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STORIES ABOUT ANIMALS.
WITH
PICTURES TO MATCH
by
FRANCIS C. WOODWORTH,
Editor of "The Youth's Cabinet," Author of "Stories
About Birds," &C.
Boston.
Phillips, Sampson and Company.
1851.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in
the year 1849,
By D. A. Woodworth,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for
the Southern District of New York.
Preface.
In the following pages are grouped together anecdotes illustrative of
the peculiarities of different animals--mostly quadrupeds--their habits,
dispositions, intelligence, and affection. Nothing like a scientific
treatise of any of these animals has been attempted. I do not even give
a generic or specific history of one of them, except so far as they are
all casually and incidentally described in these anecdotes. Their
natural history, in detail, I leave for others, as the historian or
biographer of men, bent only on a record of the thoughts, words, and
acts of men, passes by the abstract details, however interesting they
may be, of human physiology, and the general characteristics of the
species. I have not aimed to introduce to the reader, in this volume,
all the animals belonging to the race of quadrupeds, who have a claim to
such a distinction. I have preferred rather to make a selection from the
great multitude, and to present such facts and anecdotes respecting
those selected as shall, while they interest and entertain the young
reader, tend to make him familiar with this branch of useful knowledge.
I ought, in justice to myself, to explain the reason why I have
restricted my anecdotes almost exclusively to animals belonging to the
race of quadrupeds. It is seldom wise, in my judgment, for an author to
define, very minutely, any plan he may have, to be developed in future
years--as so many circumstances may thwart that plan altogether, or very
materially modify it. Yet I may say, in this connection, that the
general plan I had marked out for myself, when I set about the task of
collecting materials for these familiar anecdotes, is by no means
exhausted in this volume, and that, should my stories respecting
quadrupeds prove as acceptable to my young friends as I hope, it is my
intention eventually to pursue the same, or a similar course, in
relation to the other great divisions of the animal kingdom--Birds,
Reptiles, Insects, Fishes, etc.
The stories I tell I have picked up wherever I could find them--having
been generally content when I have judged a particular story to be, in
the first place, a good story, and in the second place, a reliable one.
I have not thought it either necessary or desirable, to give, in every
case, the source from which I have derived my facts. Some of them I
obtained by actual observation; quite as many were communicated by
personal friends and casual acquaintances; and by far the greater
portion were gleaned from the current newspapers of the day, and from
the many valuable works on natural history, published in England and in
this country. Among the books I have consulted, I am mostly indebted to
the following: Bingley's Anecdotes illustrative of the Instincts of
Animals; Knight's Library of Entertaining Knowledge; Bell's Phenomena of
Nature; the Young Naturalist's Rambles; Natural History of the Earth and
Man; Chambers' Miscellany of Useful and Entertaining Knowledge; Animal
Biography; and the Penny Magazine.
The task of preparing this volume for the press has been an exceedingly
pleasant one. Indeed, it has been rather recreation than toil, in
comparison with other and severer literary labors. I trust my young
friends will take as much pleasure in reading these stories as I have
taken in collecting them. I hope too, that no one of my readers will
fail to discover, as he proceeds, the evidences of the wisdom, power,
and goodness of the Being who formed and who controls and governs the
animal kingdom. Here, as in every department of nature's works, these
evidences abound, if we will but perceive them. Look at them, dear
reader, and in your admiration of nature, forget not the love and
reverence you owe to nature's God.
[Illustration: (signed) Francis C. Woodworth]
Contents.
The Dog
The Wolf
The Horse
The Panther
The Elephant
The Lion
The Galago
The Bear
The Rat
The Mouse
The Rabbit
The Hare
The Cat
The Jackal
The Sheep
The Deer
The Hippopotamus
The Weasel
The Squirrel
The Giraffe
The Monkey Tribe
The Zebra
The Ox and Cow
The Lama
[Illustration: "Engravings." Heading.]
Rover and his Play-fellow
The Dog at his Master's Grave
Nero, saving Little Ellen
The Servant and the Mastiff
The Child discovered by the Indian's Dog
The Dog of St. Bernard, rescuing the Child
The Bloodhound
Exploit of the New England Dog
A Shepherd Dog feeding a lost Child
A Newfoundland, saving a Child from drowning
The Adventure with the Serpent
The Russian Dog-Sledge
The Skirmish with Wolves
A Scene in the old Wolf Story
The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing
The Horse watching over the Trumpeter
Parting with the Favorite Horse
Alexander taming Bucephalus
Uncle Peter and his queer Old Mare
The Horse sentenced to die
The Leopard and the Serpent
The Elephant
The Lion
The Lioness and her Cubs
The Convention of Animals
The Galago
Portrait of Goldsmith
The Juggler and his Pupils
Field Mice
The Rabbit Trap
The Rabbit
Tame Hares
Portrait of Cowper
Wonderful Feat of a Goat
The Tiger
The Rhinoceros
The Alligator
The Cat
The Jackal
The Wounded Traveler
Giotto, sketching among his Sheep
The Invalid and the Sheep
The Deer
The Hippopotamus
The Ferret Weasel
A Hawk pouncing on a Weasel
The Squirrel
The Giraffe
The Orang-outang
The Zebra
Cows, taking their comfort
Stories about Animals.
