path: root/77634-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77634 ***




  PETER MAKES GOOD
  AND STORIES OF OTHER DOGS
  _by_
  GERTRUDE THOMAS

  _With
  Twenty Full-Page Illustrations
  by_
  DOROTHY SAUNDERS

  BECKLEY-CARDY COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
  CHICAGO




  COPYRIGHT, 1929,
  BY
  BECKLEY-CARDY COMPANY
  _All Rights Reserved_

  Printed in the United States of America




CONTENTS


              PETER MAKES GOOD
                                       PAGE
  A DOG FAMILY                            5
  PETER’S NEW HOME                       10
  GETTING ACQUAINTED                     18
  PETER ON THE FARM                      31
  NEW SCENES                             38


               THE TATTLERS

  PIXIE AND BOB                          47
  JUDGE AIREDALE                         61
  PETITE AND BOB TELL THEIR STORIES      76
  POLICE DOG STORIES                     83
  FRITZ, WHO KNEW ONLY GERMAN            90
  GYP, THE GARBAGE MAN’S DOG             99
  THE LAUNDRESS’S DOG                   107
  THE DEVOTION OF WHITEY                115
  THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS                  118
  THE MILKMAN’S DOG DAN                 121
  THE WHIPPETS                          125
  FIRE-FIGHTING DOGS                    133
  THE JUDGE’S STORY                     144
  JACK THE TRAVELER                     151
  TOM AND DANIEL                        173
  THE BLIND MAN’S DOG                   177




LIST OF FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                 PAGE
  Peter Learns a Lesson                                             7
  Peter Sees Fluff for the First Time                              15
  Fluff and the Three Aristocrats                                  24
  Peter Tries to Put Out a Fire                                    29
  Peter Helps Bring the Cattle from the Pasture                    33
  Pixie and Bob                                                    46
  “Judge Was Always Being Called Upon to Decide”                   59
  Petite and Princess                                              65
  Gyp and the Dachshunds                                           68
  The Comical Young Airedale Terrier                               79
  Fritz Supplied the Wood for the Fire                             92
  Ted Performed Many Stunts to Entertain the Sailors               95
  Simon Peter and Buff                                            111
  Whitey and Her Mistress                                         114
  “They Would Chase Rabbits or Any Game They Could Scare Up”      129
  Bill Saves His Master                                           135
  Duke Wins Honors                                                141
  “The Fight Was On”                                              161
  A Battle Between the Two Warriors                               175
  Job Was “Eyes for the Blind”                                    180




PETER MAKES GOOD




A DOG FAMILY


The Coleman family were in possession of a roly-poly, fuzzy,
brown-and-white pup named Peter, called Pete for short. Peter was a
combination of several breeds of dogs. He had good and bad relations on
both sides of the house, but his nearest kin, which were, of course,
his father, Shep, and his Scotch collie mother, Susie, were very worthy
dogs. They were not quarrelsome nor dishonest, lived peaceably with the
house cat, and never tortured a rabbit before they killed it. Indeed,
in all dogdom Susie and Shep were considered honorable citizens.

It was on account of this excellent record of the parent dogs that
these good people were wanting ones of their likely offspring. They
felt sure that a member of a family so worthy would grow up to be a
useful dog.

Susie had tried to train Pete to be polite, and to observe the Golden
Rule in his conduct toward cats and other animals less fortunate than
himself. His father had given him a cuff on the side of the head when
he found him running off with Betty’s shoe, and told him that “dogs who
wished to grow up into leading citizens in dogdom didn’t steal young
ladies’ shoes and chew the toes off them.” Then he made Pete take the
shoe to his mistress, lay it at her feet, and wag his tail in apology.

In this way, these parents tried to instill into their son all the
good principles they could before he should go out into the wide, wide
world. In Pete’s case, this meant being taken in a basket to his new
home at Coleman’s.

Pete’s parting with his home folks was pathetic. All that week he was
favored above his brothers and sisters. The day before his departure,
his father, Shep, took him slyly aside and whispered in his ear,
“Follow me, but do not let even your mother know about it.”

[Illustration: Peter Learns a Lesson]

So Pete watched his chance and, when Susie was taking her afternoon
nap and others were playing tag, he sniffed about until he took up
the trail to the garden. There he saw his dad digging in the ground.
Finally Shep unearthed a well seasoned bone. What a treat Pete was
to have, in being allowed to dine with his father off one end of
that juicy, earth-flavored bone! There was no criticism of his table
manners. What if he did fill his mouth too full and make a noise when
he ate? Nothing was said about it, which was unusual, for his dad was
a stickler for correct eating. Another time Pete would have been sent
away from the feast, had he been greedy and asked for a third helping,
but to-day, how different! For once he was allowed to put both paws on
that sweet bone and to gnaw and gnaw, while his dad stood off smiling
approval.

Peter wished there was no wide world to go out into. Why, he was just
beginning to get along well at home. His brothers and sisters envied
him, and what satisfaction he got out of having them all jealous of
him--so nearly human was this little piece of dog flesh. The other
pups’ eyes fairly bulged and turned green when they saw Susie tucking
him tenderly in, the night before he was to leave his home.

How fondly she licked him, paying particular attention to his ears, to
make sure they were clean. Now these very ears were always a source
of dispute at other times. Many a cuffing Pete had received when they
would not bear inspection. But to-night how gentle was her touch,
what pathos in her whine, as she bade him good night! Susie was going
through a crisis, such as comes to every mother when her family circle
is broken, and one of her beloved ones goes out from the home nest. She
wanted him to be an honor to her and his father. Would he?

We shall see.




PETER’S NEW HOME


The next day Peter was transported to his new home. So great was the
excitement over making the change, that many things Susie had intended
to say to him in the way of good advice were forgotten. With a great
lump in her throat, which mothers are apt to have on such occasions,
she bade him good-by forever.

After the thrill of his first ride in an automobile, Pete arrived at
his new home, where he was greeted by his new master and mistress. They
were a pair of chubby youngsters of four and five years, who looked
enough alike to be twins. There being only one year’s difference in
their ages accounted for this.

Their names were Mabel and Ralph. Both had brown eyes, and their hair
was almost the color of Peter’s coat. They were delighted to see Peter,
with his brown eyes and his coat of brown and tan, so soft and fuzzy.
They laughed at his funny little tail. And his silken ears--as the
little girl rubbed one of them against her cheek, Peter gave a sigh of
relief because they were clean.

This episode of the ears reminded him of home and his mother, just
as other sons who have left home for the first time have had their
memories of their mothers jogged. Peter gulped down the lump that
came into his little throat; he must be brave. That was one of the
things Shep had emphasized in his advice. He had said, “Bravery is the
greatest asset for a dog.”

After each of the children had had a good “snuggle” at him, he was
given his dinner on a beautiful blue plate, all his own. This was nice,
but in all his life he had never before eaten alone. How _could_ he
eat, with no one to push and crowd him, and no dad to tell him when he
had had enough? When he took a mouthful of really good bread and gravy,
it almost choked him. Then, those wide-eyed youngsters were watching
every bite he ate, making him feel so self-conscious that he simply
could not remember his table manners. He put his paws on his plate,
and made a noise chewing his food. At home, every scrap was eaten, and
the plate cleaned in a tidy way, ready for the next meal. His orderly
mother would have been ashamed of him, if she could have seen the mess
he was making of this, his first meal in his new home.

A survey of the premises was next in order. He was shown his bedroom,
which was a box on the back porch. It was large enough for him to
stretch out in and be very comfortable. It looked about right, but it
lacked the “homey” odor of his former bed. It was too fresh and clean.

Then Pete had his first touch of homesickness. These youngsters were
all right, as youngsters go, but they were not to be compared for
company to a family of rollicking puppies. What did they know about a
game of tug-of-war with an old sock, or of ball with a lump of coal,
and other delightful dog games? With a contemptuous shrug of his
shoulders, he went on with his investigations.

Out on the window sill, where the sun shone warmly, was something that
attracted his attention. Going closer to see more clearly, he observed
a creature which was something new to him. It seemed to be a bundle of
fuzzy fur, with a head at one end, and something at the other end that
looked a little like the feather duster the puppies used to play with
at home.

The head was loose, too, for now it was turning. It opened two eyes,
and then a mouth, and yawned. All at once, something happened. Down the
creature pounced, right on Pete’s back. He was still uncertain what it
was, until it began to spit and snarl. As all cats snarl and spit about
alike, Pete knew it must be some kind of a cat, but how different from
the cats which he had known. All his former cat acquaintances had worn
sleek coats with spots or striped, and they had had long, slim tails,
or no tails at all. A Manx cat he had known had no tail.

Fluff, for that was the cat’s name, was as much astonished as Peter
was, at what she was encountering. This was something unlike anything
she had ever seen before. Something told her it was akin to her old
enemy, the dog, but how harmless this one seemed! Nothing but the wag
of his ridiculous little tail was at all doglike.

They surveyed each other for a while. Then Peter remembered his
mother’s advice about following the Golden Rule with cats, especially
when the cat had the advantage, as was the situation now. Turning, he
ran back to his bedroom for a nap, as so much excitement had wearied
him.

Hopping into his box, he turned around twice before he lay down. Soon
he was asleep. When he awoke, it was dark. Where was he? Nosing around,
he could find no bedfellow, nothing that was familiar, and then he
realized how homesick he was. He wanted his mother and he began to cry.

[Illustration: Peter Sees Fluff for the First Time]

Upstairs somewhere, awake in a snug, warm bed, lay a little boy. He
heard that pitiful cry, and felt his own little heart ache with pity
for the baby dog. He listened for a while. Then, unable to stand it
any longer, he slipped out of bed. Tiptoeing his way, so that no one
would hear him, the boy went out on the cold back porch to the puppy.
Taking Pete under his warm bathrobe, he slipped as quietly back to bed.
The puppy was “snuggled” in Ralph’s arms, and soon dog and boy were
fast asleep. Thus a bond of affection was established between these two
that proved lasting and true, as we shall see.

The better acquainted Peter got with his new friends, the better he
liked them, especially the boy and the girl. With the latter, however,
he felt as if he were not in full favor. She seemed to prefer petting
that presumptuous, fluffy cat, rather than him. He was not quite sure,
but he thought he overheard some such conversation as this between them:

“Fluffy, you must be nice to our new puppy. You know he is _only_ a
little doggie.”

There was considerable emphasis laid on the “only.” For some reason
which Pete did not stop to analyze, he determined he would show this
pair, the girl and the cat, a few things, when he ceased to be “only a
_little_ doggie,” and became a real dog.

Life at this new home was very pleasant for Pete. The little boy and
he had so much fun, that he soon forget the home he had left. He never
knew how his mother missed him, for, although more puppies came to
bless and cheer her heart, still she could never forget Pete.




GETTING ACQUAINTED


The Coleman children went to school every day. The maid went with them
across the street, and called for them when they were to return. This
left Pete and the cat at home together. They were not getting on very
well. Fluff was haughty and disdainful, and she was entirely too free
with her claws, which Pete soon learned she hid from sight in those
soft, insinuating paws of hers.

After a while Peter became more and more venturesome. Peering through
the back fence to see what was going on across the way, he saw the
home of the aristocratic Boston bull that Fluff feared. Pete would
stand with his nose through the fence, watching and learning just how
a grown-up dog did act, and he wondered if he would ever grow up to do
those wonderful things.

One day he saw that majestic creature catching flies. Sitting in front
of his kennel, the Boston bull would wait until a fly would light on
his nose. Then, after giving his head a shake to shoo it off, he would
snap it up. This was interesting to Pete. He decided to try it.

He went off and lay down. He waited a while, pretending to be asleep,
but keeping one eye open. At last he heard a buzzing sound. Some kind
of flying creature was near. It was aiming for a seat on his nose. Now,
a shake, a snap--he had it! How thrilling! He would try it again, but
it would not be necessary to keep even one eye open. He closed both.
Buzz-z-z-z! Another fly was coming. Still as a mouse Pete lay waiting.
Then all at once Pete let out a piercing yelp. The fly had proven to be
a bee. Pete was stung! After the first shock was over, he thought of
something else his father had told him. He had said always to keep one
eye on every venture. Pete resolved not to get stung again.

The days sometimes seemed very long to Pete. The cat couldn’t or
wouldn’t play. She liked sunning herself in a lazy fashion on the
window sill. He must find some other means of diversion.

When the laundress was hanging up the clothes to dry, he would help by
taking the clothespins in his mouth and handing them to her. Sometimes
some hidden trait in his make-up prompted him to take toll of the
clothespins when the laundress was not looking. No doubt this was an
echo from some of those inferior relations on one or the other side of
his ancestral house. Still, it was a natural tendency, as all dogs like
to chew clothespins. It sharpens their teeth.

Pete was getting braver and braver every day, and was learning more
and more about his new home. By keeping his eyes open and watching the
behavior of other dogs, he was developing into an intelligent pup. He
and Ralph were real pals, and what the dog was not able to find out for
himself, the boy would teach him, and Pete’s devotion to his teacher
was marvelous.

When the children started for school, Pete would follow at their heels
until the curb was reached. In the afternoon he would watch until the
maid returned with them. Then one morning they had to go alone. When
they hesitated at the street crossing, Pete ran out in the middle of
the street and barked in front of all the oncoming cars, thus holding
up the traffic until Ralph and Mabel were safely across. In the
afternoon he watched for them and repeated the performance.

One morning, when he had seen the children safely across, he discovered
that Mabel had lost her book. Dodging in front of a big truck, he
seized the book in his mouth and ducked just in time to keep from
getting struck. Then he raced after the children to deliver the book to
its little owner.

The pup grew in grace and charm, as well as wisdom. His fuzzy covering
was gone, and with it had vanished many of his puppy ways. He had grown
into a fine looking dog. One could scarcely recognize the little woolly
pup in this beautiful brown, shading into tan, animal. He had a natty
white vest and one white forefoot. His tail curled over his back like a
plume; but his greatest charm was his eyes. They were brown and amber
now, and they almost twinkled with intelligence when he was spoken to.

Ralph was very proud of him, and entered him in all the dog shows,
although Pete never won any medals, because of his lack of pedigree.
Had a prize been given for real worth and good character, he would have
carried off the blue ribbon, for Pete was well raised and had good
training.

Some pedigreed animals, and some pedigreed people are snobbish and
rude. Such was the case with the Boston bull on the other side of the
fence, and with some others in this exclusive neighborhood. This was
brought forcibly to Pete’s attention one morning. After he had piloted
the children across the street, on returning to his own curb, he heard
loud barking around the corner. Curious to know what was the cause of
it all, he ran in the direction of the noise.

Imagine his surprise and indignation at what he saw! Up a tree, just
beyond the reach of their upturned noses, was Fluff, Mabel’s cat,
driven there by three of the aristocrats, and held at bay by their, to
her, bloodcurdling yelps. The Boston bull seemed to be in charge. His
confederates were a prize-winning Airedale, with a pedigree reaching
back through countless generations, and a German police dog, whose
ancestors had been trained to torment French prisoners, away back
during the Franco-Prussian war. With murderous motives these three had
Fluff surrounded when Pete appeared on the scene.

Without stopping to consider that he was apparently outmatched, Pete
sprang at their heels, snapping and biting first one and then another,
until he had their attention drawn from the cat. Then he started to
run, with the three in pursuit. This was what he wanted. By keeping
several jumps ahead of them, he got to his own door just as someone was
coming out, and he bounded inside. Meantime Fluff had not let any grass
grow under her feet; she had arrived at the back door first. Once
inside, she did a very unusual thing. Approaching Pete, she rubbed her
sides against his legs, purring her thanks; and she never forget this
act of gallantry which he had performed for her. There may have been
no blue blood in this dog, but this episode proved that there were no
yellow streaks.

