DEATH AND BURIAL OF TIGE RHINES.

THERE is no animal that seems to be so closely allied to man as the dog. He lives in his master’s smiles, defends his person, guards his property, and is grateful for the smallest favors.

In respect to other animals, they are naturally shy; we must attach them to us by food and caresses.

Take, for instance, a kitten, born in the house, and her parents before her for generations; yet the moment it gets its eyes open, it will round up its back, and spit at the little boy or girl who approaches to fondle it, and must be wonted; but a puppy, why, the moment his eyes are open, he’s right on to you, and you have hard work to keep him from licking your face.

When the family leaves the house, the cat will seldom, if ever, follow them, because she cares more about the place than the people; but the dog’s home is where his master is.

John Rhines’s dog, Tige, a Newfoundland of the largest size, possessed—as those who have read the Elm Island stories know—a sagacity greater than that which generally pertains even to that noble breed.

Tige Rhines, as he was called, was known and loved by both young and old, the protector and playmate of all the children, and bore on his neck a broad brass collar, on which were inscribed the date of the year and the day on which he pulled little Fannie Williams from the bottom of the mill-pond, and many other things that he had done.

For many years Tige had been gradually losing his activity, and was quite infirm with age. He had never been accustomed to leave the home of his master, except when sent upon some errand, with a basket or letter in his mouth, unless with some of the family; but after Mary and Elizabeth were married, he would once in a while go to visit each of them in the forenoon, stop to dinner and tea, see the babies, and go home at night. He would also go down to the cove in front of the house, and play with the children of the neighborhood by the hour together. All through Fannie Williams’s childhood (whose life he saved) he was, whenever she came up to see him, which was generally once a month, sent home with her by Captain Rhines. But age, which comes alike upon dogs and men, had compelled him to relinquish all these pleasant excursions. His legs had grown stiff and crooked; his glossy black coat had become a dirty yellow, except along the back and at the roots of the tail; his intelligent eye was dim; and all around his eyes and nose gray hairs were plentifully scattered. It was with great difficulty he could walk; he would attempt sometimes to follow John to the barn, go part way there, and moan because he could get no farther; then John would go back and pat and comfort him. Everything that care and affection could do to render him comfortable and happy in his old age, was done by Captain Rhines and John.

As the weather grew cooler, John made him a bed of sheep-skins with the wool on; for though once apparently insensible to cold, never hesitating in the dead of winter to plunge into the waves, he now trembled before every blast. Captain Rhines would catch smelts and bring to him, for Tige was a dear lover of fish; John would put him in the cart, haul him down in the field, and put him in the sun, at the end of the piece where he was digging potatoes, and as the sun went down, cover him with his jacket. The children around brought him titbits, and all the dogs in the neighborhood came to visit him. He at length became so feeble it was with difficulty he could get out of his kennel. Mornings when John went to the barn to feed the cattle, he would bid him good morning; Tige would wag his tail and look wistfully in his face, unable to rise.

One morning, John, as he passed the kennel, spoke, as usual; but not hearing the noise of Tige’s tail striking against the side of the house, he went back and looked in; he was stretched out, apparently asleep; he put his fingers in his mouth; there was no warmth. “He is dead! poor old Tige,” cried John; “there never was such a dog in this world, and never will be again. I never will love another dog;” and he burst into tears; “I don’t care if I do cry,” he said, at length, wiping away the tears; “he’s been my playmate, ever since I was a boy; has saved my life; and nobody sees me; but if Charlie and Fred were here, they would cry, too.”

Captain Rhines was not yet up. John fed the cattle, and then went to the door of his bedroom.

“Father.”

“What is it, John?”

“Tige’s dead.”

“I’m sorry; poor fellow! I’d give the best cow I’ve got in the barn to have him back as smart as he was once.”

“I’d give them all, father.”

“Well, we’ve done all we could for him, John, and he’s gone where the good dogs go. It will make Ben feel bad; he and Tige were great friends.”

