NOW, dear children, do not expect a terrible story of a wild animal, for our Tiger was only a dog.

When Jennie and I were little, we teased our papa for a dog to play with, and one night our hearts were made glad by his bringing one home to us. It had been living in one of the large freight depots in Boston, and had been so teased by little urchins, that often lounge about such places, that he was fast getting to be very cross and snappish, so it was thought best to get rid of him.

He never outgrew his dislike for boys, and would not allow them to touch him at all, but would often chase them, and sometimes bite them if they came on the premises. This hatred extended even to the youngest children, and from a little boy baby he would walk away in disgust, while he would allow a little girl to pull him about without a word of complaint.

At one time we had an old cat which was determined to rear her three little kittens in the closet of mamma’s room. The kittens were repeatedly carried back to the cellar, and as often Mistress Puss would find some way to take her family back to the closet. Tiger had evidently been watching the whole operation, and decided to take affairs into his own hands, as you will see when I tell you what happened.

One day, Bridget, the cook, saw him go through the kitchen with something in his mouth. She followed carefully after him, and what do you think she found? You cannot guess, I know, so I will tell you. Tiger had brought down the kittens, one by one, in his mouth, and carried them into the back yard, where having dug a hole for each, they had been placed, and carefully covered with dirt. Bridget rushed into the house, and said to us, “Oh! do come out in the yard, Tiger has made a cat’s cemetery.” We hurried out to see what she could mean, and found her words were true. There stood Tiger looking at his work, seeming to feel very proud to think he had found such an effectual way of keeping the kittens out of mamma’s closet.

Tiger was not always so cruel as this, but sometimes showed great fondness for other animals. My papa kept many sheep, and one spring there were two little lambs born that were disowned by the mother sheep. Of course, it would not do to let the little things die for want of care, so they were brought to the woodshed, and put under my mamma’s protection. They were soon named Dicky and Biddy, and being fed often with warm milk from a bottle, they grew rapidly. From the first Tiger showed a great liking for the pet lambs, and would stretch himself out on the floor by the side of the basket, where he would remain for hours at a time.

One day after Dicky and Biddy had grown quite strong he got them out of the basket on to the floor. How this was accomplished we could never quite tell, but I am quite sure they had some way of making each other understand, so that he coaxed, persuaded and encouraged them to go beyond the narrow limits of the basket, and see more of the world. After a while they were not contented to roam about the shed, but extended their journeys to the yard, and sometimes away down the street.

This last habit would have proved a very troublesome one to us, if it had not been for Tiger’s assistance in bringing them back. We had but to say, “Tiger! Dicky and Biddy have run away. Go find them,” and away he would dash down the street after them. When he overtook them they would all stand for a few minutes as though there were an explanation of the case being given, and then he would turn around and run home with both lambs meekly following him. I have watched him many times, and I never knew him fail to bring them back.

My papa used to go to Boston every day and return at evening on the horse-cars, and Tiger could usually be found at the gate to meet him. Although these cars were constantly passing the house, Tiger never made the mistake of going to meet an earlier or a later train, but a few minutes before the customary time for my papa’s arrival, Tiger could be seen going leisurely down the walk to be in readiness for the expected greeting.

At last Tiger commenced to get old, and did not like the active sports of his youthful days, but much preferred to stay in the house and lie by the fire. Being fond of the company of the family, he would often creep into the sitting-room, and quietly settle himself on the hearth-rug, when mamma would sometimes say, “There is some one here whose room is better than his company.” Without another word Tiger would get up, and, with tail down, and a sidelong glance at mamma, he would sneak, in a crestfallen manner, to the door to be let out. Finally when he got to be quite old he was sick and died, and it was one of the sad days of my childhood, when we buried him under the apple-tree in the orchard.