I am Katie Sinclair, and Waif is my dog. Now, as everybody who knows him says he is the nicest dog in the world, I will tell my "Nursery" friends why people think so.

First I must tell you how I got him, and how he came to have such an odd name. One cold, rainy day, about three years ago, I heard a strange noise under the window, and ran to the door to see what it was. There stood a homely little puppy, dripping wet, shivering from the cold, and crying, oh, so mournfully!

I took him in, and held him before the fire till he was dry and warm. Then I got him some nice fresh milk, which he drank eagerly; and he looked up in my face in such a thankful way, that he quite won my heart.

"Poor little dog!" said I. "He hasn't had a very nice time in this world so far; but I will ask mamma to let him stay and be my dog." Mamma consented; and, if that dog has not enjoyed himself since then, it is not my fault.

I was bothered not a little to find a name for him. I wanted one, you see, that would remind me always of the way he came to me,—not a common name, such as other little dogs have. No; I did not want a "Carlo," or a "Rover," or a "Watch." After trying in vain to think of a name fit for him, I asked mamma to help me.

She said, "Call him Waif." I was such a little goose then (that was over three years ago, you know), that I had to ask her what "Waif" meant.

"A waif," said she, "is something found, of which nobody knows the owner. On that account 'Waif' would be a good name for your puppy." So I gave him that name, and he soon got to know and answer to it.

Waif grew fast, and we taught him ever so many tricks. He has learned to be very useful too, as I shall show you.

On a shelf in the kitchen stands a small basket, with his name, in red letters, printed upon it. To this basket he goes every morning, and barks. When Ellen the cook hears him, she takes the basket down, and places the handle in his mouth. Then he goes to mamma, and waits patiently till she is ready, when he goes down town with her, and brings back the meat for dinner.

When papa gets through dinner, he always pushes back his chair, and says, "Now, Waif:" and Waif knows what that means; for he jumps up from where he has been lying,—and, oh! such fun as we have with him then! He walks on his hind-feet, speaks for meat, and catches crumbs.

Last summer I went out to Lafayette to visit grandma. Mamma says, that, while I was away, Waif would go to my room, and sniff at the bed-clothes, and go away whining and crying bitterly. When I came back, he was nearly beside himself with delight.

We never found out where he came from that rainy day. But I don't love him a bit the less because he was a poor, friendless puppy; and when I look into his good, honest brown eyes, and think what a true friend he is, I put my arms around his neck, and whisper in his ear, that I would not change him for the handsomest dog in the country.