Beagles
As the train pulled up at a station somewhere along the line a man entered the baggage car with a brace of beagles on a leash. Nice little dogs, they were, with friendly eyes and beautiful faces.
"Is the baggage man here?" asked the man.
"I haven't seen him lately," said Mr. Hartshorn. "Is there anything we can do for you?"
"Why, yes," said the man. "I'm sending these dogs down to Welden. There'll be someone to call for them there. You look as though you might be bound for that place yourselves, and if you could keep an eye on these dogs it would be a great favor."
"We'll do so with pleasure," said Mr. Hartshorn.
"What are their names?" asked Ernest.
"Tippecanoe and Tyler Too," he answered. "I'm entering them as singles and as a brace, and I think I stand a pretty good show."
The baggage man came along, and by the time the owner of the beagles had arranged for their shipment the train was ready to start again.
"It's lucky you were here to take them," said the man, "or I shouldn't have been able to send them this way. Good-by and good luck."
"Good-by," they shouted, and proceeded to get acquainted with the beagles.
"They're like small hounds, aren't they?" said Jack.
"Yes," said Mr. Hartshorn, "they are really hounds."
"Oh," said Ernest, "that makes me think. You never told us about the hound breeds, and you said you would sometime. Couldn't you do it now?"
"Let's see," said Mr. Hartshorn, opening his grip. "Ah, yes, here it is." He took out a small paper-coveredbook containing the standards of the different breeds. "I always mean to take this with me to the shows. Without my books I can't always remember the facts, but with the help of this I guess I can make out.
"Now there still remain the hound and greyhound families to be covered. They are both hounds, in a way, but they have been distinct for centuries. They are both very old types of dogs.
"We will begin with the bloodhound because he's the biggest. There are a lot of people who have got their ideas about the bloodhound from 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' and there are places where you aren't allowed to keep a bloodhound because the breed is supposed to be so dangerous and ferocious. But that is a great injustice. The true English bloodhound is not the mongrel beast that was used in slavery days, but is a finely developed and reliable dog. Contrary to the general belief, the modern bloodhound is not ferocious, but gentle and affectionate, almost shy. He is a wonderful trailer and has often been successfully used to find both criminals and lost persons, but he does not attack them when he finds them.
"The otter hound is an English dog not common with us. He has a unique appearance, something like a bloodhound in a rough coat, with a face not unlike that of an Airedale terrier or a wire-haired pointinggriffon. He is a steady and methodical hunter, sure on the trail, a strong swimmer, brave, patient, and affectionate.
"The foxhound is the most popular sporting dog of England, his history being bound up with that of British hunting. I guess you know what a foxhound looks like. The American Kennel Club recognizes two separate classes of foxhounds, the English and the American. The latter is, of course, native bred, and is somewhat smaller and lighter in bone than the English hound. The so-called American coon-hound is a dog of the foxhound type and of foxhound origin, bred carelessly as to type, but trained to hunt the raccoon and opossum.
"The name harrier was first given somewhat indiscriminately to all English hunting hounds before the foxhound was highly developed. Later the harrier was developed as a separate breed for hunting hares. It is now rare in England and there are almost no harriers in the United States. The beagle is like a smaller, finer foxhound, and has the same ancestry. He is a good, all-round sporting dog, and a good-looking fellow, as you see, with a solid build, a rugged appearance, and a fine face.
"The dachshund (don't call it dash-hund) is a canine dwarf best known for his absurdly disproportionate appearance, but he is a most attractive, serviceablelittle dog. He was evolved long ago from the hounds of Germany for the special work of hunting the badger. His bent forelegs and queer proportions are really deformities scientifically bred. The dachshund has a wonderful nose and is a good worker with foxes as well as with ground animals, though his peculiar build best fits him for the latter. He is a clean, companionable house dog, affectionate and spirited. The basset is a short-legged French hound resembling the German dachshund, to which it is doubtless related. We are not familiar with the breed in this country. It looks like a large dachshund with a bloodhound head."
"Do you know any good hound stories?" asked Jack, who was fondling the long, velvety ears of the two beagles.
"Not many," said Mr. Hartshorn. "Most of the foxhound stories I have heard have illustrated the sagacity and cleverness of the fox rather than that of the hound. There are also one or two stories that show that the hound has a strong homing instinct like that of some of the other breeds. The only foxhound anecdote of an amusing nature that I recall is told of one that was owned by a strict Roman Catholic. Whenever Lent arrived, this dog always ran away and paid a round of visits on Protestant acquaintances until Easter ushered in a period of morevaried menus at home. This hound was not trained with a pack but was kept as a single pet, which accounts for his marked personality, more like that of a terrier than of a hound.
"I have read a number of accounts in the newspapers describing rescues by bloodhounds. I remember one was about a Brooklyn girl who wandered away from a hotel and was lost on a mountain in Vermont. A famous bloodhound was brought over from Fairhaven and was allowed to smell of a handkerchief belonging to the girl. He took up her trail at the village store and followed it along roads where horses and automobiles had been, through two other villages, and into the woods, and he at last found the girl on the verge of exhaustion far up the mountainside.
"Another bloodhound in California found a lost child at the edge of a cliff in a dense fog and drew him back from the precipice just in time. Most of the bloodhound stories are of that nature, though there are some that have to do with the trailing of criminals.
"One of the classic stories of literature is that of the hound of Montargis. He may have been a St. Hubert hound, or one of the other French hounds, though I have always suspected that he may have been a mâtin or dog of the Great Dane type. But thebreed is a matter of minor importance. The main features of the story are somewhat as follows:
"There were once two officers of the King's bodyguard in France named Macaire and Montdidier. Fast friends at first, they became bitter enemies and rivals, and one day in the Forest of Bondi, near Paris, after a violent quarrel, Macaire drew his sword and slew Montdidier and buried his body in the woods.
"Now Montdidier owned a faithful hound who came to search for him. He traced him to the grave and there he remained until he was nearly famished. The poets would have us believe that the dog reached the conclusion that his master had been slain, that he discovered the scent of the murderer, and that he set out in quest of vengeance. At any rate, he went to the home of a friend of his dead master's and was given food. He attached himself to this household but went often to the grave.
"Of course, Montdidier's comrades soon missed him and his absence was reported to Charles V, the King. Foul play was suspected and the King ordered an investigation, but no evidence was forthcoming. Meanwhile Montdidier's friend had also become suspicious and one day he followed the hound to the grave. Observing the dog's actions, he surmised what must be there. He reported the matter to the Kingwho had the body exhumed and discovered marks of violence.
