Towers Falling

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Towers Falling

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 Towers Falling

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.
 THE TRUE STORY OF CHEESEY
I. The Dog and the Policeman
One snowy day shortly after Christmas, when carefully picking my
way over the crossing at Market Street Ferry in Philadelphia, I almost
ran into a big policeman.
Just back of the big policeman was a little dog, and just back of
the little dog was a little dog-house, and just back of the dog-house
was a beautiful Christmas tree.
Wouldn’t it have made you stop in surprise to see a dog-house in
the middle of the busiest street in your city or town? Wouldn’t you
have wondered why the big policeman had the little dog, and why
the little dog had such a nice house there? And wouldn’t you have
wondered and wondered whether the Christmas tree belonged to
the dog or to the big policeman? It made me so curious that I did
just as you would have liked to do—I asked the policeman to tell me
the story.

II. The Policeman’s Story

“Good morning, Mr. Burke,” I said, for I knew the officer’s name.
“Will you tell me about the little dog?”
“Why,” answered the policeman with a smile, “don’t you know
about Cheesey? Come here, Cheesey, the lady wants to see you!”
Cheesey looked up at the speaker and wagged his tail.
“Cheesey was born on Race Street pier,” went on the policeman.
“Nobody knows how he got his living after his mother died; but one
thing is sure, he was not treated very kindly by the men who loaded
the boats and swept the wharves. To this day Cheesey growls at the
sight of one of those men.
“After a while Cheesey found a little playmate, but the playmate
was run over by a fire engine. All night long Cheesey lay in the spot
where his little mate had been killed.
“Weary and lonely and hungry, he crept back to the old cheerless
corner of Race Street pier, which was the only place he knew as
home.
“There he lay with his head on his paws, not noticing anything
until one of the men kicked him out of the way.
“Cheesey ran out of the pier and down Delaware Avenue, not
knowing where he was going; but he went just the right way, for he
ran into Officer Weigner, one of the four of us who watch this
crossing.
“He spoke kindly to the little fellow, and gave him something to
eat.
“From that time, Cheesey seemed to think he belonged to the
policemen on this crossing. Then we gave him his name.”

III. Cheesey’s Christmas Presents

“Cheesey had no place to sleep,” went on the policeman after
seeing some people safely across the street, “except on a pile of
bags in the ferry house. He seemed so cold that I asked Charley, one
of the workmen in the ferry, if he could not knock together some
packing boxes for the little fellow.
“Charley did the best he could, but I must say he made a sorry
looking dog-house.
“One day, just before Christmas while I was on duty, Mr. Sheip, of
the Sheip Box Factory, happened to notice the box Charley had
knocked together.
 “‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘is that the best you fellows can do?’
“‘Why, Mr. Sheip,’ I replied, ‘we are not box-makers, you know.’
“‘That’s so!’ he said. ‘I’ll have a dog-house made in the factory!’
and on Christmas day this beauty of a dog-house came. Have you
noticed the label on it?”
I read the painted black letters on the large white label:

Merry Christmas
to
Cheesey
from
Officers Burke, Dougherty,
Kunzig, and Weigner.

“It pleased us so,” went on the officer, “that we bought a

Christmas tree and many people helped us trim it.
“A good many people brought presents for Cheesey. One lady
from Camden brought a feather pillow; another lady brought a piece
of meat. That dog could have seventeen meals a day if he could
hold them—couldn’t you, Cheesey?”
The little dog wagged his tail, turned around twice, then went
into his house. After thanking the officer I went on my way, made
happier for all my life because of the true story of Cheesey.
 THE CHAINED DOG
’Twas only a dog in a kennel,
And little the noise he made,
But it seemed to me, as I heard it,
I knew what that old dog said:
“Another long day to get over!
Will nobody loosen my chain,
Just for a run in the meadow,
Then fasten me up again?”
—Selected.
Through life it’s been a comfort to me—
My little dog’s loving sympathy.

