The Command re-embarked, and reached Roanoke Island the morning after the engagement, in time for the regulation “Hospital or Sick Call,” which that day brought together an unusual number of patients, and among them Carlo, who was asked to join the waiting line by one of the wounded men. When his turn came to be inspected by the attending surgeon, he was told to hold up the wounded leg, which he readily did, and then followed the washing, the application of simple cerate, and the bandaging, with a considerable show of interest and probable satisfaction. Thereafter, there was no occasion to extend to him an invitation to attend the Surgeon’s inspection. Each morning, as soon as the bugle call was sounded, he would take his place in line with the other patients, advance to his turn, and receive the usual treatment. This habitcontinued until the wound was healed. Always, after this, to every friendly greeting, he would respond by holding up the wounded leg for inspection, and he acted as though he thought that everybody was interested in the honorable scar that told the story of patriotic duty faithfully performed.
Later on, for some reason known to himself, Carlo transferred his special allegiance to Co. K, and maintained close connection with that Company until the end of his term of service. He was regarded by its members as a member of the Company mess, and was treated as one of them. But, notwithstanding his special attachments, there can be no reasonable doubt about his having considered himself a member of the regiment, clothed with certain powers and responsibilities. At the end of his term, he was fitted with a uniform—trousers, jacket, and fez, and, thus apparalled,marched up Broadway, immediately behind the band. He was soon after mustered out of the service, and received an honorable discharge, not signed with written characters, but attested by the good-will of every member of the regiment.
If alive to-day, he must be very old and decrepit; and I am sure that if he is, in his honorable old age his honest traits of character have not forsaken him. No doubt, he takes a just pride in the good service he rendered to his country in the years of its great trials, and it is fortunate that his having four legs has placed him beyond the temptation to join the ranks of the Grand Army of treasury looters, who have traded off the honorable name of soldier for that of the pensioned mercenary.
Among the gunboats doing duty on the inland waters of North Carolina, in the early Spring of 1862, which composed what Commodore Goldsborough designated his “Pasteboard Fleet,” was the Louisiana, commanded by Commander Alexander Murray, who was noted for his efficiency and good nature. His treatment of his crew made him one of the most popular officers in the whole fleet. He entered into all of their sports, and sympathized with the discomforts of forecastle life. He was fond of animalpets, and always welcomed the arrival of a new one. At the time of which I am writing, his ship carried quite a collection of tame birds and four-footed favorites.
Among them was a singular little character known as “Jeff.” He was a perfectly black pig of the “Racer Razor Back” order, which, at that time, were plentiful in the coast sections of the more southern of the slave-holding States. They were called “racers” because of their long legs, slender bodies, and great capacity for running; and “Razor Backs” on account of the prominence of the spinal column. The origin of this particular species of the porcine tribe is unknown, but there is a tradition to the effect that their progenitors were a part of the drove that came to the coast of Florida with De Soto when he started on the march which ended with the discovery of the Mississippi River. Historyrecords the fact that a large number of animals were brought from Spain for food, and that a considerable number of them succeeded in getting away from the expedition soon after the landing was effected.
Our particular specimen of this wandering tribe of natural marauders was captured by a boat’s crew of the Louisiana in one of the swamps adjacent to Currituck Sound, when he was a wee bit of an orphaned waif not much larger than an ostrich-egg. He was an ill-conditioned little mite that had probably been abandoned by a heartless mother, possibly while escaping from the prospective mess-kettle of a Confederate picket. In those days Confederate pickets were not very particular as to quality or kind of food, and I have a suspicion that even a “Razor Back” would have been a welcome addition to theirmenu.
When “Jeff” was brought on board, his pitiful condition excited the active sympathy of all, from the commander down to the smallest powder monkey, and numerous were the suggestions made as to the course of treatment for the new patient. The doctor was consulted, and, after a careful diagnosis, decided there was no organic disease: want of parental care, want of nourishment, and exposure, were held responsible for “Jeff’s” unfavorable condition. It was decided to put him on a light diet of milk, which proved an immediate success, for, within forty-eight hours after his first meal, the patient became as lively as possible. As days and weeks went on, there appeared an improvement of appetite that was quite phenomenal, but no accumulation of flesh. His legs and body grew longer; and, with this lengthening of parts, there came a development of intellectualacuteness that was particularly surprising. He attached himself to each individual of the ship. He had no favorites, but was hail-fellow-well-met with all. He developed all the playful qualities of a puppy, and reasoned out a considerable number of problems in his own way, without the aid of books or schoolmaster. His particular admirers declared that he learned the meaning of the different whistles of the boatswain: that he knew when the meal pennant was hoisted to the peak, could tell when the crew was beat to quarters for drill, and often proved the correctness of this knowledge by scampering off to take his place by one particular gun division which seemed to have taken his fancy.
