[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE BIG-DOG'S LESSON.

BY W. O. STODDARD.

"There they are, Uncle Joe, the Dorking chickens, just where I found
them."

"Pulled all to pieces."

"It was Mr. Bates's yellow dog--I know it was; and they've let him out
again to-day. He'll be over, and kill some more."

"No, he won't, Parry," said Uncle Joe, as he leaned over the barn-yard
fence. "Don't you see what I've done for him?"

"You've let the chickens all out. Yes, and there's Bayard. Isn't he
pretty?"

"Yes, he's pretty enough, but that isn't all. What did we name him
Bayard for?"

"'Cause he isn't afraid. But won't he hurt some of the other roosters?"

"I've shut 'em up. See him!"

The game-cock was indeed a beautiful fowl, and he seemed to know it too,
for he was strutting around in the warm sun, and stopping every minute
or so to flap his wings and crow. His comb and wattles were of a bright
crimson, his wings and feathers of a brilliant black and red, and his
long, arching tail feathers were remarkably graceful and glossy. He was
not a large fowl, but he was a very well-shaped and handsome one.

"There comes that dog, Uncle Joe, right over the fence."

"Yes, there he comes."

"Won't you throw a stone at him, and drive him away?"

"Then he'd come again, some time when we were not here to throw stones
at him."

Mr. Bates's yellow dog was a very big one. Perhaps he was not altogether
a bad dog, either, but he had a sad weakness for teasing any animal
smaller than himself. Cats, sheep, chickens, anything defenseless, would
have been wise to keep out of his way if they could.

The two poor Dorking chickens had not been able to get away from him the
day before, and so they had lost their feathers and their lives.

He had jumped the barn-yard fence now in search of more helpless
chickens, and more of what he called fun.

A snap of his great jaws would have been enough to kill any fowl in that
yard, and it would have crushed the life out of one of the little yellow
"peepers" the old hens were now clucking to, if he had but put a paw on
it.

But Bayard, the game-cock, was neither a Dorking, nor an old hen, nor a
chicken, and he did not run an inch when the big dog came charging so
fiercely toward him. He did but lower his head and step a little
forward.

"Oh, Uncle Joe! He will be torn all to pieces."

"No, he won't. See!"

It was done almost too quickly for Parry to see, but the sharp spurs of
the beautiful