Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty One.Containing a Tale to Banish the Creepies.“The noblest mind the best contentment has.”Spenser.“Now,” said Frank, next night (we are all assembled drinking tea on the lawn), “after all those tales about your foreign favourites, and your pet creepie-creepies, I think the best thing you can do is to come nearer home and change your tactics.”“I was dreaming about cockroaches last night,” said my wife; “and you know, dear, they are my pet aversion.”“Yes,” cried Ida; “do tell us a story to banish the creepies.”“Well then, here goes. I’ll tell you a story about a pet donkey and Nero’s son, ‘Hurricane Bob.’ Will that do? And we’ll call it—”Jeannie’s Boarding-house: A Seaside Story.“Jeannie was an ass. I do not make this remark in any disparaging way, for a more interesting member of the genus donkey never, I believe, stood upon four legs. Indeed, I do not think I would be going too far if I said that I have known many individuals not half so wise who stood upon two. Now, although I mention Jeannie in the past tense, it is because she is not present with me, but she is still, I believe, alive and well, and is at this moment, I have little doubt, quietly cropping the grass on her own green field, or gazing pensively at the ocean from the Worthing sands.“I must tell you who was my travelling companion when I first made the acquaintance of the heroine of this little sketch. He was a very large jet-black Newfoundland dog. Such a fellow! And with such a coat too, not one curly hair in all his jacket, all as straight as quills, and as sheeny as the finest satin. Hurricane Bob can play in the sea, toying with the waves for hours, and still not be wet quite to the skin, and when he comes on shore again he just gives himself a shake or two, buckets of water fly in all directions, for the time being he looks like an animated mop, then away he feathers across the sands, and in a few minutes he is dry enough for the drawing-room. Bob is quite an aristocrat in his own way, and every inch a gentleman—one glance at his beautiful face and his wide, thoughtful eyes would convince you of this—nor, on being introduced to him, would you be surprised to be told that not only is he a winner of many prizes himself, but that his father is a champion dog, and his grandfather before him as well. I do not think that Hurricane Bob—or Master Robert, as we call him on high days and holidays—has a single fault, unless probably the habit he has of going tearing along the streets and roads, when out for a walk, at the rate of twenty miles an hour. It is this habit which has gained for him the sobriquet of Hurricane; it is sometimes a little awkward for the lieges, but to his credit be it said that whenever he runs down a little boy or girl he never fails to stop and apologise on the spot, licking the hands of the prostrate one, and saying, as plainly as a dog can speak, ‘There, there, I didn’t really mean to hurt you, and you’ll be all right again in a minute.’“We called the place where Jeannie lived, at Worthing, Jeannie’s boarding-house. It was a nice roomy stable, with a coach-house, a yard for exercise, and a loose-box. The door of the stable was always left open at Jeannie’s request, so that she could go out and in as she pleased. The loose-box was told off to Hurricane Bob; he had a dish of nice clean water, a box to hold his dog-biscuits, and plenty of dry straw, so he was as happy as a king.“When his landlady, Jeannie, first saw him she sniffed him all over, while Bob looked up in her face.“‘Just you be careful, old lady,’ said Bob, ‘for I might be tempted to catch you by the nose.’“But Jeannie was satisfied.“‘You’ll do, doggie,’ she said; ‘there doesn’t seem to be an ounce of real harm in your whole composition.’“The other members of Jeannie’s boarding establishment were about twenty hens, old and young, more useful perhaps than ornamental. Now, any other landlady in the world would have had a bad time of it with this ill-bred feathered squad, for they were far from polite to her, and constantly grumbling about their food; they said they hadn’t enough of it, and that it was not good what they did get. Then they were continually squabbling or fighting with each other; the little fowls always stole all the big pieces, and the big fowls chased and pecked the little ones all round the yard in consequence, till their backs, under their feathers, must have been black and blue, and they hadn’t peace to eat the portion they had stolen. ‘Tick, tuck,’ the big fowl would say; ‘tick, tuck, take that, and that; tick, tuck, that’s what greed gets.’“But Jeannie was a philosopher, she simply looked at them with those quiet brown eyes of hers, shook one ear, and said—“‘Grumble away, grumble away, I’m too well known to be afraid of ye; ye can’t bring disgrace on my hotel. Hee, haw! Haw, hee! There!’“Hurricane Bob paid his billeverymorning and every night with a dog-biscuit. The first morning I offered Jeannie the biscuit she looked at me.“‘Do you take me for a dog?’ she asked. Then she sniffed it. ‘It do smell uncommonly nice,’ she said; ‘I’ll try it, anyhow.’ So she took the cake in her mouth, and marched into the yard; but returned almost immediately, still holding it between her teeth.“‘What’s the correct way to eat it?’ she inquired.“‘That’s what I want you to find out,’ I said.“Poor Jeannie! she tried to break it against the door, then against the wall, and finally against the paving stone, but it resisted all her efforts. Then, ‘Oh! I know,’ she cried. ‘You puts it on the ground, and holes it like a turnip.’ N.B.—I’m not accountable for Jeannie’s bad grammar.“Every morning, when I came to see Master Robert, Jeannie ran to meet me, and put her great head under my arm for a cuddle. She called me Arthur, but that isn’t my name. She pronounced the first syllable in a double bass key, and the second in a shrill treble. Ar—thur! Haw, hee! Haw, hee!“She was funny, was Jeannie. Some mornings, as soon as she caught sight of me, she used to go off into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, then she would apologise.“‘I can’t help it, Arthur,’ she seemed to say. ‘It does seem rude, I daresay, but I really can’t help it. It’s the sight of you that does it. Hee, haw! Hee, haw!’“One day, and one day only, Bob and his landlady nearly had a quarrel. Jeannie, having eaten her own biscuit, burst into the loose-box, to help the dog with his. ‘Ho, ho!’ said Hurricane Robert, ‘you’ve come to raise the rent, have ye? Just look at this, old lady.’ As he spoke, the dog lifted one lip, and showed such a display of alabaster teeth, that Jeannie was glad to retire without raising the rent.“What was Jeannie like, did you ask? Why, straight in back and strong in limb, with beautiful long ears to switch away the flies in summer, with mild, intelligent eyes of hazel brown, and always a soft, smooth patch on the top of her nose for any one to kiss who was so minded. In winter Jeannie was rough in coat. She preferred it, she said, because it kept out the cold, and made an excellent saddle for her three little playmates to ride upon. Of these she was exceedingly fond, and never more pleased and proud than when the whole three of them were on her back at one time—wee, brown-eyed, laughing Lovat S—; young Ernie, bold and bright and free; and little winsome Winnie C—.“To be sure they often fell off, but there was where the fun and the glee lay, especially when Jeannie sometimes bent her nose to the ground and let them all tumble on the sand in a heap. And that, you know, was Jeannie’s joke, and one that she was never tired of repeating.“In summer Jeannie shone, positively shone, all over like a race-horse or a boatman beetle, and then I can tell you it was no easy matter for her playmates to stick on her back at all. She was particularly partial, as you have seen, to the society of human beings, and brightened up wonderfully as soon as a friend appeared on the scene, but I think when alone she was rather of a contemplative turn of mind. There was a rookery not far from Jeannie’s abode, and at this she never tired gazing.“‘Well,’ said Jeannie to me one day, ‘they do be funny creatures, those rooks. I don’t think I should like to live up there, Ar—thur. And they’re always a-fighting too, just like my boarders be, and never a thing do they say from morning till night but caw, caw, caw. Now if they could only make a few remarks like this, Haw, hee! Haw, hee! Haw hee!’“‘Oh! don’t, pray don’t, Jeannie,’ I cried, with my fingers in my ears.“And now, then, what do you think made Jeannie such a bright, loving, and intelligent animal? Why, kindness and good treatment.“Dear old Jeannie, I may never gaze upon her classic countenance again, but I shall not forget her. In my mind’s eye I see her even now, as I last beheld her. The sun had just gone down, behind a calm and silent sea; scarcely do the waves speak as they break in ripples on the sand, they do but whisper. And the clouds are tipped with gold and crimson, and far away in the offing is a ship, a single ship, and these are all the signs of life there are about, save Jeannie on the beach. Alone.“I wonder what she was thinking about.”

“The noblest mind the best contentment has.”Spenser.

“The noblest mind the best contentment has.”Spenser.

“Now,” said Frank, next night (we are all assembled drinking tea on the lawn), “after all those tales about your foreign favourites, and your pet creepie-creepies, I think the best thing you can do is to come nearer home and change your tactics.”

“I was dreaming about cockroaches last night,” said my wife; “and you know, dear, they are my pet aversion.”

“Yes,” cried Ida; “do tell us a story to banish the creepies.”

“Well then, here goes. I’ll tell you a story about a pet donkey and Nero’s son, ‘Hurricane Bob.’ Will that do? And we’ll call it—”

“Jeannie was an ass. I do not make this remark in any disparaging way, for a more interesting member of the genus donkey never, I believe, stood upon four legs. Indeed, I do not think I would be going too far if I said that I have known many individuals not half so wise who stood upon two. Now, although I mention Jeannie in the past tense, it is because she is not present with me, but she is still, I believe, alive and well, and is at this moment, I have little doubt, quietly cropping the grass on her own green field, or gazing pensively at the ocean from the Worthing sands.

“I must tell you who was my travelling companion when I first made the acquaintance of the heroine of this little sketch. He was a very large jet-black Newfoundland dog. Such a fellow! And with such a coat too, not one curly hair in all his jacket, all as straight as quills, and as sheeny as the finest satin. Hurricane Bob can play in the sea, toying with the waves for hours, and still not be wet quite to the skin, and when he comes on shore again he just gives himself a shake or two, buckets of water fly in all directions, for the time being he looks like an animated mop, then away he feathers across the sands, and in a few minutes he is dry enough for the drawing-room. Bob is quite an aristocrat in his own way, and every inch a gentleman—one glance at his beautiful face and his wide, thoughtful eyes would convince you of this—nor, on being introduced to him, would you be surprised to be told that not only is he a winner of many prizes himself, but that his father is a champion dog, and his grandfather before him as well. I do not think that Hurricane Bob—or Master Robert, as we call him on high days and holidays—has a single fault, unless probably the habit he has of going tearing along the streets and roads, when out for a walk, at the rate of twenty miles an hour. It is this habit which has gained for him the sobriquet of Hurricane; it is sometimes a little awkward for the lieges, but to his credit be it said that whenever he runs down a little boy or girl he never fails to stop and apologise on the spot, licking the hands of the prostrate one, and saying, as plainly as a dog can speak, ‘There, there, I didn’t really mean to hurt you, and you’ll be all right again in a minute.’

“We called the place where Jeannie lived, at Worthing, Jeannie’s boarding-house. It was a nice roomy stable, with a coach-house, a yard for exercise, and a loose-box. The door of the stable was always left open at Jeannie’s request, so that she could go out and in as she pleased. The loose-box was told off to Hurricane Bob; he had a dish of nice clean water, a box to hold his dog-biscuits, and plenty of dry straw, so he was as happy as a king.

“When his landlady, Jeannie, first saw him she sniffed him all over, while Bob looked up in her face.

“‘Just you be careful, old lady,’ said Bob, ‘for I might be tempted to catch you by the nose.’

“But Jeannie was satisfied.

“‘You’ll do, doggie,’ she said; ‘there doesn’t seem to be an ounce of real harm in your whole composition.’

“The other members of Jeannie’s boarding establishment were about twenty hens, old and young, more useful perhaps than ornamental. Now, any other landlady in the world would have had a bad time of it with this ill-bred feathered squad, for they were far from polite to her, and constantly grumbling about their food; they said they hadn’t enough of it, and that it was not good what they did get. Then they were continually squabbling or fighting with each other; the little fowls always stole all the big pieces, and the big fowls chased and pecked the little ones all round the yard in consequence, till their backs, under their feathers, must have been black and blue, and they hadn’t peace to eat the portion they had stolen. ‘Tick, tuck,’ the big fowl would say; ‘tick, tuck, take that, and that; tick, tuck, that’s what greed gets.’

