For three long years Frisky, who had been allowed to sleep at nights
in the sitting-room, was accustomed, when morning broke, to visit the
different members of the family in their respective dormitories, and
have a lively, rollicking time. These visits were always looked forward
to, and in no instance, during the whole of that period, were they
ever intermitted. To have missed one of these exciting romps, would
have been a keenly-felt deprivation. But that we were to be doomed to
such disappointment and affliction, subsequent events only too clearly
showed.
One Saturday morning, for it was always on the Jewish Sabbath that the
bath was given, Frisky failed to make his accustomed calls. This was
noticed by everyone, and no amount of comment was provoked. Loudly
his name was spoken, but no response was elicited, and it soon became
evident that the cunning little elf was beyond the reach of calling.
Search was instituted, but to no effect. His absence was lamented, and
it was feared some calamity had befallen him. A silence, like unto
death, filled the house. There was weeping and wailing about, for
Frisky was not.
But just as the shadows of night were deepening, and hope was dying
out of the bosoms of all, the patter of little feet was heard upon the
pavement leading to the back-door. The sounds were too familiar to
be those of a stranger. All listened with breathless silence. “’Tis
Frisky, ’tis Frisky,” went up a chorus of voices, and we all rushed
to the door to welcome the runaway back to the fold. Not a chiding
word was spoken, not a look of reproof given, as with outstretched
arms the culprit was received to our hearts. A more crestfallen,
conscience-stricken being, however, could hardly be conceived to exist.
Things resumed their wonted sway. Happiness reigned once more in
the family. Frisky’s matutinal visits were as though they had not
been interrupted. His frolics had all their former vivacity. The sin
committed had been condoned, and he in splendid repute again.
[Illustration: MY DOG FRISKY.
How He Greeted His Master.]
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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