I can testify personally to only one item in the schedule of his intellectual achievements. It is a custom in the navy for the commander of a ship to receive any officer of rank of either branchof the service at the gangway of the ship. In this act of courtesy he is always accompanied by the officer of the deck, and often by others that may happen to be at hand. After the advent of “Jeff,” whenever I went on board the Louisiana he was always at the gangway, and seemingly was deeply interested in the event. It may be said of him, generally, that he was overflowing with spirits, and took an active interest in all the daily routine work of his ship. He had a most pertinacious way of poking his nose into all sorts of affairs, not at all after the manner of the usual pig, but more like a village gossip who wants to know about everything that is going on in the neighborhood.
In the gradual development of “Jeff’s” character, it was discovered that he had none of the usual well-known traits of the pig. He was more like a petted and pampered dog, wasplayful, good-natured, and expressed pleasure, pain, anger, and desire, with various squeals and grunts, delivered with a variety of intonations that were very easily interpreted. He was never so happy as when in the lap of one of the sailors, having his back stroked. His pleasure upon those occasions was evinced by the emission of frequent good-natured grunts and looking up into the face of the friendly stroker. When on shore, he followed like a dog, and was never known to root. Except in speech and appearance, he was the counterpart of a happy, good-natured, and well-cared-for household dog—possibly, however, rather more intelligent than the average canine pet.
The Fourth of July, 1862, was a gala day at Roanoke Island. The camps of the island and the vessels in the harbor wereen grande fête. Colors were flying, bands playing, drums beating, patrioticsteam was up to high pressure, and a goodly number of glasses of “commissary” were consumed in wishing success to the cause. The good old day, so dear to the hearts of Americans, was made more glorious by the exchange of camp hospitalities and an indulgence in such simple hilarity as the occasion seemed to require; but “Jeff” was not forgotten. Early in the morning, he was bathed and scrubbed, more than to his heart’s content, and then patriotically decorated. In his right ear was a red ribbon, in his left a white one; around his neck another of blue, and at his mizzen, or, in other words, his tail, he carried a small Confederate flag. Thus adorned he was brought on shore to pay me a visit, and, as he came through my door, he appeared to be filled with the pride of patriotism and a realization of the greatness of the occasion. His reward for this unusualdemonstration was instantaneous, and consisted of some apples and a toothsome dessert of sugar. Afterward he made the round of the camps with a special escort of warrant officers and devoted Jack Tars. From after accounts it appeared that he had been so well received that his escort experienced much difficulty in finding their way back to the ship.
During this triumphant march over the island an incident occurred which developed the slumbering instinct of the swamp “racer.” In a second, as it were, and seemingly without cause, “Jeff” was seen to move off at a tremendous pace at right angles with the line of march. He was seen, after he had run a few yards, to make a great jump, and then remain in his tracks. The pursuing party found him actively engaged in demolishing a moccasin, which he had crushed byjumping and landing with his feet upon its head and back. Hogs of this particular kind are famous snake-killers. A big rattler or a garter snake is all the same to them. They advance to the attack with the greatest impetuosity, and a feast upon snake is the usual reward of exceptional bravery.
In his habits of eating, “Jeff” was a confirmed and persistentgourmand, and in time paid the usual penalty for over-indulgence of a very piggish sort of appetite. While the meal pennant was up, it was his habit to go from one forecastle mess to another, and to insist upon having rather more than his share of the choice morsels from each. In a short time he came to the repair shop very much the worse for wear, with an impaired digestion and a cuticle that showed unmistakable evidence of scurvy. For the first, he was put upon short rations; for the second,sand baths on shore were prescribed. Under this treatment poor “Jeff” lost all his buoyancy of spirits and his habitual friskiness, and became sad and dejected, but bore his troubles with becoming patience. He took to the cool sand baths at once, and gave forth many disgruntled grunts when lifted out of them.
The last time I saw “Jeff,” July 10, 1862, he was buried up to his ears in the cool sands of the Roanoke Island shore, with eyes upturned and looking like a very sad pig, but I fear none the wiser for his offences against the rights of a well-regulated digestion.
This account has not been written for the only purpose of glorifying the one particular pig, or pigs in general, but rather to call attention to the fact that this universally despised animal, by associating with human beings and receiving gentle treatment, may developinteresting traits of character, which would otherwise remain unknown; and also to prove that kindness bestowed upon lower animals may be appreciated and reciprocated in a manner which the upper animal, man, who boasts of his superiority, would do well to imitate.
The chief subject of this truthful history is a jet-black, middle-aged bird, commonly known in England as a rook, but nevertheless a notable specimen of the crow family.
In his babyhood he was, in the language of the ancient chroniclers, grievously hurt and wounded full sore, and particularly so in the left wing. He was so badly disabled that he had to forego the pleasure of flying through the air, and was obliged to content himself as best he could with trudging about on the rough surface of our common mother earth.
In his sad plight, with the maimed wing dragging painfully along, he chanced to pass the window of asanctumbelonging to and occupied by a charming old English gentleman, a perfect example of the old school, learned, benevolent, and very fond of animals and feathered pets. No one can tell what chance it was that brought the unhappy and wounded young rook to the window of this good man. But possibly it was a real inspiration on the part of the young bird. Toby was wet, weary, wounded, and hungry, and as he looked in upon the cheerful wood fire and the kindly face of the master of the house, his longing expression was met with a raising of the window and an invitation to walk in to a breakfast of corn and meal that had been hastily prepared for him. He gazed and thought, and thought and gazed, upon the joys within and stillhe doubted; but, finally, appetite and curiosity got the better of his discretion, and, as he walked cautiously in, the window was closed behind him. So the wounded waif entered upon a new life.
