Doggie Tales A collection of short stories for canine lovers

Compiled by: Aadel Bussinger

The stories contained within are originally from public domain texts that can be found online. You may freely share and distribute this e-book. A link to Homeschool Commons would be greatly appreciated!

WHY DOG AND CAT ARE ENEMIES

Once upon a time there was a man and his wife, and they had a ring of gold. It was a

lucky ring, and whoever owned it always had enough to live on. But this they did not

know, and hence sold the ring for a small sum. But no sooner was the ring gone than

they began to grow poorer and poorer and at last did not know where they would get

their next meal. They had a dog and a cat, and these had to go hungry as well. Then

the two animals took counsel together as to how they might restore to their owners

their former good fortune. At length the dog hit upon a good idea.

"They must have the ring back again," he said to the cat.

The cat answered, "The ring has been carefully locked up in the chest where no one

can get at it."

"You must catch a mouse," said the dog, "and

the mouse must gnaw a hole in the chest and

fetch out the ring. And if she does not want to,

say that you will bite her to death, and you

will see that she will do it."

This advice pleased the cat, and she caught a

mouse. Then she wanted to go to the house in

which stood the chest, and the dog came after.

They came to a broad river. And since the cat

could not swim, the dog took her on his back

and swam across with her.

Then the cat carried the mouse to the house in which the chest stood. The mouse

gnawed a hole in the chest, and fetched out the ring. The cat put the ring in her

mouth, and went back to the river, where the dog was waiting for her, and swam

across with her. Then they started out together for home, in order to bring the lucky

ring to their master and mistress.

But the dog could only run along the ground; when there was a house in the way, he

always had to go around it. The cat, however, quickly climbed over the roof, and so

she reached home long before the dog, and brought the ring to her master.

Then the master said to his wife: "What a good creature the cat is! We will always give

her enough to eat, and care for her as though she were our own child!"

But when the dog came home they beat him and scolded him, because he had not

helped to bring home the ring again. And the cat sat by the fireplace and purred and

said never a word. Then the dog grew angry at the cat, because she had robbed him of

his reward, and when he saw her he chased her and tried to seize her.

And ever since that day, dog and cat are enemies.

From "The Chinese Fairy Book"

BABA, QUEEN OF SHEBA

Baba lives in a great house in England. Her mistress is a dear old lady who loves

Chow dogs, and owns many of them. Sometimes her friends say, "Chow-Chows are not

beautiful. See those puppies! They are like little cinnamon bears!" She laughs at them,

and says, "You wouldn't find another puppy of that cinnamon color in many thousand

miles, nor any such a beautiful blue as my Baba, Queen of Sheba!"

Then she tells them the story of Baba, who lies proudly and very quietly at her feet by

the fire.

"In China, the monks of Manchuria are very fond of Chow dogs. They prize the blue

Chow above all others. Probably the monks don't eat them (Chow-chow just means

'food,' you know) like other Chinamen, but prize them for some religious reason. At

any rate, when puppies come that are not 'true blue,' they are put outside the great

walls. People watch for these puppies and sell them for large sums. If they grow up,

sometimes their puppies will be 'true blue,' although their parents were not.

"I had written to a Mandarin in China, asking him to get me a blue Chow, but I had no

answer. Then one day an Englishman brought me Baba, who had been found outside

the walls of a monastery in Manchuria. She has lived with me three years and all her

puppies have been blue."

Baba rose and yawned very politely, and moved about the room on her delicate cat-

like feet. She stood looking up at the sleeping parrot, and moved one ear without

moving the other. Few dogs can do this.

The Chows are born lovers of the chase. Baba was a great hunter, to the sorrow of her

mistress. She would slip out at night, and run away to the woods, to hunt birds,

squirrels, rats, and other wood creatures. Each time she was discovered she was

severely punished. They were afraid she would be killed, and they worried lest she

attack a sheep. She would have to be shot if this happened.

Just as the household was trying to think up a very severe punishment that would

stop Baba from hunting, Lady Dunbar fell ill. Baba loved her so that she gave up

hunting of her own accord. She sat outside her mistress's door every minute, and

when the worst danger came, insisted on being inside right by her bed. Her mistress

slowly got well, and Baba, Queen of Sheba, never went out to hunt again.

Chows are born watchdogs. Blue Wang, Blue Joss, Blue Bear, Blue Admiral,

Champion Ragabelle—each had his record at Lady Dunbar's home for giving warning

of some disturbance. Ragabelle once woke his mistress when a guest was walking up

and down late at night, with a bad headache. Ragabelle knew who would "make it well

again."

Baba is a born actress, and often takes part in plays given at home. Once she was in

Little Red Riding-Hood, as Grandmama Wolf. She was dressed in a white nightgown,

with sleeves fastened down at her wrists, and a white nightcap on her head. When the

curtain went up, there she sat in bed with her proud dark face peering out of the frilly

nightcap, and her paws resting out upon the silk quilt.

"Oh, granny, your ears are so long!" said poor frightened Little Red Riding-Hood.

"Woof-Woof-Woof," said Baba, very sweetly and politely.

The clapping was tremendous. The curtain had to be pulled aside a second time. This

time, Baba's mistress motioned to her to jump out of bed, so she took the curtain-call

like a regular actress, and ran off the stage to the sound of great applause.

One day an orchestra played at Baba's home and one of their numbers was a merry

march, a piece that children love. What was the surprise of the audience when Baba

walked across the stage! She had three doves perched on a little stand on her collar.

They fluttered their wings and cooed softly when they heard the music. Baba held her

head very still, and walked slowly across the stage, in time with the march.

Adapted from "Hie Chow-Chow," by Lady Dunbar

ROSA BONHEUR, THE LITTLE GIRL WHO LOVED ANIMALS

FATHER and mother Bonheur had wanted a son, and had even planned to name him

Raymond after his father. Instead, a little daughter had come to them who couldn't be

named Raymond, and who couldn't grow up to be a painter like her father because in

those days in France, almost a hundred years ago, girls were taught to sew and to

cook, not to draw pictures. That was for a boy to learn. It was a great pity, to be sure!

The little girl, who should have been a boy, was named Rosa because that began with

an R like Raymond.

When she was such a tiny girl that her head did not reach the doorknob, Rosa began

to show that she was not like other children of her age. She would leave her dolls in a

corner of the room and would make queer round marks, and square marks on the

white paint of the door panels with her father's black crayon pencils. "Papa, papa," she

would cry proudly, "Lalie make pictures."

But Rosa's father laughed at the wobbly tigers and lions and told her not to bother

him while he was painting. The poor man had to work very hard, for pictures did not

sell as well as potatoes in the village where the Bonheurs lived, and besides Rosa there

were soon two boys who must have bread and butter and new shoes. By and by they

grew so poor that they decided to move to Paris, where the father hoped to find more

work.

Rosa was three years old when they went to the big noisy city of Paris. She was not

pretty, for she was very short and thin, with a queer pug nose and a square brown

face. But she had a long tight braid of lovely yellow hair that hung almost to the hem

of her skirt and was tied at the end with a shoe string. She wore wooden shoes like all

the little boys and girls in Paris and a checked brown dress without any trimming on

it.

In Paris they all lived in a small house over a shop, and when presently a baby sister

came to live with them, they were very much crowded indeed. Rosa had to help take

care of the baby and do the housework because her mother was too sick to sweep, and

dust, and wash the dishes. When she was not working, she went with her two

brothers to a school where all the pupils except her were boys. There she learned a

little reading and writing, but she liked best to draw pictures in the blank pages of her

books, and when the writing lesson came, she used to fill the copybook with horses,

and cows, and sheep instead of words.

Here, in school, Rosa used to wish that she could be a boy like the rest of the children.

Sometimes she would almost forget that she wore skirts and a braid, and would climb

trees and play ball like any boy. Once she even fought with an unkind boy who was

teasing a dog. She loved animals, and animals all loved her.

Across the street from her home was a butcher shop. Instead of a sign over the door

there was a great wooden figure of a pig in front. Rosa felt sorry for the poor pig, who

had to stand outdoors in the rain and hot sunshine. Sometimes she used to run

across the street to pat his carved head and to whisper in one wooden ear that she

loved him, even if no one else did.

When she went to walk in the park with her father the timid sparrows and robins

would come fluttering and flying down from the trees and light on her shoulders and

hair. Animals always know the people who are fond of them. Even the wildest animals

are not afraid, and the fiercest do not hurt such people. The big cross watchdogs

would come creeping and crawling to Rosa and lick her gentle hand with their great

rough red tongues, and the deer in the park never ran away from her. When she grew

up and owned two big tawny lions, she let them run free in her garden. They rolled

together and played on the walk like two pussy cats.

Before Rosa was twelve years old her mother died. The four children and their father

were left very lonely in the tiny room above the shop. Two kind old cousins took the

three younger children to live with them; but no one wanted Rosa, for she was a queer

child, very much like a boy in petticoats, who used to fall over the furniture and knock

over the dishes, and break and disarrange everything around her. Her father sent her

to live with a dressmaker who tried to teach Rosa to sit still quietly in a chair and sew

long, stupid seams. But little boys do not want to sew seams, and Rosa was too much

like a little boy to sit still in a chair with a piece of cloth on the table before her, and a

big sunshiny world behind. So on one of the sun-shiniest days she ran away from the

dressmaker's house, through the crowds of people in the city, straight to her father's

studio. She begged him to teach her how to put brown and gray and blue paint on the

canvas so that it would look like a cow.

"But girls never paint pictures," said her father.

"Then let's cut off my braid, and I will wear boy's clothes and be a boy," cried Rosa.

