Beautiful Joe

CHAPTER XVII MR. WOOD AND HIS HORSES

THE morning after we arrived in Riverdale, I was up very early and walking around the house. I slept in the woodshed, and could run outdoors whenever I liked.

The woodshed was at the back of the house and near it was the tool shed. Then there was a carriage house, and a plank walk leading to the barnyard.

I ran up this walk, and looked into the first building I came to. It was the horse stable. A door stood open, and the morning sun was glancing in. There were several horses there, some with their heads toward me, and some with their tails. I saw that instead of being tied up, there were gates outside their stalls, and they could stand in any way they liked.

There was a man moving about at the other end of the stable, and long before he saw me, I knew that it was Mr. Wood. What a nice, clean stable he had! There was always a foul smell coming out of Jenkins’s stable, but here the air seemed as pure inside as outside. There was a number of little gratings in the wall to let in the fresh air, and they were so placed that drafts would not blow on the horses. Mr. Wood was going from one horse to another, giving them hay, and talking to them in a cheerful voice. At last he spied me, and cried out, “The top of the morning to you, Joe! You are up early. Don’t come too near the horses, good dog,” as I walked in beside him; “they might think you are another Bruno, and give you a sly bite or kick. I should have shot him long ago. ‘Tis hard to make a good dog suffer for a bad one, but that’s the way of the world. Well, old fellow, what do you think of my horse stable? Pretty fair, isn’t it?” And Mr. Wood went on talking to me as he fed and groomed his horses, till I soon found out that his chief pride was in them.

I like to have human beings talk to me. Mr. Morris often reads his sermons to me, and Miss Laura tells me secrets that I don’t think she would tell to any one else.

I watched Mr. Wood carefully, while he groomed a huge, gray cart-horse, that he called Dutchman. He took a brush in his right hand, and a curry-comb in his left, and he curried and brushed every part of the horse’s skin, and afterward wiped him with a cloth. “A good grooming is equal to two quarts of oats, Joe,” he said to me.

Then he stooped down and examined the horse’s hoofs. “Your shoes are too heavy, Dutchman,” he said; “but that pig-headed blacksmith thinks he knows more about horses than I do. ‘Don’t cut the sole nor the frog,’ I say to him. ‘Don’t pare the hoof so much, and don’t rasp it; and fit your shoe to the foot, and not the foot to the shoe,’ and he looks as if he wanted to say, ‘Mind your own business.’ We’ll not go to him again. ‘’Tis hard to teach an old dog new tricks.’ I got you to work for me, not to wear out your strength in lifting about his weighty shoes.”

Mr. Wood stopped talking for a few minutes, and whistled a tune. Then he began again. “I’ve made a study of horses, Joe. Over forty years I’ve studied them, and it’s my opinion that the average horse knows more than the average man that drives him. When I think of the stupid fools that are goading patient horses about, beating them and misunderstanding them, and thinking they are only clods of earth with a little life in them, I’d like to take their horses out of the shafts and harness them in, and I’d trot them off at a pace, and slash them, and jerk them, till I guess they’d come out with a little less patience than the animal does.

“Look at this Dutchman see the size of him. You’d think he hadn’t any more nerves than a bit of granite. Yet he’s got a skin as sensitive as a girl’s. See how he quivers if I run the curry comb too harshly over him. The idiot I got him from didn’t know what was the matter with him. He’d bought him for a reliable horse, and there he was, kicking and stamping whenever the boy went near him. ‘Your boy’s got too heavy a hand, Deacon Jones,’ said I, when he described the horse’s actions to me. ‘You may depend upon it, a four-legged creature, unlike a two-legged one, has a reason for everything he does.’ ‘But he’s only a draught horse,’ said Deacon Jones. ‘Draught horse or no draught horse,’ said I, ‘you’re describing a horse with a tender skin to me, and I don’t care if he’s as big as an elephant.’ Well, the old man grumbled and said he didn’t want any thoroughbred airs in his stable, so I bought you, didn’t I, Dutchman?” and Mr. Wood stroked him kindly and went to the next stall.

In each stall was a small tank of water with a sliding cover, and I found out afterward that these covers were put on when a horse came in too heated to have a drink. At any other time, he could drink all he liked. Mr. Wood believed in having plenty of pure water for all his animals and they all had their own place to get a drink.

