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Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
middle way. His enemy was to be conquered and the savage attack
upon his paw avenged. With his mind then fully made up he
descended for a second investigation and another possible attack.
This time his approach was doubly guarded, and he was particularly
careful in calculating the distance between his position and the jaws
which had given him such an unpleasant surprise.

After a deliberate survey of the situation, Tim made a sudden spring

to the side of his enemy, caught him under his chest, and turned
him upon his back. This side attack was unexpected and a 106
perfect success, and the reptile had an active and prolonged
struggle to regain his natural position. Tim watched the struggle with
intense interest, seeming to be happy in knowing that he held the
key to the situation. From that time on, his guest during the daylight
hours had no peace. Whenever Tim had an opportunity, he turned
him over, and, when not engaged in that diversion, he was chasing
him around the enclosure. About one month of such an existence
brought the Saurian very near to his end. From a most healthy and
vigorous “’gater” at the time he was caught he had become weak,
weary and lank; so forlorn was his lamentable condition that he
excited the sympathy of some human friend, who, during the night,
opened the gate to the pen. The following morning the persecuted
reptile was nowhere to be found. From that moment Tim 107
became his former self, watched anxiously at the gate for the
coming of friends, and pleaded pertinaciously for the intoxicating
beverage.

The summer and greater part of the autumn after the “’gater”
incident, I spent at the Mississippi Springs, and, while there,
received a letter from a friend, who, next to myself, was the most
ardent admirer Tim ever had. It was the last word relating to my
comical four-footed intimate, and I cannot close this truthful
narration more appropriately than by quoting from it:

“You will sympathize with me in our mutual loss. Probably, we have

seen the last of our old friend Tim; he departed from his well
scratched pole about two weeks ago, and is now on the road as an
important item in ‘The Most Colossal Show Ever Known.’ He had
grown so large, and his appetite for strong drink had increased to
such an alarming extent, that the attending darkies lost 108
confidence in their ability to handle him. During his later days
at the Lake, he appeared to have but one idea, and that related to
opportunities for intoxication. Whenever his pen door opened, no
matter for what purpose, he would make a rush for whoever came
in, and demand to be led to the bar-room, and, if disappointed,
would make a most furious demonstration.

“‘Captain Dan’ was immensely attached to him, but felt that the time
had arrived when some disposition must be made of him. The
menagerie at Algiers was the opportunity. A bargain was struck, and
the time fixed for his departure.

“‘Captain Dan’ decided to give him a regular ‘Fourth of July’ send-off,

and, to that end, invited a few of his most intimate friends and
admirers to be present at the performance. The guests were 109
assembled, and Tim was released from his pole. He made a
tremendous rush for the open bar-room door dragging two stalwart
Africans after him at a break-neck pace. He went direct to his old
corner where he found a large tin pan filled with a milk-punch such
as he had never tasted before. He emptied it in short order and
then, taking it between his paws, sat up, licked the last reminiscence
of the punch out of it, and in a few moments became the most
comical object imaginable. In fact he was never known to be more
funny. He was laughed at, poked with sticks, had his ears pulled, but
all to no purpose; he was too happy to be offended. He made a few
efforts to stand erect and to appear sober and dignified, but ended
each attempt by rolling over upon his back a helpless lump of limp
intoxication.

“In that condition, our old friend was bundled into a box on 110
wheels, and made ready for his departure to the new life.
Before going we all shook him by the paw, patted his head, and
wished him a happy future, and, as he disappeared in the distance,
there was a general expression of regret that we had seen the last
of poor Tim. ‘Captain Dan’s’ lip trembled, and I feel sure if he had
had it to do over again, he wouldn’t have done it.”

This parting with Tim proved to be the end of his connection with
the friends of his babyhood and youth: none of them so far as I
know, ever saw him again.

Possibly a little bit of a lesson may be shown from the simple life
described. Tim, no doubt, came of decent parents of good habits
and morals, and in his downfall, there was no question of heredity
involved. In his infancy he was placed within easy reach of 111
the temptations of the bowl, and so, in his manhood, became
as much of a victim to strong drink as his surrounding circumstances
would permit. Therefore, the inference is, if he had not been
tempted, there would have been no fall, and Tim would have led a
sober life and have been a respectable member of bear society,
provided human beings had left him in the home intended for his
race.

His degradation, like that of the North American Indian, came from
contact with our superior Western civilization.

113
 CARLO, THE SOLDIER

The Ninth New York Volunteers was organized in April, 1861, in the
City of New York. Two of its companies were extra-territorial. C was
composed of men from Hoboken and Paterson, New Jersey, and G
marched into the regimental headquarters fully organized from the
town of Fort Lee in that State. With this last named company came
“Carlo,” the subject of this sketch.

When he joined the regiment, he had passed beyond the period of

puppy-hood and was in the full flush of dogly beauty. He was 114
large, not very large,—would probably have turned the scales
at about fifty pounds. His build was decidedly “stocky,” and, as
horsey men would say, his feet were well under him; his chest was
broad and full, back straight, color a warm dark brindle, nose and
lips very black, while he had a broad, full forehead and a wonderful
pair of large, round, soft, dark-brown eyes. Add to this description
an air of supreme, well-bred dignity, and you have an idea of one of
the noblest animals that ever lived. His origin was obscure; one
camp rumor asserted that he was born on board of a merchant ship
while his mother was making a passage from Calcutta to New York;
and another told of a beautiful mastiff living somewhere in the State
of New Jersey that had the honor of bringing him into the world. It
would be very interesting to know something of the 115
parentage of our hero, but, since the facts surrounding his
birth are unattainable, we must content ourselves with telling a
portion of a simple story of a good and noble life. It may be safe to
assert that he was not a native American; if he had been, he would
have provided himself with the regulation genealogical tree and
family coat-of-arms.

