Beautiful Joe [1]
comes because it is called for; the times demand
it. I think that the publishers have a right to ask for a little unselfish
service on the part of the public in helping to give it a circulation
commensurate with its opportunity, need, and influence.
HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.
(Of the committee of readers of the prize stories offered to the Humane
Society.)
BOSTON, MASS
CONTENTS
Chapter I. ONLY A CUR Chapter II. THE CRUEL MILKMAN Chapter III. MY KIND
DELIVERER AND MISS LAURA Chapter IV. THE MORRIS BOYS ADD TO MY NAME Chapter V.
MY NEW HOME AND A SELFISH LADY Chapter VI. THE FOX TERRIER BILLY Chapter VII.
TRAINING A PUPPY Chapter VIII. A RUINED DOG Chapter IX. THE PARROT BELLA Chapter
X. BILLY'S TRAINING CONTINUED Chapter XI. GOLDFISH AND CANARIES Chapter XII.
MALTA THE CAT Chapter XIII. THE BEGINNING OF AN ADVENTURE Chapter XIV. HOW WE
CAUGHT THE BURGLAR Chapter XV. OUR JOURNEY TO RIVERDALE Chapter XVI. DINGLEY
FARM Chapter XVII. MR. WOOD AND HIS HORSES Chapter XVIII. MRS. WOOD'S POULTRY
Chapter XIX. A BAND OF MERCY Chapter XX. STORIES ABOUT ANIMALS Chapter XXI. MR.
MAXWELL AND MR. HARRY Chapter XXII. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE TEA TABLE Chapter
XXIII. TRAPPING WILD ANIMALS Chapter XXIV. THE RABBIT AND THE HEN Chapter XXV. A
HAPPY HORSE Chapter XXVI. THE BOX OF MONEY Chapter XXVII. A NEGLECTED STABLE
Chapter XXVIII. THE END OF THE ENGLISHMAN Chapter XXIX. A TALK ABOUT SHEEP
Chapter XXX. A JEALOUS OX Chapter XXXI. IN THE COW STABLE Chapter XXXII. OUR
RETURN HOME Chapter XXXIII. PERFORMING ANIMALS Chapter XXXIV. A FIRE IN FAIRPORT
Chapter XXXV. BILLY AND THE ITALIAN Chapter XXXVI. DANDY THE TRAMP Chapter
XXXVII. THE END OF MY STORY
BEAUTIFUL JOE
CHAPTER I ONLY A CUR
MY name is Beautiful Joe, and I am a brown dog of medium size. I am not called
Beautiful Joe because I am a beauty. Mr. Morris, the clergyman, in whose family
I have lived for the last twelve years, says that he thinks I must be called
Beautiful Joe for the same reason that his grandfather, down South, called a
very ugly colored slave-lad Cupid, and his mother Venus.
I do not know what he means by that, but when he says it, people always look at
me and smile. I know that I am not beautiful, and I know that I am not a
thoroughbred. I am only a cur.
When my mistress went every year to register me and pay my tax, and the man in
the office asked what breed I was, she said part fox-terrier and part bull-
terrier; but he always put me down a cur. I don't think she liked having him
call me a cur; still, I have heard her say that she preferred curs, for they
have more character than well-bred dogs. Her father said that she liked ugly
dogs for the same reason that a nobleman at the court of a certain king did
namely, that no one else would.
I am an old dog now, and am writing, or rather getting a friend to write, the
story of my life. I have seen my mistress laughing and crying over a little book
that she says is a story of a horse's life, and sometimes she puts the book down
close to my nose to let me see the pictures.
I love my dear mistress; I can say no more than that; I love her better than any
one else in the world; and I think it will please her if I write the story of a
dog's life. She loves dumb animals, and it always grieves her to see them
treated cruelly.
I have heard her say that if all the boys and girls in the world were to rise up
and say that there should be no more cruelty to animals, they could put a stop
to it. Perhaps it will help a little if I tell a story. I am fond of boys and
girls, and though I have seen many cruel men and women, I have seen few cruel
children. I think the more stories there are written about dumb animals, the
better it will be for us.
