Stories about —

The worst of a pet dog is that one gets so fond of it. When old age, or accident, or disease deprives you of your faithful friend, your unfailing sympathiser, you ‘go heavily as one that mourneth;’ and cold hard people, who have never known of what true and noble affection dogs are capable, wonder that you can be so silly as to fret after a dog. But if any children who read these pages have ever had a dog of their very own, they will understand exactly what I mean. Dogs do not forget us, why should we be ashamed of preserving a tender recollection of them? If it were possible for the gates of the grave to unclose, and its silent inmates to come back to this busy world of ours, who would stop to greet them, who would welcome their return more ecstatically than the dog they had fed and befriended? Whenever I hear a person say, ‘I don’t like dogs,’ I distrust that person, and I would not choose him for my own friend. Whenever I see anyone, big or little, child or grown-up man, deliberately cruel to a dog, I detest them. Of course there is a great difference between pampering a dog until you ruin both its health and temper, making it a plague to everyone, and being careful and considerate of your dog-friend, seeing that it has enough food and water, warmth, and, above all, exercise. People say a dog loves best the person who feeds it. I have not found this to be the case, unless with a greedy little beast: the finest and best dogs are most attached to those who take them out for a walk or a run; and I always think, that what shows the real nobility of a dog’s nature is, that if they do you a service they love you better than ever afterwards.

It is not, however, about dogs in general that I am going to write, but of my own particular friends. They have not always been my private property, for I have a large circle of acquaintances among dogs; and no compliment which anyone in the world could pay me would flatter me half so much as a poor half-starved homeless cur following me in the street. One of my dearest and most faithful friends came to me in that way: he was benighted on a large desolate common, near a cottage I had just visited; and ‘Luck’ (for so he was christened on the spot) attached himself to my side, insisted on accompanying me home, and never left me from that time till his death, five years later. He was a large, handsome, black water-spaniel, and had evidently strayed for a long distance; he was footsore and travel-stained; his coat was torn and ragged, and his bones were sticking through his skin. For the first night he slept in the stable, and had for supper only stale odds and ends of bread soaked in boiling skim-milk, for I was afraid to give him too much to eat at first. The next morning he had a bath with plenty of soap and warm water, and I cut off all the tangled hair of his coat. He spent the remainder of that day on an old rug by the kitchen fire, and it was nearly a week before he could run about gaily, for he was evidently an old dog when this terrible misadventure befell him. Talk of the gratitude of human beings, it was nothing to Luck’s gratitude, which lasted as long as his life; and he was a wise dog, for he profited by the experience of those dreadful wintry days, and took very good care never to stray or run away again. For the first three months after he gave himself to me, I sought diligently for his rightful owner, but never found anyone to claim him.

My little sister Jessie, whose acquaintance you have already made in the stories about Jamaica, was still more devoted to dogs than I am; and one of my most distinct childish memories is of a dreadful fright she gave us all. I must tell you about it. We were living in the country, and I well remember the long bright summer’s day on which I went through such agonies of suspense and fear. About an hour after breakfast, when my lessons were over, our dear, nice little governess prepared to take us out for a walk. Jessie had been sent to play in the garden a few moments before, whilst I lingered over a refractory sum which would not prove itself. At last it came right and I was released; but, when Miss Lewis called Jessie to join us, no Jessie was to be found. One of the servants had seen her leave the house, and that was the only news of the little girl whom we all loved and petted so much. The garden, grounds, and even the fields were thoroughly searched before Miss Lewis could make up her mind to alarm Mamma, who was in very delicate health. Oh! how well I remember the actual sickness which came over me when Mamma asked, with a trembling voice, ‘Have you examined the well.’ Now this well was a most peculiar one. In the centre was the ordinary brick round hole with a powerful windlass over it, but on each side extended a large deep cistern with only a very narrow brick coping. We knew these cisterns were full of water, for there had been heavy rain lately, and it was quite possible for a small child to drown itself in either of them. Mamma wished me to remain with her; but I could not endure to be quiet, so I set off with the others to this dangerous place. It was the work of half an hour at least to convince ourselves that Jessie was neither in the well nor the cisterns, and I was nearly frantic with misery whilst the search was going on.

