He returned to his work in England, and found time to write several books, which had a wide circulation and did much good. Such were the demands for his services that only a small percentage of the requests could be acceded to, but he led a busy life and exerted much influence for good.
In 1914 he was taken ill, and a year later he had to retire from active work. This was a great trial to one who so loved his work, but he gradually became weaker. He died on March 30th, 1918, and his passing was regretted by thousands throughout the world. Members of the British Parliament, mayors, aldermen and councillors of London and the provinces joined the bereaved family in the church and placed flowers upon his grave. All were glad to honour the memory of one who, though he had started life under heavy handicaps, had made his life one of blessing and usefulness to a vast number of people.
CHAPTER XIV.
A DONKEY BOY WHO BECAME A FAMOUS SCULPTOR.
A few miles from the city of Sheffield in England there is a little village named Norton. It was on a tiny farm, near this village, that Francis Chantrey was born on April 7th, 1781. He learned the alphabet at home, and then at the age of six he went to the village school. The old school register is still in existence. It shows that he began to read in April 1787; to write in January, 1788; and to learn arithmetic in October, 1792. The register also shows that Francis often missed school; often for weeks and months at a time. Children were not compelled to attend school in those days, and as his parents were poor, it seems likely that Francis worked around the farm, driving cattle and working hard in the fields.
In those days the city of Sheffield was supplied with milk from the outlying farms. The milk was put into barrels, and two barrels were slung across a donkey's back, one to balance the other. The barrels had taps and the milk was drawn off into tins for house-to-house delivery. Many of the small boys, who drove the donkeys, became notorious for mischief. Often a donkey would refuse to budge an inch, and then the young driver would apply the whip with all his might, while the ass would fix its forelegs into the ground and throw up its hind legs in an effort to dislodge the driver. Very often there would be so much jumping around that the milk must have been nearly churned into butter.
One morning Francis Chantrey was sauntering along with his donkey when he came across a cat sitting on a wall. He made friends with pussy, and seeing a hollow place in the wall, he poured in some milk, and watched the cat drink. Next morning when he came to the same place the cat was there waiting for her breakfast, and he was so pleased that he gave her another supply. That continued for a long time. Each morning—no matter what the weather was—pussy was at her place by the hollow in the wall, and Francis never failed to pet her and leave a supply of milk.
He called his donkey "Jock", and one day when he had delivered all his milk in the city, he was returning with the week's supply of groceries, when Jock stopped to drink at a pool by the side of the road. The donkey found the water so cool and refreshing that before Francis Chantrey had time to prevent him, he slid down into the water, groceries and all. He was just about to roll over and over, when his young master made him get up. As it was, all the tea, sugar and other groceries were soaked, and it was a cross boy who tried to recover what he could from the pond with a rake.
Sometimes when Francis walked by the side of Jock to and from Sheffield, he would amuse himself by whittling a stick with his pocket-knife. One day he was doing this when a gentleman met him, and examined his work, and then asked what it was. "It is the head of Old Fox," said Francis, whose schoolmaster was named Fox. The man thought the carving was so good that he gave Francis sixpence, and that was the first money he ever earned by his carving.
The boy loved drawing pictures, and as the floor of his humble home was of stones, or flags as they are called in English farmhouses, he used to draw pictures upon the floor each Saturday before his mother scrubbed the floor. No doubt his mother often thought the drawings were so good that it was a shame to wash them off.