"And when his son had prepared all things for the journey, Tobit said, Go thou with this man, and God, which dwelleth in Heaven, prosper your journey, and the angel of God keep you company. So they went forth both, and the young man's dog with them. " Tobit v. 16. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- "MURPHY" ------------------------------------------------------------------------- [Illustration: His dog. By Him. ] ------------------------------------------------------------------------- "MURPHY" A MESSAGE TO DOG-LOVERS BY MAJOR GAMBIER-PARRY With two drawings by the author NEW YORK MITCHELL KENNERLEY 1913 ------------------------------------------------------------------------- COPYRIGHT 1913 BY MITCHELL KENNERLEY PRINTED IN AMERICA ------------------------------------------------------------------------- TO THAT VAST HOST IN THE HUMAN FAMILY THAT LOVES DOGS AND THAT INCLUDES WITHIN ITS RANKS THE GOOD, THE GREAT, AND THE INSIGNIFICANT THESE PAGES ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY ONE OF THE COMMON RANK AND FILE ------------------------------------------------------------------------- ILLUSTRATIONS "HIS DOG" Frontispiece "ALAS!" Facing p. 192 ------------------------------------------------------------------------- "MURPHY" A MESSAGE TO DOG-LOVERS I Yes. He was born in the first week of June, in the year 1906. Quite ashort while ago, as you see--that is, as we men count time--but longenough, just as a child's life is occasionally long enough, to affect thelives--ay, more, the characters--of some who claimed to be his betters onthis present earth, with certainties in some dim and distant heaven thatmight or might not have a corner here or there for dogs. His parentage was that of a royal house in purity of strain and length ofpedigree, and he first saw the light in the yard of a mill upon theriver, where the old wheel had groaned for generations or dripped insilence, according as the water rose or fell, and corn came in to beground. There were others like him in appearance in the yard; on the eyot onwhich the mill-buildings stood, gorgeous in many-coloured tiles; roundthe dwelling-house, or in a large wired enclosure close by. His master, the Over-Lord, bred dogs of his kind for the nonce, not necessarily forprofit, but because, with a great heart for dogs, he chose to, claimingindeed the proud boast that not a single dog of his class walked theseIslands that was not of his strain--and claiming that, moreover, truly. At one period there might have been counted, in and around thismill-yard, no less than thirty-eight dogs, young and middle-aged, and allmore or less closely related. But while this number was much above theaverage, the congestion that arose thereby was chargeable with the singleunhappy episode in Murphy's life, concerning which he often spoke to mein after days, and the effect of which he carried to the end. Of this, however, more later. Life in the midst of such a company--Irishmen all--necessarily meant amore or less rough-and-tumble existence, where the strongest had the bestof it, and the weaker ones were knocked out, when the Master was notthere to interfere. Each one had to find his own level by such means ashe could, and thus this great company, or school, of dogs resembled inmany particulars those other schools to which We are sent Ourselves, orsend those other sons of Ours. The training to be got here, as elsewhere, developed primarily, indeed, and all unconsciously, the first andgreatest of requisites in life, whether for dog or man. And if, in someinstances, evil characteristics, such as combativeness, selfishness, andthe habit of bad language, became accentuated, in spite of the sterndiscipline of the place, their opposites--good temper, a light and happydisposition, and a civil tongue--received their meed of recognition evenfrom the bigger fellows, like Pagan I. Or II. , or that Captain of theSchool, often spoken of with bated breath--Postman, Murphy's father, mated afterwards to the great beauty, Barbara, both being of the bluestof blue blood. The young were taught their place, and that further quality, now droppingout of fashion--how to keep it. Or each one had a lesson in yet anothervirtue, still more out of date, being judged no longer necessary orbecoming in this very modern world, and as only showing a silly deferenceif exhibited at all. Respect was, in truth, the chief of all virtues hereinculcated--respect for age, for old dogs are no longer to be challenged;respect for strength and the great unwritten laws; respect for sex;respect for those who had shown themselves to be the better men; respectfor such as neither fought nor swore but held their own by characteralone. It was, for instance, not correct for the young to approach the oldermembers of the school and claim equality, for, strange as it may seem, equality had no place here, save that all were dogs. Nor when a biggerfellow had a bone, won, earned, or come by of his own enterprise, was itdeemed fitting that the young should do more than watch at respectfuldistance, with ears drooped and envy curbed as well as might be. By suchmethods the meaning of the sacredness of property was taught; and also, that without due regard to this last there could be security for no one, or for anything that he might own. True, some of this company here, suffering from swelled-head, theharebrained impetuosity of youth, or judging that to them alone had beenbequeathed the secret of all requisite reforms, advanced theories oftheir own composing. Of course they found adherents, especially when gainwas scented, for to profit at another's expense is not unpopular, in somedirections, from the top to the bottom of the world. But, as a rule, these theories were not long-lived. The company, so to speak, foundthemselves, and the innate good sense they claimed to have came to theiraid, before the whole school was set generally by the ears, or theOver-Lord was called upon to interfere. Thus, where a fellow's own was concerned the cry with the really honestwas, "Hands off, there!"--blood being rightly spilt, if necessary, indefence thereof, as it always will be, till the last of dogs and men liedown and die. Of course if one or other left his own unguarded, or, overcome by plethora, fell asleep, or grew fat and careless, then anotherof his standing came and took that property away. In such an event, hewho had lost could do no more than whimper cur-like, while those lyinground the yard would look up to see what the shindy was about, and thenquietly remark, "_That's_ as it should be. " Then again, when, on a sultry afternoon in this first summer of Murphy'slife, some older members of the family betook themselves to such coolplaces on the eyot as the shadows cast by the wide eaves of the mill, itwas ordered they were to be left in peace and not plagued by youngerfolk, however good-natured they might be. Nor were others to be followedwhen they stole away to the opening of the mill-race--where the watercame out at speed, brown and foaming, from the dark shadows under thefloors--to listen, maybe, half asleep, to the great wheel groaning itssolemn music, as the dripping green paddles threw off a cool mist torefresh the jaded air. However strange such a choice might seem to those of restless spirit, itwas not more so than that of others who, careless of themselves, preferred a hole in the dust of the upper yard among the Buff Orpingtons, and the grilling heat of the midsummer sun. There must be differences oftaste here as elsewhere. The spot chosen must be respected, not onlybecause it was the home for the time, however short, but also becausehere was privacy, and it was not right that such should be at any timeinvaded, if rightly and obviously sought--at least, so was it judged bythose who inhabited the island at this period. That Murphy noticed all these things goes without saying. He kept themmostly to himself, after the manner of his kind; but he watchednevertheless closely, his black eyebrows moving continually just abovehis eyes, as he lay in the rough grass in the shade of the pollardwillows, or beneath the whispering aspens. At this time he had not long emerged from the limp stage, whenhind-quarters would continually give way, and there was nothing to bedone but rest on one haunch and try to look wise, being continuallybothered by the flies. After a while he began to grow stronger and morecomely, his ears darkened, and his eyes--put in, as they say, with adirty thumb--grew larger, taking on that exceeding brightness that madepassers-by look and look again. He was also allowed further afield whenhis turn came. There were walks along the river-banks, in company withhalf-a-dozen of the others; and before he was six months old he could runa good distance with a horse and trap, ere he would come to the step andlook up with a laugh, saying, "Here, take me up; I'm blown!" The oldhorse in the shafts knew the ways of the dogs well, and would shorten hispace, and indeed pull up altogether, if a thoughtless one was likely tobe injured. It was probably from this that Murphy suffered all his lifefrom a mistaken notion that it was the duty of horses, as well as driversof all kinds, to get out of his way, and not he necessarily out oftheirs. It was a happy life in a land of happiness and freedom, though disciplinewas stern, and all had to pass their period of training. Sooner or latereach one was judged upon his merits, as well by his comrades as by thegreat, tall Over-Lord, to whom primarily they owed allegiance. And ifsuch judgment was occasionally fallacious, as it frequently is, the worldover, when based upon such points alone, it worked out fairly when thetime arrived for an estimate to be made of the character that every onehere was entitled to--when the first home had to be left behind, and theworld faced in town or country, up or down the greater river of a commonlife. For such a temperament as Murphy's, a life like this was happinessitself. He was sociable, and loved company intensely, though preferablythe company of Man. Solitude he abhorred; games were his delight; forkilling things, even were it a rat from one of the thousand holes he metwith when walking by the river, he never cared, and indeed appeared neverquite to understand. "Live and let live" was his motto, while playingalways the game of "catch-who-catch-can. " There was no reason to bring pain into the field at all. Life to him wasa condition full of smiles, or to be made so, though there was snarlinground the corner, as well as folk of difficult temperament to remainpuzzlers to the end. Those about, therefore, were to be reckoned friends, and to be met in such way as better dogs themselves lay down. Theirsociety obviously had its rules, which, if occasionally broken, were yetto be known and recognised, just as they themselves, though dogs, wereable to discern that the members of that other society, on to which theywere apparently grafted, had theirs. These last and they themselves were nothing less than partners--so itseemed to him--in a great game, to be played always in good heart andwith the spirit of true sportsmanship. Both moved according to law, theonly difference between the two being that Men held the power of theVeto--and exercised it too often, he would add in his perfect, well-bredmanner, in a way that declared their ignorance. Men, he averred, wouldalways insist on assuming that their laws were right at all times, and, furthermore, were always applicable to dogs, forgetting that, more ofteneven than themselves, dogs were moved by laws imperious. Had he been as the majority of dogs, he would, when such thoughtsoccupied his brain, have joined no doubt unhesitatingly in Puck's song-- "Lord, what fools these mortals be!" But, then, this is where he differed from that majority. Man was hisfriend. Friendship meant loyalty, and loyalty should be unstained. There was much in what he said. On many an occasion a dog will show thathe knows better than a man, and can do things that transcend Man'sboasted powers. We all know that--or should do so--for the moment mayarrive when we find ourselves dependent on the judgment of a dog. To failto recognise it then is to create difficulties and to blunder badly, causing the most tractable of our friends to look up with a puzzledexpression in their eyes, and the more head-strong and outspoken to goahead, with this sentence, flung back over the shoulder--"_You fools, you; when will you understand!_" And the fun of it all is that Man with his self-assurance, and thatlimited vision of his of which he seems sometimes completely unaware, thinks that he is training the dog, whereas the dog is perfectly capable, as will be shown, of at least in some directions training him. Thus, where differences arise, Man jumps to his conclusions and claims hisprerogative. It is a sorry business when an all-too-hasty punishmentfollows, as it often does, for Man--so Murphy used to say--would findhimself very frequently to be wrong. But then Murphy, when he talked likethis in the after days, showing how easily We might make mistakes, andexplaining so much that was not wholly realised before, caused sundryfolk to wonder whether in some previous life he had in his spare timestudied Bentham. For dogs or men to make mistakes is not necessarily forthem to do wrong. "To trace errors to their source is often to refutethem. " He often quoted that; but on the only occasion on which he was asked abouthis previous studies he remained silent. He and his Master were sitting onthe hillside, far away from the hum of men--as, in fact, they mostly were. His eyes were ranging over the valley to the skyline. "That's the way tolook, my dear master, " he appeared to be saying--"that's the way to look. Never run heel way. For you and me there is a future. Look ahead, and castforward; never look behind!" His remarks often, in this way, touched lightly on great questions. II To look ahead in the hey-day of youth is to look forward to uncloudedhappiness. And, no doubt, to Murphy and those of his own age, the factthat the summer waned and that autumn followed, when leaves fellmysteriously from the trees and there were sporting scents in the air, made little difference to their outlook. Happiness had no relation to theseasons: they were all good in their turn. Jolly times ranged from springto winter. And, perhaps, winter after all was best. It was on a winter day, in fact, that Murphy first made a mark in themind of his Over-Lord, and it came about like this. The day before had been typical of late January. The sun had not shonesince daybreak. The sky to the north was lead colour, and the wind wasblowing through snow. If it froze on the north side of the hedgerows, itthawed on the south--the coldest condition of all. There were covered places for the dogs of the mill, with plenty of straw, and when one or two who had been out for a walk came in and said therewould be snow before another morning dawned, those who heard the remarkcurled themselves tighter or drew closer to their more intimate friends. And as they slept and woke, and slept again, they saw the lights go outone by one, save those in the mill itself, for barges had come with loadsof grain, and the mill was working all night. They could hear the steady"throb, " "throb" of the great mill-wheel and the plash of the distantwaters; but just before the new dawn these sounds gave way to a hum thatplayed a muffled music in the trees. The men's footsteps never sounded atall, till they were close at hand; and then the mill slowly stopped asthough tired, and silence reigned supreme in the cold. Dogs and men sleptfirmly for a little: Nature was at work putting a new face upon theworld. And after all that there followed the joyousness of a cloudless morning, as the stars faded out, and the pale sun lit up a world that was now purewhite. Snow lay everywhere to the depth of three inches--not more--for ithad spread itself evenly in the stillness, and covered the ground, andthe roofs, and the barges that had come with the grain, making everythinglook strange, even to the waters that were licking the banks, and thatsomehow or other had turned the colour of green bottle-glass. Then, by-and-by, came the Over-Lord, and called this name and that; andthe last that he called was "Murphy. " Here were games indeed! Here was something new to play with; to beskipped and rolled and gambolled in to heart's content; to be even bittenat, and swallowed till forbidden. Why, this new material that the youngerones had never seen before called even the limpest to forget hislimpness, as though new blood flowed in his veins and he were endowedwith a new life! They were soon out of the yard, and away down the lane. And then theOver-Lord turned into the fields and struck a right-of-way that led indirection of a hamlet two miles distant. Here many of the meadows werethirty acres and over in extent, flat as any floor, with great elm treesin their hedgerows. They were untenanted now by sheep or cattle, forthese had been driven off the night before to higher ground, by men whokept an eye upon the weather. The virgin surface of the snow layglittering gold and silver in the early morning sun, with here and there, as a contrast, the long shadows of the limbs of a great oak or elm, castas though some one had traced its pattern for fun with a brushful of thepurest cobalt. There were only five dogs out that morning. Three were now fastened to aleash; one other was very old, and he and Murphy were allowed whatlatitude they liked. So presently it chanced that Murphy found himselfsome way from the rest, and suddenly called upon to show what he coulddo. As he went, he came upon a slight rise in the snow, as thoughsomething lay beneath. The more experienced would have known what thatwas, for their noses would have told them in a trice. When snow falls anda hare finds itself being gradually covered by the flakes, it does whatit can to bury itself deeper; but always with this eye on life--that itassiduously keeps a hole open that it may breathe, and always to theleeward. Such is one of many evidences of clever instinct to be met withfor ever in the fields. Thus, before this young dog knew well what had happened, there sprang, asif by magic, from the snow a beauteous animal, strong of scent and fleetof foot, and heading straight away from him at top speed. He heard a voice calling many names, and at the same time the crack of awhip. But his name was not among the rest; and he just had time to noticethat the Over-Lord stood still, with the other dogs about him. Then hewas off in pursuit, straight as a line for the river. There the hare madeits first turn, Murphy being twenty yards in rear. He was running mutenow, and both hare and dog were settling to their work--the one to escapeif it could, the other to catch, if so it might be. They were through thefar fence a moment later, and disappeared, only, however, quickly toreturn and take a line straight down this thirty-acre piece. It was astretch of nearly a quarter of a mile, and ere they reached the furtherfence Murphy was gaining ground. The hare doubled at the boundary, andthen doubled again, making the figure of a giant eight on the glitteringgolden surface of the snow. Was the dog really gaining? It was a fine course. The hare was evidentlya late leveret of the previous season; the dog was scarcely more thanseven months old. How would it end? The Over-Lord stood and watched, determined that none should interfere. There should be fair play in afair field, if he could only keep a grip upon these others that werewhimpering and shivering and straining at the leash. He had passed thethong of his whip through the collar of the old dog, so all were reallywell within control. Would the young dog last? That was the crucial question. The hare had hadmany a run before this to save her skin, and was hardened by the life ofthe breezy downs and the wide fields. But the dog had never previouslybeen tried in such a way: his life had been more or less an artificialone, and he had never been called upon to lay himself out, or been put tosuch a strain as these almost maddening moments entailed. Catch thisthing somehow he must. Were not his comrades looking on? Did not the verysilence of the Over-Lord seem to demand of him his very best? Thereappeared, however, to be no getting level with this animal of surprisingfleetness of foot, that seemed to glide over the ground with perfectease, and that responded gamely to every effort that he made. The group of lookers-on watched the more intently. Now the hare by aclever turn increased her lead; then once again the dog made good theground lost. The hare had come back by this time almost to thestarting-point. Closer and closer drew the dog: the hare seemed to beswaying in her stride. The dog's tongue was out at any length, and hispant was clearly audible. Once again the hare doubled, and the dogs withthe Over-Lord gave tongue, as though they cheered their comrade. Thenwith a fling and a dash Murphy was into it: there was a scuffle in thesnow, and the next instant the young dog was seen to be holding the haredown. Making his way to the two, taking the dogs upon leash and thong short bythe head, and keeping them back by the free use of his feet, theOver-Lord seized the hare and rescued it; Murphy being too beat now to domore than lie stretched out, panting. "Well, I'm. .. !"