on and a shawl thrown over her shoulders, and she had just
run across the street from her father's house. “Oh, Mrs. Morris,” she
said, “will you let Laura come over and stay with me to-night? Mamma has
just gotten a telegram from Bangor, saying that her aunt, Mrs. Cole, is
very ill, and she wants to see her, and papa is going to take her there
by tonight's train, and she is afraid I will be lonely if I don't have
Laura.”

“Can you not come and spend the night here?” said Mrs. Morris.

“No, thank you; I think mamma would rather have me stay in our house.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Morris, “I think Laura would like to go.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Laura, smiling at her friend. “I will come over
in half an hour.”

“Thank you, so much,” said Miss Bessie. And she hurried away.

After she left, Mr. Morris looked up from his paper. “There will be some
one in the house besides those two girls?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Morris; “Mrs. Drury has her old nurse, who has been
with her for twenty years, and there are two maids besides, and Donald,
the coachman, who sleeps over the stable. So they are well protected.”

“Very good,” said Mr. Morris. And he went back to his paper.

Of course dumb animals do not understand all that they hear spoken of;
but I think human beings would be astonished if they knew how much we
can gather from their looks and voices. I knew that Mr. Morris did not
quite like the idea of having his daughter go to the Drury's when the
master and mistress of the house were away, so I made up my mind that I
would go with her.

When she came down stairs with her little satchel on her arm, I got up
and stood beside her. “Dear, old Joe,” she said, “you must not come.”

I pushed myself out the door beside her after she had kissed her mother
and father and the boys. “Go back, Joe,” she said, firmly.

I had to step back then, but I cried and whined, and she looked at me
in astonishment. “I will be back in the morning, Joe,” she said, gently;
“don't squeal in that way.” Then she shut the door and went out.

I felt dreadfully. I walked up and down the floor and ran to the window,
and howled without having to look at Ned. Mrs. Morris peered over her
glasses at me in utter surprise. “Boys,” she said, “did you ever see Joe
act in that way before?”

“No, mother,” they all said.

Mr. Morris was looking at me very intently. He had always taken more
notice of me than any other creature about the house, and I was very
fond of him. Now I ran up and put my paws on his knees.

“Mother,” he said, turning to his wife, “let the dog go.”

“Very well,” she said, in a puzzled way. “Jack, just run over with
him, and tell Mrs. Drury how he is acting, and that I will be very much
obliged if she will let him stay all night with Laura.”

Jack sprang up, seized his cap, and raced down the front steps, across
the street, through the gate, and up the gravelled walk, where the
little stones were all hard and fast in the frost.

The Drurys lived in a large, white house, with trees all around it,
and a garden at the back. They were rich people and had a great deal of
company. Through the summer I had often seen carriages at the door,
and ladies and gentlemen in light clothes walking over the lawn, and
sometimes I smelled nice things they were having to eat. They did not
keep any dogs, nor pets of any kind so Jim and I never had an excuse to
call there.

Jack and I were soon at the front door, and he rang the bell and gave
me in charge of the maid who opened it. The girl listened to his message
for Mrs. Drury, then she walked upstairs, smiling and looking at me over
her shoulder.

There was a trunk in the upper hall, and an elderly woman was putting
things in it. A lady stood watching her, and when she saw me, she gave
a little scream, “Oh, nurse! look at that horrid dog! Where did he come
from? Put him out, Susan.”

I stood quite still, and the girl who had brought me upstairs, gave her
Jack's message.

“Certainly, certainly,” said the lady, when the maid finished speaking.
“If he is one of the Morris dogs, he is sure to be a well-behaved one.
Tell the little boy to thank his mamma for letting Laura come over, and
say that we will keep the dog with pleasure. Now, nurse, we must hurry:
the cab will be here in five minutes.”

I walked softly into a front room, and there I found my dear Miss
Laura. Miss Bessie was with her, and they were cramming things into a
portmanteau. They both ran out to find out how I came there, and just
then a gentleman came hurriedly upstairs, and said the cab had come.

There was a scene of great confusion and hurry but in a few minutes it
was all over. The cab had rolled away, and the house was quiet.

“Nurse, you must be tired, you had better go to bed,” said Miss Bessie,
turning to the elderly woman, as we all stood in the hall. “Susan, will
you bring some supper to the dining-room, for Miss Morris and me? What
will you have, Laura?”

“What are you going to have?” asked Miss Laura, with a smile.

“Hot chocolate and tea biscuits.”

“Then I will have the same.”

“Bring some cake too, Susan,” said Miss Bessie, “and something for the
dog. I dare say he would like some of that turkey that was left from
dinner.”

If I had had any ears I would have pricked them up at this, for I was
very fond of fowl, and I never got any at the Morrises', unless it might
be a stray bone or two.

What fun we had over our supper! The two girls sat at the big dining
table, and sipped their chocolate, and laughed and talked, and I had
the skeleton of a whole turkey on a newspaper that Susan spread on the
carpet. I was very careful not to drag it about, and Miss Bessie laughed
at me till the tears came in her eyes. “That dog is a gentleman,” she
said; “see how he holds bones on the paper with his paws, and strips the
meat off with his teeth. Oh, Joe, Joe, you are a funny dog! And you are
having a funny supper. I have heard of quail on toast, but I never heard
of turkey on newspaper.”

“Hadn't we better go to bed?” said Miss Laura, when the hall clock
struck eleven.

“Yes, I suppose we had,” said Miss Bessie.

“Where is this animal to sleep?”

“I don't know,” said Miss Laura; “he sleeps in the stable at home, or in
the kennel with Jim.”

“Suppose Susan makes him a nice bed by the kitchen stove?” said Miss
Bessie.

Susan made the bed, but I was not willing to sleep in it. I barked so
loudly when they shut me up alone, that they had to let me go upstairs
with them.

Miss Laura was almost angry with me, but I could not help it. I had come
over there to protect her, and I wasn't going to leave her, if I could
help it.

Miss Bessie had a handsomely furnished room with a soft carpet on the
floor, and pretty curtains at the windows. There were two single beds
in it, and the two girls dragged them close together so that they could
talk after they got in bed.

Before Miss Bessie put out the light, she told Miss Laura not to be
alarmed if she heard any one walking about in the night, for the nurse
was sleeping across the hall from them, and she would probably come in
once or twice to see if they were sleeping comfortably.

The two girls talked for a long time, and then they fell asleep. Just
before Miss Laura dropped off, she forgave me, and put down her hand for
me to lick as I lay on a fur rug close by her bed.

I was very tired, and I had a very soft and pleasant bed, so I soon fell
into a heavy sleep. But I waked up at the slightest noise. Once Miss
Laura turned in bed, and another time Miss Bessie laughed in her sleep,
and again, there were queer crackling noises in the frosty limbs of the
trees outside, that made me start up quickly out of my sleep.

There was a big clock in the hall, and every time it struck I waked up.
Once, just after it had struck some hour, I jumped up out of a sound
nap. I had been dreaming about my early home. Jenkins was after me
with a whip, and my limbs were quivering and trembling as if I had been
trying to get away from him.