During the first part of his term of service, Carlo was very loyal to his
Company, marched, messed, and slept with it, but he was not above
picking up, here and there, from the mess tents of the other
Companies a tid-bit, now and then, which proved acceptable to a
well-appointed digestion.

His first tour on guard was performed as a member of the detail

from Co. G, and always afterward, in the performance of that duty,
he was most faithful. No matter who else might be late, he 116
was ever on time when the call for guard mount was
sounded, ready to go out with his own particular squad. At first, he
would march back to Company quarters with the old detail, but, as
soon as he came to realize the value and importance of guard duty,
he made up his mind that his place was at the guard tent and on the
patrol beat, where he could be of the greatest service in watching
the movements of the enemy. In the performance of his duties as a
member of the guard, he was very conscientious and ever on the
alert. No stray pig, wandering sheep, or silly calf could pass in front
of his part of the line without being investigated by him. It is
possible that his vigilance in investigating intruding meats, was
sharpened by the hope of substantial recognition in the way of a
stray rib extracted from the marauding offender whose ignorance of
army customs in time of war had brought their tender 117
“corpuses” too near our lines.

As a rule, Carlo, what with his guard duties and other purely routine
items, managed to dispose of the day until dress parade. At that
time he appeared at his best, and became the regimental dog. No
officer or soldier connected with the command more fully
appreciated “The pomp and circumstance of great and glorious war”
than he. As the band marched out to take position previous to
playing for the Companies to assemble, he would place himself
alongside the drum-major, and, when the signal for marching was
given, would move off with stately and solemn tread, with head well
up, looking straight to the front. Upon those great occasions, he fully
realized the dignity of his position, and woe betide any unhappy
other dog that happened to get in front of the marching band. When
upon the parade field, he became, next to the Colonel, the 118
commanding officer, and ever regarded himself as the
regulator of the conduct of those careless and frivolous dogs, that
go about the world like the street gamin—having no character for
respectability or position in society to sustain.

Of those careless ne’er-do-wells the regiment had accumulated a

very large following. As a rule, they were harmless and
companionable, and, like the inevitable “befo’ de wah” Judge and
Major, they were always on hand ready for a free lunch and drink. It
was only at dress parade that they made themselves over-officious.
Each Company was attended to the parade ground by its particular
family of canine companions, and, when all of them had assembled,
the second battalion of the regiment would make itself known by a
great variety of jumpings, caperings, barks of joy, and cries 119
of delight. To this unseasonable hilarity Carlo seriously
objected, and his demeanor plainly told the story of his disgust at
the conduct of the silly pates of his race. He usually remained a
passive observer until the exercise in the manual of arms, at which
particular period in the ceremonies, the caperings and the barkings
would become quite unendurable. Our hero would then assume the
character of a preserver of the peace. He would make for the
nearest group of revellers, and, in as many seconds, give a half a
dozen or more of them vigorous shakes, which would set them to
howling, and warn the others of the thoughtless tribe of an
impending danger. Immediately the offenders would all scamper to
another part of the field, and remain quiet until the dress parade
was over. This duty was self-imposed and faithfully performed upon
many occasions. After the parade was dismissed Carlo would 120
march back to quarters with his own Company, where he
would remain until the last daily distribution of rations, whereupon,
after having disposed of his share, he would start out upon a tour of
regimental inspection, making friendly calls at various Company
quarters and by taps turning up at the headquarters of the guard.
His duties ended for the day, he would enjoy his well-earned rest
until reveille, unless some event of an unusual nature, occurring
during the night, disturbed his repose and demanded his attention.

During the first year of his service in the field, Carlo was very
fortunate. He had shared in all of the transportations by water, in all
the marchings, skirmishes, and battles, without receiving a scratch
or having a day’s illness. But his good fortune was soon to end, for it
was ordained that, like other brave defenders, he was to 121
suffer in the great cause for which all were risking their lives.

The morning of April 18, 1862, my brigade then stationed at

Roanoke Island, embarked upon the Steamer Ocean Wave for an
expedition up the Elizabeth River, the object of which was to destroy
the locks of the dismal swamp canal in order to prevent several
imaginary iron-clads from getting into Albemarle Sound, where we
had assembled at that time what was known as a “Pasteboard
Fleet,” which the supposed iron-clads were to destroy.

Among the first to embark was the ever ready and faithful Carlo, and
the next morning, when his companions disembarked near Elizabeth
City, he was one of the first to land, and, during the whole of the
long and dreary march of thirty miles to Camden Court 122
House, lasting from three o’clock in the morning until one in
the afternoon, he was ever on the alert, but keeping close to his
regiment. The field of battle was reached: the engagement, in which
his command met with a great loss, commenced and ended, and,
when the particulars of the disaster were inventoried, it was
ascertained that a cruel Confederate bullet had taken the
rudimentary claw from Carlo’s left fore-leg. This was his first wound,
and he bore it like a hero without a whine or even a limp. A private
of Co. G, who first noticed the wound, exclaimed: “Ah, Carlo, what a
pity you are not an officer! If you were, the loss of that claw would
give you sixty days leave and a Brigadier-General’s Commission at
the end of it.” That was about the time that General’s Commissions
had become very plentiful in the Department of North Carolina.

