Chapter I: Front Matter

BIG JACK

BIG JACK
_And_
_Other_ True Stories _of_ Horses

_By_
GABRIELLE E. JACKSON

_Author of_
“LITTLE COMRADE,”
“THE COLBURN PRIZE,”
“LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE,” ETC.

NEW YORK
J. F. TAYLOR & COMPANY
MCMIII

COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY
J. F. TAYLOR AND
COMPANY, NEW YORK

_Published September, 1903_

_Acknowledgment
is due to The Editors of St.
Nicholas, Our Animal Friends, New York
Herald, &c., for permission to
reproduce these stories_

_Gabrielle E. Jackson_

CONTENTS

PAGE

BIG JACK, 11

“BILLEE TAYLOR,” 37

CHARLIE & CO., 65

GRAY LADY’S ONLY SON, 83

HOW NED TOODLES WENT TO COOKING SCHOOL, 131

OLD NICK’S CHRISTMAS, 141

HOW NED TOODLES TOLD TIME, 175

BIG JACK

“BIG JACK”

I wonder how many of the little people in New York City have ever heard of “Big Jack”? Not many, I fancy; and yet Big Jack is quite an important character, and holds a very responsible position, which he fills with much dignity as well as credit to himself, and satisfaction to his employers.

His headquarters are at Broadway and Twenty-second Street, where he can usually be found at about ten o’clock in the morning, and from that hour, off and on, until about 5 P. M. In the intervals his business affairs call him to various parts of the city, but being extremely methodical in his habits, he is usually at his office about lunch-time.

You may be somewhat surprised to learn that he is strictly a vegetarian, confining his diet solely to cereals or fruit, with occasionally a few lumps of sugar. He _should_ have been a Scotchman, judging by his fondness for oats, but he was born, I am told, in our own country.

Possibly his love for oats may account for his beautiful complexion, which is snowy white, with just a suggestion of pink showing through and telling of the warm, rich blood flowing underneath.

I first became acquainted with Jack about five years ago. Indeed, I must confess that we _scraped_ acquaintance. It came about in this manner. I was standing with my little daughter upon the corner of Broadway and Twenty-second Street, waiting for an uptown car, when I became aware that we were being very closely regarded by a pair of unusually large and extremely beautiful brown eyes--eyes which were very eloquent, and seemed to say much more plainly than words could have done: “I am very favorably impressed with that little girl, and I should like to know her. Will she speak to me, do you think?”

I called the little girl’s attention to the big eyes looking at her so steadfastly, and, do you know, I believe she understood their language even better than I did, and yet I flatter myself that I am a pretty good interpreter of such glances. At any rate, she walked straight up to their owner and said: “Why do you look at me that-a-way? I just guess you _know_ I keep lumps of sugar in my pocket to give to great, big lovely horses like you!”

Slowly a great white head with the most intelligent eyes I have ever seen was lowered to a level with the little maid’s face, and two or three queer, sidling steps taken to bring it closer to the outstretched arms. The owner seemed to realize that those little arms never gave any save the tenderest caresses, and he was very glad to feel one circle around his huge, soft neck, while the other carried a small hand to stroke a very silky muzzle, for Big Jack is a horse among horses. And big, indeed, he is--a giant of his kind.

There is nothing small about Jack either in his makeup or his manners. His head is massive, but magnificently formed, with thin, sensitive nostrils, wide-awake eyes placed widely apart, small, alert ears which point forward, or occasionally one is turned back as though to listen round the corner for the sound of a familiar voice, or a kindly word from his driver, who is justly proud of the big white creature.

And such a neck! I would not dare venture a guess as to the size of collar Jack wears, for the great neck arches up to a crest that is truly noble.

But his eyes tell more of his noble nature than all the rest of the head together; they are so big, so soft, so brown, and so eloquent. With them he talks to you, expressing by them love, kindness, expectancy, joy, and--sometimes--make-believe anger, for Jack is rarely angry in earnest.

But he resents the slightest approach to teasing by flashing his big eyes at his tormentor, and after they have seen the sharp eyes turned so keenly on them, not many have the hardihood to push matters too far.

Big Jack has hosts of friends, who always have a kind word for him, and a day rarely passes without someone bringing him a dainty of some sort.

His driver carries him an apple every morning when he goes to the stable to take him out for his day’s work, and Jack knows exactly the hour to expect him, and the instant his footfall is heard, greets him with a loud whinny.

After Jack has enjoyed his apple, his master lets him out of his stall, and that is Jack’s opportunity for a frolic. He prances about like a young colt until told to “go along and get his drink,” when he at once marches off to the water-trough and proceeds to drink up a few gallons. A good breakfast follows, and then he puts himself in position to be harnessed, gets into his shafts, and is ready for business. He knows exactly what is expected of him, and trots straight to the express office at Twenty-second Street and Broadway.

Jack does not move rapidly; it is not compatible with his size and dignity to do so, for he seems to realize his importance and to understand how utterly impossible it would be for the company to conduct the express business without his valuable assistance.

In front of his office Jack is king, and woe to any other horse who tries to usurp his special post. He knows precisely how that wagon should be backed in to the sidewalk to receive its daily load, and does not rest until he has brought it to exactly the proper position.

Then he settles down for a nap, and no one would imagine that the big white horse standing there with his head hanging down and eyes partly closed had half an ounce of sense in his great head. But stand aside for a few moments and watch him. Presently you see one ear turned slowly backward for apparently no cause at all. But Jack knows more than you do, and that ear is sharp, and has heard the patter of familiar feet and the sound of a sweet little voice. He cannot see behind him because, long ago, some stupid man, who thought he knew more about horses’ needs and natures than He who created them, decreed that they must wear a great patch of leather on each side of their heads in order that they may not know what is happening behind them; and _blinders_ they are indeed.

