My father’s love for dogs led him into a strange friendship during our stay at Boulogne. There lived in a cottage on the street which led from our house to the town, a cobbler who used to sit at his window working all day with his dog—a Pomeranian—
on the table beside him. The cobbler, in whom my father became very much interested because of the intelligence of his Pomeranian companion, was taken ill, and for many months was unable to work. My father writes: “The cobbler has been ill these many months. The little dog sits at the door so unhappy and anxious to help that I every day expect to see him beginning a pair of top boots.” Another time father writes in telling the history of this little animal: “A cobbler at Boulogne, who had the nicest of little dogs that always sat in his sunny window watching him at his work, asked me if I would bring the dog home as he couldn’t afford to pay the tax for him. The cobbler and the dog being both my particular friends I complied. The cobbler parted with the dog heartbroken. When the dog got home here, my man, like an idiot as he is, tied him up and then untied him. The moment the gate was open, the dog (on the very day after his arrival) ran out. Next day Georgy and I saw him lying
all covered with mud, dead, outside the neighbouring church. How am I ever to tell the cobbler? He is too poor to come to England, so I feel that I must lie to him for life, and say that the dog is fat and happy.”
Of horses and ponies we possessed but few during our childhood, and these were not of very choice breed. I remember, however, one pretty pony which was our delight, and dear old “Toby,” the good sturdy horse which for many years we used at “Gad’s Hill.” My father, however, was very fond of horses, and I recall hearing him comment on the strange fact that an animal “so noble in its qualities should be the cause of so much villainy.”
* * * * *
To
Miss Dickens’ Pomeranian.
“MRS. BOUNCER.”
Furry, lazy, warm and bright,
Peeing from her fringe of white,
She blinks and sleeps both day and night,A happy Spitz!
She need not fear the cruel stick,
Nor has she learnt a single trick—
Just deigns her mistress’ hand to lick,As she knits.
She eats, and drinks, and eats again,
Is never out in wind or rain,—
Takes many a journey in the train,And her admits.
She has her own coquettish charms,
Knows no sorrows, no alarms,
And dozes in her mistress’ arms—A sleepy Spitz.
How small and piquant are her feet—
Ben Allen’s sister had as neat—
She looks so saucy, one could beatHer into fits.
Quite ravishing when neat and clean,
Her cars seem lined with crinoline:
She rules the house, a haughty queen,A saucy Spitz!
Just tolerates the frequent hug—
Snoozing all day upon the rug,
Complacent, philosophic—snug,Her paws like mits.
At dinner—ah! that pleasant Babel!
Touch her paw beneath the table,
She’d bite your foot—were she but able—A naughty Spitz.
To find her mistress how she flew!
Faithful the coming step she knew
Let others be as brave and true—Lords or Wits!
When Sultan, Turk, and Linda fleet
The lost lov’d Master rushed to meet,
His kindly voice would always greetThe little Spitz!
Alas! so furry, warm, and white,
From this cold world she took her flight,
No more on rug, by fireside bright,Dear Bouncer sits.
Percy FitzGerald.