(1 (1 (1 IH= e FARRIER'S DOG-AND-HIS WILL-ALLEN DROMGOOLE THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES THE FARRIER'S DOG AND HIS FELLOW ; DO LOOK AT US, EVERYBODY ' " See p. 10 THE FARRIER'S DOG AND HIS FELLOW BY WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE Illustrated by Amy M. Sacker BOSTON L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY (IN-CORPORATBD) 1897 Copyright, 7^97 BY L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY (INCORPORATED) Colonial H. Simonds & Co., Boston, Mass., U. S. A, "PZ-7 CONTENTS I. THE Doc , H. THE BOY 10 ILL THE THIEF'S DOG . . . . . . 17 IV. THE DOG'S MESSAGE 27 V. A VAGABOND 34 VI. THE FELLOW 43 VLL OLD ACQUAINTANCES ..... 54 VUL To THE GREEN HILLS ...... 66 661664 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PACK " ' Do LOOK AT Us, EVERYBODY ' " . Frontispiece BAYDAW AND THE FARRIER ..... 3 AT THE CIRCUS 15 THE STORY ......... 19 "A GROUP OF IDLE BOYS" ..... 35 "' WOMEN is so GOOD'" . . . . . . 41 " ' I RECKON WE'RE FELLOWS ' " . . . 49 "'Us " FELLOWS " Go HOME BY WAY OF THE BAKER'S'" 57 "WILL You GIT Our '" 61 "HE'S THE ONLY FRIEND I'VE GOT'" ... 71 Ed, &*I A DEAR AND LOYAL FRIEXD THE FARRIER'S DOG AND HIS FELLOW I. THE DOG. THE dog was a cur; a common yellow cur. Though to be sure there were those who, know- ing his good qualities, for really the cur was possessed of some very good qualities indeed, declared there was a strain of the shepherd in his blood. This idea may have arisen from the unmistakable crinkle in his big, bushy tail, which (the crinkle I mean), later in life, won for its owner the name of "Old Crink." At the beginning, however, and before for love's sake, or for sorrow's sake, he became a vaga- bond (there are or have been men who have done the same thing e'er this), the cur bore a 2 THE FARRIERS DOG. very different name. He was, in fact, called " Baydaw " those first years of his life, when he hung about the farrier's shop at the heels of the boy who gave him his unusual name. Odd it was, too, to see the big, brown, sooted farrier bend over to lay his broad black palm upon the yellow cur's neck caressingly, and to hear him say, "Baydaw, boy? Poor Baydaw, poor boy," for all the world so like the boy bad been used to say it that, had you known them all, the boy, the dog, and the farrier, you had but to close your eyes and fancy it was the little boy who was talking to the dog, not the big horse doctor and blacksmith at all. There came a time when the tears would start in the big farrier's eyes as he stooped to caress the dog ; and he would in- voluntarily look about him, over and behind the big anvil, near the bellows, for the boy who had been used to sit there. But there was no boy there. Then it was the farrier would brush his eyes with the least smutted corner of his apron made of strong, striped bedticking, and tell the cur to "go along now," in a tone that meant his bone and bed were waiting over by the slack tub under the shed outside. But I am going too fast ; far too fast. Who- THE DOG. 3 ever told a story without beginning at the first ? And the first must necessarily be the birth of the hero ; and the hero of this story is a dog ; at least he is one of the heroes ; the Fellow, who is the other hero, we haven't come to him. Oh, no ; the farrier was not the Fellow ; nor was the little boy who named the dog " Baydaw." We will come to the Fellow by and by; I knew him, and I knew the dog ; sorry dogs, both of them, some will tell ; yet they were both pos- 4 THE FARRIER S DOG. sessed of their "good strains in the blood," so said those who knew them. But about the little boy who was not the Fel- low ; it was he who saved the dog's life. What was the boy's name ? Oh, that doesn't matter at all. I don't remember that I ever heard his name. At any rate, it is not necessary here ; he is in the story such a little, little while that we will just call him "the boy." Though if you have a dog, and love him, perhaps you will sometimes think of the little boy who saved the life of the farrier's dog. It happened this way : One morning the far- rier opened the door of his shop, and found a litter of young dogs lying there upon the shop floor. He wasn't a bad man, this big farrier, neither was he a great lover of dogs. Of course he could not have an entire family of them housed upon him there in the shop. So when the children around (the farrier had no family of his own, poor, lonely old fellow !) had set up a cry for them, he had very willingly let them go ; all but one : there had chanced to be one dog too many; and that dog was destined for the mill-pond. Yes, the cur was to be drowned. You see it was before the farrier THE DOG. 5 had made the acquaintance of the little boy who saved the dog's life ; after that, he would never have drowned a dog, no, not if there had been a dozen of them found in the shop every day. Thus is the influence of a child a very great, a very wonderful thing indeed. It was the morning that the farrier was carrying the dog off to the pond that he made the acquaint- ance of the boy. He was passing the big brick house upon the hill, the new house that had been built for the president of the mill com- pany, who had moved into it only a few days before. It was a morning in May, and the windows of the house stood wide open ; lace curtains floated from them, and beyond, on the gleaming white walls, pictures rare and beauti- ful might be seen, such as usually adorn the homes of the rich. In the broad window- seat a little boy was sitting; a pale, thin little fellow with bright golden curls that lay upon his shoulders, and made a sort of halo about his pretty face. He was not a baby quite, though a nurse stood beside him, and held the slight figure safe with her strong right arm. But he was very, very sick ; the three years of his little life had been years 6 THE FARRIER S DOG. of such suffering that his growth had been quite dwarfed ; so that he looked almost a baby indeed, and could scarcely talk at all. When the bright eyes beheld the yellow ball in the good farrier's arms he lifted his poor little hands and called out, gaily : " Baydaw ; baydaw ; " and his little mother, who under- stood every blessed word the blessed baby said, declared at once that he had said, "baby's dog." Which was no doubt quite true. When the farrier passed on the baby still called for the dog, pointing his little finger after the retreating figure, and crying, " Bay- daw, baydaw," with the big tears trembling upon his cheeks. " Go and call the man back," the mother said to the nurse-maid ; and in a moment more the big farrier, who, if he didn't love dogs, cer- tainly did love children, was standing just out- side the window cramming the baby arms with the yellow ball that had been destined for the mill-pond. The boy clapped his hands and laughed, and called "Baydaw, baydaw," stroking the while the soft fur as only dog THE DOG. 7 lovers can. The mother's eyes filled with tears : "It is the first thing he has noticed for almost a year," she said ; and then turning to the farrier : " Would you sell it ? He has been very, very sick for so long, and the puppy pleases him." The big, soft-hearted farrier drew his hand across his eyes : " Lord love you, ma'm, and he's more than welcome to it," said he. "I was only just going to drown it. And I say, ma'm," the good farrier made bold to add, " what the little one needs is the sunshine and the air. Maybe you'll let the girl fetch him to see me at the shop sometimes ? Sure now, and he's a pretty baby ; a mighty pretty baby is he." And that was how the farrier and the boy became acquainted ; and that was how the boy saved the dog's life. Afterward, the dog showed his appreciation of the favor by saving the boy's life once when he fell into the mill-pond, the same mill-pond to which the cur had been doomed. But that isn't in the story, so we'll let it pass. 8 THE FARRIER'S DOG. The two were great friends from the very first. The boy, romping about the yard with his new friend, began to "mend," the farrier called it at once. It was not long before the nurse began to carry him down to the smithy to see the farrier : at first, he only stayed a little while, but soon the nurse would leave him, and return for him just in time for dinner at the big brick house. Sometimes the little pale face bore the marks of the farrier's hand, which had lingered caressingly upon the pretty temples. Sometimes the dainty white kilts would be decorated with the forge soot, but nobody complained of such small things. The boy was happy ; the big smith loved him, and the soot was only a mark of af- fection. As the boy grew older (did I say he was always followed by the dog ? Well, he was, always) and began to grow strong, and to con- verse with his big friend, the smith hunted up an old anvil, and had it nicely cleaned, and brought into the shop ; he placed it near the forge, and, when the boy and dog came down for their morning call, he would dust off the anvil with a clean apron, and say to his visitor : THE DOG. 9 " There's your seat, sir, all waiting." And the boy would smile and drop down upon the smooth anvfl, and then call out to the dog: "Lie down, Baydaw: I think the smith is going to tell us a story." You see the dog kept the name the boy had given him the day he was born, "Baydaw/" which, the boy's mother said, meant "baby's dog." II. THE BOY. IT was wonderful, the farrier declared, the way in which the boy began to mend after the dog began to keep him company. In a very little while the two might be seen, the boy and the dog, out on the lawn, under the big trees, strolling side by side, or chasing a ball over the grass, or rolled up together, fast asleep, under a great, old white oak-tree. Then they began to