"On several occasions after that the hound attempted to attack Macaire but was prevented from doing him injury. He was entirely peaceable toward everybody else, so that these circumstances were noticed. Guardsmen remembered that Macaire and Montdidier had quarreled and suspicion fastened itself upon Macaire. The King was told of all this and he himself observed the actions of the hound when he was brought near his master's murderer.
"In those days it was sometimes the custom for judges to settle a dispute by ordering the contestants to fight a duel. King Charles decided to adopt this method in an effort to determine whether or not Macaire was guilty, and he ordered a trial combat to take place between the man and the dog at the Château of Montargis on the Isle of Notre Dame, Paris. The man was given a stout cudgel as his only weapon, while the dog was provided with an empty cask into which he might retreat if too hard pressed.
"The battle was a terrible one, Macaire fighting for his life and the dog to revenge his dead master. The hound paid no heed to the blows that were rained upon him, but attacked blindly. At last he got a firm grip on the man's throat and hung on. Macaire,weakening and terrified, begged to be rescued and confessed his guilt. The dog was dragged away at last and the gallows robbed him of his revenge."
"Whew!" exclaimed Herbie Pierson. "Some story! Got any more like that, Mr. Hartshorn?"
"Half a dozen of them," replied Mr. Hartshorn with a laugh, "but they'll have to wait till another time, as I believe we are nearing our destination. For the same reason I must postpone telling you about the dogs of the greyhound family. Here we are, boys."
Tom Poultice was waiting for them at the Welden station and so was the man who had come for the two beagles. Under Tom's guidance they walked out to the fair grounds, which were only a mile away. This was to be the scene of the show, and there were already a number of dogs and crates about.
"I've arranged to stay out 'ere," said Tom. "There's an 'ouse where I can sleep, and I can look after all the dogs."
They looked around the grounds a bit. Mr. Hartshorn found the superintendent of the show and had a few words with him, and then they all returned to town, leaving the dogs in Tom's care. They were all well acquainted with him and did not feel that they were being left among total strangers.
They registered at the hotel, which they found tobe overcrowded. An extra cot was placed in one of the rooms, and Ernest, Jack, and Elliot were assigned to it. They did not consider the situation to be any hardship. They enjoyed a good dinner in the dining-room and then gathered in Mr. Hartshorn's room for a talk.
After discussing dog shows some more and speculating as to the outcome of the morrow's contests. Ernest, whose thirst for dog learning was insatiable, reminded Mr. Hartshorn of his promise to tell them about the breeds of the greyhound family.
"The greyhound proper," said he, "is of course the first to be considered. It is perhaps the oldest distinct type of dog now in existence. Likenesses of greyhounds are to be seen in relics of Assyrian, Egyptian, Greek, and Roman sculpture, and the type has altered surprisingly little in seven thousand years. It was developed for great speed from the first and was used in the chase. Unlike the other hounds, the dogs of the greyhound family hunt by sight and not by scent.
"The whippet is merely a smaller greyhound, but has been bred as a separate variety for upward of a century. On a short course the whippet is faster than a racehorse, covering the usual 200 yards in about 12 seconds. Whippet racing as a sport has never taken hold in America and we have comparativelyfew of the breed here. You have already been told about the Italian greyhound. It belongs to the greyhound family but is classed as a toy.
"Although speed is the thing for which the greyhound is most famous, stories have been told which illustrate the breed's fidelity and sagacity when his master makes a comrade of him. I will tell you one of these tales. A French officer named St. Leger was imprisoned in Vincennes, near Paris, during the wars of St. Bartholomew. He had a female greyhound that was his dearest friend and he asked to have her brought to him in prison. This request was denied and the dog was sent back to St. Leger's home in the Rue des Lions St. Paul. She would not remain there, however, and at the first opportunity she returned to the prison and barked outside the walls. When she came under her master's window he tossed a piece of bread out to her, and in this way she discovered where he was.
"She contrived to visit him every day, and incidentally she won the admiration and affection of one of the jailers, who smuggled her in occasionally to see her master. St. Leger was at last released, but his health was broken and in six months he died. The dog grieved for him and would not be comforted by any of the members of the household. At last she ran away and attached herself to the jailer who hadbefriended her and her master, and with him she lived happily till the day of her death.
"Now we come to one of the grandest breeds of all—the Irish wolfhound. It is a breed of great antiquity and of great size and power. The Latin writer Pliny speaks of it ascanis graius Hibernicus, and in Ireland it was known assagh cliumor wolf dog. For in ancient Ireland there were huge wolves and also enormous elk, and the great dogs were used to hunt them. These hounds were even used in battle in the old days of the Irish kings.
"Two classic stories are told of the Irish wolfhound. One is of the hound of Aughrim. There was an Irish knight or officer who had his wolfhound with him at the battle of Aughrim, and together they slew many of the enemy. But at last the master himself was killed. He was stripped and left on the battlefield to be devoured by wolves. But his faithful dog never left him. He remained at his side day and night, feeding on other dead bodies on the battlefield, but allowing neither man nor beast to come near that of his master until nothing was left of it but a pile of whitening bones. Then he was forced to go farther away in search of food, but from July till January he never failed to return to the bones of his master every night. One evening some soldiers crossed the battlefield, and one of them came over to see what mannerof beast the wolfhound was. The dog, thinking his master's bones were about to be disturbed, attacked the soldier, who called loudly for help. Another soldier came running up and shot the faithful dog.
"The other story is that of devoted Gelert which you may have heard. Robert Spencer made a poem or ballad of it."
"I've never heard it," said Jack Whipple.
"Nor I," said Elliot Garfield.
"Well," said Mr. Hartshorn, "it's a rather tragic story. Put into plain and unadorned prose, it runs something like this: Gelert was an Irish wolfhound of great strength and great intelligence that had been presented by King John in 1205 to Llewelyn the Great, who lived near the base of Snowdon Mountain. Gelert became devoted to his master and at night 'sentinel'd his master's bed,' as the poem has it. By day he hunted with him.
"One day, however, Gelert did not appear at the chase and when Llewelyn came home he was angry with the dog for failing him. He was in that frame of mind when he met Gelert coming out of the chamber of his child. The dog was covered with blood. Llewelyn rushed into the room and discovered the bed overturned, the coverlet stained with gore, and the child missing. He called to the boy but got no response.