But he did not stop up their _ears_, and Jack has that to be thankful for.

That pretty ear has heard a voice it recognizes, and when it has told its possessor that the owner of that voice is near enough to be seen, slowly the great head is raised and turned the least little bit to the right side, and the eyes, but a moment since so dull and sleepy,--so oblivious of surrounding affairs,--begin to beam with a wonderful softness.

Now comes dancing along a little girl about four years of age, with brown curls waving and brown eyes sparkling. A little girl who _never_ walks; she skips and she prances, she jumps and she dances, as she holds her mother’s hand, and, I had better add, she chatters incessantly.

No wonder Jack has heard her. She comes up from behind him very quietly and says softly, “Good-morning, dear old Jack!”

Jack hitches a step or two closer to the sidewalk and waits; for Jack is a sly old fellow, and he knows it would never do to turn too quickly, and so spoil this pleasant little game of peek-a-boo.

“Who loves sugar, and how many lumps have I in my pocket for somebody?”

The word “sugar” has broken the charm, and Jack can no longer resist. The big, soft head comes down to the little girl’s outstretched arms and snuggles close up to her--so close that one passing by stops to say, “Oh, that horse will surely hurt that child.”

But Big Jack and Wee Winkles understand each other too well, and the great creature’s gentleness is a very beautiful lesson.

“Now, Jack,” she continues, “before we can have any sugar we must shake hands.”

Hardly are the words uttered when up comes a monstrous right foot, which two small hands grasp at the slender ankle; for to hold the hoof itself would be somewhat like trying to hold half a ton.

“That’s a dear horse. Now, find the buttons on my coat,--a lump of sugar for each button, you know.”

Very gently the soft muzzle travels up the front of the little coat, and a sly nip is given to the top button. The reward is instantly offered, and crunched with a relish. Before it has had time to slip down the huge throat, Jack has found the second button, and won his second lump. Four buttons in all, and four lumps of sugar.

A few more loving pats upon the dear old nose, the assurance that she “loves him _dearly, dearly_,” and Wee Winkles prances away up Broadway to Madison Square for her morning airing, while Jack watches her until she is lost in the throng.

Nearly every day, during the winter months in town for almost two years, Jack was visited, and no matter how long a time elapsed during the summer, when his little friend was out of town, Jack never forgot her, but upon her return showed his delight in every possible way.

But at length came a long separation, for the little girl moved far away uptown, where she lived for two years, and then moved to the country, and Big Jack was seen no longer. We often wondered whether he missed his morning visitor and lumps of sugar, but concluded that several other children, who knew and loved him, would doubtless remember him. Not only children loved Jack, but grown people find something very fascinating in the great creature, who is by turns affectionate or mischievous, and seems to act toward his friends with remarkable discrimination, showing to some all that is gentlest and sweetest--and this usually to the little people--in his disposition, and to others his mischief.

To see Jack dissemble is too funny for words to express. He will pretend he does not know a friend is near him until that friend slips his hand into his pocket for the apple or sugar which Jack knows all the time is there. Then he will turn his head slowly, very slowly, toward the individual, who may have been standing there for the past two minutes,--time is of no value to Jack,--then a quiet, scarcely perceptible change in the position of the ears, a surprised opening of the eyes, as though to say: “Why, really, are _you_ there? I _am_ surprised! I had no idea that you were within half a mile. _So_ pleased to see you!”

Then the sweet morsel is accepted in the most gracious manner imaginable, as though his lordship were conferring a great favor by condescending to accept the attention.

And now I must tell you something which seems almost too wonderful to be true. After a lapse of five years we can tell a tale of Jack’s intelligence which is truly extraordinary, and which proves conclusively, if, indeed, the fact ever could be doubted, that our dumb friend has a memory which some of his two-footed friends might envy.

Not long since his little friend, now grown a large girl of nine years, went with her mother to the city to do some shopping, and, turning into Twenty-second Street from Sixth Avenue, the first object which met her eyes was Big Jack standing in front of one of the shops.

Although five years have passed over Jack’s head since we first met him,--and that is quite a number as horses’ lives are counted,--they have dealt very gently with him, and he is but little changed. Not quite so sleek, perhaps, and not so kittenish, for Jack has worked hard and steadily all these years, and work tells even upon the strongest horses; but the same old Jack stood before us, and could not be mistaken.

We were behind him, and his blinders prevented him from seeing us.

“Oh, mamma,” said his little friend, “do you think he will remember me if I speak to him? How I wish we had some sugar for the dear old fellow!”

I replied that we would step into a store close at hand and get a few lumps, and then we would test Jack’s memory. We soon had our sugar, and Wee Winkles--no longer “wee”--walked up from behind him as of old, and said in the voice which Jack had not heard for nearly four years, and which naturally must have changed considerably in that interval: “Good-morning, dear old Jack!” To my great astonishment, the recognition was instantaneous. Quick as a flash the great head was turned; and not only that, but a soft whinny told of the dear old fellow’s joy, as did also the quick snuggling down to the outstretched arms.

No one could possibly doubt these demonstrations of delight; and when they were followed by the voluntary upraising of the huge fore foot, as of old, for the--what shall I say--foot-shake? his little friend’s joy knew no bounds.

“Oh, mamma, mamma,” she cried, “did you _ever_ know anything so wonderful?”

I replied that it was indeed very remarkable, and added, “Can it be possible that he has remembered all the tricks? Ask him about the s-u-g-a-r”--spelling the word lest the sound might recall the trick of the buttons.

