Mine is not a common donkey at all, living upon thistles and weeds, or
any rubbish he can pick up on the roadside; he is an aristocratic
donkey, and eats, and sleeps, too, sometimes, in a lordly dining-hall,
where kings and princes have dined. And where does he live? you will
ask. In a beautiful old ruined castle in the Isle of Wight--Carisbrook
Castle, the place of imprisonment of poor King Charles I., and the scene
of his gentle daughter Elizabeth's early death. Within the ruined walls
of that grand old castle does my friend, the donkey, live.
Many must have heard of the wonderful well at Carisbrook, which is so
deep no one can draw the water up, so that they are obliged to have a
donkey to do it. And it is done in this way: there is an enormous wheel,
with steps inside, and the donkey goes in, and by walking continually up
the steps turns the wheel, and so draws up the water. And this was the
work Jacob, for that is the donkey's name, had to do for many years. But
he has long since retired from public life, being very old, and his
place has been supplied by a younger donkey; Jacob having nothing to do
now but eat, sleep, and amuse himself.
We were having a little picnic at Carisbrook, the children and I, not
long ago, and Jacob took an immense interest in all our proceedings. The
children were greatly delighted with his friendly way of receiving us,
and fed him with biscuits and buns, which he seemed to enjoy very much.
He even drank some tea out of a saucer, and ate up all the pieces of
bread we left. In fact, Jacob's and our own appetites were so good that
there was nothing left of our feast, excepting half of a large pat of
butter, which we never supposed Jacob would touch, and were much amused
on looking round to see him quietly eating up that, too, and licking the
plate well afterwards so as not to lose a bit.
He is a very fat little creature, and his hair has grown quite long and
soft, like a young donkey's. Evidently his lazy life agrees with him,
though, I have no doubt, he has done his fair share of work, and quite
deserves to pass a peaceful, happy old age.
As I am on the subject of donkeys, I must tell about a very clever one I
heard of a few days ago. She lives somewhere in Ireland, and she and her
little foal were turned into a field where a very deep ditch had been
dug. And one day some men who were at work in the next field saw Viva,
the mother donkey, come toward them in a great hurry. She came close up
to the hedge, braying loudly, and seeming much distressed. At first they
took no notice of her, but she would not go away, and continued to bray
until one of the men went to her, and then she started off in the
direction of the ditch, and there he found the poor little foal, which
had tumbled in. Fortunately it was not hurt; but if the mother had not
been so sensible, it must have died, for it could not possibly have got
out.
It is the fashion to consider donkeys stupid, ill-tempered, and
obstinate, which I do not think quite just. They are often obstinate,
certainly, but they are generally made so by constant ill-treatment.
How often one sees a poor little donkey staggering along with a load a
great deal too heavy for him, and being beaten and abused the whole time
because he can scarcely draw it! Donkeys after a time get so accustomed
to being incessantly beaten that it has no effect, excepting to make
them turn obstinate and sulky. And I do not believe they are either by
nature; for a donkey that is really well brought up, and has always been
kindly treated, is not at all obstinate. He will trot or canter when he
is required to do so, just like a pony, is good-tempered and gentle, and
altogether a different animal from his unfortunate poor relation, who
has been kicked and beaten and dragged at from his babyhood upwards.
And to say that donkeys are _stupid_ is quite a mistake, for many are
extremely clever. I knew an old one--I think he must have been thirty at
least--that could never by any means be kept _in_ any field or _out_ of
any garden that he chose to enter. And as he much preferred nice green
vegetables to his legitimate food, he was constantly trespassing, and
his owners were continually in trouble about him. He would always find
some means of either opening a gate or getting over the hedge. The only
place he could be kept in was the village pound, to which he often paid
a visit. He was, as may be fancied, quite a nuisance in the village, and
every one was truly thankful when he was found dead one morning. It was
said he died of old age; but as he had made many enemies by his numerous
depredations, I should not wonder if some of them had to do with his
sudden end.