Beautiful Joe (12 page)

A few
evenings after we came to Dingley Farm, Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura were sitting
out on the veranda, and I was lying at their feet.

“Auntie,”
said Miss Laura, “What do those letters mean on that silver pin that you wear
with that piece of ribbon?”

“You know
what the white ribbon means, don’t you?” asked Mrs. Wood.

“Yes; that
you are a temperance woman, doesn’t it?”

“It does;
and the star pin means that I am a member of a Band of Mercy. Do you know what
a Band of Mercy is?”

“No,” said
Miss Laura.

“How
strange! I should think that you would have several in Fairport. A cripple boy,
the son of a Boston artist, started this one here. It has done a great deal of
good. There is a meeting tomorrow, and I will take you to it if you like.”

It was on
Monday that Mrs. Wood had this talk with Miss Laura, and the next afternoon,
after all the work was done, they got ready to go to the village.

“May Joe
go?” asked Miss Laura.

“Certainly,”
said Mrs. Wood; “he is such good dog that he won’t be any trouble.”

I was very
glad to hear this, and trotted along by them down the lane to the road. The
lane was a very cool and pleasant place. There were tall trees growing on each
side, and under them, among the grass, pretty wild flowers were peeping out to
look at us as we went by.

Mrs. Wood
and Miss Laura talked all the way about the Band of Mercy. Miss Laura was much
interested, and said that she would like to start one in Fairport.

“It is a
very simple thing,” said Mrs. Wood. “All you have to do is to write the pledge
at the top of a piece of paper: ‘I will try to be kind to all harmless living
creatures, and try to protect them from cruel usage,’ and get thirty people to
sign it. That makes a Band.

“I have
formed two or three bands by keeping slips of paper ready, and getting people
that come to visit me to sign them. I call them ‘Corresponding Bands,’ for they
are too far apart to meet. I send the members ‘Band of Mercy’ papers, and I get
such nice letters from them, telling me of kind things they do for animals.

“A Band of
Mercy in a place is a splendid thing. There’s the greatest difference in
Riverdale since this one was started. A few years ago, when a man beat or raced
his horse, and any one interfered, he said: ‘This horse is mine; I’ll do what I
like with him.’ Most people thought he was right, but now they’re all for the
poor horse, and there isn’t a man anywhere around who would dare to abuse any
animal.

“It’s all
the children. They’re doing a grand work, and I say it’s a good thing for them.
Since we’ve studied this subject, it’s enough to frighten one to read what is
sent us about our American boys and girls. Do you know, Laura, that with all
our brag about our schools and colleges, that really are wonderful, we’re
turning out more criminals than any other civilized country in the world, except
Spain and Italy? The cause of it is said to be lack of proper training for the
youth of our land. Immigration has something to do with it, too. We’re thinking
too much about educating the mind, and forgetting about the heart and soul. So
I say now, while we’ve got all our future population in our schools, saints and
sinners, good people and bad people, let us try to slip in something between
the geography, and history, and grammar that will go a little deeper, and touch
them so much, that when they are grown up and go out in the world, they will
carry with them lessons of love and good-will to men.

“A little
child is such a tender thing. You can bend it anyway you like. Speaking of this
heart education of children, as set over against mind education, I see that
many schoolteachers say that there is nothing better than to give them lessons
on kindness to animals. Children who are taught to love and protect dumb
creature, will be kind to their fellow-men when they grow up.”

I was very
much pleased with this talk between Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura, and kept close to
them so that I would not miss a word.

As we went
along, houses began to appear here and there, set back from the road among the
trees. Soon they got quite close together, and I saw some shops.

This was
the village of Riverdale, and nearly all the buildings were along this winding
street. The river was away back of the village. We had already driven there
several times.

We passed
the school on our way. It was a square, white building, standing in the middle
of a large yard. Boys and girls, with their arms full of books, were hurrying
down the steps and coming into the street. Two quite big boys came behind us,
and Mrs. Wood turned around and spoke to them, and asked if they were going to
the Band of Mercy.

“Oh, yes,
ma’am,” said the younger one “I’ve got a recitation, don’t you remember?”

“Yes, yes;
excuse me for forgetting,” said Mrs. Wood, with her jolly laugh. “And here are
Dolly, and Jennie, and Martha,” she went on, as some little girls came running
out of a house that we were passing.

The little
girls joined us and looked so hard at my head and stump of a tail, and my fine
collar, that I felt quite shy, and walked with my head against Miss Laura’s
dress.

