Beautiful Joe [91]
and
went with the other cows, seemingly as happy as they, but often when I watched
her standing chewing her cud, and looking away in the distance, I could see a
difference between her face and the faces of the cows that had always been happy
on Dingley Farm. Even the farm hands called her "Old Melancholy," and soon she
got to be known by that name, or Mel, for short. Until she got well, she was put
into the cow stable, where Mr. Wood's cows all stood at night upon raised
platforms of earth covered over with straw litter, and she was tied with a Dutch
halter, so that she could lie down and go to sleep when she wanted to. When she
got well, she was put out to pasture with the other cows.
The horse they named "Scrub," because he could never be, under any circumstance,
anything but a broken-down, plain-looking animal. He was put into the horse
stable in a stall next Fleetfoot, and as the partition was low, they could look
over at each other. In time, by dint of much doctoring, Scrub's hoofs became
clean and sound and he was able to do some work. Miss Laura petted him a great
deal. She often took out apples to the stable, and Fleetfoot would throw up his
beautiful head and look reproachfully over the partition at her, for she always
stayed longer with Scrub than with him, and Scrub always got the larger share of
whatever good thing was going.
Poor old Scrub! I think he loved Miss Laura. He was a stupid sort of a horse,
and always acted as if he was blind. He would run his nose up and down the front
of her dress, nip at the buttons, and be very happy if he could get a bit of her
watch-chain between his strong teeth. If he was in the field he never seemed to
know her till she was right under his pale-colored eyes. Then he would be
delighted to see her. He was not blind, though, for Mr. Wood said he was not. He
said he had probably not been an over-bright horse to start with, and had been
made more dull by cruel usage.
As for the Englishman, the master of these animals, a very strange thing
happened to him. He came to a terrible end, but for a long time no one knew
anything about it. Mr. Wood and Mr. Harry were so very angry with him that they
said they would leave no stone unturned to have him punished, or at least to
have it known what a villain he was. They sent the paper with the crest on it to
Boston. Some people there wrote to England, and found out that it was the crest
of a noble and highly esteemed family, and some earl was at the head of it. They
were all honorable people in this family except one man, a nephew, not a son, of
the late earl. He was the black sheep of them all. As a young man, he had led a
wild and wicked life, and had ended by forging the name of one of his friends,
so that he was obliged to leave England and take refuge in America. By the
description of this man, Mr. Wood knew that he must be Mr. Barron, so he wrote
to these English people, and told them what a wicked thing their relative had
done in leaving his animals to starve. In a short time, he got an answer from
them, which was, at the same time, very proud and very touching. It came from
Mr. Barron's cousin, and he said quite frankly that he knew his relative was a
man of evil habits, but it seemed as if nothing could be done to reform him. His
family was accustomed to send a quarterly allowance to him, on condition that he
led a quiet life in some retired place, but their last remittance to him was
lying unclaimed in Boston, and they thought he must be dead. Could Mr. Wood tell
them anything about him?
Mr. Wood looked very thoughtful when he got this letter, then he said, "Harry,
how long is it since Barron ran away?"
"About eight weeks," said Mr. Harry.
"That's strange," said Mr. Wood. "The money these English people sent him would
get to Boston just a few days after he left here. He is not the man to leave it
long unclaimed. Something must have happened to him. Where do you suppose he
would go from Penhollow?"
"I have no idea,
went with the other cows, seemingly as happy as they, but often when I watched
her standing chewing her cud, and looking away in the distance, I could see a
difference between her face and the faces of the cows that had always been happy
on Dingley Farm. Even the farm hands called her "Old Melancholy," and soon she
got to be known by that name, or Mel, for short. Until she got well, she was put
into the cow stable, where Mr. Wood's cows all stood at night upon raised
platforms of earth covered over with straw litter, and she was tied with a Dutch
halter, so that she could lie down and go to sleep when she wanted to. When she
got well, she was put out to pasture with the other cows.
The horse they named "Scrub," because he could never be, under any circumstance,
anything but a broken-down, plain-looking animal. He was put into the horse
stable in a stall next Fleetfoot, and as the partition was low, they could look
over at each other. In time, by dint of much doctoring, Scrub's hoofs became
clean and sound and he was able to do some work. Miss Laura petted him a great
deal. She often took out apples to the stable, and Fleetfoot would throw up his
beautiful head and look reproachfully over the partition at her, for she always
stayed longer with Scrub than with him, and Scrub always got the larger share of
whatever good thing was going.
Poor old Scrub! I think he loved Miss Laura. He was a stupid sort of a horse,
and always acted as if he was blind. He would run his nose up and down the front
of her dress, nip at the buttons, and be very happy if he could get a bit of her
watch-chain between his strong teeth. If he was in the field he never seemed to
know her till she was right under his pale-colored eyes. Then he would be
delighted to see her. He was not blind, though, for Mr. Wood said he was not. He
said he had probably not been an over-bright horse to start with, and had been
made more dull by cruel usage.
As for the Englishman, the master of these animals, a very strange thing
happened to him. He came to a terrible end, but for a long time no one knew
anything about it. Mr. Wood and Mr. Harry were so very angry with him that they
said they would leave no stone unturned to have him punished, or at least to
have it known what a villain he was. They sent the paper with the crest on it to
Boston. Some people there wrote to England, and found out that it was the crest
of a noble and highly esteemed family, and some earl was at the head of it. They
were all honorable people in this family except one man, a nephew, not a son, of
the late earl. He was the black sheep of them all. As a young man, he had led a
wild and wicked life, and had ended by forging the name of one of his friends,
so that he was obliged to leave England and take refuge in America. By the
description of this man, Mr. Wood knew that he must be Mr. Barron, so he wrote
to these English people, and told them what a wicked thing their relative had
done in leaving his animals to starve. In a short time, he got an answer from
them, which was, at the same time, very proud and very touching. It came from
Mr. Barron's cousin, and he said quite frankly that he knew his relative was a
man of evil habits, but it seemed as if nothing could be done to reform him. His
family was accustomed to send a quarterly allowance to him, on condition that he
led a quiet life in some retired place, but their last remittance to him was
lying unclaimed in Boston, and they thought he must be dead. Could Mr. Wood tell
them anything about him?
Mr. Wood looked very thoughtful when he got this letter, then he said, "Harry,
how long is it since Barron ran away?"
"About eight weeks," said Mr. Harry.
"That's strange," said Mr. Wood. "The money these English people sent him would
get to Boston just a few days after he left here. He is not the man to leave it
long unclaimed. Something must have happened to him. Where do you suppose he
would go from Penhollow?"
"I have no idea,