The huntsman missed his faithful hound; he did not respond to horn or cry. But at last as Llewelyn “homeward hied” the dog bounded to greet him, smeared with gore. On entering the house he found his child’s couch also stained with blood, and the infant nowhere to be seen. Believing Gellert had devoured the boy, he plunged his sword in his side, but soon discovered the cherub alive and rosy, while beneath the couch, gaunt and tremendous, a wolf torn and killed: Ah, what was then Llewelyn’s woe! Best of thy kind, adieu. The frantic blow which laid thee low This heart shall ever rue. And now a gallant tomb they raise, With costly sculpture decked; And marbles storied with his praise Poor Gellert’s bones protect. There never could the spearman pass Or forester unmoved; There oft the tear-besprinkled grass Llewelyn’s sorrow proved. And there he hung his horn and spear, And there, as evening fell, In fancy’s ear he oft would hear Poor Gellert’s dying yell. And till great Snowdon’s rocks grow old, And cease the storm to brave, The consecrated spot shall hold The name of “Gellert’s Grave.” Dr. John Brown’s exquisite prose poem of Rab and his Friends is as lasting a memorial to that dog as any built of granite or marble. The dog is emphatically the central figure, the hero of the story. The author sat for his picture with Rab by his side, and we are told that his interest in a half-blind and aged pet was evinced in the very last hours of his life. The dog has figured as the real attraction in several novels, and Ouida lets Puck tell his own story. Mrs. Stowe devoted one volume to Stories about our Dogs, and wrote also A Dog’s Mission. Matthew Arnold had many pets, and not only loved them in life, but has given them immortality by his appreciative tributes to dogs, and cat and canary. Here are two dog requiems: GEIST’S GRAVE. Four years, and didst thou stay above The ground, which hides thee now, but four? And all that life, and all that love, Were crowded Geist, into no more. That loving heart, that patient soul, Had they indeed no longer span To run their course and reach their goal, And read their homily to man? KAISER DEAD. April 6, 1887. Kai’s bracelet tail, Kai’s busy feet, Were known to all the village street. “What, poor Kai dead?” say all I meet; “A loss indeed.” Oh for the croon, pathetic, sweet, Of Robin’s reed!