animals, because it is right to do so, but I don’t see why selfish people don’t see that it pays to take care of their creatures. Why, horses are worth a lot of money.”
“I know that,” I said, “but some persons are so unthinking that the strong arm of the law has to beat wisdom into them.”
“What was the beautiful thing that happened to the pony?”
“Well, I must tell you his life history. When he was young, he was very, very small, and was named Tiny Tim. His first master was a rich man who made such a pet of him that Tim was treated more like a dog than a pony. He used to go in his master’s home and walk up and down stairs, and when a servant came to put him out he would hide under the cloth on a big table.”
“He must have been very small to do that.”
“Yes, he says he was about as big as a Great Dane. He never walked in the street like the horses. He always went on the sidewalk. But when he grew older and larger he had to live with the horses and carry the children on his back. When he was tiny they used to play with
him, and he says he would butt them, as if he were a little goat, and knock them over.
“Time went by, and the rich man lost his money and Tiny Tim had to be sold. He passed from one poor owner to another, till at last he became the property of this old man who collected junk. Chummy says all the sparrows knew that pony and pitied him, for they saw that he had known better days. He always went along with his head hanging down. He was ashamed and unhappy, and he scarcely had strength to drag around the shaky old cart that he was harnessed to. Tiny Tim of course did not like this poor place he was kept in, but the junk man could not afford a better one. Tim had only an armful of damp bedding, and Chummy says it was pitiful to see him standing with his little head down, the water from the leaky roof dripping on him, mud oozing from between the planks under his hoofs, and his lip curling over the messy hay before him.
“One morning early this winter Chummy says the rats who live in the barn spread the news that Tiny Tim had been adopted. It seems that very late the night before, when Tim
was sagging back to the old barn, for the junk man’s wife had insisted on going for a drive after working hours, he—that is, Tim—fell right over here in the street. Now you may have noticed that there is a military hospital near us.”