At first he was a little shy and cautious, and it took considerable time for him to convince himself that his protector was his friend. After a few weeks, however, he realized the value of his new position, and consented to the establishment of intimate relations. In fact, Toby became so attached to his master, and so affectionate, that he was not happy out of his presence.
During the first month of his captivity, his wounded wing was bound close to his body for the purpose of giving the fractured bone an opportunity to unite, and during most of that time he would walk by his master’s side, cawing and looking up into his face as ifasking for recognition. When the wing got well, and his ability to fly was re-established, he would anticipate the direction of the promenades by flying in advance from shrub to bush, alighting and awaiting the arrival of his master.
The most singular part of Toby’s domestication was his exclusive loyalty to a single person. He had but one intimate friend, and to him his loyalty was intense. He would tolerate the presence of other members of the household, but when strangers appeared he was decidedly offish, and scolded until they disappeared.
Three times a day Toby is decidedly funny, and goes through a comical performance. In his master’ssanctumthere is a contrivance which, on a small scale, resembles the old New England well-pole. At one end, which rests upon the floor, Toby commences his ascent with a great flapping of wings and uproariouscawing. When he arrives at the upper end of the pole, some eight or nine feet from the floor, it falls and lands him upon a platform, beside a plate containing his food. This climbing up the pole precedes each meal, and takes place punctually at the same hour and minute of each day.
In the spring of 1890 Toby was tempted from his loyalty, and flew off with a marauding flock of his kind. He remained away all summer. He was missed but not mourned, for his master felt certain he would return; and, sure enough, one bleak, cold morning in November, Toby was found looking longingly into the room where he had first seen his good master. The window was opened, he walked in and mounted his pole, and after him came a companion, a meek, modest, and timid young rook, more confiding than Toby, and differing from him in many other respects.He, too, was duly adopted, and was christened Jocko. He was easily domesticated, and soon became a part of theentourageof one of the finest old Bedfordshire manorial homes.
With age Toby has taken on quite an amount of dignity. He is neither so noisy nor so companionable as formerly, but is more staid and useful. One of his favorite resting places, where he enjoys his after breakfast contemplations and his afternoon siestas, is among the branches of a fine old English oak, whose protecting shades, in the far-off past, were the scene of the stolen love-meetings of Amy Wentworth and the profligate Duke of Monmouth.
Neither of these knowing birds has been able to understand the mystery of a looking-glass. They spend many hours of patient investigation before a mirror in their master’s room, but all to no purpose, for the puzzle seems to remainas great as ever. They usually walk directly up to it, and betray great surprise when they find two other rooks advancing to meet them. For a while they remain silent and motionless, looking at the strangers, and waiting, apparently, for some sign of recognition. Then they go through a considerable flapping of wings and indulge in numerous caws, but after long waiting for an audible response they give up the useless effort, only to return next day as eager as ever to solve the mystery.
The older bird and his admiring junior are perfectly contented with their home, and never leave it. They often look out from their perches upon various wandering flocks of vagrant rooks, but are never tempted to new adventures. The old fellow is very wise. Like a fat old office-holder, he knows enough to appreciate a sinecure in which the emolumentsare liberal and the service nominal. His devoted follower never falters in his dutiful imitation of his benefactor.
Toby proves by his actions that he appreciates the advantages of the situation, and in his simple way makes some return for the pleasures he enjoys. During a considerable portion of the pleasant days of the year he is in reality the watchman upon the tower, ever on the outlook to give notice of the approach of visitors to his castle, and no one can intrude upon the premises under his self-appointed watchmanship without exciting vigorous caws, which are enthusiastically reinforced by those of his faithful subordinate. Aside from his affectionate devotion to his master, displayed as often as occasion permits, this duty of “chief watchman of the castle” is Toby’s most substantial return for favors received!
In a letter of last May, the masterwrote: “My two crows are sitting on chairs close to me, and cawing to me that it is time for me to let them out of the window, so I must obey.” This quotation gives but a faint intimation of the exceptionally friendly relations existing between these devoted friends. Blessed are the birds that can inspire such affection in the heart of a noble old man, and doubly blessed is he who is the object of such loving appreciation. Long may they all live to enjoy the fulness of their mutual attachments!
This brief sketch is not intended for an amusing story. It is only a narration of facts in support of an often repeated theory, viz: that the humblest creatures are worthy of our tender consideration, and, when properly treated, will make pleasing returns for the affection we may bestow upon them.
In 1877, at his English home, I first made the acquaintance of “Max,” a fine specimen of a Dandy Dinmont dog. He was of the usual size, with brown, velvety eyes—very expressive—a long body, tail, and ears, coarse hair of a blackish brown and light-tan color, and with short legs, not particularly straight. The ancient Greeks, with their severe ideas regarding lines of beauty, would not have called him beautiful to the sight. But, notwithstanding his looks, he was, to all who knew him well, very beautiful;for he was a dog of marked intelligence and superior moral character. So fine was his sense of integrity that a most delicious and canine-tempting bone might remain within his reach for days without his touching it, no matter if he were ever so hungry.