"Believing that there was but one interpretation for all this, Llewelyn called Gelert to him and in his wrath thrust his sword through the dog's body. Gelert gave a great cry of anguish that sounded almost human, and then, with his eyes fixed reproachfully on his slayer's face, he died. Then another cry was heard—that of the child, who had been awakened from sleep by the shriek of the dying dog. Llewelyn rushed forward and found the child safe and unscratched in a closet where he had fallen asleep. The father hurried back to the bloody bed, and beneath it he found the dead body of a huge gray wolf which told the whole story. In remorse Llewelyn erected a tomb and chapel to the memory of faithful Gelert and the place is called Beth Gelert to this day."
There was a suspicious moisture about more than one pair of eyes as Mr. Hartshorn finished this narrative, and he hurried on to less tragic matters.
"The Irish wolfhound is to-day a splendid animal," said he, "and the breed deserves to be better known in this country. It has had an interesting history. There was a time when it nearly died out in Ireland, and the modern breed was started with the remnants some fifty years ago, with the help of Great Dane and Scottish deerhound crosses. The new breed was not thoroughly established, however, until the latter part of the last century. As a made breed, so called, it isa remarkable example of what can be accomplished by patient, scientific breeding. The Irish wolfhound is a big, active, sagacious, wonderfully companionable dog, muscular and graceful, and as full of fun as a terrier.
"The Scottish deerhound is similar in most respects to the Irish wolfhound, but is lighter, speedier, and less powerful. They have a common ancestry, though the two breeds were distinct as long ago as the twelfth century. The breed was a favorite with Sir Walter Scott.
"The Russian wolfhound, known in Russia as the borzoi, is one of the most graceful and aristocratic of all the breeds, combining speed, strength, symmetry, and a beautiful coat. He has been used for centuries in Russia for hunting wolves and has been bred as the sporting dog of the aristocracy."
"It makes a dog show a lot more interesting to know something about the different breeds," said Ernest Whipple.
"Of course it does," said Mr. Hartshorn. "And if I am not mistaken, I have told you something about almost every breed that you will ever be likely to see at a dog show or anywhere else."
Soon afterward they separated for the night.
The Boytown party was at the fair grounds long before the show opened the following morning, and you may be sure the dogs were glad to see their masters, though they had been well cared for by Tom.
Though technically an outdoor show, there was room for all the dogs in the commodious cattle-show sheds in case of rain. The weather promised to be fair and warm, however, so only the smaller dogs and some of the larger short-coated ones were benched inside, where they had plenty of room and plenty of ventilation. The collies and Old English sheepdogs were tied in a row in the shade of some maple trees at one side of the grounds, and the rough-coated terriers, the setters, and some of the other breeds were also outside. The boys found the places reserved for their dogs and saw to it that they were properly and comfortably benched.
When the show opened and the spectators began to arrive, the Boytown dogs were at first nervous and excited and could not bear to have their masters leave them. After an hour or two, however, they becameaccustomed to their surroundings, and leaving them in charge of Tom Poultice, the boys made the rounds of the show under the guidance of Mr. Hartshorn.
It was a most interesting experience for them. Some of the breeds were of course familiar to them, and Mr. Hartshorn called attention to their points and showed how some of the dogs back home fell short of conforming to the requirements of the standard. In some instances they recognized breeds that Mr. Hartshorn had told them about but which they had never seen before. There were, for example, a Scottish deerhound, an Irish water spaniel, and some cairn terriers. As Mr. Hartshorn had predicted, there were noteworthy entries of Sealyhams, wire-haired fox terriers, and Boston terriers, and particularly interesting exhibits of bulldogs and chows. There was one dog that puzzled them—a white dog with fluffy coat and bright eyes. The catalogue stated that it was a Samoyede.
"What is a Samoyede, Mr. Hartshorn?" asked Herbie Parsons. "I don't think I ever heard of that kind."
"That's so," said Mr. Hartshorn. "I guess I never told you about the Arctic breeds. This is one of them. They're not very common."
There were individual dogs, too, that demanded special attention, friendly dogs that wanted to shakehands and be patted and that begged the boys to stay with them. This encouraged loitering and made the circuit of the benches quite a protracted affair. Mr. Hartshorn had warned them about approaching the dogs without an introduction.
"There are always some dogs that aren't to be trusted," said he, "and as the day wears on and they get more and more nervous, they may snap. It's always well to be cautious at a dog show, no matter how well you understand dogs. Never make a quick motion toward a dog or try to put your hand on the top of his head at first. Reach your hand out toward him quietly and let him sniff at the back of it. Then you can soon tell whether he invites further advances or not."
The boys became so absorbed in trying out this form of introduction that it was noon before they had finished visiting all the benches. Mrs. Hartshorn insisted on having luncheon.
"I'm hungry if no one else is," said she.
The five boys suddenly discovered that they were hungry, too. Mr. Hartshorn led them to a restaurant on the grounds and ordered the meal. It might have been better, but the boys were not critical. When they had finished eating they went out and sat for a little while in the shade of some trees, not far from the collies, and watched the people.
"Now I'll tell you about those Arctic breeds," said Mr. Hartshorn, "and get that off my mind."
It was very warm, and they were all glad of a little chance to rest. It is tiring to walk around a dog show and one becomes more weary than one realizes. The boys stretched themselves out on the grass and listened to Mr. Hartshorn's words mingled with the barking of the dogs in all keys.
"It won't take very long to tell about these northern breeds," he began. "Their natural habitat is in the Arctic and sub-Arctic regions of Asia, Europe, Greenland, and North America. They are probably related to the Arctic wolf and they are generally used in those countries as sledge dogs.
"The spitz dog found his way down from the cold countries long ago, but he still retains some of his racial characteristics. The proper name for the one occasionally seen here is the wolfspitz. He is the largest of the spitz family, of which the Pomeranian is the miniature member.
"The Samoyede or laika is the sledge dog of northern Russia and western Siberia and was used by Nansen in his explorations. Next to the wolfspitz, the Samoyede is the most attractive and domestic of the Arctic breeds and has acquired some popularity among American fanciers, especially the white ones.
"The Norwegian elkhound is used as a bird dogas well as for hunting big game in Scandinavia. It is not a hound at all, but a general utility dog of the Arctic type, dating back to the days of the Vikings. A few have been shown in this country.
"The Eskimo dog is larger than the Samoyede and is nearer to the wolf in type. He has long been known as a distinct breed, being a native of Greenland and northern Canada, and was used by Peary, the Arctic explorer. The breed has occasionally been shown in the United States.
