Chapter C: R. T

LUCKY AND UNLUCKY.

[_April 28, 1877._]

As letters telling of dogs and their doings occasionally appear in the _Spectator_, perhaps the following rather pathetic anecdote of a dog I know well may also find a place there. Two or three weeks ago, Lucky--so called from having, when an outcast, found its present happy home--perhaps by way of showing its gratitude to its benefactors, presented them with five small Luckys, or rather, with one exception, Unluckys, as the melancholy process always resorted to with these too-blooming families had to be carried out in this instance, and the five were reduced to one. Poor Lucky was inconsolable, looking everywhere for them, and looking, too, with such appealing eyes into the faces of her friends, and asking them so plainly where they were. Near her kennel was an inclosed piece of ground for pigeons, and as it was discovered that rats were carrying off the young pigeons, and as Lucky had carried off one or two rats, it was decided one night to leave the door of the pigeons' house open, that Lucky might have the run of it; and the next morning, side by side with the puppy, was found a baby pigeon, looking quite bright and at home, but hungry, and poor Lucky, proud of the addition it had made to its family, was looking more contented than it had done since the loss of its puppies. The pigeon must have fallen from its nest, some distance from the ground, and Lucky, while on the look-out for rats, must have found it, and carefully carried it to her kennel, with the vague feeling, perhaps, that it was one of her own lost little ones "developing" a little curiously. Unfortunately the arrangement could not be a permanent one, and the famished little pigeon was put back into its own nest, to be found again the next morning in Lucky's bed, but this time dead. The old birds seem to have deserted it, and it had died of starvation. If Lucky could give this account herself, it might be much more interesting, for it was thought not at all improbable that she had actually rescued from a rat the bird she was so anxious to adopt, as a small wound was found upon it such as a rat might have made, and as a young pigeon had been taken the night before from the same nest; but this is only conjecture, and Lucky only could tell us the facts; how often it would be interesting, if our humble friends could tell us their adventures! A friend who is staying with me tells me that a few months ago her dog was lost for a week, and at the end of that time it came back one night in a scarlet ruff and spangles, and looking altogether dreadfully dissipated. Evidently it had been the "performing dog" in some show, "Punch and Judy" perhaps; being naturally a clever dog, it would quickly have learnt the part of "Toby" in that delightful and time-honoured exhibition. If it could only have written also an article entitled "A Week of My Life," with what pleasure the _Spectator_ would have published it!

S.

THE COURAGE OF ANIMALS.

[_Feb. 11, 1893._]

In the _Spectator_ of December 31st, which, although a regular subscriber to your valuable paper, I only happened to see to-day, owing to absence from home, I notice a reference in the article entitled "The Courage of Animals," to the fact that the wild dogs of India attack and destroy tigers. I have no personal knowledge of the matter, but I have been told by an Indian officer that the _modus operandi_ of the "red dogs" is as follows:--Having found their tiger they proceed, not to attack him at once, as might be inferred from your article, but to starve him until they have materially reduced his strength. Night and day they form a cordon round the unfortunate beast, and allow him no chance of obtaining food or rest; every time the tiger essays to break the circle, this is widened as the pack flies before him, only to be relentlessly narrowed again when the quarry is exhausted. After a certain period of this treatment the tiger falls a comparatively easy prey to his active and persevering enemies. This theory of their plan of attack, while it may detract somewhat from the wild dogs' reputation for courage, must add considerably to our estimate of their intelligence.

EDWARD PAUL, Jun.

SOME FACTS OF MATERNAL INSTINCT IN ANIMALS.

[_Oct. 1, 1892._]

I lately met some friends who had with them a little dog, called Vic, who had adopted the family of a cat in the house, and, while in possession, would not let the mother come near her kittens. The kittens were kept in a very tall basket, and Vic would take them in her mouth, and jump out with them one by one, and then carry them into the garden and watch over them, carrying them back in the same way after a time; at other times, lying contentedly with them in the basket. Of course Vic had to be forcibly removed when the adopted family required their mother's attention for their sustenance. I also have met a friend who saw a hen-hawk, who was in a cage, mothering a young starling. Three young, unfledged starlings were given the hawk to eat. She ate two, and then broodled the other, and took the utmost care of it. Unhappily, the young starling died; and from that moment the hawk would touch no food, but died herself in a few days.

The same friend was on a mountain one day, when a sheep came up to him, and unmistakably begged him to follow her going just in front, and continually looking round to see if he was following. The sheep led him at last to some rocks, where he found a lamb fast wedged in between two pieces of rock. He was able to liberate the lamb, to the evident joy of the mother.

I myself once saw a cat "broodling" and taking care of a very small chicken, which, being hatched first of a brood, had been brought into a cottage and placed in a basket near the fire. It managed to get out of the basket, and hopped up to the cat, who immediately adopted it.

WM. WALSHAM WAKEFIELD.

HAVE ANIMALS A FOREKNOWLEDGE OF DEATH?

