 CHAPTER XXVII. A NICLECTED STABLE. I had not been on the ground more than a few seconds before I turned my eyes from Miss Laura to the log hut. It was deathly quiet, there was not a sound coming from it, but the air was full of queer smells and I was so uneasy that I could not lie still. There was something in the matter with Fleetfoot too. He was pawing the ground and wining and looking, not after Mr. Harry, but toward the log building. Joe, said Miss Laura, what is the matter with you and Fleetfoot? Why don't you stand still? Is there any stranger about? And she peered out of the buggy. I knew there was something wrong somewhere, but I didn't know what it was, so I stretched myself up on the step of the buggy and lit her hand. Embarking to ask her to excuse me, I ran off to the other side of the log hut. There was a door there, but it was closed and propped firmly up by a plank that I could not move, scratch as hard as I liked. I was determined to get in, so I jumped against the door and tore in bed at the plank till Miss Laura came to help me. You won't find anything but rats in that ramshackle old place, beautiful Joe. She say it as she pulled the plank away, and as you don't hurt them, I don't see what you want to get in for. However, you're a sensible dog and usually have a reason for having your own way, so I am going to let you have it. The plank fell down as she spoke, and she pulled open the rough door and looked in. There was no window inside, only the light that streamed through the door, so for an instant she could see nothing. Is anyone in here? She asked in her clear, sweet voice. There was no answer except a low moaning sound. Why, some poor creature is in trouble, Joe, said Miss Laura cheerfully. Let us see what it is. And she stepped inside. I shall never forget seeing my dear Laura going into that wet and filthy log house, holding up her white dress in her hands, her face, a picture of pain and horror. There were two rough stalls in it, and then the first one was tied a cow with a calf lying beside her. I could never have believed, if I had not seen it with my own eyes, that an animal could get so thin as that cow was. Her backbone rose up high and sharp, her hip bone stood way out, and all her body seemed shrunken in. There were sores on her sides, and the smell from her stall was terrible. Miss Laura gave one cry of pity then with a very pale face. She dropped her dress and seizing a little pen knife from her pocket. She hacked at the rope that tied the cow to the manger and cut it so the cow could lie down. The first thing the poor cow did was to lick her calf, but it was quite dead. I used to think Jenkins' cows were thin enough, but he never had one that looked like this. Her head was like the head of a skeleton, and her eyes had such a famished look that I turned away, sick at heart, to think she had suffered so. When the cow lay down, the moaning noise stopped, for she had been making it. Miss Laura ran outdoors, snatched a handful of grass and took it into her. The cow ate it gratefully, but slowly, for her strength seemed all gone. Miss Laura then went into the other stall to see if there was any creature there. There had been a horse. There was now a lean, gaunt-looking animal lying on the ground that seemed as if he was dead. There was a heavy rope knotted round his neck and fastened to his empty rack. Miss Laura stepped carefully between his feet, cut the rope, and going outside the stall, spoke kindly to him. He moved his ears slightly, raised his head, tried to get up, fell back again, tried again, and succeeded in staggering outdoors after Miss Laura, who kept encouraging him, and then he fell down on the grass. Fleetfoot stared at the miserable-looking creature, as if he did not know what it was. The horse had no sores on his body as the cow had, nor was he quite so lean, but he was the weakest, most distressed-looking animal that I ever saw. The flies settled on him, and Miss Laura had to keep driving them away. He was a white horse with some kind of pale-colored eyes, and whenever he turned them on Miss Laura, she would look away. She did not cry, as she often did over the sick and suffering animals. This seemed too bad for tears. She just hovered over that poor horse with her face as white as her dress, and an expression of fright in her eyes. Oh, how dirty he was! I would never have imagined that a horse could get in such a condition. All this had only taken a few minutes, and just after she got the horse out, Mr. Harry appeared. He came out of the house with a slow step that quickened to a run when he saw Miss Laura. Laura! he exclaimed. What are you doing? Then he stopped and looked at the horse, not in amazement, but very sorrowfully. Baron is gone, he said, and crumpling up a piece of paper he put it in his pocket. What is to be done for these animals? There is a cow, isn't there? He stepped to the door of the log hut, glanced in, and said quickly, Do you feel able to drive home? Yes, said Miss Laura. You sure? And he eyed her anxiously. Yes, yes, she returned. What shall I get? Just tell Father that Baron has run away and left a starving pig, cow, and horse. There's not a thing to eat here. He'll know what to do. I'll drive you to the road. Miss Laura got into the buggy, and Mr. Harry jumped in after her. He drove her to the road and put down the bars. Then he said, Go straight on. You'll be on the open road and there's nothing to harm you. Joe will look after you. Meanwhile, I'll go back to the house and heat some water. Miss Laura let Fleetfoot go as fast as he liked on the way home, and it seemed only minutes before we drove into the yard. Adele came to meet us. Where's Uncle? asked Miss Laura. Gone to the big meadow, said Adele. And Auntie? She had a decolled in chills and entered into the bed to keep warm. She'd lose herself in sleep now. You not go near her. Are there none of the men about? asked Miss Laura. No madam was well. They all occupied way off. Then you help me Adele, like a good girl, said Miss Laura, hurrying into the house. We found a sick horse and cow. What shall I take them? They all animals like a de-brand mash, said Adele. Good! cried Miss Laura. That is the very thing. Put in the things to make it, will you please? And I would like some vegetables for the cow. Carrots, turnips, anything you have. Take some of those you have prepared for dinner tomorrow. And please run up to the bar in Adele and get some hay and corn and oats. Not much, for we'll be going back again, but hurry, for the poor things are starving. And have you any milk for the pig? Put it in one of those tin kettles with covers. For a few minutes, Miss Laura and Adele flew about the kitchen. Then we set off again. Miss Laura took me in the buggy, for I was out of breath and wheezing greatly. I had to sit on the seat beside her for the bottom of the buggy and the back were full of eatables for the poor, sick animals. Just as we drove into the road, we met Mr. Wood. Are you running away with the farm? He said, with a laugh, pointing to the carrot tops that were gaily waving over the dashboard. Miss Laura said a few words to him and with a very grave face he got in beside her. In a short time, we were back on the lonely road. Mr. Harry was waiting at the gate for us and when he saw Miss Laura, he said, Why did you come back again? You'll be tired out. This isn't a place for a sensitive girl like you. I thought I might be of some use, said she gently. So you can, said Mr. Wood. You go into the house and sit down and Harry and I will come to you when we want cheering up. What have you been doing, Harry? I've watered them a little. I got a good fire going. I scarcely think the cow will pull through. I think we'll save the horse. I tried to get the cow outdoors, but she can't move. Let her alone, said Mr. Wood. Give her some food and her strength will come to her. What have you got here? And he began to take the things out of the buggy. Bless the child. She thought of everything, even the salt. Bring those things into the house, Harry, and we'll make a brand mash. For more than an hour, they were fussing over the animals. Then they came in and sat down. The inside of the Englishman's house was as untidy as the outside. There was no upstairs to it. Only one large room with a dirty curtain stretched across it. On one side was a low bed with a heap of clothes on it, a chair and a wash stand. On the other was a stove, a table, a shaky rocking chair that Ms. Laura was sitting in, a few hanging shelves with some dishes and books on them, and two or three small boxes that had evidently been used for seats. On the walls were tacked some pictures of grand houses and ladies and gentlemen and fine clothes. And Ms. Laura said that some of them were noble people. Well, I'm glad this particular nobleman has left us, said Mr. Wood, sitting himself on one of the boxes. If nobleman he is, I should call him in plain English scoundrel. Did Harry show you his note? No, uncle, said Ms. Laura. Read it aloud, said Mr. Wood. I'd like to hear it again. Ms. Laura read. Jay Wood, dear sir, it is a matter of great regret to me that I am suddenly called away from my place at Penn Hollow and will, therefore, not be able to do myself the pleasure of calling you and settling my little account. I sincerely hope that the possession of my livestock, which I make entirely over to you, will more than reimburse you for any trifling expense which you have incurred on my account. If it is any gratification to you to know that you have rendered a slight assistance to the son of one of England's noblest noblemen, you have it with expressions of the deepest respect and hoping that my stock may be in good condition when you take possession, I am, dear sir, ever devotedly yours, Howard, Algernon, Leduke, Baron. Ms. Laura dropped the paper. Uncle, did he leave those animals to starve? Didn't you