"There are also a number of loosely bred sledge dogs in North America, including the Canadian husky and the malamutes and Siwash dogs of Alaska. The husky, is a powerful dog, weighing 125 pounds or more, and is the common draught dog of Canada. He is said to be the result of a cross between the Arctic wolf and the Eskimo dog."
"He sounds rather unattractive to me," said Mrs. Hartshorn.
"Well, he is, as a pet," said her husband, "but he is a wonderfully useful animal in his own country. Is everybody rested now? I imagine we'd better be going back. I want to be on hand when they judge the Airedales."
The party rose and trooped back to the sheds. At intervals during the afternoon they visited their own dogs and before night they had finished their roundsof the show, but a good share of the time was spent in the vicinity of the judging rings. These were two roped-off enclosures on the open lawn, with camp chairs arranged about them for the ladies. At all times there was a goodly gathering about the rings of people whose interest was in the outcome of the judging. Considering the fact that there was no lively action like that of a field trial or an athletic contest, it was remarkable how much excitement could be derived from these quiet competitions. When a favorite dog was given the blue ribbon there was much hand-clapping and a little cheering, and the boys heard very little complaining or rebellion against the decisions of the judges. Dog fanciers are, for the most part, good sports.
The Airedales were judged among the first, and as usual the Willowdale dogs, skilfully exhibited by Tom Poultice, bore off their fair share of the honors. Soon the Boston terriers were called for. This was Theron Hammond's big moment, and when Alert was awarded second prize in the novice class Theron was warmly congratulated by friends and strangers alike, for there were a lot of good dogs shown and, as Mr. Hartshorn had said, Alert was in fast company.
Rover, as Darley's Launcelot of Middlesex, had an easier time of it, for only eight Old English sheepdogs were benched and none of the famous kennelswere represented here. There were only three dogs in the novice class, and as the other two were second-rate dogs, Rover won first place. He also won third in the open class, but was beaten out by better dogs in the winners contest.
Old English Sheepdog
Hamlet, however, didn't win anything. His forelegs weren't straight and the judge took special note of them. He had better dogs against him, and the better dogs won. It was a fair contest, but Herbie was bitterly disappointed.
"Never mind, Herbie," said Jack Whipple, consolingly."I bet Hamlet is a better dog to own than any of them. That's what I said about Remus when they said he hadn't any nose."
And Herbie, not to be outdone by the younger boy, plucked up spirit and bore his defeat manfully.
It was a two-day show, and the judging of the bird dogs, hounds, and some of the other breeds was put over to the second day. Ernest and Jack, therefore, still had their exciting time ahead of them, but the whole party was tired with so much walking about and watching, and they were glad to turn their dogs over to Tom's care and return to the hotel, with another day of it before them.
"Have you told us about all the breeds there are?" asked Ernest that evening in Mr. Hartshorn's room.
"I believe I have," said Mr. Hartshorn, "except some little known foreign ones."
"Oh, please tell us about those," pleaded Ernest.
Mr. Hartshorn laughed. "You're bound to know it all, aren't you?" said he. "There are a number of European, Asiatic, and Australasian breeds, some of which are very interesting, but you will probably never see any of them and I haven't a list of them with me. When we get back to Boytown, if there are any of you boys that would like to look up these uncommon breeds, just to make your dog knowledge complete, I shall be very glad to lend you a bookwhich contains them all. For instance, there's the German boxer which has sometimes been shown in this country, and the Pyrenean sheepdog whose blood is to be found in several of our large breeds, including the St. Bernard and the Irish wolfhound. There are other European sheepdogs and hunting dogs, Asiatic greyhounds, and some queer hairless freaks. When you've looked those all up you'll know more about dogs than most naturalists do."
"Then if the breeds are all used up, I suppose the anecdotes have all been used up, too," said Jack.
Mr. Hartshorn looked at his watch. "Well, no, not quite all used up," said he. "I have thought of two or three more, and I guess we've got time for one of them to-night. It is about a tradesman of the Rue St. Denis in Paris, a man named Dumont. He had a very smart dog, but I don't know what kind of dog it was. Perhaps a terrier or a poodle. This dog was great at finding hidden articles. One day Dumont was walking with a friend in the Boulevard St. Antoine and was bragging about his dog. The friend would not believe his statements, so they laid a wager, the master claiming that the dog could find and bring home a six-livre piece hidden anywhere in the dust of the road.
"So the piece of money was hidden in the dust when the dog was not looking, and they went on amile farther. Then the dog, whose name was Caniche, was told to go back and get the coin, and he promptly started. The friend wished to wait and see how it would come out, but Dumont said, 'No, we will proceed. Caniche will bring the money home.' They accordingly went to Dumont's home and waited, but no dog appeared. The friend asserted that the dog had failed and claimed the wager, but Dumont only said, 'Be patient,mon ami; something unexpected has happened to delay him, but he will come.'
"Something unexpected had indeed happened. A traveler from Vincennes came driving along in a chaise soon after Dumont and his friend had passed that way, and his horse accidentally kicked the coin out of the dust. The traveler, seeing it glisten, got out and picked it up, and then drove on to his inn.
"When Caniche came up the money was, of course, not there, but he picked up the traveler's scent and followed his chaise to the inn. Arriving there and finding his man, Caniche proceeded to make friends with him. The traveler, flattered by this attention, and being fond of dogs, said he would like to adopt Caniche, and took him to his room. The dog settled down and appeared to be quite content.
"When bedtime came and the man began to undress, Caniche arose and barked at the door. The man, thinking this was quite natural, opened the doorto let him out. Suddenly Caniche turned, seized the man's breeches, which he had just taken off, and bolted out with them. There was a purse full of gold pieces in the breeches, and the traveler dashed after the dog in his nightcap andsans culottes, as the French say. Caniche made for home with the angry man after him.
"Arriving at Dumont's house, Caniche gained admittance and deposited the breeches at his master's feet. Just then the owner of the breeches burst in, loudly demanding his property and accusing Dumont of having taught his dog to steal.
"'Softly, softly,' said Dumont. 'Caniche is no thief, and he would not have done this without a reason. You have a coin in these breeches that is not yours.'
"At first the stranger denied this, and then he remembered the coin he had picked up in the Boulevard St. Antoine. Explanations followed, the breeches and gold were restored to the traveler and the six-livre piece was handed to Caniche, who returned it to his master with the air of one who had fulfilled his duty. Dumont's friend paid his wager and Dumont opened a bottle of wine, and they all drank to the health of the cleverest dog in France.
