Mrs. Bouncer, a little white Pomeranian with black eyes and nose, the very sweetest and most bewitching of her sex, was a present to the eldest daughter, and was brought by her, a puppy of only six weeks old, to Tavistock House. “The boys,” knowing that the little dog was to arrive, were ready to receive their sister at the door, and escorted her, in a tremendous state of excitement, up to the study. But when the little creature was put down on the floor to be exhibited to Charles Dickens, and showed her pretty figure and little bushy tail curling tightly over her back, they could keep quiet no longer, but fairly screamed and danced with delight. From that moment he took to the little dog and made a pet of her, and it was he who gave her the name of Mrs. Bouncer. He delighted to see her out with the large dogs, because she looked “so preposterously small” by the side of them. He had a peculiar voice and way of speaking for her, which she knew perfectly well and would respond to at once, running to him from any part of the house or garden directly she heard the call. To be stroked with a foot had great fascinations for Mrs. Bouncer, and my father would often and often take off his boot of an evening and sit stroking the little creature while he read or smoked for an hour together. And although there were times, I fear, when her sharp bark must have irritated him, there never was an angry word for Bouncer. Then there was Dick, the eldest daughter's canary, another important member of the household, who came out of his cage every morning at breakfast time and hopped about the table, pecking away at anything he had a fancy for, and perching upon the heads or shoulders of those present. Occasionally he would have naughty fits, when he would actually dare to peck his master's cheek. He took strong likes and dislikes, loving some people and really hating others. But a word from his mistress called him to order at once, and he would come to her when so called from any part of the room. After she had been away from home she always on her return went to the room where Dick lived and put her head just inside the door. At the very sight of her the bird would fly to the corner of his cage and sing as if his little throat would burst. Charles Dickens constantly followed his daughter and peeped into the room behind her, just to see Dick's rapturous reception of his mistress. When this pet bird died he had him buried in the garden, and a rose-tree planted over his grave, and wrote his epitaph:— _This is the grave of DICK, The best of birds. Born at Broadstairs, Midsr. 1851. Died at Gad's Hill Place, 14th Oct., 1866._ While Dick lived cats were of course tabooed, and were never allowed about the house; but after his death a white kitten called Williamina was given to one of the family, and she and her numerous offspring had a happy home at Gad's Hill.