Then what do you suppose? The next day she took a pair of shears, and clip, clip, off

came her long, tight braid of yellow hair; after this, she put on her brother's loose blue

trousers that hung down to her ankles, and a blouse, and nobody in the world would

ever have guessed that she wasn't a sturdy twelve-year-old boy.

Rosa wanted to learn to paint so much that she used to work alone while other boys

and girls of all sizes were playing "Sur le pont d'Avignon," which is "London Bridge" in

French. At last her father saw that she really intended to learn, so he began to help

her. Soon she was able to copy pictures in the great art galleries and to sell them to

wealthy people. In the art gallery the attendants nicknamed Rosa "the little Hussar,"

which means "the little soldier," because she wore short hair and long trousers. She

worked so hard at her painting that she often used to forget to eat her lunch of bread

and fried potatoes. Finally she and her father saved enough money to send for the

three little children. Then they all lived together again in the snug little home over the

shop.

Although she worked very hard when she worked, Rosa liked to play, too. She and her

brothers and sister used to dress up and play knights and dragons and tournaments

in their father's big studio. Sometimes they made the dragon's cave out of pictures put

together, and sometimes they rode horseback on the easels, playing that the long

paint brushes were lances and swords.

Rosa was so fond of animals that she kept the house full of queer pets; A goat in the

woodshed, squirrels and rats in the kitchen, and canaries and finches in the

bedrooms. She used to draw pictures of them. Some of these did not look at all like the

live animals, so she threw them away and began all over again. Whenever the pictures

were wrong, she did not get discouraged. She worked all the harder until she at last

got them right.

It was because she kept on trying so eagerly that she grew up to be one of the greatest

animal painters in the world. She had money and fame, but these did not make her so

happy as the fact that the tiny red-eyed rabbits in her pictures looked so real that

their noses almost wiggled, and the great yellow lions she painted were so fierce and

lifelike that they seemed nearly ready to roar and snarl in their frames.

Once her pet goat came into the house and looked at her as if to say, "I like you and I

have come in to see you." Then he went around the room and looked at the pictures.

When he saw his own picture he wagged his head as if he liked it, and then he ran out

of the house.

When Rosa Bonheur grew up she had a little dog named Wasp, and a big dog, a

hound, called Don. She had a horse, a donkey, goats and sheep, and her famous pet

lions. "The goat follows me," she said, "and the lion likes to have me near him." She

painted fine pictures of them all.

"I like animals," said she, "and I like to paint their pictures." One of her greatest

pictures, "The Horse Fair," is now in the Metropolitan Museum in New York City.

Adapted from "When Great Folk Were little Folks," by D. D. Calhoun

GRAYFRIAR’S BOBBY

If you were walking in the old town of Edinburgh you would see the castle, the

cathedral, and soldiers, the university, the museum, and many other interesting

things. One that you would surely remember has little to do with kings or learning. It

is a statue of a little dog.

You might be walking across "the links" and "the meadows," and then turn up the

broad walk that leads to George IV Bridge. Here, at the end of a row of bookstalls, is a

drinking fountain, and rising from it there is a granite pillar, on the top of which is a

life-sized figure of a shaggy Skye terrier cast in bronze.

We call this dog "Grayfriars' Bobby," and it was put there in memory of a real Skye

terrier.

His name was not always Grayfriars' Bobby. When he came to Edinburgh he was a

little, common, unknown dog; and, if he had a name at all it was only known to his

master, who was a poor man and had no friends except his dog. He did not make any

friends either, for, when he died, no one knew who he was, or where he came from;

and he had a very lonely funeral in Grayfriars' Churchyard, whose iron gates you can

see not many yards from where you stand.

For when he was buried, there was only one mourner, and that was his poor little pet,

who followed his master's body from his lodgings, and sat on the grass in the

churchyard watching what was going on with piteous eyes. When it was all over, and

the grave had been filled up, and the gravedigger had gone away, the little animal

crept forward and stretched itself on the new-made grave.

Now it was a rule that dogs were not allowed into the churchyard, so the old caretaker

turned him out and locked the gate. Next day, when he was going his rounds, he again

found the terrier stretched on the grave. It had managed somehow to get into the

churchyard again, in order to be as near its master as it could.

Once more it was driven out, and once more it returned, this time almost dead with

cold and hunger. The old caretaker did not know what to do. He felt sorry for the

faithful little creature, and yet the rules about the churchyard were very strict.

He spoke to one or two of his neighbors about it, and a kind man, who kept a

restaurant near the gates, offered to give the dog its dinner every day, if he, the

caretaker, would let it sleep in his house at night.

So matters were arranged, and permission was obtained for it to stay in the

churchyard in the daytime.

Week after week passed, and month after month, and finally year after year, and still

Grayfriars' Bobby, as people learned to call him, lived in the churchyard by day, and

in the old caretaker's cottage at night.

Everyone was so kind to him that at last his poor little heart, which had been quite

broken at first, began to heal up and he grew a cheerful little dog and ran about the

churchyard which, however, he never left, except for one brief half-hour once a day.

For when the one o'clock gun thundered out from the castle, he used to trot off to the

restaurant for his dinner.

People soon got to know him, and Sir William Chambers, who, as you know, restored

St. Giles Cathedral, and who was Lord Provost of the city, presented him with a collar

which had his name, "Grayfriars' Bobby," engraved upon it.

When at last he died, he was buried in Grayfriars' Churchyard, and the Baroness

Burdett-Coutts, who always took a great interest in animals, erected this drinking

fountain with the figure of the little dog over it, in order to keep alive the memory of

his faithfulness and love.

From "The Children's Book of Edinburgh," by Elizabeth Grieraon

RAB

There are no such dogs as Rab now. He belonged to a lost tribe. As I have said, he was

brindled and gray like granite; his hair short, hard, and close, like a lion's; his body

thickset like a little bull—a sort of compressed Hercules of a dog. He must have been

ninety pounds' weight at the least; he had a large, blunt head; his muzzle black as

night, his mouth blacker than any night, a tooth or two—being all he had—gleaming

out of his jaws of darkness. His head was scarred with the records of old wounds, a

sort of series of fields of battle all over it; one eye out, one ear cropped close; the

remaining eye had the power of two; and above it, and in constant communication

with it, was a tattered rag of an ear, which was forever unfurling itself like an old flag;

and then that bud of a tail, about one inch long.

Rab had the dignity and simplicity of great size; and having fought his way all along

the road to absolute supremacy, he was as mighty in his own line as Julius Caesar or

the Duke of Wellington, and had the gravity of all great fighters.

From "Rab and Hia Friends," by John Brown, M.D.

SHEEP DOGS

There are some little children in an American town who have two nurses—one nurse

with blue dress and white cap, and another with woolly hair, and four sturdy legs. The

second is an English sheep dog, who stands almost as high as the three-year-old

sister, and whose long gray hair falls over his great loving brown eyes. He watches the

children "like a Dutch uncle." When they are walking on the street he "shepherds"

them as if they were sheep. He pushes the little ones into line, and nudges and nips

the big ones if they go too near the street.

This trusty dog was born in England. His ancestors helped the shepherds of the

English countryside.

The wonderful Scotch sheep dogs are a different breed. We call them collies. They are

both more sensitive and more valiant than the woolly English dogs. They are built for

greater speed, with longer legs and stronger bodies.

A shepherd would be absolutely helpless without his dogs. These Scottish sheep dogs

are so well tamed and so intelligent that they obey every movement of the shepherd's

hand, as well as every word he utters. We feel as we watch them that they know

almost as much about sheep as he does.

This knowledge comes by what we call instinct—that is, it is born in these dogs. When

a collie is quite young—only about seven or eight months old—it begins of its own

accord to try and help its master with his sheep.

If it is out with him when he is driving a flock of sheep and one of them tries to break

away from the rest it will run boldly forward and bark in her face, as if it knows that

she is doing wrong.

When the shepherd sees this, he does all he can to encourage the dog, talking to it

gently, and trying, by word and gesture, to show what he wants it to do.

If, for instance, he wishes it to gather together all the sheep that are on a certain hill,

he points to the hill and says, "Come, here, away, out-by, wide"—at least, that is what

the old shepherd Robbie says to his dog Toss, and Toss sets off up the hillside, and in

a very short time he has gathered all the scattered sheep into a group, and stands

waiting for further orders. Then, if Robbie wants the sheep brought toward him he

makes a sign with his hand, and Toss obeys.

If Robbie chances to be driving his sheep along a road and he comes to a place where

another road joins it, he knows that half his flock will probably turn down that way.

He does not wish them to do this so he makes a sign to Toss, who is walking soberly at

his heels. Toss understands what is wanted, and in a moment he is over the wall, and

flying along the field on the other side of it, so as to get in front of the sheep; and when

the place where the two ways meet is reached, he is standing guarding the one down

which the sheep are not to go.

Sometimes, at agricultural shows, there are "dog trials" in order to see which collie can

manage sheep most cleverly. And do you know what the test often is? Four sheep are

put into a field which has a small enclosure in the middle of it. The gate of this

enclosure is left open, and each dog in turn is expected, under the direction of his

master, to drive three of these sheep into the enclosure, and to keep out the fourth

one, who naturally wants to follow its companions.

The dog who does this in the shortest time and with fewest mistakes wins the prize.

Considering that their masters are not allowed to help them in any way except by

making signs to them, and giving them orders, it is a wonderful feat for any dog to

accomplish.

Adapted from "Scotland," by Elizabeth Grierson

DON AND DASH

DON was a pointer. His master lived in hilly country, and had bought Don to help him

hunt partridge, grouse and quail. Don was the best dog he could have chosen for this.

