{"collection":"folklore-oral-tradition","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_25763/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_25763","id":"gutenberg_25763","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25763","summary":null,"tags":["Animals-Domestic","Category: Novels","Dogs -- Folklore"],"text":"Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n     \"And when his son had prepared all things for the\n     journey, Tobit said, Go thou with this man, and God,\n     which dwelleth in Heaven, prosper your journey, and\n     the angel of God keep you company. So they went forth\n     both, and the young man's dog with them.\"\n                                              Tobit v. 16.\n\n-------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n                                \"MURPHY\"\n\n-------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n                    [Illustration: His dog. by Him.]\n\n-------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n                                \"MURPHY\"\n                        A MESSAGE TO DOG-LOVERS\n\n                                   BY\n                          MAJOR GAMBIER-PARRY\n\n                    With two drawings by the author\n\n                                NEW YORK\n                           MITCHELL KENNERLEY\n                                  1913\n\n-------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n                           COPYRIGHT 1913 BY\n                           MITCHELL KENNERLEY\n                           PRINTED IN AMERICA\n\n-------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n                                   TO\n                   THAT VAST HOST IN THE HUMAN FAMILY\n                            THAT LOVES DOGS\n                   AND THAT INCLUDES WITHIN ITS RANKS\n               THE GOOD, THE GREAT, AND THE INSIGNIFICANT\n                              THESE PAGES\n                       ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED\n                               BY ONE OF\n                        THE COMMON RANK AND FILE\n\n-------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n                             ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n                \"HIS DOG\"                   Frontispiece\n                \"ALAS!\"                    Facing p. 192\n\n-------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n\n\n\n                                \"MURPHY\"\n                        A MESSAGE TO DOG-LOVERS\n\n                                    I\n\n\nYes. He was born in the first week of June, in the year 1906. Quite a\nshort while ago, as you see--that is, as we men count time--but long\nenough, just as a child's life is occasionally long enough, to affect the\nlives--ay, more, the characters--of some who claimed to be his betters on\nthis present earth, with certainties in some dim and distant heaven that\nmight or might not have a corner here or there for dogs.\n\nHis parentage was that of a royal house in purity of strain and length of\npedigree, and he first saw the light in the yard of a mill upon the\nriver, where the old wheel had groaned for generations or dripped in\nsilence, according as the water rose or fell, and corn came in to be\nground.\n\nThere were others like him in appearance in the yard; on the eyot on\nwhich the mill-buildings stood, gorgeous in many-coloured tiles; round\nthe dwelling-house, or in a large wired enclosure close by. His master,\nthe Over-Lord, bred dogs of his kind for the nonce, not necessarily for\nprofit, but because, with a great heart for dogs, he chose to, claiming\nindeed the proud boast that not a single dog of his class walked these\nIslands that was not of his strain--and claiming that, moreover, truly.\n\nAt one period there might have been counted, in and around this\nmill-yard, no less than thirty-eight dogs, young and middle-aged, and all\nmore or less closely related. But while this number was much above the\naverage, the congestion that arose thereby was chargeable with the single\nunhappy episode in Murphy's life, concerning which he often spoke to me\nin after days, and the effect of which he carried to the end. Of this,\nhowever, more later.\n\nLife in the midst of such a company--Irishmen all--necessarily meant a\nmore or less rough-and-tumble existence, where the strongest had the best\nof it, and the weaker ones were knocked out, when the Master was not\nthere to interfere. Each one had to find his own level by such means as\nhe could, and thus this great company, or school, of dogs resembled in\nmany particulars those other schools to which We are sent Ourselves, or\nsend those other sons of Ours. The training to be got here, as elsewhere,\ndeveloped primarily, indeed, and all unconsciously, the first and\ngreatest of requisites in life, whether for dog or man. And if, in some\ninstances, evil characteristics, such as combativeness, selfishness, and\nthe habit of bad language, became accentuated, in spite of the stern\ndiscipline of the place, their opposites--good temper, a light and happy\ndisposition, and a civil tongue--received their meed of recognition even\nfrom the bigger fellows, like Pagan I. or II., or that Captain of the\nSchool, often spoken of with bated breath--Postman, Murphy's father,\nmated afterwards to the great beauty, Barbara, both being of the bluest\nof blue blood.\n\nThe young were taught their place, and that further quality, now dropping\nout of fashion--how to keep it. Or each one had a lesson in yet another\nvirtue, still more out of date, being judged no longer necessary or\nbecoming in this very modern world, and as only showing a silly deference\nif exhibited at all. Respect was, in truth, the chief of all virtues here\ninculcated--respect for age, for old dogs are no longer to be challenged;\nrespect for strength and the great unwritten laws; respect for sex;\nrespect for those who had shown themselves to be the better men; respect\nfor such as neither fought nor swore but held their own by character\nalone.\n\nIt was, for instance, not correct for the young to approach the older\nmembers of the school and claim equality, for, strange as it may seem,\nequality had no place here, save that all were dogs. Nor when a bigger\nfellow had a bone, won, earned, or come by of his own enterprise, was it\ndeemed fitting that the young should do more than watch at respectful\ndistance, with ears drooped and envy curbed as well as might be. By such\nmethods the meaning of the sacredness of property was taught; and also,\nthat without due regard to this last there could be security for no one,\nor for anything that he might own.\n\nTrue, some of this company here, suffering from swelled-head, the\nharebrained impetuosity of youth, or judging that to them alone had been\nbequeathed the secret of all requisite reforms, advanced theories of\ntheir own composing. Of course they found adherents, especially when gain\nwas scented, for to profit at another's expense is not unpopular, in some\ndirections, from the top to the bottom of the world. But, as a rule,\nthese theories were not long-lived. The company, so to speak, found\nthemselves, and the innate good sense they claimed to have came to their\naid, before the whole school was set generally by the ears, or the\nOver-Lord was called upon to interfere.\n\nThus, where a fellow's own was concerned the cry with the really honest\nwas, \"Hands off, there!\"--blood being rightly spilt, if necessary, in\ndefence thereof, as it always will be, till the last of dogs and men lie\ndown and die. Of course if one or other left his own unguarded, or,\novercome by plethora, fell asleep, or grew fat and careless, then another\nof his standing came and took that property away. In such an event, he\nwho had lost could do no more than whimper cur-like, while those lying\nround the yard would look up to see what the shindy was about, and then\nquietly remark, \"_That's_ as it should be.\"\n\nThen again, when, on a sultry afternoon in this first summer of Murphy's\nlife, some older members of the family betook themselves to such cool\nplaces on the eyot as the shadows cast by the wide eaves of the mill, it\nwas ordered they were to be left in peace and not plagued by younger\nfolk, however good-natured they might be. Nor were others to be followed\nwhen they stole away to the opening of the mill-race--where the water\ncame out at speed, brown and foaming, from the dark shadows under the\nfloors--to listen, maybe, half asleep, to the great wheel groaning its\nsolemn music, as the dripping green paddles threw off a cool mist to\nrefresh the jaded air.\n\nHowever strange such a choice might seem to those of restless spirit, it\nwas not more so than that of others who, careless of themselves,\npreferred a hole in the dust of the upper yard among the Buff Orpingtons,\nand the grilling heat of the midsummer sun. There must be differences of\ntaste here as elsewhere. The spot chosen must be respected, not only\nbecause it was the home for the time, however short, but also because\nhere was privacy, and it was not right that such should be at any time\ninvaded, if rightly and obviously sought--at least, so was it judged by\nthose who inhabited the island at this period.\n\nThat Murphy noticed all these things goes without saying. He kept them\nmostly to himself, after the manner of his kind; but he watched\nnevertheless closely, his black eyebrows moving continually just above\nhis eyes, as he lay in the rough grass in the shade of the pollard\nwillows, or beneath the whispering aspens.\n\nAt this time he had not long emerged from the limp stage, when\nhind-quarters would continually give way, and there was nothing to be\ndone but rest on one haunch and try to look wise, being continually\nbothered by the flies. After a while he began to grow stronger and more\ncomely, his ears darkened, and his eyes--put in, as they say, with a\ndirty thumb--grew larger, taking on that exceeding brightness that made\npassers-by look and look again. He was also allowed further afield when\nhis turn came. There were walks along the river-banks, in company with\nhalf-a-dozen of the others; and before he was six months old he could run\na good distance with a horse and trap, ere he would come to the step and\nlook up with a laugh, saying, \"Here, take me up; I'm blown!\" The old\nhorse in the shafts knew the ways of the dogs well, and would shorten his\npace, and indeed pull up altogether, if a thoughtless one was likely to\nbe injured. It was probably from this that Murphy suffered all his life\nfrom a mistaken notion that it was the duty of horses, as well as drivers\nof all kinds, to get out of his way, and not he necessarily out of\ntheirs.\n\nIt was a happy life in a land of happiness and freedom, though discipline\nwas stern, and all had to pass their period of training. Sooner or later\neach one was judged upon his merits, as well by his comrades as by the\ngreat, tall Over-Lord, to whom primarily they owed allegiance. And if\nsuch judgment was occasionally fallacious, as it frequently is, the world\nover, when based upon such points alone, it worked out fairly when the\ntime arrived for an estimate to be made of the character that every one\nhere was entitled to--when the first home had to be left behind, and the\nworld faced in town or country, up or down the greater river of a common\nlife.\n\nFor such a temperament as Murphy's, a life like this was happiness\nitself. He was sociable, and loved company intensely, though preferably\nthe company of Man. Solitude he abhorred; games were his delight; for\nkilling things, even were it a rat from one of the thousand holes he met\nwith when walking by the river, he never cared, and indeed appeared never\nquite to understand. \"Live and let live\" was his motto, while playing\nalways the game of \"catch-who-catch-can.\"\n\nThere was no reason to bring pain into the field at all. Life to him was\na condition full of smiles, or to be made so, though there was snarling\nround the corner, as well as folk of difficult temperament to remain\npuzzlers to the end. Those about, therefore, were to be reckoned friends,\nand to be met in such way as better dogs themselves lay down. Their\nsociety obviously had its rules, which, if occasionally broken, were yet\nto be known and recognised, just as they themselves, though dogs, were\nable to discern that the members of that other society, on to which they\nwere apparently grafted, had theirs.\n\nThese last and they themselves were nothing less than partners--so it\nseemed to him--in a great game, to be played always in good heart and\nwith the spirit of true sportsmanship. Both moved according to law, the\nonly difference between the two being that Men held the power of the\nVeto--and exercised it too often, he would add in his perfect, well-bred\nmanner, in a way that declared their ignorance. Men, he averred, would\nalways insist on assuming that their laws were right at all times, and,\nfurthermore, were always applicable to dogs, forgetting that, more often\neven than themselves, dogs were moved by laws imperious.\n\nHad he been as the majority of dogs, he would, when such thoughts\noccupied his brain, have joined no doubt unhesitatingly in Puck's song--\n\n                  \"Lord, what fools these mortals be!\"\n\nBut, then, this is where he differed from that majority. Man was his\nfriend. Friendship meant loyalty, and loyalty should be unstained.\n\nThere was much in what he said. On many an occasion a dog will show that\nhe knows better than a man, and can do things that transcend Man's\nboasted powers. We all know that--or should do so--for the moment may\narrive when we find ourselves dependent on the judgment of a dog. To fail\nto recognise it then is to create difficulties and to blunder badly,\ncausing the most tractable of our friends to look up with a puzzled\nexpression in their eyes, and the more head-strong and outspoken to go\nahead, with this sentence, flung back over the shoulder--\"_You fools,\nyou; when will you understand!_\"\n\nAnd the fun of it all is that Man with his self-assurance, and that\nlimited vision of his of which he seems sometimes completely unaware,\nthinks that he is training the dog, whereas the dog is perfectly capable,\nas will be shown, of at least in some directions training him. Thus,\nwhere differences arise, Man jumps to his conclusions and claims his\nprerogative. It is a sorry business when an all-too-hasty punishment\nfollows, as it often does, for Man--so Murphy used to say--would find\nhimself very frequently to be wrong. But then Murphy, when he talked like\nthis in the after days, showing how easily We might make mistakes, and\nexplaining so much that was not wholly realised before, caused sundry\nfolk to wonder whether in some previous life he had in his spare time\nstudied Bentham. For dogs or men to make mistakes is not necessarily for\nthem to do wrong. \"To trace errors to their source is often to refute\nthem.\"\n\nHe often quoted that; but on the only occasion on which he was asked about\nhis previous studies he remained silent. He and his Master were sitting on\nthe hillside, far away from the hum of men--as, in fact, they mostly were.\nHis eyes were ranging over the valley to the skyline. \"That's the way to\nlook, my dear master,\" he appeared to be saying--\"that's the way to look.\nNever run heel way. For you and me there is a future. Look ahead, and cast\nforward; never look behind!\"\n\nHis remarks often, in this way, touched lightly on great questions.\n\n\n\n\n                                   II\n\n\nTo look ahead in the hey-day of youth is to look forward to unclouded\nhappiness. And, no doubt, to Murphy and those of his own age, the fact\nthat the summer waned and that autumn followed, when leaves fell\nmysteriously from the trees and there were sporting scents in the air,\nmade little difference to their outlook. Happiness had no relation to the\nseasons: they were all good in their turn. Jolly times ranged from spring\nto winter. And, perhaps, winter after all was best.\n\nIt was on a winter day, in fact, that Murphy first made a mark in the\nmind of his Over-Lord, and it came about like this.\n\nThe day before had been typical of late January. The sun had not shone\nsince daybreak. The sky to the north was lead colour, and the wind was\nblowing through snow. If it froze on the north side of the hedgerows, it\nthawed on the south--the coldest condition of all.\n\nThere were covered places for the dogs of the mill, with plenty of straw,\nand when one or two who had been out for a walk came in and said there\nwould be snow before another morning dawned, those who heard the remark\ncurled themselves tighter or drew closer to their more intimate friends.\nAnd as they slept and woke, and slept again, they saw the lights go out\none by one, save those in the mill itself, for barges had come with loads\nof grain, and the mill was working all night. They could hear the steady\n\"throb,\" \"throb\" of the great mill-wheel and the plash of the distant\nwaters; but just before the new dawn these sounds gave way to a hum that\nplayed a muffled music in the trees. The men's footsteps never sounded at\nall, till they were close at hand; and then the mill slowly stopped as\nthough tired, and silence reigned supreme in the cold. Dogs and men slept\nfirmly for a little: Nature was at work putting a new face upon the\nworld.\n\nAnd after all that there followed the joyousness of a cloudless morning,\nas the stars faded out, and the pale sun lit up a world that was now pure\nwhite. Snow lay everywhere to the depth of three inches--not more--for it\nhad spread itself evenly in the stillness, and covered the ground, and\nthe roofs, and the barges that had come with the grain, making everything\nlook strange, even to the waters that were licking the banks, and that\nsomehow or other had turned the colour of green bottle-glass.\n\nThen, by-and-by, came the Over-Lord, and called this name and that; and\nthe last that he called was \"Murphy.\"\n\nHere were games indeed! Here was something new to play with; to be\nskipped and rolled and gambolled in to heart's content; to be even bitten\nat, and swallowed till forbidden. Why, this new material that the younger\nones had never seen before called even the limpest to forget his\nlimpness, as though new blood flowed in his veins and he were endowed\nwith a new life!\n\nThey were soon out of the yard, and away down the lane. And then the\nOver-Lord turned into the fields and struck a right-of-way that led in\ndirection of a hamlet two miles distant. Here many of the meadows were\nthirty acres and over in extent, flat as any floor, with great elm trees\nin their hedgerows. They were untenanted now by sheep or cattle, for\nthese had been driven off the night before to higher ground, by men who\nkept an eye upon the weather. The virgin surface of the snow lay\nglittering gold and silver in the early morning sun, with here and there,\nas a contrast, the long shadows of the limbs of a great oak or elm, cast\nas though some one had traced its pattern for fun with a brushful of the\npurest cobalt.\n\nThere were only five dogs out that morning. Three were now fastened to a\nleash; one other was very old, and he and Murphy were allowed what\nlatitude they liked. So presently it chanced that Murphy found himself\nsome way from the rest, and suddenly called upon to show what he could\ndo. As he went, he came upon a slight rise in the snow, as though\nsomething lay beneath. The more experienced would have known what that\nwas, for their noses would have told them in a trice. When snow falls and\na hare finds itself being gradually covered by the flakes, it does what\nit can to bury itself deeper; but always with this eye on life--that it\nassiduously keeps a hole open that it may breathe, and always to the\nleeward. Such is one of many evidences of clever instinct to be met with\nfor ever in the fields.\n\nThus, before this young dog knew well what had happened, there sprang, as\nif by magic, from the snow a beauteous animal, strong of scent and fleet\nof foot, and heading straight away from him at top speed.\n\nHe heard a voice calling many names, and at the same time the crack of a\nwhip. But his name was not among the rest; and he just had time to notice\nthat the Over-Lord stood still, with the other dogs about him. Then he\nwas off in pursuit, straight as a line for the river. There the hare made\nits first turn, Murphy being twenty yards in rear. He was running mute\nnow, and both hare and dog were settling to their work--the one to escape\nif it could, the other to catch, if so it might be. They were through the\nfar fence a moment later, and disappeared, only, however, quickly to\nreturn and take a line straight down this thirty-acre piece. It was a\nstretch of nearly a quarter of a mile, and ere they reached the further\nfence Murphy was gaining ground. The hare doubled at the boundary, and\nthen doubled again, making the figure of a giant eight on the glittering\ngolden surface of the snow.\n\nWas the dog really gaining? It was a fine course. The hare was evidently\na late leveret of the previous season; the dog was scarcely more than\nseven months old. How would it end? The Over-Lord stood and watched,\ndetermined that none should interfere. There should be fair play in a\nfair field, if he could only keep a grip upon these others that were\nwhimpering and shivering and straining at the leash. He had passed the\nthong of his whip through the collar of the old dog, so all were really\nwell within control.\n\nWould the young dog last? That was the crucial question. The hare had had\nmany a run before this to save her skin, and was hardened by the life of\nthe breezy downs and the wide fields. But the dog had never previously\nbeen tried in such a way: his life had been more or less an artificial\none, and he had never been called upon to lay himself out, or been put to\nsuch a strain as these almost maddening moments entailed. Catch this\nthing somehow he must. Were not his comrades looking on? Did not the very\nsilence of the Over-Lord seem to demand of him his very best? There\nappeared, however, to be no getting level with this animal of surprising\nfleetness of foot, that seemed to glide over the ground with perfect\nease, and that responded gamely to every effort that he made.\n\nThe group of lookers-on watched the more intently. Now the hare by a\nclever turn increased her lead; then once again the dog made good the\nground lost. The hare had come back by this time almost to the\nstarting-point. Closer and closer drew the dog: the hare seemed to be\nswaying in her stride. The dog's tongue was out at any length, and his\npant was clearly audible. Once again the hare doubled, and the dogs with\nthe Over-Lord gave tongue, as though they cheered their comrade. Then\nwith a fling and a dash Murphy was into it: there was a scuffle in the\nsnow, and the next instant the young dog was seen to be holding the hare\ndown.\n\nMaking his way to the two, taking the dogs upon leash and thong short by\nthe head, and keeping them back by the free use of his feet, the\nOver-Lord seized the hare and rescued it; Murphy being too beat now to do\nmore than lie stretched out, panting.