notice, said Mr. Wood grimly? That there wasn't a wisp of hay inside that shanty and that where the poor beasts were tied up, the wood was gnawed and bitten by them and their torture for food. Wouldn't he have sent me that note instead of leaving it here on the table if he'd wanted me to know? The note isn't dated, but I judge he's been gone five or six days. He has had a spite against me ever since I lent him that hundred dollars. I don't know why, for I've stood up for him when others would have run him out of the place. He intended me to come here and find every animal lying dead. He even had a rope around the pig's neck. Harry, my boy, let us go and look after them again. I love a dumb brute too well to let it suffer, but in this case, I'd give two hundred dollars more if I could make them live and have Baron know it. They left the room and Ms. Laura sat turning the sheet of paper over and over with a kind of horror in her face. It was a very dirty piece of paper and by and by she made a discovery. She took it in her hand and went outdoors. I am sure that the poor horse lying on the grass knew her. He lifted his head and what a different expression he had now that his hunger had been partly satisfied. Ms. Laura stroked and patted him. Then she called to her cousin. Harry, will you look at this? He took the paper from her and said, that is a crest shining through the different strata of dust and grime, probably that of his own family. We'll have it cleaned and it will enable us to track the villain. You want him punished, don't you? He said with a little sly laugh at Ms. Laura. She made a gesture in the direction of the suffering horse and said frankly, yes, I do. Well, my dear girl, he said, Father and I are with you. If we can hunt Baron down, we'll do it. Then he muttered to himself as she turned away. She is a real Puritan, gentle and sweet and good and yet severe, rewards for the virtuous, punishments for the vicious. And he repeated some poetry. She was so charitable and so piteous, she would weep if that she saw a mouse, caught in a trap if it were dead or bled. Ms. Laura saw that Mr. Wood and Mr. Harry were doing all that could be done for the cow and the horse. So she wandered down to the hollow at the back of the house where the Englishmen had kept his pig. Just now he looked more like a greyhound than a pig. His legs were so long, his nose so sharp and hunger instead of making him stupid like the horse and cow had made him more lively. I think he had probably not suffered so much as they had or perhaps he had a greater store of fat to nourish him. Mr. Harry said that if he had been a girl, he would have laughed and cried at the same time when he discovered that pig. He must have been asleep or exhausted when he arrived for there was not a sound out of him. But shortly afterward, he had set up a yelling that attracted Mr. Harry's attention and made him run down to him. Mr. Harry said he was raging around his pen, digging the ground with his snout, falling down and getting up again and by a miracle escaping death by choking from the rope that was tied around his neck. Now that his hunger had been satisfied, he was gazing contentedly at his little trough that was half full of good sweet milk. Mr. Harry said that a starving animal like a starving person should only be fed a little at a time. But the Englishman's animals had always been fed poorly and their stomachs contracted so much so that they could not eat much at one time. Ms. Laura got a stick and scratched the poor piggy's back a little and then she went back to the house. In a short time, we went home with Mr. Wood. Mr. Harry was going to stay all night with the sick animals and his mother would send him things to make him comfortable. She was better by the time we got home and was horrified to hear the tale of Mr. Baron's neglect. Later in the evening, she sent one of the men over with a whole box full of things for her darling boy and nice hot tea done up for him in a covered dish. When the man came home, he said that Mr. Harry would not sleep in the Englishman's dirty house but had slung a hammock out under the trees. However, he would not be able to sleep much for he had his land turned by his side, all ready to jump up and attend to the horse and cow. It was a very lonely place for him out there in the woods and his mother said she would be glad when the sick animals could be driven to their own farm. End of chapter 27, a neglected stable. Chapter 28, the end of the Englishman. In a few days, thanks to Mr. Harry's constant care, the horse and the cow were able to walk. It was a mournful procession that came into the yard at Dingley Farm. The hollow-eyed horse and lean cow and funny little thin pig staggering along in such a shaky fashion. Their hooves were diseased and had partly rotted away so that they could not walk straight. Though it was only a mile or two from Penn Hollow to Dingley Farm, they were tired out and dropped down exhausted on their comfortable beds. Ms. Laura was so delighted to think they had all lived that she did not know what to do. Her eyes were bright and shining and she went from one to another with such a happy face. The queer little pig that Mr. Harry had christened daddy long legs had been washed and he lay on his heap of straw in the corner of his neat little pen and surveyed his clean trough and abundance of food with the air of a prince. Why, he would be clean and dry here and all his life he had been used dirty damp Penn Hollow with the trees hanging over him and his little feet in a mass of filth and dead leaves. Happy little pig, his ugly eyes seemed to blink and gleam with gratitude and he knew Ms. Laura and Mr. Harry as well as I did. His tiny tail was curled so tight that it was almost in a knot. Mr. Wood said that was a sign that he was healthy and happy and that when poor daddy was at Penn Hollow, he had noticed that his tail hung as limp and as loose as the tail of a rat. He came over and leaned over the pen with Ms. Laura and had a little talk with her about pigs. He said they were by no means the stupid animals that some people considered them. He had had pigs that were as clever as dogs. One little black pig that he had once sold to a man away back in the country had found its way home through the woods across the river, uphill and downdale and he'd been taken to the place with a bag over his head. Mr. Wood said that he kept that pig because he knew so much. He said the most knowing pigs he ever saw were Canadian pigs. One time he was having a trip on a sailing vessel and it anchored in a long narrow harbor in Canada where the tide came in with a front four or five feet high called the bore. There was a village opposite the place where the ship was anchored and every day low tide, a number of pigs came down to look for shellfish. Sometimes they went out for half a mile over the mud flats but always a few minutes before the tide came rushing in, they turned and hurried to the shore. Their instincts warned them that if they stayed any longer, they would be drowned. Mr. Wood had a number of pigs and after a while, daddy was put in with them and a fine time he had of it making friends with the other little grunters. They were often let out in the pasture or orchard and when they were there, I could always single out daddy from among them because he was the smartest. Though he had been brought up in such a miserable way, he soon learned to take very good care of himself at Dingley Farm and it was amusing to see him when a storm was coming on, running about in a state of great excitement, carrying little bundles of straw in his mouth to make himself a bed. He was a white pig and was always kept very clean. Mr. Wood said that it is wrong to keep pigs dirty. They like to be clean as well as other animals and if they were kept so, human beings would not get so many diseases from eating their flesh. The cow, poor unhappy creature, never as long as she'd lived on Dingley Farm lost a strange melancholy look from her eyes. I have heard it said that animals forget past unhappiness and perhaps some of them do. I know I have never forgotten my one miserable year with Jenkins and I have been a sober, thoughtful dog in consequence of it and not playful like some dogs who have never known what it is to be really unhappy. It always seemed to me that the Englishman's cow was thinking of her poor dead calf starved to death by her cruel master. She got well herself and came and went with the other cows seemingly as happy as they. But often when I watched her standing and chewing her could 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 farmhands called her old melancholy and soon she got to be known by that name or male for short. Until she got well, she was put into a 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 to Fleet Foot and as the partition was low, they could look over at each other. In time, by dent of much doctoring, Scrub's hooks became clean and sound and he was able to do some work. Ms. Laura petted him a great deal. She often took out apples to the stable and Fleet Foot 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 Ms. 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 overbright 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 foraging 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. Baron. 