Transcriber's Note:

Punctuation, Spelling and Geographical errors retained as found in the original.

DOG STORIES.

Dog Stories

FROM THE "SPECTATOR"

BEING ANECDOTES OF THE INTELLIGENCE, REASONING POWER, AFFECTION AND SYMPATHY OF DOGS, SELECTED FROM THE CORRESPONDENCE COLUMNS OF "THE SPECTATOR"

WITH AN INTRODUCTION

BY

J. St. LOE STRACHEY

NEW YORK: MACMILLAN AND CO.
MDCCCXCV

"Sir, to leave things out of a book, merely because people tell you they will not be believed, is meanness."

(Dr. Johnson.)

All rights reserved.

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION.

I.

The following Dog Stories are taken from the pages of the Spectator, with the permission of the editors and proprietors. It was suggested to me by Mr. Fisher Unwin that the many strange and pleasant stories of dogs which from time to time are sent to the Spectator by its correspondents would, if put together, form a volume of no little entertainment for all who love dogs, or are interested in stories of animal intelligence. Up till now the Spectator dog stories, after the week of their publication, have practically been inaccessible to the general reader; for he is a bold man who will attack a bound volume of a newspaper in search of amusement. Though I at once agreed that the suggested book would be a very readable one, and likely to please dog-lovers all the world over, I did not, till the selection was nearly made, realise how much the stories gain by being grouped together. A single story of a clever dog may amuse, but it is liable to be put aside as an accident, a coincidence, a purely exceptional circumstance which proves nothing. If, however, instead of a single story we have half a dozen illustrating the same form of intelligence, the value of the evidence is enormously increased, and a collection of dog stories may become of very great value in determining such questions as the power of dogs to act on reason as well as on instinct, or their ability to understand human language. The solution of these problems is, I cannot help thinking, materially advanced by the stories in the present book. Take, again, the group of stories which I have labelled Purchasing Dogs. One sample of this kind might, as I have noted above, be put off as a case of imperfect observation, or as a curious coincidence; but when we get a whole group of stories it becomes very difficult to doubt that dogs may learn the first principles of the science of exchange. The Italian dog (page [59]) which did the narrator a service by fetching him cigars, demanded payment in the shape of a penny, and then used that penny by exchanging it for a loaf, was far advanced in the practice of Political Economy. He not only understood and acted on an implied contract, but realised the great fact at the back of the currency. "What are guineas," said Horne Tooke, "but tickets for sheep and oxen!" The Italian dog did not, like a savage, say, "What is the use of copper to me, I cannot eat it?" Instead, he perceived that the piece of copper was a ticket for bread. It should be noted too that this dog, the dog called Hardy (page [57]) and others, were able to distinguish between the pieces of copper given them. Again, the Glasgow story (page [53]) shows that a dog can learn to realise that a halfpenny will buy not merely one thing but several things—in fact, that the great advantage of exchange by currency over barter is that it gives you a choice. While on the subject of purchasing dogs, it is curious to reflect how very little is wanted to convert the dog that is able to purchase into a free agent. If a dog can exchange his faculty for cigar carrying or his tricks against half-pence, why should he not exchange useful services, such as guarding a house or herding sheep, and so become self-supporting? Imagine a collie paid by the day, and, when his work was over, receiving twopence and going off to buy his supper. But the vista opened is too far-reaching. One sees down it dogs paid by the hour and by the piece, and then dogs asking for better pay and shorter hours, and, finally, dogs on strike, and dog "black-legs," or "free dogs."

II.

A word should be said as to the authenticity of the stories in the present volume. It is a matter of common form for the evening newspapers to talk of the Spectator dog stories as hoaxes, and to refer in their playful, way to "another Spectator dog." It might not then unnaturally have been supposed that a person undertaking to edit and reprint these stories would have found a considerable number that showed signs of being hoaxes. I may confess, indeed, that I set out with the notion of forming a sort of Appendix to the present work, which should be headed "Ben Trovato," in which should be inserted stories which were too curious and amusing to be left out altogether, but which, on the other hand, were what the Americans call a little "too tall" to be accepted as genuine. The result of my plan was unexpected. Though I found many stories in which the inferences seemed strained or mistaken, and others which contained indications of exaggeration, I could find but two stories which could reasonably be declared as only suitable for a "Ben Trovato." I therefore suppressed my heading. The truth is that the animal stories are much more carefully sifted at the Spectator office than our witty critics and contemporaries will admit. No stories are ever published unless the names and addresses of the writers are supplied, and all stories are rejected which have anything clearly suspicious about them. What the editors of the Spectator do not do is to reject a dog-story because it states that a dog has been observed to do something which has never been reported as having been done by a dog before, or at any rate, something which is not universally admitted to be doable by a dog. Apparently this willingness to print stories which enlarge our notions of animal intelligence is regarded in certain quarters as a sign that the Spectator will swallow anything, and that its stories must be apocryphal. I cannot, however, help thinking that all who care for the advancement of knowledge in regard to animals should be grateful to the editors of the Spectator for not adopting the plan of excluding all dog stories that do not correspond with an abstract ideal of canine intelligence. Had they acted on the principle of putting every anecdote that seemed primâ facie unlikely into the waste-paper basket, they would certainly have missed a great many stories of real value. In truth, there is nothing so credulous as universal incredulity. An attitude of general incredulity means a blind belief in the existing state of opinion. If we believe that animals have no reasoning power, and refuse to examine evidence that is brought to show the contrary, we are adopting, the attitude of those who disbelieve that the earth goes round the sun because they seem daily to see a proof of an exactly opposite proposition. If people are to refuse to believe anything of a dog that does not sound likely on the face of it, we shall never get at the truth about animal intelligence. What is wanted is the careful preservation and collection of instances of exceptional intelligence.

III.

Before I conclude this Introduction, I should like to address a word of apology to the correspondents of the Spectator whose letters form the present volume. Though the copyright of the letters belongs to the editors and proprietors of the Spectator I should have liked to ask the leave of the various writers before republishing their letters. Physical difficulties have, however rendered this impossible. In the case of nearly half the letters the names and addresses have not been preserved. In many instances, again, only the names remain. Lastly, a large number of the letters are ten or twelve, or even twenty years old, and the writers may therefore be dead or out of England. Under these circumstances I have not made any effort to enter into communication with the writers before including their letters in this book. That their permission would have been given, had it been asked, I do not doubt. The original communication of the letters to the Spectator is proof that the writers wished a public use to be made of the anecdotes they relate. As long, then, as the letters are not altered or edited, but produced verbatim, I may, I think, feel assured that I am doing nothing which is even remotely discourteous to the writers.

SYLLOGISTIC DOGS.

A DOG ON LONG SERMONS.

[Aug. 4, 1888.]

During a recent journey in Canada, I met with a striking instance of reason in a dog. I was staying at the Mohawk Indian Institution, Brantford, Ontario. The Rev. R. Ashton, superintendent of the school, is also incumbent of the neighbouring Mohawk Church (the oldest Protestant church in Canada). Mr. Ashton is very fond of animals, and has many pets. One of these, a black-and-tan terrier, always accompanies the ninety Indian children to church on Sunday morning. He goes to the altar-rails, and lies down facing the congregation. When they rise to sing, he rises; and when they sit, he lies down. One day, shortly before my visit, a stranger-clergyman was preaching, and the sermon was longer than usual. The dog grew tired and restless, and at last a thought occurred to him, upon which he at once acted. He had observed that one of the elder Indian boys was accustomed to hand round a plate for alms, after which the service at once concluded. He evidently thought that if he could persuade this boy to take up the collection, the sermon must naturally end. He ran down to the back seat occupied by the boy, seated himself in the aisle, and gazed steadfastly in the boy's face. Finding that no notice was taken, he sat up and "begged" persistently for some time, to Mr. Ashton's great amusement. Finally, as this also failed, the dog put his nose under the lad's knee, and tried with all his strength to force him out of his place, continuing this at intervals till the sermon was concluded.

Did not this prove a distinct power of consecutive reasoning?

A. H. A.

A COMMERCIAL TREATY BETWEEN A DOG AND A HEN.

[July 7, 1888.]

Your dog-loving readers may be interested in the following instance of animal sagacity. Bob is a fine two-year-old mastiff, with head and face of massive strength, heightened by great mildness of expression. One day he was seen carrying a hen, very gently, in his mouth, to the kennel. Placing her in one corner, he stood sentry while she laid an egg, which he at once devoured. From that day the two have been fast friends, the hen refusing to lay anywhere but in "Bob's" kennel, and getting her reward in the dainty morsels from his platter. There must have been a bit of canine reasoning here. "Bob" must have found eggs to his liking, that they were laid by hens, and that he could best secure a supply by having a hen to himself.

Thomas Hamer.

A DOG NURSE.

[Feb. 20, 1875.]

A patient recently consulted me who was blind and subject to fits. I pointed out to her friends the danger to which she was exposed in case a fit came on when she was in the vicinity of a fire, and they informed me that she incurred little or no risk, because a favourite dog ran at once and fetched assistance the moment a fit came on. This intelligent animal would rush into the next house barking eagerly, would seize the dress of the woman who lived there, and drag her to the assistance of his mistress. If one did not go, he would seize another, and exhibited the most lively symptoms of distress until his object was accomplished.