The Command re-embarked, and reached Roanoke Island the 123

morning after the engagement, in time for the regulation
“Hospital or Sick Call,” which that day brought together an unusual
number of patients, and among them Carlo, who was asked to join
the waiting line by one of the wounded men. When his turn came to
be inspected by the attending surgeon, he was told to hold up the
wounded leg, which he readily did, and then followed the washing,
the application of simple cerate, and the bandaging, with a
considerable show of interest and probable satisfaction. Thereafter,
there was no occasion to extend to him an invitation to attend the
Surgeon’s inspection. Each morning, as soon as the bugle call was
sounded, he would take his place in line with the other patients,
advance to his turn, and receive the usual treatment. This habit
continued until the wound was healed. Always, after this, to 124
every friendly greeting, he would respond by holding up the
wounded leg for inspection, and he acted as though he thought that
everybody was interested in the honorable scar that told the story of
patriotic duty faithfully performed.

Later on, for some reason known to himself, Carlo transferred his
special allegiance to Co. K, and maintained close connection with
that Company until the end of his term of service. He was regarded
by its members as a member of the Company mess, and was treated
as one of them. But, notwithstanding his special attachments, there
can be no reasonable doubt about his having considered himself a
member of the regiment, clothed with certain powers and
responsibilities. At the end of his term, he was fitted with a uniform
—trousers, jacket, and fez, and, thus apparalled, marched up 125
Broadway, immediately behind the band. He was soon after
mustered out of the service, and received an honorable discharge,
not signed with written characters, but attested by the good-will of
every member of the regiment.

If alive to-day, he must be very old and decrepit; and I am sure that
if he is, in his honorable old age his honest traits of character have
not forsaken him. No doubt, he takes a just pride in the good service
he rendered to his country in the years of its great trials, and it is
fortunate that his having four legs has placed him beyond the
temptation to join the ranks of the Grand Army of treasury looters,
who have traded off the honorable name of soldier for that of the
pensioned mercenary.

127
 JEFF, THE INQUISITIVE

Among the gunboats doing duty on the inland waters of North

Carolina, in the early Spring of 1862, which composed what
Commodore Goldsborough designated his “Pasteboard Fleet,” was
the Louisiana, commanded by Commander Alexander Murray, who
was noted for his efficiency and good nature. His treatment of his
crew made him one of the most popular officers in the whole fleet.
He entered into all of their sports, and sympathized with the
discomforts of forecastle life. He was fond of animal pets, 128
and always welcomed the arrival of a new one. At the time of
which I am writing, his ship carried quite a collection of tame birds
and four-footed favorites.

Among them was a singular little character known as “Jeff.” He was

a perfectly black pig of the “Racer Razor Back” order, which, at that
time, were plentiful in the coast sections of the more southern of the
slave-holding States. They were called “racers” because of their long
legs, slender bodies, and great capacity for running; and “Razor
Backs” on account of the prominence of the spinal column. The
origin of this particular species of the porcine tribe is unknown, but
there is a tradition to the effect that their progenitors were a part of
the drove that came to the coast of Florida with De Soto when he
started on the march which ended with the discovery of the
Mississippi River. History records the fact that a large number 129
of animals were brought from Spain for food, and that a
considerable number of them succeeded in getting away from the
expedition soon after the landing was effected.

Our particular specimen of this wandering tribe of natural marauders

was captured by a boat’s crew of the Louisiana in one of the swamps
adjacent to Currituck Sound, when he was a wee bit of an orphaned
waif not much larger than an ostrich-egg. He was an ill-conditioned
little mite that had probably been abandoned by a heartless mother,
possibly while escaping from the prospective mess-kettle of a
Confederate picket. In those days Confederate pickets were not very
particular as to quality or kind of food, and I have a suspicion that
even a “Razor Back” would have been a welcome addition to their
menu.

When “Jeff” was brought on board, his pitiful condition 130

excited the active sympathy of all, from the commander
down to the smallest powder monkey, and numerous were the
suggestions made as to the course of treatment for the new patient.
The doctor was consulted, and, after a careful diagnosis, decided
there was no organic disease: want of parental care, want of
nourishment, and exposure, were held responsible for “Jeff’s”
unfavorable condition. It was decided to put him on a light diet of
milk, which proved an immediate success, for, within forty-eight
hours after his first meal, the patient became as lively as possible.
As days and weeks went on, there appeared an improvement of
appetite that was quite phenomenal, but no accumulation of flesh.
His legs and body grew longer; and, with this lengthening of parts,
there came a development of intellectual acuteness that was 131
particularly surprising. He attached himself to each individual
of the ship. He had no favorites, but was hail-fellow-well-met with
all. He developed all the playful qualities of a puppy, and reasoned
out a considerable number of problems in his own way, without the
aid of books or schoolmaster. His particular admirers declared that
he learned the meaning of the different whistles of the boatswain:
that he knew when the meal pennant was hoisted to the peak, could
tell when the crew was beat to quarters for drill, and often proved
the correctness of this knowledge by scampering off to take his
place by one particular gun division which seemed to have taken his
fancy.

