The Project Gutenberg eBook ofBetter Than MenThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Better Than MenAuthor: Rush C. HawkinsRelease date: November 1, 2016 [eBook #53423]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Rick Morris, MFR and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BETTER THAN MEN ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Better Than MenAuthor: Rush C. HawkinsRelease date: November 1, 2016 [eBook #53423]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Rick Morris, MFR and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Title: Better Than Men
Author: Rush C. Hawkins
Author: Rush C. Hawkins
Release date: November 1, 2016 [eBook #53423]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Rick Morris, MFR and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BETTER THAN MEN ***
“CHARLIE”“CHARLIE”
“CHARLIE”
BETTER THAN MENBYRUSH C. HAWKINSLeafJ. W. BOUTONTEN WEST TWENTY-EIGHT STREETNEW YORK1896Copyright, 1896, byJ. W. Bouton
BYRUSH C. HAWKINS
Leaf
J. W. BOUTONTEN WEST TWENTY-EIGHT STREETNEW YORK1896
Copyright, 1896, byJ. W. Bouton
TO MY BELOVED AND LOVING WIFE, EVER FAITHFUL AND TRUE, WHOSE GOODNESS PASSETH ALL UNDERSTANDING
The title chosen for the following sketches, written for the purpose of presenting certain prominent characteristics of the lower animals worthy of the attention of the human animal, stands for rather a serious proposition which may be questioned by a majority of those readers whose kindly interest in our mute friends has not already been seriously awakened.
To write so that those who read may infer that a certain selected number of so-called lower animals are better, by nature and conduct, in certain elementalvirtues, than men, is, to say the least, rather imprudent, and to the optimistic student of human nature may appear irreverent to an unpardonable degree. Usually, to the minds of such observers, humanity is accepted for its traditional value, regardless of established conditions or inherent actualities. Such investigators investigate only one side of their subject. They start out handicapped with the old theory that in every respect the human animal is superior to every other, without attempting to analyze unseen interior conditions, whether natural or developed.
In relation to natural conditions, the large majority of Christian sects are perfectly logical. They lay down as a clearly established fundamental fact that all human beings, owing to what they designate as Adam’s fall, are born into this world morally corrupt and completely depraved, but that theyhave within their control for ready application an appropriate panacea for a certain cure of these natural defects. But the optimist neither admits the disease nor the necessity for cure; he says always, at least inferentially, that all human beings come into the world in a state of innocence and purity, and that their few defects represent a certain amount of degeneration.
Both of these theories may be wrong. It is possible that all children come into the world with a certain number of well-known natural qualities—good, bad, strong, and weak—in no two alike, and for which they are in no way responsible; and that what they become in their mature years depends largely, if not entirely, upon home training and the care bestowed upon them by the government under whose laws they exist. Strong, healthy, intellectual, and moral parents, aided by a wiseand honestly administered government, assist each other in forming characters which make fine men and women. But without the combination of those parental qualities ever actively engaged in instructing and controlling, sustained by a wise political organization, there is usually but little development of the higher and better qualities of our nature, either moral or intellectual.
It is at this point that we may be permitted to cite the difference between the so-called upper and lower animal. In the dog and horse, notably, their better qualities are inherent, born with them, grow stronger with time, and their almost perfect and complete development is natural, and continues without aid, example, or instruction. Not more than one dog or horse in a thousand, if kindly treated and left to himself, would turn out vicious, and treat them as we may, no matter howunjustly or cruelly, we can never deprive them of their perfect integrity and splendid qualities of loyalty to master and friends.
These most valuable of all moral qualities are natural to certain animals, and, no matter what man may do, they can never be extinguished. Although intangible, they are as much parts of the living organism of the horse and dog as are their eyes or the other organs needed for physical purposes. The affection of the dog for those whom he loves is actually boundless. It has neither taint of selfishness nor has it limits, and it can only be extinguished with the loss of life. The ever-willing horse will run himself to death to carry from danger, and especially from the pursuit of enemies, those who make use of his friendly aid. Other animals will do as much, but they never volunteer for a dangerous service.
In India, where the elephant is used for domestic purposes and is sometimes treated as a domestic animal, he has been known to protect children left in his charge, and in the performance of his daily task will yield willing obedience to orders; but he is a knowing and cautious constructionist, and seldom goes outside of the strict line of duty. He will always fight for his own master or friends when told, and sometimes volunteers to encounter a danger to protect those around him who seek the aid of his superior powers. He is however, a natural conservative, and prefers peace to war.
Many other animals are capable of becoming affectionate pets and interesting companions, but in no respect can they be compared with the dog, the horse, or the elephant. In their separate and individual combination of qualities which render them fit and useful companionsfor man, they stand quite by themselves. The question of treating animals with kindly consideration is usually disposed of by saying they are not capable of appreciating kind treatment; that their brain capacity is so limited in respect to quantity as to render them quite incapable of distinguishing active kindness from passive indifference or even cruel treatment.
This is the theory of the thoughtless.
