"Baltie"
"When he's forsaken
Withered and shaken
What can an old _horse_
Do but die?"
(With apologies to Tom Hood.)
For one moment Jean stood petrified, too overcome by the sight to stir
or speak, then with a low, pitying cry of:
"Oh, Baltie, Baltie! How came you there?" the child tossed her
umbrella aside and scrambled down into the ditch, the water which
stood in it splashing and flying all over her, as she hastened toward
the prone horse.
At the sound of her voice the poor creature raised his head which had
been drooping forward upon his bent-up knees, turned his sightless
eyes toward her and tried to nicker, but succeeded only in making a
quavering, shivering sound.
"Oh, Baltie, dear, dear Baltie, how did you get out of your stable and
come way off here?" cried the girl taking the pathetic old head into
her arms, and drawing it to her breast regardless of the mud with
which it was thickly plastered. "You got out of the field through that
broken place in the fence up there didn't you dear? And you must have
tumbled right straight down the bank into this ditch, 'cause you're
all splashed over with mud, poor, poor Baltie. And your legs are all
cut and bleeding too. Oh, how long have you been here? You couldn't
see where you were going, could you? You poor, dear thing. Oh, what
shall I do for you? What shall I? If I could only help you up," and
the dauntless little body tugged with all her might and main to raise
the fallen animal. She might as well have striven to raise Gibraltar,
for, even though the horse strove to get upon his feet, he was far too
weak and exhausted to do so, and again dropped heavily to the ground,
nearly over-setting his intrepid little friend as he sank down.
Jean was in despair. What _should_ she do? To go on to her friend
Amy's and leave the old horse to the chance of someone else's tender
mercies never entered her head, and had any one been near at hand to
suggest that solution of the problem he would have promptly found
himself in the midst of a small tornado of righteous wrath. No, here
lay misery incarnate right before her eyes and, of course, she must
instantly set about relieving it. But how?
"Baltie," or Old Baltimore, as the horse was called, belonged to the
Raulsbury's. Everybody within a radius of twenty miles knew him; knew
also that the family had brought him to the place when they came there
from the suburbs of Baltimore more than twenty years ago. Brought him
a high-stepping, fiery, thoroughbred colt which was the admiration and
envy of all Riveredge. John Raulsbury, the grandfather, was his owner
then, and drove him until his death, when "Baltimore" was seventeen
years old; even that was an advanced age for a horse. From the moment
of Grandfather Raulsbury's death Baltimore began to fail and lose his
high spirits. Some people insisted that he was grieving for the friend
of his colt-hood and the heyday of life, but Jabe Raulsbury, the son,
said "the horse was gettin' played out. What could ye expect when he
was more'n seventeen years old?"
So Baltimore became "Old Baltie," and his fate the plow, the dirt
cart, the farm wagon. His box-stall, fine grooming, and fine harness
were things of the past. "The barn shed's good 'nough fer such an old
skate's he's gettin' ter be," said Jabe, and Jabe's son, a shiftless
nonentity, agreed with him.
So that was blue-blooded Baltie's fate, but even such misfortune
failed to break his spirit, and now and again, while plodding
hopelessly along the road, dragging the heavy farm wagon, he would
raise his head, prick up his ears, and plunge ahead, forgetful of his
twenty years, when he heard a speedy step behind him. But, alas! his
sudden sprint always came to a most humiliating end, for his strength
had failed rapidly during the past few years, and the eyes, once so
alert and full of fire, were sadly clouded, making steps very
uncertain. An ugly stumble usually ended in a cruel jerk upon the
still sensitive mouth and poor old Baltie was reduced to the
humiliating plod once more.
Yet, through it all he retained his sweet, high-bred disposition,
accepting his altered circumstances like the gentleman he was, and
never retaliating upon those who so misused him. During his
twenty-third year he became totally blind, and when rheumatism, the
outcome of the lack of proper stabling and care, added to his
miseries, poor Baltie was almost turned adrift; the shed was there, to
be sure, and when he had time to think about it, Jabe dumped some feed
into the manger and threw a bundle of straw upon the floor. But for
the greater part of the time Baltie had to shift for himself as best
he could.
During the past summer he had been the talk of an indignant town, and
more than one threatening word had been spoken regarding the man's
treatment of the poor old horse.
For a moment the little girl stood in deep, perplexing thought, then
suddenly her face lighted up and her expressive eyes sparkled with the
thoughts which lay behind them.
"I know what I'll do, Baltie: I'll go straight up to Jabe Raulsbury's
and _make_ him come down and take care of you. Good-bye, dear; I won't
be any time at all 'cause I'll go right across the fields," and giving
the horse a final encouraging stroke, she caught up her umbrella which
had meantime been resting handle uppermost up in a mud-puddle, and
scrambling up the bank which had been poor Baltie's undoing,
disappeared beneath the tumble-down fence and was off across the
pasture heedless of all obstacles.
