Yes, Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew.

Just listen to this:-- When the old mill took fire, and the flooring fell through, And I with it, helpless there, full in my view What do you think my eyes saw through the fire That crept along, crept along, nigher and nigher, But Robin, my baby-boy, laughing to see The shining? He must have come there after me, Toddled alone from the cottage without

Any one's missing him. Then, what a shout-- Oh! how I shouted, "For Heaven's sake, men, Save little Robin!" Again and again They tried, but the fire held them back like a wall.

I could hear them go at it, and at it, and call, "Never mind, baby, sit still like a man!

We're coming to get you as fast as we can."

They could not see him, but I could. He sat Still on a beam, his little straw hat Carefully placed by his side; and his eyes Stared at the flame with a baby's surprise, Calm and unconscious, as nearer it crept.

The roar of the fire up above must have kept The sound of his mother's voice shrieking his name From reaching the child. But I heard it. It came Again and again. O G.o.d, what a cry!

The axes went faster; I saw the sparks fly Where the men worked like tigers, nor minded the heat That scorched them,--when, suddenly, there at their feet, The great beams leaned in--they saw him--then, crash, Down came the wall! The men made a dash,-- Jumped to get out of the way,--and I thought, "All's up with poor little Robin!" and brought Slowly the arm that was least hurt to hide The sight of the child there,--when swift, at my side, Some one rushed by, and went right through the flame, Straight as a dart--caught the child--and then came Back with him, choking and crying, but--saved!

Saved safe and sound!

Oh, how the men raved, Shouted, and cried, and hurrahed! Then they all Rushed at the work again, lest the back wall Where I was lying, away from the fire, Should fall in and bury me.

Oh! you'd admire To see Robin now: he's as bright as a dime, Deep in some mischief, too, most of the time.

Tom, it was, saved him. Now, isn't it true Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew?

There's Robin now! See, he's strong as a log!

And there comes Tom, too-- Yes, Tom was our dog.

CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.

WILLIAM OF ORANGE SAVED BY HIS DOG.

On the night of the 11th and 12th of September, 1572, a chosen band of six hundred Spaniards made an attack within the lines of the Dutch army. The sentinels were cut down, the whole army surprised and for a moment powerless. The Prince of Orange and his guards were in profound sleep; "but a small spaniel dog," says Mr. Motley, "who always pa.s.sed the night upon his bed, was a most faithful sentinel. The creature sprang forward, barking furiously at the sound of hostile footsteps, and scratching his master's face with his paws. There was but just time for the Prince to mount a horse which was ready saddled, and to effect his escape through the darkness, before his enemies sprang into the tent. His servants were cut down, his master of the horse and two of his secretaries, who gained their saddles a moment later, all lost their lives, and but for the little dog's watchfulness, William of Orange, upon whose shoulders the whole weight of his country's fortune depended, would have been led within a week to an ignominious death. To his death, the Prince ever afterwards kept a spaniel of the same race in his bed-chamber."

MOTLEY'S _Rise of the Dutch Republic_.

The mausoleum of William the Silent is at Delft. It is a sort of small temple in black and white marble, loaded with ornaments and sustained by columns between which are four statues representing Liberty, Providence, Justice, and Religion. Upon the sarcophagus lies the figure of the Prince in white marble, and _at his feet the effigy of the little dog that saved his life at the siege of Malines_.

DE AMICIS' _Holland_.

THE BLOODHOUND.

Come, Herod, my hound, from the stranger's floor!

Old friend--we must wander the world once more!

For no one now liveth to welcome us back; So, come!--let us speed on our fated track.

What matter the region,--what matter the weather, So you and I travel, till death, together?

And in death?--why, e'en _there_ I may still be found By the side of my beautiful black bloodhound.

We've traversed the desert, we've traversed the sea, And we've trod on the heights where the eagles be; Seen Tartar, and Arab, and swart Hindoo; (How thou pull'dst down the deer in those skies of blue;) No joy did divide us; no peril could part The man from his friend of the n.o.ble heart; Aye, his _friend_; for where, where shall there ever be found A friend like his resolute, fond bloodhound?

What, Herod, old hound! dost remember the day When I fronted the wolves like a stag at bay?

When downward they galloped to where we stood, Whilst I staggered with fear in the dark pine wood?

Dost remember their howlings? their horrible speed?

G.o.d, G.o.d! how I prayed for a friend in need!

And--he came! Ah, 'twas then, my dear Herod, I found That the best of all friends was my bold bloodhound.

Men tell us, dear friend, that the n.o.ble hound Must forever be lost in the worthless ground: Yet "Courage," "Fidelity," "Love" (they say), Bear _Man_, as on wings, to his skies away.

Well, Herod--go tell them whatever may be, I'll hope I may ever be found by thee.

If in sleep,--in sleep; if with skies around, Mayst thou follow e'en thither, my dear bloodhound!

BARRY CORNWALL.

HELVELLYN.

This fine poem was suggested by the affection of a dog, which kept watch over the dead body of its master until found by friends three months afterwards. The young man had lost his way on Helvellyn. Time, 1805.

I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied.

On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather, Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.

Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?

When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?

How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?

And, oh! was it meet, that--no requiem read o'er him-- No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him-- Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart?

When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming; In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming, Far adown the long isle the sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When, 'wildered he drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.

And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.

WALTER SCOTT.

LLEWELLYN AND HIS DOG.

The spearmen heard the bugle sound, And cheerily smiled the morn, And many a brach, and many a hound, Attend Llewellyn's horn.

And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a louder cheer; "Come, Gelert! why art thou the last, Llewellyn's horn to hear?

"Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam?

The flower of all his race!

So true, so brave--a lamb at home, A lion in the chase!"

That day Llewellyn little loved The chase of hart or hare; And scant and small the booty proved, For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied, When near the portal seat, His truant Gelert he espied, Bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gained the castle door, Aghast the chieftain stood: The hound was smeared with drops of gore; His lips and fangs ran blood.

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise, Unused such looks to meet; His favorite checked his joyful guise, And crouched and licked his feet.

Onward in haste Llewellyn pa.s.sed, (And on went Gelert too;) And still, where'er his eyes were cast, Fresh blood-drops shocked his view.