Part 6

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

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

This brief sketch is not intended for an amusing story. It is only a narration of facts in support of an often repeated theory, viz: that the humblest creatures are worthy of our tender consideration, and, when properly treated, will make pleasing returns for the affection we may bestow upon them.

TWO DOGS

In 1877, at his English home, I first made the acquaintance of “Max,” a fine specimen of a Dandy Dinmont dog. He was of the usual size, with brown, velvety eyes—very expressive—a long body, tail, and ears, coarse hair of a blackish brown and light-tan color, and with short legs, not particularly straight. The ancient Greeks, with their severe ideas regarding lines of beauty, would not have called him beautiful to the sight. But, notwithstanding his looks, he was, to all who knew him well, very beautiful; for he was a dog of marked intelligence and superior moral character. So fine was his sense of integrity that a most delicious and canine-tempting bone might remain within his reach for days without his touching it, no matter if he were ever so hungry.

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

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

With passing time my little friend took on the garb of age, and, a few years before his end, became totally blind, and among the most pathetic sights I ever witnessed were his attempts to see his friends. I had been so many times at his home that he had come to know me almost as one of the family, and at each visit, after his loss of sight, as the carriage drove up to the front door, when recognizing my voice, as I spoke to his master, he would put his paws upon the steps of the carriage and wag me a hearty welcome, at the same time trying his best to see me.

His career ended in November, 1883, when his master buried him near a garden gate, put a neat wire fence around his grave, and planted flowers over his remains. And now those who may chance to go to Toddington will find embedded into the garden wall a handsome marble slab, with a mortuary inscription and a verse composed by his kind master engraved upon it, which runs as follows:

“MAX Died, November, 1883.

If ever dog deserved a tear For fondness and fidelity, That darling one lies buried here Bemourned in all sincerity.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TWO INNOCENTS ABROAD

I passed a portion of the summer of 1890 at Banff, a fascinating resort in the heart of the Canadian Rockies, established and controlled by the Canadian Pacific Railway Company.

It would be very difficult to find a more charming and picturesque location for a summer resting-place. The hotel is situated about four thousand five hundred feet above the sea-level, and is nearly surrounded by lofty peaks and mountain-ranges which present a great variety of rugged outline.

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

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

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

Within a very few minutes this pair of little innocents became quite familiar, and the crumbs continued to fall until they had filled their stomachs and then the ample pouches on each side of their jaws. Thus loaded they presented a most comical appearance. When I rose to my feet their surprise made them appear still more comical. They were inclined at first to scamper off, but, upon reflection, concluded they would see the whole show; and, as I moved over to the edge of the table, to go down the mountain, they followed a short distance, and gave me a most quizzical parting glance, which said as plainly as their little faces could express their thoughts: “Good-bye. Be sure to come again, and don’t forget the biscuits.”

This is not a story; it is only an incident which proves what confiding little fools the chipmunks were to trust themselves within reach of a specimen of that tribe of superior animals which delights in the destruction of life, kills for pleasure, and enjoys the infliction of pain upon innocent and helpless creatures.

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

ABOUT COLUMBUS BY AN OLD SHOWMAN

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

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

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

The Columbus incident, of which an account is to follow, was not a particularly exceptional one, and the description of it was written by the friendly old keeper who had charge of the hero of it during two consecutive years back in the thirties. The narration is a modest one, and its phraseology proves it to have been written by a man of rare courage. It was printed in a Cincinnati newspaper in the month of February, 1870, and is now given, with the editorial head note just as it appeared.

“THE ELEPHANT COLUMBUS.”

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

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

South Pomfret, Vt., January 30, 1870.

To the Editor of the _Chronicle_:

I have just received a copy of your paper, of December 31, 1869. I do not think the statement headed ‘A Curious Circus Reminiscence’ is quite correct. At that time I was the advertiser of one branch of the Combined Circus and Menagerie. We were to exhibit in Algiers until the 7th of January, and in New Orleans on the 8th, that being the most popular day with the people of that city. William Crum was driving Hannibal, and George Potter Columbus. It was Crum’s horse that was knocked down, and Crum was killed. Samuel Ward and myself were standing within ten feet of Crum when he was killed. We had a bet on the height of the two elephants, and that was the reason why they were brought alongside of each other. Columbus was shot under the eye before he killed the drayman. We did not exhibit in Algiers. The people were too much frightened to attend. So we went to New Orleans on the 1st of January, instead of waiting until the 8th.

On the same evening the difficulty occurred, James Raymond and James Humphrey, proprietors, came to me and wanted I should go and look after Columbus. I told them I would if John Carley would go with me. I knew him to be an old elephant man. They asked him: he said he would like to go, but was sick and would rather be excused. The next morning George Growe, a young green hand, who came with Foster’s company, volunteered to go with me. I must confess that when he came forward it cooled my courage, but two horses were saddled and brought to the door. I mounted mine in rather a confused state of mind, wishing myself anywhere except where I was. When we started out it was dark and foggy. I told Growe to go ahead, and, after going about half a mile, we put up for the night on a flatboat. At daylight the next morning we started again, and proceeded down the river about nine miles, where we found Columbus in a canefield, with his head against a pecan tree, asleep. I may now remark that Growe’s courage had somewhat cooled off, and he had fallen some half mile to my rear. I rode toward the elephant until I got within hailing distance, and then spoke to him to come to me. He raised up and began shaking his head. Presently he started for me the best he could, and my horse did a good business getting out of his way. He followed me for about six miles, and then came to a halt in front of a large pile of lumber on the levee, which he proceeded to throw into the river as fast as possible, and then started after me at a more moderate gait. When we got in front of a church at Algiers he made a second halt. I then told him to lie down, and, to my astonishment, he obeyed. I got off from my horse, took my knife, stuck it in his ear and held him down until assistance came from the canvas, which was about half a mile off; then Growe took him by the ear and led him to the canvas, and, the same day, we crossed over to New Orleans. Growe took care of him all that winter and left with him in the spring, but was killed by him the next summer, as I learned afterward.

Poor Crum met with a terrible death. Columbus’ tusk entered his groin and came out at his shoulder, going through the entire length of his body.

These are some of the exact facts as they occurred for I was on the spot, and saw the whole affair. I could say much more, but do not think it necessary.”

The writer of this letter was for two years the constant and interested companion and friend of, possibly, the most unruly and bad-tempered elephant ever exhibited in the United States, and the reason he got along with him without accident was that he devoted his undivided attention to his charge, studied his character, gave him frequent opportunities for bathing, and as much liberty as circumstances would permit.