Beautiful Joe - Marshall Saunders (the reading strategies book .TXT) 📗

people in this family except one man, a nephew, not a son, of

the late earl. He was the black sheep of them all. As a young man, he

had led a wild and wicked life, and had ended by forging the name of one

of his friends, so that he was obliged to leave England and take refuge

in America. By the description of this man, Mr. Wood knew that he must

be Mr. Barron, so he wrote to these English people, and told them what a

wicked thing their relative had done in leaving his animals to starve.

In a short time, he got an answer from them, which was, at the same

time, very proud and very touching. It came from Mr. Barron's cousin,

and he said quite frankly that he knew his relative was a man of evil

habits, but it seemed as if nothing could be done to reform him. His

family was accustomed to send a quarterly allowance to him, on condition

that he led a quiet life in some retired place, but their last

remittance to him was lying unclaimed in Boston, and they thought he

must be dead. Could Mr. Wood tell them anything about him?

 

Mr. Wood looked very thoughtful when he got this letter, then he said,

"Harry, how long is it since Barron ran away?"

 

"About eight weeks," said Mr. Harry.

 

"That's strange," said Mr. Wood. "The money these English people sent

him would get to Boston just a few days after he left here. He is not

the man to leave it long unclaimed. Something must have happened to him.

Where do you suppose he would go from Penhollow?"

 

"I have no idea, sir," said Mr. Harry.

 

"And how would he go?" said Mr. Wood. "He did not leave Riverdale

Station, because he would have been spotted by some of his creditors."

 

"Perhaps he would cut through the woods to the Junction," said Mr.

Harry.

 

"Just what he would do," said Mr. Wood, slapping his knee. "I'll be

driving over there to-morrow to see Thompson, and I'll make inquiries."

 

Mr. Harry spoke to his father the next night when he came home, and

asked him if he had found out anything. "Only this," said Mr. Wood.

"There's no one answering to Barron's description who has left Riverdale

Junction within a twelvemonth. He must have struck some other station.

We'll let him go. The Lord looks out for fellows like that."

 

"We will look out for him if he ever comes back to Riverdale," said Mr.

Harry, quietly. All through the village, and in the country it was known

what a dastardly trick the Englishman had played, and he would have been

roughly handled if he had dared return.

 

Months passed away, and nothing was heard of him. Late in the autumn,

after Miss Laura and I had gone back to Fairport, Mrs. Wood wrote her

about the end of the Englishman. Some Riverdale lads were beating about

the woods, looking for lost cattle, and in their wanderings came to an

old stone quarry that had been disused for years. On one side there was

a smooth wall of rock, many feet deep. On the other the ground and rock

were broken away, and it was quite easy to get into it. They found that

by some means or other, one of their cows had fallen into this deep pit,

over the steep side of the quarry. Of course, the poor creature was

dead, but the boys, out of curiosity, resolved to go down and look at

her. They clambered down, found the cow, and, to their horror and

amazement, discovered near-by the skeleton of a man. There was a heavy

walking-stick by his side, which they recognized as one that the

Englishman had carried.

 

He was a drinking man, and perhaps he had taken something that he

thought would strengthen him for his morning's walk, but which had, on

the contrary, bewildered him, and made him lose his way and fall into

the quarry. Or he might have started before daybreak, and in the

darkness have slipped and fallen down this steep wall of rock. One leg

was doubled under him, and if he had not been instantly killed by the

fall, he must have been so disabled that he could not move. In that

lonely place, he would call for help in vain, so he may have perished by

the terrible death of starvation--the death he had thought to mete out

to his suffering animals.

 

Mrs. Wood said that there was never a sermon preached in Riverdale that

had the effect that the death of this wicked man had, and it reminded

her of a verse in the Bible: "He made a pit and he digged it, and is

fallen into the ditch which he made." Mrs. Wood said that her husband

had written about the finding of Mr. Barron's body to his English

relatives, and had received a letter from them in which they seemed

relieved to hear that he was dead. They thanked Mr. Wood for his plain

speaking in telling them of their relative's misdeeds, and said that

from all they knew of Mr. Barron's past conduct, his influence would be

for evil and not for good, in any place that he choose to live in. They

were having their money sent from Boston to Mr. Wood, and they wished

him to expend it in the way he thought best fitted to counteract the

evil effects of their namesake's doings in Riverdale.

 

When this money came, it amounted to some hundreds of dollars. Mr. Wood

would have nothing to do with it. He handed it over to the Band of

Mercy, and they formed what they called the "Barron Fund," which they

drew upon when they wanted money for buying and circulating humane

literature. Mrs. Wood said that the fund was being added to, and the

children were sending all over the State leaflets and little books which

preached the gospel of kindness to God's lower creation. A stranger

picking one of them up, and seeing the name of the wicked Englishman

printed on the title-page, would think that he was a friend and

benefactor to the Riverdale people--the very opposite of what he gloried

in being.

