Beautiful Joe (13 page)

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 someone 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 today,” he drawled, “put some verses in my mind
that I never had till I came here today.” Every one present cheered wildly, and
he began in a sing song voice:

“I am a
Band of Mercy boy,

I would
not hurt a fly,

I always
speak to dogs and cats,

When’er I
pass them by.

“I always
let the birdies sing,

I never
throw a stone,

I always
give a hungry dog

A nice,
fat, meaty bone.

“I wouldn’t
drive a bob-tailed horse,

Nor hurry
up a cow,

I—”

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

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

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

The next
thing was to call for new members. Miss Laura got up and said she would like to
join their Band of Mercy. I followed her up to the platform, while they pinned
a little badge on her, and everyone 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.

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 today,”
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 anyone 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 colour 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
city-ward,” 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 road-making, 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.”