Chapter II: Part 2

It was an outrage that a dog of Judge’s high standing should be so maligned, for at last the story had grown until it was unsavory, and a great injustice had been done to the father of such a promising son. Summoning the German police dog, Judge made a list of those who were responsible for the wide spread of the story. Among these were Ruby, the pug, Petite, the white French poodle, and those to whom they had told the interesting bit of news.

In their set was an English bulldog named Bill, who was a distant relative on the terrier side of the Airedale family. Bill felt that it would be disloyal not to support the Airedales in their contention, especially as the matter had been laid before him by Ruby, who gave her own version of it, adding as much local color as she could.

Bill, in turn, told a friend, a Boston bull, and so it went. Among their select set, everyone who repeated the tale added something to it. It was left to dear little Petite, the fluffy French poodle, who always wore white, to defend the little Pom. With tears in her eyes, Petite told all her friends how that “impossible Airedale pup had insulted her dear friend, Pixie.” She wept on the shoulder of a stately Russian wolfhound, named Princess, who had been “over” only a short time, and who was bewildered by Petite’s show of emotion. For some time indeed Princess was unable to understand what it all meant.

Expressing her indignation in a dignified and charming way at the effrontery of the Airedale, the Princess promised to call on the little Pom and extend her sympathy. She passed the sad news on to a water spaniel, who just then emerged from the drinking fountain basin, where he had been taking a bath. Although he shook the water from his wet coat all over her, which at another time would have been good cause for a show of temper, even from a lady dog of noble birth, she passed it by unnoticed, so eager was she to enlist all her friends in Pixie’s cause.

On up the street these two went to where lived two squatty little dachshunds, whose ancestors, like Pixie’s, were real warriors. It was said of them that they attacked badgers, an action requiring great courage. They too had a friendly feeling for Pixie; and then the Princess was so sweet in her manner and so eager to clear her little friend’s name of any suspicion, they could not resist her, even though they saw that the chances of the Airedale were growing slim, and that it was scarcely fair for all of his friends to turn against him.

It was through these little, sociable dachshunds that the story spread to the other element of society in dogdom. The garbage man’s dog, Gyp, who always accompanied his master on his collection trips, was a good watchdog. He was watching the empty cans while his master stopped to chat with the laundress. He had his hands full with the dogs who pestered him for a chance at the tidbits left in the cans. Finally, Gyp, being of a practical turn of mind, began bartering with the dogs for an exchange, just as boys do. The dachshunds had something desirable in this story they had heard, and promised they would give the details as an after-dinner speech, if they could come to terms, which they did.

While they were delivering the purchase price of their lunch, the laundress’s yellow mongrel listened in. Gyp was emphatically against the Airedale. Once Gyp had fallen into the hands of the law, and had almost been taken to the dog pound, so he was bitter against law, and everyone connected with it. This, of course, included the Judge.

Such was not the feeling of the little yellow mongrel, who was of no particular breed. He was just plain dog, and did not mind it one bit if he was. His mistress gave the Judge two days of her time every week, and he knew the Airedale quite well. The Judge’s folks had been kind to him, giving him many meaty bones after dinner. Sometimes the boys played with him, too, in the back yard, where it was nice and private. The fence was so high no one could see them. For all of this, he was most grateful, and intended to stand by the Judge. He was not going to say anything about it to anyone, except the milkman’s dog, and he must promise not to repeat the story. Anyway, he lived away on the other side of town, where they would probably not be interested.

This is how this contention, which, in its beginning was just a misunderstanding between two inoffensive dogs, grew until friendly relations were strained to the breaking point.

Having arranged for a hearing on a certain evening, when all the dogs were again in the park, Judge impaneled a jury. Then, upon examining the jury, he found that not one of the members was fit to serve, as all had gossiped about the case. There were not “twelve good dogs and true” to be found in the town.

Because of this state of affairs, some other plan must be followed. Judge decided that he would punish all of the worst offenders. The principals, which meant Pixie and Bob, he would talk to privately. Pixie no doubt by this time was very sorry and ready to apologize to Bob.

The gossips he would attend to first. Since they were so eager to tell stories about other dogs, he would require each of them to come, one at a time, and tell him a true story of some brave or clever happening of which they had heard. Perhaps there were family traditions that were worth repeating, as in the case of Pixie and the dachshunds. It would be a good way to train their minds, and to teach them to look for the good and to ignore the bad in all dogs. Besides, it would keep them busy. As their outings were limited to about two hours each day, it would be possible for them to hear no more than one long, or, possibly, several short stories each time.

The police dog, being next in importance to the Judge, was required to begin this series of punishment. The Judge, after the class in story-telling had paid the penalty and the law was satisfied, was to tell a very interesting story himself--one containing much human interest and moral advice.

