CHAPTER THIRTY.

IDA'S ILLNESS--MERCY TO THE DUMB ANIMALS.

"Then craving leave, he spake Of life, which all can take but none can give; Life, which all creatures love and strive to keep, Wonderful, dear, and pleasant unto each, Even to the meanest; yea, a boon to all Where pity is, for pity makes the world Soft to the weak and noble to the strong."

E. Arnold's "Light of Asia."

It was sadly changed times with all of us when Ida fell ill.

Her illness was a very severe one, and for many weeks she literally hovered 'twixt death and life. Her spirit seemed like some beautiful bird of migration, that meditates quitting these cold intemperate shores and flying away to sunnier climes, but yet is loath to leave old associations and everything dear to it.

There was little done during these weeks, save attending to Ida's comforts, little thought about save the child.

Even the dogs missed their playmate. The terriers went away to the woods every day by themselves. Eily, the collie, being told that she must make no noise, refrained from barking even at the butcher, or jumping up and shaking the baker by his basket, as had been her wont.

Poor Aileen Aroon went about with her great head lower than usual, and with a very apologetic look about her, a look that, beginning in her face, seemed to extend all the way to the point of her tail, which she wagged in quite a doleful manner.

Nero and she took turn and turn about at keeping watch outside Ida's room door.

Ida's favourite cat seldom left her little mistress's bedside, and indeed she was as often in the bed as out of it.

It was winter--a green winter. Too green, Frank said, to be healthy; and the dear old man used to pray to see the snow come.

"A bit of a frost would fetch her round," he said. "I'd give ten years of my life, if it is worth as much, to see the snow on the ground."

The trees were all leafless and bare, but tiny flowers and things kept growing in under the shrubs in quite an unnatural way.

But Frank came in joyfully one evening, crying, "It's coming, Gordon, it's coming; the stars are unspeakably bright; there is a steel-blue glitter in the sky that I like. It's coming; we'll have the snow, and we'll have Ida up again in a month."

I had not quite so much faith in the snow myself, but I went out to have a look at the prospect. It was all as Frank had said; the weird gigantic poplars were pointing with leafless fingers up into a sky of frosty blue, up to stars that shone with unusual radiance; and as I walked along, the gravel on the path resounded to my tread.

"I'll be right; you'll see, I'll be right," cried Frank, exultant. "I'm an older man than you, Gordon, doctor and all though you be."

Frank _was_ right. He was right about the snow, to begin with. It came on next morning; not all at once in great flakes. No, big storms never begin like that, but in grains like millet-seed. This for an hour; then mingling with the millet-seed came little flakes, and finally an infinity of large ones, as big as butterflies' wings. It was a treat to gaze upwards, and watch them coming dancing downwards in a dazzling and interminable maze.

It was beautiful!

It wanted but one thing at that moment to make me happy. That was the presence of our bright-faced, blue-eyed little pet, standing on the doorstep as she used to, gazing upwards, with apron outstretched to catch the falling flakes.

Frank was so overjoyed, he must needs go out and walk about in the snow for nearly an hour. I was in the kitchen engaged in some mysterious invalid culinary operation when Frank came in. He always came in through the kitchen now, instead of the hall, lest he might disturb the child.

Frank's face was a treat to look at; it was redder, and appeared rounder than usual, and jollier.

"There's three inches of snow on the ground already," he remarked, joyfully. "Mary, bring the besom, my girl, to brush the snow off my boots. That's the style."

Strange as it may appear, from that very morning our little patient began to mend, and ere the storm had shown signs of abatement--in less than a week, in fact--Ida was able to sit up in bed.

Thin was her face, transparent were her hands; yet I could see signs of improvement; the white of her skin was a more healthful white; her great, round eyes lost the longing, wistful look they had before.

I was delighted when she asked me to play to her. She would choose the music, and I must play soft and low and sweet. Her fingers would deftly turn the pages of the book till her eyes rested on something she loved, and she would say, with tears in her eyes--

"Play, oh, play this! I do love it."

I managed to find flowers for her even in the snowstorm, for the glass-houses at the Manor of D--are as large as any in the country, and the owner was my friend.

I think she liked to look at the hothouse fruit we brought her, better than to eat them.

The dogs were now often admitted. Even Gael and Broom were not entirely banished.

My wife used to sew in the room, and sometimes read to Ida, and Frank used to come in and sit at the window and twirl his thumbs. His presence seemed to comfort the child.

I used to write beside her.

"What is that you are writing?" she said one day.

"Nothing much," I replied; "only the introduction to a `Penny Reading' I'm going to give against cruelty to animals."

"Read it," said Ida; "and to-morrow, mind, you must begin and tell me stories again, and then I'm sure I shall soon get well, because whatever you describe about the fields or the woods, the birds or the flowers I can see, it is just like being among them."

I had to do as I was told, so read as follows:--

"Mercy to the Dumb Animals.

"`I would give nothing for that man's religion whose cat and dog are not the better for it.'--_Dr Norman McLeod_.

"`We are living in an enlightened age.' This is a remark which we hear made almost every day, a remark which contains just one golden grain of truth. Mankind is not yet enlightened in the broad sense of the term. From the night of the past, from the darkness of bygone times, we are but groping our way, as it were, in the morning-glome, towards a great and a glorious light.

"It is an age of advancement, and a thousand facts might be adduced in proof of this. I need point to only one: the evident but gradual surcease of needless cruelty to animals. Among all classes of the community far greater love and kindness is now manifested towards the creatures under our charge than ever was in days gone by. We take greater care of them, we think more of their comfort when well, we tend them more gently when sick, and we even take a justifiable pride in their appearance and beauty. All this only shows that there is a spirit of good abroad in the land, a something that tends to elevate, not depress, the soul of man. I see a spark of this goodness even in the breast of the felon who in his prison cell tames a humble mouse, and who weeps when it is cruelly taken from him; in the ignorant costermonger who strokes the sleek sides of his fat donkey, or the rough and unkempt drover-boy, who shares the remains of a meagre meal with his faithful collie.

