In this plight was he found by May, the most high-blooded and aristocratic of greyhounds; and from this plight did May rescue him;—­ invited him into her territory, the stable; resisted all attempts to turn him out; reinstated him there, in spite of maid, and boy, and mistress, and master; wore out every body’s opposition, by the activity of her protection, and the pertinacity of her self-will; made him sharer of her bed and her mess; and, finally, established him as one of the family as firmly as herself.

Dash—­for he has even won himself a name amongst us, before he was anonymous—­Dash is a sort of a kind of a spaniel; at least there is in his mongrel composition some sign of that beautiful race.  Besides his ugliness, which is of the worst sort—­that is to say, the shabbiest—­he has a limp on one leg that gives a peculiarly one-sided awkwardness to his gait; but, independently of his great merit in being May’s pet, he has other merits which serve to account for that phenomenon—­being, beyond all comparison the most faithful, attached, and affectionate animal that I have ever known; and that is saying much.  He seems to think it necessary to atone for his ugliness by extra good conduct, and does so dance on his lame leg, and so wag his scrubby tail, that it does any one, who has a taste for happiness, good to look at him—­so that he may now be said to stand on his own footing.  We are all rather ashamed of him when strangers come in the way, and think it necessary to explain that he is May’s pet; but amongst ourselves, and those who are used to his appearance, he has reached the point of favouritism in his own person.  I have, in common with wiser women, the feminine weakness of loving whatever loves me—­and, therefore, like Dash.  His master has found out that Dash is a capital finder, and, in spite of his lameness, will hunt a field, or beat a cover with any spaniel in England—­and, therefore, he likes Dash.  The boy has fought a battle, in defence of his beauty, with another boy, bigger than himself, and beat his opponent most handsomely—­ and, therefore, he likes Dash; and the maids like him, or pretend to like him, because we do—­as is the fashion of that pliant and imitative class.  And now Dash and May follow us every where, and are going with us now to the Shaw, or rather to the cottage by the Shaw, to bespeak milk and butter of our little dairy-woman, Hannah Bint—­a housewifely occupation, to which we owe some of our pleasantest rambles—­Miss Mitford.—­Month.  Mag.

* * * * *

FROM THE ROMAIC.

  When we were last, my gentle Maid,
    In love’s embraces twining,
  ’Twas Night, who saw, and then betray’d! 
    “Who saw?” Yon Moon was shining. 
  A gossip Star shot down, and he
  First told our secret to the Sea.

  The Sea, who never secret kept,
    The peevish, blustering railer! 
  Told it the Oar, as on he swept;
    The Oar informed the Sailor. 
  The Sailor whisper’d it to his fair,
  And she—­she told it every where!