THE FRIENDLY DOG.

Poor Old Whitey!  He fell lame, and was turned out in a little field to starve.  And he would have starved, if it hadn’t been for Milo.

And who was Milo?  He was a dog who had lived in the stable with Old Whitey.  They had become great friends.  Each had found the other trusty and kind.

And I think Milo must have reasoned in this way:  “Is it not sad to see my old friend shut up in that barren little field with nothing to eat?  He has nibbled all the grass, and there is nothing left for him.  It is too bad; and I can’t stand it.”

In the cellar of the stable were some turnips and beets.  What does Milo do but take a long beet in his mouth, and carry it to Old Whitey, who neighs, as if to say, “Thank you, old friend.”

Then he gobbles it up, and looks at Milo, as if to say, “Another, if you please.”  Milo trots off, and brings him a turnip.  Oh, how it does relish!  Old Whitey begins to caper, in spite of his lame legs.

Milo kept running to and fro for half an hour, till Old Whitey had made a good dinner.  Then the man who had shut up the old horse found out what was going on.

He seized a whip, and ran at Milo to punish him.  But it happened that the lady who owned the farm, and who did not know how Old Whitey had been treated, came back from the city just at that time to pass a month in the country.

She saw what was going on, asked what was the matter, and, when she learned it, said to the man, “The dog is a better Christian than you are.  He shall stay, and you shall go.  Come into the house, and let me pay you your wages.”

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Thenceforth Old Whitey was well taken care of; and, as for Milo, he was petted and praised to his heart’s content.  Cruelty to animals is an act which no good man or child can he guilty of.  I was not sorry to learn that the man who had tried to starve Old Whitey was dismissed from his place.

Uncle Charles.

CARLO’S BONNET.

Of course Carlo was a dog, and I’ll tell you how he came to us.  As my father was walking up Arch Street, Philadelphia, one day, with his hands clasped behind him, something cold and damp was pushed against his fingers.  He turned round quickly, and a beautiful brown-and-white pointer came to his side, and looked up at him with such a pleading look in his soft brown eyes, that my father said, as he patted him on the head, “Poor fellow, are you lost?”

That was enough for Carlo, as we named him.  He had found a kind master, and my father a faithful friend.  Of course it wouldn’t do to keep the dog without trying to find his owner:  so the next day he was advertised; and, for several days after, every ring at the bell would make us children start, and feel afraid that somebody had come to take him away.  But nobody came for him; and we loved and petted our new-found treasure to the neglect of wooden horses and dolls, and all our other toys.