So I will just pass over Rover's wonderful exploits--for he
had some, let me whisper it in your ear--and tell my stories about other
people's dogs.
[Illustration: ROVER AND HIS PLAY-FELLOW.]
"Going to the dogs," is a favorite expression with a great many people.
They understand by it a condition in the last degree deplorable. To "go
to the dogs," is spoken of as being just about the worst thing that can
happen to a poor fellow. I think differently, however. I wish from my
heart, that some selfish persons whom I could name would go to the dogs.
They would learn there, I am sure, what they have never learned
before--most valuable lessons in gratitude, and affection, and
self-sacrifice--to say nothing about common sense, a little more of
which would not hurt them.
There is an exceedingly affecting story of a dog that lived in Scotland
as long ago as 1716: This dog belonged to a Mr. Stewart, of Argyleshire,
and was a great favorite with his master. He was a Highland greyhound, I
believe. One afternoon, while his master was hunting in company with
this dog, he was attacked with inflammation in his side. He returned
home, and died the same evening. Some three days afterward his funeral
took place, when the dog followed the remains of his master to the
grave-yard, which was nearly ten miles from the residence of the family.
He remained until the interment was completed, when he returned home
with those who attended the funeral.
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