\n\n\"Well, I'm...!\"--The Over-Lord was passing a hand as well as he could\nover the frightened hare, holding it high to his chest.--\"Run to a\nstandstill, and not so much as harmed. Well, I'm...!\"\n\nHe had let go the other dogs now. They were barking and jumping round\nhim, and to avoid risk he was covering up the hare beneath his coat. His\nface was a study as he looked at Murphy lying in the snow. No fault was\nto be found with the dog; that was very certain. He had been given an\nopportunity of showing what he could do. The snow had equalised the race.\nAnd this was the end--the hare not hurt at all. He would look again at\nher presently. It had been a pretty sight: Nature's working; no real\ncruelty in any of it. Such were the thoughts that were passing in the\ntall man's mind.\n\nAll turned homeward after that, the Over-Lord's feet scrunching the snow\nas he took great strides, a smile lighting up his face. Four of his dogs\nwere close to his heels, as though they expected something; a yard or two\nbehind followed a younger one, with his tongue out level with his chest.\n\n                    *       *       *       *       *\n\nLater on in the day, when all the dogs were kennelled up, the Over-Lord\nmight have been seen leaving the mill-yard, with something he carried in\na bag, taking long draws at his pipe, and still with a smile upon his\nface. He was making his way alone to the open fields, and across these to\nwhere there was shelter under a hedge. Having reached his point, he\nstooped to the ground; and then there sped from him, as he rose, a hare,\nunharmed in wind and limb.\n\nHe looked long after it, to make sure. Then he rubbed his chin with his\npipe in his hand, and remarked aloud, \"Run to a standstill, and never\nharmed. Well, I'm...!\" And once again that day he checked himself from\nusing a bad, if sometimes almost pardonable, word.\n\n\n\n\n                                   III\n\n\nThe general company naturally viewed Murphy's performance from many\nstandpoints. Among his contemporaries his reputation went up with a\nbound, though there was not wanting a leaven of jealous ones even amidst\nthose who crowded most closely round him. Among those a little older than\nhimself, the best-natured commended him outspokenly and in honest\ngenerosity of heart. Others, with more mundane outlook, judged his\nachievement reflected lustre on the kennel, and therefore--this with a\nsniff and the chuck of the chin--also on themselves. A few more vowed, in\ntrue sporting spirit, that they would do their level best to go one\nbetter if such a chance as that should come their way. To these last, the\npuzzle was why, with such results, the whole of those present had not\ntasted blood; and among themselves they voted the action of the Over-Lord\nincomprehensible, certainly womanly, very certainly misjudged. If the\nyoung dog had gone up therefore in their estimation, the Man had\ncorrespondingly gone down.\n\nAs for the older generation, some spoke patronisingly, as if they wished\nto convey that the deed was nothing more than they could easily have\nachieved, and in fact ended by talking so much that they persuaded\nthemselves, to their own satisfaction, that they were in the habit in\ntheir younger days of doing things of the kind not less infrequently than\nonce a week. The moralists wagged their heads as the fountain of all\ntruths, and asserted that such success was a very bad thing for the\nyoung. The swaggerers, who held somewhat aloof, but who had never done\nanything in their lives, put on more side than usual and endeavoured to\ncarry matters off that way, oblivious, as ever, of the laughter round the\ncorner. Lastly, there was that other class, the crabbed and the crusty,\nwho would, had they belonged to Us, have retired behind their papers in\nthe Club windows, but as it was, and being dogs, merely made off out of\nearshot, with their ruffs up, grumbling to themselves and crabbing all\nthings.\n\nThere were some of all classes here as elsewhere. It is indeed surprising\nhow closely the dog family approximates to the human. The same\ncounterparts are to be found in both. We mostly hunt in packs. And if\ndogs are wont to bark and bite and rend, We, on our part, are often not\nbehind in practising the same strange arts, though not always with the\nsame sportsmanship and generosity.\n\nAs for Murphy, he took the whole matter with a skip and a laugh, as if it\nwas all part of the jolly fun of life, and as not in any way reflecting\ncredit on himself. By nature he was modest and shy, and if he did things\noccasionally that were out of the common, he never seemed to grasp the\nfact, invariably looking puzzled and impatient at all praise. \"Never mind\nall that; let's come on and look for something else,\" was what he said,\nexhibiting in this way, perhaps, one of those traits of character that\nmade him so lovable, and that grew to such fair proportions as he\nadvanced in years. His disposition was happy and generous, and though\nessentially manly--if such a term, without offence, is applicable to\ndogs--there was also about him a peculiar gentleness that was exemplified\nin all his actions, right down to his inability to use his teeth. He was\nnever known to fight; and, what was still more strange, bones were to him\naltogether negligible things.\n\nFor a character such as this to meet with harsh treatment, much less\ncruelty, was, if not to ruin it completely, at least to undermine all\nconfidence. Yet this, sad to relate, was now precisely what befell. Up to\nthis, life had been without a cloud. Of course, as in every other\nsociety, there had been the necessity of fending for oneself--of picking\nup a scrap, for instance, quickly, if you wanted it at all. Such things\nare good, and make for progress and development. But harshness and\nunkindness, like injustice, had been altogether foreign to the mill and\nall who lived or worked there. Life sped on in that favoured spot with as\neven a surface as that of the river, whose waters flowed sluggishly up to\nthe mill, barring the dam, and then went bubbling down the race,\nrevivified and having done its spell, for the time.\n\nHow it came about is not now exactly discoverable; but just at this\nperiod of Murphy's life a decree was issued that several of the family\nwere to be boarded out; and the next day the young dog found himself\nmoved to the home of one of the mill-hands, half a mile and more away.\n\nThe cottage stood alone, and the family inhabiting it consisted of a man\nand his wife, and a daughter just finishing her schooling. Once there had\nbeen a son; but he, like many another in our villages, had gone out--all\nhonour to them!--to strike a blow for his country some five or six years\nbefore, and had in quite a short while found a soldier's death. His\nphotograph hung crookedly just above the mantelpiece, with another of a\ngroup of his regiment by which he had once set much store, and yet\nanother of the girl whom he had hoped some day to make his wife.\n\nWhen the glow fell, and the bald, laconic message was delivered one\nwinter evening at the door, the mother bent her head low; and later, when\nshe found speech and had dropped the corner of her apron, was heard to\nwhisper to herself, \"'Twas the Almighty's will.\" Then the tears welled up\nafresh, as she rocked herself in her chair, gazing at the fire.\n\nThe effect upon the father was different. \"What...!\" he cried, as though\nsome one had struck him. A single candle flickered on the table; his lips\nwere drawn tight across his teeth; his fingers clutched the table-lid\nconvulsively, and he leant across in the direction of his wife.\n\n\"What...!\" he exclaimed again.\n\n\"They've killed un,\" repeated the wife, the candle-light reflected in her\nstaring eyes. \"Seth, Seth,\" she continued, following her husband, who had\ntaken up his hat, and was making for the door--\"oh, Seth, Seth--'tis the\nAlmighty's will, man; I do know for sure it be;--Seth, Seth...!\"\n\nBut Seth Moby had gone out into the night; and from that time forward he\nwalked as one suffering some injustice. He had always been a man of\nuncertain temper, but this blow appeared to sour him. It is well to\nremember that once at least in his life he had loved deeply.\n\n                    *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Over-Lord brought Murphy to the door, and arranged matters with\nMartha Moby, just as he had often done with others in the same way. The\nday had been wet; the lane on to which the garden-gate opened was muddy;\nthe dog had dirty feet. \"You'll take care of him, I know. He's a good\ndog--a good dog,\" he repeated, when he left.\n\nIt was after dark when Moby returned. \"Wants for us to kep the dog, do\n'e? There be a sight too many on 'em about; and for what he do want to\nkep such a lot o' such curs, nobody can't think. A-bringin' a' the dirt\ninto our housen too. Err ... I'll warm yer!\" he added, making as though\nhe would fling something at the dog.\n\nMurphy looked puzzled, and crept into a corner.\n\n\"Don't carry on like that, Seth; don't do it, man. The dog's a poor,\nnervous little thing with we, and don't mean to do no hurt.\"\n\nBut it was of no avail. Seth Moby looked upon Murphy as an interloper,\nand when he could do anything to frighten him he did, and by any brutal\nmeans in his power. Even the mill-hands remarked to one another that\ntheir mate, Moby, was a changed man. \"'Twas like that wi' some,\" they\nsaid. \"Trouble sowered 'em, like, and made 'em seem as though they 'ould\nthrow the Almighty o' one side. And once folk got on a downward grade,\nsame as that, it wasn't often as they was found on the mending hand--no,\nit wasn't for sure.\"\n\nOn one occasion, after the first week was over, Murphy escaped, and\nappeared at the mill with a foot or more of rope trailing from his\ncollar, for latterly he had been kept tied up. Seth chanced at that\nmoment to be leaving work, and brought the dog up short by the head, by\nputting his foot upon the rope end almost before the dog knew that he was\nthere. He half hanged him taking him back, and flung him into the house\nwith an oath that frightened his child, and made her run to the back\nkitchen that she might not hear what followed; while the dog crept on his\nstomach to the corner, his tail between his legs: he always moved in this\nway now, though it is said he never whimpered.\n\n\"Oh, Seth, if you goes on like this,\" said Mrs. Moby reproachfully,\n\"there'll be murder, and then trouble to follow: the Master is not one to\nput up with cruelty to any dog. Bless the man--you're gettin' like a mad\nthing. Leave the dog alone, I tell yer.\" Seth had taken off his boots,\nand flung them at the dog before going up to bed: Mrs. Moby had been\nengaged trying to disconcert his aim.\n\nThat night another foot was heard on the stairs; there was whispering in\nthe kitchen; and for several succeeding weeks, and unknown to others, the\ndog slept happily with the child, though not without serious risks of\ntrouble being thereby made for both.\n\nAt the end of that time the Over-Lord called. He had been away. He had\nheard on his return that all was not well with the dog, and had come to\nsee for himself. Murphy had been lying curled up on a sack in his corner,\nbut when he heard the well-known footstep he crawled out, hugging the\nwall nervously till he reached the door.\n\n\"Murphy, lad!\" exclaimed the Over-Lord, looking intently at the\ndog--\"Murphy, my little man; that you...!\" The dog was fawning on him,\nsaying as plain as speech, \"Take me away with you; take me away.\"\n\nThe Over-Lord put his hand down and patted him. He did not say another\nword, as Murphy followed him out, save \"It's not you, Mrs. Moby; it's not\nyou.\" He had a great heart for dogs, and began to blame himself on his\nway home for what had evidently occurred. \"If the man did not want the\ndog,\" he muttered, \"he had only got to say so; besides it was his rent to\nhim: it was not done on the cheap--that never does in any line.\"\n\nWhen he reached his own house, he took the young dog in with him--a thing\nalmost unprecedented, so far as the rest of the outside company were able\nto recall. They judged their former companion spoilt, or on the high road\nto being so.\n\n\"It was all that hare,\" remarked the middle-aged.\n\n\"Yes,\" agreed the moralists--\"success is always pernicious to the young!\"\n\nLookers-on generally misjudge, though they claim to see most of the game.\n\nThe next morning, by strange coincidence, a letter was delivered at the\nmill, destined to alter Murphy's future altogether.\n\n\n\n\n                                   IV\n\n\nDaniel was one of those dogs that die famous, though belonging to a small\ncircle; not famous in the sense in which the dogs of history are so, but\nbecause he possessed individuality and stamped himself upon the memories of\nall who ever met him. And these last were not few, for Dan had travelled\nwidely and had gathered multitudes of friends. Then, again, he possessed\nthose two almost indispensable adjuncts of popularity--delightful manners\nand a beautiful face. It was his invariable custom to get up when any one\ncame into a room; and when he advanced to meet them, it might certainly\nhave been said that, in his case, the tail literally wagged the dog, for\nhis hind-quarters were moved from the middle of his back and went in rhythm\nwith the tail. His looks were perfect. Being by Pagan I., he possessed not\nonly eyes set in black and a coal-black snout, but also that further\ncharacteristic of dogs of his date, the blackest of black ears--a feature\nnow entirely lost in the case of Irish terriers, and never, it is said, to\nbe regained.\n\nApart from a liberal education and the miscellaneous knowledge he had\npicked up for himself, to say nothing of a wonderful series of clever\ntricks, the instinct known as the sense of direction was in his case\ndeveloped to an altogether abnormal extent. Definite traces of this were\nnoticeable when he was still a puppy; but it was at all times impossible\nfor him to lose his way. As he grew older, this instinct became so\nmarked, that it set others wondering whether or not there existed among\ndogs a sixth, and perhaps a seventh, sense, lying far beyond the grasp of\nhuman, limited intelligence.\n\nDogs, as we all know, are not the only animals, that possess this\nmysterious instinct. They share it with many other classes, such as those\nof the feline tribe, and also with the birds and a number of insects. In\nfact, all animals appear to possess it in varying degree; they are all\nmore or less able to find their way home. Yet, study it how we may, we\nare at fault when we try to account for it. In many cases, the homing\ninstinct is apparently governed by sight; but many scientific observers\nentertain the idea that the sense of smell, in the majority of instances,\nwill be found to lie at the root of the matter. Possibly they are right.\n\nWhen, however, we are brought face to face with an exceptional exhibition\nof the sense, we have to confess that we are left unconvinced by any of\nthe theories that have at present been advanced. It is no unusual thing\nfor a dog to find its way home along a road it had not previously\ntravelled, going with the wind, and in the dark. One case is known to the\nwriter where a dog found the ship it had come out in in a foreign port to\nwhich it had been taken, and made a voyage by sea, as well as a\nconsiderable journey by land on its return to this country, in order to\nreach its home. A cat also, within the writer's knowledge, found its way\nback to its home, though it had been brought some distance in a sack\nlying at the bottom of a farmer's gig, and though the return journey\nentailed traversing the streets of a busy town. Any one may test a bee's\npowers in the same way, by affixing to it a small particle of\ncotton-wool. When liberated, it will take a perfectly straight or bee\nline to its hive, though this lie at a considerable distance. It is\nunnecessary to refer to the achievements of carrier-pigeons, when set\nfree after a long journey and the lapse of many hours, or to the way in\nwhich rooks, especially, as well as starlings, will find their way to\ntheir usual roosting-places across wide valleys shrouded in dense\nNovember fogs.\n\nNor must we succumb here to the temptations offered by the very mention\nof migrants, though we may well ask, what is the power that enables a\nswallow to leave the banks of the Upper Nile and arrive at the nest it\nleft the year before, beneath the eaves of a cottage standing on the\nbanks of the Upper Thames? Or what directs the turtle-dove, year by year,\nfrom the oleander-grown banks of the streams of Morocco to the more\ngrateful shade of our English woodlands? Yet marked birds have proved the\ntruth of these and still more wonderful achievements.\n\nInstinct, the dire necessity of obtaining proper food, the perpetuation\nof the tribe--Nature's most imperious laws--lie no doubt at the back of\nmany mysteries. Yet to say this is not to account for the sense before\nus, any more than it is to solve those innumerable problems that are\nscattered all along our several roads, and that we stumble over every\nstep we take. Leaving out of count such systematic, and apparently\nscientific, labours as those of the ants, bees, and wasps, we constantly\nfind in the animal kingdom powers being exercised, as, for instance, in\nthe case of the earthworms and the moles, that are not to be explained by\nthe use of the words instinct, intelligence, and necessity. The humblest\nof animals appears often to be handling forces with ease and familiarity,\nthe range of which it must apparently, if not obviously, be unaware. But\nif this last is true, and these animals that are blind walk blind, what\nare we to say of ourselves, when we are frequently doing the same, and\nhandling forces that we are totally unable to define?\n\nThe digression is a lengthy one; but even now a further step must be\ntaken. The man has, in the dog, his one real intimate in the whole animal\nworld. It will be generally admitted that the dog depends exceptionally\nupon the man and the man often largely also upon the dog, and that in\nthis we have yet another instance of that interdependence that is to be\nfound throughout Nature and wheresoever we look. This, however, is not\nthe chief point in considering the relationship existing between the two.\nThere is something much deeper, and that goes much further.\n\nMan, we are told, holds supreme dominion on Earth. He is King over all\nthings living, both great and small; and this constitutes at once his\nendowment and his responsibility. Yet this supreme power is being\nperpetually modified, not only by the forces he seeks to control--whose\nso-called laws he has to obey, if they are to be subjected to his use--but\nalso by those very creatures to whom he stands in the relation of a King.\nIt is here, in the animal kingdom, that the action of the dog once again\nstands first; for what powers of modification and influence can transcend\nthose which effect a frequent and practical impression upon the actions of\nthis so-called King,--by appealing, as the dog often does, to man's moral\nsense; by claiming love outside man's own circle, in return for love given\nwithout stint; by calling for a wider self-sacrifice, in the light of a\ntrustfulness and loyalty that is exhibited here and nowhere else in Nature\nin the same unfaltering degree?\n\nThe dog does all this and more, as will be shown, and by ways and\ninstincts that are as unfathomable as the one to which reference has just\nbeen made.\n\nIt is time to return to the more homely matter of Dan, that instances may\nbe given of how, on one occasion out of many, he exhibited the possession\nof the sense of direction, and also of the eye he had for country.\n\nThe writer had to make a journey to a neighbouring town by rail. The\ndistance as the crow flies was not more than six miles, but the railway\njourney took the best part of an hour and entailed a change and waiting\nat a junction. Daniel accompanied him, having never made the journey\nbefore, or visited the junction, or the station of the town referred to.\nOn arrival, the writer elected to walk. Now Daniel was almost entirely\nstrange to towns, and, though all went well at first, he finally\nsuccumbed to the fascinations of the streets, and disappeared. Every\nmeans were at once taken to find him; the police station was visited, the\ncab-drivers were warned, and a reward was offered. In the end, the writer\nhad to return without the dog, and face the reproaches of the family. A\ngloom fell upon the house for the rest of the evening. But soon after ten\no'clock a bark was heard, the front door was thrown open, and Daniel\nentered; in a state, it may be added, that bordered on hysterics, and\nwith the tail wagging the dog more violently than ever. It was seven\nhours from the time he had been missed, and no light was ever thrown on\nhow he had accomplished the journey.\n\nA dog's memory is proverbial. There is ample reason for believing that\nmany dogs, when once they have smelt your hand, never forget you. But\nthey also often appear to make mental notes of what they see, and to\nretain these in their minds. A retriever that has worked long on an\nestate will be found to know the position of almost every gate and stile\nin every field, and will use his knowledge instantly as occasions arise.\nHe equally appears to know the rides of the woods within his beat, and\nwhere they lead. In other words, he has, in hunting parlance, an eye for\ncountry; and here is an instance from Daniel's life by way of\nillustration.\n\nTo reach a neighbouring village on one occasion, the writer used a\ntricycle. There was only one road to this village, distant five miles,\nand this was bounded on one side by woods and on the other by the river\nThames, which it was necessary to cross at the outset. Here and there\nbetween the road and the river were houses, the gardens and grounds of\nwhich were surrounded by walls and fencing extending to the river-banks.\nThe tow-path was on the further side. It chanced that after three miles\nhad been traversed, another tricycle caught up the writer and passed him.\nDan was ahead, mistook this machine for his own, and went on out of\nsight. The weather looking threatening, the writer decided to return\nhome, feeling confident that the dog would discover his mistake and\nfollow. A bicycle now overtook the writer, the rider of which, in answer\nto inquiries, said that he had seen an Irish terrier entering the village\nhe had left, three miles back, cantering in front of a tricycle. There\nwas nothing to be done but to go leisurely home, waiting every now and\nthen to see if the dog was coming, while growing always more and more\nuneasy at his non-appearance. At last the home was reached--and on the\nfront-door mat sat Daniel!