I sprang up and shook myself. Then I took a turn around the room. The
two girls were breathing gently; I could scarcely hear them. I walked
to the door and looked out into the hall. There was a dim light burning
there. The door of the nurse's room stood open. I went quietly to it and
looked in. She was breathing heavily and muttering in her sleep.

I went back to my rug and tried to go to sleep, but I could not. Such an
uneasy feeling was upon me that I had to keep walking about. I went out
into the hall again and stood at the head of the staircase. I thought I
would take a walk through the lower hall, and then go to bed again.

The Drurys' carpets were all like velvet, and my paws did not make a
rattling on them as they did on the oil cloth at the Morrises'. I crept
down the stairs like a cat, and walked along the lower hall, smelling
under all the doors, listening as I went. There was no night light
burning down here, and it was quite dark, but if there had been any
strange person about I would have smelled him.

I was surprised when I got near the farther end of the hall, to see
a tiny gleam of light shine for an instant from under the dining-room
door. Then it went away again. The dining-room was the place to eat.
Surely none of the people in the house would be there after the supper
we had.

I went and sniffed under the door. There was a smell there; a strong
smell like beggars and poor people. It smelled like Jenkins. It was.



CHAPTER XIV HOW WE CAUGHT THE BURGLAR

WHAT was the wretch doing in the house with my dear Miss Laura? I
thought I would go crazy. I scratched at the door, and barked and
yelped. I sprang up on it, and though I was quite a heavy dog by this
time, I felt as light as a feather.

It seemed to me that I would go mad if I could not get that door open.
Every few seconds I stopped and put my head down to the doorsill to
listen. There was a rushing about inside the room, and a chair fell
over, and some one seemed to be getting out of the window.

This made me worse than ever. I did not stop to think that I was only a
medium-sized dog, and that Jenkins would probably kill me, if he got
his hands on me. I was so furious that I thought only of getting hold of
him.

In the midst of the noise that I made, there was a screaming and a
rushing to and fro upstairs. I ran up and down the hall, and half-way
up the steps and back again. I did not want Miss Laura to come down,
but how was I to make her understand? There she was, in her white gown,
leaning over the railing, and holding back her long hair, her face a
picture of surprise and alarm.

“The dog has gone mad,” screamed Miss Bessie. “Nurse, pour a pitcher of
water on him.”

The nurse was more sensible. She ran downstairs, her night-cap flying,
and a blanket that she had seized from her bed, trailing behind her.
“There are thieves in the house,” she shouted at the top of her voice,
“and the dog has found it out.”

She did not go near the dining-room door, but threw open the front one,
crying, “Policeman! Policeman! help, help, thieves, murder!”

Such a screaming as that old woman made! She was worse than I was. I
dashed by her, out through the hall door, and away down to the gate,
where I heard some one running. I gave a few loud yelps to call Jim, and
leaped the gate as the man before me had done.

There was something savage in me that night. I think it must have been
the smell of Jenkins. I felt as if I could tear him to pieces. I have
never felt so wicked since. I was hunting him, as he had hunted me and
my mother, and the thought gave me pleasure.

Old Jim soon caught up with me, and I gave him a push with my nose, to
let him know I was glad he had come. We rushed swiftly on, and at the
corner caught up with the miserable man who was running away from us.

I gave an angry growl, and jumping up, bit at his leg. He turned around,
and though it was not a very bright night, there was light enough for me
to see the ugly face of my old master.

He seemed so angry to think that Jim and I dared to snap at him. He
caught up a handful of stones, and with some bad words threw them at us.
Just then, away in front of us, was a queer whistle, and then another
one like it behind us. Jenkins made a strange noise in his throat, and
started to run down a side street, away from the direction of the two
whistles.

I was afraid that he was going to get away, and though I could not hold
him, I kept springing up on him, and once I tripped him up. Oh, how
furious he was! He kicked me against the side of a wall, and gave me two
or three hard blows with a stick that he caught up, and kept throwing
stones at me.

I would not give up, though I could scarcely see him for the blood that
was running over my eyes. Old Jim got so angry whenever Jenkins touched
me, that he ran up behind and nipped his calves, to make him turn on
him.

Soon Jenkins came to a high wall, where he stopped, and with a hurried
look behind, began to climb over it. The wall was too high for me to
jump. He was going to escape. What shall I do? I barked as loudly as I
could for some one to come, and then sprang up and held him by the leg
as he was getting over.

I had such a grip, that I went over the wall with him, and left Jim on
the other side. Jenkins fell on his face in the earth. Then he got up,
and with a look of deadly hatred on his face, pounced upon me. If help
had not come, I think he would have dashed out my brains against the
wall, as he dashed out my poor little brothers' against the horse's
stall. But just then there was a running sound. Two men came down the
street and sprang upon the wall, just where Jim was leaping up and down
and barking in distress.

I saw at once by their uniform and the clubs in their hands, that they
were policemen. In one short instant they had hold of Jenkins. He gave
up then, but he stood snarling at me like an ugly dog. “If it hadn't
been for that cur, I'd never a been caught. Why,” and he staggered back
and uttered a bad word, “it's me own dog.”

“More shame to you,” said one of the policemen, sternly; “what have
you been up to at this time of night, to have your own dog and a quiet
minister's spaniel dog a chasing you through the street?”

Jenkins began to swear and would not tell them anything. There was a
house in the garden, and just at this minute some one opened a window
and called out: “Hallo, there, what are you doing?”

“We're catching a thief, sir,” said one of the policemen, “leastwise
I think that's what he's been up to. Could you throw us down a bit of
rope? We've no handcuffs here, and one of us has to go to the lock-up
and the other to Washington street, where there's a woman yelling blue
murder; and hurry up, please, sir.”

The gentleman threw down a rope, and in two minutes Jenkins' wrists were
tied together, and he was walked through the gate, saying bad words as
fast as he could to the policeman who was leading him. “Good dogs,”
 said the other policeman to Jim and me. Then he ran up the street and we
followed him.

As we hurried along Washington street, and came near our house, we saw
lights gleaming through the darkness, and heard people running to and
fro. The nurse's shrieking had alarmed the neighborhood. The Morris boys
were all out in the street only half clad and shivering with cold, and
the Drurys' coachman, with no hat on, and his hair sticking up all over
his head, was running about with a lantern.

The neighbors' houses were all lighted up, and a good many people were
hanging out of their windows and opening their doors, and calling to
each other to know what all this noise meant.

When the policeman appeared with Jim and me at his heels, quite a crowd
gathered around him to hear his part of the story. Jim and I dropped on
the ground panting as hard as we could, and with little streams of water
running from our tongues. We were both pretty well used up. Jim's back
was bleeding in several places from the stones that Jenkins had thrown
at him., and I was a mass of bruises.

Presently we were discovered, and then what a fuss was made over us.
“Brave dogs! noble dogs!” everybody said, and patted and praised us. We
were very proud and happy, and stood up and wagged our tails, at least
Jim did, and I wagged what I could. Then they found what a state we were
in. Mrs. Morris cried, and catching me up in her arms, ran in the house
with me, and Jack followed with old Jim.

We all went into the parlor. There was a good fire there, and Miss Laura
and Miss Bessie were sitting over it. They sprang up when they saw us,
and right there in the parlor washed our wounds, and made us lie down by
the fire.