A messenger on horseback was despatched for my father, who was absent, and on his arrival the servants were divided into regular parties to examine every possible hiding-place. An old man who attended to the cows had attracted my attention early in the day by wiping his eyes constantly with his sleeve whilst he was looking about, and saying to himself, ‘pooty little dear.’ To this sympathising individual I immediately attached myself, and holding tight on to his horny hand wandered for miles hither and thither all day. I had an instinctive feeling that old Jim would not scold Jessie if we discovered her, whereas any of the others would be sure to lecture her well all the way to the house.

At last sunset came and Jim proceeded to collect the cows and drive them to a ruinous old shed to milk them. I still followed him closely, and as the first cow leisurely entered her stall I heard a sweet little voice say, ‘Oh, don’t walk on me, please!’ There was Jessie, buried in hay, hungry and tired, but with an air of patient endurance nursing tenderly in her arms half-a-dozen pointer puppies! She had discovered that old Juno had increased her already numerous progeny during the night, and she had spent the whole day in what she called ‘helping her to take care of all ‘dem babies.’ We asked her if she had heard our calls, and she said, ‘Yes, but de babies were asleep, and I couldn’t wake ’em by saying where I was.’ Poor little Jessie, she could not understand what suffering she had caused us, and thought Nurse very hard-hearted for refusing to permit her to resume her duties the next day. The matter was referred to the authorities, but when Nurse hinted, as delicately as so elegant a personage could, at the number of fleas which pervaded the little girl’s clothes, it was decided at once in the negative, much to old Juno’s relief probably.

We had dogs of all sorts and sizes during our childhood, and, as well as I can remember, the ugliest were always the best beloved. If any particularly hideous mongrel was condemned to death, Jessie and I invariably interceded for it, and when we gained our point, watched over and tended it with the greatest care, stoutly maintaining its beauty and talent against all detractors. At last, one happy day, when we were both nearly grown up, we were each given a real Carthagena dog. What little beauties they were, something like a Maltese poodle, only smaller. They were as white as little puff-balls, with lovely silky hair; they never grew any bigger than they were when we got them, and their health was excellent. Every morning we washed them in a basin, dried them in the sun, combed their coats till they shone like floss silk, and trimmed the hair off their delicate little feet. The last touch to their toilettes was to put on a little collar of either blue or scarlet ribbon or velvet. Whenever we had any pocket money, it all went in new collars for ‘Caprice’ and ‘Chico.’ Caprice was so called because he had a natural rosette of black fluff on his forehead amid his snowy locks, whilst Chico (or little darling) was about the size of a sixpenny toy-lamb. They both slept all day in my work-basket on the table out of harm’s way. They were fed entirely on biscuit and milk, and Caprice lived to a good old age, but Chico’s fate was appalling, and cost both Jessie and me many bitter tears.

I must tell you here that Jessie had another pet dog, a fierce Cuban bloodhound: it was kept chained up all day and only loosed at night as a safeguard to the house and grounds. ‘Turk’ was a splendid animal, but ferocious to everyone except Jessie. I never could get over my uneasiness when I saw him leaping on her, licking her cheek, or mumbling her little hand affectionately. Jessie always fed him herself, and declared his bad temper was much exaggerated. One summer evening we had been out to a little party given at a house near ours, and had walked home; it was a lovely, soft, moonlight night, and, the moment the garden gate was opened, Turk bounded up to us with the sternest intentions of expelling or killing us all on the spot. However, Jessie induced him to forego these resolutions for the present, and he accompanied us to the hall door, which was quickly opened by our maid. Close upon her footsteps trotted tiny Chico, uttering sleepy little barks. Turk had never seen his small rival, and the instant he perceived that Chico was really a living, moving dog (for at first he must have thought that he was a toy), he bounded upon the poor little beastie. Before Jessie could stop him, we heard a yelp and a snap; Turk had bitten Chico in two! It was a dreadful moment, for Jessie’s despair is not to be described, and Turk saw no reason why he should not finish his supper, and looked up in Jessie’s horrified face with a self-satisfied air, as much as to say, ‘Thus perish all intruders.’ This tragedy had one good result in Turk’s banishment, for Jessie could not bear to see the murderer of Chico; so the bloodhound was sent away to a distant friend, where he became the terror of all the evildoers in the neighbourhood.