“Who loves sugar, and how many lumps have I in my pocket for somebody?”

But, alas! fashions have changed in four years, and some coats have no buttons at all. In vain poor Jack felt about for the top button, then a little lower for where No. 2 should have been found, then at the other side for three and four, but no buttons were there; and Jack, utterly disgusted, manifested it by shaking his head and stamping his foot. His surprise was absurdly funny, and if he could have spoken I believe he would have said with withering scorn: “Well, if _I_ were in _your_ place I’d go straight home and _sew on my buttons_!”

Jack, however, got his four lumps despite the fashions, and was a very happy horse.

It is perhaps rather difficult to believe this little tale, but it is absolutely true from beginning to end, and has been written in order to give the little people who reside in that section of New York an opportunity to see and know big Jack, for I do assure you he is well worth seeing and knowing.

There are, I dare say, a great many very clever and very beautiful horses in our big city. Indeed, Wee Winkles and I know several ourselves. “Billy Borden,” for instance, who knows his milk route so well that his driver has only to say, “8 West Sixty-sixth, Billy,” or “9 West Sixty-fifth, Billy,” to have him go at once to these addresses, or any other with which he is familiar. Again, he will say: “No milk here to-day, Billy,” and Billy jogs on.

Then there is “Dan Sorrel,” who draws the milk-wagon which takes the milk to Central Park Dairy every morning. His driver often amuses the children who gather about his pet by saying:

“Now, Dan, I believe you are a Democrat.”

“No!” shakes the head.

“What! a Republican?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” and a stamping of both front feet, while the tail is slashed about like a banner to emphasize his sentiments.

Dan is great fun. Nor must we forget our old pet “Jingo” of the mounted policemen’s horses; for he was truly wonderful, and I might go on almost endlessly telling of his remarkable sagacity and cleverness.

Jingo and Wee Winkles were warm friends, for Winkles spent two winters in a home very near the West Seventy-second Street entrance to the Park, and each sunshiny day carried her lump of sugar to Jingo, who would perform all sorts of tricks in order to win his reward. He would waltz, go down upon his knees, shake hands, fetch a pocket-handkerchief which she made believe she had dropped, whisper in his rider’s ear, and do many things besides.

It is a never-ending source of surprise to me that so few people seem to understand the wonderful intelligence of horses, or the marvelous possibilities in developing that intelligence.

All my life I have either had horses of my own or been so fortunately situated that I might make the acquaintance of those belonging to others. I use the word “acquaintance” advisedly, for one _must_ become acquainted, must be in sympathy with them, before they will show the best side of their horse natures.

I have frequently stopped in the street beside a horse who looked as though life had been a hard struggle for him, and whose every line of face and attitude showed a stolid endurance of the inevitable, as if fate had settled his lot beyond all power to change, and nothing remained but to endure and wait until death put an end to it all. After standing for a few moments unnoticed,--as though the poor creature were thinking within itself, “She is only one more, like all the rest, and will either pass on and take no notice of me, or say, ‘Get out of the way, you brute,’”--I would say softly, but without moving, “Come here, old fellow.”

At first there would not be the least response, save, perhaps, the slight turn of an ear; but upon repeating it two or three times in exactly the same tone, the head would turn slowly toward me, and a look of surprise come into the tired eyes, as though a gentle word were a thing before unknown.

At the third repetition I have rarely failed to have the poor old nose stretched out toward me for a gentle stroke, and the neck thus brought within reach of a kind pat.

Not infrequently have I had the owner of some such unfortunate say to me, “Hi, there! Look out! That horse’ll bite ye!” and have replied, “Oh, I think not; watch him a moment, and see if I am not right.”

I well recall one such instance, when I went up to intercede for a poor beast that was being cruelly lashed because it could not draw a load which was far beyond its strength.

I begged the driver to desist, which, I add to his credit, he did at once, getting down off his cart, whip in hand. As he did so I went up to the poor creature’s head, and was greeted with a series of snaps and plunges, as though his tormentors had driven him nearly wild. “Don’t go within tin feet av the baste!” exclaimed the man. “He’ll have the head off yer.”

“I hardly think so,” I said, and kept straight on, speaking softly and kindly to the trembling creature, while I reached out to take him by the rein.

Up flew the head as if to avoid a blow, telling all too eloquently how often the poor muzzle had smarted from one.

But dear Mother Nature is kind, and has endowed her dumb creatures with wonderful discerning powers; so not many minutes had passed before the poor tired head was nestled close to me, and soft strokes and gentle words seemed to act as a sedative upon nerves which were utterly unstrung.

The man stood by, open-mouthed. “Well, be all the powers!” said he; “the likes av that niver did I see in all me born days. I thought the baste would ate the very handle off me shovel!”

“He is better than you thought, is he not?”

“Faith, I believe ye’ve bewitched him,” he answered.

“Yes,” I said, “I have; but _you_ can bewitch him in the same way if you will only try it. I wish you would.”

* * * * *

All this is a long way from Big Jack, and we must not forget our chief character in our sympathies for his less fortunate kindred.

But I want the little people who read this to realize how much that is lovable and beautiful dear Mother Nature has put right in our daily paths, if we will only raise our eyes to see and our voices to win it; for surely it cannot fail to help us by developing all that is best and loveliest in ourselves.

“BILLEE TAYLOR”

“BILLEE TAYLOR”

The rays of the afternoon sunshine came peeping across the high hedge to fall aslant the closely cut lawn which sloped to the beautiful river flowing so peacefully beyond. The hedge and the great trees cast long shadows upon the soft green grass, making a marked contrast to the brilliant patches of sunshine lying between.

