Vol. XCI 
JUNE, 1921 
No. 6 
FRIENDS OF MY BOYHOOD DAYS 
IN WHICH ARE BRIEFLY SET FORTH THE MERITS AND FAULTS OF A 
FEW FAITHFUL DOGS THAT BROUGHT JOY TO THE AUTHOR’S CHILDHOOD 
By WIDGEON 
A S I sit in my easy chair in the 
gathering darkness of this perfect 
June evening, there comes stealing 
in through the open window, the faint 
perfume, of my rose garden. As I in- 
hale the delicate fragrance, the accu- 
mulated weight of years fall from my 
shoulders like a mantle, and again I am 
a small boy kneeling by the little dog 
house in the shade of mother’s damask 
rose bush beside the door yard gate, 
playing with my first puppy. I feel 
again his cold, moist nose thrust in my 
hand, his warm tongue humbly licking 
my fingers. I see the look of devotion 
in his honest eyes, and hear the eloquent 
thump of his tail upon the ground. 
The languorous summer air is 
heavy with the scent of locust 
blossoms, and the bloom of the 
vine and shrub, the drowsy 
drone of bees, the twittering of 
the barn swallows and the soft 
cooing of my pet pigeons, while 
from the meadow come the gurg- 
ling song of a bobolink and tnt 
mellow whistle of Bob White. 
The great cherry trees are glow- 
ing with ripening fruit and 
through the gorgeous flowers of 
the trumpet vine, the dainty 
humming birds flit in and oux. 
On the narrow porch under 
the overhanging eaves, sit my 
dear mother and sisters, with 
the manly form of father in the 
background; his hair and beara 
dark as the raven’s wing. Over 
all brood's the deep peace of a 
perfect pastoral Sabbath day. Surely 
it was Wut yesterday, and not the life- 
long span of nearly sixty years ago. 
It is strange how strong are the im- 
pressions of youth and how vivid 
is the remembrance of beauty. 
The subtle fragrance of mother’s dam- 
ask roses has haunted me all through 
life, and perhaps accounts for my pas- 
sion for the rose, and why I have so 
many varieties in my garden, for it was 
her favorite flower. 
o 
LD Rover, the family pet, ripe in 
years, had gone the way of all 
dogs, and I had been urging 
father to get me a dog for my very own. 
One November evening when I was 
about eight years old, as I sat before 
the bright log fire in the fire place, 
studying my lessons, father came in 
fresh from the great city, where he had 
gone to sell some farm produce. As he 
stood before the fire in his great coat, 
he said: “Neil, feel in my pocket,” and as 
I thrust my hand in the capacious open- 
ing I felt something warm and woolly, 
and pulled out a wee little puppy dog. 
As I placed him on the hearth he braced 
his puny little legs, and defiantly barked 
%,'V 
Drawn by Edmund Osthaus. 
Gunner- 
-my first puppy 
at the ruddy embers, and I clapped my 
hands in childish glee. 
Said father: “This little dog is given 
you by my old friend Bill Henshaw, 
for your very own ; his mother is a full- 
blooded black and tan rat terrier, and 
a famous rat killer, which he keeps in his 
flour and grain store to kill rats.” He 
did not know what his father was, so I 
immediately named the puppy Gunner, 
after the famous hound dog of my 
father’s, known to me only by tradition. 
The puppy grew apace under my 
careful attention, and when he reached 
maturity was a small dog of a reddish 
brown color, with the courage of a lion. 
He knew no fear and many times put to 
flight dogs of three times his size. We 
became inseparable companions. Who 
can measure the joys of a healthy coun- 
try boy with a dog? 
In the long summer days we killed 
numbers of rats and mice, and under 
my tuition he became very crafty, and 
stalked the woodchucks, or ground hogs, 
as they are called in this part of New 
Jersey. He would get between the 
chuck and his hole and then there would 
be a battle royal, with Gunner the vic- 
tor. In autumn he attended me 
on my rounds to my traps, ana 
one never to be forgotten occa- 
sion with fierce growls and 
bristling hair, he dug his way 
into a great rotten, hollow chest- 
nut stump, filled with dried 
leaves and drew forth a great, 
opossum that was nearly as large 
as himself. 
As he furiously shook the ani- 
mal to and fro, fragments 
seemed to fly from its body, and 
spatter on the surrounding 
leaves. When the ’possum was 
dead, with whimperings like lit- 
tle puppies, thirteen little opos- 
sums no larger than meadow 
mice, crawled to their dead 
mother, and entering her fur- 
lined pouch, left their little tails 
hanging out like spaghetti. 
With eyes round and wide with won- 
der, I took this remarkable product of 
nature by its prehensile tail and car- 
ried the whole business home to show 
to father. From that time on Gunner 
developed into a marvelous ’possum dog. 
Many frosty nights in October in per- 
simmon time, have I roamed the fields 
and woodlands with Gunner and my 
boyhood companions. Numbers of ’pos- 
sums were bagged and occasionally 
Gunner would encounter a skunk. 
