I stared at the poodles. In the days of their captivity, they had learned how to climb ladders. They were now never asked to perform any tricks. One day, when we first came out here, Mrs. Bonstone had shown a neighbour’s boy what odd things they could do, and his mother told Mrs. Bonstone afterwards that he went home and tried to teach his dog, and beat him cruelly when he would not learn until she interfered and took his stick from him.
“That settles it,” said Mrs. Bonstone, “no more clown tricks for our dogs. They may be as intelligent as they please along their own lines, but they shall not be asked to imitate human beings. They may do it on their own initiative, if they wish.”
The Frenchmen, however, really liked to climb, and Mrs. Bonstone smiled when she saw those two white dogs going, paw over paw, up the ladders that led to the hay-mows. The barn loft was a great place for them to retire to when they wanted a nap.
The stableman, however, did not smile. One day I heard Thomas talking severely to the two Frenchmen who stood before him like two culprits. “If I ever ketch you two young limbs messing up the hay for my horses again, I’ll lather you,” he said, and he shook a strap at them. “Horses hate to have dogs, and cats, and any critters lying on their feed. How would you like a horse to lie on your breakfus, hey?” and he hung the strap up where they could see it.
The Frenchmen trembled, and went away with hanging heads, and from that day to this, I had never heard of their climbing to the mows. So I said to Czarina, “Weren’t they afraid to go up there?”
“Ask them,” she said with a motion of her noble head toward them.
The Frenchmen bowed politely—they always did everything together, and each one lifting a forepaw, curled it slightly, to signify that they had mounted to the mow and found the bottle.
“And pushed it down?” I asked.
“Yes! yes!” said all the dogs.