Crickets hopped about, singing their monotonous little songs, and insects floated in the sun’s warm rays, as though enjoying a golden shower bath. Under one of the great trees and comfortably resting in a big East India lawn chair, with its back drawn close to the hedge, sat, or rather half reclined, a small person of about fifteen summers; while upon the grass beside her lay an atom of a black and tan terrier.

The afternoon was very warm and still, and the drowsy, dreamy atmosphere had evidently had its influence upon little maid and little dog, for both had slipped away into dreamland.

Four strokes rang out from the distant town clock, the distance causing the sound to be wonderfully mellowed, and, as though it were the signal for a new actor to appear upon the scene, the branches of the hedge just above the chair were pushed aside and a great head, with wonderfully soft eyes, peered through at the sleepers. It was followed by a long, gracefully arched sorrel neck, and “Billee” had introduced himself.

So gently had the hedge been parted that it scarcely rustled, and the young girl slept on undisturbed.

But the owner of the great head had his own ideas regarding the hours which should be devoted to slumber, and four o’clock, on a beautiful summer afternoon, was _not_ one of them; so he proceeded to rouse the sleepers.

“Hoo-hoo; hoo-hoo-hoo,” came the soft, unspellable sound a horse makes when he greets you. But it only resulted in rousing the little terrier, who raised his head lazily and regarded the intruder with a rather surprised air.

But the horse had no notion of failing in his undertaking, and at once proceeded to adopt more energetic measures. Stretching his long neck still further through the opening in the hedge, he reached toward the sleeper, and taking very gentle hold of a stray lock of hair which fell across the back of the chair, gave it a slight pull with his soft, velvety lips, and then, as though terrified at the liberty he had taken, plunged back with a loud snort.

The pull, the snort, and the wild barking of the enraged little terrier produced such an instantaneous effect that he should have been highly gratified, for the girl bounded out of her chair and stood staring at the hedge in astonishment. But that looked innocent enough, and she would have turned elsewhere to learn the cause of her fright had she not caught sight of a shining pair of eyes which looked at her through the opening in the branches.

She darted forward with a laugh, and parting the branches, she said:

“You scamp! What do you mean by playing me such a trick? I’ve tried to coax you to come close to me time and time again when I’ve been wide awake, but you choose to take me at a disadvantage while I am in the land of Nod,” and she wagged her finger at him admonishingly.

Down went his head and up went his heels and tail; for a few minutes it was difficult to tell which end of him touched the ground; and no boy ever gave more pronounced demonstrations of wild delight at the success of some prank than he gave of his, as, with a final and most abandoned kick-up, he went careering over the big field. Marion, for such was the girl’s name, made no attempt to coax him to come back; well knowing that he must have his fling before settling down to more serious matters, and enjoying the spectacle most thoroughly; for the horse was a beauty and never showed to greater advantage than when enjoying his freedom in the pasture.

The superb head, with its splendid eyes, delicate, pointed ears and sensitive nostrils, was held high in the air; the gracefully arched neck, with its silky, flowing mane and full throbbing veins; the dainty hoofs and slender limbs which supported the lithe, active body, appearing scarcely to touch the grass, and the long tail waving behind like a triumphal banner, all were superbly beautiful.

But, masculine member of society as he was, he was somewhat of a coquette, and soon tried new fascinations. Stopping suddenly in the midst of his wild career, he walked over to the hedge with his head lowered as demurely as a young miss. When within about ten feet of it he stopped, threw up his head, and gave a loud neigh.

“Now you _know_ you are only doing that for effect,” said Marion, “and I believe you just know how beautiful you look with the sun shining on your silky, sorrel coat as you stand there trying to make me believe you’re afraid, when you know perfectly well you’re not one bit. Come here, this minute; for _this_ time I’m determined to touch you if I have to crawl through the hedge to do it,” and in another moment the girl stood in the field.

One dainty hoof pawed the ground and the head went up and down as though answering “yes,” but he did not advance a step.

“Are you coming?”

“Hoo-hoo; hoo-hoo-hoo!”

“Now does that mean ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

Down went the head again.

“It means ‘yes,’ does it? Well, come on, then,” and she held out her hand coaxingly. Without a sign of warning he gave a bound which landed him beside her so suddenly that it was a marvel she did not make some demonstration of fear. But she did not, and the horse, who had a novel way of doing things, instantly made up his mind that this young lady was not easily frightened; consequently he decided to behave himself, and with a soft little whinny he put his silky head into her outstretched arms and stood as quiet as a lamb.

Marion’s joy was unbounded, for, time and again during the summer she had tried to make friends with the beautiful animal, only to find herself baffled at each attempt; and now he stood beside her and let her fondle and caress him as unreservedly as she would have caressed the little terrier, who stood beside her regarding the whole proceeding with a questioning look.

“What do you think of him, Jingles?” she asked, and the terrier gave a little bark, which set jingling the tiny silver bells upon the collar, which had given him his name.

Marion stood there caressing the horse for some time, enjoying his pranks and indulging in subdued rapture over his affectionate little demonstrations, for, once won over, he seemed determined to make amends for former shortcomings and licked her hand, nibbled at her ruffles, laid his head across her shoulder and showed in every possible way that he had taken her for his friend; when suddenly he raised his head and laid back his ears.

“What is it, old fellow? What has disturbed you?” she asked, well knowing that she was not the cause of the half-frightened, half-angry look which had come into his eyes.

Whatever it was he evidently regarded it with distinct disfavor, for his whole attitude changed and one would hardly have recognized in him the same animal which a moment before had so captivated Marion.