 

 

 

 

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

CHAPTER XXIX (A TALK ABOUT SHEEP)

Miss Laura was very much interested in the sheep on Dingley Farm. There

was a flock in the orchard near the house that she often went to see.

She always carried roots and vegetables to them, turnips particularly,

for they were very fond of them; but they would not come to her to get

them, for they did not know her voice. They only lifted their heads and

stared at her when she called them. But when they heard Mr. Wood's

voice, they ran to the fence, bleating with pleasure, and trying to push

their noses through to get the carrot or turnip, or whatever he was

handing to them. He called them his little Southdowns, and he said he

loved his sheep, for they were the most gentle and inoffensive creatures

that he had on his farm.

 

One day when he came into the kitchen inquiring for salt, Miss Laura

said: "Is it for the sheep?"

 

"Yes," he replied; "I am going up to the woods pasture to examine my

Shropshires."

 

"You would like to go too, Laura," said Mrs. Wood. "Take your hands

right away from that cake. I'll finish frosting it for you. Run along

and get your broad-brimmed hat. It's very hot."

 

Miss Laura danced out into the hall and back again, and soon we were

walking up, back of the house, along a path that led us through the

fields to the pasture. "What are you going to do, uncle?" she said; "and

what are those funny things in your hands?"

 

"Toe-clippers," he replied, "and I am going to examine the sheeps'

hoofs. You know we've had warm, moist weather all through July, and I'm

afraid of foot-rot. Then they're sometimes troubled with overgrown

hoofs."

 

"What do you do if they get foot-rot?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"I've various cures," he said. "Paring and clipping, and dipping the

hoof in blue vitriol and vinegar, or rubbing it on, as the English

shepherds do. It destroys the diseased part, but doesn't affect the

sound."

 

"Do sheep have many diseases?" asked Miss Laura. "I know one of them

myself--that is the scab."

 

"A nasty thing that," said Mr. Wood, vigorously; "and a man that builds

up a flock from a stockyard often finds it out to his cost."

 

"What is it like?" asked Miss Laura.

 

"The sheep get scabby from a microbe under the skin, which causes them

to itch fearfully, and they lose their wool."

 

"And can't it be cured?"

 

"Oh, yes! with time and attention. There are different remedies. I

believe petroleum is the best."

 

By this time we had got to a wide gate that opened into the pasture. As

Mr. Wood let Miss Laura go through and then closed it behind her, he

said, "You are looking at that gate. You want to know why it is so long,

don't you?"

 

"Yes, uncle," she said; "but I can't bear to ask so many questions."

 

"Ask as many as you like," he said, good-naturedly. "I don't mind

answering them. Have you ever seen sheep pass through a gate or door?"

 

"Oh, yes, often."

 

"And how do they act?"

 

"Oh, so silly, uncle. They hang back, and one waits for another; and,

finally, they all try to go at once."

 

"Precisely; when one goes they all want to go, if it was to jump into a

bottomless pit. Many sheep are injured by overcrowding, so I have my

gates and doors very wide. Now, let us call them up." There wasn't one

in sight, but when Mr. Wood lifted up his voice and cried: "Ca nan, nan,

nan!" black faces began to peer out from among the bushes; and little

black legs, carrying white bodies, came hurrying up the stony paths from

the cooler parts of the pasture. Oh, how glad they were to get the salt!

Mr. Wood let Miss Laura spread it on some flat rocks, then they sat down

on a log under a tree and watched them eating it and licking the rocks

when it was all gone. Miss Laura sat fanning herself with her hat and

smiling at them. "You funny, woolly things," she said; "You're not so

stupid as some people think you are. Lie still, Joe. If you show

yourself, they may run away."

 

I crouched behind the log, and only lifted my head occasionally to see

what the sheep were doing. Some of them went back into the woods, for it

was very hot in this bare part of the pasture, but the most of them

would not leave Mr. Wood, and stood staring at him. "That's a fine

sheep, isn't it?" said Miss Laura, pointing to one with the blackest

face, and the blackest legs, and largest body of those near us.

 

"Yes; that's old Jessica. Do you notice how she's holding her head close

to the ground?"

 

"Yes; is there any reason for it?"

 

"There is. She's afraid of the grub fly. You often see sheep holding

their noses in that way in the summer time. It is to prevent the fly

from going into their nostrils, and depositing an egg, which will turn

into a grub and annoy and worry them. When the fly comes near, they give

a sniff and run as if they were crazy, still holding their noses close

to the ground. When I was a boy, and the sheep did that, we thought that

they had colds in their heads, and used to rub tar on their noses. We

knew nothing about the fly then, but the tar cured them, and is just

what I use now. Two or three times a month during hot weather, we put a

few drops of it on the nose of every sheep in the flock."

 

"I suppose farmers are like other people, and are always finding out

better ways of doing their work, aren't they, uncle?" said