CHAPTER I

BIG JACK

[Illustration: “_Jack_”]

BIG JACK

_And_

_Other_ True Stories _of_ Horses

_By_

GABRIELLE E. JACKSON

_Author of_

“LITTLE COMRADE,”

“THE COLBURN PRIZE,”

“LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE,” ETC.

[Illustration]

NEW YORK

J. F. TAYLOR & COMPANY

MCMIII

COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY

J. F. TAYLOR AND

COMPANY, NEW YORK

_Published September, 1903_

_Acknowledgment

is due to The Editors of St.

Nicholas, Our Animal Friends, New York

Herald, &c., for permission to

reproduce these stories_

_Gabrielle E. Jackson_

CONTENTS

PAGE

BIG JACK, 11

“BILLEE TAYLOR,” 37

CHARLIE & CO., 65

GRAY LADY’S ONLY SON, 83

HOW NED TOODLES WENT TO COOKING SCHOOL, 131

OLD NICK’S CHRISTMAS, 141

HOW NED TOODLES TOLD TIME, 175

BIG JACK

“BIG JACK”

I wonder how many of the little people in New York City have ever

heard of “Big Jack”? Not many, I fancy; and yet Big Jack is quite an

important character, and holds a very responsible position, which he

fills with much dignity as well as credit to himself, and satisfaction

to his employers.

His headquarters are at Broadway and Twenty-second Street, where he can

usually be found at about ten o’clock in the morning, and from that

hour, off and on, until about 5 P. M. In the intervals his business

affairs call him to various parts of the city, but being extremely

methodical in his habits, he is usually at his office about lunch-time.

You may be somewhat surprised to learn that he is strictly a

vegetarian, confining his diet solely to cereals or fruit, with

occasionally a few lumps of sugar. He _should_ have been a Scotchman,

judging by his fondness for oats, but he was born, I am told, in our

own country.

Possibly his love for oats may account for his beautiful complexion,

which is snowy white, with just a suggestion of pink showing through

and telling of the warm, rich blood flowing underneath.

I first became acquainted with Jack about five years ago. Indeed, I

must confess that we _scraped_ acquaintance. It came about in this

manner. I was standing with my little daughter upon the corner of

Broadway and Twenty-second Street, waiting for an uptown car, when I

became aware that we were being very closely regarded by a pair of

unusually large and extremely beautiful brown eyes--eyes which were

very eloquent, and seemed to say much more plainly than words could

have done: “I am very favorably impressed with that little girl, and I

should like to know her. Will she speak to me, do you think?”

I called the little girl’s attention to the big eyes looking at her so

steadfastly, and, do you know, I believe she understood their language

even better than I did, and yet I flatter myself that I am a pretty

good interpreter of such glances. At any rate, she walked straight up

to their owner and said: “Why do you look at me that-a-way? I just

guess you _know_ I keep lumps of sugar in my pocket to give to great,

big lovely horses like you!”

Slowly a great white head with the most intelligent eyes I have ever

seen was lowered to a level with the little maid’s face, and two or

three queer, sidling steps taken to bring it closer to the outstretched

arms. The owner seemed to realize that those little arms never gave

any save the tenderest caresses, and he was very glad to feel one

circle around his huge, soft neck, while the other carried a small hand

to stroke a very silky muzzle, for Big Jack is a horse among horses.

And big, indeed, he is--a giant of his kind.

There is nothing small about Jack either in his makeup or his manners.

His head is massive, but magnificently formed, with thin, sensitive

nostrils, wide-awake eyes placed widely apart, small, alert ears which

point forward, or occasionally one is turned back as though to listen

round the corner for the sound of a familiar voice, or a kindly word

from his driver, who is justly proud of the big white creature.

And such a neck! I would not dare venture a guess as to the size of

collar Jack wears, for the great neck arches up to a crest that is

truly noble.

But his eyes tell more of his noble nature than all the rest of the

head together; they are so big, so soft, so brown, and so eloquent.

With them he talks to you, expressing by them love, kindness,

expectancy, joy, and--sometimes--make-believe anger, for Jack is rarely

angry in earnest.

But he resents the slightest approach to teasing by flashing his big

eyes at his tormentor, and after they have seen the sharp eyes turned

so keenly on them, not many have the hardihood to push matters too far.

Big Jack has hosts of friends, who always have a kind word for him, and

a day rarely passes without someone bringing him a dainty of some sort.

His driver carries him an apple every morning when he goes to the

stable to take him out for his day’s work, and Jack knows exactly the

hour to expect him, and the instant his footfall is heard, greets him

with a loud whinny.

After Jack has enjoyed his apple, his master lets him out of his stall,

and that is Jack’s opportunity for a frolic. He prances about like a

young colt until told to “go along and get his drink,” when he at once

marches off to the water-trough and proceeds to drink up a few gallons.

A good breakfast follows, and then he puts himself in position to be

harnessed, gets into his shafts, and is ready for business. He knows

exactly what is expected of him, and trots straight to the express

office at Twenty-second Street and Broadway.

Jack does not move rapidly; it is not compatible with his size and

dignity to do so, for he seems to realize his importance and to

understand how utterly impossible it would be for the company to

conduct the express business without his valuable assistance.

In front of his office Jack is king, and woe to any other horse who

tries to usurp his special post. He knows precisely how that wagon

should be backed in to the sidewalk to receive its daily load, and does

not rest until he has brought it to exactly the proper position.

Then he settles down for a nap, and no one would imagine that the

big white horse standing there with his head hanging down and eyes

partly closed had half an ounce of sense in his great head. But stand

aside for a few moments and watch him. Presently you see one ear

turned slowly backward for apparently no cause at all. But Jack knows

more than you do, and that ear is sharp, and has heard the patter of

familiar feet and the sound of a sweet little voice. He cannot see

behind him because, long ago, some stupid man, who thought he knew more

about horses’ needs and natures than He who created them, decreed that

they must wear a great patch of leather on each side of their heads

in order that they may not know what is happening behind them; and

_blinders_ they are indeed.

But he did not stop up their _ears_, and Jack has that to be thankful

for.

That pretty ear has heard a voice it recognizes, and when it has told

its possessor that the owner of that voice is near enough to be seen,

slowly the great head is raised and turned the least little bit to the

right side, and the eyes, but a moment since so dull and sleepy,--so

oblivious of surrounding affairs,--begin to beam with a wonderful

softness.

Now comes dancing along a little girl about four years of age, with

brown curls waving and brown eyes sparkling. A little girl who

_never_ walks; she skips and she prances, she jumps and she dances,

as she holds her mother’s hand, and, I had better add, she chatters

incessantly.

No wonder Jack has heard her. She comes up from behind him very quietly

and says softly, “Good-morning, dear old Jack!”

Jack hitches a step or two closer to the sidewalk and waits; for

Jack is a sly old fellow, and he knows it would never do to turn too

quickly, and so spoil this pleasant little game of peek-a-boo.

“Who loves sugar, and how many lumps have I in my pocket for somebody?”

The word “sugar” has broken the charm, and Jack can no longer resist.

The big, soft head comes down to the little girl’s outstretched arms

and snuggles close up to her--so close that one passing by stops to

say, “Oh, that horse will surely hurt that child.”

But Big Jack and Wee Winkles understand each other too well, and the

great creature’s gentleness is a very beautiful lesson.

“Now, Jack,” she continues, “before we can have any sugar we must shake

hands.”

Hardly are the words uttered when up comes a monstrous right foot,

which two small hands grasp at the slender ankle; for to hold the hoof

itself would be somewhat like trying to hold half a ton.

“That’s a dear horse. Now, find the buttons on my coat,--a lump of

sugar for each button, you know.”

Very gently the soft muzzle travels up the front of the little coat,

and a sly nip is given to the top button. The reward is instantly

offered, and crunched with a relish. Before it has had time to slip

down the huge throat, Jack has found the second button, and won his

second lump. Four buttons in all, and four lumps of sugar.

A few more loving pats upon the dear old nose, the assurance that she

“loves him _dearly, dearly_,” and Wee Winkles prances away up Broadway

to Madison Square for her morning airing, while Jack watches her until

she is lost in the throng.

Nearly every day, during the winter months in town for almost two

years, Jack was visited, and no matter how long a time elapsed during

the summer, when his little friend was out of town, Jack never forgot

her, but upon her return showed his delight in every possible way.

But at length came a long separation, for the little girl moved far

away uptown, where she lived for two years, and then moved to the

country, and Big Jack was seen no longer. We often wondered whether

he missed his morning visitor and lumps of sugar, but concluded that

several other children, who knew and loved him, would doubtless

remember him. Not only children loved Jack, but grown people find

something very fascinating in the great creature, who is by turns

affectionate or mischievous, and seems to act toward his friends with

remarkable discrimination, showing to some all that is gentlest and

sweetest--and this usually to the little people--in his disposition,

and to others his mischief.

To see Jack dissemble is too funny for words to express. He will

pretend he does not know a friend is near him until that friend slips

his hand into his pocket for the apple or sugar which Jack knows all

the time is there. Then he will turn his head slowly, very slowly,

toward the individual, who may have been standing there for the past

two minutes,--time is of no value to Jack,--then a quiet, scarcely

perceptible change in the position of the ears, a surprised opening

of the eyes, as though to say: “Why, really, are _you_ there? I _am_

surprised! I had no idea that you were within half a mile. _So_ pleased

to see you!”

Then the sweet morsel is accepted in the most gracious manner

imaginable, as though his lordship were conferring a great favor by

condescending to accept the attention.

And now I must tell you something which seems almost too wonderful

to be true. After a lapse of five years we can tell a tale of

Jack’s intelligence which is truly extraordinary, and which proves

conclusively, if, indeed, the fact ever could be doubted, that our dumb

friend has a memory which some of his two-footed friends might envy.

Not long since his little friend, now grown a large girl of nine years,

went with her mother to the city to do some shopping, and, turning into

Twenty-second Street from Sixth Avenue, the first object which met her

eyes was Big Jack standing in front of one of the shops.

Although five years have passed over Jack’s head since we first met

him,--and that is quite a number as horses’ lives are counted,--they

have dealt very gently with him, and he is but little changed. Not

quite so sleek, perhaps, and not so kittenish, for Jack has worked hard

and steadily all these years, and work tells even upon the strongest

horses; but the same old Jack stood before us, and could not be

mistaken.

We were behind him, and his blinders prevented him from seeing us.

“Oh, mamma,” said his little friend, “do you think he will remember

me if I speak to him? How I wish we had some sugar for the dear old

fellow!”

I replied that we would step into a store close at hand and get a few

lumps, and then we would test Jack’s memory. We soon had our sugar,

and Wee Winkles--no longer “wee”--walked up from behind him as of

old, and said in the voice which Jack had not heard for nearly four

years, and which naturally must have changed considerably in that

interval: “Good-morning, dear old Jack!” To my great astonishment, the

recognition was instantaneous. Quick as a flash the great head was

turned; and not only that, but a soft whinny told of the dear old

fellow’s joy, as did also the quick snuggling down to the outstretched

arms.

