CHRISTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET 



tinsey- tailed, black half-heckle, with brown mallard 

 wing, a mere midge, but once fixed in lip or tongue, 

 "inextricable as the gored lion's bite." 



But ever after that Passage in the life of Fro, his 

 were, on the whole, years of peace. Every season 

 seemed to strengthen his sagacity, and to unfold his 

 wonderful instincts. Most assuredly he knew all the 

 simpler parts of speech — all the household words in 

 the Scottish language. He was, in all our pastimes, as 

 much one of ourselves, as if, instead of being a Pagan 

 with four feet, he had been a Christian with two. As 

 for temper, we trace the sweetness of our own to his; 

 an angry word from one he loved, he forgot in half 

 a minute, offering his lion-like paw; yet there were 

 particular people he could not abide, nor from their 

 hands would he have accepted a roasted potato out 

 of the dripping pan, and in this he resembled his 

 master. He knew the Sabbath-day as well as the 

 sexton — and never was known to bark till the Mon- 

 day morning when the cock crew; and then he would 

 give a long musical yowl, as if his breast were relieved 

 from silence. If ever, in this cold, changeful, incon- 

 stant world, there was a friendship that might be 

 called sincere, it was that which, half a century ago 

 and upwards, subsisted between Christopher North 

 and John Fro. We never had a quarrel in all our lives 

 — and within these two months we made a pilgrimage 

 [85] 



