BEAUTIFUL JOE

EVERY boy or girl has had some kind of

pet. In fact, great writers have declared that pets are necessary for children. The child who loves a dog, a doll, a kitten, or a pony, is less selfish than he would be otherwise. Pets are just as necessary for men and women, and thrice happy are those whose pets are children.

The story of "Beautiful Joe" has become one of the most widely read and most keenly enjoyed of all children's stories. It is the story of a dog told by himself. In the extract given we learn how Beautiful Joe got his name, something of the cruel treatment he received, his rescue, and much about those who treated him cruelly, and much about those who treated him kindly.

BEAUTIFUL JOE 1

My name is Beautiful Joe, and I am a brown dog of medium size. I am not called Beautiful Joe because I am a beauty. I know that I am not beautiful, and that I am not a thoroughbred. I am only a cur.

I am an old dog now, and am writing, or rather getting a friend to write, the story of my life.

1 Used by special permission of the publishers, The American Baptist, Publication Society.

I love my dear mistress; I can say no more than that; I love her better than I love any one else in the world; and I think it will please her if I write the story of a dog's life.

She loves dumb animals, and it always grieves her to see them cruelly treated. I have heard her say that if all the boys and girls in the world were to rise up and say that there should be no more cruelty to animals, they could put a stop to it. Perhaps it will help a little if I tell a story. I am fond of boys and girls, and though I have seen many cruel men and women, I have seen few cruel children. I think the more stories there are written about dumb animals, the better it will be for us.

I was born in a stable on the outskirts of a small town. The first thing I remember was lying close to my mother and being very snug and warm. The next thing I remember was being always hungry.

I am very unwilling to say much about my early life. I have lived so long in a family where there is never a harsh word spoken, and where no one thinks of illtreating anybody or anything, that it seems almost wrong even to think or speak of such a matter as hurting a poor dumb beast.

The man that owned my mother was a milkman. He kept one horse and three cows, and he had a shaky old cart that he used to put his milk cans in. I don't think there can be a worse man in the world than that milkman. It makes me shudder now to think of him.

He used to beat and starve my mother. I have

seen him use his heavy whip to punish her. When I got older I asked her why she did not run away. She said she did not wish to; but I soon found out that the reason that she did not run away was because she loved her master. Cruel and savage as he was, she yet loved him, and I believe she would have laid down her life for him.

One reason for our master's cruelty was his idleness. After he went his rounds in the morning with his milk cans, he had nothing to do till late in the afternoon but take care of his stable and yard. If he had kept them clean, it would have taken up all his time; but he never did anything to make his home neat and pleasant.

My mother and I slept on a heap of straw in the corner of the stable, and when she heard his step in the morning she always roused me, so that we could run out as soon as he opened the stable door. He always aimed a kick at us as we passed, but my mother taught me how to dodge him.

After our master put the horse in the cart, and took in the cans, he set out on his rounds. My mother always went with him. I used to ask her why she followed such a man, and she would say that sometimes she got a bone from the different houses they stopped at. But that was not the whole She liked the master so much, that in spite of his cruelty she wanted to be with him.

reason.

I had not her sweet and patient disposition, and I would not go with her. I watched her out of sight, and then ran up to the house to see if the

master's wife had any scraps for me. I nearly always got something, for she pitied me, and often gave me a kind word or look with the bits of food that she threw to me.

I had a number of brothers and sisters — six in all. One rainy day when we were eight weeks old the master, followed by two or three of his ragged, dirty children, came into the stable and looked at us. Then he began to swear because we were so ugly, and said if we had been good looking, he might have sold some of us. Mother watched him anxiously, fearing some danger to her puppies, and looked up at him pleadingly.

It only made him swear the more. He took one puppy after another, and right there, before his children and my poor distracted mother, put an end to their lives. It was very terrible. I lay weak and trembling, expecting every instant that my turn would come next. I don't know why he spared me. I was the only one left.

My mother never seemed the same after this. She was weak and miserable. And though she was only four years old, she seemed like an old dog. She could not run after the master, and she lay on our heap of straw, only turning over with her nose the scraps of food I brought her to eat. One day she licked me gently, wagged her tail, and died.

As I sat by her, feeling lonely and miserable, my master came into the stable. I could not bear to look at him. He had killed my mother. There she lay, a little gaunt, scarred creature, starved and

worried to death by him. She would never again look kindly at me or curl up to me at night to keep me warm. Oh, how I hated her murderer! Still I kept quiet till he walked up to me and kicked at me. My heart was nearly broken and I could stand no more. I flew at him and gave him a savage bite on the ankle.

"Oho!" he said. "So you are going to be a fighter, are you? I'll fix you for that." He seized me

by the back of the neck and carried me out to the yard where a log lay on the ground. "Tom,” he called to one of his children, "bring me the hatchet!"

He laid my head on the log and pressed one hand on my struggling body. There was a quick, dreadful pain, and he had cut off my ear close to my head. Then he cut off the other ear, and turning me swiftly round, cut off my tail.

Then he let me go, and stood looking at me as I rolled on the ground and yelped in agony. He was in such a passion that he did not think that people passing on the street might hear me.

There was a young man going by. He heard my screams and hurrying up the path stood among us before the master caught sight of him.

In the midst of my pain, I heard the young man say fiercely, "What have you been doing to that dog?"

"I've been cutting his ears, for fighting, my young gentleman," said my master. "There is no law to prevent that, is there?"

"And there is no law to prevent me from taking