christening party to which all Bertha's little friends and their brothers were invited. There was a fine lunch with lots of candy; they even drank fruit-juice punch. The party was talked of long after by the guests, who enjoyed themselves immensely.

But, alas, a month afterward, a cloud dimmed Bertha's happiness. Uncle Jean did not like the looks of Clown. It is true that although his coat was well brushed and curled and perfumed, the dog did look more like a little bear than a poodle. Uncle Jean was very particular about the training of dogs. He had horses and dogs of his own (he even had a monkey) and he insisted that his grooms keep all his animals, of whom he was very fond, slick and clean.

No poodle of his would have remained unshaven, with tail uncut, when all proper poodles are shaven and have their tails trimmed off.

He said so much about it that at last it was decided that the dog should be sent to the veterinary surgeon, who in a minute had cut off Clown's tail and shaved him like a lion, leaving just a rim of hair around his hind-quarters as an ornament, and a bushy tuft at the end of his trimmed-off tail.

Poor little Clown was terribly upset.

He was brought home looking like a martyr and horribly ashamed; for more than a week he was feverish and had fits of trembling. Bertha cried and cried. I need not tell you what care she took of him. You can guess that for yourself.

Cured at last, he soon forgot about having his hair cut, and became a proud, fine-looking dog. Only he could not bear the sound of shears, and when he heard the dog-clippers go past he would fall into a rage, wanting to run out and bite them, barking furiously in chorus with the other dogs who felt as he did about it.

Bertha ceased to be angry with her uncle. When as she led Clown on the leash she noticed people turn round and go into raptures over the looks of her dog, it made her feel very proud.

The dog grew so fast you could almost see him getting bigger. His training was undertaken carefully, Uncle Jean looking after it himself. Clown learned quickly and easily; he was naturally intelligent and had a truly wonderful memory.

Uncle Jean found that Clown learned tricks easily—he seemed to like to show off—but in other ways he was not so easily managed. He was rather fond of having his own way, and his young mistress got more than one scolding for spoiling him. He insisted on being fed from her own hand, and he would sleep nowhere but in Bertha's room.

Men are conceited things and think themselves much wiser than the animals, but I don't believe they know so very much more after all. It's a question whether the animal's instinct isn't of as much use to him as intelligence is to man. Anyhow, animals can understand one another, even animals of different kinds. I rather think they understand one another better than we understand them.

However that may be, Clown was a wonder. You had only to say what you wanted him to do and he would do it like an old hand. He would jump through a hoop, give his right or left hand as he was asked, leap backward or forward, walk on his hands or feet—all this was child's play to him.

He dearly loved games—such as he could play, of course. He would toss a ball, hunt the thimble, and without ever making a mistake bring back the handkerchief to its owner, grinning with delight. With a policeman's helmet on his head, and a piece of sugar on his nose, looking like a soldier on parade, he would carry arms for hours at a time. What surprising things he could do! You would scarcely believe it, but he had learned to recognize certain letters of the alphabet and to put together the word, B-E-R-T-H-A.

He never made a mistake in spelling the name of his little mistress, although that was, however, the first and last word that they succeeded in teaching him.

Alas, with all his good qualities Clown had his failings. Nobody, sad to say, is faultless. He was given to stealing. A sugar bowl left within his reach had a very bad time of it; he ate all the sugar, to the very last piece, and it was a lucky thing if he didn't break the bowl as well. Clown was greedy, there was no denying.

After a while, sadly spoiled, unfortunately, he began to put on airs of independence. His leash made him impatient, and when he met a dog friend running free about the streets he would behave badly, forcing Bertha to drag him along like a toy without wheels, or he would wallow in the dust, both of which made his mistress very angry.

One day, when he had gone marketing with Marie, he managed to slip his head out of his collar and set off with a rush to join a group of very ill-kept tramp dogs.

Poor Marie called and called, but in vain. Then she ran after him. Not only could she not overtake him but, worse still, at a turning in the road she lost sight of him altogether. In vain she searched the neighborhood, questioning everyone she met, but no one had seen poor Clown.

The excited woman began to cry, not daring to return home without the dog. Anxiously she walked up and down in front of the house. After about half an hour she heard a noise and soon saw a band of children appear, yelling and running after a poor wretched, muddy little dog, to whose tail was tied an old tin can which knocked against the pavement with every jump he took.

Marie could not believe her eyes.

You would never have known it was poor Clown, so terrified, his eyes almost bursting from his head, his tongue hanging. As soon as he caught sight of Marie, he