--The Over-Lord was passing a hand as well as he couldover the frightened hare, holding it high to his chest. --"Run to astandstill, and not so much as harmed. Well, I'm. .. !" He had let go the other dogs now. They were barking and jumping roundhim, and to avoid risk he was covering up the hare beneath his coat. Hisface was a study as he looked at Murphy lying in the snow. No fault wasto be found with the dog; that was very certain. He had been given anopportunity of showing what he could do. The snow had equalised the race. And this was the end--the hare not hurt at all. He would look again ather presently. It had been a pretty sight: Nature's working; no realcruelty in any of it. Such were the thoughts that were passing in thetall man's mind. All turned homeward after that, the Over-Lord's feet scrunching the snowas he took great strides, a smile lighting up his face. Four of his dogswere close to his heels, as though they expected something; a yard or twobehind followed a younger one, with his tongue out level with his chest. * * * * * Later on in the day, when all the dogs were kennelled up, the Over-Lordmight have been seen leaving the mill-yard, with something he carried ina bag, taking long draws at his pipe, and still with a smile upon hisface. He was making his way alone to the open fields, and across these towhere there was shelter under a hedge. Having reached his point, hestooped to the ground; and then there sped from him, as he rose, a hare, unharmed in wind and limb. He looked long after it, to make sure. Then he rubbed his chin with hispipe in his hand, and remarked aloud, "Run to a standstill, and neverharmed. Well, I'm. .. !" And once again that day he checked himself fromusing a bad, if sometimes almost pardonable, word. III The general company naturally viewed Murphy's performance from manystandpoints. Among his contemporaries his reputation went up with abound, though there was not wanting a leaven of jealous ones even amidstthose who crowded most closely round him. Among those a little older thanhimself, the best-natured commended him outspokenly and in honestgenerosity of heart. Others, with more mundane outlook, judged hisachievement reflected lustre on the kennel, and therefore--this with asniff and the chuck of the chin--also on themselves. A few more vowed, intrue sporting spirit, that they would do their level best to go onebetter if such a chance as that should come their way. To these last, thepuzzle was why, with such results, the whole of those present had nottasted blood; and among themselves they voted the action of the Over-Lordincomprehensible, certainly womanly, very certainly misjudged. If theyoung dog had gone up therefore in their estimation, the Man hadcorrespondingly gone down. As for the older generation, some spoke patronisingly, as if they wishedto convey that the deed was nothing more than they could easily haveachieved, and in fact ended by talking so much that they persuadedthemselves, to their own satisfaction, that they were in the habit intheir younger days of doing things of the kind not less infrequently thanonce a week. The moralists wagged their heads as the fountain of alltruths, and asserted that such success was a very bad thing for theyoung. The swaggerers, who held somewhat aloof, but who had never doneanything in their lives, put on more side than usual and endeavoured tocarry matters off that way, oblivious, as ever, of the laughter round thecorner. Lastly, there was that other class, the crabbed and the crusty, who would, had they belonged to Us, have retired behind their papers inthe Club windows, but as it was, and being dogs, merely made off out ofearshot, with their ruffs up, grumbling to themselves and crabbing allthings. There were some of all classes here as elsewhere. It is indeed surprisinghow closely the dog family approximates to the human. The samecounterparts are to be found in both. We mostly hunt in packs. And ifdogs are wont to bark and bite and rend, We, on our part, are often notbehind in practising the same strange arts, though not always with thesame sportsmanship and generosity. As for Murphy, he took the whole matter with a skip and a laugh, as if itwas all part of the jolly fun of life, and as not in any way reflectingcredit on himself. By nature he was modest and shy, and if he did thingsoccasionally that were out of the common, he never seemed to grasp thefact, invariably looking puzzled and impatient at all praise. "Never mindall that; let's come on and look for something else, " was what he said, exhibiting in this way, perhaps, one of those traits of character thatmade him so lovable, and that grew to such fair proportions as headvanced in years. His disposition was happy and generous, and thoughessentially manly--if such a term, without offence, is applicable todogs--there was also about him a peculiar gentleness that was exemplifiedin all his actions, right down to his inability to use his teeth. He wasnever known to fight; and, what was still more strange, bones were to himaltogether negligible things. For a character such as this to meet with harsh treatment, much lesscruelty, was, if not to ruin it completely, at least to undermine allconfidence. Yet this, sad to relate, was now precisely what befell. Up tothis, life had been without a cloud. Of course, as in every othersociety, there had been the necessity of fending for oneself--of pickingup a scrap, for instance, quickly, if you wanted it at all. Such thingsare good, and make for progress and development. But harshness andunkindness, like injustice, had been altogether foreign to the mill andall who lived or worked there. Life sped on in that favoured spot with aseven a surface as that of the river, whose waters flowed sluggishly up tothe mill, barring the dam, and then went bubbling down the race, revivified and having done its spell, for the time. How it came about is not now exactly discoverable; but just at thisperiod of Murphy's life a decree was issued that several of the familywere to be boarded out; and the next day the young dog found himselfmoved to the home of one of the mill-hands, half a mile and more away. The cottage stood alone, and the family inhabiting it consisted of a manand his wife, and a daughter just finishing her schooling. Once there hadbeen a son; but he, like many another in our villages, had gone out--allhonour to them!--to strike a blow for his country some five or six yearsbefore, and had in quite a short while found a soldier's death. Hisphotograph hung crookedly just above the mantelpiece, with another of agroup of his regiment by which he had once set much store, and yetanother of the girl whom he had hoped some day to make his wife. When the glow fell, and the bald, laconic message was delivered onewinter evening at the door, the mother bent her head low; and later, whenshe found speech and had dropped the corner of her apron, was heard towhisper to herself, "'Twas the Almighty's will. " Then the tears welled upafresh, as she rocked herself in her chair, gazing at the fire. The effect upon the father was different. "What. .. !" he cried, as thoughsome one had struck him. A single candle flickered on the table; his lipswere drawn tight across his teeth; his fingers clutched the table-lidconvulsively, and he leant across in the direction of his wife. "What. .. !" he exclaimed again. "They've killed un, " repeated the wife, the candle-light reflected in herstaring eyes. "Seth, Seth, " she continued, following her husband, who hadtaken up his hat, and was making for the door--"oh, Seth, Seth--'tis theAlmighty's will, man; I do know for sure it be;--Seth, Seth. .. !" But Seth Moby had gone out into the night; and from that time forward hewalked as one suffering some injustice. He had always been a man ofuncertain temper, but this blow appeared to sour him. It is well toremember that once at least in his life he had loved deeply. * * * * * The Over-Lord brought Murphy to the door, and arranged matters withMartha Moby, just as he had often done with others in the same way. Theday had been wet; the lane on to which the garden-gate opened was muddy;the dog had dirty feet. "You'll take care of him, I know. He's a gooddog--a good dog, " he repeated, when he left. It was after dark when Moby returned. "Wants for us to kep the dog, do'e? There be a sight too many on 'em about; and for what he do want tokep such a lot o' such curs, nobody can't think. A-bringin' a' the dirtinto our housen too. Err . .. I'll warm yer!" he added, making as thoughhe would fling something at the dog. Murphy looked puzzled, and crept into a corner. "Don't carry on like that, Seth; don't do it, man. The dog's a poor, nervous little thing with we, and don't mean to do no hurt. " But it was of no avail. Seth Moby looked upon Murphy as an interloper, and when he could do anything to frighten him he did, and by any brutalmeans in his power. Even the mill-hands remarked to one another thattheir mate, Moby, was a changed man. "'Twas like that wi' some, " theysaid. "Trouble sowered 'em, like, and made 'em seem as though they 'ouldthrow the Almighty o' one side. And once folk got on a downward grade, same as that, it wasn't often as they was found on the mending hand--no, it wasn't for sure. " On one occasion, after the first week was over, Murphy escaped, andappeared at the mill with a foot or more of rope trailing from hiscollar, for latterly he had been kept tied up. Seth chanced at thatmoment to be leaving work, and brought the dog up short by the head, byputting his foot upon the rope end almost before the dog knew that he wasthere. He half hanged him taking him back, and flung him into the housewith an oath that frightened his child, and made her run to the backkitchen that she might not hear what followed; while the dog crept on hisstomach to the corner, his tail between his legs: he always moved in thisway now, though it is said he never whimpered. "Oh, Seth, if you goes on like this, " said Mrs. Moby reproachfully, "there'll be murder, and then trouble to follow: the Master is not one toput up with cruelty to any dog. Bless the man--you're gettin' like a madthing. Leave the dog alone, I tell yer. " Seth had taken off his boots, and flung them at the dog before going up to bed: Mrs. Moby had beenengaged trying to disconcert his aim. That night another foot was heard on the stairs; there was whispering inthe kitchen; and for several succeeding weeks, and unknown to others, thedog slept happily with the child, though not without serious risks oftrouble being thereby made for both. At the end of that time the Over-Lord called. He had been away. He hadheard on his return that all was not well with the dog, and had come tosee for himself. Murphy had been lying curled up on a sack in his corner, but when he heard the well-known footstep he crawled out, hugging thewall nervously till he reached the door. "Murphy, lad!" exclaimed the Over-Lord, looking intently at thedog--"Murphy, my little man; that you. .. !" The dog was fawning on him, saying as plain as speech, "Take me away with you; take me away. " The Over-Lord put his hand down and patted him. He did not say anotherword, as Murphy followed him out, save "It's not you, Mrs. Moby; it's notyou. " He had a great heart for dogs, and began to blame himself on hisway home for what had evidently occurred. "If the man did not want thedog, " he muttered, "he had only got to say so; besides it was his rent tohim: it was not done on the cheap--that never does in any line. " When he reached his own house, he took the young dog in with him--a thingalmost unprecedented, so far as the rest of the outside company were ableto recall. They judged their former companion spoilt, or on the high roadto being so. "It was all that hare, " remarked the middle-aged. "Yes, " agreed the moralists--"success is always pernicious to the young!" Lookers-on generally misjudge, though they claim to see most of the game. The next morning, by strange coincidence, a letter was delivered at themill, destined to alter Murphy's future altogether. IV Daniel was one of those dogs that die famous, though belonging to a smallcircle; not famous in the sense in which the dogs of history are so, butbecause he possessed individuality and stamped himself upon the memories ofall who ever met him. And these last were not few, for Dan had travelledwidely and had gathered multitudes of friends. Then, again, he possessedthose two almost indispensable adjuncts of popularity--delightful mannersand a beautiful face. It was his invariable custom to get up when any onecame into a room; and when he advanced to meet them, it might certainlyhave been said that, in his case, the tail literally wagged the dog, forhis hind-quarters were moved from the middle of his back and went in rhythmwith the tail. His looks were perfect. Being by Pagan I. , he possessed notonly eyes set in black and a coal-black snout, but also that furthercharacteristic of dogs of his date, the blackest of black ears--a featurenow entirely lost in the case of Irish terriers, and never, it is said, tobe regained. Apart from a liberal education and the miscellaneous knowledge he hadpicked up for himself, to say nothing of a wonderful series of clevertricks, the instinct known as the sense of direction was in his casedeveloped to an altogether abnormal extent. Definite traces of this werenoticeable when he was still a puppy; but it was at all times impossiblefor him to lose his way. As he grew older, this instinct became somarked, that it set others wondering whether or not there existed amongdogs a sixth, and perhaps a seventh, sense, lying far beyond the grasp ofhuman, limited intelligence. Dogs, as we all know, are not the only animals, that possess thismysterious instinct. They share it with many other classes, such as thoseof the feline tribe, and also with the birds and a number of insects. Infact, all animals appear to possess it in varying degree; they are allmore or less able to find their way home. Yet, study it how we may, weare at fault when we try to account for it. In many cases, the hominginstinct is apparently governed by sight; but many scientific observersentertain the idea that the sense of smell, in the majority of instances, will be found to lie at the root of the matter. Possibly they are right. When, however, we are brought face to face with an exceptional exhibitionof the sense, we have to confess that we are left unconvinced by any ofthe theories that have at present been advanced. It is no unusual thingfor a dog to find its way home along a road it had not previouslytravelled, going with the wind, and in the dark. One case is known to thewriter where a dog found the ship it had come out in in a foreign port towhich it had been taken, and made a voyage by sea, as well as aconsiderable journey by land on its return to this country, in order toreach its home. A cat also, within the writer's knowledge, found its wayback to its home, though it had been brought some distance in a sacklying at the bottom of a farmer's gig, and though the return journeyentailed traversing the streets of a busy town. Any one may test a bee'spowers in the same way, by affixing to it a small particle ofcotton-wool. When liberated, it will take a perfectly straight or beeline to its hive, though this lie at a considerable distance. It isunnecessary to refer to the achievements of carrier-pigeons, when setfree after a long journey and the lapse of many hours, or to the way inwhich rooks, especially, as well as starlings, will find their way totheir usual roosting-places across wide valleys shrouded in denseNovember fogs. Nor must we succumb here to the temptations offered by the very mentionof migrants, though we may well ask, what is the power that enables aswallow to leave the banks of the Upper Nile and arrive at the nest itleft the year before, beneath the eaves of a cottage standing on thebanks of the Upper Thames? Or what directs the turtle-dove, year by year, from the oleander-grown banks of the streams of Morocco to the moregrateful shade of our English woodlands? Yet marked birds have proved thetruth of these and still more wonderful achievements. Instinct, the dire necessity of obtaining proper food, the perpetuationof the tribe--Nature's most imperious laws--lie no doubt at the back ofmany mysteries. Yet to say this is not to account for the sense beforeus, any more than it is to solve those innumerable problems that arescattered all along our several roads, and that we stumble over everystep we take. Leaving out of count such systematic, and apparentlyscientific, labours as those of the ants, bees, and wasps, we constantlyfind in the animal kingdom powers being exercised, as, for instance, inthe case of the earthworms and the moles, that are not to be explained bythe use of the words instinct, intelligence, and necessity. The humblestof animals appears often to be handling forces with ease and familiarity, the range of which it must apparently, if not obviously, be unaware. Butif this last is true, and these animals that are blind walk blind, whatare we to say of ourselves, when we are frequently doing the same, andhandling forces that we are totally unable to define? The digression is a lengthy one; but even now a further step must betaken. The man has, in the dog, his one real intimate in the whole animalworld. It will be generally admitted that the dog depends exceptionallyupon the man and the man often largely also upon the dog, and that inthis we have yet another instance of that interdependence that is to befound throughout Nature and wheresoever we look. This, however, is notthe chief point in considering the relationship existing between the two. There is something much deeper, and that goes much further. Man, we are told, holds supreme dominion on Earth. He is King over allthings living, both great and small; and this constitutes at once hisendowment and his responsibility. Yet this supreme power is beingperpetually modified, not only by the forces he seeks to control--whoseso-called laws he has to obey, if they are to be subjected to his use--butalso by those very creatures to whom he stands in the relation of a King. It is here, in the animal kingdom, that the action of the dog once againstands first; for what powers of modification and influence can transcendthose which effect a frequent and practical impression upon the actions ofthis so-called King, --by appealing, as the dog often does, to man's moralsense; by claiming love outside man's own circle, in return for love givenwithout stint; by calling for a wider self-sacrifice, in the light of atrustfulness and loyalty that is exhibited here and nowhere else in Naturein the same unfaltering degree? The dog does all this and more, as will be shown, and by ways andinstincts that are as unfathomable as the one to which reference has justbeen made. It is time to return to the more homely matter of Dan, that instances maybe given of how, on one occasion out of many, he exhibited the possessionof the sense of direction, and also of the eye he had for country. The writer had to make a journey to a neighbouring town by rail. Thedistance as the crow flies was not more than six miles, but the railwayjourney took the best part of an hour and entailed a change and waitingat a junction. Daniel accompanied him, having never made the journeybefore, or visited the junction, or the station of the town referred to. On arrival, the writer elected to walk. Now Daniel was almost entirelystrange to towns, and, though all went well at first, he finallysuccumbed to the fascinations of the streets, and disappeared. Everymeans were at once taken to find him; the police station was visited, thecab-drivers were warned, and a reward was offered. In the end, the writerhad to return without the dog, and face the reproaches of the family. Agloom fell upon the house for the rest of the evening. But soon after teno'clock a bark was heard, the front door was thrown open, and Danielentered; in a state, it may be added, that bordered on hysterics, andwith the tail wagging the dog more violently than ever. It was sevenhours from the time he had been missed, and no light was ever thrown onhow he had accomplished the journey. A dog's memory is proverbial. There is ample reason for believing thatmany dogs, when once they have smelt your hand, never forget you. Butthey also often appear to make mental notes of what they see, and toretain these in their minds. A retriever that has worked long on anestate will be found to know the position of almost every gate and stilein every field, and will use his knowledge instantly as occasions arise. He equally appears to know the rides of the woods within his beat, andwhere they lead. In other words, he has, in hunting parlance, an eye forcountry; and here is an instance from Daniel's life by way ofillustration. To reach a neighbouring village on one occasion, the writer used atricycle. There was only one road to this village, distant five miles, and this was bounded on one side by woods and on the other by the riverThames, which it was necessary to cross at the outset. Here and therebetween the road and the river were houses, the gardens and grounds ofwhich were surrounded by walls and fencing extending to the river-banks. The tow-path was on the further side. It chanced that after three mileshad been traversed, another tricycle caught up the writer and passed him. Dan was ahead, mistook this machine for his own, and went on out ofsight. The weather looking threatening, the writer decided to returnhome, feeling confident that the dog would discover his mistake andfollow. A bicycle now overtook the writer, the rider of which, in answerto inquiries, said that he had seen an Irish terrier entering the villagehe had left, three miles back, cantering in front of a tricycle. Therewas nothing to be done but to go leisurely home, waiting every now andthen to see if the dog was coming, while growing always more and moreuneasy at his non-appearance. At last the home was reached--and on thefront-door mat sat Daniel! The dog was perfectly dry, and had still the dust of the road on him. Hecould not therefore have swum the river; moreover, he had no taste forwater. Equally, he had not come along the only road; while it wasimpossible for him to have travelled through the woods or along the landlying between the road and the river. There was only one solution of thedifficulty, and this was undoubtedly correct. In his walks along thehills the dog must have noticed a railway in the valley and its bridgeacross the river. He had certainly never been along this railway or overthis bridge. But he remembered its existence when he was lost, made hisway to it, got over the river without the necessity of swimming, andreached home across country in time to meet his master, and with anexpression on his face of, "Well--what do you say to that?" One more story of him must be given, showing his