[_April 30, 1892._]

In a recent _Spectator_ there is a quotation from Pierre Loti to the effect that "animals not only fear death, but fear it the more because they are aware that they have no future." Pierre Loti is a brilliant novelist, but I am not aware that he is a scientific naturalist, and I trust his idea is a mere chimera. Loti would take from the brutes the one privilege for which men may envy them, and endows them with a knowledge of the aftertime that we have only by revelation. However, two common-sense naturalists have published their belief that the lower animals have a foreknowledge of death, and one of them goes so far as to give an account of an old horse committing suicide. He says the animal frequently suffered from some internal disease, and that it deliberately walked into a pond, and, putting its nostrils under water, stood thus till it dropped dead from suffocation. The incident, I think, is easily explained. Many horses drink in the manner described, and in old horses heart-disease is not uncommon. I imagine the stoppage of respiration caused a sudden and natural death from heart-disease.

I should like to ask naturalists who think animals know that they must die, where they draw the line. They must stop somewhere between a dog and a dormouse. Poets have made far more frequent allusion to the subject than naturalists, and they may be quoted on both sides. Philip James Bailey, in illustration of his contention that hope is universal, says: "and the poor hack that sinks down on the flints, upon whose eye the dust is settling, he hopes to die." But we have on the other hand Shelley's Skylark, with its "ignorance of pain," because it differs from men who "look before and after." Wordsworth's little girl of eight knew less than her dog, if she had one, for, says the poet, "what could she know of death?" I admit that when the carnivora have crushed their prey to death they cease to mangle them; but I fancy that is only because there is no more resistance; and a bull will trample on a hat and leave it when it becomes a shapeless mass. The nearest thing I ever saw to an apparent foreknowledge of death, was in the case of that least intelligent of dogs, a greyhound. I had to shoot it to prevent useless suffering from disease. It followed me willingly, but when I led it to a pit prepared as its grave it instantly rushed off at its best speed. I suggest that it saw instinctively something unpleasant was about to happen, but it does not follow that death was present to its mind. Domestic poultry will furiously attack one of their number that struggles on the ground in its death-agony. They do not dream of death; they think its contortions are a challenge to combat.

R. SCOTT SKIRVING.

OUR FOUR-FOOTED FRIENDS, BIG AND LITTLE.

[_Nov. 8, 1873._]

May I be permitted to question, in the most friendly way, the assumption of "Lucy Field," in your last issue, that the lives of small dogs are in constant jeopardy from "a race of giant dogs, and exceptionally large dogs," at Muswell Hill? If it be so, then, surely the "giant dogs" of that region are exceptions. My experience goes to confirm the truth taught by Sir Edwin Landseer's "Dignity and Impudence," a fine print of which adorns my portfolio. I had a broken-haired friend, weight about eight pounds, learned in two languages, canine and English, who rejoiced in the name of Teens, given him by babes with whom he condescended to play, because he was a "tiny, teeny dog." I must confess that my late friend--alas! that I should say late--who was chivalrically brave in killing rats and carrying on war with cats, was a very bully, a kind of Ancient Pistol towards big dogs. To see him meet a Newfoundland or large retriever was as good as a play. Teens, with his tail curled like the spring of an ancient watch, his broken-haired back stiffened with indignation, would stand and give the pass-word all dogs seem to know, and be overhauled and examined as he walked round the giant like an English gunboat by a Spanish fifth-rate; but when once the enemy turned his back, Teens exploded like a cracker, running under the big dog's nose, and often springing at his lip. His gigantic, but generous foe (or friend) always fled, or walked away, followed by a torrent of abusive barks, which, from their peculiar intonation, I took for dog-slang, and Teens returning with an impudent smile on his countenance, wiped his feet on the pavement as a sign of triumph. I have seen him do this a hundred times, and never saw a big dog attempt to punish his impudence. Jeems, a black-and-tan of smaller weight, who seemed to walk upon springs, and who on work-a-days was called Jim, and James on Sundays, which day he perfectly well knew, was more like Parolles. He bullied big dogs at a distance, and seldom stood up to them like the truculent Teens, and, although he ran away, was seldom pursued and never hurt, while the Claimant (he was for his size unwieldly in fatness as a pup), who (or which) still lives with me, is now bullying a shambling retriever pup, full-grown, but, like Cousin Feenix, uncertain as to his gait, who good-naturedly submits to it. Here, perhaps, there is danger; for very big pups will pursue any little thing that runs away, and one of their large paws, which they put down as if they wore heavily clumped boots, might certainly crush the life--a very noisy, fussy, busy life it is--out of my small and impertinent, pretentious Tichborne. This dog, by the way, brings down his mistress her boots, as a hint for her to take a walk, and blows like a trumpet or young walrus under the door to be let in, having been corrected for scratching the panel. I end as I began, by assuring you that my experience, no less than that of my friends, lies in the direction of extreme generosity exhibited by large dogs towards small ones; I would not deny that a large dog may now and then punish an impudent and aggressive toy-terrier, but, as a rule, we can only wonder at the providential wisdom which makes them so generous and forbearing; having a giant's strength, they seldom indeed use it like a giant.

HAIN FRISWELL.

DOG CONSCIOUSNESS.

