“North. No bark like his, James, now belongs to the world of sound.
“Shepherd. Purple black was he all over, as the raven’s wing. Strength and sagacity emboldened his bounding beauty, but a fierceness lay deep down within the quiet lustre o’ his een that tauld ye, had he been enraged, he could hae torn in pieces a lion.
“North. Not a child of three years old and upwards in the neighbourhood that had not hung by his mane, and played with his paws, and been affectionately worried by him on the flowery greensward.”
Such was Bronte.
Such is Hurricane Bob, only more so.
Chapter Fourteen.
Letters Home, after being Months on the Road.
“Come listen to my humble friends.
Nor scorn to read their letters,
The faithfulness of horse and dog
Oft-times makes us their debtors.
Yet selfish man leads folly’s van,
The thought is food for laughter.
He admits all virtues in his ‘beast,’
But—denies him a hereafter.”