Charles Bell Taylor, M.D., F.R.C.S.

INSTINCT, OR REASON?

[Sept. 1, 1888.]

The following incident in dog-life may perhaps find a place in the Spectator. I quote from a letter received a few days ago from my nephew, "T. G. T.," resident in South Africa:—"Johannesburg, Traansvaal.—My dog Cherry has had three great pups, and I had to leave her behind at the Grange. When I was going away, Cherry and the pups were located in some stables. She came out and watched the tent-truck and my things packed up. Presently I went away, and when I came back I found Cherry had carried all the pups on to the top of my luggage, and evidently had not the least intention of staying behind."

T. W. T.

HOSPITAL DOGS.

[June 26, 1875.]

Dr. Walter F. Atlee writes to the editor of the Philadelphia Medical Times:—

"In a letter recently received from Lancaster, where my father resides, it is said:—'A queer thing occurred just now. Father was in the office, and heard a dog yelping outside the door; he paid no attention until a second and louder yelp was heard, when he opened it, and found a little brown dog standing on the step upon three legs. He brought him in, and on examining the fourth leg, found a pin sticking in it. He drew out the pin, and the dog ran away again.' The office of my father, Dr. Atlee, is not directly on the street, but stands back, having in front of it some six feet of stone wall with a gate. I will add, that it has not been possible to discover anything more about this dog.

"This story reminds me of something similar that occurred to me while studying medicine in this same office nearly thirty years ago. A man, named Cosgrove, the keeper of a low tavern near the railroad station, had his arm broken, and came many times to the office to have the dressings arranged. He was always accompanied by a large, most ferocious-looking bull-dog, that watched me most attentively, and most unpleasantly to me, while bandaging his master's arm. A few weeks after Cosgrove's case was discharged, I heard a noise at the office door, as if some animal was pawing it, and on opening it, saw there this huge bull-dog, accompanied by another dog that held up one of its front legs, evidently broken. They entered the office. I cut several pieces of wood, and fastened them firmly to the leg with adhesive plaster, after straightening the limb. They left immediately. The dog that came with Cosgrove's dog I never saw before nor since."

Do not these stories adequately show that the dogs reasoned and drew new inferences from a new experience?

B.

[April 6, 1889.]

Knowing your interest in dogs, I venture to send you the following story. A week or two ago, the porter of the Bristol Royal Infirmary was disturbed one morning about 6.30 by the howling of a dog outside the building. Finding that it continued, he went out and tried to drive it away; but it returned and continued to howl so piteously, that he was obliged to go out to it again. This time he observed that one of its paws was injured. He therefore brought it in and sent for two nurses, who at once dressed the paw, and were rewarded by every canine sign of gratitude, including much licking of their hands. The patient was "retained" for two days, during which time he received every attention from those inside the house, and from the neighbours outside, who quickly heard of the case. As no one appeared to claim the dog, he was sent to the Home for Lost Dogs in the city, where so interesting an animal was, of course, not long in finding a purchaser. The dog was one of those called "lurchers."

I have myself called on the porter of the infirmary for confirmation of the story, and am assured by him of its truth. How did an apparently friendless dog know where to go for surgical aid? The case differs from that of the dog which took its friend for treatment to King's College Hospital in London, for I understand that the King's College dog had previously been taken to the hospital for treatment itself; but in this case there is no such clue.

Helen M. Sturge.

FEATURES IN THE CHARACTER OF A DOG.

[June 10, 1876.]

For some time past I have noticed in your journal letters and articles referring to the wonderful powers of dogs. As I was myself much struck by many features in the character of a dog which I knew, illustrating, as I think, not only affection, but reasoning faculties, I shall acquaint you with a few of these, believing that they may be interesting, at least to all admirers of that noble animal.

The dog of which I speak was a terrier. It showed its affection in the most marked manner in several ways. Every morning, as soon as it got out of the kitchen, it came to its master's door, and if not admitted and caressed about the usual hour, gave evident signs of impatience. It would lie quiet till it thought the time had arrived, but never longer. Afterwards it went to the breakfast-room, and occupied its master's chair till he arrived. On one occasion a visitor was in the house, who, coming first into the room, ordered the dog to come off the best chair. To this it paid no attention, and when threatened with expulsion, at once prepared for defence. But as soon as its master appeared it resigned its place voluntarily, and quietly stretched itself on the rug at his feet.

At another time it was left for three weeks during its master's absence from home. It saw him leave in a steamer, and every day until his return it repaired to the quay upon the arrival of the same boat, expecting him to come again in the one by which he had gone. It distinguished between a number of boats, always selecting the right one and the right hour.

One evening it accompanied its master when he went to gather mussels for bait. As the tide was far in, few mussels remained uncovered; and after collecting all within reach, more were required. A large bunch lay a few feet from the water's edge, but beyond reach; yet as the dog was not one of those who take the water to fetch, its master had no expectation that it would prove useful on the present occasion. Seeing him looking at the mussels, however, it first took a good look at those in the basket, and then, without being directed at all, went into the water. Selecting the right bunch from amongst the stones and wreck with which it was surrounded, it brought it to land, and laid it at its master's feet. This, I think, is a proof of reason, rather than of instinct. The dog had never been trained to go into the sea, and would not probably have brought out the mussels had it not seen that they were wanted.

It showed wonderful instinct, however, just before the death of one of its pups, and before its own death. Its pup had not been thriving, and the mother gave unmistakable proof that she foresaw its death. She dug a grave for it and put it in. Nor, when it was removed, would she let it lie beside her, but immediately dug another grave, where she was less likely to be disturbed. Upon the day of her own death, also, she used what strength she had to dig her grave, in which she lay, preferring to die in it, than in what would seem to most a place of greater comfort.[1]

These may not be singular incidents, but they are still remarkable and worthy of notice. They serve to show us the wonderful nature of man's faithful friend, the dog, and how he has many traits of character fitted to make him the worthy receiver of kindness and respect.

T.

[1] It is difficult to accept T.'s explanation of the dog's object in digging. Possibly its aim was to obtain warmth or shelter.

BULLY'S SHORT CUT.

[Aug. 29, 1874.]

I see that you welcome all notes of interest upon our fellow-beings, the dogs. Here is one that seems to prove they have a sense of time and of distance as measured by time.

I was walking with my bull-terrier, Bully (seven years old last Christmas), during a hot afternoon this month homewards along the Bund (Shanghai), and I suddenly missed him. I turned back for twenty or thirty yards, and, not finding him, I gave up the search, saying, "He knows the way home well enough." Presently I saw him on my right, dripping with water, cantering on at a round pace, without looking about him, homewards. I watched him, curious to see whether he would go straight home. No. He kept on till he reached the distance of about 150 yards, and looked ahead, not smelling the ground. He then deliberately walked back, catching sight of me in about twenty yards after his turning back, and wagged his tale recognisingly. He had evidently been to cool himself in the river (thirty yards to the right, it being low tide), and, thinking I would go on at the ordinary pace without him, he, after his bath, struck directly at a long diagonal for the point I would have reached if I had not turned back to look for him. He did not seem to have the slightest misgiving as to his sense of the distance I ought to have walked during the time of his bath. His turning was done seemingly with a calm assurance of certainty. I may add that there were twenty to thirty foot-passengers scattered over the portion of road in question at the time, whose footsteps might have effaced my scent on the watered granite macadamised roadway, even supposing the dog to have tried his sense of smell, which he did not, as far as I could see, and I noticed him carefully.

W. G. S.

CANINE INTELLIGENCE.

[July 24, 1886.]

You often give us pleasant anecdotes of our four-footed friends. You may think the following worthy of record. I have a little dog, a not particularly well-bred fox-terrier. He is much attached to me, and shows by his obedience, and sometimes in his disobedience, that he understands a good deal. Yesterday I was away all day, and he, I am told, was very uneasy, and searched everywhere for me. Every day at 5 p.m. I go to church. Toby seems to know this is not an ordinary walk, and never offers to come with me. But yesterday, when the bell began, he started off and took up his position by the vestry door. I believe he reasoned with himself, "There goes the bell; now I shall catch the Vicar."

William Quennell.

THE DOG AND THE FERRY.

[April 4, 1885.]

Reading from time to time many pleasant anecdotes in the columns of the Spectator—which, by the way, I receive as regularly, and read as eagerly, as when resident in England many years ago—relative to the sagacity of dogs, I send the following, thinking it possible you may deem it worthy of insertion.

