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. 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.]