QUESTIONS
Do you think the officers were repaid by
knowing they had made Cheesey happy?
Does Cheesey remind you a little of
Cinderella? Who were the fairies in Cheesey’s
life?
What might have happened to Cheesey if the
officers had not been kind?
Did you ever own a dog?
Can you tell some story showing your dog’s
intelligence or bravery?
What is the kindest thing to do for an animal
which is suffering if you cannot take care of it or
feed it?
Do you know the address of the S. P. C. A. in
your city?
 Did you know that sometimes dogs are
thought to be mad when they are only very
thirsty?
Sometimes dogs have been treated unfairly
and are cross; so it is best not to pat a strange
dog’s head.
Do you realize that a dog is the only animal
which makes people its companions and
playmates?
How should we treat dogs?

MEMORY GEM
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching, or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin to its nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
LITTLE LOST PUP
He was lost!—not a shade of doubt of that;
For he never barked at a slinking cat,
But stood in the square where the wind blew raw,
With drooping ear and a trembling paw,
And a mournful look in his pleading eye,
And a plaintive sniff at the passerby,
That begged as plain as tongue could sue,
“Oh, mister, please may I follow you?”
A lorn wee waif of tawny brown
Adrift in the roar of a heedless town.
Oh, the saddest of sights in a world of sin
Is a little lost pup with his tail tucked in.

Well, he won my heart (for I set great store

On my own red Brute—who is here no more),
So I whistled clear, and he trotted up,
And who so glad as that small pup?
Now he shares my board, and he owns my bed,
And he fairly shouts when he hears my tread.
Then, if things go wrong, as they sometimes do,
And the world is cold and I’m feeling blue,
He asserts his rights to assuage my woes
With a warm red tongue and a nice cold nose,
And a silky head on my arm or knee,
And a paw as soft as a paw can be.
When we rove the woods for a league about,
He’s as full of pranks as a school let out;
For he romps and frisks like a three-months’ colt
And he runs me down like a thunder bolt.
Oh, the blithest of sights in the world so fair
Is a gay little pup with his tail in the air!
—Arthur Guiterman.
Picture of red cross army dogs—Wonderful dogs of mercy. Such
dogs have rescued thousands of wounded and helpless soldiers.
How should intelligent animals like these be treated?
 Can you tell a story about this brave dog?

What would the big dog say if he could talk?

Write a story about this picture.
THE HUNTING PARTY

Mrs. Pussy, sleek and fat,

With her kittens four,
Went to sleep upon a mat
By the kitchen door.

Mrs. Pussy heard a noise;

Up she sprang in glee.
“Kittens, maybe it’s a mouse—
Let us go and see.”

Creeping, creeping, soft and low,

Silently they stole,
But the little mouse had crept
Back into its hole.

“Well,” said Mrs. Pussy then,

“Homeward let us go;
We shall find our supper there,
That I surely know.”

Home went hungry Mrs. Puss

With her kittens four,
Found their supper on a plate
By the kitchen door.
—Selected.

QUESTIONS
What do you think of people who do not care
for and feed the cats they own?
 Do you know that a cat that is well cared for,
and kept in the house at night is not likely to
catch birds, because cats catch birds in the early
morning and at twilight?
What do you think of people who move away
from a place and leave their cats behind? What
will become of the cats?
What should people do with cats they do not
care to take away? Do you know where the
nearest S. P. C. A. office is?
What good service does the cat do for people?
Why are rats and mice dangerous to our
health?
How many toes has a cat on front paws? On
back paws?
Which way does the fur lie on the under side
of the legs?
 THE LOST KITTY
Stealing to an open door, craving food and meat,
Frightened off with angry cries and broomed into the street;
Tortured, teased, and chased by dogs, through the lonely night,
Homeless little beggar cat, sorry is your plight.
—Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

QUESTIONS
If you cannot care for or feed a stray cat, what
is the kindest thing to do?
How does it save the birds to see that stray
cats either are given a home or are taken to a cat
refuge?
I have a little kitty,
Just as cute as she can be;
But my! she is peculiar!
For she eats her catnip tea!

After every meal she eats

She tidies up her head,
And washes carefully enough;—
But she never makes her bed!