[Illustration: Fluff and the Three Aristocrats]

Ralph was growing into a big boy, and was engaged in the activities and
sports that the average boy of his age enjoys. He was a member of the
Boy Scouts, and of the “Sand Lot Ball Team”; but his love for Peter was
as great as ever. He always wanted his dog with him in his sports, and
Pete, appreciating this, proved himself a boon companion.

Any game that Pete did not sanction by a smile and a wag of his tail
was not entered into with much zest. When a game with a competing team
was scheduled to come off, it was talked over with Pete somewhat in
this fashion:

“Well, old pal, what do you think about it? Are we going to win? You
know Bud Sanders, Pete--he’s one of their best pitchers; but of course
our team can show something just as good. If you say so, we will beat
them.”

Then Pete would stretch out, yawn, and make a noise that Ralph always
knew meant either yes or no; it all depended on the expression of the
dog’s countenance when he made it. If the prediction were favorable for
their team, boy and dog would start for the diamond, full of enthusiasm.

Pete would enter into the spirit of the game along with the boys,
and would watch the ball with quivering excitement, when Ralph sent
it flying and made a home run. Before Jack could bring it back, Pete
seemed to know just where that ball dropped to earth, and would beat
the boys to it, bringing it to the pitcher and dropping it at his feet.

Sometimes an argument would start on the field of combat, and Ralph
would be surrounded by a loud-mouthed, fist-shaking squad. Pete would
edge his way through and take a position near his master, wag his tail
slowly, and listen intently, as if asking what it was all about, and
weighing the pros and cons. Ralph would reach down, pat him on the head
and ask, “Which way was it, old pal?”

Not always were the other boys willing to take Pete’s decision, and the
matter might be left to the referee; but always Pete stood valiantly by
his master in every matter.

By this time the bull dog next door had learned to have more respect
for Peter. A boy about Ralph’s age had come to live with his master and
mistress. He was a nice boy, and he and Ralph were very good friends.
Both were good scouts and, as they were together a great deal, the
dogs, after a few encounters, learned to endure, if not to like, one
another.

They accompanied the boys on hikes and, one day, when the boys and
their two dogs were going gaily through the woods, kicking up the dry
leaves, Pete, the younger and more active dog, ran on ahead and out of
sight of the boys. Soon they heard a great barking. Hurrying along,
they found Pete pawing and stamping in an attempt to put out a fire
that was just starting from a cigarette, which had been carelessly
thrown among the dry leaves.

The boys finished extinguishing the fire, and then turned their
attention to Pete, whose feet were burned. They knew the burns must
be extremely painful. Feeling very sorry for the dog, and full of
enthusiastic admiration for his splendid courage, they made a litter
for him, such as they would have made for one of their own scout
comrades. The boys carried Pete home, and the bull dog kept close to
his master’s heels, so as not to be left entirely out.

Peter’s mother, Susie, would have been very proud if she had known her
son was the means of saving the countryside from a destructive fire.

Shep, no doubt, would have said, “I knew Pete would amount to
something.”

Reaching home, the boys treated Pete’s sore feet with a healing salve
and made him comfortable.

[Illustration: Peter Tries to Put Out a Fire]

It is uncertain whether or not dogs can communicate with each other,
but, by some means, the news got abroad that Pete was laid up, and
every dog in the neighborhood came to call. It was suspected that
the bull had something to do with it, as he seemed to be master of
ceremonies. His admiration for Pete seemed suddenly to have increased.
After each dog had sniffed at Pete’s sore paws, they raced off.




PETER ON THE FARM


It was now vacation time and Pete and his master were anticipating a
good time. Ralph and Mabel usually spent a part of the time on their
grandfather’s farm, and Pete was going along. At Grandfather’s there
were two small dogs, but that would be all right with Pete, who acted
in a big-brotherly way toward them, sharing with them whatever he had
to eat.

There was just one quarter from which Peter would allow no
interference. That was from a goat that roamed at will over the place.
Until this visit to the farm, he had never seen a goat. His first
encounter with this one had been quite disastrous to Pete’s pride; so,
having no wish to repeat the set-to, he left the goat with the butting
disposition severely alone.

Although Pete, in accordance with his good mother’s teachings, was
generous with the small dogs, there was one thing he would not permit.
That was their following him to the bone cemetery. This was forbidden
ground. Out in the orchard, under the apple trees, where the earth was
mellow, was his favorite, exclusive spot.

If Pete observed the others following him to the orchard, he would
chase them back and tell them to stay there. Then he would feast
and enjoy to his heart’s content the gnawing of those delicious,
earth-seasoned morsels. This always carried him back to the time when
his father and he had gnawed the bone in the garden at home. Thus Shep
had revealed to his son the social side of his nature. The small dogs
learned to respect Pete’s privacy and stayed away.

Peter was trained to help Ralph bring up the cattle from the pasture.
On several occasions, when it was raining, he brought them in alone.
In the lot was Duke, the king of the herd. Usually he was a safe and
docile animal, but one evening something seemed to be wrong. Duke was
in an ugly mood, pawing and bellowing at a great rate, and refusing to
be lined up with the cows.

[Illustration: Peter Helps Bring the Cattle from the Pasture]

Ralph struck Duke with a gad, which was a great mistake on the boy’s
part. The animal charged. Ralph ducked and ran for a near-by tree,
climbing up before the bull reached him.

Pete did his best to help his master. He barked and snapped at the
enemy, but to no avail. He then looked up at Ralph, as much as to say,
“What more can I do?”

“Get Grandpa,” the boy called to him.

Off Pete ran, over the fence, and on to the house. In a little while,
back he bounded with Grandfather and the hired man following, with
weapons of defense to liberate the prisoner. And so Peter proved to be
the hero of the day.

The summer was one of profit and pleasure both to the dogs and the
children. Grandmother knew how to make the most delicious cookies,
which Pete shared along with the children. He helped hunt the eggs.
Finding a nest, he would stand and wag his tail until they got the
eggs. He also assisted in rounding up the young poultry to be shut in
for the night.

When the work was all done, the children and the dogs would go through
the woods to the old swimming hole. While the boy and his sister
were enjoying the water, the dogs found many things to attract their
attention. One of them would stir up a chipmunk or a rabbit. Then
all would give chase. If the little creature went into a hole in the
ground, it fell to Pete, as the largest and strongest, to dig it out,
while the others would stand off, barking their encouragement. When at
last he would find it, Pete would permit no torturing of their prey; it
must be killed skillfully and at once.

The time passed all too quickly. School soon would open. Mabel and
Ralph were entering high school. Pete was now a dignified, full-grown
dog, looking like his father, Shep, but having the gentle disposition
of his mother, Susie.

Although he was not a quarrelsome dog, and never attacked a dog smaller
than himself, still Peter was all dog. In reading these records of
this grown-up puppy’s doings, we must remember that he was without
royal ancestry. He was not registered as to pedigree, but was just an
ordinary, middle-class dog, with a high sense of honor, inherited from
honest parent dogs.

The bull dog, whose name was Joe, was growing old and slow of gait. He
and Pete had become fast friends. Time had taken some of the arrogance
out of his manner. He had been condescending in his attitude toward
Pete, but now he showed more interest and some affection. It was
pathetic to note Pete’s deference for the old chap. Perhaps that had
something to do with his change of heart. Were they out for a walk,
Pete would run on ahead, and then wait for the old dog to catch up, or
run back to him and walk slowly beside him.

The time came when old Joe was unable to go out. He would sit outside
his kennel dozing, having not even strength enough to snap at the
flies that bothered him. Pete spent a great deal of time with him. He
would lie nearby sleeping, or would drink in a social way from Joe’s
drinking pan. He did many other little comforting things to show good
comradeship.

One very warm day the dogs were panting with the heat. Their tongues
were lolling out of their mouths, and they drank a great deal of water,
Pete taking the last drop. Soon poor old Joe, bending down to get a
drink, found the pan dry. Pete jumped up and, taking the edge of the
pan in his mouth, ran to the screen door, where he scratched until the
cook came. Then he lifted the empty pan to her to be filled.

One morning, a short while after this hot spell, Pete came to see
his old friend, whom he had learned really to love. The bull dog was
missing from his customary place, so Pete looked into the kennel. There
lay poor old Joe, dead. This was Pete’s first experience with that
mysterious condition. His reaction was only normal and doglike, for
he proceeded to eat up the remnants of the bull dog’s supper, drank
all the water, and then ran off to find a live dog to play with. Dogs
seldom show grief for their own kind.




NEW SCENES


The years rolled on. At last the children were grown and ready for
college, and in the fall Ralph was to go to a university. Mabel was to
attend another school.

Pete was conscious that something was about to happen. His master would
pat him lovingly on the head, and then slip an arm around his neck.
Then he would begin talking about going away, saying, “Well, old pal,
how are we going to stand this? Do you think you will miss me?”

Pete would kiss his young master, dog-fashion; then he would lie down
at his feet in the most devoted way.

The university to which Ralph was going was not a great distance, sixty
miles or a little further, from his home. A trip was taken to make
arrangements about entering. Peter, much to his delight, was allowed to
go with his master in the automobile.

He took an inventory of the place where they went. Nothing escaped
him. There seemed to be some dogs at this school. At least, he saw
several following the young men students, and it certainly was an ideal
place for a dog to be. Storing all these things in his mind, Pete
returned to his home, somewhat more reconciled to have Ralph go from
him, as he concluded that all was for the best.

Soon preparations were completed, and Ralph was ready to leave, this
time by train. Peter went to the depot with the rest of the family to
see his master off. Ralph was very brave, for he wanted to show that
he was now a man, and he thought any show of emotion was womanish. He
bade everyone farewell. Last of all, he patted his dog affectionately,
saying, “Well, good-by, old pal.”

All went well for a month or so. Pete would wander around as if looking
for something, but he seemed to be taking his loss in a sensible way.
Then, one morning, he was missing. Nowhere could he be found. Search
and the offer of rewards failed to bring him back. He was given up
as lost. The family came to the conclusion that Pete had either been
stolen or struck by an automobile. Then a letter came from Ralph, in
which he wrote: “Whom should I see on the campus one day, when I was
returning from class, but good old Pete?”

Maybe you think that was not a joyous meeting! Ralph did not tell
all in his letter, but his mother read between the lines, and knew
there were some tears shed. Ralph was feeling some of the pangs of
homesickness that a certain little puppy once had felt, and the dog
understood and sympathized.

Ralph by this time was comfortably established in a fraternity house,
where there were other boys with their dogs, and Peter was at once made
a member of the group. Almost any day Ralph could be seen crossing the
campus, his arms full of books, with Pete trotting along at his heels.
These were happy days for the dog. The boy, too, seemed to be perfectly
contented, now that his faithful friend was with him.

Pete seemed to understand that his remaining at college all depended
upon his good behavior, so he carried himself with dignity. He never
chased squirrels and never frightened the children who came on the
campus to play. He was polite, and moved off the sidewalk to let the
ladies pass, showing in many ways that he had come from a good home,
where the training had been of the right kind.

Ralph was elected to play on the ball team. Pete had not forgotten the
times back home on the sand lot, when he had helped his master win many
a game, so he was on hand to do his bit on these occasions. However, he
was not so young as he used to be and he was not so agile in bringing
back the ball. As the other members of the team who had dogs thought
they could get along without his help, Pete had to be tied up when a
game was on, much to his chagrin.

Ralph, who had been one of the best players on the high school squad,
was given a place on the team when the football season commenced. All
went well until one day, when there was a close game with another
university, Ralph was injured. The track was wet and slippery, and
Ralph’s ankle turned, throwing him and wrenching his back.

This unfortunate accident kept Ralph confined to his room, and on his
back for some time. But for Peter, he would have spent many lonely
hours before he could again go to classes. The dog would lie on the rug
in front of the gas stove, where he could keep one eye on his beloved
master.

On the night of the oratorical contest all of the boys were gone, and
Ralph and Pete were alone in the house. Having read until he was tired,
Ralph closed his eyes, and soon he was sound asleep. Pete was lying in
his customary place before the stove. The door leading out into the
corridor was open; also one leading onto the fire escape. Suddenly
Peter began barking and pulling at the covering on Ralph, who awakened
to find himself nearly suffocated by smoke that filled the house.

Ralph realized that the house was on fire, and felt his helplessness,
as he was not yet able to walk since his accident; but something must
be done, and quickly. Dragging himself off the couch, he managed to get
his arm around the dog’s neck, and in this way the two of them made
their way through the smoke to the fire escape. From there, Ralph gave
the alarm and was rescued, just as the walls crumbled. The fire had
made such headway that nothing could save the house. Had it not been
for this prince among dogs, Ralph’s life would have gone out while he
slept. Susie and Shep had sown good seed when they taught Peter that
bravery was a good trait for a dog to have.

Peter was growing old. There was no doubt about it; he was getting
stiff in his joints, and his hearing was not so good. When he was
alone, he found it difficult to keep from being struck by the
automobiles, whose careless drivers had no regard for life of either
dog or child, but would come tearing along at reckless speed.

One day Pete was crossing to the campus, when a car came in sight. It
was one of those that college boys seem to enjoy driving more than any
other kind, a rickety old bus, without top and not much else but wheels
and an engine. In this semblance of a car were as many boys as it would
hold. They were having a hilarious time, returning from a game.

There was so much noise, as they went zig-zagging through the street,
that poor Pete became confused and was caught under the wheels of
this death trap. Thus a precious life went out. This was the closing
of a career of one of the most faithful of God’s creatures in the
animal kingdom. He was one who laid no claim to anything but ordinary
ability, natural instincts, and a reaction to kind treatment that paid
a hundredfold.

Ralph felt his loss so keenly that, after laying Peter’s broken body
away, he conceived the idea of writing a book about dogs. He would
depict only the good qualities or instincts, which, if developed,
would make even yellow mongrels into decent dogs. To the memory of
his beloved Peter he would dedicate a collection of really good and
true stories, with the hope that other boys would derive, from the
companionship and knowledge of dogs, such inspiration as had helped
to develop his own character, making him an ardent defender of all
faithful creatures.

So this is how _The Tattlers_ came to be written.

[Illustration: Pixie and Bob]




THE TATTLERS




PIXIE AND BOB


It was a beautiful street where the dogs all lived, lined on one side
by stately palms. The lawns were smooth as velvet, and always green,
in spite of the fact that it seldom rained in this country. Flowers
and clinging vines helped to enhance the beauty. The owners of the
homes on this well kept street were rich and could afford every luxury
for themselves, as well as everything appropriate to their respective
positions.

That anyone or anything could be unhappy in such environment seemed
unbelievable. However, one little heart was aching there. It was that
of a poor little rich Pomeranian, so tiny that the amount which had
been paid for her would cover her nicely, were it in bills.

Notwithstanding the fact that Pixie, for that was her name, was fondled
and petted, wore beautiful clothes, slept on a silk pillow at the foot
of her mistress’s bed, and won all the prizes at the fancy dog shows,
indeed, had every wish gratified, she was very unhappy to-day.

Pixie’s owners, who had bought her in London, were proud of her long
pedigree, which they never failed to mention, and also that she was
registered along with dogs belonging to the King and Queen. This
was exceedingly gratifying to everyone concerned, and the awe with
which people expressed their admiration for a mite like her that had
hobnobbed with royalty, was astonishing.

She was in this lovely home, and had nothing to do but go through a
few silly tricks, such as sneezing when she was told to, whether she
felt like it or not. To be sure she would be rewarded with some little
bit of sweet for performing. But the worst was to have to sit up on
her haunches, close her eyes, and say her prayers, in order that her
admirers might have a hearty laugh.

Pixie never felt like laughing herself, as something in her made her
feel cross at such times. Besides, where did her mistress get that
idea of saying prayers in that way? Pixie never saw her mistress say
prayers in that or any other way. If she had, would she have liked to
be laughed at?

These were only a few of the things this mite of a dog, who was worth
her weight in gold, had to trouble her, for she was possessed as we
have seen of a small organ necessary to her existence, called a heart.
This, we like to think, was susceptible to emotions similar to those of
others of God’s creatures.

