Beautiful Joe [110]
tea time,
and I would have plenty of time to take a run down to the hotel where they were
staying, so I set out. It was a lovely autumn evening. The sun was going down in
a haze, and it was quite warm. Earlier in the day I had heard Mr. Morris say
that this was our Indian summer, and that we should soon have cold weather.
Fairport was a pretty little town, and from the principal street one could look
out upon the blue water of the bay and see the island opposite, which was quite
deserted now, for all the summer visitors had gone home, and the Island House
was shut up.
I was running down one of the steep side streets that led to the water when I
met a heavily-laden cart coming up. It must have been coming from one of the
vessels, for it was full of strange-looking boxes and packages. A fine-looking
nervous horse was drawing it, and he was straining every nerve to get it up the
steep hill. His driver was a burly, hard-faced man, and instead of letting his
horse stop a minute to rest he kept urging him forward. The poor horse kept
looking at his master, his eyes almost starting from his head in terror. He knew
that the whip was about to descend on his quivering body. And so it did, and
there was no one by to interfere. No one but a woman in a ragged shawl who would
have no influence with the driver. There was a very good humane society in
Fairport, and none of the teamsters dared ill-use their horses if any of the
members were near. This was a quiet out-of-the-way street, with only poor houses
on it, and the man probably knew that none of the members of the society would
be likely to be living in them. He whipped his horse, and whipped him, till
every lash made my heart ache, and if I had dared I would have bitten him
severely. Suddenly, there was a dull thud in the street. The horse had fallen
down. The driver ran to his head, but he was quite dead. "Thank God!" said the
poorly-dressed woman, bitterly; "one more out of this world of misery." Then she
turned and went down the street. I was glad for the horse. He would never be
frightened or miserable again, and I went slowly on, thinking that death is the
best thing that can happen to tortured animals.
The Fairport hotel was built right in the centre of the town, and the shops and
houses crowded quite close about it. It was a high, brick building, and it was
called the Fairport House. As I was running along the sidewalk, I heard some one
speak to me, and looking up I saw Charlie Montague. I had heard the Morrises say
that his parents were staying at the hotel for a few weeks, while their house
was being repaired. He had his Irish setter, Brisk, with him, and a handsome dog
he was, as he stood waving his silky tail in the sunlight. Charlie patted me,
and then he and his dog went into the hotel. I turned into the stable yard. It
was a small, choked-up place, and as I picked my way under the cabs and wagons
standing in the yard, I wondered why the hotel people didn't buy some of the old
houses near by, and tear them down, and make a stable yard worthy of such a nice
hotel. The hotel horses were just getting rubbed down after their day's work,
and others were coming in. The men were talking and laughing, and there was no
sign of strange animals, so I went around to the back of the yard. Here they
were, in an empty cow stable, under a hay loft. There were two little ponies
tied up in a stall, two goats beyond them, and dogs and monkeys in strong
traveling cages. I stood in the doorway and stared at them. I was sorry for the
dogs to be shut up on such a lovely evening, but I suppose their master was
afraid of their getting lost, or being stolen, if he let them loose.
They all seemed very friendly. The ponies turned around and looked at me with
their gentle eyes, and then went on munching their hay. I wondered very much
where the gander was, and went a little farther into the stable. Something white
raised itself up out of the brownest pony's crib, and there was the gander close
and I would have plenty of time to take a run down to the hotel where they were
staying, so I set out. It was a lovely autumn evening. The sun was going down in
a haze, and it was quite warm. Earlier in the day I had heard Mr. Morris say
that this was our Indian summer, and that we should soon have cold weather.
Fairport was a pretty little town, and from the principal street one could look
out upon the blue water of the bay and see the island opposite, which was quite
deserted now, for all the summer visitors had gone home, and the Island House
was shut up.
I was running down one of the steep side streets that led to the water when I
met a heavily-laden cart coming up. It must have been coming from one of the
vessels, for it was full of strange-looking boxes and packages. A fine-looking
nervous horse was drawing it, and he was straining every nerve to get it up the
steep hill. His driver was a burly, hard-faced man, and instead of letting his
horse stop a minute to rest he kept urging him forward. The poor horse kept
looking at his master, his eyes almost starting from his head in terror. He knew
that the whip was about to descend on his quivering body. And so it did, and
there was no one by to interfere. No one but a woman in a ragged shawl who would
have no influence with the driver. There was a very good humane society in
Fairport, and none of the teamsters dared ill-use their horses if any of the
members were near. This was a quiet out-of-the-way street, with only poor houses
on it, and the man probably knew that none of the members of the society would
be likely to be living in them. He whipped his horse, and whipped him, till
every lash made my heart ache, and if I had dared I would have bitten him
severely. Suddenly, there was a dull thud in the street. The horse had fallen
down. The driver ran to his head, but he was quite dead. "Thank God!" said the
poorly-dressed woman, bitterly; "one more out of this world of misery." Then she
turned and went down the street. I was glad for the horse. He would never be
frightened or miserable again, and I went slowly on, thinking that death is the
best thing that can happen to tortured animals.
The Fairport hotel was built right in the centre of the town, and the shops and
houses crowded quite close about it. It was a high, brick building, and it was
called the Fairport House. As I was running along the sidewalk, I heard some one
speak to me, and looking up I saw Charlie Montague. I had heard the Morrises say
that his parents were staying at the hotel for a few weeks, while their house
was being repaired. He had his Irish setter, Brisk, with him, and a handsome dog
he was, as he stood waving his silky tail in the sunlight. Charlie patted me,
and then he and his dog went into the hotel. I turned into the stable yard. It
was a small, choked-up place, and as I picked my way under the cabs and wagons
standing in the yard, I wondered why the hotel people didn't buy some of the old
houses near by, and tear them down, and make a stable yard worthy of such a nice
hotel. The hotel horses were just getting rubbed down after their day's work,
and others were coming in. The men were talking and laughing, and there was no
sign of strange animals, so I went around to the back of the yard. Here they
were, in an empty cow stable, under a hay loft. There were two little ponies
tied up in a stall, two goats beyond them, and dogs and monkeys in strong
traveling cages. I stood in the doorway and stared at them. I was sorry for the
dogs to be shut up on such a lovely evening, but I suppose their master was
afraid of their getting lost, or being stolen, if he let them loose.
They all seemed very friendly. The ponies turned around and looked at me with
their gentle eyes, and then went on munching their hay. I wondered very much
where the gander was, and went a little farther into the stable. Something white
raised itself up out of the brownest pony's crib, and there was the gander close