d.

These monks, it is said, keep a bell ringing during storms. It seems
to me I can see one of the old monks sitting over his fire, putting
on more wood, and making his tight chalet as warm as he can, in case
a traveller should come.

Presently he hears a cheerful bark from one of the dogs. He opens
his door; the poor, frozen, half-starved traveller enters.

The monk takes off the wet garments; he rubs the stiff, cold hands;
he speaks kind words to the stranger, and gives him something warm
to drink.

Meanwhile, the good dog lies down on the floor, looking with his
big, kind eyes at the wayfarer, and seems to say, "I'm glad I found
you and brought you here to my master. Eat and drink, and be
comfortable; don't be shy; there's enough here always for a poor
traveller."

It is a sad thing to turn from this pleasant picture to the history
of the bloodhounds in the West Indies. Who would believe that the
good and great Columbus employed bloodhounds to destroy the Indians
who made war against the Spaniards?

"When the Indians were conquered, the bloodhounds were turned into
the woods and became wild, so that there are now many of these wild
dogs on the islands. I grieve to say that, here in this civilized
land, bloodhounds are sometimes used to catch runaway slaves."

"Runaway slaves, Mother? Do you mean men, like Anthony Burns," asked
Frank. "He was a slave, was he not?"

"Yes, Frank, men like Anthony Burns, when they try to get their
freedom, if they are known to be hiding in a wood, are often hunted
with dogs."

"O, it is very wicked, Mother!"

"So I think, Frank; let us hope that the time will come when every
man and woman and child in our land will think so, and then there
will be no more slaves."

"And now, let us turn away from the history of bloodhounds to some
pleasant thoughts before we finish our twilight talk."

"The poet Cowper was a great friend to animals. Many of his most
beautiful letters to his friends have very pleasant passages about
his pretty tortoise shell kitten, and his distress that she would
grow up into a cat, do what he would."

"He was a lover of tame rabbits and hares, and speaks of all these
animals as if they were his friends and fellow-creatures. In one of
his little poems he tells a pretty story of his spaniel Beau. I was
so pleased with it that I learned it by heart unconsciously, from
reading it over so often."

"Do repeat it, Mother," cried both the boys.

Mrs. Chil