Bing

Front matter

Bing

By Clarence Hawkes

Illustrated by Griswold Tyng

Introduction

Faithful and true, will be found upon four short legs, Ten times, for one upon two."

In these two quaint lines, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, has expressed the sentiments of most Englishmen, as well as those of nearly all truly great souls. To hate dogs is a sign of narrow-mindedness; and his fellow men may well watch a man who habitually, and without any special reason, cannot endure the finest member of the animal creation.

Maeterlinck says that the dog has more nearly broken down the barrier between man and the animal kingdom than has any other animal. Not only is this true, but the dog has also aroused in man some of his loftiest sentiments and most unselfish love. Man has doubtless had a great influence on the dog's character and disposition, but it is equally true that the dog has both elevated and ennobled man.

If dogs and men have influenced each other greatly in a spiritual way, they have materially influenced each other even more. Who could have dreamed that out of his common ancestor, the grey wolf, could have sprung so many and varied breeds of dogs; yet each branch of this great family of two hundred breeds is a true son of a wolf. Breeding, selection, training, and environment have made all the difference between the great Dane, or the powerful wolfhound, and the Pekinese, or toy poodle. Climate has doubtless done much to mould the different strains, just as it has created different races of men; but climate is not all. The dog has been as clay in the potter's hand, and man has moulded him almost at will. Not only has he moulded his size, shape, and color, but also his disposition and habits of mind, for the dog in good hands is as plastic as wax. Man has taught dogs to be as savage as wolves, or as gentle and loving as any person; he has taught the dog to range the forests and the plains in pursuit of wild game, and has also taught him to act as a faithful watchman—a policeman neither to be bribed nor browbeaten.

Brave dogs have never hesitated in serving their masters, even when their own lives were in danger, else how could Barry, the faithful St. Bernard, have scaled the crags and mountain-high snowdrifts for so many years in search of lost travellers and saved so many lives? Few human lifesavers in any service have a better record than has this noble dog. Yet, to him, it was not heroism, but just a part of the day's work, when men lashed his life-saving outfit upon this massive dog and sent him forth into the howling, swirling storm where no man dared to venture.

The men, women, and children that dogs have saved from drowning are legion; while faithful fire dogs, and police dogs do valiant service for mankind.

Not only is the dog a good policeman, but he is often a fine detective with a superhuman sense of evil thoughts in the minds and hearts of bad men. There is one great business house which has a large dog stationed in the outer office. Each visitor to the building is scrutinized critically and, when the stranger who wishes to see the general manager finally reaches the inner office, a little slip of paper has preceded him, telling the manager how the caller has been sized up by the four-footed detective in the outer office. If he goes up to the stranger and sniffs him in a friendly way, the caller always does business with the firm, if it is possible, for the dog has given him all the recommendation the company requires.

No family circle is ever quite complete, especially if the family contains children, without a dog. Merwin writes, in "Dogs and Men": "Blessed are they whose furniture is so inexpensive and so shabby that children and dogs are not excluded from its sacred precincts."

It means so much to the different members of the family to hear that joyous bark when they open the front door, or to feel an inquisitive muzzle thrust into the hand. To Father and the boys, it is comradeship; and to Mother and the girls, it is protection and endearment. How joyously the happy canine bounds to bring Father's slippers, now that Master is at home! How the inquisitive nose goes sniffing at the different bundles just arrived from the grocery or market, to see if there is any possibility of a bone for a poor hungry dog's supper!

If there are children in the family, the need of a good dog is great. It is the part of wisdom, when the baby comes, to get a puppy and let the two grow up together. The dog will learn to look after the baby even more faithfully than any nurse-girl, while from the dog the growing child can learn patience, gentleness, and how to love, for only a dog really knows how to love. It does not matter to him whether his master be rich or poor, black or white, virtuous or vicious; he loves him just the same. He is the only friend who sticks by when the family fortunes sink to the zero point, and there is little left in the house but love. The faithful dog shares the poor man's poverty just as joyously as he does the rich man's generosity, and he is faithful to the last breath in either event.

A good and loving dog is a sure barometer of the family fortune, for his tail droops with his master's sorrow and waves high and joyously when the family fortunes soar. A man can fool his wife when he is worried, but he cannot deceive his dog. Somehow that faithful old companion will smell out the trouble and come around and climb up into his master's lap to see if he can heal the wound. He responds instantly to a better mood.

The disposition of a dog is often an index of the disposition of his master, or his family; so we should strive to be at our very best in order that the family canine may reflect our own benevolence and goodness.