His usual daily occupation commenced with a very early walk with his master. Then, in regular order, after the family and guests had breakfasted, the butler would give him his napkin, folded in his own private ring, which he would carry from the dining-room to the kitchen, where it would be spread upon a table, slightly raised from the floor, arranged for serving his food. After the morning meal had been eaten, his napkin would be refolded, and he would return it to the butler. The same routine was always repeated for dinner. His time until evening, if possible, was devoted to his master, ofwhom he was exceedingly fond, but he would sometimes walk with the guests when told to do so by his master, to whom he always appealed when invited for a promenade by a stranger.
Every day, after dinner, when the family and guests had assembled in the drawing-room, “Max” would insist upon giving his regular daily exhibition, and there was no peace from his importunities until he had completed the usual performance. His master always carried with him from the dinner table a biscuit which, in the drawing-room, he would hold up and say: “Max, I have a biscuit for you. Can’t you give us a little dance and a song?” Whereupon he would commence to turn around upon his hind feet, at the same time doing his best in the direction of singing a very doleful sort of a song, all the while looking exceedingly grave, the result of his abnormaleffort. This part of the daily programme was so exceedingly comical that it always excited unbounded applause from the audience. The dance would go on until the master called out “enough,” when the performer would stop and look imploringly into his master’s face, as if asking him if he might continue the performance, which consisted of his master going through the motion of firing, accompanied with a noise which passed, in the doggish mind, for the explosion of a gun, and was a signal for the actor to fall down apparently dead, with eyes firmly closed, and keeping perfectly quiet. In this position he would remain until his master told him to come to life. The biscuit would then be given him, and that would end each day’s work, by which he, we may infer, believed he earned his daily bread.
With passing time my little friendtook on the garb of age, and, a few years before his end, became totally blind, and among the most pathetic sights I ever witnessed were his attempts to see his friends. I had been so many times at his home that he had come to know me almost as one of the family, and at each visit, after his loss of sight, as the carriage drove up to the front door, when recognizing my voice, as I spoke to his master, he would put his paws upon the steps of the carriage and wag me a hearty welcome, at the same time trying his best to see me.
His career ended in November, 1883, when his master buried him near a garden gate, put a neat wire fence around his grave, and planted flowers over his remains. And now those who may chance to go to Toddington will find embedded into the garden wall a handsome marble slab, with a mortuary inscription and a verse composed byhis kind master engraved upon it, which runs as follows:
“MAXDied, November, 1883.
“MAX
Died, November, 1883.
If ever dog deserved a tearFor fondness and fidelity,That darling one lies buried hereBemourned in all sincerity.”
If ever dog deserved a tear
For fondness and fidelity,
That darling one lies buried here
Bemourned in all sincerity.”
One bright morning in the month of November, 1879, the front door of my house was opened, and there came bounding through it and up the flight of stairs, the most vivacious, clean, and inquiring little dog imaginable. As soon as he arrived upon the second floor, calls came to him from several directions at the same time, and he did his best to answer them all at the same moment; all the while barking and dancing around in the most frantic and delighted manner. Within five minutesafter hisdébut, he was perfectly at home and upon the best of terms with the entire household.
The name of this new member of the family was “Phiz,” and his alleged place of nativity Yorkshire, England. In other words, he was a pure Yorkshire terrier in descent, a mixture of blue, light gray, and silver in color; in size a little larger than the average dog of that breed, and, as one of his dog-expert friends often remarked: “He is one of the doggiest dogs of his size I have ever known.” This was literally true, for there never was a more manly and courageous little animal. In his prime, his bravery was far beyond the point of reckless indiscretion, and any dog whose appearance did not happen to please him, he would attack, no matter how large, or under what disadvantageous circumstances. The severe shakings and rough tumbles of to-day were forgotten by themorrow, which found him ever ready for a new encounter.
The red-letter events in his active life occurred in Madison Square, which he would enter as though shot from a catapult; and woe of woes to the unfortunate plethoric pug which might happen to pass his way! It was his habit when he saw one of these stupid and helpless unfortunates to “ring on full steam and board him head-on mid-ships.” For a few seconds after the coming together, there would be visible a comical mixture of quick moving legs, tails, and ears, and a frantic attempt on the part of the astonished pug to emit a wheezy sound of alarm, followed by a condition of most abject submission. “Phiz,” standing over the prostrate body of his victim, head erect, tail and ears stiffened with pride of victory, made a picture of doggish vanity, once seen, never to be forgotten. These scenes, inthe warm season, were almost of daily occurrence, much to the chagrin of many pug-loving dames.
“Phiz” only amused himself with the innocent pug (for he never was known to offer to bite one), but he was always savagely in earnest in his demonstrations of detestation of the face-making, ever-yelling average street small boy. And he had no special love for the undersized butcher’s and grocer’s assistant, whom he delighted to attack whenever he could waylay them in a dark passage between the kitchen and front basement hall. Some of these attacks were so sudden, fierce, and unexpected, and were attended with such a volume of snarls and barks, that the grocer’s boy had been known to drop his basket of eggs, and run as if pursued by a terrible beast of huge dimensions.
