Beautiful Joe by Marshall Saunders (most important books of all time txt) 📕

game, or doing anything, she always

stopped occasionally to give me a word or look, to show that she knew I

was near.

 

Mrs. Wood paused in front of a building on the main street. A great many

boys and girls were going in, and we went with them. We found ourselves

in a large room, with a platform at one end of it. There were some

chairs on this platform and a small table.

 

A boy stood by this table with his hand on a bell. Presently he rang it,

and then every one kept still. Mrs. Wood whispered to Miss Laura that

this boy was the president of the band, and the young man with the pale

face and curly hair who sat in front of him was Mr. Maxwell, the

artist's son, who had formed this Band of Mercy.

 

The lad who presided had a ringing, pleasant voice. He said they would

begin their meeting by singing a hymn. There was an organ near the

platform, and a young girl played on it, while all the other boys and

girls stood up, and sang very sweetly and clearly.

 

After they had sung the hymn, the president asked for the report of

their last meeting.

 

A little girl, blushing and hanging her head, came forward, and read

what was written on a paper that she held in her hand.

 

The president made some remarks after she had finished, and then every

one had to vote. It was just like a meeting of grown people, and I was

surprised to see how good those children were. They did not frolic nor

laugh, but all seemed sober and listened attentively.

 

After the voting was over, the president called upon John Turner to give

a recitation. This was the boy whom we saw on the way there. He walked

up to the platform, made a bow, and said that he had learned two stories

for his recitation, out of the paper, "Dumb Animals." One story was

about a horse, and the other was about a dog, and he thought that they

were two of the best animal stories on record. He would tell the horse

story first.

 

"A man in Missouri had to go to Nebraska to see about some land. He went

on horseback, on a horse that he had trained himself, and that came at

his whistle like a dog. On getting into Nebraska, he came to a place

where there were two roads. One went by a river, and the other went over

the hill. The man saw that the travel went over the hill, but thought

he'd take the river road. He didn't know that there was a quicksand

across it, and that people couldn't use it in spring and summer. There

used to be a sign board to tell strangers about it, but it had been

taken away. The man got off his horse to let him graze, and walked along

till he got so far ahead of the horse that he had to sit down and wait

for him. Suddenly he found that he was on a quicksand. His feet had sunk

in the sand, and he could not get them out. He threw himself down, and

whistled for his horse, and shouted for help, but no one came. He could

hear some young people singing out on the river, but they could not hear

him. The terrible sand drew him in almost to his shoulders, and he

thought he was lost. At that moment the horse came running up, and stood

by his master. The man was too low down to get hold of the saddle or

bridle, so he took hold of the horse's tail, and told him to go. The

horse gave an awful pull, and landed his master on safe ground."

 

Everybody clapped his hands, and stamped when this story was finished,

and called out: "The dog story--the dog story!"

 

The boy bowed and smiled, and began again. "You all know what a

'round-up' of cattle is, so I need not explain. Once a man down south

was going to have one, and he and his boys and friends were talking it

over. There was an ugly, black steer in the herd, and they were

wondering whether their old yellow dog would be able to manage him. The

dog's name was Tige, and he lay and listened wisely to their talk. The

next day there was a scene of great confusion. The steer raged and tore

about, and would allow no one to come within whip touch of him. Tige,

who had always been brave, skulked about for a while, and then, as if he

had got up a little spirit, he made a run at the steer. The steer

sighted him, gave a bellow, and, lowering his horns, ran at him. Tige

turned tail, and the young men that owned him were frantic. They'd been

praising him, and thought they were going to have it proven false. Their

father called out: 'Don't shoot Tige, till you see where he's running

to.' The dog ran right to the cattle pen. The steer was so enraged that

he never noticed where he was going, and dashed in after him. Tige

leaped the wall, and came back to the gate, barking and yelping for the

men to come and shut the steer in. They shut the gate and petted Tige,

and bought him a collar with a silver plate."

 

The boy was loudly cheered, and went to his seat. The president said he

would like to have remarks made about these two stories.

 

Several children put up their hands, and he asked each one to speak in

turn. One said that if that man's horse had had a docked tail, his

master wouldn't have been able to reach it, and would have perished.

Another said that if the man hadn't treated his horse kindly, he never

would have come at his whistle, and stood over him to see what he could

do to help him. A third child said that the people on the river weren't

as quick at hearing the voice of the man in trouble as the horse was.

 

When this talk was over, the president called for some stories of

foreign animals.