extraordinary sagacityas well as his determination. When he had set his mind on anything, brickwalls were well-nigh powerless to stop him. He obeyed one man, if he wereby; in his absence, he acted solely in furtherance of the plans he had inmind, and always with a knowing expression on his face. He was paying a visit in the West of England, and had quickly found hisway about. One day at luncheon some one was rash enough to remark inDan's hearing that the carriage was going out. To run with the carriagewas strictly forbidden, and this Dan never failed to resent, as he didalso being shut up before the carriage came round. "Carriage" was one ofthe thirty-eight words with which he was intimately acquainted, and whenhe heard it used on this occasion he may have made mental notesconcerning plans to which he vowed he would be no party. However this mayhave been, shortly before the hour arrived for the carriage to start Dancould nowhere be found. The road leading from the house branched into three at the end of about amile; and, as this point opened to view on the afternoon in question, ayellow figure was seen to be standing there motionless, evidently waitingto see which of the three ways the carriage would take. Needless to sayit was Dan, and that of course he had his run. But an end must be made of chronicling the further remarkableachievements of this wholly remarkable dog--his sage comments as he grewolder, his faithful discharge of his duties as he roamed the passages atnight, his intense love of sport and his deeds in that field in spite ofhis being hopelessly gun-shy, his large heart, and those beautifulmanners which he still made pathetic efforts to show, even when he movedwith great difficulty and was both deaf and almost blind. He was just ahigh-bred gentleman; and he had about him something of the courtesy ofthe old school, which will still be discernible in some dogs when we havefinally and altogether lost the art ourselves. Daniel was now growing old, if indeed he had not already done so. It wasobvious that he could not last much longer--perhaps a year; not more--andit was necessary, therefore, to find an understudy. Irish terriers hadbeen a part of the household for many years. Yet another must bediscovered, though, as all agreed, there could never be another like Dan. Thus it came about that inquiries were made in likely quarters, and aletter was despatched to one who could be trusted, and who was known thecountry over for the dogs he owned. V "Yes, " came the answer; "I think I have just the dog to suit you. With anold dog in the house such as you describe, every dog would not do; butthe one I speak of is a _good_ dog, with good manners and a very gentledisposition. You know that I do not make a practice of selling my dogs, but you shall have this one for ---- guineas, and I will send him alongany day that may suit you. "I forgot to say he is well-bred; Postman-Barbara. He is entered asMurphy. " Two days later a dog's travelling-box was put out on to the platform of alittle country station, and there and then duly opened by the writer. Lying at the bottom in some hay was a poor, cringing little animal, thathad to be lifted out, and then lay flat upon the platform. In such terrorwas he that nothing would induce him to move; and the only way out of thedifficulty was to take him up, while others smiled, and walk out of thestation with him. At a quiet turn of the road the dog was put down, being somewhat heavy, when once again he could not be persuaded to walk, or even to stand uponhis feet. Again and again he acted in this way, till at length the housewas reached and he was deposited on a mat by the fire, close to a bowl ofgood food. And this poor little abject was Murphy!--Murphy, the dog with thepedigree of kings and even emperors; the dog that had run a hare to astandstill; the dog of the happiest disposition of any one in the kennel, and that had been the favourite and playmate of the whole great company. If this was what pedigrees were likely to produce, better to make a cleansweep of the hereditary principle at once; if this was a picture of ahappy disposition, better to try what chronic depression had to show. Asorry favourite this. Up to now a suspicion had been entertained that aplaymate should at least be gay. It was all evidently a mistake. "Murphy!"--Why, this half-starved-looking thing that refused to stir oreat did not even know his name. If a move was made in his direction, hehugged the ground closer than before, shifting his chin backwards andforwards on the rug in abject terror. The coast had purposely been leftclear, and Dan was out with the rest of the family. Presently one looked in, and passed sentence without more ado: "Oh, youpoor, miserable, shrunken little thing. We can't keep a dog like that--itis impossible!" Later, Dan appeared. The young dog got up, went respectfully towards him, and licked him deliberately upon the lips. Dan wagged his tail. They werefriends. Then once again the newcomer crept on his stomach to the cornerof the hearthrug, and remained there cringing when any one went near. What did it all mean? Nor were matters any better when the household retired for the night: intruth, they were much worse. The most mysterious sounds ascended from thelower floor, and grew steadily in volume. They woke one and then another, till at last they drew some one from her bed. Such unearthly groans hadrarely before been heard from throat of living thing. Of course it wasthe "new dog, " as he had already come to be called, for he surely was notworthy of a name. A conference was held next day as to what could possibly be done, thoughwith the usual result that some said one thing, some another, and nothingwas definitely decided on. Had the matter been put to the vote, the dogwould almost certainly have been forthwith returned from whence he came, in spite of a remark from one quarter that such a course might result insomething serious. "'Give a dog a bad name. .. ' We all know the rest. To return this dog isfor him almost certainly to be shot--at least, I wouldn't give a pennyfor his life. " Murphy meanwhile lay curled up tight on his corner of the hearthrug, withhis eyes wide open, watching every movement intently. Dan said nothing, and went his way, voting the house to be upside down. That day passed without improvement, though every effort was made and awalk was taken in the fields: the night, the stranger spent in company, for he appeared to have a dread of being left alone. The day followingmatters were unfortunately made worse. It is the fate of many who aredown to find themselves trodden on: the lucky meet with luck; theunlucky, more often, with misfortune. The world is full of remarkablystrange ordinances; or rather, it might be said, life is replete withincidents that are often the last wished for. From him that hath notshall be taken away, not alone that which he hath, but even that alsowhich "he seemeth to have. " So be it. No doubt, in the majority ofinstances, he deserves to be so made bereft. On some, however, suchthings come hard. The room in which Murphy had taken up his abode was part library, partstudio, and part a good many other things. A large picture--the canvasmeasured six feet--was being worked upon on this second morning after theyoung dog's arrival; and, as was perversely ruled, it was just here thatan accident occurred that might well have been judged impossible. Theeasel, in fact, with its huge canvas, was overset, carrying many thingsinto limbo as they fell; and with the fate that too often pursues theunfortunate, Murphy therefore found himself suddenly buried beneath amixed assortment of articles to which he had hitherto been strange. Toadd to the rest, a whole string of cattle and sheep bells, brought fromvarious parts of the world, were set ringing, and others were dislodged;and for the moment it appeared that the dog must certainly have beenkilled. The only good thing subsequently gathered from the strangeproceedings was that the dog had uttered no whimper. But if he wasfrightened before, he was terror-stricken now; and matters had thereforegone from bad to worse. There is little need to describe what followed. On the one hand, it wasjudged that this was the proverbial last straw; that the dog wouldassuredly never recover now; and that therefore the only thing to be donewas to send him back, with an earnest appeal for his life to be spared. Yet, once again, cooler judgments in the end prevailed. The dog had notwhimpered. There was something in that. Moreover, by what had nowoccurred, an injury had been done to his already unhappy spirit, and, unless all honour had ceased to find a place between man and dog, reparation was certainly his due. In one quarter a sense of pity hadfurthermore been generated--a fact, though unsuspected at the time, thatwas to prove the hub round which Murphy's whole future was destined torevolve. An appeal to the heart, if such once gets home, can never reallyfail--unless, as Murphy's countrymen might say, the person appealed toproves heartless. Thus it was that a sheet of paper that left the house the same eveningcontained words to this effect: "I ought to have written to you before about Murphy, as also to have sentyou the enclosed cheque. But, to tell you the truth, I have been so muchpuzzled by this dog that I have purposely waited a day or two beforewriting to you. I have owned dogs for a great many years and of manybreeds and temperaments; but never, in the whole of my experience, have Icome across any dog as nervous as this one: it is pitiful to see him. Even my old dog's presence does not help him; and really, so far, I havebeen able to make nothing of him. Perhaps he may get better; but I almostdoubt it. I wonder if, without you knowing it yourself, the dog has beencruelly treated. I keep looking at him and wondering, for I cannot, somehow, link this dog lying in front of me, and never closing his eyes, with the description you wrote of him. The journey would not account forit. However, we must hope for the best. " To this came answer: "In face of what you tell me of the dog, I cannot of course accept your cheque, and therefore return it. But do please keep the dog for a month or six weeks, or as long as you like, and write to me again then. I assure you the dog is a _good_ dog. Perhaps his surroundings are strange to him. They must be. The old dog will help him to come round, I feel sure. " A few days later the door opened, and a stranger was announced. Murphywas on the hearthrug, as usual; the canvas and easel had been banished toa corner, and an effort was being made to accustom Murphy to the clickingof a typewriter--a sound concerning which he was evidently doubtful. "Ah, Murphy; you're a nice dog, aren't you?" The dog had gone to thedoor, and the great figure of the Over-Lord was stooping to notice him. "I always like to see where my dogs go, if possible, " he added; "and Iwanted to hear from you, as well as to see for myself, what was thematter, for this is a good dog--a nice dog: I know he is. He'll come allright. Just please give him time; and then, if you don't like him, sendhim back. He is as good a dog--gentle, you know, gentle--as I've bred. Why, I can assure you, I refused (mentioning several hundred pounds)--Irefused that sum for a pair of his relations, only last year; so you willjudge he is well enough in the matter of class. " "Why did you refuse? Most people would have jumped at such an offer. " "Well--I'll tell you. I didn't like the man's face that wanted them;nothing else: I always like to see where my dogs go and the people theygo to; and, after getting your letter, I determined to make the journeyhere, as soon as ever I could get the time. He's a nice dog; a gooddog--I'm sure of it. " "You don't think there is anything in the suggestion I made to accountfor his extreme nervousness, do you?" "Well--I know now that there is. I only got to the bottom of it, though, this morning. These things aren't arrived at in a minute, you know. Oneworking-man very rarely splits upon another. " Then followed the whole story. "It was cruel--cruel, " he jerked out atthe end, finishing with, "I may as well tell you, I never liked the man. Latterly his work was anyhow--went from bad to worse, and I dischargedhim. " There was silence. Two great big men were sitting looking at the doglying between them. The dog's eyebrows moved continually: his brillianteyes travelled from one to the other; and presently he heaved a deepsigh, as much as to say, "It's all quite true--quite true. " If there had been hesitation about keeping Murphy before, there was an endto it now. Here was a dog--a young life--that had once, and not so longago, been the delight of the kennel, the very embodiment of light-heartedfun and happiness; the most promising of all the younger lot, and one thathad never been guilty of wrong. Send him back! Give him up! What might hisfate be if he went elsewhere? Death? Look at him. Look at his largebrilliant eyes. They betoken nervousness, of course--inherent nervousness, probably. A cruel injustice had been done by this dumb thing, and by oneof Us. Give him up! Clearly everything most prized was at stake, andclaimed the exact opposite. Why should a different justice be the lot of a dog to that meted out to aman? Is the superiority all one way? Each man knows in his heart that itis not; that the dog is often the better of the two. How the thoughts raced through the brain! "Murphy?" It was his new master that called him now. Perhaps the presence of the Over-Lord had given the young dog confidence:_he_, at least, had been linked with happy times. Murphy got uphesitatingly and came to his new master's chair, with his ears drooping. He even suffered himself to be taken into this new master's lap, thoughnot without great nervousness. And after that the Over-Lord rose and said good-bye. "No, Murphy, we won't part, " were the last words he heard as he left thedoor; and this was the last time the generous Over-Lord was destined everto set eyes on Murphy. VI Others laughed when they heard the final verdict, and called theundertaking hopeless and sentimental. The hopelessness remained to beproved; and, as to the sentimental part of the business, some one averredthat sentiment lay at the bottom of most things. It might be unpracticalfrom a philosophic point of view, as well as often fitting matter for ajibe; but sentiment, all the same, was generally a source of strength!Without it neither nation nor man would be likely to get far; itreflected the noblest part of man's nature, and touched a nation at itsquick, if flags meant anything, and were to be followed and set store by. There was quite a bandying of words over the matter. This dog was sodifferent to Dan. It was not a matter of argument, certainly not onabstruse points. The dog had been broken in nerve, and admittedly byill-usage. Probably he had been nervous from the first, and there wastherefore all the less chance of his recovery. To this was interposed the fact that many well-bred dogs areconstitutionally nervous, and continue to be so all their lives, theircondition in this respect being probably largely due to their braindevelopment and increased powers of imagination. That might be the case, came the answer; but all the same--how about thetail? The nervous organisation of this dog and his imagination had to dowith his brain, which his eyes showed to be capable of development. Thesepoints had to do with the head. What about the other end? The index to adog's character, as well as to his immediate proceedings, lies, as we allknow, in his tail--the angle at which it is held, the way it moves orremains stiff and immovable; its position before a fight, its twist toone side when stalking, its confident carriage when the owner has "gothis tail up. " All these are so many signals, generally recognised by manand other dogs alike. Granting all this, what was to be said here? Thisdog had now been several days in the house, and no one had apparentlyseen his tail: it had been kept firmly down, and in such a way as tosuggest that had it been long enough it would have been well between hislegs. At this, some one said that he had seen it once, and it was bushy; theonly effect of this remark being to elicit the rejoinder that "_then_ itwanted pulling. " Another averred that, of course, nothing could be hopedfor till he got his tail up: the job was how to set about securing soessential a condition in the case of the tail of this particular dog. Nodoubt the first thing to be done was to win him to the habit of standingon his feet: it was obviously impossible to attempt anything with thetail till this was achieved. So far, his attitude had been bestdescribable as that of the prone position. If anybody moved, he crouchedstill lower; if he was persuaded to enter another room than the one hehad particularly taken to, he grovelled; if there was any sudden movementor noise, he was terror-stricken; and, added to all this, it was obviousthat he could never be a watch-dog, for he refused to sleep alone. Of course he ought to have gone back; and all these notions about"bringing him round, " giving him another chance and a happy life, were somuch high faluting rubbish. In the face of such arguments, based, as they obviously were, onuniversal testimony, even the faith of the person most nearly concernedand wholly responsible must, it was judged, eventually give way. But if counsels and opinions alike failed to alter the decision that hadbeen come to, they equally also supplied no answer to the momentousquestion--how, seeing he was to be kept, was the confidence of this dog tobe won? There was hope in Dan, of course. He would teach him plenty ofthings, and tell him much besides. A good deal of faith was placed in thisdirection. But, even then, what about the general training? This dog wouldrun riot, be disobedient and unruly, hunt when and where he should not, like other dogs before him, or even run sheep. If these things happened, what was to be done? To thrash him would be almost an act of cruelty by adog of such a temperament: it might make him more nervous than ever, evenif he could be caught for the purpose and made to understand the rudimentsof cause and effect. Dan had learnt to "come and be thrashed, " when suchwas necessary and he was summoned in those most ominous of words. It mightbe possible to teach Murphy in the same way: dogs, somehow or other, werealmost universally capable of differentiating between justice andinjustice, and bore no resentment. The reflection gave relief. Yet whatwould be the effect upon this dog if Dan was in trouble and took toshouting "Murder, " as he usually did long before he felt the stick? The problems were many, and grew in number the more the whole matter wasconsidered. Two things shaped themselves from the first: there must beabsolute fairness and justice; and, what was of no less importance, theremust never be any trace of loss of temper in what had to be done, howevertrying the case might be. To show anger, to give an extra stroke when thestick was up, to be hasty for an instant, would be to fail ignominiously, to the mutual unhappiness of both. The whole enterprise was thus obviously full of pitfalls. Yet faithdeclared this way: by kindness, sympathy, and self-control the end mightbe attained, confidence won back, the young life put into touch withhappiness again. As the further aspect of the question was considered, it looked rather asif, while the man was trying to train the dog, the dog might equally beall the time training the man. Here was one none too strong, whosenervous organisation had been shattered, and whose confidence had beenwholly undermined. To win back what had been lost would be difficultenough in the case of a man; how would it be in the case of a dog? Oddlyenough, too, the conditions of life of neither party here were of thenormal kind--in one case never could be so. Yet here were these two, andby the merest chance, placed in juxtaposition. A strange link was forgingitself apparently, quite unknown to both, and coupling the one firmly tothe other, though neither was aware of it. It was not until some time had passed that the position took a moredefinite form, and the question repeated itself--what if sympathy grew upand blossomed into something fair, with love and mutual confidence as itsaccompaniments? Such might result, perhaps. The thought added interest tothe problem as it floated through the mind and was lost again. There was nothing uncommon in the possible situation; it had occurredagain and again. History furnished innumerable instances. Folklore, withits roots in truth, told endless stories of similar complexion. The Dogand the Man; the interdependence of both: living things of likepassions--sharers of like passions; fellow-helpers, the advancement ofthe one having kept pace with that of the other, right up from the dayswhen, in prehistoric times and the Neolithic age, as is shown by thebones that are found, the dog shared the home of the man and partook ofhis food--right up from the days when the Egyptians, though they dubbedhim unclean, worshipped this animal, and, because of his fidelity andcourage, gave him a place as one among three who were to share with themthe joys of Paradise. The same story is to be traced through all the ages. Even Ulysses couldshed a tear for Argus, hiding the fact as well as he might from Eumæus;and Tristrem and Ysolde, in the legend, took Hodain to be their intimatecompanion, because he had once shared with them "the drink of might. " So, too, the great Theron walked as the close companion of the Gothic king;and Cavall became the trusty servant and liegeman of King Arthur. Thehuge white hound Gorban sat ever at the side of the Welsh bard Ummad ashe sang his songs; and the beautiful Bran was the friend for life ofFingal. Most men have heard of William the Silent's spaniel, who savedhis master's life; and many may have seen the form of the dog, fashionedin white marble, lying at his master's feet on the well-known tomb atDelft. We have each read of Scott's Maida. And if some, perhaps, havemade a pilgrimage to that long and narrow mound in the vale of