Although he was somewhat vain and pompous, the Judge was at heart a good dog. He desired to raise the standard of morals in dogdom, and knew that the only way to do that was to fill the empty heads of the dogs with something besides gossip. A research story-telling campaign he hoped would prove the first step toward reform.

A program was arranged. Each one was, in his or her turn, to tell whatever story he or she knew on a given subject; or they could relate anything of interest that had occurred in their own families. Detective stories would be in the German police dog’s line. Also stories of German country dogs. One very interesting story he knew about a large Dane that could understand nothing but German.

All the dogs were so interested, and so eager to begin, that they ran around in circles. The court session having adjourned, the police dog escorted them out of the park, and requested that all of them be on time promptly the next evening. A happier group of dogs passed out of the park entrance to go their different ways. No haughty airs were assumed by the blue-bloods. All were interested in one theme, a common interest--the paying of a court fine, which makes all kin.

So used were the dogs in the beautiful homes on that exclusive street to having everything done for them that they had become mere puppets, and it required considerable effort for them to do any real thinking. Most of them were foreign born and several had peculiar habits, different from those of their American cousins. Although their ancestors originally came from Europe, the latter had become true Americans in every sense of the word, and were losing their love of ease and indolence.

Although the owners of these blue-blooded dogs had them registered and pedigreed, and all that, what did they really know of their families? It was by mere accident that Pixie heard that bit of history about her great-great-grandmother. Her mistress never spoke of the little Pom’s past, except to mention about the dog show in London and Pixie’s having associated with the nobility. Now that Pixie knew about her people, she was proud that she had such plucky forbears.

The rest of the dogs, after hearing how Pixie felt about it, were anxious to know something about their own family histories. This story-telling campaign was going to afford them just the excuse they wanted to get the desired information. Surely some members of their breed had won honors for themselves somewhere or somehow. Just how or where were they to hear of these things? Now the chance was to be given, for every dog was to help every other dog with his story. If the shepherd dog knew of a good story about a bull dog, he was to tell it; but it must be such a story as the bull would be pleased to know. Then, if the bull dog knew anything that would add to the happiness of the shepherd, he in turn would make it known.

Satisfied with this arrangement, the dogs went diligently to work unearthing stories.

It was early, and the Judge was on his bench under a tree at the far corner of the park. It was a quiet place where the children, who were playing in the sand piles or swinging, would not disturb them. The Judge, not needing an attendant, was allowed to roam at will. The others would have to wait to be brought, except, of course, the middle-class dogs, who would presently come romping in.

Had the respective owners of the dogs on the beautiful street been aware of what was taking place, in all probability they would have tried to buy the Judge off; but this one was not that kind of a judge. His belonging to their set would not have influenced him in the least. Back in his own family history were some sterling qualities, chief of which was honesty, that had descended to this offspring, and these, as well as other admirable traits, were manifest in all of his dealings.

The dogs were assembled at last, even Pixie, who was seen trotting along beside the Airedale pup. The police dog was keeping order and seating the class. When the gavel, which was his left paw, fell, everything was ready.

PETITE AND BOB TELL THEIR STORIES

PETITE’S STORY

The white poodle told her story in a winsome way. One of her sisters had attended the wedding of one of the nobility in France. The bride was so fond of her little pet that she wanted the poodle with her on this, the happiest day of her life.

The tiny poodle was bathed and combed until she looked like a fluff of cotton. Around her neck a pink ribbon was tied and arranged in a smart bow between her ears. She behaved beautifully, never stepping on the bride’s train, nor did she blush as the groom did. She made only one little break.

After the ceremony, when the groom kissed the bride, she let out one little growl, which she could never refrain from doing when this occurred. For her nice behavior, she was given a piece of the bride’s cake to put under her pillow to sleep on.

As she was a very smart poodle in many ways, she seemed to understand everything that was said to her, and she answered one and all with the tail language. This is the accepted lingo of such favored dogs, especially as they have such fine, feathery tails, that show to advantage when waved in a wig-wag message.

When the poodle was asked if she wanted to go walking, she would hop onto a chair, and look toward the place where her leash was kept and wait for her mistress to put it on her neck. As soon as it was put on, she would jump down from the chair, run to the door and wag her tail, as if to say she was ready.

On the street, she would walk along beside her mistress in a nice way, never running on ahead nor pulling on the leash, as do some rude dogs.

Petite was exceedingly proud because she belonged to such a fine breed of dogs; she waved her beautiful tail in acknowledgment of the applause which was given her.

BOB’S STORY

Judge required even his own son to relate a story, in punishment for his rudeness in barking that terrible bass solo at Pixie, which a well mannered dog should not have done. The father had had Bob rehearse just what he would say, to make certain that nothing in regard to the family skeleton would be disclosed, although almost every family has some such secret to guard. However, Judge thought it best to be on the safe side in regard to theirs.

