A particular summer, back in the fifties, I spent in one of the beautiful valley villages of the “Green Mountain State.” The old-fashioned, unpretending country tavern was comfortable and the air and scenery all that could be desired. The amusements, or rather occupations, afforded to the sojourners, aside from reading the solid literature of the period, were neither novel nor exhausting, but they gave pleasure, were reposeful, and were innocent enough to have satisfied the code of the most exacting moralist. The daily routine was limited, not costly, and within easy reach. Of course, the first rural recreation was to fish in streams where there were no fish; to climb the highest hills as often as possible; argue religious, political, and commercial questions with the numerous oracles of the village, and diagnose the autumn crop question with the farmers. These occupations were staple commodities, always in stock and on tap ready to flow. The good people of the town were very much astonished when they found I had discovered an additional occupation. I had made the acquaintance of all the town dogs, and found them a most entertaining and sociable lot of easy-going vagabonds. The majority were much given to loafing, barking at strangers and the passing vehicles, and not over-anxious to earn the scant meals grudgingly doled out to them by the thrifty housewives, who frequently addressed them in terms not of a complimentary nature. Those were not the days of romantic names for dogs. The New England rÉpertoire for the canine race had been handed down, in an unbroken line, from a remote Puritan period. If a dog was of a large size he was sure to respond to the name of Tige, Rover, or Lion, and, if small, he was usually adorned with the name of Skip, Fido, or Zip. In those days there were neither kennel clubs nor dog exhibitions, and the high-flown English names, such as attach to the canine blue-bloods of to-day, were unknown. Within the ranks of this lazy, good-for-nothing, good-natured tribe, with its headquarters in my particular village, was a characteristic specimen of a perfect nobody’s dog. He was not unpleasant to the vision, but, on the contrary, rather attractive. He was of a light brindle color, with a black nose, and was blessed with a pair of beautiful, sympathetic, and expressive dark-brown eyes, that had a frank way of looking clear into the eyes of whoever addressed him. But he was without pedigree, industry, or hope, cared nothing for worldly possessions, was always ready to wag a hearty response to every salutation, and was an ever-flowing fountain of good nature and kindness, but not devoid of character. Along with all his apparent indifference he had his strong points, and good ones at that. His great weakness was the woodchuck season. No sportsman was ever more watchful for the return of the shooting period than was Rover for the opening of the first woodchuck hole. For days before the first opening he would range the fields very much after the manner of the truly accomplished shopping woman of a large city in search of opportunities on a “bargain day.” He had the keenest nose for his favorite game of any dog in the town, and so devoted was he to his particular sport, that frequently, while the season lasted, after a hard day’s work, he would go to bed with an empty stomach, his chance mistress having issued an edict to the effect that the kitchen door was to be closed at a certain hour—Rover or no Rover. And so it came to pass that our devoted sportsman often went to his couch in the shed a very hungry dog, not happy for the moment, but always full of hope for the coming morning. While his sporting season lasted he had but one occupation. As soon as he had licked his breakfast plate clean, even to the last mite of food, he would start off for new adventures, and, as soon as he had succeeded in finding a new subterranean abode of his favorite game, he would give a joyous bark, and commence a most vigorous digging, and, if the soil happened to be of a soft nature, he would soon bury his body so as to leave no part of his belongings in sight but the tip end of a very quick-moving tail amid the dÉbris of flying soil. If called from his pursuit he would come out of his hole wagging most joyously and saying as plainly as possible: “I wish you would turn in and help a fellow.” He had never been known to capture a “chuck,” but he had his fun all the same. There is a story of a Frenchman, who, when walking in the woods, heard the whistle of a woodcock and thereupon became possessed of an ardent desire pour la chasse. He equipped himself by borrowing a gun from one friend, a dog from another, a game-bag from a third, and the making of a complete shooting outfit from several others. Early in the morning, after the delusive whistle, he was up and off to the woods. Filled with eager expectation he tramped hills and swamps the whole day through without seeing a bird or getting a shot, and returned to the hotel much the worse for the wear and tear of the search, but, Frenchman like, was vivacious and cheerful. An English friend asked to see the inside of his game-bag. “Ah,” answered the would-be huntsman, “I did not get ze leetle—ze bÉcasse, I did hear his whistle, mais j’ai eu ma chasse all ze same, and I am very happie.” And so it was with Rover. He saw where his would-be victim was located, enjoyed the pleasure of hope, and had a day’s digging. The other dogs of the village were not ambitious, save at meal-time, when they were vigorously punctual, but very unpunctual when there was anything useful to do, such as going after the cows at milking-time, driving enterprising pigs out of the garden, chasing the hens from the front entrance of the house, and the like. As a rule they were content to pass the sunny hours of the day beneath protecting shades, resting their lazy carcasses upon the softest patch of greensward to be found, and they were usually experts in the art of finding such spots. It was not so, however, with Rover. He was an active dog, without a lazy bone in his body, always on the alert for an occupation, no matter if sometimes useful. Take them, however, for all in all, this worthless pack of four-footed worthies were not a bad sort of a lot. All save one were good-natured and sociable. That exception was a maltese-colored abridgment of a mastiff, short-haired and old. He was the property of one of the village doctors, who was a pestiferous Whig, with the reputation of being the “tongueyist man in the county, if not in the State.” He carried chips upon both shoulders, was the proprietor of a loud voice—plenty of it—and was always ready for a war between tongues. He “argered” for the sake of argument, but his ancient “Spot,” with a thickened throat and wheezy voice, could only keep up a running pro forma barking accompaniment while his master “downed” his opponent. The old dog had unconsciously contracted his master’s habit of controversy, and felt that he must help him out. It is due to the memory of that ancient canine to record that he attended strictly to his own affairs, and would brook no interference from frivolous idle dogs with no particular occupation, nor would he associate with them when off duty. When not with his master, he kept inside his own fence, and barked and made disagreeable faces at all would-be intruders. As bearing upon the story that will develop, I may add that besides the dogs there are, in Vermont, other four-footed friends and servants of man worthy of consideration. The Vermont “Morgan horse” is one of the acknowledged native “institutions,” and no lover of that animal has ever made the intimate acquaintance of one of his strain without being fascinated with his delicate, refined beauty, affectionate disposition, intelligence, endurance, and willingness to serve. I was brought up with them, and used to romp and race with the colts, ride the mothers without saddle, bridle, or halter, and purloin sugar and salt to feed them when the “old folks were not looking.” Among my happiest hours were those of my childhood and boyhood spent in close