In speaking of Bobby, Dr. Fred said he thought dime novels and lack of
guidance on her mother's part was what had done the mischief; then,
remembering how he had plead with her to give up Garret, he would harden
again and add: "But she spurned my love, scorned my advice and
entreaties, has made her bed, and now she must lie in it."
"Nay," but Master would urge, "she is so young, her mother encouraged
the match, and then the reading matter you speak of finding in her room,
was enough to turn any young, undisciplined head. You ought to forgive
her, and seek her out the same as you would have done ten years ago, had
she run away and got lost in the woods."
But Dr. Fred refused.
Quietly Master did his best to find her, but not a clew could he get,
and a new turn was given to the thoughts of the household by the sudden
death of Carm. "Crushed between two cars," the message said, and that
was all until a tightly sealed casket came.
"Better not open it," was the advice accompanying.
Master and another physician did open it, though, but neither father nor
mother were allowed to see the remains. Master came out to the barn with
a face white and drawn, and, resting his arm on my neck and his head on
them, he sobbed like a grieved child.
"Oh, Dandy, this is worse than all, worse than all! I wonder if he'll
see his mother?"
"Much comfort children bring, judging from my own experience," groaned
Dr. Fred at another time. "What a failure life is, anyhow!"
And I thought, "Yes, it is to men like you, who are trying to steer
themselves through the world, and living for self instead of humanity.
My master's life is not a failure."
A sorry day it was for brute creation when barb wire was introduced into
general use on farms.
They put it around our pasture the first we knew of it. One bright
morning John, Jean, Tim and Ball--a span of young horses--and myself
were turned in, and, feeling the joyous freedom of unrestrained liberty
(and, let me tell you, the oldest, most patient horse in the world feels
worried and irritated by gearing, at times), away we went for a race,
the young ones especially, rearing, kicking and plunging gaily.
Suddenly there was a crash, a frightened neigh of pain, a series of
groans, and poor jolly Tim recoiled from his violent contact with the
fence, blood pouring down his chest and forelegs.
Help soon arrived, and Tim was led away a very different looking animal
from what he was when he entered.
Master washed out the wounds as well as he could, and applied a lotion
made of one ounce calendula to three of soft water. He gave aconite to
keep down his fever, and afterward cinchona as a tonic, and in time Tim
was about as jolly as ever, though much more cautious.
The next thing that happened was Jean cutting herself on the hip, or
rather, just in front of it, where the hip and abdomen join.
Master treated her as he had Tim, only he stitched the jagged edges of
the wound together. It was in a place where it could not be kept covered
successfully, and flies were bad; besides Jean continually reached back
and worried it with her nose. For this they tied her short; then he made
a lotion and a very few parts carbolic acid, just how many I do not
know, but he tested its strength by touching a little to one edge of the
sore. The acid, he said, would cleanse it and keep the flies out.
She got well, but an unsightly scar remained. Another horse laid his
shoulder open, and for some reason it would not heal, and he died of
blood poison in spite of all they could do.
I fancied that by being careful I was going to escape being impaled on
the wretched barbs; but one day, when Mrs. Wallace was driving me, she
became frightened at some loose horses, and jerked me into a wire fence
by the roadside.
Well, one needs to be cut on a barb wire once to fully appreciate what
it means. So many, many sad cases come to one's notice of horses and
other domestic animals that are dragging out a miserable existence
owing to the introduction of this "new invention." Sometimes it seems
that everything is to the end of making man's life easier and that of
the dumb brutes harder.
Master had all the barb-wire removed from this place long ago, supplying
its place either with board, woven wire or lawn wire fences.
But bad as barb-wire is, it is nothing to the fad for the over-draw
check-rein that is shortening the lives of horses everywhere, to say
nothing of the torture they endure while they do live.
Why people use it I cannot imagine, for anyone with half an eye knows
that it ruins the looks of a horse.
Master says that he, for one, will never presume to improve on the works
of the Creator, who is far more artistic than man, and understands the
science of beauty perfectly.
Many horses have told me, in tones from which all hope seemed gone, of
the long hours of inexpressible torture they endure. They say, and I
hear it told that the most eminent veterinary physicians in the world
say the same, that the check-rein injures a horse from his head to his
tail, from his shoulder to his hoof; it brings on disease and deformity.
If a horse's neck has not naturally a fine curve, the rein is not going
to remedy the matter. Forced curves are not elegant, and the most of the
animals I have seen wearing it look like ganders when pursuing somebody.
Master said it was terrible to witness the mute agony of horses
harnessed to fine carriages and sleighs, that he saw while East; and the
worst of it is, they generally belong to people who call themselves
Christians. Sabbath after Sabbath men and women kneel in the churches
and pray for mercy, while their helpless servants stand without,
suffering the extreme of torture. There is no mercy for them.
People go about trying to do good, with never a thought of the agony
within reach of their hand that they might relieve.
Strange that intelligent, human beings should imagine for a moment that
the continual champing of bits, twitching of the lips, and tossing of
the head of an over-checked horse should mean "high life;" don't they
know that they are the only protests that they can make against the
cruel torture that they are enduring; the signs of pain; the mute
entreaties for mercy?