That this “angel dog,” as her mistress sometimes called her, could have
a heartache never occurred to that lady, yet just now Pixie truly was
troubled. Every morning Celeste, the French maid, whose ancestors came
from the same country that was the home of Pixie’s, would take her out
for exercise and fresh air. Pixie loved going to the park nearby. At
the entrance, the maid would take the leash from her collar and allow
her her liberty.

Celeste would stop to visit with other maids who had brought either
children or dogs with them. The one with whom she was holding
conversation to-day was the Judge’s maid, who had a young Airedale pup
in tow. This young dog was also allowed to run at large. He was so
homely and awkward that Pixie was ashamed to be seen with him, although
he, like herself, was supposed to be of blue blood. Yet since he
belonged to their set, she felt that she must be polite to him.

He became familiar and this put Pixie on her dignity. They started out
together, but the Pom was haughty and disdainful.

“He is so common and ugly,” she thought.

Pixie was not wise in her reasoning, or she would have wanted just such
a background to show off her own beauty. How her lovely, golden-brown
coat glistened in the sun, and how stiff, bristly and fuzzy the
Airedale’s coat looked in comparison. And such ears! And was there
anything more ridiculous than that stub of a tail? Why, that must be
why he was called Bob. Such were the observations that Pixie was making
to herself.

Still Pixie was trying to be polite, as one in her position in dogdom
should be, but she resented the Airedale’s friendly advances, and when
Bob challenged her to a race, she became very cool indeed. She felt
that sometimes one’s standing required the toleration of “impossible”
dogs, but one did not have to lower her dignity in doing so.

Bob must have sensed something of what was in this haughty lady dog’s
mind, for he began bragging. “She wasn’t so much after all.” His master
lived in a larger, finer house than hers. Besides, his master was a
Judge, who knew about everything and owned two dogs, real dogs--himself
and his father--both with pedigrees and family trees planted in the
north of England. They were grafted onto an Irish terrier branch, and
noted for a lot of things. He failed to say that one of the traits for
which they were noted was their quick tempers when they were young and
undisciplined.

Bob had some things of which to be proud, too, so he began strutting
before Pixie, which only made matters worse, as far as their ever
being friends was concerned.

Then Bob, who, you must remember, was young and thoughtless, began
making insulting growls, which meant that he knew a few things. “Hadn’t
Celeste told their maid that Pixie’s great-great-grandmother was a
wolf-dog, and that she had one of the largest families? She was known
to have had twenty puppies, and she had to leave them to look after
themselves while she helped Pixie’s great-great-grandfather shoo off
the wolves.” He wound up by saying, “And my master says it is true. He
looked it up in the book.”

Now Pixie was a “perfect lady,” yet there remained in her
blood a taint of the fighting propensity that had enabled her
great-great-grandparents to shoo off those hungry wolves, and she
was not going to stand for any such unkind remarks from a mere Irish
Airedale terrier pup.

She flew at him, snapping and biting his awkward legs, and barking her
loudest, which only made Bob smile, though it is hard to believe that
Airedales do smile, so solemn are their countenances. He decided to
show her what real barking was like, and the big bass bow-bow that he
let out so frightened Pixie that she scampered off to the French maid.

In this way the morning was spoiled for the little Pom, who shed tears
when she thought of her poor great-great-grandmother having to leave
those dear little puppies to help shoo off those terrible wolves.
Looking around at her surroundings, she thought how different was her
condition. She had everything to make her happy. She could sit in her
mistress’s lap and eat off her plate if she wanted to. She would never
have a large family of puppies to bother with; and of course there
would never be any wolves to disturb her.

As this brought her thoughts back to the happenings of the morning and
that dreadful Airedale pup, a shudder went through her small body.
“Will I always have to encounter that dog when I go to the park?” she
wondered.

There were many dogs at the park, but with most of them Pixie must not
play. She could associate with only the dogs in her particular circle,
and give these others only a haughty stare when she met them.

The Airedale pup, not used to being snubbed, was taking this slight
seriously. After Pixie left him, he felt he was in need of sympathy.
That Pixie was a lady and had very sharp teeth prevented him from
demanding an apology. Had she been one of his own kind, and of his own
size, Bob would have fought it out. He would have had the apology, too;
but as it was he must have advice.

Looking across the park, he saw the gleam of a brass-studded collar
which looked like the regulation collar for dogs in their neighborhood.
Going over there, he found three dogs, all belonging in his set. They
were taking the air while their attendants sat on the benches and read
the morning papers.

Bob, who was still smarting from Pixie’s snub, told them his tale of
woe.

“I have been mistreated by a pert little flapper of a Pom, with a
ribbon around her neck--and such superior airs she was assuming, when
she is only the great-great-granddaughter of a wolf-dog, who, away back
there in the old country, raised dozens of puppies and shooed wolves!”

His hearers sat around on their haunches, with their tongues lolling
out, and listened intently. Being unable to get an expression from them
collectively, Bob questioned them one by one as to what they thought of
Pixie, and what he should do about her behavior to him.

All except one expressed opinions. The exception was a young police
dog, whose family tree was flourishing over there. If he was not
mistaken, there were traditions in his family which bore some relation
to the story about the little Pomeranian dogs being able to frighten
his own ancestors, when they were hungry and weak, and wanted only a
good meal from the poultry pens. Yet he hoped there was some mistake
about the story. It did not seem possible that a mere Pom could
frighten a noble wolf. Yet he admired Pixie.

The next dog consulted was a little pug, named Ruby. She was quite well
acquainted with Pixie, had met her abroad, and had come home on the
same ship with her. Both of them had been prize-winners at a dog show
in England. Their respective mistresses had bought them from the same
kennels. There had been considerable discussion as to the merits of the
two dogs. Both had wanted the Pom, and quite a bit of feeling arose
between the two ladies on the subject. In fact, the pug’s mistress, in
a polite way, claimed the other lady had used questionable methods to
procure the coveted dog. However, nothing could be done about it now,
as Pixie’s mistress was better able to pay the purchase price.

So the pug was taken; but Ruby always felt there was a lack of
sincerity in her owner’s voice when she declared to Pixie’s owner, “No
amount of money would induce me to part with my dear little pug. She is
the smartest, brightest dog I ever knew.” Then too, Ruby had overheard
Pixie’s mistress telling some one that pugs were stupid dogs who did
nothing but eat and snore.

Considering these facts, it was not difficult for Bob to enlist Ruby’s
sympathy. Aside from this, Ruby was envious of Pixie’s beautiful fur
coat. It was so soft and warm. Pixie had no need to wear an overcoat
that made her look like a stuffed sausage when she went riding. And she
didn’t snore when she slept. The pug at once became Bob’s ally.

The other one in the group was a little French poodle who was fond of
Pixie, because, notwithstanding that one was of German descent and
the other of French, they got along nicely together. Though unlike in
color, they had many traits in common. Both had ancestors who were
valiant and courageous. Having this beautiful French poodle, whose name
was Petite, to champion her cause was favorable for Pixie, had she
known about it; but Pixie was blissfully unaware of the controversy.

Petite’s and Pixie’s mistresses were old friends, and both dogs had
heard complimentary remarks about each other, so Bob could not count
on the French poodle’s sympathy. She was decidedly for Pixie. Nothing
could be settled with the weight of opinion so unequally balanced.

Bob’s pride had had a jolt, and the matter must be adjusted. He would
take the case to his father to decide. The elder Airedale was one of
those large boned, solemn looking dogs that always look as if they were
thinking deeply on some subject of importance. At the same time, there
is a comical twist to their countenances that harks back to some trait
in their Irish ancestry. Because of these characteristics, and the fact
that his owner was on the bench, this old Airedale was called Judge.

[Illustration: Judge Was Always Being Called Upon to Decide]

Besides being Bob’s father, Judge was also a sort of father confessor
to all the dogs in the neighborhood. He was always being called upon to
decide the rights of the case in the squabbles of the dogs. Was there
a scrap over a bone, or had some of the dogs mistreated a cat that
was unable to defend itself, Judge would administer a cuffing to the
offenders. Even his own son was granted no mercy when he was brought
into court for some disturbance he had caused, but was given a good
cuffing if Judge found him guilty.




JUDGE AIREDALE


With some misgivings, therefore, Bob approached his father on this
subject. He decided he would wait until he was sure his dad was in a
happy mood. After the noonday meal, when they were both comfortably
full, and Judge had had his nap, was the most likely time. Then,
cautiously, Bob broached the matter of his wounded pride. Having no
mother to smooth the way for him, Bob was at the mercy of his father’s
candor. Judge, realizing this fact, became interested in learning about
the case.

He inquired as to how many families were acquainted with the story,
and how much had really been said about the personal appearance of
his offspring. This was a delicate subject, as there was a strong
resemblance between father and son. Just how far into the family
records had Pixie delved? Of course, no one in this neighborhood
knew of the family skeleton. That was safe. Bob was very brief about
his part in the encounter. He mentioned nothing about his terrible
bow-wows, which had so frightened the pert Pom that she had turned pale
under her heavy coat.

Judge, rubbing his chin with his ponderous paw, said, “I will take
up the case, but I will defer a decision until more evidence can be
procured. Meantime I will investigate.”

In the interval each of the dogs that knew about the affair related
it to every other dog they met. It was discussed not only in the best
families, but the garbage man’s dog heard of it, and he told it to the
laundress’s yellow mongrel, who met the milkman’s shepherd collie. As
the latter traveled around town, and was an excellent reporter, the
news spread and the story grew and grew, until the owners of the dogs
were also involved. When at last it came to their ears, they were
puzzled to know what it was all about.

Judge, hearing about how the news of this little affair had grown until
it was called a scandal, decided he must act quickly to settle the
wagging of those busybodies’ tongues. He would hold a session and call
the whole neighborhood of dogs into court. The police dog was to summon
them. Each one that had a share in this matter, regardless of what was
his standing in society, must appear before him to be punished.

It was an outrage that a dog of Judge’s high standing should be so
maligned, for at last the story had grown until it was unsavory, and a
great injustice had been done to the father of such a promising son.
Summoning the German police dog, Judge made a list of those who were
responsible for the wide spread of the story. Among these were Ruby,
the pug, Petite, the white French poodle, and those to whom they had
told the interesting bit of news.

In their set was an English bulldog named Bill, who was a distant
relative on the terrier side of the Airedale family. Bill felt that it
would be disloyal not to support the Airedales in their contention,
especially as the matter had been laid before him by Ruby, who gave her
own version of it, adding as much local color as she could.

Bill, in turn, told a friend, a Boston bull, and so it went. Among
their select set, everyone who repeated the tale added something to it.
It was left to dear little Petite, the fluffy French poodle, who always
wore white, to defend the little Pom. With tears in her eyes, Petite
told all her friends how that “impossible Airedale pup had insulted
her dear friend, Pixie.” She wept on the shoulder of a stately Russian
wolfhound, named Princess, who had been “over” only a short time, and
who was bewildered by Petite’s show of emotion. For some time indeed
Princess was unable to understand what it all meant.

[Illustration: Petite and Princess]

Expressing her indignation in a dignified and charming way at the
effrontery of the Airedale, the Princess promised to call on the little
Pom and extend her sympathy. She passed the sad news on to a water
spaniel, who just then emerged from the drinking fountain basin, where
he had been taking a bath. Although he shook the water from his wet
coat all over her, which at another time would have been good cause for
a show of temper, even from a lady dog of noble birth, she passed it by
unnoticed, so eager was she to enlist all her friends in Pixie’s cause.

On up the street these two went to where lived two squatty little
dachshunds, whose ancestors, like Pixie’s, were real warriors. It was
said of them that they attacked badgers, an action requiring great
courage. They too had a friendly feeling for Pixie; and then the
Princess was so sweet in her manner and so eager to clear her little
friend’s name of any suspicion, they could not resist her, even though
they saw that the chances of the Airedale were growing slim, and that
it was scarcely fair for all of his friends to turn against him.

It was through these little, sociable dachshunds that the story spread
to the other element of society in dogdom. The garbage man’s dog, Gyp,
who always accompanied his master on his collection trips, was a good
watchdog. He was watching the empty cans while his master stopped
to chat with the laundress. He had his hands full with the dogs who
pestered him for a chance at the tidbits left in the cans. Finally,
Gyp, being of a practical turn of mind, began bartering with the
dogs for an exchange, just as boys do. The dachshunds had something
desirable in this story they had heard, and promised they would give
the details as an after-dinner speech, if they could come to terms,
which they did.

While they were delivering the purchase price of their lunch, the
laundress’s yellow mongrel listened in. Gyp was emphatically against
the Airedale. Once Gyp had fallen into the hands of the law, and had
almost been taken to the dog pound, so he was bitter against law, and
everyone connected with it. This, of course, included the Judge.

[Illustration: Gyp and the Dachshunds]

Such was not the feeling of the little yellow mongrel, who was of no
particular breed. He was just plain dog, and did not mind it one bit if
he was. His mistress gave the Judge two days of her time every week,
and he knew the Airedale quite well. The Judge’s folks had been kind
to him, giving him many meaty bones after dinner. Sometimes the boys
played with him, too, in the back yard, where it was nice and private.
The fence was so high no one could see them. For all of this, he was
most grateful, and intended to stand by the Judge. He was not going to
say anything about it to anyone, except the milkman’s dog, and he must
promise not to repeat the story. Anyway, he lived away on the other
side of town, where they would probably not be interested.

This is how this contention, which, in its beginning was just a
misunderstanding between two inoffensive dogs, grew until friendly
relations were strained to the breaking point.

Having arranged for a hearing on a certain evening, when all the dogs
were again in the park, Judge impaneled a jury. Then, upon examining
the jury, he found that not one of the members was fit to serve, as all
had gossiped about the case. There were not “twelve good dogs and true”
to be found in the town.

Because of this state of affairs, some other plan must be followed.
Judge decided that he would punish all of the worst offenders. The
principals, which meant Pixie and Bob, he would talk to privately.
Pixie no doubt by this time was very sorry and ready to apologize to
Bob.

The gossips he would attend to first. Since they were so eager to tell
stories about other dogs, he would require each of them to come, one at
a time, and tell him a true story of some brave or clever happening of
which they had heard. Perhaps there were family traditions that were
worth repeating, as in the case of Pixie and the dachshunds. It would
be a good way to train their minds, and to teach them to look for the
good and to ignore the bad in all dogs. Besides, it would keep them
busy. As their outings were limited to about two hours each day, it
would be possible for them to hear no more than one long, or, possibly,
several short stories each time.

The police dog, being next in importance to the Judge, was required
to begin this series of punishment. The Judge, after the class in
story-telling had paid the penalty and the law was satisfied, was
to tell a very interesting story himself--one containing much human
interest and moral advice.

Although he was somewhat vain and pompous, the Judge was at heart a
good dog. He desired to raise the standard of morals in dogdom, and
knew that the only way to do that was to fill the empty heads of the
dogs with something besides gossip. A research story-telling campaign
he hoped would prove the first step toward reform.

A program was arranged. Each one was, in his or her turn, to tell
whatever story he or she knew on a given subject; or they could relate
anything of interest that had occurred in their own families. Detective
stories would be in the German police dog’s line. Also stories of
German country dogs. One very interesting story he knew about a large
Dane that could understand nothing but German.

All the dogs were so interested, and so eager to begin, that they
ran around in circles. The court session having adjourned, the police
dog escorted them out of the park, and requested that all of them be
on time promptly the next evening. A happier group of dogs passed out
of the park entrance to go their different ways. No haughty airs were
assumed by the blue-bloods. All were interested in one theme, a common
interest--the paying of a court fine, which makes all kin.

So used were the dogs in the beautiful homes on that exclusive
street to having everything done for them that they had become mere
puppets, and it required considerable effort for them to do any real
thinking. Most of them were foreign born and several had peculiar
habits, different from those of their American cousins. Although their
ancestors originally came from Europe, the latter had become true
Americans in every sense of the word, and were losing their love of
ease and indolence.