association with the great groups of animals that lived upon the hills of the old farm at the “crotch in the roads.” Calves, among the most beautiful of all the young animals, with their great soft eyes and innocent faces, were a source of infinite joy to me, and even the silly and unintellectual sheep always appealed to my affections and sense of protection. These I regarded as wards to love and protect, but the dogs and Morgan horses were my petted friends and companions. From their habitual display of good faith, perfect integrity and affection I learned all the lessons applicable to every-day life that have been of value to me. From man I could have learned the arts of deceit and cunning, selfishness and want of feeling, and the practise of vanity, but never a single quality which came to me from the habitual association with the honest four-footed friends of my youth. The people of my native State, among their other fine characteristics, have always been noted for their kindness to animals, which fact alone stands for a very elevated plane of civilization. Ever since nearly a century ago, when the Morgan horse first came to them, he has been an object of their affection, and it is undoubtedly, to a great extent, owing to that creditable fact that he has always been the same charming animal that he is to-day. That the equine hero of this sketch was not of that noble breed will not detract from his special virtues or impair my passing tribute to the Vermont horse and his master. The one selected for my riding excursions was the only saddle-horse of repute in the county; he belonged to a livery stable, and was of the “calico” red and white sort, tall, long of body, sound of legs and feet, with large, liquid, expressive eyes, small ears, and a beautiful open nostril. His pedigree was unknown, and no one in the village could say where he came from. He had been turned out lame from a “travelling show” the year before, and had been bought for a song. Such only was his brief known history. To his physical beauties were added the higher qualities of head and heart in abundance. He was the sort of a beautiful creature that could not have done a mean act. Nature never furnished him tools for that kind of work. He was effusively affectionate, and his intelligence was of a high order for a horse. We took a great fancy to each other, and both of us to Rover, who once in a while could be coaxed from his pursuit of “chucks” to take a run with us over the country roads. Thus we became chosen friends, and I selected them as companions for a recreative excursion which I had planned, and which we shall now retrace. An early breakfast for man, dog and horse, and off. The general plan was to ride early and late, and rest during the hot hours of the middle portion of the day. A village with a decent “tavern” for the night was the objective point for each evening, and the usual daily distance, made at an easy canter, was about twenty miles. Between each stretch of three or four miles there was a halt for a dismount, a rest for the animals, and a leg exercise for the rider. Rover was always glad for a loll beneath the shady trees, but “Charlie,” my calico friend, improved his opportunities for a nibble of the tender grass and sprouts within his reach. During the first two or three days I had to retrace my steps to remount, but I soon succeeded in making my companions understand the nature and object of a call, and, before the tour was half over, they would not permit me to walk out of their sight. Rover was on the watch, and, as soon as he saw me disappearing in the distance, would give the alarm, and then both would start off on a smart run to overtake me. Upon one occasion, after climbing a sharp hill, I had left them at the beginning of a long level piece of road, and had walked on. After going about half a mile, I met a large drove of cattle. When I had succeeded in passing through and beyond it, my attention was attracted by a confused noise in the rear. Upon looking back I discovered a great cloud of dust, and amidst it a confusion of moving horns and tails, while soon there appeared, racing through the excited mass of bovines at the top of his speed, Charlie, accompanied by his faithful attendant barking at the top of his voice. The cattle were excited and frightened up to the point of jumping and running they knew not where. Some went over fences, others through them, while the main body kept to the road, and, for a considerable distance, carried everything before them. I realized at once that my zealous companions had got me into trouble. For the information of readers not acquainted with the average “droveyer” of forty and fifty years ago, it is necessary to record that he was not the sort of an individual calculated to adorn refined society, and the language used by those in charge of this particular “drove” was more characteristic for its strength than for its elegance or politeness. I tried to appease their wrath, apologized for the unseemly conduct of dog and horse, alleged sudden fright, marshalled a fine array of other excuses, and finally succeeded in neutralizing the flow of their ire—just a little. But the chief spokesman was not satisfied with excuses and soft words; he was a materialist, and wanted to know, then and there, who was to put up the fence and pay for the damage done by the trampling down of growing crops. Under the circumstances the query did not seem to be an unreasonable one, and I suggested that the better course to pursue would be for the authors of the mischief to make terms with the owner of the crops, state facts, and await his decision. The season happened to be between planting and harvest, and “the men-folks,” we were told, “are up on yender hill mending fence, and won’t be down till dinner.” The head “droveyer,” impatient to keep with his “drove,” would not wait, and informed me, in a rather emphatic sort of way, that I would have to wait and “settle up.” There was no appeal in sight from his decision. So he went and I waited. The hot part of the day had arrived, and it was within about two hours “till dinner.” After “hitchin’” the horse in the barn, away from the flies, I suggested the loan of an axe. This excited surprise, and the question came from the head of the interior of that particular domestic establishment: “What are you going to do with an axe?” I answered: “I’m going to mend the fence where those cattle broke through.” This feather came very near breaking the back of the housewife, and her sense of the ridiculous was excited up to the point of explosion, but she was too well bred to give the laugh direct, full in the face, and contented herself by making an acute mental survey of my physical points. She measured with her eye the hands and girth of chest, and made a close calculation as to the amount of biceps assigned to each arm, and after some reflection, said: “You’ll find an old axe in the woodshed; you can take it and try and patch up the places, and, when you hear the horn, you can come in and eat with the rest of the folks.” I started off, filled with the pride born of knowledge, and confident of a coming success, but the even flow of my happiness was soon disturbed by a sound from the upper register of a very loud, shrill voice, saying, “Don’t split your feet open with that are axe.” This was like a small streak of ice water down the spinal column, but I was on my mettle and not to be discouraged. The vacant spaces in the broken fence were encountered and yielded to superior force, and a fairish amount of success was accomplished about the time the welcome tones of the sonorous horn announced the hour for feeding. I was introduced to the “men-folks” as the stranger whose dog and horse had “scart the cattle inter the oats.” At first it was easy to see that I was not regarded with favor, but, as the dinner proceeded, and as anecdotes succeeded each other about men, things and far-off countries I had seen, the Green Mountain ice began to melt, and, by the time the “Injun puddin’” was emptied out of its bag, cordial relations were