Beautiful Joe

“In Florida, cruel men shoot the mother bird on their nests while they are rearing their young, because their plumage is prettiest at that time. The little ones cry pitifully, and starve to death. Every bird of the rarer kinds that is killed, such as humming birds, orioles and kingfishers, means the death of several others that is, the young that starve to death, the wounded that fly away to die, and those whose plumage is so torn that it is not fit to put in a fine lady’s bonnet. In some cases where birds have gay wings, and the hunters do not wish the rest of the body, they tear off the wings from the living bird, and throw it away to die.

“I am sorry to tell you such painful things, but I think you ought to know them. You will soon be men and women. Do what you can to stop this horrid trade. Our beautiful birds are being taken from us, and the insect pests are increasing. The State of Massachusetts has lost over one hundred thousand dollars because it did not protect its birds. The gypsy moth stripped the trees near Boston, and the State had to pay out all this money, and even then could not get rid of the moths. The birds could have done it better than the State, but they were all gone. My last words to you are, ‘Protect the birds.’” Mrs. Wood went to her seat, and though the boys and girls had listened very attentively, none of them cheered her. Their faces looked sad, and they kept very quiet for a few minutes. I saw one or two little girls wiping their eyes. I think they felt sorry for the birds.

“Has any boy done anything about blinders and check-reins?” asked the president, after a time.

A brown-faced boy stood up. “I had a picnic last Monday,” he said; “father let me cut all the blinders off our head-stalls with my penknife.”

“How did you get him to consent to that?” asked the president.

“I told him,” said the boy, “that I couldn’t get to sleep for thinking of him. You know he drives a good deal late at night. I told him that every dark night he came from Sudbury I thought of the deep ditch alongside the road, and wished his horses hadn’t blinders on. And every night he comes from the Junction, and has to drive along the river bank where the water has washed away the earth till the wheels of the wagon are within a foot or two of the edge, I wished again that his horses could see each side of them, for I knew they’d have sense enough to keep out of danger if they could see it. Father said that might be very true, and yet his horses had been broken in with blinders, and didn’t I think they would be inclined to shy if he took them off; and wouldn’t they be frightened to look around and see the wagon wheels so near. I told him that for every accident that happened to a horse without blinders, several happened to a horse with them; and then I gave him Mr. Wood’s opinion Mr. Wood out at Dingley Farm. He says that the worst thing against blinders is that a frightened horse never knows when he has passed the thing that scared him. He always thinks it is behind him. The blinders are there and he can’t see that he has passed it, and he can’t turn his head to have a good look at it. So often he goes tearing madly on; and sometimes lives are lost all on account of a little bit of leather fastened over a beautiful eye that ought to look out full and free at the world. That finished father. He said he’d take off his blinders, and if he had an accident, he’d send the bill for damages to Mr. Wood. But we’ve had no accident. The horses did act rather queerly at first, and started a little; but they soon got over it, and now they go as steady without blinders as they ever did with them.”

The boy sat down, and the president said: “I think it is time that the whole nation threw off this foolishness of half covering their horses’ eyes. Just put your hands up to your eyes, members of the band. Half cover them, and see how shut in you will feel; and how curious you will be to know what is going on beside you. Suppose a girl saw a mouse with her eyes half covered, wouldn’t she run?”

Everybody laughed, and the president asked some one to tell him who invented blinders.

“An English nobleman,” shouted a boy, “who had a wall-eyed horse! He wanted to cover up the defect, and I think it is a great shame that all the American horses have to suffer because that English one had an ugly eye.”

“So do I,” said the president. “Three groans for blinders, boys.”

And the children in the room made three dreadful noises away down in their throats. Then they had another good laugh, and the president became sober again. “Seven more minutes,” he said; “this meeting has got to be let out at five sharp.”

A tall girl at the back of the room rose, and said: “My little cousin has two stories that she would like to tell the band.”

“Very well,” said the president; “bring her right along.”

The big girl came forward, leading a tiny child that she placed in front of the boys and girls. The child stared up into her cousin’s face, turning and twisting her white pinafore through her fingers. Every time the big girl took her pinafore away from her, she picked it up again. “Begin, Nannie,” said the big girl, kindly.