Gwyantwhich, according to tradition, marks the resting-place of the immortalGelert, others have read of the faithful Vigr who never again tasted foodwhen he learnt that Olaf, his master, lay dead. The stories are without end; and romance knows no limits when dealingwith the subject. The lives of the Man and the Dog are found to be everintertwined. Yet is there always this besides--the rift in the lute andthe familiar refrain, that the life of the dog shall be short, and thatMan shall go on his way with his head bent, till such time as he shallbecome rich once more in the love of a new-found friend--if that bealways possible. No man, it has been well said, can be deemed unhappy who possesses thelove of a dog; and none are too poor to win it, as none are too high torejoice and grow glad in it. The dog, at least, knows no difference ofclass or place in his attachments. To him his home is his home; hismaster, his master and friend, whether his lot be to follow the tramp onthe road, or to walk behind a king to the tomb. And perhaps it may be dueto the mystery lying at the back of this wonderful intimacy andconnection, stretching far back into an altogether hidden past, that tostrike another man's dog unjustly is equivalent to striking him; that tohurt a dog with intent is to earn the worst of characters and to stainone's kind; and that for a dog to be in trouble and claim aid is for himto claim also the man's heart--even, as has many a time occurred, theman's life--to the infinite glory of both. Nor has it been only on man's side that such deeds of heroism have beenexhibited. The man, the woman, and the child have undoubtedly gone to thedog's help at the risk of their own lives on many an occasion; but soalso has the dog risked his for the sake of the man--not from any moralclaim, not because life is a precious thing and must be saved, notbecause of that power which impels, and whose chief gift is the sense ofafter-satisfaction that comes even to the most disinterested; such thingslie necessarily beyond the reach of the dog mind. What the dog does isdone for love, because of his faith, and because, unlike any other livinganimal, he thinks, in his unselfishness, more of his friend than he everdoes about himself. On the shores of a lake in Travancore, not far from the remote cantonmentof Quillon, stands a monument to the memory of a dog. He was left towatch his master's clothes while bathing. Presently he was seen to bedoing everything in his power to attract attention, by barking andrunning excitedly backwards and forwards on the shore. An advancingripple was then discerned on the smooth surface of the lake, and the nextinstant the meaning of this flashed home. A crocodile had got between theswimmer and the landing-place, and was coming out to seize his prey. Hopemight well have been stricken dead in the face of such a situation. Butthe dog did not hesitate. Plunging into the water, he swam out to getbetween the horrid reptile and his master, and thus to head him off. Itmeant his own certain death; but the saving of his master's life. Amoment later there was a violent agitation of the water, and the dog haddisappeared for ever. Thus there stands to record his splendid actionthis well-known monument, erected by his master in deepest gratitude, andthat passers-by might learn of what a dog is capable. The incident is not the only one of its kind, and may be left to speakfor itself. But the influence of that one act has probably beenworld-wide; and it is because of the exhibition of such qualities thatthe moral power of the dog reaches to greater lengths than is generallysupposed. There is indeed ample evidence for believing that the beautiesoften traceable in the character of the dog re-act unconsciously, and forinfinite good, upon the roughest of our own kind--by claimingunselfishness from those who otherwise may lay claim to possessinglittle; by showing what love may be under stress and strain, hardship andrough fare; by the exhibition of patience and faithfulness; by thoseinstincts that make the most depraved of lookers-on pause and think, andask the question sharply--"Whence that?" In Kingsley's _Hypatia_, Raphael Ben Azra, his head filled with a falsephilosophy, is made again and again to act otherwise than he would by themastiff Bran. The "dog looks up in his face as only a dog can, " and causes him tofollow her and to retrace his steps against his will. There are herpuppies. Is she to leave them to their fate? He tells her to choosebetween the ties of family and duty: it is a specious form of appeal. Toher, duties begin with the family; the puppies cannot be left behind. Norcan she carry them herself. She takes Raphael by the skirt, afterbringing the puppies to him one by one. He must carry them, she tellshim; and once again he finds himself doing the opposite of what he would:the puppies are transferred to his blanket, and he and his dog go forwardtogether. "After all, " he says to himself, "these have as good a right to live as Ihave. .. . Forward! whither you will, old lady. The world is wide. Youshall be my guide, tutor, queen of philosophy, for the sake of this merecommon-sense of yours. " He tramps on after that, "trying to get the dog's lessons by heart. " Hecatches himself asking the dog's advice, till he exclaims irritably, "Hang these brute instincts! They make one very hot. " At last, by the dog's means and the example of energy that she sets, heis instrumental in effecting the rescue of Victoria's father. Then, asthe distracted girl throws herself at his feet, and calls him "hersaviour and deliverer sent by God, " even Ben Azra has to admit that thecredit is not in reality his. "Not in the least, my child, " he exclaims. "You must thank my teacher, the dog, not me. " The experiences of the philosopher in the novel are only those of many inreal life. Man is not the only civilising agent in this world of manymysteries. And if we often exclaim, "Bother the dog!" we have still veryfrequently to follow where he leads, and often to our most definiteenrichment in the end. VII It was four months before any improvement was discernible: it was a yearbefore confidence could really be said to have grown at all. In somedirections it never grew. For instance, of labouring men, gardeners, andthe like, Murphy always remained shy. It was in no spirit ofunforgivingness, for he was perfectly civil; neither did he owe them anygrudge, grudges being forbidden usually by dog law and only entertainedby the poorest characters of all. Thus he never became familiar, evenwith those he met daily: his memory was phenomenal, and by passing by onthe other side he showed that his associations in this direction wereunhappy. It fell to this dog's lot to live a very quiet life and to be thrown withfew--either dogs or men. His days were regulated by his master's doings, and these again were regulated, of necessity, by method. The weeks came, and ran their course, and did not vary very greatly one from the other. There was the daily round of work--almost incessant work, life beingsupportable that way and in no other. There was the break, half-waythrough the morning, of a run of a quarter of an hour, wet or shine. There was the walk across country in the afternoon, also totallyirrespective of the weather. There was the turn at night under similarconditions. That was the dog's day in winter-time; perhaps also theman's. In spring and summer both lived under the sky, and regarded ahouse only as a place to sleep in. Habit is second nature. Interests weremany, and in some directions ran parallel--sporting instincts, especially, being quite ineradicable. Life for both was thus exceedinghappy; and life grew always happier with friendship: that is as it shouldbe. With those he met Murphy was genial, if shy. He grew to love the membersof his little home circle; though three of the quartet ever averred that, in reality, he only loved one wholly and altogether, and clung to him ina way that others noticed--folk on the land always referring to them, thecountry over, as "Him and his dog. " Were they not always together? The shepherds on the downs recognised themat great distances, for shepherds see far. The shepherds' dogs knew themequally well, and they see furthest. The ploughmen in the hollows caughtsight of them against the skyline in the waning winter day, when the teamgrew weary as they themselves--which last fact, too, made these best ofmen shout with full lungs, "Please, will you tell us the time!" The manwith the hand-drill sowing the spring seeds; the poorer folk, men andwomen with their buckets, stone-picking in the chill, autumnal weather;the stockmen as they drove the cattle home, or called them from the lushfields with the crack of a whip--spring-time and harvest, all the seasonsthrough; in wind and rain, in the great heat, in the snow and theblizzard, it was always the same. And thus, in this unenclosed country, where there were great woods, but where hedges were almost non-existent, the men of the land would look up and pass the remark to their mates, with a jerk of the head, "Ther's 'im an' 'is dog; see?" Outside the home circle--though, to be sure, a dog is, or should alwaysbe considered, a part of the family--Murphy's passion was for Dan. Heinvariably got up when Dan entered the room, and often licked him manytimes upon the lips: he paid him every kind of attention; bullied him toplay when out of doors; woke him when he judged it was not fitting heshould be asleep; and, in fact, made a young dog of him again for a time, though Dan was really old. He already owed Dan a good deal, for Dan hadinitiated him into many things concerning rabbits, rats, and the rest, that all self-respecting dogs should know. Thus the old dog being aninveterate sportsman, Murphy followed suit--and both were, at all risks, encouraged so to be. As Murphy furnished and grew stronger he naturally became more handsome, till passers-by would turn and remark upon the pair--the old dog and theyoung, lying on the bank of the river, patiently, while some one didmysterious things with paints; or they were seen returning together inthe evening, sitting side by side in the stern of a boat. They werecertainly a very uncommon pair. Dan's character had been, of course, fully formed long ago, and a trulywonderful character it was, as has already been related. Murphy's wasstill in the making. If the whole of the first year was a period ofdifficulty, the first four months might well have staggered any oneundertaking a self-imposed task of such a nature. The ideal aimed at wasnever suffered to be out of sight, but, like most ideals, it had a trickat times of receding almost beyond the range of hope. It was not that thedog was continually doing wrong. Perhaps it would have been better if hehad been, for then there would have been something tangible. Thedifficulty consisted in conveying to the dog what he should not do, without frightening him, and without getting cross and losing temper. Totrain a dog that takes his thrashing, shakes himself, lays his ears back, and prepares for the next, oblivious of consequences, is not beyond thewit of man, though possibly a gift. But what is to be done in the case ofa dog that is terror-stricken, even if the voice is raised? The positionforms as fine a period of probation in its way as any that wilful mancould desire; and at that the matter may be left. The philosopher tells us that we advance more surely by making mistakesthan we do by lines more usually held to be right. Murphy took the formerand apparently correct course, like others before him. The first realstride he made was thus in connection with an error, and it did him aworld of good. It came about like this. By way of preface--what can possibly be more irritating to a dog thansheep? Master and dog were coming home together, and were persistentlymobbed by a party of a dozen. Both agreed that if any real pluck lay atthe back of the attentions so freely bestowed, the view entertained ofthe proceedings might be somewhat modified. But both were well aware thatthere was nothing of the kind; that the bold front was a sham, thatinquisitiveness was the origin of it all, and that funk in reality filledevery one of those dozen hearts, however much their owners hustledforward or lifted up their heads and stamped. How long would Murphy stand such gross effrontery? That was the questionof the moment. So far, he had followed close to heel, with his taildown--though it is fair to him to say that latterly he had come to carryit erect. Possibly the sheep approached closer than any dog of spiritcould endure, or one frightened the others and they began to run away. Ina moment it was all over; the sheep had turned tail, and Murphy was afterthem, and had even found his voice. The field was one of five-and-thirty acres, so there was plenty of roomfor him to turn them this way and that. To continue calling was, ofcourse, useless. Time was better employed in taking a grip of thefeelings and deciding on what was to be done. To make matters worse, thefarmer himself was seen to be viewing the proceedings from a distantgateway. He would undoubtedly expect the law to be carried out, and dogsthat ran sheep to be either broken to better ways or shot. It made nodifference that the sheep were not his but "on tack" in his fields. Whatwas the lot of these might be the lot of his another day. A thrashingwas, therefore, now imperative. But how was this to be administered, whenthe only weapon was a shooting-stick, and the site was the middle of alarge grass field? The best thing to do was to sit down, and be patient. A part of the dog's education had already been that he was to stop whenhis master stopped, and when the latter sat or lay down he was to comein. He had already responded in a small way to this training, and now hedropped his games with the sheep, left them, and came slowly back. Heguessed that something was about to happen by his master's solemnsilence, and therefore approached with caution. It is never necessary inthe case of ordinary offences and with ordinary dogs to be over severewith the stick--if a suitable one is handy, which it generally is not. Alecture and a shaking does as well, with a tap or two with a stick toshow it is there. Provoking as the incident had been, this last is whatMurphy duly received. The shooting-stick was much brandished in the air, and the dog called "Murder, " long and loudly. The delinquent wasevidently catching it, judged the farmer; and he waved his arm anddisappeared. That was gained, any way: what about the dog? He had learnt what therattle of the shooting-stick meant. He had also learnt that sheep were tobe suffered in their stupid, irritating ways, and not chased. For a shortwhile he took the matter to heart, being always woefully depressed whenhe even thought he had done wrong. But he soon recovered, and showedcontrition in the winning way he had now begun to acquire--by coming upshyly from behind, and endeavouring to reach the fingers of his master'shand. The whole episode proved a success--from the man's point of view, atleast; in the case of the dog and the sheep no doubt it was coloured. Murphy had certainly acquired confidence by what had happened, just as aboy may, when he gets his first fall out hunting, and finds himself lesshurt than he fancied would be the case in turning a somersault. Added tothis, there was also gain in the fact that from that day forward he wasimmaculate with sheep, as will be seen. Though Murphy was quickly judged as one who had been "born good, " andcontinued to be so regarded all his life, it is not to be supposed thathe never transgressed, and thereby never incurred the punishment of ashaking. He was canine, as men are human; the two terms are equallysynonymous with error, and faults, one way or the other, have to suffercorrection. But in his case, the faults of which he was guilty werealmost invariably confined to those of a petty and irritatingdescription--exhibition of nervousness when there was no need, failure inthe recognition of his name, lifelong inability to get out of the way oftraffic on the roads, which made walks along roads very rare occurrencesindeed, and many others of a like nature. Had it been otherwise, wherewould have been the training for both? On the one hand, there was alwaysthe ideal of enabling this dog to regain confidence in the human being, and making him the merry, happy fellow he had once been; on the other, there was the test as to whether this could be done without loss of hopein the face of repeated and almost continuous failure, and without theexhibition of irritability or loss of temper when provocations arose atfirst a score of times on every day. Of his pluck there was never the slightest question. Again and again hewould charge, for instance, into a quickset hedge when his nose told hima rat was there, and come out a mass of thorns, and with the rat fixed tohis lip or cheek. He would then simply knock the rat off with a fore-pawwithout whimpering, and hold it down that some one else might come andkill it, for he seemed unable, or unwilling, to kill anything himself. Then, again, he habitually went straight up to the most savage ofdogs--several times at the risk of his life, in the case of well-knownfighters twice the size of himself--and by his manner or his charminvariably came away harmless. He could never be made to understand--and it is the cause of shame now torealise the irritation that this caused on many an occasion--that all thedogs in the world, any more than other inhabitants of the world, are notnecessarily our friends, or intend even to be friendly; and that dogs, like those about them, are frequently in the habit of quarrelling andrending one another without regard to feelings, and with little of thespirit of give and take that life and a common lot might elsewhere besaid to demand. He was often told these things, but if, as with many of his kind, helooked as if he understood, he never really doubted to the end that otherdogs were at least, and of necessity, his friends. He did not court theircompany. They often seemed to bore him, and more and more the older hegrew; but he had a curious way of inviting some to his house, and it wasno uncommon occurrence to find a strange dog lying in the morning in thehall that he had sometimes brought a long distance. Of his hospitality in this way he once gave a remarkable instance. Aneighbour's dog was of uncertain manners, to dogs and men alike. Oneevening he came to call. Now Murphy's dinner was always placed at sixo'clock in one corner of the hall, and had just been brought when thisvisitor appeared. Not to be outdone in hospitality, Murphy at oncepointed out the repast that had been spread, and stood by while the otherate, though he had himself had nothing since the early morning, andcould, had he been so minded, have knocked the stranger into theproverbial cocked hat. All he did was to wag his tail and look pleased, as his dinner slowly disappeared. But, after all, such episodes as thesebelong to a later period, when he had become well-nigh human; when--itmay as well be now confessed--he came to love the company of a man morethan the company of dogs, when confidence had been won back, andhappiness--happiness that with those he knew and loved showed itself inan intense and merry joy of life--had been finally regained. One other peculiarity about him, or, rather, accomplishment, hepossessed, must be noticed here, for, with a lifetime's experience ofdogs, no parallel can be recalled, or has been gatherable elsewhere. First of all, he was certainly musical, and often after a long day'swork, when the landscape outside was wintry, dreary, and wet, and thepiano was thrown open and thrashed for joy of sound and relief, Murphywould rise from his mat and come and lie close to his master's feet. Hedid not sing or howl on these occasions, in the way that with many dogsconveys the impression that music is pain. On the contrary, he remainedquite silent, contenting himself with a sigh and a lick of the lips, which almost gave the impression that he would have said, if he could, "Just play that again, will you?" This is, however, by the way. What he excelled in was what is generallyknown as talking. The sound was not a howl, or like one; it came fromdeep in his throat, and was deep in tone, inflections being produced bymovements of the jaw at the same time. To ask him a question wasgenerally to get an answer in this way, though rarely out of doors, wherehis attention was necessarily distracted. But when once he had started, he continued to respond, and so to carry on quite a lengthy conversation. That was his sole trick, if indeed it could be so classed, for he evolvedit entirely himself. Of tricks proper he knew none, and through lifeentirely declined to learn any. Perhaps Dan, whose repertory was large, had told him what a bore they were, and cautioned him to do his utmost toavoid them. VIII About a year after Murphy's arrival, Dan was gathered to his forefathers, and there was mourning throughout the house for many days. To one atleast, if not to more, Alphonse Karr's remark held good--_On n'a dans lavie qu'un chien_--and Dan was that dog. His life had been long; he hadwon all hearts; he had done many wonderful things, besides fulfilling hisduties as a faithful constable of the place in which his lot was cast;and now, loving and beloved, he had died. Such were the data from whichhis epitaph had to be evolved. Man could desire no better. To have beenloved--that, all said and done, is the great thing, for it comprises allothers. Another French writer reckoned it the highest eulogy bestowable, and it seems as if he was not far wrong, whether we have before us dogsor men. One of Murphy's last acts by his grandfather reflected his own character, no less than the affectionate relations existing between himself and Dan. It was the custom to give the dogs certain biscuits after dinner of whichthey were particularly fond, and they sat side by side to receive them. One evening, when the biscuit tin was taken out as usual, Dan was absent. He was old; probably asleep: better let Murphy have his, and have donewith it. The