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. Baron'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 and 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 Baron 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 Penn Hollow? I have no idea, sir, said Mr. Harry. And how would he go? Said Mr. Wood. He did not leave Riverdale Station because he would have been spotted by some of his creditors. Perhaps he would cut through the woods to the junction, said Mr. Harry. Just what he would do, said Mr. Wood, slapping his knee. I'll be driving over there tomorrow to see Thompson. I'll make inquiries. Mr. Harry spoke to his father the next night when he came home and asked him if he had found out anything. Only this, said Mr. Wood. There's no one answering the Baron's description who has left Riverdale Junction within a 12-month. He must have struck some other station. We'll let him go. The Lord looks out for fellows like that. We will look out for him if he ever comes back to Riverdale, said Mr. Harry quietly, all through the village and in the country, it was known what a dastardly trick the Englishman had played and he would have been roughly handled if he dared return. Months passed away and nothing was heard of him. Late in the autumn, after Ms. Laura and I had gone back to Fairport, Mrs. Wood wrote her about the end of the Englishman. Some Riverdale lads were beating about the woods, looking for lost cattle and then their wanderings came to an old stone quarry that had been disused for years. On one side, there was a smooth wall of rock many feet deep. On the other, the ground and rock were broken away and it was quite easy to get into it. They found that by some means or other, one of their cows had fallen into this deep pit over the steep side of the quarry. Of course, the poor creature was dead but the boys, out of curiosity, resolved to go down and look at her. They clambered down, found the cow and to their horror and amazement discovered nearby the skeleton of a man. There was a heavy walking stick by his side which they recognized as the one that the Englishman had carried. He was a drinking man and perhaps he had taken something that he thought would strengthen him for his morning's walk but which had, on the contrary, bewildered him and made him lose his way and fall into the quarry or he might have started before daybreak and in the darkness have slipped and fallen down this steep wall of rock. One leg was doubled under him and if he had not been instantly killed by the fall, he must have been so disabled that he could not move. In that lonely place, he would call for help in vain so he may have perished by the terrible death of starvation, the death he had thought to meet out to his suffering animals. Mrs. Wood said that there never was a sermon preached in Riverdale that had the effect that the death of this wicked man had and it reminded her of a verse in the Bible. He made a pit and he digged it and is falling into the ditch which he made. Mrs. Wood said that her husband had written about the finding of Mr. Baron's body to his English relatives and had received a letter from them in which they seemed relieved to hear that he was dead. They thanked Mr. Wood for his plain speaking and telling them of their relatives' misdeeds and said that from all they knew of Mr. Baron's past conduct, his influence would be for evil and not for good in any place that he chose to live in. They were having their money sent from Boston to Mr. Wood and they wished him to expend it in the way he thought best fitted to counteract the evil effects of their namesakes doing in Riverdale. When this money came, it amounted to some hundreds of dollars. Mr. Wood would have nothing to do with it. He handed it over to the band of mercy and they formed what is called the Baron Fund which they drew upon when they wanted money for buying and circulating humane literature. Mrs. Wood said that the fund was being added to and the children were sending all over the state leaflets and little books which preached the gospel of kindness to God's lower creation. A stranger picking one of them up and seeing the name of the wicked Englishman printed on the title page would think that he was a friend and benefactor to the Riverdale people, the very opposite of what he gloried in being. End of chapter eight, the end of the Englishman. Chapters 29 and 30 of Beautiful Joe. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Allison Hester of Athens, Georgia. Beautiful Joe by Marshall Saunders. Chapter 29, A Talk About Sheep. Miss Laura was very much interested in the sheep on Dingley Farm. There was a flock in the orchard near the house that she often went to see. She always carried roots and vegetables to them, turnips particularly for they were very fond of them but they would not come to her and get them for they did not know her voice. They only lifted their heads and stared at her when she called them. But when they heard Mr. Wood's voice, they ran to the fence bleeding with pleasure and trying to push their noses through to get the carrot or turnip or whatever he was handing them. He called them his little south downs and he said he loved his sheep for they were the most gentle and inoffensive creatures that he had on his farm. One day when he came into the kitchen inquiring for salt, Miss Laura said, Is it for the sheep? Yes. He replied, I'm going up to the woods pasture to examine my shropes. You would like to go to Laura, said Miss Wood. Take your hands right away from that cake. I'll finish frosting it for you, run along and get your broad brimmed hat. It's very hot. Miss Laura danced out into the hall and back again and soon we were walking up back of the hails along a path that led us through the fields to the pasture. What are you going to do, uncle? She said, and what are those funny things in your hands? Toe clippers. He replied, and I'm going to examine the sheep's hoofs. You know, we've had warm waste weather all through July and I'm afraid of foot rot and then there's sometimes trouble with overgrown hoofs. What do you do if they get foot rot? Ask Miss Laura. I have various cures, he said, paring and clipping and dipping the hoof in blue vitriol and vinegar or rubbing it on as the English shepherds do. It destroys the diseased part but doesn't affect the sound. Do sheep have many diseases? I asked Miss Laura. I know one of them myself. That is the scab. Oh, a nasty thing that, said Mr. Wood vigorously and a man that builds up a flock from a stock yard often finds it out to his cost. What is it like? Asked Miss Laura. The sheep get scabbit from a microbund of the skin which causes them to itch fearfully and they lose their wool. And can't it be cured? Oh yes, with time and detention there are different remedies. I believe petroleum is the best. By this time we had got to a wide gate that opened into the pasture. As Mr. Wood let Miss Laura go through and then closed it behind her, he said, you are looking at that gate. You wanna know why it's so long, don't ya? Yes, uncle, she said. But I can't bear to ask so many questions. Ask as many as you like. He said, good naturedly. I don't mind answering them. Have you ever seen sheep pass through a gate or door? Oh yes, often. And how do they act? Oh, so silly, uncle. They hang back and one waits for another and finally they all try to go at once. Precisely, when one goes they all wanna go. If it was to jump into a bottomless pit. Many sheep are injured by overcrowding so I have my gates and doors very wide. Now, let us call them up. There wasn't one in sight but when Mr. Wood lifted his voice up and cried, God, nyan, nyan, nyan. Black faces began to peer out from among the bushes and little black legs carrying white bodies came hurrying up to the stony paths from the cooler parts of the pasture. Oh, how glad they were to get the salt. Mr. Wood let Ms. Laura spread it on some flat rocks. Then they sat down on the log under a tree and watched them eating it and licking the rocks when it was all gone. Ms. Laura sat fanning herself with her hat and smiling at them. You funny wooly things, she said. You're not so stupid as some people think you are. Lie still, Joe. If you show yourself they may run away. I crouched behind the log and only lifted my head occasionally to see what the sheep were doing. Some of them went back into the woods for it was very hot in this bare part of the pasture. But most of them would not leave Mr. Wood and stood staring at him. That's a fine sheep, isn't it? Said Ms. Laura, pointing to the one with the blackest face and the blackest legs and the largest body of those near us. Yes, that's old Jessica. Do you notice how she's holding her head close to the ground? Yes, is there any reason for it? There is, she's afraid of the grub fly. You often see sheep holding their noses in that way in the summertime. It is to prevent the fly from going into the nostrils and depositing an egg, which will turn into a grub and annoy and worry them. When the fly comes near, they give a sniff and run as if they were crazy, still holding their noses close to the ground. When I was a boy and sheep did that, we thought that they had colds into the heads and used to rub tar on their noses. We knew nothing about the fly then, but the tar cured them and that is just what I use now. Two or three times a month are in hot weather. We put a few drops of it on the nose of every sheep in the flock. I suppose farmers are like other people and are always finding better ways of doing their work. Aren't they, uncle? Said Miss Laura. Yes, my child. The older I grow, the more I find out and the better care I take of my stock. My grandfather would open his eyes in amazement and ask me if I was an old woman petting a cat if he was alive and it could know the care I give my sheep. He used to let his flock run till the fields were covered with snow and bite as close as they liked till there wasn't a scrap of feed left. Then he would give them an open shed to run under and throw down their hay outside. Grain they scarcely knew the taste of that they would fall off in flesh and half of them lose their limbs and the spring wasn't expected thing. He would say I had them kenneled if he could see my big closed sheds with the sunny windows that my flock spend the winter in. I even house them during the bad fall storms. They can run out again. Indeed, I like to get them in and have a snack of dry food to break