  Of all the beasts he learned, the language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How the beavers built their lodges, Where the squirrels hid their acorns, How the reindeer ran so swiftly, Why the rabbit was so timid, Talked with them whene’er he met them, Called them “Hiawatha’s Brothers.” —Longfellow. The Horse Bore Hamidu On and On. There lived once in Arabia a horse so noted for its great beauty that its fame spread throughout the country. When the ruler of the country heard of this wonderful creature, he was filled with a desire to possess him; so he sent for Hamidu, the owner of the horse. “I am told that you have the most beautiful horse in all Arabia,” he said to Hamidu. “It is only fitting that he should belong to the ruler of this country, which is the home of the most perfect horses in all the world.” Poor Hamidu cast himself at the ruler’s feet and spoke in trembling tones. “Great ruler,” he implored, “spare my horse to me. I love him better than my life. I raised him from a baby. Never a day has passed since he was born that I have not caressed him. He follows me about as would a dog. At night I sleep beside him. He would grieve so that he would die if we were separated; and so would Hamidu.” This speech angered the ruler greatly, and calling some of his soldiers, he ordered them to go with Hamidu to his home and return with the horse to the palace. It was a two days’ journey to Hamidu’s home. When the horse saw his master coming, he broke his halter and ran to meet him with every sign of deep affection. The ruler’s soldiers admired the horse greatly, and bade Hamidu mount him and ride back to the palace with them. When they stopped for the night they bound Hamidu, hands and feet, and laid him down on a hillock. Hamidu lay still and helpless, watching the bright stars as they blinked and twinkled overhead. He tried to loose the bonds that held his hands, but they were too strong for him. “Alas,” he thought, “not only shall I lose my beloved horse but also my life, I fear.” He could hear the heavy breathing of the sleeping soldiers. Everything else was quiet. Suddenly, his ear caught the sound of gentle footsteps. “I could almost believe it to be my beloved Beauty,” he thought, “if that were not impossible.” But it was Beauty, whose soft nose came feeling over Hamidu! and it was Beauty’s teeth which grasped his girdle and lifted him from the ground. Swift as a deer, the horse bore Hamidu on and on back to his home. There a friend loosed his bonds and gave him and the horse food and drink. Then Hamidu mounted Beauty and rode away, away, away into the distant hills of another country. And never did the ruler’s men find either Hamidu or the horse that gnawed loose his own fetters and saved his master’s life. QUESTIONS
BARRY THE DOG WHO SAVED THE LIVES OF FORTY PERSONS AND WAS KILLED BY THE FORTY-FIRST The Great St. Bernard is a famous mountain pass which crosses over the Alps from Switzerland into Italy. Away up on the highest point of the pass there stands a lonely dwelling place. It is the hospice of St. Bernard. A hospice, you must know, is a refuge for travelers on some difficult road. The hospice of St. Bernard is kept by a company of monks, who live the year round shut in by lofty mountains covered with snow. In the winter season the good monks lead a very busy life, for then it is that they go forth to seek and Every year many lives are saved through their efforts. I said that many lives are saved through the efforts of the good monks, but they would tell you that but few lives would be saved were it not for the help of their great noble dogs. These dogs are specially trained to accompany the monks, or are sent out alone to search for people in danger. You have heard of St. Bernard dogs, haven’t you? Barry was one of these dogs—a big, intelligent St. Bernard. He was so big and so intelligent that he was often sent out alone on some errand of mercy. Up to the time of this story Barry had saved forty lives. One day, in a blinding snow storm, two travelers, who had lost their way, were struggling to reach the hospice. It was frightfully cold, and their strength was almost spent. At length, one of the men took out his brandy flask. The other, knowing the great risk his companion ran, begged him not to drink, and urged him to put forth one more effort. But the man would not listen. He continued to drink heavily and soon fell exhausted in the snow. His friend struggled on, and at last reached the hospice, where he told the story of his lost fellow traveler. Through the heavy storm the great dog made his way to where the traveler lay unconscious in the snow. Barry pulled and pushed and tugged, and at last aroused him from his drunken stupor. The man, dazed by cold and drink, thought that a wild beast had fallen