Mrs. Bürcke advanced, and held out her great mottled arm rather fearfully; he growled, and made her start a little, but did her no harm. She took the paper out of the basket, and read what we have before imparted to the public, viz.:—"Mr. Court Butcher, have the goodness to send per bearer a rixdollar's worth of best sausage meat, not pork.—Lorenz Tisch." As she read, the dog wagged his tail more violently than ever.
A horrible thought entered the bosom of Mrs. Bürcke, as she looked at the dog, and from the dog glanced at her husband's cleaver, that hung idling on the wall.
"Sausages in Lent!" said Mrs. Bürcke: "sausages to be fetched by a dog for that heathen necromancer and that accursed Jew! He shall have sausages with a vengeance." Mrs. Bürcke took down the cleaver, and
About twenty minutes afterwards Herr Lorenzo Tisch opened his garden gate, whither he had been summoned by the whining and scratching of his little faithful messenger. Spitz staggered in, laid the basket at his master's feet, licked his hand, and fell down.
"Blesh us, dere'sh something red all along the road!" cried Mr. Abednego.
"Pshaw! papa, never mind that, let's look at the sausages," said his daughter Rebecca—a sad gormandizer for so young a woman.
Tisch opened the basket, staggered back, and turned quite sick.—In the basket which Spitz had carried so faithfully lay the poor little dog's OWN TAIL!
What took place during the rest of the entertainment, I have never been able or anxious to learn; but this I know, that there is a single gentleman now living with Madame Konisgunda Von Speck, in the beautiful town of Polkwitz, a gentleman, who, if he has one prejudice in the world, has that of hating the Jewish nation—a gentleman who goes to church regularly, and, above all, never eats meat in Lent.