Well, this dog Sport was taken by his master, one fall, away off into the wood. They went miles and miles beyond where anybody pretended to live, and there in a little hut they staid for days and days, the master hunting and fishing and resting. This was all well enough so long as nothing unusual occurred, though it was pretty lonesome for the four-footed one. The master seemed to take it for granted that his dog knew nothing but how to follow game, so said little to him, sometimes hardly noticing him from morning till night. As I said, matters moved on very well for a time, but there came a change. Mr. Stillman awoke one night feeling very ill, and by morning was sick enough. He took such medicine as he had, but grew worse and worse. The poor man could not sit up to write, and if he could have written, who would be mail carrier for him? He lay there and thought, and tried to plan. “If I only had a St. Bernard dog I might send him for help; but Sport is nothing but a hunting dog, and he cannot understand anything but how to follow a track.” In the meantime Sport was feeling badly, and trying to think what he might do, for his master was getting worse all the time. Walking around the room he saw an envelope with something in it, and while his master was seemingly asleep, he took the package in his mouth and started upon the run in the direction in which they came into the woods. He made pretty fast time for eight or ten miles; then he came to a trail, and knew a party had passed there not long before. So, putting his nose to the ground, he soon learned which way they had gone, and followed them at good speed. Fortunately he came upon them where they had encamped for the night. It proved to be quite a large party with an experienced guide. Sport dashed in among them and laid down his package and barked, to call their attention to it. The men examined the writing, and while it did not tell them how it was sent—it not having been sent—it seemed to be an attempt of some one to leave on record the condition he was in, his name and address, so that if he should die, any one finding this might be able to inform his friends. No one of those who first composed the party knew what to think of the paper, for there was little of it which could be read, more than the name; but the guide was not long in interpreting Sport’s meaning, and told them that the faithful dog had without doubt come from some one in distress, and that they must try to find him. “If I don’t miss my guess by a shot or two this four-legged mail-carrier will be dreadful glad to pilot us back the way he came; won’t you, old fellow?” Sport showed his readiness by jumping up and starting; but Simpkins—that was the guide’s name—called him back, patted him on the head, and gave him something to eat, promising to go with him pretty soon. [Illustration: SPORT BEFRIENDS HIS MASTER.]