It will be remembered in connection with these dogs, that Mr. Darwin in the 'Descent of Man' (p. 75) quotes Dr. Hayes, who, in his work on 'The Open Polar Sea,' 'repeatedly remarks that his dogs, instead of continuing to draw the sledges in a compact body, diverged and separated when they came to thin ice, so that their weight might be more evenly [and widely] distributed. This was often the first warning which the travellers received that the ice was becoming thin and dangerous.' Mr. Darwin remarks, 'This instinct may possibly have arisen since the time, long ago, when dogs were first employed by the natives in drawing their sledges; or the Arctic wolves, the parent stock of the Esquimaux dog, may have acquired an instinct, impelling them not to attack their prey in a close pack when on thin ice.'
Mrs. Horn writes me:—
One morning, soon after his usual time for starting, I saw the dog looking anxiously about, evidently afraid that my brother had gone without him. He looked into the room where we had breakfasted, but my brother was not there. He went up two or three stairs, and listened attentively. Then, to my astonishment, he came down, and going to the hat-stand in the hall, stood on his hind legs and sniffed at the great-coats hanging there, undoubtedly trying to ascertain whether my brother's coat was there or not.
Another correspondent (Mr. Westlecombe) writes:—
My cat had kittens, of which two were preserved, the rest being drowned. The dog tolerated the two kittens, but did not care about them with any friendship. When the kittens were a few weeks old, I—finding that I could get but one of them off my hands—determined to kill the other, and, as the quickest mode of death, to shoot it by a pistol close behind its head. The dog saw me do this in my garden, and in a few minutes afterwards she appeared with the other kitten dead in her mouth; she had killed it. If that was not reasoning I do not know what is.
Mr. W. F. Hooper writes me of a Newfoundland dog that was in the habit of accompanying the nursemaid and baby belonging to its mistress. On one occasion a keen wind began to blow, and the nursemaid drew her shawl over the child:—
The nursemaid had not taken many steps towards home before her progress was barred by the dog, who placed himself in the centre of the path and growled whenever she advanced. She was much alarmed, and tried to coax the dog to move, but Leo would not, and abated nothing of the hostile display. Half an hour passed, and the girl became nearly distracted. What could be the matter with the dog? Was she to be a prisoner all day? Would the animal fly at her throat? Was Leo suffering from hydrophobia? These and similar questions crossed the girl's mind. At length a suggestion of despair—it was nothing more—occurred to her. She thought it might win the dog round to good humour if she showed it the baby; so she removed the folds of her shawl and presented it at arm's length to the dog. The result was magical, and far in excess of all expectation, for not only did the dog cease to growl, but he began to gambol and caress, and removed himself from the path altogether, so that there was now a free course, and home was soon reached. The explanation of the whole affair is, when the nursemaid turned on her path thinking she had gone sufficiently far, the dog missed sight of the baby, and believed it was gone. Under this impression the dog converted himself into a sentinel, with the resolve that not one step should be taken towards home without the baby; and faithfully did the animal keep watch and ward until the demonstration was given that the child had not been left behind, but was still in the nurse's arms alive and well. I think this is an exhibition of intelligence worthy of being known to you.
I extract the following instance from Col. Hutchinson's 'Dog-breaking.' It is briefly alluded to in the 'Descent of Man.' The observer and narrator is Mr. Colquhoun:—
I may mention a proof of his sagacity. Having a couple of long shots across a pretty broad stream, I stopped a mallard with each barrel, but both were only wounded. I sent him across for the birds. He first attempted to bring them both, but one always struggled out of his mouth: he then laid down one intending to bring the other; but whenever he attempted to cross to me, the bird left fluttered into the water; he immediately returned again, laid down the first on the shore and recovered the other. The first now fluttered away, but he instantly secured it, and, standing over them both, seemed to cogitate for a moment; then, although on any other occasion he never ruffles a feather, deliberately killed one, brought over the other, and then returned for the dead bird.
The following, communicated to me by Mr. Blood, is a closely analogous, and therefore confirmatory case. He was out shooting with a companion, and three wild ducks were simultaneously dropped into a lake—one falling dead and the other two winged. Mr. Blood sent in his spaniel to retrieve,