[_Nov. 2, 1872._]

Our terrier Crib took upon himself yesterday to add his testimony to your view of "dog-consciousness," as expressed in the _Spectator_ of the 19th ult. Crib verges on perfection, save that he is frantically jealous of any other animal who may receive attention, but yesterday he rebelled against the injustice of being compelled to eat all his dinner, and refused to swallow one special piece of bread; but finding that his refusal was not accepted, apparently made a virtue of necessity, and gulped down the bread with a look and wag of the tail, giving me to understand that I ought to be satisfied, which I was not, as I observed a slight swelling in one cheek. So concealing my suspicion I furtively watched. Crib also occasionally eyed me, lying down and then walking round the room, and sniffing in the corners, as he is wont to do. In a few minutes, and when I appeared safely absorbed in my paper, he made his way slowly to where pussy was lapping her saucer of milk; passing her without stopping, he cleverly discharged the hated mouthful into pussy's milk, and continuing his walk to the rug, laid himself down and slept the sleep of the just.

C. S.

A DOG STORY.

[_June 1, 1895._]

Perhaps you will allow me to add another to your interesting list of dog stories. In a house where I once boarded there was a large and remarkably sagacious St. Bernard mastiff, who used to come into my sitting-room and give me his company at dinner, sitting on the floor beside my chair, with his head on a level with the plates. His master, however, fearing that he was being over-fed, gave strict injunctions that this practice should no longer be permitted. On the first day of the prohibition the dog lay and sulked in the kitchen; but on the second day, when the landlady brought in the dishes, he stole in noiselessly close behind her, and while for the moment she bent over the table, he slipped promptly beneath it, and waited. No sooner had she retired than he emerged from his hiding-place, sat down in his usual position, and winked in my face with a look which seemed to say, "Haven't I done her!" In due course, the good woman came to change the plates, and as soon as he heard her step, he slunk once more under the table; but in an instant, ere she had time to open the door, he came out again, as if he had suddenly taken another thought, and threw himself down on the rug before the fire--to all appearance fast asleep. "Ah, Keeper; you there, you rascal!" exclaimed his mistress, in indignant surprise, as she caught sight of him. The dog opened his eyes, half raised his body, stretched himself out lazily at full length, gave a great yawn as if awakened from a good long sleep, and then, with a wag of his tail, went forward and tried to lick her hand. It was a capital piece of acting, and the air of perfect guilelessness was infinitely amusing.

GEO. MCHARDY.

WOW: A STORY OF A CAT'S PAW.

[_March 23, 1872._]

I think you will be interested in the following anecdote of a distinguished foreigner. One of the happiest results of that abandonment of their ancient exclusiveness which has rendered us familiar with the Japanese, has been the arrival on these shores of a very pretty fluffy little dog, a born subject of the Mikado, who hails or rather barks from Nagasaki, and who is happily domiciled with a friend of mine, of a sufficiently elevated mind to esteem at its proper value the privilege of being the master of a clever and refined dog. The child of the sun and the earthquake has been named Wow, an ingenious combination of the familiar utterance of his kind with the full-mouthed terminals of the language of the merely human inhabitants of his country. My own impression is that Wow smacks rather of the melodious monosyllabic tongue of the Flowery Land than of that of the Dragon country; but this is a detail, and, as a young naval officer newly come from Nipon remarked to me lately, with much fervour, "Thank God! a fellow isn't obliged to learn their lingo." Wow has made himself at home and happy in his Northern residence with all the courtesy and suavity of a true Japanese, and has attached himself to his master with apparent resignation to the absence of pigtail and petticoat, articles of attire replaced in this case by the wig and gown of a Q.C. About this attachment there is, however, none of the exclusiveness which characterises the insular dog. Wow is a politician, or at least a diplomatist, and he desires to maintain friendly relations, with profitable results to himself, with everybody. He succeeds in doing so to an extraordinary extent, of which fact his master lately discovered evidence. Very strict orders, including the absolute prohibition of bones, had been issued with regard to Wow's diet. The ideas of a country in which little dogs eat, but are not eaten, require liberality in his opinion, and Wow made up his mind he would have his bones without incurring the penalties of disobedience, which his master, in the interests of the delicate foreigner, was determined to inflict. A commodious and elegant residence was fitted up in the study for Wow, and he was permitted free access to the upper floors of the house, but the line was drawn at the kitchen staircase. That way lay bones and ruin, and its easy descent was interdicted by stern command, which Wow understood as clearly as did its utterer, though he at first affected a simple and unconscious misapprehension. Then Wow was reproved and gently chastised, an administration of justice performed with the utmost reluctance by his master, but with the happiest results. Nothing could be more admirable than Wow's submission, more perfect than his obedience. He never looked towards the kitchen stairs, and would attend at the family meals without following the retiring dishes with a wistful gaze, or betraying a longing for the forbidden bones by so much as a sniff. Attached to the lower department of the household is a humble cat, a faithful creature in her way, but not cultivated by my friend as I could wish. With this meek and useful animal Wow contracted a friendship regarded by his master as a proof of his amiability and condescension. (In my capacity of narrator I am compelled to use the latter somewhat injurious term--as a private individual with an undying recollection, I repudiate it). But the single-minded Q.C. had something to learn of the four-footed exile from the Far East concerning this intimacy. Coming into his study one day at an unusual hour, he saw the cat--I do not know her name, I am afraid she has not one--stealthily depositing a bone behind a curtain. Presently she went downstairs, and returned with a second bone, which she conveyed to the same place of concealment, whence proceeded a gentle rustling and whisking, suggestive of the presence of Wow, whose house, or pagoda, was empty. Then arose the Q.C., and cautiously peeped behind the curtain, where he beheld Wow and his humble friend amicably discussing their respective bones, Wow's being the bigger and the meatier of the two.