No one could possibly doubt these demonstrations of delight; and when

they were followed by the voluntary upraising of the huge fore foot, as

of old, for the--what shall I say--foot-shake? his little friend’s joy

knew no bounds.

“Oh, mamma, mamma,” she cried, “did you _ever_ know anything so

wonderful?”

I replied that it was indeed very remarkable, and added, “Can it be

possible that he has remembered all the tricks? Ask him about the

s-u-g-a-r”--spelling the word lest the sound might recall the trick of

the buttons.

“Who loves sugar, and how many lumps have I in my pocket for somebody?”

But, alas! fashions have changed in four years, and some coats have

no buttons at all. In vain poor Jack felt about for the top button,

then a little lower for where No. 2 should have been found, then at the

other side for three and four, but no buttons were there; and Jack,

utterly disgusted, manifested it by shaking his head and stamping his

foot. His surprise was absurdly funny, and if he could have spoken I

believe he would have said with withering scorn: “Well, if _I_ were in

_your_ place I’d go straight home and _sew on my buttons_!”

Jack, however, got his four lumps despite the fashions, and was a very

happy horse.

It is perhaps rather difficult to believe this little tale, but it is

absolutely true from beginning to end, and has been written in order

to give the little people who reside in that section of New York an

opportunity to see and know big Jack, for I do assure you he is well

worth seeing and knowing.

There are, I dare say, a great many very clever and very beautiful

horses in our big city. Indeed, Wee Winkles and I know several

ourselves. “Billy Borden,” for instance, who knows his milk route so

well that his driver has only to say, “8 West Sixty-sixth, Billy,” or

“9 West Sixty-fifth, Billy,” to have him go at once to these addresses,

or any other with which he is familiar. Again, he will say: “No milk

here to-day, Billy,” and Billy jogs on.

Then there is “Dan Sorrel,” who draws the milk-wagon which takes the

milk to Central Park Dairy every morning. His driver often amuses the

children who gather about his pet by saying:

“Now, Dan, I believe you are a Democrat.”

“No!” shakes the head.

“What! a Republican?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” and a stamping of both front feet, while the tail is

slashed about like a banner to emphasize his sentiments.

Dan is great fun. Nor must we forget our old pet “Jingo” of the mounted

policemen’s horses; for he was truly wonderful, and I might go on

almost endlessly telling of his remarkable sagacity and cleverness.

Jingo and Wee Winkles were warm friends, for Winkles spent two winters

in a home very near the West Seventy-second Street entrance to the

Park, and each sunshiny day carried her lump of sugar to Jingo, who

would perform all sorts of tricks in order to win his reward. He would

waltz, go down upon his knees, shake hands, fetch a pocket-handkerchief

which she made believe she had dropped, whisper in his rider’s ear, and

do many things besides.

It is a never-ending source of surprise to me that so few people seem

to understand the wonderful intelligence of horses, or the marvelous

possibilities in developing that intelligence.

All my life I have either had horses of my own or been so fortunately

situated that I might make the acquaintance of those belonging to

others. I use the word “acquaintance” advisedly, for one _must_ become

acquainted, must be in sympathy with them, before they will show the

best side of their horse natures.

I have frequently stopped in the street beside a horse who looked as

though life had been a hard struggle for him, and whose every line

of face and attitude showed a stolid endurance of the inevitable, as

if fate had settled his lot beyond all power to change, and nothing

remained but to endure and wait until death put an end to it all. After

standing for a few moments unnoticed,--as though the poor creature were

thinking within itself, “She is only one more, like all the rest, and

will either pass on and take no notice of me, or say, ‘Get out of the

way, you brute,’”--I would say softly, but without moving, “Come here,

old fellow.”

At first there would not be the least response, save, perhaps, the

slight turn of an ear; but upon repeating it two or three times in

exactly the same tone, the head would turn slowly toward me, and a look

of surprise come into the tired eyes, as though a gentle word were a

thing before unknown.

At the third repetition I have rarely failed to have the poor old nose

stretched out toward me for a gentle stroke, and the neck thus brought

within reach of a kind pat.

Not infrequently have I had the owner of some such unfortunate say to

me, “Hi, there! Look out! That horse’ll bite ye!” and have replied,

“Oh, I think not; watch him a moment, and see if I am not right.”

I well recall one such instance, when I went up to intercede for a poor

beast that was being cruelly lashed because it could not draw a load

which was far beyond its strength.

I begged the driver to desist, which, I add to his credit, he did at

once, getting down off his cart, whip in hand. As he did so I went up

to the poor creature’s head, and was greeted with a series of snaps and

plunges, as though his tormentors had driven him nearly wild. “Don’t go

within tin feet av the baste!” exclaimed the man. “He’ll have the head

off yer.”

“I hardly think so,” I said, and kept straight on, speaking softly and

kindly to the trembling creature, while I reached out to take him by

the rein.

Up flew the head as if to avoid a blow, telling all too eloquently how

often the poor muzzle had smarted from one.

But dear Mother Nature is kind, and has endowed her dumb creatures with

wonderful discerning powers; so not many minutes had passed before the

poor tired head was nestled close to me, and soft strokes and gentle

words seemed to act as a sedative upon nerves which were utterly

unstrung.

The man stood by, open-mouthed. “Well, be all the powers!” said he;

“the likes av that niver did I see in all me born days. I thought the

baste would ate the very handle off me shovel!”

“He is better than you thought, is he not?”

“Faith, I believe ye’ve bewitched him,” he answered.

“Yes,” I said, “I have; but _you_ can bewitch him in the same way if

you will only try it. I wish you would.”

* * * * *

All this is a long way from Big Jack, and we must not forget our chief

character in our sympathies for his less fortunate kindred.

But I want the little people who read this to realize how much that is

lovable and beautiful dear Mother Nature has put right in our daily

paths, if we will only raise our eyes to see and our voices to win it;

for surely it cannot fail to help us by developing all that is best and

loveliest in ourselves.

“BILLEE TAYLOR”

“BILLEE TAYLOR”

The rays of the afternoon sunshine came peeping across the high hedge

to fall aslant the closely cut lawn which sloped to the beautiful river

flowing so peacefully beyond. The hedge and the great trees cast long

shadows upon the soft green grass, making a marked contrast to the

brilliant patches of sunshine lying between.

Crickets hopped about, singing their monotonous little songs, and

insects floated in the sun’s warm rays, as though enjoying a golden

shower bath. Under one of the great trees and comfortably resting in

a big East India lawn chair, with its back drawn close to the hedge,

sat, or rather half reclined, a small person of about fifteen summers;

while upon the grass beside her lay an atom of a black and tan terrier.

The afternoon was very warm and still, and the drowsy, dreamy

atmosphere had evidently had its influence upon little maid and little

dog, for both had slipped away into dreamland.

Four strokes rang out from the distant town clock, the distance causing

the sound to be wonderfully mellowed, and, as though it were the

signal for a new actor to appear upon the scene, the branches of the

hedge just above the chair were pushed aside and a great head, with

wonderfully soft eyes, peered through at the sleepers. It was followed

by a long, gracefully arched sorrel neck, and “Billee” had introduced

himself.

So gently had the hedge been parted that it scarcely rustled, and the

young girl slept on undisturbed.

But the owner of the great head had his own ideas regarding the hours

which should be devoted to slumber, and four o’clock, on a beautiful

summer afternoon, was _not_ one of them; so he proceeded to rouse the

sleepers.

“Hoo-hoo; hoo-hoo-hoo,” came the soft, unspellable sound a horse makes

when he greets you. But it only resulted in rousing the little terrier,

who raised his head lazily and regarded the intruder with a rather

surprised air.

But the horse had no notion of failing in his undertaking, and at once

proceeded to adopt more energetic measures. Stretching his long neck

still further through the opening in the hedge, he reached toward the

sleeper, and taking very gentle hold of a stray lock of hair which fell

across the back of the chair, gave it a slight pull with his soft,

velvety lips, and then, as though terrified at the liberty he had

taken, plunged back with a loud snort.

The pull, the snort, and the wild barking of the enraged little terrier

produced such an instantaneous effect that he should have been highly

gratified, for the girl bounded out of her chair and stood staring at

the hedge in astonishment. But that looked innocent enough, and she

would have turned elsewhere to learn the cause of her fright had she

not caught sight of a shining pair of eyes which looked at her through

the opening in the branches.

She darted forward with a laugh, and parting the branches, she said:

“You scamp! What do you mean by playing me such a trick? I’ve tried to

coax you to come close to me time and time again when I’ve been wide

awake, but you choose to take me at a disadvantage while I am in the

land of Nod,” and she wagged her finger at him admonishingly.

Down went his head and up went his heels and tail; for a few minutes it

was difficult to tell which end of him touched the ground; and no boy

ever gave more pronounced demonstrations of wild delight at the success

of some prank than he gave of his, as, with a final and most abandoned

kick-up, he went careering over the big field. Marion, for such was the

girl’s name, made no attempt to coax him to come back; well knowing

that he must have his fling before settling down to more serious

matters, and enjoying the spectacle most thoroughly; for the horse was

a beauty and never showed to greater advantage than when enjoying his

freedom in the pasture.

The superb head, with its splendid eyes, delicate, pointed ears and

sensitive nostrils, was held high in the air; the gracefully arched

neck, with its silky, flowing mane and full throbbing veins; the

dainty hoofs and slender limbs which supported the lithe, active body,

appearing scarcely to touch the grass, and the long tail waving behind

like a triumphal banner, all were superbly beautiful.

But, masculine member of society as he was, he was somewhat of a

coquette, and soon tried new fascinations. Stopping suddenly in the

midst of his wild career, he walked over to the hedge with his head

lowered as demurely as a young miss. When within about ten feet of it

he stopped, threw up his head, and gave a loud neigh.

“Now you _know_ you are only doing that for effect,” said Marion, “and

I believe you just know how beautiful you look with the sun shining on

your silky, sorrel coat as you stand there trying to make me believe

you’re afraid, when you know perfectly well you’re not one bit. Come

here, this minute; for _this_ time I’m determined to touch you if I

have to crawl through the hedge to do it,” and in another moment the

girl stood in the field.

One dainty hoof pawed the ground and the head went up and down as

though answering “yes,” but he did not advance a step.

“Are you coming?”

“Hoo-hoo; hoo-hoo-hoo!”

“Now does that mean ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

Down went the head again.

“It means ‘yes,’ does it? Well, come on, then,” and she held out her

hand coaxingly. Without a sign of warning he gave a bound which landed

him beside her so suddenly that it was a marvel she did not make some

demonstration of fear. But she did not, and the horse, who had a

novel way of doing things, instantly made up his mind that this young

lady was not easily frightened; consequently he decided to behave

himself, and with a soft little whinny he put his silky head into her

outstretched arms and stood as quiet as a lamb.

Marion’s joy was unbounded, for, time and again during the summer she

had tried to make friends with the beautiful animal, only to find

herself baffled at each attempt; and now he stood beside her and let

her fondle and caress him as unreservedly as she would have caressed

the little terrier, who stood beside her regarding the whole proceeding

with a questioning look.