“And Fannie, father.”

“Yes.”

It was soon known in the neighborhood. About nine o’clock, Fannie Williams came in, now grown to be, by universal consent, the prettiest girl in town; industrious, capable, and, as Captain Rhines was accustomed to say, as good as she was handsome.

“Is Tige dead, John?” she asked, taking the chair he proffered her.

“Yes, Fannie.”

She was silent for a few minutes, then began to cry.

“Don’t cry, Fannie,” said John.

“I know it’s foolish, but I can’t help it; you know he saved my life.”

“That he did,” said the captain; “for I took you from his jaws, when he brought you to the shore. I would cry as much as I had a mind to.”

“I’m sure,” said Mrs. Rhines, “I don’t see what anybody could be made of, not to feel bad to lose such a good creature as Tige, even if he was a dumb animal. I used to feel just as safe with him, when Captain Rhines was at sea, and I left alone with the children, as though the men folks were round. When Captain Rhines was about home, or we had a hired man, he would lie under the big maple, or, if it was cold weather, in his house; but the very first night I was left alone, he would (without my saying a word to him) come right into the house, and, after I went to bed, stretch himself out before my bedroom door; it seemed as if he knew.”

“Knew! I guess he did know,” said John; “only think how long he smelt us before we got here, when Charlie and I came from Portland, and how glad he was to see us! I thought he would have jumped out of his skin.”

John persuaded Fannie to stop to dinner, as Tige was to be buried in the afternoon.

“Where would you bury him, father?”

“I’ll tell you, John. Under the big maple, where he loved so much to lie in the hot summer days.”

While this conversation was going on at Captain Rhines’s, Joe Griffin, Charlie, and Fred were expatiating upon the merits of Tige, and regretting his loss, in Fred’s store. Joe Bradish came in, and after listening a while to their conversation, broke in with, “Such a fuss about a dog—an old dog, that ought to have been knocked on the head years ago. Anybody would think it was a Christian you was lamenting about.”

Fred was naturally of a warm temper, shared in the universal feeling of dislike to Bradish, and this rough remark, in his present state of feeling, was more than he could bear.

“There was more Christianity in him than there ever was in you,” retorted Fred; “more in one of his nails than in your whole body. He saved the lives of three of us, when we went to sleep in the tide’s way, at Indian Cave. If it hadn’t been for him, I should have been as miserable to-day as Pete Clash. It will be news to me when I hear of your lifting a finger to help anybody. You may keep still or leave the store.”

Bradish, without making any reply, went out.

“You’ve lost his custom, I reckon,” said Charlie.

“It won’t be much loss. He came in here the other day, lolling round, and upset the inkstand upon a whole piece of muslin. I was out of doors, and before I could get in, it went through the whole piece. He said he was master sorry, supposed he ought to buy something, and would take a darning-needle.”

The three friends, with Fannie and Captain Rhines’s family, buried Tige beneath a large rock maple that stood on the side of the hill, in the edge of the orchard. It was all full of holes, where Ben and John had tapped it. Between its roots they had made many a hoard of apples; and here Tige had loved to lie, as it was a cool place, and from it he could see everything that moved upon the water. They put a stone at the grave, on which his noble deeds were recorded.

John Rhines had long cherished a secret attachment to Fannie Williams; but the death of Tige occasioned a mingling of sympathies that brought matters to a focus, and after a short engagement they were married. Captain Rhines and his wife, with whom Fannie had been a favorite from childhood, were highly gratified; for since their daughters had married and gone, the large house seemed lonely, and this beautiful, lively, sweet-tempered girl was to them a perfect treasure.

A week after the occurrences narrated, a stranger, in the dress of a working man, with his coat on his arm, came into Fred’s store, and called for some crackers and cheese, and half a pint of new rum.

