rted out soon after dawn,
as usual, to go for a splash in a brook not far away. An early riser,
intent on making up her count of birds, met him and reported that he
was trotting briskly and saluted her with "a sunny twinkle of his
tail." Across the road from the brook is a pleasant old homestead under
whose great trees Sigurd often took a morning nap before returning to
the Scarab. Its occupants looked from the window, as they were
dressing, and saw him lying at ease under a spreading evergreen. An
hour later, as they rose from breakfast, they observed that Sigurd had
not changed his posture and, going out to bid him good morning, found
him lifeless. There was no injury on his body nor any sign of pain or
struggle. He had made friends even with Death.

Did he, like the old hero Njal, "gentle and generous," foreknow his end
as he chose out this quiet, beautiful spot? "We will go to our bed,"
said Njal in the saga, "and lay us down. I have long been eager for
rest."

A grave was dug for Sigurd on the brow of Observatory Hill over which
he had so often sped in the splendor of his strength, and there, under
the pines, some score of his closest friends and ours gathered the
following morning. With the reading of dog poems and the dropping of
wild flowers they gave the still body, that was not Sigurd, back to
earth. Jack pressed close to his mistress, whose Wallace sleeps near
by, and whined as the box was lowered, while little Esther, beholding
for the first time a burial, broke into wild crying.

In the autumn I stood by the grave, on which the one dear Sister left
in The Orchard had planted violets and periwinkles from Laddie's mound,
and watched a kindly young workman set above it a low granite block
inscribed, "Sigurd--Our Golden Collie. 1902-1914." As I strewed the
stone with goldenrod and turned away, there echoed on the air ancient
words from the Greek Anthology, "Thou who passest on the path, if haply
thou dost mark this monument, laugh not, I pray thee, though it is a
dog's grave. Tears fell for me."

Sigurd would have been well content with the honors that his College
paid him,--an obituary notice written with tenderest sympathy, a
commemorative letter from his Class of 1911 and many a student elegy.
It shall be his own class poet who paints the final picture:

"A dancing collie and gay woodland sprite,
Philosopher, friend, playmate unto each,
Quiet in trial and charming in delight,
Witho