Chapter XXX: Part IV: Domestic Pets (1)

BEES.
CANARIES.
DOGS.
GOLD FISH.
GUINEA PIGS.
HEDGEHOGS.
JACKDAWS.
JAYS.
MAGPIES.
OWLS.
PARROTS.
PIGEONS.
POULTRY.
RABBITS.
RAVENS.
SILKWORMS.
SQUIRRELS.
WHITE MICE.

BEES AND BEE-KEEPING.

In treating of that useful insect the honey-bee, we will first explain briefly the domestic economy of the hive, and the distinction between the different individuals composing the entire colony, and then pass on to the more practical details of bee-keeping.

A beehive contains three kinds of individuals--a queen, drones, and workers. The queen is a female, and is the mother of the community. The drones are males, and the working bees neuters, being neither males nor females. During the warmer part of the year the queen seems to be incessantly employed in laying eggs. She is slow and majestic in her motions, and differs from the workers in having a larger and longer body, shorter wings, and a curved sting.

The drones are males; though much more bulky, they are not so long as the queen, but much larger than the working bees. They live on honey, but bring none home. When the season for swarming has passed, the workers expel them from the hive, and none make their appearance till the following spring.

The working bees are the smallest in the hive and by far the most numerous; and they do the entire work of the community--they build the cells, guard the hive and the queen, collect and store the honey, elaborate the wax, feed the young, and expel the drones. The average number of these three kinds of bees in a hive is one queen, two thousand drones, and ten to twenty thousand workers, the numbers varying with the strength of the hive and the season.

For the greater part of the year the queen lays only workers’ eggs; but during the spring she also lays those which produce drones. As soon as this takes place, the workers begin to construct royal cells, in which, without discontinuing to lay the drone eggs, the queen deposits eggs which are destined to produce queens.

The workers’ eggs hatch in a few days, and produce little white maggots, which immediately open their mouths to be fed; these the workers attend to with the greatest care. In six days each maggot fills up its cell; it is then roofed in by the workers, spins a silken cocoon and becomes a chrysalis, and on the twenty-first day it comes forth a perfect bee. The drones emerge on the twenty-fifth day, and the queens on the sixteenth.

The combs of a beehive comprise a number of hexagonal cells, built by the bees as receptacles for honey and for the nurseries of their young. Each comb in a hive is composed of two ranges of cells, backed against each other. There is a continued series of these double cells in every well-filled hive, the spaces between them being just sufficient to allow two bees, one on the surface of each comb, to pass without touching. Each cell is six-sided, the six sides being perfectly equal. This is one of the geometrical figures that ensures the greatest economy of material and the largest space. The construction of several combs is usually going on at the same time, until the hive is filled. The cells of the drones are larger than those designed for the workers; and those designed for the hatching of the young queens pear-shaped, with the small end downwards. The finest honey is stored in new cells constructed for the purpose of receiving it.

The usual modes of establishing an apiary are, either by the purchase of stock or of swarms. When intending to purchase a stock, do not buy upon recommendation, but learn to judge for yourself. If you observe the bees crowding in and out of the hive during the middle of the day, a considerable number of them having little yellow pellets or balls on their hinder legs, a very favourable opinion may be formed of the health and condition of the interior, and especially of the prolific state of the queen. If the bees appear savage, and bold in their attacks, it is a good sign.

In the purchase of swarms the young bee-keeper must beware of imposition; for it very often happens that, instead of having the _first swarm_, he is cheated by having a second thrust upon him. This is seldom so large; but it has the advantage of a young queen, as the old queen always goes off with the first swarm. A good swarm generally numbers about twenty thousand bees, and may in country places be obtained for from half-a-guinea to a guinea.

There are several distinct systems of bee-keeping, each of which requires a short notice. First, the old-fashioned plan of keeping the bees in a common bell-shaped straw hive, or skep. When this method is followed, the hives are usually allowed to stand for two summers; at the end of the second season the bees are destroyed by the fumes of burning sulphur, and the honey taken. The plan is a very bad one, as the honey obtained is mixed with bee bread, is rank in flavour, and dark in colour, and is never worth more than about sixpence per pound.

A great improvement is to have the hives made with flat tops, like the straw hive shown at the right hand of the engraving. When the bees are first hived, this is closed by a straw mat. In the spring of next year, when the bees become numerous and cluster round the entrance, this mat is removed, and a small hive, termed a “super,” or a box or glass, neatly furnished with a piece or two of clear empty comb, is put over; the bees ascend into this, build combs, which they store with pure virgin honey, without brood or bee bread; and this, when full, is removed, leaving the stock below undisturbed for the next season. In our engraving the artist has drawn this hive too small; it should have been as large as the common skeps which are shown on the left-hand side.