“But Jeannie was a philosopher, she simply looked at them with those quiet brown eyes of hers, shook one ear, and said—

“‘Grumble away, grumble away, I’m too well known to be afraid of ye; ye can’t bring disgrace on my hotel. Hee, haw! Haw, hee! There!’

“Hurricane Bob paid his billeverymorning and every night with a dog-biscuit. The first morning I offered Jeannie the biscuit she looked at me.

“‘Do you take me for a dog?’ she asked. Then she sniffed it. ‘It do smell uncommonly nice,’ she said; ‘I’ll try it, anyhow.’ So she took the cake in her mouth, and marched into the yard; but returned almost immediately, still holding it between her teeth.

“‘What’s the correct way to eat it?’ she inquired.

“‘That’s what I want you to find out,’ I said.

“Poor Jeannie! she tried to break it against the door, then against the wall, and finally against the paving stone, but it resisted all her efforts. Then, ‘Oh! I know,’ she cried. ‘You puts it on the ground, and holes it like a turnip.’ N.B.—I’m not accountable for Jeannie’s bad grammar.

“Every morning, when I came to see Master Robert, Jeannie ran to meet me, and put her great head under my arm for a cuddle. She called me Arthur, but that isn’t my name. She pronounced the first syllable in a double bass key, and the second in a shrill treble. Ar—thur! Haw, hee! Haw, hee!

“She was funny, was Jeannie. Some mornings, as soon as she caught sight of me, she used to go off into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, then she would apologise.

“‘I can’t help it, Arthur,’ she seemed to say. ‘It does seem rude, I daresay, but I really can’t help it. It’s the sight of you that does it. Hee, haw! Hee, haw!’

“One day, and one day only, Bob and his landlady nearly had a quarrel. Jeannie, having eaten her own biscuit, burst into the loose-box, to help the dog with his. ‘Ho, ho!’ said Hurricane Robert, ‘you’ve come to raise the rent, have ye? Just look at this, old lady.’ As he spoke, the dog lifted one lip, and showed such a display of alabaster teeth, that Jeannie was glad to retire without raising the rent.

“What was Jeannie like, did you ask? Why, straight in back and strong in limb, with beautiful long ears to switch away the flies in summer, with mild, intelligent eyes of hazel brown, and always a soft, smooth patch on the top of her nose for any one to kiss who was so minded. In winter Jeannie was rough in coat. She preferred it, she said, because it kept out the cold, and made an excellent saddle for her three little playmates to ride upon. Of these she was exceedingly fond, and never more pleased and proud than when the whole three of them were on her back at one time—wee, brown-eyed, laughing Lovat S—; young Ernie, bold and bright and free; and little winsome Winnie C—.

“To be sure they often fell off, but there was where the fun and the glee lay, especially when Jeannie sometimes bent her nose to the ground and let them all tumble on the sand in a heap. And that, you know, was Jeannie’s joke, and one that she was never tired of repeating.

“In summer Jeannie shone, positively shone, all over like a race-horse or a boatman beetle, and then I can tell you it was no easy matter for her playmates to stick on her back at all. She was particularly partial, as you have seen, to the society of human beings, and brightened up wonderfully as soon as a friend appeared on the scene, but I think when alone she was rather of a contemplative turn of mind. There was a rookery not far from Jeannie’s abode, and at this she never tired gazing.

“‘Well,’ said Jeannie to me one day, ‘they do be funny creatures, those rooks. I don’t think I should like to live up there, Ar—thur. And they’re always a-fighting too, just like my boarders be, and never a thing do they say from morning till night but caw, caw, caw. Now if they could only make a few remarks like this, Haw, hee! Haw, hee! Haw hee!’

“‘Oh! don’t, pray don’t, Jeannie,’ I cried, with my fingers in my ears.

“And now, then, what do you think made Jeannie such a bright, loving, and intelligent animal? Why, kindness and good treatment.

“Dear old Jeannie, I may never gaze upon her classic countenance again, but I shall not forget her. In my mind’s eye I see her even now, as I last beheld her. The sun had just gone down, behind a calm and silent sea; scarcely do the waves speak as they break in ripples on the sand, they do but whisper. And the clouds are tipped with gold and crimson, and far away in the offing is a ship, a single ship, and these are all the signs of life there are about, save Jeannie on the beach. Alone.

“I wonder what she was thinking about.”

Chapter Twenty Two.An Evening Spent at our own Fireside.“Well, puss,” says Man, “and what can youTo benefit the public do?”Gay.“Draw round your chair,” said I to Frank; “and now for a comfortable, quiet evening.”Frank and I had been away all the afternoon, on one of our long rambles. Very pleasantly shone the morning sun, that had wooed us away; the ground was frozen hard as iron, there wasn’t a cloud in himmel’s blue, nor a breath of wind from one direction or another. But towards evening a change had come suddenly over the spirit of the day’s dream, which found my friend and I still a goodly two hours’ stride from home. Heavy grey clouds had come trooping up from the north-east, borne along on the fierce fleet wings of a ten-knot breeze; then the snow had come on, such snow as seldom falls in “bonnie Berks;” and soon we were surrounded by one of the wildest wintry nights ever I remember. Talking was impossible; we could but clutch our sticks and boldly hurry onwards, while the wind sighed and roared through the telegraph-wires, and the snow sifted angrily through the leafless hedgerows. It was a night that none save a healthy man could have faced.Ah! but didn’t the light from the cosy, red-curtained window, streaming over our own snow-silvered lawn, amply reward us at last; while the nice dinner quite put the climax on our happiness.“Now for your story,” said Frank. “Now for my story,” I replied; “I will call it—”The Fireside Favourite: An Autobiography.“The lines of some cats fall in pleasant places. Mine have. I’m the fireside favourite, I’m the parlour pet. I’m thebeau idéal, so my mistress says, of what every decent, respectable, well-trained cat ought to be—and I looked in the glass and found it so. But pray don’t think that I am vain because I happen to know the usages of polite society, and the uses and abuses of the looking-glass. No cat, in my opinion, with any claim to the dignity of lady-puss, would think of washing her face unless in front of a plate-glass mirror. But I will not soon forget the day I first knew what a looking-glass meant. I was then only a silly little mite of a kitten, of a highly inquiring turn of mind. Well, one evening my young mistress was going to a ball, and before she went she spent about three hours in her dressing-room, doing something, and then she came down to the parlour, looking more like an angel than ever I had seen her. Oh, how she was dressed, to be sure. And she had little bunches of flowers stuck on all over her dress, and I wanted to play at ‘mousies’ with them; but she wouldn’t wait, she just kissed me and bade me be a good kitten and not run up the curtains, and then off she went. Yes; I meant to be an awfully good little kitten—but first and foremost I meant to see the interior of that mysterious room. By good luck the door was ajar, so in I popped at once, and made direct for the table. Such a display of beautiful things I had never seen before. I didn’t know what they all meant then, but I do now, for, mind you, I will soon be twenty years of age. But I got great fun on that table. I tried the gold rings on my nose, and the earrings on my toes, and I knocked off the lid of a powder-box, and scattered the crimson contents all abroad. Then I had a fearful battle with a puff which I unearthed from another box. During the fight a bottle of ylang-ylang went down. I didn’t care a bit. Crash went a bottle of flower-water next. I regarded it not. I fought the puff till it took refuge on the floor. Then I paused, wondering what I should do next, when behold! right in front of me and looking through a square of glass, and apparently wondering whatitshould do next, was the ugliest little wretch of a kitten ever you saw in your life—I marched up to it as brave as a button, and it had the audacity to come and meet me.“‘You ugly, deformed little thing,’ I cried, ‘what do you want in my lady’s room?’“‘The same to you,’ it seemed to say, ‘and many of them.’“‘For two pins,’ I continued, ‘I would scratch your nasty little eyes out—yah—fuss-s!’“‘Yah—fuss-s!’ replied the foe, lifting its left paw as I lifted my right.“This was too much. I crept round the corner to give her a cuff. She wasn’t there! I came back, and there she was as brazen as ever. I tried this game on several times, but couldn’t catch her. ‘Then,’ says I, ‘you’ll catch it where you stand, in spite of the pane of glass!’“I struck straight from the shoulder, and with a will too. Down went the glass, and I found I had been fighting all the time with my own reflection. Funny, wasn’t it?“When mistress came home there was such a row. But she was sensible, and didn’t beat me. She took me upstairs, and showed me what I had done, and looked so vexed that I was sorry too. ‘It is my own fault, though,’ she said; ‘I ought to have shut the door.’“She presented me with a looking-glass soon after this, and it is quite surprising how my opinion of that strange kitten in the mirror altered after that. I thought now I had never seen such a lovely thing, and I was never tired looking at it. No more I had. But first impressionsareso erroneous, you know.“My dear mother is dead and gone years ago—of course, considering my age, you won’t marvel at that; and my young mistress is married long, long ago, and has a grown family, who are all as kind as kind can be to old Tom, as they facetiously call me. And so they were to my mother, who, I may tell you, was only three days in her last illness, and gave up the ghost on a file of old newspapers (than which nothing makes a better bed), and is buried under the old pear-tree.“Dear me, how often I have wondered how other poor cats who have neither kind master nor mistress manage to live. But, the poor creatures, they are so ignorant—badly-bred, you know. Why, only the other day the young master brought home a poor little cat he had found starving in the street. Well, I never in all my life saw such an ill-mannered, rude little wretch, for no sooner had it got itself stuffed with the best fare in the house, than it made a deliberate attempt to steal the canary. There was gratitude for you! Now, mind, I don’t say thatIshouldn’t like to eat the canary, but I never have taken our own birds—no—always the neighbours’. I did, just once, fly at our own canary’s cage when I was quite a wee cat, but I didn’t know any better. And what do you think my mistress did? Why, she took the bird out of the cage and popped me in; and there I was, all day long, a prisoner, with nothing for dinner but seeds and water, and the canary flying about the room and doing what it liked, even helping itself to my milk. I never forgot that.“Some cats, you know, are arrant thieves, and I don’t wonder at it, the way they are kicked and cuffed about, put out all night, and never offered food or water. I would steal myself if I were used like that, wouldn’t you, madam? But I have my two meals a day, regularly; and I have a nice double saucer, which stands beside my mirror, and one end contains nice milk and the other clean water, and I don’t know which I like the best. When I am downright thirsty, the water is so nice; but at times I am hungry and thirsty both, if you can understand me—then I drink the milk. At times I am allowed to sit on the table when my mistress is at breakfast, and I often put out my paw, ever so gently, and help myself to a morsel from her plate; but I wouldn’t do it when she isn’t looking. The other day I took a fancy to a nice smelt, and I just went and told my mistress and led her to the kitchen, and I got what I wanted at once.“I am never put out at night. I have always the softest and warmest of beds, and in winter, towards morning, when the fire goes out, I go upstairs and creep (singing loudly to let her know it is I) into my mistress’s arms.“If I want to go on the tiles any night, I have only to ask. A fellow does want to go on the tiles now and then, doesn’t he? Oh, it is a jolly thing, is a night on the tiles! One of these days I may give you my experience of life on the tiles, and then you’ll know all about it—in the meantime, madam, you may try it yourself. Let it be moonlight, and be cautious, you know, for, as you have only two feet, you will feel rather awkward at first.“Did I ever know what it was to be hungry? Yes, indeed, once I did; and I’m now going to tell you of the saddest experience in all my long life. You see it happened like this. It was autumn; I was then about five years of age, and a finer-looking Tom, I could see by my mirror, never trod on four legs. For some days I had observed an unusual bustle both upstairs and downstairs. The servants, especially, seemed all off their heads, and did nothing but open doors and shut them, and nail up things in large boxes, and drink beer and eat cold meat whenever they stood on end. What was up, I wondered? Went and asked my mistress. ‘Off to the seaside, pussy Tom,’ said she; ‘and you’re going too, if you’re good.’ I determined to be good, and not make faces at the canary. But one night I had been out rather late at a cat-concert, and, as usual, came home with the milk in the morning. In order to make sure of a good sleep I went upstairs to an unused attic, as was my wont, and fell asleep on an old pillow. How long I slept I shall never know, but it must have been far on in the day when I awoke, feeling hungry enough to eat a hunter. As I trotted downstairs the first thing that alarmed me was the unusual stillness. I mewed, and a thousand echoes seemed to mock me. The ticking of the old clock on the stairs had never sounded to me so loud and clear before. I went, one by one, into every room. Nothing in any of them but the stillness, apparently, of death and desolation. The blinds were all down, and I could even hear the mice nibbling behind the wainscot.“My heart felt like a great cold lump of lead, as the sad truth flashed upon my mind—my kind mistress had gone, with all the family, and I was left, forgotten, deserted! My first endeavour was to find my way out. Had I succeeded, even then I would have found my mistress, for cats have an instinct you little wot of. But every door and window was fastened, and there wasn’t a hole left which a rat could have crept through.“What nights and days of misery followed!—it makes me shudder to think of them even now.“For the first few days I did not suffer much from hunger. There were crumbs left by the servants, and occasionally a mouse crept out from the kitchen fender, and I had that. But by the fifth day the crumbs had all gone, and with them the mice, too, had disappeared. They nibbled no more in the cupboard nor behind the wainscot; and as the clock had run down there wasn’t a sound in the old house by night or by day. I now began to suffer both from hunger and thirst. I spent my time either mewing piteously at the hall-door, or roaming purposelessly through the empty house, or watching, watching, faint and wearily, for the mice that never came. Perhaps the most bitter part of my sufferings just then was the thought that would keep obtruding itself on my mind, that for all the love with which I had loved my mistress, and the faithfulness with which I had served her, she had gone away, and left, me to die all alone in the deserted house. Me, too, who would have laid down my life to please her had she only stayed near me.“How slowly the time dragged on—how long and dreary the days, how terrible the nights! Perhaps it was when I was at my very worst, that I happened to be standing close by my empty saucer, and in front of my mirror. At that time I was almost too weak to walk; I tottered on my feet, and my head swam and moved from side to side when I tried to look at anything. Suddenly I started. Could that wild, attenuated image in the mirror be my reflection? How it glared upon me from its glassy eyes! And now I knew it could not be mine, but some dreadful thing sent to torture me. For as I gazed it uttered a yell—mournful, prolonged, unearthly—and dashed at me through and out from the mirror. For some time we seemed to writhe together in agony on the carpet. Then up again we started, the mirror-fiend and I. ‘Follow me fast!’ it seemed to cry, and I was impelled to follow. Wherever it was, there was I. How it tore up and down the house, yelling as it went and tearing everything in its way! How it rushed half up the chimney, and was dashed back again by invisible hands! How it flung itself, half blind and bleeding, at the Venetian blinds, and how madly it tried again to escape into the mirror and shivered the glass! Then mills began in my head—mills and machinery—and the roar of running waters. Then I found myself walking all alone in a green and beautiful meadow, with a blue sky overhead and birds and butterflies all about, a cool breeze fanning my brow, and, better than all,water, pure, and clear, and cool, meandering over brown smooth pebbles, beside which the minnows chased the sunbeams. And I drank—and slept.“When I awoke, I found myself lying on the mat in the hall, and the sunlight shimmering in through the stained glass, and falling in patches of green and crimson on the floor. Very cold now, but quiet and sensible. There was a large hole in my side, and blood was all about, so I must have, in my delirium,torn the flesh from my own ribs and devoured it. (Note 1.)“I knew now that death was come, and would set me free at last.“Then the noise of wheels in my ears, and the sound of human voices; then a blank; and then some one pouring something down my throat; and I opened my eyes and beheld my dear young mistress. How she was weeping! The sight of her sorrow would have melted your heart. ‘Oh, pussy, pussy, do not die!’ she was crying.“Pussy didn’t die; but till this day I believe it was only to please my dear mistress I crept back again to life and love.“I’m very old now, and my thoughts dwell mostly in the past, and I like a cheery fire and a drop of warm milk better than ever. But I have all my faculties and all my comforts. We have other cats in the house, but I never feel jealous, for my mistress, look you, loves me better than all the cats in the kingdom—fact—she told me so.”Note 1. Not overdrawn. A case of the kind actually occurred some years ago in the new town of Edinburgh.—The Author.

