SQUANKO.
WHAT a name for a dog, auntie!”
“Name! Why, Frank, when you hear the whole, like the Queen of Sheba, you’ll say the half has not been told you.”
“Why, didn’t you find Squanko quite enough for one dog?”
“His full name,” said my aunt, loftily, “is Squanko Guy Edgerly Patterson.”
She rolled out these resonant titles with due gravity, and Squanko, turning his bright eyes from one to the other, solemnly wagged his tail, as if to signify approval.
I was a New Hampshire boy, and this was my first visit to the city. My experience with dogs previously had been that of a country boy bred up among sportsmen. I had known several highly-trained hounds, and famous bird dogs, though my ideal of canine perfection was that marvel of sagacity, the shepherd dog. Still, my first love among dogs had been a noble old hound, who, though sightless from age, would follow a rabbit better than any young dog was capable of doing. The scent of powder brought back his lost youth. Let him hear the loading of a gun,—or the mere rattle of a shot-pouch was enough,—he would break out into the wildest gambols, dashing hither and yon, in an ecstasy of delight.