Nor has the dog always been without honor. Dog-lovers will recall the little black-and-tan terrier, Cæsar, owned by the late King Edward of England, that, in the great funeral procession of the dead monarch, marched immediately after the bier, while thirty thousand British soldiers, with arms at rest, followed behind him. It was a fine tribute of the British royal family to the nobility of the dead monarch's little canine friend, that had been his constant companion in his last hours.

Nor has the dog been backward in the strenuous adventurous life of his god, the man creature. The Alaskan dog has drawn him along the snowbound trails of that bleak land when the thermometer was fifty below zero. In the great Alaskan sweepstake race which was given up in 1917, because it took so much out of both dogs and men, the dog was the chief actor. On bloody battle-fields, dogs have drawn powder-wagons where it was so rough that horses or motor vehicles could not travel. When the smoke of battle had died away, other brave dogs went over the battle-field carrying first aid to the wounded, and saving many gallant lives for patriotic service.

On the lonely moors of Scotland and England, the shepherd is never alone so long as he has his faithful dog with him, but he is hopelessly lost without his four-footed friend.

Thus it will be seen in many of the most stirring adventures of his life that the faithful dog has been by man's side, sharing his hardships and keeping him company.

Since the dog is such a true and worthy friend to man, I bespeak from all my readers such treatment of him as his nobility deserves. I beseech the vivisectionist to stay the knife that he holds above his helpless friend, for the dog, alive, can do much more for humanity than he can dead. Vivisection is a relic of barbarism and no part of true science. It is destined to disappear as a hideous nightmare, something that is best forgotten.

Officers who restrain dogs and enforce laws concerning them should temper justice with mercy, for they little dream what good friends to man they lose when they ruthlessly slaughter dogs.

Boys who stone dogs should stop and think before they throw the missile, for some day this very dog may pull them from the water and save their lives.

Automobilists who mercilessly run dogs down on the public highways should re- member that, although they can take life, they cannot give it. They have no right to blot carelessly out a life which may be very dear to some child, or to some older dog-lover.

Owners of dogs,—yours is a great responsibility! Always see that your dog's collar is sufficiently loose, and if he is chained, be sure that he has a generous leash. Look to his food and his water as you would wish to be treated yourself. He will pay you back for all your care in the golden coin of love; such love as money cannot buy; a love which is always faithful and which never wavers.

If fortune flouts you, other friends may slight you, but never your dog. You may fall in grace in the eyes of the world, but you can never fall in his esteem. To him you will always be master, his first and last love, and his god, often a very sorry god, disgracing the love and trust that he gives you, yet still his god.

He will lick the empty hand with just as much affection as he does the hand of opulence, and all he asks in return is to be near you, to share your joys and your sorrows, to comfort your lonely moments with his silent adoration, and to kiss away your tears with his soft tongue, if you are overwhelmed with grief. If you speak to him kindly now and then; if you give back just a fraction of the lavish love he is always outpouring; if you call him chum or pal occasionally and tell him confidentially all those things that perplex you; he will understand much better than you imagine, and his dumb affection will do much to assuage the sharpest grief. If you treat him as such a friend deserves to be treated, it is all he asks.

He will lie for hours looking up at you with those adoring eyes, perfectly happy. If you treat him right, you will find his love as constant as the magnetic needle is to the pole. Others may fluctuate, but never he. In riches and poverty, joy and sorrow, honor and disgrace, heat and cold, he is always the same adoring, worshipful friend, faithful unto death, giving his all, and giving it gladly.

Fidelity, loyalty, valor, trustfulness, honesty, devotion, selflessness, thy name is Dog, the best friend that God ever vouchsafed to man.

The Christmas Pup

Mrs. Browning stood on the corner of Broad Street, at the point where Bay Path crosses it on its way from Boston to Albany. She was waiting for a trolley car to Meadowdale. In summer, this street on which she stood was a nature-lover's paradise, with its four rows of gigantic elms stretching their long arms far out over the green carpet. At close of day, when the dark shadows stole from behind the trunks of the mighty trees and stray sunbeams filtered down through the leaves and made patches of gold on the green carpet, it was a child's paradise.

But, now, as Mrs. Browning saw it on Christmas Eve, its beauty was of another order, and it fairly took away her breath as she gazed in awe upon it. There had been a heavy snowfall two days before, and this had been succeeded by rain which had frozen as it fell, so that now the village green and adjacent fields were covered with a coating of crystals that glistened and glimmered in the moonlight like a woodland lake with its first coating of ice.

Every twig of the great elms was bejeweled with ice, and all the weeds and bushes were hung with diamonds. It looked more like a fairy world than the staid old town. The icicles on the trees caught the moonbeams and refracted them in all the colors of the prism, while countless stars in the heavens added to the brilliancy of the scene.