I think Punch, a great tawny mastiff, was Turk’s successor. He distinguished himself by keeping a bishop at bay. You see he was no respecter of persons, and, as the bishop happened to have on papa’s shoes whilst his own boots were being dried, Punch sternly refused to allow his lordship to leave the room. We waited and waited for more than an hour; luncheon was getting cold; still the poor bishop remained in my father’s dressing-room, whither he had been conducted; and at last he was discovered, very tired and hungry, but unable to stir. Punch was lying down in front of the chair (fortunately he permitted the poor man to sit down) with his head resting on his own forepaws, and keeping an unwearying watch on the shoes; they were not to be taken out of the room on any terms, and even Jessie had great difficulty in making him understand that it was all right.

Punch was very fond of the water, and would go into a river after a stick as well as if he had been a retriever. Upon one occasion I was sitting in the verandah teaching my youngest sister, a tiny little trot of about six years old, to work. It was a distasteful employment, and the seam appeared quite endless to both of us. You must not be shocked if I tell you, it was a little night-dress of her own that Laura was employed upon. It had been finished very successfully, as we thought; but this unfortunate seam was badly done, and had to be unpicked and neatly sewn again. At last the finishing stitches were put in, and with a sigh of relief Laura jumped up. At this unlucky moment Punch appeared, evidently in the mood for a game of play, and the idea occurred to Laura to dress him up in her garment. Of course I ought to have prevented it, but I satisfied my conscience by a very feeble remonstrance, and aided and abetted this piece of mischief. Punch certainly looked exquisitely ridiculous with his forepaws through the sleeves, and, when we buttoned the little collar securely round his throat, both Laura and I were too much amused at his appearance to think of the consequences to her newly-finished work. Suddenly Punch—who up to that time had been as grave as a judge—gave a mighty bound, knocking Laura over and nearly upsetting me, and, like a flash of lightning, he tore down the garden walk, leapt a low hedge, and we heard a great splash. We rushed after him. There was Punch, still in his white robe, swimming about in the brook. How absurd the effect was no words of mine can tell you. In a few moments he was out again on the other side, rolling on the bank, tearing about the field trying to get rid of the wet clinging calico. It was no use; the stuff was new, and would not tear easily. Into the brook again he plunged, and at last scampered away to the stable, where he succeeded in tearing off his clothing. It was all very well whilst it lasted, and Laura and I laughed till we cried; but we felt very foolish when it came to the point of going into the house, and announcing that no work was forthcoming.

Shall I tell you of Toddy and Sykes? I think I must, although it does not speak well for the character of my favourites; still one must be an impartial historian. Sykes was a white bull terrier of a truculent aspect, a foe to all the cats in the vicinity of his home. He was not allowed inside the house, nor even to enter the gardener’s cottage on account of a bad habit he had of constantly sharpening his teeth on the furniture. He gnawed legs of chairs and tables until they were quite unfit for use; so the gardener objected to his presence in his small domicile quite as much as did the lady at the great house. Well, under these circumstances, the only cat allowed about the place thought, that if she set up her nursery in the gardener’s kitchen, she would be able to preserve her innocent offspring from the monster, Sykes. Alas! she was mistaken. Looking through the open door, he, Sykes, saw a charming picture of domestic felicity, which he forthwith determined to disturb. There was the old tabby mamma with seven sweet little babies lying on a bit of carpet by the fire. She was licking her children carefully all over, whilst they were cuddling up to her, crawling over each other, and groping about for her soft touch. The kitchen was empty, and the only sounds were the mingled mews and purrs of the pussies. Sykes dared not enter, but still he resolved to exterminate that family of kittens. What was to be done? He trotted off to the great house, walked up the steps, and looked in at the hall door; there he saw Toddy lying in the sunshine on a tiger-skin.

