The Press., 1895-12-19


 big dogl'' Willie had cried, and clap ping their joyful little hands they start ed forward to get as near to the brig as they could. They saw several people gather round the creature presently, and upon that they pushed their way into the boat, too, squeezing in cleyerly be- tween the sailors legs, till they got quite close to where the dog was, with the master of the brig standing by his side and telling this sad little story:
 In the gray of the summer morning, he was saying, almost as the French coast was coming into sight, one of the crew of the brig had seen little black speck dancing on the water far away. They could not tell what it was-it was too indistinct for that-but they knew it might be drowning man, so they lowered thelr little boat at once and made for him as hard as they could pull But it was no man. When they came near, they found nothing but this poor lost dog floating on bit of wreck, the spar of some vessel that had prob ably foundered- in the storm and gone silently down with hercr They took him into their boat and brought him back with them. This was all his story.
 Here he stood now, dazed, half starved, bewildered, looking with strange eyes at each strange face about him, dumb through it all As the mas ter of the collier told the little story moro than one pitying hand was put forward to stroke the big, black head, but the creature took no notice of any one of them, only stood quite still. piercing through the little group with those sad, eager, human eyes of his. "Poor fellow! Poor dog!" they said
 The children stood little from hlm with grave, touched faces. They were gazing so earnestly at him that they did not see their father, who had come down to the Quay-as he came often to give momentary eye to his young monkeys and see that they were not drowning themselves or getting into any other hopeless mischief, and who was standing now behind them and had been listening while the master told his tale. They only knew he was there when they suddenly heard his voice.
 "What are you going to do with him? Will you part with him?' he called out to the master. Then the lads turned round, with little cry. "Oh, father ]" they exclaimed, and their hearts leaped to their mouths. They were afraid to utter another word. They stood with their lips parted with eagerness as they waited for the masters answer.
 Well, sir, I'm open to an offer for him." the man said, after a moments silence, and then the children burst into shouts of delight.
 Ten minutes afterward they were walking home with the beast between them. They chattered away as they went of all that they would do with him, what they should call him, how he should 80 everywhere with them, and how many things they would teach him. They held him by the ear and clapped his back and gamboled round him. Who can tell what his thoughts were all the time? Who could tell them, as he walk ed on with those dumb, wondering, pa tient eyes of his, with the new voices in his ear, and all the old world and the old life gone from him like dream?
 ''We brought him home with us in a week or two," my friend said to me (we had been walking up and down the lawn while he told me the little story), 'and the boys soon grew very fond of him, but it is 8 curious thing that dur ing all these five years he has been with us now he has never grown more than half at home here. I think he has been as happy with us as he would have been anywhere, and more docile, patient,' kindly natured beast than he is you never knew, but yet he has always to me been like dog living with 8 broken heart. l don't believe for my part that he has ever forgotten that old master of his, whoever he may have been, for a day or an hour since he lost him. Look at him now. Look what a fine, human pathos there is about that tragic, silent face of his. Depend upon it, he is think ing of the old story at this moment, puzzling it all out again, remembering, perhaps, how he saw the boat go down and heard his masters last cry, if, in- deed, it was his last. Perhaps he may doubt even vet whether it was. I some times think he has still at moments 8 kind of forlorn hope that the lost days will come back again and the lost eyes look into his once more.
 We went up to him again where he lay and stood looking at him. He was dozing, with eyes half closed, in the sunshine, his black coat grown little rusty now, his ears dropping, his senses perhaps beginning to he dulled by age, for he was old. He was not likely to live much longer, my friend said.
 As we stood so he took no notice of us He was thinking of other things perhaps in half waking dream living the old life again.
 "Poor Brutusr' I said once and stopped down to smooth his grand old head, but still he did not move or look up.
 'Ah, he doesn't care for that name, l" my friend said. "He will answer to it sometimes, but he knows very we'll that he had another name once quite different from Brutus. We have never been able to find out what it was. It is buried, too, with all the rest of his history''
 We heard the boys voices coming to- ward us merrily and their footsteps on the gravel under the chestnut trees. For a moment Brutus opened his eyes at the sound of them and gently moved his bushy tail. Then, stretching out his great fore paws with peaceful sigh, he laid his head down on them and dozed again. We left him lying so, slumbering calmly in the sunshine, with his dog gish, faithful thoughts perhaps gone dreamily back to the old days and hear ing in sleep the old voices that were lost to him forever in that sorrowful night when the unknown ship went down at sea.-Georgiana M. Craik.
 Cycle Slang.
 What a lot of slang verbiage has grown out of the bicycle! The youth who talks boastfully and erratically is called down by the apt suggestion of the hiCvcIa yOnOO IUornar xui+b 4ho ,.o,,o o,,l-