“Dogs or foxes had been making havoc with the early lambs,” said he; “and one February night I took my gun to watch for the varmints in the lee of the sheeppens, there being mebbe an inch of snow on the land. The east wind was like a knife from the grindstone, with clouds racing past the moon well on in her second quarter. I might have closed my eyes for a second or two with the cold, and when I opened them, sir, there he stood not thirty yards away—a coal-black hound bigger than a prize ram, and of no breed on earth. I knew him in an instant—the Black Dog of the Wolds. Now you don’t shoot a dog until he takes a lamb if you want the law on your side, but, fearing for my life, I pointed my gun at him—and he vanished to nowhere. I dropped the muzzle and, all of a shake, I peeped over my shoulder, only to see him behind me, the moonlight striking into his eyes like blue flames. With a choking, dizzy feeling I screwed my old gums together and up with my gun again—and again he vanished. Ay, and again he was behind me. How long he played with me in this fashion I don’t recollect, but, in the end, the gun went off of itself, and the next thing my grandson George, was helping me up and asking me if I felt better. And being three-score and ten, the following week I put by my crook and took to my old age pension. They say,” added the old shepherd, “he mostly comes as a warning that ‘tis time to retire; but I will mention that morning showed the snow trampled like a fold-yard, but never a print beyond the boundary wall.” It Happened in Ireland MANY years ago, I used to visit a brother and sister-in-law living in a rambling old house in Ireland. Nightly, the household would gather in the dining-room for prayers, after which we retired to our rooms—the maids to their quarters at the far end of the house—my brother and sister-in-law would leave me at my door and then pass down the corridor to their own room. I am usually a sound sleeper. Nevertheless, midnight would find me awake listening to the ructions in the dining-room below—the click, click of glasses and decanters, excited voices, doors opening, banging—after a little while, silence. On the first occasion I asked my brother why he made so much unnecessary noise at midnight. He looked troubled and simply remarked that he had not gone downstairs again. I tackled my sister-in-law, but all to no purpose. Deciding that they were indulging in drinking bouts on the sly, I said no more.