264 CANADIAN TUKF KECOLLECTIONS 



A FAVORITE DOd. 



Did you ever own a dog? Not necessarily one of aristo- 

 cratic lineage, whose pedigree conld be traced through a 

 dozen generations of dogdom. Neither do I care what 

 breed of dog he might be. 



He might be a St. Bernard, a Mastiff, a Newfoundland, 

 a Pomeranian, a Setter, a Pointer, Retriever, a Dandie 

 Dinmont, a Bulldog, a Collie, an Irish Setter, or any other 

 of the dozen breeds of canines. He might even be a 

 Poodle, some kind of Spaniel or a Hound. Stop right 

 here. I've owned all kinds of breeds and scores of them, 

 but the best, truest, bravest, kindliest, most knowing one 

 that ever wore hair upon a dog hide, was a hound I called 

 Smoke. 



I had heard of his mother by repute; of his father 

 nothing was known. Smoke wore more colors on his 

 body than were ever seen in a gypsy's shawl. He had 

 white shoulders, a smoke-colored saddle, brownish-red 

 ears, black band around his neck, smoke-colored spots 

 down his front legs, black and tan down his hind ones, 

 and a smoke and white-colored tail. 



He wouldn't have taken a prize on his looks at any 

 kennel show on the continent, but in the woods hunting 

 rabbits, hares or deer he could outrun, outstay and out- 

 hunt any dog I ever met with in thirty years ' experience. 



Other dogs would score a grand run one day — perhaps 

 two or three days in succession. By that time their bleed- 

 ing feet, shredded by the jagged rocks of the north coun- 

 try, had them so crippled they were knocked out for 

 days ; but no matter how sharp the granite, how steep the 

 rocks, how thorny the underbrush, Smoke was ever on the 

 job. I have seen him crawl out of the kennel in the morn- 

 ing stiff and sore in every joint, feet puffed and swollen, 

 but you dare not leave him on his chain to rest up for the 

 day. If you did he would protest with a voice that would 

 be heard over half the township. 



