Edinburgh, though nominally on the Firth of Forth, lies really some miles from the sea. In summer, a bather’s train is run sufficiently early to enable gentlemen to reach their offices in good time. Mr. Thomas Nelson (of the publishers’ firm Nelson & Co., Edinburgh, London, New York, etc.) was in the habit of availing himself of this early train, accompanied by a favorite dog, who enjoyed a sea-bath as much as did his master. On one occasion Mr. Nelson was away from home for three weeks, and on his return was surprised to receive a bill from the railway company for three weeks’ first-class dog fares. On inquiry, he found that during his absence, the dog had gone daily, as hitherto, by train, taken the usual bath, and then returned to town--exactly as he had been used to doing in his master’s company. [Illustration: GREYFRIARS’ BOBBY.] All will agree, I fancy, that this anecdote bears witness to the dog’s neat and gentlemanly habits, as well as to his master’s indulgence. Just off High Street in Edinburgh, beyond George IV. Bridge, is a little drinking-fountain with a trough for dogs attached. It is a point of interest to more than the thirsty--being unique both in subject and design. Seated on a pedestal is the image of a shaggy, large-eyed terrier, whose averted gaze continually seeks Greyfriars’ churchyard, across the intervening houses of the street. Beneath are the words: GREYFRIARS’ BOBBY. _From the life, just before his death_, and below this, the following inscription: _A Tribute To the affectionate fidelity of_ GREYFRIARS’ BOBBY. _In 1858 this faithful dog followed The remains of his master to Greyfriars’ churchyard, and lingered near the spot until his death in 1872. With permission, Erected by the Baroness Burdett-Coutts._ The story of leal Bobby has been often told, but is well worth telling once again. While life sits warm at our hearts, we should remember this other little heart, so constant and loving. He has been sculptured, painted, sketched, memorialized, as though he were royal. One gloomy day I passed the memorial fountain, and turned in at Greyfriars. It was already closing time, still the old curator let me in, and while searching for a “potograph” as he called it, of Bobby, told me what he could about him. Bobby lies buried in a flower-bed in front of the church. For more than a dozen years he made his master’s grave his home--a grave unmarked until his own devotion became its monument. The curator tried at first to drive him away, but without success, and ended by letting him do as he would. A friendly restaurant-keeper gave him food; every body indeed was kind, and in his doggish heart he must have felt their kindness; yet outwardly he drew near to none. Why should he when his real life lay deep down in six feet of earth? “Here’s the potograph at last, ma’am,” said the old curator, “and here’s his collar, if you’d like to see it.”