Dick's retriever

THE ARRIVAL.

IT was a wild, dark night. The rain was coming down in torrents, the wind blowing a perfect hurricane. Creak! Creak! How the branches of the elm trees groaned as they swayed to and fro outside the tiny cottage where Widow Wilkins and her eldest child—a delicate looking boy of twelve—crouched over a dying fire!

"Hark, mother, to the wind! Isn't it terrible?" little Dick exclaimed in awe-stricken tones.

"Yes," said the widow, "it's a dreadful night. I shudder to think of the poor sailors out at sea. Depend on it, there'll be lots of wrecks before morning, unless the wind goes down, and that pretty soon."

With this, she turned her head towards the door, beneath which she had stuffed some old matting to keep out the draught.

"I thought," she went on after a few minutes' pause, "I heard a cry, but suppose it was only my fancy. One thing's certain, it can't be from upstairs, 'cos the children are asleep."

"P'raps it's the wind in the chimney or in the branches of the trees you hear, mother," said the little boy. "It makes all kinds of sounds when there's a gale on like this. Listen! I heard a cry then—sure enough I did! 'Twas like the whine of a dog, only very low and weak. What do you say—shall we open the door and look? Something is going 'scratch, scratch,' now," he cried, jumping excitedly to his feet.

"It's late to open the door, Dick," protested his mother nervously. "Who's to tell that it isn't some drunken body playing a trick upon us. Mind we've no near neighbours to shout to if we should want help ever so bad!"

"I know, I know; but I ain't a bit afraid. And we couldn't go to bed without seeing what was outside. If it isn't a dog, why, then, maybe it's a child."

The widow looked disturbed. She rose from her chair, raked the dying embers together in the fireplace, and lit the candle; for she and Dick had been sitting the last half-hour by firelight—they always did so to save lamp oil after she had put away her sewing at nine o'clock on winter evenings.

"Here, mother, you stand back whilst I undo the door," directed Dick.

Mrs. Wilkins, not without some slight misgivings, did as she was bid. Meanwhile Dick went to the door—his small face pale with anticipation—and withdrew the heavy bolts. This done, he lifted the latch, and as a result a gust of storm-wind swept into the cottage kitchen, and a crouching, shivering retriever entered.

"Oh!" cried the child. "What a poor wretched thing! See, mother," he continued, as he shut the door and followed the dog into the centre of the room, "he's soaked to the skin, and there's a rope round his neck with a big stone at the end of it! I know; I see what that means. Some one has been trying to drown him in the river yonder."

"I reckon your guess isn't far out, Dick," agreed the widow. "Here, you poor creature, let me look at you. Why, you're cold as ice, and one of your paws is bleeding!"

Then, turning her kind face to her little son, who stood looking down on their visitor with pitying eyes, she went on,—

"Throw a few kindling sticks on those embers, child; and take the bellows and blow the fire into a blaze. 'Tisn't often you and I get a chance of doing good, 'cos we're so poor; but we'll do the best we can for this miserable creature, though he is but a dog."

"He's a real retriever, I believe," said the enthusiastic little boy, hastily placing some sticks crosswise on the dying coals, and reaching forward for the bellows. "See how affectionately he's licking my hand, mother! Why, what are you going to do to him with that great cloth you've got?"

"Dry him a bit, to be sure," was the woman's answer. And straightway she knelt down and began to rub the animal's rain-sodden coat. "We shall never get him warm as he is," she continued, "for he's so wet the water is running off him into pools on the floor. Try and take off the rope, Dick. And when you've done it, get me a rag and a piece of string, and I'll bandage up his paw—it's very sore; I find he can hardly bear me to touch it."

Dick wanted no second bidding. Setting to work with nimble fingers, he soon succeeded in untying the knotted rope that had in some places rubbed the dog's neck into wounds. This done, he went to a cupboard and took from it a ragged but clean apron of his sister's, which Mrs. Wilkins split into strips and bound round the retriever's injured foot.

Having at length dried the dog to their satisfaction, they coaxed him on to an old sack that they had spread in front of the hearth; and dumb though he was, the intelligent creature raised his brown eyes to their faces as if to thank them for their mercy and compassion. Little Dick brought some scraps left over from the children's supper and laid them before the animal; he also offered him some warm milk and water to drink. But so great was the dog's exhaustion that he made no effort to drink or eat; instead, he lay back with a sigh of contentment, and extended his cramped limbs towards the comforting blaze. In this position, he was soon asleep.

"Mother," said Dick in a low whisper, after several minutes' silence, "he's uncommon pretty, now he's dry. Don't you think so?"

"Yes, I do," assented Mrs. Wilkins. "No one could truthfully call him ugly with such a fine curly coat as he's got. And he seems gentle too," she added. "I can't think how folks can find it in their hearts to be cruel to a dumb thing like him."

The mother and her son sat still for a time, silently admiring the beautiful animal.

"Mother," said Dick, breaking the silence, "don't you wish we could keep him—for always, I mean? 'Twould be proper fun to see him swim in the river to fetch out sticks."

Mrs. Wilkins shook her head.

"Mother!" Dick's voice was low and coaxing; he slipped on to the floor and laid his head upon his mother's knee. "Do let us keep this poor dog that's come to our door to-night. He shall have half of my dinner every day, and a part of my supper too. O mother, do say yes!"

"Maybe he'll stray away when to-morrow comes."

"Yes, yes; but if he doesn't?"

"Well, Dick, it's not to be thought of—our keeping him—I'm afraid. You see, a big dog eats a lot; more than you could spare him from your meals every day, that's certain. Then, again, there'd be his tax; I couldn't afford to pay it. But," hopefully, "p'raps he'll be claimed."

The boy shook his head, and pointed at the rope.

"Whoever tried to drown him doesn't want him back," he said wisely. "Do you know what I believe, mother?"

"No, Dick. How should I know?"

"Well, I believe God means us to keep him, and I'll tell you what makes me think so. God knows what happens everywhere. The parson said so last Sunday. He told us that there wasn't anything too small or poor to escape God's notice. So He must know that this poor dog has come whining to our door." Then, positively, "Of course He does!"

Mrs. Wilkins was silent.