him to me, which he understood, and 
leaping up placed his paws on my chest 
and tried to kiss me on the cheek, his 
tooth scratching my face so that it 
bled profusely. My companion and the 
farmer looked aghast, for they both 
thought the dog was mad. I went to 
the pump and washed the blood and 
froth from my face and made light of 
the matter, inasmuch as I was con¬ 
vinced that the dog was not suffering 
from hydrophobia, but was sick with 
convulsive fits and would soon be well 
again. I said that a mad dog did not 
froth at the mouth, but that clear, 
viscid saliva drooled from his mouth 
as he started on his tramp, snapping 
at everything that came in his way. 
My friend expressed much concern 
about the scratch on my face, and was 
glad to get away with our dogs before 
they were bitten. We had another good 
day, and by noon, after a smoke, we 
concluded that as we had birds enough 
for our friends at home we would leave 
on the next day. On returning to the 
house I asked about the dog. It ap¬ 
peared that after we left the dog be¬ 
gan snapping and biting at various 
things, and the farmer, becoming 
frightened, fastened him in the work¬ 
shop. Looking through the window 
later he became much alarmed, as the 
poor dog was snarling, biting and snap¬ 
ping at everything within reach, so his 
owner got his gun and killed him. Still, 
I was not convinced that the dog was 
mad. I have have been mad on some 
occasions afterward when seeing the 
work of fish-hogs and game butchers, 
but it was not hydrophobia. 
BUTTON 
“DUTTON” was a lively red and 
white cocker spaniel with a gilt- 
edged pedigree. He was at home in the 
tamarack swamps putting up ruffed 
grouse, and delighted in flushing wood¬ 
cock from the hazel brush about the 
creek borders. As a retriever he never 
failed to find and fetch. He was a jolly 
companion and everyone loved him. 
One unfortunate day he was chasing a 
strange cat, and in making a violent 
reach for it he snapped the bone of a 
foreleg close to the socket. I fixed it 
as well as possible, but the leg was 
shortened. He walked lame, but ran 
as fast as ever. 
Over the woodshed was a workshop, 
and one day Button followed me up the 
steep stairs. I was working on a fish¬ 
ing rod, and when through I descended 
the stairs in a hurry, and Button, fol¬ 
lowing in great haste, fell down the 
stairs and broke the other foreleg in a 
similar way. When he recovered from 
this accident both forelegs were short¬ 
ened, which let him down in front, so 
that to look ahead he would sit up on 
his haunches. This was very amusing 
to those who saw him do this for the 
first time. 
One day our rector rowed over the 
lake to see me, and as he stepped on the 
landing he saw Button sitting up as 
usual. “Ah,” said he, “an upright dog, 
and of such is the kingdom of Heaven.” 
He was not far wrong. One day, in 
winter, my hostler came to me with 
tears in his eyes and said: 
“I’m afraid, sir, that Button is done 
for.” 
It seemed that a stray bulldog had 
appeared on the premises, and that 
Button undertook to drive him off. 
When I found him one of his forelegs 
had been broken afresh, one eye was 
hanging on his cheek and frozen, while 
he was a mass of cuts and slashes, 
was bleeding profusely, more dead than 
alive. 
“Well, Tom,” I said, “he can never 
get well, so the best thing is to put him 
out of his misery by drowning. Cut 
a hole in the ice, put a boat-hook 
through the ring in his collar and hold 
him under the water until dead.” 
Then Tom, with tears in his eyes, 
and mine were not. dry, set about the 
dreaded task. The snow was a foot 
deep on the lake and the ice a foot 
thick. While Tom was cutting the hole 
through the ice the other dogs were sit¬ 
ting around him in a circle watching 
the strange proceedings, and poor But¬ 
ton was, as usual, sitting upright, not 
knowing that he occupied the center of 
the stage. It was soon over. 
In the meantime my gardener was 
digging a grave in the garden near the 
road fence. When Tom appeared with 
Button wrapped in a gunnysack under 
one arm and some small branches of 
spruce and fir under the other, the 
dogs following in a mournful cortege, 
some ladies driving by in a surrey 
stopped, while one said: 
“Good - morning, Doctor, what are 
you making?” 
With tears in my eyes and a lump in 
my throat, I said: “A button hole.” 
JENNY 
“ JENNY” was a small brown spaniel, 
a fine duck retriever, and just the 
right size for taking in a ducking skiff. 
She was a dainty little creature, with 
dark and luminous eyes, soft, silky ears 
and a curly brown coat. Once, late in 
October, I took her with me to Kosh- 
konong Lake, Wisconsin, an expansion 
of Rock River, quite shallow and with 
a luxuriant growth of wild celery, and 
therefore a famous resort for canvas- 
back ducks and redheads. When tak¬ 
ing my leave after a few days of royal 
sport, in which Jenny distinguished 
herself in bringing ashore many dead 
and wounded ducks, some nearly as big 
as herself, the wife of the keeper of 
the clubhouse began to weep bitterly, 
as she had taken a great fancy to 
Jenny, allowing her to sleep on her bed 
at night. Knowing that Jenny would 
be well cared for, I took Joe, the*keeper, 
aside and agreed with him that if he 
would breed Jenny to his setter, a fine 
duck retriever, and train one of the 
puppies for me by the next fall, I would 
leave Jenny with his wife. This was 
readily agreed to, and his wife grabbed 
up Jenny, hugging her and took her 
into the house. 
Early the next November I went 
again to the lake and found Jenny in 
full possession of the clubhouse and of 
the entire island, for as her mistress 
said, there was nothing too good for 
Jenny. I also found one of her progeny 
according to promise. He was called 
Dick. 
DICK 
“|~MCK” was one of the handsomest 
dogs I had even seen. He was 
jet-black, and looked like a small setter, 
with glossy hair, long, silky ears and 
a magnificent tail, fully feathered. Un¬ 
fortunately he had not been trained, as 
Joe said, for lack of time, and, more¬ 
over, the puppy would not follow him 
unless the old dog was along; and he 
thought it might be better if I broke 
him myself. 
The next morning I called the old 
dog and Dick and we went to a blind 
on the shore of the lake where some 
decoys had been set. Entering the 
blind with the dogs we waited and 
watched for results. While we waited, 
mother and son and I, Jenny came 
bouncing along and settled herself in 
the blind. At sunrise the ducks began 
to fly, and as I knocked them down 
when settling to the decoys, Jenny and 
the old dog were kept pretty busy 
bringing in the dead and wounded. 
Dick did not seem to be much inter¬ 
ested, for, as Joe informed me, he would 
not enter the water. He never moved, 
but seemed to take more interest in 
the dead ducks as I gathered them in a 
sack, and smelled them repeatedly, and 
kept close to me on the way back to 
the house. 
The next morning I was up at sun¬ 
rise, eager for the fray, but neither the 
old dog nor Jenny were in sight. Blow¬ 
ing my whistle, Dick came bounding 
from the kennel and seemed overjoyed 
to see me, and to my surprise followed, 
or rather ran ahead toward the lake, 
and went at once into the blind. The 
decoys were still in position, and the 
other dogs not appearing, I sat in the 
blind with Dick, wondering what he 
would do. He eagerly watched a flock 
of ducks far down the lake and then 
looked at me. Some mud-hens, or coots, 
were flying near the decoys, and as 
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