The one thing in the world Bob cherished was Pin. And the feeling was mutual; for not seldom, when the dog discovered a bone or crust of bread among the rubbish-heaps, he would let himself be deprived of the treasure without even a growl. Then, when Christmas came round, Bob and the poodle would stand by the shop-windows and admire the toys together; and the child would talk to his pet, and tell him that this was a doll and that a Noe’s ark. Once he managed to possess himself of a toy which a lady let drop on the side-walk. But he did not keep it long; for another urchin offered him a dime for it, which Bob accepted, then forthwith turned the money into gingerbread, which he shared with Pin. Such was the orphan’s childhood. He was only one vagrant amid thousands of others. In the great beehive of humanity his faint buzz was unheard, and he was crowded out of sight by the swarm of other bees. Still, there he was, a member of the hive; moving about and struggling for existence; using his sting when he needed it, and getting what honey he could. When the boy was in his seventh year, a misfortune befell him which really smote his heart――the poodle disappeared. And now, for the first time in his life, Bob shed tears. He inquired of everybody in the tenement-house if they had seen him; he put the same query to nearly every inhabitant of Mott Street. But all smiled as they answered: “In a big city like New York a lost dog is like a needle in a haystack.” Many a day did Bob pass seeking his friend. He wandered to alleys and squares where he had never been before, calling out, “Pin! Pin!” but no Pin came. Then, when night arrived and he lay down alone in his blanket, he felt lonely indeed. Poor child! It was hard to lose the only creature on earth that he loved――the only creature on earth, too, that loved him. “I’ll never forget you,” he sighed――“never forget you.” And sometimes, when another dog would wag his tail and try to make friends, Bob would shake his head and say: “No, no, you’re not my lost Pin.” It took a twelvemonth to become reconciled to this misfortune. But Time has broad wings, and on them Time bore away Bob’s grief, as it bears away all our griefs; otherwise, one sorrow would not be able to make room for another sorrow, and we should sink down and die beneath our accumulated burdens.