whole creation to him, and its unselfish gladness at the good reserved for him.

No theologian has spoken of the angels better than the poet Spenser. He says:

And is there care in heaven, and is there love
In heavenly Spirits to such creatures base
That may compassion of our evils move?

There is; else much more wretched were the case
Of men than beasts; but, oh! the exceeding grace
Of highest God, that loves His creatures so
And all His works with mercy doth embrace,
That blessed Angels He sends to and fro..
How oft do they their silver bowers leave
To come to succour us who succour want.
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant. . . .

And all for love, and nothing for reward,

Oh! why should heavenly God to man have such regard?

The great point surely is the poet's question, " Is there care in heaven, and is there love?" For those who answer the question as he does, no difficulty is presented by the details of how that care and love are exercised. The stories are legendary, the practices superstitious, the images of the old angel-makers crude and childish. But when the country-people saw among the relics of some great abbey a feather from St. Michael's wing, it was to them a visible pledge of the Divine protection. Through the most puerile representations, their minds grasped the essential fact that in an ineffable manner the message came to Mary, and the mysteries were wrought out into which the many-eyed Cherubim desire to look. The poet asks: "Why should heavenly God to man have such regard?" The question had been asked ages before in the mystical Psalm, "When I consider the heavens the work of Thy fingers, the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained, what is man that Thou art mindful of him, or the son of man that Thou regardest him?" and the Psalmist himself gives the answer, "Thou madest him lower than the angels-Thou madest him to struggle, to fail, to suffer, to toil, to die, but even at the first Thou madest him for this, to crown him with the lasting crown of the glory and honour of the Incarnation.”

R. L. GALES.

A DOG OF CONSTANTINOPLE

PART I

I was born in the last street but one, as you approach the Galata Bridge from Pera. Mother chose it because it was the safest, being in the middle of our beat. It's got other advantages, too, notably a butcher's shop at one end, where they allow you to smell the meat. That shop is a famous resort, for when they remove the carcasses at night, you can generally find a little blood on the cobble-stones-that is, if you get there first.

I've heard old dogs say that there is a lot of art in selecting the right sort of place; also, that it's in some dogs and not in others. I believe them. Why, I've known one poor creature so dead to her family's interests that she fixed on the door-step of a Greek! A Turkish cemetery is a good place, too, none better. No one bothers you there, and you can generally find bones, if only you dig deep enough. But of all jolly places, give me a back street, like ours, right opposite the house of a genuine Turk. Talk of kindness! Why, I've known him tip his rubbish into the street, just to oblige us; and I remember the basket he stuck over us, as well as if it all happened yesterday.

I can see him, too, if I shut my eyes. He was fat; four fullgrown dogs could have got inside his belt quite easily. Even at Ramazan he never lost flesh; and, you may believe it or not, but there wasn't a sore about him. He wore a red fez on his head, and cut off the fur on parts of his face, for I've seen him doing it through the window. By my father's tail! he was the best human friend I've ever had. But his habits were odd, for he slept inside a house. It was just beyond our basket. I've often thought he was a little mad, for when the sun was up, and all sensible dogs were settling to snooze, out he would come, and

go inside a shop situated on the main street just where the hill begins to descend to the bridge. There he would stay all day, trying to sell rubbish at least, it looked like rubbish to me, though he never grew weary of praising it to well-dressed foreigners.

"Step inside, sir," he would bark in a soft voice. "Very cheap to-day." Upon which the rat-faced boy who helped him to waste his time, would snigger; for "Very cheap to-day " was his nickname.

I hated that boy. His favourite amusement was to pour boiling water on the nose of every sleeping dog. But my old Turk caught him at it one day, and kicked him with a strong hindpaw on the place where his tail ought to have been. By Allah! I laughed so much I had to lean against the door-post.

Dear old man! He used to smile at me when I—a juvenile pup-staggered about his shop, sniffing suspiciously at the gay carpets, testing my teeth on the inlaid furniture, thrusting my inquisitive nose into everything that took my fancy. We were always good friends. Often would I toddle after him to the end of the street, and watch him till he turned the corner that leads up the hill to the Mosque.

But a day came when I missed him in the shop. The rat-faced boy put up the shutters and poured boiling water unreproved. I hated him more than ever, for I heard him tell a friend that "Very cheap to-day was dead. No one seemed to care. The sun shone as usual, and people sat in the shade and drank coffee. I wondered at them. As for me, I stood disconsolately in the gutter, and felt that I would never have the heart to drink again.

