“Like a lady’s ringlets brown, Flow thine silken ears adown Either side demurely Of thy silver-suited breast, Shining out from all the rest Of thy body purely. “Darkly brown thy body is Till the sunshine striking this, Alchemize its dullness; When the sleek curls manifold Flash all over into gold, With a burnished fullness. “Leap! thy broad tail waves a light; Leap! thy slender feet are bright, Canopied in fringes. Leap! those tasseled ears of thine Flicker strangely fair and fine Down their golden inches.” How clearly we see him with that gentlest mistress, bathed in the warm, sweet sunshine of the past! But there were other than sunny days--long, weary days in a sick-room, where-- “This dog only waited on, Knowing that when light is gone, Love remains for shining. “Other dogs in thymy dew Tracked the hares, and followed through Sunny moor or meadow-- This dog only crept and crept Next a languid cheek that slept, Sharing in the shadow.” What wonder that she returned his love with-- --“more love again Than dogs often take of men”? Flush was a gift from Miss Mitford, another authoress devoted to dogs; and the rival claims of these ladies for their pets, may still pleasantly amuse us. “How is your Flushie?” inquires Miss Mitford. “Mine becomes every day more and more beautiful, and more and more endearing. His little daughter Rose is the very moral of him, and another daughter (a puppy four months old, your Flushie’s half-sister) is so much admired in Reading that she has already been stolen four times--a tribute to her merit which might be dispensed with; and her master having offered ten pounds reward, it seems likely enough that she will be stolen four times more. They are a beautiful race, and that is the truth of it.” Now hear Miss Barrett (as she was at this time) telling Mr. Horne: “Never in the world was another such dog as my Flush. Just now, because after reading your note, I laid it down thoughtfully without taking anything else up, he threw himself into my arms, as much as to say, ‘Now it’s my turn. You’re not busy at all now.’ He understands every thing I say, and would not disturb me for the world. Do not tell Miss Mitford--but her Flush, (whom she brought to see me) is not to be compared to mine! quite animal and dog--natural, and incapable of my Flush’s hyper-cynical refinement.” “My Flush,” she writes elsewhere, “my Flush, who is a gentleman.” Our next glimpse of this well-bred favorite is due to Mr. Westwood, a friend and correspondent of the lady. “On one occasion,” he says, “she had expressed to me her regret at Flush’s growing plumpness, and I suppose I must have been cruel enough to suggest starvation as a remedy, for her next letter opens with an indignant protest: