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I would not enter on my list of friends,
Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
Yet wanting sensibility, the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.-CowPER.
Vol. 33. Boston, June, 1900. No. 1.
BOER SOLDIER TRYING TO PROTECT HIS WOUNDED HORSE FROM THE VULTURES.
[Used by kind permission of the New York Journal.]
WHAT CLARA BARTON SAYS OF HORSES
WOUNDED IN BATTLE.
I have often said, as I am sure would be re-
called by the friends who have heard me speak,
that among the shocking and heart-rending scenes
of the battlefield the screams of the wounded horses
lingered more painfully in my ears, if possible, than
the moans of the wounded men.
They die slow and hard if left to themselves,
and I myself have seen the vultures hovering and
tearing at them while life yet remained,
THE VULTURES IN SOUTH AFRICA.
In London correspondence to our Associated
Press we find a description by Julian Ralph of
a ride to Bloemfontein in the wake of Roberts'
army, from which we take the following:
I saw ahead of me a swarm of vultures soaring in as
thick a cloud as if they had been moths. As I drew near I
noticed that the bulk of each one's body was very great.
On the ground, where there were two score waddling about,
they seemed even larger.
They marked the outer edge of the great and horrid field
of carnage. Many dead horses lay on the veldt, and these
birds were eating some and perching on the backs of others,
They were to be my constant compan-
ions for three days. I was to see hundreds
upon hundreds of them and never once by
day fail to see them. Yet there were not
enough of them to make away with all the
food that war had given them.
Of all the pitiful, heart-rending sights
I have ever seen, none has compared to this
view of hundreds upon hundreds of dead and
dying horses on this one hundred miles of
war's promenade.
The poor beasts had done no man any
harm - in fact, each one had been a man's
reliance -and to see them shattered by shell
and then ripped open by vultures, often before
they were dead, was enough to snap the ten-
derest chords in one's breast. For some rea-
son hundreds had dragged themselves to the
main road and there had died either in the
track of the wagons or by the side.
My companion used to turn and look back
at these dying horses to find that they were
stilf straining their sad eyes after the cart.
Then he would say: ' He is looking at us yet.
Oh, it makes me sick. Look, he is staring at
us like a guilty conscience.'
For my part I would not look behind.
Heaven knows it was bad ahead, where horses
stumbled and fell from weakness while the
horrible vultures swept in circles over them,
eager to rend their living flesh.
Reading the above we can only
add : cursed be war, and cursed be
those who seek to promote war.
GEO. T. ANGELL.
SUFFERINGS OF HORSES IN WAR.
Do you think more of the sufferings
of horses than men in war, Mr. Angell?
Answer. No, but don't you think
somebody ought to speak for the
horses? Men can choose whether to
go to war or not. They have hospitals,
and ambulances, and the Red Cross.
Horses are compelled to go. They
must suffer and die on battlefields and
by slow starvation. They have no
compensation in this world, and no
relief from suffering but death.
TOWARDS THE MILLENNIUM.
In our May paper under the head of
A Rainbow in the Clouds of War we](ViewImageLocal?handle=hein.journals/animals33&div=1&collection=&method=preview&ext=.png&size=3)
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