In the morning, you dress early, and hurry downstairs; but Tray is not lying on the rug; and you run through the house to find him, and whistle, and call--Tray--Tray! At length you see him lying in his old place, out by the cherry tree, and you run to him; but he does not start; and you lean down to pat him--but he is cold, and the dew is wet upon him--poor Tray is dead! [Illustration: POOR TRAY IS DEAD] You take his head upon your knees, and pat again those glossy ears, and cry; but you cannot bring him to life. And Bella comes, and cries with you. You can hardly bear to have him put in the ground; but uncle says he must be buried. So one of the workmen digs a grave under the cherry tree, where he died--a deep grave, and they round it over with earth, and smooth the sods upon it--even now I can trace Tray's grave. You and Bella together put up a little slab for a tombstone; and she hangs flowers upon it, and ties them there with a bit of ribbon. You can scarce play all that day; and afterward, many weeks later, when you are rambling over the fields, or lingering by the brook, throwing off sticks into the eddies, you think of old Tray's shaggy coat, and of his big paw, and of his honest eye; and the memory of your boyish grief comes upon you; and you say with tears, "Poor Tray!" And Bella too, in her sad sweet tones, says--"Poor old Tray--he is dead!" FOOTNOTES: [124-1] From _Reveries of a Bachelor_, by Donald G. Mitchell (Ik Marvel). THE BUGLE SONG _By_ ALFRED TENNYSON The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Or echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. FROM THE IMITATION OF CHRIST _By_ THOMAS a KEMPIS OF FOLLOWING CHRIST AND DESPISING ALL WORLDLY VANITIES Our Lord saith: he that followeth me walketh not in darkness. These are the words of Christ in the which we are admonished to follow his life and his manners if we would be truly enlightened and be delivered from all manner of blindness of heart. Wherefore let our chief study be upon the life of Jesus Christ. Sublime words make not a man holy and righteous, but it is a virtuous life that maketh him dear to God.