Beautiful Joe [3]
a load
of decayed vegetables, that grocers were glad to have him take off their hands.
This food, together with poor hay, made the cows give very poor milk, and
Jenkins used to put some white powder in it, to give it "body," as he said.
Once a very sad thing happened about the milk, that no one knew about but
Jenkins and his wife. She was a poor, unhappy creature, very frightened at her
husband, and not daring to speak much to him. She was not a clean woman, and I
never saw a worse-looking house than she kept.
She used to do very queer things, that I know now no housekeeper should do. I
have seen her catch up the broom to pound potatoes in the pot. She pounded with
the handle, and the broom would fly up and down in the air, dropping dust into
the pot where the potatoes were. Her pan of soft-mixed bread she often left
uncovered in the kitchen, and sometimes the hens walked in and sat in it.
The children used to play in mud puddles about the door. It was the youngest of
them that sickened with some kind of fever early in the spring, before Jenkins
began driving the cows out to pasture. The child was very ill, and Mrs. Jenkins
wanted to send for a doctor, but her husband would not let her. They made a bed
in the kitchen, close to the stove, and Mrs. Jenkins nursed the child as best
she could. She did all her work near by, and I saw her several times wiping the
child's face with the cloth that she used for washing her milk pans.
Nobody knew outside the family that the little girl was ill. Jenkins had such a
bad name, that none of the neighbors would visit them. By-and-by the child got
well, and a week or two later Jenkins came home with quite a frightened face,
and told his wife that the husband of one of his customers was very ill with
typhoid fever.
After a time the gentleman died, and the cook told Jenkins that the doctor
wondered how he could have taken the fever, for there was not a case in town.
There was a widow left with three orphans, and they never knew that they had to
blame a dirty careless milkman for taking a kind husband and father from them.
CHAPTER II THE CRUEL MILKMAN
I HAVE said that Jenkins spent most of his days in idleness. He had to start out
very early in the morning, in order to supply his customers with milk for
breakfast. Oh, how ugly he used to be, when he came into the stable on cold
winter mornings, before the sun was up
He would hang his lantern on a hook, and get his milking stool, and if the cows
did not step aside just to suit him, he would seize a broom or fork, and beat
them cruelly.
My mother and I slept on a heap of straw in the corner of the stable, and when
she heard his step in the morning she always roused me, so that we could run
out-doors as soon as he opened the stable door. He always aimed a kick at us as
we passed, but my mother taught me how to dodge him.
After he finished milking, he took the pails of milk up to the house for Mrs.
Jenkins to strain and put in the cans, and he came back and harnessed his horse
to the cart. His horse was called Toby, and a poor, miserable, broken-down
creature he was. He was weak in the knees, and weak in the back, and weak all
over, and Jenkins had to beat him all the time, to make him go. He had been a
cab horse, and his mouth had been jerked, and twisted, and sawed at, till one
would think there could be no feeling left in it; still I have seen him wince
and curl up his lip when Jenkins thrust in the frosty bit on a winter's morning.
Poor old Toby! I used to lie on my straw some times and wonder he did not cry
out with pain. Cold and half starved he always was in the winter time, and often
with raw sores on his body that Jenkins would try to hide by putting bits of
cloth under the harness. But Toby never murmured, and he never tried to kick and
bite, and he minded the least word from Jenkins, and if he swore at him Toby
would start back, or step up quickly, he was so anxious to please him.
After Jenkins put him in the cart,
of decayed vegetables, that grocers were glad to have him take off their hands.
This food, together with poor hay, made the cows give very poor milk, and
Jenkins used to put some white powder in it, to give it "body," as he said.
Once a very sad thing happened about the milk, that no one knew about but
Jenkins and his wife. She was a poor, unhappy creature, very frightened at her
husband, and not daring to speak much to him. She was not a clean woman, and I
never saw a worse-looking house than she kept.
She used to do very queer things, that I know now no housekeeper should do. I
have seen her catch up the broom to pound potatoes in the pot. She pounded with
the handle, and the broom would fly up and down in the air, dropping dust into
the pot where the potatoes were. Her pan of soft-mixed bread she often left
uncovered in the kitchen, and sometimes the hens walked in and sat in it.
The children used to play in mud puddles about the door. It was the youngest of
them that sickened with some kind of fever early in the spring, before Jenkins
began driving the cows out to pasture. The child was very ill, and Mrs. Jenkins
wanted to send for a doctor, but her husband would not let her. They made a bed
in the kitchen, close to the stove, and Mrs. Jenkins nursed the child as best
she could. She did all her work near by, and I saw her several times wiping the
child's face with the cloth that she used for washing her milk pans.
Nobody knew outside the family that the little girl was ill. Jenkins had such a
bad name, that none of the neighbors would visit them. By-and-by the child got
well, and a week or two later Jenkins came home with quite a frightened face,
and told his wife that the husband of one of his customers was very ill with
typhoid fever.
After a time the gentleman died, and the cook told Jenkins that the doctor
wondered how he could have taken the fever, for there was not a case in town.
There was a widow left with three orphans, and they never knew that they had to
blame a dirty careless milkman for taking a kind husband and father from them.
CHAPTER II THE CRUEL MILKMAN
I HAVE said that Jenkins spent most of his days in idleness. He had to start out
very early in the morning, in order to supply his customers with milk for
breakfast. Oh, how ugly he used to be, when he came into the stable on cold
winter mornings, before the sun was up
He would hang his lantern on a hook, and get his milking stool, and if the cows
did not step aside just to suit him, he would seize a broom or fork, and beat
them cruelly.
My mother and I slept on a heap of straw in the corner of the stable, and when
she heard his step in the morning she always roused me, so that we could run
out-doors as soon as he opened the stable door. He always aimed a kick at us as
we passed, but my mother taught me how to dodge him.
After he finished milking, he took the pails of milk up to the house for Mrs.
Jenkins to strain and put in the cans, and he came back and harnessed his horse
to the cart. His horse was called Toby, and a poor, miserable, broken-down
creature he was. He was weak in the knees, and weak in the back, and weak all
over, and Jenkins had to beat him all the time, to make him go. He had been a
cab horse, and his mouth had been jerked, and twisted, and sawed at, till one
would think there could be no feeling left in it; still I have seen him wince
and curl up his lip when Jenkins thrust in the frosty bit on a winter's morning.
Poor old Toby! I used to lie on my straw some times and wonder he did not cry
out with pain. Cold and half starved he always was in the winter time, and often
with raw sores on his body that Jenkins would try to hide by putting bits of
cloth under the harness. But Toby never murmured, and he never tried to kick and
bite, and he minded the least word from Jenkins, and if he swore at him Toby
would start back, or step up quickly, he was so anxious to please him.
After Jenkins put him in the cart,