THE UNKNOWN RIVER. 



CHAPTER I. 



ON a bright afternoon in autumn I lay on the green 

 bank of a little stream. The stream was so little 

 that my dog Tom cleared it at one bound, as in the eager 

 excitement of a wildly impossible chase he rushed after 

 flying game. Of course he never yet caught a bird on 

 the wing, but his faith in the practicability of such an 

 achievement does not seem to be in the least shaken by 

 the discouraging lessons of a constantly recurring expe- 

 rience. Only a peregrine falcon, strong-winged, sharp- 

 taloned, could follow and slay those partridges ; but Tom 

 dashes after them through and over all manner of obsta- 

 cles, hoping, by perseverance, to attain his object, like 

 the man who ran after the express train. 



Tom is a dog of immense energy when out of doors, 

 and the most listless indolence at home. He will run a 

 hundred miles in a day, or swim fifteen, but he will not 

 walk across the room without the most elaborate prepa- 

 ration in the way of stretchings which he believes to be 

 necessary ; and when the little distance is at last accom- 

 plished he falls down with a grunt as if extenuated by 



