came. He looked in, ma’am, as a brick-maker might, and then he come in, as a brickmaker might, and he wagged his tail at the pots, and he giv a sniff round and conveyed to me as he was used to beer. So I draw’d him a drop, and he drunk it up. Next morning he come agen by the clock and I draw’d him a pint, and ever since he has took his pint reg’lar.”
On account of our birds, cats were not allowed in the house; but from a friend in London I received a present of a white kitten—Williamina—and she and her numerous offspring had a happy home at “Gad’s Hill.” She became a favorite with all the household, and showed particular devotion to my father. I remember on one occasion when she had presented us with a family of kittens, she selected a corner of father’s study for their home. She brought them one by one from the kitchen and deposited them in her chosen corner. My father called to me to remove them, saying
that he could not allow the kittens to remain in his room. I did so, but Williamina brought them back again, one by one. Again they were removed. The third time, instead of putting them in the corner, she placed them all, and herself beside them, at my father’s feet, and gave him such an imploring glance that he could resist no longer, and they were allowed to remain. As the kittens grew older they became more and more frolicsome, swarming up the curtains, playing about on the writing table and scampering behind the book shelves. But they were never complained of and lived happily in the study until the time came for finding them other homes. One of these kittens was kept, who, as he was quite deaf, was left unnamed, and became known by the servants as “the master’s cat,” because of his devotion to my father. He was always with him, and used to follow him about the garden like a dog, and sit with him while he wrote. One evening we were
all, except father, going to a ball, and when we started, left “the master” and his cat in the drawing-room together. “The master” was reading at a small table, on which a lighted candle was placed. Suddenly the candle went out. My father, who was much interested in his book, relighted the candle stroked the cat, who was looking at him pathetically he noticed, and continued his reading. A few minutes later, as the light became dim, he looked up just in time to see puss deliberately put out the candle with his paw, and then look appealingly toward him. This second and unmistakable hint was not disregarded, and puss was given the petting he craved. Father was full of this anecdote when all met at breakfast the next morning.
Among our dogs were “Turk” and “Linda,” the former a beautiful mastiff and the latter a soft-eyed, gentle, good-tempered St. Bernard. “Mrs. Bouncer,” a Pomeranian, came next, a tiny ball of white fluffy fur, who came as a special gift to me, and speedily
won her way by her grace and daintiness into the affections of every member of the household. My father became her special slave, and had a peculiar voice for her—as he had for us, when we were children—to which she would respond at once by running to him from any part of the house when she heard his call. He delighted to see her with the large dogs, with whom she gave herself great airs, “because,” as he said, “she looks so preposterously small.” A few years later came “Don,” a Newfoundland, and then “Bumble,” his son, named after “Oliver Twist’s” beadle, because of “a peculiarly pompous and overbearing manner he had of appearing to mount guard over the yard when he was an absolute infant.” Lastly came “Sultan,” an Irish bloodhound, who had a bitter experience with his life at “Gad’s Hill.” One evening, having broken his chain, he fell upon a little girl who was passing and bit her so severely that my father considered it necessary to have him shot,
although this decision cost him a great deal of sorrow.
For a short time I had the care of a mongrel called “Gipsy.” She was not allowed to enter any of the family rooms, and used to spend her time lying contentedly on the rug outside the drawing-room. One afternoon a friend came from Chatham bringing with him a wonderful poodle who had been specially invited to perform all his tricks for my father’s enjoyment. On his arrival, “Mrs. Bouncer” became furious, and when he began his tricks she went deliberately into the hall and escorted “Gipsy” into the drawing-room, as much as to say: “I can’t stand this. If strange dogs are to be made much of, surely the dogs in the house may be at least permitted to enter the room.” She would not look at “Fosco,” the poodle, but sat throughout his performance with her back toward him, the picture of offended dignity. Just as soon, however, as he was fairly out of the house,
and not until then, she escorted “Gipsy” back to her rug. My father was intensely amused by this behaviour of “Bouncer’s” and delighted in telling this story about her.
“Mrs. Bouncer” was honored by many messages from her master during his absences from home. Here is one written as I was convalescing from a serious illness: “In my mind’s eye I behold ‘Mrs. Bouncer,’ still with some traces of anxiety on her faithful countenance, balancing herself a little unequally on her forelegs, pricking up her ears with her head on one side, and slightly opening her intellectual nostrils. I send my loving and respectful duty to her.” Again: “Think of my dreaming of ‘Mrs. Bouncer,’ each night!!!”