Right now I will tell you what this great secret was, but it must go no further. Some ancestor of Judge’s was killed for slaughtering sheep. That was about the most disgraceful thing of which a dog could be guilty--to be called a kill-sheep dog! Of course younger generations had done honor to the Airedale name, and nobody would hold them responsible for what had occurred in their family so long ago. Still, they seldom mentioned it among themselves, and never, never, to outsiders.

Bob was inclined to be boastful, and was more than anxious to square himself with the little Pom. After asking his father many questions in regard to their family history, he finally succeeded in ferreting out some very interesting facts.

The Airedale family are noted for their ability to look after their own welfare, and as guards for children and for property liable to be invaded by burglars. They are not beautiful, but what is of far more value, they are useful. As they are partly Irish, they have a sense of humor and do many comical things.

As an instance of the cleverness and humor of the Airedale terrier, one that was young liked to dig holes in his master’s front lawn. He had been repeatedly punished for this naughtiness. Yet whenever he saw the tracks of a ground mole, he would forget everything and start digging until he had made another large hole. Then he would stop and look at what he had done. Feeling guilty, he would run to the porch, where there was a large door mat. This he would drag to the place and cover the hole. Satisfied that his guilt was hidden, he would run off to play.

Another of Bob’s stories was about a clever dog named King who took care of a baby.

KING

King and Junior, a baby boy, were devoted pals. When Junior was in his pen on the lawn, King would take his place as guard and master of ceremonies. While the baby was good, King would lie quietly by, with one eye always on the child. If the baby got tired and fretted, King would jump up, run around the pen and bark to attract Junior’s attention, and would keep it up until the baby would smile.

One day when Junior’s teeth were hurting, he was unusually fretful. King did his stunts in vain. Seeing that he must try some other way to comfort his pal, he stood in thought for a moment. Then he bounded off down the street to a place where another family with children lived. Presently he came dashing back with a woolly dog in his mouth, which he dropped into Junior’s pen, much to the delight of the crying youngster.

Bob also told another story about a dog who was fond of scrambled eggs.

SCRAMBLED EGGS

Snappy was a small Irish terrier who was fond of scrambled eggs. As his owners were obliged to buy their eggs at a good price, he did not get one as often as he would have liked. So he would go to the back of the lot and lie there until he heard a neighbor’s hen cackle. Immediately he would crawl through a hole in the fence, and presently return with an egg in his mouth. He would carry the egg to the kitchen, lay it very carefully on the floor, and wait patiently by it until some one had time to cook it for him. No objections were made, as the neighbor thought this was so clever of him.

POLICE DOG STORIES

All were eager to hear what the German police dog would have to tell, as they knew he must have been able to gather from his grandparents some thrilling tales, because they went through the war and were at the very center of activities. However, he was unable to get many of the facts from them, as their experiences had been so painful that they had come to America to recover and to forget about them.

One member of the family, however, had been cited for bravery, and they loved to sing the praises of poor old “Marne,” of whom they told the story. All of the dogs wept upon hearing about this war hero. After their eyes were dry, they asked for another story from the police dog. This time it was a detective story, with old Tip as the hero.

The police dog was a born story-teller, and his contact with so many different kinds of dogs and men had given him a store of knowledge far beyond his years. So he was applauded until he responded with a narrative about one of his own country’s species, Fritz, who was German through and through.

After this story, the police dog, who had consumed all of the time at this session, was excused and relieved of any more punishment. The Judge was pleased with his conduct through it all.

MARNE, THE WAR HERO

It is a long reach from the battlefields of France to the fashionable dog show at a notable hotel in southern California, but one of the veterans of the World War made it. With sad and solemn eyes, he viewed the scene around him, reminding one of those old men who turn up from retirement to march or to be driven in the parades at the reunions of the Grand Army of the Republic, aged and worn, so far as looks go, but with dear old souls washed white with deeds of bravery.

Thus it was with our war hero, who, surrounded by yelping, barking blue-bloods, was “sitting in” at the dog exhibit, not “listening in,” for he was almost deaf from his injuries received on the battlefield.

Marne was an ambulance dog who served with gallantry throughout the recent war. He came through, and was accepted and decorated by the French government for bravery, but for his glory he paid a dear price. He had been gassed. This, as many who served in the war can testify, takes something out of the very soul of a man. It had the same effect on Marne, who at ten years of age was an old dog.

He was lying silent and dignified among the other entries, but with an accumulation of wisdom impossible to any of the pedigreed dogs about him.

When he was only three months old, this heroic dog was given to the French government. After six months’ training, he was sent to the battlefields to find the dead and wounded. From these trips into “No Man’s Land,” he would come back with either a button or a stone on his stretcher. A button meant a wounded man, and a stone bore mute testimony of one having “gone west.”