The Newfoundland dog which, in the summer of 1866, I saw leap from a bridge into a rapid-running deep creek and rescue a two-year-old child from death, thought—and quickly at that. In a second he appreciated the value of a critical moment, and estimated not only the magnitude but the quality of the danger. No human being could have taken in the whole situation more completely or caused the physical organizationto respond to the brain command with greater celerity. The whole incident was over by the time the first on the spot of the would-be human rescuers had taken off his coat.
Crowley, the remarkable chimpanzee, who had his home in the Central Park Menagerie for about four years, proved to be a most convincing item of testimony in favor of the intellectual development of one of the lower animals. The gradual and certain unfolding of his intelligence betrayed the presence of a quantity of natural brainpower almost equal to that of an intelligent child of his own age.
Among his numerous accomplishments was a complete outfit of the table manners of the average well-bred human being. His accurate holding of knife, fork, and spoon, his perfect knowledge of their use, and the delicate application to his lips of the napkin, provedthe possession of exceptional knowledge and a well-ordered memory.
The things he did and the words he tried to speak, for he made thousands of efforts every day to utter his thoughts, would make a convincing list of items all going to prove the presence of a capacity for thinking quite worthy of consideration.
In elaborating the various powers which he employed in his methods of expression he showed remarkable ingenuity. He, no doubt, reflected upon his deficiencies, and thought the whole matter over with reference to means of communication with those he cared to converse with, and then, from out the store of his natural capacities, invented an extensive combination of hand and feet signs with the variety of sounds at his command, which finally enabled him to make himself perfectly understood by those about him.
The intellectual development of Crowley, of which I have given only an inadequate idea, came from kind treatment and constant contact with his keeper and the director of the menagerie, both of whom were his devoted friends and teachers.
These little character sketches, as they may perhaps be described, were written for the purpose of awakening the personal interest of those who may read them, with the hope also of enlisting their active influence in behalf of spreading abroad a better understanding of the nature of our four-footed friends and servants, who give so much and receive so little in return. The better appreciation of their exceptionally fine qualities will surely lead to closer relations between them and their masters, and, in the end, insure better treatment for those humble and confiding creatures which the Creator hasplaced so completely in the power of man.
Fiction plays but a little part in these pages. It has long been a source of pleasure to me to note the marks of intelligence in the animals that we admit to our companionship, that we make a part of our family rule and association. These sketches are nearly all based upon personal experiences and observations of my own. They are my plea for their greater civil rights—at least in the way of kindness and appreciation. Incidentally I have given such local color to the stories as they require. The first sketch, for example, has for its frame the pleasant hills and valleys of Vermont. It recalls old days worth the recording and a people of pure Anglo-Saxon blood worth a lasting memory.
R. C. H.
A particular summer, back in the fifties, I spent in one of the beautiful valley villages of the “Green Mountain State.” The old-fashioned, unpretending country tavern was comfortable and the air and scenery all that could be desired. The amusements, or rather occupations, afforded to the sojourners, aside from reading the solid literature of the period, were neither novel nor exhausting, but they gave pleasure, were reposeful, and were innocent enough to have satisfied the code of the most exacting moralist. Thedaily routine was limited, not costly, and within easy reach.
Of course, the first rural recreation was to fish in streams where there were no fish; to climb the highest hills as often as possible; argue religious, political, and commercial questions with the numerous oracles of the village, and diagnose the autumn crop question with the farmers. These occupations were staple commodities, always in stock and on tap ready to flow.
The good people of the town were very much astonished when they found I had discovered an additional occupation. I had made the acquaintance of all the town dogs, and found them a most entertaining and sociable lot of easy-going vagabonds. The majority were much given to loafing, barking at strangers and the passing vehicles, and not over-anxious to earn the scant meals grudgingly doled out to them bythe thrifty housewives, who frequently addressed them in terms not of a complimentary nature.
Those were not the days of romantic names for dogs. The New Englandrépertoirefor the canine race had been handed down, in an unbroken line, from a remote Puritan period. If a dog was of a large size he was sure to respond to the name of Tige, Rover, or Lion, and, if small, he was usually adorned with the name of Skip, Fido, or Zip. In those days there were neither kennel clubs nor dog exhibitions, and the high-flown English names, such as attach to the canine blue-bloods of to-day, were unknown.
Within the ranks of this lazy, good-for-nothing, good-natured tribe, with its headquarters in my particular village, was a characteristic specimen of a perfect nobody’s dog. He was not unpleasant to the vision, but, on thecontrary, rather attractive. He was of a light brindle color, with a black nose, and was blessed with a pair of beautiful, sympathetic, and expressive dark-brown eyes, that had a frank way of looking clear into the eyes of whoever addressed him. But he was without pedigree, industry, or hope, cared nothing for worldly possessions, was always ready to wag a hearty response to every salutation, and was an ever-flowing fountain of good nature and kindness, but not devoid of character. Along with all his apparent indifference he had his strong points, and good ones at that.