upon him. With his little remaining strength, he drew his knife from his pocket and plunged it into Barry’s neck. But the faithful dog, undaunted, kept at his task. Too late, the traveler realized that he had been found by one of the St. Bernard dogs which had been sent to rescue him. He struggled to his feet. Half leaning on the dog, whose blood stained every step of the way, he reached the door of the hospice. On its threshold Barry fell exhausted. He had given his life in fidelity to the trust reposed in him. Barry’s beautiful body was buried in a large cemetery in Paris; and over it was placed a handsome monument. On the monument, in French, are these words: “He saved the lives of forty persons; he was killed by the forty-first.” QUESTIONS
“I will try to be kind to all living creatures, and will try to protect them from cruel usage.” This is the simple pledge taken by the more than three million members of the many Bands of Mercy in the United States. The object of the Band of Mercy is to awaken in the hearts of children a feeling of kindness toward everything that lives. The members promise to do all they can to relieve the suffering around them, and to speak for the dumb animals that cannot speak for themselves. There are no dues. The members choose their own name and elect their own officers. Mr. George T. Angell, who was a great lover of animals, formed the first American Bands of Mercy in 1882. Mr. Angell lived to be eighty-six years old, and spent almost the whole of his long life in working for the kind treatment of every living creature. Well, the fact is that horses and dogs do not have any money. They are poorer than the poorest boy or girl here today. No matter how hard they work, they cannot buy an apple or a stick of candy, or even a lump of sugar; and so, because they have no money, I have been in the habit for a good many years of talking for them. Ever since I was a boy, I have been very fond of dumb animals. As a lad, I hardly ever went by a kind, good-looking horse or dog without stopping to have a talk with him. Boys who are taught to feed birds, and to pat the horses, and to speak kindly to all lower creatures become a good deal better fellows. One English school makes its boast that out of the seven thousand boys whom it has sent out, all carefully taught to be kind to animals, not one has ever been proved guilty of any crime. Through an inquiry made a few years ago, it was found that only twelve out of two thousand convicts in our prisons had ever had a pet animal in their childhood. Daniel Webster, the great American statesman, loved cattle. When at Marshfield, knowing that he was about to die, he requested that all his cattle should be driven to his window that he might see them for the last time; and as they came past his window one by one he called each by name. Walter von der Vogelweide, a great lyric poet of the And so with our modern great men. We find President Lincoln protecting the little wild birds and their nests. We find President Garfield taking a poor half-starved, half-frozen dog from the streets of Washington to his comfortable home. General Porter says that he never saw General Grant really angry but twice in his life—and one of those times was when he saw an army teamster beating a poor horse. He ordered the teamster to be tied up and severely punished. The great Duke of Wellington, who won the battle of Waterloo, was so kind to the lower creatures that he ordered that special protection be given a toad in his garden. It may be worth a thousand dollars to you some day, if you remember what I am now going to tell you. It is this: if the time ever comes when you feel as though you hadn’t a friend in the world and wish that you were dead, go and get some pet that you can talk to and love and care for—if it is only a little bird. You will be astonished to find the relief and happiness it will bring into your life. —George T. Angell—Adapted. Blessed are the merciful: For they shall obtain mercy.—Bible. He was a lonely looking little beggar with a wistful look in his eyes. Shaggy-haired, with a limp in one leg, and the scars of many stones on his small body, he was a miserable looking dog as he trotted down the dusty road. His tongue lolled out and his sides heaved from panting. But his rough looks hid a heart of gold. Any one could see that by looking into his eyes, which were pleading and trustful. But no one looked into his eyes; they looked only at his shaggy coat and rough appearance, then shouted and threw stones and clubs at him. The stones hurt cruelly, and it was a club that put the limp in his leg, for he was a stray dog and unwelcome everywhere. He was hungry for some one to love, to live for. His eyes told that every time he met a stranger, or when, with drooping tail and with fawning