As the subject of this sketch took onadditional years, he accumulated much knowledge, and, by the time he had accomplished the mature age of six, he was far more wise than any serpent the writer had ever known. He had never been taught to perform tricks, nor had been in any manner trained, but by his own observation he had managed to pick up a world of useful information, which proved of great value to him. Among his acquirements he had learned how to make known, in an original and intelligent manner, all the wants of a well-bred dog. He could tell those around him when he desired to go up or down stairs, call for water or food, ask to go out, and give a note of warning when a stranger was coming up the street steps, but he was never known to bark at the like approach of one of the family or a friend.
One of his undeviating customs was the morning call at the chambers of hismaster and his mistress, when he would first make himself known by a very delicate scratch upon the door. If not answered, then another and more vigorous scratch; still no response, then a gentle bark of interrogation, and then, if the door was not opened, would come a most commanding full-voiced bark, saying as plainly as possible: “Why don’t you let me in?” These gradations from the lesser to the greater in effort and tones, all in the direction of asking for a certain thing, proves conclusively the presence of powers to reason developed to a considerable degree.
“Phiz” was selfishly interested in three things: a walk, cats generally, and dogs particularly; and no conversation relating to these could take place in his presence without exciting his active attention. When these subjects were being discussed he would leavehis couch and go from one conversationalist to another, looking up into their faces in the most inquisitive manner, all the while making a great mental effort to understand exactly what they were saying.
His most remarkable manifestations of intelligence would occur at the time when his master and mistress were about to leave their home for their usual summer absence of about six months. On the first two or three occasions of this kind he came to the carriage to wag a good-bye. Later he must have arrived at the conclusion that certain preparations meant a long period of loneliness for him, and then, from the commencement of “putting things away” and packing boxes, he would appear very much dejected—no more cheery barks and frisky wags, but, on the contrary, he would show great depression of spirits, and, finally,when the time arrived for the carriage and for carrying out the baggage, “Phiz” would hide in some out-of-the-way place, there to nurse his grief, undisturbed and unseen.
The subject of this sketch reached the ripe old age of eleven with all functions and faculties unimpaired, save sight, which, we are compelled to record, was totally obscured. I happened to be with him when he came to the painful realization of his great misfortune. It was during his accustomed late-in-the-afternoon walk. Failing to find his way along the sidewalk he had stopped, while I, without seeing him, had passed on, but only for a short distance, when I was attracted by a most pitiful and grief-stricken cry. I looked around, and there was my poor little friend and companion, sitting close to the lower stone of a flight of steps, with his nose pointed straight up to the heavens, andcrying as though his heart would break. I hurried to him, took him gently in my arms, and carried him to his box, which he hardly left for many days. His grief was so intense that he refused to eat or be cheerful, and made very faint responses to the most affectionate advances. Within a week or more, however, he began to resume his interest in affairs, having, no doubt, like human beings similarly afflicted, through process of reasoning, become reconciled to his misfortune.
If he had been a man instead of a dog, he would have had an easy chair, a pipe, and, in his moods of vainglory, fought his many battles over and over again. But, as he was only a dog, he found his way about the house as best he could, varying occasionally his dull routine by a short promenade over the paths which were once the race-track of his wild and gleeful prancings.And thus he passed on to that everlasting night, from whence no dog whether good or bad has ever returned to wag a solution of the mysteries which must have puzzled the minds of many generations of wise and philosophical dogs.
I passed a portion of the summer of 1890 at Banff, a fascinating resort in the heart of the Canadian Rockies, established and controlled by the Canadian Pacific Railway Company.
It would be very difficult to find a more charming and picturesque location for a summer resting-place. The hotel is situated about four thousand five hundred feet above the sea-level, and is nearly surrounded by lofty peaks and mountain-ranges which present a great variety of rugged outline.
To the venturesome mountaineer,the inducements to climb seem almost endless. In the immediate vicinity of the hotel, there is a choice of ascents of from six to eleven thousand feet. Most of them may be made by any one who has a cool head, a sure foot, and sufficient endurance; but there are two or three which ought to be undertaken only by experienced mountaineers. I made several of the lesser ascents alone, and, in each instance, against the advice of inexperienced and timid persons, who declared that I would either be dashed to pieces, by falling down a precipice, or devoured by bears, which are supposed to be rather plentiful.
My last climb was to the top of the middle peak of the “Sulphur Range.” It was neither difficult nor dangerous; but the view from the little table at the top was simply wonderful. As far as the eye could see, in any direction, were mountain peaks, none coveredwith snow, but all presenting magnificent rock-formations of a character which is quite peculiar, I believe, to that part of the great American range.
