Our Obligations to the Dumb Animals.
By Mrs. Edith Degan
SOME months ago Dewey & Co., of the Pacific Rural Press, San Francisco, offered a prize to the ladies of Alameda county for the best essay on "Our Obligations to the Dumb Animals," to be competed for under the auspices of the Oakland Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. There were eight competitors. The prize, a handsome framed steel plate engraving "The Wounded Hound," is awarded to Mrs. Edith Degan, wife of Prof. Degan, of the Classical Institute, Oakland. The following is Mrs. Degan's prize essay:— Nine persons out of ten will agree in giving tenderness as high a place among the essentials of the womanly character as they assign to courage among manly qualities. The quiet path in which the lives of most women lie—the one which leads to the greatest hight, and from which we see most widely and most clearly; the path of home and wifehood and motherhood—tends to develop this characteristic. Woman's tenderness is not weakness, but strength. Its charm lies in the fact that it flows towards those who are more or less dependent upon the giver, and it is therefore most charming when bestowed on little children. Nor is tenderness wanting in those women to whom this sweet home life is denied. We often see it lavished on what we call unworthy objects, for with most women the desire to bestow affection is irresistable, and the love which would, under different circumstances, be given to husband and children, is still forced to flow, though in these narrow channels. Tenderness is a natural quality, though one capable of and demanding development. Courage may be either physical or moral. In either case it will meet evil bravely, oppose it mightily, or, if need be, endure it patiently. Man's life and work develop this quality as woman's surroundings develop her tenderness. His work lies outside of home. He goes into the world to make his mark there; to fight for existence. He needs, for his daily task, all the courage he can command—courage to resist the temptation and wrong which meet him on every side—to fight for the oppressed, and to keep cheerfully at work when the days look dark. Home is his resting place, and in its change and quiet and tenderness, he finds his strength renewed for to-morrow's battle. The highest development of character, either in man or in woman, depends upon the combination of these qualities in one and the same person. The man who can best lead an army into battle, who can stand in the thickest of the fight with a courage which is sublime, is the same man who, in the calm which succeeds contest, can stoop to look into dying eyes to receive last words from dying lips. And the woman who most tenderly fondles her little ones is the same, who, in great and sudden crises, can summon to her aid a courage which is simply marvelous. Our tenderness is commonly measured by the helplessness of the recipient. The ordinary tone in which we address our fellowmen is wonderfully softened when we speak to little children, and baby ears should only hear the cooing whispers which lessen the distance between heaven's music and earth's discords. So with courage. Friend fights for friend, and fights nobly. But compare this friend with a father defending his children. Who stands the stronger? The helplessness of those we benefit spurs us on to mighty efforts; it keeps us patient and tender when we are tempted to be harsh and irritable; it sustains us in resisting evils and dangers which we could not conquer were we fighting for ourselves alone. Must it all end here? Are there no calls for the exercise of these qualities save from our fellow men and from our children? All around us is constantly ascending the cry of the oppressed against the oppressor—the old, old cry, uttered when the world was young. Again and again it sounds in our ears and moves our hearts to pity. But there are other oppressed ones from whom no cry ascends—who have no word to tell their sufferings—the great army of dumb creatures. Few eyes shed tears for them; few hearts are heavy with the thought of their distress; few hands are stretched forth to relieve them. For very thoughtlessness our sympathies cease with humanity. Beyond that line we think there is no call for active pity. And yet among that silent throng are the most helpless of God's creatures. To us, the stronger, the more gifted ones, belongs the duty of caring for these. With most of us the attention given them is proportionate to the benefits we receive from them. A horse or a cow is well sheltered and well fed because this care brings to the owner just so much comfort or just so many dollars and cents; because they cannot afford to neglect them. This is hardly fulfilling the obligations placed upon us by Him who gave man dominion over all His other works. That gift brought its responsibilities—responsibilities which we dare not shirk. Because we have a certain power of making life yield good or evil, we are bound to call forth all the good we can, not only for ourselves, but for all creatures. And besides food and shelter, a proper amount of rest is necessary to the well-being of a working beast as to that of a working man. The night's rest and the seventh day belong to all. Statistics prove that the horse or ox who works seven days in the week breaks down sooner than the one who receives his due share of rest. In short, practical fellowmen, it does not pay to be unmerciful to one's beast. Now and then, when we can spare him, let us give an animal a holiday outside of stable doors. He will thank us, in his own way, doubtless, and such thanks are not to be despised. So much for the three essentials—food, shelter, and rest. Besides these there are a hundred little ways in which we can minister to an animal's comfort. We can do infinitely more in preventing pain than in making reparation after we have inflicted it. Small words and deeds of kindness will soon win an animal's friendship. These kindnesses are owed. And they are owed not only to those animals who work for us, but to every creature endowed with the power to suffer and enjoy. By a universal law, made not by men, but for them, we are bound to relieve misery; to bestow good wherever we can. Then let us summon all our courage and take up arms for the oppressed; fight for the weak—against the strong; plead for those who cannot plead for themselves. Let us call up all our tenderness and bestow it where it is surely needed—on the suffering, the helpless, and the silent.