I can testify personally to only one item in the schedule of his

intellectual achievements. It is a custom in the navy for the
commander of a ship to receive any officer of rank of either branch
of the service at the gangway of the ship. In this act of 132
courtesy he is always accompanied by the officer of the deck,
and often by others that may happen to be at hand. After the advent
of “Jeff,” whenever I went on board the Louisiana he was always at
the gangway, and seemingly was deeply interested in the event. It
may be said of him, generally, that he was overflowing with spirits,
and took an active interest in all the daily routine work of his ship.
He had a most pertinacious way of poking his nose into all sorts of
affairs, not at all after the manner of the usual pig, but more like a
village gossip who wants to know about everything that is going on
in the neighborhood.

In the gradual development of “Jeff’s” character, it was discovered

that he had none of the usual well-known traits of the pig. He was
more like a petted and pampered dog, was playful, good- 133
natured, and expressed pleasure, pain, anger, and desire,
with various squeals and grunts, delivered with a variety of
intonations that were very easily interpreted. He was never so happy
as when in the lap of one of the sailors, having his back stroked. His
pleasure upon those occasions was evinced by the emission of
frequent good-natured grunts and looking up into the face of the
friendly stroker. When on shore, he followed like a dog, and was
never known to root. Except in speech and appearance, he was the
counterpart of a happy, good-natured, and well-cared-for household
dog—possibly, however, rather more intelligent than the average
canine pet.

The Fourth of July, 1862, was a gala day at Roanoke Island. The
camps of the island and the vessels in the harbor were en grande
fête. Colors were flying, bands playing, drums beating, patriotic
steam was up to high pressure, and a goodly number of 134
glasses of “commissary” were consumed in wishing success
to the cause. The good old day, so dear to the hearts of Americans,
was made more glorious by the exchange of camp hospitalities and
an indulgence in such simple hilarity as the occasion seemed to
require; but “Jeff” was not forgotten. Early in the morning, he was
bathed and scrubbed, more than to his heart’s content, and then
patriotically decorated. In his right ear was a red ribbon, in his left a
white one; around his neck another of blue, and at his mizzen, or, in
other words, his tail, he carried a small Confederate flag. Thus
adorned he was brought on shore to pay me a visit, and, as he came
through my door, he appeared to be filled with the pride of
patriotism and a realization of the greatness of the occasion. His
reward for this unusual demonstration was instantaneous, 135
and consisted of some apples and a toothsome dessert of
sugar. Afterward he made the round of the camps with a special
escort of warrant officers and devoted Jack Tars. From after
accounts it appeared that he had been so well received that his
escort experienced much difficulty in finding their way back to the
ship.

During this triumphant march over the island an incident occurred

which developed the slumbering instinct of the swamp “racer.” In a
second, as it were, and seemingly without cause, “Jeff” was seen to
move off at a tremendous pace at right angles with the line of
march. He was seen, after he had run a few yards, to make a great
jump, and then remain in his tracks. The pursuing party found him
actively engaged in demolishing a moccasin, which he had crushed
by jumping and landing with his feet upon its head and back. 136
Hogs of this particular kind are famous snake-killers. A big
rattler or a garter snake is all the same to them. They advance to
the attack with the greatest impetuosity, and a feast upon snake is
the usual reward of exceptional bravery.
In his habits of eating, “Jeff” was a confirmed and persistent
gourmand, and in time paid the usual penalty for over-indulgence of
a very piggish sort of appetite. While the meal pennant was up, it
was his habit to go from one forecastle mess to another, and to
insist upon having rather more than his share of the choice morsels
from each. In a short time he came to the repair shop very much the
worse for wear, with an impaired digestion and a cuticle that showed
unmistakable evidence of scurvy. For the first, he was put upon short
rations; for the second, sand baths on shore were prescribed. 137
Under this treatment poor “Jeff” lost all his buoyancy of
spirits and his habitual friskiness, and became sad and dejected, but
bore his troubles with becoming patience. He took to the cool sand
baths at once, and gave forth many disgruntled grunts when lifted
out of them.

The last time I saw “Jeff,” July 10, 1862, he was buried up to his
ears in the cool sands of the Roanoke Island shore, with eyes
upturned and looking like a very sad pig, but I fear none the wiser
for his offences against the rights of a well-regulated digestion.

This account has not been written for the only purpose of glorifying
the one particular pig, or pigs in general, but rather to call attention
to the fact that this universally despised animal, by associating with
human beings and receiving gentle treatment, may develop 138
interesting traits of character, which would otherwise remain
unknown; and also to prove that kindness bestowed upon lower
animals may be appreciated and reciprocated in a manner which the
upper animal, man, who boasts of his superiority, would do well to
imitate.
139
 TOBY, THE WISE

The chief subject of this truthful history is a jet-black, middle-aged

bird, commonly known in England as a rook, but nevertheless a
notable specimen of the crow family.

In his babyhood he was, in the language of the ancient chroniclers,

grievously hurt and wounded full sore, and particularly so in the left
wing. He was so badly disabled that he had to forego the pleasure of
flying through the air, and was obliged to content himself as best he
could with trudging about on the rough surface of our common
mother earth.

In his sad plight, with the maimed wing dragging painfully 140
along, he chanced to pass the window of a sanctum
belonging to and occupied by a charming old English gentleman, a
perfect example of the old school, learned, benevolent, and very
fond of animals and feathered pets. No one can tell what chance it
was that brought the unhappy and wounded young rook to the
window of this good man. But possibly it was a real inspiration on
the part of the young bird. Toby was wet, weary, wounded, and
hungry, and as he looked in upon the cheerful wood fire and the
kindly face of the master of the house, his longing expression was
met with a raising of the window and an invitation to walk in to a
breakfast of corn and meal that had been hastily prepared for him.
He gazed and thought, and thought and gazed, upon the joys within
and still he doubted; but, finally, appetite and curiosity got 141
the better of his discretion, and, as he walked cautiously in,
the window was closed behind him. So the wounded waif entered
upon a new life.