“What do you think of him, Jingles?” she asked, and the terrier gave a

little bark, which set jingling the tiny silver bells upon the collar,

which had given him his name.

Marion stood there caressing the horse for some time, enjoying his

pranks and indulging in subdued rapture over his affectionate little

demonstrations, for, once won over, he seemed determined to make amends

for former shortcomings and licked her hand, nibbled at her ruffles,

laid his head across her shoulder and showed in every possible way that

he had taken her for his friend; when suddenly he raised his head and

laid back his ears.

“What is it, old fellow? What has disturbed you?” she asked, well

knowing that she was not the cause of the half-frightened, half-angry

look which had come into his eyes.

Whatever it was he evidently regarded it with distinct disfavor, for

his whole attitude changed and one would hardly have recognized in him

the same animal which a moment before had so captivated Marion.

Up went the head and a still more frightened look crept into his eyes

as a tall, heavily-built man, with a stupid face and features which

spoke only of coarseness and brutality, came into view.

“Hi! do yer want ter be killed?” he shouted in a harsh voice. “Yer’d

better keep away from that brute if yer don’t. He’s a perfect devil.”

In an instant all the indignation and resentment in the young girl’s

nature was aroused by this unjust accusation, for her love for horses

was so intense that she seemed to hold almost magical power over them,

and her friends used often to say that they believed she possessed some

secret means of communicating to them her own thoughts and reading

theirs.

However that might be, certain it was that they all loved her, from her

own beautiful little pony to the greatest forlornity that ever bore

harness, and her word rarely failed to win a response of some sort.

Ever since her father had rented their pretty summer home in May, she

had watched the beautiful young animal driven by the owner of the

adjoining property, and, during the horse’s occasional days of freedom

in the pasture separated from her home by a high hedge, had striven to

coax him to her. But with her keen intuitions she made up her mind that

the animal was not kindly treated, and consequently lacked confidence

in human beings.

“But I shall yet win him over; see if I don’t,” she had said to her

father as she sat at breakfast that very morning, “and I’ll find out

the cause of his distrust as well; or my name is not Marion.”

“I won’t try to dispute that, sweetheart, since I gave you the name

myself,” replied her father as he rose from the table and came for his

good-by kiss before leaving for town, “so I dare say I shall soon have

our four-footed neighbor’s biography.”

“You needn’t tease me,” she said, with a wag of her pretty head, “I’m

going to _do_ it.”

So now she stood confronting the owner of the unpleasant voice and more

unpleasant personality, and her own voice quivered with indignation as

she answered:

“Do you see anything very fiendish in him just at present? Perhaps you

might find the angelic side of his nature, just as I have, if you would

take pains to try.”

All this time, although quivering with apprehension, the horse had

stood perfectly still with the girl’s arm resting protectingly across

his withers.

“Is he _your_ horse?” she continued, for the man had stopped

stock-still to regard the great animal’s intrepid little defender with

amazement.

“Naw! he aint that; and I don’t want him neither. He belongs to the

boss up yander. But I’ve got to take care of him, and if he don’t look

out I’ll kill him some day, if he don’t get a lick at me first. Here,

come on out o’ that, the boss wants ye,” and he made a grab at the

horse’s forelock.

Up flew the nervous creature’s head as though to avoid a blow, to

which, undoubtedly, he was only too well accustomed, and in so doing he

hit the hard bridge of his nose against the man’s chin, causing him to

bite his tongue. With a furious oath he drew back his huge fist and

dealt the horse a cruel blow upon his soft muzzle.

With the pathetic cry a wounded horse gives, the poor creature fell

almost upon his haunches, and then, with a superb bound, leaped clear

and clean over the man’s head.

It had all happened in a few seconds, but those few seconds had been

sufficient to arouse within the girl’s soul all the fury of righteous

anger, and with a wild cry of, “Oh, how _dare_ you do such a cruel

thing! How _dare_ you, when you know he did not mean to hurt you!” she

caught hold of the man by both his arms and shook him till his teeth

fairly chattered. Then, pushing him from her, she cried: “Now go! You

are not fit to have the care of a wild bull, let alone such a splendid

creature as that, and you shall never, never touch him again if I can

prevent it.”

Never probably in all his life had this great, strong man encountered

such a little fury as now confronted him with flashing eyes and

crimson cheeks. The girl’s whole nature rose in wrath against such

injustice, and for the time being she was beside herself, and all

thoughts of “Mrs. Grundy” flew to the four winds.

Too astonished to speak, he stood like a wooden image staring straight

at her, then, as she stamped her pretty little foot and pointed toward

the gate, he turned and slunk off toward the distant stables; for once,

at least, dealt with as he deserved, although it had fallen to the lot

of a girl of fifteen to administer justice.

“Oh, Jingles,” she cried, now almost in tears, “wasn’t it awful! Come

quick and we will look after the dear fellow,” and she ran swiftly to

the far end of the field in which the frightened horse had taken refuge.

There he stood with his poor head hanging dejectedly down, and the

blood dripping from the cut nostril. Marion approached him very

quietly, fearing that his recent cruel treatment might have undone

all she had striven so patiently to gain, but the intelligent animal

had learned more than one lesson that day, and the girl had won his

confidence forever.

Taking the poor, smarting muzzle in her soft, white hands, she examined

it closely and found the cut to be a bad one. “If I only had some

water,” she said to herself, “I could bathe it. I know, I’ll lead him

to that spring down at the edge of the field,” and untying the pretty

Roman sash from her waist, she placed it very gently around the horse’s

neck, and, saying in her sweet voice, “Come along, dear,” she led him

quietly beside her.

Her dainty linen handkerchief served to bathe the injured nose, and

when the bleeding was stanched she turned toward the gate, intending to

lead her patient home, little realizing what a pretty picture she made

as she came across the fields with the afternoon sunlight falling upon

her beautiful brown hair and pretty white gown, with one hand leading

the handsome sorrel horse by his gay silken leader, while the other was

laid caressingly across his neck.

To the gentleman standing concealed behind a clump of evergreens just

beyond the gate it seemed the prettiest sight he had ever looked upon,

and a pleasing ending to the harrowing one to which he had been an

unseen witness.

Slipping from his hiding-place as the girl approached, he advanced with

outstretched hand, saying: “Little neighbor, I have more than one thing

for which to thank you this afternoon, but the greatest is for your

heroic defense of my horse. Don’t try to tell me anything about it,”

as Marion gave a slight start and opened her lips to speak,--“I saw

the whole occurrence from beginning to end, and now I know why one of

my most valuable animals has thus far in his career been pronounced

vicious.”

“Oh, he isn’t! I _know_ he isn’t,” exclaimed his champion.

“So do I,--_now_, but I have been a long time learning it, and, but for

you, I should probably never have done so; since that man, upon whom

you wreaked your vengeance,” and here a rather amused smile curved the

corners of Mr. Ryder’s lips, “was cunning enough to conceal his true

disposition when in my presence.”

Marion colored slightly, and said: “I know it was a dreadful thing to

do, and I don’t know what papa will say when I tell him about it, but I

was so angry that I just _couldn’t_ keep still.”

“It is fortunate for Billy that you did not, or his future might have

been a miserable one; might it not, old fellow?” he answered as he

reached out to take the horse’s leader. But Billy’s faith in mankind

had been sorely shaken, and he started aside. “Tut, tut!” said Mr.

Ryder, “this is a bad business, and I think I shall have to impose

upon your friendship for Billy by asking you to lead him to the stable

for me, since he seems so fearful of ill-treatment. What is your name,

little maid? We have been neighbors six weeks, but I am so rarely home

that I am almost a stranger here.”

“Marion Taylor,” was the reply. “Come, Billy,” she added, “I didn’t

know your name before, but we got acquainted, didn’t we, dear?” and

she laid her flushed face against the warm, silky neck. “Have you more

horses?” she asked as they walked along together.

“Yes, a large number, for I raise them. Billy, here, is one of my

handsomest, and, but for his unfortunate disposition, he would be the

most valuable. I understand him better now, I think.”

“Oh, I hope so! He is so beautiful, and I am sure he would love me

dearly if I could see him every day. May I?”

“You certainly may, and tell your father that Mr. Ryder will give

himself the pleasure of calling upon him this evening,” he said, as he

shook hands with her and said good-by at the stable door.

Marion, with Jingles at her heels, ran swiftly home across the field,

while Mr. Ryder went in quest of the delinquent Sam, with whom he had

an interview--brief, but very much to the point. A few hours later

he was seated on Mr. Taylor’s delightful piazza enjoying with him an

after-dinner cigar as they talked, for they soon discovered that theirs

was really an old acquaintance rather than a new one, since both had

been students at the same university years before.

When Mr. Ryder said good-night at eleven o’clock, Billy had become

Mr. Taylor’s property, for the latter had long been in search of a

well-trained saddle-horse for Marion, and was glad to find such a

desirable one.

“Marion will cure any peculiarities of disposition he may possess,” he

said; “the child loves horses better than she loves people, I believe;

at all events, she understands them better and they her.”

“You missed a good deal by not seeing her this afternoon,” replied Mr.

Ryder. “By Jove! she gave it to Sam in good, round, set terms. I don’t

believe the fellow has recovered yet,” and he laughed as he recalled

the little girl’s righteous wrath.

As Marion stood upon the piazza next morning she was surprised to see

Billy led in at the gate.

“Why, papa,” she called to her father, who sat in the dining room

behind her, “they are bringing Billy in here; what does it mean?”

“It means, little daughter,” said her father, as he joined her,

“that Mr. Ryder and I have decided that you are to be Billy’s future

mistress, since you have evidently won his confidence and love. You

need a saddle-horse, and he is perfectly trained. Add this pet to your

many others, for I dare say your heart is large enough to hold even

Billy.”

A note addressed to Miss Marion Taylor was handed to her by the groom,

and contained the following message: “For Billy’s champion, with whom

I hope he may dwell long and serve faithfully, and henceforth be

known, not as Billy Ryder, but as ‘Billee Taylor.’” From that moment

“Billee’s” life was revolutionized, and he was as happy as his days

were long.

Marion tended him herself until the poor nose was quite healed.

Billee’s gratitude was boundless, and he showed it in every possible

way. Could he have done so he would have followed his beloved young

mistress straight into the house, and very often, indeed, he did follow

her on to the piazza.

Her pony was rather small for the saddle, so Billee was always used for

riding; and many a delightful canter they had; the beautiful animal

fully realizing how precious was the burden he carried, and swinging

along as smoothly as a rocking-chair.

Long after the sore nose was entirely well Billee remembered the cruel

blow, and when Marion said, “Poor Billee, where did he get hurt?”

the comical fellow would lift up his head and raise his upper lip to

show the scar, which he still carried upon it and his nostril. In a

wonderfully short time his nervousness, and what had seemed to be a

sort of resentment toward mankind in general, entirely vanished, and he

became the sweetest-tempered animal one could wish for, and as full of

pranks and mischief as a kitten.

Marion could always control him with a word, and even in the midst of

one of his wildest pranks, her voice was sufficient to bring him back

to his senses.