Up went the head and a still more frightened look crept into his eyes as a tall, heavily-built man, with a stupid face and features which spoke only of coarseness and brutality, came into view.

“Hi! do yer want ter be killed?” he shouted in a harsh voice. “Yer’d better keep away from that brute if yer don’t. He’s a perfect devil.”

In an instant all the indignation and resentment in the young girl’s nature was aroused by this unjust accusation, for her love for horses was so intense that she seemed to hold almost magical power over them, and her friends used often to say that they believed she possessed some secret means of communicating to them her own thoughts and reading theirs.

However that might be, certain it was that they all loved her, from her own beautiful little pony to the greatest forlornity that ever bore harness, and her word rarely failed to win a response of some sort.

Ever since her father had rented their pretty summer home in May, she had watched the beautiful young animal driven by the owner of the adjoining property, and, during the horse’s occasional days of freedom in the pasture separated from her home by a high hedge, had striven to coax him to her. But with her keen intuitions she made up her mind that the animal was not kindly treated, and consequently lacked confidence in human beings.

“But I shall yet win him over; see if I don’t,” she had said to her father as she sat at breakfast that very morning, “and I’ll find out the cause of his distrust as well; or my name is not Marion.”

“I won’t try to dispute that, sweetheart, since I gave you the name myself,” replied her father as he rose from the table and came for his good-by kiss before leaving for town, “so I dare say I shall soon have our four-footed neighbor’s biography.”

“You needn’t tease me,” she said, with a wag of her pretty head, “I’m going to _do_ it.”

So now she stood confronting the owner of the unpleasant voice and more unpleasant personality, and her own voice quivered with indignation as she answered:

“Do you see anything very fiendish in him just at present? Perhaps you might find the angelic side of his nature, just as I have, if you would take pains to try.”

All this time, although quivering with apprehension, the horse had stood perfectly still with the girl’s arm resting protectingly across his withers.

“Is he _your_ horse?” she continued, for the man had stopped stock-still to regard the great animal’s intrepid little defender with amazement.

“Naw! he aint that; and I don’t want him neither. He belongs to the boss up yander. But I’ve got to take care of him, and if he don’t look out I’ll kill him some day, if he don’t get a lick at me first. Here, come on out o’ that, the boss wants ye,” and he made a grab at the horse’s forelock.

Up flew the nervous creature’s head as though to avoid a blow, to which, undoubtedly, he was only too well accustomed, and in so doing he hit the hard bridge of his nose against the man’s chin, causing him to bite his tongue. With a furious oath he drew back his huge fist and dealt the horse a cruel blow upon his soft muzzle.

With the pathetic cry a wounded horse gives, the poor creature fell almost upon his haunches, and then, with a superb bound, leaped clear and clean over the man’s head.

It had all happened in a few seconds, but those few seconds had been sufficient to arouse within the girl’s soul all the fury of righteous anger, and with a wild cry of, “Oh, how _dare_ you do such a cruel thing! How _dare_ you, when you know he did not mean to hurt you!” she caught hold of the man by both his arms and shook him till his teeth fairly chattered. Then, pushing him from her, she cried: “Now go! You are not fit to have the care of a wild bull, let alone such a splendid creature as that, and you shall never, never touch him again if I can prevent it.”

Never probably in all his life had this great, strong man encountered such a little fury as now confronted him with flashing eyes and crimson cheeks. The girl’s whole nature rose in wrath against such injustice, and for the time being she was beside herself, and all thoughts of “Mrs. Grundy” flew to the four winds.

Too astonished to speak, he stood like a wooden image staring straight at her, then, as she stamped her pretty little foot and pointed toward the gate, he turned and slunk off toward the distant stables; for once, at least, dealt with as he deserved, although it had fallen to the lot of a girl of fifteen to administer justice.

“Oh, Jingles,” she cried, now almost in tears, “wasn’t it awful! Come quick and we will look after the dear fellow,” and she ran swiftly to the far end of the field in which the frightened horse had taken refuge.

There he stood with his poor head hanging dejectedly down, and the blood dripping from the cut nostril. Marion approached him very quietly, fearing that his recent cruel treatment might have undone all she had striven so patiently to gain, but the intelligent animal had learned more than one lesson that day, and the girl had won his confidence forever.

Taking the poor, smarting muzzle in her soft, white hands, she examined it closely and found the cut to be a bad one. “If I only had some water,” she said to herself, “I could bathe it. I know, I’ll lead him to that spring down at the edge of the field,” and untying the pretty Roman sash from her waist, she placed it very gently around the horse’s neck, and, saying in her sweet voice, “Come along, dear,” she led him quietly beside her.

Her dainty linen handkerchief served to bathe the injured nose, and when the bleeding was stanched she turned toward the gate, intending to lead her patient home, little realizing what a pretty picture she made as she came across the fields with the afternoon sunlight falling upon her beautiful brown hair and pretty white gown, with one hand leading the handsome sorrel horse by his gay silken leader, while the other was laid caressingly across his neck.

To the gentleman standing concealed behind a clump of evergreens just beyond the gate it seemed the prettiest sight he had ever looked upon, and a pleasing ending to the harrowing one to which he had been an unseen witness.

Slipping from his hiding-place as the girl approached, he advanced with outstretched hand, saying: “Little neighbor, I have more than one thing for which to thank you this afternoon, but the greatest is for your heroic defense of my horse. Don’t try to tell me anything about it,” as Marion gave a slight start and opened her lips to speak,--“I saw the whole occurrence from beginning to end, and now I know why one of my most valuable animals has thus far in his career been pronounced vicious.”

“Oh, he isn’t! I _know_ he isn’t,” exclaimed his champion.

