The lamented Lazarus departed this life about a year ago, and from that
time until recently poor Bummer has mourned the loss of his faithful friend
in solitude, scorning the sympathy and companionship of his race with that
stately reserve and exclusiveness which has always distinguished him since
he became a citizen of San Francisco. But, for several weeks past, we have
observed a vagrant black puppy has taken up with him, and attends him in
his promenades, bums with him at the restaurants, and watches over his slumbers
as unremittingly as did the sainted Lazarus of other days. Whether that
puppy really feels an unselfish affection for Bummer, or whether he is actuated
by unworthy motives, and goes with him merely to ring in on the eating houses
through his popularity at such establishments, or whether he is one of those
fawning sycophants that fasten upon the world's heroes in order that they
may be glorified by the reflected light of greatness, we can not yet determine.
We only know that he hangs around Bummer, and snarls at intruders upon his
repose, and looks proud and happy when the old dog condescends to notice
him. He ventures upon no puppyish levity in the presence of his prince,
and essays no unbecoming familiarity, but in all respects conducts himself
with the respectful decorum which such a puppy so situated should display.
Consequently, in time, he may grow into high favor.
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