DOG STORIES 129 



"I am black, but comely, 

 O ye daughters of Jerusalem, 

 As the tents of Kedar, 

 As the curtains of Solomon," 



has a more distinct meaning to me to-day than before I 

 learned to know the East. I scarcely dare confess to hav- 

 ing felt a momentary disappointment in the matter of 

 complexions when I once emerged from a burial of sev- 

 eral weeks among Orientals, far from the contact of 

 whites. That the disappointment was due to the fact 

 that I came out upon a lot of unwashed humanity, and 

 that on a white skin dirt sits less gracefully than on a 

 brown one, in nowise alters the captivating quality of the 

 dark-hued women of the far East. 



All of which reminds me of a story. I find, as I grow 

 older, that I am more and more frequently reminded of a 

 story. I hold the dangerous tendency in check ; I shorten 

 the curb-chain by a link ; but the tendency will now and 

 then shy at some statement made in perfect innocence, 

 and give a mad plunge off in the direction of a story. 

 And my gripe on the rein is more lax than of old. It is 

 not my fault, it is your misfortune; I am incapable of 

 kicking a supposititious canine under the table in order to 

 tell a good dog story, but this one must out. 



Many years ago, down in Richmond, I was standing 

 with a friend at his doorway while he gave instructions 

 to an old colored servant. There chanced to pass one of 

 the beauties of the city and there were beauties in those 

 days. We both took off our hats, courtesy in our atti- 

 tude, admiration in our hearts. "Isn't she a beauty?" 

 said I. "Isn't she a beauty ?" echoed he. " Just isn't she, 

 Uncle Jed ?" said my friend. " Miss Ellen's a mighty fine 

 leddy," responded the old servitor, in a deferential but 

 somewhat hesitating tone. "Why, what do you mean, 