At first he was a little shy and cautious, and it took considerable time
for him to convince himself that his protector was his friend. After a
few weeks, however, he realized the value of his new position, and
consented to the establishment of intimate relations. In fact, Toby
became so attached to his master, and so affectionate, that he was
not happy out of his presence.

During the first month of his captivity, his wounded wing was bound
close to his body for the purpose of giving the fractured bone an
opportunity to unite, and during most of that time he would walk by
his master’s side, cawing and looking up into his face as if 142
asking for recognition. When the wing got well, and his
ability to fly was re-established, he would anticipate the direction of
the promenades by flying in advance from shrub to bush, alighting
and awaiting the arrival of his master.

The most singular part of Toby’s domestication was his exclusive

loyalty to a single person. He had but one intimate friend, and to
him his loyalty was intense. He would tolerate the presence of other
members of the household, but when strangers appeared he was
decidedly offish, and scolded until they disappeared.

Three times a day Toby is decidedly funny, and goes through a

comical performance. In his master’s sanctum there is a contrivance
which, on a small scale, resembles the old New England well-pole. At
one end, which rests upon the floor, Toby commences his ascent
with a great flapping of wings and uproarious cawing. When 143
he arrives at the upper end of the pole, some eight or nine
feet from the floor, it falls and lands him upon a platform, beside a
plate containing his food. This climbing up the pole precedes each
meal, and takes place punctually at the same hour and minute of
each day.

In the spring of 1890 Toby was tempted from his loyalty, and flew
off with a marauding flock of his kind. He remained away all
summer. He was missed but not mourned, for his master felt certain
he would return; and, sure enough, one bleak, cold morning in
November, Toby was found looking longingly into the room where he
had first seen his good master. The window was opened, he walked
in and mounted his pole, and after him came a companion, a meek,
modest, and timid young rook, more confiding than Toby, and
differing from him in many other respects. He, too, was duly 144
adopted, and was christened Jocko. He was easily
domesticated, and soon became a part of the entourage of one of
the finest old Bedfordshire manorial homes.

With age Toby has taken on quite an amount of dignity. He is neither

so noisy nor so companionable as formerly, but is more staid and
useful. One of his favorite resting places, where he enjoys his after
breakfast contemplations and his afternoon siestas, is among the
branches of a fine old English oak, whose protecting shades, in the
far-off past, were the scene of the stolen love-meetings of Amy
Wentworth and the profligate Duke of Monmouth.

Neither of these knowing birds has been able to understand the

mystery of a looking-glass. They spend many hours of patient
investigation before a mirror in their master’s room, but all to no
purpose, for the puzzle seems to remain as great as ever. 145
They usually walk directly up to it, and betray great surprise
when they find two other rooks advancing to meet them. For a while
they remain silent and motionless, looking at the strangers, and
waiting, apparently, for some sign of recognition. Then they go
through a considerable flapping of wings and indulge in numerous
caws, but after long waiting for an audible response they give up the
useless effort, only to return next day as eager as ever to solve the
mystery.
The older bird and his admiring junior are perfectly contented with
their home, and never leave it. They often look out from their
perches upon various wandering flocks of vagrant rooks, but are
never tempted to new adventures. The old fellow is very wise. Like a
fat old office-holder, he knows enough to appreciate a sinecure in
which the emoluments are liberal and the service nominal. 146
His devoted follower never falters in his dutiful imitation of
his benefactor.

Toby proves by his actions that he appreciates the advantages of the

situation, and in his simple way makes some return for the pleasures
he enjoys. During a considerable portion of the pleasant days of the
year he is in reality the watchman upon the tower, ever on the
outlook to give notice of the approach of visitors to his castle, and
no one can intrude upon the premises under his self-appointed
watchmanship without exciting vigorous caws, which are
enthusiastically reinforced by those of his faithful subordinate. Aside
from his affectionate devotion to his master, displayed as often as
occasion permits, this duty of “chief watchman of the castle” is
Toby’s most substantial return for favors received!

In a letter of last May, the master wrote: “My two crows are 147
sitting on chairs close to me, and cawing to me that it is time
for me to let them out of the window, so I must obey.” This
quotation gives but a faint intimation of the exceptionally friendly
relations existing between these devoted friends. Blessed are the
birds that can inspire such affection in the heart of a noble old man,
and doubly blessed is he who is the object of such loving
appreciation. Long may they all live to enjoy the fulness of their
mutual attachments!

This brief sketch is not intended for an amusing story. It is only a

narration of facts in support of an often repeated theory, viz: that
the humblest creatures are worthy of our tender consideration, and,
when properly treated, will make pleasing returns for the affection
we may bestow upon them.
149
 TWO DOGS

In 1877, at his English home, I first made the acquaintance of “Max,”

a fine specimen of a Dandy Dinmont dog. He was of the usual size,
with brown, velvety eyes—very expressive—a long body, tail, and
ears, coarse hair of a blackish brown and light-tan color, and with
short legs, not particularly straight. The ancient Greeks, with their
severe ideas regarding lines of beauty, would not have called him
beautiful to the sight. But, notwithstanding his looks, he was, to all
who knew him well, very beautiful; for he was a dog of 150
marked intelligence and superior moral character. So fine was
his sense of integrity that a most delicious and canine-tempting bone
might remain within his reach for days without his touching it, no
matter if he were ever so hungry.