Now Toddy was a beautiful young lady Skye terrier, her appearance was captivating, her manners perfection, and her general character and disposition most sweet and amiable. What fiendish arguments Sykes used to persuade her to be his accomplice I don’t know; but it is certain that, after Sykes had stood at the open door, uttering impatient little yapps, for a moment or two, Toddy rose from her tiger-skin, stretched herself, and at last joined the villanous Sykes on the steps. A whispered consultation took place, accompanied by much wagging of Sykes’s tail, and at last the pair were seen to set off to the gardener’s cottage. They were followed; and here I am happy to be able to state that Toddy evidently hesitated, but at length Sykes overcame her remaining scruples, and she entered the kitchen. The old tabby felt no alarm when Toddy carefully took up one of the kittens in her mouth and brought it out to Sykes—was not Toddy well-known to be an excellent amateur nurse, and most tender and considerate to all sorts of baby things? Sykes received the poor little kitten in his cruel jaws, gave it one nip, which silenced its weak voice, retired under a shrub, and despatched it. In the meantime Toddy had brought him another, which shared the same fate; and doubtless all would have fallen victims to this treacherous arrangement, if Toddy’s mistress had not interfered, and made her heartily ashamed of her cruel conduct. For many days after that, if you said, ‘O Toddy, kittens!’ Toddy would slink away with drooping tail and cringing head, as if she quite understood her fault; but as for Sykes, he was hopeless: the same words addressed to him would put him in a state of furious excitement, and he would rush about searching for them with clearly expressed intentions of instant annihilation.

Now, after these naughty little dogs, let us turn to the story of a beautiful, noble, generous doggie. He was not my own, but he was a great friend of mine, and so was his lovely little mistress. I can’t tell you his real name, because I know if ever his mistress saw these lines she would cry: so we will call him Hero. He was such a magnificent brown retriever, with eyes like yellow topazes. Sometimes their glance was as soft as a dove’s; but let any one appear inclined to molest the queen of his loyal heart, and they would gleam like fire, whilst he looked ready to do or to dare anything in her defence. When she walked, Hero stalked solemnly by her side, supremely happy if her hand rested on his broad head: he thought it his duty to protect her unless she was driving, and then he raced by the carriage making wide circuits, but ever returning to say, by a joyous short bark, ‘I am here, don’t be afraid;’ his grand feathery tail waving so proudly as he galloped about the soft turf.

I have seen him breast huge rolling waves to fetch out a stick, and when he caught sight of his mistress (who was a perfect water-baby by the way) swimming in the sea, Hero would plunge in to her rescue, and insist on fetching her out by her hair, or the sleeve of her pretty bathing dress, quite regardless of her own wishes on the subject. Although he belonged to a rough race of dogs, Hero was as dainty in his habits and person as a young lady. Bread was his only food, varied by a bit of biscuit as a great treat; consequently he was sweet as a nut, and in addition to his sea baths he had daily fresh-water ones, so his coat was silky and glossy as any little girl’s curls. Poor Hero! it makes me sad even now to think of his end.