Both the British and the French are under obligations to faithful dogs for service on the fields of battle. If these dear, brave dogs could talk, what stories they would tell!

Thanks to the gentle heart of a dear lady who appreciates real worth and brave deeds above mere good breeding in a dog, Marne has been given a pleasant home, and his wounds that have never healed are given proper care. Though there is a far-away look in his eyes, and he has the appearance of one who has known sorrow which he cannot forget, this dear old comrade seems contented.

OLD TIP

Tip was not much of a dog, so far as looks go--never had been, even in his young doghood days. There was too much of just ordinary dog in his ancestry. He was part hound, which gave him those floppy, big ears and that long, lean body. His tail, which was not long enough for a real, honest-to-goodness hound to have, was somewhat like that of his grandmother, who was a mongrel with some shepherd blood. From this tail Tip acquired his name, for on the end of it was a white tip. The rest of his body was brown, shading into yellow, which, had he been of more aristocratic lineage, would have been _golden brown_.

Fate often picks just ordinary men in the lowly walks of life for the laurels. Such was the case with Tip, who was no longer young, and moreover was afflicted with rheumatism, caused by his having no suitable place to sleep on cold, dark nights. He was chosen in his old days to perform the crowning act of his life and to become a hero.

The old corncrib with the leaky roof was Tip’s bedroom. He had only one old grain sack to lie upon. On one of those cold, rainy nights in November, it happened. It was just the time of year when every farmer’s wife is counting on returns for her summer’s work, through the marketing of her nice, fat poultry; and it was also the season when poultry thieves thrive and are busy plying their unlawful business.

Tip had only that evening helped his mistress round up every stray fowl on the place, and she had shut them securely in the chicken house, to be ready for the buyer who was due in the morning to purchase the fat hens and turkeys. Tip had inspected the premises for the last time. Then, considering it safe to do so, he had turned around twice, as is the habit of all dogs, and laid down to sleep.

After his first nap, he awoke. Did he hear or scent something? Not yet really wide awake, he sat up, flapping back his big ears in order to hear more clearly. Surely that sound was something worth giving attention to. He would investigate. Stretching his long body to awaken it fully, he looked out, and what he saw was a small light on the end of something that looked, to him, like a stick. It was up against the poultry house door.

Now, as I told you, Tip was old and had gained wisdom with years. A younger dog would have been more rash; but not Tip. He was cautious. Slipping around the corner, he waited to see what would happen. Soon he saw the door open and two men enter the poultry house. Now was his chance for action. Bounding behind the door, he slammed it shut. As he did so, the bolt slipped into place and, as the key, which had been left in the keyhole, fell out at the same time, he had his prisoners secure. Then he did some lusty barking. Such whoops of “bow-wow!” such howls did he set up, that in a short time he had the family aroused.

This action of his was the means of breaking up an organized band of poultry thieves in that neighborhood; and this feat also earned poor old Tip his laurels.

FRITZ, WHO KNEW ONLY GERMAN

(_As Told in the Presence of the Police Dog by a Lady_)

Once when I was motoring through the middle states with my husband, who had dealings with the farmers of that part of the country, we drew up to the door of a German-American farmer, who, on seeing us, came out to ask what was our business. As he did so, out bounded the biggest piece of dog flesh I had ever seen. At first I thought it was a calf, but when a huge mouth opened and let out a “bow-wow,” I saw it was an immense Dane. On the dog came, ready, it seemed, to tear us to pieces; but the farmer caught him by the collar and, talking to him in German, led him back into the house.

As it was a cold, wintry day, the farmer asked me to go inside where it was warm. Wishing to do so, but still remembering that dog, I hesitated. The man insisted, saying his wife would take care of me. I went.

These people, like many of their kind, live most of their cold weather days in the kitchen, where they can cook and keep warm at the same time. Their cookstove was an old fashioned wood one. The oven, when not used for baking pies and bread, or thawing out the men’s feet, was piled full of wood to dry for fuel; I learned that it was Fritz who supplied the wood for the drying process.

I entered and was invited by the wife to take a seat near the stove. I did so, looking around to see where the Dane might be. I spied him behind the stove, pretending to sleep. Soon the stove needed more wood. The wife took some from the oven and replenished the fire. Fritz got up, came around and looked inside the oven to see how much was left. As he was quite near me at the time, I spoke to him and attempted to pet him. The look he gave me was discouraging, but he turned to his mistress, as though inquiring what was wanted of him. She spoke to him in German. Turning around, he wagged his tail, and gave me a genuine dog smile, before returning to his place behind the stove to finish his nap.

