Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1913-05-16
THE EVENING STORY.
Nobody's Dog.
Copyright. 1913. by W. Werner


"Poah theng, Poah theng, Doan you
glib up Gaze dem onmarciful gypsums
went off and lef you in yoah 'fictions.
Sandy, he's gwine tend to YOU
The gaunt black-and-tan hound that
with three broken ribs and broken leg,
had yet managed to drag himself to the
long dead grass under the pokeweed
stalks beside the creeks bridge, had
reached the scale in misery that makes
the near approach of death desirable. But
the voice coming from the small bundle
Of tatters and tar-black flesh and kneel-
ing beside him, were tenderness, SYM
pathy. encouragement and love.
The dog opened his eyes and attempt
ed to respond.
''Da now. da now" the cheering voice
went on. ''nemmine tryin' to sheck yoan
tail. Des lap dis heah water. and den
Sandy's gwine fix up dat broke leg, an
arter a while he's gwine tote you VIVA
nothin won't poster YOU.
Six months before, when the gypsy
caravan led by Black John turned north
ward, he had stolen from Texas plan
tation blooded yearling hound. The dog
had been reasonably happy in following
the wagons of the dark people, but at the
moment of breaking camp on Elm creek
a fractions pony had twice Kicked MIN
before he could evade his heels.
Latterly the hound was beginning to
sniff the air and howl, when he heard
the baying of hounds in the chase at
night-a fact not to the gypsyS liking.
The sense of Justice and mercy was not
highly developed In Black John. When
he saw the dog was MANNED and help
less he first struck the pony and then
kicked the hound when he tried to strug-
gle up and follow the wagons. Ritso.
half-grown lad. stopped to pick up the
wounded dog, but the master forbade him
with an oath.
'Lysander the nine-year-old foster son
of Peptune Backwater, water carrier to
his parents. and three other negroes cut
ting corn just over the fence. looked with
plying eyes upon this canine tragedy,
and in an interim of his water carrying
stole across the road to the injured dog.
With skillful fingers he Whitfield some ne
spints, and with a section of the tail of
his decrepit shirt, that he reasoned
Georgian, his foster mother, would never
miss, he bound up the leg. Sandy had
been a gift child His mother had
assisted Georgian in an unusually large
washing. and suddenly stricken. had died
the same day. Her last words had been
the solemn injunction that the Back
waters would keep her orphan. Accord
ing to Georgian: What's da fun us to do
but keep and feed de young I'M? Huh
ghostd come back and hant us forever
gin We didn't
An unwelcome member of a. household
is not weighed down with privileges. Ly-
wide and deep. He had been born with
a mighty love for dogs in general. but for
long time, ever since the Backwaters
had come to live on the farm Of young
Tybalt Helm, who kept foxhounds. the
burning desire of Lysander for a dog OF
his own had been too great for utterance
had he dared to attempt to utter it.
Late that evening Sandy carried the
hound to a disused, tumbledown cabin, in
a field a quarter Of a mile from his
parents house. Here he made a COM
Portable bed of leaves and dry grass for
him and gave him the half Of corn
pone.
I'D a fetched you somepin NOAH,
honey" he whispered. but de chilluns
lickt up ubbah mouffle. and half my
cawnpone was all / had to bring. Mebbe
in de mawnin' dough. l kin fetch you a
bacon rine You'll hab scuse me keep
in you away out heah by yoahse'f ontel
you gifts we'll" Sandys tones were full of
apologize regret: 'hitd kind o. tuhn pap's
stomich to hab a sick dog aroun, I'm
feered. When you gifts well dali be some
way fun me to keep YOU widout hidin'
you"
Sandy always had been humbly ODE
dent and a willing servant, but in the
days following the accidental acquisition
of his hearts desire he we'll nigh ran his