 

Another boy came forward, made his bow, and said, in a short, abrupt

voice, "My uncle's name is Henry Worthington. He is an Englishman, and

once he was a soldier in India. One day when he was hunting in the

Punjab, he saw a mother monkey carrying a little dead baby monkey. Six

months after, he was in the same jungle. Saw same monkey still carrying

dead baby monkey, all shriveled up. Mother monkey loved her baby monkey,

and wouldn't give it up."

 

The boy went to his seat, and the president, with a queer look in his

face, said, "That's a very good story, Ronald--if it is true."

 

None of the children laughed, but Mrs. Wood's face got like a red poppy,

and Miss Laura bit her lip, and Mr. Maxwell buried his head in his arms,

his whole frame shaking.

 

The boy who told the story looked very angry He jumped up again. "My

uncle's a true man, Phil. Dodge, and never told a lie in his life."

 

The president remained standing, his face a deep scarlet, and a tall boy

at the back of the room got up and said, "Mr. President, what would be

impossible in this climate, might be possible in a hot country like

India. Doesn't heat sometimes draw up and preserve things?"

 

The president's face cleared. "Thank you for the suggestion," he said.

"I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings; but you know there is a rule

in the band that only true stories are to be told here. We have five

more minutes for foreign stories. Has any one else one?"

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER XX (STORIES ABOUT ANIMALS)

 

A small girl, with twinkling eyes and a merry face, got up, just behind

Miss Laura, and made her way to the front. "My dranfadder says," she

began, in a piping little voice, "dat when he was a little boy his

fadder brought him a little monkey from de West Indies. De naughty boys

in de village used to tease de little monkey, and he runned up a tree

one day. Dey was drowing stones at him, and a man dat was paintin' de

house druv 'em away. De monkey runned down de tree, and shook hands wid

de man. My dranfadder saw him," she said, with a shake of her head at

the president, as if she was afraid he would doubt her.

 

There was great laughing and clapping of hands when this little girl

took her seat, and she hopped right up again and ran back. "Oh, I

fordot," she went on, in her squeaky, little voice, "dat my dranfadder

says dat afterward de monkey upset de painter's can of oil, and rolled

in it, and den jumped down in my dranfadder's flour barrel."

 

The president looked very much amused, and said, "We have had some good

stories about monkeys, now let us have some more about our home animals.

Who can tell us another story about a horse?"

 

Three or four boys jumped up, but the president said they would take one

at a time. The first one was this: A Riverdale boy was walking along the

bank of a canal in Hoytville. He saw a boy driving two horses, which

were towing a canal-boat. The first horse was lazy, and the boy got

angry and struck him several times over the head with his whip. The

Riverdale boy shouted across to him, begging him not to be so cruel; but

the boy paid no attention. Suddenly the horse turned, seized his

tormentor by the shoulder, and pushed him into the canal. The water was

not deep, and the boy, after floundering about for a few seconds, came

out dripping with mud and filth, and sat down on the tow path, and

looked at the horse with such a comical expression, that the Riverdale

boy had to stuff his handkerchief in his mouth to keep from laughing.

 

"It is to be hoped that he would learn a lesson," said the president,

"and be kinder to his horse in the future. Now, Bernard Howe, your

story."

 

The boy was a brother to the little girl who had told the monkey story,

and he, too, had evidently been talking to his grandfather. He told two

stories, and Miss Laura listened eagerly, for they were about Fairport.

 

The boy said that when his grandfather was young, he lived in Fairport,

Maine. On a certain day he stood in the market square to see their first

stage-coach put together. It had come from Boston in pieces, for there

was no one in Fairport that could make one. The coach went away up into

the country one day, and came back the next. For a long time no one

understood driving the horses properly, and they came in day after day

with the blood streaming from them. The whiffle-tree would swing round

and hit them, and when their collars were taken off, their necks would

be raw and bloody. After a time, the men got to understand how to drive

a coach, and the horses did not suffer so much.

 

The other story was about a team-boat, not a steamboat. More than

seventy years ago, they had no steamers running between Fairport and the

island opposite where people went for the summer, but they had what they

called a team-boat, that is, a boat with machinery to make it go, that

could be worked by horses. There were eight horses that went around and

around, and made the boat go. One afternoon, two dancing masters, who

were wicked fellows, that played the fiddle, and never went to church on

Sundays, got on the boat, and sat just where the horses had to pass them

as they went around.

 

Every time the horses went by, they jabbed them with their penknives.

The man who was driving the