Watertown republican. [volume] (Watertown, Wis.) 1860-1906, 1881-11-02
How did he die ?"
81 drowned him. "

F" Yes, drowned him. L did IT my
own self. You would not think it of
me, nv dear. Yet 1 was not cruel
girl. And I loved him: oh, how [ loved
him! !"
Her tears flowed fast now; her voice
actually broke with emotion. The chill
dren were quite silent. For me, [ could
not help putting a question or so, in or
der to come to the truth of things, and
the result seemed to me SO infinitely
pathetic-so true to nature, and yet elu-
cidating more than one mysterious ap-
parent contradiction in nature, that [
asked permission to write it down; to
make story of it, in short. A sad
story Town it lie; and yet there is sweet
ness about it, as about many another sad
story. Much as we wish our children to
be happy, can we, should we, wholly
eliminate from their lives the sense of
pain-sacred pain?'
Else, may they not come one day to show
that saddest cowardice, the helpless
shrinking from the sight of suffering;
q quality pitiful in a man, in woman
more than p1tiful-fatal.
81 don't like pain, said to me once
one of the bravest and most enduring of
all the people [ ever knew. No, nobody
likes it; but everybody must learn to
face it for himself and others. And there
is such thing as heroic pain, sympa-
thetic pain, pain which almost does one
good. Therefore, / shall not apologize
fol telling this. which L own is rather
painful story.
"My poor little Prin I can scarce
ly bare to speak OF him, even now," said
Mrs. Jane, wiping her eyes. ''But If
these children particularly wish to hear,
I'll tell them; it is not likely to do them
harm, and it is a real, true story"
What child does not delight In "real
true story" especially if it happened to
the teller of it when he or she was young?
The two little girls forsook their cats,
and listened with eager eyes. So did I.
[ could not help it; the narrative was so
pathetic in in its exceeding simplicity,
SO utterly unconscious that it was touch
ing the heights ard depths of utmost
tragedy, that which art vainly struggles
after and nature continually attains.
Yes, Prin was my grandfather's gift
to me, and and one of the dearest little
dogs that any child ever had for playfel-
low. A clever dog, too, as well as I can
Out WudU l. ICmcuuUCI uuCSb
was his goodness and affectionateness.
He was good with everybody, but espe-
cially good with me. There is saying:
woman, a spaniel, and walnut tree
The more you whip 'em the better they be;
but Prin was good without any whip
ping. He didn't deserve punishment,
and he never got 1t. He never got any,
thing but love In all his ife-his happy
little life. That is my consolation now. !"
She chOked down one last sob, poor
woman, and went on.
Prin was almost the only companion
I had, for my big brother was many
years older than I, and my little brother
was not yet born. We were quiet fam
lily, mother and / often being left alone
together while father and Jem went off
with the barge. Father was captain of
one of the barges which trade between
Chatham and Tunbridge, on the river
Midway, and we lived in a village on
the river side, halfway between those
towns
e. have heard say there is no lovelier
country in all England than that which
lies along the banks of the Med way, and
I can well believe it. Children seldom
notice scenery much-nor grown-up per-
sons, for that matter, unless they have
been educated. They may live In the
very prettiest places in the world and
not know it. But I am sure our village
was pretty, and / remember-as a sort
of a dream-how delightful it was to
drift along In fathers barge on sum
mer morning, and be dropped, with
another girl or two, on some quiet mea-
dow, where we were left, with basket
of provisions, for the whole day long,
and picked up by some returning barge
at night. What delicious time it was
Often, even now, / can hear the lark
singing, and smell the cowslips, and see
the white clouds flying over the blue
sky. No living creature could be hap
pier than we little girls were-except
Prin.
We always took Prin with us-in-
deed, | never went anywhere without
Prin except to school and to church
and even there he always trotted with me
part of the way, and then trotted respect
ably home again. Very often he came
to meet me at dinner time-he knew the
hour quite well. He certainly knew my
fathers hour of coming home, and gen
orally went to meet him too, little way
down the lane. He was most polite
little dog, and never omitted to go up
and make his bow-that is, wag his tail
to every member of the family,
whether they noticed him or not; even as
1 observe, Rose always does to your
mamma, though she doesn't care for
dogs, and never pays her any attention"
(Contritely / owned this, offering my
humble tribute to Roses unrequited af-
fiction. But what can one do? One
can't love everybody, and I am sure [
am never unkind to herr
Ono. ma'am, and my father was never
unkind to Pr1n. But he was busy nan,
who did not care much for dogs or chill
dren. He was very good to me, espe-
cially when grew older, though while I
was little generally kept out of his way.
My mother, too-she did not trouble
herself much about Prin-never talked
to him or pettcd him and O, how l
loved him While he was puppy be
almost lived in my arms, and when he
grew I'D he was beside me all dav 1onp