His great weakness was the woodchuck season. No sportsman was ever more watchful for the return of the shooting period than was Rover for the opening of the first woodchuck hole. For days before the first opening he would range the fields very much afterthe manner of the truly accomplished shopping woman of a large city in search of opportunities on a “bargain day.” He had the keenest nose for his favorite game of any dog in the town, and so devoted was he to his particular sport, that frequently, while the season lasted, after a hard day’s work, he would go to bed with an empty stomach, his chance mistress having issued an edict to the effect that the kitchen door was to be closed at a certain hour—Rover or no Rover. And so it came to pass that our devoted sportsman often went to his couch in the shed a very hungry dog, not happy for the moment, but always full of hope for the coming morning.
While his sporting season lasted he had but one occupation. As soon as he had licked his breakfast plate clean, even to the last mite of food, he would start off for new adventures,and, as soon as he had succeeded in finding a new subterranean abode of his favorite game, he would give a joyous bark, and commence a most vigorous digging, and, if the soil happened to be of a soft nature, he would soon bury his body so as to leave no part of his belongings in sight but the tip end of a very quick-moving tail amid the débris of flying soil. If called from his pursuit he would come out of his hole wagging most joyously and saying as plainly as possible: “I wish you would turn in and help a fellow.”
He had never been known to capture a “chuck,” but he had his fun all the same.
There is a story of a Frenchman, who, when walking in the woods, heard the whistle of a woodcock and thereupon became possessed of an ardent desirepour la chasse. He equipped himself by borrowing a gun from onefriend, a dog from another, a game-bag from a third, and the making of a complete shooting outfit from several others. Early in the morning, after the delusive whistle, he was up and off to the woods. Filled with eager expectation he tramped hills and swamps the whole day through without seeing a bird or getting a shot, and returned to the hotel much the worse for the wear and tear of the search, but, Frenchman like, was vivacious and cheerful. An English friend asked to see the inside of his game-bag. “Ah,” answered the would-be huntsman, “I did not get ze leetle—zebécasse, I did hear his whistle,mais j’ai eu ma chasseall ze same, and I am very happie.” And so it was with Rover. He saw where his would-be victim was located, enjoyed the pleasure of hope, and had a day’s digging.
The other dogs of the village were not ambitious, save at meal-time, whenthey were vigorously punctual, but very unpunctual when there was anything useful to do, such as going after the cows at milking-time, driving enterprising pigs out of the garden, chasing the hens from the front entrance of the house, and the like. As a rule they were content to pass the sunny hours of the day beneath protecting shades, resting their lazy carcasses upon the softest patch of greensward to be found, and they were usually experts in the art of finding such spots. It was not so, however, with Rover. He was an active dog, without a lazy bone in his body, always on the alert for an occupation, no matter if sometimes useful. Take them, however, for all in all, this worthless pack of four-footed worthies were not a bad sort of a lot. All save one were good-natured and sociable. That exception was a maltese-colored abridgment of a mastiff,short-haired and old. He was the property of one of the village doctors, who was a pestiferous Whig, with the reputation of being the “tongueyist man in the county, if not in the State.” He carried chips upon both shoulders, was the proprietor of a loud voice—plenty of it—and was always ready for a war between tongues. He “argered” for the sake of argument, but his ancient “Spot,” with a thickened throat and wheezy voice, could only keep up a runningpro formabarking accompaniment while his master “downed” his opponent. The old dog had unconsciously contracted his master’s habit of controversy, and felt that he must help him out. It is due to the memory of that ancient canine to record that he attended strictly to his own affairs, and would brook no interference from frivolous idle dogs with no particular occupation, nor would he associate withthem when off duty. When not with his master, he kept inside his own fence, and barked and made disagreeable faces at all would-be intruders.
As bearing upon the story that will develop, I may add that besides the dogs there are, in Vermont, other four-footed friends and servants of man worthy of consideration. The Vermont “Morgan horse” is one of the acknowledged native “institutions,” and no lover of that animal has ever made the intimate acquaintance of one of his strain without being fascinated with his delicate, refined beauty, affectionate disposition, intelligence, endurance, and willingness to serve.
I was brought up with them, and used to romp and race with the colts, ride the mothers without saddle, bridle, or halter, and purloin sugar and salt to feed them when the “old folks were not looking.” Among my happiesthours were those of my childhood and boyhood spent in close association with the great groups of animals that lived upon the hills of the old farm at the “crotch in the roads.” Calves, among the most beautiful of all the young animals, with their great soft eyes and innocent faces, were a source of infinite joy to me, and even the silly and unintellectual sheep always appealed to my affections and sense of protection. These I regarded as wards to love and protect, but the dogs and Morgan horses were my petted friends and companions. From their habitual display of good faith, perfect integrity and affection I learned all the lessons applicable to every-day life that have been of value to me. From man I could have learned the arts of deceit and cunning, selfishness and want of feeling, and the practise of vanity, but never a single quality which came to me from thehabitual association with the honest four-footed friends of my youth.
The people of my native State, among their other fine characteristics, have always been noted for their kindness to animals, which fact alone stands for a very elevated plane of civilization. Ever since nearly a century ago, when the Morgan horse first came to them, he has been an object of their affection, and it is undoubtedly, to a great extent, owing to that creditable fact that he has always been the same charming animal that he is to-day.
