For several evenings early in October the North Street boys had been
gathering at Benson's to try and organize a club, but the difficulty
seemed to be to decide upon what kind of a club would be most
interesting. The ball season would soon be over, the long winter would
soon be on them, and things wore a pretty flat outlook, unless they
could arrange some interesting diversion for that string of dull days,
only broken by Christmas holidays. The West Ward fellows had a Checker
Club, the Third Form fellows had a Puzzle Club, the Collegiates had a
Canadian Literature Club; even the Mill boys down on the Flats had a
Captain Kidd Club, proving themselves at times bandits quite worthy the
club's name. Only the North Street boys seemed "out of it," but from the
way they talked and shouted and wrangled at these preliminary meetings
it looked as if they certainly intended to "come in" out of their
isolation. But there had been five meetings without any decision having
been arrived at. Every boy of the ten present seemed to want a different
sort of club. The things that were suggested would have amazed the
members of the various other clubs could they have heard them.
Then, one night when the din and confusion were at fever heat, the door
suddenly opened and in walked Benson's father.
"Why, what's all this babel?" he exclaimed, as silence fell on the
crowd and the boys got to their feet meekly to greet him with polite
"good-evenings." "I never heard such a parrot-and-monkey, Kilkenny-cat
outfit in all my life! What's up, fellows?"
Benson's father was generally acknowledged to be a "comedian." No one
ever saw him in a temper, or heard him speak a sharp word. He had a
droll, woebegone face that never smiled, but a face everybody--from the
mayor to the poorest mill hand--loved and respected. How often Benson
had come in from school, ill-tempered and sour-visaged at something that
had gone wrong in the class-room, only to have that droll face of his
father's and some equally droll remark upset all his dignity and
indignation into laughter and consequent good nature.
"One at a time, boys, just one at a time, or I shall have bustificated
eardrums! What is it all about?"
Then they told him, but, it must be confessed, not one at a time.
"A club, eh?" he questioned, straddling a chair and leaning his arms on
the back. "What kind of a club, pleasure club, improvement club,
sporting club, what?"
"That's the trouble; we can't hit on it!" they chorused.
For a moment he sat silent, his round, childish eyes surveying the world
that hung on his very first words.
"I saw a queer thing as I came up the street to-night", he began,
seemingly having forgotten the subject in hand. "A dray-horse was
standing before the mill gates, and frisking about its heels was a dandy
little cocker spaniel, prettiest little dog you ever saw. The horse got
tired leaning on one leg, I guess, for he shifted his position, and, in
bringing down his left hind leg, he just pinned the little cocker's foot
to the ground with his big hoof. Cocker yelled. Worst row I ever
heard--until I came into this room. But what do you suppose Mr. Horse
did? Just lifted gently his left fore-hoof, but the squealing did not
stop. Then he lifted his right fore-hoof; still the squealing went on.
'Thinks I,' said the horse to himself, 'it must be my right hind-hoof,'
so he lifted that. 'No, sir,' he told himself; 'sure, it's my
left-hinder'; and lifting that, he released the poor dog, who dashed
around to the horse's head, leaping up to his nose, and saying, 'Thank
you!' over and over.* And the big, clumsy dray-horse just drew his
long face a little longer, and said: 'Never mind, old chap! I didn't
mean to hurt you; I'm sorry.' Then came the drayman out of the mill--a
nice, considerate, heart-warm, intelligent human being. Oh, yes! we
humans know so much more than animals, don't we, fellows? And because
the big, patient, kindly dray-horse had, in its restlessness, moved
twenty feet from the spot the driver left him at, that creature that is
supposed to have known better, just took his whip and licked and lashed
that glorious animal, yelling in a frenzy of temper, 'I'll teach you to
move, when I leave you! You--' Well, boys, you nor I don't care to hear
all he did say."
[*Fact observed by the writer's brother.]
"The brute!" "The big human hulk!" "The sneak!" "And he called himself a
man!" were some of the phrases growled out by the indignant boys.
"Yes, a man," continued Benson's father, "_so_ much better than the
dray-horse, that knew enough to lift his feet until he lifted the right
one. I believe if that horse had the feet of a centipede, he would have
gone on lifting them until the dog was released. I tell you, boys, if I
could get anyone to help me, I'd start an Animal Rescue Club, to--"
But the good gentleman never finished that sentence. The boys were on
top of him, round him, under him, clamoring and shouting for him to
organize their club for them, to help them study the habits and ways
and "thoughts" of animals, to prevent abuse and cruelty towards them.
