MR. MAXWELL AND MR. HARRY
Mr. Maxwell wore a coat with loose pockets, and while she was speaking,
he rested on his crutches, and began to slap them with his hands. "No;
there's nothing here to-day," he said; "I think I emptied my pockets
before I went to the meeting."
Just as he said that there was a loud squeal: "Oh, my guinea pig," he
exclaimed; "I forgot him," and he pulled out a little spotted creature a
few inches long. "Poor Derry, did I hurt you?" and he soothed it very
tenderly.
I stood and looked at Mr. Maxwell, for I had never seen any one like
him. He had thick curly hair and a white face, and he looked just like a
girl. While I was staring at him, something peeped up out of one of his
pockets and ran out its tongue at me so fast that I could scarcely see
it, and then drew back again. I was thunderstruck. I had never seen such
a creature before. It was long and thin like a boy's cane, and of a
bright green color like grass, and it had queer shiny eyes. But its
tongue was the strangest part of it. It came and went like lightning. I
was uneasy about it, and began to bark.
"What's the matter, Joe?" said Mrs. Wood; "the pig won't hurt you."
But it wasn't the pig I was afraid of, and I kept on barking. And all
the time that strange live thing kept sticking up its head and putting
out its tongue at me, and neither of them noticed it.
"Its getting on toward six," said Mrs. Wood; "we must be going home.
Come, Mr. Maxwell."
The young man put the guinea pig in his pocket, picked up his crutches,
and we started down the sunny village street. He left his guinea pig at
his boarding house as he went by, but he said nothing about the other
creature, so I knew he did not know it was there.
I was very much taken with Mr. Maxwell. He seemed so bright and happy,
in spite of his lameness, which kept him from running about like other
young men. He looked a little older than Miss Laura, and one day, a week
or two later, when they were sitting on the veranda, I heard him tell
her that he was just nineteen. He told her, too, that his lameness made
him love animals. They never laughed at him, or slighted him, or got
impatient, because he could not walk quickly. They were always good to
him, and he said he loved all animals while he liked very few people.
On this day as he was limping along, he said to Mrs. Wood: "I am getting
more absent-minded every day. Have you heard of my latest escapade?"
"No," she said.
"I am glad," he replied. "I was afraid that it would be all over the
village by this time. I went to church last Sunday with my poor guinea
pig in my pocket. He hasn't been well, and I was attending to him before
church, and put him in there to get warm, and forgot about him.
Unfortunately I was late, and the back seats were all full, so I had to
sit farther up than I usually do. During the first hymn I happened to
strike Piggy against the side of the seat. Such an ear-splitting squeal
as he set up. It sounded as if I was murdering him. The people stared
and stared, and I had to leave the church, overwhelmed with confusion."
Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura laughed, and then they got talking about other
matters that were not interesting to me, so I did not listen. But I kept
close to Miss Laura, for I was afraid that green thing might hurt her. I
wondered very much what its name was. I don't think I should have feared
it so much if I had known what it was.
"There's something the matter with Joe," said Miss Laura, when we got
into the lane. "What is it, dear old fellow?" She put down her little
hand, and I licked it, and wished so much that I could speak.
Sometimes I wish very much that I had the gift of speech, and then at
other times I see how little it would profit me, and how many foolish
things I should often say. And I don't believe human beings would love
animals as well, if they could speak.
When we reached the house, we got a joyful surprise. There was a trunk
standing on the veranda, and as soon as Mrs. Wood saw it, she gave a
little shriek: "My dear boy!"
Mr. Harry was there, sure enough, and stepped out through the open door.
He took his mother in his arms and kissed her, then he shook hands with
Miss Laura and Mr. Maxwell, who seemed to be an old friend of his. They
all sat down on the veranda and talked, and I lay at Miss Laura's feet
and looked at Mr. Harry. He was such a handsome young man, and had such
a noble face. He was older and graver looking than when I saw him last,
and he had a light, brown moustache that he did not have when he was in
Fairport.
He seemed very fond of his mother and of Miss Laura, and however grave
his face might be when he was looking at Mr. Maxwell, it always lighted
up when he turned to them. "What dog is that?" he said at last, with a
puzzled face, and pointing to me.
"Why, Harry," exclaimed Miss Laura, "don't you know Beautiful Joe, that
you rescued from that wretched milkman?"
"Is it possible," he said, "that this well-conditioned creature is the
bundle of dirty skin and bones that we nursed in Fairport? Come here,
sir. Do you remember me?"
Indeed I did remember him, and I licked his hands and looked up
gratefully into his face. "You're almost handsome now," he said,
caressing me with a firm, kind hand, "and of a solid build, too. You
look like a fighter--but I suppose you wouldn't let him fight, even if
he wanted to, Laura," and he smiled and glanced at her.
