[adapted]

by
Mark Twain

Chapter I

My father was a St. Bernard, my mother was a collie, but I am a Presbyterian. This is what my mother told me, I do not know these small differences myself. To me they are only big fancy words that mean nothing. My mother liked such things; she liked to say them, and see other dogs look surprised and jealous, as if wondering how she got so much learning. But, really, it was not real learning; it was only for show: she got the words by listening in the dining room and living room when guests were there, and by going with the children to Sunday school and listening there; and whenever she heard a big word she repeated it to herself many times, and so could remember it until there was a dog meeting in the neighborhood, then she would say it, and surprise and upset them all, from tiny pup to mastiff, which made it worth all her trouble.

If there was a stranger he was almost sure to be suspicious, and when he was calm again he would ask her what it meant. And she always told him. He did not expect this but thought he would catch her; so when she told him, he was the one that looked ashamed, but he had thought it was going to be her. The others were always waiting for this, and glad about it and proud of her, for they knew what was going to happen, because they had had experience. When she told the meaning of a big word they were all so full of admiration that it never came into any dog’s mind to doubt if it was the right one; and that was natural, because, for one thing, she answered so quickly that it seemed like a dictionary speaking, and for another thing, where could they find out if it was right or not? for she was the only educated dog there was.

After a while, when I was older, she brought home the word Unintellectual, one time, and used it a lot all the week at different meetings, making much unhappiness and sadness; and it was at this time that I noticed that during that week she was asked for the meaning at eight different meetings, and gave a new meaning every time, which showed me that she had more quick thinking than learning, though I said nothing, of course. She had one word which she always kept ready, like a life jacket, a kind of emergency word to put on when she was likely to be washed overboard suddenly — that was the word Synonymous.

When she happened to bring out a long word which people had used weeks before and the meanings she had learned had gone to her trash pile, if there was a stranger there of course it made him dizzy for a couple of minutes, then he would be okay again, and by that time she would be away, moving on to another idea, and not expecting anything; so when he would call and ask her to explain, I (the only dog who knew her trick) could see her sail shake for a moment — but only just a moment — then it would fill out tight and full, and she would say, as calm as a summer’s day, “It means the same as supererogation,” or some awful long snake of a word like that, and go calmly about and move on to the next idea, perfectly comfortable, you know, and leave that stranger looking angry and embarrassed, and the ones who knew slapping the floor with their tails together and their faces changed with a holy joy.

And it was the same with phrases. She would bring home a whole phrase, if it had a great sound, and use it six nights and two day shows, and explain it a new way every time — which she had to, because all she cared for was the phrase; she wasn’t interested in what it meant, and knew those dogs weren’t smart enough to understand her, anyway. Yes, she was something! She got so she wasn’t afraid of anything, she was so sure those creatures did not know much. She even brought little stories that she had heard the family and the dinner guests laugh and shout over; and usually she put the point of one old joke onto another old joke, where, of course, it didn’t fit and had no point; and when she gave the point she fell over and rolled on the floor and laughed and barked in the craziest way, while I could see that she was asking herself why it didn’t seem as funny as it did when she first heard it. But no harm was done; the others rolled and barked too, secretly ashamed of themselves for not seeing the point, and never guessing that the fault was not with them and there wasn’t any to see.

You can see by these things that she was of a rather proud and silly character; still, she had good qualities, and enough to make up for it, I think. She had a kind heart and gentle ways, and never kept hard feelings for wrongs done to her, but put them easily out of her mind and forgot them; and she taught her children her kindly way, and from her we learned also to be brave and quick in time of danger, and not to run away, but face the danger that threatened friend or stranger, and help him the best we could without stopping to think what it might cost us. And she taught us not by words only, but by example, and that is the best way and the most sure and the most lasting. Why, the brave things she did, the wonderful things! she was just a soldier; and so quiet about it — well, you couldn’t help admiring her, and you couldn’t help copying her; not even a King Charles spaniel could remain completely mean when with her. So, as you see, there was more to her than her education.

