would seem to most a place of greater comfort.[1]

These may not be singular incidents, but they are still remarkable and worthy of notice. They serve to show us the wonderful nature of man's faithful friend, the dog, and how he has many traits of character fitted to make him the worthy receiver of kindness and respect.

T.

BULLY'S SHORT CUT.

[Aug. 29, 1874.]

I see that you welcome all notes of interest upon our fellow-beings, the dogs. Here is one that seems to prove they have a sense of time and of distance as measured by time.

I was walking with my bull-terrier, Bully (seven years old last Christmas), during a hot afternoon this month homewards along the Bund (Shanghai), and I suddenly missed him. I turned back for twenty or thirty yards, and, not finding him, I gave up the search, saying, "He knows the way home well enough." Presently I saw him on my right, dripping with water, cantering on at a round pace, without looking about him, homewards. I watched him, curious to see whether he would go straight home. No. He kept on till he reached the distance of about 150 yards, and looked ahead, not smelling the ground. He then deliberately walked back, catching sight of me in about twenty yards after his turning back, and wagged his tale recognisingly. He had evidently been to cool himself in the river (thirty yards to the right, it being low tide), and, thinking I would go on at the ordinary pace without him, he, after his bath, struck directly at a long diagonal for the point I would have reached if I had not turned back to look for him. He did not seem to have the slightest misgiving as to his sense of the distance I ought to have walked during the time of his bath. His turning was done seemingly with a calm assurance of certainty. I may add that there were twenty to thirty foot-passengers scattered over the portion of road in question at the time, whose footsteps might have effaced my scent on the watered granite macadamised roadway, even supposing the dog to have tried his sense of smell, which he did not, as far as I could see, and I noticed him carefully.

W. G. S.

CANINE INTELLIGENCE.

[July 24, 1886.]

You often give us pleasant anecdotes of our four-footed friends. You may think the following worthy of record. I have a little dog, a not particularly well-bred fox-terrier. He is much attached to me, and shows by his obedience, and sometimes in his disobedience, that he understands a good deal. Yesterday I was away all day, and he, I am told, was very uneasy, and searched everywhere for me. Every day at 5 p.m. I go to church. Toby seems to know this is not an ordinary walk, and never offers to come with me. But yesterday, when the bell began, he started off and took up his position by the vestry door. I believe he reasoned with himself, "There goes the bell; now I shall catch the Vicar."

William Quennell.

THE DOG AND THE FERRY.

[April 4, 1885.]

Reading from time to time many pleasant anecdotes in the columns of the Spectator—which, by the way, I receive as regularly, and read as eagerly, as when resident in England many years ago—relative to the sagacity of dogs, I send the following, thinking it possible you may deem it worthy of insertion.

Some three years ago I was "having a spell" in Brisbane, after a lengthened sojourn on a sheep station in the interior of Queensland. During my stay in the city I had the good fortune to gain the friendship of a gentleman who owned a magnificent collie. My friend, his dog Sweep, and myself, were frequently together, engaged either in yachting among the islands of Moreton Bay, or 'possum hunting under the towering eucalypti which fringe the banks of the river Brisbane. Naturally "Sweep" (who was a most lovable animal) and myself soon began to entertain a warm friendship for one another, which friendship gave rise to the anecdote I am about to relate. Returning to my hotel about midnight from the house of a friend, I was not a little startled at finding my hand suddenly seized from behind by a dog, which, however, I at once recognised as my handsome acquaintance, Sweep. I patted him, at the same time endeavouring to withdraw the hand which he held firmly, but gently, between his teeth. It was of no use, as, in spite of all my endearments, he insisted on retaining his hold, wriggling along by my side, and vigorously wagging his tail, as though he would say, "Don't be afraid; it's all right." We soon reached a point in the main street down which we were walking, where a side avenue branched off towards the river. My way lay right ahead. Sweep, however, insisted on my taking the road which lay at a right-angle to my course. I felt some annoyance at his persistence, as I was both tired and sleepy; but, having no choice in the matter, I followed his lead. Having walked some two or three hundred yards down his street, he released his hold, dancing round me, then running on for a few yards and looking back to see if I were following. Becoming interested, I determined to see what he was after, so, without further resistance, I followed submissively. At last, having reached the river, which at this place was about four hundred yards wide, he, with many joyous barks, ran down the ferry steps, and jumped into the empty boat of the ferryman. At last I was able to guess at his motive for forcing me to follow him. His master, who lived across the river, had accidentally lost sight of his dog returning from his office in the city; and Sweep appeared to understand perfectly that unless the boatman received his fare he, Sweep, would not be carried over, my friend frequently sending the dog over by himself when wishing to attend concerts, &c., invariably paying the fare as of an ordinary passenger. The ferryman, who at once recognised my canine friend, laughed heartily when I told him how I had been served, took my penny, and set off at once for "Kangaroo Point," Sweep gaily barking "good-night" until he reached the opposite bank. I heard subsequently that he used to swim the river when left behind; but having had two narrow escapes from sharks, his nerves had become somewhat shaken so far as water was concerned.

J. Wm. Creighton.

THE REASON OF DOGS.

[Nov. 13, 1875.]

Having often read, with great pleasure, the anecdotes about dogs which from time to time appear in the Spectator, I venture to send you one which has come under my own observation, and which, it seems to me, shows an effort of reasoning implying two distinct ideas—one the consequence of the other—more interesting than many of those clever performances of educated dogs which may or may not be merely mechanical actions.

The dog who