pay visits to the shop alone, with the nurse-maid watching at the gate, until the sooty old shop had received them into its big, black door. They came together, alone, the day the boy put on his first pantaloons. And such a day as^ it was : why, the dog was every whit as proud as the boy ; indeed he walked down the village street at his young master's side, with his crinkled tail hoisted over his back, and his head carried in a way that said : " Do THE BOY. II look at us, everybody ! We have on breeches ; we are quite men to-day." And everybody did look ; you may be sure of that. Everybody ran to their doors, as though a circus might have been passing; and everybody had something pleasant to say ; a smile, and, " Lord love the little one ; " for the village folk worked in the mill for the most part, and were very fond of the president's only son. But the greatest commotion was when the two friends walked into the blacksmith's shop. The smith was just in the act of tempering a bit of iron, when the tittle master called out, gaily, from the doorway : " Hello, Mr. Farrier ! HeDo, sir ! " Then the farrier turned, and saw the boy, the dog, and the first breeches, framed in by the big door, waiting to be recognized. He dropped the hammer upon the floor of the smithy and stared ; for the life of him he couldn't think of any- thing appropriate to say upon such a very smart occasion, until, suddenly, he remembered what day it was ; and then, remembering that, and looking straight at the first breeches, he said: " Well ! if this ain't the glorious fourth ! " 12 THE FARRIERS DOG. The boy laughed softly ; he was very much pleased at the farrier's surprise, and at the way he had expressed it. He sauntered into the shop, and took his seat on the bright old anvil prepared for him, and began to enjoy his visit, the dog lying at his feet. At first the silence was a trifle embarrassing : the smith continued to stare, and the boy smoothed the dog's back with his small white hand. " I'm glad you like them, Mr. Blacksmith," said the boy after a while, with a conscious glance at the ridiculous little bit of white linen ending just above his tiny knee, and daring to call itself a pair of breeches. " Why, yes," said the farrier, " they look uncommon well, uncommon well." The boy blushed like a girl, and continued to stroke the dog's back; he had never been so embarrassed in all his little life, although he felt so proud ; so very, very proud, indeed. As, indeed, why shouldn't he ? To be sure, he would never wear his first pantaloons for the first time, again ; not in all his life, however long it might be. Still, it was embarrassing ; he stroked the dog's back and smiled. Sud- denly his face lighted : THE BOY. 13 "This is a nice dog you have given me," said he. " A very nice dog, sir." "Glad you like him, sir," said the smith. " He does look uncommon well now, walking along in the company of them new breeches." " And he has a nice tail," said the boy ; who was rather more anxious to talk dog than he was to talk breeches. " His tail has a nice crinkle to it. I a/zva_ys liked his tail, farrier." " Yes," said the farrier, " I believe you did." Then there was another long silence; in which the smith looked at the boy (a twinkle in his eye), and the boy looked at his first breeches (a smile in his eye), and the dog looked at them both, as though he considered they were both rather easily embarrassed about so very small a matter. " I always liked his tail," the boy repeated ; and then there was more silence. Suddenly the smith tossed his hammer aside, and brushed away the iron that had been left to cool upon the anvil : " I say now," said he. " You ought to have a holiday to-day ; you surely ought ; wearing your first breeches, and all that. There's a circus coming to town to-day, and I move that 14 THE FARRIERS DOG. we shut up the shop and take those new breeches to see the show." The boy bounded to his feet : "Oh, Mr. Farrier," said he, "do you think we might go ? And could Baydaw go along, too ? He never saw a circus, and I am sure he would like it." "Why," said the smith, "he might, and wel- come, but the rogues would steal him, like as not." " Oh," said the boy, " then we can't go. I'm so sorry. I would like to see a circus." " We might lock him up here in the shop till we got back," said the smith ; but the boy shook his head. "I don't think," said he, "that we should like to be parted to-day" "Then," said the smith, "we'll fetch him along, and take the risk. But you must be sure to keep an eye upon him ; these circus fellows are mighty bad about dogs, I have always heard." So with this understanding they went off for a holiday, the first of many they took together. It was the only way, the good farrier declared, in which he could do proper respect to the first THE BOY. 15 breeches. They saw the lions and the royal Bengal tiger, the camels, and the cinnamon bear that kept time to the squeaky notes of a wheezy flute. Then they saw a man climb a trapeze, a thing any college boy can do better these days of athletics ; and then they went outside and had a watery lemonade, which the smith de- clared was very like a Sunday school picnic, " because they had forgotten to put any lemon in the lemonade." And at every stop they 1 6 THE FARRIER'S DOG. made, and every treat he offered, the farrier would ask : " Will the new breeches have some of this ? " Or, "Will the new breeches look at this?" "Would the breeches like to see the bearded woman ? " " Will the breeches take a peep at the Queen of Sheba ? " " Would the breeches like to see the Sleeping Beauty?" Thus im- pressing upon the boy's mind that the great day was in honor of the first pantaloons, and that all courtesies extended were extended to the breeches. In short, it was a kind of first breeches celebration, as though any boy was likely to forget the day he put on his first breeches. III. THE THIEF'S DOG. OXE morning the boy sat on the anvil draw- ing the dog's bushy tail between his palms. " He has a nice tail," said he. " I always liked his tail ; it has a nice crinkle to it." The smith was busy at the forge and did not reply at the moment. Suddenly the boy called out in his clear little treble : " Farrier," said he, " can you tell me why it is a boy always likes a dog ? " The farrier let go the bellows pump, and rubbed his forehead with his long, smutty fore- finger : " Well, now," said he, to gain time, " is that a riddle, or is it plain facts ? " " No," said the boy, " that isn't a riddle ; it is just a plain question." "Well, then," said the smith, "it's because 7 1 8 THE FARRIER'S DOG. he can beat the dog when he feels like it, I'm thinking." The boy bounded to his feet and looked the farrier squarely in the eye. "That isn't it at all," said he. " You've guessed worse than I ever thought you would. Why, sir, a boy loves a dog because a dog always loves a boy ; if he is half nice to him. I reckon it's easy to get a dog to love you. Why, I have heard of dogs that loved beggars, and bootblacks, and even thieves." "Sure," said the farrier, "and it's right you are. Now, once. " he seized the bellows pump again, and began pumping with all his might ; he pumped away until the coals on the forge were a good red glow before he opened his lips for another word. The boy dropped back on his old anvil and threw his arms about the dog's neck with a delighted little chuckle. " Lie down, Baydaw," said he. " I think the farrier is going to tell us a story." The farrier thrust a bar of iron into the heart of the red coals, and while waiting for it to heat, for the farrier never wasted time, not even in telling stories, said : " Now once, over in my town in No'th THE THIEF S DOG. IQ Kelliny, there was a man, said to be the mean- est man ever raised. Wouldn't anybody have anything to do with him. Nobody knew where he come from ; jest kind o* dropped down there, as it were, and put up. Lived in a little house at one end of the town. And they used to tell on him that he was that mean the varmints in that end o' town, sech as rats and mice, and toad frogs, all got up and moved out when he opened up there. They told awful tales about 2O THE FARRIER S DOG. him : wouldn't a boy in town pass that house after dark if he could help it ; they didn't like to pass in the daytime ; and when they jest had to pass it, they went by in a pretty peart trot, /can tell you." " They ran ? " cried the boy. " Do you mean to say they ran by the house, in the broad open daylight ?" The smith drew the red-hot bar from the coals, and, holding it across the anvil, began to tap it with his iron hammer : Clink-clink-clinkety-clink ! It was a great annoyance to the boy to have the hammer continually interrupting conversa- tion in this way, but the hammer had work to do : the smith might idle away his time with a boy and a dog, but as for the iron hammer Clink-clink-clinkety-clink ! At last the bar was in the coal bed again ; the smith drew his sleeve across his brow, and began at precisely the point at which he had left off his story. That was one good thing about the smith, the boy always said : " he never forget where he left off'' "They ran," said he, "as fast as their legs could carry of them." THE THIEF S DOG. 21 "Did did you run, farrier?" said the boy, anxiously watching the iron bar that would soon be getting hot again. The farrier scratched his head : he wished this one boy to think he was not a coward ; had never been a coward ; yet was he a truthful old farrier. "Well, now," said he, "this here story is about the thief : the thief and the other fellows ; it isn't my story ; if it was my story " " Oh ! " said the boy. And then Clink-clink-cl inkety-clink. The boy almost hated that industrious old hammer. Clink-clink-clinkety-clink. " I'd