The Dog.
Whatever may be thought of the somewhat aristocratic pretensions of the
lion, as the dog, after all, has the reputation of being the most
intelligent of the inferior animals, I will allow this interesting
family the precedence in these stories, and introduce them first to the
reader. For the same reason, too--because they exhibit such wonderful
marks of intelligence, approaching, sometimes, almost to the boundary of
human reason--I shall occupy much more time in relating stories about
them than about any other animal. Let me see. Where shall I begin? With
Rover, my old friend Rover--my companion and play-fellow, when a little
boy? I have a good mind to do so; for he endeared himself to me by
thousands of acts of kindness and affection, and he has still a place
of honor in my memory. He frequently went to school with me. As soon as
he saw me get my satchel of books, he was at my side, and off he ran
before me toward the school-house. When he had conducted me to school,
he usually took leave of me, and returned home. But he came back again,
before school was out, so as to be my companion homeward. I might tell a
great many stories about the smartness of Rover; but on the whole I
think I will forbear. I am afraid if I should talk half an hour about
him, some of you would accuse me of too much partiality for my
favorite, and would think I had fallen into the same foolish mistake
that is sometimes noticed in over-fond fathers and mothers, who talk
about a little boy or girl of theirs, as if there never was another such
a prodigy. So I will just pass over Rover's wonderful exploits--for he
had some, let me whisper it in your ear--and tell my stories about other
people's dogs.
[Illustration: ROVER AND HIS PLAY-FELLOW.]
"Going to the dogs," is a favorite expression with a great many people.
They understand by it a condition in the last degree deplorable. To "go
to the dogs," is spoken of as being just about the worst thing that can
happen to a poor fellow. I think differently, however. I wish from my
heart, that some selfish persons whom I could name would go to the dogs.
They would learn there, I am sure, what they have never learned
before--most valuable lessons in gratitude, and affection, and
self-sacrifice--to say nothing about common sense, a little more of
which would not hurt them.
There is an exceedingly affecting story of a dog that lived in Scotland
as long ago as 1716: This dog belonged to a Mr. Stewart, of Argyleshire,
and was a great favorite with his master. He was a Highland greyhound, I
believe. One afternoon, while his master was hunting in company with
this dog, he was attacked with inflammation in his side. He returned
home, and died the same evening. Some three days afterward his funeral
took place, when the dog followed the remains of his master to the
grave-yard, which was nearly ten miles from the residence of the family.
He remained until the interment was completed, when he returned home
with those who attended the funeral. When he entered the house he found
the plaid cloak, formerly his master's, hanging in the entry. He pulled
it down, and in defiance of all attempts to take it from him, lay on it
all night, and would not even allow any person to touch it. Every
evening afterward, about sunset, he left home, traveled to the
grave-yard, reposed on the grave of his late master all night, and
returned home regularly in the morning. But, what was still more
remarkable, he could not be persuaded to eat a morsel. Children near the
grave-yard, who watched his motions, again and again carried him food;
but he resolutely refused it, and it was never known by what means he
existed. While at home he was always dull and sorrowful; he usually lay
in a sleeping posture, and frequently uttered long and mournful groans.
[Illustration: THE DOG AT HIS MASTER'S GRAVE.]
In the western part of our own country, some years since, an exploit was
performed by a Newfoundland dog, which I must tell my readers. It is
related by Mrs. Phelan. A man by the name of Wilson, residing near a
river which was navigable, although the current was somewhat rapid, kept
a pleasure boat. One day he invited a small party to accompany him in an
excursion on the river. They set out. Among the number were Mr. Wilson's
wife and little girl, about three years of age. The child was delighted
with the boat, and with the water lilies that floated on the surface of
the river. Meanwhile, a fine Newfoundland dog trotted along the bank of
the stream, looking occasionally at the boat, and thinking, perhaps,
that he should like a sail himself.
Pleasantly onward went the boat, and the party were in the highest
spirits, when little Ellen, trying to get a pretty lily, stretched out
her hand over the side of the boat, and in a moment she lost her balance
and fell into the river. What language can describe the agony of those
parents when they saw the current close over their dear child! The
mother, in her terror, could hardly be prevented from throwing herself
into the river to rescue her drowning girl, and her husband had to hold
her back by force. Vain was the help of man at that dreadful moment; but
prayer was offered up to God, and he heard it.