They voted him in as honorary president, and went home that night the
happiest-hearted lot of boys in the country. Just before they dispersed,
however, a shy little chap named Jimmy Duffy, who had not much
opportunity to speak amid the noise of stronger voices, said:
"But, Mr. Benson, you _do_ think the dray-horse thought and reasoned,
don't you?"
"Surely he did, boy! And he spoke, too, in his own simple
horse-language, though we cannot understand his tongue; but we should,"
answered Benson's father.
It was not very long before the "Animal Rescue Club" of North Street
became known far and wide, and its influence began to be felt in all
quarters. The unfeeling drayman whose act of cruelty first gave rise
to the organization was watched, then reported to police headquarters,
from where he received a sound lecture because of various other
ill-treatments of his horse, and after a time he began to see his own
unkindness through the same spectacles as the "Animal Rescuers" viewed
it, and within two months he became a considerate, gentle driver.
"If the club never does another thing but reform that one man, and make
him kinder to that big, good-hearted horse of his, it has been organized
for some purpose," commented Mr. Benson, one evening, when he "dropped
in" to one of the meetings. "Keep it up, fellows. Our little four-footed
animals serve us well, and deserve consideration in return." And the
boys worked hard and faithfully to follow his advice. Homeless cats,
stray, mangy dogs, ill-fed horses, neglected cows, street sparrows,
pigeons, bluejays, were watched and protected and relieved of their
sufferings all that winter through. Finally Benson's father arranged his
evenings so that he could spend an hour with the club at each meeting,
which time he devoted to "lecturing" on the habits and haunts of
animals and birds. Those lectures were the delight of all, for this
happy-hearted, boyish man would, in some marvellous fashion, discover
all the humorous habits and comical dispositions and actions of every
living thing. The little wiry-haired Irish terrier was a comedian, he
declared. The bull-moose was a tragedian, the black bear cub was a
clown, the lynx a villain, and the migrating birds a sweet, invisible
chorus. Then to each and all he would attach some fascinating story,
explaining why they resembled these characters. Often the entire club
would be roaring with laughter over animal antics and bird capers,
then the young faces would be very serious the next minute over some
pathetic, heartbreaking tale of hunted deer-mothers trying to protect
their pretty fawns, or some father fox lying dead because a swift bullet
had caught him as he raided the poultry yard in the endeavor to seize
food for the pretty litter of sharp-nosed little cubs, curled up with
their mother in a distant cave.
So the boys listened and learned and laughed, and, as spring crept up
the calendar, their only regret at the return of the ball season was
that the club meetings would be over until next autumn.
* * * * * * * *
It was late in April when little Jimmy Duffy's father was called to
Buffalo on business. The night before leaving, he said: "It's most
annoying! Here I have to go all that way for just about one hour's talk
with a man; an entire day wasted for the sake of one hour, or--hold on,
let's see, Jimmy. You have never seen Niagara Falls, have you?"
"No, dad," answered Jimmy, his face eager with hope.
"Then you be ready to come with me to-morrow. I'll get through my
business by noon, and you and I will just 'do' the Falls until dark,
and get home on the late train. How does that strike you?"
But Jimmy was speechless with delight. For years he had longed to see
Niagara, but there was a number of older brothers and sisters, and
Jimmy's turn never seemed to have come until to-day. But the treat was
here at last. A whole day along with his big dad, prowling about Niagara
Falls, feasting his eyes upon its wonders, listening to its everlasting
roar as it plunges over the heights! Jimmy did not sleep very much that
night, and, long before train time, he was up, dressed in his best
suit, even got himself a fresh pocket-handkerchief, scrambled through
breakfast, then sat fidgeting on the front doorstep, while his father
took a leisurely meal, glanced calmly at his watch occasionally, then,
pushing back his chair, stepped briskly into the hall, glanced at the
weather, got his light coat and hat, said good-bye to Mrs. Duffy, and
called out "Now, then, Jimmy!" But Jimmy was already at the gate, having
kissed his mother good-bye almost an hour before, and presently they
were swinging up to the station at a good gait, Mr. Duffy silent,
thoughtful, engrossed in his coming business engagement, Jimmy dancing,
whistling, strung up with excitement that bade fair to continue
throughout the day.
