A man must not only be humane to his wife, he has gone but a little farther than the brute if he has not got farther than that, — but he must be humane to his hired man, his cows, his dog, and companionable with his horse. He must recognize the rights of the dumb brutes of the barnyard, he must realize the mighty sweep of that law of rectitude that includes the very chickens in his doorway and the squirrels that play in the tree-tops. Then it will not be difficult to protect our children from the cruelties of the factory and our women from the degradations of the sweat-shop. The Apocalyptic dreams of man rest upon a revelation written in the humble text of the kennel and the dove-cote; aye, farther down, in the petals of the lily, the roots of the rose. Beneath the roots in the clay and sand and the filtering raindrop, the enlightened soul reads the antediluvian message that speaks of the primeval sanctity underneath all things, the eternal God that was, is, and shall be, "in whom we live, move, and have our being."

There is another link in this story of Jess which I give, not only for completeness' sake, but because it adds another illustration of the

silent companionship that binds man to beast, the horse to his rider. For many years I have been the recipient of occasional letters, searching scraps from newspapers, and other reachings after fellowship, from one who was drawn to me through the columns of the paper it is my task and privilege to edit. They come from a veteran of the Union army, a broken brother, a comrade who has passed through the terrible fire of the battles which are the price of mental as well as of physical freedom. Through the long years that have elapsed since the terrible day at Stone River, when the fragment of a shell did its fell work upon the mystic brain tissues that are the trysting places of thought, this comrade and brother has been pathetically waiting for the release that death brings from pain and solitude. Through the rifts in the cloud that overhangs his mind he has been sending me messages, often written on stray scraps of paper. Sometimes the thought is incoherent, oftentimes the writing is illegible. The communications come now from asylum, now from hospital, and again from a soldiers' home as far removed as possible from the inhospitalities of our northern climate.

While in the midst of the first preparation of

my sketch of Jess, I received from this pathetic source a weird contribution to my discourse. A note bearing date of June 5th, 1894, came from a distant southern city addressed to the "Editor of Unity." It said: "Fearing you might not get my horse's photograph, I got out of bed, forced food down a parched throat, and came over a mile through the hot sun to secure the mailing of this. Unity has been my food while I have been dying, crayfish fashion, and I want you to get the picture." The next day an express package arrived, containing the tin-type of a spirited horse, bridled and saddled with a military outfit. The picture was accompanied with various unsuccessful attempts at composition; but among the papers were two tolerably clear letters addressed to Jess, purporting to be written to her by the spirit of "Frank Wood," the transfigured horse of this long-suffering soldier of the Union army. The only knowledge my correspondent could have had of the silent companion of my midsummer wayfaring was through such hints as only a careful reader could glean from the columns of Unity. Perhaps in these weeks there may have been a touch of weariness discoverable in the editorial columns. Perhaps the approach

D

ing midsummer rest provoked the quaint fancies embodied in these letters. Evidently at the time of writing he did not know that Jess, too, had passed over to the great majority, and had joined his "Frank Wood" in whatever heaven there may be in store for faithful horses. The first letter to Jess bore the date of May 5, 1894, showing that for more than a month his mind had been brooding upon the memories of his horse and his fancies concerning mine. The first letter ran

"DEAR JESS:

I hear your master is sick. you to be kinder to him than I was to mine.

Now I want

I send you my

tin-type taken in Nashville in 1863. Your master has been kind to my master. My master was kind to me. Often he took his gum cover off for me in the storm.

Instead of throwing my

cut them in little pieces One day, just as the

ears of corn on the ground he would for me and feed me out of his hand. sun was lingering on Lookout Mountain, master rode out beyond Waldon's Ridge to a lone grave marked by a wooden head-board. He knelt by it and cried as though a great storm pressed on him. I laid my nose on his shoulder and whinnied. I had often seen him go to the sick friend there buried. was a gentle spirit crushed to the earth, not killed by a foe. Poor master seemed to wish he was there, but he was to live to see a beautiful home made desolate. Dear Jess, we bear our burdens on the outside, they on the inside. Thank God for being a brute. Be kind, be gentle, be obedient. As a run

He

ning soldier of the regular army said to my master, . Our glory here when alive, yours there when dead. So I run.' So our suffering is here, theirs there. Be as you wish I had

been.

"P. S. Do you know I brutes' have the best time.

"FRANK WOOD.

think that we whom men call We are of money value; are We bear our burdens on our backs, they in We have no fear of the future. Our all is now.

Our bodies

taken care of. their hearts. Their now is nothing. Their all is in the future. may suffer for want of oats and hay, as so many of our kind did at Stone River; their souls starve for something far away that they value more than now."

The second letter bore the date of July 4th, 1898, and was evidently composed in anticipation of the patriotic celebration. It ran thus:

JESS :- Although I have long been home in heaven I send you a message on this Liberty Day. Your master is working for a greater liberty than you celebrate. Thirty years ago master and I were in Nashville, Tennessee. Master talked to a captain who was at Vicksburg thirty-one years ago. He said he was so weary and hungry he did not care to dodge the shell the blue-coats fired at the gray. Another captain told of his Vicksburg experience. He had been up two nights, and when he asked for relief he was given one hour in which to sleep. When these human bipeds suffer so much for liberty, we quadrupeds ought to help them. Your master is fighting in