The Street of Peace

HE young fox-terrier had been accustomed to hear from his mother of the happy hunting-grounds to which (she confidently asserted) all good dogs went when they died. On those greenswards were cats innumerable, and never a tree for cats to climb. There were rabbits and hares, and the hares were of a special kind that a good, hard-working fox-terrier could run down. On some days, for the sake of variety, there were sunny glades, swarming with rats, and afterwards there were many bones and no biscuits, and a soft rug before a blazing fire. The young fox-terrier (his name was Peter) determined to be very good. Shortly afterwards he encountered the friendly bull-dog who lived in the stableyard and had perfectly shocking opinions. The bull-dog listened to the youngster's story of the happy hunting-grounds, and then told him plainly that it was all absolutely poppy-cock. When dogs died, they stopped altogether. He went on into arguments relating to mind and matter which the youngster was quite unable to follow. But he grasped the main point, that there was no system of rewards and punishments after death, and began to wonder whether it would not be worth his while to change his mind and become an exceedingly bad dog.

Before he had come to any decision on this point, it happened that he was taken with the complaint known as distemper. He died and was buried.

The next thing of which he was conscious was that a mechanical piano was rendering the intermezzo from "Cavalleria Rusticana." In his previous life, when such an incident had occurred, it had been his habit to sit up, put his ears back, assume a tortured expression of the eyes, and howl as if he were broken-hearted. He sat up now, and then suddenly discovered that he did not want to howl. The discovery was something of a blow to him. He felt much as a man would feel who, after walking through Piccadilly at noon, suddenly discovered that he had forgotten to put on his hat. He went on down the street in quest of other dogs and information.

For this place into which he had come was not the happy hunting-grounds of which his mother had told him. She and the bull-dog had both been wrong. The Hereafter, as he found it, was like an endless London street, with plenty of animals in it, and no men and women. The animals were all at the further end of the street, and as Peter approached, one of them turned round to meet him and came towards him at a swinging trot.

This one happened to he a lion, and Peter had heard a good deal about lions. The bull-dog himself had frankly admitted that he should not care to tackle one. Peter turned and ran for his life, took a quick turn down some area steps, and tried to hide himself under an old sack that he found at the bottom.

The next moment he heard the lion's voice calling to him: "I say, do come up. I'm not going to hurt you. I don't want to hurt anyone. No animal ever injures another one here. This is the Street of Peace."

Peter, the terrier, peeped out from his sack and noticed that the lion certainly wore a remarkably benignant expression. Slowly and with hesitation he came up the area steps.

"That's right," said the lion cheerfully. "Now, then, if you care for my companionship, I shall be glad to show you round."

Peter was extremely pleased This idea of peace and fraternity appealed to him. He had heard of miserable zoological collections carted round the country in vans and known as "happy families," and had felt sorry for beasts included in them. But to roam freely through the Hereafter on terms of perfect equality with a magnificent African lion was a very different affair.

"Wouldn't it be as well," he asked, "if we looked round to find something to eat?"

"One doesn't eat," said the lion; "it would interfere considerably with the peace of the place if one did. In my unregenerate days in the other world, I killed a vast number of creatures, and it was always with the idea of getting something to eat. One misses it a little at first; one doesn't get hungry, but one remembers how remarkably good things used to taste in that other world."

Peter was disappointed.

"Eating," he said, "used to be about three-quarters of my life. I don't know how I shall get along without it."

"One sleeps a good deal," said the lion. At that moment three cats came walking down the roadway. Peter's coat bristled and he took the attitude of fight. The cats showed no sign of terror.

One of them nodded in a friendly way to the lion and said it was a pleasant evening. Peter looked foolish and put his tail between his legs. He had suddenly discovered that he did not want to chase cats at all. This was the last straw.

"I say," he said to the lion, "you're sure this is the right place—the place where good animals go when they die?"

"Quite sure," said the lion. "The absence of our horrible carnal appetites and the reign of perfect peace are the rewards of the good."

"And where do the bad go?" asked the terrier.

"Well, I don't know exactly. It's right at the other end of the street, and then down a lot of steps. I believe it's a terrible place."

"Thanks," said Peter. "I'm sorry to seem to be leaving you a bit abruptly, but I've just remembered something."

The next moment he was dashing off as hard as he could go in the direction of those steps.