young dog refused to have anything to say to suchsuggestions; and for the moment his attitude was put down to an access ofshyness, for these particular biscuits were irresistible. Presently hebegan barking and running backwards and forwards to the door. Being letthrough, he ran to another, found a third open, and presently returned ina perfect ecstasy of delight, with the old dog by his side. Hesubsequently referred to the extraordinary stupidity that had beenevinced in a long and comprehensive speech. To steal a march on the old, or to fail to treat them at all times with respect, was evidently, in hisopinion, wicked. At least, that was his text. Dan's last resting-place was, of course, in the dogs' burial-ground inthe family home. To lie there was the highest honour bestowable, and Danhad wholly earned it. Many generations of dogs lay in and around thatcorner, and the spot, if not consecrated, was at least regarded by mostas very sacred. This was it. An angle of old, ruined brick wall, facing West--part of anancient garden--beautiful in colour and overgrown with ivy. Great treesall about it; and the wide stretches of a park, where rabbits played inthe long evenings, extending from it on all sides. A holly hedge andha-ha prevented trespass; but those invited there found in this quietsun-trap many headstones, bearing names and dates and epitaphs. Close by, a path, along which members of the family went often to and fro, led toyet another quiet corner, where a well-known spire showed above thetrees. From this last there sounded at intervals the music of bells, chiming, or ringing solemnly, and beneath its shadow slept other folk, who had once walked the world with these same dogs of many generations, earning epitaphs no better, if as good, as they. To lie in either, seeingwhat falls to some, might well be thought a stroke of luck for dog orman. It was not always so for dogs, here or elsewhere, whatever it may havebeen for men. Within the recollection of all past middle age, dogs werekept tied to kennels by heavy chains, seldom allowed in house, fed atuncertain hours, and taken out at hours still more uncertain--if at all. Left often to howl time away by day, and to bark themselves to sleep atnight. And when all was over, life having been often shortened bydisease, there came along the man with the spade, detailed for the job, to fulfil the last of offices, and put in some handy resting-place thedog that had had his day. We have come out of all that now, and rather plume ourselves upon thefact. We have altered our opinions respecting the proper place andsurroundings of our dogs here; and many of us are not ashamed to confessthat we hold opinions staunchly regarding their place and surroundingshereafter. We also have our dog-doctors, our dogs' infirmaries, our homesand charities, and, in the end, our dogs' secluded cemeteries. Suchthings, in the case of dumb animals, point, we judge, to a higher gradeof civilisation, and to many other things besides. Yet let us not forget the fact that others, in the past, have gone beforeus, and far ahead of us, on this same track, of which we often speak withso much unction. In ancient Egypt dogs had names, and these are foundinscribed in many places. They were the favourites of the home, andconstantly made much of. They wore collars, too, and often by no meanscheap ones; and just as they were everywhere admitted to the house, so, all these ages ago, they were talked to, and also made to talk. Legendswere woven about their doings and their ways. And if, in many cases, theywere small and insignificant, with short legs like the Dachs, or, perhaps, the Aberdeen, implicit trust was placed in their fidelity asguardians of the home and family. Of course there were bigger fellows tofulfil the heavier duties, like the huge Kitmer, the dog of the SevenSleepers, whom God allowed once to speak, and to answer for himself andothers for all time. "I love those, " he said--"I love those who are dearunto God: go to sleep, therefore, and I will guard you. " That was sufficient, surely. Then, too, there was Anubis, who was given adog's head and a man's body: he was worshipped as a deity and the geniusof the Nile, who had ordered the rising of the great river at the properseason from the beginning of the world, and whose doings in this way weremarked by the coming of the Dog-star, with seventy times more power thanthe sun--the brightest of all in the purple dome of the night. An animal such as the dog, even if dumb, which in justice he couldscarcely be thought, was thus judged entitled to a consideration nevervouchsafed to others, and duly received it, therefore, at all times inthis enlightened land. And not only in the fleeting years of hisexistence, but equally when he lay down under the common hand of death. The dog, in those forgotten days, received embalmment, just as his masterand mistress, and was then carried with some solemnity to theburial-ground that was set apart for dogs in every town. And when thelast good-bye had been said, the family to which he had belonged returnedagain to their house, and put on mourning for their friend and faithfulguardian, shaving their heads, and abstaining for a time from food. Sowas it with dogs all those thousands of years ago. We have not come sovery far since then. Murphy was not told many of these latter things, though obscurantism isalways to be utterly condemned. It was thought better that he should notknow them, or other darker facts to do with modern scientific times, lestby chance they give rise to strange and unorthodox reflections in a brainso active as his. When the day came for Dan's best friend--she called him "Best of all"--toset out on a journey, to see the last of him, Murphy and his master, being left alone, turned naturally in their talk to the place where Danwas to be laid, as also to the doings of many other dogs who had livedand loved and had had the supreme happiness of hunting there throughouttheir lives. Some were good, and others, well--not so good. Others werenot thought much to look at, though this generally resolved itself into amatter of opinion. To set against these last, some were the very finestof their kind, such as Ben, the great Newfoundland, who had the glory ofbeing painted in company with two small members of the family sixty orseventy years ago. Each, of course, had his characteristics, and did his funny, or hiswicked, things. In the face of a recent occurrence, it would have been amistake to point a moral, or reference might have been made to Bruce, thedeerhound, shot dead by accident when hunting sheep at night. That woulddo for another day, should circumstances arise to give the story point. There were plenty of other anecdotes besides that, and here are one ortwo that Murphy heard. Perhaps Fritz, the Spitz, did the most remarkable thing of all. Hismaster was an undergraduate of Christ Church at the time, and had beenalways in the habit of taking him with him on his return to Oxford. On acertain occasion he decided that Fritz, for once, should remain at home. The next day the dog was missing. Then a letter came, and this is whatFritz had done. He had found his way into the neighbouring town, distantthree miles, and taken the train to Swindon, as was duly proved. Probablyhe changed there, though this is not recorded. But he went on to Didcot, where he certainly got out, found the Oxford train, and that sameafternoon walked into his master's rooms at Christ Church. One other action of his deserves to be recorded, for it affords aninstance of how nearly dogs approach at times to human beings. No man isso wholly hardened as to care to die disliked, while many have a fancyere the end to seek forgiveness, that they themselves may die forgiven. So was it with Fritz. Like many men of genius, his temper was uncertain, and on more than one occasion he was known to bite. The day before hedied, though old and infirm, he made a round on his own account andvisited one or two to whom he had certainly behaved badly. His action wasrecalled when once again he disappeared. But it was further remarkedupon--some adding that they thought they understood--when Fritz was foundcurled in a hole beneath a bush--and dead. Graf, another of the same breed, but belonging to a period twenty yearslater than Fritz, had also curious ways of his own. He could run down arabbit in the open, and did it on many an occasion; but if this wasremarkable--a rabbit being reckoned one of the quickest of all animalsfor a hundred yards--his curious behaviour exhibited itself in quiteanother way. He was a dog of great character and cleverness, as well asperfect manners. It was the custom in the family at that date to haveprayers on Sunday evenings. This Graf never failed to resent. There hadbeen service in the church during the day, and Sundays were dull days fordogs: why have prayers in the evenings to make things worse? Therefore, to show what he felt in the matter, no sooner had the family left theroom for prayers, than he gathered up the newspapers and tore themdeliberately to pieces. It was not only once or twice or even six timesthat he did this. He did it repeatedly; and when the family returned, _The Guardian_ especially was found in scraps upon the floor. But he was otherwise a good dog, and so it was that he who read _TheGuardian_ week by week on Sunday evenings showed that he bore Graf noresentment, for when the dog died he wrote a poem running thus, the lastline and a half of which are graven on Graf's stone: "Can such fidelity be all for naught? Is virtue less true virtue that it beats In a hound's faithful breast? No, Graf, the thought Of thy pure, true and faultless life defeats All doubt. No! Virtue lives for ever, and the same, Whether in man, or in his faithful friend Who looked but could not speak his love. The flame That warmed thy faithful heart can never end In dark oblivion. If not a Soul Is thine, at least is Life. The same great hand Made thee and us; but where upon the scroll, At day of Judgment, shall be found to stand A human soul so faithful to the end, So true as thou hast been? God's great design Awaits both thee and us. Good-bye, sweet friend, And may our lives be simply true as thine. " By way of parodying this, in the case of another dog, it was suggested byone who was flippant that his epitaph might run--"And may our lives havefewer faults than thine. " But while it is true that this one had run upquite a heavy bill in cats and committed many other enormities, the line_De mortuis nil nisi bonum_ was kept in view, and, if nothing could besaid, it was judged better to say nothing. Moreover, as Murphy dulyremarked, while we talked over the wonderful doings of many and many adog now lying in this sacred corner, "What could you possibly haveexpected in such a case, and from one of Us that you had wilfully namedScamp?" There was, of course, something in that, and many of Scamp's actsdeserved to be recorded, though this is no place for doing so. At onetime he was in London. Residence there naturally put a limit to theexercise of his sporting instincts, but he developed others to replacethem. He was sometimes absent all day, to be found at the door at night;and on one occasion he met his master at a City railway station, whenthought to have been lost for good and all--was indeed seen by his masterto be making his way thither as he drove into the station yard inquestion. To have done anything so clever as that might have been thought to haveearned the right to headstone and epitaph in full. Yet his resting-placeremains unmarked, and his name apparently dogged him to the end, and pastit. "What was that about _De mortuis_?" came the question from Murphy. "_Nil nisi bonum. _" "That never should have been raised, in his case. What about _De vivis_?"There was indignation in the tone; perhaps justly. IX "What I does is this--what I does is, I gets 'em quite close to me, andthen I talks to 'em. " This is what Mrs. Pinnix invariably replied, when asked how it was thather children were of such good behaviour and gave so little trouble. AndMrs. Pinnix knew, for she had been the careful mother of thirteen, andhad developed this happy, good-natured method of dealing with each inturn, boys and girls alike. No doubt she was a remarkable woman in manyways, for she won the last event on the card at the time of the Jubileesports, being then the mother of ten--"Skipping: open to mothers only. "But the point here, in this remark of hers, is that a long experiencewith dogs shows the talking treatment to be as applicable to them as itwas to Mrs. Pinnix's children. Nor will this be found to be the fanciful idea of the few, if inquiry bemade. To live largely, for instance, among those whose labours lie farfrom cities, and who, of long habit, have come to note many thingsconcerning which the less fortunate townsman knows nothing, is to learnmany things oneself. To hazard the remark in such quarters, that a goodmany people have no belief in the theory that talking to a dog does himgood, is to receive for answer, "Ah, but I knows as it does. " Others gofurther, and in reply to the question whether they think dogs--that is, the best dogs--really understand what is said to them, never fail toassert with emphasis, "Well, they does; I be sure as they does: 'tisn't amossel o' use to tell folks the like o' we different. " Shepherds, stockmen, farm labourers, old villagers who have had many experiencesthough living in a narrow circle, and who look back over a long life, constantly make use of such remarks. And probably dog-lovers of allclasses will re-echo the same. It was certainly the method adopted in the further training and educationof Murphy. As already related, he had been taught to stop when his masterstopped, and to come in when he sat or lay down. Thus, though he wasgenerally allowed to range at will over the open lands and be sometimesfar distant, in the event of the one he spent his life with lying down torest for a while, very few minutes would elapse ere the dog would befound making use of shoulder, back, or arm as comfortable things to restagainst. Tucked closely in in this way, his face was level with thatother's, as, with ears cocked and those human eyes of his, he took stockof everything passing in the valley, or that moved on the edges of thegreat woods clothing the hill-tops. That was the time to get hold of him; to train him not to run a hare thatmight come lolloping stupidly along, down wind, into the very jaws ofdanger; to take no notice of a rabbit that offered insult by drummingwith his hind legs on the ground only a few yards off; to tell himstrange stories of what he might expect in the years to come when he grewas old as his master, and had learnt to try to take many knocks, to facemany problems, to bear and suffer much that might come from strangequarters--had learnt also how to live, and to reap his share of thehappiness that the mere fact of living rarely fails to give to all whoare not weak-kneed or chicken-hearted. Of course experience, in some ways, tended to undermine confidence. Didhe not know all about that himself? Had he not at one time come to doubtall things human? Had not happiness and trust and faith gone by theboard, because of the hardness and injustice meted out to him? But whatnow? By some miraculous process there had come a change. Doubt had notaltogether vanished; confidence had not altogether returned; faith andtrust in the giants that stalked over the world, and who seemed to ruleit, were not as yet quite re-established: perhaps they never could, orwould be. To some natures recovery in such directions is impossible. Thefire has seared, the cicatrice remains--though to be hidden away, ofcourse. To show feelings--above all, to show you are hurt--to sing out, in fact--is to exhibit a poor spirit, to fall short in proper doggedness. Suffer in silence, if you can--that must be the rule; just as this dog, with his keen, eager face, loves in silence--loves all the more deeply, perchance, because he loves in silence, and because that silence is somuch more eloquent than words. Did Murphy understand? According to Job Nutt, the shepherd, who was aphilosopher in his way, "of course he did--he know'd he did: his'n did;for why not your'n?" In the face of such definite assertion there was noroom for doubt. Nutt had had his lambing-pens, that year, down in the hollow where therewas "burra" from the winds. It was snowing when the hurdles and the strawwere carted out, and all hands had set to work building the sides of thegreat square, with their thick, straw walls, their straw roofs, the snugdivisions into which the sides were divided, the whole sloping to thesouth to catch what might be of the pale, wintry sun. Every one knew thatsheep lambed quicker and earlier when the snow fell. There had been notime to lose therefore. The first lambs would be heard a fortnight beforeChristmas. And, as a matter of fact, by mid January, Job Nutt's familyalready numbered sixty-three. That was of course nothing. Why, oneJanuary, his father had had one hundred and fifty-one lambs born betweena Saturday morning at light and Monday, no fewer than forty-two beingdoubles--and snow falling all the time. Ay, and when he moved hishurdles--that is, those that were straw-wattled--they were caked so hardwith snow that they stood upright of themselves. His father "had had towork _some_ that day and them two night. " And Job always grinned a merrygrin when he told the story. But now, to-day, when the two who were always together dropped down fromthe hill to pay a visit to this shepherd, it was the last week ofFebruary, when the mornings are as brilliant and full of hope as any inthe year. The rooks were busy building in the great elms by the river;the wattles just below the lambing-pens were already turning red. Springwas coming: the colour of the sky, the voices of the larks, the bleat ofthe lambs, all told the same story. Of course winter would return: italways did. But, for the moment, there was a passing exhibition ofbeauties in store, a reflection of things that should be. By theafternoon the grey blinds would be down again. But that did not matter inthe least: this glimpse had been permitted, and in the brilliant sunlightand the stillness the happiness of full confidence had welled up, andseemed to fill the whole world. Murphy certainly appeared to feel it. As he and his master sunk the hill, he stretched himself out as he ran; he jumped into the air for joy. Hisdoings, in some mysterious way, frequently reflected the colour of theday; and his spirits varied with those of his master. The sympathy ofdogs is no modern discovery, but as old as their comradeship with man;and thus this one varied his ways according as times were good or bad, ortrials, mental or bodily, chanced to be the same. On this brilliantmorning man and dog had caught the light of the sun and the gladnessthereof, and the young dog played with his master's hand as he swungalong, and barked and jumped for very love of life. He was often like this now when they were alone together, though, withothers, he would sometimes lapse again into uncertainty and hesitation. Nevertheless, there was no longer doubt that he was on the right road:happiness had in a large measure returned; confidence was following. Theman and the dog were drawing very close to one another, and in more waysthan one. The pens were only tenanted now by some thirty ewes, still to lamb, andby those "in hospital, " as Job spoke of them. Four hundred tegs, ewes, and lambs were in fold on the hill, on a clover stubble, or what remainedof it, being given crushed swedes and other things, for keep was scarceso early in the year. The shepherd's boy and his dog were up there withthem: only Job and Scot were in the pens. Murphy knew this last, savagethough he was; and had duly delivered to him, on many a previousoccasion, that strange message of his that compelled the most savage tolet him pass free. "Oh! he can come: I likes that dog o' your'n, " called Job, ordering Scotto his place beneath the bleached and weather-worn hut on wheels, inwhich all the miscellaneous articles of a shepherd's craft lay stored. "Ibe just about to find that mother yonder a new child, " he added, with hisusual grin. He was busy tying the skin of a dead lamb on to the back ofanother--dressing him up, in fact, in another suit, even as Rebecca oncedid Jacob. "When a yo do lose her lamb, we's careful to leave the dead un next itsmother, for they've got hearts same as we. If us was to go for to takethe lamb, they 'ould pine. 'Tis nat'ral, ain't it? Well, you see, 'tislike this. After a bit we takes a lamb from a yo as has a double, likethis un here; skins the dead lamb; and ties the skin round t'other'sneck, same as this--see? She'll let this un suck then; but she 'ouldn'tafore--no fear! They do know their own childern, same as we; just as theyknows them as tends 'em. By-and-by I'll cut this skin away, bit by bit, when I judges this un has got to smell same as her own child: it'll beall right then. Ah! 'tis like this with sheep--there's something to belearnt about they every time in the day as one comes nigh 'em. " So the two men rested against the hurdles in the sun, and Murphy satsolemnly between them: he had become very particular in his manners whenwith sheep. The disguised lamb was already sucking the ewe; and Job lithis short clay pipe and smiled: he had been up all night. "I'd never have a lamb killed, if it was my way; no'r I wouldn't. Do youminds last season, when you and yer dog was along? I wus a-going acrossthe Dene with a bottle o' warm milk, with a bit of a tube stuck in it, ifyou minds. 