She
stooped down and patted me, and then I felt as if I didn’t care how much they
stared. Miss Laura never forgot me. No matter how earnestly she was talking, or
playing a game, or doing anything, she always stopped occasionally to give me
word or look, to show that she knew I was near.

Mrs. Wood
paused in front of a building on the main street. A great many boys and girls
were going in, and we went with them. We found ourselves in a large room, with
a platform at one end of it. There were some chairs on this platform and a
small table.

A boy
stood by this table with his hand on a bell. Presently he rang it, and then
everyone kept still. Mrs. Wood whispered to Miss Laura that this boy was the
president of the band, and the young man with the pale face and curly hair who
sat in front of him was Mr. Maxwell, the artist’s son, who had formed this Band
of Mercy.

The lad
who presided had a ringing, pleasant voice. He said they would begin their
meeting by singing a hymn. There was an organ near the platform and a young
girl played on it, while all the other boys and girls stood up, and sang very
sweetly and clearly.

After they
had sung the hymn, the president asked for the report of their last meeting.

A little
girl, blushing and hanging her head, came forward, and read what was written on
a paper that she held in her hand.

The
president made some remarks after she had finished, and then everyone had to
vote. It was just like a meeting of grown people, and I was surprised to see
how good those children were. They did not frolic nor laugh, but all seemed
sober and listened attentively.

After the
voting was over, the president called upon John Turner to give a recitation
This was the boy whom we saw on the way there. He walked up to the platform,
made a bow, and said that he had learned two stories for his recitation, out of
the paper, “Dumb Animals.” One story was about a horse, and the other was about
a dog, and he thought that they were two of the best animal stories on record.
He would tell the horse story first.

“A man in
Missouri had to go to Nebraska to see about some land. He went on horseback, on
a horse that he had trained himself, and that came at his whistle like a dog.
On getting into Nebraska, he came to a place where there were two roads. One
went by a river, and the other went over the hill. The man saw that the travel
went over the hill, but thought he’d take the river road. He didn’t know that
there was a quicksand across it, and that people couldn’t use it in spring and
summer. There used to be a sign board to tell strangers about it, but it had
been taken away.

“The man
got off his horse to let him graze, and walked along till he got so far ahead
of the horse that he had to sit down and wait for him. Suddenly he found that
he was on a quicksand. His feet had sunk in the sand, and he could not get them
out. He threw himself down, and whistled for his horse, and shouted for help,
but no one came. He could hear some young people singing out on the river, but
they could not hear him. The terrible sand drew him in almost to his shoulders,
and he thought he was lost. At that moment the horse came running up, and stood
by his master. The man was too low down to get hold of the saddle or bridle, so
he took hold of the horse’s tail, and told him to go. The horse gave an awful
pull, and landed his master on safe ground.”

Everybody
clapped his hands, and stamped when this story was finished, and called out: “The
dog story—the dog story!”

The boy
bowed and smiled, and began again. “You all know what a ‘round-up’ of cattle
is, so I need not explain. Once a man down south was going to have one, and he
and his boys and friends were talking it over. There was an ugly, black steer
in the herd, and they were wondering whether their old yellow dog would be able
to manage him. The dog’s name was Tige, and he lay and listened wisely to their
talk. The next day there was a scene of great confusion. The steer raged and
tore about, and would allow no one to come within whip touch of him.

“Tige, who
had always been brave, skulked about for a while, and then, as if he had got up
a little spirit, he made a run at the steer. The steer sighted him, gave a
bellow, and, lowering his horns, ran at him. Tige turned tail, and the young
men that owned him were frantic. They’d been praising him, and thought they
were going to have it proven false. Their father called out: ‘Don’t shoot Tige,
till you see where he’s running to.’ The dog ran right to the cattle pen. The
steer was so enraged that he never noticed where he was going, and dashed in
after him. Tige leaped the wall, and came back to the gate, barking and yelping
for the men to come and shut the steer in. They shut the gate and petted Tige, and
bought him a collar with a silver plate.”

The boy
was loudly cheered, and went to his seat. The president said he would like to
have remarks made about these two stories.

Several
children put up their hands, and he asked each one to speak in turn. One said
that if that man’s horse had had a docked tail, his master wouldn’t have been
able to reach it, and would have perished. Another said that if the man hadn’t
treated his horse kindly, he never would have come at his whistle, and stood
over him to see what he could do to help him. A third child said that the
people on the river weren’t as quick at hearing the voice of the man in trouble
as the horse was.