No one took any notice of Nero, the faithful dog. But he had kept his
eye upon the boat, it seems. He saw all that was going on; he plunged
into the river at the critical moment when the child had sunk to the
bottom, and dived beneath the surface. Suddenly a strange noise was
heard on the side of the boat opposite to the one toward which the party
were anxiously looking, and something seemed to be splashing in the
water. It was the dog. Nero had dived to the bottom of that deep river,
and found the very spot where the poor child had settled down into her
cold, strange cradle of weeds and slime. Seizing her clothes, and
holding them fast in his teeth, he brought her up to the surface of the
water, a very little distance from the boat, and with looks that told
his joy, he gave the little girl into the hands of her astonished
father. Then, swimming back to the shore, he shook the water from his
long, shaggy coat, and laid himself down, panting, to recover from the
fatigue of his adventure.
[Illustration: NERO SAVING LITTLE ELLEN.]
Ellen seemed for awhile to be dead; her face was deadly pale; it hung
on her shoulder; her dress showed that she had sunk to the bottom. But
by and by she recovered gradually, and in less than a week she was as
well as ever.
But the Glasgow Chronicle tells a story of the most supremely humane dog
I ever heard of--so humane, in fact, that his humanity was somewhat
troublesome. This dog--a fine Newfoundland--resided near Edinburgh.
Every day he was seen visiting all the ponds and brooks in the
neighborhood of his master's residence. He had been instrumental more
than once in saving persons from drowning. He was respected for his
magnanimity, and caressed for his amiable qualities, till, strange as it
may be considered, this flattery completely turned his head. Saving life
became a passion. He took to it as men take to dram-drinking. Not having
sufficient scope for the exercise of his diseased benevolence in the
district, he took to a very questionable method of supplying the
deficiency. Whenever he found a child on the brink of a pond, he watched
patiently for the opportunity to place his fore-paws suddenly on its
person, and plunged it in before it was aware. Now all this was done for
the mere purpose of fetching them out again. He appeared to find intense
pleasure in this nonsensical sort of work. At last the outcry became so
great by parents alarmed for their children, although no life was ever
lost by the indulgence of such a singular taste, that the poor dog was
reluctantly destroyed.
Mr. Bingley, an English writer, has contributed not a little to the
amusement and instruction of the young, by a book which he published a
few years ago, relating to the instinct of the dog. Among the stories
told in this book, are several which I must transfer for my own readers.
Here is one about the fatal adventure of a large mastiff with a robber.
I shall give it nearly in the words of Mr. Bingley.
Not a great many years ago, a lady, who resided in a lonely house in
Cheshire, England, permitted all her domestics, save one female, to go
to a supper at an inn about three miles distant, which was kept by the
uncle of the girl who remained at home with her mistress. As the
servants were not expected to return till the morning, all the doors and
windows were as usual secured, and the lady and her companion were about
to retire to bed, when they were alarmed by the noise of some persons
apparently attempting to break into the house. A large mastiff, which
fortunately happened to be in the kitchen, set up a tremendous barking;
but this had not the effect of intimidating the robbers.
After listening attentively for some time, the maid-servant discovered
that the robbers were attempting to enter the house by forcing their way
through a hole under the sunk story in the back kitchen. Being a young
woman of courage, she went toward the spot, accompanied by the dog, and
patting him on the back, exclaimed, "At him, Cæsar!" The dog leaped into
the hole, made a furious attack upon the intruder, and gave something a
violent shake. In a few minutes all became quiet, and the animal
returned with his mouth full of blood. A slight bustle was now heard
outside the house, but in a short time all again became still. The lady
and servant, too much terrified to think of going to bed, sat up until
morning without further molestation. When day dawned they discovered a
quantity of blood outside of the wall in the court-yard.
When her fellow-servants came home, they brought word to the girl that
her uncle, the inn-keeper, had died suddenly of apoplexy during the
night, and that it was intended that the funeral should take place in
the course of the day. Having obtained leave to go to the funeral, she
was surprised to learn, on her arrival, that the coffin was screwed
down. She insisted, however, on taking a last look at the body, which
was most unwillingly granted; when, to her great surprise and horror,
she discovered that his death had been occasioned by a large wound in
the throat. The events of the preceding night rushed on her mind, and it
soon became evident to her that she had been the innocent and unwilling
cause of her uncle's death. It turned out, that he and one of his
servants had formed the design of robbing the house and murdering the
lady during the absence of her servants, but that their wicked design
had been frustrated by the courage and watchfulness of her faithful
mastiff.
[Illustration: THE SERVANT AND THE MASTIFF.]
There is another anecdote told of a wild Indian dog which I am sure my
young friends will like. It is from the same source with the one about
the mastiff. A man by the name of Le Fevre, many years ago, lived on a
farm in the United States, near the Blue mountains. Those mountains at
that time abounded in deer and other animals. One day, the youngest of
Le Fevre's children, who was four years old, disappeared early in the
morning. The family, after a partial search, becoming alarmed, had
recourse to the assistance of some neighbors. These separated into
parties, and explored the woods in every direction, but without success.