tell it differ 1 nt ; " said the smith, begin- ning again where he left off. " There was no- body in the town could abide that man. He was poor as a church mouse ; folks used to wonder why he didn't starve to death. He surely didn't have any way of getting an hon- est living, they said. You see that is how bad stories get a-going. If a man or a woman won't work, people begin to wonder how they live. Then they begin to talk, then to keep an eye upon them, and first thing you know somebody has lost a character. So they began to watch 22 THE FARRIER S DOG. this fellow I'm telling you about, and after 'while they began to say he stole. Then they shunned him more than ever. And everything that happened in that town they were pretty apt to think he done it. That's another thing you got to notice as you go along. When a fellow gets a bad name, it accumulates a good deal of dirt as it goes along." " It what ? " said the boy. "Why, it's this way. Give a man a bad name and he'll be accused of everything bad comes his way ; that's it. So they laid lots o' things to the charge of this fellow in my town ; and they got so they wouldn't so much as no- tice him, let alone speak to him. And there was some talk of driving him out of the town. And one day Clink-clink-clinkety-clink. Oh, that hammer ! The boy wished the far- rier would toss it out of the door with all his might ; he knew it must fall squarely into the slack tub at the door, if the smith should fling it away. Then he laughed softly at the thought of the big hammer flying out the shop door, and of the good smith with nothing to -do but to sit with his big hands folded all day. THE THIEF S DOG. 23 Then the little face grew grave again. There was something awesome in the thought of the strong hands folded idly all day. It must be a very terrible thing, too, that would make the smith throw away his hammer. He remembered once seeing a man buried. It was his uncle, and he was buried by some men who wore white aprons and gloves. His father had told him that they were " free masons," a great and good order of men to which his uncle had belonged. And on the lid of his uncle's coffin were laid an apron and a pair of gloves too, like those the men wore. When he asked his father about it he had said, " He will not need them any more." So, it seemed to him, it might be when his good friend, the smith, should throw away his hammer. CUnk-clink-cUnkety-clink. " A dog took up with him." The bar was finished now, and the farrier finished the story without further interruption from the hammer. " One day a dog took up with him. It was an ugly kind of a brute, and he must have been pretty well starved all along; but somehow it stuck to that fellow like as they'd been kind of kin. Better, for a fellow's kin ain't always the 24 THE FARRIER S DOG. ones as sticks when a fellow's needy. But the dog stuck ; 'stuck and starved,' the folks used to say. Why, he'd snarl at a boy if he ran past the house, and show his teeth if a body dared to look over his shoulder doubtful like at the dog's master. And once the fellow got sick and nobody'd go nigh him but that dog. And the critter actually stole for him. He stole the victuals off the stove where the women-folks was cooking, and sneaked the bread out of the baker's window. And once, when he couldn't find anything better, he stole a live hen and car- ried it home in his mouth. " They said the fellow was good to the dog, in his way, though he must have had a hard lot, even if he got no cuffing. The fellow got well at last, thanks to the dog's keeping, and one night he broke into a house, and he got shot while trying to get out after the folks waked and gave the alarm. And the town buried of him, and was saying ' good riddance,' with just one mourner to follow the old sexton, who crammed the cheap pine coffin into the ground, and threw the dirt over it. That mourner was the dog. The last that town ever saw of him was the day he followed the corporation's dead- THE THIEF'S DOG. 25 wagon out to the pauper graveyard. That is to say, it was the last they ever saw of him in that town. They saw him at the graveyard, months afterwards ; just a little heap of white bones lying across the old rogue's grave. Yes, sir; it's curious how a dog will take to folks " Clink the smith had taken up his hammer and was trying it lightly, thoughtlessly, upon the cold anvil. This set the boy to thinking, and to asking questions. " Farrier," said he, " do you think anything could ever happen that would make you throw your hammer away ? I've been thinking a good deal about that while I was waiting between times for the story you have been telling me. It was a nice story, and I am much obliged to you. I always like to hear stories about dogs. And while I was waiting for this one, I got to wondering if anything could make you throw your hammer out the door. It would be sure to fall in the slack tub, I think." "Well, now," said the good smith, "it would need to be something very dreadful, I'm thinking," he rubbed the hammer's cold nose with his palm, in a half caressing way, for a good workman is always more or less fond of his 26 THE FARRIER'S DOG. faithful tools, " something very, very dreadful, sir." Yet, in less than six months Clink-clink-clinkety-clink the smith was at work again. IV. THE DOG'S MESSAGE. ONE morning the boy failed to come to the shop, although the sun shone and the south wind blew warm across the southern hills. From time to time the farrier glanced at the empty anvil where his friend was accustomed to sit, with Baydaw at his feet, and wondered that the place should seem so lonely. More than once he went to the door, and stood under the shed outside, his smutty hand before his eyes, watching the street for his little friend and the yellow dog. He even looked at the low iron gate up the street to see if the nurse-maid's cap might be visible while she stood watching the young master. But, no ; there was no sign of either friend or dog; and at noon the smith shut the shop door and went back to doctor a sick horse, and did not return all the day. The next morning the boy again failed to 28 THE FARRIER'S DOG. make his appearance. The smith glanced at the empty anvil time and again. More than once he turned to speak to the boy who "ought," he declared, "to be there." Finally he crossed the shop, and jerking an old, cast- off apron from a nail in the wall, he threw it over the empty seat and went back to look after a horseshoe he had left in the fire. But, somehow, to-day the hammer didn't ring to suit him. He tried it upon the glowing shoe, then he tried it upon the anvil. Then suddenly he lifted it above his' head, and tossed it from him with such force that he sent it flying through the door, where it circled three times in the air, and fell with a soft little sizzling squarely into the slack tub, and sank out of sight. But the farrier did not notice. He did not even remember that he had told the little boy that it must be a very dreadful thing that would cause him to throw away his hammer. He was too busy taking off, or trying to take off, his apron. He had resolved to go up to the big house of the president and ask what was the matter. As he gave the apron-strings a jerk, a shadow THE DOGS MESSAGE. 2Q fell across the doorway, and something brushed the good smith's legs. When he looked down and saw the yellow cur Baydaw, he was so upset that he jerked the apron-strings into such a hopelessly hard knot that he had to cut them apart by and by. Baydaw rubbed his head against the smith's legs and whined. The smith stooped, and took from the dog's mouth the bit of white paper which the boy's mother had folded into a note and placed there. The farrier wasn't a scholar, but he made out that his little friend was very sick, and had sent for him to come up to the house. He didn't stop to remove his apron, or to get his hat from the nail, or to fasten the shop door. Indeed, there were those who said he even carried his hammer ; but how could he, with the hammer at the bottom of the slack tub ? He went, however, at once, his big form followed up the hill by the dog who had been sent to fetch him. That noon, when the smith returned to the shop, the first thing he did was to lift the empty anvil that had been the boy's seat, and to heave it out of the back door into a hole there, and cover it over with leaves and earth, so that he 3O THE FARRIER S DOG. couldn't see it again. Though how could he see anything, gruff old soft-heart that he was, with the big tears blinding his eyes. The little boy had been very, very sick. His father had sat by his bed all the long night, while his mother had knelt at the other side praying. He had talked a good deal to them : he was a very sensible little fellow, and very loving and full of faith in his parents. At nine o'clock in the morning the doctor told them he was to have anything that he called for. " Nothing can hurt him now," the doctor had said. And, hearing this, the boy had called out in his pretty, clear voice : " I should like to see my old friend the far- rier, if you please, papa." And so the farrier was sent for at once ; at the boy's request they sent the dog to fetch him, with the note the mother had written. When the big, burly figure of the smith appeared in the door, the boy held out his little white hand and called to his friend : " I've sent for you to give you back your dog, farrier," said he; and the cur, as though he understood, crept close to the bed's side, in THE DOGS MESSAGE. 