Sisters: He has gone!
The luminous star that has shone upon us with such
refulgence for the last few weeks, has gone to our
beloved “Hub of the Universe,” where poets,
governors, and other distinguished men of New England
are now revolving around him like the spokes of a cart
wheel. Mr. Holmes has written him some sweet verses;
Mr. Longfellow has greeted him with welcomes.
They have given him balls, dinners, and a cold in
his face. In short, New England has been true
to itself and its climate. When the hub turns
on its axle, the spokes whirl and the tires revolve,
giving a swift throb to the whole universe. As
a New England woman I beg pardon young
lady, I am proud of Boston, proud of the honor they
are doing to Him. But after all, the Hub
must imitate. We took the crown off.
Before he left, a new and exquisite
idea came into my head some people may
think it a little flighty, but you will understand
all the poetry it contains. I have a canary bird for
I love birds with all the inborn intensity of genius so
old that his feathers are nothing more than a creamy
white. In that particular he I should
say she being a female, that never sings
beyond a chirp, has the gift of silence peculiar to
the sex. I got her cheaper on that account.
Well, she is almost dove-like in color and in sweetness
of disposition. No more lovely messenger from
heart to heart could be found in the whole world.
Well, sisters, I took this bird from
its cage with my own hands, and I smothered it with
kisses from my own lips, which quivered with intensity
of emotion. Then I tied a blue ribbon about its
neck, and attached to that a tenty-tointy note which
contained these lines:
Farewell, noble prince, my
fond heart is gushing
With thoughts
that no language can ever reveal;
With the sweetest affection
this warm cheek is blushing,
And hopes to my
maidenly bosom will steal,
Of a time when our souls,
with united expression,
Shall mingle with
harmony more than divine;
And the priest be
he Greek, or of any profession
Shall bless this
poor hand as it clings unto thine.
The paper was of an exquisite rose-color
on which I indited this gem. I flatter myself
that genius can sometimes write beautifully. It
is not just the thing to particularize here, but if
that Grand Duke can read English he must have
admired the sweet morsel which that lovely songster
bore to him on the wings well, of a canary.
I would not send my bird in a cage,
because handsome cages are expensive, and do not carry
an idea of freedom with them, which our spread eagle
might have led the great Grand Duke to expect.
Neither would I trust her with a street boy whose
hands might be dirty and unsafe. No, I put on
my bonnet, locked the bird with his blue ribbon in
a box covered with gilt paper, and walked straight
down to the Clarendon Tavern, and asked for one of
the committee-men.
A tall, grave-looking gentleman came
into the room, where I sat waiting, and said he was
Mr. Bergh, one of the committee-men, and then stood
a minute, as if he was waiting to know what I wanted.
I had heard a great deal about the
gentleman’s goodness to the poor dumb beasts
that are so abused and trampled on, and my heart rose
right into my mouth.
“Mr. Bergh,” says I, reaching
out my hand, “in the name of New England, permit
me to shake hands, and thank you for the good you are
a-doing to so many of God’s own creatures.”
The gentleman smiled, and reached out his hand.
“I am glad to hear,” says
I, “that some old bachelor has left a lot of
money to your society. It is just what I would
do myself if I hadn’t a hope that
is, it may be possible that all the money I have will
be needed for a special occasion as no
free-born New England woman would be beholden to a
foreign nation for her setting out.”
Here Mr. Bergh smiled. You have
no idea how much younger he looked when he did smile;
the benevolence that made him a Natural History Philanthropist
just shone out from his eyes, and beamed all over his
face, till I longed to be well, say a duck,
or something of that sort that he might
save me from oppression.
“Thank you,” says he;
“most men want some object in life. You
ladies have done so much for humanity that we are
content to leave it in your hands, but the poor animals
have up to this time escaped compassion.”
“Not compassion, but assistance,”
says I. “Cruelty to animals is mostly confined
to men.”
“Not exactly,” says he.
“I have sometimes seen kittens and pet dogs
treated more unmercifully than omnibus-horses, and
by innocent children too.”
I did not answer. How could I?
The remembrance of a trout-brook, with birch-trees
hanging over it, and great red-seeded brake-leaves
growing thick on the bank, made me shudder. Hadn’t
I held ever so many kittens under water in that very
spot, and shouted and laughed to the other girls some
of you, my sisters, among them while the
poor little things kicked and struggled for life,
that was just as dear to them as it is to me?
Hadn’t I hunted up birds’ nests, and driven
the pretty creatures distracted by handling their
eggs, till at last the nests were broken up?
Then didn’t I string the cold eggs into a chain,
and hang them in triumph over the looking-glass in
our keeping-room?
You will tell me, out of the kindness
of your hearts, that these were sins of ignorance.
Just so; and it is this ignorance, which is sometimes
cruel as the grave, that Mr. Bergh is trying his best
to enlighten. No child would do a cruel thing
if it were made to understand the pain it is giving.
Yet, sticking pins through flies, and spearing wasps
to the wall, are about the first thing a smart baby
learns to do.
Did you ever see a lot of boys going
home from school, when a garter-snake, or any other
harmless serpent, crosses their path? They know
well enough that the poor things do no harm, and are
as afraid as death of them; but see the great stones
they heave upon the miserable reptile; the shouts
they send up, as it writhes, and coils, and fills
the air with feeble hisses, trying, poor thing, to
save its bruised and broken life to the last.
Does anybody tell the boys that this
is brutal cruelty? No, even the Christian mother,
who would not do an unkind thing to save her life,
forgets that God makes snakes as well as ringdoves,
and that pain is just as bitter to the snake as to
the cooing bird.