"Whether that is a true story or not you must judge for yourselves. I have told it as it was told to me, and I prefer not to vouch for it."
Laughing over this story, and thanking Mr. Hartshorn for telling it to them, the boys trooped off to bed.
So far as Ernest and Jack Whipple were concerned, all the interest of the second day of the Massatucket Dog Show centered about the judging of the English setters. They had been studying the entry carefully, and though there were some champions entered in the open and limit classes, and though Mr. Hartshorn pointed out to them the superior qualities of several of these dogs from the fancier's point of view, it seemed to the boys that Romulus and Remus were as good as any dogs there.
"Don't set your hopes too high," cautioned Mr. Hartshorn. "They will be pitted against some good dogs, and I don't want to see you too greatly disappointed. One has to learn to lose in the dog-show game more often than one wins."
"Anyway," said Ernest, "I haven't seen anything in the novice class that can beat them."
At last the hour arrived for the judging of the setters. The puppy class was disposed of first, and then the novices. Ernest and Jack led their own dogs into the ring, with numbers pinned to their coat-sleeves. The two dogs behaved beautifully, holding up their heads and standing at attention, as their masters had patiently taught them to do. They were both in good condition, their eyes bright and their coatssoft and glossy. It was quite evident to the spectators about the ring that the other dogs in the novice class were not to be compared with them. Ernest and Jack were quite unconscious of the fact that they were being observed as much as the dogs and that there were some people present who admired their bright eyes as much as those of Romulus and Remus. But it was the judge of this class that held their fixed attention.
He was a brusque, dour-looking man, without a smile for anybody, but he had a reputation for strict impartiality and for a true judgment of dog-flesh. It did not take him long to reach his decision. With no word of congratulation he handed Jack a blue ribbon and Ernest a red one, and ushered them out of the ring.
"The Remus dog has the best head and most shapely body," was all that he said.
But the spectators clapped and showered congratulations upon the boys, and they were very happy.
"I knew it, I knew it!" cried Jack in an ecstasy of triumph. "Nose doesn't count in the show ring, and Remus is, in every other way, the best dog in the world. I told you he'd have his day. Good old Remus!"
And right before all those people he leaned down and hugged his dog and kissed him on the silky ear.
But that was only the beginning. Remus also took first in the open class, which was more than Mr. Hartshorn had hoped for, and Romulus took third. And when it came to the final contest of the winners, Remus won reserve to Ch. The Marquis, a dog that had won his spurs in the biggest shows in the country. He was the only dog in this bunch that could beat Remus, and there were those who affirmed that in another year Remus would defeat him.
Ernest showed himself to be a good sport and was glad that Remus had won. Jack communicated his high spirits to the other boys, and by the time the afternoon was over they were in a hilarious mood and eager to bring their trophies back to Boytown. They forgot their weariness, and as the spectators began to leave the grounds, and it was proper to release the dogs, they started off pell-mell, across the central oval of the race track, boys and dogs together, shouting and barking in a gladsome chorus. It was a goodly sight for some of the grown-ups to see, and they paused to watch the frolic.
"I'm so glad Remus won," said Mrs. Hartshorn, smiling upon them all.
"Yes," responded her husband, "Jacky deserved it. He has stood by his dog through thick and thin."
As the boys and dogs came romping back, Mrs. Hartshorn observed, "Youth is a wonderful thing."
"Sometimes," said her husband, "I think it is a greater thing than wisdom."
Perhaps a vision of her own youth came back to her, for she leaned against her husband's arm and softly quoted:
"When all the world is young, lad,And all the fields are green,And every goose a swan, lad,And every lass a queen;Then hey, for boot and horse, lad!Around the world away!Young blood must have its course, lad,And every dog his day."
"When all the world is young, lad,And all the fields are green,And every goose a swan, lad,And every lass a queen;Then hey, for boot and horse, lad!Around the world away!Young blood must have its course, lad,And every dog his day."
"When all the world is young, lad,And all the fields are green,And every goose a swan, lad,And every lass a queen;Then hey, for boot and horse, lad!Around the world away!Young blood must have its course, lad,And every dog his day."
"When all the world is young, lad,
And all the fields are green,
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen;
Then hey, for boot and horse, lad!
Around the world away!
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day."
A week or so after the Massatucket Show, when Ernest Whipple's kennel paper arrived, he and Jack scrutinized it eagerly for the account of the show. The man who reported it had a great deal to say, in more or less technical terms, about a good many of the dogs. He seemed to pride himself on his ability to pick future winners and he was rather free with his predictions. Romulus he mentioned favorably in passing, referring to his enviable field-trial record. But to Remus he devoted an entire paragraph.
"This dog," he wrote, "owned by Master Jack Whipple, is a twin brother to the afore-mentioned Romulus. Barring a slight weakness in the loins and a look of wispiness about the stern, he was set down in good shape and easily defeated the other novices. He has the classic type of Laverack head, and this had much to do with his being placed reserve to Ch. The Marquis in the winners class. He is a young dog, and with proper treatment he should figure in the primary contests of next winter. We predict a bright future on the bench for this Remus."
Incidentally the boys were pleased to learn that Tippecanoe and Tyler Too had won the prize for the best brace of beagles in the show, besides some individual honors, and they rejoiced for their bright-faced little acquaintances of the baggage car.
The triumph of Remus was not short-lived. The residents of Boytown learned through the local papers what had happened, and began to look with a new interest upon these boys and their dogs as they passed along the streets. Romulus came to be pointed out to strangers as a coming field-trial champion, and Remus as a famous bench-show winner. Such dogs were something for the citizens of any town to be proud of. And there were not a few persons who gained thereby a new interest in dogs, to the lasting betterment of their characters.
As the autumn days came on, Ernest began to feel the call of the woods and fields, and begged to be allowed to have a gun and go hunting with Sam Bumpus. He was now a tall, good-looking lad of fifteen, and he felt himself quite old enough to become a hunter. Besides, what is the use of owning a fine bird dog if you don't hunt with him?
Mrs. Whipple strongly objected, for she was afraid of guns, and at last a compromise was reached. Ernest was to be allowed to go hunting with Sam provided he would not ask to own or use a gun until he wassixteen, and reluctantly he consented to this arrangement. Jack, who was still only twelve, had not yet caught the hunting fever, and since he owned a dog that could not hunt anyway, he was content to remain at home, while Ernest spent his Saturdays afield with Sam.