“You saved our silver, brave Joe,” said Miss Bessie; “just wait till my
papa and mamma come home, and see what they will say. Well, Jack, what
is the latest?” as the Morris boys came trooping into the room.

“The policeman has been questioning your nurse, and examining the
dining-room, and has gone down to the station to make his report, and do
you know what he has found out?” said Jack, excitedly.

“No what?” asked Miss Bessie.

“Why that villain was going to burn your house.”

Miss Bessie gave a little shriek. “Why, what do you mean?”

“Well,” said Jack, “they think by what they discovered, that he planned
to pack his bag with silver, and carry it off; but just before he did so
he would pour oil around the room, and set fire to it, so people would
not find out that he had been robbing you.”

“Why we might have all been burned to death,” said Miss Bessie. “He
couldn't burn the dining-room without setting fire to the rest of the
house.

“Certainly not,” said Jack, “that shows what a villain he is.”

“Do they know this for certain, Jack?” asked Miss Laura.

“Well, they suppose so; they found some bottles of oil along with the
bag he had for the silver.”

“How horrible! You darling old Joe, perhaps you saved our lives,” and
pretty Miss Bessie kissed my ugly, swollen head. I could do nothing but
lick her little hand, but always after that I thought a great deal of
her.

It is now some years since all this happened, and I might as well tell
the end of it. The next day the Drurys came home, and everything was
found out about Jenkins. The night they left Fairport he had been
hanging about the station. He knew just who were left in the house, for
he had once supplied them with milk, and knew all about their family. He
had no customers at this time, for after Mr. Harry rescued me, and that
piece came out in the paper about him, he found that no one would take
milk from him. His wife died, and some kind people put his children
in an asylum, and he was obliged to sell Toby and the cows. Instead
of learning a lesson from all this, and leading a better life, he kept
sinking lower.

He was, therefore, ready for any kind of mischief that turned up, and
when he saw the Drurys going away in the train, he thought he would
steal a bag of silver from their sideboard, then set fire to the house,
and run away and hide the silver. After a time he would take it to some
city and sell it.

He was made to confess all this. Then for his wickedness he was sent to
prison for ten years, and I hope he will get to be a better man there,
and be one after he comes out.

I was sore and stiff for a long time, and one day Mrs. Drury came over
to see me. She did not love dogs as the Morrises did. She tried to, but
she could not.

Dogs can see fun in things as well as people can, and I buried my muzzle
in the hearth-rug, so that she would not see how I was curling up my lip
and smiling at her.

“You are a good dog,” she said, slowly. “You are” then she stopped, and
could not think of anything else to say to me. I got up and stood in
front of her, for a well-bred dog should not lie down when a lady
speaks to him. I wagged my body a little, and I would gladly have said
something to help her out of her difficulty, but I couldn't. If she had
stroked me it might have helped her; but she didn't want to touch me,
and I knew she didn't want me to touch her, so I just stood looking at
her.

“Mrs. Morris,” she said, turning from me with a puzzled face, “I don't
like animals, and I can't pretend to, for they always find me out; but
can't you let that dog know that I shall feel eternally grateful to him
for saving not only our property for that is a trifle but my darling
daughter from fright and annoyance, and a possible injury or loss of
life?”

“I think he understands,” said Mrs. Morris. “He is a very wise dog.” And
smiling in great amusement, she called me to her and put my paws on
her lap. “Look at that lady, Joe. She is pleased with you for driving
Jenkins away from her house. You remember Jenkins?”

I barked angrily and limped to the window.

“How intelligent he is,” said Mrs. Drury. “My husband has sent to New
York for a watchdog, and he says that from this on our house shall never
be without one. Now I must go. Your dog is happy, Mrs. Morris, and I can
do nothing for him, except to say that I shall never forget him, and I
wish he would come over occasionally to see us. Perhaps when we get
our dog he will. I shall tell my cook whenever she sees him to give him
something to eat. This is a souvenir for Laura of that dreadful night. I
feel under a deep obligation to you, so I am sure you will allow her to
accept it.” Then she gave Mrs. Morris a little box and went away.

When Miss Laura came in, she opened the box, and found in it a handsome
diamond ring. On the inside of it was engraved: “Laura, in memory of
December 20th, 18. From her grateful friend, Bessie.”

The diamond was worth hundreds of dollars, and Mrs. Morris told Miss
Laura that she had rather she would not wear it then, while she was a
young girl. It was not suitable for her, and she knew Mrs. Drury did not
expect her to do so. She wished to give her a valuable present, and this
would always be worth a great deal of money.



CHAPTER XV OUR JOURNEY TO RIVERDALE

EVERY other summer, the Morris children were sent to some place in the
country, so that they could have a change of air, and see what country
life was like. As there were so many of them they usually went different
ways.

The summer after I came to them, Jack and Carl went to an uncle in
Vermont, Miss Laura went to another in New Hampshire, and Ned and Willie
went to visit a maiden aunt who lived in the White Mountains.

Mr. and Mrs. Morris stayed at home. Fairport was a lovely place in
summer, and many people came there to visit.

The children took some of their pets with them, and the others they left
at home for their mother to take care of. She never allowed them to take
a pet animal anywhere, unless she knew it would be perfectly welcome.
“Don't let your pets be a worry to other people,” she often said to
them, “or they will dislike them and you too.”

Miss Laura went away earlier than the others, for she had run down
through the spring, and was pale and thin. One day, early in June, we
set out. I say “we,” for after my adventure with Jenkins, Miss Laura
said that I should never be parted from her. If any one invited her to
come and see them and didn't want me, she would stay at home.

The whole family went to the station to see us off. They put a chain on
my collar and took me to the baggage office and got two tickets for me.
One was tied to my collar and the other Miss Laura put in her purse.
Then I was put in a baggage car and chained in a corner. I heard Mr.
Morris say that as we were only going a short distance, it was not worth
while to get an express ticket for me.

There was a dreadful noise and bustle at the station. Whistles were
blowing and people were rushing up and down the platform. Some men were
tumbling baggage so fast into the car where I was, that I was afraid
some of it would fall on me.

For a few minutes Miss Laura stood by the door and looked in, but soon
the men had piled up so many boxes and trunks that she could not see me.
Then she went away. Mr. Morris asked one of the men to see that I did
not get hurt, and I heard some money rattle. Then he went away too.

It was the beginning of June and the weather had suddenly become very
hot. We had a long, cold spring, and not being used to the heat, it
seemed very hard to bear.

Before the train started, the doors of the baggage car were closed, and
it became quite dark inside. The darkness, and the heat, and the close
smell, and the noise, as we went rushing along, made me feel sick and
frightened.

I did not dare to lie down, but sat up trembling and wishing that we
might soon come to Riverdale Station. But we did not get there for some
time, and I was to have a great fright.

I was thinking of all the stories that I knew of animals traveling. In
February, the Drurys' Newfoundland watch-dog, Pluto, had arrived from
New York, and he told Jim and me that he had a miserable journey.

