  I was sitting by an open fire the other evening, and there passed through my mind a review of the breed since I saw a great many years ago, when the world, to me, was young, a handsome little lad leading down Beacon street, Boston, two dogs, of a different type than I had ever seen before, that seemed to have stamped upon them an individual personality and style. They were not bulldogs, neither were they bull terriers; breeds with which I had been familiar all my life; but appeared to be a happy combination of both. I need hardly say that one was Barnard’s Tom, and the other his litter brother, Atkinson’s Toby. Tom was the one destined to make Boston terrier history, as he was the sire of Barnard’s Mike. Mr. J. P. Barnard has rightly been called the “Father of the Boston terrier,” and he still lives, hale and hearty. May his last days be his best, and full of good cheer! I am now rapidly approaching the allotted time for man, but I venture the assertion that were I to visit any city or even small town of the United States or Canada, I could see some handsome little lad or lassie leading one of Barnard’s Mike’s sons or daughters. Small wonder he is called the American dog. The celebrated Dr. Johnson once remarked that few children live to fulfil the promise of their youth. Our little aristocrat of the dog world has more than done so. May his shadow never grow less! I feel convinced that I ought to take this opportunity to record my kindly appreciation of the generous expressions of thanks for my efforts on behalf of the dog. They have come from all parts of the country, and from all classes of people. Were it in my power I would gladly reply to each individual writer. This is impossible. I can only say, “I thank you! May God bless us, one and all!”
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