'Twas warm milk I'd taken from the cow. Ah, well, 'twas for alamb as had lost its mother: udder wrong; I could find of it when themaster brought the lot in. And I goes for to say as any un as 'ud serve ayo that way should be crucified. Well, 'tis that very lamb as was as isnow the yo a-suckling the one we dressed up. See how things do workround, don't 'em?" But the talk was not always about sheep, when the folds or the pens werevisited, or "Him and his dog" walked with Nutt and other shepherds overthe open lands, in the wind and the weather. One day Job had been busy sheepwashing, and the talk turned on dogs, asit often did. "'Tis wonderful what they knows. What don't 'em know? I says. See thatScot I had--the one afore this un. Well, I was down a-sheepwashing, sameas I've been just. One o' the full-mouthed sheep as we had then brokeaway, and went straight over river, and it ain't very narrow there, asyou minds. She got up on the further bank and stud. And Scot, he looks atme, and across at the sheep, and then at me again. I know'd, rightenough, what he wanted. He wanted to go over and fetch that sheep back. But I 'ouldn't let un, for a bit. And he kept a-looking and a-looking, same as any one might speak. So I just moved my head, like; there was nocall to do no more. And off he set in the water, and swam river, ketchedthe sheep by the throat--oh, no, he didn't hurt un, no fear!--dragged unto the bank, and brought un over, right enough: he did, though. " "Well, 'twas like this, " he continued, after a laugh. "A gen'leman wasa-rowing by in a boat at the time. And he comes across to our side, whenhe sees what Scot 'a' done, and he says, 'Shepherd, ' he says, 'I'll havethat dog off you, if you've a mind. ' And with that he puts three goldensovereigns on the bank at my feet, where we was busy a-sheepwashing. So Ilooks at the sovereigns, and then at he, and says to un, with a laugh--Isays, '_No Sir_. ' Lord, how he did pray me to let un have that dog! "Then it come about this way. That evening we was a-coming down throughthe village, and passed 'The Crown'--that was, Scot and me--and therestood the same gen'leman at the door. So he comes across the road, seeingme, and he says, 'Well, shepherd, ' he says, 'will you part with the dognow, for, if so be as you will, I'll make it five instead of three?' hesays. And that's truth. And I just looked he between the eyes, like, andsays, 'Part with my dog, Sir?' I says. 'Why, Sir, if I wus to part withhe, I'll tell ye what he'd do--he'd pine and die--he'd just pine away anddie. ' And with that I passed on, and left un. Dogs--well, sheep, if youdo please to understand, is sheep; but dogs is dogs, and God Almighty doknow as they be wonderful. " "It's not all dogs, though, that are as shepherds' dogs, Nutt--or capableof being. " Nutt shook his head. The two men and their dogs were on the hillside, with two hundred and fifty tegs moving before them. The sheep werewalking with a wide front, but in single files, following those paralleltracks that had marked this steep hillside for centuries, to puzzlestrangers. "You can't make a shepherd's dog out of every dog, can you?" "Perhaps not, in your meaning. But I do know I could train a'most anydog, if as I'd be so minded. " Scot was on ahead, where he should be. Murphy was close to heel. "Do you mean to say you could train this one to fold sheep?" Job Nutt took a deep draw at his pipe, and turned and looked down atMurphy, now just over three years old. "I likes that dog; well, I've allus liked un. Train un to sheep? Ibelieve as I could, were I to be so minded: I do believe as I could. " The two had to part then. It was dusk, and looked like wet; moreover, some wether sheep in the fold, far down in the valley, were "howling" forrain: they were true weather-prophets always. So he might be trained to sheep. Job Nutt's words kept repeatingthemselves in the mind--"I believe as I could; I do believe as I could. "What the shepherd had said was a testimony to this dog's marvellousintelligence; but then every one had come to testify to that and toremark upon it. He was of course nervous and shy, and no doubt wouldalways be so. Perhaps it was these characteristics that gave him thefurther one of extraordinary gentleness, that won all hearts. Many hadalready said, with a laugh, that he was "born good"; but latterly somehad come to add that he was incapable of harm or ill. And yet with these characteristics, amounting as they did to a certainsoftness, there was never any question of his pluck and spirit. Nor wasthere any limit to it. He had the spirit and "go" of any dozen of hiscountrymen: what more could possibly be said? At the same time he had thegentleness of a child. He recalled to mind one of those characters thatsome of us have met, and in strange situations--situations and hours whenmen's spirits were on fire, and when the air was filled with sounds thatonce to hear is never to forget. One such is recalled by memory now--avision of a lithe and active figure that had come its longest marches, and borne the many hardships of the many nights and days, though lookingfrail as a girl in her teens, and with manner always gentle as a child. For one like that to be amidst such doings as these seemed incongruous. Yet had the estimate proved in the end quite false. Breeding andpluck--nervous energy--had carried through, when others had gone down. And the pluck and the breeding showed itself still, when the blooddripped, and ebbed away, and the face was white as a stone. Nor is such a parallel as far fetched as might at first appear. Given thetwo, the dog and the man, this dog was to show before the endcharacteristics equally striking and of scarcely less charm. To bear painis not easy. There is no longer doubt that men feel pain in varyingdegrees, and that sufferings that might be considered identical aremultiplied tenfold in the case of a highly developed organisation. Withthe high intelligence and nervous development of this dog, it might havebeen thought that pain would terrify. If so, he never showed it. It is unnecessary here to refer to the many instances when his dash andhigh spirit brought about an accident, for all our dogs get into troubleand meet with accidents at times--at least, those of any worth. But itwas this dog's further habit to avoid, when in pain, the company of theone he loved best, and to go invariably to a woman for aid. It was asmuch as to say that he knew that many men were in such cases worse thanuseless: a thrust in this instance not without its truth. Thus he camehome two miles one night in snow, with both fore-feet cut right acrosswith glass--due to a dash at a rat in some rushes on the frozenriverbank. To his master's eternal shame he never found it out. But, onarriving home, this dog went straight off for attention, of his ownaccord, and bore what he had to bear, not only without a flinch, butshowing his gratitude by licking the hand that was tending him. So again, when he was once badly stubbed, he went to the same quarter, showed hisfoot, and then lay down, staying perfectly quiet while a spike was lookedfor, at last found, and then pulled out with a pair of iron pincers. These are trivialities, no doubt; but they would not be trivialities tosome of Us. It is by such that character shows itself--is moulded andmade up--for others to estimate and take due note of. And thus it is thatwhether they are exhibited by man or animal, we admit their charm and payour tribute to them, just as Theron's faithfulness to Roderick drew thesewords from the lips of the aged Severian: "Hast thou some charm, which draws about thee thus The hearts of all our house--even to the beast That lacks discourse of reason, but too oft, With uncorrupted feeling and dumb faith, Puts lordly man to shame?" X The hay harvest had been a light one, owing to the weather in the springand the absence of wet. It was hardly off the ground before the cornharvest had begun and the long arms of the self-binder were to be seenwaving in the air above the standing oats, the first of all, this season, to go down. "The moon had come in on dry earth, " as the harvestersexpressed it; and with implicit faith in the moon, there would thereforebe no rain. For once in a way faith was not misplaced: there was greatheat, which ripened wheat and oats and barley too quickly, left the strawshort, and covered the turnips with fly. It was too hot in the day to go far--that is, for those in life who canchoose their own time. So the dog and the man took their walks late, andprolonged them to the hour when the ruddy moon rose solemnly into the skyover the woods and set out on its low, summer curve to the west. Daylightlasted long after the sun went down: a hot glow spread graduallynorthward, and what with the light in this direction and the moon atfull, only those two other worlds, Jupiter and Venus, were visible in thecloudless vault above. This was the time of day to be abroad, but, oddlyenough, the hour when many were indoors. There was some excuse for theharvesters. They had been up with the sun: by half-past seven it was timeto put the self-binder to bed in the field; by eight, or soon after, manywere in bed themselves. Men and horses had sweated much, and had had along day. It was on an evening such as this that Murphy had his first lesson inworking to the hand, for Job's remark had given rise to a train ofthought. Education was of course everything. Those who lived on the landshould be educated in the things of the land; should learn, if not itsdeeper wonders and mysteries, at least its simple lessons and what lay atthe back of these. It was in these fields and over these breezy downsthat thews and sinews were to be braced, health and strength gathered, souls cleansed, if so be that the ways of the man were straight and true. Here was God's work always visible, from the wonders of the growth of theseeds to the coming of the music of the rains that washed the air andmade the land sing with life. Here was always visible the infinite powerof small things, beauty unstained, Nature's laws always in fulloperation--the triumph of good work, the smothering of that which wasill. Here in these very fields had been gathered the strength of arm thathad stood the country in good stead, when the drums beat and true menwere wanted beyond seas. That seemed to be more as it should be. And soit may be yet--that is, when the craze of a day has passed, and the menof the land come back. Education would do it. Some hearts would be bitten with the old love, andlearn to forget the new. But the education must be true and not false, intune with the life that shall be; not cramped and with little connectionbetween it and the field of labour that lies ahead. Uniformity is oftenbut to bring down to one dead level, to crush true liberty and freedom, to force unnatural growth, and to give this a trend untrue. Education onsuch lines seems curiously false to many minds, as well as stultifying. Scot, who had no appearance of a sheep-dog--that is, as his class aregenerally portrayed in coloured prints--might possibly have been broughtup as a water-spaniel, or he might have been the darling of asemi-detached villa and have learnt to walk drab, unlovely streetswithout endangering his life: it is all a matter of education, fortifiedby environment. As it was, he was brought up with a cottage for a homeand learnt the mysteries of sheep, the tending and the care of them, whatthe stretching of limbs meant, no less than freedom and free air. The life was a hard one, no doubt, in one sense. Sometimes there wereshort commons: there was much bad weather to be faced, when his masterwas clad in strange clothes and wore a sack like the hood of a monk overthe top of his weather-worn cap, and he himself was glad to get to theshelter of the hut, where the stove was burning: there was the wet, whenall alike were mud-smothered: there were the biting winds of March. Butthere came the glad spring and the long summer days; the one gave aflavour to the other and created a love for both, and deep down in theheart where that love burnt bright was the pride of his calling, thehonour of tending sheep. Soft jobs were not for men--or manly dogs. Of course Murphy could not be a sheep-dog; that is, unless Job Nutt had amind to make him. Then, of course, he would have had a properschoolmaster, and been brought up to things among which he had been bornand bred, while lookers-on beheld a novel kind of sheep-dog. As it was, however, his master owned no sheep. Yet, seeing that his lot had not beenthat of some--to walk the streets for exercise, or to lie in the crampedgarden of a villa in a town--it was only right he should learn all thathe could, and that his education should partake of the fields and theupland downs around his home. As to whether it would have been possible to have trained him to thestreets at all must now be left among the things unknown. The impressionremains that, seeing he never grasped the desperate dangers of the modernroad, his life, had he been so foolish as to forsake the country for thetown, would probably have been limited to hours. For a better, freer lifehe was fortunately born, and he certainly never threw this chance away, but made the very most of it, and came to great happiness thereby. Of course it took time; but a beginning was made in those halcyon, summerdays, and the art of working by the hand gradually brought to someperfection. No little of this dog's gladness in life was centredeventually in this accomplishment, and he was never happier than when atpractice. The education began by teaching him to lie down at thecommand--"Stop there, " and then in leaving him behind for graduallylengthening periods. So well did he know these words, that he would acton them instantly, and in this way once lost his walk by a slightmisunderstanding. An explanation of the method was being given one day, when walking with a friend. The opening words were of course used. Sometime after the dog was missed, and it was not until steps had beenretraced for a considerable distance that he was found, lying where hehad first heard the words and looking a little shy. The next proceeding was to start him, and then to stop him, till bydegrees he came to understand the movement of the hands or arms. In thisway it was possible to send him to great distances, or move him to rightor left, much after the manner in which we who are soldiers move our men. When a hand was uplifted high, he would drop at once, so that nobodywould think that there was a dog within a mile: he might be lying inrough grass where the ragwort was high, or the wheat, as they say, wasproud, and be himself invisible. But he could see well enough with thosebright eyes of his, and the moment the arm was waved he was off with astride of two yards or more, circling round and making the valley ring tohis glad bark. He always entered into the whole fun of the thing, andlooked upon it as the finest game that had ever been invented. "Ah, well, " remarked Job as he watched, and Scot gave tongue for veryjealousy--"ah, well, I allus liked that dog. " And so did every one. With each little addition to the sum of knowledge he possessed, masterand dog grew closer to one another. It is always a moot point whether ourdogs consider they belong to the family with which they live, or whetherthey do not regard the matter the other way about, and judge that thefamily belongs to them. In Murphy's case there is no shadow of doubtthat, so far as his master was concerned, that master most certainlybelonged to him. At first, the position had been different. There wasreason for that. But even the reason had now apparently passed out ofmind: injustice had doubtless been forgiven, and what was far morewonderful--or rather, would have been, had man been in the case and not adog--had also, so far as could be seen, been totally forgotten. So completely had confidence been won that anything was permitted, evento the playful brandishing of a stick. Sticks were things to play with. They had no relation to punishment at all. Besides, was not life a stateto be enjoyed, and as happy as the day was long? And had he not taughthis one great friend no end of facts of which he had hitherto beendesperately ignorant? It was all very well for Him to say that he had educated and trained thisdog. The dog had all the while been training Him. It was all very wellfor Him to think in his heart that he had given this dog happiness inlife. Happiness had in a measure also come back to Him. There had been, in more than one direction, a strange parallel between their cases, andas this had made itself felt, it had bound them both more closelytogether. They were now not only never apart, but they were of one mindin other ways as well--in joy of life as they found it under the sky; inthe happiness of comradeship as they learnt to rely on it--indoors andout; in the deeper meaning of friendship, with the trust and undeviatingtruth that friendship claims; in the faith that the one had always in theother, through the good days and the hard. Those who watched were often overheard to say, "The dog has taken chargeof the man. " And so he had, to a certain degree. He had learnt hismaster's habits exactly. He knew the time of day by the striking of theclock; and, morning after morning, at a particular hour, if this master, with his funny ways, delayed his going, he would get up from his familiarcorner and come and stand and fix him with his eyes. Or, if this failed, would come, gently, closer, and lay his chin upon a knee, and make himlay down his work and come out for the regulation interval. In the longermarches of old days, there were halts in every hour. Come out! Come out!New strength and new ideas are to be gathered outside; you will growstale in here, whether you choose to practise this art or that. Housesare well enough to sleep in and to give shelter; but it is the heavensthat give strength, and it is God's heaven that somehow, if only feebly, must get itself reflected in man's work. So, in another instant, these two would be out together; the one going asfar as tether would allow; the other doing what was yet another of hisjoys in life, and that caused such fun and merriment to lookers-on--thehunting of birds. Of that he never tired on the longest or the hottestday. Blackbirds gave the finest sport of all, as they generally flew onlythree feet above the ground. He knew their note at once; but probably thelaugh of the green woodpecker vexed him more than most, while hecertainly regarded the mocking notes of cuckoos as insults to himself. Ofbirds of various kinds he caught many, young and old, but was never knownto hurt a single one. The most remarkable of his exploits in this direction was when he foundhimself at one time by the sea. It was a lonely coast, where greatcrimson cliffs rose sheer out of the sand, their ledges, here and there, covered with tamarisk, gorse, and shaven thorn--right to their verysummit three hundred feet above, from whence the moors stretched far awayinland. A heavy surf beat there at times, setting these cliffs echoing insuch a way as to make speech difficult. On these wild days it was wellthat this dog had learnt to work so perfectly by hand, for he had no fearof the rollers, and the wonder was that he escaped from being drowned. At the bottom of the whole fun of this new situation lay the fact thatthese cliffs were inhabited by innumerable gulls. To catch one of thesewas Murphy's aim, and often was he washed out on to the sands in asmother of spindrift, in his mad eagerness to attain his end. Theherring-gulls were the finest sport of all, with their constantmelancholy cries--"pew-il, " "pee-ole, " or their hoarser note of warning, "kak-k-kak"; their bodies two feet in length; their spread of wing noless than four feet four. For months he chased them, till at last somemust possibly have known him. It was perhaps on this account that one ofthem was not quick enough in getting under way on one occasion. Murphyflung himself into the air and got him; and not only got him, but broughthim along, with the great wings beating the air about him, so that thedog was scarcely visible for the bird. It was the old story again, of thehare in his earlier days, for the gull was not harmed, and when liberatedflew out to sea, with the cry "pew-il, " "pee-ole" flung back from thewaves as he went. "I never thought to live tu zee the like o' that, " remarked alongshoreman passing at the time: but then he was a stranger to Murphy, and also to his ways. What happiness was to be had in life; what sport and splendid fun--sportall day long; fun without end! Did not the morning begin with agame?