Susan was one of many dogs whose lives were a joy and whose deaths were a real grief to the family; among them and their successors are or have been Sailor Boy, the Chesapeake Bay dog, who not only loves guns, but also fireworks and rockets, and who exercises a close and delighted supervision over every detail of each Fourth of July celebration; Alan and Jessie, the Scotch terriers; and Jack, the most loved of all, a black smooth-haired Manchester terrier. Jack lived in the house; the others outside, ever on the lookout to join the family in rambles through the woods. Jack was human in his intelligence and affection; he learned all kinds of tricks, was a high-bred gentleman, never brawled, and was a dauntless fighter. Besides the family, his especial friend, playfellow, and teacher was colored Charles, the footman at Washington. Skip, the little black-and-tan terrier that I brought back from the Colorado bear hunt, changed at once into a real little-boy’s dog. He never lets his small master out of his sight, and rides on every horse that will let him—by preference on Algonquin the sheltie, whose nerves are of iron. [Illustration: FAMILY FRIENDS ] The first night possum hunt in which I ever took part was at Quantico, on the Virginia side of the Potomac, some twenty miles below Washington. It was a number of years ago, and several of us were guests of a loved friend, Hallett Phillips, since dead. Although no hunter, Phillips was devoted to outdoor life. I think it was at this time that Rudyard Kipling had sent him the manuscript of “The Feet of the Young Men,” which he read aloud to us.