p. 13 | ONE WAY by Octave Thanet

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Apr 11, 1900

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 26, No. 15.

ONE WAY.

By Octave Thanet

I HAVE always been sensitive to cruelty to animals; therefore, one day some years ago, when I heard the unmistakable sickening thud of blows and a furious voice, I ran to the door. I knew what I should see, two horses with quivering nostrils and frightened eyes and straining wet flanks, a loaded wagon fast in the mire, and a man with a cruel whip lashing the horses in vain.

There they were, all three, and on the sidewalk, either side of the muddy road, the usual half dozen advisers. Advisers and man had lost their tempers.

"Don't beat those horses," shrieked a woman, "or I'll call the police!"

"It's a wicked shame to be so brutal," cried another; "you'll kill the horses!"

"Say, you'll never get out without unloading, or another pair of horses!" This from a man between the puffs of his cigar.

An undistinguishable chorus of pity and indignation made a background for these louder remarks, and, even through my own anger, I had a perception that the man was getting a drubbing as well as the horses. Not a word said he, except to his horses. But he heard, and he felt, and he grew more furious every moment. One of the poor beasts tugged with every muscle at each shout; the other had, apparently, abandoned the effort in despair, and gave no sign beyond the tremor of his limbs when the lash fell.

I felt a sting of anger and pity at the sight; and then I saw my brother coming down the street. "Now," I thought, "it will be all right. Nat will thrash him, if he does not stop." For hadn't Nat very recently returned from the University of Heidelberg, where he nearly fought a duel? It didn't even seem necessary to me, who knew how kind Nat was to dumb animals, to appeal to him; I only called, "O Nat, come here!"

He came, took in the scene in one quick glance, and then, to my intense astonishment, instead of a stern reproof and a threat to give him a thrashing with his own whip, Nat shouted in a positively friendly tone, "Want a little help?"

The man nearly dropped his whip; he stared sullenly, but with a new expression, at the speaker. In a minute Nat had turned up the rims of his new light trousers, had found two boards, and somehow got all the men on the sidewalk behind them prying the wagon out of the hole, and without another blow the horses had pulled it safely over the bad place and were on firm ground again.

"Another time you get into the mud," said Nat cheerily, "don't whip the horses; get the fellows on the sidewalk behind your wagon to help you."

"Well, I'm very much obliged to you," said the man. "I guess I got madder than I needed to."

"That was quicker than sending for the police or even beating the man, don't you think, sis?" said Nat.

Nat has forgotten all about the episode, but I have not. Many a time have I rescued a beaten animal from the whip, not by reproaching, but by helping the harassed man who was beating because he didn't know anything else that he could do.

Once, after a teamster and I, on a country road, had together pried a wagon out of the mud, I said, "Now you'll remember next time, won't you, that a stick under the wheel is better than a whip on your horse's back?" and we both smiled, while he answered, "Yes, lady, I will; but I guess I'd have gone on licking the mules if you'd 'a' scolded me instead of lending a hand."

So I suppose that the moral is that it is better to lend a hand, than to scold, and that a kind act may have a longer life than its doer's memory.—Octave Thanet.