And acted queer.
Shot with a gun,
Her race is run,
And she lies here.’”
The small mourner at this small funeral has since then had many a pet to love and mourn. Hardly a child but knows the dogs whose stories were told in Our Young Folks some twenty years ago: Carlo, the poor, good, homely, loving mastiff; the Newfoundland Rover, who, like Christopher North’s Brontë, met a cruel death by poison; Stromion, the ‘pure mongrel,’ Prince and Giglio; lady-like Florence; Rag, the Skye, and Wix, the Scotch terrier; all these are familiar names. Then, too, there were cats, as we have just seen; there were birds; there were accidental, happen-so pets; and, in fine, when we think of Harriet Beecher Stowe, it is not only as the friend of her race, but also as the friend and advocate of the great world of animals all around us.
Prominent among her pets to-day are Punch and Missy, as you see them here; photographed from life. Excellent sitters they must have been, even the tip of their impetuous tails being subdued into quiet for the time. The result is an accurate likeness except in the case of Missy, whose ears were, unfortunately, so far in the foreground, that they appear twice their proper size.
MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE AT HOME.
(By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. )
Punch was a present to Mrs. Stowe, and after being selected with great care, at a noted dog fancier’s in Boston, was sent by express from that city to Hartford, Conn., in the fall of 1881. “I shall never forget,” says one of the family, “how droll and cunning he looked in his slatted crate, trying every aperture with his funny blunt nose, for a way of escape. He soon, however, made friends with us all, after being released from his small wooden prison, and was treated by all with the consideration of a young prince.”