That the equine hero of this sketch was not of that noble breed will not detract from his special virtues or impair my passing tribute to the Vermont horse and his master. The one selected for my riding excursions was the only saddle-horse of repute in the county; he belonged to a livery stable, and was of the “calico” red and white sort, tall,long of body, sound of legs and feet, with large, liquid, expressive eyes, small ears, and a beautiful open nostril. His pedigree was unknown, and no one in the village could say where he came from. He had been turned out lame from a “travelling show” the year before, and had been bought for a song. Such only was his brief known history. To his physical beauties were added the higher qualities of head and heart in abundance. He was the sort of a beautiful creature that could not have done a mean act. Nature never furnished him tools for that kind of work.
He was effusively affectionate, and his intelligence was of a high order for a horse. We took a great fancy to each other, and both of us to Rover, who once in a while could be coaxed from his pursuit of “chucks” to take a run with us over the country roads.
Thus we became chosen friends,and I selected them as companions for a recreative excursion which I had planned, and which we shall now retrace.
An early breakfast for man, dog and horse, and off. The general plan was to ride early and late, and rest during the hot hours of the middle portion of the day. A village with a decent “tavern” for the night was the objective point for each evening, and the usual daily distance, made at an easy canter, was about twenty miles. Between each stretch of three or four miles there was a halt for a dismount, a rest for the animals, and a leg exercise for the rider. Rover was always glad for a loll beneath the shady trees, but “Charlie,” my calico friend, improved his opportunities for a nibble of the tender grass and sprouts within his reach. During the first two or three days I had to retrace my steps to remount, but Isoon succeeded in making my companions understand the nature and object of a call, and, before the tour was half over, they would not permit me to walk out of their sight. Rover was on the watch, and, as soon as he saw me disappearing in the distance, would give the alarm, and then both would start off on a smart run to overtake me.
Upon one occasion, after climbing a sharp hill, I had left them at the beginning of a long level piece of road, and had walked on. After going about half a mile, I met a large drove of cattle. When I had succeeded in passing through and beyond it, my attention was attracted by a confused noise in the rear. Upon looking back I discovered a great cloud of dust, and amidst it a confusion of moving horns and tails, while soon there appeared, racing through the excited mass of bovines at the top of his speed, Charlie, accompaniedby his faithful attendant barking at the top of his voice. The cattle were excited and frightened up to the point of jumping and running they knew not where. Some went over fences, others through them, while the main body kept to the road, and, for a considerable distance, carried everything before them. I realized at once that my zealous companions had got me into trouble.
For the information of readers not acquainted with the average “droveyer” of forty and fifty years ago, it is necessary to record that he was not the sort of an individual calculated to adorn refined society, and the language used by those in charge of this particular “drove” was more characteristic for its strength than for its elegance or politeness. I tried to appease their wrath, apologized for the unseemly conduct of dog and horse, alleged sudden fright,marshalled a fine array of other excuses, and finally succeeded in neutralizing the flow of their ire—just a little. But the chief spokesman was not satisfied with excuses and soft words; he was a materialist, and wanted to know, then and there, who was to put up the fence and pay for the damage done by the trampling down of growing crops. Under the circumstances the query did not seem to be an unreasonable one, and I suggested that the better course to pursue would be for the authors of the mischief to make terms with the owner of the crops, state facts, and await his decision.
The season happened to be between planting and harvest, and “the men-folks,” we were told, “are up on yender hill mending fence, and won’t be down till dinner.” The head “droveyer,” impatient to keep with his “drove,” would not wait, and informedme, in a rather emphatic sort of way, that I would have to wait and “settle up.” There was no appeal in sight from his decision. So he went and I waited.
The hot part of the day had arrived, and it was within about two hours “till dinner.” After “hitchin’” the horse in the barn, away from the flies, I suggested the loan of an axe. This excited surprise, and the question came from the head of the interior of that particular domestic establishment: “What areyougoing to do with an axe?” I answered: “I’m going to mend the fence where those cattle broke through.” This feather came very near breaking the back of the housewife, and her sense of the ridiculous was excited up to the point of explosion, but she was too well bred to give the laugh direct, full in the face, and contented herself by making an acute mental survey of myphysical points. She measured with her eye the hands and girth of chest, and made a close calculation as to the amount of biceps assigned to each arm, and after some reflection, said: “You’ll find an old axe in the woodshed; you can take it and try and patch up the places, and, when you hear the horn, you can come in and eat with the rest of the folks.” I started off, filled with the pride born of knowledge, and confident of a coming success, but the even flow of my happiness was soon disturbed by a sound from the upper register of a very loud, shrill voice, saying, “Don’t split your feet open with that are axe.” This was like a small streak of ice water down the spinal column, but I was on my mettle and not to be discouraged. The vacant spaces in the broken fence were encountered and yielded to superior force, and a fairish amount of success was accomplishedabout the time the welcome tones of the sonorous horn announced the hour for feeding.
I was introduced to the “men-folks” as the stranger whose dog and horse had “scart the cattle inter the oats.” At first it was easy to see that I was not regarded with favor, but, as the dinner proceeded, and as anecdotes succeeded each other about men, things and far-off countries I had seen, the Green Mountain ice began to melt, and, by the time the “Injun puddin’” was emptied out of its bag, cordial relations were established. The two bright-faced boys had become communicative, and the older members of the family had forgotten for the time the damage to the oats.