“So do I,--_now_, but I have been a long time learning it, and, but for you, I should probably never have done so; since that man, upon whom you wreaked your vengeance,” and here a rather amused smile curved the corners of Mr. Ryder’s lips, “was cunning enough to conceal his true disposition when in my presence.”

Marion colored slightly, and said: “I know it was a dreadful thing to do, and I don’t know what papa will say when I tell him about it, but I was so angry that I just _couldn’t_ keep still.”

“It is fortunate for Billy that you did not, or his future might have been a miserable one; might it not, old fellow?” he answered as he reached out to take the horse’s leader. But Billy’s faith in mankind had been sorely shaken, and he started aside. “Tut, tut!” said Mr. Ryder, “this is a bad business, and I think I shall have to impose upon your friendship for Billy by asking you to lead him to the stable for me, since he seems so fearful of ill-treatment. What is your name, little maid? We have been neighbors six weeks, but I am so rarely home that I am almost a stranger here.”

“Marion Taylor,” was the reply. “Come, Billy,” she added, “I didn’t know your name before, but we got acquainted, didn’t we, dear?” and she laid her flushed face against the warm, silky neck. “Have you more horses?” she asked as they walked along together.

“Yes, a large number, for I raise them. Billy, here, is one of my handsomest, and, but for his unfortunate disposition, he would be the most valuable. I understand him better now, I think.”

“Oh, I hope so! He is so beautiful, and I am sure he would love me dearly if I could see him every day. May I?”

“You certainly may, and tell your father that Mr. Ryder will give himself the pleasure of calling upon him this evening,” he said, as he shook hands with her and said good-by at the stable door.

Marion, with Jingles at her heels, ran swiftly home across the field, while Mr. Ryder went in quest of the delinquent Sam, with whom he had an interview--brief, but very much to the point. A few hours later he was seated on Mr. Taylor’s delightful piazza enjoying with him an after-dinner cigar as they talked, for they soon discovered that theirs was really an old acquaintance rather than a new one, since both had been students at the same university years before.

When Mr. Ryder said good-night at eleven o’clock, Billy had become Mr. Taylor’s property, for the latter had long been in search of a well-trained saddle-horse for Marion, and was glad to find such a desirable one.

“Marion will cure any peculiarities of disposition he may possess,” he said; “the child loves horses better than she loves people, I believe; at all events, she understands them better and they her.”

“You missed a good deal by not seeing her this afternoon,” replied Mr. Ryder. “By Jove! she gave it to Sam in good, round, set terms. I don’t believe the fellow has recovered yet,” and he laughed as he recalled the little girl’s righteous wrath.

As Marion stood upon the piazza next morning she was surprised to see Billy led in at the gate.

“Why, papa,” she called to her father, who sat in the dining room behind her, “they are bringing Billy in here; what does it mean?”

“It means, little daughter,” said her father, as he joined her, “that Mr. Ryder and I have decided that you are to be Billy’s future mistress, since you have evidently won his confidence and love. You need a saddle-horse, and he is perfectly trained. Add this pet to your many others, for I dare say your heart is large enough to hold even Billy.”

A note addressed to Miss Marion Taylor was handed to her by the groom, and contained the following message: “For Billy’s champion, with whom I hope he may dwell long and serve faithfully, and henceforth be known, not as Billy Ryder, but as ‘Billee Taylor.’” From that moment “Billee’s” life was revolutionized, and he was as happy as his days were long.

Marion tended him herself until the poor nose was quite healed. Billee’s gratitude was boundless, and he showed it in every possible way. Could he have done so he would have followed his beloved young mistress straight into the house, and very often, indeed, he did follow her on to the piazza.

Her pony was rather small for the saddle, so Billee was always used for riding; and many a delightful canter they had; the beautiful animal fully realizing how precious was the burden he carried, and swinging along as smoothly as a rocking-chair.

Long after the sore nose was entirely well Billee remembered the cruel blow, and when Marion said, “Poor Billee, where did he get hurt?” the comical fellow would lift up his head and raise his upper lip to show the scar, which he still carried upon it and his nostril. In a wonderfully short time his nervousness, and what had seemed to be a sort of resentment toward mankind in general, entirely vanished, and he became the sweetest-tempered animal one could wish for, and as full of pranks and mischief as a kitten.

Marion could always control him with a word, and even in the midst of one of his wildest pranks, her voice was sufficient to bring him back to his senses.

He and Toddles, the pony, became fast friends, and it was a common thing for the neighbors to see Marion seated upon the lawn with Billee, Toddles, Jingles, and the two kittens, Blink and Wink, lying or standing beside her. No matter where she went, whether it was for a stroll by the river, a walk to the post office, or a drive behind little Toddles, if Billee caught sight of her he was determined to follow her, and, if prevented by his groom from so doing, would neigh to her as long as she was in sight.

While prowling about his stable yard one afternoon he somehow managed to pick up a nail and, as though he were sure that his beloved mistress would help him, he whinnied and whinnied until his groom came to learn the cause. Seeing the horse limp, the man tried to take up his foot to examine it, but Billee preferred selecting his own surgeon, and although he could scarcely hobble, he pushed past his groom, who let him go, and limped to the front of the house, where he felt certain of finding his mistress. She was seated in her favorite chair near the hedge, and with a glad neigh he hobbled up to her and held up the lame foot.

“Why, Billee dear! what is the matter?” she cried, and, jumping up, she took the poor foot into her hands. Billee poked his nose down and made a queer grunting sort of sound, as though trying to tell her his trouble.

“Yes, dear, I see what it is; we will soon have it out,” she said, and Thomas was summoned and the nail removed.

