whistles and loud shouts of "Christmas Gif', 'Christmas Gif'!" His
little heart beat furiously. Perhaps he knew just what he was
doing; perhaps it was the accident of habit; most likely Satan
simply wanted to go home--but when that gun rose, Satan rose too,
on his haunches, his tongue out, his black eyes steady and his
funny little paws hanging loosely--and begged! The boy lowered the
gun.

"Down, sir!" Satan dropped obediently, but when the gun was lifted
again, Satan rose again, and again he begged.

"Down, I tell you!" This time Satan would not down, but sat
begging for his life. The boy turned.

"Papa, I can't shoot that dog." Perhaps Satan had reached the
stern old overseer's heart. Perhaps he remembered suddenly that it
was Christmas. At any rate, he said gruffly:

"Well, let him go."

"Come here, sir!" Satan bounded toward the tall boy, frisking and
trustful and begged again.

"Go home, sir!"

Satan needed no second command. Without a sound he fled out the
barn-yard, and, as he swept under the front gate, a little girl
ran out of the front door of the big house and dashed down the
steps, shrieking: