weight of the would-be robber rolled Satan over upon his back; but, by a lucky snap of his strong jaws, as he rolled, he seized the other dog firmly by the throat. There he hung. The big dog growled, and swept him from side to side over the ground, raising a cloud of dust; and then, lifting him fairly from the earth, shook him savagely in the air; but, all the time, Satan, by the instinct of self-preservation, more than by any definite plan of battle, held silently by his throat, and resolved that there he would stick.

Of course the noise and the sight of the struggle drew idle spectators, like flies, to the scene. Some of them expressed delight, and some horror; but all showed profound interest in the proceedings. Satan had his eyes shut, and could not see them, but he heard them, and he hoped each minute that somebody would interfere. He dared not let go his grip, for he knew that the big dog had strength and weight enough to kill him, if it were once brought to bear fully upon him.

But the big dog was now the more frightened of the two; and his growls had become subdued to a whine, and his efforts became less and less vigorous. Presently a big blacksmith mustered courage to seize Satan, and a stout wagoner ventured to clutch the other dog; and as soon as Satan saw that his foe was likely to be held back he loosened his jaws and gladly retreated from the struggle.

The big dog was in no condition of mind or body to renew his attack, and slunk away; Satan, hardly less frightened, yet pressed by hunger, at once bethought himself of the scraps of meat, and quickly took possession of them, his hunger soon banishing his fright. The crowd of idlers, some of whom had seen him before, were unanimous in his praise; they had not the words to fully express their satisfaction at the gameness "of "the little un." His feelings of fright and his instinct of desperate self-preservation they interpreted as an innate love of bloodthirsty strife; and they one and all agreed that such pluck had not been seen in that town since the remarkable day when "Bill Reynolds's terrier choked the life out of Sam Baker's red setter."

This episode in Satan's life brought him into the ownership of a new master; and

the new master was no other than the tramp who presented himself, with the dog beside him, at the parsonage porch. It happened in this wise :

After the conflict was over, most of the idlers lounged back to their haunts around the stables and saloons. But one of them went over near Satan, as he enjoyed his hardly earned meal, and talked to him in a friendlier tone than he had heard for many a day. It may be that the two glasses of whiskey which had very recently passed down the man's throat had something to do with this friendly expression; but, whatever the cause, the kind words were very grateful to Satan. And he even paused, half-famished as he was, to return the friendly advances with a brief, spasmodic vibration of his tail.

When the food had been eaten, a slice of buttered bread from the rear pocket of his visitor's greasy frock-coat completed the mutual confidences; and Satan licked the hand that patted him, and gave several snuffles and sighs of deep content, and felt that perhaps the world was not so cold and heartless as he had supposed.

The dog's history, from this point on, was told me by various police officers, and it runs as follows:

This man, Satan's next master, was drunken and disreputable enough to dampen the enthusiasm of even the most zealous "slum-worker." He was a tailor by trade, and had given up regular work long before, having learned (that most dangerous and demoralizing fact) that in this country a man can obtain bread without working for it. He had, withal, a certain attractive good-nature, which, with his ready tongue, made it especially easy for him to cajole thrifty householders out of the desired bread and coffee.

So the two faced the world together; and whatever food the tailor got by his persuasive ways he shared with his dog; and the two became devoted friends. Satan was at first puzzled by the long periods of rest and profound sleep in which his master indulged, on occasions, at the most unexpected times and in the most uncomfortable corners of public parks and alleys; indeed, he never fully understood the reason for them; but he learned to stand guard at such times over the prostrate form; and, as the police told

me, woe to the man-brass buttons or no brass buttons-who then tried to lay hand on the drunken tailor.

Thus weeks and months passed by, and Satan's life was not an unhappy one. He grew more and more dirty and unkempt, but the dog had what he most longed for, affection. The one redeeming virtue in the disreputable tailor was that he really was fond of Satan. Other better-kept dogs looked scornfully at him, but he only glanced up confidingly at his master, and trotted along with great content in his breast.

When the tailor was sober he was kindly; and when he was quite filled with liquor he was soon stupid and helpless. It was when he had drank a little only, and desired more, that he was inconsiderate and cross. At such times he was inclined to speak sharply to his faithful companion, and often tried to urge him into quarrels with other dogs; but he urged in vain— Satan had only good-will toward both man and beast. He could not understand why he should attack any creature who had not attacked him. Thus the tailor was somewhat puzzled, and was considerably disappointed in him; for he had witnessed the dog's remarkable prowess, and felt sure that he was a wonderful fighter.