He and Toddles, the pony, became fast friends, and it was a common

thing for the neighbors to see Marion seated upon the lawn with

Billee, Toddles, Jingles, and the two kittens, Blink and Wink, lying

or standing beside her. No matter where she went, whether it was for

a stroll by the river, a walk to the post office, or a drive behind

little Toddles, if Billee caught sight of her he was determined to

follow her, and, if prevented by his groom from so doing, would neigh

to her as long as she was in sight.

While prowling about his stable yard one afternoon he somehow managed

to pick up a nail and, as though he were sure that his beloved

mistress would help him, he whinnied and whinnied until his groom came

to learn the cause. Seeing the horse limp, the man tried to take up his

foot to examine it, but Billee preferred selecting his own surgeon, and

although he could scarcely hobble, he pushed past his groom, who let

him go, and limped to the front of the house, where he felt certain of

finding his mistress. She was seated in her favorite chair near the

hedge, and with a glad neigh he hobbled up to her and held up the lame

foot.

“Why, Billee dear! what is the matter?” she cried, and, jumping up,

she took the poor foot into her hands. Billee poked his nose down and

made a queer grunting sort of sound, as though trying to tell her his

trouble.

“Yes, dear, I see what it is; we will soon have it out,” she said, and

Thomas was summoned and the nail removed.

“Now come with me, Billee, and we will fix it all comfortable,” and

she led him back to his stall.

She soon had the feverish foot standing in a tub of oil meal, and,

bidding him “be a good horse and not take his foot out of the tub till

she gave him leave,” she left him. A dozen times a day during the four

or five that followed, she went out to pour cold water on the ankle and

see that the foot was properly cared for, and each time she appeared

Billee’s joy was boundless, and he would hold up his foot to have it

dressed.

Such constant care could not fail to effect a prompt cure, and in a

week’s time Billee was as frisky as ever. But he never forgot his lame

foot, and ever after, when he felt particularly in need of sympathy,

would put on a make-believe limp, and if Marion said “Poor Billee

Taylor, he has _such_ a lame foot,” the rogue would hold it up, put his

nose down to it, and give voice to a low snicker, as though trying to

tell the story all over again.

Billee’s life was like the good prince’s in the fairy tales: “He lived

long and happily, and died at a ripe old age.”

CHARLIE & CO.

CHARLIE & CO.

Charlie was distinctly a local character. I doubt if he could claim any

special distinction even in his own town, and yet among his few friends

he held an enviable place, for they loved and trusted him, and neither

the love nor the trust was misplaced.

It is more than five years ago since we first met Charlie & Co., and

even then neither of the partners was young nor handsome. But they

commanded our attention.

It was in the summer of 1894 that I was sitting upon the piazza of

a friend’s home in the pretty suburban town of Elton. It was about

four o’clock, and as I sat drinking in the beauty of the sunshine and

the shadow as they flickered upon the soft green lawn, I heard the

measured pat-pat of a horse’s footfall. Alive to the slightest sound,

either regular or irregular, in the footfall of the animal I love

best of all my four-footed friends, I instantly recognized in this

one an unfamiliar sound, as though the animal making it had a mode of

navigation peculiar to itself.

As I glanced up the sound suddenly ceased, and I saw standing at the

foot of the driveway a bay horse harnessed to a milk-wagon. It would

have been difficult for me to tell what there was in the animal to

distinguish him from a dozen others which might have stopped at the

door, but there was an indefinable _something_, and I watched him,

feeling instinctively that something interesting would develop. Nor

did my instinct mislead me. The driver of the horse, an elderly man,

whose kindly face and scrupulous neatness were in perfect harmony with

the contented look worn by the animal he drove, and with its glossy,

shining coat, which testified to the care given to it, stepped from his

wagon and then turned to take from it a wire stand filled with jars of

rich, creamy milk, and started with them toward the kitchen at the rear

of the house.

As his driver left him the horse turned back one ear, but further

than that gave no evidence that he was at all interested in the man’s

movements. But directly the sound of his footfalls had ceased to be

heard, the pretty bay head, with the softest of velvety white noses and

big brown eyes, was turned quite around in order to have a good look

into the wagon--for, happily, the headstall had no blinders. Evidently

all was as it should be, and with a nod of his head, as though saying

“yes,” the animal started off.

My first impulse was to call out “whoa,” but something in the wise,

self-contained air of the creature compelled me to await developments.

Curving well outward, that the wheels of the wagon need not come in

contact with the curbstone, the horse started down the street, crossing

immediately to the right side in order to obey the rule of the highway

which says, “Keep to the right.” Passing four or five houses, he

stopped at one, and, bringing his wagon close to the curb, turned and

looked around. A moment later his driver reappeared and followed his

business partner across the street. Again the milk jars were taken from

the wagon, and again the horse started on, this time to the second

house. It was funny enough to watch him; he was as familiar with the

route, and the time necessary for each delivery, as his master, and

evidently felt as much responsibility.

Turning to my friend, who just then joined me upon the piazza, I asked:

“Who is the milkman whose horse seems as familiar with the milk route

as he himself does?”

“Oh, it is Mr. Harris, and he is as kind as he looks. His horse Charlie

is amusing, is he not? Yes, he knows the customers as well as Mr.

Harris does, and we always speak of them as ‘Charlie & Co.’ I doubt if

Mr. Harris could get on without his silent partner.”

“Does the horse always act as he has to-day?”

“Invariably. He is as punctual and methodical as his master is neat

and kind-hearted. They have served me with milk for many years, and I

should not be able to keep house without them, I believe.”

“I shall not forget them,” I replied, “and if I ever make Elton my

home, I shall certainly give my order to ‘Charlie & Co.’”

A few months later we removed to Elton, and I lost no time in

requesting Charlie & Co. to include our home in their daily rounds.

It was at that period that I became well acquainted with Charlie and

learned to appreciate his wonderful intelligence, and the clever ways

which so endeared him to his master.

Twice daily did Charlie appear at my door, and it was not long before

it became his favorite stopping-place, for at it he rarely failed to

receive an apple, a biscuit, and at last, when he had acquired a taste

for it, a lump of sugar. But this was distinctly a cultivated taste,

and his efforts to learn to like the dainty were funny beyond words to

express. My little daughter was the first to cultivate Charlie’s taste

for sweets, and rarely a day passed that she did not watch for his

coming and have ready the dainty.

Charlie had a peculiar gait, which was probably the result of having

been used under the saddle in his younger days. It was neither a pace,

nor yet a trot, but a sort of cross between the two, and when he

desired to hasten it he broke into a distinct canter. Directly he left

the nearest neighbor’s at whose house he was forced to stop before

reaching his little friend’s home, Charlie, in the words of dear Lewis

Carroll, would come “gallumping”--no other word will express it--for

his dainty. The dear old head would be put close down to the arms

waiting to caress him, and after a bit of affectionate demonstration

on both sides, the proffered lump of sugar would be taken, toyed with

a moment by the velvety lips, bitten in two, and held while Charlie

seemed thinking the matter over, meantime looking at his little friend

and shaking his head wisely.

“Eat it, Charlie; it’s delicious,” the little one would say. But

Charlie had his own ideas on the subject, and was not to be hurried. It

was not until he had thoroughly tested this new article of diet, turned

it over upon his tongue, crunched it with his nippers, that he finally

decided it was really intended to go the way of oats and hay.

“Ye jest _spoil_ ’im, missie,” his master would say. “I can’t get ’im

to stop ’alf a minute at the other ’ouses, ’e’s that crazy to get on to

you and ’is sugar. Come on now, you old good-for-nothing, and get along

to the other customers who’ll be wantin’ their milk!” And his master

would climb into the wagon and slash at him with a whip whose length of

lash was a mockery.

One of Charlie’s besetting sins was his determination to get a bite

of grass whenever the opportunity offered. As a rule his check-rein,

put on him for that very reason, prevented him from reaching the grass

which grew beside the average curbstone, but just opposite our home was

a terrace a foot or more high, and this was Charlie’s Mecca.

When there came a day which was too stormy for his little friend to

meet him, the terrace at the opposite side of the street came into

service. But don’t for a moment fancy that he ever started for it so

long as he heard his master’s footfalls--ah, no! he was far too wise

for that. But once Mr. Harris was safely disposed of in his customer’s

kitchen, then Charlie would calmly start for the terrace, which the

length of his check-rein just permitted him to reach, and for about

three minutes enjoy unalloyed bliss. The instant he heard his master’s

returning steps he was at once overwhelmed with business cares, and

started off for his next customer’s house as hard as he could go.

I would that it lay in my power to convey to you some slight idea of

Charlie’s “cuteness”--for only that Yankee word will express it. The

intelligent eyes told how well he understood every word his master

spoke to him, and their softness told his affection for that master

who cared for him so faithfully.

In summer and winter, through sunshine and through storm, did Charlie

bring us milk, and I wish I could tell those who read this simple

little history that he still does so; but dear old Charlie, who so

loved and was beloved by his master, gave his life to save that master

from a frightful death.

In the spring of ’98 we removed to another house, and Charlie had few

customers in the new street and had never stopped at that particular

house. In order to test his memory our little daughter resolved to go

out to the curbstone the first evening we spent in the new home, and,

without saying a word, stand there and wait for Charlie to recognize

her as he came along. A little before four o’clock she saw him

trot-pacing toward her, and was instantly recognized by him and greeted

with a soft “hoo-hoo-hoo,” as though he considered it undignified

to whinny aloud while in harness. From that time Charlie needed no

guiding, and after partaking of his sugar, went upon his way to a

neighbor’s two doors beyond.

We two were his only customers in that street, and during the summer

Mrs. Thompson’s house was closed for several weeks. At first Charlie

was determined to go on to the closed house, and not until he had

received most peremptory orders to “stand still, now, and wait till I

come back; don’t you know those folks aren’t there now?” and had been

summarily turned around and headed in the opposite direction did he

grasp the situation; but once it was settled in the horse-mind, all

was plain sailing for both horse and driver, and directly the jars of

milk had vanished around the corner of our house, Charlie would turn

his wagon carefully around and stand perfectly still to await his

master’s return; for the next customer’s house was many blocks away,

and Charlie had no notion of making Mr. Harris walk to it. We often

wondered how he reasoned it all out, but he certainly did, and never by

any chance missed a customer or gave his master an uncomfortably long

walk.

Charlie’s place in this world was indeed a humble one, but the example

he set might be followed with advantage by many a human being. At two

o’clock each afternoon Charlie would watch his master as he milked his

herd of sleek cows. He knew just how their turns came and exactly how

long it would take to milk “Jinny” and “Bossy” and “Buttercup” and

“Daffy,” and so on down the herd of ten or a dozen; and while they were

milked Charlie poked about the barnyard. He appreciated a joke, and

was never happier than when his master was the object of it. He would

frequently come up softly behind Mr. Harris, who was very hard of

hearing, and thrust his warm nose over his master’s shoulder as he sat

upon a milking stool, and when Mr. Harris, giving a start which nearly

proved fatal to the contents of the shining pail, turned about to shake

his fist at the horse and cry “Get along out of the way, you scamp!”

Charlie would seem as delighted over the prank as a child.