them into it. They are in and out of those sheds all winter. You must go in, Laura, and see the self-feeding racks. On bright winter days, they get a run in the corn fields. Cold doesn't hurt sheep. It's the heavy rain that soaks their fleeces. With my way, I seldom lose a sheep and they're the most profitable stock I have. If I could not keep them, I think I'd give up farming. Last year, my lambs netted me $8 each. The fleeces of the ewes average eight pounds and sell for $2 each. That's something to brag of in these days when so many are giving up the sheep industry. How many sheep have you, uncle? Asked Ms. Laura. Only 50 now. 25 here and 25 down below in the orchard. I've been selling a good many this spring. These sheep are larcher than those in the orchard, aren't they? Said Ms. Laura. Yeah, I keep a few south-downs for their fine quality. I don't make as much on them as I do on these Shrope Shires. For an all-around sheep, I like the Shrope Shire. It's good for mutton, for wool, and for rearing lambs. There's a great demand for mutton nowadays, all through our eastern cities. People want more and more of it and it has to be tender and juicy and finely flavored so a person has to be particular about the feed the sheep get. Don't you hate to have these creatures killed that you have raised intended so carefully? Said Ms. Laura with a little shudder. I do, said her uncle, but never an animal goes off my place that I don't know just how it's going to be put to death. None of your sendin' sheep to market with their legs tied together and jammed in a cart and sweatin' and sufferin' for me. They've got to go standin' comfortably on their legs or go night at all. And I'm going to know the butcher that kills my animals that have been petted like children. I said to Davidson over there in Hoytville, if I thought you would herd my sheep and lambs and calves together and take them one by one inside of the rest and stick your knife into them or stun them and have the others lowing and bleeding and cryin' in their misery, this is the last consignment you would ever get from me. He said, Wood, I don't like my business, but on the word of an honest man, my butchering is done as well as it can be. Come and see for yourself. He took me to his slaughter house and though I didn't stay long, I saw enough to convince me that he spoke the truth. He has different pens and sheds and the killin' is done as quietly as possible. The animals are takin' in one by one and though the others suspect what is goin' on, they can't see it. These sheep are a long way from the house, said Miss Laura. Don't the dogs that you were telling me about attack them? No, for since I had that brush with Wyndham's dog, I've trained them to go and come with the cows. It's a queer thing, but cows that will run from a dog when they are alone will fight him if he meddles with their calves or the sheep. There's not a dog around that would dare to come into this pasture, for he knows the cows would be after him with lowered horns and a business look in their eyes. The sheep and the orchard are safe enough for their near the house and if a strange dog came around, Joe would settle him, wouldn't you, Joe? And Mr. Wood looked behind the log at me. I got up and put my head on his arm and he went on. By and by, the South Downs will be changed up here and the Shrope Shies will go down to the orchard. I like to keep one flock under my fruit trees. You know, there's an old proverb. The sheep has a golden hoof. They saved me the trouble of plowing. I haven't plowed my orchard in 10 years and don't expect to plow it for 10 years more. Then your aunt had his hands are so obliging that they keep me from the worry of finding ticks at shearing time. All the year round, I let them run among the sheep and they nab every tick they see. How closely sheep bite, exclaimed Ms. Laura, pointing to one that was nibbling almost at his master's feet. Very close, and they eat a good many things that cows don't relish. Bitter weeds and briars and shrubs and the young ferns that come up in the spring. I wish I could get ahold of one of those dear little lambs, said Ms. Laura. See that sweet little blackie back in the alders? Could you not coax him up? He wouldn't come up here, said her uncle kindly. But I'll try to get him for ya. He rose and after several efforts succeeded in capturing the black-faced creature and bringing him up to the log. He was very shy of Ms. Laura, but Mr. Wood held him firmly and let her stroke his head as much as she liked. You call him little, said Mr. Wood. If you put your arm around him, you'll find he's a pretty substantial lamb. He was born in March, this is the last of July. He'll be shorn the middle of next month and think he's quite grown up. Poor little animal, he had quite a struggle for life. The sheep were turned out to pasture in April. They can't bear confinement as well as the cows. And as they bite closer, they can be turned out earlier and get all well by having good rations of corn in addition to the grass, which is thin and poor so early in the spring. This young creature was runnin' by his mother's side, rather a weak-legged, poor specimen of a lamb. Every night the flock was put under shelter for the ground was cold. And though the sheep might not suffer from lying outdoors, the lambs would get chilled. One night, this fellow's mother got a strain. And as Ben neglected to make the count, she wasn't missed. I'm always anxious about my lambs in the spring and often get up in the night to look after them. That night, I went out about two o'clock. I took it into my head for some reason or other to count them. I found a sheep and a lamb missing. I took my lansen and Bruno, who was some good at trackin' sheep and started out. Bruno barked and I called. And the foolish creature came to me, the little lambs staggering after her. I wrapped the lamb in my coat, took it to the house, made a fire, and heated some milk. Your aunt Hattie hugged me and got up. She won't let me give Brandy even to a dumb beast. So I put some ground ginger in, which is just as good in the milk and forced it down the lambs throat. Then we wrapped an old blanket round him and put him near the stove. And the next evening, he was ready to go back to his mother. I petted him all through April and gave him extras, different kinds of meal, till I found out what suited him best. Now, he does me the credit. Dear little lamb, said Miss Laura patting him. How can you tell him from the others, uncle? I know all the faces, Laura. A flock of sheep is just like a crowd of people. They all have different expressions and they all have different dispositions. They all look alike to me, said Miss Laura. I dare say you are not accustomed to them. Do you know how to tell a sheep's age? No, uncle. Here, open your mouth, Cossett. He said to the lamb that he still hailed. At one year, they have two teeth in the center of the jaw. They get two teeth more every year, up to five years. Then we say they have a full mouth. After that, you can't tell their age exactly by the teeth. Now run back to your mother and he let the lamb go. Do they always know their own mothers? Ask Miss Laura. Usually, sometimes a you will not own her lamb. In that case, we tie them up in a separate stall till she recognizes it. Do you see that sheep over there by the blueberry bushes? The one with the very pointed ears? Yes, uncle, said Miss Laura. That lamb by her side is not her own. Hers died and we took its fleece and wrapped it around a twin lamb that we took from another you and gave it to her. She soon adopted it. Now come this way and I'll show you our movable feeding troughs. He got up from the log and Miss Laura followed him to the fence. These big troughs are for the sheep, said Mr. Wood, and those shallow ones in the enclosure are for the lambs. See, there's just enough room for them to get under the fence. You should see the small creatures rush to them whenever we appear with their oats and wheat or bran or whatever we are going to give them. If we are going to the butcher, they get cornmeal and oil meal. Whatever it is, they eat it up clean. I don't believe in cramming animals. I feed them as much as is good for them and not anymore. Now you go sit down over there behind those bushes with Joe and I'll attend the business. Miss Laura found a shady place and I curled myself up beside her. We sat there a long time, but we did not get tired for it was amusing to watch the sheep and the lambs. After a while, Mr. Wood came and sat down beside us. He talked some more about sheep raising and then said, you may stay here longer if you like, but I must get down to the house. The work must be done if the weather is hot. What are you going to do now? Asked Miss Laura jumping up. Oh, more sheep business. I've set out some young trees in the orchard and unless I get chicken wire around them, my sheep will be barking them for me. I've seen them, said Miss Laura, standing up on their hind legs and nibbling at the trees, taking off every shoot they can reach. They don't hurt the old trees, said Mr. Wood, but the young ones have to be protected. It pays me to take care of my fruit trees for I get a splendid crop from them, thanks to the sheep. Goodbye, little lamb, send dear old sheep, said Miss Laura as her uncle opened the gate for her to leave the pasture. I'll come and see you again sometime. Now you had better go down to the brook and the dingle and have a drink. You look hot in your warm coats. You mastered one detail of sheep keeping, said Mr. Wood as he slowly walked along beside his niece. To raise healthy sheep, one must have pure water where they can get to it whenever they like. Give them good water, good food and a variety of it. Good quarters, cool in the summer, comfortable in the winter and keep them quiet and you'll make them happy and make money on them. I think I'd like sheep