"What dogs have you now?" inquired Mrs. Hamilton.
"Amongst others, a large St. Bernard," is my reply—"Bathsheba, so called after Mr. Hardy's heroine. Not that she has any of that young lady's delicate changes and complications of character, nor is she even 'almighty womanish.'
"Our Bathsheba is of an inexhaustible good temper, stupid, and wonderfully stolid and gentle. She is never crusty, and is the untiring playmate of any child. The 'Lubber fiend' we call her sometimes in fun, for she seems to extend over acres of carpet when she takes a siesta in the drawing-room.
'Has she a soul?' inquired a friend who admired the great gentle creature. 'I fear not,' was my reply; 'only a stomach.'
"Besides Bathsheba, we have a large retriever called 'Frolic.' He and Bath are given sometimes to running after people who go to the back door; they never bite, but growl, and bark if it is a complete stranger.
"On one occasion, an Irishman who had been employed to do some draining met with this hostile reception. ''Tis gude house-dogs,' said my guardian of the poultry grimly.
"On hearing that the Irishman had been frightened, I sought him, expressed to him my regrets, and said that, though big, the dogs were quite harmless. With ready wit he retorted: 'Begorra, it isn't dogs that I am afraid of, but your ladyship keeps lions.'"
"Just one more story," cry the children as I cease speaking, and Mrs. Hamilton points to the clock, as their bedtime is long past. After a few minutes' pause, I continue:
"The other day I was told of a little girl who attended a distribution of prizes given by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.