Next day the search was renewed, but with no better result. In the
midst of their distress Tewenissa, a native Indian from Anaguaga, on the
eastern branch of the river Susquehannah, who happened to be journeying
in that quarter, accompanied by his dog Oniah, happily went into the
house of the planter with the design of reposing himself. Observing the
distress of the family, and being informed of the circumstances, he
requested that the shoes and stockings last worn by the child should be
brought to him. He then ordered his dog to smell them; and taking the
house for a centre, described a semicircle of a quarter of a mile,
urging the dog to find out the scent. They had not gone far before the
sagacious animal began to bark. The track was followed up by the dog
with still louder barking, till at last, darting off at full speed, he
was lost in the thickness of the woods. Half an hour after they saw him
returning. His countenance was animated, bearing even an expression of
joy; it was evident he had found the child--but was he dead or alive?
This was a moment of cruel suspense, but it was of short continuance.
The Indian followed his dog, and the excellent animal conducted him to
the lost child, who was found unharmed, lying at the foot of a great
tree. Tewenissa took him in his arms, and returned with him to the
distressed parents and their friends, who had not been able to
advance with the same speed. He restored little Derick to his father and
mother, who ran to meet him; when a scene of tenderness and gratitude
ensued, which may be easier felt than described. The child was in a
state of extreme weakness, but, by means of a little care, he was in a
short time restored to his usual vigor.
[Illustration: THE CHILD DISCOVERED BY THE INDIAN'S DOG.]
In one of the churches at Lambeth, England, there is a painting on a
window, representing a man with his dog. There is a story connected with
this painting which is worth telling. Tradition informs us that a piece
of ground near Westminster bridge, containing a little over an acre, was
left to that parish by a pedler, upon condition that his picture,
accompanied by his dog, should be faithfully painted on the glass of one
of the windows. The parishioners, as the story goes, had this picture
executed accordingly, and came in possession of the land. This was in
the year 1504. The property rented at that time for about a dollar a
year. It now commands a rent of nearly fifteen hundred dollars. The
reason given for the pedler's request is, that he was once very poor,
when, one day, having occasion to pass across this piece of ground, and
being weary, he sat down under a tree to rest. While seated here, he
noticed that his dog, who was with him, acted strangely. At a distance
of several rods from the place where he sat, the dog busied himself for
awhile in scratching at a particular spot of earth, after which he
returned to his master, looked earnestly up to his face, and endeavored
to draw him toward the spot where he had been digging. The pedler,
however, paid but little attention to the movements of the dog, until he
had repeated them several times, when he was induced to accompany the
dog. To his surprise he found, on doing so, that there was a pot of gold
buried there. With a part of this gold he purchased the lot of ground on
which it had been discovered, and bequeathed it to the parish on the
conditions mentioned above. The pedler and his dog are represented in
the picture which ornaments the window of that church. "But is the story
a true one?" methinks I hear my little friends inquire. I confess it has
the air of one of Baron Munchausen's yarns, and I am somewhat doubtful
about it. But that is the tradition in the Lambeth parish, where the
picture may still be seen by any body who takes the trouble to visit the
place. The story may be true. Stranger things have happened.
Those who have studied geography do not need to be informed that there
is a chain of high mountains running through Switzerland, called the
Alps. The tops of some of these mountains are covered with snow nearly
all the year. In the winter it is very difficult and dangerous traveling
over the Alps; for the snow frequently rolls down the sides of the
mountain, in a great mass, called an _avalanche_, and buries the
traveler beneath it. On one of these mountains there is the convent of
St. Bernard. It is situated ten thousand feet above the base of the
mountain, and is on one of the most dangerous passes between Switzerland
and Savoy. It is said to be the highest inhabited spot in the old world.
It is tenanted by a race of monks, who are very kind to travelers. Among
other good services they render to the strangers who pass near their
convent, they search for unhappy persons who have been overtaken by
sudden storms, and who are liable to perish.
These monks have a peculiar variety of the dog, called the dog of St.
Bernard, or the Alpine Spaniel, which they train to hunt for travelers
who are overtaken by a storm, and who are in danger of perishing. The
dog of St. Bernard is one of the most sagacious of his species. He is
covered with thick, curly hair, which is frequently of great service in
warming the traveler, when he is almost dead with cold.
One of these dogs, named Barry, had, it was reckoned, in twelve years
saved the lives of forty individuals. Whenever the mountain was
enveloped in fogs and snow, away scoured Barry, barking and searching
all about for any person who might have fallen a victim to the storm.
When he was successful in finding any one, if his own strength was
insufficient to rescue him, he would run back to the convent in search
of assistance.
I think I must translate for my young readers an affecting story about
this dog Barry, which I read the other day in a little French book,
entitled "Modèles des Enfans." It seems that a great while ago there was
a poor woman wandering about these mountains, in the vicinity of the
convent of St. Bernard, in company with her son, a very small boy. The
story does not inform us what they were doing, and why they were walking
in such a dangerous place. Perhaps they were gathering fuel to keep them
warm; and very likely when they left home the weather was mild, and that
they did not anticipate a storm. However that may be, they were
overtaken by an avalanche, the mother was buried beneath it, and the
child saw her no more. But I must tell the remainder of the story in the
language of the French writer.