A gentleman friend of Mr. Drury's had brought him from New York. He saw
him chained up in his car, and he went into his Pullman, first tipping
the baggage-master handsomely to look after him. Pluto said that the
baggage-master had a very red nose, and he was always getting drinks
for himself when they stopped at a station, but he never once gave him a
drink or anything to eat, from the time they left New York till they
got to Fairport. When the train stopped there, and Pluto's chain was
unfastened, he sprang out on the platform and nearly knocked Mr. Drury
down. He saw some snow that had sifted through the station roof and he
was so thirsty that he began to lick it up. When the snow was all gone,
he jumped up and licked the frost on the windows.

Mr. Drury's friend was so angry. He found the baggage-master, and said
to him: “What did you mean, by coming into my car every few hours, to
tell me that the dog was fed, and watered, and comfortable? I shall
report you.”

He went into the office at the station, and complained of the man, and
was told that he was a drinking man, and was going to be dismissed.

I was not afraid of suffering like Pluto, because it was only going to
take us a few hours to get to Riverdale. I found that we always went
slowly before we came in to a station, and one time when we began to
slacken speed I thought that surely we must be at our journey's end.
However, it was not Riverdale. The car gave a kind of jump, then there
was a crashing sound ahead, and we stopped.

I heard men shouting and running up and down, and I wondered what had
happened. It was all dark and still in the car, and nobody came in, but
the noise kept up outside, and I knew something had gone wrong with the
train. Perhaps Miss Laura had got hurt. Something must have happened to
her or she would come to me.

I barked and pulled at my chain till my neck was sore, but for a long,
long time I was there alone. The men running about outside must have
heard me. If ever I hear a man in trouble and crying for help I go to
him and see what he wants.

After such a long time that it seemed to me it must be the middle of the
night, the door at the end of the car opened, and a man looked in “This
is all through baggage for New York, miss,” I heard him say; “they
wouldn't put your dog in here.”

“Yes, they did I am sure this is the car,” I heard in the voice I
knew so well, “and won't you get him out, please? He must be terribly
frightened.”

The man stooped down and unfastened my chain, grumbling to himself
because I had not been put in another car. “Some folks tumble a dog
round as if he was a chunk of coal,” he said, patting me kindly.

I was nearly wild with delight to get with Miss Laura again, but I had
barked so much, and pressed my neck so hard with my collar that my voice
was all gone. I fawned on her, and wagged myself about, and opened and
shut my mouth, but no sound came out of it.

It made Miss Laura nervous. She tried to laugh and cry at the same time,
and then bit her lip hard, and said: “Oh, Joe, don't.”

“He's lost his bark, hasn't he?” said the man, looking at me curiously.

“It is a wicked thing to confine an animal in a dark and closed car,”
 said Miss Laura, trying to see her way down the steps through her tears.

The man put out his hand and helped her. “He's not suffered much, miss,”
 he said; “don't you distress yourself. Now if you'd been a brakeman on a
Chicago train, as I was a few years ago, and seen the animals run in for
the stock yards, you might talk about cruelty. Cars that ought to hold
a certain number of pigs, or sheep, or cattle, jammed full with twice
as many, and half of 'em thrown out choked and smothered to death. I've
seen a man running up and down, raging and swearing because the railway
people hadn't let him get in to tend to his pigs on the road.”

Miss Laura turned and looked at the man with a very white face. “Is it
like that now?” she asked.

“No, no,” he said, hastily. “It's better now. They've got new
regulations about taking care of the stock; but mind you, miss, the
cruelty to animals isn't all done on the railways. There's a great lot
of dumb creatures suffering all round everywhere, and if they could
speak 'twould be a hard showing for some other people besides the
railway men.”

He lifted his cap and hurried down the platform, and Miss Laura, her
face very much troubled, picked her way among the bits of coal and wood
scattered about the platform, and went into the waiting room of the
little station.

She took me up to the filter and let some water run in her hand, and
gave it to me to lap. Then she sat down and I leaned my head against her
knees, and she stroked my throat gently.

There were some people sitting about the room, and, from their talk, I
found out what had taken place. There had been a freight train on a
side track at this station, waiting for us to get by. The switchman had
carelessly left the switch open after this train went by, and when we
came along afterward, our train, instead of running in by the platform,
went crashing into the freight train. If we had been going fast, great
damage might have been done. As it was, our engine was smashed so badly
that it could not take us on; the passengers were frightened; and we
were having a tedious time waiting for another engine to come and take
us to Riverdale.

After the accident, the trainmen were so busy that Miss Laura could get
no one to release me.

While I sat by her, I noticed an old gentleman staring at us. He was
such a queer-looking old gentleman. He looked like a poodle. He had
bright brown eyes, and a pointed face, and a shock of white hair that he
shook every few minutes. He sat with his hands clasped on the top of his
cane, and he scarcely took his eyes from Miss Laura's face. Suddenly he
jumped up and came and sat down beside her.

“An ugly dog, that,” he said, pointing to me.

Most young ladies would have resented this, but Miss Laura only looked
amused. “He seems beautiful to me,” she said, gently.

“H'm, because he's your dog,” said the old man, darting a sharp look at
me. “What's the matter with him?”

“This is his first journey by rail, and he's a little frightened.”

“No wonder. The Lord only knows the suffering of animals in
transportation,” said the old gentleman. “My dear young lady, if you
could see what I have seen, you'd never eat another bit of meat all the
days of your life.”

Miss Laura wrinkled her forehead. “I know I have heard,” she faltered.
“It must be terrible.”

“Terrible it's awful,” said the gentleman. “Think of the cattle on the
western plains. Choked with thirst in summer, and starved and frozen in
winter. Dehorned and goaded on to trains and steamers. Tossed about and
wounded and suffering on voyages. Many of them dying and being
thrown into the sea. Others landed sick and frightened. Some of them
slaughtered on docks and wharves to keep them from dropping dead in
their tracks. What kind of food does their flesh make? It's rank poison.
Three of my family have died of cancer. I am a vegetarian.”

The strange old gentleman darted from his seat, and began to pace up and
down the room. I was very glad he had gone, for Miss Laura hated to hear
of cruelty of any kind, and her tears were dropping thick and fast on my
brown coat.

The gentleman had spoken very loudly, and every one in the room had
listened to what he said. Among them, was a very young man, with a cold,
handsome face. He looked as if he was annoyed that the older man should
have made Miss Laura cry.

“Don't you think, sir,” he said, as the old gentleman passed near him
in walking up and down the floor, “that there is a great deal of mock
sentiment about this business of taking care of the dumb creation? They
were made for us. They've got to suffer and be killed to supply our
wants. The cattle and sheep, and other animals would over-run the earth,
if we didn't kill them.”

“Granted,” said the old man, stopping right in front of him. “Granted,
young man, if you take out that word suffer. The Lord made the sheep,
and the cattle, and the pigs. They are his creatures just as much as we
are. We can kill them, but we've no right to make them suffer.”

“But we can't help it, sir.”

“Yes, we can, my young man. It's a possible thing to raise healthy
stock, treat it kindly, kill it mercifully, eat it decently. When men do
that I, for one, will cease to be a vegetarian. You're only a boy. You
haven't traveled as I have. I've been from one end of this country to
the other. Up north, down south, and out west, I've seen sights that
made me shudder, and I tell you the Lord will punish this great American
nation if it doesn't change its treatment of the dumb animals committed
to its care.”

