The Weekly Minnesotian

Terrible Retribution—Story of a Faithful Dog.

About fifty years ago, in the Western part of the State of New York, lived a lonely widow, named Mozher. Her husband had been dead many years; her only daughter was grown up and married, living at the distance of a mile or two from the family mansion.

And thus the old lady lived alone in her house by day and by night. Yet in her conscious innocence and trust in Providence, she felt safe and cheerful: did her work quietly during the daylight, and at eventide lay down and slept sweetly.

One morning, however, she awoke with an extraordinary and unwonted gloom upon her mind, which was impressed with the apprehension that something strange was about to happen to her or hers. So full was she of this thought that she could not stay at home that day, but must go abroad to give vent to it, by unbosoming herself to her friends, especially to her daughter. With her she spent the greater part of the day; and to her she several times repeated the recital of her apprehensions. The daughter as often repeated her assurances that

the good mother had never done injury to any person, and added, I cannot think any one would hurt you, for you have not an enemy in the world.

As the day was declining, Mrs. Mozher sought her home, but expressed the same feeling as she left her daughter's house.

On the way home she called on a neighbor, who lived in the last house before she reached her own. Here she again made known her continued apprehensions, which had nearly ripened into fear, and from the lady of the mansion she received answers similar to those of her daughter: You have harmed no one in your whole lifetime—surely no one will disturb or molest you: go home in quiet, and Rover shall go with you. Here Rover, (said she to a stout watch-dog that lay on the floor) here Rover, go home with Mrs. Mozher and take care of her.

Rover did as he was told: the widow went home, milked her cows, took care of everything out of doors, and went to bed as usual. Rover had not left her for an instant. When she was fairly in bed, he laid himself down upon the outside of the bed: and as the widow relied on his fidelity, and perhaps chid herself for needless fear, she fell asleep. Some time in the night she awoke, being startled, probably, by a slight noise outside the house. It was so slight, however, that she was not aware of being startled at all, but heard, as soon as she awoke, a sound like the raising of a window near her bed, which was in a room on the ground floor. The dog neither barked nor moved. Next there was another sound, as if some one was in the room and stepped cautiously on the floor. The woman saw nothing: but now for the first time felt the dog move, as he made a violent spring from the bed: and at the same instant something fell on the floor, sounding like the fall of a heavy log. Then followed other noises, like the pawing of the dog's feet; but soon all was still again, and the dog resumed his place on the bed without having barked or growled at all.

This time the widow did not go to sleep immediately, but lay awake wondering, yet not deeming it best to get up. But at last she dropped asleep, and when she awoke the sun was shining. She hastily stepped out of bed and there lay the body of a man extended on the floor, dead, with a large knife in his hand, which was even now extended. The dog had seized him by the throat with the grasp of death and neither man nor dog could utter a sound till all was over. The man was the widow's son-in-law, the husband of her only daughter. He coveted her little store of wealth, her house, her cattle and her land. And instigated by this sordid impatience, he could not wait for the decay of nature to give her property up to him and his, as the only heirs apparent—but made this stealthy visit to do a deed of darkness in the glooms of the night. A fearful retribution waited for him. The widow's apprehensions communicated to her mind and impressed upon her nerves by what unseen power we know not—the sympathy of the other woman who loaned her dog—and the silent but certain watch of the dog himself—formed a chain of events which brought the murderer's blood upon his own head, and which are difficult to be explained, without reference to that Providence or over-ruling power which numbers the hairs of our heads, watches the sparrow's fall, and shapes our ends, rough hew them how we will.

This is one of Uncle Toby's stories: and is derived, as to all its facts, from a most respectable Quaker family, whose veracity he cannot doubt.—Portsmouth Chronicle.