His usual daily occupation commenced with a very early walk with
his master. Then, in regular order, after the family and guests had
breakfasted, the butler would give him his napkin, folded in his own
private ring, which he would carry from the dining-room to the
kitchen, where it would be spread upon a table, slightly raised from
the floor, arranged for serving his food. After the morning meal had
been eaten, his napkin would be refolded, and he would return it to
the butler. The same routine was always repeated for dinner. His
time until evening, if possible, was devoted to his master, of 151
whom he was exceedingly fond, but he would sometimes
walk with the guests when told to do so by his master, to whom he
always appealed when invited for a promenade by a stranger.

Every day, after dinner, when the family and guests had assembled
in the drawing-room, “Max” would insist upon giving his regular daily
exhibition, and there was no peace from his importunities until he
had completed the usual performance. His master always carried
with him from the dinner table a biscuit which, in the drawing-room,
he would hold up and say: “Max, I have a biscuit for you. Can’t you
give us a little dance and a song?” Whereupon he would commence
to turn around upon his hind feet, at the same time doing his best in
the direction of singing a very doleful sort of a song, all the while
looking exceedingly grave, the result of his abnormal effort. 152
This part of the daily programme was so exceedingly comical
that it always excited unbounded applause from the audience. The
dance would go on until the master called out “enough,” when the
performer would stop and look imploringly into his master’s face, as
if asking him if he might continue the performance, which consisted
of his master going through the motion of firing, accompanied with a
noise which passed, in the doggish mind, for the explosion of a gun,
and was a signal for the actor to fall down apparently dead, with
eyes firmly closed, and keeping perfectly quiet. In this position he
would remain until his master told him to come to life. The biscuit
would then be given him, and that would end each day’s work, by
which he, we may infer, believed he earned his daily bread.

With passing time my little friend took on the garb of age, 153
and, a few years before his end, became totally blind, and
among the most pathetic sights I ever witnessed were his attempts
to see his friends. I had been so many times at his home that he
had come to know me almost as one of the family, and at each visit,
after his loss of sight, as the carriage drove up to the front door,
when recognizing my voice, as I spoke to his master, he would put
his paws upon the steps of the carriage and wag me a hearty
welcome, at the same time trying his best to see me.
His career ended in November, 1883, when his master buried him
near a garden gate, put a neat wire fence around his grave, and
planted flowers over his remains. And now those who may chance to
go to Toddington will find embedded into the garden wall a
handsome marble slab, with a mortuary inscription and a verse
composed by his kind master engraved upon it, which runs 154
as follows:

“MAX

Died, November, 1883.

If ever dog deserved a tear

For fondness and fidelity,
That darling one lies buried here
Bemourned in all sincerity.”

One bright morning in the month of November, 1879, the front door
of my house was opened, and there came bounding through it and
up the flight of stairs, the most vivacious, clean, and inquiring little
dog imaginable. As soon as he arrived upon the second floor, calls
came to him from several directions at the same time, and he did his
best to answer them all at the same moment; all the while barking
and dancing around in the most frantic and delighted manner. Within
five minutes after his début, he was perfectly at home and 155
upon the best of terms with the entire household.

The name of this new member of the family was “Phiz,” and his
alleged place of nativity Yorkshire, England. In other words, he was
a pure Yorkshire terrier in descent, a mixture of blue, light gray, and
silver in color; in size a little larger than the average dog of that
breed, and, as one of his dog-expert friends often remarked: “He is
one of the doggiest dogs of his size I have ever known.” This was
literally true, for there never was a more manly and courageous little
animal. In his prime, his bravery was far beyond the point of
reckless indiscretion, and any dog whose appearance did not happen
to please him, he would attack, no matter how large, or under what
disadvantageous circumstances. The severe shakings and rough
tumbles of to-day were forgotten by the morrow, which 156
found him ever ready for a new encounter.

The red-letter events in his active life occurred in Madison Square,

which he would enter as though shot from a catapult; and woe of
woes to the unfortunate plethoric pug which might happen to pass
his way! It was his habit when he saw one of these stupid and
helpless unfortunates to “ring on full steam and board him head-on
mid-ships.” For a few seconds after the coming together, there would
be visible a comical mixture of quick moving legs, tails, and ears,
and a frantic attempt on the part of the astonished pug to emit a
wheezy sound of alarm, followed by a condition of most abject
submission. “Phiz,” standing over the prostrate body of his victim,
head erect, tail and ears stiffened with pride of victory, made a
picture of doggish vanity, once seen, never to be forgotten. These
scenes, in the warm season, were almost of daily occurrence, 157
much to the chagrin of many pug-loving dames.

“Phiz” only amused himself with the innocent pug (for he never was
known to offer to bite one), but he was always savagely in earnest in
his demonstrations of detestation of the face-making, ever-yelling
average street small boy. And he had no special love for the
undersized butcher’s and grocer’s assistant, whom he delighted to
attack whenever he could waylay them in a dark passage between
the kitchen and front basement hall. Some of these attacks were so
sudden, fierce, and unexpected, and were attended with such a
volume of snarls and barks, that the grocer’s boy had been known to
drop his basket of eggs, and run as if pursued by a terrible beast of
huge dimensions.