Thus did the Japanese exile illustrate the cosmopolitan story of the catspaw (with the improvement of making it pleasant for the cat), and accomplish the proverbially desirable feat of minding both his meat and his manners. If we could be secured against their imitation, it would be pleasant to ask our own domestic pets the problems:

"What do you think of that, my cat?"
"What do you think of that, my dog?"

A CONSTANT READER AND DISCIPLE.

THE BIOGRAPHY OF SPRIG.

[_Jan. 20, 1872._]

I dare not hope to equal the eloquent and most touching biography of Nero, with whom I had the honour of a slight acquaintance. But I was the possessor of an animal who, in his way as a dog, not a cat, for originality of character, reasoning power, talent, and devoted affection I have never seen equalled in his species, and you and your readers may possibly be interested by a sketch of his biography.

Where Sprig was born I do not know, nor had I any acquaintance with his parents. One morning several years ago I chanced to go down stairs early, and found the milk-boy at the hall door, delivering his daily supply to the cook. In the courtyard before my house was a bright-looking rough terrier of small size, frisking about very cheerfully, trying to catch the small stump of a tail which some cruel despoiler had left him. As he was engaged in this pastime, a large brown retriever entered the gate, to look on, I suppose, for he had an amused expression of face, and was wagging his tail amicably. Sprig, however, though but a mite in comparison, decidedly resented the intrusion, and flew at the retriever's throat, from which he had to be choked off by his owner, who brought him back in his arms. The little fellow was in the highest state of excitement and anger, his bright, intelligent eyes flashing, and his hair bristling. He was indeed most amusingly fierce, but was soon calmed when he was shown, and told, that his enemy had fled, whereupon the following colloquy ensued between myself and his owner: Myself: "And where did you get that dog, boy? You did not steal him, I hope?" Boy, in a rich Dublin brogue: "Ah, now! would I stale anythin', yer honner, an' me the poor milk-boy? Is it stale him? Bedad, it's my father's cuzin that's at the Curragh! Sure he's a corporal, so he is. He brought him, and he sez, 'Yez'll get me a pound for him, and no less.' So it's a pound I want for him, sur, and nothin' less. An' sure John Lambert knows me well--so he does!" When John, my servant, was sent for, he gave a good account of the lad, and as he entirely approved of Sprig, I gave the sovereign, showing it to the dog, whose wondering eyes were glancing from one to the other. Then I said to the boy, "Put him into my arms, and tell him he belongs to me;" and he did so. The little fellow looked curiously and wistfully at the lad, who, to do him justice, had tears in his eyes, and then nestled into my breast, licking my hands and face. When my daughter came down stairs, I took up Sprig and placed him in my youngest daughter's arms, a process he appeared to comprehend perfectly, and told him she was his mistress; nor to the day of his death did he ever falter in his devoted allegiance to her. He was very fond of me and of us all, but his deepest love was for his mistress, and on many occasions was most affecting to see. She was often delicate, and once had a sharp attack of typhus fever. In this illness Sprig never left her. He would lie at the foot of her bed watching her, and would sometimes creep gently up to her, put his paws round her neck, and lick her hands softly, while the pleading of his large eyes looking from his mistress, in her unconscious delirium, to her sister and me, was touching in the extreme. Indeed, there were then many sad illnesses, but Sprig was always the same. As my child grew stronger and better her little friend would amuse her by the hour together; sit up, beg, preach, play with his ball, and try in humble doggie fashion to beguile her of her pain. But I am anticipating.

Sprig was, I believe, what is called a Dandie Dinmont, and as he grew up he became, for his class, a very handsome, as he was a sturdy, little fellow, with great strength for his size. He was a reddish-brown colour, more dark-red than brown, like a squirrel, with white below, and a delightfully fuzzy head, and a breast of long soft white hair. His eyes were that peculiar bright liquid "dog" brown which is capable of so much expression, and he grew to have a long moustache and beard. Even the most un-observant of dogs admired him, for he resembled no terrier I have ever seen. I think he would have won the prize of his class at the Dublin Dog Show, had it not been for a terrible accident he met with in being wounded by a large foxhound in a neighbouring orchard. His neck was then torn open, and he was rescued by John only in time to prevent his being killed. As it was, it was weeks before he could walk--and how patient he was all the time! and as the wound healed it left a thickening of his skin which had an awkward look. Sprig was, however, "highly commended." In his youth he was perhaps rather short in his temper, and always resented in the most distinct manner any liberty that was taken with him. To tread upon his foot was perilous, but he was at once pacified if an apology was made that it was accidental; but to pull his tail wilfully was an insult which he resented bitterly, and for which much atonement was necessary, or he would go under the sofa and cry in his peculiar manner when offended.