It was an animated picture, with children shouting and laughing and, occasionally, a sleigh-ride party crossing the street. The loads of merry youngsters sang and shouted and rang discordant cow-bells as they passed. But when there came an occasional lull in the merrymaking, it seemed to Mrs. Browning that the stillness which followed had a peculiar quality, as though the hush of that far-off Christmas, nineteen hundred years before, had come down through the centuries and settled like a benediction on the old town.

At this point in Mrs. Browning's reflections, the trolley car stopped at her corner and she hurried inside to quite another world. Outside, the air had been clear, crisp, and bracing; but inside the car, the artificial warmth was heavy with many perfumes strangely mingled together. Every one in the car was excited and full of good spirits. Many were talking and laughing and already extending Christmas greetings, although it was only Christmas Eve. There was a sound of animated conversation, a general Christmas chatter, each advising the other as to what they should get for Johnnie or Susie, or debating concerning their gifts for their husbands this year. It was so hard to get just the right thing for one's husband. Presently, Mrs. Browning was seated and chatting with a neighbor, for she, too, was in quest of a Christmas present.

Mrs. Browning did not ride into town, but stopped by a cross street about a mile from the center. A brisk walk for five minutes down this street brought her to a low old-fashioned house, where she mounted the piazza steps and rang the bell. At the sound of the tinkling bell, there was a chorus of barks from the dog company inside. There was the high staccato of the Pomeranian, the deep bay of the police dog, and several other tones ranging in between these two in pitch.

Presently, a tall lank man with a stoop in his shoulders opened the door.

"Good evening, Mr. Manson," said Mrs. Browning.

He did not at first recognize his visitor.

"Oh, is that you, Mrs. Browning?" he exclaimed. "Come right in," and he threw wide the door.

As Mrs. Browning entered, a beautiful English setter crowded up to her and put her muzzle into the woman's hand, and received a pat on her noble head. The police dog looked curiously in from a side door, and the two Pomeranians viewed the newcomer from a distance.

"Here, you dogs, get back there! This is your friend, Mrs. Browning. Don't you know her? Come right in. Mrs. Manson has stepped out for a minute," and he led the way to the sitting-room.

"Here, you, Queenie," said the man peremptorily to a sleek greyhound that was in the large easy chair, "get up and give Mrs. Browning the chair."

The greyhound raised herself, yawned, and jumped lightly to the floor.

"Thank you, Queenie," said Mrs. Browning, as she seated herself.

"How is Mr. Browning?" inquired Mr. Manson. "I understand he has been in the hospital."

"Yes," replied Mrs. Browning. "He just arrived home this afternoon. He is tired out. We can't blame him. This pounding away at a typewriter for twenty-five years with an endless round of dictionaries, manuscripts, and then more manuscripts is enough to tire out any one. I don't see how he stands it."

"That's so," said Mr. Manson. "It's all I can do to just keep track of the titles of his books, to say nothing of reading them."

"And that brings me to my errand," explained Mrs. Browning. "I must not be away too long. He is all alone. I have come over to buy the fox terrier you advertised in the paper this morning. I want it for a Christmas present for Mr. Browning. He is tired and discouraged, and I know a little dog will do him good. He wants something snuggly to cuddle. I think the paper said the price was twenty-five dollars," and Mrs. Browning reached for her pocket-book.

At these words, Mr. Manson looked troubled and ran his fingers through his hair.

"I'm mighty sorry, Mrs. Browning, but I sold that little fox terrier an hour ago. I don't know of any one in the whole world I would rather have sold him to than to you and Mr. Browning, but he is gone. I'm very sorry."

Mrs. Browning's astonishment and disappointment were so great that. she dropped her pocket-book, and change rolled in every direction. When the money had been recovered and the pocket-book had been put back in the bag, Mr. Manson said: "I think I can fix you up all right. Fox terriers are good, but I have got some other dogs that will do just as well."

"Oh, no, you haven't," put in Mrs. Browning. "A fox terrier was just what I wanted. I have made up my mind, and another dog won't do."

But Mr. Manson was not discouraged. He knew dogs, and he also thought he knew men and women, so he kept right on just as though he had not heard Mrs. Browning. "You come out to the kennels and see what I have. I've got the most wonderful lot of beagle pups you ever saw in your whole life, as many as twenty of them, and every one a beauty. I know you will like them, once you see them."

"I do not think I should want to buy one," said Mrs. Browning. "I had made up my mind to buy a fox terrier."

