Previous to his return, I had given The O'Shannon a biscuit.The O'Shannon had been insulted; he did not want a dog biscuit; if he could not have a grilled kidney he did not want anything.He had thrown the biscuit on the floor.Smith saw it and made for it.Now Smith never eats biscuits.I give him one occasionally, and he at once proceeds to hide it.He is a thrifty dog; he thinks of the future."You never know what may happen," he says; "suppose the Guv'nor dies, or goes mad, or bankrupt, I may be glad even of this biscuit; I'll put it under the door-mat--no, I won't, somebody will find it there.I'll scratch a hole in the tennis lawn, and bury it there.That's a good idea; perhaps it'll grow!" Once I caught him hiding it in my study, behind the shelf devoted to my own books.It offended me, his doing that; the argument was so palpable.
Generally, wherever he hides it somebody finds it.We find it under our pillows--inside our boots; no place seems safe.This time he had said to himself--"By Jove! a whole row of the Guv'nor's books.
Nobody will ever want to take these out; I'll hide it here." One feels a thing like that from one's own dog.
But The O'Shannon's biscuit was another matter.Honesty is the best policy; but dishonesty is the better fun.He made a dash for it, and commenced to devour it greedily; you might have thought he had not tasted food for a week.
The indignation of The O'Shannon was a sight for the gods.He has the good-nature of his race: had Smith asked him for the biscuit he would probably have given it to him; it was the insult--the immorality of the proceeding, that maddened The O'Shannon.
For a moment he was paralyzed.
"Well, of all the--Did ye see that now?" he said to me with his eyes.Then he made a rush and snatched the biscuit out of Smith's very jaws."Ye onprincipled black Saxon thief," growled The O'Shannon; "how dare ye take my biscuit?""You miserable Irish cur," growled Smith; "how was I to know it was your biscuit? Does everything on the floor belong to you? Perhaps you think I belong to you, I'm on the floor.I don't believe it is your biscuit, you long-eared, snubbed-nosed bog-trotter; give it me back.""I don't require any of your argument, you flop-eared son of a tramp with half a tail," replied The O'Shannon."You come and take it, if you think you are dog enough."He did think he was dog enough.He is half the size of The O'Shannon, but such considerations weigh not with him.His argument is, if a dog is too big for you to fight the whole of him, take a bit of him and fight that.He generally gets licked, but what is left of him invariably swaggers about afterwards under the impression it is the victor.When he is dead, he will say to himself, as he settles himself in his grave--"Well, I flatter myself I've laid out that old world at last.It won't trouble ME any more, I'm thinking."On this occasion, _I_ took a hand in the fight.It becomes necessary at intervals to remind Master Smith that the man, as the useful and faithful friend of dog, has his rights.I deemed such interval had arrived.He flung himself on to the sofa, muttering.
It sounded like--"Wish I'd never got up this morning.Nobody understands me."Nothing, however, sobers him for long.Half-an-hour later, he was killing the next-door cat.He will never learn sense; he has been killing that cat for the last three months.Why the next morning his nose is invariably twice its natural size, while for the next week he can see objects on one side of his head only, he never seems to grasp; I suppose he attributes it to change in the weather.
He ended up the afternoon with what he no doubt regarded as a complete and satisfying success.Dorothea had invited a lady to take tea with her that day.I heard the sound of laughter, and, being near the nursery, I looked in to see what was the joke.Smith was worrying a doll.I have rarely seen a more worried-looking doll.Its head was off, and its sawdust strewed the floor.Both the children were crowing with delight; Dorothea, in particular, was in an ecstasy of amusement.
"Whose doll is it?" I asked.
"Eva's," answered Dorothea, between her peals of laughter.
"Oh no, it isn't," explained Eva, in a tone of sweet content;"here's my doll." She had been sitting on it, and now drew it forth, warm but whole."That's Dorry's doll."The change from joy to grief on the part of Dorothea was distinctly dramatic.Even Smith, accustomed to storm, was nonplussed at the suddenness of the attack upon him.
Dorothea's sorrow lasted longer than I had expected.I promised her another doll.But it seemed she did not want another; that was the only doll she would ever care for so long as life lasted; no other doll could ever take its place; no other doll would be to her what that doll had been.These little people are so absurd: as if it could matter whether you loved one doll or another, when all are so much alike! They have curly hair, and pink-and-white complexions, big eyes that open and shut, a little red mouth, two little hands.
Yet these foolish little people! they will love one, while another they will not look upon.I find the best plan is not to reason with them, but to sympathize.Later on--but not too soon--introduce to them another doll.They will not care for it at first, but in time they will come to take an interest in it.Of course, it cannot make them forget the first doll; no doll ever born in Lowther Arcadia could be as that, but still-- It is many weeks before they forget entirely the first love.