Even I had a little bowl of water in the woodshed, though I could easily have run up to the barnyard when I wanted a drink. As soon as I came, Mrs. Wood asked Adele to keep it there for me and when I looked up gratefully at her, she said: “Every animal should have its own feeding place and its own sleeping place, Joe; that is only fair.”

The next horses Mr. Wood groomed were the black ones, Cleve and Pacer. Pacer had something wrong with his mouth, and Mr. Wood turned back his lips and examined it carefully. This he was able to do, for there were large windows in the stable and it was as light as Mr. Wood’s house was.

“No dark corners here, eh Joe!” said Mr. Wood, as he came out of the stall and passed me to get a bottle from a shelf. “When this stable was built, I said no dirt holes for careless men here. I want the sun to shine in the corners, and I don’t want my horses to smell bad smells, for they hate them, and I don’t want them starting when they go into the light of day, just because they’ve been kept in a black hole of a stable, and I’ve never had a. sick horse yet.”

He poured something from a bottle into a saucer and went back to Pacer with it. I followed him and stood outside. Mr. Wood seemed to be washing a sore in the horse’s mouth. Pacer winced a little, and Mr. Wood said: “Steady, steady, my beauty; ‘twill soon be over.”

The horse fixed his intelligent eyes on his master and looked as if he knew that he was trying to do him good.

“Just look at these lips, Joe,” said Mr. Wood “delicate and fine like our own, and yet there are brutes that will jerk them as if they were made of iron. I wish the Lord would give horses voices just for one week. I tell you they’d scare some of us. Now, Pacer, that’s over. I’m not going to dose you much, for I don’t believe in it. If a horse has got a serious trouble, get a good horse doctor, say I. If it’s a simple thing, try a simple remedy. There’s been many a good horse drugged and dosed to death. Well, Scamp, my beauty, how are you, this morning?”

In the stall next to Pacer, was a small, jet-black mare, with a lean head, slender legs, and a curious restless manner. She was a regular greyhound of a horse, no spare flesh, yet wiry and able to do a great deal of work. She was a wicked looking little thing, so I thought I had better keep at a safe distance from her heels.

Mr. Wood petted her a great deal and I saw that she was his favorite. “Saucebox,” he exclaimed, when she pretended to bite him, “you know if you bite me, I’ll bite back again. I think I’ve conquered you,” he said, proudly, as he stroked her glossy neck; “but what a dance you led me. Do you remember how I bought you for a mere song, because you had a bad habit of turning around like a flash in front of anything that frightened you, and bolting off the other way? And how did I cure you, my beauty? Beat you and make you stubborn? Not I. I let you go round and round; I turned you and twisted you, the oftener the better for me, till at last I got it into your pretty head that turning and twisting was addling your brains, and you had better let me be master.

“You’ve minded me from that day, haven’t you? Horse, or man, or dog aren’t much good till they learn to obey, and I’ve thrown you down and I’ll do it again if you bite me, so take care.”

Scamp tossed her pretty head, and took little pieces of Mr. Wood’s shirt sleeve in her mouth, keeping her cunning brown eye on him as if to see how far she could go. But she did not bite him. I think she loved him, for when he left her she whinnied shrilly, and he had to go back and stroke and caress her.

After that I often used to watch her as she went about the farm. She always seemed to be tugging and striving at her load, and trying to step out fast and do a great deal of work. Mr. Wood was usually driving her. The men didn’t like her, and couldn’t manage her. She had not been properly broken in.

After Mr. Wood finished his work he went and stood in the doorway. There were six horses altogether: Dutchman, Cleve, Pacer, Scamp, a bay mare called Ruby, and a young horse belonging to Mr. Harry, whose name was Fleetfoot.

“What do you think of them all?” said Mr. Wood, looking down at me. “A pretty fine-looking lot of horses, aren’t they? Not a thoroughbred there, but worth as much to me as if each had pedigree as long as this plank walk. There’s a lot of humbug about this pedigree business in horses. Mine have their manes and tails anyway, and the proper use of their eyes, which is more liberty than some thoroughbreds get.

“I’d like to see the man that would persuade me to put blinders or check-reins or any other instrument of torture on my horses. Don’t the simpletons know that blinders are the cause of well, I wouldn’t like to say how many of our accidents, Joe, for fear you’d think me extravagant. and the check-rein drags up a horse’s head out of its fine natural curve and presses sinews, bones, and joints together, till the horse is well-nigh mad. Ah, Joe, this is a cruel world for man or beast. You’re a standing token of that, with your missing ears and tail. And now I’ve got to go and be cruel, and shoot that dog. He must be disposed of before anyone else is astir. How I hate to take life.”

