Aunt Esther used to be a constant attendant upon us young ones whenever
we were a little ill, or any of the numerous accidents of childhood
overtook us. In such seasons of adversity she always came to sit by our
bedside, and take care of us. She did not, as some people do, bring a
long face and a doleful whining voice into a sick-room, but was always so
bright, and cheerful, and chatty, that we began to think it was almost
worth while to be sick to have her about us. I remember that once, when
I had the quinsy, and my throat was so swollen that it brought the tears
every time I swallowed, Aunt Esther talked to me so gayly, and told me
so many stories, that I found myself laughing heartily, and disposed to
regard my aching throat as on the whole rather an amusing circumstance.
Aunt Esther’s stories were not generally fairy tales, but stories about
real things,—and more often on her favorite subject of the habits of
animals, and the different animals she had known, than about anything
else.
One of these was a famous Newfoundland dog, named Prince, which belonged
to an uncle of hers in the country, and was, as we thought, a far more
useful and faithful member of society than many of us youngsters. Prince
used to be a grave, sedate dog, that considered himself put in trust of
the farm, the house, the cattle, and all that was on the place. At night
he slept before the kitchen door, which, like all other doors in the
house in those innocent days, was left unlocked all night; and if such a
thing had ever happened as that a tramper or an improper person of any
kind had even touched the latch of the door, Prince would have been up
attending to him as master of ceremonies.
At early dawn, when the family began to stir, Prince was up and out
to superintend the milking of the cows, after which he gathered them
all together, and started out with them to pasture, padding steadily
along behind, dashing out once in a while to reclaim some wanderer that
thoughtlessly began to make her breakfast by the roadside, instead of
saving her appetite for the pastures, as a properly behaved cow should.
Arrived at the pasture-lot, Prince would take down the bars with his
teeth, drive in the cows, put up bars, and then soberly turn tail and
pad off home, and carry the dinner-basket for the men to the mowing
lot, or the potato-field, or wherever the labors of the day might be.
There arrived, he was extremely useful to send on errands after anything
forgotten or missing. “Prince! the rake is missing: go to the barn and
fetch it!” and away Prince would go, and come back with his head very
high, and the long rake very judiciously balanced in his mouth.
One day a friend was wondering at the sagacity of the dog, and his master
thought he would show off his tricks in a still more original style; and
so, calling Prince to him, he said, “Go home and bring Puss to me!”
Away bounded Prince towards the farm-house, and, looking about, found the
younger of the two cats, fair Mistress Daisy, busy cleaning her white
velvet in the summer sun. Prince took her gently up by the nape of her
neck, and carried her, hanging head and heels together, to the fields,
and laid her down at his master’s feet.
“How’s this, Prince?” said the master; “you didn’t understand me. I said
the cat, and this is the kitten. Go right back and bring the old cat.”
Prince looked very much ashamed of his mistake, and turned away, with
drooping ears and tail, and went back to the house.
The old cat was a venerable, somewhat portly old dame, and no small lift
for Prince; but he reappeared with old Puss hanging from his jaws, and
set her down, a little discomposed, but not a whit hurt by her unexpected
ride.
Sometimes, to try Prince’s skill, his master would hide his gloves or
riding-whip in some out-of-the-way corner, and when ready to start, would
say, “Now, where have I left my gloves? Prince, good fellow, run in,
and find them”; and Prince would dash into the house, and run hither
and thither with his nose to every nook and corner of the room; and, no
matter how artfully they were hid, he would upset and tear his way to
them. He would turn up the corners of the carpet, snuff about the bed,
run his nose between the feather-bed and mattress, pry into the crack of
a half-opened drawer, and show as much zeal and ingenuity as a policeman,
and seldom could anything be so hid as to baffle his perseverance.
[Illustration]
Many people laugh at the idea of being careful of a dog’s feelings, as
if it were the height of absurdity; and yet it is a fact that some dogs
are as exquisitely sensitive to pain, shame, and mortification, as any
human being. See, when a dog is spoken harshly to, what a universal droop
seems to come over him. His head and ears sink, his tail drops and slinks
between his legs, and his whole air seems to say, “I wish I could sink
into the earth to hide myself.”
Prince’s young master, without knowing it, was the means of inflicting a
most terrible mortification on him at one time. It was very hot weather,
and Prince, being a shaggy dog, lay panting, and lolling his tongue out,
apparently suffering from the heat.
“I declare,” said young Master George, “I do believe Prince would be more
comfortable for being sheared.” And so forthwith he took him and began
divesting him of his coat. Prince took it all very obediently; but when
he appeared without his usual attire, every one saluted him with roars
of laughter, and Prince was dreadfully mortified. He broke away from his
master, and scampered off home at a desperate pace, ran down cellar and
disappeared from view. His young master was quite distressed that Prince
took the matter so to heart; he followed him in vain, calling, “Prince!
