THE SAMARITAN by Ruth Lawrence

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Mar 5, 1896

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 22, No. 10.

THE SAMARITAN.

By Ruth Lawrence

BY RUTH LAWRENCE.

THERE was an excitement in the tenement when Mikey moved in, for he brought a yellow dog that annoyed the people on his "floor."

The dog was of no special kind, except, perhaps, the lucky-dog variety; but his master loved him, altho he defied classification.

He was a commonplace dog, with the commonplace name of Jim. He had little originality and not a spark of genius; in short, he was a plain, everyday fellow.

He annoyed the people on his floor simply because he was a dog, and their affections were centered in the fairest specimen of cat-hood in the alley—a dainty Persian puss, whose early days had been spent basking among flowers in the land of Omar Khayyam. She was an aristocrat au bout des griffes, and quite intolerant of Jim’s mongrel ways. Amasia, for so she was called, had come to this country with a nautical character nearly allied to her present owner’s. The nautical relative often called when in town, and created quite a sensation in the alley, for he wore two earrings, and a sailor is only entitled to one.

The canine and feline neighbors were not friendly. When Jim wished to go downstairs, Amasia would mount guard on the top step and refuse to let him pass. When Jim, being once down, desired to return, Amasia would block the way and impede his progress. Often a passage of arms was the result. Jim had enough of the gentleman in him (a King Charles strain—how blood will tell!) not to fight a lady, but Amasia gave no quarter; she was feminine, and she was oriental.

Mikey and Tom, scions of two mighty houses of Hibernia, were forced daily to run to the landing and separate the combatants.

It was “unreasonable,” according to Tom, for Mikey not to admit that his dog caused the trouble. Tom was “pig-headed,” said Mikey, not to acknowledge that it was the fault of his cat.

Thus matters stood for nearly a year.

Jim bore many a scar inflicted by the beautiful Amasia, who looked so white and gentle as she drowsed upon the window-sill that no one in the world would have believed her capable of malice.

It was winter, cold, bleak, and drear. Jim was jogging home in the chill of a dull afternoon. Snow, mud, and slush, that grimy compound that marks the wake of a great city’s traffic, blocked the streets. People hurried up and down, reviling the weather. Jim was hungry, tired, and a little out of sorts. Presently a shout of fiendish glee rent the icy air, and down the street, pell-mell, sped a troop of lusty, red-cheeked boys in eager pursuit of a cat. A volley of snowballs, sharp sticks, and bits of ice, a very artillery of youth’s invention, went whizzing through the air.

And the victim?—Poor Amasia, lame, bleeding, and “besprent with mire,” who would have recognized in you the sleek darling of the kitchen?

“Catch her, boys; catch her,” cried one of her tormentors, as he flung a heavy missile.

Amasia, faint with fright, looked wildly for some way of escape, but there was no retreat. The boys were close upon her, and she paused, dazed and exhausted, as a milk cart came rumbling down the street. Then the boys saw Jim.

“Sick ’im!” they screamed, still pelting the unfortunate cat; “sick ’im!”

With one bound Jim reached the center of the street in time to drag the helpless Amasia from beneath the cart wheels. Taking her by the neck, as he had seen a cat carry her kitten, he leaped past the astonished boys, and ran until he gained the alley.

They found him licking her wounds and trying to soothe her in his poor, clumsy way. He was tender, even if he was stupid.

Years have come and gone; both are now quite old, but the friendship then begun has never waned.

Their owners dwell in unity; peace reigns on the top floor of the tenement.

As for Jim and Amasia, you may see them sunning themselves in the alley any warm spring day, when the hand-organ season has set in and the venders are calling, “Strawberries.”—Our Dumb Friends.