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and dragged him away, that he gave up searching for that seventh bird. Tom's sworn friend in the kennel is Jack, and when business separates them, they part sadly from each other; but their meeting is a joyful affair, and they rub noses in greeting like two Eskimos. Tom would be in a fair way to be spoiled if his master were less wise, for every one wishes to pet this handsome, clever fellow ; but Mr. Rosseau finds that a dog who is made too much of by his human
a safe distance and lies down with an eye on the intruder till he withdraws. A dog with a romance 1–such is the orangeand-white pointer, Drack of St. Germain. A high-sounding name, is it not, as if the possessor came of noble family P But while Drack may have the bluest blood to be found in canine circles, we can only guess it, for it is impossible to trace his pedigree. His romance began when he was of a very tender age, for he was stolen from
friends, gradually loses the keenness of his natural instincts, acquires a taste for the easy things of life, and no longer lives up to the best that is in him. And that, we all know, is a bad thing to happen to a dog or any one else. When the hunting season opens, the birds soon learn that men and dogs are to be given a wide berth, so they leave the fields and open ground and seek shelter in the woods. Here, hidden in the thick underbrush, they are safe from the dogs— except the cocker spaniels, as we have seen—so men called “beaters” are ranged in a line at one side of the woods, while the hunters wait in a parallel line on the other. The beaters then advance, and the birds, driven from their retreat, rise and fly toward the open with amazing swiftness, passing high over the line of hunters, who must be quick and skilful, indeed, to secure any of them. Beyond the woods, the birds scatter and settle down in the open ground, where the dogs, which have been tied during the “beating up” of the forest—the battue, as it is called in France—can be set to work. The frontispiece, “In the Forest,” shows such a group waiting in the cool shade of the trees till their master shall need them. The three setters are our friends Jack, Diane, and Tom, while the two pointers are new acquaintances—Belle and Mirelle. This beautiful picture won a gold medal for the painter in the Paris exhibition. “Early Morning” introduces us to the pointers, Rex and Leda, beginning their day's work. Rex, by his faithfulness, has won his master's warm regard; Leda's only peculiarity is her extreme timidity. If a stranger approaches, she retires to
his home—the nice warm basket which he shared with a large family of baby brothers and sisters— before he had really opened his eyes on the world. His first master was a poacher, as a game-thief is called, and he trained poor Drack in his own dark ways, for he taught him to help him in gaining his dishonest living of stealing birds, rabbits, and even small deer, in the forest of St. Germain, about ten miles from Paris, in whose markets game always brings a good price. This fine forest is owned by the state, and large sums are paid for the privilege of hunting in it, while gamekeepers are placed in charge of it to see that only those who have the right to do so shall hunt there.
Poachers, like other thieves, are usually wicked and desperate men who do not hesitate at any crime if they are in danger of being caught; but they prefer to avoid an encounter with the gamekeepers, and so go stealthily about their work, hiding when any one approaches, and snaring their game, or taking it, as far as possible, without noise. A poacher's dog, therefore, must understand his master's business, and learn to be quiet and watchful, slipping out of sight when a stranger appears, and remaining motionless till he is out of sight and hearing. Then, again, the first rule of conduct for an honest hunting-dog is to respect the game; he must show his master where it is to be found, and fetch it to him after it has been brought down; but catch it? Never! The poacher, however, has but one object in hunting—to capture his prey—so Drack was taught to steal upon and seize a rabbit lying quietly in his hollow among the brown leaves and grasses, or, with wonderful skill and quickness, to pounce upon a bird and bring it to his master. But one lucky day, a sportsman in the forest, himself unseen, had the chance to observe Drack at work, and was so struck by his remarkable intelligence that, meeting his owner as if by chance, he offered to buy the dog, and the poacher parted with him readily enough for the sum offered. So was Drack rescued from the bad company into which his misfortune had thrown him, and a new life began. It was a rather trying experience at first, for he had to unlearn all the many wrong habits to which he had been brought up, and to learn all those that would fit him to move in the society of well-trained hunting-dogs in which he now found himself. But one good habithe
had already acquired—absolute obedience, and so, though he doubtless became a little discouraged sometimes, and found it difficult to overcome the ways of his unfortunate past, he finally conquered them with the help of a wise and patient trainer. Then, too, the instincts which he had doubtless inherited from a long line of honest, well-bred ancestors, stood him in good stead, and, finally, he so far justified his new master's first opinion of him, that he was entered in the great national dog-show. And then what happened? Why, Drack, the poacher's dog, the pointer with no pedigree, was awarded the first prize on his merits, over all the high-born dogs in the competition This occurred for three successive years, and he also led in the field trials. All this took place sometime ago, and Drack is beginning to grow old; but he still hunts for a couple of hours in the morning, probably to give the younger dogs an opportunity to observe his methods and profit by his example; but at the end of this time, he looks up at his master as if to say, “The excursion has really been very agreeable, but it has lasted long enough for to-day,” and he trots back home. There he takes his ease, or, what he likes even better, poses on the table in the big studio while his master paints his picture—the portrait that shall win friends on both sides of the Atlantic for Drack of St. Germain.