side-steps, he presented himself at some new farmhouse. But rebuffs and kicks had brought a faint light of distrust and caution to his eyes, and he began to crawl into the weeds along the roadside when he saw any one approaching; and when he came to a farmhouse he would stop at the gate, ready to run at the first hostile move. Sometimes people set well-fed home dogs on him. When these were his size, or smaller, he would back away with teeth half-bared defensively. He made no move to fight. It was not in his nature to fight unless Twice he had been overtaken by dogs—huge, fierce fellows that mauled him without mercy, while their owners encouraged them. But always they had allowed the little dog to go with his life. Even dogs have codes of honor. It was just at sunset one evening when he limped into the yard where little Nellie was playing. He gazed into her eyes with a pleading, homesick look, and she smiled. Then she threw her arms around his neck and caressed him tenderly. He fawned on her in a very ecstasy of joy, and his scarred, thin little There was just a trace of Airedale blood in his veins, and an Airedale dog always selects some one person as the idol of his undying love and faithfulness. Nellie was to him the one person in the world. IINellie’s father was a big man, and abrupt. He became excited when he saw her playing with the little dog, and dragged her away. He declared that she might have been bitten by the cur. In spite of the little girl’s protests, he kicked the dog from the yard and stoned him, sending him, a whimpering, heart-broken little piece of misery, limping down the road. Nellie cried and declared that she had always wanted a doggy and that no doggy but the little stray dog would do. But her father was firm; he would have no stray dogs about the place; there was no telling what the dog was, or had been—he might be dangerous; for the father had not looked into the little dog’s eyes as had Nellie. One day Nellie was taken sick. A raging fever colored her face and sent her pulses bounding. For many anxious hours her tearful father watched by her bedside. Then Nellie began calling for her “doggy.” The doctor, who was already grave, became graver. He told the father that if Nellie’s doggy was not found he feared that she might not get better. Then She Lay Back on Her Pillow Then She Lay Back on Her Pillow A great pain came to the father’s heart, and his face Evening came. The doctor, who had been holding little Nellie’s wrist in his hand, laid it very gently on the bed, a misty look in his eyes. Suddenly he turned toward the door. There, just within the threshold, with drooping tail and a loving, pleading look fastened on the little figure in the bed, stood a stray dog. The doctor looked into the little dog’s eyes, and understood. He knew it was Nellie’s doggy. Swiftly he caught the dog up in his arms and placed him on the bed. With a glad cry little Nellie half-raised herself from her pillow, as her hands found the dog’s shaggy hair and felt the warm touch of his tongue. Then she lay back on her pillow, a new color in her cheeks and a new light in her eyes. She breathed easily and sighed contentedly. The doctor smiled tenderly and her father cried tears of joy. The little dog curled himself against Nellie and licked her hand lovingly, for of all the people in the world she alone was his mistress, and neither kicks nor stones could keep him away. —Robert E. Hewes. There is joy in caring For helpless little things. If every rat costs the public one dollar per year, what do you suppose a kitten is worth? Cats are nature’s destroyers of rats. Rats devour much good food and carry dreadful diseases. No trap or poison bait can do pussy’s work, because rats are very wise and cunning, and after a few are caught they avoid coming near a trap. As for poisons, it isn’t very pleasant to have a poisoned rat die in or near a house. Rats have very large families and become great-grandfathers in a short time; so you see the cats have plenty of work. It is foolish to think, though, that cats can live upon mice and rats. They need other food, and the better fed cats are generally the best “mousers.” Cats are kept in large postoffices to protect the mail from the rats and mice. They are so valuable for this purpose that Uncle Sam sets money aside to be used in feeding them. In a large city in China there is a law which says that in every house one or more cats must be kept; for there the rats carry a dreadful disease or plague, and the cats kill the rats.—H. H. Jacobs. The idea that cats should be poorly fed, in order that they may be good mousers and ratters, is a very cruel and ignorant one. A cat catches rats and mice because instinct tells him to do so, and he will do his work better if strong and well fed.