250 LEAVES FROM THE BOOK OF NATURE. 



of feeling in the thorough-bred' s well-cut countenance. The 

 cur of the Turk shrinks, howling, from the stern glance 

 of man, and snarls and snaps at his enemy the intelli- 

 gent spaniel has an eye beaming with affection, and speaks 

 a language of gestures as clear and distinct as that of 

 actors in pantomime. Who has ever forgotten the touch- 

 ing tribute paid by blind Homer to the faithful dog of 

 Ulysses? Forgotten by all that loved and served him, 

 disguised by the great Athene herself, he returns to his 

 home, and wanders, unknown, among his friends and his 

 kindred. But, as he speaks in the yard to Eumaeus, the 

 lame and emaciated friend of his youth, his own beloved 

 Argus hears the voice of his master. He would fain 

 rise and greet him, as of old, with fondling caresses and 

 eager barking. But he is old and crippled, he can but 

 wag his tail, and tenderly lick the hand that he alone has 

 recognized. And as his master, brushing away a furtive 

 tear, enters the hall, where abundance reigns and joyous 

 voices are heard, poor Argus lays himself down and dies 

 of immoderate joy. 



Far clearer, of course, and more familiar to all, is the 

 language of animals uttered in sounds. Yet this, also, is, 

 as yet, but a tribe of unknown tongues. We are so apt 

 to watch only for sounds that resemble the human voice. 

 We look for a phonetic language, which, of course, is 

 not taught among animals in primary schools by means 

 of primers and readers, but by their only mother, nature. 

 We forget, that when first we enter an asylum for deaf 

 mutes, we hardly observe the imperceptible signs that pass, 

 with amazing rapidity, from hand to hand. We forget the 



