le. The Mohammedans (to whom, by creed,
all dogs are unclean) gave their European foes the first hint that a
female dog was the lowest thing on earth.

The Saracens despised her, as the potential mother of future dogs. And
they loathed her accordingly. Back to Europe came the Crusaders,
bearing only three lasting memorials of their contact with the Moslems.
One of the three was a sneering contempt for all female dogs.

There is no other pet as loving, as quick of wit, as loyal, as
staunchly brave and as companionable as the female collie. She has all
the male's best traits and none of his worst. She has more in common,
too, with the highest type of woman than has any other animal alive.
(This, with all due respect to womanhood.)

Prejudice has robbed countless dog-lovers of the joy of owning such a
pal. In England the female pet dog has at last begun to come into her
own. Here she has not. The loss is ours.

And so back to Lass.

When would-be purchasers were conducted to the puppy-run at the Rothsay
kennels, Lass and her six brethren and sisters were wont to come
galloping to the gate to welcome the strangers. For the pups were only
three months old--an age when every event is thrillingly interesting,
and everybody is a friend. Three times out of five, the buyer's eye
would single Lass from the rollicking and fluffy mass of puppyhood.

She was so pretty, so wistfully appealing, so free from fear (and from
bumptiousness as well) and carried herself so daintily, that one's
heart warmed to her. The visitor would point her out. The kennel-man
would reply, flatteringly--

"Yes, she sure is one fine pup!"

The purchaser never waited to hear the end of the sentence, before
turning to some other puppy. The pronoun, "she," had killed forever his
dawning fancy for the little beauty.

The four males of the litter were soon sold; for there is a brisk and a
steady market for good collie pups. One of the two other females died.
Lass's remaining sister began to "shape up" with show-possibilities,
and was bought by the owner of another kennel. Thus, by the time she
was five months old, Lass was left alone in the puppy-run.

She mourned her playmates. It was cold, at night, with no other cuddly
little fur-ball to snuggle down to. It was stupid, with no one to help
her work off her five-months spirits in a romp. And Lass missed the
dozens of visitors that of old had come to the run.

The kennel-men felt not the slightest in