Moral: the mule is an uncertain proposition. But, in all seriousness, have you thought of what civilization owes to this much-abused animal? If national prosperity depends upon the man who drives the team afield-then in the last analysis it is the mule who carries upon his back the great burden of finance. He is the motive power of agriculture. The wheels of commerce will not turn without him. In time of war it may be the splendid charger who is awarded the honors of battle, but upon the mule devolves the no less heroic task of drawing the huge iron mortars -of bearing the supplies of food and ammunition which are needed to win victories. And many an engagement in which the prowess of the horse has been proclaimed has really been won by the mule. We have read of "Bucephalus," the splendid war horse which was ridden by Alexander of Macedon. We have read of "Traveler," the magnificent steed which bore General Lee. But so far as we have any acquaintance with literature no historian or poet has wasted any praises upon the mule. Is it not time to right this ancient wrong and to render belated justice to an animal which for centuries has uncomplainingly borne the packs of the world's progress? Is it not time for Nebuchadnezzar to be getting something besides fødder? So here's to man's fast friend, who-if he lack "the boast of heraldry"-has never at least refused to render his meed of honest toil-the mule. FIDO THE REAL HERO OF THE POLAR CONQUEST. (Sept. 22, 1909.) In awarding due honors for the discovery of the north pole, we should not allow the unfortunate difference between Cook and Peary to make us forgetful of the fact that some degree of credit must be given to the dumb animals who pulled the sledges of both exploring parties over the bleak fields of snow. So, here's to the polar dogs! Whatever may have been the part which either Cook or Peary has actually played in this melodrama of the arctic, there can be no difference of opinion concerning the roles which were played by the faithful canines. Without the unerring instincts of these dumb creatures -their ability to withstand the intense cold of the arctic belt and their wonderful powers of endurance-the conquest of the earth's apex could never have been accomplished. For the polar dogs, therefore, there is no bone of contention. It will not be necessary to summon any high court of the Sanhedrin to pass judgment upon the claims of Fido. The whole scientific world is a unit when it comes to the speechless members of the two expeditions. Both the champions of Cook and the partisans of Peary are agreed upon this much at least. Respect for the dog, who has once more shown himself to be man's fast friend, will be heightened wherever the story of this latest achievement is chronicled. The devotion of Sir Walter Scott to his shaggy compan ions is familiar to all who have any acquaintance with the life of the famous wizard of the north. On the handsome gothic monument which commemorates the great novelist in the city of Edinburgh, his dog crouching in an attitude of guardianship at his feet, has been most appropriately chiseled by the sculptor. Even in death the dog is still faithfully on the guardwatching his master's immortality. Over the grave of his dog at Newstead Abbey, Byron erected a shaft of marble, and, recalling in bitter irony his lack of steadfast friends, he cut into the face of the stone this line: "I never knew but one, and here he lies." Alexander H. Stephens was seldom too busy with the cares of state to visit the kennels at Crawfordville. One of his favorite dogs was named Rio-an intelligent animal to whom the great statesman was peculiarly attached; and when this loyal little companion of his quiet life at Liberty Hall was taken from him, he caused a memorial to be erected over the animal's grave, for which his half-brother, Linton Stephens, wrote the epitaph, which ran thus: Rio: Here Rest the Remains Of What in Life Was a Satire on the Human Race And an Honor to His Own A Faithful Dog. This tribute of Mr. Stephens to his dog recalls the remark which was made by his bodyguard when the great commoners came to Atlanta to be inaugurated governor: "Mars Aleck is kinder ter dogs than most people is ter folks." Perhaps the greatest speech ever delivered by the late Senator Vest, of Missouri, was delivered upon the dog. It is one of the classics of the court room. And when the powerful arguments which the Missourian made upon government questions in the senate of the United States are forgotten, his plea before the jury for his friend, the dog, will still be fresh in the minds of his fellow countrymen. In the Swiss mountains there is no telling how many human lives the Saint Bernard dogs have been the means of saving. The Alps themselves are perhaps the only fit monuments which can commemorate the heroism of these brave animals. With the keenest of nostrils they snuff the air-with the swiftest of feet they go bounding over the snows-with the most unwearied of paws they upturn the fleecy mantle of white, until at last the body of the submerged traveler is reached. And they well deserve to share in the veneration which the world pays to the pious monks. The old adage needs to be revised. It is no longer in good taste nor in strict keeping with the facts of history for us to consign our enemies to the dogs. In numberless cases it amounts to promotion. For before some men can associate on terms of equality with dogs they will first have to serve an apprenticeship to Fido. JOHN HOWARD PAYNE "HOME, SWEET HOME." (Dec. 19, 1908.) It is one of the ironies of fate that the poet from whose pen has come the immortal lyric of the hearthstone was himself a roving outcast-a homeless wanderer. The world remembers the pathetic story of John Howard Payne. Broken in health and reduced in fortune, the poor American exile found himself in the throbbing heart of the great city of London. Between his publishers,-who allowed him little, and his creditors,-who came to see him often, the penniless poet was in sore straits. The Atlantic ocean separated him from kith and kin. He felt the acutest sense of isolation-the bitterest pang of loneliness. Perhaps no solitude is more oppressive than the solitude of great cities-the solitude which broods in the repellant looks of the unsympathetic multitudes. It is the heart's Sahara. Bereft of all other consolation, Payne seized the harp; and lightly he touched the strings. But not in vain. For the fire of inspiration was in the poet's soul; and. on the banks of the River Thames, from the aching heart of an humble exile, leaped the hearthstone melody of "Home, Sweet Home." It gladdens the Today it is the song of the millions. heart of the king. It charms the ear of the peasant. It constitutes the liquid bar that welds the hemispheres. It forms the rhythmic wreath that belts the earth. It is the music that sings to us of mother. It is the warbler that wakens for us the laughter of little children. It is the minstrel that makes us forget the disappointments and the heart-aches of life-that takes us back to the homestead on the hills-that weaves about us the fantastic shadows of the old oak trees! Aye, it tilts to our fevered lips: "The old oaken bucket-the moss-covered bucket-the Home! Not its possession, but its want. Not its enjoyment, but its need. Was there ever such another paradox? But unless the song had been wrung from the heart of the singer it could never have melted the heart of the cold world or sweetened the march of the centuries! Who of us is so immersed in the cares of business or so hardened by the grind of daily toil that we can not find in this magic word, Home, a charm beyond the spell of amulets? Home! Home! The very name itself is an anthem in an acorn! Composed of only four letters of the English alphabet, it is one of the simplest words known to the tongue of Tennyson and Shakespeare It takes but a breath to voice it. It takes but a stroke to write it. But an ocean plummet can not sound its crystal depth of meaning. It has been |