Flat-topped hives, that are able to be supered, may be made of wood, like a common box. One of these is shown on the ground, and two, placed one over the other, are shown behind the flat-topped straw hive. In Ayrshire, where they are very skilled in bee-management, they use eight-sided boxes, with narrow slides to close the openings in the top. These boxes are placed one over the other, and large tops of pure virgin honey, twenty to thirty pounds in weight, are not unfrequently taken off. The back hive in our group is one with side boxes, or, as it is sometimes called, a collateral hive. These are the most expensive in first cost, and the least productive of all the varieties. The cottage hives, with three little glasses, instead of one large one, are only playthings, and not at all productive.

Frame hives, in which each comb is placed in a separate frame, so that it can be taken out and examined, are very useful for making observations on the natural history of the bees, but are not so well suited for profitable purposes as the hives that we have described that are arranged in storey or with large supers.

In removing a super of honey, it should be first loosened from the hive by drawing a thin string between the two; and then, when the bees have become quiet, taken quietly away, and covered over, until those remaining in it have discovered that they are away from the queen, when they will rapidly fly back to the hive, on being uncovered. But the honey must not be left exposed, or it would attract all the bees in the neighbourhood, and would rapidly be stored up in the hives.

In taking off the supers, it is best to be protected from the stings of the bees. This is readily done by making a bag of leno, open at top and bottom; in use, the top is tied round the hat, the bag encircles the head and face, and the bottom is tucked under the collar of the coat, which is buttoned closely round the neck. In this manner the face is perfectly protected from stings; but with the knowledge, quietness, and confidence acquired by practice, almost anything can be done to bees by a skilled bee-master, even without a veil.

THE CANARY.

The canary is a justly favoured pet among boys, for it is a hardy bird that requires a very small amount of trouble. It is a pleasant, fascinating little being, full of quaint ways and sprightly attitudes, and, better than all, the cage is its native element.

Though an ardent admirer of all birds, and indeed of everything which draws the breath of life, we can never pass the cage wherein is confined a lark, a nightingale, a bullfinch, or any other of our indigenous birds, without a feeling of sadness and regret.

They are not cage birds, and never ought to be confined within the narrow limits of wood and wire. Their attitudes show their uneasiness. The mellow, exultant tone of the skylark sounds as joyously when the bird is imprisoned within a cage as when it soars high in air, its wings quivering in the breeze, its frame rejoicing in the glory of the sunbeams, and its ken surveying the wide panorama which lies spread beneath its gaze. But the gestures of the bird are full of eloquent misery, and speak volumes to him who will stop and look with his eyes as well as listen with his ears.

See how the bird flings itself upwards from the little patch of turf, which is but a shallow mockery of the green sward to which the skylark is accustomed--how it dashes itself against the roof of green baize, which represents so feebly the expanse of azure sky--and how it learns at last the lessons of experience, and stands helplessly in the bay window of the cage, its wings shivering restlessly, and its feet trampling impatiently, in lieu of the the upward leap and soaring flight which it longs to undertake, but which it will never more be permitted to experience. No more will it roam through the wide expanse of air, no more will it seek for its mate, and know all the joys of nest and children. Henceforth it is but a prisoner in solitary confinement, without hope of escape, and its very individuality destroyed by surrounding circumstances.

So with the generality of our cage birds. The man who would imprison the nightingale, who would limit to one spot the bird that loves to wander, and who would condemn to solitary confinement the creature which is peculiarly destined for conjugal affection, which finds expression in liquid melody, ought to be imprisoned for a month or two, just to see how _he_ likes it. “I can’t get out,” is the lament uttered in silent gesture by all birds that ought to roam in wild freedom, and have been imprisoned in a cage. We always wish to open the cage door, and set free the prisoner; at all events, to remove it to some spot where it might be liberated without danger to itself.

But with the canary the case is different. The pretty little bird never has known wider freedom than that of the cage, and a humane bird-keeper will endow it with increased freedom by enlarging the size of its dwelling. The free use of wings has never been known to the bird, nor even to its parents; and the perch is to the canary more familiar than the bough. Release an imprisoned lark, and after the first few moments of surprise it will speed away exulting in its freedom. Release a nightingale or a thrush, and it will dart swiftly to the well-known shelter of the woods. But release a canary, and you have committed an act of positive cruelty. The poor bird knows not where to go or how to procure its food. Throughout all its little life it has been accustomed to reside within the narrow limits of its cage, and to find its food and water prepared without any expenditure of labour. Consequently, it has no idea of searching for food, but sits bewildered on a branch of some tree, and would perish with hunger simply because it does not know how to procure food.

Ignorance is ever the parent of fear, and a canary-bird has been known to perish of hunger when removed to a large from a small cage, simply because it dared not fly down from the comparatively lofty perch on which it had settled when first introduced, and to which it clung with the tenacity of fear. Even the genuine British soldier can hardly be more helpless when deprived of ordinary military routine than is a canary-bird when set free and forced to fly alone into the world.