The picture of a pointer opposite page 44 will tell you why. His coat, almost all white,

can be seen easily against the brown of the fields and the shadows of the woods. He is

strong; he has a fine big nose and ears; he has a good straight tail.

His tail is important! When Don has scented out a bird, lying in the meadow grass, he

goes as near it as he dares, then "points" straight at it, tail sticking out like a rod,

directly in line with his wise nose. The hunter creeps up, gun all ready, and probably

starts the bird, which he can shoot easily, knowing the exact direction. That is what

pointers have been trained to do for generations.

One morning you might have seen Don without

his master, trotting slowly out of the farm gate

toward the moors. His head hung down as if he

were very unhappy about something. He had not

gone far before a little curly spaniel, who was

trotting off in the same unhappy way, crossed his

path.

Don stopped and said gloomily, "Hello, Dash!"

The spaniel, rubbing noses, said with a sigh,

"Hello, Don! What's the matter?"

"Oh, I'm tired of my master. He never shoots anything. For three years I've followed

him about the moors. I've pushed through furze and furrow. I've started hares, and

cocks, and snipes, and pheasants—enough to give a present every night to each of his

friends. But he's never shot one. Why doesn't he take me fishing?

"Oh, how I hate to point a fine bird then stand there holding my head in just the right

position until my neck aches, and my tail has gone to sleep. I won't stand it anymore."

Dash was looking happier and happier, his tail no longer hung between his legs, his

silky ears were wagging gaily.

"Don," he said, "your master is just the man for me. My master hits everything. A

bullet may just as well hit me, as the bird, or the tree, or the barn door. Let's change

places."

"Done," said Don. "My dinner will just be ready. Let's go and eat it together, then I'll

slip over to your place. I suppose you know how to point?"

"Well, no," said Dash, "I'm more of a retriever."

"What's that?"

"A dog that runs and gets the game after it's down. But I can start the birds all right,

don't worry, Don. I have setter blood. The setters are a very old family. When people

hunted birds with nets, the setters pointed them, then 'set' low,

crouching on the ground so that the net could go over them."

Don was so interested that he almost forgot to show Dash his

favorite hole in the hedge.

The end of the story is that Dash was just as great a help to his

new master as Don had been. And Don was much happier with

the sound of a gun in his ears, even if it didn't hit much game.

But a surprise is coming. Dash, not being so stern a pointer,

used to peek around at his master. And he discovered that he carried a queer little

black box instead of a gun, and clicked it at the birds. Later, Dash learned that

beautiful pictures of the birds came out of that box, which his master called a camera.

And Dash decided that, though he liked the taste of quail and pheasant bones, still it

was a great honor to help his master make those pictures.

Adapted from "Hit or Miss," in Hood's "Humorous Poems"

TOLD BY THE FIRE

Happy was a beagle hound with long tan-colored ears, the daintiest bit of a nose, and

a plump body marked and ticked with tan and black. Her eyes were of such

beseeching softness that if she but looked at you when you were eating you had to give

her the very last morsel.

Waddles, her husband, was also a hound, a most honorable hound. He was called

"The Mayor of Dogtown." Dogtown was the name of the happy country place where

many lucky dogs had a home.

One evening when these two lay snoozing by the fire, Happy gave a kick or two,

sniffed, her back bristling, then opened her eyes. "I thought I was a kennel dog again,"

she said with a gasp.

"Why, didn't you like being a kennel dog?" said Waddles.

"Why?" repeated Happy. "Well, there was enough to eat, I suppose, but how, and

when, and where? I should like you to tell me that first."

As Waddles didn't know, he could not tell, so Happy took the floor, or rather the

bearskin, and began her story, occasionally pausing to give her paws an extra

washing.

"Melody, my mother, was not born in a kennel, though after she had great sport and

hunted a few years, she came to live at Hilltop. I was born there, and the difference

between living in a kennel and running free begins even before your eyes are open.

"Of course you've looked into the kennel yard four acres big, inside the tall wire fence

and seen the grass-run, and the swimming pool, but have you ever been inside the

long red house made into rooms with many windows and doors, and a little yard by

each?"

"No," said Waddles, "I've often tried, but someone always drove me away, though once,

when I stepped inside the door, I ran down a long hallway when a big black and white

setter, who seemed to be all by himself in a small room, told me I'd best get out while I

could, for maybe if I waited I couldn't, and begged me to bring him a bone next time I

came."

"That was old Antonio, a boarder," said Happy, looking into the fire as if she saw the

past in it. "His master used to have a country house like this, and he raised Antonio

from a pup, took him hunting every leaf-fall, and let him lie on the hearthrug winter

nights, but when the master sold the house and went away he sent Antonio to board

at Hilltop until he should come back for him. He promised to come soon, but that was

the summer that I was a pup, and Antonio is still waiting.

"Of course he is comfortable in a way; he and Rufus, the Irish setter with red hair,

have a good room together, each with a boxed straw bed, and a private yard to lie in

when they are not turned into the great yard for running, but they are in chain when

they sleep at night, and when they are fed, and that is a grievous thing to an

old dog who has once run free, and owned his bones. My mother told me so then, but

being born a kennel dog I did not understand."

"What were the other rooms in that long house?" asked Waddles, now sitting up wide

awake and interested. "I saw more doors than there are in this whole house or at Miss

Jule's and, though I was in a hurry, I sniffed good crisp brown smells."

"Some rooms like Antonio's are for the grown dogs that live there all the time except

when they go away for hunting. Then there are others closer and warmer for the

mother dogs with families; I was born in one of these, and stayed there with my little

brothers and sisters until I was six weeks old, and could stand firm upon my feet

without resting on my stomach. Before this, for many days, when my mother was let

out for her airing, she stayed away longer and longer, and when we were hungry they

gave us milk to lap from a tin, which was tiresome and took much more trouble than

to eat the way our mother taught us. Finally, one night she did not come back at all.

Then we were taken from our little bedroom to a great square place, all wood dust on

the floor and with a great black thing standing in the middle that frightened me

terribly, but afterward I found that it was called a stove, and was warm inside and

pleasant to lie by, though it could not feed us as our mother did.

"In this big room were many other pups of different kinds and sizes, who played or

dozed in corners, but there were none as small as we, and we felt sad and lonely. I well

remember how we squealed that night until a boy brought Miss Jule and she had us

put back into our little room. But our mother was not there. Once in the night she

answered, from far away; but she couldn't come for there were many doors between.

They called this weaning us, so that we should learn to care for ourselves. Next day we

went back to the big room with all the other puppies, and four times every day each

one of us was put into a little box like a chicken coop—there was a row of them all

round the wall—and given a dish of food."

"What was that for?" asked Waddles, "why did they shut you up? I like to walk about

when I eat."

"Because," answered Happy, feeling proud and important at knowing something that

wise Waddles did not, "if the food was given to us at once the biggest would gobble two

or three shares and the small pups would get none. At the kennels grown dogs are tied

when they eat, but pups wear no collars, for they are bad things for their soft necks.

"After a while we became used to the life and had good times playing in

the puppy pasture. One day we saw our mother in the other enclosure with the grown

dogs, and we ran close to the fence and tried to dig under it; but kennel fences are set

deep with melted stone poured round the posts. When we found we could not get

through we barked and wagged our tails and then even our bodies when we saw her

coming toward us; but she did not notice us at all—she had forgotten us!"

"Then who taught you to play snatch-bone and wrestle, who killed your fleas for you

and washed you?" asked Waddles, with indignation.

"We learned to wrestle by tumbling about together. As to snatch-bone, how could we

play it, we who have no bones?"

"No bones!" echoed Waddles, in amazement.

"None to keep, or to bury, or play with; such as we had must be gnawed at a meal or

they were taken away. How could kennel dogs, who are never alone, bury bones

without having them stolen and breeding a fight?

"One day after I had left the puppy yard old Antonio kept a round bone hidden in his

mouth to gnaw on later. Forgetting himself, he barked and dropped it. Oh, but there

was a commotion that took three men, besides Miss Jule, to quell, and all the dogs

were bristling and angry for three days.

"Waddles," and there were almost tears in Happy's eyes, "you don't know what it was

to be a well-fed kennel dog, and yet be so poor that you had not even a bone to bury!

And if you had one you could not hide it in a floor of melted stone.

"I noticed that as I grew bigger and stronger and hungrier I had fewer meals, until,

when I was grown and slept in a separate room with Flo, the English setter, we had

but one a day—a great pan of warm stew with bread in it, every evening when we were

chained up for the night beside our beds."

"That stew sounds good," said Waddles, licking his lips, "and what for breakfast?"

"No breakfast. No bits of toast from Tommy, or chop bone from the master. It's always

supper with a kennel dog. It isn't Miss Jule's fault, or anybody's; there aren't enough

bits of toast or chop bones to feed a yard full of pups and dogs.

"As to the fleas and baths, when we were old enough a man named Martin washed us

every week. There is a room next to the nursery kennel that has a water-box in it like

the one our cows drink out of, and above it hang rows and rows of collars of all sizes,

ready for dogs to wear who are to go away or come to the kennel without them.

"We little pups were washed in this box, and if we cried or jumped about Martin would

put a collar on to hold us by. The washing wasn't bad at first, but it was very wet and

sometimes cold, and the big brush he used wasn't as soft and warm as our mother's

tongue that washed and wiped at the same time.

"Sometimes if Martin was tired or in a hurry he did not dry us well, and often dogs

grew sick, and sneezed, and shivered. Then the big doctor man came hurrying out

from over town with his quick horse, to see them, and said they had 'distemper.' When

this happened Miss Jule would often sit up at night with them; and sometimes they

got well, and sometimes they were taken away and never came back, then Miss Jule

would say 'This is an unlucky season.' But we knew it most often happened when

Martin forgot something, for Miss Jule could not feel each dog's nose every day, and

see if its eyes look bright, and ask us if we feel well, as our mistress does.

