THIS is a beautiful moonlight evening, but you would rather listen to me than bark at the moon?
All right; I don’t mind talking when I have good listeners, but to try to tell a story and be constantly reminded that those to whom you talk are thinking of something else, is not pleasant.
What shall I talk about to-night?
“Something concerning our relatives away back?”
So you want to know what kind of blood there is in our veins? That is an interesting theme for some, and why not for us?
It is not three days since I heard our master boast that he had descended from the Pilgrim Fathers. We do not all claim to be related, but we are of one family now, and so interested in each other.
I like to think that some of my relatives have done good and been faithful; so I think I will tell you what one of my great-great-great-uncles did a long time ago.
His name was Sport, and at the time to which I refer he lived with a man by the name of Stillman. He was thought much of for hunting, and because of his skill in this direction he had a chance to earn the reputation which so many envied; that is, to earn it in just the way he did.
I want my young friends to remember that the way is always open for any dog to get a good name if he will only try. Why, even a little insignificant poodle can be of use. There is our neighbor, Mr. Fellows; he had two or three dog sentinels all about his place, and the other night a man got clear to his front door, and none of these big fellows said or knew any thing of it; but the moment the man reached the door little Tip, the poodle, notified the whole house.
Well, this dog Sport was taken by his master, one fall, away off into the wood. They went miles and miles beyond where anybody pretended to live, and there in a little hut they staid for days and days, the master hunting and fishing and resting.