Iowa Voter

A Dog Story.

Commodore Scudder, of the United States Navy, had a double-nosed pointer dog of which he bragged a good deal, and for which he would have refused a larger sum than was ever offered for a dog since the creation of the world. But he is dead now - not Commodore Scudder, but the dog. Like the famous hound Gelert, he died a martyr to his high sense of honor. The Commodore told me the story:

"I went out hunting partridges one day," he said, "and took the dog along. We hadn't much luck at first, but after awhile Buster - that was the dog's name - stood and pointed at a covey of the finest birds I ever saw in all my born days. They were squatting down in the low grass, a dozen yards off, in plain sight, and I determined to fire at them as they lay. I lifted my gun, took deliberate aim, and would have killed a dozen at least; but before I could pull the trigger a courier dashed up with a dispatch which he said required immediate attention.

"I reserved my fire and read the dispatch. It was an order from the Navy Department to proceed, without a moment's delay, to Philadelphia, to take command of a squadron which was about to sail to the Mediterranean. I was so much excited, you understand, that I laid down my gun right on the spot, and went off, leaving Buster there pointing at those birds like they were North Stars and he was a mariner's compass, so to speak. I forgot all about him; but he was a faithful dog, Buster was - and, like Casabianca, he wouldn't have left even a burning ship without my orders.

"Well, I went to the Mediterranean, and cruised around for three years, having a first-rate time. When I returned, at the end of the cruise, it occurred to me, as I stepped ashore in Philadelphia, to go out and see how things were at the place where I went gunning. John and I went - and the first thing I came across was my gun, lying there with the barrel covered with rust and broken clean off the rotten stock. But what was my surprise, upon going a few paces further, to find the skeleton of that heroic, double-nosed pointer, standing up just where I had left the dog three years before! He hadn't budged an inch. That double-nosed pointer hadn't; but he had stood there and pointed at those birds until he had perished in his tracks! Well sir, after shedding a tear over my departed friend, I went a few yards ahead, and - there were the skeletons of those partridges! I regard this as the most extraordinary circumstance that ever came under my observation; but if any man presumes to doubt my word, I'll shoot him on the spot - I will, by George!"

It was queer, that story of Scudder's about his dog, but it would hardly be safe to say what I think about it. - John Quill.