established. The two bright-faced boys had become communicative, and the older members of the family had forgotten for the time the damage to the oats. The dinner ended, I requested a board of survey and an estimate. The first relevant observation in relation to the case before the court came from the grandfather: “Well, I declare, I couldn’t done it better myself. I didn’t know you city folk could work so. Where did you l’arn to mend fences?” This first witness for the defence produced a marked effect upon the jury. The next point of observation was the field of damaged oats. The eldest son, a Sunday-school-sort of boy, exclaimed: “By pepper, they are pretty well trampled down, ain’t they? No cradle can git under ’em; guess’ll have ter go at ’em with the sickle, but we can save the heft of ’em by bending our backs a little.” During the investigation not a word was uttered about compensation, and, after leaving the field, the conversation ran into generalities; but before we reached the house the grandfather’s curiosity got the better of his timidity, and he asked: “Where did you l’arn to mend fences?” When I told him that my name was ——, that I was a grandson of ——, was born at the “Old H. Place at the crotch of the roads in the town of P——,” learned to mend fences there, etc., etc., he had great difficulty in suppressing the dimensions of the proud satisfaction my information had produced. In his mind I was a degenerate Vermonter, living in the great City of New York, but had not forgotten the lessons learned at the old farm. I knew how to mend a fence, and that, for him, was my certificate of character. From the moment of my disclosures, I was admitted to the inner family circle, and there was no more farm-work for the rest of the day, while the afternoon hours were devoted to reminiscences of the olden times: “Ah,” said the old grandfather, “when I first laid eyes on ye, I thought I’d seen somebody like ye afore, and I remember it was your grandfather on yer father’s side. He was a soldier of the Revolutionary War in one of the Rhode Island ridgiments, and my father belonged to one from Massachusetts; both served till the end of the war, and then emigrated to Vermont, together. My father settled on this farm, where I was born in 1790; your grandfather took up some land in P——, and till the end of his days was the best schoolmaster and surveyor anywhere round these parts. He was a master-hand at poetry, and used to write sarcastical varses agin the lop-sided cusses he hated. There’s allus some mean critters in these country towns, who take advantage of poor folks that ain’t very smart and cheat ’em outer their property. They used to feel mighty mean, I tell ye, when they read your grandfather’s varses about ’em. I heerd old Si Simmons, up to town meeting only last year, telling about a mean old critter down in P—— by the name of Podges and how your grandfather writ a varse for his gravestun, and I remember it was about like this: “‘Here lies the body of Podges Seth, The biggest knave that e’er drew breath; He lived like a hog and died like a brute, And has gone to the d——l beyond dispute.’” I was able to respond in kind, for I happened to remember about another local poet, who hated a surviving son of this rural vampire, who quite worthily perpetuated the detestable qualities of his defunct parent, and, when he died, as he did not many years after his father, the other local poet, not to be outdone by my grandfather, composed the following verse as a fitting epitaph: “Here lies the body of Podges Ed, We all rejoice to know he’s dead; Too bad for Heaven, too mean for Hell, And where he’s gone no one can tell.” In the “Old Times” there were strong, honest, rugged characters among the Vermont hills. The majority of them were men of plain speech and unyielding contempt for meanness in any form. A goodly number of the early settlers in the eastern counties were soldiers of the Revolution who had emigrated to the new State soon after its close, and they brought with them the simple, manly habits and ways of thinking which are characteristic of service in the field. Many were the anecdotes told of them that day—the day of the accident to the oats—very much to the edification of the juniors, who were all eyes and ears, at least for that occasion. The old house at the “crotch of the roads,” when I was a boy, was the Saturday and Sunday halting-place for the old soldiers of my own and several of the neighboring towns. The larder was always well-supplied, and the barrels of cider that lined a capacious cellar were ready to respond to every call. Under the influence of an abundant supply of that exhilarating beverage, the fighting over of old battles was always vigorous and sometimes vividly realistic. The most famous of the local veterans, of my time, was known among his neighbors as “Uncle Daniel V——.” He was a Lexington-Bunker Hill man, who had served till the end of the war. As I remember him, he was a most interesting character, humorous, with a good memory, a famous drinker of hard cider, and a notable singer of the patriotic soldier songs of the “Seventy-six” period. I can recall, in his showing “how the Yankee boys flaxed the Britishers,” how he would shoulder one of his canes—he was a rheumatic and walked with two—and march up and down the broad kitchen of the old house, going through the motions of loading, aiming and firing at an imaginary enemy, greatly to my childish delight, for those were the first fierce war’s alarms I had ever witnessed, and I can never forget how my imagination was fired; nor how ardently I wished I had been at Lexington and Bunker Hill, where “we gave it to the Red Coats.” Uncle Daniel was far too good a patriot to say anything about the return compliments, “How the Red Coats gave it to us,” upon one of those historic fields. Since his day I have learned that one of his glorification songs, which professed to give a correct account of one particular Yankee victory, was not in strict accord with the truths of history. I could recall for my host but a single verse of all the songs he used to sing, and it savors so much of the camp that I had some misgivings about repeating it before Christians, but upon being hard pressed by the boys and seeing approving glances from other directions, concluded to go ahead. The verse I remember is one from a song supposed to have been sung by British soldiers who were in the retreat after the defeat at Concord, April 19, 1775, and runs thus: “From behind the hedges and the ditches. And every tree and stump. We would see the sons of —— And infernal Yankees jump.” I also remember, vaguely, something of another Revolutionary camp song which depicted the grief of the soldiers of Burgoyne’s army. The refrain was like this: “We have got too far from Canada, Run, boys, run.” When we had exhausted the Revolution, it was time for an afternoon start. For more than an hour Rover had manifested his impatience by numerous waggings and by pawing vigorously at the legs of my trousers whenever I looked his way, and from the barn there came sounds of hoof-poundings and impatient whinnerings—loud and plain calls for a move. So, after many protests against the going, a move to go was made. Before the advance upon the barn was fairly under way the youngster, who had been an attentive listener, decided upon a search for information, and, commanding a halt, informed me that “Old Jim Noyes, who lived over in the Snow neighborhood, has two boys in Boston; the oldest was up here in June and told us there was a steeple down in Boston as high as that old ‘Jackson Hill’ of ours, but I didn’t b’leve a word of it. Hosea Doten, the biggest man at figgers and surveying in this part of Vermont, told mother last year that Old Jack was 1,200 feet above the sea and more than five hundred above where we are standing; now, there ain’t no such steeple in Boston nor anywhere else. What do folks want such a high steeple for, anyway? And if meetin’ houses must have steeples, why won’t fifty feet do as well as five hundred? Some folks say that bells are hung up in steeples