“No; they have to be a particular kind,” answered papa; “but a dog like your puppy can be taught to fetch anything out of the water, from a bit of stick to a baby. He’s what you call a retriever: that means fetching or finding something. You can teach a good retriever almost anything.”
“I thought so,” said Leigh, nodding his head wisely. “I’ll see what I can’t teach Fuzzy.”
They were back in the park by this time. It was a beautiful May day, almost as warm as summer. The children’s father stood still and looked round with pleasure.
“It is nice to have a holiday sometimes,” he said. “What a lovely colour the grass is in the sunshine!”
“And how happy the little lambs are; aren’t they, papa?” said Mary. “I wish I had one of my very own—like Mary and the lamb in my nursery book.”
“You couldn’t have a lamb and a dog,” said Artie. “Fuzzy would soon knock the lamb over.”
“I never thought of that,” said Mary. “Oh, papa dear,” she went on, “I do so want baby Dolly to get big quick! There’s such lotses of pretty things to show her in the world. The grass and the trees and the lambs”—and while she spoke her blue eyes wandered all round her,—“and the birds and the sky and—and—oh! the daisies, and”—as at that moment she caught sight of the old woman at the lodge crossing the drive with her red cloak on—“and old Mrs Crutch and her pussy-cat, and—”
“You’re getting to talk nonsense, Mary,” said Leigh. “Old Mrs Crutch isn’t a pretty thing!”
“Her cloak’s very pretty,” said Mary, “and she does make such nice ginger-b’ead cake.”