Although the owners of these blue-blooded dogs had them registered and
pedigreed, and all that, what did they really know of their families?
It was by mere accident that Pixie heard that bit of history about her
great-great-grandmother. Her mistress never spoke of the little Pom’s
past, except to mention about the dog show in London and Pixie’s having
associated with the nobility. Now that Pixie knew about her people, she
was proud that she had such plucky forbears.

The rest of the dogs, after hearing how Pixie felt about it, were
anxious to know something about their own family histories. This
story-telling campaign was going to afford them just the excuse they
wanted to get the desired information. Surely some members of their
breed had won honors for themselves somewhere or somehow. Just how
or where were they to hear of these things? Now the chance was to be
given, for every dog was to help every other dog with his story. If the
shepherd dog knew of a good story about a bull dog, he was to tell it;
but it must be such a story as the bull would be pleased to know. Then,
if the bull dog knew anything that would add to the happiness of the
shepherd, he in turn would make it known.

Satisfied with this arrangement, the dogs went diligently to work
unearthing stories.

It was early, and the Judge was on his bench under a tree at the far
corner of the park. It was a quiet place where the children, who
were playing in the sand piles or swinging, would not disturb them.
The Judge, not needing an attendant, was allowed to roam at will.
The others would have to wait to be brought, except, of course, the
middle-class dogs, who would presently come romping in.

Had the respective owners of the dogs on the beautiful street been
aware of what was taking place, in all probability they would have
tried to buy the Judge off; but this one was not that kind of a judge.
His belonging to their set would not have influenced him in the least.
Back in his own family history were some sterling qualities, chief of
which was honesty, that had descended to this offspring, and these, as
well as other admirable traits, were manifest in all of his dealings.

The dogs were assembled at last, even Pixie, who was seen trotting
along beside the Airedale pup. The police dog was keeping order and
seating the class. When the gavel, which was his left paw, fell,
everything was ready.




PETITE AND BOB TELL THEIR STORIES


PETITE’S STORY

The white poodle told her story in a winsome way. One of her sisters
had attended the wedding of one of the nobility in France. The bride
was so fond of her little pet that she wanted the poodle with her on
this, the happiest day of her life.

The tiny poodle was bathed and combed until she looked like a fluff of
cotton. Around her neck a pink ribbon was tied and arranged in a smart
bow between her ears. She behaved beautifully, never stepping on the
bride’s train, nor did she blush as the groom did. She made only one
little break.

After the ceremony, when the groom kissed the bride, she let out one
little growl, which she could never refrain from doing when this
occurred. For her nice behavior, she was given a piece of the bride’s
cake to put under her pillow to sleep on.

As she was a very smart poodle in many ways, she seemed to understand
everything that was said to her, and she answered one and all with
the tail language. This is the accepted lingo of such favored dogs,
especially as they have such fine, feathery tails, that show to
advantage when waved in a wig-wag message.

When the poodle was asked if she wanted to go walking, she would hop
onto a chair, and look toward the place where her leash was kept and
wait for her mistress to put it on her neck. As soon as it was put on,
she would jump down from the chair, run to the door and wag her tail,
as if to say she was ready.

On the street, she would walk along beside her mistress in a nice way,
never running on ahead nor pulling on the leash, as do some rude dogs.

Petite was exceedingly proud because she belonged to such a fine breed
of dogs; she waved her beautiful tail in acknowledgment of the applause
which was given her.


BOB’S STORY

Judge required even his own son to relate a story, in punishment for
his rudeness in barking that terrible bass solo at Pixie, which a well
mannered dog should not have done. The father had had Bob rehearse just
what he would say, to make certain that nothing in regard to the family
skeleton would be disclosed, although almost every family has some such
secret to guard. However, Judge thought it best to be on the safe side
in regard to theirs.

Right now I will tell you what this great secret was, but it must
go no further. Some ancestor of Judge’s was killed for slaughtering
sheep. That was about the most disgraceful thing of which a dog
could be guilty--to be called a kill-sheep dog! Of course younger
generations had done honor to the Airedale name, and nobody would hold
them responsible for what had occurred in their family so long ago.
Still, they seldom mentioned it among themselves, and never, never, to
outsiders.

[Illustration: The Comical Young Airedale Terrier]

Bob was inclined to be boastful, and was more than anxious to square
himself with the little Pom. After asking his father many questions in
regard to their family history, he finally succeeded in ferreting out
some very interesting facts.

The Airedale family are noted for their ability to look after their
own welfare, and as guards for children and for property liable to be
invaded by burglars. They are not beautiful, but what is of far more
value, they are useful. As they are partly Irish, they have a sense of
humor and do many comical things.

As an instance of the cleverness and humor of the Airedale terrier, one
that was young liked to dig holes in his master’s front lawn. He had
been repeatedly punished for this naughtiness. Yet whenever he saw the
tracks of a ground mole, he would forget everything and start digging
until he had made another large hole. Then he would stop and look at
what he had done. Feeling guilty, he would run to the porch, where
there was a large door mat. This he would drag to the place and cover
the hole. Satisfied that his guilt was hidden, he would run off to play.

Another of Bob’s stories was about a clever dog named King who took
care of a baby.


KING

King and Junior, a baby boy, were devoted pals. When Junior was in
his pen on the lawn, King would take his place as guard and master
of ceremonies. While the baby was good, King would lie quietly by,
with one eye always on the child. If the baby got tired and fretted,
King would jump up, run around the pen and bark to attract Junior’s
attention, and would keep it up until the baby would smile.

One day when Junior’s teeth were hurting, he was unusually fretful.
King did his stunts in vain. Seeing that he must try some other way to
comfort his pal, he stood in thought for a moment. Then he bounded off
down the street to a place where another family with children lived.
Presently he came dashing back with a woolly dog in his mouth, which he
dropped into Junior’s pen, much to the delight of the crying youngster.

Bob also told another story about a dog who was fond of scrambled eggs.


SCRAMBLED EGGS

Snappy was a small Irish terrier who was fond of scrambled eggs. As his
owners were obliged to buy their eggs at a good price, he did not get
one as often as he would have liked. So he would go to the back of the
lot and lie there until he heard a neighbor’s hen cackle. Immediately
he would crawl through a hole in the fence, and presently return with
an egg in his mouth. He would carry the egg to the kitchen, lay it
very carefully on the floor, and wait patiently by it until some one
had time to cook it for him. No objections were made, as the neighbor
thought this was so clever of him.




POLICE DOG STORIES


All were eager to hear what the German police dog would have to tell,
as they knew he must have been able to gather from his grandparents
some thrilling tales, because they went through the war and were at the
very center of activities. However, he was unable to get many of the
facts from them, as their experiences had been so painful that they had
come to America to recover and to forget about them.

One member of the family, however, had been cited for bravery, and they
loved to sing the praises of poor old “Marne,” of whom they told the
story. All of the dogs wept upon hearing about this war hero. After
their eyes were dry, they asked for another story from the police dog.
This time it was a detective story, with old Tip as the hero.

The police dog was a born story-teller, and his contact with so many
different kinds of dogs and men had given him a store of knowledge
far beyond his years. So he was applauded until he responded with a
narrative about one of his own country’s species, Fritz, who was German
through and through.

After this story, the police dog, who had consumed all of the time at
this session, was excused and relieved of any more punishment. The
Judge was pleased with his conduct through it all.


MARNE, THE WAR HERO

It is a long reach from the battlefields of France to the fashionable
dog show at a notable hotel in southern California, but one of the
veterans of the World War made it. With sad and solemn eyes, he viewed
the scene around him, reminding one of those old men who turn up from
retirement to march or to be driven in the parades at the reunions of
the Grand Army of the Republic, aged and worn, so far as looks go, but
with dear old souls washed white with deeds of bravery.

Thus it was with our war hero, who, surrounded by yelping, barking
blue-bloods, was “sitting in” at the dog exhibit, not “listening in,”
for he was almost deaf from his injuries received on the battlefield.

Marne was an ambulance dog who served with gallantry throughout the
recent war. He came through, and was accepted and decorated by the
French government for bravery, but for his glory he paid a dear price.
He had been gassed. This, as many who served in the war can testify,
takes something out of the very soul of a man. It had the same effect
on Marne, who at ten years of age was an old dog.

He was lying silent and dignified among the other entries, but with an
accumulation of wisdom impossible to any of the pedigreed dogs about
him.

When he was only three months old, this heroic dog was given to the
French government. After six months’ training, he was sent to the
battlefields to find the dead and wounded. From these trips into “No
Man’s Land,” he would come back with either a button or a stone on
his stretcher. A button meant a wounded man, and a stone bore mute
testimony of one having “gone west.”

Both the British and the French are under obligations to faithful dogs
for service on the fields of battle. If these dear, brave dogs could
talk, what stories they would tell!

Thanks to the gentle heart of a dear lady who appreciates real worth
and brave deeds above mere good breeding in a dog, Marne has been
given a pleasant home, and his wounds that have never healed are given
proper care. Though there is a far-away look in his eyes, and he has
the appearance of one who has known sorrow which he cannot forget, this
dear old comrade seems contented.


OLD TIP

Tip was not much of a dog, so far as looks go--never had been, even
in his young doghood days. There was too much of just ordinary dog in
his ancestry. He was part hound, which gave him those floppy, big ears
and that long, lean body. His tail, which was not long enough for a
real, honest-to-goodness hound to have, was somewhat like that of his
grandmother, who was a mongrel with some shepherd blood. From this tail
Tip acquired his name, for on the end of it was a white tip. The rest
of his body was brown, shading into yellow, which, had he been of more
aristocratic lineage, would have been _golden brown_.

Fate often picks just ordinary men in the lowly walks of life for
the laurels. Such was the case with Tip, who was no longer young,
and moreover was afflicted with rheumatism, caused by his having no
suitable place to sleep on cold, dark nights. He was chosen in his old
days to perform the crowning act of his life and to become a hero.

The old corncrib with the leaky roof was Tip’s bedroom. He had only
one old grain sack to lie upon. On one of those cold, rainy nights
in November, it happened. It was just the time of year when every
farmer’s wife is counting on returns for her summer’s work, through the
marketing of her nice, fat poultry; and it was also the season when
poultry thieves thrive and are busy plying their unlawful business.

Tip had only that evening helped his mistress round up every stray fowl
on the place, and she had shut them securely in the chicken house, to
be ready for the buyer who was due in the morning to purchase the fat
hens and turkeys. Tip had inspected the premises for the last time.
Then, considering it safe to do so, he had turned around twice, as is
the habit of all dogs, and laid down to sleep.

After his first nap, he awoke. Did he hear or scent something? Not
yet really wide awake, he sat up, flapping back his big ears in order
to hear more clearly. Surely that sound was something worth giving
attention to. He would investigate. Stretching his long body to awaken
it fully, he looked out, and what he saw was a small light on the end
of something that looked, to him, like a stick. It was up against the
poultry house door.

Now, as I told you, Tip was old and had gained wisdom with years. A
younger dog would have been more rash; but not Tip. He was cautious.
Slipping around the corner, he waited to see what would happen. Soon
he saw the door open and two men enter the poultry house. Now was his
chance for action. Bounding behind the door, he slammed it shut. As he
did so, the bolt slipped into place and, as the key, which had been
left in the keyhole, fell out at the same time, he had his prisoners
secure. Then he did some lusty barking. Such whoops of “bow-wow!” such
howls did he set up, that in a short time he had the family aroused.

This action of his was the means of breaking up an organized band of
poultry thieves in that neighborhood; and this feat also earned poor
old Tip his laurels.




FRITZ, WHO KNEW ONLY GERMAN

(_As Told in the Presence of the Police Dog by a Lady_)


Once when I was motoring through the middle states with my husband, who
had dealings with the farmers of that part of the country, we drew up
to the door of a German-American farmer, who, on seeing us, came out
to ask what was our business. As he did so, out bounded the biggest
piece of dog flesh I had ever seen. At first I thought it was a calf,
but when a huge mouth opened and let out a “bow-wow,” I saw it was an
immense Dane. On the dog came, ready, it seemed, to tear us to pieces;
but the farmer caught him by the collar and, talking to him in German,
led him back into the house.

As it was a cold, wintry day, the farmer asked me to go inside where
it was warm. Wishing to do so, but still remembering that dog, I
hesitated. The man insisted, saying his wife would take care of me. I
went.

These people, like many of their kind, live most of their cold weather
days in the kitchen, where they can cook and keep warm at the same
time. Their cookstove was an old fashioned wood one. The oven, when
not used for baking pies and bread, or thawing out the men’s feet, was
piled full of wood to dry for fuel; I learned that it was Fritz who
supplied the wood for the drying process.

I entered and was invited by the wife to take a seat near the stove.
I did so, looking around to see where the Dane might be. I spied him
behind the stove, pretending to sleep. Soon the stove needed more wood.
The wife took some from the oven and replenished the fire. Fritz got
up, came around and looked inside the oven to see how much was left.
As he was quite near me at the time, I spoke to him and attempted to
pet him. The look he gave me was discouraging, but he turned to his
mistress, as though inquiring what was wanted of him. She spoke to him
in German. Turning around, he wagged his tail, and gave me a genuine
dog smile, before returning to his place behind the stove to finish his
nap.

[Illustration: Fritz Supplied the Wood for the Fire]

Presently the two men came in. The farmer took more wood from the oven.
Fritz was watching the oven with evident concern; at last, when only a
few sticks were left, he ran to the door, and with his paw unlatched
and opened it. Soon he returned with a stick of wood in his jaws. He
laid it down by the stove, and repeated the process until the little
old oven was full again. This done, he went across to the cupboard, sat
down, and barked until he was served with a lunch. His owners explained
that they talked to him only in German, although they spoke very good
English; and they added that no amount of money would induce them to
part with him.


TED THE WATER SPANIEL

Next on the docket was Ted, the water spaniel. When Ted was called to
jury duty, he gave his occupation as “mascot.” He had sailed the seas,
having gone on a cruise around the world on a big battleship. When not
on mascot duty, he was engaged in catching rats that infested the
ship’s hold. He was an excellent sailor and loved the water. The crew,
all of whom were fond of him, enjoyed teaching him many clever tricks.

He was a good sport and would allow the men to throw him into the
water, which they did just for the fun of seeing him swim back to them.
Also, he was a most comical looking animal when he was wet. He would
dive for an egg in ten or twelve feet of water; and would pick a piece
of money from a pail of water.

There was not a lazy bone in his body. He was always up to something.
It was a laughable sight to see him, with his long ears and topknot,
sitting up on his haunches to beg for what he wanted. When he was asked
what he would do for his country, he would salute the flag and play
dead. Many other interesting stunts he did to entertain the sailors and
the officers of the big ship.

When the great guns boomed, he would hide and stay hidden until all the
smoke had cleared away, when he would come cautiously out from his
place of concealment, looking as if he were asking, “Is it all over?”

[Illustration: Ted Performed Many Stunts to Entertain the Sailors]

Of his ancestral history, he knew nothing whatever, as he was picked up
from the street in Liverpool by a sailor. Ever since he had followed
the sea; but now he was retired and living a quiet life. Though he
missed the companionship of the sailors and the wide ocean, he was
happy when he could be taken to the beaches. At other times, he bathed
in the fountains, which he was doing on the day when Princess met him.

The next story, which he related, was one he had heard some one telling
his mistress.


BLOOD WILL TELL

My friends lived on a farm, which was situated in that part of the
country where storms and floods were frequent. A stream, quite a small
river, in fact, divided their land, the house being on one side of the
stream and the pasture lands on the other. The connecting link was a
bridge over the stream.

On one occasion, after a heavy storm, this stream was swollen beyond
its banks. It became a seething, rushing torrent, carrying the bridge
away, leaving no way, except to make a detour of five miles, by which
the cows could come from the pasture to the barn. A council was held,
and ways and means were discussed. The question was, how were they
to get those milkers across to the other side? Everyone had some
suggestion. Their little mongrel dog, within whose veins flowed a
strain of water spaniel, sat blinking his eyes, and holding his own
council.

