"Oh, I know," interrupted Lloyd, eagerly. "There is a story about them
in my old third readah, and a pictuah of a big St. Bernard dog with a
flask tied around his neck, and a child on his back."

"Yes," answered the Major, "it is quite probable that that was a picture
of the dog they call Barry. He was with the good monks for twelve years,
and in that time saved the lives of forty travellers. There is a
monument erected to him in Paris in the cemetery for dogs. The sculptor
carved that picture into the stone, the noble animal with a child on his
back, as if he were in the act of carrying it to the hospice. Twelve
years is a long time for a dog to suffer such hardship and exposure.
Night after night he plunged out alone into the deep snow and the
darkness, barking at the top of his voice to attract the attention of
lost travellers. Many a time he dropped into the drifts exhausted;
with scarcely enough strength left to drag himself back to the hospice.

[Illustration: "HE PLUNGED OUT ALONE INTO THE DEEP SNOW"]

"Forty lives saved is a good record. You may be sure that in his old age
Barry was tenderly cared for. The monks gave him a pension and sent him
to Berne, where the climate is much warmer. When he died, a taxidermist
preserved his skin, and he was placed in the museum at Berne, where he
stands to this day, I am told, with the little flask around his neck. I
saw him there one time, and although Barry was only a dog, I stood with
uncovered head before him. For he was as truly a hero and served human
kind as nobly as if he had fallen on the field of battle.

"He had been trained like a soldier to his duty, and no matter how the
storms raged on the mountains, how dark the night, or how dangerous the