"Well, it won't cost anything to look at them," returned Mr. Manson. "Come out and see them. They are such beauties, and so full of life."

As Mr. Manson had said, the beagle pups were beauties. There were nearly twenty of them jumping about in their own particular pen. They moved so rapidly that it was almost impossible to pick out one and then be sure you still had your eyes on the same dog a minute after. Mrs. Browning gazed at them in perfect silence for at least a minute, and Mr. Manson, like the wise man that he was, said nothing.

"Well," he inquired at last, "how do they look to you? What do you think of them?"

"They are great," said Mrs. Browning enthusiastically. "They are beautiful little dogs. I don't know2 Perhaps one of them would do for Mr. Browning, even though I had made up my mind to get a fox terrier."

"I am sure it would," returned her host. "I tell you what I will do. You pick out one, and we will make Mr. Browning a Christmas present of it together. I will give half and you half."

"No, that will never do," returned Mrs. Browning. "I want to give the whole myself."

"All right," said Mr. Manson good-naturedly. "I will let you have the pup at half-price."

The next question was to select a pup from the wriggling mass. Mrs. Browning selected at least a half-dozen and then changed her mind when she thought she had discovered one which was better than her last choice. Finally, in utter perplexity, she asked Mr. Manson to pick out one, and there was no question in his mind as to which was the best one. Almost immediately he caught his favorite and held him up for Mrs. Browning's inspection. The little dog was symmetrically formed and beautifully marked.

"I will take it," said Mrs. Browning. So the purchase was made then and there, and they returned to the house and found an empty basket in which to carry the pup home.

"Now, if he isn't satisfactory in every way and Mr. Browning doesn't like him, you bring him right back and I will give you another," said Mr. Manson, as Mrs. Browning departed with her purchase.

Arrived at the street corner, she found that there were still several minutes before the car was due, so she went into a little store to wait. She placed the basket on the counter and extended Christmas greetings to the grocery man. They were still talking when a pleasant woman of about fifty bustled in.

"Oh, hello, Mrs. Browning, is that you? Aren't you lost? I wish you a Merry Christmas."

"Why," said Mrs. Browning, "I have just been up to your place. I wanted to see you, but I couldn't wait. I have got to get home as soon as possible, as I left Mr. Browning alone."

"What have you got in the basket?" inquired Mrs. Manson suspiciously. "It isn't one of the babies, is it?"

At the sound of her voice, there was a great commotion inside the basket and a pathetic whimpering.

"There, now, I knew you had one of the babies," exclaimed Mrs. Manson. "I wonder which one it is. It sounds like Bing. It couldn't be Bing, though; Mr. Manson wouldn't sell him. Why, he is the pick of the kennels!"

At this instant, the pup pushed up the lid from the basket and quickly stuck out his head.

"Oh, oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Manson. "It is Bing! I thought it sounded like him. Mr. Manson wouldn't have sold him to anybody except you. He was intending to keep him."

"How did you happen to name him Bing?" inquired Mrs. Browning. "I am glad if he is the pick of the kennels."

"Oh, I don't know," returned her friend. "They just seem to name themselves. One day he was sniffing around my feet and I said, 'I know what your name is, little dog, it is Bingo.' It is after the old song, Bingo, don't you remember?" and Mrs. Manson hummed the old ditty:

Johnny had a little dog and Bingo was his name, sir, B-I-N-G-O go, B-I-N-G-O go, Bingo was his name, sir."

Half an hour later, Mrs. Browning hurried into her own house and deposited the basket on the sofa.

"I have a Christmas present for you, Lawrence," she said, snapping on the light; "come over here to the sofa. I want you to see it."

"A Christmas present for me? Why, it won't be Christmas until to-morrow."

"Yes, I know," returned Mrs. Browning, "but I wanted you to have it right off."

The man got up slowly and went over to the lounge. In the meantime Mrs. Browning had opened the basket and deposited the little dog beside it.

"What is it, another puppy?" inquired the man. "You know I always said, after Scottie died, I never could bear to have another dog."

"I know you said that," returned Mrs. Browning. "That is what you always say when we lose an old dog, and somehow we always get another."

Mr. Browning lifted the pup in his arms and returned to his easy-chair, and the little dog snuggled down in his lap while his new master caressed his long silky ears and stroked his head.

"What breed is it?" he inquired finally. "Not that it matters, if it is just dog."

"I intended to get you a fox terrier," replied Mrs. Browning, "but the one I went for was sold. This is a beagle hound."

"Humph," said Mr. Browning, "a beagle hound. Why, I used to have one when I was a small boy, and I thought the world of it. Perhaps this one will be just as good."