It took three hours to reach Buffalo. Then poor Jimmy had to sit in a
stuffy outer office while his father and "the man" talked on the other
side of a glass door. Jimmy thought they would never stop, but in
exactly one hour the door opened, and he heard "the man" say:
"Now, Mr. Duffy, will you come to my club and we will have luncheon
together?"
"Not to-day, thanks, Mr. Brown. I have my small boy with me, and we're
off for the Falls. Jimmy's never seen them yet."
"Well, well!" answered Mr. Brown. "That's nice! Going to be a boy again
yourself, eh, Duffy? Well, have a good time, and good luck to you both!"
And the glass door closed.
His business ended, Jimmy's father seemed another person. He chatted and
talked and laughed with his son, ordered a splendid luncheon for them
both, swung aboard the train, and by two o'clock they were standing
on the very edge of the precipice, with the glorious Falls of Niagara
thundering into the basin at their feet. The column of filmy mist, the
gorgeous rainbows, the stupendous cataract, leaping and snarling like a
million wolves--it whirled about Jimmy's brain like a wild dream of No
Man's Land, and he walked beside his father in a daze of delight. They
prowled through the islands, crossed the cobwebby bridges from rock to
rock above the Falls, and finally sprawled on a bald ledge of stone that
jutted far out into the turbulent river.
"We'll just rest here a few minutes, James," said his father, playfully.
"Then we must go below the Falls and explore the ice-bridge. I see it
is yet in perfect condition. You are fortunate, my boy, to be able to
see it. There are some winters that never bring an ice-bridge. Then
sometimes it thaws in March, so we are lucky to-day."
About them tossed and tumbled the angry rapids, wrangling and brawling
around their granite shores, but, above their conflicting noises arose a
far, clear, musical sound, like a hundred throats and lips that whistled
in unison.
"What's that?" exclaimed Mr. Duffy, sitting erect suddenly.
"I don't know," said the boy, scanning the tangled waters with his
unpractised young eyes.
"There it is again, dad!" he cried. "It is whistling. A great company,
somewhere, whistling!" Then, looking quickly skyward, he pointed
excitedly upstream, "Look, look! Birds! They are birds! Great white
ones, dad! What are they? There's the whistle again!"
Mr. Duffy shaded his eyes from the sun, and watched; for there, in the
smooth waters above the rapids, were settling, one by one, a magnificent
host of snow-white swans, their wearied bodies almost drooping into the
river, their exhausted pinions dropping, nerveless and trailing, into
the dark, deceptive stream, which lured them like a snare to its breast.
"Jimmy, Jimmy!" shouted Mr. Duffy, "they're swans, and they're dead
played out! They're migrating north for the summer! I bet they've flown
a thousand miles! See, boy, they're spent, dead beat!"
Jimmy fairly held his breath. The magnificent band of birds were slowly
floating towards them. Now they could distinguish each regal body,
feathered in dazzling white, each bill, scarlet as a July poppy, each
gracefully lifted throat. But the majestic creatures floated swiftly and
silently on, on, on!
"Father!" The boy's voice trembled huskily. "Oh, father, you don't think
they are in any danger of going over, do you?" His begging, pleading
tones revealed his own childish fears.
"Oh, _surely_ not!" answered Mr. Duffy, but his tone lacked confidence.
Then, after a brief silence, he almost groaned: "Jimmy, they're done
for! They don't see their danger, and they're too tired to rise if they
do. Oh, boy, if we could save them!"
But Jimmy stood rigid, staring, his heart slowly breaking, breaking.
Anyone could see now that the stately battalion was doomed. With utter
unconsciousness they drifted on, exhausted with their far journey from
the lagoons and marshes of Chesapeake Bay, where the torrid suns had
driven them from their winter haunts, to wing their way to their summer
home in the far, white North.
"Oh, Jimmy, the pity of it!" murmured Mr. Duffy. But the boy stood
wordless, as the irresistible giant current caught the trusting birds
and swept them, with a hideous, overpowering force, to the very brink
of the Horseshoe Fall. The boy, thrilling with the horror of it, shut
his eyes, and flung himself, face downward, on the rocks. A strange,
inarticulate moan left the man's lips. The boy lifted his head, lifted
his eyes, but the river was empty.