raising, said Miss Laura. Won't you have me for your flock, Mistress Uncle? He laughed and said he thought not for she would cry every time any of her charge were sent to the butcher. After this, Miss Laura and I often went up to the pasture to see the sheep and the lambs. We used to get into a shady place where they could not see us and watch them. One day, I got a great surprise about the sheep. I had heard so much about their meekness that I never dreamed that they would fight but it turned out that they did and they went about it in such a business-like way that I could not help smiling at them. I suppose that like most other animals, they had a spice of wickedness in them. On this day, a quarrel arose between two sheep but instead of running at each other like two dogs, they went a long distance apart and then came rushing at each other with lowered heads. Their object seemed to be to break each other's skull but Miss Laura assumed stopped them by calling out and frightening them apart. I thought that the lambs were more interesting than the sheep. Sometimes they fed quietly by their mother's side and at other times they all huddled together on the top of some flat rock or in a bare place and seemed to be talking to each other with their heads close together. Suddenly one would jump down and start for the bushes or the other side of the pasture. They would all follow pale male. Then in a few minutes, they would come rushing back again. It was pretty to see them playing together and having a good time before the sorrowful day of their death came. And chapter 29, chapter 30, a jealous ox. Mr. Wood had a dozen calves that he was raising and Miss Laura sometimes went up to the stable to see them. Each calf was in a crib and it was fed with milk. They had gentle patient faces and beautiful eyes and looked very meek as they stood quietly gazing about them or sucking away at their milk. They reminded me of big gentle dogs. I never got a very good look at them in their cribs, but one day when they were old enough to be let out, I went up with Miss Laura to the yard where they were kept. Such queer, ungainly, large boned creatures they were and such a good time they were having, running and jumping and throwing up their heels. Mrs. Wood was with us and she said that it was not good for calves to be closely pinned after they got to be a few weeks old. They were better for getting out and having a frolic. She stood beside Miss Laura for a long time watching the calves and laughing a great deal at their awkward gambles. They wanted to play, but they did not seem to know how to use their limbs. They were lean calves and Miss Laura asked her aunt why all the nice milk they had taken had not made them fat. The fat will come all in good time, said Mrs. Wood. A fat calf makes a poor cow and a fat small calf isn't profitable to fit for sending to the butcher. It's better to have a bony one and fatten it. If you come here next summer, you'll see a fine show of young cattle with fat sides and big open horns and a good coat of hair. Can you imagine? She went on indignantly that anyone could be cruel enough to torture a harmless creature as a calf. No, indeed, replied Miss Laura. Who's been doing it? Who has been doing it? Repaided Mrs. Wood bitterly. They are doing it all the time. Do you know what makes the nice white veal one gets in big cities? The calves are bled to death. They linger for hours and moan their lives away. The first time I heard it, I was so angry that I cried for a day and made John promise that he'd never send another animal of his to a big city to be killed. That's why all of our stock goes to Wheatville and small country places. Oh, those big cities are awful places, Laura. It seems to me that it makes people wicked to huddle them together. I'd rather live in a desert than a city. There's Cho and every night since I've been there, I pray to the Lord either to change the hearts of some of the wicked people in it or to destroy them off the face of the earth. You know, three years ago I got run down and your uncle said I got to have a change so he sent me off to my brothers in Cho. I stayed and enjoyed myself pretty well for it is a wonderful city. Till one day some Western men came in who had been visiting the slaughterhouses outside the city. I sat and listened to their talk and it seemed to me that I was hearing the description of a great battle. These men were cattle dealers and had been sending stock to Cho. And they were furious that men, in their rage for wealth, would so utterly ignore and trample on all decent and humane feelings as to torture animals as the Cho men were doing. It is too dreadful to repeat the sights they saw. I listened till they were describing Texan steers kicking in agony under the torture that was practiced. And then I gave a loud scream and fainted dead away. They had to send for your uncle and he brought me home and for days and days I heard nothing but shouting and swearing and saw animals dripping with blood and crying and moaning in their anguish. And now, Laura, if you'd lay down a bit of Cho meat and cover it with gold, I'd spurn it from me. But what am I saying? You're as white as a sheet. Come and see the cow stable. John's just had it whitewashed. Miss Laura took her aunt's arm and I walked slowly behind them. The cow stable was a long building, well built, and with no chinks in the walls as Jenkins stable had. There were large windows where the afternoon sun came streaming in and a number of ventilators and a great many stalls. A pipe of water ran through the stalls from one end of the stable to the other. The floor was covered with sawdust and leaves and the ceiling and tops of the walls were whitewashed. Mrs. Wood said that her husband would not have the walls a glare of white right down to the floor because he thought it injured the animals' eyes. So the lower parts of the walls were stained a dark brown color. There were doors at each end of the stable and just now they stood open and a gentle breeze was blowing through. But Mrs. Wood said that when the cattle stood in the stalls both doors were never allowed to be open at the same time. Mr. Wood was most particular to have no drafts blowing upon his cattle. He would not have them chilled and he would not have them overheated. One thing was as bad as the other and during the winter they were never allowed to drink icy water. He took the chill off the water for his cows just as Mrs. Wood did for her hands. You know, Laura, Mrs. Wood went on that when cows are kept dry and warm they eat less than when they are cold and wet. They are so warm-blooded that if they are cold they have to eat a great deal to keep up the heat of their bodies so it pays better to house and feed them well. They like quiet too. I never knew that till I married your uncle. On our farm the boys always shouted and screamed at the cows when they were driving them and sometimes they made them run. They're never allowed to do that here. I have noticed how quiet this farm seems, said Miss Laura. You have so many men about and yet there is so little noise. Your uncle whistles a great deal, said Mrs. Wood. Have you noticed that? He whistles when he's out about his work and then he has a calling whistle that nearly all of the animals know and the men run when they hear it. You would see every cow in this stable turn its head if he whistled in a certain way outside. He says that he got into the way of doing it when he was a boy and went for his father's cows. He trained them so that he'd just stand in the pasture and whistle and they'd come to him. I believe the first thing that inclined me to him was his clear happy whistle. I'd hear him from our house away down on the road jogging along with his cart or driving in his buggy. He says there is no need of screaming at any animal. It only frightens and angers them. They will mind much better if you speak clearly and distinctly. He says there is only one thing an animal hates more than to be shouted at and that's to be crept on to have a person sneak up and to startle it. John says many a man is kicked because he comes up to his horse like a thief. A startled animal's first instinct is to defend itself. A dog will spring at you and a horse will let his heels fly. John always speaks or whistles to let the stock know when he's approaching. Where is uncle this afternoon? Ask Miss Laura. Oh, up to his eyes in hay. He's even got one of the oxen harnessed to a hay cart. I wonder whether it's Duke. Said Miss Laura. Yes it is. I saw the star on his forehead. Replied Mrs. Wood. I don't know when I have laughed at anything as much as I did at him the other day. Said Miss Laura. Uncle asked me if I had ever heard of such a thing as a jealous ox and I said no. He said come to the barnyard and I'll show you one. The oxen were both there. Duke with his broad face and bright. So much sharper and more intelligent looking. Duke was drinking at the trough there and uncle said just look at him. Isn't he a great fat self-satisfied creature and doesn't he look as if he thought the world owed him a living and he ought to get it? Then he got the card and went up to bright and began scratching him. Duke lifted his head from the trough and steered at uncle who paid no attention to him but went right on carding bright and stroking and petting him. Duke looked so angry. He left the trough and with the water dripping from his lips went up to uncle and gave him a push with his horns. Still uncle took no notice and Duke almost pushed him over. Then uncle left off petting bright and turned to him. He said Duke would have treated him roughly if he hadn't. I never saw a creature look as satisfied as Duke did when uncle began to card him. Bright didn't seem to care and only gazed calmly at them. I've seen Duke do that again and again, said Mrs. Wood. He's the most jealous animal that we have and it makes him