What can I say of PUCK l — the thoroughbred 



the simple-hearted — the purloiner of eggs warm 



from the hen — the flutterer of all manner of 

 Volscians — the bandy-legged, dear, old, dilapidated 

 buffer? I got him from my brother, and only 

 parted with him because William's stock was gone. 

 He had to the end of life a simplicity which was 

 quite touching. One summer day — a dog day — 

 when all dogs found straying were hauled away to 

 the police-office, and killed off in twenties by 

 strychnine, I met Puck trotting along Princes 

 Street with a policeman, a rope round his neck, 

 he looking up in the fatal, official, but kindly 

 countenance in the most artless and cheerful 

 manner, wagging his tail and trotting along. In 

 ten minutes he would have been in the next world ; 

 or I am one of those who believe dogs have a 

 next world, and why not ? Puck ended his days as 

 the best dog in Roxburghshire. Placide quiescas ! 



Dick 



Still lives, and long may he live ! As he was 

 never born, possibly he may never die ; be it so, 

 he will miss us when we are gone. I could say 

 much of him, but agree with the lively and admir- 

 able Dr. Jortin, when, in his dedication of his 

 Remarks on Ecclesiastical History to the then 

 (1752) Archbishop of Canterbury, he excuses 

 1 Dandie Oinmont. 

 N 177 