When this
talk was over, the president called for some stories of foreign animals.

Another
boy came forward, made his bow, and said, in a short, abrupt voice, “My uncle’s
name is Henry Worthington. He is an Englishman, and once he was a soldier in
India. One day when he was hunting in the Punjab, he saw a mother monkey
carrying a little dead baby monkey. Six months after, he was in the same
jungle. Saw same monkey still carrying dead baby monkey, all shriveled up.
Mother monkey loved her baby monkey, and wouldn’t give it up.”

The boy
went to his seat, and the president, with a queer look in his face, said, “That’s
a very good story, Ronald—if it is true.”

None of
the children laughed, but Mrs. Wood’s face got like a red poppy, and Miss Laura
bit her lip, and Mr. Maxwell buried his head in his arms, his whole frame
shaking.

The boy
who told the story looked very angry. He jumped up again. “My uncle’s a true
man, Phil Dodge, and never told a lie in his life.”

The
president remained standing, his face a deep scarlet, and a tall boy at the
back of the room got up and said, “Mr. President, what would be impossible in
this climate, might be possible in a hot country like India. Doesn’t heat
sometimes draw up and preserve things?”

The
president’s face cleared. “Thank you for the suggestion,” he said. “I don’t
want to hurt anybody’s feelings; but you know there is a rule in the band that
only true stories are to be told here. We have five more minutes for foreign stories.
Has anyone else one?”

A small
girl, with twinkling eyes and a merry face, got up, just behind Miss Laura, and
made her way to the front. “My dranfadder says,” she began, in a piping little
voice, “dat when he was a little boy his fadder brought him a little monkey
from de West Indies. De naughty boys in de village used to tease de little
monkey, and he runned up a tree one day. Dey was drowing stones at him, and a
man dat was paintin’ de house druv ’em away. De monkey runned down de tree, and
shook hands wid de man. My dranfadder saw him,” she said, with a shake of her
head at the president, as if she was afraid he would doubt her.

There was
great laughing and clapping of hands when this little girl took her seat, and
she hopped right up again and ran back. “Oh, I fordot,” she went on, in her
squeaky, little voice, “dat my dranfadder says dat afterward de monkey upset de
painter’s can of oil, and rolled in it, and den jumped down in my dranfadder’s
flour barrel.”

The
president looked very much amused, and said, “We have had some good stories
about monkeys, now let us have some more about our home animals. Who can tell
us another story about a horse?”

Three or
four boys jumped up, but the president said they would take one at a time. The
first one was this: A Riverdale boy was walking along the bank of a canal in
Hoytville. He saw a boy driving two horses, which were towing a canal boat. The
first horse was lazy, and the boy got angry and struck him several times over
the head with his whip. The Riverdale boy shouted across to him, begging him
not to be so cruel; but the boy paid no attention. Suddenly the horse turned,
seized his tormentor by the shoulder, and pushed him into the canal. The water
was not deep, and the boy, after floundering about for a few seconds, came out
dripping with mud and filth, and sat down on the tow path, and looked at the
horse with such a comical expression, that the Riverdale boy had to stuff his
handkerchief in his mouth to keep from laughing.

“It is to
be hoped that he would learn a lesson,” said the president, “and be kinder to
his horse in the future. Now, Bernard Howe, your story.”

The boy
was a brother to the little girl who had told the monkey story, and he, too,
had evidently been talking to his grandfather. He told two stories, and Miss
Laura listened eagerly, for they were about Fairport.

The boy
said that when his grandfather was young, he lived in Fairport, Maine. On a
certain day he stood in the market square to see their first stagecoach put
together. It had come from Boston in pieces, for there was no one in Fairport
that could make one. The coach went away up into the country one day, and came
back the next. For a long time no one understood driving the horses properly,
and they came in day after day with the blood streaming from them. The
whiffletree would swing round and hit them, and when their collars were taken
off, their necks would be raw and bloody. After a time, the men got to
understand how to drive a coach, and the horses did not suffer so much.

The other
story was about a team-boat, not a steamboat. More than seventy years ago, they
had no steamers running between Fairport and the island opposite where people
went for the summer, but they had what they called a team-boat, that is, a boat
with machinery to make it go, that could be worked by horses. There were eight
horses that went around and around, and made the boat go. One afternoon, two
dancing masters, who were wicked fellows, that played the fiddle, and never
went to church on Sundays, got on the boat, and sat just where the horses had
to pass them as they went around.