[Illustration: THE DOG OF ST. BERNARD, RESCUING THE CHILD.]
"Poor boy! the storm increased; the wind howled, and whirled the snow
into huge heaps. In the hope that he might possibly meet a traveler, the
child forced his way for awhile through the snow; but at last,
exhausted, benumbed with the cold, and discouraged, he fell upon his
knees, joined his hands devoutly together, and cried, as he raised his
face, bathed in tears, toward heaven, 'O my God! have mercy on a poor
child, who has nobody in the world to care for him!' As he lay in the
place where he fell down, which was sheltered a little by a rock, he
grew colder and colder, and he thought he must die. But still, from time
to time, he prayed, 'Have mercy, O my God! on a poor child, who has
nobody in the world to care for him!' At last he fell asleep, but was
wakened by feeling a warm paw on his face. As he opened his eyes he saw
with terror an enormous dog holding his head near his own. He uttered a
cry of fear, and started back a little way from the dog. The dog
approached the boy again, and tried, after his own fashion, to make the
little fellow understand that he came there to do him good, and not to
hurt him. Then he licked the face and hands of the child. By and by the
child confided in his visitor, and began to entertain a hope that he
might yet be saved. When Barry saw that his errand was understood, he
lifted his head, and showed the child a bottle covered with willow,
which was hanging around his neck. This bottle contained wine, some of
which the little fellow drank, and felt refreshed. Then the dog lay down
by the side of the child, and gave him the benefit of the heat of his
own body for a long time. After this, the dog made a sign for the boy to
get upon his back. It was some time before the boy could understand what
the sign meant. But it was repeated again and again, and at last the
child mounted the back of the kind animal, who carried him safely to the
convent."
Here is a capital story about a bloodhound, taken from the excellent
book by Mr. Bingley, to which I have before alluded. Aubri de Mondidier,
a gentleman of family and fortune, traveling alone through the Forest of
Bondy, in France, was murdered, and buried under a tree. His dog, a
bloodhound, would not quit his master's grave for several days; till at
length, compelled by hunger, he proceeded to the house of an intimate
friend of the unfortunate Aubri at Paris, and, by his melancholy
howling, seemed desirous of expressing the loss they had both sustained.
He repeated his cries, ran to the door, looked back to see if any one
followed him, returned to his master's friend, pulled him by the
sleeve, and with dumb eloquence, entreated him to go with him. The
singularity of all these actions of the dog, added to the circumstance
of his coming there without his master, whose faithful companion he had
always been, prompted the company to follow the animal. He conducted
them to the foot of a tree, where he renewed his howling, scratching the
earth with his feet, and significantly entreating them to search the
particular spot. Accordingly, on digging, the body of the unhappy Aubri
was found.
[Illustration: THE BLOODHOUND]
Some time after, the dog accidentally met the assassin, who is styled,
by all the historians who relate the story, the Chevalier Macaire, when,
instantly seizing him by the throat, he was with great difficulty
compelled to quit his victim. In short, whenever the dog saw the
chevalier, he continued to pursue and attack him with equal fury. Such
obstinate violence, confined only to Macaire, appeared very
extraordinary, especially to those who at once recalled the dog's
remarkable attachment to his master, and several instances in which
Macaire's envy and hatred to Aubri de Mondidier had been conspicuous.
Additional circumstances increased suspicion, and at length the affair
reached the royal ear. The king accordingly sent for the dog, which
appeared extremely gentle, till he perceived Macaire in the midst of
several noblemen, when he ran fiercely toward him, growling at and
attacking him, as usual. Struck with such a combination of
circumstantial evidence against Macaire, the king determined to refer
the decision to the chance of battle; or, in other words, he gave orders
for a combat between the chevalier and the dog. The lists were appointed
in the Isle of Notre Dame, then an unenclosed, uninhabited place.
Macaire was allowed for his weapon a great cudgel, and an empty cask was
given to the dog as a place of retreat, to enable him to recover breath.
Every thing being prepared, the dog no sooner found himself at liberty,
than he made for his adversary, running round him and menacing him on
every side, avoiding his blows till his strength was exhausted; then
springing forward, he seized him by the throat, threw him on the ground,
and obliged him to confess his guilt in presence of the king and the
whole court. In consequence of this confession, the chevalier, after a
few days, was convicted upon his own acknowledgment, and beheaded on a
scaffold in the Isle of Notre Dame.
The editor of the Portland (Maine) Advertiser relates the following
anecdote: "A gentleman from the country recently drove up to a store in
this city, and jumping from his sleigh, left his dog in the care of the
vehicle. Presently an avalanche of snow slid from the top of the
building upon the sidewalk, which so frightened the horse that he
started off down the street at a furious run. At this critical juncture,
the dog sprang from the sleigh, and seizing the reins in his mouth, held
back with all his strength, and actually reined in the frightened animal
to a post at the side of the street, when apparently having satisfied
himself that no danger was to be apprehended, he again resumed his
station in the sleigh, as unconcerned as if he had only done an ordinary
act of duty."
