A dog is a real philanthropist, his whole existence is living for others. The best “war-scout” known is the Red Cross dog, wearing the insignia. In a dog Miss Barton found a congenial spirit. Her first ownership was a dog, and known by the name of “Button.” He was medium-sized, very white, with silky ears, sparkling black eyes, and a very short tail. “Button” was Clara Barton’s guardian in the cradle, her playmate in childhood. Some little dogs are very good, And very useful too:— “Button” would try to pick her up when she fell down, sympathize with her in her troubles,—ever unselfish, helpful, loyal. Clara Barton’s second individual ownership was “Billy.” “Billy” was a horse. She said he was high stepping; in color, brown; of Morgan ancestry, with glossy coat, slim legs, pointed ears, long black mane and tail, and weighing nearly nine hundred pounds. Ownership endowed “Billy” with wonderful characteristics. He could trot, rack, pace, single-foot,—a Bucephalus worthy of world fame. “Like beads upon a rosary” she would count and recount the joys of memory, memory of her saddle horse, and she on his back, riding like mad, at ten years of age. He had many characteristics, doubtless, that she didn’t recount. As a horse is known to be “a vain thing for safety” “Billy” could probably run away, get frightened at a shadow, senselessly “kick up” and “smash-up,” as do other horses. But fun is in the danger; the greater the danger to life and limb the greater the fun. “Billy” would not stand over her to guard her, nor help her up when she fell down, but was useful and gave her pleasure. “The true, living love is love of soul for soul,” hence mankind loves, in return for love, only what gives love; but mankind also pretends to love what it can force to serve man’s purpose. The dog spirit and the horse spirit satisfy the longings of human nature—all the world loves a dog and assumes to love a horse. In hearing of the cannon’s roar one afternoon, an officer galloped up asking, “Miss Barton, can you ride?” “Yes sir.” “But you have no saddle—could you ride mine?” “Yes sir, or without it, if you have blanket and surcingle.” “Then you can risk an hour.” An hour later the officer returned at breakneck speed—and leaping from his horse said: “Now is your time Miss Barton; the enemy is already breaking over the hills.” Oh! not all the pleasures that poets may praise,— Not the wildering waltz in the ballrooms blaze, Nor the chivalrous joust, nor the daring race, Nor the swift regatta, nor the merry chase, Nor the sail heaving waters o’er, Nor the rural dance on the moonlight shore,— Can the wild and fearless joy exceed Of a fearless leap on a fiery steed.