so God can hear them ring for folks to go to meetin’ Sunday mornin’. What odds would two or three hundred feet make to God? He can hear a bell just as well in a fifty-foot steeple as in one five hundred feet high. Meetin’ folks could save a lot of money by building low steeples. And besides, they ain’t no use; nobody could live in ’em five hundred feet up, and it would be too high to hang a thermometer on unless you had a spy-glass to look at it with. I don’t b’leve in such high steeples; they cost lots of money and ain’t of no use.” I assured the young philosopher of my approval of his ideas about the uselessness of high steeples, and told him that Boston was not the owner of one five hundred feet high. This information was a source of immense satisfaction. “I was right all the time,” he added, “and knew that Jim Noyes was giving us lies just as fast as his tongue could work ’em out. Do all Vermont boys that go to Boston learn to talk like him? There’s a lot gone down there from about here. Some of ’em are up on a visit every once in a while, and spend the most of their spare time in telling such silly stories. I guess they think they can stuff us country folks just like Thanksgiving turkeys. What makes ’em lie so? The boys round here, if they talked like they do, would get licked a dozen times a week and no decent folks would have anything to do with ’em. I suppose it’s all right. Boys, when they git to Boston, have got to lie to keep their places and git a living. Grandfather don’t take it to heart so much as the rest of us. He says lying is the biggest part of the show, and the longer we live the more on’t we’ll see.” The day was well along, and the sun showed a decided intention of soon disappearing behind the top of “Old Jack,” before I insisted on departing. Then the calico horse was watered, saddled and bridled, and brought out for inspection and admiration. His appearance elicited expressions of unbounded admiration, his great, soft, brown, and beautifully expressive eyes, his amiability and active intelligence coming in for no end of complimentary remarks. The boys were especially enthusiastic and proposed a “swap for a four-year-old raised on the place.” The oats question was again brought up for adjudication, and, after considerable argument, the party owning the injured crop determined to leave the amount of damage an open question until the individual responsible for it could “come around agin.” The moment had arrived for the reluctant good-by, the grasp of hands, the mount and the start, amid great excitement and noise on the part of the animals; and then commenced a most exhilarating run of more than fifteen miles over a softish dirt road, through a series of lovely valleys, to the little village of D——, where we called a halt for the night, which was destined to be prolonged into the orthodox Sunday rest of the place and period. By this time the organization of three had crystallized into exact form, and without effort had settled into an habitual daily routine, and the incidents of to-day were quite certain to be repeated to-morrow. There was always plenty of time, evenings and middle parts of days, for talking with the “folks”—oracles about the village taverns—who, like the old-time bar-room Major and Judge of the Slave States, were always on hand and on tap for a copious outpouring of village gossip and political information. In justice to the Major and Judge of the old days of the South, it must be written that they were usually waiting for another sort of a tap-flow to be turned on, from a tap not of their own. It is doubtful if the happy trio ever appreciated the greatness of this three weeks’ manifestation of themselves, through which they were unambitious but undoubted involuntary heroes among the country folk. John Gilpin could not have been more fortunate in the way of attracting attention from all beholders; and “the more they gazed the more the wonder grew,” and the puzzle of forty years ago, in the villages through which we passed, of “What is it, anyway?” remains as profound a mystery as ever. In some places I was regarded as a very considerable personage on a secret mission of great import; at other times the saddle-valise was accused of containing a supply of a newly discovered life-saving pill; but, generally, we were mistaken by the wise know-it-alls of the village as the advance agents of a coming circus; if not, why the calico horse? which to the rural mind, from the most remote period, has been associated with the gorgeous, gilded bandwagon, spangles, and sawdust. The fortunate suspicion of circus affiliations brought to us a measure of attention far beyond our merits; both animals were treated with the greatest respect, as possible performers of high standing, and upon several occasions I was asked to “make ’em show off.” The summer Saturday afternoon and evening in Vermont is always the same. At the “stores” business flourishes, and profitable activity reigns supreme until late into the evening hours. On the farm the opposite is the rule, a general “slicking up for Sunday” and the doing of “odd chores” around the house and barn is the order of the day, the whole being a fitting prelude to the coming Sunday, which is always what it ought to be, not the Lord’s any more than another day, nor anybody else’s day, but a day of rest, pure and simple, for all the creatures of the Creator. Ever since I can remember, Vermonters, without asking leave of this or that authority have chosen their own way of Sunday resting. In no state west of the Rocky Mountains do the beauties of nature make a stronger appeal for human appreciation than in Vermont, and never are they seen to better advantage than upon a quiet summer Sunday morning, when the brilliant blue sky is filled with light, and all the world seems to be at peace. The clear, limpid streams move silently on as though controlled by the all-pervading spirit of rest; the leaves of the trees, yielding to the universal feeling of repose, keep silence with the rest of nature, and over all there is the fascinating power of wondrous beauties abounding not made by the hands of man. Such days are made for rest and reflection, when nature invites us to commune with her works, that we may know more of them and be able to rise to a higher and more ennobling appreciation of her beauties. The quiet, suggestive New England summer Sunday morning’s appeal is nature’s most beneficent call to her children to come to her and search for knowledge of things which lead through untrodden paths, where, at every step, new pleasures unfold to the view for our instruction and enjoyment. Upon such occasions we yield to the influence of the silent voice and the unseen hand, and unconsciously follow the beckonings of a wingless fairy, Nature’s ever-present handmaid, who, without our knowledge, leads us to a new Fairyland, where new beauties abound, and where countless joys are within the reach of the most humble subjects of the Creator. Such a typical Sunday as the one I have attempted to describe followed the Saturday after our arrival at the little village of D——. The first duties of the day were to our four-footed friends, and then came the standard breakfast of the place and period for the superior being. Fifty years ago this was very much more of a living Yankee institution than now. In those days the French menu, much to the satisfaction of those practitioners in the dental line, had not penetrated within the borders of the New England rural districts. I remember distinctly the color and taste of the native bean-coffee, the solidity of the morning pie-crusts, the crumble after the crash of the cookey, and the greasy substantiality of the venerated doughnut. All these we had in abundance, with the incidental “apple sass” thrown in between courses that lovely Sunday morning, forty-one years ago this writing. The town of D——, happened to be the shire-town of the county in which it was situated. At the time of my brief sojourn there, the Supreme Court was in session and one of the judges had the head of the table at the hotel, while