3! easy reach of the hand extended to stroke the soft, silky fur. " He is a nice dog, and I like him very much, sir, and I've sent for you to give him back to you." " There, there now," said the farrier, " what- ever am I to do with him, without you to keep him out of the mill-pond ? " The boy smiled ; he knew well that his dog would never be in danger of the mill-pond again. "He is a nice dog, and he has a beautiful tail. I always liked his tail, farrier." "Sure, sir, I believe you always did," said the farrier, "and I hope, sir, as you always may." The boy seemed not to be listening for a moment, though the small hand continued to stroke the cur's head : " Baydaw ? " The dog started up, and licked the tiny fingers. " His tail has a beautiful crinkle," the voice was low, and the words softly spoken; for the boy's strength was almost spent. The next moment he rallied, and asked them please to send for his old friend the farrier; he was 32 THE FARRIERS DOG. quite sure the dog could bring him. The father moved aside, and motioned the smith to stand nearer the bed, and speak to the child. But the boy saw him, and was the first to speak : " Why, farrier," said he, " I thought you were crying. It would be odd to see a black- smith cry, I think." " Very odd, sir," said the smith ; " very odd, indeed. I misdoubts they don't cry very often, sir." " No," said the boy, " but mothers do. Mine cried all night. You won't forget to take the dog along with you, farrier? " " Sure, sir, I'll keep him all right till you come after him," said the smith. " Oh, but I am going away," cried the boy. "I shall not come to the shop again, because I am going very far away. But mother says I needn't be afraid at all, and I am not ; because mother wouldn't tell me if it was not all right. But I cannot take my dog, so I give him back to you. Father, dear, give me your hand on this side, please. And, come closer, farrier ; I can't seem to see you. You'll keep the dog for old times ? I can't come to your shop again, but I'll not forget you, farrier." THE DOGS MESSAGE. 33 The big farrier did not reply : he could not have said a word though life had hung upon his speaking. He could only choke back the great sob that rose in his throat, and put out his big, grimy hand to feel for the dog's head. His great fingers touched the tiny ones of the little boy, who had grown into his big man's heart in such a very little while. The little boy who had taught him that even a dog may be a thing of affectionate care. The small fingers scarcely moved, though the lips did, ever so faintly : " He has a nice tail. I always liked his tail You will not forget, farrier?" The farrier leaned over the bed to reply, but drew back, with a low cry of pain, as though something had hurt him. The little boy had gone upon that long journey of which he had said he was "not afraid," V. A VAGABOND. IT was a day in August. A hot, sultry day, when work was not to be thought of, and even play was a burden. A group of idle boys sat upon the curbstone of a pavement before the door of the very last house of a street that led into the heart of the city. The boys were not plotting any great mischief ; they were only idle, loafing about the street in mischief's way. So, when mischief came in sight, they were not slow to grasp it. They were talking of the river a little further on, and of the swimming there, and calculating, coolly, the ways and means of getting there and back in sufficient time to throw suspicion off their tracks, when again they should confront their mothers. There are some circumstances in which boys of a certain class are ripe for any mischief they may chance upon. The present was one of that 94 A VAGABOND. 35 class of circumstances, and these boys were of just that class. While they sat there on the curb- stone, waiting, planning, a dog came into view. A yellow, wobegone, weary looking dog, covered with the dust and dirt of the road. There were blood-stains upon his yellow jacket, and poor dumb wounds that told without words the cruel adventures of the highway. He had a fright- ened, hang-dog look about him, too, and his red tongue protruded from between his foam-flecked jaws, as he panted for breath. Evidently, in spite of his sorrows, the dog had made sport somewhere for some cruel Philistines ; for his once long, bushy tail was shaved, leaving it quite clean of hair, except for the shaggy bunch at the end. His body had been treated 36 THE FARRIER'S DOG. in the same way : it was quite smooth, except for the big, shaggy mane around his neck. He was a most comical looking dog, indeed, and a still more comical looking lion. There was a wild something in the furtive, frightened glance that he shot here and there, as if mind- ful of the chance stone ; or, it might be, the friendly hand extended. When the dog first came into view one of the boys upon the curbstone bounded to his feet, and shouted : " A lion ! " Instantly the others followed his lead ; there was not a boy among them but recognised the comical idea that had transformed the yellow cur into the tawny lion. In an instant they raised a cry, and the dog took to its heels, with every boy after him. As they ran, each boy seized a stone. At last the idle ones had found something with which, to amuse them- selves. They ran straight for the city, and, before they had gone half a block, they were joined by others, who grasped their stones like- wise, and raised their cry. People ran out of their houses to see what was the matter, and a woman, seeing the hurry- A VAGABOND. 37 ing crowd, with a stray dog fleeing from its missiles, rushed through her gate, and dragged a little child in off the pavement. As she did so, she unconsciously, without malice, shouted : "Mad dog!" That was quite enough ; the crowd doubled in two minutes, and the poor, weary, homeless cur was to make a last struggle for his life. To the boys who had started the chase it was such fun ; such fun for the boys ; such certain death for the dog. At one end of a particularly crowded business street, a bootblack had a stand It wasn't a particularly imposing stand ; merely a chair which could be folded up and shoved into a niche in the walls, a stool for customer's feet to rest upon, a box, and some brushes. The chair was elevated upon a small platform, that had been a box ; one end of it still open. Into this the bootblack sometimes thrust the imple- ments of his profession when it rained, or when he had occasion to run down the street a moment. A lady sat in the bootblack's chair ; she had stepped into a puddle, in crossing the street, that the city sprinkler had made. The bootblack wasn't accustomed to blacking 38 THE FARRIER'S DOG. the boots of women. He didn't know how to manage their feet exactly ; and this was such a small foot that it was quite lost in the palm of his big hand. She wasn't a rich woman, evi- dently ; just a thoroughly neat and cleanly one. She wore a dress of the plainest gray serge, and her gloves had been freshly darned. She would, probably, walk home, to some distant part of the suburbs, to save the car fare that would go towards payment for the bootblacking. Yet, there was that about her face, the look of her eyes, and the shape of her mouth, that cor- responded to that something in her character which could not tolerate the muddy shoe, and made the boy recognize the fact that she was a gentlewoman, notwithstanding the plain attire. He took the small foot between his palms, and began to brush. While at his task he heard shouts, and, glancing up, he saw the hurrying crowd of boys, and the flying stones and sticks. " Now," said he, " I wonder what them boys is a-chasin' of ; like as not it's a cat ; or else a boy what's littler 'n they be, and can't get out o' the way. I declare for it, boys is so mean ; some boys." A VAGABOND. 39 The lady said nothing ; she was watching the bootblack, whose gaze was fixed upon that speck of flying yellow fur hurrying down the street. "I declare," he shouted, "if it ain't a dog they're chasin'. Nothin' but a poor, lame cur. Boys is so mean ; some boys." The dog was limping now, but making all possible haste. A flying stone had struck one of his hind legs. The lady still said nothing ; she was watching the bootblack, studying his character it might be. The crowd came nearer ; the shouts became more distinct ; there was but one cry : "Mad dog! hit him! kill him! Mad dog" Suddenly the hunted, doomed thing lifted its weary, dust-blinded eyes to the pavement, and saw the boy and the woman. Instantly, as though heaven itself had directed its steps, the cur es- caped behind the legs of the men who had come out to see what was the occasion of the uproar, and darted into the open end of the box upon which rested the bootblack's chair. The boy gasped, and turned to the lady ; her eyes were fixed upon his ; clearly, each was study- ing the other. The study lasted but an in- 4O THE FARRIER S DOG. stant, and then the lady dropped the skirt of her gray serge dress over the opening into which the dog had disappeared. The boy gasped again, and was about to speak; but quickly the small, freshly darned glove touched his arm : "Do you just be quiet," said the strange customer. "And now black that other boot, and be quick ! " The boy gave a low whistle ; he recognized that they were fellow conspirators for the life of the dog. The next moment he fell to work blacking away for dear life, the very busiest bootblack that ever plied a brush. And the crowd, jeering, shouting, brandishing their sticks and gathering their stones, passed on. They had lost track of the dog. Neither had they taken special notice of the industrious boy blacking the boots of the Grossest lady ever seen, if looks went for anything. They wouldn't have dared speak to her, still less have dared ask her to let them look under her skirts for a runaway mad dog, a vagabond cur. They passed on, suspecting nothing, and for the time the dog was safe. When they were gone the lady