“Then Frank will fiddle again, and after that we’ll all go to bed as gipsies ought to at this time of night.”
Chapter Fifteen.
Just Like Tiny.
“The family friend for ten years or more
That basked in the garden and dozed in the hall,
And listened for songs on the mat on the door.”
Tupper.
“Just like our Tiny!” said little Ada Mair when she first saw the subject of my present sketch. “Just like our Tiny!” repeated her wee sister Ailie, going directly up, throwing her arms about Charlie’s neck and kissing him.
Charlie, you will understand, was the dog’s name, a small black and tan, with a coat as dark as a raven’s wing, and as soft and sheeny as satin. Not, mind you, that it was soft in reality, only it felt so. The tan in Charlie’s cheeks, and eyebrows, and neck and feet, was of the richest mahogany, and his eyes were like the eyes of a young seal, or some lovely gazelle. Altogether we were all very fond of Charlie, and not a little proud of showing off his tricks to strangers, and we were positively astounded when one day we were told by a gentleman who knows a very great deal about dogs, that although our Charlie was “a very pretty fellow,” still he was not quite well enough shaped in the head, too short and broad in fact, to take a prize at a show.
“O! you must be mistaken,” said our maiden aunt, bristling up; “we think him perfection.”
I smiled, but said nothing, for I knew the critic was right.