ith these wings higher and farther than
any bird can go. If I read to you about a volcano in Italy, off you go
on the wings of thought and look down into the fiery crater. If I tell
you of the frozen North, you are there in an instant, gazing upon icy
seas and the wonders of a desolate region. The wings of an eagle are
not half so swift and strong as the wings of your thought. The very
king of birds would perish in regions where they can take you in
safety."

[Decoration]

[Illustration: {Squanko sitting on a wide window ledge}]

SQUANKO.

"What a name for a dog, auntie!"

"_Name!_ Why, Frank, when you hear the whole, like the Queen of Sheba,
you'll say the half has not been told you."

"Why, didn't you find Squanko quite enough for one dog?"

"His full name," said my aunt, loftily, "is Squanko Guy Edgerly
Patterson."

She rolled out these resonant titles with due gravity, and Squanko,
turning his bright eyes from one to the other, solemnly wagged his
tail, as if to signify approval.

I was a New Hampshire boy, and this was my first visit to the city. My
experience with dogs previously had been that of a country boy bred up
among sportsmen. I had known several highly-trained hounds, and famous
bird dogs, though my ideal of canine perfection was that marvel of
sagacity, the shepherd dog. Still, my first love among dogs had been a
noble old hound, who, though sightless from age, would follow a rabbit
better than any young dog was capable of doing. The scent of powder
brought back his lost youth. Let him hear the loading of a gun,--or
the mere rattle of a shot-pouch was enough,--he would break out into
the wildest gambols, dashing hither and yon, in an ecstasy of delight.

Running headlong against rock or tree, as he was liable to do, only
tempered his zeal for a moment; the next, he was tearing along more
madly than ever. Dear old Trim! I had shed a boy's hot tears over his
grave on the hill-side, and I was not ashamed of it either.

I felt a tenderness for Squanko. The yellow spots which marked his
white fur reminded me of Trim's. Remembering the accomplishments of my
lost favorite, I ventured another question.

"What is he good for, aunt Patterson? Can he hunt?"

"Good for!" ejaculated my aunt--"_good for!_ I couldn't keep house
without him." A certain fine disdain curled her lip; she had utterly
ignored my second question. Completely quenched, I was fain to accept
Squanko at once, hunter or no