The Lord only knows the suffering of animals in
transportation," said the old gentleman. "My dear young lady, if you
could see what I have seen, you'd never eat another bit of meat all the
days of your life."
Miss Laura wrinkled her forehead. "I know--I have heard," she faltered.
"It must be terrible."
"Terrible--it's awful," said the gentleman. "Think of the cattle on the
western plains. Choked with thirst in summer, and starved and frozen in
winter. Dehorned and goaded on to trains and steamers. Tossed about and
wounded and suffering on voyages. Many of them dying and being thrown
into the sea. Others landed sick and frightened. Some of them
slaughtered on docks and wharves to keep them from dropping dead in
their tracks. What kind of food does their flesh make? It's rank poison.
Three of my family have died of cancer. I am a vegetarian."
The strange old gentleman darted from his seat, and began to pace up and
down the room. I was very glad he had gone, for Miss Laura hated to hear
of cruelty of any kind, and her tears were dropping thick and fast on my
brown coat.
The gentleman had spoken very loudly, and every one in the room had
listened to what he said.
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