s sure to be at his heels, provided I
had not gone out. For, strange to say, though I never carried a gun, he
always followed me, forsaking the hunter and even his master to share my
wanderings. The days that were too stormy for sailing I spent in the
woods, or on the adjacent mountains, wherever my studies called me; and
Stickeen always insisted on going with me, however wild the weather,
gliding like a fox through dripping huckleberry bushes and thorny
tangles of panax and rubus, scarce stirring their rain-laden leaves;
wading and wallowing through snow, swimming icy streams, skipping over
logs and rocks and the crevasses of glaciers with the patience and
endurance of a determined mountaineer, never tiring or getting
discouraged. Once he followed me over a glacier the surface of which was
so crusty and rough that it cut his feet until every step was marked
with blood; but he trotted on with Indian fortitude until I noticed his
red track, and, taking pity on him, made him a set of moccasins out of a
handkerchief. However great his troubles he never asked help or made
any complaint, as if, like a philosopher, he had learned that without
hard work and suffering there could be no pleasure worth having.

Yet none of us was able to make out what Stickeen was really good for.
He seemed to meet danger and hardships without anything like reason,
insisted on having his own way, never obeyed an order, and the hunter
could never set him on anything, or make him fetch the birds he shot.
His equanimity was so steady it seemed due to want of feeling; ordinary
storms were pleasures to him, and as for mere rain, he flourished in it
like a vegetable. No matter what advances you might make, scarce a
glance or a tail-wag would you get for your pains. But though he was
apparently as cold as a glacier and about as impervious to fun, I tried
hard to make his acquaintance, guessing there must be something worth
while hidden beneath so much courage, endurance, and love of
wild-weathery adventure. No superannuated mastiff or bulldog grown old
in office surpassed this fluffy midget in stoic dignity. He sometimes
reminded me of a small, squat, unshakable desert cactus. For he never
displayed a single trace of the merry, tricksy, elfish fun of the
terriers and collies that we all know, nor of their touching affection
and devotion. Like children, most small dogs beg to be loved and allowed
to love; but Stickeen seemed a very Diogenes, asking only t