Jabe Raulsbury's farm had once been part of Riveredge, but one by one
his broad acres had been sold so that now only a small section of the
original farmstead remained to him, and this was a constant eyesore to
his neighbors, owing to its neglected condition, for beautiful homes
had been erected all about it upon the acres he had sold at such a
large profit. Several good offers had been made him for his property
by those who would gladly have bought the land simply to have improved
their own places and thus add to the attraction of that section of
Riveredge. But no; not another foot of his farm would Jabe Raulsbury
sell, and if ever dog-in-the-manger was fully demonstrated it was by
this parsimonious irascible man whom no one respected and many
heartily despised.
This wild, wet afternoon he was seated upon a stool just within the
shelter of his barn sorting over a pile of turnips which lay upon the
floor near him. He was not an attractive figure, to say the least, as
he bent over the work. Cadaverous, simply because he was too
parsimonious to provide sufficient nourishing food to meet the demands
of such a huge body. Unkempt, grizzled auburn hair and grizzled auburn
beard, the latter sparse enough to disclose the sinister mouth. Eyes
about the color of green gooseberries and with about as much
expression.
As he sat there tossing into the baskets before him the sorted-out
turnips, he became aware of rapidly approaching footsteps, and raised
his head just as a small figure came hurrying around the corner of the
barn, for the scramble up the steep bank, and rapid walk across the
wet pastures, had set Jean's heart a-beating, and that, coupled with
her indignation, caused her to pant. She had gone first to the house,
but had there learned from Mrs. Raulsbury, a timid, nervous,
woefully-dominated individual, who looked and acted as though she
scarcely dared call her soul her own, that "Jabe was down yonder in
the far-barn sortin' turnips." So down to the "far-barn" went Jean.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Raulsbury," she began, her heart, it must be
confessed, adding, rather than lessening its number of beats, at
confronting the forbidding expression of the individual with whom she
was passing the time of day.
"Huh!" grunted Jabe Raulsbury, giving her one searching look from
between his narrowing eyelids, and then resuming his work. Most
children would have been discouraged and dropped the conversation then
and there. Jean's lips took on a firmer curve.
"I guess after all it _isn't_ a good afternoon, is it? It is a pretty
wet, horrid one, and not a very nice one to be out in, is it?"
"Wul, why don't ye go home then?" was the gruff retort.
"Because I have an important matter to 'tend to. I was on my way to
visit Amy Fletcher; her cat is sick! he was hurt dreadfully yesterday;
she thinks somebody must have tried to shoot him and missed him, for
his shoulder is all torn. If anybody _did_ do such a thing to Bunny
they'd ought to be ashamed of it, for he's a dear. If _I_ knew who had
done it I'd--I'd--."
"Wal, what _would_ ye do to 'em, heh?" and a wicked, tantalizing grin
overspread Jabe Raulsbury's face.
"Do? Do? I believe I'd scratch his eyes out; I'd hate him so, for
being so cruel!" was the fiery, unexpected reply.
"Do tell! Would ye now, really? Mebbe it's jist as well fer him that
ye don't know the feller that did it then," remarked Raulsbury,
although he gave a slight hitch to the stool upon which he was sitting
as he said it, thus widening the space between them.
"Well I believe I _would_, for I _despise_ a coward, and only a coward
could do such a thing."
"Huh," was the response to this statement. Then silence for a moment
was broken by the man who asked:
"Wal, why don't ye go along an' see if the cat's kilt. It aint
_here_."
"No, I know _that_, but I have found something more important to 'tend
to, and that's why I came up here, and it's something you ought to
know about too: Old Baltie has tumbled down the bank at the place in
the pasture where the fence is broken, and is in the ditch. I don't
know how long he's been there, but he's all wet, and muddy and shivery
and he can't get up. I came up to tell you, so's you could get a man
to help you and go right down and get him out. I tried, but I wasn't
strong enough, but he'll die if you don't go quick."
Jean's eyes shone and her cheeks were flushed from excitement as she
described Baltie's plight, and paused only because breath failed her.
"Wal, 'spose he does; what then? What good is he to anybody? He's most
twenty-five year old an' clear played-out. He'd better die; it's the
best thing could happen."
The shifty eyes had not rested upon the child while the man was
speaking, but some powerful magnetism drew and held them to her deep
blazing ones as the last word fell from his lips. He tried to withdraw
them, ejected a mouthful of tobacco juice at one particular spot which
from appearances had been so favored many times before, drew his hand
across his mouth and then gave a self-conscious, snickering laugh.
"I don't believe you understood what I said, did you?" asked Jean
quietly. "I'm sure you didn't."
"Oh yis I did. Ye said old Baltie was down in the ditch yonder and
like ter die if I didn't git him out. Wal, that's jist 'zactly what I
want him _to_ do, an' jest 'zactly what I turned him out inter that
field fer him ter do, an' jist 'zactly what I hope he _will_ do 'fore
morning. He's got the last ounce o' fodder I'm ever a'goin' ter give
him, an' I aint never a'goin' ter let him inter my barns agin. Now put
_that_ in yer pipe an' smoke it, an' then git out durned quick."
Jabe Raulsbury had partially risen from his stool as he concluded this
creditable tirade, and one hand was raised threateningly toward the
little figure standing with her dripping umbrella just within the
threshold of the barn door.
That the burly figure did not rise entirely, and that his hand
remained suspended without the threatened blow falling can perhaps
best be explained by the fact that the child before him never
flinched, and that the scorn upon her face was so intense that it
could be felt.