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“GADzooks! 'T's well!—"T 's swell!” exclaimed the king, and
smote his knee;
“What ho, attend, Sir Seneschal! I shall have need of thee!
In sooth, the fool ’s no fool; he hath a merry wit, to wit!
Whene'er he hits upon a plan he always plans a hit.

! You know the Prince Schiedieux is due within a week Čr two,
And what to-do we 've had regarding what to do to do
Due honor to His Highness; but Jester Jack, I trow,
Hath shown the way; we’re going to have our subjects give a show!”

His Highness (he was six feet six) had hair of auburn hue
(Worn, I might remark in passing, in a passing curious queue).
His eyes were pink, his cheeks were blue (I mean the other way!),
And he swung a wicked mallet in a game of tight croquet.

With the object of His Majesty his subjects all agreed
(Though it hardly was grammatical), and pushed their plans with
The talent quickly was secured, the program was complete;
The night arrived—and Prince Schiedieux was ushered to his seat!


Sir Harold next performed upon the horizontal bar.
(His father, old Sir Boz, remarked, “I see my son 's a star!”
Then came a number by Count Peppercorn and Baron Humm,
Who rendered a duet upon the jew's-harp and the drum.

Of course, the ladies had their turns. The house went frantic, quite,
When Lady Maude recited, “Curfew Shall not Ring To-night!”
At Lady Lulu's dance, the prince cried to his suite, “How sweet!
I marvel what hath made the maid so handy with her feet!”

Sir Wibble slipped while juggling some potatoes and a pie,
And very nearly hit his twin, Sir Wobble, in the eye!
(By luck, it chanced to be his nose.) Lord Ding then sang a song
Which had thirty-seven verses—in short, 't was much too long.

Count Jiggle thought he 'd do some magic tricks with fingers light.
But 't would seem that his ability at sleight-of-hand was slight;
He took about a dozen eggs and old Lord Whoozit's hat—
Well, I really hate to tell you just what happened after that!

When the program closed, His Highness, in a very flowery speech,
Complimented all the talent; and expressed his thanks to each,
Which I think speaks very highly for the judgment of the prince,
For there surely never was a show like that, before nor since!



READERS of St. NICHOLAS who are doglovers—and I feel certain that you all must be-will no doubt recall two stirring stories written by Albert Payson Terhune, one of which appeared in April, 1918, and the other in December, 1919. Wolf, a big, loyal colliedog was the hero of both these tales, one of which, perhaps, as with me, made upon you a deeper impression than the other. Does the title “One Minute Longer” bring it back to you? There was Wolf and the Boy of the place, who loved his red-gold-andwhite companion as much as the dog, in his mute, appealing way, worshiped him. It tells of a hunting expedition, enjoyed by the dog as much as by his inseparable friend the Boy. While trudging across the frozen lake, the Boy suddenly steps into a gaping air-hole. It is needless to repeat all the incidents, but at the end when the dog, bleeding and exhausted, leads the rescuers to the spot where the Boy, half frozen, is mumbling as he clings to the crumbling ice, “Heroism — consists—in —hanging—on—one— minute—longer,” something queer and uncomfortable seems to stick in your throat. “Gee whiz!” you say to yourself as you close the magazine, “it must be great to have a dog like that! Wonder if there was a real Wolf, or did Mr. Terhune just make him up.” Later, you probably read the two books of Mr. Terhune's, “Bruce” and “Lad—a Dog,” the latter a story of the father of Wolf. Then you perhaps wondered again if there was really a Wolf and a Bruce and a Lad, and if they really worshiped their master as told in Mr. Terhune's stories. Of course, you realized that all the thrilling parts of the various tales could not be true—but the



lovely things, the bits of true dog devotion— were they true?