\n\nThe dog was perfectly dry, and had still the dust of the road on him. He\ncould not therefore have swum the river; moreover, he had no taste for\nwater. Equally, he had not come along the only road; while it was\nimpossible for him to have travelled through the woods or along the land\nlying between the road and the river. There was only one solution of the\ndifficulty, and this was undoubtedly correct. In his walks along the\nhills the dog must have noticed a railway in the valley and its bridge\nacross the river. He had certainly never been along this railway or over\nthis bridge. But he remembered its existence when he was lost, made his\nway to it, got over the river without the necessity of swimming, and\nreached home across country in time to meet his master, and with an\nexpression on his face of, \"Well--what do you say to that?\"\n\nOne more story of him must be given, showing his extraordinary sagacity\nas well as his determination. When he had set his mind on anything, brick\nwalls were well-nigh powerless to stop him. He obeyed one man, if he were\nby; in his absence, he acted solely in furtherance of the plans he had in\nmind, and always with a knowing expression on his face.\n\nHe was paying a visit in the West of England, and had quickly found his\nway about. One day at luncheon some one was rash enough to remark in\nDan's hearing that the carriage was going out. To run with the carriage\nwas strictly forbidden, and this Dan never failed to resent, as he did\nalso being shut up before the carriage came round. \"Carriage\" was one of\nthe thirty-eight words with which he was intimately acquainted, and when\nhe heard it used on this occasion he may have made mental notes\nconcerning plans to which he vowed he would be no party. However this may\nhave been, shortly before the hour arrived for the carriage to start Dan\ncould nowhere be found.\n\nThe road leading from the house branched into three at the end of about a\nmile; and, as this point opened to view on the afternoon in question, a\nyellow figure was seen to be standing there motionless, evidently waiting\nto see which of the three ways the carriage would take. Needless to say\nit was Dan, and that of course he had his run.\n\nBut an end must be made of chronicling the further remarkable\nachievements of this wholly remarkable dog--his sage comments as he grew\nolder, his faithful discharge of his duties as he roamed the passages at\nnight, his intense love of sport and his deeds in that field in spite of\nhis being hopelessly gun-shy, his large heart, and those beautiful\nmanners which he still made pathetic efforts to show, even when he moved\nwith great difficulty and was both deaf and almost blind. He was just a\nhigh-bred gentleman; and he had about him something of the courtesy of\nthe old school, which will still be discernible in some dogs when we have\nfinally and altogether lost the art ourselves.\n\nDaniel was now growing old, if indeed he had not already done so. It was\nobvious that he could not last much longer--perhaps a year; not more--and\nit was necessary, therefore, to find an understudy. Irish terriers had\nbeen a part of the household for many years. Yet another must be\ndiscovered, though, as all agreed, there could never be another like Dan.\n\nThus it came about that inquiries were made in likely quarters, and a\nletter was despatched to one who could be trusted, and who was known the\ncountry over for the dogs he owned.\n\n\n\n\n                                    V\n\n\n\"Yes,\" came the answer; \"I think I have just the dog to suit you. With an\nold dog in the house such as you describe, every dog would not do; but\nthe one I speak of is a _good_ dog, with good manners and a very gentle\ndisposition. You know that I do not make a practice of selling my dogs,\nbut you shall have this one for ---- guineas, and I will send him along\nany day that may suit you.\n\n\"I forgot to say he is well-bred; Postman-Barbara. He is entered as\nMurphy.\"\n\nTwo days later a dog's travelling-box was put out on to the platform of a\nlittle country station, and there and then duly opened by the writer.\nLying at the bottom in some hay was a poor, cringing little animal, that\nhad to be lifted out, and then lay flat upon the platform. In such terror\nwas he that nothing would induce him to move; and the only way out of the\ndifficulty was to take him up, while others smiled, and walk out of the\nstation with him.\n\nAt a quiet turn of the road the dog was put down, being somewhat heavy,\nwhen once again he could not be persuaded to walk, or even to stand upon\nhis feet. Again and again he acted in this way, till at length the house\nwas reached and he was deposited on a mat by the fire, close to a bowl of\ngood food.\n\nAnd this poor little abject was Murphy!--Murphy, the dog with the\npedigree of kings and even emperors; the dog that had run a hare to a\nstandstill; the dog of the happiest disposition of any one in the kennel,\nand that had been the favourite and playmate of the whole great company.\nIf this was what pedigrees were likely to produce, better to make a clean\nsweep of the hereditary principle at once; if this was a picture of a\nhappy disposition, better to try what chronic depression had to show. A\nsorry favourite this. Up to now a suspicion had been entertained that a\nplaymate should at least be gay. It was all evidently a mistake.\n\n\"Murphy!\"--Why, this half-starved-looking thing that refused to stir or\neat did not even know his name. If a move was made in his direction, he\nhugged the ground closer than before, shifting his chin backwards and\nforwards on the rug in abject terror. The coast had purposely been left\nclear, and Dan was out with the rest of the family.\n\nPresently one looked in, and passed sentence without more ado: \"Oh, you\npoor, miserable, shrunken little thing. We can't keep a dog like that--it\nis impossible!\"\n\nLater, Dan appeared. The young dog got up, went respectfully towards him,\nand licked him deliberately upon the lips. Dan wagged his tail. They were\nfriends. Then once again the newcomer crept on his stomach to the corner\nof the hearthrug, and remained there cringing when any one went near.\nWhat did it all mean?\n\nNor were matters any better when the household retired for the night: in\ntruth, they were much worse. The most mysterious sounds ascended from the\nlower floor, and grew steadily in volume. They woke one and then another,\ntill at last they drew some one from her bed. Such unearthly groans had\nrarely before been heard from throat of living thing. Of course it was\nthe \"new dog,\" as he had already come to be called, for he surely was not\nworthy of a name.\n\nA conference was held next day as to what could possibly be done, though\nwith the usual result that some said one thing, some another, and nothing\nwas definitely decided on. Had the matter been put to the vote, the dog\nwould almost certainly have been forthwith returned from whence he came,\nin spite of a remark from one quarter that such a course might result in\nsomething serious.\n\n\"'Give a dog a bad name...' We all know the rest. To return this dog is\nfor him almost certainly to be shot--at least, I wouldn't give a penny\nfor his life.\"\n\nMurphy meanwhile lay curled up tight on his corner of the hearthrug, with\nhis eyes wide open, watching every movement intently. Dan said nothing,\nand went his way, voting the house to be upside down.\n\nThat day passed without improvement, though every effort was made and a\nwalk was taken in the fields: the night, the stranger spent in company,\nfor he appeared to have a dread of being left alone. The day following\nmatters were unfortunately made worse. It is the fate of many who are\ndown to find themselves trodden on: the lucky meet with luck; the\nunlucky, more often, with misfortune. The world is full of remarkably\nstrange ordinances; or rather, it might be said, life is replete with\nincidents that are often the last wished for. From him that hath not\nshall be taken away, not alone that which he hath, but even that also\nwhich \"he seemeth to have.\" So be it. No doubt, in the majority of\ninstances, he deserves to be so made bereft. On some, however, such\nthings come hard.\n\nThe room in which Murphy had taken up his abode was part library, part\nstudio, and part a good many other things. A large picture--the canvas\nmeasured six feet--was being worked upon on this second morning after the\nyoung dog's arrival; and, as was perversely ruled, it was just here that\nan accident occurred that might well have been judged impossible. The\neasel, in fact, with its huge canvas, was overset, carrying many things\ninto limbo as they fell; and with the fate that too often pursues the\nunfortunate, Murphy therefore found himself suddenly buried beneath a\nmixed assortment of articles to which he had hitherto been strange. To\nadd to the rest, a whole string of cattle and sheep bells, brought from\nvarious parts of the world, were set ringing, and others were dislodged;\nand for the moment it appeared that the dog must certainly have been\nkilled. The only good thing subsequently gathered from the strange\nproceedings was that the dog had uttered no whimper. But if he was\nfrightened before, he was terror-stricken now; and matters had therefore\ngone from bad to worse.\n\nThere is little need to describe what followed. On the one hand, it was\njudged that this was the proverbial last straw; that the dog would\nassuredly never recover now; and that therefore the only thing to be done\nwas to send him back, with an earnest appeal for his life to be spared.\nYet, once again, cooler judgments in the end prevailed. The dog had not\nwhimpered. There was something in that. Moreover, by what had now\noccurred, an injury had been done to his already unhappy spirit, and,\nunless all honour had ceased to find a place between man and dog,\nreparation was certainly his due. In one quarter a sense of pity had\nfurthermore been generated--a fact, though unsuspected at the time, that\nwas to prove the hub round which Murphy's whole future was destined to\nrevolve. An appeal to the heart, if such once gets home, can never really\nfail--unless, as Murphy's countrymen might say, the person appealed to\nproves heartless.\n\nThus it was that a sheet of paper that left the house the same evening\ncontained words to this effect:\n\n\"I ought to have written to you before about Murphy, as also to have sent\nyou the enclosed cheque. But, to tell you the truth, I have been so much\npuzzled by this dog that I have purposely waited a day or two before\nwriting to you. I have owned dogs for a great many years and of many\nbreeds and temperaments; but never, in the whole of my experience, have I\ncome across any dog as nervous as this one: it is pitiful to see him.\nEven my old dog's presence does not help him; and really, so far, I have\nbeen able to make nothing of him. Perhaps he may get better; but I almost\ndoubt it. I wonder if, without you knowing it yourself, the dog has been\ncruelly treated. I keep looking at him and wondering, for I cannot,\nsomehow, link this dog lying in front of me, and never closing his eyes,\nwith the description you wrote of him. The journey would not account for\nit. However, we must hope for the best.\"\n\nTo this came answer:\n\n  \"In face of what you tell me of the dog, I cannot of course accept\n  your cheque, and therefore return it. But do please keep the dog\n  for a month or six weeks, or as long as you like, and write to me\n  again then. I assure you the dog is a _good_ dog. Perhaps his\n  surroundings are strange to him. They must be. The old dog will\n  help him to come round, I feel sure.\"\n\nA few days later the door opened, and a stranger was announced. Murphy\nwas on the hearthrug, as usual; the canvas and easel had been banished to\na corner, and an effort was being made to accustom Murphy to the clicking\nof a typewriter--a sound concerning which he was evidently doubtful.\n\n\"Ah, Murphy; you're a nice dog, aren't you?\" The dog had gone to the\ndoor, and the great figure of the Over-Lord was stooping to notice him.\n\"I always like to see where my dogs go, if possible,\" he added; \"and I\nwanted to hear from you, as well as to see for myself, what was the\nmatter, for this is a good dog--a nice dog: I know he is. He'll come all\nright. Just please give him time; and then, if you don't like him, send\nhim back. He is as good a dog--gentle, you know, gentle--as I've bred.\nWhy, I can assure you, I refused (mentioning several hundred pounds)--I\nrefused that sum for a pair of his relations, only last year; so you will\njudge he is well enough in the matter of class.\"\n\n\"Why did you refuse? Most people would have jumped at such an offer.\"\n\n\"Well--I'll tell you. I didn't like the man's face that wanted them;\nnothing else: I always like to see where my dogs go and the people they\ngo to; and, after getting your letter, I determined to make the journey\nhere, as soon as ever I could get the time. He's a nice dog; a good\ndog--I'm sure of it.\"\n\n\"You don't think there is anything in the suggestion I made to account\nfor his extreme nervousness, do you?\"\n\n\"Well--I know now that there is. I only got to the bottom of it, though,\nthis morning. These things aren't arrived at in a minute, you know. One\nworking-man very rarely splits upon another.\"\n\nThen followed the whole story. \"It was cruel--cruel,\" he jerked out at\nthe end, finishing with, \"I may as well tell you, I never liked the man.\nLatterly his work was anyhow--went from bad to worse, and I discharged\nhim.\"\n\nThere was silence. Two great big men were sitting looking at the dog\nlying between them. The dog's eyebrows moved continually: his brilliant\neyes travelled from one to the other; and presently he heaved a deep\nsigh, as much as to say, \"It's all quite true--quite true.\"\n\nIf there had been hesitation about keeping Murphy before, there was an end\nto it now. Here was a dog--a young life--that had once, and not so long\nago, been the delight of the kennel, the very embodiment of light-hearted\nfun and happiness; the most promising of all the younger lot, and one that\nhad never been guilty of wrong. Send him back! Give him up! What might his\nfate be if he went elsewhere? Death? Look at him. Look at his large\nbrilliant eyes. They betoken nervousness, of course--inherent nervousness,\nprobably. A cruel injustice had been done by this dumb thing, and by one\nof Us. Give him up! Clearly everything most prized was at stake, and\nclaimed the exact opposite.\n\nWhy should a different justice be the lot of a dog to that meted out to a\nman? Is the superiority all one way? Each man knows in his heart that it\nis not; that the dog is often the better of the two.\n\nHow the thoughts raced through the brain!\n\n\"Murphy?\" It was his new master that called him now.\n\nPerhaps the presence of the Over-Lord had given the young dog confidence:\n_he_, at least, had been linked with happy times. Murphy got up\nhesitatingly and came to his new master's chair, with his ears drooping.\nHe even suffered himself to be taken into this new master's lap, though\nnot without great nervousness.\n\nAnd after that the Over-Lord rose and said good-bye.\n\n\"No, Murphy, we won't part,\" were the last words he heard as he left the\ndoor; and this was the last time the generous Over-Lord was destined ever\nto set eyes on Murphy.\n\n\n\n\n                                   VI\n\n\nOthers laughed when they heard the final verdict, and called the\nundertaking hopeless and sentimental. The hopelessness remained to be\nproved; and, as to the sentimental part of the business, some one averred\nthat sentiment lay at the bottom of most things. It might be unpractical\nfrom a philosophic point of view, as well as often fitting matter for a\njibe; but sentiment, all the same, was generally a source of strength!\nWithout it neither nation nor man would be likely to get far; it\nreflected the noblest part of man's nature, and touched a nation at its\nquick, if flags meant anything, and were to be followed and set store by.\n\nThere was quite a bandying of words over the matter. This dog was so\ndifferent to Dan. It was not a matter of argument, certainly not on\nabstruse points. The dog had been broken in nerve, and admittedly by\nill-usage. Probably he had been nervous from the first, and there was\ntherefore all the less chance of his recovery.\n\nTo this was interposed the fact that many well-bred dogs are\nconstitutionally nervous, and continue to be so all their lives, their\ncondition in this respect being probably largely due to their brain\ndevelopment and increased powers of imagination.\n\nThat might be the case, came the answer; but all the same--how about the\ntail? The nervous organisation of this dog and his imagination had to do\nwith his brain, which his eyes showed to be capable of development. These\npoints had to do with the head. What about the other end? The index to a\ndog's character, as well as to his immediate proceedings, lies, as we all\nknow, in his tail--the angle at which it is held, the way it moves or\nremains stiff and immovable; its position before a fight, its twist to\none side when stalking, its confident carriage when the owner has \"got\nhis tail up.\" All these are so many signals, generally recognised by man\nand other dogs alike. Granting all this, what was to be said here? This\ndog had now been several days in the house, and no one had apparently\nseen his tail: it had been kept firmly down, and in such a way as to\nsuggest that had it been long enough it would have been well between his\nlegs.\n\nAt this, some one said that he had seen it once, and it was bushy; the\nonly effect of this remark being to elicit the rejoinder that \"_then_ it\nwanted pulling.\" Another averred that, of course, nothing could be hoped\nfor till he got his tail up: the job was how to set about securing so\nessential a condition in the case of the tail of this particular dog. No\ndoubt the first thing to be done was to win him to the habit of standing\non his feet: it was obviously impossible to attempt anything with the\ntail till this was achieved. So far, his attitude had been best\ndescribable as that of the prone position. If anybody moved, he crouched\nstill lower; if he was persuaded to enter another room than the one he\nhad particularly taken to, he grovelled; if there was any sudden movement\nor noise, he was terror-stricken; and, added to all this, it was obvious\nthat he could never be a watch-dog, for he refused to sleep alone.\n\nOf course he ought to have gone back; and all these notions about\n\"bringing him round,\" giving him another chance and a happy life, were so\nmuch high faluting rubbish.\n\nIn the face of such arguments, based, as they obviously were, on\nuniversal testimony, even the faith of the person most nearly concerned\nand wholly responsible must, it was judged, eventually give way.\n\nBut if counsels and opinions alike failed to alter the decision that had\nbeen come to, they equally also supplied no answer to the momentous\nquestion--how, seeing he was to be kept, was the confidence of this dog to\nbe won? There was hope in Dan, of course. He would teach him plenty of\nthings, and tell him much besides. A good deal of faith was placed in this\ndirection. But, even then, what about the general training? This dog would\nrun riot, be disobedient and unruly, hunt when and where he should not,\nlike other dogs before him, or even run sheep. If these things happened,\nwhat was to be done? To thrash him would be almost an act of cruelty by a\ndog of such a temperament: it might make him more nervous than ever, even\nif he could be caught for the purpose and made to understand the rudiments\nof cause and effect. Dan had learnt to \"come and be thrashed,\" when such\nwas necessary and he was summoned in those most ominous of words. It might\nbe possible to teach Murphy in the same way: dogs, somehow or other, were\nalmost universally capable of differentiating between justice and\ninjustice, and bore no resentment. The reflection gave relief. Yet what\nwould be the effect upon this dog if Dan was in trouble and took to\nshouting \"Murder,\" as he usually did long before he felt the stick?\n\nThe problems were many, and grew in number the more the whole matter was\nconsidered. Two things shaped themselves from the first: there must be\nabsolute fairness and justice; and, what was of no less importance, there\nmust never be any trace of loss of temper in what had to be done, however\ntrying the case might be. To show anger, to give an extra stroke when the\nstick was up, to be hasty for an instant, would be to fail ignominiously,\nto the mutual unhappiness of both.\n\nThe whole enterprise was thus obviously full of pitfalls. Yet faith\ndeclared this way: by kindness, sympathy, and self-control the end might\nbe attained, confidence won back, the young life put into touch with\nhappiness again.\n\nAs the further aspect of the question was considered, it looked rather as\nif, while the man was trying to train the dog, the dog might equally be\nall the time training the man. Here was one none too strong, whose\nnervous organisation had been shattered, and whose confidence had been\nwholly undermined. To win back what had been lost would be difficult\nenough in the case of a man; how would it be in the case of a dog? Oddly\nenough, too, the conditions of life of neither party here were of the\nnormal kind--in one case never could be so. Yet here were these two, and\nby the merest chance, placed in juxtaposition. A strange link was forging\nitself apparently, quite unknown to both, and coupling the one firmly to\nthe other, though neither was aware of it.\n\nIt was not until some time had passed that the position took a more\ndefinite form, and the question repeated itself--what if sympathy grew up\nand blossomed into something fair, with love and mutual confidence as its\naccompaniments? Such might result, perhaps. The thought added interest to\nthe problem as it floated through the mind and was lost again.\n\nThere was nothing uncommon in the possible situation; it had occurred\nagain and again. History furnished innumerable instances. Folklore, with\nits roots in truth, told endless stories of similar complexion. The Dog\nand the Man; the interdependence of both: living things of like\npassions--sharers of like passions; fellow-helpers, the advancement of\nthe one having kept pace with that of the other, right up from the days\nwhen, in prehistoric times and the Neolithic age, as is shown by the\nbones that are found, the dog shared the home of the man and partook of\nhis food--right up from the days when the Egyptians, though they dubbed\nhim unclean, worshipped this animal, and, because of his fidelity and\ncourage, gave him a place as one among three who were to share with them\nthe joys of Paradise.\n\nThe same story is to be traced through all the ages. Even Ulysses could\nshed a tear for Argus, hiding the fact as well as he might from Eumaeus;\nand Tristrem and Ysolde, in the legend, took Hodain to be their intimate\ncompanion, because he had once shared with them \"the drink of might.