They took him away upon men's shoulders, running hard as if some one were chasing them. They put him into a hole in the cemetery, and over him they erected a tall stone with a red fez on the top, and golden letters underneath. I paid him many visits, but I never saw him again. Sometimes I listened at the little round hole in the stone slab that kept him down, but never again did I hear the old familiar words, "Very cheap to-day."

But I must go back to our family. There were three of us pups-Hassan my brother, Fatma my sister, and me. They

called me "Mahmud the Biter," for I never could keep my teeth to myself. We had merry times. "Catch who can was our favourite game. You both run round in a circle and try to bite each other as you run. This may sound easy, but it isn't. I remember on one occasion I had caught Hassan by the ear. It was a clever bite, for we were both going for all we were worth. I didn't mean to hurt him, at least not at first, but, somehow or other, his ear tasted so good that I simply couldn't let it go. The more he yelped, the tighter I set my teeth. To understand my feelings, you must have been brought up entirely on milk, with an inherited desire for solid food. I can't exactly tell what happened then. I rather think we ran into a water-carrier, and he must have kicked us into the middle of the road, for I have a dim recollection of some one howling, "The tram is on you"and it was. The next thing I remember was finding myself on my back in the gutter, and seeing Hassan tearing home on three legs, yelling like one possessed.

it

The airs he gave himself over that paw! Our old Turk bound up with a rag. Hassan's behaviour after that made us all sick. As an invalid he claimed the best spot on the pavement. He'd nose himself under Fatma, and lever her out into the sun, and if she tried to crawl back he'd yelp, " My paw! my paw! till not a dog in the lane but reproved her for cruelty.

He patronised mother, too, till I could have bitten him.

'I'm a grown-up dog now," he said to her one day, “and I feel I must give you advice. I've seen more of the world than most dogs, and what's more, I think about things. What's that coming down the street?"

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Only the water-carrier," mother replied; noticed him often before, Hassan."

The water-carrier," Hassan ejaculated. " Hassan ejaculated. "And he gives none to us. The world is heartless. I know it too well, that's the trouble. How many streets are there in the world, mother?” Oh, don't worry, Hassan. Do keep off Fatma's tail; can't you see I'm cleaning her face?"

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"But what shall I do?

'Oh, do anything. You can look for fleas on my back if you like."

We pups often listened to mother's stories of Constantinople

life. Our beat, we were told, extended from the street Boyouk Hendek, close to the Galata Tower, to the middle of Galata Bridge. Within this limit we were safe-beyond it was death.

"What is death?" demanded Hassan.

Mother pointed with a trembling paw to the butcher's shop. Fatma crept closer to me; I felt her shaking. But Hassan sniffed eagerly.

"I'm not afraid of death," he boasted; "it smells good."
"Will they hang us up without our skins ? " quavered Fatma.
"No dear, but they would tear us to pieces."

"No; dogs. There are thousands of us here. We are a great city. But it is all divided into beats. You are born in your beat, and so you must live in your beat, and die in your beat. It is the law. Hassan, come out of the road."

"What's on the other side of the water, or up the hill? questioned Fatma.

"Streets, I suppose, but I've never dared to visit them." "And if one of their dogs came here ?" I asked.

A fierce light came into mother's brown eyes. Slowly she bared her fangs.

"Mother!" shrieked Fatma. "Don't look like that! You frighten me!"

"My tit-bit! My little marrow-bone!" cooed mother in a moment, all tenderness. "Forgive me, dear. I thought of one night. It was just before I married my first husband. A strange dog crossed Galata Bridge-

"Yes," we whispered as she paused, "go on, mother.'

He was a black dog-fierce and fast, but what could he do? Every dog in our beat was thirsting for his blood. The noise was exciting. I ran with the pack."

"Don't stop," yelped Hassan breathlessly.

"The hunt swept up Yuksek Kildrim, doubled at the big drain, raced for the steps. The moon shone. Every lane poured out its dogs. I could see them leaping out of the blackness into the moonlight. Before the pack ran the stranger, dead beat, and staggering in his stride."

"Yes, yes," we panted, "go on."

"I think he might have reached the end of our beat," continued