Presently the two men came in. The farmer took more wood from the oven. Fritz was watching the oven with evident concern; at last, when only a few sticks were left, he ran to the door, and with his paw unlatched and opened it. Soon he returned with a stick of wood in his jaws. He laid it down by the stove, and repeated the process until the little old oven was full again. This done, he went across to the cupboard, sat down, and barked until he was served with a lunch. His owners explained that they talked to him only in German, although they spoke very good English; and they added that no amount of money would induce them to part with him.

TED THE WATER SPANIEL

Next on the docket was Ted, the water spaniel. When Ted was called to jury duty, he gave his occupation as “mascot.” He had sailed the seas, having gone on a cruise around the world on a big battleship. When not on mascot duty, he was engaged in catching rats that infested the ship’s hold. He was an excellent sailor and loved the water. The crew, all of whom were fond of him, enjoyed teaching him many clever tricks.

He was a good sport and would allow the men to throw him into the water, which they did just for the fun of seeing him swim back to them. Also, he was a most comical looking animal when he was wet. He would dive for an egg in ten or twelve feet of water; and would pick a piece of money from a pail of water.

There was not a lazy bone in his body. He was always up to something. It was a laughable sight to see him, with his long ears and topknot, sitting up on his haunches to beg for what he wanted. When he was asked what he would do for his country, he would salute the flag and play dead. Many other interesting stunts he did to entertain the sailors and the officers of the big ship.

When the great guns boomed, he would hide and stay hidden until all the smoke had cleared away, when he would come cautiously out from his place of concealment, looking as if he were asking, “Is it all over?”

Of his ancestral history, he knew nothing whatever, as he was picked up from the street in Liverpool by a sailor. Ever since he had followed the sea; but now he was retired and living a quiet life. Though he missed the companionship of the sailors and the wide ocean, he was happy when he could be taken to the beaches. At other times, he bathed in the fountains, which he was doing on the day when Princess met him.

The next story, which he related, was one he had heard some one telling his mistress.

BLOOD WILL TELL

My friends lived on a farm, which was situated in that part of the country where storms and floods were frequent. A stream, quite a small river, in fact, divided their land, the house being on one side of the stream and the pasture lands on the other. The connecting link was a bridge over the stream.

On one occasion, after a heavy storm, this stream was swollen beyond its banks. It became a seething, rushing torrent, carrying the bridge away, leaving no way, except to make a detour of five miles, by which the cows could come from the pasture to the barn. A council was held, and ways and means were discussed. The question was, how were they to get those milkers across to the other side? Everyone had some suggestion. Their little mongrel dog, within whose veins flowed a strain of water spaniel, sat blinking his eyes, and holding his own council.

When the family had given up in despair and returned to the house, the dog swam across to the pasture. He rounded up the herd and, driving them before him, swam the stream again, keeping the cows ahead of him until they were safe on the other side. Every day he repeated this performance until the bridge was built.

The water spaniel recollected another story about a dog named Prince. This one he had heard a gentleman telling his owner.

PRINCE HELPS HIS MASTER TO GET A JOB

The actions of this smart little dog show that dogs often display a degree of reason.

A young man was searching for a position. He was unsuccessful in finding the one suited to his qualifications. He returned home, tired and discouraged, and threw himself on a couch to rest. His small dog Prince saw with an understanding eye that something was worrying his master. He went off to his own corner in the lower part of the house, where the telephone was located, but he did not go to sleep as did his master. He had to think things over as to the cause of his master’s troubles.

Presently the telephone rang. Prince bounded upstairs, two steps at a time, barking lustily all the way. He pulled at the young man’s coat to awaken him, and told him as best he could to answer the phone. His master did so, with the result that he learned that a good position was open to him--a place of trust with a good firm--which he readily accepted.

GYP, THE GARBAGE MAN’S DOG

Gyp, the garbage man’s dog, was next. He was somewhat sullen, having seen life on its seamy side, and he was as full of experiences as an egg is of meat.

As has been previously related, he disliked all phases of the law, and wasn’t enjoying this court scene very much. However, a few more experiences would make little difference in his checkered life.

When he gave his name and address, he was asked if he had ever been in court before, to which he made the humiliating reply that he had, though he was not to blame for it. As Judges in general do not care to listen to excuses about the past, there was no chance for an explanation. Because this was not his first offense, and because he came from the lower ranks of life, although he had good blood; for he was a shepherd dog, and shepherd dogs are related to the great collie family, aristocrats in dogdom. But poor Gyp, being seen daily under the garbage wagon, was looked upon as a suspicious character.

Now Gyp was not deserving of this opinion from any one. He was as honest and faithful as any of them. More temptation had been thrown in his way, and he had been able to withstand it better than some weaker ones. He would not lie, would not steal nor cheat. But he would fight. And it was due to this failing that he had a story to tell. We will leave it to you, dear reader, to decide if he was not justified at least in this one case.