\" So,\ntoo, the great Theron walked as the close companion of the Gothic king;\nand Cavall became the trusty servant and liegeman of King Arthur. The\nhuge white hound Gorban sat ever at the side of the Welsh bard Ummad as\nhe sang his songs; and the beautiful Bran was the friend for life of\nFingal. Most men have heard of William the Silent's spaniel, who saved\nhis master's life; and many may have seen the form of the dog, fashioned\nin white marble, lying at his master's feet on the well-known tomb at\nDelft. We have each read of Scott's Maida. And if some, perhaps, have\nmade a pilgrimage to that long and narrow mound in the vale of Gwyant\nwhich, according to tradition, marks the resting-place of the immortal\nGelert, others have read of the faithful Vigr who never again tasted food\nwhen he learnt that Olaf, his master, lay dead.\n\nThe stories are without end; and romance knows no limits when dealing\nwith the subject. The lives of the Man and the Dog are found to be ever\nintertwined. Yet is there always this besides--the rift in the lute and\nthe familiar refrain, that the life of the dog shall be short, and that\nMan shall go on his way with his head bent, till such time as he shall\nbecome rich once more in the love of a new-found friend--if that be\nalways possible.\n\nNo man, it has been well said, can be deemed unhappy who possesses the\nlove of a dog; and none are too poor to win it, as none are too high to\nrejoice and grow glad in it. The dog, at least, knows no difference of\nclass or place in his attachments. To him his home is his home; his\nmaster, his master and friend, whether his lot be to follow the tramp on\nthe road, or to walk behind a king to the tomb. And perhaps it may be due\nto the mystery lying at the back of this wonderful intimacy and\nconnection, stretching far back into an altogether hidden past, that to\nstrike another man's dog unjustly is equivalent to striking him; that to\nhurt a dog with intent is to earn the worst of characters and to stain\none's kind; and that for a dog to be in trouble and claim aid is for him\nto claim also the man's heart--even, as has many a time occurred, the\nman's life--to the infinite glory of both.\n\nNor has it been only on man's side that such deeds of heroism have been\nexhibited. The man, the woman, and the child have undoubtedly gone to the\ndog's help at the risk of their own lives on many an occasion; but so\nalso has the dog risked his for the sake of the man--not from any moral\nclaim, not because life is a precious thing and must be saved, not\nbecause of that power which impels, and whose chief gift is the sense of\nafter-satisfaction that comes even to the most disinterested; such things\nlie necessarily beyond the reach of the dog mind. What the dog does is\ndone for love, because of his faith, and because, unlike any other living\nanimal, he thinks, in his unselfishness, more of his friend than he ever\ndoes about himself.\n\nOn the shores of a lake in Travancore, not far from the remote cantonment\nof Quillon, stands a monument to the memory of a dog. He was left to\nwatch his master's clothes while bathing. Presently he was seen to be\ndoing everything in his power to attract attention, by barking and\nrunning excitedly backwards and forwards on the shore. An advancing\nripple was then discerned on the smooth surface of the lake, and the next\ninstant the meaning of this flashed home. A crocodile had got between the\nswimmer and the landing-place, and was coming out to seize his prey. Hope\nmight well have been stricken dead in the face of such a situation. But\nthe dog did not hesitate. Plunging into the water, he swam out to get\nbetween the horrid reptile and his master, and thus to head him off. It\nmeant his own certain death; but the saving of his master's life. A\nmoment later there was a violent agitation of the water, and the dog had\ndisappeared for ever. Thus there stands to record his splendid action\nthis well-known monument, erected by his master in deepest gratitude, and\nthat passers-by might learn of what a dog is capable.\n\nThe incident is not the only one of its kind, and may be left to speak\nfor itself. But the influence of that one act has probably been\nworld-wide; and it is because of the exhibition of such qualities that\nthe moral power of the dog reaches to greater lengths than is generally\nsupposed. There is indeed ample evidence for believing that the beauties\noften traceable in the character of the dog re-act unconsciously, and for\ninfinite good, upon the roughest of our own kind--by claiming\nunselfishness from those who otherwise may lay claim to possessing\nlittle; by showing what love may be under stress and strain, hardship and\nrough fare; by the exhibition of patience and faithfulness; by those\ninstincts that make the most depraved of lookers-on pause and think, and\nask the question sharply--\"Whence that?\"\n\nIn Kingsley's _Hypatia_, Raphael Ben Azra, his head filled with a false\nphilosophy, is made again and again to act otherwise than he would by the\nmastiff Bran.\n\nThe \"dog looks up in his face as only a dog can,\" and causes him to\nfollow her and to retrace his steps against his will. There are her\npuppies. Is she to leave them to their fate? He tells her to choose\nbetween the ties of family and duty: it is a specious form of appeal. To\nher, duties begin with the family; the puppies cannot be left behind. Nor\ncan she carry them herself. She takes Raphael by the skirt, after\nbringing the puppies to him one by one. He must carry them, she tells\nhim; and once again he finds himself doing the opposite of what he would:\nthe puppies are transferred to his blanket, and he and his dog go forward\ntogether.\n\n\"After all,\" he says to himself, \"these have as good a right to live as I\nhave.... Forward! whither you will, old lady. The world is wide. You\nshall be my guide, tutor, queen of philosophy, for the sake of this mere\ncommon-sense of yours.\"\n\nHe tramps on after that, \"trying to get the dog's lessons by heart.\" He\ncatches himself asking the dog's advice, till he exclaims irritably,\n\"Hang these brute instincts! They make one very hot.\"\n\nAt last, by the dog's means and the example of energy that she sets, he\nis instrumental in effecting the rescue of Victoria's father. Then, as\nthe distracted girl throws herself at his feet, and calls him \"her\nsaviour and deliverer sent by God,\" even Ben Azra has to admit that the\ncredit is not in reality his. \"Not in the least, my child,\" he exclaims.\n\"You must thank my teacher, the dog, not me.\"\n\nThe experiences of the philosopher in the novel are only those of many in\nreal life. Man is not the only civilising agent in this world of many\nmysteries. And if we often exclaim, \"Bother the dog!\" we have still very\nfrequently to follow where he leads, and often to our most definite\nenrichment in the end.\n\n\n\n\n                                   VII\n\n\nIt was four months before any improvement was discernible: it was a year\nbefore confidence could really be said to have grown at all. In some\ndirections it never grew. For instance, of labouring men, gardeners, and\nthe like, Murphy always remained shy. It was in no spirit of\nunforgivingness, for he was perfectly civil; neither did he owe them any\ngrudge, grudges being forbidden usually by dog law and only entertained\nby the poorest characters of all. Thus he never became familiar, even\nwith those he met daily: his memory was phenomenal, and by passing by on\nthe other side he showed that his associations in this direction were\nunhappy.\n\nIt fell to this dog's lot to live a very quiet life and to be thrown with\nfew--either dogs or men. His days were regulated by his master's doings,\nand these again were regulated, of necessity, by method. The weeks came,\nand ran their course, and did not vary very greatly one from the other.\nThere was the daily round of work--almost incessant work, life being\nsupportable that way and in no other. There was the break, half-way\nthrough the morning, of a run of a quarter of an hour, wet or shine.\nThere was the walk across country in the afternoon, also totally\nirrespective of the weather. There was the turn at night under similar\nconditions. That was the dog's day in winter-time; perhaps also the\nman's. In spring and summer both lived under the sky, and regarded a\nhouse only as a place to sleep in. Habit is second nature. Interests were\nmany, and in some directions ran parallel--sporting instincts,\nespecially, being quite ineradicable. Life for both was thus exceeding\nhappy; and life grew always happier with friendship: that is as it should\nbe.\n\nWith those he met Murphy was genial, if shy. He grew to love the members\nof his little home circle; though three of the quartet ever averred that,\nin reality, he only loved one wholly and altogether, and clung to him in\na way that others noticed--folk on the land always referring to them, the\ncountry over, as \"Him and his dog.\"\n\nWere they not always together? The shepherds on the downs recognised them\nat great distances, for shepherds see far. The shepherds' dogs knew them\nequally well, and they see furthest. The ploughmen in the hollows caught\nsight of them against the skyline in the waning winter day, when the team\ngrew weary as they themselves--which last fact, too, made these best of\nmen shout with full lungs, \"Please, will you tell us the time!\" The man\nwith the hand-drill sowing the spring seeds; the poorer folk, men and\nwomen with their buckets, stone-picking in the chill, autumnal weather;\nthe stockmen as they drove the cattle home, or called them from the lush\nfields with the crack of a whip--spring-time and harvest, all the seasons\nthrough; in wind and rain, in the great heat, in the snow and the\nblizzard, it was always the same. And thus, in this unenclosed country,\nwhere there were great woods, but where hedges were almost non-existent,\nthe men of the land would look up and pass the remark to their mates,\nwith a jerk of the head, \"Ther's 'im an' 'is dog; see?\"\n\nOutside the home circle--though, to be sure, a dog is, or should always\nbe considered, a part of the family--Murphy's passion was for Dan. He\ninvariably got up when Dan entered the room, and often licked him many\ntimes upon the lips: he paid him every kind of attention; bullied him to\nplay when out of doors; woke him when he judged it was not fitting he\nshould be asleep; and, in fact, made a young dog of him again for a time,\nthough Dan was really old. He already owed Dan a good deal, for Dan had\ninitiated him into many things concerning rabbits, rats, and the rest,\nthat all self-respecting dogs should know. Thus the old dog being an\ninveterate sportsman, Murphy followed suit--and both were, at all risks,\nencouraged so to be.\n\nAs Murphy furnished and grew stronger he naturally became more handsome,\ntill passers-by would turn and remark upon the pair--the old dog and the\nyoung, lying on the bank of the river, patiently, while some one did\nmysterious things with paints; or they were seen returning together in\nthe evening, sitting side by side in the stern of a boat. They were\ncertainly a very uncommon pair.\n\nDan's character had been, of course, fully formed long ago, and a truly\nwonderful character it was, as has already been related. Murphy's was\nstill in the making. If the whole of the first year was a period of\ndifficulty, the first four months might well have staggered any one\nundertaking a self-imposed task of such a nature. The ideal aimed at was\nnever suffered to be out of sight, but, like most ideals, it had a trick\nat times of receding almost beyond the range of hope. It was not that the\ndog was continually doing wrong. Perhaps it would have been better if he\nhad been, for then there would have been something tangible. The\ndifficulty consisted in conveying to the dog what he should not do,\nwithout frightening him, and without getting cross and losing temper. To\ntrain a dog that takes his thrashing, shakes himself, lays his ears back,\nand prepares for the next, oblivious of consequences, is not beyond the\nwit of man, though possibly a gift. But what is to be done in the case of\na dog that is terror-stricken, even if the voice is raised? The position\nforms as fine a period of probation in its way as any that wilful man\ncould desire; and at that the matter may be left.\n\nThe philosopher tells us that we advance more surely by making mistakes\nthan we do by lines more usually held to be right. Murphy took the former\nand apparently correct course, like others before him. The first real\nstride he made was thus in connection with an error, and it did him a\nworld of good. It came about like this.\n\nBy way of preface--what can possibly be more irritating to a dog than\nsheep? Master and dog were coming home together, and were persistently\nmobbed by a party of a dozen. Both agreed that if any real pluck lay at\nthe back of the attentions so freely bestowed, the view entertained of\nthe proceedings might be somewhat modified. But both were well aware that\nthere was nothing of the kind; that the bold front was a sham, that\ninquisitiveness was the origin of it all, and that funk in reality filled\nevery one of those dozen hearts, however much their owners hustled\nforward or lifted up their heads and stamped.\n\nHow long would Murphy stand such gross effrontery? That was the question\nof the moment. So far, he had followed close to heel, with his tail\ndown--though it is fair to him to say that latterly he had come to carry\nit erect. Possibly the sheep approached closer than any dog of spirit\ncould endure, or one frightened the others and they began to run away. In\na moment it was all over; the sheep had turned tail, and Murphy was after\nthem, and had even found his voice.\n\nThe field was one of five-and-thirty acres, so there was plenty of room\nfor him to turn them this way and that. To continue calling was, of\ncourse, useless. Time was better employed in taking a grip of the\nfeelings and deciding on what was to be done. To make matters worse, the\nfarmer himself was seen to be viewing the proceedings from a distant\ngateway. He would undoubtedly expect the law to be carried out, and dogs\nthat ran sheep to be either broken to better ways or shot. It made no\ndifference that the sheep were not his but \"on tack\" in his fields. What\nwas the lot of these might be the lot of his another day. A thrashing\nwas, therefore, now imperative. But how was this to be administered, when\nthe only weapon was a shooting-stick, and the site was the middle of a\nlarge grass field? The best thing to do was to sit down, and be patient.\n\nA part of the dog's education had already been that he was to stop when\nhis master stopped, and when the latter sat or lay down he was to come\nin. He had already responded in a small way to this training, and now he\ndropped his games with the sheep, left them, and came slowly back. He\nguessed that something was about to happen by his master's solemn\nsilence, and therefore approached with caution. It is never necessary in\nthe case of ordinary offences and with ordinary dogs to be over severe\nwith the stick--if a suitable one is handy, which it generally is not. A\nlecture and a shaking does as well, with a tap or two with a stick to\nshow it is there. Provoking as the incident had been, this last is what\nMurphy duly received. The shooting-stick was much brandished in the air,\nand the dog called \"Murder,\" long and loudly. The delinquent was\nevidently catching it, judged the farmer; and he waved his arm and\ndisappeared.\n\nThat was gained, any way: what about the dog? He had learnt what the\nrattle of the shooting-stick meant. He had also learnt that sheep were to\nbe suffered in their stupid, irritating ways, and not chased. For a short\nwhile he took the matter to heart, being always woefully depressed when\nhe even thought he had done wrong. But he soon recovered, and showed\ncontrition in the winning way he had now begun to acquire--by coming up\nshyly from behind, and endeavouring to reach the fingers of his master's\nhand.\n\nThe whole episode proved a success--from the man's point of view, at\nleast; in the case of the dog and the sheep no doubt it was coloured.\nMurphy had certainly acquired confidence by what had happened, just as a\nboy may, when he gets his first fall out hunting, and finds himself less\nhurt than he fancied would be the case in turning a somersault. Added to\nthis, there was also gain in the fact that from that day forward he was\nimmaculate with sheep, as will be seen.\n\nThough Murphy was quickly judged as one who had been \"born good,\" and\ncontinued to be so regarded all his life, it is not to be supposed that\nhe never transgressed, and thereby never incurred the punishment of a\nshaking. He was canine, as men are human; the two terms are equally\nsynonymous with error, and faults, one way or the other, have to suffer\ncorrection. But in his case, the faults of which he was guilty were\nalmost invariably confined to those of a petty and irritating\ndescription--exhibition of nervousness when there was no need, failure in\nthe recognition of his name, lifelong inability to get out of the way of\ntraffic on the roads, which made walks along roads very rare occurrences\nindeed, and many others of a like nature. Had it been otherwise, where\nwould have been the training for both? On the one hand, there was always\nthe ideal of enabling this dog to regain confidence in the human being,\nand making him the merry, happy fellow he had once been; on the other,\nthere was the test as to whether this could be done without loss of hope\nin the face of repeated and almost continuous failure, and without the\nexhibition of irritability or loss of temper when provocations arose at\nfirst a score of times on every day.\n\nOf his pluck there was never the slightest question. Again and again he\nwould charge, for instance, into a quickset hedge when his nose told him\na rat was there, and come out a mass of thorns, and with the rat fixed to\nhis lip or cheek. He would then simply knock the rat off with a fore-paw\nwithout whimpering, and hold it down that some one else might come and\nkill it, for he seemed unable, or unwilling, to kill anything himself.\nThen, again, he habitually went straight up to the most savage of\ndogs--several times at the risk of his life, in the case of well-known\nfighters twice the size of himself--and by his manner or his charm\ninvariably came away harmless.\n\nHe could never be made to understand--and it is the cause of shame now to\nrealise the irritation that this caused on many an occasion--that all the\ndogs in the world, any more than other inhabitants of the world, are not\nnecessarily our friends, or intend even to be friendly; and that dogs,\nlike those about them, are frequently in the habit of quarrelling and\nrending one another without regard to feelings, and with little of the\nspirit of give and take that life and a common lot might elsewhere be\nsaid to demand.\n\nHe was often told these things, but if, as with many of his kind, he\nlooked as if he understood, he never really doubted to the end that other\ndogs were at least, and of necessity, his friends. He did not court their\ncompany. They often seemed to bore him, and more and more the older he\ngrew; but he had a curious way of inviting some to his house, and it was\nno uncommon occurrence to find a strange dog lying in the morning in the\nhall that he had sometimes brought a long distance.\n\nOf his hospitality in this way he once gave a remarkable instance. A\nneighbour's dog was of uncertain manners, to dogs and men alike. One\nevening he came to call. Now Murphy's dinner was always placed at six\no'clock in one corner of the hall, and had just been brought when this\nvisitor appeared. Not to be outdone in hospitality, Murphy at once\npointed out the repast that had been spread, and stood by while the other\nate, though he had himself had nothing since the early morning, and\ncould, had he been so minded, have knocked the stranger into the\nproverbial cocked hat. All he did was to wag his tail and look pleased,\nas his dinner slowly disappeared. But, after all, such episodes as these\nbelong to a later period, when he had become well-nigh human; when--it\nmay as well be now confessed--he came to love the company of a man more\nthan the company of dogs, when confidence had been won back, and\nhappiness--happiness that with those he knew and loved showed itself in\nan intense and merry joy of life--had been finally regained.\n\nOne other peculiarity about him, or, rather, accomplishment, he\npossessed, must be noticed here, for, with a lifetime's experience of\ndogs, no parallel can be recalled, or has been gatherable elsewhere.\nFirst of all, he was certainly musical, and often after a long day's\nwork, when the landscape outside was wintry, dreary, and wet, and the\npiano was thrown open and thrashed for joy of sound and relief, Murphy\nwould rise from his mat and come and lie close to his master's feet. He\ndid not sing or howl on these occasions, in the way that with many dogs\nconveys the impression that music is pain. On the contrary, he remained\nquite silent, contenting himself with a sigh and a lick of the lips,\nwhich almost gave the impression that he would have said, if he could,\n\"Just play that again, will you?\"\n\nThis is, however, by the way. What he excelled in was what is generally\nknown as talking. The sound was not a howl, or like one; it came from\ndeep in his throat, and was deep in tone, inflections being produced by\nmovements of the jaw at the same time. To ask him a question was\ngenerally to get an answer in this way, though rarely out of doors, where\nhis attention was necessarily distracted. But when once he had started,\nhe continued to respond, and so to carry on quite a lengthy conversation.\nThat was his sole trick, if indeed it could be so classed, for he evolved\nit entirely himself. Of tricks proper he knew none, and through life\nentirely declined to learn any. Perhaps Dan, whose repertory was large,\nhad told him what a bore they were, and cautioned him to do his utmost to\navoid them.\n\n\n\n\n                                  VIII\n\n\nAbout a year after Murphy's arrival, Dan was gathered to his forefathers,\nand there was mourning throughout the house for many days. To one at\nleast, if not to more, Alphonse Karr's remark held good--_On n'a dans la\nvie qu'un chien_--and Dan was that dog. His life had been long; he had\nwon all hearts; he had done many wonderful things, besides fulfilling his\nduties as a faithful constable of the place in which his lot was cast;\nand now, loving and beloved, he had died. Such were the data from which\nhis epitaph had to be evolved. Man could desire no better. To have been\nloved--that, all said and done, is the great thing, for it comprises all\nothers. Another French writer reckoned it the highest eulogy bestowable,\nand it seems as if he was not far wrong, whether we have before us dogs\nor men.\n\nOne of Murphy's last acts by his grandfather reflected his own character,\nno less than the affectionate relations existing between himself and Dan.\nIt was the custom to give the dogs certain biscuits after dinner of which\nthey were particularly fond, and they sat side by side to receive them.