The dinner ended, I requested a board of survey and an estimate. The first relevant observation in relation to the case before the court came fromthe grandfather: “Well, I declare, I couldn’t done it better myself. I didn’t know you city folk could work so. Where did you l’arn to mend fences?” This first witness for the defence produced a marked effect upon the jury. The next point of observation was the field of damaged oats. The eldest son, a Sunday-school-sort of boy, exclaimed: “By pepper, they are pretty well trampled down, ain’t they? No cradle can git under ’em; guess’ll have ter go at ’em with the sickle, but we can save the heft of ’em by bending our backs a little.”
During the investigation not a word was uttered about compensation, and, after leaving the field, the conversation ran into generalities; but before we reached the house the grandfather’s curiosity got the better of his timidity, and he asked: “Where did you l’arn to mend fences?” When I told him thatmy name was ——, that I was a grandson of ——, was born at the “Old H. Place at the crotch of the roads in the town of P——,” learned to mend fences there, etc., etc., he had great difficulty in suppressing the dimensions of the proud satisfaction my information had produced. In his mind I was a degenerate Vermonter, living in the great City of New York, but had not forgotten the lessons learned at the old farm. I knew how to mend a fence, and that, for him, was my certificate of character.
From the moment of my disclosures, I was admitted to the inner family circle, and there was no more farm-work for the rest of the day, while the afternoon hours were devoted to reminiscences of the olden times: “Ah,” said the old grandfather, “when I first laid eyes on ye, I thought I’d seen somebody like ye afore, and I remember it was your grandfather on yerfather’s side. He was a soldier of the Revolutionary War in one of the Rhode Island ridgiments, and my father belonged to one from Massachusetts; both served till the end of the war, and then emigrated to Vermont, together. My father settled on this farm, where I was born in 1790; your grandfather took up some land in P——, and till the end of his days was the best schoolmaster and surveyor anywhere round these parts. He was a master-hand at poetry, and used to write sarcastical varses agin the lop-sided cusses he hated. There’s allus some mean critters in these country towns, who take advantage of poor folks that ain’t very smart and cheat ’em outer their property. They used to feel mighty mean, I tell ye, when they read your grandfather’s varses about ’em. I heerd old Si Simmons, up to town meeting only last year, telling about a mean oldcritter down in P—— by the name of Podges and how your grandfather writ a varse for his gravestun, and I remember it was about like this:
“‘Here lies the body of Podges Seth,The biggest knave that e’er drew breath;He lived like a hog and died like a brute,And has gone to the d——l beyond dispute.’”
“‘Here lies the body of Podges Seth,
The biggest knave that e’er drew breath;
He lived like a hog and died like a brute,
And has gone to the d——l beyond dispute.’”
I was able to respond in kind, for I happened to remember about another local poet, who hated a surviving son of this rural vampire, who quite worthily perpetuated the detestable qualities of his defunct parent, and, when he died, as he did not many years after his father, the other local poet, not to be outdone by my grandfather, composed the following verse as a fitting epitaph:
“Here lies the body of Podges Ed,We all rejoice to know he’s dead;Too bad for Heaven, too mean for Hell,And where he’s gone no one can tell.”
“Here lies the body of Podges Ed,
We all rejoice to know he’s dead;
Too bad for Heaven, too mean for Hell,
And where he’s gone no one can tell.”
In the “Old Times” there were strong, honest, rugged characters among the Vermont hills. The majority of them were men of plain speech and unyielding contempt for meanness in any form. A goodly number of the early settlers in the eastern counties were soldiers of the Revolution who had emigrated to the new State soon after its close, and they brought with them the simple, manly habits and ways of thinking which are characteristic of service in the field. Many were the anecdotes told of them that day—the day of the accident to the oats—very much to the edification of the juniors, who were all eyes and ears, at least for that occasion.
The old house at the “crotch of the roads,” when I was a boy, was the Saturday and Sunday halting-place for the old soldiers of my own and several of the neighboring towns. The larder wasalways well-supplied, and the barrels of cider that lined a capacious cellar were ready to respond to every call. Under the influence of an abundant supply of that exhilarating beverage, the fighting over of old battles was always vigorous and sometimes vividly realistic.
The most famous of the local veterans, of my time, was known among his neighbors as “Uncle Daniel V——.” He was a Lexington-Bunker Hill man, who had served till the end of the war. As I remember him, he was a most interesting character, humorous, with a good memory, a famous drinker of hard cider, and a notable singer of the patriotic soldier songs of the “Seventy-six” period. I can recall, in his showing “how the Yankee boys flaxed the Britishers,” how he would shoulder one of his canes—he was a rheumatic and walked with two—and march up and down the broad kitchen of the old house, going throughthe motions of loading, aiming and firing at an imaginary enemy, greatly to my childish delight, for those were the first fierce war’s alarms I had ever witnessed, and I can never forget how my imagination was fired; nor how ardently I wished I had been at Lexington and Bunker Hill, where “we gave it to the Red Coats.” Uncle Daniel was far too good a patriot to say anything about the return compliments, “How the Red Coats gave it to us,” upon one of those historic fields. Since his day I have learned that one of his glorification songs, which professed to give a correct account of one particular Yankee victory, was not in strict accord with the truths of history. I could recall for my host but a single verse of all the songs he used to sing, and it savors so much of the camp that I had some misgivings about repeating it before Christians, but upon being hardpressed by the boys and seeing approving glances from other directions, concluded to go ahead.