When the family had given up in despair and returned to the house, the
dog swam across to the pasture. He rounded up the herd and, driving
them before him, swam the stream again, keeping the cows ahead of him
until they were safe on the other side. Every day he repeated this
performance until the bridge was built.

The water spaniel recollected another story about a dog named Prince.
This one he had heard a gentleman telling his owner.


PRINCE HELPS HIS MASTER TO GET A JOB

The actions of this smart little dog show that dogs often display a
degree of reason.

A young man was searching for a position. He was unsuccessful in
finding the one suited to his qualifications. He returned home, tired
and discouraged, and threw himself on a couch to rest. His small dog
Prince saw with an understanding eye that something was worrying his
master. He went off to his own corner in the lower part of the house,
where the telephone was located, but he did not go to sleep as did his
master. He had to think things over as to the cause of his master’s
troubles.

Presently the telephone rang. Prince bounded upstairs, two steps at a
time, barking lustily all the way. He pulled at the young man’s coat
to awaken him, and told him as best he could to answer the phone. His
master did so, with the result that he learned that a good position
was open to him--a place of trust with a good firm--which he readily
accepted.




GYP, THE GARBAGE MAN’S DOG


Gyp, the garbage man’s dog, was next. He was somewhat sullen, having
seen life on its seamy side, and he was as full of experiences as an
egg is of meat.

As has been previously related, he disliked all phases of the law,
and wasn’t enjoying this court scene very much. However, a few more
experiences would make little difference in his checkered life.

When he gave his name and address, he was asked if he had ever been
in court before, to which he made the humiliating reply that he had,
though he was not to blame for it. As Judges in general do not care
to listen to excuses about the past, there was no chance for an
explanation. Because this was not his first offense, and because he
came from the lower ranks of life, although he had good blood; for he
was a shepherd dog, and shepherd dogs are related to the great collie
family, aristocrats in dogdom. But poor Gyp, being seen daily under the
garbage wagon, was looked upon as a suspicious character.

Now Gyp was not deserving of this opinion from any one. He was as
honest and faithful as any of them. More temptation had been thrown in
his way, and he had been able to withstand it better than some weaker
ones. He would not lie, would not steal nor cheat. But he would fight.
And it was due to this failing that he had a story to tell. We will
leave it to you, dear reader, to decide if he was not justified at
least in this one case.

Gyp said he hoped that all dogs were now taking this course in “higher
standards of living.” If they did, there might be no further occasion
for his having to use his implements of warfare. Nevertheless, he would
keep his teeth in good condition, and his claws well whetted. In fact,
he thought preparedness was the best policy for all dogs. They need not
actually fight, but just threaten to scrap if other dogs disregarded
their rights.

His story was a thrilling one about mistaken identity, and the
innocent having to suffer for the sins of others. His master was his
idol. For him, Gyp would die if necessary. Neither he nor his master
had always been just what they were now, for both had seen better times.

One dark night a crime was committed. Gyp’s master, though not guilty,
was caught in the meshes of the police dragnet instead of the real
culprit, and he was taken to jail to await trial for the crime some one
else had committed.

When he failed to return in the morning, Gyp started out to find him.
Taking up the trail, he found it led to the jail. Of course he was not
allowed in the building, but he hung around, leaving only at night and
when he was hungry. At night he had to return home to keep watch over
the little boy and his mother. It was his job to take care of them, now
that his master was gone.

Gyp had a double responsibility. The wife and little boy must be
protected, and he must be on hand at the jail should a need come for
him there. With all of this worry, he was growing very thin. Also
he did not have enough to eat, for not many luxuries in the way of
meat were brought into the little home now, and he was too busy just
watching, to hunt for stray bones and things like that.

At last the day of the trial came, and his master was taken from the
jail across the courtyard to the room where the hearing was to be held.
That was Gyp’s opportunity. Following the crowd into the court room,
he slipped in before any one knew he was there. Waiting his chance, he
edged his way to where his master was and lay down at his feet. He was
hoping he would be allowed to stay right through to the end; but he
was disappointed, for hardly had he settled himself when some one took
hold of his collar and roughly dragged him out, giving him a kick. Just
who was the _dumb brute_ in this case? That was the last he saw of his
beloved master for some time. Do you wonder Gyp did not like courts and
trials?

He returned home, for now he must devote his whole time to the family.
The little boy must be protected when he went to the corner grocery.
Gyp would not permit another dog to come near the child. It was at this
time that the dog’s fighting blood rose. He would go ahead of the boy
when he was crossing the street, and the kindly traffic officer, being
their friend, would hold back the crowd until they were over.

One day, after having piloted his little charge safely home, Gyp took a
walk down the street past some fine houses where a small dog was lying
on a nice lawn. He saw a big hound dog come from another direction and
go up to the small dog, sniffing and mumbling a war-growl. Gyp stopped
to see what would happen. Presently something that gave offense to the
small dog passed between the two, and he set his teeth in the left hind
leg of the big dog. Then the trouble started. Seeing the small dog
was getting the worst of it, Gyp entered the fray, letting the little
fellow out of it, and he and the hound rolled over and over on those
fine flower beds.

The ladies who lived in the house were screaming over the phone to
police headquarters. But in their nervousness they succeeded only
in making the chief believe some one was being killed. At once that
official dispatched the police wagon. It came, bringing along with the
police a newspaper reporter who wanted to get _first_ news for his
paper. All were disappointed. As the hound had sneaked off, Gyp was
left to bear the entire blame. The police summoned the dog catcher.

The only protector of the little family around the corner was about to
be taken away, when who should appear but the friendly traffic officer,
who knew Gyp and came to his rescue. He testified to the dog’s good
character and vouched for his keeping the peace. After being patted
on the head and admonished by his friend “to be a good dog,” Gyp was
allowed to go back to his post of duty--watching the little family.

Time dragged around to Christmas. Then the governor learned that a
mistake had been made in the case of Gyp’s master. The master was
released from prison and permitted to go home.

It was a joyous holiday for them all. The judge who had tried the case,
desiring to make amends for the error, offered to help the good master
to get work in the city’s garbage disposal division. But the poor
fellow was so humiliated, and his health so broken, that he decided
to go to a warmer climate, where he could be out in the sunshine and
regain his strength.

The judge, feeling that an injustice had been done the man, wrote to
the mayor of this southern town where Gyp and his master had gone. This
recommendation caused the master to be put on the pay roll, so the
faithful dog and his beloved owner were now partners in this business
of gathering the waste of the city.

It was through those friendly little dachshunds that Gyp had become
involved in this mess. Now, however, there seemed to be a better
feeling established among all of them, and the story which Gyp told
them had the effect of enlisting their sympathy and admiration, so
that things looked brighter for him.

Presently Gyp was not “only the garbage man’s dog.” He was counted a
real hero by the better class of dogs, and if they were free to follow
their own natural inclinations, they would be real friendly with him;
but there were their owners to contend with, and for their amusement,
they would, they supposed, have to go on suppressing their good
impulses. At any rate, all of them promised themselves that they would
speak to Gyp when no one was watching them. Yes, they would even go out
to the garbage wagon when they could, and they would not feel “uppish”
toward him any more.




THE LAUNDRESS’S DOG


The laundress’s dog was, as everyone said, just a yellow dog. But he
was one of those creatures whose “yellow” was all on the outside--there
were no yellow streaks under his skin. Being just plain dog has a
significance all its own, as, in order to be any kind of a dog, one
must have forefathers. It is highly probable that some of those
ancestors were worth while in the case of this dog, and had handed down
to their offspring some good traits.

Mandy, the colored laundress, had found him one morning, when she was
on her way to work. He was a little fellow then, and he was cold and
hungry. They lived in the state of Texas where the cotton grows. No
doubt, the pup had started to follow some worker to the fields and
became lost. When Mandy coaxed him to follow her, he did not hesitate,
especially as her clothing was scented with breakfast bacon.

Together they had lived ever since, with Sam, Mandy’s husband. Now, Sam
had ambitions above being always a cotton field hand. He had heard
there were better chances for colored people in the north. Tales of
wealth accumulated by chauffeurs and waiters with nice, fat tips, had
filtered through to the cotton field workers, and they were leaving as
fast as the price of a Ford car could be saved. Mandy helped by going
out as many days as she could spare from her home and church duties, as
she was a very devoted church worker.

Buff, as Mandy called him, on account of his pale yellow color, had
fallen into a good home. With Sam’s ambitions and Mandy’s piety, things
ran smoothly in this home.

Having purchased a car, they loaded into it everything it would hold,
and started north. Buff’s quarters were close, but he managed to be
comfortable. It was better any way than riding on the running board.
The chickens were riding there, while, on the other side, the family
goat was enthroned. Sam was a good provider and his family were never
in want of something to eat.

Having at last become fairly settled in their new home, Mandy and
Buff would go out to work several days each week. One of the houses
where they worked was the Judge’s, so Buff was quite well known to the
Airedales.

Buff’s story, while not dealing with his ancestors, was interesting.
He knew many stories about clever dogs, with whom he was acquainted,
and he had done some fine things himself; but, being a modest dog, and
having always been looked down upon in the south, where he came from,
he was known only as Sam’s and Mandy’s “yaller cur.” All of this was
depressing and made him self-conscious and bashful.

The Judge, understanding how poor Buff felt, drew him out to talk
about himself. Buff, too, had his ambitions, it appeared. Always he
had desired to be a hunter. How he had longed to accompany Sam and his
neighbors on their coon hunting trips! But Sam would not permit it.
Buff was too small. It took husky dogs, like the hounds, with their
big, floppy ears. Buff must remain at home.

Lying in front of the fire, he would stretch out, fall asleep and
dream. His body would tremble; the muscles of his legs would twitch; he
would prick up his ears, and go through all kinds of contortions. Then,
jumping up, he would run out of the house, and bark in answer to the
baying of the hounds, miles away. Back he would come and lie down, with
a satisfied look at Mandy, as much as to say, “We got him!” This was as
near as he ever came to having his ambition gratified.

The Judge requested Buff to tell about the time little Simon Peter, who
lived next door to Sam and Mandy, fell in the water. So embarrassed was
Buff at having to face all these eager eyes and lolling tongues, that
he stood first on one foot, then on another. In his modesty, he made as
little as possible of the part he had taken in the affair.

[Illustration: Simon Peter and Buff]

Simon Peter was a little pickaninny, who would lay his woolly head on
the sleeping dog and take his afternoon nap. One day, Simon Peter’s
mammy was washing, as she too was a laundress, but of the home-loving
variety. The pickaninny loved wash day. He and Buff were left in the
kitchen, where the laundry work was done, while his mammy hung out the
clothes. It gave him an opportunity to get into lots of things which
otherwise would be forbidden.

On this particular day, his mother had stopped to hold a bit of
conversation with Sister White, who lived at the back of their lot.
There were some matters concerning a church festival of which she must
know the particulars.

In the house the little brown baby and the yellow dog were having a
happy time. With a dilapidated looking Teddy bear in his arms, Simon
Peter was investigating everything. Among other things which the
laundress had been using, was a candy pail. In it was some water. It
was clean water, for, when Simon Peter looked into it, he saw a baby
and a Teddy bear. Reaching for the bear, he lost his balance.

Just then Buff, who was busy gnawing a bone, looked up and saw a pair
of chubby brown legs sticking up out of the pail. Sensing what had
happened, he climbed up on the side of the pail, and, adding his weight
to that of the baby, managed to tip the bucket over, and the pickaninny
crawled out.

Buff then ran to where the two “sisters” were in the depth of a
discussion about church matters, and commenced jumping up and down,
and running back and forth to attract their attention. Sister White
took notice and inquired, “What’s the matter with that fool dog?”
Simon Peter’s mammy took the hint. Running to the house, she found her
little brown baby sitting in a puddle of water, and she saw that he was
dripping wet.

This was such a good story the dogs wanted another from Buff, and he
promised that at the next session he would tell them about Whitey,
another mongrel of his acquaintance. So when the time came he told his
second story.

[Illustration: Whitey and Her Mistress]




THE DEVOTION OF WHITEY


Whitey was only a mongrel, a cross between a spitz dog and an English
bull.

We can imagine that Whitey had inherited from her gentle, affectionate
spitz mother, the devotion which this occasion brought into play. This
trait, coupled with the persistence and tenacity of her English bull
father, enabled her to enact the part she did.

Whitey’s mistress, who was getting along in years, was alone in the
world, having only her faithful dog for company. So the two became
devoted to each other. When the little old lady went out on errands,
Whitey guarded her most carefully.

One day the sun was very hot and the old lady seemed more unsteady than
usual. Whitey, looking at her mistress, noticed that she was very pale.
Then she saw her mistress sway and fall. The dog was frightened and
barked furiously. Seeing a policeman down the street, she ran barking
to him, and then back to her fainting mistress.

Understanding what had occurred, the officer called an ambulance and
started with the little old lady to the hospital. Whitey, who was no
longer young herself, gathered herself together. She was not invited to
ride in the ambulance with her mistress. As a matter of fact, no one
noticed the anxious, woe-begone little mongrel. So there was nothing
for her to do but follow the ambulance.

As it threaded its way in and out, shrieking and making ear-splitting,
frightful noises, Whitey followed. Dodging the traffic as best she
could, and dreadfully tired, she followed her mistress to she knew not
where.

Arriving shortly after her mistress was carried into the hospital,
Whitey stood at the door, sniffing and barking. Finally she heard
some one coming out of that door. This was her chance. In she sprang,
nearly tripping up the big policeman, but getting in where her beloved
mistress was. Yelping joyously, she wagged her tail with satisfaction.
Her happiness was short-lived, however, for, in an instant a rough hand
had her by the back of the neck and yanked her out to the street.

Then the English bull portion of Whitey manifested itself. Such
scratching and clawing as she did at that door! She begged, she
entreated to be admitted, until, finally, she was allowed to go in.
All afternoon, she lay on the foot of her mistress’s cot, looking her
sympathy and love, and hoping she would soon help to take the dear
mistress back to their home, where they would again be happy. And
indeed it was not long before this hope was fulfilled.




THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS


Princess, having been “over” only a short time, and being unaccustomed
to American ways, could tell only of her far-away Russia.

Her story was so sad that all were glad it was not a long one. They
hoped that after she had been longer in our beautiful America, she
would be able to forget those dark days of her own country. They hoped
too that Russia, where these graceful hounds live, would see better
times, and that no more cruel wars would wreck her government.

Princess was made acquainted with all the dogs in the park. Each in
turn gave her a welcoming sniff, and assured her they would try to make
it pleasant for her, so she would forget the tragedies of her native
land.

She became a noted figure when led along the paths in the park. No one
could look at her without their minds reverting to that terrible war
and those helpless princesses of Russia, and the brave women who took
up arms against their enemies during the reign of terror.

The story Princess told was one she had heard in England. When she was
a puppy, she was taken by an English sailor, who was returning home
from the far East. At the kennel where she was finally left, she looked
more like a young sheep than a dog. With her long legs, long tail, long
head, small ears, and soft, silky coat, she was entirely unlike such
dogs as Pixie or Ruby.

At the English kennels, which belonged to some of the nobility, she
was well cared for. They were reluctant to part with her, but being in
straitened circumstances since the war, they needed all the money they
could get. So, when her present owners were traveling in that country
and offered a good price for her, she was allowed to come to America.
That was how it came about that she now was telling her story to a
group of American dogs.

In discussing the merits of the wolfhounds to prospective buyers, the
keeper of the kennels would tell that Princess was related to the
beautiful Russian hounds belonging to the Czar. Often, he would say,
before the war, the lovely princesses were seen leading these graceful
white creatures through the park around the royal palace at Petrograd.
When the royal family was destroyed, these dogs were scattered to
the four corners of the earth, as they were sold or carried off by
marauding armies. The Princess was fortunate in falling into the hands
of the English, who are great lovers of dogs. She could never think
of her ancestors, and of how fond they must have been of those sweet
princesses, without deep emotion; but, as there were no princesses in
this country, she would try to forget.