Some three years ago I was "having a spell" in Brisbane, after a lengthened sojourn on a sheep station in the interior of Queensland. During my stay in the city I had the good fortune to gain the friendship of a gentleman who owned a magnificent collie. My friend, his dog Sweep, and myself, were frequently together, engaged either in yachting among the islands of Moreton Bay, or 'possum hunting under the towering eucalypti which fringe the banks of the river Brisbane. Naturally "Sweep" (who was a most lovable animal) and myself soon began to entertain a warm friendship for one another, which friendship gave rise to the anecdote I am about to relate. Returning to my hotel about midnight from the house of a friend, I was not a little startled at finding my hand suddenly seized from behind by a dog, which, however, I at once recognised as my handsome acquaintance, Sweep. I patted him, at the same time endeavouring to withdraw the hand which he held firmly, but gently, between his teeth. It was of no use, as, in spite of all my endearments, he insisted on retaining his hold, wriggling along by my side, and vigorously wagging his tail, as though he would say, "Don't be afraid; it's all right." We soon reached a point in the main street down which we were walking, where a side avenue branched off towards the river. My way lay right ahead. Sweep, however, insisted on my taking the road which lay at a right-angle to my course. I felt some annoyance at his persistence, as I was both tired and sleepy; but, having no choice in the matter, I followed his lead. Having walked some two or three hundred yards down his street, he released his hold, dancing round me, then running on for a few yards and looking back to see if I were following. Becoming interested, I determined to see what he was after, so, without further resistance, I followed submissively. At last, having reached the river, which at this place was about four hundred yards wide, he, with many joyous barks, ran down the ferry steps, and jumped into the empty boat of the ferryman. At last I was able to guess at his motive for forcing me to follow him. His master, who lived across the river, had accidentally lost sight of his dog returning from his office in the city; and Sweep appeared to understand perfectly that unless the boatman received his fare he, Sweep, would not be carried over, my friend frequently sending the dog over by himself when wishing to attend concerts, &c., invariably paying the fare as of an ordinary passenger. The ferryman, who at once recognised my canine friend, laughed heartily when I told him how I had been served, took my penny, and set off at once for "Kangaroo Point," Sweep gaily barking "good-night" until he reached the opposite bank. I heard subsequently that he used to swim the river when left behind; but having had two narrow escapes from sharks, his nerves had become somewhat shaken so far as water was concerned.

J. Wm. Creighton.

THE REASON OF DOGS.

[Nov. 13, 1875.]

Having often read, with great pleasure, the anecdotes about dogs which from time to time appear in the Spectator, I venture to send you one which has come under my own observation, and which, it seems to me, shows an effort of reasoning implying two distinct ideas—one the consequence of the other—more interesting than many of those clever performances of educated dogs which may or may not be merely mechanical actions.

The dog who performed the following trick was then a great, half-grown, awkward puppy, whose education, up to that time, had been much neglected. It has been better attended to since, and now, although sportsmen probably consider such an animal sadly thrown away upon a lady, he is a very pleasant friend and companion. My two dogs, Guy and Denis, form as capital a pair, for contrast's sake, as one need wish to see. They are both handsome dogs of their kind—Guy, a fine black retriever, with no white hair upon him, and, I believe, in the eyes of sportsmen, as well as those of his mistress, a very desirable possession, good-tempered, clever, and affectionate; Denis, as naughty and spoilt a little fellow as ever existed, and a great pet, also black, except for his yellow paws and chest, but covered with long, loose locks, instead of Guy's small, crisp curls.

Denis is exceedingly comic, and a constant source of amusement. He is very faithful to his mistress, whose bedside during illness he has refused to leave, even for food; but it must be confessed that he is not amiably disposed towards most people, and is a perfect tyrant over the other animals. Some account of the two dogs' character is necessary, to explain the little scene which took place between them one evening about a year ago. Guy, it must be premised, is at least twelve months younger than Denis, consequently, when the former first arrived—a miserable and very ugly little puppy, a few weeks old, more like a small black jug than any known animal of the canine species, having had the mange, and lost all his hair—Denis undertook his education, and ruled him so severely that his influence lasted a long while; indeed, even after Guy had grown so big that Denis almost needed to stand upon his hind legs in order to snap at him, the great dog would crouch meekly at a growling remonstrance from the little master, and never dared to invade his rights—to approach his plate of food, or to drink before him. Now a days Guy has discovered his own power, and although too good-natured an animal ever to ill-treat the little dog, no longer allows any liberties, but at the same time, when the scene which I am about to describe took place, he was still under the impression that Denis's wrath was a terrible and dangerous matter.

And now for my story, which, it seems to me, shows as much real reasoning power in an untrained animal as any anecdote that I ever read. One evening I took my two dogs to the kitchen, to give them the rare treat of a bone apiece. (Dogs were certainly never intended to make Natal their home, for, in order to keep them alive at all, they should never be given anything that they like, especially meat, and even then the most careful management often fails in preserving them from disease and death.) One of my sisters was with me, and together we watched the dogs over their supper. Guy, with his great mouth, and ravenous, growing appetite, made short work with his, every vestige of which had vanished; while little Denis was still contentedly sucking away at his small share, not very hungry, and taking his pleasures sedately, like a gentleman, as he is. And then Guy began to watch the other with an envious eye, evidently casting about in his mind how he might gain possession of that bone. He was even then, though not full grown, so big and strong that he could have taken it by force with the greatest ease; but such an idea did not cross his mind; he decided to employ stratagem to win the prize. I must mention here, that amongst other naughty practices of my dogs, is that of rushing out of the house and barking violently upon the slightest sound without. This is Denis's fault, which Guy, in spite of all my lessons, has contracted from him. With the evident intention of sending Denis out, Guy suddenly started up, and began to bark towards the door in an excited manner, but not running out himself, as he certainly would have done, had he really heard anything. Down went Denis's bone, and out rushed he, barking at the top of his voice. Did Guy follow him? Oh, dear no! he had no such intentions; he sneaked up to Denis's bone immediately, picked it up, and ran to the other end of the room. But when he had got it, he did not know what to do with it; there was no hiding-place for him there, and he dare neither await Denis's return openly, nor risk meeting him at the door. My sister and I were, by this time, both sitting on a bench against the wall, watching the scene between the dogs, and Guy, after running once round the room, with the bone in his mouth, came and crept in beneath my seat, where he was hidden by my dress, and where he lay, not eating the bone, and in perfect silence. Presently Master Denis trotted back, quite unconscious, and shaking the curls out of his eyes, as much as to say, "My dear fellow! what a fuss you've made; there's nothing there." He looked about for his bone for a few minutes, but soon gave up the search, and began to amuse himself with other things. After a while, I, forgetting the culprit beneath my seat, rose, and crossed the room, leaving him exposed. Guy was in a great fright; he jumped up, and running to my sister, who was still seated, he stood up with his forepaws upon her lap, and the bone still untouched in his mouth, as though begging her protection. Denis, however, did not observe him, and after a few minutes, Guy's courage returned, and finally he ventured to lie down, with the bone between his paws, and began to gnaw it, keeping one eye fixed on Denis the while. This, however, was going a step too far. Denis was attracted by the sound, and recognised his own bone the moment that he looked round. He marched up to Guy (who immediately stopped eating) and stood before him. Denis growled, and Guy slowly removed one great paw from his prize. Denis advanced a step, with another growl; Guy removed the other paw, and slunk back a little, whereupon Master Denis calmly walked up, took possession of his bone, and went off with it.

I am bound, however, to remark that after another half-hour's contented amusement over it, he resigned the remainder, which was too hard for his small mouth, to Guy, who finished the last morsel with great satisfaction. Now that he is full grown, Guy still gives up to Denis in many little ways, but it is evidently through generosity only, for he has proved himself perfectly capable of taking his own part. But he is very gentle with his little playmate, except at night, when he lies across my door-way—entirely of his own accord—and will allow no one and nothing to enter without my command.

Frances E. Colenso.

A CANINE SIGHT-SEER.

[May 20, 1876.]

As a subscriber to your journal, I have observed from time to time discussion on the "reasoning power of dogs." I will tell you what I observed to-day. In consequence of the Levée there was a great crowd in Pall Mall. I was invited by a friend to accompany him in his carriage from St. James's Palace down Pall Mall, when lo and behold, his dog, which usually runs with the carriage, insisting on getting in also. Nothing could induce him to get out, and whilst passing along Pall Mall he amused himself looking out of window at the police, soldiers, and crowd collected. When through, he was glad enough to get out again, and readily followed through the most frequented streets. Now, I have no doubt as to that dog's "reasoning power," respecting his ability to follow his carriage safely through the dense crowd collected around St. James's Palace and Marlborough House.

H.

THINKING OUT A PLAN.

[March 3, 1888.]

Are animals able to think over and carry out a plan? The following anecdotes will answer the question. When in India, I had a small rough terrier who, when given a bone, was sent to eat it on the gravel drive under an open porch in front of the bungalow. On several occasions two crows had made an attempt to snatch the dainty morsel, but their plans were easily defeated by Topsy's growls and snapping teeth. Away flew the crows to the branch of a tree near by. After a few moments of evident discussion, they proceeded to carry out the plan of attack. One crow flew down to the ground and gave a peck at the end of the dog's tail. Topsy at once turned to resent this attack in the rear, whilst the other crow flew down and bore the bone away in triumph.