Sam Bumpus, during the past three years, had grown to be a less lonely man. Through the boys he had made friends in town, and people began to look upon him as less queer and to recognize his sterling virtues. And all that made him happier.
"It was a lucky day for me," he once said, "when I brought those puppies down in my pockets."
"It was a luckier day for us," responded Ernest with warmth.
Now, tramping together 'cross country with their dogs, they became even closer friends, and there was implanted in Ernest's character a certain honesty and a love of nature that never left him. And withal, it was great fun.
Then came another winter, and one day, during the Christmas vacation, Mr. Hartshorn invited the whole crowd of boys up to his house to enjoy an indoor campfire. Mrs. Hartshorn, as usual, spread her table with a wealth of good things to eat, and after the dinner they all gathered in the big living-room, where huge logs were blazing and crackling in the fireplace.
"I only wish," said Ernest Whipple, "that there were more breeds of dogs for you to tell us about, Mr. Hartshorn. I always enjoyed those talks so much."
"Do you think you know all about all the breeds now?" asked Mr. Hartshorn, with a smile.
"Well, no," confessed Ernest, "but I know something about them all, and I have one or two good books to refer to. I guess there's always more to be learned about everything."
"That is true," said their host, "and fortunately there are always good things being written about dogs by men who know them. I never let a chance go by to add to my own fund of dog lore."
Alfred Hammond and Horace Ames, who were home from college for the holidays, were present at the campfire, and Alfred was now loudly called upon for a dog story, Mr. Hartshorn insisting that he had told every one he knew. Finally Alfred acceded to the demand.
"I ran across two anecdotes the other day which may fill the bill," said he. "I think they are both about collies, but I am not sure. The first is about a Scotchman and his dog Brutus. The Scotchman, having gone far out of his way in a storm, stopped at a lonely house and asked for a shelter for the night. The owner of the house admitted him and showedhim to a chamber, and the Scotchman, being very weary, prepared to go to bed.
"Brutus, however, was not so readily satisfied with his strange surroundings and proceeded to investigate. At length he returned to his master and began tugging at the bedclothes. The Scotchman was at last sufficiently aroused to follow the dog out of the room and down the stairs, and Brutus led him to the door of a closed room and sniffed at it very cautiously. Light which made its way through the cracks indicated that the room was occupied. The Scotchman could find no hole to peep through, but much to his surprise he heard several voices, for he thought that he and his host were alone in the house.
"He placed his ear to the door and heard enough to make him believe that his life was in danger. He was a brave man, and prompt action seemed necessary. Suddenly he pushed open the door and rushed in, surprising half a dozen men. They reached for their weapons, but the traveler was ready first. With his pistol he shot his host and cracked another over the head. Brutus, meanwhile, attacked so vigorously and to such good purpose that the man and his dog were able to escape uninjured. He afterwards learned that the house where he had sought hospitality was the resort of a gang of highwaymen.
"The other story is rather tragic, but I guess I'lltell it, as it's the only one I have left. A traveling merchant in England was riding along on horseback, when he dropped a bag containing all his money. He was quite unconscious of his loss, but his dog had seen the bag fall. The dog began to run in front of the horse's head, barking, and dashing back along the road, but the merchant, who must have been uncommonly stupid, I think, did not understand the meaning of his strange actions. The dog became more insistent, as the man urged his horse ahead, barking in an unusual tone and snapping at the horse's feet.
"The merchant, who apparently did not know dogs very well, began to fear that he was going mad. 'Mad dogs will not drink,' he reflected. 'At the next ford I will watch, and if he does not drink I must shoot him.'
"Of course, the dog was much too anxious and excited to drink at the next ford, and his master shot him. After riding on a little way the man began to be troubled with doubts and misgivings, and he turned his horse about. When he reached the ford again, the dog was not there, but the man traced him back along the road by the marks of his blood.
"The merchant found his dog at last, lying beside the money-bag, protecting his master's property with his last gasp. Remorsefully the merchant stooped down and begged the dog's forgiveness. The faithfulanimal licked his hand and looked up at him with eyes that seemed to say, 'It's all right, my master. You didn't understand.'"
No more stories being forthcoming, the talk soon drifted to other things. The boys vied with one another in telling of instances which illustrated the superior courage, intelligence, and faithfulness of their own dogs, and then fell into reminiscence. They talked of the awakening of interest in the dogs of Boytown and what it had meant to each of them, of the activities of the Boytown Humane Society, of the Boytown Dog Show in Morton's barn, of the days at Camp Britches and the death of beloved Rags, of the Eastern Connecticut field trials and the winning of Romulus, of the Massatucket Dog Show and the triumph of Remus, and of all the good times the boys and their dogs had had together. They quoted Sam Bumpus's quaint sayings and Tom Poultice's good advice about the care of dogs, and they told dog stories that they had read.
"I don't see how anybody can help loving dogs," said Elliot Garfield.
"There are men who hate them, though," said Mr. Hartshorn. "American sheep growers, for example, are bitterly opposed to dogs, and many of them would like to see the canine race annihilated. And it must be admitted that the dog forms the greatest obstaclein the path of increasing the important sheep-raising industry in the United States. Dogs do kill sheep, and there's no denying it."
"I thought there were laws to protect the sheep," said Ernest Whipple.
"There are," said Mr. Hartshorn. "Some of them are good and some of them are bad. Some of them place it in the sheep man's power to take the law into his own hands and act as judge, jury, and executioner on the spot, which of course is all wrong. But unfortunately the best of the laws do not protect the sheep. The state may pay damages, but that does not restore the slain sheep."
"I don't see what can be done, then," said Theron Hammond, dolefully.
"For one thing," said Mr. Hartshorn, "more study should be put on these laws before they are passed. They should not be drawn up by either partisans of the dog or of the sheep. They should aim to eliminate ownerless dogs and to make all owners responsible for the acts of their dogs. On the other hand, the sheep owners should not be allowed to collect damages unless they can show that they have taken due precautions on their own part, such as the erection of dog-tight fences. A man has to keep up his fences to keep his neighbor's cows out of his corn, or he has no redress. Why shouldn't a sheep owner be compelledto do likewise? But the real cure for the menace of the sheep-killing dog is more dog. The American sheep men don't seem to have learned the lesson that the past has tried to teach them. For centuries the trained shepherd dog has been the protection of the flock in all sheep-raising countries, and is so to-day in Great Britain, Europe, and Australia. I don't believe there are a dozen first-class trained shepherd dogs in this country, except in the Far West. In Scotland there are more dogs to the square mile than there are in the United States, yet the Scotch don't try to legislate the dog out of existence. The Scotch shepherd never thinks of taking out his flock without his trained collie, and the result is that few sheep are killed either by stray dogs or wild animals. When the American sheep growers learn their lesson from the shepherds of other countries, overcome their prejudice against the dog, and adopt the method that has been successfully employed for centuries in other countries, they will solve this problem, and not until then. I hope to see the day come when the sheep man is numbered among the dog's best friends here as he is in Scotland."
