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

fluttered in front of the rabbit,

and, spreading out her wings, clucked angrily, and acted as if she would

peck my eyes out if I came nearer.

 

I saw that they were harmless creatures, and, remembering my adventure

with the snake, I stepped aside. Besides that, I knew by their smell

that they had been near Mr. Maxwell, so perhaps they were after him.

 

They understood quite well that I would not hurt them, and passed by me.

The rabbit went ahead again and the hen fell behind. It seemed to me

that the hen was sleepy, and didn't like to be out so late at night, and

was only following the rabbit because she thought it was her duty.

 

He was going along in a very queer fashion, putting his nose to the

ground, and rising up on his hind legs, and sniffing the air, first on

this side and then on the other, and his nose going, going all the time.

 

He smelled all around the house till he came to Mr. Maxwell's room at

the back. It opened on the veranda by a glass door, and the door stood

ajar. The rabbit squeezed himself in, and the hen stayed out. She

watched for a while, and when he didn't come back, she flew upon the

back of a chair that stood near the door, and put her head under her

wing.

 

I went back to my bed, for I knew they would do no harm. Early in the

morning, when I was walking around the house, I heard a great shouting

and laughing from Mr. Maxwell's room. He and Mr. Harry had just

discovered the hen and the rabbit; and Mr. Harry was calling his mother

to come and look at them. The rabbit had slept on the foot of the bed.

 

Mr. Harry was chaffing Mr. Maxwell very much, and was telling him that

any one who entertained him was in for a traveling menagerie. They had a

great deal of fun over it, and Mr. Maxwell said that he had had that

pretty, white hen as a pet for a long time in Boston. Once when she ha$

some little chickens, a frightened rabbit, that was being chased by a

dog, ran into the yard. In his terror he got right under the hen's

wings, and she sheltered him, and pecked at the dog's eyes, and kept him

off till help came. The rabbit belonged to a neighbor's boy, and Mr.

Maxwell bought it from him. From the day the hen protected him, she

became his friend, and followed him everywhere.

 

I did not wonder that the rabbit wanted to see his master. There was

something about that young man that made dumb animals just delight in

him. When Mrs. Wood mentioned this to him he said, "I don't know why

they should--I don't do anything to fascinate them."

 

"You love them," she said, "and they know it. That is the reason."

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER XXV (A HAPPY HORSE)

For a good while after I went to Dingley Farm I was very shy of the

horses, for I was afraid they might kick me, thinking that I was a "bad

dog" like Bruno. However, they all had such good faces, and looked at me

so kindly, that I was beginning to get over my fear of them.

 

Fleetfoot, Mr. Harry's colt, was my favorite, and one afternoon, when

Mr. Harry and Miss Laura were going out to see him, I followed them.

Fleetfoot was amusing himself by rolling over and over on the grass

under a tree, but when he saw Mr. Harry, he gave a shrill whinny, and

running to him, began nosing about his pockets.

 

"Wait a bit," said Mr. Harry, holding him by the forelock. "Let me

introduce you to this young lady, Miss Laura Morris. I want you to make

her a bow." He gave the colt some sign, and immediately he began to paw

the ground and shake his head.

 

Mr. Harry laughed and went on: "Here is her dog Joe. I want you to like

him, too. Come here, Joe." I was not at all afraid, for I knew Mr, Harry

would not let him hurt me, so I stood in front of him, and for the first

time had a good look at him. They called him the colt, but he was really

a full-grown horse, and had already been put to work. He was of a dark

chestnut color, and had a well-shaped body and a long, handsome head,

and I never saw, in the head of a man or beast, a more beautiful pair of

eyes than that colt had--large, full, brown eyes they were that he

turned on me almost as a person would. He looked me all over as if to

say: "Are you a good dog, and will you treat me kindly, or are you a bad

one like Bruno, and will you chase me and snap at my heels and worry me,

so that I shall want to kick you?"

 

I looked at him very earnestly and wagged my body, and lifted myself on

my hind legs toward him. He seemed pleased and put down his nose to

sniff at me, and then we were friends. Friends, and such good friends,

for next to Jim and Billy, I have loved Fleetfoot.

 

Mr. Harry pulled some lumps of sugar out of his pocket, and giving them

to Miss Laura, told her to put them on the palm of her hand and hold it

out flat toward Fleetfoot. The colt ate the sugar, and all the time eyed

her with his quiet, observing glance, that made her exclaim: "What a

wise-looking colt!"

 

"He is like an old horse," said Mr. Harry. "When he hears a sudden

noise, he stops and looks all about him to find an explanation."

 

"He has been well trained," said Miss Laura.

