Beautiful Joe [10]
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 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
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 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