And so if you thought these things, just as I must confess I did, you may save yourself further perplexity by answering the questions in the affirmative. Yes, there was a Lad and a Bruce, and there is now a Wolf, who is loved and returns the love of his master just as the story said he did. I know, for I have made the journey to Sunnybank, Pompton Lakes, New Jersey, the home of Lad and Bruce before they died, and the kingdom now of Wolf. I have seen the grave where Lad lies buried, the cave under the piano where in his kingly days he reigned supreme, just as Mr. Terhune related in the ST. NICHOLAS stories; and what is more, I have had the cold nose of Wolf tucked affectionately into the palm of my hand. For a morning, at least, I have lived, it seems, within the very pages where youngsters have existed many times in fond imagination.

However, I am getting ahead of my story. So to begin at the beginning. As I swung through the wide-open gate and down the zigzagging road to the house, a stone's throw from the silver gleam of the lake, there was no question that I had really reached the home of the Sunnybank collies. A chorus of ear-piercing “yap, yaps,” punctuated by an occasional youthful squeal, heralded my coming. They apparently were not unfriendly barks, but merely of warning. The collies were leaping about in their screened enclosure, telling those in the house below that a stranger had entered the gates. To their master they left unconditionally the decision as to what sort of welcome I should receive.


And so I came to Wolf's kingdom; for it is he who rules the clan now that Bruce and Lad are no more. Then came the master. And here, perhaps against his will, I must pause a moment to speak of the author of these charming tales. The one word which describes Mr. Terhune is “immense”—immense in stature and in heart. He has a hand-shake that measures up to his size; and yet those vise-like hands, which had made me wince, turned immediately to pattenderly the well-formed collie head that rested against his knee. His eyes were just as kind as the caresses which he had been bestowing upon Wolf. There are ten collies at Sunnybank now, Bob son of Bruce, Wolf son of Lad, who are house-dogs, and eight others who live a less palatial existence in the kennels adjoining the house. Hardly a day goes by that the diary of these frolicsome, four-legged companions is not crammed to the very margin with interesting events. Perhaps it is a wild chase after Tippy, the dreamy-eyed Persian house-cat, or maybe the arrival of a new family of fluffy, clownish-looking puppies. But be the event ever so humble, it is nevertheless of great import to the Terhune household and to the Sunnybank collies in particular. Mr. Terhune is, naturally, not without his host of admirers. Few and far between are the summer days that several motoring parties do not whizz through the open gate and draw up, simply bubbling over with excited youngsters, in front of the veranda. “Where is Laddie's cave?” “Show us where Lad is buried.” “Which dog is Wolf?” The questions are fired like shots from a machine-gun, and Mr. Terhune would have to have at least a dozen tongues to keep up with them. The great majority of Mr. Terhune's visitors are those American boys and girls who have learned to love these story dogs just as if they really knew them. Of the grown-ups who find their way along the lake shore to Sunnybank, there are few mere curiosity-seekers. Most of them are true dog-lovers who have either lost their own four-footed companions or have dogs at home who have earned as warm a place in their hearts as the Sunnybank collies have in the affection of their master. And also to Mr. Terhune's mail-box every day come many letters from little admirers, some wanting to know if there honestly is a “Wolf”; others asking for pictures of the great dog. Though these letters average