They ran breathlessly across the cobwebby bridges, around Goat Island,
then to the shore, then to the elevator, and descended to the
ice-bridge; but, above the angry battle of Niagara, arose the plaintive,
dying cries of scores of snow-white birds, the shouts of gathering
sightseers. Against the ruthless edges of ice lay, bleeding and broken,
what was left of that superb company homeward bound. Their poor, twisted
legs, their crushed heads, their flattened bodies, their pitiful, dying
struggles, would melt a heart of stone. No more those graceful throats
would whistle through the April airs, beneath the early suns and the
late morning stars. The sweet, wild chorus was stilled forever.
By the time Jimmy and his father arrived, crowds of people had descended
with stones and sticks anything they could lay their hands on--and were
beating the remaining spark of life out of the helpless birds, then
seizing and quarrelling over the bodies, without one word of pity or
regret for the dreadful catastrophe, so long as they could secure the
coveted specimens of this rare migratory bird. Then Jimmy noticed that
some few had actually escaped injury, but, before he could reach them,
older and stronger people had rushed upon the terrified and weakened
creatures, and were clubbing them to death.
"Stop it! stop it!" he shouted. "Those birds are not injured! Save them!
Let them go!"
"Not if _I_ know it!" yelled back a huge fellow with the face of a
greedy demon. "Why, these birds are worth twenty dollars apiece!"
he blurted, "and I'm going to have every one of them."
Down, down, down, went one after another as they tried to rise and
spread their magnificent wings, until only one remained. With the
quickness of a cat, Jimmy flung his thin little body between the
flopping victim and the upraised club.
"You strike that swan if you dare!" he cried, fiercely, glaring up at
the would-be murderer with indignant eyes.
"Hello, bantam! You after twenty dollars, too?" sneered the man.
"No; I'm after this swan's life, and I'm going to have it!" growled the
boy. "The bird is mine!"
"Yes, Jimmy," said his father, approaching sadly. "And it's the only one
that has life. I have counted one hundred and sixteen, either dead or
slain."*
[*It is a fact that occurred in April, 1908, that a company of one
hundred and sixteen whistling swans were carried over Niagara
Falls, and that the only one which escaped the weapons of
destroyers was rescued by a little boy, and cared for exclusively
by him.]
The boy took off his coat, wrapping it about the superb bird, then
carried it carefully to the elevator, and, soon after reaching the
summit of the shore, had it fed and tended, then gently crated for
shipment home. The tired bird submitted without protest to being
measured. From tip to tail it measured fifty-one inches, with the
magnificent expansion of wing of eighty-one inches, the only survivor of
that glorious white company that was whistling its way to the North. And
it was the kindly, boyish hand of little Jimmy Duffy, youngest member of
the "Animal Rescue Club," that had saved it from a crueller death than
even old, heartless Niagara could have given it, and it was his hands
that gently removed the bars of the crate in the Duffys' big backyard.
"There, you beautiful thing," he said, as he removed the last slat,
"stay with us if you can, but go when and where you want. There are
no prisons around here."
But the next morning the swan was still in the yard. The ducks talked
to it, but its sad, wondering eyes and listless wings spoke louder than
words of its weariness and woe. Scores of boys came to see it that day,
and the evening brought Benson's father. After hearing the story all he
could say was: "It's a good thing for me that I was not there. I'm a
pretty big fellow, and can lick chaps that are even bigger than I am,
and if I'd caught that brute killing those uninjured birds, I'd have
thrown him into the Whirlpool Rapids, sure as you're born; I'd be
in jail now, and probably get hanged in the autumn. Yes, taking it
altogether, I'm glad I wasn't there!"
Of course, many of the townspeople were for having Jimmy confine the
bird, or at least send it to a museum, or enclose it in a wire netting;
but the boy replied:
"No, thanks. I have seen enough of them die, and I don't want my swan
to die of a broken heart."
But the swan stayed on day after day, seemingly content and happy. Then
there dawned a beautiful day in May. The sun shone hot and level on the
little backyard. In the middle of the morning a clear, musical, distinct
whistle brought Jimmy running to the side door. The swan's head was
uplifted, its crimson beak pointing away from the sun. Presently it
spread its regal wings and floated up, up, up. One more clear, lingering
whistle, and it was away, while Jimmy watched it with eyes both dumbly
sad and unspeakably glad, until it was but a radiant white speck sailing
into the north, to search for others of its kind.