His last race was run. The fatal day had come. But he had pluck to struggle on. Dinah and her mates came on, tired but strong. Sandy was pulling for Holt’s Bay, where he could turn and double about, and worry the dogs. But the sight of the men and the horses seemed to urge Dinah on. They gave her courage and she gained on the fox. As she crossed a hillock in the edge of the woods and turned down the opposite side, she caught a glimpse of Big Sandy. Her heart beat with joy and she went forward with renewed vigor. The other dogs and the hunters were close in her wake. They had noted the change in her tongue and knew full well what it meant. It was a sight race from there to the thicket, and Dinah had the advantage. Big Sandy dodged and twisted, but his last moment had arrived. Dinah pounced on his back just as he entered the edge of the bay, and it was all over. Dinah had proved her mettle, and Big Sandy was dead. Uncle Simon was so happy that he could not speak. He fell upon his dog and embraced her, while the boys patted him on the back and rejoiced with him. Dinah rolled and groaned in the broom sage, the idol of the hour. MINERVA--THE OWL When in Charlotte, I make my home at 411 North Tryon street, in a private family. My hostess, Mrs. Barringer, widow of General Rufus Barringer, owns an owl of the Asia Accipitrimus or short-eared species; her name is Minerva and she is a very common bird. Hundreds like her dwell along the wooded streams of Mecklenburg and adjoining counties. None of them are beautiful. The one of which I write has but one redeeming feature. She is grateful to her mistress who, alone, has fondled and petted her. In this she acts well and shows a trait that but few men have. Where did this strange, quaint and curious creature come from? Why did she become a thing to be domesticated and cared for like the beautiful little canary or the sweet-tongued mocking bird? Is she the apple of any person’s eye, or the pride of any home? To the last question I should say: “No; she is nobody’s darling.” The owner of Minerva was not looking for her when she came nor did she especially desire to become the possessor of such a charge. A friend sent her as a present from a neighboring town. She had been lifted from her nest, a tiny, awkward, helpless birdie, and dropped into our home suddenly. What was to be done? Had she been given her liberty in Charlotte, either by night or by day, a violent death would have been her fate. Hungry cats were ready to crack her delicate bones, and the street urchin, with his never-failing sling shot, or air-rifle, was eager to try his skill on just such a mark. Truly, the ugly, dirty, drab-colored little bird was far from enthusiastic friend or kindred. None of her kind are within several miles of the town. But if she could have been taken to the woods and set free she would have died from starvation and loneliness, for she was young, innocent and inexperienced.