OUR JOURNEY TO RIVERDALE
Every other summer, the Morris children were sent to some place in the
country, so that they could have a change of air, and see what country
life was like. As there were so many of them they usually went different
ways.
The summer after I came to them, Jack and Carl went to an uncle in
Vermont, Miss Laura went to another in New Hampshire, and Ned and Willie
went to visit a maiden aunt who lived in the White Mountains.
Mr. and Mrs. Morris stayed at home. Fairport was a lovely place in
summer, and many people came there to visit.
The children took some of their pets with them, and the others they left
at home for their mother to take care of. She never allowed them to take
a pet animal anywhere, unless she knew it would be perfectly welcome.
"Don't let your pets be a worry to other people," she often said to
them, "or they will dislike them and you too."
Miss Laura went away earlier than the others, for she had run down
through the spring, and was pale and thin. One day, early in June, we
set out. I say "we," for after my adventure with Jenkins, Miss Laura
said that I should never be parted from her. If any one invited her to
come and see them and didn't want me, she would stay at home.
The whole family went to the station to see us off. They put a chain on
my collar and took me to the baggage office and got two tickets for me.
One was tied to my collar and the other Miss Laura put in her purse.
Then I was put in a baggage car and chained in a corner. I heard Mr.
Morris say that as we were only going a short distance, it was not worth
while to get an express ticket for me.
There was a dreadful noise and bustle at the station. Whistles were
blowing and people were rushing up and down the platform. Some men were
tumbling baggage so fast into the car where I was, that I was afraid
some of it would fall on me.
For a few minutes Miss Laura stood by the door and looked in, but soon
the men had piled up so many boxes and trunks that she could not see me.
Then she went away. Mr. Morris asked one of the men to see that I did
not get hurt, and I heard some money rattle. Then he went away too.
It was the beginning of June and the weather had suddenly become very
hot. We had a long, cold spring, and not being used to the heat, it
seemed very hard to bear.
Before the train started, the doors of the baggage car were closed, and
it became quite dark inside. The darkness, and the heat, and the close
smell, and the noise, as we went rushing along, made me feel sick and
frightened.
I did not dare to lie down, but sat up trembling and wishing that we
might soon come to Riverdale Station. But we did not get there for some
time, and I was to have a great fright.
I was thinking of all the stories that I knew of animals traveling. In
February, the Drurys' Newfoundland watch-dog, Pluto, had arrived from
New York, and he told Jim and me that he had a miserable journey.
A gentleman friend of Mr. Drury's had brought him from New York. He saw
him chained up in his car, and he went into his Pullman, first tipping
the baggage-master handsomely to look after him. Pluto said that the
baggage-master had a very red nose, and he was always getting drinks for
himself when they stopped at a station, but he never once gave him a
drink or anything to eat, from the time they left New York till they got
to Fairport. When the train stopped there, and Pluto's chain was
unfastened, he sprang out on the platform and nearly knocked Mr. Drury
down. He saw some snow that had sifted through the station roof and he
was so thirsty that he began to lick it up. When the snow was all gone,
he jumped up and licked the frost on the windows.
Mr. Drury's friend was so angry. He found the baggage-master, and said
to him: "What did you mean, by coming into my car every few hours, to
tell me that the dog was fed, and watered, and comfortable? I shall
report you."
He went into the office at the station, and complained of the man, and
was told that he was a drinking man, and was going to be dismissed.
I was not afraid of suffering like Pluto, because it was only going to
take us a few hours to get to Riverdale. I found that we always went
slowly before we came in to a station, and one time when we began to
slacken speed I thought that surely we must be at our journey's end.
However, it was not Riverdale. The car gave a kind of jump, then there
was a crashing sound ahead, and we stopped.
I heard men shouting and running up and down, and I wondered what had
happened. It was all dark and still in the car, and nobody came in, but
the noise kept up outside, and I knew something had gone wrong with the
train. Perhaps Miss Laura had got hurt. Something must have happened to
her or she would come to me.