As the subject of this sketch took on additional years, he 158

accumulated much knowledge, and, by the time he had
accomplished the mature age of six, he was far more wise than any
serpent the writer had ever known. He had never been taught to
perform tricks, nor had been in any manner trained, but by his own
observation he had managed to pick up a world of useful
information, which proved of great value to him. Among his
acquirements he had learned how to make known, in an original and
intelligent manner, all the wants of a well-bred dog. He could tell
those around him when he desired to go up or down stairs, call for
water or food, ask to go out, and give a note of warning when a
stranger was coming up the street steps, but he was never known to
bark at the like approach of one of the family or a friend.

One of his undeviating customs was the morning call at the

chambers of his master and his mistress, when he would first 159
make himself known by a very delicate scratch upon the
door. If not answered, then another and more vigorous scratch; still
no response, then a gentle bark of interrogation, and then, if the
door was not opened, would come a most commanding full-voiced
bark, saying as plainly as possible: “Why don’t you let me in?” These
gradations from the lesser to the greater in effort and tones, all in
the direction of asking for a certain thing, proves conclusively the
presence of powers to reason developed to a considerable degree.

“Phiz” was selfishly interested in three things: a walk, cats generally,

and dogs particularly; and no conversation relating to these could
take place in his presence without exciting his active attention. When
these subjects were being discussed he would leave his 160
couch and go from one conversationalist to another, looking
up into their faces in the most inquisitive manner, all the while
making a great mental effort to understand exactly what they were
saying.

His most remarkable manifestations of intelligence would occur at

the time when his master and mistress were about to leave their
home for their usual summer absence of about six months. On the
first two or three occasions of this kind he came to the carriage to
wag a good-bye. Later he must have arrived at the conclusion that
certain preparations meant a long period of loneliness for him, and
then, from the commencement of “putting things away” and packing
boxes, he would appear very much dejected—no more cheery barks
and frisky wags, but, on the contrary, he would show great
depression of spirits, and, finally, when the time arrived for 161
the carriage and for carrying out the baggage, “Phiz” would
hide in some out-of-the-way place, there to nurse his grief,
undisturbed and unseen.

The subject of this sketch reached the ripe old age of eleven with all
functions and faculties unimpaired, save sight, which, we are
compelled to record, was totally obscured. I happened to be with
him when he came to the painful realization of his great misfortune.
It was during his accustomed late-in-the-afternoon walk. Failing to
find his way along the sidewalk he had stopped, while I, without
seeing him, had passed on, but only for a short distance, when I
was attracted by a most pitiful and grief-stricken cry. I looked
around, and there was my poor little friend and companion, sitting
close to the lower stone of a flight of steps, with his nose pointed
straight up to the heavens, and crying as though his heart 162
would break. I hurried to him, took him gently in my arms,
and carried him to his box, which he hardly left for many days. His
grief was so intense that he refused to eat or be cheerful, and made
very faint responses to the most affectionate advances. Within a
week or more, however, he began to resume his interest in affairs,
having, no doubt, like human beings similarly afflicted, through
process of reasoning, become reconciled to his misfortune.

If he had been a man instead of a dog, he would have had an easy

chair, a pipe, and, in his moods of vainglory, fought his many battles
over and over again. But, as he was only a dog, he found his way
about the house as best he could, varying occasionally his dull
routine by a short promenade over the paths which were once the
race-track of his wild and gleeful prancings. And thus he 163
passed on to that everlasting night, from whence no dog
whether good or bad has ever returned to wag a solution of the
mysteries which must have puzzled the minds of many generations
of wise and philosophical dogs.
165
 TWO INNOCENTS ABROAD

I passed a portion of the summer of 1890 at Banff, a fascinating

resort in the heart of the Canadian Rockies, established and
controlled by the Canadian Pacific Railway Company.

It would be very difficult to find a more charming and picturesque

location for a summer resting-place. The hotel is situated about four
thousand five hundred feet above the sea-level, and is nearly
surrounded by lofty peaks and mountain-ranges which present a
great variety of rugged outline.

To the venturesome mountaineer, the inducements to climb 166

seem almost endless. In the immediate vicinity of the hotel,
there is a choice of ascents of from six to eleven thousand feet. Most
of them may be made by any one who has a cool head, a sure foot,
and sufficient endurance; but there are two or three which ought to
be undertaken only by experienced mountaineers. I made several of
the lesser ascents alone, and, in each instance, against the advice of
inexperienced and timid persons, who declared that I would either
be dashed to pieces, by falling down a precipice, or devoured by
bears, which are supposed to be rather plentiful.

My last climb was to the top of the middle peak of the “Sulphur
Range.” It was neither difficult nor dangerous; but the view from the
little table at the top was simply wonderful. As far as the eye could
see, in any direction, were mountain peaks, none covered with
snow, but all presenting magnificent rock-formations of a 167
character which is quite peculiar, I believe, to that part of the
great American range.

The little table at the top of the peak is about thirty feet in diameter
and is covered with broken rock. While sitting there, musing upon
the natural wonders by which I was surrounded, I noticed the
approach of two chipmunks, coming up from the side of the
mountain. They halted when they saw a strange animal; but, finally,
after sitting upright for a short time and giving me a deliberate and
careful stare, they concluded to come on, and presently they
discovered a little clump of stunted grass growing from a crevice
between the rocks, which they proceeded to despoil of its dwarfed
seeds. When they had finished their scanty meal they looked about
for something else to eat. Feeling sure of their desires, I crushed a
soft biscuit into small pieces, and dropped them at my feet; 168
and soon my little friends were busy eating the crumbs,
apparently quite unconscious of the fact that they were within easy
range of an animal supposed to have been created in the image of
his Maker, but the only one which kills for the sake of killing, and
boasts of the pleasure he derives from the destruction of innocent
animal life.