"The flea-killing was worse; our mother took them one by one, but Martin rubbed

sneeze powder in our hair, so if we tried to lick ourselves a bit we coughed and

choked. Our Jack is nearly grown, and yet he has never had a bath from anyone but

me, and there's not a flea upon him. See what it is to be born free and live a private

life!"

Then Mrs. Waddles’ broad chest swelled with pride, as she yawned, stretched her feet

toward the fire, and curved her back.

"Where did the good smells come from?" asked Waddles. "Part of them might be soup,

but the others were too much like the village bakery where mistress sometimes buys

us broken cakes."

"That smell came from the kennel kitchen; you must have been there on a baking day.

There are four rooms together that dogs must never go in, but the day our mistress

bought me from Miss Jule, and I walked home with her, she went out through those

rooms, then I saw and knew. The littlest room was full of the soap they wash us with,

and bottles of the stuff they give us when we are sick or sprinkle on the melted stone

floors that are through all the kennels, to sweeten them.

"The next room had boxes in it like those that hold the horse food in our stable, and

they were full of the stuff Martin makes the dog bread of. I saw him take some

out, and in the corner was a great cold box, and though I could not see inside I

smelled that it held meat, and nearby was the kettle they cooked our soup in. In the

biggest room of all there was a great block like that our butcher chops the meat on

while we wait to catch the bits, also the big can full of milk and rows of tin pans piled

on more shelves.

"Just then I smelled something delicious and mistress turned round; I followed her;

there I saw Martin standing by the open door of a great oven with a red fire below, and

in it were pans and pans of crispy bread ready to take out, and more upon a table to

go in, and mistress broke off a crust that overhung, and threw it to me. I won't forget

that crust; it was my first bite of liberty."

"Did you never run free at all, or never go out alone to have any sport? I should have

jumped that fence or dug out somehow."

"No, you would not," said Happy, decidedly. "Silver Tongue, the biggest foxhound,

could not. Ah, yes, we had good sport sometimes, all through the swamp woods

trailing for rabbits though we never got any, and do you know, Silver Tongue told me

once that they tied the smell up in a bag and dragged it on the ground just to make us

run, and there was no rabbit!

"One day, though, they took me with some older dogs to track real rabbits. I had run

one into a fence corner, and it turned round and looked at me, when such an awful

noise came down upon my head I thought the sky had fallen. I forgot the rabbit and

fell over, for my head ached terribly.

Martin picked me up and rubbed my head and wrapped me in his coat, and then

everything was still. It has been so ever since, pleasant and quiet. When I felt better I

saw Martin's gun was broken and burst, and now I have to see with my eyes what

people want of me, for my ears catch nothing.

"There was always sport, too, when new dogs came, either to live or board with us.

They didn't know that there was no breakfast, and they would cry and beg, and if Miss

Jule came by she would understand and give them some, but Martin only went by

rule.

"You know the open shed up at Hill-top where the logwood is kept, and the old

grindstone? We've often chased squirrels up the back of it. That shed is in

the puppy yard, and the boxes that dogs travel in are kept there. We pups used to

have great sport lying there in the shade to watch the boxes brought in and out, and

see who came, who went away.

"We all thought it would be fun to go traveling and often scrambled in and out of them,

but if Martin shut the door we were frightened, and glad enough to be loose again. The

boxes were not tight, but opened and latticed like hencoops, and they called

them dog crates. It was a fine thing at the end of summer to see the crates brought out

and cleaned, and the old dogs, setters, hounds, and spaniels, who had been away

before for the hunting, go nearly wild with joy at sight of them, and clamor for the

start.

"The youngsters who had never been, and thought the crate a punishment, trembled

at first, but the other explained, and so all through the autumn there was coming,

going, and excitement.

"Sometimes, on fine days, Miss Jule would come with an apron-ful of dog bread, and

throw the bits for us to catch, and that day was held a great festival. For the one who

jumped the highest, or caught the quickest, would get an extra bit, or be taken out to

spend the day at the house, and have its dinner with Mr. Wolf, Miss Jule's very own

best dog, and Tip, the head retriever. When these dogs came back to the kennels,

though, there was always a row, for they felt so very fine and big, and bragged so

about what they had seen, and the dozens of bones they had gnawed or buried, that

finally, we who were neither quick nor clever could not bear it, so we agreed that

whenever a dog came back from running free we would all bark together so loud that

not a word of what he said could be heard.

"Flo, the English setter, one of my best friends, who lives up there still, tells me that

times are much better now, for Miss Letty takes a great interest in the dogs, and every

morning, as soon as she has had breakfast, she comes to the fence of the front yard,

bringing a basket of dog bread. She gives a whistle, and when the dogs are all collected

then she begins throwing them bread, bit by bit, aiming it so carefully that even the

stupidest, slowest dog of them gets at least one piece. Then sometimes she will go

inside the fence of the big field and throw a ball for the dogs to chase, and Flo says

that when Miss Letty calls the dog who wins by name, or praises him, he likes it better

than a bone, and wags away like mad. So now the kennel dogs have two things a day

to look forward to, supper at night, and Miss Letty in the morning."

"I call that a very stupid life," said Waddles, yawning and stretching in his turn. "Isn't

there any real hunting or real fun?"

"Yes, in the autumn and once already this season there was a hunt, Flo says. It was

Miss Letty who let the dogs out to go to it, and Silver Tongue, the foxhound, who

showed them the way. My, but they had fine running and catching, only Flo says that

their getting out was an accident, and that Mr. Hugh was very angry, but Squire

Burley and Miss Jule only laughed and laughed, and it was a week before the dogs all

got back."

"Hurry up, and go on and tell about it," said Waddles, sniffing uneasily. "Mistress will

be at home soon, and then you will have to go out to bed, and I won’t hear what they

hunted."

"They are here now," said Happy, holding her head on one side, for though she could

not hear, she could feel the vibration of coming footsteps.

"Keep quiet," said Waddles, "it is so dark that maybe mistress will go by and forget

you."

The master went through the hallway to the library, Tommy stumbled sleepily along

toward the stairs, holding his mother's hand, and Anne called Waddles and went up to

bed.

From "Dogtown," by Mabel Osgood Wright

THE AIREDALE

The Airedale has been famous since 1850 as one of the most useful and friendly of

dogs. His name comes from the river Aire in Yorkshire. Here the hardy Yorkshiremen

bred a dog that would chase otters in the swift streams that feed the Aire. They hunted

rabbits, too, for rabbit pie, and they ran down the rascally badgers in their snug dens

in the hills. It takes a clever, obedient, brave dog to hunt like this, sometimes at night,

on land and on water; and the Yorkshiremen set about to breed such a dog. The result

is the Airedale of to-day, famous over the entire world.

He will drive sheep or cattle; he will help drag a sled; he will tend the baby; he will

hunt anything from a bear to a field mouse. He can run like a wolf, and he takes to

water like an otter. He is kind, obedient, and thoroughly trustworthy as a playmate for

children, or as a watchman.

He is not very beautiful. But his spirited eyes and his mouth, that seems to smile so

often, are winning, and there are fine lines beneath his wiry, shaggy coat. It is really a

double coat. On top there is wiry thick hair which is a perfect armor against all kinds

of thorns, claws, and teeth. In this jacket, Mr. Airedale can take a swim in the river,

scramble out, shake himself, roll over, and be dry.

The names of some famous Airedales make a jolly list: Bruce, Young Tanner, Rustic

Twig, Clonmel Marvel, Dumbarton Lass, Bath Lady, Broadlands Bashful, Tone Jerry,

Bandolero, Master Briar, York the Conqueror.

In the great dog show of 1922 the highest prize went to an Airedale, Boxwood

Barkentine. This has happened twice before, at the Westminster Kennel Club Show.

The other Airedale winners were Briargate Brightview and Kenmare Sorceress. One of

the judges who helped award the trophy said that the winner was almost the perfect

Airedale, but that one ear was not quite as perfect as the other! But all the judges and

all the people at the ringside agreed that Barkentine was "King of the ring and king of

the country." His silhouette, at the top of the page, does not show those questionable

ears, but it gives you a good idea of this great champion's important lines.

A New York newspaper on the day after the dog show said:

This year the winner is an Airedale terrier with the happy name of Boxwood

Barkentine, an upstanding dog with an active eye in a square head, a black saddle,

chest deep and muscular, hind quarters of power, and a tail stiff enough to hang your

hat on. In vain the nervous wirehaired fox terrier, the brusque Irish terrier, the

arrogant Chow, the great shepherd Dolf von Dusternbrook, the lordly St. Bernard, the

slim greyhound and the rugged little Scot, Jeanie Deans, posed and showed their

paces. Boxwood Barkentine looked every inch a champion. His is a popular victory, for

the Airedale is the reigning favorite among dog owners—a one-man dog, a dog of sense

and of courage and tenacity, a land dog, a water dog, a dependable dog, a dog to swear

by.

Adapted from "The Airedale," by Williams Haynes, in "The Outing Handbook Series"

THE RUNAWAY PUPPIES

IT will never be known who the leader was. But there must have been one, for five

puppies cannot think of the same thing at the same minute. Besides, where several

get into mischief there is always a leader, of that you may be sure.

These five had been told again and again how lovely and cunning they were. Every

time they had tried to do anything, someone had been near to help them.

They were in the big box in the carriage house. Their mother, Gypsy, had been gone—

well, it was a century to those fat white pups, who had hardly been alone a moment

since they knew anything. The family had gone for a drive, taking John, the

coachman. Jim, the gardener, was transplanting the strawberries. Gypsy, dear,

faithful Gypsy, had not left them until they were all asleep.