The very colour of the bird prevents it from obtaining food like others of the same tribe. All the small birds are absurdly jealous of novelty, and will mob and worry any feathered being to which they are not accustomed. You may assemble a crowd of them at any time by fixing a comb of scarlet cloth on the head of a sparrow, and glueing a few scarlet hackles into its tail. The little birds will always gather round an owl that has made its appearance in the daytime, and will scold the intruder until one would think that their throats would be hoarse. Their anger towards the owl is, however, mitigated by a wholesome dread of its beak and talons, and it may therefore be imagined that when they find a little yellow bird sitting all alone on a branch, and looking bewildered at the position in which it finds itself, they are not very likely to lose so excellent an opportunity of bullying a foreigner without danger to themselves. Successive generations of captivity have rendered the canary unfit for freedom, and therefore the young naturalist need not think himself cruel because he keeps the bird in a cage.

As to cages, the simple form which has already been described in vol. i. p. 21 of “Every Boy’s Magazine” will be found amply sufficient for all purposes. The wires, however, should be closer together than is required for squirrels, so that the cat may not be able to dart her lithe paw between them and hook out the inmates. The size of the cage is of little consequence, except that you can never make it too large. If a whole room can be given up to the birds, the better they will be pleased and the brighter they will look; and, if possible, it should be lighted from above.

Wherever the birds may be placed, ventilation is of the greatest consequence. We remember being once summoned to give our opinion upon the continued illness of some canaries of which every care was taken. They had fresh water daily, were plentifully supplied with sand, and were fed with the proper seeds, and cresses, groundsel, and other green meat, and yet they drooped and moped, and never seemed well. No fault could be found with the arrangements, and therefore we looked for the cause of illness in another direction. The air of the room seemed very close when I entered it, and on examination we found that there was no outlet whatever, the chimney having been blocked up and the windows carefully shut, in order to prevent the birds from escaping. We at once recommended that a pane of glass should be removed at the top of the window, and a piece of perforated zinc inserted instead; and when this was done the birds recovered themselves, and resumed their normal aspect.

The two secrets--if secrets they can be called--in bird-keeping are a good supply of fresh food and water and perfect cleanliness. The former necessaries can be easily insured in a very simple manner, and should be made after the pattern of the accompanying figures. Both are founded on the same principle--namely, that of self-feeding from a reservoir.

The seed-box is thus constructed. Get an old cigar-box, from which the aroma of tobacco has been removed by long airing, and take off the lid and the whole of one side; cut off two-thirds of the lid-piece, bore three holes in it, and fix it where the lid was, as at _a_; cut the rest of the lid in two, and fix the pieces in the box, so as to separate it into three compartments, fixing them with glue and a few very tiny brads. You should use pieces of slender brass wire for the purpose. If you left the box in this condition all the seed would run out at the round holes, and you must therefore correct that error.

How this is done will be seen in fig. 2, which gives a section of the seed-box.

Cut a squared piece of wood, which will just slide into the partition, so as to make a flat flooring to it. But, instead of laying it flat, place it in a sloping direction, as seen at _d_, so that a small space is left between the end of the floor and the back of the box. The reader will see that when the seed is poured into the partition it will drop through the open space at the back, and fall into the bottom of the box. The birds put their heads through the holes to eat the seeds, and as fast as they peck them away below, more fall from above and supply the deficiency.

In the front, and above the holes, fix a piece of glass, which is represented by _b_ in fig. 2, and which is seen in its place in fig. 1. The object of the glass is to permit the bird-keeper to see when there is a sufficiency of seed. The sloping top is also of glass, which is fixed by a strip of American leather, acting as a hinge. It is made of glass, and set at a sharp angle, in order to prevent the birds from perching on it, which they are certain to do if they can find the least foothold. It will be found that the best cement wherewith to fix the glass is gold-size, and that a coat or two of black sealing-wax varnish makes a nice finish to the job.

The holes through which the birds feed should not be much larger than the size of their heads. The reason of this arrangement is that the canaries are apt to shell the seeds while their heads are over the vessel in which the food is contained, so that the husks fall among the seed, and it is not easy to discover when the supply is exhausted. But no diurnal bird will feed in the dark, and as the canary effectually darkens each hole by introducing its head, it will not crack and eat the seed until it has withdrawn its head and restored itself to light.

The object of the partitions is that the birds can be supplied with different kinds of seed, each of which can be restricted to its own division. The receptacles should be of different sizes--the largest for canary-seed, the next in size for rape, and the least for millet, among which a little hemp may be shaken. In front of the holes, and about three-quarters of an inch from them, should be fixed a perch, upon which the birds can sit while they feed.

At the back of the seed-box are fastened a couple of stout hooks--those which milliners call “stay-hooks” answer admirably--so that the box may be hung on the wires at any convenient height. It should not be placed on the ground, because in that case the canaries will stuff all the refuse stems of the green-meat into the feeding-holes, and will probably mix sand and husks with the seeds. They are as mischievous as monkeys, and quite as ready at discovering and taking advantage of the slightest opportunities of doing something which they know is forbidden.