The little table at the top of the peak is about thirty feet in diameter and is covered with broken rock. While sitting there, musing upon the natural wonders by which I was surrounded, I noticed the approach of two chipmunks, coming up from the side of the mountain. They halted when they saw a strange animal; but, finally, after sitting upright for a short time and giving me a deliberate and careful stare, they concluded to come on, and presently they discovered a little clump of stunted grass growing from a crevice between the rocks, which they proceeded to despoil of its dwarfed seeds. When they had finished their scanty meal they looked about for something else to eat. Feeling sure of their desires, I crushed asoft biscuit into small pieces, and dropped them at my feet; and soon my little friends were busy eating the crumbs, apparently quite unconscious of the fact that they were within easy range of an animal supposed to have been created in the image of his Maker, but the only one which kills for the sake of killing, and boasts of the pleasure he derives from the destruction of innocent animal life.
Within a very few minutes this pair of little innocents became quite familiar, and the crumbs continued to fall until they had filled their stomachs and then the ample pouches on each side of their jaws. Thus loaded they presented a most comical appearance. When I rose to my feet their surprise made them appear still more comical. They were inclined at first to scamper off, but, upon reflection, concluded they would see the whole show; and, as I movedover to the edge of the table, to go down the mountain, they followed a short distance, and gave me a most quizzical parting glance, which said as plainly as their little faces could express their thoughts: “Good-bye. Be sure to come again, and don’t forget the biscuits.”
This is not a story; it is only an incident which proves what confiding little fools the chipmunks were to trust themselves within reach of a specimen of that tribe of superior animals which delights in the destruction of life, kills for pleasure, and enjoys the infliction of pain upon innocent and helpless creatures.
The excuse for their confiding folly consisted in the fact that they had never seen a man before.
For fully a third of a century the large elephant bearing the name of the great discoverer was well known to all the “Show” loving inhabitants of our country. He was remarkable for his great size and bad temper, and, if he had been left in his native wilds, might have established a notable reputation as a rogue elephant. His keepers were of the opinion that he made the mistake of his life when he became a mere show animal, engagingin an occupation that required a certain amount of decent behavior.
It was said of him that he was a very reasonable sort of an animal when permitted to have his own way, but never submitted to confinement with any sort of grace. He was always enraged at being chained to the ring or stake, and sometimes decreed capital punishment, which he executed himself, for the unfortunate keeper who was guilty of the offence of chaining him. He was very much given to breaking and bolting, and when once in the open, and fairly on the go, he became a very dangerous customer, and his keeper, if wise, would give him a wide field until his rampage was finished.
One among the many of them, who died in the seventies, was his friend, and never had any trouble with him, and he always insisted that the lively escapades of his ponderous charge werethe result of an all absorbing longing for liberty. He used to describe the magnificent old pachyderm as the living embodiment of a justifiable revolt. He had not much sympathy for the keepers who had been executed, nor did he have much respect for their knowledge or discretion. According to his theory, they were mere machines for so much per month; they never studied the character or feelings of the splendid animal in their charge; they were inconsiderate, unnecessarily harsh and cruel, and, from the unnaturally-confined elephant’s standpoint, in most instances got what they deserved.
The Columbus incident, of which an account is to follow, was not a particularly exceptional one, and the description of it was written by the friendly old keeper who had charge of the hero of it during two consecutive years back in the thirties. The narration is a modestone, and its phraseology proves it to have been written by a man of rare courage. It was printed in a Cincinnati newspaper in the month of February, 1870, and is now given, with the editorial head note just as it appeared.
“THE ELEPHANT COLUMBUS.”“Letter from another witness of his rampage near New Orleans.”“The account of the rampage of the elephant Columbus near New Orleans, in 1839, which we published some time since, has refreshed the memories of many old showmen, and as we are always glad to publish anything of interest to them, we give the following letter, which we think will prove entertaining to our readers generally:South Pomfret, Vt.,January 30, 1870.
“THE ELEPHANT COLUMBUS.”
“Letter from another witness of his rampage near New Orleans.”
“The account of the rampage of the elephant Columbus near New Orleans, in 1839, which we published some time since, has refreshed the memories of many old showmen, and as we are always glad to publish anything of interest to them, we give the following letter, which we think will prove entertaining to our readers generally:
South Pomfret, Vt.,January 30, 1870.
