What Florence Nightingale Did When a Girl.
We have just read a most interesting account of an incident in Florence Nightingale’s girlhood. Some boys had thrown stones at a valuable shepherd dog belonging to an old Scotch shepherd and broken its leg, and it was decided that it would be a mercy to kill the poor animal, when Florence Nightingale came upon the scene, and here we begin the story:— The little girl went fearlessly up to where he lay, saying in a soft, caressing tone, “Poor Cap, Poor Cap.” It was enough; he looked up with his speaking brown eyes, now bloodshot and full of pain, into her face, and did not resent it when, kneeling down beside him, she stroked with her little ungloved hand the large, intelligent head. To the vicar he was rather less amenable, but by dint of coaxing at last allowed him to touch and examine the wounded leg, Florence persuasively telling him it was “all right.” Indeed, she was on the floor beside him, with his head on her lap, keeping up a continuous murmur, much as a mother does over a sick child. “Well,” said the vicar, rising from his examination, “as far as I can tell there are no broken bones; the leg is badly bruised—it ought to be fomented to take the inflammation and swelling down.” “How do you foment?” asked Florence. “With hot cloths dipped in boiling water,” answered the vicar. “Then that’s quite easy. I’ll stay here and do it. Now, Jimmy, get sticks and make the kettle boil.” There was no hesitation in the child’s manner; she was told what ought to be done, and she set about doing it as a simple matter of course. “But they will be expecting you at home,” said the vicar. “But if you tell them I’m here,” answered Florence; “and my sister and one of the maids can come and fetch me home in time for tea; and,” she hesitated, “they had better bring some old flannel and cloths, there does not seem to be much here; but you will wait and show me how to foment, won’t you?” “Well, yes,” said the vicar, carried away by the quick energy of the little girl. And soon the fire was lit and the water boiling. An old smoke frock of the shepherd’s had been discovered in a corner, which Florence had deliberately torn in pieces, and to the vicar’s remark, “What will Roger say?” she answered, “We’ll give him another.” And so Florence Nightingale made her first compress, and spent the whole of that bright spring day in nursing her first patient—the shepherd’s dog. In the evening, when Roger came, not expecting to find visitors in his humble cottage, and dangling a bit of cord in his hand, Florence went up to him. “You can throw that away, Roger,” she said; “your dog won’t die; look at him!” And Cap rose and crawled toward his master, whining with pleasure. “Deary me! deary me! what have you done with him? He could not move this morning when I left him.” Then Florence told Roger and explained the mode of treatment. “You have only to go on to-night, and to-morrow he will be almost well, the vicar says.” And smiling brightly she continued, “Mrs. Norton has promised to see to Cap to-morrow when you are out, so now you need not kill him; he will be able to do his work again.” “Thank you kindly, Missy, I do, indeed,” said the old man huskily. “It went hard with me to do away with him; but what can a poor man do?” And putting out his hand he stroked the dog. “I’ll see to him, Missy, now as I know what’s to be done,” and he stood his crook in the corner and hung his cap on the peg. Then Florence took her leave, stroking and petting the dog to the last, and those who, standing in the cottage door, watched her disappear, little thought they were gazing upon one whose mission would be to tend the sick and wounded on many a battle-field, and how, in years to come, men dying far away from home would raise themselves upon their pillows to “kiss her shadow as it passed them.”—Our Dumb Animals.