and when I whistled for him to go for the cows, he would turn tail and run the other way, and the more I whistled and threw stones at him, the faster he would run.  His name was Turk, and I should have sold him if he had not been the kind of dog that nobody will buy.  I suppose he was not a cow-dog, but what they call a sheep-dog.  At least, when he got big enough, he used to get into the pasture and chase the sheep to death.  That was the way he got into trouble, and lost his valuable life.  A dog is of great use on a farm, and that is the reason a boy likes him.  He is good to bite peddlers and small children, and run out and yelp at wagons that pass by, and to howl all night when the moon shines.  And yet, if I were a boy again, the first thing I would have should be a dog; for dogs are great companions, and as active and spry as a boy at doing nothing.  They are also good to bark at woodchuck-holes.

A good dog will bark at a woodchuck-hole long after the animal has retired to a remote part of his residence, and escaped by another hole.  This deceives the woodchuck.  Some of the most delightful hours of my life have been spent in hiding and watching the hole where the dog was not.  What an exquisite thrill ran through my frame when the timid nose appeared, was withdrawn, poked out again, and finally followed by the entire animal, who looked cautiously about, and then hopped away to feed on the clover.  At that moment I rushed in, occupied the “home base,” yelled to Turk, and then danced with delight at the combat between the spunky woodchuck and the dog.  They were about the same size, but science and civilization won the day.  I did not reflect then that it would have been more in the interest of civilization if the woodchuck had killed the dog.  I do not know why it is that boys so like to hunt and kill animals; but the excuse that I gave in this case for the murder was, that the woodchuck ate the clover and trod it down, and, in fact, was a woodchuck.  It was not till long after that I learned with surprise that he is a rodent mammal, of the species Arctomys monax, is called at the West a ground-hog, and is eaten by people of color with great relish.

But I have forgotten my beautiful fox.  Jacko continued to deport himself well until the young chickens came; he was actually cured of the fox vice of chicken-stealing.  He used to go with me about the coops, pricking up his ears in an intelligent manner, and with a demure eye and the most virtuous droop of the tail.  Charming fox!  If he had held out a little while longer, I should have put him into a Sunday-school book.  But I began to miss chickens.  They disappeared mysteriously in the night.  I would not suspect Jacko at first, for he looked so honest, and in the daytime seemed to be as much interested in the chickens as I was.  But one morning, when I went to call him, I found feathers at the entrance of his hole, —­chicken feathers.  He couldn’t deny it.  He was a thief.  His fox nature had come out under severe temptation.  And he died an unnatural death.  He had a thousand virtues and one crime.  But that crime struck at the foundation of society.  He deceived and stole; he was a liar and a thief, and no pretty ways could hide the fact.  His intelligent, bright face couldn’t save him.  If he had been honest, he might have grown up to be a large, ornamental fox.