I, being a supposed distinguished stranger, with “boughten clothes” and a fair expanse of starched shirt-front, was given the seat of honor at his right hand. I found him a regulation specimen of the real original Yankee judge, quaint of speech, humorous, and intelligent, and not a profound believer in the oft-alleged superior qualities of the animal said to have been made in the image of his maker. Our conversation started and continued for some time in the usual way; the weather and condition of crops being used as an excuse for the opening sentences, but, before the breakfast was over, a shrewd series of inoffensive direct questions, deftly put, brought to the surface the fact that I had travelled in strange and far-away countries. Punctually at the usual hour and minute, the Sunday bells commenced their weekly call to the faithful, and the Judge interrupted the easy flow of his entertaining conversation to ask how I usually spent Sunday. I told him I had no particular way of doing that day, but usually permitted original sin to take its course. That idea seemed to strike him favorably and brought out a proposition that we should take to the woods and see which could tell the biggest story, he at the same time remarking: “You have travelled so much that by this time you ought to be an interesting liar. On such a beautiful day as this there is no excuse for bothering the parson. Sometimes on a cold chilly day he is a real comfort; he warms us up with the heat of the brimstone to come.” That Sunday made its mark. It was a red-letter day never to be forgotten. My new acquaintance proved to be a philosopher and thinker of no ordinary dimensions. He was saturated with the teachings of Socrates, Cicero, Marcus Aurelius, and Gibbon, and I suspected he had taken a sly glance or two at Lucretius and Voltaire. He had ready for use, at command, the essence of the entire teachings of his favorite authors, and could quote whole pages from their works. While we were stretched out upon a bed of dead leaves, looking up through the living ones to the open sky above, my faithful companions, feeling the quieting influence of the day, were near us, tranquilly enjoying the shade, and acting as though taking in a conversation which they seemed to understand. As with men we often meet, this silence was passing them off for being wiser than they were. My canine companion was close to my side with my hand gently resting upon his head, while my calico equine friend was enjoying the grateful shade of a broad spreading maple, and busying himself with switching away at speculative flies in search of opportunities for luxurious dinners. The satisfactory contentment of the two animals attracted the attention of my judicial companion, and he asked me to explain the secret of our close companionship. He was surprised when I told him there was no secret about it, that I treated my four-footed friends as I would human beings; looked after their general welfare, saw that they were sufficiently fed with the proper food, talked to them in kindly tones of voice, gave them tid-bits now and then that I knew they were fond of, patted them approvingly, never scolded or used a whip, and, finally, spent a great deal of my time in their company. I further explained that intellectually I regarded them as being on a plane with children—to be looked after, to be kindly treated, and to have their mental faculties developed to the full extent of the separate capacity of each, and, that by pursuing such a course, we could obtain the best service and an amount of affection and companionship that would amply recompense us for all of our trouble. “Well,” he exclaimed, “this is all news to me! There is logic and good sound sense in your whole scheme, and it’s strange I never thought of it before. You have studied the subject of intellectual development in animals and gotten something out of it I had never dreamed of. Ever since I have been able to think my head has been filled with common law, Court decisions, and the Statute in such case made and provided, and I have had but little time, and, possibly, less disposition, to indulge in sentiment. I suppose you know the people of your native state well enough to appreciate their strong and weak points. The Vermonter, as a rule, does not waste any time upon sentimentality; he is too busy digging out a living from these old hills and from between the rocks for those dependent upon him to waste much time cultivating the sentimental side. He is quite apt to take the utilitarian view of most earthly matters. His horse he regards as a useful animal, to be well fed and comfortably housed in order to prolong his usefulness as much as possible; and his dog he looks upon as a useless companion—not worthy of respect, comfortable lodging, or good food, unless he earns all three by bringing up the cows at night and chasing all marauders from grain and planted fields during the day. Your side of the animal question is a new one, and I am going to commence operations upon my faithful burden-carrier as soon as we reach the stable. I’d be mightily pleased to have him walk along with me and put his velvety nose against my face as I have seen your calico friend do with you. All men, all real men, properly put together, are fond of being loved, and are willing to take it in wholesale doses, and a little dog and horse—when the women are not around—thrown in to fill between the chinks, helps to make a perfect whole. We men are a careless, selfish lot, who leave mothers, sisters, wives, daughters, and dogs and horses to do the most of the loving, and accept it as a matter of right, without making the returns which are their due. They trudge along in silence, giving us their affection, and work on, chiefly for us, when they ought to kick. In giving me this Sunday lesson you have opened up a new lead in my make-up, and I intend to explore it until I develop a new deposit of humanity, and I’ll commence by stealing a lump of sugar for ‘Old Whitey’ the next time I leave the tavern table, and, instead of having it charged in the bill, I’ll open a new account, and credit my first theft to the cause of animal development.” The next morning I parted from my judicial acquaintance, he volunteering the promise to write and let me know the result of his new experiment among the inhabitants of the barnyard. During the night he had “analyzed the whole business,” and arrived at the conclusion that there were other dumb creatures besides dogs and horses worthy of cultivating. The much neglected and despised pig, he proposed, with apparent humorous sincerity, to take in hand, and make a special effort to reform his manners and cultivate his mental faculties. He argued that human society was responsible for “downing the pig.” It is a question of “mad dog!” over again, he declared. “Some one in the far-off past had said the hog was a filthy beast, and without stopping to inquire, everybody else had joined in the cry. My mission is to do away with this unreasonable prejudice, and to elevate to his proper social and intellectual position among the animals of the earth my much abused and unappreciated porcine friend.” These were his jovial parting words, and, with them ringing in my ears, the trio made the morning start for the last day of the outward-bound part of the excursion. A thirty miles ride carried us to one of the oldest villages in the northern part of the State—not far from the Canada line. One long street, made up of the blacksmith, shoemaker, and tinshop; a dry goods “Emporium,” a tavern—“The Farmers’ Home”—and the usual number of churches, with a doctor’s shop, and a few dwellings thrown in, here and there, to fill up the intervals between the more important structures—made, with a good supply of shade-trees, an attractive village. Of course the buildings were all square and white, and the blinds were all green, and they were placed as near the road as possible, but notwithstanding these faults of form, color, and position, constituting crimes against Nature, the whole was fairly attractive. Do what they will