perfectly miserable to have your uncle pay attention to any animal but him. What queer creatures these dumb roots are. They're pretty much like us in most ways. They're jealous and resentful and they can love or hate equally well and forgive too for that matter and suffer how they can suffer and so patiently too. Where is the human being that would put up with the tortures that animals endure and yet come out so patient? Nowhere. Said Miss Laura in a low voice. We couldn't do it. And there doesn't seem to be an animal. Mrs. Wood went on. No matter how ugly and repulsive it is but what has some lovable qualities. I have just been reading about some sewer rats. Louise Michelle's rats. Who is she? Asked Miss Laura. A celebrated French woman, my dear child. The priestess of pity and vengeance. Mr. Stade calls her. You were too young to know about her but I remember reading of her in 1872 during the commune troubles in France. She is an anarchist and she used to wear a uniform and shoulder a rifle and help to build barricades. She was arrested and sent as a convict to one of the French penal colonies. She has a most wonderful love for animals in her heart and when she went home, she took four cats with her. She was put into prison again in France and took the cats with her. Rats came about herself and she petted them and taught her cats to be kind to them. Before she got the cats thoroughly drilled, one of them bit a rat's paw. Louise nursed the rat till it got well then let it down by a string from her window. It went back to its sewer and I suppose told the other rats how kind Louise had been to it. For after that, they came to her cell without fear. Mother rats brought their young ones and placed them at her feet as if to ask her for protection for them. The most remarkable thing about them was their affection for each other. Young rats would chew the crusts thrown to an old toothless rat so that they might more easily eat them and if a young rat dared help itself before an old one, the others punished it. That sounds very interesting, Auntie. Saying Miss Laura, where did you read it? I have just got the magazine, said Mrs. Wood. You shall have it as soon as you come into the house. I love to be with you, dear Auntie. Said Miss Laura, putting her arm affectionately around her as they stood in the doorway. Because you understand me when I talk about animals. I can't explain it. Went on my dear young mistress laying her hand on her heart. The feeling I have here for them. I just love a dumb creature and I want to stop and talk to everyone I see. Sometimes I worry poor Bessie Drury and I'm so sorry, but I can't help it. She says, what makes you so silly, Laura? Miss Laura was standing just where the sunlight shone through her light round hair and made her face all in a glow. I thought she looked more beautiful than I had ever seen her before and I think Miss Wood thought the same thing. She turned around and put both hands on Miss Laura's shoulders. Laura, she said earnestly, there are enough cold hearts in the world. Don't you ever stifle a warm or tender feeling toward a dumb creature. That is your chief attraction, my child. Your love for everything that breathes and moves. Tear out the selfishness from your heart if there is any there, but let the love and pity stay. And now let me talk a little more to you about the cows. I want to interest you in dairy matters. This stable is new since you were here and we've made a number of improvements. Do you see those bits of rock salt in each stall? They are for the cows to lick whenever they want to. Now come here and I'll show you what we call the black hole. It was a tiny stable off the main one and it was very dark and cool. Is this a place of punishment? Asked Miss Laura in surprise. Mrs. Wood laughed heartily. No, no, a place of pleasure. Sometimes when the flies are very bad and the cows are brought into the yard to be milked and a fresh swarm settles on them, they are nearly frantic. And though they are the best cows in New Hampshire, they will kick a little. When they do, those that are the worst are brought in here to be milked where there are no flies. The others have big strips of cotton laid over their backs and tied under them and the men brush their legs with tansy tea or water with a little carbolic acid in it. That keeps the flies away and the cows know just as well that it is done for their comfort and stand quietly till the milking is over. I must ask John to have their night dresses put on sometimes for you to see. Harry calls them Sheeted Ghosts and they do look queer enough standing all around the barnyard robed in white. End of chapter 30. Chapters 31 and 32 of Beautiful Joe. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Allison Hester of Athens, Georgia. Beautiful Joe by Marshall Saunders. Chapter 31, In the Cow Stable. Is it a strange thing, saying Miss Laura, that a little thing like a fly can cause so much annoyance to animals as well as to people? Sometimes when I am trying to get more sleep in the morning, their little feet tickle me so that I am nearly frantic and have to fly out of bed. You shall have some netting to put over your bed, said Mrs. Wood. But suppose, Laura, you had no hands to brush away the flies. Suppose your whole body was covered with them and you were tied up somewhere and could not get loose. I can't imagine more exquisite torture myself. Last summer the flies were dreadful. It seems to me that they are getting worse and worse every year and worry the animals more. I believe it is because the birds are getting thinned out all over the country. There are not enough of them to catch the flies. John says that the next improvements we make on the farm are to be wire galls at all the stable windows and screen doors to keep the little pests from the horses and cattle. One afternoon last summer, Mr. Maxwell's mother came for me to go for a drive with her. The heat was so intense and when we got down by the river, she proposed getting out of the fayton and sitting under the trees to see if it would be any cooler. She was driving a horse that she had got from the hotel in the village. A wrong horse that was clipped and check reigned and had his tail dock. I wouldn't drive behind to tell this horse now. Then I wasn't so particular. However, I made her unfasten the check rein before I'd set foot in the carriage. Well, I thought that horse would go mad. He'd tremble and shiver and look so pitifully at us. The flies were nearly eating him up. Then he'd start a little. Mrs. Maxwell had a weight at his head to hold him but he could easily have dragged that. He was a good disposition horse and he didn't want to run away but he could not stand still. I soon jumped up and slapped him and rubbed him till my hands were dripping wet. The poor brute was so grateful and would keep touching my arm with his nose. Mrs. Maxwell sat under the trees, fanning herself and laughing at me but I didn't care. How could I enjoy myself with a dumb creature writhing in pain before me? A docked horse can neither eat nor sleep comfortably in the fly season. In one of our New England villages, they have a sign up, horses taken into grass. Long tails, $1.50. Short tails, $1.00. And it just means that the short-tailed ones are taken cheaper because they are so bothered by the flies that they can't eat much. While the long-tailed ones are able to brush them away and eat in peace. I read the other day of a buffalo cold dealer's horse that was in such an agony through flies that he committed suicide. You know animals will do that. I've read of horses and dogs drowning themselves. This horse had been clipped and its tail was docked and he was turned out to graze. The flies stung him till he was nearly crazy. He ran up to a picket fence and sprang up on the sharp spikes. There he hung, making no effort to get down. Some men saw him and they said it was a clear case of suicide. I would like to have the power to take every man who cuts off a horse's tail and tie his hands and turn him out in a field in the hot sun with little clothing on and plenty of flies about. Then we would see if he wouldn't sympathize with the poor dumb beast. It's the most senseless thing in the world, this docking fashion. They've a few flimsy arguments about a horse with a docked tail being strong or backed like a short-tailed sheep, but I don't believe a word of it. The horse was made strong enough to do the work he's got to do and man can't improve on him. Docking is a cruel, wicked thing. Now there's a ghost of an argument in favor of check rains on certain occasions. A fiery young horse can't run away with an overdrawn check and in speeding horses, a tight check rain will make them hold their heads up and keep them from choking. But I don't believe in raising colts in a way to make them fiery and I wish there wasn't a racehorse on the face of the earth. So if it depended on me, every kind of check rain would go. It's a pity we women can't vote Laura. We do away with a good many abuses. Miss Laura smiled, but it was a very faint, almost an unhappy smile and Mrs. Wood said hastily, let us talk about something else. Did you ever hear that cows will give less milk on a dark day than on a bright one? No, I never did, said Miss Laura. Well, they do, they are most sensitive animals. One finds out all the manners of curious things about animals if he makes a study of them. Cows are wonderful creatures, I think, and so grateful for good usage that they return every scrap of care given them with interest. Have you ever heard anything about dehorning Laura? Not much, Auntie. Does Uncle approve of it? No, indeed. He'd just as soon think of cutting their tails off as dehorning them. He says he guesses the creator knew how to make a cow better than he does. Sometimes I tell John that his argument doesn't hold good for a man in some ways can improve on nature. In