The young man looked thoughtful, and did not reply. A very sweet-faced
old lady sitting near him answered the old gentleman. I don't think I
have ever seen such a fine-looking old lady as she was. Her hair was
snowy white, and her face was deeply wrinkled, yet she was tall and
stately, and her expression was as pleasing as my dear Miss Laura's.

“I do not think we are a wicked nation,” she said, softly. “We are a
younger nation than many of the nations of the earth, and I think that
many of our sins arise from ignorance and thoughtlessness.”

“Yes, madame, yes, madame,” said the fiery old gentleman, staring hard
at her. “I agree with you there.”

She smiled very pleasantly at him and went on. “I, too, have been a
traveler, and I have talked to a great many wise and good people on the
subject of the cruel treatment of animals, and I find that many of them
have never thought about it. They, themselves, never knowingly ill-treat
a dumb creature, and when they are told stories of inhuman conduct, they
say in surprise, 'Why, these things surely can't exist!' You see they
have never been brought in contact with them. As soon as they learn
about them, they begin to agitate and say, 'We must have this thing
stopped. Where is the remedy?'”

“And what is it, what is it, madame, in your opinion?” said the old
gentleman, pawing the floor with impatience.

“Just the remedy that I would propose for the great evil of
intemperance,” said the old lady, smiling at him. “Legislation and
education. Legislation for the old and hardened, and education for
the young and tender. I would tell the schoolboys and schoolgirls that
alcohol will destroy the framework of their beautiful bodies, and that
cruelty to any of God's living creatures will blight and destroy their
innocent young souls.”

The young man spoke again. “Don't you think,” he said, “that you
temperance and humane people lay too much stress upon the education of
our youth in all lofty and noble sentiments? The human heart will always
be wicked. Your Bible tells you that, doesn't it? You can't educate all
the badness out of children.”

“We don't expect to do that,” said the old lady, turning her pleasant
face toward him; “but even if the human heart is desperately wicked,
shouldn't that make us much more eager to try to educate, to ennoble,
and restrain? However, as far as my experience goes, and I have lived in
this wicked world for seventy-five years, I find that the human heart,
though wicked and cruel, as you say, has yet some soft and tender spots,
and the impressions made upon it in youth are never, never effaced. Do
you not remember better than anything else, standing at your mother's
knee the pressure of her hand, her kiss on your forehead?”

By this time our engine had arrived. A whistle was blowing, and nearly
every one was rushing from the room, the impatient old gentleman among
the first. Miss Laura was hurriedly trying to do up her shawl strap, and
I was standing by, wishing that I could help her. The old lady and the
young man were the only other people in the room, and we could not help
hearing what they said.

“Yes, I do,” he said in a thick voice, and his face got very red. “She
is dead now I have no mother.”

“Poor boy!” and the old lady laid her hand on his shoulder. They were
standing up, and she was taller than he was. “May God bless you. I know
you have a kind heart. I have four stalwart boys, and you remind me of
the youngest. If you are ever in Washington come to see me.” She gave
him some name, and he lifted his hat and looked as if he was astonished
to find out who she was. Then he, too, went away, and she turned to Miss
Laura. “Shall I help you, my dear?”

“If you please,” said my young mistress. “I can't fasten this strap.”

In a few seconds the bundle was done up, and we were joyfully hastening
to the train. It was only a few miles to Riverdale, so the conductor let
me stay in the car with Miss Laura. She spread her coat out on the seat
in front of her, and I sat on it and looked out of the car window as
we sped along through a lovely country, all green and fresh in the June
sunlight. How light and pleasant this car was so different from the
baggage car. What frightens an animal most of all things, is not to see
where it is going, not to know what is going to happen to it. I think
that they are very like human beings in this respect.

The lady had taken a seat beside Miss Laura, and as we went along, she
too looked out of the window and said in a low voice:

     “What is so rare as a day in June,
     Then, if ever, come perfect days.”

“That is very true,” said Miss Laura; “how sad that the autumn must
come, and the cold winter.”

“No, my dear, not sad. It is but a preparation for another summer.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Miss Laura. Then she continued a little
shyly, as her companion leaned over to stroke my cropped ears, “You seem
very fond of animals.”

“I am, my dear. I have four horses, two cows, a tame squirrel, three
dogs, and a cat.”

“You should be a happy woman,” said Miss Laura, with a smile.

“I think I am. I must not forget my horned toad, Diego, that I got in
California. I keep him in the green-house, and he is very happy catching
flies and holding his horny head to be scratched whenever any one comes
near.”

“I don't see how any one can be unkind to animals,” said Miss Laura,
thoughtfully.

“Nor I, my dear child. It has always caused me intense pain to witness
the torture of dumb animals. Nearly seventy years ago, when I was a
little girl walking the streets of Boston, I would tremble and grow
faint at the cruelty of drivers to over-loaded horses. I was timid and
did not dare speak to them. Very often, I ran home and flung myself in
my mother's arms with a burst of tears, and asked her if nothing could
be done to help the poor animals. With mistaken, motherly kindness, she
tried to put the subject out of my thoughts. I was carefully guarded
from seeing or hearing of any instances of cruelty. But the animals
went on suffering just the same, and when I became a woman, I saw my
cowardice. I agitated the matter among my friends, and told them
that our whole dumb creation was groaning together in pain, and would
continue to groan, unless merciful human beings were willing to help
them. I was able to assist in the formation of several societies for the
prevention of cruelty to animals, and they have done good service. Good
service not only to the horses and cows, but to the nobler animal,
man. I believe that in saying to a cruel man, 'You shall not overwork,
torture, mutilate, nor kill your animal, or neglect to provide it with
proper food and shelter,' we are making him a little nearer the kingdom
of heaven than he was before. For 'Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall
he also reap.' If he sows seeds of unkindness and cruelty to man and
beast, no one knows what the blackness of the harvest will be. His poor
horse, quivering under a blow, is not the worst sufferer. Oh, if people
would only understand that their unkind deeds will recoil upon their
own heads with tenfold force but, my dear child, I am fancying that I
am addressing a drawing-room meeting and here we are at your station.
Good-bye; keep your happy face and gentle ways. I hope that we may meet
again some day.” She pressed Miss Laura's hand, gave me a farewell pat,
and the next minute we were outside on the platform, and she was smiling
through the window at us.



CHAPTER XVI DINGLEY FARM

“MY dear niece,” and a stout, middle-aged woman, with a red, lively
face, threw both her arms around Miss Laura. “How glad I am to see you,
and this is the dog. Good Joe, I have a bone waiting for you. Here is
Uncle John.”

A tall, good-looking man stepped up and put out a big hand, in which my
mistress' little fingers were quite swallowed up. “I am glad to see you,
Laura. Well, Joe, how d'ye do, old boy? I've heard about you.”

It made me feel very welcome to have them both notice me, and I was so
glad to be out of the train that I frisked for joy around their feet as
we went to the wagon. It was a big double one, with an awning over it
to shelter it from the sun's rays, and the horses were drawn up in the
shade of a spreading tree. They were two powerful black horses, and as
they had no blinders on, they could see us coming. Their faces lighted
up and they moved their ears and pawed the ground, and whinnied when Mr.
Wood went up to them. They tried to rub their heads against him, and
I saw plainly that they loved him. “Steady there, Cleve and Pacer,” he
said; “now back, back up.”

