The Grenada Sentinel

YOUTHS' DEPARTMENT

FAITHFUL BOBBY.
For Twelve Years and a Half He Never
Spent a Single Night Away From His
Master's Grave.

"That's a splendid book!" exclaimed
my nephew Phil as he closed the last
volume of Scott's 'Heart of Midlothian.'
I wish I could go to Edinburgh
myself and see all those places.
Won't you tell us about it, Aunt
Madge?"

"Oh do!" joined in Helen and Beth.
and, as I smilingly assented, they all
drew up to the great wood fire, which
was the more cheerful for the chilly
November storm which was howling
outside.

Well, Phil," I began, "I saw the
very Heart itself in the pavement near
the old church of St. Giles, but within
a stone's throw there was something
which interested me so much more
even than that, that to-night I think I
will tell you about 'Greyfriar's Bobby'
instead.

Not far from St. Giles is another
open square facing the old church and
grave-yard of Greyfriar's. In front
of the church I saw a fountain, at
which many tired and thirsty men and
horses stopped to drink even while I
stood near it, looking at the marble
statue of a shaggy, homely, insignificant
little dog, which surmounted the
fountain.

I felt sure that thereby hung a
tale."

"Oh!" groaned Phil. "what a pun!"

And you may know that my curiosity
was well gratified when the old
sexton inside the graveyard told me
that the statue was of none other than
'Greyfriar's Bobby,' the most famous
dog on record for his extraordinary fidelity
to his master's memory.

"From the sexton and other sources,
I finally obtained this true story of
Bobby's life:

"In the year 1858 there came one day
to Greyfriar's churchyard an humble
Scotch funeral. A poor man named
Gray was buried in a corner by the
church, and only a few poorly clad
mourners watched the sexton as he
shoveled in the last spadeful of earth
upon the newly-made grave. As they
slowly left the spot no one noticed a
little Scotch terrier, which crept piti-
fully back and moaning sadly lay down
upon his master's grave. Not until
the next morning when the sexton—or
'curator,' as the Scotch call him—
passed that way did he see the poor
little dog keeping guard over the newly
made mound, lying on the damp, cold
earth, as if to keep as close to his master
as possible. Outside the gate of
the churchyard, in big black letters,
was posted an order: 'No dogs allowed
within.' So the curator drove
poor Bobby away, and put him outside
the gate.

"The next morning he was again
found there and was driven away in
the same manner. The third morning
was cold and rainy, and when the
curator found the faithful dog still lying
shivering on the grave his heart
was touched. He gave him a little
food and left him to his trust in peace.
From that day, way back in 1858,
until the day of his death in 1871, for
twelve years and a half Bobby never
spent a single night away from his
master's grave! Did you ever hear of
such devotion as that in a poor dumb
creature, a little insignificant dog like
Bobby?

"When the cold storms of winter set
in, and the nights were often bitterly
raw and cold, the old curator used to
try to keep Bobby inside the house,
where he could have a warm and comfortable
shelter from the wet and chill,
but Bobby always howled dismally
whenever such attempts were made,
and no matter how rough the night
persisted in clinging to the spot, dearer
to him than any other—his master's
grave.

"As the months and years passed by,
the mound where poor Gray was buried
became leveled little by little till at last
there was almost nothing to distinguish
it from the surrounding ground, for the
man had been too poor to have even a
small footstone to mark it; but Bobby
never forgot the spot, and his devotion
to his master's memory attracted more
attention than any costly monument.
People who came from far and near to
see the famous Covenanter's stone near
by, where, two hundred years ago, the
old Covenanters signed their names in
blood, often took still more interest in
the little terrier which was now known
for miles around as 'Greyfriar's
Bobby.'

"For a long time a weekly treat of
steaks was furnished him by a certain
kindly Sergeant Scott, of the city engineers.
Then for many years a warm-
hearted restaurant keeper near by,
named Trail, fed him regularly. Bobby
used to go to his house, near the
churchyard, every day, punctually at
twelve, being guided by the sound of
the Edinburgh time-gun, which is fired
every day at noon. For six years he
was fed in this way, till one day the
kind restaurant keeper was summoned
to court for not paying the dog-tax demanded
of every man who owned a
dog.

When Bobby's interesting story
was rehearsed in court, and the judge
was told how Bobby refused to attach
himself to any owner, and spent nearly
all his time by his master's grave, Mr.
Trail was dismissed, though he expressed
his willingness to pay the tax,
if the dog would stay with him any
longer than to obtain his midday meal.

"So the years passed on, and day
by day there came to the graveyard
new visitors, who were always interesting
in Bobby and his story, and who
tried more than once, but in vain, to
get possession of him.

"Finally eight years and a half had
come and gone since Bobby began his
faithful vigils, the old curator died.
and a new one took his place. This
new one was the clever old Scotchman,
with kindly face and broad Scotch accent,
who showed me around the
churchyard, and told me about Bobby,
and pointed out the spot where his
master lay.

"Bobby lived four years after the
new curator came, and though by this
time he was growing old and feeble,
he still crept every night, in fair
weather or rough, summer and winter
alike, to his master's grave.

"At last, twelve years and a half
after he first came to the spot with the
few mourners who attended Gray's
funeral, faithful Bobby died, too; and
if there is a Heaven for dogs, I firmly
believe that he has now a high place
there, along with Dr. Brown's Rab,
Walter Scott's Maida,' and all other
noble dogs.

"Gray's grave has no longer a mourner,
and would long ago have been forgotten
but for the old curator, who
shows the spot to each new-comer; and
never tires of telling of the faithful dog
who guarded it every night for nearly
thirteen years.

"Soon the old curator must die, too,
if he is not already dead, and there
will then be left only the fountain by
the church-yard gate to remind the
passers-by of dear, faithful, homely
little Greyfriar's Bobby.

"That was a good story," said Helen,
with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Yes," said her father, who had
come in unnoticed and heard the last
of the story. "It reminds me of a saying
I once heard: 'A mother and a
dog are the only two things in the
world that seem to have absolutely
disinterested love.'"

—Delia W. Lyman, in N. Y. Independent