Chapter II

When I was fully grown, at last, I was sold and taken away, and I never saw her again. She was very sad, and so was I, and we cried; but she comforted me as well as she could, and said we were sent into this world for a good reason, and must do our tasks without complaining, accept our life as we find it, live it for the good of others, and not worry about the results; they were not our business. She said people who did like this would have a great and beautiful reward later in another world, and though we animals would not go there, doing good and right without reward would give to our short lives a value and honor which by itself would be a reward. She had learned these things sometimes when she had gone to the Sunday-school with the children, and had kept them in her mind more carefully than she had done with those other words and phrases; and she had studied them carefully, for her good and ours. One can see from this that she had a smart and thoughtful mind, even though there was so much silliness and pride in it.

So we said our goodbyes, and looked at each other for the last time through our tears; and the last thing she said — keeping it for the end to make me remember it better, I think — was, “To remember me, when another is in danger do not think about yourself, think of your mother, and do what she would do.”

Do you think I could forget that? No.

Chapter III

It was such a lovely home! — my new one; a fine great house, with pictures, and pretty decorations, and fine furniture, and no darkness anywhere, but all the many pretty colors lit up with bright sunshine; and the wide grounds around it, and the great garden — oh, green grass, and tall trees, and flowers, so many! And I was the same as a member of the family; and they loved me, and petted me, and did not give me a new name, but called me by my old one that was special to me because my mother had given it to me — Aileen Mavourneen. She got it from a song; and the Grays knew that song, and said it was a beautiful name.

Mrs. Gray was thirty, and so sweet and so lovely, you cannot imagine it; and Sadie was ten, and just like her mother, just a darling thin little copy of her, with reddish-brown tails down her back, and short dresses; and the baby was a year old, and plump and with dimples, and liked me a lot, and never could get enough of pulling on my tail, and hugging me, and laughing out its pure happiness; and Mr. Gray was thirty-eight, and tall and thin and handsome, a little bald in front, quick to notice, quick in his movements, practical, on time, firm, not emotional, and with that kind of neat, well-shaped face that just seems to shine and sparkle with cool, sharp intelligence!

He was a famous scientist. I do not know what the word means, but my mother would know how to use it and get results. She would know how to make a rat-terrier feel sad with it and make a lap-dog look sorry he came. But that is not the best one; the best one was Laboratory. My mother could set up a Trust on that one that would take the tax-collars off the whole herd. The laboratory was not a book, or a picture, or a place to wash your hands in, as the college president’s dog said — no, that is the lavatory; the laboratory is quite different, and is filled with jars, and bottles, and electric things, and wires, and strange machines; and every week other scientists came there and sat in the place, and used the machines, and talked, and did what they called experiments and discoveries; and often I came, too, and stood around and listened, and tried to learn, for my mother, and in loving memory of her, although it hurt me, as I knew what she was losing in her life and I was gaining nothing at all; for, no matter how hard I tried, I was never able to understand it at all.

Other times I lay on the floor in the mistress’s workroom and slept, she softly using me for a rest for her feet, knowing it made me happy, for it was a gentle touch; other times I spent an hour in the baby’s room, and got well played with and made happy; other times I watched by the baby’s bed there, when the baby was asleep and the nurse was out for a few minutes on the baby’s business; other times I played and ran fast through the yard and the garden with Sadie till we were tired out, then slept on the grass in the shade of a tree while she read her book; other times I went to visit the neighbor dogs — for there were some very friendly ones not far away, and one very handsome and polite and gentle one, a curly-haired Irish setter named Robin Adair, who was from the Presbyterian church like me, and belonged to the Scottish preacher.

The servants in our house were all kind to me and liked me, and so, as you see, my life was good. There could not be a happier dog than I was, nor a more thankful one. I will say this about myself, for it is only the truth: I tried in every way to do good and right, and to respect my mother’s memory and her lessons, and to earn the happiness that had come to me, as well as I could.

After a while my little puppy came, and then I was completely happy, my happiness was perfect. It was the sweetest little thing, walking in a funny way, and so smooth and soft and very soft, like velvet, and had such cute little clumsy paws, and such loving eyes, and such a sweet and good face; and it made me so proud to see how the children and their mother loved it, and petted it, and talked excitedly about every little wonderful thing it did. It seemed to me that life was just too lovely to —