“Well, puss,” says Man, “and what can youTo benefit the public do?”Gay.

“Well, puss,” says Man, “and what can youTo benefit the public do?”Gay.

“Draw round your chair,” said I to Frank; “and now for a comfortable, quiet evening.”

Frank and I had been away all the afternoon, on one of our long rambles. Very pleasantly shone the morning sun, that had wooed us away; the ground was frozen hard as iron, there wasn’t a cloud in himmel’s blue, nor a breath of wind from one direction or another. But towards evening a change had come suddenly over the spirit of the day’s dream, which found my friend and I still a goodly two hours’ stride from home. Heavy grey clouds had come trooping up from the north-east, borne along on the fierce fleet wings of a ten-knot breeze; then the snow had come on, such snow as seldom falls in “bonnie Berks;” and soon we were surrounded by one of the wildest wintry nights ever I remember. Talking was impossible; we could but clutch our sticks and boldly hurry onwards, while the wind sighed and roared through the telegraph-wires, and the snow sifted angrily through the leafless hedgerows. It was a night that none save a healthy man could have faced.

Ah! but didn’t the light from the cosy, red-curtained window, streaming over our own snow-silvered lawn, amply reward us at last; while the nice dinner quite put the climax on our happiness.

“Now for your story,” said Frank. “Now for my story,” I replied; “I will call it—”

“The lines of some cats fall in pleasant places. Mine have. I’m the fireside favourite, I’m the parlour pet. I’m thebeau idéal, so my mistress says, of what every decent, respectable, well-trained cat ought to be—and I looked in the glass and found it so. But pray don’t think that I am vain because I happen to know the usages of polite society, and the uses and abuses of the looking-glass. No cat, in my opinion, with any claim to the dignity of lady-puss, would think of washing her face unless in front of a plate-glass mirror. But I will not soon forget the day I first knew what a looking-glass meant. I was then only a silly little mite of a kitten, of a highly inquiring turn of mind. Well, one evening my young mistress was going to a ball, and before she went she spent about three hours in her dressing-room, doing something, and then she came down to the parlour, looking more like an angel than ever I had seen her. Oh, how she was dressed, to be sure. And she had little bunches of flowers stuck on all over her dress, and I wanted to play at ‘mousies’ with them; but she wouldn’t wait, she just kissed me and bade me be a good kitten and not run up the curtains, and then off she went. Yes; I meant to be an awfully good little kitten—but first and foremost I meant to see the interior of that mysterious room. By good luck the door was ajar, so in I popped at once, and made direct for the table. Such a display of beautiful things I had never seen before. I didn’t know what they all meant then, but I do now, for, mind you, I will soon be twenty years of age. But I got great fun on that table. I tried the gold rings on my nose, and the earrings on my toes, and I knocked off the lid of a powder-box, and scattered the crimson contents all abroad. Then I had a fearful battle with a puff which I unearthed from another box. During the fight a bottle of ylang-ylang went down. I didn’t care a bit. Crash went a bottle of flower-water next. I regarded it not. I fought the puff till it took refuge on the floor. Then I paused, wondering what I should do next, when behold! right in front of me and looking through a square of glass, and apparently wondering whatitshould do next, was the ugliest little wretch of a kitten ever you saw in your life—I marched up to it as brave as a button, and it had the audacity to come and meet me.

“‘You ugly, deformed little thing,’ I cried, ‘what do you want in my lady’s room?’

“‘The same to you,’ it seemed to say, ‘and many of them.’

“‘For two pins,’ I continued, ‘I would scratch your nasty little eyes out—yah—fuss-s!’

“‘Yah—fuss-s!’ replied the foe, lifting its left paw as I lifted my right.

“This was too much. I crept round the corner to give her a cuff. She wasn’t there! I came back, and there she was as brazen as ever. I tried this game on several times, but couldn’t catch her. ‘Then,’ says I, ‘you’ll catch it where you stand, in spite of the pane of glass!’

“I struck straight from the shoulder, and with a will too. Down went the glass, and I found I had been fighting all the time with my own reflection. Funny, wasn’t it?

“When mistress came home there was such a row. But she was sensible, and didn’t beat me. She took me upstairs, and showed me what I had done, and looked so vexed that I was sorry too. ‘It is my own fault, though,’ she said; ‘I ought to have shut the door.’

“She presented me with a looking-glass soon after this, and it is quite surprising how my opinion of that strange kitten in the mirror altered after that. I thought now I had never seen such a lovely thing, and I was never tired looking at it. No more I had. But first impressionsareso erroneous, you know.

“My dear mother is dead and gone years ago—of course, considering my age, you won’t marvel at that; and my young mistress is married long, long ago, and has a grown family, who are all as kind as kind can be to old Tom, as they facetiously call me. And so they were to my mother, who, I may tell you, was only three days in her last illness, and gave up the ghost on a file of old newspapers (than which nothing makes a better bed), and is buried under the old pear-tree.

“Dear me, how often I have wondered how other poor cats who have neither kind master nor mistress manage to live. But, the poor creatures, they are so ignorant—badly-bred, you know. Why, only the other day the young master brought home a poor little cat he had found starving in the street. Well, I never in all my life saw such an ill-mannered, rude little wretch, for no sooner had it got itself stuffed with the best fare in the house, than it made a deliberate attempt to steal the canary. There was gratitude for you! Now, mind, I don’t say thatIshouldn’t like to eat the canary, but I never have taken our own birds—no—always the neighbours’. I did, just once, fly at our own canary’s cage when I was quite a wee cat, but I didn’t know any better. And what do you think my mistress did? Why, she took the bird out of the cage and popped me in; and there I was, all day long, a prisoner, with nothing for dinner but seeds and water, and the canary flying about the room and doing what it liked, even helping itself to my milk. I never forgot that.

“Some cats, you know, are arrant thieves, and I don’t wonder at it, the way they are kicked and cuffed about, put out all night, and never offered food or water. I would steal myself if I were used like that, wouldn’t you, madam? But I have my two meals a day, regularly; and I have a nice double saucer, which stands beside my mirror, and one end contains nice milk and the other clean water, and I don’t know which I like the best. When I am downright thirsty, the water is so nice; but at times I am hungry and thirsty both, if you can understand me—then I drink the milk. At times I am allowed to sit on the table when my mistress is at breakfast, and I often put out my paw, ever so gently, and help myself to a morsel from her plate; but I wouldn’t do it when she isn’t looking. The other day I took a fancy to a nice smelt, and I just went and told my mistress and led her to the kitchen, and I got what I wanted at once.

“I am never put out at night. I have always the softest and warmest of beds, and in winter, towards morning, when the fire goes out, I go upstairs and creep (singing loudly to let her know it is I) into my mistress’s arms.

“If I want to go on the tiles any night, I have only to ask. A fellow does want to go on the tiles now and then, doesn’t he? Oh, it is a jolly thing, is a night on the tiles! One of these days I may give you my experience of life on the tiles, and then you’ll know all about it—in the meantime, madam, you may try it yourself. Let it be moonlight, and be cautious, you know, for, as you have only two feet, you will feel rather awkward at first.

“Did I ever know what it was to be hungry? Yes, indeed, once I did; and I’m now going to tell you of the saddest experience in all my long life. You see it happened like this. It was autumn; I was then about five years of age, and a finer-looking Tom, I could see by my mirror, never trod on four legs. For some days I had observed an unusual bustle both upstairs and downstairs. The servants, especially, seemed all off their heads, and did nothing but open doors and shut them, and nail up things in large boxes, and drink beer and eat cold meat whenever they stood on end. What was up, I wondered? Went and asked my mistress. ‘Off to the seaside, pussy Tom,’ said she; ‘and you’re going too, if you’re good.’ I determined to be good, and not make faces at the canary. But one night I had been out rather late at a cat-concert, and, as usual, came home with the milk in the morning. In order to make sure of a good sleep I went upstairs to an unused attic, as was my wont, and fell asleep on an old pillow. How long I slept I shall never know, but it must have been far on in the day when I awoke, feeling hungry enough to eat a hunter. As I trotted downstairs the first thing that alarmed me was the unusual stillness. I mewed, and a thousand echoes seemed to mock me. The ticking of the old clock on the stairs had never sounded to me so loud and clear before. I went, one by one, into every room. Nothing in any of them but the stillness, apparently, of death and desolation. The blinds were all down, and I could even hear the mice nibbling behind the wainscot.