As he grew up, Sprig developed various talents which were highly cultivated. His greatest pleasure, perhaps, was in an india-rubber ball, with which his gambols were indescribably pretty and constant. It was a great distress when he lost or mislaid his ball, and he was miserable till he found it, or another was brought him. It was a cruel thing to say, when one of us went to town, "Sprig, I will bring you a new ball," and as sometimes happened, to forget to do so. On return he would sniff about the person who had gone, poke his nose into his or her pockets, and if disappointed could hardly be soothed, but would go away and have his quiet cry to himself. Sometimes a kind friend who knew him might bring him a new ball; but it very much depended on who presented it whether it was accepted or not, and I am afraid that too frequently for his good manners he turned it over contemptuously with his nose and left it for the old one, which, gnawed, bitten, and broken, was still the favourite. I used sometimes to make a ball squeak by pressing the hole against my hand, and I believe he thought it was in pain, for he would whine piteously, and would not let me rest till he had it again in his possession. It was most amusing to see him when a parcel of new balls arrived, he having been told beforehand that one was coming. He would find out directly who had it, and become impatient and cross indeed if he did not get it directly. When the parcel was given him, his great delight was to open it himself and select _one_. A red ball was usually preferred, but not always. All were subjected to the most varied trials--gnawed, smelt, and rolled, till the one which pleased his fancy was finally selected; of the rest he would take no notice whatever.

Sprig was thoroughly a gentleman, and on most occasions he was most attentive to lady visitors. He never noticed gentlemen. On one occasion, when my daughters were out, a dear friend called (Nero's mistress). She told us afterwards that Sprig had been a most attentive beau. He met her at the hall door, welcomed her in his odd fashion, trotted before her into the drawing-room, looking behind him to see if she followed. He then jumped upon the ottoman, inviting her to sit down; when she was seated he brought his ball and went through all his tricks with it, sat up on his hind legs, begged with his paws, preached to her in his own queer way, and kept her amused till, no longer able to remain, she bid him good morning and left, evidently to his disgust. "Could he have spoken," she said afterwards, "he would have told me to wait, for his mistresses would soon be back; the look was in his face, but the words were wanting." His attention to visitors was never omitted. When we had a ball or evening party, he would await, with John Lambert, the several arrivals at the hall door, welcome each new party, and usher them in a solemn manner into the drawing-room or tea-room, returning for a new set to his former place. Nor did he want for an occasional cake or biscuit at the tea-table; "he was so amiable," said the young ladies, "he could not be resisted."

As an instance of how perfectly he understood what was said to him, I may relate that one hot day I had walked out from town, and being thirsty went into the dining-room for a drink of water. I saw Sprig's ball under the table, and when I went into the garden where my girls were sitting they said, "Sprig has lost his ball, and is perfectly miserable." After I had sent him to look about for it, I said, "Now, Sprig, I know where it is; I saw it in the dining-room under the table; go fetch it." He looked brightly at me, and I repeated what I had said. He trotted off, and while we were wondering whether he had understood me, he returned with it in his mouth quite delighted. I have mentioned his preaching, which may sound rather irreverent, but it was an accomplishment entirely of his own invention. When seated in a chair after dinner, and requested to preach, he would sit up, place his forepaws gravely on the table, and then lifting up one paw as high as his head, and then the other, deliver a discourse to the company in a sort of gurgling, growling manner, with an occasional low bark, which was indescribably ludicrous to see and hear. What he meant by it we could never find out, but I question whether he prized any of his accomplishments more than this.

Sometimes, but not often, he would go out by himself to take a walk, we supposed to see his friends, for I never heard that he had any love affairs. If we all, or my daughters, or myself, met him on his return, I, or they, or we all might call to him, notice him as he brushed past us, or ask him to come for a walk. No. He would have none of our company; he would cut us dead, and go toddling home, his tail more erect and quivering than ever; never hastening his sedate pace, and giving his usual kick-out with one hind leg every third or fourth step, as was his custom. He would have no connection with us; that was quite clear and decided. Sprig was very fond, too, of a walk with his mistresses or with me, and, though never taught it, would always wipe his feet clean on the hall mat as he came in. I am now going to relate an anecdote of Sprig which I know is almost beyond credibility, but the occurrence so displayed his power of thought and reason that I cannot withhold it. My usual haunt is my den, as I call it, a large room at one end of our old rambling house. There Sprig never came unless with his mistresses, and indeed never was easy when he was there. I had begun a large full-length picture of my daughters, and Sprig and Whisky, a small Skye puppy, were to be painted lying at their feet. As the picture progressed, Sprig seemed to understand all about it, and paid me the compliment of wagging his tail at the portraits. One day my girls had been sitting to me, and it was now Sprig's turn to sit. I put him into the proper position and told him to lie still, and he proved a most patient sitter. When the sketch of him was finished, I showed it to him; I think he was pleased with his likeness, for he licked my face; but as he smelt at his portrait, he did not like himself, and growled. Whisky was now put into position, but was very restless, although Sprig scolded her by snarling at her. Next day I had put the picture against the wall near the window, and before a few steps which led up into my bedroom, and was busy perched on a step-ladder with the after-portion of it. By and by I heard a great scratching at my bedroom door, which was closed, and Sprig whining to get in. I thought this odd, but it was too much trouble to come down from my perch, and I told him to go away. He, however, only whined and scratched the more. I therefore descended, and getting behind the picture, went up the steps and opened the door. Sprig did not notice me, but pushing past me hurried down the steps, and then, as I emerged into the room, looked up to me blandly, and actually sat down in the place in which I had put him the day before. I said to him gravely, though infinitely amused, "No, Sprig, I don't want you to-day; look, the colour is all wet, go away to your mistress." He looked very blank and greatly disappointed, and stood up with his tail drooped. Suddenly a bright thought seemed to strike him, as if he had said, "Now I have it!" Whisky had got hold of one of my slippers, and was playing with it in my bedroom, and Sprig, rushing up the steps, seized her by the "scruff" of her neck, dragged her howling down the steps, and put her, I can use no other words, into the place where she had been the day before. He then came to me frisking about, and could he but have spoken, would have said, "If you don't want me, you must her, and there she is!" He was quite triumphant about it; and dirty as I was, and palette in hand, I took him forthwith to the drawing-room and told them what had happened.