a hundred a week, he has answered every one of them—that is, all but two which blew out of his automobile one day. He was unable to find them and has always had a guilty feeling in his heart about the incident. “There must be two youngsters in this big land of ours who must think me the worst kind of a piker,” he said, as he stroked Wolf's straight, pointed nose. “But it could n’t be helped. Along came the wind, out went the letters, and that 's all there was to it.” You might guess that a man who writes with as much feeling as Mr. Terhune does about dumb animals would be a lover of children. If so, you have guessed correctly. But in Mr. Terhune's case it is like our relatives “who are thrust upon us,” as some one has said—he can not get away from the young folks even if he would; for hundreds of them have made, and will continue to make, their pilgrimage to the lakeside home of the Sunnybank collies. Yet he and the dogs are always glad to see them, and there is always a welcoming hand-shake from the master and a sniff of approval from the collies. Of all the praise Mr. Terhune receives about his stories and dogs (and he is far prouder of the latter), he cherishes most the kindly words from children. “I 'd rather get a letter of praise from a youngster than from all the grown-ups in the world!” he exclaimed, as he laid down a packet of letters which he had just received; “When they say that they love Wolf, they speak from the depths of their hearts. They are not ashamed to admit their fondness even for so vague a thing as the dog character of a story. And it is their sincerity, their childish enthusiasm, which makes me so proud and happy in their praise.” Many of the reminiscences which Mr. Terhune brought to mind were of children. For instance,—and he smiled broadly as his mind went back in retrospect to the occasion, —there are the youngsters who want to see with their own eyes and touch with their own hands every spot and object of which they have read in the dog-stories. The spot on the piazza where so and so happened to Lad, and the rug where Bruce as a puppy curled up and went to sleep, and so on and so on. Often Mr. Terhune is nearly stumped, for the youngsters have learned these trivial details by heart and evidently begin to doubt the genuineness of the tales if he fails to reply immediately. One day last summer, a little shaver came tramping down the dusty roadway, whistling merrily. He rang the bell, and, upon Mr. Terhune's appearance, graphically described himself as “the one who wrote him about his dog stories in St. NICHOLAS.” Of course, the mailman had brought Mr. Terhune about

waiting in his automobile at the railroad station when Wolf suddenly reared himself in the back seat of the car and began snarling angrily. Another car had just passed by, and in it—you have guessed—were the two boys who had maltreated him.

Not by sight had Wolf recognized the little offenders, but by scent. And this is all the more remarkable, because he had been in contact with them for a very short time. But they had not treated him with the kindliness of other children, and he had put their scent among those which were odious to him; and in his life such scents were few, for he was a lover of children, just as they were of him. Thus as the unwelcome signal was carried to his nostrils, he immediately recognized it as something he did not like. And his growl of disapproval had been his answer. This is even more strange when one considers the many thousands and thousands of scents which fill


ninety-nine other letters from boys and girls that very week; but in this little fellow's mind, his description of himself seemed quite sufficient. For had n’t he scrawled his letter all by himself, and had n’t he told Mr. Terhune in simple, but heartfelt, words how much he should like to have a really truly meat-and-bone dog like Wolf to play with? But the simple introduction was all that Mr. Terhune desired. What matter if this little fellow were Pete or Jim or Charlie? He was a lover of the Sunnybank collies and he should have his reward. Mr. Terhune related another interesting tale about Wolf. Two boys about fourteen years old were the visitors on this occasion. So anxious were they to pat and fondle the dogs which they had heard and read so much about, that they let their affection become a bit rough for Wolf's nervous collie temperament. He emitted a deep growl of warning. Of course he did not mind having his ears pulled by some toddling youngster who knew no better, but by a full-grown youngster—well, that was stretching his good nature a bit too far. Almost a month later, Mr. Terhune was

the air and earth. On one occasion a little girl was the heroine and Wolf was the hero of an exciting drama played on the veranda at Sunnybank. Like the countless other tots who had come before her, she was there for the sole purpose of becoming acquainted with the son of the dog hero that her mother had so often read to her about. Barely had her father turned his back, when a strange thing happened. Just as if Wolf had been a prancing steed and she a fairy princess, the girl clambered aboard the dog's back, and with happy “giddaps,” she began digging her tiny heels into his soft flank. You can readily realize her father's horror when he suddenly looked up and saw what was happening. More quickly than I can write of it, he was out on the porch and had snatched his daughter from the back of her strange steed. But this is the peculiar thing, the thing which makes you love the dog for his almost human action: ambling slowly over to his little rider, he thrust his muzzle into her pink, chubby hand. And if a dog can smile, then there most certainly was a broad grin on Wolf's face. And besides the smile, there was a deep affection in the dog's soft brown eyes. For Wolf knew,

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