“My heart felt like a great cold lump of lead, as the sad truth flashed upon my mind—my kind mistress had gone, with all the family, and I was left, forgotten, deserted! My first endeavour was to find my way out. Had I succeeded, even then I would have found my mistress, for cats have an instinct you little wot of. But every door and window was fastened, and there wasn’t a hole left which a rat could have crept through.

“What nights and days of misery followed!—it makes me shudder to think of them even now.

“For the first few days I did not suffer much from hunger. There were crumbs left by the servants, and occasionally a mouse crept out from the kitchen fender, and I had that. But by the fifth day the crumbs had all gone, and with them the mice, too, had disappeared. They nibbled no more in the cupboard nor behind the wainscot; and as the clock had run down there wasn’t a sound in the old house by night or by day. I now began to suffer both from hunger and thirst. I spent my time either mewing piteously at the hall-door, or roaming purposelessly through the empty house, or watching, watching, faint and wearily, for the mice that never came. Perhaps the most bitter part of my sufferings just then was the thought that would keep obtruding itself on my mind, that for all the love with which I had loved my mistress, and the faithfulness with which I had served her, she had gone away, and left, me to die all alone in the deserted house. Me, too, who would have laid down my life to please her had she only stayed near me.

“How slowly the time dragged on—how long and dreary the days, how terrible the nights! Perhaps it was when I was at my very worst, that I happened to be standing close by my empty saucer, and in front of my mirror. At that time I was almost too weak to walk; I tottered on my feet, and my head swam and moved from side to side when I tried to look at anything. Suddenly I started. Could that wild, attenuated image in the mirror be my reflection? How it glared upon me from its glassy eyes! And now I knew it could not be mine, but some dreadful thing sent to torture me. For as I gazed it uttered a yell—mournful, prolonged, unearthly—and dashed at me through and out from the mirror. For some time we seemed to writhe together in agony on the carpet. Then up again we started, the mirror-fiend and I. ‘Follow me fast!’ it seemed to cry, and I was impelled to follow. Wherever it was, there was I. How it tore up and down the house, yelling as it went and tearing everything in its way! How it rushed half up the chimney, and was dashed back again by invisible hands! How it flung itself, half blind and bleeding, at the Venetian blinds, and how madly it tried again to escape into the mirror and shivered the glass! Then mills began in my head—mills and machinery—and the roar of running waters. Then I found myself walking all alone in a green and beautiful meadow, with a blue sky overhead and birds and butterflies all about, a cool breeze fanning my brow, and, better than all,water, pure, and clear, and cool, meandering over brown smooth pebbles, beside which the minnows chased the sunbeams. And I drank—and slept.

“When I awoke, I found myself lying on the mat in the hall, and the sunlight shimmering in through the stained glass, and falling in patches of green and crimson on the floor. Very cold now, but quiet and sensible. There was a large hole in my side, and blood was all about, so I must have, in my delirium,torn the flesh from my own ribs and devoured it. (Note 1.)

“I knew now that death was come, and would set me free at last.

“Then the noise of wheels in my ears, and the sound of human voices; then a blank; and then some one pouring something down my throat; and I opened my eyes and beheld my dear young mistress. How she was weeping! The sight of her sorrow would have melted your heart. ‘Oh, pussy, pussy, do not die!’ she was crying.

“Pussy didn’t die; but till this day I believe it was only to please my dear mistress I crept back again to life and love.

“I’m very old now, and my thoughts dwell mostly in the past, and I like a cheery fire and a drop of warm milk better than ever. But I have all my faculties and all my comforts. We have other cats in the house, but I never feel jealous, for my mistress, look you, loves me better than all the cats in the kingdom—fact—she told me so.”

Note 1. Not overdrawn. A case of the kind actually occurred some years ago in the new town of Edinburgh.—The Author.

