Friends and Helpers Part 12

Robert was so delighted with them that he wanted to feed them, and James let him put an armful of the sweet clover into the yard. "I have fed them once this morning," said James. "They had their regular breakfast before I had mine, which was very early."

Robert went on to the next yard where a large hog was lying contentedly in the sun. He gave a cheerful grunt as if to say "thank you," when James threw some clover over the fence.

"Here, old fellow, are some acorns!" said James, as he took a handful from his pocket and flung them over into the clover pile. "That's right.

Hunt them up!"

Robert laughed to see what a good time the hog was having. As he went on he saw that all the yards were clean and so were the pigs. There was a trough of fresh water in each yard, and another trough for the food.

"I thought all pigs were dirty," said Robert.

"No, indeed!" said James. "They like to be clean and to have room to run about. They need to root in the earth and roll in the mud, but they prefer clean earth and clean mud to the filthy stuff they often get."

"There's a great difference in mud," said Robert, in such a wise way that James laughed. "Pigs like sunshine, too," said he, "and when you have seen me give them a bath you will never say again that they like to be dirty. We wash them and brush them with a stiff brush, and they think it great fun."

"Do they eat anything but sc.r.a.ps from the kitchen?" was Robert's next question.

"Of course," said James. "They have milk, beets, potatoes, a little grain, with plenty of hay, and green or dry clover. I don't give them much corn because it makes them too fat. In those small troughs I keep a mixture of clay, salt, ashes, and charcoal so that the pigs can reach it easily. In winter I always warm their food for them and take great pains to keep their bedding warm and dry. I am not allowed to give them any food which isn't sweet and fresh. If I were careless about it I should lose my place directly. Mr. Spencer made me understand that when I came.

He said that a dirty pig-pen was a disgrace to a farmer and a danger to the neighborhood."

"These pigs look as if they knew you," said Robert. "Do you think they do?"

"I know they do," said James. "They are as bright as any of the other animals I take care of. Don't you know the old Welsh saying, 'Happy is the man who is as wise as a pig'? When they are stupid it is because they have been ill-treated. If we lived in a dark, damp hole under a barn we might look a little dull, sometimes. Don't you think so, Robert?"

A MORNING'S DRIVE.

One beautiful morning, when Robert had been at the farm nearly a week, Mr. Spencer invited him to take a drive to the sheep-pasture. There was a large basket in the buggy. "I am taking a little treat to my sheep,"

said Mr. Spencer. "Once a week I carry them some chopped carrots and turnips."

It was only a short drive to the sheep-pasture. As Robert and Mr.

Spencer went through the gate the sheep came running to meet their master. They were fine, fat creatures, and so tame that Robert could stroke their woolly heads and soft noses.

The pasture was well fenced in, and four horses were near the fence, under a large tree. Three of them came up to share the carrots and to hunt in Mr. Spencer's pockets for lumps of sugar. The fourth horse did not move from where he was lying.

"Are these your horses?" asked Robert.

"Only one is mine," said Mr. Spencer. "The others belong to a wise friend of ours who gives his horses a vacation in the summer. Did you ever think how many horses work all their lives without any rest worth mentioning?"

"No," said Robert slowly. "I never thought of it before. It does seem hard that they shouldn't have a vacation sometimes."

"It seems hard that they cannot be sure of a rest on Sunday, at least,"

said Mr. Spencer. "Some horses work all the week, and are then driven for miles on Sunday."

"Yes," said Robert. "We often see tired horses taking heavy wagonloads of people to the beach."

"Horses need to rest one day in seven," said Mr. Spencer. "When horse- cars were used in New York, it was found that no horse could do good work unless he had a day of rest once a week. A horse is not a machine.

He suffers just as we do with hunger, thirst, and fatigue. Sometimes he needs a dentist or a doctor, just as we do."

As Mr. Spencer talked he was walking toward the white horse under the tree. The horse got up stiffly and slowly, and rubbed his nose against Mr. Spencer's shoulder.

"Oh, what a wretched-looking old horse!" said Robert. "He doesn't belong to you, does he?"

Mr. Spencer patted the horse's neck and gave him a few lumps of sugar.

"This horse isn't old," he said, "but he is worn out with hard work and abuse. He doesn't look like my other horses, does he?"

"No, indeed!" said Robert. "How did you happen to own him?"

"A few years ago," said Mr. Spencer, "he was a fine young horse. He belonged to a man I knew who thought little of the comfort of the animals in his care. I doubt very much if this poor horse ever wore a blanket in cold weather, and I know that many a time a frosty bit was put into his mouth."

"Does a bit need to be warmed?" asked Robert.

"Oh, no!" said Mr. Spencer. "If it is held in cold water a few minutes the frost will come out of it, and there will be no danger of making the horse's mouth sore. The owner of this horse would never have taken the trouble to do that. His one thought was to be in the fashion. So he had poor Whitey's coat clipped, bought a curb-bit for him, and cut off his long tail."

"What a cruel man!" said Robert warmly.

"There are many others like him," said Mr. Spencer. "They do not see how helpless a horse is when his head is drawn back with an over-check or hurt by a curb-bit and when he has no chance to drive away the flies that torment him. To cut off a horse's tail not only hurts him very much at the time, but makes him miserable afterwards."

"If I were a horse and were treated like that, I'd run away," said Robert.

"That is just what old Whitey did," said Mr. Spencer. "He ran away. Then his owner sold him to a grocer."

"Our grocer is very good to his horses," said Robert. "I hope this one was, too."

"No," said Mr. Spencer. "Poor Whitey grew more and more miserable. The boys who drove the wagon whipped him and teased him. They cared little whether or not he had a good dinner, and water to drink, and time to rest at noon. At night they often forgot to rub him down, and sometimes, after a long, hard day's work, he went without his supper."

"That was mean!" Robert's voice quivered with indignation.

"One day last March," went on Mr. Spencer, "I saw the poor fellow standing in the cold wind and rain, with no blanket on. His head was down and he was shivering with cold. I could hardly believe that it was the same horse I had known a few years ago. To make a long story short, I bought him for a small sum and took him to a stable near by. There I saw him well rubbed down and fed with warm bran-mash. After a few days I brought him out here. He is very happy and comfortable, but it will take him all summer to get well. He can do only light work for the rest of his life."

"Does he need any food but hay and gra.s.s?" Robert asked, as he held out a handful of sweet clover to Whitey.

"If he were working, he should have plenty of oats," said the farmer; "and all horses need a bran-mash once a week, at least."

"Will his tail ever grow again?" asked Robert.

"No," said Mr. Spencer," but I rub him with an ointment which the flies do not like. I use it for all my horses and cows."

"I wish I could buy all the worn-out horses in the world and send them here," said Robert.

Mr. Spencer laughed. "I should need a big pasture," he said. "See the sheep in the brook, Robert! They enjoy running water as much as the cows and horses do."

"Do sheep need much care?" asked Robert, who found farm life very interesting.

"They need to be protected from stray dogs and to have a shelter from the cold and storms. Otherwise they give very little trouble. They should always keep their warm wool coats until the cold spring winds are over. Some farmers are very thoughtless about this, and their sheep and lambs suffer and die from cold. It would make your heart ache to see, as I have often seen, the little dead lambs in the bleak pastures."