LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2325, 16 September 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

A STORY OF A MAD DOG.

[“Chambers’ Journal.”]

A summer seldom passes that the cry o ‘ Mad dog! ’is not heard in some direction or another; and many and stringent are the police regulations put in force to guard against the perils of hydrophobia. More than one unhappy dog, innocent of anything except fright or thirst, panic at being hunted, or having lost his way or his master, has fallen a victim of mistaken zeal.

One day during last summer a pedlar woman walking along the road observed a dog belonging to the neighborhood trotting calmly before her. She knew who was his owner, and also that the animal was uot far from home. A grassy bank was beside the footpath, and in this bank was a wa«ps’ nest. The dog in passing it must have disturbed the insects, which flew out upon him, clustering around his head, and stinging him about tho ears, eyes, and nostrils. The poor animal, frightened and In pain, sprang forward, rushing on with wild contortions of agony. A policeman coming up at the moment, saw him fly past, his tongue hanging out, his eyes protruded. * Mad dog ! ’ he cried, and the poor beast was shot dead before the screaming woman, running breathlessly to the rescue, could explain what she had seen. ‘And a sore pity it was.’she raid ; ‘as honest and faithful and as handsome a dog as ever stepped before its own tail, >’ot so mad, indeed, as the man that was in such a hurry to shoot him.’ Of all the changes which modern and more enlightened times have brought about, there is none happier than that affecting the treatment of sufferers attacked with hydrophobia. The writer of this is old enough to remember bygone tragedies connected with those victims, that make one shudder. There was no hope for the unfortunates. Death was the doom; and at the first symptoms tho hapless human victims were ruthlessly destroyed; suffocation between feather beds the usual mode! An occur rence in humble Irish life—remembered still in the parish whore it took place, and for the truth of which many can vouch—will illustrate painfully the above. The narrative will be best given in the words of one of the family present at the time : Myself was in the house when it all happened, being first cousin to Mrs Ryan, the mistress. A comfortable farm it was, and she well to do; with cows and other stock in p'onty, and good land. Ryan had been dead some years, and she managed it all ; a clever, brisk, stirring woman. She’d be np and out in her dairy at three o’clock in the summer mornlngr, to get the butler off the churn in the cool of the day ; and then away across the fields to visit the cattle and oversee the laborers at tbeir work. Many a smart young fellow would have been proud to help her, and right glad to stop into Ryan’s shoes if he was let For she was pleasant to look at; as comely as she was industrious; tidy and trim, and wonderful at making and laying by money. But though she had a gay word for them all, and was biifhe and cheery as the day, they soon found that coming courting to the winsome young widow was only wasting their time, She wouldn’t listen to man or mortal, Her whole heart and life were bound np in her one child—a lovely bay. lie was the entire world to her. A fine handsome child he was ; merry as a bird, full of spirits and fun. Ele doted on his mother, and maybe she wasn’t proud of him ! As time wore on, young Ryan erew to be handy and helpful about the place, and knowlcdgabio concerning farm business. He was rising sixteen yea's old, a good rcholar, and a fine well grown active lad, when there came a wonderful hot summer, and rumors were rife about mad dogs being seen going through tho country, and of tho terrible mischief they did. r’ows were bitten, and pigs ; Christians were attacked, and a neighboring farmer lost two valuable horses, that went mad after being bitten, and had to be destroyed. People wore everywhere in d-ead and on the watch.

One morning, ju t after the h?y was gathered in and safe, herself and the boy were together in the yard, w. rking away as biuy aa bees. They were seldom asunder now ; for he had done with schooling, and they always kept one another company just like a pair of comrades. There was only nineteen years difference between the ages of the two. Talking merrily they were over their work and laughing—he was full of his jokes—when a man came tearing into the yard, crying that a mad dog was in the place, and was making straight for the field the cows were in Quick as lightning the boy ciught up a pitchfork and away with him like a shot in the field. His mother flew after him, shrieking out to him to atop, and shouting to the men to follow. Bat ho was light of foot and nimble as the dear ; and before ever a one could overtake him he had come np with the dog. The great ani mal faced savagely round upon the iad when ho made at him with the pitchfork, and bit and tore with fury. But the brave b‘-y grappled with him, and him pinned to the ground by the time the men osm-i up and gave th<- fiul h : ng stroke 1 Kow, mother dear,’he cried in glao, ‘the cows are safe! Another minute and the brute world have been into them! ’

Bet the poor mother wasn’t heeding the cows, when her darling pen, for whom she’d have given all she was worth in the wide world, was there before her eyes all blo-dy nud covered with foam from the beast’s month. She washed and bathed the bites, the boy iaughiug at her the while, and saying they wfre nothing. And nothing there was for a time But what aT dreaded and were looking out for in trembling, came at last. He knew it himself, the poor follow! It was pitiful to sot how he strove and fought manfully again-1 it ; and forced himse’f to drink, when even the eight of water or any liquid was unbearable. He’d try and try to swallow, though it strangled him No us o • he couldn t get down a drop; and the convulsions were dreadful. At length ho grow violent, and went raving mad altogether; and hand and foot they

had to tie him, to prevent hia doing himself or others a mischief.