said, " That will do now," in her own pleasant voice, A VAGABOND. and gave the boy a coin. The bootblack shook his head ; somehow he still felt that they were fellow plotters ; he could not think of charging her anything. Besides, he had seen the gloves with their fresh patches. -"The boots was so little, ma'm," he said, "they warn't worth nothin* nohows." The lady smiled; her eyes were very soft and tender now, and there was an unmistakable mist in their blue depths. She knew this boy 42 THE FARRIER'S DOG. was poor, very, very poor ; and then there was the cur under the box. " What will you do with him ? " she asked, making a little gesture downward. The boy shook his head again. " I dunno ; but I'll keep them there boys off' n him, sure." The mist was gathering in the lady's blue eyes ; clearly she must get away. " Well," said she, still holding out the coin, " when that crowd of young ruffians is safely out of sight, buy the dog a bone with that. You may tell him it is his dinner, with my compli- ments." And before the boy could speak she was gone, .and the bit of silver was lying upon the seat of the chair which she had lately occupied. The bootblack looked at it quizzically. " Women is so good," he declared, as he bent over his brushes ; " women is so good. But boys is mean" he added indignantly. "Boys is so mean ; some boys." VL THE FELLOW. THE bootblack argued wisely that he had best let the dog be until sure the hunt for him was over. " It won't hurt him none to rest a bit, 111 be bound," he told himself; "and then maybe he'll eat his dinner, with the compliments of the lady ; and 111 fetch him home with me to live." There was a note of exultation in the boy's voice ; all his life long he had wished for a dog. He had been too poor ever to own one; but now that one had actually come to him, made a claim upon his humanity, as it were, he felt that he had no choice but to adopt the stray. Then, too, there was nobody whose permission he had to obtain ; he was all alone in the world, had always been so, so far as he knew. He remembered that once when a little boy he had run away from a family who claimed to have 44 THE FARRIER S DOG. picked him up on the streets, where he had been deserted. They had treated him misera- bly, and at last he had run away. Another boy, a street gamin like himself, had instructed him in the art of bootblacking, and had pre- sented him with his own outfit when a farmer had volunteered to give him work and a home at his place in the country. The boy's business was not a large one, but he had managed to pay for a little room in a shanty at the end of a quiet street in the rougher part of the city. True, he had only a pallet there, but the room was his own, the pallet big enough for two, and the dog, "the other stray," he called it, was welcome to share both with him. The dog would doubtless go hungry many times, but he would always have his part of the pallet, that was certain ; and it was the best the boy could do ; nobody can do more. He wouldn't have invited a dog to come and live with him on those terms, but if one chose to come of his own accord, why, that was quite another matter. He couldn't quite feel, however, that the dog's life was secure from the mob of boys who had been chasing him. He felt that they would THE FELLOW. 45 come back to look for him ; indeed, they had cast more than a passing glance at the big box as they went by ; it was the presence of the lady, and her very cross air, perhaps, that had prevented their stopping to search. He was right ; the boys had lost track of the dog, and having lost him the men who had come out to look on began to laugh at them, and to call out to them to know where their mad dog had gone. At last they determined to retrace their steps ; the dog had clearly dodged, not escaped. They went straight back to the bootblack. He was busily cleaning his brushes when the leader of the gang stopped to accost him : " I say now, have you seen a dog?" The bootblack looked up. " Many's the one," said he. The other boys began to laugh. "I say now," said the first one, "have you seen a stray ? A runaway dog pass this way ? " " A mad dog, you better say," chirped in the boy who had been the first to discover "the lion " at the end of the street. "Oh," said the bootblack, "you mean that there ugly mad dog you was all runnin' after awhile ago ? Is it him you've lost?" 46 THE FARRIER'S DOG. "Yes," they cried, "did he come this way?" "You bet your life he did," said the boot- black. " You ought to know that, you was all followin' of him." "But we lost him," said the leader. "We lost him right along here. Which way did he go ? " The bootblack stepped to the edge of the pavement and looked up the street. " As nigh as I can make out," said he, " I was busy at that time, but nigh as I can make out, he come straight down that there street, and he was headed for that way, fast as his legs could carry him. I think he met his friends somewhere down the street, and they took him; anyhows I'd think you boys had better mind how you gits to chasin' other peo- ple's dogs; first thing you know, you'll find yourselves in trouble." "Shucks!" said one, "this was just a mad dog. We're goin' to find him and kill him." "Well," said the bootblack, "the last I seen of him he was headed that there way," and the bootblack pointed down the street. A moment, and the crowd had disappeared, down street, also, bent upon finding the unlucky vagabond THE FELLOW. 47 that was at that moment hidden safely in the box of his new friend. The boy let him be until noon. Then he stepped down the street a little way and bought some meat at a butcher's stall When he went back he stooped down upon his knees to look at his new companion. The dog was lying stretched out upon the bottom of the box, still too weary and bruised to stir. Such a dilapi- dated dog, so torn and broken and covered with dust and foam, you would have to look again, and yet again, before you were ready to admit that the poor, miserable stray was Baydaw, the petted treasure of the little boy who died. Yet it was he. What misfortune, what un- lucky turn of fate had cast him out upon the charity of the world ? And where was our good friend, the farrier, who had promised to care for the creature left him ? The bootblack knew nothing of the cur's history, to be sure. He only knew that he had stumbled upon a thing in need, "a weary fellow creature," he called it, and with a grace well becoming more lucky mortals, he bowed his shoulders for the burden misfortune had thrown in his path. He re- mained upon his knees looking in at the tired 48 THE FARRIER'S DOG. creature, his own lonely heart going out with a great pity for the friendless vagabond. " Poor fellow," said he, coaxingly. " Poor old fellow ; he's jist frazzled out, that's what he is." The quick instinct of the brute detected the friendly tone in the voice. The shaggy head was lifted, and the poor, dilapidated tail made a feeble attempt to acknowledge the sympathy by a friendly wag. "There, there, now," said the boy, "come out, can't you, and take a bite o' dinner ? The lady said you was to, and them's her compli- ments. Will you come out now ? " He was talking to him as though he'd been a human being. He always talked to the dog so, always after that. He began it that first day, and he always kept it up. It seemed as though the dog understood, too, for with a great effort, and after falling back more than once, he staggered to his feet, and crept out upon the pavement. Poor fellow, indeed. Poor, poor fellow. Could this dilapidated thing be the fat, fortunate Bay- daw ? Ah, farrier, how you have neglected your trust ! The bootblack coaxed the dog off to a corner, near by, and fed him the bits of THE FELLOW. 49 meat he had bought for him, talking the while in a gentle, coaxing way, to which the poor tail responded as gracefully as its tattered condition would permit, "Poor fellow," said the boy, "poor fellow; he's a stray, too, that he is. Picked up oflfn the streets, too, same as me. I reckon we're like one 'nother ; no folks, no home, no nothin* ; / reckon were fellows" And right there, if you please, is where the " Fellow " enters the story. The dog ate his dinner greedily, if not gracefully, for he was a hungry dog, indeed, and all the while the 50 THE FARRIER'S DOG. shaven tail was busy making acknowledg- ments. " I reckon a boy and a dog is most alike any- how," said the bootblack ; " only there's this difference : if a dog gits tired of it he can up and die, but a boy he's got to fight it out somehows." "It" meaning life, poor fellow. " But we'll stand by one 'nother, I reckon, and try to be real fellows, maybe ? " And the poor tail made the proper acknowledgment. "That's a nice tail," said the boy, and then the dog looked up. There certainly was some- thing familiar in that compliment. " Yes, sir, that's a right nice tail, or would be if it was let to grow out again. It's got a real crinkle to it. Say, now ! I wonder if some little boy somewhere ain't been sort o' fond o' you, any- how ? " Was it fancy, or did the big, dust-blinded eyes look up knowingly ? Were there tears in them ? Was the poor stray thinking of the dear, dear little boy who had thought that such a lovely crinkle ? Was he wondering where the boy had gone ? Did he know that those he had left behind would have spared them- selves many luxuries to have at that moment THE FELLOW. 