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subterranean mole, taking a look at the fairy rings and 

 exchanging the compliments of the season with any of the 

 leprechawns or gnomes or pixies that happen to be about, 

 politely inviting them, of course, to run up to the house and 

 promising for himself that he will come again soon. After 

 more of this as the sun goes down there will again be some- 

 thing to eat (this time probably enough) and then master 

 may, or may not, come home. Then too there is always the 

 off chance of visitors who do not like dogs, and puppy is too 

 much of a blue blooded gentleman not to remove himself 

 elsewhere at such times. This, you see, is just an ordinary 

 black-letter day. 



And then, there are the red-letter days! Days when 

 master steals downstairs in his stocking feet, with his boots 

 in his hand and lays his forefinger to his lips signifying that 

 silence is the price of safety. How hard it is not to bark, but 

 under such circumstances one must only squirm and perform 

 that most ecstatic of all canine grimaces, — salaaming low 

 with his front legs while he leers knowingly with the upper- 

 most eye, dances the latest puppykin with his hind feet and 

 endeavours to wag his stump-tail off, all at the self-same time, 

 and of necessity in a perfectly abysmal silence. And then 

 they have breakfast together, man and dog, not enough of 

 course but still less noticeable because it is early. Then, too, 



/! .* t .-^ 

 1/ 1^^^ 



lf> Now with boots on his feet, an old cap on his head, a gun 

 in his hand and a pipe in his teeth, master stands revealed 