Then came the winter. One day I was keeping watch in the baby’s room. I mean, I was asleep on the bed. The baby was asleep in the baby’s bed, which was next to the bed, on the side near the fireplace. It was the kind of baby’s bed that has a high tent over it made of thin cloth you can see through. The nurse was out, and we two sleepers were alone. A spark from the wood fire flew out, and it landed on the side of the tent. I think a quiet time followed, then a scream from the baby woke me, and there was that tent burning up toward the ceiling! Before I could think, I jumped to the floor in my fear, and in a second I was half-way to the door; but in the next half-second my mother’s goodbye was in my ears, and I was back on the bed again. I reached my head through the flames and pulled the baby out by the waistband, and pulled it along, and we fell to the floor together in a cloud of smoke; I grabbed a new hold, and pulled the screaming little creature along and out at the door and around the corner of the hall, and was still pulling hard, all excited and happy and proud, when the master shouted:

“Go away you bad animal!” and I jumped to save myself; but he was very quick and angry, and chased me, hitting hard at me with his cane, I moved this way and that, in fear, and at last a hard hit fell on my left front leg, which made me scream and fall, for the moment, helpless; the cane went up for another hit, but never came down, for the nurse’s voice cried out loudly, “The nursery’s on fire!” and the master ran away in that direction, and my other bones were saved.

The pain was very bad, but it did not matter, I must not waste any time; he might come back at any moment; so I walked on three legs to the other end of the hall, where there was a dark little stairway leading up into an attic where old boxes and such things were kept, as I had been told, and where people rarely went. I managed to climb up there, then I made my way through the dark among the piles of things, and hid in the most secret place I could find. It was silly to be afraid there, yet still I was; so afraid that I kept quiet and hardly even whimpered, though it would have been such a comfort to whimper, because that eases the pain, you know. But I could lick my leg, and that did some good.

For half an hour there was a lot of noise downstairs, and shouting, and running footsteps, and then there was quiet again. Quiet for some minutes, and that was good for me, for then my fears began to go down; and fears are worse than pains — oh, much worse. Then came a sound that made me very afraid. They were calling me — calling me by name — looking for me!

It was quiet because it was far away, but that could not take the fear out of it, and it was the worst sound to me that I had ever heard. It went all about, everywhere, down there: along the halls, through all the rooms, on both floors, and in the basement and the underground room; then outside, and farther and farther away — then back, and all about the house again, and I thought it would never, never stop. But at last it did, hours and hours after the weak evening light of the attic had long ago been covered by black darkness.

Then in that deep quiet my fears went away little by little, and I was calm and slept. It was a good rest I had, but I woke before the early light had come again. I was feeling fairly comfortable, and I could think of a plan now. I made a very good one; which was, to go down quietly, all the way down the back stairs, and hide behind the cellar door, and slip out and get away when the iceman came in the early morning, while he was inside filling the refrigerator; then I would hide all day, and start on my trip when night came; my trip to — well, anywhere where they would not know me and would not tell the master about me. I was feeling almost happy now; then suddenly I thought: Why, what would life be without my puppy!

That was hopeless. There was no plan for me; I saw that; I must stay where I was; stay, and wait, and take what might come — it was not my business; that was what life is — my mother had said it. Then — well, then the calling began again! All my sadness came back. I said to myself, the master will never forgive. I did not know what I had done to make him so angry and so unwilling to forgive, yet I thought it was something a dog could not understand, but which was clear to a man and terrible.

They called and called — days and nights, it seemed to me. So long that the hunger and thirst almost drove me crazy, and I knew that I was getting very weak. When you are this way you sleep a lot, and I did. Once I woke in a terrible fear — I thought that the calling was right there in the attic! And so it was: it was Sadie’s voice, and she was crying; my name was falling from her lips all broken, poor thing, and I could not believe my ears because of the joy of it when I heard her say:

“Come back to us — oh, come back to us, and forgive — it is all so sad without our — ”

I came in with such a thankful little bark, and the next moment Sadie was running and stumbling through the dark and the piles of wood and shouting for the family to hear, “She’s found, she’s found!”

The days that came after — well, they were wonderful. The mother and Sadie and the servants — why, they just seemed to love me. They couldn’t seem to make me a bed that was good enough; and as for food, they would only be happy with wild animal meat and special foods that were not the right time of year; and every day the friends and neighbors came in to hear about my brave act — that was the name they used for it, and it means farming.

I remember my mother using it on a kennel once, and explaining it in that way, but didn’t say what agriculture was, except that it was the same as fire inside; and twelve times a day Mrs. Gray and Sadie would tell the story to new people, and say I risked my life to save the baby’s, and both of us had burns to prove it, and then the people would pass me around and pet me and talk excitedly about me, and you could see the pride in the eyes of Sadie and her mother; and when the people wanted to know what made me limp, they looked ashamed and changed the subject, and sometimes when people asked them this way and that way with questions about it, it looked to me as if they were going to cry.