—Mary Craige Yarrow. At the burning of an apartment house in Kansas City, early one morning, the firemen and onlookers were astonished to see a cat leap in at the door, though she must pass through fire and water to enter. Some one called out, “Look at that cat—she must have gone crazy.” While they watched she returned, bringing a kitten held up as high as she could lift it by throwing back her head. She hurried through the crowd, and after a few moments again appeared, and dashed once more into the flames. Soon the brave creature came back with another kitten in her mouth. By this time the people were watching to see what she would do next, for she was giving a wonderful exhibition of mother love. The firemen turned their attention now almost wholly to the part of the building where she was; but the walls fell, and the noble little self-forgetting mother was buried beneath them. A search was made for her kittens; they were found in a place of safety. There were four of them. The janitor of the building remembered that there had been five. How well the mother cat knew the number! and how bravely she had saved them—all but one! Do you suppose she was with it, to cover it and guard it to the last moment? The motherless kittens were taken to the central fire station and tenderly cared for. The firemen had been very eager to own an Angora kitten; but when one was offered to them, they decided not to take it. “It might put these little chaps out if we brought in another cat,” they said; “and we feel that we ought to take care of them—for their mother’s sake, you know.” The little mother had been lifted up to a place of honor with these men, who knew so well how to value true courage.—H. H. Jacobs. How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world. —Shakespeare. QUESTIONS
Oh, how dare we ask a just God to bestow The mercy we grant not to creatures below! Henry D. Thoreau, a famous man who lived for some time in a little cabin in the woods near Concord, Massachusetts, was noted for his kindness to all God’s harmless creatures. It is said that even the fishes came into his hand when he dipped it into the stream. The little mice would come and playfully eat from his fingers, and the very moles paid him friendly visits. Sparrows alighted on his shoulders when he called them; phoebe birds built their nests in his shed; and the wild partridge with her brood, came and fed quietly beneath his window, as he sat and looked at them. After he had been two or three months in the woods the wild birds ceased to be afraid of him, and would come and perch on his shoulder, and sometimes on his spade when he was digging.—George T. Angell. Did you ever see a buffalo in the park? Do you know that there are only a few of them in this country because years ago people hunted them for sport, and killed them by thousands? Do you know that there is danger that the wild duck, reindeer, and mountain sheep will disappear in the same way? Do you think it is a fair game to hunt animals with a gun? Can they take their part? Don’t you think that boys and girls who live a hundred years from now will be glad if we all try to protect our wild animals? Will you bring some of your favorite pictures of animals to school? “Three balls for five cents, Mister. Have a shot at the monk.” Young Mr. Williams wondered what the man meant as he held out three hard balls painted in bright colors. Mr. Williams had gone to Woodlyn Park with his little niece and nephew for an afternoon of pleasure. “Oh, look, uncle!” cried the little boy; “don’t you see the monkey? There! see his face through the hole in that sheet? The men throw the balls at him.” Mr. Williams did, indeed, see Pedro’s poor little scared face. Just as he caught sight of it, bang! a man threw a ball that hit the monkey on the head. “Oh, I am afraid they will kill the poor little monkey,” cried the little girl. “Can’t we make them stop, uncle?” “There isn’t much use in talking to these men,” said Mr. Williams. “The best thing to do is to notify the ‘cruelty lady.’ We will do that as soon as we get home; shall we?” “Oh, yes, indeed,” cried the children. “Let us go right away.” The “cruelty lady” started immediately for the park. When she saw how the little monkey was being abused, she had the two men who owned him arrested. Although they were very angry, she was not afraid of them. The poor monkey was taken away from his cruel masters and carried to the home of a good woman, who cared for the sick little animal. She bathed the many, many bruises on his poor little body, and fed him good wholesome food. In about ten days, Pedro began to feel better, and showed how much he appreciated the kindness of his new mistress by following her everywhere he could. He got into mischief, too, by trying to do everything he saw people do. One day, when his mistress