A few years ago a little girl, residing in an inland village in
Connecticut--without the consent of her mother, be it remembered--went
alone to a pond near by, to play with her brother's little vessel, and
fell into the water. She came very near drowning; but a dog belonging to
the family, named Rollo, who was not far off, plunged in and drew her to
the shore. She was so exhausted, however, that she could not rise, and
the dog could not lift her entirely out of the water. But he raised her
head a little above the surface, and then ran after help. He found a
man, and made use of every expedient in his power to draw him to the
spot where he had left the child. At first the stranger paid very little
attention to the dog; but by and by he was persuaded something was
wrong, and followed the dog to the pond. The little girl was not
drowned, though she was quite insensible; and the man lifted her from
the water, and saved her life, to the great joy of Rollo, who seemed
eager to assist in this enterprise.
Here is a capital story about a shepherd's dog in Scotland. I take the
liberty of borrowing it from Bingley's admirable book. The valleys, or
glens, as they are called by the natives, which intersect the Grampians,
a ridge of rocky and precipitous mountains in the northern part of
Scotland, are chiefly inhabited by shepherds. As the pastures over which
each flock is permitted to range, extend many miles in every direction,
the shepherd never has a view of his whole flock at once, except when it
is collected for the purpose of sale or shearing. His occupation is to
make daily visits to the different extremities of his pastures in
succession, and to turn back, by means of his dog, any stragglers that
may be approaching the boundaries of his neighbors.
[Illustration: EXPLOIT OF THE NEW ENGLAND DOG.]
In one of these excursions, a shepherd happened to carry with him one of
his children, an infant some two or three years old. After traversing
his pastures for some time, attended by his dog, the shepherd found
himself under the necessity of ascending a summit at some distance to
have a more extended view of his range. As the ascent was too fatiguing
for his child, he left him on a small plain at the bottom, with strict
injunctions not to stir from it till his return. Scarcely, however, had
he gained the summit, when the horizon was suddenly darkened by one of
those thick and heavy fogs which frequently descend so rapidly amid
these mountains, as, in the space of a few minutes, almost to turn day
into night. The anxious father instantly hastened back to find his
child; but, owing to the unusual darkness, and his own trepidation, he
unfortunately missed his way in the descent. After a fruitless search of
many hours among the dangerous morasses and cataracts with which these
mountains abound, he was at length overtaken by night. Still wandering
on, without knowing whither, he at length came to the verge of the mist,
and, by the light of the moon, discovered that he had reached the bottom
of the valley, and was now within a short distance of his cottage. To
renew the search that night was equally fruitless and dangerous. He was
therefore obliged to return home, having lost both his child and his
dog, which had attended him faithfully for years.
Next morning by day-break, the shepherd, accompanied by a band of his
neighbors, set out again to seek his child; but, after a day spent in
fruitless fatigue, he was at last compelled by the approach of night to
descend from the mountain. On returning to his cottage, he found that
the dog which he had lost the day before, had been home, and, on
receiving a piece of cake, had instantly gone off again. For several
successive days the shepherd renewed the search for his child, and
still, on returning in the evening disappointed to his cottage, he found
that the dog had been there, and, on receiving his usual allowance of
cake, had instantly disappeared. Struck with this singular circumstance,
he remained at home one day, and when the dog, as usual, departed with
his piece of cake, he resolved to follow him, and find out the cause of
this strange procedure. The dog led the way to a cataract at some
distance from the spot where the shepherd had left his child. The banks
of the waterfall, almost joined at the top, yet separated by an abyss of
immense depth, presented that abrupt appearance which so often
astonishes and appalls the traveler amid the Grampian mountains, and
indicates that these stupendous chasms were not the silent work of
time, but the sudden effect of some violent convulsion of the earth.
Down one of these rugged and almost perpendicular descents the dog
began, without hesitation, to make his way, and at last disappeared in a
cave, the mouth of which was almost on a level with the torrent. The
shepherd with difficulty followed; but, on entering the cave, what were
his emotions, when he beheld his infant eating with much satisfaction
the cake which the dog had just brought him, while the faithful animal
stood by, eyeing his young charge with the utmost complacency! From the
situation in which the child was found, it appeared that he had wandered
to the brink of the precipice, and either fallen or scrambled down till
he reached the cave, which the dread of the torrent had afterward
prevented him from quitting. The dog, by means of his scent, had traced
him to the spot, and afterward prevented him from starving, by giving up
to him his own daily allowance. He appears never to have quitted the
child by night or day, except when it was necessary to go for his food,
and then he was always seen running at full speed to and from the
cottage.