A lively discussion followed, and then, still talking dogs, the boys trudged home in the moonlight, over the crisp snow.
A few days later the whole crowd was out skatingon Hulse's Pond. A week of clear, cold weather following a thaw had made ideal skating, and Boytown was making the most of it. There were a number of young men and girls out and a few older devotees of the sport, but the boys and their dogs had full possession of one end of the pond. Here a game of hockey was in progress, which was somewhat interfered with by the activities of Tatters, who had grown into a fine, lively, sport-loving dog. He seemed to think the game was arranged for his special benefit, and he chased the puck to and fro across the ice wherever it went. Another general favorite was Rover, who never tired of racing with the skaters and particularly enjoyed pulling the younger children about on their sleds. These small children had another name for him—Santa Claus—and he indeed looked the part. Others of the dogs were enjoying the sport, too, though Romulus and Remus showed a tendency to leave the ice and go scouting off on imaginary trails in the neighborhood.
Suddenly, while the fun was at its height, a sharp cry arose from the upper end of the pond where the brook ran in. It was different from the other shouts and cries that rang out over the ice; there was terror in it. The loud, insistent barking of Tatters immediately followed.
The hockey game was interrupted, and everyonelooked toward that end of the pond to see what could be the matter. Tatters was running excitedly about the edge of a hole where the ice had broken in, and in the black water appeared the head and shoulders of little Eddie Greene, who had ventured too near a dangerous spot and had broken through the thin ice.
The sounds of merrymaking suddenly ceased, and there was a general rush in that direction. The bigger boys threw themselves flat on the ice and tried to reach out to Eddie with their hands, but the ice cracked alarmingly beneath the weight of so many of them, and they dared not approach too close.
"Get back, boys, get back!" cried Theron Hammond, who was always a leader. "Get back, or we'll all go in."
They saw that such a catastrophe would only make bad matters worse and obeyed the command. Only Theron and Harry Barton remained to try to reach the frightened little fellow, and they could not get near him.
The water was deep, and Eddie was struggling wildly to keep from going under the ice, which broke off wherever he grasped it.
"Keep calm, Eddie," called Theron, but Eddie was terrified and could not keep calm. His head went under once, and he seemed to be weakening. Meanwhile Ernest Whipple and one or two of the others hadkicked off their skates and had run off in search of boards or fence rails to throw across the hole, but there seemed to be none near by and help was a long time coming. It began to look as though they would be too late.
It was a tense moment. Some of the little girls had begun to cry, and there was one young lady who gave way to hysterics. No one seemed to know what to do. It was awful to stand there and watch the little fellow drown before their eyes.
Then there came a sudden rush and a plunge and the black and white head of Remus appeared beside that of the drowning boy. Though an aristocrat of the bench show, this good dog had a brain that worked quickly and a heart that knew no fear.
It was a good thing that Remus had learned to be such a good swimmer in days gone by; he had need of all his strength and skill now. He seized the boy's collar in his teeth and struggled to drag him out. But it could not be done. The ice broke repeatedly under the dog's paws, and it was all he could do to keep the boy's head and his own above water. He could only struggle bravely and cast imploring looks toward the helpless humans. The water was ice-cold, of course, and it sapped the good dog's strength. His efforts weakened and he tried no more to climb out, but he never relaxed his hold. He would have gonedown to his death with the boy before he would have done that.
Both heads went below the surface and came up again, and the dogged, imploring look deepened in Remus's eyes. Jack Whipple called words of encouragement, and it was pitiful to watch the noble dog's efforts to respond. It was wonderful the way he held out, and in the end he won. When it seemed as though the last atom of his strength must have been spent, Ernest Whipple came running up with a plank which he threw across the hole. Remus rested his paws on this and so was able to keep from going under, but he had no strength left to drag himself and the boy out. Eddie was now unconscious, and could not help himself. Then Elliot Garfield and two other boys arrived with boards and fence rails, and with these they built a sort of bridge across the dangerous gap. Theron crawled cautiously out upon this, with Harry Barton holding to his feet. He grasped Remus's collar, and with Harry's help dragged the boy and the dog to firm ice.
Eddie was seized in friendly arms and was rubbed and rolled until he revived. Remus fell, faint and trembling, to the ice, and Jack Whipple, unconscious of his own sobs, gathered the heroic dog to his breast.
Eddie Greene was hurried home and put to bed, and a doctor was called. For a day or so he was watched over with tender solicitude by his mother, but he soon insisted on getting up, and the doctor said that the danger was past. His healthy young body recuperated rapidly and he suffered no serious effects from his harrowing experience. In a few days he was running about as well as ever, and his parents, watching him, had good reason to bless the brave dog that had saved their boy's life.
But with Remus it was different. Almost immediately he showed signs of having contracted a severe cold. Weakened as he was by exposure and exhausted by his almost superhuman struggles in the water, he was in no condition to combat the malady, and pneumonia set in.
For days he lay dangerously ill on his bed in Rome, while Jack hoped and prayed in vain for a noticeable turn for the better. Tom Poultice came down and diagnosed the case and left some medicine, but still Remus failed to show much improvement. SamBumpus came, too, and did what he could, but he was forced to confess that the case was beyond his powers. Remus was very weak and seemed unable to rally. Jack Whipple was beside himself with anxiety.
When Remus had distemper he received visits from a good many of the boys in town, but that was nothing to the interest that was now displayed in him. The boys of the Humane Society hung about the Whipple gates at all hours of the day, vainly wishing that they might be of some help. Mr. Morton, Mr. Pierson, and other prominent citizens telephoned their inquiries. Mr. Fellowes came every day, and total strangers rang the doorbell to ask how the sick dog was getting on. All Boytown did its best to show honor and sympathy for the hero, but, alas, that brought no relief to the poor dog suffering on his bed in Rome.