Daisy woke up first, and scrambled to her feet. That woke Bijou, Dash, Flipper, and

Wrinkle. They suddenly rose to their feet as if expecting something to happen. And it

did, for a few minutes later all five were out of the barn and running across the

orchard and had wriggled through the fence into the poultry yard. Daisy was leading

them. The moment this procession got into the yard, such a cackling, quacking,

gobbling, hissing arose as you never heard before.

The procession was appalled. It could not get back through the fence without turning

round, and that would mean losing sight of the terrible creatures that were massed in

front of them.

"Oh!" whimpered Daisy. "Hush!" ordered Dash. Flipper's tail was stiff with fright.

Wrinkle's back had several more of the ridges that gave him his name. "What shall we

do?" asked Bijou, in a voice he tried to make brave.

"Stand still," said Dash. Easier said than done; he was trembling with fear himself.

They faced these threatening, noisy enemies. The enemies were greatly frightened

themselves at this invasion by four-footed people, but they kept it a secret and the

hissing, gobbling, quacking, cackling, increased until it was terrible.

Dash said something, and suddenly the puppies all ran, Dash in the lead, for the

opposite fence and wriggled through into the open field on the other side. They did not

look behind them; they did not listen, or they would have discovered that the noise

had ceased and that the feathered people were standing gazing at the place in the

fence through which Dash, Bijou, Flipper, Wrinkle and Daisy had disappeared. On

and on they ran, until, looking back, Daisy missed Wrinkle. "Dear, dear!" she cried.

This stopped the others. "Where, where! Oh, where is my darling Wrinkle?" He was

nowhere in sight. Wrinkle was lost. This was the most terrible thing that had come to

them. What would their mother say? Oh! Could those terrible creatures have eaten

him?

They turned back, Daisy leading them. On they walked, heads down, tails drooping.

Could these be the frolicking puppies who made everybody laugh?

In a hollow out of which a big tree had been taken lay little Wrinkle, panting. He was

not injured, but he could not get out. Daisy found him and gave a glad bark. How they

jumped when they saw him! But they could not get him out. They hung over the edge,

but they were helpless.

How hungry and tired they were! How they longed for their dear mother and home! At

last, discouraged and hopeless, they lay round the edge of the big hole, looking at

poor, tired Wrinkle.

Suddenly the four rose to their feet. Their tails gave signs of life. They looked, then all

rushed to the far side of the hole, and then it did seem as if their tails would come off.

There were Ruth and Harry running over the field toward them. Coming more slowly,

were big brother George and Gypsy and the coachman.

"Here they are, the darlings!" said Ruth, who looked as if she had been crying. "Where

is Wrinkle? Where is my own darling Wrinkle?" she asked, standing still with clasped

hands.

George began to run, and nearly fell on top of Wrinkle. Down he jumped, caught

the puppy in his arms, and scrambled out to Ruth, giving Wrinkle to her.

Then another procession went across the field, George leading, with Daisy in his arms.

She did not understand him, of course, when he said, "You won't play this trick again.

We'll put wire on the fences."

Mamma Gypsy carried Dash, who looked so meek that you would never dream he had

given an order, or led his brothers and sister through the enemy's lines.

She lay on the floor while her children were eating their supper of bread and milk,

standing round the big pan.

This is what she heard:

"I never want to go into the world." This was Daisy. The others said: "We will grow

bigger, and go with mother." "I shall keep very close to her, very close," murmured

Wrinkle, as he gave a sorrowful little sigh.

From "The Outlook Story Book," by Laura Winnington

A WINTER MORNING ON THE FARM

THE farm looked strange to Jim and Peggy when they went outside next morning.

Everything was blanketed in snow. The woodpile was covered with it. You could see

the shape of the top pieces of wood through the blanket. In the garden there were just

a few old, broken cornstalks sticking up through.

Andy had been out with a shovel and a broom, and brushed the blanket aside in front

of the kitchen door. He had swept a path from there around to the summer kitchen

and the woodshed, out to the barn, across to the tool shed, and over to the chicken

house.

Outside of the path there were tracks here and there in the white blanket. Jim and

Peggy could see where Dan had gone by pulling the sleigh after him, where Spot had

been racing around, and the trails that the turkeys had made. The turkeys were

nowhere in sight now. But in a moment the children spied Brownie and Jerry, the

ducks, on the steps of the summer kitchen, where there wasn't any snow. Peggy ran

back into the kitchen and found some crusts of bread for them.

When the children went into the barn everything looked familiar again. There was the

wall of hay, with the ladder running up toward the roof—though the wall wasn't as

high or as long as it had been. Back where the stalls were, Dan and Ben and Milly

stuck their noses out. Peter came sauntering along from the tool room, where he was

still busy catching mice.

In the wing of the barn where the cows were kept, Belinda and the rest were lined up

with their heads through the square wood frames. There was no green pasture outside

now for them to graze on. They spent most of the time in the barn, except when Andy

let them out into the feed yard to exercise.

Horace and Jane came out to the barn and joined them. Andy took Ben out of his

stall, put the harness on him, and hitched him to the sled.

He was going to bring back the cow that Uncle David had bought.

Jane and Peggy walked over to the chicken house to gather the eggs and say good

morning to Hiram, the white rooster. Jane had a little round basket with her.

"You're not going to get the eggs in that little basket, are you?" asked Peggy.

Jane laughed.

"Hens don't lay much this time of year," she said. "I think they must get tired in

winter. Half of ours aren't laying at all, and the rest don't seem very busy."

"Maybe that's why mamma said that eggs cost so much at the grocery in the city last

week," remarked Peggy.

Jim and Horace took Spot with them and went down to the brook. Jim looked into the

top of the box over the ram. It was still chugging away.

Just beyond the bridge the boys found tracks in the snow, leading along the brook.

There were two round tracks, and, just ahead of them, two longer ones; next, a space

of two or three feet, and then another set of round tracks and long ones.

"Look where a rabbit's been hopping," said Horace. "He wasn't scared either. See, he

made only short jumps."

"Why are the tracks shaped like that?" inquired Jim.

"The little round tracks are his front feet, and the long ones are his hind feet. He

always sets his hind feet down ahead of his front ones when he hops."

"Did you* get any of the woodchucks?" asked Jim. "You know—the ones we were going

to set traps for the day I went back home."

Horace shook his head.

"I think they moved away. Or else Spot scared them. I got a skunk, though," he added.

"Caught him at a hole under the chicken house fence."

They walked on down the brook. Here and there the snow was halfway to their knees,

where the wind had drifted little hollows full of it. The bushes were bent over with a

heavy white crust frozen to their branches.

The surface of the brook was covered with ice. They could walk on it almost anywhere.

But they had to watch out when they came to places where the water ran fast over

stones, or down over a log. In one place like that there was no ice at all.

Spot had disappeared. They ran across his tracks beside the bank of the brook. Soon

they heard him barking, somewhere up the slope above them.

"Let's see what he's found," said Horace.

They hurried through the meadow, climbed the fence, and crossed the field where the

corn had been. At the farther side Spot was digging away in the snow at the foot of a

pile of rocks. When he saw the boys coming he barked and dug all the harder, sending

snow and leaves flying out between his hind legs.

There was a fence beside the rocks. On the snow along the fence, and all around the

rocks, were little tracks, a good deal like those that the rabbit made, but much

smaller. Some of them led toward the foot of a tree nearby.

Horace looked up into the tree. Then he walked around to another side and looked up

from there.

"Spot," he called. "You foolish dog! There he is, up in the tree."

Jim looked, and pretty soon made out a red squirrel, sitting quietly on a big limb,

close to the trunk.

They had a great time persuading Spot to give up digging. He couldn't get it out of his

head that there was a squirrel in the rocks, waiting to be dug out.

Finally they induced him to come on with them, back toward the house.

From "Jim and Peggy at Meadowbrook Farm," by Walter C. O'Kane

ALICE IN WONDERLAND AND THE PUPPY

"The first thing I've got to do," said Alice to herself,

as she wandered about in the wood, "is to grow to

my right size again; and the second thing is to find

my way into that lovely garden. I think that will be

the best plan."

It sounded an excellent plan, no doubt, and very

neatly and simply arranged: the only difficulty was

that she had not the smallest idea how to set about

it; and, while she was peering about anxiously

among the trees, a little sharp bark just over her

head made her look up in a great hurry.

An enormous puppy was looking down at her with

large round eyes, and feebly stretching out one paw,

trying to touch her. "Poor little thing!" said Alice, in

a coaxing tone, and she tried hard to whistle to it;

but she was terribly frightened all the time at the

thought that it might be hungry, in which case it

would be very likely to eat her up in spite of all her coaxing.

Hardly knowing what she did, she picked up a little bit of stick and held it out to

the puppy, whereupon the puppy jumped into the air off all its feet at once with a yelp

of delight, and rushed at the stick, and made believe to worry it; then Alice dodged

behind a great thistle to keep herself from being run over; and, the moment she

appeared on the other side, the puppy made another rush at the stick, and tumbled

head over heels in its hurry to get hold of it; then Alice, thinking it was very like

having a game of play with a cart horse, and expecting every moment to be trampled

under its feet, ran round the thistle again; then the puppy began a series of short

charges at the stick, running a very little way forward each time and a long way back,

and barking hoarsely all the while, till at last it sat down a good way off, panting, with

its tongue hanging out of its mouth, and its great eyes half shut.

This seemed to Alice a good opportunity for making her escape: so she set off at once,

and ran till she was quite tired and out of breath, and till the puppy's bark sounded

quite faint in the distance.