 

"I have brought him up carefully," said Mr. Harry. "Really, he has been

treated more like a dog than a colt. He follows me about the farm and

smells everything I handle, and seems to want to know the reason of

things.

 

"Your mother says," replied Miss Laura. "that she found you both asleep

on the lawn one day last summer, and the colt's head was on your arm."

 

Mr. Harry smiled and threw his arm over the colt's neck. "We've been

comrades, haven't we, Fleetfoot? I've been almost ashamed of his

devotion. He has followed me to the village, and he always wants to go

fishing with me. He's four years old now, so he ought to get over those

coltish ways. I've driven him a good deal. We're going out in the buggy

this afternoon, will you come?"

 

"Where are you going?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"Just for a short drive back of the river, to collect some money for

father. I'll be home long before tea time."

 

"Yes, I should like to go," said Miss Laura, "I will go to the house and

get my other hat."

 

"Come on, Fleetfoot," said Mr. Harry. And he led the way from the

pasture, the colt following behind with me. I waited about the veranda,

and in a short time Mr. Harry drove up to the front door. The buggy was

black and shining, and Fleetfoot had on a silver-mounted harness that

made him look very fine. He stood gently switching his long tail to keep

the flies away, and with his head turned to see who was going to get

into the buggy. I stood by him, and as soon as he saw that Miss Laura

and Mr. Harry had seated themselves, he acted as if he wanted to be off.

Mr. Harry spoke to him and away he went, I racing down the lane by his

side, so happy to think he was my friend. He liked having me beside him,

and every few seconds put down his head toward me. Animals can tell each

other things without saying a word. When Fleetfoot gave his head a

little toss in a certain way, I knew that he wanted to have a race. He

had a beautiful even gait, and went very swiftly. Mr. Harry kept

speaking to him to check him.

 

"You don't like him to go too fast, do you?" said Miss Laura.

 

"No," he returned. "I think we could make a racer of him if we liked,

but father and I don't go in for fast horses. There is too much said

about fast trotters and race horses. On some of the farms around here,

the people have gone mad on breeding fast horses. An old farmer out in

the country had a common cart-horse that he suddenly found out had great

powers of speed and endurance. He sold him to a speculator for a big

price, and it has set everybody wild. If the people who give all their

time to it can't raise fast horses, I don't see how the farmers can. A

fast horse on a farm is ruination to the boys, for it starts them racing

and betting. Father says he is going to offer a prize for the fastest

walker that can be bred in New Hampshire. That Dutchman of ours, heavy

as he is, is a fair walker, and Cleve and Pacer can each walk four and a

half miles an hour."

 

"Why do you lay such stress on their walking fast?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"Because so much of the farm work must be done at a walk. Ploughing,

teaming, and drawing produce to market, and going up and down hills.

Even for the cities it is good to have fast walkers. Trotting on city

pavements is very hard on the dray horses. If they are allowed to go at

a quick walk, their legs will keep strong much longer. It is shameful

the way horses are used up in big cities. Our pavements are so bad that

cab horses are used up in three years. In many ways we are a great deal

better off in this new country than the people in Europe; but we are not

in respect of cab horses, for in London and Paris they last for five

years. I have seen horses drop down dead in New York just from hard

usage. Poor brutes, there is a better time coming for them though. When

electricity is more fully developed, we'll see some wonderful changes.

As it is, last year in different places, about thirty thousand horses

were released from those abominable horse cars, by having electricity

introduced on the roads. Well, Fleetfoot, do you want another spin? All

right, my boy, go ahead."

 

Away we went again along a bit of level road. Fleetfoot had no

check-rein on his beautiful neck, and when he trotted, he could hold his

head in an easy, natural position. With his wonderful eyes and flowing

mane and tail, and his glossy, reddish-brown body, I thought that he was

the handsomest horse I had ever seen. He loved to go fast, and when Mr.

Harry spoke to him to slow up again, he tossed his head with impatience.

But he was too sweet-tempered to disobey. In all the years that I have

known Fleetfoot, I have never once seen him refuse to do as his master

told him.

 

"You have forgotten your whip, haven't you Harry?" I heard Miss Laura

say, as we jogged slowly along, and I ran by the buggy panting and with

my tongue hanging out.

 

"I never use one," said Mr. Harry; "if I saw any man lay one on

Fleetfoot, I'd knock him down." His voice was so severe that I glanced

up into the buggy. He looked just as he did the day that he stretched

Jenkins on the ground, and gave him a beating.

 

"I am so glad you don't," said Miss Laura. "You are like the Russians.

Many of them control their horses by their voices, and call them such

pretty names. But you have to use a whip for some horses, don't you,

Cousin Harry?"

 

"Yes, Laura. There are many vicious