\nOne evening, when the biscuit tin was taken out as usual, Dan was absent.\nHe was old; probably asleep: better let Murphy have his, and have done\nwith it. The young dog refused to have anything to say to such\nsuggestions; and for the moment his attitude was put down to an access of\nshyness, for these particular biscuits were irresistible. Presently he\nbegan barking and running backwards and forwards to the door. Being let\nthrough, he ran to another, found a third open, and presently returned in\na perfect ecstasy of delight, with the old dog by his side. He\nsubsequently referred to the extraordinary stupidity that had been\nevinced in a long and comprehensive speech. To steal a march on the old,\nor to fail to treat them at all times with respect, was evidently, in his\nopinion, wicked. At least, that was his text.\n\nDan's last resting-place was, of course, in the dogs' burial-ground in\nthe family home. To lie there was the highest honour bestowable, and Dan\nhad wholly earned it. Many generations of dogs lay in and around that\ncorner, and the spot, if not consecrated, was at least regarded by most\nas very sacred.\n\nThis was it. An angle of old, ruined brick wall, facing West--part of an\nancient garden--beautiful in colour and overgrown with ivy. Great trees\nall about it; and the wide stretches of a park, where rabbits played in\nthe long evenings, extending from it on all sides. A holly hedge and\nha-ha prevented trespass; but those invited there found in this quiet\nsun-trap many headstones, bearing names and dates and epitaphs. Close by,\na path, along which members of the family went often to and fro, led to\nyet another quiet corner, where a well-known spire showed above the\ntrees. From this last there sounded at intervals the music of bells,\nchiming, or ringing solemnly, and beneath its shadow slept other folk,\nwho had once walked the world with these same dogs of many generations,\nearning epitaphs no better, if as good, as they. To lie in either, seeing\nwhat falls to some, might well be thought a stroke of luck for dog or\nman.\n\nIt was not always so for dogs, here or elsewhere, whatever it may have\nbeen for men. Within the recollection of all past middle age, dogs were\nkept tied to kennels by heavy chains, seldom allowed in house, fed at\nuncertain hours, and taken out at hours still more uncertain--if at all.\nLeft often to howl time away by day, and to bark themselves to sleep at\nnight. And when all was over, life having been often shortened by\ndisease, there came along the man with the spade, detailed for the job,\nto fulfil the last of offices, and put in some handy resting-place the\ndog that had had his day.\n\nWe have come out of all that now, and rather plume ourselves upon the\nfact. We have altered our opinions respecting the proper place and\nsurroundings of our dogs here; and many of us are not ashamed to confess\nthat we hold opinions staunchly regarding their place and surroundings\nhereafter. We also have our dog-doctors, our dogs' infirmaries, our homes\nand charities, and, in the end, our dogs' secluded cemeteries. Such\nthings, in the case of dumb animals, point, we judge, to a higher grade\nof civilisation, and to many other things besides.\n\nYet let us not forget the fact that others, in the past, have gone before\nus, and far ahead of us, on this same track, of which we often speak with\nso much unction. In ancient Egypt dogs had names, and these are found\ninscribed in many places. They were the favourites of the home, and\nconstantly made much of. They wore collars, too, and often by no means\ncheap ones; and just as they were everywhere admitted to the house, so,\nall these ages ago, they were talked to, and also made to talk. Legends\nwere woven about their doings and their ways. And if, in many cases, they\nwere small and insignificant, with short legs like the Dachs, or,\nperhaps, the Aberdeen, implicit trust was placed in their fidelity as\nguardians of the home and family. Of course there were bigger fellows to\nfulfil the heavier duties, like the huge Kitmer, the dog of the Seven\nSleepers, whom God allowed once to speak, and to answer for himself and\nothers for all time. \"I love those,\" he said--\"I love those who are dear\nunto God: go to sleep, therefore, and I will guard you.\"\n\nThat was sufficient, surely. Then, too, there was Anubis, who was given a\ndog's head and a man's body: he was worshipped as a deity and the genius\nof the Nile, who had ordered the rising of the great river at the proper\nseason from the beginning of the world, and whose doings in this way were\nmarked by the coming of the Dog-star, with seventy times more power than\nthe sun--the brightest of all in the purple dome of the night.\n\nAn animal such as the dog, even if dumb, which in justice he could\nscarcely be thought, was thus judged entitled to a consideration never\nvouchsafed to others, and duly received it, therefore, at all times in\nthis enlightened land. And not only in the fleeting years of his\nexistence, but equally when he lay down under the common hand of death.\nThe dog, in those forgotten days, received embalmment, just as his master\nand mistress, and was then carried with some solemnity to the\nburial-ground that was set apart for dogs in every town. And when the\nlast good-bye had been said, the family to which he had belonged returned\nagain to their house, and put on mourning for their friend and faithful\nguardian, shaving their heads, and abstaining for a time from food. So\nwas it with dogs all those thousands of years ago. We have not come so\nvery far since then.\n\nMurphy was not told many of these latter things, though obscurantism is\nalways to be utterly condemned. It was thought better that he should not\nknow them, or other darker facts to do with modern scientific times, lest\nby chance they give rise to strange and unorthodox reflections in a brain\nso active as his.\n\nWhen the day came for Dan's best friend--she called him \"Best of all\"--to\nset out on a journey, to see the last of him, Murphy and his master,\nbeing left alone, turned naturally in their talk to the place where Dan\nwas to be laid, as also to the doings of many other dogs who had lived\nand loved and had had the supreme happiness of hunting there throughout\ntheir lives. Some were good, and others, well--not so good. Others were\nnot thought much to look at, though this generally resolved itself into a\nmatter of opinion. To set against these last, some were the very finest\nof their kind, such as Ben, the great Newfoundland, who had the glory of\nbeing painted in company with two small members of the family sixty or\nseventy years ago.\n\nEach, of course, had his characteristics, and did his funny, or his\nwicked, things. In the face of a recent occurrence, it would have been a\nmistake to point a moral, or reference might have been made to Bruce, the\ndeerhound, shot dead by accident when hunting sheep at night. That would\ndo for another day, should circumstances arise to give the story point.\nThere were plenty of other anecdotes besides that, and here are one or\ntwo that Murphy heard.\n\nPerhaps Fritz, the Spitz, did the most remarkable thing of all. His\nmaster was an undergraduate of Christ Church at the time, and had been\nalways in the habit of taking him with him on his return to Oxford. On a\ncertain occasion he decided that Fritz, for once, should remain at home.\nThe next day the dog was missing. Then a letter came, and this is what\nFritz had done. He had found his way into the neighbouring town, distant\nthree miles, and taken the train to Swindon, as was duly proved. Probably\nhe changed there, though this is not recorded. But he went on to Didcot,\nwhere he certainly got out, found the Oxford train, and that same\nafternoon walked into his master's rooms at Christ Church.\n\nOne other action of his deserves to be recorded, for it affords an\ninstance of how nearly dogs approach at times to human beings. No man is\nso wholly hardened as to care to die disliked, while many have a fancy\nere the end to seek forgiveness, that they themselves may die forgiven.\nSo was it with Fritz. Like many men of genius, his temper was uncertain,\nand on more than one occasion he was known to bite. The day before he\ndied, though old and infirm, he made a round on his own account and\nvisited one or two to whom he had certainly behaved badly. His action was\nrecalled when once again he disappeared. But it was further remarked\nupon--some adding that they thought they understood--when Fritz was found\ncurled in a hole beneath a bush--and dead.\n\nGraf, another of the same breed, but belonging to a period twenty years\nlater than Fritz, had also curious ways of his own. He could run down a\nrabbit in the open, and did it on many an occasion; but if this was\nremarkable--a rabbit being reckoned one of the quickest of all animals\nfor a hundred yards--his curious behaviour exhibited itself in quite\nanother way. He was a dog of great character and cleverness, as well as\nperfect manners. It was the custom in the family at that date to have\nprayers on Sunday evenings. This Graf never failed to resent. There had\nbeen service in the church during the day, and Sundays were dull days for\ndogs: why have prayers in the evenings to make things worse? Therefore,\nto show what he felt in the matter, no sooner had the family left the\nroom for prayers, than he gathered up the newspapers and tore them\ndeliberately to pieces. It was not only once or twice or even six times\nthat he did this. He did it repeatedly; and when the family returned,\n_The Guardian_ especially was found in scraps upon the floor.\n\nBut he was otherwise a good dog, and so it was that he who read _The\nGuardian_ week by week on Sunday evenings showed that he bore Graf no\nresentment, for when the dog died he wrote a poem running thus, the last\nline and a half of which are graven on Graf's stone:\n\n          \"Can such fidelity be all for naught?\n          Is virtue less true virtue that it beats\n          In a hound's faithful breast? No, Graf, the thought\n          Of thy pure, true and faultless life defeats\n\n          All doubt. No! Virtue lives for ever, and the same,\n          Whether in man, or in his faithful friend\n          Who looked but could not speak his love. The flame\n          That warmed thy faithful heart can never end\n\n          In dark oblivion. If not a Soul\n          Is thine, at least is Life. The same great hand\n          Made thee and us; but where upon the scroll,\n          At day of Judgment, shall be found to stand\n\n          A human soul so faithful to the end,\n          So true as thou hast been? God's great design\n          Awaits both thee and us. Good-bye, sweet friend,\n          And may our lives be simply true as thine.\"\n\nBy way of parodying this, in the case of another dog, it was suggested by\none who was flippant that his epitaph might run--\"And may our lives have\nfewer faults than thine.\" But while it is true that this one had run up\nquite a heavy bill in cats and committed many other enormities, the line\n_De mortuis nil nisi bonum_ was kept in view, and, if nothing could be\nsaid, it was judged better to say nothing. Moreover, as Murphy duly\nremarked, while we talked over the wonderful doings of many and many a\ndog now lying in this sacred corner, \"What could you possibly have\nexpected in such a case, and from one of Us that you had wilfully named\nScamp?\"\n\nThere was, of course, something in that, and many of Scamp's acts\ndeserved to be recorded, though this is no place for doing so. At one\ntime he was in London. Residence there naturally put a limit to the\nexercise of his sporting instincts, but he developed others to replace\nthem. He was sometimes absent all day, to be found at the door at night;\nand on one occasion he met his master at a City railway station, when\nthought to have been lost for good and all--was indeed seen by his master\nto be making his way thither as he drove into the station yard in\nquestion.\n\nTo have done anything so clever as that might have been thought to have\nearned the right to headstone and epitaph in full. Yet his resting-place\nremains unmarked, and his name apparently dogged him to the end, and past\nit.\n\n\"What was that about _De mortuis_?\" came the question from Murphy.\n\n\"_Nil nisi bonum._\"\n\n\"That never should have been raised, in his case. What about _De vivis_?\"\nThere was indignation in the tone; perhaps justly.\n\n\n\n\n                                   IX\n\n\n\"What I does is this--what I does is, I gets 'em quite close to me, and\nthen I talks to 'em.\"\n\nThis is what Mrs. Pinnix invariably replied, when asked how it was that\nher children were of such good behaviour and gave so little trouble. And\nMrs. Pinnix knew, for she had been the careful mother of thirteen, and\nhad developed this happy, good-natured method of dealing with each in\nturn, boys and girls alike. No doubt she was a remarkable woman in many\nways, for she won the last event on the card at the time of the Jubilee\nsports, being then the mother of ten--\"Skipping: open to mothers only.\"\nBut the point here, in this remark of hers, is that a long experience\nwith dogs shows the talking treatment to be as applicable to them as it\nwas to Mrs. Pinnix's children.\n\nNor will this be found to be the fanciful idea of the few, if inquiry be\nmade. To live largely, for instance, among those whose labours lie far\nfrom cities, and who, of long habit, have come to note many things\nconcerning which the less fortunate townsman knows nothing, is to learn\nmany things oneself. To hazard the remark in such quarters, that a good\nmany people have no belief in the theory that talking to a dog does him\ngood, is to receive for answer, \"Ah, but I knows as it does.\" Others go\nfurther, and in reply to the question whether they think dogs--that is,\nthe best dogs--really understand what is said to them, never fail to\nassert with emphasis, \"Well, they does; I be sure as they does: 'tisn't a\nmossel o' use to tell folks the like o' we different.\" Shepherds,\nstockmen, farm labourers, old villagers who have had many experiences\nthough living in a narrow circle, and who look back over a long life,\nconstantly make use of such remarks. And probably dog-lovers of all\nclasses will re-echo the same.\n\nIt was certainly the method adopted in the further training and education\nof Murphy. As already related, he had been taught to stop when his master\nstopped, and to come in when he sat or lay down. Thus, though he was\ngenerally allowed to range at will over the open lands and be sometimes\nfar distant, in the event of the one he spent his life with lying down to\nrest for a while, very few minutes would elapse ere the dog would be\nfound making use of shoulder, back, or arm as comfortable things to rest\nagainst. Tucked closely in in this way, his face was level with that\nother's, as, with ears cocked and those human eyes of his, he took stock\nof everything passing in the valley, or that moved on the edges of the\ngreat woods clothing the hill-tops.\n\nThat was the time to get hold of him; to train him not to run a hare that\nmight come lolloping stupidly along, down wind, into the very jaws of\ndanger; to take no notice of a rabbit that offered insult by drumming\nwith his hind legs on the ground only a few yards off; to tell him\nstrange stories of what he might expect in the years to come when he grew\nas old as his master, and had learnt to try to take many knocks, to face\nmany problems, to bear and suffer much that might come from strange\nquarters--had learnt also how to live, and to reap his share of the\nhappiness that the mere fact of living rarely fails to give to all who\nare not weak-kneed or chicken-hearted.\n\nOf course experience, in some ways, tended to undermine confidence. Did\nhe not know all about that himself? Had he not at one time come to doubt\nall things human? Had not happiness and trust and faith gone by the\nboard, because of the hardness and injustice meted out to him? But what\nnow? By some miraculous process there had come a change. Doubt had not\naltogether vanished; confidence had not altogether returned; faith and\ntrust in the giants that stalked over the world, and who seemed to rule\nit, were not as yet quite re-established: perhaps they never could, or\nwould be. To some natures recovery in such directions is impossible. The\nfire has seared, the cicatrice remains--though to be hidden away, of\ncourse. To show feelings--above all, to show you are hurt--to sing out,\nin fact--is to exhibit a poor spirit, to fall short in proper doggedness.\nSuffer in silence, if you can--that must be the rule; just as this dog,\nwith his keen, eager face, loves in silence--loves all the more deeply,\nperchance, because he loves in silence, and because that silence is so\nmuch more eloquent than words.\n\nDid Murphy understand? According to Job Nutt, the shepherd, who was a\nphilosopher in his way, \"of course he did--he know'd he did: his'n did;\nfor why not your'n?\" In the face of such definite assertion there was no\nroom for doubt.\n\nNutt had had his lambing-pens, that year, down in the hollow where there\nwas \"burra\" from the winds. It was snowing when the hurdles and the straw\nwere carted out, and all hands had set to work building the sides of the\ngreat square, with their thick, straw walls, their straw roofs, the snug\ndivisions into which the sides were divided, the whole sloping to the\nsouth to catch what might be of the pale, wintry sun. Every one knew that\nsheep lambed quicker and earlier when the snow fell. There had been no\ntime to lose therefore. The first lambs would be heard a fortnight before\nChristmas. And, as a matter of fact, by mid January, Job Nutt's family\nalready numbered sixty-three. That was of course nothing. Why, one\nJanuary, his father had had one hundred and fifty-one lambs born between\na Saturday morning at light and Monday, no fewer than forty-two being\ndoubles--and snow falling all the time. Ay, and when he moved his\nhurdles--that is, those that were straw-wattled--they were caked so hard\nwith snow that they stood upright of themselves. His father \"had had to\nwork _some_ that day and them two night.\" And Job always grinned a merry\ngrin when he told the story.\n\nBut now, to-day, when the two who were always together dropped down from\nthe hill to pay a visit to this shepherd, it was the last week of\nFebruary, when the mornings are as brilliant and full of hope as any in\nthe year. The rooks were busy building in the great elms by the river;\nthe wattles just below the lambing-pens were already turning red. Spring\nwas coming: the colour of the sky, the voices of the larks, the bleat of\nthe lambs, all told the same story. Of course winter would return: it\nalways did. But, for the moment, there was a passing exhibition of\nbeauties in store, a reflection of things that should be. By the\nafternoon the grey blinds would be down again. But that did not matter in\nthe least: this glimpse had been permitted, and in the brilliant sunlight\nand the stillness the happiness of full confidence had welled up, and\nseemed to fill the whole world.\n\nMurphy certainly appeared to feel it. As he and his master sunk the hill,\nhe stretched himself out as he ran; he jumped into the air for joy. His\ndoings, in some mysterious way, frequently reflected the colour of the\nday; and his spirits varied with those of his master. The sympathy of\ndogs is no modern discovery, but as old as their comradeship with man;\nand thus this one varied his ways according as times were good or bad, or\ntrials, mental or bodily, chanced to be the same. On this brilliant\nmorning man and dog had caught the light of the sun and the gladness\nthereof, and the young dog played with his master's hand as he swung\nalong, and barked and jumped for very love of life.\n\nHe was often like this now when they were alone together, though, with\nothers, he would sometimes lapse again into uncertainty and hesitation.\nNevertheless, there was no longer doubt that he was on the right road:\nhappiness had in a large measure returned; confidence was following. The\nman and the dog were drawing very close to one another, and in more ways\nthan one.\n\nThe pens were only tenanted now by some thirty ewes, still to lamb, and\nby those \"in hospital,\" as Job spoke of them. Four hundred tegs, ewes,\nand lambs were in fold on the hill, on a clover stubble, or what remained\nof it, being given crushed swedes and other things, for keep was scarce\nso early in the year. The shepherd's boy and his dog were up there with\nthem: only Job and Scot were in the pens. Murphy knew this last, savage\nthough he was; and had duly delivered to him, on many a previous\noccasion, that strange message of his that compelled the most savage to\nlet him pass free.\n\n\"Oh! he can come: I likes that dog o' your'n,\" called Job, ordering Scot\nto his place beneath the bleached and weather-worn hut on wheels, in\nwhich all the miscellaneous articles of a shepherd's craft lay stored. \"I\nbe just about to find that mother yonder a new child,\" he added, with his\nusual grin. He was busy tying the skin of a dead lamb on to the back of\nanother--dressing him up, in fact, in another suit, even as Rebecca once\ndid Jacob.\n\n\"When a yo do lose her lamb, we's careful to leave the dead un next its\nmother, for they've got hearts same as we. If us was to go for to take\nthe lamb, they 'ould pine. 'Tis nat'ral, ain't it? Well, you see, 'tis\nlike this. After a bit we takes a lamb from a yo as has a double, like\nthis un here; skins the dead lamb; and ties the skin round t'other's\nneck, same as this--see? She'll let this un suck then; but she 'ouldn't\nafore--no fear! They do know their own childern, same as we; just as they\nknows them as tends 'em. By-and-by I'll cut this skin away, bit by bit,\nwhen I judges this un has got to smell same as her own child: it'll be\nall right then. Ah! 'tis like this with sheep--there's something to be\nlearnt about they every time in the day as one comes nigh 'em.\"\n\nSo the two men rested against the hurdles in the sun, and Murphy sat\nsolemnly between them: he had become very particular in his manners when\nwith sheep. The disguised lamb was already sucking the ewe; and Job lit\nhis short clay pipe and smiled: he had been up all night.\n\n\"I'd never have a lamb killed, if it was my way; no'r I wouldn't. Do you\nminds last season, when you and yer dog was along? I wus a-going across\nthe Dene with a bottle o' warm milk, with a bit of a tube stuck in it, if\nyou minds. 'Twas warm milk I'd taken from the cow. Ah, well, 'twas for a\nlamb as had lost its mother: udder wrong; I could find of it when the\nmaster brought the lot in. And I goes for to say as any un as 'ud serve a\nyo that way should be crucified. Well, 'tis that very lamb as was as is\nnow the yo a-suckling the one we dressed up. See how things do work\nround, don't 'em?\"\n\nBut the talk was not always about sheep, when the folds or the pens were\nvisited, or \"Him and his dog\" walked with Nutt and other shepherds over\nthe open lands, in the wind and the weather.