And this was not all the praise; no, the master’s friends came, a whole twenty of the most important people, and took me into the lab, and talked about me as if I was a kind of new find; and some of them said it was wonderful in an animal that cannot talk, the best show of instinct they could remember; but the master said, strongly, “It’s much more than instinct; it’s REASON, and many men, allowed to be saved and go with you and me to a better world because they have it, have less of it than this poor silly four-legged animal that’s sure to die;” and then he laughed, and said: “Why, look at me — I’m a joke! bless you, with all my great intelligence, the only thing I guessed was that the dog had gone mad and was killing the child, but without the animal’s intelligence — it’s REASON, I tell you! — the child would have died!”

They argued and argued, and I was the very center of it all, and I wished my mother could know that this great honor had come to me; it would have made her proud.

Then they talked about optics (how light and seeing work), as they called it, and if a kind of hurt to the brain would cause blindness or not, but they could not agree about it, and said they must test it with an experiment later; and next they talked about plants, and that interested me, because in the summer Sadie and I had planted seeds — I helped her dig the holes, you know — and after days and days a little bush or a flower grew there, and it was amazing how that could happen; but it did, and I wished I could talk — I would have told those people about it and shown then how much I knew, and been very excited about the subject; but I didn’t like that subject about light and seeing; it was boring, and when they came back to it again it bored me, and I went to sleep.

Pretty soon it was spring, and sunny and nice and lovely, and the kind mother and the children patted me and the puppy to say good-bye, and went away on a trip and a visit to their family, and the master did not spend time with us, but we played together and had good times, and the servants were kind and friendly, so we were quite happy and counted the days and waited for the family.

And one day those men came again, and said, now for the test, and they took the puppy to the lab, and I limped along on three legs, too, feeling proud, for any attention given to the puppy made me happy, of course. They talked and did tests, and then suddenly the puppy screamed, and they set him on the floor, and he went around, almost falling, with his head all covered with blood, and the master clapped his hands and shouted:

“There, I’ve won — admit it! He can’t see at all!”

And they all said:

“It is so — you have proved your idea, and all the people who suffer will be very grateful to you from now on,” and they crowded around him, and shook his hand warmly and thankfully, and said good things about him.

But I almost did not see or hear these things, because I ran right away to my little baby, and lay down close to it where it lay, and licked the blood, and it put its head against mine, crying softly, and I knew in my heart it made it feel better in its pain and trouble to feel its mother touching it, though it could not see me. Then it fell down, soon, and its soft little nose rested on the floor, and it was still, and did not move anymore.

Soon the master stopped talking for a moment, and rang for the footman, and said, “Bury it in the far corner of the garden,” and then went on with the talk, and I walked quickly after the footman, very happy and thankful, for I knew the puppy was not in pain now, because it was asleep. We went far down the garden to the farthest end, where the children and the nurse and the puppy and I used to play in the summer in the shade of a big elm tree, and there the footman dug a hole, and I saw he was going to plant the puppy, and I was glad, because it would grow and come up a fine handsome dog, like Robin Adair, and be a beautiful surprise for the family when they came home; so I tried to help him dig, but my hurt leg was no good, it was stiff, you know, and you have to have two, or it is no use. When the footman had finished and covered little Robin up, he patted my head, and there were tears in his eyes, and he said: “Poor little doggie, you saved HIS child!”

I have watched two whole weeks, and he doesn’t come up! This last week a fear has been slowly coming over me. I think there is something terrible about this. I do not know what it is, but the fear makes me sick, and I cannot eat, though the servants bring me the best of food; and they pet me so much, and even come in the night, and cry, and say, “Poor doggie — do give it up and come home; don’t break our hearts!” and all this scares me even more, and makes me sure something has happened. And I am so weak; since yesterday I cannot stand on my feet anymore. And in this last hour the servants, looking toward the sun where it was going down out of sight and the cold of night coming on, said things I could not understand, but their words brought a cold feeling to my heart.

“Those poor people! They do not know. They will come home in the morning, and excitedly ask for the little doggie that did the brave thing, and who of us will be strong enough to tell them the truth: ‘The good little friend is gone to where the animals go when they die.’”