had spelled my way through the little first book into the second,
which seemed large and important, and so on to the third. Going from
one book to another formed a grand triumphal advancement, the memories
of which still stand out in clear relief.

The third book contained interesting stories as well as plain
reading-and spelling-lessons. To me the best story of all was
"Llewellyn's Dog," the first animal that comes to mind after the
needle-voiced field mouse. It so deeply interested and touched me and
some of my classmates that we read it over and over with aching
hearts, both in and out of school and shed bitter tears over the brave
faithful dog, Gelert, slain by his own master, who imagined that he
had devoured his son because he came to him all bloody when the boy
was lost, though he had saved the child's life by killing a big wolf.
We have to look far back to learn how great may be the capacity of a
child's heart for sorrow and sympathy with animals as well as with
human friends and neighbors. This auld-lang-syne story stands out in
the throng of old schoolday memories as clearly as if I had myself
been one of that Welsh hunting-party--heard the bugles blowing, seen
Gelert slain, joined in the search for the lost child, discovered it
at last happy and smiling among the grass and bushes beside the dead,
mangled wolf, and wept with Llewellyn over the sad fate of his noble,
faithful dog friend.

Another favorite in this book was Southey's poem "The Inchcape Bell,"
a story of a priest and a pirate. A good priest in order to warn
seamen in dark stormy weather hung a big bell on the dangerous
Inchcape Rock. The greater the storm and higher the waves, the louder
rang the warning bell, until it was cut off and sunk by wicked Ralph
the Rover. One fine day, as the story goes, when the bell was ringing