"Religion and kindness to animals go hand in hand, and have done so for ages, for we cannot truly worship the Creator unless we love and admire His works.

"The heavenly teaching of the Mosaic law inculcates mercy to the beasts. It is even commanded that the ox and the ass should have rest on one day of the week--namely, the Sabbath; that the ox that treadeth out the corn is not to be muzzled; that the disparity in strength of the ass and ox is to be considered, and that they should not be yoked together in one plough. Even the wild birds of the field and woods are not forgotten, as may be seen by reading the following passage from the Book of Deuteronomy:--`If a bird's nest be before thee in any tree, or on the ground, whether they be young ones or eggs, and the dam sitting upon the young or upon the eggs, thou shalt not take the dam with the young: but thou shalt in any way let the dam go.'

"The Jews were commanded to be merciful and kind to an animal, even if it belonged to a person unfriendly to them.

"`If thou see the ass of him that hateth thee lying under his burden, and wouldest forbear to help him, thou shalt surely help with him.'

"That is, they were to assist even an enemy to do good to a fallen brute. It is as if a man, passing along the street, saw the horse or ass of a neighbour, who bore deadly hatred to him, stumble and fall under his load, and said to himself--

"`Oh! yonder is So-and-so's beast come down; I'll go and lend a hand. So-and-so is no friend of mine, but the poor animal can't help that. _He_ never did me any harm.'

"And a greater than even Moses reminds us we are to show mercy to the animals even on the sacred day of the week.

"But it is not so very many years ago--in the time when our grandfathers were young, for instance--since roughness and cruelty towards animals were in a manner studied, and even encouraged in the young by their elders. It was thought manly to domineer over helpless brutes, to pull horses on their haunches, to goad oxen along the road, though they were moving to death in the shambles, to stone or beat poor fallen sheep, to hunt cats with dogs, and to attend bull-baitings and dog and cock fights. And there are people even yet who talk of these days as the good old times when `a man was a man.' But such people have only to visit some low-class haunt of `the fancy,' when `business' is being transacted, to learn how depraving are the effects of familiarity with scenes of cruelty towards the lower animals. Even around a rat-pit they would see faces more revolting in appearance than those of Dore's demons, and listen to jests and language so ribald and coarse as positively to pain and torture the ear and senses. Goodness be praised that such scenes are every day getting more rare, and that the men who attend them have a wholesome terror of the majesty of human laws at least.

"Other religions besides the Christian impress upon their followers rules relating to kindness to the inferior animals. Notably, perhaps, that of Buddha, under the teachings of which about five hundred millions of human beings live and die. The doctrines of Gautama are sublimely beautiful; they are akin to those of our own religion, and I never yet met any one who had studied them who did not confess himself the better and happier for having done so. One may read in prose sketches of the life and teachings of Gautama the Buddha, in a book published by the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, or he may read them in verse in that splendid poem by Edwin Arnold called `The Light of Asia.' Gautama sees good in all things, and all nature working together for good; he speaks of--

"`That fixed decree at silent work which will Evolve the dark to light, the dead to life, To fulness void, to form the yet unformed, Good unto better, better unto best, By wordless edict; having none to bid, None to forbid; for this is past all gods Immutable, unspeakable, supreme, A Power which builds, unbuilds, and builds again, Ruling all things accordant to the rule Of virtue, which is beauty, truth, and use. So that all things do well which serve the Power And ill which hinder; nay, the worm does well [Note 1] Obedient to its kind; the hawk does well Which carries bleeding quarries to its young; The dewdrop and the star shine sisterly, Globing together in the common work; And man who lives to die, dies to live well, So if he guide his ways by blamelessness And earnest will to hinder not, but help All things both great and small which suffer life.'

"Those among us who have tender hearts towards the lower animals cannot help day after day witnessing acts of cruelty to them which give us great pain. We are naturally inclined to feel anger against the perpetrators of such cruelty, and to express that anger in wrathful language. By so doing I am convinced we do more harm than good to the creatures we try to serve. Calmness, not heat or hurry, should guide us in defending the brute creation against those who oppress and injure it. Let me illustrate my meaning by one or two further extracts from Arnold's poem.

"It is noontide, and Gautama, engrossed in thought and study, is journeying onwards--

"`Gentle and slow, Radiant with heavenly pity, lost in care For those he knew not, save as fellow-lives.'

"When,--

"`Blew down the mount the dust of pattering feet, White goats, and black sheep, winding slow their way, With many a lingering nibble at the tufts, And wanderings from the path where water gleamed, Or wild figs hung. But always as they strayed The herdsman cried, or slung his sling, and kept The silly crowd still moving to the plain. A ewe with couplets in the flock there was, Some hurt had lamed one lamb, which toiled behind Bleeding, while in the front its fellow skipped. And the vexed dam hither and thither ran, Fearful to lose this little one or that. Which, when our Lord did mark, full tenderly He took the limping lamb upon his neck, Saying: "Poor woolly mother, be at peace! Whither thou goest, I will bear thy care; 'Twere all as good to ease one beast of grief, As sit and watch the sorrows of the world In yonder caverns with the priests who pray." So paced he patiently, bearing the lamb. Beside the herdsman in the dust and sun, The wistful ewe low-bleating at his feet.'

"Sorely this was a lesson which the herdsman, ignorant though he no doubt was, never forgot; farther comment on the passage is needless. Precept calmly given does much good, example does far more."

Note 1. A fact which Darwin in his treatise on earthworms has recently proved.