Gyp said he hoped that all dogs were now taking this course in “higher standards of living.” If they did, there might be no further occasion for his having to use his implements of warfare. Nevertheless, he would keep his teeth in good condition, and his claws well whetted. In fact, he thought preparedness was the best policy for all dogs. They need not actually fight, but just threaten to scrap if other dogs disregarded their rights.

His story was a thrilling one about mistaken identity, and the innocent having to suffer for the sins of others. His master was his idol. For him, Gyp would die if necessary. Neither he nor his master had always been just what they were now, for both had seen better times.

One dark night a crime was committed. Gyp’s master, though not guilty, was caught in the meshes of the police dragnet instead of the real culprit, and he was taken to jail to await trial for the crime some one else had committed.

When he failed to return in the morning, Gyp started out to find him. Taking up the trail, he found it led to the jail. Of course he was not allowed in the building, but he hung around, leaving only at night and when he was hungry. At night he had to return home to keep watch over the little boy and his mother. It was his job to take care of them, now that his master was gone.

Gyp had a double responsibility. The wife and little boy must be protected, and he must be on hand at the jail should a need come for him there. With all of this worry, he was growing very thin. Also he did not have enough to eat, for not many luxuries in the way of meat were brought into the little home now, and he was too busy just watching, to hunt for stray bones and things like that.

At last the day of the trial came, and his master was taken from the jail across the courtyard to the room where the hearing was to be held. That was Gyp’s opportunity. Following the crowd into the court room, he slipped in before any one knew he was there. Waiting his chance, he edged his way to where his master was and lay down at his feet. He was hoping he would be allowed to stay right through to the end; but he was disappointed, for hardly had he settled himself when some one took hold of his collar and roughly dragged him out, giving him a kick. Just who was the _dumb brute_ in this case? That was the last he saw of his beloved master for some time. Do you wonder Gyp did not like courts and trials?

He returned home, for now he must devote his whole time to the family. The little boy must be protected when he went to the corner grocery. Gyp would not permit another dog to come near the child. It was at this time that the dog’s fighting blood rose. He would go ahead of the boy when he was crossing the street, and the kindly traffic officer, being their friend, would hold back the crowd until they were over.

One day, after having piloted his little charge safely home, Gyp took a walk down the street past some fine houses where a small dog was lying on a nice lawn. He saw a big hound dog come from another direction and go up to the small dog, sniffing and mumbling a war-growl. Gyp stopped to see what would happen. Presently something that gave offense to the small dog passed between the two, and he set his teeth in the left hind leg of the big dog. Then the trouble started. Seeing the small dog was getting the worst of it, Gyp entered the fray, letting the little fellow out of it, and he and the hound rolled over and over on those fine flower beds.

The ladies who lived in the house were screaming over the phone to police headquarters. But in their nervousness they succeeded only in making the chief believe some one was being killed. At once that official dispatched the police wagon. It came, bringing along with the police a newspaper reporter who wanted to get _first_ news for his paper. All were disappointed. As the hound had sneaked off, Gyp was left to bear the entire blame. The police summoned the dog catcher.

The only protector of the little family around the corner was about to be taken away, when who should appear but the friendly traffic officer, who knew Gyp and came to his rescue. He testified to the dog’s good character and vouched for his keeping the peace. After being patted on the head and admonished by his friend “to be a good dog,” Gyp was allowed to go back to his post of duty--watching the little family.

Time dragged around to Christmas. Then the governor learned that a mistake had been made in the case of Gyp’s master. The master was released from prison and permitted to go home.

It was a joyous holiday for them all. The judge who had tried the case, desiring to make amends for the error, offered to help the good master to get work in the city’s garbage disposal division. But the poor fellow was so humiliated, and his health so broken, that he decided to go to a warmer climate, where he could be out in the sunshine and regain his strength.

The judge, feeling that an injustice had been done the man, wrote to the mayor of this southern town where Gyp and his master had gone. This recommendation caused the master to be put on the pay roll, so the faithful dog and his beloved owner were now partners in this business of gathering the waste of the city.

It was through those friendly little dachshunds that Gyp had become involved in this mess. Now, however, there seemed to be a better feeling established among all of them, and the story which Gyp told them had the effect of enlisting their sympathy and admiration, so that things looked brighter for him.

Presently Gyp was not “only the garbage man’s dog.” He was counted a real hero by the better class of dogs, and if they were free to follow their own natural inclinations, they would be real friendly with him; but there were their owners to contend with, and for their amusement, they would, they supposed, have to go on suppressing their good impulses. At any rate, all of them promised themselves that they would speak to Gyp when no one was watching them. Yes, they would even go out to the garbage wagon when they could, and they would not feel “uppish” toward him any more.

