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I was sitting by an open fire the other evening, and there passed through

my mind a review of the breed since I saw a great many years ago, when the

world, to me, was young, a handsome little lad leading down Beacon street,

Boston, two dogs, of a different type than I had ever seen before, that

seemed to have stamped upon them an individual personality and style. They

were not bulldogs, neither were they bull terriers; breeds with
hich I

had been familiar all my life; but appeared to be a happy combination of

both. I need hardly say that one was Barnard's Tom, and the other his

litter brother, Atkinson's Toby. Tom was the one destined to make Boston

terrier history, as he was the sire of Barnard's Mike.

Mr. J. P. Barnard has rightly been called the Father of the Boston

terrier, and he still lives, hale and hearty. May his last days be his

best, and full of good cheer!

I am now rapidly approaching the allotted time for man, but I venture the

assertion that were I to visit any city or even small town of the United

States or Canada, I could see some handsome little lad or lassie leading

one of Barnard's Mike's sons or daughters. Small wonder he is called the

American dog.

The celebrated Dr. Johnson once remarked that few children live to fulfil

the promise of their youth. Our little aristocrat of the dog world has

more than done so. May his shadow never grow less!

I feel convinced that I ought to take this opportunity to record my kindly

appreciation of the generous expressions of thanks for my efforts on

behalf of the dog. They have come from all parts of the country, and from

all classes of people. Were it in my power I would gladly reply to each

individual writer. This is impossible. I can only say, I thank you! May

God bless us, one and all!