One day Charlie was unusually winsome, and, as Mr. Harris prepared to

take his place in the wagon, he stopped to stroke the soft neck and say:

“Eh, Charlie, you’re a great plague, but it would be ’ard getting

another like you,”--little dreaming how soon he would have to supply

the faithful Charlie’s place. They started off for a customer whose

house stood just a little beyond the railroad track. There were no

gates at that crossing, and Mr. Harris was too hard of hearing to

realize his danger from the approaching express train, already

thundering around the curve above. But Charlie was not deaf, and he did

his best to hold back from the track; but his master, impatient at his

delay, which he could not understand, called sharply to him to go on.

Obedient to the last, Charlie went, but he could not seem to make up

his mind to bring the wagon behind him upon the track. Planting himself

firmly between the rails, he stood fast and met his doom. An instant

later the great iron monster came crashing upon him, tearing him out

of the wagon, whose shafts snapped like pipe-stems, and hurling the

poor creature a hundred feet beyond. When the train was brought to a

standstill, and the frightened passengers and engineer hurried to the

scene of disaster, all that was left of poor, faithful Charlie was a

lifeless form lying upon the grass beside the track. But even in death

he had testified to his affection and faithfulness, for had he not

stood firm to receive the death blow rather than lead his master into

danger? Is it to be wondered that tears filled that master’s eyes when

he bent over the lifeless form of his faithful horse?

And so Charlie, kind, gentle, faithful, Charlie, came into and passed

out of our lives. Faithful and true, he proved to us that even a dumb

creature may teach beautiful lessons that we all will do well to

remember.

GRAY LADY’S ONLY SON

GRAY LADY’S ONLY SON

PART I

A NOVEL TRANSPORTATION COMPANY

It was a warm September afternoon “down to the cape,” as the local

phrase runs. The drowsy little hamlet consisted, first, of a small

wooden railway station, not unlike an immense drygoods box in which

some frugal-minded Yankee had cut holes to serve for a door and two

windows, and then in a moment of reckless extravagance had painted a

dull red; next, a church, which appeared to have been dropped there by

mistake; and last, of a few farmhouses, which had no doubt been there

since the days of Governor Bradford. Over the door of the station was

the sign “Post Office,” and, consequently, one had reason to believe

that “Uncle Sam” had some claim upon this sleepy little settlement.

Not a store was to be seen; not a sign of business anywhere. Even the

railroad station was deserted; for no train would come up from Province

Town until six o’clock, and the one going “down cape” stopped only

on signal. So the station agent, who was also postmaster, was absent

in a distant field, busily stacking corn. The sun beat down upon the

sandy road from which the hot air arose in quivering waves. Across from

the station lay a large field surrounded by a “post-rail” fence, and

standing by the bars, with her head hanging lazily over the topmost

one, was an old gray mare with her colt beside her. She seemed half

asleep, for her eyes were closed and occasionally her head would nod

exactly like that of a drowsy old woman, and bring her throat bumping

against the rail. That served to rouse her for a moment, but she would

presently slip off again into dreamland, perhaps to relive the days

when she had been able to skim over the ground with the best of her

kind; for “Gray Lady” came of famous stock, and the colt at her side

gave fair promise of inheriting his mother’s good qualities. Just now,

however, he seemed principally made up of legs and a scraggy mane; but

the eyes below the “bristle” were wonderfully soft, and looked out

between the bars with the half-mischievous, half-pleading look one

often sees in a child. The delicate little muzzle was as soft as a

moleskin. The tiny lips nibbled at the lichens on the rail, and, not

finding these particularly satisfying, began to fuss about the mother’s

warm neck, creeping gradually upward until they reached her head, where

they found a tempting plaything, and she was rudely roused from her

reveries by having her ear sharply pinched.

With a squeal she jerked her head out of reach, and the colt, as if

highly elated with his prank, went careering over the field, his long

legs executing some very extraordinary feats; for he was only six

months old.

As he pranced off a shrill whistle was heard, and a moment later a boy,

about twelve years of age, came down the dusty road, dragging behind

him a nondescript sort of vehicle evidently of home manufacture, since

it consisted of a plank fastened upon the wheels of a baby carriage.

The boy was barefooted; his clothes had seen long service; likewise his

hat, for a rent in the crown afforded so free a circulation of air that

there was no danger of his ever becoming bald for lack of it. Evidently

he was no stranger, for the instant Gray Lady heard his whistle she

raised her head, the sleepy look giving place to a very alert one,

as she began to whinny softly. When he came within sight of her he

shouted: “Hi! old Lady, be you a-lookin’ for me? Reckon I’m on time,

though; train haint gone down yit, an’ yer can’t never expect me afore

that, yer know.”

As he talked he lifted a small basket of apples from the wagon. Lady

snorted and whinnied, and, the sound reaching her fly-away son, he

stopped short in his wild career. Without turning, he glanced over his

shoulder and gave a funny little imitation of his mother’s greeting.

“You come along back here. I aint a-gonter come tramplin’ clear off

there after you, and don’t you think it,” called the boy. “Sonny” gave

an independent little toss of his head as though to say: “I’m not

_forced_ to come, but I will, since it is you,” and then started across

the field; his funny, long legs flying about in the most aimless manner.

“Now old Lady, I’ll give you your spread first, ’cause you was on hand

ter say ‘howdy,’ you know”; and, taking up his basket, he began to feed

one apple at a time to his four-footed friend. This was too much for

Sonny, who had got scent of the fruit and was determined to have his

share.

The dainty muzzle was thrust over the boy’s shoulder as he stood

feeding Lady; then it was poked into his hands and rubbed against his

coat, and, as a last resort, when all these hints proved futile, a very

vigorous nip was given to his arm.

“Hi, you young scamp! What are you up to? Is thet the way you mean to

treat me after I lugged all these apples over here? Now just you hold

on; you didn’t care a cent about me till you found out I had somethin’,

did you? That’s just like some folks; they aint got no use fer a feller

except ter knock him ’round till they git a notion he’s wuth somethin’

to them, and then--oh, my! _aint_ they sweet? Reckon I’ve learned

somethin’ o’ _that_ game. Now don’t you try it on, fer you an’ yer ma

is all the friends I got, and if _you_ go back on me I’ll plumb give

out. So come on and let’s be friends.” After this bit of moralizing he

put his arms about the warm little neck and he and Sonny “made love” in

the most approved style.

While the three cronies were indulging in this bit of equine and human

sentiment a shrill whistle announced the approach of the down train.

“There!” exclaimed the boy, “you hear that? That means the mail bag;

and I’ve got to go pick it up; like ’nough ’taint got mor’n one letter

anyhow. Hullo! There go two more toots; reckon they’re a-goin’ ter

set down a visitor this trip and I’ll be called upon ter tote their

‘Saratogie’ up ter the ‘Summer Hotel’--meanin’ old Grump Wheeler’s

attic chamber,” he added with a comical grin as he scudded across the

road.

When the mail bag was tossed off he picked it up with an educated toe,

deftly landed it upon his wagon, then squatted upon it to await further

developments. After depositing an immense valise upon the platform, the

conductor lifted down a cripple child of about seven or eight years of

age, and looked helplessly around for a place to seat her. A delicate

looking woman, evidently her mother, quickly followed and placed

beneath the child’s arms the crutches she carried for her.

“It is strange that Ruth isn’t here to meet us,” said she. “Do you know

of anyone who can take us up to my sister’s house?”

“Can’t say as I do,” answered the conductor. “Wish I could stop and

help you out, but I can’t,” and he waved his hand to the engineer and

sprang aboard his train.

The woman stood looking helplessly about and the child thumped across

the platform on her crutches, as though the motion was a relief from

standing. Catching sight of the boy, the woman walked quickly over to

him and asked: “Is there a wagon of any kind that I can get to take us

where we want to go?”

“That depends on where you’re a-goin’,” was the laconic reply.

“To Mrs. Caleb Parker’s; she is my sister. I wrote to her to expect us

by this train, but I’m afraid she did not receive the letter, for she

would have sent to meet us if she had.”

“When did you send the letter and where did you send it from?” asked

the boy.

“I sent it yesterday morning from Boston.”

“Then it’s right snug in this very bag I’m sittin’ on this minit, fur

there aint been no mail sense this time yistiddy.”

“Dear me! dear me! What am I to do? Is it far to Mrs. Parker’s?”

“Nigh ’bout a mile, I reckon.”

“Is there _anybody_ you can get to carry us over?”

“Don’t know nobody, less it’s Squire Davis, an’ his house is on a spell

beyond Mrs. Parker’s. Most of the men folks is out shuckin’ their corn,

like Pop Bates up yonder. He’s the station agent. See him?”

“Couldn’t he help us?”

The boy laughed: “Mebby he could if yer could make him understand what

yer wanted, but he’s as deef as that post yonder.” He pointed to the

post-rail fence across the road, and then, as though the action had

suggested something, he hopped up, saying: “Say, I’ll tell yer what yer

can do, if yer will. Like as not yer’ll be scared ter; but yer needn’t,

fer Lady’s as steady as a rock and wouldn’t harm nothin’. She often

pulls me all round the lot, but old Wheeler, the man what she belongs

to, don’t know it; he’d caterpillar, sure, if he did.”

The woman did not ask what physical or mental condition was implied as

a possibility for “old Wheeler” should he gain a knowledge of Lady’s

performance, but she hastened to say: “If you know of some way of

getting us there pray tell it quickly, for Lucy is nearly ready to

drop.”

“Will you let her ride on my wagon if I fix it up for her?”

“Certainly; but you will never be able to draw her and this great

satchel all that distance.”

“I aint a-gonter; Lady yonder will,” and he gave a funny laugh as he

scampered across the sandy road.

Placing around the mare’s neck a piece of rope which he had picked up

from the station platform, he then let down the bars and led her out.

“Now, look a-here, old Lady, you’ve got ter be on yer very primest

behavior, ’cause I’ve give my word fer yer. Do yer hear? So mind what

I’m a-sayin’,” and he led her in front of his wagon. Picking up the

rope with which he had drawn it, he tied it firmly to Lady’s long tail.

“There, ma’am! How’s that fer a swell Boston Common broosh?”

“Why, she will never in this world draw it that way; your wagon will be

kicked to atoms.”

“Will it? Just see now,” and, stretching himself full length upon it

and crossing his arms beneath his head, he called out, “Git along,

Lady.” Lady gave one inquiring look behind to see that all was right;

whisked her tail about to be sure that all was fairly hitched, and,

calling her son to her side, marched off down the road as sedately as

though she were harnessed to a farm wagon. Sonny capered along beside

her or stopped to poke his nose into the boy’s face. They certainly

presented a comical spectacle, for the boy had crossed his legs and one

bare foot stuck straight up in the air.

After they had journeyed about twenty rods he called out: “Halt!” and

Lady stopped. “Right about face, forward march!” cried the boy, and

Lady calmly turned herself about and marched back to the station.

“Well, I never! If that don’t beat all I ever heard tell of,” exclaimed

the woman. “Well, come along; we’ve got to get there somehow, and this

seems the only way.”