I could tell numberless other stories of the reasoning power and intelligence of our little pet, but I should trespass at too great length on your patience. I could describe a curious friendship which sprang up between him and a German friend who was staying some time with us; how he learned many new tricks from him, and was taught to hop on his hind legs from one end of the drawing-room to the other, with our friend hopping backwards before him; I could describe his evening romps with my dear father, never omitted while my father lived; and the many curious traits by which his great love for us was perpetually displayed--how he learned to crack nuts of all kinds, and to pick out the kernels like a squirrel--how he never went into the servants' hall or the kitchen, and refused to associate with the servants, though friendly with them, and especially with John Lambert, his fast friend. But I must bring this sketch to a close.

We had been absent about a year in Germany and the South of France. After we left, Sprig was inconsolable, and would not eat; but the cook made him little curries and rice, and after a time he became more resigned. We only heard that he was well, and hoped we should find him so. The day we arrived I thought he would have died for joy. He gasped for breath, and lay down, and when taken up by his mistress lay in her arms almost insensible. It was long before he came to himself, and when he did revive, it is quite impossible to describe his delight, or what he did. He was, indeed, quite beside himself with joy, scouring about, dragging his mistress here and there, doing all his tricks in a confused manner, and, in short, behaving after a very insane fashion indeed. We noticed he had a slight cough; but he seemed otherwise quite well, and we thought it would go away; but it increased, and at that time there was an epidemic of bronchitis among dogs. We sent him to an eminent veterinary surgeon, who blistered him (and how patient the poor fellow was under the pain cannot be told), but though relieved for the time, the end was near. One morning he was seen to do an apparently quite unaccountable thing. He took his son Terry (whom he was never known to notice except by knocking him over and standing upon him, growling fiercely), all round our village, and visited all the dogs in it. John saw him doing this early in the morning, and told me of it. I suppose he was commending Terry to their favour. He coughed a great deal all day, and breathed heavily; but in the evening he was very bright, and to all appearance much better, and insisted on doing all his tricks till it was time to go to bed. Sprig never would go to bed willingly. John used to come to the drawing-room door and call him, and he would go to it, but stand growling till he was caught up and carried off. That evening, as we remembered, he seemed more than ever unwilling to go, but was caught up and carried away.

In the morning, about six o'clock--it was summer-time--I was just about to get up, when John Lambert knocked at my door, and came in with Sprig in his arms. He did not speak, and I asked him whether Sprig was worse. "He's dead, sir," said he, with the tears rolling down his face, and hardly able to speak. "Quite dead, sir; he must have died only a little while ago, for when I went to let him out, I found him dead and quite warm, as he is still." I am not ashamed to write that my eyes felt very blind, but there was no hope; the dear little fellow was quite dead; he had died calmly, and his eyes were bright; they had not glazed.

We buried him, John and myself, when he was quite cold and stiff, by a rose-tree at the end of the garden. Poor John could hardly dig the grave, and his tears fell fast and silently and upon dear old Sprig as we covered him up for ever. I wish I could write a fitting epitaph for a creature who, through his life, was a constant source of pleasure to all who knew him.

M. T.

A DOG STORY.

[_June 8, 1895._]

A friend thinks I ought to add to the collection of dog stories appearing in the _Spectator_, one which is within my own knowledge, and may appear deserving of publication. My uncle, a well-known Chairman of the Bench of Magistrates in a western county, had a tenant on his estates who occupied a farm not far from the River Severn. The farmer possessed a favourite dog, who slept at the foot of his bed every night. When a brother emigrated to Canada, the farmer gave him the dog as a travelling companion. In the course of time the news arrived that the emigrant and his family, together with the dog, had safely reached their destination--a farm in the interior of Canada some days' journey from the port where they landed. At a later date the brother in Canada wrote to his family in England saying that the dog had disappeared. Some time afterwards the dog came back to the farm of his old master, about three miles from Gloucester, and though at first it could hardly be believed that he was returned from Canada, yet he soon established his identity by taking his old place at the foot of his master's bed at night. Inquiries were made, and the dog's course was traced backwards to the River Severn, thence to Bristol, and thence to a port in Canada. It appeared that, after running from his home in Canada to the seaport, he selected there a vessel bound for Bristol, and shipped on board. After arriving at the Bristol basin, he found out a local vessel trading up and down the River Severn (locally called a "trow"), and transferred himself to her deck. When he reached the neighbourhood of Gloucester, the dog must have jumped into the Severn and reached the shore nearest to his old home.

I can vouch for the truth of this story, from information received from my relations on the spot shortly after the occurrence took place. I knew the farm well, and the farmer who occupied it.

H. C. N.

A CAT-AND-DOG FRIENDSHIP.

[_June 8, 1895._]

The interesting letter, "A Canine Nurse," in the _Spectator_ of May 18th, recalls to mind an equally curious event in cat and dog life which occurred some years since in a house where I was living, but with the additional interest of a hen being also implicated.

