WHEN Washington Irving visited Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford, he found him surrounded by dogs, which formed as much a part of his family as did his children. In the morning, when they started for a ramble, the dogs would be on the alert to join them. (v) There was, first, a tall old staghound named Maida, that considered himself the particular friend of his master, walked by his side, and looked into his eyes. Then there was a black greyhound named Hamlet, that gamboled and cut capers with the wildest glee. And there was a beautiful setter named Finette, with large, mild eyes, soft, silken hair, and long, curly ears. She was the favorite of the parlor. Then a venerable old greyhound, wagging his tail, came out to join the party as he saw them going by his quarters. He was cheered by Scott with a hearty, kind word, as an old friend and comrade. In his walks, Scott would often stop to talk to one or another of his four-footed friends, as if they were in fact rational companions; and from being talked to, and treated in this way, they really seemed to acquire more intelligence than other dogs. Old Scott's four-footed friends made a respectful part of the company at family meals. Maida took his seat gravely at his master's elbow, looking up wistfully into his eyes, while Finette, the pet spaniel, took her seat by Mrs. Scott. Besides the dogs in attendance, a large gray cat also took her seat near her master, and was presented, from time to time, with bits from the table. Puss, it appears, was a great favorite both with master and mistress, and slept in their room at night. She was a sort of queen among the quadrupeds, sitting in Scott's arm-chair beside the door, as if to review her subjects as they passed, giving each dog a cuff on the ears as he went by. This clapper-clawing was always amiably taken. Perfect harmony prevailed between Puss and her subjects, and they would all sleep contentedly in the sunshine. Scott once said that the only trouble about having a dog was, that he must die; but he said it was better to have dogs die in eight or nine years, than to go on loving them for twenty or thirty, and then have them die. 2. DOGS GREAT AND SMALL. THERE was a great din and clatter, as if all the dogs in the country were together, when Mrs. Perry and her three children approached the Madison Square Garden to visit the dog-show. "I'm afraid to go in, mamma," said little Ruth, "the dogs will surely bite when they bark so loud." "I'm not afraid of them," blustered her brother Joel, as if he were very brave. "Don't be such a little coward, Ruth." "Of course you're not afraid of them," cried Dora, coming to the defense of her little sister. Why should you be? Brave boy! You know the dogs are all chained, and couldn't bite you if they wanted to. But if they were let loose you would be as much of a coward as Ruth." "Dora is right," said Mrs. Perry, holding fast the hand of the little girl. "You need not fear, Ruth. The dogs are all confined; and if they were not, they would not hurt you. They are well-bred dogs. Besides, barking dogs never bite, you know. They are barking, not because they are cross, but because they are happy. Barking is the way dogs talk and sing. Come, let us hurry on." As they passed into the garden they saw two dogs, each being led to his cage. One was a huge Newfoundland, weighing a hundred and fifty pounds, and the other was a toy-terrier, of not more than four pounds' weight. The two met. The giant kissed the dwarf, as dogs do, on his tiny nose, and wagged his great curled tail in delight, as much as to say: "You are a wonderfully insignificant fellow, but I like you all the same, because you are my cousin." "There!" exclaimed Mrs. Perry, "it is just as Mrs. Miller says in her book. The dogs, great and small, all know one another as dogs, and love each other." |