OUR RETURN HOME
In October, the most beautiful of all the months, we were obliged to go
back to Fairport. Miss Laura could not bear to leave the farm, and her
face got very sorrowful when any one spoke of her going away. Still, she
had gotten well and strong, and was as brown as a berry, and she said
that she knew she ought to go home, and get back to her lessons.
Mr. Wood called October the golden month. Everything was quiet and
still, and at night and in the morning the sun had a yellow, misty look.
The trees in the orchard were loaded with fruit, and some of the leaves
were floating down, making a soft covering on the ground.
In the garden there were a great many flowers in bloom, in flaming red
and yellow colors. Miss Laura gathered bunches of them every day to put
in the parlor. One day when she was arranging them, she said,
regretfully, "They will soon be gone. I wish it could always be summer."
"You would get tired of it," said Mr. Harry, who had come up softly
behind her. "There's only one place where we could stand perpetual
summer, and that's in heaven."
"Do you suppose that it will always be summer there?" said Miss Laura,
turning around, and looking at him.
"I don't know. I imagine it will be, but I don't think anybody knows
much about it. We've got to wait."
Miss Laura's eyes fell on me. "Harry," she said, "do you think that dumb
animals will go to heaven?"
"I shall have to say again, I don't know," he replied. "Some people hold
that they do. In a Michigan paper, the other day, I came across one
writer's opinion on the subject. He says that among the best people of
all ages have been some who believed in the future life of animals.
Homer and the later Greeks, some of the Romans and early Christians held
this view--the last believing that God sent angels in the shape of birds
to comfort sufferers for the faith. St. Francis called the birds and
beasts his brothers. Dr. Johnson believed in a future life for animals,
as also did Wordsworth, Shelley, Coleridge, Jeremy Taylor, Agassiz,
Lamartine, and many Christian scholars. It seems as if they ought to
have some compensation for their terrible sufferings in this world. Then
to go to heaven, animals would only have to take up the thread of their
lives here. Man is a god to the lower creation. Joe worships you, much
as you worship your Maker. Dumb animals live in and for their masters.
They hang on our words and looks, and are dependent on us in almost
every way. For my own part, and looking at it from an earthly point of
view, I wish with all my heart that we may find our dumb friends in
paradise."
"And in the Bible," said Miss Laura, "animals are often spoken of. The
dove and the raven, the wolf and the lamb, and the leopard, and the
cattle that God says are his, and the little sparrow that can't fall to
the ground without our Father's knowing it."
"Still, there's nothing definite about their immortality," said Mr.
Harry. "However, we've got nothing to do with that. If it's right for
them to be in heaven, we'll find them there. All we have to do now is to
deal with the present, and the Bible plainly tells us that 'a righteous
man regardeth the life of his beast.'"
"I think I would be happier in heaven if dear old Joe were there," said
Miss Laura, looking wistfully at me. "He has been such a good dog. Just
think how he has loved and protected me. I think I should be lonely
without him."
"That reminds me of some poetry, or rather doggerel," said Mr. Harry,
"that I cutout of a newspaper for you yesterday;" and he drew from his
pocket a little slip of paper, and read this:
"Do doggies gang to heaven, Dad?
Will oor auld Donald gang?
For noo to tak' him, faither wi' us,
Wad be maist awfu' wrang."
There was a number of other verses, telling how many kind things old
Donald the dog had done for his master's family, and then it closed with
these lines:
"Withoot are dogs. Eh, faither, man,
'Twould be an awfu' sin
To leave oor faithfu' doggie _there_,
He's _certain_ to win in.
"Oor Donald's no like ither dogs,
He'll _no_ be lockit oot,
If Donald's no let into heaven,
I'll no gang there one foot."
"My sentiments exactly," said a merry voice behind Miss Laura and Mr.
Harry, and looking up they saw Mr. Maxwell. He was holding out one hand
to them, and in the other kept back a basket of large pears that Mr.
Harry promptly took from him, and offered to Miss Laura. "I've been
dependent upon animals for the most part of my comfort in this life,"
said Mr. Maxwell, "and I sha'n't be happy without them in heaven. I
don't see how you would get on without Joe, Miss Morris, and I want my
birds, and my snake, and my horse--how can I live without them? They're
almost all my life here."