To the Editor of theChronicle:I have just received a copy of your paper, of December 31, 1869. I do not think the statementheaded ‘A Curious Circus Reminiscence’ is quite correct. At that time I was the advertiser of one branch of the Combined Circus and Menagerie. We were to exhibit in Algiers until the 7th of January, and in New Orleans on the 8th, that being the most popular day with the people of that city. William Crum was driving Hannibal, and George Potter Columbus. It was Crum’s horse that was knocked down, and Crum was killed. Samuel Ward and myself were standing within ten feet of Crum when he was killed. We had a bet on the height of the two elephants, and that was the reason why they were brought alongside of each other. Columbus was shot under the eye before he killed the drayman. We did not exhibit in Algiers. The people were too much frightened to attend. So we went to New Orleans on the 1st of January, instead of waiting until the 8th.On the same evening the difficulty occurred, James Raymond and James Humphrey, proprietors, came to me and wanted I should go and look after Columbus. I told them I would if John Carley would go with me. I knew him to be an old elephant man. They asked him: he said he would like to go, but was sick and would rather be excused. The next morning GeorgeGrowe, a young green hand, who came with Foster’s company, volunteered to go with me. I must confess that when he came forward it cooled my courage, but two horses were saddled and brought to the door. I mounted mine in rather a confused state of mind, wishing myself anywhere except where I was. When we started out it was dark and foggy. I told Growe to go ahead, and, after going about half a mile, we put up for the night on a flatboat. At daylight the next morning we started again, and proceeded down the river about nine miles, where we found Columbus in a canefield, with his head against a pecan tree, asleep. I may now remark that Growe’s courage had somewhat cooled off, and he had fallen some half mile to my rear. I rode toward the elephant until I got within hailing distance, and then spoke to him to come to me. He raised up and began shaking his head. Presently he started for me the best he could, and my horse did a good business getting out of his way. He followed me for about six miles, and then came to a halt in front of a large pile of lumber on the levee, which he proceeded to throw into the river as fast as possible, and then started after me at a more moderate gait. When we got in front ofa church at Algiers he made a second halt. I then told him to lie down, and, to my astonishment, he obeyed. I got off from my horse, took my knife, stuck it in his ear and held him down until assistance came from the canvas, which was about half a mile off; then Growe took him by the ear and led him to the canvas, and, the same day, we crossed over to New Orleans. Growe took care of him all that winter and left with him in the spring, but was killed by him the next summer, as I learned afterward.Poor Crum met with a terrible death. Columbus’ tusk entered his groin and came out at his shoulder, going through the entire length of his body.These are some of the exact facts as they occurred for I was on the spot, and saw the whole affair. I could say much more, but do not think it necessary.”
To the Editor of theChronicle:
I have just received a copy of your paper, of December 31, 1869. I do not think the statementheaded ‘A Curious Circus Reminiscence’ is quite correct. At that time I was the advertiser of one branch of the Combined Circus and Menagerie. We were to exhibit in Algiers until the 7th of January, and in New Orleans on the 8th, that being the most popular day with the people of that city. William Crum was driving Hannibal, and George Potter Columbus. It was Crum’s horse that was knocked down, and Crum was killed. Samuel Ward and myself were standing within ten feet of Crum when he was killed. We had a bet on the height of the two elephants, and that was the reason why they were brought alongside of each other. Columbus was shot under the eye before he killed the drayman. We did not exhibit in Algiers. The people were too much frightened to attend. So we went to New Orleans on the 1st of January, instead of waiting until the 8th.
On the same evening the difficulty occurred, James Raymond and James Humphrey, proprietors, came to me and wanted I should go and look after Columbus. I told them I would if John Carley would go with me. I knew him to be an old elephant man. They asked him: he said he would like to go, but was sick and would rather be excused. The next morning GeorgeGrowe, a young green hand, who came with Foster’s company, volunteered to go with me. I must confess that when he came forward it cooled my courage, but two horses were saddled and brought to the door. I mounted mine in rather a confused state of mind, wishing myself anywhere except where I was. When we started out it was dark and foggy. I told Growe to go ahead, and, after going about half a mile, we put up for the night on a flatboat. At daylight the next morning we started again, and proceeded down the river about nine miles, where we found Columbus in a canefield, with his head against a pecan tree, asleep. I may now remark that Growe’s courage had somewhat cooled off, and he had fallen some half mile to my rear. I rode toward the elephant until I got within hailing distance, and then spoke to him to come to me. He raised up and began shaking his head. Presently he started for me the best he could, and my horse did a good business getting out of his way. He followed me for about six miles, and then came to a halt in front of a large pile of lumber on the levee, which he proceeded to throw into the river as fast as possible, and then started after me at a more moderate gait. When we got in front ofa church at Algiers he made a second halt. I then told him to lie down, and, to my astonishment, he obeyed. I got off from my horse, took my knife, stuck it in his ear and held him down until assistance came from the canvas, which was about half a mile off; then Growe took him by the ear and led him to the canvas, and, the same day, we crossed over to New Orleans. Growe took care of him all that winter and left with him in the spring, but was killed by him the next summer, as I learned afterward.
Poor Crum met with a terrible death. Columbus’ tusk entered his groin and came out at his shoulder, going through the entire length of his body.
These are some of the exact facts as they occurred for I was on the spot, and saw the whole affair. I could say much more, but do not think it necessary.”
The writer of this letter was for two years the constant and interested companion and friend of, possibly, the most unruly and bad-tempered elephant ever exhibited in the United States, and the reason he got along with him withoutaccident was that he devoted his undivided attention to his charge, studied his character, gave him frequent opportunities for bathing, and as much liberty as circumstances would permit.
The old keeper used to say that Columbus “was full of odd whims and more given to mischief than malice.” When there was any hard work to be done, like lifting cage wagons out of the mud, or clearing roads of fallen trees, he was always ready to do his full share, and was never so happy as when actively engaged in some laborious occupation. Once in a while he would take it into his head that he would like a good run and an opportunity to indulge in mischief, such as uprooting trees, scattering fence rails, pulling off barn doors that happened to be standing open, etc. etc. It was his habit to signify his desire, after the “show was over,” by trumpeting nervously,dancing in his elephantine way, and tugging at his chain. These notifications did not come very often, but when they did, if not too inconvenient, his request was complied with. These calls never came just before the performance or while it was in progress. The mischief-loving old sinner was far too wise for that, for he had a most lively appreciation of the usual inflow of goodies from the boys and girls who were courageous enough to encounter the danger of “feeding the elephant.”