[Illustration: A SHEPHERD'S DOG FEEDING A LOST CHILD]
The following story is related on the authority of a correspondent of
the Boston Traveler: A gentleman from abroad, stopping at a hotel in
Boston, privately secreted his handkerchief behind the cushion of a
sofa, and left the hotel, in company with his dog. After walking for
some minutes, he suddenly stopped, and said to his dog, "I have left my
handkerchief at the hotel, and want it"--giving no particular directions
in reference to it. The dog immediately returned in full speed, and
entered the room which his master had just left. He went directly to the
sofa, but the handkerchief was gone. He jumped upon tables and counters,
but it was not to be seen. It proved that a friend had discovered it,
and supposing that it had been left by mistake, had retained it for the
owner. But Tiger was not to be foiled. He flew about the room,
apparently much excited, in quest of the "lost or stolen." Soon,
however, he was upon the track; he scented it to the gentleman's coat
pocket. What was to be done? The dog had no means of asking verbally for
it, and was not accustomed to picking pockets; and, besides, the
gentleman was ignorant of his business with him. But Tiger's sagacity
did not suffer him to remain long in suspense; he seized the skirt
containing the prize, and furiously tore it from the coat, and hastily
made off with it, much to the surprise of its owner. Tiger overtook his
master, and restored the lost property, receiving his approbation,
notwithstanding he did it at the expense of the gentleman's coat. At a
subsequent interview, the gentleman refused any remuneration for his
torn garment, declaring that the joke was worth the price of his coat.
One day, as a little girl was amusing herself with a child, near
Carlisle Bridge, Dublin, and was sportively toying with the child, he
made a sudden spring from her arms, and in an instant fell into the
river. The screaming nurse and anxious spectators saw the water close
over the child, and conceived that he had sunk to rise no more. A
Newfoundland dog, which had been accidentally passing with his master,
sprang forward to the wall, and gazed wistfully at the ripple in the
water, made by the child's descent. At the same instant the dog sprang
forward to the edge of the water. While the animal was descending, the
child again sunk, and the faithful creature was seen anxiously swimming
round and round the spot where he had disappeared. Once more the child
rose to the surface; the dog seized him, and with a firm but gentle
pressure, bore him to land without injury. Meanwhile a gentleman
arrived, who, on inquiry into the circumstances of the transaction,
exhibited strong marks of interest and feeling toward the child, and of
admiration for the dog that had rescued him from death. The person who
had removed the child from the dog turned to show him to the gentleman,
when there were presented to his view the well-known features of his own
son! A mixed sensation of terror, joy, and surprise, struck him mute.
When he had recovered the use of his faculties, and fondly kissed his
little darling, he lavished a thousand embraces on the dog, and offered
to his master five hundred guineas if he would transfer the valuable
animal to him; but the owner of the dog felt too much affection for the
useful creature, to part with him for any consideration whatever.
A boatman on the river Thames, in England, once laid a wager that he and
his dog would leap from the centre arch of Westminster Bridge, and land
at Lambeth within a minute of each other. He jumped off first, and the
dog immediately followed; but as he was not in the secret, and fearing
that his master would be drowned, he seized him by the neck, and dragged
him on shore, to the great diversion of the spectators.
[Illustration: NEWFOUNDLAND DOG, SAVING A CHILD FROM DROWNING]
Some years ago, a gentleman of Queen's College, Oxford, went to pass the
Christmas vacation at his father's in the country. An uncle, a brother,
and other friends, were one day to dine together. It was fine, frosty
weather; the two young gentlemen went out for a forenoon's
recreation, and one of them took his skates with him. They were followed
by a favorite greyhound. When the friends were beginning to long for
their return, the dog came home at full speed, and by his apparent
anxiety, his laying hold of their clothes to pull them along, and all
his gestures, he convinced them that something was wrong. They followed
the greyhound, who led them to a piece of water frozen over. A hat was
seen on the ice, near which was a fresh aperture. The bodies of the
young gentlemen were soon found, but, alas! though every means were
tried, life could not be restored.
There is another story which places the sagacity of the greyhound in
still stronger light. A Scotch gentleman, who kept a greyhound and a
pointer, being fond of coursing, employed the one to find the hares, and
the other to catch them. It was, however, discovered, that when the
season was over, the dogs were in the habit of going out by themselves,
and killing hares for their own amusement. To prevent this, a large iron
ring was fastened to the pointer's neck by a leather collar, and hung
down so as to prevent the dog from running or jumping over dikes. The
animals, however, continued to stroll out to the fields together; and
one day, the gentleman suspecting that all was not right, resolved to
watch them, and, to his surprise, found that the moment they thought
they were unobserved, the greyhound took up the ring in his mouth, and
carrying it, they set off to the hills, and began to search for hares,
as usual. They were followed; and it was observed that whenever the
pointer scented the hare, the ring was dropped, and the greyhound stood
ready to pounce upon the game the moment the other drove her from her
form; but that he uniformly returned to assist his companion, after he
had caught his prey.
[Illustration: AN ENCAMPMENT OF GIPSIES.]
Some of the dogs belonging to the gipsies possess a great deal of
shrewdness. The gipsies, you know, are a very singular race of people.
