On the rude wharf stood the expectant crowd. To them the ship was the beautiful carrier-dove, with its white wings spread to bring them news of home.
“Perhaps there will be some one from the old home,” said a young man, with his brown eyes filled with eager longing. “The dark old Atlantic! how its breakers used to dash upon the rocks in sight of home. It was glorious. To-morrow will be Christmas! I wonder, will they remember all, as I do!”
By his side stood a great shaggy dog, who belonged to nobody.
He talked only in the dog language, but was very learned, and understood all the young man said. He was a wonderful dog, and had his thoughts. “I am my own master,” he said, “and that is pleasant—yet one likes to be cared for, and nobody cares for me. I shall get no news from home, and to-morrow will be Christmas. This is not as it should be; I must see to it.”
The great dog was getting quite out of temper, and, with a surly growl, he turned round so quickly, that he gave the young man a start.
“One would think the dog was mad,” said he, “only it is not the season.” Then he looked out again hopefully to the coming ship.
The great dog ran round the corner, and through the wet streets all day.
The steamer had arrived, and there were new faces looking eagerly about for old familiar ones, and the old were looking for the new; so there was altogether a great bustle such as was never seen, only in those early days when the ships came in from home. Thus the day passed, and the evening came on, raining dismally—yet it was Christmas eve.
In a dark alley sat the great dog. His shaggy coat kept him warm, yet it was very desolate there alone.
“One should have something to live for,” growled he, “something to take care of and protect, or there is no use in being strong and brave. One might as well be a puny poodle, and sit by the parlor fire,” and he gave an ugly bark, “bow, wow, wow! one should have an object in life.”