--the dog lying down in one corner of the hall, fixing his masterwith his eye as he appeared, and then, after pausing a while as if tosay, "Are you ready?" launching himself full tilt, till he was brought upin a final leap against his master's chest, full five feet from theground. Of course the whole hall was in a smother every time, with matsand rugs all out of place upon the slippery floor. And then the noise!The only thing was to leave the house and work off some of the steam outthere. No dog with a particle of nervousness or hesitation left would do suchthings as that. But he only did them with his master. When with others, report had it that he was a different dog, with no taste for hunting orfor chasing birds--a dog, in fact, that invariably got into one room andlay there alone, unless he changed his place for the mat by the frontdoor. Of course He would come back. Folk always did. There could be no break inthis friendship: it would last for ever. He had heard his master countthe years: "Four"--that was his own age--he knew that much; and from fourhis master would count up to ten; then hesitate; then say "eleven"; thenhesitate again, and remark, "twelve--perhaps: yes, little man; you'll seeme out--easy!" And those who watched and looked on added this to what they had saidbefore, "What _will_ happen, if anything happens to that dog?" It was a funny way of putting it, but the remark was always met, inreply, with, "Don't let us meet trouble half-way, or make a circuit ofthe hills to look for it; "'Fortis cadere, cedere non potest. '" XI The roads were deep in snow. The fall had begun two hours before light;gently, and with large flakes--the presage of what was to come. Snow wasstill falling in the afternoon; but now the wind had sprung up, and eachlarge flake was torn into a dozen as the wind played with them, drivingthem upwards like dust, then catching them and sending them horizontallyand at speed over the ground, till they could find a resting-place insome drift that was forming on the north sides of fences, or peacebeneath the brambles of some ditch. An hour or more before dark the wind increased, and was blowing a wholegale. What fun to be out in that: come on! It was not long before man and dog were away. The roads would be safe onsuch a day as this; so, for once, the two trudged along till theyovertook two waggons. How big they looked in the smother, each with itsteam of three--a pair in the shafts, and one more ahead as leader. Talking was difficult, or well-nigh impossible; but at least they couldjoin the men, and shout a word or two at times. On the weather side the great horses looked twice their size, plasteredas they were with snow, their manes and the hair about their huge feetall matted with ice. But on the lee they looked different animals, fortheir coats were darkened, being drenched with sweat: it was withdifficulty that they kept their feet, and their breath came heavilythrough their nostrils as they struggled on. Not that they had a heavy load to draw. The waggons were empty. They hadcome in with a full load in the morning, intending to bring coal back. "But how was 'em to do that, in weather the like of this; or on roadssame as these here? Nay, nay, " shouted the rearmost carter, "we's forgetting home, empty or somehow, if so be as these here can keep theirfeets. The road below the snow is ice, I tell ye--just ice; and, what'smore, Fiddlehill lies just ahead for we. " The last words were punctuatedwith the crack of a whip like a pistol-shot: all talk was dropped afterthat for a while; the wind was growing fiercer. Both waggons were painted yellow, picked out with scarlet; but the paintthat had looked brilliant in the sun of the harvest days looked tawdryand dirty now against the snow, and every patch or scar of rough usagewas easily discernible. Now and then the wind came with a savage gust, carrying stray straws out of one of the waggons, though snow wascollecting on the floor: on the other, the cords of a tarpaulin, indifferently secured, were smacking the yellow sides like a lash. Someof these sounds did not suit Murphy very well; but he had found out thebest and safest place, and was making his way as well as he could, sheltered beneath the rearmost waggon and between the tall hind wheels, whose rims and spokes and hubs were hung and bespattered, like all else, with snow. It was true that he looked like some other person's dog, with a whiteface and whiskers. But his master was white, too, from head to foot; whatrecked it! In another hour or less darkness would have shut down on the world, though such a term as darkness was only relative on a day when it couldnever have been said to have been light. When the open was reached, the snow, broken into hard flakes, whippedface and ears like nettles. Murphy was the best off of the party, savewhen something had drawn him from beneath the waggon, and he was having agame with the snow on his own account. Great wreaths hung to the fences, or stood out in ledges where the banks were high. The sky, or rather thewhole air, was lead colour, and all distance was blotted out. Flocks ofcrazy, distracted birds flew close by in great numbers, for the most partfinches and larks, with here and there a fieldfare or two, their breastsand underwings buff colour. Then came a flight wholly made up ofbuntings, whose brilliant yellows looked deep orange against the leadengrey that shrouded all. There was no end to the great host. They were all going one way: theymade no sound but the swish of wings, and uttered no single note: theypassed at speed as though in fear, yet all the while in obedience to thesupremest law of all. To the southward there would be protection; lifethere would be preserved: here it was impossible--for birds. "Keep low;press on!" Victory shall be to the strongest: the weak shall fall in thispitiless wind, and the snow shall cover the dead, but in the end thereshall be a better life for some. "Keep low; press on!" There was something weird in such a sight as that: there was somethingweird also in the sound of the wind. It came sweeping over the fields, tearing with angry gusts at the snow-laden briars in the fences, andpassing on with a moaning sound into the dark of the approaching night. There was no sign of human beings anywhere. Familiar objects had allchanged their character, though it was only by these that whereaboutscould be told. The remains of a hay-rick by the roadside suddenly showedup out of the mirk, with white top like some great ghost, its blackenedsides flecked here and there with snow. In the hot days of June two herehad seen it built; and, later on, watched the trussers at work on it, when the price of hay had gone up, and farmers could make a few pounds. But that job, like most others, had had to be abandoned now. Why, here was the great stoggle oak by the pool, on whose limbs in formertimes, tradition had it, many a highwayman had swung! The storm to it wasnothing: it had weathered so many: the world was a fair place; but lifewas full of tests as well as trials. "Heads up! Bear yourselves likemen, " its limbs seemed to roar in solemn, deep diapason. "Headsup!--there is a haven for all ahead!" It was fifty yards further on before the voice of the oak was lost. Butas man and dog worked further still, for very joy of the wind and thesnow and love for the elements at their worst--the horses struggling, thewaggoners calling to them loudly and urging them to put their best intoit, with many a crack of the whip--there suddenly fell a lull, and for amoment there was peace. And just then, up from the valley, there cameother sounds--the larch and the firs down there were sighing out a tuneto themselves, being partly sheltered by the hill. It was time to turn back. There was a lane in the direction of those lastsounds: home could easily be reached that way, and, likely enough, withthe set of the wind, the roadway itself would have been swept almostbare. The waggons were lost to sight in a moment, though the woody rattle ofthe axles could still be heard: snow was falling heavily again: the coldwas becoming intense: the wind was now dropping altogether. A dead birdor two were passed, lying in the snow, claws in air and already stiff: afelt and a yellowhammer were side by side at the bottom of the hill. Itwas like the dead in gay uniforms, lying scattered after an action. Alittle further on there was a blackbird, to Murphy's very evident glee. He found it at once, and was for carrying it home; it was still warm. Butthis was no time for fooling. It was already dark and growing darker; theproper thing to do was to keep together and make for home. Travelling wasnone too easy, even for tall men, and really difficult for dogs inplaces. At points where field gates opened on to the road, drifts had formed twofeet in depth, right across the way, and it was necessary to pick up thedog and carry him, though to the latter's thinking that was a silly thingto do. Time was, when his master had had to do that; but he had then beenno better than a child in arms. Now he was a man, and had come to man'sestate, and, furthermore, had learnt what life was, with its hours fullof health, and crammed with fresh adventures and experiences, as, ofcourse, it should be. His muscles were hard and flexible as steel, hisheart strong with life, his brain quick to learn whatsoever his masterthought best that he should know. Health, strength, what happiness it allwas! The neighbourhood of those waggons had been rather depressing, andthe crack of those whips somewhat disconcerting; but he did not stop toreason why. It was enough that he and his master were together. The pastmight look after itself, and so might the future; this was theall-sufficient present. A deep silence reigned in the valley; even the larch and the firs hadgiven up their songs. There was the scrunch of the foot at each step, andnow and then a rustle in the hedge, as a bramble became overweighted withsnow and dislodged its load into the ditch, or last year's leaves, stillclinging to some oak, rustled and were still again. Otherwise the worldwas dead or asleep; it made little difference which. A cottage was passed further on, and a chink of light from a candlewithin showed that the snowflakes were still falling fast. This way wouldbe impassable by morning. At the turn of the lane voices were heard. Theywere some way off; but it was easy to recognise that they were those oftwo men talking. Presently the voices became more audible. It was toodark to see who the men were as they passed: at night, when snow isfalling, those met are up and gone by almost before their approach isrealised. There was just time for a "Good-night, " with a "Good-night toyou, Sir, " in reply. For an instant there was silence: then the men began talking again. "Bless the Lord!--did you see who that was, Tom, and on such a night asthis!" remarked one. "Don't know as I know'd un. " "Not know un?" "Why, bless the life on yer--that's Him an' his dog!" "There, was it now? Him an' his dog, for sure. Carrying un, wus he? Likeun. " "Ah--allus together, ain't 'em?" "For his part, he don't seem to have much else. " It would be well to get on, and not to stand there gaping into thedarkness, listening to what you were never meant to hear. The truth ofthe old saying generally holds good; and sometimes words accidentallyoverheard in such ways are fixed in the mind for life. These last werelike a stab. "Don't seem to have much else?" What did the fellow mean? How invariablylookers-on misjudged! What a mistake it was to pass judgment at all--onanything or anybody! ". .. Much else . .. Much else. .. ?" The road was less deeply covered here. The dog was heavy: a few yardsmore and he was put down. As the journey was resumed, he took to playingin the darkness, and, in his winning and affectionate way, with thefingers of his master's hand, as much as to say, "Thank you: we aretogether; the rest matters little. " "Him and his dog . .. Much else . .. Much else. .. ?" The words kept timewith the footfall. How dark it was! And cold--the thermometer marked minus 1°. XII A summer night, and the heat the heat of the dog-days. The tramcars hadstopped running long ago; the streets were quite deserted. Not long since, the clock set high in the tower of St. Giles' had chimedthree-quarters; and now it chimed the hour, and wearily struck "Two. "Then other clocks also awoke to their duties, and, not possessing chimes, repeated the latter information in various keys, from far and near. Itwas all very sombre; and the smell of the streets very unlovely. It was Bill's turn to be up that night; at least, they said it was histurn. As a matter of fact, he had been up three nights running, and atleast ten in the last eighteen, for this was no ordinary case, and thecredit of the firm was at stake. Not that he held the dignity of being amember, much less a partner, of the firm; but he had worked for it, hewould often tell, and with no little pride in his voice--"worked for itthirty-two years, come Lammas; and that wus a very long while. " To Bill, and the few remaining, or still discoverable, like him, thefirm's credit was his; and the firm should never find its confidencemisplaced so long as Bill Withers could walk on his two feet, or aid somesuffering creature. Those were his sentiments. Then, of course, this Billhad a soft place in his heart for animals generally, though the softestplace of all was unreservedly retained for dogs. "They wus human; well, a sight better than human, as any one might seehumans at times";--that was the way he put it. "And there warn't a mosselo' doubt about it, no matter what nobody said. " At that, his mates in the yard thought well to let the matter drop. "That there Bill has his queer hideas abaht most things; better leave himto hisself, " they remarked, with a twist of the mouth, and passed on. Bill had a habit of speaking his thoughts aloud, especially when up atnight. He found company in the habit, and was employing his time in thisway now. "Two o'clock. Another half-hour and he'll have to have the soup, and thena little stim'lant. That wus the orders. Let's see. To-morrow's Toosday. That'll make it three weeks since the master brought un back with him inhis motor, all wrapped in blankets. 'Twas that ogg-sigen as saved him atthe moment. But here--he's been fed every two hours, night and day since, any way. Well, well. .. . " There was a step on the cobbles of the yard. Bill looked round. "Mr. Charles"--as he called him--the head of the firm, was coming. Five weeks before this Murphy had been taken ill. Nobody appeared to knowwhat was the matter with him, except that he was restless, refused hisfood, and looked wrong in his coat. The very spirit there was in himmisled others: he would hunt birds under the smallest provocation;rabbits were not animals to be given up so long as there was breath inthe body; that finest of games, working to the hand, was to be played tothe last day, for was it not the jolliest of fun for both, and did nothis master laugh loudly when it was all over, and he skipped and barkedand jumped himself, asking for just one more turn? It was only thechicken-hearted that gave up; life was to be lived to the very lastminute, especially when so full of fun and happiness as his. If heflagged and was tired after these doings, it was only the hot weather: hewould be all right tomorrow. So he was kept quiet for a week. But the morrow came, and he was less full of life than on the day before. There was something evidently wrong; though advice was asked, and withlittle gain. His bright eyes had grown dull now, and he refused all food. It was time to call in the best opinion that could be had. "Distemper. Pneumonia; and the heart also affected. " That was theverdict. There was just a chance for him. It would be a risk to move himso far; but it was perhaps worth it, as treatment could then be followedproperly: in establishments of the kind all animals were tended with asmuch care and skill as patients in a hospital. So Murphy was taken away. How suddenly it had all come about. And nowthree weeks had gone by; and the dog still lived. "How's he doing, Bill?" "No difference to my mind, as I can see. " "We must save him, if we can, Bill. She was here again to-day, and saidthe dog was such a very valuable one that she didn't know what wouldhappen if he died. " "I judged something of the kind, " remarked Bill. "I've got a cousin, overtheir way: shepherd to Mr. Phipps--him as has Fair Mile Farm. You knows. He come in with him--'twus last Saturday's market--over some tegs; and hecalled in here, and I do believes 'twus to ask how this un here wus. Saidhe'd allus liked un. Seemed to know all about un. Said as he and thegen'leman as owns un wus allus together; that he couldn't get about likesome; and that he and this dog here was never apart, and seemed to hangtogether, curious ways like. They'd got some name for the two of 'em downin that part--so he says; but I a'most forgets what 'twus now. " "So I understand. One or two have been to call to ask after him, up atthe office, and said much the same. " "Been here himself, hasn't he?" inquired Bill. "Ay, yesterday. I told him he couldn't see him; or, rather, that if hedid, with the dog's heart as rocky as it was, I would not answer for theresult. He did not speak a word after that, except--'Do your best'; andwent out. " "From what that cousin o' mine said, " put in Bill, "I judge if he'd comein, it would a-killed the dog right off. " He was smoothing Murphy's earsas he spoke. "I told him, " continued Mr. Charles, "that two things were especiallyagainst this dog; one was his high breeding, and the other, his braindevelopment. It's the last I'm most afraid of, though. " "Brain? Clever?" put in Bill--"I should just say he _was_. " "--And I told him that I had never seen a dog that was easier to treat;and that he was making a real plucky fight for it. " "That's true, " said Bill, in a tone as if the words had been "Amen. " "--And that he was that sensible that he allowed us to do just as weliked with him; so good and patient that there was not a man in the yardthat wasn't _glad_ to do anything for him. " "True again, " broke in Bill, with emphasis. --"Murphy, " he said, callingthe dog by name. "Whew! Another hot day, I judge; coming light aforelong. " Bill was looking at the sky. "All against him; all against him, " returned the other. "But there, Ishall be downright sorry if we lose him now. " Bill shook his head. "See all as has been done . .. And the telegrams . .. And the letters, and . .. " The conversation of the two men was stopped by a low bark from the dog. "Dreaming, " said Bill; "does a lot o' sleep. " "Brain, " said the other, listening--"I feared as much all along. It's allup, Bill. " Bill was down, and had got one of his hands under the dog's head. The bark came again: only a very weak one; not enough to disturb anybodynear. It became continuous after that; grew a little louder; thengradually fainter. Perhaps he was hunting birds, though it may be doubted. More likely hewas working to the hand over the sunlit fields, in the glad air, with afull life all before him yet; and in the company of one whom he lovedwith his whole heart, and to whom, while learning constantly himself, he, a dog, had taught no end of things. There can be little doubt that he was working by the hand. Of course hewas. But the hand that was beckoning him now was from over theborder--from the land where there is room for both the man and the dog, and where there shall be a blessed reunion with old friends. The bark died away: Murphy was dead. "Not five years; or only just, " remarked Bill. Both men heaved a sigh. Day was breaking as they walked away together down the yard. * * * * * A few days later came this, written by one whose business it was to tendthe sick and the suffering among animals; to whom their passing was norare event; and who must have had many thousands through his hands: "I am so very sorry; but it was really a happy release after the brainsymptoms had developed. "I can only say your dog won the affection of all of us here to an extentunequalled by any other patient. I think this was due to the very braveway that he bore his sufferings, his kind and amenable temperament, andhis almost human intelligence. There is no doubt that this last increasedthe susceptibility of his brain to disease, and made recovery hopeless. " * * * * * Two men were working their way slowly up the Dene. They were theshepherd, Job Nutt, and his second. And their dogs followed them closelyto heel. They had just set out a new bait for the sheep on the vetches lower down, and were making for home. Violet shadows had stretched themselves out to their furthest over thered wheat, now rapidly ripening; soon they would fade out altogether, andthe woods would grow blue. For the sun was touching the line of thedistant hills, and the long day's work was done. "Why, there goes Him, " says one, pointing up at the down to the eastward. "So it be, " returns the other--"Him and his . .. Oh ah! but I was a-mostforgettin'. I allus liked that dog"; and Job Nutt waved his hand. [Illustration: "Alas!" by Him. ] All knew it. Contrary to what is generally supposed, certain items ofnews circulate rapidly among farm-folk. XIII It was only a dog. Perhaps so. The fact does not forbid the familiar question that rises always atcertain hours to the mind of man, and will continue to do so till timeshall cease, whether his friend take human or only canine form in life: "But his spirit--where does his spirit rest? It was God that made him--God knows best. " In truth, there is no answer to this question--"Whither?" And thus it isthat we are compelled to leave it according to our habit when we are atfault, and much as the poet leaves it here. In the case of the man, wethink we understand. In that of the dog, our difficulty appears to defysolution: it is no question of argument, assertions are idle, dogma hasno place. On the one hand we have those principles that come to man'said, but of which it would be unbecoming now to speak. The vast majorityof Christian men are enabled to ride out the storms of life withoutconfidence wholly giving way, and with the first of sheet-anchors fixedin what is felt to be the best of holding ground. When, however, we turnto the possible future status of the dog, there is no sheet-anchor, andthe holding ground is indifferent. Yet, in considering the case of theman and the dog, we are not left without a certain measure of supportequally applicable to both. The spirit definable as the immediateapprehension of the mind without reasoning--the spirit of intuition--aidsus on either hand. "We are endued, " as Bishop Butler tells us, "withcapacities of perception"; and these enable us to accept much that liesoutside the actual region of proof, because our inner consciousness tellsus that we are not altogether on a false track, and that truths, if halfhidden, yet, of a certainty, exist in the direction in which we aremaking earnest search. We necessarily suffer here, as always, from the tendency that makes thewish the father to the thought; or, in other words, we not infrequentlyshovel the unpalatable overboard, that we may lighten the ship, and rideout this or that squall without quite so much strain upon thesheet-anchor aforesaid. The majority of mankind believe, and willcontinue to believe, most staunchly in what they wish to believe. Yetthis tendency on our part--visible as it often is in directions where weshould least expect to find it--does not necessarily prove our beliefsfalse, while it also leads us not infrequently direct to truths, howeverunorthodox our course may have appeared to lookers-on. In considering, then, the question of the possible future existence ofour canine friends, the dominant feeling is commonly this: We believethat a future, in great probability, exists for them, because we feelthat not to believe this would be to turn the whole scheme of theuniverse, as we understand it, into one little short of nonsense. We donot stop to reason: such things are because they must be; they cannotcease to be without total disfigurement of the plan of our conception. Intuition points, and