to offend and deface the beauties of New England, and especially Vermont nature, the Philistines who inhabit its picturesque valleys cannot destroy the beautiful ever-varying outlines of its hills or the restful repose of its summer days. They have managed to slaughter its forests and to dry up its limpid mountain streams, but, with the consummation of those outrages, Nature calls a halt; and the Vandals leave off destroying because there is little left to destroy. The “Farmer’s Home” proved to be an attractive family affair. The father, mother, son and daughter composed the entire mÉnage, and all were equally at home in the duties of their special departments. There was a tour of duty for each in the kitchen; but the energetic daughter was supreme in the “Dining-hall,” where she propelled its affairs with mechanical exactitude. Her unwritten motto was: “On time, or cold victuals.” She was a strict constructionist, and “cl’ared off the things” as soon as the last piece of pie had disappeared. But, as the English would say, she was not at all a bad sort. She was active, inquisitive, quaint, and direct,—had opinions upon all subjects, and expressed them freely. I have always believed I was her first serious anthropological study. At first, she accepted me with an immense qualification. My manifest bias in favor of animals was something new to her which she could not comprehend. To her practical mind, the petting of a dog and looking after his welfare was a perfect waste of time, while paying particular attention to the wants and care of a horse was something not to be thought of. I saw she was rapidly filling up to the bursting point with curiosity, but was too shy to ask the direct questions which she was anxious to put to me. As soon as occasion offered, I felt it my duty to give her an opportunity to free her mind, and, sitting out the rest of the “boarders” at my last “supper,” presented an opening for the point of the wedge to enter. By way of introduction, I mentioned my regrets at being compelled to leave the next morning. “All the folks around here,” she frankly said, “will be sorry to hear it; you ain’t like anybody else we’ve ever had in this town, at least sence I can remember. Father and Tom, and all the rest of ’em that’s been watching of you, say you care more for critters than you do for human folks, and I think so too; ever sence I heard you talk to that dog of yourn I couldn’t make you out. We never had anything like that up here before, and one of the store fellers told me yesterday he thought you were one of them New York City chaps a little off, that had come on this ride for your health, and yit you talk sense about anything else except them critters of yourn, and that’s what puzzles the folks—to think that such a smart feller as you ’pear to be, should be clear gone off when you get to talking to the critters. And then there ain’t any sense in it, any way; you can talk to dogs and hosses all your life and never git an answer. They are dumb beasts, that’s all they be, and you can’t make ’em folks if you try a thousand years. I’ll bet anything you ain’t got a wife. If you had, you wouldn’t be talking all this nonsense to critters all the time; if you had one worth a cent, you’d stay to home and talk to her, and let the critters take care of themselves, same as other folks do. Nothing like a good wife to take such wrinkles out of a man’s head! Why don’t you get married anyway? Right here in this town there are a lot of first-rate girls, better educated than I be, been to the high-school, and got as good learning as any of the city women, all dying to git married, and you can take your choice right here now. If you had one of our nice girls you wouldn’t need to have that darn fool of a dog round all the time for company.” The latter part of this mind-freeing was earnest and emphatic, and I discovered between the spoken lines the true cause of the outburst. It was as clear as the noonday sun that she had a very poor opinion of an individual who preferred the company of a dog to the fascinations of fair woman, and she had made up her mind to let me know what she thought. I ignored the nice girl part of the argument, and startled her by asking if she were a Christian. “’Spose I am, I try to be. I don’t know much about it anyhow. What makes you ask such an all-fired silly question? All the folks round here are Christians; we ain’t heathens any mor’n city folks.” “Then it follows as a matter of course, you being a Christian, that you believe the Creator made Heavens and the earth and all things therein, and you do not believe he made anything in vain. All of his creations we see or know anything of were made for a purpose. The domestic animals were intended for the use of human beings, and upon the list of those the horse stands first, because he is the most intelligent of the purely useful animals; but the dog is far ahead of him in every respect save physical power. His intelligence is of a high order, which entitles him to our respect, and he is the only animal that will leave his kind to associate with man; and there are thousands of instances recorded of his having sacrificed his life for those he loved. No other animal has ever been known to do that. The elephant, with his admitted capacity for acute reasoning, never defends his master unless ordered; on the contrary, he seldom misses an opportunity to kill those who have injured or offended him. The dog never does this; he bears no malice, and forgets and forgives injuries inflicted by those he loves, neither does he know distinction of condition or rank. He knows you are his master or mistress, and whether you are prince or peasant it matters not. The palace or the garret are the same to him, provided a kind master is to be found in either, and he shares with his master the feast or the crust with equal pleasure. The noble dog possesses the highest qualities. He gives you his loyal affection without reserve, never deceives you, and is true even unto death, and I hold we are indebted to him for giving us all that is good in his nature, for, the better you treat him, the more his fine qualities come to the surface. Am I not right?” “Well, I swan; you’ve taken the breath all out of my body; I never heard such talk before. I don’t know what to say, and I can’t dispute you. You’ve got the whole thing by heart and let it out just like one of them revival exhorters that comes along here every once in a while. You’ve said a lot about animals I never heard before or thought of; nobody round here ever talks about ’em like you do. Why, you put the dog way up head of folks. From what you say, he’s ten times as decent as most men, and, if he could only talk, he would show us he could spell hard words and do the meanest sums in the ’rithmetic. At any rate, if dogs and horses and other sich like are as smart as you say they are, they ain’t got no feelings like we have—ain’t got sense enough to be sensitive and take on about pain and suffering like we do. You can’t make me b’leve any sich stuff as that anyhow.” This is the point usually made by those who have never seriously considered the true nature and physical structure of animals. A cursory examination would prove to the most careless observer, that the organs and various parts of the human organization are duplicated in the animals, especially in those of the domestic sort. The two points of difference are in form of body and the four legs given to the lower orders instead of two. The heart, lungs, bones, muscles, nerves, blood-vessels and brain are in each about the same. In the animal, for want of speech, the power of the brain is an unknown quantity, and the absence of that faculty of giving expression to thought constitutes the greatest difference between the species. Give the higher of the lower animals the power of speech, and possibly some men would take rank as the lower animal. All this I explained to my audience of one, and, in addition, asserted that a cruel punishment of a physical nature inflicted upon a human being, if bestowed upon a dog, a horse or an ox