In the last number I told my little friends about my good Aunt Esther,
and her wonderful cat Juno, and her dog Pero. In thinking what to write
for this month, my mind goes far back to the days when I was a little
girl, and used to spend many happy hours in Aunt Esther’s parlor talking
with her. Her favorite subject was always the habits and character of
different animals, and their various ways and instincts, and she used to
tell us so many wonderful, yet perfectly authentic, stories about all
these things, that the hours passed away very quickly.
Some of her rules for the treatment and care of animals have impressed
themselves so distinctly on my mind, that I shall never forget them, and
I am going to repeat some of them to you.
One was, never to frighten an animal for sport. I recollect I had a
little white kitten, of which I was very fond, and one day I was amusing
myself with making her walk up and down the key-board of the piano, and
laughing to see her fright at the strange noises which came up under
her feet. Puss evidently thought the place was haunted, and tried to
escape; it never occurred to me, however, that there was any cruelty in
the operation, till Aunt Esther said to me, “My dear, you must never
frighten an animal. I have suffered enough from fear to know that there
is no suffering more dreadful; and a helpless animal, that cannot speak
to tell its fright, and cannot understand an explanation of what alarms
it, ought to move your pity.”
I had never thought of this before, and then I remembered how, when I was
a very, very little girl, a grown-up boy in school had amused himself
with me and my little brother in much the same way as that in which I had
amused myself with the kitten. He hunted us under one of the school-room
tables by threatening to cut our ears off if we came out, and took out
his pen-knife, and opened it, and shook it at us whenever we offered to
move. Very likely he had not the least idea that we really could be made
to suffer with fear at so absurd a threat,—any more than I had that my
kitten could possibly be afraid of the piano; but our suffering was in
fact as real as if the boy really had intended what he said, and was
really able to execute it.
Another thing which Aunt Esther strongly impressed on my mind was, that,
when there were domestic animals about a house which were not wanted
in a family, it was far kinder to have them killed in some quick and
certain way than to chase them out of the house, and leave them to wander
homeless, to be starved, beaten, and abused. Aunt Esther was a great
advocate for killing animals, and, tender-hearted as she was, she gave
us many instructions in the kindest and quickest way of disposing of one
whose life must be sacrificed.
Her instructions sometimes bore most remarkable fruits. I recollect one
little girl, who had been trained under Aunt Esther’s care, was once
coming home from school across Boston Common, when she saw a party of
noisy boys and dogs tormenting a poor kitten by the side of the frog
pond. The little wretches would throw it into the water, and then laugh
at its vain and frightened efforts to paddle out, while the dogs added to
its fright by their ferocious barking. Belle was a bright-eyed, spirited
little puss, and her whole soul was roused in indignation; she dashed
in among the throng of boys and dogs, and rescued the poor half-drowned
little animal. The boys, ashamed, slunk away, and little Belle held the
poor, cold, shivering little creature, considering what to do for it. It
was half dead already, and she was embarrassed by the reflection that at
home there was no room for another pet, for both cat and kitten never
were wanting in their family. “Poor kit,” she said, “you must die, but I
will see that you are not tormented”;—and she knelt bravely down and held
the little thing under water, with the tears running down her own cheeks,
till all its earthly sorrows were over, and little kit was beyond the
reach of dog or boy.
This was real brave humanity. Many people call themselves tender-hearted,
because they are unwilling to have a litter of kittens killed, and
so they go and throw them over fences, into people’s back yards, and
comfort themselves with the reflection that they will do well enough.
What becomes of the poor little defenceless things? In nine cases out of
ten they live a hunted, miserable life, crying from hunger, shivering
with cold, harassed by cruel dogs, and tortured to make sport for brutal
boys. How much kinder and more really humane to take upon ourselves the
momentary suffering of causing the death of an animal than to turn our
back and leave it to drag out a life of torture and misery!
Aunt Esther used to protest much against another kind of torture which
well-meaning persons inflict on animals, in giving them as playthings
to very little children who do not know how to handle them. A mother
sometimes will sit quietly sewing, while her baby boy is tormenting a
helpless kitten, poking his fingers into its eyes, pulling its tail,
stretching it out as on a rack, squeezing its feet, and, when the poor
little tormented thing tries to run away, will send the nurse to catch
dear little Johnny’s kitten for him.
Aunt Esther always remonstrated, too, against all the practical jokes
and teasing of animals, which many people practise under the name of
sport,—like throwing a dog into the water for the sake of seeing him
paddle out, dashing water upon the cat, or doing any of the many little
tricks by which animals are made uncomfortable. “They have but one short
little life to live, they are dumb and cannot complain, and they are
wholly in our power”—these were the motives by which she appealed to our
generosity.
Aunt Esther’s boys were so well trained, that they would fight valiantly
for the rescue of any ill-treated animals. Little Master Bill was a
bright-eyed fellow, who wasn’t much taller than his father’s knee, and
wore a low-necked dress with white ruffles. But Bill had a brave heart in
his little body, and so one day, as he was coming from school, he dashed
in among a crowd of dogs which were pursuing a kitten, took it away from
them, and held it as high above his head as his little arm could reach.
The dogs jumped upon his white neck with their rough paws, and scratched
his face, but still he stood steady till a man came up and took the
kitten and frightened away the dogs. Master Bill grew up to be a man, and
at the battle of Gettysburg stood a three days’ fight, and resisted the
charge of the Louisiana Tigers as of old he withstood the charge of the
dogs. A really brave-hearted fellow is generally tender and compassionate
to the weak; only cowards torment that which is not strong enough to
fight them; only cowards starve helpless prisoners or torture helpless
animals.
I can’t help hoping that, in these stories about different pets, I have
made some friends among the boys, and that they will remember what I have
said, and resolve always to defend the weak, and not permit any cruelty
where it is in their power to prevent it. Boys, you are strong and brave
little fellows; but you oughtn’t to be strong and brave for nothing; and
if every boy about the street would set himself to defending helpless
animals, we should see much less cruelty than we now do.
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