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

like to see what is going

on out-doors 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 up-bringing 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 any one 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 some one 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 base-ball, and

foot-ball, 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 practised 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 poorer 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?"

 

The tears came in Mrs. Morris' eyes. She looked at the little, frail

lady, and said, simply "Dear Mrs. Montague, I think the root of the

whole matter lies in this. The Lord made us all one family. We are all

brothers and sisters. The lowest woman is your sister and my sister. The

man lying in the gutter is our brother. What should we do to help these

members of our common family, who are not as well off as we are? We

should share our last crust with them. You and I, but for God's grace in

placing us in different surroundings, might be in their places. I think

it is wicked neglect, criminal neglect in us to ignore this fact."

 

"It is, it is," said Mrs. Montague, in a despairing voice. "I can't help

feeling it. Tell me something I can do to help some one."

 

Mrs. Morris sank back in her chair, her face very sad, and yet with

something like pleasure in her eyes as she looked at her caller. "Your

washerwoman," she said, "has a drunken husband and a cripple boy. I have

often seen her standing over her tub, washing your delicate muslins and

laces, and dropping tears into the water."

 

"I will never send her anything more--she shall not be troubled," said

Mrs. Montague, hastily.

 

Mrs. Morris could not help smiling. "I have not made myself clear. It is

not the washing that troubles her; it is her husband who beats her, and

her boy who worries her. If you and I take our work from her, she will

have that much less money to depend upon, and will suffer in

consequence.

 

"She is a hard-working and capable woman, and makes a fair living. I

would not advise you to give her money, for her husband would find it

out, and take it from her. It is sympathy that she wants. If you could

visit her occasionally, and show that you are interested in her, by

talking or reading to her poor foolish boy or showing him a

picture-book, you have no idea how grateful she would be to you, and how

it would cheer her on her dreary way."

 

"I will go to see her to-morrow," said Mrs. Montague. "Can you think of

any one else I could visit?"

 

"A great many," said Mrs. Morris; "but I don't think you had better

undertake too much at once. I will give you the addresses of three or

four poor families, where an occasional visit would do untold good. That

is, it will do them good if you treat them as you do your richer

friends. Don't give them too much money, or too many presents, till you

find out what they need. Try to feel interested in them. Find out their

ways of living, and what they are going to do with their children, and

help them to get situations for them if you can. And be sure to remember

that poverty does not always take away one's self-respect."

 

"I will, I will," said Mrs. Montague, eagerly. "When can you give me

these addresses?"

 

Mrs. Morris smiled again, and, taking a piece of paper and a pencil from

her work basket, wrote a few lines and handed