would produce the same amount of pain and suffering. If whipping is painless, why do all animals who have once been whipped jump aside and try to dodge the whip they see flourishing in the hands of those near them? The answer is, fear of pain. There is no other explanation of their action. Schoolboys dread the birch and ferule of the schoolmaster no more than a horse or an ox fears and dreads the whip of a driver. “I declare this is all news to me,” my rural friend replied, “and you really have set me to thinking. I guess we ought to treat all sorts of animals, including the human, better than we do. I’ve been going to meeting sence I was old enough to go alone, and I never heard a minister say anything about loving animals and treating them decently—kinder like folks—do a lot of good if they did—’spose they think they ain’t paid for that sort of business and ’ave got all they can do to save the souls of sinners.” This was the last attempt at pure missionary work in behalf of the lower orders. The pleasure part of the excursion was about to end, and on the morning of the morrow the business of returning to the starting point was to commence in earnest. The return was made by a short series of long days’ work, commencing early in the morning, running well into the day, with rest in the middle, starting off again late in the afternoon, and extending well into the evening. In three days the return was finished, the whole excursion had lasted nearly three weeks—three joyous weeks, never again to be duplicated. The most pleasurable hours of the little tour came from the association with my four-footed servants and companions. The gradual unfolding of their intelligence and the rapid development of their affection were never-failing sources of pleasure. Towards the last my calico horse would leave his feed, no matter how fascinating to his taste the oats might be, to be in my society, and the watchful dog was never away from my side, night or day. At first he shared the stable with his companion, but soon after, whenever he was ordered out for the night, his anxious, silent pleadings became so tender and touching that I could not withstand them, and I consented to his sharing my room with me. At first he had the natural dog habit of rising at an inconveniently early hour, but after being admonished of the irregularity of his behavior, he would remain quiet until ordered out for his morning exercise. Never before or since had I been blessed with more sincere and disinterested friends—always anxious to serve and, seemingly, perfectly happy only when in my society. Within a week after our return came the final parting between us, and I have never had more stings of conscience than I felt when closing the door of the little paradise my confiding friends were never to enter again. I parted with them in sorrow, filled with anxiety for their future, as well I might have been, for early the ensuing autumn my calico friend became again a “circus horse” and was heard of no more, and the other resumed the role of “nobody’s dog” and went down to his soulless (?) finality wishing, beyond all doubt, for another taste of his lost paradise.
During the whole of the winter of 1862 and 1863, I was in camp with my command at Falmouth, in front of Fredericksburg. The army was resting after the colossal and tragic fiasco at Fredericksburg to recover a new supply of strength and courage for the encounter with unknown blunders to come; and, aside from doing as many drills as the mud would permit, consuming rations and drawing pay, there was little to do. The winter proved to be a period of weary inactivity, with no crowns of victory in sight. Late one stormy afternoon in the month of January, 1863, the orderly announced a civilian stranger who desired an interview. He told the orderly that his name was of no consequence and that his business was personal. Upon his entering my tent, I discovered a complete embodiment of limp weariness and sorrow, a palpable wreck of something better in the past. Upon being seated, he said: “I ’spose you don’t know me? Well, I don’t blame you much, I’ve so changed since then; we’ve had a great sorrow since your dog and horse scart that drove of cattle into the oats. Now I b’leve you remember, but you’d never guess I’m the same man, would you?” I had to answer that the change was very great, and asked the cause. “That’s partly what I am here for,” he replied. “You see, when the war first broke out, George, our oldest, you must remember him, a silent, good and thoughtful boy, was at the high school. All Vermont was alive with the right sort of feeling, and all the men and boys—and some of the women, I guess,—wanted to shoulder arms and go. We were expecting all the time to hear that George was going, but hoped the other way, and finally one morning in June he got out of the stage with his whole kit of books and clothes, and told his mother, whose eyes had already filled with tears, that he had come home to go; that all the big boys of the school had held a meeting, and agreed to enlist in the ‘Third,’ and he was going with them. Well, I thought his mother would sink into the ground then and there, but she didn’t. George, you know, was her favorite. He was always a reliable, duty-loving boy. She wiped her eyes, took him in her arms, and, while her heart was breaking, kissed him, and said: ‘I ‘spose you ought to go where right and your country calls, but it will be awful hard for me to part with you. I don’t know how I’m going to live with you in danger.’ The week he spent with us, I tell you, it was like a great shadow in that old house. His mother kept about, but her heart was breaking with terrible forebodings, and her eyes were always filling with tears. When he had stayed his week out, the last at the old home, we all drove over with him to the recruiting station, and saw him sign his name to the roll of Company ——, Third Regiment, Vermont Volunteers, ‘for three years, or during the war.’ In three weeks the regiment left for the field; we went over to see him off, and he was the only happy one of the family. We were filled with unspeakable sadness; we saw them march away, and, as the old flag disappeared round the corner of the road, his mother fainted, and fell into my arms. She never saw a well day after that, but kind of lived on like a machine, taking no interest in anything but the newspapers bringing news from the war. “George was just as good a boy in the army as he had always been at home, wrote encouraging letters to his mother, filled with ideas about duty, patriotism, and all that. But it did no good. She had made up her mind she would never see him again, and, although alive, he was as good as dead almost to her. When the Winter ended, the Vermont troops went with the army to Yorktown, and then came the dreadful 16th of April—Lees’ Mills. Three days after the fight some one sent a Boston paper to us, which gave the news of the first advance having been made by Companies —— and —— of the Third, and the terrible slaughter of the men, but gave no names. His mother knew her son was killed, and two days later a letter from his Captain told us how well he had done his duty, and how bravely he had died. The strain was more than she could bear, she took to her bed, and at the end of five weeks we buried them side by side, and my happiness along with them. Now do you see why I’ve changed?” After a slight pause, he resumed: “I forgot to tell you,—the other boy, the one who talked to you about the meeting-house steeple five hundred feet high, enlisted in the same company as soon as he got old enough, is sick in the hospital here now, and I want to take him back home, and that’s what I’m here about. I want you to help me to get him out of the Army. He was a new recruit when he saw his brother killed, and hasn’t been well since. You know he never was a strong boy, but he would go to war to be with George. He wouldn’t consent to his brother facing danger all the time, while he was safe at home. He’s all I’ve got left, except my old father, who can’t last much longer, and they tell