I barked and pulled at my chain till my neck was sore, but for a long,
long time I was there alone. The men running about outside must have
heard me. If ever I hear a man in trouble and crying for help I go to
him and see what he wants.
After such a long time that it seemed to me it must be the middle of the
night, the door at the end of the car opened, and a man looked in. "This
is all through baggage for New York, miss," I heard him say; "they
wouldn't put your dog in here."
"Yes, they did--I am sure this is the car," I heard in the voice I knew
so well; "and won't you get him out, please? He must be terribly
frightened."
The man stooped down and unfastened my chain, grumbling to himself
because I had not been put in another car. "Some folks tumble a dog
round as if he was a junk of coal," he said, patting me kindly.
I was nearly wild with delight to get with Miss Laura again, but I had
barked so much, and pressed my neck so hard with my collar that my voice
was all gone. I fawned on her, and wagged myself about, and opened and
shut my mouth, but no sound came out of it.
It made Miss Laura nervous. She tried to laugh and cry at the same time,
and then bit her lip hard, and said: "Oh, Joe, don't."
"He's lost his bark, hasn't he?" said the man, looking at me curiously.
"It is a wicked thing to confine an animal in a dark and closed car,"
said Miss Laura, trying to see her way down the steps through her tears.
The man put out his hand and helped her. "He's not suffered much, miss,"
he said; "don't you distress yourself. Now if you'd been a brakeman on a
Chicago train, as I was a few years ago, and seen the animals run in for
the stock yards, you might talk about cruelty. Cars that ought to hold a
certain number of pigs, or sheep, or cattle, jammed full with twice as
many, and half of 'em thrown out choked and smothered to death. I've
seen a man running up and down, raging and swearing because the railway
people hadn't let him get in to tend to his pigs on the road."
Miss Laura turned and looked at the man with a very white face. "Is it
like that now?" she asked.
"No, no," he said, hastily. "It's better now. They've got new
regulations about taking care of the stock; but mind you, miss, the
cruelty to animals isn't all done on the railways. There's a great lot
of dumb creatures suffering all round everywhere, and if they could
speak, 'twould be a hard showing for some other people besides the
railway men."
He lifted his cap and hurried down the platform, and Miss Laura, her
face very much troubled, picked her way among the bits of coal and wood
scattered about the platform, and went into the waiting room of the
little station.
She took me up to the filter and let some water run in her hand, and
gave it to me to lap. Then she sat down and I leaned my head against her
knees, and she stroked my throat gently.
There were some people sitting about the room, and, from their talk, I
found out what had taken place. There had been a freight train on a side
track at this station, waiting for us to get by. The switchman had
carelessly left the switch open after this train went by, and when we
came along afterward, our train, instead of running in by the platform,
went crashing into the freight train. If we had been going fast, great
damage might have been done. As it was, our engine was smashed so badly
that it could not take us on; the passengers were frightened; and we
were having a tedious time waiting for another engine to come and take
us to Riverdale.
After the accident, the trainmen were so busy that Miss Laura could get
no one to release me.
While I sat by her, I noticed an old gentleman staring at us. He was
such a queer-looking old gentleman. He looked like a poodle. He had
bright brown eyes, and a pointed face, and a shock of white hair that he
shook every few minutes. He sat with his hands clasped on the top of his
cane, and he scarcely took his eyes from Miss Laura's face. Suddenly he
jumped up and came and sat down beside her.
"An ugly dog, that," he said, pointing to me.
Most young ladies would have resented this, but Miss Laura only looked
amused. "He seems beautiful to me," she said, gently.
"H'm, because he's your dog," said the old man, darting a sharp look at
me. "What's the matter with him?"
"This is his first journey by rail, and he's a little frightened."
"No wonder. The Lord only knows the suffering of animals in
transportation," said the old gentleman. "My dear young lady, if you
could see what I have seen, you'd never eat another bit of meat all the
days of your life."
Miss Laura wrinkled her forehead. "I know--I have heard," she faltered.
"It must be terrible."
