CANINE SAGACITY. 
ANY years ago, two decades or more, the writer was 
the possessor of a little dog—a French poodle by 
breed. A more knowing animal of his kind never lived. 
He was a pretty creature, with hair as white as driven snow, 
and manners the most agreeable. Great pride was taken in 
his appearance. That his dress should maintain its natural 
purity, he was weekly subjected to a warm-water bath. This 
task devolved upon a little brunette, for whom the canine 
had contracted a strong affection. 
Frisky, for such was our pet's name, had never before 
coming into the family known what it was to receive a good 
washing. His first experience was as uninteresting as it was 
novel and strange. It was anything but pleasant to him, 
but the little fellow bore it like a martyr. 
Such treatment, by the ordinary cur, would have been 
resented with snaps and snarls, but his was a gentle nature that 
knew no such untoward manifestations. But there was, all 
the same, an aversion to the bath, as looks only too plainly 
indicated. So pronounced was the dislike, that the very 
sight of water caused his delicate frame to shake like a 
child’s with the cold. 
Had not the greatest care been taken in the preparation of 
the bath, it might have been thought that the tremors that 
shook his by no means robust frame were induced by the 
water’s chilliness or by its undue warmth. But this could 
not be the case, as the fluid was always tempered to the most 
sensitive touch. 
But there came a time, however, when Frisky was deter- 
mined to evade these kindnesses upon the part of his 