In the back-kitchen premises of an old manor-house, amongst hampers, and such like odds and ends, a cat had a litter of kittens. They were all removed but one, and as the mother was frequently absent, a hen began laying in a hamper close by. For a time all things went well, the hen sitting on her eggs and the cat nursing the kitten within a few inches of each other. The brood were hatched out, and almost at the same time the old cat disappeared. The chickens were allowed to run about on the floor for sake of the warmth from a neighbouring chimney, and the kitten was fed with a saucer of milk, &c., in the same place, both feeding together frequently out of the same dish. The hen used to try to induce the kitten to eat meal like the chicks, calling to it and depositing pieces under its nose in the most amusing way; finally doing all in its power to induce the kitten to come, like her chicks, under her wings. The result was nothing but a series of squalls from the kitten, which led to its being promoted from the back to the front kitchen, where it was reared until it was grown up. At this time a young terrier was introduced into the circle, and after many back-risings and bad language on pussy's part, they settled down amicably and romped about the floor in fine style. Eventually the terrier became an inveterate rabbit-poacher--killing young rabbits and bringing them home--a proceeding to which the cat gave an intelligent curiosity, then a passive and purring approval, and finally her own instincts having asserted themselves, she went off with the dog, hunting in the woods. Our own keeper reported them as getting "simply owdacious," being found a great distance from the house; and keepers of adjacent places also said the pair were constantly seen hunting hedgerows on their beats. On one occasion I saw them myself hunting a short hedge systematically, the dog on one side, the cat on the other; and on coming near an open gateway a hare was put out of her form, and bounding through the open gate, was soon off; the dog followed, till he came through the gateway, where he stood looking after the hare; and the cat joining him, they apparently decided it was too big or too fast to be successfully chased, so resumed the hedge-hunting, each taking its own side as before.

They frequently returned home covered with mud, and pussy's claws with fur, and would lie together in front of the fire; the cat often grooming down the dog, licking him and rubbing him dry, and the dog getting up and turning over the ungroomed side to be finished. This curious friendship went on for six months or more, till the dog had to be kept in durance vile to save him from traps and destruction, the cat, nothing daunted, going on with her poaching until one day she met her fate in a trap, and so brought her course to an end. The dog was a well-bred fox-terrier, and the cat a tabby of nothing beyond ordinary characteristics, save in her early life having been fostered by a hen, and in her prime the staunch friend and comrade of poor old Foxie, the terrier. If there are "happy hunting-grounds" for the animals hereafter, and such things are allowed in them, no doubt they will renew their intimacy, if not their poaching forays, together there.

R. J. GRAHAM SIMMONDS.

THE SENSE OF BOUNDARY IN DOGS.

[_March 14, 1885._]

I have been much interested in the communications which have appeared from time to time in the _Spectator_ in reference to "animal intelligence." Recently my attention has been called to a somewhat striking illustration of it, in the case of my own dog and his canine neighbour next door. Wallace is an Irish staghound, and is about a year old. My neighbour's dog is a pointer, and is considerably advanced in life. There is no hedge nor fence separating the two estates. The dividing line runs between two stone posts about a foot in height, and more than two hundred feet from each other. The dogs have never been friendly, the pointer having repeatedly driven Wallace back over the boundary when he has caught him trespassing. Both dogs, even when going at full speed, stop the moment my dog has crossed the line. How does the pointer know where the line runs, and how does Wallace know when he is safely across it?

F. TUCKERMAN.

THE END.

INDEX.

