A dozen times, while his master was drinking his wine, York stole quietly to the corner, smelled the snipes, and examined the gun. From that day he gave up walking with the nursemaids, and became a matchless field dog. York was never willingly separated from his master, and was very unhappy at his absence; he soon ascertained, that a carpet bag put into the gig, was the signal for going away; and one day, he secretly followed, and only shewed himself when he thought he was at such a distance that he could not be sent back again. He was taken into the gig, and by this means escaped a sad death. While he was away, a mad dog infected the kennel, and nine setters, and two Skye terriers were obliged to be killed, Black York alone remaining. "From the moment," says York's master, "I took him from the kennel to the parlour, he cut all low connections; on the human race his affections seemed to be concentrated, and on one occasion, he gave a marked instance of his fidelity and intelligence. His mistress had gone with her maid to the beach to bathe, and a general permission had been given to the servants to go to the neighbouring fair a mile off. The young nurse, in the giddiness of girlhood, left the baby in his cot. According to the then existing custom, the hall-door was wide open and, save the sleeping baby, Black York and cats, no living thing held possession of the premises. A strange priest arrived, to ask and receive hospitality. He entered the hall, and the dog, otherwise quiet, sprang forward and assailed him like a tiger. The priest retreated, York's back was ridged for battle, and a mouthful of unquestionable teeth hinted to his Reverence, that the canine customer would prove an ugly one. He retreated accordingly, and York sat down beside his sleeping charge. There he remained on guard until the absent mother returned; when she entered the drawing room, her four legged representative laid his tongue gently across the infant's face, and without opposition permitted Father Malachi to walk in."