he would run. His name
was Turk, and I should have sold him if he had not been the kind of dog
that nobody will buy. I suppose he was not a cow-dog, but what they call
a sheep-dog. At least, when he got big enough, he used to get into
the pasture and chase the sheep to death. That was the way he got into
trouble, and lost his valuable life. A dog is of great use on a farm,
and that is the reason a boy likes him. He is good to bite peddlers and
small children, and run out and yelp at wagons that pass by, and to
howl all night when the moon shines. And yet, if I were a boy again, the
first thing I would have should be a dog; for dogs are great companions,
and as active and spry as a boy at doing nothing. They are also good to
bark at woodchuck-holes.

A good dog will bark at a woodchuck-hole long after the animal has
retired to a remote part of his residence, and escaped by another hole.
This deceives the woodchuck. Some of the most delightful hours of my
life have been spent in hiding and watching the hole where the dog was
not. What an exquisite thrill ran through my frame when the timid nose
appeared, was withdrawn, poked out again, and finally followed by the
entire animal, who looked cautiously about, and then hopped away to feed
on the clover. At that moment I rushed in, occupied the "home base,"
yelled to Turk, and then danced with delight at the combat between the
spunky woodchuck and the dog. They were about the same size, but science
and civilization won the day. I did not reflect then that it would have
been more in the interest of civilization if the woodchuck had killed
the dog. I do not know why it is that boys so like to hunt and kill
animals; but the excuse that I gave in this case for the murder was,
that the woodchuck ate the clover and trod it down, and, in fact, was a
woodchuck. It was not till long after that I learned with surprise that
he is a rodent mammal, of the species Arctomys monax, is called at the
West a ground-hog, and is eaten by people of color with great relish.

But I have forgotten my beautiful fox. Jacko continued to deport himself
well until the young chickens came; he was actually cured of the
fox vice of chicken-stealing. He used to go with me about the coops,
pricking up his ears in an intelligent manner, and with a demure eye and
the most virtuous droop of the tail. Charming fox! If he had held out
a little while longer, I should have put him into a Sunday-school book.
But I beg