The “fountain” from which they drink is made on a similar principle. Fountains can be purchased at any bird-dealer’s; but as it is preferable that boys should use their hands rather than drain their pockets, we offer simple directions for making a fountain as efficacious, though not quite so elegant, as those which are purchased in the shops.

The materials required for the purpose are very simple, and consist of some wire, both stout and fine, of an empty Florence-oil flask, a saucer, and some wood. The mode of employing them is shown by the illustration (fig. 3).

Make three rings of stout wire, each diminishing in diameter, and arrange them as seen at _b_, the smallest being uppermost. Four pieces of stout wire are then firmly attached, so as to make a kind of conical stand. Were not the birds so mischievous, this would be sufficient for all purposes; but as they are sure to go and bathe in the water, they must be kept out by intermediate wires, so as to make a kind of cage, through which the birds can put their heads, but which will not permit the passage of their bodies.

Then take your oil-flask, strip off all the rushen covering, and wash the interior with strong soda until every trace of the oil is removed. Place it in the wire frame, as shown at _c_, and try whether it stands upright. If the wire ring should be too large, and allow of its slipping through too far, cut a round hole of the proper size in a piece of pasteboard or very thin wood, lay it on the ring, and then introduce the flask.

Make a round stool or table, such as is seen in the illustration, and fix the turned-up ends of the wires to it with small staples. If the fountain were on the ground, the birds would fill the saucer with sand and husks; and if it were not firmly fastened, it would be knocked over by the fluttering wings of a passing bird. The stool must be wide and strong, or the whole affair will be upset.

The mode of preparing the fountain is very simple. Fill the flask with water, and stop up the mouth with a shallow cork. Place a saucer (like _a_) under the wire frame, insert the flask, hold its mouth in the saucer with one hand, and remove the cork with the other. The water will immediately rush into the saucer, and will half fill it, but owing to the pressure of the atmosphere no more water will descend. When, however, the birds have drunk enough to bring the level of the water below the mouth of the flask, air immediately rushes up in great bubbles, down comes a corresponding amount of water, and a fresh supply is thus afforded.

In canary-keeping much depends upon the kind of bird. We presume that a good singer will be required, as well as a strong and healthy bird. If you are not learned in canary lore, try to induce an experienced friend to choose a bird for you; but if you are not fortunate enough to possess such assistance, the following concise directions may aid you. Look at the birds for sale, and note those that stand straightest on their perches, and that hop quickly and smartly about the little apologies for cages in which they are mostly confined. Next hear them sing before deciding on your purchase, and select the one that possesses the sweetest and fullest tone. The dealer can always make the bird sing when he likes, and if any bird refuses to sing, do not buy it, however handsome it may look. If possible, procure one that possesses the nightingale’s song; you will have to pay rather heavily for it, but any one who can afford such a bird will be amply repaid by the very great superiority of the song, which is divested of that ear-piercing shrillness so unpleasant in most canaries.

When you are satisfied with the song, look the bird well over to see that it has no defects; and if you prefer the variegated breed, take care of three principal points--namely, the top of the head, technically called the “cap;” the markings on the back, called “spangles;” and the number of quill feathers in the wings and tail. The cap must be uniform and rich in colour, the spangles bold and well defined, and the quill feathers not less than eighteen in each wing and twelve in the tail. Imperfect or damaged feathers can easily be replaced by pulling them out, for their places will soon be filled with new and perfect feathers.

Some persons prefer the yellow varieties, and many are fond of the crested canaries.

We intentionally omit all mention of “fancy” canaries, for the fashion changes with them as fast as it does with tulips or dress. The fashion in canaries seldom outlives a year, and the prize bird of one year will possibly be despised in the next season. Do not, therefore, be persuaded to attempt the purchase of costly fancy canaries. They may certainly be of great value when you happen to buy them, but in a few years no one will think anything of them. Choose strong, sweet-voiced, and healthy birds, with colours that please your eye, and leave the fancy canaries to professional breeders.

As to the general management of the canary, it may be summed up by saying that it chiefly consists in judiciously letting alone. Don’t meddle with the birds more than is absolutely needed, and do not worry them with medicines whenever they seem to be unwell. As, however, all canaries are liable to certain ailments, in which a knowledge of the proper treatment is highly useful, we will just give a few plain directions.

One pest is vigorous throughout the year, and always ready to seize on the birds, and that is the “red-mite,” a parasite known to all bird-keepers.

If you find your birds restless, especially at night, and see them continually pecking among the roots of the feathers, and especially if they lose appetite, and become fretful and ill-tempered to their companions, look out for the red-mite. You can always detect the tiny but formidable foe by placing the bird in a dark room, and, after a few hours, holding a bright lamp close by the cage. If there are any mites about, you will soon see them crawling upon the perches, the wires, and even showing themselves among the feathers. They are not larger than the dot over the letter i, but their numbers are often very considerable, and the injury they inflict is great.