Chapter Twenty Three.“Greyfriars’ Bobby”—“Pepper”—The Blind Fiddler’s Dog.“Alas! for love if this were all,And nought beyond on earth.”“A good story cannot be too often told,” said Frank one evening.“Well, I doubt that very much,” said my wife; “there is a probability of a good story being spoiled by over-recital.”“I’m of the same opinion,” I assented; “but as I intend the story of ‘Greyfriars’ Bobby’ to be printed in my next book, I will just read it over to you as I have written it.”I had fain hoped, I began, to find out something of Bobby’s antecedents, and something about the private history of the poor man Grey, who died long before Bobby became a hero in the eyes of the world, and attracted the kindly notice of the good and noble William Chambers, then Lord Provost of Edinburgh. I have been unable to do so, however; even an advertisement in a local paper failed to elicit the information I so much desired.What Mr Grey was, or who he was, no one can tell me. Some years ago, runs an account of this loving, faithful dog, a stranger arrived in Edinburgh bringing with him a little rough-haired dog, that slept in the same room with him, and followed him in his walks, but no one knew who the stranger was, or whence he came.The following account of Bobby is culled from theAnimal Worldof the second of May, 1870:—“It is reported that Bobby is a small rough Scotch terrier, grizzled black, with tan feet and nose; and his story runs thus:—More than eleven years ago, a poor man named Grey died, and was buried in the old Greyfriars churchyard, Edinburgh. His grave is now levelled by time, and nothing marks it. But the spot had not been forgotten by his faithful dog. James Brown, the old curator, remembers the funeral well, and that Bobby was one of the most conspicuous of the mourners. James found the dog lying on the grave the next morning; and as dogs are not admitted he turned him out. The second morning the same; the third morning, though cold and wet, there he was, shivering. The did man took pity on him and fed him. This convinced the dog that he had a right there. Sergeant Scott, R.E., allowed him his board for a length of time, but for more than nine years he had been regularly fed by Mr Trail, who keeps a restaurant close by. Bobby is regular in his calls, being guided by the mid-day gun. On the occasion of the new dog-tax being raised, many persons, the writer amongst the number, wrote to be allowed to pay for Bobby, but the Lord Provost of Edinburgh exempted him, and, to mark his admiration of fidelity, presented him with a handsome collar, with brass nails, and an inscription:—‘Greyfriars’ Bobby, presented to him by the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, 1867.’ He has long been an object of curiosity, and his constant appearance in the graveyard has led to numberless inquiries about him. Many efforts have been made to entice him away, but unsuccessfully, and he still clings to the consecrated spot, and from 1861 to the present time he has kept watch thereon. Upon his melancholy couch Bobby hears the bells toll the approach of new inmates to the sepulchres around and about him; and as the procession solemnly passes, who shall say that the ceremony enacted over his dead master does not reappear before him? He sees the sobs and tears of the bereaved, and do not these remind him of the day when he stood with other mourners over the coffin which contained everything he loved on earth? In that clerical voice he rehears those slow and impressive tones which consigned his master’s body to ashes and dust. All these reminiscences are surely felt more or less; and yet Bobby, trustful, patient, enduring, continues to wait on the spot sacred to the memory of poor Grey. Poor Grey, did we say? Why, hundreds of the wealthiest amongst us would give a fortune to have placed upon their tombs a living monument of honour like this!—testifying through long years and the bitterest winters (with a blessed moral for mankind) that death cannot dissolve that love which love alone can evoke. When our eye runs over the gravestone records of departed goodness, we are sometimes sceptical whether there is not much mockery in many of the inscriptions, though the friends of the deceased have charitably erected an outward mark of their esteem. But here we have a monument that knows neither hypocrisy nor conventional respect, which appeals to us not in marble (the work of men’s hands), but in the flesh and blood ofa living creature that cannot be tempted to desert his trust—in the devotion of a friend whose short wanderings to and fro prove how truly he gravitates to one yard of earth only—in the determination of a sentinelwho means to die at his post.“I hear they say ’tis very lungThat years hae come and gane,Sin’ first they put my maister here,An’ grat an’ left him lane.I could na, an’ I did na gang,For a’ they vexed me sair,An’ said sae bauld that they norShould ever see him mair.“I ken he’s near me a’ the while,An’ I will see him yet;For a’ my life he tended me.An’ noo he’ll not forget.Some blithesome day I’ll hear his step;There’ll be nae kindred near;For a’ they grat, they gaed awa’,—But he shall findmehere.“Is time sae lang?—I dinna mind;Is’t cauld?—I canna feel;He’s near me, and he’ll come to me,An’ sae ’tis very weel.I thank ye a’ that are sae kind,As feed an’ mak me braw;Ye’re unco gude, but ye’re nohim—Ye’ll no wile me awa’.“I’ll bide an’ hope!—Do ye the same;For ance I heard that yeHad ay a Master that ye loo’d,An’ yet ye might na see;A Master, too, that car’d for ye,(O, sure ye winna flee!)That’s wearying to see ye noo—.Ye’ll no be waur than me?”In the above account the words which I have italicised should be noted, viz, “a living creature that cannot be tempted to desert his trust, who means to die at his post.” These words were in a sense prophetic, for Bobby never did desert the graveyard where his master’s remains lie buried, until death stepped in to relieve his sorrows.The following interesting letter is from Bobby’s guardian, Mr Trail, of Greyfriars Place, Edinburgh, who will, I feel sure, pardon the liberty I take in publishing itin extenso:—“In answer to your note in reference to Greyfriars Bobby, I send the following extracts which state correctly the dates and other particulars concerning the little dog:—”Scotsman, January 17th, 1872:—Many will be sorry to hear that the poor but interesting dog, Greyfriars Bobby, died on Sunday evening, January 14th, 1872. Every kind attention was paid to him in his last days by his guardian Mr Trail, who has had him buried in a flower plot near the Greyfriars Church. His collar, a gift from Lord Provost Chambers, has been deposited in the office at the church gate. Mr Brodie has successfully modelled the figure of Greyfriars Bobby, which is to surmount the very handsome memorial to be erected by the munificence of Baroness Burdett-Coutts.“‘Edinburgh Veterinary College,March, 1872.“‘To those who may feel interested in the history of the late Greyfriars Bobby, I may state that he suffered from disease of a cancerous nature affecting the whole of the lower jaw.“‘Thomas Wallet.“‘Professor of Animal Pathology.’“There are several notices of an interesting nature in the following numbers of theAnimal Worldconcerning Greyfriars Bobby:—November 1st, 1869; May 2nd, 1870; February 1st, 1872; March 2nd, 1874.“The fountain is erected at the end of George the Fourth Bridge, near the entrance to the Greyfriars churchyard. It is of Westmoreland granite, and bears the following inscription:—‘A tribute to the affectionate fidelity of Greyfriars Bobby.’“In 1858, this faithful dog followed the remains of his master to Greyfriars churchyard, and lingered near the spot until his death in 1872. Old James Brown died in the autumn of 1868. There is no tombstone on the grave of Bobby’s master. Greyfriars Bobby was buried in the flower plot near the stained-glass window of the church, and opposite the gate.”Poor Bobby, then, passed away on a Sunday evening, after watching near the grave for fourteen long years. He died of a cancerous affection of the lower jaw, brought on, doubtless, from the constant resting of his chin on the cold earth. I trust he did not suffer much. I feel convinced that Bobby is happy now; but no stone marks the humble grave where Bobby’s master lies. I wish it were otherwise, for surely there must have been good in the breast of that man whom a dog loved so dearly, and to whose memory he was faithful to the end.The picture of Greyfriars Bobby here given is said to be a very good one, see page 239. You can hardly look at that wistful, pitiful little countenance, all rough and unkempt as it is, withoutfeelingthe whole truth of the story of Bobby’s faithfulness and love.“Ah!” said Frank, when I had finished, “dogs are wonderful creatures.”“No one knows how wonderful, Frank,” I said. “By the way, did ever you hear of, or read the account of, poor young Gough and his dog? The dog’s master perished while attempting to climb the mountain of Helvellyn. There had been a fall of snow, which partly hid the path and made the ascent dangerous. It was never known whether he was killed by a fall or died of hunger. Three months went by before his body was found, during which time it was watched over by a faithful dog which Mr Gough had with him at the time of the accident. The fidelity of the dog was the subject of a poem which Wordsworth wrote, beginning:—“‘A barking sound the shepherd hears,’ etc.“And now, Ida, I’ll change the tone of my chapter into a less doleful ditty, and tell you about another Scotch, or rather Skye-terrier, who was the means, in the hands of Providence, of saving life in a somewhat remarkable manner. Though I give the story partly in my own words, it was communicated to me by a lady of rank, who is willing to vouch for the authenticity of the incident.”“Pepper.”Pepper was our hero’s name. And Pepper was a dog; but I am unable to tell you anything about his birth or pedigree. I do not even know who Pepper’s father was, and I don’t think Pepper knew himself or cared much either; but had you seen him you would have had no hesitation in pronouncing him one of the handsomest little Skye-terriers ever you had beheld.Pepper was presented to his mistress, the Hon. Mrs C—, by her mother-in-law, the late Lady Dun D—, and soon became a great favourite both with her and all the family. He was so cleanly in his habits, so brave and knightly, so very polite, and had a happy mixture of drollery and decorum about him which was quite charming! Every one liked Pepper. But “liked” is really not the proper word to express the strong affection which the lady portion of the household felt for him. They loved Pepper. That’s better. He was to them the “dearest and best fellow” in the world.But woe is me that the best of friends must part. And so it came to pass that Pepper’s loving mistress had to go to town on business, or pleasure, or perhaps a mixture of both.Now, everybody knows that the great wondrous world of London isn’t the place to keep dogs in, that is, if one wishes to see them truly happy and comfortable. For as they don’t wear shoes, as human beings do, they find the hard, stony streets very punishing to their poor little soft feet. Then they miss the green fields in which they used to romp, the hawthorn fences near which they used to find the hedgehog and mole, the crystal streams at which they were wont to quench their thirst, and the ponds in which they bathed or swam. Besides, there is danger for dogs in London. The danger of losing their way, the danger of being stolen, and the still greater danger of being run over by carts or carriages. But that isn’t all, for in the country you can keep even a long-haired Skye clean—clean enough, indeed, to sleep on the hearthrug, or even curl himself up on ottoman or couch, without his leaving any more mark or trace than my lady’s muff or the Persian pussy does; but a Skye-terrier in London is quite a different piece of furniture. London mud is proverbially black and sticky, and when a Skye gets thoroughly soused in it, why, not to put too fine a point on it, he isn’t just the sort of pet one would care to put under his head as a pillow.Taking Pepper to London, therefore, would have involved endless washings of him, the risk of his catching cold, and, dreadful thought! the risk of offending the servants. True, he might be kept to the kitchen, but banished from the society of his dear mistress, and compelled to associate with servants and the kitchen cat; why, poor little Pepper would simply have broken his heart.So the question came to be asked—“Maggie, dear, whatshallwe do with Pepsy?”“Oh! I have it,” said Maggie; “send him down to Brighton on a visit to dear Mrs W—y; she is such a kind creature, knows all the ways of animals so well; and, moreover, Pepper is on the best of terms with her already.”So the proposal was agreed to, and a few days afterwards Mrs W—y received her little visitor very graciously indeed, and Pepper was pleased to express his approval of the welcome accorded him, and soon settled down, and became very happy in his Brighton home. His greatest delight was going out with his temporary mistress for a ramble; there was so much to be seen and inquired into, so many pretty children who petted him, so many ladies who admired him, and so many little doggies to see and talk to and exchange opinions on canine politics. But Pepper used to express his delight at going for a walk in a way which his new mistress deemed anything but dignified. People don’t generally care about having all eyes directed towards them on a public thoroughfare like the Brighton esplanade, or King’s Road. But Pepper didn’t care a bark who looked at him. He was intoxicated with joy, and didn’t mind who knew it; consequently, he used, when taken out, to go through a series of the most wonderful acrobatic evolutions ever seen at a seaside watering-place, or anywhere else. He jumped and barked, and chased his tail, rolled and tumbled, leapt clean over his own head and back again, and even made insane attempts to jump down his own throat. Inside, Pepper was content to romp and roll on the floor with a pet guinea-pig, and chase it or be chased by it round and round the room, or tenderly play with some white mice; but no sooner was his nose outside the garden gate, than Pepper felt himself in duty bound to take leave of his senses without giving a moment’s warning, and conduct himself in every particular just like a daft doggie, and had there been a lunatic asylum at Brighton for caninity, I haven’t a doubt that Pepper would have soon found himself an inmate of it.One day when out walking, Pepper met a little long-haired dog about his own size and shape, but whereas Pepper was dressed like a gentleman Skye, in coat of hodden-grey, this little fellow was more like a merry man at a country fair, or a clown at a circus. He had been originally white, pure white, but his master had dyed him, and now he appeared in a blue body, a magenta tail, and ears of brightest green.“I say, mistress,” said Pepper, looking up and addressing the lady who had charge of him, “did you—ever—in—all—your—born—days—see such a fright as that?”“Hullo!” he continued, talking to the little dog himself, “who let you out like that?”“Well,” replied the new-comer, “I dare say I do look a little odd, but you’ll get used to me by-and-by.”“Used to you?” cried Pepper—“never! You are a disgrace to canine society.”“The fact is,” said the other, looking somewhat ashamed “my master is a dyer, and he does me up like this just by way of advertising, you know.”“Your master a dyer,” cried Pepper, “then you, too, shall die. Can you fight? I’m full of it. Come, we must have it out.”“Come back, Pepper, come back, sir!” cried his mistress. But for once Pepper disobeyed; he flew at that funny dog, and in a few minutes the air was filled with the blue and magenta fluff, that the Skye tore out of his antagonist. The combat ended in a complete victory for Pepper. He routed his assailant, and finally chased him off the esplanade.Pepper’s life at the seaside was a very happy one, or would have been except for the dyed dog, that he made a point of giving instant chase to, whenever he saw him.Pepper next turned up in Wales. Sir B. N— had taken a lovely old mansion between C—n and Ll—o, far removed from any other houses, and quite amongst the hills, and after seeing his wife and sister settled in the new abode, he went off to Scotland. A week after his departure, the two ladies got up a small picnic to Dolbadran Castle, whose ruins stand upon a steep rock overhanging the lake. Pepper of course accompanied the tourists, and the whole party returned at night rather fatigued. Mrs C— went to bed, and soon fell into a sound sleep, from which she was aroused by Pepper; he was barking at the bedside. She got up, gave him some water, and returned to bed, but Pepper continued to bark and run about the room in a very strange way; he seized the bedclothes, and pulled at them violently. So she put him outside the door in a long passage, which was closed at the other end by a thick green-baize covered door.Poor Mrs C— was fated to have no rest. Pepper barked louder than ever, he tore at the door, and scratched as if he wished to pull it down; so his mistress again left her couch, and taking up a small riding-whip, proceeded to administer what she thought to be well-merited correction.Pepper did not appear to care for the whip at all; he only barked the louder, and jumped up wilder; he even caught Mrs C—’s nightdress in his mouth, and attempted to drag her on towards the end of the passage.You must be going mad, she thought. I’ll put you out of the house, for you will alarm the whole establishment; and thus thinking, she returned, followed by Pepper, who continued to clutch at her garments, into her room, put on her dressing-gown, and proceeded to carry her intention into effect.Directly she opened the door at the end of the passage, she saw a bright light streaming from a sort of ante-room at the top of the staircase, on the opposite side of the corridor, and at the same moment became sensible of a strange smell of burning wood.She flew across, and was nearly blinded by the smoke that burst forth immediately the ante-room door was opened. The whole house was on fire, and it was with considerable difficulty that Mrs C—, Lady N—, and the domestics, escaped from the burning mass.Had Mrs C— been five minutes later before discovering the flames all must have perished; for there was a great quantity of wood-work in the house, and it burnt rapidly.It matters little how the fire in this case originated, the fact remains that this Skye-terrier, Pepper, was the first to discover it, and his wonderful sagacity and determination, combined to save his friends from a fearful death.“Ida,” said Frank, refilling his pipe, “you are beginning to wink.”“It is time you were in bed, Ida,” said my wife.“Oh! but I do want to hear you read what you wrote yesterday about the poor blind fiddler’s dog,” cried Ida.“Well, then,” I said, “we will bring the little dog on the boards, and make him speak a piece himself, and this will be positively the last story or anecdote to-night.”The Blind Fiddler’s Dog.The blind man’s dog commences in doggerel verse:—“It really is amusing to hear how some dogs brag,And walk about and swagger, with tails and ears a-wag,—How they boast about their prizes and the shows they have been at,And their coats so crisp and curly, or bodies sleek and fat,Crying, There’s no mistake about it, for judges all agree,We’re the champion dogs of England, by points and pedigree.”Heigho! I wonder what I am, then. Let me consider, I am a poor blind fiddler’s dog, to begin with; but of course that is only a trade. I asked “Bit-o’-Fun” the other day what breed I was. Bit-o’-Fun, I should tell you, is a champion greyhound, and not at all an unkind dog, only just a little haughty and proud, as becomes her exalted station in life. She was talking about the large number of prizes she had won for her master at the various shows she had been at.“What breed do you think I am?” I asked her. Bit-o’-Fun laughed.“Well, little Fiddler,” she replied, looking down at me with one eye, “I should say you were what we gentry call a mongrel.”“Is that something very nice?” I inquired. “Do I come of a high family, now?”Bit-o’-Fun laughed now till the tears came into her eyes.“Family!” she cried. “Yes, Fiddler, you have a deal of family in your blood—all families, in fact. You are partly Skye and partly bulldog, and partly collie and partly pug.”“Oh, stop!” I cried; “you will make me too proud.”But Bit-o’-Fun went on—“Your head, Fiddler, is decidedly Scotch; your legs are Irish—awfully Irish; you are tulip-eared, ring-tailed, and your feather—”“My feather!” I cried, looking round at my back. “You never mean to say I have got feathers.”“Your hair, then, goosie; feather is the technical term. Your feather is flat, decidedly flat. And, in fact, you’re a most wonderful specimen altogether. That’s your breed.”I never felt so proud in all my life before.“And you’re a great beauty, Bit-o’-Fun,” I said; “but aren’t your legs rather long for your body?”“Oh, no!” replied Bit-o’-Fun; “there isn’t a morsel too much daylight under me.”“And wouldn’t you like to have a nice long coat like mine?”“Well, no,” said Bit-o’-Fun—“that is, yes, you know; but it wouldn’t suit so well in running, you see. Look at my head, how it is formed to cleave the wind. Look at my tail, again; that is what I steer with.”“Oh! you’re perfection itself, I know,” said I. “Pray how many prizes have you taken?”“Well,” answered the greyhound, “I’ve had over fifty pound-pieces of beef-steak and from twenty to thirty half-pound.”“Do they give you beef-steak for prizes, then?” I asked.“Oh dear no,” replied she; “but it’s like this: whenever I take a first prize my master gives me a one-pound piece of steak; if it’s only a second prize I only get half a pound, and I always get a kiss besides.”“But supposing,” I asked, “you took no prize?”“A thing which never happened,” said Bit-o’-Fun, rather proudly.“But supposing?” I insisted.“Oh, well,” she answered, “instead of being kissed andsteaked, I should be kicked andSpratt-caked, or sent to bed without my supper.”“And do you enjoy yourself at a show?” said I.“Well, yes,” said the greyhound; “all doggies don’t, though, but I do. And master gives me such jolly food beforehand, and grooms me every morning, and washes me—but that isn’t nice, makes one shiver so—and then I have always such a nice bed to lie upon. Then I’m sent to the show town in a beautiful box, and men meet me at the station with a carriage. These men are sometimes very rough though, and talk angrily, and carry big whips, and smell horribly of bad beer and, worse, tobacco. One struck me once over the head. Now, if I had been doing anything I wouldn’t have minded; but I wasn’t: only I served him out.”“What did you do?” said I.“Why, just waited till I got a chance, then bit him through the leg. My master just came up at the same moment, or it might have been a dear bite to me.”“And what is a dog-show like?” I asked.“Oh!” said Bit-o’-Fun, “when you enter the show-hall, there you see hundreds and hundreds of doggies all chained up on benches. And the noise they make, those that are new to it, is something awful. At first I used to suffer dreadfully with headaches, but I’m used to it now. But it is great fun to see and converse with so many pretty and intelligent dogs, I can tell you. It is this conversation that makes all the row, for perhaps you want to talk with a doggie quite at the other end of the hall, and so you have to roar until you are hoarse. What do we speak about? Well, about our masters, and our points, and our food and exploits, and we abuse the judges, and wonder whether all the funny people we see have souls the same as we have, and so on. I have often thought what fun it would be if one of us were to break his chain some night, and let all the other doggies loose. Oh, wouldn’t we have a ball just!“Well, we are taken out in batches to be judged, and are led round and round in a ring, while two or three ugly men, with hooks in their hands and ribbons in their buttonholes, shake their heads and examine us. That is the time I look my proudest. I cock my ears, straighten my tail, walk like a princess, and bow like a duchess, for I know that the eyes of all the world are on me, and, more than that, my master’s eyes. And then when they hang the beautiful ticket around my neck, oh, ain’t I glad just! But still I can’t help feeling for the poor doggies who don’t get any prize, they look so woe-begone and downhearted.“But managers might do lots to make us more comfortable, by feeding us more regularly, and giving us better food and more water. Oh, I’ve often had my tongue hanging out, and feeling like a bit of sand-paper for want of a draught of pure water at a country show. And I’ve been at shows where they never gave us food, and no shelter from the scorching sun or the thunder-shower. Again, they ought to lead us all out occasionally, if only for five minutes, just to stretch our poor cramped legs. But they don’t, and it is very cruel. Sometimes, too, the people tease us. I don’t mind a pretty child patting me on the head, nor I don’t object to a sweet young lady bending over me and letting her long silky curls fall over my shoulder; but there are gawky young men, who come round and prod us with their sticks; and silly old ladies, who prick us with their parasols, and say, ‘Get up, sir, and show yourself.’ You’ve heard of my friend ‘Tell,’ the champion Saint Bernard, I dare say. No? Oh, I forgot; of course you wouldn’t. But, at any rate, one day a fat, podgy lady, vulgarly bedecked in satin and gold, goes up to Tell and points her splendid white parasol right at his chest. ‘Get up,’ says she, ‘and show yourself.’ Now Tell hasn’t the best of tempers at any time. So he did get up, and quickly, too, and showed his teeth and bit; and if his chain hadn’t been as short as his temper it would have been a sad thing for Mrs Podgy. As it was, he collared the parasol, and proceeded at once to turn it into toothpicks and rags, and what is more, too, he kept the pieces. So you see the life even of a show-dog has its drawbacks.”“How exceedingly interesting!” said I; “wouldn’t I like to be a champion! Do you think now, Bit-o’-Fun, I would have any chance?”“Well, you see,” said Bit-o’-Fun, smiling in her pleasant way, “there isn’t a class at present for Castle Hill collies.”“What?” said I. “I thought you said a while ago I was a high-bred mongrel?”“Yes, yes,” said Bit-o’-Fun; “mongrel, or Castle Hill collie; it’s all the same, you know.”“You’re very learned, Bit-o’-Fun,” I continued. “Now tell me this, what do they mean by judging by points?”“Well, you see,” replied Bit-o’-Fun, with a comical twinkle in her eye, “the judge goes round, and he says, ‘We’ll give this dog ten points for his head,’ and sticks in ten pins; and so many for his tail, and sticks in so many pins in his tail, and his coat and legs, and so on, and does the same with the other dogs, and the dog who has most pins in him wins the prize. Do you understand?”“Yes,” I replied; “you put it as plain as a book. But it is queer, and I wouldn’t like the pins; I’m sure I should bite.”“Ha! ha! ha!” roared “Bill,” the butcher’s bull-and-terrier. I knew it was he before I looked round, for he is a nasty vulgar thing, and sometimes he bites me. “Ha! ha! ha!” he laughed again. “Good-morning, Bit-o’-Fun. Whatever have you been telling that little fool of a Fiddler?”They always call me Fiddler, after my dear master.“About the shows,” said Bit-o’-Fun.“Why, you never mean to tell me, Fiddler, that you think of going to a show! Ha! ha! ha!”“And suppose I did,” I replied, a little riled, and I felt my hair beginning to stand up all along my back, “I dare say I would have as much chance as an ugly patch-eyed thing like you.”“Look here, Fiddler,” said Bill, showing all his teeth—and he has an awful lot of them—“talk a little more respectfully when you address your betters. I’ve a very good mind to—”“To what, Master Bill?” said “Don Pedro,” a beautiful large white-and-black Newfoundland, coming suddenly on the ground.“No one is talking to you, Don,” said Bill.“ButI’mtalking to you, Bill,” said Don Pedro; “and if I hear you say you’ll dare to touch poor little Fiddler, I’ll carry you off and drown you in the nearest pond, that’s all.”Bill ran off with his tail between his feet before Don Pedro had done speaking. Now isn’t Don Pedro a dear, good fellow?“Well, I’m not a champion dog, you see, though I modestly advance;Imighthave taken a prize or two if I’d ever had a chance;But shows, I fear, were never meant for the like of poor me,—Besides, my master isn’t rich, and couldn’t pay the fee;Yet I love my master none the less, and serve him faithfully.“Poor master’s got no eyes, you know, and I lead him through the street;And he plays upon the fiddle, and oh! he plays so sweet.That I wonder and I ponder, while my eyes with salt tears glisten.How so many people pass him by, and never stop to listen:How that nasty big blue man, with his nasty big blue coat.Moves master on so roughly that I long to bite his throat!“There are certain quiet side-streets where master oft I take,Where he’s sure to get a penny, and I a bit of cake;But at times the nights are rainy, and seem so very long,That I envy pets in carriages, though I know that that is wrong;And master’s growing very old, and his blood is getting thin,And he often shivers with the cold before I lead him in.“Poor master loves me very much, and I love master too;But if anything came over me, whatevercouldhe do?I think of things like these, you know, when in my bed at night,Even in my dreams those nasty thoughts oft make me cry with fright!Yet, though my lot seems very hard, and my pleasures are but fewI do not grieve, for well I know a dog’s life soon wears through;And I’ve been told by some there are better worlds than this,That, even for little doggies, there’s a future state of bliss:That faithfulness and love are things that cannot die,And sorrowheremeans joythere—in the realms beyond the sky.”

