Beautiful Joe [49]
spots, and the impressions made upon it in youth
are never, never effaced. Do you not remember better than anything else,
standing at your mother's knee the pressure of her hand, her kiss on your
forehead?"
By this time our engine had arrived. A whistle was blowing, and nearly every one
was rushing from the room, the impatient old gentleman among the first. Miss
Laura was hurriedly trying to do up her shawl strap, and I was standing by,
wishing that I could help her. The old lady and the young man were the only
other people in the room, and we could not help hearing what they said.
"Yes, I do," he said in a thick voice, and his face got very red. "She is dead
now I have no mother."
"Poor boy!" and the old lady laid her hand on his shoulder. They were standing
up, and she was taller than he was. "May God bless you. I know you have a kind
heart. I have four stalwart boys, and you remind me of the youngest. If you are
ever in Washington come to see me." She gave him some name, and he lifted his
hat and looked as if he was astonished to find out who she was. Then he, too,
went away, and she turned to Miss Laura. "Shall I help you, my dear?"
"If you please," said my young mistress. "I can't fasten this strap."
In a few seconds the bundle was done up, and we were joyfully hastening to the
train. It was only a few miles to Riverdale, so the conductor let me stay in the
car with Miss Laura. She spread her coat out on the seat in front of her, and I
sat on it and looked out of the car window as we sped along through a lovely
country, all green and fresh in the June sunlight. How light and pleasant this
car was so different from the baggage car. What frightens an animal most of all
things, is not to see where it is going, not to know what is going to happen to
it. I think that they are very like human beings in this respect.
The lady had taken a seat beside Miss Laura, and as we went along, she too
looked out of the window and said in a low voice:
"What is so rare as a day in June,
Then, if ever, come perfect days."
"That is very true," said Miss Laura; "how sad that the autumn must come, and
the cold winter."
"No, my dear, not sad. It is but a preparation for another summer."
"Yes, I suppose it is," said Miss Laura. Then she continued a little shyly, as
her companion leaned over to stroke my cropped ears, "You seem very fond of
animals."
"I am, my dear. I have four horses, two cows, a tame squirrel, three dogs, and a
cat."
"You should be a happy woman," said Miss Laura, with a smile.
"I think I am. I must not forget my horned toad, Diego, that I got in
California. I keep him in the green-house, and he is very happy catching flies
and holding his horny head to be scratched whenever any one comes near."
"I don't see how any one can be unkind to animals," said Miss Laura,
thoughtfully.
"Nor I, my dear child. It has always caused me intense pain to witness the
torture of dumb animals. Nearly seventy years ago, when I was a little girl
walking the streets of Boston, I would tremble and grow faint at the cruelty of
drivers to over-loaded horses. I was timid and did not dare speak to them. Very
often, I ran home and flung myself in my mother's arms with a burst of tears,
and asked her if nothing could be done to help the poor animals. With mistaken,
motherly kindness, she tried to put the subject out of my thoughts. I was
carefully guarded from seeing or hearing of any instances of cruelty. But the
animals went on suffering just the same, and when I became a woman, I saw my
cowardice. I agitated the matter among my friends, and told them that our whole
dumb creation was groaning together in pain, and would continue to groan, unless
merciful human beings were willing to help them. I was able to assist in the
formation of several societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals, and
they have done good service. Good service not only to the horses and cows, but
to the nobler animal, man. I believe that in saying
are never, never effaced. Do you not remember better than anything else,
standing at your mother's knee the pressure of her hand, her kiss on your
forehead?"
By this time our engine had arrived. A whistle was blowing, and nearly every one
was rushing from the room, the impatient old gentleman among the first. Miss
Laura was hurriedly trying to do up her shawl strap, and I was standing by,
wishing that I could help her. The old lady and the young man were the only
other people in the room, and we could not help hearing what they said.
"Yes, I do," he said in a thick voice, and his face got very red. "She is dead
now I have no mother."
"Poor boy!" and the old lady laid her hand on his shoulder. They were standing
up, and she was taller than he was. "May God bless you. I know you have a kind
heart. I have four stalwart boys, and you remind me of the youngest. If you are
ever in Washington come to see me." She gave him some name, and he lifted his
hat and looked as if he was astonished to find out who she was. Then he, too,
went away, and she turned to Miss Laura. "Shall I help you, my dear?"
"If you please," said my young mistress. "I can't fasten this strap."
In a few seconds the bundle was done up, and we were joyfully hastening to the
train. It was only a few miles to Riverdale, so the conductor let me stay in the
car with Miss Laura. She spread her coat out on the seat in front of her, and I
sat on it and looked out of the car window as we sped along through a lovely
country, all green and fresh in the June sunlight. How light and pleasant this
car was so different from the baggage car. What frightens an animal most of all
things, is not to see where it is going, not to know what is going to happen to
it. I think that they are very like human beings in this respect.
The lady had taken a seat beside Miss Laura, and as we went along, she too
looked out of the window and said in a low voice:
"What is so rare as a day in June,
Then, if ever, come perfect days."
"That is very true," said Miss Laura; "how sad that the autumn must come, and
the cold winter."
"No, my dear, not sad. It is but a preparation for another summer."
"Yes, I suppose it is," said Miss Laura. Then she continued a little shyly, as
her companion leaned over to stroke my cropped ears, "You seem very fond of
animals."
"I am, my dear. I have four horses, two cows, a tame squirrel, three dogs, and a
cat."
"You should be a happy woman," said Miss Laura, with a smile.
"I think I am. I must not forget my horned toad, Diego, that I got in
California. I keep him in the green-house, and he is very happy catching flies
and holding his horny head to be scratched whenever any one comes near."
"I don't see how any one can be unkind to animals," said Miss Laura,
thoughtfully.
"Nor I, my dear child. It has always caused me intense pain to witness the
torture of dumb animals. Nearly seventy years ago, when I was a little girl
walking the streets of Boston, I would tremble and grow faint at the cruelty of
drivers to over-loaded horses. I was timid and did not dare speak to them. Very
often, I ran home and flung myself in my mother's arms with a burst of tears,
and asked her if nothing could be done to help the poor animals. With mistaken,
motherly kindness, she tried to put the subject out of my thoughts. I was
carefully guarded from seeing or hearing of any instances of cruelty. But the
animals went on suffering just the same, and when I became a woman, I saw my
cowardice. I agitated the matter among my friends, and told them that our whole
dumb creation was groaning together in pain, and would continue to groan, unless
merciful human beings were willing to help them. I was able to assist in the
formation of several societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals, and
they have done good service. Good service not only to the horses and cows, but
to the nobler animal, man. I believe that in saying