By this time, Mrs. Wood, Miss Laura and I were in the wagon. Then Mr.
Wood jumped in, took up the reins, and off we went. How the two black
horses did spin along! I sat on the seat beside Mr. Wood, and sniffed in
the delicious air, and the lovely smell of flowers and grass. How glad
I was to be in the country! What long races I should have in the green
fields. I wished that I had another dog to run with me, and wondered
very much whether Mr. Wood kept one. I knew I should soon find out,
for whenever Miss Laura went to a place she wanted to know what animals
there were about.

We drove a little more than a mile along a country road where there were
scattered houses. Miss Laura answered questions about her family, and
asked questions about Mr. Harry, who was away at college and hadn't got
home. I don't think I have said before that Mr. Harry was Mrs. Wood's
son. She was a widow with one son when she married Mr. Wood, so that
Mr. Harry, though the Morrises called him cousin, was not really their
cousin.

I was very glad to hear them say that he was soon coming home, for I had
never forgotten that but for him I should never have known Miss Laura
and gotten into my pleasant home.

By-and-by, I heard Miss Laura say: “Uncle John, have you a dog?”

“Yes, Laura,” he said; “I have one to-day, but I sha'n't have one
to-morrow.”

“Oh, uncle, what do you mean?” she asked.

“Well, Laura,” he replied, “you know animals are pretty much like
people. There are some good ones and some bad ones. Now, this dog is a
snarling, cross-grained, cantankerous beast, and when I heard Joe was
coming, I said: 'Now we'll have a good dog about the place, and here's
an end to the bad one.' So I tied Bruno up, and to-morrow I shall shoot
him. Something's got to be done, or he'll be biting some one.”

“Uncle,” said Miss Laura, “people don't always die when they are bitten
by dogs, do they?”

“No, certainly not,” replied Mr. Wood. “In my humble opinion there's a
great lot of nonsense talked about the poison of a dog's bite and people
dying of hydrophobia. Ever since I was born I've had dogs snap at me
and stick their teeth in my flesh; and I've never had a symptom of
hydrophobia, and never intend to have. I believe half the people that
are bitten by dogs frighten themselves into thinking they are fatally
poisoned. I was reading the other day about the policemen in a big city
in England that have to catch stray dogs, and dogs supposed to be mad,
and all kinds of dogs, and they get bitten over and over again, and
never think anything about it. But let a lady or a gentleman walking
along the street have a dog bite them, and they worry themselves till
their blood is in a fever, and they have to hurry across to France to
get Pasteur to cure them. They imagine they've got hydrophobia,
and they've got it because they imagine it. I believe if I fixed my
attention on that right thumb of mine, and thought I had a sore there,
and picked at it and worried it, in a short time a sore would come, and
I'd be off to the doctor to have it cured. At the same time dogs have no
business to bite, and I don't recommend any one to get bitten.”

“But, uncle,” said Miss Laura, “isn't there such a thing as
hydrophobia?”

“Oh, yes; I dare say there is. I believe that a careful examination of
the records of death reported in Boston from hydrophobia for the space
of thirty-two years, shows that two people actually died from it. Dogs
are like all other animals. They're liable to sickness, and they've
got to be watched. I think my horses would go mad if I starved them, or
over-fed them, or over-worked them, or let them stand in laziness,
or kept them dirty, or didn't give them water enough. They'd get some
disease, anyway. If a person owns an animal, let him take care of it,
and it's all right. If it shows signs of sickness, shut it up and watch
it. If the sickness is incurable, kill it. Here's a sure way to prevent
hydrophobia. Kill off all ownerless and vicious dogs. If you can't do
that, have plenty of water where they can get at it. A dog that has
all the water he wants, will never go mad. This dog of mine has not one
single thing the matter with him but pure ugliness. Yet, if I let him
loose, and he ran through the village with his tongue out, I'll warrant
you there'd be a cry of 'mad dog!' However, I'm going to kill him. I've
no use for a bad dog. Have plenty of animals, I say, and treat them
kindly, but if there's a vicious one among them, put it out of the way,
for it is a constant danger to man and beast. It's queer how ugly some
people are about their dogs. They'll keep them no matter how they worry
other people, and even when they're snatching the bread out of their
neighbors' mouths. But I say that is not the fault of the four-legged
dog. A human dog is the worst of all. There's a band of sheep-killing
dogs here in Riverdale, that their owners can't, or won't, keep out of
mischief. Meek-looking fellows some of them are. The owners go to bed at
night, and the dogs pretend to go, too; but when the house is quiet and
the family asleep, off goes Rover or Fido to worry poor, defenseless
creatures that can't defend themselves. Their taste for sheep's blood is
like the taste for liquor in men, and the dogs will travel as far to get
their fun, as the men will travel for theirs. They've got it in them,
and you can't get it out.”

“Mr. Windham cured his dog,” said Mrs. Wood.

Mr. Wood burst into a hearty laugh. “So he did, so he did. I must tell
Laura about that. Windham is a neighbor of ours, and last summer I kept
telling him that his collie was worrying my Shropshires. He wouldn't
believe me, but I knew I was right, and one night when Harry was home,
he lay in wait for the dog and lassoed him. I tied him up and sent for
Windham. You should have seen his face, and the dog's face. He said two
words, 'You scoundrel!' and the dog cowered at his feet as if he had
been shot. He was a fine dog, but he'd got corrupted by evil companions.
Then Windham asked me where my sheep were. I told him in the pasture.
He asked me if I still had my old ram Bolton. I said yes, and then he
wanted eight or ten feet of rope. I gave it to him, and wondered what
on earth he was going to do with it. He tied one end of it to the dog's
collar, and holding the other in his hand, set out for the pasture. He
asked us to go with him, and when he got there, he told Harry he'd like
to see him catch Bolton. There wasn't any need to catch him, he'd come
to us like a dog. Harry whistled, and when Bolton came up, Windham
fastened the rope's end to his horns, and let him go. The ram was
frightened and ran, dragging the dog with him. We let them out of the
pasture into an open field, and for a few minutes there was such a
racing and chasing over that field as I never saw before. Harry leaned
up against the bars and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks.
Then Bolton got mad, and began to make battle with the dog, pitching
into him with his horns. We soon stopped that, for the spirit had all
gone out of Dash. Windham unfastened the rope, and told him to get home,
and if ever I saw a dog run, that one did. Mrs. Windham set great store
by him, and her husband didn't want to kill him. But he said Dash had
got to give up his sheep-killing, if he wanted to live. That cured him.
He's never worried a sheep from that day to this, and if you offer him
a bit of sheep's wool now, he tucks his tail between his legs, and runs
for home. Now, I must stop my talk, for we're in sight of the farm.
Yonder's our boundary line, and there's the house. You'll see a
difference in the trees since you were here before.”

We had come to a turn in the road where the ground sloped gently upward.
We turned in at the gate, and drove between rows of trees up to a long,
low; red house, with a veranda all round it. There was a wide lawn in
front, and away on our right were the farm buildings. They too, were
painted red, and there were some trees by them that Mr. Wood called his
windbreak, because they kept the snow from drifting in the winter time.

