II

In the spring of 1860, I was a lodger in a respectable boarding-house on

Chestnut Street, in Louisville. My father--God rest his soul--had passed

away ten years before, and I was able to live comfortably upon the

income of my modest inheritance, as I was his sole child, and my dear

mother was to me but an elusive memory of childhood. Sometimes, in still

evenings just before I lit my student's lamp, and I sat alone musing, I

would catch vague glimpses of a sweet, pure face with calm, gray

eyes--but that was all. No figure, no voice, not even her hair, but

sometimes my mind would picture an aureole around her head. I have

often wondered why she was taken from me before I could have known her,

but I have also striven not to be rebellious. But she must have been an

unusual woman, for my father never recovered from her loss, and to the

day of his death he wore a tress of her hair in a locket over his heart.

I have it now, and I wear it always.

I was of a timid disposition, and retiring nature, and so my

acquaintances were few, and of close friends I had not one. My mornings

and evenings were spent with my books, and in the afternoons I took

solitary walks, often wandering out into the country, if the weather was

fine, for the blue sky had a charm for me, and I loved to look at the

distant hills,--the hazy and purple undulations which marked the

horizon. And Nature was never the same to me. Always changing, always

some beauty before undiscovered bursting on my sight, and her limitless

halls were full of paintings and of songs of which I would never tire.

Then, as evening closed in, and I would reluctantly turn back to my

crowded quarters, the sordid streets and the cramped appearance of

everything would fret me, and almost make me envious of the sparrow

perched on the telegraph wire over my head. For he, at least, was lifted

above this thoughtless, hurrying throng among which I was compelled to

pass, and the piteous, supplicating voice of the blind beggar at the

corner did not remind him that even thus he might some day become. And

thus, when my feet brought me to the line of traffic, as I returned

home, I would unconsciously hasten my steps, for the moil and toil of a

city's strife I could not bear.

In the spring of 1860, these long walks to the country became more

frequent. I had been cooped up for four rigorous months, a

predisposition to taking cold always before me as a warning that I must

be careful in bad weather. And the confines of a fourteen by eighteen

room naturally become irksome after weeks and weeks of intimate

acquaintance. It is true there were two windows to my apartment. A

glance from one only showed me the side of a house adjoining the one in

which I stayed, but the other gave me a view of a thoroughfare, and by

this window I sat through many a bleak winter day, watching the

passers-by. One night there was a sleet, and when I looked out the next

morning, everything was covered in a gray coat of ice. A young maple

grew directly under my window, and its poor head was bent over as though

in sorrow at the treatment it had to endure, and its branches hung

listlessly in their icy case, with a frozen raindrop at the end of each

twig. The sidewalks were treacherous, and I found some amusement in

watching the pedestrians as they warily proceeded along the slippery

pavement, most of them treading as though walking on egg-shells. There

went an old gentleman who must have had business down town, for I had

seen him pass every day. This morning he carried a stick in his hand,

and I discovered that it was pointed with some sharp substance that

would assist him, for every time he lifted it up, it left a little white

spot in the coating of ice. There went a schoolboy, helter-skelter,

swinging his books by a strap, running and sliding along the pavement in

profound contempt for its dangers. A jaunty little Miss with fur wraps

and veiled face, but through the thin obstruction I could plainly see

two rosy cheeks, and a pair of dancing eyes. Her tiny feet, likewise,

passed on without fear, and she disappeared. Heaven grant they may rest

as firm on every path through life!

Next came an aged woman, who moved with faltering feet, and always kept

one hand upon the iron fence enclosing the small yard, as a support.

Each step was taken slowly, and with trepidation, and I wished for the

moment that I was beside her, to lend her my arm. Some errand of mercy

or dire necessity called her forth on such a perilous venture, and I

felt that, whatever the motive be, it would shield her from mishap. And

so they passed, youth and age, as the day wore on. In the afternoon the

old gentleman re-passed, and I saw that his back was a little more

stooped, and he leaned heavier on his stick. For each day adds weight to

the shoulders of age.

And now a miserable cur came sniffing along the gutter on the opposite

side of the street. His ribs showed plainly through his dirty yellow

coat, the scrubby hair along his back stood on end, and his tail was

held closely between his legs. And so he tipped along, half-starved,

vainly seeking some morsel of food. He stopped and looked up, shivering

visibly as the cold wind pierced him through and through, then trotted

to the middle of the street, and began nosing something lying there. A

handsome coupé darted around the corner, taking the centre of the road.

The starving cur never moved, so intent was he on obtaining food, and

thus it happened that a pitiful yelp of pain reached my ears, muffled by

the closed window. The coupé whirled on its journey, and below, in the

chill, desolate grayness of a winter afternoon, an ugly pup sat howling

at the leaden skies, his right foreleg upheld, part of it dangling in a

very unnatural manner. A pang of compassion for the dumb unfortunate

stirred in my breast, but I sat still and watched. He tried to walk, but

the effort was a failure, and again he sat down and howled, this time

with his meagre face upturned to my window. The street was empty, as far

as I could see, for twilight was almost come, and cheery firesides were

more tempting than slippery pavements and stinging winds. The muffled

tones of distress became weaker and more despairing, and I could endure

them no longer. I quickly arose and cast off my dressing-gown and

slippers. In less than a minute I had on shoes, coat, and great-coat,

and was quietly stealing down the stairs. Tenderly I took the shivering,

whining form up in my arms, casting my eyes around and breathing a sigh

of relief that no one had seen, and thanking my stars, as I entered my

room, that I had not encountered my landlady, who had a great aversion

to cats and dogs.

It was little enough of surgery I knew, veterinary or otherwise, but a

simpleton could have seen that a broken leg was at least one of the

injuries my charge had suffered. I laid the dirty yellow object down on

the heavy rug before the fire, and he stopped the whining, and his

trembling, too, as soon as the soothing heat began to permeate his

half-frozen body. I knew there was a pine board in my closet, and from

this I made some splints and bound up the broken limb as gently as I

could, but my fingers were not very deft nor my skill more than

ordinary, and as a consequence a few fresh howls were the result. But at

last it was done, and then I made an examination of the other limbs,

finding them as nature intended they should be, with the exception of a

few scars and their unnatural boniness. So I got one of my old coats and

made a bed on the corner of the hearth, to which I proceeded to

transfer my rescued cur. He was grateful, as dogs ever are for a

kindness, and licked my hands as I put him down. And he found strength

somehow to wag his tail in token of thankfulness, so I felt repaid for

my act of mercy, and very well satisfied. A surreptitious visit to the

dining-room resulted in a purloined chunk of cold roast beef, and two or

three dry, hard biscuits, which I found in the corner of a cupboard. Thus

laden with my plunder, I started back, and in the hall came face to face

with my boarding-house mistress.

"Why, Mr. Stone, what in the world!" she began, before I could open my

mouth or put my hands behind my back.

"I--that is--Mrs. Moss, I have a friend with me to-night who is very

eccentric. He has been out in the cold quite a while, and he dislikes

meeting strangers, so that I thought I would let him thaw out in my

room while I came down and got us a little bite. You needn't expect us

at supper, for I have enough here for both."

"If it pleases you, Mr. Stone, I have no objections. But I should be

glad to send your meals to your room as long as your friend remains."