“Alas! for love if this were all,And nought beyond on earth.”

“Alas! for love if this were all,And nought beyond on earth.”

“A good story cannot be too often told,” said Frank one evening.

“Well, I doubt that very much,” said my wife; “there is a probability of a good story being spoiled by over-recital.”

“I’m of the same opinion,” I assented; “but as I intend the story of ‘Greyfriars’ Bobby’ to be printed in my next book, I will just read it over to you as I have written it.”

I had fain hoped, I began, to find out something of Bobby’s antecedents, and something about the private history of the poor man Grey, who died long before Bobby became a hero in the eyes of the world, and attracted the kindly notice of the good and noble William Chambers, then Lord Provost of Edinburgh. I have been unable to do so, however; even an advertisement in a local paper failed to elicit the information I so much desired.

What Mr Grey was, or who he was, no one can tell me. Some years ago, runs an account of this loving, faithful dog, a stranger arrived in Edinburgh bringing with him a little rough-haired dog, that slept in the same room with him, and followed him in his walks, but no one knew who the stranger was, or whence he came.

The following account of Bobby is culled from theAnimal Worldof the second of May, 1870:—

“It is reported that Bobby is a small rough Scotch terrier, grizzled black, with tan feet and nose; and his story runs thus:—More than eleven years ago, a poor man named Grey died, and was buried in the old Greyfriars churchyard, Edinburgh. His grave is now levelled by time, and nothing marks it. But the spot had not been forgotten by his faithful dog. James Brown, the old curator, remembers the funeral well, and that Bobby was one of the most conspicuous of the mourners. James found the dog lying on the grave the next morning; and as dogs are not admitted he turned him out. The second morning the same; the third morning, though cold and wet, there he was, shivering. The did man took pity on him and fed him. This convinced the dog that he had a right there. Sergeant Scott, R.E., allowed him his board for a length of time, but for more than nine years he had been regularly fed by Mr Trail, who keeps a restaurant close by. Bobby is regular in his calls, being guided by the mid-day gun. On the occasion of the new dog-tax being raised, many persons, the writer amongst the number, wrote to be allowed to pay for Bobby, but the Lord Provost of Edinburgh exempted him, and, to mark his admiration of fidelity, presented him with a handsome collar, with brass nails, and an inscription:—‘Greyfriars’ Bobby, presented to him by the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, 1867.’ He has long been an object of curiosity, and his constant appearance in the graveyard has led to numberless inquiries about him. Many efforts have been made to entice him away, but unsuccessfully, and he still clings to the consecrated spot, and from 1861 to the present time he has kept watch thereon. Upon his melancholy couch Bobby hears the bells toll the approach of new inmates to the sepulchres around and about him; and as the procession solemnly passes, who shall say that the ceremony enacted over his dead master does not reappear before him? He sees the sobs and tears of the bereaved, and do not these remind him of the day when he stood with other mourners over the coffin which contained everything he loved on earth? In that clerical voice he rehears those slow and impressive tones which consigned his master’s body to ashes and dust. All these reminiscences are surely felt more or less; and yet Bobby, trustful, patient, enduring, continues to wait on the spot sacred to the memory of poor Grey. Poor Grey, did we say? Why, hundreds of the wealthiest amongst us would give a fortune to have placed upon their tombs a living monument of honour like this!—testifying through long years and the bitterest winters (with a blessed moral for mankind) that death cannot dissolve that love which love alone can evoke. When our eye runs over the gravestone records of departed goodness, we are sometimes sceptical whether there is not much mockery in many of the inscriptions, though the friends of the deceased have charitably erected an outward mark of their esteem. But here we have a monument that knows neither hypocrisy nor conventional respect, which appeals to us not in marble (the work of men’s hands), but in the flesh and blood ofa living creature that cannot be tempted to desert his trust—in the devotion of a friend whose short wanderings to and fro prove how truly he gravitates to one yard of earth only—in the determination of a sentinelwho means to die at his post.

“I hear they say ’tis very lungThat years hae come and gane,Sin’ first they put my maister here,An’ grat an’ left him lane.I could na, an’ I did na gang,For a’ they vexed me sair,An’ said sae bauld that they norShould ever see him mair.“I ken he’s near me a’ the while,An’ I will see him yet;For a’ my life he tended me.An’ noo he’ll not forget.Some blithesome day I’ll hear his step;There’ll be nae kindred near;For a’ they grat, they gaed awa’,—But he shall findmehere.“Is time sae lang?—I dinna mind;Is’t cauld?—I canna feel;He’s near me, and he’ll come to me,An’ sae ’tis very weel.I thank ye a’ that are sae kind,As feed an’ mak me braw;Ye’re unco gude, but ye’re nohim—Ye’ll no wile me awa’.“I’ll bide an’ hope!—Do ye the same;For ance I heard that yeHad ay a Master that ye loo’d,An’ yet ye might na see;A Master, too, that car’d for ye,(O, sure ye winna flee!)That’s wearying to see ye noo—.Ye’ll no be waur than me?”

“I hear they say ’tis very lungThat years hae come and gane,Sin’ first they put my maister here,An’ grat an’ left him lane.I could na, an’ I did na gang,For a’ they vexed me sair,An’ said sae bauld that they norShould ever see him mair.“I ken he’s near me a’ the while,An’ I will see him yet;For a’ my life he tended me.An’ noo he’ll not forget.Some blithesome day I’ll hear his step;There’ll be nae kindred near;For a’ they grat, they gaed awa’,—But he shall findmehere.“Is time sae lang?—I dinna mind;Is’t cauld?—I canna feel;He’s near me, and he’ll come to me,An’ sae ’tis very weel.I thank ye a’ that are sae kind,As feed an’ mak me braw;Ye’re unco gude, but ye’re nohim—Ye’ll no wile me awa’.“I’ll bide an’ hope!—Do ye the same;For ance I heard that yeHad ay a Master that ye loo’d,An’ yet ye might na see;A Master, too, that car’d for ye,(O, sure ye winna flee!)That’s wearying to see ye noo—.Ye’ll no be waur than me?”

