I.

We who live in Cunopolis are a dog-loving family. We have a warm side

towards everything that goes upon four paws, and the consequence has been

that, taking things first and last, we have been always kept in confusion

and under the paw, so to speak, of some honest four-footed tyrant, who

would go beyond his privilege and overrun the whole house. Years ago

this begun, when our household consisted of a papa, a mamma, and three

or four noisy boys and girls, and a kind Miss Anna who acted as a second

mamma to the whole. There was also one more of our number, the youngest,

dear little bright-eyed Charley, who was king over us all, and rode in a

wicker wagon for a chariot, and had a nice little nurse devoted to him;

and it was through him that our first dog came.

One day Charley’s nurse took him quite a way to a neighbor’s house to

spend the afternoon; and, he being well amused, they stayed till after

nightfall. The kind old lady of the mansion was concerned that the little

prince in his little coach, with his little maid, had to travel so far

in the twilight shadows, and so she called a big dog named Carlo, and

gave the establishment into his charge.

Carlo was a great, tawny-yellow mastiff, as big as a calf, with great,

clear, honest eyes, and stiff, wiry hair; and the good lady called him to

the side of the little wagon, and said, “Now, Carlo, you must take good

care of Charley, and you mustn’t let anything hurt him.”

Carlo wagged his tail in promise of protection, and away he trotted, home

with the wicker wagon; and when he arrived, he was received with so much

applause by four little folks, who dearly loved the very sight of a dog,

he was so stroked and petted and caressed, that he concluded that he

liked the place better than the home he came from, where were only very

grave elderly people. He tarried all night, and slept at the foot of the

boys’ bed, who could hardly go to sleep for the things they found to say

to him, and who were awake ever so early in the morning, stroking his

rough, tawny back, and hugging him.

At his own home Carlo had a kennel all to himself, where he was expected

to live quite alone, and do duty by watching and guarding the place.

Nobody petted him, or stroked his rough hide, or said, “Poor dog!” to

him, and so it appears he had a feeling that he was not appreciated,

and liked our warm-hearted little folks, who told him stories, gave him

half of their own supper, and took him to bed with them sociably. Carlo

was a dog that had a mind of his own, though he couldn’t say much about

it, and in his dog fashion proclaimed his likes and dislikes quite as

strongly as if he could speak. When the time came for taking him home,

he growled and showed his teeth dangerously at the man who was sent for

him, and it was necessary to drag him back by force, and tie him into

his kennel. However, he soon settled that matter by gnawing the rope

in two and padding down again and appearing among his little friends,

quite to their delight. Two or three times was he taken back and tied

or chained; but he howled so dismally, and snapped at people in such a

misanthropic manner, that finally the kind old lady thought it better to

have no dog at all than a dog soured by blighted affection. So she loosed

his rope, and said, “There, Carlo, go and stay where you like”; and so

Carlo came to us, and a joy and delight was he to all in the house. He

loved one and all; but he declared himself as more than all the slave

and property of our little Prince Charley. He would lie on the floor as

still as a door-mat, and let him pull his hair, and roll over him, and

examine his eyes with his little fat fingers; and Carlo submitted to all

these personal freedoms with as good an understanding as papa himself.

When Charley slept, Carlo stretched himself along under the crib; rising

now and then, and standing with his broad breast on a level with the

slats of the crib, he would look down upon him with an air of grave

protection. He also took a great fancy to papa, and would sometimes pat

with tiptoe care into his study, and sit quietly down by him when he was

busy over his Greek or Latin books, waiting for a word or two of praise

or encouragement. If none came, he would lay his rough horny paw on his

knee, and look in his face with such an honest, imploring expression,

that the professor was forced to break off to say, “Why, Carlo, you

poor, good, honest fellow,—did he want to be talked to?—so he did. Well,

he shall be talked to;—he’s a nice, good dog”;—and during all these

praises Carlo’s transports and the thumps of his rough tail are not to be

described.