THE LAUNDRESS’S DOG

The laundress’s dog was, as everyone said, just a yellow dog. But he was one of those creatures whose “yellow” was all on the outside--there were no yellow streaks under his skin. Being just plain dog has a significance all its own, as, in order to be any kind of a dog, one must have forefathers. It is highly probable that some of those ancestors were worth while in the case of this dog, and had handed down to their offspring some good traits.

Mandy, the colored laundress, had found him one morning, when she was on her way to work. He was a little fellow then, and he was cold and hungry. They lived in the state of Texas where the cotton grows. No doubt, the pup had started to follow some worker to the fields and became lost. When Mandy coaxed him to follow her, he did not hesitate, especially as her clothing was scented with breakfast bacon.

Together they had lived ever since, with Sam, Mandy’s husband. Now, Sam had ambitions above being always a cotton field hand. He had heard there were better chances for colored people in the north. Tales of wealth accumulated by chauffeurs and waiters with nice, fat tips, had filtered through to the cotton field workers, and they were leaving as fast as the price of a Ford car could be saved. Mandy helped by going out as many days as she could spare from her home and church duties, as she was a very devoted church worker.

Buff, as Mandy called him, on account of his pale yellow color, had fallen into a good home. With Sam’s ambitions and Mandy’s piety, things ran smoothly in this home.

Having purchased a car, they loaded into it everything it would hold, and started north. Buff’s quarters were close, but he managed to be comfortable. It was better any way than riding on the running board. The chickens were riding there, while, on the other side, the family goat was enthroned. Sam was a good provider and his family were never in want of something to eat.

Having at last become fairly settled in their new home, Mandy and Buff would go out to work several days each week. One of the houses where they worked was the Judge’s, so Buff was quite well known to the Airedales.

Buff’s story, while not dealing with his ancestors, was interesting. He knew many stories about clever dogs, with whom he was acquainted, and he had done some fine things himself; but, being a modest dog, and having always been looked down upon in the south, where he came from, he was known only as Sam’s and Mandy’s “yaller cur.” All of this was depressing and made him self-conscious and bashful.

The Judge, understanding how poor Buff felt, drew him out to talk about himself. Buff, too, had his ambitions, it appeared. Always he had desired to be a hunter. How he had longed to accompany Sam and his neighbors on their coon hunting trips! But Sam would not permit it. Buff was too small. It took husky dogs, like the hounds, with their big, floppy ears. Buff must remain at home.

Lying in front of the fire, he would stretch out, fall asleep and dream. His body would tremble; the muscles of his legs would twitch; he would prick up his ears, and go through all kinds of contortions. Then, jumping up, he would run out of the house, and bark in answer to the baying of the hounds, miles away. Back he would come and lie down, with a satisfied look at Mandy, as much as to say, “We got him!” This was as near as he ever came to having his ambition gratified.

The Judge requested Buff to tell about the time little Simon Peter, who lived next door to Sam and Mandy, fell in the water. So embarrassed was Buff at having to face all these eager eyes and lolling tongues, that he stood first on one foot, then on another. In his modesty, he made as little as possible of the part he had taken in the affair.

Simon Peter was a little pickaninny, who would lay his woolly head on the sleeping dog and take his afternoon nap. One day, Simon Peter’s mammy was washing, as she too was a laundress, but of the home-loving variety. The pickaninny loved wash day. He and Buff were left in the kitchen, where the laundry work was done, while his mammy hung out the clothes. It gave him an opportunity to get into lots of things which otherwise would be forbidden.

On this particular day, his mother had stopped to hold a bit of conversation with Sister White, who lived at the back of their lot. There were some matters concerning a church festival of which she must know the particulars.

In the house the little brown baby and the yellow dog were having a happy time. With a dilapidated looking Teddy bear in his arms, Simon Peter was investigating everything. Among other things which the laundress had been using, was a candy pail. In it was some water. It was clean water, for, when Simon Peter looked into it, he saw a baby and a Teddy bear. Reaching for the bear, he lost his balance.

Just then Buff, who was busy gnawing a bone, looked up and saw a pair of chubby brown legs sticking up out of the pail. Sensing what had happened, he climbed up on the side of the pail, and, adding his weight to that of the baby, managed to tip the bucket over, and the pickaninny crawled out.

Buff then ran to where the two “sisters” were in the depth of a discussion about church matters, and commenced jumping up and down, and running back and forth to attract their attention. Sister White took notice and inquired, “What’s the matter with that fool dog?” Simon Peter’s mammy took the hint. Running to the house, she found her little brown baby sitting in a puddle of water, and she saw that he was dripping wet.

This was such a good story the dogs wanted another from Buff, and he promised that at the next session he would tell them about Whitey, another mongrel of his acquaintance. So when the time came he told his second story.

THE DEVOTION OF WHITEY

Whitey was only a mongrel, a cross between a spitz dog and an English bull.