THE MILKMAN’S DOG DAN


The milkman’s dog Dan was half and half, shepherd and collie, his
father being a full-blood shepherd, and his beautiful mother, whom he
did not remember, being Scotch collie. Shep, his father, lived all his
life--and he attained a ripe old age--on the place where he was born
and raised.

Dan loved the dairy farm. The fresh, foaming milk that remained in
the straining pails was always his, and the cats had all they could
drink of it. Also there were lots of rats and rabbits to chase. In
fact, it was an ideal place for a dog of his tastes to live. He knew
all the cows by name. It was necessary only to tell him to bring up
the cows--“all but Bess and Jane,” and he would do it. Starting the
herd ahead, he would get in front of those two young heifers, and,
separating them from the rest, chase them back to the woods pasture
again.

The trip into town to deliver the milk--how much fun he got out of
that! It was no hardship to be aroused from his comfortable, warm bed
in the straw, and to have the driver say, “Come on, old boy, we are
ready to start.”

Dan would stretch himself, yawn, and indicate by this that he, too, was
ready. He would sit beside the driver, and off they would go through
the early dawn and the frosty air.

Dan was always pleased when they delivered milk to houses where there
were little children, and at the hospitals where the patients were
waiting to have it for their breakfasts. At one house the driver would
leave a double portion, because there were twin boys there. Dan hoped
that some day he would get to see these little boys. Then one day
something happened that they were delayed. It was later than usual
when they were returning home, and, as they were passing by the house
where the twins lived, Dan had his wish, for there they were, sitting
on the lawn. Each had a bottle of milk, and they were drinking away as
contentedly as could be.

How happy Dan was to think he had helped in this way to furnish food
for those adorable twins!

They drove on down the street and passed the children’s hospital.
There, out in the sun, he caught a glimpse of wheeled chairs with
children in them. On stands beside many of them were glasses of milk,
perhaps from Dan’s dairy. (At least he felt a proprietary interest in
it.) Also at the school-lunch counters, he saw the children drinking
milk. Then he got to thinking, what if he did have to work rather hard
bringing up the cows and helping around the barn, wasn’t it worth
while? What would become of all these children if he didn’t work?

The other dogs hoped he would keep on at his present occupation, as
most of them liked milk themselves. Especially were Pixie and Petite
anxious that there should always be milk for making the good things of
which they were fond.

Few of them had ever seen the milkman’s dog before, as he made his
trips before it was their hour for rising. They were eager for him to
tell more about himself and his family, so he promised to tell the
story of his grandfather, Sandy, who had been a useful and faithful
member of dogdom.

In the days of horse-drawn vehicles, some dogs had a foolish habit of
running in front of every horse they saw coming, and barking at their
heels. Of course, none of the dogs in this group knew anything about
this bad habit. It was before their day. Now, Sandy despised this
ill-mannered action, and would stop it every time he had a chance. The
young dogs on the place where he lived wouldn’t have dared to do it. He
had them trained. But some other dogs were not so well raised. Sitting
at the corner where two roads crossed, he would watch, and, whenever a
dog would start barking at a horse, he would go after the dog and give
him what he deserved.




THE WHIPPETS


One evening, while the story-telling class was in session, there came
into the park two men and two dogs. All looked tired and dusty, as if
they had come a long way afoot.

The men threw themselves down on the grass to rest. The dogs, who were
different from the usual park types, were lean and graceful, clean-cut
racers. They were whippets, or, as some call them, “snap dogs.”

They were indeed tired and had come a long distance to rest. After
taking a drink from the fountain, they too stretched out beside the
men to take a nap. But, being unable to sleep after the thrilling
experiences of the day, they started up and began investigating the
park and the people in it. First they visited the different groups and
watched the children at play. Then they wandered over to the corner
where the dog’s court was in session.

The whippets had just come from a country fair, which was being held
in an adjoining county. There, besides the horse races and automobile
races, one of the attractions was a whippet race, in which they had
taken part.

They approached the court corner, and stood at a respectful distance
until Ruby was through with a story she was telling about two little
Skyes. During the applause, the whippets drew nearer. In making
observations as to the size of the dogs assembled there, they noticed
that the Judge was a much larger dog than they were. Also there were
others there that would be more than a match for them should any
unpleasantness arise. They, however, could get away from the others,
with no danger of being overtaken, so swiftly could they run.

As the Judge exhibited only the friendliest feelings toward them in his
welcome, they joined the circle. This, thought the Judge, is to be a
test of the sincerity of the desire of the dogs in the class “to live
and let live,” and he was much pleased with their behavior. The good
seed he was trying to sow was taking root, and they were losing some of
their selfishness.

The story which Ruby had just finished was about two little Skyes, one
of whom was vain and jealous; so, if Ruby could realize how wrong it
was to permit such feelings to exist in one’s nature, it was a good
indication that the Judge’s plan was a good one, and they would all be
better dogs for it.

The dogs all agreed to have the whippets with them during their stay
in the park. The Princess recognized in them distant cousins. She too
could do some sprinting when occasion called for it.

The whippets, looking the crowd over, and scenting nothing to eat at
this picnic, concluded, if these other dogs could have such a gathering
in a park without eating, there must be something else very absorbing
about it to hold them; so they decided to remain.

When they were asked how they came to be racing dogs, one of them,
who was less bashful than the other, told of their being trained when
they were puppies for this very thing. They were encouraged to play
tug-of-war--which all little pups love to do--and they were given a
strong piece of cloth, or a rubber shoe, and they would pull and pull.
This strengthened their muscles. Then a ball was thrown for them to run
for, and the one who returned with it was given something to eat. Then
two balls would be thrown and they would race after them. The one who
had to go the farthest was rewarded. As they grew larger, they were
taken on long hikes over the fields and country roads, where they would
chase rabbits or any game they could scare up.

Later, they began racing with horses and bicycles, farther and farther
each time, until they could run two hundred yards, the handicap
distance.

One sorry thing about being a whippet is that these dogs never get to
eat all they would like, as their weight must be kept down to fourteen
pounds, or they become too heavy to run.

[Illustration: “They Would Chase Rabbits or Any Game They Could Scare
Up”]

At the Fair it was advertised that the Whippet Brothers, famous racers,
were to run and had challenged two other equally swift dogs for the
race. A large purse was made up and the betting became lively. The
other two whippets were not brothers, and were unused to team work,
but, in every other respect, they were a match for the brothers, being
of the same weight and age, and having had the same training and all.

The bout was set for the morning, before the horse racing started. The
crowd gathered around the grand stand, from where the dogs were to
start. Each dog had been groomed and sleeked and their feathery tails
were combed. All were clean-cut, snappy little dogs, ready for the
start. The crowd was roped off on each side of the track. Then, one,
two, three, the gong sounded, and they were off. Neck and neck they
went until halfway to the goal, when one of the odd dogs crossed to
the center of the track to get a better footing. This distracted his
running mate for one fatal second. His partner leaving him alone on the
off side of the road made this dog lose his grip on himself. He, too,
tried to change his position, but in doing so, he tripped and fell
head on. Gathering himself up, he came limping after the racing dogs.
Of course he lost out, but he was game to the end. The other three kept
pace, on and on, until within a foot of the goal, when the odd dog
shot across the line, amid the cheers and shouts of the onlookers. The
Whippet Brothers lost the race, but it made no difference to them that
their backers had lost money on them; they had done their best and had
played a clean game.

Running back to where the lame dog was, they both licked his sore leg
and showed their sympathy. They were much better sports than their
masters, who grudgingly lost to the other men, and took their ill will
out on the dogs, kicking and abusing them, and, tired as they were,
bringing them the whole distance to this town.

During the description of this race, the group of dogs became so
excited that it was all the police dog could do to prevent a small
riot. The dogs who had any racing instinct in them, like the Princess
and Gyp, could scarcely make their legs behave during the narration.
All were whining and yelping, and jumping up and down. It was useless
to think of their quieting down again, so they were dismissed.

All clamored for more from the whippets, who, traveling as they did,
knew some very interesting stories; and they agreed, if their masters
remained in this place long enough, and if the kind-hearted dogs really
desired them to do so, they would tell the story of two setters and a
mastiff they knew about.

The whippets did remain over for another day, and they were on hand for
the next session of the story-telling class. They were called on to
tell their story first. They said it was a sad one, and they thought
it was too bad that all dogs could not have the advantages of the good
training these dogs were getting. Also, if they could do anything
toward making the world better, they meant to try, always keeping their
motto in mind.




FIRE-FIGHTING DOGS


JESS THE FIRE COMPANY’S DOG

Jess, who was the fire company’s dog, was anxious to get as many of the
dogs as he possibly could interested in joining the “Fire Brigade.”
Membership in this organization was open only to dogs who were brave
enough to risk their lives to protect life and property when these were
endangered by fire.

Jess had been the first dog to join, having become a member by adoption
of the city “Protective League,” and a life member of the city Fire
Department. Jess had a good record in his home town for courage, and
this helped to establish him in this place, and at once he began
working for the interests of the Brigade.

He read to the dogs a report of some of the cases he had found among
their fellow dogs, saying he felt encouraged that there would be no
difficulty in enrolling a large percentage of the dogs.

Only that day he had heard of another case. A big retriever was often
left in charge of a large home when the family was absent. He was never
confined. He always had the range of the house. On this occasion the
folks left early, to be gone all day. Not long after their departure,
the neighbors heard the dog barking. Looking toward the house, they
saw smoke issuing from the roof. The alarm was turned in, and soon
everything was out of the house.

But the dog refused to leave. Returning to the gutted house, he
stationed himself on guard until his master came home. The smoke and
the excitement, however, were too much for him. He survived the fire,
the falling timbers and the heat, but his lungs had become so inflamed
from the smoke that he died.

“Such heroism,” said the Fire Brigade’s chief, “gets into our blood and
makes all of us want to do something great.”

[Illustration: Bill Saves His Master]

The only requirement, in order to become a member of this noble order,
was to report some act performed in prevention of fire or loss of
life. All of the dogs agreed to keep their eyes open for opportunities
to do something in this line.


BILL BECOMES A MEMBER

The very next day the Boston bull had his chance. He belonged to a
young bachelor who lived alone, with only his faithful dog, Bill, for
company. Now Bill was a privileged character who had the run of the
place, and, during the day, had to receive all comers. His owner was
the best of masters, but he had one fault. He would smoke in bed,
lighting his pipe and reading until he fell asleep. Bill never approved
of this. He was always expecting something to happen, and himself slept
with one eye open as long as he could. Then, one night something did
happen. The lighted pipe fell out of the sleeping man’s mouth. Bill
smelled smoke, and jumped up just in time to pull the burning pillow
off the bed, thus saving his master’s life and home.

Bill became a member of the Fire Brigade.


THE FIRE BRIGADE

We hear many stories of dogs being the means of saving property and
lives in times of fire. They seem never to lose their heads, as it
were, but generally do the most sensible thing under the circumstances.

Here are some instances of heroic efforts on the part of these little
benefactors, in recognition of which they are being enrolled in the
Fire Brigade.

Lady, a German police dog, who will be the only member of our company
of her sex, is entitled to first place on the list. She put out a fire
all by herself in a most heroic manner. Left alone in the house, she
discovered a burning paper under a gasoline stove. Drawing the fire
to her, she tore the paper to bits, pawing it until the fire was out.
In so doing she burned her nose and paws severely. When her mistress
returned and sat down, the dog laid her head in the lap of her mistress
and whined most pitifully with pain. Needless to say, her injuries were
carefully anointed and bandaged.

Another member of the fire brigade won his honors by alarming the
family when something from a shelf above fell down on the stove,
catching fire from the lighted pilot. He was alone in the kitchen when
it happened, and ran barking into the other part of the house, and then
back to the kitchen, until he succeeded in getting the family to follow
and put out the fire.


THE TRAMP DOG

And here is what was once a tramp dog, but we know he was not a tramp
from choice. This dog did a good deed in return for a kindness shown
him, in observance of the Golden Rule, which we should all remember.

This poor dog, who was alone in the world and desperately hungry, saw a
man come out of a butcher shop with a package of meat. Hunger had made
his sense of smell so keen that even at a respectful distance he knew
the stranger was a fair prospect. So the dog trotted along behind the
man until he reached his home.

The dog, being a tramp, knew his place was at the back door; so he lay
there to wait until he should see some one come out to the garbage can,
which soon happened. This person not only gave him the remains of the
nice, juicy steak, but also spoke a kind word to him. Feeling that life
was, after all, worth living, the dog decided to spend the night with
these kindly people. During the night a fire broke out. The tramp, as
he was called, ran to the window of the room where the man slept, and
awakened him just in time to save his home.

Needless to say, he was no longer a tramp dog.


SMALL BUT BRAVE

A lady was making a call on a neighbor next door, leaving her husband
asleep on the bed, and her small dog to keep guard during her absence.
She felt that all was secure. However, she had hung some stockings over
the gas oven to dry, leaving the gas turned on. The oven became very
hot and set fire to the stockings, and the flames spread to the window
curtains. The dog, seeing what had happened, ran to the bed barking,
but failed to arouse his master. Then he caught the covers in his teeth
and pulled them off the sleeping man, who awoke just in time to save
their home from a bad fire.


DUKE

A dog named Duke saved a large factory from being burned by giving the
alarm to the watchman. The man and the dog had just made the rounds and
had seen that everything was all right. Then, after the watchman had
punched the time clock, they left that part of the factory for another.
The dog, who was watching every move that his master made, returned
with him to the office from where they started. There they settled down
to take a nap, until the alarm clock would arouse them to make the next
round.

The watchman, who was a sound sleeper, was soon snoring away, but not
so with Duke. He seemed nervous and alert to every sound. In a few
minutes he sprang up and barked loudly, waking his master, and ran to
the door in an excited manner. The watchman, on going outside, saw a
bright light at one corner of the factory. Running to this spot, he saw
two men hurriedly leaving, with the dog in pursuit.

[Illustration: Duke Wins Honors]

He turned in the fire alarm, and when he telephoned to the police
headquarters, what he heard in reply was, “Men taken. Holding your
dog for identification.” When Duke was reinstated at the factory, he
was given a new brass-mounted collar. He was also given a pension for
life for having performed this noble deed. This fine fellow is doubly
welcome in the Fire Brigade.


JESS

In one of the smaller cities is a fire company that has a tawny-colored
Irish setter named Jess, who is a great favorite with all of the men.
Jess knows all the “ins and outs” of the fire-fighting business, and is
as helpful as it is possible for him to be. When there is no call for
action, he lies contentedly in the sun waiting for the summons to duty.

When an alarm is sent in, Jess is the first to respond. He runs first
to one and then to another of the men, spurring them on to action and
haste. Then he jumps into the chief’s car and seems to love to go
tearing through the streets, having the right of way over everything.
The ear-splitting screech of the siren is music to him. Arriving at the
fire, he takes a position affording the best view, and where he will
be the least hindrance to the firemen. He takes an intense interest in
every move that is made.

Once he entered a burning building. Going in by the back door, he ran
up the stairs in that part of the building and aroused a man who was
asleep, thereby saving his life. It was for this that Jess became a
life member of that fire company; he was serving without pay, just for
the love of being useful. After a fire is put out, he rides home in
triumph on the fire engine, wearing a fireman’s hat. Jess will be an
honorary member of our “Fire Brigade” if everybody is willing.




THE JUDGE’S STORY


When the other dogs had finished with their stories, and the Judge was
satisfied that they had done their best, he thanked them, and said he
would now tell them some stories. First he would go back to his own
family history, of which Bob was not able to tell a great deal, as he
was young and not expected to take much interest in such things.

