When he entered the house he found
the plaid cloak, formerly his master's, hanging in the entry. He pulled
it down, and in defiance of all attempts to take it from him, lay on it
all night, and would not even allow any person to touch it. Every
evening afterward, about sunset, he left home, traveled to the
grave-yard, reposed on the grave of his late master all night, and
returned home regularly in the morning. But, what was still more
remarkable, he could not be persuaded to eat a morsel. Children near the
grave-yard, who watched his motions, again and again carried him food;
but he resolutely refused it, and it was never known by what means he
existed. While at home he was always dull and sorrowful; he usually lay
in a sleeping posture, and frequently uttered long and mournful groans.
[Illustration: THE DOG AT HIS MASTER'S GRAVE.]
In the western part of our own country, some years since, an exploit was
performed by a Newfoundland dog, which I must tell my readers. It is
related by Mrs. Phelan. A man by the name of Wilson, residing near a
river which was navigable, although the current was somewhat rapid, kept
a pleasure boat. One day he invited a small party to accompany him in an
excursion on the river. They set out. Among the number were Mr. Wilson's
wife and little girl, about three years of age. The child was delighted
with the boat, and with the water lilies that floated on the surface of
the river.
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