In the above account the words which I have italicised should be noted, viz, “a living creature that cannot be tempted to desert his trust, who means to die at his post.” These words were in a sense prophetic, for Bobby never did desert the graveyard where his master’s remains lie buried, until death stepped in to relieve his sorrows.

The following interesting letter is from Bobby’s guardian, Mr Trail, of Greyfriars Place, Edinburgh, who will, I feel sure, pardon the liberty I take in publishing itin extenso:—

“In answer to your note in reference to Greyfriars Bobby, I send the following extracts which state correctly the dates and other particulars concerning the little dog:—”

Scotsman, January 17th, 1872:—Many will be sorry to hear that the poor but interesting dog, Greyfriars Bobby, died on Sunday evening, January 14th, 1872. Every kind attention was paid to him in his last days by his guardian Mr Trail, who has had him buried in a flower plot near the Greyfriars Church. His collar, a gift from Lord Provost Chambers, has been deposited in the office at the church gate. Mr Brodie has successfully modelled the figure of Greyfriars Bobby, which is to surmount the very handsome memorial to be erected by the munificence of Baroness Burdett-Coutts.

“‘Edinburgh Veterinary College,March, 1872.“‘To those who may feel interested in the history of the late Greyfriars Bobby, I may state that he suffered from disease of a cancerous nature affecting the whole of the lower jaw.“‘Thomas Wallet.“‘Professor of Animal Pathology.’

“‘Edinburgh Veterinary College,March, 1872.

“‘To those who may feel interested in the history of the late Greyfriars Bobby, I may state that he suffered from disease of a cancerous nature affecting the whole of the lower jaw.

“‘Thomas Wallet.

“‘Professor of Animal Pathology.’

“There are several notices of an interesting nature in the following numbers of theAnimal Worldconcerning Greyfriars Bobby:—November 1st, 1869; May 2nd, 1870; February 1st, 1872; March 2nd, 1874.

“The fountain is erected at the end of George the Fourth Bridge, near the entrance to the Greyfriars churchyard. It is of Westmoreland granite, and bears the following inscription:—‘A tribute to the affectionate fidelity of Greyfriars Bobby.’

“In 1858, this faithful dog followed the remains of his master to Greyfriars churchyard, and lingered near the spot until his death in 1872. Old James Brown died in the autumn of 1868. There is no tombstone on the grave of Bobby’s master. Greyfriars Bobby was buried in the flower plot near the stained-glass window of the church, and opposite the gate.”

Poor Bobby, then, passed away on a Sunday evening, after watching near the grave for fourteen long years. He died of a cancerous affection of the lower jaw, brought on, doubtless, from the constant resting of his chin on the cold earth. I trust he did not suffer much. I feel convinced that Bobby is happy now; but no stone marks the humble grave where Bobby’s master lies. I wish it were otherwise, for surely there must have been good in the breast of that man whom a dog loved so dearly, and to whose memory he was faithful to the end.

The picture of Greyfriars Bobby here given is said to be a very good one, see page 239. You can hardly look at that wistful, pitiful little countenance, all rough and unkempt as it is, withoutfeelingthe whole truth of the story of Bobby’s faithfulness and love.

“Ah!” said Frank, when I had finished, “dogs are wonderful creatures.”

“No one knows how wonderful, Frank,” I said. “By the way, did ever you hear of, or read the account of, poor young Gough and his dog? The dog’s master perished while attempting to climb the mountain of Helvellyn. There had been a fall of snow, which partly hid the path and made the ascent dangerous. It was never known whether he was killed by a fall or died of hunger. Three months went by before his body was found, during which time it was watched over by a faithful dog which Mr Gough had with him at the time of the accident. The fidelity of the dog was the subject of a poem which Wordsworth wrote, beginning:—

“‘A barking sound the shepherd hears,’ etc.

“‘A barking sound the shepherd hears,’ etc.

“And now, Ida, I’ll change the tone of my chapter into a less doleful ditty, and tell you about another Scotch, or rather Skye-terrier, who was the means, in the hands of Providence, of saving life in a somewhat remarkable manner. Though I give the story partly in my own words, it was communicated to me by a lady of rank, who is willing to vouch for the authenticity of the incident.”

Pepper was our hero’s name. And Pepper was a dog; but I am unable to tell you anything about his birth or pedigree. I do not even know who Pepper’s father was, and I don’t think Pepper knew himself or cared much either; but had you seen him you would have had no hesitation in pronouncing him one of the handsomest little Skye-terriers ever you had beheld.

Pepper was presented to his mistress, the Hon. Mrs C—, by her mother-in-law, the late Lady Dun D—, and soon became a great favourite both with her and all the family. He was so cleanly in his habits, so brave and knightly, so very polite, and had a happy mixture of drollery and decorum about him which was quite charming! Every one liked Pepper. But “liked” is really not the proper word to express the strong affection which the lady portion of the household felt for him. They loved Pepper. That’s better. He was to them the “dearest and best fellow” in the world.

But woe is me that the best of friends must part. And so it came to pass that Pepper’s loving mistress had to go to town on business, or pleasure, or perhaps a mixture of both.

Now, everybody knows that the great wondrous world of London isn’t the place to keep dogs in, that is, if one wishes to see them truly happy and comfortable. For as they don’t wear shoes, as human beings do, they find the hard, stony streets very punishing to their poor little soft feet. Then they miss the green fields in which they used to romp, the hawthorn fences near which they used to find the hedgehog and mole, the crystal streams at which they were wont to quench their thirst, and the ponds in which they bathed or swam. Besides, there is danger for dogs in London. The danger of losing their way, the danger of being stolen, and the still greater danger of being run over by carts or carriages. But that isn’t all, for in the country you can keep even a long-haired Skye clean—clean enough, indeed, to sleep on the hearthrug, or even curl himself up on ottoman or couch, without his leaving any more mark or trace than my lady’s muff or the Persian pussy does; but a Skye-terrier in London is quite a different piece of furniture. London mud is proverbially black and sticky, and when a Skye gets thoroughly soused in it, why, not to put too fine a point on it, he isn’t just the sort of pet one would care to put under his head as a pillow.

Taking Pepper to London, therefore, would have involved endless washings of him, the risk of his catching cold, and, dreadful thought! the risk of offending the servants. True, he might be kept to the kitchen, but banished from the society of his dear mistress, and compelled to associate with servants and the kitchen cat; why, poor little Pepper would simply have broken his heart.

So the question came to be asked—

“Maggie, dear, whatshallwe do with Pepsy?”

“Oh! I have it,” said Maggie; “send him down to Brighton on a visit to dear Mrs W—y; she is such a kind creature, knows all the ways of animals so well; and, moreover, Pepper is on the best of terms with her already.”

So the proposal was agreed to, and a few days afterwards Mrs W—y received her little visitor very graciously indeed, and Pepper was pleased to express his approval of the welcome accorded him, and soon settled down, and became very happy in his Brighton home. His greatest delight was going out with his temporary mistress for a ramble; there was so much to be seen and inquired into, so many pretty children who petted him, so many ladies who admired him, and so many little doggies to see and talk to and exchange opinions on canine politics. But Pepper used to express his delight at going for a walk in a way which his new mistress deemed anything but dignified. People don’t generally care about having all eyes directed towards them on a public thoroughfare like the Brighton esplanade, or King’s Road. But Pepper didn’t care a bark who looked at him. He was intoxicated with joy, and didn’t mind who knew it; consequently, he used, when taken out, to go through a series of the most wonderful acrobatic evolutions ever seen at a seaside watering-place, or anywhere else. He jumped and barked, and chased his tail, rolled and tumbled, leapt clean over his own head and back again, and even made insane attempts to jump down his own throat. Inside, Pepper was content to romp and roll on the floor with a pet guinea-pig, and chase it or be chased by it round and round the room, or tenderly play with some white mice; but no sooner was his nose outside the garden gate, than Pepper felt himself in duty bound to take leave of his senses without giving a moment’s warning, and conduct himself in every particular just like a daft doggie, and had there been a lunatic asylum at Brighton for caninity, I haven’t a doubt that Pepper would have soon found himself an inmate of it.

One day when out walking, Pepper met a little long-haired dog about his own size and shape, but whereas Pepper was dressed like a gentleman Skye, in coat of hodden-grey, this little fellow was more like a merry man at a country fair, or a clown at a circus. He had been originally white, pure white, but his master had dyed him, and now he appeared in a blue body, a magenta tail, and ears of brightest green.

“I say, mistress,” said Pepper, looking up and addressing the lady who had charge of him, “did you—ever—in—all—your—born—days—see such a fright as that?”

“Hullo!” he continued, talking to the little dog himself, “who let you out like that?”

“Well,” replied the new-comer, “I dare say I do look a little odd, but you’ll get used to me by-and-by.”

“Used to you?” cried Pepper—“never! You are a disgrace to canine society.”

“The fact is,” said the other, looking somewhat ashamed “my master is a dyer, and he does me up like this just by way of advertising, you know.”

“Your master a dyer,” cried Pepper, “then you, too, shall die. Can you fight? I’m full of it. Come, we must have it out.”

“Come back, Pepper, come back, sir!” cried his mistress. But for once Pepper disobeyed; he flew at that funny dog, and in a few minutes the air was filled with the blue and magenta fluff, that the Skye tore out of his antagonist. The combat ended in a complete victory for Pepper. He routed his assailant, and finally chased him off the esplanade.

Pepper’s life at the seaside was a very happy one, or would have been except for the dyed dog, that he made a point of giving instant chase to, whenever he saw him.

Pepper next turned up in Wales. Sir B. N— had taken a lovely old mansion between C—n and Ll—o, far removed from any other houses, and quite amongst the hills, and after seeing his wife and sister settled in the new abode, he went off to Scotland. A week after his departure, the two ladies got up a small picnic to Dolbadran Castle, whose ruins stand upon a steep rock overhanging the lake. Pepper of course accompanied the tourists, and the whole party returned at night rather fatigued. Mrs C— went to bed, and soon fell into a sound sleep, from which she was aroused by Pepper; he was barking at the bedside. She got up, gave him some water, and returned to bed, but Pepper continued to bark and run about the room in a very strange way; he seized the bedclothes, and pulled at them violently. So she put him outside the door in a long passage, which was closed at the other end by a thick green-baize covered door.

Poor Mrs C— was fated to have no rest. Pepper barked louder than ever, he tore at the door, and scratched as if he wished to pull it down; so his mistress again left her couch, and taking up a small riding-whip, proceeded to administer what she thought to be well-merited correction.

Pepper did not appear to care for the whip at all; he only barked the louder, and jumped up wilder; he even caught Mrs C—’s nightdress in his mouth, and attempted to drag her on towards the end of the passage.

You must be going mad, she thought. I’ll put you out of the house, for you will alarm the whole establishment; and thus thinking, she returned, followed by Pepper, who continued to clutch at her garments, into her room, put on her dressing-gown, and proceeded to carry her intention into effect.

Directly she opened the door at the end of the passage, she saw a bright light streaming from a sort of ante-room at the top of the staircase, on the opposite side of the corridor, and at the same moment became sensible of a strange smell of burning wood.

She flew across, and was nearly blinded by the smoke that burst forth immediately the ante-room door was opened. The whole house was on fire, and it was with considerable difficulty that Mrs C—, Lady N—, and the domestics, escaped from the burning mass.

Had Mrs C— been five minutes later before discovering the flames all must have perished; for there was a great quantity of wood-work in the house, and it burnt rapidly.

It matters little how the fire in this case originated, the fact remains that this Skye-terrier, Pepper, was the first to discover it, and his wonderful sagacity and determination, combined to save his friends from a fearful death.

“Ida,” said Frank, refilling his pipe, “you are beginning to wink.”

“It is time you were in bed, Ida,” said my wife.

