is most ungrateful. It does sometimes happen that a dog has a bad and violent temper, even from a puppy; and if very careful treatment does not soon cure this, I should say that such a dog ought to be destroyed, by a quick and easy death; not making the poor brute suffer for what it cannot help. But in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, a dog’s savageness is the fault of those who have brought him up: and few things are more wicked than to teach or encourage a dog to fight his own race, or to bark and fly at human beings. When the world was as God made it, there was no hatred in it, no quarrelling, no wish in any living creature to frighten or hurt any other living creatures; but when Adam became a sinner, his sin broke through all this beautiful order, and peace, and love, and set the animals against each other, and against himself. I am trying always to remember this; for when they alarm or distress me, and I am thinking to punish them, I ought not to forget what first made the brutes vicious, and brought so much suffering on them. It was man’s sin alone: man should therefore do the best he can to make them amends; and not increase their misery, as he often does, by cruel severity. I think you will agree with me in this. Besides, it is a certain truth, that God’s eye is upon us and on the animals about us, as much as it was on Adam and the living creatures that came to him to be named; and though we and they are much changed for the worse, yet the Lord God never does or can change. He is as righteous, as holy, as merciful, and as just to-day, as he was then. How often has Jack, when he saw a thoughtless boy hurting a dog, or any other animal, gone up to him, and said, on his fingers, in a very quiet, gentle, but earnest manner, “God see—God angry.” He felt much for the dumb beast, suffering pain; but more for the boy who was forgetting that the Lord’s hand would yet punish him, when he least expected it: for Jack very well knew that the Bible says, “He shall have judgment without mercy that hath showed no mercy.”

Dogs have been a great amusement to me ever since I was a baby; and I never have been without one in the house when I could keep one. Ladies and gentlemen are not often willing to let their carpets be soiled by dogs; but the poor people, who are not troubled with carpets, make companions of them. I am writing this book in a room with a carpet and good furniture, but I have my two dogs with me. There is little Fiddy, the small spaniel, at my feet, where he has lain every day for eight years; and there is Bronti, the fine big Newfoundlander, lying, where do you think? Why the rogue has got upon the sofa, and when I shake my head at him, he wags his long tail, and turns up his large bright eyes to my face, as much as to say, “Pray let me stop here; it is so comfortable.” But no, Bronti, you must walk down, my fine fellow, or some lady coming to see me may have her gown soiled, which would not be fair. We have no right to make our pets a plague to other people, and, perhaps, a means of injuring them too.

That was enough for Bronti; no need of a loud, cross, or threatening voice. He saw that I wished him to leave the sofa, and he wags his tail as contentedly on the carpet. I can manage him with a word, almost with a look, because he was born in the house, and has never been away from me; but master Fiddy was a year or two old when I had him, and some things he will do in spite of me. He will hunt a cat, kill a bird, and growl most furiously over a bone. Bronti has the same nature, but his love for us overcomes it all. He would live peaceably with a cat, it we had one; he will let the chickens and pigeons perch upon him, or walk between his feet; and last year I had half a dozen tame mice, which I used to let out upon him, when they would nestle in his warm coat, run races over and under him, and he would not move a limb, for fear of hurting one. As to a bone, he will allow me to take it out of his mouth at any time; and, what is more, he will readily give it up to Fiddy, whose little teeth can only nibble off the meat; and when he has done that, Bronti takes it, and munches the bone.

His mother was full grown when I had her, and she was very fierce: if any workman came to the house, unless her master or I was by to restrain her, she would put him in fear of his life; and would have bitten him too, if she could have seized him. We gave her away to a friend who would be kind to her, and keep her out of mischief; and we brought up a puppy for ourselves, this same Bronti. Now he is more than three years old; and though he will sometimes fight a big dog who affronts him in the street, he never frightened anybody who came to the house. He watches, and gives one single, deep, quiet bark, to let us know that there is a stranger; and seeing that we are satisfied, he sits with one ear thrown back, listening and watching. If he meets a workman in the house, he does not even growl; only keeps him in sight, following him about, but with such a sweet-tempered look, that the greatest coward, if honest, could not contrive to be afraid of him. I might leave a joint of meat under his care, if he were ever so hungry; he would not touch it, because he is truly honest: and as to his sense, you would hardly believe if I told you how sensible he is. When I am putting on my boots, he comes up to me, and looks very eagerly in my face; if I say “Yes,” or, “Bronti shall go,” he is just wild with joy, tearing about, barking, and making no small riot. If I say “No,” or shake my head sorrowfully and say nothing, he steals away, lies down, and never attempts to follow me: but he gets on a chair, and Fiddy on a table, to see me go out at the gate; and then they both begin to cry and moan most piteously, so that nobody can comfort them.

On Sunday morning, Bronti looks very melancholy; how he knows the day I cannot tell. Of course, we all go to church, but he begins to be sad as soon as we get up. Neither he, nor Fiddy would attempt to follow us then, if the doors and gate were all set open: they seat themselves at the window to see us go. And now I recollect one time when Bronti was as savage as his mother. You shall hear about it.

One Sunday, when were all at church, a friend, just landed from a voyage, came to the house. He opened the garden gate, and was walking towards the door, when up jumped Bronti on a chair at window, barking, growling, and behaving so violently, that he really dared not try to get into a house where such a wild beast stood ready to seize him. So he went off to the church, found us, and after service returned with us; and Bronti, seeing him as a friend of the family, gave him an affectionate welcome. Then he told us of his ferocious behaviour; and we were very glad to find that our gentle dog knew how to protect our house and property when it was left entirely to his care.

A book larger than this might be filled, all through, with stories about the dog, besides what are already published; but any one of you may see enough to delight you every day in the affectionate creature, it you will only be patient and kind. It is too often the custom to punish a dog when he does not do just what you like; and you may like things quite different at different times. Now, the poor brute cannot tell exactly what you wish; and if he is used to get a blow, or an angry scolding, he will be so afraid of doing wrong, that what little sense he has left will fail him, and he will be so confused as to make him do wrong. An animal, or a boy either, living in constant fear of ill-usage whether he deserves it or not, will get either so stupid or so careless, as seldom to do what is required. Think a little, and you will understand this. An angry tone and hard words agitate a dog very much. Mr. Blaine, who wrote a book about their diseases and cures, says that he has often known a dog, weakened by illness, to go into convulsions on hearing another dog violently scolded. I tell you this to explain why some dogs are hard to manage: they are frightened out of their senses; to say nothing of