"Terrible--it's awful," said the gentleman. "Think of the cattle on the
western plains. Choked with thirst in summer, and starved and frozen in
winter. Dehorned and goaded on to trains and steamers. Tossed about and
wounded and suffering on voyages. Many of them dying and being thrown
into the sea. Others landed sick and frightened. Some of them
slaughtered on docks and wharves to keep them from dropping dead in
their tracks. What kind of food does their flesh make? It's rank poison.
Three of my family have died of cancer. I am a vegetarian."
The strange old gentleman darted from his seat, and began to pace up and
down the room. I was very glad he had gone, for Miss Laura hated to hear
of cruelty of any kind, and her tears were dropping thick and fast on my
brown coat.
The gentleman had spoken very loudly, and every one in the room had
listened to what he said. Among them, was a very young man, with a cold,
handsome face. He looked as if he was annoyed that the older man should
have made Miss Laura cry.
"Don't you think, sir," he said, as the old gentleman passed near him in
walking up and down the floor, "that there is a great deal of mock
sentiment about this business of taking care of the dumb creation? They
were made for us. They've got to suffer and be killed to supply our
wants. The cattle and sheep, and other animals would over-run the earth,
if we didn't kill them."
"Granted," said the old man, stopping right in front of him. "Granted,
young man, if you take out that word suffer. The Lord made the sheep,
and the cattle, and the pigs. They are his creatures just as much as we
are. We can kill them, but we've no right to make them suffer."
"But we can't help it, sir."
"Yes, we can, my young man. It's a possible thing to raise healthy
stock, treat it kindly, kill it mercifully, eat it decently. When men do
that I, for one, will cease to be a vegetarian. You're only a boy. You
haven't traveled as I have. I've been from one end of this country to
the other. Up north, down south, and out west, I've seen sights that
made me shudder, and I tell you the Lord will punish this great American
nation if it doesn't change its treatment of the dumb animals committed
to its care."
The young man looked thoughtful, and did not reply. A very sweet faced
old lady sitting near him answered the old gentleman. I don't think I
have ever seen such a fine-looking old lady as she was. Her hair was
snowy white, and her face was deeply wrinkled, yet she was tall and
stately, and her expression was as pleasing as my dear Miss Laura's.
"I do not think we are a wicked nation," she said, softly. "We are a
younger nation than many of the nations of the earth, and I think that
many of our sins arise from ignorance and thoughtlessness."
"Yes, madame, yes, madame," said the fiery old gentleman, staring hard
at her. "I agree with you there."
She smiled very pleasantly at him and went on. "I, too, have been a
traveler, and I have talked to a great many wise and good people on the
subject of the cruel treatment of animals, and I find that many of them
have never thought about it. They, themselves, never knowingly ill-treat
a dumb creature, and when they are told stories of inhuman conduct, they
say in surprise, 'Why, these things surely can't exist!' You see they
have never been brought in contact with them. As soon as they learn
about them, they begin to agitate and say, 'We must have this thing
stopped. Where is the remedy?'"
"And what is it, what is it, madame, in your opinion?" said the old
gentleman, pawing the floor with impatience.
"Just the remedy that I would propose for the great evil of
intemperance," said the old lady, smiling at him. "Legislation and
education. Legislation for the old and hardened, and education for the
young and tender. I would tell the schoolboys and schoolgirls that
alcohol will destroy the framework of their beautiful bodies, and that
cruelty to any of God's living creatures will blight and destroy their
innocent young souls."
The young man spoke again. "Don't you think," he said, "that you
temperance and humane people lay too much stress upon the education of
our youth in all lofty and noble sentiments? The human heart will always
be wicked. Your Bible tells you that, doesn't it? You can't educate all
the badness out of children."
"We don't expect to do that," said the old lady, turning her pleasant
face toward him; "but even if the human heart is desperately wicked,
shouldn't that make us much more eager to try to educate, to ennoble,
and restrain? However, as far as my experience goes, and I have lived in
this wicked world for seventy-five years, I find that the human heart,
though wicked and cruel, as you say, has yet some soft and tender spots,
and the impressions made upon it in youth are never, never effaced. Do
you not remember better than anything else, standing at your mother's
knee--the pressure of her hand, her kiss on your forehead?"
