So does the mule.
OUR BLUE-COATED DOG POISONERS.
"Papa, the cruel policeman has murdered little Gip? He sneaked up and
frowed a nice piece of meat to Gip, and Gip he eated it, and fanked the
policeman with his tail, and runned after him and teased for more, but the
policeman fought Gip had enough, and then Gip stopped and looked sorry he
had eaten it, and pretty soon he laid down and died, and the policeman
laughed and went off feeling good. If Dan Sheenan was the policeman any
more he wouldn't poison my dog, would he, pa?"
The above was the greeting the bald-headed _Sun_ man received on Thursday,
and a pair of four-year-old brown eyes were full enough of tears to break
the heart of a policeman of many years' standing, and the little, crushed
master of the dead King Charles spaniel went to sleep sobbing and
believing that policemen were the greatest blot upon the civilization of
the nineteenth century.
Here was a little fellow that had from the day he first stood on his feet
after the scarlet fever had left him alive, been allowing his heart to
become entwined with love for that poor little dog. For nearly a year the
dog had been ready to play with the child when everybody else was tired
out, and never once had the dog been cross or backed out of a romp, and
the laughter and the barking has many a time been the only sound of
happiness in the neighborhood.
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