all, when the dog himself appeared, “dressed in his clothes” (a cane, an all-round white collar and a natty little tie, a pair of three-dollar tasseled kid gloves dangling from his left paw, and a small monitor hat with a big spread—­eagle stuck above the brim,—­the remaining details of costume being of no consequence),—­when he stood “reading the news” from a huge bulletin,—­“LATEST BY CABLE FROM EUROPE,”—­nobody could mistake the personification of Old and Young America.

It had cost much pains and many dainty morsels to drill Sir Charles, with all the aid of his excellent fundamental education; and the great fear had been that he might fail them at the last.  But the scenes were rapid, in consideration of canine infirmity.  If the cupboard was empty, Mother Hubbard’s basket behind was not; he got his morsels duly; and the audience was “requested to refrain from applause until the end.”  Refrain from laughter they could not, as the idea dawned upon them and developed; but Sir Charles was used to that in the execution of his ordinary tricks; he could hardly have done without it better than any other old actor.  A dog knows when he is having his day, to say nothing of doing his duty; and these things are as sustaining to him as to anybody.  This state of his mind, manifest in his air, helped also to complete the Young America expression.  Mother Hubbard’s mingled consternation and pride at each successive achievement of her astonishing puppy were inimitable.  Each separate illustration made its point.  Patriotism, especially, came in when the undertaker, bearing the pall with red-lettered border,—­Rebellion,—­finds the dog, with upturned, knowing eye, and parted jaws, suggestive as much of a good grip as of laughter, half risen upon fore-paws, as far from “dead” as ever, mounting guard over the old bone “Constitution.”

The curtain fell at last amid peals of applause and calls for the actors.

Dakie Thayne had accompanied with the reading of the ballad, slightly transposed and adapted.  As Leslie led Sir Charles before the curtain, in response to the continued demand, he added the concluding stanza,—­

     “The dame made a courtesy,
       The dog made a bow;
     The dame said, ‘Your servant,’
       The dog said, ‘Bow-wow.’”

Which, with a suppressed “Speak, sir!” from Frank Scherman, was brought properly to pass.  Done with cleverness and quickness from beginning to end, and taking the audience utterly by surprise, Leslie’s little combination of wit and sagacity had been throughout a signal success.  The actors crowded round her.  “We’d no idea of it!” “Capital!” “A great hit!” they exclaimed.  “Mother Hubbard is the star of the evening,” said Leonard Brookhouse.  “No, indeed,” returned Leslie, patting Sir Charles’s head,—­“this is the dog-star.”  “Rather a Sirius reflection upon the rest of us,” rejoined Brookhouse, shrugging his shoulders, as he walked off to take his place in the “Oath,” and Leslie disappeared to make ready for “Barbara Frietchie.”