isdain.
On a certain Wednesday afternoon the air was wonderfully mild and dry.
It was early in January, but the weather was so fine that I had not even
need of an overcoat, as I sat in the sunshine smoking and reading. I had
seen Monsieur Dorn enter the opposite house, taking Lil with him, and
Schwartz had settled himself on the doorstep, as usual, to await her
exit. I called him to me, and he crossed over, but soon returned and
resumed his place, and sat there waiting still. After a considerable
time the door opened, and Monsieur Dorn and Lil emerged together.
I looked up at that moment, and saw Lil make a savage dart at her
too-persistent worshipper. Monsieur Dorn beat them apart, but Schwartz
had attempted no resistance. He was rather badly bitten, and when I
picked him up the tears were running fast down his nose, and he was
feebly licking at them, and whining to himself in a way which indicated
the extremest weakness of spirit. I sat down with him, and comforted
the poor-hearted creature, and he seemed grateful, for he licked my hand
repeatedly, but he did not cease to whine and weep.
By and by I heard, though I did not notice it at the time, the warning
whistle of the approaching train. The station is little more than a
stone's throw from the hotel. Schwartz made a leap, licked my face,
jumped from the bench, and ambled away. I never saw him alive again,
for, on the testimony of the signalman, he ran down to the railway line,
stretched himself upon one of the rails, and, in spite of a stone the
man threw at him when the train had advanced dangerously near to him, he
held his place until the wheels passed over his body.
His remains were buried in his master's back garden. I know that he knew
full well what he was doing when he stretched himself upon the rail, and
I know that his feeble and affectionate heart was broken before he did
it.
End of Project Gutenberg's Schwartz: A History, by David Christie Murray
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