had stepped out into the garden, he turned the key on the inside of the door, and locked her out. It was a good thing that one of the second-story windows was open, so that a young man could climb up and get inside and unlock the door. The last time I heard of Pedro, he was living happily with other monkeys in the Zoological Garden. Let us speak for those That cannot speak for themselves. Even the smallest kind act is never lost. It isn’t always the size of the good deed that counts. They can speak pleasantly to boys or men who are whipping their horses and ask them to stop. They can ask men and boys to blanket their horses in cold weather, to put them in the shade in warm weather, and to loosen the tight check rein. They can keep fresh water where their own horses, dogs, cats, and hens can get it, not once, but at any time during the day or night. They can feed their dog or cat morning and night, remembering that all animals and fowls have as good appetites and suffer as much when hungry and thirsty as boys and girls do. They can feed homeless dogs and cats and try to find shelter for them. They can be careful never to lose a pet animal, or to leave one behind if they move away, unless they have arranged for some one to take care of it. Every kind act that children do, not only makes the world better, but helps to make them better and happier men and women.—Animal Rescue League of Boston. PLEASE BE KIND TO US WE WORK HARD FOR YOU If a horse could talk, he would have many things to say, especially when winter comes. He would tell his driver how a frosty bit stings and sears his lips and tongue when it is thrust into his mouth without first being warmed. He would tell how it feels to have nothing but ice-cold water to drink, when he is already shivering from the cold. He would tell of the bitter winds that frost his sides when he halts, steaming from exertion, and is tied for hours in an exposed place without a blanket. He would talk of slippery streets, and the fear of falling on cruel city paving-stones. He would tell of the bruised knees and wrenched joints, the tightened straps and the pain of the driver’s lash, and the horrible fright of it all. Yes, the horse would say a good many things if he —The American Humane Education Society. MEMORY GEM They are slaves who fear to speak For the helpless and the weak; They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three. —Lowell. BE KIND TO ANIMALS Sketched from the seal of the Massachusetts S. P. C. A. There was a big team, a mighty load, and a long hill, and we watched to see what the driver would do. He was brawny and strong, and he had a kind face. He did not use the whip. He talked to his horses in a friendly way. He said: “Come on, Jim,” and “Hi, there, Bill,” and when he reached a steep place he jumped off the load and walked. Once he put on the brake and gave the panting animals a much-needed rest. At the top of the hill he patted the noses of his faithful friends, allowed them to breathe a bit, and then the big load moved along as easily as you please.—Selected. The only charm I use, boys, is the Golden Rule. Treat a horse as you would like to be treated yourself. There is never any need for any one to beat or abuse a horse, for there is no creature living more faithful and loving, if you are only kind and patient with him. Teach him to love and have confidence in you, and give him time to find out what you want, then he will serve you not only willingly but gladly and proudly. The best charm any man can use with a horse is kindness. Be kind, gentle, and considerate, and you will soon win his confidence and can do anything you like with him. —Uncle Dan. To you, My Master, I offer my prayer: Feed, water, and care for me, and, when the day’s work is done, provide me with shelter, a clean, dry bed, and a stall wide enough for me to lie down in comfort. Always be kind to me. Talk to me. Your voice often means as much to me as do the reins. Pet me sometimes, that I may serve you the more gladly and learn to love you. Do not jerk the reins, and do not whip me when going up hill. Never strike, beat, or kick me when I do not understand what you want, but give me a chance to understand you. Do not check me so that I cannot have the free use of my head. If you insist that I wear blinders, so that I cannot see behind me as it was intended that I should, I pray you be careful that the blinders stand well out from my eyes. Do not overload me, or hitch me where water will drip on me. Keep me well shod. Examine my teeth when I do not eat; I may have an ulcerated tooth, and that, you know, is very painful. Do not tie my head in an unnatural position, or take away my best defense against flies and mosquitoes by cutting off my tail. I cannot tell you when I am thirsty, so give me clean cool