Chapter 4

"Oh, dear," he said, "why, every way; the eyes, the ears, the whole face, the expression, everything. No two horses' faces look alike. Just as it is with a flock of sheep. A stranger would say, 'Why, they are all sheep, and all alike, and that is all there is to it;' but the owner knows better; he knows every face in the flock. He says, 'this is Jenny, and that is Dolly, there is Jim, and here's Nancy.' Oh, land, yes! they are no more alike than human beings are, disposition or anything. Some have to be ordered, and some coaxed and flattered. Yes, flattered. Now if two men come and want to work for me, I can tell as soon as I cast my eyes on them. I say to one, 'Go and do such a thing;' but if I said it to the other, he'd answer 'I won't; I'm not going to be ordered about by any man.' Horses are just like that. A horse can read you. If you get mad, he will. If you abuse him, he will do the same by you, or try to. You must control yourself, if you would control a horse."

They must be of superior grade, "for it's of no use to spend one's time on a dull one. It does not pay to teach idiots where you want brilliant results, though all well enough for a certain purpose."

Some of these he had been five years in educating to do what we saw. Some he had taught to do their special part in one year, some in two. The first thing he did was to give the horse opportunity and time to get well acquainted with him; in his words, "to become friends. Let him see that you are his friend, that you are not going to whip him. You meet him cordially. You are glad to see him and be with him, and pretty soon he knows it and likes to be with you. And so you establish comradeship, you understand each other. Caress him softly. Don't make a dash at him. Say pleasant things to him. Be gentle; but at the same time you must be _master_." That is a good basis. And then he teaches one thing at a time, a simple thing, and waits a good while before he brings forward another; does not perplex or puzzle the pupil by anything else till that is learned, and some of the first words are "come," "stand," "remain."

What a horse has once learned he never or seldom forgets. Mr. Bartholomew thinks it is not as has sometimes been said, because a horse has a memory stronger than a man, "but because he has fewer things to learn. A man sees a million things. A horse's mind cannot accommodate what a man's can, so those things he knows have a better chance. Those few things he fixes. His memory fastens on them. I once had a pony I had trained, which was afterwards gone from me three years. At the end of that time I was in California exhibiting, and saw a boy on the pony. I tried to buy him, but the boy who had owned him all that time, refused to part with him; however, I offered such a price that I got him, and that same evening I took him into the tent and thought I would see what he remembered. He went through all his old tricks (besides a few I had myself forgotten) except one. He could not manage walking on his hind feet the distance he used to. Another time I had a trained horse stolen from me by the Indians, and he was off in the wilds with them a year and a half. One day, in a little village--that was in California too--I saw him and knew him, and the horse knew me. I went up to the Indian who had him and said, 'That is my horse, and I can prove it.' Out there a stolen horse, no matter how many times he has changed hands, is given up, if the owner can prove it. The Indian said, 'If you can, you shall have him, but you won't do it.' I said, 'I will try him in four things; I will ask him to trot three times around a circle, to lie down, to sit up, and to bring me my handkerchief. If he is my horse, he will do it.' The Indian said, 'You shall have him if he does, but he won't!' By this time a crowd had got together. We put the horse in an enclosure, he did as he was told, and I had him back."

Mr. Bartholomew said, "My motto in educating them is, 'Make haste slowly;' I never require too much, and I never ask a horse to do what he _can't_ do. That is of no use. A horse _can't_ learn what horses are not capable of learning; and he can't do a thing until he understands what you mean, and how you want it done. What good would it do for me to ask a man a question in French if he did not know a word of the language? I get him used to the word, and show him what I want. If it is to climb up somewhere, I gently put his foot up and have him keep it there until I am ready to have it come down, and then I take it down myself. I never let the horse do it. The same with other things, showing him how, and by words. They know a great number of words. My horses are not influenced by signs or motions when they are on the stage. They use their intelligence and memory, and they associate ideas and are required to obey. They learn a great deal by observing one another. One watches and learns by seeing the others. I taught one horse to kneel, by first bending his knee myself, and putting him into position. After he had learned, I took another in who kept watch all the time, and learned partly by imitation. They are social creatures; they love each other's company."

