“Mother, look what I found!” cried the boy, whose name was Frank, as he hurried into the house, carrying the Woolly Dog. “Look!”
“Where did you get it, Frank?”
“In a snowdrift. He was down in a hole on the coasting hill.”
“Then some little child playing there must have lost the toy,” said Frank’s mother. “And whoever it was will feel bad about it. If you knew who owned the Dog, Frank, you could take it to him.”
“Yes, and if it was in a rich family maybe they’d give me a reward—a lot of money!” cried Frank, for he and his mother were poor.
“You shouldn’t want a reward for doing what is right,” said Mrs. Ward. “But as we don’t know to whom the Dog belongs, put him on the mantel over the stove to dry. You’re too big to play with such toys.”
“Yes, I don’t want him for myself,” answered Frank. “But I’m glad I found him.”
The Woolly Dog was glad, too, and he felt much better up over the warm stove than down in the cold snowdrift. All night the Woolly Dog stood on the mantel. There were no other toys for him to speak to or play with. There was a match box, in the shape of an Alligator, but the Alligator’s head was broken off and he could not talk.
“It is very lonesome here,” said the Woolly Dog aloud, in the middle of the night.
“Tick-tock! Tick-tock!” went the clock.