From "Alice in Wonderland," by Lewis Carroll

THE FAITHFUL FRIEND

LONG ago, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the Bodisat became his

minister.

At that time a dog used to go to the state elephant's stable and feed on the lumps of

rice which fell where the elephant fed. Being attracted there by the food, he soon

became great friends with the elephant and used to eat close beside him. At last

neither of them was happy without the other; and the dog used to amuse himself by

catching hold of the elephant's trunk, and swinging to and fro.

But one day there came a peasant, who gave the elephant keeper money for

the dog, and took it back with him to his village. From that time the elephant, missing

the dog, would neither eat nor drink nor bathe. And they let the King know about it.

He sent the Bodisat, saying: "Do you go, Pandit, and find out what's the cause of this

elephant's behavior."

So he went to the stable, and seeing how sad the elephant looked, said to himself:

"There seems to be nothing bodily the matter with him. He must be so overwhelmed

with grief by missing some one, I should think, who had become near and dear to

him."

And he asked the elephant keepers: "Is there any one with whom he was particularly

intimate?"

"Certainly, sir! There was a dog of whom he was very fond indeed!"

"Where is it now?"

"Some man or other took it away."

"Do you know where the man lives?"

"No, sir!"

Then the Bodisat went and told the King.

"There's nothing the matter with the elephant, your majesty; but he was great friends

with a dog, and I fancy it's through missing it, that he refuses his food."

When the King heard what he said, he asked what was now to be done.

"Have a proclamation made, O King, to this effect: 'A man is said to have taken away

a dog of whom our state elephant was fond. In whoever’s house that dog shall be

found, he shall be fined so much!'"

The King did so; and, as soon as he heard of it, the man turned the dog loose.

The dog hastened back, and went close up to the elephant. The elephant took him up

in his trunk and placed him on his forehead, and wept and cried, and took him down

again, and watched him as he fed. And then he took his own food.

Then the King paid great honor to the Bodisat for knowing the motives even of

animals.

From "Eastern Stories and Legends," by Marie L. Shedlock

TO THE MEMORY OF SQUOUNCER

Squouncer was a dog by himself. Other dogs may boast of belonging to large families

of collies, greyhounds or dandies, with cousins as numerous as the sands of the sea;

but there could only have been one Squouncer.

How did he get his name? Well, his master (before he became his master) saw the

word Squouncer in a book he was reading, and thought it so delightful that he

instantly made up his mind to search through the world till he could find a dog that

would fit it.

And one day he found Squouncer. What was he like? He was what the French call a

"Beau-laid"—"beautiful ugly." His ancestors may have been bulldogs. Squouncer was a

middling-sized dog, with a golden brown skin, much the color of dark amber. He had a

broad face, and a nose which stuck out and gave him the air of what used to be

known as a "fire-eater." But a milder mannered dog never snorted when he breathed—

as long as there was no food in sight. Then, all the lion in Squouncer's forefathers

arose and woe be to the person who came in his way.

It was just because he was so different from any other dog that ever was, or ever will

be that his master and mistress were so fond of him. He was not even a very

courageous dog (except where his food was concerned). And he never could make up

his mind what he wanted to do— what he ought to do. Sometimes his master and

mistress used to amuse themselves with this weakness of his. They would sit, each at

the end of a long room, and one would call, "Squouncer." Squouncer, who had been

taught very early in life to come when he was called, rose to obey. "Squouncer," said a

voice behind him before he got halfway. He stopped, listened, and turned slowly

around. "Squouncer" was again repeated from the further corner, and poor Squouncer

halted again, and looked piteously from one to the other. But he never thought of

doing the only sensible thing, which was to lie down before the fire and pay no

attention to anybody.

One dreadful day, a young black retriever suddenly appeared in the house. There

ought to have been nothing disturbing in this, as the animal was friendly and playful

and quite ready to be polite to Squouncer, who was an older dog than he. But

Squouncer's thoughts flew at once to dinner time and so did his master's and

mistress's and they determined to watch and see what would happen.

What did happen was this: The two large tin plates were placed side by side in the

tiled hall, each filled with a delicious mess, enough to warm the heart of any dog. And

not only his heart—for if you had once looked at Squouncer going to his dinner, you

would have had no difficulty in understanding the expression, "Your eyes starting out

of your head."

Well, Squouncer dashed straight at his plate—the biggest, you may be sure, and the

fullest—and gobbled up the contents so fast, and with such a disgusting noise, that

the tin plate performed a kind of dance all round the hall, Squouncer's tongue never

leaving it as long as the tiniest scrap remained. When it was as bare as Mother

Hubbard's cupboard, he left it and pushing the retriever (who was taking his dinner in

a polite and gentlemanly manner) rudely to one side, he began the same game over

again. The retriever was so astonished at this behavior that he meekly stood back, and

before he collected his senses the second plate was as bare as the first. Then

Squouncer's master thought it was time to interfere, and took the retriever off to the

kitchen where he might eat his food in peace.

This success was very bad for Squouncer, for it made him despise his new companion,

and think he could treat him as he chose. For several days he continued to swallow

his own dinner with the same noise and indecent haste, so as to secure the best part

of Negro's. He did not even take the trouble to be pleasant to him between whiles.

When, one afternoon after a huge meal, Negro discovered him secretly burying some

pheasant bones under a tree until he should have recovered sufficient appetite to eat

them, the retriever's temper gave way. He resolved he would stand this sort of thing no

longer.

So the next day at two o'clock, when the plates were put out for dinner, and

Squouncer's was heard rattling round the hall as usual, Negro cocked his ears and

made ready for battle. Suddenly the noise ceased, and a second later he was almost

thrown down by a violent rush as Squouncer advanced to the charge. What happened

next no one knows clearly. But a frightful shriek brought every one into the hall,

where a black and yellow ball was rolling wildly about. The black half was uppermost,

and was hauled off by his master. And then Squouncer's leg was found to be broken.

Poor Squouncer! He never recovered from the shock and shame of that fight. He was

so unhappy whenever he looked at his conqueror, that his mistress took pity on him

and gave Negro to some friends. After awhile the broken leg mended (though it left a

limp behind), and Squouncer's appetite was as healthy as ever. He lived many years,

and his death, in a good old age, left a blank in the house. A black Spanish bulldog

now reigns in his stead, which may have its virtues, but will never be half as good

company on a wet day as Squouncer.

From "The Red Boole of Animal Stories," selected and edited by Andrew Lang

THE PUPPIES WHO LIVED ON THE ROOF

In New York City there's a tall building that looks like many other buildings with its

rows of staring window-eyes, and its cornices way up against the sky. You look far up,

and the top finishes off square like any proper building.

But on the top of this building there live three bulldog puppies. Yes sir-ee, really and

truly. Once Annabel Louise Jones went to call on them, and she saw them with her

own eyes.

She walked into an elevator that shot up, and up, and up. She walked even higher, up

some little turning stairs. She went in a door like any other door—and there she was

in a little house, way up in the sky. There were white curtains flowing at the windows,

and on beyond there was blue sky, and white clouds, and more blue sky. The windows

to the right looked out at another tall building. But all the other windows looked over

the roofs away far to fairy places.

"Ki yi! Ki yi yi! Grrrrrump!" "Who's that?" said Annabel Louise, with a start.

"Just puppies, Nancy," said her mother.

"But we must see the puppies right away," said the lady who lived in the little roof

house.

So they walked out into her yard. Oooh, what a wind blew there! It made Annabel

Louise's pink skirts wave out like a flag, and her hair whistled at her ears.

What a queer front yard. The floor of the roof was all painted dark brown. Behind the

little house, clothes were flapping out to dry. Boxes of flowers were bright in the

corners and a little tree grew in a tub by the front door. At the side, there was a big

wired-in space, and three brown and white bulldog puppies were clamoring at the

wire.

Annabel Louise squeezed her hand through the wire and patted their funny heads,

and pulled their ears. When they snapped at her fingers, it didn't hurt at all.

One puppy went right back to the piece of dog biscuit he was worrying about. One

turned his back and sat gazing into the sky. And one kept jumping at Annabel Louise,

and trying to nip her fingers. They had big round heads, and great brown eyes, but

very small bodies, and the most foolish little soft legs that wobbled when they walked.

"This wind is too dreadful! One has to shout to talk! Let's go in," said Mrs. Jones.

"Nancy may stay out here with the puppies. Do you want to, Nancy?"

Annabel Louise looked at the high cornice, all round the yard, which was up to her

chin. No, she wasn't afraid. She wanted to stay and watch the sky.

The door shut and mother appeared at the window, watching her and talking. She

looked at the blue sky all about her, and took a deep breath of the great wind. What

lucky puppies, to live way up here. She wondered what they could see of all this skiey

world, and sat down on a low little bench beside the cage.

The puppies couldn't see any of the comfortable little roofs of red houses and brown

houses, nor any church spires, nor any thin white streaks of street and sidewalk way

below.

The puppies could see the big building on the right, just its top stories, and the people

in its windows, working away at their desks or tables. They looked like little toy

people.

The puppies could see a fairylike tower, pale blue in the distance, way off against the

edge of the sky.

The puppies could see wonderful clouds—waving pennants of soft white clouds,

streaming across the bright blue of the sunny sky. They could wink at the sun

himself, when he got a little higher. There was a seagull, slowly turning on quiet

wings, way, way up and out. Annabel Louise wished that she could fly like that. She

watched the seagull for ever so long, while the puppies made little whining noises,

begging her to look at them, instead.

Suddenly there was a queer rough buzzing sound, like a great bumble bee. It came

nearer and nearer. It was right over their heads. It was an airplane!