Let not one escape, for it may be the parent of hundreds more. When the red-mites have once obtained possession of a cage, their extirpation is a task of very great difficulty to those who do not understand the constitution of the creatures. So difficult, indeed, is the business, that many fanciers will not even attempt it, but burn the cage and buy another. The metal cages, which are now so common, are preferable to those made of wood and wire, inasmuch as they present very few spots wherein the red-mite can find a hiding-place, and for that reason metal is to be preferred to wood. Even if they have gained admission to an ordinary cage, they can be extirpated without very much trouble. We have succeeded in doing so in several instances, and think that in a fortnight any cage can be freed of its troublesome parasites.

First place the cage in the sun for a short time, so as to induce the light-hating mites to leave the bird and hide themselves in the crevices of the cage. Remove the bird, and transfer it to another cage, or even a box, and let it wait. Take the cage and examine it well, introducing a heated needle or thin blade of iron into every crevice. Next take some insect-destroying powder, force it into a hollow paper cylinder, light the paper, put it into the cage, and envelop the whole in a newspaper. Leave it there for an hour, and when you remove it you will see dozens of the red-mites, of all sizes, lying dead on the floor, or clinging half-stupefied by the fumes of the powder. Scrape them all into boiling water, and dust the whole of the cage with the powder.

By this time every mite will be dead; but there is a goodly store of eggs which will be hatched in due time, and infest the cage anew. These are destroyed by means of oil. Take a camel’s hair brush and some salad-oil, and with the brush apply the oil to every crevice. If there should be the tiniest scratch on the wood, touch it with the oil. Let oil be applied to every spot where the wires enter the wood, where they cross each other, and where the hinges of the door are fixed. Every egg will thus be destroyed, and the cage freed.

About half an hour before you restore the bird to the cage hold it in the left hand, and dust it well with the powder, blowing up the feathers, so as to get it well to the roots. Scatter some of the powder upon a piece of soft rag, and roll the bird in it, carefully binding down its legs and wings, under each of which a pinch of powder must be sprinkled. You can now attend to the head, which requires rather neat handling, as the powder is very apt to settle upon the eyes and to worry the bird. Let your feathered pet lie for half an hour in this beneficial bondage, and then replace it in the cage, scattering some powder upon the floor. The bird will shake its plumage sharply, and send a cloud of dust flying, and in a minute or two will begin to peck among the feathers and settle the plumage. The different aspect of the bird is then quite remarkable, for it exchanges the fussy, anxious, fretful moments for quiet ease, and even when it does peck among the feathers, it does so gently and deliberately, and seems quite another bird.

Moulting is a disorder to which the canary is annually subject, and which requires some little attention. Some time in the autumn all the canaries exchange the feathers which have endured the wear and tear of a twelvemonth for a completely new suit. Feathers are subject to damage in many ways, and just before the moult takes place the bird is quite ragged and disreputable in dress. Meanwhile the germs of new feathers have been growing in the sockets which held the old suit, and in the course of a few weeks all the feathers are shed and replaced by others. It may easily be imagined that such an operation is not achieved without much physical disturbance, and it is accordingly found that all birds are more or less indisposed during the time of the moult.

Scarcely any two birds are affected in precisely the same manner, and the “moulting sickness” tells with especial severity upon the young. Quiet and nourishing food are the best remedies for the curious mixture of languor and fever which is always visible among the birds; and the most accomplished canary-breeders are in the habit of giving the yolk of hard-boiled eggs, and even a little raw meat, scraped and cut very fine. Sometimes, in their desire for animal food, the birds pluck the newly-formed feathers from the bodies of their companions, and nibble the still vascular and bleeding ends. Wine is recommended by some fanciers, but we cannot agree with them. The moult is a natural ailment, and the remedies which are best calculated to modify its effects upon the health are those to which the natural instincts of the birds would lead them.

Frequently the claws and bill of the canary become overgrown, and produce very unpleasant results; the latter causing much difficulty in taking food, and the former entangling the foot in the wires of the cage. The remedy in either case is the same. Take the bird in the left hand, and hold it against the light; the overgrown portions of the claws will then be easily distinguished, inasmuch as a delicate scarlet line runs along the centre of each claw and nearly reaches its extremity. Taking this line as your guide, you carefully cut off the overgrown parts with a sharp pair of scissors, and cause thereby immediate relief to your feathered patient. The bill must be cut in the same way, but requires a little more care and some neatness in trimming. No pain is given to the bird when the operation is rightly conducted, for neither bill nor claw possesses sensation.

Dysentery and diarrhœa are very common among cage birds, and should be treated, the former with a drop or two of castor-oil, and the latter with a lump of chalk to peck at, and a rusty nail in the water.