Late in the afternoon of the day when the two had stood in the parsonage porch, a great thirst for liquor came over the man; and the one glass of whiskey which he was able to beg from an old crony only whetted his appetite and made him cross. He spoke sharply to Satan, and once even tried to kick him.

Then an evil combination of circumstances gathered about the two companions. The owner of a bar-room where the thirsty tailor was lounging, hoping for a "treat," had recently bought a dog; and he offered to bet Satan's master that his new dog could whip Satan in a fair fight.

The tailor declared, in the high hope of unlimited drinks, that he could not; and several of the bystanders supported his declaration, and dropped sundry remarks in praise of Satan's prowess. The result was that an agreement was then and there made to set the dogs at each other, and have a trial of their respective merits.

When the new dog was brought out he

proved to be nearly a third larger than Satan, and much heavier, and the scars on his breast and shoulders showed that he was no stranger to the dog-pit. The tailor was just enough excited by the whiskey already within him, and stimulated by the hope of the larger quantity which he hoped to add to it, to be blind to the impending danger.

As for Satan, as soon as he saw the other dog, he wagged his stump of a tail in the friendliest possible way, and would have entered at once upon a frolic; but a restraining hand held him, and the new dog uttered a forbidding growl. After a few more drinks the crowd adjourned to a yard in the rear of an empty house, and disposed themselves on barrels and boxes and on the fence. Then the dogs were brought near each other, poor Satan wondering what it all meant, and looking for an explanation.

A practised hand now pushed the animals roughly up against each other, and although Satan only took this to be an accident, and hoped it would not be repeated, the trained pit-dog knew it, of old, as the signal for conflict, and broke from the hand that held him, and flew at his antagonist.

Now it must not be understood that Satan was a coward, for he was not; and when this ferocious animal sprang at him, great as the odds were against him, he defended himself. He was not as heavy as the pit dog, but he was quicker; and like a flash he leaped aside, and, as the other passed him, he seized him by the throat.

The pit-dog, thus impeded in his leap, rolled headlong upon the ground, and Satan fell with him. At once from the barrels and boxes and the fence went up a chorus of yells at this masterly defence. All expressed great confidence in Satan's powers, heavy as the odds were against him.

The next instant Satan felt the powerful jaws of his enemy shut into the side of his neck. His own hold prevented those jaws from quite reaching under his throat, but the strong, sharp teeth brought pain, and blood flowed from both dogs.

For a few moments there was a pause. On the part of the trained pit-dog this was only a feint; on Satan's part it was in the hope that this was the end of the matter,

and that now kind human hands would stop the savage struggle. But the half-drunken tailor only shouted to his dog, urging him on; and no help came.

Suddenly the pit-dog let go his grip, and by his greater strength bent his head forward and seized poor Satan's right paw in his strong jaws. Instantly there was heard a cracking sound. The bone was broken like a pipe-stem. That was the method of warfare to which he had been trained by savage human instructors.

Satan felt the horrible pain shoot through his whole body, and his own slenderer jaws shut more desperately on his foe's tough throat. But what could the poor fellow do, thus maimed and weakened ! He could only hold on, in a frantic, hopeless way, while his drunken master loudly cursed him, and declared that he would yet conquer.

But not so. He was not a fighter, either by nature or training; all his reputation for ferocity was not justified by his instincts or by his past actions. And while the pit-dog, hardy, savage, relentless, felt only irritation at the grip upon his throat, Satan's strength and courage were fast ebbing.

There was another violent struggle, confused and blood-curdling, and then the pitdog tore himself from Satan's weakened grip, his blood flowing freely, but his strength unimpaired, and his savage nature roused to fury. One quick movement, and he had Satan by the throat and shook him like a rat.

A deathly silence fell on the crowd; those who were at all sober saw that the smaller dog was doomed. The drunken tailor fairly foamed, in his obstinate wrath at his unhappy dog. His drunken madness swallowed up the affection which he really had for his four-footed companion. Poor, desperate, dying Satan looked pleadingly, piteously at him, but that look of entreaty met no response. The brute instincts of his master had supplanted the human sympathies.