"If some animals go to heaven and not others, I think that the dog has
the first claim," said Miss Laura. "He's the friend of man--the oldest
and best. Have you ever heard the legend about him and Adam?"
"No," said Mr. Maxwell.
"Well, when Adam was turned out of paradise, all the animals shunned
him, and he sat bitterly weeping with his head between his hands, when
he felt the soft tongue of some creature gently touching him. He took
his hands from his face, and there was a dog that had separated himself
from all the other animals, and was trying to comfort him. He became the
chosen friend and companion of Adam, afterward of all men."
"There is another legend," said Mr. Harry, "about our Saviour and a dog.
Have you ever heard it?"
"We'll tell you that later," said Mr. Maxwell, "when we know what it
is."
Mr. Harry showed his white teeth in an amused smile, and began: "Once
upon a time our Lord was going through a town with his disciples. A dead
dog lay by the wayside, and every one that passed along flung some
offensive epithet at him. Eastern dogs are not like our dogs, and
seemingly there was nothing good about this loathsome creature, but as
our Saviour went by, he said, gently, 'Pearls cannot equal the whiteness
of his teeth.'"
"What was the name of that old fellow," said Mr. Maxwell, abruptly, "who
had a beautiful swan that came every day for fifteen years, to bury its
head in his bosom and feed from his hand, and would go near no other
human being?"
"Saint Hugh, of Lincoln. We heard about him at the Band of Mercy the
other day," said Miss Laura.
"I should think that he would have wanted to have that swan in heaven
with him," said Mr. Maxwell. "What a beautiful creature it must have
been. Speaking about animals going to heaven, I dare say some of them
would object to going, on account of the company that they would meet
there. Think of the dog kicked to death by his master, the horse driven
into his grave, the thousands of cattle starved to death on the
plains--will they want to meet their owners in heaven?"
"According to my reckoning, their owners won't be there," said Mr.
Harry. "I firmly believe that the Lord will punish every man or woman
who ill-treats a dumb creature just as surely as he will punish those
who ill-treat their fellow-creatures. If a man's life has been a long
series of cruelty to dumb animals, do you suppose that he would enjoy
himself in heaven, which will be full of kindness to every one? Not he;
he'd rather be in the other place, and there he'll go, I fully believe."
"When you've quite disposed of all your fellow-creatures and the dumb
creation, Harry, perhaps you will condescend to go out into the orchard
and see how your father is getting on with picking the apples," said
Mrs. Wood, joining Miss Laura and the two young men, her eyes twinkling
and sparkling with amusement.
"The apples will keep, mother," said Mr. Harry, putting his arm around
her. "I just came in for a moment to get Laura. Come, Maxwell, we'll all
go."
"And not another word about animals," Mrs. Wood called after them.
"Laura will go crazy some day, through thinking of their sufferings, if
some one doesn't do something to stop her."
Miss Laura turned around suddenly. "Dear Aunt Hattie," she said, "you
must not say that. I am a coward, I know, about hearing of animals'
pains, but I must get over it, I want to know how they suffer. I _ought_
to know, for when I get to be a woman, I am going to do all I can to
help them."
"And I'll join you," said Mr. Maxwell, stretching out his hand to Miss
Laura. She did not smile, but looking very earnestly at him, she held it
clasped in her own. "You will help me to care for them, will you?" she
said.
"Yes, I promise," he said, gravely. "I'll give myself to the service of
dumb animals, if you will."
"And I, too," said Mr. Harry, in his deep voice, laying his hand across
theirs. Mrs. Wood stood looking at their three fresh, eager, young
faces, with tears in her eyes. Just as they all stood silently for an
instant, the old village clergyman came into the room from the hall. He
must have heard what they said, for before they could move he had laid
his hands on their three brown heads. "Bless you, my children," he said,
"God will lift up the light of his countenance upon you, for you have
given yourselves to a noble work. In serving dumb creatures, you are
ennobling the human race."
Then he sat down in a chair and looked at them. He was a venerable old
man, and had long, white hair, and the Woods thought a great deal of
him. He had come to get Mrs. Wood to make some nourishing dishes for a
sick woman in the village, and while he was talking to her, Miss Laura
and the two young men went out of the house. They hurried across the
veranda and over the lawn, talking and laughing, and enjoying themselves
as only happy young people can, and with not a trace of their
seriousness of a few moments before on their faces.
