Beautiful Joe | Page 5

now, and am writing, or rather getting a friend to write, the story of my
life. I have seen my mistress laughing and crying over a little book that she says is a story
of a horse's life, and sometimes she puts the book down close to my nose to let me see the
pictures.
I love my dear mistress; I can say no more than that; I love her better than 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 treated cruelly.

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.
In telling my story, I think I had better begin at the first and come right on to the end. I
was born in a stable on the outskirts of a small town in Maine called Fairport. 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 had a number of brothers and sisters six in
all and my mother never had enough milk for us. She was always half starved herself, so
she could not feed us properly.
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 ill-treating
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. His
name was Jenkins, and I am glad to think that he is getting punished now for his cruelty
to poor dumb animals and to human beings. If you think it is wrong that I am glad, you
must remember that I am only a dog.
The first notice that he took of me when I was a little puppy, just able to stagger about,
was to give me a kick that sent me into a corner of the stable. He used to beat and starve
my mother. I have seen him use his heavy whip to punish her till her body was covered
with blood. 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 she did not run away, was because she loved
Jenkins. Cruel and savage as he was, she yet loved him, and I believe she would have laid
down her life for him.
Now that I am old, I know that there are more men in the world like Jenkins. They are not
crazy, they are not drunkards; they simply seem to be possessed with a spirit of
wickedness. There are well-to-do people, yes, and rich people, who will treat animals,
and even little children, with such terrible cruelty, that one cannot even mention the
things that they are guilty of.
One reason for Jenkins' 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 neat, and groomed his horse, and cleaned the cows,
and dug up the garden, it would have taken up all his time; but he never tidied the place at
all, till his yard and stable got so littered up with things he threw down that he could not
make his way about.
His house and stable stood in the middle of a large field, and they were at some distance

from the road. Passers-by could not see how untidy the place was. Occasionally, a man
came to look at the premises, and see that they were in good order, but Jenkins always
knew when to expect him, and had things cleaned up a little.
I used to wish that