and drive them home from the remote pasture. He liked the fun of it
at first, but by and by he seemed to get the notion that it was a
"chore," and when I whistled for him to go for the cows, he would
turn tail and run the other way, and the more I whistled and threw
stones at him, the faster he would run. His name was Turk, and I
should have sold him if he had not been the kind of dog that nobody
will buy. I suppose he was not a cow-dog, but what they call a
sheep-dog. At least, when he got big enough, he used to get into the
pasture and chase the sheep to death. That was the way he got into
trouble, and lost his valuable life. A dog is of great use on a
farm, and that is the reason a boy likes him. He is good to bite
peddlers and small children, and run out and yelp at wagons that pass
by, and to howl all night when the moon shines. And yet, if I were a
boy again, the first thing I would have should be a dog; for dogs are
great companions, and as active and spry as a boy at doing nothing.
They are also good to bark at woodchuck-holes.

A good dog will bark at a woodchuck-hole long after the animal has
retired to a remote part of his residence, and escaped by another
hole. This deceives the woodchuck. Some of the most delightful
hours of my life have been spent in hiding and watching the hole
where the dog was not. What an exquisite thrill ran through my frame
when the timid nose appeared, was withdrawn, poked out again, and
finally followed by the entire animal, who looked cautiously about,
and then hopped away to feed on the clover. At that moment I rushed
in, occupied the "home base," yelled to Turk, and then danced with
delight at the combat between the spunky woodchuck and the dog. They
were about the same size, but science and civilization won the day.
I did not reflect then that it would have been more in the interest
of civilization if the woodchuck had killed the dog. I do not know