They were going so fast that they ran right into a flock of geese that
were coming up the lane. They were driven by a little boy called Tommy,
the son of one of Mr. Wood's farm laborers, and they were chattering and
gabbling, and seemed very angry. "What's all this about?" said Mr.
Harry, stopping and looking at the boy. "What's the matter with your
feathered charges, Tommy, my lad?"
"If it's the geese you mean," said the boy, half crying and looking very
much put out, "it's all them nasty potatoes. They won't keep away from
them."
"So the potatoes chase the geese, do they," said Mr. Maxwell, teasingly.
"No, no," said the child, pettishly; "Mr. Wood he sets me to watch the
geese, and they runs in among the buckwheat and the potatoes, and I
tries to drive them out, and they doesn't want to come, and,"
shamefacedly, "I has to switch their feet, and I hates to do it, 'cause
I'm a Band of Mercy boy."
"Tommy, my son," said Mr. Maxwell, solemnly, "you will go right to
heaven when you die, and your geese will go with you."
"Hush, hush," said Miss Laura; "don't tease him," and putting her arm on
the child's shoulder, she said, "You are a good boy, Tommy, not to want
to hurt the geese. Let me see your switch, dear."
He showed her a little stick he had in his hand, and she said, "I don't
think you could hurt them much with that, and if they will be naughty
and steal the potatoes, you have to drive them out. Take some of my
pears and eat them, and you will forget your trouble." The child took
the fruit, and Miss Laura and the two young men went on their way,
smiling, and looking over their shoulders at Tommy, who stood in the
lane, devouring his pears and keeping one eye on the geese that had
gathered a little in front of him, and were gabbling noisily and having
a kind of indignation meeting, because they had been driven out of the
potato field.
Tommy's father and mother lived in a little house down near the road.
Mr. Wood never had his hired men live in his own house. He had two small
houses for them to live in, and they were required to keep them as neat
as Mr. Wood's own house was kept. He said that he didn't see why he
should keep a boarding house, if he was a farmer, nor why his wife
should wear herself out waiting on strong, hearty men, that had just as
soon take care of themselves. He wished to have his own family about
him, and it was better for his men to have some kind of family life for
themselves. If one of his men was unmarried, he boarded with the married
one, but slept in his own house.
On this October day we found Mr. Wood hard at work under the fruit
trees. He had a good many different kind of apples. Enormous red ones,
and long, yellow ones that they called pippins, and little brown ones,
and smooth-coated sweet ones, and bright red ones, and others, more than
I could mention. Miss Laura often pared one and cut off little bits for
me, for I always wanted to eat whatever I saw her eating.
Just a few days after this, Miss Laura and I returned to Fairport, and
some of Mr. Wood's apples traveled along with us, for he sent a good
many to the Boston market. Mr. and Mrs. Wood came to the station to see
us off. Mr. Harry could not come, for he had left Riverdale the day
before to go back to his college. Mrs. Wood said that she would be very
lonely without her two young people, and she kissed Miss Laura over and
over again, and made her promise to come back again the next summer.
I was put in a box in the express car, and Mr. Wood told the agent that
if he knew what was good for him he would speak to me occasionally, for
I was a very knowing dog, and if he didn't treat me well, I'd be apt to
write him up in the newspapers. The agent laughed, and quite often on
the way to Fairport, he came to my box and spoke kindly to me. So I did
not get so lonely and frightened as I did on my way to Riverdale.
How glad the Morrises were to see us coming back. The boys had all
gotten home before us, and such a fuss as they did make over their
sister. They loved her dearly, and never wanted her to be long away from
them. I was rubbed and stroked, and had to run about offering my paw to
every one. Jim and little Billy licked my face, and Bella croaked out,
"Glad to see you, Joe. Had a good time? How's your health?"
We soon settled down for the winter. Miss Laura began going to school,
and came home every day with a pile of books under her arm. The summer
in the country had done her so much good that her mother often looked at
her fondly, and said the white-faced child she sent away had come home a
nut-brown maid.
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