5! possessed themselves of that same bushy tail and its owner, dilapidated though he was ? The stray lay under the box all the long hot afternoon. At dark the bootblack stooped and called to him softly : " Crink ? " said he, " Crinkle, old boy ? It's time we was a-gettin' home with us." That night they lay on the pallet together, the dog and his fellow. The bruises were bound up, and the injured leg doctored a bit, and then they had a bite of supper, and lay down to rest. The dog curled up thankfully at the Fellow's feet, safe from stones and sticks and those other flls that follow the fortunes, or misfortunes, of a stray. The bootblack had never been so happy, the dog, perhaps, never so gratefuL This was the first of their days together, and a fair example of many that fol- lowed. They were fast friends, and faithful. Sometimes there was but a crust, but it was conscientiously divided into two equal parts; and once when the crust was quite too small to think of dividing, the boy went supperless. They had a hard lot, both of them ; for the boy was miserably poor ; and then, strive as he would to protect his friend, there were times 52 THE FARRIERS DOG. when the dog suffered from abuse. His first enemies, the street boys, would not forget that he was a stray, a vagabond. They felt priv- ileged to abuse him. But, notwithstanding his hard lot, the cur began after awhile to look more like himself. His tail began to grow out, and the old crinkle came back, more wavy, more glossy, more bushy than ever. If only he had not been so lean he would have been a very nice looking dog indeed. His leanness was deplorable; it was the result of starvation. " Slow starvation," the bootblack said ; and whenever he said it, and ran his fingers over the dog's yellow coat and felt, the ribs sharp and forbidding, he would fight the tears back and " allow they'd have better luck another day." " Anyhow, we're fellows," he would declare. " We'll fight it out together. And if I go first, or am like to, I'll send you off along ahead o' me. But by an easy route, you may make sure o' that. I won't leave you for the boys to worry, that I won't." It was a well-known thing to him that every time the dog went out without his master he was stoned or beaten ; and once he had come back with a little patch of his skin burnt off, THE FELLOW. 53 where some hard-hearted cook had thrown hot water upon him. " Boys is mean," said the bootblack, when the dog came in with his scald to be doctored ; " boys is mean, some boys ; but they ain't nigh so mean as cooks is." Yes, they had rather a sorry time of it, those two ; but they were happier for each other. They were fellows, indeed, as the boy said ; fellows in hunger, in homelessness, in cold, in misfortune. And all the while they were get- ting leaner, both of them, and less able to "fight it out," as the boy expressed it. The dog proved most valuable those days ; he car- ried the bootblack's " tools " for him ; ran errands right wisely, for a dog ; and when he could dodge his tormentors, the street gamins, he was upon the whole rather a happy dog. But the boys continued to torment him ; they called him "old Crink," because of the tail, and he was getting to be quite famous in their cir- cles as something to be " shied at," that is, rocked. Yet he was faithful to his "fellow," the boy who had rescued him. As he had loved his first little master, so was he grateful to his second. VII. OLD ACQUAINTANCES. ONE morning in spring, when the dog and boy had been fellows for almost a twelve- month, the bootblack sat down upon his own empty chair, and thought over his prospects. Things had never looked quite so bad. A boy with a flaming new outfit had opened up a stand at the next corner. His own customers were all stopping there. His chair hadn't had an occupant now for three days, except such as the boy had taken for charity. His rent would soon be falling due, there wasn't a crust in his cupboard. " See here, now," said he, in a way he had of talking to himself, " see here, now, first thing we know that there dog will starve." He was thinking of the dog, poor fellow, not of himself. And as though his thought might have been a prayer (they very often are, I think), and an OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 55 answer had been sent at once, at that very moment a gentleman came down the street and stopped. " Hello," said he, " busy ? " "Busy doin' nothin'," said the boy, as he darted down and offered the chair to the gen- tleman. " Shine, sir?" He brushed away industriously, and so care- fully that the man took note of him after awhile, and of the yellow cur lying near by intently watching the operation, as though he under- stood a bite of beef was coming nearer and nearer with every movement of his good Fel- low's arm. " Is that your dog ?" said the stranger. " That ? " said the Fellow, " why that's my pardner, sir," with very honest pride in the statement. " Your partner, eh ? And where did you pick him up ? " " Right there on that idintical spot where he's a-layin'," was the reply. " I sort of ris- cued him from the mob, so to speak. If you doubts it, ask him. He's a nice dog, if the boys would let him be. But boys is mean ; 56 THE FARRIER'S DOG. some boys. Now, I tell you, a good dog is better company than a bad boy, times out o' mind. They worries that dog a-mighty nigh to death, jist because he's a stray, and nobody to have 'em up about it. That's the way boys is, some boys. Crink there knows, don't you, son ? " The dog looked and wagged his bushy tail. "We're fellows," the boy went on. "That there dog and me are fellows ; we's both had a tolerable steep hill to climb. He's got sense, though, I tell you. He knows this here shine means beef for supper, hey, Crink ? " They talked on until the boots had been care- fully polished : the customer hadn't said much, just enough to make the bootblack talk. He liked the boy, somehow. So when this new acquaintance left the chair he put a half dollar in the boy's hand. " Never mind now about the change," said he, " but go and spend every cent of it for a supper for you you 'fellows.' " He pointed to the dog, and before the astonished bootblack had recovered his breath the man was gone. Then the boy turned to the dog : "Never you mind, son," said he, "when this OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 57 day's work is done, and us 'fellows' go home by way of the baker's and butcher's yum ! yum ! " But when the day was over, and they started home, the boy was not pleased to see a big, brawny stranger dogging their footsteps. He turned into several by-streets, in order to make perfectly sure the strange man was following him ; yes, it was quite clear ; there could be no mistake about it. When he stopped at the baker's and looked over his shoulder, there the 58 THE FARRIER'S DOG. man was, so near that he hurried off without the bread he had come to buy. The same thing was repeated at the butcher's. The bootblack was almost frightened. " This won't do," said he to the dog. "That there man knows about that there fifty cents. Us fellows has got to dodge." Yet, dodge as they would, and did, when they reached home, there was the big stranger close behind them. The boy went in, the dog at his heels, and drew the door fast behind him. "There's the money," said he, laying it upon the table. "He can have it, if he's half as hungry as we've been this day, Crink. But I misdoubts it's the money he's wantin'. Here, sir, you creep right under there." The dog crept behind a box in the corner, and the boy threw over him the clothes that had made their common bed. He had scarcely done so when a knock sounded upon the door. It was a loud knock, as though made by a strong hand. He went at once and opened the door. Just as he thought, there stood the man who had been following him. He was a big, brown fellow, and wore a suit of country jeans. His face was tanned, and his beard long and bushy ; yet, to OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 59 the bootblack's keen eye something appeared that was not cruelty, by any means. Still, he considered, it might be as well to be cautious. He put on his very bravest air as he demanded : "Well, now, what's wanted here?" The visitor pushed his hat back, and mopped his brow, trying the while to peep into the room. The boy was as determined that he should not do so as the man was to see. " Have you," said he, hesitating, " have you seen a a dog ? " " Many's the one, pard," said the bootblack, as bravely as he could ; for somehow he in- stinctively felt that, at last, the parting, which he had ever feared must sooner or later come, was at hand. His heart was thumping like a sledge-hammer, though he stood bravely in the doorway, a hand on either lintel, watching the face of the man before him. " I mean," said the stranger, " or, I thought, well, I was hunting for a dog, and I thought he ran in here." " Thoughts killed a cat, once't," said the boy, bravely again; although his heart thumped against his ribs till it hurt him. "Thoughts killed a cat ; and now, seeing the dog didn't 60 THE FARRIER'S DOG. run in " (indeed he had walked quite soberly in), " s'posin' you walk out." The man had edged himself quite well into the room. He was looking eagerly about the shabby little den, a tender look in his big, sad eyes, which the bootblack couldn't quite see, because of the broad hat he wore, and the gath- ering gloom of the evening. " Say, now," said the boy, " didn't I tell you as your dog wasn't here ? Will you git out now, you " Baydaw ? " said the man, softly, " Baydaw ? I was so sure I saw him." "But I tell you, no," said the boy. "Will you git out And just here that graceless, seemingly thankless cur had the ingratitude to run out deliberately from his hiding-place, and, with a low whine, to crouch at the stranger's feet, and begin to try to lick his hand. The man lifted his arm. " Don't you tetch him ! " The bootblack was almost at the stranger's throat. " Don't you dare to hit him, you, else I'll fight you, if I git my head broke. Don't you lay