THE DEATH OF PICKLES. 245 



BREAKING THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE 

 SKYE TERRIER, NAMED PICKLES. 



A noble lord, now dead some years, on arriving 

 at his home in the Highlands, summoned his keeper 

 to know how things were going. He had a lot of 

 very nice Skye terriers, of which he was very fond. 

 After having asked about the grouse and the deer, 

 and whether there were many grilse in the river, 

 and so forth, he proceeded to inquire, " Well, Sandy, 

 and how are the little dogs?" " Ah ! Weel, mi 

 lord," said Sandy, " they're no dooing so bad neither. 

 Peckles is no so weel, mi lord." " Pickles not well ? 

 I'm sorry to hear that. What's the matter with him ? 

 Not much amiss, I hope ? v " " Ah ! weel, mi lord, I'm 

 dootish about Peckles." " But what's the matter with 

 him ? " " Weel, mi lord, I'm dootsome about him ; 

 I'm dootish about Peckles." "Well, but surely you 

 can tell me what's the matter with him ? " " Weel, 

 mi lord, Peckles '11 no doo, mi lord." " Well, but 

 you can tell me what state he's in. Is he likely to 

 get better, or is he going to die, or what ? " " Weel, 

 mi lord, Peckles is deed." 