Sometimes the bird loses the feathers of the head and neck, and presents a most ungainly appearance. In such cases rub the head with almond-oil, and feed the bird for a few days on a mixture of lettuce, scalded bread, olive-oil, and a sprinkling of maw seed. Health will soon return, and at the next moult the bird will recover its lost plumage.

Broken legs are of frequent occurrence, and mostly happen by the bird entangling itself in the wires and then struggling to free itself. Overgrown claws are a fertile cause of this misfortune. Do not try to bandage or in any way to meddle with the leg; but put the bird in a separate cage, take away the perches, place the food and water within reach, so that the patient may partake of them without needing to stand, and wait until the limb is healed. The bones unite very rapidly, and in a week or ten days the limb will be nearly as strong as before the accident, and will betray no sign of the recent misfortune.

DOGS.

It is to be supposed that each reader of these pages is either the possessor of a dog, or desires to obtain that privilege, and that he will wish to learn in a few lines the best way of managing and training his favourite.

There are many works which treat of the Dog; but all those which are trustworthy are of very large dimensions, necessarily costly, and contain a vast amount of information which is very valuable to the owner of hounds, to the sportsman, or to the game-keeper, but is not required by the generality of those to whom these words are addressed. We have, therefore, endeavoured to condense into the few pages which can be allotted to a single subject all the information which is absolutely needed by those who keep dogs merely for amusement and the love of their society.

Firstly, we may answer here a question that is often asked--namely, which is the best breed of dogs for ordinary purposes? We of course exclude all the strictly sporting dogs, such as the foxhound and harrier, the greyhound, and perhaps the bull-dog, though there is something to be said in favour of the last-mentioned, and somewhat maligned, animal.

The tasks that we wish to impose on the dog are light and simple. We want him to be watchful at night, to alarm the house at the sound of a strange step on the premises; if possible, we want him to be courageous enough to attack an intruder. We want him to be a pleasant companion in our daily walks, to hunt after anything at which we may set him, to swim after any object that we may point out, and to retrieve anything for which we may send him. At the same time, we want him to be completely under command, and to be obedient at the least word or sign.

Lastly, we want him to be cleanly and comfortable in the house, to know how to keep out of the way when he is not wanted, and to be sufficiently clever to learn all kinds of amusing performances.

Where, then, shall we find an animal that is capable of fulfilling all these conditions?

There are several varieties of dogs which are well suited for general purposes. There is the spaniel for example, faithful, affectionate, clever, and docile. There is the poodle, perhaps the best “trick” dog in the world, with his funny curly coat and his soft brown eye, full of intelligence almost human. There is the Newfoundland dog, who is perhaps almost too big to be a dweller within the house. There is the terrier, an amusing, bright-eyed, agile-limbed, fussy animal. There is the Italian greyhound, one of the most beautiful animals in the world, but too delicate to please the taste of a boy. There is the Scotch terrier, that odd, wiry-haired, clever creature, which has so often been immortalised by affectionate owners.

All these varieties are delightful animals, and we like them all. But had we the choice of a dog, we should take neither of them, preferring a mixture between the terrier and the bull-dog, provided, of course, that each were of good breed. Many people fancy that a bull-terrier is a dangerous dog to have about the house, and imagine that it is given to biting without due cause, and is too savage to be turned into a pet.

But much of this misapprehension may be traced to the long-established and popular error regarding the bull-dog. It is seldom that a favourable account of this animal is given, and it is thought to be brutal, stupid, vindictive, and irreclaimably ferocious. It is impossible to deny that too many bull-dogs agree with this description; but it is equally impossible to deny that whenever they possess such bad characters the fault lies almost entirely with their master. “Like master, like dog,” is an old and true saying, which has been based on the experience of many years.

If the bull-dog is properly treated, if the owner makes the animal his companion, and if he carefully studies its character, as every pet owner ought to do, encouraging the good qualities, and gently reproving the bad, it will be as gentle and much more quiet than a King Charles or a toy terrier. Looks are certainly against the animal. There is, perhaps, no creature with a more fell aspect than a thorough-bred bull-dog. Its underhung jaw, its glittering teeth, its sunken eyes, its tremendous chest, and lowering countenance are calculated to inspire terror rather than interest.

Yet, when a bull-dog is managed with a due appreciation of canine nature, its aspect thoroughly belies its true nature. We know a thorough-bred bull-dog belonging to a friend, one of the fiercest and most sullen-looking beasts imaginable. Every one gives the animal a very wide berth; and we confess that when we first saw it we thought that its owner was not acting very wisely in permitting it to walk about unmuzzled. Yet this creature is playful and harmless as a kitten. Its great jaws look positively awful as it opens its mouth, and until its real qualities are known, it requires some little presence of mind to withstand its playful rush.