“Well, Cousin Eleanor,” said the child, “you know Topsy, Graham’s pony. Well, Topsy would run away, and a big, big man came out to papa and said he would train Topsy. So he drove her every day, and beat her, and beat her, till he was tired, but still Topsy would run away. Then papa said he would not have the poor pony whipped so much, and he took her out a piece of bread every day, and he petted her and now Topsy is very gentle, and never runs away.”

“Tell about Tiger,” said the girl.

“Well, Cousin Eleanor,” said the child, “you know Tiger, our big dog. He used to be a bad dog, and when Dr. Fairchild drove up to the house he jumped up and bit at him. Dr. Fairchild used to speak kindly to him, and throw out bits of meat, and now when he comes, Tiger follows behind and wags his tail. Now, give me a kiss.”

The girl had to give her a kiss, right up there before every one, and what a stamping the boys made. The larger girl blushed and hurried back to her seat, with the child clinging to her hand.

There was one more story, about a brave Newfoundland dog, that saved eight lives by swimming out to a wrecked sailing vessel, and getting a rope by which the men came ashore, and then a lad got up whom they all greeted with cheers, and cries of, “The Poet! the Poet!” I didn’t know what they meant, till Mrs. Wood whispered to Miss Laura that he was a boy who made rhymes, and the children had rather hear him speak than any one else in the room.

He had a snub nose and freckles, and I think he was the plainest boy there, but that didn’t matter, if the other children loved him. He sauntered up to the front, with his hands behind his back, and a very grand manner.

“The beautiful poetry recited here to-day,” he drawled, “put some verses in my mind that I never had till I came here to-day.” Every one present cheered wildly, and he began in a sing song voice:

“I am a Band of Mercy boy,I would not hurt a fly,I always speak to dogs and cats,When’er I pass them by.“I always let the birdies sing,I never throw a stone,I always give a hungry dogA nice, fat, meaty bone.“I wouldn’t drive a bob-tailed horse,Nor hurry up a cow, I”

Then he forgot the rest. The boys and girls were so sorry. They called out, “Pig,” “Goat,” “Calf,” “Sheep,” “Hens,” “Ducks,” and all the other animals’ names they could think of, but none of them was right, and as the boy had just made up the poetry, no one knew what the next could be. He stood for a long time staring at the ceiling, then he said, “I guess I’ll have to give it up.”

The children looked dreadfully disappointed. “Perhaps you will remember it by our next meeting,” said the president, anxiously.

“Possibly,” said the boy, “but probably not. I think it is gone forever.” And he went to his seat.

The next thing was to call for new members. Miss Laura got up and said she would like to join their Band of Mercy. I followed her up to the platform, while they pinned a little badge on her, and every one laughed at me. Then they sang, “God Bless our Native Land,” and the president told us that we might all go home.

It seemed to me a lovely thing for those children to meet together to talk about kindness to animals. They all had bright and good faces, and many of them stopped to pat me as I came out. One little girl gave me a biscuit from her school bag.

Mrs. Wood waited at the door till Mr. Maxwell came limping out on his crutches. She introduced him to Miss Laura, and asked him if he wouldn’t go and take tea with them. He said he would be very happy to do so, and then Mrs. Wood laughed; and asked him if he hadn’t better empty his pockets first. She didn’t want a little toad jumping over her tea table, as one did the last time he was there.

CHAPTER XXI MR. MAXWELL AND MR. HARRY

MR. MAXWELL wore a coat with loose pockets, and while she was speaking, he rested on his crutches, and began to slap them with his hands. “No; there’s nothing here to-day,” he said; “I think I emptied my pockets before I went to the meeting.”

Just as he said that there was a loud squeal: “Oh, my guinea pig,” he exclaimed; “I forgot him,” and he pulled out a little spotted creature a few inches long. “Poor Derry, did I hurt you?” and he soothed it very tenderly.

I stood and looked at Mr. Maxwell, for I had never seen any one like him. He had thick curly hair and a white face, and he looked just like a girl. While I was staring at him, something peeped up out of one of his pockets and ran out its tongue at me so fast that I could scarcely see it, and then drew back again. I was thunderstruck. I had never seen such a creature before. It was long and thin like a boy’s cane, and of a bright green color like grass, and it had queer shiny eyes. But its tongue was the strangest part of it. It came and went like lightning. I was uneasy about it, and began to bark.

