Tommy Hurst had had a bad day. It had begun crookedly; he had been late in waking, and, instead of taking a good shower, he had only splashed his face and neck, and so had failed to wash away any of the sleep-cobwebs. They were thick on him when he went out to milk. He hustled the little Jersey cow into the bail, helping her to hurry with a heavy clod that caught her on the flank and made her shake her pretty head with pain. Everything went wrong.
He was too late to take Rags, his Irish terrier, off the chain. Rags was new to the country, andhad not learned manners about
sheep. There were young lambs in the next paddock, so he had to be kept tied up unless Tommy were with him. He yelped dolefully as his little master ran off to school-a sulky-looking master to-day, his boots half-laced, and his lessons half learned.
The day went from bad to worse. It was hot and muggy, and the little country schoolhouse was like an oven. Tommy"s brain simply would not work. All the lessons went wrong. He was " kept in "at the end of the weary afternoon to wrestle with sums that seemed made not of figures, but of nasty little demons that refused to add or divide themselves. The teacher was hot and tired, even as Tommy. It was nearly six when he trailed dismally into the yard at home.
"Hurry up ! " came his father"s voice, sharply. "I"ve bailed up Silver for you; you"ve just time to milk her before tea. "Tommy milked, roughly enough; the flies were trouble- some, and Silver fidgeted and switched her tail perpetually. Once it caught him across the face, and he shouted angrily at her. Rags greeted him with a delighted yelp as he went past with his bucket : but Tommy scarcely glanced at him, and the little dog lay down with drooping ears and a wistful look.
"I"ve fed Rags; but he has been wanting you badly, " said his mother, who was an understanding person. " Your tea is in the oven, laddie; wash your hands quickly. "Tommy did not want his tea. He tried to eat it, but his mouth was dry, and there was a lump in his throat that made swallowing difficult. He drank a great deal; then he went tohis room and sat down on his bed. The pillow looked cool and inviting: he put his head down, meaning to stay just for a moment. But his heavy eyelids drooped, and suddenly he was asleep.
He opened his eyes and sat up. Instead of the hot little room, he was in a wide, green paddock, where clover made a dense mat under his feet. There were trees everywhere, wide and spreading, giving patches of cool shade; a little stream wandered here and there, sometimes running between rocks clustered about with maidenhair and ferns, sometimes rippling over hard, yellow gravel. It was a very pleasant place. He could see no one, and yet he felt that there were eyes watching him everywhere. Somehow he knew that they were gentle, kindly eyes. And the air was full of low, happy bird-songs.
"My word, this is a jolly place! " Tommy said. "Yes; isn"t it? " said a voice near him.
Tommy whirled round at the sound of a slow step that rustled the clover. An old grey mare had come out of the shade of a tree, and was looking at him with something like a twinkle in her eyes. She nodded her wise old head.
"You needn"t be afraid, " she said. "No one will hurt you- this is the place where no one is ever hurt. We call it the Quiet Land. ""But who lives here? " Tommy asked. "Whose place is it? " "This is the Fairy Goodheart"s out-station, " said the greymare. "She keeps it as a home for Poor Tired Things-all the animals that die because you humans don"t understand how totreat them and to keep them happy. Sometimes-but this is a secret-she lets some of us die before our time, so that we may get here sooner. That is wonderfully good luck for us. There"s one who came yesterday-poor thing, he"s still tired. " She nodded towards a tree.
Tommy, looking into its shade, saw a bay pony, lying down; a pretty little fellow with a black mane and a lean, well-made head.
Drawn by John Rowell
"She nodded her wise old head. "
"He was a hawker"s pony, " said the old mare. " You know how some of them live : used every day of the week for work, and taken out for pleasure jaunts on Sunday; overloaded; with badly fitting shoes, and harness that doesn"t even try to be a fit-the sort that gives sore shoulders and girth-galls; dirty stables, and cheap, poor feed; not enough water: and ill- balanced loads. No wonder he"s tired, poor fellow! But he"ll be frisky enough in a day or two now. "A flock of birds whirred past and settled in a bush. Tommy glanced up inquiringly.
"Starlings, " said the old mare. " Two hundred of them. They were sent to one of your gun clubs in Melbourne to be shot, packed in such a tiny box that, when they got to the end of their journey, all but eleven were dead; and those eleven died as soon as they were taken out. Oh, we get scores and scores of birds; fowls crowded into crates so low that they can"t stand upright, and left for days, crouching, without food or water; pigeons wounded in the gun-club shoots, and left to die in agony; pet birds kept in tiny cages, exposed to heat and rain; broken-hearted mother-birds, whom nest- hunting boys have robbed of all their babies. Isn"t it a good thing they can come here and forget all about humans? "Tommy hung his head.
"I never thought-- " he began.
"Lots of humans never think, " said the old mare. "Look at those calves-jolly little chaps, aren"t they? They were jammed into a truck too small for them and sent up-country-a day"sdelay here, another there, and no food or water; and the calves are only babies. That little creamy pony was so cruelly handled while they were trucking him that his leg was hurt; and then they put him in a truck with big horses, and he got down, and never got up again. There"s an old cow that died from being over-driven; and another was kicked so often in the milking- yard that she was very glad when she got bogged in a creek. Why, they"re all coming to look at you, Tommy ! "They were coming from every side; horses, cows, sheep, dogs-all pressing in with their sad eyes and gentle, patient faces. Birds fluttered about in hundreds, unafraid; cats that had been starved frisked near. And little TommyDrawn by John Rowell
"He sat up, his head whirling. "
Hurst, who was just an average boy, looked at them all with burning cheeks because he was a human. A little Irish terrier came near and licked his hand; and, looking down, Tommycried out, "It"s Rags! Why- Rags! "
"Did you know him? " asked the old mare. "How queer! He was one of the poor things always chained up. Did you ever think what that must be like?-always with the drag of a chain, with stale food and warm, dusty water; with your throat always sore and dry from barking and fretting; and with the flies making life a misery. In England they can fine a human or send him to gaol for keeping a dog on the chain, I"m told; but Australia"s a free country-for humans. " The old mare stamped her foot, suddenly angry. "I"d like to make them feel ! " she exclaimed.
Rags crept near, and licked Tommy"s hand.
******
Tommy woke up suddenly. The room was dark, save for the moonlight. He sat up, his head whirling. He thought he saw about him still the patient faces of his dream. Then he tore through the house, running into his father.
"What on earth-! " said Mr. Hurst. "It"s long past your bed- time, Tommy-go at once. ""Father, I can"t! " said Tommy, desperately. "Let me go,please! it"s bright moonlight. Rags hasn"t been off the chain all day. " He fled wildly; and Mr. Hurst, looking after him with a smile, heard the yelp of rapture with which Rags sprang to meet his master.
Mary Grant Bruce
Author.-For Mrs. Mary Grant Bruce, see notes to " A Lover of the Bush. "General.-This little story was written by Mrs. Bruce in 1925 at therequest of the Melbourne Society for the Protection of Animals. Where do you think the scene is laid? What were Tommy"s faults? What were his good points? Do " homes for poor tired things " actually exist? What cruelties of human beings to animals are mentioned? How could they be remedied?