He sauntered down the walk to the tool shed, went in and soon came out leading a large, brown dog by a chain. This was Bruno. He was snapping and snarling and biting at his chain as he went along, though Mr. Wood led him very kindly, and when he saw me he acted as if he could have torn me to pieces. After Mr. Wood took him behind the barn, he came back and got his gun. I ran away so that I would not hear the sound of it, for I could not help feeling sorry for Bruno.

Miss Laura’s room was on one side of the house, and in the second story. There was a little balcony outside it, and when I got near I saw that she was standing out on it wrapped in a shawl. Her hair was streaming over her shoulders, and she was looking down into the garden where there were a great many white and yellow flowers in bloom.

I barked, and she looked at me. “Dear old Joe, I will get dressed and come down.”

She hurried into her room, and I lay on the veranda till I heard her step. Then I jumped up. She unlocked the front door, and we went for a walk down the lane to the road until we heard the breakfast bell. As soon as we heard it we ran back to the house, and Miss Laura had such an appetite for her breakfast that her aunt said the country had done her good already.

CHAPTER XVIII MRS. WOOD’S POULTRY

AFTER breakfast, Mrs. Wood put on a large apron, and going into the kitchen, said: “Have you any scraps for the hens, Adele? Be sure and not give me anything salty.”

The French girl gave her a dish of food, then Mrs. Wood asked Miss Laura to go and see her chickens, and away we went to the poultry house.

On the way we saw Mr. Wood. He was sitting on the step of the tool shed cleaning his gun “Is the dog dead?” asked Miss Laura.

“Yes,” he said.

She sighed and said: “Poor creature, I am sorry he had to be killed. Uncle, what is the most merciful way to kill a dog? Sometimes, when they get old, they should be put out of the way.”

“You can shoot them,” he said, “or you can poison them. I shot Bruno through his head into his neck. There’s a right place to aim at. It’s a little one side of the top of the skull. If you’ll remind me I’ll show you a circular I have in the house. It tells the proper way to kill animals. The American Humane Education Society in Boston puts it out, and it’s a merciful thing.

“You don’t know anything about the slaughtering of animals, Laura, and it’s well you don’t. There’s an awful amount of cruelty practiced, and practiced by some people that think themselves pretty good. I wouldn’t have my lambs killed the way my father had his for a kingdom. I’ll never forget the first one I saw butchered. I wouldn’t feel worse at a hanging now. And that white ox, Hattie you remember my telling you about him. He had to be killed, and father sent for the butcher. I was only a lad, and I was all of a shudder to have the life of the creature I had known taken from him. The butcher, stupid clown, gave him eight blows before he struck the right place. The ox bellowed, and turned his great black eyes on my father, and I fell in a faint.”

Miss Laura turned away, and Mrs. Wood followed her, saying: “If ever you want to kill a cat, Laura, give it cyanide of potassium. I killed a poor old sick cat for Mrs. Windham the other day. We put half a teaspoonful of pure cyanide of potassium in a long-handled wooden spoon, and dropped it on the cat’s tongue, as near the throat as we could. Poor pussy she died in a few seconds. Do you know, I was reading such a funny thing the other day about giving cats medicine. They hate it, and one can scarcely force it into their mouths on account of their sharp teeth. The way is, to smear it on their sides, and they lick it off. A good idea, isn’t it? Here we are at the hen douse, or rather one of the hen houses.”

“Don’t you keep your hens all together?” asked Miss Laura.

“Only in the winter time,” said Mrs. Wood, “I divide my flock in the spring. Part of them stay here and part go to the orchard to live in little movable houses that we put about in different places. I feed each flock morning and evening at their own little house. They know they’ll get no food even if they come to my house, so they stay at home. And they know they’ll get no food between times, so all day long they pick and scratch in the orchard, and destroy so many bugs and insects that it more than pays for the trouble of keeping them there.”

“Doesn’t this flock want to mix up with the other?” asked Miss Laura, as she stepped into the little wooden house.

“No; they seem to understand. I keep my eye on them for a while at first, and they soon find out that they’re not to fly either over the garden fence or the orchard fence. They roam over the farm and pick up what they can get. There’s a good deal of sense in hens, if one manages them properly. I love them because they are such good mothers.”

