The weekly clarion. [volume] (Jackson, Miss.) 1863-1882, 1877-04-11
My Dog Pickle.

" There can't be much harm i'll doing
it, can there, my doggie?"
Bow, WOW, WOW =.
The question was put by an indlvld-
ual whom | would rather not describe, no
one being 50 incompent critic of per
sonal appearance as its owner, and was an
swered by little dog of doubtful breed.
She-the little dog was of the unentran-
chised--was too evidently the offspring
of an i'll sorted match. Her mamma was
Il member Of the famous SyAe family,
and her papa connected with the black
and-tans Superficial judges would have
pronounced her g the image of her
father but the learned in points would
have detected traces of the female side
of the family in moment. SIill to all
intents and purposes she was black-and-
tan terrier. The undeScribed biped, as
the reader has undoubtedly surmised, was
the narrator of the occurrences herein
after sci forth" as the lawyers have it
the fully described quadruped was my
dear little dog Pickle, the companion Of
my solitude on the desert island where l
wrote, my fellow fugitive from the haunts
of men, the sharer Of my awful secret.
For ten long years Pickle and | have
lived alone upon this island, which shall
be nameless, latitudeless, and longitude
less. a young and sprightly pup of some
twelve revolving moons when we landed,
age has since told its tale upon my little
dog. The muzzle, once a rich jet black,
is very gray now; the 1.-THE little limbs
move more Ieisurely and methodically
at my call; the soft brown eyes that look
up lovingly into mine have lost the spar
kle and the clearness of youth. My dog
is old and feeble, and [ cannot disguise
from myself the fact that. soon, very soon
we shall be parted by the cruel constable
who hauls off animals to the eternal lock
up, irrespective of the number Of their
legs And when my poor little Pickle is
dead, cln leave this lonely place and
commence this world anew--but not till
then.
"Well, if that's all, why couldn't you
kill the dog and come back p
Thank you, Mr.. Somebody, l fancied
you'd say that: ten years of isolation have
not made me forget that there are cold
hearted ruffians in the world.
Kill my dog Gro and kill your wife,
sr-.he woman who marks your every
gesture with admiration, and worships
you, and thinks there never was Il man
in all the world like you. Go and kill
your little child, who watches for you
from your going out to your coming in,
who leaps upon your knee and nestles in
your arms Confound it, sir! 60 and
destroy every link that binds you to the
past Sell the letters your mother wrote
you when you were Il boy at school, to
the butterman throw the massive old
turnip that was your fathers and your
grandfather's, on the dust heap. But
pshaw | waste words on you A man
who would suggest the butchering of
faithful beast would do all these things,
and dine with better appetite for the ex-
ercise Go you rather and be vivi-sected
in the interests Of science, tell me how it
feels, and then l will tell you Why l did
not kill my dog. Here don't you read
any more of my story. Put it down at
once-you won't understand it. Kill
my dog, indeed
Glow, WOW, wow"
$50 on, you bad dog? l shall get
angry if like. Leave off wagging that
L
kle, if you come and interrupt me again,
PIl-Tll Won Glabenize you, there !"
If you had seen my dog Pickle when l
said those words, you would have jump
ed instantly to the conclusion-but per-
haps you wouldn't; some people are aw-
fully dull where animals are concerned
I'd better tell you about it in the ordina
ry way,
Firstly, then, you will please under
stand that it is agreed between my dog
Pickle and myself that it will be great
relief to our feelings if we unburden our
selves of a secret that Expresses US.
Secondly, living as we do upon a desert
island, we run no risk of suffering for
our candor. Thirdly, it is not intended
to bottle this confession and hurl it into
the sea, after the fashion of the hum
drum castaway. 1t is written with island
home made paper, and will be deposited
in a suitable place on the coast, SO that
in the event of my predeceasing Pickle,
the story of a strange affair may be left
on record, and in the event of Pickle pre-
deceasing Newell, then | may go back
to civilization, and keep it to myself.
Now for the confession.
Toward the close OF dull November
day. in the year 1856, young man was
standing With his back to the FIRE, in a
small, but, well furnished apartment in
street Scattered about upon the
table were several evil looking volumes,
bearing, as their titles indicated, upon
withcraft, spirtualism, mesmerism, and
various supernatural phenomena. Their
appearance showed that they were fire.
quently and deeply studied. Seated on
the hesrthrug, close to the young mans
feet, was a small black ap6-tan mongrel,
very sharp above the muzzle, very bright
about the eyes, and very tremulous about
the tail. Every now and then she looked
up into her masters face with that look
of w.stful wonder so common to the ca
nine feathers, giving at the same time 8
little subdued whimper, in order to at
TRACT bis attention.
"Why is it, Eickle7" he exclaimed at
last, reused from his reverie, and look
ing down at the dog. "What is it, my
girls"
sBow, WOW, WOW !"
e.That's very general answer, my dog
gie.H
At that moment some peculiar idea
evidently flashed across his brain, for
looking earnestly at the dog, he exclaim-
ed:
by Jovel I've good mind tOtry the