He had been staying down in the country, a short distance from London, and had very reluctantly returned to the comparative confinement of a town life; the weather was very bad, snowy and wretched, and he could not be taken out for his usual long walks, so we noticed that he was rather restless. One bitter winter’s morning he dashed out into the garden the moment the door was opened, very early, and after a few rapid circuits make a sudden spring at the wall, cleared it by a tremendous bound, and scampered off as hard as he could. By the time they missed him he was miles away, and in spite of placards and advertisements in all the papers, days passed without any tidings of our beloved Hero. At last there came a dirty, ill-spelled note, saying that the writer had seen the advertisement, and that just such a dog had rushed into his shop some days previously, in a state of great exhaustion and suffering, having met with an accident. We hurried immediately to the address, and I can hardly make you understand how painful it was to ask questions each of which proved clearly that our poor Hero had first been exposed to cold and hunger, and at last had met a cruel death. We ascertained that when he dashed into this little shop—far away from his own home, but on the road to the country place he had left—he had just received a frightful gash; blood was streaming from his side, and he kept making short snaps at the gaping wound after the manner of dogs; but the ignorant people thought he was dangerous, and called in a policeman, who looked at the poor dog from a respectful distance, and immediately pronounced sentence of death against him. A chemist from next door was hastily summoned to execute this decree, he administered an enormous dose of poison, and in half a second Hero’s sufferings were over. Our only comfort was to hear that his death was speedy, but we could not help thinking something might have been done to try to cure him first.

There were so many different stories about the way he met with his wound, that we could not arrive at any certainty. Some said they saw him run over by a cart, but he was so clever and accustomed to the streets, that seemed improbable. Another witness said that he had been seen to make a dash at a joint of meat in a butcher’s shop, and that the butcher straightway flung a cleaver at him; but the strictest inquiries failed to throw any light on this tale. Then a third witness described minutely a deadly combat with another dog, in which Hero was defeated and left for dead on the battlefield; but we knew our favourite’s strength and courage too well to believe that he could be vanquished in a duel.

At last we sorrowfully gave up the attempt to find out how he had been killed, and devoted ourselves to the recovery of his body; but it had been buried, and we did not like to have it dug up again, so we contented ourselves with paying a fancy price for his skin, which had been taken off first, and with this melancholy relic we were obliged to return. But first we had to refund sundry small sums which had been expended for beer. Hero’s death must have caused quite a smart influx of trade to the nearest publichouse, for, according to the statement of our friend the tallow-chandler (whose shop Hero had selected as his refuge), everybody in the neighbourhood had consumed ‘a pot o’ beer’ on the strength of the event; even the tidy mistress of the establishment had felt herself to be so ‘put about’ by the tragedy, that she also had required extra refreshment.

Hero’s successor, who was exactly like him in appearance, had an element of suspicion in his character which Hero did not possess. Upon one occasion, I was taking my five o’clock tea with the lady who owned both Hero and Brownie, when she went upstairs to dress for a drive; but first she poured out her tea to get cool, begged me to take mine, but not to allow the servants to remove hers, saying, as she left the room, ‘Now don’t let them touch it.’ I nodded, and went on with my newspaper. Presently I stretched out my hand for my cup of tea, which was a little way off. A low deep growl startled me; there was Brownie, who knew me almost as well as he did his dear little mistress, sitting up on his haunches gazing steadily at me with an expression of eye which was not at all pleasant. I thought to myself, ‘this is all nonsense, of course the dog knows me; surely he doesn’t think I am a thief.’ But that was just what Brownie did think apparently, and he soon showed me that I was on no account to touch any thing on the table. This state of things was very disagreeable, for I don’t like cold tea, and I was rather thirsty. Suddenly there flashed into my mind the recollection of Brownie’s well-known love for bread and butter. I put out my hand for some saying, in a most conciliatory tone, ‘Good old boy, he shall have some bread and butter then.’ Up rose Brownie, terrible in his indignation at the idea of a bribe; he put both of his broad paws on my lap and growled ferociously, looking at me steadily, his beautiful eyes gleaming with an honest rage. He would not even turn his head towards the tempting plate lest his resolution should waver. I tried again to get my tea. This time came a louder growl and a snap. Nothing would content Brownie but my giving up all idea of eating or drinking for the present, and I was obliged to console myself with the newspaper; but I soon finished it, and then I discovered that Brownie would not hear of my getting another. No; I was to sit still and not touch anything. At last his mistress returned, and Brownie greeted her affectionately, accompanied her to the tea-table, and then came up to me wagging his tail and licking my hands, and saying as plainly as possible, ‘I don’t mind having some bread and butter now;’ but I felt very much aggrieved and rather cross, for my tea was quite cold!