“Wait a minit and I’ll fix it all hunky,” cried the boy, and, running

down to the end of the platform, he picked up a lot of potato sacks

which were lying there. These he piled on the wagon, then, wadding some

of them up for a pillow, he said: “There you are, ma’am, fine as a

fiddle.”

Together they placed the little invalid upon the queer vehicle, and

after settling the big valise at her feet, as a sort of bunker in case

Lady should prove resentful, the boy took the leader and off they

started. It was a funny enough procession and would have drawn a smile

from the dullest.

As they trudged along through the sand the woman asked: “How did you

come to try such a prank as this, I’d like to know? What is your name?”

“Bob Slocum,” he replied, answering the second question first: “Oh, I

don’t know,” he continued, “yer see old Pop Bates is so deef that he

can’t half hear what folks says to him, and so I kinder got into the

way of comin’ along ’bout train time when the mail was due, and then I

could help him out. Sometimes there is a letter or something for some

of the folks ’round here and I take it to ’em. That saves ’em comin’ to

the post office, and they near ’bout always give me a hunk of cake or

a piece of pie, er suthin’, an’ say: ‘Thanky, Bob.’ That’s about the

only time I ever get anything _sweet_ for my heart er my gizzard; fer

old Wheeler--he’s the man I live with--aint got nothin’ fer a feller

but thumps and leavin’s.”

“Haven’t you any parents?”

“Nope; don’t even remember them. Ma, she died when I was born, and dad

didn’t live long after her. Folks ’round here says he died ’cause ma

did. He worked for old Wheeler, and I reckon most likely he starved

ter death. He’d like to starve me if he could. But I guess I aint the

starvin’ kind. I can git along somehow, and folks ’round here is pretty

good to me.”

“What do you do for Mr. Wheeler? You can’t be more than twelve years

old.”

“I’ll be twelve next November. What _don’t_ I do, you’d better ask.

’Most anything a boy twelve years can do an’ a lot some fifteen can’t.

I milk seven cows twice a day; cut all the wood; tote water; take care

of the stock; run errants; hoe corn, an’ do about a hundred things

beside; an’ all fer my board an’ keep--mostly _keep_.”

“Do you go to school?”

“Aint none to go ter. Nearest one’s five mile away, an’ old Wheeler

don’t keep no trotters fer my use.”

“Can you read?”

“Yes’m, some. There was a lady stoppin’ up to Squire Davis’s one summer

and she learnt me; an’ ever sence I’ve been a-pickin’ up some from the

newspapers. Squire Davis takes a lot of ’em, an’ when he’s done with

’em he lets me have ’em.”

By this time they had reached their destination and the boy, pointing

to a low white house which nestled in a garden filled with hollyhocks,

dahlias, and brilliant asters, said: “There’s Mis’ Parker’s. You go on

in an’ tell Si, her hired man, ter come out an’ get yer bag whilst I

stay here along with my friends.”

Without a thought of questioning him the woman started for the house,

and, turning to the child upon the wagon, who thus far had scarcely

spoken a word, he said: “You’ll soon be all right now. Are yer tired?”

“Not very. The ride on the train from Boston was awful hot, but this

part has been splendid. How did you ever get Lady to let you hitch her

up this way? She loves you, doesn’t she, and Sonny does, too; how did

you make them?”

“Guess ’cause we didn’t have nobody else to love. Old Wheeler don’t

care nothin’ for her now she is gettin’ old. He hardly ever takes any

notice of her. She used to be the fastest horse on the Cape, and there

aint one that’s got better blood in her veins. I bring her apples or

somethin’ every day, and I was the first one Sonny, here, saw after he

come into the world. Sonny an’ I are great cronies. I’m only waitin’

fer him to grow up, an’ then we’re goin’ to run away, aren’t we, old

feller?” and he laid his arm over the colt’s neck.

Sonny nestled close up to him, and Lady looked benignly upon them both.

“Will you come to see me while I am here?” asked the child.

“I’ll come when I can get off. Bet I’d ketch it now if they knew I was

gallavintin’ like this. I’ll sneak over when I can. Here comes Si.”

Out bustled Mrs. Parker, followed by her sister; both talking at once.

Close behind them came “Si.”

“My land er Goshen!” exclaimed Mrs. Parker, “did anyone ever hear tell

of such doin’s? And that blessed lamb dragged up to my front door just

as if she was a sack er flour. How do, Bob; seems as if this part of

the world couldn’t get along without you, nohow; don’t it? Run ’long

’round to the back of the house to the buttry and eat your fill; you

certain sure deserve it this time.”

“Can’t now; got to get back with Lady or I’ll have Mr. Wheeler after

me. Will the stuff keep? I’ll come along ’round to-morrow if it will.”

“Yes, indeed, and if it don’t there’s plenty more that will,” and she

nodded her head at him reassuringly.

“All right, I’ll be on hand. Good-by, folks,” and, flopping down on his

wagon, he called out, “Right about, Lady,” and the wise creature turned

around and started back toward the station.

They returned more quickly than they had come, for Lady jogged along,

with the cart jerking and rattling behind her. They soon reached the

pasture, and, after placing his charges safely within it, he put up the

bars once more, and then clambered upon the topmost one.

“Now come along and say ‘good-by,’ ’cause I’ve got ter git ’long back.”

Lady came up to him and laid her big head across his shoulder, and

the boy reached up and circled her soft, warm neck with his arm as he

rested his face against her mane.

Little Sonny looked at him a moment as though to say, “Do you want me,

too?”

“Yes, come along and say good-by, too,” said Bob. Sonny laid his head

across Bob’s knee and looked up at him with his brown eyes full of love

for the friend who never forgot him, but came to him day after day,

in sunshine or shower, to bring the dainty of which he often deprived

himself that his four-footed friends might not be disappointed.

And as he sits there stroking the colt’s silky ears and nestling close

to the mother’s neck, we must bid him “good-by,” too, and skim forward

on the wings of time to a period eight years later, when both he and

Sonny have grown up and Sonny found an opportunity to repay him for his

years of devotion to himself and his mother, Gray Lady.

PART II

SONNY’S GRATITUDE

The sun beat fiercely down upon the Cuban shore, and waves of hot

air quivered above the sand. A short distance off shore the great

transports swung quietly to their anchors in the sheltered bay, as

boatload after boatload of troops disembarked and were rowed to the

white beach, where their comrades were already busy getting their arms

and the camp paraphernalia up to the camping-ground.

A cavalry regiment with its horses was being sent ashore; and a

wretched enough time they were having, too; for the transportation

facilities were extremely limited. One after another the poor beasts

were forced upon the gangplank, which was so arranged that it slid

them off into the water to swim for the beach, probably five hundred

yards distant.

They were nearly all stout, brave animals, and had seen hard service

upon the Western frontier, but this was an entirely new experience, and

many were nearly wild with terror. As they were forced into the water

a man in the stern of one of the boats would take the halter-strap and

guide one swimming animal to the shore, and the others followed as fast

as the waves and their own strength permitted.

Our deepest interest is centered on one splendid, big, dappled gray

which stands at the end of the gangplank about to take his turn. His

beautiful eyes show that he is keenly observing all that is happening

about him. His delicate ears are pricked forward, or laid back as

though to catch the faintest sound, and the wide nostrils quiver with

excitement as he draws in long breaths of the briny air, or gives a

snort of protest. Beside him, with his arm thrown caressingly over the

beautifully arched neck, stands a young soldier, evidently a sergeant.

He is a handsome fellow, whose bronzed skin and muscular form show that

he has seen service. Unquestionably he and his horse understand each

other thoroughly, for he is talking to the intelligent creature, who

seems to comprehend him perfectly.

“Now, old fellow, don’t you get panicky when you’re dipped. Just put

your best leg forward and pungle straight for that shore yonder. Do you

hear what I’m saying?” and he looked into the horse’s eyes as one might

look into the eyes of a human being.

The horse gave his head a toss up and down, as though he were answering

“yes,” and then turned to rub it against the man’s shoulder. “Come

along, gray jacket,” called the man who stood at the end of the plank,

“it’s your turn now,” and he reached for the halter-strap. The horse

walked to the end of the plank, planted his dainty feet upon it, and

would not budge another inch. The man coaxed and tugged, but all to no

purpose. At last, losing patience, he cried: “Well, you’re a dandy,

aint you, now? I’ll get something that’ll give you your marchin’

orders.” He reached for a heavy balestick which was lying on the deck,

but before he could administer the blow the stick was wrenched from his

hand and flung far out into the blue water.

The man looked in utter amazement to encounter a pair of gray eyes that

fairly snapped fire at him: “Did you think I was going to let you knock

him with that stick? Not much. Come on, old man, you’ll follow _me_, I

know,” said the sergeant, and, going to the side of the ship, he caught

hold of a rope which dangled from above and swung himself over the

side, to drop into one of the boats below.

As he disappeared the horse gave a loud neigh, as though to call him

back. “Come, Sonny, come on, old fellow,” called his master; and as

though the ship no longer held anything worth remaining on board for,

the beautiful creature gave another loud whinny and plunged into the

water.

With powerful strokes he swam straight for the beloved object in the

boat, which was being pulled slowly toward the shore. The sergeant, who

was now seated in the stern of the boat, reached out, and, taking hold

of the leader which had been loosely knotted about the horse’s neck,

gently towed the swimming animal, while talking to him encouragingly.

And, as though he gained strength and courage from the beloved voice,

the horse grew less and less nervous and settled down to the long,

steady strokes which carried him swiftly toward the shore. They were

within a hundred yards of it when he began to plunge and hold back.

“Come on, Sonny; come on; what’s up?” asked his master.

But the horse was unable to respond.

“By Jove! he’s stuck in the seaweed; he’ll be a goner, sure as guns;

that stuff has done up more ’n one of ’em already,” cried one of the

men.

“He won’t be a ‘goner’ if I can help it!” exclaimed the sergeant, and

in another instant he had cast hat, coat, and arms into the boat and

plunged into the water.

“Steady, Sonny; steady, old boy. I’ll have you free in a minute,” he

called to the struggling horse. At the sound of his voice the wild

plunges ceased and he looked pathetically at his master with his great,

eloquent eyes.

Swimming to the horse’s side, the man rested one hand upon the broad

back, and reached down into the water; but he could not reach low

enough to disentangle the seaweed from the hind feet. “Hold on a

minute, boys,” he called to the men in the boat. “Steady now,” and with

a mighty dive he disappeared beneath the waves. “He’ll be kicked to

flinders,” shouted one of the soldiers. “Well, let him, if he’s fool

enough to make such a fuss over a horse. I’d see every one of them

soaking on the coral reef before I’d risk my neck for ’em.” “Reckon

you would, Bill; and the whole boatload of us into the bargain,” was

the scornful reply of one of his comrades; “but that younker’s made of

different stuff.”

By this time the sergeant had come sputtering to the surface, and

calling out: “All right; pull ahead,” he rested one dripping arm across

the horse’s withers, and began to swim beside him.

“Come on into the boat,” called one of the men.

“Go ahead; I’m all right,” was the reply, and a moment later they had

reached the shore and were scrambling up the beach.