For a pet, however, the bull-dog is scarcely suited, not being sufficiently active or lively. The purely-bred English terrier, on the other hand, is as mercurial a beast as one can wish to see; but it has little steadiness of purpose, is apt to run riot, and is a rank coward, not daring to face a rat, and having serious doubts before it can make up its mind to attack a mouse; therefore the skilful dog-fancier contrives a judicious mixture of the two breeds, and engrafts the tenacity, endurance, and dauntless courage of the bull-dog upon the more agile and frivolous terrier. Thus he obtains a dog that can do almost anything, and though perhaps it may not surpass, it certainly rivals, almost every other variety of the canine species in its accomplishments. In the capacity for learning tricks it scarcely yields, if it does yield at all, to the poodle. It can retrieve as well as the dog which is especially bred for that purpose. It can hunt the fox with the regular hounds. It can swim and dive as well as the Newfoundland dog. In the house it is one of the wariest and most intelligent of dogs, permitting no unaccustomed footstep to enter the domain without giving warning. It will chase rabbits, weasels, rats, or, indeed, any game, with unextinguishable ardour, and will fight any foe at which its master may set it.

One fault indeed it has. It is just a trifle too quarrelsome with other dogs, and when it meets a strange individual of its own species, and has gone through all the preliminaries of back-arching, bristle-setting, _sotto voce_ growling, and the various performances with which two strange dogs greet each other, it is a little too apt to cut matters short by challenging the other to instant combat. Even this fault, however, is easily overcome by a kind but firm master, who can impress upon his pupil that it is not to fight anything at which he has not set it.

And here let us make a few remarks upon the management of dogs.

Severity is not at all needed, but firmness of purpose is indispensable. Patience and good temper are also two requisites, without which no one should attempt to manage a dog. The animal must be made to feel that when an order is given it has to obey at once, and not even the very slightest act of disobedience should be passed unnoticed. He will soon learn that lesson, and the rest is easy.

If you can procure a dog in his early puppyhood, it is certainly the very best method, and you will not require a whip; but should the animal have attained maturity, you may employ this instrument, but must use it with the greatest discretion. If the dog is worthy of the name, you can punish him in a far more effectual way by appealing to his sense of shame than by flogging him; but if you once lose your temper, and begin to inflict a beating on the animal, half your influence will vanish.

If the dog wilfully disobeys you, as will often be the case when he is full-grown and is trying your mettle, take him by the neck, tell him how wicked he has been, and give him one very sharp blow; not more than one,--because if you do so he gets so frightened that he forgets all about the scolding. Then let him have another chance, repeat the order, and if he disobeys again, inflict another stroke. He is not likely to offend a third time; and when he obeys the order, speak kindly to him, praise him, and make much of him,--for you can do more with a dog by praise than by rating.

With a dog which you have possessed from puppyhood there is seldom the least necessity for severity. The creature is so accustomed to do what his master desires, that he hardly conceives the possibility of disobedience. Gentle firmness is all that is necessary in such a case; indeed, we are always opposed to the infliction of pain, except in rare instances, where it is the only means by which the animal can be taught the necessity for obedience.

We cannot bear to see a dog look up to its master with the half-frightened, half-shrinking expression which is observable in one that has been accustomed to the whip. The animal ought to consider its master as its best friend, and to run to him when it is in distress, rather than to fear his presence and tremble at his voice.

The Rev. J. G. Wood, writing on this subject, says:--

“My dear old Rory used to be most abjectly miserable when he had offended me. His frisky tail and pretentious ears would droop on such occasions, his easy assured carriage would sink into a listless, spiritless gait, he would hide his head like a naughty child, he would not leave or enter the room openly, but would make the transit of the apartment by slinking under the chairs and tables, so as to keep himself out of sight as much as possible. He would crawl under my chair, and after waiting some time in hopes that I should notice him, would just push his nose against my heel, and then retreat again to his hiding-place. He would not eat, nor drink, nor sleep, nor be comforted by any one until I had spoken the desired words of forgiveness.

“And then, when the first words of reconciliation were spoken, how he would advance with hope beaming in his countenance, still mixed with diffidence, lest he should have mistaken the tone of voice. And when he was quite certain that he was pardoned, when he felt my hand upon his head, how wild he was with delight! How he would jump about, and run from one person to another on his hind legs, and roll over on his back, and pretend to bite every one in turn, and knock the cat over, and bark until he had to be turned out of the room for the sake of preserving the drums of our ears.

“Then how he would get out of the house, dash down the street at full speed, come pelting back again, jump on the window sill, bang with his tail for admission, and then walk quite soberly to his usual place, and lie on the hearthrug just as if nothing had happened.

“There certainly are dogs whose feelings are quite beyond the reach of human sympathies; but it is more than probable that their callousness is attributable to the bad treatment of their owner, and not to any inherent defect in the animal’s nature. In my little book, ‘Glimpses into Petland,’ the reader may see an account of a ridiculous dog who fairly got the better of me by simple vacuity and selfishness. I never saw such a dog in my life, and I really do not want to see such another.

