Beautiful Joe, Marshall Saunders [historical books to read .TXT] 📗

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 junk 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

"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