Whenever I go ’bout Mary it’s a snarlin’ and snappin’ at me, and when ennybody comes in the house, it flies at ’em like it was gwine to tare ’em all to pieces, and makes more racket than all the dogs on the place. It’s bit my fingers two or three times, and if I jest tetch it, it’ll squall out like its back was broke, and run rite to the wimmin and git under ther chairs, and then the very old harry’s to pay. If ever I say anything about it, then they all say I’m “jealous of poor little Tip,” and that I ought to be ashamed of myself to be mad at “the dear little feller.” Well, I always laugh it off the best way I can, but I reckon I’ve wished some rat would catch “poor little Tip” more’n a thousand times, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was to be tuck suddenly sick and die some of these days, ’thout enybody knowing the cause. But I jest want to tell a instance of the devilment he kicks up sometimes. Last night we was all settin’ in the parlour—the galls was sowin’, and Mary and me was playin’ a game of drafts, and I was jest about to pen her with three kings, when one of the checks happened to drap off the board rite down by Mary’s foot. I stooped over to pick it up, when the fust thing I knowd, snap the little devil of a dog tuck me rite by the finger, and then set up a terrible barkin’ and run rite behind Mary’s foot. I never wanted to hit nothin’ so bad in my life, and I leaned over to tap him on the head, but Mary put her little foot out before him, and I missed Tip’s nose about an inch, and he snapped agin. I leaned over further and further, and tried to hit him, but Mary’s foot was always in the way every time, and the last time when I was reachin’ jest as fur as I could, and her foot was in the way, and the little cus was squealin’ and snappin’ as hard as he could, I got sort o’ out of patience tryin’ to hit him, and ses I: “_Don’t_ put your foot in the way!” Jest then down went the “History of England” and all the checks on the floor, and Tip run under Mary’s chair, clear out of sight, squallin’ like he was killed, when ther wasn’t a hair of him tetched. When I ris up my face was a little red, and I would gin a five dollar bill jest to tramp that infernal dog out of his hide. Well, what do you think? the fust thing I knowed Mary was a cryin’ like her hart was gwine to brake. “Why,” ses I, “Mary, what’s the matter with you? I didn’t touch Tip.” She didn’t say nothing but jest went on cryin’ worse and worse, and told Miss Carline to hand her the colone water; and ther she sot and cried and snuffed the colone and sighed, and nobody didn’t know what the matter was. “Why, Mary,” ses I, “what upon yeath ails you? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” “Y-e-s, you-oo-did. I-didn’t-think-you-oo-would-speak-so to-oo me, Joseph. I didn’t think you’d git mad at me-e-e, so I didn’t.” “Why, lord bless your dear soul, I ain’t mad at you, Mary!” ses I, “what makes you think I could git mad at you?”