By this time our engine had arrived. A whistle was blowing, and nearly
every one was rushing from the room, the impatient old gentleman among
the first. Miss Laura was hurriedly trying to do up her shawl strap, and
I was standing by, wishing that I could help her. The old lady and the
young man were the only other people in the room, and we could not help
hearing what they said.
"Yes, I do," he said in a thick voice, and his face got very red. "She
is dead now--I have no mother."
"Poor boy!" and the old lady laid her hand on his shoulder. They were
standing up, and she was taller than he was. "May God bless you. I know
you have a kind heart. I have four stalwart boys, and you remind me of
the youngest. If you are ever in Washington come to see me." She gave
him some name, and he lifted his hat and looked as if he was astonished
to find out who she was. Then he, too, went away, and she turned to Miss
Laura. "Shall I help you, my dear?"
"If you please," said my young mistress. "I can't fasten this strap."
In a few seconds the bundle was done up, and we were joyfully hastening
to the train. It was only a few miles to Riverdale, so the conductor let
me stay in the car with Miss Laura. She spread her coat out on the seat
in front of her, and I sat on it and looked out of the car window as we
sped along through a lovely country, all green and fresh in the June
sunlight. How light and pleasant this car was--so different from the
baggage car. What frightens an animal most of all things, is not to see
where it is going, not to know what is going to happen to it. I think
that they are very like human beings in this respect.
The lady had taken a seat beside Miss Laura, and as we went along, she
too looked out of the window and said in a low voice:
"What is so rare as a day in June,
Then, if ever, come perfect days."
"That is very true," said Miss Laura; "how sad that the autumn must
come, and the cold winter."
"No, my dear, not sad. It is but a preparation for another summer."
"Yes, I suppose it is," said Miss Laura. Then she continued a little
shyly, as her companion leaned over to stroke my cropped ears "You seem
very fond of animals."
"I am, my dear. I have four horses, two cows, a tame squirrel, three
dogs, and a cat."
"You should be a happy woman," said Miss Laura, with a smile.
"I think I am. I must not forget my horned toad, Diego, that I got in
California. I keep him in the green-house, and he is very happy catching
flies and holding his horny head to be scratched whenever any one comes
near."
"I don't see how any one can be unkind to animals," said Miss Laura,
thoughtfully.
"Nor I, my dear child. It has always caused me intense pain to witness
the torture of dumb animals. Nearly seventy years ago, when I was a
little girl walking the streets of Boston, I would tremble and grow
faint at the cruelty of drivers to over-loaded horses. I was timid and
did not dare speak to them. Very often, I ran home and flung myself in
my mother's arms with a burst of tears, and asked her if nothing could
be done to help the poor animals. With mistaken, motherly kindness, she
tried to put the subject out of my thoughts. I was carefully guarded
from seeing or hearing of any instances of cruelty. But the animals went
on suffering just the same, and when I became a woman, I saw my
cowardice. I agitated the matter among my friends, and told them that
our whole dumb creation was groaning together in pain, and would
continue to groan, unless merciful human beings were willing to help
them. I was able to assist in the formation of several societies for the
prevention of cruelty to animals, and they have done good service. Good
service not only to the horses and cows, but to the nobler animal, man.
I believe that in saying to a cruel man, 'You shall not overwork,
torture, mutilate, nor kill your animal, or neglect to provide it with
proper food and shelter,' we are making him a little nearer the kingdom
of heaven than he was before. For 'Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall
he also reap.' If he sows seeds of unkindness and cruelty to man and
beast, no one knows what the blackness of the harvest will be. His poor
horse, quivering under a blow, is not the worst sufferer. Oh, if people
would only understand that their unkind deeds will recoil upon their own
heads with tenfold force--but, my dear child, I am fancying that I am
addressing a drawing-room meeting--and here we are at your station.
Good-bye; keep your happy face and gentle ways. I hope that we may meet
again some day." She pressed Miss Laura's hand, gave me a farewell pat,
and the next minute we were outside on the platform, and she was smiling
through the window at us.
* * * * *