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. Meanwhile, a fine Newfoundland dog trotted along the bank of
the stream, looking occasionally at the boat, and thinking, perhaps,
that he should like a sail himself.

Pleasantly onward went the boat, and the party were in the highest
spirits, when little Ellen, trying to get a pretty lily, stretched out
her hand over the side of the boat, and in a moment she lost her balance
and fell into the river. What language can describe the agony of those
parents when they saw the current close over their dear child! The
mother, in her terror, could hardly be prevented from throwing herself
into the river to rescue her drowning girl, and her husband had to hold
her back by force. Vain was the help of man at that dreadful moment; but
prayer was offered up to God, and he heard it.

No one took any notice of Nero, the faithful dog. But he had kept his
eye upon the boat, it seems. He saw all that was going on; he plunged
into the river at the critical moment when the child had sunk to the
bottom, and dived beneath the surface. Suddenly a strange noise was
heard on the side of the boat opposite to the one toward which the party
were anxiously looking, and something seemed to be splashing in the
water. It was the dog. Nero had dived to the bottom of that deep river,
and found the very spot where the poor child had settled down into her