Most of these horses have been together now for several years, and are fond of one another. They appear to keep the run of the whole performance, and listen and notice like children in a school when one or more of their number goes out to recite. It was extremely interesting to observe them when the leap-frog game was going on. Owing to the smallness of the stage, it was difficult for the horse who was to make the jump to get under headway, and several times poor Sprite, or whichever it was, would turn abruptly to make another start, upon which every horse on her side would dart out for a chance at giving her a nip as she went by. They all seemed throughout the entire exhibition to feel a sort of responsibility, or at least a pride in it, as if "this is _our_ school. See how well Bucephalus minds, or how badly Brutus behaves! This is _our_ regiment. Don't we march well? How fine and grand, how gallant and gay we are!" And the wonder of it all is, not so much what any one horse can do, or the sense of humor they show, or the great number of words they understand, but the mental processes and nice calculation they show in the feats where they are associated in complex ways, which require that each must act his part independently and mind nothing about it if another happens to make a mistake.

To obtain any adequate representation of these horses while performing, it was necessary that it be done by process called instantaneous photographing. You are aware that birds and insects are taken by means of an instrument named the "photographic revolver," which is aimed at them. Recently an American, Mr. Muybridge, has been able to photograph horses while galloping or trotting, by his "battery of cameras," and a book on "the Horse in Motion" has for its subject this instantaneous catching a likeness as applied to animals. But how could any process, however swift, or ingenious, or admirable, do full justice to the grace and spirit, the all-alive attitudes and varieties of posture, the dalliance and charm, the freedom in action?

Professor Bartholomew gave his performances the name of "The Equine Paradox." He now has his beautiful animals in delightful summer quarters at Newport, where they are counted among the "notable guests." He has the Opera House there for his training school for three months, preparing new ones for next winter's exhibition, and keeping the old ones in practice. It is pleasant to know that he cares so faithfully for their health as to give them a home through the warm weather in that cool retreat by the sea.

QUESTIONS.

Can you put the spider's web back in its place, that once has been swept away? Can you put the apple again on the bough, which fell at our feet to-day? Can you put the lily-cup back on the stem, and cause it to live and grow? Can you mend the butterfly's broken wing, that you crushed with a hasty blow? Can you put the bloom again on the grape, or the grape again on the vine? Can you put the dewdrops back on the flowers, and make them sparkle and shine? Can you put the petals back on the rose? If you could, would it smell as sweet? Can you put the flour again in the husk, and show me the ripened wheat? Can you put the kernel back in the nut, or the broken egg in its shell? Can you put the honey back in the comb, and cover with wax each cell? Can you put the perfume back in the vase, when once it has sped away? Can you put the corn-silk back on the corn, or the down on the catkins--say? You think that my questions are trifling, dear? Let me ask you another one: Can a hasty word ever be unsaid, or a deed unkind, undone?

KATE LAWRENCE.

THE BRAVEST BOY IN TOWN.

He lived in the Cumberland Valley, And his name was Jamie Brown; But it changed one day, so the neighbors say, To the "Bravest Boy in Town."

'Twas the time when the Southern soldiers, Under Early's mad command, O'er the border made their dashing raid From the north of Maryland.

And Chambersburg unransomed In smouldering ruins slept, While up the vale, like a fiery gale, The Rebel raiders swept.

And a squad of gray-clad horsemen Came thundering o'er the bridge, Where peaceful cows in the meadows browse, At the feet of the great Blue Ridge;

And on till they reached the village, That fair in the valley lay, Defenseless then, for its loyal men, At the front, were far away.

"Pillage and spoil and plunder!" This was the fearful word That the Widow Brown, in gazing down From her latticed window, heard.

'Neath the boughs of the sheltering oak-tree, The leader bared his head, As left and right, until out of sight, His dusty gray-coats sped.

Then he called: "Halloo! within there!" A gentle, fair-haired dame Across the floor to the open door In gracious answer came.

"Here! stable my horse, you woman!"-- The soldier's tones were rude-- "Then bestir yourself and from yonder shelf Set out your store of food!"

For her guest she spread the table; She motioned him to his place With a gesture proud; then the widow bowed, And gently--asked a grace.

"If thine enemy hunger, feed him! I obey, dear Christ!" she said; A creeping blush, with its scarlet flush, O'er the face of the soldier spread.

He rose: "You have said it, madam! Standing within your doors Is the Rebel foe; but as forth they go They shall trouble not you nor yours!"

Alas, for the word of the leader! Alas, for the soldier's vow! When the captain's men rode down the glen, They carried the widow's cow.

It was then the fearless Jamie Sprang up with flashing eyes, And in spite of tears and his mother's fears, On the gray mare, off he flies.

Like a wild young Tam O'Shanter He plunged with piercing whoop, O'er field and brook till he overtook The straggling Rebel troop.

Laden with spoil and plunder, And laughing and shouting still, As with cattle and sheep they lazily creep Through the dust o'er the winding hill.

