70 



THE COUNTRY BOY 



I raised a pup. I liked him more than I did 

 some people and he preferred me to some dogs, 

 so it would seem natural that we were much 

 alike in general character. 



I loved him then and I love his memory 



now. H e died 

 i n my lap i n 

 Portland, Ore., 

 when he was 

 about six years 

 old. Some one 

 had poisoned 

 him. Every 

 time I go to 

 Portland there 

 is no place I 

 look on with 

 more deep r e- 

 gret than the 

 spot near the railroad yards where he lies 

 buried. 



I owned this dog's mother and he and I be- 

 came pals. He was more than a dog. He 

 had almost human intelligence, but passed in 

 a crowd for a dog. In that way he fooled 