For some time now Mrs. Whipple had been unconsciously displaying a different attitude toward the dogs. She never petted them; she was not yet ready to go quite so far. But she never said anything against dogs any more, and she had not concealed her pleasure and pride in the triumphs that had been won by both Romulus and Remus. And now that Remus was sick she made no attempt to conceal her anxiety, and answered all the inquiries patiently. One day Mr. Whipple observed her stealing out to Rome with a dish ofwarm broth, while the boys were in school, and he couldn't help smiling a little. The mother's heart had been won over at last.
There came a day when Remus seemed to be getting worse instead of better, and Tom Poultice was sent for again. Mr. Hartshorn himself brought Tom over in the car from Thornboro. Tom tested the sick dog's temperature and general condition and shook his head solemnly.
"I'm afraid it's come to a crisis," said he.
"Nothing more you can do?" asked Mr. Hartshorn.
"I'm afraid not, sir," said Tom.
"Then there's no time to be lost," said Mr. Hartshorn. "We must send for Dr. Runkle. I ought to have done it before."
They jumped into the car and drove down to the telegraph office.
The next day Dr. Runkle appeared with Tom and Mr. Hartshorn. He was the Bridgeport veterinary surgeon that had come too late to save poor Rags. Mr. Hartshorn considered him the best veterinarian in the state.
With gentle, skilful hands he made a thorough examination.
"A bad case of pneumonia," said he. "The first thing to do is to get him into a warmer place. Thisbarn is all right for most things, but he needs some artificial heat now."
Mrs. Whipple was standing near, and Jack looked at her doubtfully. She did not hesitate. Apparently she had forgotten all about her vow never to allow the dogs into the house.
"Bring him right into the house," said she. "Jack, you go and get some of that burlap from the storeroom, and we'll make a bed for him in the kitchen."
Tom picked Remus up in his strong arms, and the little procession made its way up to the house. Bringing up the rear came Romulus, a subdued dog these last anxious days. His big eyes questioned the faces of his human friends for the meaning of it all. He could not speak, but no one showed a more genuine sympathy.
Never before had Romulus attempted to enter the house. Now he seemed to understand that the ban had been lifted. He followed quietly in through the door, and no one said him nay.
But I am happy to say that this story is not going to end sadly. I don't believe I could tell it if it did. Dr. Runkle stayed at Willowdale for three days, and each day he came down to attend his patient. At last his skill and knowledge and the constant careful nursing won the battle, and gradually Remus fought his way back to health. His splendid constitution andstout heart stood him in good stead, and once the crisis was passed, recovery was rapid and certain.
And that is really the end of the story, though by no means the end of Romulus and Remus. They were destined to live to a ripe old age, much honored in Boytown, and to win many triumphs on field and bench. I need not tell you how happy Jack Whipple was to have his beloved dog restored to health and strength again. The rest of the family were hardly less so, and all Boytown rejoiced. I will only tell what a few of the people said and did, because Remus, you will agree, deserved all the honors and all the love that could be heaped upon him.
The first day that Jack was allowed to take Remus out into the sunshine for a little airing, there was one who watched them from the kitchen window. It was Irish Delia, who had objected so strenuously when the puppies had first been brought into her kitchen. When Jack, smiling happily, brought the dog in again, and Remus, whose legs were still a bit unsteady, walked over to his dish for a drink of water, Delia could restrain herself no longer. She flopped down on her knees beside him, and putting her arms about him, sobbed unrestrainedly into his soft coat.
"Ach, Remus, dear," she cried, "ye niver knew it, but I loved ye like me own brother."
And what did Tom Poultice say after the dangerwas over? He placed a kindly hand on Jack's shoulder and said, "I read a book once called 'The Mill on the Floss,' and there was a chap in it named Bob Jakin—just a hordinary chap like me. One day 'e says to a lady, 'e says, 'Hev a dog, Miss. They're better friends nor any Christian.' I've always thought 'e was right, Jacky, and I think so now more than ever."
Mr. Hartshorn didn't say much. He was not the demonstrative kind, but everyone knew what he thought. One day he told the boys that he had just received a letter from a cousin of his in the West who was a sheep man.
"He hates dogs," said Mr. Hartshorn, "worse than coyotes. He always makes fun of my sentimentality, as he calls it, and can't say too much against an animal that can furnish neither eggs, milk, wool, nor meat. He calls the dog a useless creature. I sat down and wrote him what Remus did on Hulse's Pond, and asked him if he had ever heard of a sheep that had saved a human life. I guess that will hold him for awhile."
Sam Bumpus didn't say much, either. He just stroked Remus's head and patted his flank, and then remarked, "I've sometimes thought life was a pretty tough proposition, but I reckon so long as there's boys an' dogs in the world, we can manage to stagger along an' bear up under it."
What other people said didn't matter so much as what they did. Mr. Morton quietly started a little affair of his own, and after he had made numerous calls on business acquaintances of his, a little ceremony took place in the Whipple yard, just outside of Rome. A committee called, consisting of Mr. Morton, Mr. Pierson, and Mr. Fellowes, and after a short speech was made by the banker, a bronze medal was presented to Remus.
"It isn't to be hidden away in a drawer somewhere," explained Mr. Morton. "He's to wear it on his collar, and if he loses it, we'll get him another one."
One side of the medal bore the words, "Presented to Remus by the citizens of Boytown." On the other side was a setter's head and the words, "For heroism in saving human life."
April came again to Boytown, and with it the bluebirds and robins, the pussy willows and red maple blossoms, and the green buds of the dogwoods that watched over the resting-place of Rags on the hill. With it, too, came strength to the graceful limbs of Remus. There were warm, sunny days, when it was good for dogs and boys to be out of doors, and there were crisp, cool evenings, when a crackling fire on the hearth was pleasant.
Let us bid farewell to our friends as they sit beforetheir open fires, Sam Bumpus in his lonely shack, but not unhappy any more, Mr. and Mrs. Hartshorn side by side in the big house at Willowdale, and the Whipples in their pleasant sitting-room on Washburn Street. At one side of the table sits Mrs. Whipple, sewing, with a look of contentment on her face, mingled with pride as she watches the two fine young fellows who are her sons. At the other side of the table Mr. Whipple is reading aloud from that wonderful story, "Greyfriars Bobby." Remus lies comfortably stretched out on one side of the hearth and Romulus on the other, for they are no longer banished to Rome. The house is none too good for them. And about each happy dog's neck are entwined a loving master's arms.
THE END