Glen is as fond of the water as any spaniel, and will bathe in the breakers, leaping clear of the surf on the crest of the waves, and has been very useful in shipwrecks of toy boats—rescuing and bringing them safe to land to the great joy of their youthful owners.
GLEN
Born in Aberdeenshire
Oct. 29 1879
Every evening before he and his master retire for the night, they take a walk. It often happens that his master has a friend spending the evening with him, who, in Glen’s opinion, stays later than he should stay. In this case, when the clock has struck the half-hour after ten, Glen becomes uneasy, rises from his rug before the fire, stretches himself, looks around, and, creeping up to the visitor, gives him a gentle poke under the elbow. Of course he is ordered to lie down by his master; but if the visitor is not acquainted with the ways of the household, he is charmed with the dog’s attention, gives him a friendly pat, and declares that Glen does not bother him. Shortly afterwards, the guest is surprised to find the dog again beside him, sitting up on his haunches, and gently scratching his sleeve with his paw; and he does not discontinue his impolite hints so long as the visitor stays. If the visitor is an habitué, when Glen begins his caresses he looks at his watch, and in spite of his host’s apologies, promises Glen that he will go in a few minutes. Often, when alone, the master will be occupied in the evening with book or pen until, feeling a gentle nudge at his elbow, he looks up to find the large brown eyes of his dog fixed upon him. This is a friendly hint as to the hour, and one which certainly prevents unduly late hours for both master and dog.
A well-known artist in New York, Mr. F. S. Church, makes frequent and delightful studies of animals and birds—although not so much for their own sake, perhaps, as for that of some thought to which they are the fit accessories. Now it is a maiden wandering in desert places, alone, save for the savage beasts her innocence has tamed. Now it is an Alpine shrine where rain and snow have beaten against the patient Christ upon the cross. But still the pent-roof of the shrine affords some shelter; and beneath it, along the outstretched arms, or nestling close to the thorn-crowned head, is a flock of birds. The storm-beaten little wanderers have found refuge where many a one has come before—with the Christ, at the cross.
MR. CHASE AND KAT-TE.
Here a group of feathered mourners singing a dirge for the last rose of summer; there a witch’s daughter in mystic converse with an owl.