I thought it was a beautiful place. Miss Laura had been here before, but
not for some years, so she, too, was looking about quite eagerly.

“Welcome to Dingley Farm, Joe,” said Mrs. Wood, with her jolly laugh, as
she watched me jump from the carriage seat to the ground. “Come in, and
I'll introduce you to pussy.”

“Aunt Hattie, why is the farm called Dingley Farm?” said Miss Laura, as
we went into the house. “It ought to be Wood Farm.”

“Dingley is made out of 'dingle,' Laura. You know that pretty hollow
back of the pasture? It is what they call a 'dingle.' So this farm was
called Dingle Farm till the people around about got saying 'Dingley'
instead. I suppose they found it easier. Why, here is Lolo coming to see
Joe.”

Walking along the wide hall that ran through the house was a large
tortoise-shell cat. She had a prettily marked face, and she was waving
her large tail like a flag, and mewing kindly to greet her mistress. But
when she saw me what a face she made. She flew on the hall table, and
putting up her back till it almost lifted her feet from the ground,
began to spit at me and bristle with rage.

“Poor Lolo,” said Mrs. Wood, going up to her. “Joe is a good dog, and
not like Bruno. He won't hurt you.”

I wagged myself about a little, and looked kindly at her, but she did
nothing but say bad words to me. It was weeks and weeks before I made
friends with that cat. She was a young thing, and had known only one
dog, and he was a bad one, so she supposed all dogs were like him.

There was a number of rooms opening off the hall, and one of them was
the dining room where they had tea. I lay on a rug outside the door and
watched them. There was a small table spread with a white cloth, and it
had pretty dishes and glassware on it, and a good many different kinds
of things to eat. A little French girl, called Adele, kept coming and
going from the kitchen to give them hot cakes, and fried eggs, and hot
coffee. As soon as they finished their tea, Mrs. Wood gave me one of the
best meals that I ever had in my life.



CHAPTER XVII MR. WOOD AND HIS HORSES

THE morning after we arrived in Riverdale, I was up very early and
walking around the house. I slept in the woodshed, and could run
outdoors whenever I liked.

The woodshed was at the back of the house and near it was the tool
shed. Then there was a carriage house, and a plank walk leading to the
barnyard.

I ran up this walk, and looked into the first building I came to. It was
the horse stable. A door stood open, and the morning sun was glancing
in. There were several horses there, some with their heads toward me,
and some with their tails. I saw that instead of being tied up, there
were gates outside their stalls, and they could stand in any way they
liked.

There was a man moving about at the other end of the stable, and long
before he saw me, I knew that it was Mr. Wood. What a nice, clean stable
he had! There was always a foul smell coming out of Jenkins's stable,
but here the air seemed as pure inside as outside. There was a number
of little gratings in the wall to let in the fresh air, and they were so
placed that drafts would not blow on the horses. Mr. Wood was going from
one horse to another, giving them hay, and talking to them in a cheerful
voice. At last he spied me, and cried out, “The top of the morning to
you, Joe! You are up early. Don't come too near the horses, good dog,”
 as I walked in beside him; “they might think you are another Bruno, and
give you a sly bite or kick. I should have shot him long ago. 'Tis
hard to make a good dog suffer for a bad one, but that's the way of the
world. Well, old fellow, what do you think of my horse stable? Pretty
fair, isn't it?” And Mr. Wood went on talking to me as he fed and
groomed his horses, till I soon found out that his chief pride was in
them.

I like to have human beings talk to me. Mr. Morris often reads his
sermons to me, and Miss Laura tells me secrets that I don't think she
would tell to any one else.

I watched Mr. Wood carefully, while he groomed a huge, gray cart-horse,
that he called Dutchman. He took a brush in his right hand, and a
curry-comb in his left, and he curried and brushed every part of the
horse's skin, and afterward wiped him with a cloth. “A good grooming is
equal to two quarts of oats, Joe,” he said to me.

Then he stooped down and examined the horse's hoofs. “Your shoes are
too heavy, Dutchman,” he said; “but that pig-headed blacksmith thinks he
knows more about horses than I do. 'Don't cut the sole nor the frog,'
I say to him. 'Don't pare the hoof so much, and don't rasp it; and fit
your shoe to the foot, and not the foot to the shoe,' and he looks as if
he wanted to say, 'Mind your own business.' We'll not go to him again.
''Tis hard to teach an old dog new tricks.' I got you to work for me,
not to wear out your strength in lifting about his weighty shoes.”

Mr. Wood stopped talking for a few minutes, and whistled a tune. Then
he began again. “I've made a study of horses, Joe. Over forty years I've
studied them, and it's my opinion that the average horse knows more than
the average man that drives him. When I think of the stupid fools that
are goading patient horses about, beating them and misunderstanding
them, and thinking they are only clods of earth with a little life in
them, I'd like to take their horses out of the shafts and harness them
in, and I'd trot them off at a pace, and slash them, and jerk them,
till I guess they'd come out with a little less patience than the animal
does.

“Look at this Dutchman see the size of him. You'd think he hadn't any
more nerves than a bit of granite. Yet he's got a skin as sensitive as a
girl's. See how he quivers if I run the curry comb too harshly over him.
The idiot I got him from didn't know what was the matter with him. He'd
bought him for a reliable horse, and there he was, kicking and stamping
whenever the boy went near him. 'Your boy's got too heavy a hand, Deacon
Jones,' said I, when he described the horse's actions to me. 'You may
depend upon it, a four-legged creature, unlike a two-legged one, has a
reason for everything he does.' 'But he's only a draught horse,' said
Deacon Jones. 'Draught horse or no draught horse,' said I, 'you're
describing a horse with a tender skin to me, and I don't care if he's as
big as an elephant.' Well, the old man grumbled and said he didn't
want any thoroughbred airs in his stable, so I bought you, didn't I,
Dutchman?” and Mr. Wood stroked him kindly and went to the next stall.

In each stall was a small tank of water with a sliding cover, and I
found out afterward that these covers were put on when a horse came in
too heated to have a drink. At any other time, he could drink all he
liked. Mr. Wood believed in having plenty of pure water for all his
animals and they all had their own place to get a drink.

Even I had a little bowl of water in the woodshed, though I could easily
have run up to the barnyard when I wanted a drink. As soon as I came,
Mrs. Wood asked Adele to keep it there for me and when I looked up
gratefully at her, she said: “Every animal should have its own feeding
place and its own sleeping place, Joe; that is only fair.”

The next horses Mr. Wood groomed were the black ones, Cleve and Pacer.
Pacer had something wrong with his mouth, and Mr. Wood turned back his
lips and examined it carefully. This he was able to do, for there were
large windows in the stable and it was as light as Mr. Wood's house was.

“No dark corners here, eh Joe!” said Mr. Wood, as he came out of the
stall and passed me to get a bottle from a shelf. “When this stable was
built, I said no dirt holes for careless men here. I want the sun to
shine in the corners, and I don't want my horses to smell bad smells,
for they hate them, and I don't want them starting when they go into
the light of day, just because they've been kept in a black hole of a
stable, and I've never had a. sick horse yet.”

