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fountain will spring up on your household hearth, of bitter and troubled waters. When this conviction came over me I threw myself on my knees, and prayed to God for a gentle, submissive temper. After long and earnest inquiry into my own heart, I left my chamber calm and happy. Edward was reading, and Growler stood beside him. I approached them softly, and patting the dog's head, said, “So, Growler, helping your master to read " Edward looked at me inquiringly. I am sure my whole expression of face was changed; he drew me to him in silence, and gave me a token of regard he never bestowed on Growler. From that moment, though I might wince a little at his inroads on my neat housekeeping, I never gave the dog an angry word, and I taught Fairy to regard him as one of the lords of the creation. Growler's intelligence was remarkable, although it did not equal that of Sir Walter Scott's bull-dog terrier, Camp, who could perceive the meaning of words, and who understood an allusion to an offence he had committed against the baker, for which he had been punished. In whatever voice and tone it was mentioned, he would get up and retire into the darkest part of the room with an air of distress. But if you said, “The baker was not hurt after all,” Camp came forth from his hiding-place, capered, barked, and rejoiced. Growler, however, had many of those properties of observation which raise the canine race so high in the affections of man. When Edward made his forenoon sortie from the office to look at his sleeping boy, Growler always accompanied him, and rested his forepaws on the head of the cradle. As the babe grew older, he loved to try experiments upon the dog's sagacity and the child's courage. Sometimes Fred was put into a basket, and Growler drew him carefully about the room with a string between his teeth; as the boy advanced in strength, he was seated on the dog's back with a whip in his hand. When my attachment to Growler increased, new experi

ments were made, particularly after the birth of Martha. She was an exquisite little infant, and it seemed to us that the dog was more gentle and tender in his movements with her than with Frederick. When two months old, Edward sometimes arranged a shawl carefully about her, tied it strongly, and putting the knot between the dog's teeth, sent her across the room to me.—No mother ever carried a child more skilfully. Of course all these associations attached him to the infant, and after a while he deserted the rug, where Fairy again established herself, and laid himself down to sleep by the infant's cradle. There is nothing more picturesque than the image of an infant and a large dog. Every one has felt it. The little plump hand looks smaller and whiter in his rough hair, and the round dimpled cheek rests on his shaggy coat —like a flower on a rock. Edward and I and Frederick rode one afternoon to Roxbury to take tea with a friend.

Our woman in the kitchen wished to pass the

night with a sick person after the evening lecture, and I felt no hesitation in leaving Martha to Polly's care. We were prevented, by an accidental delay, from returning until ten o'clock. The ride over the neck, although it was fine sleighing, appeared uncommonly long, for I had never been so far and so long from my infant. The wind was sharp and frosty, but my attention was beguiled by sheltering Frederick with my furs, who soon fell asleep, singing his own little lullaby. As we entered the Square we perceived that the neighbouring houses were closed for the night, and no light visible, but a universal brilliancy through the crevices of our parlour-shutters. Our hearts misgave us. I uttered an involuntary cry, and Edward said, that “a common fire-light could not produce such an effect.” He urged his horse, we reached the house,_I sprang from the sleigh to the door. It was fastened. We knocked with violence. There was no answer. We looked through a small aperture, and both screamed in agony “fire!” In vain Edward attempted to wrench the bolt or burst the door, that horrible light still gleaming on us. We flew to the side-door, and I then recollected that a window was usually left open in that quarter, in a room which communicated with the parlour, for the smoke to escape when the wind prevailed in the quarter it had done this day. The window was open, and as Edward threw down logs that we might reach it, we heard a stifled howl. We mounted the logs, and could just raise our heads to the window. Oh, heavens ! what were our emotions, as we saw Growler with his forepaws stationed on the window, holding Martha safely with her night-dress between his teeth, ready to spring at the last extremity, and suspending the little cherub so carefully that she thought it but one of his customary gambols' With a little effort Edward reached the child, and Growler, springing to the ground, fawned and grovelled at our feet. Edward alarmed the neighbourhood and entered the window. Poor Polly had fainted in the entry from the close atmosphere and ex

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