We can imagine that Whitey had inherited from her gentle, affectionate spitz mother, the devotion which this occasion brought into play. This trait, coupled with the persistence and tenacity of her English bull father, enabled her to enact the part she did.

Whitey’s mistress, who was getting along in years, was alone in the world, having only her faithful dog for company. So the two became devoted to each other. When the little old lady went out on errands, Whitey guarded her most carefully.

One day the sun was very hot and the old lady seemed more unsteady than usual. Whitey, looking at her mistress, noticed that she was very pale. Then she saw her mistress sway and fall. The dog was frightened and barked furiously. Seeing a policeman down the street, she ran barking to him, and then back to her fainting mistress.

Understanding what had occurred, the officer called an ambulance and started with the little old lady to the hospital. Whitey, who was no longer young herself, gathered herself together. She was not invited to ride in the ambulance with her mistress. As a matter of fact, no one noticed the anxious, woe-begone little mongrel. So there was nothing for her to do but follow the ambulance.

As it threaded its way in and out, shrieking and making ear-splitting, frightful noises, Whitey followed. Dodging the traffic as best she could, and dreadfully tired, she followed her mistress to she knew not where.

Arriving shortly after her mistress was carried into the hospital, Whitey stood at the door, sniffing and barking. Finally she heard some one coming out of that door. This was her chance. In she sprang, nearly tripping up the big policeman, but getting in where her beloved mistress was. Yelping joyously, she wagged her tail with satisfaction. Her happiness was short-lived, however, for, in an instant a rough hand had her by the back of the neck and yanked her out to the street.

Then the English bull portion of Whitey manifested itself. Such scratching and clawing as she did at that door! She begged, she entreated to be admitted, until, finally, she was allowed to go in. All afternoon, she lay on the foot of her mistress’s cot, looking her sympathy and love, and hoping she would soon help to take the dear mistress back to their home, where they would again be happy. And indeed it was not long before this hope was fulfilled.

THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS

Princess, having been “over” only a short time, and being unaccustomed to American ways, could tell only of her far-away Russia.

Her story was so sad that all were glad it was not a long one. They hoped that after she had been longer in our beautiful America, she would be able to forget those dark days of her own country. They hoped too that Russia, where these graceful hounds live, would see better times, and that no more cruel wars would wreck her government.

Princess was made acquainted with all the dogs in the park. Each in turn gave her a welcoming sniff, and assured her they would try to make it pleasant for her, so she would forget the tragedies of her native land.

She became a noted figure when led along the paths in the park. No one could look at her without their minds reverting to that terrible war and those helpless princesses of Russia, and the brave women who took up arms against their enemies during the reign of terror.

The story Princess told was one she had heard in England. When she was a puppy, she was taken by an English sailor, who was returning home from the far East. At the kennel where she was finally left, she looked more like a young sheep than a dog. With her long legs, long tail, long head, small ears, and soft, silky coat, she was entirely unlike such dogs as Pixie or Ruby.

At the English kennels, which belonged to some of the nobility, she was well cared for. They were reluctant to part with her, but being in straitened circumstances since the war, they needed all the money they could get. So, when her present owners were traveling in that country and offered a good price for her, she was allowed to come to America. That was how it came about that she now was telling her story to a group of American dogs.

In discussing the merits of the wolfhounds to prospective buyers, the keeper of the kennels would tell that Princess was related to the beautiful Russian hounds belonging to the Czar. Often, he would say, before the war, the lovely princesses were seen leading these graceful white creatures through the park around the royal palace at Petrograd. When the royal family was destroyed, these dogs were scattered to the four corners of the earth, as they were sold or carried off by marauding armies. The Princess was fortunate in falling into the hands of the English, who are great lovers of dogs. She could never think of her ancestors, and of how fond they must have been of those sweet princesses, without deep emotion; but, as there were no princesses in this country, she would try to forget.

THE MILKMAN’S DOG DAN

The milkman’s dog Dan was half and half, shepherd and collie, his father being a full-blood shepherd, and his beautiful mother, whom he did not remember, being Scotch collie. Shep, his father, lived all his life--and he attained a ripe old age--on the place where he was born and raised.

Dan loved the dairy farm. The fresh, foaming milk that remained in the straining pails was always his, and the cats had all they could drink of it. Also there were lots of rats and rabbits to chase. In fact, it was an ideal place for a dog of his tastes to live. He knew all the cows by name. It was necessary only to tell him to bring up the cows--“all but Bess and Jane,” and he would do it. Starting the herd ahead, he would get in front of those two young heifers, and, separating them from the rest, chase them back to the woods pasture again.

The trip into town to deliver the milk--how much fun he got out of that! It was no hardship to be aroused from his comfortable, warm bed in the straw, and to have the driver say, “Come on, old boy, we are ready to start.”