"That intelligent dorg is a defending of your property as well as mine, and if we put up with his strains a little while longer, the chap down stairs will understand the hint and make friends." With that the first chap flamed up, and says he: "I sold a breast-pin to the chap down stairs the other day, and found out that he considers the dollar-jewelry business the same by nature as his own. I'm beginning to think we misjudged him, and I can't have no dog kept here to worry him. Our lease of these here premises don't say anything about keeping a dog," says the chap, reflectively, "nor our articles of pardnership, and I refuse to sanction the dog any longer." So the dog was sent to the pound, my boy, and that same night the burglarious gentleman downstairs walked off with the dollar-jewelry, in company with the first chap, leaving the poor second chap to make himself uselessly disagreeable at the police-office, and set up an apple-stand for support. Far be it from me, my boy, to say that certain Border States are like the first chap; but if Uncle Sam should happen to be the second chap let him hold on to the watch-dog. Speaking of dogs, I must tell you about a felis-itous canine incident that occurred while I was at Paris. Early one morning, the Kentucky chap and I were awakened by a great noise in the hall outside our door. Presently an aged and reliable contraband stuck his head into the room, and says he: "I golly, mars'r, dar's a big fight goin' on in dis yar place." At the word, my boy, we both sprang up and went to the door, from whence we beheld one of those occurrences but too common in this dreadful war of brother against brother. Face to face in the hall stood my frescoed dog, Bologna, and the regimental cat Lord Mortimer, eyeing each other with looks of deadly hatred and embittered animosity. High in air curved the back of the enraged Mortimer, and his whiskers worked with intense wrath; whilst the eloquent tail of the infuriated Bologna shot into the atmosphere like a living flag-staff. "Oh-h-h! How-now?" ejaculated Bologna, throwing out his nose to reconnoitre the enemy's first line. "'Sdeath!--'Sdeath!" hastily retorted Mortimer, skirmishing along in his first parallel with spasmodic clawing. And now, my boy, commenced a series of scientific manoeuvres that only Russell, of the _London Times_, could describe properly. Lord Mortimer advanced circularly to the attack in four columns, affrighting the air with horrid yells of defiance; and I noticed, with a feeling of mysterious awe, that his eyes had turned a dreadful and livid green, whilst an expression of inexpressible bitterness overspread his countenance. Fathoming the enemy's plan at a glance, Bologna presented his front and rear divisions alternately, to distract the fire of the foe; and then, by a rapid and skillful flank movement, cut off a portion of Lord Mortimer's tail from the main body. This reminded me of General Mitchell's tactics, my boy.