almost impulsively perhaps, in one direction. Thereis "an intelligent Author of Nature or Natural Governor of the world. "Life is not made up of haphazards. Eventually there will be happiness incompletest form: otherwise there would be injustice, and of this, life, as we know it, affords little or no evidence. For happiness to becomplete, there can be no question of the songs we are to hear beingindifferently harmonised, there can be no rifts in the lute: in a stateof perfection imperfections must necessarily be imperceptible. With our narrow, human limitations we are driven to conclusions naturallycircumscribed and coloured by those limitations. We are cognisant of thenarrowness of the field of vision allowed us, and we are perpetually madeaware that we are beating our wings against the bars; but we neverthelessaccept this or that conclusion because it satisfies our souls, or werefuse to accept it because we cannot honestly confess that it does so. Yet, once again, behind both acceptance and rejection there is somethingfurther--that intuition and power of perception that enable us to findsatisfaction in inferences that we know lie outside questions of faith, but which we nevertheless feel to be true. And the very fact that we areenabled to derive this satisfaction and to feel that our conclusions havean element of truth in them tends to confirm us, rightly or wrongly, inour conjectures. Thus we come deliberately to the opinion that dogs will have a place inthe land over the border. Such an opinion may be a bold one; but there isreason for believing that it is somewhat widely held. We naturally tendto materialise when we build up our several pictures; but we sin here, ifat all, in the best of company. The city that lay foursquare, and that isdescribed to us in the vision in the Island of Patmos, was of pure gold, with walls of jasper and gates of precious stones, and had within ittrees and birds and many divers animals, and material things of greatestbeauty, besides the figures of innumerable angels. The description couldnot have been otherwise drawn if it was to be grasped by the mind of man, even to a limited extent. So with ourselves. To conceive of a world withall the attributes of beauty yet without flowers is impossible. Torealise a world full of music and song yet without birds may be possible, but transcends the powers of most minds. To attempt to believe in thehappiness of a world where companionship is to be looked for and reunionis promised, yet where the companionship of dogs is denied, is to strainthe belief of some to the uttermost and not improbably to fail. "Nor, " writes Bishop Butler in his immortal treatise, "can we findanything throughout the whole analogy of nature to afford us even theslightest presumption that animals ever lose their living powers; muchless, if it were possible, that they lose them by death: for we have nofaculties wherewith to trace any beyond or through it, so as to see whatbecomes of them. This event removes them from our view. It destroys thesensible proof, which we had before death, of their being possessed ofliving powers, but does not appear to afford the least reason to believethat they are, then, or by that event, deprived of them. And our knowingthat they were possessed of these powers, up to the very period to whichwe have faculties capable of tracing them, is itself a probability oftheir retaining them beyond it. " When Robert Southey looked for the last time on his old friend, Phillis--and there is a bitter difference on such an occasion betweenlooking upon the young and the old--he tells how often in his earlierdays this dog and he had enjoyed childish sports together, and how, lateron, when hard times overtook him, he found delight in recalling thefaithful fondness of the friend in the distant home, and longed to feelagain the warmth of his dumb welcome. Then, when the old dog is at lastdead, and there has come a severance of these precious associations, hebreaks out with: "Mine is no narrow creed; And He who gave thee being did not frame The mystery of life to be the sport Of merciless man. There is another world For all that live and move--a better one! Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine Infinite goodness to the little bounds Of their own charity, may envy thee!" When we turn to the first of all books, the dog certainly appears toreceive harsh treatment. The term "dog" is invariably one of reproach. Goliath cursing David asks, "Am I a dog?" Abner exclaims, "Am I a dog'shead?" St. Paul refers to false prophets as dogs. In the Psalms the dogis found to be synonymous with the devil; in the Gospels it stands forunholy men. Evil-workers are dogs; a dog is the equivalent of a fool;nothing is lower than a dog, and nothing is to be more abhorred. Finally, there is that hardest sentence of all--"Without are dogs"; as though anyhope for dogs was entirely forbidden. It is the same throughout: thedepraved of mankind are dogs, and the very acme of possible reproach andcontempt is apparently to be found in the use of this one term. Abandonhope;--without, are you who are dogs! But is the use of this term "dog" to be taken literally? There seems tobe ample evidence that it should not be. The very extravagance of thelanguage raises a doubt at once, just as the grotesqueness of theapplication of the term shows that the dog itself could never have beenmeant. St. Paul speaks of false prophets as dogs because of theirimpudence and love of gain--characteristics hardly to be attributed tothe animal itself. The term "dead dog" was the most opprobrious to whicha Jew could lay his tongue; when David endeavoured to convey to the mindof Saul that the persecution to which he was subjecting him was adishonour to himself, he asked him whom he was pursuing; was he pursuing"after a dead dog"? If, as Horace has it, "death is the utmost boundaryof wealth and power, " it is surely no less so of pursuit. Then again, in the Psalms, David writes, "Deliver my soul from the sword, my darling from the power of the dog"; in other words, the devil. Alldogs are not good dogs, though all dogs are good dogs to their respectiveowners; but no dog can possibly be classed as we find him here, or as thevery image and likeness of the most depraved and debased of mankind as wefind him elsewhere. He is incapable of these sins; he does not fall intothese errors. What we have to remember is apparently this. The earliest mention of thedog in Scripture is in connection with the sojourn of the Israelites inEgypt. The dog was declared by the Jewish law to be unclean; and it isnot improbable that the Jews were so taught to regard him in oppositionto those taskmasters who, they were well aware, held him sacred. Thus theterm dogs appears often as the reflection of a passionate and deep-seatedhatred, apart altogether from the animal's uncleanness, and also from theanimal itself. The word came in this way to be a useful one to hurl atthe head of an enemy at all times, or by which to classify those wholived outside the pale of common, human decency. For such as these lastthere could be no hope, and the term as applied to them was judged tocarry with it the bitterest stigma, just as it continues to do in theEast to the present day. To be a Christian is to be a dog; to be a Jew isto be a dog; an infidel is a dog; and to be known as "a Jew's dog, " or "adead dog, " is to have sunk to the lowest depths of depravity in the eyesof all men. But the way in which dogs were regarded did not stop with Jewish edictsand Jewish opinion. When the ancient Egyptians made way for another type, and Moslems took their place, the dog, honoured before as has been shown, fell at once into an inferior position. The Moslem law took its colourlargely from Jewish practice, and the dog was generally looked upon bythe Mahomedan as unclean. He continues, as all the world knows, to bestill so regarded. The dog, in the East, is at once tolerated andneglected: he may be slightly better than the pig, but, like that whollyunclean animal, he is a scavenger, living largely on offal and what he isable to pick up. He is thus, for the most part, a poor creature, leading a poor life, andbeing often much to be pitied. That he should have any future prospectsbefore him, seeing him as he is, might well be doubted. But this mustalso be remembered, that if he is in various stages of development inthese far-off lands, and with little chance of betterment, he does notdiffer greatly in these respects from vast multitudes of men among whomhe moves, whether they be white, yellow, brown, or black. The conditionsof his life are little by which to condemn him, just as they would beinsufficient in the case of others. Moreover, all classes certainly donot so condemn him, or do they look upon him in quite the same light. Bythe Parsees, for instance, he is not regarded as wholly unclean. Many ofthem keep English-bred dogs, as also do some of the more Europeanisednatives of other classes, treating them much as we do, though this isstill uncommon. Hindus of good class and Mahomedans are found generallyto avoid them; but here again many Hindus, and such a caste as Sweepers, will touch a dog without considering themselves defiled, just as aMahomedan will often hold or take charge of a dog, though he be carefulnot to do so by the chain, or leather lead, but by slipping his _jharan_, or cloth, through the dog's collar, and handling him that way. In manyMahomedan villages the dog is found in numbers, the inhabitants beingglad of his services in shepherding their goats, though condemning him tolive outside the house, even though there be likelihood of his beingcarried off by a prowling leopard. In certain directions, therefore, the dog is seen to be at leasttolerated. But there remains one other remarkable fact to be noted. Noone can have travelled in the East, especially in Turkey, withoutremarking the way in which the dog is generally regarded. Yet, in spiteof this, he is all the while certainly classed as supernatural, and by noless an authority than the Koran. His uncleanness must be recognised;but, on the other hand, how are his fidelity and courage to beoverlooked? They cannot be. And so this unclean animal, from whom menshrink, lest by chance their garments touch him as they pass, is given, as already related, a position in Mahomed's paradise, and, because of hischaracter, is deemed worthy a special place in that land of supremebliss. There is a chance, then, for the outcast here. * * * * * It is time to look at the dog himself a little closer, and see whatcharacteristics he can bring forward in support of hopes that many humanbeings entertain on his behalf. Here is a dumb animal that, long before the dawn of history, is known tohave been man's close companion. Step by step, we see him advancing withthose to whom he is linked, until he raises himself immeasurably aboveall other animals, and takes his place pre-eminently as the friend ofman. No one of those from whom he originally sprang was known to bark, and no wild species does so. By and through man, the dog was endowed withthis means of expression, and was thus able to act as his more efficientguard. It is an established fact that the dog barks when in contact withman, and loses the power when separated from him. Such was the case withthe dogs that were left many years ago on the uninhabited island of JuanFernandez. The descendants of these dogs were found thirty years later tohave lost the power of barking, and only subsequently regained it withdifficulty. The fact that the dog barks is not, however, the chief point. Thispeculiar gift has been developed into a language, for it is by thosewonderful inflections of the voice in barking that the dog has learnt tomake man understand his meaning. Thus, as we all know, he is able toconvey, at will, a note of warning, to signal the approach of danger, toshow his anger, his alarm, his joy, the spirit that animates him in thechase, to make his appeal for help, to declare the need of succour. Hisbark has in these ways become his chief means of communication, quiteapart from the howl, the whimper, the whine, or the growl; the "singing"that is associated with a pack of foxhounds baying at the moon; the"talk" that the subject of these pages possessed to such an extraordinarydegree. Then again, as he responded more readily to education, and acquired bydegrees something of the civilising instincts that were affecting man, the dog became not only a trusty companion but a humble servant. Nor didhe stop here, for, what was still more remarkable, he certainly came bydegrees to reflect some of man's chief characteristics, as well as nearlyall human passions. By association of ideas he developed memory. By hisdreams and the various sounds he emits in sleep, he is seen to possessimagination. His wonderful power of scent is found capable of beingturned to other uses than sport, and is even now not utilised in sundryquarters as it might be. Then, too, he habitually forms his ownjudgments, and these are usually exceedingly correct, as when herecognises an intruder, or arrives at what is right and what is wrongwithin the circle of his own domain. On many occasions he certainly givesevidence of a conscience and the possession of the rudiments of the moralsense. When he does wrong he frequently exhibits shame as well ascontrition, seeking forgiveness, and being often distinctly unhappy tillthis is secured. So far does he occasionally carry this, that when heknows he has transgressed rules, he will come and make confession, hisown honesty bringing upon him a punishment he would otherwise haveescaped, or serving to declare what was not previously suspected by thoseabout him. But it is when we approach the higher qualities that the dog stands outin his true light. The best of his class naturally possess these ingreatest perfection, but it is a fact that none are altogether withoutthem. His instinct, his patience and subservience to the will of hismaster, his pluck and his courage, his fidelity that nothing seemscapable of undermining, his trustfulness, his power of sympathy with manand with his own class, and, lastly, the touching and infinite depth ofhis love--all these are characteristics that occasionally put man toshame, but which make man always trust him more and more. In the face ofhis marvellous instinct, man is not infrequently struck dumb as hewatches. A dog's patience is a thing to study, as well as one from whichto learn many a fair lesson. His pluck and courage are almost proverbial. In many a case the odds against him seem not to make the slightestdifference: he will fight on to the end; let his master only lead, hewill follow to the death. And it is here that his fidelity attains its very pinnacle. Faithful untodeath! Again and again, in innumerable instances, he has shown hisfaithfulness long after the one he loved was dead. The dog in themediæval legend that dug his master's grave, covered him with moss andleaves, and then watched there for seven years, until he died himself, has found many a parallel in real life. A well-known dog in the days ofthe Stewarts was still beside his master's tomb three years after thelatter's death; and, in much later times, another dog, at Lisle, refusedto come away from the spot where his master lay, and remained on guardfor nine long years, the villagers recognising his fidelity by buildinghim a kennel and bringing him his daily food until he died. And if an instance of the exhibition of grief on the part of a dog iscalled for, some will remember the little dog in the far-away Sudan. Hewas the property of the only officer that fell at Ginnis, and who hadbeen in the habit of taking him everywhere. When his master was consignedto the sand, this dog was seen to be cowering beside the stretcher, looking even smaller than before; and, when all was over, he had to belifted away from the edge of the pit, where he lay with his head hangingover the edge in an abject state of grief. He was only a dog, and a smallone; but many a man, hardened by the experiences of a campaign, turnedaway his head at the sight. Few can have been much in the company of dogs without becoming aware oftheir power of sympathy, the way in which they almost invariably showthis to their own kind, and also especially to man. For a dog to beinjured or ill is for others at least to leave him in peace; but with manthey go much further, as they do in many directions where man isconcerned. When Lazarus lay at the gate of Dives, alone and neglected, itwas the dogs that came and licked his sores. So, too, in the hours ofhuman adversity, somehow or other, dogs appear to understand, and actaccordingly. How often the expression is heard--"They know!" The reasonof their conduct and their actions on such occasions is entirely hiddenfrom us, just as is that strange sense that dogs of highly developedbrains undoubtedly possess--awe of the unknown, and that has made someconclude that they have an inkling of the spirit world. Many dogs are subject to fits of nervousness, though for the most partonly in connection with things they do not understand or are unable tograsp at the moment. At such times the dog invariably seeks the closercompany of his friend, man. On the other hand, the dog often understandsthe meaning of sounds when man is at fault and a feeling of uncertaintyhas been aroused. A glance at a dog, and the words--"the dog hasn'tmoved, " are quite sufficient then to reassure the watcher, possibly outof doors on a dark night. Thus the one looks to the other for support andconfidence, and a mutual spirit of reliance exists between both. There is little need to say much here of the dog's power of love, forevery one is aware of it, or may have been made richer by it in his life. The old saying of centuries ago still holds good, and "the dog is theonly animal in creation that luvs you more than he luvs himself. " Thereare those who assert that all love is divine in origin. If this be so, and the dog could be considered to have a religion, then undoubtedly hisreligion is the love of man. We are brought face to face here with apassion that, in the dog, knows no limits, and that is apparentlyincapable of alienation. Faith, truth, love! What is to be said;--whencecome these amazing powers; for what object could they have been createdhere? Perhaps the matter were better left where that other was just now. We can only seek the shelter that is common to us in such circumstances. "He knows, who gave that love sublime; And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate. " Once again, for ourselves, there is no definite answer. The wholequestion forms but one more problem added to an interminable sequence, and in the face of which the man and the dog are both dumb. Yet when we look back, and ask ourselves, "Are all these for naught?" isit still man's province to be mute? Many further questions crowd up tothe mind here, as they ever do in yet graver issues. In our weakness andour anxiety we cannot suffer our case to go by default, even though weconfess our inability to answer the questions one by one as they appear. We can only turn away our heads and say, "Such things can _not_ be. " Thisclose relationship cannot be cut off and cease for ever. This touchinginterdependence cannot be brought to a sudden and a final end. Thesparrows cannot be cared for and the dogs cast out. In other words, living things among animals, not directly associated with human beings intheir lives, cannot, surely, be singly preserved and those which have wonour love and loved us in return be lost to us for ever and condemned. Is it possible that all these marvellous qualities and characteristics, gathered together into one dumb animal, are to pass away and to have noplace in the larger circuit of life? Are all these consolations that thisanimal, and this animal alone among the so-called dumb, is capable ofbringing--are all the influences for good that he is granted the power ofexercising upon the mind, the spirit, and the very soul of man--to beaccounted of no worth; to be merely so many items to be used up in thefurtherance of a great scheme and plan; to be dissipated even as themists of the dawn when the day shall at last break? Surely, --can suchthings be? Human judgment and human justice are for ever fallible, andrough expedients at best. But that other judgment for which we look, andthat other justice upon which we are wont mentally to lean, cannotpossibly be either one or the other. Something, then, of our case may assuredly be left there. We cannotanswer the questions; but, as we confront them, we yet cannot cutourselves free from that spirit of intuition spoken of above, or cease todraw our several inferences. Continuity in Nature faces us at every turn. All things work together for the final perfection of the whole--for thefinal transcendent beauty and completeness of the whole. There is unityin all. Of that most are certain; and men walk therefore in good hope. There is mystery at every turn. There is no escape from it. There is everthe demand for the making of a good fight in the face of it. And there ispromise of victory in the end on the part of One "Who by low creatures leads to heights of love. " We are not all willing to accept such things. We do not all, in our marchin life, require the same tools to win our way. Neither do we all look inthe same direction--not for help, merely, but for those common daily aidsthat we gather, or that are gatherable, from the simple and the great, from the animate and the inanimate, from the stained as from thebeautiful and the pure. In writing of the death of an animal second only to the dog, Whyte-Melville asks this: "There are men both good and wise who hold that, in a future state, Dumb creatures we have cherished here below Will give us joyous greeting as we pass the golden gate. Is it folly if I hope it may be so?" It may be folly. Yet the writer of these pages does not doubt it. Andtherefore, in the quiet corner of the beautiful home, when Murphy waslaid to rest close by Dan, these words were cut upon his headstone, infaith and in good hope: MURPHY DEAR BOY 1906-1911 "Thou, Lord, shalt save both man and beast. "