A tall, grave-looking gentleman came into the room, where I sat waiting, and said he was Mr. Bergh, one of the committee-men, and then stood a minute, as if he was waiting to know what I wanted.
I had heard a great deal about the gentleman's goodness to the poor dumb beasts that are so abused and trampled on, and my heart rose right into my mouth.
"Mr. Bergh," says I, reaching out my hand, "in the name of New England, permit me to shake hands, and thank you for the good you are a-doing to so many of God's own creatures."
The gentleman smiled, and reached out his hand.
"I am glad to hear," says I, "that some old bachelor has left a lot of money to your society. It is just what I would do myself if I hadn't a hope—that is, it may be possible that all the money I have will be needed for a special occasion—as no free-born New England woman would be beholden to a foreign nation for her setting out."
Here Mr. Bergh smiled. You have no idea how much younger he looked when he did smile; the benevolence that made him a Natural History Philanthropist just shone out from his eyes, and beamed all over his face, till I longed to be—well, say a duck, or something of that sort—that he might save me from oppression.
"Thank you," says he; "most men want some object in life. You ladies have done so much for humanity that we are content to leave it in your hands, but the poor animals have up to this time escaped compassion."
"Not compassion, but assistance," says I. "Cruelty to animals is mostly confined to men."
"Not exactly," says he. "I have sometimes seen kittens and pet dogs treated more unmercifully than omnibus-horses, and by innocent children too."
I did not answer. How could I? The remembrance of a trout-brook, with birch-trees hanging over it, and great red-seeded brake-leaves growing thick on the bank, made me shudder. Hadn't I held ever so many kittens under water in that very spot, and shouted and laughed to the other girls—some of you, my sisters, among them—while the poor little things kicked and struggled for life, that was just as dear to them as it is to me? Hadn't I hunted up birds' nests, and driven the pretty creatures distracted by handling their eggs, till at last the nests were broken up? Then didn't I string the cold eggs into a chain, and hang them in triumph over the looking-glass in our keeping-room?