“The Airedales are a very old and famous family of dogs,” proceeded
the Judge. “The name is romantic, having originated from a river in
Yorkshire, England, the River Aire. It is something to be proud of,
to have a name suggested by a river; and then, to have a dale, which
means a valley, attached to it. I close my eyes,” said the Judge, “and
imagine I can see that beautiful green valley, with the river winding
through it, and my ancestors living so peacefully there, enjoying a
free and easy life, chasing rabbits and rascally badgers, with which
the hills are infested.

“It is said of the Airedales that they were good swimmers, and how they
must have enjoyed a plunge in the River Aire on a warm day. They were
trusty, too. Baby could be left in their care with safety. So many good
qualities are seldom found in just one breed of dogs.

“While they were not noted for their beauty, nor for the sweetness
of their voices, their many other good traits make amends for that.
Beauty, after all, is only skin deep, and if there are no virtues below
the surface to give it luster, it is not even skin deep. Whatever
beauty the Airedale dog can lay claim to, is brought out by his inborn
cleverness. Good deeds and good behavior have resulted in making a
really homely dog into a world-wide favorite.”

While the Judge was making this modest claim for his clan, little Pixie
hung her head and blushed with embarrassment to think that she had ever
been ashamed to play with Bob, because of his personal appearance.
She then and there resolved to be more courteous to both Bob and his
father, of whom she was becoming very fond, thinking him a wise judge
and a good counsellor for all dogs.

The Judge went on to say that it was recorded that one of his ancestors
had won the first prize at a great dog show. The people of the country
where this happened acclaimed him “King of the ring and King of the
country.” Because of the fine qualities of the Airedales, he added, one
of their number once became a member of the animal family at the White
House, and was a favorite of the President of the United States and his
lovely wife.

“Were medals to be issued to dogs for bravery in saving lives, the
Airedale family would have many souvenirs to hand down to their
children. A noted musician tells of his dog, Buster, having saved his
wife’s life not only once, but five times.

“The almost human instinct of this tribe was manifested when one city
was holding its election. One of the amendments to be voted on was the
curtailing of the liberty of all dogs. To run at large, they must be
muzzled, or they must be leashed when on the streets. Of course, all
dog lovers were opposed to this measure. The dogs themselves, having
heard so much discussion on the subject, seemed to sense that something
was going to be done which concerned them.

“Such remarks as these were addressed to one Airedale, whose name was
Jerry:

“‘Jerry, old pal, they are talking of interfering with your personal
liberty, and not allowing you the run of the town, without a string
tied to you. Now you must not think we are going to stand for any
nonsense such as that. We will go down to the polls, Mother and all of
us, and we’ll put this thing over strong, and show those dog haters a
thing or two.’

“Jerry would look interested and try to wag his stiff tail, as much as
to say he would like to do his bit to help. He had no vote, although
there were some who had, who in his opinion were not deserving of it.
One man he knew of hated dogs, and when he had something in him--Jerry
did not know what--he was abusive to his dog--and also to the little
boy who loved the dog. Yet that man was one of those who wanted all the
dogs killed or tied up, and would vote for that cruel measure.

“Jerry slept over the matter, and when morning came, bright and early,
he was at the polls. Taking up a position under the table where the
workers were, he lay down, to see that everything was properly carried
through. There he stayed until it was almost certain the dogs were
going to win, when he left, satisfied that he was no longer needed.”

The Judge told the dogs they were all very fortunate to be living in
this wonderful country, “where we are loved and well cared for, as
there are many places where dogs are despised and mistreated, and even
left to run wild, becoming scavengers, just because they are half
starved. They fight and quarrel among themselves, and make the nights
hideous with their howling. To be unloved and have no friends would be
cause enough for howling.

“Then there are the Eskimo dogs. They too have a hard life, as they
have to draw the sledges and do the work that horses and automobiles
perform in this country. They are harnessed together with leather
straps made from reindeer skin. There is also a long whip, made of
thongs of the same leather, the lash of which is chewed by the women to
make it pliable. Then it is braided to make the handle. This is lashed
over the dogs’ backs to make them draw harder and go faster.”

“How terrible!” barked all of the dogs, shrugging their shoulders in
pity.

“Probably their masters love these dogs, but this seems a strange
way to show it. The people of that country are dependent on these
faithful dogs, as they are the only means of transportation. They have
no horses, no automobiles, and no airships--nothing but their dogs,
so their very existence depends on these brave animals. We, with our
loving masters and mistresses, can scarcely realize how differently
these other dogs have to live. And how much they must miss being loved
as we are!”

So much sympathy was expressed for the other kind of dog life that the
Judge felt gratified to see that these getting-together parties the
dogs were having were creating a good effect.

Even little Ruby, who seldom thought of anyone but herself, unless it
was to envy some one, was becoming less selfish. “Oh, the poor things!”
she exclaimed, licking her white forepaws while she was saying it. She
gave those paws particular attention, and the habit was so strong with
her that, perhaps, it didn’t lessen her sincerity.

The Judge told them he thought that, as not many of them ever had a
chance to travel, he would tell them a story about one dog who was a
great traveler, and also a very clever fellow. This dog was a setter
and his name was Jack.




JACK THE TRAVELER


Mr. Wheeler’s home was broken up, for Mrs. Wheeler had passed away,
leaving no one but her husband, as there were no children.

Mr. Wheeler was alone but not lonely, for he still had Jack, his
faithful setter; and there was a cat, but she had been Mrs. Wheeler’s
pet.

His dog Jack was a good hunting dog, and hunting was his master’s
favorite sport. So they two, having similar tastes, were on intimate
terms, and at all times were quite congenial.

After disposing of his little shop, Mr. Wheeler decided he would follow
the trail to California. He purchased a Ford with money from the sale
of his small stock of merchandise; he rented his home and, leaving the
cat with the Widow Higgins, who lived next door, was ready to pack for
the trip. His gun was cleaned, and his camping outfit made ready. All
necessary equipment for an extended trip was gathered up, and a supply
of provisions laid in.

How eager Jack was about all these preparations! He felt very
important, too, having been given to understand that he was a partner
in this enterprise.

Jack, being a pointer and setter, as most hunting dogs are, would _set_
in the evening, after the day’s work was done, with his nose pointed
toward the setting sun, while he dreamed of the great times they would
have when they did finally get started.

The cat was on hand and wanted to go along, it seemed. But Jack saw to
it that she was left behind. He chased her up a tree and barked good-by
to her.

Dogs of this kind, although loyal friends, are of one-track minds. In
Jack’s mind was just one idea, and that was to be in the game with his
master. He had no regrets at leaving the old home where he was born and
raised. The master was all that counted. Home to him meant only to be
able to eat out of his master’s hand and to lie at his master’s feet.
That the dogs he was used to playing with would miss him, affected him
not in the least.

Finally, Jack was perched on the seat beside Mr. Wheeler; the gun
was handy; they were ready to go. Giving everything a final looking
over, they started on their trek across the intervening states to
California--gun, dog, man and pipe, all essential to each other’s
happiness.

It was about the first of October, the most delightful time to travel.
The days were ideal. The trees were in their most gorgeous fall
colorings, yellows deepening into rich browns and tans, vivid scarlets
softened to maroons; greens of every shade--one glorious riot of color.

The master’s eyes took in these autumnal glories, but most of the time
they were fixed straight ahead on the road, to make sure of good going.
As for Jack, what did he care for nature’s color scheme? The color of a
chipmunk or a jack rabbit meant much more to him.

There were also many other things of interest to look at. Of course
the dogs were the chief attraction. Jack had not known there were so
many kinds. He saw big dogs and little dogs of every description; and,
wonder of wonders, one small dog was actually being carried along the
street in a lady’s arms! Another was all dressed up, with some kind of
a coat on, and a brass collar. Poor things, to be so hampered!

In one town, he saw a little fluffy white thing coming down the street,
with a ribbon bow on top of its head, just like the little Higgins girl
wore. A dog dressed up like a girl! Could anything be worse? He tried
to pat himself on the back, so glad was he that he was just a common
dog.

School was out for the noon recess as they passed a large school
building, and Jack was astonished at seeing so many children. He didn’t
care particularly for children, not having been raised with them. He
liked to romp with the little Higgins boys once in a while, when there
was nothing more interesting, such as a hunting trip, on hand. Those
boys were good sports, who could throw a ball just about right for him
to see it stop, so he could get it easily and take it back to them. But
this noisy, scrapping crowd--they might be all right, but he was glad
there were none of them in his family.

Now they were leaving the town and, driving up under some trees,
they stopped for lunch. Eating lunch in the car with his master
was a privilege. Not many dogs enjoyed one like it, but his was an
exceptional master.

Once more they were on their way, and there would be no more stops
until camping time. He might as well turn around a couple of times, lie
down, and go to sleep. After this nap, he felt refreshed and more alert
to passing objects. So many automobiles, where were they all coming
from, and where were those others all going? Big cars and little cars,
of every make and description, all seemed to want to get there first.

How glad Jack was that his master was in no hurry! In fact, Mr.
Wheeler never was known to be in a hurry about anything. This jogging
along just suited Jack, too, and gave him time to make observations
that would be impossible if they were tearing along. In every way his
master was a comfortable person to live with; he would always stick to
this good master.

Some of the other cars had dogs in them, and some were loaded with
children. One fact that impressed Jack was that the larger, more
comfortable, and apparently softer cushioned cars contained the
smallest dogs, while the poor old flivvers, with the floppy curtains
and wheezy engines, seemed to carry all the tired looking women and
children. Also, if a faithful dog were brought along, he was compelled
to ride in the most uncomfortable position on the running board,
getting dust in his eyes and cramps in his legs.

While Jack pitied these poor unfortunate fellows, he was thankful that
such was not his fate.

There was one large car that fairly dazzled his eyes with its shining,
silver mountings. A negro was driving, and, as the car passed, Jack
noticed that the only person in it was a very fat lady. On a silk
pillow beside her was a mite of a dog, no larger than a skinned rat
would be, but it was covered with a bushy coat of soft, silky hair,
and looked like an over-grown, woolly worm. Jack was fond of teasing
woolly worms, and that was why he thought of the comparison.

They were now approaching a long stretch of open country, and getting
further away from familiar scenes. The cornfields, with corn in shocks,
and yellow pumpkins strewn over the ground, bordered both sides of
the road. Jack rabbits, quail and chipmunks were scampering in all
directions, stirring Jack to a quiver of excitement. Wouldn’t his
master stop and take a shot at them?

Then, just in front of them, sitting in the middle of the road, with
its back to the oncoming car, he spied a fine specimen of a jack
rabbit. Stopping the car, Mr. Wheeler cautiously took aim, and up in
the air went the cottontail. With a bounce, Jack was there to catch it
as it came back to earth, and he brought it to the car. Now, they would
have fresh meat for supper, and how hungry he was!

They established their camp in a byroad. While the tent was being
pitched, Jack was as helpful as he could be, lying on the loose ends
of the canvas to keep the wind from blowing it away; at least, that
was his idea of it. To be sure, his master said he was in the way, but
masters are sometimes mistaken. Everything being set, and the rabbit
browning nicely on the little camp stove, the smell made Jack’s mouth
water with anticipation.

Then, what should drive up but a rickety old flivver, with a tired
looking, thin lady, and a number of hungry children along with a
cramped-up dog! They were a sorry lot from “York State,” bound for the
“land of sunshine,” where the thin lady, who was really ill, hoped to
regain her health. Jack was wishing they had hastened along.

Mr. Wheeler, being a kind-hearted man, welcomed the newcomers. As there
were little children, and the mother looked so ill, his ready sympathy
was aroused and he asked them to join him at his meal; and he was glad
that he had something nourishing to offer them, in the way of coffee
and rabbit, with plenty of bread and gravy for the little ones. It made
him happy to see these hungry travelers eat until they were satisfied.

Jack did not enter with his master into the spirit of this benevolence.
Instead he grew sulky, as nothing had been left for him but a few well
picked bones. Feeling that Fate had played him an unkind trick, he
felt revengeful, and that he must have satisfaction from some source.
So he proceeded to take it out on the stiff-jointed dog. Going to the
side of the car where the poor fellow was lying, Jack began sniffling
contemptuously. All of his virtuous feelings concerning this crowd were
gone. The other dog assumed an indifferent air, which only aggravated
Jack more.

He began snapping at his victim’s heels, and that started it; the fight
was on, which showed there was some spunk left in the other dog, even
if he did not look the part. Over and over they rolled, snapping and
snarling, and biting at one another. Jack, being the larger, seemed
to be gaining on the under dog, when the blood of his adversary, who
was part bull, began to boil, and grasping Jack by the neck, he held on
with a death grip. At this turn of the battle, the owners of the two
dogs came running up. They brought with them pails of water, sticks,
and everything at hand that could be used to separate the fighting
canines. Each began by beating the other’s dog, protesting that if one
must be killed, it must not be theirs.

The lady brought an umbrella and helped, notwithstanding her weakened
condition. Forcing the umbrella between her dog’s jaws, she managed to
loosen his hold on Jack’s throat, by spreading it enough to break his
grip. Jack then, feeling that the victory was his, retreated to have
his wounds dressed.

This little unpleasantness was a dampener on the newly formed
friendship between Mr. Wheeler and his guests. He felt that no longer
did he wish to continue the acquaintance of these people, so he asked
them to move on. They refused, and so he decided to break camp.

[Illustration: “The Fight Was On”]

Mr. Wheeler made ready to continue on his trip. By this time the
moon had risen, and, as there was less traffic than during the day,
he decided he would drive on, as he would really make better time by
doing so. He felt depressed by the circumstances that had forced an
unpleasant ending to a perfect day; but he had learned a lesson from
these events that would prove valuable on the rest of the journey.

Jack was trying to sleep on the back seat cushion. His back was sore;
his pride was hurt, and, if that dog on the running board had been any
stiffer than he felt, he hoped to know it.

The night driving was pleasant. The roads were smooth, and only
occasionally Mr. Wheeler had to pull out for a passing car. Soon his
spirits rose and, as they went on through the villages, he noticed the
lights were cheerful. At some places there was music and dancing, and
the ring of merry laughter filled the air.

It was after midnight when our travelers drove into a sheltering clump
of scrubby oaks to spend the rest of the night. Mr. Wheeler, rousing
Jack from off the back seat, curled up there himself and went to sleep.
By morning, Jack was feeling better. Being in good health, he soon
recovered from his skirmish with the strange dog. His throat was still
sore, and the skin was torn, but it was healing nicely, and so was his
pride.

The next night was uneventful, so they rested and were refreshed. They
pushed on toward town for breakfast. Jack was allowed to eat on the
back porch of the restaurant, after which he hopped into the front seat
beside his master, ready for more observations.

They were now going through the prairie country, and they saw prairie
dogs sitting on their haunches, looking like sentinels beside their
homes. Jack would have liked a chance at one of them, to give it a
good shake, but his wounds would not allow him to attempt it. Two jack
rabbits were shot. Even in this sport, he was not feeling “peppy”
enough to take part, although by supper time he was sufficiently
recovered to enjoy his share of the good cheer. This time he got real
meat. The bones were left, not even buried, which showed he was not
really himself yet.

By the time the city of Denver was reached, Jack was fully recovered
and very alert. Mr. Wheeler ran the car into a garage for repairs, and
they started out to see the sights while waiting. As they were near
the Capitol building, Mr. Wheeler thought he would like to go to the
top, as all tourists do. Of course, Jack was not allowed to accompany
him. An officer gave Jack permission to lie on the lawn and watch the
squirrels at play.

Though he did not feel quite right about going without his dog, Mr.
Wheeler began the ascent. When he reached the topmost balcony, he
looked down to where he had left Jack. Imagine his horror at seeing the
dog chasing one of the squirrels up a tree and barking his lustiest
at it. He also saw an officer running toward Jack, and then beating
him with a club until the dog howled louder and louder. Mr. Wheeler
descended as fast as he could, which, on account of the narrowness of
the steps, it was hard to do; and he found that the dog catcher had
been called to take Jack to the pound. Nothing would do but that Mr.
Wheeler must go along and settle with the chief.