“You are a durned fool to get a ducking for that brute,” exclaimed the

man who had before spoken disparagingly of the sergeant’s devotion to

his horse.

“Think so?” was the cool reply. “Well, when you’ve had a friend as long

as I’ve had him for one, whether that friend travels on four feet or

two, you’d better stick to him, if he proves as true to you as this one

has to me. We’ve traveled together nine years now, and in all that time

we’ve never been apart a day, and he’s helped me out of many a bad fix,

I can tell you.”

“He must be nigh about twenty year old, aint he?” asked the man with a

laugh.

“He is old enough to know a _chump_ when he sees one, and to stick to a

friend when he’s got one; and that’s more than some other live critters

can do”; and the sergeant walked off up the beach to join his troop.

As they walked along, the man who had taken his part in the boat

overtook him, and asked: “How long have you had that horse, anyhow,

sergeant?”

“Well,” he replied, with a queer sort of smile, “I’ve sort of looked

upon him as mine ever since he drew his first breath, for his mother

was the only friend I ever had. But I can’t say as he’s been my legal

property more than three years.”

“I thought you said you’d had him nine years? He doesn’t look more than

nine now.”

“He was nine years old the sixth of last April, and, as I said before,

we haven’t been apart a day. I looked after him till he was four years

old, and after that he took care of me. Our part of the world got too

hot for us about that time, and one dark night we put out; didn’t we,

Sonny?” turning to stroke the great neck which was rapidly drying in

the tropical sun. Sonny answered with a soft whinny and poked his nose

against the man’s face.

His interrogator looked at him questioningly, and the sergeant, in whom

we can no longer fail to recognize our friend, Bob Slocum, said: “I was

raised down on Cape Cod, and by the meanest old duck that ever gave

a boy cuffs for his breakfast, knocks for dinner, and a kick for his

supper. Don’t remember my parents. Sonny here was the colt of one of

his mares; and a beauty she was, too. But when she got too old to work

he would have let her starve if Squire Davis hadn’t bought her. The

squire took pity on her and let her stay in his barn and took care of

her till she died.

“When Sonny was two years old Wheeler undertook to break him; but

he came nearer killing him instead, for Sonny was nervous and

high-spirited, and old Wheeler had a temper like a very devil. It

makes my blood boil to think of the way he handled that colt; I wonder

he didn’t ruin him, and I believe he would have, if it hadn’t been

for me. But after they’d had one of their shindies and Sonny was all

done up, and old Wheeler was madder than a hornet and had gone up

to the house to take out his spunk on his wife, I’d sneak into the

pasture, and Sonny would just put for me. He seemed to try to tell me

his troubles, and I’d comfort and pet him till he’d get quieted down a

bit. I was only fourteen years old then, and he and I stood it a year

longer, and then one dark night we took French leave and lit out. I

don’t know how we ever escaped being caught, or kept from starving, but

we did both.

“Sonny lived on grass and I on what I could beg. I knew the country for

miles around, and I managed to keep well hidden during the daytime. We

came mighty near being caught lots of times, and had no end of close

shaves, I can tell you. But in time I managed to get into New York

State, and then we got on pretty well. I could do anything with Sonny,

and at last we struck the towpaths. I gave the towmen lifts for my

board and a feed for Sonny, and they didn’t bother to ask where we had

come from or where we were going, so long as we could make ourselves

useful.

“By-and-by we found ourselves out in western New York, and it wasn’t

much further to Ohio; so on we went till the next thing we knew we were

clear out in Colorado. Then I got a notion I’d like to go soldiering,

and Sonny and I enlisted with the regulars. We’ve been with them ever

since. I was only fifteen, but everyone thought I was seventeen, for

I was nearly as tall as I am now, and had been obliged to shift for

myself so long that there wasn’t much of the boy left in me, I can tell

you. Sonny had got to be a beauty, and I could have sold him a dozen

times over, but, you see, he wasn’t mine to sell, even if I’d wanted

to, which I didn’t.

“In two years more I’d managed to scratch together a couple of hundred

dollars somehow, and then I went to the colonel and up and told him

the whole story, and asked him to send the money to old Wheeler for

me. I’d heard the old man say a dozen times that he would sell Sonny

for that sum rather than take the risk of being killed while breaking

him. And he hadn’t broken him, either; I’d done it. That was three

years ago. The money went all right and I’ve got the receipt all safe.

Old Wheeler’s satisfied, and so am I. I’ve been with the regiment ever

since. We’ve had some pretty hot times with the Ingins out there; you

know that as well as I do, but I’ve a notion we’re in for a hotter

one right here than we’ve seen yet. Sonny has helped me out of many

a tight place, and we’ve seen some mighty tough times together, but I

could count on him every time, and I believe he’d lay down his life for

me in a minute. I expect he will save it for me yet. I’d have been a

fine one to sit in that boat and watch him go to the bottom, wouldn’t

I?”

Bob little dreamed how soon Sonny would repay his devotion.

Who would wish to picture the horrors of a battlefield, with its scream

of shot, its burst of shell, and the cries of the wounded? Certainly

not I, but I cannot complete my story of Sonny without touching the

horrible scene.

A charge had been made and many a riderless horse was rushing aimlessly

about; for when the trusting creatures no longer felt the guiding hand

nor heard the encouraging voice of their masters, chaos seemed indeed

to have come again. No one would have recognized in the terrified

animals the well-trained creatures which had gathered for the charge.

Among them was Sonny, rushing he knew not whither. Poor Sonny! No

longer clean and shining, but splashed with mud, blackened with powder,

and bleeding from a ghastly wound in his shoulder. From some instinct

of self-preservation the horses ran to the rear, and he ran with them.

But he had not gone far when he was captured by a trooper whose horse

had been shot under him, and a moment later he was dashing up the hill

and into the thickest of the fight.

Wounds were unnoticed and terror disregarded; no one had time to think

of a horse when human beings were struggling to destroy each other in

order to settle a disputed question and free a down-trodden race.

Poor Sonny! No one could look into the horse’s mind and there see the

anguish he was suffering for the loss of the master whom he had loved

and served so faithfully for nine years, and whom he would willingly

have followed to his death, if necessary. Whatever trials he had before

encountered; whatever suffering he had been compelled to endure, his

trusted master had been there to help him bear them. Now in the midst

of battle he was as much alone as though he had been abandoned in a

wilderness.

Night fell and the carnage ended. Long trains of ambulances were being

driven to the rear; wounded men were dragging themselves along the

tracks; others were being helped over the rough road by comrades, or

were borne on rudely constructed stretchers to the field hospital,

where Red Cross nurses and surgeons were doing their utmost to relieve

the suffering.

In the field behind them lay those who needed neither the surgeon’s

skill nor the nurse’s care.

“Here, Jim, give me a lift, will you?” said a soldier at the edge of

the field, as he was striving to carry a badly wounded comrade to the

rear.

The man addressed was limping along and leading a horse which limped

even worse than he himself did.

The first speaker added quickly: “Where did you get that horse? If he

aint Slocum’s ‘Sonny’ I’ll miss my guess.”

“Who’s Slocum? I caught the horse running wild on the field. He was

wounded then, but I had to get to the front. Here, let’s get him up on

the horse,” he said, speaking of the wounded man.

Together they managed to place him upon the horse’s back and started

on. They had not gone five hundred yards when Sonny stopped short, and,

throwing up his head, gave a loud neigh.

“What’s up, old man?” asked the man who was leading him.

“He acts as though he smelt something,” said the other.

“Here, come on; we haven’t got time for you to smell out your fodder

to-night,” and he started on.

Sonny went a few steps, stopped again, and tried to turn back; but the

man now grew impatient, and, giving him a sounding thwack upon his

flank, went on down the hill.

Again and again he held back and strove to get away from them.

Reaching camp they lifted the unconscious burden from Sonny’s back and

together bore it into one of the tents.

This was Sonny’s chance, and he darted away as he used to do when he

heard Bob’s whistle.

It was a rough road, little better than a trail. But Sonny heeded

naught. One thought filled his mind; one desire dwelt in his heart.

He soon reached the spot where he had first halted, and, plunging into

the dense jungle growth, forced his way through the tangle of grass and

vines. On and on he went till he came to a spot far remote from the

line of battle and the path taken by those returning with the wounded.

A moment later he was whinnying over a figure which lay stretched upon

the ground. Nothing could have been more pronounced than his delight

at finding the object of his search. But his delight was short-lived,

for there was no reply to his repeated neighs and soft whinnies. He put

his muzzle down to the beloved face and pushed it against the quiet

hands, but won no response. Again and again he tried to rouse the quiet

figure. Again and again did he strive to win some recognition. It was

all in vain, and at last, when all else failed, he tried to pick up

his precious charge with his teeth. But he could find no place where

he dared lay hold, for he was far too wise to grasp anything but the

clothing. And now Sonny was in dire straits, indeed, for he was unable

to move his master and would not leave him.

Night fell, and the dense darkness of the tropics enveloped them. Ere

long rain began to fall in torrents, but Sonny did not quit his post.

It may have been the rain, or it may have been dear Mother Nature’s

healing touch, but whatever the cause was, at about midnight the quiet

figure moaned slightly and stirred.

Sonny instantly began to lick the white face; the eyes opened, and Bob

looked wildly around. “Sonny,” he murmured. And Sonny neighed loudly.

That was all, but the horse was satisfied. All the rest of the night he

stood guard; sometimes licking the hands; sometimes whinnying softly.

Morning came with the suddenness of the tropical daybreak, the sun

seeming to spring straight up out of the sea, and with the morning poor

Bob’s senses returned. He looked at Sonny and said: “Dear old fellow,”

and tried to rise. But Bob was not likely to rise for some time. “How

did you find me?” he asked, as though the horse could answer him. “I

wonder how I came here, anyway? The last thing I remember was trying to

crawl out of the reek and roar up yonder.” Once more he tried to raise

himself up, but the exertion was too much for him, and with a pitiful

moan he fell back unconscious.

Now was Sonny indeed wretched! He stood the very picture of misery. But

finally he seemed to decide upon a line of action, and with a parting

caress, he started out of the steaming jungle. Once free of it, he

encountered human beings; some wounded, some searching for the wounded;

and to these last he seemed to turn instinctively. He whinnied, and

they turned in surprise to see a horse emerging from a spot where no

horse was supposed to be.

“Look at that horse!” exclaimed one of them. “Go catch him, Sam.”

Sam started forward, but Sonny had no notion of being caught again, and

with a wild plunge he dashed back into the jungle.

“What in thunder is taking you in there, you fool beast?” the man

called after him. “I wonder if there can be anybody in that stifle,” he

added. “Hi, Jo, come on; there’s something up; I believe that horse’s

rider is in there.”

“Nonsense! How could he get into such a place? I’m not going in.”

“Well, there’s _something_ there, and I’m going to find out what it is,

whether you come in or not!” and he started to follow Sonny.

“Then I’ll come, too;” and both men started.

Sonny kept well ahead of them, but they followed, and in a moment later

they came upon Bob.