The verse I remember is one from a song supposed to have been sung by British soldiers who were in the retreat after the defeat at Concord, April 19, 1775, and runs thus:
“From behind the hedges and the ditches.And every tree and stump.We would see the sons of ——And infernal Yankees jump.”
“From behind the hedges and the ditches.
And every tree and stump.
We would see the sons of ——
And infernal Yankees jump.”
I also remember, vaguely, something of another Revolutionary camp song which depicted the grief of the soldiers of Burgoyne’s army. The refrain was like this:
“We have got too far from Canada,Run, boys, run.”
“We have got too far from Canada,
Run, boys, run.”
When we had exhausted the Revolution, it was time for an afternoon start. For more than an hour Rover had manifestedhis impatience by numerous waggings and by pawing vigorously at the legs of my trousers whenever I looked his way, and from the barn there came sounds of hoof-poundings and impatient whinnerings—loud and plain calls for a move. So, after many protests against the going, a move to go was made.
Before the advance upon the barn was fairly under way the youngster, who had been an attentive listener, decided upon a search for information, and, commanding a halt, informed me that “Old Jim Noyes, who lived over in the Snow neighborhood, has two boys in Boston; the oldest was up here in June and told us there was a steeple down in Boston as high as that old ‘Jackson Hill’ of ours, but I didn’t b’leve a word of it. Hosea Doten, the biggest man at figgers and surveying in this part of Vermont, told mother last year that Old Jack was 1,200 feet above the sea andmore than five hundred above where we are standing; now, there ain’t no such steeple in Boston nor anywhere else. What do folks want such a high steeple for, anyway? And if meetin’ houses must have steeples, why won’t fifty feet do as well as five hundred? Some folks say that bells are hung up in steeples so God can hear them ring for folks to go to meetin’ Sunday mornin’. What odds would two or three hundred feet make to God? He can hear a bell just as well in a fifty-foot steeple as in one five hundred feet high. Meetin’ folks could save a lot of money by building low steeples. And besides, they ain’t no use; nobody could live in ’em five hundred feet up, and it would be too high to hang a thermometer on unless you had a spy-glass to look at it with. I don’t b’leve in such high steeples; they cost lots of money and ain’t of no use.”
I assured the young philosopher of my approval of his ideas about the uselessness of high steeples, and told him that Boston was not the owner of one five hundred feet high. This information was a source of immense satisfaction. “I was right all the time,” he added, “and knew that Jim Noyes was giving us lies just as fast as his tongue could work ’em out. Do all Vermont boys that go to Boston learn to talk like him? There’s a lot gone down there from about here. Some of ’em are up on a visit every once in a while, and spend the most of their spare time in telling such silly stories. I guess they think they can stuff us country folks just like Thanksgiving turkeys. What makes ’em lie so? The boys round here, if they talked like they do, would get licked a dozen times a week and no decent folks would have anything to do with ’em. I suppose it’s all right. Boys,when they git to Boston, have got to lie to keep their places and git a living. Grandfather don’t take it to heart so much as the rest of us. He says lying is the biggest part of the show, and the longer we live the more on’t we’ll see.”
The day was well along, and the sun showed a decided intention of soon disappearing behind the top of “Old Jack,” before I insisted on departing. Then the calico horse was watered, saddled and bridled, and brought out for inspection and admiration. His appearance elicited expressions of unbounded admiration, his great, soft, brown, and beautifully expressive eyes, his amiability and active intelligence coming in for no end of complimentary remarks. The boys were especially enthusiastic and proposed a “swap for a four-year-old raised on the place.”
The oats question was again broughtup for adjudication, and, after considerable argument, the party owning the injured crop determined to leave the amount of damage an open question until the individual responsible for it could “come around agin.”
The moment had arrived for the reluctant good-by, the grasp of hands, the mount and the start, amid great excitement and noise on the part of the animals; and then commenced a most exhilarating run of more than fifteen miles over a softish dirt road, through a series of lovely valleys, to the little village of D——, where we called a halt for the night, which was destined to be prolonged into the orthodox Sunday rest of the place and period.
By this time the organization of three had crystallized into exact form, and without effort had settled into an habitual daily routine, and the incidents of to-day were quite certain to be repeatedto-morrow. There was always plenty of time, evenings and middle parts of days, for talking with the “folks”—oracles about the village taverns—who, like the old-time bar-room Major and Judge of the Slave States, were always on hand and on tap for a copious outpouring of village gossip and political information. In justice to the Major and Judge of the old days of the South, it must be written that they were usually waiting for another sort of a tap-flow to be turned on, from a tap not of their own.
