[For want of space, we must bring this very interesting bit of history about old Boston to a close. It is certainly not for want of material that we do so, and our hearty thanks are due the Pansies and their friends for the letters full of interesting items which have come to us. It is noticeable that the young people of to-day are interested in Boston’s past, which is a wise thing, for its history is full of suggestion for the future. We earnestly hope that the city which we take up next, viz.: Washington, D. C., may call out as many items of interest from the young people.—EDITORS THE PANSY.] MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. IF Bose and Fido and Sport and the rest will keep still long enough, I will tell you some things about myself which I should like you to remember. I am growing old pretty fast, and if I had not the kindest master in the world I would stand a slim chance. My smelling is good yet, and things taste nice enough, but my teeth are nearly gone. Bones which once would have been a luxury, now do me little good. The best I can do is to lap off a little of the meat and grease. Yes, I can bark loud enough yet, but it vexes me terribly when I see the cattle in the field where they do not belong, or some wicked boys in the orchard stealing apples, to know that about all I can do is to bark. I do not pretend that I have been a perfect dog, but I have had a great deal of experience in my day, and am not without the hope that you, my young friends, may profit by what I have seen and heard and felt myself, and known in the lives of others. No, I shall not try to tell it all to-day; I have no wish to bore you with “long yarns,” as the sailors say. Besides, there would not be time before Fido might be wanted to go with his mistress across the pasture when she takes that beef tea to Willie Jones. She never seems afraid with her pet along. Bose, too, will be wanted to drive home the cows; so I will tell you only a little to-day, and more another time. Where I was born I really do not know, but I am inclined to think it was a great way from here, perhaps in another country; we will never know, I suppose, though it seems to me it must be nice to know where one came into the world, and what kind of father and mother he had. But, dear me, I have seen some dogs, and folks too, who would have been happier if they had never known their parents! I can just remember seeing my mother once. I think she must have been beautiful. The man who took me away from her often said in my hearing that I had her hair and eyes. I can remember how mother cried when they carried me away. I had never seen her cry before, and though I was awfully frightened, yet I felt sorry for her. I was petted enough, and had plenty to eat, but the journey was long, and shut up in that little box I was dreadfully lonesome.