The most intelligent little dog of my acquaintance, however, is called ‘Tip.’ Good-natured people say he is a ‘fancy-pug;’ unkind friends declare he is a mongrel; but all agree in saying that such charming ugliness never before existed, and, as for sense and cleverness, his equal would be hard to find. Tip’s mamma is a great beauty, a true Japanese pug; his father was a thoroughbred English pug; but neither of his parents are as sagacious as Tip. He resembles his mother in the colour of his coat, which is quite different from that of an ordinary pug, being just like a chestnut in hue, and is as glossy and sleek as satin. It is not in consequence of Tip’s own instincts that his appearance is so beautiful, for he hates his bi-weekly baths. If I say, ‘Tip come and be washed,’ he uncurls his tail, droops his ears, and sits up to beg, shivering piteously, and from time to time holding out his paw to shake hands, as if he thought that would avert his destiny. He really enjoys the most luxurious bathing arrangements, warm water, a good fire, his own sponge and soap, and a large sheet to be dried in. He emerges from his tub looking quite beautiful, but still he is wretched for some hours. When any one says, ‘Naughty Tip,’ he retires into a corner and sits up with his face to the wall till he is forgiven. He has a large and affectionate heart, but his entire devotion is kept for his master whom he perfectly adores. He will only sleep at his feet with his chin resting on them; and, when he leaves the house, Tip is miserable till he returns, watching the door, searching every room for him, and finally welcoming him home with the most frantic joy. To children he is very partial, and perfectly good-tempered in spite of being pulled about by them. A small brown baby was lately added to the establishment where Tip’s home is, and he is most absurd about this infant. When he is left alone with the little creature he guards it most carefully, and licks its hands and feet assiduously; but, when his master speaks to the baby, Tip’s jealousy is aroused, and he dashes about the room, barking, jumps up on his master, licks his boots, does all he can to distract his attention. Any one else may take as much notice as they like of poor baby, but his papa is not to speak or even look at him without Tip’s permission; and it is quite sad to see the expression of real suffering in his large eyes whilst the baby is caressed. It is to be hoped this feeling will subside, and his master is very careful not to wound his feelings by neglect. A few days ago Tip discovered that the servants had not filled his basin, which stands in the hall, with water, and that it was quite empty; so he took in his mouth the piece of sulphur which is kept in it, and trotted off to the room where his master was sitting, laid it down at his feet, and retreated to a short distance wagging his tail, as much as to say, ‘Pray help me in this little difficulty.’

There never was a more friendly and sociable dog than Tip, and he has a large circle of acquaintances among both people and dogs; but his chosen friend is a very handsome Gordon setter, ‘Royal’ by name. Now, although Royal is ten times as big as Tip he is not nearly as clever; consequently Tip looks after Royal when they are out walking, and is full of anxiety because his big friend will roam so far away. Tip only goes a certain distance, looks back anxiously, and tries to coax Royal to return; then, if the other dog persists in keeping at a distance, Tip gallops back and insists, by jumps and barks, on Royal’s being summoned; nor will anything else satisfy him. It is so pretty to see these two at play. Royal lies on his back with his four legs straight up in the air and his great mouth wide open, into which Tip thrusts his head, and you hear the bell on Tip’s collar ringing half way down Royal’s throat! Then Tip jumps on Royal and walks up and down his broad beautiful chest. As soon as this has gone on long enough Royal leaps suddenly up, and the shock throws Tip high into the air as if he were a shuttle-cock! Then, as he touches the ground, the game recommences by Royal pretending to run away, and Tip scampering after him, bringing the big dog back by one of his long silky ears. After some time Royal’s mistress says, ‘Now, children, that is enough; sit down and be quiet;’ and they retreat to different corners of the room and lie down, panting. Tip cannot understand Royal’s taste for ices, and when he sees his big friend enjoying himself at Gunter’s with a ‘strawberry cream,’ Tip sniffs at the dainty, and looks up in his master’s face with a shiver of disgust, for Tip prefers warmth, and is never so happy as when basking in the sunshine.

