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home. How, when he had a rival for our affections in the advent of our first-born, no jealousy entered his noble heart, but he followed that child and loved him, because he knew he was the idol of those he loved so well. Is it strange, then, that when these things are mentioned in our family circle, that an affectionate and tender-hearted wife and mother should feel her heart swelling and the tear-drops come down her cheeks? while I would get my paper turned upside down, looking for what I could not tell. The depth of love Don had for us could only be measured by his life; for his life was devoted to us, and no child ever craved knowledge as he did. He did not forget what he once understood, but his constant desire was to learn something new. It was not necessary to give him long lessons; merely show him once, and he never forgot his teachings. When we think of his death, how he was in the prime of life, how we loved him, and then stumble over some worthless cur in the streets, we cannot help but feel that with dogs, as with human beings, death loves a shining mark. We buried him on the hillside, like a warrior, his valuables deposited in the grave with him. Every morning when the sun rises. from his couch, he sheds his rays and warms the earth that encloses Don's remains; then reflects back his light on the bosom of the Mississippi,-the stream on which Don and I passed so many happy hours together. The silent trees stand sentinels over his grave, and the summer winds play æolin music through their tops, and sing sad requiems for the departed dead. He was only a dog, and yet he was my Pythias, and would have died for me. There stands no monument to mark his grave,

but while two human beings live, his memory will be ever green to them.

When once a man has raised and educated a dog, ever showing to him unremitting kindness, there is no human friendship that will stand the test against this canine friend. The winds of adversity may blow harshly against him; those whom he once called friends may have deserted him; sudden prosperity may have weaned from him those whom he most trusted; Gonerils and Regans may have been raised beneath his roof, but his four-footed friend will never forsake him, and whether he be clothed in finest raiment, or wander over the earth friendless, poverty-stricken, sick at heart and bruised in body, this friend will remain steadfast to him, die in his defense; or, when the end has come, will make his bed at his master's grave, and refuse food and shelter, through day and night, storms and sleet, watching his master's grave until nature has exhausted his vitality; then, starved to death, with choked and smothered breathing, he gladly dies at the grave of his only friend.

"And he was faithful to a corpse,

And kept the birds and beasts
Which hungered there, at bay."

The love for the dog has been inherent in man for generations, and the tribute paid to a dog 2,700 years ago ranks equally in pathos and beauty with anything written of him in modern times. Homer in his Odyssey speaks of Ulysses after an absence of twenty years as being recognized by his old deerhound ·

He knew his lord; he knew and strove to meet;
In vain he strove to crawl, and kiss his feet;
Yet all he could, his tail, his ears, his eyes,
Salute his master, and confess his joys."

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Here, after a score of years had elapsed, the faithful hound was true to his master, his friend, his companion of early days. In the revolution of time he had not. been carried away, but lived to greet his master. His strength was gone, his eyes fast growing dim; he could not bound to meet him, as in days of yore; but the love-light still shone in his eyes, and he longed to crawl and lick the feet of his long-absent friend.

The constancy and affection of the dog has been a theme of inspiration to Bulwer, Scott, Byron and others. The noble hound Roswal, the companion of Sir Kenneth, is thus eloquently spoken of:

"As he bore to the earth Conrad, Marquis of Monserrat, traitor to Coeur de Leon, the noble, faithful Roswal had not forgotten that night upon the mound beneath the standard of England; neither had he forgotten the traitor who, in the darkness, while a cloud shut out the tell-tale light of the moon, bore away the ensign, and left him weltering in his blood; he remembered all this when called upon to protect his master's honor, as well as to serve his king, and using the intelligence given him by the same Power that gave us facilities above the beasts, he did what man could notdetected and brought to justice the one guilty from out an army."

Cooper in his novels shows his love for the dog, when he makes him a companion of Deerslayer for years, following his master through valleys and glens and along the Hudson. "Natty" and his faithful friend eventually drift across the Mississippi and Missouri rivers, and both find their graves in Nebraska. The sad bereavement of the hunter is touchingly penciled in "The Prairie," and although old in years, the

dog was always a "pup "in the eyes of the old hunter. And then, when the old man, sickened and enfeebled with age, and knowing he was soon to pass into the Valley of the Shadow of Death, among his last requests was one, that there be engraved on the lock of his rifle a "hound's ear" in remembrance of his honored dog. This volume of Cooper's novels, "The Prairie,” has always been of great interest to me, for I believe I have hunted geese in the same territory where most of the incidents of that book are laid.

The love of the dog for his master is not confined to those of blue-blood pedigree; neither to those whose whole life has been passed where their every want has been anticipated and gratified; but curs of low degree, who have been compelled to gain sustenance as best they could, beaten, kicked and half-starved, form an attachment that only dies with them.

One of the most touching incidents of the faithfulness of the dog that ever came to my attention occurred in Chicago, and was made the subject of the following notice in a local paper in that city:

"Those who have nothing but curses and kicks for dogs and are ever wishing their extermination, would, perhaps, be better citizens did they possess the same strong attachments and friendships often exhibited by them, and particularly by a large black and white Newfoundland dog a few days ago during the excessively cold weather. For some days he was noticed on the pier off Lincoln Park intently watching the water, and every now and then would go to the ice and water and scratch, as if endeavoring to dig up something. All through the bitter cold weather, night and day, he faced the wintry blasts of the lake, and could not be

persuaded to leave his solitary vigil. The park police, finding all efforts to get him from the pier futile, made a bed for him, and daily brought him food, which he refused. At last one morning he was found dead on the ice. The supposition is that his master had fallen into the lake accidentally or had committed suicide. He was only a dog, yet how many human beings could be found like him?

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The following by "Will-o'-the-Wisp" touchingly refers to it:

What seeks he there?

That noble "Landseer" Newfoundland.
Is it obedience to command

That, all unflagging, makes him stand

On the wind-swept shore so bleak and bare?

What seeks he there?

With wistful eyes, twin wells of woe,

With mournful whine so sad and low,

With sentinel tramping to and fro,

On the wind swept shore so bleak and bare ?

What seeks he there?

When halting on his lonesome beat,

He scratches still with bleeding feet

Where heaping ice and water meet,

On the wind-swept shore so bleak and bare.
What seeks he there?

E'en when his faltering footsteps fail

To longer mark his bloody trail,

He crouches down with anguished wail,

On the wind-swept shore so bleak and bare.
What seeks he there?

It is not food, for proffered meats

With no responsive wag he greets,
But every action search entreats,

On the wind-swept shore so bleak and bare.

What seeks he there?

Is it his master whelmed in the tide,

That piling ice blocks ruthlessly hide?
Is it for him that he watched and died

On that wind-swept shore so bleak and bare

The pathetic story of this Newfoundland finds a companion piece in that of the spaniel. The scene is laid on a dock where steamers land; 'tis twilight, and the dull gray of coming night is fast settling over the earth and water. Dimly in the distance can be seen a steam

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