The same dog had a favourite resting-place in an easy-chair, and was very often deprived of it by a dog which came as visitor to the house. Topsy did not approve of this, and her attempts to regain her seat were met with growls and bites. This justified an act of eviction, and the busy little brain decided on a plan. The next day, as usual, the intruder established himself in the chair, which was close to the open door. Topsy looked on for a moment, and then flew savagely out of doors, barking at a supposed enemy. Out ran the other dog to see what was up, and back came Topsy to take possession of her coveted seat. The other dog came slowly back, and curled himself up in a far-off corner. The above I was an eye-witness to, and therefore can vouch for the truth of what I relate.

K. P.

A PARCEL-CARRYING DOG.

[Feb. 9, 1895.]

In illustration of the anecdotal letters about dogs and their habits, in the Spectator of February 2nd, and Mr. Lang's paper in this month's Nineteenth Century, I send you the following story of a dog which I had in 1851 and for three years afterwards. He was a handsome Newfoundland dog, and one of the most intelligent animals with which it was ever my good luck to meet. I was living in a village about three miles from Dover, where I did all my shopping and marketing, being generally my own "carrier." Sometimes Nep would carry home a small parcel for me, and always most carefully. On one occasion Nep was with me when I chose a spade, and asked the ironmonger to send it by the village carrier. The spade was put by, labelled and duly addressed. I went on to have a bathe, my dog going with me, but on finishing my toilet in the machine, and calling and whistling for Nep, he was nowhere to be seen. He was not to be found at the stable where I had left my horse, but on calling at the ironmonger's shop I found he had been there and had carried off the spade which I had bought, balancing it carefully in his mouth. When I reached home, there Nep was, lying near his kennel in the stable-yard looking very fagged, but wearing a countenance of the fullest self-satisfaction, and evidently wishing me to think he had fulfilled his "dog-duty." My friend Mr. Wood, who was a thorough lover and admirer of dogs, was delighted to hear of his intelligent performance.

"Canophilist."

P.S.—I may add Nep always guarded me when bathing, and always went into the water with me, too, often uttering a peculiar kind of "howl."

THE REASONING POWERS OF DOGS.

PURCHASING DOGS.

[May 26, 1877.]

Some time ago I sent you my recollections of a dog who knew a halfpenny from a penny, and who could count up as far as two (see page 56). I have been able to obtain authentic information of a dog whose mental powers were still more advanced, and who, in his day, besides being celebrated for his abilities, was of substantial benefit to a charitable institution in his town. The dog I refer to was a little white fox-terrier, Prin by name, who lived at the Lion Hotel, at Kidderminster, for three or four years; but now, alas! he is dead, and nothing remains of him but his head in a glass case.

I had heard of this dog some months ago, but on Saturday last, having to make a visit to Kidderminster, I went to see him. The facts I give about him are based on the statements of Mr. Lloyd, his master, and they are fully substantiated by the evidence of many others. I have before me a statement of the proceeds of "Dog Prin's box, Lion Hotel; subscriptions to the Infirmary." The contributions began in September, 1874, and ended on April 25th, 1876, and during that period the sum of £13 14s. 6d. was contributed through Prin's instrumentality.

He began by displaying a fancy for playing with coins, not unusual amongst terriers, and he advanced to a discovery that he could exchange the coins for biscuits. He learnt that for a halfpenny he could get two biscuits, and for a penny, three; and, having become able to distinguish between the two coins, it was found impossible to cheat him. If he had contributed a penny, he would not leave the bar till he had had his third biscuit; and if there was nobody to attend to his wants, he kept the coin in his mouth till he could be served. Indeed, it was this persistence which ultimately caused poor Prin's death, for there is every reason to fear that he fell a victim to copper-poisoning.

By a little training he was taught to place the coins, after he had got the biscuits, upon the top of a small box fixed on the wall, and they were dropped for him through a slot. He never objected to part with them in this way, and having received the quid pro quo, he gave complete evidence of his appreciation of the honourable understanding which is so absolutely necessary for all commercial transactions.

An authenticated case like this is of extreme value, for just as the elementary stages of any science or discovery are the most difficult and the slowest in accomplishment, so are the primary stages of all mental processes. To find the preliminary steps of the evolution of mathematics and commerce in a dog is therefore a very important observation, and everything bearing on these early phases of intellect should be carefully recorded.

Lawson Tait.

[Feb. 10, 1877.]

The Spectator is always so kind to animals that I venture to send you the following story of a dog's sagacity, which may be depended upon as absolutely true:—

During the meeting of the British Association at Glasgow, a friend of mine had occasion to go one day from that place to Greenock on business. Hearing, on his arrival, that the person he wished to see was out, but expected shortly to return home, he determined to take a stroll about the town, to which he was a stranger. In the course of his walk he turned into a baker's shop and bought a bun. As he stood at the door of the shop eating his bun, a large dog came up to him and begged for a share, which he got, and seemed to enjoy, coming back for piece after piece. "Does the dog belong to you?" my friend asked of the shop-woman. "No," she answered, "but he spends most of his time here, and begs halfpennies from the people who pass." "Halfpennies! What good can they be to him?" "Oh, he knows very well what to do with them; he comes into the shop and buys cakes."

This seemed rather a remarkable instance of cleverness even for the cleverest of animals, so, by way of testing its reality, my friend went out of the shop into the street, where he was immediately accosted by the dog, who begged for something with all the eloquence of which a dog is capable. He offered him a halfpenny, and was rather surprised to see him accept it readily, and walk, with the air of a regular customer, into the shop, where he put his forepaws on the counter, and held out the halfpenny towards the attendant. The young woman produced a bun, but that did not suit the dog, and he held his money fast. "Ah," she said, "I know what he wants," and took down from a shelf a plate of shortbread. This was right; the dog paid his halfpenny, took his shortbread, and ate it with decorous satisfaction. When he had quite finished he left the shop, and my friend, much amused, followed him, and when he again begged found another halfpenny for him, and saw the whole process gone through a second time.

This dog clearly had learned by some means the use of money, and not merely that it would buy something to eat, but that it would buy several things, among which he could exercise a right of choice. What is perhaps most remarkable is that his proceedings were entirely independent, and for his own benefit, not that of any teacher or master.

A. L. W.

[Feb. 17, 1877.]

When a student at Edinburgh, I enjoyed the friendship of a brown retriever, who belonged to a fishmonger in Lothion Street, and who was certainly the cleverest dog I have ever met with. He was a cleverer dog than the one described by "A. L. W." because he knew the relative value of certain coins. In the morning he was generally to be seen seated on the step of the fishmonger's shop-door, waiting for some of his many friends to give him a copper. When he had got one, he trotted away to a baker's shop a few doors off, and dropped the coin on the counter. If I remember rightly (it is twelve or fifteen years ago), his weakness was "soda scones." If he dropped a halfpenny on the counter he was contented with one scone, but if he had given a penny he expected two, and would wait for the second, after he had eaten the first, until he got it. That he knew exactly when he was entitled to one scone only, and when he ought to get two, is certain, for I tried him often.

Lawson Tait.

[Feb. 17, 1877.]

In the Spectator of the 10th inst. a correspondent describes the purchase of cakes by a clever dog at Greenock. I should like to be allowed to help preserve the memory of a most worthy dog-friend of my youth, well remembered by many now living who knew Greenwich Hospital some thirty or five-and-thirty years ago.

At that time there lived there a dog-pensioner called Hardy, a large brown Irish retriever. He was so named by Sir Thomas Hardy, when Governor (Nelson's Hardy), who at the same time constituted him a pensioner, at the rate of one penny per diem, for that he had one day saved a life from drowning just opposite the hospital. Till that time he was a poor stranger and vagrant dog—friendless. But thenceforward he lived in the hospital, and spent his pension himself at the butcher's shop, as he did also many another coin given to him by numerous friends. Many is the halfpenny which, as a child, I gave Hardy, that I might see him buy his own meat—which he did with judgment, and a due regard to value. When a penny was given to him, he would, on arriving at the shop, place it on the counter and rest his nose or paw upon it until he received two halfpennyworths, nor would any persuasion induce him to give up the coin for the usual smaller allowance. I was a young child at the time, but I had a great veneration for Hardy, and remember him well, but lest my juvenile memory might have been in fault, I have, before writing this letter, compared my recollections with those of my elders, who, as grown people, knew Hardy for many years, and confirm all the above facts. There, indeed, was the right dog in the right place. Peace to his shade!

J. D. C.

[Feb. 7, 1885.]

Have you room for one more dog story, which resembles one lately reported in a French journal? A few years since I was sitting inside the door of a shop to escape from the rain while waiting for a trap to take me to the railway station in the old Etruscan city of Ferentino. Presently an ill-bred dog of the pointer kind came and sat down in front of me, looking up in my face, and wagging his tail to attract my attention. "What does that dog want?" I asked of a bystander. "Signore," he answered, "he wants you to give him a soldo to go and buy you a cigar with." I gave the dog the coin, and he presently returned, bringing a cigar, which he held crossways in his mouth until I took it from him. Sent again and again, he brought me three or four more cigars from the tobacco-shop. At length the dog's demeanour changed, and he gave vent to his impatience by two or three low whines. "What does he want now?" I asked. "He wants you to give him two soldi to go to the baker's and buy bread for himself." I gave him a two-soldo piece, and in a few minutes the dog returned with a small loaf of bread, which he laid at my feet, at the same time gazing wistfully in my face. "He won't take it until you give him leave," said another bystander. I gave the requisite permission, and the dear animal seized the loaf and disappeared with it in his mouth, and did not again make his appearance before I left the city. "He always does like this," said the standers-by, "whenever he sees a stranger in Ferentino."