Jack was loaded into a cage with a lot of other dogs. They were all
snarling and snapping, but at heart they were very good dogs, who had
been guilty only of some thoughtlessness, or some small fault perhaps
that they did not know was wrong. Poor Jack!

The waiting room at the chief’s office was filled with irate men and
women who had come to claim their various pets. All were sure a great
injustice had been done; a great mistake had been made in taking up
_their_ dogs.

Time dragged along for poor Jack. He thought he had been having trouble
enough, since he had started on this pleasure trip, without this; and
it all came about just because he was following a natural impulse,
something for which he was in no way responsible. What a nuisance their
old laws were, anyway!

Finally the room cleared, and Mr. Wheeler had a chance to present his
case, and get Jack released. How glad Jack was that his beloved master
had been watching, and was able to go with him and help him out of his
predicament!

The next problem was how to get to the car, as the pound was in the
outskirts of the city, and Jack would not be permitted to ride on the
street car. Also it was much too far to walk. Something must be done
quickly, for it was getting late. Beside the dog pound was a settlement
of a certain class of merchants of the street, venders of old clothes,
rags and old iron, necessary commodities of a sort, and there the
horse-drawn vehicle was the mode of transportation.

While Mr. Wheeler was debating in his mind what to do, along came one
of these merchants driving a half-starved horse. Noticing the look of
perplexity on Mr. Wheeler’s face, he inquired, “What’s the trouble,
Boss?” Then a bright idea entered Mr. Wheeler’s head. He told the
man of his desire to get to another part of the city, but that he
had no way to do so, and he wondered if it would be possible for the
merchant to take them. The merchant, having had a rather bad day in his
business, consented, thinking that here would be a way to make accounts
balance. They did some quibbling over the charges, which Mr. Wheeler
thought very “steep,” for he was asked to pay two fares for both of
them. As he could not very well help himself, he agreed to the price,
and they started. Thus they returned to their lodging.

Next morning, after both had enjoyed a good breakfast, they set out on
the last lap of their journey. Following the old Santa Fe trail, they
found the country they were passing through very interesting. Jack kept
his eyes open and his ears pricked up.

He was attracted by the Indian Villages, where dogs were numerous and
all seemed to be living happy-go-lucky lives. Really they looked too
lazy to come in out of the rain, if it ever should rain, which it
didn’t; therefore they were deprived of even this exercise.

For a long stretch nothing much occurred to interest them.

By noon they were nearing another town, a Mexican settlement. More lazy
dogs were seen lying under any shelter that afforded shade from the
blistering sun. Jack wondered what these dogs lived on. They looked
well fed, for Mexican dogs, that never get fat. Seeing strings of
something red hanging on fences and from nails driven into the houses,
he wondered if it was meat. If so, where did they get it? If only his
master would stop long enough, he would have liked to sample some of
this drying beef. But Mr. Wheeler was getting very tired, having all
the driving to do, and was anxious to get to his journey’s end. He
would welcome the sight of the green pepper trees he had heard so much
about. He was planning on stopping for a long rest at the first tourist
camp they came to, and so he did as little stopping on the way as
possible.

At last our travelers reached the land of sunshine and flowers. They
were tired and travel-stained, but glad to be at their journey’s end.
Their first night at the camp was a new experience. It seemed like a
neighborhood meeting of some sort, all were so friendly and willing to
tell of their experiences. Almost every one Mr. Wheeler met had either
been through the town of Woodville, Iowa, or knew some one from there,
or some one who had passed through there, so he felt quite at home
among them.

Many had brought their dogs along, but Jack, after his experience with
the strange dog during their trip, was more cautious about making
advances. He had learned that the best policy was “to live and let
live,” and so he got along very well with these dogs.

After getting rested and learning where was the best place for them to
locate, man and dog moved into a pleasant suburb of one of the larger
towns, taking rooms with a friendly widow, who was fond of dogs but
cared very little for cats, which was agreeable to Jack. Now, he would
get plenty of good things to eat and lots of attention. Although Jack
was strictly a man’s dog, the arrangement suited him very well indeed.

One of the first things his master had to do was to buy a license for
Jack. The dog must wear a collar with a number on the back, or some day
the dog catcher would get him again. Jack was not very proud of his new
collar, but, since collars were being worn, he must conform and get
used to being a city dog.

Jack and the landlady, whose name was Mrs. Weir, became quite good
friends, though he refused to be trained to any new habits. His old
ones were good enough for him.

Mr. Wheeler, having good prospects of going into business, concluded
to return to Woodville, sell his home, and locate permanently in
California. Therefore he made preparations for the return trip and was
soon ready to start. Jack, of course, was disappointed at not being
included in the arrangement. He was left with Mrs. Weir, who was to
give him every needed attention. He was tied up till Mr. Wheeler was
well on his way, and did some lusty howling, which he kept up until
the neighbors protested, and he was given his liberty.

No sooner was he loose than he took up the trail in pursuit of his
beloved master. However, as Mr. Wheeler had several days’ start, it
was impossible, even if he had made no stops, for Jack to overtake
him. Jack did stop many times. He got very tired and hungry, having to
depend on his own efforts for food. Most of his nights were spent in
prowling around, hunting for a possible loosely covered garbage can, to
get a meal. When he was out in the open spaces, he would catch any wild
game he could. This all caused delays, so that, by the time he reached
his old home town, his master was well on his way back.

Jack was very glad to see all the Higgins family, even the cat, and
never once during his stay did he chase her up the tree, nor in any
way annoy her. He had seen much of the world since last they met, and
travel had broadened and made him more considerate of others, as a well
mannered dog should be.

He was not satisfied--the place wasn’t the same--and he missed his
master. So in a few weeks he was missing. Then, some months later,
Mrs. Higgins received a letter from Mr. Wheeler saying that Jack had
returned to California. Though very thin in body, he seemed none the
worse for his adventures.

All the dogs thought this was a very fine story, and begged the Judge
to tell them some more. So, at the next session, he told them a couple
of brief narratives, one about a puppy and young turkey, and another
about a blind man’s dog.




TOM AND DANIEL


“Many of you dogs who have never lived on a ranch or a farm, may not
know that a dog and a tom turkey can be just as unfriendly as a dog and
a cat,” said the Judge, as he thought of a story which illustrated this
point.

“There seems to be a sort of jealousy between them, which manifests
itself at a very early age, and develops into bitter hatred as they
grow older. This was the case with Tom and the collie I am telling you
of.

“The puppy and the turkey came into the world at about the same time,
and the little lady who owned them divided her attention between them.
Young turkeys are delicate little creatures and require the greatest
care to get them started. The puppy was usually at the heels of his
mistress when she fed the turkeys, but, instead of pretending to help,
as he did with the little chickens, he would bark and snap at them,
frightening them.

“In the flock there was one young Tom who early showed a disposition
to defend himself, and his puppyship got many a peck on the nose. Thus
began the trouble which led to war, and many a battle royal was fought
between them, but there was never any bloodshed.

“Their maneuvering took place around the woodpile back of the house.
The turkey would be strutting in all the glory of his brilliant plumage
and war paint, arrogant and ready to battle any intruder. Along would
come Daniel. With a war whoop of a gobble, Tom would start after the
dog, and round and round the woodpile they would go, with Daniel just
a few steps ahead of his pursuer, until, tired out, he would hop on to
the woodpile and bark insultingly at his enemy. The turkey would puff
up his feathers, drop his wings, spread out his tail, and look as if he
were bursting with rage.

[Illustration: A Battle Between the Two Warriors]

“When he could stand it no longer, Tom would fly at Daniel, who knew
the tactics of the bird, and would dodge to one side, so that his
majesty would land on the other side. This was just what Daniel had in
mind when he mounted the fort; and now it was his chance to be the
pursuer instead of the pursued. Again around and around they would go,
until both were almost exhausted.

“The lady decided to sell the young gobbler, and he was taken several
miles to a new home, and Daniel was left to his possessions.

“One day, several months after Tom’s departure, the lady had occasion
to go to the place where the gobbler was sold. She took the dog with
her and left him in the car while she did her errand.

“Returning to the car, she found Daniel gone. Then she heard a familiar
bark, answered by a warlike gobble, and she saw that a battle was on
between the two warriors, as of old. Instead of the woodpile, a small
building was their fortress this time. Not only a dog never forgets,
but a turkey gobbler seems to be neither a forgiver nor a forgetter.

“That is all of that story,” the Judge told his audience, “and next
time I am going to tell you about a blind man’s dog.”




THE BLIND MAN’S DOG


At his post on the corner, not far from the park entrance, was another
little dog, whose occupation would not permit of his attending these
gatherings, if he had been invited, which he was not.

As the park dogs went by, either led by their attendants or chasing one
another, as some were never free to do, this dog, from his place by
the side of his master, would look in wonder at them. Where were they
going, and what would they do when they arrived? How strange they all
looked! He was anxious to know if he resembled any of them. He looked
over as much of his body as he could see without turning a backward
somersault.

He had four legs, as they had, and his coat, which was white where it
was not black, and black where it was not white, was smooth and sleek.
But his tail--there was the difference. None of them had his kind of
a tail. Some of theirs were bushy, others were short and stiff. He
wondered how they could ever express their feelings with such tails.
One little pom had her tail curled up over her back like a doughnut.
No, his tail evidently was not in the prevailing fashion, as none of
the park dogs were wearing his kind. Not beautiful, but how useful was
this straight, tapering tail of his! How easily he could express his
every mood with it!

If he were happy, how fast he could wag that willing little tail.
Should any one be harsh or unkind to him, down would go that same
little indicator. So, if his tail were not in the popular style for the
season, it answered his purposes, as a gauge for his feelings, which
was more important.

His ears were small and stuck up on the top of his little head like
sentinels, sensitive, alert, always pricked up to hear every sound that
came through the air. Then those piercing black eyes--they were his
chief asset. There was special use for them, and it was important that
they have sharp vision, as he must be “eyes for the blind.”

His beloved master looked to him for protection, as he moved about from
one place to another; and the dog had to pilot him to his place of
business, where his firm sold papers. The firm consisted of himself,
Tony, his partner, and the dog, Job, so named on account of his
characteristic patience.

Man and dog were inseparable. They had lived together ever since Job
was small enough to go into the blind man’s pocket. At that time, Peg,
Job’s mother, was the pilot, and she had trained her son for the work
when she should grow too old and feeble to do it.

Every evening they would start out from the small cottage, where
they lived with the blind man’s dear old mother. Job would lead on
cautiously to the corner. Here they would stop, waiting for the signal
to cross. Then Job would lead carefully to the middle of the street,
watching the lights, and over to the high curb on the other side. This
he would mount, turn around and pull on the leash, so his master would
know that the other side of the street was reached, when he could
measure the height with his cane, as he must step up. On the dog would
lead, through the crowd to the soap box on the corner, where his master
would open up his business for the night.

[Illustration: Job Was “Eyes for the Blind”]

Tony would be there already with his supply of papers. Each of the
partners had his own kind to sell. Soon the blind man would call,
“Morning Times--all the latest morning news!” although it was really
early evening. This call would be heard along the street with
Tony’s clear soprano cutting the air with “Extray--Extray--Evening
Herald--Evening News--read the latest, all about the game!” Meanwhile
Job, the personification of patience, would take his position near his
master, to watch for any stray pennies that might drop from the hands
of his master when a purchase was made.

Tony kept an eye on the blind man’s business to see that no one took
advantage of him. This did not often happen, however, for those
wonderfully sensitive nerves in the blind man’s fingers had become very
acute, and the sense of touch was keen to the value of the coin that
was given into his hands. He was not easily fooled. Seldom was Tony
called on for anything except to get more change.

The blind man was a youngish looking man, not unpleasing to look at. He
was clean, of fair skin, and had all the marks of having been injured
while helping to make his country a safe place to live in, which was
indeed the fact.

In Tony and Job he had two faithful allies, the former having no claim
to such a relationship, other than a fellow feeling of helplessness
that Tony was experiencing when they first met, which had been entirely
overcome through this partnership. It had helped Tony to forget himself
in helping one more unfortunate than himself.

Tony didn’t belong to any one in particular. Now, since he had adopted
Job and his blind master, he felt he had something to live for, and he
ceased to feel the need of _belonging_. He told the blind man when he
first met him that his father was dead, and his mother had married a
man with a houseful of children. Tony had been told to get out, and to
make his own way.

Small and under-nourished, the lad went forth, his first stop being the
corner where the blind man was being harassed by a gang of newsboys,
who were trying to drown his feeble voice, and loudly hawking their
papers. The confusion and noise were great. Tony came upon the scene
just in time to help his present-day friend out, by going to his side
and beginning to sing.

It was no classical song that he sang, but it had its effect. As “Yes,
we have no bananas to-day,” rang out sweet and clear amid the hubbub,
everyone passing took notice of the situation; and Tony could sing!

Among those whose attention was attracted was the owner of the building
in front of whose premises this all occurred. Driving off the hawkers,
so as to give the blind man a chance, he permitted Tony to help him,
and in this way the partnership was formed.

Tony slept at police headquarters that night. The next day at school
arrangements were made for him to live at a boys’ refuge home, with
the privilege of selling papers in the evening with the blind man and
Job as partners. Now that Tony was not always hungry, his voice was
growing stronger. Calling “Extray” had helped to develop his vocal
cords.

At school he could be depended upon to lead the choruses. His clear,
sweet notes, as they sang “Star Spangled Banner,” could be heard above
the rest of the singing. One day the choir master from one of the
churches came to hear them, with the idea of finding some material for
a boys’ vested choir for his fashionable church.

After hearing the children sing, he asked that Tony be allowed to sing
alone. This the little Italian boy was proud to do, and he sang so
sweetly that the choir master engaged him, and asked him to meet with
the choir for practice on Saturday afternoon.

This was the beginning of better things for little Tony. The boys’
choir was to make its first appearance on Easter morning, and Tony was
to be the soloist.

The blind man and Job had heard about it several times, for Tony was
full of the subject, so full that he bubbled over. He would start out
with “Evening News,” and trail off up into high C, ending in “All love
excelling,” before he came down to earth again.

His partner, too, was fond of music. His beloved Violin was his only
solace. The sad appealing notes that he was able to produce on that
old instrument went straight to one’s heart. Then there was Job. Maybe
he didn’t love music, but he would stand before his master, listening
intently, ears pricked to sharpest aspect, body tense, and tail
oscillating with measured beat to the rhythm, and when the tension grew
too strong, a dismal howl would relieve his pent-up feelings.

The practicing had been going on for several Saturday afternoons. The
next Sunday was Easter. The blind man was not in the habit of going to
church, although his dear old mother was a regular attendant, but there
was an inducement to go this Easter morning that he had never felt
before. Tony was to sing in the choir. He would go just for that.

The church was beautifully decorated for the occasion. The choir
boys in their vestments marched to their places, singing a stately
processional. Proud mothers filled the pews, each looking with adoring
eyes at her own beloved boy. Tony had no one to care. All were
strangers to him, so he thought, as he looked over the throng. Then
away to one side, in a pew alone, he saw something that made him happy,
for there were his partners, Job and his master.

Job paid little or no attention to anything that was being done or
said. The choir had sung one song. Other things had been done, but
nothing that a dog cared about. Then the organ played the prelude,
and a voice, full of sweetness and charm, started out with, “Love
Divine, all love excelling.” This aroused Job’s interest. He sat up
and took notice; his body stiffened, his ears twitched. When everyone
was enraptured with the little Italian’s music, in the pause after
the solo, Job’s over-wrought feelings overcame him. One pathetic wail,
toning off into a dismal howl, broke the sacred silence.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Judge, satisfied with this conclusion of the exercises, dismissed
the dogs with the feeling that the lessons they had learned from this
experience would be beneficial and lasting--that the motto he had given
them, “To live and let live,” would influence all their lives. Bidding
them a kind good-by, he adjourned the court.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77634 ***