Beautiful Joe (9 page)

Every
other summer, the Morris children were sent to some place in the country, so
that they could have a change of air, and see what country life was like. As
there were so many of them they usually went different ways.

The summer
after I came to them, Jack and Carl went to an uncle in Vermont, Miss Laura
went to another in New Hampshire, and Ned and Willie went to visit a maiden
aunt who lived in the White Mountains.

Mr. and
Mrs. Morris stayed at home. Fairport was a lovely place in summer, and many
people came there to visit.

The
children took some of their pets with them, and the others they left at home
for their mother to take care of. She never allowed them to take a pet animal
anywhere, unless she knew it would be perfectly welcome. “Don’t let your pets
be a worry to other people,” she often said to them, “or they will dislike them
and you too.”

Miss Laura
went away earlier than the others, for she had run down through the spring, and
was pale and thin. One day, early in June, we set out. I say “we,” for after my
adventure with Jenkins, Miss Laura said that I should never be parted from her.
If anyone invited her to come and see them and didn’t want me, she would stay
at home.

The whole
family went to the station to see us off. They put a chain on my collar and
took me to the baggage office and got two tickets for me. One was tied to my
collar and the other Miss Laura put in her purse. Then I was put in a baggage
car and chained in a corner. I heard Mr. Morris say that as we were only going
a short distance, it was not worthwhile to get an express ticket for me.

There was
a dreadful noise and bustle at the station. Whistles were blowing and people
were rushing up and down the platform. Some men were tumbling baggage so fast
into the car where I was, that I was afraid some of it would fall on me.

For a few
minutes Miss Laura stood by the door and looked in, but soon the men had piled
up so many boxes and trunks that she could not see me. Then she went away. Mr.
Morris asked one of the men to see that I did not get hurt, and I heard some
money rattle. Then he too went away.

It was the
beginning of June and the weather had suddenly become very hot. We had a long,
cold spring, and not being used to the heat, it seemed very hard to bear.

Before the
train started, the doors of the baggage car were closed, and it became quite
dark inside. The darkness, and the heat, and the close smell, and the noise, as
we went rushing along, made me feel sick and frightened.

I did not
dare to lie down, but sat up trembling and wishing that we might soon come to
Riverdale Station. But we did not get there for some time, and 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 watchdog, 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 chunk 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 stockyards, 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 me. “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 everyone 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 overrun 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,
madam, yes, madam,” 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, madam, 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.”