Beautiful Joe (3 page)

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 upbringing 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 anyone 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 someone
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
baseball, and football, 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?”