a traveller should come.
Presently he hears a cheerful bark from one of the dogs. He openshis door; the poor, frozen, half-starved traveller enters.
The monk takes off the wet garments; he rubs the stiff, cold hands;he speaks kind words to the stranger, and gives him something warmto drink.
Meanwhile, the good dog lies down on the floor, looking with hisbig, kind eyes at the wayfarer, and seems to say, “I’m glad I foundyou and brought you here to my master. Eat and drink, and becomfortable; don’t be shy; there’s enough here always for a poortraveller.”
It is a sad thing to turn from this pleasant picture to the historyof the bloodhounds in the West Indies. Who would believe that thegood and great Columbus employed bloodhounds to destroy the Indianswho made war against the Spaniards?
“When the Indians were conquered, the bloodhounds were turned intothe woods and became wild, so that there are now many of these wilddogs on the islands. I grieve to say that, here in this civilizedland, bloodhounds are sometimes used to catch runaway slaves.”
“Runaway slaves, Mother? Do you mean men, like Anthony Burns,” askedFrank. “He was a slave, was he not?”
“Yes, Frank, men like Anthony Burns, when they try to get theirfreedom, if they are known to be hiding in a wood, are often huntedwith dogs.”
“O, it is very wicked, Mother!”
“So I think, Frank; let us hope that the time will come when everyman and woman and child in our land will think so, and then therewill be no more slaves.”
“And now, let us turn away from the history of bloodhounds to somepleasant thoughts before we finish our twilight talk.”
“The poet Cowper was a great friend to animals. Many of his mostbeautiful letters to his friends have very pleasant passages abouthis pretty tortoise shell kitten, and his distress that she wouldgrow up into a cat, do what he would.”
“He was a lover of tame rabbits and hares, and speaks of all theseanimals as if they were his friends and fellow-creatures. In one ofhis little poems he tells a pretty story of his spaniel Beau. I wasso pleased with it that I learned it by heart unconsciously, fromreading it over so often.”
“Do repeat it, Mother,” cried both the boys.
Mrs. Chilton then repeated the poem; and, as some of my youngreaders may not be familiar with it, they shall have a copy, too.
“This, also, boys, is a true story,” said their mother.
THE DOG AND THE WATER LILY.
NO FABLE.
The noon was shady, and soft airs Swept Ouse’s silent tide, When, ‘scaped from literary cares, I wandered on his side.
My spaniel–prettiest of his race, And high in pedigree– (Two nymphs adorned with every grace, That spaniel found for me–)
Now wantoned, lost in flowery reeds, Now, starting into sight, Pursued the swallow o’er the meads, With scarce a slower flight.
It was the time when Ouse displayed His lilies newly blown. Their beauties I intent surveyed, And one I wished my own.
With cane extended far, I sought To steer it close to land; But still the prize, though nearly caught, Escaped my eager hand.
Beau marked my unsuccessful pains, With fixed, considerate face; And, puzzling, set his puppy brains To comprehend the case.
But, with a chirrup clear and strong Dispersing all his dream, I thence withdrew, and followed long The windings of the stream.
My ramble finished, I returned; Beau, trotting far before, The floating wreath again discerned, And, plunging, left the shore.
I saw him with that lily cropped Impatient swim to meet My quick approach; and soon he dropped The treasure at my feet.
Charmed with the sight, “The world,” I cried, “Shall hear of this thy deed. My dog shall mortify the pride Of man’s superior breed.”
But, chief, myself I will enjoin, Awake at duty’s call, To show a love as prompt as thine To Him who gives me all.
“I think that’s a right pretty story, Mother,” said Frank, when hismother had finished reciting it; “but will you tell me what ‘high inpedigree’ means; for I’m sure I don’t know. I never heard the wordbefore; and who are nymphs, who found the spaniel for Cowper?”