“SURFMAN NO. 7”
BY GEORGE C. LANE
THE establishment of a volunteer life-saving service at Brenton Beach was Carl Allyn's idea, inspired by a visit to the United States Life-Saving Station at Wood's Point the previous summer. He had been much impressed with what he had seen at the station, and had decided then and there that, as soon as the other boys of his acquaintance arrived at Brenton's the following summer, he would put his idea into practice. He had not only written to them about his plans, but had succeeded in persuading his father, Commander Allyn of the United States Navy, to procure for the service an old metallic life-boat, which had been used on a government revenue cutter, and had lately been replaced by one of more modern design. An old shed on the edge of the beach, which, in past years, had been used for storing marsh hay, had been appropriated for housing the lifeboat, and, in imitation of the life-saving station, a double row of planks, reaching from the shed to the water, had been installed, in lieu of truck and rails, for the purpose of launching the craft. The boat was equipped with life-preservers, and lengths of rope were neatly coiled at bow and stern. The life-boat was propelled by three sets of oars, and there was an extra rowlock in the stern for the accommodation of the steering oar. The rather too businesslike monotony of beach patrol had been dispensed with early in the season, as being irksome; but the boys had made it a rule that at least three of them should be on the beach daily during the swimming hour. Six boys comprised the crew at Brenton Beach Station, and Carl, as captain, was always on hand to
direct the daily beach practice, when the life-boat was run out of the shed and shoved into the breakers. By the middle of the season, the crew had become quite expert in the business of launching, so that, even when a high surf was running, they were equal to the task of getting out past the breakers without shipping water. This had not been accomplished, however, without more than one ducking, when the boys had failed to take full advantage of the back-wash between combers. Carl's sister, Marjorie, two years his junior, had arrived at the beach the last of July to spend the rest of the summer. She had become interested at once in the life-saving service, and had applied to Captain Carl for a place in the crew. “What use would a girl be in a life-boat, if there was ever any call for real work?” Carl had asked, laughing. “Just as much use as any of you boys, perhaps,” Marjorie had answered warmly. “You know that when it comes to swimming, I can beat any of you.” “Well, that may all be,” Carl admitted reluctantly; “but there 's something to the business beside swimming. You ’d be all right in a canoe up there on Lake Placid, but I’ll bet you could n't handle a pair of our oars.” Marjorie realized that she was a rather poor oarsman, but would not give up her ambition to join the crew. “Well, let me steer, then. I guess I'm equal to doing that,” she persevered. After a great deal of coaxing, Captain Carl finally decided to give his sister a trial at the helm. He would not allow her to take part in launching the boat, however, and so, obeying instructions, she kept her seat in the stern, oar in hand, while the boys rushed the boat into the surf. The boys, Carl included, were frank to admit
that, with Marjorie as helmsman, they usually made neater work of launching. That was how Marjorie was admitted as a member of the crew, and came to be known, on Carl's suggestion, as “Surfman No. 7”; and Marjorie was proud of the nickname. “Would n't it be great if we only had some real life-saving to do !” Marjorie exclaimed one day
after practice, which always ended in a swim off the bathing raft. “Perhaps it would be—in a way,” said Carl. “That 's what we 've been practising for, of course; but life-saving is such dead-in-earnest business, that I don’t think I’d exactly wish for a job.” Two weeks after Marjorie's arrival at the seashore, the schooner-yacht Cécile, a handsome little craft in glossy black, goldtrimmed, the property of Alexander L’Hommedieu, the French consul at one of the larger American ports, arrived at Brenton's. Monsieur L’Hommedieu and his daughter, Angèle, were to be the guests for a fortnight of Commander Allyn. Angèle and Marjorie were the closest friends, and those last two weeks in August were the happiest that either of the girls had ever spent. Sailing parties nearly every day aboard the Cécile, and dancing nearly every
night ashore, helped pass the time enjoyably, Marjorie's neighbors and ac
quaintances being glad of an opportunity to assist in entertaining Angèle, whose charm and vivacity won friends for her everywhere. But the two weeks were over all too quickly, and the leave-taking of the two girls was a rather melancholy affair; for, in a few days, Angèle was going back to France to finish her schooling. “Zat is ze sadness of ze good times, zis saying goodby, iss eet not, Marjorie?” said Angèle in her sweet little voice. “But I hope I will see you again nex' summaire, or you will come to see me, perhaps.” So the yacht's tender took Angèle out to the Cécile, which rode gracefully at anchor a halfmile from shore. It was an unusually calm day for late August, with not enough air stirring to fill the white sails, and the yacht, which was not equipped with an auxiliary engine, as most yachts