I am sure you have read or heard accounts of the large Newfoundland dogs; of whose courage in saving children who fall into the water, many beautiful stories are told; and also of the dear, faithful Collies with their pointed noses, who know all their master's sheep, and will drive them wherever they are told to go; and even, when two flocks have got mixed, will separate them with the most wonderful patience and cleverness. A Scotch shepherd, who loved poetry, and made some verses about the skylark, which Sharley and May repeat, tells a story of one of these dogs which I am sure you will think worth remembering.
The collie's name was Sirrah, and his master prized him greatly. When the shepherd first bought him he was scarcely a year old, "and," he says, "knew so little of herding that he had never turned a sheep in his life; but as soon as he discovered that it was his duty to do so, and that it obliged me, I can never forget with what anxiety and eagerness he learned his different evolutions. He would try every way deliberately, till he found out what I wanted him to do, and when I once made him understand a direction he never forgot or mistook it again."
Sirrah's master once had charge of a flock of seven hundred lambs, and one night the whole flock broke up into three divisions, and ran away in the dark, so that the shepherd could not tell where they had gone. The night was so dark that he could not even see Sirrah, much less tell him how to find the lost lambs; but the dog knew exactly what had happened, and had no doubt at all about whose duty it was to get the flock together again. All night long the shepherd sought in vain, not being able even to discover what direction either of the three flocks of truant lambs had taken; but in the morning he suddenly came upon his dog, guarding the whole flock—all the seven hundred brought back, and not one of them lost.
I have been told that while a trained sheep-dog is so valuable to his master, and can be so trusted by him, one that has been allowed to grow up without any teaching or training is of little worth. The training must begin while the collie is young, and an old hand at it says, "The first thing to learn your pup is to mind at the word." From this beginning the dog goes on until he seems almost to read his master's thoughts in his face, and to watch each movement of his hand and each glance of his eye. Of one of these dogs his master says:
"I have known him lie night and day among from ten to twenty pails full of milk, and never once break the cream of one of them with the tip of his tongue; nor would he suffer cat, rat, nor any other creature to touch it."
Sheep-dogs become very much attached to each other, as this story shows. Two Scotch collies were fast friends, going everywhere together until one of them died, and was buried on the top of a hill. The other watched the spot, and when no one was by, actually scratched at the new-made grave, and dug up the body of his comrade. Afterwards, when it had been buried again, and heavy stones laid round the place, he still kept watch there, howling piteously and eating nothing, until he died upon the grave of the friend he had loved so well.
But while there are so many beautiful stories of the loving and faithful and tender and true ways of dogs, we must not forget that they sometimes show cruel and revengeful tempers, as well as something of that low kind of cleverness which tries to deceive, and on account of which the fox has such a bad name.
Only the other day I was told about a dog who actually killed a pretty little kitten from pure jealousy, because he could not bear to see his mistress pet and fondle it. He had been the pet for a long time, and when this new favourite came, he showed his dislike in many ways. One day Flossie—the little kitten—was missing, and could nowhere be found. At last, something about the dog's guilty look made his mistress sure that he knew better than anyone else what had become of her. So she looked at him very severely, and said, "Turk, you know where little Flossie is. Show me directly."
Turk walked straight to the waste-paper basket, which was under the table, and began to take the paper out, bit by bit. At the bottom of the basket lay the poor little furry pet, killed by the dog in a fit of jealousy! How sad it is to think what sin has done, how even in the animals it may be seen that they belong to a world where the man, whom God made head over them, turned away from Him, and distrusted and disobeyed Him.
But since I have told you of Turk's cruel jealousy, I must not forget a very pretty story of a dog who saved the life of a kitten which was to have been drowned. When he saw the poor little thing thrown into the pond, he swam after it and brought it back, laying it at the feet of the groom who had thrown it into the water. The man took the helpless creature up and threw it back again, and again the dog rescued it. A third time it was thrown into the water, and a third time saved from drowning; but now the dog brought it to the opposite side of the pool, carried it home in his mouth, and laid it beside the fire to dry. In this case which would you rather be like—the man or the dog?