Through all his life, and through all his letters, dogs and children
followed him as shadows follow men. To walk in the streets with him was
a slow procession. Every dog and every child one met must be spoken to,
and each made answer. Throughout the later letters the names Bonfire and
Bonneau occur continually. Bonfire was his horse, and Bonneau his dog.
This horse, an Irish hunter, was given to him by John L. Todd. It was
wounded twice, and now lives in honourable retirement at a secret place
which need not be disclosed to the army authorities. One officer who
had visited the hospital writes of seeing him going about the wards with
Bonneau and a small French child following after. In memory of his love
for animals and children the following extracts will serve:
You ask if the wee fellow has a name--Mike, mostly, as a term of
affection. He has found a cupboard in one ward in which oakum is stored,
and he loves to steal in there and "pick oakum", amusing himself as long
as is permitted. I hold that this indicates convict ancestry to which
Mike makes no defence.
The family is very well, even one-eyed Mike is able to go round the yard
in his dressing-gown, so to speak. He is a queer pathetic little beast
and Madame has him "hospitalized" on the bottom shelf of the sideboard
in the living room, whence he comes down (six inches to the floor) to
greet me, and then gravely hirples back, the hind legs looking very
pathetic as he hops in. But he is full of spirit and is doing very well.
As to the animals--"those poor voiceless creatures," say you. I wish you
could hear them. Bonneau and Mike are a perfect Dignity and Impudence;
and both vocal to a wonderful degree. Mike's face is exactly like the
terrier in the old picture, and he sits up and gives his paw just like
Bonneau, and I never saw him have any instruction; and as for voice,
I wish you could hear Bonfire's "whicker" to me in the stable or
elsewhere. It is all but talk. There is one ward door that he tries
whenever we pass. He turns his head around, looks into the door, and
waits. The Sisters in the ward have changed frequently, but all alike
"fall for it", as they say, and produce a biscuit or some such dainty
which Bonfire takes with much gravity and gentleness. Should I chide
him for being too eager and give him my hand saying, "Gentle now," he
mumbles with his lips, and licks with his tongue like a dog to show how
gentle he can be when he tries. Truly a great boy is that same. On this
subject I am like a doting grandmother, but forgive it.
I have a very deep affection for Bonfire, for we have been through so
much together, and some of it bad enough. All the hard spots to which
one's memory turns the old fellow has shared, though he says so little
about it.
This love of animals was no vagrant mood. Fifteen years before in South
Africa he wrote in his diary under date of September 11th, 1900:
I wish I could introduce you to the dogs of the force. The genus dog
here is essentially sociable, and it is a great pleasure to have them
about. I think I have a personal acquaintance with them all. There
are our pups--Dolly, whom I always know by her one black and one white
eyebrow; Grit and Tory, two smaller gentlemen, about the size of a pound
of butter--and fighters; one small white gentleman who rides on a horse,
on the blanket; Kitty, the monkey, also rides the off lead of the forge
wagon. There is a black almond-eyed person belonging to the Royal
Scots, who begins to twist as far as I can see her, and comes up in long
curves, extremely genially. A small shaggy chap who belongs to the Royal
Irish stands upon his hind legs and spars with his front feet--and lots
of others--every one of them "a soldier and a man". The Royal Scots have
a monkey, Jenny, who goes around always trailing a sack in her hand,
into which she creeps if necessary to obtain shelter.
The other day old Jack, my horse, was bitten by his next neighbor; he
turned SLOWLY, eyed his opponent, shifted his rope so that he had a
little more room, turned very deliberately, and planted both heels in
the offender's stomach. He will not be run upon.
From a time still further back comes a note in a like strain. In 1898 he
was house physician in a children's hospital at Mt. Airy, Maryland, when
he wrote:
A kitten has taken up with a poor cripple dying of muscular atrophy who
cannot move. It stays with him all the time, and sleeps most of the
day in his straw hat. To-night I saw the kitten curled up under the
bed-clothes. It seems as if it were a gift of Providence that the little
creature should attach itself to the child who needs it most.
Of another child:
The day she died she called for me all day, deposed the nurse who was
sitting by her, and asked me to remain with her. She had to be held up
on account of lack of breath; and I had a tiring hour of it before she
died, but it seemed to make her happier and was no great sacrifice. Her
friends arrived twenty minutes too late. It seems hard that Death will
not wait the poor fraction of an hour, but so it is.
And here are some letters to his nephews and nieces which reveal his
attitude both to children and to animals.