One or Two Log Stories.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 867, 12 October 1888, Page 10

One or Two Log Stories.

The Now York Tribune relates this inoi. dent in connection with the dogs, Trix and Boz, and a, correspondent of the Spectator tho exquisite little anecdote about sense of humour : I saw the other day a notable instance of sensitiveness aud of brains with it in a Scotch terrier of my acquaintance. His name is Trix, and he lives on the upper part of Lexington. Avenue. I was walking with him and his charming yonng mistress abont a blook and a half from her home, when all at once Trix gave one sharp little yell and started towards home like a Btreak of grey lightning. We looked about us for some cause for this demonstration. Mias M. found it in a shabby old cart that was rumbling up, and which had a sort of rough cage over it at the back. ‘ That’s it!’ she exclaimed ; ‘ it looks like the cart the dog-catohers threw Trixy into two years ago this spring in San Francisco.’ • Has he ever seen one like it since then until now ?’ ‘ No; I hadn’t the least idea he remembered anything about it.’ She then related to me the tragedy of the dog catcher. Trix was only in his hands a few moments ; the bribery procured his release, but when the palpitating, frightened little bundlo of grey wool was returned to his mistress what do you suppose he did ? Why, fainted outright. Now, how oould you help loving a little dog that fainted from fright ? He couldn’t stand on his legs all that day. They doubled up under him, so he spent the time on an eider-down cushion, properly administered to by the devoted family. They didn’t tell me whether he appreciated smelling salts or not. One of my favourite small dog acquaintances ia Boz. Boz is a pug ; and he effectually refutes the popular illusion that pugs are stupid. Boz is a dreadful baby, but he is not stupid. Boz has a doll. Her name is Tilda. Tilda’s oorporeal frame frequently changes, as time and teeth play the mischief with her form ; but she is always rubber and always Tildi, and Boz always loves her. ‘ Where is Tilda? Go look for Tilda,’will usually induce him to bring her forth, but if that doesn’t a little repetition ol ‘ Tilda, poor Tilda. Tilda’s lost,’ in plaintive tones, will start Boz in a mad pursuit of Tilda, and be will go through every room in the house till he finds her. More than that, he spends his summers at Pigeon Cove, Cape Ann, where he has the euu of several cottages, and he will caper off from one to the other in pursuit of

the missing Tilda; and ooihe back with her held proudly aloft in his grinning mouth. Boz is badly Spoiled arid very selfish with other children. He can hardly be persuaded to let a child touch Tilda, but he wants every doll he sees.

Once when Miss E , his devoted owner, was travelling with him, he got the wax baby of a little girl in the same sleeper away from her and oould not be persuaded to give it up. They were afraid, for dollie’s sake, to make a struggle over her, and they had to let Boz have her jn peace, till he forgot about her and went to sleep—just likq any other spoiled child. Boz is devoted to toys generally, but the chief delight of his heart is a jack-in-the-box. Miss E will take him into a toy-shop, and you may not believe but it is the sacred truth that the beast will peer about till he finds jack in-the-boxes and cry and bark for them.

He can open them usually himself, and he loves the sensation of seeing the jack jump np better than anything earthly. Then he wants someone to shut up the box again for him. He Keeps it up some twelve or twentyfour hours, and the invariable grand end of the frolio is for him to tear the whole thing to smithereens, which ho does with great fury. There isn’t enough left to show what it was by the time he is through. Boz’s dissipation is coffee. He is very fond of afterdinner coffee. He knows when it is time for the coffee to appear, and he then presents himself in the dining-room for his share. He is not in the least troublessme before. He does not care about eating. Intellectual interests excite him so much more that he frequently has to be shut up alone with his dinner to get him to eat at all. otherwise he’ll forget all about it before he has taken two mouthfuls.—New York Graphic.

SENSE OF HUMOUR IN DOGS. Sir, —A recent anecdote from one of your correspondents about a dog and a hen brought to my mind an incident, related to me by an eye-witness, of a dog who had a constant feud with the fowls, which were prone to pilfer from the basin containing his dinner. On one occasion he was lying in front of his kennel, quietly watching a hen asßhe made stealthy and tentative approaches to his basin, which at length she reached and looked iuto, finding it perfectly empty. Tho dog wagged his tail.—l am, Sir, &0. , J. R.