THE VALUE OF A COLLAR. Dear me! what a terrible dodging life the poor city cur leads, to be sure, whose owner does not consider him of sufficient importance to warrant taking out a license. His excursions must necessarily be limited. He never dares to bark in the daytime, and now I think of it, that may account for his howling all night. To bark between the hours of seven in the morning and six in the evening would be equivalent to running his head into the pound-keeper’s lariat. He knows it, too, the rascal, and hardly indulges in a yelp, even if his tail is trod upon. I have always noticed that the eyes of the cur that wears no collar—(which would entitle him to the freedom of the city)—protrude from the sockets much farther than the optics in the head of the licensed animal. I have noticed this fact and pondered over it, striving not a little to arrive at some satisfactory conclusion in regard to the matter. It may be that this strange protrusion is brought about by the continual strain while on the lookout for the pound-keeper or his sneaking aids. Another peculiarity about the unlicensed cur,—his eyes are invariably the color of tobacco juice. “Why are they so?” you probably inquire. Be patient, and I will tell you? It is the result of the burning envy continually agitating his breast and adding a bloodier lustre to his orbs. How must envy consume his very vitals when he beholds his younger brother, perhaps, trotting forth into the street, his neck encircled with the leather zone that insures him respect and immunity from assault; while he must cower behind the ash barrel, and wait for night to temporarily shield him from insult and injury. The old adage is hardly applicable to his case. He has no _day_, but he has his night, however, and he would be a fool not to make the most of it. How trifling a thing will draw the line between him and his licensed brother. One white foot, perhaps, a spot too many on the head, or want of one above the tail may have cursed him through the length and breadth of his existence. If he lives it must be by his wits. Every man’s hand or boot seems to be against him. The licensed dog can stretch lazily upon the sidewalk and oblige the pedestrians to go around him rather than take the chances of stepping over, or stirring him up with a kick. [Illustration: NO COLLAR, NO CRUMBS.] It is dangerous business, this waking up a dog with your boot. You may take him in a time when not in the mood for permitting such familiar demonstrations. Perhaps he may be hungry, and since the dogs devoured poor painted Jezebel, their weakness for human flesh will occasionally make itself manifest. I, who have been thrice vaccinated by a canine tooth (and it took each time, too), speak knowingly on this subject.