It is doubtful if the happy trio ever appreciated the greatness of this three weeks’ manifestation of themselves, through which they were unambitious but undoubted involuntary heroes among the country folk. John Gilpin could not have been more fortunate in the way of attracting attention from all beholders; and “the more they gazedthe more the wonder grew,” and the puzzle of forty years ago, in the villages through which we passed, of “What is it, anyway?” remains as profound a mystery as ever.
In some places I was regarded as a very considerable personage on a secret mission of great import; at other times the saddle-valise was accused of containing a supply of a newly discovered life-saving pill; but, generally, we were mistaken by the wise know-it-alls of the village as the advance agents of a coming circus; if not, why the calico horse? which to the rural mind, from the most remote period, has been associated with the gorgeous, gilded bandwagon, spangles, and sawdust. The fortunate suspicion of circus affiliations brought to us a measure of attention far beyond our merits; both animals were treated with the greatest respect, as possible performers of high standing,and upon several occasions I was asked to “make ’em show off.”
The summer Saturday afternoon and evening in Vermont is always the same. At the “stores” business flourishes, and profitable activity reigns supreme until late into the evening hours. On the farm the opposite is the rule, a general “slicking up for Sunday” and the doing of “odd chores” around the house and barn is the order of the day, the whole being a fitting prelude to the coming Sunday, which is always what it ought to be, not the Lord’s any more than another day, nor anybody else’s day, but a day of rest, pure and simple, for all the creatures of the Creator. Ever since I can remember, Vermonters, without asking leave of this or that authority have chosen their own way of Sunday resting.
In no state west of the Rocky Mountains do the beauties of naturemake a stronger appeal for human appreciation than in Vermont, and never are they seen to better advantage than upon a quiet summer Sunday morning, when the brilliant blue sky is filled with light, and all the world seems to be at peace. The clear, limpid streams move silently on as though controlled by the all-pervading spirit of rest; the leaves of the trees, yielding to the universal feeling of repose, keep silence with the rest of nature, and over all there is the fascinating power of wondrous beauties abounding not made by the hands of man. Such days are made for rest and reflection, when nature invites us to commune with her works, that we may know more of them and be able to rise to a higher and more ennobling appreciation of her beauties. The quiet, suggestive New England summer Sunday morning’s appeal is nature’s most beneficent call toher children to come to her and search for knowledge of things which lead through untrodden paths, where, at every step, new pleasures unfold to the view for our instruction and enjoyment.
Upon such occasions we yield to the influence of the silent voice and the unseen hand, and unconsciously follow the beckonings of a wingless fairy, Nature’s ever-present handmaid, who, without our knowledge, leads us to a new Fairyland, where new beauties abound, and where countless joys are within the reach of the most humble subjects of the Creator.
Such a typical Sunday as the one I have attempted to describe followed the Saturday after our arrival at the little village of D——. The first duties of the day were to our four-footed friends, and then came the standard breakfast of the place and period for the superiorbeing. Fifty years ago this was very much more of a living Yankee institution than now. In those days the Frenchmenu, much to the satisfaction of those practitioners in the dental line, had not penetrated within the borders of the New England rural districts. I remember distinctly the color and taste of the native bean-coffee, the solidity of the morning pie-crusts, the crumble after the crash of the cookey, and the greasy substantiality of the venerated doughnut. All these we had in abundance, with the incidental “apple sass” thrown in between courses that lovely Sunday morning, forty-one years ago this writing.
The town of D——, happened to be the shire-town of the county in which it was situated. At the time of my brief sojourn there, the Supreme Court was in session and one of the judges had the head of the table at the hotel,while I, being a supposed distinguished stranger, with “boughten clothes” and a fair expanse of starched shirt-front, was given the seat of honor at his right hand. I found him a regulation specimen of the real original Yankee judge, quaint of speech, humorous, and intelligent, and not a profound believer in the oft-alleged superior qualities of the animal said to have been made in the image of his maker.
Our conversation started and continued for some time in the usual way; the weather and condition of crops being used as an excuse for the opening sentences, but, before the breakfast was over, a shrewd series of inoffensive direct questions, deftly put, brought to the surface the fact that I had travelled in strange and far-away countries.
Punctually at the usual hour and minute, the Sunday bells commenced their weekly call to the faithful, and theJudge interrupted the easy flow of his entertaining conversation to ask how I usually spent Sunday. I told him I had no particular way of doing that day, but usually permitted original sin to take its course. That idea seemed to strike him favorably and brought out a proposition that we should take to the woods and see which could tell the biggest story, he at the same time remarking: “You have travelled so much that by this time you ought to be an interesting liar. On such a beautiful day as this there is no excuse for bothering the parson. Sometimes on a cold chilly day he is a real comfort; he warms us up with the heat of the brimstone to come.”
That Sunday made its mark. It was a red-letter day never to be forgotten. My new acquaintance proved to be a philosopher and thinker of no ordinary dimensions. He was saturated with the teachings of Socrates, Cicero, MarcusAurelius, and Gibbon, and I suspected he had taken a sly glance or two at Lucretius and Voltaire. He had ready for use, at command, the essence of the entire teachings of his favorite authors, and could quote whole pages from their works.
