Beautiful Joe. Saunders Marshall
were indescribably filthy. His horse bears the marks of ill-usage, and is in an emaciated condition. His cows are plastered up with mud and filth, and are covered with vermin. Where is our health inspector, that he does not exercise a more watchful supervision over establishments of this kind? To allow milk from an unclean place like this to be sold in the town, is endangering the health of its inhabitants. Upon inquiry, it was found that the man Jenkins bears a very bad character. Steps are being taken to have his wife and children removed from him.’”
Jack threw the paper into my box, and he and the other boys gave three cheers for the Daily News and then ran away. How glad I was! It did not matter so much for me, for I had escaped him, but now that it had been found out what a cruel man he was, there would be a restraint upon him, and poor Toby and the cows would have a happier time.
I was going to tell about the Morris family. There were Mr. Morris, who was a clergyman and preached in a church in Fairport; Mrs. Morris, his wife; Miss Laura, who was the eldest of the family; then Jack, Ned, Carl, and Willie. I think one reason why they were such a good family was because Mrs. Morris was such a good woman. She loved her husband and children, and did everything she could to make them happy.
Mr. Morris was a very busy man and rarely interfered in household affairs. Mrs. Morris was the one who said what was to be done and what was not to be done. Even then, when I was a young dog, I used to think that she was very wise. There was never any noise or confusion in the house, and though there was a great deal of work to be done, everything went on smoothly and pleasantly, and no one ever got angry and scolded as they did in the Jenkins family.
Mrs. Morris was very particular about money matters. Whenever the boys came to her for money to get such things as candy and ice cream, expensive toys, and other things that boys often crave, she asked them why they wanted them. If it was for some selfish reason, she said, firmly: “No, my children; we are not rich people, and we must save our money for your education. I cannot buy you foolish things.”
If they asked her for money for books or something to make their pet animals more comfortable, or for their outdoor games, she gave it to them willingly. Her ideas about the bringing up of children I cannot explain as clearly as she can herself, so I will give part of a conversation that she had with a lady who was calling on her shortly after I came to Washington Street.
I happened to be in the house at the time. Indeed, I used to spend the greater part of my time in the house. Jack one day looked at me, and exclaimed: “Why does that dog stalk about, first after one and then after another, looking at us with such solemn eyes?”
I wished that I could speak to tell him that I had so long been used to seeing animals kicked about and trodden upon, that I could not get used to the change. It seemed too good to be true. I could scarcely believe that dumb animals had rights; but while it lasted, and human beings were so kind to me, I wanted to be with them all the time. Miss Laura understood. She drew my head up to her lap, and put her face down to me: “You like to be with us, don’t you, Joe? Stay in the house as much as you like. Jack doesn’t mind, though he speaks so sharply. When you get tired of us go out in the garden and have a romp with Jim.”
But I must return to the conversation I referred to. It was one fine June day, and Mrs. Morris was sewing in a rocking-chair by the window. I was beside her, sitting on a hassock, so that I could look out into the street. Dogs love variety and excitement, and like to see what is going on outdoors as well as human beings. A carriage drove up to the door, and a finely-dressed lady got out and came up the steps.
Mrs. Morris seemed glad to see her, and called her Mrs. Montague. I was pleased with her, for she had some kind of perfume about her that I liked to smell. So I went and sat on the hearth rug quite near her.
They had a little talk about things I did not understand and then the lady’s eyes fell on me. She looked at me through a bit of glass that was hanging by a chain from her neck, and pulled away her beautiful dress lest I should touch it.
I did not care any longer for the perfume, and went away and sat very straight and stiff at Mrs. Morris’ feet. The lady’s eyes still followed me.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Morris,” she said, “but that is a very queer-looking dog you have there.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Morris, quietly; “he is not a handsome dog.”
“And he is a new one, isn’t he?” said Mrs. Montague.
“Yes.”
“And that makes.”
“Two dogs, a cat, fifteen or twenty rabbits, a rat, about a dozen canaries, and two dozen goldfish, I don’t know how many pigeons, a few bantams, a guinea pig, and well, I don’t think there is anything more.”
They both laughed, and Mrs. Montague said: “You have quite a menagerie. My father would never allow one of his children to keep a pet animal. He said it would make his girls rough and noisy to romp about the house with cats, and his boys would look like rowdies if they went about with dogs at their heels.”
“I have never found that it made my children more rough to play with their pets,” said Mrs. Morris.
“No, I should think not,” said the lady, languidly. “Your boys are the most gentlemanly lads in Fairport, and as for Laura, she is a perfect little lady. I like so much to have them come and see Charlie. They wake him up, and yet don’t make him naughty.”
“They enjoyed their last visit very much,” said Mrs. Morris. “By the way, I have heard them talking about getting Charlie a dog.”
“Oh!” cried the lady, with a little shudder, “beg them not to. I cannot sanction that. I hate dogs.”
“Why do you hate them?” asked Mrs. Morris gently.
“They are such dirty things; they always smell and have vermin on them.”
“A dog,” said Mrs. Morris, “is something like a child. If you want it clean and pleasant, you have got to keep it so. This dog’s skin is as clean as yours or mine. Hold still, Joe,” and she brushed the hair on my back the wrong way, and showed Mrs. Montague how pink and free from dust my skin was.
Mrs. Montague looked at me more kindly, and even held out the tips of her fingers to me. I did not lick them. I only smelled them, and she drew her hand back again.
“You have never been brought in contact with the lower creation as I have,” said Mrs. Morris; “just let me tell you, in a few words, what a help dumb animals have been to me in the up-bringing of my children my boys, especially. When I was a young married woman, going about the slums of New York with my husband, I used to come home and look at my two babies as they lay in their little cots, and say to him, ‘What are we going to do to keep these children from selfishness the curse of the world?’
“‘Get them to do something for somebody outside themselves,’ he always said. And I have tried to act on that principle. Laura is naturally unselfish. With her tiny, baby fingers, she would take food from her own mouth and put it into Jack’s, if we did not watch her. I have never had any trouble with her. But the boys were born selfish, tiresomely, disgustingly selfish. They were good boys in many ways. As they grew older they were respectful, obedient, they were not untidy, and not particularly rough, but their one thought was for themselves each one for himself, and they used to quarrel with each other in regard to their rights. While we were in New York, we had only a small, back yard. When we came here, I said, ‘I am going to try an experiment.’ We got this house because it had a large garden, and a stable that would do for the boys to play in. Then I got them together, and had a little serious talk. I said I was not pleased with the way in which they were living. They did nothing for any one but themselves from morning to night. If I asked them to do an errand for me, it was done unwillingly. Of course, I knew they had their school for a part of the day, but they had a good deal of leisure time when they might do something for some one else. I asked them if they thought they were going to make real, manly Christian boys at this rate, and they said no. Then I asked them what we should do about it. They all said, ‘You tell us mother, and we’ll do as you say.’ I proposed a series of tasks. Each one to do something for somebody, outside and apart from himself, every day of his life. They all agreed to this,