"Oh! the coward crowd!" cried Jamie; "There's Brindle! I'll teach them now!" And with headlong stride, at the captain's side, He called for his mother's cow.

"Who are _you_, and who is your mother?-- I promised she should not miss?-- Well! upon my word, have I never heard Of assurance like to this!"

"Is your word the word of a soldier?"-- And the young lad faced his foes, As a jeering laugh, in anger half And half in sport, arose.

But the captain drew his sabre, And spoke, with lowering brow: "Fall back into line! The joke is mine! Surrender the widow's cow!"

And a capital joke they thought it, That a barefoot lad of ten Should demand his due--and get it too-- In the face of forty men.

And the rollicking Rebel raiders Forgot themselves somehow, And three cheers brave for the hero gave, And three for the brindle cow.

He lived in the Cumberland Valley, And his name _was_ Jamie Brown; But it changed that day, so the neighbors say, To the "Bravest Boy in Town."

MRS. EMILY HUNTINGTON NASON.

THE WOLF AND THE GOSLINGS.

An old gray goose walked forth with pride, With goslings seven at her side; A lovely yellowish-green they were, And very dear to her.

She led them to the river's brink To paddle their feet awhile and drink, And there she heard a tale that made Her very soul afraid.

A neighbor gabbled the story out, How a wolf was known to be thereabout-- A great wolf whom nothing could please As well as little geese.

So, when, as usual, to the wood She went next day in search of food, She warned them over and over, before She turned to shut the door:

"My little ones, if you hear a knock At the door, be sure and not unlock, For the wolf will eat you, if he gets in, Feathers and bones and skin.

"You will know him by his voice so hoarse, By his paws so hairy and black and coarse." And the goslings piped up, clear and shrill, "We'll take great care, we will."

The mother thought them wise and went To the far-off forest quite content; But she was scarcely away, before There came a rap at the door.

"Open, open, my children dear," A gruff voice cried: "your mother is here." But the young ones answered, "No, no, no, Her voice is sweet and low;

"And you are the wolf--so go away, You can't get in, if you try all day." He laughed to himself to hear them talk, And wished he had some chalk,

To smooth his voice to a tone like geese; So he went to the merchant's and bought a piece, And hurried back, and rapped once more. "Open, open the door,

"I am your mother, dears," he said. But up on the window ledge he laid, In a careless way, his great black paw, And this the goslings saw.

"No, no," they called, "that will not do, Our mother has not black hands like you; For you are the wolf, so go away, You can't get in to-day."

The baffled wolf to the old mill ran, And whined to the busy miller man: "I love to hear the sound of the wheel And to smell the corn and meal."

The miller was pleased, and said "All right; Would you like your cap and jacket white?" At that he opened a flour bin And playfully dipped him in.

He floundered and sneezed a while, then, lo, He crept out white as a wolf of snow. "If chalk and flour can make me sweet," He said, "then I'm complete."

For the third time back to the house he went, And looked and spoke so different, That when he rapped, and "Open!" cried, The little ones replied,

"If you show us nice clean feet, we will." And straightway, there on the window-sill His paws were laid, with dusty meal Powdered from toe to heel.

Yes, they were white! So they let him in, And he gobbled them all up, feathers and skin! Gobbled the whole, as if 'twere fun, Except the littlest one.

An old clock stood there, tick, tick, tick, And into that he had hopped so quick The wolf saw nothing, and fancied even He'd eaten all the seven.

But six were enough to satisfy; So out he strolled on the grass to lie. And when the gray goose presently Came home--what did she see?

Alas, the house door open wide, But no little yellow flock inside; The beds and pillows thrown about; The fire all gone out;

The chairs and tables overset; The wash-tub spilled, and the floor all wet; And here and there in cinders black, The great wolf's ugly track.

She called out tenderly every name, But never a voice in answer came, Till a little frightened, broad-billed face Peered out of the clock-case.

This gosling told his tale with grief, And the gray goose sobbed in her handkerchief, And sighed--"Ah, well, we will have to go And let the neighbors know."

So down they went to the river's brim, Where their feathered friends were wont to swim, And there on the turf so green and deep The old wolf lay asleep.

He had a grizzly, savage look, And he snored till the boughs above him shook. They tiptoed round him--drew quite near, Yet still he did not hear.

Then, as the mother gazed, to her It seemed she could see his gaunt side stir-- Stir and squirm, as if under the skin Were something alive within!

"Go back to the house, quick, dear," she said, "And fetch me scissors and needle and thread. I'll open his ugly hairy hide, And see what is inside."