Master says that if some people have it measured to them as they measure
unto the helpless, there is a dreadful day coming; and he believes that
many a man will make his bed in hell because of his treatment of God's
defenseless creatures here.
Some young men, caught in a rain storm, came into our barn for shelter
one day, and I am going to give a little of their conversation for the
benefit of other sportsmen. These had been out hunting.
"Hi, Billy, but didn't that rabbit cut some antics after I got a pop at
him?"
"Yes; why, he didn't seem to know nothin', jest come up 'nd looked a
fellow right in the face with the blood all tricklin' down. He died
game."
"You bet! Makes me think of one some of us caught in a trap once. One of
its legs was broken, so we cut its throat and let go of it. Would you
believe the pesky thing lived nigh on half an hour, hopping about on
three legs all the time. It was fun to watch it perform!"
"Beats all how long some things hang on, anyhow. I shot a robin one day,
jest fer fun. She fell right under a little tree, 'nd two days after I
happened to be passing, and there she lay a-gaspin' yet, 'nd with life
enough to flutter a mite when she saw me, 'nd give sort of a warnin'
chirp. Lookin' up, I spied a nest 'nd four dead birds in it. I 'lowed
then she was the mother 'nd the little ones had starved. I wrung the old
one's neck, thinking I might as well finish the job."
"I've shot squirrels 'nd such things lots of times, 'nd when I couldn't
find 'em easy, I'd go off, 'nd days after find 'em still alive, but too
weak to get away."
"Well, it's fun to hunt when game is plenty, but this has been a mighty
poor day."
"I like fishin' better."
"Say, ain't that Cramer a big fool? I went fishin' with him one day and
will you b'lieve he would not string a fish till he'd killed it by
running his knife through its spine at the back of its neck? Says a fish
that dies ain't fit to eat, 'nd then it is inhuman to let anything die
by inches. Cranky, ain't he?"
"I should say? Well, I ain't so particular; it's the fun of the thing
I'm after. I don't care two cents for fish to eat."
* * * * *
Three years passed, and not one word from Bobby, and her name was seldom
mentioned.
Life at the farm was quiet and uneventful. The doctors made their rounds
of calls, Mrs. Wallace drove Jean or me out occasionally, and Burr
carried on the work.
But at last there came a letter to Master which made him look grave and
troubled. Often I saw him reading it, or perhaps he got others, but
anyway pondering over a closely written page with a white, anxious face.
Dr. Fred, coming quietly into the barn one morning, caught him.
"What's up?"
A moment Master hesitated, then made answer:
"A letter from Bobby."
Fred paled and staggered a step.
"From Bobby!" he echoed, then paused.
"Yes, I have wondered whether any good could come of telling you; but
now that it has come about, I will. I have been sending her money for
three months past. Garret misuses her, I think, but she never says so;
only 'I am heartsick and homesick, uncle, besides being laid up with
neuralgia. Paul is not doing well just now, and Freddie (named Frederick
Richard for you and dear papa).'"
Master had read these last lines from the letter, but here Dr. Fred
burst out: "Where is my baby; my sweet Bobby? So she says 'dear papa,'
and calls the boy Fred! Bring her home to my lonely heart and empty
arms, Dick, and I'll bless you forever."
Of course, I don't know how it all came about, but one morning, some
weeks after, Master led me out and set a tiny boy on my back. The little
fellow laughed and prattled in an almost unknown tongue. When I got a
look at him I saw that he was the picture of Bobby when she was of his
age.
Presently a white-faced woman, looking as one might imagine Bobby's
ghost would, came out, and, throwing her arms about my neck, wept
violently.
"Dandy, dear old Dandy!" she said. For awhile she, her mother and the
boy drove out often with me, but suddenly they stopped, and in a few
days there was another one of those strange, sad processions where
horses wear black plumes. I have seen many such, but this one--with
Master looking unutterably sad--reminded me of that other one so long
ago.
"Strange that all I love must die!" moaned Dr. Fred; and looking in
Master's eyes I saw a look that seemed to say, "I might echo the same,"
but he only bore this trouble as he had all the others, smiling when his
heart was sorest; brave when almost despairing; thinking of others
before himself--this was Master.
* * * * *
And so the years have passed along, and I am, as I stated at first, an
old horse, but, thanks to a kind master, I am neither broken down nor
dispirited.
My teeth are quite bad, but that matters little so long as I am
abundantly fed on ground feed; I am growing a little stiff in the legs,
but my stall has an earth floor, kept scrupulously clean and dry and my
bedding is fresh and abundant.
My eyesight is excellent, from having always stood in well-lighted barns
and never having been pounded or otherwise injured about the head. My
hearing is also perfect and my lungs good. My feet have been well cared
for excepting in the case mentioned. In short I believe I am healthier
now at thirty-one than are most horses of eighteen. I repeat what I have
said before, in substance, a good master makes a good horse, inside and
out.
If I might gain the ear of man for an hour, I could surely convince him
that inhumanity is the poorest kind of business imaginable; that it is
unprofitable for the life that now is and for the one that is to come;
but as I can only stand here and tell my simple story, I will trust that
some good angel will waft it far and wide, and that Master's God will
impress the little lessons I fain would teach upon the hearts of all
readers.