We were in the little wooden house by this time, and I looked around it with surprise. It was better than some of the poor people’s houses in Fairport. The walls were white and clean, so were the little ladders that led up to different kinds of roosts, where the fowls sat at night. Some roosts were thin and round, and some were broad and flat. Mrs. Wood said that the broad ones were for a heavy fowl called the Brahma. Every part of the little house was almost as light as it was outdoors, on account of the large windows.

Miss Laura spoke of it. “Why, auntie, I never saw such a light hen house.”

Mrs. Wood was diving into a partly shut-in place, where it was not so light, and where the nests were. She straightened herself up, her face redder than ever, and looked at the windows with a pleased smile.

“Yes, there’s not a hen house in New Hampshire with such big windows. Whenever I look at them, I think of my mother’s hens, and wish that they could have had a place like this. They would have thought themselves in a hen’s paradise. When I was a girl we didn’t know that hens loved light and heat, and all winter they used to sit in a dark hencoop, and the cold was so bad that their combs would freeze stiff, and the tops of them would drop off. We never thought about it. If we’d had any sense, we might have watched them on a fine day go and sit on the compost heap and sun themselves, and then have concluded that if they liked light and heat outside, they’d like it inside. Poor biddies, they were so cold that they wouldn’t lay us any eggs in winter.”

“You take a great interest in your poultry, don’t you, auntie?” said Miss Laura.

“Yes, indeed, and well I may. I’ll show you my brown Leghorn, Jenny, that lay eggs enough in a year to pay for the newspapers I take to keep myself posted in poultry matters. I buy all my own clothes with my hen money, and lately I’ve started a bank account, for I want to save up enough to start a few stands of bees. Even if I didn’t want to be kind to my hens, it would pay me to be so for sake of the profit they yield. Of course they’re quite a lot of trouble. Sometimes they get vermin on them, and I have to grease them and dust carbolic acid on them, and try some of my numerous cures. Then I must keep ashes and dust wallows for them and be very particular about my eggs when hens are sitting, and see that the hens come off regularly for food and exercise. Oh, there are a hundred things I have to think of, but I always say to any one that thinks of raising poultry: ‘If you are going into the business for the purpose of making money, it pays to take care of them.’”

“There’s one thing I notice,” said Miss Laura, “and that is that your drinking fountains must be a great deal better than the shallow pans that I have seen some people give their hens water in.”

“Dirty things they are,” said Mrs. Wood; “I wouldn’t use one of them. I don’t think there is anything worse for hens than drinking dirty water. My hens must have as clean water as I drink myself, and in winter I heat it for them. If it’s poured boiling into the fountains in the morning, it keeps warm till night. Speaking of shallow drinking dishes, I wouldn’t use them, even before I ever heard of a drinking fountain. John made me something that we read about. He used to take a powder keg and bore a little hole in the side, about an inch from the top, then fill it with water, and cover with a pan a little larger round than the keg. Then he turned the keg upside down, without taking away the pan. The water ran into the pan only as far as the hole in the keg, and it would have to be used before more would flow in. Now let us go and see my beautiful, bronze turkeys. They don’t need any houses, for they roost in the trees the year round.”

We found the flock of turkeys, and Miss Laura admired their changeable colors very much. Some of them were very large, and I did not like them, for the gobblers ran at me, and made a dreadful noise in their throats.

Afterward, Mrs. Wood showed us some ducks that she had shut up in a yard. She said that she was feeding them on vegetable food, to give their flesh a pure flavor, and by-and-by she would send them to market and get a high price for them.

Every place she took us to was as clean as possible. “No one can be successful in raising poultry in large numbers,” she said, “unless they keep their quarters clean and comfortable.”

As yet we had seen no hens, except a few on the nests, and Miss Laura said, “Where are they? I should like to see them.”

“They are coming,” said Mrs. Wood. “It is just their breakfast time, and they are as punctual as clockwork. They go off early in the morning, to scratch about a little for themselves first.”

As she spoke she stepped off the plank walk and looked off towards the fields.

Miss Laura burst out laughing. Away beyond the barns the hens were coming. Seeing Mrs. Wood standing there, they thought they were late, and began to run and fly, jumping over each other’s backs, and stretching out their necks, in a state of great excitement. Some of their legs seemed slicking straight out behind. It was very funny to see them.

They were a fine-looking lot of poultry, mostly white, with glossy feathers and bright eyes. They greedily ate the food scattered to them and Mrs. Wood said, “They think I’ve changed their breakfast time, and to-morrow they’ll come a good bit earlier. And yet some people say hens have no sense.”