a finger to him. He ain't had nothin' but licks, and bruises, and OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 6l scaldin's ; and, if you've come here to worrit him, you'd best git out afore I bust your head for you, and don't you furgit it, nuther." He was crying ; crying aloud, not in a shamed way at all ; he was weak and faint with hunger, and this cur was all that he had. He wasn't at all ashamed of his tears ; though, if he had not been crying, perhaps he might have seen that the man was softly patting the head of the poor stray, and was calling him " Baydaw," in a 62 THE FARRIER'S DOG. tender way, and that the cur was whimpering delighted recognition in true dog fashion. " He ain't got no friends," the boy said, bro- kenly, between his sobs; "he ain't got nobody but jist me ; but danged if I don't stand to him. There ! and there." He was pounding the great shoulders stooped over the stray in right royal defence. The man had not spoken to the boy since the dog's appearance from under the bedclothes ; but now he straightened himself up, and took the Fellow's arm in his strong grasp, and held it. " See here, now, sonny," said he, " I wouldn't hit that dog, nor abuse it, not for all the money in this here town, ^nd I reckon there's consid- er'ble. You listen to me a minute ; let me come in and talk to you, after I've I've seen hint. And, without waiting for further permission, the farrier, for it was the farrier, went in, and seated himself upon the box behind which the dog had been hiding. He didn't say anything at first, but just stroked the dog's head, and sighed, and listened to the boy sobbing. Then, when the sound of the sobs had ceased, he began to talk. OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 63 " I'm mighty glad to find him," said he. " I reckon I've a-mighty nigh hunted the state over for him. Baydaw, old boy, we'll be goin' home, now." " No, you won't," said the bootblack. " He's ray dog, now. I rescued him. They was about to kill him, and he was crippled, and lame, and hurt all over; and he run to me, and I rescued him, and he's mine" " Yes, yes," said the farrier ; " he's yours, if you claim him." And all the while, through the good farrier's brain was running a text, something about "naked, and ye took me in, hungry, and ye fed me," and he was vaguely wondering if it wouldn't apply to dogs, too, since they were creatures of God's creating. "He's yours, if you claim him, sonny ; but wait till I tell you about the little boy that owned him, and that loved him mightily, and that sent for me when he was a-dyin', and told me to take care of him. And of the folks back there, the little fellow's folks, that would give a lot to get hold of him, they loved him so for the little fellow's having loved him, and how anxious they be to have him back, and, then, if you say you want to keep him, I'll say no more." 64 THE FARRIER'S DOG. The bootblack was listening intently ; he had always believed the dog had been a pet, it had responded so readily to that first word of sym- pathy. Still, he wasn't ready to part with him. " If he was left to your care," said he, " how come he was runnin' wild over the country, starved like, and with his hair all shaved off, and the boys rockin' of him, and callin' of him 'mad dog?' Seems like you wasn't takin' such mighty good care of him then." The farrier sighed. "See here, now," said he, "you haven't had your supper yet, and neither has the dog. You both come with me. After we've had supper I'm coming back here, and tell you all about it, and then I'm a-goin' to leave you be till to-morrow. You may think about it to-night, after I've told you, and to-morrow we'll see what you think. You're to do just as you please about it ; because you have got a claim : you took him in and keered for him. You saved his life. It ain't the first time it's been saved, but it gives you a claim, and I mean to respect it. Come, now." The boy looked up : OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 6$ " He's all I've got," said he. " He's all the friend I've got in the world ; him and me was was sort o' fellows" And the farrier could scarcely carry the boy off to his supper for the tears that blinded his eyes. VIII. TO THE GREEN HILLS. IT was a great pity the bootblack had not much appetite that evening, for it was a goodly meal the farrier ordered at the little restaurant around the corner of a quiet street not far away. There were mealy potatoes and fresh yellow butter, and a steaming steak with savory onions, and a pudding. But somehow the boy's hunger was gone. Baydaw, as we must call him again, sat on his haunches, between the two, watching with happy eyes first one and then the other, and wagging his tail whenever his old master put out his hand to stroke his yellow coat. The farrier did most of the talk- ing. The boy watched him, much the same as he had watched the little lady in gray who had helped him to rescue the dog that day in August. He was a fine judge of faces ; and a man's manner soon opened the lad's eyes as to TO THE GREEX HILLS. 6? the manner of the man's character. He was not long in making out, in a perfectly satisfac- tory way to his own mind, that the farrier " -would do^ The knowledge gave him a great heartache, however; for with it came also the reflection that he ought honestly to turn the dog over to his proper owner. When the meal was finished, and the boot- black had gathered up a bountiful repast for the dog, the two went back to the little house that had made a pretense of a home for the bootblack. "Don't light your candle yet," said the smith. "It is a fine moonlight, and well just sit here in the door and talk a bit." So they did ; though it was the farrier who did most of the talking. "Now that there dog," said he, "come a-mighty nigh a-bein* drowned once't," and then he told the story of the little boy who had inter- ceded in the cur's behalf. He told all about the visits to the shop, all about his own lonely life, his house that had neither wife nor chil- dren to make it glad, and how the dog had been like a human being for company after the little boy went away. 68 THE FARRIER'S DOG. " He give it to me," said he. " He sent for me when he was dyin' and give it back to me ; because he allowed as I'd be good to it, and love it because it had been his dog. And I meant to, Lord love you, I meant to. But you see it was this way." Then he told how he was called away one morning to see a sick brother at a little town two miles distant, how the brother died, and he himself was taken sick with the same disease, and did not know his name for two whole weeks. And how the dog had been left at home guarding the shop ; how he must have waited and waited, almost have starved to death ; for the big house on the hill was closed, and the owners gone away, else he had been looked after. And how, at last, he must have left and wandered on until he came to the town where the bootblack had rescued him from the mob of boys. Then he told of the pleasant village in which he lived, and of the beautiful country around. " Green hills that look down upon the blooming valleys, and rivers that flow right along," said he. "Rivers that flow right along;" the boot- black, born and brought up in the city's dusty TO THE GREEX HILLS. 69 heart, had heard of them, the beautiful rivers, and the green hills that looked down upon them; he had heard of them dreamed of them sometimes, upon his pallet of old rags, or in his empty chair on the pavement, in the hot sun of a summer's day. Dreamed of these beautiful things that a dog might have, but not a boy alas for it ! " He's the only friend I've got," he said, when they had sat silent a moment, each face showing distinct in the moonlight, the dog curled up at their feet, unconscious that his own destiny was being swung in the balance. " He's the only friend I've got, that there dog is, and we're fellows. Him and me is fellows ; we ain't got nobody but jist one 'nother ; least, / ain't." There was a silence again ; then the boy said : " They'll be good to him, them there folks o' the little kid's ? " "Good? They'd give a hundred dollars to have him in their kennel this minute, they would," said the smith. " It seems," said the bootblack, " as though some o' his folks had died, and left him a lump. I heard of a boy like that once ; but I never knowed if 'twas true. Such a thing don't /O THE FARRIER S DOG. happen often, I reckin. And now it has hap- pened to a dog. I'd ought to let him go, I know. The boys rock him, and he don't git enough to eat always. And it's hot, mighty hot, here. And there ain't no 'rivers that flow,' and all that. And I reckin I don't deserve him nohow ; because once I didn't divide fair when we was both hungry. I took half a pone more'n I give him, I was that hungry. And there he'll git enough, always enough to eat, and a good bed to sleep in. Maybe the crink'll come back to his tail real good. I'd ought to let him go He was silent, watching the moonlight where it fell upon a heap of rubbish, old glass, ashes, and tin cans. How they glimmered and shone ; yet he knew that in the daylight the sun made that heap a sickening thing; hot, and full of unhealthy odors. * 11 You're to do just as you like," said the farrier, as though he didn't know, from the moment he looked into the boy's face, just what he would do. There are some open faces, like the boy's, behind which there is always an hon- est, unselfish heart, you may be sure of that. The boy didn't notice the interruption. He THK OJH.Y FHKXD I'VE GOT. TO THE GREEX HILLS. 