I cannot give you a description of Tip’s varied accomplishments, for he is always improving his education, and gives Royal lessons in begging, walking, ‘on trust,’ &c.; but he has one game of play in which he indulges when alone, and which is exceedingly ridiculous. He takes the end of his tail firmly in his mouth—and this is the most difficult part of the performance, as it is tightly curled over his back—and twirls round and round until he falls down from giddiness; as soon as he can get up he sets off again the reverse way, and he has been seen to go on thus for half an hour. Tip often makes journeys by the underground railway, which he hates, and, as soon as his master gets out of the carriage, Tip scampers off up the steps until he comes to the ticket collector; there he stops and sits down sedately, looking up in the man’s face from time to time, as much as to say, ‘It’s all right,’ till his master arrives with the tickets: as soon as these are given up Tip knows he may pass, and sets off at full speed for the open street. The reason of this conduct is, that he was once stopped by a ticket collector and detained until his master claimed him: he evidently learned how to manage in future.

I must end this chapter by telling you of a narrow escape poor Tip had lately. His home is in a distant part of London, and he is fond of disporting himself in the square in front of his dwelling. Into this inclosure dogs are not generally admitted, but, as Shakspeare tells us, that ‘Nice customs curtesy to great kings,’ so all rules are relaxed in favour of a little dog who fascinates everybody in spite of his very ugly face. Tip therefore is allowed to run after his ball within the square, and he was thus amusing himself, much to the delight of his young friends, when a small pack of beagles passed by the half-open gate in charge of a feeble old coachman. The ball was instantly neglected, and Tip darted out to welcome the strangers: but what a reception he met with; the whole pack thought he was a hare, down went their heads up went their sterns and uttering their musical cry they chevyed poor Tip round and round the square. Every now and then Tip thought to himself, ‘This must be all a mistake, they only want to play;’ so he would stop his career and turn short round with the most amiable expression of face, wagging his tail furiously as if he would say, ‘Now that’s enough, pax;’ but he was instantly tumbled over and worried, so he had to pick himself up as best he might and resume his flight. He never thought of coming to his master for shelter; he evidently considered he could manage matters alone; his mistress was frantic; she flew to the old coachman, and scolded him well for bringing out such brutes; but he was quite helpless and frightened, and only said, ‘I durs’n’t go near ’em;’ then she turned to see Tip’s master beating off some of the dogs, but one vixen had got Tip down on the ground and was choking him, whilst another was helping to worry him. The poor little doggie was quite exhausted, and seemed to have resigned himself to his fate. He was all over wounds, and his ugly little turned-up nose was a mass of bites. His mistress thought it was time to rush to the rescue of her pet and friend; so she boldly dashed in among the shrubs, and, in spite of furious snaps and snarls, and getting her gown torn into ribbons, she picked up her beloved Tip and carried him off in safety and triumph. Tip’s gratitude was great, and he showed it in a thousand pretty ways, though he was so thoroughly done he could hardly stand. Whenever he afterwards passed any dog in the street which at all resembled his enemies, the beagles, Tip gave them a very wide berth, and looked at them with an expression which meant, ‘I’ll have nothing to say to you.’

Dear little Tip, long may he live! for his life is a very happy one; he is so good-tempered and unselfish that everyone loves him; and he is not in the least pampered or indulged, consequently he is always in perfect health, and ready for a game of play. He has just brought me his little collar and laid it at my feet, so I must leave off writing and take him out for a walk; that is what he wishes me to do.