While we were stretched out upon a bed of dead leaves, looking up through the living ones to the open sky above, my faithful companions, feeling the quieting influence of the day, were near us, tranquilly enjoying the shade, and acting as though taking in a conversation which they seemed to understand. As with men we often meet, this silence was passing them off for being wiser than they were. My canine companion was close to my side with my hand gently resting upon his head, while my calico equine friend was enjoying the grateful shade of a broad spreading maple, and busying himself with switchingaway at speculative flies in search of opportunities for luxurious dinners.
The satisfactory contentment of the two animals attracted the attention of my judicial companion, and he asked me to explain the secret of our close companionship. He was surprised when I told him there was no secret about it, that I treated my four-footed friends as I would human beings; looked after their general welfare, saw that they were sufficiently fed with the proper food, talked to them in kindly tones of voice, gave them tid-bits now and then that I knew they were fond of, patted them approvingly, never scolded or used a whip, and, finally, spent a great deal of my time in their company. I further explained that intellectually I regarded them as being on a plane with children—to be looked after, to be kindly treated, and to have their mental faculties developed to thefull extent of the separate capacity of each, and, that by pursuing such a course, we could obtain the best service and an amount of affection and companionship that would amply recompense us for all of our trouble.
“Well,” he exclaimed, “this is all news to me! There is logic and good sound sense in your whole scheme, and it’s strange I never thought of it before. You have studied the subject of intellectual development in animals and gotten something out of it I had never dreamed of. Ever since I have been able to think my head has been filled with common law, Court decisions, and the Statute in such case made and provided, and I have had but little time, and, possibly, less disposition, to indulge in sentiment. I suppose you know the people of your native state well enough to appreciate their strong and weak points. The Vermonter, as arule, does not waste any time upon sentimentality; he is too busy digging out a living from these old hills and from between the rocks for those dependent upon him to waste much time cultivating the sentimental side. He is quite apt to take the utilitarian view of most earthly matters. His horse he regards as a useful animal, to be well fed and comfortably housed in order to prolong his usefulness as much as possible; and his dog he looks upon as a useless companion—not worthy of respect, comfortable lodging, or good food, unless he earns all three by bringing up the cows at night and chasing all marauders from grain and planted fields during the day. Your side of the animal question is a new one, and I am going to commence operations upon my faithful burden-carrier as soon as we reach the stable. I’d be mightily pleased to have him walk along withme and put his velvety nose against my face as I have seen your calico friend do with you. All men, all real men, properly put together, are fond of being loved, and are willing to take it in wholesale doses, and a little dog and horse—when the women are not around—thrown in to fill between the chinks, helps to make a perfect whole. We men are a careless, selfish lot, who leave mothers, sisters, wives, daughters, and dogs and horses to do the most of the loving, and accept it as a matter of right, without making the returns which are their due. They trudge along in silence, giving us their affection, and work on, chiefly for us, when they ought to kick. In giving me this Sunday lesson you have opened up a new lead in my make-up, and I intend to explore it until I develop a new deposit of humanity, and I’ll commence by stealing a lump of sugar for ‘OldWhitey’ the next time I leave the tavern table, and, instead of having it charged in the bill, I’ll open a new account, and credit my first theft to the cause of animal development.”
The next morning I parted from my judicial acquaintance, he volunteering the promise to write and let me know the result of his new experiment among the inhabitants of the barnyard. During the night he had “analyzed the whole business,” and arrived at the conclusion that there were other dumb creatures besides dogs and horses worthy of cultivating. The much neglected and despised pig, he proposed, with apparent humorous sincerity, to take in hand, and make a special effort to reform his manners and cultivate his mental faculties. He argued that human society was responsible for “downing the pig.” It is a question of “mad dog!” over again, he declared. “Someone in the far-off past had said the hog was a filthy beast, and without stopping to inquire, everybody else had joined in the cry. My mission is to do away with this unreasonable prejudice, and to elevate to his proper social and intellectual position among the animals of the earth my much abused and unappreciated porcine friend.” These were his jovial parting words, and, with them ringing in my ears, the trio made the morning start for the last day of the outward-bound part of the excursion.
A thirty miles ride carried us to one of the oldest villages in the northern part of the State—not far from the Canada line. One long street, made up of the blacksmith, shoemaker, and tinshop; a dry goods “Emporium,” a tavern—“The Farmers’ Home”—and the usual number of churches, with a doctor’s shop, and a few dwellings thrown in, here and there, to fill up theintervals between the more important structures—made, with a good supply of shade-trees, an attractive village. Of course the buildings were all square and white, and the blinds were all green, and they were placed as near the road as possible, but notwithstanding these faults of form, color, and position, constituting crimes against Nature, the whole was fairly attractive. Do what they will to offend and deface the beauties of New England, and especially Vermont nature, the Philistines who inhabit its picturesque valleys cannot destroy the beautiful ever-varying outlines of its hills or the restful repose of its summer days. They have managed to slaughter its forests and to dry up its limpid mountain streams, but, with the consummation of those outrages, Nature calls a halt; and the Vandals leave off destroying because there is little left to destroy.