240 THE BOOK OF A NATURALIST 



exclaimed mentally, " There he goes, the same old 

 little red dog, suspicious and sneaky as ever, and 

 very brisk and busy although his years must be 

 well-nigh as many as my own," I was thinking of 

 the far past, and the sight of him brought back a 

 memory of one of the first of the small red dogs 

 I have known intimately. I was a boy then, and 

 my home was in the pampas of Buenos Ayres. I 

 had a young sister, a bright, lively girl, and I 

 remember that a poor native woman who lived in 

 a smoky hovel a few miles away was fond of her, 

 and that she came one day with a present for her 

 something precious wrapped up in a shawl a 

 little red pup, one of a litter which her own beloved 

 dog had brought forth. My sister accepted the 

 present joyfully, for though we possessed fourteen 

 or fifteen dogs at the time, these all belonged to 

 the house; they were everybody's and nobody's 

 in particular, and she was delighted to have one 

 that would be her very own. It grew into a common 

 red dog, rather better-looking than most of its kind, 

 having a bushier tail, longer and brighter-coloured 

 hair, and a somewhat foxy head and face. In 

 spite of these good points, we boys never tired of 

 laughing at her little Reddie, as he was called, and 

 his intense devotion to his young mistress and 

 faith in her power to protect him only made him 

 seem more ludicrous. When we all walked to- 

 gether on the grass plain, my brother and I used 

 to think it great fun to separate Reddie from his 

 mistress by making a sudden dash, and then hunt 



