Part 5

That dogs can be taught the performance of tricks or acts showing a remarkable amount of sagacity and intelligence, no one will pretend to doubt, for it is a fact patent to all. But that a dog could become a ‘collector,’ and a collector of money too, is at first sight somewhat startling. Yet such is the fact. A splendid and thoroughbred Scotch collie, known as ‘Help,’ has been actually trained as a collector of money for charitable contributions, or subscriptions, for the ‘Orphan Fund of the Amalgamated Society of Railway Servants.’ His tutor has been one of the guards of the night-boat train on the London, Brighton, and south-coast line. He is described as a dog not only of great beauty, but of gentle and winning ways, possessing marvellous intelligence and a generous disposition. In his capacity as collector he has travelled over the greater part of England, always returning home to the headquarters in the City Road, London, with the proceeds of his charitable efforts. Last year, he is reported to have crossed the Channel, having been taken over by the captain of the steamer _Brittany_, and introduced by him to Her Majesty’s consul at Dieppe. In this port he is stated to have collected about six pounds ten shillings; and on returning home he seems to have made a rather profitable stay at Newhaven, where he collected nearly seven pounds. In February last it was reported in the newspapers that Help had been killed at a level crossing at Middlesborough, in Yorkshire, where he had been run over by an ‘express’ train. This, however, turns out to have been a mistake. A handsome Scotch collie _was_ killed as stated, and as he resembled Help very much, the story got about that the canine ‘collector’ had lost his life on the line. But Help is at this moment actively following his charitable avocation, in which, we believe, he excites more interest than ever. And long may he continue to carry on his useful career of helping the fatherless and the afflicted. It would be interesting to know the plan or system employed for the dog’s operations; in other words, how it is done. The animal must, of course, always be in charge of somebody, otherwise, when he had done a fair day’s work in collecting money, there are numbers of unprincipled people who would speedily ease the collie of his subscriptions, if they did not take his life as well.

WILD-FLOWERS FROM ALLOWAY AND DOON.

BY ALEXANDER ANDERSON.

No book to-night; but let me sit And watch the firelight change and flit, And let me think of other lays Than those that shake our modern days. Outside, the tread of passing feet Along the unsympathetic street Is naught to me; I sit and hear Far other music in my ear, That, keeping perfect time and tune, Whispers of Alloway and Doon.

The scent of withered flowers has brought A fresher atmosphere of thought, In which I make a realm, and see A fairer world unfold to me; For grew they not upon that spot Of sacred soil that loses naught Of sanctity by all the years That come and pass like human fears? They grew beneath the light of June, And blossomed on the Banks of Doon; The waving woods are rich with green, And sweet the Doon flows on between; The winds tread light upon the grass, That shakes with joy to feel them pass; The sky, in its expanse of blue, Has but a single cloud or two; The lark, in raptures clear and long, Shakes out his little soul in song. But far above his notes, I hear Another song within my ear, Rich, soft, and sweet, and deep by turns— The quick, wild passion-throbs of Burns.

Ah! were it not that he has flung A sunshine by the songs he sung On fields and woods of ‘Bonnie Doon,’ These simple flowers had been a boon Less dear to me; but since they grew On sacred spots which once he knew, They breathe, though crushed and shorn of bloom, To-night within this lonely room, Such perfumes, that to me prolong The passionate sweetness of his song. The glory of an early death Was his; and the immortal wreath Was woven round brows that had not felt The furrows that are roughly dealt To age; nor had the heart grown cold With haunting fears that, taking hold, Cast shadows downward from their wing, Until we doubt the songs we sing. But his was lighter doom of pain, To pass in youth, and to remain For ever fair and fresh and young, Encircled by the youth he sung.

And so to me these simple flowers Have sent through all my dreaming hours His songs again, which, when a boy, Made day and night a double joy. Nor did they sink and die away When manhood came with sterner day, But still, amid the jar and strife, The rush and clang of railway life, They rose up, and at all their words I felt my spirit’s inner chords Thrill with their old sweet touch, as now, Though middle manhood shades my brow; For though I hear the tread of feet Along the unsympathetic street, And all the city’s din to-night, My heart warms with that old delight, In which I sit and, dreaming, hear Singing to all the inner ear, Rich, clear, and soft, and sweet by turns, The deep, wild passion-throbs of Burns.

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