It was a dark rainy day in the land where the rain makes the winter, and the sunshine and blue sky the pleasant summer-time.

Through the Golden Gate, came the ship to the new city of hope, and all the people on board thought, “how happy and rich we shall become in the Gold Land. Though the city is now only a miserable place of tents and sand hills, one day how great it will be, and we shall live to see it. The fair Golden City.”

On the rude wharf stood the expectant crowd. To them the ship was the beautiful carrier-dove, with its white wings spread to bring them news of home.“Perhaps there will be some one from the old home,” said a young man, with his brown eyes filled with eager longing. “The dark old Atlantic! how its breakers used to dash upon the rocks in sight of home. It was glorious. To-morrow will be Christmas! I wonder, will they remember all, as I do!”

By his side stood a great shaggy dog, who belonged to nobody.

He talked only in the dog language, but was very learned, and understood all the young man said. He was a wonderful dog, and had his thoughts. “I am my own master,” he said, “and that is pleasant—yet one likes to be cared for, and nobody cares for me. I shall get no news from home, and to-morrow will be Christmas. This is not as it should be; I must see to it.”

The great dog was getting quite out of temper, and, with a surly growl, he turned round so quickly, that he gave the young man a start.

“One would think the dog was mad,” said he, “only it is not the season.” Then he looked out again hopefully to the coming ship.

The great dog ran round the corner, and through the wet streets all day.

The steamer had arrived, and there were new faces looking eagerly about for old familiar ones, and the old were looking for the new; so there was altogether a great bustle such as was never seen, only in those early days when the ships came in from home. Thus the day passed, and the evening came on, raining dismally—yet it was Christmas eve.

In a dark alley sat the great dog. His shaggy coat kept him warm, yet it was very desolate there alone.

“One should have something to live for,” growled he, “something to take care of and protect, or there is no use in being strong and brave. One might as well be a puny poodle, and sit by the parlor fire,” and he gave an ugly bark, “bow, wow, wow! one should have an object in life.”

Just then he heard a low moan, and looking round, he saw a poor lame dog, very thin and sick, lying down in the mud, and ready to die of hunger.

It was really quite wretched, and all the great dog’s sympathies were aroused. “There is an object, to be sure,” he said. “It is Christmas eve, and the good Santa Claus has taken pity on me, and given me this poor fellow, who needs me as much as I do him. What a zest life has, when one has something to live for.”

Without any useless ceremony, he raised the poor dog, and tenderly as the mother dog carries her little ones, he bore him to a warm, dry place, and made him a nice bed of clean straw.

“This is better, my friend,” said the noble creature, quite flushed and happy with the pleasure of doing a kind act. “What more can I do for you?”

“I am famishing with hunger,” replied the lame dog, with a feeble groan, and off went his great shaggy protector, through rain and mud, to a restaurant, and there the cook gave him a bone, saying, “take it, you Bummer.”

He caught the bone, and running off as fast as possible, in a few moments laid it before the lame dog.

It was a rich bone, and had a delicious smell that was quite reviving to the sick one.

It was so pleasant to see the poor hungry fellow eat, that Bummer could not leave him until he had finished. “I never enjoyed a bone so much in my life,” said Bummer, as he tucked the warm straw around his new friend, and saw him closing his eyes with a pleasant satisfied languor.

“This is something like living,” added he, with a lively bark, as he ran back to the restaurant for his own dinner.

“Coming again, Bummer?” said the jolly, red-faced cook, throwing him another bone, which he ate with a famous relish.

In the morning he went back again to the restaurant, serving the sick dog first, and again at night, and day after day, till he became the jolly cook’s regular pensioner.

At the restaurant they grew quite curious to know what became of the first bone, and sent some one to follow Bummer, who came back telling the strange story, and saying, “it is really quite wonderful.”

Then every one talked of it, and soon the whole town came to know the two dogs, and called them Bummer and Lazarus.

In the pleasant days they walked out together, Bummer always watching over Lazarus with the tenderest care. It was really a pleasant sight to see them, they were so happy together.

Thus time passed away, making no change in the protecting devotion of Bummer, nor the trusting love of Lazarus.

But there must be an end of all things, and at last Lazarus died.

This was a great sorrow to poor Bummer, and he grew so thin and wretched that the jolly cook was quite distressed.

“You must cheer up, my good Bummer; really it will never do; you must cheer up.”

“It is all over now,” said the dog, “one must have something to live for. It is no use, one must have an object.”

He was no longer the Bummer of old, and he went away to the place where Lazarus rested.

“He forgot to eat his bone,” said the jolly cook; “poor fellow, we were getting used to him, and we shall miss him. He belonged to the town—he was ‘our dog.’”

This was the last time he went for his bone. It was all over, and Bummer and Lazarus became a remembrance which has passed into a tradition.

The skin of Bummer was carefully stuffed, and placed in a glass case. It may still be seen in some restaurant on Montgomery Street, where it is preserved as a precious relic of the olden time.

This is a true story, little ones, and no doubt the fathers will tell you, how, in the olden days, he has often seen Bummer and Lazarus.