238 AROUND AN OLD HOMESTEAD. 



and roots, and push itself under my hand, in his dog- 

 gish ways. No more do I hear his answering little bark 

 when I whistle. 



Mac did n't amount to a great deal in practical use- 

 fulness, although he did what he could even in that 

 line. He never learned to hunt (though how he loved 

 the woods!), but he was a good watch-dog, and as 

 fatal a mouse catcher as the best trap. No, I can 

 never play the traitor to Mac, and say that he had his 

 blemishes, and that perhaps another dog would take his 

 place better. It is true, he did have his little stub- 

 bornnesses; but he really never meant harm to his fellow 

 dogs (except for self-protection, when he showed the 

 pluck of a bulldog) or to any living thing, and he won 

 his way through life by the most winsome and loving 

 ways, and we were all the better for his little presence. 

 I have seldom seen in man or beast an instance of 

 truer, sincerer appreciation of kindnesses and evident 

 gratitude for them. And so I loved him with my 

 whole heart. 



Mac was my first dog. I taught him all his dozen 

 tricks; and how he did enjoy and relish their perform- 

 ance ! He and I understood one another perfectly. I 

 can not possibly forget him. It is painful to know 

 grief, even for a dog; and I can never think of him 

 without a pang. But his even with the pain will 

 always be a pleasant memory. I can only hope that 

 he has fallen into good hands. 



MAC S COLLAR. 