The last conversation I had with the successful old keeper, only a year before his death, was about his singular charge, and he insisted upon the truthfulness of his old theory—that the elephant was not naturally bad, but hated confinement, demanded kindness and consideration from those who were the visible instruments used in depriving him of his liberty, and, when he receivedneither, revenged himself by killing the tyrants who were depriving him of the freedom to which he was naturally entitled.
My old friend used to say: “It’s awfully hard lines for such a magnificent old beast as Columbus was to be tied up and deprived of liberty, and, if I had been in his place, I would have killed more fools of keepers than he did. Why, the old elephant was just as smart as any of us. He had thought the whole thing out for himself and put the boot on the right leg every time. He knew we’d no right to confine him the way we did, and made up his mind to be judge, jury, and executioner, and in his time he did a lot of killing. I don’t quite remember how many he made away with; some put it as high as ten, but I guess seven or eight would be about correct.
“When I was first asked to takecharge of Columbus, I was in the business part of the ‘Show,’ and had never thought of becoming an elephant-driver. But somehow, without effort or knowing why, I got well acquainted with the old fellow, and, although often warned of his dangerous amusements, was never afraid of him.
“During the winter of 183- and 183- we were in quarters at C——. The confinement had been long and close, and during the whole winter Columbus had been restive and cross. When it came time to start out for the summer’s business no one could be found to drive him. So, as a last resort, the owners offered me a large salary for the job. I had no fear concerning the success of the undertaking, but hesitated about becoming a professional ‘elephant-man,’ but the big pay was a great temptation, and I yielded.
“The first few days after we startedout upon the road, my charge was cross and cranky, and I had to watch him all the time as a cat would a mouse. Upon one occasion, when against my orders, just for the mere deviltry of the thing, he went out of his way to turn over a plantation cart that was standing by the roadside, I went for him savagely, with hook and spear, and gave him a big dose of something he didn’t want; he soon had enough, threw up his trunk, and yelled like a schoolboy being flogged.
“This submission proved to be his complete surrender to my will, and from that time we got on like a pair of loving brothers. We became strong friends, and I used to talk to the old rascal as I would to a human being. I have always believed he understood more than half I said to him.
“He became very fond of our morning race. It was the custom to startearly in the morning—never later than four o’clock. When we would get fairly out of a village where we had exhibited the day before, I would ride up alongside and ask him if he would like a run, he would answer by throwing up his trunk, giving a trumpet sound of joy, and starting off at a stiff gait, keeping it up until I called a halt, and, if we happened to be near a stream deep enough to hold him, he would take to it, and stay until the rest of the show came up.
“No, I never had much difficulty in getting along with Columbus. From the start he found out I was not afraid of him, and that I would give it to him if he cut up any of his wicked capers; and he also came to understand that I was his indulgent friend who humored many of his harmless whims and treated him kindly.
“At the end of two years I was bothglad and sorry to leave him. The watchful confinement had become irksome, and I was sure that as soon as I would leave him he would get into trouble,—which he did, and had a bad time of it to the end of his days. I have always felt kind of sorry for having put the knife through his ear, and never would have done it if I had not been excited and scart half out of my wits. If I had given my common sense half a chance, it would have told me that his lying down was a sign of recognition of authority, and that he was willing to throw up the sponge and behave himself. But I guess he forgave me, for, whenever afterwards I went near him, he would give me the old time friendly greeting.
“It’s many years now since I left the show business, and I’ve thought the whole thing over, and concluded it’s all wrong. The confinement is unnatural and cruel. Even the little animals incages, while they seem to be happy, are as miserable as they can be. Take a careful look at them when they are not tired out or asleep, and you will find an anxious expression on all their faces—a sort of looking out of their cages for some one to come along and open the door.
“The great cat tribe, Lions, Tigers, Leopards, Panthers, and the rest of them, are always pushing their noses against the bars for liberty, and are usually pretty cross because they can’t get it.
“At any rate, it’s pleasant for me to look back upon my many years of intercourse with the poor creatures, and to feel that I never, save in the single instance, treated one of them unkindly.”
Assisting in the two years of successful management of Columbus was the inevitable “elephant dog,” who was his constant companion and friend.They slept together nights and tramped side by side during the days, and often, when the elephant would not obey his keeper, the faithful companion would, in some mysterious way, induce his huge friend to do the reasonable and behave himself like a respectable and order loving beast.
I have forgotten the manner of the taking off of the old slave of the “Show,” but he, with his friendly keeper, who to the end of his days was his champion, have long since passed on to that mysterious resting place from which neither man nor elephant have sent any message back, and let us hope that after their many trampings, and as a reward for the many miseries endured while upon earth, that they are now enjoying the rewards bestowed upon the forgiven and blest.