Within a very few minutes this pair of little innocents became quite
familiar, and the crumbs continued to fall until they had filled their
stomachs and then the ample pouches on each side of their jaws.
Thus loaded they presented a most comical appearance. When I
rose to my feet their surprise made them appear still more comical.
They were inclined at first to scamper off, but, upon reflection,
concluded they would see the whole show; and, as I moved 169
over to the edge of the table, to go down the mountain, they
followed a short distance, and gave me a most quizzical parting
glance, which said as plainly as their little faces could express their
thoughts: “Good-bye. Be sure to come again, and don’t forget the
biscuits.”
This is not a story; it is only an incident which proves what confiding
little fools the chipmunks were to trust themselves within reach of a
specimen of that tribe of superior animals which delights in the
destruction of life, kills for pleasure, and enjoys the infliction of pain
upon innocent and helpless creatures.

The excuse for their confiding folly consisted in the fact that they
had never seen a man before.

171
 ABOUT COLUMBUS
BY AN OLD SHOWMAN

For fully a third of a century the large elephant bearing the name of
the great discoverer was well known to all the “Show” loving
inhabitants of our country. He was remarkable for his great size and
bad temper, and, if he had been left in his native wilds, might have
established a notable reputation as a rogue elephant. His keepers
were of the opinion that he made the mistake of his life when he
became a mere show animal, engaging in an occupation that 172
required a certain amount of decent behavior.

It was said of him that he was a very reasonable sort of an animal

when permitted to have his own way, but never submitted to
confinement with any sort of grace. He was always enraged at being
chained to the ring or stake, and sometimes decreed capital
punishment, which he executed himself, for the unfortunate keeper
who was guilty of the offence of chaining him. He was very much
given to breaking and bolting, and when once in the open, and fairly
on the go, he became a very dangerous customer, and his keeper, if
wise, would give him a wide field until his rampage was finished.

One among the many of them, who died in the seventies, was his
friend, and never had any trouble with him, and he always insisted
that the lively escapades of his ponderous charge were the 173
result of an all absorbing longing for liberty. He used to
describe the magnificent old pachyderm as the living embodiment of
a justifiable revolt. He had not much sympathy for the keepers who
had been executed, nor did he have much respect for their
knowledge or discretion. According to his theory, they were mere
machines for so much per month; they never studied the character
or feelings of the splendid animal in their charge; they were
inconsiderate, unnecessarily harsh and cruel, and, from the
unnaturally-confined elephant’s standpoint, in most instances got
what they deserved.

The Columbus incident, of which an account is to follow, was not a

particularly exceptional one, and the description of it was written by
the friendly old keeper who had charge of the hero of it during two
consecutive years back in the thirties. The narration is a modest one,
and its phraseology proves it to have been written by a man 174
of rare courage. It was printed in a Cincinnati newspaper in
the month of February, 1870, and is now given, with the editorial
head note just as it appeared.

“THE ELEPHANT COLUMBUS.”

“Letter from another witness of his rampage near New Orleans.”

“The account of the rampage of the elephant Columbus near New

Orleans, in 1839, which we published some time since, has
refreshed the memories of many old showmen, and as we are
always glad to publish anything of interest to them, we give the
following letter, which we think will prove entertaining to our
readers generally:

South Pomfret, Vt.,

January 30, 1870.

To the Editor of the Chronicle:

I have just received a copy of your paper, of December 31, 1869. I

do not think the statement headed ‘A Curious Circus Reminiscence’
is quite correct. At that time I was the advertiser of one 175
branch of the Combined Circus and Menagerie. We were to
exhibit in Algiers until the 7th of January, and in New Orleans on
the 8th, that being the most popular day with the people of that
city. William Crum was driving Hannibal, and George Potter
Columbus. It was Crum’s horse that was knocked down, and Crum
was killed. Samuel Ward and myself were standing within ten feet
of Crum when he was killed. We had a bet on the height of the
two elephants, and that was the reason why they were brought
alongside of each other. Columbus was shot under the eye before
he killed the drayman. We did not exhibit in Algiers. The people
were too much frightened to attend. So we went to New Orleans
on the 1st of January, instead of waiting until the 8th.

On the same evening the difficulty occurred, James Raymond and

James Humphrey, proprietors, came to me and wanted I should
go and look after Columbus. I told them I would if John Carley
would go with me. I knew him to be an old elephant man. They
asked him: he said he would like to go, but was sick and would
rather be excused. The next morning George Growe, a 176
young green hand, who came with Foster’s company,
volunteered to go with me. I must confess that when he came
forward it cooled my courage, but two horses were saddled and
brought to the door. I mounted mine in rather a confused state of
mind, wishing myself anywhere except where I was. When we
started out it was dark and foggy. I told Growe to go ahead, and,
after going about half a mile, we put up for the night on a
flatboat. At daylight the next morning we started again, and
proceeded down the river about nine miles, where we found
Columbus in a canefield, with his head against a pecan tree,
asleep. I may now remark that Growe’s courage had somewhat
cooled off, and he had fallen some half mile to my rear. I rode
toward the elephant until I got within hailing distance, and then
spoke to him to come to me. He raised up and began shaking his
head. Presently he started for me the best he could, and my horse
did a good business getting out of his way. He followed me for
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