“Well, I’ll be shot!” exclaimed the second man. “If that don’t go clear

ahead of anything; that beast has been doing guard duty all night, as

sure as guns.”

“I knew there was something here,” said the first speaker. “I’ve seen

too much of horses out on the plains not to understand some of their

ways.”

Tenderly they lifted the unconscious figure and bore it back to the

camp. No need to lead Sonny now; he would not let the dear master out

of his sight, and every few steps he reached out his head to sniff at

him. Bob was carried into a tent, and all that was possible to be done

for him was done; but it was a long time before he could get about

again, and meantime the story of Sonny’s devotion spread throughout

the camp, and there was not a man in the regiment who was not willing

to give a helping hand when the wounded shoulder needed dressing.

As soon as he was able, Bob’s pet was brought to him, and Sonny’s joy

was pathetic. No words were needed to show it more plainly. As soon as

he could be moved Bob was taken to Montauk, and Sonny went with him.

There we must leave them, only adding that Bob recovered completely,

and when he was able once more to sit upon Sonny’s back and join his

comrades in their drill, his regiment held no more popular man or horse.

Bob was promoted for bravery; and when the men--not content that he

alone should have the honors--presented a medal to Sonny, upon which

was engraved the figure of a horse standing beside his wounded master,

Bob thought more of Sonny’s glory than of his own.

But Bob had served his time at soldiering, and not long after received

his honorable discharge. He returned to the West, for the free life out

there suited him, established himself upon a ranch, and has now settled

down to business pursuits with Sonny as first superintendent, chief

herder, and joint owner, for in Bob’s estimation nothing is too good

for Sonny.

HOW NED TOODLES WENT TO COOKING SCHOOL

HOW NED TOODLES WENT TO COOKING SCHOOL

“No, you must not touch that! No, nor that either. Now mind what I’m

saying, and oh, do keep away from that sugar-box! Ned Toodles, how

can you act so? I’ll never get this dinner ready if you don’t keep

out of my way, and stop trying to steal things. I’m ashamed of you!”

and Denise caught up her rolling-pin, which lay upon the small pastry

board, and drove off the little scamp who was causing all her troubles.

And I am sure you will never guess what that little scamp was, so I

will tell you that it was a small Welsh pony.

You will wonder what a pony was doing in a kitchen, so I will tell

you that this was a most unusual kitchen. It was a tiny one, in the

playhouse which this little girl’s father had had built for her in

the pretty grounds of her home, and was fitted up in the most perfect

manner with everything a real kitchen ever has. The house had a dining

room too, and upstairs a bedroom and sitting room for the dollies.

That was one half of it; the other was the dearest little stable in the

world, and in it lived Ned Toodles, her pony; Tan, her big goat, and

Sailor, her Newfoundland dog.

There, too, were kept Ned’s and Tan’s carriages, harness, etc.

A door led into it from the playhouse, and her pets could come visiting

whenever they wished, for they were never tied up, and were too wise to

run off.

Denise’s mamma had taught her how to cook many things and she spent

hours making all sorts of dainties, and when they were made she

would set her table and Ned, Tan, Sailor, and Beauty Buttons, the

black-and-tan, would all take their places, standing up, and have a

grand feast.

They dearly loved to come into the kitchen while she cooked, and she

had some lively times trying to keep them out of mischief.

The morning of which I am telling she was preparing a grand luncheon,

and the pets had all been invited, but were not to come till luncheon

was served. They kept sniffing at the closed door, however, and doing

all they could to push it open, for they smelt the apple pies which

were baking, and their mouths fairly watered.

Denise, enveloped in a gingham apron, with a cooking cap set rakishly

upon her curly pate, was flying around, trying to get all ready before

her guests arrived. She had just set her pies to cool, and was making

griddle cakes, of which one must have eaten about a hundred before

being satisfied, to judge by their size, when door leading out of the

kitchen was pushed open and in walked Ned. He had found a way.

“Oh, dear!” she cried, “now you will lead me a life of it till you get

your luncheon, won’t you?”

True enough. To steal an apple from the basket beside the table was

only a second’s work, and that gone he turned his attention to the

pies. Denise flew after him and rescued first the pies and then the

little plate of toast, and at last caught up her rolling-pin and drove

him off with that.

He gave a defiant bounce and ran into the dining room.

“Well, do go in there!” she cried; “there isn’t a single thing on the

table to eat yet, unless you eat the plates, and I don’t believe even

you will want those,” and she put the sugar-box and everything else out

of sight. Then, placing her viands upon her tiny tray, she carried

them into the dining room, meanwhile keeping one eye on Ned.

But more than one eye was required to watch that little black imp,

as Denise soon found, for he bobbed about like a monkey, and behaved

in altogether a disgraceful manner for an invited guest. At last she

became indignant and said:

“I should think you’d be ashamed of yourself to act so! You’ve just

_got_ to wait till it is served, and then you may all come, and----oh,

dear! here they all come this minute, and it’s all because you would

come before the time you were told to,” and the distracted little

hostess looked nearly desperate as three more of her four-footed guests

appeared before the hours named in their invitations.

“Sailor, charge!” “Beauty, lie down at once!” and “Tan, come here!”

were the orders quickly issued, “and you,” turning to Ned, with a look

calculated to strike terror to his heart, “go straight back to the

kitchen! You are not fit to come to the table, and there isn’t a single

thing left in there for you to eat.”

But alas! she had entirely forgotten the Saratoga potatoes, which were

still merrily sizzling in the tiny frying-pan.

With a final defiant jump Ned skipped through the door, and, literally

“following his nose,” made straight for the little stove.

To make a dive for the potatoes, whose tempting odor had proved too

much for him, was only a second’s work, and then came the climax.

A squeal, a wild leap, and the hot morsel was dropped as the scamp flew

across the kitchen and out of the door, upsetting the cooking-table and

everything else in his way, to rush across the lawn as though pursued

by a wild beast.

With Tan and the dogs close upon her heels, Denise rushed into the

kitchen and beheld the wreck.

One glance at the frying-pan, now calmly reposing in the middle of the

floor, explained all.

And I wish to add that ever after Ned stood in very wholesome awe of

that little stove, and would walk a long way around the kitchen in

order to avoid going near it.

OLD NICK’S CHRISTMAS

OLD NICK’S CHRISTMAS

CHAPTER I

“WHERE IS OLD NICK?”

“Good-by!” “Good-by!” “Hope you’ll have a good time!” “Merry Christmas

beforehand!” “Happy New Year, too!” “Hope you’ll get _loads_ of pretty

things, and no end of goodies which will bear transportation!” cried a

dozen or more girls as they bade good-by to one of their schoolmates

just leaving for her Christmas holidays.

Isabel Townsend was truly popular, not only with her schoolmates, but

with teachers also. A bright, happy girl who went through life with

a laugh and a song, and yet had a strong, noble character, quick

to detect sham of any sort, and cordially detest it. She had a long

journey before her, and was starting off earlier than the other girls;

hence her “send-off.”

Forty-eight hours later the train deposited her at a small station,

about fifteen miles from the city of New York, where her father awaited

her.

He was a tall, handsome man, who had once enjoyed an independent

income, but Wall Street had proved to him, as to many another, anything

but “a land of promise.” Still, enough had been saved from the wreck to

enable him to live upon the farm which had been his wife’s dower, and

even to enjoy some luxuries; but he was a disappointed man, and seemed

to have left his faith in his fellow-men behind him in the New York

Stock Exchange. He rarely left his farm, where he found occupation in

his books and in his live stock, in which he took just pride.

It was a pretty place, nestling among the Jersey hills, and as quiet

and secluded as though hundreds of miles from the great city pulsating

with life and daily drawing innumerable human beings into the maelstrom

where hopes and schemes were lost forever.

“Well, daughter, how are you? Glad to see you home again,” was Mr.

Townsend’s greeting, as he helped Isabel into the cutter and tucked the

robes carefully about her.

“It’s awfully nice to be home, too; and how is mamma?” she asked, as

she nestled close to his side when he had taken his seat beside her.

“Mamma is well and very anxious to have you home. I’m glad to see you

looking so well, and that you have decided, after all, to wear your

Christmas present beforehand,” he said, as a faint smile overspread

his fine face, and he picked up one of the tails of the handsome fur

collar Isabel wore.

“Yes, I just _couldn’t_ wait for the day to come. How good you were to

send me such a beauty, and to make it so easy for me to do exactly what

I was dying to do all the time, by telling me to wear the furs right

off and not to wait for Christmas Day.” While she spoke she stroked her

pretty collar and muff, and regarded them with very genuine pride.

“Why did you get such expensive ones, daddy?” she continued. “I should

have been just as pleased with a simpler style,” and she looked up with

her bonny face alive with happiness.

“I’ve only one daughter,” was the brief response.

“Which horse is this, papa? I think I’ve never seen him before; have I?”

“I think not. He is one of Nancy’s colts, and was broken only this

fall. He is none too reliable yet; but I use him a great deal and have

great expectations of him.”

As though to give Mr. Townsend a hint of what his expectations might

realize, the frisky beast at that moment elected to put the laws of

gravity to a crucial test. With one bound he leaped into the air,

struck out wildly, plunged forward, and took about three minutes to

recover his equilibrium, evidently convinced that, so far as history

has recorded, Pegasus was not the only horse capable of flying through

space.

“What a crazy thing he is!” exclaimed Isabel. “Why didn’t you bring Old

Nick? Dear old fellow! How I want to see him! Is he all right?”

“I think so, I think so,” said her father hurriedly. Then Mr. Townsend

became much occupied with the colt, and a few moments later home

was reached, where, amid warm greetings, Old Nick was, for a time,

forgotten.

A few hours later Isabel came in from the stables, where she had been

on a tour of inspection, with blank dismay pictured upon her face.

“Daddy,” she cried, bursting into the room, “where is Old Nick? The men

say that he is sold, but I won’t believe them. He isn’t, is he?” and

her voice was half-choked in sobs.

Mr. Townsend looked up from his desk, and a peculiar expression

crept into his face--an expression partly of defiance, partly of

self-assertion, partly of shame--but he made no answer. Isabel came

toward him as one who doubted her senses, and laying a hand on each of

his shoulders peered into his face, with doubt and astonishment on her

own.

“Papa, of course you wouldn’t sell Old Nick! Why, he has been mine as

long as I can remember, and next to you and mamma, I love him better

than anything in the world. Where _is_ he? Please tell me.”

“Isabel, listen to me. You are no longer a child. You are nearly

seventeen years old, and you ought to be capable of looking upon things

from a practical standpoint. Yes, Nick is sold. I had an excellent

offer from a man who was going through the country about six weeks ago,

buying up horses. Nick is seventeen years old if he is a day, and such

a chance could never be expected again. Mamma wanted to send you a set

of furs for Christmas, and the means to purchase them had literally

walked to our door. The seventy-five dollars paid for Nick bought them,

and you, certainly, should be the last to complain.”

Mr. Townsend picked up his pen as though the matter were dismissed

forever. But he little knows his daughter. Her hands fell from his

shoulders and she slowly backed away from him, while into her big gray

eyes came a look which told of a resolve born of an outraged spirit.