the natural course of things, a cow would be feeding her calf for half a year, but we take it away from her and raise it as well as she could and get an extra quantity of milk from her in addition. I don't know what to think myself about dehorning. Mr. Wynhem's cattle are all polled and he has an open space in his barn for them. Instead of keeping them in stalls and he says they're more comfortable and not so confined, I suppose in sending cattle to sea it's necessary to take their horns off, but when they're going to be turned out to grass, it seems like mutilating them. Our cows couldn't keep the dogs away from the sheep if they didn't have their horns. Their horns are their means of defense. Do your cattle stand in these stalls all winter? Ask Miss Laura. Oh yes, except when they're turned out in the barnyard and then John usually has to send a man to keep them moving or they take cold. Sometimes on very fine days, they get out all day. You know, cows are not like horses. John says they're like great milk machines. You've got to keep them quiet, only exercising enough to keep them in health. If a cow is hurried or worried or chilled or heated, it stops her milk yield and bad usage poisons it. John says you can't take a stick and strike a cow across the back without her milk being that much worse. And as for drinking the milk that comes from a cow that isn't kept clean, you'd better throw it away and drink water. When I was in Chicago, my sister-in-law kept complaining to her milkman about what she called the cowy smell to her milk. It's the animal odor, ma'am, he said, and it can't be helped. Oh, milk smells like that. It's dirt, I said, when she asked my opinion about it. I'll wager my best bonnet that that man's cows are kept dirty, their skins are plastered up with filth, and as the poison in them can't escape that way, it's coming out through the milk and you are helping dispose of it. She was astonished to hear this and she got her milkman's address and one day dropped in upon him. She said that his cows were standing in a stable that was comparatively clean, but that their bodies were in just the state that I described them living in. She advised the man to card and brush his cows every day and said that he need bring her no more milk. That shows you how city people are imposed upon with regard to your milk. I should think you'd be poisoned with the treatment your cows receive and even when your milk is examined, you can't tell whether it's pure or not. In New York, the law only requires 13% of solids in milk. That's absurd for you can feed a cow on swill and still get 14% of solids in it. Oh, you city people are queer. Miss Laura laughed heartily. What a prejudice you have against large towns, Auntie. Yes, I have, said Miss Wood honestly. I often wish we could break up a few of our cities and scatter the people through the country. Look at all the lovely farms all about here, some of them with only an old man and woman on them. The boys are off to the cities, slaving in stores and offices and growing pale and sickly. It would have broken my heart if Harry had taken to city ways. I had a plain talk with your uncle when I married him and said, now my boy's only a baby and I want him to be brought up so that he will love country life. How are we going to manage it? Your uncle looked at me with a slight twinkle in his eye and said I was a pretty fair specimen of a country girl. Suppose we brought up Harry the way I'd been brought up. I knew he was only joking, yet I got quite excited. Yes, I said, do as my father and mother did, have a farm about twice as large as you can manage. Don't keep a hired man, get up at daylight and slave till dark, never take a holiday. Have the girls do the housework and take care of the hens and help pick the fruit and make the boys tint the colts and the calves and put all the money they make in the bank. Don't take any papers for they would waste their time reading them and it's too far to go to the post office oftener than once a week and, but I don't remember the rest of what I said. Anyway, your uncle burst into a roar of laughter. Haddy, he said, my farm's too big. I'm going to sell some of it and enjoy myself a little more. That very week he sold 50 acres and he hired an extra man and got me a good girl. And twice a week he left his work in the afternoon and took me for a drive. Harry held the reins in his tiny fingers and John told him that Dolly, the old mare we were driving, should be called his and the very next horse he bought should be called his too and he should name it and have it for his own. And he would give him five sheep and he should have his own bank book and keep his accounts. And Harry understood. Mere baby though he was and from that day he loved John as his own father. If my father had had the wisdom that John has his boys wouldn't be the one a poor lawyer and the other a poor doctor in two different cities and our farm wouldn't be in the hands of strangers. It makes me sick to go there. I think of my poor mother lying with her tired hands crossed out in the churchyard and the boys so far away. And my father always hurrying and driving us. I can tell you Laura the thing cuts both ways. It isn't all the faults of the boys that they leave the country. Mrs. Wood was silent for a little while after she made this long speech and Mrs. Laura said nothing. I took a turn or two up and down the stable thinking of many things. No matter how happy human beings seem to be they always have something to worry them. I was sorry for Mrs. Wood for her face had lost the happy look it usually wore. However, she soon forgot her trouble and said, now I must go and get the tea. This is Adele's afternoon out. I'll come too, said Mrs. Laura, for I promised her I'd make the biscuits for tea this evening and let you rest. They both sauntered slowly down the plank walk to the house and I followed them. End of chapter 31, chapter 32, our return home. In October, the most beautiful of all the month we were obliged to go back to Fairport. Ms. Laura could not bear to leave the farm and her face got very sorrowful when anyone spoke of her going away. Still, she had gotten well and strong and was as brown as a berry and she said that she knew she ought to go home and get back to her lessons. Mr. Wood called October the golden month. Everything was quiet and still and at night and in the morning the sun had a yellow misty look. The trees in the orchard were loaded with fruit and some of the leaves were floating down making a soft covering on the ground. In the garden, there were a great many flowers in bloom and flaming red and yellow colors. Ms. Laura gathered bunches of them every day to put in the parlor. One day when she was arranging them, she said regretfully, they will soon be gone. I wish it could always be summer. You would get tired of it, said Mr. Harry who had come up softly behind her. There's only one place where we could stand perpetual summer and that's in heaven. Do you suppose that it will always be summer there? Said Ms. Laura, turning around and looking at him. I don't know, I imagine it will be but I don't think anybody knows much about it. We've got to wait. Ms. Laura's eyes fail on me. Harry, she said. Do you think that dumb animals will go to heaven? I shall have to say again I don't know, he replied. Some people hold that they do. In a Michigan paper the other day, I came across one writer's opinion on the subject. He says that among the best people of all ages have been some who believed in the future life of animals. Homer and the later Greeks and some of the Romans and early Christians held this view. The last believing that God sent angels in the shape of birds to comfort sufferers for the faith. St. Francis called the birds and beasts his brothers. Dr. Johnson believed in a future life for animals as also did Wordsworth, Shallie, Cooleridge, Jeremy Taylor, Agassi, LaMartine and many Christian scholars. It seems as if they ought to have some compensation for their terrible sufferings in this world. Then to go to heaven, animals would only have to take up the thread of their lives here. Man is a God to the lower creation. Joe worships you much as you worship your maker. Dumb animals live in and for their masters. They hang on our words and looks and are dependent on us in almost every way. For my own part and looking at it from an earthly point of view, I wish with all my heart that we may find our dumb friends in paradise. And in the Bible, said Miss Elora, animals are often spoken of, the dove and the raven, the wolf and the lamb and the leopard and the cattle that God says are his and the little sparrow that can't fall to the ground without our fathers knowing it. Still, there's nothing definite about their immortality, said Mr. Hayery. However, we've got nothing to do with that. If it's right for them to be in heaven, we'll find them there. All we have to do now is to deal with the present and the Bible plainly tells us that a righteous man regarded the life of his beast. I think I would be happier in heaven if dear old Joe were there, said Miss Elora, looking wistfully at me. He has been such a good dog. Just think how he has loved and protected me. I think I should be lonely without him. That reminds me of some poetry or rather dog girl, said Mr. Hayery, that I cut out of a newspaper for you yesterday. And he drew from his pocket a little slip of paper and read this. Do doggies gone to heaven, dad? Will oral Donald gang foreknew to take him fodder with us, what be my awful rung? There was a number of other verses telling how many kind things old Donald the dog had done for his master's family, and then it closed with these lines. Without our dogs, a fodder man would be an awful sin to leave or faithful doggie there. He's certain to went in or Donald's no like other dogs. He'll no be like it. If Donald's no let into