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CANINE SAGACITY.

ΜΑ

ANY years ago, two decades or more, the writer was the possessor of a little dog-a French poodle by breed. A more knowing animal of his kind never lived. He was a pretty creature, with hair as white as driven snow, and manners the most agreeable. Great pride was taken in his appearance. That his dress should maintain its natural purity, he was weekly subjected to a warm-water bath. This task devolved upon a little brunette, for whom the canine had contracted a strong affection.

Frisky, for such was our pet's name, had never before coming into the family known what it was to receive a good washing. His first experience was as uninteresting as it was novel and strange. It was anything but pleasant to him, but the little fellow bore it like a martyr.

Such treatment, by the ordinary cur, would have been resented with snaps and snarls, but his was a gentle nature that knew no such untoward manifestations. But there was, all the same, an aversion to the bath, as looks only too plainly indicated. So pronounced was the dislike, that the very sight of water caused his delicate frame to shake like a child's with the cold.

Had not the greatest care been taken in the preparation of the bath, it might have been thought that the tremors that shook his by no means robust frame were induced by the water's chilliness or by its undue warmth. But this could not be the case, as the fluid was always tempered to the most sensitive touch.

But there came a time, however, when Frisky was determined to evade these kindnesses upon the part of his

mistress. He had pleaded immunity from them in pitying glances, but without avail. Something must be done, his looks would seem to say, as he lay cuddled up by the cosy kitchen fire. One could almost read the thoughts that were shaping themselves in his mind.

For three long years Frisky, who had been allowed to sleep at nights in the sitting-room, was accustomed, when morning broke, to visit the different members of the family in their respective dormitories, and have a lively, rollicking time. These visits were always looked forward to, and in no instance, during the whole of that period, were they ever intermitted. To have missed one of these exciting romps, would have been a keenly-felt deprivation. But that we were to be doomed to such disappointment and affliction, subsequent events only too clearly showed.

One Saturday morning, for it was always on the Jewish Sabbath that the bath was given, Frisky failed to make his accustomed calls. This was noticed by everyone, and no amount of comment was provoked. Loudly his name was spoken, but no response was elicited, and it soon became evident that the cunning little elf was beyond the reach of calling. Search was instituted, but to no effect. His absence was lamented, and it was feared some calamity had befallen him. A silence, like unto death, filled the house. There was weeping and wailing about, for Frisky was not.

But just as the shadows of night were, deepening, and hope was dying out of the bosoms of all, the patter of little feet was heard upon the pavement leading to the back-door. The sounds were too familiar to be those of a stranger. All listened with breathless silence. ""Tis Frisky, 'tis Frisky," went up a chorus of voices, and we all rushed to the door to welcome the runaway back to the fold. Not a chiding word was spoken, not a look of reproof given, as with outstretched arms the culprit was received to our hearts. A more crestfallen, conscience-stricken being, however, could hardly be conceived to exist.

Things resumed their wonted sway. Happiness reigned once more in the family. Frisky's matutinal visits were as though they had not been interrupted. His frolics had all their former vivacity. The sin committed had been condoned, and he in splendid repute again.

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A week since his first wrong-doing had elapsed. Would he repeat his plan of getting rid of the obnoxious bath? had never entered our minds. The day dawned bright and lovely. All was bustle outside, and the slamming of shutters told that the servant was astir in the kitchen. As was her usual custom, the entry door was left open for Frisky. All ears were on the stretch. There were no familiar signs. The sharp, glad bark that always heralded his coming was wanting, and so, too, the timing of little feet upon the stairs. Not a sound of breathing, not a rustle of counterpane, was heard. Still and motionless we all lay, till the minutes seemed hours, and then came the thought that it was

Saturday and Frisky had again disappeared. Search was everywhere made, but the missing one was nowhere to be found. That he had slipped out when the door was opened, was now most obvious. No effort was made to find his hiding-place, for we all knew that he would come back with the shadows.

His coming was later this time than before. The sun had long gone to rest. It was pitch dark when the pawing of little feet against the door announced his return.

This second offence was passed over as the first had been, and Frisky was his jolly, frolicsome self once more. A score of Saturdays was thus managed and the hateful bath escaped. for well this cunning bit of flesh and fur knew that the seventh was the only day of the week when it was convenient for his mistress to attend to his ablutions.

That Frisky was able to count, or had some means of determining the coming of the day he so thoroughly detested, there can be no question. But the exceeding cuteness of his nature not only showed itself in his manner of getting rid of the hateful bath, but in various other ways. He seemed equal to every emergency that could arise. Oftentimes I have watched him, as he lay upon a rug by the kitchenhearth, or upon the pillow of a new-made bed, for he was at liberty to go where he pleased about the house, and I have fancied that I could see him thinking, or read the train of thoughts passing through his mind, so human-like seemed he in these reflective moments.

When scolded for some trifling misdoing, or threatened with denial of some expected pleasure, no so-called brute could show more pitying glances. His grief was often heartrending to behold. Prostrate upon the ground or carpet, or in what place soever he chanced to be, he would moan and moan for hours together, and only consent to be comforted when the burden was lifted from off his soul by a kind word spoken, a smiling look given, or a quick, hearty shake of his delicate paw. When happy, and it did not take much

to make him happy, he was full of life and vivacity, capering and prancing about with the utmost abandon, and doing his very best to show off his happiness and pleasure. His eyes seemed kindled with a holy affection, and a blaze of heavenly sunshine would appear to play over his features. I have seen him, when in such mental agony, to actually shed tears, a sight that never could fail to reach and melt the flintiest hearts. He knew and understood every word that was spoken to him, and responded by a shake of the head, or a low, soft bark. A conscience within told him the right from the wrong, and though he sometimes knowingly erred, yet he was always truly sorrowful for his sins afterwards.

There came a day, however, when the idol of the household went out and never returned. Some unlucky event had doubtless befallen him, or he had been spirited away to parts unknown. If living, I trust he is being cared for as he richly deserves. He was a kind, gentle, loving being, and I cannot help thinking that some day I shall meet him in the beautiful world beyond the grave.

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