“Now come with me, Billee, and we will fix it all comfortable,” and she led him back to his stall.

She soon had the feverish foot standing in a tub of oil meal, and, bidding him “be a good horse and not take his foot out of the tub till she gave him leave,” she left him. A dozen times a day during the four or five that followed, she went out to pour cold water on the ankle and see that the foot was properly cared for, and each time she appeared Billee’s joy was boundless, and he would hold up his foot to have it dressed.

Such constant care could not fail to effect a prompt cure, and in a week’s time Billee was as frisky as ever. But he never forgot his lame foot, and ever after, when he felt particularly in need of sympathy, would put on a make-believe limp, and if Marion said “Poor Billee Taylor, he has _such_ a lame foot,” the rogue would hold it up, put his nose down to it, and give voice to a low snicker, as though trying to tell the story all over again.

Billee’s life was like the good prince’s in the fairy tales: “He lived long and happily, and died at a ripe old age.”

CHARLIE & CO.

CHARLIE & CO.

Charlie was distinctly a local character. I doubt if he could claim any special distinction even in his own town, and yet among his few friends he held an enviable place, for they loved and trusted him, and neither the love nor the trust was misplaced.

It is more than five years ago since we first met Charlie & Co., and even then neither of the partners was young nor handsome. But they commanded our attention.

It was in the summer of 1894 that I was sitting upon the piazza of a friend’s home in the pretty suburban town of Elton. It was about four o’clock, and as I sat drinking in the beauty of the sunshine and the shadow as they flickered upon the soft green lawn, I heard the measured pat-pat of a horse’s footfall. Alive to the slightest sound, either regular or irregular, in the footfall of the animal I love best of all my four-footed friends, I instantly recognized in this one an unfamiliar sound, as though the animal making it had a mode of navigation peculiar to itself.

As I glanced up the sound suddenly ceased, and I saw standing at the foot of the driveway a bay horse harnessed to a milk-wagon. It would have been difficult for me to tell what there was in the animal to distinguish him from a dozen others which might have stopped at the door, but there was an indefinable _something_, and I watched him, feeling instinctively that something interesting would develop. Nor did my instinct mislead me. The driver of the horse, an elderly man, whose kindly face and scrupulous neatness were in perfect harmony with the contented look worn by the animal he drove, and with its glossy, shining coat, which testified to the care given to it, stepped from his wagon and then turned to take from it a wire stand filled with jars of rich, creamy milk, and started with them toward the kitchen at the rear of the house.

As his driver left him the horse turned back one ear, but further than that gave no evidence that he was at all interested in the man’s movements. But directly the sound of his footfalls had ceased to be heard, the pretty bay head, with the softest of velvety white noses and big brown eyes, was turned quite around in order to have a good look into the wagon--for, happily, the headstall had no blinders. Evidently all was as it should be, and with a nod of his head, as though saying “yes,” the animal started off.

My first impulse was to call out “whoa,” but something in the wise, self-contained air of the creature compelled me to await developments.

Curving well outward, that the wheels of the wagon need not come in contact with the curbstone, the horse started down the street, crossing immediately to the right side in order to obey the rule of the highway which says, “Keep to the right.” Passing four or five houses, he stopped at one, and, bringing his wagon close to the curb, turned and looked around. A moment later his driver reappeared and followed his business partner across the street. Again the milk jars were taken from the wagon, and again the horse started on, this time to the second house. It was funny enough to watch him; he was as familiar with the route, and the time necessary for each delivery, as his master, and evidently felt as much responsibility.

Turning to my friend, who just then joined me upon the piazza, I asked:

“Who is the milkman whose horse seems as familiar with the milk route as he himself does?”

“Oh, it is Mr. Harris, and he is as kind as he looks. His horse Charlie is amusing, is he not? Yes, he knows the customers as well as Mr. Harris does, and we always speak of them as ‘Charlie & Co.’ I doubt if Mr. Harris could get on without his silent partner.”

“Does the horse always act as he has to-day?”

“Invariably. He is as punctual and methodical as his master is neat and kind-hearted. They have served me with milk for many years, and I should not be able to keep house without them, I believe.”

“I shall not forget them,” I replied, “and if I ever make Elton my home, I shall certainly give my order to ‘Charlie & Co.’”

A few months later we removed to Elton, and I lost no time in requesting Charlie & Co. to include our home in their daily rounds. It was at that period that I became well acquainted with Charlie and learned to appreciate his wonderful intelligence, and the clever ways which so endeared him to his master.

Twice daily did Charlie appear at my door, and it was not long before it became his favorite stopping-place, for at it he rarely failed to receive an apple, a biscuit, and at last, when he had acquired a taste for it, a lump of sugar. But this was distinctly a cultivated taste, and his efforts to learn to like the dainty were funny beyond words to express. My little daughter was the first to cultivate Charlie’s taste for sweets, and rarely a day passed that she did not watch for his coming and have ready the dainty.

Charlie had a peculiar gait, which was probably the result of having been used under the saddle in his younger days. It was neither a pace, nor yet a trot, but a sort of cross between the two, and when he desired to hasten it he broke into a distinct canter. Directly he left the nearest neighbor’s at whose house he was forced to stop before reaching his little friend’s home, Charlie, in the words of dear Lewis Carroll, would come “gallumping”--no other word will express it--for his dainty. The dear old head would be put close down to the arms waiting to caress him, and after a bit of affectionate demonstration on both sides, the proffered lump of sugar would be taken, toyed with a moment by the velvety lips, bitten in two, and held while Charlie seemed thinking the matter over, meantime looking at his little friend and shaking his head wisely.