She snipped with the scissors a criss-cross slit, And well rewarded she was for it, For there were her goslings--six together-- With scarcely a rumpled feather.

The wolf had eaten so greedily, He had swallowed them all alive you see, So, one by one, they scrambled out, And danced and skipped about.

Then the gray goose got six heavy stones, And placed them in between the bones; She sewed him deftly, with needle and thread, And then with her goslings fled.

The wolf slept long and hard and late, And woke so thirsty he scarce could wait. So he crept along to the river's brink To get a good cool drink.

But the stones inside began to shake, And make his old ribs crack and ache; And the gladsome flock, as they sped away, Could hear him groan, and say:--

"What's this rumbling and tumbling? What's this rattling like bones? I thought I'd eaten six small geese, But they've turned out only stones."

He bent his neck to lap--instead, He tumbled in, heels over head; And so heavy he was, as he went down He could not help but drown!

And after that, in thankful pride, With goslings seven at her side, The gray goose came to the river's brink Each day to swim and drink.

AMANDA B. HARRIS.

THE BISHOP'S VISIT.

Tell you about it? Of course I will! I thought 'twould be dreadful to have him come, For mamma said I must be quiet and still, And she put away my whistle and drum.--

And made me unharness the parlor chairs, And packed my cannon and all the rest Of my noisiest playthings off up-stairs, On account of this very distinguished guest.

Then every room was turned upside down, And all the carpets hung out to blow; For when the Bishop is coming to town The house must be in order, you know.

So out in the kitchen I made my lair, And started a game of hide-and-seek; But Bridget refused to have me there, For the Bishop was coming--to stay a week--

And she must have cookies and cakes and pies, And fill every closet and platter and pan, Till I thought this Bishop, so great and wise, Must be an awfully hungry man.

Well! at last he came; and I do declare, Dear grandpapa, he looked just like you, With his gentle voice and his silvery hair, And eyes with a smile a-shining through.

And whenever he read or talked or prayed, I understood every single word; And I wasn't the leastest bit afraid, Though I never once spoke or stirred;

Till, all of a sudden, he laughed right out To see me sit quietly listening so; And began to tell us stories about Some queer little fellows in Mexico.

And all about Egypt and Spain--and then He _wasn't_ disturbed by a little noise, And said that the greatest and best of men Once were rollicking, healthy boys.

And he thinks it is no matter at all If a little boy runs and jumps and climbs; And mamma should be willing to let me crawl Through the bannister-rails in the hall sometimes.

And Bridget, sir, made a great mistake, In stirring up such a bother, you see, For the Bishop--he didn't care for cake, And really liked to play games with me.

But though he's so honored in word and act-- (Stoop down, this is a secret now)-- _He couldn't spell Boston!_ That's a fact! But whispered to me to tell him how.

MRS. EMMA HUNTINGTON NASON.

THE FIRST STEP.

To-night as the tender gloaming Was sinking in evening's gloom, And only the glow of the firelight Brightened the dark'ning room, I laughed with the gay heart-gladness That only to mothers is known, For the beautiful brown-eyed baby Took his first step alone!

Hurriedly running to meet him Came trooping the household band, Joyous, loving and eager To reach him a helping hand, To watch him with silent rapture, To cheer him with happy noise, My one little fair-faced daughter And four brown romping boys.

Leaving the sheltering arms That fain would bid him rest Close to the love and the longing, Near to the mother's breast; Wild with laughter and daring, Looking askance at me, He stumbled across through the shadows To rest at his father's knee.

Baby, my dainty darling, Stepping so brave and bright With flutter of lace and ribbon Out of my arms to-night, Helped in thy pretty ambition With tenderness blessed to see, Sheltered, upheld, and protected-- How will the last step be?

See, we are all beside you Urging and beckoning on, Watching lest aught betide you Till the safe near goal is won, Guiding the faltering footsteps That tremble and fear to fall-- How will it be, my darling, With the last sad step of all?

Nay! Shall I dare to question, Knowing that One more fond Than all our tenderest loving Will guide the weak feet beyond! And knowing beside, my dearest, That whenever the summons, 'twill be But a stumbling step through the shadows, Then rest--at the Father's knee!

M.E.B.

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

A Soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent with pitying glances to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land; Take a message, and a token to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen, at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun; And, 'mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline, And one had come from Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age; For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage. For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died and left us to divide his scanty hoard I let them take whate'er they would, but I kept my father's sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine On the cottage wall at Bingen, calm Bingen on the Rhine.