“What’s the matter, Joe?” said Mrs. Wood; “the pig won’t hurt you.”

But it wasn’t the pig I was afraid of, and I kept on barking. And all the time that strange live thing kept sticking up its head and putting out its tongue at me, and neither of them noticed it.

“It’s getting on toward six,” said Mrs. Wood; “we must be going home. Come, Mr. Maxwell.”

The young man put the guinea pig in his pocket, picked up his crutches, and we started down the sunny village street. He left his guinea pig at his boarding house as he went by, but he said nothing about the other creature, so I knew he did not know it was there.

I was very much taken with Mr. Maxwell. He seemed so bright and happy, in spite of his lameness, which kept him from running about like other young men. He looked a little older than Miss Laura, and one day, a week or two later, when they were sitting on the veranda, I heard him tell her that he was just nineteen. He told her, too, that his lameness made him love animals. They never laughed at him, or slighted him, or got impatient, because he could not walk quickly. They were always good to him, and he said he loved all animals while he liked very few people.

On this day as he was limping along, he said to Mrs. Wood: “I am getting more absent-minded every day. Have you heard of my latest escapade?”

“No,” she said.

“I am glad,” he replied. “I was afraid that it would be all over the village by this time. I went to church last Sunday with my poor guinea pig in my pocket. He hasn’t been well, and I was attending to him before church, and put him in there to get warm, and forgot about him. Unfortunately I was late, and the back seats were all full, so I had to sit farther up than I usually do. During the first hymn I happened to strike Piggy against the side of the seat. Such an ear-splitting squeal as he set up. It sounded as if I was murdering him. The people stared and stared, and I had to leave the church, overwhelmed with confusion.”

Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura laughed, and then they got talking about other matters that were not interesting to me, so I did not listen. But I kept close to Miss Laura, for I was afraid that green thing might hurt her. I wondered very much what its name was. I don’t think I should have feared it so much if I had known what it was.

“There’s something the matter with Joe,” said Miss Laura, when we got into the lane. “What is it, dear old fellow?” She put down her little hand, and I licked it, and wished so much that I could speak.

Sometimes I wish very much that I had the gift of speech, and then at other times I see how little it would profit me, and how many foolish things I should often say. And I don’t believe human beings would love animals as well, if they could speak.

When we reached the house, we got a joyful surprise. There was a trunk standing on the veranda, and as soon as Mrs. Wood saw it, she gave a little shriek: “My dear boy!”

Mr. Harry was there, sure enough, and stepped out through the open door. He took his mother in his arms and kissed her, then he shook hands with Miss Laura and Mr. Maxwell, who seemed to be an old friend of his. They all sat down on the veranda and talked, and I lay at Miss Laura’s feet and looked at Mr. Harry. He was such a handsome young man, and had such a noble face. He was older and graver looking than when I saw him last, and he had a light, brown mustache that he did not have when he was in Fairport.

He seemed very fond of his mother and of Miss Laura, and however grave his face might be when he was looking at Mr. Maxwell, it always lighted up when he turned to them. “What dog is that?” he said at last, with a puzzled face, and pointing to me.

“Why, Harry,” exclaimed Miss Laura, “don’t you know Beautiful Joe, that you rescued from that wretched milkman?”

“Is it possible,” he said, “that this well-conditioned creature is the bundle of dirty skin and bones that we nursed in Fairport? Come here, sir. Do you remember me?”

Indeed I did remember him, and I licked his hands and looked up gratefully into his face. “You’re almost handsome now,” he said, caressing me with a firm, kind hand, “and of a solid build, too. You look like a fighter but I suppose you wouldn’t let him fight, even if he wanted to, Laura,” and he smiled and glanced at her.

“No,” she said; “I don’t think I should; but he can fight when the occasion requires it.” And she told him about our night with Jenkins.

All the time she was speaking, Mr. Harry held me by the paws, and stroked my body over and over again. When she finished, he put his head down to me, and murmured, “Good dog,” and I saw that his eyes were red and shining.

