ce of cake for him--but he will eat nothing.
You sit up till very late, long after Bella has gone to bed, patting his
head, and wishing you could do something for poor Tray; but he only
licks your hand, and whines more piteously than ever.

In the morning, you dress early, and hurry downstairs; but Tray is not
lying on the rug; and you run through the house to find him, and
whistle, and call--Tray--Tray! At length you see him lying in his old
place, out by the cherry tree, and you run to him; but he does not
start; and you lean down to pat him--but he is cold, and the dew is wet
upon him--poor Tray is dead!

[Illustration: POOR TRAY IS DEAD]

You take his head upon your knees, and pat again those glossy ears, and
cry; but you cannot bring him to life. And Bella comes, and cries with
you. You can hardly bear to have him put in the ground; but uncle says
he must be buried. So one of the workmen digs a grave under the cherry
tree, where he died--a deep grave, and they round it over with earth,
and smooth the sods upon it--even now I can trace Tray's grave.

You and Bella together put up a little slab for a tombstone; and she
hangs flowers upon it, and ties them there with a bit of ribbon. You
can scarce play all that day; and afterward, many weeks later, when you
are rambling over the fields, or lingering by the brook, throwing off
sticks into the eddies, you think of old Tray's shaggy coat, and of his
big paw, and of his honest eye; and the memory of your boyish grief
comes upon you; and you say with tears, "Poor Tray!" And Bella too, in
her sad sweet tones, says--"Poor old Tray--he is dead!"

FOOTNOTES:

[124-1] From _Reveries of a Bachelor_, by Donald G. Mitchell (Ik
Marvel).

THE BUGLE SONG

_By_ ALFRED TENNYSON

The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Or echoes roll from soul to soul,