The puppies sat quite still with surprise on their wobbly little legs, for at least one

minute. Annabel shaded her eyes and looked up. It was as beautiful as the gull,

shining in the sun, and turning in great curves over the city. The puppies barked

loudly and ran about wildly as they watched it. What a wonderful place a roof was,

indeed! The plane circled so low that Annabel thought she could see the man in it. Oh,

no, those were the great goggle eyes of the airplane itself, and the man must be

steering inside.

Suddenly a burst of white left the side of the plane. It separated into long streaks of

white paper that fluttered slowly down to the city. If only one would come to Annabel!

She held her breath—yes, it was coming. It fell slowly down, straight into the puppies'

cage. If it had been hers, she would have kept it forever, this wonderful present from

the sky. But she couldn't reach it, and the excited puppies tore it into tiny shreds in

two winks.

"There's another!" shouted Annabel. The puppies saw it, too, and leaped against the

wire. She ran over toward the cornice to get it. But it was just beyond her reach. She

watched it float lazily down, turning into funny shapes, now like an S, now like an O,

now like a V, until some children snatched it in the street far below. Why! Here she

was looking way down without holding on to mother's hand. And it wasn't the least bit

frightening. But she guessed she'd run back to the puppies, and talk it over with

them.

The puppies were resting after the excitement. They puffed and heaved their fat little

bodies. The airplane was a white shadow in the sunlight far off by the fairy tower, and

its buzz was lost in the wind.

But other noises the puppies must hear all day long. There was a dull purr and a

pounding from the street below and the auto horns sounded like the puppies' sharp

little barks. What did they think of those whistles from the river? It must be the ships.

And the sharpest whistles, the tugboats. There's a big long one. "That must mean that

a ship is starting to cross the ocean," thought Annabel.

The puppies were sound asleep when mother knocked on the window. "Time to go

home!" So she had to leave the windy roof and the lucky puppies who could hear the

ships all day long, and watch the gulls, and talk with the airplanes.

Down, down went the elevator, and mother walked quickly across the great wide street

that had looked so narrow from the roof.

"It must be fun to be roof puppies," said Annabel Louise Jones. "I'll never, never forget

them. But my own puppy must be happier with our big yard to play in, don't you

think so, mother?"

"Your Towzer is a lucky dog," said her mother. "But why do you think he is happier

than the roof puppies?"

"Oh, he can smell the good grass, and dig under the hedge, and chase other dogs out

of the garden, and—and he can see the sky too, all the time."

"Perhaps someday the roof puppies will come down to the earth to live." And Mrs.

Jones and Annabel walked down the subway stairs to go home to Towzer.

THE DOG NURSE

In one of the nicest rooms in the world, there were beds for three little children. They

were called John, and Wendy, and Michael, and their father and mother were Mr. and

Mrs. Darling. The room was wide and high and had a large window. There was a bright

fire with a high fireguard round it, a big clock, and some pretty pictures on the walls.

Mr. and Mrs. Darling had a nice little maid, but the children were bathed and dressed

by a big St. Bernard dog. The dog was called Nana, and her kennel was kept in the

playroom.

On the day on which our story begins, Nana was asleep by the fire with her head upon

her paws. Mr. and Mrs. Darling were to go out to dinner, and Nana was to be left in

charge of the children.

All at once the clock went off, and struck,—one, two, three, four, five, six,—time to

begin to put the children to bed.

Nana got up with a yawn, and turned on the light with great care. You would have

been pleased to see how well she did this with her mouth. Then she turned the bed

clothes down and hung the little nightgowns over the fireguard.

Next she trotted up to the bathroom and turned on the water tap. She felt it with her

paw to make sure that it was not too hot. Then she went off to look for Michael. He

being the little one must go to bed first, of course.

She returned at once with him sitting on her back as though she were a pony.

Michael, like so many boys, did not want his bath, but Nana was firm. She took him to

the bathroom and shut the door so that he should not take cold. Then Mrs. Darling

came to peep at him as he jumped about in the nice warm water.

Whilst Mrs. Darling was in the bathroom, she heard a wee noise outside the window. A

tiny boy, about as big as John, tried to open the window, but ran away at once when

she called out. She opened the window, but there was nothing to be seen except the

dim roofs of the nearest houses, and the deep blue sky above.

The day before the same little boy had tried to come in, and Nana had gone to the

window and shut it down so quickly that she had cut off the boy's shadow.

Mrs. Darling had found it in Nana's mouth, and had folded it with care and put it

away. But she soon felt happy again when her children came in together in answer to

her call. John and Wendy were playing at their pet game of being father and mother.

Mrs. Darling's kind face smiled with delight as she heard them.

All at once, in rushed Mr. Darling in a great hurry because he could not fasten his tie

(ties are hard things to fasten, you know). Mrs. Darling soon did that for him and he

then began to skip about the room with Michael on his back. At last he dropped him

into his bed with a big bump!

Sad to say, in going to the bathroom, Nana brushed against Mr. Darling, and she left

some of her gray hairs upon him. No grown-up person likes hairs on his clothes, so

Mr. Darling was very cross with Nana, and spoke of sending her away. But Mrs.

Darling told him about the little boy at the window. How Nana had barked at him and

shut the window down so fast that his shadow had been cut clean off and left behind.

She showed him the shadow, and told him how glad she was to have such a good

nurse as Nana.

"You see how very useful Nana is," said Mrs. Darling, as the clever dog came in with

Michael's dose of cough mixture in a bottle.

But Michael was not good and would not take it, and there was a fine fuss over it.

Wendy, being a clever little girl, hit on a good way to get him to take it.

"Father should take some, too, and then Michael will not mind so much."

"Very well," said father, "we shall see who is the braver." Two glasses were fetched and

filled at once. "One, two, three," cried Wendy, and Michael took his like a man.

Mr. Darling only played at taking his, and then hid the glass behind his back. John

caught him in the act:

"Father hasn't taken his!" he cried. Michael, seeing that he had been tricked, burst out

crying.

Mr. Darling, to quiet Michael, played what seemed to him a funny joke. He poured his

dose into Nana's water bowl and poor Nana, thinking it was nice, ran quickly to lap it

up.

Mr. Darling laughed to see the sad look in her eyes as she turned round after drinking

it. The children, who loved their old nurse very much, were sorry for her as she crept

to her kennel. She looked as sad and as hurt in her feelings as ever a dog did.

Mr. Darling was cross because no one enjoyed his joke in the least. So he drew Nana

out of her kennel, took her by the collar, and dragged her out of the room. Then he

tied her up in the yard, "the proper place for dogs," he said. He would not listen to the

sobs of the children.

Mrs. Darling tried to comfort them, kissing them very tenderly, as mothers always do.

Then she tucked them up in their beds, sang them to sleep, and left the night lights

burning for company. Last of all, she crept softly out of the room to go to the party

with Mr. Darling.

What happened that night, how the children went off with Peter Pan and Tinkerbell,

you may read in the little book of "Peter Pan," or in the big book of "Peter and Wendy."

If you are lucky, some day you may see the play of Peter Pan, with the dog nurse Nana

as big as life. You will find the story of the kitten called Peter Pan farther on in this

book.

Adapted from "The Story of Peter Pan for Little People"

AN ESKIMO DOG

I WAS born during the short, hot Arctic summer. My mother belonged to an Eskimo,

who was a famous seal hunter. His tribe was very proud of him. He was the only man

who had five dogs. He needed us to haul his many skins—seal skins, caribou skins,

bear skins—and his few other belongings, when he moved from one hunting ground to

another.

During the first summer I played about in the grass of the great plain. I chased the

butterflies and bumble bees, and I fought the dreadful mosquitoes, which almost

made me blind. As my master's family traveled along the coast, they fished with a

great net. I used to steal the fish from the net as it was pulled in.

At night I learned to know the call of the loon, and of the owls. I wished that I could

make these noises, so that the birds would come near me. My master used to make a

noise "Kangok! Kangok!" like the Snow Goose, and make whole flocks of Snow Geese

come near enough for him to shoot with his crossbow. To catch the White Fronted

Goose, he called "Lirk-a-lik-lik-lik," and they circled over his head.

In the winter I had my first work to do, pulling a sled with my mother. The snow

seemed a very fine change from the mosquitoes! My master's tribe built a snow house

village. My house was put up faster than any of the others; it was all finished in two

hours. It had a fine alleyway where we dogs slept when it was too stormy or cold for us

outside. Through this alley, fresh air came into the little round house. We liked

sleeping out of doors, making comfortable holes for ourselves in the snow.

At meal time we stood in line in the doorway of the house. As the family finished their

fish or meat they would throw the bones to us. Each of us caught ours in turn, and

went back into the alleyway to eat it. Then we came back and took our right place in

line.

One day a man with yellow hair and blue eyes, very different from my Eskimo people,

came to see us. He bought me and took me away. He was an explorer and I pulled his

sledge. He never sat on it himself, nor did any of his men. The Eskimo children used

to sit on their sledges, and I was very angry when I had to pull them. So I decided that

these were very good people. They gave me fine pieces of meat, too, so I grew fat, and

very big and strong.

We had many adventures together. Once, without knowing it, we found ourselves out

on sea ice only four or five inches thick. It was dark, and there were great black spots

where the ice had melted. We saw a herd of caribou traveling not far ahead, and

followed their tracks. If the ice were going to break, it would break under the caribou

first! They took a very zigzag path, but they led us to land at last. They knew the way

from island to island, and were safe guides.

When seals were caught, we dogs would each pull one back to camp. When a big seal

was caught, each of us would pull a piece of it. When bears or caribou were caught,

we would pull them on the sledge. If they were very heavy, camp would be moved to

where they lay.

