Thus did the Japanese exile illustrate the cosmopolitan story of the catspaw (with the improvement of making it pleasant for the cat), and accomplish the proverbially desirable feat of minding both his meat and his manners. If we could be secured against their imitation, it would be pleasant to ask our own domestic pets the problems:
"What do you think of that, my cat?"
"What do you think of that, my dog?"
A Constant Reader and Disciple.
THE BIOGRAPHY OF SPRIG.
[Jan. 20, 1872.]
I dare not hope to equal the eloquent and most touching biography of Nero, with whom I had the honour of a slight acquaintance. But I was the possessor of an animal who, in his way as a dog, not a cat, for originality of character, reasoning power, talent, and devoted affection I have never seen equalled in his species, and you and your readers may possibly be interested by a sketch of his biography.
Where Sprig was born I do not know, nor had I any acquaintance with his parents. One morning several years ago I chanced to go down stairs early, and found the milk-boy at the hall door, delivering his daily supply to the cook. In the courtyard before my house was a bright-looking rough terrier of small size, frisking about very cheerfully, trying to catch the small stump of a tail which some cruel despoiler had left him. As he was engaged in this pastime, a large brown retriever entered the gate, to look on, I suppose, for he had an amused expression of face, and was wagging his tail amicably. Sprig, however, though but a mite in comparison, decidedly resented the intrusion, and flew at the retriever's throat, from which he had to be choked off by his owner, who brought him back in his arms. The little fellow was in the highest state of excitement and anger, his bright, intelligent eyes flashing, and his hair bristling. He was indeed most amusingly fierce, but was soon calmed when he was shown, and told, that his enemy had fled, whereupon the following colloquy ensued between myself and his owner: Myself: "And where did you get that dog, boy? You did not steal him, I hope?" Boy, in a rich Dublin brogue: "Ah, now! would I stale anythin', yer honner, an' me the poor milk-boy? Is it stale him? Bedad, it's my father's cuzin that's at the Curragh! Sure he's a corporal, so he is. He brought him, and he sez, 'Yez'll get me a pound for him, and no less.' So it's a pound I want for him, sur, and nothin' less. An' sure John Lambert knows me well—so he does!" When John, my servant, was sent for, he gave a good account of the lad, and as he entirely approved of Sprig, I gave the sovereign, showing it to the dog, whose wondering eyes were glancing from one to the other. Then I said to the boy, "Put him into my arms, and tell him he belongs to me;" and he did so. The little fellow looked curiously and wistfully at the lad, who, to do him justice, had tears in his eyes, and then nestled into my breast, licking my hands and face. When my daughter came down stairs, I took up Sprig and placed him in my youngest daughter's arms, a process he appeared to comprehend perfectly, and told him she was his mistress; nor to the day of his death did he ever falter in his devoted allegiance to her. He was very fond of me and of us all, but his deepest love was for his mistress, and on many occasions was most affecting to see. She was often delicate, and once had a sharp attack of typhus fever. In this illness Sprig never left her. He would lie at the foot of her bed watching her, and would sometimes creep gently up to her, put his paws round her neck, and lick her hands softly, while the pleading of his large eyes looking from his mistress, in her unconscious delirium, to her sister and me, was touching in the extreme. Indeed, there were then many sad illnesses, but Sprig was always the same. As my child grew stronger and better her little friend would amuse her by the hour together; sit up, beg, preach, play with his ball, and try in humble doggie fashion to beguile her of her pain. But I am anticipating.
Sprig was, I believe, what is called a Dandie Dinmont, and as he grew up he became, for his class, a very handsome, as he was a sturdy, little fellow, with great strength for his size. He was a reddish-brown colour, more dark-red than brown, like a squirrel, with white below, and a delightfully fuzzy head, and a breast of long soft white hair. His eyes were that peculiar bright liquid "dog" brown which is capable of so much expression, and he grew to have a long moustache and beard. Even the most un-observant of dogs admired him, for he resembled no terrier I have ever seen. I think he would have won the prize of his class at the Dublin Dog Show, had it not been for a terrible accident he met with in being wounded by a large foxhound in a neighbouring orchard. His neck was then torn open, and he was rescued by John only in time to prevent his being killed. As it was, it was weeks before he could walk—and how patient he was all the time! and as the wound healed it left a thickening of his skin which had an awkward look. Sprig was, however, "highly commended." In his youth he was perhaps rather short in his temper, and always resented in the most distinct manner any liberty that was taken with him. To tread upon his foot was perilous, but he was at once pacified if an apology was made that it was accidental; but to pull his tail wilfully was an insult which he resented bitterly, and for which much atonement was necessary, or he would go under the sofa and cry in his peculiar manner when offended.
As he grew up, Sprig developed various talents which were highly cultivated. His greatest pleasure, perhaps, was in an india-rubber ball, with which his gambols were indescribably pretty and constant. It was a great distress when he lost or mislaid his ball, and he was miserable till he found it, or another was brought him. It was a cruel thing to say, when one of us went to town, "Sprig, I will bring you a new ball," and as sometimes happened, to forget to do so. On return he would sniff about the person who had gone, poke his nose into his or her pockets, and if disappointed could hardly be soothed, but would go away and have his quiet cry to himself. Sometimes a kind friend who knew him might bring him a new ball; but it very much depended on who presented it whether it was accepted or not, and I am afraid that too frequently for his good manners he turned it over contemptuously with his nose and left it for the old one, which, gnawed, bitten, and broken, was still the favourite. I used sometimes to make a ball squeak by pressing the hole against my hand, and I believe he thought it was in pain, for he would whine piteously, and would not let me rest till he had it again in his possession. It was most amusing to see him when a parcel of new balls arrived, he having been told beforehand that one was coming. He would find out directly who had it, and become impatient and cross indeed if he did not get it directly. When the parcel was given him, his great delight was to open it himself and select one. A red ball was usually preferred, but not always. All were subjected to the most varied trials—gnawed, smelt, and rolled, till the one which pleased his fancy was finally selected; of the rest he would take no notice whatever.