Then there was a sickening scene as the maddened pit-dog shook his helpless antagonist, and set his jaws more firmly in the unresisting throat. Deeper and deeper he thrust his glistening teeth, now dyed red with the blood of his victim, until finally there came a great gush of the red stream of life, and he crouched like a tiger

over the quivering body, and the struggle was ended.

Poor Satan, misunderstood through all his life, would be misunderstood no longer. Then the crowd of idle, brutal loafers, following the instincts which always govern such natures, deserted the scene, and in a shambling, shamefaced way, straggled, in twos and threes, back to the saloons and stables.

The barkeeper, with great difficulty, pulled his maddened animal away from the unresisting body; and the tailor, now deserted, and partially sobered by the dreadful scene, stood fixed in a stupid, frightened stare. He stood thus several minutes, as if expecting the inanimate form to rise and come toward him, as of old. Then he spoke, weakly, hesitatingly : "Satan! Satan! come-here!"

But there was no response. Faithful Satan gave no sign of recognition; the stumpy tail and the ragged ears, always so expressive of the owner's hopes and fears and sympathies, now gave no token of life and intelligence.

The wretched tailor started forward; he leaned over his faithful companion's body; he gazed into the half-closed eyes, but no soulful, eloquent glance, as of old, now met him. He laid his trembling hand on the discolored body, and it grew colder and colder under his touch.

Then, for the first time, the truth seemed to penetrate into his drink-obscured mind. The full extent of his loss came over his brutish nature. He groaned aloud; he looked about him, but his careless, selfish companions were gone; he knew that he was alone in the world; his one faithful friend was dead.

Then he took off his coat, and laid the lifeless body upon it; and, gathering the disordered bundle into his arms, he walked

with weak, trembling steps, though not now with the gait of a drunken man— straight over to the parsonage; and there on the porch I met him ; I met them both, amid the shadows of evening, as I had met them in the sunshine of the morning.

The poor, unhappy man seemed to trust me, as if confident of my sympathy; and, as his eye met mine, the stolid, fierce expression left his face, and great tears rolled down his cheeks; with a groan he laid his burden at my feet.

I was moved, deeply moved. I know something about men and a good deal about dogs; and I knew that these two had been loving, devoted friends; more truly sympathetic than are many a man and wife. Never was a loving response lacking from this faithful dumb companion. The very quality which a man values most in the wife of his bosom, unfailing love, always leaped out and up from this poor creature to his master.

I laid my hand on the man's shoulder, and said, tenderly, "My man, you have lost a dear friend. Tell me about it! Come in and sit here!" And then, as he hesitated, I caught his feeling, and I added, “Certainly, bring in his poor body! We won't leave it lying there alone."

So the broken-hearted man came in, and laid his burden beside a chair, and, seating himself, confided his troubles to me— though I was the younger of the two-as a child might confide in its father.

When the sad story was told, with sobs and tears, I had never a chiding word to add; the man's grief was great; and together we gave the poor, torn body burial, peace, and rest, under the shade of a cherry-tree, at the end of the garden.

Then I was able to talk more quietly with the poor, broken-hearted fellow; I tried to turn the current of his feelings into other channels; but he constantly reverted to his great sorrow. After a moment or two of deep, silent reflection he suddenly exclaimed, with touching eagerness, "Does dogs have sowls, Yer Riverence?" I assured him that they had, and the thought seemed to give him comfort; then, after another pause, “An' bees there dogs in hiven, Yer Riverence? Good dogs, av coorse, I mane."

"Yes, Michael, I certainly believe that there are."

"Bliss Gard! bliss Gard! and the howly mither av Gard!" he ejaculated, fervently.

However, the sense of "things seen and temporal" was strong upon him; it is strong upon all of us, far too strong; and he could not divest himself of the feeling that his faithful friend Satan, was somewhere there in the ground, soul with body.

So I understood and sympathized when he presently asked, with a pitiful repression of eagerness that was very touching, if I had not some job of work about the place which he could undertake. Accordingly I made some work for him, and he did it faithfully. And afterward I set him about some important changes in the flower-beds; and the result-well, we shall never know the full results of any of our actions until the Great Day-but the result at the present time is that Michael, with never a relapse, with never a sign of regret for "the road," still potters about the grounds and my dear old church; and, each year, he renews the plants and vines upon the little mound beside the now mouldering trunk of the cherry-tree.