“Eat it, Charlie; it’s delicious,” the little one would say. But Charlie had his own ideas on the subject, and was not to be hurried. It was not until he had thoroughly tested this new article of diet, turned it over upon his tongue, crunched it with his nippers, that he finally decided it was really intended to go the way of oats and hay.

“Ye jest _spoil_ ’im, missie,” his master would say. “I can’t get ’im to stop ’alf a minute at the other ’ouses, ’e’s that crazy to get on to you and ’is sugar. Come on now, you old good-for-nothing, and get along to the other customers who’ll be wantin’ their milk!” And his master would climb into the wagon and slash at him with a whip whose length of lash was a mockery.

One of Charlie’s besetting sins was his determination to get a bite of grass whenever the opportunity offered. As a rule his check-rein, put on him for that very reason, prevented him from reaching the grass which grew beside the average curbstone, but just opposite our home was a terrace a foot or more high, and this was Charlie’s Mecca.

When there came a day which was too stormy for his little friend to meet him, the terrace at the opposite side of the street came into service. But don’t for a moment fancy that he ever started for it so long as he heard his master’s footfalls--ah, no! he was far too wise for that. But once Mr. Harris was safely disposed of in his customer’s kitchen, then Charlie would calmly start for the terrace, which the length of his check-rein just permitted him to reach, and for about three minutes enjoy unalloyed bliss. The instant he heard his master’s returning steps he was at once overwhelmed with business cares, and started off for his next customer’s house as hard as he could go.

I would that it lay in my power to convey to you some slight idea of Charlie’s “cuteness”--for only that Yankee word will express it. The intelligent eyes told how well he understood every word his master spoke to him, and their softness told his affection for that master who cared for him so faithfully.

In summer and winter, through sunshine and through storm, did Charlie bring us milk, and I wish I could tell those who read this simple little history that he still does so; but dear old Charlie, who so loved and was beloved by his master, gave his life to save that master from a frightful death.

In the spring of ’98 we removed to another house, and Charlie had few customers in the new street and had never stopped at that particular house. In order to test his memory our little daughter resolved to go out to the curbstone the first evening we spent in the new home, and, without saying a word, stand there and wait for Charlie to recognize her as he came along. A little before four o’clock she saw him trot-pacing toward her, and was instantly recognized by him and greeted with a soft “hoo-hoo-hoo,” as though he considered it undignified to whinny aloud while in harness. From that time Charlie needed no guiding, and after partaking of his sugar, went upon his way to a neighbor’s two doors beyond.

We two were his only customers in that street, and during the summer Mrs. Thompson’s house was closed for several weeks. At first Charlie was determined to go on to the closed house, and not until he had received most peremptory orders to “stand still, now, and wait till I come back; don’t you know those folks aren’t there now?” and had been summarily turned around and headed in the opposite direction did he grasp the situation; but once it was settled in the horse-mind, all was plain sailing for both horse and driver, and directly the jars of milk had vanished around the corner of our house, Charlie would turn his wagon carefully around and stand perfectly still to await his master’s return; for the next customer’s house was many blocks away, and Charlie had no notion of making Mr. Harris walk to it. We often wondered how he reasoned it all out, but he certainly did, and never by any chance missed a customer or gave his master an uncomfortably long walk.

Charlie’s place in this world was indeed a humble one, but the example he set might be followed with advantage by many a human being. At two o’clock each afternoon Charlie would watch his master as he milked his herd of sleek cows. He knew just how their turns came and exactly how long it would take to milk “Jinny” and “Bossy” and “Buttercup” and “Daffy,” and so on down the herd of ten or a dozen; and while they were milked Charlie poked about the barnyard. He appreciated a joke, and was never happier than when his master was the object of it. He would frequently come up softly behind Mr. Harris, who was very hard of hearing, and thrust his warm nose over his master’s shoulder as he sat upon a milking stool, and when Mr. Harris, giving a start which nearly proved fatal to the contents of the shining pail, turned about to shake his fist at the horse and cry “Get along out of the way, you scamp!” Charlie would seem as delighted over the prank as a child.

One day Charlie was unusually winsome, and, as Mr. Harris prepared to take his place in the wagon, he stopped to stroke the soft neck and say:

“Eh, Charlie, you’re a great plague, but it would be ’ard getting another like you,”--little dreaming how soon he would have to supply the faithful Charlie’s place. They started off for a customer whose house stood just a little beyond the railroad track. There were no gates at that crossing, and Mr. Harris was too hard of hearing to realize his danger from the approaching express train, already thundering around the curve above. But Charlie was not deaf, and he did his best to hold back from the track; but his master, impatient at his delay, which he could not understand, called sharply to him to go on. Obedient to the last, Charlie went, but he could not seem to make up his mind to bring the wagon behind him upon the track. Planting himself firmly between the rails, he stood fast and met his doom. An instant later the great iron monster came crashing upon him, tearing him out of the wagon, whose shafts snapped like pipe-stems, and hurling the poor creature a hundred feet beyond. When the train was brought to a standstill, and the frightened passengers and engineer hurried to the scene of disaster, all that was left of poor, faithful Charlie was a lifeless form lying upon the grass beside the track. But even in death he had testified to his affection and faithfulness, for had he not stood firm to receive the death blow rather than lead his master into danger? Is it to be wondered that tears filled that master’s eyes when he bent over the lifeless form of his faithful horse?

And so Charlie, kind, gentle, faithful, Charlie, came into and passed out of our lives. Faithful and true, he proved to us that even a dumb creature may teach beautiful lessons that we all will do well to remember.

GRAY LADY’S ONLY SON

GRAY LADY’S ONLY SON