Fred placed before him the crackers and cheese, but told him he must go to the other store for the liquor. He then called for a quart of cider. After eating, drinking, and resting a while, and smoking his pipe, he took a piece of chalk from his pocket, and drew a line across the floor. “There,” said he, “the first man that steps over that line has got to take hold of me.”

This was altogether too much for Fred, who instantly stepped over the line. They went out before the door, and the stranger threw Fred in a moment, and several others who came in. The thing was noised abroad, and quite a crowd assembled, but they were careful not to step over the line. Fred sent for Charlie, and the stranger threw him. The matter was now getting serious; the reputation of the town was at stake.

“Send for Joe Griffin,” said Uncle Isaac.

Joe had gone up river after logs.

“Then send for Edmund Griffin.”

He had gone with Joe. A boy was now despatched for Joel Ricker, who brought back word that he was on Elm Island, doing some joiner-work for Lion Ben.

“Then,” said Uncle Isaac, “we must send for the Lion. This fellow shan’t go off and make his brags that he has stumped the place, and got off clear. I’ll take hold of him myself first, though I haven’t wrestled these twenty-five year.”

“Why haven’t we thought of John Rhines?” said Fred.

“Sure enough,” said Uncle Isaac; “he’ll handle him.”

“John,” said the captain, “has gone to Tom Stanley’s to buy a yoke of oxen; but I’ve got a horse that will go there and back in three quarters of an hour, if anybody will drive him.”

“I’ll go,” said Fred.

By the time John arrived, half the town was there. A ring was made before the door.

“You’ve brought a man big enough this time,” said the stranger, looking up at John, who towered far above him.

They took hold. John threw him as easily as he had thrown Fred, while shout after shout went up from the crowd, who had been holding their breath, in anxious suspense.

“You crushed me down by main strength,” said the stranger; “but I would like to try you at arms’ length.”

They took hold at arms’ length, and although the grapple was longer, John threw him twice.

“You have stout men up in this place,” said he. “I am thirty years old next July, and this is the first time I’ve been thrown since I was nineteen.”

“Men!” said Uncle Isaac. “You have as yet wrestled only with boys. Our men all happen to be away.”

“If you call these boys, I should like to see your men.”

“Here comes one of them,” said Uncle Isaac, pointing towards the water.

The eyes of the stranger, following the direction of his finger, rested upon the massive shoulders of Lion Ben, who was approaching the shore in his big canoe, pulling cross-handed, while Joel Ricker, with his tools in his lap, was sitting in the stern.

They landed, wondering much at the crowd assembled. Ricker walked up the beach with his tools, while Ben followed, dragging the canoe with one hand over the gravel.

The stranger gazed with dilating eyes, as he straightened up to his full proportions. Then he went to the canoe, but found himself unable to move it, even down hill.

“What may I call your name, friend?” asked Uncle Isaac, approaching.

“Libby—Lemuel Libby, from Black Pint, in Scarboro’.”

Uncle Isaac then introduced him to Captain Rhines, John, and Lion Ben, at the same time informing him that they were the father and two sons. Libby gazed a moment upon these superb specimens of manly vigor, and resuming his clothes, said, “This is no place for common men, like me. I’ll make tracks for home.”

“Not so, friend Libby,” said John. “Everything has been done fair and above-board. There’s no occasion for hardness. Spend the night with me. I’ll take the horse, and start you on your way in the morning.”

“Neighbors,” said Captain Rhines, who was greatly delighted at the triumph of his son, “I invite you all to take dinner at our house to-morrow, at twelve o’clock; and Mr. Libby will stop and eat with us.”

“The house won’t hold us, Benjamin,” said Uncle Isaac.

“Well, the barn will. We’ll make two crews, and set two tables.”

“John,” said Charlie, after the crowd had dispersed, “do you remember what you said so long ago?”

“No. What was it?”

“That you meant to be the greatest wrestler, and marry the handsomest girl. I don’t see but you are in a fair way to do both, if all tales are true.”