But what is a bar gate to dogs? Those that could neither get under or through, jumped over, for the dogs at the Burgess farm were always in fine condition. A second fox terrier sprang between the bars, a black-and-tan dachshund crawled under, while almost at the same time a collie and a greyhound cleared the top rail. They were polite, gentlemanly dogs, fortunately, and accustomed to the best society. They never thought of touching Miss Prue; but in spite of her gestures turned their attention to the basket, sniffing and jostling it and saying things in a way to put Augusta Victoria into a frenzy. As the strange party went up the hill, the pioneer terrier running ahead seemed to spread the news, for dogs of all degrees kept joining the procession: the great woolly St. Bernard, Rex, from the doctor’s piazza, the farrier’s mongrel black-and-tan, who happened to be coming across lots, two loping foxhounds who belonged to Squire Burley and had been taking a run on their own account, the minister’s water spaniel, the schoolmistress’s pug, a white bull terrier, a comical-looking sheep dog from the milk farm, and lastly, a fantastically arrayed black poodle, with his wool trimmed into as many devices as the tattooing on a Fiji Islander, a silver bangle on one leg, and a crimson satin bow on his collar, joined the mob, in spite of the frantic calls of a maid on the steps of the select inn, who was striving to keep him clean while his owner was at luncheon; for this particular poodle had his teeth cleaned every day, could not roll in the dirt, and was not as other dogs, for which the others were doubtless thankful. In a moment, however, he was in the middle of the fray, having the time of his life, enveloped in a cloud of dust, uttering the shrieking bark in which a thoroughbred poodle excels, while the farrier’s cur promptly pulled the satin bow into a string, and the dachshund, who had difficulty in keeping up with the rest, nipped the hairless parts of his hind legs. Aunt Prue’s last hope lay in the sheriff; he surely would not be at the picnic. But he was, and his two dogs, Schnapps and Friday, dozing on a wagon seat before the stable door, suddenly waked and joined the procession. Finding that gestures and threats were useless, Aunt Prue kept sturdily on, shifting the basket from one arm to the other as its weight increased; for Augusta Victoria, weight fifteen pounds, springing lightly up a tree, and A. V., dashing about in the basket at the end of a hot walk, were two wholly different cats. Under such circumstances “a mile’s weight” should be an allowable term. Just then she heard the rattle of a wagon coming up hill, and turned about, hoping for relief. In this wagon was an old man on his way home from the meadows, seated on an insecure load of salt hay, in which he was buried almost to the shoulders, while a strip of green cotton mosquito netting hanging from the edge of his wide hat, somewhat obscured his view of the scenery.