They are scattered over a great portion of Europe, wandering from place
to place, and living in miserable tents, or huts. You can form a pretty
correct notion of a gipsy encampment, by the picture on another page.
Here you see the gipsy men and women, sitting and standing around a
fire, over which is a pot, evidently containing the material for their
meal. If you notice the picture carefully, you will observe, also, a
little, insignificant looking dog, who is apparently asleep, and, for
aught I know, dreaming about the exploits of the day. You will no doubt
smile, and wonder what exploits such a cur is able to perform; but I
assure you that if he is at all like some of the gipsy dogs I have heard
of, he has been taught a good many very shrewd tricks. The dogs of the
gipsies are sometimes trained to steal for their masters. The thief
enters a store with some respectably dressed man, whom the owner of the
dog will commission for the purpose, and--the man having made certain
signals to the animal--the gipsy cur, after loitering about the store,
perhaps for hours, waiting a favorable opportunity, will steal the
articles which were designated, and run away with them to his master's
tent.
I made the acquaintance of a dog at Niagara Falls, last summer, who was
an ardent admirer of the beautiful and grand in nature. The little
steamer called the "Maid of the Mist" makes several trips daily, from a
point some two miles down the river, to within a few rods of the Canada
Fall. I went up in this boat, one morning, and the trip afforded me one
of the finest views I had of this inimitable cataract. Among the
passengers in this boat, at the time, was the dog who was so fond of the
sublime. He walked leisurely on board, just before the hour of starting,
and during the entire excursion seemed to enjoy the scene as much as any
of the rest of the passengers. As the boat approached the American
Fall, he took his station in the bow, where he remained, completely
deluged in the spray, until the boat passed the same Fall, on its
return. This, however, is not the most remarkable part of the story. The
captain informed me that such was the daily practice of the dog. Every
morning, regularly, at the hour of starting, he makes his appearance,
though he is not owned by any one engaged in the boat, and treats
himself to this novel excursion.
There is a dog living on Staten Island, who has for some time been
acting the part of a philanthropist, on a large scale. He makes it a
great share of his business to administer to the necessities of the sick
and infirm dogs in the neighborhood. As soon as he learns that a dog is
sick, so that he is unable to take care of himself, he visits the
invalid, and nurses him; and he even goes from house to house, searching
out those who need his assistance. Frequently he brings his patient to
his own kennel, and takes care of him until he either gets well or dies.
Sometimes he has two or three sick dogs in his hospital, at the same
time. I have these facts on the authority of my friend Mr. Ranlett, the
editor of the "Architect," a gentleman of unquestionable veracity, who
has seen the dog thus imitating the example of the Good Samaritan.
[Illustration: RUSSIAN SLEDGE.]
Captain Parry, an adventurous sailor, who went out from England on a
voyage of discovery in the northern seas, relates some amusing anecdotes
about the dogs among the Esquimaux Indians. These dogs are trained to
draw a vehicle called a sledge, made a little like what we call a
sleigh. In some parts of Russia many people travel in the same manner.
Here is a picture of one of the Russian sledges. It is made in very
handsome style, as you see. The greater portion of them are constructed
much more rudely. The Esquimaux Indian is famous for his feats in
driving dogs. When he wants to take a ride, he harnesses up several
pairs of these dogs, and off he goes, almost as swift as the wind. The
dogs are rather unruly, however, sometimes, and get themselves sadly
snarled together, so that the driver is obliged to go through the
harnessing process several times in the course of a drive of a few
miles. When the road is level and pretty smoothly worn, eight or ten
dogs, with a weight only of some six or seven hundred pounds attached to
them, are almost unmanageable, and will run any where they choose at the
rate of ten miles an hour.
The following anecdote we have on the authority of the Newark (N. J.)
Daily Advertiser: An officer of the army, accompanied by his dog, left
West Point on a visit to the city of Burlington, N. J., and while there,
becoming sick, wrote to his wife and family at West Point, in relation
to his indisposition. Shortly after the reception of his letter, the
family were aroused by a whining, barking and scratching, at the door of
the house, and when opened to ascertain the cause, in rushed the
faithful dog. After being caressed, and every attempt made to quiet him,
the dog, in despair at not being understood, seized a shawl in his
teeth, and, placing his paws on the lady's shoulders, deposited there
the shawl! He then placed himself before her, and, fixing his gaze
intently upon her, to attract her attention, seized her dress, and began
to drag her to the door. The lady then became alarmed, and sent for a
relative, who endeavored to allay her fears, but she prevailed upon him
to accompany her at once to her husband, and on arriving, found him
dangerously ill in Burlington. The distance traveled by the faithful
animal, and the difficulties encountered, render this exploit almost
incredible, especially as the boats could not stop at West Point, on
account of the ice, it being in the winter.
There is a dog in the city of New York, who, according to unquestionable
authority, is accustomed every day not only to bring his mistress the
morning paper, as soon as it is thrown into the front yard, but to
select the one belonging to the lady, when, as is frequently the case,
there is one lying with it belonging to another member of the family.