Affection, 106

Affection, A Dog's, 105

Alpine Dog, An, 63

Animal Intelligence, 68

Animals and Language, 72

Animals, Communication with, 77

Animals, Friendships of Dogs with other, 135

Animals, How our Meaning is Conveyed to, 65

Animals, The Courage of, 217

Are Dogs Colour-blind? 213

Arts, Dogs and the, 119

Australian Dog Story, 203

Automata, Conscious, 136

Biography of Sprig, 237

Boundary, Sense of, in Dogs, 260

Bully's Short Cut, 30

Canary, Dog and, 150

Canine Friendship, An Act of, 153

Canine Intelligence, 32

Canine Jealousy, 113

Canine Member of the S.P.C.A., 110

Canine Nurse, A, 147

Canine Sightseer, A, 44

Cat-and-Dog Friendship, 256

Cat-and-Dog Love, 151

Cat's Paw, A Story of a, 233

Cautious Dogs, 61

Character of a Dog, Features in the, 26

Collies at Work, 191, 192

Colour-blind? Are Dogs, 213

Commercial Treaty between Dog and Hen, 19

Communication, Teaching Dogs a Method of, 74

Communication with Animals, 77

Conscience-stricken Dog, A, 103

Conscious Automata, 136

Courage of Animals, The, 217

Courtesy, A Dog's, 112

Cow's, A, Jealousy of a Dog, 200

Cunning Dogs, 170

Curious Friendship, A, 148

Curious Habits of Dogs, 155

Cut, Bully's Short, 30

Deceivers, Dog, 173

Dinner, A Dog and his, 163

Dog, A, and a Rabbit, 141

Dog, A, and a Whip, 170

Dog, A, and his Dinner, 163

Dog, A Conscience-stricken, 103

Dog, A Jealous, 115

Dog, A, Obeying a Summons, 210

Dog, A, on Long Sermons, 17

Dog, A Parcel-carrying, 47

Dog, A Ruse, 171

Dog, A Sunday, 197

Dog, A, that Scorned to be Jealous, 116

Dog, An Alpine, 63

Dog and Canary, 150

Dog and Hen, Commercial Treaty between, 19

Dog and Kittens, 145

Dog and Pigeon, 139

Dog and the Ferry, 33

Dog Consciousness, 228

Dog, Cow's Jealousy of a, 200

Dog Deceivers, 173

Dog, Features in the Character of a, 26

Dog Friends, 133

Dog Friendships, 131

Dog, Intelligent Suspicion in a, 61

Dog Nurse, A, 20

Dog Story, A, 230

Dog Story, A, 254

Dog Story, An Australian, 203

Dog, Sympathy in a, 107

Dog, The, that Buried the Frogs, 157

Dog's Affection, A, 105

Dog's Courtesy, A, 112

Dog's Humanity, A, 108

Dog's Remorse, A, 101

Dogs and Language, 64

Dogs and Looking-glasses, 164

Dogs and the Arts, 119

Dogs, Cautious, 61

Dogs, Cunning, 170

Dogs, Curious Habits of, 155

Dogs, Emotion and Sentiment in, 99

Dogs, Guardian, 179

Dogs, Hospital, 22

Dogs, Humour and Cunning in, 165

Dogs, Instinct of Locality in, 83

Dogs, Music and, 121

Dogs, Power of Imitation in, 167

Dogs, Purchasing, 51

Dogs, Railway, 94

Dogs, Reason of, 37

Dogs, Reasoning Powers of, 49

Dogs, Recognition of Likenesses by, 124

Dogs, Sense of Boundary in, 260

Dogs, Sense of Humour in, 168, 169

Dogs, Sentiment and Emotion in, 99

Dogs, Syllogistic, 14

Dogs, Teaching a Method of Communication to, 74

Dogs, Two Anecdotes of, 206

Dogs, Useful, 177

Emotion and Sentiment in Dogs, 99

Explanation, An, 159

Features in the Character of a Dog, 26

Ferry, Dog and the, 33

Foreknowledge of Death? Have Animals a, 221

Four-footed Friends, Our, 224

Friends, Dog, 133

Friendship, A Cat-and-Dog, 256

Friendship, A Curious, 148

Friendship, An Act of Canine, 153

Friendships, Dog, 131

Friendships of Dogs with other Animals, 135

Frogs, The Dog that Buried the, 157

Guardian Dogs, 179

Habits of Dogs, Curious, 155

Have Animals a Foreknowledge of Death? 221

Hen and Puppies, 137

Hen, Commercial Treaty between Dog and a, 19

Hospital Dogs, 22

Humanity, A Dog's, 108

Humour and Cunning in Dogs, 165

Instinct, Maternal, in Animals, 219

Instinct of Locality in Dogs, 83

Instinct, or Reason? 21

Intelligence, A Pug's, 211

Intelligence, Animal, 68

Intelligence, Canine, 32

Intelligent Suspicion in a Dog, 61

Jealous Dog, A, 115

Jealous, Dog that Scorned to be, 116

Jealousy, Canine, 113

Kittens, Dog and, 145

Language, Animals and, 72

Language, Dogs and, 64

Likenesses, Recognition of, by Dogs, 124

Locality in Dogs, Instinct of, 83

Looking-glasses, Dogs and, 164

Love, Cat and Dog, 151

Lucky and Unlucky, 214

Maternal Instinct in Animals, 219

Meaning, How Conveyed to Animals, 65

Method of Communication, Teaching Dogs a, 74

Music and Dogs, 121

Nurse, A Canine, 147

Nurse, A Dog, 20

Our Four-footed Friends, 224

Parcel-Carrying Dog, A, 47

Pictures, Recognition by Animals of, 129

Pigeon, Dog and, 139

Pigeon Story, 144

Plan, Thinking out a, 45

Power of Imitation in Dogs, 167

Powers, Reasoning, of Dogs, 49

Pug's Intelligence, A, 211

Puppies, Hen and, 137

Purchasing Dogs, 51

Rabbit, A Dog and a, 141

Railway Dogs, 94

Reason, Instinct or, 21

Reason of Dogs, 37

Reasoning Powers of Dogs, 49

Recognition by Animals of Pictures, 129

Recognition of Likenesses by Dogs, 124

Remorse, A Dog's, 101

Sense of Humour in Dogs, 168, 169

Short Cut, Bully's, 30

Sight-seer, A Canine, 44

S.P.C.A., A Canine Member of the, 110

Sprig, Biography of, 237

Summons, A Dog Obeying a, 210

Sunday Dog, A, 197

Suspicion, Intelligent, in a Dog, 61

Syllogistic Dogs, 14

Sympathy in a Dog, 107

Teaching Dogs a Method of Communication, 74

Thinking out a Plan, 45

Treaty, Commercial, between Dog and Hen, 19

True, A, Watch-dog, 188

Unlucky, Lucky and, 214

Useful Dogs, 177

Watch-Dog, A True, 188

Whip, A Dog and a, 170

End of Project Gutenberg's Dog Stories from the "Spectator", by Various