\n\nOne day Job had been busy sheepwashing, and the talk turned on dogs, as\nit often did.\n\n\"'Tis wonderful what they knows. What don't 'em know? I says. See that\nScot I had--the one afore this un. Well, I was down a-sheepwashing, same\nas I've been just. One o' the full-mouthed sheep as we had then broke\naway, and went straight over river, and it ain't very narrow there, as\nyou minds. She got up on the further bank and stud. And Scot, he looks at\nme, and across at the sheep, and then at me again. I know'd, right\nenough, what he wanted. He wanted to go over and fetch that sheep back.\nBut I 'ouldn't let un, for a bit. And he kept a-looking and a-looking,\nsame as any one might speak. So I just moved my head, like; there was no\ncall to do no more. And off he set in the water, and swam river, ketched\nthe sheep by the throat--oh, no, he didn't hurt un, no fear!--dragged un\nto the bank, and brought un over, right enough: he did, though.\"\n\n\"Well, 'twas like this,\" he continued, after a laugh. \"A gen'leman was\na-rowing by in a boat at the time. And he comes across to our side, when\nhe sees what Scot 'a' done, and he says, 'Shepherd,' he says, 'I'll have\nthat dog off you, if you've a mind.' And with that he puts three golden\nsovereigns on the bank at my feet, where we was busy a-sheepwashing. So I\nlooks at the sovereigns, and then at he, and says to un, with a laugh--I\nsays, '_No Sir_.' Lord, how he did pray me to let un have that dog!\n\n\"Then it come about this way. That evening we was a-coming down through\nthe village, and passed 'The Crown'--that was, Scot and me--and there\nstood the same gen'leman at the door. So he comes across the road, seeing\nme, and he says, 'Well, shepherd,' he says, 'will you part with the dog\nnow, for, if so be as you will, I'll make it five instead of three?' he\nsays. And that's truth. And I just looked he between the eyes, like, and\nsays, 'Part with my dog, Sir?' I says. 'Why, Sir, if I wus to part with\nhe, I'll tell ye what he'd do--he'd pine and die--he'd just pine away and\ndie.' And with that I passed on, and left un. Dogs--well, sheep, if you\ndo please to understand, is sheep; but dogs is dogs, and God Almighty do\nknow as they be wonderful.\"\n\n\"It's not all dogs, though, that are as shepherds' dogs, Nutt--or capable\nof being.\"\n\nNutt shook his head. The two men and their dogs were on the hillside,\nwith two hundred and fifty tegs moving before them. The sheep were\nwalking with a wide front, but in single files, following those parallel\ntracks that had marked this steep hillside for centuries, to puzzle\nstrangers.\n\n\"You can't make a shepherd's dog out of every dog, can you?\"\n\n\"Perhaps not, in your meaning. But I do know I could train a'most any\ndog, if as I'd be so minded.\"\n\nScot was on ahead, where he should be. Murphy was close to heel.\n\n\"Do you mean to say you could train this one to fold sheep?\"\n\nJob Nutt took a deep draw at his pipe, and turned and looked down at\nMurphy, now just over three years old.\n\n\"I likes that dog; well, I've allus liked un. Train un to sheep? I\nbelieve as I could, were I to be so minded: I do believe as I could.\"\n\nThe two had to part then. It was dusk, and looked like wet; moreover,\nsome wether sheep in the fold, far down in the valley, were \"howling\" for\nrain: they were true weather-prophets always.\n\nSo he might be trained to sheep. Job Nutt's words kept repeating\nthemselves in the mind--\"I believe as I could; I do believe as I could.\"\nWhat the shepherd had said was a testimony to this dog's marvellous\nintelligence; but then every one had come to testify to that and to\nremark upon it. He was of course nervous and shy, and no doubt would\nalways be so. Perhaps it was these characteristics that gave him the\nfurther one of extraordinary gentleness, that won all hearts. Many had\nalready said, with a laugh, that he was \"born good\"; but latterly some\nhad come to add that he was incapable of harm or ill.\n\nAnd yet with these characteristics, amounting as they did to a certain\nsoftness, there was never any question of his pluck and spirit. Nor was\nthere any limit to it. He had the spirit and \"go\" of any dozen of his\ncountrymen: what more could possibly be said? At the same time he had the\ngentleness of a child. He recalled to mind one of those characters that\nsome of us have met, and in strange situations--situations and hours when\nmen's spirits were on fire, and when the air was filled with sounds that\nonce to hear is never to forget. One such is recalled by memory now--a\nvision of a lithe and active figure that had come its longest marches,\nand borne the many hardships of the many nights and days, though looking\nfrail as a girl in her teens, and with manner always gentle as a child.\nFor one like that to be amidst such doings as these seemed incongruous.\nYet had the estimate proved in the end quite false. Breeding and\npluck--nervous energy--had carried through, when others had gone down.\nAnd the pluck and the breeding showed itself still, when the blood\ndripped, and ebbed away, and the face was white as a stone.\n\nNor is such a parallel as far fetched as might at first appear. Given the\ntwo, the dog and the man, this dog was to show before the end\ncharacteristics equally striking and of scarcely less charm. To bear pain\nis not easy. There is no longer doubt that men feel pain in varying\ndegrees, and that sufferings that might be considered identical are\nmultiplied tenfold in the case of a highly developed organisation. With\nthe high intelligence and nervous development of this dog, it might have\nbeen thought that pain would terrify. If so, he never showed it.\n\nIt is unnecessary here to refer to the many instances when his dash and\nhigh spirit brought about an accident, for all our dogs get into trouble\nand meet with accidents at times--at least, those of any worth. But it\nwas this dog's further habit to avoid, when in pain, the company of the\none he loved best, and to go invariably to a woman for aid. It was as\nmuch as to say that he knew that many men were in such cases worse than\nuseless: a thrust in this instance not without its truth. Thus he came\nhome two miles one night in snow, with both fore-feet cut right across\nwith glass--due to a dash at a rat in some rushes on the frozen\nriverbank. To his master's eternal shame he never found it out. But, on\narriving home, this dog went straight off for attention, of his own\naccord, and bore what he had to bear, not only without a flinch, but\nshowing his gratitude by licking the hand that was tending him. So again,\nwhen he was once badly stubbed, he went to the same quarter, showed his\nfoot, and then lay down, staying perfectly quiet while a spike was looked\nfor, at last found, and then pulled out with a pair of iron pincers.\n\nThese are trivialities, no doubt; but they would not be trivialities to\nsome of Us. It is by such that character shows itself--is moulded and\nmade up--for others to estimate and take due note of. And thus it is that\nwhether they are exhibited by man or animal, we admit their charm and pay\nour tribute to them, just as Theron's faithfulness to Roderick drew these\nwords from the lips of the aged Severian:\n\n           \"Hast thou some charm, which draws about thee thus\n           The hearts of all our house--even to the beast\n           That lacks discourse of reason, but too oft,\n           With uncorrupted feeling and dumb faith,\n           Puts lordly man to shame?\"\n\n\n\n\n                                    X\n\n\nThe hay harvest had been a light one, owing to the weather in the spring\nand the absence of wet. It was hardly off the ground before the corn\nharvest had begun and the long arms of the self-binder were to be seen\nwaving in the air above the standing oats, the first of all, this season,\nto go down. \"The moon had come in on dry earth,\" as the harvesters\nexpressed it; and with implicit faith in the moon, there would therefore\nbe no rain. For once in a way faith was not misplaced: there was great\nheat, which ripened wheat and oats and barley too quickly, left the straw\nshort, and covered the turnips with fly.\n\nIt was too hot in the day to go far--that is, for those in life who can\nchoose their own time. So the dog and the man took their walks late, and\nprolonged them to the hour when the ruddy moon rose solemnly into the sky\nover the woods and set out on its low, summer curve to the west. Daylight\nlasted long after the sun went down: a hot glow spread gradually\nnorthward, and what with the light in this direction and the moon at\nfull, only those two other worlds, Jupiter and Venus, were visible in the\ncloudless vault above. This was the time of day to be abroad, but, oddly\nenough, the hour when many were indoors. There was some excuse for the\nharvesters. They had been up with the sun: by half-past seven it was time\nto put the self-binder to bed in the field; by eight, or soon after, many\nwere in bed themselves. Men and horses had sweated much, and had had a\nlong day.\n\nIt was on an evening such as this that Murphy had his first lesson in\nworking to the hand, for Job's remark had given rise to a train of\nthought. Education was of course everything. Those who lived on the land\nshould be educated in the things of the land; should learn, if not its\ndeeper wonders and mysteries, at least its simple lessons and what lay at\nthe back of these. It was in these fields and over these breezy downs\nthat thews and sinews were to be braced, health and strength gathered,\nsouls cleansed, if so be that the ways of the man were straight and true.\n\nHere was God's work always visible, from the wonders of the growth of the\nseeds to the coming of the music of the rains that washed the air and\nmade the land sing with life. Here was always visible the infinite power\nof small things, beauty unstained, Nature's laws always in full\noperation--the triumph of good work, the smothering of that which was\nill. Here in these very fields had been gathered the strength of arm that\nhad stood the country in good stead, when the drums beat and true men\nwere wanted beyond seas. That seemed to be more as it should be. And so\nit may be yet--that is, when the craze of a day has passed, and the men\nof the land come back.\n\nEducation would do it. Some hearts would be bitten with the old love, and\nlearn to forget the new. But the education must be true and not false, in\ntune with the life that shall be; not cramped and with little connection\nbetween it and the field of labour that lies ahead. Uniformity is often\nbut to bring down to one dead level, to crush true liberty and freedom,\nto force unnatural growth, and to give this a trend untrue. Education on\nsuch lines seems curiously false to many minds, as well as stultifying.\n\nScot, who had no appearance of a sheep-dog--that is, as his class are\ngenerally portrayed in coloured prints--might possibly have been brought\nup as a water-spaniel, or he might have been the darling of a\nsemi-detached villa and have learnt to walk drab, unlovely streets\nwithout endangering his life: it is all a matter of education, fortified\nby environment. As it was, he was brought up with a cottage for a home\nand learnt the mysteries of sheep, the tending and the care of them, what\nthe stretching of limbs meant, no less than freedom and free air.\n\nThe life was a hard one, no doubt, in one sense. Sometimes there were\nshort commons: there was much bad weather to be faced, when his master\nwas clad in strange clothes and wore a sack like the hood of a monk over\nthe top of his weather-worn cap, and he himself was glad to get to the\nshelter of the hut, where the stove was burning: there was the wet, when\nall alike were mud-smothered: there were the biting winds of March. But\nthere came the glad spring and the long summer days; the one gave a\nflavour to the other and created a love for both, and deep down in the\nheart where that love burnt bright was the pride of his calling, the\nhonour of tending sheep. Soft jobs were not for men--or manly dogs.\n\nOf course Murphy could not be a sheep-dog; that is, unless Job Nutt had a\nmind to make him. Then, of course, he would have had a proper\nschoolmaster, and been brought up to things among which he had been born\nand bred, while lookers-on beheld a novel kind of sheep-dog. As it was,\nhowever, his master owned no sheep. Yet, seeing that his lot had not been\nthat of some--to walk the streets for exercise, or to lie in the cramped\ngarden of a villa in a town--it was only right he should learn all that\nhe could, and that his education should partake of the fields and the\nupland downs around his home.\n\nAs to whether it would have been possible to have trained him to the\nstreets at all must now be left among the things unknown. The impression\nremains that, seeing he never grasped the desperate dangers of the modern\nroad, his life, had he been so foolish as to forsake the country for the\ntown, would probably have been limited to hours. For a better, freer life\nhe was fortunately born, and he certainly never threw this chance away,\nbut made the very most of it, and came to great happiness thereby.\n\nOf course it took time; but a beginning was made in those halcyon, summer\ndays, and the art of working by the hand gradually brought to some\nperfection. No little of this dog's gladness in life was centred\neventually in this accomplishment, and he was never happier than when at\npractice. The education began by teaching him to lie down at the\ncommand--\"Stop there,\" and then in leaving him behind for gradually\nlengthening periods. So well did he know these words, that he would act\non them instantly, and in this way once lost his walk by a slight\nmisunderstanding. An explanation of the method was being given one day,\nwhen walking with a friend. The opening words were of course used. Some\ntime after the dog was missed, and it was not until steps had been\nretraced for a considerable distance that he was found, lying where he\nhad first heard the words and looking a little shy.\n\nThe next proceeding was to start him, and then to stop him, till by\ndegrees he came to understand the movement of the hands or arms. In this\nway it was possible to send him to great distances, or move him to right\nor left, much after the manner in which we who are soldiers move our men.\nWhen a hand was uplifted high, he would drop at once, so that nobody\nwould think that there was a dog within a mile: he might be lying in\nrough grass where the ragwort was high, or the wheat, as they say, was\nproud, and be himself invisible. But he could see well enough with those\nbright eyes of his, and the moment the arm was waved he was off with a\nstride of two yards or more, circling round and making the valley ring to\nhis glad bark. He always entered into the whole fun of the thing, and\nlooked upon it as the finest game that had ever been invented.\n\n\"Ah, well,\" remarked Job as he watched, and Scot gave tongue for very\njealousy--\"ah, well, I allus liked that dog.\"\n\nAnd so did every one.\n\nWith each little addition to the sum of knowledge he possessed, master\nand dog grew closer to one another. It is always a moot point whether our\ndogs consider they belong to the family with which they live, or whether\nthey do not regard the matter the other way about, and judge that the\nfamily belongs to them. In Murphy's case there is no shadow of doubt\nthat, so far as his master was concerned, that master most certainly\nbelonged to him. At first, the position had been different. There was\nreason for that. But even the reason had now apparently passed out of\nmind: injustice had doubtless been forgiven, and what was far more\nwonderful--or rather, would have been, had man been in the case and not a\ndog--had also, so far as could be seen, been totally forgotten.\n\nSo completely had confidence been won that anything was permitted, even\nto the playful brandishing of a stick. Sticks were things to play with.\nThey had no relation to punishment at all. Besides, was not life a state\nto be enjoyed, and as happy as the day was long? And had he not taught\nhis one great friend no end of facts of which he had hitherto been\ndesperately ignorant?\n\nIt was all very well for Him to say that he had educated and trained this\ndog. The dog had all the while been training Him. It was all very well\nfor Him to think in his heart that he had given this dog happiness in\nlife. Happiness had in a measure also come back to Him. There had been,\nin more than one direction, a strange parallel between their cases, and\nas this had made itself felt, it had bound them both more closely\ntogether. They were now not only never apart, but they were of one mind\nin other ways as well--in joy of life as they found it under the sky; in\nthe happiness of comradeship as they learnt to rely on it--indoors and\nout; in the deeper meaning of friendship, with the trust and undeviating\ntruth that friendship claims; in the faith that the one had always in the\nother, through the good days and the hard.\n\nThose who watched were often overheard to say, \"The dog has taken charge\nof the man.\" And so he had, to a certain degree. He had learnt his\nmaster's habits exactly. He knew the time of day by the striking of the\nclock; and, morning after morning, at a particular hour, if this master,\nwith his funny ways, delayed his going, he would get up from his familiar\ncorner and come and stand and fix him with his eyes. Or, if this failed,\nwould come, gently, closer, and lay his chin upon a knee, and make him\nlay down his work and come out for the regulation interval. In the longer\nmarches of old days, there were halts in every hour. Come out! Come out!\nNew strength and new ideas are to be gathered outside; you will grow\nstale in here, whether you choose to practise this art or that. Houses\nare well enough to sleep in and to give shelter; but it is the heavens\nthat give strength, and it is God's heaven that somehow, if only feebly,\nmust get itself reflected in man's work.\n\nSo, in another instant, these two would be out together; the one going as\nfar as tether would allow; the other doing what was yet another of his\njoys in life, and that caused such fun and merriment to lookers-on--the\nhunting of birds. Of that he never tired on the longest or the hottest\nday. Blackbirds gave the finest sport of all, as they generally flew only\nthree feet above the ground. He knew their note at once; but probably the\nlaugh of the green woodpecker vexed him more than most, while he\ncertainly regarded the mocking notes of cuckoos as insults to himself. Of\nbirds of various kinds he caught many, young and old, but was never known\nto hurt a single one.\n\nThe most remarkable of his exploits in this direction was when he found\nhimself at one time by the sea. It was a lonely coast, where great\ncrimson cliffs rose sheer out of the sand, their ledges, here and there,\ncovered with tamarisk, gorse, and shaven thorn--right to their very\nsummit three hundred feet above, from whence the moors stretched far away\ninland. A heavy surf beat there at times, setting these cliffs echoing in\nsuch a way as to make speech difficult. On these wild days it was well\nthat this dog had learnt to work so perfectly by hand, for he had no fear\nof the rollers, and the wonder was that he escaped from being drowned.\n\nAt the bottom of the whole fun of this new situation lay the fact that\nthese cliffs were inhabited by innumerable gulls. To catch one of these\nwas Murphy's aim, and often was he washed out on to the sands in a\nsmother of spindrift, in his mad eagerness to attain his end. The\nherring-gulls were the finest sport of all, with their constant\nmelancholy cries--\"pew-il,\" \"pee-ole,\" or their hoarser note of warning,\n\"kak-k-kak\"; their bodies two feet in length; their spread of wing no\nless than four feet four. For months he chased them, till at last some\nmust possibly have known him. It was perhaps on this account that one of\nthem was not quick enough in getting under way on one occasion. Murphy\nflung himself into the air and got him; and not only got him, but brought\nhim along, with the great wings beating the air about him, so that the\ndog was scarcely visible for the bird. It was the old story again, of the\nhare in his earlier days, for the gull was not harmed, and when liberated\nflew out to sea, with the cry \"pew-il,\" \"pee-ole\" flung back from the\nwaves as he went.\n\n\"I never thought to live tu zee the like o' that,\" remarked a\nlongshoreman passing at the time: but then he was a stranger to Murphy,\nand also to his ways.\n\nWhat happiness was to be had in life; what sport and splendid fun--sport\nall day long; fun without end! Did not the morning begin with a\ngame?--the dog lying down in one corner of the hall, fixing his master\nwith his eye as he appeared, and then, after pausing a while as if to\nsay, \"Are you ready?\" launching himself full tilt, till he was brought up\nin a final leap against his master's chest, full five feet from the\nground. Of course the whole hall was in a smother every time, with mats\nand rugs all out of place upon the slippery floor. And then the noise!\nThe only thing was to leave the house and work off some of the steam out\nthere.\n\nNo dog with a particle of nervousness or hesitation left would do such\nthings as that. But he only did them with his master. When with others,\nreport had it that he was a different dog, with no taste for hunting or\nfor chasing birds--a dog, in fact, that invariably got into one room and\nlay there alone, unless he changed his place for the mat by the front\ndoor.\n\nOf course He would come back. Folk always did. There could be no break in\nthis friendship: it would last for ever. He had heard his master count\nthe years: \"Four\"--that was his own age--he knew that much; and from four\nhis master would count up to ten; then hesitate; then say \"eleven\"; then\nhesitate again, and remark, \"twelve--perhaps: yes, little man; you'll see\nme out--easy!\"\n\nAnd those who watched and looked on added this to what they had said\nbefore, \"What _will_ happen, if anything happens to that dog?\"\n\nIt was a funny way of putting it, but the remark was always met, in\nreply, with, \"Don't let us meet trouble half-way, or make a circuit of\nthe hills to look for it;\n\n                 \"'Fortis cadere, cedere non potest.'\"\n\n\n\n\n                                   XI\n\n\nThe roads were deep in snow. The fall had begun two hours before light;\ngently, and with large flakes--the presage of what was to come. Snow was\nstill falling in the afternoon; but now the wind had sprung up, and each\nlarge flake was torn into a dozen as the wind played with them, driving\nthem upwards like dust, then catching them and sending them horizontally\nand at speed over the ground, till they could find a resting-place in\nsome drift that was forming on the north sides of fences, or peace\nbeneath the brambles of some ditch.\n\nAn hour or more before dark the wind increased, and was blowing a whole\ngale. What fun to be out in that: come on!