Prince!” No Prince appeared. He lighted a candle and searched the cellar,
and found the poor creature cowering away in the darkest nook under the
stairs. Prince was not to be comforted; he slunk deeper and deeper into
the darkness, and crouched on the ground when he saw his master, and
for a long time refused even to take food. The family all visited and
condoled with him, and finally his sorrows were somewhat abated; but he
would not be persuaded to leave the cellar for nearly a week. Perhaps by
that time he indulged the hope that his hair was beginning to grow again,
and all were careful not to destroy the allusion by any jests or comments
on his appearance.
Such were some of the stories of Prince’s talents and exploits which
Aunt Esther used to relate to us. What finally became of the old fellow
we never heard. Let us hope that, as he grew old, and gradually lost his
strength, and felt the infirmities of age creeping on, he was tenderly
and kindly cared for in memory of the services of his best days,—that he
had a warm corner by the kitchen fire, and was daily spoken to in kindly
tones by his old friends. Nothing is a sadder sight than to see a poor
old favorite, that once was petted and caressed by every member of the
family, now sneaking and cowering as if dreading every moment a kick or a
blow,—turned from the parlor into the kitchen, driven from the kitchen by
the cook’s broomstick, half starved and lonesome.
O, how much kinder if the poor thread of life were at once cut by some
pistol-shot, than to have the neglected favorite linger only to suffer!
Now, boys, I put it to you, is it generous or manly, when your old pet
and playmate grows sickly and feeble, and can no longer amuse you, to
forget all the good old times you have had with him, and let him become a
poor, trembling, hungry, abused vagrant? If you cannot provide comforts
for his old age, and see to his nursing, you can at least secure him an
easy and painless passage from this troublesome world. A manly fellow I
once knew, who, when his old hound became so diseased that he only lived
to suffer, gave him a nice meal with his own hand, patted his head, got
him to sleep, and then shot him,—so that he was dead in a moment, felt no
pain, and knew nothing but kindness to the last.
And now to Aunt Esther’s stories of a dog I must add one more which
occurred in a town where I once lived. I have told you of the fine traits
of blood-dogs, their sagacity and affection. In doing this, perhaps, I
have not done half justice to the poor common dogs, of no particular
blood or breed, that are called curs or mongrels; yet among these I
believe you will quite as often find both affection and sagacity as among
better-born dogs.
The poor mongrel I am going to tell you about belonged to a man who had
not, in one respect, half the sense that his dog had. A dog will never
eat or drink a thing that has once made him sick, or injured him; but
this man would drink, time and time again, a deadly draught, that took
away his senses and unfitted him for any of his duties. Poor little
Pero, however, set her ignorant dog’s heart on her drinking master, and
used to patter faithfully after him, and lick his hand respectfully, when
nobody else thought he was in a condition to be treated with respect.
One bitter cold winter day, Pero’s master went to a grocery, at some
distance from home, on pretence of getting groceries, but in reality to
fill a very dreadful bottle, that was the cause of all his misery; and
little Pero padded after him through the whirling snow, although she
left three poor little pups of her own in the barn. Was it that she was
anxious for the poor man who was going the bad road, or was there some
secret thing in her dog’s heart that warned her that her master was in
danger? We know not, but the sad fact is, that at the grocery the poor
man took enough to make his brain dizzy, and coming home he lost his way
in a whirling snow-storm, and fell down stupid and drunk, not far from
his own barn, in a lonesome place, with the cold winter’s wind sweeping
the snow-drift over him. Poor little Pero cuddled close to her master and
nestled in his bosom, as if trying to keep the warm life in him.
Two or three days passed, and nothing was seen or heard of the poor man.
The snow had drifted over him in a long white winding-sheet, when a
neighbor one day heard a dog in the barn crying to get out. It was poor
Pero, that had come back and slipped in to nurse her puppies while the
barn-door was open, and was now crying to get out and go back to her poor
master. It suddenly occurred to the man that Pero might find the body,
and in fact, when she started off, he saw a little path which her small
paws had worn in the snow, and, tracking after, found the frozen body.
This poor little friend had nestled the snow away around the breast, and
stayed watching and waiting by her dead master, only taking her way back
occasionally to the barn to nurse her little ones. I cannot help asking
whether a little animal that can show such love and faithfulness has not
something worth respecting and caring for in its nature.
At this time of the year our city ordinances proclaim a general leave and
license to take the lives of all dogs found in the streets, and scenes of
dreadful cruelty are often enacted in consequence. I hope, if my stories
fall under the eye of any boy who may ever witness, or be tempted to take
part in, the hunting down and killing a poor dog, that he will remember
of how much faithfulness and affection and constancy these poor brutes
are capable, and, instead of being their tyrant and persecutor, will try
to make himself their protector and friend.