happened one day to treat this dog with a pie. The next time he heard the pieman's bell, he ran eagerly towards him, seized him by the coat, and would not suffer him to pass. The pieman, who understood what the animal wanted, showed him a penny, and pointed to his master, who stood at his door, watching what was going on. The dog immediately supplicated his master by many humble gestures and looks, and on receiving a penny, he instantly carried it in his mouth to the pieman, and received his pie. This traffic between the pieman and the grocer's dog continued to be daily practised for several months.

There seems very little doubt that dogs often understand what is said to them, or in their presence. "The wisest dog I ever had," said Sir Walter Scott, "was what is called the bulldog terrier. I taught him to understand a great many words, insomuch that I am positive that the communication between the canine species and ourselves might be greatly enlarged. Camp once bit the baker who was bringing bread to the family. I beat him, and explained the enormity of his offence; after which, to the last moment of his life, he never heard the least allusion to the story, in whatever voice or tone it was mentioned, without getting up and retiring into the darkest corner of the room, with great appearance of distress. Then if you said, 'the baker was well paid,' or, 'the baker was not hurt after all,' Camp came forth from his hiding place, capered, and barked, and rejoiced.

"When he was unable, towards the end of his life, to attend me when on horseback, he used to watch for my return, and the servant would tell him 'his master was coming down the hill, or through the moor;' and although he did not use any gesture to explain his meaning, Camp was never known to mistake him, but went out either at the front to go up the hill, or at the back to get down to the moor side. He certainly had a singular knowledge of spoken language."

A gentleman in Hartford, Connecticut, had a fine large dog, which was in the habit, in the winter season, of stretching himself out at full length on the rug before the parlor fire. His

master, on coming in and observing this, would say in a common tone, and without looking or pointing at the dog, “If Carlo knew what was expected of a well-bred dog, he would get off the rug, and not take up so much room before the fire." The dog would immediately leave the rug, and retreat to a corner of the room.

It is also unquestionable that dogs have some mode of communicating between themselves. A remarkable instance of this is given in a book called the Cyclopædia of Natural History. A gentleman living near St. Andrews, in Scotland, had a very fine Newfoundland dog. About a mile off, there was a farm house, where a large mastiff was kept as a watch dog; and about the same distance in another direction, there was a mill where a stanch bulldog kept guard. Each of these three dogs was lord paramount within his own domain, and two of them seldom met without a fight to settle their respective dignities. The Newfoundland dog used to go every forenoon to the baker's shop in the village, with a towel containing money in the corner, returning with the value of the money in bread. There were many useless and ill-behaved curs in the village; but generally the haughty Newfoundland treated this ignoble race in that contemptuous style in which great dogs are wont to treat little ones. When the dog came back from the baker's shop, he was regularly served with his dinner.

One day, however, he returned with his coat soiled and his ears scratched, having been attacked by a large number of curs while he had charge of his towel and bread, and so could not defend himself. Instead of waiting for his dinner as usual, he laid down his charge somewhat sulkily, and marched off. It was observed that he went in a straight line to the farmer's house; and it was noticed as a remarkable fact, that the meeting between the two dogs was peaceful and not warlike. After laying their heads together, and conversing in some language which they understood, the two set off together in the direction of the mill; and having arrived there, they in brief space engaged the miller's dog as an ally.

The three champions now took the nearest road to the village, and, having reached it, scoured it in great wrath, and took summary vengeance on every cur they met. Having taken ample satisfaction for the insult that had been offered to the Newfoundland, they separated, and each went home. When any two of them met afterwards, they went to fighting as before, just as if the joint campaign had never taken place.

We will conclude these anecdotes of dogs with a short moral. Some boys, more perhaps from thoughtlessness than cruelty, amuse themselves by worrying dogs, throwing stones at them, and otherwise ill treating them. Such conduct is very wrong; and no manly and generous boy will ever be guilty of it. Cruelty to any animal is highly to be blamed; and especially when shown to a dog, the docile and intelligent friend of man, which loves him while living and mourns him when dead, repaying kindness with affectionate gratitude, and often showing an undeserved attachment to a worthless and ill-tempered master.