me if I can get you to go with me to General —— he’ll order his discharge.” The sad story—one of many I had heard, touched me deeply. But I could offer no consolation, such wounds as his were too deep to be reached by words. All I could do was to change the current of sad thoughts and extend the meagre hospitalities of the camp. Then the ride to the field hospital, the interview with the once bright, happy boy I had seen seven years before, now with the seal of death implanted upon his beautiful, honest and manly face, then to headquarters, the handing over of his discharge, and then the parting, with heavy heart, from one whose burden of sorrow I had been able to lighten. Opportunities to do these acts of kindness for those kindred of the fallen, whose hearts were overburdened with mighty sorrows, were about the only rays of sunshine which ever invaded the tent life of those whose responsibilities were often more burdensome than the sorrows of others, which they were so often called upon to assuage. In the summer of 1865, during another visit to my native town, a longing came over me to revisit the scene of the accident to the oats, and I searched in vain for two companions to take the places of those of twelve years before. But, so far as I could ascertain, there was not a known saddle horse in the county, and the race of nobody’s dogs had gone quite out of fashion; so I was compelled to adopt the “buggy,” and, along with it, between its “fills,” a lively and “spunky” little specimen of a Vermont Morgan, that learned after the first hours of driving that there was a kind friend holding the reins, and with whom, from that moment, cordial relations were established. A very easy drive carried me to the “old home,” about noon of the second day, and, as I drove up to the door, a kindly faced, frank-mannered woman of middle age came out of the house, and asked me to alight, hitch, and walk in. As I entered I asked where they all were? “Who do you mean by all?” queried my hostess. I answered, “The C——s who lived here twelve years ago.” She took me to an open window, and, pointing to the top of a “Meeting House” spire that came just above the point of a rise in the ground, said: “Just at the bottom of that steeple you’ll find them all, save my uncle C——, the grandfather of the boys; they are all buried there, and, if you want to renew your acquaintance with them, you’ll have to go over there to do it. I’m the old maid of the whole family, and taught school until I came here right after Cousin George’s death—he was the last of the four—to take care of uncle, who was awfully broken up, and is to this day. I guess nothing but death will ever mend his broken heart. He wanders about with no object in life, always wishing for the end to come. He’s out in the fields somewhere; he will be here pretty soon and awful glad to see you. It seems to me he only cares now for those who knew the four who lie buried over there. He lives in the past altogether, and takes no interest in the present or future.” A walk of five minutes through a meadow to a group of maples brought me to the spot where I found, reclining beneath the shades, my acquaintance of other days. At first he did not recognize me, and was a little offish, but gradually became interested, and at last came to me with both hands extended and with eyes filled with tears: “I didn’t know ye at first, but I oughter have known that voice anywhere. Your animals scart the drove into the oats, but you were so good to us afterward. If it hadn’t been for you, ‘Vin’ would have died in that ere hospital, for he didn’t live long after we got him home. Oh, he was sich a comfort to us while he did live. I shall never forgit the last days; and may God spare me from ever goin’ through any more like ’em.” While we were walking toward the house, I learned that Vincent, the youngest boy, lived five weeks after he was brought home; that the father died the next autumn, and, although nearly three years had passed since the culmination of the “Great Sorrow,” the atmosphere seemed impregnated with it. The want of signs of life and movement without, and the evidence of long continued quiet and order within, told as plainly as words the story of an all-absorbing grief. During the dinner, the incidents of the oats, the conversation with “Vin” about the steeple, his desire to trade for the “Kaliker” horse, and all that was said upon the occasion of our first meeting, was rehearsed, without a single item being omitted. The meal finished, there came the walk to the “Meeting House Burying Ground,” where I saw the seven simple headstones standing for four generations. The first to Mary Gale, wife of G. C.; the second to “George C., a soldier of the Revolutionary War, born at Old Middlebury, Mass., June 12, 1756, died in this town, March 7, 1833;” next to him came his daughter-in-law; then a vacant space for his son—the second George, and then the graves of the other four of the third and fourth generation. I have seen men stand in such a presence without being moved, but I could never quite understand how they did it. Upon this occasion something got into my throat, and I could not speak; something else filled both eyes, and I had to turn away to conceal a weakness which I could not control. As I turned toward my companions, the elder, pointing to the line exclaimed; “Pretty soon there’ll be four generations of Georges in this lot, and that’s about all there is to it, I guess. There couldn’t be any design in takin’ all of ’em from me in so short a time. A merciful God wouldn’t have done such a cruel thing; if a kind God had had anything to do with it, he would let some of ’em outlive me to have been a comfort in my old age and to have kept the old place where we were all born in the family name. No, I don’t b’leve in sich kindness; all of ’em ought to have lived; they were jest as good as they could be, not one of ’em ever told a lie or did a mean thing as long as they lived. Then if they were so good, as they were, and nobody can dispute it, why were they all taken away from me so soon, and so many mean critters, good for nothing to nobody, allowed to live? No, the ministers may talk to me from now to the end of eternity, that their God, if he really does sich cruelties, is merciful, and I won’t b’leve ’em. It’s all nonsense to murder a man alive and break his old heart and call it merciful and all for the best. There is no mercy or best about it, it’s all wrong from beginnin’ to end, and I don’t b’leve the heathen’s god or anybody’s God could be so cruel and unjust. “My father battled from Bunker Hill ’till the last Red Coat had left the land and then came here and began a new battle with the virgin forests of Vermont. And ever sence I was born and old enough to work, my sweat has watered this soil so dear to all of us. There’s not a foot of the cleared part of this old farm I have not worked over, and the whole of it is as sacred in my eyes as if it were a lordly estate handed down from scores of generations before me. The boys loved it as I do and liked to work over it. Now what does it all amount to? In a short time when I have passed over yender to join the rest on ’em, the old place will go into the hands of unfeeling strangers who’ll care no more about it than savages. Most likely they’ll rob the soil and skin it of the last spear of grass, and all these noble old trees that have been my friends sence I was a boy, will be cut down to feed the nearest sawmill. It’s astonishing, how mean most folks act toward natur! They treat her as though she had no rights and forgit all about the good things she gives us. But I suppose there is no good in sentiment if God is agin ye.” His niece interrupted him gently: “Come away, uncle, you are nervous and excited and saying too much.” “No, I’m not nervous or excited; I’m saying what I b’leve, and I want everybody to know it. Look at those graves holding all I had in the world, and no one had better, and then tell me if I have no cause to complain?” Decoration Decorative header
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