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they are all dead now. Last evening I visited my dog
of a little mound fringed with golden rod and pickle bottles, the idler may still read these lines, etched in red chalk by a trembling hand
S. Y. L.
I do not know why he was called Kosciusko. I do not
I only know that his little grave stands out there while the gloaming gloams and the soughing winds are soughing
Do you ask why I am alone here and dogless in this
got and Oce hav
I will tell you, anyhow. It will not take long, and it may do me good : Kosciusko came to me one night in winter, with no baggage, and unidentified.
When I opened the door he came in as though he had left something in there by mistake and had returned for it.
He stayed with us two years as a watch-dog. In a desultory way, he was a good watch-dog. If he had watched other people with the same unrelenting scrutiny with which he watched me, I might have felt his death more keenly than I do now.
The second year that little Kosciusko was with us, I shaved off a full beard one day while down town, put on a clean collar and otherwise disguised myself, intending to surprise my wife,
Kosciusko sat on the front porch when I returned. He looked at me as a cashier of a bank does when a newspaper man goes in to get a suspiciously large cheque cashed. He did not know me. I said, “Kosciusko, have you forgotten your master's voice?"
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