[Illustration]

He had great, honest yellowish-brown eyes,—not remarkable for their

beauty, but which used to look as if he longed to speak, and he seemed

to have a yearning for praise and love and caresses that even all our

attentions could scarcely satisfy. His master would say to him sometimes,

“Carlo, you poor, good, homely dog,—how loving you are!”

Carlo was a full-blooded mastiff, and his beauty, if he had any,

consisted in his having all the good points of his race. He was a dog of

blood, come of real old mastiff lineage; his stiff, wiry hair, his big,

rough paws, and great brawny chest, were all made for strength rather

than beauty; but for all that he was a dog of tender sentiments. Yet, if

any one intruded on his rights and dignities, Carlo showed that he had

hot blood in him; his lips would go back, and show a glistening row of

ivories, that one would not like to encounter, and if any trenched on

his privileges, he would give a deep warning growl,—as much as to say,

“I am your slave for love, but you must treat me well, or I shall be

dangerous.” A blow he would not bear from any one: the fire would flash

from his great yellow eyes, and he would snap like a rifle;—yet he would

let his own Prince Charley pound on his ribs with both baby fists, and

pull his tail till he yelped, without even a show of resistance.

At last came a time when the merry voice of little Charley was heard no

more, and his little feet no more pattered through the halls; he lay pale

and silent in his little crib, with his dear life ebbing away, and no one

knew how to stop its going. Poor old Carlo lay under the crib when they

would let him, sometimes rising up to look in with an earnest, sorrowful

face; and sometimes he would stretch himself out in the entry before the

door of little Charley’s room, watching with his great open eyes lest the

thief should come in the night to steal away our treasure.

But one morning when the children woke, one little soul had gone in the

night,—gone upward to the angels; and then the cold, pale little form

that used to be the life of the house was laid away tenderly in the yard

of a neighboring church.

Poor old Carlo would pit-pat silently about the house in those days of

grief, looking first into one face and then another, but no one could

tell him where his gay little master had gone. The other children had hid

the baby-wagon away in the lumber-room lest their mamma should see it;

and so passed a week or two, and Carlo saw no trace of Charley about the

house. But then a lady in the neighborhood, who had a sick baby, sent to

borrow the wicker wagon, and it was taken from its hiding-place to go to

her. Carlo came to the door just as it was being drawn out of the gate

into the street. Immediately he sprung, cleared the fence with a great

bound, and ran after it. He overtook it, and poked his nose between the

curtains,—there was no one there. Immediately he turned away, and padded

dejectedly home. What words could have spoken plainer of love and memory

than this one action?

Carlo lived with us a year after this, when a time came for the whole

family hive to be taken up and moved away from the flowery banks of the

Ohio, to the piny shores of Maine. All our household goods were being

uprooted, disordered, packed, and sold; and the question daily arose,

“What shall we do with Carlo?” There was hard begging on the part of the

boys that he might go with them, and one even volunteered to travel all

the way in baggage cars to keep Carlo company. But papa said no, and so

it was decided to send Carlo up the river to the home of a very genial

lady who had visited in our family, and who appreciated his parts, and

offered him a home in hers.

The matter was anxiously talked over one day in the family circle while

Carlo lay under the table, and it was agreed that papa and Willie should

take him to the steamboat landing the next morning. But the next morning

Mr. Carlo was nowhere to be found. In vain was he called, from garret

to cellar; nor was it till papa and Willie had gone to the city that he

came out of his hiding-place. For two or three days it was impossible to

catch him, but after a while his suspicions were laid, and we learned not

to speak out our plans in his presence, and so the transfer at last was

prosperously effected.

We heard from him once in his new home, as being a highly appreciated

member of society, and adorning his new situation with all sorts of dog

virtues, while we wended our ways to the coast of Maine. But our hearts

were sore for want of him; the family circle seemed incomplete, until a

new favorite appeared to take his place, of which I shall tell you next

month.