pleasant to think of the Arab and his horse, whose friendship has been
celebrated in song and romance. Of Vogelwied, the Minnesinger, and his
bequest to the birds. Of the English Quaker, visited, wherever he went,
by flocks of birds, who with cries of joy alighted on his broad-brimmed
hat and his drab coat-sleeves. Of old Samuel Johnson, when half-blind
and infirm, groping abroad of an evening for oysters for his cat. Of
Walter Scott and John Brown, of Edinburgh, and their dogs. Of our own
Thoreau, instinctively recognized by bird and beast as a friend. Emerson
says of him: "His intimacy with animals suggested what Thomas Fuller
records of Butler, the apologist, that either he had told the bees
things, or the bees had told him. Snakes coiled round his legs; the
fishes swam into his hand; he pulled the woodchuck out of his hole by his
tail, and took foxes under his protection from the hunters."

In the greatest of the ancient Hindu poems--the sacred book of the
Mahabharata--there is a passage of exceptional beauty and tenderness,
which records the reception of King Yudishthira at the gate of Paradise.
A pilgrim to the heavenly city, the king had travelled over vast spaces,
and, one by one, the loved ones, the companions of his journey, had all
fallen and left him alone, save his faithful dog, which still followed.
He was met by Indra, and invited to enter the holy city. But the king
thinks of his friends who have fallen on the way, and declines to go in
without them. The god tells him they are all within waiting for him.
Joyful, he is about to seek them, when he looks upon the poor dog, who,
weary and wasted, crouches at his feet, and asks that he, too, may enter
the gate. Indra refuses, and thereupon the king declares that to abandon
his faithful dumb friend would be as great a sin as to kill a Brahmin.

"Away with that felicity whose price is to abandon the faithful!
Never, come weal or woe, will I leave my faithful dog.