In telling my story, I think I had better begin at the first and come right on
to the end. I was born in a stable on the outskirts of a small town in Maine
called Fairport. The first thing I remember was lying close to my mother and
being very snug and warm. The next
it. I think that the publishers have a right to ask for a little unselfish
service on the part of the public in helping to give it a circulation
commensurate with its opportunity, need, and influence.
HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.
(Of the committee of readers of the prize stories offered to the Humane
Society.)
BOSTON, MASS
CONTENTS
Chapter I. ONLY A CUR Chapter II. THE CRUEL MILKMAN Chapter III. MY KIND
DELIVERER AND MISS LAURA Chapter IV. THE MORRIS BOYS ADD TO MY NAME Chapter V.
MY NEW HOME AND A SELFISH LADY Chapter VI. THE FOX TERRIER BILLY Chapter VII.
TRAINING A PUPPY Chapter VIII. A RUINED DOG Chapter IX. THE PARROT BELLA Chapter
X. BILLY'S TRAINING CONTINUED Chapter XI. GOLDFISH AND CANARIES Chapter XII.
MALTA THE CAT Chapter XIII. THE BEGINNING OF AN ADVENTURE Chapter XIV. HOW WE
CAUGHT THE BURGLAR Chapter XV. OUR JOURNEY TO RIVERDALE Chapter XVI. DINGLEY
FARM Chapter XVII. MR. WOOD AND HIS HORSES Chapter XVIII. MRS. WOOD'S POULTRY
Chapter XIX. A BAND OF MERCY Chapter XX. STORIES ABOUT ANIMALS Chapter XXI. MR.
MAXWELL AND MR. HARRY Chapter XXII. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE TEA TABLE Chapter
XXIII. TRAPPING WILD ANIMALS Chapter XXIV. THE RABBIT AND THE HEN Chapter XXV. A
HAPPY HORSE Chapter XXVI. THE BOX OF MONEY Chapter XXVII. A NEGLECTED STABLE
Chapter XXVIII. THE END OF THE ENGLISHMAN Chapter XXIX. A TALK ABOUT SHEEP
Chapter XXX. A JEALOUS OX Chapter XXXI. IN THE COW STABLE Chapter XXXII. OUR
RETURN HOME Chapter XXXIII. PERFORMING ANIMALS Chapter XXXIV. A FIRE IN FAIRPORT
Chapter XXXV. BILLY AND THE ITALIAN Chapter XXXVI. DANDY THE TRAMP Chapter
XXXVII. THE END OF MY STORY
BEAUTIFUL JOE
CHAPTER I ONLY A CUR
MY name is Beautiful Joe, and I am a brown dog of medium size. I am not called
Beautiful Joe because I am a beauty. Mr. Morris, the clergyman, in whose family
I have lived for the last twelve years, says that he thinks I must be called
Beautiful Joe for the same reason that his grandfather, down South, called a
very ugly colored slave-lad Cupid, and his mother Venus.
I do not know what he means by that, but when he says it, people always look at
me and smile. I know that I am not beautiful, and I know that I am not a
thoroughbred. I am only a cur.
When my mistress went every year to register me and pay my tax, and the man in
the office asked what breed I was, she said part fox-terrier and part bull-
terrier; but he always put me down a cur. I don't think she liked having him
call me a cur; still, I have heard her say that she preferred curs, for they
have more character than well-bred dogs. Her father said that she liked ugly
dogs for the same reason that a nobleman at the court of a certain king did
namely, that no one else would.
I am an old dog now, and am writing, or rather getting a friend to write, the
story of my life. I have seen my mistress laughing and crying over a little book
that she says is a story of a horse's life, and sometimes she puts the book down
close to my nose to let me see the pictures.
I love my dear mistress; I can say no more than that; I love her better than any
one else in the world; and I think it will please her if I write the story of a
dog's life. She loves dumb animals, and it always grieves her to see them
treated cruelly.
I have heard her say that if all the boys and girls in the world were to rise up
and say that there should be no more cruelty to animals, they could put a stop
to it. Perhaps it will help a little if I tell a story. I am fond of boys and
girls, and though I have seen many cruel men and women, I have seen few cruel
children. I think the more stories there are written about dumb animals, the
better it will be for us.
In telling my story, I think I had better begin at the first and come right on
to the end. I was born in a stable on the outskirts of a small town in Maine
called Fairport. The first thing I remember was lying close to my mother and
being very snug and warm. The next