The doctor came ; but what cou’d ho do? He was a good-natured man, and gave many a sixpence and shilling to those he knew needed nourishment more than drugs ; but no one thought much of his phj sicking, People said he had but one medicine, snd that he gave it to all alike, no matter what ailed them. Not that there was any harm in that, for it stands to reason that what would do gor’d to one Christian couldn’t be bad for another. When any of the quality were sick, they sent right away off to the city for the grand doctor there ; but our parish man was good enough for the poor. Anyhow, not all the doctors ia creation could bo of any nsa to the dear young master. There was but one thing for him—Pis doom was sealed.

And now the question was, how it was to bo done Three ways were spoken of. To smother him between two feather beds ; or else carry him down to the river and drown him ; or to open a vein and let him bleed away to death. The mother wouldn’t hoar of the smothering. When it was proposed to her, you’d think she'd go cut of her senses. Indeed, for the matter of that, it was much the same whatever plan was talked of j they couldn’t drag consent out of her to any one of them. God help her 1 ’twas a cruel strait to be in. At lest and after much long debate, it was settled that a vein should bo opened ; and when It was done, the poor fellow—laid upon a bed of straw in an outhouse in the yard—was left to die !

Oh, but that was the day of woe 1 The misery of it, and the despair of the distracted mother, if I was talking till doomsday I couldn’t describe. Her neighbors and cousins and the lad’s ancles flocked in, and were all gathered round her in tho best parlor, striving to comfort her. They made strong tea, in hopes to get her to swallow some. They tried to raise bur heart, telling her of the grand funeral he’d have—hundreds and hundreds coming to it from far and near —the handsomest c-flin money could buy, real oak, with brass ornaments; and such a wake as was never soon in the country before ; no expense spared ! But you might as well talk to the dead lu tho clay she didn’t hear a word, but sit there without tear or moan—only her mouth working with the agony within—just a froze-up, stony image of Despair 1 And you’d hardly know her, she was so changed. The bright smooth comely face all drawn and wrinkled liko an old crone’s, and ghastly pale. Sure it was wonder, when all she loved upon earth was dripping out his young life within a stone’sthrow of her. When they saw it was of no use, they let the poor woman alone. A gloomy silence fell upon the sorrowful company as they sat there waiting—waiting for the end. The minutes seemed like hours There was no stir except when now and then some one would whisper under his breath about tho dying boy ; how pleasant he was, and gay; how generous and open handed he’d been.

Bat no matter how sorrowful the house, or what woe and misery are within the walls, the business of life outside must go on. So when milking-time came, Kitty M'Oabe the dairy woman—though the heart in her body was breaking—slipped out to call the milk girls and see to the cows. Coming baok through the yard when the milking was dene, she had to pass by the outhouse where they had laid the boy, and for the life of her she couldn’t help stopping to try and listen how it was with him, and whether he was in heaven yet. There was no s'jund. Strict orders had been given that no one was to go in ; but the door w;s not locked, and she th ught she’d just give it a small shove and take one look.

It was an old crazy door, contrary and i 1-fitting, and at tho first push it gave a great shriek and made so sharp a noise that she was frightened and tried to puil it back again. The sight, too, of the blood trickling upon the floor made her giddy and sick. ‘ls that you, Kitty M’Cabe? ’ came in a weak faint whisper from the far end. Her heart leaped up at the voice she never thought to hear again, ‘Ay Is it, my life ! my darlin’! my jewel o’ the world, ’ and she pushed in, never heeding the orders against it, or the trouble and disgrace she was bringing on herself. * Oh, Kitty, I’m lost with the thirst. Have you any milk ? ’ *To be sure I have, darliut —lashius,’ and she ran and filled a jagful. He drained it every drop and then he called for more. ‘ I’m better now, but weak as water. Untie me Kitty, and I’ll just try to sit up. Don’t be afraid. Some more mi'know ; it is doing me good.’ He struggled up, and leaned the poor white face against her shoulder while she put the jug to his lips. They were pale as a corpse’s; as if every drop of his blood had run out The milk seemed to revive him. She thought he’d never stop drieking. After a while he said, ‘ Go now, Kitty, and tell my mother I’m well—quite well. Something has cured me. Or st >p. I’ll try and go myself if I’m able She won’t be frightened, will she, and think it’s my ghost?’

‘ Heart’s darlin’—’tie clean wild with the joy she’ll be. But stay, jewel, till I’ve bound mo handkerchief tight over against the cruel cut. Tho.e now, masther d^ar.’ ‘Reach me over that big stick in tho corner, and I’ll lean down upon you, Kitty, and make shift somehow to creep along;’ and, supported by the woman, he began with feeble footsteps to totter acoss the ya d Roused by a cry from one of the company, his mother looked up, and caught sight of the hoy helped past the window. Staggering blindly in, he fell into her outstretched arms ; and as they closed convulsively round his half fainting form, and she held him folded to her breast—fast looked and strained to her —all who were present and looked on knew that she would never part him more. And she never did. Prom that day out, sign or symptom of tho madness never appeared ; though he was long in recovering his strength, and had to be nursed and tended like an infant. He had, you see, bled such a power, that It was the world’s work to bring him to. When the doctor fixed up tho cut, ho was a’moat gone. A minute more, and ’twould have been too late The doctor said that all the poison of the dog’s bite had flowed away out of him with the blood; but what did ho know ? Anyhow, there wasn’t a healthier or a handsomer or a finer man than himself in tho whole barony when he came to his full age ; over six feat in his stocking vamps, and broad shouldered in proportion. But it was remarked by every one that his mother was never the same after that terrible day when he was laid in the outhouse to die.