Greville I. Chester.

CAUTIOUS DOGS.

INTELLIGENT SUSPICION IN A DOG.

[July 7, 1888.]

The following instance of dog instinct (or reasoning?) will, I think, interest some of your readers. About a fortnight ago, while crossing the Albula Pass, our driver stopped for a few moments at the little restaurant on the highest point of it. A rough kind of herdsman's dog, of no particular breed, I suppose, came out and sat down by the carriage and looked up at us. We happened to have a few Marie biscuits in the carriage, so I threw half of one out to him. I suppose he had no experience in Huntley and Palmer's make, for he looked at and smelled it carefully, and then declined to eat it, but again looked up at me. I then took the remaining half, bit off and ate a little bit of it, and then threw over the rest to him. This time he ate it at once, then turned and ate the first piece, which he had before refused, and at once came and asked for more, which I had great pleasure in giving him. I may add that I have several times tried a similar experiment with more pampered dogs at home, but have never succeeded with it. Whether this arises from the latter knowing, in most cases, from experience what they like and what they do not like, or, as I am rather inclined to think, from the superior intelligence of this Alpine dog, who really reasoned that what I could eat he could, I leave your readers to decide for themselves.

G. W. C.

AN ALPINE DOG.

[July 21, 1888.]

I do not think that it was superior intelligence in the Alpine dog over other intelligent dogs which induced him to wait to eat the biscuit till he had seen the giver eat some of it. We have a very sagacious little Highland terrier, and he in the same manner often refuses a new kind of biscuit or cake until he has seen me bite off a small piece and eat it, and then he will do the same. I have also found our boarhound distrusting food occasionally, and declining to take it from his bowl until I have given him some with my hand. Then he seems to feel that it is all right, and comes down from his bench and eats it. This perhaps is not exactly the same, but it is still a phase of a dog's distrust of unaccustomed food, and his reasoning power respecting it. This wonderful reasoning power any one accustomed to dogs soon discovers.

J. B. G.

DOGS AND LANGUAGE.

DO DOGS UNDERSTAND OUR LANGUAGE?

[Aug. 4, 1883.]

I think the question has been mooted in your columns as to whether dogs sometimes understand our language. A circumstance that has just occurred leads me to think that it does happen, where they are highly organised and living much with their owners. While our family party were sitting over dessert, a cork jumped from an apollinaris-water bottle on the sideboard. I took no notice at first, but after the conversation was ended, I got up and looked about for a few minutes, soon giving up the search. My brother asked what I was looking for, and I answered. I had no sooner sat down than our little dog crept from behind a piece of furniture, where she was reposing on the end of a rug, and went straight up to the cork, looking up at me and pointing to it with her nose. It was near me, but the shadow thrown by the table prevented my seeing it. She is a very nervous little fox-terrier, a most "comfort-loving animal," and spends her life with one or the other of us on my sofa, when her master is out, but hearing his voice at a great distance, and always attending to it.

Anything but a Dog-fancier.

HOW OUR MEANING IS CONVEYED TO ANIMALS.

[Aug. 11, 1883.]

The following anecdote may interest some of your readers:—Some years ago, when starting for a foreign tour, I entrusted my little Scotch terrier, Pixie, to the care of my brother, who lived about three miles distant from my house. I was away for six weeks, during the whole of which time Pixie remained contentedly at his new abode. The day, however, before I returned, my brother mentioned in the dog's hearing that I was expected back the next day. Thereupon, the dog started off, and was found by me at my bedroom door the next morning, he having been seen waiting outside the house early in the morning when the servants got up, and been admitted by them. Pixie is still alive and flourishing, and readily lends himself to experiments, which, however, yield no very definite result. He certainly seems to understand as much of our meaning as it concerns his own comfort to understand, but how he does it I cannot quite determine. I should be sorry to affirm, clever as he is, that he understands French and German, yet it is certainly a fact that he will fall back just as readily if I say "Zurück!" as if I say "To heel!" and advance to the sound "En avant!" as well as to "Hold up!" As in both cases I am careful to avoid any elucidatory gesture or special tone of voice, I am inclined to think that there must be here a species of direct thought transference. At the same time, I am bound to add that without the spoken word I am unable to convey the slightest meaning to him. This, however, may be due to what I believe to be a fact, that it is almost impossible without word or gesture to formulate the will with any distinctness. If this theory be correct, the verbal sounds used would convey the speaker's meaning, not in virtue of the precise sounds themselves, but of the intention put into them by the speaker. I should be glad to know if the experience of others tends to confirm this theory, which I do not remember to have seen suggested before.

A. Eubule-Evans.

[Aug. 18, 1883.]

I beg to contribute another anecdote on the subject of how our meaning is conveyed to animals. When I was in Norway with my husband, a dog belonging to the people of the house went with us in all our walks. One day a strange dog joined us, and seemed to wish to get up a fight with our dog, Fechter, who for protection kept almost under our feet; my husband said several times, "Go on, Fechter," in English, which he immediately did, but soon came back again. At last we succeeded in driving the strange dog away, but he soon returned. Then my husband said without any alteration of tone or gesture that I was aware of, "Drive that dog away, Fechter." He immediately rushed at him, and we saw no more of our troubler. I have long thought that dogs do understand, not "the precise sounds themselves, but the intention put into them by the speaker."

An Observer of Animals.

ANIMAL INTELLIGENCE.

[Aug. 18, 1883.]

Perhaps I should have said the "Intelligence of Animals," but my meaning, in relation to the interesting correspondence in your columns, is no doubt clear. The whole question seems to me to lie in the proverbial nutshell, and to be solvable by the proverbial common sense. Dogs' hearing is undoubtedly very keen and accurate, and even subtle; and dogs have also the power of putting this and that together in a marvellously shrewd and almost rational fashion. They cannot understand sentences, but they get hold of words, i.e., sounds, and keep them pigeon-holed in their memory. I might as well argue moral principle from the fact that my dog Karl, like scores of other dogs, will hold a piece of biscuit on his nose so long as I say "trust," and will when I say "paid for" gaily toss his head and catch the biscuit in his honest mouth, as argue that because he finds eleven tennis-balls among the shrubs in five minutes, when I say, "We can't find them at all, Karl; do go and find them, good dog, will you? Find the balls, old fellow"—therefore he understands my sentence. He simply grasps the words "find" and "balls," sees the game at a standstill, and reasons out our needs and his responsibilities, quickened by the expectation of pattings on the head, pettings, and pieces of biscuit. It is remarkable that if I try to delude him by uttering "base coin" in the shape of words just like the real words, as, for example, if I say "Jacob" instead of "paid for," he makes no mistake, but refuses the morsel, however delicate, till it is "paid for."

Prominent nouns, participles, verbs, &c., make up the lingua franca that so beautifully links together men and dogs, and now and then men and horses, their intelligence being quickened by their dumbness, as is that of deaf and dumb men and women, whose other faculties become so keenly intensified, and who put this and that together so much more quickly than do we who have all our faculties. There are of course "Admiral Crichtons" among dogs, as there are among men, but the difference between dog and dog will generally, I think, be traceable more to human training than to born capacity. The yearning look which Karl gives when (told to "speak") he gives forth his voice in response, is sometimes piteously like "Oh, that I could really tell all I feel!" He is like, and all dogs of average intelligence are like, the Frenchman I met yesterday on the beach at Hastings, who wanted to know whether he could reach Ramsgate on foot before nightfall, and how far it was, and who, as I only know a few French words, and am utterly unable to speak or understand sentences, was obliged to make me understand his wants by a few nouns such as everybody knows, and by causing me to put this and that together. There is of course the vital defect in the parallel that I could learn to understand French, and the dog could never learn to understand sentences; but as so many parallels have vital defects of some kind, even down to that historic self-drawn parallel between Alexander and the robber, we may well say, whether we be men or dogs, "Let me reflect." Dogs do undoubtedly reflect, and reason, and remember; and they never forget their "grammar," as school-boys do. Instinct, like chance, is only a name expressing fitly enough our own ignorance. Did not Luther and Wesley believe in the resurrection of animals?

S. B. James.

[Aug. 25, 1883.]

A little illustration of canine intelligence shown by my collie, Dido, may be added to those which have lately appeared in the Spectator. The dog was lying on the floor in a room in which I was preparing to go out. An old servant was present, and when I had given her directions about an errand on which she was going, I said, "You will take Dido with you?" She assented, and the dog directly got up to follow her downstairs. I then remembered that I should want a cab, so I asked the servant to send one, and not to leave the house till I rang the bell. On her leaving the room, Dido resumed her quiet attitude on the floor, with her nose to the carpet. In rather less than ten minutes I rang the bell, and the dog at once sprang up and ran downstairs to join her companion. I had not spoken a word after asking the servant to wait for the bell. Was this word-reading, or voice-reading, or thought-reading.