He poured something from a bottle into a saucer and went back to Pacer
with it. I followed him and stood outside. Mr. Wood seemed to be washing
a sore in the horse's mouth. Pacer winced a little, and Mr. Wood said:
“Steady, steady, my beauty; 'twill soon be over.”

The horse fixed his intelligent eyes on his master and looked as if he
knew that he was trying to do him good.

“Just look at these lips, Joe,” said Mr. Wood “delicate and fine like
our own, and yet there are brutes that will jerk them as if they were
made of iron. I wish the Lord would give horses voices just for one
week. I tell you they'd scare some of us. Now, Pacer, that's over. I'm
not going to dose you much, for I don't believe in it. If a horse has
got a serious trouble, get a good horse doctor, say I. If it's a simple
thing, try a simple remedy. There's been many a good horse drugged and
dosed to death. Well, Scamp, my beauty, how are you, this morning?”

In the stall next to Pacer, was a small, jet-black mare, with a lean
head, slender legs, and a curious restless manner. She was a regular
greyhound of a horse, no spare flesh, yet wiry and able to do a great
deal of work. She was a wicked looking little thing, so I thought I had
better keep at a safe distance from her heels.

Mr. Wood petted her a great deal and I saw that she was his favorite.
“Saucebox,” he exclaimed, when she pretended to bite him, “you know if
you bite me, I'll bite back again. I think I've conquered you,” he said,
proudly, as he stroked her glossy neck; “but what a dance you led me.
Do you remember how I bought you for a mere song, because you had a
bad habit of turning around like a flash in front of anything that
frightened you, and bolting off the other way? And how did I cure you,
my beauty? Beat you and make you stubborn? Not I. I let you go round and
round; I turned you and twisted you, the oftener the better for me, till
at last I got it into your pretty head that turning and twisting was
addling your brains, and you had better let me be master.

“You've minded me from that day, haven't you? Horse, or man, or dog
aren't much good till they learn to obey, and I've thrown you down and
I'll do it again if you bite me, so take care.”

Scamp tossed her pretty head, and took little pieces of Mr. Wood's shirt
sleeve in her mouth, keeping her cunning brown eye on him as if to see
how far she could go. But she did not bite him. I think she loved him,
for when he left her she whinnied shrilly, and he had to go back and
stroke and caress her.

After that I often used to watch her as she went about the farm. She
always seemed to be tugging and striving at her load, and trying to step
out fast and do a great deal of work. Mr. Wood was usually driving
her. The men didn't like her, and couldn't manage her. She had not been
properly broken in.

After Mr. Wood finished his work he went and stood in the doorway. There
were six horses altogether: Dutchman, Cleve, Pacer, Scamp, a bay mare
called Ruby, and a young horse belonging to Mr. Harry, whose name was
Fleetfoot.

“What do you think of them all?” said Mr. Wood, looking down at me.
“A pretty fine-looking lot of horses, aren't they? Not a thoroughbred
there, but worth as much to me as if each had pedigree as long as this
plank walk. There's a lot of humbug about this pedigree business in
horses. Mine have their manes and tails anyway, and the proper use of
their eyes, which is more liberty than some thoroughbreds get.

“I'd like to see the man that would persuade me to put blinders or
check-reins or any other instrument of torture on my horses. Don't the
simpletons know that blinders are the cause of well, I wouldn't like to
say how many of our accidents, Joe, for fear you'd think me extravagant.
and the check-rein drags up a horse's head out of its fine natural
curve and presses sinews, bones, and joints together, till the horse is
well-nigh mad. Ah, Joe, this is a cruel world for man or beast. You're
a standing token of that, with your missing ears and tail. And now
I've got to go and be cruel, and shoot that dog. He must be disposed of
before anyone else is astir. How I hate to take life.”

He sauntered down the walk to the tool shed, went in and soon came out
leading a large, brown dog by a chain. This was Bruno. He was snapping
and snarling and biting at his chain as he went along, though Mr. Wood
led him very kindly, and when he saw me he acted as if he could have
torn me to pieces. After Mr. Wood took him behind the barn, he came back
and got his gun. I ran away so that I would not hear the sound of it,
for I could not help feeling sorry for Bruno.

Miss Laura's room was on one side of the house, and in the second story.
There was a little balcony outside it, and when I got near I saw that
she was standing out on it wrapped in a shawl. Her hair was streaming
over her shoulders, and she was looking down into the garden where there
were a great many white and yellow flowers in bloom.

I barked, and she looked at me. “Dear old Joe, I will get dressed and
come down.”

She hurried into her room, and I lay on the veranda till I heard her
step. Then I jumped up. She unlocked the front door, and we went for
a walk down the lane to the road until we heard the breakfast bell. As
soon as we heard it we ran back to the house, and Miss Laura had such an
appetite for her breakfast that her aunt said the country had done her
good already.



CHAPTER XVIII MRS. WOOD'S POULTRY

AFTER breakfast, Mrs. Wood put on a large apron, and going into the
kitchen, said: “Have you any scraps for the hens, Adele? Be sure and not
give me anything salty.”

The French girl gave her a dish of food, then Mrs. Wood asked Miss Laura
to go and see her chickens, and away we went to the poultry house.

On the way we saw Mr. Wood. He was sitting on the step of the tool shed
cleaning his gun “Is the dog dead?” asked Miss Laura.

“Yes,” he said.

She sighed and said: “Poor creature, I am sorry he had to be killed.
Uncle, what is the most merciful way to kill a dog? Sometimes, when they
get old, they should be put out of the way.”

“You can shoot them,” he said, “or you can poison them. I shot Bruno
through his head into his neck. There's a right place to aim at. It's a
little one side of the top of the skull. If you'll remind me I'll show
you a circular I have in the house. It tells the proper way to kill
animals. The American Humane Education Society in Boston puts it out,
and it's a merciful thing.

“You don't know anything about the slaughtering of animals, Laura, and
it's well you don't. There's an awful amount of cruelty 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 house, or rather one of the hen houses.”

“Don't you keep your hens all together?” asked Miss Laura.

“Only in the winter time,” said Mrs. Wood, “I divide my flock in the
spring. Part of them stay here and part go to the orchard to live in
little movable houses that we put about in different places. I feed each
flock morning and evening at their own little house. They know they'll
get no food even if they come to my house, so they stay at home. And
they know they'll get no food between times, so all day long they pick
and scratch in the orchard, and destroy so many bugs and insects that it
more than pays for the trouble of keeping them there.”

“Doesn't this flock want to mix up with the other?” asked Miss Laura, as
she stepped into the little wooden house.

“No; they seem to understand. I keep my eye on them for a while at
first, and they soon find out that they're not to fly either over the
garden fence or the orchard fence. They roam over the farm and pick up
what they can get. There's a good deal of sense in hens, if one manages
them properly. I love them because they are such good mothers.”

We were in the little wooden house by this time, and I looked around it
with surprise. It was better than some of the poor people's houses in
Fairport. The walls were white and clean, so were the little ladders
that led up to different kinds of roosts, where the fowls sat at night.
Some roosts were thin and round, and some were broad and flat. Mrs. Wood
said that the broad ones were for a heavy fowl called the Brahma. Every
part of the little house was almost as light as it was 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 w

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