I was walking with my bull-terrier, Bully (seven years old last Christmas), during a hot afternoon this month homewards along the Bund (Shanghai), and I suddenly missed him. I turned back for twenty or thirty yards, and, not finding him, I gave up the search, saying, "He knows the way home well enough." Presently I saw him on my right, dripping with water, cantering on at a round pace, without looking about him, homewards. I watched him, curious to see whether he would go straight home. No. He kept on till he reached the distance of about 150 yards, and looked ahead, _not_ smelling the ground. He then deliberately walked back, catching sight of me in about twenty yards after his turning back, and wagged his tale recognisingly. He had evidently been to cool himself in the river (thirty yards to the right, it being low tide), and, thinking I would go on at the ordinary pace without him, he, after his bath, struck directly at a long diagonal for the point I would have reached if I had not turned back to look for him. He did not seem to have the slightest misgiving as to his sense of the distance I _ought_ to have walked during the time of his bath. His turning was done seemingly with a calm assurance of certainty. I may add that there were twenty to thirty foot-passengers scattered over the portion of road in question at the time, whose footsteps might have effaced my scent on the _watered_ granite macadamised roadway, even supposing the dog to have tried his sense of smell, _which he did not_, as far as I could see, and I noticed him carefully. W. G. S. CANINE INTELLIGENCE. [_July 24, 1886._] You often give us pleasant anecdotes of our four-footed friends. You may think the following worthy of record. I have a little dog, a not particularly well-bred fox-terrier. He is much attached to me, and shows by his obedience, and sometimes _in_ his disobedience, that he understands a good deal. Yesterday I was away all day, and he, I am told, was very uneasy, and searched everywhere for me. Every day at 5 p.m. I go to church. Toby seems to know this is not an ordinary walk, and never offers to come with me. But yesterday, when the bell began, he started off and took up his position by the vestry door. I believe he reasoned with himself, "There goes the bell; now I shall catch the Vicar." WILLIAM QUENNELL. THE DOG AND THE FERRY. [_April 4, 1885._] Reading from time to time many pleasant anecdotes in the columns of the _Spectator_--which, by the way, I receive as regularly, and read as eagerly, as when resident in England many years ago--relative to the sagacity of dogs, I send the following, thinking it possible you may deem it worthy of insertion.