368 WILD FOWL SHOOTING. 
home. How, when he had a rival for our affections in 
the advent of our first-born, no jealousy entered his 
noble heart, but he followed that child and loved him, 
because he knew he was the idol of those he loved so 
well. Is it strange, then, that when these things are 
mentioned in our family circle, that an affectionate and 
tender-hearted wife and mother should feel her heart 
swelling and the tear-drops come down her cheeks ? 
while I would get my paper turned upside down, look- 
ing for what I could not tell. The depth of love Don 
had for us could only be measured by his life; for his 
life was devoted to us, and no child ever craved knowl- 
edge as he did. He did not forget what he once un- 
derstood, but his constant desire was to learn some- 
thing new. It was not necessary to give him long les- 
sons ; merely show him once, and he never forgot his 
teachings. Wheu we think of his death, how he was 
in the prime of life, how we loved him, and then stum- 
ble over some worthless cur in the streets, we cannot 
help but feel that with dogs, as with human _ beings, 
death loves a shining mark. We buried him on the 
hillside, like a warrior, his valuables deposited in the 
grave with him. Every morning when the sun rises 
from his couch, he sheds his rays and warms the earth 
that encloses Don’s remains; then reflects back his 
light on the bosom of the Mississippi,—the stream on 
which Don and I passed so many happy hours together, 
The silent trees stand sentinels over his grave, and the 
summer winds play olin music through their tops, 
and sing sad requiems for the departed dead. He was only 
a dog, and yet he was my Pythias, and would have died 
for me. There stands no monument to mark his grave, 