I’m told a kitty cannot talk,

But my kitty every day
Tells me that she loves me
When we are at our play!

Yes, she tells me very plainly

And I will tell you how,—
I ask, “Who thinks a lot of me?”
She answers, “Me! Me—ow!”
—J. E. F.
 POOR LITTLE JOCKO
I.
On the porch of a comfortable old house, shaded by fine trees, a
group of young girls were gathered around a small table, sewing.
Suddenly the harsh notes of a hand-organ came to their ears,
disturbing the peaceful stillness of the summer afternoon.
Marion Johnson, who was visiting her cousins, laid aside her work
and listened.
“Why, I do believe it is the very same man that came to our town
a week ago,” she exclaimed. “He had with him a poor, miserable
looking monkey, which he called Jocko.”
Just then they saw the organ-grinder, with the monkey perched
on the, organ, coming up the village street. Seeing the girls on the
porch, he turned up the walk.
“I think I shall call Aunt Kate,” remarked Marion, rising and going
into the house.
Aunt Kate could always be depended upon to help any dumb
creature needing a friend.
Aunt Kate’s face lost its usual look of quiet good humor, as she
glanced over the porch railing and saw a tall swarthy man at the foot
of the steps, carelessly turning the handle of a small squeaky organ.
Keeping time to the music, a weak little monkey danced very
wearily. When his steps dragged he was brought up quickly with a
sharp jerking of the chain which was fastened to his collar.
 A cap was held on his head by a tight rubber band which passed
under the chin. His gaudy dress was heavy and warm and seemed to
weigh down his tired limbs.
Now and then, when he dared, Jocko laid a tiny brown hand on
the tugging chain in an effort to ease it. With an appealing look he
glanced up at his master, as if trying to make him understand how
painfully the collar was cutting his thin neck.

II.
Aunt Kate’s mild blue eyes almost flashed as she motioned to the
organ-grinder to stop playing.
“You no lika music?” he asked brokenly, glancing up at her in
some surprise.
“Yes, that is right,” she answered, speaking very slowly and
distinctly.
“We do not like the music; and we do not like to see that poor
monkey dance; and, above all, we do not like to see you hurting his
neck by pulling that chain.”
 The look of sullen anger which came over the man’s face quickly
disappeared when he saw the coin in Aunt Kate’s hand.
“I will give you this,” she said, holding up the piece of money, “if
you will stay here and let Jocko rest for one hour.”
The organ-grinder smiled and sat down on the steps as a sign of
agreement.
At first, Jocko could scarcely believe that he might rest his weary
little legs and feet. After a while, however, he threw himself at full
length upon the porch floor as some worn out child might have
done.
Marion was left on guard to see that he was not disturbed when
the others went to get food.
When they returned they found Jocko resting on a soft cushion, a
comfort his little body had never known before.
Only after being promised more money did the organ-grinder
permit Marion to take off Jocko’s hard leather collar, underneath
which she had discovered sores.
She bandaged the tiny neck with soft linen spread with salve. She
took off his cap, too, with its tight-cutting band.
When water was brought, Jocko drank with pitiful eagerness.
Many hours had passed since he had had a drink, and his throat and
lips were parched. He ate the food they offered him like a wild
creature, for he was very hungry.
Every once in a while he would glance at the organ-grinder as
though he feared punishment.
When the hour was up, the organ-grinder would stay no longer.
As his master led him away, Jocko lifted his hat, just as if he wanted
to thank Aunt Kate and the girls for their kindness.
“I never knew before,” said Marion, “how cruel it is to expect little
monkeys to live such unnatural lives. I do hope the man will be more
kind to Jocko after this.”
—Mary Craige Yarrow—Adapted.

QUESTIONS
Why didn’t the girls and their aunt like to see
the little monkey dance?
What did they enjoy seeing it do?
 Have you ever been very, very tired?
Can you imagine how you would feel if some
giant would not let you rest?
What kind of life is natural for monkeys?
Did you ever give a penny to an organ-grinder
with a monkey?
If everyone stopped giving money to men who
use monkeys for begging, how would it help the
little monkeys?