XIX. -THE OLD SHEPHERD'S DOG.

WOLCOTT.

THE old shepherd's dog, like his master, was gray,
His teeth all departed, and feeble his tongue;
Yet where'er Corin went he was followed by Tray;
Thus happy through life did they hobble along.

When fatigued on the grass the shepherd would lie
For a nap in the sun, 'midst his slumbers so sweet,
His faithful companion crawled constantly nigh,

Placed his head on his lap, or lay down at his feet.

When winter was heard on the hill and the plain,
When torrents descended, and cold was the wind,
If Corin went forth 'mid the tempest and rain,
Tray scorned to be left in the chimney behind.

At length in the straw Tray made his last bed;

For vain against death is the stoutest endeavor. To lick Corin's hand he reared up his weak head, Then fell back, closed his eyes, and ah, closed them forever.

Not long after Tray did the shepherd remain,

Who oft o'er his grave with true sorrow would bend ; And when dying, thus feebly was heard the poor swain : "O bury me, neighbors, beside my old friend."

XX. THE SWALLOWS.

MRS. CHILD.

Two barn swallows came into our wood shed in the spring time. Their busy, earnest twitterings led me at once to suspect that they were looking out a building spot; but, as a carpenter's bench was under the window, and frequent hammering, sawing, and planing were going on, I had little hope they would choose a location under our roof.

To my surprise, however, they soon began to build in the crotch of a beam, over the open door-way. I was delighted, and spent much time in watching them. It was, in fact, a beautiful little drama of domestic love; the mother bird was so busy and so important, and her mate was so attentive. He scarcely ever left the side of the nest. There he was, all day long, twittering in tones that were most obviously the outpourings of love.

Sometimes he would bring in a straw, or a hair, to be inwoven in the precious little fabric. One day, my attention was arrested by a very unusual twittering, and I saw him circling round with a large downy feather in his bill. He bent over the unfinished nest, and offered it to his mate with the most graceful and loving air imaginable; and when she put up her mouth to take it, he poured forth such a gush of gladsome

sound! It seemed as if pride and affection had swelled his heart, till it was almost too big for his little bosom.

During the process of incubation, he volunteered to perform his share of household duty. Three or four times a day, he would, with coaxing twitterings, persuade his patient mate to fly abroad for food; and the moment she left the eggs, he would take the maternal station, and give a loud alarm whenever cat or dog came about the premises. When the young ones came forth, he shared in the mother's toils, and brought at least half the food for his greedy little family.

But when they became old enough to fly, the gravest philosopher would have laughed to watch their manœuvres ! Such chirping and twittering! such diving down from the nest, and flying up again! such wheeling round in circles, talking to the young ones all the while! such clinging to the sides of the shed with their sharp claws, to show the timid little fledglings that there was no need of falling!

For three days, all this was carried on with increasing activity. It was obviously an infant flying school. But all their talking and twittering were of no avail. The little downy things looked down, and then looked up, and, alarmed at the wide space, sank down into the nest again.

At length the parents grew impatient, and summoned their neighbors. As I was picking up chips one day, I found my head encircled with a swarm of swallows. They flew up to the nest, and chattered away to the young ones; they clung to the walls, looking back to tell how the thing was done; they dived, and wheeled, and balanced, and floated, in a manner perfectly beautiful to behold.

The pupils were evidently much excited. They jumped up on the edge of the nest, and twittered, and shook their feathers, and waved their wings; and then hopped back again, saying, "It is pretty sport, but we cannot do it."

Three times the neighbors came in, and repeated their graceful lessons. The third time, two of the young birds gave a sudden plunge downward, and then fluttered, and hopped, till