There was “Bobby,” a pretty, but weak-minded black spaniel, which also suffered a violent death. He had not the sense to get out of the way of a coach which drove over him. There was a poor dog—the very name of which I have forgotten—that was summarily shot by a sanguinary gamekeeper for deserting his master’s side, for one brief moment, to encroach on a jealously guarded preserve. There was “Massey Redan,” a promising little pepper-and-salt terrier, that was picked up at the door of the house in the town where we then lived, and driven off in a “cadger’s” cart by a company of successful amateur dog-stealers. There was “Juno,” a brown retriever, so crazy about taking to the water that she would desert her master to spend the whole day by the sea, plunging in for whatever stick or stone the children, who delighted in her swimming powers, might throw her. There was “William Alexander,” another retriever, a handsome, powerful, jet-black dog, which had a predilection for nuts, and would pounce on a sack in a grocer’s shop, abstract, crack, and eat the contents for her delectation. She used to sit up on her haunches by her master’s side while he sat writing or reading, and when William Alexander thought they had both had enough of the work, he would slap his master smartly on the arm with his paw in order to call his attention to the fact. His master had trained the dog to bring him his boots every morning; but so headlong was William Alexander’s race with them, up and down stairs, that he would have thrown to the ground any unhappy individual who had happened to impede his progress. Indeed there was always something of a whirlwind about the dog, and when to his restlessness and boisterousness were added the reflection of the same qualities in a child visitor, the house seemed too small to hold the two. William Alexander had a remarkable objection to seeing any of his friends ill in bed, and on such occasions would begin to growl as at a personal offence. The dog had a trick, in accordance with his species, of bringing everything to his master. Once, when a pet canary-bird got out of its cage, and began flying wildly about the room, William Alexander caught it, closing his great jaws upon it with a snap, so that it was lost to sight, and the spectators never doubted killed on the instant. But when he delivered up the bird to his master, it was uninjured save by fright. Poor William Alexander tried this trick once too often. He was caught attempting to lift a baby, which happened to be in the same house with him, by the breast of its white frock, to take it to his master. He was conducting the operation with the greatest gentleness and care, but naturally the baby’s mother had an insuperable prejudice against the performance, and William Alexander too had to be sent away. [Illustration] Marcus Ward & Co., Royal Ulster Works, Belfast. FOOTNOTES: