ed and the remnant that
remained--some four inches in length--stood stiffly up, with scarce a
suggestion of a curve; he was homely, but not inferior looking, for his
head was such an one as Landseer would have loved to have translated
from time and death to the immortality of his canvas; what a matchless
front, and room enough in the cranium to hold the brains of any two
common dogs. But his eyes were the impressive and magnificent feature
of his face--large, round and warmly hazel in color, and so liquid clear
that, looking into them, you seemed to be gazing into transparent
depths, not of water, but of intelligent being. What eyes they were! I
remember what a young lady said once apropos to them. She was a belle
herself, and nature spoke through her speech. She came into the office
here one day when the dog was performing, for he was a great trick dog,
and, after watching him a moment, she exclaimed, "Ah! if a woman only
had those eyes, what might she not do!" More fun could look out of that
dog's head than of any other I ever saw, whether of dog or man. And
though you may not credit it, yet, as true as I sit here, I have seen
those eyes weep as large and honest tears as ever fell in sorrow from
human orbs. "Laugh, too?" You put that question incredulously, do you?
Well, you needn't, for the dog could laugh. "With his tail?" No, any dog
can do that, but he could laugh with his mouth. Why, sir, I have seen
him sit bolt upright on his haunches there by that post, lean his back
against it, and laugh so heartily that his mouth would open and shut
like a man's when guffawing, and you could see every tooth in his head,
and he did it intelligently, too, and laughed because he was tickled and
couldn't help it.

Alas! poor dog, he came to a sad end at last, and died in so wretched a
way that the recollection of his death puts a dark eclipse upon the
unhappy memory of his life.

[Illustration: _The old man and his dog were constant companions._]

Comfort to his master? You may well say that; and no man ever loved his
child more fondly than the old beggar loved his dog. And well he might,
for he was his companion by day, his guard by night, and the means by
which he eked out the sometime scant living that the fickle charity of
the world flung to him. How often have I seen the old man take him in
his arms and hug him to his breast, that had, I fancy, so many bitter
memories in it; and how often have I seen the dog lap with gent