“Oh! but I do want to hear you read what you wrote yesterday about the poor blind fiddler’s dog,” cried Ida.

“Well, then,” I said, “we will bring the little dog on the boards, and make him speak a piece himself, and this will be positively the last story or anecdote to-night.”

The blind man’s dog commences in doggerel verse:—

“It really is amusing to hear how some dogs brag,And walk about and swagger, with tails and ears a-wag,—How they boast about their prizes and the shows they have been at,And their coats so crisp and curly, or bodies sleek and fat,Crying, There’s no mistake about it, for judges all agree,We’re the champion dogs of England, by points and pedigree.”

“It really is amusing to hear how some dogs brag,And walk about and swagger, with tails and ears a-wag,—How they boast about their prizes and the shows they have been at,And their coats so crisp and curly, or bodies sleek and fat,Crying, There’s no mistake about it, for judges all agree,We’re the champion dogs of England, by points and pedigree.”

Heigho! I wonder what I am, then. Let me consider, I am a poor blind fiddler’s dog, to begin with; but of course that is only a trade. I asked “Bit-o’-Fun” the other day what breed I was. Bit-o’-Fun, I should tell you, is a champion greyhound, and not at all an unkind dog, only just a little haughty and proud, as becomes her exalted station in life. She was talking about the large number of prizes she had won for her master at the various shows she had been at.

“What breed do you think I am?” I asked her. Bit-o’-Fun laughed.

“Well, little Fiddler,” she replied, looking down at me with one eye, “I should say you were what we gentry call a mongrel.”

“Is that something very nice?” I inquired. “Do I come of a high family, now?”

Bit-o’-Fun laughed now till the tears came into her eyes.

“Family!” she cried. “Yes, Fiddler, you have a deal of family in your blood—all families, in fact. You are partly Skye and partly bulldog, and partly collie and partly pug.”

“Oh, stop!” I cried; “you will make me too proud.”

But Bit-o’-Fun went on—

“Your head, Fiddler, is decidedly Scotch; your legs are Irish—awfully Irish; you are tulip-eared, ring-tailed, and your feather—”

“My feather!” I cried, looking round at my back. “You never mean to say I have got feathers.”

“Your hair, then, goosie; feather is the technical term. Your feather is flat, decidedly flat. And, in fact, you’re a most wonderful specimen altogether. That’s your breed.”

I never felt so proud in all my life before.

“And you’re a great beauty, Bit-o’-Fun,” I said; “but aren’t your legs rather long for your body?”

“Oh, no!” replied Bit-o’-Fun; “there isn’t a morsel too much daylight under me.”

“And wouldn’t you like to have a nice long coat like mine?”

“Well, no,” said Bit-o’-Fun—“that is, yes, you know; but it wouldn’t suit so well in running, you see. Look at my head, how it is formed to cleave the wind. Look at my tail, again; that is what I steer with.”

“Oh! you’re perfection itself, I know,” said I. “Pray how many prizes have you taken?”

“Well,” answered the greyhound, “I’ve had over fifty pound-pieces of beef-steak and from twenty to thirty half-pound.”

“Do they give you beef-steak for prizes, then?” I asked.

“Oh dear no,” replied she; “but it’s like this: whenever I take a first prize my master gives me a one-pound piece of steak; if it’s only a second prize I only get half a pound, and I always get a kiss besides.”

“But supposing,” I asked, “you took no prize?”

“A thing which never happened,” said Bit-o’-Fun, rather proudly.

“But supposing?” I insisted.

“Oh, well,” she answered, “instead of being kissed andsteaked, I should be kicked andSpratt-caked, or sent to bed without my supper.”

“And do you enjoy yourself at a show?” said I.

“Well, yes,” said the greyhound; “all doggies don’t, though, but I do. And master gives me such jolly food beforehand, and grooms me every morning, and washes me—but that isn’t nice, makes one shiver so—and then I have always such a nice bed to lie upon. Then I’m sent to the show town in a beautiful box, and men meet me at the station with a carriage. These men are sometimes very rough though, and talk angrily, and carry big whips, and smell horribly of bad beer and, worse, tobacco. One struck me once over the head. Now, if I had been doing anything I wouldn’t have minded; but I wasn’t: only I served him out.”

“What did you do?” said I.

“Why, just waited till I got a chance, then bit him through the leg. My master just came up at the same moment, or it might have been a dear bite to me.”

“And what is a dog-show like?” I asked.

“Oh!” said Bit-o’-Fun, “when you enter the show-hall, there you see hundreds and hundreds of doggies all chained up on benches. And the noise they make, those that are new to it, is something awful. At first I used to suffer dreadfully with headaches, but I’m used to it now. But it is great fun to see and converse with so many pretty and intelligent dogs, I can tell you. It is this conversation that makes all the row, for perhaps you want to talk with a doggie quite at the other end of the hall, and so you have to roar until you are hoarse. What do we speak about? Well, about our masters, and our points, and our food and exploits, and we abuse the judges, and wonder whether all the funny people we see have souls the same as we have, and so on. I have often thought what fun it would be if one of us were to break his chain some night, and let all the other doggies loose. Oh, wouldn’t we have a ball just!

“Well, we are taken out in batches to be judged, and are led round and round in a ring, while two or three ugly men, with hooks in their hands and ribbons in their buttonholes, shake their heads and examine us. That is the time I look my proudest. I cock my ears, straighten my tail, walk like a princess, and bow like a duchess, for I know that the eyes of all the world are on me, and, more than that, my master’s eyes. And then when they hang the beautiful ticket around my neck, oh, ain’t I glad just! But still I can’t help feeling for the poor doggies who don’t get any prize, they look so woe-begone and downhearted.

“But managers might do lots to make us more comfortable, by feeding us more regularly, and giving us better food and more water. Oh, I’ve often had my tongue hanging out, and feeling like a bit of sand-paper for want of a draught of pure water at a country show. And I’ve been at shows where they never gave us food, and no shelter from the scorching sun or the thunder-shower. Again, they ought to lead us all out occasionally, if only for five minutes, just to stretch our poor cramped legs. But they don’t, and it is very cruel. Sometimes, too, the people tease us. I don’t mind a pretty child patting me on the head, nor I don’t object to a sweet young lady bending over me and letting her long silky curls fall over my shoulder; but there are gawky young men, who come round and prod us with their sticks; and silly old ladies, who prick us with their parasols, and say, ‘Get up, sir, and show yourself.’ You’ve heard of my friend ‘Tell,’ the champion Saint Bernard, I dare say. No? Oh, I forgot; of course you wouldn’t. But, at any rate, one day a fat, podgy lady, vulgarly bedecked in satin and gold, goes up to Tell and points her splendid white parasol right at his chest. ‘Get up,’ says she, ‘and show yourself.’ Now Tell hasn’t the best of tempers at any time. So he did get up, and quickly, too, and showed his teeth and bit; and if his chain hadn’t been as short as his temper it would have been a sad thing for Mrs Podgy. As it was, he collared the parasol, and proceeded at once to turn it into toothpicks and rags, and what is more, too, he kept the pieces. So you see the life even of a show-dog has its drawbacks.”

“How exceedingly interesting!” said I; “wouldn’t I like to be a champion! Do you think now, Bit-o’-Fun, I would have any chance?”

“Well, you see,” said Bit-o’-Fun, smiling in her pleasant way, “there isn’t a class at present for Castle Hill collies.”

“What?” said I. “I thought you said a while ago I was a high-bred mongrel?”

“Yes, yes,” said Bit-o’-Fun; “mongrel, or Castle Hill collie; it’s all the same, you know.”

“You’re very learned, Bit-o’-Fun,” I continued. “Now tell me this, what do they mean by judging by points?”

“Well, you see,” replied Bit-o’-Fun, with a comical twinkle in her eye, “the judge goes round, and he says, ‘We’ll give this dog ten points for his head,’ and sticks in ten pins; and so many for his tail, and sticks in so many pins in his tail, and his coat and legs, and so on, and does the same with the other dogs, and the dog who has most pins in him wins the prize. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I replied; “you put it as plain as a book. But it is queer, and I wouldn’t like the pins; I’m sure I should bite.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared “Bill,” the butcher’s bull-and-terrier. I knew it was he before I looked round, for he is a nasty vulgar thing, and sometimes he bites me. “Ha! ha! ha!” he laughed again. “Good-morning, Bit-o’-Fun. Whatever have you been telling that little fool of a Fiddler?”

They always call me Fiddler, after my dear master.

“About the shows,” said Bit-o’-Fun.

“Why, you never mean to tell me, Fiddler, that you think of going to a show! Ha! ha! ha!”

“And suppose I did,” I replied, a little riled, and I felt my hair beginning to stand up all along my back, “I dare say I would have as much chance as an ugly patch-eyed thing like you.”

“Look here, Fiddler,” said Bill, showing all his teeth—and he has an awful lot of them—“talk a little more respectfully when you address your betters. I’ve a very good mind to—”

“To what, Master Bill?” said “Don Pedro,” a beautiful large white-and-black Newfoundland, coming suddenly on the ground.

“No one is talking to you, Don,” said Bill.

“ButI’mtalking to you, Bill,” said Don Pedro; “and if I hear you say you’ll dare to touch poor little Fiddler, I’ll carry you off and drown you in the nearest pond, that’s all.”

Bill ran off with his tail between his feet before Don Pedro had done speaking. Now isn’t Don Pedro a dear, good fellow?

“Well, I’m not a champion dog, you see, though I modestly advance;Imighthave taken a prize or two if I’d ever had a chance;But shows, I fear, were never meant for the like of poor me,—Besides, my master isn’t rich, and couldn’t pay the fee;Yet I love my master none the less, and serve him faithfully.“Poor master’s got no eyes, you know, and I lead him through the street;And he plays upon the fiddle, and oh! he plays so sweet.That I wonder and I ponder, while my eyes with salt tears glisten.How so many people pass him by, and never stop to listen:How that nasty big blue man, with his nasty big blue coat.Moves master on so roughly that I long to bite his throat!“There are certain quiet side-streets where master oft I take,Where he’s sure to get a penny, and I a bit of cake;But at times the nights are rainy, and seem so very long,That I envy pets in carriages, though I know that that is wrong;And master’s growing very old, and his blood is getting thin,And he often shivers with the cold before I lead him in.“Poor master loves me very much, and I love master too;But if anything came over me, whatevercouldhe do?I think of things like these, you know, when in my bed at night,Even in my dreams those nasty thoughts oft make me cry with fright!Yet, though my lot seems very hard, and my pleasures are but fewI do not grieve, for well I know a dog’s life soon wears through;And I’ve been told by some there are better worlds than this,That, even for little doggies, there’s a future state of bliss:That faithfulness and love are things that cannot die,And sorrowheremeans joythere—in the realms beyond the sky.”

“Well, I’m not a champion dog, you see, though I modestly advance;Imighthave taken a prize or two if I’d ever had a chance;But shows, I fear, were never meant for the like of poor me,—Besides, my master isn’t rich, and couldn’t pay the fee;Yet I love my master none the less, and serve him faithfully.“Poor master’s got no eyes, you know, and I lead him through the street;And he plays upon the fiddle, and oh! he plays so sweet.That I wonder and I ponder, while my eyes with salt tears glisten.How so many people pass him by, and never stop to listen:How that nasty big blue man, with his nasty big blue coat.Moves master on so roughly that I long to bite his throat!“There are certain quiet side-streets where master oft I take,Where he’s sure to get a penny, and I a bit of cake;But at times the nights are rainy, and seem so very long,That I envy pets in carriages, though I know that that is wrong;And master’s growing very old, and his blood is getting thin,And he often shivers with the cold before I lead him in.“Poor master loves me very much, and I love master too;But if anything came over me, whatevercouldhe do?I think of things like these, you know, when in my bed at night,Even in my dreams those nasty thoughts oft make me cry with fright!Yet, though my lot seems very hard, and my pleasures are but fewI do not grieve, for well I know a dog’s life soon wears through;And I’ve been told by some there are better worlds than this,That, even for little doggies, there’s a future state of bliss:That faithfulness and love are things that cannot die,And sorrowheremeans joythere—in the realms beyond the sky.”

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