\n\nIt was not long before man and dog were away. The roads would be safe on\nsuch a day as this; so, for once, the two trudged along till they\novertook two waggons. How big they looked in the smother, each with its\nteam of three--a pair in the shafts, and one more ahead as leader.\nTalking was difficult, or well-nigh impossible; but at least they could\njoin the men, and shout a word or two at times.\n\nOn the weather side the great horses looked twice their size, plastered\nas they were with snow, their manes and the hair about their huge feet\nall matted with ice. But on the lee they looked different animals, for\ntheir coats were darkened, being drenched with sweat: it was with\ndifficulty that they kept their feet, and their breath came heavily\nthrough their nostrils as they struggled on.\n\nNot that they had a heavy load to draw. The waggons were empty. They had\ncome in with a full load in the morning, intending to bring coal back.\n\"But how was 'em to do that, in weather the like of this; or on roads\nsame as these here? Nay, nay,\" shouted the rearmost carter, \"we's for\ngetting home, empty or somehow, if so be as these here can keep their\nfeets. The road below the snow is ice, I tell ye--just ice; and, what's\nmore, Fiddlehill lies just ahead for we.\" The last words were punctuated\nwith the crack of a whip like a pistol-shot: all talk was dropped after\nthat for a while; the wind was growing fiercer.\n\nBoth waggons were painted yellow, picked out with scarlet; but the paint\nthat had looked brilliant in the sun of the harvest days looked tawdry\nand dirty now against the snow, and every patch or scar of rough usage\nwas easily discernible. Now and then the wind came with a savage gust,\ncarrying stray straws out of one of the waggons, though snow was\ncollecting on the floor: on the other, the cords of a tarpaulin,\nindifferently secured, were smacking the yellow sides like a lash. Some\nof these sounds did not suit Murphy very well; but he had found out the\nbest and safest place, and was making his way as well as he could,\nsheltered beneath the rearmost waggon and between the tall hind wheels,\nwhose rims and spokes and hubs were hung and bespattered, like all else,\nwith snow.\n\nIt was true that he looked like some other person's dog, with a white\nface and whiskers. But his master was white, too, from head to foot; what\nrecked it!\n\nIn another hour or less darkness would have shut down on the world,\nthough such a term as darkness was only relative on a day when it could\nnever have been said to have been light.\n\nWhen the open was reached, the snow, broken into hard flakes, whipped\nface and ears like nettles. Murphy was the best off of the party, save\nwhen something had drawn him from beneath the waggon, and he was having a\ngame with the snow on his own account. Great wreaths hung to the fences,\nor stood out in ledges where the banks were high. The sky, or rather the\nwhole air, was lead colour, and all distance was blotted out. Flocks of\ncrazy, distracted birds flew close by in great numbers, for the most part\nfinches and larks, with here and there a fieldfare or two, their breasts\nand underwings buff colour. Then came a flight wholly made up of\nbuntings, whose brilliant yellows looked deep orange against the leaden\ngrey that shrouded all.\n\nThere was no end to the great host. They were all going one way: they\nmade no sound but the swish of wings, and uttered no single note: they\npassed at speed as though in fear, yet all the while in obedience to the\nsupremest law of all. To the southward there would be protection; life\nthere would be preserved: here it was impossible--for birds. \"Keep low;\npress on!\" Victory shall be to the strongest: the weak shall fall in this\npitiless wind, and the snow shall cover the dead, but in the end there\nshall be a better life for some. \"Keep low; press on!\"\n\nThere was something weird in such a sight as that: there was something\nweird also in the sound of the wind. It came sweeping over the fields,\ntearing with angry gusts at the snow-laden briars in the fences, and\npassing on with a moaning sound into the dark of the approaching night.\n\nThere was no sign of human beings anywhere. Familiar objects had all\nchanged their character, though it was only by these that whereabouts\ncould be told. The remains of a hay-rick by the roadside suddenly showed\nup out of the mirk, with white top like some great ghost, its blackened\nsides flecked here and there with snow. In the hot days of June two here\nhad seen it built; and, later on, watched the trussers at work on it,\nwhen the price of hay had gone up, and farmers could make a few pounds.\nBut that job, like most others, had had to be abandoned now.\n\nWhy, here was the great stoggle oak by the pool, on whose limbs in former\ntimes, tradition had it, many a highwayman had swung! The storm to it was\nnothing: it had weathered so many: the world was a fair place; but life\nwas full of tests as well as trials. \"Heads up! Bear yourselves like\nmen,\" its limbs seemed to roar in solemn, deep diapason. \"Heads\nup!--there is a haven for all ahead!\"\n\nIt was fifty yards further on before the voice of the oak was lost. But\nas man and dog worked further still, for very joy of the wind and the\nsnow and love for the elements at their worst--the horses struggling, the\nwaggoners calling to them loudly and urging them to put their best into\nit, with many a crack of the whip--there suddenly fell a lull, and for a\nmoment there was peace. And just then, up from the valley, there came\nother sounds--the larch and the firs down there were sighing out a tune\nto themselves, being partly sheltered by the hill.\n\nIt was time to turn back. There was a lane in the direction of those last\nsounds: home could easily be reached that way, and, likely enough, with\nthe set of the wind, the roadway itself would have been swept almost\nbare.\n\nThe waggons were lost to sight in a moment, though the woody rattle of\nthe axles could still be heard: snow was falling heavily again: the cold\nwas becoming intense: the wind was now dropping altogether. A dead bird\nor two were passed, lying in the snow, claws in air and already stiff: a\nfelt and a yellowhammer were side by side at the bottom of the hill. It\nwas like the dead in gay uniforms, lying scattered after an action. A\nlittle further on there was a blackbird, to Murphy's very evident glee.\nHe found it at once, and was for carrying it home; it was still warm. But\nthis was no time for fooling. It was already dark and growing darker; the\nproper thing to do was to keep together and make for home. Travelling was\nnone too easy, even for tall men, and really difficult for dogs in\nplaces.\n\nAt points where field gates opened on to the road, drifts had formed two\nfeet in depth, right across the way, and it was necessary to pick up the\ndog and carry him, though to the latter's thinking that was a silly thing\nto do. Time was, when his master had had to do that; but he had then been\nno better than a child in arms. Now he was a man, and had come to man's\nestate, and, furthermore, had learnt what life was, with its hours full\nof health, and crammed with fresh adventures and experiences, as, of\ncourse, it should be. His muscles were hard and flexible as steel, his\nheart strong with life, his brain quick to learn whatsoever his master\nthought best that he should know. Health, strength, what happiness it all\nwas! The neighbourhood of those waggons had been rather depressing, and\nthe crack of those whips somewhat disconcerting; but he did not stop to\nreason why. It was enough that he and his master were together. The past\nmight look after itself, and so might the future; this was the\nall-sufficient present.\n\nA deep silence reigned in the valley; even the larch and the firs had\ngiven up their songs. There was the scrunch of the foot at each step, and\nnow and then a rustle in the hedge, as a bramble became overweighted with\nsnow and dislodged its load into the ditch, or last year's leaves, still\nclinging to some oak, rustled and were still again. Otherwise the world\nwas dead or asleep; it made little difference which.\n\nA cottage was passed further on, and a chink of light from a candle\nwithin showed that the snowflakes were still falling fast. This way would\nbe impassable by morning. At the turn of the lane voices were heard. They\nwere some way off; but it was easy to recognise that they were those of\ntwo men talking. Presently the voices became more audible. It was too\ndark to see who the men were as they passed: at night, when snow is\nfalling, those met are up and gone by almost before their approach is\nrealised. There was just time for a \"Good-night,\" with a \"Good-night to\nyou, Sir,\" in reply.\n\nFor an instant there was silence: then the men began talking again.\n\n\"Bless the Lord!--did you see who that was, Tom, and on such a night as\nthis!\" remarked one.\n\n\"Don't know as I know'd un.\"\n\n\"Not know un?\"\n\n\"Why, bless the life on yer--that's Him an' his dog!\"\n\n\"There, was it now? Him an' his dog, for sure. Carrying un, wus he? Like\nun.\"\n\n\"Ah--allus together, ain't 'em?\"\n\n\"For his part, he don't seem to have much else.\"\n\nIt would be well to get on, and not to stand there gaping into the\ndarkness, listening to what you were never meant to hear. The truth of\nthe old saying generally holds good; and sometimes words accidentally\noverheard in such ways are fixed in the mind for life. These last were\nlike a stab.\n\n\"Don't seem to have much else?\" What did the fellow mean? How invariably\nlookers-on misjudged! What a mistake it was to pass judgment at all--on\nanything or anybody!\n\n\"... Much else ... much else...?\"\n\nThe road was less deeply covered here. The dog was heavy: a few yards\nmore and he was put down. As the journey was resumed, he took to playing\nin the darkness, and, in his winning and affectionate way, with the\nfingers of his master's hand, as much as to say, \"Thank you: we are\ntogether; the rest matters little.\"\n\n\"Him and his dog ... much else ... much else...?\" The words kept time\nwith the footfall.\n\nHow dark it was!\n\nAnd cold--the thermometer marked minus 1 deg..\n\n\n\n\n                                   XII\n\n\nA summer night, and the heat the heat of the dog-days. The tramcars had\nstopped running long ago; the streets were quite deserted.\n\nNot long since, the clock set high in the tower of St. Giles' had chimed\nthree-quarters; and now it chimed the hour, and wearily struck \"Two.\"\nThen other clocks also awoke to their duties, and, not possessing chimes,\nrepeated the latter information in various keys, from far and near. It\nwas all very sombre; and the smell of the streets very unlovely.\n\nIt was Bill's turn to be up that night; at least, they said it was his\nturn. As a matter of fact, he had been up three nights running, and at\nleast ten in the last eighteen, for this was no ordinary case, and the\ncredit of the firm was at stake. Not that he held the dignity of being a\nmember, much less a partner, of the firm; but he had worked for it, he\nwould often tell, and with no little pride in his voice--\"worked for it\nthirty-two years, come Lammas; and that wus a very long while.\"\n\nTo Bill, and the few remaining, or still discoverable, like him, the\nfirm's credit was his; and the firm should never find its confidence\nmisplaced so long as Bill Withers could walk on his two feet, or aid some\nsuffering creature. Those were his sentiments. Then, of course, this Bill\nhad a soft place in his heart for animals generally, though the softest\nplace of all was unreservedly retained for dogs.\n\n\"They wus human; well, a sight better than human, as any one might see\nhumans at times\";--that was the way he put it. \"And there warn't a mossel\no' doubt about it, no matter what nobody said.\"\n\nAt that, his mates in the yard thought well to let the matter drop.\n\n\"That there Bill has his queer hideas abaht most things; better leave him\nto hisself,\" they remarked, with a twist of the mouth, and passed on.\n\nBill had a habit of speaking his thoughts aloud, especially when up at\nnight. He found company in the habit, and was employing his time in this\nway now.\n\n\"Two o'clock. Another half-hour and he'll have to have the soup, and then\na little stim'lant. That wus the orders. Let's see. To-morrow's Toosday.\nThat'll make it three weeks since the master brought un back with him in\nhis motor, all wrapped in blankets. 'Twas that ogg-sigen as saved him at\nthe moment. But here--he's been fed every two hours, night and day since,\nany way. Well, well....\"\n\nThere was a step on the cobbles of the yard. Bill looked round. \"Mr.\nCharles\"--as he called him--the head of the firm, was coming.\n\nFive weeks before this Murphy had been taken ill. Nobody appeared to know\nwhat was the matter with him, except that he was restless, refused his\nfood, and looked wrong in his coat. The very spirit there was in him\nmisled others: he would hunt birds under the smallest provocation;\nrabbits were not animals to be given up so long as there was breath in\nthe body; that finest of games, working to the hand, was to be played to\nthe last day, for was it not the jolliest of fun for both, and did not\nhis master laugh loudly when it was all over, and he skipped and barked\nand jumped himself, asking for just one more turn? It was only the\nchicken-hearted that gave up; life was to be lived to the very last\nminute, especially when so full of fun and happiness as his. If he\nflagged and was tired after these doings, it was only the hot weather: he\nwould be all right tomorrow. So he was kept quiet for a week.\n\nBut the morrow came, and he was less full of life than on the day before.\nThere was something evidently wrong; though advice was asked, and with\nlittle gain. His bright eyes had grown dull now, and he refused all food.\nIt was time to call in the best opinion that could be had.\n\n\"Distemper. Pneumonia; and the heart also affected.\" That was the\nverdict. There was just a chance for him. It would be a risk to move him\nso far; but it was perhaps worth it, as treatment could then be followed\nproperly: in establishments of the kind all animals were tended with as\nmuch care and skill as patients in a hospital.\n\nSo Murphy was taken away. How suddenly it had all come about. And now\nthree weeks had gone by; and the dog still lived.\n\n\"How's he doing, Bill?\"\n\n\"No difference to my mind, as I can see.\"\n\n\"We must save him, if we can, Bill. She was here again to-day, and said\nthe dog was such a very valuable one that she didn't know what would\nhappen if he died.\"\n\n\"I judged something of the kind,\" remarked Bill. \"I've got a cousin, over\ntheir way: shepherd to Mr. Phipps--him as has Fair Mile Farm. You knows.\nHe come in with him--'twus last Saturday's market--over some tegs; and he\ncalled in here, and I do believes 'twus to ask how this un here wus. Said\nhe'd allus liked un. Seemed to know all about un. Said as he and the\ngen'leman as owns un wus allus together; that he couldn't get about like\nsome; and that he and this dog here was never apart, and seemed to hang\ntogether, curious ways like. They'd got some name for the two of 'em down\nin that part--so he says; but I a'most forgets what 'twus now.\"\n\n\"So I understand. One or two have been to call to ask after him, up at\nthe office, and said much the same.\"\n\n\"Been here himself, hasn't he?\" inquired Bill.\n\n\"Ay, yesterday. I told him he couldn't see him; or, rather, that if he\ndid, with the dog's heart as rocky as it was, I would not answer for the\nresult. He did not speak a word after that, except--'Do your best'; and\nwent out.\"\n\n\"From what that cousin o' mine said,\" put in Bill, \"I judge if he'd come\nin, it would a-killed the dog right off.\" He was smoothing Murphy's ears\nas he spoke.\n\n\"I told him,\" continued Mr. Charles, \"that two things were especially\nagainst this dog; one was his high breeding, and the other, his brain\ndevelopment. It's the last I'm most afraid of, though.\"\n\n\"Brain? Clever?\" put in Bill--\"I should just say he _was_.\"\n\n\"--And I told him that I had never seen a dog that was easier to treat;\nand that he was making a real plucky fight for it.\"\n\n\"That's true,\" said Bill, in a tone as if the words had been \"Amen.\"\n\n\"--And that he was that sensible that he allowed us to do just as we\nliked with him; so good and patient that there was not a man in the yard\nthat wasn't _glad_ to do anything for him.\"\n\n\"True again,\" broke in Bill, with emphasis.--\"Murphy,\" he said, calling\nthe dog by name. \"Whew! Another hot day, I judge; coming light afore\nlong.\" Bill was looking at the sky.\n\n\"All against him; all against him,\" returned the other. \"But there, I\nshall be downright sorry if we lose him now.\"\n\nBill shook his head. \"See all as has been done ... and the telegrams ...\nand the letters, and ...\"\n\nThe conversation of the two men was stopped by a low bark from the dog.\n\n\"Dreaming,\" said Bill; \"does a lot o' sleep.\"\n\n\"Brain,\" said the other, listening--\"I feared as much all along. It's all\nup, Bill.\"\n\nBill was down, and had got one of his hands under the dog's head.\n\nThe bark came again: only a very weak one; not enough to disturb anybody\nnear. It became continuous after that; grew a little louder; then\ngradually fainter.\n\nPerhaps he was hunting birds, though it may be doubted. More likely he\nwas working to the hand over the sunlit fields, in the glad air, with a\nfull life all before him yet; and in the company of one whom he loved\nwith his whole heart, and to whom, while learning constantly himself, he,\na dog, had taught no end of things.\n\nThere can be little doubt that he was working by the hand. Of course he\nwas. But the hand that was beckoning him now was from over the\nborder--from the land where there is room for both the man and the dog,\nand where there shall be a blessed reunion with old friends.\n\nThe bark died away: Murphy was dead.\n\n\"Not five years; or only just,\" remarked Bill.\n\nBoth men heaved a sigh.\n\nDay was breaking as they walked away together down the yard.\n\n                    *       *       *       *       *\n\nA few days later came this, written by one whose business it was to tend\nthe sick and the suffering among animals; to whom their passing was no\nrare event; and who must have had many thousands through his hands:\n\n\"I am so very sorry; but it was really a happy release after the brain\nsymptoms had developed.\n\n\"I can only say your dog won the affection of all of us here to an extent\nunequalled by any other patient. I think this was due to the very brave\nway that he bore his sufferings, his kind and amenable temperament, and\nhis almost human intelligence. There is no doubt that this last increased\nthe susceptibility of his brain to disease, and made recovery hopeless.\"\n\n                    *       *       *       *       *\n\nTwo men were working their way slowly up the Dene. They were the\nshepherd, Job Nutt, and his second. And their dogs followed them closely\nto heel.\n\nThey had just set out a new bait for the sheep on the vetches lower down,\nand were making for home.\n\nViolet shadows had stretched themselves out to their furthest over the\nred wheat, now rapidly ripening; soon they would fade out altogether, and\nthe woods would grow blue. For the sun was touching the line of the\ndistant hills, and the long day's work was done.\n\n\"Why, there goes Him,\" says one, pointing up at the down to the eastward.\n\n\"So it be,\" returns the other--\"Him and his ... Oh ah! but I was a-most\nforgettin'. I allus liked that dog\"; and Job Nutt waved his hand.\n\n                    [Illustration: \"Alas!\" by Him.]\n\nAll knew it. Contrary to what is generally supposed, certain items of\nnews circulate rapidly among farm-folk.\n\n\n\n\n                                  XIII\n\n\nIt was only a dog.\n\nPerhaps so.\n\nThe fact does not forbid the familiar question that rises always at\ncertain hours to the mind of man, and will continue to do so till time\nshall cease, whether his friend take human or only canine form in life:\n\n              \"But his spirit--where does his spirit rest?\n              It was God that made him--God knows best.\"\n\nIn truth, there is no answer to this question--\"Whither?\" And thus it is\nthat we are compelled to leave it according to our habit when we are at\nfault, and much as the poet leaves it here. In the case of the man, we\nthink we understand. In that of the dog, our difficulty appears to defy\nsolution: it is no question of argument, assertions are idle, dogma has\nno place. On the one hand we have those principles that come to man's\naid, but of which it would be unbecoming now to speak. The vast majority\nof Christian men are enabled to ride out the storms of life without\nconfidence wholly giving way, and with the first of sheet-anchors fixed\nin what is felt to be the best of holding ground. When, however, we turn\nto the possible future status of the dog, there is no sheet-anchor, and\nthe holding ground is indifferent. Yet, in considering the case of the\nman and the dog, we are not left without a certain measure of support\nequally applicable to both. The spirit definable as the immediate\napprehension of the mind without reasoning--the spirit of intuition--aids\nus on either hand. \"We are endued,\" as Bishop Butler tells us, \"with\ncapacities of perception\"; and these enable us to accept much that lies\noutside the actual region of proof, because our inner consciousness tells\nus that we are not altogether on a false track, and that truths, if half\nhidden, yet, of a certainty, exist in the direction in which we are\nmaking earnest search.\n\nWe necessarily suffer here, as always, from the tendency that makes the\nwish the father to the thought; or, in other words, we not infrequently\nshovel the unpalatable overboard, that we may lighten the ship, and ride\nout this or that squall without quite so much strain upon the\nsheet-anchor aforesaid. The majority of mankind believe, and will\ncontinue to believe, most staunchly in what they wish to believe. Yet\nthis tendency on our part--visible as it often is in directions where we\nshould least expect to find it--does not necessarily prove our beliefs\nfalse, while it also leads us not infrequently direct to truths, however\nunorthodox our course may have appeared to lookers-on.\n\nIn considering, then, the question of the possible future existence of\nour canine friends, the dominant feeling is commonly this: We believe\nthat a future, in great probability, exists for them, because we feel\nthat not to believe this would be to turn the whole scheme of the\nuniverse, as we understand it, into one little short of nonsense. We do\nnot stop to reason: such things are because they must be; they cannot\ncease to be without total disfigurement of the plan of our conception.\nIntuition points, and almost impulsively perhaps, in one direction. There\nis \"an intelligent Author of Nature or Natural Governor of the world.