S. E. De Morgan.

ANIMALS AND LANGUAGE.

[Sept. 1, 1883.]

I can match Mrs. De Morgan's pretty story of her Dido. A wise old dog with whom I have the privilege to associate was, two or three days ago, lying asleep in her basket by the fire. I entered the room with my hat on, and invited her to join me in a walk; but, after looking up at me for a moment, as canine politeness required, she dropped back among her cushions, obviously replying, "Thank you very much, but I prefer repose." Thereupon I observed, in a clear voice, "I am not going on the road

Beyond doubt or question, Colleen had either understood the word "road," or the word "mountain," or both, and determined her proceedings accordingly. Nothing in my action showed, or could show, the meaning of my words.

If any of your readers who have resided for some weeks or months in a country where a language is spoken entirely foreign to their own—say, Arabic, or Basque, or Welsh—will recall of how many words they insensibly learn the meaning without asking it, and merely by hearing them always used in certain relations, they will have, I think, a fair measure of the extent and nature of a dog's knowledge of the language of his masters. My dog has lived fewer years in the world than I have passed in Wales, but he knows just about as much English as I know Welsh, and has acquired it just in the same way.

F. P. C.

TEACHING DOGS A METHOD OF COMMUNICATION.

[Dec. 29, 1883.]

Mr. Darwin's "Notes on Instinct," recently published by my friend, Mr. Romanes, have again called attention to the interesting subject of instinct in animals.

Miss Martineau once remarked that, considering how long we have lived in close association with animals, it is astonishing how little we know about them, and especially about their mental condition. This applies with especial force to our domestic animals, and, above all, of course, to dogs. I believe that it arises very much from the fact that hitherto we have tried to teach animals, rather than to learn from them—to convey our ideas to them, rather than to devise any language, or code of signals, by means of which they might communicate theirs to us. No doubt the former process is interesting and instructive, but it does not carry us very far.

Under these circumstances it has occurred to me whether some such system as that followed with deaf mutes, and especially by Dr. Howe with Laura Bridgman, might not prove very instructive if adapted to the case of dogs. Accordingly I prepared some pieces of stout cardboard, and printed on each in legible letters a word, such as "food," "bone," "out," &c. I then began training a black poodle, Van by name, kindly given me by my friend, Mr. Nickalls.

I commenced by giving the dog food in a saucer, over which I laid the card on which was the word "food," placing also by the side an empty saucer, covered by a plain card. Van soon learnt to distinguish between the two, and the next stage was to teach him to bring me the card; this he now does, and hands it to me quite prettily, and I then give him a bone, or a little food, or take him out, according to the card brought. He still brings sometimes a plain card, in which case I point out his error, and he then takes it back and changes it. This, however, does not often happen. Yesterday morning, for instance, he brought me the card with "food" on it nine times in succession, selecting it from among other plain cards, though I changed the relative position every time. No one who sees him can doubt that he understands the act of bringing the card with the word "food" on it, as a request for something to eat, and that he distinguishes between it and a plain card. I also believe that he distinguishes, for instance, between the card with the word "food" on it and the card with "out" on it.

This, then, seems to open up a method which may be carried much further, for it is obvious that the cards may be multiplied, and the dog thus enabled to communicate freely with us. I have as yet, I know, made only a very small beginning, and hope to carry the experiment much further, but my object in troubling you with this letter is twofold. In the first place, I trust that some of your readers may be able and willing to suggest extensions or improvements of the idea. Secondly, my spare time is small, and liable to many interruptions; and animals also, we know, differ greatly from one another. Now, many of your readers have favourite dogs, and I would express a hope that some of them may be disposed to study them in the manner indicated. The observations, even though negative, would be interesting; but I confess I hope that some positive results might follow, which would enable us to obtain a more correct insight into the minds of animals than we have yet acquired.

John Lubbock.

COMMUNICATION WITH ANIMALS.

[April 12, 1884.]

You did me the honour, some weeks ago, to insert a letter of mine, containing suggestions as to a method of studying the psychology of animals and a short account of a beginning I had myself made in that direction.

This letter has elicited various replies and suggestions which you will perhaps allow me to answer, and I may also take the opportunity of stating the progress which my dog Van has made, although, owing greatly, no doubt, to my frequent absences from home and the little time I can devote to him, this has not been so rapid as I doubt not would otherwise have been the case. Perhaps I may just repeat that the essence of my idea was to have various words, such as "food," "bone," "water," "out," &c., printed on pieces of card-board, and, after some preliminary training, to give the dog anything for which he asked by bringing a card. I use pieces of cardboard about ten inches long and three inches high, placing a number of them on the floor side by side, so that the dog has several cards to select from, each bearing a different word.

One correspondent has suggested that it would be better to use variously coloured cards. This might, no doubt, render the first steps rather more easy, but, on the other hand, any temporary advantage gained would be at the expense of subsequent difficulty, since the pupil would very likely begin by associating the object with the colour, rather than with the letters. He would, therefore, as is too often the case with our own children, have the unnecessary labour of unlearning some of his first lessons. At the same time, the experiment would have an interest as a test of the colour-sense in dogs.

Another suggestion has been that, instead of words, pictorial representations should be placed on the cards. This, however, could only be done with material objects, such as "food," "bone," "water," &c., and would not be applicable to such words as "out," "pet me," &c.; nor even as regards the former class do I see that it would present any substantial advantage.

Again, it has been suggested that Van is led by scent rather than by sight. He has, no doubt, an excellent nose, but in this case he is certainly guided by the eye. The cards are all handled by us, and must emit very nearly the same odour. I do not, however, rely on this, but have in use a number of cards bearing the same word. When, for instance, he has brought a card with "food" on it, we do not put down the same identical card, but another with the same word; when he has brought that, a third is put down, and so on. For a single meal, therefore, eight or ten cards will have been used, and it seems clear, therefore, that in selecting them Van must be guided by the letters.

When I last wrote I had satisfied myself that he had learnt to regard the bringing of a card as a request, and that he could distinguish a card with the word "food" on it from a plain one, while I believed that he could distinguish between a card with "food" on it and one with "out" on it.

I have now no doubt that he can distinguish between different words. For instance, when he is hungry he will bring a "food" card time after time, until he has had enough, and then he lies down quietly for a nap. Again, when I am going for a walk, and invite him to come, he gladly responds by picking up the "out" card, and running triumphantly with it before me to the front door. In the same way he knows the "bone" card quite well. As regards water (which I spell phonetically, so as not to confuse him unnecessarily), I keep a card always on the floor in my dressing-room, and whenever he is thirsty he goes off there, without any suggestion from me, and brings the card with perfect gravity. At the same time he is fond of a game, and if he is playful or excited will occasionally run about with any card. If through inadvertence he brings a card for something he does not want, when the corresponding object is shown him, he seizes the card, takes it back again, and fetches the right one. No one who has seen him look along a row of cards, and select the right one, can, I think, doubt that in bringing a card he feels that he is making a request, and that he can not only perfectly distinguish between one word and another, but also associates the word and the object.

I do not for a moment say that Van thus shows more intelligence than has been recorded in the case of other dogs; that is not my point, but it does seem to me that this method of instruction opens out a means by which dogs and other animals may be enabled to communicate with us more satisfactorily than hitherto. I am still continuing my observations, and am now considering the best mode of testing him in very simple arithmetic, but I wish I could induce others to co-operate, for I feel satisfied that the system would well repay more time and attention than I am myself able to give.

John Lubbock.

INSTINCT OF LOCALITY IN DOGS.

[March 4, 1893.]

A cat carried a hundred miles in a basket, a dog taken, perhaps, five hundred miles by rail, in a few days may have found their way back to the starting-point. So we have often been told, and, no doubt, the thing has happened. We have been astonished at the wonderful intelligence displayed. Magic, I should call it. Last week I heard of a captain who sailed from Aberdeen to Arbroath. He left behind him a dog which, according to the story, had never been in Arbroath, but when he arrived there the dog was waiting on the quay. I was expected to believe that the dog had known his master's destination, and been able to inquire the way overland to Arbroath. Truly marvellous! But, really, it is time to inquire more carefully as to what these stories do mean; we must cease to ascribe our intelligence to animals, and learn that it is we that often possess their instinct. A cat on a farm will wander many miles in search of prey, and will therefore be well acquainted with the country for many miles round. It is taken fifty miles away. Again it wanders, and comes across a bit of country it knew before. What more natural than that it should go to its old home? Carrier-pigeons are taught "homing" by taking them gradually longer flights from home, so that they may learn the look of the country. We cannot always discover that a dog actually was acquainted with the route by which it wanders home; but it is quite absurd to imagine, as most people at once do, that it was a perfect stranger to the lay of the land. To find our way a second time over ground we have once trod is scarcely intelligence; we can only call it instinct, though the word does not in the least explain the process. Two years ago I first visited Douglas, in the Isle of Man. I reached the station at 11 p.m.; I was guided to a house a mile through the town. I scarcely paid any attention to the route, yet next morning I found my way by the same route to the station, walking with my head bent, deeply thinking all the time about other things than the way. I have the instinct of locality. Most people going into a dark room that they know are by muscular sense guided exactly to the very spot they wish; so people who have the instinct of locality may wander over a moor exactly to the place they wish to reach without thinking of where they go. There may be no mental exercise connected with this. I have known a lady of great intelligence who would lose her way within half-a-mile of the house she had lived in forty years. This feeling about place belongs to that part of us that we have in common with the lower creatures. We need not postulate that the animals ever show signs of possessing our intelligence; they possess, in common with us, what is not intelligence, but instinct.

