190 THE FLAG THAT BRAVED A THOUSAND YEARS. 



I had a particularly good and very beautiful terrier 

 bitch : at a proper season I had her carefully locked 

 up, wishing for a breed between her and a choice 

 terrier in my neighbourhood. Unluckily she scratched 

 her way out, and a progeny, for which I was indebted 

 to a tailor's dog close by, was the consequence. This 

 little beast was a kind of half-spaniel, half-turnspit 

 nondescript, with a tail like a fox's brush turned over 

 his back : the swarm was produced, some seven or 

 eight in number, every one with the identical curling 

 tail, and things like the fins of a turtle for legs. I 

 need scarcely say they were all in a bucket im- 

 mediately. On the next occasion I did secure every- 

 thing so as to prevent the tailor again obliging me, 

 and also secured the dog I wanted. There was no 

 possibility of mistake here : in time, three, and three 

 only, puppies were produced, one only the colour of 

 the dog, the others precisely that of the tailor's, but 

 one and all with the accursed curling tail. I con- 

 demned the lot for I would not have had the best dog 

 in England with such a terminus. My groom, how- 

 ever, surreptitiously kept one, and put it out to nurse: 

 he was rewarded by the veriest little cur that ever 

 walked. I tried another dog ; the result was better ; 

 the produce were like the sire, but the tail, like "the 

 flag that braved a thousand years," waved triumphant 

 still. I gave her away disgusted with her bad taste. 

 If, therefore, mind or predilection had such influence 

 when in favour of a sire, I have no doubt it would have 

 a bad one where aversion existed. 



There is one description of thorough-bred sire that 

 I certainly never would select except under very 

 peculiar circumstances , this is, the regular mile-horse. 

 If I found his produce were almost invariably horses 