water often. I cannot tell you in words when I am sick, so watch me, that by signs you may know my condition. Give me all possible shelter from the hot sun, and put a blanket on me, not when I am working, but when I am standing in the cold. Never put a frosty bit in my mouth; first warm it by holding it a moment in your hands. I try to carry you and your burdens without a murmur, and wait patiently for you during long hours of the day and night. Without the power to choose my shoes or path, I sometimes fall on the hard pavements, and I must be ready at any moment to lose my life in your service. And finally, O My Master, when my useful strength is gone, do not turn me out to starve or freeze, or sell Suppose this Horse Takes Cold and Suffers and Dies--Who is to Blame? Suppose this Horse Takes Cold and Suffers and Dies—Who is to Blame? QUESTIONS I
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Children should never feel that their hands are too small and weak to help toward making the world a happier place for all to live in, for the world needs their work quite as much as it does that of the older people.—M. C. Yarrow. A BIRD VILLAGE “Just listen, Mary Frances!” said Billy, pulling a paper out of his pocket. “‘One robin has been known to feed his family five yards of worms a day. “‘A chickadee will dispose of 5,500 eggs of the canker-worm moth in one day. “‘A flicker eats no less than 9,000 ants a day. “‘A pair of wrens have been seen to carry one hundred insects to their young in an hour. They are especially fond of plant-lice and cutworms. “‘Little humming-birds lick plant-lice off foliage with lightning rapidity. “‘Seed-eating birds destroy millions of seeds of troublesome weeds—actually eating hundreds of tons of seeds.’ “How do people know what the different birds eat?” asked Mary Frances. “Did some one watch to see what each different bird took for a meal?” “No;” Billy referred to his clipping. “Scientists have examined the contents of the stomachs of the birds, and have learned what food each kind of bird uses. There was a time when people imagined that robins stole so many cherries and berries that it was a good deed to kill them. Now they have found that they destroy so many injurious insects that they do not begrudge them a few cherries. Besides, if mulberry trees are planted nearby they will prefer their fruit to the cherries.” “Oh, Billy,” cried Mary Frances, “isn’t it wonderful! Not only do birds help us by destroying harmful insects and seeds, but they help us by their beauty. I believe they are the most beautiful of living things! They could have helped us just as much and have been as ugly as—cutworms.” “Yes,” replied Billy, “I believe that is so; but it takes a girl to think such things out. The strangest thing to me, however, is that without birds we should die of starvation. This paper says that if the birds disappeared entirely, agriculture and farming would be impossible within a few years.” II“Bees and birds,” said Mary Frances softly, “keep us from starving. How wonderful it all seems. Why, Billy, it must have all been planned out when God made the world!” “I have thought of that myself, Mary Frances,” said Billy; “it’s one of those thoughts a fellow doesn’t often speak out loud. I don’t know why.” “Everybody ought to take care of birds,” went on Mary Frances. “Surely the reason they don’t is because they do not understand how wonderfully they help us. Birds and bees keep us from starving. Oh, Billy, let’s have lots of birds in our garden!” “Why, how?” asked Billy. “Perhaps we could put food out for them.” “Yes, but I wasn’t thinking of that. I thought maybe we could put houses where they would build their nests.” “Of course,” replied Billy; “and we could keep a small bathtub full of water for them.” “What fun!” cried Mary Frances. “Billy, do you know how to build the right kind of houses for each different kind of bird?” “No, I do not,” answered Billy; “I know of only a few. They are the ones our manual training teacher showed us. I have some pictures right here in my book. It’s queer I didn’t think of them!” “Let me see them,” cried Mary Frances. “Oh, will you make some later on?” “I am to make them in school next term,” explained Billy. “Let me show you these pictures.” A Robin’s Sleeping Porch Robin Redbreast will not live in an enclosed house, but desires merely a shelter where the family can have plenty of fresh air. “I believe in living out-of-doors,” says Mrs. Robin Redbreast, “and I shall not keep my children indoors, no matter how sanitary the house may be. They shall be educated in the open air. There is as much to be learned outdoors as indoors.” A Bungalow for Wrens Jenny Wren and her husband like a little perch to rest upon before entering their home. In order to keep the English sparrow from being inquisitive and troublesome, make the entrance only one inch across so that Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow cannot enter. “Sparrows are not a bit nice neighbors,” fusses gentle Jenny Wren. “They pick a quarrel over nothing, then peck our family to pieces if they can.” The Martins’ Hotel Do not charge Mr. and Mrs. Martin for lodgings. Instead, be thankful that they bring their friends and relatives with them, for martins come in companies and love to linger where invited. They destroy millions of insects. The Bluebird’s Cottage These heavenly bluebirds, with pinkish plumage on their breasts, add great beauty to our home QUESTIONS
