296 The King of the Thundering Herd 



is very old, sixteen years, in fact, which 

 is an extreme age for a dog. 



It is none other than our old friend 

 Shep, he of the merry bark and the laugh- 

 ing face. Time, the omnivorous, has 

 claimed him, and his friends, each with 

 an ache in his heart of which he is not 

 ashamed, have gathered to do him honor. 

 For was he not one of them ? 



When had any member of the family a 

 heartache, or a joy that they could hide 

 from Shep? For sixteen years he had 

 hung his tail when they were sorry and 

 wagged it when they were glad, a sure 

 weather-vane of joy and sorrow in the 

 Anderson family. So could they not well 

 afford to mourn at the little new grave 

 under the willow ? 



Half an hour before, stretched upon the 

 kitchen floor with the family about, Shep 

 had breathed his last. Even his last doggish 

 impulse had been full of love for his friends. 