Every time
the horses went by, they jabbed them with their penknives. The man who was
driving the horses at last saw the blood dripping from them, and the dancing
masters were found out. Some young men on the boat were so angry that they
caught up a rope’s end, and gave the dancing masters a lashing, and then threw
them into the water and made them swim to the island.

When this
boy took a seat, a young girl read some verses that she had clipped from a
newspaper:

“Don’t
kill the toads, the ugly toads,

That hop
around your door;

Each meal
the little toad doth eat

A hundred
bugs or more.

“He sits
around with aspect meek,

Until the
bug hath neared,

Then
shoots he forth his little tongue

Like
lightning double-geared.

“And then
he soberly doth wink,

And shut
his ugly mug,

And
patiently doth wait until

There
comes another bug.”

Mr.
Maxwell told a good dog story after this. He said the president need not have
any fears as to its truth, for it had happened in his boarding house in the
village, and he had seen it himself. Monday, the day before, being wash-day,
his landlady lady had put out a large washing. Among the clothes on the line
was a gray flannel shirt belonging to her husband. The young dog belonging to
the house had pulled the shirt from the line and torn it to pieces. The woman
put it aside and told him master would beat him. When the man came home to his
dinner, he showed the dog the pieces of the shirt, and gave him a severe
whipping. The dog ran away, visited all the clothes lines in the village, till
he found a gray shirt very like his master’s. He seized it and ran home, laying
it at his master’s; feet, joyfully wagging his tail meanwhile.

Mr.
Maxwell’s story done, a bright-faced boy, called Simon Grey, got up and said, “You
all know our old gray horse Ned. Last week father sold him to a man in
Hoytville, and I went to the station when he was shipped. He was put in a box
car. The doors were left a little open to give him air, and were locked in that
way. There was a narrow, sliding door, four feet from the floor of the car,
and, in some way or other, old Ned pushed this door open, crawled through it,
and tumbled out on the ground. When I was coming from school, I saw him walking
along the track. He hadn’t hurt himself, except for a few cuts. He was glad to
see me, and followed me home. He must have gotten off the train when it was going
full speed, for he hadn’t been seen at any of the stations, and the trainmen
were astonished to find the doors locked and the car empty, when they got to
Hoytville. Father got the man who bought him to release him from his bargain,
for he says if Ned is so fond of Riverdale, he shall stay here.”

The
president asked the boys and girls to give three cheers for old Ned, and then
they had some more singing. After all had taken their seats, he said he would
like to know what the members had been doing for animals during the past
fortnight.

One girl
had kept her brother from shooting two owls that came about their barnyard. She
told him that the owls would destroy the rats and mice that bothered him in the
barn, but if he hunted them, they would go to the woods.

A boy said
that he had persuaded some of his friends who were going fishing, to put their
bait worms into a dish of boiling water to kill them before they started, and
also to promise him that as soon as they took their fish out of the water, they
would kill them by a sharp blow on the back of the head. They were all the more
ready to do this, when he told them that their fish would taste better when
cooked, if they had been killed as soon as they were taken from the water into
the air.

A little
girl had gotten her mother to say that she would never again put lobsters into
cold water and slowly boil them to death. She had also stopped a man in the
street who was carrying a pair of fowls with their heads down, and asked him if
he would kindly reverse their position. The man told her that the fowls didn’t
mind, and she pursed up her small mouth and showed the band how she said to
him, “I would prefer the opinion of the hens.” Then she said he had laughed at
her, and said, “Certainly, little lady,” and had gone off carrying them as she
wanted him to. She had also reasoned with different boys outside the village who
were throwing stones at birds and frogs, and sticking butterflies, and had
invited them to come to the Band of Mercy.

This child
seemed to have done more than anyone else for dumb animals. She had taken
around a petition to the village boys, asking them not to search for birds’
eggs, and she had even gone into her father’s stable, and asked him to hold her
up, so that she could look into the horses’ mouths to see if their teeth wanted
filing or were decayed. When her father laughed at her, she told him that
horses often suffer terrible pain from their teeth, and that sometimes a
runaway is caused by a metal bit striking against the exposed nerve in the
tooth of a horse that has become almost frantic with pain.

