ofitable to evade; for the dog as we have the happiness to know him
is the only dog that we have the happiness really to know. The wolf is
hardly a dog within the meaning of the law, nor is the scalp-yielding
coyote, whether he howls or merely sings and plays the piano; moreover,
these are beyond the pale of civilization and outside the scope of our
sympathies.

With the dog it is different His place is among us; he is with us and of
us--a part of our life and love. If we are maintaining and promoting a
condition of things that gives him "that tired feeling" it is befitting
that we mend our ways lest, shaking the carpet dust from his feet and
the tenderloin steaks from his teeth, he depart from our midst and
connect himself with the enchanted life of the thrilling barbarian. We
can not afford to lose him. The cynophobes may call him a "survival" and
sneer at his exhausted mandate--albeit, as Darwin points out, they are
indebted for their sneer to his own habit of uncovering his teeth to
bite; they may seek to cast opprobrium upon the nature of our affection
for him by pronouncing it hereditary--a bequest from our primitive
ancestors, for whom he performed important service in other ways than
depriving visitors of their tendons; but quite the same we should miss
him at his meal time and in the (but for him) silent watches of the
night. We should miss his bark and his bite, the feel of his forefeet
upon our shirt-fronts, the frou-frou of his dusty sides against our
nether habiliments. More than all, we should miss and mourn that visible
yearning for chops and steaks, which he has persuaded us to accept as
the lovelight of his eye and a tribute to our personal worth. We must
keep the dog, and to that end find means to abate his weariness of us
and our ways.

Doubtless much might be done to reclaim our dogs from their uncheerful
state of mind by abstention from debate on imperialism; by excluding
them from the churches, at least during the sermons; by keeping them
off the streets and out of hearing when rites of prostration are in
performance before visiting notables; by forbidding anyone to read aloud
in their hearing the sensational articles in the newspapers, and by
educating them to the belief that Labor and Capital are illusions. A
limitation of the annual output of popular novels would undoubtedly
reduce the dejection, which could be still further mitigated by
abolition of the more successful magazines. If the dialec