Sisters, we are all wrong in leaving
these things to men only. If we did our duty,
and taught little children that even thoughtless cruelty
is a sin, and that the fun which comes out of pain
to any of God’s creatures is a crime, there
would not be much for Mr. Bergh and his noble society
to do. The cruel instincts of a child become ferocious
in the man. With such, men can best deal.
I thank God that one brave spirit is found ready and
able to protect the dumb creatures that are given us
for blessings, not for victims.
While I am writing this, picture after
picture comes up from my own past girlhood, and my
heart stands still as I remember how ferocious a thirst
for fun and ignorance can be in a child. How many
sleepy-looking toads I have seen, with their backs
all jewels, and their throats yellow gold, that asked
nothing but a burdock leaf for shelter, and a few flies
for food, crushed to death by boys who thought no
harm, and only liked the sport of killing something.
Since then, I have learned that these
little creatures are a great help to gardeners, and
that wise men foster them with kindness and care.
Once, down by the trout-brook we know
of, I saw a lot of children, busy as bees, doing something
on the bank, where two or three boys were kneeling,
and the rest looking on. Of course I went down
to the brook, and, being a little mite of a creature,
looked on, half frightened, half wondering.
The boys had caught a great frog,
green as grass. He was, I have no doubt, one
of those hoarse old croakers, that make one timid about
going by ponds and marshy ground in the night, up
in our State. Well, they had him down in the
grass, and one held him while the other ran a pin
through both jaws and twisted it there. There
was no fun in this. A lot of doctors cutting
off an arm couldn’t have been more gravely in
earnest. Some of the boys were eight and ten years
old; but not one of them seemed to feel that they
were doing a hideous thing. I remember feeling
very sorry for the poor frog, but it was not till years
and years after that I understood the horrible, lingering
death these ignorant boys had tortured him with.
Since then I have never thought of that sparkling
trout stream, without a pain at my heart.
“Childish ignorance,”
I hear you say for some of these boys were
your own brothers, and meant no harm. But what
right had they to be ignorant? They knew well
enough that it was against the law to kill one another.
Why were they not taught that the life that God gives
to His meanest creature is as sacred as a good man’s
prayers; unless necessity calls for it, and then it
must be taken with as little suffering as death can
give?
Sisters, I am in earnest; the missionary
spirit is strong upon me. I wish our Society
to take up this subject with interest. What Mr.
Bergh has been doing among men, we must do among the
children of this generation. When ignorance is
an excuse for cruelty, you and I and every woman of
the land are wretches if we allow a child to sin because
it knows no better. There is no great study necessary
to work out a reform here. The mother who knows
what is right knows how to impress it on her children;
and if they play at death and destruction, she is the
person most to blame.
Don’t say that I am writing
out one of my popular addresses before the Society I
never thought of such a thing; but when I saw the great
Natural History Philanthropist, my heart and mind went
right back to you and my duties as a missionary of
universal progress, and I sat there in silence thinking
over these things till I forgot that he was there.
At last he spoke, and said, kindly
enough, “Is there anything I can help you in?”
I started and reached out my hand.
“Mr. Bergh,” says I, enthusiastically,
“I can help you! All the world over we
women work best in the primary department. You
have begun a grand and a noble work among men.
We will begin at the other end, and in that way cut
your work down to nothing. I see a clear path
before us. Henceforth I will belong to your Society,
and you shall belong to mine. Is it agreed?”
He sat down by me; his eyes grew bright;
his earnestness of purpose inspired me to press forward
to the mark of the prize I beg pardon, the
old prayer-meeting spirit will manifest itself in spite
of me when my soul is full of a great purpose.
After we had talked on the great subject
satisfactorily, he said, all at once, “But you
came for some purpose in which I may have the pleasure
of serving you.”
Then I remembered my bird and its
imperial object. Revealing my gold-paper box,
I opened it carefully, fearing a sudden flight.
Nothing moved. Trembling with dread, I put in
my hand; it touched a soft fluff of feathers that
did not stir.
My heart sank like a lead weight in
my bosom. I looked in; the poor little thing
lay in the bottom of the box, with its wings spread
out, and its head lying sideways. I touched it
with my hand; it was limp and dead. While I had
been talking with so much feeling about cruelty to
animals, my own little songster no, being
a female she was not that but my poor pet
had been smothered to death in that gorgeous little
receptacle.
With my heart swelling like a puff-ball,
I turned my shoulder on that good man, and closed
my satchel solemnly, as if it had been a tomb.
“Sir,” says I, in a voice
full of touching penitence, “I feel myself just
at this minute wholly unworthy of the mark of the high
calling to which I have offered myself. A young
lady who puts herself forward to teach thoughtful
kindness to the young, should be above reproach in
that respect herself.”
The good gentleman looked awfully
puzzled, for how would he guess at the crime I had
locked up in that box?
“Good-morning,” says I,
walking away; “the time may come when I shall
feel a new exaltation, but just now well,
good-morning.”
I went away meek and humble as a pussy
cat. When I looked down at the box in my hand
it seemed as if I was carrying a coffin.
Well, I buried my poor little pet
in that identical box, with the blue ribbon about
its neck; but the poem I forwarded to him in
Boston. I may be meek and humbly conscious of
my own shortcomings, but the Grand Duke of all the
Russias shall never go home with the idea that Vermont
hasn’t got poets as well as Boston, and that
young ladies cannot put as much vim and likewise maple-sugar
into their poetry as that smart fellow, Dr. Holmes,
simmered down in his.
Just read mine and his, that’s all!
I do think that nothing can equal
the forwardness of some New York girls. Would
you believe it, one stuck-up thing has just stolen
my beautiful idea, and sent her card to the great
Grand Duke tied round a bird’s neck; but it
was like stealing a fiddle and forgetting the fiddlestick.
A card isn’t poetry. There is no accounting
for the vanity of some people; but the best proof
of genius is imitation.