heaven, I'll no gong there one foot. My sentiments exactly. Said a merry voice behind Miss Elora and Mr. Hayery, and looking up, they saw Mr. Maxwell. He was holding out one hand to them, and in the other, kept back a basket of large pairs that Mr. Hayery promptly took from him and offered to Miss Elora. I've been dependent upon animals for the most part of my comfort in this life. Said Mr. Maxwell, and I shan't be happy without them in heaven. I don't see how you would get on without Joe, Miss Morris, and I want my birds and my snake and my horse. How can I live without them? They're almost all my life here. If some animals go to heaven and not others, I think that the dog has the first claim. Said Miss Elora, he's the friend of man, the oldest and the best. Have you ever heard the legend about him and Adam? No, said Mr. Maxwell. Well, when Adam was turned out of paradise, all the animals shunned him and he sat bitterly weeping with his head between his hands when he felt the soft tongue of some creature gently touching him. He took his hands from his face and there was a dog that had separated himself from all the other animals and he was trying to comfort him. He became the chosen friend and companion of Adam afterward of all men. There is another legend, said Mr. Harry about our savior and a dog. Have you ever heard it? We'll tell you that later, said Mr. Maxwell when we know what it is. Mr. Harry showed his white teeth in an amused smile and began. Once upon a time, our Lord was going through a town with his disciples, a dead dog lay by the wayside and everyone that passed along flung some offensive epithet at him. Eastern dogs are not like our dogs and seemingly there was nothing good about this loathsome creature. But as our savior went by, he said gently, pearls cannot equal the whiteness of his teeth. What was the name of that old fellow? Said Mr. Maxwell abruptly who had a beautiful swan that came every day for 15 years to bury its head in his bosom and feet from his hand and who would go near no other human being. St. Hugh of Lincoln, we heard about him at the band of mercy the other day, said Miss Laura. I should think that he would have wanted to have that swan in heaven with him, said Mr. Maxwell. What a beautiful creature it must have been. Speaking about animals going to heaven, I daresay some of them would object to going on account of the company that they would meet there. Think of the dog kicked to death by his master. The horse driven into his grave, the thousands of cattle starved to death on the plains. Will they want to meet their owners in heaven? According to my reckoning, their owners won't be there, said Mr. Hayary. I firmly believe that the Lord will punish every man or woman who ill treats a dumb creature, just as surely as he will punish those who ill treat their fellow creatures. If a man's life has been a long series of cruelty to dumb animals, do you suppose that he would enjoy himself in heaven, which will be full of kindness to everyone? Not he, he'd rather be in the other place. And there he'll go, I fully believe. When you've quite disposed of all your fellow creatures and the dumb creation, Harry, perhaps you will condescend to go out into the orchard to see how your father is getting on with picking the apples. Said Mrs. Wood, joining Miss Laura and the other two men, her eyes twinkling and sparkling with amusement. The apples will keep mother, said Mr. Hayary, putting his arm around her. I just came in for a moment to get Laura. Come Maxwell, we'll all go. And not another word about animals. Mrs. Wood called after them. Laura will go crazy someday through thinking of their sufferings if someone doesn't do something to stop her. Miss Laura turned around suddenly. Dear Aunt Hattie. She said, you must not say that. I am a coward, I know, about hearing of animals' pains, but I must get over it. I want to know how they suffer. I ought to know, for when I get to be a woman, I am going to do all that I can to help them. And I'll join you, said Mr. Maxwell, stretching out his hand to Miss Laura. She did not smile, but looking very earnestly at him, she held it clasped in her own. You will help me to care for them, will you? She said, yes, I promise. He said gravely, I'll give myself to the service of dumb animals, if you will. And I too, said Mr. Hayary in his deep voice, laying his hand across theirs. Mrs. Wood stood looking at their three fresh, eager young faces with tears in her eyes. Just as they all stood silently for an instant, the old village clergyman came into the room from the hall. He must have heard what they said, for before he could move, he had laid his hands on their three brown heads. Bless you, my children, he said. God will lift up the light of his countenance upon you, for you have given yourselves to a noble work. And serving dumb creatures, you are ennobling the human race. Then he sat down in a chair and looked at them. He was a venerable old man and had long white hair and the woods thought a great deal of him. He had come to get Mrs. Wood to make some nourishing dishes for a sick woman in the village. And while he was talking to her, Mrs. Laura and the two young men went out of the house. They hurried across the veranda and over the lawn, talking and laughing and enjoying themselves as only happy young people can and with not a trace of their seriousness of a few moments before on their faces. They were going so fast that they ran right into a flock of geese that were coming up the lane. They were driven by a little boy called Tommy, the son of one of Mr. Wood's farm laborers. And they were chattering and gabbling and seemed very angry. What's all this about? Said Mr. Harry, stopping and looking at the boy. What's the matter with your feathered charges, Tommy, my lad? If it's the geese you mean? Said the boy, half crying and looking very much put out. It's all them nasty potatoes. They won't keep away from them. So the potatoes chased the geese, do they? Said Mr. Maxwell, teasingly. No, no, said the child, petishly. Mr. Wood, he sets me to watch the geese and then they runs in among the buckwheat and the potatoes and I tries to drive them out, but they doesn't want to come. And, shame-facedly, I has to switch their feet and I hate to do it because I'm a band of mercy, boy. Tommy, my son, said Mr. Maxwell, solemnly. You will go right to heaven when you die and your geese will go with you. Hush, hush, said Miss Laura. Don't tease him. And putting her arm on the dear child's shoulder, she said, you are a good boy, Tommy, not to want to hurt the geese. Let me see your switch, dear. He showed her a little stick he had in his hand and she said, I don't think you could hurt them much with that and if they will be naughty and steal the potatoes, you have to drive them out. Take some of my pears and eat them and you will forget your trouble. The child took the fruit and Miss Laura and the two young men went on their way smiling and looking over their shoulders at Tommy who stood in the lane devouring his payers and keeping one eye on the geese that had gathered a little in front of him and were gabbling noisily and having a kind of indignation meeting because they had been driven out of the potato field. Tommy's father and mother lived in a little house down near the road. Mr. Wood never had his hired men live in his own house. He had two small houses for them to live in and they were required to keep them as neat as Mr. Wood's own house was kept. He said he didn't see why he should keep a boarding house if he was a farmer nor why his wife should wear herself out waiting on strong, hardy men that had just as soon take care of themselves. He wished to have his own family about him and it was better for his men to have some kind of family life for themselves. If one of his men was unmarried he boarded with the married one but slept in his own house. On this October day we found Mr. Wood hard at work under the fruit trees. He had a good many different kind of apples. Enormous red ones and long yellow ones that they called pippins and little brown ones and smooth coated sweet ones and bright red ones and others more than I could mention. Ms. Laura often paired one and cut off little bits for me for I always wanted to eat whatever I saw her eating. Just a few days after this Ms. Laura and I returned to Fairport and some of Mr. Wood's apples traveled along with us for he sent a good many to the Boston market. Mr. and Mrs. Wood came to the station to see us off. Mr. Harry could not come for he had left Riverdale the day before to go back to his college. Mrs. Wood said that she would be very lonely without her two young people and she kissed Ms. Laura over and over again and made her promise to come back again in the next summer. I was put in a box in the express car and Mr. Wood told the agent that if he knew what was good for him he would speak to me occasionally for I was a very knowing dog and if he didn't treat me well I'd be apt to write him up in the newspapers. The agent laughed and quite often on the way to Fairport he came to my box and spoke kindly to me so I did not get so lonely and frightened as I did on my way to Riverdale. How glad the Morris's were to see us coming back. The boys had all gotten home before us and such a fuss they made over their sister. They loved her dearly and never wanted her to be long away from them. I was rubbed and stroked and had to run about offering my paw to everyone. Jim and Little Billy licked my face and Bella croaked out. Glad to see you Joe. How did you time? How was your help? We soon settled down for the winter. Ms. Laura began going to school and came home every day with a pile of books under her arm. The summer in the country had done her so much good that her mother often looked at her fondly and said the white-faced child she sent away had come home a nut-brown maid. End of chapter 32.