73 was making comparisons : here was a rubbish heap, the hot sun in summer, and the biting wind in winter, the empty cupboard, the dry crust, the rocks, and the taunts of the street gamins. Yonder, where he might go, this good dog of his, was food in plenty, a bed, and some- how, it rang in his ears, what the farrier had said about the hills and the rivers : " the rivers that flow right along." " He's the only friend I've got ; and we are fellows." The bootblack buried his little face in his arms, crossed upon his knees. "There, there, then," said the farrier, "well say no more about it. If you're fond of him you'll do the best you can by him, and I reckon the little one would be satisfied if he knew; maybe he does know ; it ain't for me to say." The bootblack rifted his head. He was a lonely little fellow ; he had always been lonely. In all his poor little life he had never had any- thing to love until this yellow cur had drifted into his life upon the waters of misfortune. Alas for it ! that struggling humanity, innocent childhood, should be reduced to the love of a dog. 74 THE FARRIER'S DOG. The boy straightened himself, and looked the farrier in the eye : "I ain't the boy," said he, "to keep a good dog out of a good home. You take him along. Maybe the little kid what loved him does know about it. If he does, I'd like him to know I give him up for his good. You take him along." The farrier rose, and shook himself, and called to the dog stretched out in the silver moonlight : " Baydaw, come, sir!" The dog rose, and shook himself. The boy rose, too : there was going to be a parting. The boy didn't like that. He turned his back, and, without looking at his old friend, he said that the farrier could just go out that other door, and he reckoned the dog would follow. He did so. He understood that the boy did not want to have a scene, and he thought him- self that was the best thing to do. " I reckon now," he told himself, as he passed down the pavement, with Baydaw at his heels, " I reckon now I'm making a great goose of myself over a dog." He turned, and looked back. The boy was standing where he had left TO THE GREEN HIT. IS 7$ him, a lonely little figure in the great waste of the city, the boy who had rescued the dog. He wondered if some day some good heart would not come along that way and rescue the boy. Then the good farrier stopped : there was an empty chair at his place, there was always din- ner enough for two, there was a bed that no- body occupied, and the old shop would be less dreary for a young face to shine there. There are many, many young faces in the city, faces that might shine in the old shop, but that would grow hard and grimy with the sin of the city. One less would never be noticed, but what a difference it would make to the owner of the face. The good farrier looked again at the des- olate little figure standing before the open door in the moonlight. Then he strode swiftly back, and confronted the astonished boy : " I say, there ; dang it all ! you come, too." And, an hour later, they three started for the green nflls, and the rivers that flow right along : the farrier, the dog, and his fellow. COSY CORNER SERIES r . :-. OLDER READERS PRICE, FIFTY CENTS EACH MEMORIES OP THE MANSE. G5o|es of Scottish Life aad CHRISTMAS AT THOMPSON HALL. By Avraasr Tmxora. A PROVENCE ROSE. By LOCK* D. i* RAW fOon*). IN DISTANCE AND IN DREAM. By 1L F.Swmsn. WILL O* THE MILL. By Rowr Lons STVTESSOOE. THREE Published by L. C PAGE AND COMPANY COSY CORNER SERIES OF CHARMING JUVENILE STORIES PRICE, FIFTY CENTS EACH THE FARRIER'S DOG AND HIS FELLOW. By WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLB. THE PRINCE OF THE PIN ELVES. By CHARLES LEE SLEIGHT. A DOG OF FLANDERS. By " OUIDA." THE NURNBERG STOVE. By" OUIDA" OLE MAMMY'S TORMENT. By ANNIE FELLOWS-JOHNSTON. THE LITTLE COLONEL. By ANNIE FELLOWS- JOHNSTON. BIG BROTHER. By ANNIE FELLOWS- JOHNSTON. A LOYAL LITTLE MAID. By EDITH ROBINSON. THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE. By Miss MULOCH. THE ADVENTURES OF A BROWNIE. By Miss MULOCH. HIS LITTLE MOTHER. By Miss MULOCH. WEE DOROTHY'S TRUE VALENTINE. By LAURA UPDEGRAFF. LA BELLE NIVERNAISE. The Story of an Old Boat and her Crew. By ALPHONSE DAUDET. A GREAT EMERGENCY. By JULIANA HORATIA EWING. THE TRINITY FLOWER. By JULIANA HORATIA EWING. STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. By JULIANA HORATIA EWING. JACKANAPES. By JULIANA HORATIA EWING. RAB AND HIS FRIENDS. By DR. JOHN BROWN. THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER.' A Legend of Stiria. By JOHN RUSKIN. THE YOUNG KING. THE STAR CHILD. Two Tales. Published by L. C PAGE AND COMPANY 1% Summer Street, Boston Books for Boys and Girls. A Dog of Flanders. A Christmas Story. By LOUISA DE LA RAME (OrjiDA). i vol., square izmo, doth, gilt top, $1.2 1 A new edition of a beautiful Christmas story already prized as a classic by all who know it. Contains forty-two original illustrations and a photo-gelatine repro- duction of Rubens's great picture, " The Descent from the Cross." The Nurnberg Stove. By LOUISA DE LA RAME (OuiDA). i voL, square izmo, doth, gilt top, $1.25. Another of Ouida's charming stories, delightful alike to old and young. With fifty original ilfrpa.-.ii^ and a color hnulafiet* of a German stove after the cele- brated potter, HirschvogeL An Archer with Columbus. By CHARLES E. BRIMBLECOM. With about fifty illustrations from original pen-and-ink sketches, i vol., i6mo, handsome doth binding, $1.00. A capital story of a boy who attracted the J"""*ii of Columbus while he was seek- mgtheaidof Ferdinand and Isabella for his great voyage of discovery. The wit -: ; .-,--- :-.-._ =:-.\ .-i -- eofatr e tow gnat eq IN i i served as an archer on the veasri of Columbus. His loyalty and devotion, through vicissitude and danger, endeared him to his master, and the story of his experiences and exploits win make him a favorite with the boys, young and old. The story is well told, crisply written, full of reasonable adventure and lively dialogue, without Timothy Dole. By JUNIATA SALSBURY. With twenty-five or thirty illustrations from drawings and pen-and-ink sketches. I vol., i6mo, fancy doth, $1.25. ling adventures, finds friends, kind and many, grows to be a manly i abfc to devote himself to bettering the condition of the poor in the mining region of Pennsylvania, the scene of his early life and adventures. The book is not of the goody-goody order ; although written with a purpose, and convey lesson, this feature is not obtrusive. It is a wholesome and vigoroi boys and girls, and parents as well, will read and enjoy. Bebee : or, Two Little Wooden Shoes. By LOUISA DE LA RAME (OuiDA). With fifty illustrations, and a photo-gelatine frontispiece from original drawings by Etheldred B. Barry, i voL, square I2mo., doth, gilt top, $1.25. A new and dainty edition of Ouida's most exquisite and touching story. Published by L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY, 196 Summer St., Boston, Mass. Books for Boys and Girls. The Young Pearl Divers. A story of Australian adventure by land and sea. By LIEUT. H. PHELPS WHITMARSH. Author of " The Mysterious Voyage of the Daphne," etc. i vol., cloth, i2mo, illustrated, 11.25. This is a splendid story for boys, by an author who writes in vigorous and interest- ing language of scenes and adventures with which he is personally acquainted. The book is illustrated with twelve full-page half-tones by H. Burgess, whose drawings have exactly caught the spirited tone of the narrative. Feats On The Fiord. By HARRIET MARTINEAU. A tale of Norwegian life, with about sixty original illustrations and a colored frontispiece, i vol., small quarto, cloth, gilt top, $1.25. This admirable book, read and enjoyed by so many young people a generation ago and now partially forgotten, deserves to be brought to the attention of parents in search of wholesome reading for their children to-day. It is something more than a juvenile book, being really one of the most instructive books about Norway and Norwegian life and manners ever written, well deserving liberal illustration and the luxury of good paper now given to it. The Fairy Folk of Blue Hill. A story of folk-lore by LILY F. WESSELHOEFT, author of " Sparrow the Tramp," etc., with fifty-five illustrations from original drawings by Alfred C. Eastman, i vol., i6mo, fancy cloth, $1.25. A new volume by MRS. WESSELHOEFT, well known as one of our best writers for the young, and who has made a host of friends among the young people who have read her delightful books. This book ought to interest and appeal to every child who has read her earlier books. Miss Gray's Girls ; or, Summer Days in the Scottish Highlands. By JEANNETTE A. GRANT. With about sixty illustrations in half- tone and pen-and-ink sketches of Scottish scenery, i vol., sma)' quarto, cloth and ornamental side, $1.50. A pleasantly told story of a summer trip through Scotland, somewhat out of the beaten track. A teacher, starting at Glasgow, takes a lively party of girls, her pupils, through the Trossachs to Oban, through the Caledonian Canal to Inver- ness, and as far north as Brora, missing no part of the matchless scenery and no place of historic interest. Returning through Perth, Stirling, Edinburgh, Melrose, and Abbotsford, the enjoyment of the party and the interest of the reader never lag. With all the sightseeing, not the least interesting features of the book are the glimpses of Scottish home life which the party from time to time are fortunaie enough to be able to enjoy through the kindly hospitality of friends. Published by L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY, 196 Summer St., Boston, Mass. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. WWABLE )Cx MAY 071996 Form L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 THE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFOBNU TAG Unwersly W CaMoma, Los Angefes I 111 II 1 1 L 007 375 161 2