She was a
very gentle girl, and I think by the way that she spoke that her father loved
her dearly, for she told how much trouble he had taken to make some tiny houses
for her that she wanted for the wrens that came about their farm, She told him
that those little birds are so good at catching insects that they ought to give
all their time to it, and not have any worry about making houses. Her father
made their homes very small, so that the English sparrows could not get in and
crowd them out.

A boy said
that he had gotten a pot of paint, and painted in large letters on the fences
around his father’s farm: “Spare the toads, don’t kill the birds. Every bird
killed is a loss to the country.”

“That
reminds me,” said the president, “to ask the girls what they have done about
the millinery business.”

“I have
told my mother,” said a tall, serious faced girl, “that I think it is wrong to
wear bird feathers, and she has promised to give up wearing any of them except
ostrich plumes.”

Mrs. Wood
asked permission to say a few words just here, and the president said: “Certainly,
we are always glad to hear from you.”

She went
up on the platform, and faced the roomful of children. “Dear boys and girls,”
she began, “I have had some papers sent me from Boston, giving some facts about
the killing of our birds, and I want to state a few of them to you: You all
know that nearly every tree and plant that grows swarms with insect life, and
that they couldn’t grow if the birds didn’t eat the insects that would devour
their foliage. All day long, the little beaks of the birds are busy. The dear
little rose-breasted grosbeak carefully examines the potato plants, and picks
off the beetles, the martins destroy weevil, the quail and grouse family eats the
chinchbug, the woodpeckers dig the worms from the trees, and many other birds
eat the flies and gnats and mosquitoes that torment us so. No flying or
crawling creature escapes their sharp little eyes. A great Frenchman says that
if it weren’t for the birds human beings would perish from the face of the
earth. They are doing all this for us, and how are we rewarding them?

“All over
America they are hunted and killed. Five million birds must be caught every
year for American women to wear in their hats and bonnets. Just think of it,
girls. Isn’t it dreadful? Five million innocent, hard-working, beautiful birds
killed, that thoughtless girls and women may ornament themselves with their
little dead bodies. One million bobolinks have been killed in one month near Philadelphia.
Seventy songbirds were sent from one Long Island village to New York milliners.

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

“I am
sorry to tell you such painful things, but I think you ought to know them. You
will soon be men and women. Do what you can to stop this horrid trade. Our
beautiful birds are being taken from us, and the insect pests are increasing.
The State of Massachusetts has lost over one hundred thousand dollars because
it did not protect its birds. The gypsy moth stripped the trees near Boston,
and the State had to pay out all this money, and even then could not get rid of
the moths. The birds could have done it better than the State, but they were
all gone. My last words to you are, ‘Protect the birds.’”

Mrs. Wood
went to her seat, and though the boys and girls had listened very attentively,
none of them cheered her. Their faces looked sad, and they kept very quiet for
a few minutes. I saw one or two little girls wiping their eyes. I think they
felt sorry for the birds.

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

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

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

“I told
him,” said the boy, “that I couldn’t get to sleep for thinking of him. You know
he drives a good deal late at night. I told him that every dark night he came
from Sudbury I thought of the deep ditch alongside the road, and wished his
horses hadn’t blinders on. And every night he comes from the Junction, and has
to drive along the river bank where the water has washed away the earth till
the wheels of the wagon are within a foot or two of the edge, I wished again
that his horses could see each side of them, for I knew they’d have sense
enough to keep out of danger if they could see it.

“Father
said that might be very true, and yet his horses had been broken in with
blinders, and didn’t I think they would be inclined to shy if he took them off;
and wouldn’t they be frightened to look around and see the wagon wheels so
near. I told him that for every accident that happened to a horse without
blinders, several happened to a horse with them; and then I gave him Mr. Wood’s
opinion—Mr. Wood out at Dingley Farm. He says that the worst thing against
blinders is that a frightened horse never knows when he has passed the thing
that scared him. He always thinks it is behind him. The blinders are there and
he can’t see that he has passed it, and he can’t turn his head to have a good
look at it. So often he goes tearing madly on; and sometimes lives are lost all
on account of a little bit of leather fastened over a beautiful eye that ought
to look out full and free at the world. That finished father. He said he’d take
off his blinders, and if he had an accident, he’d send the bill for damages to Mr.
Wood. But we’ve had no accident. The horses did act rather queerly at first,
and started a little; but they soon got over it, and now they go as steady
without blinders as they ever did with them.”