umbrella, and he would stand on his defence
with his face honourably towards you, growling,
snarling, and even mewling with rage, and all
the time retiring cleverly and slowly until he
got to shelter.

In the streets he trotted along with infinite
dignity, and towards other dogs bore himself
with a haughty contempt. Nothing was more
amusing than to see a big, frisking, free-
mannered dog run at him and coolly tumble
him over in the dust, and to see the little
outraged gentleman pick himself up, all over
dust, growling and snarling with rage and
mortification. More amusing still was it to see
a great Newfoundland dog stalk up, not quite
sure whether this could be a rat, or one of his
own species, whom he was bound to respect.
As he became importunate in his curiosity, and
troublesome in his half friendly, half hostile
attention, it was delicious to see Jack turn and
snap deliberately at him, sputtering rage, while
the giant would start back confounded, not
knowing what to make of it.

Seven, eight, nine years roll by, and he is
actually getting to be a little old gentleman.
He wheezes and coughs a good deal as he goes
up-stairs. His black eyes are not so brilliant
as of yore. But he has become snappish and
impatient, more testy and selfish than ever.
He is, in fact, just like other old gentlemen.
His appetite is just as great, and he will eat
hearty meals, which, however, do not agree
with him; and though he is usually unwell
after these hearty banquets, the lesson is
quite thrown away on him. His fine black
whiskers have turned grey and rusty. In the
house, too, changes have taken place. He has
lost friends, and it grieves me to think that in
these old days of his he found a change, and
learnt what the world was. I wonder did he
make a sort of Wolsey reflection on the world,
when, with much wheezing and coughing, he
had toiled up-stairs, and coming confidently in
at the drawing-room would be met with a stern
"Go down, sir!—go down!" But what could
one do for him? He was not the young buck
he used to be, and he had, besides, an affection
of the hinder leg, something in the nature of
slight paralytic stroke, brought on by excess at
table.

Another wiry yellow dog arrives on the scene,
carried in the arms of a Jewish-looking gentleman,
in a squirrel cap, whose profession is dogs
—with so gentle and amiable an air about her,
and with such a resemblance to my old favourite,
that I at once redeem her from captivity for the
sum of fifteen shillings, and christen her "Vixen
the Second."

She was the strangest combination in
physique; with the yellow wiry-haired body of the
ordinary terrier, she had the snout of the bull
terrier, perfectly coal black, and the brightest
and largest of black eyes set darting forward
like dark carbuncles. With this truculent
and remarkable exterior she showed herself
the most engaging and gentle creature. Children
shrank from her as she jogged by with
the true bull dog, wary, business-like air.
But she did not, want for pluck or courage,
as every street boy knew—a class whom she
regarded with detestation. Half a mile away,
the sight of a pair of bare legs, a cap, and a
torn jacket, threw her into a fury: down went
her head and ears, and she was off like an
arrow, and presently flying round the bare
legs. Beggar boys, boys with baskets, all sorts
of boys, had the same effect: low men with a
generally blackguard look fell under the same
odium. I am inclined to believe that in a
previous state of life she had suffered persecution
from beings of this sort. She was up to anything
in the way of sport or gamesomeness, and if
pursued by any rough, at whose heels she had been
flying, would retreat under a cart, and there
stand snarling and spitting horribly. Sometimes
correction became necessary, and then
she would take her corporal punishment with
eyes closed fast, shrinking away from it, and
crouching, but with true Spartan fortitude,
never uttering even a yelp. Her intelligence
was surprising. If her master assumed an
expression of displeasure, she grew disturbed
and uneasy. And here was a favourite exercise
to show off her sagacity. When he was
reading and she half snoozing with her chin on
her forepaws, he would say in a low quiet
voice of displeasure, "What made you do it?
What dy'e mean?" Her motion would be to
raise her head and look round in a mournfully
deprecating way, as who should say, "What is
it, master?" If the reproach were repeated,
she would look again with her great sad eyes, the
tail pleading slowly, and finally raising herself
in the most deprecating way, would steal over,
and with a sort of groan, would raise herself on
her hind legs and piteously implore forgiveness.
The moment she saw a smile, her tail
wagged joyfully.

She had the sweetest disposition, this Vixen
the Second. She bad even taught herself, God
knows how, a sort of moral restraint and
discipline. She had her rule of life, based upon what
she thought would be pleasing to the Great
Being, so he seemed to her, that guided her
existence. Take an instance. We all know
those harmless salutations and flirtations
interchanged among those of her race, who are
perfect strangers to each other, and which appear
almost an etiquette. No one had so keen a zest
for these interviews as Vixen. Her remarkable
air, a little bizarre, but highly attractive, drew
crowds of admirers around her. Yet when they
came with their insidious homage, she would
indeed stop, for she knew what was due to the
courtesies; she would, for a second be dazzled;
but in another moment the moral principle
had asserted itself, and with a secret agony
—for the struggle cost her much, she was dog
after all—she tore herself away, and came rushing
to make up for even that second's dalliance.
On one occasion only did her resolution
fail her, and that was when a matchless
bull-terrier of a dazzling snow-white, and an