\"\nLife is not made up of haphazards. Eventually there will be happiness in\ncompletest form: otherwise there would be injustice, and of this, life,\nas we know it, affords little or no evidence. For happiness to be\ncomplete, there can be no question of the songs we are to hear being\nindifferently harmonised, there can be no rifts in the lute: in a state\nof perfection imperfections must necessarily be imperceptible.\n\nWith our narrow, human limitations we are driven to conclusions naturally\ncircumscribed and coloured by those limitations. We are cognisant of the\nnarrowness of the field of vision allowed us, and we are perpetually made\naware that we are beating our wings against the bars; but we nevertheless\naccept this or that conclusion because it satisfies our souls, or we\nrefuse to accept it because we cannot honestly confess that it does so.\nYet, once again, behind both acceptance and rejection there is something\nfurther--that intuition and power of perception that enable us to find\nsatisfaction in inferences that we know lie outside questions of faith,\nbut which we nevertheless feel to be true. And the very fact that we are\nenabled to derive this satisfaction and to feel that our conclusions have\nan element of truth in them tends to confirm us, rightly or wrongly, in\nour conjectures.\n\nThus we come deliberately to the opinion that dogs will have a place in\nthe land over the border. Such an opinion may be a bold one; but there is\nreason for believing that it is somewhat widely held. We naturally tend\nto materialise when we build up our several pictures; but we sin here, if\nat all, in the best of company. The city that lay foursquare, and that is\ndescribed to us in the vision in the Island of Patmos, was of pure gold,\nwith walls of jasper and gates of precious stones, and had within it\ntrees and birds and many divers animals, and material things of greatest\nbeauty, besides the figures of innumerable angels. The description could\nnot have been otherwise drawn if it was to be grasped by the mind of man,\neven to a limited extent. So with ourselves. To conceive of a world with\nall the attributes of beauty yet without flowers is impossible. To\nrealise a world full of music and song yet without birds may be possible,\nbut transcends the powers of most minds. To attempt to believe in the\nhappiness of a world where companionship is to be looked for and reunion\nis promised, yet where the companionship of dogs is denied, is to strain\nthe belief of some to the uttermost and not improbably to fail.\n\n\"Nor,\" writes Bishop Butler in his immortal treatise, \"can we find\nanything throughout the whole analogy of nature to afford us even the\nslightest presumption that animals ever lose their living powers; much\nless, if it were possible, that they lose them by death: for we have no\nfaculties wherewith to trace any beyond or through it, so as to see what\nbecomes of them. This event removes them from our view. It destroys the\nsensible proof, which we had before death, of their being possessed of\nliving powers, but does not appear to afford the least reason to believe\nthat they are, then, or by that event, deprived of them. And our knowing\nthat they were possessed of these powers, up to the very period to which\nwe have faculties capable of tracing them, is itself a probability of\ntheir retaining them beyond it.\"\n\nWhen Robert Southey looked for the last time on his old friend,\nPhillis--and there is a bitter difference on such an occasion between\nlooking upon the young and the old--he tells how often in his earlier\ndays this dog and he had enjoyed childish sports together, and how, later\non, when hard times overtook him, he found delight in recalling the\nfaithful fondness of the friend in the distant home, and longed to feel\nagain the warmth of his dumb welcome. Then, when the old dog is at last\ndead, and there has come a severance of these precious associations, he\nbreaks out with:\n\n                   \"Mine is no narrow creed;\n             And He who gave thee being did not frame\n             The mystery of life to be the sport\n             Of merciless man. There is another world\n             For all that live and move--a better one!\n             Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine\n             Infinite goodness to the little bounds\n             Of their own charity, may envy thee!\"\n\nWhen we turn to the first of all books, the dog certainly appears to\nreceive harsh treatment. The term \"dog\" is invariably one of reproach.\nGoliath cursing David asks, \"Am I a dog?\" Abner exclaims, \"Am I a dog's\nhead?\" St. Paul refers to false prophets as dogs. In the Psalms the dog\nis found to be synonymous with the devil; in the Gospels it stands for\nunholy men. Evil-workers are dogs; a dog is the equivalent of a fool;\nnothing is lower than a dog, and nothing is to be more abhorred. Finally,\nthere is that hardest sentence of all--\"Without are dogs\"; as though any\nhope for dogs was entirely forbidden. It is the same throughout: the\ndepraved of mankind are dogs, and the very acme of possible reproach and\ncontempt is apparently to be found in the use of this one term. Abandon\nhope;--without, are you who are dogs!\n\nBut is the use of this term \"dog\" to be taken literally? There seems to\nbe ample evidence that it should not be. The very extravagance of the\nlanguage raises a doubt at once, just as the grotesqueness of the\napplication of the term shows that the dog itself could never have been\nmeant. St. Paul speaks of false prophets as dogs because of their\nimpudence and love of gain--characteristics hardly to be attributed to\nthe animal itself. The term \"dead dog\" was the most opprobrious to which\na Jew could lay his tongue; when David endeavoured to convey to the mind\nof Saul that the persecution to which he was subjecting him was a\ndishonour to himself, he asked him whom he was pursuing; was he pursuing\n\"after a dead dog\"? If, as Horace has it, \"death is the utmost boundary\nof wealth and power,\" it is surely no less so of pursuit.\n\nThen again, in the Psalms, David writes, \"Deliver my soul from the sword,\nmy darling from the power of the dog\"; in other words, the devil. All\ndogs are not good dogs, though all dogs are good dogs to their respective\nowners; but no dog can possibly be classed as we find him here, or as the\nvery image and likeness of the most depraved and debased of mankind as we\nfind him elsewhere. He is incapable of these sins; he does not fall into\nthese errors.\n\nWhat we have to remember is apparently this. The earliest mention of the\ndog in Scripture is in connection with the sojourn of the Israelites in\nEgypt. The dog was declared by the Jewish law to be unclean; and it is\nnot improbable that the Jews were so taught to regard him in opposition\nto those taskmasters who, they were well aware, held him sacred. Thus the\nterm dogs appears often as the reflection of a passionate and deep-seated\nhatred, apart altogether from the animal's uncleanness, and also from the\nanimal itself. The word came in this way to be a useful one to hurl at\nthe head of an enemy at all times, or by which to classify those who\nlived outside the pale of common, human decency. For such as these last\nthere could be no hope, and the term as applied to them was judged to\ncarry with it the bitterest stigma, just as it continues to do in the\nEast to the present day. To be a Christian is to be a dog; to be a Jew is\nto be a dog; an infidel is a dog; and to be known as \"a Jew's dog,\" or \"a\ndead dog,\" is to have sunk to the lowest depths of depravity in the eyes\nof all men.\n\nBut the way in which dogs were regarded did not stop with Jewish edicts\nand Jewish opinion. When the ancient Egyptians made way for another type,\nand Moslems took their place, the dog, honoured before as has been shown,\nfell at once into an inferior position. The Moslem law took its colour\nlargely from Jewish practice, and the dog was generally looked upon by\nthe Mahomedan as unclean. He continues, as all the world knows, to be\nstill so regarded. The dog, in the East, is at once tolerated and\nneglected: he may be slightly better than the pig, but, like that wholly\nunclean animal, he is a scavenger, living largely on offal and what he is\nable to pick up.\n\nHe is thus, for the most part, a poor creature, leading a poor life, and\nbeing often much to be pitied. That he should have any future prospects\nbefore him, seeing him as he is, might well be doubted. But this must\nalso be remembered, that if he is in various stages of development in\nthese far-off lands, and with little chance of betterment, he does not\ndiffer greatly in these respects from vast multitudes of men among whom\nhe moves, whether they be white, yellow, brown, or black. The conditions\nof his life are little by which to condemn him, just as they would be\ninsufficient in the case of others. Moreover, all classes certainly do\nnot so condemn him, or do they look upon him in quite the same light. By\nthe Parsees, for instance, he is not regarded as wholly unclean. Many of\nthem keep English-bred dogs, as also do some of the more Europeanised\nnatives of other classes, treating them much as we do, though this is\nstill uncommon. Hindus of good class and Mahomedans are found generally\nto avoid them; but here again many Hindus, and such a caste as Sweepers,\nwill touch a dog without considering themselves defiled, just as a\nMahomedan will often hold or take charge of a dog, though he be careful\nnot to do so by the chain, or leather lead, but by slipping his _jharan_,\nor cloth, through the dog's collar, and handling him that way. In many\nMahomedan villages the dog is found in numbers, the inhabitants being\nglad of his services in shepherding their goats, though condemning him to\nlive outside the house, even though there be likelihood of his being\ncarried off by a prowling leopard.\n\nIn certain directions, therefore, the dog is seen to be at least\ntolerated. But there remains one other remarkable fact to be noted. No\none can have travelled in the East, especially in Turkey, without\nremarking the way in which the dog is generally regarded. Yet, in spite\nof this, he is all the while certainly classed as supernatural, and by no\nless an authority than the Koran. His uncleanness must be recognised;\nbut, on the other hand, how are his fidelity and courage to be\noverlooked? They cannot be. And so this unclean animal, from whom men\nshrink, lest by chance their garments touch him as they pass, is given,\nas already related, a position in Mahomed's paradise, and, because of his\ncharacter, is deemed worthy a special place in that land of supreme\nbliss. There is a chance, then, for the outcast here.\n\n                    *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is time to look at the dog himself a little closer, and see what\ncharacteristics he can bring forward in support of hopes that many human\nbeings entertain on his behalf.\n\nHere is a dumb animal that, long before the dawn of history, is known to\nhave been man's close companion. Step by step, we see him advancing with\nthose to whom he is linked, until he raises himself immeasurably above\nall other animals, and takes his place pre-eminently as the friend of\nman. No one of those from whom he originally sprang was known to bark,\nand no wild species does so. By and through man, the dog was endowed with\nthis means of expression, and was thus able to act as his more efficient\nguard. It is an established fact that the dog barks when in contact with\nman, and loses the power when separated from him. Such was the case with\nthe dogs that were left many years ago on the uninhabited island of Juan\nFernandez. The descendants of these dogs were found thirty years later to\nhave lost the power of barking, and only subsequently regained it with\ndifficulty.\n\nThe fact that the dog barks is not, however, the chief point. This\npeculiar gift has been developed into a language, for it is by those\nwonderful inflections of the voice in barking that the dog has learnt to\nmake man understand his meaning. Thus, as we all know, he is able to\nconvey, at will, a note of warning, to signal the approach of danger, to\nshow his anger, his alarm, his joy, the spirit that animates him in the\nchase, to make his appeal for help, to declare the need of succour. His\nbark has in these ways become his chief means of communication, quite\napart from the howl, the whimper, the whine, or the growl; the \"singing\"\nthat is associated with a pack of foxhounds baying at the moon; the\n\"talk\" that the subject of these pages possessed to such an extraordinary\ndegree.\n\nThen again, as he responded more readily to education, and acquired by\ndegrees something of the civilising instincts that were affecting man,\nthe dog became not only a trusty companion but a humble servant. Nor did\nhe stop here, for, what was still more remarkable, he certainly came by\ndegrees to reflect some of man's chief characteristics, as well as nearly\nall human passions. By association of ideas he developed memory. By his\ndreams and the various sounds he emits in sleep, he is seen to possess\nimagination. His wonderful power of scent is found capable of being\nturned to other uses than sport, and is even now not utilised in sundry\nquarters as it might be. Then, too, he habitually forms his own\njudgments, and these are usually exceedingly correct, as when he\nrecognises an intruder, or arrives at what is right and what is wrong\nwithin the circle of his own domain. On many occasions he certainly gives\nevidence of a conscience and the possession of the rudiments of the moral\nsense. When he does wrong he frequently exhibits shame as well as\ncontrition, seeking forgiveness, and being often distinctly unhappy till\nthis is secured. So far does he occasionally carry this, that when he\nknows he has transgressed rules, he will come and make confession, his\nown honesty bringing upon him a punishment he would otherwise have\nescaped, or serving to declare what was not previously suspected by those\nabout him.\n\nBut it is when we approach the higher qualities that the dog stands out\nin his true light. The best of his class naturally possess these in\ngreatest perfection, but it is a fact that none are altogether without\nthem. His instinct, his patience and subservience to the will of his\nmaster, his pluck and his courage, his fidelity that nothing seems\ncapable of undermining, his trustfulness, his power of sympathy with man\nand with his own class, and, lastly, the touching and infinite depth of\nhis love--all these are characteristics that occasionally put man to\nshame, but which make man always trust him more and more. In the face of\nhis marvellous instinct, man is not infrequently struck dumb as he\nwatches. A dog's patience is a thing to study, as well as one from which\nto learn many a fair lesson. His pluck and courage are almost proverbial.\nIn many a case the odds against him seem not to make the slightest\ndifference: he will fight on to the end; let his master only lead, he\nwill follow to the death.\n\nAnd it is here that his fidelity attains its very pinnacle. Faithful unto\ndeath! Again and again, in innumerable instances, he has shown his\nfaithfulness long after the one he loved was dead. The dog in the\nmediaeval legend that dug his master's grave, covered him with moss and\nleaves, and then watched there for seven years, until he died himself,\nhas found many a parallel in real life. A well-known dog in the days of\nthe Stewarts was still beside his master's tomb three years after the\nlatter's death; and, in much later times, another dog, at Lisle, refused\nto come away from the spot where his master lay, and remained on guard\nfor nine long years, the villagers recognising his fidelity by building\nhim a kennel and bringing him his daily food until he died.\n\nAnd if an instance of the exhibition of grief on the part of a dog is\ncalled for, some will remember the little dog in the far-away Sudan. He\nwas the property of the only officer that fell at Ginnis, and who had\nbeen in the habit of taking him everywhere. When his master was consigned\nto the sand, this dog was seen to be cowering beside the stretcher,\nlooking even smaller than before; and, when all was over, he had to be\nlifted away from the edge of the pit, where he lay with his head hanging\nover the edge in an abject state of grief. He was only a dog, and a small\none; but many a man, hardened by the experiences of a campaign, turned\naway his head at the sight.\n\nFew can have been much in the company of dogs without becoming aware of\ntheir power of sympathy, the way in which they almost invariably show\nthis to their own kind, and also especially to man. For a dog to be\ninjured or ill is for others at least to leave him in peace; but with man\nthey go much further, as they do in many directions where man is\nconcerned. When Lazarus lay at the gate of Dives, alone and neglected, it\nwas the dogs that came and licked his sores. So, too, in the hours of\nhuman adversity, somehow or other, dogs appear to understand, and act\naccordingly. How often the expression is heard--\"They know!\" The reason\nof their conduct and their actions on such occasions is entirely hidden\nfrom us, just as is that strange sense that dogs of highly developed\nbrains undoubtedly possess--awe of the unknown, and that has made some\nconclude that they have an inkling of the spirit world.\n\nMany dogs are subject to fits of nervousness, though for the most part\nonly in connection with things they do not understand or are unable to\ngrasp at the moment. At such times the dog invariably seeks the closer\ncompany of his friend, man. On the other hand, the dog often understands\nthe meaning of sounds when man is at fault and a feeling of uncertainty\nhas been aroused. A glance at a dog, and the words--\"the dog hasn't\nmoved,\" are quite sufficient then to reassure the watcher, possibly out\nof doors on a dark night. Thus the one looks to the other for support and\nconfidence, and a mutual spirit of reliance exists between both.\n\nThere is little need to say much here of the dog's power of love, for\nevery one is aware of it, or may have been made richer by it in his life.\nThe old saying of centuries ago still holds good, and \"the dog is the\nonly animal in creation that luvs you more than he luvs himself.\" There\nare those who assert that all love is divine in origin. If this be so,\nand the dog could be considered to have a religion, then undoubtedly his\nreligion is the love of man. We are brought face to face here with a\npassion that, in the dog, knows no limits, and that is apparently\nincapable of alienation. Faith, truth, love! What is to be said;--whence\ncome these amazing powers; for what object could they have been created\nhere? Perhaps the matter were better left where that other was just now.\nWe can only seek the shelter that is common to us in such circumstances.\n\n                \"He knows, who gave that love sublime;\n                And gave that strength of feeling, great\n                Above all human estimate.\"\n\nOnce again, for ourselves, there is no definite answer. The whole\nquestion forms but one more problem added to an interminable sequence,\nand in the face of which the man and the dog are both dumb.\n\nYet when we look back, and ask ourselves, \"Are all these for naught?\" is\nit still man's province to be mute? Many further questions crowd up to\nthe mind here, as they ever do in yet graver issues. In our weakness and\nour anxiety we cannot suffer our case to go by default, even though we\nconfess our inability to answer the questions one by one as they appear.\nWe can only turn away our heads and say, \"Such things can _not_ be.\" This\nclose relationship cannot be cut off and cease for ever. This touching\ninterdependence cannot be brought to a sudden and a final end. The\nsparrows cannot be cared for and the dogs cast out. In other words,\nliving things among animals, not directly associated with human beings in\ntheir lives, cannot, surely, be singly preserved and those which have won\nour love and loved us in return be lost to us for ever and condemned.\n\nIs it possible that all these marvellous qualities and characteristics,\ngathered together into one dumb animal, are to pass away and to have no\nplace in the larger circuit of life? Are all these consolations that this\nanimal, and this animal alone among the so-called dumb, is capable of\nbringing--are all the influences for good that he is granted the power of\nexercising upon the mind, the spirit, and the very soul of man--to be\naccounted of no worth; to be merely so many items to be used up in the\nfurtherance of a great scheme and plan; to be dissipated even as the\nmists of the dawn when the day shall at last break? Surely,--can such\nthings be? Human judgment and human justice are for ever fallible, and\nrough expedients at best. But that other judgment for which we look, and\nthat other justice upon which we are wont mentally to lean, cannot\npossibly be either one or the other.\n\nSomething, then, of our case may assuredly be left there. We cannot\nanswer the questions; but, as we confront them, we yet cannot cut\nourselves free from that spirit of intuition spoken of above, or cease to\ndraw our several inferences. Continuity in Nature faces us at every turn.\nAll things work together for the final perfection of the whole--for the\nfinal transcendent beauty and completeness of the whole. There is unity\nin all. Of that most are certain; and men walk therefore in good hope.\nThere is mystery at every turn. There is no escape from it. There is ever\nthe demand for the making of a good fight in the face of it. And there is\npromise of victory in the end on the part of One\n\n            \"Who by low creatures leads to heights of love.\"\n\nWe are not all willing to accept such things. We do not all, in our march\nin life, require the same tools to win our way. Neither do we all look in\nthe same direction--not for help, merely, but for those common daily aids\nthat we gather, or that are gatherable, from the simple and the great,\nfrom the animate and the inanimate, from the stained as from the\nbeautiful and the pure.\n\nIn writing of the death of an animal second only to the dog,\nWhyte-Melville asks this:\n\n  \"There are men both good and wise who hold that, in a future state,\n  Dumb creatures we have cherished here below\n  Will give us joyous greeting as we pass the golden gate.\n  Is it folly if I hope it may be so?\"\n\nIt may be folly. Yet the writer of these pages does not doubt it. And\ntherefore, in the quiet corner of the beautiful home, when Murphy was\nlaid to rest close by Dan, these words were cut upon his headstone, in\nfaith and in good hope:\n\n                                 MURPHY\n                                DEAR BOY\n                               1906-1911\n              \"Thou, Lord, shalt save both man and beast.\"","title":"'Murphy': A Message to Dog Lovers","tradition":"folklore-oral-tradition","translated_text":null,"word_count":33162}