t was on the morning of the second day of the new year. The mercury hovered a few degrees above zero. The winds that swept down from the North were keen and biting, and the mist-like snow fell fitfully. An old man, his once tall form bent by the burdens and sorrows of sixty odd years, his step slow and shuffling, his clothes unkempt and tattered, his long beard flowing down upon his breast, his eye still bright and in his face lingering traces of refinement, made his way along the deserted street. He was accompanied by a dog, whose long, shaggy hair indicated a blooded ancestry. So emaciated was his form that even through his shaggy coat could be seen the outline of his bony frame.
The two, master and dog, hobbled into the city's out-door relief department. The dog at once curled himself up on a rug near a radiator and was soon asleep, dreaming, perchance, of other and more prosperous days, with "a virtuous kennel and plenty of food." The old man stood for a time warming his benumbed fingers at the radiator. Presently one of the clerks approached and asked him who he was and what he wanted.
"I am John Owens," he replied; "and I want to go to the infirmary. I am ill, homeless and penniless."
"All right, my man," said the clerk, and at once wrote out a permit.
The old man took the permit, read it over carefully, and said: "It says nothing about the dog. I want one for the dog, too."
"We can't give you one for the dog; we have no place out there for him. You'll have to leave him behind."
"Leave my dog behind? No, sir," said the old fellow, straightening up his bent form. "He's the only friend I have in this world. Why old 'Shep' has been my only friend for the last eight years. I had money, friends and influence when he was a pup, and he had a better bed and better food then
than I have had for many a year. I had my carriages once, and a man to drive them, too. I know it sounds strange, now. Sometimes it seems like a dream. But never mind. When I woke up from that dream I had only my wife Martha, my son George, and 'Shep.' Every one else turned from me.
"My wife was a good, brave soul, but our reverses broke her down, and on one spring day we laid her away beneath the daisies and the myrtle. Soon after that my son George was taken from me by that stern monster, death, leaving me alone—alone, with no friend but 'Shep.'
"Where do I sleep? Why, my boy, anywhere. You don't know how many warm stairways there are. 'Shep' and I do, though, and we curl up together in them when the officer on the beat isn't looking. Yes, poor fellow, he's lame; had his leg broken. He got that trying to keep me out of the way of a coal wagon two years ago, when I slipped on the icy street.