The birds of one of our large cities are being provided with homes by the pupils of the city’s public schools. These homes are bird houses, made by the children in the manual training classes. The president of the city’s Humane Society offers a prize every spring to the child who first has a bird tenant in the houses newly set out. The prize is a book about birds and their habits. You can imagine how eagerly the boys and girls watch the houses to be sure of noting the exact time when a bird family moves in.—National Humane Journal. Many years ago there lived in the city of Rome a rich man who owned a great number of slaves. One slave, named Androclus, grew very weary of the hard work he was forced to do, and upon a dark night ran away from his home. At first he did not know where to go, but ran blindly through the streets until at length, when almost breathless, he found himself outside of the city. There he could travel more slowly; but he must, nevertheless, go steadily on or he would be caught and fed to the lions. For this was the law; a runaway slave was cast into the arena into which hungry lions were driven. Poor Androclus was very much frightened as he went on his way thinking how dreadful it would be if he were found. Just as the morning light broke gently over the hills, he came to the edge of a thick woods. “This is the very place to hide,” he thought; and plunged into the dense thickets. On and on he stumbled; on and on, even though he was so tired and thirsty that he feared he would faint. At last, just when he thought he could not take another step, he heard the sound of running water, and in a minute or two, he came to a beautiful little brook. By its side he knelt and drank; but although the cool water refreshed him, he found that he had not strength to go on. Then he saw the mouth of a cave not far away. “I will crawl into that cave and rest,” he thought. It was very comfortable in the cave, for there was a bed of loose leaves on which to lie. So Androclus lay down and was soon fast asleep. IISuddenly he was awakened by the deep roar of a lion! Nearer and nearer it came—nearer and nearer! Androclus, terribly frightened, drew back as far as he could into the darkest corner of the cave, hoping that the lion would not see him; but on it came right into the cave! Then Androclus saw that the lion was lame. It held up its front paw very much as a kitten might have done had its paw been sore. Androclus took courage. He crept softly toward the great beast, which, seeming to know that the man could help him, allowed him to take hold of his paw. It required but a moment for Androclus to pull out the large thorn which was causing the pain. The lion was so pleased that he rubbed his head against the man’s shoulder, and purred loudly. After that, Androclus was never afraid of the lion; and the lion to show his gratitude shared his food with him. In this way these strange companions came to live together in the cave. One day when the slave was walking in the forest, some soldiers spied him. They knew that he must Poor Androclus knew that the thing which he had so dreaded was about to happen. He would be fed to the hungry lions. The day came. Great crowds of people had gathered, as people gather nowadays to see a ball game. Androclus, weak with fear, was pushed into the arena. He could hear the roar of the hungry lion as it came tearing from its cell. Right toward Androclus rushed the great beast; the people expected to see the slave torn into pieces. Imagine their surprise when the lion suddenly stood He Told About the Lion’s Hurt Paw The people wanted to know how such a strange thing could happen; and Androclus, with his hand on the head of his pet, told about his flight; about the lion’s hurt paw; about their life together in the cave; and about the lion’s sharing his food with him. Before he was through many voices cried, “Let them live! Let Androclus and his lion live!” And they were both given their freedom. For many years, Androclus and his pet were one of the most interesting sights in the great city of Rome. —An Old Tale. |
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