A. J. Mackintosh.

[Sept. 24, 1892.]

Will you allow me to record in the Spectator "another dog story"? It is one that testifies, for the thousandth time, to canine sagacity, and, as we are still in the silly season, which has this year in particular been so very prolific in human follies, it may be of special interest to learn some clever doings on the part of beasts. Quite recently a Westphalian squire travelled by rail from Lüxen to Wesel, on the Rhine, for the purpose of enjoying some hunting, and took with him his favourite hound. The hunting party was to have started on a Sunday morning at nine o'clock, but, to the squire's great disappointment, his sporting dog could nowhere be discovered. Disconsolate, he arrived on the following Monday afternoon at his house, and, to his great delight, he was greeted there with exuberant joy by his dog. The latter, who had never made the journey from Lüxen to Wesel, had simply run home, thus clearing a distance of eighty English miles through an unknown country. Why the sporting dog should have declined to join the hunt is, perhaps, a greater mystery than the fact of his returning home without any other guidance than his sagacious instinct. Possibly he was a Sabbatarian, and objected to imitate his master's wicked example. So, Sunday papers, please copy!

Ein Thierfreund.

[Sept. 8, 1894.]

May I be allowed to offer to your readers yet another instance of the faithfulness and sagacity of our friend the dog? The anecdote comes from a distinguished naval officer, and is best given in his own words: "This is what happened to a spaniel of mine. It was given to our children as a puppy about three or four months old, and we have had it about five or six months, making it about ten months old. It was born about three miles from here, at Hertford, and has never been anywhere but from one home to the other. When the time came for breaking him in for shooting purposes, I sent him to a keeper at Leighton-Buzzard, and, to insure a safe arrival, sent the dog with my man-servant to the train here, and thence to King's Cross. He walked with the dog to Euston Station, turned him over to the guard of the 12.15 train and the animal duly arrived at Leighton-Buzzard at 1.30, and was there met by the keeper and taken to his home about three miles off. That was on the Friday. On the following Tuesday, the dog having been with him three full days, he took him out in the morning with his gun, and at eight o'clock on Wednesday morning (that being the following day) the dog appeared here, rather dirty, and looking as if he had travelled some distance, which he undoubtedly had. There is no doubt that this puppy of ten months old was sent away, certainly forty or fifty miles as the crow flies, and that he returned here in a day. How he did it no one can say, but it is nevertheless a fact. It would be interesting to know his route and to trace his adventures." This anecdote is the more remarkable in consequence of the extreme youth of the dog, and particularly as he belongs to a breed of sporting dogs which are not generally considered to rank among the most intelligent of the species.

F. H. Suckling.

[Sept. 15, 1894.]

The "True Story of a Dog," in the Spectator of September 8th, may be matched, possibly explained, by a similar occurrence. I had bought a Spanish poodle pup of an Irishman who assured me, "Indade, sir, an' the dog knows all my childer do, only he can't talk." He shut doors, opened those with thumb-latches, and rushed upstairs and waked his mistress at words of command. One day we were starting to drive to our former home in the city, six miles distant, but the dog was refused his usual place in the carriage, and shut up in the house. When we arrived, to our astonishment we found him waiting for us on the doorstep! We could not conceive how he got there, but upon inquiry found that he had got out, gone to the station, in some way entered the train, hid under a seat, and on arrival in the city threaded his way a mile through the streets, and was found quietly awaiting our arrival.

R. P. S.

[May 3, 1884.]

How do we know that in inviting dogs to the use of words Sir John Lubbock is developing their intelligence? Are we sure that he is not asking them to descend to a lower level than their own, in teaching them to communicate with us through our proper forms of speech, unnecessary to them? I can vouch for the truth of the following story. A young keeper, living about twelve miles east of Winchester, on leaving his situation gave away a fox-terrier, which had been his constant companion for some months; he then took another place in the north of Hampshire, near the borders of Berkshire, in a part of the country to which he had never been. The new owner of the dog took her with him to a village in Sussex; before she had been there long she disappeared, and after a short time found her old master in the woods at his new home. As I have said before, he had never been there before, neither had she. Rather ungratefully, he again gave the dog away, this time to a man living some way north of Berkshire; she came back to him in a few days, and, I am happy to say, is now to be allowed to stay with the master of her choice. Can such a nature need to be taught our clumsy language.

A. H. Williams.

[Feb. 16, 1895.]

As I see that you have published some interesting anecdotes about dogs, I send you the two following, which perhaps you may think worth inserting.

In 1873 we came to live in England, after a residence upon the Continent, bringing with us a Swiss terrier of doubtful breed but of marked sagacity, called Tan. One day, shortly after reaching the new home from Switzerland, the dog was lost under the following circumstances:—We had driven to a station eight miles off—East Harling—to meet a friend. As the friend got out of the railway carriage the dog got in without being noticed and the train proceeded on its way. At the next station—Eccles Road—the dog's barking attracted the attention of the station-master, who opened the carriage door, and the dog jumped out. The station-master and the dog were perfect strangers. He and a porter tried to lock up the dog, but he flew viciously at any one who attempted to touch him, although he was not above accepting food. For the next three days his behaviour was decidedly methodical; starting from the station in the morning, he came back dejected and tired at night. At last, on the evening of the third day, he reached home, some nine miles away, along roads which he had not before travelled, a sorry object and decidedly the worse for wear; after some food he slept for twenty-four hours straight off.

Anecdote number two. One day a handsome black, smooth-haired retriever puppy was given to us, whom we named Neptune. The terrier Tan greatly resented having this new companion thrust upon him, and became very jealous of him. Being small, he was unable to tackle so large a dog, but sagacity accomplished what strength could not. Tan disappeared for two days. One evening, hearing a tremendous commotion in the yard, we rushed out to find a huge dog of the St. Bernard species inflicting a severe castigation upon poor Nep, Tan meanwhile looking on, complacently wagging his tail. Both Tan and his companion then disappeared for two more days, after which Tan reappeared alone, apparently in an equable frame of mind, and satisfied that he had had his revenge. We never discovered where the large dog came from. I can attest the truth of the two stories.

Cecil Downton.

RAILWAY DOGS.

[July 10, 1887.]

Your dog-loving readers may be interested to hear that there is (or was till lately) in South Africa a rival to the well-known Travelling Jack, of Brighton line fame, after whom, indeed, he has been nicknamed by his acquaintance.

I was introduced to him eighteen months ago, on board the Norham Castle, on a voyage from Cape Town to England—a voyage which this distinguished Colonial traveller was making much against his will. He was a black-and-tan terrier with a white chest, whose intellect had therefore probably been improved by a dash of mongrelism, and I was told that he belonged to a gentleman connected with the railway department living at Port Elizabeth. It appears that it was Mr. Jack's habit frequently to embark all by himself on board the mail steamer leaving that place on Saturday afternoon, and make the trip round the coast to Cape Town, arriving there on Monday morning. Where he "put up" I do not know, but he used to stay there until Wednesday evening, when he would calmly walk into the station, take his place in the train, and return to Port Elizabeth in that way, thus completing his "circular tour" by a railway journey of about eight hundred miles.

He was well known by the officers and sailors of the Norham, and her commander, Captain Alexander Winchester (who can vouch for these facts), told me that, as the dog seemed fond of the sea, he had determined to give him a long voyage for a change, and had kept him shut up on board during the ship's stay at Cape Town.

Jack was evidently very uneasy at being taken on beyond his usual port, and he was on the point of slipping into a boat for the shore at Madeira, probably with a view of returning to the Cape by the next steamer, when I called the captain's attention to him, and he was promptly shut up again. I said good-bye to him at Plymouth, and hope he found his way home safely on the return voyage.

Ex-Colonist.

[June 23, 1894.]

I have read with much interest the stories in the Spectator of the sagacity of animals. The following, I think, is worth recording:—The chief-engineer of the Midland and South-Western Junction Railway, Mr. J. R. Shopland, C.E., has a spaniel that frequently accompanies him or his sons to their office. On Saturday last this dog went to Marlborough from Swindon by train with one of Mr. Shopland's clerks, and walked with him to Savernake Forest. Suddenly the dog was missing. The creature had gone back to the station at Marlborough and taken a seat in a second-class compartment. The dog defied the efforts of the railway officials to dislodge him. When the train reached Swindon he came out of the carriage and walked quietly to his master's residence.

Samuel Snell.

[March 30, 1895.]