“That’s a capital story, we must have it at the Band of Mercy,” said Mr. Maxwell. Mrs. Wood had gone to help prepare the tea, so the two young men were alone with Miss Laura. When they had done talking about me, she asked Mr. Harry a number of questions about his college life, and his trip to New York, for he had not been studying all the time that he was away.

“What are you going to do with yourself, Gray, when your college course is ended?” asked Mr. Maxwell.

“I am going to settle right down here,” said Mr. Harry.

“What, be a farmer?” asked his friend.

“Yes; why not?”

“Nothing, only I imagined that you would take a profession.”

“The professions are overstocked, and we have not farmers enough for the good of the country. There is nothing like farming, to my mind. In no other employment have you a surer living. I do not like the cities. The heat and dust, and crowds of people, and buildings overtopping one another, and the rush of living, take my breath away. Suppose I did go to a city. I would sell out my share of the farm, and have a few thousand dollars. You know I am not an intellectual giant. I would never distinguish myself in any profession. I would be a poor lawyer or doctor, living in a back street all the days of my life, and never watch a tree or flower grow, or tend an animal, or have a drive unless I paid for it. No, thank you. I agree with President Eliot, of Harvard. He says scarcely one person in ten thousand betters himself permanently by leaving his rural home and settling in a city. If one is a millionaire, city life is agreeable enough, for one can always get away from it; but I am beginning to think that it is a dangerous thing, in more ways than one, to be a millionaire. I believe the safety of the country lies in the hands of the farmers; for they are seldom very poor or very rich. We stand between the two dangerous classes the wealthy and the paupers.”

“But most farmers lead such a dog’s life,” said Mr. Maxwell.

“So they do; farming isn’t made one-half as attractive as it should be,” said Mr. Harry.

Mr. Maxwell smiled. “Attractive farming. Just sketch an outline of that, will you, Gray?”

“In the first place,” said Mr. Harry, “I would like to tear out of the heart of the farmer the thing that is as firmly implanted in him as it is in the heart of his city brother the thing that is doing more to harm our nation than anything else under the sun.”

“What is that?” asked Mr. Maxwell, curiously.

“The thirst for gold. The farmer wants to get rich, and he works so hard to do it that he wears himself out soul and body, and the young people around him get so disgusted with that way of getting rich, that they go off to the cities to find out some other way, or at least to enjoy themselves, for I don’t think many young people are animated by a desire to heap up money.”

Mr. Maxwell looked amused. “There is certainly a great exodus from country places cityward,” he said. “What would be your plan for checking it?”

“I would make the farm so pleasant, that you couldn’t hire the boys and girls to leave it. I would have them work, and work hard, too, but when their work was over, I would let them have some fun. That is what they go to the city for. They want amusement and society, and to get into some kind of a crowd when their work is done. The young men and young women want to get together, as is only natural. Now that could be done in the country. If farmers would be contented with smaller profits and smaller farms, their houses could be nearer together. Their children would have opportunities of social intercourse, there could be societies and clubs, and that would tend to a distribution of literature. A farmer ought to take five or six papers and two or three magazines. He would find it would pay him in the long run, and there ought to be a law made, compelling him to go to the post office once a day.”

Mr. Maxwell burst out laughing. “And another to make him mend his roads as well as mend his ways. I tell you Gray, the bad roads would put an end to all these fine schemes of yours. Imagine farmers calling on each other on a dark evening after a spring freshet. I can see them mired and bogged, and the house a mile ahead of them.”

“That is true,” said Mr. Harry, “the road question is a serious one. Do you know how father and I settle it?”

“No,” said Mr. Maxwell.

“We got so tired of the whole business, and the farmers around here spent so much time in discussing the art of roadmaking, as to whether it should be viewed from the engineering point of view, or the farmers’ practical point of view, and whether we would require this number of stump extractors or that number, and how many shovels and crushers and ditchers would be necessary to keep our roads in order, and so on, that we simply withdrew. We keep our own roads in order. Once a year, father gets a gang of men and tackles every section of the road that borders upon our land, and our roads are the best around here. I wish the government would take up this matter of making roads and settle it. If we had good, smooth, country roads, such as they have in some parts of Europe, we would be able to travel comfortably over them all through the year, and our draught animals would last longer, for they would not have to expend so much energy in drawing their loads.”

