His horses all fed from his hand, and preferred his attendance to that of the grooms; while, until lameness obliged him, in later years, to give up walking, he would never ride on Sunday, believing that “all domestic animals have a full right to their Sabbath of rest.” If his four-footed dependants were ill, he nursed and prescribed for them. When little Spice, an asthmatic terrier, was following the carriage, he would carry it over the brooks, that it might not get wet. In fine, he was always what too few are--“a gentleman, even to his dogs.” Pets were so numerous at Abbotsford that their record must be brief. The long list of pet horses opens in his childhood with a Shetland pony called Marion--a dwarfish creature that fed from his hand, and ran in and out of the house like a dog. The pair were close friends, and passed hours together exploring the hills. In his twentieth year, or thereabouts, Lenore is mentioned as doing him good service, but ere long was succeeded by Captain, coal-black and full of mettle. Next came Lieutenant, and then Brown Adam, a special favorite, who would let none but his master ride him, and who, when saddled and bridled, would trot out of the stable by himself to the mounting-stone, and wait there for Sir Walter. Daisy, next in order, was “all over white, without a speck, and with such a mane as Rubens delighted to paint.” His temper, unfortunately, was less perfect than his mane, and eventually Sir Walter sold him. Daisy was succeeded by the original of Dandie Dinmont’s “Dumple,” in the shape of a sober cob named Sybil Grey; and the list closes with a staid old horse known indifferently as Donce Davie and the Covenanter. In 1803, the canine favorite was Camp, a fine bull-terrier, “very handsome, very intelligent, and naturally very fierce, but gentle as a lamb among the children.” It is this dog that appears in the painting by Raeburn. He had considerable intellect in his way, and understood much that was said to him. Once he bit the family baker, and was severely punished for it--his offense being at the same time explained to him, says Scott. After this, “to the last moment of his life, he never heard the least allusion to the story, in whatever voice or tone it was mentioned, without getting up and retiring into the darkest corner of the room, with great appearance of distress. Then if you said, ‘The baker was well paid,’ or, ‘The baker was not hurt after all,’ Camp came forth from his hiding-place, capered, and barked, and rejoiced.”