"No," she said; "I don't think I should; but he can fight when the
occasion requires it." And she told him about our night with Jenkins.
All the time she was speaking, Mr. Harry held me by the paws, and
stroked my body over and over again. When she finished, he put his head
down to me, and murmured, "Good dog," and I saw that his eyes were red
and shining.
"That's a capital story, we must have it at the Band of Mercy," said Mr.
Maxwell. Mrs. Wood had gone to help prepare the tea, so the two young
men were alone with Miss Laura. When they had done talking about me, she
asked Mr. Harry a number of questions about his college life, and his
trip to New York, for he had not been studying all the time that he was
away.
"What are you going to do with yourself, Gray, when your college course
is ended?" asked Mr. Maxwell.
"I am going to settle right down here," said Mr. Harry.
"What, be a farmer?" asked his friend.
"Yes; why not?"
"Nothing, only I imagined that you would take a profession."
"The professions are overstocked, and we have not farmers enough for the
good of the country. There is nothing like farming, to my mind. In no
other employment have you a surer living. I do not like the cities. The
heat and dust, and crowds of people, and buildings overtopping one
another, and the rush of living, take my breath away. Suppose I did go
to a city. I would sell out my share of the farm, and have a few
thousand dollars. You know I am not an intellectual giant. I would never
distinguish myself in any profession. I would be a poor lawyer or
doctor, living in a back street all the days of my life, and never watch
a tree or flower grow, or tend an animal, or have a drive unless I paid
for it. No, thank you. I agree with President Eliot, of Harvard. He says
scarcely one person in ten thousand betters himself permanently by
leaving his rural home and settling in a city. If one is a millionaire,
city life is agreeable enough, for one can always get away from it; but
I am beginning to think that it is a dangerous thing, in more ways than
one, to be a millionaire. I believe the safety of the country lies in
the hands of the farmers; for they are seldom very poor or very rich. We
stand between the two dangerous classes--the wealthy and the paupers."
"But most farmers lead such a dog's life," said Mr. Maxwell.
"So they do; farming isn't made one-half as attractive as it should be,"
said Mr. Harry.
Mr. Maxwell smiled. "Attractive farming. Just sketch an outline of that,
will you, Gray?"
"In the first place," said Mr. Harry, "I would like to tear out of the
heart of the farmer the thing that is as firmly implanted in him as it
is in the heart of his city brother--the thing that is doing more to
harm our nation than anything else under the sun."
"What is that?" asked Mr. Maxwell, curiously.
"The thirst for gold. The farmer wants to get rich, and he works so hard
to do it that he wears himself out soul and body, and the young people
around him get so disgusted with that way of getting rich, that they go
off to the cities to find out some other way, or at least to enjoy
themselves, for I don't think many young people are animated by a desire
to heap up money."
Mr. Maxwell looked amused. "There is certainly a great exodus from
country places cityward," he said. "What would be your plan for checking
it?"
"I would make the farm so pleasant, that you couldn't hire the boys and
girls to leave it. I would have them work, and work hard, too, but when
their work was over, I would let them have some fun. That is what they
go to the city for. They want amusement and society, and to get into
some kind of a crowd when their work is done. The young men and young
women want to get together, as is only natural. Now that could be done
in the country. If farmers would be contented with smaller profits and
smaller farms, their houses could be nearer together. Their children
would have opportunities of social intercourse, there could be societies
and clubs, and that would tend to a distribution of literature. A farmer
ought to take five or six papers and two or three magazines. He would
find it would pay him in the long run, and there ought to be a law made
compelling him to go to the post office once a day."
Mr. Maxwell burst out laughing. "And another to make him mend his roads
as well as mend his ways. I tell you Gray, the bad roads would put an
end to all these fine schemes of yours. Imagine farmers calling on each
other on a dark evening after a spring freshet. I can see them mired and
bogged, and the house a mile ahead of them."
"That is true," said Mr. Harry, "the road question is a serious one. Do
you know how father and I settle it?"
"No," said Mr. Maxwell.
"We got so tired of the whole business, and the farmers around here
spent so much time in discussing the art of roadmaking, as to whether it
should be viewed from the engineering point of view, or the farmers'
practical point of view, and whether we would require this number of
stump extractors or that number, and how many shovels and crushers and
ditchers would be necessary to keep our roads in order, and so on, that
we simply withdrew. We keep our own roads in order. Once a year, father
gets a gang of men and tackles every section of the road that borders
upon our land, and our roads are the best around here. I wish the
government would take up this matter of making roads and settle it. If
we had good, smooth, country roads, such as they have in some parts of
Europe, we would be able to travel comfortably over them all through the
year, and our draught animals would last longer, for they would not have
to expend so much energy in drawing their loads."
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