CHAPTER XXII WHAT HAPPENED AT THE TEA TABLE

FROM my station under Miss Laura’s chair, I could see that all the time Mr. Harry was speaking, Mr. Maxwell, although he spoke rather as if he was laughing at him, was yet glancing at him admiringly.

When Mr. Harry was silent, he exclaimed, “You are right, you are right, Gray. With your smooth highways, and plenty of schools, and churches, and libraries, and meetings for young people, you would make country life a paradise, and I tell you what you would do, too; you would empty the slums of the cities. It is the slowness and dullness of country life, and not their poverty alone, that keep the poor in dirty lanes and tenement houses. They want stir and amusement, too, poor souls, when their day’s work is over. I believe they would come to the country if it were made more pleasant for them.”

“That is another question,” said Mr. Harry, “a burning question in my mind the labor and capital one. When I was in New York, Maxwell, I was in a hospital, and saw a number of men who had been day laborers. Some of them were old and feeble, and others were young men, broken down in the prime of life. Their limbs were shrunken and drawn. They had been digging in the earth, and working on high buildings, and confined in dingy basements, and had done all kinds of hard labor for other men. They had given their lives and strength for others, and this was the end of it to die poor and forsaken. I looked at them, and they reminded me of the martyrs of old. Ground down, living from hand to mouth, separated from their families in many cases they had had a bitter lot. They had never had a chance to get away from their fate, and had to work till they dropped. I tell you there is something wrong. We don’t do enough for the people that slave and toil for us. We should take better care of them, we should not herd them together like cattle, and when we get rich, we should carry them along with us, and give them a part of our gains, for without them we would be as poor as they are.”

“Good, Harry I’m with you there,” said voice behind him, and looking around, we saw Mr. Wood standing in the doorway, gazing down proudly at his step-son.

Mr. Harry smiled, and getting up, said, “Won’t you have my chair, sir?”

“No, thank you; your mother wishes us to come to tea. There are muffins, and you know they won’t improve with keeping.”

They all went to the dining-room, and I followed them. On the way, Mr. Wood said, “Right on top of that talk of yours, Harry, I’ve got to tell you of another person who is going to Boston to live.”

“Who is it?” said Mr. Harry.

“Lazy Dan Wilson. I’ve been to see him this afternoon. You know his wife is sick, and they’re half starved. He says he is going to the city, for he hates to chop wood and work, and he thinks maybe he’ll get some light job there.”

Mr. Harry looked grave, and Mr. Maxwell said, “He will starve, that’s what he will do.”

“Precisely,” said Mr. Wood, spreading out his hard, brown hands, as he sat down at the table. “I don’t know why it is, but the present generation has a marvelous way of skimming around any kind of work with their hands. They’ll work their brains till they haven’t got any more backbone than a caterpillar, but as for manual labor, it’s old-timey and out of fashion. I wonder how these farms would ever have been carved out of the backwoods, if the old Puritans had sat down on the rocks with their noses in a lot of books, and tried to figure out just how little work they could do, and yet exist.”

“Now, father,” said Mrs. Wood, “you are trying to insinuate that the present generation is lazy, and I’m sure it isn’t. Look at Harry. He works as hard as you do.”

“Isn’t that like a woman?” said Mr. Wood, with a good-natured laugh. “The present generation consists of her son, and the past of her husband. I don’t think all our young people are lazy, Hattie; but how in creation, unless the Lord rains down a few farmers, are we going to support all our young lawyers and doctors? They say the world is getting healthier and better, but we’ve got to fight a little more, and raise some more criminals, and we’ve got to take to eating pies and doughnuts for breakfast again, or some of our young sprouts from the colleges will go a begging.”

“You don’t mean to undervalue the advantages of a good education, do you, Mr. Wood?” said Mr. Maxwell.

“No, no; look at Harry there. Isn’t he pegging away at his studies with my hearty approval? and he’s going to be nothing but a plain, common farmer. But he’ll be a better one than I’ve been though, because he’s got a trained mind. I found that out when he was a lad going to the village school. He’d lay out his little garden by geometry, and dig his ditches by algebra. Education’s a help to any man. What I am trying to get at is this, that in some way or other we’re running more to brains and less to hard work than our forefathers did.”