Sometimes we were so excited when a bear came near the camp that we almost broke

our leashes trying to get at him. I used to long to hunt foxes and wolves and

wolverines that the white men chased. But my job was to pull the sledges, not to hunt.

So I had to lie still. But I barked loudly when the hunters came back with a good kill.

It meant a big dinner for me.

These white men did queer things. When we peeked in their tents or snow houses at

night, they would be making tiny marks in little books or on sheets of paper by the

light of the oil lamps. And when we met new Eskimos they made them stand up, very

still, and snapped their black boxes at them. We found out that these little boxes or

"cameras" took "still" pictures, and that the big boxes with handles that they turned as

if grinding took moving pictures. I wish we could see some of these pictures, for we are

in most of them.

I hope that they never will take me to that land which they talk about where there are

great "cities." I can see that my Eskimo people don't like it, when they tell them about

it, and I wouldn't like it either. What I'd like best of all would be to get off with my

second cousins, the wolves, and have a good race.

One of my drivers says he hopes we can go to a city in Alaska called Nome, where

there are dog-sledge races. He thinks that he and I would win! Well, I've no doubt we

would, and I hope this explorer stays up here long enough to do it.

Adapted from "My Life with the Eskimo," by Vilhjalmur Stefansson

MICKY

MICKY lives in a tall narrow red brick house in the city. It has a small back yard and

four long flights of stairs and a doctor's office on the first floor. Once Micky chewed up

a patient's hat, but he was spanked, so he never did it again. Twice he worried the

rose bushes, and that meant two more spankings.

His doctor has an automobile, and every Saturday the doctor gets into the left hand

front seat, and Micky into the right hand front seat, and off they go to their farm. One

Saturday they stopped to make a call. Micky was talking with a great many ladies in

the library. They were saying, "He's such a lively puppy!" "Fine specimen of the real

Bull Terrier." "Sit down, sir!" "Come here, sir!"— until poor Micky's head was whirling.

He never noticed that his doctor had slipped off with the only other man present, to

show him his car. Suddenly Micky remembered the farm, and the trip, and dashed

impatiently to the front door of the strange house. His car and his doctor were gone!

He came slowly back to the ladies, moaning and groaning, with a howl thrown in every

other minute. "Poor puppy!" they said. "Never mind, he'll soon be back." But Micky

moaned until he heard the car coming around the corner.

Micky loved to go to the farm because he could chase so many fine animals there:

woodchucks, rabbits, raccoons, skunks, and rats in the old barn. One day he was

heard madly barking in the woods. Suddenly he appeared jumping over a stone wall,

his head held high and a dead woodchuck in his mouth. He followed his master,

carrying the woodchuck in his mouth. The woodchuck was very heavy and Micky

became tired, but still he trudged on. Reaching a stream, poor thirsty Micky dropped

the heavy woodchuck on the bank and waded in to take a drink. Then he saw how

bloody the dead woodchuck was. Picking him up carefully in his mouth, he washed

the woodchuck clean in the brook, and then carried him to a quiet place beside the

stone wall. The other dogs were watching but pretending not to notice. There Micky

scratched a deep hole in the ground, and dropped the woodchuck into it. He covered it

up with the dirt he had scratched out, pushing it in with his nose and stamping it

down. Lastly he pushed a lot of leaves over the hole, nosing them around with great

care. The hound and the terrier wanted most dreadfully to eat that woodchuck. They

had watched all this from the corners of their eyes. But at a bark from Micky, all three

trotted off toward home, having carefully made note of the spot where the woodchuck

was buried for a hungry day in the future.

One day the doctor was suddenly called away to a great city. Although Micky tried as

hard as he could to be taken in the car, the doctor said to John, the old caretaker,

"You must take good care of Micky here, for I am afraid that he will be lost in the

strange city if he goes with me." So Micky was left behind. He moped around all day

and would eat nothing. Toward evening he strayed away from the house and in spite of

the coaxing of kind old John, refused to come in. For two nights poor Micky slept on

the bridge in the cold awaiting his master's return. But on the third day the broken-

hearted dog was rewarded for his long waiting. As Micky recognized the car coming up

the hill, he rushed madly down the roadway, yelping with delight. He did that queer

thing which all bulldogs do, ran around in circles dragging his hind legs. Then he

jumped into the car beside his master, grinning with happiness.

DOG WORDS AND DOG SAYINGS

"Dog-gerel" means poor verses; a "dog-eared" book is a book whose pages have been

folded over at the corners; "dog days" mean hot, uncomfortable days when

the "Dog Star" rules the sky; "gone to the dogs"

is said of a man whose good character is gone.

These unpleasant phrases do not sound as if

the people who formed our language were very

fond of dogs, do they? And it is true that for

hundreds of years, dogs were despised, even

though they had been man's "first friend," and

had helped him in his life in the woods, on the

plains, or on the mountains. It was the dog who

gave warning of strangers, who helped in the hunt, who herded the flocks.

But in Greece and in Syria, long ago, the dog had no defenders. In Egypt, however,

dogs were so very highly respected that dog-headed gods were worshiped, and one

whole city was built in honor of a dog. This may have made the Greeks hate the dogs

all the more, because the Egyptians were their enemies, also the Babylonians, who

had dog-headed gods too.

There came a time when Egyptian customs were fashionable in Rome. For this reason,

or perhaps because they appreciated their help, the Romans were not so hostile to

dogs. There are dogs in statues with their young men and children. Pet dogs appear in

some of their writings.

"Not fit for a dog" and "dog-in-the-manger" were Greek phrases long ago. Do you

remember the dog fables in Aesop? How do you think he felt toward them? He was a

Greek slave who lived in Rome. Some of his fables are in this book.

In the wonderful Greek epics, the Iliad and the Odyssey, dogs are spoken of with

contempt in the first book and praised in the second. There is a picture of Odysseus

coming home after his long journey. He was so changed, so worn, so bedraggled, that

no one knew him but his old dog Argos. Argos had been his gay comrade on the chase,

long ago before Odysseus left for the Trojan Wars. For all these years he had been

neglected and left alone. Now he just had strength to wag his tail and try to reach his

long lost master before he died. All this is told in the Odyssey. In "The Children's

Homer," it says:

"Now as they went through the courtyard a thing happened that dashed Odysseus'

eyes with tears. A hound lay in the dirt of the yard, a hound that was very old. All

uncared for he lay in the dirt, old and feeble. But he had been a famous hound, and

Odysseus himself had trained him before he went to the wars of Troy. Argos was his

name. Now as Odysseus came near, the hound Argos knew him, and stood up before

him and whined and dropped his ears, but had no strength to come near him.

Odysseus knew the hound and stopped and gazed at him. 'A good hound lies there,'

said he to Eumaeus, 'once, I think, he was so swift that no beast in the deep places of

the wood could flee from him.' Then he went on, and the hound Argos lay down in the

dirt of the yard, and that same day the life passed from him."

As the centuries pass and we come farther north with the new ideas of the world as it

grows up, we find people more kindly to dogs. In Shakespeare's day they still were

scorned, except for the chase. But gradually men appreciated the devotion that

the dog had been offering, and he became a favorite pet, playmate and guardian.

Sir Walter Scott loved dogs. You find them with him in his portraits, and they appear

in all his stirring tales, prose or poetry. Charles Dickens was fond of dogs, too. When

you read his great stories, you'll meet all sorts of dogs, from brave, bold, clever ones to

very pathetic lost puppies.

To-day we are so fond of animals, and so much interested in training them that there

are dozens of new books each year about famous animal friends. The best of these are

about dogs. So the old phrases still live, but our feeling about them is very different

from that of the people of long ago who first spoke them.

SOME DIFFERENCES BETWEEN CATS AND DOGS

The dog is our constant and most faithful companion. In all parts of the world there

are dogs, wherever man has settled or is wandering from place to place. They follow

him to the far north, and live amid ice and snow. In the hottest desert regions and

waste lands, on mountain tops and on lonely islands, everywhere, dogs are the most

beloved and most useful friends of the human race.

Of course there are different breeds of dogs, and those who live in cold countries have

a thick woolly coat, and in hot countries there are dogs who have very little hair. Have

you ever noticed that dogs walk on their toes, and not on the whole of their foot? The

joint that projects out backwards from a little below the middle of the dog's hind leg is

really his heel. See whether the cat and the horse are made in the same way. Because

dogs run only on their toes, they are among the best runners in the animal kingdom.

They can also swim remarkably well. It is by running that dogs in their wild life get

their food. Our dogs have learnt to eat all kinds of things beside meat, like bread and

milk, vegetables and gravy, but they are naturally flesh eaters, and their teeth are well

adapted for tearing flesh and biting bones.

Is that puss out there in the yard sunning herself? Yes, she is blinking and winking

and now she settles down to sleep. But it is a light slumber, and the twitching of ears

and whiskers shows plainly that she is really attending to every sound. Sometimes a

cat will sit in this position in front of a mouse hole in a field for a long, long time—but

it will never happen that she falls so fast asleep that she will not hear the footsteps of

a bold little mouse. The cat, too, is a beast of prey and does not give up her wild ways

as completely as the dog. To catch birds and mice is still greater fun for puss than to

eat bread and milk properly out of a saucer. To prowl about in the fields or on roofs at

night time, or to go on a lovely walk through the wild woods is more to her taste than

to guard our home.

It was the Egyptians who first tamed a particular variety of the wild cat, thousands of

years ago. The cat was sacred to them, and therefore was treated with every care and

kindness. It was only by giving the cat a very good time, and keeping it from every

harm that this terribly wild animal gave up some of its wild ways and became a pet.

From "Beasts and Birds," by C. van Wyss