“Nothing could be made of him. He did not care for kindness; he could not be influenced by the whip; he never thought of obeying orders; he got into every scrape in which a dog could by any possibility fall; and was altogether a hopeless subject. Had I been a novice in the management of animals, I should have thought myself in fault; but being tolerably experienced in such matters, I was at no loss to set the failure down to its right source.

“Just before commencing this account, I received a letter from a correspondent who had read the account of ‘Roughie,’ and wrote a vindication of the Skye terrier, to which variety the dog belonged. My correspondent stated that if the Skye terrier were obtained when young, and well treated, it was one of the most affectionate and faithful animals that could be found; but that if it were bandied about from one master to another, it lost all its loving qualities, and became a reckless, selfish beast. Such had evidently been the case with ‘Roughie,’ and thus his peculiar disposition was accounted for.”

We will now just run through the list of the dogs which are best suited for pets. Of the bull-dog we have already spoken, as also of the terrier, which, as we have said, should be, if possible, a mixture of the two varieties. If you can secure a good healthy puppy from well-bred parents, think yourself fortunate, and make much of the dog.

Do not crop his ears. If you have any sporting friends, they will advise you to do so, tell you that it spoils the dog, and give you all kinds of advice about it. Now, in the first place, it is reasonable to think that the dog’s Maker knows best the kind of ear that is most suitable for the dog, and frames it accordingly. If the short, cropped form had really been the best, it would have been made after that pattern, and not left to the scissors of the dog-doctor to complete the work.

So we say to our readers, defy the ridiculous prevailing fashion, and oppose common sense to it. In a few more years this cropping process will be pronounced obsolete and unnatural; so be amongst those who lead opinion, and save your dogs the pain of that cruel and unnecessary process. Not long ago worming was all the fashion. No dog was considered safe unless it had been wormed; that is, unless the under side of the tongue had been cut open, and the central tendon pulled out. Of course, when a tendon is drawn from the living body and laid in the cold air, it contracts and twists about. Therefore it was held to be a worm, and everywhere believed to be the cause of hydrophobia.

Horses, again, were cropped in a most atrocious manner. Their ears were clipped close to their head, and their tails were cut quite short, leaving only a few inches of hair on the stump; so that the French satirist was quite justified in his sneer against the English as a people, who, he said, cut off the tails of their horses and the heads of their kings. The French did both afterwards, with the addition of a queen and a few princes. Nor was this all. The under side of the tail was cut across in several places--nicking, the operation was called--and then the tail was forcibly bent upwards, and tied in that position until the wounds healed, and the member left immovable. Fancy the torture the poor animals must have undergone, the fresh wounds being torn open and exposed to the air!

Mr. Waterton, the venerable naturalist, remarks that in former days he tried to aid the cause of humanity by his example, and rode a horse with a proper allowance of tail and with uncropped ears. The experiment failed. The “_arbitrium popularis auræ_” was pleased to declare itself against ears and tails. There was such a commotion whenever the humane rider ventured to show himself abroad on a horse which possessed the abominations of ears and a tail--he was so mobbed, and his horse was so reft of his tail by the urchins who wanted fishing-lines--that, for the sake of the beast as well as himself, Mr. Waterton was obliged to conform to the popular verdict, and dock the tail of his horse as a compromise for his ears.

Now, however, the verdict of popular opinion has undergone a change, and horses are permitted to wear their ears and tails; and the time will come before very long when a dog will be thought as much disfigured by having cropped ears as he is now thought to be when he is allowed to wear those members in their natural proportions.

The only rational excuse that can be put forward for adopting such a practice is that which is employed by the owners of game-cocks, when they clip the combs of their feathered _protégés_. It is, that the length of the ear affords a hold for an antagonist. But as it is not to be supposed that any of my readers are likely to belong to that brutal class of human beings who keep dogs for the purpose of making them fight each other, we may pronounce that not one single valid reason can be urged for depriving a dog of his ears.

There is the poodle, a delightful dog for a pet. They are docile in no ordinary degree, and can learn all kinds of tricks without seeming to take much trouble. Performing dogs mostly belong to this variety, and very amusing are the tricks which they will learn. They will dance a polka with easy skill. They will imitate a ball-room company with such ludicrous burlesque that no one can resist the temptation of laughing. They will walk about on their hind legs, on their fore legs, and have even been seen to walk with the two legs of one side, the other legs being held up in the air.

It was difficult to imagine how they could have been taught such a feat; but it had been done by setting a board on edge, hitching the two legs of the left side over the board, and making the dog walk along in this attitude. After passing along the board three or four times, the dogs found that they could lighten the labour by holding their upper legs clear of the board, and so they soon learned to dispense with its presence.

If you do have a poodle, you must wash him often and carefully, because these long, curly-headed dogs are apt to give out a disagreeable odour unless they are kept very clean. But do not on any account clip his hair in the stupid and ugly fashion that is so often adopted, and which was first imported from France.