I was witness the other day of what I had only heard of before—a dog travelling by rail on his own account. I got into the train at Uxbridge Road, and, the compartment being vacant, took up the seat which I now prefer—the corner seat at the entrance with the back to the engine. Presently a whole crowd of ladies got in, and with them a dog, which I supposed to belong to them. All the ladies except one got out at Addison Road, and then the dog slunk across the carriage to just under my seat. I asked my remaining fellow-passenger whether the dog was hers; she said "No." No one got in before she herself got out at South Kensington, where the dog remained perfectly quiet, but at Sloane Square a man was let in, and out rushed the dog, the door actually grazing his sides. Had he not taken up the precise place he did, he must have been shut in or crushed. "That dog is a stowaway," I observed to the porter who had opened the door. "I suppose he is," the man answered. The dog was making the best of his way to the stairs. Clearly the dog meant to get out at that particular station (he had had ample opportunity of getting out both at Addison Road and South Kensington), and had, as soon as he could, taken up the best position for doing so. How did he recognise the Sloane Square Station, for he had had only those two opportunities of glancing out? It seems to me it could only have been by counting the stations, in which case he must be able to reckon up to five. The dog was a very ordinary London cur, white and tan, of a greatly mixed Scotch terrier stock, the long muzzle showing a greyhound cross. He was thin, and apparently conscious of breaking the law, hiding out of sight, and slinking along with his tail between his legs, and altogether not worth stealing. I suppose that he had been transferred to a new home which had proved uncongenial, and was slipping away, in fear and trembling, to his old quarters.

J. M. L.

EMOTION AND SENTIMENT IN DOGS.

A DOG'S REMORSE.

[Sept. 1, 1883.]

A remarkable instance of the effect that can be produced upon a dog by the human voice was related to me yesterday. Some of your correspondents would consider it confirmatory of their notion that dogs have mind enough to understand words; but I myself rather believe that the sound of the voice acts upon the feelings of dumb animals just as instrumental music acts upon us. The story is as follows:—A clergyman had for a long time a dog, and no other domestic animal. He and his servant made a great pet of the dog. At last, however, the clergyman took to keeping a few fowls, and the servant fed them. The dog showed himself very jealous and out of humour at this, and when Sunday came round, and he was left alone, he took the opportunity to kill and bury two hens. A claw half-uncovered betrayed what he had done. His master did not beat him, but took hold of him, and talked to him, most bitterly, most severely. "You've been guilty of the sin of murder, sir,—and on the Sabbath day, too; and you, a clergyman's dog, taking a mean advantage of my absence!" &c. He talked on and on for a long time, in the same serious and reproachful strain. Early the next morning the master had to leave home for a day or so; and he did so without speaking a word of kindness to the dog, because he said he wished him to feel himself in disgrace. On his return, the first thing he was told was, "The dog is dead. He never ate nor drank after you had spoken to him; he just lay and pined away, and he died an hour ago."

L. G. Gillum.

A CONSCIENCE-STRICKEN DOG.

[Feb. 1, 1879.]

You have frequently published letters containing stories bearing on the question of the moral nature and the future of the lower animals. I venture to send you some facts about a dog, narrated to me by a lady, whose name and address I enclose for your own satisfaction, and at my request written down by her as follows—

"A young fox-terrier, about eight months old, took a great fancy to a small brush, of Indian workmanship, lying on the drawing-room table. It had been punished more than once for jumping on the table and taking it. On one occasion, the little dog was left alone in the room accidentally. On my return, it jumped to greet me as usual, and I said, 'Have you been a good little dog while you have been left alone?' Immediately it put its tail between its legs and slunk off into an adjoining room, and brought back the little brush in its mouth from where it had hidden it.

"I was much struck with what appeared to me a remarkable instance of a dog possessing a conscience, and a few months afterwards, finding it again alone in the room, I asked the same question, while patting it. At once I saw it had been up to some mischief, for with the same look of shame it walked slowly to one of the windows, where it lay down, with its nose pointing to a letter bitten and torn into shreds. On a third occasion, it showed me where it had strewn a number of little tickets about the floor, for doing which it had been reproved previously. I cannot account for these facts, except by supposing the dog must have a conscience."

The conduct of this dog seems to me, sir, to exhibit something different from fear of punishment, viz., a sense of shame, a remorse, a desire to confess his fault, and even to expiate it by punishment, in order to feel the guilt no longer. He rather sought punishment, than feared it.

Th. Hill.

A DOG'S AFFECTION.

[April 24, 1875.]

I saw an anecdote in your paper the other week illustrative of the sagacity of a dog. Kindly allow me to place upon record, as a kind of a companion picture, an anecdote showing the affection of one of the canine species—a fine young retriever. For some weeks I have been staying away from my house in the country, where is the fine young retriever in question. Well, last week the household missed him for hours, and began to think he was lost. Nothing of the kind, however. The servant, happening to go up to my bedroom, found him with his head resting on my pillow, moaning heavily, and it was only with great difficulty that she could drive him away. Surely it is incidents such as these that have made so many great men rail against humanity and uphold their dog!

Will Williams.

AFFECTION.

[Sept. 15, 1894.]

As you sometimes admit anecdotes of animals into the Spectator, perhaps you may consider the following fact worthy of record. In a hotel where I am staying, being distressed by the cry of anguish of a dog occasionally, I inquired the cause, and was told that whenever he happens to be in the hall when luggage is brought down to go in the omnibus, he utters these bitter cries, and has to be removed. His master left him here many months ago, and the supposition is that the sight of the luggage and omnibus recalls his loss; and is another instance of the faithful affection of these half-human creatures.

J. K.

SYMPATHY IN A DOG.

[July 30, 1892.]

The article, "Animals in Sickness," in the Spectator of July 23rd, has reminded me of the following anecdote, which was told to me some years ago by a butcher residing at Brodick, in the Isle of Arran. He told me that he had had two collie dogs at the same time, one old and the other young. The old dog became useless through age, and was drowned in the sea at Brodick. A few days afterwards, its body was washed ashore, and it was discovered by the young dog, who was seen immediately to go to the butcher's shop and take away a piece of meat and lay it at the dead dog's mouth. The young dog evidently thought that the meat would revive his old comrade, and thereby showed remarkable sympathy in aid of, to him, the apparent "weak."

David Hannay.

A DOG'S HUMANITY.

[April 18, 1891.]

Possibly it is from an excess of the "maudlin sentimentality" of which physiologists complain in those who protest against cruelty to animals, that I find it almost painful to read such pathetic stories of dogs as the one given by Miss Cobbe in the Spectator of April 11th; for they tell of such intelligence and devotion, that, remembering the inhuman way in which our poor dogs are too often treated, we feel it would be almost better if they lacked these human qualities.

The following is an anecdote of the same kind, that ever since I heard it, I have been intending to send it to the Spectator. The servant-man of one of my friends took a kitten to a pond with the intention of drowning it. His master's dog was with him, and when the kitten was thrown into the water, the dog sprang in and brought it back safely to land. A second time the man threw it in, and again the dog rescued it; and when for the third time the man tried to drown it, the dog, as resolute to save the little helpless life as the man was to destroy it, swam with it to the other side of the pool, running all the way home with it, and safely depositing it before the kitchen fire; and "ever after" they were inseparable, sharing even the same bed!

When not long ago I came across the noble sentiment that "hecatombs of brutes should be tortured, if man thereby could be saved one pang," I found myself dimly wondering what constituted a "brute." Certainly, in the incident I have just given, the "brute" was not the dog!

S. W.

A CANINE MEMBER OF THE S.P.C.A.

[June 18, 1892.]

If you think this little anecdote of canine friendliness worthy of the Spectator, will you insert it for me? Last week a sick dog took up its abode in the field behind our house, and after seeing the poor thing lying there for some time, I took it food and milk-and-water. The next day it was still there, and when I was going out to feed it, I saw that a small pug was running about it, so I took a whip out with me to drive it away. The pug planted itself between me and the sick dog, and barked at me savagely, but at last I drove it away, and again gave food and milk-and-water to my protegé. The little pug watched me for a few moments, and as soon as he felt quite assured that my intentions towards the sick dog were friendly, it ran to me wagging its tail, leapt up to my shoulder, and licked my face and hands, nor would it touch the water till the invalid had had all it wanted. I suppose that it was satisfied that its companion was in good hands, for it trotted happily away, and did not appear upon the scene again.

Violet Davies.

A DOG'S COURTESY.

[Nov. 29, 1890.]

In your article on Mr. Nettleship's pictures of animals, you note the delicacy of a dog that has been properly trained in the matter of taking its food. My little dog is not only most dainty in that particular, but strictly observes the courtesy, which is natural, not taught, of not beginning his dinner (served on white napery that is never soiled) until his master begins his own. No amount of coaxing on the part of the ladies (they do not wait) will induce him to eat if I am late: he merely consents to have his muzzle taken off, inspects his dinner, and then seeks his master's room, where he waits to accompany him in orderly fashion downstairs.

C. Harper.

CANINE JEALOUSY.

[Dec. 12, 1891.]

I am not versed in dog-lore, and it may be that my love for the animal makes me an ill judge of the importance of the following story; but a friend vouches for its truth, and to my mind it has its importance, not from its display of jealousy, but from the dog's deliberate acceptance of the undoubtedly changed condition, and the clearly metaphysical character of his motive.