At this point in the conversation, Mrs. Browning went into the kitchen to do the dishes which she had left in her haste to go to the city, and Mr. Browning was left with the new puppy. As the man felt the warm little body of the dog nestling against him and the little head lying confidingly in the palm of his hand, this mite of a dog did something for him that weeks of treatment in the hospital and much medicine had failed to accomplish, for it unlocked a well-spring of love in his being. A great tension in his mind was relieved, nerves relaxed, and happy tears filled his eyes. Yes, he was going to love this little dog. He had come at just the right time and he was as welcome as sun-light in a darkened room. Yes, he would be one of the family and take the place of their old collie.

Fifteen minutes later, when Mrs. Browning returned to the room, she found the man asleep in the easy-chair, and the little dog resting on his shoulder and nestling against the man's face in an attitude of perfect contentment. The dog, too, was asleep, so Mrs. Browning tiptoed out of the room lest she should disturb the sleepers. A great joy filled her heart. Her Christmas gift was the right sort because it had brought love, which is the light of the world, into a darkened life. Yes, the little dog would be one of the family.

Homesick

That evening, when Mrs. Browning went to look at the furnace and put on a couple of shovels of coal for the night, Bing went down cellar with her. He thought the cellar a very strange and interesting place. He had never been in one before, as he had spent the whole of his short life above ground. He explored all the dark interesting corners, and finally climbed up on the wood-pile and peeked out the cellar window. Then he hurried down and tried to dig a hole in the cellar bottom, but the dirt was too hard and he soon gave it up. Finally, he discovered the potato barrel in the very darkest corner of the cellar, and behind it was an exciting scent that interested him. It was more than exciting; it thrilled him and made his every nerve to tingle and the hair along his neck and back to stand erect. So he squeezed in behind the barrel, uttering sharp, excited barks. But these barks soon changed to yelps of pain, and he scrambled out from behind the barrel much faster than he had gone in and ran whimpering to Mrs. Browning. That kind lady at once took him up in her arms. She found a few drops of blood on his upper lip.

"You poor little dog," she said sympa- thetically, "that horrid, long-tailed, gray-whiskered, old rat has bitten you in the face. I must doctor the wound at once," and she hurried up-stairs with Bing.

The sylpho-nathol bottle was brought into play and a few drops were put on Bing's wound. This made the cut smart, and he thought that the treatment was worse than the original accident. After that, whenever he saw Mrs. Browning looking for the sylpho-nathol bottle, he would stick his tail between his legs and crawl under the stove and try to hide.

The last thing before the Brownings retired for the night, Mrs. Browning arranged a warm blanket in the basket in which she had brought the puppy home, and placed it close to the furnace in the cellar. Then she tucked Bing up for the night, and he was so tired from the exciting five hours that had elapsed since he had left his home in the kennels that he at once went to sleep.

"He went right off to sleep, just like a baby," reported Mrs. Browning to her husband as they prepared to retire. "He isn't going to give us a particle of trouble. I am sure he will be a great comfort to you."

"I hope so," replied the man.

Mr. Browning did not go to sleep immediately, for sleeplessness was one of his bugaboos, but Mrs. Browning was soon snoring peacefully. Presently a new sound was heard in the Browning establishment, and the listening man at once knew that it came from the cellar. The sound began with a hoarse bark, which gradually ascended in a pathetic crescendo until it ended in a wail of sound; then it would begin at the top of the scale and come sliding down, only to end in a hoarse little bark. Then there was absolute silence for perhaps thirty seconds, after that a half-dozen excited yelps, then another silence, just long enough to see if the outcry produced any results; then came a dozen angry, explosive little barks.

As the sounds from the cellar persisted and Mrs. Browning continued to snore peacefully, Mr. Browning pulled the coverlet over his head and tried to shut out the duet, but all to no purpose. Then he thrust his head under the pillow to see if that would help, but he could still hear the pitiful wailing.

Presently Mrs. Browning awoke with a start and sat up in bed. "Did I hear something?" she inquired. "What is that wailing down-stairs?"

"Oh, that's our new dog," replied Mr. Browning. "He has been at it fifteen minutes. I guess we are in for it this time."

"The poor little chap," returned his wife sympathetically. "I should have known better than to put him down cellar. He is afraid of that miserable old rat. I will go right down and bring him up to the kitchen."

So she put on her bathrobe and, thrusting her feet into her slippers, hurried down cellar. When she returned, she reported that she had moved the basket beside the kitchen stove and the little dog was again sleeping. Their troubles seemed over for that night, but Mr. Browning was skeptical, although he said never a word.