I remember the same love of home in the case of another dog, a mongrel long-haired terrier that I had from a puppy. When he was more than ten years old he was taken to live in Hertfordshire. His friends there were devoted to him and did all they could to make him happy, but his nature quite changed, he lost his former boisterous spirits and seemed rather to endure than to enjoy life. After he had been away four years I brought him back; he was then, of course, old as dogs go, nearly 15, but it seemed as though the intervening years had been a dream, and he was himself again at once, just as joyous, noisy and determined-spirited as he had ever been, and fell into all his old ways of life, as if he had been absent only a day. This same dog, Stumpy we called him, had one little practical joke that showed a sense of humour. At a farm about half-a-mile away there was a pond, or as we say here a "pit," separated only by a hedge from the road. On this pit there were nearly always ducks and it was a favourite amusement of Stumpy's to steal quietly up to the road side of the hedge just above them, and suddenly give several loud barks. He did this for the simple pleasure of seeing the startled ducks rush quacking and flapping to the other side of the pond; for he ran on again afterwards perfectly unconcerned, content and pleased with himself, and I never knew him take the slightest notice of ducks or fowls at any other time. I remember a rather wonderful instance of intelligence shown by Stumpy's father when I had him with me at Oxford. He arrived there for the first time late one evening; the next day I took him for a walk with friends towards Godstow, and when nearly there we stood to watch some men shooting. Sandy hated the sound of a gun, and when we remembered him and looked round, he had gone. As he was quite strange to the place I scarcely expected to see him again, but I found him waiting for me outside the door in Holywell Street when I got home. * * * * *